NONANON
AGS Literary Arts Magazine 2013-2014
How Nonanon Got Its Name At one time in history a woman could not publish her writing under her own name. However, if her work was very good, and she wanted it to be published, she might use either a male pseudonym or the name “Anonymous.” Many scholars of literature believe poems or writing with an anonymous author were written by women. When AGS was a brand new school with brand new students studying great writers like Anne Bradstreet (1615-1672) and contemporary works of literature such as The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver, 1998), students in English classes became quite angry when they learned how women had to fight to gain equity in the world of writing and publishing. While creating palindrones (noun. a word, line, verse, number, or sentence reading the same backward as forward, ex. able was I ere I saw Elba and nonanon), a student created the Nonanon example, and the name was chosen as the title of our literary arts magazine. Nonanon also gives a “nod” to Shakespeare’s word anon: meaning shortly, soon, which is often said by characters in his plays. Whether speaking lines from Shakespeare, reading famous women writers, writing and giving speeches, sharing personal reflections, poems, songs, photographs or artwork, the young women of Atlanta Girls’ School are “not anonymous.” They are proud of their names, their work, their writing, and we are proud to publish them. Cover photo by Mercedes Robinson
Claire Rinck
Sara Bannon
Effervescence By Aysha Rahman The word effervescent sounded too girly, and you were a man. That’s what you told me, with that charming little twinkle in your eyes. You laughed, and I laughed, and you stood up and held my hand. We danced that night, under the red and orange lights, sipping the bubbles in our drinks. You told me, the first date, that you liked how effervescent I was. I raised an eyebrow, and you raised one back at me. “Not too girly for me, then?” I said. You smiled. Of course, it wasn’t. Your hand reached for mine across the tabletop, and the dim yellow light made our soft drinks sparkle. The next month, you told me that I made you feel alive. The light in your eyes was soft, and you giggled a little, embarrassed, but you fell silent when I kissed you. Your arms around my waist, we lay, quiet and still, in the dark, our empty soda cans lying on their sides from being tossed carelessly away. I was dressed in white from head to toe, and you told me I looked brilliant. The corners of your eyes crinkled and your teeth shone, and you almost laughed as you took my hand and said, “I do.” The spring sun warmed us, but the wine kept us cool. "Don’t call me that!" you said, your eyes lighting up in a way I hadn’t seen before, not with that intensity. Any of the effervescence I once saw in you had dulled, though I didn’t want to believe it. I knew it had, the pain told me so, but maybe we could fix things. You looked at me, put my face in your hands, and apologized with wordless lips. The gray light that filtered through the blinds illuminated the dust falling into your glass.
It’s been years. The word effervescent is still too girly for you. You say you’d outgrown it long ago. As you’ve done with many other things now. Your eyes are covered under the shadow of a baseball cap, and your laugh is sharper than it used to be. You can’t hold my hands without hearing a scream, and in the mirror the only lights that get reflected back to me are black and blue. Your drinks don’t have bubbles in them anymore.
Young Pantoum Soldier By Suzanne Coleman Catch me before I explode! Tinkling crystal fragments Fifteen desperate years old I am spring green with fear Tinkling crystal fragments Following a tissue paper shield I am spring green with fear A lonely soldier running from battle Following a tissue paper shield Tight clutching a straw lance A lonely soldier running from battle Wildly sniffing my way home tight clutching a straw lance Catch me before I explode! Wildly sniffing my way home fifteen desperate years old
The Snow Queen By Eve Shumate I watch her ride down the hill. I know she brings the winter chill. Her arctic reindeer toss their heads. Meanwhile, my family sleeps in their warm beds. I'm the only one to see this magnificent sight. While my friends cuddle by warm light, I quietly stare at her pale face, As she jumps off her sleigh with frozen grace. Try as I might I can't look away, As she pets the reindeer who pull her sleigh. She comes towards me and takes my hand. I see ice in her eyes and I understand. She wraps her icy arm around my shoulder. I grab on tight but I can't hold her. She lifts her hand and out falls snow. I enjoy her winter magic show. She turns to me and starts to go, Leaving me alone in the snow queen's snow.  
High By Nia Doyley I lift my head high to show the world who I am. Without a care in the world I show my plan, To be someone different than they had expected. I lift my head high to show the god in me: The god in me that has set me free from all of my doubts and worries. I lift my head high to show, That I am the dream of my mother. This is the way to show others, That they can change the world, too. With a little confidence and drive It will all start with you.
Being By Aysha Rahman You are not the dust on the shelves To settle and be wiped off Without a second thought, And you are not poetry, Tragic and choked, With symbols and mysteries; You are not a number, A statistic to shock or to brag, A story to scare children into motivation; You are not a revolution, Your existence a statement, Art that shouts to the world; You are, And that is enough.
