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Intersections Spring 2018


“Perspective Studies”

“Coffee break” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“Barely Peeking” by Lailah Rucker, 7th grade Cover photograph: “Beach Feet” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade


a publication of The Harpeth Hall Middle School 2017-2018 The Intersections staff is proud to present this year’s magazine, comprised of submissions both from the magazine staff and members of the middle school.

Intersections staff

Priyanka Chiguluri

Veronica Pierce

Pauline Bailey

Allie Cunningham

Amelia Reddy

Virginia Callen

Martha Dillon

Lailah Rucker

Ava Cassidy

Hallie Graham

Pia Strang

Sarah Jean Caver

Elisabeth Nelson

Mary V. Sullivan

Faculty sponsors Ms. Rebecca Harris Ms. CJ Jones

Front cover photograph “Beach Feet” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade

Back cover photograph “Flowers on Souby” by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade

Back cover poem “Magnolia Green” by Charlotte Hagood, 6th grade

“Perspective” by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade



“Beginning of Fall” by Jamisyn Larkin, 6th grade

I know a perfectly perfect tree it is always green even in this time of year. It never changes. Where? In the park with the green soft grass by the water fountain Don’t you see it? It’s the beginning of fall all the trees are changing colors red, orange, yellow. But that tree by the water fountain is determined to stay green. Don’t you see it? The tree keeps me shaded from the bright, bold, big sun. With its long, cold, old brown branches you can snap off and lots of leaves. I can see its big wide smile on its rusty old bark. Don’t you see it?

“Autumn Breeze” by Kate Stewart, 8th grade

“In Every Class”

This day I see it change. Where is the soft green grass that feels like a cozy bed?

by Martha Dillon, 7th grade In every class, there is a smart one In every school, there is a mean one In every city, there is a nice one In every life, there is a special one In every house, there is a clean one In every state, there is a powerful one In every person, there is a beautiful one In every country, there is a sad one In every factory, there is a diligent one But in everything there is, is there a you one?

All I see are those imperfect leaves on the ground with an imperfect tree. I don’t see it. I come back. Red, yellow, orange is all I see. It looks even better than before I know now that its happier than ever. You want to come see it yourself? You’re going to have to wait till next year.


“A Glimpse Below” by Lilly Cashen, 6th grade


“Looking into a Bright Future” by Mary Susan Shivers, 6th grade


“Emerald City Green” by Kathleen Pritchartt, 6th grade

I am Emerald City green. Like fresh morning grass sparkling in dew, I frolic in the sun, laughing and imagining, but my shadows are there, the ones that rethink and frantically worry like a hive of bees. I am Emerald City green.

by Virginia Callen, 7th grade A small hill sleeps in the countryside. Atop its peak sits a church. Abandoned and long forgotten, but not by all. I step outside from its aging walls crumbling and worn. My feet crunch in the dry grass, brown from the cold and coated in dew left by the dawn which sparkles in the light filtering through the trees. Silvery mist weaves silently through the waving grass of the rolling fields. Wind whistles to a familiar tune, and I hum along to the red bellied robins singing the praises of morning’s first light. I glance up yet hold my gaze. The sky is painted the color of morning; a rosy tint of pink. The sun, just rising above puffy clouds, is golden. I stand still, and gaze at the sunrise wishing and wishing that everything could be like this. SPRING 2018

(above) “Busy” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade (right) “A Farmer’s Hands” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“Robin’s Egg Blue” by Anna Li Hornsby, 6th grade

I am rich robin’s egg blue, the color that dominates my grandmother’s house. I sit and relax with a book clasped between both hands and hear the soothing sounds of birds chirping. I stride before the glistening, blue ocean and seize the day. I am rich robin’s egg blue.

“Sapphire Blue”

by Kathleen Pritchartt, 6th grade I am sapphire blue, the color of the shimmering, crashing, midday sea. Once an idea sparks like a match, I am as passionate and focused as a racehorse, galloping with blinders on until I reach the finish. I am sapphire blue.


“Dustland Fairytale” by Gabby Welhoelter, 8th grade

Long brown hair and foolish eyes, he looks just like you want him to. Some kind of slick, chrome American prince, a blue jean serenade. But his car His car the backseat an escape and now, she is home. Four wheels and black paint glistening in the sunlight, initials carved in the back door, Legos and army men in the air conditioner. Proposals and cassette tapes in the front seat, dogs, coolers, and shotguns in the back. Arms flying out the window, with the best of mullet rock blasting for all the birds to hear. Fireworks and blankets on the hood. Stopping for stars and late night coffee breaks. Crashes and the eldest son rebuilding not only the car but his broken heart.

“Dustland Fairytale” by Gabby Welhoelter, 8th grade

“Perspective Fades” by Natalie Apodaca, 7th grade

It’s like a box stuffed too full of useless junk I’ve waited too long for a sufficient conclusion I try to close it, but somehow I can’t. For once, I can’t see the outcome of this story And forever’s a long time. Like a bead of acid burning through my palm, it’s a clear day. The sun is shining and voices of people I’ll never know fill my head, a meaningless dissonance of never-ending sounds telling a tale that has never begun and will never end. Like a faraway melody hummed by a stranger, water drips through my open fingers: How long have I been standing here? I clench my fist and step away still, shadows are meant to follow.

“Dominican Dance” by Evelyn Risner, 5th grade

Like a dream that I can’t stop having When will I wake up? When will it be over? When will I be freed from this torture? ‘Cause forever’s a long time— a long time for nothing to change.




by Veronica Pierce, 7th grade She starts up the hill—the sun shining, the birds chirping, the leaves swaying. She feels good. Coming up along the path, she feels herself getting higher and higher. Hopefully the oxygen is good at the top. Finally—she is on top of the mountain, breathing the fresh air. She sits down, and then lays back on the flat rock. Falling asleep, she could have sworn she heard something flying toward her. Waking with a start after two hours, she sits up and finds that the sky is no longer blue but gray. She expects rain to be coming soon. She starts walking down the hill and keeps watch on the clouds. Squish! She steps in something and looks down to find that she has stepped in ketchup. Wait. No. Oh, no. It’s blood. And then she smells the flesh. Rotting. She starts to walk towards the stench and then sees it— something shining in a small sapling. A knife. She thinks she should run, but she just stays there, watching. “Stay there!” someone calls. She looks to the left and sees a man, running. Running for the knife. She runs for it first and grabs the knife. She doesn’t want anyone else getting killed. “Give that to me,” the man is now face to face with her.

“Tranquil” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“N-No,” she says, and starts to back up. “Just give it to me. Be careful. We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt,” he says, a smile curling onto his lips. She starts to back up some more and then he runs at her. “GIVE THAT TO ME!” She faints, hitting the rocks. Everything is in slow motion as she wakes up and hears a soft voice. “Are you ok? You fainted,” the voice says, and she looks up to see the man, the man who was running at her, the one in the forest. She thinks that she is going to die. She can’t talk.

“Rushing Stream” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“Are you ok? You took a bad fall. You even had my steak knife in your hand. My seven-year-old son thought he could chop a tree with it and accidentally threw it while taking a swing. I guess it landed in that sapling over there. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself, so I tried to grab it from you,” he says, helping her up.

“You mean the hamburgers that I’m making for dinner?”

