Inscriptions 2016
shawnee mission south presents...
Inscriptions
5800 West 107th Street Overland Park, KS 66207 913.993.7500 www.smsd.org
from the editor
literary magazine
Art is a community of people who come together and celebrate their differences and communicate where they are in their own lives. Art is communication for those who find it hard to speak sometimes. That’s why Inscriptions is so important as an outlet for students to have their work be cohesive with others. I hope you enjoy and find a little bit of everyone in this book. I’m proud to have worked on this for three years and I’m sad that this is my last. But wherever I go I know that art will always be there and I can still be inspired by artists around me.
- Jenna Fackrell
Starry Night Sky Jade Miller
the tin trying t implod my mind reac
your
the red of pas
I’m c I
drifting off i
4 a.m. - an ode to stars and 4 a.m. - an ode to stars and sleepy thoughts sleepy thoughts Leorah Addadi
Leorah Addadi
the stars and i realized how hot the water was the stars I second guess reality and confront the fear of my lasti realized how hot the water was the stars and the stars they softly lull blink the stars I second guess reality and confront the fear of my last blinding my peripherals the lull conclusion I’m going to have to let it the and starscome they to softly blink ny sky flames much larger than i happen one day blinding my peripherals and come to the conclusion I’m going to have to let it to convince myself i am not small the tiny sky flames much larger than slowly i happen one day ding with every flickered thoughttrying to convince myself my thoughts just a dream of sound i am not small slowly ches over the mountains of dreaming to vocal but imploding with every flickeredbarely thought my thoughts just a dream of sound a place where enoughoftodreaming keep me listening my mind reaches over the mountains to barely vocal but r hand on my face feels visible foggy in feeling a place where enough to keep me listening thermal about anonymous your hand on my facethinking feels visible foggy in feeling ssion seeping through but i can’t hold it thermalslowly becoming unconscious thinking about anonymous in the feeling sleep is ominous the red of passion seeping through but i of can’t hold it slowly becoming unconscious caught digesting my butterflies were you real? in the feeling of sleep is ominous but I’m delicate a memory? I’m caught digesting my butterflies were you real? am standing in the shower there’s no remedy for a memory but I’m delicate a memory? letting the water it just exists I am standing in the shower there’s no remedy for a memory pulse like I do letting the water it just exists my skin but do I? pulse like I do into a fantasy that started shifting into stars do my skin but do I? reality ...maybe drifting off into a fantasy that started shifting into stars do reality
...maybe
Skeleton Horse Alex Ledbetter
Running Max Holmes Running, running, there goes the skeletal strider A bony steed with no direction and no rider Never stopping, Never slowing down, and it never tires Eternally damned to sprint through the fires No skin and no insides, it feels no pain It knows no sun, no hail, and no rain Many have tried to tame it, but all in vain Those who tried to kill it only dug their own graves This demonic creature comes only to steal To take the souls of those who won’t kneel With its teeth of iron and hoofs of steel When it arrives, the fear of death becomes real No one is safe from it vengeance It kills without a sentence Only bringing to transcendence Those who think themselves as legends It is called only one name on its ride One word that describes true beast inside It doesn’t roam; in one place it confides It lives in us, to destroy us, and it’s only name is Pride
Incisions Tara Phillips
I was a surgeon. which is defined as: someone who treats injuries or disorders of the body by incision or manipulation, especially with instruments As a surgeon we were trained to know what abnormalities may be concealed I started finding them all over myself they were all being revealed. so i began to create incisions in order to treat my disorders my d-i-s-o-r-d-e-r-s my O.R. was the bathroom and my assistant was my mind when i asked for a scalpel it only denied, handing me a blade instead incisions created constantly looking emaciated self-hatred coursing through my veins. decorated sometimes even celebrated self mutilation demonstrated so precisely, but precise didn’t equal beauty and neither did scars left over. I needed suction as the line flattened screaming over and over with sound muffled by cries and closed eyes, this is the kind of thing we have to stop romanticizing because the number of surgeons keeps growing each day. It’s not ok to think that this craft is beautiful
because crafting incisions in skin is only the way to begin a vicious cycle. but my assistant insisted that no suction was needed when the patient’s life was this depleted. and normally i would accept that but this patient was different, this patient was me. i screamed CODE BLUE even though I knew there was nothing i could do when the assistant i looked to, had given up. And as I watched myself lay there a lullaby of ecstatic machines echoed off four white walls, a wave of calm follows. everyone else seems relieved because if this patient were to leave? my assistant’s goal would finally be achieved. But I was not going to be a bystander in my own destruction so I initiated sutures to close all the open wounds. it was haunting to see what was supposedly left of me, 16 and laying on a table with scalpels scattered around like rose petals on the fallen tributes. the machines begin to level out, and my assistant approaches with the post-op report, “I think it’s time we call it.” she says. and i hear the soft ringing of the flat line and I turn to her and say “not this time”
Morning Jenna Fackrell
Poppies
Brittany Kulla
Church Pews Lillian Sheldon
I walked down the stairs as I heard my mother’s cries. I asked what happened. But she wouldn’t tell me. I couldn’t help but notice those awful tears in her eyes, searching for an explanation. She told me I would find out. All I know is, someone died.
