M I RA G E -2 0 1 4STAFFORD HIGH SCHOOL LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE
Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences. - S y lv i a P l a t h
STUDENT EDITORS Caitlin Green
FACULTY ADVISOR Jim Andrews, Publisher
Avery Crowder
Cover artwork and border design by Jessica LaFratta
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TABLE OF CONTENTS Poetry Bleach… Journey Keleman …………………………………………. 4 Speak to Me… Hannah Furchak ……………………………….…….7 Remembered Roots… Caroline Stimpson………………………….. 15 Beauty… Allison Fagan……………………………………………...18 Icarus… Nick Clark……………………………………………...…. 23 Noise… Caitlin Green………………………………………………..24
Prose Avaricious… Nicholas Lusk………………………………………….8 Cancer… Diana Simpson……………………………………………10 A House… Delaney Smith…………………………………………..12 Wise… Dani Raymond…………………………………...……….…17 Claustrophobic… Avery Crowder…………………………………...20
Artwork Jessica LaFratta……………………...…………..…. cover, 2,5, 11, 16 Tamara Isaak-Harrington……………..……………..... 6, 9, 14, 24, 27 Erin Lottes………………………………………………………...... 13 Madeline Carr………………………………………………...……. 16 Lizzie Miller……………………………………………………. 19, 21 Taralynn Martin……………………………………….…. ……..22, 25 3
BLEACH By Journey Keleman
I was an April shower,
holding on by a thread,
I remember how it felt to bleed,
I loved to hurt,
I used to bleed blood of blackberries and dirt,
as much as I hated to love myself,
my veins were roots of tomatoes and roses,
I melted into scars and bleach,
I gained two souls in those days,
I fell into salty comas,
we, and I, floated through hushed hallways,
I dreamed of being a real girl,
sweet scents tiptoed away from silent cribs,
but my skin was made of metal,
earthly bodies held fragile souls, we were all in denial,
I have seen what it's like to drag cold finger tips across bars.
sticky orange fingers held on to the air,
I remember the feel of needles,
I used to live in capital letters,
I remember the still scent of washable markers,
we hoped and held onto nonexistent obligations,
I remember how it felt to breathe tainted air,
our roots changed with the seasons,
I remember how it felt to feel my flesh breathe,
I have learned to breathe again.
I have heard it gets better,
along with the Spring, I will bloom,
I have learned that happiness is mine, if I want it,
every rose has it's thorns,
happiness is ours,
I remember braces lined with traces of apples,
peace is ours,
some apples are red on the inside,
if we want it.
stomach acid grew on trees,
I have thawed,
and we all ran away,
I have learned how to breathe again.
down sidewalks and winding roads, eventually we find where the sidewalk ends, Artwork by Jessica LaFratta 4
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SPEAK TO ME By Hannah Furchak
Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington
She walks through the crowd. They whisper hateful things into her ear. She says to them “speak to me.” They whisper louder and louder, But never raise their voices to her. She says to them “speak to me.” She turns to them as they mock. She stares them down without a thought. She says to them “speak to me.” They look up at her shocked that she would respond, Her calm eyes glancing at not just their bodies, but their souls. She says to them “speak to me.” They still speak not to her, but to themselves. She knows they will never listen nor answer her plea, but still She says to them “speak to me.”
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AVARICIOUS By Nicholas Lusk
Te’tan was the one who told me the to shake; moments like this came around value of human worth. He was the one who more often than one would think. He turned told me happiness can be bought or even to be showing his repulsive smile. love. His words and ideas scared me, but he “No Boy, this here is money!” he was my companion in this everlasting war chuckled; it shook the fat rolls under his between the human-consuming beasts that neck in such a grotesque way I had to turn dwelt in our scorched, torn-down civilizamy head, he made my stomach turn with his tion we called earth. We were on the verge accusations. He turned back to the six peoof uncovering a hive of these Beasts. We, a ple stuck in a webby gunk, positioned his long time ago being several months, came hand in a straight form in front of one of across a hive large enough to fit an entire their bodies, and plunged it in. He shouted, city the size of Old Haven. We carefully “AH! Here it is!” he infiltrated the hive and exterminated every last It was Te’tan who taught me pulled out a jar from living thing in it, and that happiness or even love his bag and held it up to put what he had acby every last thing I can be bought quired in his off hand. mean every last Beast, He took his hand out of the person’s chest Egg, Food Source, and… humans in captivholding a ghastly but bright figure. ity. I would dare not lay a hand on a fellow human, but Te’tan… His greed for simplis“This, Boy, is the Human Soul, can tic items led to the best of him, his greed for be sold at the market for a hefty price!” He human souls, his greed for sacrifice. He was fed the soul into the jar, closed and locked the one who told me about the worth of a it. It sickened me. My vision of the past human soul, how much it would sell on the ended as he suggested we camp. Hale’id black market. We had camped near the Forest in a “Boy come here!” he shouted to me, and motioned his large, fat filled arm for me to come to him during the extermination.
field of fallen trees and flat land. Te’tan, with his robust figure, laid on his side snoring. I however was kept awake thinking about our situation. I thought, “What if we run into more humans? Away from the capital in this world he can do as he pleases…” my mind was stirred and my stomach even more than my mind.
