Enter - Talisman 2014

ENTER Talisman 2014 Volume XXIV Issue I

Wakefield School 4439 Old Tavern Rd The Plains, Va 20198

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Poetry

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Coffee by Morgan Hadlock Innocence by Anya Parks Artist in His Studio by Tish Johnston Missing Memories by Jillian Wise Enola Girl by Eryn Tim A Tasteless Meal by Juliana Parra Blank by Rosie Hutchison Teeth by Juliet Mayer A Collage of Memories by Alexandra Schlegel The House by Cory Kleinman Gordon by Tish Johnston The Karoo by Katie Howard I Have a Dream by Elisabeth Arnold My Dream Within a Dream by Juliana Parra Violin by Emma Anderson Twins by Morgan Hadlock

Prose

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Storm by James Wroe Forgiveness by Janice Lee Death by Dylan Winick The Match by Matt Steensma Where Beauty Is by Dylan Winick The Smoke of Death by Kate Vorder Buregge Two Sonnets by Maddie Dargis I Am Still a Boy by Doria Gilberg Untitled by James Wroe Fulfiled by Janice Lee Angela by Juliet Mayer Amongst the War by Connor Duszynski The Liberation of Sonnets by Matt Steensma What is After Death? by Patrick Dean Love’s Vessel by Matt Steensma Candle by Dylan Winick Annabeth by Ellie Ligon Cards by Caroline Kessler Ducks by Alison Swede Fish by Kate Granruth Abstract by Ellie Ligon TV by Ellie Ligon Women by Eryn Tim Abstract by Kate Granruth Forest by Ellie Ligon

Art

Photography

Rugs by Nicole Andersen Pyramid by Byron Bushara Buddha by Ashley Alexander Arabic by Byron Bushara Girl by Byron Bushara Lion by Nicole Andersen Tea by Ellie Dunnigan Trees by Jillian Wise Mexico by Maddie Dale The Bean by Brianna Hutchison Sunglasses by Maddie Dale Rain by Alison Swede Notting Hill by Byron Bushara Tie Dye by Gabby Castano Balloons by Brianna Hutchison Road by Jillian Wise Versailles by Byron Bushara Great Expectations by Mary Clubb Fountain by Byron Bushara Everglades by Ali Russell Eiffel Tower by Ellie Dunnigan Love by Gabby Castano Jellyfish by Gabby Castano Morocco by Nicole Andersen Air Force Memorial by Gabby Castano Lightbulbs by Elisabeth Arnold Road by Kate Stamer Road by Danielle Russel Lamps by Gabby Castano Fireworks by Juliana Parra Hands by Byron Bushara Love Lock Bridge by Gabby Castano Georgetown by Ashley Kim Spices by Nicole Andersen Candles by Byron Bushara Rainbow by Danielle Russell

Table of Contents

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By Nicole Andersen Grade Twelve

Coffee

By Morgan Hadlock Grade Twelve

Coffee. Nothing more than roasted seeds and water, it requires only two ingredients and five minutes to make. However simple, it is arguably the world’s most important beverage; a $30 billion dollar industry, coffee’s acidic energy boost has almost all of us hooked. Eighty-three percent of Americans drink at least one cup every day, while the average person drinks three cups daily; that’s 587 million cups! Although coffee is one of the world’s most popular drinks,it is also one of the most stigmatized, the bad-boy, if you will, of the beverage world. Ranging from the mundane to the absurd, there is no shortage of myths surrounding the brew. How many times have you heard your mother say that coffee will stunt your growth or cause heart disease or ruin your life in some other macabre manner? Well, espresso enthusiasts, decaf disciples, and latte lovers, you can hold onto your cups with pride, because these brainwashed believers of the anti-coffee cult are completely, totally, and wholly wrong.

They try to plant the first seeds of contempt of caffeine at a young age by playing to a child’s biggest fear; that they will not grow and forever remain a fraction of a person. Too young and naïve to question their parents’ motives, they unwittingly fall into the grasp of the Folger-phobes and develop the fear themselves, therefore perpetuating the vicious cycle. However, this assertion is utterly false. This blasphemous claim stems from early studies that linked excessive consumption of caffeine to a loss in bone density and osteoporosis, thus causing a slight difference in a person’s height.

What the study failed to mention is that it was performed only on elderly patients with calcium deficiencies who were already likely to develop those symptoms, with or without a cup of coffee. In more recent years, scientists 5

have studied the effect of caffeine on the bone density of children, and it turns out, “a cup of joe won’t keep little Joe pint-sized all his life.” But people of the anti-coffee persuasion—cantankerous, crabby, caffeine-deprived souls—will not be convinced by the debunking of only one of their myths. They continue to believe, in spite of the studies proving otherwise, that caffeine has some ill effect on health. Contrarily, modern science has proved that a three-cups-a-day habit might not be so bad, after all. A Harvard University study proved found that the antioxidants in coffee, such as chlorogenic acid, might prevent certain types of cancer. In fact, coffee drinkers are astonishingly fifty percent less likely to get liver cancer than non-drinkers. If that’s not enough to convince you, coffee can be attributed to preventing other diseases, such as diabetes, basal cell carcinoma, and oral cancer.

Bob Thompson, a professor of popular culture at Syracuse University, says, “You could say that this nation runs on two dark liquids—petroleum and coffee.” It is an inevitable part of the American lifestyle; the rich, aromatic liquid keeps us alert and focused. Yet there remains a subset of the population that wants to stifle our right to caffeine; they work against the popular culture to persuade us to join a sad, java-free world. But we must rise against these forces and fight for our right to caffeine; if not for our sanity, for our health.

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By Byron Bushara Grade Ten

Storm

By James Wroe Grade Eleven

Lights flash; the impenetrable darkness Of sleep leeches away, and rest is lost.

Rain pings on the wall while delayed thunder Suddenly cracks as when an oak sunders Its seams when old age and harshest weather It can bear no more. Primordial fear Roils in the heart, though safety is ensured.

Not one thing brought by this tempest can breach, Can encroach, can penetrate, can threaten, Can even do so much as interfere With the slumber of one who is so safe.

So sleep now; the storm will never reach here.

Eyes close, fear recedes, sleep is soon regained.

The storm’s great wrath now seems to be contained.

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Innocence

By Anya Parks Grade Nine

By Ellie Ligon Grade Twelve

Originally, I thought the TV writers had it all wrong. People, I thought, don’t act in the way they are shown on television. The characters on our TV were two-dimensional individuals without any ties to life, especially children, who were usually too naive to be real. Children usually weren’t as ignorant and simple-minded as their television counterparts, so why were they depicted in this way? However, after comparing my own actions and memories with those of television characters, I realized that maybe the producers weren’t very far off the mark.

I realized that, as a little girl, I was actually a lot like the kids on TV. I was the one that blurted out a curse word, not knowing it was wrong, and the one that whispered secrets too loudly, with a big silly grin unaware that I was anything but covert. I was the very same child that people love for comedic relief, and as a real life example, it was inevitable that I was loved by almost all adults that I encountered. However, it was the very qualities that endeared me to adults that made me susceptible to the cruel whims of my fellow schoolmates.

When I was in the first grade, I attended Saint Joseph’s Catholic School where we did not have nuns, but had teachers that were strict and scary enough to be their equivalents. I absolutely hated going to school 8

every day, having to see my meany bobeney teachers with their exacting rules and harsh manners. Television was my escape. Cyberspace was my salvation, Barney was my savior, and Sesame Street was my church service. Unfortunately, when my favorite shows weren’t on, I had to turn to other sources for information, and it was there that I learned new words like: nest, mockingbird, turtle’s egg, retard, shut up, and stupid. Isn’t it amazing the new things you can learn on TV! I certainly thought so, and my new word, “stupid,” made it’s debut on a sunny afternoon during recess. I was rescuing ants with my friend Martina, when she told me a funny story. I replied with a laugh and a delighted, “Stupid!” I didn’t think, I just spoke, and unfortunately for me, my lapse was witnessed by our class mean girl. “Oooooooo! You said stu-ped,” she crowed. I tried to deny it, but the damage was already done and my fate was sealed with a triumphant, “I’m gonna tell on you.” I, being a wanna-be teacher’s pet, was absolutely horrified. I begged her, “Please, please, please, don’t tell. I don’t wanna get in trouble!” It was then that she seemed to realize the power she had gained and now held over me. During the next few weeks she and her friends came up to me, and she would have me perform,“Please, please, please don’t tell,” as they watched in cruel amusement.

