Literary arts magazine 2014 15 final

mirage 2014 - 15

Stafford High School Literary Arts Magazine

mirage 2014 - 15

Stafford High School Literary Arts Magazine

Student Editor in chief . . .Trevor White Assistant editors . . . Kara Ebeling, Lia Constantine, Kaitlyn Wolodkewitsch

Faculty Advisor . . . Jim Andrews Assistant Advisor . . . Sue Gill

Artwork by Bridget Stadelmyer

Table of Contents Prose / Poetry Believe . . . Michael Morpurgo. . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Why Do We Write?. . .Aaron Baldwin , Madie Halstead , Lexi Swager, Keri Wilson , Josselyn Trash , Ashlyn sisson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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9-11 Jumper. . .

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Amanda Smith son . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . .

Picturesque . . .Trevor White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Earth Mother . . . Courtney Ortmann . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Abandoned . . . Lexi Swager . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Scenic Bliss . . . Amber DeVoe . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Illusions of an Architech . . . Shashank Singal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Who Cares? . . . Yasmin Hakeem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Where I Belong . . . Rachel Jett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 It ’s a Deal! . . . Charlene Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Impatient . . . Erin Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 A Crescent Roll . . .Trevor White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Paradise . . . Cody Pearson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 The Deep . . . Gabrielle Whittington . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Subjective Suffering . . . Hailey Beavers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Haikus . . . Amber DeVoe , David Walden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 The Sea and the Sky . . . Courtney Ortmann . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Sounds of Change . . . Rachel Jett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Simple Destiny . . . Josselyn Thrash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Colophon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 4

Art Essays

Faces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Mothers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Artwork Kenley Belman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Lia Constantine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Sydney Cott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Raelyn Fines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . front cover, 20, 30, 34, 35, 38 Raxgana Mendez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Dallin Nielsen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Taia Pollock . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10, 20, 22, 35 Sydney Scott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Marissa sigl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15, 24, 29 Bridget Stadelmyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3, 9, 12, 25, 33, 35 Jillian Weisbeck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11, 36 Trevor White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14, 26

Special thanks to the Mr. Nick Candela and his senior art students for most of the artwork displayed in The Mirage from the Seniors Art Show each year and Mrs. Anna Ellis for her invaluable assistance .

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Believe

Michael Morpurgo

E

ncouraging young people

to believe in themselves and find their own voice whether it ’s through writing, drama or art is so important in giving Artwork by Bridget Stadelmyer 6

young people a sense of self-worth .

Why do we write?

I write to be heard, but it’s so much more than that.

My mind is like a child’s sometimes.

I have so many What if questions running through it.

Every idea and thought I have, I can make it into a story and I can answer it myself.

When I write, I express who I am.

I write because I don’t want to be a part of a mute generation.

I want to be loud!

I write because I can’t afford oil paints.

I write because I need to let those other voices speak.

HUMAN.

I write because I am not limited to the restrictions of a REAL life.

I write because I don’t want to be a part of a mute generation.

I write because I’m

I write because I need Ideas.

I love how, through my words, and my words alone, the reader can understand, somewhat, the type of person I am and how I think.

Aaron Baldwin, Madie Halstead, Lexi Swager, Keri Wilson, Josselyn Trash, Ashlyn Sisson

When I write, I feel

FREE. When I write, I feel powerful.

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9-11 Jumper He was the good Christian man, it was what he liked to identify as. He went to church on Sundays, volunteered in his free time, and dedicated himself to a religious way of life. This was a fact he was proud of.

His home life was satisfactory. He had a lovely, committed wife and two kids both in elementary school. His family was also one of his top priorities, outside of his job. He did everything he could to provide for them and everything he could do to make sure they became good, respectful people.

Part of this wonderful world he had wanted involved showing his kids all the different things they could experience in the world. It was two weeks away from a vacation the family had had planned for months, so he took a side job as a secretary to earn some extra cash before the trip. It was all part of God’s plan that had been laid out for him: to live a perfectly average and extraordinary life with his family, friends, and values.

It was so perfect. It was his definition of perfect and he couldn’t have asked for anything else. That’s why he wondered how something so pristine had shattered in a matter of moments. There was the crash and the explosion that followed on the floors beneath him.

Within a short time, an explosion went off that set the surrounding floors on fire and left him stranded in an office by himself. It had come out of nowhere.

The fire licked at the door frame and advanced with every passing moment. The room quickly filled with smoke and made it difficult to breathe. The man heaved heavily as he backed against the window, debating any possible solution out of it.

When the smoke threatened to make his lungs shrivel, he went for any piece of furniture in the room that would break the window to the office. Successfully cracking the glass and letting air flow into the heated room, he breathed and leaned against the window.

The only thing swirling in his head was the horrible panic he was experiencing. He kept thinking about how he needed to get back to his family. He needed to let them know he was okay and tell them not to worry and hold them if they cried. He needed to tell them he didn’t know what was going on himself, but there was a crash and fire and at least one hundred stories between 8

Amanda Smithson him and the ground.

Dropping to his knees, he prayed to God just like he would any other night or before any meal. There were rushed whispers uttered from his mouth, pleading for a way out. He begged to see his family again. He said audibly about how he had dedicated his whole life to his faith, been a good man, and deserved some sort of escape: a favor, just once.

Just once and he’d make it up to Him a million times over, but all there was, were advancing flames and less and less space to stand. He thought about why he wasn’t a receiving an answer. After all he had donated and given his life, God couldn’t possibly abandon him, right? Not then, of all circumstances.

