Visions: SFU’s High School Writing Magazine 2016-2017

SFU’s High School Writing Magazine 2016-2017

Visions Bright New Insights from Bright Young Minds

Faculty Editor Brennan Thomas

Cover image courtesy of Elizabeth Catalano Copyright Š 2017 by Saint Francis University

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SFU High School Writing Contest Results During the 2016-17 academic year, the Literature & Languages Department sponsored a writing contest for ninth- through twelfth-grade students attending schools in the following seven counties: Bedford, Blair, Cambria, Clearfield, Indiana, Somerset, and Westmoreland.

Fifty-six students participated in this contest, each of whom submitted a writing entry in one of four categories: short fiction, poetry, essay writing, and personal narrative. Each entry was reviewed and scored by two English faculty members according to the following criteria: (1) creativity, (2) structure, (3) content, (4) style and expression, and (5) grammar, mechanics, and formatting.

Faculty members’ scores were tabulated to determine the three contest winners.

• The first-place winner for this year’s contest is Nicholas Lasinsky, for his poem “The Best Kind of Love.” Nicholas is a 10th-grade student at Central Cambria High School.

• The second-place winner is Hannah Bailey, for her short story “The Death of a Tree Nymph.” Hannah attends Ferndale Area High School and is currently in the 11th grade. th • The third-place winner is Sarah Callan, for her poem “Georgia O’Keeffe.” Sarah is a 12 grade student at Bishop Guilfoyle Catholic High School.

Eight honorable mentions also were selected by the faculty judges: • Liza Brady, for her poem “An Age of Understanding” (Grade 11, Central Cambria High School) • Elizabeth Catalano, for her poem “Day 5” (Grade 11, Hollidaysburg Area Senior High School) • Elizabeth Close, for her poem “Self Love from Hate” (Grade 11, Somerset Area High School) • Hunter Jackson, for his short story “Innocence Has a Cost” (Grade 12, Tyrone Area High School) • Sidney Kakabar, for her poem “The Beach” (Grade 11, Forest Hills High School) • Mamie Kyle, for her poem “Free to Be Me” (Grade 11, North Penn-Liberty Junior Senior High School) • Anna Martz, for her poem “The Willows Are Calling” (Grade 12, Delone Catholic High School) • Paige Mazeika, for her poem “Reminders” (Grade 12, Central Cambria High School) Each winner and honorable mention recipient will receive a monetary prize for his or her selected entry.

• First prize: $75 • Second prize: $50 • Third prize: $35 2

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Honorable mention: $20

All winning and honorable mention entries have been published in Visions, the university’s magazine for high school writing.

For more information regarding the contest’s rules, deadlines, and prizes, please contact: Dr. Brennan Thomas Department of Literature & Languages Saint Francis University 117 Evergreen Drive P.O. Box 600 Loretto, Pennsylvania 15940 E-mail: bthomas@francis.edu Phone: (814) 471-1111

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Special Thanks This magazine’s publication would not have been possible without the efforts of the following people: •

Dr. Roxana Cazan and Ms. Heather Daniels, who thoroughly read and scored all 56 contest entries

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Ms. Jacqueline Mazeika, who prepared the certificates for the contest winners and honorable mention recipients

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Ms. Beth Bellock, Mr. Michael Kutchman, and the SFU Print Shop staff, who assembled and printed the inaugural issue of Visions

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Ms. Kelly Aharrah and other staff members of the Office of Admissions, who promoted the contest to area high schools

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Dr. Timothy Whisler, Dean of the School of Arts & Letters

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Ms. Kimberly Beck

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The Department of Literature & Languages

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And, finally, the students who submitted their stories, essays, and poems, thereby providing the content for this magazine

The judges were duly impressed with the writing quality and originality of every entry they read. Aspiring high school writers are strongly encouraged to submit their writing for next year’s contest.