I was terrified of getting in trouble but, eventually, I got so fed up that I told my sister who then repeated the tale to my mother. My mother was, of course, distraught, but she couldn’t seem to get through to me that I really had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t until I had spoken to the school’s guidance counselor that I realized that it was the girl who had done wrong, not me. She was a bully, they told me, one who prayed on the weak for her own pleasure. After that incident, I made the decision that I would never be treated that way ever again.The next year, I went to a new school where I made a new name for myself. I still wore my rose-colored glasses with my big goofy grin, but I had forged myself a new will of gold (soft compared to other metals, but hard none the less) and I would never be bullied ever again.

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Forgiveness

By Janice Lee Grade Eleven

Tonight as I lay still in my soft lonely bed Our last memories keep playing over and over again, Including my harsh words to you that I said That I am now writing down with my ink-filled pen.

If you’re reading this right now, my sweet little love, I am sorry for all that I have said or done.

I know a poem is not enough to save you, dove.

I might as well give up and run.

But I will do anything for your forgiveness And not let you slip from me once more.

Whether climbing the mountains to pray to Jesus, Or giving up all my money and becoming poor.

You are my everything That I will love even when you are aging.

By Ashley Alexander Grade Eleven

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Death Death Death

By Dylan Winick Grade Nine

I was a soldier once, Like my father before me, And his father before him.

I will never know the names Off the people I killed, But I will always remember their faces.

I remember them As my memory begins to fade.

I remember them even when the faces Of my friends begin to disappear.

They keep me awake at night, Even after all these years.

It would be better if I had died, Rather than living this half-life.

I still feel the bullet’s burn; I can hear the apathy of the doctor As he said he had to amputate.

I live after so many Of my friends and loved ones pass.

So, I welcome Death.

I do not fear him.

For he is my last companion.

He is my oldest friend.

By Caroline Kessler Grade Eleven 11

Artist in His Studio

By Tish Johnston Grade Twelve

Photo by Byron Bushara Grade Ten

Looking at ourselves, and the challenging tasks in front of us can be daunting, but as a little girl being forced to tour art museums with my mother I had little concern for the future. While I did not understand this self-portrait of a defeated looking man standing in the corner staring at an empty canvas, the painting made an impression on me. When I returned to the museum as a junior in high school, facing AP exams, college applications, and the general stress of being a teenage girl, “Artist in his Studio” was more than a work by my favorite painter; it was an explanation for how scary the future can be. The painting reminds us that even the great master Rembrandt could be discouraged. I have loved his work since I first visited the Dutch gallery at the National Gallery of Art, and “Artist in his Studio,” expresses a basic human emotion. When I feel overwhelmed, I look at this work and remember that just as I feel helpless before my laptop screen in the 21st century, Rembrandt felt the same way staring at his blank canvas in 17th century. This painting challenges and encourages me to do better and refutes the notion that being an artist is easy. We all have to work hard under stress in order to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

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Missing Memories

By Jillian Wise Grade Eleven

I. Mrs. O’Bannon

In the photo, Mrs. O’Bannon and I are laughing. Our faces are smiling broadly with excitement as Mr. Powell, my neighbor, puts his hands on her thin shoulders and readies himself to push us down the steep, snow-covered hill on a red plastic sled. I am sitting in her lap and her arms are around my chest, like a backwards bear hug; like she will never let me go. Her black gloves and ski pants are caked in white snow, signs of the fun we have had playing together with my neighbors. Her cheeks are a rosy red from the cold and her short, dirty blonde hair is tucked under a teal blue ski hat. A matching blue and black ski coat covers her upper body. Her eyes are closed, but normally they are a dull gray, like storm clouds. She has an intense gaze, but, unlike storm clouds, her eyes are filled with endless care, campfire warmth, and unlimited sweetness. Mrs. O’Bannon is my kindergarten teacher. Throughout my kindergarten year, my mom and she became friends; and Mrs. O’Bannon became more than just my teacher: she became my friend. She taught me how to read, and she guided me through my first few years of school.

Nine years later, I go visit her in the assisted living facility she now calls home. A limp arm around my back replaces the warm, strong hugs that I cherished and loved as a child. Her once intense eyes are blank, no longer filled with the infinite care and blazing warmth I remember as a child. Her dirty blonde hair has started graying. Her face has hardened, showing grief and sadness, which is dotted with occasional confusion or laughter. The memories we share grow fewer and fewer in her mind. There is little laughter, little joy. Once a great storyteller, she can no longer provide a good description of her days’ events nor can she complete most of 13

her sentences. Her ability to read and write has virtually disappeared.

When I see her, I have to force myself not to cry. The outstanding teacher and amazing friend that I once knew are now gone, replaced by a puppet whom I don’t want to know. At age 56, early-onset Alzheimer’s disease has wrapped around her mind like a vise grip. Eventually, it will be too tight around her brain to remember my name or any of the other memories that we have shared.

I. Red plastic basket

A red plastic basket sits on the oily table of the restaurant. There is a sheet of wax paper in it that holds French fries. They are greasy, covered in seasoning and malt vinegar. When I was in kindergarten, Mrs. O’Bannon taught my class how to estimate. I always had one of the closest guesses.

One Friday afternoon, we had gone to Foster’s Grille with Mrs. O’Bannon and some of our family friends. She asked me, “Jillian, how many fries do you think are in this basket?” I made my guess and we ate the fries together, one by one. My guess had been off by one fry. We started going to Foster’s almost every Friday with Mrs. O’Bannon, and she would ask me every time to guess. I would guess, and we would eat them and count. I wasn’t always right, but it became a special game between us.

Now, those trips to Foster’s are few and very far between. She remembers our game, but it just isn’t the same anymore. She is starting to forget a lot of the memories that we shared and, of the ones that she does remember, the details are not as clear to her as they are to me. The memories I have of her during my childhood, no longer mean the same. The special meaning has been altered forever because she doesn’t remember the memories the way that she once did. Every time I go to Foster’s and look at the red plastic basket that my food is served in, I remember how those memories that I will keep for a lifetime she may keep for only a few more years. The worst feeling in the world is knowing that she is helpless, that there is nothing that can bring her memories back for her. They are gone forever, lost.

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The Match

By Matt Steensma Grade Eleven

What a foul and unsightly wrench is she, Who’s mother and father weren’t proud of, For rather than taking her hand in love, Even most ardent men would choose to flee.

Her figure was lean; a willowy tree, A small gust of wind would give her a shove.

Her face slumped like dough, and what sat above, Unkempt, was wispy black hair spread all akey.

Yet this woman with all her flaws stunned him, For her heart was purer than any gold, And though her looks were unpleasant to most, She lived a life full of kindness and vim.

Kindness is what had the young man’s heart sold.

They had a bond; no lovers were as close.

The Match 15

ENOLA GIRL

By Eryn Tim Grade Eleven

There is a little speck of a town right at the intersection of highways 310 and 107 named Enola, Arkansas. It’s nothing more than big square patches of dry grass. Nothing more than my hiding place. Tiny farm houses keeping me safe.

I had driven up through Mississippi from New Orleans before that crappy truck broke down in front of Rick and Sadie’s humble home. Sadie said I didn’t look seventeen. I must be underfed. Sadie’s naive at heart. Rick had believed me, too; Pa was abusive and Mama was long gone. He had been drunk when he tossed me out of our apartment. My bruised face testified this to Rick, letting him trust me.

It’s funny to think that it had only been two months ago that I sat at this round table choking through my tears. They had accepted me into their family, as long as I helped them with the chores and aided Rick on the farm. Honestly, I think they realized that they were getting old and needed my help. Still, I was eternally grateful.

