Roars and Whispers Volume XIX 2014 by Roars and Whispers Literary Magazine

Providence Senior High School volume XIX | 2014

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fiction Back to the Present, Maddie Ecker Repetition, Ryan Herrera The Reaper, Angelina Brookins Paint the Barn, Maulik Sarin A Name to Riot By, Trey Bradshaw Happy Endings, Leah Mell July 2, 1776, Maddie Ecker It Will Never Be Enough, Dylan Bryant

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poetry Hollow Room, Sam Claypoole Artist's Work, Clarissa Rainear Heartache, Aileen Ma My Sister, Mimi Brown Our Playbook, Abby Scheper

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editor's letter

Dear Reader, We hope that as you come with us on this literary journey, you find yourself contemplating the relationships in your own life. The theme for this edition is intersections; we feel that it best encompasses the inter and intrapersonal relationships and connections you will encounter in this opus. The prologue is intended to draw you into the magazine with the theme in mind, as it illustrates the junction of two different states of life, illness and health. The epilogue is designed to leave you with reflections upon

how the pieces relate to your own experiences. These intersections are less concreteâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the crossroads of thought. Thank you again for sharing this adventure with us. Sincerely, Maddie Ecker, Copy Editor Ryan Herrera, Managing Editor Mimi Brown, Design Editor Jada Walters, Design Editor

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When the Drumming Ends, Ryan Herrera Ode to Young Love, Aileen Ma My Pride, Mimi Brown Firefly, Jada Walters Gingivitis, Clarissa Rainear Fumble, Alisa Cui The Leaking Faucet, Gina Atkins Thinspiration, Gina Atkins Picking Favorites, Aileen Ma Milk and Cookies, Gina Atkins Free Spirit, Jada Walters How We Are Born, Nikki Rosenbaum The Apartment, Yasmeen Asmar

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nonfiction review

Praise the Lorde, Leah Mell The Sequel on Fire, Ryan Herrera

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feature Behind the Screen, Clarissa Rainear Yoga for Dummies, Mimi Brown Stellar Phenomenon, Jada Walters

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art

Genevieve Vines Megan Steward Genevieve Vines Alexandra Fung Neena Wankadiya Tori Gray Anna Rissanen Phoebe Guice Anna Rissanen Gabriela Aleman Alexandra Fung Neena Wankadiya Genevieve Vines Kate Brown Olivia Kane Meghan Brown Anna Rissanen Jade Dickinson

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Jason Andrews Olivia Kane Yakira Oudmayer Isabel Hennes Anna Rissanen Jamie Pulito Victoria Morgan Genevieve Vines Jada Walters

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photography Mitch Costa Hannah Crowell Mitch Costa Jade Dickinson Mitch Costa Emma Hankins Mitch Costa

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policy is published by the literary magazine students at Providence High School. Poetry, prose and artwork are submitted by members of the student body. Each written submission is judged anonymously by every member of the staff. The magazine publishes those prose and poetry selections that receive the highest scores and the artwork whose subject matter is most relevant to the written content. is a forum open for all studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; opinions; the ideas presented

in this magazine do not reflect those of the Providence High School faculty. However, as a school publication, does reserve the right to deny publication to those submissions that are deemed inappropriate for a high school audience. is the poetic voice of Providence High School. Whether through the strength of our roars or the softness of our whispers, we will be heard.

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colophon 2014 was printed by Herff Jones of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, on 100# matte paper with a circulation of 600. Body text is Bergamo 10. Credit fonts are Sans 8 and Sans Oblique 8. Most titles are printed in CartoGothic Light and Bergamo. The exceptions include Antique Olive, CartoGothic, Chantilly, Gillies Gothic, Function and Times. Chicken Scratch and Inkburrow are used for the magazine title.

All graphic editing was done using Adobe CS3. The magazine was created through the use of Herff Jones eDesign on Hewlett-Packard computers. The outside and inside cover pages were done on Adobe InDesign CS3. In compliance with federal law, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools administers all educational programs, employment activities and admissions without discrimination against any person on the basis of gender, race, color, religion, national origin, age or disability.

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The day you left, I went searching through your cluttered room for Something. I rifled through your closet— all your elegant black lace dresses and food-stained sweatshirts were gone. I tried on those glorious high heels that you wore only once, to a prom you hated, the ones that wove cloth power up your ankle like a lioness about to kill a man in one sweep of clawed feet. They fit me. I took one look at them around my knobby ankles and put them back. And then your books— that plain-looking Salinger you loved sat beneath piles of worn tomes, and no matter how long I stared at it resting in my hands, I couldn’t bring myself to read a page. I hunted through the stacks for the one thing I knew I wanted— that collection of poems that didn’t leave your hands for a whole year, the one that made you rave and rant at our midnight meetings and that I would never pick up— but it was nowhere in your disarray.

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In Preflight

Genevieve Vines tempera

One rusted purple knitting needle stuck valiantly out from under a pile of creased bags and despite my searching, its compatriot was missing. Do you remember when you would carry them around, like a shield against the crushing weight of boredom? When you whispered your crush’s name at slumber party tell-alls, never knowing the bitter aftertaste of the cracks he’d leave raw, when the number of people you’d let in equaled the number of people who loved you, and you didn’t have to scrawl your anger on scrap sheets of paper as you flew from one futile responsibility to the next? With a final, superstitious knock on the wood-paneled dresser, dusty from your carelessness, I closed the door on your abandoned room. - Sam Claypoole

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Present

t to he

ake things go boom!” Voices rang out in protest as the caveman made his suggestion from atop the table, his arms spread wide and a stupid grin slapped across his face. The small conference room was packed to the point of suffocation. People stood wedged in corners or sat nearly on each other’s laps around the long oaken table. Directly across from me, Amelia Earhart was sandwiched between Genghis Khan and Darth Vader. She sat with her elbows resting on the table and her head in her hands, waiting for the noise to die down. When it did not, she stood and squeezed out of her swivel chair. Then she lifted it over her head and hurled it across the room. King Tut ducked out of the way just in time to avoid decapitation by way of wheeled chair. The wall behind him did not fare quite as well; as it made contact, the chair punched an enormous hole in the plaster. The entire room fell silent. Amelia ran a hand through short, wavy, strawberry-blond hair as she collected herself. Her ever-present aviator goggles hung around her neck. “Nothing will go boom. Einstein,

Frankenstein and Spock are down in the labs as we speak, attempting to decipher the reconstruction of the spacetime continuum. Until they are successful, we are to determine an effective and nonviolent system of government.” Amelia looked pointedly at King Arthur, who grudgingly sheathed his sword. “Now. We have the epitome of wisdom herself present in this room, so everyone’s going to shut up and listen.” Taking the silence as consent, Amelia nodded to me to begin. “Athena.” Several hours later everyone began to filter out of the conference room, and soon enough Amelia and I were left alone. She slumped into a chair beside me, exhausted. “Good idea, splitting ‘em all into committees. But we’re going to have a heck of a time keeping these fools in line. Joan of Arc is determined to be a martyr for who knows what, the Mayans are going on incessantly about 2012, and no one can understand a word that comes out of that Zuckerberg kid’s mouth.” I nodded, just as drained as the young pilot beside me. “Running damage

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control among the gods is no easy task, either. Between Hades and Thor gambling away the souls of mortals over poker, and Osiris hitting on Aphrodite, and Hephaestus deciding he wants to embark on a solo career as a dancer, my hands are full.” Amelia let out a heavy sigh. “And all because some nutjob scientist decided to take Michael J. Fox on a field trip. How does one person screw up the entire balance of space and time?” Before I could give my reply, the ground beneath our feet began to tremble. We heard—and felt—an approaching thump. Thump. Thump. Amelia and I shared a glance. “Not again,” she whined. The tyrannosaurus rex burst through the wall behind us, roaring viciously. By the time the dust of the demolished plaster cleared, Amelia and I were already out the emergency door and jogging away from the building. Amelia sighed again. “I really hope that Spock guy knows what he’s doing”

Megan Steward tempera

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rtist's

his face relaxes— success.

I watch as he gathers his tools, fluid as a dancer. He makes his way toward me, humming a song I don’t know; I notice his smile.

I am overwhelmed by joy; I smile in gratitude as he erases a small mistake—

He sits down and takes a pencil, and I feel my blankness shifting, eager to become what he imagines. His forehead crinkles in concentration as he scratches something out, first attempt failed. He snatches a pen and starts once more. I follow his every movement, I see the slight shakiness of his hand that ruins the second attempt. Try as I might, I cannot become what he so desires.

I watch as he crinkles me. I watch as I tear apart. I watch as my ripped side smudges his ink drawing. The humming stops. Cautiously I watch him, the rage contorting his features, and I know I deserve what is coming next. I shut my eyes just as I feel him seize me from the table. He crumples me into a ball as tight as he possibly can. My failure cannot be redeemed even by the pain I endure as he tosses me into his trash can.