All they did was talk about you, how we should do what you did. Every time they would say your name, Water starts to form in my eyes. Just enough that my mom would start to cry.
All I did was wonder, so when she left, I went through her phone. I saw the post, glaring in my face, like a red traffic light in the dark of night. I saw your name, and then your face.
They talk about your life and always refer to your death.
The next day she told me what happened, but I already knew. She didn’t want me to know, because she thought I couldn’t handle it. I tried to hide my feelings but I struggle with the truth. She was right, you can’t always hide what’s inside. Every day I am forced to face the truth, I don’t believe it, I can’t. The truth is too harsh, too depressing. I try to forget that you are gone. You did everything right, at least more than I ever could do. There are so many people that would trade their life for yours. I believe I am one of those people too. I found myself sitting in a church pew, watching as they carried you up the aisle. If you look around, I doubt you would see a single smile. I was surrounded by roughly a thousand. Door to door, back to back, like little water droplets in a tall glass. All around me are family, friends, neighbors, and teachers. They came here to remember you and I wish you were here too.
At the door they had a table, filled with pictures of you, each was individual and new. There were bracelets too, each engraved with something I cannot bear to say. I got a bracelet. In fact I have it on right now, and you know that will never take it off. The truth is too simple. But yet I still struggle with it. I’ve missed you. Your curly blond hair, and that twinkle in your eyes. You walk into the room and I know it’s you because, you say stuff that makes me laugh, things that I would never say. I feel so much hate and anger for that man that took you from us. He has crushed each and every one of us. I can’t ever forget that day when I saw your name and then your face. My mom is still right, you can’t always hide what’s inside. I still don’t believe you are gone. I just wish the pain wouldn’t go off and on.
Untitled
Leorah Addadi
Doors Lillian Sheldon
I walked through these doors after remembering you. Your smile spread across my mind like you were there to. I looked at my reflection, it depressed me. All I saw was you. I wish we could go back, to the time you were here with me. We talked, we laughed and now I can only just remember you. You’re now a memory. Even if the last one was so blue. I’m sorry you’re not here. I wish you were standing right here. After you died, I came to visit you. Your face was so blue and it made mine blue too. The people around me, don’t know you. They don’t know how you died, Or why you didn’t survive. That’s why it depresses me when I can’t control my emotions and nobody is there to understand and not question me. That day when I walked through the doors, my eyes reflected my feelings. You know that I don’t cry so, maybe we could just rewind and go back to when I was sitting by you laughing and talking. You came back to visit me, because you love this place. I never thought this was going to be our last goodbye. I just wish you were here standing right beside me.
Rose Pollina
Titania
War is what we have today to create the dreaded end of days But soon we shall find a peaceful way to delay the dreaded end of days And maybe our peaceful way can also find the end of pain
In one way or another everyone suffers But at the end it doesn’t matter Cause once the end comes There is no one left to suffer through Everything we suffered through‌ But once the world is again reborn The painful cycle starts once more.
