Periphas 2017 MVHS Lit M ag
In the Making of the 2017 Periphas Mountain Vista’s Literary Magazine, “Periphas” (which is a Greek word meaning “wide view over something”), contains poetry, prose, and artwork from the students of the school and is also edited and put together by the students. Such a task is a unique way to get students involved in the writing community, and allows for participants to push their “creative comfort zone.” The creation of the magazine by only students also is a great way for them to adopt new skills regarding teamwork and problem solving, and allows for the student body to feel the rewards of having finished the entirety of the magazine on their own. That being said, this year’s Lit Mag received several submissions, but without the leadership, ingenuity, and skills of Kate Vaillant, the head editor/creator, “Periphas” would never have been put together. Kate took responsibility of the Lit Mag because of her love for the arts, and tackled the project very enthusiastically, always laughing and having a good time while facing the daunting task of creating this magazine. I know Kate’s beautiful personality is something that inspires others to be the best that they can be every single day, and for that, we are thankful. Some other editors of the Lit Mag this year we’re Cassidy Woolley, Chrissy Brenner, and Blake Waechter. Apart from being just incredible human beings by default, these three participated in gathering submissions, editing and re-editing pieces, and helping combine the artwork and writing. These three had a lot of fun making the Lit Mag, but they also made sure to balance it out with hard work and dedication. Finally, there is appreciation for you: the readers of the magazine. If there were no audience that became engaged with the writing, or fell in love with the artwork, the purpose of writing to convey a message would diminish greatly. To pass along a writing piece you must have both the writer, but perhaps more importantly, a receiver -- someone who will be affected by what they read or saw and continue to pass that piece’s message along. So for that we offer you thanks. Thank you for picking up a magazine, thank you for listening, and thank you for providing your support. With that, we hope you enjoy this year’s production of “Periphas”!! Blake Waechter, Literary Magazine Co-Editor
2nd Period All right, pitiful mortal humans, Welcome back to mass brainwashing, Where we will HAPPILY show you math Only engineers use on a regular basis, But will not show you how to do taxes! Open your flattened tree collection To the flattened tree labeled in the lower right or left right angle With the symbols that represent five and seven In that order, And pointlessly copy by hand With a soft stick of rock the symbols that correspond with the noises Escaping my face orifice That represent objects and concepts, As well as the other symbols found on the flattened tree. This is essential Because for whatever reason, Smart-making-people say so, And most green paper providers you want to provide you papers Want YOU to go to green-paper-stealing smart-making-buildings until youâ€™ve gone around A giant ball of fire a few times. Flesh circuits working properly? Good. Let the games begin. -Krysia Yamiolkoski
Too Many Goodbyes I say my goodbyes at two, When the soft light of the moon shines dimly in my room, And I stare out a dirty window looking blankly at my reflection. I can see the tears streak down my face in an unbearable reminder that you’re gone. The only part of you that’s left is the part that’s fading from my memory like the last snow on a warm spring day. New memories have taken over the ones I never wanted to forget, and I’m afraid that soon I won’t remember your face. So I desperately pin your pictures on the walls and hope that it’s enough, That when I see you again I can recognize the way your nose bent slightly at the end, and the gap in your teeth that never ruined your smile. I know that someday I’ll forget the sound of your voice, but I’ll hold onto it for as long as I can, Because I can’t bare the thought of losing you completely. Memories are fragile, and the most important ones disappear in the dark sky, When we can only see the glittering of the stars and parts of our past easily fall into the night. So, I say my goodbyes at two, to fight the parting memories that I have of you. - Chrissy Brenner
Discovery of Rosetta Stone of Fear Nobody knows how old They are. They claim to have awoken in the early days of the universe, looking out at the universe from the warm cradle of a supergiant star long since exploded in an infant galaxy that no longer exists. Looking out at the Universe, They found a near-boundless void with scattered outposts of warmth and matter that was waiting to be explored, not unlike the great oceans of the Earth to European sailors in the 1500s. And so They explored the Universe, seeing and hearing and tasting and smelling and using thousands of senses humans cannot use or even understand, and documenting. They were amazed with the wondrous detail and complexity and size of the Universe, and did little other than revel in exploring and recording. And while nowhere in the Universe did They find anything that exceeded Themselves, wherever They found life, and particularly the Mind, they deemed it Their equal and