Moirea / Voices Literary Magazine volume 14 / 2021

Moirae Voices Literary Magazine Vol. 14 v 2021 Nation Ford High School

Cover art “Blue Girl,” oil pastel by Keirstan Eicher

“Pandora’s Box,” acrylic paint by Kylee Maidhof

Moirea

Voices Literary Magazine Volume 14 v 2021

A publication of Nation Ford High School 1400 A.O. Jones Blvd. v Fort Mill, SC 29715 Phone 803-835-0000 v nationfordvoices20@gmail.com Best in State 2019, 2020 Scroggins Award Best in Southern Region 2020, All-Columbian Gold Medalist 2021

“Steel String Solo,” photo by Mallory Mason

Moirea

Editorial Policy of Voices Magazine

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oices, the literary magazine of Nation Ford High School, was produced this year by the Creative Writing Club. 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 artists are not necessarily those of Nation Ford High School or the Voices staff.

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f Nonfiction

w Poetry

q Fiction

Writing

Policy / 2 Staff / 5 Editor’s note / 6

w Cradles and Caskets / Jordan Jeffreys 9 w Ode to Yellow / Abby Clawson 11 f My Brother / Madelyn Collins 13 w Prom in an Open Field / Khonnie Kounbandith 15 w Days of Pink and Blue / Megan Jafarace 17 w The Bond of a Sister / Chloe Maddox 18 f One Step at a Time / Kaiden Bridges 20 w Glass Blue Bird / Jordan Jeffreys 23 q The Littlest Ghost / Megan Jafarace 24 f Shadow & Bone Review / Amaris Arroyave 28 w Home / Megan Jafarace 31 q Sub Terra / Maggie Rosinski 32 w Everything / Madelyn Collins 34 f Interview with Karon Luddy / Alexandra Cardona 36 w Poison / Chloe Maddox 39 q A Modern Myth of Hades & Persephone / Jordan Jeffreys 40 w Out of Reach / Amaris Arroyave 43 q The Grave Digger / Maggie Rosinski 44 w Lapis Lazuli / Alexandra Cardona 47 w Spider Monkey / Khonnie Kounbandith 49 f Pure as the God Who Made It / Jordan Jeffreys 50 w It’s Just Human Nature / Erek Ortiz 53 w Little Worlds / Maggie Rosinski 55 Colophon and Patrons / 56 3

Blue Girl / Keirstan Eicher / Cover Pandora’s Box / Kylee Maidhof 1 Steel String Solo / Mallory Mason 2

Art and P hotography

Pearl / Kendall Wingate 5 The Fates / Kylee Maidhof 7 Abandoned / Lila Hornak 8 The Beginning / Kalyn Huntley 10 Little Mr. Luke / Payton Ober 12 Rebirth / Maggie Rosinski 14 Cotton Candy Sky / Megan Jafarace 16 Neha Biju / Payton Ober 19 Reaching For You / Emilia Stachl 21 My Blue Bird / Jordan Jeffreys 22 Memories with My Father / Megan Andrews 25 A Ride to the Tides / Mitchell Ladamus 26 Heath Ledger / Payton Ober 29 Into the Woods / Jordan Jeffreys 30 You Narcissist / Emilia Stachl 33 Pot of Patterns / Alex Irhin 35 A New Form / Alex Irhin 37 Medusa / Kylee Maidhof 38 Orpheus and Eurydice / Kylee Maidhof 41 Sky Mirror / Khonnie Kounbandith 42 Fade Into You / Mazzy Star 45 Narcissus / Kylee Maidhof 46 Winged Dream / Beth Swann 48 Icarus / Kylee Maidhof 51 Hades and Persephone / Kylee Maidhof 52 Dreamscape / Tori Teiger 54 4

Untitled / Caitlyn Rycroft 56

“Pearl,” oven baked clay by Kendall Wingate

Voices Staff Editors-in-Chief

Alexandra Cardona Khonnie Kounbandith

Design Staff Amarais Arroyave, Destiny Drafton, Iyuna Drafton, Carly Jacobson, Erek Ortiz, Maddox Oxendine Elise Papke, Tatum Robbins, Aiden Witkopf

Section Editors Jordan Jeffreys, Maggie Rosinski, Megan Jafarace

Faculty Adviser Beth Swann, MFA

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, Editors

Note

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here are some things you just can’t run from. The three sisters of fate, Moirae, are as vast as the sky and deep as the sea. Their wrinkles are the darkness of the galaxy, eyes the supernovae of ancient stars, and lips the songs of the wind. Their hair is the roots of the trees, beginning at the scalp, tangled with the long lengths of lives, intertwining past and present. Voices are what gives them life, our stories beating with their own rhythm and echoing in their ears.

We are Voices–mediums for the memories, present day, and new beginnings. We write for the Moirae who tie our lives together into the roots of the earth, from cradle to casket, into our dreams and our realities. The threads of our lives weave our own narratives and knit them together, worn and thinning.

We are the Voices, sometimes screaming, sometimes whispering, a hum in the back of our heads waiting to be heard and seen. We have journeyed to Little Worlds and released all that Pandora’s Box holds. We have woven our lives together so our magazine can unveil our untold stories, the journeys revealed through our individual and unique threads.

In “Moirae,” the writers and artists published in Voices recognize our lives are tangled threads, and we invite you to unravel the stories and poems in our literary magazine and find the truths within. Consider our words and find what the fates have knotted together, and then reflect on the stories of your own life.

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Alexandra Cardona

Khonnie Kounbandith Editors-in-Chief

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“The Fates” acrylic painting

by Kylee Maidhof

VOICES

EDITOR’S NOTE

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“Abandoned,” photo by Lila Hornak 8

VOICES

POETRY

and

Cradles Caskets Jordan Jeffreys As soon as I could walk alone, I ventured through the cemetery.

I frolicked on decaying bone; Danced with statues of Virgin Mary.

And as soon as I could prattle, I spoke with the souls of the forlorn, Left them shells and keys that rattle, So they would not follow me and mourn.

As soon as I could read and write, I learned death’s etchings; dusting, scrubbing, Pulling on weeds beneath moonlight, I crafted a book of grave rubbings.

And as soon as I could atone, I pondered all the temporary, And listened to trees sway and moan, Accepted death as arbitrary.

As soon as it was time to go, I hugged goodbye every last gravestone.

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“The Beginning,” oil pastel by Kalyn Huntley

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VOICES

Ode to

Abby Clawson

POETRY

Yellow

A saffron-soft vibrance, Like the sun streaming through a window Warming the stained patch of carpet On a refreshing spring day.

The morning glow, reminder that the Lord’s still with us, warmth to dry away a tear.

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“Little Mr. Luke,” acrylic painting by Payton Ober 12

VOICES

My

NONFICTION

Brother Madelyn Collins

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he ground crunched under the wheels of our car. The air “Wan’ get in the car?” Jack shouted. was cool and damp, with yellow and orange trees dotting “Hey, big boy,” My father joined in. “We’ll get in the car, the horizon. I slumped in the back passenger seat, silent. but we gotta wait.”

