Inkslinger – Volume 33

ConceptWith each passing day, we move closer to the end of time. Not to start out on a morbid note, but that’s the truth. Something we can’t ignore, though, is the past. What can we learn, and how can we move forward? But when we know that time is limited, and we are always running out of it, how do we think for tomorrow?

These are the major questions that the Inkslinger,Volume33 seeks to tackle.

In order to answer these questions, we had to break the rules. We wanted to respect the artistic and interpretive nature of the Inkslinger and give a progressive vibe by offering an alternative presentation of artwork and design in the literary magazine. At the same time, we still kept an overall traditional organization as a nod to the past, along with the quotation featured on page one from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. This play also gave us the idea of presenting the magazine in acts and scenes.

Act I features the past, and Act II features the future, where you can see artwork that we feel epitomizes those periods of time. The simplistic and realistic Act I juxtaposes with the futuristic and abstract Act II. Explore the ideas that you already know and love with Act I, and in Act II, step into the unknown, that which you are afraid to know or are willing to learn.

Inkslinger Art and Literary Magazine

Volume 33 2016 Tomorrow

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day” - Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

Darlington School

1014 Cave Spring Road Rome, Ga. 30161 (706) 235-6051

Inkslinger@darlingtonschool.org

Copyright © 2016, Darlington School

Front and back cover designs by Tyler Dai

Scene

One

by: Tammy Yan Emily Robertson

Tammy Yan Tammy Yan

ONE YEAR AND ONE WEEK

Feet flying they have nowhere to go, but they follow you.

ONE YEAR

Our steps match, creating a sharp click on the uneven pavement, a rhythm only we can follow.

ONE WEEK

It’s been a little over a year, and I find myself laughing at us.

I’m a different person, and I’m sure you are too. The path has changed as well as the location.

As you lead me along on this fast-paced journey, I can sense the story you tell, the magic in this place, in the steps you take.

You are singing my song.

But it’s still me, following you, trying to synchronize our steps even as our journeys change.

The song still exists, but I’m singing it too.

Silence Scene

Two

by: Chandler Edge

I just got off the phone with your mom. She asked if I would speak at your funeral on Saturday. That’s not something you hear very often. I told her I’d have to think about it. I honestly don’t even know what I would say. I’m confused more than anything. I’ve so many questions running through my mind. Where do I begin? Perhaps I’ll start with the question everyone’s anxious to know: why’d you do it? Why’d you do this to yourself? Why’d you never tell someone how you were feeling? You know I loved you. You could’ve told me anything. I’m just really upset right now. I’m afraid. Scared. Lonely. That was such a selfish thing to do. So why can’t I help but feel responsible for all this? Why’d you just leave me here? I thought you loved me. I thought you cared about me.

I know this’ll sound completely absurd but, I can’t stop looking at my phone and reading the last text you sent me. You’ll ever send me. It was the night before it happened. You said, “I love you. Goodnight, beautiful. I’ll see you in the morning.” I responded with, “I love you too, babe. Sleep well.” You lied to me. You lied to yourself. You lied to all of us. I walked into school that morning looking like a complete idiot. Everyone knew but me. I couldn’t have been more humiliated. I got a call from my mom during first period. She wanted me to come home. Once I reached my car, I decided to give you a call. I hadn’t heard from you all morning. It went straight to voicemail. When your recording picked up, I immediately knew something was wrong. I thought you were injured in a car accident on your way to school. Little did I know.

When I got home, my parents sat me down on the couch. And told me what happened. At first, I couldn’t believe them. I couldn’t. I mean, how could I? How could it possibly have been true? It felt like someone had torn my heart into a billion pieces. And they could never be put back together. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t cry. The tears just wouldn’t come out. Instead, I collapsed to my knees in the floor and started screaming at the top of my lungs. Your mom came over later that same day. The second she walked in the door, I sprang to my feet and ran across the room. I threw myself into her arms and together we sank to the floor. Lying in each other’s embrace, we wept. I could feel her body trembling in my arms as she grieved. I held her tight. And I held her close. We needed each other. However, she did manage to whisper one short phrase in my ear. “He loved you”, was all she could say. I couldn’t even find the strength to respond. It was the worst day of my life.