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Table of Contents Sidney Kakabar

The Beach

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Nicholas Lasinsky

The Best Kind of Love (1st Place Winner)

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Anna Martz

The Willows Are Calling

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Hunter Jackson

Innocence Has a Cost

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Paige Mazeika

Reminders

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Hannah Bailey

The Death of a Tree Nymph (2nd Place Winner)

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Sarah Callan

Georgia O’Keeffe (3rd Place Winner)

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Elizabeth Close

Self Love from Hate

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Elizabeth Catalano

Day 5

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Mamie Kyle

Free to Be Me

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Liza Brady

An Age of Understanding

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Sidney Kakabar

The Beach

The beach is strewn with large shells and my smile.

Dancing waves of blue bring dolphins galore.

I’ll stay and watch them jump, glad for a while, As happy sea foam is tickling the shore.

The shade that the clouds give cools and calms me, Sitting in a chair, a drink in my hand.

I watch the waves run back into the sea, And bury my feet in the hot dry sand.

Far away from my stressful school and home, I forget the schoolwork and hectic life.

At night I listen to the waves alone.

The beach had taken away all my strife.

The beach is wondrous and so much fun.

Get away soon, let your worries be done.

Image courtesy of Sidney Kakabar

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Nicholas Lasinsky

The Best Kind of Love (1st Place Winner)

Bright and sunny warm and runny lips placed sweet to the taste and soft and squishy a cotton hug and two hands made one in casual fun and each grows wise in the other’s eyes a click of the heels a playful shove newly minted, the best kind of love Clammy wet hands searching for food walkway crayon Picassos construction paper stitched and glued and tantrums without warning at three in the morning our little ship rocking, sinking and skewed but we batten the hatches and calm the watery storms dole out the rations clean their art fashions and collapse, together, exhausted, the norm and one day we’ll wake up and walk for a while hands laced, congruent smile tiny tots trailing, our sailors, no longer wailing and maybe we’ll get to sit for a bit and admire our vessel, the best kind of love Wrinkled shirt, faded tie worn out wristwatch 7

failing eyes limp buttons held in place by stitched loose patches white whiskered face distant bells tolling exhaustion pulling perhaps it’s time for death’s sweet embrace but you dance in, a silver bell humming a tune no one else can tell with a jacket in style before we were a thing and on your left hand my soft golden ring and my face cracks with joy when you take my old glove well worn and faded, the best kind of love

Image courtesy of Nicholas Lasinsky

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Anna Martz

The Willows Are Calling The willows are calling The ice-river mellows Sparrows let forth a cry Of triumph over Winter, of hope soon unfettered Captive Spring bursts free from her chains The oak trees are hailing The light in their bosoms Dancing on leaf and on bough “Long live the Light!” they cry, never suspecting Sundance dims and is gasping as Summer’s green fades The aspens are sighing As cruel wind through life-shorn limbs Whirls and moans, lonesome, mournful The leaves bid farewell to their citadels of strength As Death’s Phantom unleashes the coming of Winter The birches are dying Stripped of their shields To nurture the outcasts of Nature Swift Deer shiver and their pathways are frozen Joy is swept away in the dismal white desert of Death.

The pines are all whispering Beneath their fragile ice prisons Through the chill and the silence of Darkness “This is not the end, nor ever shall be,” Hope rises in the sleeping Spring life of the trees.

The stars are still smiling From the softness of Spring’s night Dusk covers light newly reborn Still the world holds to memory of gentle sunlight For the snares of Death shall never prevail against Love.

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Image courtesy of Anna Martz

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Hunter Jackson

Innocence Has a Cost

Swish, swash. Swish, swash.

Laughter bounded across the watery ripples, flying into the evergreen trees that surrounded them. Lights bordered the creek, illuminating the darkened sky. A shadowy figure waded through the waters. With each step, the world watched. The stars gleamed across the night sky, tinting the darkness. Hushed voices stared in silence.

“Mother, who is that?” Her little finger directed toward the shadow crossing the creek.

Clarisse looked down, watching her daughter with puzzlement in her eyes.

