McKinney High School 2018 The Lost Art Literary Magazine

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Samuel Williams / Photography / Spring 2017

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PSALMS 34:19 Jourdan Williams

Thank you, suffering.

For the bent ache in my spine For your prevalence at the 8th hour of a twelve hour shift For the raw cut of abandonment and the stinging of the alcohol that trails behind For the Saturday night when the hot breath of my cheating companion steams the 7th Street bar mirror For the death of my mother as I knew her, though she may still be breathing today I mean it, thank you.

You have made my bones grow heavier You have grounded me.

You have heightened my senses.

So one day When I rise Driving a white chariot If one day I hold new quivering life Swaddled in my arms Instead of this concrete block of affliction You alone will be responsible.

You gladiator whose revered hands Pushed me from behind.

Thank you, worry.

For the clouding of my eyes For the weight you have gained For your two tongues For your persuasion, forcing all of my responses to end in a question mark Thank you old friend.

For we know each other very well We are more than acquaintances Yet you still remain anonymous every time you stop in.

So today When I breathe in the air around me When I let the faint scent of leather and chestnuts tickle my nose So later when I learn of the tragedy of blinking You singularly will be the heroine.

You snowflake on the ground Never letting me forget of your dual lesson.

I invite you to my wedding.

I invite you to speak at my eulogy.

Thank you, time.

For your rush past me For your long winding road For the constant reminder that every moment is fleeting For the constant reminder that that with every blink, I miss it For the constant reminder that change will come Thank you, sincerely.

But when the day comes That the rust of your age Wears down your chains When my shoulders un-hunch And my spine straightens I will thank you for letting me experience the newness of freedom.

I invite you to my graduation.

Iris Quesenberry / Oil Paint on Wood / Winter 2018

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I CREATED THIS RUBBLE Dakota Hughes

I could’ve been there for you.

We were so young and innocent, then fell apart when the outside world caved in our walls.

I could’ve been there for you when you were struggling to carry your body along, and you were down for so long, carving those messages on your skin.

I hate myself for being so blind when the clues were clearly written.

Vandalized wrists with graffiti on the walls we had built together.

I could’ve had everything my heart desires right there in you and me.

It’s the saddest love story I’ve never told.

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GLUE

Nancy Grijalva I spend my days pushing people away because I think if they are far enough, they won’t see the glue holding me together

Mena Bahram / Acrylic / Fall 2017

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Lauren Shuchert / Photography / Fall 2017

HANDS Eva Grace

They will have hands of pure diamonds.

They will not be unarmored, for diamond hands never crack.

They will dive into the fiery trench where I reside with a childish grin and magician’s eyes.

They will release me from my cage and finally set me free.

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Kaley Polk / Photography / Fall 2017

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A POISONED DIVINE Jazmon Malone

To what constitutes the mighty?

And yet you choose to live inside.

The feeling of being greater than one another…

You build your walls

One another.

brick by brick

Rising to the top.

each with your own mucus gluing these red blocks.

Getting what you thought you wanted.

You’ve locked every entrance.

Is it sweet up there?

“They can’t get in,” you say.

Do the clouds taste like cotton candy and are your streets

But you’ve come so far.

full of gold?

You’ve reached the pinnacle of your goals.

How about your crown, does it fit how you want it?

Oh wait, it’s a little crooked.

And yet…

It’s sour.

Knock knock.

Fixed.

What fills your heart this time?

“No one’s here.”

The pouring liquid that shapes the intricate parts of your being.

“But, sir, we need you.”

“Not ready!”

Is it apple red? Or perhaps mahogany from the pain?

I see it now. It’s scorched. Burned.

What makes you think this way, And you continued.

Now you’re here.

There’s so many things to do, to constitute.

the ways of not wanting to do the effort?

You are high and mighty like a lion through your own jungle.

Didn’t you want this?

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SONG BY THE SEA lyrics and composition by Ethan Montano Open D tuning- D,A,D,F#,A,D

I feel it in my bones I want to be with you

We’re rained out now So let’s lay here for while

So baby love Will you move away with me?

I haven’t touched your lips to mine It’s been too long now, we’ve got all night

We can buy a home Way out by the sea

Say you love me I’m a fire

And I’ll look at you You’ll look at me

I need you to breathe Or I’ll die

I’m in love

So don’t you go

You will guide me back to you

Bring me home

This is something I can’t lose

Be in my life

You will guide me back to you This is something i can’t lose

We both Haven’t got a clue

I won’t lose you, I won’t lose you

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Lidanicolle Enloe / Mixed Medium / Fall 2017

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Briana Ginorio / Acrylic / Winter 2018

DAYDREAM Deanna Parra

I love it when the trees bristle and whisper my

name with the soft breeze that flows through them. The river at my feet creeps by with a sluggish rush. The deep breath of fresh air fills my lungs as I inhale. There is no other but my very own mind, to accumulate ideas and clear my head. The sights of nature whistling their songs and moving along the branches at their own pace. When time is kept away from my sight and I have to guess by the sky when I should leave.

