North Second Star

North Second Star Clarksville Academy Literary Journal

North Second Star Clarksville Academy Literary Journal

⇢ 2017- 2018 ⇠

“Literature has been our salvation, literature has inspired and guided lovers, routed despair and can perhaps in this case save the world.”

-John Cheever

Presented by Dr. Beach’s Senior Dual English Classes

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Dr. Beach’s dual English classes would like to dedicate the first edition of ​North Second Star​ to her. Dr. Beach is so much more than a teacher to her students; she is a mentor. She teaches more than poems and essays; she teaches a love of literature. Dr. Beach is passionate and devoted and engaged with her students. She has made a difference in each of our lives and she has made a difference in our school.

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Committees​: Artwork​- Led by Emily Bryant: Peter Nguyen, Will Renkl, Mallory Saleh, Julia Traughber Fiction​- Led by Lakeisha Phillips: Jason Longwell, William Mastalerz, Jackson McIntosh, Madeline O’Connor Non-Fiction​- Led by Mallory Wallace: Bradley Burger, Michaela Dowdy, Hannah Flowers, Mackenzie Sawyer Poetry​- Led by Georgia Smith: Dawson Bagwell, Peter Nguyen, Taylor Kazinski, Mallory Saleh, Macy Truitt Photography​- Led by Carlynn Holleman: Hunter Bracy, Alycia Buggs, Tashaunda Grimmett, Shelby Moore, Nanami Murata, Presleigh Sykes

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Table of Contents Fiction Our Favorite Jewel A Brutal Sequence of Events Lilies Fragments The Beginning of the End Dear January My Shoes Happiness v. Good Enough When the World Stood Still The Mask We Wear Superhero for a Day Nonfiction Coach Burden: Teaching So Much More than Math Courage Girl Power Daylight Robbery A Good Story Is Hard To Find​ Enjoy Every Moment Poetry Dreaming With My Feet My Sweet Daddy Brooks Falling Trees Red Scars Home Loveless

Georgia Smith Maddy O’Connor Ellyn Darke Jason Longwell Pryce O’Connor Sydneey Boykin John Knight Lyle Smith Victoria Hilfiker Christian Wadkins-White Chloe Conner

Akanee Angel Georgia Smith Macy Truitt Bradley Burger Mallory Wallace ​Rachael Skinner Aliyah Wise Presleigh Sykes Hania Abubucker Hunter Bracy Peter Nguyen Mackenzie Sawyer Will Renkl 4

Her Happy Place Fire Questions That Have No Answer What Deep Blue Is Layers of Legacy Haiku For School Burnt Chicken Nugget Haiku Ode to AP Euro Stars Was It Worth It? Blue A Log & A Bug Pig On The Rug​ My Heart Artwork Bloom Barefoot Burnt Recreation of Great Wave of Kanagawa Everything and Nothing Northern Lights The Best Part of Me Discovery Pastel Sunset Tranquility Simplicity Mountains Boat The Cat Breathing Treatment Untitled Untitled Untitled The Best Part of Me The Shark that Keeps on Trying

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Tashaunda Grimmett Sadie Skaggs Mallory Wallace Maddy O’Connor Georgia Smith Taylor Kazinski Will Renkl Akanee Angel Emma Dozier ​Pryce O’Connor ​Julia Traughber ​John Barton Kent Sofie Eugenio Ellie Drake

Tabitha Lee Lilly Hyde Christy Zheng Dulce DelaRosa Breonna Wade Dulce DelaRosa Ellie Drake Tyler Jones Nadiya Stowe Tabitha Lee Anne Kimball Morgan Crowley Kaitlynn Turney Sarah Dixon ​Taylor Knight John Barton Kent Sofie Eugenio Gigi Kembro Sam Adam Adam Jones 5

Photography Over the Rainbow Pierre’s Lily Pad Peru Pup Christmas Tree I Love You Winter Horse Home of Success CA Day Sedes Greenery Glow Serene Butch Sunburst Metro Bloomin’ Starry Night

Carlynn Holleman Peter Nguyen Carlynn Holleman Morgan Ozanne Jaylen Collins Miya Anderson Presleigh Sykes Cadence Biter Midge Barger Morgan Ozanne Midge Barger Dorothy Deeds Tyee Turner Tashaunda Grimmett Peter Nguyen Carlynn Holleman

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Fiction

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Our Favorite Jewel Georgia Smith, Grade 12 The King awoke in a horrid mood. Although, he seemed to be in terrible spirits everyday. But I should remark that today was especially rotten. He literally got up on the wrong side of the bed and tripped over his dozing dog who yelped and growled in a manner very unbefitting of such a royal canine. The King rang immediately for his attendants who rushed in and occupied their usual positions by the doors.

“I am bored with breakfast, I dread lunch, and I am dismally uninterested by dinner. I will not be my agreeable, kind self unless a perfect meal can be produced. I hope you all know that an unhappy king is an unjust king. I demand that the current chef be exiled and a perfect replacement be ready ​now​.”

His emphasis on the word “now” incited pure panic within the nervous attendants. Their minds flew through a list of worthy candidates, few of whom seemed suitable.

That night the bravest chef in the kingdom served an extensive banquet of thirty-two courses. The King finished every last crumb and leaned back with his hands behind his head and his elbows jutting out.

“It was… The food was… Simply disgusting.”

The King continued to eat the “grotesque, inedible, embarrassing, dull, uninspired, and depressing” feasts and still he continued to exile chef after chef. Soon one hundred and thirteen of the kingdom’s top chefs were banned. In a matter of months, it had become a risk to declare yourself a cook because you would be recruited to test your talents on the King and would inevitably be thrown out of your home.

One night, about ten months after the King’s fateful morning of gastronomic revelation, a boat arrived at midnight on the roughest beach in the kingdom. A girl hopped off and dragged her belongings onto the land. She stood straight as a sunflower with curled strands of hair that whipped against her stark, grey eyes. She couldn’t have been more than ten years-old but she possessed all the confidence of an ancient warrior. Her name, Yán, was the only detail about herself she remembered. She couldn’t even faintly recall her age, her parents, or her homeland. She did know, however, that if she paddled long enough she’d eventually hit land. She did know that on land, some people would provide food and that it was her responsibility to pay them back by preparing the food for herself and them. She did know that even though she was alone, she wasn’t lonely. She was brave and could take care of herself well enough and so cruising across the ocean was how she occupied herself. She also knew that a white, sparkly crystal she had found a few months ago was her most important possession.

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She approached the city with her only change of clothes, and the white crystal. She felt much more at home in this kingdom than she ever had before. She stayed under the radar as the subjects were so preoccupied with their diminishing-quantity-of-chefs problem. When she would prepare dinner for those who provided her daily provisions, their malnourished taste buds would be stunned by her command of flavors. The dwindling number of chefs had meant that the quality of food of the kingdom had rapidly decreased and the citizens had become accustomed to dull stews and simple broths. Each family she cooked for was dazzled by her and compelled to protect her from the greedy hands of the King. As soon as she heard that the King wanted a capable chef, she was sure she had to cook for him. Yán loved adventures and this was one of the biggest yet. She wanted to be the best; to win something that no one else in the kingdom could. She quickly advanced towards the castle. Luck would have it that as she approached the drawbridge, the last known chef in the kingdom was being dragged out. The guard stopped her and asked what her business was.

“I am here to cook.” She stated matter of factly.

“Well, kid, on any other day I would have laughed at you but you're just as good an option as anyone. But, you do know that you will probably get exiled, right?”

In response she whipped her head towards the castle and took four strong steps forward.

The guard sighed and opened the gate.

She was taken to the kitchen in a hurry and told to immediately prepare the King’s dinner.

