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literary and art journal



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editor’s note This year's edition of Earthwinds offers poetry, prose, and images that candidly explore the emotional reality of living. We take moments in our lives and create something beautiful out of them. We hope that, as you read our forty-sixth edition, you appreciate how complex individuals are. We craft events in our lives into art for others to live. Thank you to the staff and contributors for sharing a piece of their own lives with everyone else. Enjoy this year's Earthwinds and find yourself in these works.

editorial policy


The contents of this magazine represent the remarkable depth and variety of creative talent found among the students of Jackson Preparatory School. Selections are made by the staff on the basis of creativity, style, and artistic merit. Artists retain all rights to their work. The views represented in Earthwinds are those of the artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the staff, the sponsor, or the Jackson Preparatory School Board of Trustees. Student members of the Earthwinds staff conduct the design, layout, and proofreading of the magazine, and the works published are solely those of Jackson Prep students.

earthwinds staff Brianne Powers Camille Grady Polly Watkins Madeleine Porter Reed Peets Jewels Tauzin Isabelle McLeod William Leech

Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Assistant Poetry Editor Prose Editor Assistant Prose Editor Art & Photography Editor Assistant Art & Photography Editor Events & Public Relations

Annie Rogers

General Staff

Brady Culbertson

General Staff

Kelly McBride

General Staff

Wesley White

General Staff

Paul D. Smith, PhD

Faculty Advisor

colophon This issue of Earthwinds was designed on Intel Core iMacs using Adobe InDesign CC and Photoshop CS6. Dallas Printing of Jackson, Mississippi, printed the magazine. Earthwinds is printed on partially recycled paper using soy–based ink containing no animal byproducts.



Gaia poetry Camille Grady { 60 If You Want to Love What is Right Quiet Understanding Jewels Tauzin { 62 Jewels Tauzin 6 } The Brown Spots and Uneven Borders Beaumont Camille Grady Wesley White { 65 9 } Little Made of Rocks and We Crumble Kelly McBride 10 } Drop Camille Grady { 67 Something Slow Losing Yourself Isabelle McLeod 13 } Play Brianne Powers { 75 Scraped Knees Kiss of a Goddess Jewels Tauzin 15 } Despite Kelly McBride { 77 When Your Lover is a Poet Daphnis 23 } Brianne Powers Madeleine Porter { 78 the Morning Comes Lakes 24 } When Madeleine Porter Brianne Powers { 81 of Flowers Doors 26 } Vase Isabelle McLeod Jewels Tauzin { 83 Definition of Control, August 18th 29 } ACamille Grady On Winter Brianne Powers { 84 Pass 30 } Teton Reed Peets Stiff Thoughts Kelly McBride { 87 of Eta Carinae 33 } Extinction Camille Grady On Leaving Jewels Tauzin { 88 The Sure of Back and Forth 35 } Isabelle McLeod A Tiresome Sort of Take on Love Jewels Tauzin { 90 To Luna 42 } Brianne Powers Why My Mother Fears Flying Brianne Powers { 92 Afterlife 44 } Polly Watkins To Those Who Lost Us Wesley White { 98 Loss 46 } Jewels Tauzin Me Your Truths, Jane prose 49 } Tell Annie Rogers Back to the Lake Sometimes We Make Mistakes Reed Peets { 16 52 } Camille Grady Shoelaces Me Camille Grady { 36 55 } Leave Brianne Powers Driver Jealousy Madeleine Porter { 68 56 } OnWilliam Leech Skinny, and Yet Time Camille Grady { 94 59 } ToMadeleine Porter

art & photography 6 } Current Jewels Tauzin Towards Light 8 } Gardens Camille Grady 10 } Stained Brianne Powers Quiet Harshness 12 } AJewels Tauzin 14 } Spring Isabelle McLeod 16 } Smoke Maggie Strickland 22 } Elation Jewels Tauzin 24 } Open Isabelle McLeod 26 } Growing Brianne Powers to the Next 28 } OnIsabelle McLeod of Giants 30 } Circle Lindsey Howard Show 32 } Light Camille Grady of Light 34 } Signs Jewels Tauzin by Six 36 } Six Neil Stewart at Night 42 } Think Phoebe Carlton 45 } Undercoat Brianne Powers Mountains Will Melt 47 } The Ann Bradley Maloney Weight of Facts 48 } The Jewels Tauzin of Fire 50 } Lake Graham Roberson 52 } Dripped Brianne Powers

{ 54 Blue Ridge View Emily Claire Herring { 57 A Flicker in the Moonlight Eliza Burnham { 58 Healed Jewels Tauzin { 60 Bathed in Light Rebecca Groebe { 62 Droplets Abigail Allen { 64 Fatal Attraction Alix Bentley { 66 Green Jazz Jewels Tauzin { 68 Rhythmic Waves Sloan Freeman { 74 Brief Jewels Tauzin { 76 Pale Gold Jewels Tauzin { 78 Circle Series Lindsey Howard { 80 Pondering Thoughts Holly Kullman { 82 Through Sheets of Clouds Jewels Tauzin { 84 Flaked Brianne Powers { 86 Ocean Wave Elizabeth Speed { 89 And Known Jewels Tauzin { 90 For Hours Jewels Tauzin { 92 Forty Days of Lights Emily Michael { 94 Rivers in a Wasteland Jewels Tauzin { 98 Glacial Chasm Graham Roberson { 101 Edison Brianne Powers


{ Current • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }



Understanding Jewels Tauzin

This is a poem about how everything is still warm without you, how it is all so light. Still mostly kind. Still more gentle than when you bent flowers so that

{ sestina }

I would love you more, that we would stay. This is how my hands search even when there are no mountains, warm with discovering how kind is more than you, how it is all still bright, still good, still the all– silvering belief of hope. That is when freedom and kindness agree, and I’d like to think, how I’d like to think you think warm thoughts on who you were when you used to call my name, that when they do agree, the parts of all our love that were warm and full, will live on in that part of us that wonders how we loved one another so kind. But above all, this is a kind, quiet poem about when it is okay to love more and how sometimes, loving more is all good and well, but that it also changes everything warm that makes you, taking the warm forgiveness and quiet kind patterns of love, so that they are no longer there when you think they will be. This is all I know. I have learned how to love warm even when your kind eyes faded. All that love, you have shown me how.


