Sequoyah Lit Mag 2013 Spring by Cathy Murphy

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Creativity is the power to connect the seemingly unconnected.â&#x20AC;? ~William Plomer~

The Phoenix

Thank You To All Our Community Partners Sequoyah High School Thank you to Carol Whitaker for her contribution! Thank you to Thank you to Cara Wallaceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dad, Jaclyn Gehrsitzâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dad, Matt Wallace, for Matt gehrsitz, for his contribution! his contribution!

Thank you to Mr. Berman and the administration staff for their unwavering support!

Literary Magazine 4485 Hickory Road Canton, Georgia 30115 770 345 1474

Dear Reader,

LINKED with chains, LINKED with hands, LINKED by pain, LINKED by heart, LINKED with hate, LINKED with love,

LINKED can come in many forms, some seen and some hidden, but LINKED only has one true meaning: coming together to form something greather than one. I hope you enjoy the art, the poetry, and the prose that are here LINKED together to from greatness. Sincerely, ~Katarina Kocsisova (Chief-Editor)~

Art

Flower Apple Girl Chief Meltdown A Long Journey Daydreamer Dancer Scream City Buildings Walking Through the Leaves Colorless Prince Summer Shock Breakdown Parror Linked Circle

Carmen Roman Lex Lauletta Morgan Leslie Lex Lauletta Nicole Shattuck Ginger Odum Preston Skersick Nicole Shattuck Nicole Shattuck Carman Roman Sarah Warner Augustina Horlava Sam Fullerton Nicole Shattuck Jordan Kohn Emily Hershberger

Poetry Page chief-editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s page 1 4 5 11 13 15 17 26 29 31 34 40 59 60

Thank you to Nico Masters for this amazing work with the cover(Tranquil) and chief editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pic

Poetry But Only If You Knew 93,205,679 miles The Unveiled A Black Canvas Time Traveler Waiting For the Light Alone in the Darkness Black and White Two Short Breaths, One Long The Dawn’s Arrival The Art of Writing Blades Revealing Secrets Life or Death His Father’s Son What Words Miss An Inspiring Force

Page # Mallory Knowles Victoria Williams Jaleesa Williams Francisco Gonzalez Francisco Gonzalez Heather Burgess Abby Ellis Ken Haley Anonymous Katie Dickerson Jaclyn Gehrsitz Haley Buice Haley Buice Mackenzie Leaich Joshua Curl Anonymous Haley Buice

1 2-3 5 5 6-7 8 9 9 10 11 12-13 14 15 16-17 18-19 20 21

Page #

Prose Three Trees Taker The Everythings and Nothings Dreams Do Come True Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop The Heaving The Girl With the Wall Stolen Moments Scar S.J. + G.T. The Moment Forgiveness Proelium pro Caelo

Lillian Brown Anonymous Llandess Owens Jessie Ricks Mackenzie Leaich Anonymous Sable Newton Jamie Laudermilk Jaclyn Gehrsitz Minta O’Hart Joshua Curl Lillian Brown Joshua Curl

27-29 30-31 32-34 35-36 37-38 39-40 41-44 45-46 47 48-51 52 53-57 58

But Only If You Knew

Poetry

She doesn’t even know how pretty she is. How can she? Her eyes aren’t open when she looks at herself. Her soul hides when the spotlight is on her; the curtain closes. Her icy blue eyes look through you; you can feel the chill of her stare. Her hair is wild; the brown curls dance when she talks louder than normal. Olive skin, arched eyebrows: she looks like a witch. But only if you knew. She doesn’t even know how strong she is. How can she? She’s too hard on herself. She has walls built high inside, weathered from the storms she has faced alone. Her will has never left her, she fights harder for others than herself— the mark of a true woman. Her life has hardships and you think she’s just being mean. But only if you knew. She doesn’t even know who she is. How can she? She’s never taken the time to find out. She can make you laugh at anything; the stupidest thing becomes the most hilarious joke. She is always there for you; there is nothing she wouldn’t do for the ones she loves. She’ll guide you through your battles; her wisdom is beyond her years. She seems distant, fearful of something new. But only if you knew. ~Mallory Knowles~

I was in love, in hopeless, ridiculous love. I was blinded by this love, unable to see his flaws and his deception. He came to me during my darkest night. He came when I needed him most. I was lonely and fragile, an easy ruse. His true face was always hidden. His true face wasn’t mine; it belonged elsewhere, belonged with her. They were the Sun and Moon. The Sun was a

93,205,679 miles

I ignored his shadows, pushed them behind me and never acknowledged their existence. They weren’t important, not yet.

young woman and lived in the East, while the Moon lived in the West. She had a lover who used to come every month in the dark of the night to court her. He always left before daylight.

Although she talked with him she could not see his face in the dark. She was wondering all the Time went by, and I couldn’t bear it any time who he really was. longer. I knew he was hiding more than his face, and my heart couldn’t take the con. I devised a plan, a way to finally know him, to finally see his face. I harnessed my anger into a pretty smile and a sing-song hello. I stayed long enough for him to feel uncomfortable, to feel what I felt, the uneasiness At last she thought up a plan to find out. The and sting of separation. next time he came, as they were sitting together

in the dark of the night, she slyly dipped her hand into the cinders and ashes of the fireplace pretending to be very sorry for him. He did not know that she had ashes on her hand. After a while he left her and went away again.

I caught him red-handed, in the middle of his lie. She was beautiful, perfect. The holes in his heart, the lack of love were completed in her figure. I had no doubt. He had fallen for my trick; I could smell the planted perfume in her steps. The way he smiled, the way she stood, it was all there, and he knew I saw it. He knew I saw him. The next night when he came up in the sky his face was covered with spots, and then she knew he was the one who had been coming to see her. She knew that she had been deceived. The bursts of sorrow, pain, betrayal, and desire could only add up to one thing: anger. So I left, but the anger never did. He was so much ashamed to have her know it, that he kept as far away as he could at the other end of the sky all the night. Ever since, he has tried to keep a long way behind her. When he does have to come near her in the west he makes himself as thin as a ribbon so that he can hardly be seen.

Today he’s abandoned. He’s as delicate as I was when he found me, as lonely and pathetic, as cold and broken. My fiery anger has stayed, as have his dark shadows. Pieces of ourselves are broken off and left with each other. These pieces define us, shapes us into who we are. We and rubbed it over his face. She said, “Your are the Sun and Moon. face is cold; you must have suffered from the wind,” ~Victoria Williams~

A Black Canvas

The day fades, the eyes come out. They blink and throw their sight millions of miles. Even the most advanced instruments can’t tell which are closed. Tears form in their corners from time to time. They spill, throwing streaks. Coincidentally, today they cry. In the world And until their tears dry tomorrow, I saw faces, superficial, undefined; We’ll have a beautiful painting across the sky. They were masks upon bodies, April 22nd, 2013 As a manner of fitting in. ~Francisco Gonzalez~ I said, “Is this how it’s supposed to be?” “Evolution and time have proved it so,” The world answered, “In time there will be no desire to know The man behind the mask.” ~Jaleesa Williams~

The Unveiled

T I M E T R A V E L E 6R

I wish I could go back in time, look at you as I once was able to. Be close, have laughs, feel love. But those times have passed. Time does not repeat. So I take love while I can. Maybe if I travel to the past I can tell myself the mistakes in time. What if I’m allowed to repeat? Say love sparks again in us two. Would we remember the events of the past, or would we simply enjoy our love? Could we grow old together, Love? We are only held back by what we can’t and can. After all the hardships have passed, we could walk through time, and maybe we would settle down, too. If only I were allowed to repeat.

If it were possible, would you repeat? Focus not on the lost but the loved? Would you take the journey, too? Or would the cant’s overpower the cans? We can’t go back in time. We can’t change the past. Yet my love for you has not passed. It will forever be on repeat, staying with me until the end of time. There will never be another love that will satisfy me as you can, and I believe you feel that too. There will never be another us two. Our old memories have passed, but who says we cannot start over and repeat events that have brought us such love? Come, step in my machine that goes through time. ~Fransisco Gonzalez~

Waiting For the Light

Alone in the Darkness

Here I am, Alone in the dark. He said He’d always hold my hand And lead me in life, but I feel wind between my fingers Instead of the warmth of His.

I used to be good. I don’t know what I was— Or what I am now— But I used to be good.

Here I am, Blinded by the dark. They say to keep running, And then I’ll see the light. But where do I run if I cannot see the path? Here I am, Repressing the dark. I say I am fine; There’s only light within me. For from within darkness, Nothing can grow and thrive.

