Letters 2014

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ETTERS The Literary Magazine of Randolph-Macon Academy

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L

ETTERS

A literary publication of the students of Randolph-Macon Academy, 2013 - 2014 Published April 2014

Student Editor: Rebel Hafner Faculty Editor: Robert Davies

Thank you for your help and support: Jonathan Ezell, Cindy Rodney, Tracy Kaminer, Celeste Brooks, Rebekah Secrist, the English department, and the Parents’ Association of Randolph-Macon Academy.

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Black Bread

by Eva Bogdewic Like La Sachette, she dwells inside Her own Place de Grève Refusing gifts of wheaten cake In favor of black bread.

Her lonely prison, displayed before The curious passerby, He peers in through the window Where the wretched wreck does lie.

The walls are shaped of shriveled flesh, The bars of bleachéd bone The palest, purest paradise, Her cell, her hell, her home.

Day by day she shivers In this empty skull to wait, Kneeling, feeling nothing as Each sorry soul meets fate.

She prays, not to a little shoe, But at the devil’s feet, Her eyes see only numbers, Her heart admits defeat.

A gypsy with a charming smile And dulcet melody Did steal her child away from her: The child she used to be.

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Legacy Lost

by Jacob Dodson What happens to a dream deferred?

Shall I rise above my sorrow and grief?

Or shall I wait in fear for destruction to reoccur?

I must rise above my desolate brief.

My life is full of paramount expectations, And I falter in my quest often.

A labor of seven years deserves no supplication.

I feel disheartened and ready to soften.

I strive for excellence in a humble manner, But people give no thought to humility.

People like ones who wave flashy banners, I apparently act in futility.

However, I will rise from the ashes today, And live to fight a promising day.

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Meghan Melberg

Sarah Vaughan

Eun Jung Lee

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Emma Bunker

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Regina Song

Eva and the Tales in Tapestry

by Eva Bogdewic Ignoring the throbbing ache in my left cheek, I pushed myself off the ground and looked him square in the face. It was difficult to see his youth under the scars and darkness, dealt to him by time and war. As a boy, his eyes had been bright with the spirit of adventure. Now they were empty, hard, and cold.

“You know I can’t go back.”

“You’re being selfish.” The disappointment in his voice was more painful than the bruises blossoming on my skin.

“I don’t want to go back and learn how to act like a lady and weave tapestries and cook dinner and raise children and mend clothes.”

“That is what the Balveda has asked of you.” These words sent a scorching hatred through my system like a fever.

“The Balveda can burn.” I spat at his feet. He struck at me again, but I dodged his fist and swept his feet out from under him, pinning him to the damp earth. “The Balveda is just a story.”

“How dare you,” he growled, breathing heavily. “A filthy lying woman who not only joins the army, but denounces the Balveda. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.”

“Come on, Isaiah. You know that I’m stronger and faster than any of these men.”

“Don’t call me that. We aren’t children anymore. Heed the word of your ancestors, and go back to Acchme. And cover your eyes.”

“What, are you afraid you’ll fall in love with me again?”

While his expression was blank, I could see the colors of his soul behind those empty eyes. First fear, then despair, then disgust. He began to walk toward me slowly, and I grew uneasy. I stumbled backward over the uneven ground and heard the rush of the great glittering Jahib behind me.

We were nearing the edge of the cliff. He continued at the same pace, his muscular arms swinging as if he were marching to an inaudible cadence.

He stopped. We were very close to the perilous drop.

“I could never love you, Aura. And to believe so would be a childish fantasy.”

I stood, trying in vain to formulate a response. He launched himself forward, shoving me backward with his calloused hands. I could not react. I fell for an eternity, floating in an endless abyss of sky. My back hit the icy water, and I enjoyed the numbness in my limbs and appendages.

Slowly, the world turned black.