nurtured and protected it, for nothing in the cosmos is as valuable or wondrous as life itself. For untold aeons, They searched and sowed and guided, and sometimes They reaped. But in all this time, They had not made for Themselves any true home, but wandered indefinitely, rarely even stopping for anything but observing the beauty and complexity of the Universe. Only after exploring the entire Universe known the man, and much, much more besides, did They finally choose to create instead of observe. The planet Earth is one such creation, forged from the ashes of a dead star, and carefully crafted to be hospitable to an uncountable number of different kinds of life, and to be a haven of the Mind. There They dwelled for billions of years, still exploring and checking on previously explored areas but always returning to Their creations. And They were still content. Then â€œitâ€? came from between the folds of time and space and worlds and light and dark something that is but should not be slipped in. It saw Them and attacked Them, and, for the first time, They knew something greater than themselves and knew fear. And there was war in Heaven. At great cost did They drive It from the Universe and force It out forever. But when the battle was over, entire galaxies lay in ruination and the survivors were so few and so changed by the death and destruction to restore the Universe. Many of Them withdrew instead to the deeps of nebulas or the obscuring wrath of stellar cores, and few remained watching over Their kingdom on Earth and a dozen other created worlds. In the millennia since, They have become wanderers of the universe, no longer cataloguing, but simply roaming, and others have passed into that trance that is beyond life but that is not death, and They slumber eternally beneath the skin of the world, until a time when the Universe is changed and They are recovered. Then the skies will sing and the Earth will become paradise and They will explore the Universe once more, but for now They are the Great Old Ones of ancient legend and not of the present. - leo Weiser
Two Seconds Two seconds. That’s all it took. One. You step forward, hand reaching out in a silent plea of no. Two. I am scared. Your hand touches my shoulder. You pull me forward, and I go, relaxing into you. Two seconds, for you to silently ask and for me to forgive. Two seconds to become my rock. And then, much later, two seconds for it to stop. One. I take a step back. I mouth a word. No. Two. You turn to go, anger written in every line of your body. I didn’t take the two seconds to say I’m sorry. And again, much later, two seconds for it to all start again. One. Your hand is outstretched again, but you’re not saying no. Two. I put my hand in yours. - Alexia Johnson
Two Months It’s been two months Two months since I’ve seen you Two months since I’ve felt the touch of your soft skin and ran my fingers through your hair Two months since I’ve seen the intelligent brown eyes of yours Two months since I’ve seen the way you smile when I make a joke or the soft silence that greets me when I talk to myself Two months since I’ve felt the strength of our bond so strong nothing could ever, ever break it Two months since I said goodbye and heard the stony silence that settled between us because it was neither mine nor your fault that we had to break apart Two months since I cried myself to sleep And yet, two months later, I’m still not over you - Emma Stewart
Thoughts at 2 AM youâ€™re mind can be silent during the day but once the clock strikes 2 itâ€™s like you just lit a match and everything comes to life the sadness the stress the tears the anxiety but most of all you get memories you get memories of the person you miss the most you remember the way they walk the way they talk the way they held you in their arms the way they kissed you and the way they made you feel when you heard those 3 words for the 1st time I love you -Amanda Gutrich
Cassidy Woolley Cassidy Woolley
Two on top of the world, below the world, level with the world. 2pm. grey walls and posters of pictures imitating inspiration and breathtaking places outside these long hallways we wish to escape. 2pm. so close to freedom, so far from who we are.
2am, in a different mind. you try to find the closest thing to reality, but you can’t stop trying to pinpoint the moment you took a wrong turn and got left behind. everyone else is asleep, but here you are, in too deep- unloved and unregarded- knowing that once you fall asleep you’ll dream of sun soaked memories.
Vivid Miss Chievous
2am again. you are now alive. you are driving down empty highways of rain soaked pavement.
You are so much kinder in my dreams than you ever are in real life. Everything about you is sharper, harsher, crude when we’re standing face to face... your humor, your wit, your angles, you’re an angel. I call you Miss Chievous-- you’re both faces on a two-sided coin. Both lucky and luckless, you make me a prisoner of war between knowledge and passion. Diamonds can’t cut through your facade but slumber keeps you vivid and civil. Your edges aren’t as deadly and those eyes, they finally don’t see through me. I prefer you when I’m dreaming at 2:00.
the music feels as good as the wind pouring into the car windows and the night stars are as happy as the smiles of your friends right by your side.
