THE STORM BOOKER LITERARY TEAM EDITORIAL STAFF VICTORIA BYRD VIVIENNE TEYKE SARAH BELL KAETLIN RILEY – COVER DESIGN, GRAPHICS SPONSOR: HELLEN HARVEY WITH THANKS TO THE EDUCATION FOUNDATION AND DR. RACHEL SHELLEY PRINCIPAL OF BOOKER HIGH SCHOOL IN MEMORIAM KRISTEN EBONY CONNOR 1994-‐2011
I AM I am what I am And that’s all I can be But people make it hard for me To be what I am I am sorry that I can’t be what you want me to be But I choose to be me I am me I am the most talented Head-‐turning Eye-‐popping Super woman Loving To friends Helpful Beautiful as a rose Painful to the touch Hard to stop looking at The most important person To you To family I am Ms. Ebony K. Conner I am Crazy Sexy cool Just like TLC Creative like Shakespeare A Leader Like the great Martin Luther King, Jr. I am Smarter than a 5th grader Yes That’s me Miss Queen Bee The head and not the tail So GET LIKE ME! Ebony Conner
A New Beginning I sat on that table for an hour and a half. The crinkly white paper beneath me making noise with every move I made. The sterile smell of the room was what was throwing me off. For my whole life I had connected that smell with death and sickness. I couldn’t see that changing. The whole while I was sitting there, there was a song running through my head. I couldn’t remember the name of it. Some young boy wailing about how things should go back to the way they were yesterday. How ironic? I thought. Dr. Stratford came in the room, closed the door softly behind him, and sank into the armchair in the corner. “You’re gonna have to make a choice soon, Miss Becky,” he said. I looked down at my weathered hands folded in my lap. The creases in them told a story almost eighty years old. How did I ever let myself get this old? Bradley took one of my wizened hands in his. My Bradley. My Bradley the skeptic. My Bradley the Catholic. Husband, Friend, Lover, Caretaker. So many things I could call him, none of them entirely accurate. Without Bradley, there is no doubt, I would not have lived to this ripe old age. Despite the gravity of the decision I am about to make, he just smiles and kisses my hand. He trusts me. I turn my attention to Dr. Stratford. Dewey. My former student now one decision away from using my own discovery on me. I trust him. That’s not the issue. The issue is Bradley. I can’t leave my Bradley. Even though he tells me over and over again that I will not be leaving him. I just can’t believe it. I know I will always love him, and he me. But what about those words? What about “Till death do us part?” What if I don’t want to part? I may be old, but I have a hell of a lot of life left in me, and so does Bradley. But if I don’t take this chance who will? I set my gaze on Bradley. After fifty-seven years of reading each other’s minds, he knows exactly what I want to say. Even though I can’t quite push the words out. He kisses me gently.
“Okay,” he says. That’s all he says, but again there is a spell of silent communication between us. He was never one for vocalizing sentimentalities. I turn my attention to Dewey. He is like a son to Bradley and I, since we have no children of our own. He stands, also knowing exactly what I want. “Alrighty then. Let’s do this.” He reaches for the syringe on the cart in the corner of the room. In that instance, behind the mirror on my right, there are about thirty other doctors and interns scrambling for clipboards and pens and pencils, ready to witness history. Before I know it, Dewey is swabbing my arm with antiseptic, the skin under his cotton ball turning a slightly greenish hue. I take a deep breath. There’s no going back. The needle pierces The dimpled skin just above the crook of my elbow. As Dewey depresses the syringe, about a million bacteria particles are entering my bloodstream and breaking down the genes that cause aging. This is my discovery. A serum that returns the patient to their peak of health and stops the aging process altogether. I have discovered immortality. Megan Adams
Art: Olivia Janowitz
Zöe Verbil Stella Adler once said, “Life beats you down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” Art may be one of the most rewarding things I have ever involved myself in. No matter the talent possessed, everyone should be involved in an art form. Not only is art a simply beautiful thing, but it can also work as your own personal therapist, develop your brain in ways nothing else can, give you the pure satisfaction, and can be a great contribution to society. I’m sure everyone in this room has or has had emotional or psychological problems in the past. I’m also sure that, being teenagers, any one of those people that in turn Art: Olivia Janowitz
been asked to go to therapy has been defiant or reluctant. I personally don’t believe that talking can solve all of your problems. Art is an alternative therapy for me: visual art, performing art, anything. Art can not only bring you to another world but also really allow you to get in touch with yourself at the same time, as paradoxical as that may sound. On some of my worst days, the most relieving thing can be taking off my stress-ridden shoes and walking into an enchanting realm that is a dance class. The simple relief of leaving my troubles at the door immediately lightens my mood. How do you feel when you dance in the rain or sing obnoxiously with friends? What else can give you that kind of effortless satisfaction?