A moment later, my eyes opened to a narrow street, and I was lying

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on aged cobblestone. I found myself weightless, as if the gods had shaped me out of sea foam. Wrapped in a light, almost fluid material that clung to my body, I felt comfortable and secure. Lingering in the air was the smell and electricity of the moment before a storm. I tried to steady myself, but lightheadedness came over me and I lost my balance. Immediately, a withered man with tired skin scuttled toward me. I prepared myself for an attack, but realized half a second later that he was reaching out his hand to help me off the ground. I thanked him. His eyes grew wide, and he scurried away, retreating into an alleyway.

Brushing myself off, I continued down the road in no particular direction. I stopped to admire, in the warped glass of an empty shop window, an angelic figure, my renewed self. My skin looked fair, cheeks dusted with freckles like sprinkled cinnamon, free of every scratch and bruise I had acquired. Auburn tendrils flowed from my head, the same way they looked before I left home. I despised the Balvedan verse describing the importance of a woman’s hair being uncut, and upon leaving, I had used a pocket knife to lift the burden from my scalp. I turned away and continued down the grimy path, passing grimy archways and alleyways, sensing a brokenness hanging in the air that cast shadows on the faces of the people.

As I glided past them, some stiffened, others bowed, and a few knelt. The only one who had taken no notice of me was an ancient woman making her way across the street carrying baskets and bundles of herbs. A small package escaped her arms, falling into a puddle of water. I rushed over to pick it up and hold it out in front of her. Upon looking at me, she dropped everything she had been carrying. She reached out and cupped my face with her hands, smiling with her wrinkled, sunken eyes.

“My child,” she said, “At last.”

Without explanation, I was led through an arch into a stone passageway. With the gentle glow of a lantern as her guide, the woman plodded on ahead of me. After some time, we entered a musty room that was completely empty aside from a few cobwebs and a simple loom.

“Yes, you weave the tapestry now,” she nodded, pointing to it.

“Back in Acchme, we had to use looms to weave tapestries retelling the stories of the Balveda,” I remembered aloud. I had always hated the tedious labor and the way we had to illustrate our duties as a wife and daughter; tapestry after tapestry, weaving pictures of weddings and children, sitting for hours working with our bodies and faces covered. I had longed to be outside with the boys, practicing archery and swimming in the lake.

“Why tell the same stories again?” the woman frowned.

“I don’t know. I’ve never cared for the practice of weaving, my-

self,” I sighed.

“But my child, you are The Weaver, yes,” she said in a horrified whisper. “You must.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“My child, for many a year, we tell the same story again. A very sad, sad, story on a torn tapestry. You, my child, are the first Weaver we see in one hundred years. And you come to weave us a new tapestry, yes.”

“But I’m terrible at that kind of thing.”

“Your calling is this.”

Hearing her desperation, I surrendered. I took a deep breath and placed one finger on the smooth wood of the loom’s frame. An intense energy began to flow into my core. My hands began to act of their own accord, flitting around the contraption at lightning speed, the warp and threads unraveling out of my fingers and winding themselves into the frame, a process too complicated to explain. My grasp on the concept of time was lost as I entered into a trance. When the mental fog cleared, I was sitting in front of a breathtaking tapestry. Thousands of pieces of string sung in a chorus of vibrant color, creating the image of a narrow street, one without shadow or sign of age, with brightly lit windows and busy shops.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, clutching my arm. “Beautiful.” She scooped up the cloth and pressed it to her face. “Come, my child.”

As she laid the cloth in the middle of the square, a new breath of life lifted all sorrow and pain. Amidst all of the rejoicing, I was alone in my misery, looking away with my eyes downcast. I knew I would have to leave this little town and return to Isaiah soon. I would thereby be sentenced to go back home, marry, and spend the rest of my life following the Balvaeda.

“My child, you don’t like the story, change the story,” she shrugged. “The future is in your hands. You have a gift, your will is strong.

You do not like to retell old stories. You weave your own.” She held my face once more, nodded, and kissed me on the forehead. Suddenly, I was being pulled away from her, spiraling into blackness.

