Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Fall 2013

Burn

Volume 4 Issue 1

if it helps you sleep at night julia tatten ‘15 the things we don’t see maddie mendell ‘15 museum in a box alexa horn ‘14 root deer bridget hake ‘14

3&4

irl means in real life haley minnick ‘14 high note

mackenzie freed ‘17

5&6

starry night

faith vinton ‘16 flying past dawn

ellen townley ‘14 coins

samantha gardner ‘14 limitless

jaime aspen ‘14

7 - 10

bird of prey

alexa horn ‘14

11 & 12

the control center

araya santo ‘14 fighter planes emma eaton ‘17

13 & 14

northern star betsy ryan ‘14 isolation

kelsey o’connell ‘15

15 & 16

countdown kenna silvey ‘15 exposure

megan smith ‘15

17 & 18

forever suspended

ellen townley ‘14 anyone, but me

gwendolyn johnson ‘17

19 & 20

mid-afternoon

emily hobza ‘14 creed island

jaime aspen ‘14 the monster

bailey costello ‘14 panthera onca

kelsey o’connell ‘15

21 & 22

the lily

emily hobza ‘14 the builders

claire davis ‘14 through the looking glass

megan smith ‘15 on stranger tides

lizzie erftmier ‘14

23 & 24

workers of autumn

lindsay moran ‘14 burning sky

anastasia zuerlein ‘14

front cover ice cracks

sarah morse ‘16

back cover drawn into disorder

maddie mendell ‘15

table of contents

1& 2

“the road ahead” [ maren haddad ‘14 ]

“The 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, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars....”

~Jack Kerouac

if it helps you sleep at night Every single day, my math teacher yells at me for sleeping in class, and every single day I try my hardest to explain to her that I’m not sleeping, just resting my eyes.

When she tells me there’s no difference (there is) I can’t help but wonder how many hours of sleep a night she gets.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever been so tired that it is no longer about sleep. So tired that you will do virtually anything just to close your eyes for two minutes in hopes to extinguish the fire that has been burning behind your eyelids for quite some time now.

And if she hasn’t, I wish that she could. I wish that for one night, absolutely nothing could put her to sleep.

That she would have to spend just one night staring up at the ceiling, wrestling with demons that only come out at bedtime.

Monsters that aren’t afraid of the dark, silently screaming: “Hey LOSER! Not only do you manage to screw up every aspect of your everyday life, but you can’t even fall asleep at night.” As if the alarm clock on her bedside table weren’t enough of a reminder.

[ julia tatten ]

I hope that when she realizes falling asleep is not going to be an easy task, she begins to count sheep or recite digits of pi, or whatever the hell math teachers do in their spare time until there are no more numbers left, and she decides to take a different approach.

I hope when she gets to the Hail Holy Queen on her 5th rosary she realizes that not even God can help her out on this one, and she is alone in the truest sense of the word.

I hope that after many hours pass, she finally begins to fall asleep, only to be woken up again 20 minutes later by that dang alarm clock feeling 10 times more tired than she was before.

I hope that that afternoon in class, I happen to glance up at her while she decides to make a feeble attempt at putting out the flame by resting her eyes for a minute and I will tell HER to wake up.

And when she looks up at me with tired, worn out eyes, I’ll know that she understands. And if she understands, well then that means someone does.

And I guess that’s a start.

“the things we don’t see” [ maddie mendell ]

01

museum in a box [ alexa horn ] Piles of white rice bags obscure the peeling wallpaper.

Wheels on a cart squeak with each turn as a family chatters, “Watashi wa…”

“Mite! Mite!”

Their children run small fingers across products on the shelves: foreign vegetables and assorted fruits, Japanese teas and crunchy seaweed.

Printed black symbols march in tight columns across plastic-wrapped sweets.

The brush strokes form words for most of the customers, but to me, they’re art.

I often stash the wrappers in a wooden box that sits on my desk.

With each addition to the collection, they crackle loudly, even though they should be quiet in their own museum.

I ought to shush them.

Someone may hear the crinkling noise they make, and they’d know that I’m keeping trash.

“How weird,” they’d say.

Those people would throw the wrappers on the ground and step on them like any other piece of litter.