It’s been exactly three days, two hours, and forty-six minutes since I found out you killed yourself. Your parents told me you had locked yourself in the bathroom and shot a hole straight through your head. Please don’t tell me that’s true. Your grandpa was the first to find your body. That morning, your mom was worried because you weren’t returning any of her phone calls. She just wanted to make sure you had made it safely to school. She decided to call your grandpa and have him drive over to the house and check on you. When he walked in, he said the dogs were scratching at the bathroom door. And whining. He had to kick it down to get inside. That’s when he called your mom. And that’s when our lives changed forever.

Do you remember the time we went hiking in the woods behind my house? It was the summer of my sophomore year. You were going to be a senior. Tall. Mature. Handsome. Do you remember holding my hand as you lead me through the trees? And when you suddenly stopped to spin around and face me? Your face was dappled with sunlight, and your eyes were deep pools of blue. Do you remember placing your hand under my chin and pulling me close? Your lips parted mine so perfectly, and your taste was soft and sweet. I remember feeling your hand against my back, as your gentle fingers caressed my neck.

Two weeks later, we were lying on the trampoline in your backyard. We were cuddled together under a mountain of blankets and my head was resting on your chest. I always enjoyed listening to your heartbeat; it was one of my crazy obsessions. And there we were, under the stars, falling in love with each and every kiss. Do you remember lacing fingers with mine and pressing your lips softly to my wrist? It was perfect. Everything was perfect. You were perfect. That’s when you first told me you loved me. I was so embarrassed; I didn’t know what to say. I just started laughing. And that’s when you flipped me over, tickling my stomach, and making me squeal. I started screaming and kicking my legs, trying to squirm beneath the weight of your body holding me down. Do you remember taking my hands and placing them above my head? And kissing me? It was a different kind of kiss. It was hard. And felt passionate. That’s when I knew you were the one.

And now I’m craving your touch. I want to just hold your hand and hear your voice. My God; why’d you do it? Why did you do this to me? To us? You’ve left behind a family that loves you. You’ve left behind a girl that loves you. We all loved you. And I’m sorry if I didn’t say it enough, but if you would’ve just told someone maybe this all could’ve been avoided. You were the first person I ever loved. And you will always hold a place in my heart. But I don’t think I can forgive you for this. I know there’s nothing I can say or do that will bring you back, but I love you. And if you love me, then just please answer this last question: why’d you do it?

Scene

Three

by: Tyler Dai Emily Robertson

Scene

Four

by: Madison Vaughn Adrianna Young Selena Chen

Madison Vaughn

There’s something about city lights

From 40,000 feet in the air

That makes you feel small, Despite the fact that cars are ants Looking up from the ground, Wondering where you’re going.

Your feet ache to touch the ground, While in the same moment

You adore the way turbulence Makes you feel vulnerable. You’ll tell your friends, “The flight was too long,” Despite the way your mouth Turns up at the corners, Remembering how lightning looks When you’re above it.

It’s midnight, but you can feel The life that is the city below you, Pulsing through your veins, Just for a few seconds Before the lights become Fond memories.

Selena Chen

Scene

Five

by: Selena Chen

Selena Chen

Selena Chen

JC Wang

Marissa Joseph I AM NOT A TOOLBOX

I am not a toolbox; I am girl. This may seem like a very obvious statement to most people, however it has taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that I do not contain wrenches, or hammers, or drills. I cannot fix people, or all injustices in the world, and no matter how hard I try, there will still be adversity, prejudice, and everything else that is wrong. I do not contain all the tools for change. Because sometimes things are just so messed up, so far south that you can not fix them, even if the tools are available. Sometimes people are too far-gone, there is too much damage done, and you cannot repair them.

I am a magnet. I attract the broken, the shattered, and the defeated. Each time, I invest my help in every person exactly like the last. I read about social injustices online, and I want to fly on a plane straight to the source of adversity and strike change. When I read the stories of struggle, it lights a fire in me. I become devoted, trying to help, and trying to understand. Sometimes I feel like God placed me on the earth specifically to comfort, to support, to spark inspiration in someone the way Christ saved the world. However, my name is not Jesus, and there are too many sins. Trying to save them melted away my bravery, broke me, and kept me drunk on the idea that only love could heal it. It can’t.