As I ascended into consciousness, every bit of my flesh and bone ached and my head felt heavy. My vision slowly came into focus. Isaiah was kneeling over me, wiping my forehead with a damp cloth.

“I’m not going back,” I croaked. “I’m not going to submit, even if they try to kill me. I’m not going to try to squeeze myself into the mold that they’ve created for me. That’s a story that’s been told too many times.”

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Diary of a Negro Pilot in the Great War

by James Christoph

August 19, 1916. Dear Diary: I’ve been in Brest for a little more than three days in high spirits but also wary. The people I’ve met or run into speak little or no English but have been teaching me a bit of French.

I am getting better and better by the day, but I cannot stop to chat with people I probably will never see again; I must keep heading to where the Lafayette Escadrille is located. When I first set out from Boston two weeks ago, I did so with a single purpose, to start a new life and to get away from the racial segregation of the States. My father always said to do what you want to do in life and to lead a better life than he did.

After all, he was a slave for the early part of his life. I must confess that being a trumpet player in New York and Boston clubs was fun when I wasn’t being pelted with rocks and garbage by people who didn’t like Negroes. Then, here came the war. I had been saving money to build up a small fortune, and once I heard that the French were accepting American volunteers, I was in. So what will I find when I get there? Either I’ll find a host of segregationist white men, or maybe nothing but the whistle of a calm and lonely wind.

August 25, 1916. Dear Diary: I have arrived at Verdun, the town close to the main airfield for the escadrille. It is just like I suspected.

I’m the only Negro and a few of the white volunteers are very surprised.

It’s a good thing that I learned a little bit of French during the journey here because the commanding officer gave his first lecture in French and nobody except for me had any idea of what he was saying. He did switch back to English after a while and soon after we were introduced to our barracks. I will say, when I first joined the escadrille, I had no idea that we would be sleeping in a mansion. I also didn’t expect that I would have to room with a white man. In fact, when the room assignments were said aloud, the first person I was supposed to room with said, “It would be like sharing a room with one of my servants back home.” Fortunately, the person I am rooming with isn’t like that, and we get along together pretty well. Later, we went to the escadrille bar where I met our squadron leader.

He didn’t say much other than that the life expectancy for us was about two to three weeks and that we should go home while we still could.

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August 27, 1916. Dear Diary: After spending the entirety of yesterday training, we had our first combat mission today. I managed to shoot down one German fighter that was going after that person who

refused to room with me. In fact, I was one of only two people who shot down an enemy plane, the other being the squadron leader. Despite this, we lost five out of the thirteen that took off today. After we got back, one of the white pilots got out of plane, stood on his hands and knees and threw up, either because he was air sick or was shocked that he saw his roommate die in front of him. While writing this diary entry this afternoon, the white pilot that I saved came in and wanted me to share with him a bottle of wine, probably as a thank you for saving his life. Then he started talking about where he was from and why his father wanted him to come to France. When he asked me what my father was like, I simply answered, “My daddy was a slave.” Then, he drifted into an eerie silence and remained silent for about half an hour before he left. I guess some things never change.

September 14, 1916. Dear Diary: It’s been more than two weeks, and I’m still alive. I keep thinking to myself, “Why haven’t I been killed yet?” I scored my third kill just three days ago, and I was finally accepted into the escadrille bar, where new American recruits had just shown up.

But once again, none of them were Negros. To make matters worse for me, two thirds of them are from the Deep South. One of them was from a town in Alabama where they lynch Negroes. When he saw me, he and a couple of his friends started pushing me and asking me what I was doing in “this fine establishment.” Fortunately, my roommate came in with one of the British flyers and they kicked them out of the bar and told them not to come back until one of them got a kill. Good thing that there’s somebody in this squadron that’s watching my back. Today, the squadron flew an escort mission for an airfield raid, and I managed to get my fourth kill after helping that same jerk who nearly tried to kick my ass. He didn’t thank me afterwards though, either because he didn’t see me or because he was dumbfounded that his life was saved by a Negro.