Kiley Hardin
The End of Days
Breaking the Ice Lawson Yang
I apologize, for, through your ears, this might sound weird, I’m sorry, but please bare, with me, these words I’m scared, to tell you, in fear, of losing the coolest thing apart from my nose hairs;
and you have me, thinking how am I so lucky? your sense of humor and personality is golden, and I’m holding my breath, scolding my lungs from spilling out words of how you deserve someone greater.
our friendship, because, it means a lot to me
but to meet you, someone who inspires
but I’m going to do a monopoly, and say, “I think you have a beautiful smile”
lits fires in others hearts, you simply make me greater
and how ever miles, apart, I can always depend Through deep ends, for that illuminating parabola between your cheeks and, Your soft laughter, to tweak my tragic fairy tale to a happy ever after. and you have eyes like Edward Cullen’s skin allergy It’s not an allergy but it is a bad analogy, and your eyes, they twinkle,
it’s as if I changed into someone I promised I would be later in life, and suddenly it’s vivid, that you are the light And I thank you for helping me see Past my tiny asian eyes that probably blinded me. And every day I’m questioning why I’m always smiling And I’m trialing cases in my heart and you’re guilty.
lustrous sprinkles of beauty, and I’m amused!
You melt me, and I’m happy in your presence
Though excuse me, for my words being both cheesy and fruity
Because in contrast of moon phases, waning gibbouses to waxing crescents
Though, more than everything, your attribute of just being you
around you, I don’t have to change, and I can be myself.
it glues, to me, being how it’s so new to me
and if you don’t mind it, and I know I can’t rewind it
to meet someone who is so genuine-ly,
after I say these words, - I’m so nervous.. But, I have the hots for you!
Confident, generous, sweet, and happy
and he”y-I-kenda-ll”ike you a lot :)
Untitled
Lauren Bass
Kelpie
Rose Pollina
Change
Ashley Thao
Change is in the air. This is certain. All who know this. Change is in the air. This is certain. And you know this so, for you know it now. It’s a mountain stream of constant flow. Always pushing and pulling soCarving banks on either side, Never ceasing through day and night. Toiling endlessly, we struggle to survive While the change takes hold of our fragile lives. We can struggle to stay, But that change will hold ‘Til our final day! We may flex, we may break in the strong, cold seas, We may be carried up on a featherlight breeze, Despite all of this, one thing will be, Our story written in the stars for all to see.
Olivia Beisiegel
Rose Loback
Whisper (1) Alex Gorsuch
Catastrophe Always sitting in a classroom thinking About songs that I could be singing But I’m still sitting, Without a vision, And there’s nowhere else for me to go Tongues of smoke go into the air Trails of catastrophe everywhere A burnt out man, A burnt out plan, There’s nowhere else to go Lost in a homeless home of desperation, Lost in the foamless foam of a subconscious sea, Of memory, Needed to be Rid of a space, And in a place, That is too large to hold, And is too old to be told, What to do anymore Part ways with me, Thoughts of the other man. Part ways with me, Woman with manipulative hands. Drinking water to cleanse my soul. Purification without burning coals.
Josiah Schools Belief in things before existence, And finding to be true my repentance. Missing memories relapsing into place, No the place I’ve recalled is a face, Hesitation as remembrance sets in And why I’ve called her a sin of sins Let loose your pain my friends, All that ever begins will end, If you have a message for me to send, I’ll send it to her with all of my Gin Light in eyes Hand in hand Everything is fine as sand A pain with tears And a howling scream A head reared And blood boiling to steam Betrayal is all that I know With a heart as cold as snow And now I know Why I must go Into an abyss beyond what is shown
Emily Wilkinson
Untitled Leorah Addadi
Keller Gospel
Emily Wilkinson
intoxication slurring your phrases blurry eyes and drunken stasis apologies sedating me you know she the waiting fiend your heart is empty on a graveyard shift slaughtering brain cells in smoke so the scales aren’t tipped
until it’s mind over matter you aren’t ok does anyone mind? she’s never satisfied what does it matter? can you call it a hobby or is it self-harm? ‘cause you got scars, buddy just not on your arms
Untitled Kate Smith
The Downbeat Paiton Schafer
Defeated and half beaten this cycle is Repeated, and my heart stings and eyes aren’t dried and I wish I could be by your side down in the ditch missing a single stitch Sinking farther and farther, closer to the core. No matter how many heart shapes I force onto paper nothing will be the same here.
Emily Wilkinson
I love you, stoner.