Sweet Serenity By Rebecca Chapman Sweet serenity haunts my mind. Memories do not lie. Sweetness is hidden in my time. Easy things haunt my character: kind. Happiness is a warm blanket, spreading over me. It is kind and forgiving, nice and sweet. The world is cruel and harsh, mean and hard, killing, hating hurting, destroying, mean, meaner, and the meanest. I must let what I need happen. Let my mind be in the state it should be. You should give, love, show kindness. Then, Let sweet serenity haunt your mind, for memories do not lie. Sweetness is hidden in your time. Let easy things haunt your character. It should be kind. Happiness is a warm blanket. Let it spread over you. It is kind and forgiving, nice and sweet. It helps you calm your mind. Let happiness and serenity spread over the mountains and plains, lakes and oceans, rivers and hills. Protect yourself from the world.
Her By Ayesha Quadri A stumble becomes a fall. A cry becomes a bawl. But she learns. A failure becomes an experience. A lover becomes a hindrance. But she tries. A lecture becomes a lesson. A class becomes a session. But she listens. A success becomes an inspiration. A victory becomes a sensation. But she continues. A princess becomes a queen. A girl is finally seen. And she rises.  
Convicted By Suzanne Coleman Out of the pocket, a field of linen violets erupted. Patting a tainted brow Hiding wayward signs, guilt—crimson stains like wine. A colored canvas testimony
Tallulah Schley-Ritchie
Untitled A novel excerpt by KK Langford My heavy breathing pierces the silence of the night. I can barely see, it’s so dark. The moon is my only light now. And being chased by wolves, this doesn’t exactly make things easy for me. Trees block my way, and I have to dodge them. Some braches are so low that I either have to jump over them or slide beneath them. My feet are barely touching the ground, I am running so hard. I have to keep telling my self Just a little bit farther, Sanna, just a little bit farther to keep myself from collapsing from exhaustion. I know that a 16-year-old girl shouldn’t be absolutely terrified of wolves, but I am. So don’t laugh! These wolves are strange, though. They have eyes that seem to burn with a blue fire, and silvery-blue coats that glow in the moonlight. Anyways, back to the running. My skinny legs burn as I move them back, forth, and my ankle-length pitchblack hair swings from side to side. It’s going to have to go, but to be honest; I’m too lazy to cut it off. I’ve always thought of running from something dangerous to be exciting and adrenaline boosting, but boy, was I wrong. A long, low howl sounds, sending cold shocks up my spine. This just makes me run faster. If there’s anything I don’t want right now, it’s to be eaten alive by moonwolves. Suddenly, my vision is obscured by sweat dripping from my drenched forehead. I wipe it off with a sleeve, dampening the already moist fabric. A soft padding of paws sounds from behind me. Oh God. I panic, and try to run faster. But my legs have reached their breaking point. I have to stop soon, or I’ll collapse. I turn my head, even this taking effort. I search desperately, looking for a place to hide. Then, it hits me. Duh, I’m surrounded by trees! Woods aren’t that easy to run through, but the trees are the ultimate place to hide. I scan the area around me, looking for a decent tree, one that looks sturdy, and one that wolves won’t be able to catch me in. Then, I freeze, as if encased in ice. Another howl, and
then the eyes. A pair of ice-blue, ferocious eyes shines at me through the darkness, added on by the shadows of the trees. A blood-curdling scream emits from my mouth, and I turn as fast as lightning to a tree directly in front of me. It’s the tallest tree I’ve ever seen, it’s uppermost branches grazing the stars. I’m not very good at tree climbing, at least for a 16-year-old, but if I don’t try, I’ll be dead in seconds. I reach up one hand and grasp the nearest branch, and pull up a leg onto another lower branch. I yank up, pulling myself into the depths of the tree. I dare to take a look down, and see three, no four, moonwolves at the bottom, their silvery-blue tails shining like silver swords in the erie moonlight. I scurry up the tree, every once in a while missing a knob, or branch. My breathing is rapid, but I can barely keep myself up, barely keep myself from falling. I’m beyond exhausted; I have to reach a hold soon. Okay, come on, if I seem like a wimp, you would too if you’d been running from weird moonwolves for two days straight. So, just deal, kay? Finally, after what seems like hours, I come to a sturdy-enough branch that’s about half way up the tree, my eyes still wide from sheer panic. I climb up onto it, and as I do, my legs slip out from under me. A short gasp is all I get. I’m hanging for dear life by only my exhausted arms, my legs free prey for the predators beneath me. I have to try to pull myself up, but there’s no perch for my legs, at least not ones that I can reach. So, I clench my arm muscles, and try to pull myself up, this draining nearly all the energy out of my already exhausted body. Eventually, I’m able to scramble up onto the branch with my legs, and when I have my whole body onto the branch, I sit down, my head leaning against the trunk. I give my breathing a chance to slow down; my aching limbs a chance to relax. But I only get a minute to rest, because the next thing I know, a strange scratching noise is coming from the bottom of the tree. I turn my head to look down, and fast as lightning stand up, my hands glued to the tree, as if for some kind of safety. The over-a-dozen moonwolves that are standing at the bottom, all their mouths are watering, waiting to eat me alive. One of the moonwolves, one that looks