October 2, 1916. Dear Diary: It has been nearly two months since I joined the escadrille, and I’m one of the four pilots from the original thirteen that are left. More fresh American recruits come every single week and half to two thirds of them are dead, MIA, or wounded within the next two to three days. It’s better than the survival rate of our original thirteen, half of which were dead by the end of our first week here. That guy from Alabama is somehow still alive and managed to get three kills over the course of these last two months. Of course, I’m now the third highest-scoring pilot in the escadrille with nine kills. Many of the pilots are impressed. I wish I could say the same about the fellow who shared a

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wine glass with me two months ago, but he died two weeks ago when his plane got shot up by flak. I’m scheduled to return to the states in a week.

I’ve decided that I have had enough of fighting in this war and that my nine kills should be more than enough to last a lifetime.

Dearest Madam, It is with great regret that I have to inform you that your son was killed in action while fighting in the line of duty. His plane was discovered by French and British soldiers and his body was found inside. Your son didn’t die in vain, for he died a quick and painless death on October 5 of the year of our Lord 1916.

His personal belongings will be returned to your residence in the United States of America, and a funeral will be arranged at his home airfield in Verdun.

I am dearly sorry for your family’s loss.

Sincerely, Captain Georges Thenault Commander of Escadrille 124 (Lafayette Escadrille)

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Xin Ma

The Jester

by Johnny Wong Who can waltz onto the royal carpet?

Inspiring laughter with a tinge of fear While posing for all, Words of meaningless blabber.

I am the lunatic, the infidel, the fool, Wearing only a trickster’s garb.

Welcomed by all, including the king.

Yet even peasants curse my name For I am quite insane.

They call me prince of buffoons But they all heed my ramblings, For I am their teacher, And my teachings are the byproducts of A prophet’s divine madness.

Madeleine Oram 13

To Beauty

by Eva Bogdewic A goddess, you glide on, shimmering, shifting A fair melody, most bright and uplifting Possessing all beings that fight, fly, and fall In everything and in nothing at all Desperate children, we drink in your song The most perfect words, written right among wrong Mesmerized by your enchanting temptations Hiding, reciting your sweet incantations Women scrambling, racing to chase thee After years they retire, pacing most wearily Painting their faces to cover all sin Forgetting that you are found also within Bringing men to your knees with glistening glare They see none but your lashes and lush locks of hair Starved for a taste, they reach out, but you go Disappearing in haste like a fresh flake of snow You are wild and ancient, for your secrets we pine Faithfully read the numbers on each little line Can you be measured? We wonder and wallow Clutching our scales, we are weak, we are hollow You’re as simple as summer, in winter we grieve So charmingly complex, we cannot perceive In order to find you, we must hear your cries Open our hearts, and close our blind eyes.

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Nightmare

by Jingwen Gong Night without sparkles is Dressed with horror, Curdling clouds crowded upon and Wiped out the beauty of the sapphire sky, The wailing wicked wood outside My window comes toward me.

When can this boundless world Of murkiness move to the side?

Climbing over and over and over, Hiding in my shelter of feathers, To be safe and sound with Teddy Bear Fighting the monster of nightmare.

Angel Murphey

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My Mind is the Canvas

by Paige Hollis Perhaps once blank Emotions, Ideas, Thoughts now appear in a broad spectrum Emotions clear colors, easy to see red yellow deep purple anger gaiety seclusion Ideas Exotic/mixing/hard to pinpoint xanthous fuscia chartreuse innovative creative useful Thoughts blendingblurryquick red-orange-green-violet exhausting exciting confusing

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The Man Who Was Thursday Meghan Melberg

Rebel Hafner At Night The Lamb sleeps, hidden away Somewhere in the back of a forgotten cave While the Lion Is watching the stars.

Though the Lamb is safe and sound Sleeping, hidden away The Lion is the only one living.