Merits Emily Wilkinson
factored into the equation of a modern corporation where commerce confines the cogs into ticky tacky boxes while the ticky tacky bosses judge their cubicles based off merits the girl in cubicle seven had panic attacks. in her tiny meritocracy, walking lines of mediocrity, she’s intertwined with this atrocity, living authentically or cautiously. the girl from cubicle seven fought to breathe. everything was alright or at least she thought it ought to be and knew she’d end up fine her heart rate slows in anxiety’s throws
so seven made her play at the dawn of the seventh day. dressed to the nines pressed on a smile and said, “hey.” and cubicle nine said, “hi.” and for a moment he was more than his merits and just like any other guy he put her in seventh heaven and she’d go after him with all nine lives but she wondered if he’d be as careless too if this corporate collectivism only fit a fairish few, and if consonant conformity drove him into hysterics too,
she sees the boy from cubicle nine.
she wondered if he saw for more than her merits too.
now, one cubicle between them, seven saw her double. although a stumble over him must’ve doubly asked for trouble, and all the “7 8 9” jokes would make anyone uncomfortable,
taking seven away from nine, they would still be left with cherished two.
the girl from cubicle seven still thought that he was wonderful, and he was worthy of her merits. in such an oddly shaped equation, the sum of seven and nine just felt so… even. but this numbers game did a number on her brain always told since she was younger that real strength came in numbers. but this girl didn’t want to be another nine-day wonder.
immediately the girl from cubicle seven felt her heart rate quicken the boy went back to cubicle nine as her anxiety lurched and disquietude sickened. the girl bid farewell as the boy walked away. told herself “it happens,” that she’d try again another day. it only took a bit wonder, seeing merits in a different way, and that although their days were far from numbered, love was only one ticky tacky box away.
Untitled Abby Conaghan Rubbing off the dirt Leaving clean patches I’m still a little hurt Just some cuts and scratches I’m tired of trying I’m tired of losing My eyes can’t stop crying My heart won’t stop bruising The lights going dark The days almost done I don’t have a spark I guess I’m alone
Sister Natures Eye
Sydney Darnaby
Ten
Emily Wilkinson Under a blood-soaked cypress, The Belle of the Bayou beckons, Her white dress brown and crimson Like a chocolatey raspberry cake. I was ten. A black figure passed me, but I stayed where I stood. She carried with her a scythe and a gunmetal hood. I didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t think that I should. Standing over the Belle’s body as it rotted, decayed, Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte I was ten. She pounded her scythe to the mud black as coal. Rigor mortis subsided as she stole the Belle’s soul. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” is all the phantom said. She lifted her bony fingers to Zion. Ten.
Lift
Jenna Fackrell
Agony of Mind
Paiton Schafer
It’s much too difficult for my eyes to stay shut when it’s dark and cold and all I can think is how you say you love me but I don’t feel your warmth. Waking is dreadful because of the shock when I start to remember and the pain and anger and hilarity flood back into my veins until they reach my brain. and isn’t the joy just as painful. if not more. A ghost in the mirror. Where did my skin go? I feel so cold and vulnerable though I know you can see the coat covering my membrane. I see white in my reflection, though I’d clothed myself in black.
Untitled
Leorah Addadi
It’s Too Quiet Here Now. Paiton Schafer
I’ve had too much to write Too many things fill my brain push my skull, attempting liberation They’re not gentle. mild. collected. They spill in a puddle the color of sin My immortality seeping into the concrete Sometimes you can glimpse the light from few pure memories I’d kept there but they hadn’t wanted air. Needed no closure. Why didn’t I write about the time you touched my hand instead of the time you had to let it go
Stand Alone
Jenna Fackrell
T.J. Eckleburg Kate Smith
Oxymorons Tara Phillips
We were oxymorons in the exact essence of the word. juxtaposing words against each other until the meaning made sense. We were absolutely unsure of the fine mess we created with a bittersweet ending, and when you have the choice between bitter and sweet, you would take initial while I would take the latter, maybe later we could create a greater ending to our story written in oxymorons. We were burning cold ice, always fighting to be the winner. and you never told me why it was always you who won. I was contained, refrained from saying anything. you were always clearly ambiguous and I guess I was clearly a fool because the saddest part of all is I’m still sitting here writing oxymorons about you.
