Mirage - 2017-18 - Stafford High School Lit Mag

Mirage

Stafford Senior High School Literary Arts Magazine 2017-2018 Volume 12

S

hoes. A simple concept. We wake up and put them on our feet every day.

What you may never think about, however, is the story that our shoes have

to tell. Flip-flops tell of days on the beach or lounging by the pool; cleats tell about the countless hours of practice and that final winning goal; workboots tell about long and exhausting days; ballet shoes tell about a little girl’s first recital; boots tell of cold winter days spent huddled inside. Our shoes help tell our stories. As the famous saying goes “walk a mile in someone else’s shoes,” and you may find out more about them than you ever dreamed. As you read this collection of literature and art, walk a mile in these people’s shoes and learn their stories.

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Mirage

Stafford Senior High School Literary Arts Magazine

2017 - 2018 Student Editor in Chief Abigail Wallace

Assistant Editors

Lucas Harkins, Haley Stocks, Susan Webb

Faculty Advisor Jim Andrews

Assistant Advisor Sue Gill

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Table of Contents LONG PROSE VIVE LA FRANCE... MIRA DOVER..................................................................................................................................6 HOMELESS... TYLER HOWE............................................................................................................................................8 FAIR... HUNTER HEDRICK..........................................................................................................................................10 A SEA OF BANDITS... AMY JO WHITTEN......................................................................................................................12 A NIGHT TO REMEMBER... SUSAN WEBB.....................................................................................................................14 A MOMENT OF SERENITY... KATHERINE MENENDEZ.....................................................................................................18 CROWDS... NATALIE MULLANAPHY.............................................................................................................................20 RAVEN’S FIRE... D’MIA LEWEK...................................................................................................................................24 DANCING IN THE KITCHEN... AMY JO WHITTEN...........................................................................................................26 PIANO MAN... CHANEY GANNINGER...........................................................................................................................28 FOUR... SUSAN WEBB................................................................................................................................................32

POETRY DEAR UNIVERSE,... ARIELLE WILLIAMS......................................................................................................................34 FOREVER... CHANEY GANNINGER...............................................................................................................................36 MIND... MIRA DOVER................................................................................................................................................38 WINTER... ELIZABETH BARRY.....................................................................................................................................40 DO IT TODAY!... KACIE DONOHUE..............................................................................................................................42 THE AMERICAN DREAM... FEVEN ASMELASH...............................................................................................................44 THE DANCE... ELIZABETH BARRY................................................................................................................................46 THE WORLD... GABRIEL FACUNDO..............................................................................................................................48

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SHORT PROSE INTRODUCTION TO MIRAGE: THE STORIES OF SHOES... HALEY STOCKS..........................................................................2 DEADLY WOES... LANITA HIGGINS..............................................................................................................................50 PEDESTALS... MIRA DOVER.........................................................................................................................................52 OH, THE LAND... ALEX ARNASON................................................................................................................................54 SPACE... MIRA DOVER...............................................................................................................................................56 TURN OF A PAGE... LANITA HIGGINS..........................................................................................................................58 ANGEL WINGS... MIRA DOVER...................................................................................................................................60

ARTWORK DOMINIQUE CHAVEZ............................................................................................................................................36, 52 JULIA CORON.......................................................................................................................................................9, 23 ARIANNA CURRIER...................................................................................................................................................48 ANGELA DARDEN................................................................................................................................................28, 44 ALYSSA FISHER.........................................................................................................................................................24 BRIANNA FISHER................................................................................................................................................35, 56 GRACE FULLER...........................................................................................................................................................51 SAM GARCIGA........................................................................................................................................COVER, 39, 43 ALLY HALE...................................................................................................................................................................6 HUNTER HEDRICK.........................................................................................................................10, 14, 17, 19, 26, 62 CYDNEY HENDRICK...................................................................................................................................................40 GILLIAN HOBACK.....................................................................................................................................................32 KARI ANN KILKENNEY..............................................................................................................................................59 LAUREN LAVERONI.................................................................................................................................................3, 60 KATHERINE MANN....................................................................................................................................................47 SARAH PUTKA....................................................................................................................................................13, 55 ALEXIA RYAN.............................................................................................................................................................20 MARIA WISS.............................................................................................................................................................31

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ALLY HALE 6

Vive La France MIRA DOVER

Into the streets they march. They go by the hundreds, joining their brothers and sisters in a rhythm that rocks the core of the earth. Their feet against the ground set off earthquakes, their chants in the air light fires. Molten lava pours from their eyes and their ears.

It streams down around their legs and onto the streets.

Some men jump back as they pass; the lava laps at their toes, reaches, tries to drag them along. Others are more willing. They leap into the fray, ready to burn for their freedom.

Ahead of the people lies a solidary prison. The walls run tall, up to barred windows that watch the Parisians’ march. The stones of the prison pile like storm clouds. The people don’t falter though. They bring the thunder. They bring the lightning.

Blue, white and red flies above the stones to the people. “Vive la France!” It calls. “Vive la France!” Back and forth, back and forth, waving to them, calling out their names. “Vive la France!” Back and forth.

The morning air turns black. The stormcloud stones of the prison are barely visible to a woman at the back of the line.

Unlike many around her, her face bears no wrinkles. Her eyes are orbs of light and youth, opened wider than they’ve ever been, mouth parted slightly.

She chanted in the beginning but now only manages a quiet “vive” every few seconds. “Vive,” she repeats like a heartbeat. “Vive, vive, vive.” The people sing it in tune with their feet, the marching of a thousand men.

She sings it in time with a heartbeat, just her one little heartbeat.

Beside her stands a man. Withered features and hair as gray as the smoke. Veins snake around his skin, across his eyes and down his arm, leaving streaks like lightning. Shaking from the cold and haunching closer to his cane, he bows like a willow tree. Out of chapped lips, he whispers, “Vive la France.” The lava and fire surrounds him, swallows him whole, but he looks forward, and marches on.

At the front of the pack stands a boy no more than fifteen, and just out of school. Revolutionary, they call him. The soldiers at the prison can see the determination in his eyes. He smiles wickedly, brandishing a knife from his belt. He swipes, cuts himself, and remembers. Even revolutionaries are mortal. His eyes change. His smile fades. He looks around, black hair whipping wildly from side to side. Maybe he can still make it out, maybe he can run back home to his Ma and Pa, still in bed. He tries to stop, tries to direct his bare feet through the swarming masses. They shout, “Vive la France,” though, and the words carry him along.

The girl at the back is given a pitchfork. A group of Parisians show her how to use it. When she asks just one though, he shrugs with regretful eyes and says he doesn’t know. She marches on. Her gold hair is tied up from earlier, when she pulled it out of the way to make the kids breakfast. On the hand where her wedding band sits, the skin is calloused and the nails are bitten to shreds. Yesterday she had such lovely nails.

The old man stumbles. The group of Parisians shove him to his feet and march him along the road.

One leaves the group, takes his arm and guides him down the street. He says “vive, vive,” softly, with kind eyes. The old man falls though, and this time the mob pulls the kind young man along. Leave him! They say, and he goes willingly.

The Revolutionary watches the prison with a fluttering heart. His skin is soft and his cheeks are like a baby’s. Soot runs down his face, black as his hair. He is a shadow. The Parisians around him are covered in soot also. From their dark faces glow bright unsure eyes. To the prison though, the mass is sure of itself. The Revolutionary slumps, eyes on the ground; the lava is gone.

It no longer laps at their feet with a fury. More storm clouds gather over their mob. They sing, they say, they whisper to the ground in fear, “Vive la France.” And they march on.

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Homeless TYLER HOWE

It was a cold, dark night. I was alone in the darkness: hidden in the Washington Monument. Nobody could see me, and when they could, I was nothing more than another homeless man.

In Washington D.C., nobody cared about me. I was alone. I lived in my own little world. A world where happiness doesn’t exist.

I wasn’t always in this world. I once lived on a normal earth with all the other people. I had things. I had a house, a car, a TV, a girlfriend. I knew what it was like to be happy, and I knew what it was like to feel love.

Things went wrong for me back in 2013 when I lost my job. My girlfriend was upset with me. She would yell at me, screaming about how useless I was.

Then one day, she just left.

She never wasted her breath to say that she loved me. She would always hold her lost loves above me. I miss every talk we had, and I miss every wish we made, but those old talks and those old wishes were nothing but ways to act as if we could change.

I always had a positive view on it. Maybe one of these days we would cross each other in a train station and board a train to our new lives. We could talk about the old times, and we could talk about how we were glad we made it out alive.

Sadly, as I think about this, I just stare at what I used to have because I recognize that I don’t have that anymore.

I saw her once not too long ago. She asked me how I was doing. I just looked at her. I told her that I was fine. I was fine, right? Then I just walked away.

