CTRL (Manifest) by AHSJournalism

R L

MANIFEST VOLUME 5 ISSUE 1 FALL 2015

This publication is a forum for students to openly express themselves. All art, literature, and photographs were submitted by students of Alpharetta High School and selected by a committee of the creative arts magazine students before being accepted. The pieces accepted into the magazine represent the diverse views and opinions of the creators themselves. These works do not in any way, shape, or form represent the opinions of Alpharetta High School administration, staff, or county.

MANIFEST VOLUME 5 ISSUE 1

PATRONS We would like to thank everyone who contributed to and supported the Alpharetta Manifest Creative Arts Magazine. raider black Clair Greenaway

raider silver McGinnis Woods Rebecca Perkins Dr. Shannon Kersey

raider patron of the arts Daniel & Brenda King Bala Balakumar Janani Balakumar Lucy Williams

Editors in Chief Jessica Brummel & Mallory Rosten

Managing Editor Courtney Stuart Susan Lee Zoe Genet Catherine Mills

LAYOUT CONTENT Wendy Zheng Emily Wiliams Courtney Koop Lexi Bryant Devon Upton

MARKETING Dhakshi Balakumar Claire Owens Catherine Williams Savannah Jackson

EDITORS’LETTER Finding CTRL was a lengthy process. Having just moved on from last year’s abstract concept, we struggled to find something more concrete. We brainstormed for weeks, narrowing down our ideas, anxious to find a theme that reflected what was going on around us. We wanted to do more than write pretty pieces, we wanted to write pieces that discussed issues we care about. We wanted to comment on our lives. So we posed a question to the student body: What is your reality? There were particular pieces that really captured what we were searching for: Oreo by Geneva Oke, which explored racism and the stereotypes that have been ingrained; Forgotten Hearts by Josh Seides, who expressed the conflicted emotions of growing up; and Sam Morton’s candid photography collection, which captured the vibrancy of life. The design echoes CTRL. We chose neon colors, specifically CYMK.This idea was initially controversial and our staffers were split amongst themselves. It’s known as the Great Color Controversy of 2015 (look it up). Bright colors aren’t usually associated with control, with the gritty reality dystopias often portray. But to some, CYMK represents the default, like the default colors in a printer. They are what everything is derived from. By limiting the color scheme, we implemented our own control. To us, the stark contrast of the neon lines against black and white, of the dark content framed by bright colors, suggests a balance of control and beauty that is present in our realities. In addition to the color scheme, we created a square motif. It represents the parochial views that are still too common. This publication would not have been possible if it weren’t for the combined efforts of our Managing Editor, Courtney Stuart; Marketing, headed by Dhakshi Balakumar; Content, headed by Wendy Zheng; and Layout, headed by Susan Lee. Our staffers have devoted countless hours in creating this publication, and it is a remarkable change from what we have previously produced. So CTRL was finally made, and in it you’ll find pieces of everyday life, exactly as we see it. It’s as honest as we can make it.

-Mallory Rosten & Jessica Brummel Co- Editors in Chief

Flower in Box

Devin Phillips

Formula for Happiness Jessica Brummel

The Rules of the Words Lexie Bryant

Submerged

Casserole

Angel

Rhea Singhal

Mallory Rosten

The Choice

Anxiety

Physics

Satherine Skills

The Things We Carry Victoria Warren

Astin JeanPierre

Catherine Williams

Cardiac Arrest Courtney Stuart

Photo One Samantha Morton

Coralling Discord Victoria Warren

Another Another Jessica Brummel

Boxed in

Banana Juice

Photo Two

Jessica Brummel

Stanislas Lemuell

Samantha Morton

The Man From Nowhere Emily Williams

Cray Cray Pey

Nora Hong

Take Away Your Liberty Lexie Bryant

A Building of Breathing Art Jessica Brummel

Blinded and Bound Matthew Holmquist

Late

Marionette

Oreo

Catherine Williams

Shaolynn Betts

Geneva Oke

Swig Swag Bird Wendy Zheng

Childs Play

Photo

Courtney Stuart

Catherine Mills

Dhakshi Balakumar

Hannah Hutto

Reprise

Dairy Section

Wheat Field

Arsh Chopra

Stanislas Lemuell

Claire Owens

Forgotten Hearts Josh Seides

Handy Hardware Louis Kind

BirdWatcher

Susan Lee

r Just Breathe

Low Roar

table of contents

C C P

R R

A A

Y Y E Y

devin phillips

Talking with D. Phillips My reality is a matrix. Everything is a mix of flying colors--there, but not quite. My piece was inspired by this concept. It is a double exposure, two pictures placed one on the other. One picture depicts a woman in the sense society wishes to see: calm, cool, and collected. In the other photo, the true face of the woman is crazy, wild, and free. Overall, my piece represents her inner struggle of a controlled self and the freedom she desires.