“The, the flesh though,” she says, her voice trembling and still in shock.

She goes with him and gives herself some advice. Always bring an oxygen tank, or you’ll go berserk.


Suddenly, she feels very stupid. “Do you want some? They’re right over here,” he tells her and starts walking toward a campfire over at the far side.



by Priyanka Chiguluri, 7th grade I looked around the room filled with strangers hoping there would be someone to talk to. That’s when I saw him, a boy about my age. He looked a bit shady, but that made him all the more interesting. As I approached the boy, I noticed the dark circles around his hazel eyes. His light brown hair fell softly over his face, and his skin was streaked by sunlight from the window, revealing his fair skin tone. “Hey,” I said to the boy. “Hey,” he replied. “I’m Logan,” I whispered. “Jamie,” he told me. “Your name’s, uh, different.” “Gee, thanks,” I rolled my eyes. “I get that it’s supposed to be a ‘guy’s name,’ but I don’t appreciate the comment about it.” “Sorry, I guess you just made me nervous.” Soon a young woman walked to the front of the room with a microphone in her hand. She looked like she was in her late twenties, certainly no older than thirty. Her blonde hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders and her face wanted to appear comforting, but it just felt fake. I couldn’t figure out how I ended up in this situation having to listen to her. “Hello, everyone,” the girl said in an obnoxious voice. “My name is Claire, and I will be leading today’s meeting. Before we start, I want you to form a big circle.” She walked to the middle of the room, and everyone moved to create a circle. I was still standing next to the boy named Jamie, about three people away from Claire. He looked at me with an annoyed expression, and I’m sure my face mirrored the same look. I rolled my eyes a little bit, and he chuckled. It made my lips curl into small smile. “So let’s start by introducing ourselves,” Claire said while looking to her left. As I looked around the circle, I noticed there were only about fifteen people, half the amount I had thought there would be. Each person said their name as we went around the circle. 6

“Behind Bars” by Mary V. Sullivan, 7th grade “Flew the Coop (just in time)” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“Perfect!” Claire exclaimed. She seemed overly peppy. “Instead of talking to the whole group, we are going to break into pairs and talk about why we are here.” Jamie and I were paired together. The idea of telling him why I was at a meeting for “damaged” people gave me a sick feeling. I didn’t plan on sharing my story with him. “So,” I said, “what’s someone like you doing at a place like this?” “I could ask you the same thing,” Jamie replied. “I asked first, so you tell me. If it’s a good answer, you might earn an answer from me.” “Fine,” Jamie started, “I don’t sleep. My brain has the terrifying capability of twisting my sweet dreams into horrifying nightmares.” “Whaddya mean?” I asked. “Whenever I try to sleep, something happens to my dreams. My fears come true in them, and I can’t escape. It’s like I’m trapped in a box full of my worst fears, and I can’t break out until I wake up, and if I fall asleep again I get locked into that box. It’s a never-ending cycle that keeps me awake so long INTERSECTIONS

that I can barely function. That’s why I’m here, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.” Jamie was looking directly in my blue eyes, and I couldn’t help but think about what he said. “What happens when you don’t wake up from the dreams?” “I don’t know,” Jamie answered, “I think my brain’s too afraid to let that happen.” I looked at Jamie with sorrow in my eyes. I knew how it felt to be sleep deprived but not for the same reasons. “Now that you know why I’m here, it’s your turn to explain,” Jamie said. I was hesitant but decided that it wouldn’t be fair for him to open up to me if I didn’t do the same.

“Mile High” by Hallie Graham, 7th grade

“Well,” I began, “every time someone gets the slightest bit mad at me I panic and completely lose control over myself.” “Why?” Jamie inquired. “When I was about five, my parents got divorced, and before that they fought non-stop, thus the divorce. Every night as I tried to fall asleep, their yells floated through the vent in my room. The way they screamed at each other still haunts me. It seems that wherever I go their voices follow me.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault,” I stared off for a second, caught up in my thoughts. “It’s like I have this need to be loved, and I’m too afraid to chase anyone who cares about me away.”

“On Edge” by Lila Jane Pulliam, 6th grade

At that moment, Jamie wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a small yet comforting hug. “Alright,” Claire’s voice echoed through the speakers, interrupting our conversation and signaling our time was up. “It’s about time to end this meeting. I hope that this helped most of you with your problems! Have a great weekend everyone,” she was too cheery again, but I didn’t really care anymore. “If you ever need someone to talk to, call me,” Jamie said, slipping a piece of paper into my hand. “Same to you,” I said, using his pen to write my number on his hand because I didn’t have any paper.


“Fractured Parkway” by Eden Powell, 6th grade


“Water under the Bridge” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“Mirror” by Lexi Stewart, 6th grade

“Triplets” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“Light and Shadows” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade


“A Time to Sit and Think” by Michelle Ikejiani, 6th grade


“Waiting” by Pia Strang, 7th grade “Paint in Paradise” by Elisabeth Nelson, 8th grade

“Silent Wood” by Mary V. Sullivan, 7th grade

“Entrance to the Beach” by Lexi Stewart, 6th grade


“Thread the Needle” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade


“Perspective Studies”

“Blossoms through Black and White” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade

“Pretty and Pink” by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade

“Ivy Been Wondering” by Mary V. Sullivan, 7th grade

“Flowers in Spring” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade



“Standing Still” by Evelyn Risner, 5th grade

“Yellow Flowers” by Lexi Stewart, 6th grade

“Beyond the Sprout” by Lailah Rucker, 7th grade

“Petillante” by Elisabeth Nelson, 8th grade

“Delightful” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade SPRING 2018


“The Power of Ponyboy” by Priyanka Chiguluri, 7th grade A thought, starts as a word and grows into a sentence. A sentence multiplies with more and more words, morphing into a paragraph, with so many thoughts making a chapter, with more paragraphs sentences words until it becomes a Book,

the grandest title of all. A story about a boy who is truly afraid with a tuff reputation to hide his fear, the story so complex starts with just a single thought.

“Silence: March 14, 2018” by Veronica Pierce, 7th grade

10:00 am and Silence left the room. It filed out to Souby, not caring about anything except the 17. Those 17 who died in Florida. Silence linked arms, stood together. Stood 17 minutes for the 17. Wind, gusts of wind, nothing could hurt. Nothing could hurt Silence, not even guns. The 17? The 17 people? No time to say goodbye. No time to say “I love you” once more. Those 17 who were pierced by bullets. Why? Silence stood, thinking about this. Silence in a courtyard, but a voice in the world. 12

“A Sparkling Man” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“The Threatening Side of Graceful” by Sarah Hinds, 6th grade

Jellyfish! Jellyfish! Elegantly adrift, taking his time, never goes swift. What eternal being could create this creature burdened with such a terrible fate? Bearing a sting that pierces the night, he gives his victims a wave of fright. What is the motive of this lethal action, for it serves no satisfaction? The royal, deep ocean is his home, where he lives among the white sea foam. Every creature he brushes past fears their next breath will be the last. Why is he like a ballerina, beautifully leaping? Yet, he turns to the devil, his poison seeping? With neither eyes nor brain, his prey is still easily slain. Jellyfish! Jellyfish! His tentacles glisten and glimmer. Under the light, his glass body shimmers. What eternal being would create this creature burdened with such a terrible fate?


