Voices Literary Magazine 2016

Nation Ford High School Volume 9

I

2016

Vol. 9 I 2016

“Valerie” by Alanna O’Brien

A publication of Nation Ford High School 1400 A.O. Jones Boulevard Fort Mill, South Carolina 29715 Phone: (803) 835-0000 Fax: (803) 835-0010 swanne@fortmillschools.com nfhs.fort-mill.sc.us SIPA All Southern 2015 SCSPA Palmetto Award 2015 Best in State 2015, 2014, 2013

Cover Photo: “Cheshire” by Samantha Vanderwalker

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hen beginning to write, it is essential for the artist to

eclipse the reality around him and to immerse himself into his imagination. In this state, the writer fashions and molds words

together. Here, true art is created.

For this reason, I personally invite you to enter Voices literary magazine and allow the verse and stories to eclipse the world around you. Thank you for reading Voices.

Justin McGuirl, Editor-In-Chief

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“Ignition” by Alanna O’Brien

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PROSE & POETRY Poetry

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY ................................

6 Twelve Algonquin Moons I Justin McGuirl

Nightfall I Hannah Sumner 7

9 Rush I Samantha Miller

Socks and Boots I Elisha Forte 8

10 Rosalia Lombardo I Megan Lauka

Pure I Rachel Scott 11

13 The Fight I Kayla Shestokes

Snowscape I Tyrone Kelly 12

14 Selene’s Song for the Goddess of the Moon I

Mountain Mirror I 15

Elizabeth Marvin

Dayna Weiss

17 Love Poem IV I Courtney Grayson

Peaking I Taylor Bigelow 16 Big Ben I Samantha Vanderwalker 19

18 Birth Place I Sophie Davies 20 Waves I Sarah Banford

Boat Sunset I Marissa Huddy 21

22 Garden I Nicole Cardoza

Girl in Field I Ansley Wilson 23

24 90ºF I Jay Verduga

The Road to Rexburg I Samantha Vanderwalker 25

26 Nature’s Treasures I Emma Nagel

Spring Blossoms I Rachel Limbaugh 27

28 Gallery

Various Artists

Script

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30 Deadly Encounters I Sarah Banford

Crow I Gabe Tamez 31

Fiction

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32 Sweet Dreams I Samantha Miller

Filtering Through I Samantha Vanderwalker 33

34 The Second Chance I Sydney Long

Depth I Jay Verduga 35

37 The Forgotten Magic I Lexcee Shelton

For the Record I Samantha Vanderwalker 36

38 Elijah’s Story I Kimberley Copley

Hobbit House I Shaina Platt 39

Nonfiction

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40 Chunky Monkey I Samantha Vanderwalker

Low Tides I Samantha Vanderwalker 41

42 Training Wheels I Frances Barnett

Key West I Samantha Vanderwalker 43

44 Bison I Caleb Summerlin

Bliss I Jalen Hodges 45

46 The Dream I Brooks Hoyle

Hands I Emma Thronsen 47

48 His Shadow I Jade Mackenzie

Bird in Winter I Valerie O’Hare 49

50 Emma’s Beginning I Emma Thronsen

Childhood I Samantha Vanderwalker 51

53 Staff & Policy

Mont Saint-Michel I Samantha Vanderwalker 52

54 Patron Ads

Journey Through the Woods I Madison Sojdak 55

Epilogue I Poem

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56 Eclipse I Abigail Garrett-Dye

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Craters I Samantha Vanderwalker 56

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“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

– Anton Chekhov ................................

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Twelve Algonquin Moons Justin McGuirl Buried in blankets of charcoal darkness, a lit face rests.

Sunken, pale skinned.

Marked by thirsty, barren seas.

Wolf moon.

Descending 300,000 miles below, starved, worshippers of the night on padded fours, pray to the great frigid light, ignited by rejuvenation of the mighty planet’s orbit.

Snow moon.

Abandoned paw prints of the devotees vanish.

The mighty Algonquin families seek refuge from a frozen plague in roasting, smoke-clogged wigwams.

Worm moon.

Iced crystals thaw, then fade and dismantle.

Wriggling creatures, knighted by the great wood shift and sift dense, oxygen-hungry soil.

Pink moon.

Beneath the squirming toes and moist, ripe earth between, infant stems jet up towards the illuminated orb.

Flower moon.

Immature roots enter adolescence and finally bloom into maturity with warm-colored buds Strawberry moon.

Burning, thick vapor diffuses across long rows of cultivated soil and young native children gallop

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to the crimson, juicy fruits.

Buck moon.

Cloaked behind the green deciduous camouflage, a lone deer spies on the crowd while stabs of pain emerge in bearded, ivory racks atop its wise crown.

Sturgeon moon.

Birchbark kenus slither, causing wrinkles in stagnant water.

Sun-dried natives cast far-stretching knit nets into the mansion of aqua life.

Harvest moon.

Foreigners of the old world labor late into the climax of the total face’s trek above.

The snow-skinned laborers shuck and hack the Algonquin three sisters in chilled fields.

Hunter’s moon.

Arrows pierce dull air And whisk into the side of a fox.

Strong warriors praise their gods with thanks for a new gift.

Beaver moon.

Frost creeps into the atmosphere.

Nature’s dam builder observes the cold, gathers bark for the coming winter.

Cold moon.

The great light of the night rules darkness.

Dutiful, sundown submits to Night king’s lengthening lifetime.

Behold the moon.

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“Nightfall” by Hannah Sumner

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“Socks and Boots” by Elisha Forte

Our legs are worn,

but we’re still running, sprinting to the edge of the cliff... d

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Only about a centimeter of time are we actually free.

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Child.

Hands, small and curious.

To the moon and back tenderness.

Bright colors and high pitched giggles.

Everyone wants to go back in time, but don’t they remember the unknown?

A tiny mind with glass walls – we can’t figure out why the sky is painted blue.

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Young.

Everything is undiscovered.

Pondering the turning tides, magic seems to be the only possible explanation.

Confusion is constant, and assurance is vague as the grown ups discuss using big words we can’t comprehend.

III.

IV.

Depleting.

Life becomes our own.

A skull full of strategies to make it to the finish line.

But why are we hurried?

Working hours upon hours, mindlessly digging through time as hard lines form on our once soft face.

We no longer sleep in cotton sheets.

Having children of our own to try and close up the void inside.

We tell them they’re growing too fast, but didn’t we?

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The End. Our legs are worn, but we’re still running, sprinting to the edge of the cliff and jumping into the abyss only to find in the depths, our last breath.

Sam Miller

Growing.

Legs get longer, so we run faster.

Words aren’t enough, but we talk more.

And affection gets smaller as each passing day fades into years of age.

Somewhere in between, someone said it wasn’t okay to be soft.

But we were born wrapped in cotton sheets.

Now there’s confusion looking down at dirty hands.

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Rosalia Lombardo Megan Lauka Rosalia Lombardo was born in Palermo in 1918.

She died at the age of two. It was December 6 in 1920.

After her death, she was then embalmed by the Sicilian taxidermist, Alfredo Salafia. She is known as one of the best-perserved mummies in the world.

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he rose-pink bow is still In Rosalia Lombardo’s hair Dark brown, the color of A rusted penny, smooth skin Without blemish, shade of Caramel, silk blanket wrapped Like the loving embrace Of a mother’s arms around her Frail body, her eyelids closed, Dark lashes gently touch Soft flesh, eyebrows relaxed – A two-year-old Sleeping Beauty Who began her sleep In December 6, 1920.

