Mirage
Stafford High School Literary Arts Magazine
Everything in life is writeable about if you have the outoging guts to do it and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. -Sylvia Plath
Student Editors Dani Raymond Caitlin Green Faculty Advisor Jim Andrews, Publisher Cover Photo By Dani Raymond
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Mirage Stafford High School Literary Arts Magazine
2012-2013
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Table of Contents ARTWORK Caitlin Green ........................10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 20, 21, 25 Dani Raymond............................... cover, 3, 23, 26, 28, 29 Dani Morio .....................................................................5,6, 19 Jessica LaFratta........................................................................9 Rebecca Patten......................................................................17 Toni Sorrentino......................................................................31
PROSE// POETRY Contradictions// Maddie Stroud.......................................7 Gone// Amy Wood.................................................................8 Silence// Caroline Stimpson............................................10 Who’s Lilly?// Zachary Olsen............................................12 Here’s the Bad News// Maddie Stroud ........................15 Curious// Brent Lawson.....................................................16 Breaking News// Erica Camstra.......................................18 Concrete Jungle// Catherine Hill....................................21 Seasons//Dani Raymond...................................................22 Fair Play// Elizabeth Chase................................................24 Aqua Pura// Dani Raymond.............................................27 Longing// Maddie Stroud.................................................28 4
Artwork by Dani Morio
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Contradictions By Maddie Stroud
Always willing But never there. Cares to listen but Doesn’t hear. Excited to go; Forgets to come. “Good to see you! But I Have to run.” Insists on staying Just to sit in silence. Kind at heart but Lacks strong presence. Married twice, Never divorced. Owns a mansion but Prefers the outdoors. Quiet in crowds Really quiet, in fact. So loud when alone, you’d Think he’s being attacked. Unless it is winter, he acts Very cold. Wants new friends, but Xenophobic: sticks to people he knows. You’d think he’s reserved if you didn’t know better. artwork By Dani Morio
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Gone By Amy Wood
“That’ll be ten-seventy a month, you hear?” Mrs. Kingsley’s greedy eyes shifted towards Frances’ suitcase. “And I don’t take no late rent, you pay on the dot or the door’s locked.” Wiping her dirty hands on her dirty apron and smoothing her unwashed hair behind her ear, Mrs. Kingsley shunted behind Frances to shut the front door behind her. “Yes, ma’am,” Frances said tiredly, sliding her suitcase forward across the carpet to the foot of the lopsided, rickety stairs. “Do you want the ten-seventy now or later?” “Now it wouldn’t go amiss,” Mrs. Kingsley licked her lips. “But if you got to get yourself all settled in, I’ll take it at dinner tonight.” “I’ll have it ready at six,” Frances’ words fell to the side as she began the descent up three flights to her low-rent room past grungy walls dirtied with sweat and poverty. When Frances reached the landing at the top of the apartment building, her forehead shone with perspiration and her fingers were clenched and red over the handle of her suitcase. The roof of the apartment building lunged in precariously and sloped along the sides; Frances had to duck around the trusses to avoid receiving a firm rap in the head. ` The only room on the third floor, its door was scratched and worn; Frances shuffled forward to unlock it. After several unsuccessful attempts, a last, furious jiggle turned the knob and Frances fell forward into the dusty, smelly, steaming room. Gone were her romanticized notions of attic apartments on the streets of New York, dreamed so long ago in the farms of Willough-
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by. Gone were her ideals of rose-petal-scented linens and nostalgic window seats and cozy alcoves. In their place was a coverless cot, one that creaked when pressure was applied; a filthy, streaked window looking down at the trash-littered streets of the city, stubbornly refusing any attempts at opening; a layer of dust that seemed to have been collected for the ages, thickly obscuring any signs of life and housing the poor masses of cockroaches and mice that flock towards the streets at night. Swallowing hard, Frances turned to squeeze the door shut behind her, let go of the handle on her suitcase, and sat down on the bed. Blin ing furiously, Frances stared straight at the floorboards, but closed her eyes against the oncoming sting of tears. Gulping back the waves of disappointment, Frances could see against the darkness of her lids the Willoughby train station again, feel the rushes of girlish excitement and giddy dreams, the scent of Walter and the feel of his wool coat and the smooth leather palm of his gloved hand. She could still imagine the bubbles and daze of champagne in her stomach, of dancing until the wee hours in the nighttime and reading blissfully in the daytime. Those days were gone. “Gone,” Frances said aloud, her voice scratchy. She cleared her throat. “They’re gone. And don’t you forget it.” The weak sun limped through the dirty window, outlining a cold, unfeeling square on the floor. Artwork by Jessica LaFratta
