Perspectives - 2024 MHS Literary Magazine

What else do we lose when we lose our childhood?

What else do we gain when we gain our adulthood?

These are our perspectives.

Perspectives

Prose

A Mind's World - Cayleen Armknecht .

My Morning Routine - Crystal Correia

Azlin - Ryleigh Arnold

Quiet - Olivia Kukahiko

Things Remembered - James Cross

Crazy Lady - Devynn Schofield

Artwork

Aaron Scheible

Elizabeth Phipps

Faye Chiang

Olivia Kukahiko

Nathaniel Gist

Isabella Lucey

Allen Vega

Ava Wonpat

Graciela Cruz

Olivia Warren

Emily Siess

Olivia Caesar

8-9

14

16

18-19

24-25

40

Covers, 6, 21

2-3

4-5, 31, 41

10, 19

15, 38-39

16-17

26-27, 44

29

33

34-35

36

Footprints

In a beginning, I was 6

following my mother as she stepped in the snow leaving deep impressions

I stepped in her footprints trying to follow

In an end, I can no longer step in them my feet too big, her prints no longer

Crystal Correia

Art: Elizabeth Phipps

Careless

Crystal Correia

I set my glasses face down I'm not sure why I do it I hear all the time about how the lens will get ruined

Through one ear and out the other It seems no one understands I hold to my memories like trying to cup water with my hands

No matter how hard or tightly I hold It always seems to slip through my fingers Yet the empty space where it once was still lingers

I've never been good at holding onto things, it seems I was always fourth best at the playground monkey bars From fireflies to frogs, they never seemed to make it into my jars

I set my glasses face down I'm not sure why I do it If I hold on too tightly, Will you, too, slip through my fingers?

Art: Faye Chiang

Art: Aaron Scheible

Cayleen Armknecht

Tired I am tired

We are all tired

Everyone is tired

Tired is a part of life

So if I have to be tired I wish for it to be tired in my way

I wish to be tired in the way I was tired as a child

Tired from running around all day

Tired from playing with my friends in the street

To be tired because I spent my day laughing and jumping

And if I can’t be tired in that way

I wish to be tired in the way I was tired as an adolescent

Tired from staying up late to dance with an invisible stranger Tired from looking at the stars and the moon above

To be tired because I spent all night dreaming, but not sleeping

A Mind's World

Cayleen Armknecht

Once there was a little girl named Alexis. Now Alexis had the unfortunate habit of being a daydreamer. We all know that a daydreamer is a very dangerous thing to be. Growing up, she’d hear society whispering their fears in her ear:

“Stop that, get your head out of the clouds!”

“Daydreaming is a very troubling pastime.”

“Wake up!”

“Keep up with all that daydreaming and you’ll end up like your father!”

Those words took root inside her brain, and they spread like a black, gnarled, birch tree’s.

“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” Her alarm blared in the morning. Six o’clock on the dot, the same as everyone else in the world. Alexis made her bed, the same as everyone else in the world. She got up and walked to her gray wardrobe, the same as everyone else in the world. Society is a machine, and in order to keep running smoothly, everyone must play their part perfectly. Neat and standardized, as life should be. So Alexis walked over to her wardrobe and pulled open the drawers. She had just picked up her gray uniform when something caught her eye.

It was a scrap of green fabric. Why, it was unlike any other color she’d ever seen! It was dark and rich, not like the lifeless dark shades of gray they wore in the winter, but more like the shade of secrets. There were tiny golden threads woven into the fabric so that when the light hit it just right, it looked like the sun was pouring out

- if the sun still shined, that is. This was the color grass ought to be. Not the #A8C0BB gray they make it.

Alexis reached out her hand and grabbed the piece of fabric. All at once, the memories came rushing back:

Her father dancing with her as a little girl in the fridge light while waiting for her mother to come home.

The boisterous sound of his laughter as he’d pick her up and spin her around.

The memory of him giving her the scrap of fabric.

“My little Alexis, I have a gift for you!” her father’s voice rang in her head once again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the fabric. Her eyes lit up with joy!

“What is it, Dad?” she inquired.

“This is a ribbon, dear. A long, long time ago, the best dancers in the world would tie it in their hair. Like this.” His calloused fingers pulled her hair back and tied it up with the ribbon. Alexis jumped up and started twirling around.

“I’m a dancer now, I’m a dancer now!” she giggled.

Her dad joined in on the dancing. They flowed with the rhythm and beats of jazz music that only the two of them could hear. He bent down and, with a swoop of his arms, threw Alexis into the air. She could feel the sensation of flying! The world was bright! Color was everywhere! She knew in her heart that this is the way life should be! Magic!

Alexis fell, crashing, down to the floor. Her heart fell with it. All of

a sudden, it was like the color was drained from the wild world that she once knew. When she turned her head toward her father, all Alexis saw were the black roots. They were pouring out of his eyes! His mouth! His ears! His nose! They had tangled around him; engulfing and distorting his features. His movements were as if he were a marionette doll and the roots were the puppet master. His head was twisted at a violent, unnatural angle. He reached out his hand, his finger pointed at the door.

With a voice like ash, he said, “Run.”