“Pure” by Rachel Scott

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“Snowscape” by Tyrone Kelly

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The Fight Kayla L. Shestokes The wind whispers a cold warning...

Tonight will be worse than others.

A blizzard is rolling in – Wonder how this one will end?

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S Goddess of the Moon elene’s Song for the

Elizabeth Marvin Zeus was kind to give the gift of her, gentle youth, my dear little Artemis.

One day she shall guide the moon in my stead, but for now, in the luminescent silver light may she rest.

Her bow is strong and her arrows straight – which I hope one day will save her from something more powerful than herself.

May she never know pain.

May her light shimmer as brilliantly as my moon.

Little Artemis, stick with your intuition and never forget you are truly the daughter of the moon.

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“Mountain Mirror” by Dayna Weiss

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“Peaking “ by Taylor Bigelow

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Love

Poem IV

Courtney Grayson

If one were to ask the mirror on the wall “Who is the loveliest of them all?”

There would be an image of you, Draped in the morning’s gossamer hue.

You are more radiant than the rivers that run And the shimmering leaves that laugh in the sun.

Though the stars dazzle like a fantasy, You are a galaxy, ethereal and full of majesty.

You are the drop of nectar at the rose’s sweet center And the blazing fire in the dead of winter.

You are the red autumn leaf that lazily falls To rest delicately on the castle walls.

You are more precious than the newborn fawn And as gorgeous and timeless as the dawn.

The stolid mountains bow to your might Like the darkness concedes to the light.

Like the length of a wedding band Or the beauty of a shore’s strand My affection for you is endless, My adoration and love, boundless.

Whenever I see your face or read your words, My heart alights like a thousand gold birds!

Like a loving dog, I await your return, And for your next note, I eagerly yearn.

My dear, my darling, dolce mio, Mio caro perfetto e bellissimo, Though we may be miles apart, From my heart, you will never depart.

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Birth Place Sophie Davies

Rushing water Or a pitter patter.

Cars dash by And the people scurry.

Hooves hit the cobble stones And the big clock strikes midnight.

Men march in line While a palace shines in the background.

People pose with a telephone booth For the camera.

A double-decker bus zooms past And a wind flows through the streets Blowing the Union Jack Along with my nostalgia.

Across the ocean Is my birth place.

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“Big Ben� by Samantha Vanderwalker

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Waves Sarah Banford

My silhouette ripples With golden, scarlet, and Prussian blue waves Each wave carries its own story Like students in the halls at school The golden wave Slowly dwindles into oblivion Its anthem decayed into caution Decayed into envy Jealous of his fellow waves – Vibrant, young, fresh While he is dingy and static The scarlet wave Once held power, the leader of the river Her courage earned her love from many and hatred from others But as quickly as she rises, she falls Companionship is temporary Now all that is left is a ripple of revenge The Prussian blue wave Calm and peaceful Confidence shines through his translucent body Affection comes easily But his faithful friends turn into foes

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“Boat Sunset” by Marissa Huddy

Greedy for his integrity Now he wanders down the river Alone Each day they pass each other Oblivious to the others’ stories Oblivious to the others’ struggles If they understood, maybe the waves wouldn’t be so distant Maybe the waves would become one

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Garden Nicole Cardoza

The memory of your rose petal lips Watching you bloom in my garden A delicate rarity A crimson beauty But now that’s all gone Leaving a withering blossom Where did I go wrong?

Did I not water you enough?

I haven’t a green thumb I understand I’m not the best But I do wish you to grow In my garden And if it’s the sun across The pasture that makes you happier Then I’d rather see Your petals bloom from afar Than wither away in my yard I didn’t give you all my attention Although I was trying my best, When you withered away I was the one that brought you back I plucked your petals A test of “you love me, You love me not” Now I lie with a barren stem Wishing for one rose In my white picket-fenced garden To smell your fragrance To feel your crimson petals To realize what I had Before the weeds tainted you And you withered away

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“Girl in Field” by Ansley Wilson

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90ºF Jay Verduga

Topless 80’s Mercedes cruises, Albuquerque desert love, Sangria skies above, Neon lights below – Never thought the hills would my cry El Dorado city of gold.

The desert golden ground calls for something extraterrestrial.

A distant laughter in the air...

Yet nothing.

We’re here to leave, Here to ride amongst the great, Follow the roads of the V-8’s, The wanderlust that guides us Brought us this far.

What are we if not made to wander?

What are we if not made to love?

You know we live it all the time – Lust and laughter the lifestyle of sin.

Oh, will I end up in Vegas again?

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“The Road to Rexburg” by Samantha Vanderwalker

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“Spring Blossoms” by Rachel Limbaugh

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Nature’s Treasures

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Emma Nagel

weet, sweet little girl.

Outside watering the flowers.

Taking your time making sure each pansy gets the drink it needs.

No flower gets left untouched, you would say.

You dance along the flower beds, your dress blowing in the soft wind.

Your long blonde hair covers your face, but just enough so you can still see.

Your mother is in the kitchen, looking out the window smiling a daisy smile.

Thinking how lucky she is to have you.

After watering the flowers, you see a butterfly.

You try to catch it.

One blue, one orange, one red.

Every butterfly is a treasure to you.

Just like the tulips.

You stop and stare at the bees collecting nectar.

But you stay far away, far enough to not get stung.

Your mother calls – time to come inside.

At first you hesitate, hating to leave nature all alone, but you skip back to the house – you can’t wait to water the flowers tomorrow and do the daydream all over again.

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“Heron Sunset” by Marissa Huddy

“Hummingbird” by Ryan Chan

“Deer” by Summer Brooks

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“Pyramids in a Bottle” by Maggie Feltman

“Tracks” by Abby Garrett-Dye

“Home” by Emma Thronsen

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Deadly Encounters Sarah Banford FADE IN: EXT. OUTSIDE A PATIENT’S HOUSE Dr. Joseph Allard leaves his most recent patient’s house. His head hangs in defeat, his arms limp at his side.

EXT. INSIDE CAR He plops down into the tattered woven seat of his 1943 Blood Red Singer Roadster. He fixes the tilted mirror.

A black cloaked figure sits patiently in the back seat DEATH Why hello… Doctor.

DR. ALLARD (His body tenses as he makes eye contact through the mirror) Who are you?

DEATH You don’t recognize me?

DR. ALLARD (Composes himself) Should I? DEATH (The figure moves closers to Allard. The hood drapes over where his face should be.

Accompanying him is a scythe.)

I was lingering over your patients, waiting for them to succumb to me.

DR. ALLARD Death?

DEATH So you do recognize me.

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“Crow” by Gabe Tamez

DR. ALLARD Why have you cursed us?

DEATH I was bored - needed something to do, and you just happen to be my next playmate.

DR. ALLARD (Shouts) Do you know how many families you have devastated? Do you know how much destruction you have caused this town?

DEATH (Laughs) Do you think I care?

DR. ALLARD Why should you? You don’t have to deal with the repercussions of your actions.

DEATH Life is cruel, life is unpredictable, life is limited... Haven’t you learned anything through your profession, doctor?

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Sweet Dreams Samantha Miller

They were so crazy in love. Others would insist that it was only an overdose of infatuation, but both Todd and Margo knew that their irresponsible, child-like love was the best kind of love out there.

“Are we done here?” Margo’s impatient voice snapped him back to reality. She was vigorously tapping her foot on the floor, her arms crossed over her chest, and her dark eyes narrowing.

