Mirage 2016 17 by Jim Andrews

MIRAGE

STAFFORD HIGH SCHOOL 2016-2017

MIRAGE 2016-2017 Stafford High School Literary Arts Magazine Student Editor in Chief

Faculty Adviser Abigail Wallace Jim Andrews Assistant Editors Assistant Adviser Haley Stocks, Susie Webb Sue Gill

Maria Wiss

TABLE OF CONTENTS Prose / Poetry

Thunder and Lightning

Emily Carr

Miserably Colorful

Amy Jo Whitten

I Write Books, Not Sonnets

Jhanys Gardner

Dangerous Love

Amber Coffman

Nuclear War

Samuel Harrison

Men from Mars, Women from Venus

Tehya Wood

World Disaster

Emily Carr

The Crowded Café

Katy DiMaio

Spell of True Reflection

Diana Ablola

Love Is War

Amy Jo Whitten

Wreckage

Amber Coffman

Disaster

Samuel Harrison

House of a Murderer

Katherine Menendez

Epiphanies

Various Authors

Love and All Its Faults

Lauren Sisson

Playing the Part

Jhanys Gardner

My Story

Lillian Anglold

The Boat

Alexi Hempe

When the Rooster Calls

Jhanys Gardner

Japan’s Nightmare

Diana Ablola

Artwork / Photography Meelad Ahmadi

Quincy Carter

Riya Chalise Jaden Closson

19, 29, 37, 49

Katy DiMaio

1, 13

Grace Fuller

32, 43, 47

Samantha Garciga Katie Mann

Sarah Putka Nicole Rice Ryan Sheppard

Marvin Stearns Will Stimpson

17, 21, 27

23, 31

Amberly Thomas Maria Wiss

3, 9, 11, 46

Ryan Sheppard 6

Thunder and Lightning Emily Carr I woke up to thunder crackling through the sky with earth-shaking booms. There would be a clear white strike through the sky that foreshadowed these deafening aftermaths. And each one sounded unpredictably different. Some were quiet rumbles in the distance. But others were close and lingering. I found myself hating those the most, just wanting the silence that follows - the silence when you begin to hear everything again. It may be overwhelming, but its vulnerability was something not rewritable. Every surface in my room became an object for the sounds to hit, creating echoes upon endless echoes. I could hear the wind howl through the trees like a somber whistle. Its haunting song bled out through the night. I could hear rain beating down the sky on rooftops and sidewalks. Smacking, sopping, sloshing, slipping, stop. In many cases, the calms of the storms can be the most terrifying, where the background noise was brought into a clear picture. It creates a new sense of dread. It’s not only a waiting game, but it forces me to listen more than before. Outside, a stray car ran its tires through the puddles of mud and muck. It stopped for a minute, just breathing out a muffled sound of its engine. As it kept going, its tires screeched as it veered off the road’s edge. It slowly got quieter as it wandered off to who knows where. Inside, my father was typing away on his novel. One day he’d write our second chance, you’d hear the church choir sing the hallelujahs, and everything would be okay. Right now, the clicking sounds coming from his room, the squeaking of his desk chair, and

his gentle hum as he worked, would be our hope. Outside, crickets chirped their calling song, attracting mates in the night. It brought my memories back to summer camp nights, with a bonfire’s blazing roar and static popping making my eyes grow wide in excitement. I remember Cindy’s bubbly laughter filling the spacious sky and Miss Green telling the younger girls about the crickets. “Chirping is their, ‘I love you’ to the cuties.” And then everyone laughed as they responded with cacophonies of “Ewwweees!” Inside, Sofia was purring with gentle vibrations, making the blanket move ever so slightly. This behavior juxtaposed her normal self. By night an angel, but in the morning an actual spawn of Satan, constant meowing, scratching, hissing, screeching. Her curious lifestyle meant that things were always falling down with a clunk or shatter on the floor. It was how we knew that she was close. Outside, in a distance, you could hear the whistle of a train passing along the train tracks, rattling as it goes. I always loved the sounds of trains, the sound of going somewhere. When I graduate, that’s what I’m doing, taking a fast train far away, not necessarily knowing where I would get off, just listening for the right rat-tat-rat-tat of its moving self to lead the way. Inside I hear my heartbeat aligning with my breathing. It’s rhythmic like a whoosh then a beat and a whew and then a beat. It’s steady: something I can count on for stability in a shaky life. Outside the rain picked up its pace again. The lightning began to strike, and I went calmly back to sleep. 7

Miserably Colorful Amy Jo Whitten

Gad had always been a creative person, though he was born into a world where creativity made you a freak. Being “normal” was cool, and having the same thing as everyone else did was innovation. In his eyes, it was just the government setting them up for the dystopian future they always told him about in school. He’d always been abnormal, down to the very core of his being. His dark hair came down to just above his shoulders, tangling and standing in some places with no particular pattern. His eyes were a striking gold. His skin was pale. In his small community, everyone glared and whispered about him, but that was just the way he liked it. High school was a nightmare, just like all of the books he’d ever read described. No one dared to sit with him at lunch, let alone talk to him for very long, and most of his class time was spent doodling in the corners of his paper. His self-expression was what kept him sane in a world full of clones. It was a particularly gloomy day, the last day before their spring break. His math teacher,

gave it a once over. “Mister Siden, can you explain why the butterfly given is not colored with the proper scheme?” She asked sternly, her black seven-inch heels clicking impatiently as he shrugged. “Because I thought this would be more fun. You know, a bit more creative.” Everyone in the room gasped at the word. “You know I will have to call your parents, do you not?” She asked, as if his parents were so blindsided that they didn’t notice their son’s unique ways. He stood in his chair, standing at a full height of six foot, three inches. “Go ahead, it’s not like they’ll send me away to the loony bin for it. They encourage the creativity.” Another collective gasp and he could see a vein in her head about to pop. “What an atrocity! It is no wonder no one wants your family over for dinner,” she spat, though it seemed to fall on deaf ears as a soft flapping could be heard. In front of her floated the shimmering butterfly, which fluttered over to its creator and perched on his shoulder. He gave

having promised them no homework over break, gave them coloring sheets and assigned certain colors to each section. He hated being restricted when it came to art, though he also figured that the teacher, Mrs. Darnel, wouldn’t even pick up the coloring sheets for a grade, Instead, on the back of the paper, he drew a butterfly with strikingly sharp wings and a pattern unlike any other on the wings. A few of his peers glanced over at him as he worked, though it wasn’t until the piece was finished that the teacher swiped it off his desk and

it a bewildered look before a sly grin made its way across his face. He touched the surface of his desk, instantly causing a tuft of grass to grow beneath it and spread throughout the entirety of the desktop. With a mischievous grin, he stomped his foot, causing the terrified group before him to squeal and run away. A rush of color painted the walls with beautiful murals of nature, and as it reached the feet of his peers, it colored them in a new, brighter light. Even the teacher was now reduced to clothing that looked to be from a fantasy

world, one of his own creations. Mrs. Darnel rushed to the phone, calling for security that seemed to be there in a mere minute. He grabbed one of the desks and used it to break a window, hopping out and sliding down the side of the school as vines trailed after him. No one dared to pursue him as he made his escape into the forest foliage, as bright, mysterious plants and creatures were overtaking the entire parking lot as he jogged across it. His mother was waiting for him at the door, a wide smile gracing her gentle features as she gave his cheek a kiss. “I always knew you’d figure it out on your own eventually. You’ve made your father and I very proud. I was unsure you’d even inherit it, but he never lost faith in that ability,” she explained, pulling him inside and handing

him a sandwich. He took a bite and tilted his head curiously. “What do you mean inherit? Can you and Dad do it too?” He asked excitedly. “Of course we can honey, it’s why we always accepted your creative mind and look. We went through it in high school too. Feels much better to get it out, huh?” He stared at her a moment in disbelief, though it soon changed into a wide smile. “Thanks, Mom. I never thought I’d be so special.” His mother smiled and nudged him gently. “Mother knows best. Now, go pack up your room. We’re moving somewhere where your creativity can shine.”