Meghan Melberg

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Taps

by Ziyun Wang

When he sits down in a class He starts to flap the bird, Tap, tap, tap.

When he sits down in a car He starts to text the friend, Tap, tap, tap.

When he sits down in a sofa He starts to post the Instagram, Tap, tap, tap.

It is a pair of handcuff that binds his hands, It is a wall that keeps him from others, It is a cell that restricts him from moving.

He looks up, he walks around, He sits down and holds it in his hands, Then tap, tap, tap.

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Shelby Sebring

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Xiangyu Hou

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Na Hyun Han

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Haroun and the Sea of Stories Jingwen Gong

Fily Thiam 22

In the Night

by Shelby M. Sebring In the night, there is nothing to see.

It is black, and my eyes deceive me.

But in the day, there is still nothing to see.

Though it is bright, the world disappoints me.

Some have a light inside, that tells them what to do.

Others are empty and dark, and never learn anything new.

Stage/Object and Subject

by Margot Cramer 1. A raised floor or platform, typically in a theater, on which actors,

entertainers, or speakers perform.

2. The ultimate energy boost. The distinct smell of wood, cedar.

The silence ringing in the ears before the cast arrives. Then harsh clicks of black t-strap heels on the hollow platform, and the soft thud made with the graceful pink ballet slippers. The low roar as the audience begins to file in. Excitement bubbling over. Little butterflies bouncing in my tummy. Then pure adrenaline. The cue.

Hot, bright lights in a dark theatre, like the sun showing her face in the velvet black night. Faces disappear. Silhouettes. Among the unknown faces are loved ones. The warmness swells in the heart.

For that moment all of your hard work is finally validated. It is all worth it. Curtain call. The cast bows`1. Hands holding hands taking that unison bow. Love. Family. All on one stage.

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An Emaciated Dream

by Maddi Oram

Her eyes closed and her mind far, far away lost in a dream that she would never wake up from. What had once been deep blue, sparkling doors to the soul now led to a lifeless void. Her words forever silenced and the red lips she spoke from now pale and motionless. Her emaciated body made her cheekbones prominent and imposing – just like she’d wanted. “A better place,” was where they all said she was which was not hard to believe. Her final moments had not been those of joy, they were filled with suffocation, hatred and a monster that would not let her free.

Anna was young, beautiful and energetic when It started; she was the ideal character for an ideal tragedy. She was perfect when It began and It began as a whisper. “You don’t really need that Anna,” It whispered, seductively. She listened and was entrapped; refusing the malevolent aliment offered and it went without question. Her decision made her feel good and It was proud of her, she could tell although she did not yet know what It was. She left the house that first time feeling lighter, prettier, better. She went to a movie with her friends, came home, and kissed her mother and father goodnight, a perfect day to start a perfect tragedy.

Slowly, Anna started to refuse more and more, and for the first time she began to crave the perfection she never knew she gasped for. One dark, storming night she woke up to the sound of rain hitting the window and the deep snarl of her stomach. Slowly, she stood and she made her way to the kitchen where her willpower dropped. “Oh well,” she thought, matter-of-factly.

She had not returned to her room for a minute when It screamed, and It shouted and It howled. “Why?” It demanded, “You were so almost beautiful, so angelic and so, so close to perfect! You are pathetic, you are vile, you are the very thing that people can’t stand – you are hopeless. You didn’t need it!” It spat, full of spite and anger. The shame built up inside her, the monster was right. She could still taste her mistake, she could feel it in her mouth, and it tore her apart. Never again, she swore.

A week went past without fault until once again the growls and the rain awoke her. Before she had even returned to her room from her repeated mistake, It had called out to her. “You are disgusting,” It said and she knew it was right and fell to the floor. She loathed herself, scratching and clawing at her illusory figure. Finally, she stood and hidden by darkness she found herself entranced and opened the bathroom door. Her feet pointing the wrong way from the toilet and a final lone tear fell as she 24

attempted to make up for her mistake.

