Inscriptions 2013, Lit Mag

Inscriptions

2013

5800 West 107th Street Overland Park, KS 66207 Phone: (913) 993-7500 www.smsd.org

shawnee mission south presents...

inscriptions

Untitled by Claire Thomas

Flood Drowning in problems, We’re expected to find Solutions.

We panic.

Human nature they say.

But is it Really?

At the source of the problem Acid flows.

Stings and burns Our tender Malleable skin and Our tenuous Fragile Frame.

Human nature they say.

But can we Believe them?

Down In the stagnant water, We dwell.

Not by force, But by fear.

The trepidation of Swimming To the source And stopping the flood Erodes our well-being and Our capacity to love.

by Kate Anderson

Wind by Leorah Addadi

CRASH Grace’s blonde untidy was swept in front of her face. A goofy smile flit across her thin face, her pupils so dilated you almost couldn’t see her pale blue irises.

“Hahaha guys this is the best, I love you people y’know that?”

“You’re just saying that because you’re stoned Grace. Shutup,” Riley said, her long dark face peering out of the shadows in the basement. “And I’m only putting up with stoned you because your parents are separated again.”

“Yea, whatever. Sometimes you’re a jerk Riley!” Grace said, a small pout playing at her lips, but it soon disappeared and her head sank back to the floor I was sitting against the far wall of Riley’s tiny dark basement with my closest friends. I kept glancing at Ash leaning against the far wall, but he didn’t notice me. He was too enthralled with the beat up record player he and Miles had found by the dumpster by his house. Riley was still in the corner, her long black hair in her face adding to her constant attitude that everything deserved to be hated, and so did you if you didn’t agree. She and Miles were now in a heated argument over the latest tragedy in her seemingly endlessly tragic life, which he was always involved in somehow. My voice full of sarcasm, I spoke up over Riley’s whine.

“Yes, Miles totally got you kicked out of your house. And he made you fail all of your classes. And now he is probably going to give you cancer.”

“Whatever. I was just venting. I don’t need your opinion Cassie.”

“Then stop complaining Riley.”

“Fine, I was just explaining to Miles why I was so angry.”

“You’re always angry. Can you just be cool tonight please?”

“Can you guys stop fighting please?” Miles piped in trying to diffuse the tension. He was always the mediator.

“Why don’t you help Ash and I find some records to test this thing out with?”

“We think we got it working now; it looks like it survived the zombie apocalypse, granted, but it just adds to the charm,” Ash said, grinning.

“Hahaha, fine.” We both consented, done in by Ash’s goofy smile.

I stood and began to search around the labyrinth of Riley’s dark basement, abandoned years ago as an actual storage unit and now just a conglomeration of book stacks and old cracked CD’s and odd pieces of junk. As I peered around the piles of records I kept glancing at Ash. The way his curly hair framed his face, the way his wide smile was lopsided at the end, and the way he was connecting the wires in the heart of the record player like it was the beating heart of something living somehow made me weak in the knees. I didn’t mean to love Ash, I just did. We just went together. We both, in our own teenage cliché ways, liked hating the world, and even more liked hating adults. We liked aiming insults for fun at the peers who we deemed uncool, and when we were together I was always happy somehow. Us and them it always seemed. Destructive. I picked up a dusty old record and headed back over to him.

“Rolling Stones work?” I asked.

“Can’t think of anything I would rather test this thing out with,” Ash said, grinning. He took it out of my hand and slid it on, gently touching the needle down. The soft and slightly muffled sound of “Beast of Burden” came rolling through.

“Ha!” Miles shouted, two fists in the air.

I looked back over at Grace; she was almost asleep.

“Hey Riley, you better get Grace home, you want me to come with you?”

“No, I got it. We’ll make it home safe as always.”

“Fine, let me help you get her up,” I said. Grace had insane parents who, although they didn’t pay much attention to her, bringing her home anytime past midnight would be a bad idea. So Riley made it her personal mission to keep her rather reckless friend as safe as possible.