She diced, she minced, she sautéed, she pureed, she boiled, she brewed. Finally she took out her prized possession and cut off a little corner with the sharpest knife. She pulverized the sliver into a pile of sparkling crumbs and adorned the top of her dishes with her magic potion.

Then the King feasted.

He sighed in delight and ate with a sparkle in his eye. Some even claim that they actually saw a smile as he devoured the meat pie.

“I have never been so happy in all my days. This is all I wanted. This meal is everything I have wished for these past months. Please, bring out the chef.”

Yán sauntered out with her usual confidence and stood waiting for his verdict.

“I demand to know what made your food different? How did it have so much flavor?”

She felt the need to conceal her jewel but nevertheless she produced it from her makeshift bag and held it out to him.

A curious expression consumed his face.

“What is ​that?”

Yán smiled and bounced with excitement as she prepared to explain her revolutionary discovery to the expectant servants and the delighted king.

She began her speech the way she always did; “I call it Salt.”

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A Brutal Sequence of Events Madeline O’Connor, 12th Grade It was the first time I killed a man. It took 20 minutes in total. I had to do it before she came back and saw what atrocious crime I had committed, (or more precisely, what I was unsuccessfully trying to do). I'd slip, and my back would momentarily be as submerged as the lifeless little man, whose face I was banging against the stone floor. His body would float back up to the surface, betraying my futile efforts to hold his head underwater. The water was rushing, my arms were getting tired. Minutes went by as the struggle progressed and he made no sound. He had no hair for me to grab. His eyes were forever open in a state of unconscious terror. I'll never forget those blue eyes, forever witness to what I had done. I stood up, having gained my sense of balance, and with all of the power in my foot, I delivered a crushing blow to the back of his head. I held him down and bubbles ceaselessly escaped from the joints and rotational parts of his body. I stood there, dripping wet, shivering, and naked, dreaming up more ways to murder Ken before my bath was over. His plastic arms were positioned in gruesome parallels to the other. I decided I was done with him. He was always a bore and our dynamic was not only predictable, but tiring. Ken would jump from my bathroom toy basket and slip in my tub. The bath bomb I had going was poisonous acid, beginning to melt his body away. He would scream, and I would finish him off via drowning blah blah blah.

The narrative was overplayed and I needed something new.

Next would be Barbie. I was hungry for more than Ken had provided. She thought she had endured enough watching the love of her life be carelessly slaughtered at the hands of a six year old. I thought to myself, "Maybe she'll put up more of a fight than her pretty boy boyfriend. Besides, she has that long blonde hair to play with." Her clothes had to come off. I didn't want to ruin her outfit. Last time, I lost one of Ken's shoes down the drain and now the water took a while to get rid of. The sparkle pants and rainbow top came off and the battle was on. In the bath she went. I imagined her calling for help and I laughed mercilessly. Only yesterday she was having a tea party and flying to the moon. In an hour when my mom would dry her off and spray disinfectant on her, she would have no idea what happened or that this was the beginning of my spree. I tossed Barbie a foot into the air and let her belly flop onto the water with a loud smack. The launch height increased with every toss and she would land facedown into the pool of light purple water.... excuse me... acid. My mother walked by the bathroom door and knocked lightly. "Make sure you rinse your shampoo out. We're drying off in a minute." I stopped the game and did what I was told. Besides, there would be time tomorrow to pick up right where I left off.

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Lilies Ellyn Darke, Grade 10 The lilies sat on the counter in the kitchen Still and pure, as white as the snow on the ground outside His hands lay cold, blue, and frost bitten And as time went by, he did as the lilies He died The lilies sit on the counter in the kitchen. They’ve been there ever since Connor went missing, so about a week now. Pure and white they lay still like the snow on the ground outside. The longer they stay, the less time they’ll remain alive. No one wants to imagine the same fate for him.

He was freezing, dark, and alone. In the middle of nowhere, walking blindly in the snow to a fairytale of warmth and light. He was tired. Tired of walking aimlessly, tired of hoping, and he told himself, “I just need to rest.” A decision, due to exhaustion, ended with Connor laying in the soft blanket of snow to rest his legs. Now his hands lay in the pure white snow: cold, blue, and frostbitten.

As the days go by, I watch the lilies. I watch them become brittle and frail. Losing life minutes at a time. Little did anyone know, so was Connor. The cold bed of fluffy snow covered him. The number of petals on the lilies became smaller and smaller like the number of breaths Connor had. And as more time went by, he did as the lilies. He died.

Bloom: ​Tabitha Lee, Grade 11 11

Fragments Jason Longwell, 12th Grade Dark, cold, empty. Where am I? I think with fear. “Hello?” I ask through the darkness, but nothing: no echo, no sound, it seems as if nothing had escaped my lips at all. This place is strange. It’s as if this place, or state that I am in, is nothing. There is nothing except me.

Confusion begins to flow through me, and with it, fear lurks in the shadows.

I have to remember how I got here. This place is like nothing I’ve ever felt. My breathing heightens, my brain churns, but nothing appears. Then, what’s that? A clue? Glass, shard of glass, searing heat, a piece! Then nothing but cold creeps in once more. “Come on!” I scream into the darkness with no sound. What is this? I didn’t see anything, it was only feel.

The feel of glass teeth in my body and a devil’s tongue near my face.

Whatever that was doesn’t explain why I am here. I must think harder. Lurching into action, my brain churns once more. Think, think, come on think harder, there has to be more!

Nothing. I almost give up when there it is. Another one! This time there are sounds. I try to place one. It’s almost as if it is the creak of an old disease ridden tree groaning in the brutal wind. But it’s not a tree, it’s almost, humanlike. Black again but this time with a rhythmic beep that ceases to stop.

Dang. Something happened. But, what? Yet again my brain chugs, trying to piece together what this means or grab something from my faded memory. After what seems like months, something came once more. This memory came clearest of all. I can see but can’t move. I’m in my own body, my own car, but I have taken a backseat and I am seeing through a tv screen. I see my broken stereo clock flashing on and off, giving the times a sporadic and flashing look. Then, Luke, my little brother.

Joy flows through me like a raging river as I listen to us speak. “I can’t believe you’re leaving little bro!” I said, “College is hard but you’ll enjoy it, and I’m happy I could take you out on the town before you leave tomorrow.” “Yeah me too. Love you bro,” he says with a smile. “Hold up, let me check something,” I say. “Hey, you should keep your eyes on the road,” Luke whispers. “I’m fine. It’ll only take a sec…”. Screech! Bang! Black floods in once more as tears stream down my face at realizing what I had done. I scream and punch at nothing as if it would help. Then I see him, my brother; I run to him to grab him, the beep in the black grows faster, but as I reach him he blows away like a mist. I fall to my knees as the beep ceases rhythm and becomes a long scream. “Sorry,” I weep alone.

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The Beginning of the End Pryce O’Connor, Grade 10 Life and Death were two beings in love since the beginning of time, though their names have changed. Life has been known as Forever, Beginning, Light, and Warmth.

Death's names were the opposite: Never, End, Dark, and Cold. For the sake of our story, we will use the names Life and Death.

Life made all things sentient, alive, flourishing, and thriving. She would send them to Death. Death would avoid Life’s gifts for as long as she could. She would stray further from Life, wanting her to keep those things that belonged to her. Life would ask Death to take something that was suffering and end its misery in her world. Death would concede and turn these gifts into stars for those of Life’s world to chart and watch. Death would sort them categorically. Life loved the stars most. It was Death's gift back to Life.

Death regretted one thing, however, for she had inadvertently touched and tainted Life.