The monster had become a scream. Months had passed, Anna had no friends now and was far beyond just detached from her parents—they’d pestered and questioned her too much. “We just want to help you,” they’d claim, but she knew they were against her. The monster controlled her; everything she thought and was had become the monster too. Her dreams and ideals were the monster; to be emaciated was the dream, obese was the reality. The monster became too much, it was everything she saw, everything she was, everything she thought. It overcame Anna.

Slowly, day by day, meal by meal, it starved Anna of her life. One night sleep came over her and her stomach growled a final time and her heart, it just stopped.

Meghan Melberg

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The Study

by Brendan Martyn

A shard of light peered into the dark study through an aged

window pane. The beam rested on the center table and illuminated a slice of the chess board that was stationed there. On either side of the somber room stood two huge bookcases, lined from top to bottom with leather bound books each with classic golden lettering distinguishing each title.

Dust particles became visible and floated through the chiaroscuro the slice of light created. It had been silent in this room for a whole year until suddenly the loud noise of a large dead bolt being thrown back cracked through the stillness. This terrific sound was followed by the large brass knob’s rotation and the loud creak of the huge oak door opening. As the door opened, light poured in. It shot across the right side of the room and grew until it met the original shard of illumination that came from the window and then engulfed the entire room.

Duncan hadn’t stepped foot in his father’s study for what seemed

to be the longest of times. The aroma of leather and wood filled his nose as he entered and closed his eyes. He saw a short glimpse of the past: his father reaching for one of the many books in his collection and bringing it down to his desk where young Duncan patiently waited for the daily tale.

Duncan snapped back to reality and made his way to the wall of

books to right. He ran his fingers down along the second row until he came across the one he searched for. He pull it from its slot and looked at the binding. Grimm’s Fairy Tales read the gold lettering. Duncan smiled, 26

walked to the mahogany desk, sat behind it, flipped to his favorite, and quietly wept.

A few hours later the room was again dark, the single shard of light

peeking through, the oak door secured, and the dust floating weightlessly.

One thing was different though. There was a gap in the wall of leather bound books. The filler of that gap lay still open on the table, teardrop stains on the page.

Xin Ma

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The Surprise

by Shelby M. Sebring

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The church bell on the corner of Elm and East clanged loudly.

Emilie stared at the flaking paint on the ceiling as she listened to each brassy stroke, imagining the waves become slow and smooth as they flowed gently through the crumbling streets and eventually melted over some building at the end of town. She sighed but willed herself to get out of bed, carefully sliding out from under the blanket so as not to disturb her little sisters.

She paused a moment to look at them, noses tucked under their fingers like kittens, huddled against the chilly and cabbage-scented air. Emilie sighed again and tried to brush yesterday’s mud off her socks. When her attempts failed, she scrounged around the room for another pair, but could find none. She figured her brother had decided to wear two pairs because he was working triple shifts on the highway today.

Aside from the remainder of last night’s toast, which Emilie halfheartedly saved for her sisters, there was no breakfast to be found. She swallowed and stared at the handwritten calendar wedged between two boards in the wall. “Birthday” was marked on the block for February 2nd. Birthdays were fables around here. Nobody cared, because there was very little to care about. Emilie shrugged and made her way over the rotted floorboards, closing the rickety plywood door behind her and tying its ropes snugly shut.

It was only eight blocks to school. Eight blocks of shoving through scarf-clad vendors, shoving off slimy pickpockets, shoving cardboard coins into newspaper machines, shoving her mushy shoes through cinder-dusted slush. Emilie set her jaw and trudged, her hands in her pockets and her eyes straight ahead, glaring at innocent apartment buildings. It had taken her years to decide where to lock her gaze during the walk to school. She had finally decided that it didn’t matter where she looked; there was nothing to see anyway. She amused herself with reveries of birthday parties for a few minutes, but pushed the thoughts away when she realized what a ridiculous frivolity one would be.

The slums ran right up to the grounds of Chicago Central Vocational.

