Voices 2017

Voices l Nation Ford High School Volume X l MMXVII

Inf e rno

“Bonfire” photo by Makayla Brown

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

Cover Art: “Mania” by Liesl Juell

SIPA All Southern 2016, 2015 SCSPA Palmetto Award 2016, 2014 Best in State 2016, 2014, 2013

aring imagination till completing a final product. From the chaos arises refined prose and verse.

The author’s inferno is a place of creation and ingenuity. The fiery pandemonium incinerates the world’s outside pressures As editor-in-chief of Voices, I invite you to linger over the literary works, art, and photography – may the creativity of our w

editor’s note

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and births true art. works spark an inferno of yo

Editor’s Note

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nside the writer’s laboring brain the grand inferno festers. Here, similes and metaphors boil and churn in chaos. Like a head chef, the writer patiently cooks together ideas and thoughts in a searing imagination till completing a masterpiece – from the chaos arises refined prose and verse.

The author’s inferno is a caldron of creation and ingenuity. The fire incinerates the world’s outside pressures and births true art.

As editor-in-chief of Voices, I invite you to linger over the literary works, art, and photography – may our creativity spark an inferno of your own..

Justin McGuirl, Editor-In-Chief

“Rush Hour” photo by Jalen Hodges editor’s note

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Table of Contents PROLOGUE ARTWORK & PHOTOGRAPHY Ember 6 Lexcee Shelton Photography/ “Ember” 7 Emily Madsen NON-FICTION Painting/ “Bubbles” 8 Danielle Doorn The Science of Love 8 Madelyne Levassiur Photography/ “Red Coat” 11 Lily Asaad Little Red Coat 11 Lily Asaad Drawing/ “Baby” 12 Emily Latini Wimpy Baby 12 Nick Catan Painting/ “Desert Sunset” 14 Emily Latini POETRY Photography/ “Crashing Waves” 16 Bri Worrell Forgotten Names 14 Lily Averkamp Photography/ “Cascade” 18 Harrison Ostrosky Your Name 15 Makayla Brown Painting/ “River in a Valley” 21 Rylee Vanterve A Thousand Lifetimes 17 Kellie Fanning Photography/ “Keys” 22 Madeline Cost Don’t Hold Your Breath 19 Veronica Barcia Drawing/ “The Toy” 24 Anneliese Juell Origins 20 Justin McGuirl Drawing/ “Identity” 26 Danielle Doorn Higher Than a Mountain 20 Carly Cashatt Drawing/ “Phalanges” 27 Nathan Tyson Music In Reality 23 Lindy Miller Photography/ “Sunset” 29 Bri Worrell A Dream of Doors 25 Kat Stiles Painting/ “Naka” 31 Paige Pierce Monsters 26 Harper Griffin Drawing/ “Marine Boy” 33 Sarah Rhiele Nails 27 Barbara Barnes Photography/ “Pier” 35 Bri Worrell Today 28 Logan Brookhart Photography/ “Dew Details” 36 Jalen Hodges Every Night 29 Casey Keegan Painting/ “Mill” 39 Rylee Vanterve The Imaginary 30 Kimberley Copley Photography/ “Mirror” 40 Dana Berry Translation 31 Lily Asaad Photography/ “Reflection” 43 Dana Berry Ode to the Platoon 32 Jordan Polo Painting/ “Hay Girl” 44 Marissa Huddy Memories 34 Emily Skroly Painting/ “Raven” 46 Marissa Huddy Love Letters 36 Elizabeth Reynolds Painting/ “Guardian Spirit” 50 Marrisa Huddy Friendships 38 Mara Lorton Drawing/ “Hygiene” 56 Emma Pittman SCRIPT Rogue Reflection 40 Dana Berry, Ryan Bunge & Ryan Williams FICTION “You’re only given a little Dark Wood 44 Bri Worrell The Hard Place 47 Sydny Long spark of madness. You mustn’t Love of Fate 50 Audrey Sabo lose it.”

EPILOGUE –Robin Williams Smoke 56 Samantha McNeil

CONTENTS

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“We didn’t start the fire.”

–Billy JOel

“POetry is ...

A spaRK on the page.”

–Joy Kogawa

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ELEMENTAL Lexcee Shelton

I

am destruction and salvation. I am the dancing colors behind your eyelids, taking you to a place that is known to everyone and found by none. I am what you repress,

the hurricane of your calm susceptibility. I am the fire, the flame, the water all at once. I am the monster beneath the glass; I beat my fists upon it every day. I am who you should be, who you would’ve been if you had not burned your bridges. I am the strength you need, the spark you’re missing. I am the forged edges of words you don’t want to hear, the medicine you refuse, the panacea to your fragmented psyche. I am your inferno, waiting to consume.

Prologue

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“Ember” photo by Emily Madsen

Prologue

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The Science of Love Madelyne Levassiur

umanity has long been confounded as to the perplexing aspects of that indescribable phenomenon we know as love. For centuries, painters and poets, the romantic métiers of society have made valiant attempts to describe love in its most raw state. Yet science, a less than affectionate field of study, is sweeping the rug out from beneath us by revealing that love is merely a chemical concoction of dopamine, oxytocin, and similarly related neurotransmitters.

In her 2006 TEDTalk on love, neuroscientist and biological anthropologist Dr. Helen Fisher said that “Millions of years ago, we evolved three basic drives: the sex drive, romantic love and attachment to a long-term partner.”

With a sentence, fueled by years of research and a multitude of fMRI brain scans, Dr. Fisher was able to break down love into three distinct processes - lust, attraction, and attachment.

