Editor’s Note This year‟s Tidbit is something new, but will also feel familiar. Just as our annual theme encourages us to honor traditions, it also urges us to embrace change, and this edition of our campus literary magazine reflects that theme beautifully. First, Tidbit has gone digital in an effort to join the 21st century and to become more environmentally friendly (not to mention all the cool stuff we can do in digital formats!) Please feel free to print whichever poems, stories, or pictures you love, or, even better, simply copy the file to your own computer and enjoy the slideshow with all its bells and whistles wherever you are. Second, the Tidbit staff decided to hold a series of contests each term to encourage and inspire the community to create (and submit) fresh writing and artwork. These contests usually involved a sugary treat delivered to the first three people to submit work based on a certain topic, whether it be Tricks and Treats with Tidbit, Giving Thanks, Winter Wonderland or Fresh Starts, and the collection of work we garnered from those contest in addition to some unique class writing assignments, has allowed us to create a magazine that has something for everyone. From science fiction to classic mystery stories, reminiscences on school life to depictions of horrific scenes, and even a little advice and opinion essays, we‟ve got it all in this year‟s edition! Finally, on behalf of the whole Tidbit staff I would like to thank Mrs. Bledsoe for letting us spend countless hours in her house organizing and preparing the 2011- 2012 collection. It was a lot of fun and I hope you enjoy browsing though the wonderful works of our Oldfield‟s Community. All the best, Maggie Buterbaugh ‟12 Editor
Table of Contents 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.
3 Songs of Innocence A Short, Surreal Scene Amaryllis Song of the Miner A Classic Tale of Horror Sweater Vest by Aubrey Banez The Cold Has Come Unexpected Serenity Book Unbroken by Aubrey Banez The Letter Night: two poems in the style of William Blake Picture by Erin Kean Advice to Youth Picture by Bibi MgGill You Can Call Me Cookie
18. Picture by Sydney Sharp 19. Dreams: And What They Really Are 20. Picture by Bibi MgGill 21. My Dream 22. Make a Wish 23. A Short Short Story 24. June by Aubrey Banez 25. Song of Innocence 26. Picture by Addie Heck 27. Song of Experience 28. Picture by Bibi MgGill 29. Shelter from the Storm 30. Picture by Meg Olcott 31. Listen to the Wind 32. Launch from another Universe 33. Envoi 34. Picture by Sydney Sharp
Cover- By Phoenix “Muxia” Liu
Based on William Blakeâ€&#x;s Songs of Innocence I. Joy and Cheer Sing a song about a child Listen close and you might hear Singing songs of joy and cheer Walking down a path so wild
Songs of Innocence
II. Whispers Heard The wind and rain are whispers heard Upon a hill the night sunk deep A gentle hand an innocent word It was the time for me to leap
Songs of Innocence
Maggie Buterbaugh „12
III. Lifeâ€&#x;s Delight Once I climbed a big tall tree. This tree of life it set me free Through its branches, beams of light It was the feeling of delight
A Short, Surreal Scene . . . Billowing clouds of dust engulfed my emaciated body, blocking my view from the dry path I had followed for days. I had been scanning the horizon for trees; night would be descending soon and my survival depended on thick branches to keep me off the ground. The dust made my eyes water and my lungs burn. The world seemed empty. I was in a neighborhood; I could see the wood frames of the houses; they had been burned, black soot layered their concrete foundations. Some places had
been hit more than others, and this was probably one. The dust began to lift, presenting a setting sun, orange and red colors painted the sky, highlighting a dead tree maybe 400 meters ahead. My hiking boots crunched over broken glass and gravel, a solo sound in an abandoned world. As I came closer to my tree, large washing machine sized holes lined the road. Shivers ran up my spine, adrenaline spiking in my veins. My tree was fast approaching, the holes becoming larger and in vaster numbers. That great ball of fire was getting lower and lower, and eyes had begun to peer out at me from the tunnels in the earth. As I came in launching distance to that red oak I threw myself into its bark arms, climbing as far as I could. I hadnâ€&#x;t had time to put my gloves on and my hands began to bleed in the effort of friction. The branches became thinner and thinner, threateningly shaking under my 1
weight. I wanted to keep climbing, out of this world and into the old one, but time is not able to be reached by human hands alone. From my perch I witnessed the sun go around the curve of the earth, I wanted to run after it and beg for it back. But she was off to save the souls on the other side; I just hoped that there were some left. And then they came. Slithering out of those damp tunnels, pale white
bodies concealed the ground. I had begun shaking - never had I seen so many of these armless, human-like creatures swarming under me like an ocean. Under the moon their white bodies almost sparkled but the worst was their eyes, still brown and blue. Eyes of those I had known and passed in the street, played with as a boy. I wanted to scream and cry and have my childhood back. By this point I was quivering so violently I had begun to slip, tears streaming down my cheeks. I prayed to be saved by a non-existent source. My hands clung, but the blood was slippery. The groans from below reached my ears -they longed for a meal. “Oh my god, oh my god,” was all that could escape my lips .My muscles burned from the effort of maintaining strength that I didn‟t have, and the thought of giving up surfaced in my head. I could let go, and it would all stop - the horrifying nights and the relentless days. No matter what I did or how long I survived, nothing was going to make this one a livable world
and these things could re-evolve into the human race. So, doing what I did best, I went to the edge of my diving board and flew into a pure white ocean. 2
Songs of the Miner Song of Innocence Sweet summer, baby girls running Through where the moon is shining I listen to Your pure, enchanting voice Asking: “Will you run with me through the fields of noise?” I take your hand We‟ve arrived at our joyful land.