Maria Wiss

I Write Books, Not Sonnets

Jhanys Gardner

I write my books, not these silly little sonnets. I craft my worlds with care, and force the skies To rain. I command wind to rustle bonnets. I weave a web of sticky, contrived lies, And watch as love begins to crack and break. I hold the lives of broken people who Have yet to know how much pain they can take, And how life may change in a page or two. In books, the world can bend in very many ways. The seas may churn with storm and strife unknown, The land can break in wake of any set day, And tragedy may rest in the hands of crones. Yes, sonnets seem silly to someone who knows more For someone who knows what worlds have in store.

Maria Wiss

Dangerous Love

Amber Coffman

Justin looked at me with adoration in his

to be jealous, as we got kicked out of a coffee shop

eyes, as he tied the rope tighter around my wrists.

when he started accusing the barista of hitting on

“Don’t you see Angel, my love? This way, we’ll be

me. Long shouting matches became the norm, and

together forever. I’ll be able to feel your lovely forest

I felt the pity of our neighbors whenever I left the

green eyes on me for the rest of time.”

apartment. The cops were even called a few times

when it got particularly bad, and the fights started

“Please don’t do this, Justin.” I sobbed,

tears streaming from said green eyes. “We can work

to happen later at night. Of course, Justin was able

this out, love muffin.” My lips quivered on the last

to turn on the charm then, convincing the officers

syllable, the one I loved so dearly now a monster in

that everything was fine.

front of my very eyes.

It started out like a normal relationship. We

was starting to fall apart at the seams, and it seemed

would hold hands as we walked through the college

like it was entirely my fault, and it was affecting my

campus, love in our throats. We called each other

other relationships as well. My friends started to

increasingly silly names, like honey bunches and

drift away, citing their safety as the reason they no

pookie bear. He would pick me up after class, and

longer wanted to hang out with Justin and I. We

we would go out for coffee or ice cream, just to tell

used to be the couple that everyone would flock to,

each other about our day. Justin was my knight in

popular in our own right and pleasant to be around.

shining armor, my true love. I thought we would get

Now there were some people who didn’t even want

married after college, as it was that serious.

to be in the same room as Justin, unable to look my

way without his jealousy getting in the way.

However, as our final year in college started,

Everything was NOT fine. My relationship

Justin started drinking. Now, I’m a fan of alcohol

At this point, my mother was starting to

myself, but Justin turns into a green-eyed monster

get concerned. She brought it up over dinner, one

once he gets enough in him, the first hint that maybe

night. “Dear, don’t you think it’s time to end things

we wouldn’t be right for each other. Hell, he got

with Justin?” I didn’t have an answer for her, as

jealous of me talking to some girlfriends at this one

even then it was almost unthinkable. We had been

party. He wanted me all to himself. He would drag

together for so long, after all. It was inevitable we

me into his lap, pressing his face against my back, a

would get married after all those years, right?

drink in one hand. It was vodka that would get him

the worst. I thought the cuddling was endearing at

slap, nothing serious, but it was enough to get me

first, but after a while he wouldn’t even let me get

to seriously reconsider my options. My wanting to

up to go to the bathroom. It was seriously not cool.

break up with him is what brought us to this scenario

Like all bad things, it escalated. It turned

- Justin standing over me, my arms and legs bound

into him asking me where I was, who I was with,

together. He’s starting to bend down, to tie a blind-

at all hours of the day. He didn’t even need alcohol

fold around my eyes. Now there’s nothing.

Then he hit me for the first time. Just a

Jaden Closson 13

Nuclear War

Tensions between the United States and

and I got off and walked up to my office. It

Russia have been flaring for the last week. I

was dark, and I went up to the door. It was

have been scared to even leave the house in the

locked. I wasn’t too surprised. There had

last week. Fear of dying at work and not being

been very few people coming to work lately,

with my family in the shelter kept me there.

and I guess the boss was fearful too.

Everyone has been paranoid and nervous. The

I walked back to the bus stop solemnly

president hasn’t

and sat on the

said anything, so

cold sidewalk.

we’re scared that

My gaze

there is going

returned to the

to be a nuclear

sky that might

war. I step onto

deliver impending

the bus. I take

doom. After a

my seat in the

few seconds, I

back next to a

heard a crackle

window, and I

and a voice

look out. I see

coming from

the same things:

one of the

rows of houses

lamp-

and the gray

post speakers.

sky hanging

The voice was

over like a dark

distressed and

omen. I half

rushed, “Quick!

expected to see

Everyone to the

nukes fly out of

shelters! Nucle-

the clouds and

ar weapons have

kill us all. There

been launched!

was no one

This is not a

walking outside,

drill!”

not even a child dribbling a basketball. My bus continued driving along, 14

Samuel Harrison

My mind Will Stimpson raced, and I got up and ran down the street. My house and

family were twelve blocks down - a long way.

I regained my footing and looked around. All

My legs felt like jelly too. “It’s finally happening,”

over was devastation. The earthquake had

I thought. “Well it was only a matter of time.

flattened our city, and plumes of dust stung my

The sirens blared in my ears and resonated

eyes. Through this I still saw the missiles tracks

in my brain. I stopped and looked at the sky

of spent fuel, and my heart sank again. Well

just to make sure I wasn’t about to die, but the

if the earthquake won’t kill me, then the nuke

coast was clear, so I continued. I saw people

will.

scurrying from their homes and into their

shelters. I looked up once more to see horror.

probably dead along with most of the other

At least ten nukes are streaking across the sky,

people in the city.

and one is coming for us. I stopped frozen in

fear. My whole body was shaking and in shock.

I was left sitting in the street surrounded by

My legs quivered and the ground shook.

fallen lampposts and destroyed houses, one of

At first I thought one of the Nukes had hit, but

which was burning. The nukes still continued

then a giant crack opened up in the ground,

unimpeded while I just sat and waited. I saw

and I knew it was an earthquake. It was crazy

a few others in the distance flashing and felt a

to have these two things happening at the same

violent shake. I guess one just hit someplace.

time. I just fell to the ground, unable to move

I wonder how much time I have to live then.

my legs as if they were giant boulders. The

How could the government allow this sort of

earthquake deafened me and consumed

thing to happen? Had diplomacy failed? How

countless houses to the left and right of me.

could it? Well it doesn’t matter now. Earth as

The noise was as if a maraca was connected to

I knew it will be gone soon along with me. I

an amplifier and bouncing in my head. It had

thought about my life up to this point. I would

been over a minute since it started, and it was

have never imagined this or the end coming

still continuing. I knew if I were to stay where

in my lifetime. I remember all the scientists’

I was I would surely die, so I gathered up the

end of the world predictions, and how I would

courage and picked myself up. I began trudg-

think that they would never come about.

ing onward with my hands cuffing my ears. All

sense of direction was gone for me though, and

ringing from the earthquake, but I could still

I wandered aimlessly, shaking from side to side

hear it. I stared with awe as it inched closer

with the rumble of the mighty earthquake.

and closer, and I watched it touch down about

a mile from me. The light was so bright. I was

A newly opened hole appeared in front

At this point I knew that my family was

The earthquake finally ceased, and

The nuke was close now. My ears were

of me, and I leapt to the side, nearly avoiding

vaporized in an instant, never again to roam

it. My body was tossed onto the street and

the world or see another sight.

rolled around, becoming scuffed and bruised. 15

Men from Mars, Women from Venus Tehya Wood

Children at their very core are inherently

a saint having traits of gentleness, empathy,

selfish, jealous, self-obsessed little monsters that

patience, sensitivity, obedience, being quiet,

we do indeed love and cherish; Even before

dependent, cooperative, tolerent, nurturing, giving,

they are born we have decided what to name

creative, forgiveing, soft-spoken, cheerful, loyal,

them, what traits we want them to inherit and

gullible, flatterable, yielding, understanding,

what identity we want them to take on. Most

passive, chaste, intuitive and helpful.