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Silence By Caroline Stimpson
Silence is sound filling a void, expressing more than words can say. Silence is a voice deep in the dark, the all-knowing prescence of mind. Silence is comfort when least expected, an ear wide open to listen. And silence is grief, a soundless cry, remedied for hearts split in two. What silence can’t change, silence can soften, for its sound can be what you please. What silence can’t solve, silence can mend, for words can hurt you no longer. Photos by Caitlin Green
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Who’s Lilly? By Zachary Olsen I was surprised by how little anyone thought of her after she died. Her death went by almost completely unnoticed, like a splash in the sea after the fall of Icarus. I always thought she just blended in with everyone else; a wallflower. But in the end, it was as though she had never even lived to begin with. I’m nobody. I’m not the person who matters in this story. This story isn’t about me. It’s about the most overlooked and unappreciated beauty to ever walk the halls of my school: Lilly. Please remember her name, because no one else seems to be able to. It started in early fall. I remember it vividly because the leaves were changing to deep shades of red and orange. I remember thinking that the leaves made her hair look like burning fire. I remember the look on her face every time the cold wind swept through her hair. She would always close her eyes and just stand there, letting the wind adjust her hair and scarf. I like to think that the wind gave her comfort, like some unseen force laying a hand on her face, whispering in the trees that she would be all right. But she wasn’t all right. I’m not sure why she did it, or why it happened. I noticed when she no longer walked by my house on the way to school every morning. There was nothing in the paper, no announcement over the PA system, no eulogy. No one cared that Lilly had died. No one cared that Lilly had killed herself. People still laughed at lunch and got in fights in the hallway. Projects were still due and couples continued holding hands. I wondered if anyone had ever held her hand. More than once I stood in the middle of the hallway and tried not to sob as the world went on without her. Was her death really so insignificant that nothing changed? Could everything not stop just for a single moment, to at least show that someone noticed her passing? It was only after 3 weeks of searching that I found out how she did it. Three weeks of absolutely no information whatsoever. Three weeks of people answering my question with another question:
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“Who’s Lilly?” She had swallowed a bottle of pills just before bed. Her parents didn’t even realize she was gone till the next day when they arrived home from work in the evening. The fact that her parents didn’t even realize that she was dead for an entire day angered me. It angered me because even her parents took an entire day to realize that she was gone. It angered me even more that she had been alone all that time. I tried not to think about her lying in her bed alone for so long. The mental image haunted me tremendously. I had nightmares every night for a week of Lilly lying dead in her bed. I kept on hoping that she would just wake up, that she wasn’t ever actually dead, just asleep. She never woke up though. No matter how hard I willed her to open her eyes in my dreams, she never woke up. She was truly dead. I wondered why she did it. I wondered what had happened in her life that she found life too be too unbearable to live. She had always looked tired. She always had bags underneath her eyes like she never slept. I have no idea why she really did it, but I think it was because she was so tired. Not tired from lack of sleep so much as she was just tired from life. It was as though she just got tired of all the shit in her life and just decided to sleep forever. Maybe she thought it would fix something in her life. I always felt better after I slept. I also felt guilty for her death. I know her loneliness must have been a part of the reason why she did it and I felt that it was partly my fault. I saw her in the halls almost every day, but she was always alone. I didn’t know if that was by choice or not but now I wish I had become her friend. I wish that I had just spoken to her. I wish I had told her that she wasn’t so alone. I wanted her to know that I thought she was the most beautiful and interesting girl I’ve ever seen. I wish I had been there for her and I wish I had been there to tell her that everyone felt a little alone sometimes. I found her journal in the lost and found