“Boy, do you see what I see?” his mouth formed into a gold toothed smile as he stroked his beard, “Sir I see human captives.” I began
Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington 8
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CANCER By Diana Simpson
People say they care, that they actually want to help others out. But really, when it comes down to it, they’re too wrapped up in their own lives to have time to deal with any of that. There are so many examples of that, so many times that it’s been proven. How often do they actually notice when people are suffering? When they end up in the news headlines or when celebrities start to care? Then once the news attention is off of it, their minds are off of it. Even on a smaller more localized scale, people are shockingly clueless. People are so wrapped up in their own little world that they can’t seem to see when even the people around them are struggling.
Artwork by Jessica LaFratta
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HOUSE By Delaney Smith
My bones creak and rattle as little feet pitter patter down the stairs. Giggles and shouting float through my interior as the clock chimes in to tell everyone that it is almost eight.
voice of the anchor man drifts through the air.
through my eyes as I watched the woman’s hand shiver against the phone. The silence is “Breaking news, at shattered as a high pitched voice around 8:45 this morning, a plane as struck the North Tower practically shouts into the of the World Trade Center. The phone. death count is unknown and po“ANSWER THE “Guys! We’re going to lice are scrambling to evacuate PHONE! PLEASE, JIM!” Tears be late! Come on.” A father the building…” splash against me and a body shouts up my stairs before grabsinks slowly down onto the The clock chimes eight bing his black leather bag and fifty and the gnarled branches of ground. The furnace cuts off kissing his wife goodbye. More the large oak beside the front with a soft whooshing as shoulpitter patter and then rushing ders shake against my wall. door brush against me like an and laughing to grab last minute old friend. The sound of the anchor items followed by the hollow The clock is on the third man continues on in the living sound of a door slamming shut. chime of nine o’clock when the room. Then silence. Someone door bursts open, a purse and “…..is said to have hit has left the TV on in the living keys clattering to the floor as between the 93rd and 99th floor. room and I listen as the clock footsteps bound down the hall- Firefighters and police are chimes eight. way into the kitchen. I am quiet working to get everyone out ofThe wife moves through as the phone is picked up rough- OH MY GOD! WAS THAT me, up and down the stairs, ly and the numbers assaulted by ANOTHER PLANE? It seems picking up discarded books and trembling fingers. that a plane has just hit the toys along the way. The shower “Come on…come on… South Tower of the World turns on seconds later, then the please…please…” A pained sob Trade Center!” hair dryer whirling to life and rings through me and the furThe phone hits the by the time the clock chimes nace cuts on downstairs. The ground with a loud clank as the eight thirty, the door slams shut phone is slammed into the rewomen scrambles to get up again and I am left in silence. ceiver before being picked up from the floor and rush into the My floorboards whine under again and fingers ghosted over living room. The room is quiet invisible feet and the TV is still the buttons. It was silent for a but for the television before a on in the living room, as the minute, warm sunlight shining roar seems to vibrate my very 12
structure.
okay… Okay, bye. Love you “NOOOO!” The sound is too.” cut off by a sob forcing its way The woman leans heavily up from a throat and echoing against me and tries to stem the around me like a song that’s over flow of tears and I want to stuck in your head. The phone wipe them away, but I am only rings then, shrill and hopeful. brick and cement and rotting Footsteps sprint into the kitchen wood. I cannot wipe anything and pick the phone up within away. seconds. “Jim?” The voice is frantic and hysterical. A small voice trills out from the other end and the women crumbles again.
“No. They’re still at sschool…….I don’t know what floors they hit, mom! I’m going to try and c-call him again,
She only moves once the clock begins to chime twelve o’clock. She picks up her purse and keys, her eyes dead and swollen, leaning on my walls for support to get out the door. The tears had finally stopped coming after a while, but the faint ghost trails still marked her cheeks. For the third time that day, the sound of the door slamming shut vibrated through me. My eyes still shone with sunlight and the furnace cut on again in the basement. Tiny tear drops dotted my floor from the kitchen to the hallway. I could still feel the heat of a body pressed against my wall.