Still, the art that covers them mirrors the writing on ancient ceramic teapots— spiderweb-cracked teapots that museum curators pay thousands for.

“root deer” [ bridget hake ]

02

“high note� [ mackenzie freed ]

IRL means in real life

[ haley minnick ]

04

I wish I had a prestigious blog.

Because this is the american dream: to be internet famous.

I dream of 1 million subscribers on youtube and I don’t even have a youtube account.

I have 30 followers on tumblr and this is why I don’t have any friends.

Internet love is the most blind. @justinbieber: verified account tweet: ITALY SEE U SOON! I want pasta.

72,956 retweets 48,361 faves.

This is the American dream.

I live for the day I get more than 12 retweets. This is the kind of life I lead.

Yesterday I got two new followers on twitter... that was a high point.

The internet is the new Santa Claus. Because the internet is always watching you... waiting for the perfect picture to steal and turn into a meme. You close your eyes for one second and you have 12 million views on youtube and you’ve become the overly attached girlfriend meme. I am positive there is a gif of every person who ever fell down on the internet.

I am positive that there is everything on the internet, somewhere.

Because the american dream has a lot to offer these days.

The best things about the american dream include: professor or hobo? .com is it christmas.com I am embarrassed by my undying love for the internet, but what can I do?

I promise myself to only do things that make me happy IRL (in real life) The internet makes me happy.

You can make a video of yourself eating a tampon and become a celebrity and I love this.

There are things that are only to be said on the internet like “i thought our friendship was deeper than a fiber one brownie” “we accept the love we think we deserve” “can I get a retweet?” “hashtag yolo” “IRL” If you say things IRL it’s weird.

You can’t just walk away from someone and say unfollow.

I revel in my awkward textual relationships.

Facebook albums are parties you were never invited to and everyone wants you to know it.

Rarely do I realize the abyss that the internet has created, the unhappiness that it has imposed.

There is a distance between every person you meet until you friend them on facebook, follow them on twitter, get their gmail, add them on myspace, check their flickr, follow them on tumblr, and read their blog.

Social networking is slavery and nobody wants to free themselves. Not even me.

The internet makes me feel.

Feeling is what we want. To know that we are alive.

I remember when I used to laugh and not lol or hahahahhahha I remember imagination before google images.

I remember when I used to believe the american dream was a white picket fence with a tire swing in the front yard.

03

“flying past dawn” [ ellen townley ]

starry night [ faith vinton ] The plain, black night sky like an artist’s blank canvas plain until painted with memories of the past and hopes of better futures Look at the bright stars so far up in the night sky painting us pictures that dance along through the dark until the light swallows them

05

coins [ samantha gardner ] Two sides to a coin heads, tails, and genuine.

One way to lose, one way to win but fate won’t let you win them all, unless you fix the game.

Cheater, cheater coin counterfeiter.

At each coin flip shouting louder two heads spinning, always winning, but in the long run losing the game.

Losing your sanity as you start to forget which side is genuine, and which counterfeit.

Liar, liar flip turning wilder one face kind, other side sinister both plotting peace and war.

You find yourself falling, and looking down on a coin that’s always showing heads.

Welcome to insanity.

Welcome to oblivion.

All because you couldn’t stand the thought of losing the game.

“limitless” [ jaime aspen ]

06

liquid. The hummingbird buzzed excitedly around the small container as she unscrewed the lid.

“She’s feeding the Hummers again,” Verity said.

Her mother sighed, “That doesn’t surprise me.” One of the magazine’s pages ripped as she turned it.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Verity said after a moment.

Verity stepped up to a small stool to reach the counter and started the tea.

As she waited for the whistle of the teapot, her fingers quietly drummed on the counter. Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap with her right hand, Tap, Tap, Tap with her left. Finally, the teapot let out a screech and she poured a cup for her mother.

Passing the tea carefully to Nellie she asked, “So, Mom, anything interesting happen at work today?”

“Well, I had to calculate the amount of supplements that a certain baby needed in his jar because the doctor that normally takes care of him is on vacation. Then, the Coordinator said we would have to get more egg donors in the next couple months because we’re running low on babies.

There’s been more demand lately because the number of women infected by Belland’s virus is growing.

Soon, no one will be able to have kids naturally.”

