Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Fall 2012

Burn

Volume 3 Issue 1

Contents

deep sea diving at the zoo [ emma tuttle ]

“T he only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are 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 yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...

“

~Jack Kerouac~

1 & 2 3 & 4 5 & 6 7 & 8 9 & 10 11 & 12 Tangled Up in Blonde [ Jessica Mizaur ] Introspection [ Shannon Smith ] The Gardener [ Nan Long ] Inconsistencies [ Megan Woodruff ]

Better Days [ Charlotte Elsasser ] Window to the Soul [ Lindsay Bolamperti ]

Chaotic Musings [ Roni Perez ] Mismatch Heart [ Samantha Gardner ]

The Flower’s Promenade [ Hannah Lajba ] Harmony [ Eileen Baca ] Haven of Ingenuity [ Julia Tatten ]

Sink [ Mackenzie Duce ] Infinite Tranquility [ Hallie McNamara ] Poison [ Emma Finken ]

The Midnight Girl [ Alexis Vinton ] Metamorphosis [ Maddie Lambert ]

Cover Photography: Soar [ Maria Corpuz ]

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& 15 & 17 & 19 & 21 & 23 &

April 24th [ Jessica Mizaur ] Airborne [ Shannon Smith ] Das Weisse Licht [ Mary Hilton ] Make a Wish [ Eileen Baca ] Painted Yellow [ Alexis Vinton ] Serenity [ Anastasia Zuerlein ]

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Dread [ Alexandra Naidenovich ] Reflection [ Haley Snyder ] To Rekindle the Flames [ Alexandra Naidenovich ] Storm’s Coming [ Lori Nevole ] Thursday [ Mary Hilton ]

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More than Meets the”I” [ Maria Corpuz ] Eternity [ Lindsay Bolamperti ]

Masks [ Claire Davis ] Different Perspectives [ Anastasia Zuerlein ] Enough [ Sydney Rhoades ] Rustic Vision [ Claire Koory ]

Them Others [ Nan Long ] Through the Eyes [ Emily Fisher ]

Serengti Sunset [ Maddie Lambert ] Jumbled Revelation [ Laura Atherton ]

Back Cover Artwork: Peace of the Tropics [ Sarah Berger ]

inConsisTenciEs [ megan woodruff ]

I used to think change was possible.

Not just possible, but probable.

When I looked at others I saw potential.

I saw a goal.

But the same people who told me they could empower, that they could give me success, have done just the opposite.

You’ve lost my respect.

You’ve lost my attention.

I’m not succumbing to your false ideals any more.

So right now, I may be helpless.

I’ll smile, I’ll pretend.

If it boosts your ego, I’ll admit that you’ve won this one.

But as much as you hate it, I’m more confident because of it.

And I’m more independent than the people you’ve brainwashed.

And down the road, I promise, no, I guarantee, I’ll lead.

Even if only to prove you wrong.

And I’ll look back, and see you exactly as you as you are now.

And, from my view, I’ll know I’ve finally won.

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“tangled up in blonde” [ jess mizaur ]

“introspection” [ shannon smith ]

the gardener [ nan long ]

Once lovingly tended -now overgrown Once young and fair -now wrinkled The Gardener totters where she used to walk So confidently down her winding path Padding softly on the cracked, nettle-scratched Cobblestones, a remnant of what used to be.

Weeds cover her feet, but she overlooks The hemlock, the nightshade.

Walking through grasping thistle Searching for bright flowers long forgotten.

Her feet calloused, bare shins cut, scarred by Malignant weeds that grab more and more as She walks her overgrown path, Oblivious to the unwanted

At the end of her winding path are nestled Thorny roses, with young petals the Gardener Aches to feel. For youth’s pain is age’s memr’y, And wrinkled hands may ache for thorns

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better days [ charlotte elsasser ]

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The one who kept his pinky promises The boy who swore to never be like his father The boy in my imaginary dreams The hand to hold through my nightmares Do you know you were my best friend?

Do you know there isn’t a day I don’t think?

Of the better days, When innocence was only a word we didn’t understand.

You grew up way too fast for my liking.

You don’t care what I like anymore.

You don’t know me anymore, You don’t want to.

You say things I hope you regret Throwing nasty words around like feathers For every minute I’ve spent mad at you.