“Mom?” The word is teeth bitten into knuckles and a sob trying to force its way up. The tiny voice on the other end is soothing, but the sound of tears is very evident. “I-I don’t know. I came home a-as soon as I saw and…and h-he hasn’t picked up.” The woman is pacing from the living room to the kitchen, stopping every now and again to stare at the chaos that was breaking out on the TV screen. Smoke and alarms and panic.
way, her fingers trembling and sweaty as they pressed number after number.
The clock chimes three just as the door opens and three teary eyed bodies shuffle through the door, shoulders slumped and heads hung low. I waited for the fourth to come, but he never did.
She takes a deep breath before dialing the familiar number, this time slow and careful. No matter how slow or careful she dialed that number for hours It was then, that I knew after, no voice ever greeted her he never would again. from the other end. Even after pictures of rubble and giant And the furnace shut off clouds of ash invading the streets with a final soft sound. flashed across the TV like a memory, she still sat in the hall-
Artwork by Erin Lottes 13
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REMEMBERED ROOTS
By Caroline Stimpson
A sapling may think his roots are so deep. He won’t stop to ask what the old trees think. When his elders fade, their roots only keep Till young ones decide it’s their time to sink. With knowledge today, life’s much like a tree. Old boughs are forgotten, old leaves extinct. What is left behind are stories we see In hymns and steeples, the message distinct. For sake of comfort and reason and bliss, Church books are seen as mere paper and ink. The words of the elders young ears do miss. Advice from the wiser stands on the brink. When the world was new, love used to be free. Now Eden’s remembered just by a tree.
Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington
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WISE By Dani Raymond
Sometimes I feel like the world is moving and I’m just sitting still. I guess it’s because I’ve been alive for far too long. I’ve lived my life and seen a lot of things. A lot of times, I don’t even know why God has kept me alive. It’s not that I wish to die, no, not at all. I Just don’t know why I’m here.
that I once knew. It makes me feel less lonely and far away from my past.
My favorite people to watch is the Benson family. It’s a grandmother, mother, and daughter all living together. I knew the grandmother when we were younger, but with her illness she doesn’t remember much of anything I’ve fulfilled all that I thought was exnowadays. Every day I’m out here and each day pected of me. I grew up, got an exceptional edu- I see this family. They’re close to each other and cation, married, raised wonderful kids, and lived travel together. Whether it’s the to the market or a full life. Sure, there have been struggles and to church, they’re together. They always say heltime that I regret, but life isn’t perfect and pure lo and are very niche. Every once in awhile, they all the time. stop by for a sit on one of my rockers. I often wonder what my purpose in life is anymore. Mostly, I just watch. I sit on my rocking chair in the front porch. Sometimes with tea or coffee or lemonade. Sometimes I have a magazine or a book. Sometimes I have a visiting child or grandchild. Mostly, it’s just me and myself. I like it that way thought. That way I get to concentrate on everything myself, taking it all in.
Usually it’s Laura, the daughter. She comes and asks me about my flowers or my arthritis or knitting. She’ll sit down and I’ll bring her a drink. We’ll talk and talk. Sometimes asks me to tell her stories and other time she’ll tell me some. They’re about her grandmother, and how she worried about her. Other times, they’re about school and boys. She often reveals to me secrets about her life. How she wishes she lived with her dad, and that she misses him, how she I watch lots of things. I watch the sun rise wishes to have some time to herself without her and set. Depending on the seasons, I watch the mother and grandmother constantly around. rain and snow fall. I watch the trees shed their leaves. My favorite thing to watch is people. The I think I help her a little. I give her time street hasn’t changed much these past years. In on my porch, its swirling railings and hanging fact, the only things that make it obvious that ferns acting as a barrier against the outside times are different are the people. The people world. I tell her not to be scared and tell her that who walk the streets aren’t the ones who walked sometimes friendships don’t work out and that twenty years ago. Those people have been gone boys aren’t the most important things in the world. Each time she smiles and tells me that for a long time. she likes sitting with me and that she’ll be back Still I watch. I look them over and memo- again tomorrow. I return her smile each time. rize their faces. Sometimes I talk to them, ask them their names. If I think long enough, I can usually connect t them to a neighbor or relative Artwork by Madeline Carr and Jessica LaFratta 17
BEAUTY By Allison Fagan
Once, I murmured that beauty could be felt Beneath the bones and underneath the skin. Softer than silk and more deadly than hell, Your touch burned through me, scorched me from within. Who was I to resist the temptationThe desire for my soul to be set free? For I am not as noble as the sun, Nor could my true intentions ever be. I am nothing but a fragmented soul, Confined inside of flesh, a slave to touch. I cannot refuse a heart in its whole; I cannot loosen a hand from its clutch. Once, I murmured that beauty could be felt, But only if one was ready to melt
Artwork by Lizzie Miller
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CLAUSTROPHOBIC By Avery Crowder