I love it when I can imagine a peaceful world

that I have yet to experience. How the mind creates a dream that you desire, for years on end. It forms and develops, never to let go of this one thing you want to see with your own eyes. That you want to hold in your own hands or feel in your heart. How the brain can make us aware of our surroundings. How the brain itself knows of its existence.

I love it when I notice the small details in

everything around my being. The small moments and memories that are being created. I love it when life continues even if death is around.

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UNNOTICED Jackson Douglas These things go unnoticed like flashes in the night.

They stir and burn, but soon retreat inward.

Mena Bahram / Acrylic / Summer 2017

AN OPEN MIND

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Logan Fish

Am I prepared to enter the world in the short span of two years?

Do I know all I need to, or do I just think I do?

If you were to see into my head, would you find a great wall of armed soldiers threatening to shoot at all who approach for my cup of a mind is overflowing?

Or will you find grasslands as far as the eyes could see, with what seems like never ending boundaries that would long be surpassed?

Should I stand with my head above my shoulders?

Would my neck snap at the tension caused by the pride it contains?

If you were to pour out my time in one jar, and all I’ve learned in the other, would my time fill the oceans and my knowledge offer a crumb to the hungriest child?

Or would it be cohesive with my time, being called the second coming of the miracle of the five loaves and two fish?

Megan Ward / Photography / Fall 2017

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Mena Bahram / Acrylic on Denim / Spring 2018

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Matt Sunthimer / Photography / Summer 2017

OPPOSITES ATTRACT Renata Castillo She lived in the day He was a man of the night Their love had no time

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Carmela Najera / Digital Art / Winter 2018

EMPOWERED Kennedy McAllister Girls, we stomp our feet.

We don’t let men control us.

Girls, we stomp on men.

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Delaney Bora / Photography / Fall 2017

CHOCOLATE VOICES Jourdan Williams

It’s such a sad thing, what the world does to

little black girls. What the world does to little black girls and their dreams. Expectations are shoved down their throats smothering their laughter. They are trapped with a glass ceiling over their heads. Stepped on, they watch people’s soles drift farther and farther away. Though they witness all, they react none, for reacting deems them less desirable. To stay in their place is what they are expected to do. To sit and succumb in silence is what they are expected to do. To speak out is to crack their glass.

Never mind the fact that those little girls can’t breathe.

No matter the fact that their cheeks are turning blue and their nails are filed down to their fingers.

It’s such a sad thing, what the world does to

little black boys. What the world does to little black boys and their dreams. Commands are shouted in their faces, snuffing their dark, chocolate voices. They are stuck, forever being reminded that just how tall they are is just how deep they’ll be in the ground. Though they witness all, they react none, for reacting gives the man probable cause. For reacting makes it easier for them to tighten their reigns. To worsen the weight of the chains. To sit and succumb in silence is what they are expected to do.

To sit on the curb in wrongfully accused sin is what they are expected to do. No matter the fact that those little boys’ ankles are bleeding from the ball’s weight.

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Samuel Williams / Photography / Fall 2017

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TIED DOWN Britney Schick

Where do you think you stand?

Help the bleeding with reassuring hands,

On a tall mountain

not a megaphone in their ears,

right at the tip top,

telling them fallacies about a perfect world

am I right?

that do not exist, if you do not follow the rules.

Head in the dark-colored clouds, cascading over.

Have I made a mistake yet?

Suffocated, water filling your lungs,

Don’t get me wrong,

flowing out

there’s light at the end of an

crafting words.

endless tunnel.

But no harm is meant.

I forgot the color of the sun,

Like a shepherd,

I want the heat to lick my skin,

hitting his sheep in the right direction.

to heal the decayed flowers.

And if my fur isn’t right

To melt the ice covering your frozen heart,

might as well kill me.

yet

Ring any bells?

I forgot the color of the sun.

I don’t mean the disrespect.

When did you lose your sight?

But I have a voice.

A crown lays on your head

A voice that echoes in waves.

woven with black roses,

That molds new worlds where we are all kings and queens.

and vines that wrap tight around your forehead.

That is where I stand.

The thorns pierce your memories,

My head basking

change the world in your eyes,

in the yellow sunlight.

make you blind to the chaos.

The mayhem I’ve learned to deal with, Because you won’t do your job.

So fix it.

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ESCAPING THE TRUTH Brianna Moore

“Hey it’s not that bad, Mike,” Lucas said sincerely.

He reached out to comfort me. I backed up slowly, pulling at my hair. The sky boomed loudly from thunder, followed by rain coming down heavily from the heavens.

Mike… Wilson, my Fox Spirit, started softly. I

shook my head, blocking him out as I took off running.

Tears streaming down my face, mixing with the freezing rain. I kept running, further and further from the truth.

This couldn’t be happening.

Mike, you’re going to make us shift from your

fear! You have to stop. Regain some kind of control,

Wilson begged me, knowing that shifting from your emotions causes the most unimaginable pain.