“Grace, get your lazy butt off the floor, I don’t know what you’ve taken but you got to be home soon, another fight with your mom will not end well for you.”

“Chill man, I just took whatever Chris gave me at school. Said it would give me a real buzz. I’m fine, just help me up, I can totally drive myself home.”

“For the love of God Grace, stop just taking things Chris gives you it’s dangerous!” Riley said, bending over and pulling her up off the floor, “Whatever,” Grace said stumbling to her feet giggling.

“Bye guys. I’m taking this sad sack home. I might be back later.”

“See ya.” Miles and Ash said simultaneously; both were focused on the player.

Riley walked totally out of it Grace up the stairs and out the door. I walked over to the record player and sat down next to Ash. “Sounds pretty sweet doesn’t it?” he said, grinning at me.

“Hahaha yeah, very hipster,” I replied.

“So…” he said as Miles stood up to go look for more music. “I know things have been crazy lately, with Grace’s recklessness, and that fight with you and Riley … but do you think … after things settle down a bit … “ He was leaning in closer; I could feel his breath on my forehead and see his bright eyes staring me through. My heart was fluttering in my chest; somehow I knew, after months of maybe’s and unspoken tension between us, he was going to talk to me. Suddenly, just as he was about to speak, a blinding light flashed through the basement window above me followed by an ear-splitting crash.

Miles yelled something I couldn’t quite hear and ran up the stairs, Ash looked at me and wordlessly pulled me behind him. Then somehow in a matter of seconds, I was standing in the front yard.

People were speaking, I could hear crying, and someone yelling to call 911, but all I could feel in the fog were Ash’s arms folded around me squeezing me tighter and tighter. Over his shaking shoulder I saw Riley’s old faded car crumpled like a discarded soda can against the light pole a few feet away.

Glass littered the street and a blonde head was slumped in the driver side.

by Mimi Deluca

Why? I was once asked “Why? Why do you write?” At the time I had no answer. Why do I put so much passion into stories that never happened? Into characters that do not exist? Into dreamers and their dreams that will never come true? Before asking why, I had to ask what, what do I write?

I write about the love I have yet to experience and the happiness I could only dream of achieving. I write about a far off art studio in the city where the concepts of cozy sweaters, herbal teas, and classic books come to mind. I write about a beachfront house that overlooks the ocean, where one could take a stroll by the sea in the middle of the night and have the sand squish in between their toes. I write about the bonfires with friends while they wait for the sun to rise and lying in the fields so far away from the city lights that the entire night sky is alive with stars. I write about being able to sit on the roof in the middle of winter while the snow is perfectly untouched below, regardless of whether it’s safe, with a guitar in hand while one hums the words to any song that comes to mind. I write about the peaceful routine known as life in a quiet countryside far from the hectic buzz of Paris.

I write about the single spark that falls into the dim and dark world with the intention of setting life itself ablaze. I write about the heroine who rises from the ashes with nothing to her name but the intention to soar with the fire of a phoenix.

I write about the girl whose spirit never dies as she moves from each corner of life to the next, ready to experience all that it has to offer her. I write about the adventures embarked on underneath the city streetlights with the moon as the only witness.

I write about the innocence of love on the playground where those who are young at heart still compete on the swings in order to feel the wonder of flight.

I write about those whose eyes still shine with mischief but can still hear the heartbeat of the ocean as the seas returns to kiss the shore one last time. I write and write because the inspiration never ends. All the things I write seem to be the things that I can’t or don’t have in my life. I let myself believe that I lived those lives. Why? Because when I put down the pen and see where I really am and the life I really live, I would give anything in the world to just become another one of my characters.

by Mona Jahani

Reflections by Rola Alasmar

To get he r

Forever

Untitled by Leorah Addadi

by Destiny Long She will always be there for me

She cries with me

She will always listen to what I say

She gets scared with me

She will be a friend sometimes

She loves me even when she hates me

She will be a sister always.

She’s my best friend

She laughs with me

She’s my sister.

The

void

by Roby Ducrocq

You could say I’m falling

to figure out how deep the bottom is;

Of this abyss, when the Irony is that it’s bottomless.

