Almost Famous LHS Spring Edition

Lincoln High School

Almost Famous Spring/Summer | 2010 Magazine

Literary

SENIORS !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Graduation!

Fridays.

NEW BEGINNINGS

AF

rap.

2:40-4:00 AFTER SCHOOL goodbyes

Vol. 6, Issue 2

recite.

Art work

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QUOTES PHOTOS STORIES POEMS

AF Staff

Lincoln Pride

inkblot

‘10

FAME

Spring ‘10

Our Deepest Deepest Fear

By Marianne Williamson Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness That most frightens us.

We ask ourselves Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small Does not serve the world.

There's nothing enlightened about shrinking So that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, As children do.

We were born to make manifest The glory of God that is within us.

It's not just in some of us; It's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we're liberated from our own fear, Our presence automatically liberates others.

P R O L O G U E

I N S I D E

A F

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Contributors: Caitlin McKinney Natalie Copeland Kayla McDonald Michelle Czinski Trebecca McDonald

rap.

Contributors: Jori Griffin

recite.

Contributors: Mr. Erby Ryan Hurst Keely Battle Trebecca McDonald

Other Features:

3 5 9 15 19 30

From the Staff Books Ink Blot Binder of Terror Cartoons

Senior goodbyes

from the staff This is the last magazine of the year, Almost Famous Spring ’10. Here are some parting words from the people who worked so hard to make this possible this year.

Dear readers, This is goodbye for our whole staff except for me. I’m still going to be here next year. While everyone else is a college freshman, I’m going to finally be a Senior! I will still be head of Almost Famous, so instead of saying goodbye, I’ll say hello to a new beginning.

Kayla

To the AF Staff: I think we can safely say that we are the essence of ‘coolness’…

Thanks for all the memories. We’ve been through a lot, and you guys have been really good sports through every missing USB, corrupted email, and computer room lockout. Here’s to Bree’s birthday party and missing camera cords, 4:15 AM emails and frantic ad searching. Here’s to staying in touch for the rest of our lives and the BINDER OF TERROR. The good life.

Editor/Template Designer:

Trebecca McDonald Co-editor/ Cartoonist/Survey Director:

Kayla McDonald

Trebecca

Writing Director/ Books editor:

BINDER OF TERROR: more about it on pg.15

Caitlyn McKinney

Staff List

Dear AF Reader: Thanks for all your support! This has been the greatest two years of my high school career, being the Editorin-Chief of Lincoln High school’s literary magazine. All of us on the AF staff have become really good friends, and I hope that someday, you will be able to take our places and make Lincoln proud! We are some truly talented, creative people. All of us.

Dear Almost Famous Readers, The last two years have been wonderful! I made some new friends, and have gotten to know my old ones even more. I will truly miss meeting these people every Friday after school, even though I sometimes just wanted to leave this school for the weekend. It was also enjoyable to see the exquisite work done by our contributors, willingly or unknowingly, and to know that these talented people actually attend Lincoln! My only regret is that I didn't join earlier. I hope that even after we leave, the magazine will continue to publish, even if it's just one magazine a year. However, I am content with what I have seen and am overjoyed that some of your work has inspired me to write again.

Brace yourselves for the cheesy part!

And to the staff, I will keep in contact with you all no matter what. I'm not sad at all, really.

Because I know I won't forget you and we'll always be friends.

Thank you and Goodbye!

Caitlyn

Dear AF reader, I had so much fun the past two years, meeting every Friday and laughing with everyone and creating a magazine for you. Hopefully you enjoyed our hard work and continue to support AF. The staff is so awesome and I'm so glad we are all friends. Maybe next year some of you guys will join and have just as much fun as we did. Thank you so much for everything!

Can't wait to read the next magazine! Later Gators!

And to the staff, I loved working with you guys. Staying after school and getting through all the obstacles wouldn't have been the same with anyone else. Almost Famous is finally recognized as the school magazine and it's because of your dedication. I'm gonna miss you guys! And I am so still going to cry at graduation FYI :) Michelle

Staff List, continued.

Advisors:

Mrs.Gonzales Ms. Bell

Art Director/Ink Blot Editor:

Michelle Czinski

AF letter from the staff: Dear Almost Famous staff and readers, On August 27, 2009, I answered an email from Trebecca. "I would be honored to be your Almost Famous advisor. Fridays until 4 is the perfect time for me." We were already losing Mr. Propson; I had to make sure we didn't lose our school's literary magazine with him. Over the years, this magazine has proven that high school writing and art have powerful messages to share. I have always loved the concept of literary magazines, in print and online, and have enjoyed reading Lincoln's final products over the years. When students from my classes had submissions accepted, they were often pieces I had assigned. So I already felt part of the production, in a way, and looked forward to expanding my role. Our students have much to offer, and our school was blessed with a group willing to present it to the public.

You've done a beautiful job, and I appreciate playing a part in such a meaningful endeavor. ~Mrs. Gonzales (Lady Gonza)

Super Volunteer!!!!!:

Nikita Miner Writer/Template Editor:

Natalie Copland

BOOKS:

Caitlyn McKinney

1.) Fantasy In Death by J.D. Robb 2.) Big Girl by Danielle NYPSD Lieutenant Eve Dallas is having as much trouble figuring out how Bart Minnock was murdered as who did the murdering. The victim's girlfriend seems sincerely grief-stricken, and his quirky-butbrilliant partners at U-Play appear equally shocked. No one seemed to have a problem with the enthusiastic, high-spirited millionaire. Of course, success can attract jealousy, and gaming, like any business, has its fierce rivalries and dirty tricks-as Eve's husband, Roarke, one of U- Play's competitors, knows well. But Minnock was not naive, and quite capable of fighting back in the real world as well as the virtual one.

Eve and her team are about to enter the next level of police work, in a world where fantasy is the ultimate seduction-and the price of defeat is death. . .

3.) Percy Jackson and the Olympians Series Interested in Greco/Roman Mythology? Loved the first, and I highly doubt the last, movie? Rick Riordan takes a new approach to myth in his best selling series, Percy Jackson and the Olympians. Percy Jackson was a normal, dyslexic, and ADHD kid until a monster attacked him one day. The series covers his life at the camp Half-Blood, a sacred place where all children of the Gods may safely practice their skills. Being the son of Poseidon, however, is tough, especially when he has to deal with a prophecy predicting his own death.

*Numbers follow the order of the pictures above.

Victoria Dawson has always felt out of place in her family, especially in body-conscious L.A. Her father, Jim, is tall and slender, and her mother, Christina, is a fine-boned, dark-haired beauty.

