Volume 03 Issue 1 by The Echo

The

Vol. III Issue 1

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” —Maya Angelou

Fiction Wendy Smith, “Wolf” She did not understand at ten. All she knew was that the dress was too heavy, the woods too quiet. She gripped the basket in her hands and trailed cautiously behind her mother, watching the stillness with fear running in cold hands down her spine.

n ma

e r u at

Steinbrenner High School’s Student Literary Magazine March 2014

Taken and Lost Carli Blanchard

Poetry Courtney Barron, “The Old Mountain” With every aching joint my adrenaline keeps pumping, I think 'almost there' with deep and heavy breathing. Making my way across the titanium bridge I float on air, and step by step I begin to forget every hurt and every care; Melissa Ferrin, “I Don’t Think You Understand the Gravity of My Situation”

I Found Beauty on the Ground Kendel Burke

Free Heads Miranda Cornell

plus more great prose, poetry, and art by Jacob Gonclaves • Lara Arid Jeff McFarland • Aliya Talbani Mariangely Miyares Karli Jahnigen

You walked into the room super massive, heavy with perfection I couldn’t prove. Your visage glowed with the density of light caught in your atoms, I couldn’t imagine you floated on water.

Featuring “Panic” by PTSA Reflections award-winner Melissa Ferrin

Graphic Designer

Managing Editors Cara Albert, Tessa Childress

Daniel Krasnove

Fiction Editor

Marketing

Robby Gordon

Emily Holley, Abby Chisholm

Poetry Editor

Editorial Assistants

Wendy Smith

Lara Anid, Kristen Barry, Anthony Campbell, Logan Conrad, Miranda Cornell, Michael Dailey, Mariela Deynes, Cassidy Doyle, Dev Landry, Janelle Lockhart, Rachel Madden, Cierra Martinez, Beth Mason, Alyssa Mills, Eric Nieves, Emily Nott, Emily Pedone, Arielle Segovia -Best, Kyia Seo, Lilly Shaffer, Gabby Shusterman, Emma Stevens, Chris Tanberg, Gianna Taravella, Angeliss Tejeda, Caitlin Toland,

Nonfiction Editor Sam Szatyari

Art Editor Melissa Ferrin

Submissions Manager Mattingly Gerasimovich

Staff Writers Darin Bell, Jessie Bryant, Nabeela Chowdhury, Jenn Heveran, Luis Llano, Taylor Masut, Benji Nichols, Matthew Perror,

Advisors John Eric Vona, Kathleen Syron

Be Featured in The Echo!

WE WANT YOU IN STEINBRENNER HIGH SCHOOL’S

STUDENT LITERARY MAGAZINE Submit your best short stories, poems, and artwork to The Echo. See any English teacher for details. March 2014 / The Echo

Vol.

III Issue 1

FICTION 14

[contents 33

Free Heads Wolf

Wendy Smith 36

Eyes Mariela Deynes

Red Freedom Robert Gordon

Title of the Story

PATRONS

The Old Mountain Courtney Barron

The Echo would like to express its utmost appreciation to its sponsors for their support and dedication:

Steinbrenner High School PTSA John Eric Vona Kathleen Syron 54

The Echo / March 2014

Be You Jessica Lynn Weins

Taming the Beast Josh Rolie & Robby Gordon

Hollow Words Danielle Estrada

Breathe Jacob Goncalves

I Found Beauty on the Ground

Wendy Smith 27

Season’s Bend

Ignorance Jeff McFarland

POETRY

Emilee Stump 24

Seasons

The Loved and the Departed Bailey Zohar

John Smith

Kendel Burke

On This Day We Expected the Worst Miranda Cornell

Miranda Cornell 28

]

I Don’t Think You Understand the Gravity of My Situation Melissa Ferrin

Writer’s Block Katie Coakley

People Tend to Assume Lara Anid

Blood is a Strange Color Holly Munter

The Struggle of Perfection Wendell Hallaway

[contents] NONFICTION 6

Taken and Lost Carli Blanchard

Panic Melissa Ferrin ART

Art by Karli Jahnigen

Art by Mariangely Miyares

Art by Penelope Mugford

Art by Hannah Murray

Art by Karli Jahnigen

Art by Jessica Krasnove

Art by Emma Doering

Art by Mariangely Miyares

Art by Aliya Talbani

Art by Taylor Fernandez

Art by Emma Doering

March 2014 / The Echo

They are immediately labeled different. And one thing we don’t understand About “normal” is that without Differences we could never even start to Fathom the existence of “normality.” It is different to sacrifice humans Lives against their will. It is different to keep humans captive And abuse them because of a difference In pigment of their skin. It is different to kill and murder Millions of humans because of what they Thought and believed in. It is different to do as we please to The ones of the same race and not of the same actions. It is normal to respect one another No matter what. It is normal to love someone of The same sex. It is normal to be your true self. Brothers and sisters even though you Might not understand the meaning of Normal we all can agree that we all Have felt pain, we all have felt misery, We have all cried. So let us talk to One another and be there for the hurt And one day, maybe, one day we humans Can achieve perfection.

The Echo / March 2014

[foreword

]

Hello, and welcome to the third, new and improved issue of The Echo Literary Magazine! In this volume we explore the depth and chaotic characteristics of humanity along with the beauty and simplistic aspects of nature with our Human Nature theme. We’ve received some of the best art and literary submissions of the past three years, from the eloquently beautiful pieces of Aliya Talbani and Mariangely Miyares to wonderful works of prose and poetry such as “Taken and Lost,” “I Found Beauty on the Ground,” and “Wolf.” On behalf of our staff, I wish to thank everyone for supporting The Echo and hope you enjoy the latest issue of Hillsborough County’s best student literary magazine! Cara Albert The Editor

March 2014 / The Echo

[nonfiction] Taken and

Lost

Carli Blanchard

The Struggle of Perfection by Wendell Hallaway It was normal to sacrifice Human lives against their will. It was normal to keep humans Captive because of a Difference in pigment of their skin. It was normal to kill and massacre Millions of humans because of what They thought and believed in. It was normal to do as we please To the ones of the same race but Not the same actions. It was different to respect one Another no matter what. It was different to love someone Of the same sex. It was different to be your true self. As humans were not built to be perfect And we see perfect as being normal And therefore we can never be normal But some try to be by continuously Following what “normal” was in their time. But yet the definition of insanity is The infinite repetition of something and So as we labeled anything normal we Truly labeled it madness. Madness that we blindly live in and Walk by today as humans we stopped Thinking and have separate opinions and When one human actually has an opposite opinion

Photo by Altaipanther, via Wikimedia Commons

March 2014 / The Echo

Blood is a Strange Color by Holly Munter All around me, people drop to the ground I watched in horror My closest friends, all gone Dead bodies lie on the floor I have to turn away I reach behind me and my fingers wrap around a gun I glanced up disoriented And then the guns go off Aware in some corner of my consciousness that I was dreaming Although, it became dangerously easy to believe that this was real Then I freeze Throughout the vast shadowy world of ghosts and demons, There is no figure so terrible Empty face, soulless eyes, those terrified eyes I look down Blood is a strange color A scream, my scream, pierces the cool air I fall to my death Suddenly, a cold hand brings me back to reality

ays of sun peeked through

the sparse pine trees as they continued on their descent below the horizon. The chirps of quails and doves became less frequent, if only for a panicked alert.