I sit here today, eating my breakfast with Rick while Sadie brushes my hair back. “Our little girl,” she sighes, “had hair like yours before the good Lord took her up. Of course, she hadn’t gotten a chance to grow it out this long...”

Rick smiles a sad smile over his coffee. He doesn’t talk about their late daughter like Sadie does. Instead, he just pats my hand before pulling on his boots and heading out. Sadie is still chatting on and on about nothing and everything when someone starts pounding on the front door. She smiles at me and tells me not to stay out too late.

Carson has let himself in and stands in the hallway waiting for me. He lives on the chicken farm two houses down, and has been my best friend since I turned up here. All I wanted to do was tell him the truth when he had pulled me into his ca that rainy night two months ago. He had looked 16

at me with such kindness that night - the same night Rick told me I could live with them - this is the boy I love.

When he had picked me up out of the parking lot, soaked to the bone, the story had just spilled out, despite the darkest secret clawing at my mind: “I was five years old when Pa pushed Mama down the stairs and she broke her neck. Pa was evil and nothing but. The police agreed that she had fallen, and at the time I was so young and scared, I didn’t want to lose my daddy, too.”

Carson didn’t interrupt, not even when I told him I knew that Pa had probably never meant to hurt me; he was doing the only thing he knew how to do. “You have to learn that I’m in charge,” Pa would say. “Deep down you knows you deserve it.”

For some reason, I told Carson that Pa had hardly let me go to school.

He didn’t want me telling anyone. He didn’t want them to see. He said I was just a girl and I didn’t need to learn. I just had to do what I was told, because being smart was what got my mama dead.

Staring out the windshield at the pouring rain, Carson muttered something like, “It hasn’t rained in months.”

I continued on, even though I begged my mouth to shut: “I got in a fight with Pa and I had to get out. I packed up a bag, grabbed the keys to Pa’s Mazda and took off. The next day I bleached my red hair blonde, sold the clothes I brought for new ones at a thrift store, anything to make me unrecognizable. Once I was halfway through Mississippi, I sold the Mazda and got the truck from a junk yard. I even stole license plates to replace the ones on the truck, just in case. I was lucky no one realized how old I really was. I told everyone along the way that my daddy kicked me out.”

I begged Carson not to tell. I couldn’t go back. The impact, the scream, and the blood... I wouldn’t go back. HIs blue eyes had met my dark ones, and he said: “As far as I’m concerned, Sara, you’re an Enola girl and always been one.”

That became his pet name for me: Enola Girl. All of his friends caught onto it and, soon enough, even the old folk of the town knew me as such.

Carson is the town’s golden boy. When we walk into Marty’s 17

Diner together, all of the regulars want to talk to us, to me. If Carson had faith in me, how could they not? Seventeen-year-old Carson is the kind of person everyone loves.

He is your typical, blond-haired, blue-eyed country boy. He slouches slightly and wears clothes just a tiny bit too big. He’s a teaser and a hand-holder. HIs smile is just like Sadie’s; it reaches all the way up to his eyes. His eyes are always glowing because Carson’s life is too wonderful for him to spend a second worrying.

Now, his green pickup truck parks at Marty’s Diner. Every Friday he drives all over town dropping off crates of eggs from his pa’s farm. I tag along and we talk the whole way. Carson tells me about the high school and how it’s too bad that Sadie’s going to be teaching me at home, but how that’s okay, because I can come over after school with his friends.

Carson keeps talking about his friends even though he’s walked out of earshot. I just take my place in a lawn chair by the old guys that never leave.

Mrs. Daily sets her newspaper down. “Sara! You are looking oh-so lovely today, aren’t you?”

I can’t answer. At the bottom of her newspaper bold letters read: Zoe Rodgers - Wanted in the State of Louisiana.

Underneath, there is a picture of a young girl and a short passage that says something about the girl’s disappearance around the same time a crime occurred in a nearby neighborhood. The girl has stringy red hair that frames her pale, white face. She looks nothing like me. But her dark brown eyes burn straight to my core.

“What’s wrong with you, girl?” Mrs. Daily crows. “You seen a ghost?”

“It’s just that city kid personality,” Mr. McGrath mumbles. “You know them kids from the city. They’re grown to be all twitchy. All that hustle and bustle isn’t good for your head.”

I instinctively shy away from them. Breathe. It’s okay. But I close my eyes and remember the impact of skin on skin, the blood running over me, a scream filling the air. I’m safe. I nearly jump out of my skin when Carson touches his hand to my shoulder.

“Mrs. Daily, leave Sara alone. She’s harmless.”

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By Alison Swede Grade Ten

He smiled at her and she smiled back. I smiled at both of them. “I’m harmless.”

Carson leads me back to the truck. He frowns slightly as he looks at me. “You’re quiet today, Enola Girl. Have you seen a ghost?”

I shrug him off. He’s too easily distracted. “This is my first real summer, and I’ll never get another like it. It’s nice to be wanted and acknowledged. Being here maked me want to do something great. I don’t ever want to forget this.”

“You are something great. My life was set for me. I’d graduate, get married to one of the girls from school, and live on my dad’s chicken farm for the rest of my life.” We fly down Matthew’s road past endless fields. “I don’t know anymore.”

He pulls over and we hop over the fence, racing across the field to the lake like they do in movies. We talk and we laugh. He hugs me and kisses me, just like a movie. Had anyone ever loved me like this? Had I ever been touched out of kindness? Hell, no one will find me. I’m safe! I let myself lean into Carson and enjoy the summer sun.

The day slipped away like days do in Enola. Sadie made us lunch.

Rick told us about his latest plan to catch the pesky raccoon in the shed.

Through it all, I felt the warmth that was now mine. They love me and I love them. I am Sara. I accept Carson’s kisses and blush when our friends make fun of us. I help Sadie carry in the groceries as Rick rewires the fence.

I am Enola Girl.

The night is clear and Carson is driving me home. He talks endlessly:

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“Wasn’t it so funny when John spilled his food on his pants? What’s Mark’s problem? He should just ask out Alison because they obviously like each other. Did you like the bracelet I got you?” I smile at him. It was beautiful, real silver. I am still looking at it when he asks me the next question. “Do you think you’ll marry me?”

He sees me startle. “I mean... We’ll be eighteen this year! We have to start our lives. If you don’t want to go to college, I can get a good job to provide for us and you can work at the Diner or something. Or maybe I won’t even take my dad’s farm. We can move somewhere new and have our farm! Or maybe you’ll get Rick’s farm, and I’ll have mine. Then we’re set.

Couldn’t we do that?”

“Carson,” I sigh. It was trapped inside of me: the impact of the blow and the haunting scream. The rush of the blood. I’m still trapped with that memory.

He smiles so sweetly. “Enola Girl, I won’t let your pa find you. You’re safe here with me. Don’t you want to be with me forever? You love me.”

We get out of the truck and I’m eating up every word he speaks so I say, “I do want that. Trust me, it’s more than I deserve.” I was deep into this conversation and I walked into the house blindly.

As if written in the sky, we both knew something was wrong. Sadie was crying. Rick grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him. “You don’t understand!” he shouts. “Sara is so sweet and so gentle; you must have something wrong.”

I turn to Carson... and then I see the officer. Has he told them? My heart stops, yet still manages to race somehow.

I can see it in fornt of me: The impact of my fist on Pa’s face shook my entire body. Pa’s thick fingers closed around my throat, trying to buy himself time to run for the door and I couldn’t breathe. Eventually, either one of us will kill the other, and I wasn’t about to be the one to go down. I couldn’t think. It wasn’t really me that had grabbed the knife and driven it into Pa’s stomach. His warm blood had rushed over my hand and he just managed to shout out before he collapsed. The impact and the scream and all that blood were right there in front of me, and I was finally free.

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I feel the cold handcuffs snap closed over my wrists behind my back.

Just around Carson’s bracelet. For the first time, he isn’t smiling. He gapes at me.