The tree branches and thorny vines tore and

scraped against my skin. I felt blood dripping down my body, but I couldn’t feel the cuts. My body became numb to the outside world. Rivlets of rain streamed through my hair, into my eyes and down my cheeks. My clothes were soaked in a matter of minutes. The rain made the ground slick and soft, causing me to stumble as I ran. I only stopped when my body exploded from a Forced Shift.

The pain hit me rapidly, ripping through my

body like a bullet. I felt my bones start to break from shifting. Falling to the ground I screamed, squirming like a dying snake. My fingers clawed at the wet earth until they became paws. My skin boiled and blistered, hair growing from them as they burst painfully. My eyes felt like they were acid inside my skull, burning as they changed. I lay there, sobbing for air as my lungs constricted.

Wilson whimpered, curling up in the fetal

position at the back of my mind. The pain slowly ebbed

35 away until only a dull throbbing remained behind. My body spasmed as I tried to stand, weak from the shift. I fell back to the ground immediately.

I lifted my head, looking for any type of shelter

from the rain. Forcing my body off the ground, I took a few steps forward. I tried to find anything to get out of the rain. I griminced as I limped heavily on my right leg. The bone didn’t heal after it broke.

Left... Wilson croaked out, still shaking from

pain. I turned left, letting my fuzzy eyes adjust. An old

den. I hobbled over to it, crying out softly with every step.

I barely managed to heave my soaking body into the den before collapsing.

Why us? When did we lose it all? I thought,

crawling further inside. But nobody answered me. Wilson must’ve passed out. I’m completely alone.

I didn’t make it much further before my body

refused to move, racked with violent shivers from the icy rain. I lay there, twitching sporadically. My eyes drooped heavily as I turned my head slowly towards the entrance of the den. Rainwater flowed into the den, beginning to slowly fill it up. But I could only lay there, even as the icy water ran against my fur. I tried to keep my eyes open, begging for someone to come inside. A soft whimper escaped from my muzzle, betraying my fear of dying here.

I’m weak, I thought bitterly as a single tear fell

from my eye, melting into my wet fur. My mind slowly

shut down, as the hole became fuzzier and fuzzier until the world faded into never-ending blackness.

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Katye Rutledge & Haylee Winstead / Photography / Spring 2018

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FROM A DISTANCE Kelly Chmielewski

You left me lingering, glancing at the velvet dress that

The Great Gatsby plays every Wednesday in your emerald

hugged with every tug.

green bedroom with silk sheets that I have brushed crisp

Why were you at a half-dimmed bar in the middle of Los

fingertips along.

Angeles at midnight?

You’ve been my reverie since you sped to a nearby tea shop

I’ve always known you as a woman who has a purpose in

with long strawberry curls swaying to the spine

everything she does, so are those drinks that the middle

of that frail back.

aged German men handed out putting a slutty look on your “Mrs.Winston” necklace?

Your shortcoming has been shown now, for I’ve treated

You kept me waiting, colomba.

you too well.

The recklessness and wine kept you until dawn swaying to

a room I’ve touched inch to inch,

morning jazz, with a daze over you in that oversized leather

while I stare at the man who’s leaning on you.

jacket, that kept my eyes set on you.

Get that stupid smirk off your face, we both know your

Silly colomba, you never realized how naive your tequila

motive is sinful.

Our feet tangled to brass instruments in heaven, as it was

Consummatum est.

tongue becomes.

My veins break to the brim of my skin everytime I stare into

Sweet corvo.

just a beat for you.

Unrequited passion comes in all forms, love.

Translations from Italian and Latin words to English:

How could you not have liked the way I touched you?

colomba means dove; corvo means raven; Consummatum

I sharpened my firm hold, while you strangled like a stranger.

est. is Christ’s last words, “It is finished.”

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FALSE HOPE Abigail Yash

There lies in my arms, a bundle no more than six pounds.

Her lips are puckered, two pale hills softer than petals.

Her eyes closed against the light they knew somehow, would be too bright.

With miniscule limbs, her feet no bigger than my palm, her tiny hands are curled —curled around the world of possibilities that could have been.

Where there should have been cries for a mother, there is but silence.

Where there should have been tears of happiness, there are but trails of despair.

And, where there should have been warmth in my arms, I feel but six pounds of cold stillness.

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Valeria Gutierrez / Photography / Fall 2017

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Kaley Polk / Photography / Fall 2017

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SOBER

Britney Schick

Her smile was intoxicating and so were her hazel

eyes. When she entered a room, it lit up like a candle, a slow and beautiful burn. We would share our secrets through soft whispers. I still remember your first love. The boy with a pair of ocean eyes was the captain of the football team. You were always too nervous to ask him out, hands shaking like an earthquake just at the thought.

You, Katie, have changed. Your confidence has

turned malicious. Those words you spoke are like daggers, piercing the hearts of anyone who met you. Luring them in with a wink and a seductive smile. Is that how you got your boyfriend? I see you walk the hallways together, his hand gripping your waist and kissing your forehead. What a gorgeous boyfriend. What a perfect relationship. Laughing together, getting lost in each others eyes as the girls snicker about how this is your third toy this month.