traits people deem as feminine are nurtured

Women are widely known for their “weaker”

into unsuspecting female children by guardians

traits but I personally find these traits more

responsible for their “natural urge” because it's

useful to me than most would consider, as she

simply taught.

is often placed as the damsel in distress or in a

supporting role to a male counterpart. Women

It's rather normal to hear parents scold

their daughters for ruining their clothes while

are placed into a saintly role, but like men are

the boys are free to play around. It's not

greatly varied, in my opinion even more so, and

uncommon to shove all the responsibility onto

may take negative traits and behaviors such as

the female counterpart and explain that instinct

being talkative, being vain, being a perfectionist,

will take over, (as if we are inherently born with

giving the silent treatment, and being passive

a need to coddle every single creature we see

aggressive just to name a few.

because we are programmed that way). If you

couldn’t tell that the last sentence was soaking

female, but their stereotypical core traits are

with sarcasm, I will just come out and say that

important to analyze to know why a large

women are taught to take these “weaker” traits

portion of each respective gender feel the way

in order to balance out our male companions

they do. The differences between male and fe-

because sometimes they can’t handle when we

male are astonishing. Although both come from

take their traits from them so they find reasons

the same species and we have an abundance of

to mock females who choose not to be selfless

similarities, we still have a difficult time

in order for a man she has no interest in to be

understanding one another and mistake one’s

happy with his self-esteem.

affection for an insult.

What a stereotypical woman looks like

Traits do not make someone a male or

When a woman says something to

usually consists of her having soft, long hair,

critique a man, she sees it as a sign of love and

doe-like eyes, rosy cheeks, small feet, flawless

wishes to help him improve on his ideas. When

skin, gorgeous, youthful face, skinny or well-

a woman asks for directions, she only does so

developed and femininely dressed; she acts like

because she is scared and wants her partner to

Marvin Stearns be safe. When a woman complains about her

days, she does not want to be interrupted by her

is truly much more aggressive and more de-

companion and wants him to just listen to her

manding than their feminine counterpart, but to

words and not to analyze her. When a woman

be honest I have never seen such a creature who

asks another man for help around the house,

demands things that cannot simply be given,

sometimes he gets an inferiority complex which

(but I think that’s my bias getting in the way).

makes him feel as if he isn’t enough, but a

Some of them will force themselves or someone

woman only does so because she knows that he

else to find a way to find a solution. A majority

cannot attend to them himself. When women

of them prefer finding the answer than figuring

do these things, they don’t always do it to just

out how that solution came to be in the first

annoy him but she does it because it's her way

place and if the problem doesn’t pertain to them

of loving.

they usually could not care less or belittle those

who choose to care.

At this point, I’ve only been speaking

The core of a stereotypical macho male

about the female aspect, so for the duration

The largest difference between the

of this part I will devolve into their opposite.

stereotypical male and female is the way they

For some men, the most devastating thing you

treat one another in various social settings. The

could compare them to is a woman.

model woman is reserved, having impeccable 17

manners and does everything she can to make

find anyone who will listen to her she will build

sure that even strangers she doesn’t know are

her rage until she explodes rather uncharacteris-

comfortable around her; she will try to deter

tically for her nature. The stereotypical macho

any noise she makes and gather the room’s

male possesses traits that are damaging not to

“aura” to try act appropriate to others.

himself but to others around him because his nature doesn’t allow him feel inferior for his fear

A stereotypical macho man, (from

my experience), barges into any conversation

of becoming feminine, so he in turn bottles all

and answers with great vigor but little tact to

of this rage until he gets the chance to release it

attempt to astound the audience with his vast

in a way that will involve others in feeling his

knowledge; if they hear an idea they find not

pain.

to their liking they will berate and sometimes

not even come up with a proper solution but

beasts is to let them interact with each other so

only to feed their enormous ego which everyone

they will drive each other so crazy that other

has to succumb to or else he will feel inferior to

species will have a chance escape these awful

those within in vicinity of his self-esteem. This

beings. To put it simply, their interactions and

is not to say that the stereotypical male doesn’t

reasons for interactions are so vastly different

have his virtues such as his bravery in the face

that I even wonder how they make it work.

of danger, his determination in adversity and

his strength in the lowest of times; but virtues

life-long partner, and leisurely talk, listen and

doesn’t negate vices in the stereotypical macho

discuss problems, and to do favours for one

male in the slightest. While the stereotypical

another; the males interact to find a life-long

female is filled equally with both negative and

partner, fix problems, and to satisfy themselves.

positive traits, they often balance themselves

The way that the male and female brains work

out or make her a god-given saint or at the very

makes them so incompatible that it's hilarious,

most an annoying hag, but when it comes to the

but they are able to find ways to satisfy each

stereotypical male, he has many positive traits

others’ emotional needs. When a woman wants

but even within ancient times he was burdened

a man’s help on a problem, she lets them ponder

with the majority of negative traits that cause

even if it takes the longest time and then rewards

him to become villainous in his personality and

him by asking him for assistance, which in turn

motives.

makes the man feel needed. When a man wants

a woman's’ help, he listens to her criticism even

The stereotypical feminine female

The only way to calm these respective

Females usually interact to find a

possesses traits that we perceive as a nuisance

when it is terribly harsh because she knows he

but usually not damaging to society because of

can improve on his work. And then he rewards

her nature to want to seek out people who share

her by thanking her making her feel cherished

her feelings or just to vent too but if she doesn’t

in the relationship.

Riya Chalise 19

World Disaster Emily Carr

There was a small boy names Furaha,

He thought of his cot inside;

His name meant happy

He thought of the hay roof,

Running around in laughter,

And how it left its strands on the ground.

He was a giggle of innocence,

He thought about the rice sack,

Of cluelessness.

And how it was forever lost.

His mama told him to never go past

He thought about his mama,

The line of the river,

And what she might have done if she knew

Although one day,

He had thought about getting it.

He was playing in the moonlight,

He thought of the smell of earth,

Holding a rice pouch in his hands,

How present it was on the way home.

Tossing it around in the humid air,

He started singing,

Feeling the hard rice pieces in his hands,

Humming and old song mama would sing,

And it flew to the air,

“Where hope and love connect,

To the tops of the trees.

We sing Your praise;

The air caught it in her hands,

When hope is so far,

And it hit, SMACK,

And Your love is close,

On the other side of the river,

We sing Your praise.”

And in that moment?

He didn’t know what it meant,

He thought he just might go get it,

Only that mama’s eyes were golden

But he did not,

While she sung it,

He turned to his home.

As he got closer,

It was just the length away

He started sprinting out of excitement,

To recognize the back of its clay walls,

He wanted to scare mama with a

It was a one-roomed place.

Scream,

Marvin Stearns And sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be angry,

Her body was bloodied,

But then laugh,

There were little bugs

Because he was a silly boy,

Dancing around her cheek,

Being so close,

There were cuts across her,

He crept behind the home,

Her stripes.

And began to trace around the edges with his

Her head was resting back.

fingertips,

Her hair just graced the edge of his cot.

AHHH!

Her eyes were shut,

He ran through the opening to the inside,

The boy trembled,

Tripping over mamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cold legs.

And lay down,

She was stiff,

And fell asleep. 21

The Crowded Café Katy DiMaio

Sometimes this school can be way too

lunch late because they were too busy making

much, especially the overpopulation of it. For

out in one of the side hallways off the cafeteria

example, during lunch there are almost never

thinking, oh, we have enough time, when they

enough tables for everyone, yet too many

obviously don’t. There is too much PDA, in

tables for the cafeteria. It makes no sense.

my opinion.