“So, you haven’t found any more handicapped babies?” Verity asked.

Nellie shook her head.

“That’s good. This house would get a little to cramped for me if I got a brother or sister, I think.”

Her mother frowned and stared at the steam rising from her cup. Haltingly, she replied, “Are you unhappy here? I

wish there was a way to—” that person doesn’t have to suffer “Mom! I’ve told you before. I’m anymore.” Guy flicked his tail in happy just staying in the house. I don’t disapproval. Verity had meant it as a want to be out there,” she gestured joke but now felt bad for even thinking to their neighbor tending her garden, it. Her mother told her not to joke “You’ve told me all the awful stuff that about the drones. you’ve seen.”

A news bulletin ran across the “I just wish there was something I television screen reading: “Minor could do to change it,” her mother said earthquake shakes town, no damage.” quietly.

If only that were true, thought Verity.

“Well, there isn’t a way. Not for you … and especially not for me. There aren’t When Nellie came home that just advertising drones flying over evening, she was clutching a wrinkled our heads anymore, Mom. It’s not like tissue and her red-rimmed eyes found when you were a kid. If you say the Verity sitting in the living room. Verity wrong thing, a drone could hear you looked up at Nellie, and when she and then kill you before you can do glimpsed the tissue in her hand she a thing about it. I wouldn’t risk going raced to her mother with her short outside for anything.” arms stretched out to offer a hug.

Verity’s face softened and Nellie felt “What’s wrong?” three petite fingers and one thumb curl “I got a call from a friend of mine a around her own, bigger hand. bit ago. She said that her husband had ... been killed. A drone got him today.”

Verity remembered the first time she When her daughter didn’t respond, had heard it. She had been standing Nellie patted her on the shoulder and on her tippy toes in the kitchen, trying said, “I’ll make supper, honey.” to get a glimpse of the vegetables that Verity sat quietly. She imagined her mother was cutting. Then, with a the drone hovering over a house, tremor in the linoleum, her mother set wings outstretched, like a gray hawk the knife on the counter and closed just before it dives for a mouse. her eyes for a moment.

Coming from the kitchen, she heard “Is rain coming?” Verity had the tinny sound of a pan dropping. asked.

She wondered how loud the drone Now, as she read a book, she explosion must have sounded to the heard it again. Guy had been man. Did he say goodbye to his family sprawled across her lap, but before they left? What if his kids forgot jumped into the air when he heard to hug him when they left for school the explosion. The ground rumbled that day? beneath Verity’s feet, but because she She clutched Guy close to her chest had heard it so often, she no longer and whispered in his fur, “I need to do wondered what it was. something.”

Verity glanced at Guy and said sardonically, “Well, it’s a good thing [ continued on pages 9 & 10 ]

08

bird of prey The Inspectors made mistakes on the job occasionally, so the Coordinator wasn’t surprised when one of the new recruits shuffled into his office, eyes avoiding his own.

“Um, excuse me sir,” the Inspector said with hesitation. The Coordinator put the paper he had been reading on his mahogany desk, folded his hands, and glared imposingly at the man.

“What do you need, Doctor Blackwood?”

The Inspector cleared his throat nervously. “Well,” he fiddled with the papers on his clipboard, “it appears that I made a mistake a couple weeks ago when I was doing inventory.”

The Coordinator’s eyes narrowed.

“How so?”

“I didn’t notice that one of the fetuses was missing a finger, so I sent it to the packing room. When a family got the shipment, they noticed the damage and sent the package right back to us, along with a letter of complaint.”

The Coordinator sighed and replied, “The situation isn’t ideal, but it could have been worse, I suppose. I can write a letter of apology to them and offer some sort of discount on their next purchase.”

The Inspector’s shaky hand began to fiddle with the collar on his lab coat.

“So that’s not all that happened?” the Coordinator rubbed his temple with the heels of his palms.

The Inspector shook his head, “I was going to dispose of it properly after they returned the shipment, but when I checked the return shelf

07

[ alexa horn ] today, the container was gone.”

The Coordinator’s eyebrows rose skeptically, so the Inspector added quickly, “Doctor McFadden swears he put it on the shelf after it was returned.

I don’t know where it could’ve gone.”