Both are self-centered, outspoken, and disappointed by their daughter's looks. While her parents and sister can eat anything and not gain an ounce, Victoria must watch everything she eats, as well as endure her father's belittling comments about her body and see her academic achievements go unacknowledged. Ice cream and oversized helpings of all the wrong foods give her comfort, but only briefly. The one thing she knows is that she has to get away from home, and after college in Chicago, she moves to New York City.

Behind Victoria is a lifetime of hurt and neglect she has tried to forget, and even ice cream can no longer dull the pain. Ahead is a challenge and a risk: to accept herself as she is, celebrate it, and claim the victories she has fought so hard for and deserves. Big girl or not, she is terrific and discovers that herself.

Contents:

4.) The Immortal Life of Henrietta Glow ofSkloot Hope in the Darkest Night Lacks by The Rebecca

Natalie Copeland

In 1951, a poorNature’s black woman named Henrietta Lacks dies of Island cervical cancer, but pieces of the tumor that killed her--taken Czinski without her knowledge Michelle or consent--live on, first in one lab, then in hundreds, then thousands, then in giant factories The View from Saturday churning out polio vaccines, then aboard rocket ships Trebecca McDonald launched into space. The cells from this one tumor would Helping spawn a multi-billion dollarHands industry and become a foundation of modern science--leading breakthroughs in gene Mrs.to Katrina Gonzales mapping, cloning and fertility and helping to discover how The Toad Prince viruses work and how cancer develops (among a million Kayla McDonald other things). All of which is to say: the science end of this story is enoughBlack to blowSpot one's mind right out of one's face.

Caitlyn McKinney

Contents: The Glow of Hope in the Darkest Night

Natalie Copeland Nature’s Island

Michelle Czinski The View from Saturday

Trebecca McDonald Helping Hands

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Mrs. Katrina Gonzales A Place

Allison Malboef The Toad Prince

Kayla McDonald Black Spot

Caitlyn McKinney

The Glow of Hope in the Dark of Night

Natalie Copeland

I grasped the note I had just received from my school. As I walked into my warm home, filled with the sweet aroma of Momma's cooking, my mother approached me with her daily questions. "How was school? Did you get any compliments? Do you have any homework?" she asked with a smile. I hesitated to answer her questions, then handed her the letter. She opened it and read slowly, handed it back to me, then returned to her cooking. I walked upstairs and prepared myself for the unexpected. I opened the letter and read with disbelief.

Why? How did this happen? It didn't seem real to me. I didn't want to believe it either. As I held the letter, the glow of my heart just faded away. Why did this have to happen? So soon; so young," I said to myself as tears of regret and sorrow ran down my cheek. I slowly trudged into my room and slumped down on the bed in disbelief. I just had gotten the news that my friend, Megan, had died. I couldn't believe it, I wouldn't believe it. She was so young and beautiful. The tears came faster as I envisioned her beautiful, blue, sapphire-like eyes engulfing my mind. The tears came faster, harder, and lightning roared in my soul. The sky grew dim and gray. Then the rain came. I looked out my window. As I gazed through the window a hummingbird came to my attention.

"Megan?" I said slowly as the last of my tears ran down my cheek.

Nature’s Island

Michelle Czinski Mackinaw Island is probably the most beautiful place I have ever been. There are no cars, no exhaust fumes, and no gas stations. No highways, no traffic lights, no four way streets. Just the beach and the waves of Lake Michigan crashing against the shore. During the day, however, the island is filled with people walking the sidewalks and riding bicycles through the street, nearly escaping being trampled by a horse pulling a wagon. Hotels and shops line the sidewalk, each with a garden out front bursting with flowers of every color. People chatter and browse the stores, searching for a souvenir to take back home with them. The last ferry horn blows in the distance and night falls upon the island. All is quiet. How can all this become such a peaceful undisturbed town at night?

The first time I visited Mackinaw Island was last summer. My Mom, my Aunt Annie, my sister Emily, and I were all enjoying our stay in the city so we decided to take a trip to the island.

“You know what would be fun?” Annie asked once we were finished unpacking the car, “We should take the ferry over to Mackinaw Island and get some fudge.” Of course the thought of fudge made our mouths water, so we drove out to the pier, bought our tickets, and boarded onto the ferry.

We sat in the lower deck, near the front, and we could see the Mackinaw Bridge in the distance. The water was covered with an eerie fog that misted and swirled as the ferry cut through it.

The motor coughed and sputtered as the driver turned it off, and we slowly and quietly drifted toward the dock.

We stepped off the ferry. As it honked goodbye, it started off back the way it had come. We were here. In a place I had heard so much about, but was never lucky enough to visit. We were here, who knows how many miles from home, with nothing except a video camera and the stuff in our pockets. We left the pier, walking up a ramp covered by a tunnel that hid the island scenery from view. Once we got into the sunlight, my mouth dropped open in awe.

There were so many things that caught my attention at one time; horses, wagons, bicycles, people, shops, and all the beautiful colors of flowers that lined the sidewalk. The morning sun was just peeking over the horizon, causing the shadows to dart away and disappear behind the buildings.

I could see the Grand Hotel in the distance, not yet touched by the sun’s playful rays. The trees rustled from the fresh ocean breeze blowing in from the lake. Seagulls flew overhead, dipping and diving through the wind that carried the smell of hotdogs and fudge. We walked through the crowds of people, taking it all in, when Annie had another spontaneous idea.

“Well, we better get a hotel room now instead of later,” she said.

“Wait, what hotel room?” my Mom asked.

“The hotel room we are staying in tonight. I would much rather sleep in a comfy bed instead of on an air mattress,” she answered.

Mackinaw Bridge

“So, you mean to tell me, we are going to get a hotel room and stay here over night while all of our stuff is back at the campground and we don’t have anything else with us?” my Mom asked. Annie replied with a simple nod of the head. My mom let out a sigh, and it was settled. We were staying the night.

We explored the island throughout the day and finally the sun began to set. We stopped back in the hotel right before we took a walk to regain our energy from all the excitement of the day. We walked back outside, and I was speechless.

The sun had set and the island commotion had settled down, but the sky was filled with a radiant plethora of reds, oranges, pinks, blues, and purples. They were sprawled through the sky as if an artist had used it for his canvas and had just painted the last stroke of his masterpiece. The bridge was in the distance; its lights illuminated the water beneath it. The canvas painting was high above, as if to bring it all together. As the sun continued its journey, sinking deeper and deeper into the lake, the sky turned a deep red and shone bright above it, reflecting its beauty among the waves that carried the reflection to the beach shores where a few people stood watching the Mackinaw Bridge grow brighter as the Earth grew darker.