Rain
It felt like waking up to rain The forecast didn’t call for it But it’s falling down the one window above your bed You kept it open You knew it would rain and you wanted to smell the chalky pavement and thick clouds and hear the gentle thunder You pull up your blanket across your head Like you do So you can’t see or speak But the burning incense you’re allergic to Fill your nose And You like going to bed with a sweater on I like going to bed with the lights on I love you like that Tip tap Of the precipitation Your perspiration was increasing You never feel this way You swear you won’t be leaving, anytime soon You said you’d see me tomorrow You said You said you said And you say all these things but I can’t believe you When I want to believe you
Jenna Fackrell
It’s all we seem to know You tried to make it through the night But no matter how hard you try you still fall flat I love you like that
Audible rain Louder than anything you could be thinking And there’s a lot on your mind Louder than the way your doctor yells at you And he yells all the time Louder than the things that catch up to you From 5 years ago It was a hard time Louder than one week ago Cause apparently it’s still a hard time Louder and louder than the approaching storm Visible on the horizon Beautiful to see But once it hits home The trees start falling And girls refuse to go outside It’ll ruin their hair they say But you and me look contemplatively At its beauty It was waking up to your call Now I’m yelling at the sky Asking God why...you asked me how I was doing And whenever I smell the wet pavement and made sure I was doing okay and falling leaves And I didn’t ask how you were doing I think of how we used to take walks when You weren’t doing okay the clouds messed with us But I can’t do anything to make you realize Dark enough to threaten inclement weather The sad music you listen to Hope enough for a safe night Won’t do anything unless you want to get I think of how we drove better You drove into a car And going back to her I drove into a different state Won’t do anything unless you want to get There was crying on the side of the road better
When even your sadness Makes you feel comfortable And I understand how it’s comfortable For you but no one else around you We’re all anticipating your next move You keep waking up to rain And even when it isn’t raining I’ve had enough tears to cry you a river And I’d name it after you But you’d probably drown in it we’re slipping slipping slipping It hurts thinking It hurts looking It hurts driving It hurts it hurts it hurts I like knowing you’ll be at my side the next day I like knowing that you’re safe So I should have been there When you left the window open I should’ve been there to pick you up And now everything is soaked wet I didn’t even realize it was happening But you did And I didn’t see the storm But you did And you heard the lightning crashing Breaking off tree branches and leaving destruction in its path And I didn’t You told me it’d be okay But you’re still lying on the floor It’s coarse and stale Nothing like the soft cool air outside And I’ll keep worrying But I’ll try trusting because you told me to There’s a lot to be said about rain And it rains a lot where you are Hey, are you still there?
Windowsill
Jenna Fackrell
Smile Back Emily Wilkinson
I am in love with a girl... a girl who is afraid of breakfast, who brews coffee in the morning like gasoline feeding a starving engine. Her fingers dance around the machinery of her waist out of step with reality, Bones jutting out of her hips like church steeples or broken angel wings. She waits in the kitchen for the one thing she can choke down so early. I smile at her, and she smiles back. Her coffee sits on the countertop, untouched and stagnating. I am in love with a girl who always smiles back. Eating breakfast was never a matter of life or death before we met, until “how is your day?” became “are you ok?” became “what’ve you eaten today?” became disparaging glances in my direction, as if I didn’t ask myself the same things over coffee each morning. Maybe she’s just not a morning person. I tell them that we are two early risers dancing with death and a Keurig to keep warm. I am in love with a girl who is always cold, who sleepwalks to the kitchen wrapped in blankets like an astronaut clawing her way through empty space. She’s drawn to the frozen light of the refrigerator like a moth to a flame, counting calories instead of sheep.
I am in love with a girl who never sleeps. Reality is a nightmare some god has deemed her unworthy of waking up from. and I keep telling myself that it’s just another morning antidepressants over breakfast, growing clothes, shrinking skin as if her skeleton may mount and jump out of her body at the mere mention of a meal. but I’m more afraid... of the skeletons left in the closet. Flashbacks of boys with x-ray vision who know only what they can see, He saw love as two breasts and a ribcage, She zipped up her hoodie to conceal the exposed bones of her ribcage pounding on the bars of a prison cell — “Your ribcage, is not a cadaver,” I tell her, “Your body does not control you,” I tell her, “Your body is a gift,” I tell her. But, “What’s in a gift if there’s nothing left to give?”
118, 116.5: It’s the countdown that never gets any slower, but she doesn’t seem to mind. 115 Why do mornings have the capacity to paralyze a teenage girl until she’s nothing but caffeine and deceit? 114 Why does this body reject the voice of reason like fingers down my throat? 113 When did bones take on a mind of their own? 112 How can this disease have the audacity to tell me that it loves me? that my body is its gift, when all I ever want to do is disappear. 110 No one ever told me that anorexia is not a magic trick, Or an eating disorder a cloak of invisibility. 109.5 She is eating me alive.