He exhales in frustration. Third attempt. With trepidation, still I watch him, praying that it all works out, that he can place his vision upon my emptiness. His hand slides about the paper. Lines flow, objects appear,

ork

I lie in shame amidst the other rejects. Another failure. Another beautiful thing ruined. Another broken piece to add to what the artist leaves behind. - Clarissa Rainear

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Ryan Herrera

“A gain.”

For a brief moment, the room swirled around me; I soon found myself on the ground. “Again. That wasn’t good enough.” I stood up and brushed the dust from my tights. Focusing intently on a speck on the wall, I sprinted and launched myself in the air. The room swirled, and a landing one second too late sent me crashing to the floor again. “Again! Parker, you’ll never be good enough for the competition. Stop screwin—” The throbbing drum in my ear drew my attention away from the incessant barking of my coach. Before I could allow myself to tear up, I chalked my hands and took off once more. A swift flip, one quick prayer in the air, and I managed to break into a pose as I stuck the landing. A glance at my coach revealed an unimpressed, curt nod. “Better. But that’s not going to be enough to defend your title at the competition this weekend.” Alexandra Fung colored pencil

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continued I remained frozen in the pose, not daring to turn around and face the pretentious smirks from the other dancers in the studio. I fought against the increasing urge to vomit, a feeling that had become too routine for comfort. Not daring to move an inch, I remained a statue until my legs could no longer support my own weight, and I collapsed on the ground. I briskly jumped to my feet and brushed the dust off my tights once more before escaping into the male locker rooms. It was here among the rusted, filthy lockers that I could find a few moments of peace, a few moments where I would be spared of other people’s constant judgment. It was here that I could finally disappear into the background, left alone to my fantasies. The solitude was only ephemeral, and before long a loud banging on the locker room door was accompanied by harsh screams demanding that I leave the premises. I took my usual back exit out of the building, a familiar turn into a hidden alleyway. I habitually checked for followers; though irrational, I was paranoid that one day I would eventually be exposed. As usual, I did my business inside one of the trash cans obscured by the alley’s shadows. It felt like some sort of crime, and I loathed myself for my desire, my need to do it—the one thing that kept me sane. Regurgitation was like purification of the soul; it allowed me to eject all fears and anxieties. After the deed was done, I headed back to the harsh grip of reality that would suffocate

me in a blur of abuses, insults and lies. ~ At school, I had also become familiar with the lockers. I knew every indent, every ridge to the touch. I knew exactly how they sounded when my body was mercilessly shoved into them. They stood as solemn soldiers in the hallway, stained by my blood, not daring to speak about the crimes they had witnessed. I had gotten used to being ignored, for it was the same response I garnered from my peers and teachers. “Hey, fatass!”

“They would learn the truth---they would learn that I was a fraud who did not deserve to wear the crown.” The stringent words sent a chill down my spine and locked my legs into place—in a world of fight or flight, I was the coward who chose neither. This time was not particularly devastating; I found myself pushed by a sports bag instead of the usual fist, and the locker was almost comforting upon impact. I clenched my teeth and prayed that this would be the end of it. “So I heard you weigh 120 now. Seriously, you should stop eating so much if you don’t want to look like an obese cow onstage. I don’t even understand why they let fatasses like you dance.”

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The words melted away as I tuned out the world. This had been the same routine for weeks: I would run into Arik in the hallway, he would abuse me—physically, if it was a good day—I would be an emotional wreck for the rest of the day, and home would just be a place of solace for a mere few hours. I went through the rest of the day in a daze as Arik’s words echoed in my head. He was right; I weighed around 120 pounds, the most I had weighed in months, and I knew that I could never defend my title at that weight. All I could do was focus on Saturday's competition, the one aspect of my life that I could not afford to screw up.

somehow I could not overcome the fear that I would miss the landing and lose my title, just like my competitors hoped. In the middle of stretches, James Stark, head representative of the League of Dance in North Carolina, requested my presence. We had spoken before on multiple occasions, so I assumed he was here to wish me luck.

~ I was no stranger to dance competitions. I had attended them since I was five years old, and just last year I had claimed my title as Mr. Dance North Carolina. I knew it was time to defend my throne, but in the back of my mind, all I could focus on were the criticisms of my coach telling me that I was never good enough. I tried brushing the thoughts away, but they grew so intense that they were rivaled only by the roaring of the crowd. My stomach would have been churning, but I had taken the time to relieve myself before arriving. It was the only way I could find the strength to leave my room anymore. I went through the motions of registration and warm-ups, fixated on not failing. I had practiced my flips until the soles of my dance shoes had worn thin and were caked with gray dust. Yet

My hopes vanished once I saw the grimace on his face. He silently guided me through a hallway leading away from the stage and practice room. We arrived at a door, and it was not until it opened and I saw the entire League of NC Dance before me that realization struck. What happened next was a blur. My mind went numb, and I wished I could disappear into oblivion. My vision distorted into a haze of lights and bright colors. I regained focus on center stage, staring straight at the audience that would soon condemn me. In a few moments, they would learn the truth—they would learn that I was a fraud who did not deserve to wear the crown. They would learn that I really was the failure that they wanted me to be. The music started softly, increasing in

“I was trapped in a room barricaded from a cruel world, where the only way to appease my pain was to spin...”

a crescendo until I broke my starting pose and began what would be the final dance of my career. I held my breath. One quick glance back, and I could make out my coach shaking his head beyond the curtains, his face a mix of disappointment and disgust. ~ “Again!” I screamed the word with enough force to crack the mirror in front of me. “Again, you fat loser.” The words were venom, but the sting fueled me as I spun in a pirouette, relentlessly trying to perfect my form. The events from the tournament still invaded my head: the announcement that I had an eating disorder, the revoking of all my titles and scholarships because the company could not sponsor someone who “participated in such activities,” dozens of people coming up to tell me that “they never could have imagined.” I pushed back the tears and bile and continued to spin. I should have checked behind me when I went into the alley beside the studio. I should have been prepared for Arik to call in and tell them about my disorder. I should have known that he would completely rob the meaning from my life. My career was over, and I had fallen victim to my own doubts. Now I had no future; I was trapped in a room barricaded from a cruel world, where the only way to appease my pain was to spin until I faded into the dust devils swirling around me

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Heartache An angry man dominates my heart. He beats his fists against my feeble ribs, barely contained in his calcium cage. He rages as if he’s fighting to stay alive, still trapped in a snare of crushed metal and crushed lungs, before being cut into pieces. His anger is scattered across the state and implanted into foreign bodies. Some nights I wake with tremors in my blood. Sharp raps, like Morse code, course through my veins, spelling out the man’s vendetta against the bringer of his early demise and a cry of regret for his shortened life. I shift position in my sheets and return to sleep as my borrowed heart beats. The man in my chest continues to express his frustration in time with the constant metronome of my pulse, his emotion muffled by my living tissue. - Aileen Ma

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Mitch Costa

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REAPER

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he dark hooves thundered down and down until the coffins rose up and asked what all the racket was. The hooves just kept galloping on, and the hooded rider grabbed more wispy silver strands from the roadside. Master will have a feast tonight, he thought. Mighty lot of people dyin’ today. Some called him the Grim Reaper, but he didn’t really like that term. Why couldn’t he be the Jolly Old Reaper or the Clever Reaper? Why did he need to be Grim? Grim was so—mainstream. I mean, just because I collect the dead doesn’t have to mean that I’m grim, he thought time and time again. As he neared the gates to the smoking battlefield, his horse’s footsteps slowed. He could clearly see all the translucent ghouls crowding behind the bars, waiting for him to arrive. Poor things. His mouth turned down into a sad smile. They don’t know how much worse it is there. He’ll make playthings of them. This was the worst part of his job: seeing them all so hopeful. He picked them up, one by one, and watched them sigh gracefully into the saddlebags on the gaunt, black stallion. They all dreamed of things like the Elysian Fields, of Heaven, of great and powerful gods of the afterlife. Forgiving gods. With a tap of his heels, his horse spun around and took off, thundering back down the stretch of road. Trees whirred by faster than they should have, and the ground seemed to shrink as beast and rider stared straight towards the gloom. Time meant nothing to them—after all, what is time once you’re dead? Nothing to measure how long you’d been there, nothing to measure how long ‘til you left. The air turned dark and heavy, giving way to a night much thicker and more permanent than just the sun going down. The rider’s time in this place was short, just like everyone else’s. He took a breath and felt a stifling, putrid air enter his lungs. They were close. His mind cleared. It must always remain clear. Look what had happened the last time his mind betrayed him. A fallen

angel is not forgiving and does not tolerate disloyalty. Once again, the galloping slowed to a walk. As they neared the great black gates, the rider looked up from under the cowl of his cloak and glared at the gatekeeper. With a respectful bow, the old man held one great door open for him to pass through. Out of the corner of his vision, the Reaper saw the man grin, baring two sets of razor sharp teeth, right before the door slammed shut. The smell of rot and mold hit the rider in a great wave. Flinching slightly, he spurred the horse forward, sloshing through the ever-present inch of water on the ground. Forgiving gods. Those were but dreams. There was a god, sure. Two, even. But one wasn’t as great as everyone thought, and the other could barely be considered a god. More like a demon. He even had a goatee. But he appeared kind—yes, he always appeared kind. He even gave them all a choice. After they’d been there for a while and couldn’t stand it—when they couldn’t bear any more of the marshy water, the clouds of insects, the screams of those locked in their prison cells. That’s when he always offered them a choice, a way out, an escape clause. They could go back to the real world. They are led out from the looming gates and shown that strip of land—no man’s land. That’s actually a really bad term to describe it, he thought suddenly, his dark steed snorting in agreement. It’s only man’s land. It’s no god’s land. The strip of land between the two sets of doors—the dark, frightening towers that emanated grave foreboding, and the golden, ornate doorway that had light shining from behind it. Oh, and the small crack running down the middle between them. The bright blue crack that was their only way out. The way back to reality. The way of not being dead. But they are tempted. They all are tempted, and it happens so often that the Reaper stopped watching long ago.