“Maria.” She paused, wondering what words should be spoken. Seconds passed before Clarisse was kneeling before her little girl.

“They call her the Lady of the Creek. But do not speak now, my darling, for this is a tradition which has shaped our world since the beginning.” Her words stained the back of Maria’s mind.

“But Mother…” Clarisse already stood up, her eyes toward the creek. Everyone's gaze flew toward the water. Standing by the bank, Maria’s mind was swarmed with wonder.

What is this? she thought. The shadow reached the middle of the creek. It stepped onto the grassy mound. Silence seemed to prosper through the valley.

“Mother, what is she holding?” Clarisse's mind was elsewhere, looking somewhere in the distance. Straining to see, Maria saw something. A glint of silver reflected from the Lady.

Seconds passed…

“It’s a flute! Mother, I love flutes…” Still no answer. The Lady in the creek soon felt silver touch her warm lips. Quietness dominated. All eyes transfixed on the shadowed Lady, waiting.

She took a breath…

Clearing her mind, her soul poured out, bounding against the instrument. Like a breeze, the music rippled through the air. Nature itself seemed to understand the music’s language, for the world seemed at peace. The beginning entrance of music had ended, as the melody soon swept in. Maria hummed along, unknowingly singing words of a different language. Soon, the water started to change. The shadows that had cursed its very depths were lifting. It gleamed golden, brightening the darkness around them. The music still played on…

“Gondia, monluvia toeis siea. Tesio vemlecassieo morie dem.” The language of old rang from the crowd around the creek. The melody swept through again.

“Mesdona, valcanoseo tem toa.” The music controlled the crowd. Filling the ancient language to word. The chant soon rose, growing louder and louder. Shimmering figures now danced across the water, listening to the hymn. Childlike temptation drove Maria forward, her hand grasping a shimmering light. It exploded into two golden doves. Darkness consumed 11

Image courtesy of Hunter Jackson

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Maria, as she plummeted off the bank into the water. Concealed in golden liquid, she sank downwards. The doves circled around the fallen child, glaring at her innocence.

“Maria!” Clarisse had but turned around when she realized Maria had vanished. Cries of horror overtook the music, which halted to a silence.

“Where is my child?” Hushed voices stared at the golden doves circling above the gray creek water. Clarisse’s eyes widened, feeling fear enter her heart.

“No!” She charged the bank, diving into the murky liquid, searching for her motionless child. The language of old vanished into the darkness of the night… *

*

*

Sobbing tears echoed against the cold stone of midnight. Hours seemed like minutes as the night passed.

“No, no…” Sorrow consumed Clarisse's voice. “No, no… Why me?”

Choking back her sobs, she thrusted a piercing shriek through the air. Shaking her head in disbelief, she rocked herself back and forth.

“It can’t be. Not Maria. Not my little…” Deadening sadness stumbled her language, stuttering to say her last words.

“It can’t be. Not my little… girl!” Candlelight flickered an illuminating dim across the room. Darkness fled as lantern light poured through the open door. A chill rushed in before the hinges creaked shut once again. The intruder’s eyes watched the weeping women. Searching across the room, shadows lurked across the walls. A girl lay cold, like marble. She lay motionless in the fiery shadows.

Crying moans, “I told them to leave me be. Why does the crowd ask more of me?”

Clarisse’s soul, broken in pain. Her eyes lay closed so her lifeless child could not be seen.

No response. The floorboards creaked as the intruder moved closer to Clarisse, who whimpered by the hearth on the far side of the room.

Clarisse raised her head. “I told you to…” Gray eyes met Clarisse’s. Stopping her speech, she quickly stood, slightly bowing.

“Apologies, my Lady. I did not know it was…” Its finger held in the air, Clarisse silenced.

Whitened leaves melted across the Lady’s gown, giving off a glow.

“No need to apologize.” Raising her head, Clarisse took a step back. She soon noticed the child. Sorrowful cries willed onward through Clarisse, falling onto the floor.