jessica brummel

FOR

H A P P I N E S S FORMULA ONLY WORKS UNDER THE FOLLOWING PREEXSISTING CONDITIONS:

WEALTH IGNORANCE APATHY IF THE CONDITIONS ARE PRESENT, USE THE FOLLOWING STEPS: CHOOSE AN INSTRUMENT OR A SPORT AT A YOUNG AGE. STICK WITH IT FOR THE REST OF YOUR TEENAGE LIFE. FROM A YOUNG AGE, YOU MUST KEEP STRAIGHT A’S. YOU MUST LOOK LIKE SOCIETY’S CURRENT VIEW OF NORMAL. THIS INCLUDES WEIGHT, HAIR COLOR, CLOTHING, AND BODY ART. GET ACCEPTED TO A VERY PRESTIGIOUS COLLEGE- THE MORE EXPENSIVE, THE BETTER. YOU WILL SEE A LARGE ACCUMULATION OF DEBT. THIS IS NORMAL. YOU WILL PAY THIS DEBT FOR THE NEXT 40 YEARS. MARRY AT A YOUNG AGE. THIS IS IMPERATIVE FOR WOMEN. MEN ARE ALLOWED TO BYPASS THIS WITH A SERIES OF FLINGS WHILE THEY FOCUS ON THEIR CAREER. LATER ON, MEN MAY MARRY A YOUNGER WOMAN. BUY AN EXCEEDINGLY EXPENSIVE HOUSE. YOU WILL PAY THIS DEBT FOR THE NEXT 40 YEARS. HAVE MANY KIDS. THIS IS YOUR SOLE REASON FOR EXISTANCE. EVERYTHING REVOLVES AROUND THEM. YOU WILL SPEND ALL YOUR TIME AND MONEY ON THEM. BUY THINGS FOR PURELY MATERIALISTIC REASONS. YOU MUST BE BETTER THAN YOUR NEIGHBOR.

BE SURE TO TELL ANYONE WHO DIVERGES FROM THE PATH ABOUT HOW UNHAPPY THEY ARE AND HOW THEY’RE FAILING.

Have you ever been controlled by your mind? If it told you to speak, Would you speak it, alright? Some poor souls would, But maybe not me,

Why can’t I stop these Words on my lips? All of them spill out, A faulty faucet that drips.

I am held by the thoughts, Controlled differently.

They puddle on the floor, Their menace reflecting

For example, let’s say,

My sorrowful desperation

I can speak fair alone,

And the tears worth collecting.

But my mind grabs the word, And forces out clones.

Finish this finish this, Leave me in my misery,

Again and again,

Because too much of the same word

From my mouth it’s repeated. Can take away your liberty. I can’t make it stop, If it’s not right, it feels cheated. “It must be perfect,” My mind screams out. So I must keep repeating, In whispers or shouts.

TAKE AWAY YOUR LIBERTY

lexiebryant bryant lexie

THE RULES O THE WOR lexie bryant

OF RDS

Alone in my head These letters I dread It’s so hard to read But to read is a need Again I see words Now my eyes just hurt This is painful and hard I have no help, no guard The pages control me Stealing my glory Of skimming through fast Now I am painfully last I don’t understand So I reach up my hand And close down the taunts And the blurs and the haunts The words on the page They trap me in a cage Of confusion and torment Leaving my mind wickedly bent. This is the end Since my eyes cannot bend The rules of the words anymore It’s a hardship, not a bore.