This wasn’t the Margo he once loved.

“I’m so sorry...” His voice was barely above a whisper as the lump in his throat grew. A single tear freed itself from his crystal eyes, streaked down his face, then dripped off his sharp jaw.

Margo’s arrogance suddenly faded as she now saw he was serious.

“Oh, my God… Todd…”

She covered her shocked mouth with one hand, and with the other, she slowly reached out to gently touch his thigh.

Even though this was the same man who had broken her onceadolescent heart, she still couldn’t help but have immense sympathy for him.

She used to love him.

For years, she had smothered her affection for him with hate, because what he did to her was unforgivable.

But still, she could remember the good old days so vividly. Todd’s deep brown hair was long – almost touching his shoulders. He used to tip his head back and let the warm breeze tousle his smooth locks.

“Ah, man, this is what life is all about,” he’d say.

She’d lie on her back, beside him in the feathery grass, watching him, with an ear-to-ear grin stuck on her face.

To Margo, Todd was beautiful. Though with his crooked nose, wide forehead, and uneven, yellowish teeth, no one else understood why.

But that was the beauty of the love that they shared – it was unconditional.

“I-I know you hate me…” Todd sobbed.

“I have a reason to.”

Todd ran a hand across his now chopped dark hair. “I loved you so much Margo… I…” “Then why did you leave me?” Margo snapped.

He sniffled, letting it all come back to him now. “You were already dead.”

“What?”

’ve done somethin’ terrible.” He said it bluntly, without a hint of weariness.

She sat next to him on edge of the bed on a clean, white sheet. “What is it?”

His tired eyes stared at the hotel carpet, then traced along the tacky patterning to resist eye

contact.

He couldn’t look at her.

Mindlessly digging underneath his fingernails, he let out a shaky breath. “I’ve….k-killed somebody….”

Her doe eyes widened at first, the word killed stabbing her in the chest, but suddenly her throat clogged, and a loud, hysterical laugh of disbelief escaped her red-tinted lips.

“I-is this some sort of joke?”

Her brows furrowed.

“If you want to take it as one –” “This is ridiculous,” she cut him off. “You’re always full of such bullcrap! Do you understand that I have a job that I need to be at? Do you understand that I have a family to take care of ? My 9-year-old son needs to be picked up from school in 10 minutes, and I’m sitting here, in some crappy hotel room that reeks of cigarette smoke, and you to tell me some stupid lie, just to get me worked up? Well, congratulations, Todd, you’ve achieved it. I’m mad as hell. Happy?”

Todd shifted his gaze from the floor to her face, and he noticed a strand of her curly blonde hair had escaped from her tight bun and had fallen between her eyes. It made him smile, because it reminded him of how she used to be when they were teenagers, and she let her natural, frizzy curls run wild. When she never wore a trace of makeup, her freckles were prominent. Now she rarely left the house without slapping on a layer of Maybelline paint. These days, all she ever wore were tight, black pencil skirts and a dull blouses buttoned up to her neck. He missed the way she used to dress.

He remembered how the 18-year-old version of her would run out of her parents’ house and to his car in a ripped pair of Levi’s, a psychedelic Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, and bare feet.

“At least put some shoes on, Margo! For Christ’s sake!” her mother would nag from the front porch as her daughter slung the car door open carelessly, then nearly threw herself over the passenger seat to give Todd a big, sloppy kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” she’d say, her chestnut eyes glistening, even though she had just seen him the day before.

“I’ve missed you too,” he’d agree with a dopey smile.

But that was the beauty of

the love that they shared – it was unconditional.

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“Filtering Through” by Samantha Vanderwalker

them. Those were his favorite, because Margo being alive was all he ever wanted anymore.

If she was still alive, the guilt would be less severe. He knew it was his fault that she died.

If only he didn’t drink so much before he went to go pick her up that Saturday evening two years ago. If only he had decided to stay home, knowing that he was too intoxicated to drive. If only it was him, instead of her.

“The accident. You died on impact.”

“Todd, I’m sitting right here.”

“No,” he stated flatly. “You’re not, Margo.”

“What are you talking about?” she said defensively.

He closed his eyes. “I’m dreaming again.”

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that he was back to the cold, white-tiled floor, and gray cinder block walls. He could see the eyes of officials who examined him from the small, barred of window on the steel door.

“I’m not crazy.” He said it aloud, though he knew no one would listen to him.

The dreams – or hallucinations – were slightly different each time. Sometimes he dreamed of once again lying in the soft grass, young and free with Margo beside him.

Other times he dreamt of an adult Margo, continuing life without him, with only heartbreak over what had separated

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If only… If only… If only….

He began to bang his head against the cinder block wall. There were shouts from outside the door, telling him to stop, but it only made him bang harder.

As he saw the handle of the door twist open, he hurled himself against the wall, just enough for him to sink into his dream world once again.d

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Second Chance Sydny Long

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he ad promised a humane, bloodless resuscitation.

Andy had been justifiably disconcerted by the great hulking machines. They look they run on blood, Joy had said with the syrupy diction of a tranquilized tongue. He saw the biohazard labels, streamed across the laboratory like decorations for some twisted celebration, and allowed suspicion into his weary heart. He demanded to have his questions answered.

A lab technician had explained something about subatomic vibrations and chemical decomposition, his recondite speech adorned with staccato pauses in which he would put his fingers to his mouth as if forgetting how to speak. Andy had regretted having ever asked. Joy had knotted her hands together and cried.

After the brief tour, they were escorted into their conference room and told their dead daughter would be joining them in a few minutes.

The room was sequestered in a private corner of the facility, its sundrenched interior an uncomfortably intimate mimicry of their first apartment.

There had been an additional fee for the hologram, and what he had believed to be a wise purchase now caused spiders to skitter down his spine. Joy couldn’t perceive the familiar surroundings anyway. Her brain was a splinter preserved in an amber of vicodin, a still body shrouded in muslin sheets and quietly suffocated. The accident had blasted the scaffoldings from her mind and now her hazy, haphazard thoughts spilled from her mouth like stars across a bruised sky.

“Make sure you pay the doctor,” she said. Neither of them saw a doctor. Joy’s prescription had been issued after a half-hour session with a therapist who was visibly disquieted by Joy’s ramblings; his vein-mapped hand had clenched around a pen and taken on a tremble. Andy did not blame him.

“Okay,” Andy replied sagely.

The couple sat together for a moment, haunted by the apparitions of their former selves. Their first apartment had been built to be remembered fondly: its nooks and intricacies collected the dust of memory, and its kitschy idiosyncrasies had swallowed moments of their tangled lives and now dutifully regurgitated them as the time came for reminiscing. Andy could see himself in the apartment with vivid clarity. There was no envy for his past self, as this strange man cloaked in the down of youth would have to relive this and several other days, and he would live ad infinitum, always projecting this awkward moment of evaluation onto the self that had come before him.

“Lucy.” Joy’s voice was the death-whisper of fallen leaves scraping against concrete.

Andy looked across their old dining table, his gaze soft with

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pity. The sedative was waning. “Joy, don’t worry about Lucy.

They’re making her right now.”

Joy stared through him, eyes buttered with cataracts, her face a steamy mirror. “Lucy drowned.”

She had entered the world swimming. Embalmed in amniotic jelly, she had quitted her mother’s womb and swam to the world’s shimmery surface. Then she had resuscitated herself with a hearty heave of her tiny chest, an art so noble that it could only be practiced once.