Still, no result. The building was loud, but his ringing ears deafened everything else. He breathed in the air from outside once again with a choking breath, and the chilly wind from outside blew his clothes back. He swallowed as he looked down out of the building. Fear surged through him and he stepped back, only to realize there wasn’t much floor left to step on.

Then, he realized the choices that had been provided for him. It was some sick joke; it had to be a test, right? He wasn’t laughing. Tears streamed from his face as he refused to accept his fate. Burn or jump. Burn or jump.

He placed his foot on the windowsill and stood up into the frame. More wind hit him and did nothing to cool his emotions. It wasn’t his time. It wasn’t anybody in the building’s time. To be honest, he knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t God’s plan. It shouldn’t have been his destiny, as he had done nothing to deserve it.The pain and suffering in the world hit him like a brick wall. There was no excuse, there was no destiny. Nobody deserved it. All the time he had felt good about putting his faith in something else crushed him into nothing. There was an empty throb inside him. He felt abandoned.

As he took the unforgiving step out of the window, from a hundred stories high, he wished he was still standing in the windowsill. Nothing could quench his feeling of regret, but he also knew it was better than burning. It would hurt less and he’d have less time to think.

His final thoughts were of his family and the pleasant vacation they had planned. Of how he should’ve

never taken the extra job. Of how there was a heaven or not; he wanted to believe there was.

The fall lasted a total of ten seconds.

A whole lifetime passed in front of his eyes, which were blurred with tears that refused to fall because of the velocity.

The people that were bugs on the ground got closer. There was a sudden smack as life left a splattered body. Nothing.

Artwork by Bridget Stadelmyer

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Picturesque

Trevor White

Cara has been travelling for many years now. She has seen so many breathtakingly suning scenes, but not one has ever been able to match the supremacy of this place.

The wall of trees blocks the foul life of humans, protecting the perfection held within. Inside, creatures are free and ubiquitous. They pounce, hobble, trot, plod, squirm and swim all around. The ground is covered in rainbows of colors that almost blind Cara’s virgin eyes with the vibrant, warm colors of the sparkling pink lotuses, radiant red pansies, and the golden daisies, as well as the contrastingly cool and chilling chrysanthemum, bachelor buttons, and lilac morning glories.

She leans down to smell the honeyed flower, and is presented with the sweetest smells imaginable. An ample grin spreads across her face, her anxious mind soaring through the thoughts of the magnificent finesse required to create such artistry.

Cara continues to explore the environment. She heads over to the quaint pond and finds the koi floating in the water. She hunted the transparent liquid, seeking to find the most dazzling fish of them all. Then she saw it. The eldest koi. It was spotted white and black, and had erudite eyes.

The lengthy tail flowed like a flag flailing in the wind. It looked not through it’s eyes, but through its whole body, feeling, seeing Cara and her angelic glow.

Her hair is a synonym to the koi’s tail. It flows in the gentle breeze and glistens from the sun’s piercing rays of knowledge and enlightenment. It looked of fair, melted mahogany.

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Artwork by Taia Pollock

Unknowingly, she proceeds deeper into the angelic environment, lifting the rocks in search of greater awe.

Mother Earth

Courtney Ortmann

I am the forest, I am the rivers, I am life, And I am you.

How rare and beautiful it is to even exist.

The wind sings my stories, Protecting life creates worries, The river hurries to out run pollution.

They fear me, I am alone, nothing but a bone, I am alone.

A hug? A thug? A friend? Or the end?

The others have forgotten the land turns rotten.

This path they have chosen must change before the trees cry.

It’s not too late, we must share and create To maintain nature give more than you take.

This needs to start now or else the end starts now.

Nature is sad. No one likes being sad.

She really loves plants. Please don’t take what she loves.

When all the trees are gone, when all animals are gone, When all the amazing sights are mined away Will they understand?

You cannot eat money.

Do not fear child, no matter what happens. Life is a cycle The earth is not so easily killed.

It shall only restart.

With Mother Nature’s age she learned to recreate from ruins No politician can deny that fact No mighty sword of man could change The holy power of Earth.

Life is beautiful and if you look a little harder Her secrets may be discovered The Earth speaks to all of us and if we listen We can hear a sound.

Artwork byJillian Wesibeck 11

Abandoned

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Lexi Swager

Artwork by Bridget Stadelmyer

It is dark out. The time has just deemed the morning to be afternoon and yet everything is dangerously dimmed. I look up to the sky at the dense charcoal clouds, as soon they will bring a heavy downpour of rain. I have an alarming sensation of being watched, that a sudden gaze has set upon me so intensely that the hair on the back of my neck rises. I am merely a paranoid girl in the woods, threatened by the intrusion of the storm that is beginning. There is not another soul to be found until the next town, so my fear is rather foolish. Still I pick up my pace.

The wind abruptly lets out a piercing howl, a sound that the deceased corpses could make on their rotting vocal cords, and propels me along the path. The brittle leaves that are scattered all over crunch under my callused feet as I hastily continue my journey.

My objective is to travel to the nearby town. Unfortunately with the impending rain, shelter is needed sooner than later. A sickly snapping of a twig freezes me in place; I do not move or make any sounds beside the shallow wheezing of my rapid breath. A faint rustling of leaves catches my attention, and I slightly turn my head to the direction and wait. Again the shaking of leaves against one another picks up, but this time its further. I listen until it recedes to distance where it’s too faint to be of concern. Animals live in the forest as well. They must be looking for shelter too.

Slowly but surely I start walking down the trail, this time with a new goal of finding shelter. The faded pitter patter of rain begins to sound on the leaves of the trees above. A new-found sentiment of panic washes over me and now I start to run wildly down the now-damp ground. The pads of my feet thud feebly against the slick mud. I turn my head blindly in each direction as I run, searching for somewhere to stay.