Sadie keeps crying.

Rick keeps begging.

And Carson doesn’t seem to hear what I am yelling at him. His face is masked with a horribly broken and painful expression. Was I still his Enola Girl? He says, “Why did you do it? This will be over if you tell them why you did it; tell them what you told me!”

I can’t tell them anything, because I don’t know.

“Zoe Rodgers, you are under arrest for the murder of Jackson Rodgers.”

By Byron Bushara Grade Ten

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By Nicole Andersen Grade Twelve

22

Where Beauty Is

By Dylan Winick Grade Nine

Beauty is in the leaves By autumn set aflame Beauty is in a snowflake No two the same.

Beauty is in a warm fire To dispel the cold Beauty is in jewelry Of silver and gold Beauty is in the eyes Of the person you love Beauty is in the stars In the sky above.

Beauty is in friendship To weather all storms.

Beauty is in everything All sizes and forms.

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A Tasteless Meal

By Juliana Parra Grade Ten

Have you ever stopped to think about how many different foods we consume on a weekly, daily, even hourly basis? Have you ever thought about how unique and different each individual slice, piece, or sliver truly is? Have you ever wondered how boring our meals, snacks, and lives would be if everything we ate tasted the same? Fortunately, we have tiny particles on the tips of our tongues that sense and distinguish each burst of flavor that lands inside our mouths; they send signals to our brains warning us if the substance is too hot or cold, salty or sweet, dry or juicy. Without taste buds, Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas breakfast would never carry the same excitement again, because the warm gravy smothered over the golden turkey and the gooey cream flooding overtop the cinnamon bun would be indistinguishable. Our taste buds are what makes the flavors dance and run around in our mouths, allowing each munch and chew to explode with genuine savor.

As a true lover of all kinds of food, I admit that I take these vital parts of the body for granted. I never realized how big of a role they play in our lives and how different things would be without them. Would we ever eat regardless of everything tasting the same? Would we ever crave something chocolaty or sour, crunchy or gooey? Would we ever feel hungry since we have no idea what satisfies or hurts our bellies? It’s strange trying to imagine not being able to know the difference between the tang of a strawberry and cucumber, banana, and pepper. Of course, they would each have a different appearance and texture, one we’ve been taught, aware, and accustomed to all our lives, but once our teeth have minced the compound into swallowable pieces, would it have the same overall zest?

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By Ellie Dunnigan Grade Ten

Even though we do not pay much attention to the importance of taste buds, they are the backbone of family barbecues, dessert menus, and our favorite home-cooked meals that overrule any fast food restaurant. It would not feel like summer without the sweet watermelon juice dripping out of the side of our mouths as we dive into that first-day-of-June bite. It would not be Mexican food without that kick of jalapeno as we chow down on that loaded burrito. It would not be a happy birthday without the delicious chocolate icing around our lips that we slowly lick off as we put another forkful in our mouths. Life would be boring, bland, and banal without those little taste hairs.

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By Jillian Wise Grade Eleven 27

By Rosie Hutchison Grade Nine

BLANK

My pen hovers over emptiness. There’s nothing. It’s blank. Just blue lines on white. Forget marred ideas of the past. It’s a new beginning. The simplicity of it overwhelms me. There’s no way to know what will happen when my pen descends. And yet, there’s a unique beauty about a blank sheet of paper. It’s easy to understand because we all, clandestinely or openly, crave the idea it represents. We all sometimes need a new beginning, a new leaf, clean of the scrawls of our faults.

A simple rectangle of blue lines on white lays there, waiting for a pen to lower, wondering what the pen will create. Disaster or brilliance? Finally the pen touches down on the paper, putting an end to the perfection.

Its guided over the surface, held steady by a hand, leaving dashes, figures, and lines. The symbols form words, words form sentences, sentences form paragraphs, until the pen stops. The flow of ideas has come to an end. The pen hovers until descending a final time to put an end to the ideas that have gushed out. A period, marking the end, perches at the bottom of the page, wrapping all the ideas into one polished form. The pen is dropped.

It lands, with a discontented thump, on the ground. Something is wrong.

The ideas, so thoughtfully planned out, are somehow incorrect. The hand lowers, snatching up the scribbles and crumpling them. Then a new page is laid out. Blank.

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By Maddie Dale Grade Ten

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By Brianna Hutchison Grade Eleven

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The Smoke of Death I sense it The distant, shapeless vortex of death Lies ahead Breathe deeply and inhale it It’s coming It surrounds us on all sides And spreads out over the dark front Down they go One by one Like dominos It’s a game To see how many it can kill in one waft It seeps into my mouth And filches away my ability to breathe I try to swallow the lump But it causes the pain to shift and spread around in me I clasp my throat with desperation Knowing this is the end

By Kate Vorder Bruegge Grade Nine

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Teeth

By Juliet Mayer Grade Twelve

In my brief seventeen years, I believe I have attained one true crowning achievement. I have not discovered the cure for Lou Gehrig’s disease, nor have I won a national title in competitive curling. Still, I maintain one point of pride: I have never had a cavity.

Now, this would come as no shock if I was speaking as someone who dutifully tends to her teeth as if they were a brood of thirty-two enamel-encased children. However, I have a condition that may be generously referred to as a “sweet tooth,” and more realistically as an inability to control my own actions in the presence of SweetTarts of Reese’s Cups.

My candy consumption knows no limits or borders, in terms of sheer intake or geography. In nearly every place I have visited, I have consumed some sort of sugary substance. Thus far, I have probably eaten my own body weight in sweets multiple times over. By all accounts, my teeth should be riddled with bacteria-filled holes, and yet they remain solid as ever. No matter how much sugar I saturate my mouth with, a single cavity has never appeared.

Because of this stroke of luck, I was never instilled with the fear of the dentist that seems to be an American tradition. Unlike my mother and father before me, I never cringed in horror at the thought of the legendary Drill (although I have been entertained by their harrowing tales of old-fashioned cavity treatment on multiple occasions). I heard my peers and elders alike groan and complain of the pain brought by visiting the dentist, but never really understood their aversion to the experience. To this day, I am able to attend dental appointments with, if not enthusiasm, at least nonchalance.

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Although my dental health was never the main focus of my life, it was pleasant to have such stability in my condition. Whether times were good or bad, I never felt any real need to worry about my teeth; they always turned out all right. Even at my most stressful, emotionally fraught hours, I could always fall back on at least one comforting notion: Well, at least I don’t have any cavities.

This accomplishment isn’t much; after all, I’m not even sure how I was able to miraculously stave off decay, considering the contents of my diet.

It may have been odd of me to choose to discuss this facet of my life out of everything. I won’t try to claim that my dental hygiene is the highlight of a meager existence. However, I don’t find my other “real” successes, ones in which I was perhaps more directly involved, to be of great interest, and I detest self-flattery. Still, I remain proud of the feat, one that defied the odds.

After all, nine out of ten dentists recommend cutting back on sugar.

By Maddie Dale Grade Ten

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Two Sonnets Transluscent dew shining on the green leaves Makes her think yet again of his sweet eyes.

She longs for him to forget their demise, Always she yearns for him, how much she grieves.

He stole her heart fast, like a band of thieves.

Sadly, she waits until the spark revives.

She must remember the coveted prize, Comfort from the blanket of love he weaves.

But so long she waits, her mind grows weary.

Was he even worth it, she does wonder?

Lost lovers make her world gray and dreary.

Sorrow beats her down with mighty thunder.

She falls defeated, broken soul, teary.

By Alison Swede Grade Ten 34

By Maddie Dargis Grade Eleven

By Kate Granruth Grade Nine

She grew up where the smells are always sweet, Country meadows where blue wildflowers grew.

In the trees the birds chirped while cool breeze blew.

Ne’er experienced the world of concrete.

Content, but to the world she seemed discrete, Concealed by mountains with a smoky hue.

Fauna ran free, but she could not pursue, Too scared to leave, yet her life incomplete.

So much in this world that she will ne’er see, Yet in her safe place the cautious girl stays.