I’ve spent an hour forgiving you.

You’ve grown to be a selfish, rude, scared, little boy.

I can see the fear in your eyes.

I see it in my own eyes.

I know it feels like a lurking ghost That won’t stop hovering by your shoulder.

“window to the soul”

Will I be like them when I grow up?

I am already sick with this disease, How can I avoid the side effects?

Remember, my parents have this disease too.

Are we just shadows of those who created us?

Repeating what they do, as they do it.

Or are we learning from their mistakes?

Have we seen enough to know it’s not worth it?

We are the children of mistakes.

Mistakes made all too often.

Are we just mistakes in our parents’ eyes?

Are we mistakes that can’t be out lived?

Growing up faster than you’re supposed to Won’t erase the confusion that is our past.

You know that.

So remember the better days, When you were the boy who always kept his pinky promises.

The boy who swore not to be like his father The boy I dreamt with.

And the hand I held through my nightmares.

Forget the tragic days When our innocence was ripped away from us.

Remember the better days, When innocence was just a word we didn’t understand.

[ lindsay bolamperti ]

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mismatch heart [ samantha gardner ]

My heart’s made of mismatch colors

I laughed

several pinks and reds

and I smiled

torn and ripped

saying it was great.

and patched and stitched

That friendship was still in our hearts

like old work clothing.

even as I held two halves of a heart

It wasn’t always like this

in each hand.

mismatched and ragged

I tried to be strong

but I guess I had bad luck

I even took a needle

for thrice my heart was stolen

and sewed my heart back together in front of them

thrice I found it broken

to show ‘proof’ that I was fine

but only twice had it mended

that I would be fine.

once with pink thread and once with red

With an odd silver thread

seemingly loving hands had gone to work

clumsy hands went to work.

to fix the old torn heart.

I’m not going to lie

It wasn’t pretty

it hurt like burning fire

and it wasn’t strong

but afterwards I was surprised to find that it felt....

but it would do.

good....?

In the end

It felt good to fix my own broken heart

with the last one

thrice my heart was stolen

it still ended the same

thrice I found it broken

again had it been broken.

but finally thrice had it mended and somehow my heart seems stronger and more beautiful with all its mismatched colors.

Because for the first time it was mended with a silver lining.

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“chaotic musings” [ roni perez ]

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the flower’s promenade [ hannah lajba ]

Skipping along comes the porcelain girl Shriveled cloth lined basket in hand.

Turning off the weathered and dusty road The ballroom of the forest approaches.

Bursting through the elm walls The sun swells casting warm beams like spotlights, Her skip becomes a fox trot.

The densely-flowered floor of poppies and brush Welcomes the gentle tip tap of her graceful feet Releasing their sweet perfume into the wind, The robins and woodpeckers become the orchestra With different pitched whistles and drums, The cool echoing mid-summer’s breeze creates a steady beat.

Feet following mindlessly Her flowing pink cotton dress flailing with each turn, After countless hours of promenading with her flowers The fading glow of the spotlight and The chill of the wind means it is time to go.

With a curtsey as a thank you for this dance The frail girl grabs her empty basket Remembering why she came, Kindly asking for mementoes from this day The wild flowers with warm hues obey.

Bowing their heads to show their sacrifice, She plucks them up Neatly nestling them into the basket As not to get harmed or damaged, She grand jetés off the ballroom floor Waving good-night to all her friends Allegroing back home to quench the petals’ thirst.

Setting them in her room to dream about today She awaits the day when she will go back, Once these flowers have decayed.

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“harmony” [ eileen baca ]

“haven of ingenuity� [ julia tatten ]

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poison [ emma finken ]

sink

[ mackenzie duce ]

My usually bouncing-off-the-walls sister Sits silently, cold rivers of tears drip off her cheeks, And cut new canyons into her young face.

I want to rage and claw at her so-called friends, The monsters that rob her of her smile While their fangs drip acidic lies That slowly wear her down.

They grin, exposing rows of razor-sharp rumors, As they capture my sister’s confidence And replace it with doubt and hurt.

The shadows of their careless whispers loom And follow her home, trapping her in her misery.

I can see the result of their poisonous words Huddled in front of me– A girl shrinking in on herself, paralyzed.