He said, “ You don’t deserve this”. I knew he was right, but I also knew I loved him, and I couldn’t watch him suffer alone. I knew I had to put up with the flaws, the deep wounds of his heart, and try to heal them. I knew I could not give up on him, it would be wrong. Because when he’s struggling to breathe, I am the first person he calls. I have responsibility; I can’t just let go. I couldn’t just leave him there all in the dust, alone, scattered, and broken. However, try as I might, I cannot make broken things new. I wish I could’ve fixed him, ended the suffering, but I just head started my own.

I thought I had the tools inside of me, but in the process of trying to fix humanity and the one I love, I ended up breaking myself. I realized no one had the tools to fix me, except for myself. In order to fix others, I must be perfect, which I am far from. I am not a toolbox; I am a human, a teenage girl. I do not have the wisdom, or the knowledge, or the supernatural abilities it takes to dress emotional wounds of the past and present, or change the viewpoint of an entire world, and that is okay. This I believe.

Edge

Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. The rain falls. The rain falls hard. In heavy sheets that drench my body from head to toe. I pull my rain coat tighter. Warmth. All I need is warmth. For someone to wrap their arms around me, to pull me close, to whisper in my ear that everything will be okay. Four stories below where I stand, the sweet aroma from a local bakery wafts through the air. The familiar smell of pumpkin spice and cinnamon fill my nose. Goosebumps erupt across my skin as a chilly breeze scatters the leaves around me. Dead leaves. It is nearly autumn. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. I shift my eyes down towards the busy street. The busy street full of busy people. Busy people with busy lives. Busy people with happy lives. Happiness. It surrounds me. Haunts me even. Every second, of every day. Every week, of every month, of every year. But why? Why doesn’t happiness live within me? Why doesn’t happiness treat me like everyone else? Happiness. It’s a lost cause at my current standpoint.

Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Vision obscured due tear filled eyes. I can barely make out the cars in the distance. Their bright lights piercing through the darkness as if it’s only a veil. Only to reveal the terrifying truth that lurks in every corner of the real world. The rape. The murder. The suicide. Darkness is a blanket, thrown across the earth to shield the people’s eyes from the horrifying events that take place in the night. A full moon barely visible through the thick fog hovering over the city. The flutter of a leaf to my right on the verge of peripheral vision. Every hair, stands erect. I feel as if I’ve left this world entirely in mind and spirit, only to leave behind the remains of a physical corpse.

Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. I shiver in the cold air. The wind has picked up now. Tremendously. It blows the rain into my face. Hard. So hard, that it hurt. Badly. Very badly. But it was bearable. Bearable only because for me, pain felt good. I look down at my arms and remember the first time I cut. Teeth clenching. Tears streaming. Blood flowing. Gripping the knife in my hand, slash after slash. I always felt better in the morning. So in the end, it was always worth it. Courage. The word suddenly pops into my head. You know what took a lot of courage? The night I came out to my parents. Now that took a lot of courage. But it didn’t matter. My father beat me black and blue. My mother didn’t talk to me for weeks. And my brother? He told his friends, who told their friends, who told their friends. Word got around. Fast. Everyone knew, because everyone knew each other. Secrets spread like wildfire where I come from, and everyone knew within a day. An hour. A minute. A second. No. Actually, they always knew. They knew I was different. And I knew that they always knew. I was just too afraid to accept it. And the scars? Oh the scars. They’re permanent. A permanent symbol of all the misery and all the pain I’ve ever had to deal with. The bullying. The teasing. The name-calling. The feeling of feeling left out. Alone, lost, and lonely. Smell the fresh rain on the cool pavement beneath my feet. Feel my phone vibrating in pocket, but ignore it. Ignore. I was always ignored.

Thunder rolling. Lightning cracking. Intolerable pain. Symbolic scars. Teased in school. Useless. Vulnerable. Pathetic they called me. Alone and bitter. Empty. Neglected. Holding grudges towards the people who did me wrong. Wind whistling. Rain pouring. Nausea rising. Breathe in. Hold. And exhale. I climb up on the ledge. Legs trembling. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. I think to myself, Who would mourn my loss? Probably no one. Who would grieve over my dead body? Again, probably no one. And who would even care that I was gone? No one. Phone vibrating, again. Ignoring, again. Could it be my mother? My father? My friends? I actually don’t have any real friends. No one to love me for who I am. No one to care about my thoughts and feelings. To look past my flaws and accept me, for me.

Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Do you know what it’s like to be loved? I don’t, honestly. I’ve always dreamed of how it felt to be loved. To have someone who would risk their life over yours? I bet that must feel, nice. But it’s unfortunate isn’t it? That I was never loved. Because all I’ve ever wanted was to love and be loved. And I’ve waited seventeen years for the day to come, but it never came. Which is why I know this has to be done. No more pain. No more misery. No more bullying. No more threatening messages from anonymous numbers. No more helpless hours spent with a therapist pouring out my heart and soul, to find it’s only a waste of both time and money. I’ll be one less mouth to feed. One less person. One less problem to deal with. And if I were to die, right here, right now, the world will continue on without me. The sun will rise in the morning. Birds chirping. Children laughing. Earth revolving. I’m just, a ghost. Because if no one knows I’m here in life, who would know I’m gone in death? I’m wasted space.

GhostChandler

Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. I hear voices behind me. Voices yelling. Screaming. Shouting. Begging me to get down from the ledge. And I know in an instant, they belong to my parents. I could recognize their voices anywhere. But I must hurry before they can stop me. So I close my eyes and listen to their voices one last time. So distinct. So sharp. Yet they sound a thousand miles away. My father’s yelling reminds me of the night he beat me in my bedroom floor. He nearly killed me. And I wish he had. Instead, I just laid in a puddle on the floor. Pleading for him to stop. He never did. Not until my mother tried to intervene, but she just got thrown into the wall like a ragdoll. So I try not to listen to their voices, because they never listened to mine. Because if they never cared about me, why should I care about them? They just don’t understand me. Never will. No one ever will. Because no one loves me. No one would want to love me. Who would even want me as their child? I wouldn’t even want me as a child. I mean, look at me. I’m a failure. A lost cause. Unfixable beyond repair. I’m just a ghost to humanity. Worthless to this torn society we live in.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Thunder rolling. Lightning cracking. Breathe in. Wind whistling. Rain pouring. Breathe out. Shouting. Screaming. Breathe in. Beating. Cutting. Breathe out. Intolerable pain. Unbearable pain. Symbolic scars. Family ruined. I’m useless, vulnerable, pathetic. I’m a miserable, lonely, coward. Left alone in the dark with a stormcloud of thoughts. Thunder rolling. Lightning cracking. Wing howling. Rain drenching. The cars I do see. The thunder I hear. Empty, neglected, and hopeless. I tell myself to breathe in, and hold. And still hold. And never let go. Heart beating. Lungs bursting. I drop down from the ledge. And as I hear my mother call out my name one last time, a spark of love ignites in my heart. But it’s extinguished almost immediately.

Selena Chen

Elementary School

Elementary School

Middle School

High School

Death weaved through the halls and into the house of the sick waiting for a soul to slip into its last sleep. While searching he came upon a man surrounded by people, loving kin, seeing the sadness in their hearts for their loved one already gone he waited for the touch of a human before unveiling himself and taking the man up by the hand. Together they flew and the pain and numbness began to fade and soon his high spirits filled his body and soul.

He looked to Death and asked, “Where are we going?”

“To paradise.”

“Where is that?”

“Where the horizons meet and the clouds claw to the last light of the day before the sun goes to bed.” Answered Death.

“What is it like there? Will I bored?”

The Last Flight

Death remained silent for a while before answering, ‘”I cannot tell you because I’ve never been. We will stop at the gates, I’m not allowed in. However, from what I’ve heard, the singing and the laughter, it sounds wonderful. I know you will never be without a job; you may help with the writings or possibly the paintings. But trust me, you will never be alone, or bored, or in pain, or unloved.”

“Will the rest of them be alright?” The Man asked looking back into the clouds.

“Yes. You can send them messages anytime you want,” Death said pulling out a necklace of red feathers and handing it to his passenger, “but you will not hear of their pain in the beginning. When you walk through those gates you will be so welcomed and rejoiced over that there will not be time to be worried about such things.”

“They can’t talk to me?”

“Sometimes. If they’re loud enough. I can tell you right now they are all very happy that you are here, and possibly a bit jealous, though none want to admit it.”