We stood and watched the sky until the sun was no longer able to shine bright enough. All that was left was the bridge shining in the distance and the waves rolling in, gently splashing along the shoreline. We walked back to the hotel and before I went to bed, I looked out the window to make sure I was really here. That I wasn’t dreaming. That I had seen the magic of the island and that I had seen God’s way of telling me goodnight in a way that only He can.

The View from Saturday

Trebecca McDonald I slather on sunscreen, tie my oversized T-shirt to one side, and open the garage. It’s 30 minutes before noon, before the sun beats unmercifully down on the cracked asphalt path behind our house. As I skate by, I wave at the familiar faces: the kids selling Kroger cookies and instant lemonade in their driveway, a neighbor on her bike, a couple huffing their way down our street. The smell of freshly cut grass is in the air, mounds of which I have to maneuver around in order not to fall headfirst.

This is the last weekend of my last summer break: the last of my three months of complete freedom. But I’m happy about it. I’m a senior! I’m thinking. I’ll be starting college when this month comes back around! The excitement lasts until I pass my house again. This is the last time, the last summer, the last moment that I will be completely free to spend another Saturday afternoon outside, just skating, just living without the strings of life attached. This is the season of my life that I will look back on and think, “Wow, if I could only go back…” As hard as I try, I can’t make this day any better.

The day is passing like it does; only it seems faster than usual. I’m still tripping over the rocks on my way uphill, slowing up for cars trying to get past me, and I still am being barked at by dogs that hear the steady click of my inline skates before they see me. The more ordinary this day seems, the more significant it becomes. But somehow, I think this is exactly what makes it special. This chapter of my life will close with pomp and circumstance, but today, in all of its normality, is the true day of celebration.

In k B lo t The Fine Art of Lincoln High‌

By Michelle Czinski Featured Art: Title: Bird and Flower Pointillism Artist: Aviva Neff Title: Colored Umbrella Artist: Carly Temple Title: Green and Yellow Artist: Craig Stokes Title: Siberian Husky Pointillism Artist: Taylor Hansen Title: Untitled Artist: Leslie Bell Title: Photo Montage Artist: Joe Beltran Title: Hands Artist: Fred Bryant

Photos by Ms. Rose!

Helping Hands Kariana Cullen Gonzales “Don’t go poo poo in the bathtub, Dolan,” I say quickly after noticing his face turn red and bubbles float to the surface in the area of his rear end.

“No go poo poo in the bath—tub, Mama?” he asks with effort, reflecting his desire to enunciate well. This is a habit he’s developed—not pooping in the tub, but repeating what I say. I think, by doing so, he’s learning to use complete sentences. As a mom who happens to be a teacher of English, I am thrilled.

“Yes, you only go poo poo on the toilet.”

This statement is not entirely true. He still goes in his diaper, too; I purposely avoid reminding him of that option— although I also don’t feel quite right stating a partial truth.

“Do you want to go poo poo on the potty?” I ask, hoping and hoping the answer is yes.

“Yeah!” he nods excitedly while standing up so quickly I’m afraid he’ll slip. I should know better, though; he’s so strong and coordinated, so athletically skilled.

I had never realized how much it helps to have a loved one’s hands to hold, to have those hands return precisely the same pressure.

I swoop him out of the tub and quickly dab him with my fluffy purple towel, a birthday present from him and his daddy. I swing him over the seat as he spreads his legs wide to straddle the adult-sized toilet that must seem like a chasm to him. I’m so proud of him at this moment—not that this feeling is much different from how I feel about him from minute to minute every day of his life.

He’s trying to find a comfortable enough position so that he can focus on the business of pushing. After trying to hold on to the toilet seat behind his back and then between his legs and back again, whipping around one hand at a time and keeping balance beautifully, he hastily decides how he’d rather brace himself: He reaches his arms toward me, palms out as if signaling stop, while I squat in front of him.

“Hold mine hands, please, Mama,” he says haltingly, but as quickly as he is physically able to force out the words. In his tone is the confidence that I am willing to meet any request of his at this moment.

He clasps and squeezes my hands with his tiny fingers, and his face turns red. I gently but animatedly encourage him as he grunts softly.

“You can do it. Push!” I whisper. “Good job. Keep trying.”

“Ugh,” he grunts as he stares, unashamed, into my eyes.

Immediately, I am taken back two-and-a-half years to another place: a hospital bed, me sitting cross-legged, my hands holding tightly to my husband’s as he leans in closely, saying, “It’s okay.”

Just as holding on to the toilet seat proved insufficient to Dolan, I found comfort in nothing other than my husband’s hands.

Throughout eight hours of labor, the roaring fire in my lower back never receded. That ache was constant. An additional, twisting tension under my swollen belly precipitated each contraction, and was followed immediately by my reluctant but conscious acceptance that the pains were inevitable and would become increasingly fierce with each predictable episode.

Thanking God for my inherent muscle strength and flexibility, I discovered that the pain at its peak was less terrible if I could lean forward while squatting or sitting cross-legged, positions that weren’t always possible, considering my seatbelt or the medical monitors strapped across my hips. I had also found that grappling for a handhold on our van’s interior or grasping the whirlpool’s edge or holding the bedside bars only increased the agony. Inanimate, objects like these never reacted to my needs, never registered a response, and so were dismissed one after the other in a frantic search for relief.

Even worse, holding my midwife’s hands created an extra challenge. Instead of providing assistance, her hands mandated restraint; I strained to avoid hurting her. She had soft hands, like chubby putty, and provided no force in return. What I needed was something else: reliable resistance in response to my waxing and waning levels of pain; immediate pressure in exact proportion to each ebb and flow; reactive support as the tide of pain swelled or receded. I had never realized how much it helps to have a loved one’s hands to hold, to have those hands return precisely the same pressure.

When my husband took my hands and joined me in my tiny world, a world simultaneously painful and miraculous—for I never once forgot the beautiful purpose behind my struggle—I no longer suffered alone. And because we were in this together, our joy would be that much more complete in the end. Every swell of suffering that I allowed to spill over was met and mirrored by a surge of strength from him. Beyond their assistance to me physically, his hands extended the love I needed.

Deep within me, I felt faith in our connection.

Still, I couldn’t help but cry out at times—and then immediately scold myself: “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” My weakness disappointed me.

“It’s okay,” he said. Somehow, that ordinary phrase assured me he wasn’t disappointed in me.