In the distance something white catches my eye through the brush of the woods that surrounds me.

I reduce my speed and head towards it cautiously.

A hoarse cry of a crow’s caw seems to be warning me away from the house, yet I draw closer to it. It’s a white painted building, no bigger than two shacks put together. Green vines and poison ivy decorate its leaden exterior. An uneasy feeling gathers in the pit of my stomach as I walk up to the front of the house.

Gray concrete steps lead up to a door with peeling red

paint. A brass knocker that is speckled with rust lays perfectly centered on the door, so I reach a shaking hand up to it and give it three loud and sullen knocks against the door. No one replies and I check the doorknob. Hesitantly twisting the old metal I manage to push the door open. As it harshly scrapes against the floor, I step over the threshold just as a crackling roll of thunder sounds along with violent drops of rain. I close the door with a loud slam that echoes into the abandoned house.

I walk slowly into each room, all doors are wide open except for a doorway down at the end of a gray hallway. As I walk toward it I nervously brush my hands against the wall, scraping my nails against the faded floral wallpaper.

I test the knob and it opens; I enter the room and close the door behind me, sealing it with a click of the lock. The room is completely bare except for a grand piano that stands in the far right-hand corner. Why was it left here? Curiosity wins me over and I walk to the piano. The hood to the keys is down, but as I lift it up a little too harshly it thuds against the piano. With the cover gone I see a set of pearl white piano keys.

I run my hand over them. Something tells me not to touch the keys, yet I can’t control my fingers and I start to play a lullaby that my mother always played when she was alive. The shrill notes of the piano block out the rain outside.

I am enjoying myself until an odd noise distracts me. It sounds like a dog scratching against a door, but not just any door; it is the door to my room. I stop playing. It is scratching, loud scratching, as each scrape drags slowly down the door. I bring my knees to my chest and cover my ears with my hands. God! The sound is sickening! what is out there? Do I look? A BANG against the door eliminates my prior question.

The scratches stop. I wait. Suddenly there is a face at the window opposite me. It is the face of an eerie man with skin so tight on his face that I can see the outline of his skull. He stares at me with a gaping mouth and fogs the glass with this breath. He lifts one boney arm and starts tapping the glass slowly, and yet with each tap his speed increases, and increases, and INCREASES. I press my hands tighter over my ears.

There’s a tingle of shattered glass falling to the floor as I scream. A long, painful, agonizing scream.

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Scenic Bliss

Amber DeVoe

Artwork by Trevor White Gentle petals float through the breeze,

Sticky air holding your face,

Waves rolling upon the shore with ease,

All of life keeping up pace,

Sun glistens into the sparkling sea,

Restless nights or morning fights,

Illuminating the fish that run free,

Rumbling tummy or missing mummy,

Happiness coursing through my veins,

Sadness approaching or flutters encroaching,

Green grasses swaying in the distance,

Gentle shores or demanding of more’s,

Winter approaching with such insistence,

Fluffy cotton balls through the air,

Blankets of white break the dark,

Pretty ribbons clipped into the hair,

Coldness of heart leaving its mark,

Playing your favorite game alone,

Flowers beginning their bloom,

Staying up talking on the phone,

Nights spent watching the moon,

That happy place we will go, . . . Escaping the normal life flow.

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Illusions of an Architect Shashank Singal

Artwork By Marissa Sigl

He looks through his window, upon the city. . .

At the clutter in the street, from his safe retreat. . .

He races to his board, he starts afresh. . .

To realize his dream, in his eyes a gleam. . .

His lines are bold, the strokes are heavy. . .

With passion in his heart, he practices his art. . .

He dances with joy, in his desire he forgets. . .

That men live still, where he drew boulevards. . .

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Artwork by Sydney Scott

Who Cares?

Yasmin Hakeem

“I don’t care if they call me Icarus for trying. I’m not going to stop,” she hissed out.

“You know what my dear?” asked an elderly lady, still working as she tended to the machines and tubes.

“Huh?” the girl asked. She was eating some ice cream the older woman had snuck in for her.

It was something different from the food scraps my parents gave to me.

All the other nurses cooed at how adorable my little eight-year-old self was.

At least it was better here.

“You’re just like Icarus, never listening, always finding hope, and trying to escape. I envy you, little one. But be careful. Icarus fell. And I pray the same won’t happen to you,” the older woman said, chuckling and walking back out to the hall.

A scream and a giant thud resonated through the room. The other nurses rushed out to see what the commotion was.

The old woman never came back.

“I won’t. . . I won’t fall. . . I’m not Icarus,” she whispered as the ambulence zoomed back to that place.

Back to the bed.

Back to the IVs.

Back to the experiments.

Back to Him.

17

Where I Belong Rachel Jett I’d been dreaming of leaving for years now. Visions of breaking free of the debt I’ve always felt I owed to my family visited me in my sleep. It was such a burden: feeling bound to a group of people and a stupid little town my whole life. I know I should be grateful that I was “saved”. I could’ve ended up in an orphanage for the majority of my adolescent life; and I’m quite lucky that I did not. After all, what family wants to adopt a colicky, loud infant experiencing the painful early stages of teething? Not to mention that I was the abandoned and nearly-starved offspring of a lowly Romanian prostitute. Actually, abandoned wouldn’t be the right word; it was closer to being traded for drug money. What a dealer would want with a newborn I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t want to know. I’m told that a few hours after I was put on the doorstep of an elderly woman’s house. Fortunately, she had enough heart to drive me to an orphanage, where I uncomfortably stayed in for two weeks.