A few blunt words and love is deconstructed, laid bare to be poked and prodded by those with scrutinizing eyes and sterile gloves.

Kickstarting

Love is first initiated with the sex drive – androgens and estrogens begin their surge upwards and demand that you seek out a significant other. According to a 1997 paper of Dr. Fisher’s, these are both hormones that fuel the sex drive. They each “evolved to get you out there, looking for a whole range of partners.”

In comparison, the attraction stage is what causes love struck people to become fixated on a certain person. Surging levels of adrenaline result in a stress response, which explains the reason you freeze up or suddenly forget what to say around your crush.

Spikes of dopamine cause a euphoric attitude and a figurative “high” within the brain. The region affected by the explosion of dopamine is also the area that shows activity when experiencing the rush of cocaine, reports Dr. Fisher.

The obsessive, intrusive thoughts about the

nonFICTION

person you love are due to the lowering of serotonin. Nearly 65 percent of a love-struck person’s day is spent thinking about the object of their infatuation, according to a 2012 study conducted by Sandra J. E. Langeslag, an Assistant Professor in the Department of Psychological Sciences at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.

Snuggle Up

Succeeding the passionate, dopamine-drenched attraction period is the blissful chapter of attachment. Oxytocin, also known as the “cuddle hormone,” and vasopressin are the final two ingredients in this biological love potion. An incredibly powerful bond, as well as the ability to read each other’s eyes and body language, is all thanks to oxytocin. The chemical is created in abundance during physical contact with a partner, one example being hand-holding.

Long-term couples often experience this change in their relationships. My father, for instance, says that he’s had an “obsession” with my mom since day one, but recently he has “noticed more of a comfortable, ‘cuddly’ sort of love” between them.

Spikes of dopamine

cause a euphoric attitude and a figurative “high” within the brain.

It would be a mistake to consider transitioning from the dopamine stage to the oxytocin stage reaching the peak of your romantic life and then tipping off. The change is merely a different type of love - not a weaker brand.

These stages are merely outlines for the processes of love, and it’s important to know that

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“Bubbles” painting by Danielle Doorn

nonFICTION

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not everyone will experience love in the same way.

“It is, of course, possible to have one [stage] and not the other two, or some combination, or all three . . . It’s just more common to experience lust, then attraction, then attachment,” says Assistant Professor of Psychology at Idaho State University Dr. Mona Xu.

What’s Your Type?

Science has so far been able to determine the components of love, but the question of why we fall in love with specific persons remains unanswered. However, Dr. Fisher’s new project is endeavoring to answer this question.

Dr. Fisher is not only a revolutionary anthropologist but also the Chief Scientific Adviser for Match.com – the most popular online dating service as of 2017. Her research birthed a sister site, known as Chemistry. com. By answering a series of questions, people are able to determine whether they are a Negotiator, Director, Explorer, or Builder. Each type is decided by the dominant amount of estrogen, testosterone, dopamine, or serotonin an individual displays.

From a biological standpoint, people subconsciously choose others with physical characteristics that suggest fertility and health. On the other hand, speculation from psychologists suggest that we prefer people of the same socioeconomic background and shared values – essentially those who share qualities we possess and an upbringing similar to the one we experienced.

Older psychologists, such as Sigmund Freud, proposed that it was infantile memories that

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affected the selection of whom we would later love. “[Sigmund] Freud thought that . . . a person we fall in love with is a reflection of what we learned in the beginning years of life – whether we are conscious of their impact or not,” says English Teacher Cadet Linh Tran, who has a B.S. in English/Psychology from Winthrop University.

Modern postulation focuses on psychologist John Money’s theory of lovemaps – the idea that we each have unconscious blueprints for what love should “look like” based on past experiences with love – whether that be firsthand or through exposure to our parents’ relationship.

“ think love is a combination of all these things: confusing chemicals, something beyond definition, products of life lessons, and hopes for the future.”

nonFICTION

Mixed Reactions Not all those who

have been exposed to the scientific account of love have understood the findings or have simply refused to accept the data. “[The reactions] have been mixed,” said Dr. Xu. “There’s a lot of excitement about the scientific study of love, but there are also skeptics.”

Dr. Xu credits the increase in positive responses to research to decades of pioneering work, brain imaging, and physiological responses.

Scientific analyzations and poetic interpretations provide humankind with the tools to decipher love. In truth, love is what we make it.

“I think love is a combination of all these things: confusing chemicals, something beyond definition, products of life lessons, and hopes for the future,” Miss Tran said. “Understanding the various reasons for love is useful. Science gives us the tools to be mindful of why we do things so that we may avoid circumstances where love is false or hurtful or so that we may learn to appreciate love that is worthy and rewarding.”

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“Red Coat” photo filtered with Prisma by Lily Asaad

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Little Red Coat Lily Asaad

ittle girl. Little dreams. Little red coat. Little does she know that the world around her is so big. She only sees beauty, only knows what she’s told. She’s taught the world is a beautiful place full of wonder and serendipity and that her dreams can be as big as the sea. She has only known happiness in her life and has no understanding of evil. Innocent little girl, she pours herself into everything she does; she is a work of art. Little girl, 7-years-old, only looks forward growing up.

Little girl. Little dreams. Little red coat. Little does she know she’s unique. She doesn’t have to pretend to be someone she’s not. Little girl, 14, plays outside in clear skies, green grass, and beautiful friends.

She longs to be like them, wants to fit in. So she straightens her hair, shops at the mall, puts on lipstick.