{ rondeau }

Little Brown Spots

and Uneven Borders

Help me be sad as I stare at the uneven spatter of freckles on my shoulders, light brown matter of melanin spots. I lie to myself, everything will be fine, they’ll save me before the bells ring. It’s uneven. I don’t need help down that ladder, that drip-dark ladder that stripped me bare, scattered my family between bills and gravestones and catered to the thought that even though beauty is pain and I sing to help me be sad, I wait for that little brown dot to serve ends on a platter. Maybe it’s silver. Maybe I’m even worth gold, rather than a starched gown and a little white rose swinging in the wind. I look away, look at my dad’s wringing hands. I’m sure his heart is a racing, uneven pattern. He needs no help being sad. Camille Grady


{ Gardens Towards Light • Camille Grady • photograph }


{ aubade }

He lies alone next to her, waiting for the lavender to unwrap his sleep. She walks in a dream towards a hole and drops into the spiral of his light. He sneaks out, into the pit of her sleep and they are trapped. Kelly McBride


{ Stained • Brianne Powers • digital art }

{ terza rima }

Play Something Slow Isabelle McLeod

Play something that will unwind and rewind, something smooth and rich, a sound like a sip of wine or a floating of tulle, later strewn on a checked concrete floor, sign of a sink running and morning soon. Play something to make them cry, run and grab her, red car race through night air and shrill laughter like goodbyes.

{ A Quiet Harshness • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }



{ Spring • Isabelle McLeod • photograph }

despite scraped knees

adolescence wears the small, quiet, and sure promise that time is not a liar and you will find enough purple and unknown in me for jewels tauzin the sake of all things honest. because lately i have been teaching myself to find desire in the ways that are far too many for you to outnumber. there has to be a without. because we are seven and I chase after, into the woods of where you are going and I come out, scrapes and all. it has always been this, a tug of hurt and going.



{ short fiction }

Back to the Lake

Reed Peets

I held it in my lap and stared at it like I was confused about what it was. But I had just seen what it could do. I sat there, enjoying the solitude, and playing it all back in my head. There weren’t any cigarettes. I finally didn’t need them. It would be a shame to simply assign them a color and tack the word "beautiful" in front of them. It might be pretentious to think that I could explain them to you in any organization of words at all. Or maybe I don’t want to; maybe I’ll keep it to myself and hope you’ll never notice them or how they make me feel. But if you forced me to, if you told me I could never look into them again unless I told you why, I’d say they’re a comfortable bittersweetness that lulls you into forbidden dreams—beautiful, colorful dreams that end abruptly at the very moment you hope they’d continue the most. But the mirage keeps you going, and you swear to yourself that when you finally get there it won’t be a mirage. She broke the gaze and pretended to be interested in something among the crowd—at least I like to think that she was only pretending—as I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t end our tenuous conversation. What I eventually chose to say fell short,


{ Smoke • Maggie Strickland • photograph }

an exchange of nice–to–meet–yous and we–should–hang–out–sometimes later and I was back to where I was before I got lost in the color and the beauty. There’s a feeling I get when I’m here alone. One that convinces me that she’s in her own little hideout, thinking of me and wishing that I’d have the guts to do something drastic. And it seems every time I toss my smoke into the lake and walk towards the car I’ve made up my mind that this is the last time I’m here alone. That next time she’ll be here with me and we’ll both finally be content. But there’s something sobering about the chime of the car door and the lights on the dashboard that seems to grab me by the shoulders and shake me into the same person I was before I came out here, so that when I get home the only evidence that I changed at all is a little more tar in my lungs and the remnants of gravel stuck in the wheelwells of my car. “Where’ve you been?” I heard it as soon as I closed the door, but I had known it was coming. I looked into her eyes like she was a child pitching a fit in the grocery store.


{ short fiction } “Work,” I answered. She knew I was lying but I kept walking because I knew she didn’t have the passion to do anything about it. She was a pushover and I hated that. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I look around hoping to see a golf club stuck in the flat-screen, all my records in the fireplace, and divorce papers on the counter with a pen already clicked open. I know that’ll never happen—she might cry loud enough for me to hear sometimes, but she’s too in love with this cookie-cutter life I’ve given her to do anything for her own good. I just retreated to my spot on the couch and turned on that flat-screen so I had something to do while I ignored her. In the morning, she was in the bedroom, but the door wasn’t locked. I don’t think she could ever lock me out of anything. I knew as well as she did that all she wanted was me. She wanted me to come barging in the door, professing my love and telling her I would never hurt her again. She desperately wanted anything but another lonely morning, but I knew I was a few kind words away from sealing the trap on myself once again. I grabbed a banana from the kitchen and tied my tie in the car as planned. Her face seemed poised for a smile every time I opened my mouth to speak and I loved it. I could make whatever stupid joke I wanted to make because I knew that she’d laugh, or at least smile and tell me I was an idiot and we’d both laugh. It was calming, like I’d found that person they tell you you’re supposed to find. The one whose smile makes you smile, and whose frown makes you wonder why she’s frowning and how you can make it stop. “Hey, I know you,” I said. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she replied. She smiled and called me a gentleman as I held the door for her. We talked, had that conversation you’re supposed to have when you see someone you’ve met before. I don’t think she caught the way I was looking at her. I don’t think she quite understood why I fumbled over the words I chose to say. I remember saying something as she left the store, something that made her smile and give me a little pat on the back. My blinker was barely out of sync with the car in front of me and it pissed me off. On the passenger seat, there’s a briefcase and