I am in love with a girl who has all but… given up.
I don’t know how many more breakfasts we have left to skip,
I carry her body from room to room and couch to couch, but every step that we take like a slow dancer’s tango… is another step in the wrong direction,
so I smile at her, and she smiles back. The mirror is cold, and my coffee sits on the countertop, freezing and untouched.
She still two-steps backwards to the bathroom scale by herself. 119,
I am in love with a girl who doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror anymore, and neither do I.
Bends
Mimi DeLuca
Banshee
Rose Pollina
Lost Little Girls Taylor Laws
I was your little girl lost in a world you taught me about two lives in one body multiple persons trapped in the semblance of a disorder screaming for a god that was begging at my feet I never knew that life was different because to my six year old brain life was ‘good’ the bruises and handprints were daddy’s love but the good can’t last forever not when it’s never really there the mirages swelling together formed the semblance of a distorted picture and I wanted more I wanted something beautiful, something graceful I wanted to live and you wanted control an object in your mind a final spit in my mother’s face I was just a statistic left sitting at the bottom of your billfold You didn’t understand the word love to you love was money, and power,
and something to possess you didn’t understand it was so much more more than what meets the eye So I told you what I wanted what I needed Perhaps I was wrong but I was done with your drinking and your wife done with the lies and misshapen family I said goodbye to a life I didn’t belong in A personal object shoved onto a shelf there for viewing but never for loving trapped in a personal museum stuffed full of obsessions and you swore me off just like your cigarettes you left me alone alone in a world so large with so many memories flitting like birds on the wind I was your little girl until my views were different contrasting to your own so I was left alone
Eyes Like Leaves
Lesley Chubick
Eyes like leaves changing colors with time and I know for sure that I am in love tonight and despite the fact that I’m not all that my heart belongs to him and his to me Eyes like leaves changing colors with time as I sit here and rhyme passing the time with you on my mind and your beautiful smile I just wish I could see you for a while Eyes like leaves changing colors with time and knowing you’re mine is what makes the tides run wild It’s what makes me feel like a child and I know it’s crazy but I was thinking that this was something That is nothing because I heard nothing lasts forever And now I’ll just look into your eyes like leaves changing colors with time
Pink
Jenna Fackrell
th a u T Rose Pollina
a
Emily Wilkinson
Weaver of Thorns
Brought to His knees From a crown of sharpened tress. I am The weaver of thorns.
No star to guide me, Bearing no gifts but one. An offering to the Prince of Peace: A spilling of royal blood.
I am consumer of all things color. I am the wearer of horns. I destroy at Pilate’s command For I am the weaver of thorns.
4 AM
Alex Gorsuch
Thoughts Lillian Sheldon I hate it when you waste my time. Every day, every time. You talk too much, ask too many questions. I don’t care if you are trying to teach me a life lesson. I hate it when you don’t leave me alone. All I do is groan. Doing the same things all the time. And still you ask me how I pass my time. I don’t like asking you for your opinion. And it’s not because I don’t like to listen. That is the last thing on my mind. I don’t ask you anything. Is that why you are always yelling?
Why does everything always come to that? Maybe if I was a different person, I might feel differently than I do now. I wish you would accept me for who I am. Parents are supposed to be supportive in a helpful way. Although most are not that way. Yeah, yeah, I know we all are human. So we make mistakes, but we still can control what we do. I try to be the person you want me to be. You know you make me cry. I just wish we could see eye to eye. I often find myself doing dishes to make it easier on you. So why don’t you just do yours too.
Here I am sitting, waiting for things to change. But I feel like I am just sitting in a firing range.
I know I don’t know everything. You make me feel like I’m in a boxing ring. Firing punches at me with no reasons for me to believe. All you do is deceive.
You think I am different. I’m sorry I am not brilliant.
The things you do. All those ideas you misconstrue.
You are the reason for anger and stress. You never think, you just express.
Doing things just to get by. Would you just give me the wifi?
You think I need help because I’m not happy. Really it’s just you. I’m not unhappy.
You think it’s weird I love Ancient Greek. I feel like that’s why we should all think before we speak.