When they first met after their rebirth as Life and Death, Death had reached out to Life and they held hands. The greenery contained in Life's hand withered and Death quickly pulled away. This is why Life's creations grew old and needed the release of Death. Death regretfully touched Life and killed a part of her. And even though Life constantly tried to reassure her that she was alright, Death could never forgive herself for hurting her love.

Centuries later, Death noticed that the foliage that made up Life's wrist had died. Life's creations grew, yet Death continued to unconsciously hurt her and her creations. It was rare that Life was hurt. Before this time, a flower might wilt now and then, but nothing this drastic had occurred before. Death became worried, but Life said she was “Fine.” As decades passed, the verdure growing up Life's arms, crawling up her legs, and on her torso to her neck died.

The flora that made up her hair wilted and hung in dead vines around her face. Her eyes had melted away and became gaping holes in her head and her mouth resembled a cavern. Her cheeks were sunken and her entire body seemed to be in a great stupor.

The day Life was to end came all too soon for Death to be able to accept it. Life eventually stopped creating anything besides roses. The roses were Death's favorite creations.

The blossoms all wilted and died soon after they grew. At this point, Life finally called to Death in her soft, lilting voice and Death came to her. Life moved closer than Death thought she should, but Death said nothing. Life told Death that she had to leave and that she had three parting wishes. One was that Death would make her a star, the next was that Death would keep her world safe until the time came for her to go as well, and the final wish that she would tell her when it was time to die. Death felt an overwhelming wave of emotion. Guilt, sadness, anger. She began to cry.

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Life told Death to watch as she made all the land on her world something magnificent.

Death raised her head to look. She began to sob harder as all the land on Life's world was covered in red roses. Life moved closer to Death and linked their little fingers together. Death turned to Life who leaned in and pressed her body against Death's and kissed her. Life began to disintegrate into dead leaves and petals, swirling before Death and then everything come to a halt.

Death shaped the most glorious star she could as a tribute to her lost love and placed it not out in the universe but inside her chest where Life placed the hearts of humans. She had lost Life now and knew that no matter how many more names she had, Life would never be renamed. Death wept for all eternity watering the roses that Life had given her. Her tears keeping them alive with her. And Death was alone forevermore.

Dear January Sydneey Boykin, 10th Grade Dear January, January, oh, January. You hurt me this year. Your cold air prevented me from the things I love to do. I have to stay sheltered from your friend Jack Frost, and your little friend the groundhog as well. Six more weeks of winter? Your time is well past due. Warm leggings, nice pants, and thermal stockings for you? I love the summer when I can be free, and enjoy the beach and nice bikinis. I’d even choose spring with cute tops and cut off jeans but, what do I get? SNOW! How awful. What did I do to you? Oh, the limp you cause. All the pops and locks. The only good thing you brought me this year is the new year, but that’s definitely it.

Maybe next year we can come to an agreement and maybe even sign a contract. I’d really like it if you would take all this stress off of Sydneey and I. Try to aim for a higher temperature and a lower chance of snow.

Yours Truly, Sydneey’s Hips

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My Shoes John Knight, Grade 10 Tennis Shoes I am John's tennis shoes. I am about five months old and hate every ​walking​ moment of my life. I am all-black, and simply overused. Nobody has ever noticed me or even cared about me. I carry weight well, but I feel like I deserve a day off from needless pacing. In the morning, it is not that bad, until John starts second period, then it all goes down hill. He has men's fitness and puts ​SOOOO​ much weight on me. It is such a stress on my soles and it makes the rest of my day a real pain in the ​foot​. I forgot to mention that it stinks down here... like, BAD! Anyway, that's what it's like being John's everyday shoes.

Dress Shoes Good day good sir. I am the brown leathery loafers in the closet of John's room. I see very little light of day and, when I do, I mainly sit beneath the pew. Occasionally, he will take me to this loud event with other high quality foot attire and we all move around and listen to blasting modern music. Last year, I got stepped on three times. I prefer the music of Sunday morning and not this troublesome music of today.

Cleats These shoes do not even know what pain is. Don't listen to these sleaze-bags, real pain is what I do. No shoe in this closet can understand what I go through. A couple times a year, I go through living hell by fighting through the elements and getting covered in mud and blood.

I have the worst job and go through the most disrespect.

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Happiness v. Good Enough Lyle Smith, Grade 10 In my utopia, the weather would be early summer, sunny, warm, with occasional rainy days. There would be big, white puffy clouds in the sky and beautiful green leaves on the trees. In this world, there would be more country than city. My house would be blue, in a green field, and on the edge of a dark forest. The inside of my house would have blue walls, pretty wood floors, and soft carpet in the bedrooms. The house would not be too big or too small, it is just the perfect size for me. It would be organized just how I want it and I would have everything I need. In my room, I would have a collection of all the music I've ever wanted. I would work somewhere I love and make enough money in order to pay my bills and still have money left over to save. I wouldn't have to worry about anything and I would have time on the weekends to go on fun adventures with my friends. The most important part of my utopia would be that everyone lives the same way. Not exactly the same, but happily, without worry, and in a way that makes them content without causing harm to others. Not every day would be perfect, as to remind us that life isn't perfect, but we would be grateful for these days and still be content with our lives despite them. Poverty would not exist and everyone who needed help would be able to get it. Everyone would put forth the effort needed to make themselves happy, and get where they want to be in life. In my dystopia, the weather would be perpetually dark and rainy, almost as if it's night all the time. People would constantly be arguing and always unhappy about something. There would be huge metropolises that take up all the space on Earth, and nature would be hidden. There would be too many people and no space for anyone. We would all be poor and constantly have to move around in the cities, because we could not afford to stay in one place for too long. Everything would be dirty and we would all be lazy and lethargic. Cars would no longer exist because no one could afford them, so we all take public transportation. We work in mindless offices or labor jobs that have no creativity. The government would control these jobs, since no one is wealthy enough to have that kind of power. The government would not be wealthy and dictating, but they would constantly be searching for an answer to our way of living, even though in this dystopia, there is none. No one would care to make a change or put forth effort to make a better life, because it's "good enough.�

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When The World Stood Still Victoria Hilfiker, Grade 10 The last breath of air left the queen’s lungs as she lay in the crimson snow, hands folded over two withered roses, empty eyes still staring skyward. Darkness and sorrow and silence reigned, and the world stood still around her.

Before that, her tired eyes watched the snowflakes as they danced and twirled beneath the court of stars. High above, the moon shone bright like a beacon of hope, lighting up the forest beneath.

Before that, the enemy’s arrow flew silently through the snowy air, burying itself deep in her heart. She sank slowly to the cold ground in resignation, her amber hair spread around her.

Before that, the queen made a choice. She knew her fate and would run no further.

Barely able to stand, she wiped away her frozen tears and raised her chin defiantly. She stood proud and tall even when all was lost, for that is a queen’s duty.

Before that, her bare feet pounded the icy ground, and the cold seeped through her torn and bloody clothing. She ran but had no destination. There was only snow and stars, and a grief too great for words.

Before that, teardrops fell like rain and sobs wracked her exhausted body. She clutched the pair of lifeless roses and thought of what might’ve been. Maybe. Perhaps. Almost.

Before that, the dying king gave his final words of love while his life faded away, his eyes meeting his soul’s other half for the last time.

Before that, the couple ran, hand in hand. They stood no chance, but they had no choice. They were the last of their people. A hunted king and queen, alone, with nowhere to go.

And long before that, on a day full of sunshine and birdsong, a young prince entwined two beautiful roses, one red and one white, and gave them to the amber haired common girl who had captured his heart. With them he gave a promise, and the world stood still in the light of their happiness.

Once upon a time, all was well.