SUBMERGED

rhea singhal

CASSEROLE My

mallory rosten

mother smiles at me from across the kitchen table as she drinks wine out of a measuring glass. Red stains blot her yellowing teeth, and I resist the urge to regurgitate. I run my fingers through my hair. The silence between us has condensed like humidity, and I think I might choke from it. Her brow creases as she offers me the uneaten pieces of her casserole, a wilted thing that was promised to be spaghetti on the phone. “No thanks, mom. I don’t like raisins”. “There are no raisins,” she insists as she sets the plate down in front of me. With a sigh I pick out a sticky raisin, pinching it between my index finger and thumb. “No raisins,” She repeats, her lips stretched thin into a pained ghost of a smile. It’s a familiar routine. Nostalgic, almost, the way we’ve memorized our dialogue and movements. There’s a certain comfort in knowing my mother’s lies like the back of my hand. She’s not very inventive. Every time I return to this house it seems to grow. I think I’ve figured out why: it’s proportional. My mother wanes while the house waxes. As she shrinks, the space around her seems increasingly vast. When I was growing up here, it seemed to be the opposite. I felt as if each day the house was closing in on me, a creaking time bomb that smelled of casserole and sour memories. I suffocated. My mother, although the warden, melted into the house. She turned green as salmon flowers grew across her arms, mimicking the wallpaper in the living room. At nights she became wooden, sturdy as the

ANGEL mallory rosten

grandfather clock. The clock stares at me now from beyond the kitchen doorway. With each swing of the pendulum, old resentment bubbles inside of me. It’s stale, yet deadly. My mother coughs to get my attention, the casserole brushed aside like so many other wrinkles in my mother’s life. “So, how’s your art coming along? Has New York swarmed upon you? I bet you’re beating the curators off with a stick.” I lick my lips and force the corners of my mouth to turn up. “Great. I’ve already been featured in two art galleries.” My mother’s smile relinquishes some of its pain as she nods to the crumpled watercolors of my childhood tacked to the refrigerator. “Someday those’ll be worth a lot. All work of famous artists are, no matter how young.” She nods to confirm her statement. “I’m so proud of you, Janie.” I swallow the urge to tell her the truth, preferring instead to keep my grotesque excuse for a smile pinned to my face. The phone rings, a sharp high pitched sound that reverberates in the linoleum kitchen. My mother closes her eyes and presses her fingers to her temples. On the fourth ring, I stand. “Hello?” I ask flatly, although I am grateful for the distraction. “Oh, um, hi. Is, uh, Rita there?” The voice on the other end sounds like copper and I taste metal in my mouth. I glance at my mother. Her eyes are still pressed shut and she holds her head as if it’ll fall off her neck if she lets go. I turn and the grandfather clock catches my eye. It’s still glaring at me, so I meet its yellowing face with a glare of my own. “Who’s calling?” The copper voice doesn’t answer my question. “Are you… Are you her daughter?” “Who’s asking?” I repeat, my resentment of the clock leaving a trace in my tone. “I’m Daniel. Your… your father.” The clock chimes 3 o’clock. I didn’t know it was

working. “My father is dead. I’m hanging up.” “Wait! No, I’m telling the truth. I’ve been in contact with Rita for the past few months now. I’ve been trying to make it up to her. Please.” The pendulum swings, glinting arrogantly. My mother hasn’t moved. “Make up for what?” “For leaving her. For being a terrible husband. A terrible father.” There’s a pause. “Jane, I’d like to visit you. I can take the bus and be there in twenty minutes.” I inhale sharply. The phone slides from my hand, suspended by the plastic cord. “Mom.” Silence. “Mom.”’ She looks up, her eyes like faded saucers. “Sweetie,” She begins. Her voice is so faint that I can’t help but sneer. Pathetic. “I’m not your sweetie.” “Janie-” “I’m not your Janie either. You told me that my father died ten years ago of lung cancer. Now there’s a man on the phone who says that he’s my dad and you’ve been talking for the past few months. He wants to meet me. Mom.” She sighs, pushing herself out of the chair. Even while standing I still look down on her. “You know that everything I tell you is to protect you. That man ruined my youth. You’re so happy in New York, I didn’t want to spoil anything.” “I wasn’t in New York ten years ago. Don’t you think I deserve the truth?” My voice wavers on the fine line between anger and hysteria. “The truth is ugly. You don’t deserve ugliness.” I open my mouth to retort, then pause. Who is she to decide how much ugly I let into my life? Who is she to decide what ugly is? Who am I to do the same? I squeeze my eyes shut until there’s a faint stinging and purple shoots across my eyelids. Finally, I burst. The words spill out of me like vomit, leaving a pungent aftertaste in the inside of my mouth. “I’m not an artist,” I say flatly. “What?” my mother’s voice is tired, yet alarmed. “I’m not an artist.” I repeat, stronger this time. Now that the truth has been exposed, I feel as if I must claim it. “I’m a dental assistant. Mother, I’m a dental assistant. I dropped out of art school three years ago to go to community college to be a dental assistant. I pick bits of lettuce drenched in saliva out of people’s teeth.” “What? Janie, what are you talking about? You know