like the leader, is clawing at the tree. Then, it’s front claws lock, and it brings its back legs on, and starts climbing up towards me. My expression turns to one of full terror and raw fear. My mind track stopped by fear, I can’t think of anything to do. I have to get out of this tree, that’s all I know. But I can’t climb down, that’d take to long. And I knew I couldn’t go from tree to tree, the next one’s too far away. Through the darkness, I look down the tree, opposite the side the moonwolf is climbing up. It’s a long drop, about 15 feet. But it’s the only chance I’ve got. I have to jump. A low, horrible growl sounds behind me, and pushed on by sheer terror, I hurl myself from the tree, onto the ground. The fall lasts only for a single blissful second of freedom, but when I hit the ground, I can register nothing but pain. It takes all of the strength in me to not cry out. I feel like all of my bones are broken, and for a while I can’t get up. But then, I lift my head, and look behind me, checking for the wolves. Oh crap. Some of them have come around the tree, barking and growling at me. One thing you should know, moonwolves don’t pounce on you immediately, they like to slowly creep up on you, then they spring. And yes, I speak from experience. The one that was climbing behind me is now on the ground, slowly stalking toward me. I slowly sit up, groaning in pain as I do. My right hand reaches out to steady me, but then I feel a searing pain on it. I look in its direction, and barely have a second to scream. A wolf has latched its strong jaws onto it, and isn’t letting go, trying to keep me there, so that the other wolves can jump on me. I look into it’s, I think it’s her, icy eyes, willing her to let go. But she doesn’t. I stand up, and try to limp a few steps forward, refusing to give myself up for dead. Then, I realize I have to run again if I want to get away from these things. I start to, and finally the wolf lets go of my hand. I draw it to my face as I run, even this taking effort. I see that from my palm to my fingertips, it’s all dripping freely with blood. I take it away from my face, and run again, sprinkling little red specks upon the ground as I go. Powered by my fear, I’m lightning fast. But not fast enough. I trip over a stick and am thrown to the ground, face down. I know I should get mov-
ing, but my ankle feels like I twisted it. I gingerly touch it with my hand, and I wince in pain. I flip over only to find a wolf slowly climbing down the tree right behind me. Another wolf climbing a tree! What is it with these freak of nature weirdos?! My eyes widen in terror, and in a split second, I’m back on my feet, just about to take off running. But just as I’m turning, the wolf leaps from the tree, and closes it’s jaws on my good hand. I cry out, whether in pain, or annoyance at these stupid moonwolves for biting both of my freaking hands off, I don’t think I’ll ever know. I try to yank my hand from its unrelenting jaws. Finally the wolf lets go, and as soon as it does, I’m sprinting through the forest, blood dripping freely from what used to be my good hand. As I continue to run, faster and faster, I start to stagger, my thin legs becoming shaky with the effort of running. I just hope its over soon, so I can rest. Will this forest ever end? I think. My question is answered when I see a break in the trees in front of me. What I see extending out from the forest freezes me in my tracks. Through the break, I see some lights in the far distance. A town! It must be. I close my eyes briefly, thanking whoever decided to build it there. The happy prospect of finally being around people, and being able to lie down, seems so promising, and it pushes me on. Will I get there in time though, is the one thought racing through my head as I run and run, finally reaching the gap. Once I crash through it I sigh with pleasure for a moment, but my happiness is short lived. I dare to peek behind me, and see the blue eyes behind me. I don’t even bother to stay to hear their barking. In an instant I’m turned around, running across fields toward the town. I’m breathing heavily, and will soon succumb to exhaustion. My feet make a thud-thud sound against the ground under the stars, and finally I come to the first house, and lean on it in the pitch dark, save the few lights that I see. My whole body is throbbing with pain, and, not being able to hold it anymore, I collapse upon the ground, and everything goes black.
Winter By Georgia Goldstein Chill breeze blows on my face. I grip my hat. Dreary tones whisper in my ear. Earth’s wonders are unfathomable. I step forward to see a squirrel. Why is he outside? Outside in this chilly, brutal season? “I’m different from the others” he seems to reply.” “I take my chances even in the cold, windy winter.”
Dark By Georgia Goldstein It was a full moon, when a dark shadow-like figure emerged from the darkness, and told me I was doing something wrong. I went to get a glass of water, and the figure seeped into my glass, and slid down my throat.