months after she left. For a while I just stared at it, like it was her ghost appearing in front of me. I took it, if only so it wouldn’t be thrown away at the end of the year. I couldn’t bear that thought. For a while I couldn’t decide whether to open it or not. I would sit in my room and stare at it for hours. Would I be invading her privacy? There was something obviously morally questionable about going through a dead girl’s private journal. After a few weeks of staring at it I realized that I couldn’t read it. It wasn’t mine to read. She spent her entire life invisible and as far as I know, she would want her private thoughts to be kept private. I held my own ceremony for her in my back yard. I made a fire in the brisk cold and held her journal close to my chest as I watched the logs burn in front of me. I wanted so terribly to read her journal. I had no right to go through her things. I had no right to read her journal. I wanted so terribly to get to know this girl, but I knew I had lost my chance. I carefully placed the red leather journal on top of the fire and slowly watched it burn in front of me. This was it. This was the last piece of her I had left, but it wasn’t mine to have. I could have known why she killed herself. I could have stayed up all through the night pouring through her journal page by page dissecting it to find out who Lilly really was and why she did what she did. I didn’t though, I couldn’t. Months after I began to accept the fact that she was truly gone. No longer would she walk by my house on the way to school every morning. No longer would her hair match the changing leaves. No longer would I see her close her eyes and surrender to the freezing wind. I wondered how long the memory of her would haunt my thoughts. She disappeared unnoticed for everyone else, but I was convinced that I would never forget her. I knew I would never forget her. Photo by Caitlin Green
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Here’s the Bad News By Maddie Stroud No one ever told you the bad news. No one ever warned you, “It gets harder from here.” Sixteen is made out to be Amazing. Liberating. Crazy. Free. But you’re not free, are you? Stress overpowers your life, Holding you down Like chains in the cold earth. On the outside, you’re fine. Sometimes. Life is good, grades are good, confidence is good. Everything is good, Just like they said it would be. But no one ever told you the bad news. Yes, they said “cherish you childhood, Don’t wish away your youth.” But no one ever defined childhood. “I at least have through college!” You thought. You always heard those were the best days. No one ever told you what it takes to get there. Middle school: prepare for high school. High school: advanced classes And sports And clubs And leadership And sacrifice And service And more. Working towards college, Towards scholarships and ivy leagues and recruitments. College: preparing for a job, For the “real world” That everyone has always told you about. The real world? Work towards that retirement, my dear. Always working towards something. And then you await death. You await the glory, The good news, The gratification, You await the days You’d always been told about.
Photo by Caitlin Green
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curious By Brent L awson
From the minds of old, Man has always wondered what was beyond our blue borders separating life as we know it and the mysterious black shade that lay beyond. Oh how my mind bolts and chases every idea that crosses it as to what could be the answer. I beg to know what’s out there, a god, the God, a demon, the Devil or other life forms…or perhaps just Void. I shudder at the thought of the last one but nevertheless considering it may be a disappointing and frightening reality. Time will only tell. I’ve often pondered the thought of suicide, just so I could know what was Beyond. Perhaps more time at the observatory tonight will lead to a new discovery. One can only hope so. Mother used to point the constellations out to me at night while we lay in the smooth soft grass in our yard at night. Perhaps this constant source of knowledge sparked my desire to search, my quest for answer to life’s most important questions. All I can be for sure of is that one day Father Time and Mother Nature will enlighten me and my disease of curiosity may someday be cured. Artwork By Rebecca Patten
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Breaking News By Erica Camstra