“Swan! Swan! Flying High” by Anna Li Hornsby, 6th grade Swan! Swan! Flying high in the beautiful blue sky, what wisdom you hide. Do you have any pride?

Finding new friends, there are so many new trends. Look how far you’ve come, there are so many songs you hum.

Swimming upon the lakes how high are your stakes? Oh, how you glide so gracefully across the water, you are such a good spotter.

How powerful are your words? They’re not like any ordinary bird’s. Oh, your wings so ornate, you have so many good traits.

Spreading your wings far, oh, you’ve become a star. What wise creature you’ve been, oh, how big is your grin?

Swan! Swan! Flying high in the beautiful blue sky, what wisdom you hide. Do you have any pride?

“Goodbye Birds” by Nina Fentriss, 8th grade

“When Spring Decides to Come” by Ava Cassidy, 7th grade

“Stealing” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

When the buds on the trees are blooming and when the clouds in the sky are crying with joy, then spring has decided to come. When the grass in the dirt is a bright vibrant green and windy days and windy nights whip my hair around, then spring has decided to come. When blossoms on dogwoods bloom pink and whiffs of white flowers whirl through air, then spring has decided to come.

“And Dragonflies” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade


When spring has decided to come, with buds and rain and grass and wind and flowers and little ones, I am content to sit and stay outside. I am happy to read, high in a tree. I am thankful to cherish those I love when spring decides to come.

When little squeaks and squawks rain down from branches above and fluffy feathers float away, then spring has decided to come. 13

“I Know My Red Barn” by Marit Davis, 6th grade

I know my old, red barn red with a white star, surrounded by woods next to the cows bellowing in the pasture. The ice cold creek flowing through the woods the drip, drip, dripping of rain on the metal rooftop fat black and white cows sloshing in the mud. Golden hay stacked against its side, light creeping through the splintery wood bear sitting next to my cousin. Cow manure seeping into the ground, the smell of skunk lingering from the night before, and the taste of the water from the roof making my tongue curl.

“Perched” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

The week’s problems melt away like a snowman in the sun, relaxed as my cousins and I joke around the walls gobble up heaps of homework, tests, and quizzes. So much depends upon the red and white barn sitting on the hill in Macon County, Tennessee.


by Tara Howard, 6th grade Love is like the sweet taste of ice cream melting in your mouth. You can never defend love but love can defend you. Love has to have life in order to live Life has to have love to give. If you ever come upon a bad situation, trying to figure out which one to give, give love and give life because they both have love and life. 14

“The Wooden Church Door” by Michelle Ikejiani, 6th grade


“Angel” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“There Is Hope”

by Olivia Olafsson, 7th grade I think it’s funny how some believe that life’s purpose is simply to grieve or that charity never makes a soul rich and hatred is a human’s only niche. “Black Capped Chickadee in Snow” by Kelley Aquino, 5th grade

I wonder if our lives ever interlink or is your fate just too smudged with ink to know the real reason of why we are here? Do you truly believe it is to cower in fear? I can’t imagine how some perceive a world where nothing has been achieved. They live in the night and forget the days, they hear the doubters but never the praise. I feel it’s ironic how some can think that we can survive ‘til the world’s last brink but that we can never embrace the reality of our most undeniable mortality. I think it’s strange how one can’t see the endless possibility, maybe not forever but we have today, so whatever the vision, we mustn’t delay. Never again shall our heads hang low, never again shall we turn our neighbor into foe. Open your eyes to the role we play, caught in the events of a single day. How are so many blind to the obvious fee awarded to those who dare to think free, paid for by ignorance and constant doubt ‘til the mind is starved by an endless drought. Liberate the mind from the cage in which we dwell, forget of the world outside the cell. Pull back the blinds to the light of truth, and again you are reminded of the hope of youth. SPRING 2018

”Blue Jay in Sunset” by Lilly Eskridge, 5th grade

“Here I Lie”

by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade Underneath the stars and underneath the worlds not known, here I lie. Underneath a thousand thoughts and underneath the magnolia trees, here I lie. Underneath the traditions and underneath the worries of tomorrow, here I lie. Underneath the bricks that hold this school and underneath the women before me, here I lie. Underneath the honor, here I lie. But atop the possibilities, here I stand. 15

“The Black Dress” by Autumn Nash, 8th grade

Death, as far away as it may seem to those of youth, is unavoidable and approaching quickly no matter how wonderful the person or creature may be. Of course, I thought she was the one exception. “Father?” I gazed up into his emerald green eyes, towering above me as if at the top of a skyscraper. At age six, however, I was probably the size of a garden gnome and father an average height. “Yes?” he ticked his head to the side, humoring my possible curiosity of the world around me and how it works. Ever since Mother didn’t come home that night, he had been extra interested in me and trying to make me forget she hadn’t come back yet. Father’s eyes were soft, tired from spilling tears. I didn’t understand why he was crying, but he would cradle my head in his arms and stroke my hair. “Is this dress okay?” I held up the long dress, green and flashy, above my torso with a smile plastered to my face. I remembered Mother always found it cute on me, especially when she would put my hair up in braids and let me skip around the chapel in the mornings. “Sweetheart, we need to wear this dress.” He knelt and picked out the short black dress with the purple satin ribbon hanging at the bottom of the closet. I had only worn it once before, and it was still as long and as big on me as I remembered.

“But it’s so dark! I’ll look so sad!” I whined, radiating a pout and sticking out my tongue. I found it funny, but Father took a deep sigh and starting crying again. I was puzzled why my choice in dresses made him sad, but I grabbed his arm and squeezed with all the strength I could muster. “We’re going to the chapel, and we need to look reverent.” He sighed, stroking my head as if a soft rabbit’s ear. I still didn’t understand, neither why I had to wear the dress or what reverent meant in the first place. “Here,” he picked up the dress and handed it to me. “I’ll zip you up in the back.” I nodded and pushed him by the ankles outside the door, reached up to the doorknob, and clicked the door closed. Thoughts whizzing around in my mind, head ticked to the side, I pondered what we could possibly be doing. I didn’t understand why I had to wear the dress, or why Mother hadn’t come home from when the ambulance sped her away into midnight. “Father, I’m ready.” He walked, dressed in full black. There was no speckle of color, even in his usually bright eyes. He looked like my dress with its aura of sadness. He knelt down again, zipped up my dress, and wrapped the satin ribbon in a large bow. “So why are we going to the chapel?” I asked, turning to look him in the eyes again. “Mother is there. We’re going to sing to her.”

“Life Remains” by Ella Grant Pollard, 8th grade



“Just Sometimes You Need to Find It” by Eden Rittberg, 6th grade

“I don’t know. There is no point. Everyone hates me, I have no one.” “No, that is a lie,” a voice in my head says. “That is true and you know it,” I say back. Hello, my name is Margaret Hardy. I go to Wexford Middle School in Boston, Massachusetts. My family and I have just relocated here because I have Down Syndrome. Boston is the only place with a hospital that will help my needs. Unfortunately, there is no cure, so I am stuck the way I am and that is all that can be done.