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The Mask We Wear Christian Wadkins-White, Grade 10 From the day we are born we are told to fit in--to ​conform​. “You can be whatever you want to be,” as long as we agree you can. We’ve heard these words since we were little from those who​ care ​about us. “You have a purpose, you just have to find it,” cause we know what we want you to be. ​Lies​. They’re right, you can be who you want to be. You just have to be willing to go against the grain. “It's amazing how ​broken ​our system is, yet how ​perfectly​ it works. You're born and then you die. Snap, just like that. People say that, when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I find it funny how all 100 years of our lives race through our heads in a split second. We better do something worth watching.

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Why make lemonade? Why just accept the hand you've been dealt? I say make orange juice, and let the world figure out how you did it. After all, life is a gambling card game. You just play your cards and risk what you will. Or is it a test?

Is this just a test in a class you didn't sign up for or that you didn't study for? So, now you have to cheat, looking at the people's ​answers​ around you. You’ll discover they didn't study either and they didn't sign up for the class.

Superhero for a Day Chloe Conner, Grade 2 One day I was walking to Simone’s house. On the way there, I jumped up and I was flying. When I was there, we were playing hide n’ seek. She looked at me, but didn’t see me.

Then I had a feeling that I was invisible. I became a superhero and my new name was Elizabeth.

Then, when it was time to leave, I walked outside and saw houses with slime on them.

Then I saw a guy flying and sliming Simone’s house. I think it must be Slimer. I have to stop him!

I jumped up so I can fly and then turned invisible. Once I got up there, the whole house was slimed. He flew to the next house. I flew very fast and grabbed him by the hands and called the police. The police got there and took him to jail. Then my job was done.

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NonFiction

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Coach Burden: Teaching So Much More than Math Akanee Angel, Grade 10 Every school morning, except Thursday, I walk into a classroom beside the school kitchen.

“Good morning,” I always greet Coach Burden, and he responds, “Good mornin’ to ya.”

Coach Burden is famous.

It seems that everyone in Clarksville knows him; he has taught countless students – my dad’s coworker, Ellyn Darke’s grandmother, Stone Norris’s parents ​and ​grandparents. People recognize him as a football player, a football coach, a basketball coach, a track coach, and a tennis coach, but most of all, a math teacher.

Coach Burden is a rule breaker.

He has a newspaper clipping on his wall, titled ​‘Coach’ Teaches Math His Way for 50 Years​.

It is written about how he doesn’t follow traditional teaching rules and why it is so effective.

Coach Burden believes that students should learn (math, at least) at their own pace. This way, they can move on quickly if they understand a subject or take extra time when they need it. He doesn’t use textbooks but has given his students the same series of worksheets for decades.

One idea behind his teaching is that students need to think for themselves. This lost skill has led a multitude of his students to become State Math Contest winners.

Coach Burden is a football fanatic.

The only reason he went to college was to play the sport he loves. During that time at Austin Peay, Coach was known as “one of the toughest little running backs ever to don an APSU uniform.” He went on to coach Clarksville High’s football team until joining the CA family in 1980. A former student once told our class that Coach was so captivated by the football games that he would do backflips on the field to celebrate phenomenal plays. He can always be seen rooting for Roll Tide football, and the day after they won the 2018 CFP Championship, Coach walked into school wearing a crimson jacket.

Coach Burden is a philosopher.

When he goes off on tangents (no pun intended), Coach Burden often shares his theories about what our universe could entail. He wonders about life on other planets and how advanced calculators will contribute to the future of math. Coach once said, “If people were 20

satisfied with all that we know, we wouldn’t know most of what we do today.” He thinks that everything is possible because, in the past, all the technology we have today would have seemed impossible. I’ve learned that I am capable of doing so much more math than I initially think because I use what I know to figure out what I don’t know. This tried-and-true doctrine is the backbone of his class.

Coach Burden is so much more than these four adjectives.

He is a husband, a father, a brother, and a son. He is a former farm boy and almost-engineer.

His many years alive have granted him an irreplaceable wisdom that he passes down to his students. In fifth grade, my teacher told us that each piece of information we learn represents one wrinkle in our brains. Once the wrinkles take up all of our brains' surface areas, they then start showing up on our faces. I think this is evident for Coach Burden because how could he possibly store his endless pool of knowledge in his one brain?

Coach Burden is the best teacher I’ve ever had.

He has taught me that math is cool and that knowledge has no bounds. He has taught me that asking questions, both to teachers and to the universe, is the best way to approach life. One time, a student asked him what the most important element of life is. He replied, and has taught me, “The most important part of life is life itself.”

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Enjoy Every Moment Rachael Skinner, Grade 10 December 23: you are standing there deciding if you should tell your athletes your secret. You know that what you are about to tell them they are least expecting.

Before that, you’re in the car and you can feel the tears running down your cheek and you are going into a complete panic. You are feeling as if you can not breathe, like the world around you does not exist.

Before that, you hear the doctors say, you have a malignant brain tumor, not one but two. You began to feel your whole body go numb.

Before that, you can hear the loud noise of what is called a CT Scan being done. You know it must not be good, but you are trying to stay optimistic.

Before that, you are explaining to your doctors the ongoing and painful headaches you have been having and the long nights of vomiting that you have encountered.

Before that, you are in the car pondering what could be wrong with you. Hoping and praying that you will be okay, but you know something is wrong.

Before that, you are having to drag yourself out of the bed, despite the pain.

Before that, you are at a Christmas party with your friends without a care in the world of what was coming the next day.

Before that, you noticed the ongoing days you have felt unlike yourself, like something else was living inside you and eating at you day by day. You decided to brush it off like it was nothing because you have to stay strong for those around you.

Before that, you were at the gym loving what you do, coaching all your athletes.

Before that, everything was “normal.”

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Courage Georgia Smith, Grade 12 The rickety old house swayed with the wind as the salty, summer air surrounded us. My cousins lay sprawled on my king-sized bed in the attic. One of my favorite sounds is the hush of whispering voices. The tenderness and the calm of a voice without power. We sit quietly in the dead of night trying to decide whether we should just slowly slip into sleep or maybe watch just one movie more. Instead, however, we find ourselves flipping through our camera rolls, relishing in old memories and exposing one another to our individual and separate worlds. Friend’s faces, old places, and beautiful spaces flip past our eyes as the sun struggles to reappear. A school project from my cousin’s year abroad pops up. He sits in a cramped and loud classroom filled with voices from different countries and tongues. He poses a series of questions, both philosophical and inquisitive, about the world we inhabit. I only remember one single quote from the entire ten minute film; “Where does courage come from?”

A seemingly unimportant detail in his overall project has stuck with me for over a year. I think about it everytime I see an act of bravery. Everytime I hear a bold comment, see an honest look, or observe simple displays of overt, daring affection, the question flies through my brain and departs without a concise answer. Part of me knows I’ll never have a perfect answer since the idea is very objective and relative, but recently I’ve felt closer to an answer. As I was reading ​The Things They Carried ​by Tim O’Brien, I stumbled upon a quote which related to this little inner turmoil I had created; “Courage, I seemed to think, comes to us in finite quantities, like an inheritance, and by being frugal and by stashing it away and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral capital in preparation for that day when the account must be drawn down.”

As comforting as this idea is, I feel that a world in which this is true is pretty bleak. A world full of people saving up bravery for a rainy day would simply breed cowards. Everyone would die with these huge quantities of courage saved up; completely unused and untapped. I do not know where courage comes from but I know more of it is made each time I practice bravery.

Maybe we inherit these little bits and pieces of it and collect layers of courage which we nestle between independence and honesty, but I also feel that we produce more in order to continue functioning. Each person is converted into this unique little powerhouse of positive and negative attributes and day in and day out we crank out these personality quirks. Oddities and characteristics people utilize and mold to create; to create technology, buildings, clothing, art, food, books, and even essays. I often wonder if my cousin has an answer to his own question. Maybe my words here could inspire a sequel to his movie.