When did you forget about me? And I’m not

talking about when you stopped inviting me to your birthday parties in seventh grade. I’m talking about when you passed me in the hallways without a second glance of who I am. Like a stranger, like an outsider. You changed. You changed that chocolate brown hair you had, that was ever so beautiful, to dyed platinum blonde. I know you and I are no longer friends, and I am saddened by that. But I never lost a night of

sleep over it. I’ve been replaced, like how you replaced red flavored Kool-Aid with by a bottle of alcohol. I remember you used to pour package after package of sugar into your coffee; you hated bitter. And now those fake, baby pink nails are wrapped around a beer bottle. Where has my Katie disappeared to? Where is the girl who would paint my nails and braid my hair gone? But Katie you know where she went. She’s covered in smoke from your cigarettes. She’s drowning in cheap booze isn’t she?

Was it worth it? Worth your innocence, your

mentality, your slow self-destruction, just so someone else besides me would like you?

I often blame myself for the disaster you caused

in your life. I feel responsible for not being there when you needed me. Why didn’t I answer the phone when you needed a ride home from that party? I should’ve been there to hold your hair back when you threw up endlessly into a toilet.

Sobbing about a boy that took your body. I know all you want, Katie, is for someone to listen. Listen to your secrets, watch movies with you until your eyes burned. I want that for you. You’re still perfect in my eyes, but I’m sorry, Katie.

I am no longer that person. So please find someone who will love you, as you.

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Isaiah Shafik / Photography / Winter 2018

THIS FORSAKEN HEART OF MINE Isaiah Shafik who have i become? at the point of no return, i return to the sands of Egypt. where my ancestors have forced me to hide into the darkness. i have become numb inside the heart. of the pyramid in my hometown, life.

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Samuel Williams / Photography / Spring 2017

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Kyler Samuel / Photography / Winter 2018

BLESSED WITH FLAME

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Robert Cajas

Today my muscles tighten, as tight as the chains that keep Kronos at bay. I keep one task, like fire seeking oxygen. The blood in my veins grows acidic as fatigue creeps upon me such as death creeps to meet his lover.

My lungs swell, capturing precious molecules of air. I keep my stance, so I will never falter. I think about how much I want it, that taste, that sensation, one I’ve never felt before. Today, my flames will not wither; the kindle is steady and flowing like the River Styx that awaits us all.

Today, I am not another speck of dust that floats away from the old encrypted pages of life. Today, I am the first spark of the flame that brings warmth to many. I am the flame and the kindle too until I am no longer needed.

Today, I will burn because I am the only one who can.

Today, I fight a monster known as man. On the surface, sweat falls from his brow like the prowling end of Pompeii. His knuckles grow white as the heart of the first flame. In the man, I see passion. The flames let me see on the inside,and I see his cinders burn. He is exactly like me—hero of his Odyssey. He has had tears fall like drops from the Holy Grail. He’s had triumphs that echoed through the great halls of Olympus. No matter, for in the end, he is nothing but an obstacle, and one of us has to give in. That is what all of society burns down to: no matter how close we ascend to the heavens in our attempt to gain artificial divinity, giving and taking is what we all do. In the ashes of humanity, that is all that will be seen.

Today, I will take.

Today, my flames burn like never before. They are fueled by the hatred of loss and the want of gain. My blood is the oil. My heart is the furnace. My soul is the ignition. Anyone who gets in my way, shall be burned.

With those lesions, they will tell my story as a warning.

Those who follow me, shall be warmed. Their stretched tales shall kindle the embers that need to be started or are dying out. My flames will roar in this moment, louder than they ever have before. My flames will grow stronger than that of Hephaestus, and I shall strike when the iron is hot, creating great bolts of power. I shall grow brighter than that star of Apollo; my rays shall scorch the soul of every foe. Today, my soul is blessed is with flame, and the path I leave behind will be nothing but ashes.

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Keith Miller / Photography / Fall 2017

SOAP

Nancy Grijalva Iridescent lined suds drip down, goosebumps puncturing through my skin ridding me of your stained hands.

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Matt Sunthimer / Photography / Spring 2018

SMILES Nancy Grijalva

The mirror holds my image.

A cold shell of my face, mouth cracking slowly porcelain shattered pieces I arrange back on me.

Ah, there it is a smile.

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Wilmary Soldevila / Acrylic / Fall 2017

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TONGUE OF SILVER, TOUCH OF GOLD Cole Crawford

Who are you, you with tongue of silver and

Who are you, you with tongue of silver and

touch of gold? You are not worthy of peering mortal eyes,

touch of gold? It is whispered your eyes glow with demonic

your feats fit for God only. The one who could tame the

savagery, you poison sweet children with your wretched

most ferocious and savage bear with a whisper, the one

plague, you slit throats with envy. It is whispered your

who could erupt nations with a gesture, you with tongue

blood runs black, your heart a void, your teeth sharp as a

of silver and touch of gold. You bare the scars of whips,

mongrel’s, and yellow as one too. You are a glutton, it is

daggers, and justice, yet you pillage on. Shadows of the

whispered, a spider who weaves webs of beauty, but hide

void parade at your feet, the very eyes of God cast upon

behind your grotesque fangs that rake the necks of men as

you, O’ creator of hopes and fears. You feast on king’s’

the farmer tills his soil. It is whispered by the kings, their

own mutton, you lie with their daughters, you pleasure

lords and their soldiers, those who fear your exploits. You

their wives, you are but a rumor by morning. Many lose

are the hero of burlap, the enemy of crowns.