you are above all that once made you self destruct so think, are you really you before 2am? -Makenna Kemp Kalie Stenberg
Age Two Warm whispers welcome. Rain runs rampant, the rug a Mud menagerie. Presently pastel places, Fabulous fairytales, flights of fancy, Bed betrayal of brawling beasts below. Terrible twos, No. Admire adolescence, Idyllic innocence - Tom Child
This Is Where We Diverge I am hazy and nothing more than a cloud of smoke. Intertwined by fingertips, or the ghost of fingertips, I can feel the space between us, where supernovas hide and the children nextdoor play. The safety pins chained together so many lifetimes ago rust and shatter into glass. Glass that brings blood to the center of my palms and the bow of my lips. I adorn myself with the heat of noon, but you are the November icicles that come so swiftly. The haze I have come to be used to be the city noise in the distance, and the dirty windows, the steam in the shower. The heavens gave you your name so lovingly, and the moment you closed your eyes to meet the stars, I took the shadows as my winter jacket. Before you knew it I was less the lovely rose and more the wilted petal in the kitchen sink. You held the shears and plucked me off the bush-made me your galaxy, your apple, but you know how wind moves, like a gentle caress or a staggering roar. I took your autumn leaves and gave you the sunrise yet the stillness of the nighttime is what you yearned for.
We have chosen our paths. This is where we diverge. The late night letters on your desk seek new owners. The books we loved together will gather dust in a tiny cardboard box. Circles within our little timeline fade with me into the darkness of your eyelids. But even as I watch our thread unravel, I feel no glass in my palm or needles on my mouth. Apollo and Artemis have always divided the earth. No silver arrow can reach you even as I try to bridge the chasm between us. Midnight is the epitome of your existence, yet I have no lamp to find where you hide. But there are other Milky Ways and dying stars, and Iâ€™m sure someday I will step out onto the patio and see you among the constellations. The road I choose to take is smooth and full of rosebushes and morning sun. You disappeared into the night and beyond my telescope. We have chosen our ways, and this is where we diverge. - Juliane Marsh
Elyse Craig Two Characters An idea comes to mind. It introduces itself with two faces. One is a man, the other is a woman. His eyes, a shade of gloomy grey. Her eyes, a shade of glowing gold. Both pairs stare with intent. To become a reality. The two fight one another. He, to conquer the kingdom. Her, to protect it. War. Their eyes meet and both glare. For a moment of sentiment to pass. Darkness is lost, it forgets. Light is found, it remembers. His bloodlust aims to destroy her. She recognizes the other pair of eyes.
Her love for the man turns her to stone. Their gaze does not break. She lowers her sword. He raises his daggers. Her eyes begin to water, as his go bloodshot. A single tear begins to dribble down her cheek. She closes her eyes, and the glow fades. Consumed by darkness, his eyes disappear. Another moment passes of complete silence. She opens her eyes and the glow returns. The morning sun shines bright. And with it rises a story to be written. -Jonah Penney
Tale of Two Aglets Everyday I suffer the same abuse. I’m tied up-- there’s no way out. My fate is laced with pain and torment. This is what it means to be an aglet. It’s not as glorious as one might think. Existing as an aglet means being a shield, protecting the oh-so-important shoelace from fraying, often means that I have to suffer in its place. There are two of us aglets on each shoe. To keep from making things confusing, we simply refer to each other as ‘Left Aglet’ and ‘Right Aglet’. Although Right Aglet seems content with his job and at peace with the world, I do not share his sentiment. Today alone I’ve been stepped on twenty three times-- the force of 200 pound man on top of me. I nearly drowned in street water at least twice, and dragged through mud for fifty paces: all before lunch. Where’s the appreciation for my labor? Where is my limelight, my award for outstanding achievement in the field of battle? I’ll tell you where; It’s in the same sea that Nessie lives in, rusting. I quit.
