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RM racing minds magazine

Vol. 2 | Issue 4 | Aug.2011

Dear Readers,

Sometimes when I write these its really hard to figure out the right thing to say; take now for example. I always hope to reach out to you all and write something inspiring. But instead, you inspire me. Which I am eternally grateful for.

Sinerely, Sarah

RM racing minds magazine

Staff Editor-in-Chief Sarah Nieman

Layout Designer Sarah Nieman

Photographers Caiti Borruso Lauren R W


Leah Augustine Kayla Deines Rachael Hyde Maria Kaffa Elizabeth Turner

issuu // magcloud // tumblr // facebook // flickr // email //

RM racing minds magazine

6 The Equinox 14 Spotlights 20 Erin Audry 26 Nicole Stockburger 28 Kelli Gedvil 34 Kate Sherrin 36 Love Is In The Rain 44 Evan Booth 50 Teddy McDonald 56 Maggie Ann Re 62 Naughty Dream 70 Donna Irene 74 Shelley Jones 82 Lauren Parker 84 Steph Hadley 86 Zoe Gregoric 88 Lauren Lepore 94 Jing Qu 100 A Heritage of Feathers 106 Heather March 108 Sabrina Chin 112 Melanie Martinez 116 Adrianna Keczmerska 118 Lauren Engel 124 Bhumika Bhatia 128 Isabella C 132 Rhea Baweja 136 Brianna Saba

The Equinox

Photographer: Emily Jane Morgan Model: Cyan Cheung Wardrobe: - RedRock Fashion - Daisy and Lola, Norwich

Spotl 1




1 2 3


Christine Florence Kristi B Anna Peters

4 5 6

Anais Nannini Melanie Ocean Barney Frost

7 8 9

Dea Botica Tori Hoover Taylor Barringer

ights 6

10 11 12

Rebecca Tan Yusrina A Nicolette Clara

13 14 15

Rachel Dowda Ruby Wallau Megan Hastings

16 17

Meghan Garven Osanna Davi












erin audry e r i n a u d r y . w w w . f l i c k r .

b l o c o m

g s p o t . c o m / e r i n a u d r y

Nicole Stockburger

Kelli Gedvil

17 | Viljandi, Estonia k e l t u . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m

K a t e Sherrin 14 | Canada w w w . f l i c k r . c o m / g w e n d o l y n f a i r

love is in

photography // karen castillo

n the rain













Evan w


























Teddy McDon

17 | England | w


I’m obsessed with films, mainly from the 60’s and 70’s and that’s probably where my love for photography comes from. I don’t go out of my way to take pictures, I just take my camera out with me when I can be bothered. One day I’ll take it more seriously, hopefully I’ll find a career to do with cinema.






Maggie Ann Re 16

I guess art these days can be whatever you want it to be. It has a lot to do with the artist’s intention. I think that it’s difficult to set boundaries to what art is especially without being too trite because people will just break them with something new and unexpected due to the way art evolves. Ultimately, art can be an expression or outlet; it can be feelings or thoughts that are physicalized and transformed. Art, no matter its form, is and always will be a reflection of life in some way.

Donna Irene 18





Shelley J o n e s 21





The Lonely Girl

She’s walking on the beach alone. Why, I can see her walking all alone, not a soul in sight,

feet shifting slightly in the sun kissed sand, kicking up the crystals, causing them to fly in the air. One foot after the other, one foot after the other, her hands in the pockets of her shorts, her hair

blowing in the ocean breeze, her head down, watching the foam tickle those lonely toes; alone she walks. Alone she walks.

There are people in the distance. Why, I can see them, playing on the beach, kicking up that

same crystal sand, tromping on the smooth water stained ground. They don’t see her walking all

alone; or perhaps they do but they don’t care or care not to care. Why don’t they care? How should I know? The girl knows. Go ask her.

