2015 Volume 26 - Briarwood Christian School
The Artisan 2015 Volume 26 1 2 Editor’s Note They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Similarly, I believe that a photograph is worth a million memories. This year as Briarwood Christian School celebrates its fiftieth anniversary, I invite you to flip through our pages of photographs. I know what you are thinking, and no, most of the “photographs” are not photographs at all — they’re just pieces of artwork by some kids, but I’ve used the photograph motif because photographs are memories and memories are made up of the things we do and accomplish and even paint. So, flip open the pages, enjoy our memories, and hopefully, we will become part of yours. Allyson Payne The Artisan 2015 Volume 26 Briarwood Christian School 6255 Cahaba Valley Road Birmingham, AL 35242 3 Poetry 8 Love Poem with People Molly McKenzie 8 To Be Madison Kimel 9 Love Song Remix RJ Jennings 14 A Journey Home Grace Giles 15 Where I’m From Eliza Graham 15 From an Old Pontoon Boat Allyson Payne 28 What If Grace Giles 28 Time Mary Glynn Scharf 29 Internal Clock Cynclaire Jones 42 Those Stupid Numbers Hannah Hynds 43 A Student of Plato Robbin Reese 4 68 Thoughts of a Waiting Man Allyson Payne 69 Komm Rüber Abraham Lee 69 Tourist Guy Bekah Blythe 76 The Rescue Jud Tarence 76 My Bully Callie Tedder 77 This is a Poem About Nothing Maggie McDavid 80 The End of an Astronaut Philip Jauregui 81 Erebus Seth Graham 81 If You Came Back Mary Glynn Scharf 82 Homecoming Jordan Hedge 83 A Happy Child Eliza Graham 86 To the One Who has Loved Ansley Godwin 87 For the Love of a Sun Allyson Payne 94 Hawks in the Dark Daniel Bruce 94 My Poem to You Rachel Walz 95 Salute, Farewell Allyson Payne 95 Every Man’s Core Bailey Murphy 96 From a Daughter Leaving Home Caitlin Coats 97 Train Laura Herren 106 The Bridge Will Windham 107 The Valley of Peace Elizabeth Campbell 116 Mr. Dawson’s Court Griffin Oaks 117 The Forgoten Sister Reagan Travis 120 Glimpses of Heaven Matt Roberts 122 Asylum Colleen Shuford 123 Perfect Insanity Maggie McDavid 123 Break Free Miranda Shaffer 124 Pacific Coast Highway Ansley Godwin 125 Oregon: Warm Springs Eliza Graham 125 A Beautiful Song Peyton Feemster 136 The Great Calamity Will Carlisle 137 Not Her Home Colleen Shuford 137 Puzzle Reid Hodges 138 High School Physics Ian Christopher Brown 50th Anniversary Pieces 60 Observations of a Foreigner on the Lisbon Subway Elizabeth H. Bowles ’96 61 When You Return Sarah Yates ’05 61 Near You Stephen Bennett ’97 62 On Walking Away Lyndsay McDavid ’00 63 Through a Rainy Night Robby Austin ’00 63 When Summer Leans Elizabeth Stephenson ’01 64 Daybreak in Alabama Joy Mathis ’07 64 On the Beach China Irwin ’03 65 The First Song Katy Donaldson ’05 65 A Dreamed Voyage John Sherer ’05 66 Dreaming in Color Caitlin Lamon ’05 67 Another Variation on the Word Sleep Amy Hannum ’07 67 Gerbil Adam Trettel ’06 Fiction 18 Split Eliza Graham 36 War Zone Colleen Shuford 50 7:02 Allyson Payne 72 Trash Removal Grace Giles 88 For the Love of the Game Nicholas Coker 100 Sunshine Ansley Godwin 108 The Red Ultimatum Jordan Hedge 126 Conspiracy Times Drew Bonner Nonfiction 12 The Power of the Pound Cake Lacy McClung III 24 Actions, Not Words Allyson Payne 26 Football: The New Religion Ellie Tarence 30 We’re Not Gonna Take It Philip Jauregui 34 My Love for Road Kill Miller Kinstley 44 The Path to the Future Trey James 46 No Faults in This Book Libby Hennington 48 Preparedness Drew Bonner 56 Alumni Graphic Designers Artisan Staff 58 Alumni Authors Colleen Shuford 84 The Plight of the Dreikäsehoch Libby Hennington 98 A Letter to a 6th Grader Reid Hodges 120 Glimpses of Heaven Matt Roberts 134 Irreplaceable Eliza Graham 5 Art cover chalk Molly Lattner 4 pencil Kassie Roberts 5 pencil Molly Lattner 5 pencil Charlestan Helton 6 pencil Christine Kontos 7 color pastels Sully Jeter 7 acrylic Maddie Smith 7 scratchboard Luke McKay 9 color photography Katie Lee 10 charcoal Molly Lattner 10 color pastels Marvin Adkins 10 pointilism Josie Slaughter 11 charcoal Morgan Ash 6 11 pointilism Katy Broughton 11 pointilism Hannah Duke 11 acrylic Lauren Palmer 14 color photography Grace Giles 16 scratchboard Kate Bowers 16 scratchboard Kassie Roberts 16 scratchboard Jessica Harmon 17 scratchboard Forrest Dreher 17 scratchboard Rachael Bekken 17 scratchboard John Hayden 19 color photography Mary Elise Nolen 21 color photography Elizabeth Holley 22 color photography Emma Hutcheson 25 acrylic Watkins Youngblood 27 pointilism Whit Pittman 29 colored pencil Forrest Dreher 31 color photography Mia Mauberret 32 acrylic Jane Walsh 32 acrylic Lauren Palmer 32 acrylic Harrison Cain 33 acrylic Ellie Mulvaney 33 acrylic Hannah Hall 33 acrylic Andy Ball 35 scratchboard Preston Fights 35 scratchboard