Song of Experience Good Lord, are you listening? The moans and cries of baby girls Asking: “Will we ever escape from this mine? Mother says one day we will see sunshine Tell me, if it‟s just a dream!” I see your eyes gleam I see your lips tremble I sigh, “You were born here There is no use hoping for cheer.”
Linh Tran „12
A Classic Tale of Horror It was a crisp fall Sunday; the leaves on the trees were yellow, and orange. The birds were chirping, and the mums were starting to bloom. It was just about lunchtime, and Jane and I needed to stretch our legs and get something to eat. We had been driving in the back roads of the English
Countryside, during the last bit of our European honeymoon trip. We were driving through the moore, which is always in the Sherlock Homes books, and I thought that because itâ€&#x;s notorious for its mystery and serenity, we should spend a couple days exploring the little towns, stopping to look at the churches and chapels along the way. We were on out way to a bed and breakfast, about three hours away. We were trying to find somewhere to eat, but there was nothing but winding roads, and thick forests. Finally we saw a warped sign for a quaint little town called Heatherton. We figured there must be a little restaurant or tavern where we could find some local fare and we saw on the map that there was a church there we could see while we were there. We took the narrow, dirt road to Heatherton. It was so pretty, it looked as if we were driving through colonial Williamsburg in the fall, complete with people dressed in era clothing and old-fashioned
storefronts. As we drove up we saw a small town square with a statue and a fountain in the center, and benches surrounding it. The whole town was unusually still, with an eerie vibe to it. My wife pulled onto the side of the road, and we looked around for a restaurant without any luck. Eventually, we walked 1
down the street towards the chapel. My wife and I couldn‟t get over how charming this little place, but the thing that got us was how cold the town felt - not in the literal sense, but in the way that makes you feel as if you are some where you shouldn‟t be. The streets seemed abnormally quite, even though people were walking by. There must‟ve been thirty people all walking to the chapel, but they were
walking at a staggered pace, and it was as if they refused to make eye contact with anybody else. It was almost as if they were all in some kind of daze. We were about to enter the church, ourselves, but I second-guessed that decision at the last second. None of the others were wearing color – in fact, they were all dressed in black, so my wife and I decided not to go in because we figured a funeral was going on and we should respect their privacy. Instead, we went and sat on a bench in the town square to try and figure out how we were going to get to Warrington, the town where the bed and breakfast was located, but we couldn‟t seem
to find Heatherton on the map. We decided to ask for directions at a nearby storefront where two old, fragile women sat, rocking in chairs on the porch. They were knitting what appeared to be scarves that went on forever, and the yarn was as grey as the clouds before a hurricane. As we got closer I began
to see that the women looked very sick with large, dark circles under their eyes (almost a purple color,) and their skin was so pasty, it looked as if they put too much baby powder on. 2
We walked to the bottom of the stairs to the porch and asked them if they knew where we could get something to eat, but they didnâ€&#x;t respond. My wife suggested walking up closer because they might be hard of hearing, so I walked up the creaky wooden porch, making a horrible noise with each step I went. I asked them a little louder this time, and still no response. Something in me made me go up and tap one of the women on their shoulders. They slowly looked up and turned their heads to look at me, and then I saw their faces in true evening light. Their cheek bones were as sunken in as the Grand Canyon, their lips were as thin and brittle as a dried up tube of paint. But the scariest part about them was that their eyes had no color in them at all - only white. Their faces also had no color in them; they looked as if they were on their deathbeds. They just stared at me, as if they were looking into my soul, and they didnâ€&#x;t look away. Then one of them jolted up and started screaming at me in a tongue I did not recognize. Feeling very intimidated, I turned around and walked down the porch and I never looked back. Their eyes felt like daggers going through my skin. They must have been possessed! My wife and I booked it to the car and drove away as fast as we could - we didnâ€&#x;t even care how we were going to get to the bed and breakfast, we just wanted out of there. 3
We were about a mile outside of town, and my wife and I were still traumatized by what just happened. We saw a sign for the next town, which was about 12 miles away and we decided to stop there to get our wits about us before continuing on our way. When we reached the town we parked and went into the pub. We sat down at the bar and a waiter came to take out order. Before we could even think about food we started blabbing to this man about what had just happened to us. As we told our story he seems not to be shocked or really very affected in any way. As we finished our story he told us that the town we had just visited was a ghost
town – literally. “In the late 1600‟s,” he began, “Heatherton was a flourishing town, with many people living there even though it was so secluded. It was a Sunday morning when this all happened. Everybody in town was in church. Everything happened as normal except a candle caught a tapestry on fire, and the whole church blew up in flames, collapsing the steeple, and killing everybody in the church. Most everybody from the town was in church, so there were hardly any survivors left in the town, and those who lived were scarred for life. Many of them left the town because they couldn‟t live with themselves after they lost so many loved ones. It has been a barren waste land ever since.” Based on a true story 4 Emma Preston „14
The Cold Has Come The cold has come, And my fingers are going numb. Summer tans are beginning to fade, Replaced by a rosy red shade. The colors of autumn are gone, bright leaves turn brown on the frost-bitten lawn. All I want is for it to begin to snow, But for now all I have is another Christmas show. I shouldnâ€&#x;t like winter for many reasons, But it is my favorite of all the seasons. I can finally wear my big comfy sweater, And earmuffs and mittens make it even better. Twinkling lights spread like a glowing vine, The air is filled with the scent of fresh pine. Even though the weather can be harsh and dreary, winter always finds a way to make me warm and cheery.