Many told her that travelling was key, But seclusion is the price that she pays.

Lovely hermit she is willing to be, Trapped by fear, stuck in familiar days.

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By Byron Bushara Grade Ten

By Gabby Castano Grade Twelve 36

By Ellie Ligon Grade Twelve 37

Photo by Brianna Hutchison Grade Eleven

of Memories

A Collage

Essay by Alexandra Schlegel Grade Nine

I’ve told this story before, but I think it’s worth repeating. I remember that outside it was a dreary, cold, rainy day in California. Given that the date was December 21st, this is not surprising. What is surprising is the brightness, warmth, and sunshine that filled my father’s hospital room as my family celebrated my sixth birthday. This day is a collage of memories especially precious to me, for my father would be dead in two months. As a six year old, I was protected from the adult world of death and dying; however, I was kept informed as appropriate for my age by my mother and father.

Balloons. At the time, I thought there were a hundred; probably there were fifteen. Pink and purple, my favorite colors, surrounded me, bumping through the air currents and around the rest of my family as we took the elevator to the floor leading to my dad’s room. The vanilla aroma of the rose-covered cake bought by my grandma promised tasty happiness to come. The roses were for my middle name and my favorite flower.

When we arrived as my dad’s room, he was lying in bed, waiting for 38

us. I immediately jumped onto the bed and into his lap as everybody crowded into the room. I picked up the bed’s remote and started playing with the buttons. Dad was wearing his favorite black and gray striped pajamas. As always, he had a big blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

My dad and my family sang “Happy Birthday” to me as I blew out the candles on the top of the cake. As I was eating my cake, I accidentally spilled some on my favorite outfit: pink shirt and blue jeans. I don’t think my mom was too mad at me.

Soon after, I started to rip open my presents. My mom told me that I looked like a dog ripping into a chew toy. There were tons, all wrapped up in sparkly wrapping paper and giant, curly, pink and purple ribbons.

One of them was a Barbie doll; another was a Disney Princess story book. I distinctly remember how glad I was that no one had given me clothes. My grandma gave my big brother and little sister presents too. At the time, I wasn’t very happy about that, because it was my birthday after all.

All of us kids (including my uncle) blew bubbles like we always did every time we went to visit my dad. More and more bubbles filled the room as my grandma joined in on the fun. We blew bubbles with the wands that came in the bottles and that we had found in our garage. Everybody was laughing as we went all over the room and even out into the hallway to have our “bubble fight,” trying to find new places to hide.

My mom and grandpa both took pictures, so that when I was older, I could look back at them and remember all the fun that we had. After a long day of fun and games, my sister was the first to fall asleep. My older brother was next. I always had the most energy, so I was always the last to fall asleep. I don’t remember going home that night, but I do remember saying goodbye to my dad before I fell asleep. It was one of the best days of my life so far. I’m so glad I got to spend it with everyone that I love.

My dad had the best personality of almost anybody I have ever known. He was funny, kind, and always made me laugh with every joke he told or whatever silly accents he could think up. I thought then that dads lasted, lived, and laughed forever. In my memory, my dad always will. Yes, this is a memorable day, a day that I will relive in my mind.

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I Am Still Tears drench my soot colored face I try to wipe the grime off my cheeks Dried blood works its way back into the ripped skin The blood gushes out of the remaining shreds of my shelled knee Death swirls in the pools of fiery redRed like the capes that vampires wear on Halloween I am brought back to my childhood-my life Oh! How my mother would grasp hold of my hand And tell me how everything was all right Oh how unprepared I was for these horrors My blood mingles with the dead soldier next to me He was the only man who could understand me‌ Reality sinks in I will never be found out here in the middle of a deserted field Full of nothing except trails of blood Nobody will ever remember me

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A Boy I am merely a toy for the enemies to play with To the enemy I am a stick of nothingness I am just another man I might as well dig my own burial, nobody else will Death seeps in through the distorted figure of what used to be my mouth My yellowing, cracked remains of lips purse together As I try to swallow the lump of death Struggling down my throat trying to wrench my heart away The end is now near I scream out to God, But barely a whisper escapes out to this dry, lonely wasteland Where is the heroic man risking his life for his country?

Where is the brave soldier that marches across the land?

Nowhere I never got to live to be a man I am still a boy

By Doria Gilberg Grade Nine

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By Jillian Wise Grade Eleven

Know this: there’s night wherever there’s a dawn.

Decay and loss work uninterrupted, Objects break, kingdoms fall, minds become drawn; Thoughts you thought would live on uncorrupted Fall through your hands like so much ash and sand, Torn up by death, stupor, or simply age.

Time cares not what is worthless or is grand, What you like, or crave, what instigates rage In you, regardless of how you might strive.

It’s all trash which no one will remember.

Even the whole of mankind’s throbbing hive Will be washed away or turned to embers.

Don’t forsake what you hold close to your heart, But know one true truth: things fall apart.

Untitled 42

By James Wroe Grade Eleven

By Byron Bushara Grade Ten

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The House

By Cory Kleinman Grade Twelve

Looking at the crumbling, old stone, it’s hard to believe that life once occupied those walls. In winter when the air is so cold, it bites through five layers of clothing, nipping at the very soul, the loneliness of the empty rooms is emphasized. So cold that my feet hurt when my rubber-soled shoes echo on the stained hardwood.

I long for the time when the house was warmed by the fire kept going summer and winter heating the home. Sometimes it was too hot to bear, and a few cold drafts would have been welcomed. But a fire makes a place gezellig, cozy. There hasn’t been a fire to heat the house for a long time. I don’t think I will ever see another fire in that hearth as long as I live.

When the door opens, I am met by darkness and an overwhelming scent of mold. The prevailing odor hides the love put into this house. But I knew it when it was a home. When it smelled like the people who loved and lived in it.

There are boxes stacked wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling hiding the shabby, crumbling walls and the warped window frame. Wind whistles around the bookshelves as the bodies tromp through the attic, spinning silent dust motes through the air, disturbed from their rest. My feet tap softly as I wander down the hallway trying not to destroy the ebbing feeling of nostalgia as I gaze at the lonely rooms. The rooms that were being emptied so that no hint of life could be found between these walls. Reaching the room at the end of the hallway, there is a skylight that looks over the valley. Beyond the valley, above the trees was a view of the majestic horizon and far off cities. Now, all I can see are the trees eating the skyline until the horizon can be faintly seen through the snarl of branches. Looking down into 44

the valley I can see the well-worn trails of deer but can imagine picnics eaten, the lawn mowed, and the ground cleared of sticks.

If I take a deep breath and close my eyes, I can see the way it was when it was a home. If I strain my ears I can catch the light peals of laughter echoing through the house, chatter resonating from the floorboards and tueaks of the mice and the banging of the intruders’ shoes.

Something shatters, cutting the conversations short, bringing me back to the stinging reality of a cold, empty house.

In a small corner of the house is a cupboard of old photo albums dating back to the 1920’s. There are people history has forgotten about, and the house in a time when it was newly a home. There are pictures of with a smiling family, together. There are pictures of children growing up and getting married. There are pictures of their parents aging. There were graduations and plays and children with sleep in their eyes. When I look through the window to the past, I see them smiling laughing unaware that a few short years later everything that they knew and worked for would become a shell.

By Mary Clubb Grade Eleven

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Those parents that worked so hard to give their kids everything, their memories, their home, their pain would be so disappointed. The kids box all of it up equally to be thrown away with old mattresses in the county landfill. Boxed like they don’t have a care for what has been lost.

And when I exhale, the dream is gone; it’s just a house. When I look around I can’t see the love or the family who lived in it. I see cold, dark, distant people who see getting the job done. Who think that there is no difference between a house and a home. Who see that the only way to deal with the pain is to box it up. So that they don’t have to worry about the difference between this house and their home. Once the books are gone and the fireplace is covered, the only creatures that made a home here are the bugs eating away at the memories until they crumble to dust like the rugs that disintegrated on the floor of the attic. But I will always remember the crackling blaze, the view over the valley, and the cheerful chattering, notes of laughter, and the feeling of a loved home.