More than his words, though, the support I sensed through his hands gave me permission to freely express my emotions without fear of criticism. My hands communicated to him that my pain was real, while his hands assured me that I was not overreacting. Far from judging me, he was proud of me. There was no shame or embarrassment in childbirth, no matter how unpleasant the scene became.

Our nurse was near when I rested my eyes for just a moment. I opened them to a roomful of blurred bodies. With a frenzied rush—the result of a serious drop in his heart rate—the baby was suctioned from me in seconds. After waiting seven years to begin a family, we two became three.

After nine months of growing inside me, he was finally here.

Subjected to sights beyond distasteful in any other setting, my husband did not even hesitate, let alone recoil, when cutting his new baby’s umbilical cord. My white gown became mottled with normally nauseating gunk as my newborn nuzzled against my chest full of pride. In our joy, my husband and I ignored the existence of a white waxy substance and some slimy reddish goo and held hands for the first time with our precious baby boy. Undeniably disgusting aspects of being human were set aside for the sake of complete acceptance.

Similarly, my son feels not a seed of disgrace while seated on his throne. No matter the indignity to be someday associated with defecation, all that exists in our quiet corner is perseverance and pride. Grateful for the opportunity to extend the loving support I was provided, I happily hold my son’s hands as he figures out one of the most mysterious requirements of growing up.

A Place Allison Malboef I know of a place where all can rest, Like a sweet babe nuzzled in its mother’s nest.

A place where you can feel at ease, Like you’re standing in the calm, gentle breeze.

I know a place that keeps sadness out, A place where joy and laughter run about.

A place that blocks out anger and despair, A place that’s filled with love and care.

I know of this place and I tell you it’s true, I have found this place and so can you.

This place can be behind you, beside you, or above, Because this place is found when you’re with those you love.

I'm misunderstood, so please don't complain I seen it all and been through the rain I write so I can forget all my pain And I'm out this world and don't think I'm the sane This is a whole different side of B I'm not myself, I can probably say hi to me I done came through the li’l scandals Been through so much drama in my black vandals

rap.

Always wanted to walk on the beach and wear strap sandals But instead I burn light like a black candle You used to seeing me with a different swag But wait a second. What is this? It's a different swag

Misunderstood

And it’s stuff like this that makes me feel human

I wanna take over the world but too lazy to make a blueprint Do I think that I'm the best? Why ask, are you stupid?

No, I'm not a thug, but I hate looking at cupid Dressed in all black Just started doing rap But if I die now you most likely can’t have it back And I call myself immortal, but so did my uncle But he's gone, so what do I go off on now?

Jori Griffin

Stressing out my mind Receive blessings out you’re kind And I heard a flow like mine I really hard to find But I couldn’t care, because I have a lot of pressure

People always ask for checks and half the time it’s just to test ya I can only trust a handful; the fame is so lonely And if I give a girl my all, all she’ll do is ignore me Man, I'm so misunderstood I'm tired of sitting up thinking somebody would Try and test my originality People try and bring me down, but I'm proud of me A51 is up And now the money showing up But now little kids playing like when they are gonna grow up!

Like I said I'm misunderstood Don't try to understand ‘cause you'll regret if you could

The Binder of

TERROR

Binder of Terror Bio (with gripes from Trebecca & Michelle) One Halloween afternoon, as Trebecca and Michelle sat in A.P. U.S. History, the name for the hated Almost Famous binder was born: The Binder of Terror. Full of schedules, calendars, and lists of demands, the binder was created in 2008 for the good of Almost Famous, but turned out to be pure evil. Its very existence terrorized its owners and intimidated anyone who looked at it. Okay, it’s just a green binder that’s around two and a half pounds, but you still don’t want to get hit with it.

It all started when Trebecca, “Ms. Editor-in-Chief,” decided that we needed a structured schedule to depend on, because regardless of the fun we had, we were blowing three weeks worth of work talking about the meaning of life in the context of Twilight, fast food, and Bree’s birthday. We were all doomed. Christmas day is not a great time to decide to actually get stuff done, so we brought in reinforcement: a plastic-covered three-ringed binder. It may seem innocent, but imagine organizing and carrying it down the hallway while you are walking—running a fifteen mph hallway marathon—to get to the computer lab before everyone leaves and goes searching for you, then holding it for thirty MORE minutes because everyone IS searching for you.

Then you realize that you’ve left the crucial piece of technology—the USB—that has everything known to man (and AF staff) on it at home, so you can’t get anything done anyway. Another day wasted, and guess what? The curse of the binder strikes again!

Now repeat for two years, every Friday. No pressure!

Mind the mess, there…

Support Our Magazine!

Goal planning is really important, even if all our goals don’t get achieved.

Binder on a good day???

Here you can see the original design of the front cover, along with the tabs we had assigned to each category in the magazine: poems, stories, rap, quotes, pictures, etc.

By the Numbers: Born: Oct.31, 2008 Our Winter magazine. Did you read it?

Weigh in (2010): 2.5 lbs Pieces of tape on its edge: No Clue Number of times is has landed on somebody’s foot: 6 Number of times it has been smashed: Ask Michelle Number of times it has slid off a table “by accident”: uh…accident?

Number of times it has thrown up paper: every time it is opened, even now Number of memories it brings back: 7 million and counting…

When it will be thrown away: NEVER Number of times it has been forgotten: 0 All AF meetings in general…priceless

The Toad Prince

Kayla McDonald Every story begins as “once upon a time,” but not my story. I begin with an apology. First let me introduce myself. In all the best tales, I’m known as the wicked witch. Shows how much I’m appreciated—I’m not even given a proper name. Well as before, I say this again. I apologize for cutting Rapunzel’s hair, for turning Beauty’s Prince into a beast, for feeding Snow White the apple, for putting Aurora in that coma, for urging my brother Rumpelstiltskin to steal that baby…Wait, you didn’t know what was behind that did you?

Well anyways, I’m sorry. I’m officially changing my outlook on life. I will now be called the Good Witch. No, scratch that. I want a name. How about Stephanie? No, not enchanted enough. Maybe I shouldn’t give myself a name until I’m through telling my last story. I’m not sure if I should be sorry for this or not, so I’ll let you decide. Here goes nothing. *** “Cinderella, come here!” Anastasia yelled down the hall. “Oh drat, I already forgot, she’s at the castle swooning over that Prince.”

Anastasia waddled to her vanity table and plopped herself down on the stool. Staring at her reflection through the mirror, she rested her head in her hands and sighed.

