Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Fall 2010

Marian

Burn

Fall 2010

“T

he only people for me are the

mad ones, the ones mad to live,

mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn,

burn �

like fabulous

roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...

-Jack Kerouac

Table of Contents Nocturnally [Megan Troia] The Pantheon [Alex Eilers] The Writer [Lisa Satpathy] Mother Nature [Rachael Kreski] Teardrops [Maggie Ramos] Subliminal Ideology [Ozy Aloziem] Human Paperweights [Alex Eilers] Colored Tongue [Annie Townley] John Proctor’s Unsaid Words [Alexandra Naidenovich] Darkness [Amalia Hansen] Introspective [Alex Frost] Me [Maddie Lahood] Forever Altered [Emily Reynolds] Ocean Sunset [Lori Nevole] f You Are To Think Of Me [Kyra Lindholm] Secrets From November [Teresa Coulter] Shapeless [Kealinn Peterson] Breathing You [Anne Johnson] Pomegranate Impressions [Annie Dovali] Soft-Shelled [Allison Dethlefs] Bubble Wonder [Alexa Baumer] Songbird [Anne Johnson] Spectrum Sunset [Hannah Christensen]

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 Front Cover by [Allison Dethlefs] Back Cover by [Hannah Christensen]

Nocturnally An owl is awake

[photography: alex eilers

[

01 [writing: megan troia

[

As I try to rest Its repetitive summon is disconcerting Sleep doesn’t seem to be progressing Not so easily Even with this waiting There is a thought inside of me And a reminder mocking me Never have I been told That I have insomnia Maybe it’s just temporary I don’t seem to be Thinking so properly My mind is in another realm I keep hearing things The thoughts inside my head Are not making sense Delirious I am Delirious with anxiety Anxiety about senseless things When I try to clarify All that transpires is confusion Delusion Seclusion Nocturnally, it’s a difficult day Normally, it’s a sleepless day

“the pantheon”

The Writer [wood painting: rachel kreski

[

03 [

[writing: lisa satpathy

I am a writer. Let that fact be established. Let it sink in. No, I do not write about the

significance of fish in my life or my boyfriend breaking up with me over spilt milk. That spilt milk in question is not for this audience. Nor do I debate over global warming or talk about weapons of mass destruction. These are the questions for scientists or the President I have no affection for because I have not met him. I do not write soap operas or about the birth of my non-existent nephew. I write life.

The sleepy days at school where the sky is grey and dull, no one ever pays attention to us because we don’t like to talk in class. We are not the idiots that give chickenscratch and call it a heartfelt effort. Plagiarizers find a life – don’t steal mine. Before you learn to draw, you must trace; use coloring books before painting your Mona Lisa.

In some aspects, writing is like talking to yourself when no one is listening. A diary is a record of memories. Non-fiction is real and fiction is stripping bare, like the nightclub without the naughty group. I don’t write for the world to remember me or see me as I am. I write to savor the moment.

Just because you say you write, doesn’t make it a proclamation. Stop lying to yourself; whisper it softly, savor it – I am a writer.

04

“mother nature”

“the pantheon”

[art illustration: maggie ramos

[

[

[writing: ozy aloziem

title

05

Subliminal Ideology

“teardrops”

Wandering around aimlessly, living in a superficial façade, living in a carefree, mirthful stupor, intoxicated by an ever-varying existence.

But then reality sets in and blindsides you, shattering everything you held to be true, trampling your peaceful reverie.

Invading the warmth that once spread through your body, leaving you mentally convulsing, gasping for air grasping for the shattered pieces of what remains of you, clinging to the things that keep you from drowning in your own soul.

Maybe this is how things are supposed to turn out, maybe this is all a sick, twisted joke– “Oh that one. She’s too happy.

Let’s see how much pain she can endure before she finally realizes.”

Realizes that maybe we’re not destined to be happy, that happiness is just a fleeting illusion, an illusion to something gruesome and hideous.

It’s funny how we grow up fearing the monsters under our bed, the monsters in movies, in books but no one ever thinks about the real monsters.

These other monsters all pale in comparison, to the monsters of life, the truly heinous monsters that come attack you in varying forms with one common purpose– to annihilate you to conquer you and control you shredding your existence to pieces until there is nothing left but the sad, charred remains of a slowly scarred soul.

06

For a while everything seems fine, almost perfect.

Human Paperweights W

[colored pencil: annie townley

[

07 [writing: alex eilers

[

e were used as human paperweights, wedged on top of the builtin toolbox right behind the silver Dodge truck cabin. Our feet stuck straight out keeping down two air mattresses that filled the entire bed. We volunteered to transfer the deflated mattress from camp to a place where they could be filled electrically, not to risk our lives.

“What is she doing?” Elisabeth yelled just audible over the wind created by the truck moving at fifty-five miles an hour. The wind was trying to steal her pulled back hair one strand at a time. The wisps rippled all different directions making her hair dance. Her eyes widened.