Erin Kean „13
Book Fluttering every minute or so As the words whisper softly to me Things I come to know The story appears Right in front of my eyes I am waiting to know Who lives or dies The wait is hard Wondering what will happen next But the answer lies deep within The fine black text
Piper Hudspeth-Blackburn „15
The Letter I remember thinking that my alarm was going off, but when I heard the second ring and looked at the clock it said 5:05 am. As I got all of my confused thoughts together, I wondered why
someone was ringing the door at five in the morning. There was a massive snow storm yesterday morning and people were still trapped in their homes. I put my fuzzy, bright blue robe on, the slippers to match, and ran down the stairs. I peered out the peep hole. I didnâ€&#x;t recognize this unfamiliar man standing at my door step. Without thinking, I opened the door. The man standing before me looked around me as I opened the door, as if he was looking for someone. After realizing that everyone in the house was still asleep, he looked at me confused and gave me a letter. Without saying anything he turned and walked down the snow covered driveway to meet the red truck at the end. He turned, looked at me one last time, and with that same look on his face as before, got in his car. Blatantly, he was going over the speed limit as he was disappearing off into the winter wonderland. I stood there still puzzled at what had just happened. Still standing at my doorway I examined the letter that lay
there in my hands. It was a smooth surface, the color was off white. There was no return address but my house address was on the front. As I turned around my three-year-old daughter, Blair startled me. My mind started racing. Did she see the whole thing or had she just gotten there, I asked myself. As 1
she was holding her favorite purple blanket with a hippo on it and rubbing her eye she asked me, “Mommy who is that letter for?” I responded by saying, “I think it is for me honey. Let‟s go up stairs. ” As we were walking back up the freshly polished light wooded stairs she asked me, “Was that daddy who rang the door bell?” Trying to hold back the tears, I simply said, “No.” When we got up the stairs I said, “Lets you and mommy go watch some cartoons on TV in my room. Does that sound okay?” With a tired look on her face she said, “Okay.” As I lay in my bed with all of the warm, tan, cotton sheets over top of me and Blair, I got a shiver
down my spine. I got a felling that whatever was in that letter was nothing good. I decided that nap time would be the appropriate time to reveal what the mysterious letter said. I knew that I couldn‟t open it in front of Blair, no matter what it said. I had to be strong for her. As I turned around from looking at my alarm clock, Blair looked at me and then she laid her head on my shoulder. I was hoping that she would fall asleep, it was eleven. That wasn‟t her nap time but I was hopeful that she would fall asleep before her normal naptime because of the unexpected change in schedule that morning. I felt 2
like it was going backwards with every tik-tok on the clock, time was not on my side. I was checking on Blair to make sure she was asleep. Finally at eleven fifteen her tiny eyes were glued shut. I took countless deep breaths but nothing could prepare me for what I was about to read. The letter started……
Dear Mrs. Benett, 911 was tragic day for America but especially for families that were affected by it, like yours. I am so sorry that you were told that your beloved husband had passed away, but there seems to be a mistake. Just yesterday we discovered that because of the severe burns on your husband, Robert Benett’s, body we could not identify him. There were so many bodies and it was difficult to match them with manes. Now, on to where Robert is located. He is in a Hospital, far away from New Jersey. He is in Texas. This hospital specializes in severe burns. We were hesitant about writing you this letter because we know, just like any other wife, you would be concerned and want to come see him. But ma’am, you must stay away. He has been in Acoma for the past four months and just said yesterday his name was Robert. He also has some bleeding to his head. Something must have hit him while all of the commotion was going on. Robert is still in horrible conditions and could die at any moment. You’re not the only family that is going through this. There are countless families and bodies yet to be identified. So conceder yourself lucky, we will keep you posted on your husband’s wellbeing. Mrs. Benett please be patient
and know that the hospital is doing everything they can to keep your husband alive. Sincerely, Jim Smith 3
Night: Two Poems in the Style of William Blake Innocent Night
Night Experiences
The boys are dreaming in a summer night
No more schools, no more parents
Looking at the sky so bright
The boys are enjoying their moments
Eighteen and growing They wonder what they end up doing Something grand, something beautiful
Night falls and darkness covers Their future Robbing banks and shooting Boys, what are you doing?