“Now who’s going to fix my hair? I dare not do it myself, but Mother’s at her bingo game and Esperalda…well, she’s doing what she does best. Chasing boys at the park. I feel sorry for the next fellow she captures. The last got off lucky with a black eye. Maybe this one will fair better. I wish she’d stop experimenting with spells, they never come out right.” Sighing again, Anastasia picked up a brush.

“Did you say spells, deary?” I asked.

Anastasia jumped up from her spot on the stool and spun around holding the brush high in the air waiting to fling it at the intruder.

“What are you?” she asked.

“Guess,” I replied.

Anastasia slowly lowered her brush and began to inspect me from all angles.

“Well,” she began, “from where you stand and how you speak…I personally thought you were a crow.

You even have a perfectly pointed beak.”

“That’s my nose, but thanks for the compliment,” I cackled, emphasizing the crow-like sound of my voice. Ignoring my comment, she continued.

“But I noticed the pasty green complexion of your face. Are you sure you thoroughly washed off that facial mask, or did you come to borrow some cucumbers?” she asked.

“If you’re done insulting me, I’d like to inform you that if I’m a crow, you are an overstuffed hen badly in need of a diet and a few plucked feathers around the eyebrows and above the lip.”

Anastasia gasped and looked as if she wanted to speak, but I raised my hand to cut her off.

“But I didn’t come here to argue with you like a couple of old ladies at a bingo game. I came to ask you if you wanted to become pretty. I have this little spell that would work, but I need someone to test it on.”

“Me, pretty?” she asked wide-eyed, “I’d love to help. Wait—my mother plays bingo.”

“No wonder she’s always evil,” I said, feigning wonder.

“I guess I have to agree with you there. I’m Anastasia,” she said, calling a truce.

“I know that. I read your ad in the newspaper. That’s why I’m here. My name is the Wicked Witch,” I said.

Anastasia slumped back down on her stool.

“Which ad did you read?” she asked.

“Oh, I read them all, but I’m answering to the one that read, ‘Help wanted to find the extra spark in a woman’s life’. I liked it better than, ‘Help wanted to unloose this cap from my pickle jar.’”

“Are you sure you don’t want to try it? I’ve had it for years, and I still can’t open it,” she said.

“No, deary, I’m sure it’s expired,” I replied patiently.

“Why do I always find myself in such pickles?” she sighed, exasperated.

“It’s because you never get them from the right store, dear. But I’m in a hurry so I hope you don’t mind if I…” I snapped my fingers quickly and hoped that I wouldn’t start a fire from all the ash that covered them. I never could find lotion when I needed it.

After some of the smoke from my transportation spell died down, I could look around and see my surroundings. Shelves completely covered each wall in the room except for the one small window to my left that brought in some natural light. Each shelf was covered by jars of all sizes containing about every odd and end on earth.

“We’re home!” I exclaimed, twirling around to view every angle of my workroom. Anastasia stood in the center of the room, gaping like a fish and rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands.

“W-what…where…when…” she stuttered.

“How and why,” I finished. “Never forget those, they’re the most important.

“Yes, I know, but how…” she stopped and a look of confusion crossed her face.

“It’s called transportation. I transported us to my workroom.”

“But my bed was just here,” she said, gesturing to her right.

“We’re not at your home anymore,” I said. Then I turned and began to scan the shelves for my beauty spell. “…and my vanity desk was here,” Anastasia continued.

I tuned her out as she continued to roam my workroom saying where things were, but weren’t anymore.

Suddenly, I heard a scream that made me jump clear out of my robe. I guess it was a good idea to put jeans and a t-shirt on under that tattered thing.

“What are these?!” Anastasia squealed.

“They’re a colony of frog princes, but don’t—” Anastasia slid the lid of the container off and in less than a few seconds the room was covered in a multitude of jumping frogs.

“—open it,” I finished with a sigh.

“They’re in my hair!” Anastasia cried, hopping from one foot to the next.

“Oh, that’s what it was. I thought you were carrying a bird’s nest up there. I’m glad I forgot to tell you, you’re dreadfully out of style,” I said.

Glaring at me, she pointed up to her head.

“Make them go away!” she demanded with a wavering voice.

“I can’t do that,” I said, detangling a frog from my shirt, “You see, these are frog princes. You have to kiss each one to find your true love. That’s the only way,” I replied.

“I have to kiss ALL of these!?” she screeched, “Every one of these slimy green frogs!?”

“Shh, keep your voice down. They can hear you. But yes, you have to kiss every one until you find your prince.”

Anastasia nodded and found a spot on the floor not covered with frog princes.

“I guess I must. Here goes something,” she replied.

“It’s nothing. You’re supposed to say, ‘Here goes nothing,’” I instructed.

“But I’m about to do something,” she replied.

“I know, but…whatever. Go kiss a prince. I have a pretty spell to find,” I hastily turned towards my shelves and now found them covered with jumping frogs.

“Are you my frog prince?” Anastasia asked, picking up the first frog and kissing it, “Nope,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder.

Again, I tuned her out as I picked through my jars trying to find my spell. I made it around my room, examining each shelf, table, and frog, but I still couldn’t find it. I lost track of time as I frantically began to throw things about, looking for that dratted spell.

“I’m through!” Anastasia cried as large diamond-sized tears began to leak out of the corners of her eyes. “I went through all two hundred ninety nine frogs and not one wants to be my prince!”

“There, there, Anastasia,” I comforted her, “here’s a bucket. I can’t have your tears create water damage on my floor.”

Taking the bucket, Anastasia bent her head to it, sobbing. Her large body shook tremendously.

“Rrribbit,” “What was that?” I asked, glancing towards the sobbing woman on the ground.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear anything,” Anastasia sniffled.

“Rrribbit,” “Oh, I hear it now! Why, it’s another frog!” Anastasia said, wiping her eyes.

“I’d love to agree with you, but I can’t. That’s a toad, not a frog,” I corrected.

“What’s the difference? They all seem the same to me,” she remarked.

I would have explained, but it would have been of no use. She looked happy.

“Never mind,” I said instead.

“Are you my prince?” Anastasia asked, raising the toad to her lips.

I had to look away. It was just too much for me. Even as a wicked witch, I have a soft heart and like to give privacy where it is due, but in this case, I just couldn’t take watching a woman kiss a pair of slimy lips. I think I’ll be next in line for the bucket. Not to cry in, but to use it for something else…I’ll save you the details.

“You ARE my prince!” I heard Anastasia cry out. Spinning around, I found myself looking at the ugliest man I have ever seen. He had the lumpiest nose and the thinnest lips. And those eyes…ginormous. Looking towards Anastasia, I saw a sparkle in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. The two eyes were staring deeply at each other. Gag, I think I’m going to need the bucket again.