But her skin isn’t white, her body isn’t fit, and her hair nonFICTION

isn’t straight. Little girl, with her tan skin, curvy body, and curly hair doesn’t see that she’s special.

Little girl. Little dreams. Little red coat. Little does she know of the friends who talk about her when she turns away. Little girl with a graciousness in her heart, doesn’t see others mock her. Little girl, 17, chooses to ignore the degrading words meant to shatter her sparkle. Instead, she picks up a guitar and a microphone, and everything else fades away.

Every tear shed turns into a masterpiece. She chooses to wear a smile and to dream big even when she’s awake. Little girl understands it’s okay to be different because, like the Apple commercial says, “the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who actually do.”

Little girls. Little dreams. Little red coat. Little does she know she’s going to change the world.

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Wimpy Baby

“Baby” ink drawing by Emily Latini

Nick Catan NonFICTION

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HAM!!! The door swings open

snot bubbling from its nose, and a small snore rising

with the ferocity of a hurricane

deep from within its chest. The creature is my sister

wind. Hard heavy footsteps march

Sophia. She is sound asleep in her baby car seat. My

towards my bed. It feels as if I’ve

brother is to her right. Mom said we aren’t allowed to

been asleep for only 15 minutes, yet I feel a shake and hear

sit next to one another since we always fight, so her

my Dad say in a joking tone, “Get

solution was to put our baby sister in

your butt up.”

I drag myself out from under the warm, soft, safe covers of my bed and out into the cold, harsh midDecember air. With a suitcase in my left arm and a blanket in my right, I trudge towards my dad’s truck. Well, not really a truck -- it’s more like a rocket ship to me. A monster F:350 in pearly white with chrome rims

I begin to tease him about having a car seat and keep calling him a “wimpy baby.”

I feel it is a very grown up response.

and futuristic lights, beading up the

the middle of the struggle for power over the back seat.

Today, I am feeling especially brave seeing as I am becoming a man, moving from the childish booster seat to the adult normal seat. I snicker as my brother struggles to strap himself into his car seat. He knows I have the upper hand now – I have the psychological advantage of adulthood.

I begin to tease him about having a car

dashboard. To get in, I have to climb up the side using all

seat and keep calling him a “wimpy baby.” I feel it is a

of my strength, hoisting myself towards what seemed like

very grown up response. But I am not as aware of my

a mountain top.

surroundings as I think. As we are all sitting in the car

As I reach my little hand to the top of the seat, breaking

waiting for Dad, Mom is sitting and listening from the

the never-ending horizon, I plop down on the cushioned

front seat. When she shoots around only seconds after

leather seat. My first trip without my booster seat. I finally

“wimpy baby” leaves my lips, I know I am not as grown

feel like a man.

up as I thought. She pops me in the mouth, and my eyes

To my right sits a bushy rat’s nest of 3-year-old hair,

nonFICTION

begin to well with tears – like a “wimpy baby.”

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Forgotten Names Lily Averkamp

y grandmother’s name was Judy. I

thought my grandmother was his twin. I wonder what his

wonder if she still remembered her

real twin’s name was? They knew that Alzheimer’s was one

name. She didn’t remember mine. She

form of dementia. More so a disease of differentia.

didn’t remember anyone’s. Maybe she

I miss the days when she made me warm scrambled

did remember them, but her brain couldn’t assemble them.

eggs in the moonlit evening, and scraped up leftovers in

She probably wanted to remember them.

the sunlit morning. I miss her loving personality; or her

It wasn’t her fault she forgot them. No one was mad

sense of reality.

when she lost them like socks in a dryer. When she was first put in the home, there was a man named Robert – he NonFICTION

Maybe now she remembers the name Lily, or Amy, or Bob. I miss her, and I hope I’ll never forget her.

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Your Name

“Desert Sunset” painting by Emily Latini

Makayla Brown

A flame burning underneath me Your name is a dog constantly chasing me A car running me down That’s what your name is Though I’m smitten with it Your name is a blooming flower on a tepid spring day A love spell cast upon my unsuspecting being Seven letters Seven whole letters that might as well be carved into me

Poetry

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“Crashing Waves” photo by Bri Worrell POETRY

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a thousand lifetimes Kellie Fanning 4 pounds 4 ounces 28 weeks your skin was translucent i watched the blood pulse through your cold veins held you in my arms for just a second your whole life flashed before my eyes i watched your first day of kindergarten your red dress like the red skin of your icy body i watched you graduate high school in that yellow gown i watched you sit in your new york apartment crying because a man stole your heart to trade it in for another i watched you watch me lying in the hospital bed age 87 oh how things could have been different every year i remember the thousands of lifetimes that flared through my brain before you were taken my heart, a scab every year, after a layer of skin grows back i pick it back off

poetry

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Poetry

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Don’t Hold Your Breath

I

Veronica Barcia

sit on the edge of concrete, legs dangling like a fishing line, too much on my mind like tiny pebbles breaking free

and falling to the sea.

Some stay embedded in my leg, unable to taste the air of liberty.

When I breath the air, it’s a factory, churning and producing smoke swirling in the air like a dancer with no flare, smoke filling my lungs with a poisonous gray to be swept away by the clean and clear cerulean blue under my feet, carried to a place where I can breathe free, far away from a mundane day

“Cascade” photo by Harrison Ostrosky

Poetry

before I drown in salty waves.