Alexis dropped the ribbon. Her heart was pounding, her pulse was racing. Her chest heaved. But just as she was about to sit down on the floor, her mom knocked on her door.

“I’m changing; I’ll be done in a second!” she called out.

“But honey, the alarm for breakfast just went off. You’re behind The Worldly Schedule!” her mom said with concern from the other side of the door.

Six fifteen now. If she didn’t get down to eat in five minutes, she’d lose the chance for breakfast. If she missed breakfast, then her food would be thrown out. If her food was thrown out, then Rangers would see it. If the Rangers saw it, then they'd flag it as an Unordinary! And who knows what happens after you get three flagged Unordinaries! Becky’s sister got flagged three times, and they hadn’t heard from her since she was taken.

The ribbon! Alexis had to do something with the ribbon! But wait, if she kept it with her and got caught, that would be an Unordinary, as well.

Six seventeen. She shoved the ribbon in her pocket and bolted down the stairs.

On her way to class, Alexis ran into Becky. How they became friends, Alexis would never know. They couldn’t have been more different. Becky was the pinnacle of perfect; the society girl that Alexis strived to be. And as for Alexis, well, she was a dreamer. Nevertheless, their path crossed one day and now, like clockwork, here they were at the same gray door, at the same gray school at the same time every morning.

Becky was chattering away about the newest re-release of System, Structure, and Society: an Ordinary’s Guide to the Apparatus Way of Life by President Redacted.

“They changed the font, Alexis. From Times New Roman to Calibri. I didn’t know what to feel. I looked it up in the guide, the new one, of course, and it stated that, ‘Reasons behind the font change are as follows: Times New Roman was found to be too imaginative for the Apparatus Mind. Society should be thankful for the genius intellect of President Redacted, blessed by Deus Ex Machina. He has saved you once again.’ Thank Deus Ex Machina for the genius intellect of President Redacted. Alexis- are you even listening to me right now?”

“What?”

“Sorry,” Alexis corrected herself, “What?”

“The fonts.”

“Right, Calibri…” She trailed off, lost in thought.

“Alexis,” Becky’s eyes widened with apprehension, “are you daydreaming

right now? You mustn't daydream anymore!”

“I- um...”

Violent black flashed behind her eyes, making her head spin around. Her hearing was shot. Moving through the world felt like moving through motor oil. Instinctively, Alexis reached for the ribbon in her pocket. As if the fog had lifted, her mind was set right again.

Alexis heard a gasp and whirled around to see Becky.

“Alexis…what is that?!” her voice was dripping with disgust.

Alexis went to shove the ribbon back in her pocket, but Becky grabbed it before she could. Alexis watched as her friend’s eyes glowed with curiosity for the first time in her entire life.

“It’s…it’s beautiful…” She was completely mesmerized by it.

Becky snapped out of her trance. “Alexis Abdon! This is what is causing you to be sick. The color, it’s too much for your Apparatus Mind to comprehend. You must throw it out at once!” Becky moved toward the incinerator. “In fact, as your dear friend, I’ll do it for you.”

“NO!” Alexis lunged forward and grabbed the ribbon out of Becky’s hand. Adrenaline rushed into her veins. She was off! Running faster than she’d ever run before. Limbs pumping. Head reeling. Becky’s voice faded with each new corner she took.

Without her realizing, the gray stone exterior turned into grass and trees.

Alexis collapsed to the ground. Her body finally caught up with her.

Each bone had an ache so deep she could feel it in her soul. She wouldn’t dare move her legs out of fear that they might fall off. Her hands were clutched around her stomach to stop them from jarring convulsively. She reached in the pocket for her ribbon. As soon as her finger felt the soft fabric, her pain slowly ebbed away.

“This is what is causing you to be sick. The color, it’s too much for your Apparatus Mind to comprehend.”

"Maybe Becky was right," Alexis thought. "Maybe it is the ribbon that’s killing me."

Alexis threw the ribbon onto the grass and laid her head down on the patch of tree moss. She’d just sleep for a little bit. Then she’d make her way home. Just a little bit of rest, that’s all.

OBITUARY

October 12, 4042

Alexis Abdon

Cause of death: Daydreaming Her body was found in Unauthorized Territory by the Chief of Rangers. Alexis’ body was torn by the black roots from her brain. In the dark time, the roots were once called ideas or imagination. They start from a seed and grow until they take over your entire head. Once full, they will break open violently, killing the victim.

As a warning to all, President Redacted urges anyone with free thought to go seek help immediately, or risk a death like the young Miss Abdon. Help can be found by calling the number 878-694-5533.

Art: Olivia Kukahiko

What If

Gavin Sampson

You ever wonder what it would be like to be different?

To not look like you

To not act like you

Just to not be you?

I think about that all the time What if I acted how she acted? Would boys actually talk to me? What if I looked how she looked?

The “perfect” body

The “perfect” face Would I still be as lonely as I feel? What if I was just different?

I Ask You

Ryan Butler

I ask you: Have you lost friends before?

I ask you: Have ruined friendships before?

It's the worst feeling

Weeping if you'll ever see them again

I ask you: Have you made a friend uncomfortable before?