By Byron Bushara Grade Ten 46

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By Ali Russell Grade Eleven 48

By Ellie Dunnigan Grade Ten 49

Gordon

By Tish Johnston Grade Twelve

I have been measured against a ghost my entire life. That is the worst thing about suicide; the consequences are massive, but they do not fall on the deceased.

My brother Gordon took his own life when he was thirteen years old, and wrote a suicide note that blamed our father. Unwittingly, this boy who preceded me has permanently shaped my perception of the world, and the world’s perception of me.

Gordon died immediately before I was born, and the impact of my father’s loss was omnipresent in my childhood. My parents left many details about my brother’s death vague, because they did not know how to explain suicide to a preschooler. His death resulted in idiosyncrasies in my childhood. My father fawned over a pet rabbit and was extremely upset when the rabbit died. I thought this strange until my mother explained that Rabby was Gordon’s. Thanksgiving was a holiday of mourning because my father found his body that Friday. My father always referred to my bedroom as Gordon’s room. The boxes I was forbidden from touching held his clothes. The house itself was always more his childhood home than my own. My childhood overlapped with my father grieving for the loss of his youngest son, and while Gordon the person had no influence on me, the idealized concept of him has shaped the person I am today.

Gordon died as an eighth grader approaching puberty, and time had only served to romanticize my father’s memories of him. Beyond the grave Gordon’s accomplishments served as a constant benchmark my worldly actions could never attain. Gordon was raised as an only child, while I was raised as an only child who would forever remain my father’s second favorite.

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Gordon and I shared a home, a father, and a small private school, but despite all this we had exceedingly different childhoods. My behavior, grades, and athletic accomplishments have always been compared with the glorified legend of Gordon. There are two framed photos on my father’s mantle piece; one is Gordon’s eighth grade school picture, and the other is my eighth grade photo. Side by side we sport the same prep-school uniforms. Similar juxtapositions of our separate, but eerily similar, childhoods decorate the household. An outsider could mistake us for twins, but Gordon did not grow up in a shadow.

A premature confrontation depression and suicide has given me a distinct perspective on life, and death. I recognize that at times my peers are taken aback by my comfort with discussing mental illness and suicide, (in fact the reader may be surprised by my choice of topic). But my parents discussed suicide with me before I had begun Kindergarten, so I regard it with nonchalance. The word suicide scares people; once I reveal my brother’s death I am forever associated with that dirty word. Although the stigma surrounding mental illness is slowly being deconstructed, the subject is still widely perceived as taboo; however, I have no qualms with discussing suicide at the dinner table. As a result of Gordon’s decision I am desensitized to the discomfort many feel when talking about death.

Gordon’s death has affected my relationships, how I perceive death, and molded my perspective. I never knew him, but the consequences of his actions have shaped who I am. While we cannot control the circumstances we are put in, we must evaluate how we allow other people to impact who we are. Gordon’s suicide is an omnipresent theme in my life, and an important factor in my identity. I have grown beyond this fact, but it is something that will continue to impact my perspective. My brother’s passing does not define me, but it is a part of who I am and who I will always be.

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By Gabby Castano Grade Twelve

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Fulfilled

By Janice Lee Grade Eleven

There comes a time that I am told Where death will control this mangy old girl Who once had a lively, young, and bright soul That resembled the jewels in clams, the ruby? No, Pearl.

Her looks may deceive you as innocent and pure But, in fact, she was daring, and surprising at times.

People underestimated the potential that she had in her That made this girl climb the ladder of crimes.

It may not be what you think, The ladder of crimes, I mean, Because this girl, right now, Lived all of her dreams.

Her great memories came back to her one by one, because this wonderful life of hers is now done.

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By Juliet Mayer Grade Twelve

Angela

Hair- full of shadows And glimmering with cosmic darkness, Streams down with black light like moonbeams Skin- smooth and sun kissed, The color of steaming coffee mitigated by cream Or a Caribbean beach at twilight Eyebrows- arched and dark twins, Like Artemis’s bow reflected in a mirror Forehead- A barren expanse, a desert devoid of markings, A sharp contrast to the fine architecture of her other features Eyes- Half-moons, celestial orbs Containing the intensity of a supernova, Coruscating, scintillating flames in the empty void Chin- Softly rounded as though eroded By the relentless force of some great ocean Creating a gentle, inviting coastline.

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By Gabby Castano Grade Twelve

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The Karoo

By Katie Howard Grade Nine

One lone road runs for kilometers and kilometers and turns into hours and hours of travel. The sky is as clear and blue as could ever be with the odd streak of puffy cotton littering the pristine crystal sky. From this one lonely road, the Great Karoo extends in all directions, looking as immense as the Kalahari desert and emanating the compulsory dauntingness that comes with such emptiness. Only the sparse sage brush that makes up the veld containing the odd gazelle or springbok are keeping one company. Looking closely at the ground and rocks themselves, one discovers the scars and fossils of the sea creatures who long ago inhabited the ancient sea that made the Karoo what it is today. In the distance, the first sign of civilization can be seen: a small dirt road that would be easily missed unless one knows of its existence, that turns off the not quite so solitary anymore, but still lonesome road; that laced through smaller farms down in the basin of the Karoo and out to the distant farms far up on the mountain. Not far off is the first road sign seen in kilometers indicating an airport with another little dirt road accompanying it; the sign, though, provokes more of a feeling of suspicion that it isn’t just a joke that some person with too much time on his hands thought would be funny rather than the feeling of certainty that it actually exists. Down that desolate dirt road, another sign of civilization: railroad tracks and, further on, a hut-type brick house with a solitary inhabitant who immediately runs out at the sound of a car to offer his services with a kind “Middag,� or good afternoon in Afrikaans. Then he waits patiently, respectfully for his instructions. Then, just around a corner, is a small white tower next to a hanger and, a few feet away, another dirt path also known as a runway.

Back on the lonesome road, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally, Beaufort West is in sight! After hours and hours, kilometers and kilometers of driving, it feels like what the Israelites must have felt after 56

By Nicole Andersen Grade Twelve 57

finally reaching the Promised Land. Over the curving bridge, from which we could see the shanty town surrounding the town like a shadow of a person in the afternoon sun. The center of Beaufort West is a mix of colonial era stone buildings, usually churches or official buildings, modern brick houses, restaurants, and so, so many beds and breakfasts. Driving through the little town, one will inevitably end up passing the house and now museum of Christiaan Barnard. Passing through the streets one by one, the business buildings are exchanged for those of schools the like of sanatoriums and houses that transport one to the English countryside and take one back to a life of simpler ways, and the most beautiful, historical structures with all the quirks that are intrinsic to a small town. The sidewalks are the most interesting; with streams running in between the grass of someone’s property and the sidewalk itself, they are remnants of a time before running water when each house, each family, would have the rights to the stream that ran in front of their house for a specific time each day or week. Bird Street had something very dear and special to my family. #5 was where my mother grew up and, like most houses there, it dated back to when Beaufort West was founded. With low doors and even lower doorknobs the house was old, beautiful with marvelously creaky wood floors that took one back a hundred years or more. Next door was my great grandmother’s house, and on the other side was Dr. Bensley’s Oak Tree, a gorgeous tree that was a hundred years old or even more and had limbs that seemed to go for ages. Luscious and huge fed by the waterways that flow by the houses. That Oak is not only a symbol of my family and how we have spread from this place like the branches of my great great grandfather’s oak. It also symbolises the evolution of the human race and how we have evolved and grown and spread from Africa and inhabited the entire world leaving our footprint for life.

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By Gabby Castano Grade Twelve

I sit, Watching ashes fall from the ebony sky And the guns boom thunderous sounds Like great, ancient war trumpets.

I sit amongst the chaos.

I sit In the quiet of the aftermath, Now that the dust is settled.

I weep over silent bodies sprawled across the earth.

I sit amongst the dead.

I sit In the putrefaction of my friends.