The Echo / March 2014

March 2014 / The Echo

The rustling of squirrels in the brush below vanished as they fled into their nests. A moment of tranquil serenity surrounded me in the limbo between day and night. As the day crept away and the night prowled on, the cold invaded every layer I wore: a tank top, two long-sleeved shirts, two jackets, a thick, insulated coat, gloves, three pairs of sweatpants, and multiple pairs of socks tucked into heavy boots. I found my teeth chattering and goose bumps appeared on every surface of skin I owned. Yet I remained frozen in my seat. Despite the hours of patient waiting and watching, I didn't dare move an inch. The quiet slowly evolved into a symphony of buzzing and clicking and hoots and howls. A lone cricket chirping led to a tidal wave of unfortunate shrill sounds that made my skin crawl. A deep throaty “ribbit” sounded near me and I tried to remain still and focus on the woods surrounding me. As minutes passed by, the soundtrack of night became a dull roar. Every slight movement in the bushes sparked hope that I could soon return to warmth and protection from the creatures lurking in the lightless woods. I checked my phone a few times, praying for a text that said it was time to head in. Nothing. Damn him, I thought to myself and grimaced with chapped lips. If only my father was that passionate and patient with anything else in his life. I had enough of the biting cold and plotting insects. I began to shift quietly so I could climb down from the daunting metal tree stand I had spent more than four hours in. A faint rustle sounded in the bushes below me. I squinted in the dim light and made out the figure of a deer. I froze and my heart began to hammer in my chest. Adrenaline pumped through my system, awakening my cold, paralyzed limbs. As quietly as possible I resumed my sitting position and raised the gun, once perched between my knees, to my chest. There, standing in my crosshairs were three does; a mother and her offspring along with another female. My hands shook as I attempted to point the gun on the largest of the three. An agitated sigh escaped my lips as I quivered and watched, I must have startled the beautiful creatures, as they froze and examined the area with alarm. Art by Taylor Fernandez

The Echo / March 2014

March 2014 / The Echo

People Tend to Assume by Lara Anid People tend to assume that teens are strong, proud, and full of powerful words waiting to burst from their mouths. People tend to assume kids are raised to voice their opinions, constantly speaking louder, louder, and louder until their voice sticks to the brain like crazy glue, like a broken record playing over and over again. People tend to assume that what they think doesn't matter, because there is always someone that has something smarter, better, or more important to say. What people don't tend to assume is that those teens may have words they have been dying to say, but they act nonchalantly about it, as if it doesn't matter, but in reality, they don't dare open their mouths. They are afraid of the hate and cruelty they will get for doing so. What people don't tend to assume is that some kids were raised to keep their opinions to themselves, taught not to open their mouths and cause problems. Don’t tend to assume. Cause problems. Talk louder. Speak up. Be prouder. Say what you want to say, because the clock will only turn one way, Because right here, right now, You matter. 48

The Echo / March 2014

I waited for a few suffocating minutes and then moved my gun so it was steadied on the guard rail of the tree stand. I could only make out the outlines of the does by this point. They continued grazing, ears flicking, and tails swishing carelessly. They seemed to feel safe and comfortable, munching on the corn my father threw out. The fawn skipped around playfully and one of the does lifted her head to watch, in the most peaceful manner, almost as if she was expressing a sort of fondness, like a concerned aunt. I pulled the trigger. Thud. I remember that sound distinctly. My heart fell into my stomach. Thud. Legs flailed as the fawn and mother crashed through the bushes in a stupefied panic. I didn’t notice their departure. My ears rang as I recovered from the boom of my rifle. My hands shook wildly now. Though it was now nearly pitch black, I could see her figure lying on the ground. She was so still; morbidly so. I stood in the rickety tree stand, my gaze transfixed on the death I had caused. A beacon of light pierced the darkness and pulled me from my petrified remorse. I reached in my pocket, struggling to grip my phone with thick gloves. On it flashed as I fumbled. I ripped my glove off quickly and slid my index finger across the screen. “Hello,” I whispered. “Was that you?” The excitement in my father’s voice greatly surpassed mine. “Yeah, a doe” “Alright, I’m on my way,” he informed me quickly. He sounded out of breath, as if he were running through the woods. “I’m proud of you,” he added and I smiled inadvertently. For a moment, I nearly forgot I had just killed a living being. I hung up the phone and returned it to my pocket. I could hear a truck starting in the distance as I climbed down from the

March 2014 / The Echo

I have killed. I have taken the life of a creature, I’m a murderer, I thought as I knotted my bloody fingers in her hair. stand. My right hand, gloveless, stung as it gripped the frozen metal. I found myself face to face with death. Her wound was outlined in steam, a warmth I cherished as I stroked her lifeless body. My fingers strayed to her neck where acrid blood seeped out of the entry point. I stared at my hand, fingertips stained scarlet and quivering with regret and cold. The concoction was too much for me to bear. A few tears slid down my cheeks, burning my taut skin. I have killed. I have taken the life of a creature, I’m a murderer, I thought as I knotted my bloody fingers in her hair. The roar of a motor cut the silence, it was as if a frayed rope had snapped within my consciousness. In that moment I realized I was acting as someone I was not. I turned my back to the doe and attempted to collect myself. After wiping the blood off my fingertips in a patch of grass, I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. A pair of headlights shone through the darkness, giving the thin line of brush and trees separating the food plot and the road, a halo effect. I plastered an unconvincing smile on my face and waited for my father to approach the crime scene. He came towards me and I moved out of his line of vision, so he could behold my doing. He squeezed my shoulder. A goofy grin lit up his face as he flicked his gaze from the doe to me. “I’m so proud,” he repeated and again squeezed my shoulder with a strong Art by Aliya Talbani

The Echo / March 2014

March 2014 / The Echo

I Don’t Think You Understand the Gravity of My Situation by Melissa Ferrin You walked into the room super massive, Heavy with perfection I couldn’t prove. Your visage glowed with the density of light caught in your atoms, I couldn’t imagine you floated on water. They say objects attract with a force Directly related to their mass And inversely to the distance between them. God forbid you came closer. I’d swear the Earth rose to kiss your feet as you walked, That Venus envied your glory, That the grip of your magnetism, Lulling me for weeks, Had literally locked me in its revolutionsWhirling dizzily and hopelessly about you.