The white dashes that split the road in half drew closer and disappeared under the truck. Aunt Kriss was drifting. My eyes grew in size to match Elisabeth’s. Then we laughed.

Our wide eyes became a game of whose eyeballs will dry out the fastest while looking into the wind. No blinking allowed. We screamed songs at the top of our lungs because no one could hear us; because we could not hear ourselves. Only the imaginary guitar solos echoed in our heads.

Although the highway was deserted, we laughed at the idea of oncoming traffic seeing us. Our aunt was driving down the middle of the road with two half-circle foreheads and two sets of eyes peeking over the roof as two human paper weights.

08

[writing: amalia hansen

[

09 [writing: alexandra naidenovich

[

My Lords and Ladies of the court please suffer these last cursed words that stream from my tongue before you condemn me to the gallows listen but a minute so that my heart will be spent when the floor drops.

You deceive yourselves, you fools You think that you have broken my soul Crushed my spirit You deny that I am capable of thought You delude yourself, righteous selves Thinking that I have become a drone, a mindless slave of your creation One who bends at your petty wants Ha, you pompous lummox Go ahead lead me to the gallows Wrap that thick rope around my neck I will spit at your royal feet As the trap door opens I say to you Good Riddance!

John Proctor’s Unsaid Words

Darkness

10

I’m not like you I see things differently I feel around in the dark Trying to find my way I trip and fall But no one’s there to call No one’s there to help I find my balance And my strength to stand up I turn around But nothing’s there Absolutely nothing It’s black But how do I know?

For I cannot see it What is someone’s there Watching me struggle Just to walk down the hallway Just to get to bed I’m not afraid of the dark I live in darkness I know God’s there for me Giving me strength to move on Giving me a shoulder to lean on He gives me light Even though I’m blind.

“introspective�

11 [pencil: maddie lahood

[

[

[pencil: alex frost

“me”

12

Forever Altered 6/12/10

13

[painting: lori nevole

[

[

[writing: emily reynolds

Sitting in the bell tower, I have never felt more comfortable. It is irrevocably beautiful. I can hear the reggae sound of Dominican

music off in the distance. The domestic noise of dogs and cats and incessant honking competes with the wind that surrounds me.

The mountains are clearly visible today, something we haven’t seen often enough. They are beautiful and majestic, a constant in a city of hustle and bustle. I still can’t believe I am here. Last night we watched In the Time of the Butterflies. It just happens to be my favorite book! The women are so strong and prevailing; they are truly aspirations to become. My favorite part of the novel is when Dede cuts Mate’s braid from her lifeless body. The braid is beautiful and broken…just like her…just like her country.

6/13/10 “Don’t just live life, fight for it.” Mother Teresa Today was the beginning of change. I saw it in Frannie as the tears brimmed in her eyes and finally fell over. There was a beautiful girl in the batey who intelligently conveyed to Frannie the unfortunate life fate has handed her. We are changing. I see it in the beautiful women who have whole-heartily embarked on this journey. They will go on to do amazing things in life. The amount of compassion and enthusiasm each one of these girls possesses is immeasurable and inexplicable. They will make a difference in this world, and I will be right beside them. This is the reason I am here. Here is to making a difference. Here is to love. Here is to fighting.

Here is to life well lived.

6/17/10 We leave today. We woke up and took many pictures before saying our inevitable but unwelcomed goodbyes. Mi familia became my family. I can’t explain in word what they mean to me or show you the place in my heart where they stay, but I implore to understand that they are a significant part of me now. When I am home and I look up at the sky, I will take great comfort in the fact that they see the same one. When I hugged my father he pulled back with tears in his eyes and said to me, “This is your home.

Es su casa.” They are the most beautiful people with the most open hearts. I have never experienced a more faithful love. We only had a few days go get to know each other but our bonds are strong and our hearts eternally connected. To me they are the epitome of true generosity. How can I ever repay them for what they have given me? I am not sure I ever will. It’s hard to leave your heart behind. When you use it so much in such a short period, its ultimately impossible to just give it away. But that is what I did today. I left my heart in Llano del Higo with MY family in MY house. And I will return one day to retrieve it again.

14 “ocean sunset”

[writing: kyra lindholm

[ 15 [photography: teresa coulter

If contemplating me be your one, true desire

Don’t think of me fondly Or quietly Or softly No lofty ideals will you hold for my character For my wicked person For my shifting being Meaning, think of me as I am Not as a precious idea Not as you wish me to be Rather, ME as you truly SEE My crooked smile My lazy laugh Those scratch the surface, but aren’t even half of what is me Not my whole Nor my core That’s okay, ‘cuz I know you know more than you say Know my changing eyes Helped write my story And if I may be gone, keep my memory The highs and lows of me The lilt of my voice My puzzled face when I’m making a choice See my face when I Laugh out loud Don’t speak at all My wide, open eyes before I fall Tumble, tumble Crash, down The way I feel when you’re not around Way I feel when you catch me still Way I act when I must roam When I’m with you it’s just like home Where the heart is, they say Do hearts have a resting place?