Not only can you release yourself through art, but it truly is the best and most forceful way to understand yourself. Great art does not have to be sensually perfect; it just needs to have passion behind it. I have learned so much about myself simply by digging into memories and feelings necessary for acting, singing, dancing, and creating visual art. The reward is simply indescribable and merely something everyone needs to try.
Taking classes at school and reading text books obviously makes you more intelligent, but is typically more strung toward the development of the left brain: being analytical, logical, and objective- but, how interesting can a merely analytical person be? Being creative and working the right side of your brain immediately makes you a much more interesting person. Take writing, for example. I right now could be giving you a list of some reasons why art is good. I could even give you a few statistics that would probably fly over your head. Integrating creative writing skills and other forms of art like infographics can make you more captivating, more relatable, and more contemporary. Art may have been around since the beginning of the world but it is a new language becoming more and more useful. Art: Victoria McIntyre
Remember being in kindergarten and painting the most awesome flower you ever had? You even covered it in glitter and wrote your name on the bottom right corner of the paper. How great did that make you feel? Creating something is truly the ultimate reward. . I’m sure anyone highly involved in an art right now can relate. There is nothing more rewarding than knowing that you’ve made something, improved yourself, and maybe even inspired someone. Photo: Gabrielle Nutter
Since I was very young, I’ve always found myself singing to the elderly at Christmas time. As boring as it may sound, there is just nothing like an old man retired to a wheelchair telling you how happy you’ve made him and how great it is to see talent. Art is an amazing contribution to society and lights up the faces and minds of countless individuals. Get involved in an art. Just do it. You don’t have to talented, and you don’t have to devote yourself. Dancing while making pancakes, or painting a card for a friend can really cut it. Be creative. Be happy.
Daniel Moctezuma
We find ourselves through dancing, singing, painting, writing, acting We do what we love And we love what we do They try to limit us Define us By what we say and do But you tell me Is that all there is to it And then you tell me How are we gonna get through it? You can’t tell me what to do Feel or believe So look I’ll do me And you do you So I’ll act my play So I’ll sing my song Do my dance Paint my painting on a wall
Art:Olivia janowitz
That’s me being me
So go ahead
Him being him
You watch
Her being her
And you wait
Us being us
But guess what?
We find ourselves through dancing,
I’ll laugh
singing, painting, writing, acting
While I paint
We do what we love And we love what we do
Chandler Powell
They try to limit us Define us By what we say and do But you tell me Is that all there is to it And then you tell me How are we gonna get through it? You can’t tell me what to do Feel or believe So look I’ll do me And you do you
Photo: Photo: Asia Odom
All I ask for are the grinds To keep myself from cold Down the main street My feet start to fleet The aromas fill my nostrils As the heat consumes my throat Chargers and sounds Creamers and grounds The steam swarms my face As I instantly awake Computers hum My mind is numb So much to do With so little time No time to relax When the work attacks The seasons don’t stop The years won’t crop I can not think so I will drink It tastes like winter in a Styrofoam cup There is work to do so I bid you adieu Sandy Zanetti
Photo: Sierrra Schwabach
Cassidy Chatfield
Beautiful, Black and Bold -Bianca Sumter Is it the color of my skin that scares you? I am a somebody how dare you Do my strengths make your run? When I look at you with piercing eyes like the sun You can feel my anger inside My respect for you at last has died Beautiful Black and Bold A dime a Jewel and a piece of Gold I am special and I am bright and If you don’t see this lose your sight You look down on me but how could this be? What My voice may not fear you But I know my words do My gender may not intimidate But, I know this world is waiting for me to strike like a powerful earthquake Beautiful Black and Bold A dime a Jewel and a piece of Gold I have integrity and you’re filled with stupidity But I will make my stamp on this world Because I am a precious pearl I will break your judgment link by link And I will do it all dressed in pink Beautiful Black and Bold A dime a Jewel and a piece of Gold
Art: Olivia Janowitz:: Doofish
Awareness of Settling By: NeSharri Jones
Is this what we have settled for? Is this what we fought for? For our women to be degraded and our self-value as African princes and queens to be demised. We as a nation of immigrants were driven; we were going for making new records what has happened to the face of the minority? Have we been conquered by European supremacy? Or has the ideal supremacy image conquered the independence of our brains so that we are the two dollar hoe on 27tth street or the 47 cent rapper and hustling on the side, with 3 kids and three different baby mamas, who he refuses to take care of because he questions whether his 30 seconds in really created the blessing of the child. But I am no longer questioning the face of man but rather our morals. For there lies within THE rooted problem. Open the blinds to the window of the world and seize the opportunity. There are plenty of things that shall attempt to stop us but we are available to the new and the unknown. Remove curtains and indulge in the sunlight of life. Let no pest seize sunlight for this is a new day and a new chance for all that has been implied. The ignorant do not thrive.