Writer’s Block by Katie Coakley Random writings about Almost literally nothing Pencil scratching the paper Eraser acting as a backup plan Between the lines these scratches hide These markings of lead These semi-permanent things Lines keeping words safe like Metal bars in a prison Glass in a zoo 46

The Echo / March 2014

calloused hand. I nodded my head lightly, the facetious smile quickly fading from my lips. He called over a few of my family members as they arrived in the food plot. They all congratulated me on my first kill, their expressions mimicking my father’s. “Thanks,” I answered mechanically and made my way to the clay road, where the four-wheeler I had driven was parked. Behind me I could hear my father’s heavy footsteps and the snapping of twigs as he dragged her carcass along. Not long after, I slumped on the vehicle, watching silently as they cut through her hind legs. A piece of metal was forced through the openings and they spun a level until she was suspended above a filthy old metal bucket, stained with blood and entrails of hundreds of her kin before. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth and blood poured down her head, it collected on the tip of her nose and dripped consistently, pattering in the bucket below. This was a process I had watched many times before, though it had a much different effect on me that day. As disgusted as I was, more so with myself than the gore, I forced my eyes to remain glued to her carcass. A sense of responsibility overcame me and I endured the consequences with a selfloathing sort of discipline. Incisions were made in her thighs and pelvis, where they began to peel her hide from the muscle and bone. At that moment, as they stripped away her beautiful coarse hair, I felt the innocence I once possessed dissipate from my soul.

Keeping them from falling Clean off the page Clean off the Earth What a sight that would be Runaway words Suicidal scribble Floating in absentia Never again imprisoned by Lined paper March 2014 / The Echo

[poetry

]

Breathe by Jacob Goncalves

Art by Karli Jahnigen

The Echo / March 2014

If I could breathe I would do so much more If I could breathe I would be picking myself up Off the floor But I need the help Because of what I felt I’m down here In my fear If I could breathe I would be a better person Instead of cursing If I could breathe I wouldn’t be Who I am today I would pay For all the things I stole I would be bold In what I do For you My God But that’s only if I could Inhale then exhale this air But life to me just ain’t fair

I can’t do this or that I wish these people would stop talking behind My back If I could breathe I wouldn’t be worried About what they say It will fade away I want to breathe So I can be alive and free To be someone Someone uplifting Who knows when something’s shifting But I can’t do that until I give it All to God Get the weight off my chest And stop calling him a fraud I want to stand up and do my deed But that’s only if I could breathe

March 2014 / The Echo

I smiled back, unaware to his true intentions as I departed from the room with the hopes of seeing my tricycle. Tomorrow came quickly, and Gary returned home empty handed. "Where's my tricycle?" I asked, once he arrived at the house. "Bob wasn't at home today, so I'll get it back for you tomorrow." He reassured The days quickly turned into weeks, the weeks turning into years as the memories of Red Freedom became lost to the clutches of time. It wasn't till I was about sixteen when I found out the truth about Red Freedom's fate. I was out in the garage one afternoon in search of some cardboard boxes when I noticed a twinkle of red dance out of the comer of my eye. I wandered over to it to investigate and found out that it was my old tricycle from several years ago. Memories that were once buried flooded back to me as if they had occurred the previous day before. One revelation came to me at that moment; Gary had lied to me about retrieving Red Freedom. I stormed right up to his room with the tricycle in my hand, and pushed through the door without bothering to knock first. "Why did you lie to me about my tricycle?!" I hollered at him. "Oh, you found it." He replied with a nonchalant tone of voice. It was obvious that he didn't care, but I reiterated my question to him which he only replied with a shrug. I stormed out of his room, angered and hurt by the betrayal of my brother. The pain had cut deeper than any punch I had taken from any fight, and struck more deeply than any other I had experienced. My thoughts swirled as I tried to formulate a plan of revenge that I could enact on Gary, and I was determined to do it.

The Echo / March 2014

[poetry

]

I Found Beauty on the Ground by Kendel Burke Discovered while walking home from my bus stop That I spend too much time looking up I realized that if my head stays too far up in the clouds I won't be able to enjoy all the beauty that's here, on the ground So that's why I'm deciding to have more appreciation for grass Because every day I seem to pass By such marvelous things without even noticing Like butterflies with colorful wings And I too often ignore the melodious tune the red robin sings I think I should pay more attention to flowers with purple petals Expand my curiosity and never let it settle I want to be friends with really strange people Because I think that being strange is what makes you cool I want to listen to foreign languages spoken by people who are a different color than me And watch a deaf man's hands dance in the breeze I want to find happiness lit up in a child's eyes Maybe I will try and break through the businessman's disguise There really is beauty up there in the clouds But what's more beautiful is all the things you can find by being on the ground

March 2014 / The Echo

"I want that bike of yours," he replied with a wicked grin. "Well, you can't have it!" I exclaimed. "I wasn't asking for your permission." Immediately, he charged at me, throwing me to the ground before I had the time to react. But before Bob knew it, though, my teeth were sinking into his calf. This wasn't the first confrontation I had with him, and I learned really quickly to use my entire body as a weapon, including my teeth. Bob let out a scream of pain as my teeth sank deep into his flesh, drawing blood. He threw a wide-arcing punch that connected with the back of my head. A wave of dizziness assaulted me, and I stubbornly held onto the grip till he battered me again with another blow that brought me to the concrete. I watched with a look of horror on my face as Bob sped away on my tricycle.