{ short fiction } on top of it, a spotted banana peel. The light was red, as it had been for the past four-and-a-half minutes, but I didn’t care. You worry a lot less about the traffic when you find your car a lot more pleasing than your destination. At work you can sit at a desk and pretend it’s your car, but there’s always that one guy who wants to know if you saw the Cubs game last night and you just want to grab him by the throat and tell him you hate people like him. It’s a lot harder to ask someone about the Cubs on the interstate. I walked up the five steps on the left side of the duplex with my hands shoved in my pockets. I began to breathe a little heavier underneath my scarf as I rang the doorbell. I waited, long enough to make me suspect that I was at the wrong house, but when the door opened I realized that I was exactly where I needed to be. She always seemed to surprise me even though I thought I knew what to expect. It’s like tearing open the wrapping paper to a Christmas present you wrapped yourself—you know what it is, but it surprises you when it’s actually still there, as perfect as you left it. I walked her down to my car and opened the front door for her. “Thank you,” she said. And I just smiled. I tossed the banana peel in the trashcan by the front door. The man at the desk greeted me and asked how I was; instead of answering, I just recycled the question and faked a little smile. I made my way to my cubicle and sat and typed into the little box until it was time for me to leave. No one asked me about the Cubs (or any team, for that matter) so on the walk back to my car I chalked it up as a good day. She asked me what I wanted from my life, and I told her I didn’t know. She seemed disappointed, like she had already planned everything out and was expecting us to have identical plans. As I held her in my arms and my mouth pressed against the top of her hair, I told her I loved her. She said it back, but there was something about the way her words trailed off that made me think it was different this time. Everything always sounded so perfect when I played it back in my brain, but I felt like this moment would never fit. “Sit down, I want to talk.”


When I heard those words I reached for the chalkboard eraser in my brain and took down the mark that I had previously made. We’ve done this before. These little sob sessions where she’s the one sobbing. She must think I’m so strong. These talks usually end with her apologizing to me, and me saying that it’s not completely her fault. This one was no different. When it was finished, I retreated to the couch once again and figured in my head that this chat probably bought me a few weeks of uninterrupted stagnancy. I replaced that tally mark on my mental chalkboard. I walked up the stairs on her side of the duplex slowly, my eyes following my feet as they climbed each individual step. This time I knew before she opened the door that I was at the right house. I stared at the wood in front of me and wondered what would happen if I rang the doorbell. I figured she had already noticed my car on the curb and was holding her breath in her room, hoping that I wouldn’t have the audacity. I wondered if she’d actually come to the door if I rang it. If she’d seen my car there was no chance of it. But if she hadn’t noticed, and she heard the bell, I knew that I would watch her eyes fill with disgust. I turned and left. I sat on the couch and watched the talking heads on the television yell at each other. I looked at my watch and then at my wife’s closed door. When I came in tonight, she wasn’t waiting on me. She was behind that door, and I didn’t even have to lie this time. I didn’t have to silently admonish her for asking me where I was. I simply found my spot on the couch and waited until it was time for me to put on a tie again. I sat there and wondered if anyone could hear me. I looked across the lake, watched it tremble under the moonlight, and decided that no one could. She was finally beside me, and I was finally content. I wondered if she looked the same as she did in my imagination. If what I had played over and over in my head was actually what was happening. If her eyes still made me feel the way they used to. If her smile made me smile. If she was mine. I decided that it was all true, all exactly what I wanted and needed, and I placed the muzzle in between my teeth, warm against my lips, and pulled the trigger. •


When Your Lover is a Poet Brianne Powers

Between each spaced line, I will spend the whole night thinking about how you would let your fingers hover over the keys, finite possibilities, thinking about being torn apart by the truth hidden in words and rhymes, trying to fight the knowing of ending too soon.


{ Elation • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }



{ aubade }

the Morning Madeleine Porter


Silhouetted in sun, the earth hums to life. A song rises from trees and flowers begin to dance, following the steps of the wind, their eternal partner. But I watch you go and I feel shadows shroud me, casing me with numbness. And I wait until night reaches out with its icy grasp and you return, releasing me from my prison with your starlit touch.


{ Open • Isabelle McLeod • photograph }


Vase of Flowers

I pick up my pen each time my mind wanders to you, times of fingers tracing along milky skin, leaving goosebumps, letters left reminding me of things I can’t believe. Still, I don’t write as many sad things as I used to, because you are the warm afternoon rain, you have planted the most vivid flowers that I hope won’t wilt, that will not die. But you always laugh at my doubt, crooked smiles to water lilies, and tell me to put down my pen. Isabelle McLeod


{ Growing • Brianne Powers • charcoal }


A Definition of Control, August 18th

Camille Grady

a beat in my stomach, groin, jagged collar bone. my father promises me it is there, visible in the swallowing ribs’ rise, fall, expanding, compressing. lines running down my legs, arms, back, to rest in two caved dimples at the base of my bumped spine. my hands shake so that the blue of my nail beds is almost the fleshy lined pink of my father’s as he sits, so frantically viscous next to Plath, spine cracked to poetry about thin that i read differently than he. a hand on my torso and i can feel the bumps not as muscles but as organs, mountains beneath my skin. this is the only time he has cried, gentle water building so subtly in reddening eyes when he says my future has turned to little minutes left of health and right of happy. he sets a clear glass of water on my nightstand so that when my head lifts from its mold under sheets there is something to calm the continuum of cruel water from my eyes. this is my future, soft beep of my helped heart and scars from dripped tubes giving and taking what i need and what i want.


{ On to the Next • Isabelle McLeod • photograph }


{ villanelle }


Pass Reed Peets

Find me at the summit of my greatest fears, where the clouds are my companions and I become only a smudge on the canvas. Find me on the gentle cusp of deliverance and watch as my soul is snatched by the wind. Find me at the summit of my greatest fears. Pay attention as I bury my aching knees into the bliss of something untrodden, where I become only a smudge on the canvas. Look closely as my eyelids kiss the falling snowflakes and notice the surrender within my open hands. Find me at the summit of my greatest fears. Find me where warning signs wouldn’t dare trespass and life’s answers are written on the whistle of the mountain, where I become only a smudge on the canvas. Footprints disappear as quickly as they became, but beneath them lies this moment unforgotten. Find me at the summit of my greatest fears, where I become only a smudge on the canvas.