Everyone sits in their own group of friends

and struggles to make the extra chairs fit

a different day and a different shift. We sit

around the table, thus giving a different table

with the same people after shuffling through

not enough chairs for another friend group.

the fight that’s about to happen, the group of

guys standing by the trash can who are trying

There are obvious cliques; there are

Every lunch is the same routine, just

the sporty ones, the comic nerds, the smart

to blend in, or maybe even a couple standing

kids, the robotics kids, the longtime friends

right in the middle of the way of the doors or

that somehow made it through their high

the hallway on the way. Everyone gives you

school years so far even though they all

their attempt at a dirty look even though they

secretly want to sit somewhere else, etc., etc.

know that it was their fault you had to push

You get the point. Then there are the kids I

the out of the way. Sometimes, you become

sit with, a little bit of everything. A couple of

the fight that is about to happen at any sec-

them are the rebellious type, one of them is a

ond. That is just how the overcrowded

straight A student – sorry, straight A+ student

population of teenagers works in a high

– who is too hard on herself, a couple that

school setting.

won’t admit they are a couple, another who reads

manga, a couple kids who are smokers, then me:

lunch shift with my three or four friends,

the goody two shoes with bad grades who has

not the hellhole we are provided with. What

never done anything wrong. What do we have

makes it worse is that the security guards make

in common? We’re all going through something.

it seem like a prison cafeteria, guarding the

We’re always crowded around the table with

doors and the stairs, blocking the way of anyone

the invasion of personal space between us.

who needed to leave the crowded place. It is a

very frustrating environment that no one likes

Near the end of lunch, everyone

All I wanted was to enjoy a peaceful

invades everyone’s space in order to get to

to be in.

the door. There are always girls pushing their

Everyone stays in their groups or alone in the

way through and scowling when they fail,

corner or the bathroom, and it is just not fun

thinking they must be entitled to be in front or

at all.

something. Then there’s the couple that leaves

After lunch, we are yet again forced

to push through the couples and obnoxious

who did not want to go in yet, so they stood

friend groups that stand right in the middle of

right outside, blocking everyone that did

the hallway in order to get to a class we most

want to go in the classroom.

likely donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even want to go to. For example,

today the classroom was blocked by students

want to go home.

School sucks. People suck. I just

Amberly Thomas 23

Spell of True Reflection Diana Ablola

In the hidden grotto, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;neath the swaying willow trees Lies the book of spells dormant among the leaves. When the moors are dark and the midnight lanterns dim, The demons will control the town and every single whim. After their celebration one mustn't become meek If a maiden of witch linege speaks The creatures rarely peep. If the altar isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t prayed upon for many many years, The townspeople will lose all that they hold very dear. As Hallow's Eve approaches one more night, All will come prepared for a long and bloody fight. The only incantation to stop their resurrection Is this spell of true reflection: - three freshwater pearls - a crescent moon band - one unicorn horn - a soft charred hand

Nicole Rice

Love Is War Amy Jo Whitten

I laugh and tease him. He says it makes

it be tough and dangerous or sweet and caring. There

us seem more normal, like nothing in the world is

is almost no way of knowing who will actually come

wrong, as if we’re perfect for one another. After a

back to take you out in the end. My facade is quite the

few years, you would think I would learn.

opposite.

my hardest. Sometimes, he whispers sweet things

In public, I hold his hand tightly. Others see

He says I never look happy, even when I try

this as love, though I see it as terror, a plea for help.

to me, which seems to be effective in making others

My sleeves go at least to my palms, lest I incur his

think we’re just fine. His pet names for me just help

wrath. I know he means well, that he hates the fact

to sell that point, though I know they come from

that he hurts me without meaning to, but he just

the bottom of his very big heart. He just can’t stop

can’t help it. Every time he sees a bruise it drives him

himself at times, can’t stop telling me things that

nuts, though he always comes back to kiss the pain

he thinks he hates about me but claims to love. At

away later.

times, I don’t know which side of him to believe, but

I know he isn’t a bad guy.

I stopped wearing makeup, and he insists

that I look better without it. In truth, he just hates

to see it running down my face when I cry. After he

him. Part of me wishes that were the case, though

realizes what he’s done, he wipes at my cheeks and

there’s still that pesky piece of me wanting to hold

tells me everything will be okay, that we’ll get passed

onto him and never let him go again. It’s obvious

this “rough patch” in our relationship. I know better,

which side wins, though I wish it were different

yet I keep coming back to him every time he apolo-

every time we fight. I wish we could be like other

gizes.

couples, loving and happy. I wish his big green eyes

In public, everyone keeps up a facade, whether

I smile despite the tension on my heart that

I hug him like it’s the last time I’ll ever see

didn’t scare and excite me every time they met mine,

seems to be ripping it in two. One side of me begs

though I simply can’t get the feelings to go away. I’ve

to just leave him behind, to do what’s right for me

tried to hate him. Believe me, I have.

and leave his feelings in the dust. The other half of

me pleas that without me, he’d be lost and lonely,

speaks to me in soft coos and adoring words, though

something I would hate to see. In the end, the small

the memories of his sharp, jaded comments about

boyish grin he always gives me helps one side to over-

me always seem to bleed through them. I’m reduced

power the other.

to tears knowing the one I love sees me as worthless

He promises me that I’m his one and only,

Marvin Stearns one second, and then perfect another. Two sides of

But, I could never hate him, could never stop loving

the same coin, and I just want the one I fell in love

him, because we’re two sides to the same story, and

with.

we’re more incomplete alone than together. My

But, as I’ve said, he hasn’t been the same

friends say I’m lucky to have him, but I know better.

since the accident that killed his best friend. He

We’re lucky to have each other; despite the facades

snaps at everyone and punches lockers and walls when

we put up every day to forget the bad memories and

he just can’t handle the pressure or hears his name. I

the hard times.... I hope...

just happen to be the closest thing to hit sometimes. 27

Wreckage Amber Coffman

The airplane was ready for another

day at work, carting humans to and fro, and

horror as humans sobbed hysterically, trying

sailing the skies. The plane felt nothing out

desperately to reach family. They all knew

of the ordinary, as everything was in order

what was most likely happen to them, the

with their engines and luggage, and their

plane included.

smooth skin would soon be caressed by the

crisp air of altitudes that were unthinkable

their body, from where it was in altitude to

merely a century before.

the amount of fuel in their tank - fuel that,

upon crashing into the tower, ignited and

Humans settled, warm and breathing,

The plane knew everything about

as the stewardesses went over their safety

went up in a fiery blaze, unfortunately killing

messages, gesturing to the various exits and

all of the humans that the plane was meant

going over plane-crash procedures. Nobody

to be keeping safe. The passengers did not

knew that these would be useless against the

fight hard enough to defeat the passengers

horror of crashing into a building; not even

- no, the terrorists - and they succeeded in

the plane knew. They were made to be safe

driving the planeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beautifully aerodynamic

and perfect, not meant for use as a kamikaze

body into the windows of the 90th floor of

plane, but even airline planes can be used

the World Trade Center.

as bombs, as America and the plane would

soon find out.

everything as crimson and charcoal, the

colors of destruction, death, and dust. The

The flight was as perfect as a flight

Broken, and dying, the plane saw

could be - no rowdy passengers, no mistakes

plane knew that it would be found in pieces,

from the pilots, no accidental spills. Yet...

and that its consciousness would be divided,

something was wrong, and the plane knew

unable to think rationally as a plane does.

it. Some of the passengers were acting odd,

Nothing in its body worked anymore, not

even for humans, fidgeting, silent, focused

its controls or its engines or its monitors.

singularly on something.

The plane did not know itself anymore. The

plane now only knew that it was dying, and

Soon those passengers took over the

cockpit and took their fellow passengers as

hostages. The plane could only watch on in

taking a building down with it.