He sometimes contemplated whether she had returned to the womb in her death throes. Had the mechanical churn of cycling legs become the quiver of her mother’s pulse? Had the cadent macramé of sunlight beneath her become the beacon of her blooming heart? Why hadn’t she recovered that primal instinct and rocketed to the surface as she had six years before?

Why didn’t she swim?

“No.” Joy blinked. She had once been peppermint-pretty, but this too had been strangled from her visage, and in its place, a crust of vacancy ossified. Never would he have imagined such a fate for his beautiful wife, especially not now in the summer of their lives. They used to discuss their future selves in the deep-space darkness of their first bedroom, presaging what middle class trappings would ensnare them and how they would extricate themselves.

How alien that young man in the apartment seemed. How ignorant he was to the deep, dark well of suffering.

“Lucy drowned,” she said again.

“Joy, we’re getting Lucy back for a little bit. Remember?

They can give her to us for an hour. We can have her for an hour.” The concept sounded slightly horrific once vocalized.

“Why?” The question was spoken with childish petulance.

Andy threaded his hand through his hair, the twinkles of grief-gray shimmering like winter sun. He exhaled fiercely.

“She’ll only last an hour, Joy. Then her chemical makeup will start to denature, and she’ll be dead again. We have to make this hour counts.”

Joy, who had been a biology laureate in grad school, was visibly baffled by his scientific vernacular. Once upon a time, she would have corrected him and reviewed the principles of homeostasis and neural equilibrium in a voice curdled slightly with condescension. The big wheels at LexCorp had attempted to recruit her for this very program, but Joy was a moral stalwart and had waxed philosophical about the value of life for nearly a week after the proposal. Her zeal had fatigued him, but now he missed it. He felt almost as if he had lost her as well.

“Why? She’s gone.”

“Because we miss her.”

“She drowned, though,” Joy insisted. Her cloudy expression was suddenly illuminated with a cresting sun of comprehension. It was as if her mental haze had simply been the night of her grief, and this moment was the dawn that would

Her zeal had fatigued him, but now he missed it. He felt almost as if he had lost her as well.

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“Depth” by Jay Verduga break it. “We couldn’t bring her back.”

A rill of anger rippled through him. “Joy, what the hell are you saying?”

“She’s dead, Andy.”

“I know! I know! But don’t you think I hate her being dead?

I want her back, Joy! I want to hold her again… You live your whole life thinking that there’ll always be time to make up for your inadequacy. You push her out of your lap because one day you’ll walk her down the aisle, and that’ll be enough. You live under the impression that there’ll always be something better.”

Joy blinked again. A tear tumbled down the slope of her cheek.

Andy braced his forehead against his tremulous hands and tried to breathe against the fists of his lungs. It was easy, he realized. It was horribly easy to drown.

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“I used to yell at her for the way she cried at everything. I made her feel humiliated. I have to apologize, Joy…” “We can’t apologize for everything, Andy.”

His ribs were blasted apart by a long-caged sob.

“I have to.”

“Andy, if you see her again, you’ll never get over it. You’ll keep bringing her back, over and over. You have to move on.

You have to learn to swim.”

He paused, turning his wife’s words over in his head until they carouseled. With every rotation, he became more and more terrified; his countenance collapsed, and his world went febrile. To hold his dead daughter! To stroke her watery face!

Andy fell against the table, clutching at his head and began to scream. “Keep her away! Don’t bring her in here! I can’t! I can’t! Please, God, I can’t!”

The door creaked open.d

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“For the Record” by Sam Vanderwalker

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The Forgotten Magic Lexcee Shelton

I can’t believe what I was seeing at first. All of that effort to get into this chest, only to find that inside, there is just ANOTHER BOX? I let out a groan so loud I’m afraid my mom will hear me two stories below.

This box is good deal smaller and much fancier. The wood it is made of is really dark, almost black. It doesn’t have a lock, but a latch is in its place. As I lift the latch, time almost slows down. “I really am in some sort of Disney movie,” I say and chuckle to myself. I am going to make another joke before I see what is in the box.

It takes me a few minutes to find my voice. “How the hell?”

Sitting on a plush cushion inside the box is a tiara. A perfectly smooth tiara that looks like it was made hours ago. A tiara that’s covered is gleaming gemstones. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds that dot a silver arch with a large jewel in the center.

I don’t recognize the stone; it is like nothing I’ve ever scene.

Given I only have an eleventh grade education, and I really haven’t seen many precious stones in my life, but this one just doesn’t seem real.

It looks completely clear, and you can see the detailed silver carving behind it. Yet I can see it is faceted hundreds of times.

Just the center stone looked like it was worth millions, and I was almost afraid to pick up the whole thing. What if I drop it? What if I break this and she finds out? She would skin me alive, I just know, but I can’t walk away. gulped. With trembling hands, I move to gently lift the tiara. I almost drop it as soon as I pick it up. The metal is cold, like ice, when it should be warm. The detail on the crown glitters as I lift it up into the sunlight. I inhale sharply. When the sunlight hits the center stone, it breaks the light into a million pieces, each a different shade. Beams of light hit every corner of the room, creating a kaleidoscope of color - all of them reflecting off of the otherworldly gem. It is hypnotizing to watch.

I stand with the tiara in my hands, spotting a mirror across the room. I walk to it before I can think about what I am doing. I know I should put it back. I know I should hide it in the box and act like I never found it. But I just can’t. How did my mom even have this? This thing must be priceless; if she ever had something worth this much, she would sell it, and never work another day. So why would this just sit up here?

Suddenly, I was in front of the grainy, dusty mirror, staring at my spotted reflection, the tiara still in my hands. I try to resist the temptation, but my gut fights against it. I don’t want to try it on; I could break it. Knowing me, I would break it. But despite all the logic my head screaming at me, my hands lift up until the tiara is resting lightly on my brow.

The mirror shimmers and morphs, until an entirely new person is staring back at me. d

hey say an attic holds demons, but I knew the real demon was down stairs, watching Oprah.

She sent me up here to the attic to clean a few hours ago, and I had barely made any progress.

This place was just too big to clean in a day. I knew she was just setting me up to fail, giving herself a reason to punish me. Nevertheless, I will try to clean this trash dump.

Stacks of boxes and crates that are decades old. Childhood relics and toys that are so broken they could only gather dust. Ugly armchairs and ripped sofas, broken keyboards and bell-bottom pants. Artifacts of my family’s past that I couldn’t care less about.

I push aside another crate with a grunt, squeezing into a corner near a windowsill. I trudge over to the window and yank it up, gasping for any air that isn’t musty. It doesn’t help much. With it being the middle of July, the air is still pretty hellish. The humidity threatens to choke me, but I leave it open, hoping it will clear away the stale air. Turning from the window, I lean against it and cast my eyes around the room.

Looking around idly for a few moments, my eyes catch a glare to my right. Something is hidden in the shadow of an old bookcase, and I can feel the mysterious music begin to play in my head. Shifting the empty shelf to the side, my gaze lands on a locked trunk. I kneel down next to it.

The trunk itself is made of a dark oak, with a rusty metal lock holding the lid closed. I sit back on my haunches and frown. Well, now what?

I look around the attic. Where would a key be? Dragging myself off the ground, I shift boxes and look under rugs.

I know it is stupid, but I can’t help being curious. What is so important that my mother had to keep it under lock and key? I seriously doubt it’s family photos.