My parents and I were on our way to visit my brother, My father turned to the lady at the desk and signed Jack Jack. We drove past the white wooden fence and pulled into out in their little record-keeping binder. the small parking lot of the group of buildings. They des“I love Daddy,” Jack mumbled. perately needed to be repainted and were overgrown and My dad put a firm hand on my shoulder and pointed to me unkempt. No one was in sight; no children, no staff members, as I faked a happy smile. no one.

“Hey, Jack,” Dad said, trying to get Jack’s attention. “Hey, We stepped out of the vehicle, and we climbed up the Jack, who’s this?” three steps to the main office building. The old stairs creaked Jack looked up at me with half shut, glazed eyes. I saw with every movement. My father where the stitches in his forehead had opened the door, and my mother and I healed in a pointed oval shape above He claps when he’s happy his eye. There were bruises on various entered. He followed close behind.

There he was. There Jack was, in sometimes, and he’s clapped parts of his body, his knees, shins, elbows, the dim light of the flickering, yellow forearms. It looked as if he had fallen and so much his hands can bulb. He was there. Jack. My brother. caught himself on his elbows and wrists.

My brother. My brother, the cause of His knees and shins were covered in sometimes become dry so much sorrow. scabs from scraping them on the asphalt. and crackly.

Of course, he didn’t choose to be He reached out a long, thin arm and this way. Of course Jack has no idea pointed in my direction. what stress his conditions cause. The “Sister,” Jack answered. “Maleyn.” He stress on me, the stress on my parents’ always rolled over the d in my name, and marriage, the financial stress from slurred it a little. drowning in medical bills. The cause of my stress and disap“I love Maleyn!” he burst out. “I love sister!” pointment, yet my own flesh and blood, was there.

I forced my smile to stay and replied, “I love you too, It was unfair, yes, but I needed someone to blame when Jack.” things weren’t going right. Even if he had no control over the “Aww,” he vocalized, frantically clapping. He claps when conditions he was born with; I needed someone to blame. he’s happy sometimes, and he’s clapped so much his hands To blame for my parents’ recent divorce, to blame for my can sometimes become dry and crackly. depression, to blame for why I had to grow up more quickly Did I believe what I told him? How could I not love him? than the other kids my age. I stared at him as I thought about Children are supposed to love their siblings. But what kind of everything that was unfair about our lives. sibling can’t talk or play? Can’t dress or bath himself?

Jack stumbled forward on uncoordinated feet. He shuffled Many children have fond memories of playing pretend or and limped on shaking ankles. His hair was shaved short bearguing over something trivial with their siblings. Memories of cause the other kids might try to pull long hair. He was thin, growing up together. No matter how much siblings fight, they not anorexic-level thin, but thin. He was growing fast, but at always love each other, right? eleven, it was difficult to insist he eat much.

Maybe average siblings. Siblings who don’t have life threat“Mama?” Jack said loudly. ening conditions that force them to live an hour away from “Hi, Jack!” My mother forced out a greeting with a sad home. Maybe love is for siblings who aren’t born with any smile. disabilities or developmental delays. Siblings who don’t over

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“Rebirth,” photo by Maggie Rosinski heat after 15 minutes at the playground and begin seizing.

Most people enjoy an average childhood, without many worries or responsibilities. I constantly worried about Jack.

What if other kids are mean to him? What if the daycare staff can’t help him? What if people don’t understand?

I worried about my parents and our finances. I worried if my parents loved him more than they loved me.

He needed more attention. I was born developmentally stable, average. He was born developmentally delayed, with issues that required more time and care. So more time and attention, he received. At age 6 or 7, I had no concept

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of this. I knew he was different, but of course I couldn’t understand why my parents were constantly around Jack, feeding him, helping him, playing with him, but not with me.

I couldn’t understand why he would shriek in public or why people around us would give my parents dirty looks, as if they were supposed to stop him from vocalizing. He may be physically 11, but he’s mentally about 18-months-old.

As I looked at my brother Jack, I felt these emotions run through me. I know life isn’t fair. No one ever promised that it would be.

But how unfair can it get?

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VOICES

Prom in an Open

POETRY

Field

Khonnie Kounbandith Swaying grass swishes under The sun’s beaming spotlight.

Poomfs and puffs of fluttering Youths tickle crumpled weeds.

Careless twirls, whirls, spins Under buzzing softness

Until the sun eclipses the moon, Casting twinkly light on rented polyester

And the fireflies blur into Stars, stars, stars, stars, stars…

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“Cotton pencilbybyMegan MeganJafarace Jafarace “Cotton Candy Candy Sky,” Sky,” colored color pencil

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VOICES VOICES

Days Daysofof

POETRY POETRY

andandBlue Pink Pink Blue Megan Jafarace Megan Jafarace

some say we lose them as we grow old saycherish we loseinnocence them as we old but i some want to as igrow would

but i want to innocence as i would a gold necklace in cherish a jewelry box, a goldspinning necklacetoinaasweet jewelry box, a ballerina tune its ballerina spinning to a sweet tune

i remember i remember dancing at dawn in my old front lawn,

dancing at dawn in my old front lawn, my children’s place nightgown myinchildren’s placesun nightgown shining the morning in the morning with shining not a care in the world.sun withthis notworld a care in the world. why did whyto did turn out bethis so world cruel? turn out to be so cruel?

“someday i wanna be a cool teenager,” “someday i wanna bediary. a cool teenager,” that young girl said in her thattimes younghave girl said in her diary. oh, how changed. oh, how times have changed. fireflies at dusk porchfireflies lights at dusk

lights and aporch summer breeze and a summer let me have it again.breeze letstay. me have it again. please please stay.

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VOICES

POETRY

Bond of a Sister Chloe Maddox

it’s the early spring morning with a soft glow from the sun and a misty dew on the bluebells droplets sliding on the run it’s the late summer nights with crickets singing a chorus and a sky darker than twilight but lit up by the constellation of Taurus little white diamonds speckle the sky to show Zeus’ mighty form the white bull on high the mighty king of storms it’s the delightful scent of cinnamon on a chilly October day with red orange and gold falling and a voice beckoning me to stay it’s the cup of hot cocoa as the soft white flakes fall or the warmth of a fire after an encounter with a snowball it’s the blanket you wrap yourself up in when a brutal wind whispers it’s a covering full of safety, love, and comfort the unending bond of a sister

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“Neha Biju,” acrylic painting by Payton Ober

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VOICES

NONFICTION

One Step T

at a Time

Kaiden Bridges

here are some things you just can’t run from. But that doesn’t stop Tony McKinney (‘24) from racing.

The resilient freshman athlete will run for the Falcon’s track team this year. But one thing sets him apart from the rest of the athletes – McKinney is visually impaired.

“In sixth grade math class I accidentally stabbed myself in the eye with a pencil,” McKinney said. “My mom and I went to the doctor, and he told me that I had an Open Angle Glaucoma in my right eye.”

Glaucoma is an eye disease that gradually begins to steal vision, and right now, there is no known cure for this condition. The doctor explained to McKinney that his life would never be the same.