Important: The following is the dialogue of a previous radio announcement. It was not intended for younger audiences and contains textual descriptions of just, god awful interior decorating tastes.Viewer discretion is advised. (You have been warned). BREAKING NEWS: Hipster Harry Has the Coolest Room the 90’s Have Ever Seen! Harry St. Pila, or as he’s known around New Greenwich, Hipster Harry, has only recently announced the completion of his newly furnished room belonging, of course, in the estate of his much wealthier parents. “I was trying to go for a more, earthy, bohemian meets Spice Girls meets Original Nintendo kind of feel. It was really important to me that, firstly, all the fabric be as locally grown as possible since I don’t want any Mexicans or something putting their children into the workforce just so I can have a nice yak rug, you know? We all have to care about another like, race of people or something.” Or something is right, Hipster Harry’s room really is the top of the tablecloth (a newly coined phrase by Harry himself, he’s been saying it since before it was cool). The floors are made of recycled grocery crates likely to be found in any New York dumpster or street corner, his bedside table is a foldable lawn chair with Lisa Frank stickers plastered over for an ironic effect, the only light source is a small hole in the ceiling Harry drilled in himself (“DIY is like, so in right now”) the walls are adorned with homemade band posters of bands Harry made up himself (so as to, stay ahead of the crowd), but the final
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touch would probably be the indie records strewn about on the floor. “Is that more for function or fashion, Harry?” “I would say both. It’s for fushion. You see, whenever I need to listen to my records I can simply pick them up off the floor, it is really the top of the tablecloth. But at the same time, it is a statement I have against the music industry. Records, especially indie records, are so hard to find. When I put them on the floor, sometimes I step on them on accident, and they break, and now the indie record is not only unplayable, but that record has also become rarer. Because now there is one less of it left in this cruel world. That, and, they just look so darn good on the floor. t is so much better than a yak rug, if only more people thought that way.” “But is that not a bit dangerous, Harry?” “Well, like, I live a dangerous life.” Dangerous indeed, Hipster Harry’s room is covered in broken record fragments, old Chinese food, and various, mildew covered bones of different birds. “I’m also an artist, when I have the time. I make sculptures out of bird bones. I glue them together with this glue I make myself, it’s made out of Elmer’s Original White Glue and this Gorilla Glue my dad buys, I mix it up and I glue the bird bones together into different shapes.” “And what shape is that right there, Harry?” “That is a pentagon.” “But it has eight sides” “I know, but, Picasso didn’t exactly know what he was doing when he was painting the Sistine Chapel, like… inspiration comes from everywhere. It can come from the trees, it can come from fast food-“ “It can come from other artists?” “No don’t be silly. That is so not the top of the tablecloth. That is stealing. That’s not, like, being an original”. Being an original is important to Hipster
Harry. all his clothes are handmade. “I’m not much of a sewer, I’m more into accessories. I can make my pants pretty well; this one I’m wearing right now is made of the grass my neighbor makes his son cut every other Sunday. I dyed it with plum juice which is why they smell so good right now. But I can’t really make shirts all that well, so I’m pretty shirtless most of the time. I like wearing large necklaces made out of various objects I find in the dumpsters to cover my chest area. The three main, large ones I’m wearing right now are made out of paper lanterns, crushed oreos, and tiny pieces of recycled tires. They are also great for covering the upside down anchor tattoo I have below my ribcage.” “What is it covered for, Hipster Harry?” “Oh, my dad does not approve of tattoos, he is pretty much like, totally against my way of living which is kind of harsh. We should support all lifestyles, especially alternative ones. I know I do, it is the top of the tablecloth kind of thing to do nowadays.” Hipster Harry’s father could not be reached at the moment for comment. However, this does not bother Harry. You see, art school, interior decorating, and living off of the land leave Harry with little time for a real, no kidding, job. His father is a wealthy businessman who financially supports his son’s endeavors. It is almost a bragging rights sort of ritual, Hipster Harry puts us through, with him and his friends betting on who has spent more of their parents money. “I would probably say that I am at a tie with my friend Indie Ingrid since she spends just as much, if not more time blogging about her alternative fashion line that she does buying fake plastic glasses and studded collars.” Hipster Harry elaborates, twisting his moustache ends as he tells us this. Indeed it is actually an acquaintance of Hipster Harry, Hipster Henry who spends more of his parents money by large. Hipster Henry lives just on the other side of New Greenwhich in an partment that consists of only three broken ottoman’s and cooler containing Pabst Lite Beer (“It is his statement about the oppression of people during this economy
and such.”). Hipster Henry’s parents work three different jobs to support their son’s addiction to shopping, and his tuition at NYU where he wants to explore his inner artistic needs but still DJ on the weekends. Hipster Henry was busy getting his moustache styled at the time of this interview, and neither he nor his parents could be reached at this time. This has been another segment of The News: Bringing You Satire Every Morning with a Steaming Hot Cup of Sarcasm to Go with It. Artwork by Dani Morio