{ Circle of Giants • Lindsey Howard • photograph }


{ Light Show • Camille Grady • photograph }

{ dramatic monologue }



eta carinae

camille grady

cut me from your skin, smoke to oxygen to nitrogen to stardust, and i imagine that love in our old age would have been like opening a yellowed book: crinkle-brittled skin that gives way to an inside i fell in love with when my fingernails were colored in glitter and my bras were the pinks of adolescence. but if your bed is where i was born, then i am a thousand years old, if light is only found in the uncomfortable rise and fall of your breath, then there is a loss of what is missing in my swirls of blue and pink as there are no dreams of you that seem like those amaranthine creases in your hands when they placed thumb over fingers and palms pressed into one. nothing i can think is the way we bind people to people, no glass i look in, no lines i read, no future for those who have been cut away, because i am gone even before you love me.



The Sure of

Back and Forth

Isabelle McLeod

And I watch the water as it runs up, teasing the sand only to fall back again. I dig my hands deep in the ground where the warm grains become cool and I think of last summer, subways at night where we loved the lights the most and the way the rush made the air blow my knotted hair around, tangling it before you could. I think that it ended because of the back and forth, but as I watch I wonder that if the sea and sand can, could we?

{ Signs of Light • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }


{ short fiction }

Shoelaces Camille Grady


The end of the world started with a fuzzy line. We made a thousand straight ones as humanity existed, letters to frames to walls, until they began to fuzz into nothing and suddenly I began to notice more and more gone. No one else seemed to care that all of a sudden the stairs were gone or my credit cards disappeared. I thought someone had stolen them until the person next to me in the café line pulled out a wallet and no cards were in sight. I waited until the curved edges started to disappear before I began asking people what was wrong with them, before I started telling them that no curves meant no steering wheels and no straight edges meant no pistons and how dangerous that is. When my uncle took his boat out for the day, I yelled that he wouldn’t make it back—that the propellers were going fast and the buoys were long gone. I scared a lot of people, I think. They put me all in white like an angel and the white room I stay in now makes everything seem somewhere between curved and straight, like magic. They tell me that it helps the world around me stay still, but I’m not quite sure. Sometimes my memory disappears and I end up somewhere new. I guess because there aren’t any lines

{ Six By Six • Neil Stewart • photograph }


{ short fiction }

in memory it always finds a way to come back. There was no way to tell what would go next, so keeping me around with the smart people and the doctors and everyone who knew what to do when bad things started happening was good. Mom comes to see me when she can, but there are a lot of things she has to deal with out there in the world where everything seems to be leaving. The doctors tell her she has to keep her visits short. It doesn’t bother me much. The doctors use me a lot to see if we can tell what is going to disappear next. They stick me in a room with a table and a woman named Sharon shows me cards. I tell her if I can see what’s on the card or not and Sharon says that they’re trying to find a pattern. I hope that they will soon, because the sooner they do the sooner I get my hairbrush or my shoelaces back. Everything on the walk to the room is always easy to forget, unless I write what happened in my palm with my finger. It’s always like that, except for right before lunch when I’m in the room. They told me that the food will make me forget that things are disappearing. Today I didn’t write down what happened; I slept later than normal so my mind was still fuzzy from the food. I think Sharon told a nurse that I’m getting worse. I’m not sure, because the light flickered and disappeared from above me. I guess the bulbs went, since I was screaming for them to turn the lights on and no one would. The tests were awful; I couldn’t see any cards and Sharon wouldn’t understand that the lights were gone, why did she want me to say what I saw when I couldn’t see anything? I started to ask for a candle but then I remembered that those went in the first wave. Things started like that, waves and waves until finally there wasn’t enough to be collected into waves, and then one by one little items disappeared.


{ short fiction }

After Sharon figured out that I couldn’t see anything, I went to sleep. I woke up to people talking over me, I think it was Sharon and a doctor. Normally, they are around when things start going wrong. There were wrappings around my eyes but if I opened them I could see shapes and outlines. They must have found another way to light everything. Maybe we’re back to using wood, but I couldn’t hear the crackle of a fire. I guess I don’t know much about electricity; there could be another way to make light. The doctors told me to keep my eyes shut under the cloth, because they have to get used everything now. Maybe there’s a new kind of light, a man-made light if there really is no other way to use electricity other than bulbs. They said that my eyes might hurt, but I feel fine. I blinked and was surprised to feel my eyelashes against the cloth. I thought those disappeared with the second wave of curves. Maybe that was why I was asleep in the daytime—they finally figured out why things disappeared and put me to sleep so they could surprise me with everything back in its normal place. That would be nice. Sometimes I think about what it was like when everything was where it was supposed to be. I can’t really remember exactly what it felt like, but I know that nothing was fuzzy, and no one told me to leave or be quiet. Mom says that I’m picked for something else in this life, that’s why all of this happened to me and not someone else. She tells me being able to see the end of the world is what is saving us all, and my tests are helping everyone. That makes me smile. A nurse came in and made me take the cloth off my eyes. She asked me if I can see well, if everything is back in its old place. I got angry and confused. Of course everything wasn’t


where it used to be. I still didn’t have my eyelashes or even a candle on the table beside my bed. She told me that it was okay, they didn’t expect everything to come back all at once. I was even more confused. She left and Sharon came in, smiling. She asked if I can see again and I told her that I could always see, there was just no light. •


{ dramatic monologue }

To Luna

Brianne Powers

Because when the morning comes I will see you again, and you will be dull enough to watch as the sky turns from my purple into your early orange and I will decide to stay during the afternoon blue and through the late fading of red, just to see your watercolor of departure.