They always start with the smallest of rumbles, like a plane, far off in the distance. The sky shows hints of darker hues, smudged against the azure blue. The wind, barely there, whispers softly, toying with the thinner strands of hair on my head. Although it’s invisible, I can feel the pulsing energy. First, it darts between the clouds, and then the breeze lifts it away, sending it coursing through my body. My heart is filled with the aromatic promise of rain. As I take a deep, cleansing breath, I am struck by something as simple as fresh air. But, to me, it is so much more. The sharp tang of salt water intermingles with the intoxicating scent of rainwater. Crisp, pure, and untouched. The stretch of sand is deserted; everyone has taken cover. Sheltered by aging cubes, they wait anxiously for the pounding rain to thrash and beat their fragile porches. But not me. I revel in the growing darkness. My thoughts have been overpowered by something greater. As I stand there, alone, a single, dark speck on the white crystals, I am extraordinarily completed. The eerie peacefulness of the beach centers me, and the oncoming storm gives me seemingly infinite power. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of white. I turn to my right and see the bay expanding in front of me. The waves are no longer small ripples, but massive, powerful whitecaps, crashing down on one another. The frothing foam fizzles into the sand once the waves reach the shore. I watch the endless bubbles, popping as soon as they’re formed. It seems as though their destiny is the sweetest: created only to be destroyed, before life has the chance to weather their innocence. My hair lashes around my face, obscuring my vision and stinging my sensitive skin, but I don’t tie it back. It’s part of the experience. As the wind picks up, the trees, lined up behind the cottages, begin to shake. Their fallen
leaves swirl into miniature whirlpools around my feet. Shuffling forward, I move slowly into the cool water to protect the delicate skin on my feet from the unforgiving edges of the leaves. The sudden change in temperature creates goose bumps that race from my bare legs up to my bare arms. Although I am only a few inches into the water, it splashes up onto my thighs. A green leaf floats by, controlled by the current and begging to be rescued from its drowning, but I just stare. The storm shook it from its cradle, so it was forced to jump. I guess all leaves die young. A ground-shaking rumble brings my attention back to the sinister sky. The sunlight is completely gone, leaving the world below in a dim and mysterious darkness. The solid mass of gray, black, and navy blue is swirled together, like a child’s clumsy finger-painting. A streak of gold slices through the sky in a blink of an eye and is gone a millisecond later. Two more bolts follow, one touching down around the misty horizon line. Over the booming thunder and roaring wind whistling in my ears, I hear a faint voice shout, but the words are torn apart in the vast space between us. The sky has turned into a raging battle, fighting internally, while the thunder rumbles like a dramatic drum beat, amplified by unseen speakers. The tension builds, becoming a few lines of music before the chorus, promising a sudden crescendo. I close my eyes in anticipation, blocking out everything and, more importantly, everyone. I blindly turn into the wind so that my hair blows away from my face, rippling behind me like my own wave. My toes wiggle underneath the damp sand in the shallows, hardly noticing the sea grass intertwining itself around my ankles. The hem of my shorts sticks to my legs, because of the tepid spray. The freezing gusts create the illusion of warm water, providing a sharp contrast. The
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sharp scent of salt, still evident, even over the wind, burns my nose. Suddenly, a wave crashes down upon me, knocking me down. I sit down, hard, and blink the water out of my burning eyes. The tangles of sea grass ruined my balance, so I kick the slimy strings off and stumble to my feet, brushing the abrasive sand off myself. Looking back to the sky, I knew the moment was close. I took a deep breath, letting the familiar scents consume me, and felt a drop of water on my shoulder. Grinning, I held up my arms, and welcomed the bursting sky. Torrents of cold pellets rained down on me. My hair no longer blew, but hung in dripping curls. Flashes of lighting raced across the sky, low vibrations shook the ground, and the waves swelled twice their allotted size and heaved themselves towards the shore. I turned on my heel, making a divot in the sand, and raced across the beach, stumbling once or twice on the uneven ground. Once it starts to rain, my interest diminishes quickly and is soon lost. It’s as if the storm represents the rumbles of a song, growing faster and louder until the finale: the rain. It’s all downhill from there. I ran back toward our cottage, back toward my home. Enclosed in the stuffy warmth of our cottage, I feel relaxed and at peace, strangely calmed by nature’s most powerful force. People blur in front of me, caring more about the damp hardwoods left in my
trail than my safety. The lamps throw dark shadows across the sterile walls, contrasting the falsely-joyful atmosphere projected in the cramped living room. My stringy lumps of hair, a natural beauty in the eye of the storm, are an eyesore next to the piles of neat tendrils surrounding me. Thin, red lips are frowning, layers of curls are shaking, and heads are bowing with the proper amount of disapproval. It felt easier to manage the swirling masses of energy outside than it did the people inside. The opinions, emotions, and expectations inside the cabin were suffocating me. Somehow, all of those abstract things were pressing against me, trying in vain to mold me into a prim cookie cutter. I turned my longing gaze towards the screened “windows.” The artistically-scattered bruises covering the sky…the blazing scars randomly decorating wherever they see fit…that all seemed infinitely more beautiful than the blurs surrounding me. Despite my background, despite my quiet intro chords, my love of storms broke through, so strong that it didn’t matter what I was raised to think. Inspired, I sat down and began to draw dots on lined paper: quarter, eighth, sixteenth. It didn’t matter. I was going to capture the song of the universe.