Riya Chalise 29

Disaster

Samuel Harrison I stood outside the refugee camp, frozen in time as if no one in the world would miss me. I had been in this camp for two full years scavenging and begging for any food I could get. Most people here don’t have much food though. Most of it we get from the United Nations or private groups. I don’t even remember where I am right now. I have been on the run till I found my way here, but it’s almost better out there than here. Sickness spreads really quick in the camp; only the lucky ones survive. I guess i’m the luckiest kid here then. Hundreds die daily but are quickly replaced by a new wave of refugees, usually every month. I have been separated from my family, as they were arrested by the government, which probably means that they got executed. The only thing the gives me hope any more is the thought that they are still alive. Right now I’m stuck here. If I try to leave the government-hired mercenaries will find and shoot me. Here I’m safe with numbers as long as I don’t stray to far. With the firepower the government has, I'm surprised we haven't been destroyed already. I guess they will just let the diseases do the dirty work for them. I’m still standing on the edge of the camp pondering. Even if I lose precious time scavenging for leftovers, I must have time to think to stay sane and not get into a rut. I suddenly become aware of an unusual amount of noise coming from the other side of the camp. My brain then computed that it was probably a supply shipment! It could have blankets, water, and even food! I quickly sprinted, dancing along the sand to get to the food. As I was scurrying, I noticed two children no more than eight. They appeared to be twins. They were huddled in each others’ arms beside a 30

raggedy tarp. As for their looks, they were completely starved of all nutrients, as their stomachs were nonexistent. They were clearly sick too, by the amount of sweat, pus, and swollen skin. Their eyes though looked cold and lifeless, for all intents and purposes, they were skeletons not even able to react. I don’t know why this affected me so much, as I had seen the same thing with so many throughout the camp, but there was something about these that made me do a double take. I couldn’t afford to pause though, as I passed the two prone figures and continued. My hunger was exploding now and it was unbearable. The only thing I could think of was eating. I would even kill for a single slice of bread. My feet padded on the soft ground, as I quickly made my way past the rows of tarp cottages to where I heard the sound of the engine roaring like a ferocious lion. Seven more steps took my starving body in sight of the commotion. As I had thought there was a large supply truck with volunteers dropping supplies. I nudged my way to the front of the crowd that had gathered. They were giving away some sort of herbal soup and bread to us. I fought desperately to get to the front, trying to remember what taste felt like and how good it would be. Seconds later I was where they were giving away the food. A tall volunteer handed me a bowl of soup and a half slice of mountain bread. I couldn’t believe it was actually happening! I was getting food! I snatched it from the man and slurped down the soup. The man looked at me with pity, but I was enveloped in the sensations the soup was creating in my mouth. This soup was probably pretty awful, but it didn’t matter. It was still a godsend. I felt a twinge of something terrible in my

gut then. At first I thought it was just the herbs in the soup, but as I sat there, the image of the two children flashed in my vision. The food I had just eaten suddenly turned foul and twisted my insides. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe anyone would let this happen I thought. A truck came up from behind the existing one. I was so focused, it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dawn on me what was happening. I looked up to see a faded rusty red pickup coming to a halt. The other refuges and I stared at the truck completely unexpectedly. Six armed individuals with covered faces jumped out from the back. I was frozen again. I thought I was going to die. Then they started shooting, bang, bang,bang mowing down the line of us. Everyone scattered, I ran blindly across the camp, bullets following me like tracks. We had scattered but

we were still being pursued. Pain ran through my fragile body as a something hit my back and knocked me to the ground. I tasted metallic blood in my mouth and coughed it out. My eyes found their way to the side to gaze on the same two children from before. They sat crippled, unable to flee. I watched horrified as one of the armed men came from behind and shot the both of them repeatedly. I cried and then I slipped away into the blackness. I woke to a smoky camp and dead bodies surrounding me. They must have missed me, I thought, but some part of me wished they hadn't.

Amberly Thomas

House of a Murderer Katherine Menendez

Grace Fuller

A crowd of people shuffle around the

finally realized she was a murderer. They died in

living room impatiently as a woman in a striking

this very room.”

sapphire blazer walks in. Her smile is as cheerful

and friendly as her voice, “Welcome everyone!

ously, searching for bloodstains or something that

My name is Annabella, and today you all will

would indicate a murder. They found nothing and

take a tour of the neighborhood of the notorious

looked towards Annabella, who began to explain

homicidal killer, Kendall García.”

it, “Well, Kendall isn’t a famous murderer for

nothing. Look at the couch,” The crowd quickly

Everyone quickly turned their attention

The crowd was scanning the room curi-

to the metal cutout of Kendall, who seemed to

noticed that although the couch didn’t look too

be peering out the window curiously. Annabella

well worn, there were stitches here and there.

walked over to the cutout and began to speak,

Annabella continued, “She sewed up all the

“This is just one of the living rooms in the García

scratch marks and tears, and cleaned the blood

house. In fact, Kendall didn’t spend much time in

stains, but she didn’t clean up everything.”

this room; her family mostly did. But as we know,

Kendall eventually murdered them when they

ty part of the room and revealed pools of dried

Annabella kicked the couch to an emp-

blood that stained the hardwood floor. People

gasped, yet Annabella’s cheerful expression didn’t

another childhood memory from Kendall!” This

falter, “Kendall couldn’t manage to clean the

cutout looked like it was sitting near the fireplace

pools of blood, so she moved the couch over it.

and watching TV. Annabella pressed the button

Since she owned this house for so many years, the

and the cutout spoke, “Welcome, to one of my

police didn’t notice this until two years later when

favorite rooms in the house. When I was 7, I

she moved out.”

would wake up at strange times in the morning,

usually 5am, so I would grab my blanket and sit

The crowd’s face seemed serious. Annabella

“Anyway,” Annabella began, “Let’s hear

casually threw her arm around the metal cutout,

right here to watch TV until everyone else woke

“But don’t worry! That’s the only murder you

up. It was my own personal time away from the

have to hear about, because this museum focuses

rest of the world.” The crowd’s hearts softened at

on her life before any of the murders took place!

this. Everyone could relate to watching cartoons and

Now, if you’ll all follow me to the kitchen in a

feeling a million miles away from their problems.

single file line.” said Annabella, already making

Annabella felt it too as she said, “Isn’t it weird?

her way to the kitchen.

Everyone here probably relates to that and yet that

memory came out of the mouth of a homicidal

Everyone looked around for a while.

Again, this looks like any house in America,

killer.” She paused for a moment but then started

which makes it all the uncomfortable honestly. A

walking back to the dining room.

murderer doesn’t need to come from an apartment

in the projects or from an isolated cabin in the

tour. On the way to the last stop, a stranger asked,

mountains, they can come from anywhere.