A few more minutes of searching end in no key, but I do see an old toolbox that used to belong to my dad. Maybe something in there would be able to open the lock. After tossing away screwdrivers (the lock doesn’t have screws), hammers (that would accomplish the exact opposite of what I want), and pliers (the lock is too rusted for that to be of any use), I finally find a hatchet. I let a malicious grin cross my face.

Is there anything more satisfying than breaking something that belongs to someone you hate? Hefting the ax in my left hand, I swing it toward the lock with all my strength. It rattles but doesn’t break.

Well, I was never that strong.

It takes six more swings before the rusty piece of metal finally falls off. I stand there for a moment to catch my breath, but my curiosity soon drives me to toss the hatchet aside and flip the lid up.

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After “The Stanley Parable” video game designed by Davey Wreden

Kimberley Copley

he first day of a new job is always the worst, isn’t it? It’s like you are a child again, walking into school. Everyone already has their friends, their cliques, and you’re just left there alone, not knowing what to do or where to go or who to talk to. Ah, here he comes. Elijah, our main character.

Elijah is about to start his first day of his new job, and he actually seems quite excited. Not even thinking about all the terrible things that could possibly happen within the first five minutes of walking in.

He could trip and fall right in front of the receptionist. Oh and there he goes, down like a tree in the wind. The receptionist is giggling. I hope poor Elijah is all right.

Eli will stand and approach his new office. Come on Eli, pick it up. Elijah opens the door that reads “Elijah Sommers – Creative Director.” Hmm. No. Elijah finds two doors. Elijah, chose a door. The door to the left is black. The door to the right is red.

Go through the red one. Elijah obediently walks through the red door. Good boy, Elijah. Ah, three more doors. Not that it matters - we all know what Elijah will do. He will do what I tell him to do. Go through the third door this time, Elijah. Don’t hesitate now, do as I say.

Elijah. Elijah looks at the other two doors in

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confusion, approaching each slowly and opening the doors. Then he walks through the third door, just like I said he would. Very good. Don’t be so slow next time. Ahem, anyways.

Elijah continues on his way, a little fearful. I have no idea why – if he does as I say there is nothing to be scared of. Elijah stands, confused and quite horrified, in the center of an empty, white room. Splashes of every color of paint appear and disappear on the walls. There is a window to the left and a door to the right – the only door in the room – so where to go should be obvious. Elijah isn’t the brightest. He doesn’t even know how he scored himself a job as a creative director. He would be much better suited as…hmm…a janitor. Oh look, a mop has appeared in Elijah’s hand. How fitting. Elijah! Pick that back up! Elijah picks up the mop. Elijah…Elijah picks up the mop. Oh…okay…Elijah runs to the door! Elijah doesn’t do what his heart desires; he does what I say, which is why he’s running to the door with the mop.

Elijah tries to go back the way he came – through the third door – but he finds himself in a corridor.

Now Elijah if you would just LISTEN to me, then maybe you could figure out how to return to the front desk. Elijah roams through the dimly lit hallway and approaches a single door. k

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“Hobbit House” by Shaina Platt

The door is already open, so you can walk straight doors and morph through walls? You have been an unsuccessful test subject, Elijah. So I shall kill you. through. See? You’re getting the hang of it. Elijah There’s no point in trying to escape, my mind is obediently walks through the door and comes to a already made up. I could destroy this office building large room with a door on each wall. The room is right now. I could’ve made you rich, but you have dark, except for a cone of light from a large hole in chosen to be rebellious. Okay, fine. Let’s test that. the middle of the ceiling onto a single chair.

Elijah goes through a new door that has appeared If Elijah chooses to sit in this chair he will die, on the wall directly in front of how does that sound? Try dishim. Oh, and look at that – instead obeying me now! Elijah uses the here’s no point in he chooses to go back the way he door on the left. The LEFT. No that’s not your left - that is your trying to escape, my mind came.

I understand. Elijah, you’ve right. Elijah! Fine. Let’s see how is already made up. been very interesting, but I still clever you are once you go in the don’t like you. Your wife and childoor to your right and find that dren are waiting for you outside of the white door I you are teleported back to the room with the chair. just placed beside you. Go on. Leave before someStop going through the door on the right. Stop!

Every time you go through that door I will just bring thing terrible happens to them.

GET OUT, ELIJAH! you back to the same spot.

Elijah still refuses to leave – what a foolish insoElijah decides that he will ignore what I say and go lent boy. through the door on the right once more. I teleport How am I supposed to create a story with a charhim back and remove all the doors except the door acter like you? I’m the narrator. It’s my job to tell you on the left. Now try being disobedient. Elijah stop what to do. Why must you be so persistent? going to the right - there is no door there!

This is not turning out like I thought it would.d Oh. So now you think you can locate invisible

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Chunky Monkey

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’d always thought Alex looked just like his brother.

His brother was three years older than us, but the only physical difference in the two was his Alex’s hair turned light in the summer, like his mom’s. Looking into the rear-view mirror, I could see his eyes beginning to open beneath his sun-stained hair, blinking for several seconds until he finally saw me, too. It took approximately half a second for my little cousins, who bordered him on both sides, to realize that he had awakened, and then another quarter of a second for them to begin the hitting, hair-pulling, and tickling charade. Laughing from the front seat, my aunt and I scanned the sides of the road, looking for the sign for Bethany Beach.

Every few seconds I glanced in the mirror, making eye contact with Alex for a moment, before he was sucked back into the tornado of sticky toddler fingers and flying nerf bullets.

The sun was still low in the sky, just beginning to peak over the sand dunes that lined Highway 50, the sea grass growing higher and higher as we approached the coast. Bethany Beach had a small population of just over 1,000 during the winter months, but during the summer the tenant count swelled to nearly 15,000. Despite the overwhelming number of tourists, Bethany never felt crowded to me. The pastel colored shops that lined the board walk were never filled with cheesy trinkets or light-up keychains with popular names like Sara and Zach; instead there were used-book shops, pet stores with litters of Labradoodles and Jack Russels, and, my favorite, an authentic Ben and Jerry’s ice cream parlor.

That was the first place Alex and I went after we helped unpack the minivan. We raced each other to the counter, calling out that whoever got there last had to pay. He didn’t let me win, the way most boys would, he elbowed me in the ribs and jutted his knee out, trying to trip me as we hurtled through the sand. We both slapped our palms against the cool linoleum counter at the same time, startling the girl working behind it. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Alex ordered two ice cream cones, one Peach Melba and one Chunky Monkey with chocolate sprinkles. A game of rock-paper-scissors and it was decided – Alex would pay. He dropped the change into the tip jar beside the cash register, handed me my Chunky Monkey, and together Alex and I continued down the board walk towards a pair of rocking chairs.

He reached out, linking his fingers in mine as we walked, using his thumb to draw shapes on my wrist. This was a sensation I had felt hundreds of times, his hand on mine, the sight of his dimples whenever he smiled. Alex and I had known each other since we were 11, when he caught me

during Capture the Flag in gym class. It had been four years since then, but I still got the same fluttery feeling in my chest every time he looked at me. Taking our place side-by-side in the rocking chairs, we ate our sugary breakfasts in silence, taking in the salty breeze and watching three Maltese puppies as they chased one another around the pen that sat in front of Joey’s Pet Supplies. By the time I had finished the top of my ice cream and had begun to gnaw at the cone, a group of girls who appeared to be my age walked by. There were four of them – they had on sparkly bikini tops and denim Daisy Duke shortshorts, and none of them held an ice cream cone. Self-consciously I glanced down at my blue lacrosse T-shirt and Nike running shorts, spotted with milky brown stains where my ice cream had dripped. I felt a hand brush my blonde, ramen-noodle-esque hair behind my ear.