I do not exist
Steffen Seamon
Dance of Life Amber Mills
A solid thunk from the lock A sigh from my lips And pops from my back as I finally relax, This has become my routine. Shrugging off my worn overcoat As I shuffle into the infested kitchen, Nearly dropping the milk, This has become my routine. I flop on the sagging couch Listening to the rain pound against the ducttaped window, My fingers numbly pushing the buttons on the remote This has become my routine. I stare at the dull screen Listening to the gunshots sounding just down the street, All the while wondering where I went wrong. This has become my routine. I slither off the couch, and crawl towards my room, Wrapping myself in my thin blankets cold embrace Trying to shut out this dark world and maybe leave with a smile This has become my routine. I glance at my old, outdated phone, Holding nothing more than a few pictures and some songs, Things that made me happy long ago. This has become my routine. I slide the phone closer, innately punching in the code, My face in a dead stare as my fingers fly across its smooth surface, The corners of my mouth turning upwards as I
hover over the play button This is not my routine. Music blasts from the little speaker, Filling me with the rosy haze of a long forgotten memory. Its deep bass reverberating throughout the threadbare apartment, This is not my routine. I shed the blankets, my pale skin festering with goosebumps, I let the music flow as I turn and twist with the resonating beat Starting in my feet, then my hips, and it’s not long I’m spinning around the room, This is not my routine. My heart races as the song crescendos Everything around me seems to melt into a gray blur, There is nothing between the song and my dancing feet Oh and how I wish this feeling would never leave. But this is not my routine. The music fades and I catch myself in the rusted mirror, Makeup smeared from today’s last job and hair still in disarray All topped off with unreasonably sunken cheeks, skinny legs and a visible ribcage, This is my routine. I slither back onto the cold, worn, bed. My mind yelling that I didn’t need love, only the money. Yet my stomach still tying knots as I think of the night to come. This is my routine.
Steampunk Clockwork Heart
Alex Ledbetter
Portrait of a Woman in Blue
Mimi DeLuca
Get Some Sleep, Frank.
By Alex Gorsuch
The instructor said, go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you- Then, it will be true. “Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes Adric Tenuta At the age of five I crushed an ant, like a sea shell, on the patio of my apartment complex. Staring at the charcoal smudge, I felt my vision blur as tears watered my cheeks. I cried for hours, pondering the ant’s last thought, role in life, the family left behind, and his duty to the colony. I sentimentalized a creature so insignificant in comparison to my own life, but back then I still understood the equality of life- its black and white nature. At the age of seventeen, I can place that memory against my ear and hear the sound of tears lapping at my face; I found myself walking a tightrope through a minefield, every encounter an ant to step on, every crack someone’s back to break. I find myself lost in other people’s minds; I place myself in their shoes and take off running. The only way I can see myself is through other people. At the age of six I watched a documentary about El Chupacabra-The Goat Sucker-and was terrified. I slept like a caterpillar bound in a chrysalis for months and eventually it stuck. I still remain mummified in blankets of fear. Some nights, it’s not even fear; it’s a childish habit tattooed onto my mind. I sleep in a bad habit. Rarely do I think about, or even believe in, El Chupacabra, but because of that documentary, I remain stuck in a cocoon I’ll never break out of. Buried beneath blankets of the past, I’ve learned to love hiding from shadows and praying to night-lights. At the age of nine I caught my mother’s hand disguised as the Tooth Fairy’s sifting beneath my pillow as I pretended to sleep. That winter I learned not to wait up for Santa when I found his workshop in our basement. Realization isn’t the thawing permafrost, or the charcoal horizon; it’s the whip-crack thunder and the rain that follows. Holidays roll around, and dreams kiss reality. As a child you have no reason to not believe in Santa Claus, but skepticism tugs at the back of your mind. You understand the world around you, its principles, and its characteristics, but you are presented with a moment of fantasy portrayed as reality; it must be real! I understand the world around me, but each day feels like an Easter egg hunt. At the age of thirteen I began to bite my nails. I sat, slouched in my classes, hands pressed to my mouth as if playing a harmonica. The tips of my fingers constantly looked like they’d been sent through a wood chipper. It was a thoughtless action requiring little attention. I complemented each task in my life with a gnaw on my thumb or index finger. My fingers became raw, and everything I touched was accompanied with a kiss of subtle pain. I guess I’m just thinking about the ant. I pass through life crushing unseen worlds, each action an extension of myself, an impact in itself. I wonder how many ant hills I’ve crushed, how many ants I’ve stepped on?