Forrest Collier 35 scratchboard Hannah Duke 37 color photography Katie Lee 38 color photography Katie Lee 40 acrylic Kelly Bemis 40 acrylic Ashley Musachia 40 acrylic Katie Broughton 41 acrylic Marly King 41 acrylic Ellie Mulvaney 41 acrylic Matthew Wood 43 color photography Mary Elise Nolen 45 pencil and photoshop art Katy Broughton and Thomas Collier 47 color pastels Madison Russell 49 pointilism Kat Smith 50 color photography Mia Mauberret 53 pen and ink Abby Parks 54 oil Charlestan Helton 68 acrylic Abby Parks 70 oil Christine Kontos 71 acrylic Anna Gandy 71 acrylic Forrest Collier 71 watercolor Cayman Frederick 73 color photography Mia Mauberret 74 scratchboard Marly King 76 watercolor Lauren Palmer 78 acrylic Ellie Mulvaney 78 acrylic Kate Bowers 78 acrylic Hannah Hutson 79 acrylic Kate Bowers 79 acrylic Jane Walsh 79 acrylic Mary Davis Barber 80 scratchboard Anna Gandy 82 black/white photography Grace Giles 83 color photography Mia Mauberret 85 color photography Ansley Godwin 86 acrylic Sam Cargo 89 color pastels Abraham Lee 90 charcoal Hamp Briley 92 colored pencil Hannah Duke 92 oil Charlestan Helton 92 acrylic Gin Jager 93 acrylic Sarah Esther Merry 93 acrylic Kelly Bemis 94 color photography Grace Giles 96 pen and ink Kassie Roberts 99 pencil Robbin Reese 101 mixed media Maggie McDavid 103 charcoal Christine Kontos 104 color photography Grace Giles 106 color photography Gillian Ash 109 mixed media Charlestan Helton 110 scratchboard Harrison Cain 112 color photography Mary Elise Nolan 114 pencil Elizabeth Shepherd 114 pencil Ashley Musachia 114 pencil Mariel Kynerd 115 pencil Sarah Burrow 115 pointilism Lauren Palmer 115 acrylic Madison Chambers 118 acrylic Molly Lattner 118 Harrison Cain acrylic 118 acrylic John Collier 119 acrylic Elizabeth Gunn Hannah Hall Charlestan Helton Christine Kontos Molly Lattner 119 acrylic Anna Gandy 119 acrylic Chase Koslowsky 121 acrylic Grant Hester 122 mixed media Molly Lattner 124 scratchboard Elizabeth Gunn 127 pen and ink Ben Collins 130 acrylic Charlestan Helton 132 color photography Evans Hess 132 b/w photography Grace Giles 132 color photography Grace Harris 133 color photography Hannah Honea Su 133 color photography lly Grace Giles 133 black/white photography Grace Giles 135 pen and ink Molly Lattner 137 watercolor Anne Renfroe 138 color photography Gillian Ash col Je pastels te r or Madd ie 50th Anniversary Pieces 60 acrylic Celine Chenowith ‘98 62 pencil Whitney Alfano ‘04 65 acrylic Jennifer Bromberg ‘97 66 acrylic Caroline Harwell ‘97 L e uk a cK M Smith ard o hb atc scr acrylic y 7 L ove Poem with People to Miller Williams, having read “Love Poem With Toast” Some of what I do, I do because it is all there is, the proper placing in the pantry, the toaster to get warm, the perfectly smooth butter. The rest of what I do, I do because it is my job, the crust from burning, the heel from rotting, the crumbs from falling. With off and on like a lever on a toaster theypower their meals through the days. Today is the day I must be eaten, wanting to be wanted, wanting to be hungered for, wanting this woman to stop staring, wanting not to burn, wanting to be perfectly crisp, wanting to be enjoyed, as each of us wants to please the other, waiting for someone, I reach for her as if I were able. she strides right by and reaches for a bagel, gazing at me. I pretend I care none. Molly Mckenzie T o Be To be O Ophelia was your sweet curse floating in passions denied with spirit fatally hurt To be O Ophelia peacefully in bliss lying in flowers incapable of distress To be O Ophelia with soul intertwined never to reclaim from one who declined To be O Ophelia the last sky you see shimmering like diamonds O Ophelia or not to be Madison Kimel 8 Love Song Remix Love comes needy to anyone’s reach. I found the abandoned child beside the raggedy house on the dirt. Fearlessly opening its mouth. Dogs surrounded, cats. I tried to find which was his home but the parents had left. The bundle of skin lay in my arms and spoke. Even though I’ve nurtured him with care, it doesn’t mean it follows. Constantly it looks at the reflection of a faceless child. He refuses to go on, though I’ve offered fostering. What brings us to one another? He and I had a blue sky, a neighborhood, some poems, food on the table. Love was a painting in the window, love was a formula, a robot. Love was faceless, even though we’d repeated each other’s words. Love was needy, love was faceless. The child speaks, starved, in my hands. R. J. Jennings Katie Lee : color photography 9 Molly Lattner charcoal Marvin Adkins Josie Slaughter 10 10 pointilism color pastels Katy Broughton Morgan Ash pointilism charcoal Lauren Palmer acrylic Hannah Duke pointilism 11 of t e h T r he we Po ke a C nd Pou I shall never forget how a dream to expand my global knowledge and bring the classroom to life by traveling to China with a $40 pound cake and little faith thrust our entire family into a whirlwind of blessings! 