She checked for roaming gangs before crossing through the fence gate. She counted the insults as she slunk along the walls on her way to her locker.

She merely dipped her head at her tormentors and kept walking.

Homeroom was the best part of the day. Emilie actually had friends in her homeroom. They didn’t make fun of her for her clothes or her smell, and they would actually converse with her. She noticed bright letters covering the door of room 438. As she came closer, she made out the words

on the glittery banner and heard music from within the room. She barely caught the glimpse of smiling girl through the door window before the lights were flicked off and the sounds stopped abruptly. Emilie couldn’t contain her nervous smile. She heard her fingernails barely tap the doorknob as she gripped it and turned it slightly, opening the door just enough to peek inside.

She held her breath in anticipation.

Xin Ma

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Top 10 Things to Daydream About with Personal Examples

by Maddi Oram

1. Adventure. The classroom vibrated from the sound of the incoming helicopter. “What’s going on?” Someone exclaimed as I smiled knowingly. “Stay here.” Teach demanded, running out the classroom door. Moments after she left, a tall man in a black suit opened the supposedly locked classroom door with ease. “Come with me, Miss Oram. Your country needs you.” I smiled and walked out without a second thought.

2. Being with the people that you miss. “Maddi!” HE said as he came through the Starbucks door. He seemed different than I remembered; then again, 3 months had passed. “Hey you,” I replied softly as we hugged. We sat down in the familiar atmosphere as we began to talk and laugh as we had done so often before, and it was as if he had never been gone.

3. Being a character from a book or film. “It’s Wingardium Levioh-sar, not Levios-aaar!” I sighed.

4. Being awesome around your crush. Guy and I sat on the bench in the warm London sun. All of a sudden my phone rang, “Yes?” I answered. “Oh I see, what time? Okay, see you soon.” “I have to go,” I told him, as a Harley Davidson sped towards us. “Why so soon?” Guy asked, puzzled. We’d only just arrived. The motorbike came to a halt. I climbed on behind the masked driver, flicked my hair, and smiled as I said, “England needs me.” Guy watched in awe as I sped away, only my faint vanilla scent left behind.

5. Being swept off your feet. He walked into the room and his eyes caught mine. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I knew that he was the person that I’d been waiting for. His eyes sparkled in 30

a way that seemed to say that he felt the same way. He paused as if something had caught his breath. He walked towards me and my heart began to race, I could barely breathe. Something about this stranger overwhelmed my every sense. “Bond,” he said taking my hand, “James Bond.”

6. Reliving a memory. She and I lay on the ground. We held hands and admired the dark sky above us. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have found her. It was my first week in this tiny town, Front Royal, but I already knew this was a friend I’d keep forever. You hear of people finding soul mates and falling in love and that’s what this was, with a difference. We fell in love as sisters; from the moment we met we knew that we would be best friends until the day we die. I lay on the ground with this amazing person, in a new part of the world, and I thought, “Maybe I really can be happy here.”

7. Reliving an awesome/Changing a recent conversation/ argument. Teacher turned to class and asked, “Who was the first president?” Boy replied quickly, “George Washington.”

“Actually,” I said, “There were seven Presidents before Washington.” “No, they were leaders not presidents.” Boy retorted, cockily. “The definition of a president is, “the chief executive of a republic,” which is exactly what they all were. Washington was just the first president under the new constitution,” I said, smiling to myself.

8. Being the person you want to become. I sat back and thought about what I’d done. I thought about the things I’d overcome as a child, the sadness I’d struggled through as a young teenager and the stress of getting my education. I sat back and I smiled. I smiled because I’d overcome everything and I finally had the things I’d been dreaming of my whole life, happiness. It had taken me years but I had finally become the person I wanted to be, a happy person.

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9. Running/Working out. The music enters my ears as I my legs start to move. At first it’s hard; I’m out of breath and tired.

Soon, however, I stop thinking about how hard it is to keep going. I lose myself in a state I only experience when I run.