The deeper down I go, the light dims as its going dark

and the only thing I can do is slowly

watch my world

as it falls apart.

Untitled by Julia Larberg

Paradise I woke up in darkness. Instinctively I knew my eyes were open, but there was no difference between closed and open. Standing up, I stumbled trying to find something solid. Suddenly, a faint light sparkled in the distance, slowly growing bigger, and brighter. I had to shield my eyes. It was like looking at the sun. Something soft began to form under my feet. Prickling my toes, with it came something cool and rough.

I looked down, able to see now with light, and saw it was grass. The greenest grass I’d ever seen. And dirt. Cool, moist, dirt. Shapes began to appear out of the darkness. Trees suddenly loomed all around me.

Flowers shimmered into existence. Bushes grew up from the ground, branches intertwining into each other, leaves sprouting from the tips.

A deer stood in front of me like a mirage, sometimes there, sometimes gone.

A noise began to trickle into my ears, sweet as honey. It was out of range and I couldn’t figure out what it was. A blue sky now soared overhead, the sun shining on every blade of grass. I walked through the woods. Gazing at every being. The apples on the trees, bright and red.

The mushrooms on the forest floor, milky white and spongy. Looking up at the sky and admiring its silkiness, I tripped over something hard.

I looked down and saw a strange box. Picking it up I realized it was an out-of-date music box. Coming from it a sound so beautiful and soft, I was speechless. Ripping me away from this paradise, the ground began to shake. Rumbling and moving. It shoved me to the ground. The world began to open in on itself, sucking with it the beauty of the wilderness.

The sky burst and began to leak like teal liquid into the Earth. The grass disappeared, shrinking back into nothingness. Looking up I saw the last thing left of this oasis, the sun. It began to recede, melting like butter into the earth.

The disaster was out of hand and I couldn’t do anything but follow it. Closing my eyes I let myself be sucked into the black, endless void.

Gasping awake, I clutched my head, wondering why it hurt so much.

by Morgan Huggins

I Love Sydney by Rola Alasmar

Beautiful Mistakes

by Anonymous

I seem to always make mistakes.

You, my love, were not the exception.

We met at a time when I needed a friend.

We talked all the time. Opened up my heart to you.

Mistake number one.

We talked and went out and soon became more Mistake number two and three and four.

I allowed you to touch the deepest corner of my mind I offered you my thoughts and feelings Mistake number five.

Soon enough you held my hands in yours and we danced under the summer’s sun Laughing at life while sharing our own Making plans for future days to come It is those mistake that I never want to omit And if I am wrong I do not ever wish to be right

Bicycle by Jenna Fackrell

Untitled by Michelle Chan

Life is Like a Book Life is like a book. There’s a twist with every page, a fork in every road, and decisions the main character has to face. Who should they trust? Who should they let into their lives, and who should they let go? Which path will lead to their goals and dreams, and which one will delay them? As the main character, it’s your job to make those decisions.

However, you are also the author, which leads to even more decisions. What is the plot line of your story? What is the ultimate goal of the main character? How do you want the story to end? Will you be able to look back on those pages of your life and say, “Yeah, that story was worth writing?” or will you turn around one day and say, “What was the point of all this?” Naturally there will be a few mistakes made, a few bumps along the road, but those shouldn’t keep you from writing the book and reaching for the happy ending. Because if you let one little mistake scare you away from the page, somebody else is undoubtedly going to try to take over and write your story for you. Keep moving forward, live without regrets, and always take control of your own life. Only then can you reach the ending you’re aiming for, and look back with a smile on your face.

by Anonymous

Sarah in Wonderland by Jenna Fackrell

Lost in my own

World Every child has his or her own imaginary world; a Narnia or Neverland. Some get lost in it more than others. It is a home away from home away from home; a place that is entirely your own.

My world is different.

I catch glimpses of it at moments when I least expect it. I can never see it clearly. It is just a door that shimmers slightly and then cracks open so that I can see a mirage of what I think is there behind my door. The image only lasts for a second but in that second I know that it is real.