I remember when we first met. I was a boy in high school, and she was a cute girl in my class. We were so great together. I remember asking her to move in with me and she said yes. We used to be so perfect for each other.

I remember looking in her eyes and seeing her

pain. I remember hearing all of her sighs that told me to go away please. By that point I knew that we had reached the end.

I’m okay with the whole situation. I don’t feel anything about it. I don’t feel anything about my current situation or what had happened in the past. I just don’t feel anything. No emotion.

When I first met her father, he was nice. He welcomed me into his home, and he called me his son.

Then one day, he just died. It was unexpected.

Hit and run. That’s what the police told us.

That was the moment when things started taking a turn for the worse in our relationship.

I remember saying that I’d never leave her side, but as things got worse, we started drifting.

I took up drinking, and I often thought about the night that her father died. That was a hard day for the both of us. We both lost something special in us.

It was on that day that I started to lose everything.

I tell everyone that I’m fine.

I really am. I don’t feel anything. It’s over. She left, and I lost my job. I lost everything, but I am fine. When it first happened, all I needed was a moment, but I’m alright, right here on the floor.

I’m alright is what I tell people. I tell people that because I’m fine. I just need a moment.

I remember when I was young. I used to read the paper with my mother. My father was a fireman, so we would see him in the news sometimes.

One day we saw him in the news, but it wasn’t good news. My father had died to save a little girl.

My mother was heartbroken. I was sad, but I wasn’t upset. My father had died a hero, and I knew that I would never be alone. I grew up with a lot of love from my parents in a happy home. When I was young, my daddy used to play me vinyl, but now daddy’s gone.

I would practice with my mommy on the

“I tell everyone that I’m fine.

I really am. I don’t feel anything.”

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piano. I was always scared when she came to my piano shows. I had the perfect dad, and all I ever wanted to be was the perfect son, but I can’t be. All I can do is remember my happy home.

I remember when I met my girlfriend. I told her that I’d be there if she needs me. I told her if she ever got hurt, I’d take her pain. Even now, I still mean it.

In the end the only thing that was true was that I’d take her pain.

Currently she has it made. She has a husband who has a good paying job. She has a house. She has a car. She even has a son.

Meanwhile I have nothing. The only things I own is a pillow, a blanket, and memories of the past. I own nothing of importance.

I often times wish that I could join the Brightside. I remember our nights under the moonlight. It was just me and her. I wish I could wipe away these sad and painful memories, but I can’t. They just stick to my brain like glue.

In the end, I’m never going to be truly happy, but that doesn’t mean I’m sad. I’m emotionless. I’m like a rock. I’m here but I feel nothing.

JULIA CORON 9

HUNTER HEDRICK

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Fair

HUNTER HEDRICK

The warm August air blew through my blonde hair, the smell of over fried food filled the air around me. Children screaming from the blue rollercoaster to the right of me. The sun was just starting to set, pinks, purples, oranges and blue painted the evening sky.

“We should do on the ferris wheel” I said to my friend, who happens to only be a few inches taller than me.

“The line looks kinda long.” He said trying to persuade me not do to it. I already had it set in my mind we were going too.

“Yeah, but it will be so worth it, with the sun going down and all the pretty lights coming on. It will look like something out of a movie!” I exclaimed giving him the cheesiest smile I could put on.

“If that’s the case, you go wait in line and I’m going to get some cotton candy, I’ll meet up with you in line.” He said handing me his little blue tickets, so he would not lose them.

As I went ahead, he went the opposite direction to go get his cotton candy. The sun was still setting while I made my way into the line. Luckily the line was short, but long enough to give my friend time to go get what he wanted.

“Made it back I see?” I laughed as he started pulling out the candy from the bag. “Took ya long enough, we’re near the front.” I pointed to the gate in front of me.

“Sweet.” He had his mouth all full of blue sugar.

“Want some? It’s blue raspberry.” He said pointing the opening of the bag my way. I took a huge chunk of it off the rest of the mound of basically sugar. “Good isn’t it?” He asked.

“Oh yeah.” I nodded whilst devouring what I had in my mouth. “We’re next!” I said as we step ahead in line.

My friend just nodded his head.

“You seem on edge. Everything ok?” I asked putting my hand on the gate and my back into a corner that the fences made up.

“Yup, just snaking.” He smiled back at me.

“Y'all ready?” The woman in a red polo shirt asked.

“I’m so excited for this!” I was acting like a kid in a candy store.

The woman open the gate up and let us through to our white and blue bucket.

“Can I sit next to you?” He asked timidly.

“Of course!” I smiled sliding my butt over to make room for him.

Slowly the ride went up, and would stop while they were loading people on. One by one we watched people get on. Some had groups of four, while others were like our

group and only had two. These groups were filled with old and little kids. Finally everybody was loaded up and the ride finally started. To the top we climbed.

“Oh my gosh, look how amazing it is up here! I could stay here forever!” I said looking down at the tiny people below and all of the night lights. “Don’t you think this is beautiful.” I started to sound like I was in love with the view, which I was.

Suddenly I felt my friend grip my hand, and it wasn’t in a cute romantic way.

“Yeah, it is.” He said, only he had fear in his eyes. It slowly started to become a new mask over the once joyous face I saw earlier in the day.

“I feel so happy I could die up here.” I laughed watching as we slowly started to make another circle around.

“Yeah, I feel like I could die too.” He nervously laughed.

“Are you ok? You are acting so different.” I asked looking over at him. His brown eyes weren't as bright as they once were before and his body was more hunched over.

“Well considering I have an immense fear of heights.” He laughed

“You have a fear of heights?!” I cut him off in shock. “Why didn’t you say anything?! We wouldn’t of done this had I known.” I said starting to feel guilty. I felt the guilt all over my body including in my gut.

“Because I knew how excited you were for it and I didn’t want to see you upset cause you didn’t get to do it.”

He explained. “Besides I’m glad I’m doing it even though I feel like I could puke.” He laughed.

The ride finally began to stop and we got out of the basket.

“Thank you for doing that with me.” I smiled. “I hope you didn’t get too scared up there,” I said with concern.

“Nah, I need to get over that fear anyway so this helped.” He smiled back at me.

“As a thank you, I want to win you something.”

I laughed starting to walk over to one of the stands with stuffed animals.

“And you think you will?” He asked.

“I know I will!” I began to gain confidence. “Race ya to the blue stand.” I pointed starting to run off.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” he yelled.

And in that day, I swear I have never felt more content with life. Spending it with someone who I love, seeing things that amaze me and just being happy.

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A Sea of Bandits AMY JO WHITTEN

I always frequented the bandit towns that ran along the Draitic Sea. It was like a home away from home, a place I could fit in. In a time when women were expected to wear dainty dresses and play dress up with nobles, I chose not to play the game. I wore pants and shirts. Among the women who inhabit the bandit towns, I stick out like a sore thumb. Whether that’s because of the way I carried myself or my lack of indecency, I never bothered to understand. I knew my place and they theirs. In the end that was all that mattered.

Because of my position as a master thief, I could tell people apart in places like these with ease.

Since the rise of the Iron Kingdom that occupied much of the eastern front of the continent, more of these towns have sprouted. People like me are treated with the highest respect in the Iron Kingdom, odd jobs becoming far more frequent if you were willing to sell yourself to the king. Many of us crooks and warriors weren’t willing to give up our freedom and so we made our own state.

Of all the towns I’d been to, Twilight Village had always been my favorite. It was crowded, easy for me to pickpocket people under the cover of the hundreds of people usually crowding the streets. Most people only passed through, too scared to stop and stay for the night. It was painfully obvious who of them either lived or frequented the town.

There were the Assassins, usually dressed in a variety of dark greens, reds and purples. If you paid enough attention to the alleys as you passed you could catch the shine of their eyes, the predatory way they looked out over the masses, always looking to do the dirtiest jobs possible for the highest bidder. I’d seen a few of them grab people off the streets and usually said people are never heard from again. In a crowd, though, most wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from anyone else. I’d come to learn that they’re more fidgety, on edge every moment they’re in the light. It’s not their natural setting and so they twitch. Luckily for them, most that passed were too busy looking for obvious dangers than anything else.

The Ronins were always some of my favorite. They weren’t quite as hard to spot, but they never

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bothered to hide their weapons. The Ronin had fled to the west when the Iron Kingdom first arose and often remained in their close-knit group. Most of them spoke their native language to avoid anyone from overhearing, though they never did anything too terrible. They were much taller than the people who had originally inhabited the west, another easy indicator of their position in a crowd. Some of them chose to wear the traditional garb of their homeland, but for the most part they tried to blend it. Even in crowds they loved to stick close together. They were also the hardest to pickpocket, always checking their flanks and eyeing anyone coming from or going their way. I’d bumped into one as a complete accident and caught a mouthful of words that meant nothing to me.