what, never mind. I have some leftover salmon croquettes in the fridge, would you like me to the heat them up for you? It’ll only take about-” “No, mother! I’m not an artist! And I hate raisins! And I want to know my father!” “I doubt you get any salmon croquettes in New York,” “And I don’t live in the city anymore! I live in Schenectady!” “what with your tendency towards junk food, you know it’s so bad for you dear-” “Mom! Listen, just for once! Please!” My voice breaks with desperation. My screams puncture the air like nails on a chalkboard. This house has never known anything but silence. My mother stands across from me, clutching the Tupperware that contains the salmon croquettes. She seems smaller than ever, negative space in the vastness of this kitchen. My words hang in the space between us, slowly settling on my shoulders and my mother’s tongue. When she tastes them, she grimaces. I cover my face with my hands. “I’m a freaking dental assistant in freaking Schenectady.” The words have finally settled on my shoulders, an uncomfortable weight I am not ready to bear. A few land on the floor, settling in among the fine layer of dust. They are shrapnel between us, a rotten buffet spread out for all the house to look upon. And yet the one for whom my offerings are for refuses to look. My mother’s head is turned. She stares at the pathetic watercolors that hang upon the refrigerator door as if in mourning for the delusion that was her salvation. But now the crumpled colors seem muted, polluted by the unfortunate grey of my truth. There’s a certain resignation in the silence between us. It reeks of years of aged fantasies and lies and ignored realities. Finally, after my glare has withered and my crossed arms have sunk, my mother speaks. “Let’s sit down.” I don’t know what I expected. We sit. My mother pours some more wine into the stained measuring glass, careful to not go over the line marked with sharpie. Her usually shaky hands are steady for this ritual. When she takes a sip, she smiles at me. “You should hang your artwork in the dentist’s office. It will brighten the place up, I hate how they’re always so dreary.” With a wrinkled finger she points to the forgotten plate in front of me. “Finish your casserole, I promise there are no raisins.”

THE CHOICE satherine skills

endless shining rivers eternity gilded with leaf so he lived in his windowless palace eyes blinded by the reflections off the walls is that a life worth living? silver would have been no better i suppose clicking heels against the floor on his cold throne he sits overlooking an empty room listening to the empty halls

THE THINGS WE CARRY

his greatest desire was gold(so they say)

victoria warren

couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t midas have asked for anything else?

ANXIETY astin jean-pierre

PHYSICS catherine williams

This place is like pulling out teeth Slow, excruciating pain Extracting my brain Inject me with personality Dictate my every move I lay on an operating table Just for you Bind me with trends And, break my bones Until I cannot stand my own Simple physics, dear

CARDIAC ARREST courtney stuart Like cardiac arrest they chain us to our beds never letting us ever see the light

Q.A. S. Mo Q: Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your

A: I guess my reality my photographs is tha has strong connection defined completely by responsibility to prote

PHOTO ONE samantha morton

orton reality?

that is presented through at every person in society ns to nature. Our existence is y nature and therefore it’s our ect our “wild side”.

Q: What inspired your piece? A: I was inspired by the connection between man and the elements of nature. For this piece specifically, I wanted to find the connection between my friend and the element of fire. While playing around with flames on a camping trip, I got this image.

CORALLING DISCORDvictoria warren

Talking with V. Warren Reality is a collection of perceptions that you receive, an amalgamation of thoughts and ideas and concepts that are retrieved from both outside sources and within ourselves. Reality is forever changing and while it might be similar at some point in our lives, you and I can never perceive one thing as the same. Personally, my reality is an amorphous concept that continues to slip through my fingers with each attempt to define it. My reality is existing, and that’s all that I can say for it. What’s your limiting factor? My limiting factor is, I believe, communication, specifically the perpetual fear of lack of communication from my audience under-reading my intentions and not understanding what I presented to them. It’s terrifying to be an artist, because people will never see what you see in your art. What inspired your piece? My piece is a take on different perspectives of a lamp I actually own. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the pictures, because they all depict different parts of the lamp that look like a piece of coral. In reality, it’s not even coral. It’s a sculpture made to look like coral. When it comes down to it, that piece of furniture and I are the same. We serve different functions than what’s expected of us, based on what we look like, and then we’re not even made of what you’d believe us to be. It’s cheesy and hackneyed, but it’s bonafide.

another another Sometimes I wonder what lies outside of two hard walls, a roof, a floor of hard black lines. Sometimes I wonder what lies outside of the little box that I have been given. Sometimes I wonder what lies outside the rules that say I should stay inside.

jessica Brummel

BOXED IN

...