I could say that I am not crazy, but I know you’ll believe what you want to.

The first time I saw the door, I assumed that everyone saw it; saw the world that runs parallel to our own. I told my sister and she brushed me away as if I were nothing but a fly buzzing around . Even my mother laughed and told me not to speak about my world to other people outside of my family because they would not understand. So I kept it a secret.

Safe under lock and key the memories of my world stayed hidden.

Over the years I have started to understand what triggers the doors appearance. It usually appears to me when I am feeling strong emotion, such as happiness or hatred, or at other time the door reveals itself when my mind is disconnected from reality as possible.

I’ve always felt sorry for everyone because they can’t see things like I do. Though even if they saw the door they wouldn’t understand, or have a connection to it. Every time I see it I’m closer to its entrance. Not by much but still the tiniest bit closer. I only hope that one day it will let me in.

by Anonymous

5.4.3.2.1. I watch the seconds tick away on the clock until finally the sharp sound of the bell dismisses us from class. We all immediately rush to put away our binders filled with sheet music and the other girls run to leave the classroom for lunch.

However I take my time, not worried about being the last in line for lunch. Through the swarm of people clumped in the corner where the cabinet for our music stands I catch the eyes of my two friends and the unspoken message is understood. We wait until almost everyone has left the room before we gather our bags and place them on the three chairs closest to the piano.

Without saying a word we assume our positions, my fair haired companion seats herself at the waiting piano and the remaining girl, the star of the show, stands in the center of the room. The soft sound of the piano fills the room and soon she begins to sing. Her voice matched perfectly with the quiet tune of the piano, never off pitch or key. I watch her in fascination, the way she molds her expression to fit the sorrow of the song as she begins to tell of the things she did for love. As the building energy fills her voice she becomes a true sight to see, taking deeper breaths to prepare for the growing intensity of the song.

The girl sitting at the piano stares with the same concentration at the sheet music in front of her, the music I know she has been practicing again and again in preparation for the show that is quickly approaching. In the midst of the musical beauty that flows around me I manage to remember the days we would spend practicing together. I smile at the memories back only weeks ago when we would spend the entire hour in one of the many music rooms, all singing, all rehearsing over and over in hopes to make through auditions for this show. I remember singing the lower part of the duet with the fair haired girl while my darker haired friend sang the higher notes we didn’t dare to reach. I remember clearly how we preformed

the auditions, bursting with excitement. More than anything I remember all three of us doing what we loved. I bring my attention back to the duo now, appreciating the tone and clarity of soloist in the center of the room and the nimble fingers of her accompanist. Our group hadn’t passed the audition, but her solo had really won over the judges. At first we were all a little upset; after all we had worked extremely hard and given it our best effort.

However with time it was beyond clear that the girl who stands before me now was the real star all along. We all have our true callings, and she had found her’s. Just as she is halfway through the song I move from my spot, an idea suddenly forming in my head.

She begins to incorporate the movement in her performance, the pained expression of love on her face, the lifting and lowering of her arms as the intensity of the music comes and goes. I see her passion, her deep and true love for what it is she does, and the want and need to succeed as the singer she is. Each word that leaves her lips moves me and threatens to bring tears to my eyes. I notice that the final verse has begun in the slow Broadway tune and I sense the finally approaching.

She sings the final few lines, using an incredibly amount of air to radiate the beautiful notes loudly and proudly. She raises her arms into the familiar pose so many famous Broadway stars before her have done and in that moment the room melts away. I see her as I know she is meant to be seen. I visualize the hot theatre lights on her skin, the solid stage floor beneath her feet, the glamorous outfit that replaces the one she wears now. As she sings the final five words without the piano to the silent room the transformation is complete. I see her perfectly, the way I know she will be seen one day in the future far from the days today in our little town. I see her as the shining star, queen of the stage. I see her after her breakaway.