The Mercenaries were the easiest of all to pick out. They spoke to anyone and everyone they passed, whether it be sharing the stories of their past services or asking for an odd job. Most of them openly carried their weapons, though most were a lot less of a threat because of it. There was no discreet way of reaching for a weapon in plain sight, something I’d learned in quite a few of my travels. They liked to hang around the fountain in the town’s center, the hot spot for people of all kinds. Some of them had wives they brought along to do laundry or simply enjoy the socialization with them. I’d always found it incredible that out of all of the inhabitants of the village, they were the most reasonable and had the most morals left intact. My father had been one of them, but now he sat rotting in a cell within the Iron Kingdom. I paid my respects as I passed the large structure, tossing a coin into the water in honor of my father. It was strange that even in a town full of crooks and what had been considered criminals for the longest time, no one tried to steal the coins from the fountain.

I took a seat on the ledge of the fountain, looking over to the tavern across the way. I couldn’t help but sneer in disgust.

The “Succubi” had come out for the day, flashing sultry smiles and showing off their assets. They waved to every man without a woman on their arm, occasionally grabbing one in an attempt to convince him into their bed. Some were a lot less willing than

SARAH PUTKA others, though they went all the same. I couldn’t blame it on men as a whole for giving them even a moment of attention, as women made just as easy prey for them.

These were the crowds I’d grown used to, a familiar sight in my everyday life that terrified others but brought me peace. It meant the King still had no intention of coming after us to conquer what little we had and that I wasn’t so alone in the world. Today there was a new face I’d noticed in the reflection of the fountain’s water, one that both piqued my curiosity and made my heart squeeze in panic.

It wasn’t so uncommon to see someone wearing a hooded cloak while roaming the streets, though the bright blue eyes I met were undeniably royal. They held curiosity rather than fear and his skin was too clean for him to be anything other than noble. He walked as straight as they come, trying to socialize here and there. He seemed to be just as much of an observer as I. It didn’t take him long to meet my gaze. I didn’t bother turning away, crossing my arms over my chest as we stared each other down. After a few moments, he broke, turning his gaze to his feet before approaching me. He

took a seat beside me, slipping the hood off. His hair was jet black and short, stopping just below his jawline.

He smiled, a sentiment I wasn’t willing to return yet.

“You like to watch them too?” He asked, looking out over the people. I nodded, glancing around. No one else seemed to notice how different he was from the rest of us or were even looking.

“It’s more of a safety thing, but it can be amusing. You were easy to pick out of the crowd, Iron Prince.” I spoke low enough that no one else would hear. He stiffened a bit, sighing.

“You’ve got me there. I am the prince. I ran away after my father executed an innocent man. I’ve come to realize that I don’t want to be the prince of such a terrorized kingdom, so I left. I’ve been able to avoid the guards sent after me, though I can’t be sure how long that will last. Maybe… Would you mind hiding me?” He asked, throwing another glance behind his shoulder. I could make out vague shapes and, slowly, the royal crest. I didn’t need long to decide.

“Come on, then. We’ve got to get you some new clothes and a safe place to hide.”

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HUNTER HEDRICK 14

A Night to Remember SUSAN WEBB

I wasn’t even planning on going to the dance. I would have been perfectly content with just staying at home and reading a nice book or something. My mom was forcing me to go. She said that I had to go and try to “make some friends” and “meet new people.” I know I’m not easy for her. She tries to understand me, tries to get it right, but somehow she always falls short.

It was hot inside the gym. The smell of sweaty teenagers and body odor burned my nostrils. Even though the dance had just started, I already spotted at least three couples grinding.

The gym looked nice at least. There were silver streamers hanging down from the lights, and one wall was covered in a pretty ocean backdrop. Our homecoming theme was “Under the Sea.” It’s kind of a stupid theme. Did they expect us to come in dressed up as seaweed? Nonetheless, I had to give it to the decorating committee. The dance floor didn’t look half bad.

As the night wore on, the music seemed to get worse and worse. We started off with Footloose and the Cupid Shuffle. Then came a little bit of Swift and a whole lot of DJ Khaled. So many words had to be bleeped out that it came to the point where there were practically no appropriate lyrics left in the song.

Everyone seemed to know every single word for some of the fast-paced rap songs while I was just standing there trying to understand the chorus.

I tried dancing a bit. My body looked like the equivalent of a flailing worm that had given up on life.

People circled up around these two kids that were going at it hard core and were hitting the floor with some of their moves. Let’s just say that I would never go into the center of one of those dance circles even if my life depended on it.

Overall, it was pretty much like a normal dance. Nothing seemed to be unique about it, and there was no indication that there was anything to be worried about (except for the whole not being able to dance thing).

It all happened so fast. There was no warning, no time to prepare.

We were about an hour into the dance. I was dancing with a small little group of misfits. None of us were best friends, but we all got along. My ears gave me the first sign that something bad was happening.

I heard several loud banging sounds: one followed by another. It took a while for my brain to catch up with my ears and realise what happened. At first, I thought someone had fallen. Someone did fall, but that wasn’t the source of the noises. They were gunshots.

A chorus of screams broke out throughout the gym. It was chaos. People dropped to the floor. Others went running every which way, and a lot of people were crashing into one another. There was one high pitched wail that was louder than all the others, but it stopped after a while.

“Get down! Get down!” I heard someone shout.

“It’s just the music,” another person said.

“He has a gun!”

“What’s happening?!?”

“Alecia! Alecia! Where are you?”

“She’s bleeding.”

A lot of people were crying. I could hear the piercing sounds of their wails. I myself was crouched down in a corner. I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, but I was scared. My whole body was shaking and tears were streaming down my own face.

You hear about these kinds of things on the news all the time, but you never think they are going to happen to you until they do.

More gunshots went off. The loud sounds echoed throughout the gym. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Every sound I heard meant another person that was getting shot. Any one of those gunshots could hit me, I could be the next victim of one of those loud sounds.

The person who was crouched next to me suddenly got up and started running across the gym floor. My eyes followed her silhouette. She was only out a couple yards before I saw her body crumble to the ground. I looked away.

No. No. I thought. I can’t watch this. I knew

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that girl. Her name was Carter and she was in my keyboarding class.

I stayed where I was. I felt helpless, worthless, miniscule. It was me against the odds. Any one of these bullets could hit me. Any one of these bullets could hurt me. Any one of these bullets could take my life.

For the first time in my life I was truly scared.

Sure, I have been scared before; like the time I got lost in the woods or when I fell off my bike and went crashing down a hill. Those times had been scary, but nothing like this. My entire body was trembling with fear. I’m not sure I could move even if I wanted to.

What about my family? My mom and dad?

My sister? I left the house arguing with my mom about some stupid thing or another. Is that the last conversation that I will have with her? There are so many things I want to say to them, so many things I won’t get the chance to say.

A series of loud gunshots rang through my ears followed by a moment of silence.

“It’s safe now,” I heard a loud voice say.

“You guys will be okay.

It’s safe now. The shooter’s dead.”

Slowly, I unclenched my hands from around my knees. Gathering up courage, I opened my eyes and looked at the devastation around me.

There were bodies on the floor. They weren’t moving.

I saw some people start to move around.

There weren’t any more gun shots.

Cautiously, I started to get up. Something wet dripped into my mouth, and I realised it was my own tears. My legs quivered and shook, and I relied on them to hold my body weight. Slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, I moved forward.

The gym door was open, and a million tiny beams of lights were coming from people's phones.

I had foolishly left my phone at home. There were police officers motioning for people to go outside, and there were paramedics rushing around to the people who were still lying on the floor.

“Here, come here,” I heard. “Let’s go outside. It

will be okay. Come on.”

I made my way outside in almost a blind daze.

Along the way, my foot hit something big lying on the floor. I think it was a person, I don’t know. I was too shaken to even register that I had touched something.

When I got outside, there were a lot of people and flashing lights. People were yelling. People were crying. People were shouting. People were sobbing. It was overwhelming.

Later I learned that three people died: two students and a police officer.

I knew the kids. There was a senior and a sophomore. One of them was in my keyboarding class, the other I had seen wandering the halls. There is so much that they haven’t done. There are so many things that they could have been. They could have travelled the world or cured some rare disease. They could have had a highly successful career or had loving and caring children, but now they have nothing. All of the possibilities, everything that was in store for them, was instantly gone when that bullet took their lives. That bullet took away everything for them.

As for the officer, she had a family. She had children of her own, a husband, an amazing life. She sacrificed her life to save the students. She sacrificed her life to save me.

They didn’t even find out why the guy did it.

He died before anyone got the chance to question him.

What could push someone over the edge so far so that they go and do what he did? What motive could someone have for randomly killing a bunch of innocent people? It’s despicable.

Because of the shooter, those students will never grow old and live their lives. Because of the shooter, that poor officers children will have to grow up without a mother. Because of him, I am now plagued with nightmares of the incident. Because of him, I can’t be in places with large crowds anymore.

