Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Spring 2013

Burn

Volume 3 Issue 2

embrace [ allison smith ]

table of contents

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

~Jack Kerouac

“

against the flow ~ kelsey o’connell rumination ~ shannon smith the artist ~ samantha gardner seahorse and mother nature ~ araya santo sunrise ~ allison smith fireworks ~ emily welchans sparks fly ~ gabby maenner googolplex ~ amber bridgeford melancholia ~ claire andersen unindividual ~ alexis vinton

1&2

3&4

5&6

autumn palette ~ collette gillaspie ode to the key ~ alexandra naidenovich fastening time~ kenna silvey rust ~ maria valadez beyond the horizon ~ sarah morse vanishing point ~ amber bridgeford tire ~ kellyjo steier 283 ~ alexandra naidenovich

7&8

9 & 10

little paper people ~ megan smith admiration ~ maggie heim

11 & 12

the girl who watches ~ kayla sullivan moana ola ~ kelsey o’connell serenity by the sea ~ shannon smith the reverse apology ~ emily welchans

15 & 16

beneath the horizon ~ lindsay moran all you’re meant to be ~ lauren tussey

17 & 18

mindless horizon~ kayla hasenjager the closed-eye world ~ alexis vinton a perfect end to a perfect vacation ~ haley snyder slap in the face ~ samantha gardner and bailey costello the green of dublin ~ maggie heim a rumor ~ claire davis

21 & 22

cardboard confectionary ~ kailin marcus eyesore ~ charlotte elsasser

serene journey ~ michaela stuart

19 & 20

23 & 24

13 & 14

the artist

Paint stained fingers brushing canvas touching paper and tracing bricks [ samantha gardner ] on old warehouse walls as eyes keep staring at the places the people and things forever captured yet constantly changing but still eternally living in a state of immortality from beginning to never ending each medium each common color the Artist views as precious like sparkling crushed stones and shining metals melted to decorate the canvas we called the world amethyst and emerald eyes seeing skies of sapphire blue lit by zircon suns causing ruby red lips to smile and reveal pearly whites while faces still hide behind obsidian shadows as they watch people dancing in dresses of beautiful silvers and golds sees how the artist’s world lives and breaths and grows always giving new life to new works in mediums that will outlast them and in turn those work may gives new life to others if only upon the hour or forevermore Careful paint stained finger brush canvas touch paper trace bricks of old warehouse walls leaving finger prints on things that already left their mark on the world.

01

“seahorse� [ araya santo ]

“rumination” [ shannon smith ]

mother nature [ araya santo ]

Hello.

I don’t talk much. I prefer to express myself through physical interpretation.

There are a couple of things I need to get off my plate.

First: what is real?

What is real?

What is real?

What is real ?

Think about that, and keep it in mind.

No one has ever asked my opinion, but someone needs to tell you, and it might as well come directly from the source.

My other children are wonderful. But humans…you [ nan long ] hurt. I don’t see much love. Why? Trust is reluctant. Lust is expectant. Anger is quick. Happiness is random. And loneliness?

It is like a disease. Infecting all of you. Every single one.

Symptoms are weakness, pain, depression. Death.

There’s one way to prevent it: love.

Where is love?

What is real?

I know I can be a tempest, and that I storm about.

I’m temperamental—it’s in my nature. But there must be a balance. I love every single one of my children. The compassionate, the trusting, the jealous, the selfish.

These feelings, this disease, you cannot see it, can you?

What is real?

But you can feel it. And I know you have. I know.

I know the dark nothingness that surrounds you and devours your spirit. I know that feeling of suffocation that clenches your heart. I know the sleet that is so

cold it pierces your soul. I hear the thunder that jars your mind, and feel your earth quake.

I feel your pain when others say it is not real.

This feeling, your hell, is just a figure of speech. Your world, your earth, is just you, so it doesn’t ultimately matter.

What is real?

I know you are sick. And I know it hurts. I know it’s draining. And I know it is seemingly infinite.

I will tell you a secret, my love. My dear, dear child.

I love you.

I will never hug you. Or kiss you. I cannot rub your back, or breathe your hair. I cannot smile at you.

But I will always, always listen.

If you come to my home, if you join the birds and bugs and barnacles, I can rain my tears with yours.

I can warm your back. I can blow through your hair, tenderly caress your cheek.

I’m not much of a talker, like I said. I am more of a symbolic range of emotions. But I assure you, though I do not have a face or a body, I do have feelings.

You can never see me, but I am always by your side.