Hoping their lives are meaningful
Linh Tran „12
Advice to Youth The number 18 resonates in the back of my mind with each day that passes. In exactly 107 days I will be able to vote, sign on the dotted line and purchase lottery tickets and porn. But how is it that one
day defines if someone is a child or an adult? Does being an adult mean that I have to face the world without my parents by my side and does it mean that I am ready to take full responsibility for each action I make?
Growing up all I wanted was to be 18, it seemed as if it was some magical number. In my mind, I could do whatever I wanted once I turn 18, nobody was going to be able to stop me. However, as the time grows closer, it doesnâ€&#x;t seem so magical anymore. Its daunting knowing that soon in the eyes of the law I will be considered my own person. Thinking about how fast my teenage years have flown by saddens me and I regret not listening to the dozens of pieces of advice given to me throughout the years. The number of people who have given me advice, even in passing is astounding. There is no
one piece of advice that can change ones youth and I know this. But how would my youth have changed if I had listened to the words of wisdom? What would have happened if I had taken a 1
second, stepped back and actually listened to people? If I could tell youth of any age one thing it would be to listen to the advice people give you. It wouldn‟t be possible to list all the advice given to me but there are certain pieces of advice that
have surprisingly stuck with me. It is just now that I am finally listening to the advice that has been given to me for years and allowing it to help me. More times than I can even remember, I sat with my mom rolling my eyes as she drilled into my head, “treat others how you wanted to be treated”. Majority of the time I would brush her off and not give these words a second thought. Now I sit and think back on how many people I have lost in my life because I treated them poorly. These were good people, people who cared and people who wanted the best for me. I would bet that most people have heard the saying “Making mistakes is part of growing up, just learn from them.” I however, laughed at this and often times repeated the same mistake multiple times until
I learned my lesson. I wonder how much simpler my life would have been if I had listened to this piece of advice. How much external and internal conflict would have been eliminated from my life? 2
Whenever I did make a mistake however the same piece of advice was given to me, “Admit when you‟re wrong and apologize.” It was nearly impossible for me to do this as I had too much pride. I made my life a lot harder because I was stubborn in admitting when I was incorrect and avoided addressing the issue at hard. The golden rule, “Honesty is the best policy”, isn‟t foreign to anybody. There are dozens of children‟s books based on this theme and this is probably one of the first lessons a parent tries to teach their child. It sounds like such a simple piece of advice but when caught up in the moment sometimes lying
seems easier then telling the truth. 99% of the time my parents would find out the truth and I would sit there in a sea of guilt, wishing that I had told the truth to begin with. Through the ups and downs of adolescence when given the choice between spending time with my
family and friends, my friends typically came before my family. However, whenever I was going through a rough time, it was my family who was consistently there for me. Whatever the situation at hand was, my family never turned me away and never turned their back on me. “Don‟t take your family for granted” was a piece of advice that was mentioned to me multiple times. It wasn‟t as if I purposely took my family for granted but that is what happened on several occasions. I‟m thankful that my family has been patient with me as it has taken me a long time to realize that friends may come and go but family is forever. 3
While I wish that I had listened to these pieces of advice earlier in my life, I still have time to incorporate these words of wisdom into my life. Whatever the reason, itâ€&#x;s not easy to listen to advice and actually apply it to your life. However difficult it may be, listening to advice is worth it and is the one piece of advice I would give to youth.
Julia Kassman „13 4
You Can Call Me Cookie My friendâ€&#x;s mother gives advice: in summer, you should eat soup and spicy food to adjust your temperature to the warmer weather. I think about this, stunned on the white hot porch while I eat a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie, sweet with brown sugar the color of my skin in June. I am like the cookie, amazed to find myself in an afternoonâ€&#x;s oven, slowly caramelizing, sun forming a crispy crust across my brow. I think this is why I am never lonely, even when I am most separate and aching to be in a crowd. I am a cookie in an oven, and mostly, that is enough.
DREAMS: AND WHAT THEY REALLY ARE. Enclosed within colors that are dim lays what we know as the truth. Deep in the dark sides are the dark dreams and below that are the white/light dreams. Some people believe that dreams are
hallucinations or visions. The science of dreams is what we humans are blind to. If I put you in my shoes, you can tell me all about the trauma of my dreams…if you ever get back. ***
Darkness fills my vision, I can‟t see anything but a figure standing in the middle of the dark. I have been sleeping for so long and I have been trapped in this one place. After what seems like ages, the figure moves carefully to the left and paces around the dark. My senses, even as I am dreaming, are fully aware of what is around me. I can feel my legs sweating and my nose tempted to run, a running nose while I‟m dreaming is not something I desire. Finally I use the method my father taught me to use: Mind over matter. And I force myself out of the dream.