hope, you with tongue of silver and touch of gold. They

chase a story, a local legend, so they believe, but this is

a night, to remember myself. To remember who I am, I

not why they will never ensnare you. What they pursue is

with tongue of silver and touch of gold. Without these

a phantom. You are the champion of the commons, the

etchings, what would I be? I would merely be what I am

knight in tatters. You fill the drunkards with mead and

whispered: a plague that rides upon a steed of bones.

lamb, the maidens with your sweet songs of adventure and

Without these etchings I am envy, I am greed, I am

romance, and the lords with pockets erupting with coin…

sloth, I am lust, I am gluttony, I am pride, I am wrath.

or daggers erupting with anguish.

With each passing day I fade away into a fable, just a tale

Who are you, you with tongue of silver and

a farmer’s boy is told for hope, a tale a king’s boy is told

touch of gold? Are you enlightenment or sin? Are you

for fear. I have become a mere sickness in their minds, my

justice or corruption? Do you bring the golden warmth

shrouded blade plunging into their hearts replaced by an

of the sun, or the gelid darkness of night? They are fools,

ill prepared meal or a sudden fever. And so I have become

all who’d dare speak you a craven, those hypocrites who

just that; a sickness. So, who am I? I am one with tongue

cower behind their walls of stone, their swords of steel,

of daggers and touch of rot.

their shields of flesh. Rocks cannot be stacked tall enough to impede the graceful leap of the gazelle, blades cannot pierce the shell of the tortoise, and men cannot hinder the charge of the rhinoceros.

So I etch these words within my heart once

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Emma Christopher / Polymer Clay / Summer 2017

55

Dylan Dusset / Digital Art / Winter 2017

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DESIGNER EYE BAGS Sara Hummadi

My eyes carry Prada bags my skin stranded in the desert my eyebrows an uncut lawn my lips fatigued.

The acidic tears that stream down my face, neck, body remind me that I can be bought remind me that I sell myself with a 25% discount with a free gift with a “see you next time� shout as you walk out the door.

My fishnets criss-crossing up my leg my checkered shoe laces frayed at the aglet My ripped Harley Davidson shirt from the thrift store My designer eye bags, my dehydrated skin, my unplucked eyebrows, my fatigued lips.

The things that people see on me the things that people hear about me these are not the things that define who I am beneath my clothes and layers of skin in my blood is a heart of gold.

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Isaiah Shafik / Photography / Fall 2017

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PRELIMINARIES Natalie Byrd

When I looked closely, I could see the sky was always falling and so was I. Every morning it arose again, lifted us in pastels and whispered its wind to us, wrapped its warmth through our fingers and shaped our tainted spirits.

My days consist of numb preliminaries and the anticipation of each sunset.

Most of us live through each memory of the past, but my heart beats through memories of the future.

Wine-colored sheets and soundless understandings, glass ceilings and invisible sun-seeped windows.

The earth keeps rotating, but the axis realigns.

It realigns for us.

I recall sprawling myself out on some unknown grounds, never being able to differentiate between quicksand and rose freckled grass.

My eyelids were fluttering and all of the hearts began falling from the sun and I found you there, next to me just drifting across the clouds and singing along with each color that dripped upon the ocean.

Your voice resembled the drizzle upon the window and the breeze fleeting through a willow tree.

A world this beautiful could only be created out of something pure, something real something...like us.

What other angels were among us?

What other atmospheres were there left to enter?

We do not know the world that exists around us, and I don’t know that we want to.

The one we are in now is one that we will never be able to escape.

And that, if anything, is the best preliminary there is.

A world made of color rather than past.

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Natalie Byrd / Photography / Winter 2018

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Alex King / Acyrilic / Fall 2017

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SILENT NIGHT Kate Pepper

Close your eyes pitch black, blank silence, air flowing throughout the trees giving you reasons to sit, to fall, to drown. in a river of doubt.

To breathe in an atmosphere of judgment.

All you desire is a calming settled state of mind Out goes the fear, in comes the doubt.

Sooner or later you will yearn for the right to become free.

Your truth will float on the waves of questions.

I’ve learned once you look deeply into the darkness of the world it is not as frightening.

The deeper the darkness, the more chance you have of finding the light.

Like rising slowly to the top of the roller coaster scared as ever, only to see the beautiful skyline and glorious sun shining for days on end.

Inner peace has been placed over your mind, your soul, and somehow your heart.

The pitch black silence that once caressed the river turned into a thumping nerve-wrecking melody.

Pink, yellow and white enter your mind, as joy cascades across the clouds punctuating a spirited sky and all it took was the guidance of the light.