Here I am. Dreaming in the dark— Of when He’ll say He never left. Of when the absence of His hand Will be understood in the strength of His arms, Carrying me towards the Light. ~Heather Burgess~

I was born in light. I was raised in light. I was taught in light, Then abandoned in darkness. To wander and suffer and die Again, And again, And again. All By Myself. ~Abby Ellis~

Black and White Black Dark Cold Damp Bringing Mystery Death The unknown Never dying Never sleeping Never ceasing Until met by white Light Warm Dry Bringing Knowledge Growth Youth Always shining Always guiding Always winning Until met by black ~Ken Haley~

Two Short Breaths,One Long Curly hair and verdant eyes Laughter and innocence as we look to the skies. This cloud and that cloud, what we’d like to be, I suck in a breath and let it free The music drifts by as we move to the beat, Stomachs hurting from laughter, fuzzy socks on our feet. She tackles me to the floor, I fall to my knee. I suck in a breath and let it free. The shell is the same now, but where is my friend? All of the laughter has come to an end. I try to get in, but I don’t have the key. I suck in a breath and let it free. Life was once one big, happy game. People asked who my best friend was; I said her name. THough I’m more bittter, with fate I still plea. I suck in a breath and then let it free. We focus on school-on the next term paper Her smile grows in-genuine, her confidence tapers. I jump up and down, but she doesn’t see. I suck in a breath and then let it free.

Life drags us along, we each climb to the top. More money, more success-demands never stop. I look to the clouds, wondering if she misses me. I suck in a breath and then set her free. ~Anonymous~

The Dawn’s Arrival

Rays of sunlight illuminate my bedroom through sheer white curtains, completely flooding my surroundings with luminosity. The beams of light float down like doves , to reach dimmed and hidden crevices, once overcome with shadows, causing an aurora of radiant brilliance to fill the room. Joy fills my spirit as I am reawakened to the time of day that I have grown to enjoy with the most admiration. At dawn, opportunities are new, and mercies are fresh; yesterday’s blunders and transgressions are removed and forgotten. The daybreak announces another chance, a fresh new page to be written in the story of my life, with the pen of undying grace. Every dawn announces its day is unique: never has it happened before, and never will it happen again. ~Katie Dickerson~

The Art of Writing

The sights, sounds: there to inspire all. But only special people know the truth. Artists and inventors; they create works of art. Work and motivation used to achieve dreams. The moon, the stars, and all that is above. Through happy days and sad nights, we just write. In writing, what is wrong and what is right? Something to remember? That appeases all? One that draws inspiration from above? A writer reveals truth. She writes about her hopes and dreams— that is what makes words art. What truly is a piece of art? What does it really mean to write? A mere paper showing all I dream. Learning lessons, making choices, telling all. Using my words to show the truth. Drawing inspiration from above.

Look at the sky surrounding above. Look at the beauty that is art. In life, what is false and what is true? In a life well-lived, all I’ve done is write. I tell my stories, my mistakes and all. Make everything feel and look like a dream.

Instead of wishing I could see what I dream, instead of having to look above, I destroy my writer’s block and see all. What lacks patience, lacks art. What lacks art isn’t properly written. What lacks love, lacks truth. I feel the world surrounded by false truth. I feel it enveloped in abandoned dreams. When no one focuses on what is right, when everyone acts as though she is above, when the world turns its back on art, bleak silence and emptiness are all. When my life lacks truth, I look for the art. When all I dream is of the wonder above. Let me tell you: all I do is write. ~Jaclyn Gehrsitz~

The children’s screams broken and defined The razors are vile and evil With terror and care The tarnished wants Alluring and beautiful Slashing like a razor ~Haley Buice~

gS lin

So enigmatic and enchanting it’s beautiful Terrorizing without morals, without care Tenebrous and evil Up down left right go the razors In themselves defining Children now beg for their wants The children now have their wants Slashing and moving with grace and beauty Elegant and defining Without feeling; without care Movements that intertwine slashing like razors Desolate and evil

Tarnished and evil Now the granting of the wants To the diagonals go the razors Intertwining to become something beautiful Without remorse without care Yet graceful and defining

ea ev

Cutting like a razor Sharp edged and defining Charming and beautiful Mysterious and evil The children wanted yet not wanted Without burden, without care Now and forever without care Black knives cut like razors Wasted and wanted Dark and defining Immoral and evil Furtive and beautiful

Blades

Graceful and mysterious Holding secrets Never telling But always knowing The body holds the key to the mystery Shhhh Don’t listen Watch You might miss the great revelation Majestic and nimble Gliding effortlessly Dipped in a mix of colors that flash across the field of vision Movements intertwine to become one: Something glamorous Something unexpected The mind’s eye is open Secrets are revealed Movements begin to connect Shapes begin to form Everything falls into place Shhhh Don’t listen Watch as The secret is revealed: Grand jéte! ~Haley Buice~

Life or Death

Guilty thoughts are running through my head. Trying not to cry, I’m defeated by my tears. I forced you from my life, and with you went my heart. I thought that it was right; now all I feel is pain. I listened to their lies; the choice I made was wrong. There is nothing left that makes me seem alive. For five short months, inside, you were alive, now all I want to do is hold your head. I’m sorry that I chose to do you wrong, your life exists, now, only in my tears. I’m drowning in a hollow state of pain, wishing I could feel your beating heart. Thinking of your cry breaks my heart. Even more, if not for me, you’d be alive. I hide behind my broken window pane, imagining your life inside my head. My heart stops with yours, and as it tears I scream from inside, “You were wrong.”

I walk past as they ask what is wrong, flashing back to when the doctor took my heart. The moment you were gone I felt the tears. For no longer, within me, were you alive. My vision’s blurred; I can’t help but bow my head, and I succumb to an eternal life of pain.

I’m not alone in this ever-present pain, for he, too, now feels that we were wrong. We thought through others, instead of our own heads, now what’s two is supposed to be three hearts. We used to be in love and alive, now all we share is an angel and our tears. If you could see, my soul’d have never-ending tears, from her removal from my body, in pain. Today my precious baby girl should be alive, because the decision I chose to make was wrong. With her body left my lifeless, broken heart and any trace of reason in my head. An omnipresent pain growing in my heart. Every day, less alive, dying with each tear. “You were so, so wrong,” engulfing my head. ~Mackenzie Leaich~

His Father’s Son

All he ever wanted from his father was a man who could show all of his love. Every action done just to make him proud, for his chance to at last be called worthy, for his chance to once more see joyful eyes, but the father is still all too stubborn.

Like the walls they build, they are both stubborn and withered like each of their own fathers. Broken down and seen through judgmental eyes. Both so desperate to earn all the love, waiting for the day that they are worthy. Waiting for the day that father is proud.

Father nor son are worthy. Always so focused on “I’s”. They are all too alike, son and father, though he has yet to be proud. Refusing to change, still so stubborn. But in their silence, there is love. It’s never shown, but it is love. He has always been worthy. They are just too stubborn. You can see the unspoken words in his eyes. His father has always been proud. He loves his father. ~Josh Curl~

Aching inside, never out, “Aren’t you proud?” Raised to never show, born to be stubborn. Silently weeping, “Dad, am I worthy?” Watching himself drifting from his father, bonded by blood, but never by their love. “You are my hero!” spoken through naive eyes.

Now the heart has changed as he closes his eyes, making a world where he is oh so proud— a place where they relate and show their love. A father who cares and is less stubborn. But that world is false; that’s not his father. Who must change their ways to be called worthy?

What Words Miss

All my life I’ve been in search of letters gone amiss, Lovely typed calligraphy, ink and paper kiss. Thoughts spread wide and search for verbal signs just to dismiss eccentric feelings, glowing heart, my soul filled up with bliss. Search for words that could explain to someone such a joy, Frantic missions, paper leafing, it must all by a ploy. Words make love’s Achilles’ heel, pray to Gods of troy. Every day with sentences and fragments, I must toy. I’ve travelled to the end of earth just trying to explain the feelings that you bring to me, making me inane. The definition of emotions, I wish to once attain. But you are worth every second, so I shall bear the pain. Of your love so good to me, I’ll search for far and wide. I don’t know how to speak to you, with words I always hide. But by my vow of love for you, I always will abide. I’ll search through mountains, all the earth, for the words I feel inside. ~Anonymous~

An Inspiring Force

An inspiring force. It allows us to live, to become the people we want to be. The tree sprouts out of the ground and envelops me in comfort. It’s warm and inviting, kind and gentle, but with a touch of sadness. I open my eyes, and I see that the tree is choking. “What’s wrong?” I ask. The tree looks at me with wise eyes and says, “You humans do not care for me like you should.” “What have we done to sicken you so?” “Pollution circles the air, trash litters the ground, and you’ve killed many of my brothers and sisters,” the tree says with great sadness and disappointment. All that we have done to kill the very thing that allows us to live astounds me. I take in the fleeting comfort of the great tree as it shields me from destruction. An inspiring force which allows us to live and to become the people we want to be, helping to shape a future for all of mankind. That is the true power of Nature. ~Haley Buice~