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Higher Than A Mountain Carly Cashatt

Crisp pillows framed by Long legged trees, pines so pointy Reflection of the tall peaks In the clear drinkable water Yellow, red, and green on the bank sides Grass and wild life hugging the lake Set at the bottom of the mountain Deep within the valley Spring has sprouted Frogs ribbit Insects munch Butterflies flap Deer graze Fish bubble With the beat of wildlife

Origins Justin McGuirl

Deep within the valley Summer has been summoned Worms hidding in the caves underground Bears getting stuffed In the day of the hot, sizzling sun Green all around the tall trees A touch of pink and yellow, On the Fairyslippers Where the bees buzz And the mockingbirds sing.

Deep within the valley Fall has flipped Snow still painted On the mountains Leaves kiss the ground In red, orange, and yellow Lipstick Trees become bare For a new beginning The animals migrate And hibernate Crisp pillows framed by Long legged trees, pines so pointy Reflection of the tall peaks, In the clear drinkable water Yellow, red and green on the bank sides Grass and wild life hugging the lake Set at the bottom of the mountain. poetry

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“River in a Valley” watercolor painting by Rylee Vanterve

Mountain.

Man slams metal spikes into the rock and scales the towering earth’s cheek.

Crash!

A cloud-sized piece tumbles away like a scab picked by a five-year-old.

Boulder.

At the basin, chunks spill into purring rapids.

Friction of the flowing force gnaws at the giant stone until it’s worn into a dwarf.

Pebble.

Slumbering at the bottom of the dashing, foaming whitewater: a smooth, granite egg, only to be discovered by a fresh pair of fingers of a boy in an emerald Talbot jacket.

poetry

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“Keys” photo by Madeline Cost

Poetry

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Music in Reality Lindy Miller I’m not picky, Rap, hip-hop, or rock n roll, All music motivates me.

The only problem I have with reality – no background music playing.

A tune helps me with everything I do.

If I’m feeling bad or if I’m feeling sad, It’s the place I can go to.

Whatever feeling is resting within you, Happiness, sadness, regret or fear, Just twist the dial on your radio.

Press the up button on your phone.

Turn it up.

POetry

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“The Toy” by Liesl Juell

Poetry

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A Dream of Doors Kat Stiles

I stare in the mirror; she stares back at me.

Crushing my chest beneath my arms, and it’s he instead of she.

The door is closed, it always is.

Always has been.

I rip my shirt from my back like restrictive chain mail, and don a new one, fresh and loose and free.

The door opens just a hair on creaking hinges, never used.

A friend gazes through.

I gaze back, lift the links from the floor, and let her see the old and the new.

She brightens, incandescent in the gloomy gap.

Good job, she says.

More come to the door.

And with each one who comes the door resists.

It loathes being open, wants to close again.

It presses against them, but they are stronger.

And each who comes pushes it open just a little more.

Poetry

Now I can look out, and I see doors.

Uncountable, unknowable.

Many are wedged closed.

Others have heads popping in and out, as I do, like nervous turtles peeping from our shells.

A few doors are open, their residents gone, wandering from door to door, inviting new friends to join them.

Some unfortunate doors are splintered, blood staining the wood, those who lived inside forced to leave.

Some have disappeared by their own hands.

And voices echo through the ether, all wondering the same thing – Why must we hide behind these doors?

But those silenced know why: Because the world is not ready for us.

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“Identity” graphite drawing by Danielle Doorn

Monsters Harper Griffin

Helium wrapped in crinkley stuff Tied to a string Rustle in the corner Across the room Tick tick tock Goes the pink clock Hum a song to yourself Be louder than all the noises Pull the shield up above your head A purple comforter Shhh They’re gone Poetry

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“Phalanges” ink drawing by Nathan Tyson

Nails Barbara Barnes

Poetry

Chipped crusty, islands of paint That is what I see when I look at my fingers Nails never last long Maybe a week then the paint starts to wear Like a peach left in in the sun attracting fruit flies I use them For scratching, picking, tapping, peeling When they get too long it’s time to end them Hacking them off like branches Time passes – they begin to grow again Like a rose budding And the cycle begins again.

Gold and silver rings and all kinds of paint, But in the end, it all deteriorates.

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Today Logan Brookhart

Today will become yesterday Tomorrow will become today The cycle will repeat itself Day after day Tomorrow will become today It all remains the same Day after day And complacence is to blame It all remains the same Yesterday was filled with routine And complacence is to blame Days in our lives are filled with conformity Yesterday was filled with routine The same goals in mind Days in our lives are filled with conformity And we never question why.

poetry

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“Carolina Sunset� photo by Bri Worrell

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Every Night Casey Keegan

poetry

maybe it’s the broken desire or the emotions that are running in a circle around my brain. every day is the same: wake up, go to school, do homework, repeat. yet, you still squeeze into my daily routine. thinking about you is a bomb just ticking away in my mind, ready to go off at any moment. maybe your poison is why i am so tired.

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The Imaginary Kimberley Copley

Little one, you held my hand. You saw what others couldn’t – Imagination pure and grand. I spoke when others wouldn’t.

You laughed and cried and told your secrets, growing day by day.

I thought I’d live forever, but now I fade away.

It seems as though just like the clothes you inevitably outgrew I was just another thing that you would outgrow, too.

No longer can I hear your giggles in our secret garden, But all the cruelties you’ve endured have caused your heart to harden.

Little one, so sweet and small, why did you have to grow?

As I watch you slip away, I feel that I must go.

No longer can I fit into your maturing life.

You can’t hear me say goodbye. Dreamer, live on without strife.

I hope you tell your children they can meet someone like me.

If only you can think it, so that thing shall be.

Untitled

Translation from Arabic (Anonymous) Lily Asaad Just as a beautiful flower is plucked, Anything beautiful people want to break You are beautiful And I am afraid.