google images
KNOWING IS MORE THEN HALF of the battle. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. So call me a fool or just wise, but be brisk with what I presented. But only in my dreams did I want to dream But I was born out of a drum clearly from my native of red clay. Fear me not of what I am capable of but fear of what I know. I know my lineage. Lineage of our people. Our ignorance will only harm us. Running in blind circles of pantomime. Yes ,how vigorously it preys and heaves from deadly hallows, but we should not be consumed ,we shouldn’t be tainted. Fear not us knowing but fear what’s to come for those whom know no better. Please do not be insulted, but rather just aware. Inflicted with such a heavy weight for words not spoken do not need to be retracted. We are unwilling to ponder on the ignorance but rather synthesize the emptiness of the mind. Hmm the emptiness. The mind is in a state of poverty when hope is deprived of all its true meaning. Let me inflict you with the knowledge and awareness of your heritage so we may stop flowing in the circles of cumbersome ignorance
Trapped In Time I’m searching For my purpose in time I’m stuck I can’t go forward I can’t go back I’m overloaded The sand is falling on my back, dragging me down I’m buried By inventions, discoveries, and fame I’m flailing about Some one may notice me and help Photo: Sierra Schwabch
I’m giving up The sand is almost full I’m done Time is up
Sydney Starcher
The Stormy Winds Blow Over The Sea This song contains a secret message. See if you can crack it. The stormy winds blow over the sea O’ Big Brother with art thou Please don’t delay me, There is much haste The stormy winds blow over the sea Stow away, Stow away away Did you hear the news today The stormy winds blow over the sea The red dawn rises over the mountain but at night the light remains The stormy winds blow over the sea Its light will tough all But hold tight so you don’t fall. The stormy winds blow over the sea Superman is not here But you should not fear The stormy winds blow over the sea O’ Big Brother with art thou Please don’t delay me, There is much haste Wade Turner Google images
Globe Rebel Prologue Falling, it is a thrilling and terrifying experience. Landing and reaching the ground loses the thrill factor. Then your world goes black. I open my eyes to look at my new surroundings. Majestic trees are all I can see. I try to stand up to figure out how tall they are. The grass beneath my bare feet is heavenly. I’ve learned to not trust heavenly I need to get away from what this place that seems like a haven. The need to leave this forest is so strong. I seem to have claustrophobia, a fear of enclosed spaces. The question is am I really enclosed can I run out. I need to run to make sure that I still can. Running, now I am free. Don’t ever turn back, for if you do you might lose yourself. Thud! This is where my hope has started to form a crack. Could it be an invisible wall? That would be impossible though. After a close inspection I see that it is glass. But why would there be glass in this seemingly beautiful forest? Before I can really ponder what is happening I feel it, the earth beginning to tremble. There is dust beginning to rise, and now I am also seeing fairy flecks, but why? Then the world goes pitch black, am I unconscious again? No I am very awake I see a blurry outline of fingers. A giant hand is covering the sky. But how is that possible unless. Oh God it all went wrong. The hope I once had now shatters. Sydney Starcher
Art: Stevenson Villarson
Drifting The girl was innocent. Her baby-soft skin, golden as the rays of the setting sun, was rouged in delicate pinks. Her lush, blonde hair was held high with a single, purple band. Her glacial eyes held bright sparks of intelligence, taking in the surrounding field. The field was alive. His dappled grass, green as The Irish farms, was shining With morning dew. His floral décor, lavender lilacs and red Rosebushes ,rushed to meet the fragrant breeze; soughing as the constant waves. He Gazed upward, coveting the Photo: Sarah Bell Brightening sky. The sky was omniscient. Her mother’s embrace on the world suffocated. Lonely she gazed down With lofty control. Her golden, midnight-white eyes glossy with troubled intent. She was wanted. Needed for the comfort her children cried for. She was hated. Loathed for the freedom she never gave them. Dejected, she followed the sweeping travels of a lone hawk. The hawk was dying. His gaze fell on the flesh of the world, the humans… the animals. His lean stomach caressed the wind, gaining speed. His weakening wings halted movement, trusting the sky to carry him down. Atop a branch, his eyes sparkled with need. A need no human, no field, and no sky could meet. The world turned on him… offered little food… offered little shelter… offered little care. He slowly dropped from his precarious perch. Jacquelyn Fullford
Burning in my own path of destrucEon Why does this always seem to happen? This inevitable cycle that follows me no maUer where I go. Everything that I touch crumbles or burns to the ground. My connecYons shaUer and I have to start over. I always end up hurYng the ones least deserving, and my heart aches at the thought of it. It's not something I can parYcularly control, and I hate myself every day for it. I wish I could just end it, this deplorable and dreaded thing that always creeps up on me in the midst of perfecYon. It's always my fault, people get hurt, and I lack compassion unYl I've gone and screwed it all up. I am despicable, and I cannot be trusted with anything. Though, people seem to think that giving me the most fragile of them is a good idea. Where this misconcepYon comes from I have no idea, but it could quite possibly be from my falsely sweet disposiYon.