Now that I look closer, she has something grasped tightly in her hand. Why, it’s a flag, a red

one. How could I not have noticed? It’s gliding on the wind’s breeze, boldly flapping against the

girl’s arm, trying to get her attention, begging, pleading. The wind hisses. The ocean releases a dull roar. The girl glances up for a moment, distracted.

Her eye catches a glimpse of blue. Why, I can tell what she’s looking so intently at. It’s an

umbrella, a blue umbrella. Like her, it seems lonely with only its shadow to keep company. The old edges wave the girl over. It’s alone too and it only needs a friend.

The girl suddenly smiles. Why, her smile is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Pure

innocence and lost joy are in that smile. The crystal sand glitters in the wind currents as the lonely girl walks towards the lonely umbrella. She stands next to it. She runs her finger under the faded blue frilled edges. She sits down next to it, placing her red flag on her lap.

It is an odd picture, the girl sitting next to the umbrella. Why, as I stand at a distance, I am

perplexed by her. I dare not to ask questions though, for I do not want to sound rude or intrusive, so I am satisfied with watching the lonely girl.

She suddenly gets up, her mission re-grasped. Why, I know she came here on this day for

a reason. Why else would a lonely girl come to a beach filled with loud people? She clutches the

blowing red flag tightly, stands herself up, and walks once more. She walks towards the ocean. I don’t breathe.

Her feet touch the glassy water. Why, the water welcomes her sand covered feet. She thrusts

the flag pole into the soft earth. The red fabric begins quivering at the sights of the sea. It knows what is about to come. It is excited.

The girl leaves her flag behind as she moves deeper into the ocean’s arms. Why, I am the

sole witness of this. No one else seems to notice or care to notice the beautiful lonely girl. They are too busy with trivial matters. I do not want to end up like those people.

The water licks against the girl’s skin. Why, the wind is growing fiercer with each step she

takes. She no longer looks down but is gazing confidently beyond the watery horizon. The water rises higher and higher. It rushes all around her. She smiles. She laughs.

The foam reaches her neck. Why, only her head is visible while the reflection of her eyes

dances all across the surface of the sea. And then the girl does a very peculiar thing that I never

expect. She turns and looks at me. And I look at her. And we smile. And then the lonely girl bends her head under the water. She never returns. She is lonely no more.

Lauren Parker

Photo // Andrea Gonbelt

Rapidly I’m aware of what I’m doing here, Details that arise from the surface of my mind, My conscious analysis, your smell, your eyes that burn into my soul, Words that hover in the silence that surrounds us, but not yet broken. Fingers brushing my cheeks, tickling the nerves under my frail skin, Thoughts forming like clouds in my mind, Like toddlers first steps we learn more, but not too much, Trust - a virtue I not need hold dear to myself, but to my heart, I feel yours beat against my rib cage, pulsing in time with our ever changing destiny. So entangle yourself in my life, venture further, We cannot be scared, uncertainty is inevitable, my love But now, the memories that linger like brush strokes, That is the canvas in my head, Paint the path we are yet to take. The spectrum of light, amplified by your touch, Gleaming disarrays that show me the way, Leading us through this muddled world, you will see, Beyond misty panes of shallow minds, Beyond the cobwebbed, spineless tatters of unspoken morals, We have something they do not, my friend, And that is what will get us through to the very end.