Fre M

ira

ead

I ran home the rest of the way with tears sliding freely down my cheeks. I burst through the door and straight up to my brother's room to tell him what had transpired. He was the only person I truly trusted out of my family. My father had left my mother before Gary was born, so I never truly knew my father. My mother, on the other hand, was constantly working to keep bills paid, and food on the table, so she never really had the time to spare for me and Gary.

ell

Besides, I wanted to exact vengeance on Bob, and Gary was the person that I knew would help me. "Gary," I wailed as I crashed through his bedroom door, "Bob stole Red Freedom from me!" "He did what now?" he asked with a raised brow. "He ambushed me when I was on my way home, and took Red Freedom from me.” "Then we'll get it back from him tomorrow." He stated with what I thought to be a sincere smile on his boyish face.

Art by Mariangely Miyares

March 2014 / The Echo

[fiction]

[fiction

]

Red Freedom by Robert Gordon Whenever asked by the neighborhood children who visit me constantly in the evening about an item of great importance to me, when I was a child of their age, I would always reply with the answer: my little red tricycle. My grandmother had bought it for me as a reward for achieving straight A's on my report card. I named it Red Freedom for the glossy red paint that glimmered in the sunlight and the feeling of freedom that I experienced whenever I sped down the sidewalk with my older brother Gary jogging behind me to catch up. "Slow down, Jimmy." He would always holler to me when I got farther away. But, it was lost to the wind that whipped across my face.

Fre

Mother always warned me of the witch's shop. The shop whose windows were clouded with grime. The shop where frog hearts, cow bones, and lizard tongues were sold.

It was no secret to me that the neighborhood bully Bob had an eye for Red Freedom. He was a year younger than me, but was a giant compared to my small stature. Back then, I wasn't the tallest amongst the children only reaching my growth spurt in my senior year of high school. Bob ruled the neighborhood children with an iron fist. Whatever he did that they thought was cool, the group followed in response like a pack of mindless dogs.

ead

It was a quiet evening; autumn's grasp upon the land waned only to be replaced by the winter. I had just left the park, and was making my way home at a leisurely pace, when I stopped at the sight of Bob. "What do you want?" I sneered, keeping a wary eye out for other uninvited guest. A nervous pit began to form in my stomach at the sight of him, but I knew I couldn't let my nervousness show. Bob typically didn't want anything to do with me, hence the constant teasing I received from him on a constant basis. 42

The Echo / March 2014

March 2014 / The Echo

The shop that was always open. She said that it was cursed, that the witch ate children that didn't listen to their parents, but Thomas said that mother was lying, that the witch's shop didn't exist. So, why then am I standing out here, looking at the witch's shop with its dirty windows and its open sign that flickers every couple of seconds? My hand itched to reach for the door's rusted handle. To wander inside, to discover what secrets lay in the witch's shop. A wave of guilt and panic rushed over my body as I entered the store. I had entered the place my mother told me to stay away from. The place that wasn't supposed to exist. The air inside was thick and made it hard to breathe. The store smelled of old books and strong chemicals that burned my nose. Shelves that reached the ceiling filled the store and held thousands of bizarre trinkets. My eyes were attracted to a mason jar that sat on the nearest self. Inside the dusty jar was a thick murky green liquid that resembled mother's boiled greens. As I reached for the odd jar full, I couldn't help but feel a slight breeze down my neck. "Interesting find, muck from the black swamps." I jerked away from the voice as a yelp escaped my lips. The voice cackled. "Jumpy?" I turned towards the voice to reveal an old wrinkled woman. She was stooped over, a walking stick in hand. Her frail body was covered by multicolored scarves with beads and coins adorning their ends. Her hair was a stringy gray mass that sat atop her head. Her earlobes were stretched halfway down her neck by large golden earrings. Her fingers were decorated by brightly colored rings that made it difficult for her to bend her fingers. She smiled at me, revealing missing, broken teeth. “Ar… Are you the witch?” The old woman raised a silver eyebrow. “Maybe. Maybe not.” She slowly turned around and started walking further into the store. Not knowing what to do I followed her. She led me to a dark room in the back of the store. She flipped a switch, turning on the lone bare bulb that resided in the room. My eyes widened as my gaze locked on the rows of life-sized mannequin heads. “Are those real?” the woman smiled at me. “No my child, but they look the part, don't they?” I nodded and looked back at the realistic mannequin heads. 16

The Echo / March 2014

Art by Mariangely Miyares

March 2014 / The Echo

Ignorance by Jeff McFarland Ignorance is my choice in guiding me Society is always eyeing me because I’m of a different variety There is no “I” in “Me” because I am always with “We” With that said, problems multiply faster than the naked eye can see Lucky me, I took left instead of right Because when told everything’s gonna be all “Right” It’s not, because at the end of the night What’s portrayed as “Right” is a knife stabbing a corpse twice taking a life Someone like me can be nice But when with We, they think twice Giving a second guess towards another life may not be right Unless you came from a crew of corrupted kids who can’t control the light of the night We are Ignorant of the future set for us If a train took us straight to heaven today at seven, I’d rather take the bus I trust my ignorance to bring experience to my life Without Experience how would I ever know if I have to think twice?

Hollow Words by Danielle Estrada The kind of life that thrives on lies, Is not the type worth sacrifice. For too long I've compromised, Believing the neglect sufficed. The facade I saw in you Was built by fabricated truths, Contradicted by your actions, Reducing my heart into fractions. Hanging onto hollow words, That were better left unheard.

The Echo / March 2014

"Would you like one my child?" She asked. I nodded, still looking at each head's features. “Well then pick one out!” I scanned the rows of shelves, finally one caught my attention. “That one.” I lifted up a chubby finger and pointed at a small head that was on the bottom row. The woman gave me a knowing look. “Why that one?” I shrugged. “It reminds me of my long lost sister.” Her eyes widened, but she didn't question me. She walked over to the shelf and gently picked up the small child-like head. She placed it in my hands. I was surprised at how light and intricate the head was. “Thank you.” I said, looking Her eyes widened, down at the head I was but she didn't cradling. Behind me the old woman cleared her throat. question me. She “Now run along, you don’t walked over to the want your mother to worry.” shelf and gently She gently pushed me towards the front of the picked up the small store. Taking the hint I ran child-like head. out of the old building that housed wonders and secrets. As soon as I ran out the front door, I noticed that the head I was carrying grew heavier, but I paid little attention to it. I ran through town ignoring the stares and shouts I received from the townspeople. I continued to run until I reached my countryside home. My mother and I lived in a single story, cozy farm house that sat on the outskirts of town. Behind the house, rolling green hills were decorated by vibrant wildflowers. “Over here William.” I scanned the yard for my mother, finally spotting her hanging clothes up to dry. Her apron fluttering around her as the wind caught its lacy edges. “Mother! Look! LOOK!” I yelled as I ran towards her, holding my March 2014 / The Echo