The Coordinator stared at the Inspector, deciding what to do with him, but in the end he merely shooed the man out of his office. After all, anyone could have made the mistake of overlooking a missing finger. The fetuses were so cramped in their jars that it made it difficult for the Inspectors to catch imperfections like that.

The Coordinator knew that part of his job was to ensure that every human had a happy life; any fetuses with handicaps needed to be spared from the pain that their lives would surely bring. Because the Coordinator had saved so many from a terrible life already, and it would be nearly impossible to find the fetus again, he supposed that one miserable human out in the world wasn’t that bad. …

When Doctor Nellie Brenin got home, she settled into a chair and brought a dainty hand to her forehead, trying to suppress the persisting headache named Irvin Blackwood. In the past week alone, Nellie’s coworker—to whom she hardly spoke at work—had asked her to go out for a drink twice. It was no wonder he was attracted her; Concipio Industry’s records showed they had used the genes of two models to create Nellie. She was one of the first babies to be created after Belland’s virus hit the United States, and she was

by no means a failed experiment. Her long lashes and curved figure attested to that.

Finally away from the stress of work, Nellie tried to put any thoughts of Blackwood out of her mind and picked up a medical journal from the coffee table. Before she had finished even a paragraph of the article, the muffled yell of her daughter sounded from another room: “Guy! You good for nothing…”

The cat was just a white streak, dashing from her daughter’s room to the living room. Her daughter raced after Guy, red pigtails bouncing as she made a final leap for the cat, but he had nestled under the couch before she could grab him. The girl crouched to the floor as the cat’s yellow eyes peered back at her from their hiding place.

Nellie smirked, “What did Guy do this time?”

“He knocked over my glass of water and it spilled on some of my books.”

The girl glared at the cat. “You’d better be careful or I’ll throw you outside. If we’re lucky, one of the drones will get you.”

“Verity!” Her mother scolded, “you shouldn’t joke about those things.”

Verity shrugged indifferently and turned to face the window.

Outside, a stooping woman watered a garden in front of her home. The woman paused and smiled at a green hummingbird flitting from flower to flower. Verity watched the woman reach a wrinkled hand into her pocket and pull out a pill-shaped container filled with a blue, metallic

“Aren’t you going to read all of it?”

He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

His tired expression and stooped shoulders reminded Verity of her elderly neighbor, but he couldn’t be more than thirty. “Earlier this week I would have read it all, but I don’t need to now.” He settled into a chair and gestured for her to sit on the couch across from him.

“Do you watch the news at all, Miss Brenin?” Mr. Ada grabbed a glass from the coffee table and took a drink of it.

“I saw the story about the drone strike—well, earthquake was what they called it, but I know better.”

“My brother,” the man’s voice faltered. The ice in the glass clinked as he set it down with a shaking hand. “My brother lived in the house that the drone hit. Before yesterday I wouldn’t have believed what’s in this letter, but I saw his house, and I know that an earthquake didn’t cause that much damage on just one house. I had heard rumors about the drones but I never thought…” Droplets of rain began to speckle the window.

“Anyway, I don’t need to read the rest of your letter because I already made my decision. I’m going to select a new Coordinator for Concipio at the election next week.”

A smile broke out on Verity’s face, “I didn’t expect you to actually do anything about the problem. So who are you going to pick, then?”

“My brother knew some people that feel the same we do. He had been planning something with them, I’m not sure what, exactly. I’ll pick someone from that group to become the new Coordinator. With someone like that in such a powerful position,

everything should start changing in our favor.” His voice died off as he stared out rain-spattered window.

Verity turned to see what he was staring at, and then she saw, partially hidden by a rose bush, the small green body of a spy drone.

“A Hummer,” she cried.

Mr. Ada leapt from the chair. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the back door. “It probably recorded our conversation and sent it to the drones. We need to get out of here before one hits the house.”

They ran outside and the clouds chose that moment to unleash their attack of rain and hail. Over the sound of the hail, the rumble of an approaching drone vibrated through the air.

“Mommy!” Verity cried and covered her eyes.

“Just hold onto my hand, okay?”

He yelled over the thunder. She gripped his hand tightly and they sprinted away from the house. Verity looked back to see if they had run far enough, when the house exploded.