POetry

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“Naka” painting by Paige Pierce

POETRY

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Ode To The Platoon Jordan Polo

When the commander arrives, she carries her sword high, blade to her shoulder, a one-woman army.

The Valkyrie in front guides the platoon to the commander’s orders.

The Jester in the center jokes. The soldiers laugh.

The Royal Advisor in the back barks, “Lock it up!”

The Spartan beside me moves with fire in his eyes.

Privates stand their ground, frozen.

The Marine treads in front, stalking us for mistakes.

He halts in front me.

What’s your purpose here, Cadet?

To march and obey the commands, Sergeant Major!

My purpose is to remain loyal and truthful to my squad.

I am the Shepherd for this family.

POETRY

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“Marine Boy” by Sarah Riehle

POETRY

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Memories Emily Skroly

They wash away with waves.

One wave brings a beaded periwinkle and a calico scallop.

Another brings a sand dollar and a penshell.

I walk along the shoreline, collecting shells I want to keep forever like memories.

Poetry

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Pier by Bri Worrll “Pier” photo by Bri Worrell

Poetry

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“Dew Details” photo by Jalen Hodges

Poetry

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Love Letters

Elizabeth Reynolds

My dearest companion, my little flame, my escape, thank you for being a flicker of redemption in a void of soot and ashes. You made my tender flesh vulnerable to grow stronger, and did the same with my spirit. You never abandoned me, and after I fled, you accepted me graciously as I came running back.

Thank you for understanding when I decided I had to quit using you. Thank you for the sparks, but I don’t want to be burned anymore – the everlasting ember is now nothing but a crisp, and you are repugnant.

Love, The wisp of smoke that will always remain

poetry

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Friendships Mara Lorton

It was all over so soon, these gardens you tended, roses and azaleas you thought you’d keep.

Well they crashed in flash, and you became dead in their heads.

So soon, and they were gone – You couldn’t control it when the weeds took over.

And now the roses are dead and the violets are too, because of those dandelions the weeds you feared.

You tried to keep those away, watered the grass and polished the stones and closed the gates to the weeds and yet, they still came.

They strangled and throttled and muffled your garden as you stood there… helpless.

You tried crying, screaming, shouting, and begging, but it was too late.

You closed the gates, and you turned away, and tried to forget, but all you knew was gone and you knew you would never move on.

Poetry

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“Water Mill” watercolor painting by Rylee Vanterve

poetry

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Rogue

Reflection Dana Berry, Ryan Williams, Ryan Bunge

“Mirror” screenshot from film by Dana Berry

screenplay

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Est runtime before credits- 2:35 With credits- 2:45 Improvements: Broken mirror in 3rd shot Original music Redo conversation more elaborate Flip image for reflection Ambiguous ending- is it the reflection or the main character who went back in the mirror?

Instead of tennis ball to the face, mirror shatter Instead of writing note and leaving, cleaning up broken glass Lighting: 1st act- Foyer: Blue/orange contrast, same as original 2nd act- Laundry room: Purple and white 3rd act- Bedroom: Blue/orange, more dim Opening (Foyer): 1- Shot from original, but Ryan is standing in broken glass 2- Shot from original 3- Shot from original, but the mirror is broken 4- POV shot looking down at broken glass 5- Shot from original, but he’s looking down still 6- Shot from original, but Ryan gets a broom and dust pan out of cabinet instead of mirror and note 7- He goes to sweep up the broken glass 8- Once he sweeps it up, there is a loud breaking glass sound from inside the laundry room 9- He jump scares, broken glass he just swept up dropping to the floor along with pan and broom 10- Shot from original, camera push into Ryan from inside the laundry room 11- Shot from original, camera push into the laundry room from foyer 12- Shot from original, close up with face half LIT 13- Shot from original, walking into dark laundry room with hidden cut The Conversation (Laundry Room): Ref- Hi! Ry- What are you doing here? And why are you breaking all of the mirrors?

Ref- It’s your turn.

Ry- For what?

Ref- To be the reflection. (one shot)

screenplay

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Ry- (facepalm) No, no, NO! We talked about this remember? You’re the reflection. I’m the human. That’s how it works. We can’t just switch places. So get back in that mirror, right now!

Ref- I disagree. We should take turns. I kinda want to take your girlfriend out for once- I mean, OUR girlfriend of course. What’d ya think? (one shot ends) Ryan, (salty af) he punches his reflection in the face and they start to fight.

Ry- You’re getting back in that mirror right now!

Ref- No, you’re getting back in the mirror!

Ry- No, you are!

Ref- No you are!

Camera moves out of the laundry room to the foyer (as they keep saying “no you are”) broken glass, pan and broom are seen scattered on the floor.

(Cut to black)

screenplay

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“Reflection” screenhot from film by Dana Berry

The Mirror (Bedroom): Same one-take shot as original, starting at the lamp Ref or Ry?- Why do you always gotta make things so difficult! I never did anything to you, and this is how you repay me? Unbelievable. (Props mirror up against wall) Alright, that’s more like it. (Notices how he looks.) Ok... Wow… No wonder that guy is so anxious all the time… I. Look. Like. Shi(cut to black, title card) Rogue Reflection won “Best Short Film” at the Southern Interscholastic Press Association (SIPA) 2017 Conference. The full-length video is on YouTube/TheNAFONews.

To watch the film, link to video: https://youtu.be/MnMkFCfKjBE

screenplay

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DarkWood Bri Worrell

Bolting up the stairs to grab my black Nike running shoes, I begin to hear the rain strike the roof. Perfect.