12 NONFICTION M y story of monetary and societal obstacles began almost a year ago when I received the opportunity to travel as a Student Ambassador to China for seventeen days with an organization called People to People (P2P) the summer of 2014. The trip included traveling to Beijing, Sichuan, Shanghai, Xi’an, and Guilin. After completing two years of Mandarin Chinese in school, I really wanted this opportunity to expand my global knowledge and to bring the classroom to life. After I initially became excited, the price tag on the trip quickly brought me back down to earth. The trip was $7,200! I told my mom that as much as I wanted to go, I knew deep down we could not afford it. In addition, my brother wanted to go on a European Heritage trip during the same summer through P2P that also cost $7,200. My dad told my mom, “Sign them both up. God will provide!” I chuckled nervously, wondering how in the world we would do this. We started with a brainstorm together Lacy McClung III as a family and wrote down every possible idea we could think of and then narrowed the list. My dad grinned widely and asked, “What about the pound cake?” At that moment, I remembered how all of our friends raved about this pound cake that my dad made over the years at gatherings. The original recipe belonged to his Big Mama (my great grandmother, Emily Magnolia McClung). Dad tweaked it with a modern flair and created a masterpiece of a cake. Unanimously, we all agreed. So it started. We created a letter to send to all of our friends and family, informing them of our goals and asking for donations. We posted it on Facebook as an opportunity of a lifetime. Our dream was to sell pound cakes at $40 to raise $14,400. We had nine months to raise the money. Mom and I decided to break our goals down in monthly increments. We needed a total of 360 people to give $40. In our family meeting we would communicate each month what our goal would be to get 40 people to buy a cake or donate. People were very gracious, and orders began to flow. We started shipping pound cakes to various cities in Florida, Virginia, Michigan, and Texas. I took bags of cake to school and sold them to all my friends and teachers. My mom sold slices from her desk at work. A very gracious man at church gave us $1,000. My mouth dropped, and we were jumping for joy! In October, a friend of our family tasted the cake and asked if we had heard about the local farmer s’ Markets. We said no, and he responded very confidently, “You guys would sell a ton of these!” My mom took down the information and sent an email to the organizers of the markets. By April, 2014, we had raised approximately $10,000. Around this time, we heard back from the farmers’ market organizer, stating that the markets would begin May 10. After that, we would attend two markets each week. Not knowing what to expect, we stepped out of the box, packing up ten pound cakes and our poster board detailing our trips, and took them to the market. We also offered cake samples. By the end of the four hour market, all the cakes were sold. The following week, my dad stated, “The Spirit says make fifteen cakes.” Obedient to His Word, we did just that. All hands were on deck. My younger brother and I came home after school each day and started baking cakes. I cut packages for the cake slices, and my brother crimped and sealed them. Before this venture, neither my brother, my mom, nor I had baked a cake. My dad taught each of us how to bake them. By the end of May, we had raised more than we needed. At just about every market we were selling out, and people were telling us that we really needed a business. My trip to China was adventurous and informative. The trip lasted seventeen days, and each day was jam packed with history and entertainment. During those seventeen days, I traveled to Beijing, Shanghi, Xi’an, Guilin, Suzhou, Wuzhen, and Hangzhou. Traveling through China taught me how to understand different cultures and why they think in such way. It helped me learn why countries make different decisions than the United State. Learning a new culture was one thing, but experiencing it is another. The rest is history, and the newest addition to our family is Emily’s Heirloom Pound Cakes, LLC, birthed July 2014. We continue to attend farmers’ markets and continue to sell out. We’ve added an online store on our website, www.emilysheirloompoundcakes.com, and the orders keep coming. We have added shipments to Illinois, Georgia, New Jersey, New York, and Oklahoma. My brother and I completed our trips; all $14,400 was fundraised. I shall never forget how a dream to expand my global knowledge and bring the classroom to life by traveling to China with a $40 pound cake and a little faith thrust our entire family into a whirlwind of blessings! What a mighty God we serve! The trip lasted seventeen days, and each day was jam packed with history and entertainment. Lacy rides the bus on his trip in China. 