“So who funded this museum?” Annabella respond-

ed with, “This museum was actually funded

The crowd walks through a small corridor

Annabella took them through the rest of the

that leads to a spacious living room with two grand

entirely by Kendall García herself. She also

windows that illuminate the room. Annabella is

planned out everything that was going to be

near the TV set, seeming to be standing in front

shown.”

of something. She steps to the side and reveals an-

other Kendall cutout, and a woman in the crowd

stood at the end of a cul-de-sac and Annabella

with short red hair asks, “Why are all the cutouts

said, “Sadly, there isn’t a cut out here either.”

metal?” and waits patiently. Annabella replies

Before anyone could ask why, she continued

in the most robotic voice, as if she’s been asked

with, “The families of victims would vandalize

this a thousand times before, “Usually we have to

it to no end and it’s not worth it. Anyway, onto

deal with families of Kendall’s victims visiting the

the memory. At age eight, Kendall was riding her

museum to destroy furniture, leave gum on the

bike around her neighborhood, having a good

cutouts, etc. so the metal makes it more durable

day, when she decided to go down this hill. All of

and easier to clean.” and the crowd began to look

Kendall’s friends stayed at the top of the hill with

around the room. They slowly noticed it, the

their bikes, while she bravely pedaled towards the

chipped off pieces of brick, the tears on the arms

bottom. At first she was pedaling, but the bike

of the couches, and the scratches on the walls.

started going so fast that the bike began pedaling

They look too purposeful to be incidents.

itself and Kendall’s legs couldn’t keep up with

Annabella stopped walking. The crowd

it. Poor Kendall was terrified, and thought she’d

that a happy memory?” and Annabella says,

be dead by the time she reached the bottom of

“Her friends thought she was incredibly cool for

the hill. Little did she know, the worst was yet

going so fast that she popped both wheels.” and

to come. When she was so close to reaching the

the crowd laughed lightly. With renewed energy,

bottom of the hill. Little did she know, the worst

Annabella waved to the crowd and said, “Alright

was yet to come. When she was so close to reach-

folks, that is the end of the tour! I hope you guys

ing the bottom of the hill, her tires popped. She

had a delightful time, I had a great time guiding

was horrified at that point and screamed. Then,

you!”

finally at the bottom of the hill she slammed on

the brakes, and it worked, she survived.” Anna-

out of the life of Kendall García and into their

bella pointed out bike tires marks on the street in

own, realizing that ordinary people can do horrible

front of them.

things.

After that the crowd quickly dissolved,

Someone in the crowd asks, “How is

Sarah Putka 34

“I have never been able to be truly happy, though I have tried and failed many times. I would rather be content, as it’s more peaceful than any sort of happiness I have known.”

Amber Coffman

“I am not perfect, but I try to be the best person I can be. I try not to judge others based on how they look or where they are from.”

Alexi Hempe “Doing what makes you happy is important.”

Katherine Menendez

Epiphanies

“Epiphanies make humans value their lives and the many blessings included in their lives.”

Lauren Sisson

“Every moment when pure happiness and bliss fills your heart is a gift from life itself, and should be held in the highest regard.”

Amy Jo Whitten

“Live life as it comes, and enjoy and cherish the memories.”

Matt Young

Love and All Its Faults

Lauren Sisson

Yeah, we’re together. I think. Maybe. Maybe not. I mean we have been hanging out for a

while now? Does that mean we are dating? I couldn’t say. Everything is so complicated. I have to be careful of every word I say so I don’t sound too desperate. On the other hand, I don’t really care too much.

I mean, don’t get me wrong - I do like the kid, I suppose. He is nice enough, he dresses well,

and our being together just makes sense, socially. Sometimes I feel like he’s not interested in me. Maybe that’s my paranoia, but maybe... Maybe it’s just that I don’t want him to be interested anymore-- so I can once again gain interest in him.

OK, I know that sounds thorough and completely confusing - maybe even a little wrong.

So let me break it down: it’s all about the chase. You spend depressing months at a time thinking about this one person constantly and just wishing and hoping they feel the way you do - constantly over-analyzing every little bit of attention they give you, kidding yourself believing it means something. Eventually, one of three possible events occur: you either give up and move on, realize they don’t feel the same way (they almost never do, how convenient); or, they actually, finally admit that they like you back.

Now, if they do like you back, sure, it does feel good for a little while there. You’ll go on

your first date and contemplate cancelling on him the entire day leading up to it. Your friends will save you and force you to go; so you go. You meet him at the movies and yes, it’s a bit awkward but still really exciting and he looks cute and opens the door for you and tells you that you look nice. You continue to hang out with him and get more comfortable and spend more and more time with him, only to realize that you have mysteriously lost interest completely in a matter of days- but why?

The chase. It’s all about the chase. I guess what I’m saying is once you have something, you

don’t really appreciate it. But when you lose it, you want it so badly again. It’s a continuous cycle, an inevitable cycle that is nearly impossible to escape from.

Maybe it’s just me. Or maybe I have never really been in love with someone, but here’s one

thing I know for sure: love sucks. It completely and totally sucks and it hurts more than that bike crash you suffered from when you were six. It hurts more than when you first get reprimanded by your favorite teacher, and it certainly hurts more than when your parents “just don’t understand you.” It’s a long and painful process that just ends and begins again and again until you decide that caring is too painful, so you don’t care anymore and just end up feeling empty inside.

It’s depressing, and hey, maybe a little dramatic: but it’s true. And what really, totally sucks

the most is that he usually doesn’t even notice - or care about what you’re feeling. And that’s the 36

worst of all.

Riya Chalise 37

Playing the Part Jhanys Gardner “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t insisted on walking around outside the other day.” She had gotten really tired of him pointing out all of the things that she had done wrong throughout their time together, always managing to ignore the fact that he had made just as many mistakes as she had, and if she hadn’t gotten in trouble for it, she would have broken his jaw a long time ago. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t right. Of course she had screwed things up by walking outside the day before, being spotted by their target and ruining any chance of them showing up to greet him the next day without being recognized. However, it wasn’t as if she was the only one at fault. Pulling on the trousers which were a few sizes too big, she glared at him. The realistic enough mustache was hanging precariously above her top lip, so she probably didn’t look too menacing, “I wouldn’t have gone outside if you hadn’t acted like an ass.” Grumbling, he straightened out the wig of long blonde hair on his head, fixing it so it looked like he had grown it himself, “Maybe you should learn to be less offended by everything.” “Says the man who looks like he wants to cry every time I tell him that his hair looks stupid,” the words were mumbled, because God knows she didn’t have time to deal with his butt hurt attitude for a second longer. She was fairly certain that she had requested to be put on an assignment with anyone other than the famous Connor Delaney; she even talked to the director herself when she had gotten the paperwork with his name listed under hers. They had only crossed paths once before, much to her misfortune, and he

had made his ‘lone wolf ’ attitude abundantly clear. No one wants to work with someone who isn’t willing to work with them, yet here they were. After buttoning up the last few buttons on one of the button ups that he was lending her for the night, she turned up the collar of the shirt and grabbed a tie. “Do you need help with that?” the question was merely posed for the sake of saving time, because he didn’t sound overly concerned with whether or not she actually needed the help. “Contrary to popular belief, women don’t need men to show them how to do everything,” she huffed, tying the tie herself with the speed of someone who was practiced in it (she had to do it for her partner often enough, after all). His nose scrunched up in a way that was hardly befitting of a saintly blonde from the south named Natalie (Honestly, how was he going to pull that backstory off ?). “Maybe if you all listened to us you wouldn’t be so clueless all of the time.” That actually earned a cackle, and she almost threw her belt at him. “Clueless? Last time I checked, you were the one who took an hour to find this hotel because even consulting a GPS was too much for you.” “I knew where I was going,” he crossed his arms over his chest like an indignant child, shifting the silicone beneath his shirt in an almost comical way. “Obviously.”

Meelad Ahmadi 39

My Story Lillian Anglold

Katie Mann Who am I, you ask. Well the truth is I am nobody. My mom died when I was nine. I still remember her smiling face looking at me in the rearview mirror before the car went over. I was singing to ‘My Hero’ by Foo Fighters, I used to love that song, but now I can’t bear to hear it. I believe I caused the crash. If only I didn’t whine that my mom wasn’t looking at me when I was singing.