Growing up, I had three grandfathers. One that was always around, one that was around when he could be, and one who could never be around, even if he had wanted to be—one whose presence was always imposing and prominent, one whose presence was uncomfortable and saddening, and one whose presence was nonexistent. My first grandfather is like an oak. He is ancient and tall and sturdy, and age could not take away the sense of strength that radiated off of him. He has a scholar’s mind, a preacher’s soul, and an old man’s temper. He spends hours planted in his raggedy recliner watching baseball and religious talk shows, thinking of ways to keep all fifteen of his grandchildren near him. Every so often he hears my grandmother’s bare feet pad past his office, and he calls to her in his booming voice, “SUZE!” After lunch, dinner, and church he walks to the downstairs library and sit at the piano playing bouncing tunes of old-time hymns, his voice resounding off the high ceilings as he remembers the days of his ministry work. He eats his dinner in silence, eyeing me over his plate as he chews thoughtfully, and once he is done he asks me a question—a question about history or politics or theology, things which I think about often but have learned to keep private. He always asks me his questions and just stares at me, waiting for me to answer. If I can’t or won’t answer he just brushes it off, letting me offer a joke or snappy comeback, ignoring my sarcasm because he does not value it very much. He doesn’t drink except for special occasions, and never in excess. He stands as a sturdy constant in every aspect of my life, imposing and comforting all at once, ready to lead me to the right choice, whether I go willingly or not. He tells me what I would need to do to get where I wanted to go and teaches me how to do it.

Prose

Three Trees

Then there is my father’s father. He is a balsa tree, pliable and slim, a foreign idea to me. He used to be tall and broad and solid, but life and his health took that from him. He had been a preacher as well, but the cancer and the surgeries the cancer brought with it took away his ability to speak, eat on his own, and connect with others easily. It also took away his faith and his ability to see the good in people. He can’t even play cards like he used to. He is still rigid in his hatred of alcohol consumption by all people, young and old. Though there is so much which he can’t do, there is even more that he can think. He is sardonic and clever and when he does manage communication with me I am always left laughing, thinking, or touched. A rough laugh or garbled out praise when I am a natural at one of his favorite card games. A quiet goodbye, pulled with the upmost effort from the depth of his body—my name almost unintelligible but still mine. Though what has transpired within his body and head have forever built a wall between him and the rest of the world, he makes a point of breaking through it for some of us. For my step-grandmother, he gives only affection eye-rolls at her endearing volume problem, and for my father, an interested face when he begins his rants. For my siblings and me, he gives constant understanding and entertainment, only seeing the good of our father which we inherited and never the bad. He can’t easily connect with everyone like my first grandfather, but he makes a point to link to the important ones. My mother’s father was never around. He was stump, burnt and flat against the earth the outline of all of his rings faded and dull. He is present only in old photos of a beach trip or a party and in stories told at holidays and weddings. I know him only through what I am told: of his drinking, hard work, and love of my mother. I am always told that he was like my mom, funny and witty and withdrawn. I heard he fought the same way as she does. I heard he would become distant and apathetic and hateful. My mom always told me what a gentle drunk

he was and how he was at his meanest when he was sober and annoyed. People always tell me that even though I look like my father’s mother, I talk like my mother’s father. Sometimes when I think to, I look at pictures of him and wonder what he was laughing at, because in most pictures of him that is what he is doing. Always laughing and smiling, and a beer can is always present, either on a table or his knee or in the sand next to him. He never drank at work, and was never late for work because of his drinking. I can hear him when my mother mutters his favorite phrase, “Ever, whatever,” under her breath. An oak, balsa, and empty stump—each one building on me in a different way. One giving me humor and ease of temper, another sarcasm and wit, and the last strength and loyalty. Three different trees helping to grow the forest around me. ~Lillian Brown~

Taker

My sister and I embraced each other with tears running down our faces. I smelled her Bath and Body Works perfume as I shoved my face into her shoulder, drenching her gray t-shirt in my salty tears. Her hair brushed against my neck as our shoulders moved together simultaneously, up and down, in perfect timing with our sobs. My arms surrounded her waist as I grabbed a fistful of her clothing, not ever wanting to let go. She pulled me to her so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. You can’t take her away from me, I thought. It’s just not right. I wanted to tell her it would all be okay, but I couldn’t produce any words because of my shortness of breath. All of our energy was consumed on producing tears and holding onto each other as closely and for as long as we possibly could. After what seemed like an eternity, our eyes began to clear and our breathing slowly transitioned into forced long, steady breaths. She looked to the door and made eye contact with her taker. She was being forced to leave. I began to cry again, this time more violently than before. I wanted to tell her how much I cared about her, how much I wanted her to stay, but my sobs wouldn’t allow for it. I somehow managed an “I love you” through the overpowering sadness that made my body tremble. We embraced one last time before she left with her taker. She didn’t have a choice whether she wanted to go or not. She just left. She didn’t want to. I couldn’t protect her this time. This wasn’t a bully at school or even a man with a gun; it was my mother. My baby sister had left with the person that had torn our family apart, the person that had shattered the glass of my seemingly normal life. Don’t let her go, I asked God. Please, don’t let her go.

My sister left me there, standing with my father in the kitchen. The police officer shook my father’s hand and escorted my sister and her taker to their car. Then they were gone. The taker had hurt me with words, with pushes, with shoves, with hits, yet nothing could compare to the pain that I felt in that moment. Nothing can compare to the pain of a broken heart, to lose the person whom you love the most. ~Anonymous~

The Everythings and Nothings We are a lot alike, she and I. Our similar traits—light skin, brown eyes, small frames, loud personalities, and a common love for laughter and music—are what make us seem like sisters. Blood couldn’t have made us any closer. Before we met, we practically even lived the same life. Divorced parents at two years old, living in a single parent home ever since, braces in the fourth grade, and glasses in the third. We also had something else in common: the strong envy for each other’s lives. She had the most modish clothes, the fashionable shoes, the most dazzling jewelry, and everything else a typical young female could ever want growing up. She lived in a house that was so huge that an elephant would seem like a church mouse if it ever entered. Every time I went over her house, I would say, “I freakin’ love your room! It would take two of mine to fill yours.” She would she look my way with the most emotionless face and reply, “Thanks.” I enjoyed playing with all her stuff, her toys, her everythings. She would just watch quietly as I pondered and played. I was absolutely infatuated with going over to her house, but in her eyes you could tell she never liked to be home. Her eyes would always shift to a window or door and lingered as if she wished of being somewhere else; as if she dreamed of a freedom. Whenever she’d come over to my house, she never played with my everythings, my toys, my stuff. I was always kind of glad, though, because I didn’t want her judging what I had and didn’t have in comparison to her. If we weren’t together, she would always just go to my mom. She would want to hang out with my mom for hours, talking, cleaning, anything. I never understood that, but it never bothered me. Remember when I said we practically had the same life before we met? We did— dance classes at age three, gymnastics at age six, cheerleading from age seven to ten. What a coincidence, right? The difference between us, were the conditions and experiences. When I was three, my mother asked me if wanted to dance; when she was three, her mother made her dance. When I was six, my mom asked if I wanted to do gymnastics; when she was six, her mother demanded that she do gymnastics. When I was seven,

my mommy asked me if I wanted to cheer; when she was seven her mother commanded that she cheered. I never actually noticed these things. I just never understood… until that one day when she broke down and cried. We were both either about ten or eleven. It was a rainy, leaden day and we were at her house. I was following my usual routine: playing with all her stuff, her toys, her everythings. I looked up at her and said, “I’m so jealous. You have so much cool stuff! You have the best life ever!” That’s when the room fell silent except for sound of the rain beating against the window. The pound of the rain drops suddenly made the atmosphere feel heavy. She slowly turned toward me. Tears had filled her eyes, and emotions had filled the room. “You have no idea how good you’ve got it!” she screamed, and it frightened me. “This house, these clothes, this stuff… it all means NOTHING! I have the best life!? HA! By what standards?! If you think living with a mother who could care less about you, who can barely look at you in your face, and who does not have a single loving bone in her body is ‘the best life’ then let me school you on a few things!” She continued to scream, and I was so taken aback that I was motionless with astonishment. “Do you know why this house is so big? So she wouldn’t have to be so close to me! Do you know why I have so many things? So I can occupy myself with my STUFF and not bother her! I would give this house up, these clothes, this STUFF! It’s all nothing but stuff! I would give it all up for what you have! You have a mother who tells you she loves you every day, who tucks you in every night, who actually talks to you, who actually spends time with you, who gives you kisses just for the heck of it, who hugs you when you are hurt or scared, who loves you unconditionally and shows it! I want that! I want love: a mother’s love!” After that, she bawled her eyes out, and I just hugged her until she finished. With every tear that fell against my clothes, I felt the burn of every bit of pain that she had been bottling up inside her. We had been best friends since the second grade and I never had a clue about these feelings that she had suddenly threw at me. Or did I? Did I not notice all