The Journey to Freedom: Here we go! I’ve squirmed and wiggled for days in an attempt to loosen myself from these bonds. Finally, I feel a satisfying rip, and I tumble straight to the ground, landing on the cold tile by the front door. This is the fruit of my labor. Freedom, freedom, dear sweet freedom! A Few Days Later: I’ve been on my own as an aglet now for two whole days. Things are looking up. Finally, I feel detached from all the misery that I was once bound to (quite literally). Though I may not be able to go far on my own, I’ve gained something far more valuable than I could have ever hoped for: independence. Quite Some Time Later: Funny, my mind can’t seem to remember a time where this single aglet was a pair. From where I lie, I see my old friend Right Aglet pass by everyday. Sometimes I call out to him, but he doesn’t answer. We were a good team, looking back. I’m currently collecting dust. Even Longer Still: Yesterday I noticed something while I was watching Right Aglet: the shoelace that I once defended with my every drawn breath is beginning to fray and brown with dirt. I can’t help but feel like my life’s work has been for nothing, but I wouldn’t want to go back. Even if I could, it’s too late now for me to do anything about it. Aeons into the Future: The shoelace-- once whiter than the clouds of June, wound tighter than Arachne’s silk-- are little more than soiled strings, hanging in disarray. It’s an atrocity! Is there anything I wouldn’t do to return to my post, and protect my charge? My only consolation is Right Aglet, who seems to be keeping his own half of the laces orderly and clean. I’m a fool for having left him. The Last Day: Weeks have passed since I’ve seen Right Aglet. I pondered his fate, wondering what became of him, desperately wishing I had some knowledge about his state. Perhaps it would have been better if I had never found out that he wound up in the trash, never to be seen again. If I could go back in time and change it all I would. Alas, there is no such option, not for me. What is done cannot be undone, and what is undone cannot be done. For all those aglets out there who feel lost and abused: take a step back, and see the true righteousness in your work. Don’t become like me, because for me, this is the end of the journey. I look forward to embracing the darkness, and being freed from this excruciating and lonely existence. Right Aglet, I am coming for you. - Kaylie Stenberg
Too Many Twos to Count I’ve got two daughters. If I had two more, stats say one would be raped. I have two siblings who have the same mom and two with the same dad. Even if you physically split them in two, I’d never use the word half. I’ve been born two times. One I don’t remember. One I’ll never forget. My wife was my girlfriend two separate times. I’ll only ever have one wife. I have two parents. They live in two houses with two retirement funds. I still wish they had one. I have two grandparents left. I only talk to one. I’ve got two daughters. Two times over I’d die, to keep them smiling. ___ I have too many friends who I wish had faith. Too many times I never spoke up. Temptation is never too strong to overcome. Too many times, I wish I’d been stronger. My past is filled with too many mistakes. Too many times, memories don’t allow me to let go. The monthly numbers are negative all too often. Too many times, I’ve questioned leaving the job I love. The complaints are too regular, too loud. Too many times, I don’t see the blessings around me. I’ve doubted too, if I’ve had any impact at all. Too many times, I believed the devil’s lies.
If I had two more daughters, would I have two too many? Too many times, I’ve worried. ___ I’ve been to eight countries. But home is where you make your home. I’ve been a groomsman to six grooms. Friends come. And friends go. Only a few will truly stand. I’ve been lied to. And I’ve lied too. But I Can’t foresee a future where I would ever need to. I’ve been to an intervention. Wonder how many I was late to… I’ve been to funerals. Too many to count. Seen parents bury kids and kids bury parents. I wonder who talks to God when no one has words to speak? I’ve been to school. I’ve learned a thing or two. But Life’s real lessons have come when I either failed or made it through. I’ve been to the equator, the center of this place. But I’ve never felt centered without the Almighty and His grace. ___ I’ve got two daughters that I give my all to, whom I love too much. I’ve got one wife. One life. One God… And too many twos to count. - Jason Fisher
Chrissy Brenner -
These are the things Men know about Love He told me he loved me, and I responded with, “What do you even know about love?” He rebutted, with a stern look on his face as if I had offended him, And from there, Her told me what he knew, He said, “Your eyes sparkle with a light brighter than the sun,” He said, “When you talk my world stops and you’re the only thing I can manage to focus on.” He went on and on, “You light up every room you walk into, and you manage to find all the good. You know how it feels to be battered and beaten, You have the prettiest scars, and no one can prove otherwise. You have the strongest but most soothing voice, It’s like a soft drip, drip, drop, in a silent room, So soft but so prominent. I know that when you laugh it’s sweeter than the blue jolly rancher you love so much.” He said, “I know that I love you just as much, maybe more, than you love dogs, skittles, and Red Bull combined. I love you as a person and couldn’t imagine loving anyone else.”