Looking up, I saw Alex smiling at me, a drop of Peach Melba clinging to the tip of his nose. I smiled back at him, placing my hand over his.

Alex had always been good-looking – his shaggy blonde hair, tan skin that freckled after a few hours in the sun, and bright blue eyes had set him far above the other pre-pubescent boys in middle school.

Over the last year, our freshman year of high school, he had grown 3 inches, and, being the only boy in our grade to make varsity lacrosse, a lot of girls had begun to take interest in him. Despite all this, despite the fact that I was still the lanky, curly-haired girl he had known since seventh grade, Alex and I remained inseparable. For years we had lived in our own little world, content with each other’s company. Up until six months before the trip to Bethany Beach, when I had moved hundreds of miles away from Alex and the place I grew up, he and I had spent every day together, playing lacrosse, making the most complicated recipes we could find, or watching sea documentaries. It wasn’t a question that we would stay together after I left – we barely even talked about it.

Both of our parents had free air miles from their constant business trips, so for the last few months he and I had flown back and forth, staying in each other’s guest bedrooms for the weekend before flying back on a Sunday night or Monday morning to make it to school. In June I had flown back to my hometown to stay with family for the entire summer, meaning he and I had three whole months to pretend that I didn’t have to leave again when school started. It was the end of August now, and my flight left in less than 24 hours. Maybe that’s why he held my hand so tightly as we left the boardwalk and sprinted to the water, shedding our t-shirts and shorts so we were nothing but two Lycra-clad bodies, linked together in the hope that if we held on for one more day, we wouldn’t ever have to let go. hat was the last day I ever spent with Alex. Reality caught up with us after the beginning of our sophomore year, when our lives got busy and it became too hard to fly out and see each other anymore. I saw a picture of him at his brother’s wedding, their matching grins and black tuxes taking up the center of the frame as his brother hugged his new bride, and Alex linked his hand with the hand of a petite brunette. She’s a beautiful girl. They both smiled so wide, and I wondered what shape his thumb was making on the inside of her wrist. The thing is, goodbye is never easy, and it was naïve of us to believe that anything could stay the same, but I am so thankful that our goodbye was on that beautiful August day in Bethany Beach, running to the ocean and believing we would last forever.d

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“For years we had lived in our own little world, content with each other’s company.”

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“Low Tides” by Samantha Vanderwalker

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Training Wheels

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Gracie Barnett

der, the other in the middle of my damp back.

The days spent at the Mill Mountain Zoo The sun was still as hot as ever. The pavement in Roanoke, Va. were the best kinds of days. was scorching, and my palms were beginning Winding up the mountain and peering over the to perspire. Small beads of sweat appeared on edges of leaf-decorated roads, made a five-yearmy forehead and then made their journey down old feel like she was on top of the world. I was. my porcelain cheeks…eventually hitting the hot It was a special thing my grandmother and I black asphalt. liked to do. Our favorite “exhibit” was Ruby the I can still remember the uneasiness I felt the Tiger. Ruby was a Siberian tiger, an exceptional first time riding with two wheels underneath me feline. I still remember waiting eagerly to see rather than the four I’d been accustomed to. I her come out of her den to come visit all the started to pedal and gained speed, still trying to children just like me. balance my 50 pounds of weight evenly between On the day my Grandmother told me we the two wheels. could go to the zoo and see Ruby, I was ecstatic.

Grandmother let go. Panic-stricken, I let go You can imagine my disappointment when I too. I didn’t know what to do anymore – she found out there were conditions. Circumstances didn’t mention she was going to do that in our in which involved me abandoning my tricycle plan. I like to have plans. for a … bicycle. I did what I had to do to see I sprawled out on the pavement, my skin Ruby. stinging from the gravel in my fresh wounds.

My grandmother wheeled a brand new, shiny, The aroma of blood in the air red bicycle out from the garage. wafted towards my nose. I lay still.

This wasn’t just any bike though. remember how The simplicity of defeat At the age of five, this twowas enough to last years to me. wheeled monstrosity seemed like the beads of sweat Grandmother ran to me and apolmy worst enemy. The untouched met the asphalt ogizes profusely, trying to console wheels had not yet been forcea petrified child. She helped me fully skidded to a stop by the with a sizzle... up, bruises and all, and guided me brake handles, and the pristine inside her house. leather seat had never been sat on.

I recalled earlier how the beads of sweat met It all terrified me. I didn’t want to be the first the asphalt with a sizzle, and it dawned on me to use it… or crash it. The thing I remember that in that moment on that bike… I too was a most about the Red Diamond 200 was the droplet of sweat hitting the scalding concrete of basket. The ivory wicker basket so precociously Tomely Drive. Even at the age of 5, the feeling placed in between the wide handle bars seemed of knowing that was burdensome – and I’d like a beacon of hope to me. Seeing such a never felt colder. beautiful creation on the front of this bicycle, In the rustic, white-marbled kitchen of my I’d try my best not to fall.

Grandmother’s house, she knelt by me, bandagThe months of hearing my parents talk about ing up every cut, scrape, knick, and minor “boogetting me off my trike, which I so loved, came boos” – as she so often called them. to reality that day. I hesitantly thrusted one leg I sat there in my favorite wooden chair, eating over to the right side of the bike, and before I the warm chocolate chip cookies she’d just knew it… I was sitting on the one thing I hated made. I remember the ticking of the ancient most in the world. ivory clock that has hung on the kitchen wall for “Now, I’m gonna hold you, and you petal you as long as I’ve lived, and after she placed the last hear?” Grandmother said softly in her Virginian band-aid, Grandmother looked up and spoke to accent. me.

Begrudgingly, I started to petal. As she promised, she placed one hand on my shoul“Now, Let’s go see Ruby.” d

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“Key West” by Samantha Vanderwalker

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Caleb Sumerlin

alarm in my head went off. “What will he look he Thunder Beast is a strong like? How will he react to these huge trucks? willed, mighty creature with When I leave, will he be killed?” I wondered. shaggy, muddish brown fur, As we rode across the huge, glistening, goldand two piercing short horns. en-brown fields. I felt calm, like all my worries Once the epitome of the west, were released. Then everything started vibrating: Bison rolled across the North the trucks, the ground, and even the water in my American Great Plains in herds of 3,700. They bottle! I looked behind me, and in awe, we saw were a true icon of America and were killed by giant mountains. Sprinting to a nearby field was what Indians called “The white demons.” Bison a huge herd of bison. were killed for the purposes of food, medicine, I immediately took out my search paper with and sport. Since then, their kind has been trying an in-depth photo of Buddy. It was difficult to avoid extinction. Today, America has stepped to find his picture; I dashed in to help. toward the front to ask the driver felt the thud from their *** On Sept. 27, 2010, my skulls cracking together deep if we could stay there for a little while to find Buddy. teacher assigned my classmates in my chest, even though they “Sure kid, but please try not and me a project in which we to fall out of the vehicle,” he were far away from me. selected our favorite animal. said.

I had read that the bison is a As fast as I could, I took out my camera and my sign of independence, and curious, I selected search paper and started scanning the field as carethe animal for my project. Later, at the age of 9, fully as I could until the driver announced we were I adopted my best friend Buddy and donated $10 every week from my weekly allowance to go moving. A man in the back of the truck was selling hiking trips around the bison fields. I decided to leap see him one day when I got older. off the truck – I could not wait to hike the grassy When the day came four years later, I had plains. Down field, I saw Buddy drinking out of a saved up for a round trip from Rocky Mount, watering hole. He was huge and muscular.