How much does your baggage weigh?

Beneath your eyes They lie, Obvious, Darkening, cumbersome, A redundant feature

I long to reach out and comfort her, hold her But something stands between us, A seemingly impassable mountain of Moments missed and words long ago forgotten.

When did we become so distant, When did silence become our routine?

Secret grievances, never voiced aloud, Ruin the bonds between us And I know that I have played my part.

My ignorance and detachment add to her pain And I can taste the bitter poison in my mouth, too.

I am another kind of monster, Sowing my own seeds of doubt in her.

And so I am afraid As I watch

I love you, I whisper, The words an antidote to the poison in my heart, And reach out tentatively, Anxious to close the distance between us But guilt and regret weigh me down, Making the last steps Unbearable, Necessary.

I fold my arms around her, pull her close, And murmur my new promise: I love you, I’m here for you.

You’re drowning, imminent, Choking on hidden hopes Sinking into a sober slumber Struck with nostalgic waves Submersing

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Eye-lids slump Despite resistance Nodding, agreeing to sleep, You are gone Plunging into a world, A sea, Of washed up dreams

This.

This is when your depression peaks, Your very mind begins to sink An unconscious state of more.

More nightmares, More sleepless nights, More impending doom, More fears.

Why can’t you let go The anchor Suffocating in darkness Enter the trench Gasp for one more breath One more glimpse Of light

I don’t see struggling Or trying to break free You are bound Given up You are the bouy The anchor in control Try to escape This is your life Your mind.

Take control Release your ties And escape.

“infinite tranquility” [ hallie mcnamara ]

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the midnight girl [ alexis vinton ]

She hated the world.

She hated the sunshine, she hated the moon.

She hated that flickering lamp in her dingy bedroom.

And most of all she hated the way that she hated herself.

At night she would try to run, but her fears would take over.

She would climb out of her window into the darkness.

She wandered the streets with her hands in her pockets and her mind outside her head.

She stayed away from the beam of the street lights, afraid the world would see her.

She let her beat up black high tops lead the way as she roamed the desolate streets.

The cool night air would ruffle her midnight black hair, and the only thing heard was the shuffling of her feet on the pavement.

Her black high tops would turn on different streets every night, but always end up at the same placethe bridge overlooking the train tracks, a place where it’s noisy and peaceful all at once.

She would pull out a cheap plastic cigarette lighter and burn her carefully written poems, written on carefully folded paper.

She would watch as the glowing paper drifted down towards the tracks.

She would turn away, once again following her high top sneakers.

She would look up at the sky, disgusted by the bright stars but even more disgusted by herselfthe midnight girl.

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“metamorphosis” [maddie lambert]

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“make a wish” [ eileen baca ]

“serenity”

[ anastasia zuerlein ]

april 24th

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[ jess mizaur ] I held you up against the sky, Believing that you could surpass the stars, Never once fathoming that my heavenly contender could burn out just the same.

Even all of the stars and sun and moon Cannot be seen both day and night And I’ve been trying to figure out which you are: my sun or my moon.

I tried to make you both, But you are neither.

You are human.

das weisse licht [ mary hilton ] In the thickest margins of darkness, I created my sun. My sun guided me through my fears and my dreams, my lusts and my loves. My sun offered me shields which were instantly available at all times, but I seldom used them. I have seen the world for what it is, and - consequently - I now bear the burden of everyone’s yesterday. Feeble as it was, my sun directed me beyond this unfamiliarly cold, dark place and into the breezy warmth of a new day. It fulfilled the promises I made years ago but failed to keep.

“airborne� [ shannon smith ]

painted yellow [ alexis vinton ] I paint myself with yellow paint.

Very bright, very nice.

I apply another coat of yellow paint, along with a smile.

Bright, happy, cheerful.

I am always covered by a shield of blue paint.

The yellow paint is washable, but the blue is permanent.

I run around in the daylight sun, all bright and happy and cheerful, all covered in yellow paint.

I keep painting on the yellow paint, coat upon coat.

The only thing i have to hide is the blue underneath.

The sun rises, the people are looking.

Once again, i cover myself with yellow paint.

I see people looking.

I smile, I wave.

The paint begins to chip.

The dark navy blue paint that is underneath begins to show.

People are looking.

At night the people stop looking.