That storm churning inside of me will always be there, even though I can placate it at Ymes, I try not to become too aUached or everyone gets hurt in the end. I am the perfect example of a terrible being, and nothing will ever change that. Now of course it is that I seem to regret everything that has happened. Not by choice, but by my subconscious. I see the people I've hurt and what they have turned into. I don't feel bad about my decisions per-‐say, but I am saddened by the outcome of it all. These beauYful creatures have withered and died on the inside, giving up all hope for their futures. Nothing maUers to them anymore, and I feel responsible. I only wish I could help, and maybe be set free from these ropes that are bound around my waist; pulling me farther down into the water, as these human anchors acquire weight while they sink into the darkness.
Self Portraits
TAXI It was just another night in the city. Neon lights flash through my cab as I make my usual routes. Rolling down my window to throw out my cigarette, the stench of cheap liquor and garbage fill my lungs. Not exactly the ideal place to drive a cab but it provided a decent amount of customers. It was around the middle of the night when I pulled over to the quick stop to fill up my gas tank, and grab something to eat. As I walked out of the store I noticed something unusual. There was a man walking very fast down the sidewalk. He was wearing an expensive suit, and was holding a black leather briefcase tightly to his chest. He was clearly in the wrong part of the city but I didn’t think that was the only reason why he was in such a hurry. Every couple steps he would turn around and look as if someone was following right behind him. From where I was I couldn’t see anyone after him, but I could tell that someone had him spooked. Once I had finally got into my cab, I saw the man walk over to a black car, get in, and then speed off down the street. At the same moment I heard a rapid tap on my passenger window, I unlocked my doors, and a different man wearing a black hoodie entered the back seat of my cab. He also seemed to be in a bit of a rush. He told me that he would pay me double my rate if I would follow the black car that had just gone down the street. Without thinking twice I took off after the car and into the night. I tailed the black car for what seemed like hours, before he finally stopped in front of a dark alleyway. The man in the suit stepped out of his car, stilled holding onto the briefcase, and disappeared into the dark. The man in the black hoodie told me to wait for him to return; he then got out of the cab and entered the alley. Just as I was lighting another cigarette, I heard two loud gunshots that seemed to echo throughout the neighborhood. The man in the hoodie came running out of the alleyway with the briefcase in hand, and jumped back into my cab. He yelled at me to hit the gas, but I told him that I wasn’t going to go anywhere. So he then took out his pistol and waved it back and forth in my rearview mirror. Once I saw the gun in his hand I took off down the street. After a couple miles or so, he told me to pull over so he could get out. As he exited the cab he threw the money he owed me through the window, heard the police sirens in the distance, and ran around the corner. When I drove away I noticed something was still in the backseat of my cab, so I pulled over and realized that it was the black leather suitcase. BY CHRISTIAN SCUTT
Truth
Dear Friend, How can you treat me so? Must you shun me and dislike me for something I did not do. Must you believe word of mouth more than actual fact. You said I lied and shaUered the trust that we once had with eachother but what proof do you have that shows that. Have I ever been the kind of person did what you say I did. You have known me long enough to know I am not. I ask for your forgivness and pray that you will forget these lies that were released from the serpants mouth and use the great judgment that we are all given. Veronika SchueUe
Artwork: Sandy Zanetti
Life of a Candle Sydney Starcher
The candle dimly glows Someone passes by and praises it’s strength and beauty The Light is brightening and enlarging Up to the sky it flows overjoyed The flame is the brightest it’s ever been Walking by someone says, “It’s not preUy but it will do.” The light is dimming puzzled, what did it do wrong? Candles next to it are being oooohed and aaahed at. The candle dies.