BANANA JUICE break your waves against my skin and when my crags and peaks are worn away

stanislas lemuell

never again can i be the same. a bird nests in my hair no boats approach my shore although i will wait forever more

journeys arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant to be easy until you start you wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know ice forms across my lips countries rise and fall even islands can be alone

PHOTO TWO samantha morton

THE MAN FROM emily williams

NOWHERE

Transparent was he, not looking at me

But through the other side came many lies All he wanted in life was to be free Did not want him to begin to despise Tearing up at the sound; little bird brown Hearing him sing through the walls and the trees There was now a new one that he had found Taking him away from me; killer bees Down the hollow path towards the other world Running; Coming closer than ever before The barrier so far, yet so close whirled Jumping through the open door; hit the floor Now clear to see the man hidden in dreams Soon, I will find out what he truly means.

HANDY HAR

DWARE louis kind

A socket, a wrench A keepsake in flight Withering by ambers Captivated by luna light Frigid brisk air Floats through the sleek night But stops to wrap around A child so tight The wrench is in pocket Red flush to the ground Blue lights in the distance No child to be found And as the mom weeps Grief starts to weigh down Blue welted his face So the socket skipped town

BIRDWATCHER

susan lee

A BUILDING OF BREATHING ART jessica brummel

We wait, bouncing on our toes while glancing across the white room. Lines are formed from ropes, guiding and directing us towards the clerks. A band is wrapped around my wrist, showcasing my age and that I’m allowed here. Impatience rolls off of me in waves,and I eye the art separated by skyscraping windows and revolving doors. Officers eye the crowd of teenagers, watching as hands grab, push, and swing on the small playground-esque art we’re allowed to touch. The guards frown. They’re not used to this much noise, just silent appraisal, just silence. A hand brushes against mine, and then we’re moving; teenage patience can only last so long, the friend we were waiting for now a lost priority. We walk through a long hallway, and I nod at an officer who nods back. The walls are white. Noise creeps in and then it thunders. Teenagers surround a small stage and sway, and I furrow my brow and look up, up towards the infinite ceiling and the stairs that sweep up to it. My gaze follows the carefully constructed lines, stopping at the black suits who stare down the kids and talk into walkie talkies. I smile at the loud laughter filling the room and wonder how often these white walls hear it. We walk past the crowd of teenagers and look at the art from an appropriate distance for an appropriate amount of time. We walk at an appropriate speed, and then we stop. I mimic a painting and a picture is taken, and then we’re racing, seeing how many artworks we can replicate. For a moment, we are art. Our phones have the photo proof. And then, at 9, we’re racing outside and into a building where adults wear tuxedos and gowns and distress at the sight of a hundred kids. Our voices become art,our words our medium A picture is worth a thousand words, but these words paint a thousand paintings. Guards frown and shake their heads, pacing up and down, up and down. We stay the appropriate distance away for an appropriate amount of time. We walk at an appropriate speed, but we laugh and smile. For tonight, we are the art worth protecting.

BLINDED& BOUND

y ankles m t a s le k c a h s There are head A bag over my y wrists Cuffs around m st dead And I am almo

ce and denial n a r o n ig d e m a The cuffs are n uite easily q k a e r b y e th And ed emotion m a n is g a b e h T so I can see d e v o m e r â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s it And ed others m a n e r a s le k c a The sh prison me im â&#x20AC;&#x2122;t n a c y e th d An e more But there is on ) (I forgot to say key One without a

r my heart e v o in a h c e th I look at t I will see Dreading wha ly one word n o e e s I l, ta e On the rusty m And it simply

reads: me

lmquis matthew ho

ART

niahmy west

LATE

catherine williams

I am late Late for my future Late for my submission Late for my app Late for my class Late for my appointments Late for my assignments Late for my life

MARIONETTE shaolynn betts

Light as air, They felt free Where mind was placed under lock and key. Feet resounded With echoes of dust As silence enraptured the audience. Thought, Emotion, Caresses, Speech. It seemed there be no need for each. It was out of their hands. Why worry and pause, When they were so powerful High of the applause? Head held high, Glossed-over eyes Saw nothing but sun and butterflies. Till day did come Where string was cut And curtains closed As they did drop. Limp, unmoving, Eyes wide and still; Pawns should know better than to think they have Will. As Master departed, They rose slowly; now pallid, They danced on, Alone, To their own tragic ballad.