prize in front of me. Mother turned around but as soon as her blue eyes landed on me, horror contorted her features. A scream pierced the air. “Mother? What's wrong?” I was confused. I started to walk towards her but she quickly backed away, kicking over her basket of clean laundry. “NO!! GET AWAY!! IT CAN'T BE!!” Mother cried. I winced at mother's yells. Why was mother acting like this? Finally I look down at what I thought was a porcelain doll head only to see that it wasn't fake anymore. The skin was cold and blue, like the ocean in the winter. The eyes seemed to stare into my soul, glazed over, milky. There was no sign of their bright blue color they once possessed. They didn't sparkle in the sunlight or betray her emotions. No, now they were pieces of mushy flesh anchored by nerves in her head. My fingers were tangled in the dirty auburn hair that was once soft and smooth. Leaves and twigs made their home in the frail strands and dirt dyed the tips a murky brown. Her lips were cracked, void of any softness or moisture. They were no longer the lips that kissed my forehead every night. As I studied her dead features, I felt cold blood run down my shirt, staining it a crimson red. My arms froze as horror and shock combined, rendering me still. Tears ran down my face dripping onto her pale blue skin. “Why Sissy? Why?" I asked the head, tuning out the screams and police sirens in the background. Like I was put into a trance I stared at my sister's decayed head, running my fingers through her tangled hair. A hand grabbed my shoulder jarring me out of my trance like state. I glance behind me to see an officer with a sorrowful and sympathetic expression peering down at me. “Son its okay, we're here now.” I let them take away my sister in stained clothes. They brought me to a small police station that was on the other side of town. They led me to a small gray room that held only table and chairs. I sat down in the cold metal chair and folded my hands in my lap. I stared at the floor looking at my tattered running shoes. My face was red and puffy from crying. I listened as the door opened and softly shut. I slowly looked up to see an officer with a file in his hands walk to 18

The Echo / March 2014

[poetry

]

The Loved and the Departed by Bailey Zohar Found from local obituaries He enjoyed traveling and boating. She had an appreciation for nature. He was fireman of the year. She was the matriarch of our family. He was a U.S. Army veteran. She was a homemaker. He was a student at the American Institute of Beauty. She loved country line dancing. He enjoyed golfing. She was a devoted mother. He left behind stories to make us laugh. Service of remembrance. Celebration of life. Survived by: wife, daughter, husband, son, mother, father, sister, brother. They will be missed…

March 2014 / The Echo

Lowering her eyes, Eunice saw a single red rose placed on the sill of the window. Frightened, she picked it up and threw it out the window, watching as it floated down. As soon as it touched the cobblestone on the bottom, the first of the horses came galloping in and stepped on it. Through the mess of hooves that followed, Eunice could make out a young man with brown skin but a gentleman’s clothes standing on the other side of the pathway. Eunice gasped, startled. It was such an uncommon sight, it made her forget all her worries momentarily. She gripped the window sill and inched forwards to try to get a better look. It seemed that the closer she got, the harder the boy was to make out. She stepped on the sill, and opened the window wider. She could almost see his face now. She stepped closer, into thin air. And fell. She hit the ground before any of the riders were able to stop their horses. The last thing Eunice saw was the boy’s face; his smile held malice, his eyes were dark and knowing. The same eyes that had stared up at her nights ago in the basement as she held a dagger in her trembling hand.

The Echo / March 2014

the other side of the metal table and take a seat. “Your name is William right?” he asked shuffling through the papers the file contained. I nodded. Finally, the man settled on an almost blank document. “Where did you find your sisters head?” I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I closed my mouth and shrugged. “Did someone help you find it?” Again I didn't answer the man. The officer let out a tired sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you have anything to say Will?” Finally, I found the words I needed to answer his question. “Don’t go into the witch’s shop.”

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[nonfiction] Panic by Melissa Ferrin At first it was a stomach ache. Months later, I would understand, put the name to the face and know how that day in English I fell. Not literally, of course, but with the same weightlessness, the same impact. In the beginning, though, I would mistake the empty pain for an empty stomach and trail my way to the nurse. Giddy with any excuse to exit the stage, I passed silent through the halls. She was a wide woman with faded fields of grain wisping back from her face and thin lines of lipstick for a mouth. A mouth of monotony crowned by evacuated eyes, she said, “You probably haven’t eaten enough.” I was gifted with a go-gurt and a pass to third. I carried this stomach pain with me though, hung from my heart on a string and pressed against my diaphragm. It contaminated my school day like the oxygenated blood circulating within my veins—fast and unfaltering. Except maybe that implies easy breathing. Lacking other options, school became a voluntary imprisonment. Some classes were less hellish than others due to seemingly small details, like the noise level and where I sat. I preferred them loud and in front of me. I can remember counting down every minute of every period, trying to assuage my fears with promises of bathroom breaks. "Forty minutes to go, in twenty I'll take a five minute break and then there's only fifteen left!" I never actually required the facilities, I would sit there wrapped around myself fighting to breathe and swearing I'd be okay. They call them panic attacks for a reason. Wikipedia attempts to define: "Experiencing a panic attack has been said to be one of the most intensely frightening, upsetting, and uncomfortable experiences of a person's life and may take days to initially recover from." In fact, there are even Limited Symptom Attacks that occur in anticipation of more panic attacks. Frustratingly, yet somewhat fortunately, 20