Wilted worries haunt me. I second-‐guess my senses. I pull the covers over my promise. What would it take to welcome wonderment? How do I see the sights of saints? I'll let go today and lose guessing tomorrow. I'll swim against the Yde only to be sucked into the sand tomorrow. How are you so badly burnt from bats of bleakness? Rachel Pischer
PHOT0: SARAH BELL
I can tell you were raised well Educated in the good and the bad Yes the arts are amazing but some people Think the arts are for weirdoes Oh yah they see something and it’s cool But they don’t understand How that could be someone’s life painted on a canvas Expressed in a song Written about in a play Or danced about all day long They don't understand or try to understand How art music theatre dance is one of that particular persons personal way of being themselves Of communicating They don’t understand That that’s me being me That that’s you being you Him expressing him Her expressing her They don’t understand How Our talents Hold the keys To our lives Our futures Our dreams Chandler Powell
Photo: Sierrra Scwabach
A Writer’s Work is Never Done SomeYmes my fingers stroke the keys, feeling the short vibraYon of every click up through my very nerves, connected to the leUers that are pouring out onto the page. Other Ymes, my fingers move violently, urgently, as if every digital sentence strung together may be my last. Every key unlocks another door, another opportunity to create a potenYal masterpiece. My eyes scan the page, picking up each syllable and tossing it around in my mind. My fingers hover over the keyboard, awaiYng their next command with a certain urgency that has my hands trembling. So many ideas occupy my mind, brewing like a witch’s cauldron and bubbling over with potenYal brilliance. Electricity sparks as another bolt of inspiraYon runs through me. It traces a path to my fingers, charging them, itching with anYcipaYon as they struggle to form coherent sentences out of a hanging thought. It’s a war between words and wishes. The story behind my eyelids —every vivid image and precise detail–lingers on the edge of literacy
The words baUer and shake me like a storm. I can taste them on my tongue, see them in a fog behind my consciousness, but they hang onto my thoughts and refuse to be shaken free. My fingers know what to do. It’s insYncYve, almost programmed as they flicker to the backspace key. My brain stalls. Bad idea, it screams at me, but I’m overcome; trapped under the ever-‐present writer’s block, heavy as lead. Click, and hold; I watch my thoughts disappear one precious digit at a Yme. The process is a tedious, torturous cycle, constantly ebbing and flowing with the current of my mind; inspiraYon, generaYon, annihilaYon; lather, rinse and repeat. Brilliance goes unrecognized; genius goes unsung. I believe in that respect a writer’s work is never… Victoria Parisi
What is love? Victoria Parisi What is love? Is this that jarring feeling, the kind that throws you out of reality and sends you spinning into chaos, unable and unwilling to escape? You’re walking quickly through the store, eyes darYng around the aisles as you finish last minute shopping, peUy things you really shouldn’t have put off. Your hair is thrown up into a ponytail, a quick and easy alternaYve to brushing through your mane. Make up was a hassle so you went au natural, and you’re dressed to the nines in an oversized Ed Hardy t-‐shirt, complete with your favorite pair of sweat pants. Running low on Yme, your hot pink crocs (something you swore you’d never wear in public) squeak against the cloudy Yle as you try to push yourself faster. The incessant squeaking comes to an abrupt stop when your eyes, darYng through the store at the speed of light, seUle on a man in the aisle across from you; the affect is immediate. He’s looking through the picture frames with concentrated eyes (you can’t quite see them, but you’re sure they’re a striking shade of blue.). Soj, strawberry blonde hair sits in a mop on his head, reminding you of a playful puppy, fur sYcking up in all the right places. Freckles sprinkle his fair skin scaUered like wildflowers, and you can tell there’s more on one cheek then on the other. As you observe more(stalking isn’t the right word, really), your eyes take in his taUered jeans, worn and shredded from obvious manual labor, his red Aeropostale t-‐shirt faded enough for you to tell it’s his favorite too. He isn’t well put together by any stretch of the imaginaYon, but he catches your interest almost immediately, a familiar sense surrounding him. And it’s only when your eyes finally rise to meet his gaze, turned from his picture frame inspecYng to meet your curious stare. Your heart catches in your throat, and your balance abandons you for a moment, when you realize he’s walking towards you. Oh my God, he’s walking towards you.
Sa
Photo: Sandy Zanettii
You don’t know why, but it feels like the gears of life had finally started turning, and maybe this is love. Maybe love is that blinding passion, the heartache, the rage, that takes over when you feel stronger for his life than your own; he is your life. When you find every peaceful moment is on the edge of a minefield; one wrong step and you’ll explode. You can’t stand to be away from him, it makes you go insane, but being together has the same effect. Your family says its unhealthy, how much you think about him, talk about him, and his family knows you occupy his every thought. It’s crazy and chaoYc, the fights that leave your cheeks stained red with tears, and his with the faintly glowing remnant of an angry hand that spoke louder than your words ever could. All you want to do is scream and scream unYl your lungs give out; he says he can’t stand the sight of you. But you find yourself at his door again, and he welcomes you into warm, loving arms, the embrace you‘ve memorized down to the way he runs his hand in circles on the small of your back. You rest your throbbing, Yred head on his shoulder, breathing in the intoxicaYng scent of peppermint and old books that lingers on his clothes. No words are exchanged, the electricity between two souls that belong as one speaks volumes. All fights are forgoUen as his soj, familiar lips meet yours, and you forget yet again how to think, your mind like the staYc on a broken TV set. It’s a frightening feeling, vulnerability and, in his arms, security. Maybe you’ll fight again tomorrow, and words will fly like knives from the hands of children, each culng remark laced with apology. But when it feels like hope is lost, and the world is crumbling, you remember that you will be there to hold each other up, and that maybe this is love. Or maybe, just maybe, love is that sense of familiarity; of knowing that when you stumble, as humans ojen do, there will always be one who will stand behind you.