23

Girl Power Macy Truitt, Grade 12 In Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants,” the characters’ stereotypical natures are revealed through the dialogue. Jig is meek and complaisant while her significant other is assertive and dominant. Hemingway writes this piece as a critique of the stereotypical relationship dynamic in which a woman is submissive to a man. The flat characters in “Hills Like White Elephants” embody society’s standards for men and women. Hemingway’s use of the iceberg theory leaves only dialogue to give insight into what the characters are thinking and feeling. Through the nuances in language and tension in the dialogue, it is clear that the relationship in the short story is not healthy for anyone. Jig puts all of her own feelings aside to please another person while the man is neglectful of Jig’s feelings because they don’t reflect his own. The man squanders Jig’s chance at motherhood by pressuring her into having an abortion using their relationship as leverage. The man preys on Jig’s need to please, as society has told her that is her job as a woman.

As the couple sits at the train stop, the tension grows as do their blood alcohol levels.

The American man tries to convince Jig that the “operation” (2) will be easy and simple. He tells her that it is up to her whether or not she has the operation, but it is clear that he is pressuring her to abort the fetus. He tells Jig that their relationship will go back to the way it was before she became pregnant if she has the abortion. In an attempt to end the conversation, Jig agrees to the operation even though she seems unsure. She says, “I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me” (2) indicating that she values their relationship more than her own happiness.

Jig’s dependence on the man is shown again when the American man has to order drinks for her because she doesn’t speak Spanish. Jig is dependent on the man for confidence and security and he exploits Jig’s dependency to maintain dominance.

The tension and the forced nature of the conversation shows that they probably don’t need to be in a relationship, so why does Jig hang on so tight? Because the man is not empowering Jig or allowing her to make her own decisions she becomes more dependent on their relationship. This strips Jig of her own identity outside of her relationship. Jig’s language shows: The marginality and powerlessness of women...reflected in both the ways women are expected to speak, and the ways in which women are spoken of. In appropriate women's speech, strong expression of feeling is avoided, expression of uncertainty is favored, and means of expression in regard to subject-matter deemed 'trivial' to the 'real' world are elaborated...The personal identity of women thus is linguistically submerged; the language works against treatment of women, as serious persons with individual views. (Lakoff 1) 24

Each word that comes out of her mouth is spoken in an attempt to please. Jig’s seeking of affirmation of her intelligence from the man is shown in this exchange, during which he says “Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything” (2), effectively shutting her down and reminding her that her only job is to look pretty, not attempt intelligent conversation. Jig’s language, as stated by linguist Robin Lakoff, is: [P]rofoundly imprecise. There is a sense that the audience does not really know what she is talking about (nor does she), but that she is very concerned with whom she is talking to, and with whether he is interested in her and whether his needs are being met... Her dialogue is sprinkled with 'I guess' and 'kinda.’ (Lakoff 67) Jig is constantly asking her partner questions. Jig asks the American man 19 questions during the short time they sit at the train station. Jig knows the answers to many of the questions she asks or could decide for herself but, by asking the man these questions, she gives him the authority. She treats him like a fount of knowledge that she must consult constantly, consequently making herself seem unintelligent. This further asserts the power dynamic in the relationship that the man knows what is best and, therefore, should make the decisions. Jig’s allowing him to make small decisions for her is why the man thinks he has the final say (or any say) in whether or not Jig keeps her baby.

Jig’s use of hedges shows uncertainty in her claims and thoughts. Phrases like “I guess so” (2) take strength away from Jig’s words. Jig also uses tag questions such as “isn’t it?” (2).

These questions turn a statement by Jig into a question for her partner to weigh in on. Because of this, even Jig’s own thoughts and feelings are not her own. When Jig expresses her thoughts about the abortion, her partner feels that it is okay to ignore her her feelings and prioritize his own. The American man initiates discussion about the abortion while Jig keeps trying to change the topic. When trying to dismiss the topic, Jig says, “Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?” (3) because a woman must always be polite.

In Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants,” Jig conforms to every standard set by society for women and her relationship does too. The man calls all the shots, from the drinks they order to the fate of their unborn child. Using simple dialogue, Hemingway invokes sympathy for Jig in order to call attention to the faults in relationships like the one portrayed in “Hills Like White Elephants.” Using details and literary devices, Hemingway paints a detailed image of a controlling, manipulative relationship. Hemingway shows that the man is telling Jig one thing while pushing a different agenda. His disingenuous regard for Jig’s feelings is only to convince her to get the abortion. By the end of the story, it is unclear which conclusion Jig has come to about the termination of her pregnancy but we all hope that she eventually stops listening to her partner (and the patriarchy) and puts her own happiness first.

25

Daylight Robbery Bradley Burger, Grade 12 Imagine being a person with a valuable talent or skill in which you are forced to work, but cannot receive any of profits in which you bring in. This is the reality for all NCAA athletes. Founded on the principle of amateurism, all NCAA athletes must not have ever received any compensation for their athletic prowess. This idea stems back to 1906 when President Theodore Roosevelt founded the National Collegiate Athletic Association in order to protect athletes from the dangerous and exploitive athletics practices of the time” (Treadway par. 1). However, in 2018, college athletes are being exploited more than ever. The very foundation that was created to protect these athletes now robs them of their share of the billion dollar industry that is college sports. It is time for the NCAA to give the players their portion of the profits by eliminating their foundation of amateurism and allowing college athletes to market themselves freely and fairly.

The greatest evolution of college sports has been in the sheer amount of money that it now generates. In the fiscal year of 2017, the NCAA generated over 1.1 billion dollars in total revenue; this is over 100 million dollars of growth when compared to the previous year (Boone par. 2). There is no problem with the NCAA being a profitable entity, but if that is indeed what they are then they should not be listed as a non-profit organization. After paying its member schools and covering costs, the NCAA had over 100 million dollars in excess funds (Boone par. 2). When the NCAA was founded in 1906 there was never the idea that these athletes could be worth so much. The belief that these student athletes must be amateurs is outdated. It is time to recognize the contributions of these athletes and give them their share of the massive profit they help bring in.

Most people see the life of a Division I athlete as being glamorous and rewarding, but for many this is far from reality. Being a college athlete is a seven-days-a-week job that consists of grueling practice and game schedules, along with the stress of keeping up with classes and grades. This job is one that can pay the cost of a college education, but why should it end there? Many of these athletes cannot afford to go out and eat a meal, or put gas in their car, meanwhile the colleges and universities they play for bring in millions through television contracts, ticket sales, and merchandise. NBA legend, Basketball Hall of Famer, and UCLA graduate, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar writes about the frustrations of being a championship winning basketball player who could not afford to “buy a burger” in his article to the The Guardian (par. 4). He shares that in the fifty years since he was at UCLA, “The only thing that has significantly changed is that the NCAA, television broadcasters, and the colleges and universities are making a lot more money” (Abdul-Jabbar par. 6). Scholarships are valuable and support the NCAA’s focus on academics, but they do not accurately compensate Division I athletes for their efforts. Stories like Abdul-Jabbar’s prove that a 26

greater portion of these profits must be shared with these athletes. Many argue that allowing college athletes to be professionals will be detrimental to the NCAA’s focus on academics.

The NCAA claims that “maintaining amateurism is crucial to preserving an academic environment in which acquiring a quality education is the first priority” (NCAA par. 1).