They’ll give into temptation, turn away from their Master’s wicked grin and walk through those great golden doors to be greeted by a tall man. He has a short, clipped beard flecked with grey, and he will smile at them. They think he smiles in love, only because they don’t know better. He tells them that they can stay, that they will be happy, but they have to follow his rules. That should be easy. Following the rules. But they are men. And there is a place for men, and it is not in the land of the blessed. “You fools,” the Reaper whispers on the odd occasions when he does watch. “You’re going to get dragged back here. You’re going to be stuck here forever.” And they always come back. Always. The rider hopped down from his saddle and looped the saddlebags over his arm. He pulled his hood down to his shoulders, shaking any residual wetness from his matted hair. His boots clicking softly against the cave floor, he ducked beneath the jagged icicles hanging from the ceiling and made his way toward the far side of the cavern. He dropped the bags to the ground beside the glass-like pool. The shrouded figure on the far side of the water turned around slowly. “Another World War, apparently,” the Reaper said in a controlled voice. “They’ve gotten more advanced with their execution.” “Was it better than the third one? The second one? The first? Was it better than the Holocaust or the Crusades— ah—” The tall figure paused and took in a small breath. “Was it better than the Romans?” he hissed softly, mockingly. The rider’s jaw clenched, but he fought to keep his head clear. “Oh, it was, wasn’t it?” The Speaker’s pale skin gleamed as he walked forward into the light. “Well I’m sorry to hear that, Emperor,” He spat the word from his blood-red lips like it was poison on his tongue. “Better luck next time, I suppose.” They always come back

Neena Wankadiya colored pencil

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My sister doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t walk to the beat of her own drum. In fact, she does not walk at all, and there is no drum. Rather, she wanders backward to a Broadway tune, only concerned with the hours of 2:30 in the afternoon and 7 in the evening and if she will swallow her pills with milk, water or juice, and what she will do next to end her ceaseless boredom. She spends most of her time mismatching her socks and shoes and determining what restaurants have Caffeine-Free Diet Coke. She casts spells and sends apology letters and thank-you notes, and despite her sass and cynicism she has truly mastered the lost art of communicating through the written word. So when the drum starts to beat, and everyone else starts to walk, she is still wandering backward to her favorite song, stopping and going only for herself and absolutely no one else in the world. - Mimi Brown

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In Preflight

Behind the Screen Clarissa Rainear

housands of fingers punch thousands of keys on thousands of phones. Text message alerts chime like birdsong amidst the click of smartphone cameras and the vibrations of social media posts. Our world is an endless stream of filters and likes, six-second videos, pinning and snapchatting. We are the Information Generation. But beneath the crisp white homepage of YouTube lie thousands of lines of computer code, the secret language that dictates just how big a thumbs-up icon is and what happens when “Miley Cyrus” is typed into a search bar. IT-ology is a non-profit organization created to address the shortage of information technicians who write this code. Kay Read, Executive Director of ITology in Charlotte, works to connect local students with the “ecosystem of information technology” in Charlotte. “When kids think about IT,” says Read, “they think they’ll have to work behind a computer all day coding, but that’s just one of the many different information technology jobs. There’s also an idea that it’s too geek, and the thought of ‘I can’t do that.’ But you can do it.” Cyber Saturdays, an IT-ology program underwritten by Time Warner Cable’s Connect a Million Minds effort, offers

middle and high school students the opportunity to get hands-on experience with information technology. Over three hundred participants have learned to write code and build their own websites while working with professionals in the field. Read says their goal is to “connect with anyone who is interested in IT,” even providing computers for those who may not have technology access at home. Cyber Saturdays touch “so many students and volunteers and parents,” Read says. “It’s part of that awareness effort. The greater number of people we can connect to, the better.” IT-ology also partners with local and national companies to create student internships. Companies who participate in these internships often hire their student interns after graduation. These internships, along with scholarship awards to students interested in information technology, reflect ITology’s goal of incorporating information technology into educational programs. Local schools are beginning to recognize the importance of technology education. CMS is offering an increasing number of computer courses, including AP Computer Science, Computer Programming, and

Multimedia and Web Design. IT-ology has already connected hundreds of students to new career possibilities. A local museum in Columbia, South Carolina, asked the nonprofit to recruit teenagers to prepare a website for their latest exhibit. One student, known for her talent in fashion design, originally declined to participate because she did not believe that art was an important aspect of computer science. But after watching students in IT-ology work on webpage design, her interest in information technology grew. To her surprise, the design process tied directly into her love of art. She is now seeking a college major in computer science and information technology. Kay Read and IT-ology are looking forward to creating a thriving information technology community in Charlotte. “There is a perception that Charlotte is a consumer of technology, but not a creator of it,” states Read. “We want to put Charlotte on the technology map.” Perhaps we can look forward to an Instagrammed #ThrowbackThursday contrasting 2014 Charlotte, mere consumer of IT, with a future Charlotte flourishing as a hub of technology innovations

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xO u r Pla yb ook x The soft, jubilant chatter around the restaurant rose to a chaotic roar as the whistle blew and the arms went up. Some jumped around and hooted and hollered. Others slumped their shoulders and mournfully dragged their feet as they courteously waved goodbye and trudged out the front entrance with a chime from above the door. As for my father and me, we stayed seated in the emerald green booth that caved under the slightest touch. I nibbled on my fried mozzarella and dangled my legs as I gazed at the walls of autographs, photos and trophies. My father kept his eyes on me, only lifting his gaze when I turned with the other men just to watch the next blow, when the players would clear from the premises and a new man would come up with the texturized brown ball that epitomized our Sunday afternoons. “I don’t understand—” I would begin, but my father would interrupt by stopping the waiter for a pen. Grabbing the paper napkin out from under my hand, his hand would glide across its surface, leaving tiny stains from his fingers coated in wing sauce. Soon the flimsy white sheet would be transformed by the dense black ink that littered the sheet with X’s and O’s until it became a mutilated game of Tic Tac Toe. Eventually, when the crowds all cleared from the restaurant and our table was empty of dishes and crumbs, we collected the patchwork quilt of napkins and left the silent eatery that had been filled hours before with animated fans, only to arrive home and continue our conversation of the day’s games. I stored these orange-stained napkins in my bedroom as my instruction manual for impressing my father on a Sunday afternoon or a Monday or Thursday evening. Laced together, they became a complete playbook, bearing the threads of my understanding that stitched an invincible bond between my father and me. - Abby Scheper

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paint

the Maulik Sarin

need you to paint the side of that “I barn today. I’ve been askin’ you for

months now. It’s been peelin’ away like one of those cotton pickers' backs,” said the House Lady as she sat a plate of steaming eggs and sausages on a burlap dining cloth. She placed a fork next to the hairy mass that was her husband’s hand. The hand belonged to Hank, a graying man in his fifties. With effort, he brought the full fork to his mouth. His hand dropped back to the table with a thud. Every movement was lethargic and disconnected, as he was postponing the day of tasks ahead of him. “Make sure you chop up that wood too.” “Shut your naggin’, woman.” She looked at him with fifteen years worth of tedious housework in her eyes. But she knew her limits, and turned back to the grits on the stove. Hank dropped his napkin on the table and stood. He took his coat and left for the barn, leaving the House Lady to look at the dishes he left behind. “Thinks there’s some servant ‘round here,” she muttered. Hank made his way over to the pile of wood near the barn. He stood there planning out how he would wrestle his work. In North Yankton, one couldn’t stay working in the cold for too long.