I lace up my shoes as quickly as I can, anticipating the rainy run. I snatch my white earbuds hanging on the doorknob to my room and leave. Rain speckles my tan face as I start at a slow jog down the street leading out of Heightswell, the neighborhood I have lived in since I was a baby. I watch as the steam rises up from the hot pavement - it is midsummer in Virginia Beach, and it has been awhile since we’ve had a downpour.

Sound waves of “Location” by Khalid echoe through my ears, setting a beat for my feet as I run. Where do I want to run today? Normally, I run into the small town

we live near, Smithfield, but rain always brings out my adventurous side. After about a mile of running down the sidewalk that circles around our small corner of Virginia, I look to my right and decide it might be nice to venture into the forest for once. I have lived near these woods all my life and never once have I had the courage to enter into them. I don’t know what it is, but the idea of running through uncharted and uncultivated land has brought on uneasy feeling since I was young.

Today, those fears are being pushed aside – I’m doing this.

Within a few feet I cut into the green onto a narrow path that has been created by previous venturers. I feel

“Hay Girl” painting by Marissa Huddy FICTION

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“Who are you and where am I?” I ask sternly, an adrenaline rush course through my body, and my although I know my voice sounds weak – the fear pace grows quickly within seconds of entering. I begin coursing through my veins is immense. sprinting, bouncing over small streams and rugged “Ha, ha, ha, ha! You should have thought twice roots. My body is the fire in the rain, torching the trees before coming into MY forest young one. You don’t I brush past. I feel alive. belong here, and now, you’ll pay,” a witch responds.

After bolting through the fearsome wonderland Her voice is deep, almost like that of a man’s, but her for few miles, my lungs grow weak from the lack of laugh sounds like a screeching hawk. oxygen in the air due to the humidity. Coincidentally, “Please, just let me go, and I won’t ever return. You I stumble upon a monstrous tree with a large branch have my word. I was only adventuring, hanging low enough for me to rest on but I assure you it won’t happen again, for a moment. I approach the tree, “...trying to ma’am. Just please, let me go,” I beg. gawking at its size. Never have I seen For a moment, everything is quiet. a tree like this – so enormous it could loosen the She shuffles in circles around the engulf a beastly dragon.

I grasp the damp branch and restraints that board I am tethered to and blurts out, “I never understood adventurers… swing my leg over to the other side. I hold my wrists You must know of the famous saying, straddled the limb and rest my back ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?” against the giant trunk and take in my and “Well, yes, yes I do…” I murmur. I surroundings: the sound of the rain trickling down the waxy leaves, the ankles to the know where this is going.

“You should have kept that in mind smell of rusticity filling the air, and plank...” when you decided to venture onto my the feel of the cooled wood against land, and, if you didn’t want to get by burning body. caught, you definitely shouldn’t have been sleeping on I close my eyes and start to doze off within a few my door step,” she said with a snicker. minutes. Why was I ever scared of this place? The I remember the tree. It was obnoxiously large – the raindrops drip onto my flushed cheeks as my breaths grow further and further apart. I drift into a deep sleep. biggest tree I had ever seen in my life. I realize where I am – I’m inside the tree. The persisting darkness, the I wake up confused, unsure of how long I’ve been brisk air – I’m never getting out of here. asleep or where I am, and feeling much different than I hear the witch drag herself toward the right side before. I realize I’m no longer inhaling the humid air, of the room, or trunk, I should nor am I resting on the branch say. Suddenly, a scarlet light of the tree. I am surrounded “The wrinkles in her coming from where the witch by endless darkness, lying on a is standing illuminates the nearly-upright, ridged wooden face are dark, and darkness. board with my hands cuffed to “What is that?” I scream. it with rope. My body shivers her grin is like that She brings the red substance from the cold and trembles with of the Joker’s.” towards me in a black bowl. fear. Where am I? The liquid makes a loud, fizzing I struggle for a few minutes, sound and begins popping. It looks somewhat like a trying to loosen the restraints that hold my wrists and miniature volcano. ankles to the plank, but it’s no use. I try to remain as The witch’s face glows red from her creation. The calm and relaxed as one can in a situation like this – wrinkles in her face are dark, and her grin is like that of it’s not the time or the place to have a panic attack. the Joker’s.

Suddenly, I hear a door creak to my left, but I’m still She approaches me with the pot of destruction. I unable to see anything. I feel hot breath on my cheeks watch as the lava-like substance slowly pours out of the within a few seconds of the door opening. The smell bowl, heading straight for my throat. “Please! Stop! I expelled from the being’s mouth is horrific, almost like don’t want…” that of a vultures.

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“Crows” by Marissa Huddy FICTION

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The Hard Place

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Sydny Long

he scream punched through the Mae stepped back, fell, and landed heavily on her jaundiced haze of the sun-baked pack-clad back. The nozzle of her hydration bladder afternoon like a shooting star. It caught her shoulder blade painfully. Before she could collided with Mae and blasted the right herself, something dry rasped past her shin, virtual dream from her day in a causing the delicate sensors that studded her softsunburst of brassy light; she blinked pink exoskeleton to chime in disgust--the mechanical once, twice, her interfaces scrambling to place the equivalent of gooseflesh. sound. A silver curd of synthetic saliva--Mae came A rattlesnake glided past her, trawling the rocks outfitted with only the most realistic amenities-for a suitable perch and dragging its sun-gorged body blitzed from her gaping lip and struck a nearby stone. across Mae’s legs with slippery, sinister insouciance.