So, one last thing:

What is real?

Well, I am.

02

“sunrise� [ allison smith ]

fireworks [ emily welchans ] When I first met you, you were quiet Even your light was quiet; a calm, pale yellow Collecting in a well around you and your beautiful smile Then when I saw you again a few days later I scarcely knew it was you For your yellow had transformed into bright pinks, reds, greens, and blues Your light was no longer collected but flowing from you into the world around you Bursting like fireworks, shining for all to see and I, I was dazzled by your brilliance, your beauty And I wanted to reach out, to touch the brightness and see all behind it But I did not know how And now you will never see me Not really The fireworks, after all are quite lovely to look at But dangerous to touch And you are damaged if you try But I have learned my lesson and am simply content to look Simply to look and never to touch Because some forms of art, if you touch them Will melt under your fingers And no longer be as lovely.

04

googolplex [ amber bridgeford ] explicit: fully and clearly expressed; leaving nothing merely implied. blunt: abrupt in address or matter abrasive: irritating in matter or personality; causing tension or annoyance.

I am a walking contradiction What makes a hip hop album explicit?

Anyone can find an implication in anything Hidden meaning.

Resentment Towards everyone I can’t miss my dad when he goes on business trips My mom hasn’t packed my school lunch since I was seven Defensive I’m just as good as you.

Let’s make a bet Just to show how much more money you have.

Then tomorrow you’ll go to a raging party And I’ll sit at home. explicit: having sexual acts or nudity clearly depicted What makes a hip hop album explicit? blunt: a cannabis cigarette I am free. abrasive: a substance or material such as sandpaper You are a walking contradiction Nothing makes sense You’re an oxymoron I’m an oxyintelligent The world is a spinning contradiction What makes a hip hop album explicit?

03

“sparks fly” [ gabby maenner ]

“melancholia� [ claire andersen ]

05

unindividual [ alexis vinton ]

A girl like me, a girl like you, a girl like every other girl in this world sits alone, thinking about how she’s “different.”

She says she’s an individual, or that she’s misunderstood.

She is just like every other rebel who ever despised the world, or resisted the pressure of conformity.

She thinks she is the only one who has ever felt the way she feels, the only one kept awake by her thoughts, the only girl with a reason to be angry at the world.

But what she doesn’t realize is that I’m an individual and you’re an individual and that we’re all individuals.

We are all angry, we all wish for something more, and secretly hate the way we are.

We sit awake and stare out the window reveling in our individuality.

What she doesn’t realize is that, in our individuality, our self derogation amongst our loneliness and despair, we are all one unindividual.

We think the same, we feel the same, we are the same.

06

“autumn palette� [ collette gillaspie ]

rust [ maria valadez ]

The shuddering of her shoulders simply subside singing in harmony hampering in silence dissolving in secrets second by second she feels nothing nor does she seek simplicity sulking she wanders hiding in the attic where dust presumes pleasure rust rises over her heart and like a gun, can never repair

08

oda de la llave y la cerradura [ alexandra naidenovich ]

La cerradura es Resuelta Irrompible Interminable Pero la restringe nosotros Con ideales y criterios de sociedad Que no son nuestros La llave esta libertando La rompe el dominio de la cerradura que la sujeta de todos Pero no hay una llave para todos de nosotros Necesitamos buscar nuestras propias llaves Para libertamos nuestros mismos del control de la cerradura La llave es nuestra sola esperanza para libertad de la opresiĂłn de sociedad La llave es la libertad para expresar nosotros mismos La es la oportunidad para ir a contra la multitud La es independencia La es libertad

“fastening time�

07

[ kenna silvey ]

vanishing point [ amber bridgeford ]

Four walls and a cold metal table I placed you on a blanket and held you to my chest as I kissed you for the last time, and I said that I loved you I refused to show how my heart was convulsing and shattering inside of me I tried to be strong as we took pictures But you can see the sadness in my eyes You can see the tears threatening to fall It was my choice but it was still so hard They shaved your forearm for the injection and I watched trembling, knowing that this was the end There would be no more of you and me, this was the end Never again would I be the same.