“Um, excuse me. The wicked witch here. Do you both want to try my pretty spell?” I asked.

“Pretty spell?” the man asked, his voice cracking almost as much as mine, “She doesn’t need a pretty spell. She’s beautiful. I may need it though. I understand I may not suit your taste,” he said, looking again at Anastasia.

“What!?” Anastasia exclaimed, “You don’t need a pretty spell! You are the most handsomest prince I have laid eyes on.”

“That doesn’t say much knowing the only prince you’ve seen is married to your sister,” I grumbled. Both Anastasia and the prince turned and glared at me.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence, “I was just saying…”

The prince grunted and turned back towards Anastasia taking both of her hands in his. Kneeling on one of his knobby knees, he said, “My dear Anastasia, will you become my queen?”

“You’re asking me to marry you? I don’t even know your name.”

“They didn’t give me one. I’m simply known as the Frog Prince,” the prince replied.

“It fits you,” Anastasia said, shrugging her shoulders.

“So…” the prince began.

“So, yes, I’ll marry you,” Anastasia finished.

I couldn’t take this mush anymore. I was running out of buckets, so I did the next best thing.

“Goodbye, you two love birds. I send you with my blessing.”

“I’m a frog,” the prince corrected.

“Not anymore,” I said. I snapped my fingers and transported the two to the nearest swamp castle. I didn’t go to their wedding, but I’m sure you’ll read about it in the newspaper. I glanced towards the spot where the two love birds, err, love frogs, had been standing. The jar labeled ‘pretty spell’ was resting on the floor, and a tiny green frog was sitting on it.

“That’s where it was hiding,” I said to myself, “Anastasia was sitting on it the whole time. Guess I won’t be needing it anymore.” I walked over to the jar and picked up the frog.

“Are you my frog prince?” I asked.

“Rrribbit,” was the reply.

The frog leapt out of my hand and bounded across the room to the window and jumped out.

“Am I THAT ugly?” I asked the frog that had leapt onto my shoulder.

“Rrribbit,” I sighed and sat on the floor next to the ‘pretty spell’ jar.

“Well, I guess to some we are pretty, and to others we are ugly, but to all we are beautiful in our own special way,” I said.

Looking about me at the rows of spell jars, I got an idea.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, snapping my fingers. This time I was sure I saw a spark. “I don’t need to be a witch. I don’t need to cast magic spells. What’s the point of magic when you already have all you need in your heart?”

I clapped my hands twice and all of the jars disappeared, leaving my shelves bare and dusty, and all of my magic left.

“And you know what?” I asked the confused looking princes around me, “I LIKE the name Stephanie.”

THE END

The Adventures of Purple Turtle, P.T. Totally original, totally funny.

Kayla McDonald, ď›™ 2009

Black Spot

Caityln McKinney The story is told in the first person by Jim Hawkins, whose mother kept the Admiral Benbow Inn, and who shared in the adventures from start to finish. An old sea dog comes to this peaceful inn one day, apparently intending to finish his life there. He hires Jim to keep a watch out for other sailors, but despite all precautions, he is hunted out and served with the black spot that means death. Jim and his mother barely escape death when Blind Pew, Black Dog, and other pirates descend on the inn in search of the sea dog’s papers. Jim snatches up a packet of papers to square the sailor’s debt, when they were forced to retreat from the inn. The packet contains a map showing the location of the pirate Flint’s buried treasure, which Jim, Doctor Livesey, and Squire Trelawney determine to find. Fitting out a ship, they hire hands and set out on their adventure.

Unfortunately, their crew includes one-legged Long John Silver, a pirate also in search of the treasure, and a number of his confederates. Jim, hidden in an apple barrel, overhears the plans of the crew to mutiny, and he warns his comrades. The battle between the pirates and Jim’s party is an exciting and bloody one, taking place both on the island and aboard ship. Jim escapes from the ship, discovers the marooned sailor, Ben Gunn, who has already found and cached the treasure, and finally the victors get safely aboard the ship with the treasure.

It was night when the storm clouds began to fade away. Old Long John Silver propped his good leg on the table in front of him, shaking the rum bottles as his leg settled. More than a year had passed since he had escaped the good Squire Trelawney with what little treasure he could take with him. He had been forced to flee to a new home, as more than likely, that fool of a Squire had put a price on his head in England. He would rather give up his other leg than go to France, where the people were stuck up and too clean.

Thus, the old swashbuckler had taken up residence off the coast of Spain. Spaniards hated the English, so if they ever decided to get him, Spain would torture the English with resistance. Silver spent his days drinking, fishing, or working for a kitchen in town.

"Well, Flint, Billy," Silver began as he raised his bottle up to the empty chairs across from him.

"I never would of though that ol' Long John would be in yer position! Aye, here I am drinkin' when I'm not working!" Silver barked out a loud, haughty laugh. "Hell, I even drink on the job!"

Silver lit the lantern on the table, producing a faint light around the room. The room was plain; scattered maps being the main wallpaper of the room. His old bird's cage, who had long since passed, lay rusted and tattered on the floor. The empty chairs across from him remained occupied by Captain Flint's and Billy Bones' images. It would be morning soon and John Silver would have to being life anew, although a little drunk.

"I wonder how young 'Awkins is doin' ... He's a man now, probably with a young lass by his side," Silver said as Flint's image flickered. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. "You there started it all, Flint. You and your treasure! And then that there Bones just had to run away with the map! Billy, Billy, if you hadn't run away I'd be a rich old man, settled and livin' the life." He stroked his beard in thought as another blast of thunder echoed around him.

All these words were nothing but the incoherent thoughts of an old man. Silver's spirit never changed one bit; he still craved adventure like a recovering alcoholic. This craving was always tempted by a young Spaniard that reminded him of Jim Hawkins.

He jumped as he heard a knock at the door. Laughing at himself, he stood with his one leg and retrieved his crutch from the floor.

"Mr. Silver?"

Silver paused midway towards the door. Hiding his smile, he opened the door. "Well, Marcelo my boy! It's half past midnight!" The small Spaniard boy with ruffled hair looked down. "I know, and I am sorry," Marcelo paused, struggling with his English. Spain may have trouble with England, but learning their language was valuable. "Your tales... I could not stop wondering [about] it- them?" He corrected himself quickly with an embarrassed look.

"Aye, they even keep myself up at night. But why are you up and visitin' this late at night?"