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Phillip Soltys-Niemann / Photography / Winter 2018

AUTONOMY Emma Christopher

Oh, what it means to be free, to escape from your cell.

True freedom to me, is not the same as most see.

To be free, you do not have to rebel.

Some believe freedom is satisfying desire.

Yet to always do as your heart craves is the path to freedom’s pyre.

Oh, do you never tire from being one of passion’s slaves?

To find liberation, control your lust, Then watch as new paths are revealed, Your fate no longer sealed, and all bindings dust.

Oh, the power you’ll wield.

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Lorelei Nichols / Photography / Summer 2017

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Samuel Williams / Photography / Fall 2017

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CHILDHOOD Brianna Moore

Innocence is a beautiful thing, yet so feeble.

As she was walking home one night, with eyes

Like a baby bird, so ready to spread its wings and soar,

darker than the deepest pit and a missing heart, she saw

so easy to harm beyond repair. There once was a little

an exquisite butterfly, similar to the ones she used to

girl, vibrant and full of life. She looked at everything and

chase as a child. The broken lady stared at the innocence

could see magnificent beauty within. She used to chase

before her, reminiscing about her childhood. Tears of

butterflies and smell flowers, never picking or catching

sorrow filled her eyes at how diverse the two were. The

them, for that was mean in her eyes. She never harmed a

little girl and the broken lady were two halves of a penny,

person or thing. The little girl wished every person she

so different yet still connected. Deep in the broken lady’s

met to be happy, and could almost always bring a smile to

heart, a small fire began. It was a pitiful fire, smaller than

anyone’s face. Until she didn’t. She lost that innocence

a period at the end of a sentence. But it was enough, for

about her when others put her down. Told her that she

that fire was one of hope. The miniscule fire grew and

was silly and immature to view the world with no hatred

grew. Growing into a colossal fire, igniting every single

in her heart. That to make it far, she will have to get dirty.

fiber in the lady’s soul.

She did not believe them, so they forced her to see.

They beat her, called her names, pushed her

She had found something to get her through, day by day.

down and kept her there. They made her feel like there

Whether it was a job or a flower or a butterfly. She saw the

was no hope, that everything was a lie. Every single

beauty in the mirror. The lady loved herself, she fought

thing. Love was a lie. Happiness was a lie. Life itself

back against the cruelty of people. She learned that the

was a lie. Nothing mattered, for nothing could stop the

world is not all wonderful, yet the world is not all darkness

eternal pain and suffering she was put through. Nothing

either. The world is a gray area. Both good and bad. So

stilled her mind, ever spinning with the spite-filled words

the lady focused on the goodness and blocking out the

thrown at her. The broken lady still saw the beauty in

bad. Once you have mastered that, people will come to

others, but when she looked in the mirror, all she saw

you, seeking your presence. Adapt, dear ones. Never

was a disgusting monster. One who did not deserve to

change for anyone other than yourself, and even then

exist. One that did not deserve any love or kindness. The

never change the core of your soul.

broken lady thought she understood why the others hated her, because how could she possibly ask them to love her when she could not even bring herself to say one kind word to the mirror?

The broken lady was not broken any longer.

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Mackenzie Sumne

r / Sculpture / W

inter 2018

THE VITALITY OF HOPE Olivia Ceaser

Cherish the girl who was beaten and crushed, but rose again.

The girl who climbed an abundance of hate and wickedness, to grab onto one slim chance.

The girl who fell through every step of the way, and still found her way up.

Cherish the girl who had hope.

Hope that carried her through twisters of weakness, and tunnels with no light at the end.

Hope that diminished all fear, even when there was nothing.

Cherish the girl who had hope so impregnable, dark evil thoughts became positive.

The tall gnarled hills she thought were big became smaller.

Hope that captivated the swallowing waves of fear.

And sometimes against all odds, against all logic, she still had hope.

Be that girl.

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70

THE POWER OF THE ELEMENTS Cole Crawford

Without remorse for those below, rain

blazer and a miniskirt about her hips; a foreboding look

peppered the ground, darkening the concrete. Those who

upon her face. From what the businessman could gather,

remained outside, standing ever vigilant with umbrellas

she worked as a journalist, evident from the mass of paper

in hand, gazed solemnly toward the other end of the

burrowed underneath her armpit. Though queer it may

street, seldom blinking. Emerging from the building

sound, those four, and all the others who stood around

behind the wall of people came a lone businessman, left

them, had the same quest in mind.

to hoist his briefcase above his head due to his lack of

conventional protection from mother nature. Falling into

vehicle came about them, and within seconds, a bus halted

line, the man began to pant, with a slight slouch in his

before the mass. Without a word, the group filed into the

posture, his chest beating like a drum. Not much time

carriage, tired and worn expressions shared between

passed before his cuffs sagged under the weight of the

them. As the businessman boarded, he took notice of

water that shackled them. His head, however, had the

the busdriver. He was a doughy African American man

privilege to remain dry.

with a torn fedora placed atop his dome, his fluffy cheeks

bulging forth as if he held walnuts within them.