It's unbelievable that I ruined a friendship, and just last yea r A tear falling down my cheek I ask you: Have you lost a friend before?

Longing for Lost Time

Alexandra Grenier

I long to go back

To the time I have already spent

If only there was a way to replay

The events

There is a silence

That wasn't there before

A simplicity to my days

That I wish to waste

Much will be forgotten

As time slips away

Photo: Leonardo Ayala Castillo

My Morning Routine

Crystal Correia

It’s cold. That’s the first thing my inner monologue says as I exit my home. My backpack is heavy. Why is the world so big? I call my mom as a pit forms inside my stomach. Her voice rings in my left ear, and only my left, at a low volume, with my airpods on transparent mode. Never in my life has it ever been so hard to walk.

I obsessively survey my surroundings. I study every shadow, every moving branch, every corner. I am near the end of my endless driveway, attempting to look through the gaps in the branches around the corner.

It's so cold.

Suddenly, the weight on my body lifts as I register that the road to my bus stop is clear. The red truck isn’t parked in the middle of the road. My lungs give me slightly more room to breathe, but it’s not over yet. I must walk on the road. I must get on the bus. It’s not over yet.

I tell my mom the road is clear, the red pickup isn’t there again today, my voice is lighter. I check behind me, I check to my left, my right, above me, and below me before I decide it’s safe to begin my sprint.

The road I run on is one single path of pavement, surrounded by trees on both sides. So many hiding spots. I check each one. I spot the boy at my bus stop. He's only there sometimes. My brother says mean things about him, but he doesn’t ride the bus anymore, my brother. He graduated last year. The boy doesn’t get on the bus regularly. I'm glad he’s here. I arrive at my bus stop. It’s only 6:44. On good days, my bus comes at 6:48. I hope today is a good day. I make sure I am awake and aware. I tell my mom the boy is here today. I look at the trees. I check the roads, I check behind me, I check above me,

I check below me. I look at the trees. They look green today.

White. A white vehicle. “It looks like a mover's van,” I tell my mom. My throat closes. She keeps talking. I only hear my own voice. It’s here for me. I’ll never see my best friend again. I had a soccer game today. My chest hurts. It’s so cold. The driver looks at me as he passes and turns into the transportation center. The pain is still there, but it’s 6:46. My bus will be here soon. They can’t get me once I'm on the bus.

A bus pulls out of the transportation center. Then another. I look at the trees; they are green. Then white.

It’s back. He’s back.

My voice raises. “It’s coming back," I tell my mom. I repeat it. I can't breathe. I'm breathing too much. They are here for me. Where's my bus? It’s cold. “It’s coming back” I tell my mom. “It’s coming back.” I can't stop saying it.

I hear her tell me to calm down. “Get behind the concrete sign. The boy is there, right?”

I demand that she gets down here now. Why doesn’t she care more? I say mean things about the boy. I’m scared. It’s closer. It slows. My hands are numb. It’s cold. I’m so cold. I can't hear my mom over my own voice. I beg that she drives down here now. Even as the truck turns into the middle school, I know it’s just to throw me off, to make me think I’m safe. I’m smarter than them. I’m smart. I tell my mom it turned into the middle school, that it’s gonna turn around. It’s trying to trick me. It stops in front of the middle school’s front doors. I look at the trees. I can't breathe. I'm breathing too much.

I see a flash of yellow. My bus. I have never seen a bus move so slow.

I tell my mom. She tells me to “calm down.” Her tone says she’s mad at me for freaking her out so early in the morning.

The bus parks. The boy gets on the bus. I hang up on my mom and get on. I did it.

I think of everything I was excited to do at school today, since the red truck wasn’t parked. Since the white truck passed me. The bus is so warm. But my arms are still numb. My hands won’t keep steady. I surprise myself with how much I’m shaking.

I made it.

But the hundreds of girls I see in news headlines every day don’t.

Maybe the red pickup was just some guy taking a smoke, the white van just a guy trying to get to work. But how will I ever be sure?

The uncertainty burrows itself into my brain structure until it is one with my body. I’m sure those girls saw hundreds of stories about abductions, too. I'm sure they thought my same thoughts and felt the same feelings, so what makes me different from them?

A question with an inconclusive answer.

Maybe we aren’t different at all. Not just the victims, but the women who have the same fears as me that people around them label as irrational or dramatic. But being dramatic means that one is talking or behaving in a way that makes something seem worse than it is, and I’m sure there are news stories that put even the horror scenarios in my head to shame.

And yes, maybe I’m overthinking or over paranoid, but I won’t let anyone tell me that my fears have no reasonability because I'd simply tell them to go to Google and type three words:

“Violence against women.”

Art: Nathaniel Gist

You never truly see me, but I am always there. My home is within your head and I never leave because I have a job to do. As you fall asleep at night, I am hard at work.

You know those daring adventures that go through your head?

That’s me.

Those bizzare images that play within your brain?

That’s me.

The terrible nightmares that plague your mind?

Ryleigh Arnold

That’s also me.