Mariana Arciniegas
Yidan Xiong
Qiong Wu
Imani Wilson-Shabazz
Carolyn Butler
Dancing in the Rain By Adele McLees
A teenage girl pushes open the door to her apartment building in the middle of a large city. She shoves out a red umbrella with white trim, careful not to get herself wet as she exits the skyscraper she calls home. She seems to be headed nowhere in particular, as she appears to wander the ghostly streets without much purpose. Perhaps she just wanted to get away; from what, only she knows. If the streets were any more occupied than they currently are, one can be positive she would get no odd looks. She fits perfectly into the wealthy town, with her European umbrella shielding her head and her Burberry rain boots scattering rain droplets everywhere as she walks, eyes trained downward and high ponytail stroking the back of her neck. Eventually, our lady finds herself just outside the city’s park and, after a brief moment of contemplation, tracks her raindrops onto that street, too. However, the air surrounding her has changed slightly (though that is a fact only noticeable to those who know her best). She now looks slightly up rather than at the pavement, even stopping for a moment to close her eyes and allow her other senses to take in her surroundings: the patter of raindrops on umbrella, the smell of fresh rain on pavement, the soft quality of the clothes on her back. And in this moment, she realizes there is only one true thing separating her from the person she wants to become. Moving through molasses, she lowers her umbrella to her side and drops it. It hits the ground with a faint thunk. She then begins walking, slowly at first but picking up speed until she is running, rain boots slapping the ground, rain pummeling her body and soaking her expensive clothes, arms wide and face smiling for the first time in weeks.
Silence
By Adele McLees A young girl sits on the curb of a fairly busy street in a fairly large city. Her tangled brown hair whips her face and she clutches her elbows, her small and tattered dress doing little to block out the frigid breezes autumn offers. Her bare feet are covered in small scratches, though they do not seem to bother her. In fact, she seemingly pays no attention to anything around her; instead keeping her sapphire eyes fixed on some far away point only she can see. She does not turn when a tall man approaches her, or even when he sits beside her on the curb, appearing not to care that his fancy black suit may become dirty and require immediate dry-cleaning, as you can be sure that is the only way it is to be cleaned. No, he breaks off from the hordes of people bustling down the sidewalk like a fish swimming away from its school. He breaks off and sits on the curb beside the small girl in his nice work clothes. He does not look at her, and she does not look at him, but they sit there, side by side, staring at something and nothing at the same time, and the world becomes quiet for a moment. Sure, cars still zip past and people still chatter as they scurry down the street, and yet complete silence overcomes the scene. It is only in this silence that the girl rests her head on the man’s shoulder, and the man wraps his arm around the girl’s waist. And they sit like that for a long time.
Karina Tang
I Don't Know... By Kaitlyn Sanders No. I don't care about history. It’s just how everyone's issues weave together anyway. No. I don't think on the past; I just wish that it were different. Is that so hard to understand? And no, I don't care anymore. So stop. Just stop, coming to me and asking me everything about the world because it's as much of a sickening mystery to you as it is to me and I don't want to solve mysteries anymore. I'm sick of chasing my tail when I know that I lost my tail years ago when you cut it out, along with my heart, and everything else I thought mattered. So just stop. Please. I'm not really asking. I know you need someone, but love, it's a two way street, and even if I love you, more than you love me there's still another side of the road and no you can't come on my side because there's a line there but you’re too blind to see it aren’t you? And I don't care if you need me, because I don't want to need you. But I do.
The Flower By Sophie Pettit My name is Jane. I’m sixteen years old, and I have lung cancer. Ever since The Fault In Our Stars came out, people have been asking me if my life is like Hazel’s. Let me tell you, it’s not. I have to go to school every morning. I do have to go to a support group, but there are no cute guys there and even if there were, they wouldn’t fall in love with me. No, instead they would avoid looking at me. About three weeks ago, my doctor told me that I had a little more than a month to live. My mom and dad broke down in tears. I didn’t. I just nodded. Everyone I ever met can’t look at me without a tear in his or her eyes, but I don’t cry. At least, I don’t anymore. When I first found out that I had lung cancer, I cried for months. I was thirteen and thought that all I had to worry about was what my outfit looked like or which boys liked me. After around a month of crying, I stopped. I haven’t cried since then. I accepted the truth that there was no way around cancer and that unless my doctor found a miracle cure I was going to die. Spoiler alert, they didn’t find a cure. When you’re thirteen and you know you’re going to die, you do everything you think you’ll never do. I kissed a boy, I traveled to places I never dreamed of, and I told my teacher what I really thought of her teaching. When I turned sixteen, I didn’t have a party. I went outside and sat in my hammock. Then, I saw it. A flower. It wasn’t colorful or extravagant. It was white with graceful petals. It was yellowing at the edges. I made it my mission to keep that flower alive. Today I went outside to water the flower. When I got to the white flower, it was shriveled up. It was dead. I sat there for a while studying the dead flower. Then, a tear rolled down my check. I wasn’t crying for the flower. Or maybe I was. Maybe that flower was me. Maybe that is why I died two hours later. The flower was the only thing holding me together. Without it, I fell apart. Being dead isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I have a garden. A garden of white flowers.