Then, in neon cobalt across her field of vision: She made a soft sound of disgust. As it squeezed KATIE IN DANGER itself through a crack in the mountainside, Mae “Katie?” Mae twisted around, suddenly unable to tried to expedite the process of controlling her fear place her surroundings. Grays response by holding her breath. and greens streaked hazily past Her core heaved a waspish “...something her as she scanned the path screech before finally buffering with an urgency that starkly and restoring her higher hissed. Mae juxtaposed the manufactured functions. calm of her plastic face. More “Katie?” she asked dustily. stepped back, silver water burbled from “Katie?” her gaping mouth, spattering “Mae!” A slim, callusfell, and landed the rocks beneath her boots. studded hand parted the curtain “Katie?” of shadows and groped the heavily on her Upon hearing nothing but ground for support. Mae made pack-clad back.” a sound that might have been a the plink of falling gravel and the din of chattering voices scream, then lunged forward to further down the mountain, Mae dismounted from recover the drowning hand. She latched both hands her perch. She had been standing on a little stone around Katie’s wrist, ignoring the bite of her owner’s parapet that overlooked the mountain’s shadow, fit bracelet, and gave a mighty tug. Katie moaned which purpled the greenery below like a shiner. lowly – the moan of the dog dragging itself under Now, she quickly climbed back down the path. It the porch to die – but made encouraging progress swooped down into a depression that was sheltered out of the depression. by a massive outcropping of scraggly rock and “I am here,” Mae said. There was nothing else she dimpled with enormous stones. Mae crouched could think to say. She extended one arm and hooked down, squinting against the gush of wind, nightit under Katie’s armpit; with the other, she reached vision flickering uselessly. Her system core whirred up to brace herself against a rocky protrusion. hysterically; and an exhausted, heavy smell like smoke Mae stood suddenly. She levered Katie out of the prickled her olfactory sensors. depression and onto the path, where the rescued girl In the darkness, something hissed. immediately buckled on her left leg. As Mae

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recovered her balance--noting for the first time the embedded into her plastic skin. Six icons appeared, sheerness and hazard of the mountainside--she one of which was a green outline of a phone. She traced Katie’s grounded form with wide, voltaic punched the icon, then twitched as her system core eyes. Katie had sustained several rips and smudges once again flared with frantic heat. Her cooling fans to her Junior Mountaineer tee-shirt, as well as to had been damaged in a fall during their last hike and her compression shorts; her hydration pack hung although Katie had begged her parents to have Mae precariously from one shuddering shoulder. Her repaired, they had not visited a COM shop since black, curly then. It was becoming increasingly apparent ponytail, that Katie’s parents were hoping to replace “A tributary of which Mae Mae with a newer model. Obsolescence was had often becoming a fixture in their conversations with blood ran down their daughter. Mae didn’t know what the likened to a calligrapher’s word meant, but she had ideas. the side of “S,” was The phone icon displayed a number grid. limp and Mae typed in the digits and waited for the her shin.” laminated to confirmation ding. Katie made another noise her head with of discomfort; above them, the world shimmered sweat. Mae was clandestinely glad to see that Katie’s feverishly with sunlight and blood. face had not been harmed in the fall: a visage of such A cobalt message flashed across Mae’s vision symmetry and splendor was a rarity and should be field: CALL CANNOT BE COMPLETED. protected from injury. Her programming didn’t allow FAILED CONNECTION. for ill thoughts towards Katie, but Mae was capable “Mae?” Katie panted. She was not a girl who of some degree of free thought and had deduced panted often and was justifiably panicked by her independently that her owner was beautiful. sudden breathlessness. In spite of the heat of the “Oh, God,” Katie kept saying, her shoulders day, a shiver spidered through her body. “Mae, what’s pumping. “Oh, God.” wrong?” almly, dreamily, Mae sat down on the “Call cannot be completed. Failed connection,” gravel and looked at Katie’s legs. They Mae reiterated quietly, almost shamefully. The word were sun-bronzed, rigid with muscle. “obsolescence” lodged itself into her core like a Her right leg had been tented up so thorn, like an itch that could never be scratched. she could prop one arm against her “Oh. Oh… God.” knee as a sort of reassurance that her physical form “I will try calling again.” had not been swallowed up by the “No, no, depression. Her left leg, however, Mae, you’ll “The mechanism had a hiatus in its form: two little just wear out commas, cushioned by swollen, your core,” controlling her bruised tissue. A tributary of blood Katie said, ran down the side of her shin. reaching breathing, her “You are bleeding,” Mae across her declared, and she tried to swipe the injured leg to mechanical heart, blood away. grab Mae’s “No! Don’t touch it! There could wrist. The stilled and ossified be venom.” Katie batted Mae’s hand synthetic girl away, then caressed the inflamed bite. looked up at in her chest.”

“I can not harmed by--” her owner “I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake, Mae. I… I got with such humiliation – such real, visceral humiliation bit.”

– that tears surged into Katie’s eyes. “Mae, you know Mae furrowed her brow at the sensory memory of what’ll happen to you.” that horrible snake’s scales rasping against her skin.

Mae blinked. The doleful blue of her eye seemed “Do I call for help?” terrifyingly human in the clarity of day.

A feverish light illuminated Katie’s dark eyes and “Your parents will be disappointed that I have she laughed, a harsh staccato. “Yes! Good, please, failed to serve my purpose.” please do that.”

A sob caught painfully in Katie’s throat, and she Mae turned over her wrist and tapped the screen coughed. “I don’t care about them, Mae. They’ve

C

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always been too overprotective anyway.”

“They care about you. They programmed me to protect you.”