N.C. to Yellow Stone National Park.

After seeing Buddy in the distance, we turned The plane ride was the first time I had ever around and noticed there were other bison ramming been up in the air. I’ll never forget riding in the each other. I felt the thud deep in my chest from their cockpit and eating mac and cheese. skulls cracking together – even though they were far When we finally landed in Wyoming, I had a away from me. The guide told us they were parmajor case of jet lag, so I fell asleep while my ticipating in an event called the rutting season. It parents were looking for our luggage. We had happens every spring when the females select their gotten lost three times- while trying to get to the park. When we finally arrived at the park, we mates.

As time passed out there on the great plains, a got settled at the camp grounds for the trek that feeling of peace consumed me. A few awesome would start in the morning. pictures later, I heard grunts and moans, and Buddy After good night sleep and some piping hot started rolling in dirt, tossing it over his body and oat meal, we headed toward the trucks in which throwing small clods of mud and dirt. I later figwe’d be riding in . While we rode up the hill, an

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“Bliss” by Jalen Hodges

ured out that Buddy was challenging another bull to a fight. As the other bull walked up to Buddy, I could tell he was an older bull because he had bulging muscles and a skull that looked like he had a medieval helmet meant for a giant. Buddy and the Old Bull exchanged glances, testing whether the other would run away or accept submission. The suspense was so intense that I couldn’t stand it.

BOOM! The sounds of thunder rang through the valley. I felt their hit even deeper in my heart than the first two bulls. Watching the fantastic scene, I felt the suspense and energy of what was about to occur build. Old Bull seemed to have the upper z

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hand throughout most of the fight, until Buddy got the better of him and made him trip over an open root in the ground. As Old Bull was on his backside, Buddy was ramming him in the side. I could tell the older opponent was in pain by his groans.

Finally after the 10 minutes of Buddy in pain, the old bull walked away with new battle scars – one especially a huge over his right shoulder. That experience left me with the mind set to not let anything big or small get in my way. Determination is what we all need, and there’s no greater animal to teach the lesson than the bison, the Thunder Beast of the Great American Plains.d 45 m

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The Dream Brooks Hoyle

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t wasn’t a date. But now that I say that, I I had been better, maybe if I had done something usually like to think that it was. But a date’s different, then things could have been... different. not a date if you go somewhere with friends.

The harsher truth is I know it had nothing to do That’s the rule. Too bad I’m not all that good with what I did – or didn’t do. It had nothing to do with rules. Even so, there was a time when we with that at all… were alone. Just her and me. Like it was before, but We eventually got away from our friends, though something more. whether it was because of our desire or our friends’ We had come to Carowinds to have fun and see a manipulation, I can’t say for sure. Regardless, we concert. It was the two of us and our friends from were together, and that’s what mattered. With her church, people who we had known our whole lives. sharing the same Roller Coaster Phobia (I looked Sadly, that made them especially interested and it up and that’s what it was called) as our other invested in our relationship. They embarrassed us a friends, I decided to pick something that was equallittle, but it was fine. With a petrifying fear of rollerly as thrilling, yet less coasterish. So the obvious coasters in some of our group, the choice was the viking ship ride. first stop was Boomerang Bay, the You can always rely on viwater park.

In the moment of our king ship rides. They’re so comWhen we got there, I can say screams and smiles, it monplace that most park-dwellers without a doubt that I had walked would overlook them, opening almost felt like before. into a completely different world up a much shorter line to those than she and my friends had. few fans of its thrilling charm. I They probably walked into a water assured her that this ride would be wonderland, filled with beachfront tanning areas, fun, and she agreed. poolside seating, a fresh smelling breeze, topped What I hadn’t discovered at the time was that she off with a massive wave pool that would dwarf a didn’t know viking ship rides go upside down. It football field. They were in pool heaven, where as was a horrible surprise to her and an amazing reacI found myself in pool hell – hardly any shelter tion for me to watch. Over the roar of the crowd, I from the sun, plastic death traps that tugged at my could hear the ever-present screams of “Stop laughskin called ‘beach chairs,’ the nauseating smell of ing!” “Shut up!” and “I hate you!” She had fun. n the moment of our screams and smiles, it chlorine in the air, ending with a pool filled shoulalmost felt like before. Before we decided to der-to-shoulder with half naked people – a third of face our fears during a time of childish fun which probably find bathrooms at swimming pool a and secret crushes. Before our fun seemed redundancy. mandatory, and being together was awkward. Now, Needless to say, I refused to get in. She couldn’t don’t get me wrong, being together was amazing. see why I wasn’t excited, but she left to have fun In fact, it was a dream come true. But deep down, and let me sit in my plastic-tugging death trap. even today, I feel like it was just a dream. It didn’t Should have gone anyways, just to be there. I feel feel… real. like I had an obligation to go, but at the time I No. That’s not it. It was too real. Before was the figured she’d understand. In fact, if you asked her dream, then came reality. Neither of us were ready, about it today, she wouldn’t have the slightest clue and that’s probably why it didn’t work out. That’s what you’re talking about. probably why we returned to before – returned to It was just one of those things I look back on. the dream. d One of those things I regret. I think that maybe if

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“Hands” by Emma Thronsen

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His Shadow

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Jade Mackenzie

he back door of Amber’s house creaked open, and my mother peeked her head in to say, “Jade, I really need to talk to you.

Meet me in the living room.”

My heart began to race. I opened the door to the house, walked in feeling the heat on my cheeks, and regained feeling in my hands. I had been sitting outside, exposing myself to the frigid autumn air for so long, I had started to lose feeling in my body. I took deep breaths, and slowly closed the door.

I walked gently, as though the floor might cave as I entered the house. With every step, a new scenario played out in my head. What could I have done? What could she of figured out? My mind ran ramped with thoughts of what might happen, but none of what I imagined could have prepared me for what I was about to hear.

Hearing the floor squeak under my feet as I walked into the living room, I saw my mother and Amber sitting on one couch. On the other sat my best friend since I was 3 and my boyfriend, each on opposite sides leaving a space for me in the middle.

Before sitting down, I looked around at all of them, trying to read their facial expressions, hoping to come to some sort of conclusion about what this unexpected gathering was about. Standing there, I could feel my chest getting tighter by the second. I locked eyes with my best friend for just a moment as she patted the empty space next to her, motioning me to sit down. I took a deep breath, and shuffled over to the old, faded, brown couch.

Leaning into the back of the couch, crossing my arms, I stared blankly at my mother. I noticed the tears forming in her eyes. I knew the secret she had been withholding was going to wreck me. My chest began pounding. Anxiety and fear clouded z

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my mind. The tightness in my chest progressed, each heart beat getting farther and farther apart until I felt unable to breathe.

I sat there, waiting for the moment her mouth would start to open. I could feel Lily, my best friend, grab my hand, squeezing harder with each moment.

My boyfriend put his arm around me, looking remorseful. Panic ran through my body. Why now, why when I finally start to feel okay something comes to break me apart again? I felt a tear run down my face. I watched as my mother’s mouth opened. This was the moment, the moment I would lose it all over again.

“Your dad…” she said, stopping mid-sentence as though she was pondering if she should progress or not.