{ Thinking at Night • Phoebe Carlton • photograph }


{ sestina }

Afterlife Polly Watkins

Forgetting fingertips turns to remembering and learning you back as my ocean’s guiding star. A gentleness reclaimed from the tearing of a picture, of a loss of the presence of stones and of this; and a sleeping blue-jay sent and brought back to a sun pink sea and sailing into a remade beginning. Rewinding and rebuilding to a green new beginning where fragments of before are not for remembering, and reeling in an oasis of seeing hands and not your back. There is a universe of thunder beating where you are a star of bending and staying with the vagueness of this, and a promise of an eternity living in a garden of pictures. Rose blindness turns to glass that lets me see the pictures of an us that gave way to a daffodil beginning, a cream spinning canvas of newness and this cartwheeling innocence of promises to remember that we are orbiting moons, burned by the stars and fell out of rotation but were magnetized back. Cobalt seas of breakers roaring at your back have evaporated, drying away salt that stained my pictures, and leaving a valley awakened by a star that burns away distrust and cleanses me into a beginning that is more radiating white than my deepest remembrance. The grayness of the past is a ghost forgotten by this life untapped but recovered by this thread in a labyrinth leading us back to hands, a home I tried not to remember with the disintegrating hurt of the loss of a picture fading into forgotten books and erased in a beginning that filled my hands with yours and our eyes with stars. Hiding beneath a black steel sky awake with stars, I imagined a coffin before the afterlife of what must be this flew me to heights farther than the depths of beginning. The current of a completed moon is pulling me back to deep blue wings only you can see. The pictures give colors to memories that are anything but grey to remember. Stars that seemed lost have been brought back. This space that you left made a vacuum without pictures; re-beginning with the music of your promise to remember.


{ Undercoat • Brianne Powers • photograph }


{ dramatic monologue }

1. loss

it is december and i miss the clinging innocence of friendship and memories that did not have a gripping feeling of what could have been if you had stayed. yesterday i found myself at your house and instead of walking in, i knocked. everything felt false and dark and wrong. your mother answered. she hugged me but her body felt weak and all i could think of was how you once told me she was the best person you knew and why. she doesn’t say much—the sure understanding that loss brings to the ones who know the most. she leaves and i am in your living room alone but it feels wrong because we would play board games here and your sister would make us laugh so hard, we cried. i start crying. i run upstairs and fall on your bed and cry in the same place i cried over change and boys that made my heart feel something that it was not. it all seems silly now.

2. how

because if everyone is god how am i supposed to hold you in the pulse of such tiny breaths how do i remember jumping on the trampoline, braids flying everywhere, making me some kind of brave i have only been with you. how do i remember that and be able to live without something so honest. without missing you in a way that makes everything else seem trivial.


{ The Mountains Will Melt • Ann Bradley Malone • watercolor }

3. some kind of acceptance maybe you decided it was okay to leave me because you believed i would be okay. but this thinking is selfish, and i cannot bear to be someone who believes that something so sacred as death revolves around me. because if you never thought of me once, i think it’s okay. i think that maybe, the truth is, i want to understand much more than i do. maybe this is all the acceptance I will be able to bear.

Jewels Tauzin

{ rondeau }

tell me your truths, jane annie rogers

read me, jane. read me on top of your car and start to press memories nonstop between my pages. bleed on my sharp corner and read to live in the ties that constrict your domestic heart as you learn how to thrive without me. read me proudly, when your husband’s lies become too understanding, and when the warm of your grey fingernail polish scratches my coffee-stained pages. read cuneiform if it means your speeches tattoo my leather-bound skin. jane, i need your eyelashes annotating the chapter of sin, and writing me from within.

{ The Weight of Facts • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }



{ Lake of Fire • Graham Roberson • photograph }

{ aubade }

sometimes we make mistakes

camille grady

i. like yesterday, when i wore your favorite dress, so maybe you’d miss me just a little bit more. was the race of touches worth it? the plea of breath and rock of love only go so far before the gods we were long faded with the close of a door, before you thought i had woken up. i promised i would stop writing you. i promised that when i put pen to paper you would stop coming out, but if there is God there is you and we are stuck, because the triumph of rebirth, of the little death, lasts only as long as the bed has two in it. there was a way once when the rise and fall of sheets and lungs made my bones into stars and my breath flames as you were above me. there was a way that the love i loved was pain and your bare back walking away meant you were coming back again. there is a lot that was, there is a lot that isn’t. this time your clothed back won’t turn around again. this time when the sun came up the pain wasn’t pain, it was alone.

ii. there’s something in the water, violet-lipped and doe-eyed the way i look at you. i am me because bindings and sutures came undone. it is morning and i am drunk, maybe because you have left me alone, stripped me bare until i don’t know how most of me is still working. the water is light brown as the sun wakes over the roofs and little stars leave my bones and sky to disappear into the light. if you come back i promise those nights i was too disgusted with the extra in me to let you touch me are gone, with every bite and sip and fire in the night. i am healed, i am whole just as sure as you are next to me. iii. the way he holds my hand while he sleeps is wrong. flightfooted and scared, i leave before he wakes, clothed and gone as his breath hitches in dreams. there’s mist from my sigh on the air in front of me, and there you appear. hands piecing you apart as i push closer, fighting flailing to be next to you, but your ghost turns his back in the crowd as the light reaches over the buildings. there you were, there you weren’t, mist through my fingers, mistakes from yesterday.

{ Dripped • Brianne Powers • photograph }


{ semi-sestina }

Leave Me

Brianne Powers The warm welcomes the lonely after our night: tomorrow I’ll feel the burn of the cold morning, as pastel rises from the dark. And I sit as the dark disappears from the lonely, your chest rising and tomorrow I’ll think about our mornings and the sun’s burn. But there's the blue burn that kills the dark of early mornings, the lonely, as tomorrow leaves and warm rises. And my hand rises to feel the burn of the stale. Tomorrow reminds me of the dark, and the lonely disappears with mourning. As tomorrow rises, morning settles, a burn of darkness, again, alone.


{ Edison • Brianne Powers • photograph }


On Jealousy after Sappho

I. What was Found (fragment) Dear Adonis, glisten in the light of setting sun... ...sweet... ...your smile...

...with Aphrodite...