I will also tell you this: There are parts of my job that I love and parts that I don’t. I hate having to plague your mind with nightmares, but it is part of my job, and I must admit it is necessary. There was a time long before you ever existed. I had decided to try not giving someone nightmares, and it backfired terribly. I found that nightmares can have a purpose, and it’s to keep you from going through with bad decisions by making you afraid of what could be the outcome.

Now I will tell you what I love, and that is sending you on adventures. You know the ones

where you're a pirate on a ship, or a fairy living in the forest. I love taking you out of reality because if I’m being honest, reality sucks. It sucks because a lot of the time there is some sort of problem. There are times like you may be arguing with a friend, or suffering from a loss of a loved one, or people have decided that giving you trouble makes them feel good about themselves. I know it is not a permanent solution, but it gives me peace knowing that, at least for a little while, I can ease your worries.

So yes, my home is within your head and I never leave because I have a very important job that I have to do.

Nightmares

Sophia Ehly

Nightmares will eat at your soul as you sleep

Give you night sweats and cold feet

Daydreams are joyous and filled with delight

Giving you hope for the dead of night and just maybe you’ll rest peacefully tonight

My issue is I have neither, other than when I sleep in the sunlight

When my eyes close at 10:30 p.m.

repeatedly on a loop, day after day

My mind and body are still and blank

But if I decide to sleep before dusk

My mind takes me to a dark fantasy

Rather than a heart-fuelling false reality

When I sleep in the sunlight,

it’s almost like I am with you again,

There's a storm in my body

thunder crashing against my head

It’s like when you touch me

I'm transported somewhere

Humans should never play in the air

You make me relive every bad sight

Every argument you have held over my head

Every dark time and tragic night

I begged and pleaded for you to show a sign you cared

But instead, you left me here

Stranded and scared

I need to find a way into the light again

Discover a way to stay awake

Keep you out of sight

I’m drowning and there’s no chance anyone could save me

I need to fight and swim away from the pain

Break the surface tension

Finally breathe for me again

I haven’t been alone since I last saw you

You stalk and prey on me with every ray of light

Even when the moon is out

I start to stare in fright

You are there during my every move

Like an owl waiting to make a swoop

I am a mouse, young and naive

Not knowing what is coming for me

Not knowing to look beyond your visage

Every night I pray to forget the scars you've left

Yet I still seem to remember

Every charming smile shot my way

Your soft smell and warm trace

The sparkle in your dark eyes

And the smell of your head

I remember every night

And the rays of sunlight in you

Art: Isabella Lucey

Quiet

Olivia Kukahiko

“I swear to God, Jim, you always do this! I’m so sick of you!”

“I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t push me so much! You always act like you’re so innocent. You always have to be the victim. You’re just like your mother!”

It’s technically not the same as what I heard last night, but after a while, it all feels identical. They’ve had this routine going for as long as they’ve been living in room 226, which has been for exactly 3 months and 3 days. Every single day it’s the same thing. At midnight they fight, and they continue for the whole morning. I admire their stamina, honestly. They suck, don’t get me wrong, but their energy is impressive. Maybe it would even be amusing if they hadn’t drained all of mine. I don’t think I’ve slept a consecutive hour since they arrived.

That’s about to change, though. I have a plan, and today is the day. The time has never been more right, and when I’m done, all will be quiet.

It is exactly 2:00 A.M. In front of my place on the floor where I’m seated, there are three objects: A pen, a piece of notebook paper, and a fully loaded handgun.

I take the pen and paper and write the time and date on it.

12:00 A.M., December 15, 2024 They have now started. My things are set up. Eating late dinner

1:00 A.M., December 15, 2024 Heard a crashing sound. Shattered plate, maybe? Done with dinner

2:00 A.M., December 15, 2024 Preparing.

I’m not sure why I'm doing this, exactly. I’m not sure why I do most things. I just have these overwhelming urges, and I have never been able to ignore them. I like for things to be a certain way. I picked 3 A.M. as the time for my plan. I like the number 3. Whenever I do something, I like to do it 3 times. Whenever I wash my hands, I do it 3 times. When I tie my shoes, I pull on the laces 3 times. Every time I open or close a door, I count to 3 in my head. I wish I knew how to stop it, but I’ve never had the willpower. I have always been weak, and I don’t want to

be weak anymore.

At this time in the night, I would usually feel groggy, but right now, I am more frantic and free than I have ever been at any point in my life before this. I have an energy that I almost can’t describe. In this moment, I am powerful. In this moment, I am more powerful than any other person on this stupid waste of a planet. In one hour, I am going to kill my next door neighbors.

The thought and the adrenaline is making me sick. I add another note to my list.

Feeling sick.

I’m now on to line 2. I’ll start moving after I write line 3.

“You’re just like your mother, and my mother, and your father, and my father. You’re the worst of all of them!”

“Well you certainly drink like your dad! And you deflect like him, too!”

After listening to them as long as I have, I’ve started to notice the patterns. They seem to have a formula they like to stick with, and defenses they can turn to when they want to shift blame. Carrie, the wife, always mentions Jim’s alcoholism; and, in response, Jim will bring up her infidelity. It’s like a big game of one-upmanship where they’re both trying to prove that they’re the innocent one. Every time I hear them say something in line with the pattern, I write a tally.