Steph Hadley

Zoe Gregoric

16 |

Lauren Lepor

17 | New


w York

Chicago, Illinois |

Jing Qu

A heritage of fea

athers photography // Pavithra Ramasubramanian

H e a t h e r m a r c h Remember that one day during the spring break, when the weather was warm enough for short sleeves but still had a bite to it and we sat in your front yard on the cold grass by the old tree and mulled over school ending, we mulled over you going away; it seemed like it would be forever? Is forever really something tangible?  It’s really just something we say when we don’t know what else to say, isn’t it?  And just when we were thinking about forever, our brains molasses in our skulls, it fell out of the sky.  We almost disregarded it, or neurons firing that it was empty, but there was a noise.  We scrambled over to the poor little thing and you scooped it up in your cupped hands, cooing over the fluff of blue feathers.             “Look at him!” you cried, looking at me with your eyes sparking bright blue like the sky between the cotton clouds.             “He’s beautiful,” I nodded at you.             “I know.”  You looked back to his heaving blue body and realized that your new friend was hurt.  I followed you as we put him back in his nest, tagging along like an obedient dog as you scurried around the lawn.  When I left you the nest was on your desk, under your close watch.  When I came back the next morning you were purposeful, with dirt under your fingernails.  You led me solemn to the side yard where there was a small divot in the dirt.             “Shouldn’t you use a shovel?” I asked. “No,” you replied simply, “He worked hard to live despite his injuries, so I have to work hard for him now.”  I nodded and watched you dig. We had a little funeral that day.   Remember when you got invited to spend a few days at the butterfly reserve a few hours away and you parents let us go over there alone?  We rode the stuffy greyhound bus with no chaperone, we were free.  Those days we spent running on the boardwalks that looped through the bland forests, chasing bright orange flying insects.

           “They’re so fast,” you breathed as we sunk onto a weathered wooden bench that matched the trees around us.  I nodded.   Minutes later we started back into the maze, stopping and watching the humming orange clusters high in the grey branches.  Were we free then?  Is free just a word to describe when we feel, when we truly feel?   Remember when it was the hottest, muggiest day of summer and we weren’t doing anything because the heat was penetrating and you were leaving the next day?  The air was pressing in around us as we lay on the humid green grass talking about nothing in particular, our eyes glazed over. “Let’s go to the store,” you said, suddenly standing on the springy ground.  You pulled me up and we started going, down the mirage of a road.  At the little old store you pulled five bucks out of your back pocket and told me to pick a soda.  I picked a green glass bottle of Bubble Up out of the fridge and you grabbed a Durango Key Lime Cream Soda.  You wandered over to the shelves and looked at all the things, picking up a pack of playing cards. “To keep me entertained,” you whispered as you walked back past me to the front of the store.  We paid at the small cash register; the guy working was our age and kept getting lost in your eyes.  Back on the road we sat in a flower field and drank our sodas, the cool liquid making us shiver in the sun.  We ran back home, racing with our tattered shoes making slapping noises on the pavement. “Do you think you can run without me?” you asked as we slowed.  I didn’t understand the question at first. “Sure I can,” I told you. “Promise me you will run when you need to,” you said, “Run and never look back.  Run and never come back.” “I will.”