II. What was Said Dear Adonis, glisten in the light of setting sun. Helios is blessed to shine upon you. Your eyes are clear pools of nymphs, your shoulders, bowed broad and strong, your hair thicker than any field, smelling of sweet straw, and your smile soft like a gentle breeze against a newborn’s cheek. Her locks unfold down a silk back and eyes flutter to lure you closer. I am not a god, but with Aphrodite you will find the selfishness of the gods is enough to plead that you die in the waters that bore her. Adonis, hear this ballad of a simple field-boy and smile upon me, so I won’t soon see your mangled body on the cliffs. William Leech


{ Blue Ridge View • Emily Claire Herring • acrylic }

{ A Flicker in the Moonlight • Eliza Burnham • photograph }

To Time Alone and surrounded by you, I hear the groaning of life and see the moments lost and the shift from youth to wrinkled age. I feel your hand in it all, bending those that made you to your will, leaving us to rot as you march on. Madeleine Porter



{ dramatic monologue }

wait here until your bones have calcified, hair statued into a messy knot, and heart rocked into a forever contraction of your right ventricle. let your still breath be the wind around your daughter's pigtail, let her know you left her, but you love her. when the seasons begin to forget how to make you sweat and shiver, or when the dark between lights lasts only a minute, go back to the grass that made you, because even as the world shifts around you, the debt of your heartbeat has been paid, and your mother can turn again. Camille Grady

{ Healed • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }


if you want to love what is right is anxiety anxiety if you have a teethy pink-cheeked smile and you want to love what is right? if, before you sleep, you touch the red undertone of flesh and will it to turn white? i want to know what it’s like to feel deserving of pain, to feel a red body, tired, as if planets and stars and even the galaxy is being taken out of me­, and rest. my body, my breath, feels touched always. as if there is a man in my bed, by my side, that doesn’t knock or yell and is it really anxiety if you don’t scream? jewels tauzin


{ Bathed in Light • Rebecca Groebe • acrylic }


Wesley White

Slow burning in his careful eyes ignites blue flames in my heart. Gold lights the pathway sprawling upwards, gleaming in the soft sunlight. Caught in warm rain on hills, starting the path of forever lying under our understanding of lust, stars give joy to our silvered dreams. How can you make everything from nothing hiding in Beaumont?


{ Droplets • Abigail Allen • photograph }


for Poppa

made of rocks and we crumble Camille Grady

as time swallows shakes and a moment takes control. a moment for a life, a paralyzed leg and a cup tremored to a mouth. i wonder the feeling my father has, the acceptance feared into time missed and time together, the ticking down of days. walk to me, from me, to a health known to your children. let them see futures in your sickness, warnings in their health. dizzy as i was fourteen, cottonmouthed as i turned to adulthood, bound to chairs as a quarter century of me goes by. there is weight on my grandfather’s brain, bricks for arms, fingers, legs, as we wait for the shakes to shake him apart.


{ Fatal Attraction • Alix Bentley • photograph }



Madeleine Porter

{ Green Jazz • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }

{ short fiction }

Vic had enough. Enough of the car, enough of the smoke coming from his partner's cigarette, enough of the forest that stretched endlessly. His eyelids drooped. The steering wheel, held tight in his hands, kept him focused on the present. On the job he had to do. Headlights appeared in the windshield. Another car was speeding down the tree-lined road, blinding Vic. The quiet shuffle of clothes against the leather seat caught his attention. He glanced over to see his partner, a huge man named Lucas, slump in his seat. Lucas narrowed his eyes against the light and lowered his head. Vic turned his eyes back onto the road and heard the other car race past them, its engine roaring against the quiet in the cab. They were alone again. Beside him, Lucas sat back up and yawned loudly. Annoyance and exhaustion gnawed at Vic and he spoke up. “Want a turn? I could use some rest.” “Not my job.” Lucas tugged at his seatbelt. He rested his head against the window and shut his eyes. That was the end of the conversation. Vic stayed focused on the road. Trees blurred by, blending into a canvas of greens and browns in the


headlights. The soft hum of the car was the only sound. It lulled him, his already-tired mind drifting off to other things. Warm days, soft music, the girls. The girl. Maybe it was the exhaustion and the claustrophobic feeling that plagued his mind, but in the blur of the road and the trees, he could see her face. The smile she wore when he first walked up to her was astonishing, bright, and kind. The smile of a girl just stepping out into the world without anyone holding her hand. The smile of a girl who hadn’t been touched by suffering or pain yet, something that Vic knew was rare to see in his line of work. Vic jerked the wheel to the side and righted the car. He had been steering them off the road. Lucas cursed and grabbed onto the handle above the window, keeping himself straight. “Jesus, man, keep it steady. It’s like this is your first time.” “I haven't slept in twenty-two hours,” Vic hissed. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, “I'm doing my best.” “Do better.” In the lights, Vic could see a yellow sign glaring back at him. “Keep an eye out for deer,” he said to Lucas. “I’m trying to sleep. You do it. It’s­—” “It’s not your job?” Lucas wasn’t the worst person to spend hours with. He was a good partner, at the very least. Vic knew he couldn’t handle things without him. They didn’t agree on most things, but Lucas was a necessary annoyance. Of course he enjoyed the girl’s company more. Vic’s mind returned to her smile and the way her green eyes had looked into his. She had been cautious but ready to believe he was kind enough to help her with the kind of trust that put people in danger. Headlights were coming down the road again. Lucas shifted lower in his seat and looked down at his feet. Glancing at him, Vic said, “Are you going to do that every time a car drives by?” Lucas sat silent until the headlights passed them. When the dark covered them again he looked up. “Can’t be too cautious.”


Vic rolled his eyes and shook his head, feeling himself slide into a relaxed state again. Lucas was right, unfortunately. They had to be careful. Everything had to be handled with care if they wanted a big paycheck. The forest carried on, lost and lonely. Vic had met the girl here. She was a lot like them, lost and lonely, yet she managed to smile when he approached her. She had a bike with a popped tire. “I must have rolled over a nail or something.” She had laughed. Her voice was light and lovely and reminded Vic of the music his mother used to play. “I might be able to help you,” Vic told her, picking up her bike. “I’ve got a car not far from here. I could give you a ride wherever you need to go.” She had been cautious, but Vic was persistent. He never had to try hard to get a girl to like him, he was charming. As they walked back to the car, her sweet voice filled the cold air as she turned everything she could think of into a conversation. His hands hurt as he carried her bike back to the car, but the girl beside him made it bearable. Vic blinked slowly and removed one hand from the steering wheel to rub at his face. He slapped his cheek a few times to try to wake himself up. Lucas sighed and leaned against his window again, shutting his eyes. At the edge of the headlights, Vic saw a shape dart out into the road. Slamming his foot on the brake, he braced himself and twisted the wheel. His body crashed into the window, knocking his head against the glass. Lucas gripped the handle. The car spun, the engine sputtered, and the tires screamed as they fell off the asphalt and onto the soft ground. Vic’s breathing hitched and the headlights seemed to fade. In front of them, a doe stared at the car, eyes wide and legs locked in place. Lucas swore and kicked open the door. Vic reached for the headlight switch, hands shaking, and turned them off as Lucas ran forward to see if the car had been damaged. Behind him he heard a groan of pain. Vic glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the girl in the back.