“Yeah, right. They programmed you to raise me so they wouldn’t have to worry about messing me up.” She touched Mae’s face with a tremulous hand, feeling the silvery caress of each individual sensor and the subsequent quiver of energy as her hand and its motives were identified. hough Mae had been at her side since birth, Katie rarely touched the pink shell encasing her digital viscera and corbo-steel bones. It had never looked more like flesh.

“Why do you think I always climb mountains?”

“Because you enjoy it. As do I,” Mae added, smiling dutifully. Her basic emotional faculties could manufacture marginal amounts of joy in response to certain stimuli, one of which was the ghosting of mountain wind across her sensors.

“So I can get away from them. And be with you. You’re my best friend, Mae,” Katie said, and she meant this. She meant this more than she had ever meant anything. Meaning had been cheapened by the COMs, with their manufactured docility and kindness, but Mae had meaning, had poetry in her heart, had sculptures in her head, had concertos in her eyes.

“Please, Mae, don’t be afraid…”

“I will not,” Mae said. She switched off her fear sensors; they quieted with a sepulchral sigh.

Katie’s pretty face crumpled around a wrenching sob, and she suddenly wrapped her arms around Mae, pulling her close. Mae’s sensors sang a euphonious blue note.

“I’m so lucky. I took you for granted--all the songs and the calls and the-the hikes – oh my God, the hikes. You learned to love hiking.

They said you’d never love anything organically.”

“I do.” The warmth of Katie’s body – the thunder of blood through her veins, the tectonic movements of her diaphragm – made Mae forget about words like obsolescence and her failed connection. She felt like

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smiling in spite of the lack of proper stimuli.

“You did. You did, Mae.” “I did,” Mae repeated and her voice died away.

Her core sputtered for a moment before expiring, blacking out her external sensors. The mechanism controlling her breathing, her mechanical heart, stilled and ossified in her chest like a mountain. She blinked up at Katie, who was crying again, and it dawned on Mae that there would be other hikers soon, other hikers with better COMs, COMs with updated connection services. Katie would be safe.

Then in neon cobalt across her field of vision: KATIE PROTECTED. SYSTEM OBSOLETE. SHUTTING DOWN NOW. “I did.”

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“Guardian Spirit” painting by Marissa Huddy

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Amor Fati

“Love of Fate” Audrey Sabo

A

woman found herself lost, yet she felt no fear.

Looking up, she could hardly see the spring sky, for the sprawling canopy of monstrous trees blocked it

from sight. It seemed as though the trunks had no end.

As she passed an ancient tree, she placed a hand on its rough bark in greeting. Silently, the tree greeted her in return.

The soft grass beneath her bare feet was hardly grass at all; it more closely resembled moss, its deep green color a clear sign of fertility. Her feet sunk slightly with each step, releasing the smell of decaying wet leaves.

Yellow buds crawled about the base of one tree, purple bushes squatted around another, sharply interrupting the different hues of brown bark. The flowers watched her.

The woman listened to the strange silence. The insects did not buzz, the wrens did not chirp, the rabbits hid in their holes. The forest was waiting. The woman was, too. She walked on.

A breeze brushed her back, but this was not the natural occurrence of wind – this was what she had been waiting for.

She turned. A magnificent silver bird, quiet as shadows, hovered.

It landed softly on a large tree root and gazed at her.

A sudden rustling of leaves broke the soporific silence. The trees were waving goodbye.

Understanding passed between the locked eyes of the silver beast and the woman. The bird spread its wings, its reach far beyond that of any human. The wings wrapped around the woman in an embrace. Together, they fell into nothingness.

Life returned to the forest. The trees were no longer waving goodbye but waving in the wind. Animals darted from hiding, only their morning meal on their minds.

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“Giraffes” watercolor by Paige Pierce

INFERNO

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Staff Lily Asaad Veronica Barcia Barbara Barnes Logan Brookhart Makayla Brown

Carly Cashatt Nicholas Catan Kellie Fanning Harper Griffin Elizabeth Helms

Casey Keegan Mara Lorton Lindy Miller Jordan Polo Elizabeth Reynolds

Audrey Sabo Emily Skroly Katherine Stiles

Editors Kimberley Copley Lexcee Shelton Christina Worrell

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.

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patrons

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Colophon

Patrons

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 Anneliese Juell’s drawing of herself,“Mania.” With a release date of May 3, 2017, the magazine is distributed to the student body of Nation Ford High School and members of the Fort Mill community.

Thank you for reading Voices.

Lifetime

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

Silver Christine Allred

Darlene A. Sabo

Patron

Rudye Alt Harry Barcia Mark Barnes FBLA of Nation Ford High School Kim Dickson Rene Kozlowski Trina McFadden Julia McGuirl Debra Miller Sharon Reynolds Keri Schafer Core Revolution

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.

“Sunglasses” by Emma Pittman patrons

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“Hygiene” by Emma Pittman

Smoke Samantha McNeil

Standing at our kitchen windows, we watched the smoke ascend into the sky, pewter clouds interrupted the Creamsicle sunrise.

The sirens grew louder and louder until the screams penetrated the air, ringing through the halls and crashing against the glass panes.

The neighbor’s house burned until it was nothing, barren of the anger that had stained the carpet, gone was the terror that hung with the drapes and the sorrow that slumped on the bathroom floor.

Fire finished what he had started, A lit match, some gasoline, and the clumsy hands of a drunken father.

The flames took it all.

There were no liquor bottles to pick up, or lines of coke to sweep, or children to meet at the bus stop.

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“From a tiny spark may burst a mighty flame.�

-Dante Alighieri