However, numerous academic scandals have arisen as colleges and universities try to keep athletes eligible and call this foundation into question. These scandals are headlined by the University of North Carolina and their fake “paper” classes formerly used to keep athletes’ grades up. The NCAA ruled that because the fraudulent classes were not exclusively available to athletes they could not do anything to punish the university (Tracy par. 3). Letting off one of the most storied and profitable athletic programs in the country over a technicality shows the NCAA cares more about profit margins than ensuring that all of their athletes receive an education of the highest quality. If rules are already being broken to ease the academic load of athletes, then how would paying them make the situation any worse? After the ruling in the University of North Carolina academic fraud case, the NCAA should no longer be able claim that their athletes must be “students first” (NCAA par. 1). This decision is an indictment of the NCAA’s greed and hypocrisy. The NCAA cannot continue to deny athletes of their share of the money by claiming that it will hinder their academic focus when they fail to uphold their own high standards.

The NCAA’s exploitation of their athletes has even been proven in court. Ed O’Bannon, a former UCLA basketball player, filed a lawsuit against the NCAA in 2014 stating that the organization violates antitrust laws by using players’ likenesses in broadcasts and video games, while not allowing the athletes to market themselves individually (Boren par. 2). Many believed that this case could have ended amateurism once and for all. In reality, it only started the conversation. Judge Claudia Wilken ruled that the NCAA was “unreasonably” restraining trade for Division I athletes and that “less restrictive means would not destroy the structure of college sports” (Boren par. 2). This ruling was a victory for all college athletes, but it did not lead to the change that many hoped. Judge Wilken limited the amount of money the athletes could receive to only 5,000 dollars per year; the money would only be given to those whose likeness was used by the university and would not be available to the athlete until they are no longer attending the school (Boren par. 4). O’Bannon’s lawsuit was a spark for change, but it failed in taking power away from the NCAA. Judge Wilken’s ruling only proves that the players deserve to be compensated for their contributions to the business of college sports. The next step is to eliminate the outdated principle of amateurism and allow these athletes to market themselves as freely as the NCAA markets them.

Currently, amateurism is the greatest threat to the future of college basketball. The ongoing FBI investigation into the illegal payment of recruits through sports management agencies, shoe companies, and coaches will lead to the NCAA vacating wins and titles from the programs involved. Michael McCann suggests that by allowing players to market themselves freely a mutually beneficial relationship between the recruit and the university will 27

be created (McCann par. 3). He suggests that the player, “who may be financially disadvantaged,” receives payment, and the university receives a “star player who would help the basketball program win games and, in turn, generate broadcasting, merchandise and ticket revenue” (McCann par. 3). This exchange in no way affects the competition across college basketball because the top schools already attract the best recruits; it is not a secret that Duke, Kentucky, and Kansas are doorways to the NBA. Eliminating the amateurism rule only allows these athletes to benefit from their own fame.

The NCAA’s amateurism principle is outdated, illegal, irrelevant, and ready to be replaced. The recent influx of money that has poured into the college sports industry is not being distributed fairly, with the NCAA and its member schools receiving all profits and the athletes receiving none. Ed O’Bannon vs. NCAA proved that the NCAA has illegally used the likeness of their athletes to profit and Judge Wilken even suggested that less restriction would not be detrimental to college sports as a whole. The amateurism rule was founded on the idea that academics should be the focus of each athlete, but the NCAA failed to uphold this belief in their refusal to punish UNC for ignoring academic standards. Lastly, allowing recruits to market themselves freely in the recruiting process will have no effect on competition. Thus proving that the NCAA’s amateurism rule must be eliminated once and for all.

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A Good Story Is Hard To Find Mallory Wallace, Grade 12 Reading instruction manuals, tax returns, math textbooks, and audit reports are dreaded and dull. Reading a boring short story is even worse. There is nothing more unstimulating and stale than reading a piece of literature that should be wonderful and interesting, but for some reason, lacks the essential qualities of a good story. Reading a good piece of literature, however, can be important and life-changing. Literature expands our knowledge and horizons. Literature stimulates thoughts and creates an appreciation for the unfamiliar. But most importantly, literature addresses human conditions and provides a way for humans to relate to themselves. In order to avoid the dreaded experience of reading a bad story, the author should consider the ingredients to writing a good story. A good story is exciting, interesting, engaging and ​not ​boring. Something must happen in the story to make it worth reading. Something tragic, hilarious, or magnificent. A good story must be sprinkled with humor and a little bit of irony. A bigger meaning or idea must be hidden under the details that is not present from just reading the story, but able to be discovered by a reader who wants to discover something bigger than themselves. Honesty in a good story is important.

Something unfair must happen to the characters in order to invoke the realities of life.

Because a good story does that. It replicates the truth of real life in a way that engages and entertains the reader. But absolutely above all, a good story is not boring.

An example of a short story worth reading is ​Happy​ ​Endings​ by Margaret Atwood. In this story, Atwood writes about John and Mary, two people who meet and live interesting lives until they die. Atwood writes about different versions of life that John and Mary live.

But no matter what changes in each version, one constant remains: John and Mary die. There is no way around it. ​Happy​ ​Endings​ carries an honesty that conveys a harsh reality about life.

No matter what we do, what we say, or how we live, our endings are all the same. We all die.

Another honest truth presented in this story is that life is more than “what.” We can live by what we do and what we say, but there is more to life than just what happens to us. It is about how and why. How do things happen the way they do? More importantly, why do things happen the way they do? These questions often scare us because we do not know the answers.

These questions hold an infinite magnitude in relation to every aspect of our lives. The answers to these questions dictates each “what.”

Happy​ ​Endings​ has five stories in one. There are many different scenarios in each version of life that John and Mary live. There is not one moment in the story that is not interesting or engaging. Everything that happens to John and Mary is entertaining, even if it is unpleasant. One of the reasons that good stories are good, is because they always have a little touch of humor and tragedy. The little details in ​Happy​ ​Endings​ are brilliantly touched with humor. The kind of humor that adds to the story without trying too hard or over-crowding the bigger details. In this story, the right amount of humor combined with a little bit of tragedy creates a perfect dynamic. There is plenty of unfair tragedy happening in ​Happy​ ​Endings​.

John is not in love with Mary, Mary doesn’t love John. Mary tries to kill herself, but then John killed Mary. Because of the interesting events, the humorous details, and just the right amount of tragedy, ​Happy​ ​Endings​ is a story worth reading. Not only for entertainment purposes, but for the importance of connecting to the central significance of the story. I rate this story an A. 29

Anyone would be better off reading Numbers or Leviticus, the two longest and most boring books in the Bible, than reading ​Araby.​ ​Araby​ by James Joyce is extremely dull and severely lacks excitement. Or anything even remotely interesting for that matter. If the reader is anything like me, they will struggle to stay awake and on task while reading the story, because they will fail to uncover a deeper meaning, which is essential to a good story. They will fail to become excited about reading it again. Writing a page review on ​Araby​ may be difficult because the story was so remotely bare that there just isn’t that much to say about it.

It is boring. It is dull. It lacks the essential ingredients of a good story. For example, the main character in the story, an unnamed boy, is in love with a girl who does not even know that he exists. He plans on going to a bazaar to get a present for her. On his way, he catches a train.