Scarlet flows from their wounds And into the trenches which we hid.

I sit amongst the war.

Amongst the War

By Connor Duszynski Grade Nine

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I Have A Dream

Photo and Essay by Elisabeth Arnold Grade Ten

We, the current generation of youth, are the future of this progressive nation. In the years further along the road, our fathers and mothers are going to pass and it will be our time to assume the position of leaders and visionaries to direct the course of and give shape to this great nation. And the older generation acknowledges this, specifically the importance that education plays in preparing us for this role. There are many purposes of school: cognitive development, social development, civic development. The goal of education from the beginning of this advancing nation was to nurture the minds of children; to mold them into articulate citizens who can contribute to the enlightenment and evolvement of their country. During the early stages of this nation, attending college was viewed as a privilege, a further step towards becoming a distinguished citizen. Thanks to our advancing times, financial aid and scholarships have been made available, making attending college more accessible to the majority, but still not everyone. However, now that more children have the opportunity to continue schooling after senior year, gaining admission to a highly selective college has become extraordinarily competitive.

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The older we become, our time of innocence and living in a stressfree environment slips through our hands like sand, slowly trickling until nothing is left except for a few remnants of our childhood. The second we step into high school, even the last year of middle school for some, the great wave of the question of our future heightens and then crashes, engulfing everything in its path. Teachers, parents, and counselors begin to talk about colleges. And when the subject of college is broached, it soon aggregates into a whirling mass of how’s, what’s, when’s, and if ’s. Nowadays we are taught to believe that if we do not attend college, there is no future for us, at least a “respectable” one. This leaves us with the narrow mindset that we only have two choices: attend college, or work at McDonald’s for the rest of your life, serving former pupils a number two with a large Coke and fries. This vision of a reputable life has been corrupted. What does everyone want? That little green devil called money. And what screams money?

A college degree, especially one from prestigious institutions of higher learning, schools like Harvard and Yale where ivy clambers up the walls.

Kids assume that if you are accepted into a university, especially one of high merit, you will live a wealthy and prosperous life. And how do you get into college? By having impressive grades. So the central focus of school is not learning and broadening our minds. It is grades. Students do not care about literary devices or the cause of the Mexican American War, Newton’s Third Law of Motion or how to solve composite functions. They memorize instead of fully understanding the content, or even worse, cheat, in order to get that A. And the way parents, teachers, and counselors stress the importance of good grades makes us think that our superficial approach to learning is okay. This is why the practice of grades should be dispensed with.

You want further generations to preserve our great nation and the ideals it was founded upon, a democratic government “of the people, for the people, and by the people?” Then place less stress on grades and instead focus on the actual importance of education, especially those unfrequent lessons regarding civic duties. Eliminate the use of grades. Of course, continue to teach us so we can be articulate citizens. But, by stressing the importance of grades and the impact that it means for our future careers, you have taught 61

us that the riches of life are in material things instead of in the intellect.

Even most politicians, the ones who should be leading our corrupt country out of dark times and into areas of light, are hungry for money, power, and self-gain.

Not everyone can afford college either. But everyone can be an active citizen of his country. He can be taught the importance of fulfilling his civic duties. In order for our future generations to thrive in this nation known as the United States of America, we need to learn not the advantages of living a life enriched by money and power, but a life fortified by morals and justice. If we do not preserve the infrastructure of this country, a government run virtuously by us, then there is no nation to preserve. It will become so corrupt that its foundation of justice and ideals based upon a constitution written by our Founding Fathers will collapse. And who will care about grades then?

By Kate Stamer Grade Twelve

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By Danielle Russel Grade Ten

The Liberation of Sonnets

By Matt Steensma Grade Eleven

By Gabby Castano Grade Twelve

If sonnets could come out of form for once, I’m sure that the great ones even had thought, Then any old writer could make a bunce, If strayed from the rules, and things which were taught.

What if the meter were not ten stresses, And rhyme schemes weren’t used - well, only a few.

Free verse! Must be what the mind posseses, But these weren’t planned, they came out of the blue!

The poet confines himself in a cage, By keeping all his work regimented, You would think this would lead him into rage, From the same kinds of poems presented.

But it’s true! Though the great writers will scoff, Binds are in place so that they can show off.

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Photo and Essay by Juliana Parra Grade Ten

My Dream Within a Dream 64

We live in a world where every word, step and action is planned out for us ahead of time, as if every night tomorrow’s schedule is sketched out individually for each person to follow explicitly the next day. We live in a world where sitting down, closing our eyes, and taking in a breath of fresh air would make us late for a hair appointment, dress rehearsal, or important meeting. We live in a world where we are always forced to go the extra mile in order to gain more opportunities, promotions, and profit before everyone else in the never-ending battle of survival-of-the-fittest. However, when we were small and young, we were taught to hold fast to big dreams, never give up on our wishes, and always have high hopes for a brighter tomorrow instead of living every day with a gray cloud over our heads, pouring down dreariness, plainness, and negativity.

So why is it that nowadays, dreaming is disregarded, unrealistic, and hopeless? Why is it that nowadays, when little girls say they want to be princesses when they grow up and little boys say they want to be cowboys, their parents giggle and tell them that they need a new aspiration, one less fictional and one more practical? Why is it that nowadays once beloved and whimsical characters such as the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus lie in the same category where nonexistent and storybook creatures such as centaurs, fairies, and unicorns lie? Children nowadays are being brought up into a developed world, one where they are forced to grow up and mature too soon to open their young, innocent eyes; their eyes are capable of looking deep into the mesmerizing magic and brilliant beauty that is part of our world, whereas old, grayed eyes have lost the ability and desire to do. Our new generation needs to stop going to sleep without reading a fairytale or adventure-filled novel every night to rejuvenate their hearts and minds, and need to experience once again the message behind the power of wishing upon a star that Cinderella shows us; the lesson behind the power of the type of friendship that bonds two people together no matter their difference that Lilo and Stitch taught us; and truth behind the power of falling in love with someone’s inner beauty that Belle and the Beast assure to us.

No dream is too big or small, too far or hard, or too impractical or 65

impossible. We have to stop being afraid of coloring outside the lines, stepping outside our comfort zones, and being vulnerable to failure. We have to remember that following and listening to our hearts will sometimes get us farther and make us happier than accepting and going by the decisions we make up based on other people say is right. We have to take back the wheel in our journey to our futures and quit letting other people and our own fears control the stoplights and signs. We have to stop seeing life as a robotic routine where we are never satisfied with what we have because we are too concerned about the world around us.

I have a dream that dreaming and the magic behind it, will never die.

I have a dream that people everywhere will forever believe that all we need is “faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust” to achieve our wildest aspirations. I have a dream that someday it will no longer be considered crazy, naïve, or unrealistic for a little girl or grown woman to say she is waiting for her Prince Charming, or a little boy or grown man to say he is waiting to save his damsel in distress. We as human beings have the strength to overcome whatever difficult obstacles obstruct our paths, battle against whatever wicked villains try to defeat us, and reach whatever high mountaintops our valiant hearts desire. We as human beings have the supreme strength to make our wildest dreams a graspable reality as long as we listen intently to the quiet voices inside our body, mind, and soul instead of the booming ones outside who fail to believe. I can tell you one thing: a dream is a wish your own heart makes, and no one can take that away from you or stop you from accomplishing it. I have a dream that the mystical world will defeat the material world, and one day we will once again find the drive to fight for what we know we deserve and what will make us genuinely happy.

I have a dream that one day, our world will regain the color and laughter it seems to have lost over the years due to the lack of imagination and dreaming, that was hiding behind the curtains of everyone’s minds as they tried to keep them away in fear that their fictitious aspirations would distract and hinder their already planned-out and perfectly- devised paths. I have a dream that one day, you’ll let your dreams come true.

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By Byron Bushara Grade Ten 67

By Ellie Ligon Grade Twelve 68

What Is After Death?

By Patrick Dean Grade Eleven

What will happen to me when I do die?

I do not know; I’ll never understand What shall befall me when I am gone, and, When decaying and unbending I lie, What happens to my family when I die?