Because of him, I’m not me. That shooting changed me. I’m no longer the person I used to be.

“Because of him, I’m not me.

That shooting changed me.

I’m no longer the person I used to be.”

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HUNTER HEDRICK 17

A Moment of Serenity KATHERINE MENENDEZ

Growing up, my life was “eventful” to say the least. A better term would be turbulent, and from a young age I felt a desperate need to escape. To escape the shouts of my parents, the taunts of my brother, and every other problem that stood on my shoulders heavily enough to crack my spine. From there, I found hobbies that allowed me to step out of reality and relax.

When I was in the fifth grade, I would sit in a corner of my room that was the furthest point away from everyone in my house and spend hours indulging in my hobbies. When reflecting on those times, I’m practically mystified at how the rest of the world seemed to dissolve in those moments. I would lie on my plush carpet with my laptop playing music beside me and focus my attention on whatever hobby I wanted to.

My hobbies included writing, reading, drawing, singing, crafting, listening to music, jewelry making, etc.

To some, it might seem pathetic that I’ve had to partake in so many hobbies just to distract myself, but I don’t see that as sad. I’ve learned a lot of lessons from these hobbies, and those were easily my happiest memories as a child.

As I grew up, I maintained most of the hobbies I had as a child, but art had become the love of my life. I attest that to the fact that as people develop, their thoughts develop. So, during middle school my thoughts became a lot more abstract, and so did my emotions.

Art became a medium for me to express the complexity of my emotions towards things. In art, everything can create a mood. The smoothness of the lines, the contrast of colors, the perspective, the subject itself, all of that can influence how you interpret a piece of art. My obsession with art led to many nights that led to early mornings of drawing, and I think those specifically were some of the happiest moments of my life.

I would lie in bed listening to my favorite music, and draw whatever I wanted to.

Some nights I’d feel particularly inspired and draw an entire piece (or, at least most of it) in one night.

The world was entirely silent then, and it felt wonderful.

This sounds completely cheesy, but the world felt mine.

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Not in a tyrannical sense, but often in my life I’ve encountered times where it felt difficult to feel as though I had control over anything. But in those moments where I had a blank canvas in front of me that was mine to create, I felt in control.

My favorite part of those times was when it would hit 5am or 5:30am and the sun would begin to rise. I would step away from my laptop and huddle close to my window as I watched the sky awaken. It was a slow process, but it was beautiful.

The reason I am so entranced by the sunrise, and why I still am today, it is because it gives me a feeling of relief. Although the moon comes out at night, the sun will always rise again in the morning. There will always be a new day.

Multiple times in my life I’ve referred to myself as“dead inside” in a comical sense, but people say that for a reason. I definitely think at this point of my life I’ve “died” twice (at least emotionally), but watching the sun rise in the morning convinced me that death is just the predecessor to rebirth. It’s given me a sense of calm that is unmatched by even my hobbies.

After watching sunrises, I’d usually make myself breakfast and head to sleep. It was quite the unhealthy sleeping schedule, but I was happy.

As you can tell, for a while I’ve kept the mindset that I’ve done all of this to escape reality, but last year I read a quote by Lynda Barry that said, “We don’t create a fantasy world to escape reality, we create it to be able to stay,” and it’s really shifted my perspective.

Looking back at all the stories, characters, songs, etc. that I’ve created, so many of them had aspects of my life sewn into them. I don’t create fantasy worlds with perfect characters and an ending that assures the reader that everything is going to end up perfectly; I create fantasy worlds where the characters aren’t perfect, and that’s okay.

At this point I’ve realize that everything I create is to send an almost subliminal message to myself that despite everything I’ve endured and anything I’ll endure in the future, everything is going to be okay.

HUNTER HEDRICK 19

ALEXIA RYAN 20

Crowds

NATALIE MULLANAPHY

Isa looked toward the sign-in desk in the front of the room, through the untamed red curls on the head of the girl in front of her, and the almost visible sound waves of two girls laughing so hard she figured the next town over could hear them. It was sign-in day, and the big celebration of the new students at Madame Porter's School for Girl’s ceremony was later tonight.

Isa knew she wouldn’t know any of the other incoming students. Coming from out of state, she only had her suitcase and her golden retriever, Sandy.

The hustle and bustle in the room was enough to drive anyone crazy. Isa watched girls sporting scarves with the school’s emblem, and others wearing deep red polos chit chat about how excited they are for the new school year. Few girls stood alone like herself, but even they looked content to be there.

She knelt on the floor to pet Sandy and was able to feel the plush carpeting on her skin through the tear in her jeans. It didn’t look like any of the other girls here would own an article of clothing with a hole in it.

The apparel around the room seemed to consist solely of the Gap, while just about every article of clothing she owned had paint splatters from one project or another.

Sandy looked up at her with wide eyes, and Isa ruffled her ears. Sandy seemed to enjoy being petted, and Isa felt sorry, but the line was moving forward and she had to stand up. With one last pat on the top of Sandy’s head she stood up and walked forward. There were only a handful of people in front of her until she reached the desk.

“Is this your first year here?” A short girl with a brown bob tapped on Isa’s shoulder and smiled up at her as if she wasn’t about to throw her life away in some stupid boarding school. Isa nodded without saying anything, and tried turning around, but the swarm of girls in front of her formed a colony and bumped into her every which way. She turned back around deciding that facing the peppy brown-haired girl was the better of two evils. “It’s my first year too,” she actually seemed excited and Isa felt the urge to check her temperature.

“My name is Claire, by the way,” she held out her hand for Isa to shake. Isa just nodded, ignoring the attempt of friendliness.

“My name’s Isa.” She fiddled with the leash she held in her hand, hoping that this girl would get the hint that she wasn’t in the mood to socialize. The overwhelming number of people in the room, and all of faked conversations between girls who spent too much time on their hair, was not her cup of tea. Unfortunately, Claire didn’t seem to be deterred.

“Is this your dog? I was so excited when I found out they allowed pets here. I brought my canary, Wolfgang, but he’s already in my room. I’m from out of state, I used to live in Maryland. Do you live here?”

Isa stopped listening as soon as she said her bird was named Wolfgang. Who names a canary after a famous composer. Isa was looking for a way to get out of this conversation when finally the sign-in desk cleared and it was her turn to sign in.

“Good afternoon, and welcome to Madame Porter’s,” The lady behind the desk with unnaturally blonde hair, and hundred dollar shoes had both the biggest and the fakest grin Isa had ever seen. She wished everyone here would cut the act of being in love with boarding school, and the over-the-top friendliness.

It made her miss her friends at home even more. She remembered walking through the hallways of her worndown public school with her friends. Alfie used to pull out his pack of Marlboros right there between classes and they’d go hide out in the stairwells and under the bleachers for the rest of the day. She missed her old friends, and being able to joke around and swear in front of them. She was afraid if she cursed in front of this crowd at least three girls and maybe an administrator would drop dead of shock. She entertained the idea for a while, but then again she didn’t want a stranger to take care of Sandy if she was sent to jail.

“Can I have your name, please?” The sign-in lady said finally breaking Isa from her thoughts. She gave a strained smile, making Isa believe she might have asked for her name more than once. It wasn’t uncommon for Isa to get caught up in her head, especially in huge crowds. If she couldn’t block out the copious number of people surrounding her in real life, she’d just do it in her head. Her grandmother used to call her her little daydreamer because it happened so often, and a

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melancholy feeling washed over her remembering that.

“My name is Isa Sundvall,” she told the woman, and was in turn handed a red and white drawstring bag and a couple of pamphlets about the boarding school traditions and expectations to look over.

“You may take a seat in the section to your left.

The presentation of Madame Porter’s School for Girl’s history will begin soon,” the older woman extended her arm, pointing to the neat rows of chairs swarming with teenage girls. The worst kind of swarm. Isa could almost smell the flowery perfume that was sure to be billowing off of them. She nodded and led Sandy past a couple of women who she assumed were teachers talking to students who she was positive were just trying to kiss up to them. One girl with streaky blonde hair and a pointed nose rammed into her shoulder, sending her papers flying. She paused and watched the girl walk away without even a glance back at her. She knew all of these girls were just putting on a nice act for the first day. Sandy looked up at her, and Isa bent down to pick up her things and ruffle Sandy’s fur.

“C’mon girl,” Isa said, and stood up to make her way to a seat where she hoped she would be left alone. Winding her way through rows of chairs, she was bumping knees with people, and having to stop more than once because some obnoxious girl had their hands all over Sandy. At least Sandy seemed like she was enjoying the attention. It was better than the both of them wishing they were anywhere but here.