Her hands were still tied and the tape on her mouth seemed secure. Beside her, the bike rested on the floor of the car, ready to be disposed of when they got to their final stop. A huge red welt had formed on her forehead. Her green eyes were watery and as wide as the doe’s. “Damn it.” Vic opened the door and hopped out. “Lucas! She’s awake.” Lucas emerged from the darkness, a silhouette against the sky. He walked past Vic, face set in a frown. Vic kept his back to him. The car door opened and he heard a squeal. A heavy thud made everything quiet once again. Without a word, Vic climbed back into the driver's side and shut his door. Shame boiled inside him as Lucas stalked around the front of the car and got into the passenger's seat. They both knew Vic should have been paying more attention but it was too late to talk about it. They had somewhere to be. He twisted the key and started the car, pulling it off from the side of the road and leaving only the skid marks behind. It was fifteen minutes before Vic finally broke the silence. “Is she well enough?” Vic glanced in the side mirror and watched the forest disappear behind them as they cleared the trees. “You hit her pretty hard.” “Doesn’t matter. Someone will take her.” Vic’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. Beside him, Lucas cleared his throat and settled deeper into the seat. Behind him, the girl was quiet, her breathing labored and strained. He blinked his eyes and lifted a hand to rub at them, thinking about how he could rest for as long as he wanted when the job was done. The road stretched on, wide and open and lit by streetlights as far as he could see. •


Losing Yourself Brianne Powers Is there something to be said about losing air to thoughts of sad and the wholeness of wanting someone to want all that is you? Dripping from each open wound is you, wrapped cells of genetics, pooling DNA to stain cool sheets.

{ Rhythmic Waves • Sloan Freeman • ink }


{ Sapphic stanza }

Kiss of a Goddess Kelly McBride

Strike my teeth and kiss me on cracking pores when salted foam is calming and love is born in Poseidon’s waters while a death of loving stars is in absence.

{ Brief • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }

{ rondeau }


Madeleine Porter

He sees her in sonatas, in the opus of an opera, played in soft fortissimo for audiences sitting muto hanging on each cavatina. She is a solo, a cadenza heard in daylight’s coda as night begins arpeggios. He sees her in the sound of song, the encore of a cantata to Aphrodite. A legato voice, the Muses’ echo. In each pitch and octave he sees her.

{ Pale Gold • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }

{ villanelle }


Brianne Powers And you were there, vulnerable as pale light between dust and moon, as sounds of Saturn calm the inevitable blue of panic. You were there, watching the watercolor of a thunderstorm bleed between sun and dark. As waves lingered against the blued sand, you were there when the light shifted behind loose clouds between pink and waves. A fragile Scorpio, wading alone. You are here between the blue and light.

{ Circle Series • Lindsey Howard • photograph }



Jewels Tauzin but what will I do when there are no more warm bodies to wrap mine around? I used to wonder what I would do without the rushing feeling from believing that you were somehow able to lose parts of yourself. how silly it is, to believe that you are capable of becoming more important because a boy loves you. how empty it was to think of myself as a revolving girl around love.


{ Pondering Thoughts • Holly Kullman • photograph }


{ Sapphic stanza }

On Winter

Brianne Powers

With Persephone, I’d wait to see you and the wrong of wanting the same bones of broken statues, memories quiet like your longing for lonely.


{ Through Sheets of Clouds • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }


{ terza rima }

stiff thoughts two turns to four and for sixteen years there was nothing but legs covered in acned burns setting the glass broken into bones of exoskeletal muse and easel are hidden in hollowed books unread and blackened the ears of bruised minds thinking clear. kelly mcbride

{ Flaked • Brianne Powers • photograph }



{ aubade }


Leaving Jewels Tauzin

It is easy to pretend that freckles can make up for a suffering—lights split open over bone to catch into our corners.  I am in debt to you for teaching me how to leave— not the sparrows or hollow breath or soft edge of dark splaying its fingers beneath the door. But you imparted to me a gift I could have never given myself. The gift of finding enough of what I found in you, and giving it to the corners of what I now write for myself. Enough of it, at least, to leave at sunrise.


{ Ocean Wave • Elizabeth Speed • photograph }

a tiresome sort of take on love there is enough loss in feeling as if I must choose between the slipping pink, encompassing breath of enough and a darker, more grey kind of atom that is cells away from warmth, and if warmth is you then I cannot choose. it’s exhausting, you know, hearing you tell me that I am light, over and over again. as if my body is a lantern and I am a ridiculous girl for choosing to turn it off and leave you in the dark, as if so much of you depends on me. jewels tauzin


{ And Known • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }



Brianne Powers

Why My

Spread his wings into haloed love, abandon the fear of something greater than all of us. Together, we will find what He intended for us to have as faith, her almost-son sent to sacrifice, carry me with melting wings, your only child with a face drowning in salt and tears, as our Father left us behind on the unholy ground, burial for the unborn love, still.



Fears Flying


The hope of kicking fades away like the slowing heartbeat of the one who could save us from the misery of cold sheets, fill my brain with the make believe of someone who won't abandon us, somehow we blame ourselves for a flat line on cracked screens, a twin, abandoned and forgotten by love herself.

My mother prays to a son that wanted more than the shared love of hopeless nights, departure. Let me kiss where the growing bones of wings merge into your spine, knowing where your arteries meet and become mine, split at something unlike birth.