By Mona Jahani

Breakaway Untitled by Madeline Fowler

Blind Love

Untitled by Maddie Fowler

by Anonymous In my dark world, love is not characterized by looks or expressions. Love is distinguished by the gestures and emotion, such as the feeling of a warm palm resting on the small of your waist, hearing the gentle words flow from his mouth, or the tender trace of a kiss from his smooth lips. Even a simple embrace can leave me with unending warmth. It’s the feeling of our interlaced fingers followed by a slight squeeze when he knows that I’m not all together and the tingly feeling I unsystematically get when everything is just as it seems to be so perfect that makes me feel like something as mysterious as love can still exist for someone like me.

Everyone says they want blind love, but no one knows what it’s like when you have no other option.

by Anonymous

I am more than just a mere composition of atoms I am more than a complex arrangement of cells

I am alive

But it has taken me so much to realize and I was lived without knowing my capabilities Without hopes or dreams Only looked down by those with power Suffocated and harassed by their expectations But the day I said “NO MORE!"

I was free

I was ready to embrace MY dreams, and MY hopes, and MY expectations.

That’s when I began to live:

The day I save MYSELF.

Untitled by Maddie Fowler

Alive

Profile by Julia Larberg

fat

by Abigayle Willis

You think my life is so perfect You think I get everything I want And I do have a good life But some days I’m just fat And that thought short circuits my spirit and soul Fat YOU try to say YOU are fat But no You lift up your shirt You show your stomach Your flat stomach You squish and squeeze Pinch and pull Grab and gasp “See how big my belly is?”

Trying to make your body something its not You haven’t earned the right to say you are Fat Because you obviously don’t know You don’t know What its like standing in one room Tears crawling down your cheeks Carving paths of shame pain betrayal While you listen to people In the next room say “Really that dress doesn’t fit her”

You obviously don’t know what it is like Being so ashamed of your stomach You can’t even look at yourself In this mirror naked In an empty room When you’re home alone When you know you won’t get caught If I can’t do that how can I possibly dare to display My stomach In public School To show a friend Just to say I’m fat You try to use weight to prove your point You throw out arbitrary numbers from an archaic system Assigning them power and control Numbers that aren’t half my weight You spit them out like they are disgusting Horrible Evil Grotesque How is that supposed to make me feel How do you think I feel when I look down

See the scale say things I don’t want to hear Things I don’t want to see I feel s ridiculously overweight I hide from the me that lives in mirrors Unless I have Layers And layers Of comforting, concealing, conforming clothes I don’t feel safe Unless I can hide behind my costume Hide behind my fashion So, I won’t acknowledge your misguided misogynistic mumble “I’m so fat” You haven’t earned that twisted crown Stop it Stop framing yourself and framing me Stop it Because The numbers The pounds The weight The size Don’t matter Because I know the reality I Am Beautiful

Cold Coffee by Jenna Fackrell

a piece of me

by Anonymous

Why do I write? I just need someone to listen to my story. I don’t plan what I write. I just pick up a pen and go. I tell my paper exactly what is going through my head. The best part, paper doesn’t judge you for what you have to say. It will never change its opinion of you because of a situation you are in. It won’t interrupt you or offer input on what you should do. It stays sedentary, and quiet. It listens. Sometimes that’s all you need, a good listener.

As great of a “friend” paper may be, it can also be your biggest enemy. Paper is the WORST at keeping secrets. It will spill all of your innermost private thoughts with the world. Words are permanent, but so are feelings.

Paper and pen are the only ones who won’t “look down” or think less of you over something you write. Now that doesn’t account for what people read off the paper. Paper, in some ways, can be nicer and more understanding or accepting than people are. Paper only possesses the emotions the artist/author/or average doodler gives it. We just need to remember not to attack the composer of the paper for just being themselves.

I write to tell people about myself, who I am, what I’m thinking, and how I feel. It gives them a small glimpse into my life and may entice them to find out what happens in the next chapter.

Who knows, they may be a character in it.

Commencement?

When we cross the bar, we die,

And in four more years (with any luck)

Cross the stage, we graduate.

I’ll be expected to do the same again

But now I see this as a lie,

Perhaps then I will be able to earn a buck,

For I see no clear-cut gate.