Talking with S. Betts When I was little, I used to love to dance ballet on stage, and one time, I was given a music box after my recital. I would sit in my room and watch the dancer spin, always doing the same dance to the same song for the oneperson audience. Then, one day, it broke. Eventually this trinket was forgotten, but I still kept the box with the broken ballet dancer, and would look at it from time to time. Everyday I would come up with scenarios where I failed in some way: singing the wrong note, missing choreography, forgetting my lines or, even worse, saying someone else's by mistake. I would compare myself to that ballet dancer, just waiting for the moment where something would snap and I would be laying there with nothing but a plastic smile and dulled eyes. Marionette is a reflection of those thoughts, how even the most perfect of moments can be cut short. There is a natural need for validation of one's efforts, and without that, there seems to be little gain in the action. Even so, it is by losing yourself in this distraction that you can still find a thread of happiness, even if you feel yourself fraying one thread at a time.

geneva oke

O R E O

“I love the creamy fIllIng of a chocolate oreo.” Most of everyone agrees that the cream is the best part of an Oreo. Even though Oreo’s 2013 Super Bowl commercial showcased a debate between those who prefer the cookie and those who swear by the cream, Nabisco has never released and Oreo with extra cookies. They have only altered the type and amount of cream. Oreo is also a term used to describe a black person “who acts white” and according to many, I am one of them. Does that mean the same preference applies to me? Are my best qualities white characteristics? I distinctly remember being called an Oreo in 6th grade. While I cannot recall the circumstances under which it came up, we were discussing grades. Upon hearing of my grades, it was declared that I was an Oreo because they were more than decent. I, an ignorant twelve year old, embraced the term. It meant being excluded from the “bad kids” who didn’t pay attention in class; it meant being part of the majority and because of that it meant the world to me. Throughout middle school, the term kind of stuck. It probably still does. I don’t twerk, I get good grades, and I don’t use African American Vernacular English unless it becomes mainstream. When my friends discuss the black community, I am often not considered part of it. Comments

SWIG SW wendy

like, “It’s all the black kids,” have an implied. “, but not you,” attached to the end of them. The problem is that implied, “But not you, “is not valid. I am black. When I walk on the street, people look at me and see a black girl. When I fill out official forms, I bubble in “Non-Hispanic” and then “Black or African American”. My parents are black. My family is straight out of Africa. Nothing about my personality, my grades, my actions, or the way I carry myself will ever change that. It is in my DNA. I am part of the black community and the label “Oreo” excludes me from it. This exclusion is insulting. Oreo limits the black experience. By calling me an Oreo you are degrading a whole community. You are saying that black people cannot possibly be as good as me or better. Calling me an Oreo is the same as someone saying, “You’re not like other girls.” It’s nice in concept but has underlying disgust linked to it. Races are more complicated than their stereotypes. They are gene expression and can be linked to millions of different stories. No one deserves to have themselves become a walking offense to their own group because of their success or personality. So no, my “cream” is not the best part of me because it doesn’t exist.

WAG zheng

BIRD

The next time you think about calling someone an Oreo ask yourself if you would call Beyoncé one. She’s pretty successful, huh? She’s also black.

CHILDâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S PLAY courtney stuart

The child sits in his high chair, eating the food from the spoon airplane his mother flies into his mouth. The little boy has only recently started to speak and spend most of his days on the ground, crawling for he hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the strength to pick himself up onto his feet. Whining to be put down, the boy starts to cry before reaching for the ground, not having a large enough vocabulary to be able to express himself. Seeming to understand, his mother picks him up and sets him on the ground before placing his toys on the ground beside him. He grabbed the square cube and proceeded to push it into the circle opening.

Of course, the square didn’t fit, no matter how hard he tried, but he wouldn’t relent. He tried over and over and over and over again, trying desperately to fit it in. Eventually, he started to cry and scream for his mother. She rushes over, hurried to get to her son, and her heart almost beats out of her chest; until she realizes what he was crying over. Shaking her head, she bends down to his level and gently takes the cube out of his hand and replaces it with the sphere. The little boy moves to put the sphere in the cube opening, but his mother reprimands him and guides his hands away to the proper one. He whines and yells at his mother, but it’s as if she wasn’t paying attention whatsoever. A mix of fury and tears washes over the boy, and finally she realizes what she was doing wrong. She reaches for him, but he pushes away from her with the tiny amount of might he can muster. As he tries to walk himself away, she wonders what she did wrong. She didn’t understand. She was only trying to help him.