Drone strikes were always loud, but now Verity wasn’t just an observer.

She was in the eye of the storm. Her mom said that thunder couldn’t hurt her, but that must have been a lie because her ears were ringing and small bits of rubble pelted her back as she ran.

They found a truck across the street and crawled under it. Mr. Ada said, “I don’t think the drone saw us. We should be safe if we stay here for a bit.” They listened to the constant ping of hail on the truck. Verity momentarily wondered why her throat hurt, and then she remembered that she had screamed the whole way to the truck.

“Were you scared, too?” she asked.

He smiled, “A little. Hopefully this is the last time we see a drone.”

Across the street, pinched under a pile of crumbled bricks, a few sheets of paper from the letter waved at them. …

By the time the storm passed, no other drones had been sent to look for them. According to the computer system, Mr. Ada was dead, and Verity had never existed anyway. They cautiously walked to her house. When she opened the door, her mother leapt from the coach and wiped her eyes, “Where in the world were you?

I heard an explosion.” Then, she saw Mr. Ada and exclaimed, “What is he doing here?”

Verity explained the letter and everything that had happened since then.

“I’m sorry about your brother. His wife was my friend, so I heard what happened.” Nellie put a hand on his.

“He was always so caught up in that group of his. I knew something would happen to him eventually.

Before he died, I was too scared to do anything about the drones. Now, I’m scared of doing nothing. Sill, there’s so much going on right now, and it seems like an unstoppable force.”

Verity’s face fell. Was he not going to vote for a different Coordinator anymore?

“But, it’s not unstoppable,” he laughed, “We just outran a drone for Pete’s sake. Verity, make copies of that letter you wrote. We have some deliveries to make.”

10

In her mother’s desk, Verity found an envelope and an empty notebook. On the front of the envelope, Verity wrote “To Mr. Ada”. He was the elected Voter for the city, a representative of the city people, so he had influence in choosing the leaders of government agencies, like Concipio.

She brought the pencil’s point down on the first line of the page and the lead trekked along the blue trail with a steady pace. She wrote: My mom tells me lots of stories.

Most of them aren’t happy, but that’s why she tells them to me. She wants me to remember them because other people don’t want to. Verity stopped writing for a moment. Would Mr. Ada even believe her? No one else believed that the drones killed people, or if they did believe it, they were quiet about it. Even fewer people probably knew what actually happens at Concipio. Maybe he won’t believe me, but it’s worth a try, she thought.

The pencil raced on: The first story I remember her telling me was this: One of her coworkers at Concipio found a baby that didn’t have a finger, so he had to follow the rules that said to get rid of it. Since he was busy, the scientist put the jar on the “Dispose Later” shelf so he could destroy it at the end of the day.

My mom saw the baby in the jar and thought about how she looked just like the babies that were already out of the jars. She knew she had to save it then. She said she was scared that someone would catch her. In the end my mom was able to escape with the baby. I wanted to tell you this story because I didn’t think you knew about them getting rid of the babies

09

that were different. Concipio says that they’re able to fix any disease that a baby has, so you probably thought that they were telling the truth, didn’t you?

The pencil didn’t tire. She told the stories about the killing drones—the “earthquakes” the reporters talked about on television. She wrote about how everyone supposedly had food, but her mother had seen families starving on the street. Verity scribbled every story she knew from her mother, hoping that it would be enough to convince Mr. Ada. Finally, her pencil stumbled tiredly across a few more blue lines: Mr. Ada, I want you to believe everything I wrote, but I can’t ask you to do that, can I? If I did, I’d be just as bad as everyone else that’s making up the stories about the “earthquakes” and how great Concipio is. My mom says not to believe everything you hear, until you see it yourself.

Anyway, I’m writing this letter because I want the drones to stop and I don’t want Concipio to get rid of babies like me anymore. Since you are the Voter, I hope you can help me. If you don’t believe what I wrote to you, just look for the truth yourself, and you’ll find it. Maybe then you’ll help me.

Verity Brenin …

She waited for a couple days to deliver her letter. It was easy to be brave when she was writing, but when it came to actually leaving the house, she didn’t feel as invincible. Every time she worked up the courage to deliver the letter, she would peek out the door and see that there was a drone hovering in sky. Finally, the day came

when the only things in the sky were billowing clouds.