{ For Hours • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }


{ personal essay }

Skinny, and Yet Camille Grady

Calorie: the energy needed to raise the temperature of one gram of water by one degree celsius. The average teenager needs anywhere from two-thousand to thirty-five hundred calories a day to maintain all working organs and their current weight. That’s without any physical activity. Anything under that you start to lose weight and it’s called a diet. Easy as pie. What most people don’t know are the problems with dieting and the dangers around it. I started dieting when I was five. After that, came the anorexia, and then the bulimia. I was supposed to be playing with Barbies and instead I was telling my mom that I didn’t like what she made for dinner and I wasn’t going to eat it just because I was worried that three meals a day would make me fat. I wish I could say that now, twelve years later, I know that three meals a day won’t make me fat. I wish I could say that I know that


{ Forty Days of Light • Emily Michael • photograph }

{ personal essay } a net consumption of two-hundred and thirteen calories a day isn’t going to make me fat. I wish I could say that I weigh one-hundred and nine pounds and know that that is not fat. But I can’t say any of those things. And I know that in the average group of fifteen people, there are two of those who have some sort of aversion to eating. And there is nothing in the world that upsets me more than the thought of someone else going through this. I was supposed to go to an intensive-care facility. I would be going six days a week for four hours a day until I got better, but the thought of it cutting into my running time, or my two-hours-a-day ballet schedule, made me cry. So I lied my way out of the appointments, told everyone I was getting better, promised I was trying. So, four months into my once-a-week therapy, I was lying, closed off, and saying that I was eating regularly when my nails were still blue and cheeks sunken in and I still couldn’t remember the last time I had three meals a day. That’s kind of to be expected—for twelve years I’ve told myself over and over that I am overweight and not attractive and that the only way to be happy was if I was under one-hundred fifteen. Then one hundred-ten. Then one-hundred and five. Finally my therapist told me the only thing that has and still does make me cry thinking about: the predisposition for mental illnesses—especially eating disorders—is hereditary. The chance that my future daughter will have an eating disorder, if I don’t get this under control, is about ninety percent. That means a ninety-percent chance that when I’m thirty or thirty-five and have a daughter who is around five, she’s likely to see me skipping meals and something in her malleable brain will click, and so the cycle will start again. So then the question is how do you stop it? I wish that going through all of this gives me jurisdiction to say what the fix is, but the reality is it’s a problem that manifests itself from something so far away from vanity it’s actually surprising: anorexia isn’t actually about being skinny. It’s about being in control, and bulimia isn’t actually about losing weight through purging, it’s about self loathing. I feel like I’m not in control of anything in my life, and I hate myself for it. I say that full of hesitation because I’m not actively think-


ing those things—it’s more like subconscious mental loops that feel right but don’t sound right. I’m not a ticking time bomb, like people seem to think. I’m not broken, just in need of help. And that is probably where the whole problem of getting help and figuring out how to heal lies. There’s a huge stigma around mental illness. Automatically someone who is mentally ill is labeled as crazy. The word "crazy" actually means deranged in a wild and aggressive way. And that’s definitely not me. All I want—the only reason for writing this—is for people to be healthy and whole and happy with themselves. We need to stop all of this feeling like going to therapy and being mentally ill is wrong. Recorded cases of anorexia have been around for over nine-hundred years and we’re still shoving this stuff under a rug because we’re embarrassed by it. We shouldn’t let our embarrassment outweigh our fear because this is something to be terrified of. We need to stop thinking that we should hide things like this, because even though yes, it is a personal problem, it is not a private problem. You need a support group. You need people to talk to. You need help, and not enough people are getting it. I know that a lot of people don’t relate at all to what I’m saying, but think beyond yourself: think about how this could be your sibling, your best friend, your future child. And yes, boys too. There are over ten million men in the U.S. who have a documented eating disorder, which means that in your lifetime you’ve probably known a boy who’s going through this. And the stigma around males with eating disorders is much worse than it is for females, since this is seen as such a vain, feminine problem. This isn’t about image, this isn’t about vanity, this isn’t a teenage problem. This is a serious, life-threatening mental illness. I didn’t realize until almost too late that it can take away my independence, take away my future, and take away my life. It could take away yours too, just as easily as it can take mine. This isn’t a problem that people can grow out of without help. And so we need to get rid of the stigma around seeking help. Forget it completely. Just because you have a mental illness doesn’t mean you’re crazy, just because you need help doesn’t mean you’re weak. •


to those who

lost us

wesley white

i. phase one she fasted for forty days and forty nights, trying to break and bend the black of her palms, trying to part the dead sea, and trying to convince me that tomorrow we will still find truth in the word “we.” ii. phase two her shell cracked and fractured, her will became pale like the moon, night— night after night, I tried to hold her frame together so that we could have time. iii. phase three i prayed and fasted for forty days and forty nights, walking through hell, to feel the cold in her hand turn into the warmth of god again.


{ Rivers in a Wasteland • Jewels Tauzin • photograph }




(French)—A poem for the coming day, specifically dawn or the parting of lovers in the morning.

{dramatic monologue}

(English)—The poet speaks through an assumed voice—a fictional or historical character—to an implied audience.

{rondeau} (French)—Fifteen lines divided into three stanzas (a quintet, a quatrain, and a sestet) with an interlocking rhyme scheme and refrain.

{Sapphic stanza}

(Greek)—Quatrains built on a strict metrical pattern consisting of three lines composed of pairs of trochees separated by a dactyl, and a fourth line (the Adonic) composed of a dactyl followed by a trochee.


(French)—Follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five sixline stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi.

{terza rima}

(Italian)—Tercets, often in iambic pentameter, which an interlocking rhyme scheme (aba bcb). The final stanza is usually a couplet.


(French)—Five tercets followed by a quatrain. The first and third lines of the first stanza are repeated alternately as the last line of each remaining tercet, becoming the last two lines of the final quatrain.


{ Glacial Chasm • Graham Roberson • photograph }


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volume 46 the literary and art journal of jackson preparatory school



Profile for Jackson Prep

2017 Earthwinds  

2017 Earthwinds