And not feel like an unknown, unsure, alien.

All I see is a thicker mist,

But perhaps, covered by the fog, is hope.

I really see nothing, that’s the gist.

Maybe there is a beauty in uncertainty,

I used to think my life like a crystal ball,

And hard choices make us stronger, help us cope.

Thought my path was clear amid all.

Paths will be traveled, and bridges crossed, un-

While certainly I want my cap and gown,

doubtedly.

I’m afraid that after I’ll only frown.

I suppose graduating we really do many times,

I thought the divide was supposed to be clear;

Both big and officially, and the informal, momen-

Now a child, now an adult,

tary feat.

But I don’t think I’m the caterpillar in the cocoon,

Perhaps that stage is the last tortured metaphor

I probably won’t turn into a butterfly anytime

they bleat,

soon,

A symbol for what must and will change at all the

Unlikely, after I shake the principal’s hand, then

clock’s chimes.

bolt.

So get me out of this place.

Am I supposed to be ready and prepared for life?

It’s time, whether or not I’m ready, for the race.

There’s little awaiting me that’s like cutting butter

Maybe I’ll never have an exact map,

with a knife.

But at least I’ve been armed with a thinking cap.

How am I supposed to bring originality and stop

And though it’s oh so hard to run, and run, and

decay,

run,

When so much I know is but a trite cliché?

It’s worth it when I get a glimpse of the sun.

Yet armed with a diploma, the same as 200 more,

by Anonymous

I seem to be expected to just walk out the door.

Untitled by Claire Thomas

Woe

by Anonymous Something wrong Something real But I don’t care how I feel Something steel Something Strong Only love Only pain Nothing left to keep me sane Only rain Only dark That lie That way Please I want you to stay That day Left to Die

Untitled by Julia Larberg

Lift Me

by Morgan Huggins

The sound rushes into my mind Its sweet whisper consuming me.

Filling me with peace.

Lifting me with its murmur.

The soft swish of the bow across the coarse string.

The inaudible movement of slender fingers across the finger board I let the melody sink into me I can almost see the notes as they soar through the air.

My heart beats faster as they sail off the string, plunging quickly into the harmony.

With one single movement of the hand, it’s over.

The sound of the last note resonates throughout the room.

The silence crowds my ears, and I breathe again.

Untitled by Maddie Fowler

Our hearts are full of it.

Always wanting. Always needing.

The red in our hearts makes us want more.

Constantly yearning.

Never quenched.

Our red changes us.

It brings out the passion, and brings out the hate.

Warmth. Love. Rage.

Always bright. Always there.

Deep inside or out in the open, our red controls us.

It carries on through our veins, always present.

The red brings out our compassion, and beauty.

Putting the spark into life.

But the Red comes at a price.

Stenching the world with the blood of violence.

There’s no hope for extinguishing the fire.

Instead one must embrace it.

Take on the Red, Red world full of glamour and deceit.

Welcome the tide of Red with open arms.

For without Red there is nothing.

The Red makes ups who we are.

Untitled by Maddie Fowler

The Red

by Morgan Huggins

Three by Julia Larberg

forgotten

I’ve forgotten how it feels To be in love Pain shoots through me Like a thousand small blades Cutting me apart Ripping me to pieces Cutting, clawing, pulling, slitting The loneliness never felt so full Filled with screams, cries Pain, sorrow, anger My breath leaves But it never return’s I struggle to breath Blood flies Flesh burns The tears never come I call for them Yell and scream for them But none come The room feels cold Yet I feel burned The ground dissipates I fall So far I feel the warmth of hell I crash Destroyed Gone…

by Anonymous

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Editor-in-Chief Adviser

| Julia Larberg

| Julie Fales

Staff Members Michelle Chan Georgia DuBois Mimi DeLuca Julia Rose Mona Jahani Claire Thomas Tegan Jarchow Celina Garcia Kate Larberg Angelo Prado Cheyenne Garcia Alma Velasquez

Cover photo: Nightlife by Jenna Fackrell