Through weak spirit and weak knees they promise to catch you before you hit the ground, even if they’re going down with you. When you glance over from your spot at the trusty kitchen sink, hands wrinkled from more than just the lukewarm dish water, and you noYce your enYre life standing in the doorway. Those striking blue eyes, more of a gray you’d come to find, are nestled behind thick rimmed glasses, though they never quite lost their twinkle. A smile pulls at his lips, from which I love you’s have ojen tumbled. His strawberry blonde mop riddled with grey hair from years passed and challenges overcome, and he’s earned every darn one of them. You’ve felt his touch, night ajer night and again in the morning, his smooth hands steadily growing calloused, payment for the hard work he’s endured. You take him in like the very first day, that mind-‐blowingly accidental meeYng that maybe wasn’t an accident at all, and your heart grows warm. Not like the fire of young lovers, scorching with passion and the hope of tomorrow; it is a soj, pulsing warmth, that envelops your heart and swallows it whole, the thought springing tears to your eyes as if they were a fountain of youth. And you think to yourself, as he limps over slowly, grabbing a rag to dry dishes by your side, that you’ve finally answered the quesYon. It had been mulled over and challenged, quesYoned by each generaYon in a new light, but you think you’ve figured it out at last. What is love? Love is everything, and nothing. Love is a journey. It’s flying and falling and looking like a fool, knowing that once you’ve landed and the laughter dies down, someone will be there with a smile that tells you every moment was worth it. You can’t try and categorize it, name it and file it away with the other peUy emoYons, it is more than that. It’s different from person to person, heart to heart, and is felt by every walk of life across the global spectrum. Love is the reason we were put on this earth, and love just is.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” Who the hell came up with this? Whoever did, must have a cold heart and can’t feel anything. Sometimes, I’d much rather get hit with a ton of bricks than be told some of these mean things. If you get hit with a stick, yeah it hurts, your mommy kisses it, and then it heals. Stones can break your bones, but once again, it heals. Now remember the last thing somebody said to you that was “mean”. Ever been called ugly? Fat? Worthless? ANYTHING. It sticks with you. It doesn’t just blow past you. You can’t put Neosporin and a band-aid on your heart. Words affect you, there’s no erasing what was said.
Art: Rodney Langston
Newton’s third law of motion: Every action is followed by a reaction. HELLOOOOOO Isn’t that common sense? Common sense I have recently learned is not all that common. I have came to the conclusion that 96% of the people I encounter on a daily basis do not realize the outcome and the harm of their actions. They don’t go “hey, if I put my hand on the burner(action), I’m gonna get burnt(the reaction)”. Or “hey, if I say something very mean to someone(action), they might get their feelings hurt(reaction)” No, people don’t think like that. What goes through their mind is only the action, followed by no reaction. “I’m gonna look cool putting my hand on a burner” or “I’m cool since I was mean to that person.” We all have flaws, make fun of your own before you make fun of someone else. Words really do hurt. They cut just as deep as any sharp blade. Next time you go to say something, think of the reaction to your action. Is what you have to say, really worth harming someone’s life?
By Scotia Hammond
Ghost Story It is said that everyone is born with 2 heads, four arms and legs. However half of your soul is taken away to no one knows where. Sometimes you get born a twin and sometimes you can reconnect but the bond has already been broken. Now whether we realize it or not all the pain, anger, and sadness in the world is caused by that losing half your soul. This story is really about a set of twins that came out still connected but only at the pinky. You could tell they came out early because the soul wasn’t quite split in two. These girls were the happiest girls in the world because their soul was complete. Sara and Anne weren’t two they were one. When the girls started school is when the real problem started. When people see a complete soul they can’t help but be jealous. We all know that jealousy quite often is shown by teasing and bullying. The lives of this complete soul were tormented day and night. One day Sara couldn’t take it anymore and said to her mother, “We have to do something I can’t stand being a freak!” Her mother told her girls that there was a surgery that could separate them and then they would be perfectly normal. Anne really didn’t want to do this surgery but she would do anything to make Sara happy because if Sara was happy then so would she. The day of the surgery the girls were put to sleep so they wouldn’t be in pain. Sara woke up crying out in pain, she felt torn in half it was the most horrendous pain. She looked for her sister in the bed next to her, but the hospital bed was empty. Sara had this feeling that something wasn’t right, and her mom came in and asked her, “Are you all right I am sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up” Sara saw tears in her eye and asked quite calmly, “Where is Anne?”