I never found another; alone I sit still waiting for the day that my agony will cease I’ve learned to hide the pain, so that no one can see it I keep your shrine still, your candle ever lit You saved me, and I guess they would say that I saved you too We were arable; you were my savior, and I your protector You lent me your ears, and I fought for you I fought battles and waged wars in your honor In return you consoled me, you were my confidant You kept my secrets and I saved yours On your heavenly perch, as you look down upon the earth I pray that you never lose sight of me Please do not forget me, for you are ever etched into my mind Before you I was broken, damaged and alone But you salvaged my parts and made me whole When I was with you I smiled, I rode on the wings of eagles We did not walk or even run through life, no we soared high above the earth No one could bring us back down But after you left, I was shattered The pieces of me that were once mended to near perfection dissolved into sharp fragments They spilled onto the floor pooling out of my chest and congealed with the blood and the dust and the dirt.

I was left heartless, as I swept the rotten soiled pieces underneath the rug The sharp points stick through and sometimes I still feel them prick my feet as I tread over them They draw blood, I do not react.

I just let it flow, and trickle slowly into the pool that surrounds those keen shards The deep burgundy collects most beautifully in the fog of my existence.

09

“beyond the horizon” [ sarah morse ]

escape [ alexandra naidenovich ]

It’s about 3:00 A.M. The sky lights up, and my bed vibrates a bit. I lay awake, having anticipated this. I slam the lid of my laptop shut and scramble out the front door with no shoes on. The pavement of the porch numbs my feet. I walk down the miniature flight of stairs (there are only two steps leading up to my house), preparing myself for the formidable events that will follow. I inhale, squeeze my eyes shut tight, and leap out from my comfort zone into the driveway. I am instantly drenched in rain water.

If I was a stereotypical teenage girl whose worries were mitigated by the sound of rain, I wouldn’t be here right now. Although the pitter-patter helps soothe the heart, what really sells me is the feeling of being poured on. I sit down in the grass; it feeling satiated and I feeling nostalgic, but not necessarily in a sad way. Heaven-sent droplets of water bounce off my skin in a goosebump infested embrace. I hop onto my feet, and begin spinning and twirling. Eventually, I find myself falling back on the ground, too dizzy to think consciously. I laugh at myself, but instead of getting up again, I lay back. My hair chokes in a muddy puddle. I start to sob, groaning and screaming. For a split second, I believe the world would be better off if that lightning bolt would have hit me. But I stand up anyway and go straight into an arabesque-port au burre sequence. The city may be asleep, but I’m not dancing alone. This night is mine.

Each of my teardrops was a waterfall; the storm turns into a light shower, which is actually composed of angel tears. I don’t like the way they sting my skin anymore, I’m too frostbitten for this. I am an eager six-year-old, feeling antsy.

My body can’t stay in one place for a split second. For me, rain has an infinite connotation. For less than ten minutes of a summer night, I feel perfect.

“tire”

[ kellyjo steier ]

[ kellyjo steier ]

10

little paper people [ megan smith ] I don’t want to be paper, but I’d rather not be plastic I don’t want to be plastic, but I’d rather not be wasted air I don’t want to be wasted air, but I’d rather not be a shadow I don’t want to be a shadow, but I’d rather not be the sun Let me become the grass.

Let me bring life, bring inspiration, bring joy, bring comfort, but let me take the pain, hold others up, even if that means I must suffer in turn.

Let the wind blow right through me, but give me the strength to come back next spring.

If you let me be the grass, I’ll let you step on me, so long as you tell me you love me, and that’s the reason why I am weak; That’s what makes me paper, in the end.

“admiration” [ maggie heim ]

12

the girl who watches [ kayla sullivan ]

Everyone has a story, and it is so one-dimensional to only know your own.

That statement is the belief that breathes at her core. She does not wish to walk through life with only the perspectives, angles, and visions of her own. She so strongly desires to smell, taste, hear, feel, and dwell in the existence of them. Of others: those passed on the street, those left in the gutters of life, those higher than the sun. She is the Girl Who Watches.

Her hands, eyes, and heart help to carry the burdens and joys that are not her own. Perhaps it is too insignificant to ever matter. Perhaps she will die with the secrets they unknowingly entrust to her. But each person she observes provides her with a puzzle piece to the human race. Statistics, charts, graphs, surveys, and studies: fruitless. To understand real people you must still your muscles, quiet your thoughts, and empty your ears of any sound. You might be surprised at what you are able to learn from a day through her eyes. The Girl Who Watches.