But instead of the author saying something like, “He waited a long time for the train to come,” James Joyce rambles on for eternity about the boy waiting for the train. The details in this story are unimportant and meaningless to the overall meaning of the story, which is cluttered and unclear. A good story must have a deeper meaning. And to put it very simply, this story does not. And on top of that, this story is unbelievably boring. I give this story an F. On the topic of bad stories, another story not worth reading is ​This​ ​is​ ​What​ ​it​ ​Means To Say​ ​Phoenix,​ ​Arizona​ by Sherman Alexi. There may have been a deeper meaning to this story, maybe one or two hidden beneath the details, but it is not a meaning worth paying attention to because the details of the story are unnecessarily long and incredibly boring. In a good story, something must happen to the characters. Something unfair must happen in order to expose the brutal honesty and truths of real life. In ​This​ ​is​ ​What​ ​it​ ​Means​ ​To​ ​Say​ ​Phoenix, Arizona​ , this element is present. Victor has just found out that his father has passed away, and he is burdened with going to Phoenix, where his father lived, to collect his belongings. He did not have a good relationship with his father, so this process is understandably painful to Victor. Victor’s life was interrupted by this tragic and unfair event, and Victor finds unexpected peace in his friend, Thomas, who is a social outcast. This story does have some beauty in the plot. It is allows its reader an opportunity to connect to a deep, dull sort of pain and find comfort in something strange and unexpected. But all of that meaning, all of the beauty that may be found, means nothing because the story is boring and lacks the essential elements. There is no humor, excitement, or irony in this story. It is long and boring and overall, it is a dreaded read. A deeper meaning or a good connection means almost nothing if the story is missing it’s necessary components. For these reasons, I give this story a D. Reading a good story can be one of the best things we do for ourselves. ​Story​ ​of​ ​an Hour ​is one of those good ones. Kate Chopin wrote this story with perfect amounts of irony and humor and just the right amount of tragedy. This story happens over the course of an hour, when Mrs. Mallard is informed that her husband has died in a tragic accident. At first, she mourns the loss of her husband, but then quickly realizes her freedom without him. She becomes full of joy and excitement for the future and her newfound freedom. At the end of the story, Mr. Mallard walks through the door, alive, and as Mrs. Mallard sees him, she drops dead. This unexpected, tragic death reveals the brutal honesty of real life: sometimes freedom is too far beyond our reach. When we let life happen to us, freedom will never follow us. But when we take charge, and make our life happen, we will encounter an abundance of freedom.

Kate Chopin wrote ​Story of​ ​an​ ​Hour​ to suggest that very idea, and to ask us to consider taking charge of our own circumstances, and not allowing ourselves to become a victim of life. This story has a deeper meaning hidden beneath the details. Chopin also writes this story with 30

brilliant amounts of irony, and she allows something to happen to the characters that make the story worth reading. ​Story​ ​of an​ ​Hour​ replicates the truth of real life in a way that engages and entertains the reader. And most importantly, this story is not boring. It is not overwhelming or cluttered. It is not unnecessarily long. Every moment in the story is important, and every event furthers the significance of the narrative. ​Story​ ​of​ ​an​ ​Hour​ is a perfect balance of all the essential ingredients of a good story. I would definitely give this story an A. It is one of my favorites. Good stories are one of the beauties of life. They let us know that we are not alone in the things we face. They allow us to connect to something bigger than ourselves. And they should bring us joy to read.

31

Poetry

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Dreaming With My Feet Aliyah Wise, Grade 11 ____________________________________ A crowd of five hundred stands before me, The lights are bright and the stage is hot.

I am dreaming of a perfect performance, No mistakes and flawless technique.

My mind is wandering, but my feet take the lead, Every limb creates a breath-taking movement.

Forgetting about everything that surrounds me, I am dreaming with my feet.

The lights dim and the crowd cheers, Judges flash their teary eyes in awe.

I have just completed a perfect performance, My feet cease to dream one more moment.

A crowd of five hundred stands before me, This time I am no longer dreaming.

Barefoot​ ​: Lily Hyde, Grade 10 33

My Sweet Daddy Brooks Presleigh Sykes, Grade 12 ____________________________________ Almond Joys were his favorite candy He always made sure to have them handy He would tap on his pocket and that’s how we knew Out would come the candy packaged in white and blue He was a Christian man, a preacher too And he lived his life so that everyone knew He never met a stranger, they always left as a friend Helping anyone in need and praying for them to no end When asked about love he would tell us of his wife After all, Betty was the love of his life She gave him three children, and love like no other He remembered her beauty, her cooking, and her being a good mother There are other memories that I hold very dear Like the smell of his suit, when he was near The way he would smile would light up a room And it has stayed with us even after his passing in June I know that when I look to the sky I can rest assured that he is close by He and Betty are in Heaven and smiling as I look Knowing that I can't wait until I see, my sweet Daddy Brooks again

34

Falling Trees Hania Abubucker, Grade 6 _____________________ A seed falls, Just one.

Into the dirt, And stares up at his creator.

Green hair, Brown everywhere else, Branches swing everywhere.

To see his mother makes him smile.

Suddenly a man appears, Thick as oak trees.

The seed stares in wonder.

The man lifts his stick, With a silver end.

And slaps his dear creator.

“No but she’s my mother!”

The seedling cried.

But on he went, On like he was deaf.

Till all the orphan seed could hear, Was the sound of Falling trees.

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Red

Hunter Bracy, Grade 12 ___________________ When you think of the color red, what do you see?

Do you see a ripe apple, ready to fall from the tree?

Does it bring thoughts of anger, Or give a sense of danger?

When I think of red, this is what I see.

A tide that is rolling, all over the SEC A ping from your phone, it’s a notification.

Even your skin tone while you’re on vacation.

Do you think of the scent when you smell a rose Or picture a field of strawberries, that were planted in rows?

Some think of Clifford, or a new iPhone.

Others think of blood, or the puppet Elmo.

Picture a cardinal that is flying free.

When you think of the color red, what do you see?

36

Scars

Peter Nguyen, Grade 12 ___________________ I don’t even know where to start so I will just say what comes from the heart I really thought you were the one I think we could've had so much fun the pain I feel now is temporary and I can't believe I thought you were my sanctuary the sorrow I feel cannot be expressed except a deep sadness within my chest All good things come and go But only if you had let it grow I’ve never felt so deceived You were not who I had perceived As it is said, time fixes everything Now it only hurts as if it were a mere bee sting

Burnt: ​Christy Zheng, Grade 11

37

Home

Mackenzie Sawyer, Grade 12 _______________________ Home is not an address. Home is not a peg on the cork board map.

The feeling of the bonfire on your cheeks on a cold fall night.

The way the sheets fall perfectly around you as you settle into bed.

The smell of clean air and freshly mowed grass.

A child running around, giggling as they have no worries.

You feel like those warm and fuzzy feelings.

Home is a person; Home is a feeling, and you feel like home.

The lingering thought of you in the back of my head.

The butterflies that form in my stomach when I see you.

The warmth my heart feels as you intertwine your fingers with mine.

The ​instant​ feeling of comfort I feel as you wrap your arms around me.

The sound of your voice on the phone when I haven’t seen you.

“I miss you,” I say as you leave.

Our souls are not meant to be apart; Your soul is my soul’s home.

Loveless

Will Renkl, Grade 12 _________________ Your head is filled with lies Your heart is filled with coal Your love is shapeless My heart has a new hole In the grand scheme of things I guess I should have expected A love fit for wedding rings Was nothing but a dream Although I see you everyday I just hope that you will know The feelings that I hold for you Those feelings I won't show The pain that I now feel I’m afraid will never heal 38

Her Happy Place

Tashaunda Grimmett, Grade 12 _________________________ Home, A place where her soul flies freely In the wind.

Her skin is illuminated by the sun's bright rays And prickled by the grass she sits on.

Grass, so much grass for miles.

Dandelions spring through the rich soil.

Her white dress, almost blinding because of the sun makes her look like she's an angel.

An angel whose only place in the world is in a field, a field where life is as simple as breathing.

Who is she?

You may wonder.

She is me and I am her.