I look over at the clock which reads 5:47 am. I had slept for barely six hours. I get up and look around my room, checking to see if anything is out of place. Ever since I turned sixteen, it has 1
become a habit to think I destroyed something while dreaming. I call out for my mother but realize she‟s not around. Instead, I go down the vintage stairs of my father‟s three story mansion. I found a note on the fridge that read “off to Paris for a show. I love you. Later” from my mom. My feet went cold, and there was no trace of life in me anymore. I needed some way to pour out my feelings. I
reached to my father‟s study which has now become mine and turn on the computer. I opened my digital diary and begin to write about the dream I had today. I kept the events of dreams private because I could not relate to them. I have never seen my father before. I had no memory of him
whatsoever. The truth about my life is, I have no memory at all. All my memories start from twelve years ago, when I started paying attention to the actual meaning of life. As my usual routine, I click on the picture of my dad that was the only one left. It popped up and I took a deep breath. He held little me tightly in his arms. I was a carbon copy of him, and it developed as I grew older. I click print and reach for the printer to take the picture but a ringing sound sends my heart down to my feet. I straightened myself against the wall. My dad‟s favorite color was red. He painted the whole house in
red and vintage style furniture followed up. I walked silently to the phone on the counter, and I would
2
guess it was it was the last ring. “Hello?” I spoke into the phone. I heard a hiss before a faint “hi” from my best friend Liza. She knows about the dreams and nightmares I have been having. But I feel a wave of guilt whenever I regret telling her. Because I do regret telling her, for now my whole life depended on the dreams according to her. “Morning. Hey, speaking of which….can I get a ride with you?” I ask while gulping down all my worries. “Correct your English” she says to me. I sigh “good morning Liza. I was just thinking about you and you being the nice person...” I started but she cut me off hallway through with a hoarse voice. “fine. I‟ll come by around seven. But why are you up? Its six am. Hello!” she says. I felt like she was my mother for that split second
“I had a dream” was all I could get out and she knew what it meant. “I see...are you okay?” she asks me. This is the reason why I can‟t share with her, she doesn‟t 3
understand it. “I‟m fine. I‟ll see you later” I say and I hang up. I took a five minute shower that seemed like a one minute shower. All I wanted to do was to leave this house, this empty house that leaves me alone and depressed. I get into jeans and a t-shirt without caring how it looked. My sneakers were out by the door, so I grabbed a jacket and made my way downstairs. I clutched the doorknob just in case I needed to make a run for it. In this place, this secluded scary place, you never know what happens. I put on my sneakers and leave, after I lock the door with my key and slip it in my pocket. I took in the
weather and my environment in general. The smell of rain hung deeply in the air, making me wish I could bring my bed out here and sleep. The wind was blowing my long light brown hair in different directions. My leg moved back towards the door, in an attempt to go and bring out a blanket and lay here but I knew I couldn‟t. I had more important things to do. I jogged down the small road until I reach the bookstore nearest to my house. The bell jingles as I walk in. the smell of coffee hung strong in the air, and also paper. Mr. Hamilton crouched over his couch reading the latest teen fiction. Whenever I come here, I find the sixty four year old man reading modern fiction and that fascinates me. “Good morning Mr. Hamilton” I say while putting my hands in my pocket. He didn‟t take notice of me until I tapped my foot. “Good 4
morning angel. Oh how terrible you look this morning. Didn‟t get enough sleep? I have just the remedy” he says and goes ahead to dig into his things. After a few minutes, he comes back with a bottle of green liquid. I didn‟t trust his remedies. It could be something suspicious, you never know. Maybe a mutation of a chemical. I take it and slip it in my pocket. “It is such a beautiful day outside. I suggest that after I leave, you take your chair outside and enjoy yourself ” I say and a book that I came particularly to look for catches my eye. I take note of the cover, it was covered with wood. It was a very old book, and it looked like it had been there for years
without getting touched for once, as spider webs took vacation of it. “Whenever you come here, it gives me joy. You should come here every morning” he says and laughs. I smile “I come here every Monday night to have dinner with you. I also come here…everyday” I say with a chuckle. He nods in agreement. I reach for the book but find that it‟s locked in chains. “What is this book?” I ask him. He laughs. “Ah…the book of secrets. I dare you not to read it” he says. It didn‟t make sense to me what he said. “Can I borrow it for the day? I promise to keep it to myself ” I say. He shakes his head. “That book cannot fall into anyone‟s hands but the owner. That‟s what the man that brought it here told me” he says. I look at the watch. It was six forty five. 5
I thought of the strategy I could use to get this book in my hands. “Mr. Hamilton…who is the owner, you?” I ask silently. Even the walls have ears, and if this book is so precious, we must keep things confidential. “I do not know” he says. I shake my head admiringly at the book. “I will find the owner for you. If you give it to me” I say. He scratches his grey hair, considering this. I remember
what he told me about his life. He grew up without his parents but his sister who was very ignorant. His had been a maze and along the way…he had battles against others and even himself. I feel pure pity, concern and care whenever I think of it.