those times when her mother would leave us food on the counter of the kitchen, but was nowhere in sight? Did I ignore those moments when her mother would completely disregard her whenever she would try to have a conversation with her? Was I truly unaware of how many times her mother would kick her out of the house or make her go outside for no reasons at all? Did I not notice that the only time I actually saw her mother was when she was closing the door to her bed room that was on the opposite side of the house? I do remember that sound of her locking the door. It was hard sound and cold. Since that day, I never looked at that house, those clothes, or that stuff in the same light. I had been blinded by the material things that ultimately had no value at all. She made me realize that I had taken my mother for granted and that I was, in fact, truly blessed. It tore me up inside to know that she woke up every day feeling this way. I think one of the saddest things in the world is a child who walks this Earth thinking that he or she is unloved or that no one cares about him or her. Time and miles have wedged distance between us and we don’t talk as frequently now, but I think about her almost every day because we are a lot alike, she and I. Except, in my mind, she is a lot stronger than me. ~Llandess Owens~

Dreams Do Come True

I lay on my bed, close my eyes to try, and relax and get away from high school drama for a little while. I slowly feel my body sink into the foam when I feel my phone vibrate on my hip. So, I slowly open my eyes and reach for my phone to see who texted me. “Haley :)” I wake up and open up the text. “Hey, do you want to hang out later?” I can’t move my fingers fast enough as I immediately reply “Of course!” I jump out of my bed, grab my keys, and head out the door. Trying not to speed, because I can’t get there fast enough, I think about how great of a time I am going to have. Once I get there she comes out to my truck and jumps in. I can’t help but smile and say how beautiful she looks. She blushes, says thank you, and turns her head to the side so I can’t see her smile. I turn on some country because I am not sure what to play, and you can never go wrong with country. She looks at me and asks where we are going. I smile and say, “Just wait and see, but I promise it’s going to be fun.” After about an hour of driving, we finally get to this little town and pull into an old-fashioned diner. “I hope you are hungry because I am starving,” I say to her. We go in, and when the hostess asks how many, I reply nervously, “2.” She smiles and walks us to this little table on the side overlooking this little stream. We sit down, and Haley looks out the windows at the stream, but I can’t help but look at her and get lost in how gorgeous she is to me. I try talking to her, but everything I say just sounds weird, but she laughs anyway. Once we are all finished with our dinner, it’s around 9 p.m. I walk her to my truck and open her door for her to get in. Just before she gets in she turns around and kisses my cheek then hops in. I close the door, and, in excitement, I hurry around to my side and jump in. “So anything you really want to do?” I ask. “No not really, I am up for anything”, she replies. I smile back big—real big— “Then I think I have a good surprise for you,” I say softly. I drive for a little until I

as I start the car. find this back road up to the mountain top. By the look on her face, I can tell she isn’t too sure what to expect. When we get to the top, I park the truck and get out and walk around to let her out. I open the door and take her hand to help her out and walk her around to the back of the truck. I open the bed of my truck, and there are two pillows and a blanket. She turns bright red and smiles, and I can start to feel my legs shake. I am so nervous. She jumps up, and I follow slowly, trying not to show how nervous I am. We lie down next to each other, and I put my arm around her and pull her a little closer to me. She rests her head on my chest, and I close my eyes. When I open my eyes I find myself sunken into my bed and in walks Haley with our baby girl in her arms. I guess dreams do come true. ~Jessie Ricks~

Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop My name is Blakely, and this is the story of my love for Sean. It’s a typical love story, you know? We’re both at a coffee shop, doing our own thing, when suddenly we both look up at the same time and make passionate eye contact. (Can eye contact even be passionate? I don’t know. If it can be, ours definitely was.) I look away, his stare lingers, and the whole romantic scene plays out. He gets up the nerve to walk over and ask for my name, and we proceed to fall into an unimaginably perfect love. It’s beautiful. He surprises me with flowers on a regular basis. He sends Sour Patch Kids to my office just because he can, and he plans a date for us weekly based on how much I made him love me over the last seven days. Needless to say, the dates are usually pretty extravagant. Sounds perfect, right? Well, it’s not. Nothing I just depicted for you is even a little bit true. Not one word of it. No, what I just depicted for you is my fantasy. The whole let’s-make-breakfast-for-dinner-in-our-pj’s-and-make-a-huge-mess-then-laugh-about-it relationship is exactly what I’m looking for. Mr. Right, I think is his name. They say he’s out there somewhere, but I have a question. Is it bad if I already know where that somewhere is, and I just don’t have the guts to do something about it? What if the man of my dreams really does go to the same coffee shop as I do? What if we really do make eye contact, but mine is the stare that lingers? Here’s my problem: I’m not funny. My friends tell me I’m a bland granny. (Forget the fact that I’m only 20.) I’m not beautiful, either. The clothes I wear are decent but odd, and my hair is usually in a mess piled on top of my head. There’s not much to find attractive about that. Yes, my face is more or less clear, with enough color to give me character, but overall I’m as white as a sheet ghost. I figure someone like him would like someone like... well, him—someone attractive and tall with glowing tan skin and a dazzling smile. My gosh, he’s perfect. His name is Sean, by the way. I heard him give the barista his name for an order. I guess that makes me a creep, but the action did earn me his name, so I welcome the title. Every morning I wake up and try telling myself that today is the day. Today I will build up the nerve to walk up and just start talking to him. Maybe I can attempt to

intrigue him with my grotesquely inadequate small talk that has never seemed to work in the past. Yeah, maybe this time will be different. Today I’m going to try. I’m wearing black leggings, an oversized t-shirt, brown leather boots, and makeup. This never happens. However, due to the present situation and my failed attempts to look decent in the past, I resort to wearing flesh-colored gunk to ‘Enhance My Features,’ as the makeup bottle promises. Eye shadow, eyeliner, bronzer, lip gloss... I go the whole nine yards today. I let my hair down, releasing loose, chocolate-colored curls that extend down as far as my bra strap. I sure hope he likes long hair. Sunglasses... purse... time to go. It takes me a total of seven minutes and 569 steps to get to the coffee shop. Just kidding, I don’t really know how many steps it takes. I open the door and savor the warm smell of coffees, lattes, fresh muffins, and bagels. Since I moved to Columbus 3 months ago, I’ve considered this quaint little shop more of a home than my own apartment. I walk to my usual seat, a plush recliner in a semi-circle of oddly-fabricated chairs, and place my purse on the table. Walking to the counter, I hear the bell ring as another customer walks in from the blustery weather outside. It is no doubt Sean. He never fails to walk in the door about a minute after me, and he never ever fails to arrive altogether. I glance in his direction and throw a nervous half-smile his way. Hopefully he catches it. I order my skinny mocha latte and blueberry scone and wait for my order to be prepared. He walks up behind me in line, and this is the big moment. I take a deep breath. Butterflies, hundreds of them, begin taking flight all at once in my stomach. My chest burns with nervous excitement. What am I going to say? How am I going to say it? How far do I stand from him? When do I smile? When do I laugh? Every question runs through my head at once. Here it goes. 3...2...1... My name is Sean, and this is the story of my love for Kaitlyn. ~Mackenzie Leaich~