“Creativity” by Pia Strang, 7th grade

When we had lived in Sacramento, I was homeschooled because I had to constantly go back to the hospital. I would always have breakdowns due to one of my problems. Still, my parents decided I should go to school with everyone else. They made that decision two years ago. Now I am in seventh grade but in a new school. My very first day, my teacher decided to give me a different introduction because I am “special.” Everyone then teased me calling me names like deformed, incorrect, or mistake. They would say, “Hey, weirdo, do you need help getting up because you are down”? I just say no and move on. Every night I cry to my parents saying it would have been better in Sacramento. They always say, “Sweetie it will all turn out fine.” They have been saying this for two years, and my life is still miserable. It’s not that they don’t want to make me happy, but it is hard to move back. My dad needs to find a new job, and we cannot afford a house. So we are stuck. Every night I lie in bed, thinking what it is like in heaven. Sometimes I wish I could just go there. If life is miserable, why not try something new? I explained my thoughts to my parents, and they broke down in tears. I am their only child, I am all they have got. My sadness is like a wheel that never stops moving. It just keeps going and going with no end. All I see is the wheel never stopping. Even when I grow old, it still keeps moving. It only stops when I leave this earth. What I am scared of is when my parents pass, then I truly will be alone. They are both only children, and their parents have died. I go to school and everything stays the same. Until one day. A girl named Susie Kary comes up to me. She doesn’t call me names and instead says “Hello.” It was probably a dare. That is normally the case. But the next day she comes up to me again and this time says, “How are you?” The very next SPRING 2018

“I Can” by Ava Cassidy, 7th grade

day we sit together at lunch. It feels like someone has just stopped my wheel. Two years later, Susie and I are best friends. A year ago she had told me that she had thyroid cancer, an illness formed in your neck, when she was only three. She tells me took a long time to heal, but she lives a normal life. What she teaches me is that happiness is always there, just sometimes you need to find it. 17

“Beauty in the Dark” by Amelia Olafsson, 7th grade

Have you ever seen an amber sky in the late afternoon of early winter where the trees burn a brilliant gold and the wind blows a soft timbre? Have you ever looked out past the stars on a clear night in late June where the endless space between each light leaves just enough dark for the moon? Have you ever felt the wind’s caress in the first days of autumn when it lifts the leaves back into the air shortly after they have fallen? Have you ever blown a dandelion wish from a blooming field in mid-April when the fragrance of the budding trees exhales from every pine and maple? Have you ever stood on the porch and admired the darkness of the night when a hush has blanketed the whole town right before the sky bursts into light? If you ever have the pleasure of seeing beauty in the dark, don’t hesitate to admire the luminance that can spill from every mark

“Shine” by Priyanka Chiguluri, 7th grade

“The Feared One”

by Josephine Hinds, 6th grade Mosquito! Mosquito! taking flight who will your victims be this night? How could one lethal inject come from a tiny insect? Who would ever guess it is much more than a mere pest? With their perfect little disguise, they skillfully avoid our eyes. While the innocent cry out in vain, you fly away without any pain. You certainly are the deadliest, and to many are the scariest!

“Sight” by Elisabeth Nelson, 8th grade


Mosquitoes aren’t that hard to kill, yet they plague us still. The best defense to land is a fast-moving hand. INTERSECTIONS

“I Heard the Soft Hoot of An Owl” by Martha Dillon, 7th grade

I heard the soft hoot of an owl

“Home” by Larissa Smith, 8th grade


by Larissa Smith, 8th grade I may run to New York to stand beneath it all to the Empire State in all its glory to find where I can tell my own story. I may fly to the colosseum to find myself in Rome to walk between the shadowed paths to find my way home. I may find myself in South Dakota to stand beneath its history to stand next to the mountains tall to find my where I belong.

Last night I saw the gentle silver light of the stars Last night I saw a runaway star shooting across the sky Last night I saw a horse galloping through blue water Last night I saw the blazing outline of a close star At dawn I saw bright shoes pounding across green turf This morning I saw fingers pressing buttons on a large keyboard This morning I saw hands through hair and endless frustration Mid-morning I saw a long bow sawing back and forth on metal strings Mid-morning I saw conversation and hungry girls This afternoon I saw a large screen blazing with images of an erupting volcano This afternoon I saw a young woman spilling her story on a stage This afternoon I see fingers softly dancing across small square keys Right now.

No matter where I go no matter how far I reach I will always go home I will find my own Tardis to never be alone. Because no matter how far no matter how fast I will go with the current I will reach for the sky but I am not gone I will fly.


“Owl” by Lucy Callen, 5th grade

“Owl” by Sari Shaffer, 5th grade



by Isabella Baldwin, 7th grade The stars shine brightly in the dark sky above. I wrap my blanket tighter around me to shield me from the cold night air. Our freshly caught catfish is propped by the fire to cook. The quiet ripples on the lake catch my sister’s attention, and she ventures out on the boat to lure in more dinner. I stir the hot coals. Sparks fly into the sky to join the stars. The flames dance in the moonlight. The tree tops bend and sway under the force of the wind. I lay down on the cold, wet ground. This is where I will spend the night. This is home. My eyes flicker shut. It seems as though I have barely closed them when I once again become aware of my surroundings. I rise to my feet, curious of what might have roused me in the middle of the night. Suddenly I am aware of the harsh, cold wind tearing at the forest around me. I shudder. The flames have died down, and only the red, fiery glow of coals remain. I prod the fire with a stick, hoping to revive a flame. To my delight, it comes, but it is like a hungry child. It demands fuel, and if not satisfied, it will not show the warmth of mercy to me in return.

“Peace” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

I hurry into the forest to a place where the moon peeks through a gap between clusters of bushy leaves, revealing an old fallen tree. I peel strips of bark and break off small sticks. Back at the fire, the flame has gone out again, and I must stir the coals to restart it. I place the bark and sticks on top of the small flame and throw some dry leaves on top for extra encouragement. The fire leaps back to life, and I gradually place larger pieces of wood on as it grows so that it might last longer this time. Now fully awake, I don’t think I will be able to fall asleep again. So, I decide to take a walk. I bundle up and stroll to the water’s edge. The reflection of the trees in the lake looks like a smeared water-color painting. The man in the moon is smiling down at me from his throne in the sky. A bird takes flight from a nearby tree, challenging me to follow on wings of my own. Across the inky darkness of the water, the trees are a silhouette against the gray sky. I pick my way along the slippery rocks. The wind wisps my hair around my face. I have been walking for a long time when I first notice the sky turning gray. Then, a burst of colorful light seeps from behind the tree-line, daring to swallow the darkness of night. I return to camp where I sit back by the fire and prepare for a new day.


My sister still sleeps peacefully nearby. The fire crackles happily. It is content. I am content.

“Top of the World” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade INTERSECTIONS

“The Journey of A Grape” (A fruitful short story) by Lucy McNally, 7th grade “No use holding on,” she said. “You will change with the times whether you like it or not. You can’t stop it.”

I had only seen a grape “transform,” as we like to call it, once in my lifetime. I could remember it so clearly. His deep, purple skin became shriveled and dry, so much that he could barely see. In only two days, he dropped from the vine as a helpless raisin. I was thinking of the memory only the day before. I had been lazily swinging from the vine, enjoying the sun on my skin and the breeze on my stem. Suddenly, my best friend, Violet, from the vine next door noticed something on my face. “Is that a wrinkle?” she observed. My body froze. A wrinkle? It couldn’t be true.