He would use his wood chipper and cut up the wood first, then paint the barn. He heard a bark and turned to find his German shepherd and brown-haired son. “You guys don’t play near this here wood chipper, okay?” “Yessir.” The two companions trudged off through the snow and headed toward the field. Hank lifted the first log and started the long day ahead of him. Each log dropped into the wood chipper was obliterated. The intermittent humming was followed by the spray of spruce shards flying out the top of the monster. Hank used the height of the pile of wood chips as a measure of time. When the pile was about knee-high, he estimated he was halfway done and decided to head inside for a break. “Where’s the little one?” he asked the House Lady. “I thought he was with you.” “I’ll look for him when I go back out.” “Did you finish that barn yet? Maybe get that boy to help you paint it when you find him.” Hank poured himself coffee from the pot. After warming his bones, he grabbed a

pair of binoculars from a cabinet. He headed out to the fence that lined the field and lifted the lenses to his glasses. Scanning the field, he saw nothing but a desert of white, dotted here and there with debris. He double-checked the ends of the field and near the base of the hill. Hank wasn’t worried; it was a big plantation. But he hadn’t seen the dog or its companion leave the field. He sniffed something through the cold air and looked down to his feet. He didn’t think of cleaning it; the snow would take care of that job. Something caught his eye again, right next to the mound. A pair of footprints, and following alongside—the pawprints of a creature on all fours. He followed where the tracks led. As far as he could see, they ended at the area where he had been working. He could hear a dog barking. “I told that damn kid not to play there.” He used the sound as a guide. As the urgency in the dog’s call increased, so did Hank’s speed. When he rounded the corner of the barn, he saw his wife and the dog, but no son. The dog was barking at the barn wall. “I heard that dog barkin’ non-stop. Looks like he likes the paint job, now finish it. Anyway, did you find that boy”

Anna Rissanen charcoal and chalk pastel

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when the

DRUMMING ends

Your hand is cold. At least, I imagine it must be, hence the impatient drumming of fingers on the table.

You told me once that platonic relationships are deceitful. That they are an opportunity for mistimed fate to blossom without remorse.

How are you feeling? Your response: “fine.” A word as empty as our silence.

I never believed that until, in a perverted mix of irony and emotion, it was borne into reality. I decide not to embrace your hand with mine.

There used to be passion behind each word you spoke, electricity that brightened your eyes and revealed, for the briefest of moments, your fragile soul. Where has the passion gone? Left behind is a skeleton of apathy, embodied by one word’s nothingness.

I will not invite possible rejection through a subtle retreat of your arm, nor will I invite the current of emotion to rush through my veins, overwhelming my shallow heart. I will not invite the fallacy of love to overtake me.

I am grateful for the marching of your fingers, the obstruction that keeps the restless tension from collecting around us.

So when the drumming ends, and you are swept off by another who brings back the passion, I’ll lend you a smile.

I stare at the porcelain soldiers that march incessantly on the table, never missing a beat.

I’ll pretend I’m happy for both of you and satisfied with bearing “platonic” across my heart.

Dare I interrupt that graceful drumline? Follow love like a deaf fool, tempted into emptiness by your elegant hand?

And for my own sake, I’ll pretend it is your hand, not mine, that is actually cold. - Ryan Herrera

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YOUNG love To young love that compels couples to act in the most peculiar ways, rooting their feet in the middle of busy hallways to stare longingly into each other’s eyes, guiding them into stairwells to whisper sweet nothings as they attempt to consume each other’s souls in their not-so-hidden hiding space. To young love that draws lovers’ hands together as if magnetized, destined to be connected with a metallic bond or a mystic red string that leads their ambitions, frayed and tied in numerous knots. To young love that makes first glance a life-shattering revelation, and translates absolute devotion into great declarations lost in a sea of Facebook posts, only to be replaced a few weeks later by a changed relationship status. To young love, easily tainted and tossed aside, overlooked by the shallow affection shared by naive hearts. To young love, to the fleeting moment of clarity that cuts into the deepest parts of the heart and leaves scars in the tissue. - Aileen Ma

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PP rr ii d d ee Pride

When I was three years old, the only food that I would eat for breakfast was cheese grits from the Whole Foods in Durham. My parents were still students, and Great Grandma Lila took me out to breakfast most mornings. In middle school, I left my lunch box on the kitchen counter and opted for a late afternoon snack in the privacy of my blue-tiled kitchen. Most kids didn’t notice my lack of peanut butter sandwiches, cheese sticks and chewy granola bars. And when I had food (when they did notice)—“You’re eating,” they would say—I’d chew slowly, fold wrappers, offer to throw away the others’ trash. When I spent more time cooking ramen noodles for friends, lining my eyes with dark makeup and conversing with boys who were too old and too uncaring, no one noticed my pride: jutting shoulders, pronounced ribs and gaunt knuckles. When they began to notice, to stare, to whisper, to call the doctor, I put my pride on hold. Short grocery lists became protein shakes and extra-sugary soda, opting for more, not less, and then believing it was nothing. Now, I smile, lie until I can slip away again from eyes and mouths, and long for the day when no one will notice if I leave my lunch box on the kitchen counter. - Mimi Brown

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firefly Our minds trace firefly paths, bursts of cognition lighting up dim interiors where half-formed ideas meet and ignite. These brilliant flashes guide the mind in an endless and ever more complex path. We wander in infinite patterns through the night, double back through the darkness when the destination shines dully ahead. A blink of bioluminescence is our Polaris. Each moment we move forward, with eyes that view an amplified reality. Imprinted over our mysterious future, are faint after-images, filling the empty space where light used to glow. The progeny of the mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s insight waits to catalyze the others. - Jada Walters

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PRAISE the

LEAH MELL

he latest Top Forty hits spill from rolled-down windows at stoplights, baselines thumping frantically to keep pace with racing lyrics. Then, for a moment, everything is still. A clear alto voice cuts into the silence, and simple percussion swells softly beneath it. Harmony is layered in gradually. There is neither a base-drop nor falsified pop vocals to obscure the vibrant chorus claiming “we’ll never be royals.” This may seem like an impossibility in modern pop culture—music on the radio that sounds like it was created by a cognizant human being and not a computer—but this is precisely what the up-and-coming artist Lorde presents with her new debut album, Pure Heroine. Ella Yelich-O’Connor, better known by her stage name Lorde, hails from New Zealand and has gone from relative obscurity to pop stardom in less than a year. Her mother, Sonja Yelich, is an award-winning poet in their home country and has encouraged her children since birth to appreciate the written word, be it in the form of novels, poetry or lyrics. Lorde began writing songs at age thirteen. By fourteen, she was signed to Universal Records and working to produce her first EP, The Love Club, which was released in November of 2012. She unveiled her first full-length studio album, Pure Heroine, in October of

2013 at the age of sixteen, following the international success of her hit single “Royals.” Her music is now heard on radio stations around the world. One of the most dynamic elements of Lorde’s album is that each song tells a distinct story, rather than being based on vague concepts such as love or money. Though these common themes do appear in some of her music, she addresses them in a unique way. Instead of describing love as the cliché of eyes meeting across the room and hearts racing, in “400 Lux” she details a relationship where she wears long sleeves and the heat comes on, and her significant other buys her favorite brand of orange juice. In “Royals,” she doesn’t mention “dolla’ bills” or even imply that she has a desire to acquire large sums of money; she gives details about counting her dollars on the train to a party and explains that she is comfortable living a meager lifestyle. This specificity adds a depth to her music and allows listeners to visualize and identify with the stories, thus making listening to the album a truly immersive experience. The simple instrumental and harmonic arrangements highlight her striking voice. She is a strong alto with lovely timbre and tone, both of which cause her lower-register to resonate even through headphones or speakers, particularly in

the song “Glory and Gore.” Each song has minimal instrumentation, most relying exclusively on percussion and harmonic vocals to ground the melody. Anything further would seem excessive and detract from the rawness of the tracks. The occasional use of a synthesizer to outline chords during the chorus or opening or closing of a song is effective and typically adds a bit more dimension to the music. One song that does succumb to modern trends is “Still Sane.” Electronic effects overwhelm the vocals and the intention of the song itself, which is about the struggle to stay grounded in spite of rising fame. The insertion of an artificial bass voice below Lorde’s cheapens the lyrics by distracting from their weight with a flashy technological element. The synthesizer and percussion are also extraneous and do not emphasize her voice or words as they do in her other songs. As an album, Pure Heroine offers rawness and simplicity—two things that the music industry has been starved of for years—and compels listeners to be actively engaged in each song. It might not be the best choice for a dance party, but for listeners seeking new music with intrigue and impact, this album is a good pick. Its unassuming ingenuity will certainly not disappoint

Genevieve Vines collage

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Clockwise beginning at upper left: Hannah Crowell Jade Dickinson Mitch Costa Emma Hankins Mitch Costa

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ATO N A M E

don’t know exactly what it was; a smell, a feeling, a daydream—but it brought me back momentarily. I was there. How un-extraordinary it was, but how powerful it felt. How it rocked everything and everyone around it. Everyone felt it. No matter who you believed, it didn’t change the fact someone was dead. A human life was extinguished entirely too soon. I let the bus dictate my actions. My neck pitched and swerved, and I stared out the weathered panes of glass. Leaves caught the wind, wind caught leaves, and a portrait was created. I didn’t know what caused the feeling to return, but there it was. And the irony soon followed. The bus screeched to a halt—the driver might have fallen into a stupor because he slammed on the brakes—and the doors flew open. The hissing wind could be heard from the backseat of the bus, and I morosely walked to the exit. My daily walk from the bus stop to my house was approximately .44 miles. Anything could come up along the way. Anything. Everything was generally the same on my walk home. However, today my ears were cold. July 13, 2013. Morehouse College;