The Heaving

Her narrow shoulders heaved upwards and her thin legs jerked out from under her, sticking straight out in front of her convulsing body. The green of her irises disappeared into the back of her head as her tiny hands curled into feeble fists and turned into her sides. I had never seen this before but I knew it like an old enemy. The word stamped itself on the inside of my head, seizure, as the small male nurse pressed the length of his forearm against her chest as it was pushed upwards with the force of her body’s upturning, pressing her back against the bed. Another nurse pushed past me, rushing into the room and holding her flailing legs straight. This all happened in the span of roughly two seconds before my mother pushed me back turning me in a circle and throwing me out of the room, her own eyes blown wide as they flew back and forth between the nurses who were injecting something into her still rigid arm and my rapidly paling face. Before I could utter more than a piteous “Mommy?” she had turned back to the hospital bed, her tiny hands, so much like those curled against the side of the girl on the bed, shaking for wanting to reach out and help that which she could not help. I glanced up and down the frigid ER hallway, wanting to have someone to talk to and knowing that no words would come out if I did. Moving without thought I turned and moved through the heavy metal doors leaving the corridor, pausing as they swung open automatically and two police men with serious expressions walked around me, neither seeming to see me. I stood looking around the waiting room, full of people waiting to go back and find out what exactly was wrong with them. The world was melting, becoming a puddle of running wounds, crying babies, and fast-talking nurses too harried to notice one fifteen year old standing dumbly and shaking slightly. Yes, everything was falling apart, loosened at the seams, and melting into an ocean of scary. No, the world wasn’t melting, I was. Tears were building up in my eyes, not spilling over, because I wouldn’t let them. I had put my shoulders back, resolute to keep it together, when I felt my phone ring. That wasn’t right. Things like phones don’t exist in moments like this, in places like these. I take it out anyways giving the screen a cursory glance and starting to run as soon as I was able to comprehend the name. In a matter of seconds I was past the waiting room, out the automatic glass doors, across the ambulance bay, and

through the parking lot dodging the occasional nurse or doctor walking out to their car after a shift. My phone still buzzed in my hand and my breath came out in short gasps, my oncoming crying obvious to any that could hear me. I collapsed onto the yellowed grass which grew on the bank which lay to the rear of the ER parking lot, finally opening my phone and putting it to my ear. “Grace?” Hearing his voice broke the damn inside of my head; the damn which shot up as soon as she began to collapse. The damn that was beat upon as we drove to the hospital, the entire ride a struggle to keep her awake. The damn that began to crack when the nurse asked quietly and calmly what had happened and what her name and date of birth were. The damn which was clumsily patched up when my mother finally, mercifully showed up at my side, taking on the responsibility for talking. That damn which began to shake when the waters began to heave against it as she shoulders heaved against the bed. Like a magic spell, him saying my name, awoke me from my unthinking, unfeeling trance, with a violent jolt. Then, I fell apart. “Daddy. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” I kept sobbing into the receiver, finally letting the tears overwhelm me. “Daddy, I’m scared and I need you to be here,” my voice was shaking so badly that if he had not had so much practice translating my dialogue through tears he would have had to hope for understanding me. I heard him speak in my ear, not actually listening to what he was saying, falling against my knees, curling them against my chest like she curled her fists against her sides, heaving as my stomach tried to push its contents out. Before tonight, before five minutes ago, before 8:53 PM, I had not known a seizure as a personal foe, but now, now we were very uncomfortably familiar. ~Anonymous~

The Girl with the Wall

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl in old, yellow house, not too far from here. Every day, she got to climb on a big, yellow school bus and go to kindergarten, where a nice lady taught her about even numbers and sight words and astronauts. She got an M&M every time she answered a question right, and got to play on the playground with her friends after lunch. Every day when she came home, her mommy fixed her a snack, full of bright colors and happy shapes and asked her about her day. She played dolls with her little sister and taught her all the big-girl things she learned in school. Her daddy always came home from work with enough time to play with her before dinner and afterwards. At bedtime, she would curl up in his lap and smell his nice daddy-smell while she fell asleep listening to him tell her about what he did at work that day. Her parents didn’t talk to each other very much, but she had never known anything else, and she didn’t pay much attention to grown-up things. She was in kindergarten, and life was wonderful. Time stretched on, and her lovely fairy-tale life began to fray around the edges. Third grade came, and with it were multiplication tables and long division. She tried her hardest, but the numbers always got jumbled in her head. The other girls began to make fun of her and call her dumb and no one wanted to play with her on the playground anymore. Now, whenever she got home, her mom was hurried and stressed and didn’t have time to talk about her day. She didn’t want to play dolls with her sister, and instead used their time together to take out her day’s frustrations. The battle over homework with her mother stretched for hours and hours until dinner, resulting in angry words and hot tears on both sides. Dad got home too tired to play, and instead snapped at her during dinner to stop being dumb, stop being so careless, stop being such a girl. Bedtime came, but instead of a soothing voice and a warm lap, the sound track to her dreams became two voices yelling in the room beside her. She was in third grade, and life was a place where people yelled and no one understood her. Again, another year rolled around, and life got harder. Learning problems popped up, and doctor visits began. She gave up sitting with the other girls and instead turned to

hitting and kicking anyone who got too close. The teachers began to call home, but there wasn’t much home left to call to. The parents’ fighting increased, and tensions rose to a new high. Mom was always worried, and Dad was always angry. Eventually, Dad moved out and got an apartment across town, and Mom got a job to bring in extra money. It was just temporary, they promised. The little girl, she trusted them, and so she tried not to worry. Once a week, her new favorite time, she could hold both their hands at once. They would sit on either side of her during the Sunday church service. She was in fourth grade, and life wasn’t that nice, but she tried not to think about it too much. And then the word: divorce. It didn’t hit her like a ton of bricks; it didn’t bring the world crashing down around her; in fact it didn’t mean much at all at first; it was just another grown-up word on a page… but it would change everything. As she began to realize what was happening to her once united family, the panic set in. Why would they leave her? Did she do something wrong? She racked her young mind, searching for some clue, some remedy to fill the questioning void inside her soul. She thought back to all the hot words and angry looks which had flown for so many years, and she did the only thing she knew how to do. To fill the gaping wound, she assigned reasons where reasons did not belong. She decided that if only she had been smarter or prettier or quieter she could have been enough to hold the family together. She could have fixed it, and she could have stopped it, but she didn’t because she had been too young and foolish. Something inside of her changed that day. Something hardened. She realized that you can’t rely on other people to take care of you, that if you want to stay afloat you’ve got to swim with all your might. And so she took off the princess dresses and the ballet shoes, she packed up all of her “little girl” feelings and all of her “little girl” desires and locked them all away in a secret place inside herself and threw away the key. She picked up the broken pieces of her life, the fragments left of her relationships, the heavy baggage that comes with a childhood shattered from divorce, and she heaved it across her thin shoulders. At first she stumbled from the weight, but slowly she built up her strength. She learned to be tough, to not cry when she was hurt, and to always strive to be the best at everything. Every time she screwed up or made a mistake, she punished herself by adding it to her load that she

caried, chiding herself for her imperfection until eventually she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. But she didn’t stop; she kept her mantra repeating in the back of her head, “I am fine. I don’t need anybody else. I can do it by myself.” And she kept putting one determined foot in front of the other and walking on and on and on through the lonely desert of her life. Despite all her efforts at being tough, the pain kept coming at her, hitting harder and harder every time. Eventually it wasn’t enough just to have her burden on her back, and she began to search for a way to numb herself from the pain. So she receded inside herself, every experience turning into another brick upon brick of the impenetrable wall around her heart. Her childhood house was sold, and with it, all her happy memories of the kindergarten days: another brick. Her mother took a job that left her home alone for hours on end: another brick. They moved to the inner city, and her new school was wracked with gang violence and drug use where she was afraid to even step off the bus: another brick. Her mother began dating and eventually married a strange new man with two other children: another brick. They moved again, this time to a place out in the country, leaving what few friends she had managed to make: another brick. A short year and a half of newlywed peace and then the hurricane of dysfunctionality, the trials of a blended family, wrecked her life over again: another brick. New fighting and screaming began in the home, this time between parents and step-children. As family members staked their battle grounds yet again, she silently faded unnoticed into the background. And over the years another brick, and another, and another added to her wall until her wall blocked out the sun, and she sat alone, cowering in the shadow of her pain, surrounded by remnants of what used to be her life. She crouched there for what seemed like ages until one day a voice, a comforting, strong voice, whispered from a forgotten place in her heart. “My child, this is not what I created you for, to live a life of isolation in fear and shame. You were never meant to carry this burden alone. There is healing for your pain and a new life waiting for you if you will only let me into your heart. This wall you have built is so strong that not even

you can tear it down, but, if you trust me, I will tear it brick from brick, and I will show you how life was really meant to be lived.” And she agreed. He kept good on His promise, and slowly, the wall came down. Each brick, though painful at first, was like a weight being lifted off her chest. He went in to the secret place in her heart and brought out the “little girl” feelings and the “little girl” desires and showed her how to set them free so that she could move on and grow up without becoming hardened. He took the weights from her shoulders and put them on His own, and together, hand in hand, they entered the real world again. At first it was just as bad as she remembered, and she was tempted to run and hide, but since she knew He had promised to be right by her side, she stayed. The hardships started hitting hard, and the failures began to pile up the way they used to, but He taught her how to take them and, instead of putting them on her own small shoulders, to give them to Him. Once she began to master this, she had time to look around. She had always been so focused on herself and her pain that she had never really thought to look around at anyone else. What she found when she opened her eyes was a world full of people who were just as broken as she had been. There were people carrying burdens that they weren’t meant to carry and people hiding behind walls that they weren’t meant to hide behind. Her heart was filled with a longing to show these people the joy and healing she had found through Christ. When she looked over at her sweetest Friend and Savior, she knew the twinkle in her eye was back, and when He nodded His approval with smiling eyes, she raced off to spread the love she had so graciously received. Once upon a time, there lived a little girl in an old, yellow house not too far from here. ~Sable Newton~