The Lady explained, “What I see is brokenness, a suffering which I have brought into your life. I am truly sorry for what has happened.”

“My Maria, my sweet little… girl!” Pain bounded from Clarisse's voice. Tears now perspired from the Lady, lowering prostrate to the floor, rambling onward.

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“In the history of this tradition, this has never occurred.” A puddle of sorrow now leaked across the ground.

“If only I had the power to save her. I would…”

Mid-sentence the Lady silenced. Clarisse’s weeps still released in teary cries. The Lady’s eyes transfixed to the now lighted corner. The dark haired girl lay still, her skin pale. A gleam now shone on her, watching the dead child.

Stuttering, “It’s, it’s one of them,” Clarisse shook as if shivering from the cold. Both still, staring like children at its wondrous glow.

The Lady quickly whispered, “Clarisse, cover your sight!”

A majestic hum overtook the rhythm in the air.

Seconds passed…

The blaze of light soon darkened, eventually creeping back to its usual holes within the house. Impatience unclenched Clarisse’s eyes. Blinking again as if in a dream, she stared mesmerized.

The Lady whispered, “Stay still.” The air around them boiled in heat, while the darkness fled in all directions.

A radiant woman now bent over the child. Feet away from the hearth, the Goddess stood. Her hair like the sunset, her dress evergreen teeming with colorful petals. Everything seemed to be in a peaceful hum. She studied the child, hovering her transparent hand above the girl.

Clarisse whispered, “What is she doing?”

“Clarisse, be silent!” the Lady cried behind her. Worry still rotted in Clarisse's chest.

Who is she? What is she doing with my child?

The woman soon laid a hand on the pale child.

Wait, what is she doing!

“Veno Lementese tieo casa vestesameno!” Power soared from the enchantment. An aura shimmered around the child, a boundary between the living and the dead.

“What are you doing to her?” Clarisse strained to stand, her knees wobbled with fear.

The Goddess now faced Clarisse, her glare like a thousand knives pressing against her skin. She took the torture, never faltering.

“What are you doing to my child, I asked?”

The Goddess sighed, gracefully moving closer to Clarisse. Her voice was splendid; it sounded as pure as life itself.

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“For the innocent to be saved, the balance of the world must be restored. You know what this means…”

Sweat consumed Clarisse’s body, still writhing with uncertainty. She turned toward the speechless Lady, who still swayed from fright on the floor. Clarisse shook uncontrollably. She willed herself onward, gulping down her fears.

“Tell my daughter my story. Tell her that I am sorry, tell her that I…” Seconds passed...

Misery was her voice. “Tell her I will always love her. Forever and beyond.” Clarisse’s mind was ready. Her will spoken. She now faced the Goddess.

“Your will is strong, my darling. One day you will see your child again. One day...” Soon agony stung Clarisse, as if a million wasps entangled her. Her screams bellowed from her very soul.

“Theasida!” A thunderous clap echoed across the valley. Light filled every inch of the house. Soon darkness caved in, returning to a shadowed room. Silence once again stalked through the night. The Lady waited to stand, slowly rising from the dusty stone floor. The Goddess gone. Clarisse gone.

The girl!

The Lady now stood, approaching the child with dread. With each step she took, the more fear rose within her. Reaching the child, the air smelled of burnt metal. Her hand shook from age as she reached to touch the girl. Warmth flourished at the fleshy connection.

Gasping for breath, Maria awoke. A symbol burned to life on her palm. The Lady glared in astonishment, tripping over her thoughts. She studied the symbol crested onto the child's hand. Lying in quietness, Maria’s curious eyes watched the old Lady. Noticing the child’s innocent stare, grief for the future fueled a sympathizing smile from the Lady’s expression.

“A child of a mother, a child of a Goddess, be still...”

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Paige Mazeika

Reminders

The memorial loomed over us Made of brick, cement, and steel But the sky was beautiful It was blue And it felt like I was looking into the eyes of a long gone friend One whom I forgot to say goodbye to The building told its wordless story Through the architecture The worst stories are wordless It means someone lacks the ability to convey the pain which they feel We walked into that building That memorial That memory As scholars of history But what did we leave it as?