She found a seat in the middle of the clump of chairs where no one had claimed territory yet, and sat down relieved to have broken away from the jubilant girls with designer clothes. She wished one person in jeans and a t shirt, would walk by. Someone who didn’t seem like their lives would fall apart if their prada handbag was torn apart. She just wanted to be back by her old artsy friends at home. Sure they were trouble makers sometimes, but they didn’t hurt anyone. They just wanted to have some fun. She couldn’t have fun with these girls if Paris Hilton herself took over her brain.

Isa pulled out her sketchbook, and Sandy lay down on the floor in front of her, heaving a dramatic

sigh. Isa sighed in return, popped a pair of earbuds into her ears, and flipped through the pages of her notebook, trying to find a picture she could add to.

She found one she did when people watching outside of a cafe a few months back. She remembered that day perfectly. It was hot summer, and Gemma, Alfie, Sandy, and her all walked by the river and jumped into the rapids. They went to the cafe to get something to drink afterwards, but stayed for hours. Alfie was showing Gemma the music he recorded, and Isa sat back and people watched, sometime partaking in conversation, but mostly just listening to her friends talk. And she was happy. They talked about the music, and they talked about their futures, and they made up stories about the people walking down the street beside them. Isa liked the story they told about the business woman who was marching down the street to settle the court case that would land her on national television. She drew the woman with her powerful aura and big sunglasses. She believed the eyes underneath them were confident. Alfie and Gemma made up life stories about other people too, and when they ran out of conversation they just stayed there and enjoyed each others company. Isa added more details to the woman’s outfit, some plaid on her skirt, and a shininess to her heels. She took that day for granted when she was living it, but now she would give anything to be back there.

Someone sat beside her, and she looked up to see the majority of the seats were filled and the teachers were all lined up at the front. Some girl tapped her on the shoulder and said something about the presentation beginning, but Isa still had her earbuds in so all she heard was mumbling strung together with a too-polite smile. She pulled her earbuds out and watched a woman with gray hair, pulled back into a tight bun, walk up to the podium. She had a deep red blazer with the school emblem embroidered on, and introduced herself as Madame Cardiner, the headmaster of the school. The girl next to her turned once again and whispered, “Isn’t this exciting?” She was about to go into the woman’s whole history at this school, but Isa ignored her. Oh boy, was this going to be a long day, she thought to herself, and put her earbuds back in, turning up the volume.

“Coming from out of state, she only had her suitcase and her golden retriever, Sandy.”

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JULIA CORON

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Raven’s Fire D’MIA LEWEK

ALYSSA FISHER

The world is cold, an unforgiving tundra filled with humanity’s harsh blizzards of apathy, insecurity, and greed. Many love to boast of their unwavering strength to climb above their glaciers of grief or to swim through their frozen seas of guilt without sinking.

They all reward themselves with pride, basking in the single fact that they accomplished something within themselves. They all smile and praise, basking in their momentary solace and ignoring the perpetual and undeniable fact that no matter how high they climbed, or how far they swam, they are still- and will forever betrapped in the chaotic storms of their lives.

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Those few souls who know of their predicament, who truly know, do not smile. They do not praise.

They do not holler and cheer over miniscule accomplishments, or treat themselves as though they are special. They do not perform brash and massive feats to prove their worth to the crowd.

These souls know not to waste their energy on trivial accomplishments, or exploit others for their own betterment. Instead of climbing atop mountains, or diving into frigid pain, they stay still and close, huddled close to their fires of hope.

The fire is their lifeline, their symbol of warmth

and determination. As they stare into the dancing light, they see their desires, their goals, and themselves. The fire melts the shimmering ice of greed, and the small flakes of persuasion and pressure are burned away by the heat of determination. For many of those souls, their powerful fire keeps them alive- hopeful and proud for the future.

But the raven’s fire was little more than a dying ember. His glossy black wings cast a shadow around his spirit, and the other birds that fluttered around him learned to shy away.

Some would whisper and moon over his beautiful black feathers, or his violet eyes that seemed to sparkle as if he could see the stars of everyone’s soul.

Others would snicker at his blunt beak or scoff at his simple talons that could never cause true damage on their own. One thing they all knew, however, was to keep away and watch only from a distance.

The raven trusted no one around him, save for the soft white dove that never left his side. She would fly with him, and she would care about him in ways that no other truly did. The dove was the raven’s only friend, and he trusted only her.

But then a storm rumbled from above, and black lightning tore apart the life he had always known. The dove was gone, and in her place was a powerful white dragon who spoke with the dove’s voice and watched with her eyes.

Like he always had, the raven followed along her side, but they soon flew into a hurricane. The dragon’s strong wings propelled her through the chaotic assault of the storm, but the raven struggled to keep up with her. He was not prepared for the madness and turbulent power of the wind and rain.

Soon, the dragon was injured in her flight, and she tumbled through the sky in fear and confusion.

The raven caught her in his talons as she shivered and fretted, and it was from that moment that he decided to be strong and fearless, hard as stone and twice as cold.

If he was strong, then she would be too.

So they flew together, through turmoil after turmoil, and with each beat of their wings they became stronger. But the raven became harder, harsher, and more isolated.

Soon the raven had disappeared from the dragon’s side, and the dragon flew far and wide to search for her friend. She called for him, over and over.

“Caspian! Caspian!”

The raven could hear her calling his name, but he dared not answer. He feared going back to her, for the hopeful fire that had fueled his heart for so long was now a tiny glowing speck. A mere flake of the warm love he had felt before their flight into crisis. Now he wished to only be alone. He wished for the dragon to leave him, for he wanted no one. He needed no one. He was a raven of stone. But the dragon’s fire was fierce and strong. It blazed with the determination of an azure star.

She soon found the cold raven, brooding in a dark cave.

His once-rich violet eyes were dull and dim, and his beak was sharp and frigid. His talons gripped the stone pillars like steel daggers, and his sleek feathers never once moved in the icy wind. The dragon called to him, but he did not answer. He did not move. So she moved for him.

She flew to him and curled around him, her wings holding him close as though he would fade away at any moment. Her vital flame was so warm and bright that the raven could feel it through her soft, feathered wings. She melted the ice around his stone heart, and he simply fell into his friend’s embrace again.

The dragon was not fearful anymore. She was brave and compassionate. She had turned and flew back for him through the never-ending brutality of the storm’s fury. If she was no longer afraid, why should he be?

The raven didn’t want to be alone anymore. He wanted her with him, and he wanted to be brave like she was. So they left the cold isolation of the cave, and they flew back into the fray, but now they were strong, and they were together as one blazing fire.

“The fire melts the shimmering ice of greed, and the small flakes of persuasion and pressure are burned away by the heat of determination.”

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HUNTER HEDRICK

26

Dancing in the Kitchen AMY JO WHITTEN

I stood in the kitchen, humming softly to myself as I cooked. The wonderful aroma of sizzling sausage and the heat radiating from the oven helped to warm me as rain continued to fall just outside the window. My phone sat on the window sill, a gentle piano tune filling the room.

Above the noise, I could hear soft footsteps followed by my German Shepherd, Fenrir, trotting up to me with a doggy grin. I smiled and gave his head a quick rub before turning back to my work.

Slowly, the footsteps made their way into the kitchen and I realized they belonged to the strange man I’d befriended some weeks before.

I didn’t know much about his condition, only that he spoke a mix of English and Latin and claimed to be over two thousand years old. He’d introduced himself as Syra and had been living in my spare room.

I had to teach him what about the newer technologies and how to work them. He didn’t seem too thrilled by them, though he humored me all the same.

Syra took a seat on the counter beside me, looking over my shoulder at the sausage and gravy I was making.

“What’s that?” He asked, his words echoing the accent of Rome.

“It’s sausage and gravy. I have biscuits in the oven, we mix these two and pour them over top.

You’ll like it, I’m sure,” I replied, picking a piece of sausage from the pan and tossing it to Fenrir. He caught the piece with ease, laying down at my feet like the puppy he still was. Syra laughed and nodded.

“Your foods are almost as interesting as your technology. It’ll be a lot to get used to, if I ever do,” he said, opening and closing the microwave curiously. I laughed.

“Of course you will, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He seemed to perk up at that, completely forgetting the microwave and hopping down from where he sat. He took my hands and turned me around.

“Gradus,” He took a step back, bringing my hands with him, “Step.” I couldn’t help but smile and nod, starting to pull away when his grip tightened.

“I recognize this song. Would you dance with me?” He asked, giving me a boyish and charming smile. I shrugged and slid my hands from his grasp, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck. His hands sat comfortably at the center of my back. We swayed back and forth, the music guiding my movements more than I did. I let my head rest comfortably in the curve of his neck, closing my eyes and enjoying his presence.

Eventually he stopped moving, much to my irritation. It had felt like only moments passed and when I started to complain to him he simply smiled.