Stolen Moments

Hello. A simple hello could lead to a million things. Many things in this life change faster than most people can begin to imagine. Sometimes, actually very often, we find ourselves trying to rebuild the past into a comprehensive form of understanding, something condensed enough for reflection. These thoughts of reflection are a choice, some may argue. Others have ruthlessly argued otherwise. You see, the latter of the two is a group of people who consciously wear their heart on their sleeve. Black and white, plain and simple. In comparison, the former of the two pride themselves heavily on the fact that they are strong and distant from any infliction that may cause them to want to look back, to remember. Because they believe with every fiber of their being that being reminded of painful memories is actually a choice, they have convinced themselves that they’ve moved on—black and white, plain and simple. There are things that people do and they are called mistakes. There are things we don’t tell people. Things we bury. Things we hide. You made a choice. You did this. This is the man you are. This is who you have become. It’s harder to rewrite history than to change what happens in the future. Yet, there are people who are so hung up in the past that they cannot move beyond the stolen moments they cling to. They become statues, completely frozen in time. Strange occurrences happen where the situation always ends up being either someone else’s fault, or you actually want what you’re running from. The hidden memories of an innocent picnic with your brother’s wife that leads to the dirty little secret of a small hall closet will really only lead to one thing. Dirty little secrets always come out. This has become a situation that needs to be dealt with. You put another glass of scotch on top of it and you deal with it. You can’t change the choice you made; all you can do is not let it ruin you. There is a universal truth that our parents have been telling us since we could make mistakes: If you don’t want people to find out, don’t do it—black and white, plain and simple. But here is the only advice I have for someone like you. You have nothing. You

have a pile of secrets and lies, and you’re calling it love. And in the meantime you’re letting your whole life pass you by while they raise children and celebrate anniversaries and grow old together. You’re frozen in time. You’re holding your breath. You’re a statue waiting for something that’s never going to happen. Living for stolen moments in hotel hallways and coat closets, and you keep telling yourself they all add up to something real because in your mind they have to but they don’t. They won’t. They never will because stolen moments aren’t a life. So, you have nothing. You have no one. End it now, black and white, plain and simple. ~Jamie Laudermilk~

S C A R

Behind these scars is a story of struggle. The story begins with a small girl with a heart that was bigger than she could handle. The good in others outshined the bad in her eyes, and she let herself get hurt too often. She grew up being told that she wasn’t good enough. She conformed to other people’s standards and lost sight of herself. Despite all she accomplished, she allowed her mistakes to throw her down. Though she worked as hard as she could, she viewed her efforts as minimal. Behind these scars is a story of silence. This girl had so much to say but was too afraid to let it out. She watched as everything happened around her. She took in the details and understood, but she remained speechless. Perhaps she comprehended what was happening to other people more than they understood it themselves. She would offer help if asked but felt no one cared enough to hear her opinion. She painfully bottled every emotion up inside herself and forgot how to live. Behind these scars is a story of addiction. The need for the thing that took away her pain destroyed her day by day. Even when she felt happy, her personal demons took charge and reinstalled her need for that release. She gave in time and time again, and she blamed herself each time. Even as she grew and achieved great things, there was always someone better. Someone who didn’t care and who accomplished nothing seemed to be raised on a pedestal above her. She punished herself for every comparison and for every inch she was below another. Behind these scars is a story of triumph, hope, and recovery. This story continues with a girl who wears many scars. She wears them proudly and no longer hides behind them. They are parts of her. These scars tell the specific stories of time she caved in and lost sight of the beauty that envelopes her. She could now look back on each mark she wore and realize that she made it through. She possessed the strength to carry on, and she has the strength to recover. Behind these scars is a story of strength. Today she wears a number. That number written on her wrist is a constant reminder of her never-ending progress. As she notices the number go up day by day, her smile returns more genuine than ever before. This is the same girl who felt torn down for the littlest things. Now is her chance to prove them wrong. Today this girl knows where she belongs. Today this girl is me.

S.J. + G.T. By: Missy

Spike slammed his fist against his locker, then teared up and held it against his chest after letting out a small cry. Blue looked over at him with a look of amusement. Gary laughed but he grabbed Spike’s hand and gave it a once over. Spike laughed quietly. Gary rubbed the red mark the locker had made making a sympathetic smile. “Why’d you punch the locker, dog?” he asked. Spike looked at him, still holding his hand, and grabbed it away quickly before answering. “It wouldn’t open,” he lied. “Don’t lie to me, pooch. What’s wrong?” Gary asked, his chocolate colored eyes swirling with concern. Spike assured him it was nothing to worry about, but Gary didn’t buy it; however, he did let it drop and instead offered Spike a ride to work after school. “Sure,” Spike said just as the bell rang. Blue hesitated a moment, watching Gary follow Spike to their next class. Jealousy flared in him when Gary grabbed Spike by the back of his spiked collar and started to tease him gently. He turned away from the sight and stormed off to his next class. Spike watched him wondering what he was so pissed off about. Gary hollered at him to hurry up or they’d be late, and Spike dropped the thought. As it turns out, riding to work with Gary, his boss, wasn’t as good an idea as it would seem. Gary had got detention for mouthing off to a teacher who had called him a “wrench wielding grease monkey with no future.” Of course the teacher hadn’t been right to say anything like that, but that wasn’t even an argument when he was sent to the principal’s office. Spike had also got in trouble for whatever reason and now the two were sitting together watching the clock in silence. Spike knew he could handle the punishment, but Gary couldn’t bear to be away from his precious garage for long amounts of time. He swore that he’d go crazy if he didn’t get out of here soon, in a note he and Spike had been passing back and forth. Calm down, we have twenty more minutes, Spike wrote back. You are my rock, Gary had responded, adding a smiley face to his paper. The detention monitor walked by and grabbed the paper from Spike’s hand before crumpling it and throwing it away. “No passing notes, boys,” she said and then looked at Spike while adding, “Mr. James, I never saw you anywhere near this room before you started hanging out with this riffraff, but now it seems you’re in here all the time. You used to be such a sweet boy.”

“He’s still a pretty sweet boy,” Gary said while Spike was still formulating an epic comeback. “If it makes you feel any better, the dog didn’t even say anything,” Gary added. “It does not,” the teacher said but dropped the conversation. When Gary talked he had a way of convincing people he was right and they were wrong even if he was agreeing with them. She turned around to correct a student who was chewing gum. Spike sighed. Gary was his best friend, but it was true he got him into trouble more often than not. His parents didn’t say anything to him about it, but he could tell they were wary of his friend. They’d be right to; Gary got into fights, raced cars illegally, had been arrested at least twice, and drank and smoked. Plus, they thought anybody making as much money as Gary at such a young age had to be selling something illegal, but Spike could see beneath all the warning signs and saw a genuine person who did what made him happy, stood up for his friends, and wasn’t afraid to go to jail for what he believed in (both times he had been arrested it was for stealing abused dogs and giving them to shelters.) As for smoking and drinking, what seventeen-year-old didn’t? Gary was a good person, smart, kind and funny. Spike couldn’t have a better friend. “Hey dog, time to go,” Gary’s voice brought Spike out of his thoughts. “Coming,” Gary was already at the door waiting for him. Spike grabbed his heavy book bag and sprinted forward to catch up with him, only to end up tripping and almost falling, but Gary caught him by the arm and pulled him into a standing position. His hand stayed on Spike’s arm, and the two looked up at each other. Spike looked at Gary’s eyes, those little orbs of dark chocolate that held all his happiness within them. “You okay?” Gary asked slowly and softly, as if to not lift the veil of the moment they were sharing. “I’m fine,” Spike said. Gary smiled warmly and Spike smiled back. “Get a move on!” another student shouted. Spike just now realized they had been blocking the exit and slowly removed his arm from Gary’s grasp, and the two of them walked out to the car. Gary shut the door hard and turned to watch Spike slide into the car. “So, why did you punch that perfectly innocent locker earlier, puppy-dog?” Gary asked. Spike shifted his weight and looked at the dashboard.