“I initially felt really discouraged when I found out about my vision,” McKinney admits.

But McKinney’s mother Doretha Lipscomb leapt into action.

“When Tony was first diagnosed, I honestly didn’t have time to feel anything,” she said. “His eye condition was so aggressive that all I could focus on was trying to get him in to be seen by a specialist to try and slow the progression of his vision loss.”

The specialists for McKinney’s condition were all in cities hours away from Fort Mill, including Raleigh and Charleston.

“I had to be positive for him and keep him looking forward to a bright future even though he could not see like he once could, he had to do things a different way now and learn it fast,” said Lipscomb. “I am just recently beginning to feel the emotions of him losing his vision and what life looks like with that loss.”

When McKinney was initially diagnosed, it was unclear what his future would look like with his impairment.

“At first when I was told that I was losing my vision, I was very sad, and felt as if I wouldn’t be able to live anymore. . .” said McKinney. “Now, I am beginning to accept this as a part of me and knowing that my visual impairment is not all that I am.”

One way to cope that McKinney has found helpful is

running.

“When Tony was first diagnosed with the eye condition, his right eye was no longer in working condition,” Lipscomb said. “He could no longer play the sports that he had been playing such as baseball, basketball, soccer and flag football.”

With the help of another visually impaired student, McKinney discovered a sport he still could participate in, which was running track.

“I really love running,” said McKinney. “I’ve realized that you don’t exactly need vision to run.”

McKinney ran track at Fort Mill Middle School, participating in the 400 meter and 4x4 events.

“Once he realized that he could run, he said that he felt like a bird being able to fly for the first time,” Lipscomb said.

“He felt free and didn’t have to think about not being able to see to do something he liked again.”

With Nation Ford’s track season already underway, McKinney couldn’t be more excited.

“Tony is a really hard worker and very coachable,” said track coach Jake Brenner. “He’s committed and has been at almost all of the conditioning sessions we’ve had so far.”

Even though the outcome of the spring season is questionable with COVID-19, McKinney still has high hopes for himself and the team this season.

“I’m very excited for the upcoming meets,” he said. “I hope we’re able to race and even win some.”

Despite the unknown, the runners are continuing to work hard during their conditionings.

“Tony has done well so far,” Coach Brenner said. “His vision is limited to his peripheral, so he knows how to compensate and use his vision where it’s strongest.”

McKinney runs in the farthest left lane, closest to the field. This way he is able to see the curves in the track due to still having vision in his left eye.

“Tony hasn’t let his vision impairment stop him from doing something he loves,” Brenner said. “You can tell that he sets goals and goes after them. I think too many people are afraid to take risks because they’re scared of failure – Tony

“Once he realized he could run, he said that he felt like a bird being able to fly for the first time.”

–Doretha Lipscomb

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“Reaching For You” graphite, ink, and original text by Emilia Stachl isn’t one of those people.”

Outside of running, McKinney has a passion for art and design as well. “When I grow up my dream job is to be a video game designer,” he said. “I love to draw as well.”

Despite McKinney’s obstacles, he continues to persevere and embrace his passions.

“Tony has decided that he wants to do several different things for people with disabilities and vision loss. . .” Lipscomb said. “He also wants to create games that are more descriptive in detail for people with visual impairments, so all of his characters have a lot of details that can be described when playing the games for the people who have disabilities.”

Despite all that McKinney has had to overcome, he is always looking out for others.

“Tony is the kindest, most fun loving, creative, talkative, spiritual and friendly young man anyone could ever have the blessing of getting to know,” she said. “He is so strong and

resilient he can bounce back from everything that is thrown at him. He always has a smile on his face that will brighten anyone’s day.”

She’s clearly proud of her son. “His eyes are so full of happiness and joy when he looks at you it is like a star shining bright.”

McKinney has dreamed of starting an all-inclusive summer camp for kids with vision loss and disabilities.

“Kids can go to the same camps as kids without those challenges so that people will know how to interact with people that are not like them across the board,” Lipscomb said. “It will allow for people to see that just because you may not be able to see like they do, it does not mean that you can’t do the things that they do. It just may have to be done differently.”

Despite the loss of his vision, Tony McKinney makes a valiant effort to see the world in a different way, and thanks to his courage, the rest of us can, too.

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Art credits

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VOICES

“My Blue Bird” photo by Jordan Jeffreys

u

Glass

POETRY

Blue Bird Jordan Jeffreys

My grandmother had a glass blue bird

Smooth and hypnotizing, fragile.

I took it off her nightstand, the weight heavy in my small hands.

I hold on to her wooden house With the red tin roof With the hostas and blush azaleas outside Surrounding a stone Putto statue And the dense forest out back.

She told me of wolves back there,

So I ran. Carried my glass blue bird with me Through the trees

Pulled burs from

My pale, white skin

My grass-stained clothes

My hip-length blonde hair Dogs were always barking

Always biting; she called them Hellhounds.

We ate outside.

Eat your food before the birds and squirrels eat it for you.

Yellow butterscotch candies, moon pies, black coffee–

Licking sticks of butter like ice cream.

Her house smelled like sick people; cigarettes And cheap cherry blossom perfume Her heavy wooden furniture

Smooth hickory bed posts

Transformed into lurking strangers at night.

Cowering under the covers, I clutched the glass bird in my fist.

I crouched in the small closet slanted under the roof.

I lay on the cold maple floor,

Tried on her pearls and diamonds

And her stiff silken blouses.

At night I’d take my bird out and shine my flashlight through its blue body, Watch it glow.

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That glass blue bird sits on my shelf The fearful weight in my hands then Feels like nothing now.

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I dust off my blue bird – Proof the past was real.

It had to be real.

I need it to be real.

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“Memories with My Father,” graphite by Megan Andrews

The

C

Littlest Ghost Megan Jafarace

reak. Squeak. Scrape. The time is 1 a.m.

Must be the house settling. Go back to bed, Irene thinks to herself.

the house at night, making sure it doesn’t rot. They huff and puff into the heater so that the house stays toasted.

But the dinky ghost can’t go with them yet.

Clyde had always felt confined anyways. Being the youngest is brutal. He muses about finally flying someday.

But that day has never arrived.

When she closes her eyes, she can’t see the faint wisps that appear at dusk. They’re only visible when eyes are locked shut. Surely, the noises aren’t floorboards creaking –- but humans wouldn’t know. Ghosts can’t be seen by humans, no matter how hard they try.

Two days later, the radio chimes through the kitchen.

Fatigued, Irene bites into her breakfast sandwich near the peeling, old wallpaper.

The house is old and tall, eerie even.

“I wish we didn’t have to raise the children here,” says a ghost mother.

“It’s surely our fate though,” echoes another.

“Always something strange in this town, she thought— clamor had me up all night.”

Thousands of glowing bodies move in the dark bedroom wall. Ghost families had slept there since the 1700s. They kept the house breathing.

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The smallest grins at his mother when she says he could fly soon. The other ghosts had matured, so he is left lonesome.

When the town belfry rings, the wispy ghosts start their day.