With her back to the wall and a paper cup brimming with latte in her hand, her heavy grey eyes sweep over the customers seated comfortably in the small coffee shop. They silently land on a boy of about seventeen washing the tables. He is new to the shop and his face of stone is uninterrupted. His body language and age are familiar to her from the same attributes of his coworkers. She finds herself torn between two likely possibilities: the need for money has snuck up on his student lifestyle or the responsibility of employment has been forced upon him by parents. She discreetly reaches into her purse and retrieves five dollar bills to set on the filthy table to her right. Carrying the bucket full of dirty dishes as if it weighed two tons, he slowly walks to the table near her. The shocked twitch of his muscles and the melting boredom in his eyes has given her all the answers. She knows his story now, from the gentle smile that tugs at the corners of his lips as he counts the dollar bills.

Wishing the boy her best, her mind wanders to a middle-aged woman sitting rigidly across the room. Her striking facial features are nearly hidden by long waves of blond hair which seem to be quickly draining of vibrancy. Despite the grey streaks, the woman is magnificently beautiful in a gentle way that doesn’t scream to every passerby.

From meters away deep wrinkles are seen in the soft skin around her mouth and eyes marking the wisdom and sights of someone significantly older than that of her true age. Seemingly hypnotized, she has no intention of ever touching the blueberry muffin placed in the center of the table. Her trance is broken for only a moment to blow steam that rises off of a mug gripped tightly between white-knuckled fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, the observing Girl witnesses a middle-aged man’s entrance into the shop. In his hands he carries a heavy folder of files and on his shoulders he carries a heavy burden of anxiety. As his eyes rest on the blonde woman, a deep sigh rattles his lungs. She looks up and forces a fake smile as he slides into the seat across from her. Files are spread out between them; the depth of pain in their eyes reaches impossible levels that only something shattered and eternally lost can approach. The Girl Who Watches has seen this too many times; yet somehow still longs to believe in love. She places twenty dollars on her table – a rather large tip for a three dollar coffee – and leaves the musty air of the shop behind her.

13

Stepping into the warm wind of Baltimore, the Girl passes rustic signs and vintage displays that grace the windows of nearby stores. The bustling street signs, sidewalks, and stands provide an excellent backdrop for the motions of life. After having walked but a few blocks, she pauses outside the door of a quaint restaurant/bar. The dim lighting swallows her up without hesitation. All consuming music sounds from a young band at the back of the room and she takes a seat at a bar stool. She watches someone to her left.

Two seats away sits a man in his early thirties and the woman next to him seems to be much more than a friend.

They watch the band play together, but his face is so expressionless it is as if his whole body is void of any sense or emotion whatsoever. The Girl notices the slightest twitch of his eyelids and she follows his gaze into an iPhone clenched in a tight grasp. The small, yet unbelievably important item of technology rings a quiet sound in the loud atmosphere. Hands shaking, it is the only thing the man seems to hear. Holding the device to his ear, he answers the call as the girlfriend sits wide-eyed, unmoving. The indescribable fear in his face transforms into excitement, disbelief, happiness‌.hope. “I got the job!â€?

The woman throws her arms around his neck in sheer happiness and the Girl catches a glimpse of tears in her eyes.

It is obvious that he has worked diligently through numerous challenges for the opportunity that just presented itself to him. The Girl imagines him as a small boy whose innocence slowly evolved into the man he is today. Every mistake and wrongdoing has strengthened and prepared him for the journey he has traveled and the path that still lies ahead. Dreams come true. She knows that he is a good man who has proven that life is worth living despite the obstacles strewn across the pathway. This is precisely why she loves to observe the world in action.

She feels a certain rush knowing there is mercy in a world teeming with tragedy and personal struggle. Her gift to see through the soul has handed her despair, depression, and hopelessness. But the light radiated from deeds of generosity and love shines bright enough to blind the Earth from all despondency.

14

15 [ kelsey o’connell ]

[ haley snyder ]

“moana ola mau “re loa”flection”

[ emily welchans ]

[ shannon smith ]

I am not sorry for where I have been I am not sorry for who I was I am not sorry for screwing up again I am not sorry simply because I was who I was and that is all past I am not sorry for being free at last

the reverse apology

“serenity by the sea�

16

all you’re meant to be [ lauren tussey ] If life has a purpose, it’s buried deep in the ground.

Curiosity seeks our purpose We must dig We must dig We must dig We’re given one life for one shovel Our own aspects shape how well we create our shovel and once they’re finished We dig We dig We dig We’re tired of digging, so we slump our shoulders a little bit and breathe aching and moaning We try to finish what we’ve started only to realize Our purpose is the hole we’ve dug.

It is until death that we discover why we are here Our body collapses, our life is through but those around us have found what we we’re searching for It is our reason for living What we were What we were What we were Lying coldly in our grave.