He was coming up on my left, walking confident. I admire him, I admit it.  He’s brave, sticks to himself and what he loves – unlike all the other gingerbread men at this school.  Cut from a mold is what they are, truly.  He isn’t.  The cowboy hat bobbed above the crowd, sliding in and out of the makeshift foliage.  “Nice hat,” I ventured when he was in front of me and a little to the left.  He nodded thanks and swept the hat off his head with smooth movements and set it on my head.  I like to imagine that my face held and expression of happiness, but I do believe I looked a bit more appalled.  He smiled, but I thought ahead.  “When shall I give it back to ya?” I questioned.  He was confident, unfazed by the question.  “After school,” he told me, as we were parallel now.  He turned down the adjacent hall and I continued on to my class, confidence perched on my head, I soared. ------------------------------------Driving. I’m just driving. Driving toward the bridge.  My favorite bridge.  A red bridge.  My favorite color.  Like blood. Looking. I’m just looking. Looking at the bridge, looking at the water. Black water.  My favorite color.  Like sleep and … Stopping.  I’m just stopping.  Stopping on the bridge.  The red bridge.  To look at the swirling water. Standing.  I’m just standing. Standing beside the car.  Then beside the railing.  The metal cold on my hands. Breathing. I’m just breathing.  Breathing in the fresh air.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale. Jumping. I’m just jumping. Jumping for joy.  The body of swirling black water grows larger beneath my feet. Falling. I’m just falling.  Falling like on a roller coaster.  Falling like jumping.  Falling. -------------------------------------A small cocoon rests in the bottom of my stomach.  Hunger gnaws at the lining of my stomach, I know my cocoon can resist the acidity of digestion, for it has not flourished yet.  Other›s butterflies have already escaped their confines, flown away even, free to roam other lands.  Mine is still a small dormant creation.  My dormant butterfly tried had escaped, nearly a year ago, but was smashed by the insincerity and thoughtlessness of the others around me.  With a swiftness I will always remember he crawled back into the cocoon; this task was not frightful, for my butterfly does not have pointed antlers as some of the others do.  I urge him to escape the cavities of my organs, to fly free and bring me along.  He sleeps forevermore. -------------------------------------The night air seeps in through the midnight screen, soothing my cricket-skin: sun-burnt heart.  The wispy chill carries promises of fall rains, dying leaves to decorate my room, death surrounding for it is fall; the time the world dies: I flourish.  Acorns sit and await their turn in a blue and white bowl, they long to be buttons on my coat, live and die forever near my heart.  I fall over, the breeze is to much, my arms are taken away by the invisible man who comes with the leaves rustling call; they wish to overtake me, they know I am weak.   Quartz shall now be the currency: the wind whispered it in my closing ear. I wish to be poor for only then will the squirrels be my friends; I will be allowed to wear the bear›s warm winter coat.  Two pounds of quartz is all I have, ‹t›will last me through the rains.  My breath seeps out through the midnight screen; it comforts the moose, whose head has grown courageously heavy; it snows where he lives. --------------------------------------I walked past the house that should be yours.  The front was perfect, I knew your room was the one above the garage, it had to be.  I imagined us, you and me, walking the neighborhood, going to the park.  All I would ever need would be right there.  I imagined walking to your house, my legs quickly scissoring down the street, anxious to see you.  I imagine bike rides, in summer, in winter. I imagined walking in the rain, the storm caught us off guard down the street.  Carpooling for cheaper gas, when we both can drive.  I imagined it all, walking past the house that should be yours.


Chin 16 | Atlanta, GA h t t p : / / w w w . f l i c k r . c o m / p h o t o s / 4 6 6 1 7 8 1 5 @ N 0 5 /

Photography has helped me see more beauty in the world and with my camera, I feel like I can create more beauty as well, and create worlds that only can happen in my dreams. I want to lose myself in my art, and hopefully I can make others lose themselves in it too.

Melanie Martinez 16 |

Adrianna Keczmerska 19 | Harwich, England |

L a u r e n 17







n E n g Í l engelauren





Bhumika Bhatia

I always wanted to show the world my mind, but I was just never sure how. I always dreamt of a world where everything was extraordinary, with a hint of fantasy and romanticism, with surreal trees and purple clouds. Photography for me began while sitting in the back seat of my cousin’s car. It was about to rain and the weather was amazing, so I started clicking pictures, and luckily the first picture I ever clicked turned out to be good. Everyone thought that its just a regular teenage phase and would go away in a month or so. But I convinced them that I want to take pictures for the rest of my life and want people to connect with my pictures and be inspired in some way. I’ve had no special training what so ever, but practiced my skill and read tutorials, spent countless hours in the library/ bookstore reading about photography. I saved money and now own a Canon 550D. In India, people are still getting used to the whole photography scene. It’s hard, especially for young photographers like me, but I am no quitter. I want to click pictures for the rest of my life. I will work hard and use my passion to take me where I want to be.


w w w . f l i c k r . c o m / i z z y s p h o t o s 1 2 3


R h e a New







B a w e j a .






15 | New York |

Brianna Saba

August 2011 Pt 2  

A magazine for and about artists.

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