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Her shoulders were bent, and her hair was a tangled mess. She reached for a glass of water, and before drinking from it, and without turning around, she said, “Don’t go getting attached to it, Eunice. You know what you have to do.” Filled with a new wave of dread, Eunice put the naked baby down on the floor. The minute she put him down, he started to cry. Her hands started to shake as she reached for the dagger on a small table by the cot. She knelt down next to the small, crying creature and hesitated. The child started to scream even louder. “My lady, please,” Eunice begged. “Let me keep him, please. No one should ever know. Oh, please, he is only a baby.” “Do it! Do it now!” Madame Corvette yelled. Scared and confused, the screams of her Lady, the child’s cries, and the thumping of her own heart were all too loud. She couldn’t think. Eunice closed her eyes, tears falling from them, and brought the blade down in one clean sweep. She felt blood splatter on her face, and heard silence. The flame of the nearest candle went out. In the days that followed, Eunice was a changed person. Her life had no meaning; it was simply about keeping all thoughts of that night at bay. It resulted impossible, however, to think about anything else. She was sure her soul was damned. She felt herself change that night, and she knew she would never be the same again. She had acquired that everpresent hopelessness that came with losing one’s innocence so abruptly. Every day was a haze, nothing more than simply trying to keep the bloody images from resurfacing. She didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. She was a shell of a person, always frightened. Exactly two weeks after Madame Corbette had delivered the child, Eunice was alone in the tallest tower of the house. She was cleaning the floor, when, suddenly, the window on the far end of the room flew open. A strong gust of cold wind swept through Eunice, and, as if in a trance, she went over to the window. Outside, a warm summer breeze swept through the fields of the plantation, but still she felt cold. She could make out the caravan of horses that indicated Sir Corbette and his men’s return as they drew near. March 2014 / The Echo

[fiction] Eyes by Mariela Deynes It was past midnight, and the slaves and children of the House Corbette slept soundly, completely unaware of the happenings in the basement. The only one being forced to listen to the screams of madame Corbette was a slave girl of only fifteen, Eunice. Eunice and her Lady had left earlier that day with the pretext of going to visit the Lady’s ill aunt. They had returned once they were sure everyone would be asleep and hidden away in the soundproof basement; where Madame Corbette would deliver a bastard child. They had been prepared to spend many days in the basement, but that was never necessary; Madame Corbette went into labor shortly after. Eunice was a docile girl, always bent to the will of her Lady. She had been the only one in the household to know of Madame Corbette’s pregnancy, and had helped her conceal her growing belly as she waited for her husband to return from his trip. And when his trip got extended, Eunice helped make arrangements so that she could have the baby without knowing. Now she was alone with her Lady in a dark basement, helping her deliver the child. As the hours passed, Madame Corbette’s screams grew louder, and the candles that lit the dim basement grew shorter. The white sheets of the cot she lay on were stained with blood. After some long hours, the moment finally came; the child was born. Eunice bounced the child in her arms to keep it quiet. She took a closer look at it in the candlelight. It was a boy, small and with brown skin. He looked up at Eunice with dark eyes opened too wide for a child that had just left its mother’s womb. He looked at her like he knew. Eunice felt her heart sink, knowing what she was meant to do with him next. She looked over at her Lady, hoping to plead with her. Madame Corbette was already sitting up, her back to Eunice and the baby. In the dim lighting, Eunice could just make out her Lady’s silhouette. 36

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I was thrust into high school with impeccable timing. Such an intimidating life change, there was no way to prepare. these are utterly unimaginable concepts to most people. Repeated was the advice, "Melissa, you should really try to stop." But you don't ask a broken clock to stop displaying the wrong time. You bring it to an expert or toss it to the trash. During the deep breath of a summer helplessly starved for, I was brought to a psychologist. She was old and calm, with paper skin and hollow bones and an air of control that forbade me from doubting myself. She taught me to be calm, to live via a resigned perseverance. I was thrust into high school with impeccable timing. Such an intimidating life change, there was no way to prepare. The first day I was a vibrating mess of apprehension, skittering through corridors and crossing my fingers. The one person I knew in the school shared neither my lunch nor any other class with me. I found my eyes desperately scouring the unresponsive faces of my biology classmates for someone to eat with the next period. One face struck a chord. It was a distant recognition, and a chance I snatched in the last second. She gave me a smile and immediate acceptance. A warm cry of victory radiated within me as I, lightheaded with relief, followed her to a table. And it was not just a table but a year's refuge. Not just a table, but five friendships—five prized possessions and a net to catch me. Freshman year rolls past and becomes a metamorphosis that was one part medication and two parts love—for myself and others. Compassion and empathy were gifts from the broken bit of me and shiny fresh statutes I would eagerly adhere to. Self-worth became a type of anchor for me; I March 2014 / The Echo

can recall writing "love” on my palm every day as a reminder. My radical perspective meant a redesigned self: my music taste, wardrobe and attitude were all literally changed and newly infused with brighter hues. And although my attacks continued in their exhausting and debilitating nature, they were not dark anymore, and I was not dark anymore, and I am not dark anymore. “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was ending, it became a butterfly.”

On This Day We Expected the Worst by Miranda Cornell Found in Mazerunner, The Immortal Rules, and Wolfsbane On this day we expected the worst They gave us false hope In hopes that we wouldn’t worry Hoping we would see past The rain and darkness The thunder and horrible chaos Hoping we wouldn’t remember The questionable status of Our surroundings But every time I get the Smallest glimpse at my past I know the truth Voices echo in my head All grim and solemn “Can’t run” Can’t run from the Horror that might await The shadows that I see I fight to survive but we are all scared of the consequences

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[poetry] Taming the Beast by Josh Rolie & Robby Gordon Found in Writer’s Digest Magazine The desire to write The Great American Novel Is like an overactive beast. Ideas start with boundless energy Vying for attention Run wild. You’re supposed to be the leader focus them with a strong sense of purpose, Learn to tame your beast Where many writers give up, You shouldn’t. You need to learn to tame your beast.

Art by Penelope Mugford

Art by Emma Doering

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[poetry] Seasons by Emilee Stump Seasons pass by fast, As leaves are forced to comply, Like life, nature demands.

Season’s Bend (A Sonnet for Springtime) by Wendy Smith We dance along the dappled back of Spring Our childish hands clutched tight to daisy chains We weave our tales and laugh as Summer brings The needed warmth we longed for in the rains In summer's heat we trek across our field We watch the birds soar far off as we would But summer's weight holds fast upon our heel And traps our hearts from flying as they could As Autumn pulls its chill upon the land We leap in joy for freedom's long lost hope Yet knees grow weak and we sway where we stand For now we see the season's sliding slope The icy breath of Winter's siren call Stills all the world as silently we fall

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It is a strange tale he weaves, one that she does not truly believe. A claim of an extraordinary kind, of a cure, spills from his lips. He is not a wolf, and yet he is. He has halted the progress, and others have as well. She scoffs at his words. The thought of saving Grandmamma quells some doubt, however. At long last they reach the gate, but as they do, the girl draws up short. The walls of the little cottage are sagging, the roof almost pulled in against the strain. A glass window is shattered, spilling shards out onto the dried up weeds. On the other window, a rusty smear. Her heart grows cold. The woodcutter pales beside her. He knows what has gone on here. Silently, he passes the girl his axe. She takes the handle with surprising calm, and he watches as she slowly enters the tiny cottage. A sob. A scream. A muffled thud. Silence. The wolf waits. Finally, with steady hand, he pulls open the broken gate, walks up the dirt path. And then he goes inside.