JJ
Jordan
Clare Coffman
Identification By Meg Aliffi The hot press of the metal pushes down on me, branding me with the name and information needed, bits and pieces of a person’s identification as needed, things considered important and critical in case of an emergency. As the imprint cools down I realize that it’s a name, a faith, a blood type, and a religion. This is all I know of the person I will belong to, four simple facts that, when it comes down to it, is what this person is, who he is considered to be. I rattle through the rest of the process, a chain is looped through the top making me into a sort of necklace to be presented. As I am gathered from the line where I am resting and carried to a box that reads Dog Tags- Military EOD, I realize I am identification for a soldier, a warrior. I feel a sense of pride as I am packaged next to all the other “dog tags” as we are called. Fast forward through the next few days of shipping and handlings, being passed through numerous security checks and scans, and finally being placed in an office of a stern looking man with a line of colors across his chest and a hat on his head. I am picked up and carefully placed in a long box lined with soft fabric, the lid snaps shut and I am in darkness. When the light returns, hands are pulling me out of my cozy little box and carrying me towards another man, dressed much like the male in the office from before, but much younger. There is a quick conversation passed between the two humans, a few words thrown back and forth, almost scripted. As I begin to fade out of the conversation, I hear a name that sounds familiar, James S Aliffi, and I realize that this is the name imprinted on me. This is who I belong to, the man that I identify; this is where the journey begins. A new life with my new owner, safely tucked away under his shirt and next to his heart. Life carries on, very mellow with very few incidents, during all of which I remain next to his heart, the steady heartbeat constant and
comforting. Years later, the heart starts to race. I hear the commotion from the world, and it seems as that everything has become chaos. His heart keeps pounding sporadically as I feel him, James, rushing. Voices sound throughout the following days, panicked and scared, talking of terror and threats. Mentions of planes and towers collapsing are thrown around: Two numbers are said constantly: nine and eleven, always together and always in that order. Nothing direct is said, and there is presence of fear in the air of every conversation. There is soon a change; everything becomes tense. His heart slowly stops the insane beating and shifts to a more normal pace, but it never returns to normal, always elevated, seeming as if it’s on high alert. As a shirt settles over me, I realize it’s not the soft fabric of the button ups I have felt for many years but rather made of the same fabric as when I was first settled on his chest. It’s the fabric of the uniform that has come back to life. A couple years pass the fabric settled over me has changed from the formal uniform to casual clothes and back again multitudes of times. We settle into a new rhythm, a new heartbeat that becomes as calm and comforting as the one before but still different, as if it’s always on alert. The fabric changes into a uniform and the heart’s pace picks up. I hear brief phrases of conversation, the muscles I am resting on tightening and becoming stiff. I hear words I don’t quite understand such as “Afghanistan” and “deployment”. There’s another shift in the chest I am resting on, and I can feel the emotions running through the body, though I don’t understand what they are. These feelings are foreign to me. Throughout the next couple of months there is a noticeable difference; the chest is tightening back up, we are constantly in motion as if training, preparing for something although I do not know what. The heart beats quicken as I feel another body pressed against mine and a voice says, “Come home to me, be safe, and I love you.” The fabric I am rested underneath becomes wet and I feel heavy breaths coming from the body below me and the one wrapped around him. The hearts quicken one last time,
and the bodies separate. We walked through a building; voices buzz with words I had never heard and voices with strange accents are conversing with each other, back and forth. As I am walked through a doorway a beeping goes off, and I feel him pulled aside. Beeps are running back and forth down the length of his body and as they approach me the beeps get faster and louder and I feel myself being lifted up and away from the heart beat and out into warm, sticky air. I hear the voice go, “sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for your service.” I don’t understand the sentence although I understand the words individually. I am set back down on his chest, but for the first time I am not tucked back under the fabric of his shirt and I take in my surroundings. There are large windows viewing out onto a black, shiny pavement, and resting on the pavement there are a variety of planes, varying in size, shape, and color. As I am carried through the building we pass by large rooms filled with chairs, some rooms so packed that people are over flowing into the hall, some are empty, and some have a few stray people lounging about. We continue further and join a line filled with men who have close-cropped hair and broad shoulders underneath their shirts I see the outline of dog tags, the shape standing out to me. The line moves forward and onto the plane, everyone takes their seats after stowing their bags, and they strap themselves in. The plane speeds up and we’re in the air, soaring through clouds, passing over cities and states moving towards the water. We touch down with the early light of morning shining through the small windows, revealing to me a small black top with a few military planes resting on them. There are men shuffling around on the tarmac directing the plane to its final destination. We walk off into the dry heat. We are surrounded by seemingly endless miles of sand, the wind whipping it around lifting me up off his chest and carrying me through the air. The chain I am balanced on threatens to break off and carry me out into the unknown. This dry, sandy, heat becomes my life.