“Oh,” I whisper to myself, “I need to do that again.”

Slowly rising from my spot on the floor, I walk toward my closet and pick up a weathered notebook off the pile. I write 2 more lines, creating a trio. Immediately after doing this, I start to relax. I’m still nervous, but I feel better knowing this is out of the way for now.

I know it would seem useless to most people, but writing these notes brings me great relief. I can’t ever relax if I don’t add to my collection. I have this constant nagging voice in my head that tells me that I need to record, and the only way to stop it is to listen. I don’t have any other options.

The clock reads 2:45 A.M. I write one last note.

For the last time.

Reading over this sentence again, I start to feel something new. I reach inside myself, trying to identify the emotion. What is it? Am I angry? Sad? Nervous?

It’s not the same as the anxiety I was feeling earlier. It’s heavier. It’s a sinking feeling in my chest and gut. I was so sure earlier; but now, I can't help but think, “I’m 15 minutes away from becoming a monster.”

“Fifteen minutes is 3 minutes 5 times,” I think to myself as I walk out of my cluttered closet. I can still hear my neighbors through the wall, but what they’re saying matters less to me now that it’s so close to the end. I retrieve the gun off the floor and look over my note one last time. I can choose not to do this. I can put down the gun and spare the lives of the people in room 226. I can still choose not to become a monster.

But my plan has already been made. The time is now

2:51 A.M.

“Nine minutes is 3 minutes squared.”

I turn the handle of the front door and walk down the hall barefoot. I don’t see a point in putting on shoes when they’d end up covered in blood. The hand holding the pistol is stiff and clammy, while the other one is resting at my side. I stop in front of room 226, counting the seconds in my head. At exactly 3 o’clock in the morning, I follow through with the second to last step of my plan.

Knock Knock Knock

Art: Olivia Kukahiko

Free Falling into Fire

Nat Chip

I wake, shaking

From a nightmare

That sends my mind into aching

I scan around, seit mehr

Free falling into fire

Turns out I might be falling into Satan's lair

He is a man I do not admire!

I don't understand how I was acquired!

I refuse to call him sire!

I fall onto floor of snow and ice

I see a demon with fancy attire

His eyes shine like an amber-gold

They shine with desire

He smiles, like this event was foretold

Inside his mind of old

He is proud to see his plan unfold

Between Life and Death

Johnathan Chrabot

All the affairs of grand, dying structures

And the animals roaming the wilds

From all the quazi-organic ruptures

Comes forth the famine upon cold trials

A little fuzzy one, a Solution

The vengeful mother, a great genocide

An axolotl, Great Absolution

A messenger, cancer identified

Sliver Of Straw, The Great Problem Finished

Five Pebbles, victim of turbo cancer

Seven Red Suns, intellect diminished

Looks To The Moon, dried, collapsed, unanswered

The ancients, consumed by the void ocean

Between life and death, removed devotion

Art: Aaron Scheible

The Lonely Tree

Carlos Magana Ortiz

In the solemn embrace of the fading light

A shroud of air descends, obscuring sight. The canopy of heavens, bereft of all glimmer, Echoing the cries of a world grown dimmer. In the distance a silhouette.

A lone tree. Branches empty of leaves, Naked like the deceased.

An opaque veil blankets the surrounding air, The horizon vanishes, burdened by despair. Drops of rain fall without rest, And the light of the night begins to descend. Cracking and splintering branches start to Sever.

As the mist envelops for what feels like, Forever.

The tree now devoid of its own light, seems to have made itself quite a Fright.

The feeble tree falters, consumed by anguish: and hope’s light seems to have vanished. The tree, consumed by anguish, wonders now if ITcan vanish.

Slowly the tree ripples, soon marking its dismissal. Pushing more to be free, the tree can't see its need to be; complete.

With every ripple and fracture, the tree discerns, Its inevitable demise, as fate ominously churns.

In its quiet surrender, it finds a profound peace, Accepting that its existence shall soonCease.

To the Last Light

I reach out to the horizon

Desperately grasping at the line holding The last light of my previous life

There it goes

Sliding behind the skyscrapers

Taking everything I knew

To the abyss far beneath the Earth

I cry out to the stars

Begging to reverse the clock

Listening to the tics and tocs of time

Moving farther from shore

The echoes leave me wailing

Wishing to return to the home

I made for myself

Within the terror of what is reality

I try not to care

For what I left behind became lost to me

As the last light died

Alexandra Grenier

Photo: Lucas Walker

Things Remembered

James Cross

One day, towards the end of summer, I woke up early like most mornings. But today was not like any other day.

My mom was sitting in the rocking chair in the dark just crying and I didn’t know why. She was never awake before me and she rarely cries in front of me.

“Mom, are you okay?” I asked.

“James, I have to tell you something,” I said.

“Ok Mom, What is it?”

“Your grandma has passed away.”

I looked at her confused because I was still very young and I didn't understand what she meant. I then put two and two together and realized she was gone and I didn't know how to feel. I got into her arms and she hugged me tight, comforting me while I comforted her. It felt like we sat there for hours just not doing anything but grieving and missing her.