PHOTO by catherine mills

Chaotic world. Burrow quicksand. Desperation. All efforts moot. Drifting, Dragging. Alone, Abyss. Craving, Cutting, Chafing. Mockery, Misery, Moribund. Squirming, Sliding, Slithering. Sinking,

Seeping, Slowly.

BR dh

You set me on fire

You make my heart sing

Just like now the birds ring

I roll over and realize im alone

With no one to hold

Im untouchable, unwantable, uncravable But most importantly im unlovable Anytime I let someone in, im not good enough Not pretty enough for that guy, Not stylish enough for that girl. Anytime I meet a new person, I want to hurl. Because every time they look at me or critique me, and compliment me, A low roar builds up And it builds and builds and builds Then stops. Things freeze, and my mind is dead, I’m alone. So alone that I don’t even know if God is friend or a foe But this low roar knows my faith, Something so strong that I taste, So in love with this man I don’t even know. The reason I wasn’t alone was because of this wonderful one called Christ. This low roar I have been speaking of are the words of those who question my faith.

REPRISE

The dragon was slayed By a temptress in white She doesn’t want redemption Just to die – for a cause Or maybe some bigger reason She doesn’t want some great love Just a great moment – of peace Or solidarity with all the fallen He was the dragon Now she’s free – or just lost

arsh chopra 45

DAIRY SECTION ice cream frozen dreams I walk to the mart after dark all alone lachrymose mothers weep as their adored beloved preciouses canter away through the doors of the brick red elementary school over the hills and far away sons hold swords and daughters dance through enchanted forests and worn out shoes ice cream and frozen dreams narrow aisles and fluorescent moon beams trick the mind and trick the eye over the hills and far away lie sleeping princesses evil waiting dormant under the rocks of hidden caves and knights polish their armor glinting like nickels and dimes the hills are too far away

stanislas lemuell

J. Seides

Q.A.

Q: Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your limiting factor? A: I see my limit as my will to implement ideas. Creativity is boundless but it is motivation to execute that determines success.

Q: What inspired your piece?

FORGOTTEN HEARTS

A: The aforementioned dichotomy "manifested" itself in this piece through showing the two sides of humans. "Airless gaiety" was a phrase I saw while reading another poem and it really resonated with me.

The car was on again today, the rhythm bouncing around the pyre. We could hear the mechanical strums of its soul beating to the tempo of airless gaiety. As we watch the lined streams curl into our own open ears, dancing sexless in the night. We take off only to realize we had left our hearts back at home. But, no need. We turn into the harrowed devils we never believed in, drawing away from the dry comfort Mama calls home. Into the cloying abyss that disdains all hearts. We like it here. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry but we wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make it for supper.

WHEAT FIELD claire owens

josh seides

INDEX Balakumar, Dhakshi

Betts, Shaolynn

Brummel, Jessica Bryant, Lexie

3,23,24,34 5,7

Chopra, Arsh

Holmquist, Matthew

Hong, Nora

Hutto, Hannah

Jean Pierre, Astin

Kind, Louis

Lee, Susan

Lemuell, Stanislas Mills, Catherine

26, 46 42

Morton, Sam

20.28

Oke, Geneva

Owens, Claire

INDEX Phillips, Devin

Rosten, Mallory

11,12

Siedes, Josh

Singhal, Rhea

Skills, Satherine

Stuart, Courtney

19,41

Warren, Victoria

16,21

Williams, Catherine

17,37

Williams, Emily

Zheng, Wendy

COLOPHON All art, literature, and photographs were submitted by students of Alpharetta High School and selected by a committee of creative arts magazine staff and editors, except the computer board graphic on the Staff Page which is labeled for reuse. Typeface used in the publication: Bell MT, Letter Gothic Std Bold Title Font: Letter Gothic Std Bold Pages and layout created using Adobe Indesign CS4 and Adobe Photoshop CS4 Cover Design and Layout by Susan Lee Cover photography by Mallory Rosten

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MANIFEST VOLUME 5 ISSUE 1 FALL 2015