We received cards with people on them To follow them through the war Over 500 different cards And my girl shared my birthday March 3rd I turned 17 this year and celebrated with my family I did not know if she would even turn 17 I will not say the tower of family pictures was the best (in the worst way) Or the shoes Or the hair But rather the reactions of those around us Because sometimes I forget people try to be good Instead I focus on humanity's failures But from the hordes of people The tears The shocked silence I remembered what I forgot And it gave me renewed passion So when I looked at the stars that night I remembered millions of others were looking too

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Image courtesy of Paige Mazeika

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Hannah Bailey

The Death of a Tree Nymph (2nd Place Winner)

There once was a tree nymph, much like any other. She didn’t have a name. She didn’t need one. Mainly, she was called The Sycamore By The Eagle Nest, because that was what she was. Who she was.

But now, there were no eagles. They’d flown to better lands, forsaking their forest. The Sycamore could not fly away; she was a nymph, this was her tree, and the two were one. Even as the greedy humans and their greedy machines closed in and in on the Sycamore and her forest, she could not leave. Only wait.

Now she was alone. Her friends were gone, consumed by the humans. The Laurel By The River processed into paper. The Oak In The Meadow mutilated into mulch. One by one, each ripped down by the humans’ metal beasts. The forest that had once been so plentiful and alive was now a desolate graveyard with only stumps as tombstones, the corpses far away, desecrated. The Sycamore had bade the creatures leave when the other tree nymphs had begun to drop daily. Without their chatter, the forest was silent.

Image courtesy of Hannah Bailey

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The Sycamore stood tall and lonely with the Red Mark staining her trunk. She knew it told of death to come. She had seen it strike too many times for her to forget its meaning. The nymph had tried to stop the humans, whispered warnings in the wind. But they’d either not heard or not cared. The metal beast at last came for her, a steel wolf with teeth that tore the life from all they touched. Before this day, the worst pain The Sycamore had known was the young lover’s knife carving initials in her trunk. Now the metal wolf tore through her, through every ring, every year. It erased her past. It shattered the memories! With cold teeth, it destroyed her and her proud tree.

And she screamed, for she and her tree were one and the same in all the ways that counted. They reached for the sun together, they felt both joy and pain together. They would die together. The humans ignored her cries. Their steel beast gorged itself. The Sycamore was dying now, and she knew it. Her great and beautiful tree teetered.

Below, a voice shouted, “Timber!”

It was then that a powerful gust of wind, perhaps the breath of Mother Nature herself, pushed The Sycamore’s falling body just so, just enough. She crashed down, a vengeful victim, and crushed the murderous metal beast with her might. The humans scattered, lunging to the earth for safety from the tree’s great blow.

The Sycamore felt herself detach from her tree, pushed into the cold. She bore witness as the humans hauled her corpse away. She sobbed as they took with them the last tree in what had once been a mighty forest. She sank to her knees, into the ground beneath her, taken back into the warm embrace of Mother Earth to be reincarnated as a new life. To regrow in a graveyard.

Now, there stands The Fern By The Sycamore Stump, with a young nymph of its own.

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Sarah Callan

Georgia O’Keeffe (3rd Place Winner)

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The canyon finds me late at night I lie awake With a dream expressionless, absurd emerging molten, a solidified sun liquefied dusty orange buries fallen blue Tired of tradition I’ve too much to learn.

Lacking oppressive opinion an artistry reignites 2.

To a friend, to New York City, the mailman took my work, charcoal abstractions in a letter I met him then, an art dealer, in a group of men, photographers, said he could feel my personal visions called them pure, genuine, a cure A sudden surprise, an exhibition Conspiring partner for better or worse 3.

My flowers are flowers, nothing less nothing more.