Walking several blocks down the concrete path, Verity constantly checked the sky for drones until she found Mr. Ada’s house. From the top of a hill, it looked down at the other houses nearby with pompous indifference. The well-groomed hedge that enclosed the house looked like they were for privacy rather than decoration. She used the brass knocker on the door and Mr. Ada cracked the door open.

“I don’t want cookies,” he said, starting to close the door.

“Wait!” she called out, “I have a letter for you.” His eyes scanned the sky above them before nodding and gesturing for her to come inside.

Verity stood in place, “I can’t stay because my mom might come home and see that I’m gone.” Just as she was about to walk away, she heard the high-pitched whine of a drone flying above, making its surveillance rounds. “Actually, I think I’ll stay,” she said quickly.

Mr. Ada let her in the house and led her to the living room, where a few unwashed dishes lay strewn across a coffee table.

“It’s not often that I get letters, Miss…?”

“Verity Brenin. I couldn’t send it by email. A surveillance computer program would have found it.”

He took the envelope from her outstretched hand and ripped it open.

He saw the number of pages and raised his eyebrows, but he started to read to himself. Verity noticed that he read the first couple pages, then he skipped to the last page.

[ megan smith ]

11

“fighter planes� [ emma eaton ]

Claws hook through her white soul, strangling her innocence, as red lips emit a snarling sadistic laugh.

Red lips dripping with trust tainted by oily saliva, greedy fingers sewing strings of manipulation in the sinews of her body.

They laugh at her, circling their prey, drinking to their achievements, toasting to their discovery: new ways to play with her malleable mind.

They play with her, these deceitful creatures, controlling her limp body, her greying soul; assuring her, supporting her.

The strings connected her body, her mind, to a wooden cross, moving with heartless flicks of their hands, leading her into a locked room, bleached of life and color.

the control center [ araya santo ]

She is alone amongst society, ignored by humans who don’t talk to her, so these grotesque monsters are her friends, even though they hurt, lie, hate her.

She’s not worried.

When she wakes up, she won’t be able to move, phasing between straining against her jacket and being paralyzed with fear, because eventually she remembers that they can’t hurt her.

There isn’t enough space in her white room, and there isn’t a bed for them to hide under, so they must take residence in her mind, the control center for her cognization, recognizing, between bursts of panicky sanity and serene derangement, that her once pure soul is now an obsidian abyss, a cave for them to store their belongings.

The white room is safe from everything, keeping them out, locking her in forever.

12

“isolation” [ kelsey o’connell ]

13

northern star [ betsy ryan ] every human is but a shining speck interconnected through a globe of constellations but you are my northern star following me to each new variety it is the northern star that haunts us each night ever-present, never-ending calling me with longing seduction but with hesitance I remember you are not composed of the glimmering promise I sought with such forlornity you are not a cosmic blend of stardust and specks you are nothing but a ticking time bomb an astral ball of gas my rising hope, my only desire sustaining youth, dripping with pleasure my love

14

countdown [ kenna silvey ]

ADD thoughts racing at 120 miles per hour220 on a bad day.

My mind is working overtime.

I can never focus on the good because nothing is what it’s supposed to be.

My head is spinningit’s only 2:00 a.m.

Four more hours until sunrise.

A tortured soul is the most interesting, We’re all just dying for attention.

Getting ahead by putting ourselves downwe don’t know when to stop.

Our world is so masochistic. like let’s take a hit like let’s get smashed So we go and we go and we go crazy 420 We’re ragingPast curfew Two more hours until sunrise.

Our mothers are worried, We haven’t returned.

Our fathers knew this would happen again.

They’ve had enough.

We see that it’s gone too far Thoughts racing.

220 The sun ignites the sky.

I see disappointment in my parents eyes as I stumble through the doorBurning out.

15

“exposure” [ megan smith ]

16

anyone, but me [ gwendolyn johnson ] I am front and center Everyone is looking at me I feel my heart pounding I see my hands shaking They expect so much When I have so little The silence Has never been so loud They tell me to begin That’s when I forget Everything I am supposed to remember Why do they expect so much?