I wash off the yellow.

Dark, sad, forlorn.

I am covered, head to toe, in the dark blue paint.

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[ haley snyder ]

“reflection�

thursday [ mary hilton ]

Today I woke up.

I took my 8 AM walk. I took my 8 PM walk. I ate something. I drank something.

I spoke and wrote some things. I thought and dreamt some things, too. But with all these somethings, I still have nothing because the sum of all things has always been and will always be you.

I miss you.

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to rekindle the flames

dread

It appears as though apathy has got the best of me Every task seems monumental The thought of even packing my things makes me cringe My motivation has left me Now all that is left is a hapless, empty shell desiring to sleep for eternity Content to do nothing of significance for the remainder of her years I need to find a way to rekindle the fire that once burned brightly Blazing brilliantly from the passion of existence Scintillating from the rush of progress How can I recover my past self?

The me that soared with enthusiasm The me that roared like a lion at a challenge The me that charged headfirst into battle I’ll start with the small things The little whims that bring me joy Once I recover those Then the rest should easily follow I will rise like a phoenix from the ash Reborn with an even stronger desire to accomplish A renewed sense of purpose will push me to edge, where I will once again soar

This feeling is overwhelming A looming shadowy figure slowly pushing you down until you collapse Overcome by the intense pressure of what has yet to come Spiraling closer And closer To an inevitable end

[ alexandra naidenovich ]

[ alexandra naidenovich ]

Trapped in a train car hurdling towards the end of its track Where a terrifying opponent waits menacingly Speeding closer And closer To the edge, the almost certain demise The worst part is knowing what is to come There is no stopping it No way to stop the train No way to change the track

“storm’s coming” [ lori nevole ]

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“eternity� [ lindsay bolamperti ]

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more than meets the “I” [ maria corpuz ]

Light waves. That’s the topic of today’s Physics class. I learn that frequency is color and that certain things absorb different waves and, therefore, give off color.

I learned in Kindergarten that Roy G. Biv is not a man, but visible light waves. It was visible to me at a young age that I am not the same color as the majority of people I am surrounded by. It’s interesting that people go their whole lives never being able to look at themselves face-to-face, but just through reflections and moments frozen in time. I can see my progress through pictures and my family’s home videos of our annual Christmas play. Instead of eyes the color of the ocean, I have eyes the color of caramel with specks of fresh mud. My hair is not black, nor blonde, but rather a dark chestnut. My skin absorbs light waves except the wave the color of my morning coffee with a little bit of cream.

My color is brown.

Color is something perceived in the brain and my brain, when I was younger, had a hard time distinguishing what color I am. I grew up in a community that was mostly filled with Caucasians. While my Kindergarten classmates were using their Apricot Crayola crayon to color in their 5-year-old self-portrait, I felt that I had to use brown. I knew that I was like them, but then again, I wasn’t. My mother is a mixture of Polish, Ukraine, German and many others. Meanwhile my father is 100 percent Filipino. One doesn’t really meet many Filipino’s in the Midwest, so I was a lone wolf.

As I grow older and develop, I realize that it is neither my brownness nor my heritage that makes me who I am. Yes, I have learned that calling people names because of the way they look can hurt. Yes, I have learned that one cannot judge people on something they can’t change. Yes, I have learned to embrace my mixed heritage and accept the gifts of my differences. But I am more than just brown. I am red. I am passionate about people and what I want to do with my life. I am purple. I want to solve mysteries and learn to become wise. I am orange. I am enthusiastic about things that interest me and what I am learning. I am pink. I am life, I was put here for a purpose, not just to exist, but to do something with the time I am given. I am blue. I am curious about what is on the other side of the world. I want to travel oceans to learn about a variety of people and their cultures.

Sound waves. That’s the topic of tomorrow’s Physics class. But we can save my thoughts on that for a different day. For now, I am more than just brown, I am color and I refuse to go unseen.

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“different perspective� [ anastasia zuerlein ]

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“rustic vision”

[ claire koory ]

masks

enough

[ claire davis ]

[ sydney rhoades ]

Our top-notch masks Are molded quite perfectly!

They’re all made the same, And loved by society!

Strolling the streets of my city, inhaling toxic fumes. the ground vibrates, from the train speeding by below the pavement.