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Concrete Jungle By Catherine Hill
Can you try to be like me? Can you imagine the pain, the heartache, the people that break and shake and tear you down. Imagine living in the Concrete Jungle, imagine if you were not a tourist, if you were not a citizen, imagine if you were like me. Apart of the scenery. Apart of the streets. People walk on by and look the other way. Just imagine waking up and having to face it another day. Knowing there is no other way. Imagine if all you took for granted was gone was gone to the wind. Where you would you go? Would you flee to the Concrete Jungle, and sleep beside me? Would you embrace the chill to the bone, as an ordinary fact of life, would it make you feel alive or just plain dead inside? Could you let it tear you down Inside? Photos by Caitlin Green
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Seasons By Dani Raymond It’s been said that you must travel the world to experience life, that you must travel the world to know the world. I have been in the same spot, rooted, for over one-hundred years, and I have seen more life than a man who has circles the Earth twenty times. I know life and pain, and over the years I have learned how to feel it. This land is a land of children, where parents are only distant voices and characters in stories. Here, in the seemingly endless green, children are free of worry. In the summer daze, children run around, their skinny legs covered in mosquito bites, like little kisses from the season. I watch them from afar, playing their games and laughing. Sometimes they embrace me and hide behind me to avoid being caught by their friends. With their bare feet and their sun-bleached hair waving at me in the wind, even I- a prisoner- can feel free. A prisoner I was in the beginning, but I have come to see my eternal stillness as a gift from God or Mother Nature or whatever being controls my fate. Time, to me, is only seasons: hot, cold, freezing, warm, then hot again. As the summer fades, the children layer on shirts, shoes, and coats. As they gain their layers, I shed in deep shades of red, orange, and yellow. These colors are blown miles around, as I stand like a newborn, bare and naked. I see these children bud and branch out, as I once did when I was young. I see them fight and punch. They separate into smaller groups, picking sides and making enemies. They spit out harsh woods filled with hurt. I live their lives with them. I
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protect them, watch them, love them. These children are my children. The weather turns biting and frosty and everything looks dead and cold. The only life I see is in the flushed faces of the children, their eyes sparkling like the snow. Blankets of fluffy white cover the ground, and the children lie in it and throw it in little spheres. The groups join together again, forgetting any conflict they once had and build a man from the snow on the ground. They fit him with a hard and scarf, and I help them by giving him arms. For a few nights, until he melted away, this man of snow keeps me company. We watch the children together, both cold and still. And I don’t feel so alone. These children keep coming back to out land until, soon, they aren’t children any longer. The boys notice how pretty the girls are, and the girls notice the boys noticing them. Once again, I see them separate, this time in pairs. They hold each other’s hands and sit under me. They whisper to each other so softy, their words so sweet that it melts into the air. They carve their love into my rough flesh for the world to see and kiss as they admire their handiwork. Eventually their love ends and the girls return to me, hid behind me like they once did. They try to avoid being caught. They cry and whisper to themselves things so sad that I try not to listen. They reach out for me and run their fingers over the memory of their love. Then, they find another boy who is sweeter than the last. He fills her mind with promises that he won’t hurt her, that they’ll get married. But I’ve come to learn things like that don’t last forever. It’s a cycle like all the seasons. It
has to come to an end, but it always comes back around again. Even if it’s not exactly how it was before, it will still come back. Soon, my worst fear has come true. The children must leave this place. They gather one night and bring beer and cigarettes. They talk about getting away, moving on, leaving. Their voices rise. Words flow out as quickly as the drinks flow in. Then, all is quiet. I get scared as I see these angry people. I ask myself, where have my children gone. Finally, there is silence all around, except for the soothing noises of the night. A voice whispers up form the grass, gentle like the fireflies in the air, gentle like the children they once were, “I don’t want to leave this place.” “Me neither,” another voice adds.