Irene was always comatose at night, a heavy sleeper.

But that wouldn’t matter—she couldn’t watch them anyways.

Sometimes ghosts mused about being visible, how life would be different. They could make silly faces at the humans, or give them hugs.

But it that’s a hopeless thought—like a dead man leaving his casket. There’s no way out—it’s buried and sealed shut.

Humans divulge stories of ghosts haunting people, though the phantoms are only living their lives. They scurry through

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The radio news fills the room.

“Party supplies disappeared from the local general store,” mutters the reporter.

The store owner shrieks, “We haven’t even had customers in days—how did this happen?”

Always something strange in this town, Irene thinks—clamor had me up all night.

The ghosts had passed out earlier that morning. They had celebrated Clyde’s birthday— thrilled for the time was coming when he could finally fly and assist the others.

The little one is the only ghost still awake, and his excitement keeps him up. Soon he can fly!

In the wake of dusk, Clyde feels a razor-sharp pain.

Two droopy arms pop out of his sides—not a good sign.

Flying ghosts do not have arms. He panicks. What is this?

His mother wakes, sensing his panic.

When she snaps her eyes open, she is disturbed. If he can’t fly, he won’t be of any help. She worries he will be worthless.

VOICES

FICTION

“Once again my heart filled with that holy terror which consumes a man at the brink of his demise.”

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“A Ride to the Tides,” graphite by Mitchell Ladamus 26

VOICES

FICTION

In the days ahead, the little ghost with arms senses the others are thinking the same thing.

They mutter in the other rooms that he isn’t good enough. He begins to believe them, too.

Now the house will no longer rot—unfamiliar ghost families joined them.

Thrashing his arms could help him move, though that wouldn’t let him rise or disperse through objects. Clyde is cemented, isolated beyond his control.

“Freya? Yeah...” Clyde looks down at the ground. He doesn’t want to look at her.

“The old ones are getting weaker. The house will decay soon,” says a father.

“It’s obvious,” smirked a mother.

“We can’t keep this big house alive any longer.”

“If only that child could fly,” growls another.

The families pack up and flee, abandoning the flightless in the dust.

“Are you Freya’s son?” asks one of the mothers.

Word got around, and Freya comes looking for him.

Of course she is affectionate—he was of use for once. In that moment though, he realizes he had always been of worth.

Of course she is affectionate— he was of use for once. In that moment, he realizes he had always been of worth.

“I don’t want to see you,” he howls. “Can you leave?”

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“You were never a supportive mother.”

It is so hard for him, being alone.

He sniffles and screeches, but nobody can hear him. Nobody cares. Even a ghost’s eyes turn bloodshot from crying.

A few days pass, and Clyde feels a sting more intense than the last. His hand brushes the wall, and he feels eyes on him.

“A ghost!” exclaimed Irene, more startled than afraid. “Not really a surprise, though.”

The two greet each other every morning.

Somehow, he can finally flow through walls with ease.

baffled.

“But you’re my son.”

Freya looks at him,

“That emotion you’re feeling -- a twisted disgust, sadness even? That’s how you made me feel since day one. I don’t want to be around you. Maybe treat your next son better,” scoffs the littlest ghost.

And with that, she was gone. She realizes what she has done. With age he will forgive her, but he will never forget.

Now the young ghost’s heart is like a dead man leaving a casket.

And this time, it was possible.

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VOICES

NONFICTION

Shadow and

S

Bone

Amaris Arroyave

hadow and Bone,” the engaging Netflix adaptation of the book of the same name by Leigh Bardugo was released April 23, 2021.

It held one of the top ten show spots as viewers eagerly clicked “next episode.” Eight episodes are currently available, with each episode lasting between 48 and 55 minutes.

The series begins in the Fold, a dark area filled with pterodactyl-like monsters known as volcra.

No one has ever gone through the Fold and survived to tell the tale. Alina Starkov (Jessie Mei Li), a cartographer, spent most of her youth in an orphanage after her parents braved the Fold and never returned.

There she meets Mal (Archie Renaux), a loyal friend and excellent tracker. Years later they leave the orphanage and are drafted to be in their home nation’s first army, Ravka’s first line of defense against external threats composed of non-Grisha. A Grisha is a human who can manipulate matter in its most basic form. Grisha Fabrikators, Grisha who have special powers, have designed a ship they believe is strong enough to go through the fold.

Mal is one of the soldiers chosen to go on this voyage, which surprises him and terrifies Alina. Not wanting Mal to go on this dangerous journey unaccompanied, Alina sets fire to the army’s maps of West Ravka, which compels her commanders to send her cartographer unit on the trip.

They enter the creepy, gloomy Fold. Despite being ordered to remain silent and in the dark, a boy lights a lantern, which attracts the volcra. Many crew mates are severely injured, one of whom is Mal. Before a volcra attacks Alina, she creates a blaze of light and kills it, surprising herself.

Meanwhile, in Ketterdam, Kaz Brekker (Freddy Carter) is taking on a quest. Dressen (Sean Gilder), a wealthy tradesman, is looking for people willing to cross the Fold. If Kaz and his team can come up with a plan to voyage through the Fold, he will be hired for the job.

If he is not successful, the job will go to another who de-

sires the prize. The prize for this job is worth $1 million, and the task sounds like a simple one. All Kaz has to do is bring Alina Starkov to Dressen.

The actors all do an excellent job portraying the characters from the books. Alina was the only point of view in the book series, but the TV series screenplay goes into many character backstories and points of view.

Because of the excellent acting, set designs, and special effects, the show seems superior in comparison to the books.

Jessie Mei Li does an exceptional job delivering an intriguing performance as the main character Alina. Jesper Fahey (Kit Young) was another character who was well-presented.

He did a fantastic job depicting Jesper’s outgoing and humorous personality.

The character relationships in “Shadow and Bone” are similar to that of ABC’s “Once Upon A Time.”

Over the years, Mal and Alina have grown a strong relationship and care for one another.

“Once Upon A Time’s” Snow White (Ginnifer Goodwin) and Prince Charming (Josh Dallas) share a similar bond. Both Mal and Alina and Snow White and Prince Charming have made it clear that no matter what separates them, they will always find their way back to one another.

Some scenes, in particular, were reminiscent of scenes from “The Hunger Games.” Just as Katniss feels a wave of fear pass through her when one of the people chosen to participate in an annual fight to the deaths was her younger sister, Mal is chosen to ride aboard on the Ultraviolet, the ship going into the Fold, and Alina, too, threw herself into a dangerous situation to protect the people she cares for.

Overall, the plot is excellent and accurately depicts the novel’s characters. The only flaw in this series is how quickly it moves. Audiences have many characters and story lines to keep track of in eight episodes, which can sometimes make it hard to keep up.

Nevertheless, the world-building and characters are what make the show what it is: a phenomenal, captivating story.

“When I was young, I was afraid of the dark. When I got older I learned that darkness is a place, and it’s full of monsters.”

-Alina Starkov

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“Heath Ledger,” acrylic by Payton Ober

“They enter the creepy, gloomy Fold.