“Who is Anne?” her mother replied too crisply. The don’t ask now voice wasn’t going to work this time for Sara. Sara threw quite a fit but this only resulted in her mother leaving and the doctors coming and putting her to sleep. She woke up alone and heard two of the nurses talking about her they were saying, “They say she has gone mad” “At least not as mad as the doctor, says the other one disappeared after he disconnected them” “Impossible” “It’s true I’m resigning before anyone else disappears” Sara was eventually checked out and everyone simply pretended Anne didn’t exist. Now she had to go through all of her trials alone and in pain. She learned how to deal with the pain and eventually forgot about Anne, you see it was too painful for her. Sara grew up and met a man in college. He said he was her soul mate, and she said he was her other half. The night before the wedding she spent the night at her parent’s house in her old bed. She heard a noise and another and soon she heard a song, a song that she had made up as a child. No not she, she and who? Then she saw it, a figure that looked like a little girl with a blue ribbon. The child looked almost exactly like her only she always had worn a pink ribbon. Blue was Anne’s color the realization hit her face but it was too late. A scream was heard in the night her mother raced to the room but all she could find was Anne’s blue ribbon. Anne had come back to collect the other half of her soul.
Sydney Starcher
Kristin – Shakaria Ige KrisYn and her family had just moved into their new house in Savanna Georgia. KrisYn was so happy
because she had never lived in such a big house before. It had five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. Larry, KrisYn’s dad, just won the Georgia state loUery for four point two million dollars. KrisYn had two younger brothers, Chris and Steve. Their mother had died when KrisYn was nine, and she is now seventeen. KrisYn’s dad worked as a mailman. They were never poor, and they had all of their necessiYes, but they never really got the extra things that they wanted.
The first night in the house KrisYn was lying in her bed she heard a noise coming from her closet. She sat up very quickly, and looked. She didn’t hear it again, so she went to sleep. Twenty minutes later she heard the doorknob on her closet shaking. She felt adrenalin rushing through her body, and she pushed herself back into her bed. She finally got the courage to go to the closet, and check it out. She placed her hand on the knob, and stood staring into space debaYng whether she really wanted to find out who or what was responsible for the noise coming from the closet. “It’s probably Chris or Steve playing around,” She thought.
She opened the door. Nothing was there. “interesYng,” she thought. She just shrugged and went back to her bed. As soon as her head touched her pillow the closet door flew open. KrisYn was so frightened that she could not move. She began to silently cry to herself. All of a sudden her brother Chris ran into her room. He was screaming rather anxiously about how all of his draws flew out of his dresser, and he dreamt that something was aUacking him. KrisYn wanted to comfort him, but she was too scared herself. They went to their dad’s room clenching to each other’s arms walking back to back, so someone could see if something were to come up from behind him. When they told their father what they had seen all he said was. “Go back to sleep, you’re imagining things.”
KrisYn and Chris turned away, and started to go back to their rooms.
“You wanna sleep in my room?” KrisYn asked. She knows that there was nothing her liUle brother could do to keep her safe, but she just felt more comfortable with someone in the room with her.
He was also afraid so he agreed.
They lay in the bed side by side for hours unYl Chris finally fell asleep. KrisYn just stared up at the ceiling fan, she watched it go In circles all night, for she could not sleep. Her alarm clock went off at 6:15am to wake her up for school. When her and Chris got to the table to eat breakfast her dad and her brother Steve started joking about how they thought it was a ghost in the house.
“Who ate my toast? It must’ve been the ghost that opened KrisYn’s closet door,” KrisYns father said in a sarcasYc voice.
“That’s not funny,” KrisYn mumbled.
KrisYn and her dad never really got along because he was always so sarcasYc and short with everyone. When her mother died her father never learned to be that loving figure that the kids needed.
KrisYn got home from school around 3:15pm, and she was home alone because her brothers were in basketball pracYce, and her dad was at work. She went to the Kitchen to get something to snack on before dinner. She took two slices of bread from the pantry, and she sat them on the counter then she went to the refrigerator to get some ham. When she got back to the counter the bread was gone. At first KrisYn was confused as to what happened to the bread, but she just sighed and thought, “long day.” She went to go get more bread for her sandwich, and when she came back to the counter her slice of cheese had disappeared.