There must be some hidden, secret space Where I can hide from the empty time Plug my ears against the silent sound Truly, I admit this all sounds too profound To have anything to do with me Maybe not, since thoughts are better ways to convey Exactly how to speak your say So Forget-Me-Not, think hard, with fire

If you are to think of me…

If You Are To Think Of Me

[

16

“secrets from november”

17 [colored pencil: kealinn peterson

[

[writing: anne johnson

[

Breathing You But today, It’s for you.

Yes, you, sitting there listening to me.

I know yesterday was brimming with bad dreams and aching and troubled words.

But breathe.

You are only innocence and beauty.

So breathe.

Breathe like you aren’t furious with the world and all of these injustices thrown at you.

Because now, You are invincible.

Let my words become a silver shield and breathe.

Settle back into the rhythm that I’m throwing you and flow.

You’re a river and your tides are rapid and taller than skyscrapers, but you are crystal.

Yeah, there are rocks at your bottom, but even they can learn to shine.

Flow like the wind.

Flow like hope.

Bend into dark crevices and light up.

Flow like breath and breathe.

You are here today. Be here.

You’re becoming a warrior of compassion, lighting fires in the deadened eyes of the faithless.

You are that spark.

And all it takes to grow is a little breath.

18

My poetry is generally composed of you and soul and hope.

[

[writing: allison dethlefs [oil painting: annie dovali

[

19

Soft-Shelled “pomegranate impressions”

Break me Therefore sculpt me out of stone Sand me down And add a glaze for shine Then let me plummet Into a violent sea Push me off For passive waves Of dizzying heights Leave not a scratch For bouncing off rocky walls Will leave my diamond shell Once I’m fired Unblemished Pass me through Merely brighter than before Long torment days Past fiery glares Just don’t whisper my way No scorch marks left Heart words Watch as arrows glance The only chink Off of my upturned face In my unbreakable armor Not one will pierce me through One tap And against my will My stone self Will crumble away Leaving me Soft-shelled Vulnerable And broken

20

Heart words

“bubble wonder”

[

[writing: anne johnson

[photography: alexa baumer

[

21

Songbird I have a songbird.

She is small and red and full of hope.

She is a messenger.

She flies into the darkness and spreads the stars at nighttime.

Her beak is a tool she uses to pick the locked hearts of our apathetic devils and she carries them to our feet.

Today we see that the bonfires we stoke in our souls burn brighter than any ice storm they try to throw at us.

Our pitching is much more skilled.

We throw with our songbirds.

We throw with hope. NOTHING can slaughter hope.

The flaming passion in my burning palms is worth fighting for.

Anyone who has ever stared their devil in the eyes is worth fighting for.

Anyone who has been beaten is worth fighting for.

You, are worth fighting for.

These apathetic monsters are nothing compared to the intensity raging through my body.

And we finally see that these monsters that had been holding us by our necks are really just children.

The power in my words right now is strong enough to crush their plutonic fury.

The children on the playground that were just pretending to be happy.

Pretending to be better than us.

But their hatred was primal.

Savage.

Raw. Their fury was all to legitimate.

I am gathering an army.

We are composed of broken parts and wounded minds but we are fighting for you.

But today we see that they have plastic minds.

They have styrofoam sharpened tongues that melt when confronted with the fire in our hearts.

and I swear to God, regardless of what these monsters say, You are worth the fight.

We are flying on the backs of songbirds and we are more beautiful than the sun.

22

And they lay there.

Crumpled and broken.

[

[photography: hannah christensen

23

Staff

Faculty Advisor [Luke Ostrander]

Art Editor [Annie Dovali]

Copy Editor [Jenny May]

Head Copy Editor [Alexa Baumer] Assistant Editor [Hannah Grace]

Editor in Chief [Allison Dethlefs]

Editorial Policy

“spectrum sunset�

Marian proudly presents Burn, a creative writing magazine which features written work, photography, and artwork

done by current students. The Burn editors reserve the right to make minor grammatical or spelling corrections and modify submitted pieces to fit design concepts.

Burn is a school based publication of Marian, 7400 Military Ave. Omaha, NE 68134. Burn is distributed twice a year, once in the fall, and then again in the spring.

We are accepting student submissions for the Spring 2011 issue of Burn now until Friday, March 4th, 2011. To submit poetry, art, fiction, creative essays, etc., email a digital copy to lostrander@omahamarian.org along with the following information: name, title of submission, email address, and homeroom. When submitting artwork, please submit the highest quality resolution possible for consideration. Pieces are selected based on creative talent and on the uniqueness of the individual submission. Submissions are judged blindly by the staff members. Work submitted must be completely original in ideas and content.

Printed by Automatic Printing Company Omaha, NE