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Artwork by Lizzie Miller
Artwork by Taralynn Martin 22
ICARUS By Nick Clark
I am known as an invisible. I walk through this land like a drone; No one sees me and I see no one; No one speaks and I stay silent; No one thinks and I keep my thoughts to myself; They all seem to be living a wonderful life: Riches, Fame, Fortune, Love, Life, Harmony… I am Rich in faith, not money. I am Famous and televised, for the wrong reasons. I am Fortunate of what I have, myself. I am Loved, it doesn’t come easily. I am Alive, yes, but I feel dead and wasted away. I am in Harmony, perfect sweet-sounding Harmony, with the others like me. We are known as the invisible. We are still here although no one sees. We are still human even if they don’t think we are. We are not you and you are not us. We don’t know you and you don’t know us. But you and I are sharing the world the same. But you and I are treated the same. But you and I are the same. Shouldn’t that include Riches, Fame, Fortune, Love, Life, and Harmony? It doesn’t. You’re oblivious You’re ruthless Angry, Harmful, Sodden, Immoral, Wicked, Careless …Confused… What have you done to us? Have you even seen it? Have you even lived here? No. You haven’t and You know nothing about us. You don’t care about us or what we do, What we believe in, And where we come from. Because we’re all the same to you. But the feeling is mutual. The world is one celestial body. We all should follow in being Rich and Famous. Fortunate and Loving. Alive and in perfect sweet-sounding Harmony… 23
NOISE By Caitlin Green
You make noise in my bones; Atoms dancing off your tongue, Sliding down my throat, Reverberating against charred lungs, Settling comfortably like the crackle of a b-side. Time yields numbing white noise Till my skin can’t stretch to your screams.
Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington (left) and Taralynn Martin (right) 24
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COLOPHON M I R A G E is in its eighth year of publication. It is published during the summer. The magazine was produced on IBM– compatible computers using Adobe Photoshop Element 8.0 and Microsoft Publisher; it was published in Stafford High School using 20-pound paper on an HP 551 printer. The font Times New Roman was used for the text of all poetry and prose as well as the author and artist credits. The font Freestyle Script was used for the titles of each piece. The font Eras Medium ITC was used for the pull quote. The font Bodoni MT was used for all text on the cover. The font Dreamer was used for the inside cover quote and the font 28 days later was used for the quote on the opposing page.
PURPOSE M I R A G E is the literary arts magazine for Stafford Senior High School in Falmouth, Virginia. The purpose of the magazine is to showcase students’ thoughts and expressions through both writing and art. As with any publication, the views expressed are not necessarily the view of Stafford High School, the editorial staff, advisor, or Stafford County Public Schools. All students at Stafford High School who are not enrolled in Creative Writing or Art class are invited to submit their work for consideration in the magazine.
SUBMISSION Submissions should be dropped by room W205. All work completed in Stafford High School’s Creative Writing classes is considered for publication. M I R A G E embraces every opportunity to post the work of any students submission, regardless of format or length.
RIGHTS All writing and art submissions are considered by an editorial staff which chooses submissions based on quality, appropriateness, relevance, and overall impact. The editorial staff reserves the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted work. 26
CREATIVITY TAKES courage Henri Matisse
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Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington
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