Horns blare as taxis weave in and out, the sticky air of the city coats me, like a second skin. people, constantly on the move, surround me. out of the mass of indistinct faces sits a woman, hunched against a wall so tight only an outstretched hand is discernable. life for her hasn’t been easy.

Smooth and unmarred, No trace of entity, Our masks are made solely To hide all identity!

So don’t be a misfit; Put an end to your shame!

Come into our store, Where all masks are the same!

tattered clothes and fingerless gloves speak of hardships, most can only imagine. her face is a map of creases, evidence of the many cold nights and the dozens of missed meals; her eyes beg for help. people pass without a second glance.

But then, a child, no more than 7 or 8, goes up and hands her some crumpled dollar bills, and says, “I hope that’s enough.”

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through my EYErony

“bound”

precision is the key

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“through the eyes” [ emily fisher ]

them others [ nan long ]

Them look down their sharp noses Them with their shine-bright shoes and Stiff-ironed dresses Them lucky.

Them, with life easy on eyes and sun-sharp colors Wherever they step Them blinding to Others, Others that walk in grays and browns Them see Others, Others with nothing.

Others stumbling on grass-stabbed concrete, Others with ripped shirts and bare feet Others proud in shame, standing tall with broken backs Them watch and call “Others stricken! Others poor!�

Like Others is flat in the street.

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“serengti sunset� [ maddie lambert ]

jumbled revelation

[ laura atherton ] Kaleidoscope colors Rotating Transforming into something entirely new.

Geometric shapes gliding before my eyes.

Soothing feelings of comfort and inspiration begin to set in the depths of my body.

The lyrics repeat in my head Over and over.

Is this something I can figure out on my calculator?

Jumbles of numbers and facts versus thoughts and imagination?

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Like the last puzzle piece fitting just perfectly.

Or finding that one true thought that finally makes all the rest add up.

And sharing this newfound epiphany with everyone I meet.

Spreading the news.

This new news.

Or is it?

Perhaps they know.

Maybe this news to me is history to the rest.

Are these even my words?

Or just someone else's repeated?

Reused?

Recycled...

Then transformed into something all my own.

Like the rotating colors of turquoise, ruby, and lavender.

Right before my eyes; creating an epiphany all my own.

Design Editor Gabby Maenner

Kayla Hasenjager

Kellyjo Steier

Kristen Jansen

Sarah Brown

Bailey Costello

Kayla Sullivan

“Sleepy”

Kenna

Silvey

Megan Smith

“Bored”

Alexa Horn

Madisen Waters

Lindsay Moran Michaela Clausen

“Sad”

“Excited”

Editorial Policy

Marian presents Burn, a literary magazine that strives to showcase the original artwork, photography, and creative writing of our student body. Burn is published twice a year, once per semester and we accept submissions from all grade levels. Our submissions are judged anonymously and those that are selected are subject to minor grammatical or spelling corrections. Burn is a forum for creative student expression and our goal is to give students a place to publish their work and a place to have their peers appreciate their work.

“Inquisitive”

“Jealous”

“Creepy”

“Silly”

Lauren Tussey

Photo Editor

Copy Editor

Kelsey VanOsdel

“Hopeful”

“Happy”

“Hysterical”

“Confused”

Kathleen Bever

Kelsey O’Connell

“Emotionless”

“Cocky”

“Suspicious”

“Shocked”

Lizzie Erftmier

Araya Santo

“Thoughtful”

Sara Cipolla

“Lovestruck”

Maria Corpuz

Laura Atherton

Abby Peters

“Embarrassed” “Mischievous”

“Smug”

“L OL”

“Disgusted” Jessica Mizaur

“Exasperated”

Megan Woodruff

“Sassy”

Editor in Chief

Adviser

Mrs. Christen

Sydney Rhoades

The Many Moods of the Burn Staff

“Scared”

“Stressed”

Burn is printed by Automatic Printing Company. For the 2012-2013 school year, there will be 800 copies per semester. All titles of pieces and page numbers are set in FFF Tusj font. The text of the stories are set in Geo Sans Light.

The softwares used were Adobe InDesign CS6 and Adobe Photoshop CS6.

Marian High School 7400 Military Avenue Omaha, NE 68134 burn@omahamarian.org

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