Despite all that, I was adopted by a couple and their mischievous twin toddlers. Shortly thereafter, I was flown to their home in the Nebraska. They welcomed me into their family with open arms; and for that I will never be able to fully repay them. But I think that was the problem with their arms; they were too open. I constantly felt as if I had to put on an act around them: an act of unwavering happiness. After all, what right did I have to be upset or sad about anything? I had found refuge. I was safe, and I was taken care of. I never went to bed with an empty stomach, and I never left the house without the appropriate attire for whatever the weather brought. But I never fit in with the other children-the biological ones. They belonged there; they were born into that home, not traded around until someone took enough pity on them to take them in. I felt loved, that I can’t deny, but it was a forced love, such as how you “love” Aunt Judy’s egg and tomato casserole. However accurate that was of how they thought about me, it was that feeling of being an unloved burden that drove me to escaping; to breaking free; and to finding a new life.

The sky was a harsh ash grey the day I left. The wind blew with a fierceness that transformed heavy, lazy rain into half frozen bullets that shot into my face.

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Though the roads had been salted, a thick sheet of ice had still managed to cling to the roadway, preventing any cars from passing me by. This made the chances of me hitching a ride much lower, but lucky I was only seven blocks away from a bus station-seven blocks.

My determination to leave my life behind was the only thing pushing me through this hailstorm. I had left my main source of protection in my bag, fearing that the violent nature of the hurling ice would pierce my umbrella. I trudged on, my jeans becoming wetter and colder by the second. My legs felt like blocks of ice, as the only feeling left in them was a painfully cold numbness. I finally reached the bus stop, my hair a tangled and dripping mess. As I entered the bus, I found it nearly empty. I sat next to a window in the front of the bus. After I had wiped the fog off of the glass with my sleeve, outside looked just as miserable as I felt. I was wet, cold, and a bit guilty. It didn’t matter anyway-it was too late now. I had made my choice, and the ticket that read “One Way: Damariscotta” confirmed that I wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Pulling my arms into my jacket, I laid my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, praying for an extra dose of numbness as the hard confines of the seat made me all the more uncomfortable.

When I stepped off the bus, I was attacked with a blinding brightness. The sun warmed my face as a gentle breeze passed through me. It was barely warmer than Nebraska, but luckily it was much sunnier. I took a cab to a motel just outside of Damariscotta to rest up before I left the next morning. I didn’t have much of a plan so far, but it went something like this.

1. Get a ride to Damariscotta 2. Find a (cheap) place to stay 3. Find a job I’ll admit, as far as plans go, this was a pretty pathetic one. Not that I really needed one; I only required a guideline-even if it was just a compilation of scribbled ideas laid out onto a napkin. I had decided early on that if I were to live in Maine, I would need to find a reasonable place to live. I had been saving up

Artwork By Kenly Belman for quite some time, and I knew I had enough money to get me though a few months while I searched for a job. At the request of my parents, I had graduated high school a year early, so I knew with a high school degree it wouldn’t be completely impossible for me to find a job. Hopefully I could find one as a waitress at one of their seafood restaurants. In Nebraska, there were never many fish, and we never saw coast. Here I was living my dream. I could feel the ocean air from here and God, it was exhilarating.

I stepped out onto the deck of the ship, feeling the salty ocean air sting my face. Although I knew I needed to save up while I was waiting to hear back from the restaurant about my application, I decided that I needed to do at least one touristy thing. Today that touristy thing included taking a ferry to a lighthouse off the

cost of my new hometown, Damariscotta. I had found a relatively cheap apartment there, and my neighbors were (for the most part) hospitable. On the ride to the lighthouse, I took in the beauty of the scenery around me, the waves in the cobalt blue ocean water, the thin ocean mist the wind blew up, the nearby islands lined with vacation houses and trees. Above me a seagull flock squawked, dotting the sky with pure white feathers and orange beaks. I had my life set in place. I lived in a cozy apartment, had already applied for a job, I had made a friend or two, and the lobster and seafood here were super cheap. It was hard thinking about the life I had left behind sometime, but overall I think I made the right decision. I’m happier now than I have ever been, and though I’ve only stayed here for a month, I think that I’d like to stay here for a while.

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Taia Pollock

Faces

Raelyn FInes

Bridget Stadelmyer 20

Jillian Weisbeck

Raelyn FInes

Raxhanna Mendes

21

It’s a Deal

Charlene Wall

Artwork by Taia Pollock

The sun woke me up by beaming upon my face.

I blinked my eyes several times before finally adjusting to the room before me. I rolled over and picked my phone up to look at it. It said that I had an unanswered text, so I opened it up and read it. It read “Hey Marissa, I can’t wait to pick you up! I’ll be there around 10:00am!” I paused for a split second.

Date. Josiah. Crap…

I nearly fell down as I sprinted off of my bed. I glanced at the clock and noticed that it was already nine-fifty. How was there any way I’d get done in that amount of time!? I ran to find the closest mirror and thanked God that I had washed and done my hair last night, or else Josiah would be waiting for a long time. I hurriedly put on some neutral colored makeup, because I remembered Josiah said I looked better without it, but I knew that I’d feel naked without it. I then spun toward my closet and started ripping through my clothes like a hurricane would rip through a town below sea-level. I decided that there was no way that I was going to be able to look presentable, so I threw on some dark blue jeans, a gold colored sweater, and a pair of brown cowboy-styled boots. I looked myself over in the mirror just to doublecheck that everything was in order.