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She whirls around, faces a wall of trees. At its center leaning against a heavy looking axe, the wolf smirks at her. “Well hello there, young Red Cloak. What do you do here?” His voice hisses, heavy with sarcasm. She freezes, her eyes growing wide with fear. He can see the color of her cloak. Wolves can’t see color. Yet here he stands, very much a wolf. His eyes shine yellow, his muscles shift even in stillness, his teeth snarl. A wolf, and very much so, and yet he can see the color. “It is rather rude to start you know,” he remarks dryly. She scowls without meaning to, snapping her mouth firmly shut. “You are a silent one, aren’t you? Pray, what is your name, little Red?” His condescending tone provokes her and she snaps, “Why should I tell mine when you haven’t given me yours?” He swings the axe back to rest the handle against his shoulder, “I, little Red Cloak, am the woodcutter. That is all you need to now.” “Well then you need not know my name, as I am only a granddaughter myself.” “And what good grandmother would let her kin out in a wood such as this? With monsters about?” he grins wickedly. Her chin is in the air, petulant and angry, “I am visiting her now.” He cocks his head to the side, reminding her of an old dog she once knew, “She lives in the wood? Perhaps I shall join you then. This is a sight I must see for myself.” Despite her protests, he draws up beside her and soon there is no option. They walk in silence. The cottage is growing near, and the girl becomes agitated. He will not leave her side, no matter what she does and there is no way she will let this wolf near Grandmamma. As if he senses her misgivings, he talks. 32

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Art by Hannah Murray

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from the room. The girl followed, silent as the woods she traversed. Mother had reached over the garden gate and lifted a bird from the ground where it lay. A carrier pigeon, its wing twisted painfully. The message attached had drawn all the blood from mother’s face. Silent eyes had met then, and silent words exchanged. Mother had slipped away, and the girl had hurried to her house. Distractions, ridiculous yet panicked. She shadowed her father, pulling him away each time he searched the room for his wife. For an hour, success, but the crowd thinned and departed. He noticed. He guessed. His assumption was so accurate it astonished her, and before she could stop him he had run into the night, shotgun in hand. All night she waited. He never returned. When the next pigeon shuddered against the window, she knew Mother was gone as well. The message begged only for bread. The girl swallowed nervously, but packed her basket. Silence is more apparent today, but not in the calm stillness the girl has come to know. The air is filled with tension, electric and sizzling. She slips along the path and scans the forest with practiced eye. Nothing seems wrong, but her heart tells her otherwise. Art by Karli Jahnigen

Each step feels like lead, but she continues, her breath seeming loud to her ears. No rustle in the leaves, no shadow on the path. Nothing. Her heart screams in her chest. Another heavy step. The clearing should be here soon, and with a shudder of heart, she sees it. Reaching it is only a few short steps, but it takes a lifetime. She enters the safety of unobscured vision and sighs in relief, but an answering sigh steals her breath instantly.

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great stone wall and disappearing into the trees. The girl had grown, perhaps more rapidly than she had intended, for it had been many years since she had played with the other children or listened to the tales the old ones told. The tales were worth listening to, of course, but the message she knew all too well. Wolves are dangerous. It is a sentiment childish in its simplicity, yet terrifying in its accuracy. Every tale has its wolf, a monstrous beast, neither man nor animal. Snarling teeth and yellow eyes, rancid breath that speaks of death even before the attack occurs. The authorities say the disease passes through touch, through the contact of skin. Old ones know better, though, the great wall did not stop the disease, as it should have. Locking out the infected only fueled the danger. A danger the girl knew only too well.

Snarling teeth and yellow eyes, rancid breath that speaks of death even before the attack occurs.

She needed no fables. She lived in the reality, watched, as each day Grandmamma grew wearier, her hair patching brown and her eyes shining yellow. There was no magic in reality, only sorrow. Before she had known it, she was seventeen, celebrating a birthday that promised a freedom she was not quite ready for. The little house shook from the merriment of her kin, but her smile was not as wide as it should have been. Responsibility was more dangerous than they knew. When the moon had climbed high into the sky, her mother had slipped 30

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The Old Mountain by Courtney Barron With every aching joint my adrenaline keeps pumping, I think 'almost there' with deep and heavy breathing. Making my way across the titanium bridge I float on air, And step by step I begin to forget every hurt and every care; The hurt of distant friendships and the hurt of lost love, The cares of how others felt towards me that I soon begin to let go of. Too often I let the world try to tell me who I should be and how to live, But as I reach the summit, those thoughts of mine begin to end. As I look aimlessly at the beauty around me and these majestic views, They keep me hopeful and at rest with an offer I can't refuse. On the Old Mountain I start to believe in myself and what I can achieve, Because I know one day these feelings won't stay once I leave. Be You by Jessica Lynn Weins Faceless people, all the same, Same clothes, same voice, the only difference is their name. Same thoughts, same hair, the same things they like, All the same faceless, blank features – everyone alike. But a rare generation that doesn’t fit in, Who look and act different than their kin. They are cast out, made fun of because of how they act, Ignored and beat down for that fact. Some join their kin, others remain free, You can who joined—their suffering you can see. They drown out their feelings, becoming numb, They see, but are blind; They hear, but are deaf; They speak, but are dumb Be you, not them, or rest their strife, Break from the chains, soar, and love your life. March 2014 / The Echo

[fiction] Wolf by Wendy Smith Always running, always hiding, and never say your name. A swath of fabric crimson red, pooling round her feet as mother pinned the sides. The red will protect you; the red will guide you. Wolves can't see color, but humans can.

to the right time when dawn flitted in the windows. It was their secret, one that Mother swore her to fiercely. Grandmamma was dead to the world, but to them she was very much alive. No one could know that the flowers on her grave served no purpose, that there were non-bones buried in the wooden coffin. The cabin sat empty, or so they thought. It had taken great caution, but the years had passed without incident. Each week they had snuck to the forest, slipping through the gate in the

They will stay away when the wolves do not. You will know where the danger is this way, but never say your name. She did not understand at ten. All she knew was that the dress was too heavy, the woods too quiet. She gripped the basket in her hands and trailed cautiously behind her mother, watching the stillness with fear running in cold hands down her spine. The first trip was the worst. Silence and stillness surrounded her, so different from the bustle of the village, the constant call of children and chickens. In here, the world was hushed. Mother told her to watch the woods, the trees, the ground. There were landmarks in this sea of earth and foliage, if only you would see them. It took weeks to see the pattern, but after a time she did, and the path they followed became clear. They never stayed long in the wood, just long enough to enter the tiny cottage. Grandmamma would kiss her cheek and tell her she had grown. The basket of food would be placed on the table, the kindling would be cut and stacked, and then they would wave goodbye as they slipped back into the trees. Papa never knew, never suspected that Mother did not stir the stew for those hours before dinner. He never seemed to notice if his dozing before supper took minutes or hours, and it was easy work to set the clock back Art by Jessica Krasnove

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Snarling teeth and yellow eyes, rancid breath that speaks of death even before the attack occurs.