“You started to doze off in my arms and if I could cook I wouldn’t have disturbed you, as you looked so peaceful. Ignosce me, forgive me,” He said, letting me go. I felt the heat growing on my cheeks as I shook my head, turning and continuing with my cooking. He only gave a laugh and walked back into the house, leaving me alone with the food, Fenrir and my thoughts.

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Piano Man

CHANEY GANNINGER

ANGELA DARDEN

She shoved her way out of her car and scrambled to grab a cigarette and light it up as she looked around at her surroundings, trying to find out where she exactly she had driven to. It seemed to be an old worn-down bar that couldn’t have possibly been open for any less than one hundred years.

She let out a puff of smoke as she thought to herself, then took a moment to look down at the still-burning cigarette. She shook her head in disbelief at her own actions and dropped the lit cigarette, smashing it beneath her favorite pair of Converse. She removed the rest of the pack from the pocket of her jacket and threw it as hard as she possibly could into the tree line that was only just a few feet away. With a quick motion, she popped her collar

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up and approached the little bar.

The door creaked open loudly when she pushed with more force than expected. All of the tenants looked at her surprised for a moment when she slammed the door behind her. She now realized the flaw in her own thinking.

Here she was, a just-turned-eighteen teenager who just walked into a bar that she did not recognize, and closed her eyes in order to shame herself for her own stupidity.

Maybe she could go back...NO. She wasn’t going to go back, not now, nor ever. She scanned the bar for a quick moment before seeing something that was a simple comfort to her: a piano. It was an old piano, freshly lacquered in order to make it seem newer than it was. She approached it with quiet curiosity and ran her hand down

the siding, remembering that she had not played the piano freely in so long, and ached for the feeling of the keys underneath of her fingertips.

Tentatively, she sat down at the piano, lightly touching each key for a moment, before looking around the bar once more with the same curiosity.

Perhaps this piano was only an extension of the bar, seemingly too old to be worth anything, but still having the same charm as it would even if it was brand new.

She smiled to herself as a song came to her mind, and she straightened up, clearing her throat for a moment. She ignored all of the burning gazes on her, and began to sing.

The song fit well with the bar, being an old classic that she loved to listen to whenever she was down. Piano Man was one of the original piano pieces that got her into playing in the first place. The music poured from her fingers as she continued to sing and play, the background of the bar fading away as the music surrounded her, freeing her from her personal isolation.

When the final note was played, her moment of bliss was broken by the sudden cheering of the bar. She blinked in surprise and looked around.

Here they were, a bunch of shady-looking characters, with some of the biggest smiles that she had ever seen, applauding her playing.

Her stoic expression started to crack when she blushed and gave them the smallest smile back. The applause only grew louder, with a few loud whistles thrown in the mix as well. Now the smile was hard to hide as she stood up and bowed from her seat.

When the applause finally died down, one of the biggest men in the bar started to approach her. She swallowed hard as he came closer and closer, a large man who (guessing from the similarity of clothing and facial hair to a crew of other men) seemed to be the leader of a motorcycle gang. He was only about a foot away from her now, and smiled down at her.

“I don’ mean to be scary, little lady, but that there was the finest playin’ any of us had heard in a long while.”

She smiled up at him timidly, not very open to conversation at the moment.

“Thanks.” She quipped, not looking him in the face. He now frowned, and bent lower to meet her gaze.

“I know I’ma pretty big man, but I’m not that scary. Besides, I’m only offering you a drink. It seems you

needed some company, since you’re a little young to be in this bar, and—”

“You don’t know a thing about me, sir, so watch it.” She bit off, glaring directly into her face, making his frown only deepen. She sighed, and shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I know that was rude. I just don’t want to have to depend on anyone right now. I’ve already been told I’m too dependent.”

“Why don’t you and I take a seat at this bar here, and you tell me independ’ntly why you’ve got your panties in a twist?”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and gently guided her into a tall green barstool. He sat himself in the one beside her, and waved a kind-looking bald man with a fantastic mustache over.

“Jimmy, can we have two of the usual please?”

She shook her head dejectedly.

“I don’t drink.”

The bartender slid two Arnold Palmer’s over, which the man caught.

He smiled and handed one to her.

“Good thing I don’t either. You ever had an Arnold Palmer?”

She shook her head again.

“No, I don’t typically get a chance to try new drinks.”

The girl took the drink tentatively, and looked at the bartender, who nodded kindly. When she finally did take a sip, the other liquid made her smile. It was absolutely delicious, and made her warm from head to toe.

“What’s in this, sir?” The motorcycle man grinned.

“Sweet tea and lemonade. I’ll be damned if it’s not one of the best darned things in the whole world.”

He held up his glass to her, in a toast. When they touched glasses, there was a tiny clink, and it seemed to make her loosen up even the slightest bit more. They both drank.

“Now, Miss...”

“Athena.”

“Miss Athena. Why is a beautiful girl like you running into a rundown bar like this? Are you in trouble with the law or something?”

Athena only shook her head.

“No, sir. Well...you see, I have a mother. Just one mother, who hates me with all of her passion. She...does things to me when she gets angry. As soon as I was able to drive, I would take the car and just drive in order to

“She scanned the bar for a quick moment before seeing something that was a simple comfort to her: a piano.”

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escape her,” The girl then looked down into her glass, “But I always have to go back.”

The motorcycle man frowned at her again.

“Why? Looks to me you don’t need to depend on her at all.”

Athena only laughed.

“I don’t depend on her at all. I am a rock. I am an island. But she is my legal mother.”

Athena now observed her host. “Enough about me, what is your story, Mr...?”

“Clint. Robert Clint. Everybody calls me Clint.

I’ve been working a bunch of different jobs, and I come in here every week at the end of the day to talk with my family.” He nodded over to the group of buff men who raised their glasses in acknowledgement.

Athena looked at Clint curiously.

“Your family?” She asked quietly, looking over the group. He chuckled and clasped an arm around her shoulder, looking at the group with adoration in his eyes.

“I know that their not my blood, but they are my family, since I don’ share blood with anybody. Parents ain’t my blood, and siblings ain’t my blood either. My friends are my family.”

Clint then slid off his stool, and took his arm off of her. Just as he removed himself, another figure burst through the door. She was huffing angrily, and her hair was pulling out of her carefully-arranged bun at the top of her head. The glasses on the bridge of her nose were nearly falling off, and she didn’t seem to notice the strange looks that she was receiving. The woman’s vision was tunneling as she focused on the biker, and more importantly, the small girl standing next to him, who was growing paler by the minute.

“You! You-You little twerp are coming home with me right now!” She stumbled slightly when she pushed into the bar completely, and stepped closer to Athena.

Yet the woman had only taken another step before Clint took a step in front of Athena protectively. The mother looked up at this large biker and hissed under her breath. “Listen here, buddy. You get out of my way, or I will make your life as miserable as possible.”

“I doubt that’s possible, bub. You need to step away and cool off.” Clint only seemed to grow in size when he talked, but Athena’s mother was not backing down.

Suddenly, a small hand rested on his shoulder, and all of his anger seemed to dissipate. Athena moved to stand in front of him, and took a deep breath.

“Let’s go home, mother.”

The anger did not dissipate in mother’s eyes, and

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she screamed in outrage. She raised her hand up to smack Athena, when Clint caught her wrist. He pulled her forward, and looking her directly in the eye.

“You will leave this sweet child alone. I don’t care if you are her mother or not. She is staying with me. Do you have any objections?” It was less of a question, and definitely a command.

All of the heat disappeared, and the mother finally realized what a fool she had been coming alone.

“No, you can keep her. She’s not good for anything, and she knows it!”

The rest of the Clint’s friends stood up in outrage.

“Get out of here!”

“Or you will regret it!”

“We’ve got your back, Clint.”

“You too, little missus.”

Athena seemed to zone this out, her eyes narrowing on her so-called mother. She felt all of the anger of the years she spent piling up, and she strode forward and rose to her full height.

“I will return to the house to collect all of my things. I suggest you make yourself scarce when that happens.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes at Athena.

“You’ll be back. You always come back to me. You need me—”

“I don’t need you. I am a rock. I am an island.

I don’t recall either of those things needing a witch to survive on their own.” Athena seemed to be glowing now, reveling in her triumph as her mother seemed to shrink back, and stumbled back.

“You-You have no family here. Where will you go?

What will you do?”

Athena let out a humorless laugh.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? My plans are no longer a concern of yours. Now, get OUT!”

The force of Athena’s words made her mother stumble into the door and scurry out of the bar, without another look back. Athena let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and noticed the silence of the bar around her. Not a moment later the bar burst into cheers.

“That a girl!” Clint said, picking her up happily, making Athena giggle.

“A round of drinks on the house!” The bartender shouted, making everyone cheer again and rush to the bar.

Clint led Athena back to his group of friends, and she shared stories and laughed alongside them, postponing her worries for a moment. Because even rocks and islands need a moment of pure happiness.