I looked at my skin and caught sight of yet another wrinkle. Maybe Magenta was right. I was changing, and I couldn’t prevent it no matter how hard I tried. An hour later, I felt my grip on the vine get looser and looser. I had five more wrinkles than before, and the light was fading fast. The voices of my neighbors blurred like they were underwater. “Reflections” by Elisabeth Nelson, 8th grade

“What?” I cried. “How could that happen? I have only been out in the sun for 10 minutes!” Every grape knew that wrinkles were the start of the transformation. “I’m sure it will go away soon,” Violet said, trying to comfort me. I wasn’t so sure.

Losing my senses gave me time to think. Now I didn’t feel so scared. I thought of the fast-approaching transformation as the next chapter in my new life. It sounded strange, but as I was getting weaker, I grew more confident. My time as a grape was over. It was time for a new start, a second shot at life. With a newfound glow in my seeds, my grip slid from the vine, and I fell to the dust of the earth. I was something completely different now. I was a raisin, wrinkled and flawed, but still

The next day, I clutched to my vine as tightly as I could. The sun rose over the vineyard, brighter and hotter than ever. My neighbor, Magenta, noticed. She was the wisest and oldest grape in the vineyard, and she had known me ever since I was a little seed.

with some flavor to share.

“Beauty in the Squalor” Elisabeth Nelson, 8th grade



“Pink Roses”

by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade Mom sat there. Doing nothing. Just letting him yell at her. Over and over again. For nothing. For everything. Silent tears slipped down her face. Her mind was made up. About what, I didn’t know. I sat in the kitchen trying to do my homework. The thin walls did little to hide the one-sided argument happening in the living room. Why was that always Mom’s way. Sitting there. Letting him yell at her. When Dad stopped for a breath, the room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. I glanced through the entrance way to the living room. Dad exhaled slowly. He suddenly looked tired. Very tired. His blonde hair was limp, his normally calm face red. But his grey eyes were still throwing daggers. My hands trembled, and I couldn’t hold the pencil. The house was so quiet; all I could hear was the whoosh of the AC. Then I heard the couch springs squeak as Mom stood up. She quietly padded into her bedroom. In my head I could see the living room so clearly. Wood floors, chipped walls, and a dusty fireplace. And dad. I walked in. Dad didn’t look up from his hands. Mom came out with a packed suitcase. It must have been packed for a while, because I could see a dust bunny hanging onto the corner of it. Her wide brown eyes met mine for a second, and I saw something flicker in them. Regret? With a soft click, the door closed behind her. Dad didn’t react. He walked into their bedroom. I wanted to run, scream, call out after her. But my body was frozen. My hands and feet couldn’t move. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My brain was screaming one thing at me—She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone. Forever? I took a shaky breath and picked up my pencil. Seven times thirty-two is….I quickly scratched out the problem on my paper….224. I moved to the next problem. Another shaky breath. No. I couldn’t do this. I put away the homework with only three problems completed. I went through the living room to go upstairs. Dad was gone. The bathroom door was shut, and the shower was running. I closed the door to my bedroom and leaned against it. Inhale, exhale. That’s what Mrs. Becky said to do. I had to put all those meetings that took place in her little counseling room to use if I was going to get through this. 22

But why? Why did I have to go through this? I’m only eleven going on twelve. I changed into my favorite pajamas and tucked myself into bed. She’s not gone. She’s just at the grocery store. Or on a trip. Maybe finding a job. She will be back any second now. I fell asleep waiting for the door to quietly creak open and for her to tip-toe up the stairs to tuck me in. She never came. I woke up the next morning, and for one blissful second, I forgot. Forgot that Dad was now the only person here to take care of me, that Mom was gone. I sat up in bed and looked around the room. To the left of me, sunlight spilled through the window like yellow crayons that had been left outside and melted. To my right, the flaking white paint of my door was barley visible it was covered in so many posters. My walls were that perfectly balanced sea green that Mom and I had spent hours huddled over paint samples trying to find. And then it hit me. Mom. I got out of bed and glanced in the mirror. Wavy brown hair in a tangled mess. Eyes that matched my walls. A mark where the pillow had pressed against my freckled skin. Chloe Sans—the girl who didn’t have a mother. I held my umbrella over my head as I stood in the driveway, waiting for the school bus. I glanced at my watch. 7:13. The bus was three minutes late. It started raining harder. Everywhere I looked, all I saw was Mom. In the front door. When we got it painted, she had accidently written the wrong color number and the workers had come and painted it pink. The whole family stood outside laughing and laughing. In the rose bushes out in the yard. Mom had worked night and day all summer, and they had bloomed with huge fragrant petals. Neighbors would stop by the house to comment on them. But now fall’s breath had snatched the delicate blossoms off the vine, and only a few wilted petals remained. I saw her in the puddles. Our matching pink rain boots splashing through them as we giggled like little girls. But most of all, I saw her in the rain. In the silent tears that had slipped down her cheeks because of Dad… because of me? Ivy immediately knew something was wrong. The bus rumbled and groaned on the thirteen minute ride to school. Each pothole made us bounce a little in our seats. I counted the thirteenth one as the bus groaned at the next stop, and the doors snapped open with a sickening rubber on rubber sound. It seemed everything was falling apart in this small town. Don’t bother looking. Flutter Town, Vermont isn’t on the map.


Finally, the bus rumbled into the driveway after thirteen stops. Ivy realized I wasn’t talking. Her big brown eyes were filled with concern, but I couldn’t tell her. Not yet. The pain was too fresh. She tried her best to fill the gloomy silence with chatter, but quickly gave up. She walked me to my locker, then gave a half smile and said, “Uh, I’ll see you at lunch.” She opened her mouth to say more but then changed her mind and walked away.

into the water, turning that perfect crystal clear the color of blood. And I took the blue paint. And I let it trickle through the red. Turning it a rich purple. I let it rain down. I let it flow. I wasn’t ashamed to let the raindrops fall. To let the tears drip. At last I got the pink. And right in the middle I painted a perfect circle. A circle that would hold all the memories. Of pink doors, and roses, and rainboots. Of sweet shampoo and lazy Sunday nights. Of people who might never come back.

The day was a daze. Everything was blurry. I took the test in math class. Don’t ask me what the questions were about. I read a passage in English. Don’t ask me what happened. I learned about some big event in History class. Don’t bother to ask me what it was. The only time I was fully focused was art. It was a free day, so we could do whatever we wanted. I carefully laid out everything I would need. A piece of blank

I took that paper that held everything. And I carefully ripped off the hard red. And the watery blues. All that was left was that pink circle. Red and blue still rimmed it. It always would. But I would hold this circle in my heart, until all of the colors blurred together. Looking back, I realized that red can make you stronger. And

white paper, full of promise. A small glass of clear cool water that wouldn’t stay that way for long. A thick black paintbrush that felt solid in my hand. And a squirt of red paint. A squirt of blue paint. And a squirt of pink paint.

blue can make the pain weaker. And pink is full of promise. Maybe she would come back. Maybe she wouldn’t. But until then, I had Dad. Even if over time anger had made him rough. And I had Ivy, who I knew would always be there.