Would she still be here with me? Would she be planning a huge over the top 19th birthday party right now? I miss her a lot. I don’t have that motherly figure to talk about boys or about the pains of becoming a woman. My dad says he doesn’t blame me for the death of my mother, but he hasn’t really acted the same towards me after that day. He is always making excuses for

“I had a choice to make: either let this happen until he gets tired or ... take action” why he doesn’t come home until one in the morning, when we both know he was out drinking his depression away for a few hours. He always had a temper, but after he was drinking it was terribly worse. He got violent with me when I didn’t do something right, or should I say something not to his liking. One night it was too much for him. The violence was overbearing. He came home with a bottle of whiskey is his right hand, swinging the burning liquid down his alcohol-infected throat every millisecond after a loud swallow. He was furious with the way I had cleaned the house and that I didn’t cook the exact food he wanted for dinner. I was annoyed, so I snapped. That was the worst decision of my very existence. I still can hear the teeth grinding sound of the bottle of whisky shattering. I ducked for cover when the bottle was hurled toward my head. The next thing I know I’m pushed onto the floor and punched multiple

times in the face. The pain was unbearable. I had a choice to make: either let this happen until he gets tired or... take action. I grabbed his fist when he was in mid swing so he lost his balance. I quickly reached for anything to put between us, but what I grabbed was a terrifying mistake. Hearing his gasp pulled me back from my trance. Looking down I found out what I had grabbed. Feeling all the blood drain from my face I looked up at his face and saw his sad eyes turning into a black hole of emptiness. I pulled the glass out, hoping I could help. The blood seeped out more, and I grabbed the wound to stop the bleeding. It was too late though. I killed him. I should have just let him attack me until he got tired. Maybe it would have ended better. Maybe if I went back to the beginning of it all, maybe it would have made a difference. But probably not, as drunks always stay as drunks.

The Boat

Alexi Hempe

It’s November 1349, and it has been

five years since they left on ship. My two older

brothers, John and Francis, are supposed to be

people around me.

returning back home today. I only was thirteen

years old when they had left for sea. I am fifteen

with your sickness!” He turns to his wife, “Lets

years old now. I think my little sister Mary is

go!” he demands.

the happiest of us all. It is noon and we all start

heading down to the dock to wait for the boat's

walks away. The little girl starts crying, calling

arrival.

out for her brothers. The mom looks at them and

Today is finally the day everyone has

Everyone gasps and I hear cries from “You should not have come back here

The father with the daughter in his arms

grabs their hands and kisses them, then walks

been anticipating. I see a ship appear on the

away. Everyone else on the boat starts to walk to

horizon, but it is not the original boat they were

their family.

traveling in when they left for sea. This boat is

black and the sails are not brown.

of the boat. As soon as they get close enough,

I see their faces. My heart drops inside of my

The water is very calm, but there are big,

Finally, we see John and Francis get off

grey clouds in the sky. I get this strange feeling

body all the way to my feet. I feel like I am about

that something is not right and the chills run all

to fall. They both have black spots over their fac-

the way through my back. The boat is closer but

es. Mary immediately runs to John. My mother

no one is on deck. I don’t see anyone. It’s like

turns toward my father and starts to weep. He

the ship is empty. It pulls in and docks, but no

embraces her.

one is leaving the boat. We are all just standing here

waiting for someone to do something. Finally,

will not turn them out, like others are doing.

20 minutes later, we see three men leaving the

They are our children. My sons,” he says to my

boat. Everyone in the crowd moves backward,

mom trying to comfort her. She nods her head

leaving their family waiting for them in the middle.

against her chest.

The three men reach their family. They had a

mom, dad, and little sister waiting for them. The

my feet. I am still in shock that this is actually

little sister starts to walk towards them, but then

happening. We all walk home in silence.

suddenly the dad picks her up.

supper prepared. We sit down in our usual spots

“What has happened?” The father asks

them.

Everyone on the boat has it.”

“At least they came back, my love. We

I wait for them to get us. I can’t move

We get home and Mom already has

at the table and eat in silence. Then finally Mary “It is known as the ‘Black Death’,” he

says, “I am glad you are both home. Even with

looks around and clears his voice and starts

the sickness. I am glad you made it home.” They

talking so everyone around him and his family

both smile and then my dad asks about their

can hear him, “It is a sickness. We all have it.

journey. We are all laughing at their

stories. Supper ends and we all go to bed.

I pray for my father. We bury Francis and stay in

the house all day. I feel so weak I can’t move my

The next morning I wake up to screams.

I realize it is my mom screaming. I quickly get

body. Finally, night comes and I kiss my family

out of bed and find her. She is in my brother's

and tell them I love them. I go to my father last.

room. All I see is John standing looking at Fran-

“I don’t think I am going to wake up

cis still in

tomorrow.

bed. Then I

My body

realize what

is weak.

happened.

Please

Francis died

watch over

during his

everybody

sleep. I felt

and do

like I could

not stop

not breathe,

fighting.

like my

You are not

throat was

infected,

closing. I

you are not

look at my

going to get

dad who is

it. If you

already dig-

are going

ging a grave.

to get it

I look in

you would

the window

have it by

and freeze.

now. Help

I see my

them. I love

reflection,

you,” I say

with black

as tears roll

dots over my

down my

face. I have

face. He

it. I have

comes over

the plague,

to me and

the one they

hugs me.

call, ‘Black

“I love you too, darGrace Fullerling.”

Death’ is upon me. I run to my mom and sister and see their faces. They all have it. I go back outside to

check my father, but he does not have it. I sigh

I shut my eyes, knowing it will be the last time.

with relief. I realize that soon we will all be next.

I walk to my room and lie down in my bed.

When the Rooster Crows Jhanys Gardner

The early morning is a time of blissful reflection, of quiet relaxation, and of untainted rest. On occasion, a blubbering cloud passes overhead and raps on the thatched roof of our cottage. You can hear the house creak, its old bones growing more tired and weary every

his own. When his fingers scrubbed against my scalp, I couldn’t help but to join his content hum. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?” He already knew the answer, knew it from the way that I stifled a chuckle with a hand; it bubbled out

single day, and it’s a chorus that carries one into the late afternoon when the wind dies down. Crackling thunder from a storm that clatters just beyond reach can be heard what seems like every other morning. Every day begins like the ones before it: blissful, quiet, untainted. I had long forgotten the bustle of the city. The harsh noise of muffled traffic down on the street below had become a fading memory. Alarms and shouting on the other side of a thin wall had given way to the quiet chirping of a bird’s song just outside a shuttered window. All of the clicking of mechanical mice and tapping of keyboards from my job at the accounting firm had molded into the serene rustle of fabric against fabric as I sewed together dresses and shirts. It was heaven on earth, and I was there. There was the resounding thunk of James tossing another piece of wood onto the dying fire, the sputtering flakes of flames rising into a plume, and the sizzle as everything settled once again. He came back as quickly as he had left the warm comfort of the bed, settled in between the layers of quilts that staved off the frost of morning. He pulled me towards his chest then, a deep hum shaking through his body when my head was nestled just beneath

despite my best efforts, and he just pressed an exaggerated kiss against my forehead. We both sighed in perfect sync after that, basking in the way that the torrential rain outside had settled into a drizzle that dripped down the thatched roof. “Who could have guessed that running for our lives would come to this?” I knew that it should have sounded harsher than it did, that the truth behind our being there should have been a slap to the face at such early hours. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to muster the will to care. I simply nodded against his chest, heard the shuffle of his socked feet sliding around beneath the covers. Sometimes I thought about it; it was hard to forget everything about the city. It was hard to forget the way that my heart had sounded like a drum in my ears, roaring to life at the deafening pop of a gun going off in our tiny apartment. It was hard to forget the tinkling of shattered glass falling against the white linoleum tiles of our kitchen. It was hard to forget James’ face, the pained groans that twisted his expression, and the way that his white T-shirt had been stained crimson by the time that we had made our escape by way of the rickety old fire escape.