Trey Bradshaw

Atlanta, GA. Spenser, AJ, Joseph, Ishmael and I, along with twenty other teenage boys, crowded around the 32-inch television screen hanging in the cafeteria. It was midday, and how could anyone breathe? The Georgia heat sunk into the cafeteria, sweat dripped down all of our faces, and no one seemed to care. It was a beautiful scene, all of us sitting there together, united by one cause. The insignificant drop of a pencil stopped our chattering debate, and we all came to attention. I never thought for a minute that there was a reason I was there, surrounded by other black teens. Never. I guarantee no one else knew it either. Every single one of us believed that America knew right from wrong. We were there to solidify a nation that we believed in. Nothing more. Our schedule of afternoon classes dragged us all away from the TV and into the humidity that only Georgia could muster. The classes provided us shelter. The evening called us back to our dormitory; jokes filled the air, and excitement followed. It was Saturday, and basketball was the main weekend attraction. A group of us all traveled to

the gym and, for a few blissful hours, lived our young lives. All it took was a tap on the shoulder for me to understand my young life was broken. The sound of silence pierced the gymnasium. We had no idea who to look to but ourselves. Our counselors mourned together, but what about us? I looked to my left and saw him. I looked to my right and saw him again. I wasn’t in front of a television when I heard the news. How un-extraordinary it was. The leaves fluttered on the ground, aimlessly looking to grab onto something. They floated in the sky like lost sheets. They hung from the trees like loose teeth. Were we too young? We came in as boys; we left as adults. But no one seemed to care. After all, we weren’t the victims. We’re just young black men who need guidance. Need an attitude check. Need to learn to respect authority. America viewed the occurrence as a horrible accident. I don’t see it as anything but Trey Bradshaw getting killed. Spenser getting killed. AJ getting killed. I guess I shouldn’t think this way because everyone else has stopped thinking about it. So I will. I’ll just put my hood up. My ears are cold

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H a pp y ENDINGS Leah Mell

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CHARACTERS ANNE

A weary soul in youthful skin. Dreams wistfully of the future.

DEAN

Her husband. Rooted firmly in reality but entertains his wife’s life of fantasy.

SETTING A cramped apartment kitchen with the usual appliances and a single stool. TIME An indeterminable time after midnight but before dawn. The present.

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H a pp y ENDINGS continued

ACT I (Fluorescent lights wash out the scene. One flickers incessantly. ANNE sits perched on the counter, clutching a mug of coffee. The coffee maker gurgles as its mechanisms cool. Enter DEAN.)

DEAN: Yeah, I know I do.

DEAN: Anne, honey, what are you doing up? Won’t you come back to bed?

DEAN: Of course, love. Now come and get some rest.

ANNE: (evenly, despite the coffee in her hand) I just needed some coffee. And some time. DEAN: Well, that time doesn’t need to be spent awake out here, love. (resting his hand on her knee) Just rinse out the mug and come back to bed. ANNE: (looking up) We should really get it fixed—the light, I mean. It’s been flickering like that for months now. DEAN: I know, yeah. I’ll take care of it in the morning.

(a brief silence, then—) ANNE: (emptily) The faucet, too. That dripping will drive us both mad.

ANNE: I’m fine, really; I’m not even all that tired. (She slides from the counter momentarily and reaches into the cabinet behind her, searching for a mug.) Here, let me pour you some coffee. (ANNE floats over to the coffee pot and pours him a steaming mug. DEAN reluctantly pulls the stool from its spot under the far part of the counter and accepts the coffee.) ANNE: (There is silence as she settles herself back on the countertop. Then—) Dean? Have I ever told you about the way things could be? You know, if we just sit here a little longer and drink our coffee slowly?

ANNE: You always say that. (a prolonged silence, then—)

over and over again) Never, but I would love to hear. Do tell me.

DEAN: (wearily, as if speaking to a young child who reiterates the same idea

ANNE: Well, for starters, we would get older, but we are doing that anyway. We would also do a good deal of thinking, and that thinking would lead us to abandon this place altogether. We would think of better lives than this, better than a dingy apartment in an industrial town, and would head off in that sleek blue Altima of yours with our things strewn haphazardly throughout the trunk and backseat. Maybe to a cottage by the sea with tourists that crowd the beaches but that we can never bring ourselves to hate, or maybe to a penthouse that sits high above the streets of Chicago where we can watch the lives of strangers unfold beneath us. No matter, really, it would become our world. DEAN: Of course. Of course it would. ANNE: (setting her coffee mug beside her) You would hum the tunes that you like to hum under your breath when you don’t think anyone is listening, and I would dance quietly, with the grace I

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was taught as an adolescent ballet dancer. I was promising, don’t you remember? They all told me I was promising, but I don’t think my bowed legs wanted me to fulfill that promise.

something. It wouldn’t be especially painful, just a bit gloomy is all— (Her head droops briefly until she catches herself.) DEAN: (coaxing) And then what would happen?

DEAN: Anne— ANNE: (pressing forward incessantly yet sleepily) And time would go on, as it tends to do, and we would sink further into obscurity. No one would remember our faces, let alone our names, but we would know each other. Yes, we would have each other memorized. (She yawns.) We could walk down any street and not a soul would know who we were or why we were there. Our days would blend together and become indistinguishable; afternoon would fade into evening and evening would fade into night without warning or spectacle— DEAN: Yes. Yes, I suppose it would. ANNE: Our lives would be utterly brilliant and utterly empty. The emptiness could just swallow us up, you know? Like some giant fish or

ANNE: (Her speech slurring in a sleepdazed stupor) And then we would—we would—God, I wish endings were as easy as beginnings always seem to be. DEAN: It’s alright, love, no need to finish this story tonight. (He stands and presses his lips tenderly to her forehead.) ANNE: No, no, I promise it will end well. Happily ever after and everything. I just need to s—(As her head drops a final time and she slips into slumber, he catches her lightly against his shoulder.) DEAN: (hoisting her into his arms) Come on back to bed, Annie. (He carries her slowly from the kitchen. As DEAN and ANNE exit—) BLACKOUT

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i s n g t i v i i Acidic, rancid flakes linger between my teeth, seething with an aftertaste not unlike the flesh of rotting corpses. I run my tongue along my molars and feel the plastered crust, solidified and stronger than cement dried in Arizona heat. With each exhalation I smell the last hundred meals: overripe bananas mixed with brussel sprouts mixed with something salty—popcorn?— and the faintest hint of month-old cheese. Deeply pitted cavities, devouring my teeth faster than a starving man at a feast, crunch like sandpaper with every bite. I fear letting my tongue venture into the craters of my mouth where stale food hides behind swollen, bleeding gums. As another tooth perishes, plunging from its connective nerves with a flash of searing pain, tumbling sadly into my hand, I begin to wonder if it is time to brush my teeth. - Clarissa Rainear

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the

Sequel

on Ryan Herrera

ci-fi enthusiasts and high school graduates associate dystopian media with the intentional depiction of corrupt and unsavory societies such as those of Ray Bradbury’s chilling Fahrenheit 451 or the legendary film The Matrix. Director Francis Lawrence has revamped dystopian media, mixing classic elements of technological oppression with cutthroat action scenes and compelling characters to draw parallels between the world of Panem and our society. The dystopian world has just been blown away by The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, the popular sequel to The Hunger Games based on the novel of the same name by Suzanne Collins. The audience is reintroduced to enduring characters Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) of District 12. As victors of Panem’s 74th Hunger Games, an annual competition in which the Capitol engages tributes from each district in a televised battle to the death, Katniss and Peeta must now deal with the rewards and repercussions under the strict scrutiny of Capitol authority President Snow (Donald Sutherland). Plutarch Heavensbee (the late Philip Seymour Hoffman), Head Gamemaker of the 75th Hunger Games and henchman to Snow, suggests using the Quarter Quell—a special version of the Games occurring every 25 years—as an opportunity to eliminate Katniss and other past victors. This time, the tributes from the Games will be drawn from a pool of previous champions, meaning that Katniss and Peeta will

enter the fray against even more hostile killers. The setting presents an exaggerated parallel between the extreme wealth and poverty in our own society. Panem’s twelve impoverished districts are governed by an oppressive Capitol where aristocrats gorge themselves with food to the point that they must vomit to consume more as they ask, “How else could you taste everything?” Skyscrapers tower above streets etched with chrome and gold where citizens swarm decadent Gatsby-esque parties and elaborate electronic fireworks displays. This breathtaking backdrop of urbanization contrasts significantly with the impoverished District 12, a setting whose desolation and lack of sanitation is illustrated with dirt roads, dust-caked rags and overcast dim lighting. The link between the landscape of a roaring city and a shabby village that exists a mere train-ride away parallels our own world, where the hyperbolic grandeur of countries such as our own overshadows impoverished states similar to District 12. We throw out hundreds of pounds of food each year, while citizens of areas stricken with poverty and famine struggle to scavenge enough food to survive on a weekly or even daily basis. Weaving such realities into the fabric of the sci-fi thriller forces the viewer to question whether the representation of disparity is as far from reality as it seems. Katniss, the female protagonist, defies stereotypical trends in dystopian media and general Hollywood culture. The audience is introduced to a powerful