The judge looks at me Waiting for me to begin I look around the crowded room And I begin Lucky to have the script in my hand Everything flows back I am no longer me I am the person in my poems They don’t want me They want her

17

That is how I win To be anything and everything But myself As I finish I leave mouths open I leave tears running down faces I look around one more time With the pained expression still evident I bow and as I unbend There is a small smile Across my face The rupture of applause Is nothing compared to The blood pounding In my ears As I sit down I get high-fives And approving nods They smile at me Because they think I was just acting But behind every act There is truth

“forever suspended�

[ elllen townley ]

18

mid-afternoon [ emily hobza ] As I lay in the Sun’s amber glow with vertical stripes bruising my skin, I slowly submerge into daisy-embroidery.

The couch envelops my every curve, wrapping its arms around my skull and filling the cracks between my ribs.

The cobalt blanket provides comfort between the solidity of my knee bones.

My eyelids lower and I am left with a faint, orange gleam like extinguishing embers.

The comforting warmth penetrates deep into my pores.

I become this still sofa, as I doze off into dormancy.

“panthera onca”

“crete island”

[ bailey costello ]

[ jaime aspen ]

the monster

[ kelsey o’connell ]

19

Appearance didn’t matter, Not anymore.

The tongue was now the only threat; Wrapping itself around necks. [ kelsy o’connell ] The monster made victims out of heroes.

Aiming to live up to the label they once carried They stabbed at the opportunity to cut that tongue, But the only thing they stabbed were their own necks.

They always fell.

New meat found at the funerals Of Its recent victims.

If only mourning wasn’t a ritual They recognized It was attending, But couldn’t catch It. And then -The tears froze; Seized in a box.

The heart broke free -- And then the brain.

But with the brain Came The Monster.

20

A sandbox kingdom lay beneath an oak.

Buds burst from the barren ground As they built towers and castles.

Wielding plastic shovels like wands.

“on stranger tides” [ lizzie erftmier ]

the builders [ claire davis ]

They spent the summers the same way That they spent dirty quarters from their pockets, Delighting in the pleasure of growing like the grass And running blindly into the wind.

The sun grew dimmer.

Pressing the fiery leaves to the trees, They tried to keep them from falling.

But they burned their hands, so they let go.

The leaves fell and the oak followed.

Quiet snow painted the spires Of the castles they once built In the midst of their sandbox kingdom.

“through the looking glass” [ megan smith ]

21

I left a bridal white lily on the granite grave of a girl who has yet to die.

I peered through her pane.

Watching her as She crawls into her chestnut coffin.

Her swollen, gray eyes weigh too heavy.

The bruised bags and limp lids sew shut for the final sleep

the lily [ emily hobza ]

22

workers of autumn [ lindsay moran ]

Gypsies of the trees dance around my feet as the days of colder weather near.

Again, the nomads leave the sanctuary of the branches and land gently, spotting the ground with warm color.

Orphans of the heavy clouds dampen the now-glistening green grass.

The mirror-like puddles that have formed shatter around my feet as I walk, only to recollect and still themselves again after I pass Musicians of the wind sway and whisper quiet songs, their faint whistles escaping through small cracks of worn fences. The melodies play for no one but themselves, never taking more than a second to catch their breath.

It appears to be just another day, but what would it be like without the workers of Autumn?

23

“burning sky� [ anastasia zuerlein ]

Copy Editor

Art Editor

Editor In Chief

Design Editor

‘14 ] [ Alexa Horn stello ‘14 ] [ Bailey Co lla ‘14 ] [ Sara Cipo wn ‘14 ] [ Sarah Bro

oran ‘14 ] [ Lindsay M er ‘15 ] Bev [ Kathle en Peak ] [ Mr. Scott risten ] ifer Ch [ Mrs. Jenn

[ Madisen Waters ‘14 ] [ Megan Smith ‘15 ] [ Kristen Jansen ‘14 ] [ Kelsey VanOsdel ‘14 ]

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.

[ Kayla Sullivan ‘15 ] [ Araya Santo ‘14 ] [ Lizzie Erftmier ‘14 ] [ Kenna Silvey ‘15 ]

Burn is printed by Automatic Printing Company. For the 2013-2014 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

24