“Do you remember when we were all little,” said another, “ and we would come out here all day?” Their voices travel up to me like the night breeze, and I take it all in. Drunken laughter brings me back with them, as they reminisce. In the night, with only the stars providing light, they recall almost every moment, and it’s like I’m there reliving what I’ve missed for so long. They are quiet once again, until they wake up glossed in the morning dew and sleepily amble back home across the grass. Photo By Dani Raymond
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Fair Play By Elizabeth Chase
Timothy felt a surge of triumph as the pictures of Senator Dalton rolled past on the screen: “Responsible for saving America from destruction;” “Pioneered the Save Our Schools Act;” “no earmarking, and also a loving husband and father”—yes, this campaign advertisement was brilliant. Timothy’s satisfaction increased to a climax as a heroic headshot played across the screen along with the words “Vote George Dalton for President—America Now, America Future.” It was perfection. No presidential aide could ever hope to top this nearly‐divine creation—wait, what was this new conclusion? To Timothy’s horror, another, less presidential face rose upon the screen, accompanied by the words: “But also give proper consideration to Senator Fred Rogers, who is in his own right a brilliant, ethical man. Don’t feel pressured to vote for Senator Dalton.” Timothy dropped his head into his hands and groaned. His beautiful, incredible campaign was ad destroyed once more by the candidate’s compassion. This was the 117th ad that Timothy had chaired, and it was the 117th ad to be “edited” by the Senator late at night to “give Fred his fair due.” When Timothy had signed up for the campaign, he had counted on a willing, no‐holds‐barred kind of guy, not this fair, generous, honest politician. How were they supposed to win an election with honesty? It was looking impossible. The infuriating thing was that Senator Rogers had no qualms about unfair play—his attack ads were ubiquitous, all besmirching Senator Dalton’s nearly flawless reputation. Every week, Timothy brought in the attack ad report, filled with heinous lies about a corporate payoff, or the budget deal with the devil that killed 62 veterans, or George’s bipolar wife. Nothing was sacred. Each time, though, Senator Dalton just smiled benignly, and said tranquilly, “That’s all right. Fred is just playing the game. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.” Timothy had tried countless times to convince him that Fred did in fact mean it, or at least that it didn’t matter if Fred “meant” it— what mattered was voters. But Senator Dalton refused to participate in attack ad behavior: they
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were restricted to positive ads that explained George’s stances and plans for his presidency. And every ad that they created concluded with a disclaimer encouraging voters to consider Senator Rogers and to feel no pressure to vote for Senator Dalton. When they refused to put it in, Senator Dalton snuck into the studio late at night to add it himself, or threatened to make public statements endorsing Senator Rogers. Senator George Dalton was a genuinely good man—fair and honest to a fault. Senator Fred Rogers was a complete shmuck who took advantage of George’s compassion. Unfortunately, George would not let his campaign team prove it: and thus was the root of the problem. Lisa strode into Timothy’s office, her heels clicking efficiently across the floor. “You saw the ad?” Timothy asked hopelessly. Lisa did not grace Timothy’s question with a response, and his head fell back into his hands. “One hundred and seventeen ads, all ruined,” he moaned despondently. “Yes, well.” She stated briskly, “We have nowhere to go but up. This is the man we’ve chosen to work for—too nice for his own good. We’ve got an action meeting in five.” Timothy heaved himself to his feet and slouched into the conference room, collapsing into his seat by the door. As other campaign workers trickled in, he nodded grumpily at each, receiving sympathetic looks in exchange. Finally, Senator Dalton strode in, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Good afternoon, everyone. I trust you all are well,” he smiled at his team. They smiled halfheartedly back. “As I’m sure you are aware, we are one week from D‐Day, the final frontier. Action team, report!” Each member went around the circle, summarizing campaign donations, public opinions polls, the party stance, and the president’s agenda. Finally, it came to Tim’s turn. “Senator, it would be a huge help if I could run just one attack ad. Or even just leave out the final message.”