“It’s okay, you can tell me if you have something going on, you can trust me,” Gary added, laying his hand on Spike’s shoulder. Spike closed his eyes. If only Gary knew it was comments like that that had caused his random act of violence. How exactly did Gary feel about him? What was his motive behind calling him “dog”? Did he like Spike as much as he led him to believe? What if he did? What if he didn’t? Could Spike return those feelings? What if he already did feel for Gary? What if Gary rejected him if he tried anything? What if Gary did feel the same way about him and nothing ever became of it? He wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He couldn’t handle the pain of rejection and the ridicule from his friends that was sure to follow if Gary decided to reject him, but at the same time it didn’t compare to the pain of not knowing. Gary’s hand squeezed his shoulder, and he again prompted him to tell him what was wrong. Spike had already decided now was the time to ask, but he didn’t know just what to say. But feeling Gary’s hand on his shoulder gave him strength. “W-why do you call me dog?” Spike asked, feeling more than seeing the frown that came to Gary’s face. Gary was for once unable to explain himself. “I-I don’t mind, I just wanna know… you don’t treat anybody else the way you treat me…” Gary cut him off by ruffling his hair roughly. Spike looked at him. Gary was glaring out the front window, a stoic look on his usually happy face. “Why did you have to ask? Why would you have to ask? Isn’t it obvious?” Gary asked. Spike grabbed Gary’s hand to remove it from his head, but Gary clung to his wrist. Gary looked upset. Spike didn’t like the look of confused anger on his friend’s face. “You don’t have to answer, not if you don’t want to,” Spike said, “but I do want to know what you feel about me.” Gary went silent again. “How I feel about you?” Gary asked. “I feel a lot of things about you, I feel protective and concerned. I feel happy when you’re around, sad when you’re not, mostly.” Gary paused. “I feel like you’re the person I wanna be with for a while. But I feel like I’m not the right person for you. I guess, in a sense, I like you.” Spike went silent. “Is that not what you meant?!” Gary asked, he sounded like he was panicking, “I’m joking! We’re buddies! That’s all!” Gary laughed nervously. “I was talking about from a work standpoint, I want a raise,” Spike teased.

“I knew that I was just eh joshing you, yeah I hate your guts, but w-what are we talking about?” Gary said. He was definitely panicking now. Spike smiled. “Calm down,” he laughed, “I was kidding, that was the exact answer I was looking for.” “You screwing with me dog?” he asked. Spike nodded and Gary punched his arm gently. “Don’t freak me out like that, Spike.” “Sorry, I was just paying you back for every time you’ve embarrassed me in front of the gang,” Spike said. “I like you too, Gary.” Gary smiled and then frowned and hit his head against the steering wheel mumbling “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” “Uh, you okay, boss?” Spike asked, tilting his head in confusion. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Gary said. “Like what?” Spike asked. “I didn’t want to tell you yet, not here, not like this, I wanted it to be somewhere special,” Gary said. “Didn’t peg you as a romantic,” Spike said. “I was supposed to ask you how you feel about me, then watch you stumble on your words for a few minutes and kiss you and it was supposed to be someplace really awesome,” Gary said. “Your car’s pretty awesome,” Spike said. Gary smiled and ruffled Spike’s hair. “I guess it is, huh?” Gary asked and received a quick kiss on the cheek in reply. Gary hugged Spike. “Please tell me I didn’t fall asleep in detention and this isn’t some dream I’ll wake up from in three seconds,” Spike said. “Spike! Wake up! You don’t get extra credit for staying overtime.” Gary was shaking Spike’s shoulder. He was back in the dentition hall where he had fallen asleep. He punched the desk in aggravation. “You know if you keep punching inanimate objects you might break your hand.” Gary said handing him his school bag. “It’s this dream I’ve been having. Whenever I wake up and it’s not real I get real mad and have to punch something,” Spike said. “Oh yeah? I’d say that dream’s hell bent on breaking your hand,” Gary said walking out of the classroom. Spike followed. It’s not my hand it’s breaking, he thought. ~Minta O’Hart~

Forgiveness

The Moment He observed the beauty of the environment around him, from the glaring sunlight to the waist high grass tickling his legs, with the cool breeze gracing the air, and his wife standing not too far off. She was as beautiful as ever, wearing her summer dress (the one with the sunflower designs on it) and with her flowing brown hair occasionally blowing in front of her gentle smile. She gestured for him to join her by her side next to the pond. He slowly walked to the love of his life, taking time to appreciate the magnificence of the moment, running his hand along the tips of the tall grass, enjoying the soft caress on his smooth skin. “You look gorgeous”, his lips worded as he took her hand, but no words came out. Still, she must have heard because she blushed and hid her smile just like she had the day they had met. All was silent, except for a faint but constantly reoccurring sound, resembling that of a chirping bird. He realized that the chirping seemed to get dimmer and dimmer as time passed, but he forgot when she looked up to see the man she had fallen for all those years ago, causing him to nervously look down at the pond next to them, finding himself locked in a gaze with his reflection. He found himself admiring his thick, dirty-blonde hair and wondering where his glasses had gone. Suddenly, a cavalcade of distant shouts echoed around him as the chirping grew even slower. The shouting grew louder, overpowering the chirping. In this slight confusion, he felt caring fingers tenderly touch his chin, turning his face to see hers. A single tear rolled from the corner of his eye, down his cheek and passed his nervous smile as his wife moved in to kiss him. As their lips met, the chirping ceased. “I’m afraid your father is gone…” Softly spoke the doctor. ~Josh Curl~

Four solid knocks, just as we had agreed upon. I never error when it comes to formal proceedings… or executions. I hear the shuffle of papers and the drag of a chair being pushed back. Of course I am here perfectly on time, and he is in a state of disarray. I can’t help thinking of him trailing behind me, back when we were children in school together, his papers and charcoal spilling out of his hands as he attempted to catch up with me. I was always the first out of the room when Tutor Lamoure released us, and he always the last. The image of us as children, his still sandy fringe in his eyes and my hair cropped close to the scalp as a costume, usually makes me smile, but not now. I can’t imagine anything that would make me smile now, in this place. The door swings open and I am greeted by the always familiar face of my nemesis. Marat. That was the name we agreed upon for him, isn’t it? I found the fact that he allowed me to call him that telling, since he had dubbed me “Corday” himself. I don’t know if it bothered me because he seemed to know how our relationship, though the use of the word while correct seems perverse, would end, or the fact that he didn’t seem to care at all. I stand in the doorway, purposefully making myself as tall and formidable looking as possible. His eyes are bright with a fire that helps me to understand. Understand just how he was able to stir an entire city, an entire nation for God’s sake, into a blood lusting frenzy. He speaks to me in a voice so unlike that of the boy I knew growing up. It is smooth like glass and toxic as burial earth. “Lottie. How good you are to come on time.” Dear God, even when using an alias he finds it necessary to call me by a nickname. I answer back as stiffly as I can, annoyed that he seems set on making my already considerable task even more difficult. “Marat. Of course I am on time. I came here today to talk about the release of my men.” He tilts his head in a manner that tells me he knows that is not why I came here. The men he has locked away know their fates. They know I don’t deal with devils like Marat. I would rather trade with the Devil himself. I know that they would agree with my choice, in stay of their freedom. I tell myself that every day as I pass through the ranks, noting the empty beds and grieving brothers. Blood of the sword really is thicker

than the water of the womb. The saying makes my stomach turn almost as much as the sight of the man in front of me. He senses my tension and his eyes soften ever so slightly. Now they are merely somber and onyx. “Please, let us not be so unnecessarily formal. Let us use our...Christian names.” Past the bridge of his imperfectly straight nose, I can see into the depths of his eyes, of his soul, and I see nothing to reflect his Christian name. I mentally sneer at the use of such an antiquated term. “Of course. This is war, not business. I apologize for being rude . . . Jean-Paul.” I can see any light of kindred memories or residual friendship die in his eyes as I use yet another alias. What he wants, I cannot give. He speaks again, and he is no man I have ever known. Not the revolutionary calling for so many heads, or the boy with whom I was raised and taught. He is not the poor poet who went hungry in the streets, stupidly ignoring his father’s vast wealth, nor is he the battered solider praying to merely die softly. He is an old, tired man that has seen great death brought by his own order. I could see the weight of his broad, slim shoulders. I felt pity for him for a moment, before all of the bodies, all of the blood return to the forefront of my mind. No. I will never forget, and forgiveness will take even longer. “Jean-Paul, before our business commences, I have a short list of questions for you.” He is now standing behind the impressive oak desk, his scarred palms laying flat on its rough surface. He nods subtly, looking me straight in the eye as I move farther into the room. I stop once I am standing opposite him and allow my finger tips to trail across the surface of the wood before continuing. “Why would a well-off Aristocrat, like yourself, lead a revolution against the crown? A coup I could understand, though you are not quite that close to the crown, but that isn’t what you have done. You don’t want to replace the monarch; you want to destroy it.” I hold his arctic stare for a moment before allowing myself to glance at his right hand where his father’s ring should have been. Thinking of his ring makes me ache to have mine back upon my hand, but I know that wearing it does not present good face to the others. He does not answer with anything more than a clenched fist pushed against the splintering table.