First I let out my anger. I let the red paint slice across the page. I let it be thick, wet, heavy, hot. I smacked the brush

The lunch bell rang, and I was the first one out of the classroom.

“I’ll Be In the Mountains” by Sabrina Russell, 8th grade

Need me? I’ll be in the mountains, where rivers’ staccato symphony ambles through valleys. Where the sun shines through trees just right, making them the color of the moon. Where the only impurity in the air is the birds and the clouds. Where small ponds shine like silver dollars, waiting for someone to come upon them, and mockingbirds’ song echoes through ridges like hammered gold in late autumn. Where one can step outside and hear his own thoughts without the roar of politics and war echoing of city buildings. Where rhododendron blossoms leap across dustings of snow, where peace abounds, where life is wild. Need me? I’ll be at home, in the mountains. (top) “Zentangled Bear” by Kathleen Hu, 6th grade (bottom left) “Sun and Moon” by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade (bottom right) “Mountains and Stars” by Maddie McCall, 7th grade SPRING 2018


The person sitting alone in a crowded cafeteria doesn’t instantaneously transform into the most popular person. There are no princes who find princesses. When love is found, it is often lost. “Spread Your Wings” by Ava Willoughby, 7th grade

“Happily Ever After” by Priyanka Chiguluri, 7th grade


For so long we wait for the perfect ending to appear in our lives, instead of making those endings ourselves.

Happily Ever After,

We don’t all

a fairy tale ending

work for hours

where everyone

over breaks and weekends.

gets the perfect conclusion to

If we aren’t accepted by

their story:


The good-for-nothing woman

we don’t all fight

with a screwed-up life

to show different

finds success and love.

is amazing.

The “nobody”

Instead of finding

suddenly becomes Prom

our own prince,


a lot of us wait

The prince saves

for him to come to us.

the princess

Not all of us

and they fall in love

search for love

and get married.

as we sit helplessly

Love is kept between

and pray for it

two people forever.

to find us

It’s the perfect

on its own.

feel good ending,

The thing is,

but it’s so far

Happily Ever After

from reality.

does exist:

Nobody wakes up

all we have to do

one day from the

to have our own

sadness of life

perfect ending is

to find success

to define it

lying waiting for them

to create it

on their couch.

for ourselves.

“Geometric Giraffe” by Allie Cunningham, 7th grade

“Missy Claire” by Evelyn Trost, 8th grade

“American Rose” by Shaffer Dale, 6th grade

I am American rose with a vibe to seize the day. I take on life with a big smile as I bike along the boardwalk in my red flip-flops. I am American rose.



by Sabrina Russell, 8th grade As the day dies and the sun falls, there is a death among life. A large coin begins to hide behind the rolling hills of the earth. The death of a day has started with a sky of gold like a king’s crown. Clouds scatter in the already magnificent sky. God begins to paint his masterpiece. Dipping his brush first into the deep purple grain of the field, then taking a dab of pink from the roses he blends the purple into orange the color of a peach. With one last majestic sweep, the canvas transformed

“Window to the Soul” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade

into the deepest red your eyes can see. The sky is a watercolor of wisdom, beauty, and royalty, but what makes the sunset so special is that every human, at one point watches the enchanting death of the day. Every Single One watches a day woven together by the threads of life go to sleep. It is the common ground between two men in a fight, the peace among a people at war. It brings people together. Sunsets, the great juxtaposition of nature, are slivers of time that never die but die every day. Go outside. There is a time when everyone stops, then looks, and realizes: Death is a beautiful, terrible thing. But the people who take time to watch the sunset, see both.

“Waves” by Lexi Stewart, 6th grade



“She was Simplicity” by Virginia Callen, 7th grade

Her voice was like a violin never lingering on one note for long. Rich and smooth for a moment, flitting and brisk the next. Gleeful with an uplifting tune. It was rhythmic and comforting like gently plucking the strings. Her eyes were like coffee greeting me warmly each morning. Beautiful in their simplicity. Painted with endless shades, And conveying her inner thoughts with their tints. Like dark smudges staining a sheet of paper, and half rings left on the table.

“Color Me Blue” by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade

Her hands moved like ballerinas nimbly twirling across the paper. as she wrote in long dancing phrases. Delicate fingers and a soft touch graceful in their movements, constantly tapping steadily to a song only she could hear. She was like the dawn the first light of morning, sunlight streaming through a window, reflecting off grass shrouded in dew. She calls all of the birds to sing, a brisk nip in the fresh air pinkened clouds rolling across the sky. Never once did she forget to arise, or leave you awaiting her comforting presence lying just below the horizon, always remembered.

“Gleaming Turquoise” by Emma Silva, 6th grade


“The Bluest Eye” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

“The Ghost of Boo Radley” by Gabby Welhoelter, 8th grade

Unknown entity. Malevolent phantom. Crazy. High-strung. All because real courage isn’t a man with a gun in his hand— it might be scissors, or a knife. Maybe even soap dolls, or a pocket watch. Finders were keepers unless title was proven I found them, and when you finally see them, they see you too. “Hey Boo.” INTERSECTIONS

“Try Your Best”

by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade Let the light shine, it will shine for you. Look at the sky, the sky’s a view.

Keep your hearts full, do not worry of what is not near. Only the beautiful may be oh so dear.

Only for those who watch and wait, will it come again another day.

Try your best and never fear.

Stay happy and please never shed a tear. Heaven and Earth are complete with the brush of the sea, the heart of the Sun, and the whistling tree, it seems to be that they are looking for me. You may run, and you may hide, but Nature itself is here for you to find, the beauty in being true and kind. Not only for you but for me and for those who cherish the little things. Try your best, and never fear. Stay happy and please never shed a tear.

“Pop” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade

I see the way the world works, the way it never loses the old. The way it loves and cares for those who just simply may not know. They may not know the beauty of nature and the heart of the Sun, and the whistling tree. It happens to be that they have found me. Try your best, and never fear and love what is dear.

“Orange” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade



“The Ivory Empress” by Mary V. Sullivan, 7th grade

“What a disgrace!” Nia’s mother shouts, unable to contain her rage. “What an arrogant, repulsive, and careless girl you are! Not even considering how you are affecting the Hvondi family! I expect you will fall asleep playing that aggravating harmonica of yours and choke on it!” Tears stream down Nia’s face as she runs out of the hut, too familiar with her mother’s abuse. The brisk 1869 December of China air rolls across her rosy cheeks, and Nia reluctantly collapses behind a rough stone wall after miles of running. Nia’s fingers run up and down her worn coat in search of her salvation; her harmonica. The tense muscles on her shoulders soften as the familiar sensation of engraved silver greets her calloused palms. Nia lifts the delicate silver to her frostbitten lips and closes her snowflake-decorated eyes. No matter what happened, she could always play her harmonica. Before she even realizes, her soul offers up tunes to her chaotic throat and through the bars to create the most tremendous music. Suddenly, she’s in another world. She loses all other worries and plays for hours on end to no one but herself. When Nia finally comes to her senses, she grudgingly rises, surprised to find a glimpse of flashing color catch her eye over the stone wall. Peeking over, she’s astonished to find a magnificent garden. Layers of green upon green race up every visible barrier, making the compact space seem like a tropical rainforest. She can smell the exotic fresh air that her presence would pollute. Yet what catches her eye is a boy, serene, next to a pool of water. He is draped in a beautiful robe, adorned in jade and rubies, and his brown locks cover what she hopes to be emerald green eyes. Her once frozen fingers are now filled with warmth, filled with hope that this man could ever love a woman such as she. But, as a sigh escapes her lips, she realizes that she believes the impossible. He could never fall in love with a woman who was arrogant, repulsive, and careless. Reluctantly, Nia heads off, trying to get his image out of her head. But the more she tried to forget him, the more she thought about him. Yes, a man such as he could never love someone like her, but she could always dream. As the days drew shorter and the nights drew colder, Nia found herself visiting that wall, curling up against the chilled stone day by day. Her lips almost always found that sweet harmonica, playing in hopes of reaching the ears of the man she longed to meet.