Despite being ordered to remain silent and in the dark, a boy lights a lantern, which attracts the volcra.”

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VOICES

POETRY

Home Megan Jafarace longing fills my branches my heart hollow as a log i yearn to be a large, tall hemlock once again but that dream is long washed away by the rain and thunderstorms that shook my heart that day in a forest yet consumed with loneliness now i am only a log and young trees stand hardy i crave the warmth of my home why do i lie in the same place still broken and cracked my heart murmurs too much change

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Sub

I

Terra

Maggie Rosinski

wake to utter darkness. It isn’t the darkness that comes at night, when all is still and the moon still shows its glowing face. No, it is pitch black, so black that even in passing a hand before my face, I cannot see a thing.

“Hello?” I call out. The darkness yields no response.

I think I will sit up and move about to search for some light or a way out. To my horror, I find the search impossible. I can only lift my head a few inches before it hits a hard surface above me. I feel it with my hands, move my feet. All I can feel is a hard surface with rounded edges, I am completely enclosed.

I once read in a safety manual at school that it was best in situations like this to conserve oxygen to prevent suffocation. So I close my eyes and relaxed, drawing in deep, slow breaths. In and out, in and out.

Calmer, I dig into my pockets, half hoping there might be some sharp object or bit of stone I might use to break the walls of my prison. But there is nothing. My mind races, searching for something, anything I can do. But I am out of options. My first instinct is to panic, but I force myself to quell the feelings of claus-

trophobia, of helplessness, that are building up inside me. I slow my thoughts to a halt.

For some time, I doze, lost in a dark valley of shadow and existential dread. Unseen monsters pursue me, but there is no escape from the dark coffin. I wake once again with a gasp, choking on dust and black humus. Oxygen is running out.

There is not much time left.

In desperation, I scream and bang with all my might on the walls of my prison in a final attempt to make myself heard.

That scream might be my last mark on the world, my final words shouted from the depths and heard only by earth and darkness. It is too soon, too soon. My life has barely begun and now it is leaving me, friendless and alone. I think of all the things I have yet to do, and in my mind flashes the faces of those I love and who love me, images of happier days and the home I will never see again.

With pangs of regret, the darkness seems to grow ever closer, threatening to swallow me whole. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I just fell asleep now, never to wake.

I feel nothing as the air rus out and my consciousness fades away.

“For some time, I think I dozed, lost in a dark valley of shadow and existential dread.”

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“You Narcissist,” acrylic paint & clay by Emilia Stachl 32

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Everything Madelyn Collins Everything is blank The stares on the nurse’s face walls and ceilings floor tiles and hospital scrubs My mind is empty Everything is bland other patients unseasoned hospital food spaghetti that made me miss the way my mother makes it Everything is silent The air when I am asked a question The room in which we eat our tasteless food The hallways we trudge along Even my cries at night

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“Pot of Patterns,” by Alex Irhin 34

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Interview with Karon Luddy

Karon Luddy on her novel “The Bewilderment of Boys” Alexandra Cardona Author Bio: Karon Luddy is the award-winning author of the novel “Spelldown,The Big Time Dreams of a Smalltown Word Whiz” published by Simon and Schuster. The novel won the Parents’ Choice Silver Award. Luddy grew up Lancaster, SC and earned her MFA in Creative Writing at Queens University in Charlotte. “Wolf Heart,” her first poetry book, was published by Clemson University Digital Press. Her second novel “Bewilderment of Boys” was published in 2014. She taught writing intensive classes at UNC Charlotte as well. Her poems, stories, and essays have appeared in numerous publications.

Q A

Why did you decide to write the novel in present tense, first person? Pros and Cons?

First person point of view is more immediate and happening at the moment. The reader is thrust into the story and puts the reader in the scene. It is easy after you use it for a while.

Q A

How do you outline your novels?

I have no outline. It starts with something happening to the character and nothing is ever the same. Fiction equals friction—there must always be conflict.

alcoholic father.

What do you believe is the best way to represent feminism as you did with Karlene? And what do you believe made “The Bewilderment of Boys” a feminist novel?

Karlene believed that women could do anything and throughout the book she continues to indulge in that idea and in the concept of women’s power. Her mother was also a strong women who got out of high school, has six kids, and has to take care of her family and her alcoholic husband. This idea of the struggles of women also includes Lucinda and her decision to pose for photos for Playboy magazine because she needs the money, but then she also goes against morals and her dignity in a way. But she’s a survivor, and she needs the money.

Q A

Q A

When do you think it is important to show the characters’ dreams, and how do you come up with them and the meanings, for example with Karlene and milk?

Dreams can be used as foreshadowing. So when there is an ocean of milk and when Billy Ray is hit by a wave, which is a tsunami, they are tumbling in the dream, and the dream is a metaphor. Milk is nourishment, yet this was a dangerous dream. The nature of metaphor and dreams opens your eyes and is symbolic.

Q A

How did you create your characters (build and grow them) like Karlene Bridges? What do you do to make them who they are?

The idea of Karlene just came to me, but the last name Bridges is interesting because it gets you places and connects people. The character was essentially based on my life and people in my life throughout childhood. Like her dad, my father was an alcoholic. I call the novel an emotional autobiography.

Q A

QA

Q A

Why did you title the novel ‘Bewilderment of Boys’?

It is set during the Vietnam War, a time when I was young and learning about love. While writing the draft, I continued to think about it, and the title came to me.

I loved it. My first book “Spelldown” revolved around Karlene and a spelling bee and the problem of her

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Why did you have a central focus on Karlene and music and its lyrics?

Since Karlene is seventeen-years-old and her whole life is music, I use songs a lot in my writing. She got the truth through the soul of the music and the lyrics. Critics liked the songs I selected, which were popular at the time the story is set, and there is a soundtrack I created to go along with the book. Karlene also started writing her own songs that show the truth.

What do you think is the best way to write romance between characters? Like Karlene and Billy Ray or Karlene and Spencer?

I loved doing it. Love and romance is hot and icky—the way to fall in love is true self. That is why Billy Ray is the way he is. Both Karlene and Billy Ray are vulnerable around

“A New Form,” ovenbaked clay by Alex Irhin each other. All people want is to be loved.

Love is profoundly wonderful and Billy Ray is a character based on my brother, who is always sweet and caring.

Q A

Why did you kill Billy Ray? When do you believe it is the time to kill characters and why?

It was horrible, beautiful, and devastating, but I knew that something bad had happened in that trailer and it lets the reader know that life is a prize. You don’t know how much you love someone until they are gone. Life and death is a novel. You never know what will happen.

Q A

What else would you like your readers or young writers to know?

Characters start to live on their own ans struggle. As a writer, you must be determined to write and bring your solutions.

• Love writing is another universe. The writer learns the craft. Writing enriches life; so does the craft. Love writers work because they fall in love with their images .

• Write whatever the character thinks and make them do it instead. Include the five senses—you seduce the readers with senses.

• This novel is dedicated to anyone who is or was 17.