As I was turning to leave my room and go downstairs, I realized I forgot two very important things: to brush my teeth and put deodorant on. I turned back and ran to the bathroom. As I put the toothbrush in 22

my mouth and the deodorant stick under my arm, I looked at the mirror in front of me. The girl whose name was reflection was staring back at me. Her eyes were large and blue, while her hair was curly and a little frazzled from the hectic morning. Why was I being so stressed and forgetting to breathe? It was just Josiah after all. He was different from the other guys, which meant no pressure…right?

I was shaken out of my own personal thoughts by a loud knock at the door. I almost jumped out of my skin. I hurried and spit into the sink and washed my mouth out. I literally bolted across the room for the downstairs. I guess I didn’t hear the door open, but as I was rushing down the stairs, I tripped on my own two feet, but before I could hold my hands out to try and catch my fall, someone already caught me. It was Josiah. I looked up and saw his green eyes looking at me with uncontrollable humor in his eyes. He smirked as he set me upright. That little smile was enough to send the butterflies fluttering. “You ready?” he asked, trying to control the laughter.

Pulling back my embarrassment, I said “I’m in no rush…” We both laughed and walked out the door. We walked to his pickup truck and he opened my door. I smiled and hopped in. I watched Josiah as he walked in front of his truck to the driver’s side of the car. He got in and buckled himself.

“Where are we going today?” I looked out the window.

“Well, if it was okay with you, I wanted to take you to my church,” He eyed me waiting for my answer. I looked at what I was wearing. In my mind, church meant dresses with pearls and makeup.

“Josiah, I’m not dressed properly! Do I have time to go changed?” I looked at the clock and it was already 10:10am. Josiah locked the door before I could open it.

“Farrah, what you’re wearing is great.” He smiled at me, “I would go as far as to say you look beautiful.” My lips parted for a split second and I blushed. I looked down at my folded hands. “Why do you do that?” he asked. I look back up quizzically.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Whenever I compliment you on something you always look down and blush or smile and look away,” he furrowed his eyebrows. “Does it make you feel uncomfortable?” I could hear the start of worry in his voice.

“No.” I paused while trying to form a coherent explanation. “It’s just a reaction I have. I’m not really used to it I guess.” That was a lie. Well, sort of. I was used to getting compliments by guys. Just not the way Josiah presented them. Guys would usually make inappropriate suggestions which, in their mind, was a compliment. I didn’t know Josiah noticed my reactions. I didn’t know he was that observant.

“Oh.” He paused, thinking. “Anyways. What you’re wearing is great, so don’t worry about it.” He put the car into drive and started pulling out down my long driveway. I looked out my window as he drove past the buildings and to the outskirts of our town.

“Where is your church?” I asked. We had been driving for a good twenty minutes. Josiah looked at his clock.

“It’s about fifteen minutes out. It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere,” he laughed. “But everyone seems to flock to this church. I’ve only been going since my family and I moved here, but it’s worth the drive.” I nodded politely. I really wasn’t in the mood to talk about church before I actually went.

“So…” he looked at me. “Do you have any plans for tonight?” I nodded.

“Yeah, I am going to a party with some friends and stuff…” I trailed off, ignoring his disapproving face.

“And you know, you can totally come if you would like.” I looked at him. He cocked his head to the side and grimaced.

“Well, it’s not really my kind of scene.” He looked at

me. “And beside, all you do is drink there anyway.”

I blinked. “Well, yeah. But, you don’t have to.

It’s really up to your own personal preferences,” I shrugged.

Josiah looked at me. “Well, from what I’ve seen, these parties aren’t usually the best place to be.” I flinched, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Listen,” I said sternly “that has only happened one time. I didn’t really have my guard up.”

Josiah blinked.

“Farrah, I mean…I…” he sighed. “Are you going to go even if I don’t go?” he paused “Or would you rather stay with me?” I pretended to think about it.

“Well, I promised my friends that I would go and stuff. It’s at the beach, so it’s going to be really fun and relaxing.” Josiah rubbed his hand behind his head.

“It won’t be at someone’s house?” I nodded in agreement. Josiah looked at me with pursed lips and said “Fine. I’ll go.” He paused “But, on one condition.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know this was a bargaining deal.”

He smiled and shook his head. “It’s not, but if I go to this party with you, you have to come sit with me at lunch.” I looked at him.

“What kind of deal is that? I can still go to the party with or without you and not sit with you. If I say no and you don’t go, what do I lose?” I meant this to come off as joking, but it must have come off a little harsh.

“I mean. You don’t lose anything. It’s your choice.” He looked at me seeming a little bit bummed. I quickly backtracked.

“I was just kidding Josiah. Yes, I’ll sit with you.” I rolled my eyes at his goofy smile.

“Perfect. It sounds like a deal. But, just know that I won’t be drinking. And I hope that you won’t either. It’s illegal first of all and secondly it’s immature,” he said a little sternly.

“I’ll try,” is all I agreed to. Josiah looked like he was about to say something else, but thought against it. We pulled up to the church then. It was a quaint little building with a children’s park to the left. It was made of stone and had a little creek running through the right side.

“You ready?” he asked. I nodded.

“Sure.” And we both opened our doors and stepped out.

23

Impatient

Erin Smith

I try to look inside myself And all I see is an empty shelf The empty shelf where things reside But all my things have gone to hide They’ve gone to hide in dark corners Leaving me with empty horrors Empty horrors that keep me quiet And now I’m left to suffer in silence Silence so quiet it leaves me trembling I start to fear it has no ending I look for the ending on the shelf On the shelf inside myself Myself, alone, I look all day Then I start to think: I have nothing to say.

Artwork by Marissa sigl 24

A Crescent Roll

Through your open wounds I seep.