During the planning of her funeral, we started adding things that she liked. She loved football and baseball, especially Bryce Harper. She loved to watch him play for two reasons: "Because he's hot and he's really good.” She was the reason I enjoyed watching football so much. The Washington Redskins, their name back then, was the best team ever and they had so much skill. But you know, that’s just our opinion.

I can’t ever forget about the beach. She loved the beach, as well as lighthouses. You can only imagine how much lighthouse memorabilia she had.

My Grandma loved the color pink and the color red. We put pink and red flowers together for her funeral. And oh dear Lord, she loved her jewelry. She couldn’t go anywhere without wearing her favorite pieces. So of course we placed some of her jewelry in the casket with her, as well as some

Washington Nationals' and Redskins things. We also put a photo of all of her family and a picture of her standing by a lighthouse at the beach so she could be laid peacefully to rest.

That was one of the hardest times we have gone through together as a family. We had to go through her belongings and having all those special memories come back up just made it even harder for everyone; but we managed through it.

The day of the funeral, we got up early again knowing what we were about to do. On the ride to the funeral home, you could literally hear a pin drop with how quiet everyone was. But when we got there, I wasn't allowed to go see her right away and I complained for about 30 minutes because I just wanted to say goodbye.

Finally, my Uncle came to me and said, “James, when I

was your age, my grandma also passed away and I saw her body just laying there and it changed me in a way I can't even explain to you.”

So I listened to him and decided to wait for them to close the casket up. After that, everyone said their goodbyes to her and we sat down to listen to her funeral and you could tell that everyone was in a stage of hurt.

Ever since she passed away, my family and I have learned every important thing about life. Like that nobody is here forever and we need to cherish every moment with them no matter what. And that family is everything, so we need to stay with them even through your ups and your downs.

She is still a part of our family, and so therefore she is part of us now; and no matter what, we won't be able to forget.

Photo: Gabby Cadet

Immortality

Olivia Kukahiko

It’s been too long, I can’t recall your face

If the hue of your eyes was brown or blue

But no one has ever taken your place I miss you more than I remember you

The sound of your laughter used to be clear I struggle to retrieve it from my mind I forget more about you every year

You’re a piece of my brain that I can’t find

A pain, an ache that never dissipates

A void that consumes me, inside and out

A hunger I can never satiate

A grief that you will never know about

The longer you are gone, the more I lose I love you more than I remember you

Art: Allen Vega

I Am

Jordan Christiansen

I am nice

I am likable I am kind

I am, I am, I am, Always me, never anyone else

Until I met you

Now it’s you are, you are, you are

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

I burn those words in my head like a CD It pleases you, So in turn, it pleases me

When you cry and when you ache I will be there with this to say

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

“I am” aren’t my words to use I’m never about me, I’m always about you

You take and take and I’ll always give No matter how much you are, You’re never fully enough

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

The words I say to you every time Your endless ocean of darkness surrounds me

The only way to stay afloat is with these words

But eventually they sink, and I must say them even more

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

I tell you these words when I’m upset

You tell me these words rarely I tell you these words day after day

Hoping to fill your ocean up

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

We play roles such as king and queen

The king has all the words and power

Even if the queen speaks

The people will always doubt her

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

The queen gets put in the dungeon for simply falling asleep

The queen gets put in the dungeon for asking for help

The king simply has to watch a hurricane form for the queen to be blamed

The king simply has to cry and the queen will be chained

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

The king and queen can have consorts together Consort one stabs the queen and the queen throws them out

Now according to the king, as long as the queen doesn’t know, The king can have consorts alone

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

Even when roles are finished and over

There are still wars fought and lost

To the outside the in is perfect

To the inside the out is a cost

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

From the beginning to the end, love was ours Yet everything you do is to cause it doubt Your ocean of self doubt gets larger and larger How was I ever supposed to swim out?

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

The day of my birth a fortnight before You remind me I’m the moon to your sun I wake up at twilight and my heart turns to night And you’re shining with another star

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

I’m torn and I’m insulted But I still am chained to you While I swim in your ocean of self doubt You make me an ocean, too

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

I separate to a murder, a simple collection for a crow We tell stories and change courses toward the moon They tell me, “The lunar being needs the solar to glow”

That I’m too good for you

You are nice

You are likable

You are kind

The rose tinted glasses are off I see everything so clear You’re the bloodied crimson flag And you’ll be burned out by the pier

I am nice I am likable I am kind

Art: Ava Wonpat

Made to Be

Sophia Ehly

I was BORN to be shown I was RAISED to perform I am made to be ME… though?