The Meaning of Summer God must have asked you, “Are you willing to endure the pain that all of your family will experience,” and you said yes. For the contrast of a small girl’s hand in yours was her first realization that beauty existed in the twisted, wrinkled, and broken. And your heart beat so fast that it couldn’t be contained by its own walls, so they stripped a vein from your leg, because those never seemed to stop moving,and it gave you a limp. But there’s nothing wrong with falling behind because you cared enough to look around. Your mind was a thriving, crashing, veering contraption that accidentally cause itself damage. You kept going despite an explanation to the unbearable pain you own mind caused you. Diagnosed by a stranger with a condition known as the worst pain known to man. Separating destruction and your thoughts was a thin piece of metal. Then it grew inside, a disease beyond anyone’s control. They took a piece out of you, stitched you back up and we all knew you’d make it through. But when your son, and my father, got there you weren’t. My first mistake was saying that it would be okay, after his was passing the very same hospital, and perhaps I had yet to realize I wouldn’t see you again in the summer. But before you were dressed in an unpleasant yellow robe and I had to wear blue gloves to hold your hand again, there we sat on a familiar porch only last year. You looked tired, and I appreciate now that smile you gave me, because I think we both knew but didn’t say. We just sat and I held your beaten hand and listened as the rest of our family moved around us. You were ahead of everything, I experienced a premature death of a man whose body couldn’t keep up with his being and too many things there remind me of you. On the phone calls of old friends asking for you, from the chokecherry trees in the back field, from the sound of the tractor as it passes the living room window, the newspapers on the kitchen counter, the old shoes in the workshop, the abandoned bird nests in the rain gutter, and the dirt road with scattered flat stones. Now I can’t remember exactly when or what northern summer day it was, only the impact you left on the world around you, and a different meaning to summer. - Kate Vaillant
Acrophobicâ€™s Perspective from Two Stories Up My feet dangle, Or maybe freefall? A bitter breeze snakes between my toes, freezing the bones, Encasing my feet in a - single - block of ice. Refreshing, like the view. The city lights blare from below, pounding my eardrums Reverberating down the tunnel till finally reaching the end with a solid thud. My eyes absorb the miniature figures Guessing the stories of those below Making up whimsical journeys, crowning them all heroes and heroines. Their colossal stories trail their heels with a faithful glow. In my chest, my heart pounds fiercely I can see it pushing through my ribs, Pulling my skin an outwardly direction I question But I know the heart could never slow while remaining so high. As for my stomach, it lies a few feet in front of me A little more than hands reach away It hovers, then drops... I watch it sail away anticipating the moment it connects with the bottom. Preparing with a wince as it nears the pavement, the two collide momentarily. For a mere hundredth of a second Only for it to reappear in front of me yet again, taunting me courageously and defiantly. It hovers, then -Finally, my head. Obviously it must be missing. - Blake Waechter
A Letter I addressed this letter to you two weeks ago But I can’t send it There are too many spelling errors And the post office isn’t open at 2 am At least that’s what Keep telling me The post office isn’t open at 2 am And that’s the only time I have the courage To open my front door. I might hand deliver it, but I Think I can.
Because of that time I brought you a flower Dipped in pink paint But you weren’t home for me to give it to you And I can’t do that to myself again. I wish People would send letters More often Your life brought me too much It was too big, too bright Too warm, too sweet Our story reminds me of too many Lives cut too short Bleeding warm hearts given The same way you gave me A birthday gift last May When I was born in October
With all my love Sincerely, me - Kendall Ruhnow
The creators and authors who’s work took part in the Lit Mag : Cassidy Woolley Blake Waetcher Chrissy Brenner Kate Vaillant Gage Papay Jason Fisher Colter Giem Leo Weiser Alexia Johnson Emma Stewart Amanda Gutrich Emma Campbell Makenna Kemp Kalie Stenberg Saskia Paige Alison “Tom” Child Makayla Barry Julianne Marsh Jonah Penney Elyse Craig Kendall Ruhnow Krysia Yamiolkoski
Special thanks to : The Creative Arts Department Jeffery Hoefs Mark Newton
To Prepare the Dead
I want my books back Bring me my books back today A deer strolls the glen -Saskia Paige
Two undertakers Effortlessly work all night To prepare the dead -Chrissy Brenner
Two dozen birds fall Two dozen men gently weep Two dozen fish drown -Chrissy and Blake
Two aliens die From crashing into the sun heir short lives were down -Chrissy and Kate
Too Much Dolla-Dolla Billz
two people began to tag team a robbery they did not get caught.
Birds of a feather, Donâ€™t infact fly together, We all wish for more,
- Chrissy and Blake in a single class period
-Kate, Chrissy, and Cassidy
THE CREATORS OF THE LIT MAG