"You said... that you wanted more adventure. My father owns a ship- the Proserpina. And-" Marcello sputtered out in Spanish, likely cursing himself for forgetting his English. Long John Silver had learned some Spanish, but not enough to follow Marcelo.

Silver moved aside so the lad could take shelter inside from the cold gusts of wind. Marcelo sat down on the chair that had been previously occupied by Flint's ghost and stared up at Silver with trusting eyes, the same eyes young Hawkins had graced him with.

"Lad, I'm an old man now! I can't be sailin' to lands, especially in English-ruled waters."

"But Señor Silver," Marcelo shot up from his seat and met Silver's eyes. "One last sail. You said so you-your—" he stammered in English.

Long John sighed. "Yourself, lad," he finished. "Even if I was to go, why should you want to come?"

Marcelo frowned as the determined light in his eyes fell. "My father... he thinks I am a coward.

If I were to... go on my own adventure and make him proud, perhaps he would no longer be afraid to pass on the title of Duke."

Silver could tell he had practiced this speech many times in English. He had planned this plea a long time ago.

"Lad—" "I want to fight pirates for my father. They have raided his ships and—" Silver chuckled and patted his head. "There will be no fightin' on my ship." He paused, considering the young boy's proposition. "Of course... who would be Captain?"

"You, Señor Silver. You were Captain before you retired here, correct? We can sail tonight, the storm is dying out, and we can pick up a crew at the next port. You said yourself, Captain Flint must have a few more treasure spots he never cared to share."

Silver smiled. He had already been won over by Marcelo the minute he had offered his father's ship. "Sailin' the seas until the sea devil himself comes for my soul, eh?" He winked at Marcelo. "You've got yourself a deal, Marcelo."

Marcelo smiled brightly and rushed to the door. "It will meet you there in about an hour!" He took off into the night eagerly and full of excitement.

Silver looked around his home with a sigh. There was nothing he could bring, nothing he cherished. Slowly, he limped towards the open door, but stopped in the doorway. He looked back towards the table he had held his many conversations with Flint and Billy Bones. Upon looking closely, he noticed a piece of paper on the table that glided towards him through the wind. He picked it up and turned it around. Silver's mouth quirked upwards, smiling, and then laughing as if he had seen something humorous.

The black spot was what he held in his hand.

He gazed back towards the two empty chairs, expecting to see Billy or Flint laughing at him.

However, the chairs were empty.

Tilting his hat towards the chair, he turned away. "I'll see you in the locker, boys. I'll see you in the locker soon."

Contents: Untitled Mr. Erby The Tree Girl’s tale Keely Battle The Soldier’s Tale Ryan Hurst Make It Sunshine Trebecca McDonald

recite.

Untitled

Joel Erby You ever wonder what love is, how it moves, grooves, and the life that it gives?

You ever seen what love does, the way it protects and comforts, stays tight like small gloves? You ever heard how love calls—soft like kitten purrs, but loud enough to break steel walls?

You ever seen someone who was without love, the way they’re lost with no faith, even from up above? You ever felt that love was not there, so hopeless, without notice, overwhelmed with despair?

You ever touched that love jones, the kind that makes you hotter than desserts with dry bones? I think I love to love this love thang. I hope it loves me back as loud as church bells ring.

The Tree Girl’s Tale Keely Battle

Prologue I am a girl, average, but small.

The Tree-girl’s Tale

Growing roots in the ground, skinny, but tall.

It’s the middle of summer, a clear, warm day.

Brown at the base, growing to the sky

My buds are gone, they came in May.

My long green limbs grow five miles high.

The pink decorations dance around my face.

I am calm by day, flowing in the breeze

I can’t wait for dark so I can get out of this place.

By night I am alive and I bend my knees.

I enjoy when the sky is sad and crying.

These watery drops save me from dying.

I’m here to teach you not to litter.

Please don’t let this poor soul wither.

So here is my tale, told and true.

It starts with a day, sunny and blue.

Spring is my favorite, veiled in green.

Upset by harsh winds, they tend to be mean.

The darkness appears, I fall in love With a forest of boys, a bee, a dove.

I extend my body, taller than before.

I am careful not to squish my friends on the forest floor.

The party of the night is far away.

But I have long legs; So I’ll be okay.

I won’t go to drink, not root juice, nor rum.

I’m not that kind of girl, I just like to have fun.

As I arrive, it’s worse than before.

Garbage on the landscape, the flowers, and the door.

Once an immaculate, flowery gem.

Such an uneasy feeling,

Weak from the stench; The roses lost their scent.

To watch the petals are falling and peeling.

Their stems, once green, are bent.

I try to catch a blossom in my hands.

This wretched wasteland stole their beauty.

In my soft grip one lands.

As trees it is our duty Hanging by a thread, he pleads, To keep the flowers safe from harm.

“Who is to blame for these awful deeds?”

I look at this place with piercing alarm.

“The humans,” a tree from down the block said, As a girl, I can’t help but cry “They are the reason the flowers are dead.

“Oh please, don’t let these poor plants die!”

They poisoned our land without care or worry The forest is in shock.

Then quickly left the mess in a hurry.

Every tree, every bird, and every rock.

Now we’re here, alone, and scared.”

Eyes open wide.

“Make them pay!” another one dared.

Half the flowers already died.

“It’d be no use,” the wise one stated, Silent tears drip from the eyes “To challenge the men we now hated.

From those of us whose heads were in the skies.

For they have devices, chains and saws Didn’t even notice our sweet smelling friends And they’d chop us down without a cause.”

Would quickly meet their bitter ends.

I had an idea, an epiphany in May. This trash was killing them.

I shouted to the forest so they would hear me say, “I know, let’s think of a plan Where trees can be safe from the harm of man.”

A month or two passes while the forest grew dim The trees have darkened, looking so grim.

A boy passes by, alone in the mash.

Calm and composed, he picks up some trash.

In its place he set a seed, in a hole he dug real deep.

Above the dirt he starts to weep.

“In this place I had some fun.

In this place I’d run and run.

I hope you use this seed for good.

A forest so misunderstood, Should really be more happy than A sad land torn down by man.

I wish my friends knew of this destruction So that they could help in this production.

A rebuild project for the forest I wish they would realize it’s also for us.

For we need each other to live and breathe In this forest, I believe.”

Prologue There is a boy, Jack, who had just turned eighteen, He was always loyal, kind, and never mean.

He wasn’t too fat, Never wore a hat, And had hair that’s brown.

Many times you’d see him running in and out of town.

He got straight A’s, And as always He always helped his friends.

His willingness had no ends When it came to helping others.

Though he had no brothers He was not a brat, He hardly even spat, And when someone would say he’s meek He would turn the other cheek.