Ever since I was a little girl I have never felt... free in my skin I have never felt... safe in my sins

Everything, every day, every girl is watched I walk through my life with eyes on me Wondering who will be my next judge

I dream of a life where this world was built for me Not just for me but for everyone who shares a part of me A deep part where the darkness is buried and our shame is hidden

I've never been perfect, but I think I'm close enough? My eyes are blue, my soul is light, my smile is bright I try not to be too hard of a pill to swallow

But everything is practically a lie All of those are true but they’re only masking reality I have skeletons and flaws I can't change

I'll cover my skin in makeup Dress in a way that's not too intimidating All so I can easily be shown to the world Sometimes I'll rot away the day with nothing but laziness All I feel most days is drained and dirty My bed is the only safe space that is offered

I scrub my skin clean every night Make sure I put on the correct lotion and perfume Spend an extra 20 minutes styling my hair

Why do I still feel so dirty? I can feel every touch of a man, every stare at my body I know what you are probably thinking

“I should cover up and stop caring so much” Even when I cover up my skin I can feel boys imagining me through the hoodie And I try so hard not to care but... that’s hard when I was raised to perform.

I'll dream of the day I am grown I’ll strive to achieve peak comfortability in myself Because after all, I am always me

I am the same child my mother called her sidekick I am the same girl who let boys control her every move I am the same woman who is caring and beautiful

Everyone was born for a reason Everybody has their own purpose I will never apologize for being made to be me again

Art: Faye Chiang

Second Chance

Lynn Bacan

I’ve given it all up

The past of who I was that used to haunt me

Is now buried with all the taunting I shriveled up every last bit to burn and reincarnate the new me

I’ve been blessed with what other haven’t I got the second chance I desperately needed

The new beginning that slowly arose I can finally feel the fresh breeze around me

The elephants on my back have been set free I dance around the world without a worry in my mind

Because it's time for my second chance to arise

Healed

Lynn Bacan

The thought of loving Frightens my heart beating sore I give love once more

Art: Graciela Cruz

Tides Turning

Georgia Verbel

Golden hills of sand

Meet roaring cobalt waters

Worlds are shaking hands

Art: Olivia Warren

Art: Emily Siess

Hair

Olivia

Kukahiko

You have really difficult hair to draw It’s messy and curled, which makes it hard to simplify But even so, I’ve drawn it many times And I will draw it many times more Because it is yours

Define "Love"

Kairi Chandler

Love may be a word to you, But to me it’s a poem One that the average person can’t understand One that is complicated and messy, Yet so beautiful and emotion-filled

My Friend

Alexander Armknecht

I rest at the bonfire waiting for you

My friend, you are grossly incandescent No other words would be truer for you When I am with you, my wishes you grant When I need help, you appear for me here When you need me, I appear to enchant Regardless your location, I’ll be there When I see you, It’s a breath of fresh air! You are the best! No one else can compare! You always help me! I know that you care You must know that I will not lie to you I know about that burden you do bear My friend, I will do anything for you I sit at the bonfire, waiting for you

Practice Makes Perfect

Crystal Correia

You're pretty like a town center on a December night. When the inside light from the shops reflect on the glass windows, and the Christmas lights twinkle and the colors mix together.

You are beautiful like the feeling of connectedness when walking on the sidewalk of such a place, the feeling of being whole.

You are pretty like a road trip through a rural town. The feeling of steadiness I get even as the car shakes on the neglected roads, the blending of the scenery as it passes, the glimpses into the life that lives there.

You’re beautiful in a way that can’t be described with words, only feelings,

and no words cut close enough to what I feel, so I’ll practice.

Art: Nathaniel Gist

Crazy Lady Devynn Schofield

“Who is that crazy lady blasting her music in the red car?” they asked me, giggling.

“That's my mom,” I replied.

I began walking to the car, because no matter how embarrassed I was, I needed a ride home from school. As soon as I sat in my seat, I rolled the volume spinner down to zero and looked at my mom with an annoyed face.

“You know I still have to go to school with these people every day, right?” I asked.

“Sorry, I thought you liked this song,” my mom said with a sarcastic smile.

“I mean, I don’t hate it,” I said as I turned the volume back up slowly.

That day we rode home, listening to Poison by Bell Biv DeVoe, singing from the tops of our lungs, and making up strange dance moves that will now be carved into our heads every time this song comes on.

That's my mom: fun-loving, crazy, downright hilarious, and my very best friend. Most people wouldn't be excited to finally get home so they could tell their mom about their day, so it's a good thing I'm not most people.

My mom is incredibly unique. I don't see the day that someone will discover a personality that even comes in comparison to hers. That is why I declared her my best friend the moment I was born, although I didn't see myself with much of an option because I was pretty much stuck with her. She definitely isn't the typical mom you see on TV; she isn't overbearing, controlling, or mean. But she is caring, protective, and encouraging. I've never seen anyone mother quite like she does.

My dad was around when I was a kid, but never like my mom was. Sporting event? She was there. School assembly? Front row. Band concert? She's the one recording with the flash on. Eventually she grew tired of playing the role of parent by herself, so she finally cut off the dead weight, thank God. And of course there was hurt that came with it, but I knew I would be okay because all I will ever need is her. My mom was there when girls were mean, when boys broke my heart, when I was sick, when I needed to be toted around town for a last minute school project I didn't tell her about. It was her. It was all her. I never imagined I would depend on a person so much. Her unconditional love is something that spills onto everyone she encounters.

I knew the divorce had taken a toll on her emotions–no parent wants that to happen–but my mom took on the role of two parents like a champion. Despite the pain she was in, she never let it change her personality. She was still that crazy lady she always has been known to be. I hope she never felt like she wasn't giving me the life I deserve, or like she wasn't enough. Because truly she is the only person I aspire to be. She made my life beautiful and continues to do so. Her strength is an inspiration that keeps me going through my bad days as well.