17

“beneath the horizon� [ lindsay moran ]

18

“mindless horizon” [ kayla hasenjager ]

the closed-eye world [ alexis vinton ]

I live in a cold, gray box, crammed in with dull, gray people filling the air with their lifeless words, confined to the 2 by 2 parameters.

The only color I can see is gray.

But when I close my eyes, I can see every color of the rainbow continuing on in a limitless expanse of forever.

When I open my eyes, every object, every mass, weighs me down.

19

But once my eyes close, the floating colors and shapes and forms that don’t exist lift me up, allowing me to drift on into eternity.

The closed-eye world engulfs me, yet can fit in the palm of my hand.

The gray box in which I live simply entraps me and keeps my feet chained to the ground.

By closing my eyes I am able to reach my colorful sanctuary and keep from going insane inside my cold, gray box.

slap in the face [ samantha gardner & bailey costello ] YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME FOCUS. I became what I became because of what you called me but I put a new spin on things you called me a punk? how unoriginal sticks and stones don’t break my bones but names? they hurt me say I’m a monster and I’m gonna tear you to shreds with my melody as I play your veins like guitar strings

and my sound beats against your eardrums like sticks against steel snares you hear that “thump-thump, thumpthump”? that’s me ARE YOU LISTENING YET? I used to be laughed at well, now the jokes on you as I’m the one standing on stage the stage that you had dreams about as a teenager and the fans scream my name not yours.

And you know what’s funny? you’re probably one of them I BET YOU’RE LISTENING NOW. sticks and stones

don’t break my bones but names? they hurt me you may not even realize it or remember But I haven’t forgotten the petty little things that you’ve said so now as you listen to the radio and sing along with me I hope you do a double take and realize every word is about you and what you did to me.

I became what I became because of what you called me but I put a new spin on things call me a punk? how unoriginal call me punk rock.

“a perfect end to a perfect vacation” [ haley snyder ]

20

21

“the green of dublin” [ maggie heim ]

a rumor [ claire davis ]

I descend upon humans like lighting, Leaping lithely from minds To lips To ears.

I feed eagerly on their naivete, Feast upon their sickening curiosity.

I sow seeds in the furrows of their souls, Lovingly tending them until they bloom.

My little deadly blossoms.

Ruby petals of rage, Emerald leaves of envy, Stems as thin as humans’ fragile minds.

Yet they are gracious hosts to me.

They inexorably succumb, Devouring my whisperings, Eagerly imparting them through tainted lips.

I am a puppeteer.

I am a plague.

I am a fire.

I consume all, Sparing none.

22

[ kaitlin marcus ]

“cardboard confectionary”

eyesore [ charlotte elsasser ]

my portfolio is plastered on the sides of buildings your average everyday eyesore it pops its colorful you notice it maybe you’ll notice me maybe you’ll find the nearest person with a bucket and a sponge to wash it off eyesore

23

the only way i can express what i feel my parents fight everyday so i fight the frustration with spray paint and imagination we don’t have enough money to pay the bills but i have enough spray paint to pay off my juvenile debts i haven’t chosen to put my art on a canvas that doesn’t make it unworthy of your admiration or tolorance

this is my art my art is my life my only form of expression and how dare you try to stomp out my voice eye soar you can shake your head at my eye soar meanwhile i soar to the skies and make a difference because i didn’t spend my spare time conforming to your ideals of artistry its not my art if I follow your rules

one day my portfolio will be framed in the houses of celebrities my portfolio treasured with the likes of monet my portfolio your eye sore my art art

stalking our staff on facebook sydney rhoades { editor in chief } maria corpuz { photo editor } laura atherton { copy editor } lauren tussey { design editor } mrs. christen { adviser }

kayla hasenjager { ‘13 } kellyjo steier { ‘13 }

jessica mizaur { ‘13 } kathleen bever { ‘15 }

scott peak { photoshop guru }

madisen waters { ‘14 } megan woodruff { ‘13 } lindsay moran {‘14 } abby peters { ‘13 }

bailey costello { ‘14 }

araya santo { ‘14 } kelsey van osdel { ‘14 }

lizzie erftmier { ‘14 }

kristen jansen { ‘15 }

sarah brown { ‘14 } michaela clausen { ‘ 15 }

alexa horn { ‘14 }

gabby maenner { ‘13 }

sara cipolla { ‘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 }

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

kenna silvey { ‘15 }

24

megan smith { ‘15 }