I drain into your soul.

They see me for whom I may be, They see a crescent roll.

That yummy, yeasty, fulling treat That I will always eat.

Add butter and a jelly to Make special just for you.

I know you want to stay quite thin, But I may hinder this.

For I am full of calories.

But nevermind, no worries.

Just run a bit

Trevor White

Cause I’ll be burned off.

But then you see One more of me Peanut butter, butter, jelly, Yum yum in your belly.

Once again you’ll burn me off Then have to go to Doctor Knopf For you are getting way too skinny.

I think you’ve gotten quite unhealthy “Just eat your yummy, yeasty, fulling treat, And gain a few pounds. . .two Cause no matter how fat you ever get, I will always love you!”

Artwork by Bridget Stadelmyer

25

Paradise

Cody Pearson

Fresh clean air fills my nostrils I slowly open my eyes as a smile appears across my face My ears apprehend sounds that in symphony sound like a gospel The only time I feel truly at peace, is when I’m at this place The sun beating on my body slowly starts to fade I get a glimpse of the elegant glow beginning to dive under a wave Beautiful colors of purple and pink fill the sky in unity The word relaxation isn’t enough to depict the feeling this gives me My body is clouded with bliss I know Heaven is the final destination, but can it actually get better than this?

26

Artwork By Trevor White

The Deep

Gabrielle Whittington

What is it? It’s silent, not because there is nothing to say in it, there is just nothing. People have described it as the calm before the storm, the breath before the plunge, the deep. What can be heard in it? Can the sound of deep drums be heard in it? Is it the sound of deep cries of war? Is it the sound of the deep waters that never stir? What is it?

It is the place before the loud. It is the sound of the breath that’s before the scream. It is the sound of inhaling the coffee before the sigh. It is the sound of the breath before the first or is to be spoken or the last word. It is the sound of the moment before the gun starts the race. It is the sound of the bag before the popcorn pops. It is the sound of the glass before it hits the floor. It is the place before the loud.

It can consume. It takes people into the deep.

They cannot get out. They are always waiting. They can never do, for that is not the deep. They cannot break free because that is not the deep. They cannot sigh because that is not the deep. They cannot run because that is not the deep. They cannot scream because that is not the deep. It can consume.

No one can help the people that fall into the deep. They too will fall into the deep and will wait.

They go through day by day waiting. They cannot move. It drives mad but they cannot scream. They can do nothing. It drives some people into sadness but they cannot kill themselves. They can do nothing. It drives people crazy but they cannot consume medication. They can do nothing. No one can help the people that fall into the deep.

Silence is the deep. Nothing can be heard. Not even death. Nothing can be heard, not even life.

Nothing can be heard. Not even evil. Nothing can be heard. Not even good. Nothing can be heard.

Not even God. Silence is the deep.

Someone is breaking the deep. Someone in the deep is screaming. The others can hear it. They want to look and see who it is. The others can hear it. They want to run to them. The others can hear it. They wish to scream as well. The others can hear it. They want to turn to see them. The others can hear it. Someone is breaking the deep.

The deep is no longer silent. Others are now screaming. The deep can be heard. The people are becoming free. The deep can be heard coming.

People can leave the deep now. The deep can be heard coming. Almost everyone is gone. The deep can be heard coming. The deep is no longer silent.

Only one voice is in the deep now. She screams as loud as she can. She stays to help others get out.

She will not leave. She stays to help others get out.

Though no one may be in there now, she knows people will fall in soon. She stays to help others get out. Only one voice is in the deep now.

She is all alone. She has made it possible for people to help others leave the deep without falling in. She sits in silence. The deep cannot be heard coming. She sits in silence. She waits for someone to help her get out. She sits in silence. Now that she is no longer needed, she has been forgotten.

She sits in silence. She is alone…

Who will save me?

27

Subjective Suffering Hailey Beavers The tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange as he took a drag. It was bitterly cold out and the warmth from the hot smoke that filled his lungs somehow made it a little bit more bearable. But as he tapped the end, causing the ash to fall, he felt panicked. It was his last one, and living on the streets didn’t really generate enough money to get another pack. It wasn’t that he truly needed them to survive. But those little carcinogenic sticks were all he had left of what he had before since he lost his house.

Life had lost its meaning ever since his son died.

Eric had only been twelve, with his whole future ahead of him. Until that truck came speeding down the road when he was retrieving a football that had flown across the street during a game of catch. After that day, the world always seemed to be tinted gray. His wife left him three months later, and she took her own life. He was left alone. He turned to alcohol, gambling, and a lifestyle of just not caring to try and numb the pain.

chestnut eyes, although they were tainted by a glint of pity that just couldn’t be masked. A white-gloved hand offered a paper-wrapped parcel. “It’s ham, turkey, and cheese on white bread,” she explained.

He took the sandwich, feeling its toasted warmth on his calloused skin. “Thank you, ma’am.” He spoke in a cracked, dry voice that hadn’t been used in a few days. He unwrapped the paper and took one half of the sandwich, and it was the best tasting thing he had had in weeks. The slight saltiness of the ham, the smoothness of the warm cheese, the filling turkey- it was heaven. When he had finished with both halves, he was surprised to see the woman still standing there.

“You are welcome., she spoke lightly, but sounded as if she were stepping on eggshells.

The man sighed. How people viewed him had changed so much in just a matter of months. Alcoholic, grieving father, husband who pushed his wife to suicide, gambling addict, husband and father of the year- all were terms that could have described him in just the span of twelve months. And now this stranger saw him as some hobo begging for change and food scraps.

“You know, we’re not that different,” he finally croaked.