On yet another bitter winter night, Nia was examining the shocking flames of a fire in a nearby market when she overheard two men speaking of the very garden she visited daily. And, the more she listened, the more she realized that the boy she loved was none other than Prince Abasi, son of Emperor Habee. Nia then strolled aimlessly throughout the village, heartbroken, as who could ever love such an arrogant, repulsive, and careless girl such as her? As dawn approached, she came upon a cluster of merchants who bade her to sit and listen to their stories, and so she did. She was especially astonished when they described a magician named Rasha. “Is this true? Can this man do what you tell me?” Nia asked. Receiving only questionable looks, she turned away, her cheeks growing warm. She perked up, surprised, when a low growl answered, “Rasha, the man who grants wishes? Have you not heard of him, his tales?” Tilting her head like a puppy, Nia shook her head, which was followed by gasps around the room. “Where can I find him?” Nia asked. The men pointed to the Ahmose forest and instructed her that she must walk five days and five nights without stopping. With only her harmonica, Nia set off. After five days and nights of non-stop walking, she came upon a small pond and an old hut. The door opened, and a young man stepped out and eyed her. He had hair buzzed to his scalp and a single tooth hanging over his chapped lip, with wide black eyes darting every which way. “Are you Rasha?” Nia said timidly, her voice a mere whisper. “I have been expecting you for quite some time,” the man said warily with a nod, checking his watch and clicking his forked tongue. “Some merchants told me that you were…” Rasha held up his hand, silencing her. “Nia, everybody knows me. For now, get some rest, you have been traveling for quite some time.” Shocked that he knew her name, Nia silently trudged inside and refreshed. After finishing up a cup of warm milk, Rasha joined her at his worn desk as Nia began to explain how she had fallen in love with the son of the emperor, and how he could never love someone like her. She then asked, “Can you make me selfless, beautiful, and powerful?”


“Perspective” by Sara Jean Caver, 7th grade

Word began to spread about the Ivory Empress like wildfire. By the day of the Ivory Princess’ arrival, the pathways had been swept and everyone was watching. When she did appear, the only heart that beat was her own, and it was so silent that the loudest noise was coming from her own footsteps. She fearlessly entered the palace, gaining respectful bows from everyone in sight. Eventually, she came upon a large throne which held the ruler of Beijing, and beside him, his son, Prince Abasi.

“Why of course I can!” Rasha replied without hesitation, “but you must be warned that once I give you what you wish for, I cannot change it back.” Without the slightest hesitation, Nia shook his hand and paid him with the only thing she possessed, her harmonica. Years passed in the village. When Nia’s mother could not find her, she assumed that Nia had fallen asleep and choked on her harmonica. She held a small funeral and grieved. Another decade went by, and Beijing suffered a Great Depression. Much land was taken, and many citizens were killed. Emperor Habee’s military had just endured a great loss, and the few soldiers that had survived were camped outside the city and village when a young woman was seen appear from the Ahmose Forest, dressed completely in white. She was so beautiful that when she asked to see the emperor the soldiers immediately obliged. Her presence even awed the ruler to which the soldiers escorted her, so much that he agreed to let her lead his navy if she promised to win back all of Beijing. Within days, she had fulfilled her promises and captured over 20,000 of the enemy soldiers prisoner. Emperor Habee expressed gratitude by telling the woman that if she visited two weeks from that day, he would reward her. The Ivory Empress kneeled and promised to arrive on the given day. She then left, entering the forest once more.


“Emperor Habee,” the Ivory Princess said in mid-bow, “I ask not much of you. I ask for nor power or wealth, only for your son’s hand in marriage.” With an astounded expression on his face, the emperor began to rise, when Prince Abasi abruptly stopped him and stood, a perfect replica of his father. “Father,” he announced, “If you wish of me to marry this woman, then I shall, but please, hear my story.” Reluctantly, the emperor fell back down into his throne, but his hawk eyes remained on his disobedient child. “You see,” Prince Abasi declared, to no one in particular, “I was isolated. For the past decade, I had spent my days in solitude in the Kirikou Garden, and my depression grew so great that I couldn’t even enjoy it anymore. One day, I was feeding the fish in the pond when I heard a sweet melody. I looked over the barrier, and there was a woman, playing her harmonica. And the way she played, it was everything that I felt for her. She played for the stars, the moon, the streams, and everything in between. Then, one day, she did not return. Nor the next, not even a month later. I sent housemaids and soldiers to go looking for her in the village, and they found that she had tragically died. Your majesty,” Prince Abasi said, turning to face his father, “I can never love as deeply again, but if you so desire for me to marry her, then your wish will by my command.” The Ivory Empress was silent, observing the somber expression on the Prince’s face. “I once loved a man in the same way.” With a strained smile, she turned and left the palace. It is said that the Ivory Empress trod back into the forest and was never seen or heard from again.



by Ava Cassidy, 7th grade I sat with the blank computer screen glowing in front of me shoulders slumped brain dead as a rose deprived of water slowly bending, petals contorted speedy, too short a lifespan turning almost black.

I was greeted with the muted colors of my desk and the computer’s glow waning like the new moon when the stars of words appeared— Miracles must exist! Words have sprung onto the page, weeds in a forgotten garden.

I wished for anything to fill my head for a ray of inspiration just as a rose yearns for sunlight but the empty Word Doc glared uninteresting merely a glowing computer screen.

So now I’m here once more with nothing but six months of the dreaded curse called writers’ block coming full circle the sparks of inspiration long gone.

The glowing taunted me laughing a cruel melody the whiteness of the virtual paper assaulting my eyes. I attempted to wish words onto paper for a poem to spring out wishing so hard that I became enveloped in the glow, like a rose pressed between two dictionaries. (If dictionaries are filled with words, why can’t I borrow some of theirs?)

Brain dead as a rose deprived of water. And yet…

I was inside the white but suddenly a gold mine of fiery, bloody, rosy, incorrect ink colored sparks, sparks of inspiration figments of my own imagination seeds to grow into a rose. But the moment receded, withering away back into my head squirming off the page disappearing remnants of a rose garden turning to dust a world crumbling seeds lost ideas vanished. 30

“Classical” by Mary Sullivan, 7th grade


“the confederate statue” by Miller Clark, 8th grade

people are bowling pins rolling, diving, pushing getting out of the way of the gray car acting as a battering ram. a small college town, marred by death hate and violence. the confederate statue standing in the middle of it all. the cold stone smirks down at people protesting its removal people hurting those around them. the bright torches fill the air with smoke. the smell of a campfire occupies the air and smells like the burning of justice.

white supremacists protecting their “culture” a culture that stands for the enslavement of other human beings that stands for the murders of black people that stands for everything the US no longer does.

chanting fills the air deep voices, almost monk-like but instead of promoting peace, promoting bloodshed. the confederate statue standing in the middle of it all. a piece of another time has no place in our future.

the confederate statue depicts that culture. the air is charged with brimming violence. the air is thick with tension between the sides. you can feel the strain on your arms legs face.