I settle into a routine; get up before the light, work, work, work, eat, and when the light fades back to sleep. It’s pretty monotone. Occasionally there’s gunfire, rounds of gunshots and footsteps run by with voices shouting instructions. Aside from that, the schedule remains the same. Days add up into weeks, and weeks add up into months and slowly things start to shift. I can feel the change in his body; I can feel his heart weakening and I hear his concern and his worry in his voice. He is deteriorating. I hear conversation about hospitals. Topics like brains and eyesight, vision and headaches. Soon we’re boarding another plane and taken back, but not to the house with the people and the warmth but to a cold and sterile hospital. The atmosphere in the hospital is as cold as the temperature outside. Always grey and cloudy, it matches of the mood of everyone in the hospital. Familiar voices soon join the strange ones, hysteria seeping through. There is constant talk of options and numbered years; surgery and treatment are often brought up. In the end, there is one word left: surgery. More voices, laced with hysteria and fear, join in the conversations and soon I hear rounds of “I love yous” and “It will all be okay” and bodies are wrapped around his. We’re transported into a bright room; unlike the airport the light is harsh and unsettling. An aura of dread settles over the room as new, clinical sounding voices enter the room. I feel myself being removed from his chest, the frantic sound of his beat fading away so I can no longer feel it. I am set in a cold metal bin and there I wait. Hours later I am handed to someone, someone new, whose hands are soft and smooth, and I am held there. Soon I feel her start to move; she enters a room where there is figure lying on a bed. As the man starts to move, I realize it is James, my owner, my human. It’s his heart that I have rested over for years. As he wakes up she moves towards him, placing me back around his neck, laying me on his heart. I hear her say that everything went well, that it’s all going to okay. I hear the cold, clinical voices enter the room and speak in words I don’t understand, words like tumors and cancer.
Soon all the talk dies down and the lights are dimmed. I hear his slow and steady breathing. Days pass and I feel him growing stronger. Weeks pass and we return home, the place with warm smells and happy faces. Years pass and although I can feel his body weakening underneath me, becoming soft, losing muscle, and heart beat fading. Instead I start listening to his breathing, counting along with them, keeping track of time by using them as my clock. Every few weeks we enter a hospital and I feel his breath hitch and become quicker as the weak heart rate slowly speeds up, stronger under his chest than normal. These monthly visits soon become weekly visits and years later these visits become daily. More words are thrown around, “deterioration” and” numbered weeks” are constant and finally there is one phrase: “You’re out of time, in three weeks... I’m so sorry, that’s all you have. In three weeks you’ll be gone. In those three weeks you will weaken, and slowly you will forget and then it will all fade into nothing. It’s time, you should say your prayers and prepare your goodbyes. Say your prayers and make sure everything is in order. I’m so sorry.” As the voice leaves the room his breath starts to quicken and soon he is gasping, heaving for air as sobs wrack his body. I feel his body slump in defeat but then, after a while, he straightens up and I can feel determination flow through his body, some sort of strength returning to his now frail body. As he moves from the room his walks with a new sense of purpose. Over the next three weeks, people are constantly in and out the house, wet tears are shed against his chest and there’s a constant stream of whys? And “it’s not fair!” But as the business increases I feel his body fading until soon it collapses and I hear screams and sirens. His body is shifted into a shaky vehicle, and he is moved to another cold room in another hospital, but this one is different. Before it was a harsh, clinical light; now everything is subdued. His breathing is slow, almost nonexistent, and his fragile heartbeat stutters constantly and fades until it’s almost gone. A few people come and go. I hear the desperation in their voices and the despair as they cry. Then one night, one
cold harsh night, when few voices are around, I feel his heart beat stutter until it gives out and his breathing stops. I hear the voices in the room become panicked, and soon I feel his body go cold. I know then, somehow, that it is over. His heart isn’t going to beat again, and his lungs aren’t going to take another breath. I am removed again, for the last time. And I am placed back in the box from which I came. I am shuffled and passed for months. After months of stillness and dark, the lid cracks and I am removed from it. The hands that hold me are soft and small, but I recognize them. They are familiar to me and I realize that I know these hands. This girl resembles him so much it sends an ache through me, which shouldn’t even be possible. She lifts me up and places me around her neck, still gripping me tightly. I settle against her heart, strong and steady full of life and promise and I feel her take a deep breath and shut the box. Securing me to her, tucking me back under her shirt and I feel her heartbeat steady and she seems to tense up, strengthening her body and willing her to move. As I feel her move throughout her surroundings I feel, for the first time in a while, a new sense of purpose. I feel the next adventure begin.