and independent female character who strays from conceptions of teenage love or fragility—she is no Bella Swan. Despite the existence of a love triangle, Katniss’ role in the film supersedes these inter-character relationships, and instead she prioritizes her family and the people of Panem. Katniss’ endurance and skill with a bow make her a feminist action icon who values integrity and loyalty, and she is not portrayed in the overtly sexual and objectifying manner that has characterized some other female characters such as Lara Croft from Tomb Raider or Alice from Resident Evil. Jennifer Lawrence is the perfect actress for this role as she is famous in pop culture for her unassuming nature and views on female empowerment. Lawrence brings an element of humility and skepticism to Katniss—she does not charge head on into explosions or mechanically slit an enemy’s throat; she remains poised yet fearful of her surroundings. Lawrence’s performance establishes a relationship with the audience that may allow them to see how their own roles in society could parallel hers. In the end, Katniss Everdeen is not the only thing on fire; the film itself has been well received as one of the few sequels that improves upon the original. Catching Fire serves as the ideal modern day representation of a dystopian society mixed with pop culture’s guilty pleasures of tortured heroes, attractive actors and fights to the death that are sure to satisfy audience members from every district

Anna Rissanen colored pencil

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F U MB L E I remember the first time I held a football in my hands. Five years old, you showed me “Like this, son.” To your delight, I fell in love. I played in junior leagues, youth divisions— and for the longest time, I was happy. In seventh grade, you insisted that I try out for the school team, and, of course, I did— I didn’t want to let you down. You were so proud when I came home toting a jersey: Number 27. I picked yours for a reason.

that I was good, even. Really good. Who knew I’d get pulled up to varsity two weeks into the season? Something changed in you, then— all of a sudden I had to be number one. You’d take me to the field bright and early Saturday mornings. I can’t tell you what I would’ve given, those days, for just a little more rest. But I dragged myself out of bed all the same— I didn’t want to let you down. You’d push me through drills and sprints and I’d clench my teeth with determination through a wall of sweat and fatigue, all because I didn’t want to let you down.

Two years later, my freshman year of high school, and I could see straight through that encouraging facade as I told you, simply, “JV.” I knew what you were thinking: that you’d done better. Varsity in your ninth grade year, starting quarterback a year later, bound to play in college until a torn ACL shattered your dream. I tried for you, Dad— I didn’t want to let you down. So in practice, I ran a little faster, telling myself as my lungs seared my insides raw that it was for you: I didn’t want to let you down. And during games, I worked a little harder, never forgetting, as I got the breath knocked out of me for the thirty-second time, that it was for you. I really didn’t want to let you down. But things started spiraling out of control.

Flash forward two years. Tonight was the championship game. All hype and pressure and other things I’d never really cared for. I play for the game, Dad, for the passion that I always saw, even though your vision seemed to be a little clouded. So when the final whistle sounded, when the arc I threw fell short, it wasn’t the end of my world, Dad. That came a little later when I realized that I’d have to face you. How can I look you in the eye again, knowing I failed to be what you wanted? How can I stand myself ever again, when I’ve failed myself by living for you— and now I’ve failed even that? I told myself years ago that what I wanted didn’t matter— that I’d do anything for you because I didn’t want to let you down. - Alisa Cui

Coach saw that I was getting better—

Jade Dickinson pencil

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e h t leaking

faucet There it was again, the pressure from behind her eyes. It threatened to break free and push brine-shaped scars into her pores once again. - Gina Atkins

Jason Andrews marker, pen and ink

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thinspiration An apple a day keeps the doctor away, and an apple a day keeps the hunger at bay. But as the apples are eaten and the weight is all shed, this poor little girl is left broken and dead. - Gina Atkins

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Picking You taught me how to love mangoes, how to peel back the smooth, leathery skin and reveal the juicy flesh within, saturated with sugar and sunshine. You taught me how to pick the biggest and ripest fruit, to eat them quickly before the flesh rots away. You taught me to love mangoes, but you also taught me how to hate you for feeding me mangoes while feeding my mother the idea that she's not good enough, that single-handedly raising two daughters is not enough to earn your respect. I hated you for mocking her religion, her prayers to a distant god whose presence is holy and welcome in our household. You are not allowed to complain about me not honoring my father. You lost the right to complain about my criticism when you started criticizing my mother for everything she did, when you started dominating her actions and chastising her indecisions, when you forced her to tolerate you and your crude behavior, the remnants of your childhood in the dirt-covered streets of China.

She still loved you until she found the strength to see you as spotted and rotted and gone. You taught me to love mangoes, but my mother taught me to love all fruits no matter how sweet or how sour, no matter how prickly the surface or how difficult to peel open. You taught me to pick the ripest fruit, but my mother taught me how to see through the perfect exterior and spot the rotten core. You taught me how to form a thick skin, to cultivate a hard, bitter seed. But Mother taught me to keep a soft heart and an open mind, to have a tough skin for protection from men like youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; not from knowledge and understanding and forgiveness. So when my mother asks me to prepare a fresh mango for the two of us, I think of the sweet sunshine in my mother's laugh, the one I have not heard in years. - Aileen Ma

Olivia Kane colored pencil and ink

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July 1776 M ad

he following is a transcript, taken down by delegate William Whipple of New Hampshire, of the meeting of the Second Continental Congress to deliberate on the content and phraseology of the Declaration of Independence. JOHN ADAMS: All right, ladies, let us begin. I move that a declaration of our independence is required. Do I have a second? SAMUEL ADAMS: Aye, I second the motion. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN: Oh, sit down. We have established that this declaration is called for. There is no need for formalities. JOHN: I beg your pardon, but this is coming from the man who only yesterweek demanded we recount the nominations for Wednesday’s luncheon because he did not want to get stuck hosting. We have every need for formalities. THOMAS JEFFERSON: Do not be such a stick in the mud, Adams. We are all comrades here. JOHN: Not by my choice, we are not. This Congress ought to have been

die Ec

restricted to one delegate per state. THOMAS: But it was not, and we are all here, and would we not be best served to cooperate? They say that more is all the merrier. JOHN: I care not for your platitudes, boy. Sit down. BENJAMIN: I care not for your visage, man-child. Leave him be. JOHN: Best not overexert yourself, elder, else we will soon have to appoint a delegate to help wipe the drool from your chin. BENJAMIN: In that case, I move it be thy mother. Do I have a second? JOHN HANCOCK: I second! THOMAS: Now, now, friends, all is fair in love and war. JOHN PENN: Last I checked, gentlemen, we were here to accomplish something. Thomas had a draft to share, I believe. THOMAS: I do indeed. Ahem. “We of the United States, with our rosy cheeks flushed with pride—” BENJAMIN: Thomas— THOMAS: “Declare our fruited plains and looming mountains free from oppression, free as a bird, free as the billowing of our spangly star-banners—” JOHN ADAMS: This is garbage,

ker

Thomas. THOMAS: “As we try to follow our dreams and believe in ourselves. Because in the end, it is what is on the inside that truly matters. And finding who we really are. Love, Tom.” CHARLES CARROLL: Not a chance. FRANCIS HOPKINSON: Burn it. We ought to burn it. GEORGE WYTHE: Thomas, how drunk were you when you penned this? THOMAS: A little tipsy. BENJAMIN: Thomas. THOMAS: Blindly inebriated. SAMUEL ADAMS: I nominate myself to rewrite this declaration. All opposed say “nay.” THOMAS: Nay. JOHN ADAMS: You do not get an opinion. SAMUEL: All opposed? No delegates respond. JOHN ADAMS: That settles the matter, then. Meeting adjourned. Thomas, on account of his failures, will be providing today’s refreshments. Meeting concluded

Yakira Oudmayer oil

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it will

NEVER ENOUGH be

Dylan Bryant

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n the distant fog, the Tower of Patrons loomed, imposing

its shadow upon the rows of gleaming silver roofs littering the Outer Rim. The bells chanted softly from its eaves, murmuring long-forgotten prayers and revolutionary hymns from the old Freedom March as if in protest. A million Multi-splays retorted in unison, their sharp beeps a shrill reminder of the mandatory curfew. The moons were veiled by clouds, and to Derek of 20B, this was a relief.