My tummy’s turning and I’m feeling kind of homesick It’s a whole new world, a different dimension. It’s too much pressure and I’m nervous. How could something I’ve been dreaming about and wanting since the beginning of my beginning put so much fear in my heart? Is this a sign? Am I not ready for this next step? “Of course I am” I tell myself, I know it’s either now or never. As I pack up my belongings memories began to flood my head. Where’s a plumber when you need one? Suitcases never seemed this heavy before. Why is everything suddenly changing? Awkward silence filled the car as the wheels glided over the newly paved highway road. “O#4@!*%$ next signal” read the sign on my right, my future was closer than expected. Tires screeched and the car came to a halt, doors flung open with my luggage waiting for me. One last hug and a wave goodbye, it was finally time to depend on myself. Auzhane’ Williams
Midnight By: Jahmar Lambert (Fades in Martha in corner rocking back and forth hair messed up crying with torn clothes and dead body lying next to her) Martha -‐Where am I …? (Turns head sees dead body and Screams) Scene 1 (Cut to) (Martha in room gelng ready for party pulng on hair, make up) Martha-‐ Hey Cathy do you have the direcYons for Pete’s house? Because I am almost ready. Cathy-‐ No not yet he said he would text me the direcYons. Martha-‐ Well then call him. (Talking in background wile Martha finishes her make up. And walks out, into kitchen. Cathy finishes up on phone) Cathy-‐ If you’re ready then let’s go. (They both walk off cuts to clock reading 10:30 pm. Fade out) Scene 2 (Fades in to Cathy driving and Martha texYng cuts back and forth during conversaYon) Cathy-‐ Who are you talking to? Martha-‐ Oh no one just a friend. Cathy-‐ Is it a guy friend? Martha-‐ Ok if you must know remember that guy that I met at that club we went to.
Cathy-‐ Oh you mean that tall muscular hot one. Martha-‐ Yes that one, I’m seeing if he can go to the party at Pete’s house. Cathy-‐ He should totally come. (They pull into the driveway) Here we are. Pete’s wonderful abode (Cuts to clock reads 10:55 Fades out) Scene 3 (Fade in to Cathy and Martha walking into a house full of people music blasYng people dancing, people swimming in pool. Pete opens door for Cathy and Martha gives them hugs and kisses as they enter.) Pete-‐ Welcome, welcome, come right in, did you find your way ok? Martha-‐ Yes, we did thanks for asking. Pete-‐ Let me show you around. (They walk around camera follows) Pete-‐ This is the living room. (Shouts) Hey, you off the furniture with your shoes. Mindless monkeys. This is the kitchen all the food is over there. Bathrooms are up stairs and to the right. And don’t go in the bedrooms they’re off limits! Well that’s it have fun. (Pete walks away) Cathy-‐ Did that one guy text you back… Martha-‐ Hold on… (Martha Checks Phone) Ok he said he’s outside. (Cut to girls walking out to door meet this guy Martha runs up and hugs the) Cathy-‐ So what’s your name?
Carlos-‐ Oh my names Carlos. I don’t believe we’ve met yet. Cathy-‐ My name is Cathy but I someYmes go by Cat. Carlos-‐ (With a smirk on his face) Ok ready to go party. (They turn their backs to camera and they walk away. They bring Carlos to meet Pete) Scene 4 (Cut to Carlos gelng and bringing drink to Martha. Cathy talking to other people with drink in hand. Martha with drink in hand dancing with Carlos) Carlos-‐ (talks into Martha’s ear) Hey lets go up stairs into one of the bedrooms. Martha-‐ No Pete said that we couldn’t go up there he said it was strictly off limits. Carlos-‐ So come on have a liUle fun! (He starts pulling her upstairs by know she’s semi drunk. Cut to clock it reads 11: 45) Martha-‐ Well ok let’s go. (They sneak up stairs and find empty room Carlos kisses Martha and they close the door behind them. Laughing and giggling for a couple of minutes. Then the full moon comes through the window growling, screams) Carlos-‐ What…..Wait…..What’s happening…AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! (Blood splaUers on door) Pete-‐ (talking to person) Hey did you hear that? … Hold on let me check that out. (Pete walks up stairs, opens door sees a bloody room and monster inside. (Screams) Pete-‐ AHHHHHHHHHH (faints)
(Music stops playing everyone tries to figure out what happened. Cathy runs up stairs finds Pete on floor wakes him up and helps him stand up) Pete-‐ There. There. There is a monster in there. (Cathy gets up looks in room and sees a giant hairy monster in there. It howls) Cathy-‐ What’s that, oh my god! Where’s Martha and Carlos? Pete-‐ I haven’t seen her since I met him. Cathy-‐ Oh my god! I think… NO THAT CAN’T BE… IS IT. (Cut to monster. It finishes Carlos then looks toward Cathy. Cathy in door wide shot. Makes its way to Cathy and grabs at her, she screams, falls over railing into middle of party. Screams echo through out the home people start running out. Monster runs out door) (Fades in to monster running down road while Cathy is moaning in pain and screaming) (Cut to clock reading 12:00) (Fades to Ytle) (MIDNIGHT in big bold leUers)