For five minutes the businessman stood among

From down the road, the roar of a thundering

the others, his eyes darting back and forth between their

“Three

dollars,

sir,�

the

driver

calmly

faces. To his right was an older gentlemen, draped in a

whispered, a hollow southern twang to his voice.

sleek black coat, who occasionally pulled a pocketwatch

Reaching his soaked hand into his pocket, the

forth, though hardly taking the time to gaze upon it. Next

businessman drew three crinkled bills and dropped them

to him stood a younger lad, his greasy hair left to flow

into the bin that sat next to the driver. With a courteous

free, his chin stubble left unshaved, and his scrappy vest

nod, the businessman proceeded midway down the bus

decorated in pins and buttons in defiance to Nixon. To

before taking a seat. The cushion of the seat eased his

the businessman’s left, a woman garbed in a pinstripe

weary back, causing the businessman to exclaim a sigh

71 as he tilted back his head. Before long, the woman, who

businessman turned in time to see the woman sat next

had entered behind him, made haste down the aisle, not

to him glaring back at him. Quickly, she turned her

wishing to dam the path. To the businessman’s surprise,

gaze, a glimmer of rose cascading across her cheeks.

the woman ensconced her luscious figure beside him.

For several minutes, this cycle continued, with the

Though the businessman wished to remain courteous,

occasional mixup of who turned first.

he could not help but glance at the woman occasionally;

her enchanting face demanded his attention. A strange

before a newly paved sidewalk, prompting the woman

warmth irradiated from her, a soothing warmth. After a

to jump to her feet. At a brisk pace, she fled down the

minute, a jolt of surprise coursed through the woman, as

aisle, encroaching upon the door. However, before she

if she had just then noticed that the businessman beside

exited, the woman pivoted to face the businessman,

her existed. Turning to face the man, their eyes locked,

an innocent smile forming upon her lips, and waved

hers vibrant and whimsical, his depressed and anxious.

goodbye. A flutter arose from within the businessman’s

“I hope I’m not a bother,” the woman said.

chest, a shiver sliding down his back.

“Not at all!” the businessman assured as he

Eventually, the bus screeched to a halt

How cruel of public transport to bring

rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a smile. Quickly

us together, only then to tear us apart, he thought

flashing a smile in return, the woman refixed her gaze to

with a sigh. But how powerful the rain that it shall

the front of the bus. With another sigh, the businessman

happen again tomorrow? The businessman managed

planted his head into his palm and gazed out the window,

a chuckle.

droplets of water rushing down the glass. With a lurch, the bus proceeded forward, the sound of its engine drowned in the everlasting clatter of rain smashing against the metal roof. Directing his attention right once more, the

72

Kaley Polk / Photography / Fall 2017

73

74

Madelyn Coleman / Photography / Summer 2017

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JUDAS

Austyne Chetwood

please satisfy

those that pleaded me

me

from the first to the fifth

with your divine

asking me for cryptic mercy

grace.

before they were bludgeoned

help me understand

by my

what it is about my crooked

loyalty to

smile that makes me

you.

crazy. crazy enough

doubt him, but don’t deny him.

to tell them i am in love with

i said,

you.

sing me the psalms

they are now ashes

of this tainted soil,

frolicking from my hands.

ask me for the ethereal life you seek so desperately,

you sit at the throne

for when you’re gone

i worship.

you will be

let me know the wisdom and power

transcended.

a book has cannot compare

by my grace.

to the empirical thought

the only grace

you’ve blessed us with.

that should remain,

i’ve killed those

doubt me, but don’t deny me.

non-believers. genocide. the people my name reaped

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DIFFERENT Heather Hale

A sharp huff is followed by every step she takes;

A part of her wants to slow her stretched legs

however, she is unfazed by the shortness of her breath. Peers

to a stop. A part of her wants to put her hyper-senses to

plot a desperate attempt to surpass her on the track, even

rest. But she will never rest. Her brain won’t get a break

though they’ve already accepted the inevitable fact that,

because it refuses to cooperate? No. She will be stuck in

regardless of their empty efforts, reaching her is something

the eternal fire of her senses, bombarding her with the

they could never even consider hoping to dream.

questions of her world.

Oh, how they try. They take mental notes on

People call her distant behind her back. People

how she holds her posture. They observe each cautious

say her speech is jagged. People complain when she

step she orchestrates. They will do whatever it takes to

doesn’t like the tastes or the smells or the touches that

find out how she is number one.

they like. Those people, those ignorant people, reaching

I know her secret.

their toes in front of them to seek the finish line, as I

I know the reason why she’s always the first in line.

speak, are so focused on her, so focused on the line, and

Brace yourself for the incomprehensible. Brace yourself for

that is their downfall. She’s first because she runs in the

something you, them, or even I could even begin attempting

dark. She’s doesn’t focus on the line, and lets her legs fly,

to understand the complexity that is her secret.

free of the tangles and twists of pressure.