I study the environment around me. It was dark inside and faint, and it looked like a place to harbor depressed people. I jumped when he laughed so hard. “Of course child” he says handing me the book. I didn‟t even notice when he unchained it. I nod at the book and smile. I noted in my head that I need to clean it first. The spider webs irritated me, and the idea that a spider might have been left behind there makes me remember I needed to go back and get my ride to school. I give warm goodbyes to Mr. Hamilton after promising to come over later. I race back to the mansion and find Liza against her car with her eyebrows raised. Liza was eighteen and a junior like me. She was two years older, yet we have so much in common. I ignored her presence and slipped into the passenger seat. We drove away and twenty minutes later, we were in school, after stopping for donuts 6
and a drink. Yes that was breakfast for us. I rushed into math class barely before the bell rang. I got to my seat and Mr. Blake started his lesson. I heard mutters of numbers and words and letters…but I didn‟t care about them. I was looking at the board directly in front of me. I saw my dad standing there, trying to explain why he was there. I got up and went up to the board so as to hear him much clearer. “Dad” I say softly. He smiles and opens his arm for an embrace. I rush into his arms. Air rushes from my lungs. Slow and dreadful seconds pass before I feel the pain of an iron on my head. “Call an ambulance!” I heard
people yelling over me. But I didn‟t care what they were saying. I was gone. I was probably dead, or maybe sleeping…EVERYTHING GOES BLACK.
Anonymous
7
My Dream All alone in my little world I dream I dream of having more dreams to come Yes I dream I dream of having the life I hope for Do you dream? I dream that little children who have nothing can at least have a dream that will take them somewhere in life. Like my dream will take me somewhere in life Doesnâ€&#x;t matter if it takes me to the skies or if it takes me on a journey I know it will take me somewhere I dream to let all minds be free, able to fly among their own dreams. I dream to let life be free No regrets No sorrows Harmless Fearless Cabria Perry „1
And full of love I dream to be free of the demon that takes over my soul I dream to live life to its fullest And to have fun I dream to one day be a great woman like my mother is raising me to be. I dream I dream to use the brain that has been given to me Yes I dream I dream to have food on the table and clothes on my back Do you dream? I dream to have someone there to catch me if I fall I dream to be there for anybody who needs me I dream Oh yes, I dream.
A Short Short Story Masses of people hung around the orange, mesh fences. Scattered conversations hung with the distinct sound of sucking air. The sun was moments from rising, and a blistering wind blew in streams across the sand and beach grass. Trees lined up where the sand gave into soil, leaving exposed roots as seats for those who could not manage to push through the crowds and receive a front view of the gaping hole. It was the first one to form in this area, and people had come from miles and miles around to see if the rumors were true. Charlie was among them. Standing at a gap in the fence, she
gazed into the abyss watching as it stole the sand and water from her view. Water from the lake that had been to her knees when the night was still young, was now just limply lapping at her toes. God, it was cold. Groups of four or five had begun to swim to the edge of the hole, waiting for it to sweep them up. No one lifted a finger to stop them, it was a hopeless cause. Charlie wrapped her black North Face closer around her emaciated frame. She watched as one by one, the bobbling heads began to disappear. The occasional glance of colorless fabric could be seen against the water as the bodies spun down, down, down. Sometimes she wanted to go with them, partly to see what could be at the end of the tunnel, and partly to finally give up the waste land of a world she now belonged to. But the water 1
was not inviting with its frigid temperatures, and the people behind her were the same. She was stuck between two worlds, and nothing was pulling her toward each one. Charlie wondered what it would be like, if the hole led to something. Maybe this was god or some higher power, taking all the basics from an old world run by an over populated species and putting it on a fresh chunk of rock. She had voiced this theory at the learning center, but it cost the few acquaintances she had and many bruises. Although she was alone, many others had thought of this same idea. But the difference between Charlie and them was that they were in the water awaiting the
spiral, and she was standing on the beach watching them go. And at this thought, Charlie ducked under the sliced gap in the fence and waded into the blue water, and felt it pull her closer to the pit. The voices hushed from the beach as the mass of faceless people watched a solo clumsy girl swam toward what they presumed to be her death. Moments passed like hours and the water became numbing to all Charlieâ€&#x;s limbs. She was about ten feet from the edge, and the current was relentless. Part of her wanted to turn around, and be wrapped in a towel from her old neighbors on the beach. But at this point no one would have been able to swim against the pull of the hole. So Charlie stopped swimming and allowed herself to be pulled closer and closer. At the edge of a great spiraling tunnel, these last thoughts remained in her head- I 2
hope this leads to something greater. Gallons of water swept the fail girl off her toes, and pounded her into the rhythm. Gasping for air, Charlie was only met with more and more water. The sensation of floating was overwhelming, but it felt like she was going to be pushed further and further from the air.
Eventually Charlie blacked out in the mercy of the water. And so she lay on fresh sand with water lapping at her toes and the sun shining down, totally unaware that her theory had been correct. A hole was in the sky about a mile out from Charlie. Water was tumbling through it into a large empty ocean, slowly filling it up.
Cam Brooks-Miller â€&#x;15 3
Song of Innocence Do as you‟re told and you will succeed. Simply try; that‟s all you need. Everything happens for a reason. There is no need to fret. Something good will come to pass, on that you can bet. Good people will be safe from a world full of hate; just so long as they keep their morals nice and neat.