Souls
Claire Nash
we are all individuals individuals with our own conscience, thoughts, feelings we each live a different life based on our perception of what life should be we live by our own beliefs and by the influences of people around us different things give us different opinions tell us what to think, what to do and although some of us are a lot alike there is always something differentiating us from the person on our left no matter how much we try to deny it we are all beautiful souls made up of our own ratio of colors if you were to look inside one’s soul, you would see everything: you would see what brought them happiness, what brought them sorrow, every emotion they have ever felt, and their reasons for feeling that way what people they have met, and reasons they have left or are still there their greatest fears, hopes, ambitions you would see that they are not good or bad in fact, there is no pure good or bad in them at all there is just them and their morals, and what they consider life to look like, sound like, feel like and it will be the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen.
Just like the way your brain edits out the dark parts when you blink, I smoke all day to soften the hard parts when I think. Steffen Seamon
Floating
Jenna Fackrell
Koi Fish of K10 Getting to Lawrence is a 32 minute drive; I-435 divided by construction on all sides. Confined in a line, harshing my vibes, Because this feels like no joyride, So I play with ideas designed to pass time. In my mind, I’m deep in a river. Cars moving faster and farther than sharks and my hearts fried like a ride in a Jackson County theme park. For I am a trespassing traveler here in these schools of fish as semi trucks begin look more like koi. Cutting onto the freeway, it’s collection of streams, A 2002 Ford Escort as my submarine. I’m on my way to see you . . . . . . It’s been a couple weeks. I miss you. We used to roam around, meander, talking tea and Bernie Sanders. You held me close with endless laughter, stuck in place like golden amber. But we’re drifting miles away . . . . . . miles away . . . . . . I am miles away from my hometown now. Schools of fish fade quick as I whip through the crowd, and the semi trucks look like koi fish. Now the river moves fast like thoughts in my head,
Emily Wilkinson
Past wooden white crosses on the side of K10; The kind of things I don’t think ‘til I sink into bed . . .
. . . I would do anything to forget that you’re dead. I wanted to solve the puzzle of this madness, But the pieces were made of jagged glass. I cut my teeth on grief, and you left me there bleeding, searching for meaning in funeral proceedings, left pleading this evil i’m feeling to recede from my being. Oh my god! . . . . . . I think I’m speeding. I take my foot off the gas, let the little fish pass. I’m a mass of broken glass from the ghosts of my past. But I’m fine, I swear. I’m almost there! And the kkkkkoi fish start to look like semi trucks again. The koi fish, The koi fish, The koi fish . . . . . . you were hit by a semi truck, asleep at the wheel.
But not like this. I feel so numb. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I’m having dreams that you’re with me. Get out of my head! . . . . . . . . . your favorite fish was the koi. Making wishes in their ponds since you were a boy. And as the blood ran down your koi fish tattoo, I ran out of town, without a wish, without you. We used to throw pennies in fountains when we were younger, Making schemes, plotting to succeed like a hunger. Until you woke from the dream . . . . . . I’m driving down stream . . . . . . but I’m offshore now, and I’m finally home. I’m eager, I’m ready, but I can’t even speak. I swim to your front step, though the water is deep. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been a couple weeks.
When you died with closed eyes, it didn’t feel real. It felt so cheap.
But my hand pale as paper folds on the door. The seas part around my heart, and I realize,
I remembered I asked you the best way to die, You said, “in your sleep.”
You don’t live here anymore.
***
February
every cry for help becomes an unanswered prayer
physically dedicated emotionally medicated
because no one ever taught you the difference between the two
in the inky vacuum of space roses bloom regardless
Emily Wilkinson
Emily Wilkinson
Whisper (2) Alex Gorsuch
Editor-in-Chief
|
Jenna Fackrell
Adviser | Julie Fales Staff Members Kate Anderson Colleen Bontrager Gabrielle Brazzell Grace Brazzell Mimi DeLuca Brittany Kulla Lauren Rosenstock Kate Smith Adric Tenuta Emily Wilkinson
Cover photo by Jenna Fackrell
Inscriptions 2016
Editor-in-Chief
|
Jenna Fackrell
Adviser | Julie Fales Staff Members Kate Anderson Colleen Bontrager Gabrielle Brazzell Grace Brazzell Mimi DeLuca Brittany Kulla Lauren Rosenstock Kate Smith Adric Tenuta Emily Wilkinson
Cover photo by Jenna Fackrell