I don’t think, I don’t worry, I just exist. After a long week of school work and stress, there is nothing more perfect than thinking about nothing at all.

10. Being somewhere you miss. I stand on Vauxhall Bridge looking at the London Eye and the faint trace of the Houses of Parliament. I crossed this bridge every day to get to school and every day it makes me smile. It reminds me that I live in London. It reminds me I live in a place full of diversity, excitement, and history. It reminds me that I’m home.

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Haroun and the Sea of Stories Eva Bogdewic

Gorgeousness of the Mighty Sky

by Minh Nguyen Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, And the lightning strikes with tremendous clout.

I see the fierce bolt of almighty Zeus thrash the soil; A brilliant collision of earth and heaven, That awakens the ancient greybeard Poseidon With his terrifying trident.

I see Charybdis whirling like a cyclone, And Scylla devouring the sailors lost at sea.

I watch Helios’ golden chariot and fire-horses Collide with the colossal waves.

Then Selene awakens with her majestic crown, Bathing in the tranquil illuminated waters, Before taking her path across the sky.

And I, who sit and watch, Marvel at the breathtaking spectacle of nature.

Meghan Melberg

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Your Finest Hour

by Johnny Wong They claim you are weak and worthless, To them you are just a pawn, Yet you are born with wings And now is your time to spread them And fly to prove your worth And shine.

Let your spirit overwhelm your senses, Breathing life into inner embers Till you are the roaring inferno Setting your foes ablaze From a glowing trail of eternal flames For you to bathe in smoldering glory.

It is time to burn away shackles, The scars that hold you back From seeing the world’s open doors.

Your greatest endeavor Will let the world see you as you truly are.

This is your moment of reckoning, This is your final judgment, Let all of those who oppress you See what spirit lies within, And tremble before you.

Ixel Ochoa 34

Na Hyun Han

“Jabberwocky” Meghan Melberg 35

Na Hyun Han

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Charlotte Moore

Mirror

by Johnny Wong glancing at me with EMERALD eyes glistening with molten EMBERS so bright … so gleaming … so deadly, as if driven by LOST medleys speculating… contemplating… wondering when I would bend though I seem so BRAVE … it knew that I was near my GRAVE knowing I was out of my league, It held me in UTTER intrigue approaching SWIFTLY… grasping stiffly… my NECK is about to be wrung why can’t this dark WRAITH vanish? why can’t I BANISH it to the end? with such impulse, It was clawing for my PULSE till It saw who I was lying just beyond Its SACRED realm …

Micah Peregrino

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Sijo a traditional Korean verse form

by Eva Bogdewic Confrontation I face my cruelest enemy, whose hateful words stain my skin.

Staring into her hungry eyes: my oldest, closest friend.

I turn away from the mirror, never to hear her lies again.

Snow The earth becomes a tomb, cold and darkÍž the weak sun weeps Ever mourning for the trees in their jewel encrusted coffins.

We rejoice, frolicking in crystals that coat a sepulchre.

by Meghan Melberg This enchanting land which I often wander through Of endless excitement, wondrous adventures, boundless wisdom, and true love Exists only through pages of the books in which I escape.

Two tanned twin ridges stand with a pale valley in-between.

But the ridges are collapsing, tainting that once pure valley brown.

My finger is now bare; your ring’s mark is eroding away.

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Stallion

by Johnny Wong

Holding his head proudly, the great stallion tramples his many foes.

Dodging and weaving, his wild spirit surges against control With one move, I make him gallop across the checkered board.

Magic and Wonder

by Amy Gray She is searching for the magic near the wide and open door.

She is looking for the wonder under the old wooden strip of floor.

Nothing is found, except for the magic and wonder all around.

The Interview

by Louisa Stanwich Let’s have a conversation, just you and me Time to brag about yourself, give me acceptable answers but dare to be different Your allotted twenty-five minutes to prove yourself are over. Have a nice day.

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