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Art by Hannah Murray

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[poetry] Seasons by Emilee Stump Seasons pass by fast, As leaves are forced to comply, Like life, nature demands.

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Art by Penelope Mugford

Art by Emma Doering

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[poetry

]

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Art by Mariangely Miyares

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[fiction]

[fiction

]

Fre

Mother always warned me of the witch's shop. The shop whose windows were clouded with grime. The shop where frog hearts, cow bones, and lizard tongues were sold.

ead

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Fre M

ira

ead

ell

Art by Mariangely Miyares

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[poetry

]

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[poetry

]

Breathe by Jacob Goncalves

Art by Karli Jahnigen

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I have killed. I have taken the life of a creature, I’m a murderer, I thought as I knotted my bloody fingers in her hair.

• ·__--....•i\,~ ~~

stand. My right hand, gloveless, stung as it gripped the frozen metal. I found myself face to face with death. Her wound was outlined in steam, a warmth I cherished as I stroked her lifeless body. My fingers strayed to her neck where acrid blood seeped out of the entry point. I stared at my hand, fingertips stained scarlet and quivering with regret and cold. The concoction was too much for me to bear. A few tears slid down my cheeks, burning my taut skin. I have killed. I have taken the life of a creature, I’m a murderer, I thought as I knotted my bloody fingers in her hair. The roar of a motor cut the silence, it was as if a frayed rope had snapped within my consciousness. In that moment I realized I was acting as someone I was not. I turned my back to the doe and attempted to collect myself. After wiping the blood off my fingertips in a patch of grass, I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.

A pair of headlights shone through the darkness, giving the thin line of brush and trees separating the food plot and the road, a halo effect. I plastered an unconvincing smile on my face and waited for my father to approach the crime scene. He came towards me and I moved out of his line of vision, so he could behold my doing. He squeezed my shoulder. A goofy grin lit up his face as he flicked his gaze from the doe to me. “I’m so proud,” he repeated and again squeezed my shoulder with a strong Art by Aliya Talbani

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ays of sun peeked through

the sparse pine trees as they continued on their descent below the horizon. The chirps of quails and doves became less frequent, if only for a panicked alert.

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[nonfiction] Taken and

Lost

Carli Blanchard

Photo by Altaipanther, via Wikimedia Commons

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The Echo / March 2014

[foreword

]

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[contents] NONFICTION 6

Taken and Lost Carli Blanchard

Panic Melissa Ferrin ART

Art by Karli Jahnigen

Art by Mariangely Miyares

Art by Penelope Mugford

Art by Hannah Murray

Art by Karli Jahnigen

Art by Jessica Krasnove

Art by Emma Doering

Art by Mariangely Miyares

Art by Aliya Talbani

Art by Taylor Fernandez

Art by Emma Doering

March 2014 / The Echo

Vol.

III Issue 1

FICTION 14

[contents 33

Free Heads Wolf

Wendy Smith 36

Eyes Mariela Deynes

Red Freedom Robert Gordon

Title of the Story

PATRONS

The Old Mountain Courtney Barron

The Echo would like to express its utmost appreciation to its sponsors for their support and dedication:

Steinbrenner High School PTSA John Eric Vona Kathleen Syron 54

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Be You Jessica Lynn Weins

Taming the Beast Josh Rolie & Robby Gordon

Hollow Words Danielle Estrada

Breathe Jacob Goncalves

I Found Beauty on the Ground

Wendy Smith 27

Season’s Bend

Ignorance Jeff McFarland

POETRY

Emilee Stump 24

Seasons

The Loved and the Departed Bailey Zohar

John Smith

Kendel Burke

On This Day We Expected the Worst Miranda Cornell

Miranda Cornell 28

]

I Don’t Think You Understand the Gravity of My Situation Melissa Ferrin

Writer’s Block Katie Coakley

People Tend to Assume Lara Anid

Blood is a Strange Color Holly Munter

The Struggle of Perfection Wendell Hallaway

Graphic Designer

Managing Editors Cara Albert, Tessa Childress

Daniel Krasnove

Fiction Editor

Marketing

Robby Gordon

Emily Holley, Abby Chisholm

Poetry Editor

Editorial Assistants

Wendy Smith

Nonfiction Editor Sam Szatyari

Art Editor Melissa Ferrin

Submissions Manager Mattingly Gerasimovich

Staff Writers Darin Bell, Jessie Bryant, Nabeela Chowdhury, Jenn Heveran, Luis Llano, Taylor Masut, Benji Nichols, Matthew Perror,

Advisors John Eric Vona, Kathleen Syron

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Be Featured in The Echo!

WE WANT YOU IN STEINBRENNER HIGH SCHOOL’S

STUDENT LITERARY MAGAZINE Submit your best short stories, poems, and artwork to The Echo. See any English teacher for details.

~------------------------------------~ March 2014 / The Echo

The

Vol. III Issue 1

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” —Maya Angelou

n ma

e r u at

Steinbrenner High School’s Student Literary Magazine March 2014

Taken and Lost Carli Blanchard

I Found Beauty on the Ground Kendel Burke

Free Heads Miranda Cornell

plus more great prose, poetry, and art by Jacob Gonclaves • Lara Arid Jeff McFarland • Aliya Talbani Mariangely Miyares Karli Jahnigen

You walked into the room super massive, heavy with perfection I couldn’t prove. Your visage glowed with the density of light caught in your atoms, I couldn’t imagine you floated on water.

Featuring “Panic” by PTSA Reflections award-winner Melissa Ferrin