MARIA WISS

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GILLIAN HOBACK 32

Four

SUSAN WEBB Four. Four lives lost. Four souls gone.

There was no mercy in her eyes: the mother.

Her heart was dead long before her body. She was tired, she couldn’t take it any more. Everything she looked at reminded her of him, even the two kids.

He died a week ago. She said it was a from weak heart, but his heart was strong.

There was no reason given for why she killed him, no possible explanation. Maybe something was wrong with her head. She never visited any doctors, but in retrospect the husband probably should have booked an appointment. Then again, who would want to put their own wife in a mental hospital?

The mother watched closely as it happened. She saw the life leave his eyes as she was sipping her morning coffee. How unfortunate it would have been for her if she had picked up the wrong mug.

Once the husband was out of the way there were still the two kids to deal with. They looked so young, so innocent. They had everything to live for, and she could just take it all away with a few drops of cyanide. She was in control.

It’s not that she hated her kids. She hated her husband, and her husband was in the kids. She had to get rid of him. She had to get rid of every last part of his existence. If she hadn’t killed her kids, then her husband would have still been in her life. She had no choice. She had to do it. Right?

It was so easy to do. She just slipped a little bit of the poison into their chocolate milk. She normally never lets them have chocolate milk. Today was just a special day.

The mother had to look away when she did it.

She heard their cries, but she stayed still with her back turned to them.

When the deed was done, she turned back around to admire her work. She felt a little pang in her

heart like a knife jabbing into her soul. That must be what if feels like to finally be free: free of her husband.

But she wasn’t free. Oh no, she was not free. Her husband was still on her. His voice still echoed through her ears. How could she get rid of his voice? A knife.

There was a knife in the kitchen. She had to do it, she had to erase every last part of him. Holding her left ear in her hand, she slid the knife down and chopped it off.

The knife got stuck, and she had to saw back and forth to get rid of it completely. The mother then moved onto her right ear. Back and forth, back and forth. The knife would get through eventually. She didn’t feel any pain.

She didn’t feel anything.

Finally his voice was gone, she should have been feeling relieved, but she didn’t. Why wasn’t she happy? Suddenly it hit her. The husband was still there.

His face remained in the memories of her eyes.

She could still see his godawful eyes staring back at her.

She took the knife and stabbed into her eyes, one followed by the other twisting the knife. She thought that would solve everything. She thought that would fix the problem, but it didn’t.

His touch still blanketed her skin. He had held her hand, touched her body, kissed her lips. The mother took the knife and went to work. She shaved off the skin starting with her legs and then moving upwards.

He was almost gone. Almost every part of his existence had been erased. There was just one last thing for the mother to do.

She could still remember him. The husband’s memory stayed in her mind, and she had to get it out.

She took the knife in her shaky right hand and pressed the tip of it against her forehead. She pushed sinking the knife deep into her temple.

Finally. He was gone. Her husband was gone.

Four. Four souls dead to erase one soul’s life.

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Dear Universe, ARIELLE WILLIAMS

Hello? Is there anyone out there?

Hello? Did you know the universe is infinitely endless, that I don’t matter, and life is just not fair?

Hello! Are you listening to me?

My soul is on fire and I can no longer breathe.

The oxygen of knowledge is what I need.

Don’t you dare pretend you are not there.

Don’t you dare pretend you don’t give a care.

I am suffering here!

Nothing will be okay because I think I am my own greatest fear.

I will not cry to one who already understands.

They don’t deserve see me weak, bowing down to the ultimate enemy of man.

Who do you think you are?

Because I know who I am.

I’m the person who drove into the middle of the desert and is now standing on top of my car.

My heart is empty And my mind is broken.

All I have are words someone else lent me.

And even after all of that I’m still not outspoken.

I will not be the crazy one here!

I will not be the one to shed a tear.

I am stronger than you. I am sure about that.

So, just in case you were not listening, there is nothing you could possibly do to make me feel like I am not enough.

I’m just... I’m just tired, okay?

Please...please, I beg of you. Do you really have nothing to say?

Nothing at all…? ...Well, when you do, Universe, just please...give me a call.

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BRIANNA FISHER

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DOMINIQUE CHAVEZ

The World Forever

C H A N E Y Gabriel G A N NFacundo INGER The world is nothing, Nothing when you are alone.

You stumble and you fall with no one to catch you.

Sometimes someone comes along With big promises like, “I will always be there.”

Until he no longer wishes to be.

Then you realize You didn’t want “always” If it was only that short.

A person needs forever When it comes to love.

She needs someone to have, To hold, To promise To keep her safe!

That, At least, Is what he told you he would do, But they never stay forever.

Because even forever isn’t long enough.

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Mind

MIRA DOVER My head is a Pandora’s box of fears, Sinking me like the Titanic.

My mind is a mad tea party, Running away in panic.

My head is away with the fairies, Spinning like a record that’s broken.

My mind is a jack-in-the-box, Suprising and outspoken.

My head is a rusty typewriter Whose words can ensnare.

My mind is the Jolly Rodger, Floating through the air.

My head is a flashy poster On a movie theater wall.

My mind is insane like the color orange And red like the leaves of fall.

My head is somewhere in space, Watching the man in the moon.

My mind is floating on knowledge In a hot air balloon.

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My head is stuck in a book, A fluorescent fantasy land.

My mind is turning the pages, Burned into my head like a brand.

SAMANTHA GARCIGA

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CYDNEY HENDRICK

Winter

ELIZABETH BARRY She stands still outside.

The white snow whips through the air And frost nips at her skin.

Gray engulfs the world.

Her hair is blown back and forth, Shivering from the cold.

The wind screams “go back,�

But her path does not waver.

A light glows far away But not far enough That she would give up hope now.

She is persistent.

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Do It Today!

KACIE DONOHUE

Once we rise from our beds, We stand upon the ground once again, Every day upon the same plain.

But what to do once awoken from our slumber?

All the things we can do is at an infinite number.

We have a brand new slate everyday To do whatever we wish Or speak whatever we must say.

If you feel that you want to change the world, Then go ahead and give it a whirl.

Do it today!

Because tomorrow is made of clay.

It can be molded and shaped in whatever way.

We control what we do, so why not do it today?

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SAMANTHA GARCIGA

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ANGELA DARDEN

The American Dream FEVEN ASMELASH

The dream is to come to America.

The dream is to be in the country that people idolize.

The dream is to be successful.

The dream is to be something.

The dream is to be a part of a peaceful country.

The dream is to be a part of a society.

But the reality is America is not what the others think it is.

It is poverty stricken With a deteriorating government.

It is no different from a poor, third-world country.

The nightmare is that we are not safe Not in school, Not in church, Not in a movie theater, Not in your home.

The nightmare is that we are not treated equally, Not if you are Black, Muslim, Hispanic, Gay, Transgender.

The nightmare is that people who are supposed to protect us do the opposite.

We are Beaten, Killed, Ignored, Left to fend for ourselves.

But yes, This is America, America the great.

And this is the part of the American dream that was not mentioned.

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The Dance ELIZABETH BARRY

Long legs and big eyes.

Scared eyes.

Quivering legs.

It is dark but she can see.

She navigates the dark.

Her footsteps crunch Just too loud for comfort.

He is silent.

He can see better than she in the dark.

The chase becomes a dance.

Her heartbeat escalates, His slows.

He knows this dance better than she.

He lives for this dance.

He lives because of this dance.

This dance is one that she will only know once.

Her first and her last.

He is close enough now, Even his silence can be heard.

Her ears twitch back and forth.

It should be swift.

She knows But she is swift as well.

She could outrun this.

Her legs know to run.

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That is all her legs know: A dash.

It is all part of the dance.

He knows.

KATHERINE MANN

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ARIANNA CURRIER

The World GABRIEL FACUNDO

The world is full of mistakes.

Waking up to fresh news stories, It’s really starting to get boring Because people are dying, And we have no hero to save the day.

Yet we have people who just dribble a ball, And people who write music, People we watch for our own amusement Who people feel should have no input at all.

We need to wake up and realize That if we do not stand together We will never make the situation better And continue to lose more and more lives.

So I sit in my room and write To make myself feel better and breathe Why don’t we just pack our things and leave Since we are all self conscious about what we feel on the inside?

We’ll run to the end of the coast To leave all our memories behind And go somewhere we can all go clear our minds.

But instead we find a wall that’s got us all engrossed.

One giant obstacle that our “big man” created.

All I want is time to think.

I want be erased from time and become instinct, But instead I’m in my room always writing when I’m aggravated.

The world is full of diversity and full of aspiration.

People will want to take that away And will hurt you with anything they do or say, But leave us all in a dark mentation from people they’ve hurt or taken.

So I leave it up to myself to ask the question Since I am the only writing and calling To see what the “mouth” is really jawing: What will you do to keep us from destroying our nation?