His friends had said there was nowhere to go but up now. That he should keep his head high. But not a single one offered to let him couch surf after the bank took possession of his home. While they felt sympathy and pity for him, most justified not actually doing anything by being adamant in the fact that he did it to The woman looked a bit perplexed by his statehimself. It was his choice to gamble his life away, right?

He chose to pick up that bottle. In reality, they believed ment. What did he mean by that? She studied his worn seeing their friend suffering would only take away their face for a while before canting her head in response. right to feel bad about the miniscule things that hap“Don’t act like you have it any better and I won’t act pened in their own lives. like I have it any worse,” he said before looking back down at the ground. “We’re both two souls with our “Hey, you want this?” A woman asked, approachown ideas of what it means to suffer.” ing the man sitting against the building with a burntout bud in his shaking, graying hand. He looked up “I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re getwith dead eyes at the voice, noting how the snowfall ting at, sir,” she spoke, confusion in her eyes. fell on her curly brown locks of hair. She had kind 28

“Yeah, you do,” he said firmly. “We’ve all been told our problems are all in our heads, right? There are worse things going on in the world, right?” He glanced back up at her, to find her nodding. “We don’t want to think about those starving children in Africa, or the

hell going on in the Middle East. You don’t want to think about some guy starving on the street, because it just makes you think your own problems aren’t anything special,” he sighed.

“But suffering is subjective . . .”

Artwork By Marissa Sigl

29

Haikus Brain Amber DeVoe Greatly misused But vastly intelligent.

So misunderstood by all.

Existence.

Artwork by Raelyn Fines

Artwork by Sydney Scott

Snowflake David Walden

Gently floating down I see the ground below I fall and melt away 30

The Sky and the Sea Courtney Ortmann The sky and sea.

He was the sky.

Always there, never too distant from sight.

Like the sky his atmosphere is warm and bright.

Just as it storms and blackens to a void, There is always that glimmer of hope That shines as stars from distant dreams.

Sometimes the sky falls like him.

The sun and moon exchange one another in The sky like blinking of eyes.

Thunder screams like calls for help.

Without rain there is no rainbow.

She was the sea.

Deep and full of mystery Reflecting the sky.

A vast eternity of blue.

Salty and sweet.

Waves swirl and flow like strands of hair.

The sky and sea are not all that different Despite being worlds apart.

Artwork by Lia Constantine 31

Sounds of Change

Rachel Jett

Artwork by Sydney Scott He walked through the cool, wet grass, the sun shining bright and blindingly yellow above him. “Whoooosh,” the wind strongly rustled the new leaves of the spring-time dogwoods. Glancing behind him, he stared at the old red-and-white refurbished farmhouse for a few moments, taking in all of the familiarity and warmth its memories brought.

32

“MmmmOOO,” Rosie and Cotton grunted eagerly as he scooped up cow feed from the large silver tin can with a metal bucket. “BIING” the sound of the two metal objects banging resounded as he lifted up the bucket’s handle, accidently clashing one against the other as he took out the now full (and very heavy) bucket.

“Hmmmphhh” Rosie exhaled through her brown snout as the feed was poured into the big plastic feeding trough, resulting in a fast and muffled “pat pat pat pat” as the food hit the bottom of the plastic container. “BZZzzzzzzZZZ,” A large black horse fly buzzed around Cotton’s tail. She let out an irritated “mehhhhhhhhhhhhh,” swatting the pest away with her white tail.

A smaller fly came along, landing on her backside with a high pitched “eeeeee.” It was trying its best to avoid the agitated swings and swats of her swaying tail. After thirty seconds or so she gave up trying to fight them off, and went back to loudly mashing the feed between her teeth. “CLANG,” he placed the lid back onto the tin can, cleaning his hands of the pollen residue that sat on the handle onto his blue jeans.

The sky a beautiful forget-me-not blue held only a large bright orb on its otherwise blank canvas. The lush green trees were home to a choir of cardinals, bluejays, and robins, each singing its self-composed piece. He listened closely and picked out a single song, noting its “twEet -tweet---tweEEt-tweeEEEt-twEet- tweet---tweEEttweeEEEt” pattern. He sat down on the stack of bricks that lined the informal garden filled with sweet-smelling wildflowers. He admired one of the many daffodils that spotted the grass to his left.

This one in particular was pale yellow with an eggyolk yellow center. The daffodils that flaunted this color combination had always been his favorites, more so than the sunshine-yellow, white, or orange ones. He picked out a dull white rock that resembled an oval from the ground. “Sckkkk”.

He scrapped the rock against the brick, drawing a white picture onto the burgundy-red block of hardened clay.

Right on time, the front door opened with an old-sounding “eeeeeee.” The house had been his

home for more than twelve years. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was going to miss it. It held so many pleasant childhood memories, but he knew it was time to move on. “Fsshhhhh.” The door was swiftly closed. A soft “thmp thmp thmp thmp” paced up and down the worn white wooden porch. He felt bad for her, as hard as it was for him to leave this house. He knew that it would be even harder for her. She had rebuilt this house-her grandfather’s house-years ago, pouring her heart into it and breaking her back to recreate a home, only to have to sell it years later. Though she had rebuilt it, she had only refinished certain parts of it, for instance the porch. He knew it was one of her favorite parts of the house.

She had spent many nights out on that porch, each one spent reading and blowing faint “whoooos” of smoke into the starry night air. It wasn’t just the house she’d miss, but the atmosphere of the land too. Nowhere in the city laid a clearer night sky. Sometimes they’d climb up onto the roof together gazing at the silver dots that spotted the jet black background, the sound of night owls and crickets surrounding them.