“What happened?” I said slowly, trying not to give away the fear that was jolting through me.

“He’s…he’s in jail Jade…” crashed. Feeling numb, having no sense of what just happened, I gazed at her. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes as a river of emotion began to pour out. All strength, both physical and mental, quickly disappeared.

Shaking, I tried to contain this flood I had been holding inside, but it all came rushing out. My arms became limp, as did my back and neck as I fell into my boyfriend’s arms. I couldn’t control myself – I tried stopping this down pour of emotion but my efforts were useless. I once again was shattered, broken to the point I thought was beyond repair.

I had stopped talking to my father months before.

My story with my dad isn’t a pleasant one. Calling him “dad” wouldn’t be the proper term if you knew how we related to each other. We were dysfunctional, tied together by my feelings of responsibility for

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his loneliness and his manipulative tactics to make me feel guilty every time I would leave. It had been almost nine months since the last time we spoke. I had become tired of his games, the constant mental abuse – and his use of drugs was too much to cope with. So, I ended the relationship.

Lying in my boyfriend’s arms, I felt helpless, guilty as though this event was my fault, and devastated that my father’s need for a fix was worth more than a decent life. The tears felt unending, becoming more fluent with every memory. I hadn’t thought about my dad much since we went radio silent, but it didn’t mean I didn’t care about him. I did. Much more than I had realized. Although he had put me through hell as a child, all I wanted for him was a good life. Not this.

Trying to collect myself, I muttered that I needed to go for a walk. I staggered up from the couch and ran out the door, trying to escape the reality of what just happened. Feeling the bite of the fall air, I started running. My legs moved as though some

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horrific monster was chasing me down. With every breath, every step, my tears began to dry, and I used my emotions as stamina for the long run ahead.

As my legs, hands, and face grew numb, so did my spirit. The whirlwind of emotion had come to a halt, leaving me empty with no feeling. I gazed at all that was around me, not knowing exactly where I was.

The trees were bare of leaves, the pine straw covered the forest floor, and a small stream ran alongside me.

Drained physically and emotionally, I sat, leaning against a pine tree, staring at slow-moving water.

I remembered why I had stopped speaking with my father in the first place. He beat me down, made me feel ashamed of who I was, and turned me into this person I didn’t recognize. He had destroyed me.

In that moment, I realized I was letting him shatter me all over again. I wasn’t going to allow him to ruin me anymore. I stood up, with a new perspective and my whits about me, and commenced my journey back to the people who made me feel alive and loved, leaving behind the man who had broken me.d

“Bird in Winter” by Valerie O’Hare

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Emma’s Beginning

by Emma Thronsen

“The door opened with a ‘reeeee’ and “Pop-pop! Pop-pop! Tell me a story about the magic tree!” the little girl begged, her curls closed with a-” bouncing around her chubby cheeks at a pace “Bang!” the little girl interjected, moving her hands as if she were slamming a door. that made her grandpa quite dizzy.

“All right, but on one condition ― you have “That’s right ― a bang,” the old man said with a chuckle. to help me tell the story.”

The two spent the rest of the afternoon “Well, okay… but you start.” laughing, fantasizing, and then napping “Once upon a time,” the old man began together on the basement floor. in a voice warmer than his wife’s fresh As the little girl grew up, her Pop-pop baked cookies, “There lived a grandma and taught her everything a grandpa. They had a The two spent the she was proud to say she beautiful granddaughter – ” “Whose name was Emma rest of the after- knew about: old musicals and actors, state coins, the and who was 5-years-old,” Pythagorean Theorem, noon laughing, the little girl interrupted, imaginary numbers, but holding up five small fingers fantasizing... most importantly, he taught and beaming up at her her how to write. Not grandpa out of pride in her just how to fit words together to craft a ability to count. melodic sentence, but how to write with “Yes, very good,” the man said, tenderly passion and without fear of criticism or looking down at the ball of joy cuddled on judgment. the floor with him. He continued the story, For the girl, stories began as a way “There was a big tree in the grandparents’ to entertain. Slowly, writing grew into a front yard. The tree was magic, and little method of expressing feelings that would Emma and her Pop-pop loved to go on otherwise be bottled up like old wine in adventures inside of it. One day, the two a dusty cellar. But, the motive for writing decided to visit the tree. They knocked on did not stop there. Now the girl writes to the front door, and the tree said, ‘What’s the connect the past, present, and future. She password?’”

“Open sesame!” the little girl yelled as loud writes to remember, to capture, and to face the inevitable.d as she could.

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“Childhood� by Samantha Vanderwalker

She writes to remember, to capture, and to face the inevitable.

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“Mont Saint-Michel� by Samantha Vanderwalker

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Staff Gracie Barnett Kimberley Copley Sophie Davies Elizabeth Marvin Sam McNeil Sam Miller Emma Nagel

Lexcee Shelton Kayla Shestokes Caleb Sumerlin Emma Thronsen Jay Verduga Bri Worrell

Editors Abigail Garrett-Dye Brooks Hoyle

Megan Lauka

Managing Editor Sarah Banford

Editor in Chief Justin McGuirl

Advisor Beth Swann

Policy Voices, the literary magazine of Nation Ford High School, is produced by the Creative Writing class. All students enrolled at the school may submit as many works as they choose. Those pieces are then anonymously selected by the magazine editors. The editors select art and photography on the basis of quality and suitability for the magazine. The staff reserves the right to edit manuscripts for clarity, grammar, spelling and punctuation. The ideas expressed by the writers and the artists are not necessarily those of Nation Ford High School or the Voices staff.d

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Patrons Lifetime

Steve Blair Pioneering Software, Inc. Rick Solt Beth Swann Chuck Walker

Gold

The Lauka Family RJV Body & Auto Repair

Patron

Mr. & Mrs. Craig Nagel David Shestokes Crystal Taylor Kim Dixon Debra Miller Marguerite Davis Vicki Niedermeier Mr. & Mrs. Peter Marvin The Hoyle Family

Colophon Voices magazine was produced by the literary magazine staff of Nation Ford High School. Herff Jones in Montgomery, Ala., printed 300 copies of the magazine on 80 LB glossy paper at the cost of $2,739. The fonts used in the magazine are Garamond Regular, 10, 11 and 12 point type; photography and art credits are Garamond Italics 10 point type; and the folio lines are Myriad Pro Regular 10 point type. The magazine features student work in poetry, fiction, non fiction, drama, artwork, and photography. The layout was created in Adobe InDesign CC 2015. The entire staff was involved in layout and design. The theme was inspired by Samantha Vanderwalker’s photographs of the moon.

With a release date of May 5, 2015, the magazine is distributed to the student body of Nation Ford and members of the Fort Mill community.

Thank you for reading Voices.

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“Journey Through the Woods” by Madison Sojdak

Mission Statement Voices, Nation Ford High School’s literary magazine, is designed to showcase student creativity and talent in both the literary arts and the visual arts. Published continuously since 2007, the magazine seeks to recognize exemplary student work, to teach students skills in professional design and layout, and to establish ties with the larger community.

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“Craters” by Samantha Vanderwalker

clipse E Abigail Garrett-Dye

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oldier’s wife waiting, wishes on the moon, while her husband is away at war.

The solider watches the star-cluttered sky, the twinkling lights bringing back memories of home.

He wonders if his wife, too, is staring at the moon praying, hoping, their love, like a spark, hasn’t dwindled away . . .

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The universe is made of stories,

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not of atoms.”

– Muriel Rukseyer