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Deadly Woes LANITA HIGGINS

P

ain, sorrow, and despair. I know these feelings well. These are all I’ve ever known since my creation. Whether it’s my own sorrow or that of others that I encounter is not something I differentiate anymore. Mortals say that I am the very cause of these emotions. They fear and despise my very presence in their world. When I appear, some more disappears from existence. For I am Death. I roam the Earth and collect the souls of mortals who leave this plain of existence.

It is my purpose, responsibility, and my burden. I do not cause their ends but even if they knew that truth, they wouldn’t believe. It wouldn’t matter if they believed it either for I am nothing more than an unwanted part of their small lives. They can’t see or hear or see me. If only they could. Despite the common misconceptions, I am not some dark-cloaked creature that carries a giant scythe.

I would probably be mistaken as a mortal. I think that I would be what mortals consider handsome. Fair complexion, tall physique, and well-defined bodily features. What I’m saying is that I’m not a grotesque monster that wishes death upon everyone.

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GRACE FULLER

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DOMINIQUE CHAVES

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Pedestals MIRA DOVER

T

here are certain people whom you may come to love, even in a truly platonic sense. They stand on pedestals, in a way that you have to crane your neck up to see them. Painful, but worth it.

There was a friend with a cheshire smile and big pigtails in her blond hair. She wore light-up sketchers every Tuesday, and she only had shirts in shades of pink. She was funny to listen to, and even funnier to watch. But some years apart and her smile had turned around. The only thing that lit up was her cigarette. Her shirts were gray and her laugh was gone.

There was a mysterious figure. He was quiet, and kind, and we exchanged words once.

He was perfect. But as I came to know him, he was arrogant, and looked for compliments in every place possible to boost his self-esteem. It didn’t help him.

There was a girl who referred to everyone as “friend” and jumped up and down in excitement. She made strange, fun noises and told people they were beautiful. But days change, and next time she had the weight of the world on her shoulders and could no longer jump.

There was a leader whose laugh made other people laugh. His girlfriend thought so, too.

But he was caught in a web with his girl and a “friend.” But instead of just one, he decided on both.

And there was a boy who held the door open every single day for people. We never spoke, but he was always there. When we met for real, he was a narcissist who was only looking for attention.

People are not as you imagine them to be. I was looking up to see them on pedestals, held up by my imagination, but when I blinked again, I was looking down on them.

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Oh, the Land ALEX ARNASON

T

he land makes everything heavy. In the water, I can move just fine. Slow, but fine.

I am not one to be impatient, as it is very unbecoming. No, like my mother, and her mother before her, I simply drifted and grazed and drifted and grazed. It was serene; it was peaceful. Humans came and went. They either praised our majesty (which made me rather bashful. We are very humble creatures.) or giddily mentioned how fat we were (a badge of honor. It is good to be big and good to be warm). But when the great sea panicked, when the dolphins shrieked their escape, when the fish practically trembled in fear of what was to come, our drifting and grazing was… Insufficient. Without the strength required to swim against a current, or the adequate limbs to keep us tied to the waters, my family was knocked about by wind and rain. The water became far, far fresher, the corals were strewn this way and that, and I…

I learned what it means to be heavy.

In the water, you are rather weightless and drifting is rather simple. On land, gravity is crueler. Air is harsher. I was simply dumped onto my side, my brother a few lengths beside me. He groaned, and he wiggled, but he could not will himself to move. I, too, tried my best to wriggle my way back into the sea, but my efforts were fruitless. My brother and I were at the mercy of the land, and of the light, almost taunting drizzle of rain that hit our rapidly-drying bodies.

I knew the moment my brother died.

He was silent for a while. Tired from his struggling. I knew he could feel the same things I could: our bodies crushing themselves, squishing our lungs and our hearts beneath what was supposed to keep them protected. I suspect he’d worn himself short of breath and could not get it back. He was limp within the better part of an hour, and then I was alone.

I wanted to call out to him, but I knew if I wished to live I would need to reserve what little strength I had.

It was close to the second hour when he humans came. Shouting, carrying on in the boisterous way they did. One came over and stroked my hide and then pointed one of their strange black boxes at me.

I was very tired.

After talking amongst themselves and into the black box, which was curious, more humans stumbled onto the scene. They touched my brother, and I saw them come to the same realization I did. They then focused on me, pushing me and rolling me onto a strange green surface before coming together to tug me into the blessed sea again.

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SARAH PUTKA

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BRIANNA FISHER

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Space

MIRA DOVER

W

hen I stood at the edge of the boat with the waves rocking along its side, there was a kind of peace in the moment. I leaned over the edge, feeling the salty spray against my cheek. The ocean looked like the paint pallette of an overzealous artist who decided to mix together all of the blues he could find.

At night though, the ocean is much different. I climbed up to the deck to look out at the waves, but when I reached the railing, there was nothing. The water was gone. In its place was a pitch blackness, so natural and entrancing, that I couldn't stop staring. There was nothing, absolutely nothing.

The moon provided the only light. Stars dotted the sky, and trying to find the horizon was a nearly impossible task. The sky had no end. I circled the edge of the boat, still searching for the end of the stars. But there was no end, and in the darkness, I realized how utterly, and beautifully lonely this world could be.

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Turn of a Page LANITA HIGGINS

T

here was hundreds of us all collected in a fine leather bind. Two hundred seventy six of us to be exact. Together we held the story of Odysseus. We’re the Odyssey. Each one of us were a page in the epic poem. I was one of the pages that tells the beginning of Odysseus’s journey back home. Now I’m just a soggy, lonely piece of paper drifting in the gusting winds. All I want is to be reunited with my brothers and sisters. To feel whole once again. This storm that the humans call Irma has caused so much devastation. I’m sure I’m not the only page that flew off its book spine. Wondering where their family is and looking for a dry and safe place.

I can already feel my ink starting to bleed together. Soon the words will be nothing more than an illegible, waterlogged blob on my body. There’s one question that I keep asking myself. What did I do to deserve this pain? I know I’m nothing more than one page in a book of many but I can’t help feeling like I had something to do with my own demise. All I can hope for now is to either find my book, my family, or ask for a quick, merciful end.

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KARI ANN KILKENNEY

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LAUREN LAVERONI

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Angel Wings MIRA DOVER

T

here is a place where snow falls from the trees in spring. When the branches bow over the ground, kissing the grass with soft grey shapes and tickling the dirt with their roots. The snow falls brown. It twists and turns on its way, taunting children who try to catch onto the butterfly-like wings. Once, in the spring, I ran through a field. Green plastic bucket in hand, I picked up the papery snowflakes by the bulbs and dropped them into the bucket, my grimy little fingers on the feathers of angels fallen from the sky. The bucket was filling and there was probably enough for two… three angels to have new wings sewn on. I didn't know the weight of them then, only that they were like magic in a world without. So I held the bucket close, squinting in the sun, having no idea that she was the one to thank for the spring snowflakes.

Daddy called to me from the fence. Still with the bright green bucket squished to my chest, I followed him to the car. The bucket sat next to me and I fell asleep dreaming of angels wings. We pulled into the driveway and he carried me around back as the sun whispered, “Wake up, sleepy. Time to play.” I peeked my eyes open and leapt up the balcony stairs. The bucket swung in my hands and the snowflakes jumped with every bounce. At the top, I surveyed the yard, letting the bucket tip to one edge. Daddy came up behind me and pulled out handfuls of the snow. I tipped the bucket while he opened his palms and we let the feathers loose.

Down they fluttered like a flock of butterflies, spinning, dancing, twisting. They flocked to the ground, a cloud of wonder, fluttering like the heartbeat of one angel.

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HUNTER HEDRICK

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Colophon Mirage is in its twelfth year of publication and is published during the summer. The magazine was produced using Adobe Photoshop C56 amd Adobe InDesign C56. It was published at Stafford Senior High School using 20 pound paper on an HP 551 printer. The Impact font was used for the title of each piece.

The TW Cen MT Condensed font was used for the authors’ and artists’ names. The Minion Pro font was used for the body text. The TW Cen MT font was used for the pull-out quotes.

Purpose Mirage is the literary arts magazine for Stafford Senior High School in Falmouth, Virginia. The purpose of the magazine is to showcase students’ thoughts and expressions through both writing and art. As with any publication, the views expressed are not necessarily the views of Stafford Senior High School, the editorial staff, advisors, or Stafford County Public Schools. All students at Stafford High School who are not enrolled in a Creative Writing class are invited to submit their work for consideration in the magazine.

Submissions Submissions should be dropped by room A211. All work completed in Stafford Senior High School’s Creative Writing classes are considered for publication. Mirage embraces every opportunity to post the work of any student’s submission, regardless of format or length.

Rights All writing and art submissions are considered by an editorial staff who chooses submissions based on quality, appropriateness, relevance, and overall impact. The editorial staff reserves the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted works.

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