Hannah Walls
Kimberly
Kassis
Inside the Life and Mind By Emily Toma-Harrold Life is like an ocean drifting ever so silently, always moving and never stopping. Life is like the sun, it does not revolve around you. Enter life with open palms, ready for what is to come. When life gives you troubles, do not fret, The light always reenters the world when darkness consumes it. Generation after generation we forget about our minds and our life. Without life, we have nothing to live for, and without our mind, we wander carelessly through life, And end it too quickly. So enter your mind; only you have access. Go through the mossy jungle of your endless thoughts. Remember your past but do not relive it, for reliving it brings pain, along with excitement and desperation. “What's next?” They might ask. “You can't do that.” They will say. Forget those people, forget those who brought you down. Believe in yourself. You will go further, than you would if you didn't.
The Willow By Molli Shuker Long before this, I was in tears again. Words of hate ringing in my ears, like warning bells, And bitterness flooding the world around me. I can escape the hurt. I can escape to the weeping willow tree. Follow me and leave your worries behind; we will sing and dance away our sorrows under its leafy roof. Let the willow brush aside your tears with her swaying arms. We will fill the air with wondrous music and laughter that will dance through the trees. We will listen to the mocking birds' imitation of our songs and sing with them. We can watch the golden stars and spin tales from their dusty streaks. Come with me to the weeping willow. I can show you the way. I can show you the paintings that the flowers make. I can show you the dances of the bees and butterflies as they search for the flowers' sweet treasure. We can listen to the chitter of curious animals. I will help you find sparkling eyes under your tears. The waters will soothe your aches with words of silk. So meet me under the weeping willow. And we can dance through emerald leaves. We will walk the ever changing path, with a gentle summer breeze as our guide. We will watch as the moon blooms into the darkening sky, and we will watch as the sun pulls the last light of day under the silhouetted horizon. Leaving no trace of the day, in this place where we met under the weeping willow.
Clare Coffman
Chapter One A novel excerpt by Olivia Else My name is Aurora. You may also know me as Briar Rose, or better yet, Sleeping Beauty. I was just your average princess, with eleven good fairies giving me gifts, such as beauty, grace, bravery, wisdom, song, kindness, mannerisms, creativity, and other good things like that. One way I did not happen to be normal was that an evil witch cursed me by causing me to prick my index finger on a spindle on my sixteenth birthday and then I died. Only, there also happened to be a twelfth good fairy, who supposedly save my life by altering the curse so I would sleep for a century, but not die, when I pricked my finger. The kind fairy also said that when one hundred years had passed, a prince would come and kiss me. This was far to my dismay when my parents told me the prophecy on my thirteenth birthday. At the time I was an independent, adventurous, free-spirited girl who was not afraid to try new things, reach new heights, cross lines, and push boundaries, and I was not about to be kissed by a guy, get engaged to him, and lead a domestic life as Queen. Fortunately, or unfortunately, that headstrong girl grew into a headstrong young woman who grew unafraid of the tragedy that would occur at a very ripe age. Well, my parents were none too interested in death or a century-long coma on my sweet sixteenth, so they destroyed every single spindle my kingdom had. Unfortunately, the demonic fairy brought a spindle with her, so I pricked my finger anyway out of curiosity. Our story starts, a century from now when I pricked my finger and the whole kingdom fell asleep, including me. Especially me. `````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` I felt a funny tingling, then a beam of light shot into my now open eyes. The blinding blur caused me to squint, then my eyes focused onto something far more confusing. A...prince?
Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Was I still asleep? Dreaming, perhaps? Wait...this was not a dream. I quickly remembered the prophecy about the prince coming to kiss me when I served my time in a tower, and that he would probably end up marrying me, and then the reason he was here became a bit clearer. Then I remembered: I wasn’t going to get married! I was going to be a maiden forever, and live by myself, independently. I quickly tried to climb out of the tower window, when the prince yanked me back in and said, “Do you realize it’s dangerous? It’s ten thousand fee high?” I then looked around the room, found an old, dusty door, and pushed it aside, to find a ratty old spiral staircase descending into nothingness, cobwebs surrounding me at every turn, with only three scary tarantulas and an annoying prince as my companions along the way. I descended, trying to look unafraid of what might lurk at the bottom. Then again, it couldn’t have been that bad, because the prince probably ascended the staircase on the way to get me; therefore, seeing the bottom before he reached the top. I gained more courage at this thought, and when I walked at least half the length of the staircase, I even stopped noticing my surrounding, and got used to the cobwebs. Unlucky for me, there was a trapdoor I didn’t notice, and I fell through...almost. The prince had me by one arm and was pulling me up. I rolled my eyes. I could’ve found a way back up myself. When I got up, I smoothed out my skirt and turned up my nose at the prince, then continued, as if to show him that I didn’t care that he just saved me. I could save myself. (To be continued at a later date.)