​

Over the Rainbow:​ Carlynn Holleman, Grade 12

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FireÂ

Sadie Skaggs, Grade 6 ____________________ There it is, So bright So warm It can be a bright light in the dark But also, A horror in the black of night It will lead a way, either way It can fill you with sadness and also with wonder But don’t forget, madness And also understanding Fire is a beautiful but dangerous thing, Just like life Be careful.

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Questions That Have No Answers Mallory Wallace, Grade 12 ________________________________________________ Why did Cinderella’s shoe fall off if it was a perfect fit?

If you crash a car on purpose, is it still an accident?

Why do feet smell and noses run?

Why isn’t eleven pronounced “onety one”?

What shape is the sky?

If you’re underwater, can you still cry?

Why is soup called ‘chili’ if it's hot?

Glue doesn’t stick to the inside of the bottle, but why not?

The alphabet is in order, but who put it that way?

If God sneezes, what would you say?

Why aren’t there parachutes, instead of floats, under airplane seats?

Why are there phone bills in a country of free speech?

How can science go to the moon but it can’t cure cancer?

These are the questions that have no answer.

41

What Deep Blue Is Maddy O’Connor, Grade 12 ___________________________ Deep blue is: sleeping in and rolling over into another hour of sunlit rest.

Jam on wheat toast and pouring too much sugar in your morning coffee Spending your life attempting to correct the mistakes of your parents Midday showers with all of the lights turned off Lavender, braided hair, and cracking knuckles too often Telling an inside joke to an old friend but finding they've forgotten what made it so funny A swing set, sandbox, and trampoline in the backyard of an only child Hearing "I was more attracted to you when I didn't know you as well" The Nashville skyline and how we'd lie on top of your car to truly see it Wearing your hat and old sweatshirt to keep warm Backseat rides home from the beach, heavy eyelids and freckled cheeks The chill of fresh mountain air after the sun has set Forehead kisses and fever dreams The peaceful thoughts of a baby who's never been dropped.

Recreation of Great Wave of Kanagawa​: ​Dulce DelaRosa, Grade 11 42

Layers of Legacy Georgia Smith, Grade 12 ________________________ Her love surrounds me, it hangs in the air.

Each word a cobblestone as I plod along.

Her candor wraps around me and strips the truth bare.

The hands that nurtured my father, Now bring me to sleep’s bay.

Her skin soaked in secrets, A witness of change; a transitional, traditional rearing.

My icon of comfort, yet the embodiment of strength.

The light in her eyes now diminished and grey Still, a smile brighter than the middle of the summer.

People and stories embroidered on her brain, Ready to be boldly told; prepared for flight and willing to fight.

The ideas which stirred in her, Now light a fire within my soul.

It’s hard to sprint as she limps, But her strides were continents.

Someday I’ll stand where she sits; Bringing to life the hopes of a girl with an internal, eternal light.

Everything and Nothing: Breonna Wade, Grade 11 43

Haiku For Going to School Taylor Kazinski, Grade 12 _______________________________________ No, no, no, no, no No, no, no, no, no, no, no No, no, no, no, no

Burnt Chicken Nugget Haiku William Renkl, Grade 12 ________________________________________ Soft interior A dark hard exterior So misunderstood

Ode to AP Euro Akanee Angel, Grade 10 ______________________ Coffee, more coffee.

When have I last been outside?

Readings never cease.

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Stars Emma Dozier, Grade 7 __________________ We are all under the same sky Day and night varies Mosquitoes annoy and breezes grace our presence Stars shine and the moon glows The moon changes shapes and so do we The sky is dark like the abyss Even with all of the distractions We can’t help but think of someone Wishing and hoping that they were next to you As they tell jokes and make you laugh We all have someone to think about Even if they aren’t there But remember that we all see the same skies, even if it’s miles away

Northern Lights​: Dulce DelaRosa, Grade 11

45

Was it worth it?

Pryce O’Connor, Grade 10 _______________________ Lost somewhere in the recesses of my mind is your voice Has it really been so long since we’ve talked That I can’t remember what you sound like?

How your voice would lilt, like a song How your laugh was the happiest sound in the world It’s not been more than a month since I've seen you Maybe it’s the other voices in my head The ones that tell me I’m not good enough The ones that say I’m not like the others The ones that reprimand me for every imperfection Yes, that’s it. My head is too crowded with everything Everything except your voice, the most important voice So sonorous, so mellow, so rich and full of life I forgot the way we danced in the shadows Because we didn’t want anyone to see us move I forgot the way we would watch movies together Curled up with snacks and blankets I forgot the way we’d talk for hours on end All through the day and all through the night Talking without end, your voice and mine Intertwining into a poem, a song, that only we know I forgot all these things until I found it The only thing you left behind The bracelet that I made you, I never take mine off But you always did, I should have seen it coming sooner The eventual split that would cleave us apart The slow distance you started putting between us Purposefully, might I add, but I didn’t want that So I didn’t see that, blinded by you I had you on a pedestal that you didn’t deserve You jumped off of it and used me as a place to land And then left without a word, so now I wear your bracelet As a reminder to myself that not everyone deserves my love That not everyone deserves my attention and affection 46

That not everyone wants it, maybe you did for a bit Maybe you were an actual caring friend But looking back on what we had, it was toxic Dangerous from the start, but we loved it nonetheless The challenge, the fight, the victory, the fail Yeah, we were friends, but then you stopped And left me dancing alone in the dark You left me watching movies by myself You left me talking to the voices in my head

Blue Julia Traughber, Grade 12 ____________________ Typically, you make people feel so sad, But I've grown to learn you're not so bad.

You have come to represent the best present I've ever had.

Little arms and legs wrapped in blue Hello nephew, I already love you.

You're the cutest boy ever, I know that's true.

Blue, you make me feel happy, Maybe even a little bit sappy.

Laying in my lap while you nap with me, This is the best feeling there could ever be.

Blue fills little baby eyes, When they open after naps they look so surprised.

Blue is not sad it's happy as can be, Blue represents my nephew and me.

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Pig On A Rug Sofie Eugenio, Kindergarten _______________________ Last night when I was a sleep I soo a pig on the rug.

I want it to be my pet.

But my mom said no.

The Best Part of Me Ellie Drake, Grade 1 _________________ I love my heart.

I love it because it continues me to follow my heart.

It can beat fast or slow.

I love my heart so much.

The end.

​The Best Part of Me: ​Ellie Drake, Grade 1

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Artwork

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Pastel Sunset

Nadiya Stowe, Grade 10

Tranquility Tabitha Lee, Grade 11 50

Simplicity Anne Kimball, Grade 12

Mountains Morgan Crowley, Grade 11

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Breathing Treatment Taylor Knight, Grade 12

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The Little Boat Kaitlynn Turney, Grade 5

The Cat Sarah Dixon, Grade 5

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Photography

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Pierre’s Lily Pad Peter Nguyen, Grade 12

Peru Pup Carlynn Holleman, Grade 12

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Christmas Tree Morgan Ozanne, Grade 10

I Love You Jaylen Collins, Grade 10

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Winter Horse Miya Anderson, Grade 7

Home of Success Presleigh Sykes, Grade 12

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CA Day Cadence Biter, Grade 6

Sedes Midge Barger, Grade 10

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Greenery Morgan Ozanne, Grade 10

Glow Midge Barger, Grade 10

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Serene Dorothy Deeds, Grade 10

Butch Tyee Turner, Grade 10

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Sunburst Tashaunda Grimmett, Grade 12

Metro Bloomin’ Peter Nguyen, Grade 12

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Starry Night Carlynn Holleman, Grade 12

Thank You We would like to thank all of our talented contributors, including Piper Bell who helped with the design. We hope you enjoyed the first edition of ​North Second Star​ envisioned by Dr. Beach and edited and created by her dual English classes.

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