While the others are only focused on their

That is the difference between them and her.

objective, her mind is restless. Her attention jumps from

That is her secret.

the maddening sound of her restless drum beats inside her skin. The skin that the sickening, soft air glides across as she sprints. To the cars that flash across the street. The cars that are screaming her name. To the foul, rhythmic tapping, that never fails to scorch her brain, each time her lightning soles make contact with the rubbery ground.

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Matt Sunthimer / Photography / Fall 2017

78

Kaley Polk / Colored Pencil / Winter 2018

MY NAME Jackson Douglas

My name doesn’t mean much. A shrug of the

shoulders, a sideways glance to the person following behind you. It means I go along with the crowd, that they have a certain influence that’s inherent within me. My name doesn’t have any special spelling or context which drives out its meaning; it’s simply a title. They refer to me with seven letters that only have connection to me because I was told they did.

Really, I don’t have a name. I came out of the womb

just another human, and for three minutes I was simply Homo sapien. I still am, but now I turn my head when people say a phrase, like a dog responding to a few claps on the thighs.

After I’m gone, my title will be engraved in the rock that sits above me, forever reminding people that I was somebody.

But really, my name means nothing.

Without it, I would still exist. And I would still be

among the millions of other animals without one. The birds which fly overhead, the stray cats and lost dogs, the deer and the fish, all living their lives in ignorance of this human tradition of identification. What is so special about me, that I deserve a special phrase? My name is a curse; it means I have to live up to my purpose. I was put on this Earth as Jackson, so what will Jackson do? What will he accomplish?

People talk behind my back. My name cuts through the air, slicing through the distance and reaching only my ears.

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PRODUCERS

On behalf of the staff and those whose work is published within these pages, we would like to thank all sponsors who graciously donated funds to help us publish the best literary magazine possible. The Lost Art grows each and every year, and we could not have made this year’s volume without your support. Once again, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

PLATINUM TIER Global Images Design GOLD TIER FairandSquareImports.com SILVER TIER Bayou Jack’s Cajun Grill BRONZE TIER Texas Monkey Business Barrons Estate Jewelers Nehemiah Kanchisa

DEDICATION

To those who’ve found solace in the pandemonium of our pages, This is where you belong.

We aren’t always able to differentiate between reality and imagination. Art gives us a way to connect imagination to true emotions, and when this connection isn’t valued, then it is lost.

For that reason, we decided to pay homage to the Bauhaus art movement. This movement found multiple values in art and simplicity when creative expression was slowly losing purpose.

Like the leaders of the Bauhaus movement, we wanted to bring student art back into focus by blurring lines between reality and imagination, for both have greater artistic purpose when hand in hand. When the magazine opens, it becomes impossible to know what is real and what isn’t.

We found the resolution for this by structuring this volume as a play. Emotions heighten, crescendo into cacophonous conflict, and resolve in symphonic serenity. The Lost Art is to be enjoyed for fanciful fiction anchored in truth.

And this is where your journey begins.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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To our staff; our team; our family, We’ve spent so much time together, whether it was laughing at unplottable ideas or focusing in deep moments of silence—we are The Lost Art. Remember from the roots we come from, we have always defied the norms because we carved our own space. We are original. Together, we have the Midas’ touch to make everything golden.

Dear Mrs. Christian and Ms. Rutledge, We come with our own dedication to create and the two of you constantly bring us back down to earth—even through all of our wild thoughts. You two have never hesitated or questioned when we needed you to stay after school, help us, or inspire us (and be our life coaches). Constantly and consistently, we come to you as two of the most important people and influential characters in our lives. As this year’s edition is coming to a close, the thought of leaving our legacy behind brings us to tears because we have spent so much time regaling to our parents the trials and tribulations of our after-school endeavors. We cannot express how grateful we are for the family you have allowed us to be a part of, and for the amazing way you have become permanently a part of our lives.

We love you and are thankful for the memories we made together.

We are forever, your Lost Art team.

COLOPHON The Lost Art was produced using Adobe InDesign CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe Illustrator CC. We chose two complementary fonts to represent the Bauhaus movement: Bodoni 72 Book for our body font (various sizes) and Futura Medium for our folio (83 pt.) and headline (25 pt.). We printed with AlphaGraphics in Plano, Texas.

82 CAST

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

LITERARY STAFF

Kaley Polk

Samantha Greyson

Austyne Chetwood

Kate Pepper

Mena Bahram

Elena Myrice

MANAGING EDITOR

GRAPHIC DESIGN STAFF

Jourdan Williams

Janae Johnson-Dunn

LITERARY EDITOR

Rebeca Contreras Yndhira Pineda

Lilly Harlowe

Jason Mathai

ASSISTANT LITERARY EDITORS

PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF

Sara Hummadi

Natalie Byrd

Michael Colwell

Matt Sunthimer

GRAPHIC DESIGN EDITORS

Jazmon Malone

Brett Johnson

CONTRIBUTORS

Megan Ward

Kelly Chmielewski

MULTIMEDIA EDITOR Isaiah Shafik

ADVISERS Kaitlin Christian Katye Rutledge

Raven Mack Jonah Lopez Madison Bergmann Allison Meitzen Haven Vanlandingham