Am I now memories etched in the sand, Passed to descendant I understand?

Or will my relatives just sit and cry?

For all I know, I am predestined for Being food for organisms underground.

Am I correct on what is to follow?

Will my name become resigned to old lore?

Will I become lost, never to be found?

For me and you, this is hard to swallow.

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Violin

By Emma Anderson Grade Twelve

Under a layer of maroon velvet, in an unassuming box, rests an instrument that provides a world of undiscovered opportunity. I take the bow out of the case with one hand and open up a wooden, hand carved rosin box with the other. A few bow strokes against the rosin ensure a clear vibration of the strings so that the violin can sing at its maximum potential.

I pick up my violin and slowly raise the instrument onto my left shoulder.

As I am about to place the bow on the “A” string, the thought occurs to me: I have performed this same routine hundreds if not thousands of times in the past twelve years. Twelve years of the same routine to a different melody. My mind is filled with eighth notes, crescendos, harmonies, melodies, dynamics and everything in between. I am ready to begin my rehearsal.

Music requires a high degree of meticulousness, which is why a musician must be disciplined. Discipline is practicing until your fingers feel numb and repeating a line over and over again until you can play it backwards with your eyes closed. Once I have finished tuning, I jump right into the cadenza. In other words, this is the part of the piece that takes every ounce of my focus and determination. The misplacement of a finger is detrimental to the tone of the piece. Each note presents a new and unique challenge that my mind and hand coordinate to overcome. Tempted to call it a day, I dispel the thought quickly. With orchestra seating auditions tomorrow, tenacity is my only option.

Musicians become closely connected in an orchestra. The aphorism “The whole is equal to the sum of its parts,” is fitting. Instruments combine their separate sounds to create a united piece. The basses and cellos are the backbone of the orchestra, accompanied by the 1st and 2nd violins that go back and forth with melodies and harmonies. The conductor standing on a podium before them directs the movement. Each section takes a turn to shine with the reinforcement of the other musicians. In order to work

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successfully as a team, each person’s strength should be identified and highlighted. The sound of a violin is beautiful and unique, but paired with a cello and bass, the harmony is majestic. This can only be achieved through passion and drive. I continue to repeat the same 14 measures, increasing my bow speed and articulation each time.

At this point, I am forty-five minutes into rehearsal. I am finally able to play the cadenza at the correct tempo, and instead of focusing on each individual note, my mind is able to connect with the overall section to portray a somber and dejected tone. With the change of bow speed, bow pressure and placement of my fingers, I am able to project any emotion in the world. It is my responsibility to portray sadness, but in my head, I am more than satisfied. I place my violin in the case, cover it with the layer of maroon velvet cloth, and anticipate the new set of notes I will play tomorrow.

By Eryn Tim Grade Eleven 71

By Kate Granruth Grade Nine

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By Gabby Castano Grade Twelve

By Ashley Kim Grade Twelve 73

By Nicole Andersen Grade Twelve

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Love’s Vessel

By Matt Steensma Grade Eleven

Once I had mastered the waves of the North, In a tempest that gave quite an assault, Hours passed as the craft slowly heaved forth, Through poignant rocks, varnished in the sea’s salt.

Oh, how great love paralleled to thus, One tiny vessel against an ocean, The small craft creaks and rasps; the sailors cuss, Though the crew members have much devotion.

Lower the mast and steady the great stern, The crew works in sync so the ship comes through The storm which had the vessel in a churn.

In love, the crew is a work force of two.

But when the captain has a missing link, The vessel is doomed; the ship is bound to sink.

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Candle

By Dylan Winick Grade Nine

After she received his letters Of love and promises To bring sunshine to her world The candle burnt on

On the day he left, she lit a candle.

So he could follow the light home.

As he marched off to war, The candle burnt on

When she opened the door to a soldier who was not her husband.

And heard the words she feared most.

The candle burnt on.

After a month of worry and fear.

That she would never see him again.

A month without word.

The candle burnt on.

When she finally closed her eyes.

To join him forever.

In eternal sleep The candle burnt nevermore

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By Byron Bushara Grade Ten

Twins

By Morgan Hadlock Grade Twelve

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From the very beginning of our existence, my twin brother and I have always been vastly different. Even before we had names, we had two separate, distinct personalities; in the daily phone calls the nurse would make to my mother while she was on bed rest for twenty weeks during her pregnancy, my mom would always report that Baby A (me) was kicking all day long, while Baby B would remain stationary, only daring to move late at night while Baby A was asleep. As we grew up, very little changed; I was active, loud, and adventurous, while he was quiet, withdrawn, and perfectly content with building with Legos in his room. I took my first steps months before he did, and though I was constantly chattering about everything from my day at school to the life story I had dreamt up about the wild box turtle that I had found, he rarely uttered anything more than, “Yes,” “No,” or the occasional, “Stop it, Morgan!” if I was particularly intolerable.

Though we lacked the almost clairvoyant synergy that many twins claim to posses, I would like to think that our bond transcended that of most siblings. I saw myself as his liaison to the outside world; I could tell what he was feeling simply by studying the expression on his face and often chose to speak on his behalf, uttering phrases like, “Mom, pull over the car now, Grayson is in peril!” (Perhaps on occasion I took a bit of dramatic license). My fierce protectiveness frequently landed me in verbal confrontations with whoever was giving him grief at school, even after my parents had a long discussion about how some battles are not mine.

Despite my best efforts, there was one bully who refused to release my brother from his painful, emotionally devastating clutches. He was Mitchell McDonald, a gangly, pimple-faced boy who, for reasons unbeknownst to me, thought of himself as superior to his peers, especially to my brother. I 77

pulled out every weapon in my arsenal; I gave him the stink eye, got my friends to spread the word that he had cooties, and even bumped into him in the hall a few times, just to show him who was boss. Still, he would not relent. My heart ached for my brother and wished that there were something else I could do, because I knew he would not stand up for himself.

So imagine my surprise when my friend Grace ran up to me during recess and said in a ragged, out of breath voice, “Come quick! Grayson is beating up Mitchell by the oak tree!” Dumbstruck, I thought, “My brother?

There must be some mistake, because there is no way…” but ran as fast as my short, stubby legs would carry me. Under of the cover of the oak leaves, my brother was knelt over his aggressor, pinning him against the red, chalky earth. My heart swelled. Under most circumstances, I am against any type of violence, but something about watching my shy, sweet brother ram Mitchell’s sebum-covered mug repeatedly into the ground stirred an almost maternal pride in me; I wanted to point to the fight and yell for all to hear, “That’s my brother!” I knew at that moment that my time as his protector was over; Baby B had finally become an Alpha.

By Danielle Russel Grade Ten

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By Ellie Ligon Grade Twelve

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index Alexander, Ashley Andersen, Nicole Anderson, Emma Arnold, Elisabeth Bushara, Byron Castano, Gabby Dargis, Maddie Dale, Maddie Dean, Patrick Dunnigan, Ellie Duszynski, Connor Grnaruth, Kate Gilberg, Doria Hadlock, Morgan Hutchison, Brianna Hutchison, Rosie Johnston, Tish Kessler, Caroline Kim, Ashley Kleinman, Cory Lee, Janice Ligon, Ellie Mayer, Juliet Parks, Anya Parra, Juliana Russel, Ali Russell, Danielle Schlegel, Alexandra Stamer, Kate Steensma, Matt Swede, Alison Tim, Eryn Vorder Bruegge, Kate Winick, Dylan Wise, Jillian Wroe, James

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10 4, 22, 57, 74 70 60 7, 12, 21, 36, 43, 46, 67, 76 36, 52, 55, 59, 63, 73 34 29, 33 69 25, 49 59 35, 72 40 5, 77 30, 38 28 12, 50 11 73 45 10, 53 8, 37, 68, 79 32, 54 8 24, 64 48 62, 78 38 62 15, 63, 75 19, 34 16, 71 31 11, 23, 76 Cover, 13, 26, 42 7, 42