“I simply mean to say that it just doesn’t make any sense to me. You know why I, a bastard daughter of a lowly lord who lied and faked her way through school and into rank, would have cause to take issue with the crown, but why you the eldest son of a baron of good status and wealth? Makes no difference. You cannot escape your blood, no matter the ways you try. You carry it with you—aristocracy. You were a sickly child, as princes always seem to be, you have the edge-straight nose that is just so seemingly royal, and you just reek of bathing in oils.” I smirk coldly. This is helping. Making him angry is making my job easier or at least less personal. As I think of the oils, I turn the room looking for any sign of his medicinal treatments. Nowhere to be seen. He must stow them away. Wouldn’t want to appear weak, or imperfect, now would he? “You are a man of revolution. Does it not bother you how quickly the people follow yet another man who shines with the light of divine right?” I am again met by silence. I wonder if he can see just how much he looks like his late father—may his soul burn for all eternity—when he stands there seething in that fashion. He probably does and it probably tortures him. I wait another moment for an answer that I know will never come before starting again. “Fine. Next question. How can you, a man who lived through such great strife and death, though he often wished not to, encourage such murder?” He starts at that, and I can see a sliver of the meek boy I grew up with through the crack forming across his visage. I also see the carnage of war. Sometimes I wonder why I so skillfully lied and fought my way into the army. I am pulled farther down the path of memory into the scene of a boy, no more than sixteen begging me to follow him into war, telling me how much it frightened him. I drag myself into the present to examine the man before me. He is now so different than what he once was. I can tell that he is calculating a response. He always does take his time. Finally, he speaks: “Ms. Corday, though I do not enjoy war and death even less so, I see it necessary. I am simply doing what my country asks of me. I stand with the people.” That sets me off like a loaded rifle being dropped. “With the people? You know nothing of being with the people. The people fear the very mention of your name; they hate you; they cower from your mere image. No,

my friend, you do not stand with the people. You stand in front of them, throwing your arms and words of malice at them like scraps of bread. You depend on their terror and hunger to gain you followers. With the people . . .” The disgust in my voice sounds harsh and unappealing to my own ears, and I am sure it is repugnant to his. I sit down in the stiff chair in front of the desk, suddenly tired. My task seems even more difficult, lays even heavier against the apex of my heart. He also sits down, clasps his hands firmly on the table. For a moment I am sure he will reach out, but he stops himself. He begins to speak. “Please, let this be done. Ask no more; say no more. Do as you came here to do. A—,” he stops speaking. Wise of him. Upon hearing the beginning of my name, my true name, being spoken by him I had raised my hand. He understood and respected the order. “Do not. Not yet. Jean-Paul.” I force the lie out of my mouth. “I have one more question before I really must do my duty. Why, on all of the earth including places known and untouched, would you allow me to call you Marat? When you had named me here in this place of war, Charlotte Corday?” He is silent. I am as well. I allow my last question to fall against the uneven grain of the desk, and I stand, feeling the cold steel press against my flesh as my legs bend. “Because I need it to happen. What has begun cannot be undone, but I must be. And because, dear friend, it had to be someone who had witnessed me both as an innocent, and as a man desperate on the field of battle. Someone who knew that this was not always what I had been. Someone who would know that it must be done yet would see that it should be done with mercy. Unfortunately, you are the only one able to fill that void.” The words are graceful and beautiful, but I know they took nothing from him. He, always so good with his words, and I, always so good at wasting them. I will waste no more. I nod brusquely and move around the desk until I stand behind him. He makes no attempts to move, nor does he seem surprised as I pull the knife from between the layers of my coats. I smoothly place the gleaming edge at his throat, pale and scruffy. “You need a shave my friend,” I say, for I no longer have the words appropriate for this meeting.

He laughs low in his chest before asking, “Now?” I know what he means and I nod. I do not know how he sees it but he must have because he smiles openly, and I wonder how the man that brought about the deaths of hundreds in a matter of days could also be my closest childhood friend, confidant in war and terror, and a complex myriad of other things to me. “Adrianne?” I once again nod minutely; I am listening. I am careful not to move the knife too soon. “I am sorry that I always walked so slowly leaving school, truly.” I would have laughed if not for the fact that as his breath left his mouth, attached to the word “truly” by a tiny measure of time, I pulled the blade across his bared neck, pressing into his flesh in order to make sure only one cut would be necessary. Once the cut was made properly and completely, I retreated from his body, trying to ignore the sounds of his life leaving. After a moment, he was gone, all versions of him—a school boy, a scared solider, a terrifying revolutionary, and an old man. I allow myself a luxury I do not deserve: I do something I haven’t in years. I say his name, his true name, aloud. “Of course Levin. All is forgiven. Of course it is, my friend.” I stand for an hour, watching over his shell as it grows cold and white, before his men think to look in on our meetings. I do not fight, do not react, as they bind me and beat me. I have killed their master, their leader, their salvation. Of course I must get the same punishment as the rest of the traitors. To the guillotine I am taken, and I care not. ~Jean-Paul Marat was a revolutionary during the French Revolution that wrote and published a newspaper called “The Friend of the People” and is said to be responsible for the beheading of hundreds of people. He was killed by a common woman named Charlotte Corday who thought that his death would bring an end to the killing and maybe even the war. ~Lillian Brown~

Proelium pro Caelo Blood and death surround us. Severed wings and splintered horns litter the dirt beneath our feet. Our blades are fresh with the blood and ashes of the hell-spawn we have just slain. Another assault is coming; we all know it, but this time, we won’t survive. We have already lost so many good soldiers in the first waves of attack. The ground is shaking from the charge of the oncoming demon horde; their fiendish howls and screams are filling the air. Knowing what is to come, my men are shaking with anticipation and fear. They cling to memories of their loved ones to remember just what they’re fighting for. My heart aches for the families that will not see their sons and fathers again. I envy them: though their glowing bodies have grown cold and lifeless, they shall be absent for the battle to come. A cold breeze brushes against my face as I close my eyes to embrace it. I find myself grasping the cross around my neck, praying in silence. My peace comes to a sudden end when the distinct stench of burning flesh reaches my nostrils. Funny, I almost forgot where I was. I can hear them getting closer, the screams getting louder. These beings are eager for bloodshed, yet I am only eager for the end. I deplore violence, even if it is in the name of our Father, but my cause is just, so I must fight. No matter what is to come I will not allow these gates to burn, nor will my men. I look back at each of them and raise my sword high. These men have such a trust in me, and in one silent movement they have heard all they need to follow me into whatever fate they must. My faith, my wings, my blood, and my fear are the same as all of theirs, but they still follow me. I turn to face the horde of monstrous demons behind. I spread my wings as I raise my sword and say one last prayer. I take one last glance to my men and the golden gates behind them. I close my eyes to hear His warm voice echoing through my head: “Believe, Michael, have faith…” ~Josh Curl~

Heather’s Final Feather: “God writes the gospel not in the Bible alone, but on trees and flowers and clouds and stars.” --attributed to Martin Luther

Mallory’s Final Feather: “We are all wonderful, beautiful wrecks. That’s what connects us--that we’re all broken, all beautifully imperfect.” --Emilio Estevez

Olivia’s Final Feather: But let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. --Kahlil Gibran

Final Feathers

Josh’s Final Feather: “Life owes you nothing. You owe yourself everything.” --Corey Taylor Victoria’s Final Feather: “Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned Ken’s Final Feather: into months. And one not so very special “Nature does not hurry, yet day, I went to my typewriter,I sat down everything is accomplished.” and I wrote our story. A story about a --Lao Tzu time. A story about a place. A story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A love that will live forever.” “Final Feathers” name inspired by --Moulin Rouge Ms. Kimberly Crowe at Hickory Flat Elementary

Jessie’s Final Feather: “Alone we can do so little, together we can do so much.” -- Helen Keller

Llandess’s Final Feather: “Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of a mother’s face.” --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sable’s Final Feather: “Fall is my Favorite Season in Los Angeles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.” --David Letterman

Katie’s Final Feather: “Walking with a friend i n the dark is better then walking alone in the light.” --Helen Keller

Thank You To All Of Our 2012-2013 Editors Chief EditorKatarina Kocsis

The rose and

ladness are

Linked Together.

nd g

n d a sorrow , n r o te h a

Quote By Persian Poet: Abu-Muhammad Muslih al-Din bin Abdallah Shirazi, Saadi Shirazi

Prose EditorsHaley Buice Joshua Curl Katie Dickerson Jaclyn Gehrsitz Mackenzie Leaich Cara Wallace

Poetry EditorsHeather Burgess Mallory Knowles Victoria Williams

Graphic DesignersTaylor Beasley Sable Newton Kristina Perezchica

Art EditorsLillian Brown Francisco Gonzalez Mikenna Hughes Minta Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Hart Jessie Ricks

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And Thank You To Dr. Murphy For All Her Help And Support!!!