Mitch Costa

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continued

The tattered leather of his wellworn shoes muffled his footsteps, yet Derek could not help but feel uneasy. It was, of course, a grave offense to be caught outside after curfew, but Derek knew it wasn’t the Shadow Guard that was troubling him. It was the silence. It was the vast expanse of identical housing units, betraying not a single hint of life in their eerie emptiness. Shuddering, Derek gripped his jacket tighter. Arriving at the doorstep of 20B without incident, he sank his hand into the deep left pocket of his uniform. Rummaging for several moments, he finally withdrew a silver key, which he inserted into the lock of the door. Hidden gears ground their teeth, and a display slowly emerged from a hidden slot in the door. The newest technology in home security, the Multi-splay Security Extension, was installed in every home, as decreed by the Patrons. Derek placed his forefinger on the pad, and the usual pricking sensation scanned his print. He wasn’t supposed to be home today, but the machine admitted him anyway, as he suspected it would. The system was too new to be perfectly maintained.

The lock unbolted with a slick thump, and Derek crept inside. Their unit was modest, as were all the houses of their row, and despite the thick darkness that greeted him, Derek had no difficulty navigating. The curfew chime also signaled the last five minutes of electric lighting, and candles were strictly forbidden on the regimented schedule. Guiding himself with a single hand along the plastered wall, he quickly found the adjacent bedroom doors. He began to move toward the right door, but after a moment’s hesitation, opened the left. Standing in the doorway, he strained his eyes until they hurt, but he could see nothing. Somewhere in the black room, he knew the sleeping figure of his wife lay, her frail and labor-worn body wrapped in his grandmother’s bed sheets. She withered with each passing reunion. It had been three years since they had last met, and he longed to speak to her, to touch and to hold her. Yet he knew he could say nothing. If she knew he was here, it would mean her death. Derek slowly closed the door, unable to shake the unbearable feeling that it would remain closed to him forever. He approached the second door,

pausing outside. Hanging on the door was a flower, built from screws and a pipe cap he had smuggled from the junkyard. He had given it to his daughter for her second birthday, with the words “from daddy” scratched into the surface. She had worshipped it. From within the room, he heard a small, sickly cough. Quietly opening the door, Derek waited until he had closed it before daring to speak. The daily interrogations didn’t begin until the age of eight. “Tima?” Derek whispered. Tima stirred, her mattress springs squeaking. “Daddy?” came the drowsy response, thick in disbelief. “Tshh!” Derek gently reminded, moving toward her voice. Finally feeling her headboard, Derek sat on the edge of Tima’s bed, and she scrambled into his arms. Reaching again into his deep left pocket, Derek removed the black handtorch he had picked from a guard’s pocket. He could not help but gape at the sight of his own child. Her scalp was now bare except for scattered lesions, and her cheeks were gaunt, skin stretched tightly over bone. She seemed much older than her young age, a sharp contrast to the innocence in

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her eyes. “Daddy, are you home forever this time?” she asked, hushed. “No, honey, only for a little while.” “But—Dad—” she trailed off, her disappointment evident. “I would stay longer if I could, Tima,” he said. “You know that.” Tima lapsed into silence, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. Derek waited for her to say something, but the words never came. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned. An odd look of resignation crossed her face, an expression of strange wisdom far surpassing her age. She turned and gazed out of the window, a full moon peering from behind the hazy silhouette of the Tower of Patrons. Her eyes absorbed the pale moonlight, and without turning, she spoke. “Daddy, what if I never see you again?” she asked calmly. Frightened by her sudden solemnity, it took Derek several moments to finally speak. In a small voice he replied, “I promise I will come back.” “I know, Dad—” she said. “But I might not be here when you do.” Stunned, Derek sat very still. Then he slowly pulled her toward him. She dug

her face into his dusty coat, her tears leaving small, dark stains. Closing his eyes, Derek recalled the letter he had received that morning years ago. Written on formal stationary, the doctor’s letter had been targeted by security clerks and opened. By the time Derek received it, the fancy calligraphy was soiled, the message illegible. Except for three phrases. Etched into his mind, Derek recalled them instantly: “Exposure to—radiation—terminal disease—your daughter, Tima. The Tower of Patrons sends its deepest regrets.” Sitting on Tima’s bed, Derek opened his eyes, tears sliding down his ruddy cheeks. Tima’s chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep. Slowly, Derek transferred her head to the pillow, careful not to wake her. Wiping his tears with his sleeve, he gazed upon his child once more, realizing he might never do so again. Derek turned to leave, but Tima’s hand shot toward him, catching his wrist. Half asleep, she pressed a sweat-greased tube into his palm before collapsing under the covers. Holding the object above the dim torch, Derek realized it was a vial. Squinting, he noticed that it contained something, but he wasn’t sure what. Allowing a fraction more light between

his fingers, he recognized the strands gleaming within the translucent glass. Inside the vial was a lock of hair. Tima’s very last. As the sun rose, a broken shaft of faint sunlight shone through the bars of Derek’s containment cell. Traveling the floor, it first found the glint of a small vial nestled in Derek’s palm, then two clenched eyelids. Blinking twice, Derek rolled over, softly groaning after a meager three hours of sleep. Somewhere deep within the complex the Multi-splay rang, waking the Shadow Guard and the Drivers. From the Guard Quarters down the hall, the muffled sounds of stirring guards echoed, and Derek quickly hid the vial underneath his shirt. Personal items were not permitted. In 20B, the Multi-splay beeped, but Tima was already awake, gazing out her small window. Somewhere in the distance, a million grim faces were herded into an airship, destined to toil in the mines of a distant planet. Tima stared into the void as a silent airship rose from the horizon. From that airship, Derek unwittingly met her gaze, the sunlight barely catching the curve of the small vial, and then disappeared into the Tower of Patron’s shadow

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Oreos are milk’s favorite cookie, but a dessert sandwich comprised of two chocolate spheres with sweet vanilla cream filling does not symbolize who I am. I am neither dunked in milk nor enjoyed by milk-mustached children and nostalgic adults as a midnight snack. Rather, I am submerged in the milky white expanse of my homework and the well-meaning Julius Caesar tyranny of my father. My midnight snacks consist of instant Maruchan ramen, garnished with artificial chicken seasoning from a limp, gray packet, and greasy potato chips that stain my Dell keyboard as I groggily type English essays at 1:30 AM about whether the letter A was actually scarlet. Nothing about my unimpressively average seventeen-year-old existence lends itself to the idea that I am an Oreo cookie. But ignorant consumers buy into ethnic stereotypes of a chocolate product commercial that resentfully sells the idea of what constitutes black and white. I thought they were just colors on a negative photograph, but they are also the basis on which a personality is judged. The ignorant consumers buy into a false advertisement that I act “white,” when I cannot act like the vanilla cream of a cookie or even a sheet of paper, blank for all the world to see. They expect me to look “black” when I cannot look like the chocolate of a dessert or even the night sky, vast and impossible. Yet they compare me to an Oreo: chocolate on the outside, vanilla on the inside. This idea is insensitive on the outside and racist on the inside. I am not an idea to be consumed by those who see life simply as an Oreo cookie. - Gina Atkins

Isabel Hennes marker and colored pencil

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Free

Sp i r it At the small table with my friends I sat sipping coffee. Not because I wanted to (Every taste provoked a barely suppressed grimace.) but because it kept me real. How could I be me without my close-clutched coffee, pencils in my hair, and eyes ringed with lack of sleep? Without a thousand exotic words ready to stitch together into seamless, careless sentences? It was easy to fake the coffeeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; fumble for three bucks and loose change, wait with restless boredom, start drinking like each bitter drop was soul-liberating. More problematic were the words. My mind was rife with them, all the sibilant susurrus and harsh klaxons, but they drifted solitary, unconnected. And so they were only words, meaning nothing at all. The conversation briefly bumped against consciousness and expectantly awaited my response. I scrambled to tack together an enigmatic sentence, a quick patchwork affair. The discussion slowed for a moment, but trickled along, disregarding my misshapen golem construction. My role in the sophomoric dialogue complete, I was free to scribble in my notebook. Between erratic pauses, I jotted down doodles and fragments of thoughts, playing the misunderstood creative soul. If only they knew just how misunderstood. - Jada Walters

Anna Rissanen oil

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Yfor og a

Dummies Mimi Brown

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tiny office is crammed in the back hallway of the gym behind Providence High School. This is the space allocated to the coaches of the school, earned by the men and women who have brought the Panthers to victory. This particular office, belonging to Coach Steven Touranjoe, the track and cross-country coach, is crowded with two desks, a large swivel chair, bulletin boards plastered with articles, and lots of books, including Yoga for Dummies. I’ve heard the buzz around school coming from students, the morning announcements, and even teachers about a new yoga program at Providence. For the past few weeks, I’ve found myself staring across the lunch table at friends who are unusually peaceful following their second block class. These serene students are among a select few in Charlotte Mecklenburg Schools. “We are the only high school in Charlotte Mecklenburg that has yoga in the curriculum,” Coach Touranjoe, more affectionately known to his students and athletes as Coach T, says. He is beaming with pride, and it is evident that the new yoga course is his undertaking. Last year, he had the idea to add another fitness class to the school curriculum. He felt that aerobics was dated, and Providence needed a fresh and exciting class. Cue yoga. Yoga “incorporates 21st century skills” like staying active, maintaining a positive attitude, and coping with stress into the course. Coach T has guest teachers from Peace In Peace Out Yoga, a program that incorporates athletics and empowerment into yoga training for teachers, coaches and trainers who will then share this expertise with their students. Even professional athletes use yoga to increase mental focus and strength. The program’s website features Antawn