“Friendship” by Amelia Reddy, 8th grade



“Just a Walk in the Park” by Martha Dillon, 7th grade

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” “Whyyyyy? It’s fine!” “Something’s not right. I don’t want to go.” “Ugh! Holly, you are such a party pooper!” “Please, don’t go!” Holly Channing sat on the edge of her couch, pleading with her two best friends and roommates. Cadence had her hand on the doorknob as Jessica stood there, glaring at Holly. “It’s just a walk in the park!” Jessica protested. Holly continued to argue. “At midnight! It’s too late. You might get hurt! I can’t let anything happen to you! You’re the closest thing to family I’ve got!” Jessica’s expression softened. She and Cadence crouched in front of Holly as if she were a small scared child and looked into Holly’s fearful eyes. “We’ll be okay. If something happens, we’ll call you right away. Don’t worry! Anderson Park is barely a mile away from the police station. We’ll be okay. I promise,” Cadence said. “And we’ll be back before you know it!” Jessica added as she and Cadence rose and headed toward the door again. Before closing the door, Jessica called out, “See you in a bit, Holly-bee!” Far from being reassured, Holly reached toward the door. “Wait! Don’t go!” But the sound of their footsteps had already faded into the night. Holly sat back on the couch, jittery as a june bug. She turned the TV on to the News Channel and kept her phone as close as possible. At around 12:40, Holly began to get nervous. She flipped through the news channels until she found the weather channel—CLEAR NIGHT. NEW MOON. Holly turned it back to the news. A couple minutes later, a loud ping! startled her out of her thoughts. She looked at her phone, which was buzzing insistently, showing two texts from Cadence in all capital letters. The color drained out of Holly’s face as she slowly looked at the TV. Then she leaped off the couch, grabbed pepper spray and the biggest knife she could find in the kitchen, and dashed out the door. At the bottom of the news channel, an Alert slid across the screen—KIDNAPPING ALERT FOR YOUNG WOMAN. SUSPECT LOOSE IN ANDERSON PARK.


On her phone, Holly read the two texts from Cadence— SOMEONE TOOK JESSICA!!!! I CAN’T FIND HER!!!!!! PLEASE HELP!!!!

“Foundation” by Lailah Rucker, 7th grade

Holly’s breathing was fast and short. Her hands gripped the wheel so tightly, her knuckles were white. She glanced frequently at her phone, but no new texts popped up. She reached Anderson Park and rolled the window down, leaning out as far as she dared, and raked the forest with her eyes. Suddenly, a dark figure burst out of the trees, pelting toward Holly. The person hurled into the front seat and shut the door, yanking Holly back in. It was Cadence. Cadence’s hair was disheveled, and she was panting, her clothes ripped and her skin scraped from brambles. One of her shoes was gone. Holly patted Cadence on the back as she gasped and coughed. “Where’s Jess?” Holly asked as soon as Cadence caught her breath. “Don’t. . .know. Someone came out of the forest on our walk. . .I think he was armed. . .grabbed Jess and then disappeared. . . . We have to go!” Cadence let out a low moan and slumped against the dashboard. Holly stared straight ahead of me out the front windshield. The window was slightly foggy in the humid night air, making it harder to see. She squinted harder. As she pulled out of the park at top speed, a sharp POP! startled both of the girls. Then another POP! burst through the silent air. Holly paled and looked over at Cadence, her petrified expression mirroring Holly’s. The tires just popped. And it wasn’t an accident. INTERSECTIONS


by Hallie Graham, 7th grade The world of books is a place where a reader can be whatever she wants and learn valuable lessons. Choosing a piece literature to read is a little like walking or talking for some readers, but for others, it can be an extremely difficult process. For those who find this task extremely difficult, perhaps a bit of advice to guide the process will help. Characteristics of books one has read in the past can be a place to start to find books to read in the future, and author style, genre, type of conflict, characterization, and plot are all qualities to look for when choosing a next book. If a reader finds one of these traits of the book pleasing, she should look for these traits again. Often, an author’s style can also determine whether one loves or hates a certain book. In some books, the author’s tone may be timid, bold, or even sarcastic. Genre, though, is probably the most helpful specific characteristic to look for in a new book. If one likes fantasy, she should read a different type of book than a reader who adores realistic fiction. This approach may be obvious for some, but for some readers it can seem intimidating with so many stories and characters looming around. Lastly, type of conflict is a key part to any book because every book must have some conflict. If there is no conflict, there is no book or plot. It is important for a reader to love the type of conflict because if one does not, she will not like the book. Characterization is one of the most important characteristics of a book because the author must create a picture in the reader’s mind, and often affection for the character is a needed factor for the reader to have to be motivated to read the entire story. Readers frequently want nothing more than to love the characters and hate to see them go. The plot of a piece of literature is also key and must be interesting and enticing enough with page turning events that will keep the reader reading. If characterization and conflict are not up to par, the plot will not be either. Beyond literary devices, there are other factors that contribute to making a good book choice. One’s mood can also affect literature choice. If the reader feels sad, she may want a book that will make her cry, but she may want a book filled with happy themes and a happy conclusion or denouement to cheer the her up. Novel length can

“News vs. Fiction” by Sarah Jean Caver, 7th grade

influence one’s choice of book. For some, choosing a short novel, as opposed to a lengthy one, can be the best route to take. Choosing shorter books may be a result of past reading choice being boring or perhaps not having adequate time to choose, enjoy, or read lengthy novels. Whatever this factor may be for this reader, choosing a short book is not always the best way of selecting one’s literature for pleasure or even for a school assignment. If one finds the right book for herself, nothing will matter but the content of the book. Even if the novel or piece is quite long, if it is engaging, a reader will make time to read because she will not be able to put down the piece she truly loves. When you read a book, it can become part of your identity and a part of how you see yourself. The joy of picking a correct piece of literature is ultimately important in learning important life lessons to carry through life. And, if you need a recommendation for a book, please check out the blog at Happy bookmarking!

Back cover photograph: “Flowers on Souby” by Sara Jean Caver, 7th grade

“Magnolia Green� by Charlotte Hagood, 6th grade I am magnolia green, strong, confident, and bright. I am an owl in the night, calm but fierce. As the sky darkens and the stars awake, I sit and gaze up. I am magnolia green.

Educating young women to think critically, to lead confidently, and to live honorably.

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Profile for Harpeth Hall Communications

Harpeth Hall Intersections 2018  

A publication of The Harpeth Hall Middle School 2017-2018 (Photography, Illustration, Short Stories and Poems)

Harpeth Hall Intersections 2018  

A publication of The Harpeth Hall Middle School 2017-2018 (Photography, Illustration, Short Stories and Poems)