Sara Bannon
Chonise Bass
Winter Stillness
A Winter’s Memory by Billie Mears
By Alex Levine The stillness retuned, just as it did before, and yet it was different. As I slowly walked down the dry dirt road, the trees stood unmoving and the wind remained un-blowing. An eerie silence fell upon my world. I saw the grain in the distance growing tall, tall, tall and the cold weather setting in, laying a crisp layer of frost, freezing the tips of that tall, tall wheat and coating those bare tree branches with a soft white dust. The sun began to set, leaving a beautiful trace of purple haze as I stepped to the moist pebbled trail leading to my small broken house. I watched as the stillness of my breath became the only thing I was aware of. The still world was different, somehow, as I sat amongst that tall, tall wheat, lonely, and still.
For my dear brother John and my cats, Merlin and Prissy The stillness returned, just as it did before, and yet it was different. Grain was frozen in fields. Pebbles were not moving in the river bed blanketed in white, and cold winds sang soft lullabies through high branches. I stopped and listened. Before entering my silent but warm house, I looked toward the horizon, lit brilliantly with hope in the last rays of sun. Above me, the purple sky gave new ideas to the day’s end, as the birds began to slowly bed down for the night, returning to their nests nearby, high above and safe. Spring would come again soon, I was assured. And I would no longer be sad with the grief of winter’s bare bones and my soul’s losses this season.
These poems were inspired by and written similarly to Mary Oliver.
7 January 2014
Seventeen By Morgan Daub Part 1: Starting and Ending I was lonely before they appeared, but now I felt that I had friends with me and did not feel the same. We were seventeen, young and wild. Sixteen was a long while ago. Us seventeen-year-olds lived in the present. Everywhere we looked there was a couple. Relationships often ended. They slowly went from bright yellow to dark lavender purple. Relationships got dangerous and inappropriate. Part 2: After Breakup Breakup was tough and hard. I had never had a broken heart. I had never felt anything like all of my friends were feeling in my entire life. People
hobbled in the halls, sobbing, and humming the blues. Boys dated girls to use them. Everybody was dating everybody. Kissing in the halls, crying in the halls, out of control. An uncontrolled life at seventeen. Looking at all of the people, I considered myself lucky.  
Forgiveness By Gracie Thorneloe-Smith Making one mistake is a piece of cake. Making one mistake usually means you have to ask for forgiveness. Whenever I make a mistake and hurt someone’s feelings, I ask for forgiveness. But when I do, I start to sweat and get embarrassed. Then the inside of me is filled with guilt, hatred of what I have done or said, until the moment I blurt out… “Will you forgive me?” I always hear, “Yes, I forgive you.” Then slowly I feel happiness stream through me. Feeling the happiness inside, I think to myself, “Eh...not that bad to apologize.”
Claire Rinck
How about you? Give it a try.
Margaret Grosvenor
Qiong Wu
Sara Bannon
Caroline LeDuc
Sydney Knight
Contributors Art Sara Bannon Caroline LeDuc Sydney Knight Qiong Wu Yidan Xiong
Novel excerpts Olivia Else Katherine Langford
Poetry Rebecca Chapman Ms. Suzanne Coleman Morgan Daub Nia Doyley Georgia Goldstein Alex Levine Ms. Billie Mears Ayesha Quadri Kaitlyn Sanders Molli Shuker Eve Shumate Gracie Thorneloe-Smith Emily Toma-Harrold
Photographs Mariana Arciniegas Sara Bannon Chonise Bass Carolyn Butler Clare Coffman Margaret Grosvenor JJ Jordan Kimberly Kassis Claire Rinck Mercedes Robinson Imani Wilson-Shabazz
Photographs Continued... Tallulah Schley-Ritchie Karina Tang Hannah Walls
Short Stories Meg Aliffi Adele McLees Sophie Pettit Aysha Rahman
Club Sponsor-The Writing Club Clare Coffman Nia Doyley Journey Falco Margaret Grosvenor Kimberly Kassis Katherine Langford Kendall Matheson Adele McLees Milan Ming Sophie Pettit Kaitlyn Sanders Eve Shumate Sawyer Theis Hannah Walls Ms. Mears (Faculty Sponsor)
Graphic Arts & Production Sara Bannon
Faculty Sponsor & Advisor Ms. Billie Mears