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Poison Chloe Maddox she has a face like cream colored lace with honey glazed across her lips like a sticky sweet azalea but her mind is obsidian like pieces of the nighttime sky she’s broken art filled with dark colors falling apart

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“Medusa,” acrylic painting by Kylee Maidhof

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A Modern

“Orpheus and Eurydice,” acrylic painting

by Kylee Maidhof

Myth of

Hades & Persephone T

Jordan Jeffreys

hat’s the thing about gators, they’re always where you least expect them,” Renee had said. “You may be tempted to look for them on the ground, but they’re always in the trees. They fall down and getcha real good. That’s why my mama tells me to look up every once and awhile.”

Avani remembered that conversation vividly. She frequently found herself longing for those days when she’d moved to southern Florida to start college, when she’d met Renee, who had insisted on giving her a crash course on Florida survival on the way home from history class.

“Oh yeah! And their skin is bullet proof,” Renee had said matter-of-factly. Then she’d whispered, closing one green eye framed by blazing red hair. “My daddy says you can only shoot ‘em if their mouths are open.

That is, if you can shoot faster than they can bite.”

Tall and permanently sunburned, Renee stood in sharp contrast to Avani, whose dark brown hair lay against smooth, golden brown skin, and who, according to Renee, was at the “perfect gator snatchin’ height” of just over five feet tall.

The pair had strolled through the sticky Florida heat, swatting at lovebugs. As the sun beat down, they’d passed kids running through water spraying from a broken fire hydrant while others placed bets on how long it would be before the tar started to melt. Another group had surrounded a cracked egg on the pavement, waiting for the gooey mess to fry.

Those months had passed faster than a peregrine falcon diving into the swamp. The neighborhood had seen the pair as soulmates, a single entity. Renee planned extravagant outdoor adventures: they skipped rocks in the shipyard, danced in the soft morning rain, and caught fireflies in the woods at night. Avani kept Renee grounded, nurturing her creativity while always preparing for whatever the gods threw at them.

They had gone on dates at the drive-in-theatre and had held hands under the blankets. They spent weekend nights camping in a tent pitched in a blooming field and living in

their own perfectly happy world.

But then that one day while Renee picked flowers and Avani tanned in the sun, a man had come stomping towards them, red in the face and spilling ash from his cigar on the soft clovers.

“Renee!” the man had said with forced patience, glancing at his 14 karat gold watch. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning! If we don’t leave now, we will miss our flight to Virginia.”

“Oh! Damien,” Renee had said with embarrassment. “I’ll be right there.”

After Damien had headed back to his red Ford truck, Renee had quickly explained that her father was forcing her to marry Damien, a wealthy man who had taken interest in Renee’s liveliness and beauty.

She’d been reluctant to tell Avani— Renee’s father insisted his daughter marry rich and refused to allow her to “do the devil’s work” by dating another girl.

For Renee and Avani, it had felt like the earth was opening from under them, letting them fall into the depths of nothingness.

Avani had tears running down her cheeks when she’d whispered, “Will you ever come back?”

“I hope so,” Renee had said with glazed-over eyes. “I have been thinking long and hard about it all. I think I can get him to allow me to come back to Florida to see my father for half of the year while he is off runnin’ his business.

Durin’ that time, I’ll come straight to you, and we can spend the spring and summer together!”

Avani had wrapped her arms around Renee and prayed to whomever was listening that her lover would be able to come back.

Suddenly, Damien had reappeared behind Renee and grabbed her at the elbow, his knuckles turning white.

“Come on, Renee!” Damien had sneered. “I’m tired of waiting for you!”

Renee had glanced back at Avani with tears streaming down her face while Damien had dragged her to his truck.

“They skipped rocks in the shipyard, danced in the soft morning rain, and caught fireflies in the woods at night.”

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She had dropped her bouquet of flowers on the muddy ground. “I’m so sorry, Avani. I love you. Wait for me!”

Avani had waited. During the fall and winter, she had huddled in her house as the sharp rain flooded the couple’s field and wild winds of hurricane season blew all the Florida life inside their shelters. She scrolled through social media, liking Renee’s half-hearted posts about her new life with her husband, Damien. When Renee had left, she’d taken Avani’s energy and liveliness with her. *** Suddenly, Avani’s phone rang, jolting her from her thoughts. She rushed to grab her phone and answered it immediately when she saw it was Renee.

“Renee!” Avani shouted with relief.

“Avani, I needed to hear your voice,” Avani answered exhaustedly. “I can’t stand it here. Damien lies and cheats.

I’m stuck inside this dark house. He smashes liquor bottles when I beg to go outside. I’m a bird trapped in a cage. So, I sit here watchin’ him hunt sweet animals in the woods out back. His eyes scare me; they’re merciless, dead,” Avani said softly, her voice breaking as Damien’s black great dane barked, pulling against his chains which were hooked to a tall, dead oak tree.

“I’m so sorry,” Avani uttered with a shaky voice. “You are supposed to catch your flight today to come back. Will you still come?”

“Yes!” Renee gasped. “Damien desperately wants me to love him, be content with the comfort of a barred cage. He tires himself tryin’ to buy my love with jewelry and wine.

He thinks if I go, I will see how much I’d rather be with him.”

Renee chuckled at Damien’s narcissistic and ridiculous ideas. “I’ll be there soon.”

Renee did return, and Avani’s world opened up. After Avani picked Renee up from the airport, they ventured to their field. Florida was alive and warm again. The peonies bloomed and oranges ripened. Renee quickly removed the pearly bracelets that shackled her from wrist to wrist and the golden chain that hung heavy around her throat, flinging them on the grass and leaving them behind.

The pair spent the summer in their bright yellow tent in their field with more vibrance and intensity than before.

They picked pentas, swam in the clear ocean, and drifted in canoes in the lake. The two knew they loved each other with the same intensity as the Florida summer sun.

When it was time for Renee to go back to Damien, Avani didn’t mourn. She knew Renee would always return. Avani daydreamed about all of their adventures and thought over their past conversations, still grinning at Renee’s jokes.

Every time she walked home from class, Avani made sure to glance up at the trees once in a while and look for gators.

She smiled to herself. They were always where you least expect them.

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POETRY

Out of Reach Amaris Arroyave I was the kid who jumped to touch the stars and then asked my mom, “Why are they so far?”

I tightened my jacket around myself and turned away from the harsh wind.

Firewood glowing into the night burned out, all that lingered from the flames was the intense smell similar to a damp basement that wafed through the air.

“Stars aren’t meant to be within our reach.

That would only cause more harm than good,” my mother replied, a still expression painted on her face.

Fireflies that scarcely flickered hovered close to the tall grass while crickets played a cacophony of chirping.

I squinted through the fog, outlines of distant trees hardly visible, and sighed.

With my shoulders slumped forward, I gazed down at the hard dirt beneath my feet.

My mother soon called me to come back into the house, insisting it was too late to be up.

Before I went back inside, I glanced up, taking one last look at the sky.

The dispersed stars In the velvet sky shone against the fog like a lighthouse that shines for ships through the darkness.