“Yes,” He said looking toward the brightest part of their journey, “You will meet so many you have walked with once before. This will be your forever home.”

Landing on the rose gold entrance The Man looked around, “My friend!” He rejoiced. “What are doing here, I never expected to see you here.”

“You either my friend, I have been waiting for this day! I know my love is just behind the gate patiently waiting. I have been waiting here all day, so the gate should be opening soon.” the friend replied.

Soon the song of the angels became louder and louder and the gates started to slowly open. The Man grabbed his friend’s hand, “Are you ready?” She nodded her head as her smile grew. He took his first step forward before turning around to his accompanist and saying, “I appreciate it.”

Death nodded his head and covered his face once again and returned to his job after watching The Man and his friend be swallowed in welcomes by angels, loved ones, and new found friends.

Tyler Dai Tyler Dai

Tyler Dai Tyler Dai

Tyler Dai Tyler Dai

Exhaustion is a number

On the top of a page With a note that says, “See me after class.”

Because our value isn’t found In how we feel in the morning, But instead in the quality of our thesis statement Or the accuracy of our confidence intervals. No one cares that we stare at ourselves In the mirror every morning and ask, “Why did I wake up today?” They only care that we continue to do so, Even if it means five alarms, Three pills, and two cups of coffee. You don’t ask and we won’t tell You that some days we would Wish away our existence if we could, And that these walls meant To give us wings seem More like prison walls most days. They tell us we are so lucky As we pick ourselves up Off the bathroom floor and Bandage up our wounds, The problem being the wounds In our heads, not on our arms, Though they only ever seem To notice the latter. They tell us everyone feels this way. “It’s normal.”

As if there is anything Normal about the rattling In our bones and the knots In our chests as we fight Just to breathe in our own beds. Just remember when we Can no longer tell you How it feels to be happy, That this was your doing, Not ours.

Colophon

Letter From the Editor

Inkslinger, Volume 33 featured student-submitted artwork and literature. Students emailed submissions to the staff at inkslinger@darlingtonschool.org. Final selections for the literary magazine were chosen at the staff’s discretion. The production of the Inkslinger was student-led and all submissions, text and design were completed by students. The Inkslinger was published by JS Printing in Birmingham, Ala., and 550 copies were printed. All design was completed on MacBook Air laptops and a Mac Mini desktop using Adobe InDesign, Illustrator and Photoshop. The staff worked with an allocated budget. Upper School students and faculty received a free copy. All literary work is fiction. This publication is recommended for a high school audience.

My experience with the Inkslinger has been unpredictable. My freshman year, 2012-2013, I worked on the Inkslinger, Volume 31 which the staff completed. However, we were never able to have it printed, so we instead released it online. Then my sophomore year, no magazine was completed or published, so I was happy to see the publication return my junior year, even though it was only about 20 pages. With that background, I would never have imagined that three years after my freshman experience, I would be the editor-in-chief of the 79-page Inkslinger, Volume 33. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be a part of and help the production of a forum where students voice their opinions and express creativity. We have so many insightful students in our community, and it humbles me to share their talents with the readers.

There are a few personal acknowledgements I would like to make. To Mrs. Forgette, thank you so much for all of your continued encouragement and support and for truly believing in the power of the student voice and media. To Mrs. Tunnell, you, too, have been a thoughtful advocate of Student Publications, and your support is very much appreciated. To the administration, thank you for your continued support, as well. To Tyler Dai, we totally could not have printed this volume without you. Your poster campaign and organization helped us when we needed it most, and your original design certainly inspires many questions and positively challenges people to see a new perspective. Finally, to the members of the staff, you have been very loyal, and I appreciate that you are always willing to lend a hand. I hope that you see how a small group can finish a big task, and I hope that you are very proud of yourselves. With everything moving so quickly, one moment after another soon becomes history. Remember your past, plan for tomorrow.

Ethan Pender

1st

Editor-in-Chief, Student Publications 33rd Editor-in-Chief, Inkslinger

Ethan Pender Editor-in-Chief

Tyler Dai Managing Editor

Adrianna Young

Natalie Horah Marissa Joseph Grace Lester Olivia Harper

Anabelle Scarborough

Rainey

Scarborough

Caroline Temples

Adrienne Forgette Adviser