Ali Towne „12
Song of Experience Sometimes your best will not be good enough and then youâ€&#x;ll see that simply trying is a good way to quickly throw your life away. Bad things happen from time to time, without any reason or rhyme. There is no silver lining to be found; nothing to make a smile from that frown.
Evil does not discriminate good from bad; be it a murderer or just a young lad. Good people will be hurt, of this I am sure, because evil does not care if what it hurts is pure.
Ali Towne „12
Shelter from the Storm It all started when everything turned red and fell into blackness. In one day, joy and life seemed to stop, replaced with a panicked horror that gripped the nation. That day would come to be known as Black Tuesday, the day when the markets crashed, the crimson red numbers seemed to be written with blood instead of ink. On that day, a storm came that would linger for years, slowly stripping peopleâ€&#x;s lives away, one by one. I watched as it consumed the happiness and relative prosperity of Eatonville. The storm did not hit me too hard though. No, I was quite lucky. It did not strip me of much; I did
lose quite a bit of money, but I still had more than enough to live on. I had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and enough food to hush my growling stomach. Eatonville would never be the same. Before that day, the town was making it by, but only just. The people worked for low wages at
the saw mill or in the fields. Well, times got tough for everyone, white men, black men, even the wealthy men who owned the saw mill or those fields. They cut their workers like a farmer cuts trees to 1
clear a field. The first to go where all the negro workers because white men support white men; they would never pick a black man over a white man for a job. It was like watching an old dog die. Not of old age though, no more like a dog hit by some fatal blow, or torn up in some fight; thatâ€&#x;s how Eatonville died before my eyes. First there was the quiet shock after that stunned all of us like lightning sent down on us by God. The silence lasted a day or two after the last man was let go like a fish thrown into a boat, their hearts flailing in panic. Then came denial of the fatal blow. The women were going about life as if nothing was wrong, mending old clothes and trading plates and dishes with one another so that they could pretend they were new. The men kept themselves busy do repairing things unbroken so as to keep the hands out of their empty pockets. All of them strutting with high shoulders and loud mouths, boasting about what little they could still cling to. That lasted for several months. Finally, slowly and painfully, they succumbed to reality with grime acceptance. One by one, the people of Eatonville accepted the fact that each of their lives, as they had known it, was over. Some stayed, unable to let go of the memory of Eatonville years ago, when Joe ruled the town. Many moved away, desperately hunting for a place to fill their growling stomachs like 2
the starving dogs they had become. I eventually had to move away too, but for very different reasons. Every one of those days I felt more and more isolated and alone. Even before the crash, Eatonville never had seemed like my home, the place where I belonged. People would always snicker and cast judging looks in my direction when they thought I wasn‟t looking. But I knew. Even though I was not hungry and pained like the other residences, I still feared for my survival. The resentment that had been planted in the others towards me over the years seemed to bloom and grow like Jack‟s beanstalk when money got tight. I tried to help as much as I could, but I did not want to spend all my money in
case things didn‟t get better in a hurry. They would say things like “Look at her up there in her big fancy house while the rest of us are living in the dirt” or “that Janie, humph, she is such a queen! The Queen of Eatonville!” and “Look at how she looks down from the tip that queenly nose of hers at us! What I‟d do to knock her down a peg or two!” I began to be afraid, I was alone in my house with the whole town against me. I felt more alone than ever, even more alone then when Joe wouldn‟t talk to me no more. I found myself out of town as much as I could. I had a few people that I trusted most of all, like Phoebe to watch over my house if I was gone for more than a day. I had invested money in the stock market a month or two after that Tuesday, on the advice of a friend of mine, Baron Angus Joseph 3
Willard but everybody just calls him Wiz, from Orlando who was a genius with numbers and calculations and things like that. Well everyone thought I was crazy, I thought I was crazy too, but Wiz told me that I needed to invest now while the numbers are as low as they were because they would only go up. well that was almost a year ago and he was right, Iâ€&#x;ve made almost double on what I put in and it just keeps going up. well I go out of town to go meet him and a few other friends that I have managed to keep over the years, but I mainly just go out wandering, seeing if anyone outside of Eatonville would like me around. My favorite place to go was to see an old woman who lives out in the country named Mrs. Baker. Her husband died 10 years before and her son, who was around my age, had gone up north and she only hears from him on occasion. A young man named Jacob who was about 20 or so, lived with her. He was one of the sweetest young man in Florida! He was quiet but would do whatever he could do to help others, especially Mrs. Baker. She said that he had just shown up on her door step when he was about seven and dragged her out into the road were his mother, who was pregnant, had collapsed. Her husband had called for a doctor and the two had stayed at the Bakerâ€&#x;s home until the mother died a few weeks later when she went into labor. Mrs. Baker had raised Jacob as her own. I went to see her 4
two or three times a week. She was one of the kindest people I had ever met. I felt I could talk to her