Being under the night sky I realized, like much in this world, some things would be out of my grasp.

Z “Sky Mirror” photo edited in Photoshop by Khonnie Kounbandith

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VOICES

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The

T

Gravedigger Maggie Rosinski

he first snowstorm of the winter had ripped through St. Stevens just a few days ago, but now in the village the snow lay still, covering each roof in a white shroud.

I clutched my cloak tighter to my chest as I stepped out into the winter chill, my hand shaking as I gripped the key to the cemetery gate. I had taken the job of night watchman only out of necessity—it is not easy to feed a wife and five children on the salary of a schoolmaster alone—but it was not until that night when I realized why volunteers for the job had been scarce.

The graveyard was utterly silent, and at first glance there was nothing amiss. The gravestones stood perfectly at attention like soldiers, their rounded heads peeking out of the icy drifts, and the snow on the ground lay pristine before me, its surface so perfectly smooth that I was sorry to disturb it with my heavy tread. But there was something peculiar about it all that I cannot describe. Whether it was some portentous feeling or my mind playing tricks on me I will never know, but the air seemed heavy, pressing in on me as if a steamer trunk sat upon my chest. Don’t be nonsensical, I thought to myself. A man like yourself should be above childish fears. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to go on, walking along the perimeter of the yard.

I had just begun checking the gate for any breaches when I heard a faint sound. It was a quiet thumping, like metal against a woolen rug. I looked around me, my heart pounding. That was when I saw it. By the old gnarled oak tree in the westernmost corner of the cemetery stood a dark figure silhouetted in the snow. It was perhaps a hundred paces away or more, but I could just make out a large shovel in the figure’s hands. Slowly and deliberately, the figure raised its arms and skewered the ground with the tool, lifting up muddy mounds of dirt and snow.

Now, I had only seen the gravedigger in the cemetery once before. The nurse had told me his name—Parsons—and that he had fought in my regiment at the Somme. I came back with shell shock, and he with a missing leg. But surely this could not be the same Parsons. Who would want to be laboring at this late hour in such a dark and solitary place?

One could not bear it for long, with the memory of barbed wire, mangled flesh, and distant fires still fresh in the mind.

No, I thought, it cannot be. Whoever this is, they are in a place they should not be, and that means they are up to no good.

As frightened as I was of the dark and anxious to get back to the fireplace at home, I felt resolved that I should do something to stop any tampering with sacred ground. Grasping the pistol in my pocket, I stepped forward and called out, “Hey! Who goes there?”

The figure halted its work and slowly turned to face me.

It was then that I nearly lost all my senses, for where there should have been a face under the hood of the figure’s cloak there was nothing at all, only a black void. I realized that this was no human, but a specter of terrible strength.

Lifting a wizened hand from under its cloak, it beckoned to me silently, and, as if obliged by some otherworldly power, I obeyed. As I drew closer, I saw that at the feet of the specter lay a pit about six feet square, quite large enough for a grave.

I noticed, too, that around the specter were no footprints or disturbances in the snow at all, as if it had been merely blown in by the wind. Knowing that I now dealt with a creature far wiser than myself, I chose my next words with care.

“Now look here—I don’t know what you want with me, but I don’t want any trouble— “ I stopped, ashamed of my words as if I were one of my pupils speaking out of turn. What could I say that would sway the will of such a being? I looked into the faceless hood and said, “I will do anything you require of me.”

The figure once again raised its hand and pointed at the pit before him. I peered down into it and nearly fainted in fright. Before that moment the pit had been pitch black, its contents obscured by the moonless night. But now it burned fiercely, its red flames licking the snow. That was not the worst of it, for among the flames lay a coffin, the lid cast aside. It was then that I realized, this was my coffin, and this specter, this monster was here to lead me to the grave! Oh,

Lifting a wizened hand from under its cloak, it beckoned to me silently, and, as if obliged by some otherworldly power, I obeyed.

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“Fade Into You,” acrylic painting by Mazzy Star how I wanted to turn away, to run from that graveyard forever, but the same power which had driven me to the specter now pulled me in once more, willing me to surrender myself to the flames and my fate.

I glanced at the specter for a moment and I thought I saw it nod, as if to confirm all my fears. I would step forward and resign myself to the flames. I would obey. I would ...

But then I felt my hand, still gripping the pistol in my pocket. I had only to shoot, and the specter would be gone. I had faced Death many times before, his icy grasp had crept through my veins, only to be thawed by fire of youth.

But I had left my vigor behind inside a muddy trench in far off France, and I could almost feel the poison gas burning in my throat as my head turned foggy, and once again my heart filled with that holy terror which consumes a man at the brink of his demise.

But it was not all over yet. Through the fog there came another image, a vision far clearer than the rest. A wom-

an and her children, our children, all I had hoped for and fought for. The life I had won, that, although not perfect, I would go through the very pits of Hades to preserve.

Suddenly my head seemed to be cleared, and I found myself filled with strength once again.

I realized that be it an angel from Heaven, a demon from Hell or something in between, nothing in creation can match the resolve of man.

In that moment there was no right or wrong, no black or white.

Only I had the power to save my life, and I knew what I must do.

With a shaking hand I raised the pistol and pointed it at the specter’s heart. It stood completely still, mockingly, as if to say Arrogant man! We both know that you do not have the strength to do it.

The figure held up a hand.

“Go back to the netherworld, demon of the abyss!” I shouted with as much strength as I could muster.

A shot rang out, and all was silent.

Once again my heart filled with that holy terror which consumes a man at the brink of his demise.

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“Narcissus,” colored pencil by Kylee Maidhof

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VOICES

Lapis

POETRY

Lazuli Alexandra Cardona

How do you not know her?

She’s the woman across a Railroad, just down an obscure alley, followed by a brown upstream river, past a sour-smelling landfill. Dirt dwells between her fingers, and sin beneath her nails, wrinkles drawn on her skin like highways on a map, her lips cracked like the prophecies she tells to passeraby, grey hairs like knotted spiderwebs, wrapped in blanket of dead cells. Her name mispronounced, jumped letters and twisted tongues ...

Lapis Lazuli.

She’s the current running the deepest of oceans, beneath bedrock and coral reefs, beyond squid and pollution, acidic carbonate and broken sea shells. She’s the color of fingertips on the coldest of nights, no chapstick or kisses or blood flow.

She’s loneliness and bitter coffee, her glance has the intensity of galaxies and the hottest of stars, of spaceships and aliens who avoid dying planets. Her words thick from an unknown accent, she’s a fountain drink paper cup with one quarter and two nickels, contorted bones and ligaments, missing teeth and runaway souls, cuffs circling your wrist, a bracelet of old debris plastered to your arm hairs, she tugs you toward her body, eyes resting on your chin.

Her breath hot and burning, she grabs you, and you can’t find the air in your lungs. She stares and asks,

Are you not grateful?