Thoughtfully crafted my admiration for their androgynous nature drew them to my canvas My pure form became 20

twisted, turned into Freudian tale Over speculation dove too deep with the public’s erotic persistence My flowers are flowers, nothing less nothing more The more I insist, the less they listen

Image courtesy of Sarah Callan

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4.

Summer’s escape brings unexpected inspiration A found friend A train ride later A welcome from the mountains Raised crevices lay the land drying winds color I can never get enough, my planet of solitude Each departure leaves me lost Death forces the permanent and draws me back, back to vital views A final home, A home of mountains 5.

A moment can be happy, a life can’t These shrinking walls surround, clean, too clean, These walls aren’t happy I’m restricted here, a house for healing they say, but I fought so hard, so hard to disguise my past long forgotten My shriveled stomach only tastes salt, my own unstoppable salt.

The photographer doesn’t want me, the music shouldn’t either Fighting thoughts back and forth remind me of my parents Beat by my own will fractured whole, incomplete I can no longer be better than me 22

6.

I’ve lost my center My senses blur Creatively stronger now than my body’s ever been My want grows, my ability withers Disassembled as a woman any art now needs assistance I live on, on in expression, on into the horizon, until my burnt body reaches my faraway mountaintop

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Elizabeth Close

Self Love from Hate

The pedestal you sat on was the one I created You became known as a god because of me The reason you were first was because I became last In return I received nothing You ruined me You told me you care You didn’t I was killed emotionally When you got all you needed You left That was the worst part But thank you You leaving taught me to love myself Unconditionally You not wanting was the beginning of me wanting myself

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Elizabeth Catalano

Day 5

Anything can be a drug If you want it badly enough.

It’s not all white powder and rolled Paper and leaves— It doesn’t have to be.

Not when we can hook ourselves up, Plug in to the IV Or maybe it’s the defibrillator, I can’t tell the difference anymore.

We drip and we jolt and it’s not all bad, Because love’s a drug, too, But as we slowly approach the Incinerator, layered with The black paper of charred skin, Years of hurt and forced shut-downs...

We don’t even know how to let The Creator in Behind the scars of shooting up And coming down…

There’s no such thing as rock bottom If you never left the ground.

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Mamie Kyle

Free To Be Me

This emptiness that I feel inside. It invades my heart and takes over my mind.

What to do when I'm alone with my thoughts. What to do when I think all is lost.

Emptiness, loneliness, cold, and numb. Feelings, emotions, things that make me feel as though I'm coming undone.

My mind, it screams. My heart, it bleeds.

My eyes, they see past all the mundane things. My ears, they hear everything.

From ghosts of my past, to the specters of my future. My life held together by the threads of a suture.

Is there an escape for this restless mind? Is there a way to get out of this bind?

I'm trapped in this life that is no longer my own. This world that I've become lost to, just wandering alone.

My feet walk the beaten path, traveled by many others before me.

I'll continue to walk until I find what I long for; a place to be free.

Image courtesy of Mamie Kyle

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Liza Brady

An Age of Understanding

This, this isn’t the beginning.

And this, This isn’t the end.

Young as we are, we dream of the future we’re not sure we wish to have.

Young as we are, we lust after everything that hurts.

These hearts are getting foggy, aching in the chest.

But that's ok.

Thoughts, thoughts are all we have.

And thoughts, thoughts are never ours.

Old as we are, we never saw the world for what it is.

Old as we are, we fear everyday passing.

We’re, we’re dependent on perception, we’re watching the clock tick by.

These glasses are getting foggy, burning in the eye.

But that's ok.

We, we were not the beginning, And we we are not the end.

Free as we are, we’ll always be flesh.

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Free as we are, we’ll always be bone.

We’re, we’re souls trapped in bodies, we’re merely footprints in the sand.

Generations have come and generations will go, And the clock will not stop for the rest of the world.

This window is getting foggy, just as the memory of us fades.

But that's ok.

This is an age of understanding, after all.

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Visions 2016-2017 Bright New Insights from Bright Young Minds

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