Katy DiMaio Of course there were days when I thought about asking him why we were running. There were times when I would look at him, perched outside of the cottage with a shotgun as he clicked it open, closed, open, closed, open - something about the look in his eyes scared me; it made me think of snapping bones and a hacking cough that results in a bloodied handkerchief. But what could I say? Honey, we need to talk about why a guest in our apartment shot you and you pushed him out of the window. I couldn’t see that conversation going well. So I said nothing. Despite how we had ended up there, it really was blissful. It reminded me of summers at my mother’s cabin in Colorado, the way that the trees twisted during the night and groaned with the weight of their many leaves. We didn’t

have many luxuries. I had learned to live without an oven a long time ago, but that was part of what made it so free. It was so drastically different from what I had known before, and yet it was almost exactly the same. So, yes, the calm of it all made up for the fact that I had to live without a TV. I found simple pleasures in listening to the crunch of leaves far off in the forest as deer passed by. Sometimes James and I would wake up early, sit out on the dewy grass and watch the sunrise as we bit into apples that we picked ourselves, the squelch of the first bite almost as satisfying as the way that the juice would drip down my chin. That was enough for me; anything would be enough as long as I was with him. I thought that he had fallen asleep, felt the evening out of his breaths where my hands 45

were pressed to his chest and assumed that the silence had carried him off to sleep again. When he broke that silence, that pure silence, I couldn’t help but jump. “Are you happy, Harley?” “‘Course,” the words slurred together, but that didn’t make them any less true. Somewhere outside of our little cottage, a woodpecker was smacking against something with its only purpose in mind. James seemed to listen to the repeated knocking of it for forever before he spoke again, “That’s what I want, you know? I don’t want you to worry about things, just want you to be happy.”

him from being comfortable. Like always, I thought about asking him about it all, but the first word never made it past my lips. We rested, bathed in what little light filtered through the curtains of one of the cottage windows, for the rest of the early morning. There would be wood waiting to be chopped outside, a task that made my ears ring with the constant thwack of the axe against trunk. There would be squirrels gathered outside to carry away whatever berries I might have dropped. There would be the knock of the world against their door, beckoning them out into the light of day. We would greet it, the same as any other day, and

It was nice to know that we were both on the same page; I only wished that I could be as confident about his happiness as he was about mine. After all, on the days where I could hear his restless fingers tapping against the barrel of his shotgun again and again, I knew that the events in the city were barring

I would sit outside—the click of the shotgun in my ear— as I wondered about how long heaven could really remain on earth. If only I had known that the answer would come sooner than I would have expected. For all things changed when the rooster crowed, that deathly screech and scratch of a plea for morning.

Maria Wiss 46

Grace Fuller

Samantha Garciga

Quincy Carter 47

Japan’s Nightmare Diana Ablola

The day started out calm, a setting of scenery that speaks to tranquility of peace. But then the marine life was disrupted without any hesitation to the grab the water by the hair and lift it up into the air. It was a forceful drag. Like someone pulled at nerves beneath the skin and digging their nails into the flesh to bring the nerves close to the surface. Pain spiked. Panic bubbled. The sea choked on her own breath even as the sand clogged the airway. A stranger killed the sea. The name of that villain was Tsunami. He was cruel. He giggled. He rubbed his hands in absolute joy. He was in glee. His arms crushed the lifeless body of the ocean, the weight evident in the slight struggle to carry all of her. Yet, despite the unexpected trouble the ocean has caused him, the momentum of the walk toward the island was not disrupted. His walk became stronger, more confident and more menacing. A breath of relief as his fingertips touched the first city in front of his eyes. Destruction was what he craved. -- At first it felt like someone was ripping off small hairs off of her body. While tiny, the effect made her feel tiny doses of pain. Then she felt pressure and screams of her precious children of flesh and plant alike, as some reached her shoulders. Others were pulled away and their souls leaving tore her own apart. It was a nightmare. She screamed, her pain echoing as more of her skin being peeled away into the watery chaos. Her breath was caught, her eyes widening at the force of pressure from above. A dull knife was being turned over into her body as it oozed out dark crimson liquid. It can continue; it can not. For eight minutes that feeling of a weight on your ribs pushing onto the fragile outer shell of the

lungs stopped. Irony or bad luck one would have said both. However, that was the beginning of the horrendous torture of the new found villain. It was like someone plugged a sword into her stomach, knocking her off balance and her train of thoughts thrown into the wind. But she couldn’t give up or allow herself to be swallowed without a fight. So, she anchored her body like a shield, her fingers holding onto what she could, protecting the ones at her reach. She could feel the shift upon her skin, the weight of more pressure. Her arms shook at it; her fingers loosened at it. How the salt water started to eat eagerly yet patiently at her own skin, rubbing the flesh slowly away. Help. I need... Please. I need help. She called out into the void; she screamed to anyone that could hear her. But it was too late, as her pleas were drowned out by the drums of her own absolute destruction. Everything smelled like salt, the scent filling her nostrils until she almost gagged. She could taste the bitter salt water on her lips, the memory sweet nostalgia smashed down by this horror. She can’t go like this, not bleeding out all alone and cold. Her people needed her. They needed her. But she was weak. She was tired. How hard it was to keep her eyes open as the water closed off her air supply. Any attempt to breathe was like a punch in the gut. The water had reached her teeth, pushing past barriers and any piece of resistance. She felt defeated, like she let down her people. A voice told her no, as she fought the best she could. That the tsunami caught her like a deer in the headlights one island could tell her... would have too if they heard or saw her. She tried; she did her best. She was at peace with this; her love and

Riya Chalise loyalty to her people was put to the test... the ultimate test. Her smile lacked sorrow, her eyes glistened with bittersweet happiness. Her people, most of them, were safe. Her body stilled, her nerves fell flat against their home. Her thoughts focused on her people’s well-being, their pain or their sadness. She wanted to help with the aftermath but she couldn't do that. All she could do was feel. She could feel terror, the shock, the sadness in the air. The dynamic had changed. She was going to disappear. A new Japan would be born. “It’ll be okay,” She thought. And so she drowned in the rest of what the tsunami pushed down her throat, but she didn’t dare move. While she died this day, her people would not be wiped out. Her people can survive. And when the people rebuild, she will be replaced with a new soul and new body. But her love for her people will stay the same. They’ll all be okay. Japan was okay. They ended up bruised and battered. Yet they survived and made steel-armoured coats out of this event. Homes were reestablished; families reconnected to their tree of life. The scent

of sadness still hangs in the atmosphere, but it is not clouding the minds of her people. Her new soul smiled, her new soul bandaged her old wounds and covered her new scars. So she sang, as she told lyrics of bravery and happiness of being alive. And she sang about the loss, the death and coldness. Then she hummed, her vocals reaching the souls of all her people and plants alike. She knew that it wasn’t the same, she wasn’t the same old Japan as she has been before. Nor was she scar-free. She had survived and in doing so, many of her people had survived as well. Her value raised, her courage soared. Flowers bloomed in joy, animals grazed the fields with movement. It was a complete rebirth, a redo, a start over or whatever anyone calls it. While many things were lost, many items were found too. We are strong. We are brave. We won’t allow this to break us, to destroy the hope many hold. We will hold our heads up high and continue on without falling. Despite the horrors this land has faced, the soul of Japan remains strong without fail. When one soul of Japan dies, another one appears stronger then ever.

Colophon Mirage is in its eleventh year of publication and is published during the summer. The magazine was produced using Adobe PhotoShop C56 and Adobe InDesign C56. It was published at Stafford Senior High School using 20 pound paper on an HP 551 printer. The Calisto MT font was used for the title and body of each piece. The Courier New font was used for the word collage.

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 Senior High School, the editorial staff, advisors, or Stafford County Public Schools. All Students at Stafford Senior High School who are not enrolled in a Creative Writing class are invited to submit their work for consideration in the magazine.

Submissions Submissions should be dropped by room A211. All work completed in Stafford Senior High School’s Creative Writing classes are 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 the Stafford Senior High School publications room, the literary magazine staff pulls artwork, stories and poems by Creative Writing classes as well as submissions from Stafford Senior High School students. After days and long hours of reading, editing, collaborating, and eating pizza, the Literary Arts Magazine, Mirage, being finished for submission. In the middle, Mirage Editor in Chief Abigail Wallace works with assistant editors Haley Stocks and Susie Webb.

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