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Spider

POETRY

Monkey

Khonnie Kounbandith I imagine jungles congested with thin silk to capture any oblivious creature struggling, refusing to give their lives to an arachnid who refuses mercy despite critters begging for a second chance the trap quivers under the weight of the silent predator awaiting a miracle, a fly shuts its eyes refusing to watch its life drain into another when the shocking sound of “ouh!” forces one eye open just a few centimeters from its face a white-masked monkey the fly sighs with relief... monkeys eat bugs — in this case, spiders as if hearing her thoughts, the monkey smiles revealing fangs of Dracula happily, spider-monkey shrieks and unwraps like a banana the skin of his winged prey

“Winged Dream” photo by Beth Swann

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Pure as the God Who Made It W

Jordan Jeffreys

hen I was young, I hated summer, and summer hated me. It was home to three horrendous weeks: Church Camp. The theme was the same every year. At nine-years-old, we were lambs to the slaughter, criminals that needed

rehabilitation.

The Church loomed over the landscape, a stark concrete rectangle with no windows, except in the Big Room. As I walked through the lobby, I noticed cardboard cut-out jail cells. Parents took flash pictures of their kids behind bars, holding a placard--yes, just like the ones murderers hold up in mugshots, except these had one of the Seven Deadly Sins written across the middle in bold print.

The kids smiled, but their smiles were cheesy and practiced—fake. Mothers and fathers laughed and prattled in pairs, ignorant or apathetic to the dread behind their child’s eyes.

Then, the parents left. Mothers’ heels clicked on the tile floor. The grown-up walking sounds made my hands sweat and breath stop. We kids watched as our only saviors got into their cars and drove away.

I chastised myself for thinking so; Jesus didn’t drive a Subaru.

Our supervisors rushed us into the Big Room. I sat in a cold steel chair, one that sprung up, folding into itself if you had the audacity to stand back up. I looked around at the windows, now alive. They grew menacingly, elongating themselves into misshapen glass pillars.

I couldn’t shake the feeling it was not the windows getting taller, but me getting shorter. The thick atmosphere pressed in on me, shortening my spine until I prayed my cells would implode.

In science class, I’d learned this process was called cytolysis. I wanted my cell membranes to collapse. I wanted to explode right then and there.

A scruffy red-faced man stood on stage wearing a navy suit and brown driving gloves. He tapped on the microphone, and a piercing sound echoed through the room.

All the kids simultaneously turned their heads to the man.

He looked small in comparison to the stage, the big television screens dark in the background. Littered across the walls hung pictures of Saints: Billy Graham, Aimee Semple McPherson, Paula White, Jim Baker, Jerry Falwell, and, of course, Ronald Reagan.

He cleared his throat. “Today, my friends, we will learn about Hell.” His deep Southern accent bellowed through the room. It was the kind of voice that seemed like it was talking down to you like it knew something you could never comprehend.

He took a small remote out of his pants pocket and pressed a button. Suddenly, long blinds slowly slid down the windows, and the lights flickered off. We were surrounded by complete and utter darkness.

He pressed another button, and two screens lit up. The white light stung the back of my eyes. He pushed the third button, and a teenage girl appeared on screen. She was chained to a wooden chair, crying and begging for forgiveness.

“Repentance,” the man boasted. “Pure as the God who made it.”

The girl’s voice escaped faintly and she began to cough. Suddenly, her mouth made an “O” as black bugs and red snakes crawled out of her mouth. She tried to scream, but her terror was muffled. She shook and writhed against her chains.

The audience gasped, and air left my lungs. There was no point in crying. The man told us crying never helped. Only a $30 fee, a dip under the water, and constant fear of the Lord could save you from that fate.

After a while, the girl stopped moving; her bugged-out eyes rolled back into her head.

“This is Hell,” the man declared.

Then, the man led us to the Little Room. We lined up behind him, holding on to a coarse rope.

He turned toward us. “You are Prisoners of the Lord. You

I chastised myself for thinking so; Jesus didn’t drive a Subaru.

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“Icarus,” colored pencil by Kylee Maidhof are guilty until proved a Saint.”

He guided us into the room, and once we were all inside, shut the door. He told us he would teach us to fear God. He turned around and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

The other kids were starting to panic: tears began to well in their eyes. My stomach churned, and I spilled exactly three tears onto the tile floor.

Suddenly, the lights turned off. The boy behind me yelled, Turn around! A wall of thin and waxy red, orange, and yellow paper was engulfing a cardboard house. Spotlights shone behind the tissue paper; it glowed. It glowed like Hellfire.

I heard a soft click, and smoke machines turned on, leaving us in a hazy fog. Let us out! We coughed and screamed.

Kids cried for their parents. Others prayed to God. I prayed

to anyone who may be listening.

I bent down and sat on the floor: Stop. Drop. Roll. What seemed like an eternity passed, and the red-faced man slammed open the door. This time he wore a firefighter uniform and held a black water hose. Through the haze, I could still make out his intrepid stare. He was proud of his work.

“The Power of the Lord has arrived,” he announced.

I lurched at the feeling of cold water hitting me with the force of a high-speed rail. The bruises it left afterward suggested the water was more solid than liquid.

We all began to laugh. Not because we thought it was funny, but because there was no other possible reaction.

He looked at me. His eyes were cold and blue.

I am not sure if the other kids heard, but I did. Under his breath, he muttered, “Fire, pure as the God who made it.”

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“Hades and Persephone,” acrylic painting by Kylee Maidhof

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, It’s Just

Human Nature Erek Ortiz I remember the field of grays which fell victim to the fiery rays, and the seawater that seeped from my pores.

Streaks of red spread across my tanned back like a crab crawling across the sand.

A cloudless sky made way for the sun to burn my unshaded eyes.

I clenched my desert-dry throat and prayed for winter to draw near…

Now, those same fields, lie coated in piles of frigid white where once-bountiful flowers grew.

Now only chrysanthemums remain, strangled by the icy grip of the building snow.

I glance at the glasslike sky, calling for the sun to return.

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“Dreamscape,” acrylic painting by Victoria Teiger

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POETRY

Little

Worlds

Maggie Rosinski Maybe the real story was in our heads the whole time, these little worlds we create in daydreams, flashing before us as we ponder what has been or what could be.

In our dreams we are more than mere mortals, untold yet perceived by all, we shine like the cosmos, for though we are tendon and tooth, we are more than meets the eye.

In dreams and stories there lives something impenetrable, for reality is fatal, but dreams are forever.

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COLOPHON

“Untitled,” hand-tinted photo by Caitlyn Rycroft

V

Colophon

oices is produced by the literary magazine staff at Nation Ford High School. This magazine was printed on 80# Matte text paper by Herff Jones. The fonts used for this magazine are Goudy Old Style 56 point (Titles), Zhegotte 36 point (Script), Romanica 10 point (body text), Goudy Old Style italic 12 point font (byline), Romanica 16 point (pull quote).

The layout was created in Adobe InDesign 2021. All of the literary magazine staff was involved in the production and distribution of this magazine. The magazine contains entries in nonfiction, fiction, poetry, art, and photography. Thank you for reading Voices.

Steve Blair

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Rick Solt

Beth Swann

Chuck Walker

“We are spinning our own fates, good or evil, never to be undone.”

– William James