I remember when my mom asked me if I wanted to skip out on gymnastics class for the day and go shopping. I was so excited that she knew and understood how badly I needed to take a day off and have fun with my mom. That feeling of pure understanding without having to say one word about it made me feel so safe. We went to get some clothes at Gabes. I got so many cute shirts for school and she was so happy to help me pick them out. We got home that night and snuck the clothes inside so my dad wouldn't see. I remember this moment so vividly. I went to sleep that night, excited to wear my new outfits to school tomorrow, while realizing I had the most amazing crazy lady in my corner forever.

Over the years as I grew up, I found myself turning to her for everything. Asking her to dye my hair, paint my nails, and help me with my schoolwork. She was dependable, no matter the circumstances. “When you get old, I promise you can stay in my spare bedroom,” I told her. I have always promised myself to take care of her the way she has taken care of me. My mom has single-handedly built me into the person I am. She is the reason for how I talk, how I go about doing things, what I wear, what I enjoy, and how smart I am. She crafted me into the person I've always wanted to be: a person just like her.

I cherish our moments together and I will for the rest of my life. Other people will come and go; but my mom will be with me forever, fueling me with her love and kindness, pushing me to be the best I can be, encouraging me to live my life to the fullest. I owe everything to her.

I love you, Mommy. You will always and forever be my crazy lady.

Home

My house has

Shingles in the shape of black hair strands

Earth toned exterior walls

Powerful concrete foundations

Iris colored window panes

And a door that welcomes all

The inside can only be seen from the outside

Hallway picture framed faces I recognize Outside it’s just as beautiful as inwards My house can withstand almost anything Although I’ve seen the windows leak She’s never crumbled over me

And tonight I will sleep soundly with the comfort that she’s home.

Crystal Correia

Art: Faye Chiang

She

Devynn Schofield

In moments hushed and softly spun She dances 'neath the morning sun With every step, she leaves behind A trace of magic, pure and kind

Her laughter rings through fields of gold As butterflies around her fold Their wings alight with the colors bright This shimmer in the morning light

With every twirl, she paints the air With dreams of love and solace rare And though the day may fade to night Her spirit dances in the moonlight

For in in her heart, there burns a flame That guides her through both joy and pain And though the world may change and shift Her dance remains, her soul uplifted

Art: Olivia Caesar

Art: Allen Vega

New Eyes

Cayleen Armknecht

I’ve always wanted to see the world with new eyes

To look through something other than this wooden door that hides my gaze

New eyes that are green

Like the tall evergreen forest

Each tree an emerald, dazzling and strong

To have green eyes would be unassailable

I want green eyes

Or maybe hazel

New eyes that are hazel

Like the orange-crowned warbler birds that fly in the sky

Their delicate feathers sparkling in the sun, soaring in the free air

To have hazel eyes would be rare and treasured

I want hazel eyes

Or maybe gray

New eyes that are gray

Like the big great sky before the storm

The wild feeling of electricity in their gaze is shocking

To have gray eyes would be a glimpse of human ferocity

I want gray eyes

Or maybe blue

New eyes that are blue

Like the stream that leads into the crystal lake

Slipping into the placid water as every clouded thought washes away

To have blue eyes would finally mean peace

I want blue eyes

Or maybe-

I can learn to love my brown eyes

My brown eyes may not be something special to look at

But that's not what they’re for

My brother,

I've grown to look at the places around I realize the privilege I have

Because to be is not to see

To be is never seeing the beauty of the trees, the birds, the storm, the lake

But with my brown eyes

I get to look at all the artistry through my old brown eyes

And you can, too

Photo: Alleigh Sommers

Colophon

This year's literary magazine, Perspectives, was produced using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CS6. All copy is in the font Californian FB with the exception of "A Mind's World," which is printed in Times New Roman and Calibri, as dictated by the text; and "Quiet," which has "handwritten" words in Nanum Pen. This magazine has been published digitally only and is available at no cost. Any physical copies have been printed by individuals.

Selection Policy

All Massaponax students were permitted to submit entries for consideration for publication. All work completed in Miss Megan Marshall's Creative Writing I and II and photojournalism classes or displayed at the annual MHS Art Show automatically was considered for publication. Each piece was reviewed and evaluated on its individual merit, in addition to how well it fit this year's overall theme.

Students may submit their work for next year's publication in-person to room 130 or through the MHS Publications email: mhspublications@spotsylvania.k12.va.us.

The purpose of this magazine is to showcase students' thoughts and perspectives through writing, art and photography. As with any publication, the views expressed by the writers and artists are not necessarily the views of Massaponax High School, the editorial staff, the adviser, or Spotsylvania County Schools.

There is only the ballad of the birds when you’re younger and the absence of them as you grow

Nothing else in this life

Because we all remember waking to their chirps as children and eventually we all forget the sound

Though

There are days I think I can hear them and suddenly I’m back

Back when the ballad sung me awake

- Crystal Correia