as an equal without worrying about her judging me. she was like my safe haven from Eatonville. With nothing to do and no hopes to lift them up, the people of Eatonville looked for happiness at the bottom of the bottle and in the faces of the kings and queens of cards. They would spend the little money they had on booze and dice, which dried the town out pretty fast. It was one night where the whiskey was flowing especially fast and the winnings were high when I realized I could not stay in Eatonville anyone. From what Phoebe told me, Charlie Jones was not playing well but kept pushing his luck, throwing down more and more money, and when he ran out of that, he threw in his shoes too and other things he did not have. Well by the end of the night he was too drunk to walk and had no shoes besides. Everyone went staggering off to bed laughing and hollering away all their worries, except for Charlie. He made as if he was going home, but he had other ideas. Turns out the money he
had been gambling with wasnâ€&#x;t his at all. He knew the dangers of showing up to his creditors empty handed. Well I guess the first thing he sees in his drunken panic is my big house. I had told everyone that I would be gone for two days or so, I had planned to go to Orlando but the friend I was to stay with had to go home because her mother was sick. I had arrived late that night while they were having their fun and was not in the mood to listen to their drunken stammering; many of them are prone to flirting, especially when they are drunk. Charlie, who didnâ€&#x;t know that I was home, stumbled around 5
back and pried open my window with a crowbar ( I still do not know where he got it) and into my kitchen. I was so tired that I slept through him tramping around downstairs. Like most people I keep my valuables in my bedroom, closest to me. I did not wake up until he had come into my room. Fear shot through me like a bullet, and I screamed. Charlie was just as shocked as I was, his drunken mind
too confused to understand what was going on. I must have taken him by such a surprise, that he thought I was the intruder, and he pulled out his knife in defense . As soon as I saw the knife I screamed again and grabbed my gun that I kept in my bed side drawer. He stumbled forward, and I lifted my gun‌ and fired. After that night, Eatonville was no longer my home, it was only a source of bad memories. I packed up my things and headed out into the world, looking for a new shelter from the storm.
Erin Kean „13 6
Listen to the Wind Listen to the wind. Do you hear it? A sound in the distance, A cry across the land, Listen Carefully. You may be surprised.
Listen to the wind. It forgives. A sound of understanding, A cry for release, Listen carefully. It has let you go.
Listen to the wind. Do you hear it? A sound forever lost in time, A cry to be found by the one it loves, Listen carefully. You may be surprised.
Listen to the wind. Do you hear it? It calls back all the feelings of pain and lost. Listen carefully. It wants you to move on. Listen to the wind. Do you hear it? Listen carefully. You may be surprised.
Listen to the wind. There! The sound of pain and sadness, It is the cry of one who was loved. Listen carefully. She calls to you. Listen to the wind. It calls you back, Back to what you have left behind in the distance, Back to a past, a place, you thought to have left. Listen carefully. You may be surprised.
Parker Phelan „12
Launched from Another Universe: An Adventure in Steampunk Launched from another universe, the tightly wrapped brown paper package landed with a thump in the field. Its twine became in threaded the high prairie grass, creating a soft crater around it. The box created no distraction other than a slight glance from a buffalo which lost interest as quickly as the average buffalo would. For months the box sat there, allowing wind and rain to bash it around. Slowly the paper peeled, exposing an iron that heated during the day and froze during the night. Years passed, humanity continued to be threatened and everyoneâ€&#x;s hope was constantly on the threshold of dying. But the days slowly brought things that hadnâ€&#x;t been there, people started to make a difference by stopping their attempts to make a difference. At this point the brass box was an oxidized mess of crumbling metal killing the life around it. The paper and twine was only a memory, a pretty picture imprinted over the bigger one. And one day a storm came along and took the rest of the metal, sweeping it away with water and sand. Finally, the only reminder of the package itself was its contents. A small, silver ball the size of a walnut stood in its place. Dawn came slowly the last day, hitting grass blade by blade until it reached a raw circle of Earth. Small gears inside the ball began to stir in anticipation. The moment the sunlight touched the silver ball, the last sound could be heard. Echoing across the expanse of the valley, all the color went with it. Little black shadows stopped meeting the light, and everything was sucked into allied colors of gray. And the realizations that met this in the morning had no screams to accompany them because all the sound, music and noise had been devoured by those little spinning gears hidden in a silver ball in a field that arrived in a package. So the blue planet became gray, and continued to rotate in a universe of brown paper boxes. Cam Brooks-Miller „15
Envoi OLDFIELDS The summer is gone The nights have become long The cold weather sets in We must let the next trimester begin Study hard and stay up late I still haven‟t figured out the “Do your homework” trait You know you‟re at Oldfields when Weekends don‟t really exist Oh my goodness looks at my shopping list Wal-Mart and target are what we call crazy nights Hair dye and easy mac are our silly fights Academic is where you go when you can‟t focus right
Teachers live on campus and become our parents The soda is a whopping dollar and fifty cents! We can‟t forget Mr. Smith who is our #1 He is always up for some trick and some fun Our 2 week breaks I don‟t think we love enough You can hear the parents yelling “hurry up, grab your stuff ” But soon it becomes the end of the year We give our best friends hugs and shed a tear
But remember Oldfields has made it very clear That we are ALL family here
Izzie Heaver ‟13