Jamison, Providence alum and two-time NBA All-Star, who has worked with the program. Guest instructors from the YMCA, and even videos, also supplement Coach T’s program. Despite his enthusiasm, Coach T did not realize that he would often be the one teaching the yoga course. However, Coach T is still fully engaged in the class, whether they are using videos or working with a guest. “If I am going to have the kids participating in it, I need to be participating in it as well,” he says. Instead of just giving instructions, Coach T takes every opportunity to engage with his students as he goes through the exercises with them. If he cannot do a position himself, he has a student demonstrate a pose for the class and help one another. When asked if he would ever become a certified yoga instructor, Coach T flashes a grin and says, “Oh, absolutely.” The goal of this program, and all physical education programs at Providence, at least for Coach T, is for students to “incorporate fitness as part of their lifetime goal.” He acknowledges that we are the heaviest nation in the world, and that kids simply do not go outside and play anymore. He also recognizes the stress that students face today, and he is “even trying to put ideas into their heads about doing a mud run or a warrior run or a color run for fun.” The yoga class has become a way for students to relax in the middle of their stressful school day, to develop healthy habits, and to learn something new from an eager and motivational teacher. Coach T is always ready to improve his posture, engage his students and eagerly flip through the pages of his Yoga for Dummies book. Motivation, positivity and engagement are his mantra, and are quickly becoming that of Providence too

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how

we are

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There are some in this world who are born thieves. In them is bred the natural instinct to covet the bounty of others. They easily master the skill to slip in and out of the shadows with long fingers; they caress the locks of our most precious wealth, teasing them until they open with gratitude. They glide upon the feet of Sisyphus; rarely do they bless the ground with the ungodliness of sound. These are the shadows of our community, and we must do what we can to protect ourselves from their evasiveness. There are some in this world who are born teachers. The prodigious few hold claim to a vast source of knowledge, doling it out in scarcity so that we may whet our appetites with it. Their hearts are patient, their eyes warm. Their gentle touch guides us to the foundation of true wisdom and light. These blessed children of Odysseus shape the youth of tomorrow. These are the roots of our communities, and we must allow them to grow so the rest may prosper. There are some in this world who are born politicians. Their voices are jovial, their smiles charming. Heads held high with dignity, they shift with warm handshakes and kisses upon babes’ brows. Yet they are slippery and oily, their words like dust in the wind. They will blind you with affectionate promises, then steal from you in unimaginable ways. Though evil in spirit, these sons of the two-faced Janus are the bark of our society– thin but tough protection. There are some in this world who are born ordinary. These individuals are unlike the others. They are the ones fooled by the cunning of thieves. They will always lack the intelligence of teachers. And they are the ones who observe the wickedness of politicians. Though large in number, they remain nameless and faceless. They are the soldiers who die in battle so our country is protected, yet their tragedies are never recorded. They hear and see all, for they are the only ones who know the truth. - Nikki Rosenbaum

Victoria Morgan sculpture

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In nearly every city, there is a pretty, patinated home that once housed several wealthy aristocrats but now houses many penniless bohemians. It has no air conditioning, but it is cold outside anyway. It is the sort of place where, despite being separated by only a thin-papered wall, no one knows or cares to know each other. They only know with a vague certainty that each other exists. There is the boy who is excited about something and who never holds on to a job because something always changes. He is always well and always happy to be unsatisfied, carried along by his youth and his elation. He knows that objects attained lose their draw, and so he never attains anything but continues to desire feverishly, gaining and discarding things in his dreams, ignoring the present and dismissing the future, living fully in a make-believe world. There is the girl who comes home in the morning wearing dresses that she will never be able to afford. Her name is not her name, and she likes to call the fire escape a balcony. Her life is not as planned, but she likes to pretend that it is, making use of gifts and grinning brightly, never being honest except when speaking silently to her cat or, for a fleeting moment, to complete strangers. She throws parties that she does not attend â&#x20AC;&#x201D;at least, not reallyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; where all the guests think they know her very well. In truth, none of them know her at all. On the ground floor is a bustling cafe where the bourgeoisie argue

about a government that makes no difference to them. They call for a just world but have never given a nickel to the homeless on the sidewalk. They call for authenticity but only repeat the popular view. They call for action but spend all day arguing over coffee and scones. They have no real convictions but exhibit a tolerable eloquence that allows them to fancy themselves philosophers. Outside is the Rue Something-Or-Other where a man sits on the curb playing an old violin, wearing the same tweed waistcoat and brown leather shoes day after day. He is liked well enough, but a newsboy cap full of nickels is hardly enough for rent. And yet, he makes passersby smile with his humorously worded cardboard signs and his arias and show tunes. He switches between songs to better suit the weather. The music drifts into windows and through the streets, making the man on the curb the true soul of the city. No one enters into a lease without expecting to leave the apartment at some point. And maybe the boy will finally attain something, and the girl will get to buy her own fancy dress, and the cafe society will get what it pretends to want, and the man on the curb will get a new waistcoat, and everyone will get a home that consists of more than a tiny room and a meager kitchenette in what is really an idyllic, old apartment. - Yasmeen Asmar

Genevieve Vines pen and ink

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Job # 14233-005 School Providence High School 3/6/14 8:16 AM

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Stellar

Phen menon

hen we're chauffeured back and forth in covered cars and shut up in houses at night, we sometimes forget that there is an endless expanse of space above us. And even if we do happen to stargaze for a moment, our view is often obscured by artificial urban lighting. The Charlotte Amateur Astronomers Club wants to preserve an intrinsic part of the human experience by making sure we don't go through life without taking even a moment to look up at the stars. By sharing its passion for the stars with the community, the Charlotte Amateur Astronomers Club endeavors to expand knowledge about the beautiful and vast world of astronomy. The group was founded nearly sixty years ago by five Charlotte residents who shared one thing in common: their passion for astronomy. Their mission, according to Jim Gaiser, the current president, is to “provide an awareness of the night sky” and “ingrain the love of astronomy” in the Charlotte area. Over the years, the club has experienced a supernova of sorts, expanding into an organization of 140 members hosting numerous community outreach events. The annual Southern Star convention draws astronomy enthusiasts from across the Southeast. The club even has its own observatory situated on four acres of land near Taxahaw, South Carolina. The observatory location has changed over the years to avoid the light

Jada Walters

pollution of more developed areas, where upward-shining lights reflect off the dust in the atmosphere and cause a skyglow that impairs observation of the night sky. Gaiser developed a passion for astronomy from a young age. Growing up in the era of Neil Armstrong and the Space Race, he cultivated his astronomy hobby in conjunction with the advances in spaceflight capability and rapidly growing knowledge of the stars. Gaiser became a member of the Charlotte Amateur Astronomers Club in 2004, and it has “been full speed ahead ever since.” As president, Gaiser explains that he wants to improve not just the number of outreach events in Charlotte, “but the quality of the service that we provide.” The Charlotte Amateur Astronomers Club reaches out to the community through star parties, public events requested by schools, libraries and other organizations. These events are organized entirely by volunteers who assist the participants as they observe the night sky through telescopes and learn about astronomy topics ranging from constellations to planets. “The moment that warms our hearts,” Gaiser explains, is “the first time a person sees Saturn’s rings,” viewing the stellar phenomenon through a telescope from roughly 380 million miles away. Youths or adults looking to expand

their knowledge of astronomy can become members of the club for a $35 yearly fee, reduced to $6 for students. Members can access the astronomy club’s observatory and learn about astronomy from older, more experienced members whose “passion is often translated very well into helping younger members.” Experienced club members even act as mentors to students for school projects. Gaiser says that he is currently mentoring a student through a project for an AP class, adding that astronomy can be included in other science course curriculums. Despite the interest in the club and growing membership, Gaiser feels that the national attitude towards astronomy is unfavorable. “People are looking for the tangible results; they want the immediacy,” he says. The recent government shutdown brought this point home to amateur astronomers when the popular Astronomy Picture of the Day website was closed, along with virtually all of NASA’s operations and on-going projects. But although the immediate practical applications may not always be evident, astronomy has an inherent ability to bring joy to amateur astronomers. The Charlotte Amateur Astronomers Club exists to foster an understanding and respect for the night sky in the Charlotte community, providing a simple reminder of the beauty that's right above our heads

Jada Walters acrylic

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Job # 14233-005 School Providence High School 3/6/14 4:49 PM Page submitted with acknowledged preflight check issue(s): Embedded Image, Embedded Image

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14233-005 School Providence High School 3/6/14 4:52 PM

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