No one would have been able to tell That this boy would go through hell.

For as he did all of his kind acts He had some interesting facts.

He dreamed of glory And to have a story Of him being something great.

He thought of being stronger because of greater weight And he thought of how proud they all would be When he told them, and when they see That he had gone to war to fight To defend the nation’s rights.

It was his dream As it would seem For him to go to war.

He wanted more Than to just be a boy in a suburban home; To him it had the feeling of being just a drone.

He wanted to be one of the few and the proud And he would become so, that he vowed.

The Soldier’s Tale Ryan Hurst

The Soldier’s Tale He had to go see his recruiter So he had to get off the computer.

He got into his car And drove to a building not too far.

When he got there, the recruiter took his hand And said that today he was a man.

He drove quickly home to tell of his dream come true A dream, he felt, that was way overdue.

When he told his mother Just like any other Of his dream for many years She burst out into tears.

She cried and begged for him to reject, He could tell that she was wrecked.

But he just told her it was okay And the next day he was shipped away.

On his way to his base He started to get green in the face.

He had just realized this would not be easy And it started to make him queasy.

But when he was asked if he was okay, He just shrugged anyway.

They got to the training camp, and with a noise A whistle called all the boys.

They were introduced to what they would do And the tactics they would pursue.

And just like that, they were in To fight for America, and to win.

They ran through obstacles all day and night And wore a uniform that was anything but tight.

They ate in a mess hall, and slept on bunk beds And just as well rumors spread.

Many like to talk about what it is like, And if they and the locals will be alike.

Once Jack ran twelve miles, and he did it incredibly fast too.

Should of seen the smile on his face when he heard “I’m proud of you” From one of the generals who was in charge of the men, He was brave and very strong, a great man to send.

After a while of training, Jack made many friends, He had to in order to meet certain ends.

And then came that fateful day Where they were finally taken away.

He was put on a base In a place that looked like a waste, And he learned some scary facts About the nation that is Iraq.

It wasn’t long when he got in his first fight, When he had to resist the urge to take flight, And right at its very end He knew what it was like to lose a friend.

He could only imagine what it was like for the mom and dad To hear their son had died by someone who’s mad.

There were many more missions like this But it wasn’t long until an occurring twist.

They were given a man to hunt down He was quite handsome and lightly brown.

They tracked him to his home, and dragged him away, He was taken from his family and from the light of day.

It was to Jack’s very own horror To see what this man was in for.

They took off his clothes, and savagely beat him.

Jack told them to stop, but he soon joined in.

After they were done, and Jack was alone He wanted more and more to go home.

He broke down and cried at what he had done And he soon realized that in war no one won.

But he continued to do what he was told, Shaken by what happened to the young, to the old.

He lost more friends and self-respect, When he got home, he was wrecked.

That flag that he loved, that flag that he trust Now sits in the basement gathering dust, And though he now was away It was clear he wasn’t okay.

The scars of war were on him now, He wished he never made that vow.

He had been through hell and saw its sins And realized in war no one wins.

https://www.redvic.net/secure/peaceartsscripts/tshirts2.php?args=%3Cfont_face=arial_%3E%3Cb%3EPeace_ Not_War%3C/b%3E%3C/font%3E%3Cfont_face=arial_size=2%3E%3Cbr%3Eblack_on_white%3C/font%3E,pnww_big,jpg,Small, Medium,,X-Large,Child_Small,Child_Medium,Child_Large,48

Make it Sunshine Trebecca McDonald It’s about time to be me.

I’m the sunshine that hides behind clouds, afraid to be seen.

It’s about time.

When I arrive, I will light up the entire world.

Be unexpected, be revolutionary Be ready: show up to shine and shake the groundwork and shatter the barriers and challenge the stereotypes Have some audacity for once. Light up the world, make some changes: run the time write the cause of renaissance yell the words the world needs resounding in its dark corridors —and then listen for the enlightened echoes Be something BIGGER and GREATER than your borrowed space between some years make it your wide open gap make it somebody’s miracle make it illuminate make it sunshine

It’s about time.

Arrive!

Like the sunshine that hides behind clouds —you think it’s afraid to be seen?

Nope, it’s just biding its time It breaks through and sometimes blinds you, doesn’t it?

SENIOR QUOTES AND GOODBYES

Next year I plan to go to hair school, and from there I plan to get my own hair shop. Everyone should come out and support me ☺ ~Denasia Austin

Blakey Boo, I’ll Miss you! ~ Jared Lilyhorn Don’t stay in bad relationships, whether it is a friendship or a romantic situation ~ Bola A. I would have to say that I’ve learned a lot this year. I learned how to appreciate people for who they are, but most of all, I’ve learned a lot of things about myself: how I am under pressure, how to cope, and how to manage my time. I am going to miss learning in a smaller environment, but most of all: friends, teachers, family—the people. ~ Neco Wilson

IT WAS A LONG RIDE, BUT I’M GLAD TO FINALLY REACH THE END. LATERRR. ~ RYAN B.

2 0 1 0

OKAY, TO THE UNDERCLASSMEN, BEST OF LUCK AND PEACE-OUT. I’LL MISS SOME OF YOU… I’m GLAD I’m not going to be babysat anymore. I WANT someone to take my phone or make me take my jacket off. Thank God I’m going to college!

M.M. “Not only do I not know what’s going on, I wouldn’t know what to do about it if I did.” ~ James (Jimmy)

I’ll leave—but I’m not taking off the glasses. ~ Felicity Stevenson (The one who is always sportin’ the sunglasses no matter what the weather…)

A haiku

By Martha J. Schmitt 12th grade, moving on.

See you at the reunion.

Kiss my butt good bye.

SENIORS!!!

Thank you, Mr. Gilbert, Mrs. Anuskiewicz, Ms. Gurganus, and Ms. Minthorn, for your financial contributions. Thank you, our readers, for expanding the magazine circulation and content— double its size in the last two years. And, thank you, Mrs. Gonzales and Ms. Bell, for helping us through it all to create two beautiful magazines that will go down in history as the BEST literary magazines Lincoln has ever seen. To all the above, we owe you much more thanks than words can describe or typed words can emphasize.

The Almost Famous Staff:

Trebecca McDonald Kayla McDonald Michelle Czinski Caitlyn McKinney Natalie Copeland Nikita Miner

Almost Famous Created by Lincoln High School Students Lincoln High School 7425 Willis Rd. Ypsilanti, MI 48197 ©2010 almostfamouslhs@yahoo.com almostfamouslhs.webs.com

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