“Please, Tim, call me George. We’re all friends here,” Senator Dalton replied cordially. “I Appreciate the confidence and sentiment that is behind that recommendation—I feel the same way about you—“ Tim mouthed the word “but” at Lisa. “—But, no can do. I’m real sorry about this, but I’m going to have to decline that friendly suggestion. I cannot in good conscience state ‘I approve this message’ when that sort of opinion is in the message. If I sacrifice my morality, I have nothing.” “Yes sir. Crystal clear,” Tim grumbled. “George, Tim. We’re friends.” “Yes, George. Crystal clear,” Tim grumbled again. As Tim sank back into his seat with a defeated grimace, George beamed at the rest of the room. “Lisa, I believe we’ve come to you,” George said politely. “Yes, George. Since the last debate, you’ve been dropping in the polls—the fact of the matter is that American voters want an assertive president, and many view you as a pacifist.” George frowned and began to make a response, but Lisa cut him off. “I know you’re not a pacifist, George, but the average American voter doesn’t know that,” she sighed. “People can’t separate your foreign policy from your hatred of personal attacks. You have to respond to at least some of Senator Rogers’ claims—we’re letting him walk all over us.” George seemed to ponder for a moment, and then began to speak. “I would rather not respond to any of Fred’s statements. I do not think they deserve my attention, and I do not want to affiliate myself with
any sort of slanderous behavior. I think it is best for me to stay uninvolved.” Lisa’s posture began to resemble Tim’s as she settled downtroddenly into her seat. The action meeting concluded quickly after that, and Senator Dalton (“George,” Tim kept saying) was escorted away by his flock of black‐clad guards. Tim returned to his apartment, settling into a well‐worn couch and nursing a cup of black coffee. His mother always told him not to drink the stuff after noon, but he’d yet to settle into the habit. Still depressed by George’s denial of the attack ad proposal, he dejectedly flicked on the television, allowing the antics of Honey Boo‐Boo to numb his mind. As a Fred Rogers campaign ad splayed across the screen (“Do you want a man like George Dalton in charge of America? Do you want to be at the mercy of a murderer?”), Tim stabbed the remote with his thumb, turning the TV off abruptly. He really couldn’t stand it. Tim had met Fred Rogers, and he was a jerk—Senator Dalton was an incredibly nice man. And it wasn’t like Rogers was a brilliant psychopath—he was an ignorant, mentally incompetent psychopath who happened to have a very charismatic personality and a charming smile. Dalton was hands‐down the better candidate. But nobody in the United States knew it, and nobody was going to, because George wouldn’t allow attack ads and he, Tim, was not creative enough to come up with a better advertising solution. There was no way they could win this election. In America, honesty and decency rarely did.
Photo By Caitlin Green
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Aqua Pura By Dani Raymond
The possibilities glisten in a cool blue pool before me. I take the dive, letting my endless, shapeless future absorb into my flesh, Basking in the ripples, Sliced by sunlight. Weightlessness unlocks the cage, Opens the door and waves to me. It slicks back my hair and purifies my every pore Until they whistle from the cooling wind. Yet the waves pick up the particles, Of my fluid life. I Struggle to keep my head above the surface. Water submerges me, running down my throat, Taking over by body as a whole. It fills my lungs and steals my breath. Darkness follows, immersing me in silence, As I bob face-down like a buoy on the surface, Motionless, lifeless, hopeless. The heat of the hot summer sun burns my helpless back, The repeated weight of life bangs at my broken chest, Wringing my heart dry. My eyelids flutter open like the wings of a moth, The sun illuminating the world to see. Photo By Dani Raymond
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Longing By Maddie Stroud
I sit on the chill of the lonely blue sand. Bathed in the moonlight, the silence resounds. Wishing you there to hold my lost hand, I find no comfort in the world that surrounds. Up the path is the yellow light of your home Calling my name, calling me in. But I wish to stay here, just to think, all alone; The calm could be killed by the drop of a pin. As the miniscule waves lap against the soft shore, I let out a rather exhausted, light sigh. I hadn’t thought about this before, But I had no chance to say goodbye. Photos by Dani Raymond
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COLOPHON
MIRAGE is in its seventh year of publication. It is published during the summer. The magazine was produced on IBM-compatible computers using Adobe PhotoShop CS4 and Adobe InDesign CS4; it was published in Stafford High School using 20-pound paper on an HP 551 printer. The font Calibri was used for the text of the poetry and prose pieces, the photo and artwork credits. The font Lithro Pro was used for the titles of each piece. The font Mistral was used for the title of the publication, the quotes, and page numbers.
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 view of Stafford High School, the editorial staff, advisor or Stafford County Public Schools. All students at Stafford High School who are not enrolled in Creative Writing or Art class are invited to submit their work for consideration in the magazine.
SUBMISSION
Submissions should be dropped by room W205. 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 stall reserves the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted work.
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Imagination is more important than knowledge. -Albert Einstein
Artwork by Toni Sorrentino
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