Artwork by Bridget Stadelmyer

33

Simple Destiny I was making dinner that night when my life changed. Father walked in with a big ol’ smile on his face. The biggest smile I’ve seen on his face since all the mess was going down at his shop. He went over toward my mother and swung her around the room in a dance with no music.

Mother was happy of course, as their relationship hasn’t been at the best lately, so I know this is making her feel better, and maybe all talk of divorce will cease.

Mother was the first to break the celebration.

“What’s got you in such a good mood? Is the business doing better?” Father shook his head, as there was a little sadness in his eyes when mother mentioned the business. “No...even better, I found the perfect gentleman to marry our little Annie!” Mother’s hands went up to face in a shocked expression, and then she started cheering. “Oh my! Isn’t this perfect! Oh I’m so happy I could cry! What’s his name, where does he come from, what does he do for a living?”

This was so incredible! I was in shock. I dropped the plate I was cleaning, which caused father to look at me and give me a glare. He started talking to mother while I was picking up the broken shards.

“His name is Harry Crane. He lives in the plains of North Dakota and he works on a farm. He is a good kind, honest man who I know will be perfect for our Annie!” Mother was whooping with joy, while I was seething inside. I always wanted to marry for love. I wanted to have at least a say in who I was to marry. But I must obey my parents and not bring shame upon our family. I sucked in my real feelings and plastered on a fake smile. “Thank you so much father. When do I get to meet him?”

Father’s eyes lit up from thinking that I was truly happy over this revelation.

“Next week. I must prepare your wedding dress of course and your dowry. You leave to meet him next week. You’ll be married out there. Your mother and I will stay here, as we can’t leave the house unattended.

Don’t be afraid. You’ll be able to visit every now and then.” I was so broken inside, but I can’t speak my words of discontent toward him. At least I have a week 34

Josselyn Thrash

to mentally prepare for this new change.

Today is the day I leave the only home I have ever known. My mother and father are waving goodbye, with tears of joy running down their faces.

Then the train started to take off. I felt my heart leap into my throat, but I swallowed it down. The train sped up faster until I couldn’t see the station anymore. There goes my old life, and I am now to welcome my new life that is waiting for me ahead.

I dozed off in my seat, as I didn’t get much sleep the night before. I was up all night with worry. Is my new husband going to be as kind and decent as father says he is? I hope that he’s handsome too.

I was awakened suddenly by the train coming to a fast halt. They announced my stop. I got up and gathered all the luggage that belonged me. When I made my way towards the doors of the train, I suddenly felt queasy. I’m so nervous; I hope everything will turn out right. I breathed in deep and composed myself and stepped through the door.

As soon as I stepped off the train my eyes went towards a man who was holding six daisies in his hand. I knew right away that this was Mr. Crane, my future husband. He was not as handsome as I thought in my mind. He was wearing nice clothes, but they seemed to be outdated. He had a plain looking face, mud colored hair, brown eyes, and a light dusting of freckles that probably came from too much work in the fields. Another thing I noticed was that he was covered in dirt. It probably came from the farm. He had a kind-looking face, like father had told me about. But I was so overcome that emotions that I’ve been keeping in for a week burst out. I started to cry fat, heavy tears.

I saw Mr. Crane look very overwhelmed, and I don’t blame him. He suddenly gets a wife and finds out that she is emotionally unstable. But instead of being scared, he acts very gentle toward me and leads me to a bench so we could get to know each other more. He handed me a handkerchief so I could dry off my face. After I composed myself, he introduced himself and explained to me about how

we’re going to be living in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors for days. That it’ll just be me, him, and God. The mention of God made me feel a little bit better. He started to explain that life will now be different. That it’ll be a huge adjustment to being brought up in the city to now living in the North Dakota

on it. Even though it was plain looking, to me it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I had ever seen.

Tears of joy were liberated from my eyes and he looked a little sad thinking I was rejecting him. But I gave him a watery smile and nodded yes, Not trusting my voice enough to speak.

He took my left

hand plains. in his His kind and placed words were the engagemaking me feel ment ring on more and more welmy ring finger. I was come. I believe that maybe shocked to see it was father was right, maybe I could the perfect fit, and have a happy relationship with it looked like he was k Polloc Artwork By Taia this man. Then he asked me if I too. I guess this means was ready to go to his home and that it was meant to start our new life together. I spoke up for the first time. be. He took me by the hand and led me toward the “Yes, I would like that. It’s nice to meet you Mr. Crane.” wagon that I’m guessing is his. I’m happy knowing that He got down on one knee and opened up a small leath- I am going off to live with a kind man and hopefully er box. going to live a lifetime of happiness and love. I know I Inside the box was an engagement ring. He will soon be able to love him, I think I’m even falling brought it up to my face and waited for my approval. in love with him now.

It was a plain golden ring that had a single diamond 35

Mother Eli Johnson

s

Smiles during rainstorms Strong as bulls, sweet as honey Mothers are heroes

Jillian Weisbeck

Raelyn Fines

36

Dallin Nielsen

colophon

Working on the Lit Mag: Around the kitchen table, Mr. Jim Andrews, ad-

visor or the literary magazine, Mirage, suggests changes to assistant editors Evangelia Constantine, Kaitlyn Wolodkewitsch and Kara Ebeling. Editor in chief Trevor White set up the layout and artwork for the magazine. Stafford graduate Colby D’Lugos cheered the workers on to meet deadline. Sue Gill’s monster Master Computer watches over them all.

Artwork by Sue Gill 37

egarim loohcS hgiH droffatS enizagaM strA yraretiL 38

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