13 A Journey Home As I walk through the winding path Stumbling over the rolling stones, My heart aches for home, my true home, With whom the whispers Of my heart dwell, A place far from here, Or rather a time long ago, A time of laughs and song. But here I am, now Wandering through the winding path Where the leafless trees sway in woes. Yet I press forward, For I must find my home. My home at last. Here is where I belong, Next to the one I love. I lay a rose atop the stone Of her ever resting place. And I myself beside. I close my eyes and feel the breeze Carrying our faint whispers away, together. I am finally home With the one whom I adore. Grace Giles I watch my breath rise high Into the moonless sky, A moment of peace from the endless quest. Yet the cry of the night owl Reminds me once more Of the one whom I adore. The bristly grass beneath me falls Holding my footsteps in time. I press onward, Looking, searching As the whispers grow louder and louder and louder Until finally—they stop. And I hear but one sweet, melodious voice. 14 Grace Giles : color photography Where I’m From I come from the house on Wilson Street, The one with the book with the same name. I come from the other kind of accent, The one where every vowel sounds the same. I come from snow up to my waist And like a plow I pushed through To get to the slide first. I come from the doll with the knotted hands And the girl with the knotted tongue. I come from upside down hugs And being coaxed out of bed With promises of becoming a princess With the spin of a wheel. I come from the reek of fish on the cape And where the word “chip” Means more than just one type of potato. I come from change. From isolation To the field in my neighbor’s backyard With the path to our secret hideout. I come from bigger change To another region, culture, and people. I come from sound Slipping into my dreams as I sleep. I come from clarinet and drums That turned into flute, piccolo, ukulele, and piano. I come from leotards and canvas shoes, From the sound of wooden blocks Repeatedly hitting the floor. I am from childhood, The bubbles blown in your face As they sacrifice themselves to make you giggle. From an Old Pontoon Boat I’m from the little yellow house, The one with the walking-distance playground. I’m from the red Dalmatian light switch, From racing matchbox cars down Gran’s linoleum hallway And from soft bedtime songs. I’m from sea biscuits and skiing and the light bouncing off the lake, From pulling ears And from “Want to see how a horse eats corn?” I’m from the loud and the rambunctious And those never afraid to speak out. I’m from the scent of leaf clippings From the taste of Toll House ice cream cookies. I’m from simplicity moving towards complexity And I’m uncertain to leave it all behind. But I’m from an old pontoon boat, tossed on choppy waves, And I must. Allyson Payne Eliza Graham 15 Kate Bowers scratchboard Kassie Roberts scratchboard Jessica Harmon 16 scratchboard scratchboard Rachael Bekken Forrest Dreher scratchboard John Hayden scratchboard 17 Eliza Graham I ’m wandering in the dark, damp, cold woods full of tall trees that mock me with their loneliness. If only I could be as lonely as they are. But I’m trapped in between these tall straight statues with none other than my best friend. Wait, correction, former best friend—before she wandered off with my guy and my dream and everything else I wanted. How did I get here? Yeah, I wish that part actually made sense. Her name is Jess. She’s that girl that you love to hate, or love to love. She’s funny to the point of obnoxious, and she’s sweet to the point of smothering. I met Jess in kindergarten, where you seem to make friends with everyone and then they forget you the next day. Not with Jess. She never forgot. Maybe that was because I was the only kid 18 FICTION who had glitter glue, but she’ll deny that to this day. The seniors decided to go camping as a trip. I wish I knew who ultimately decided that, so I could know who to eat first when the chaperones decide to “forget” us. We arrive at the camp, and everything suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Everyone is everywhere looking at everything. It is like they have never been outside their caves of comfort. Glancing around, I notice everyone is much more enthusiastic and interested than I have ever seen them before. “Look at the flowers and the trees and the green that’s surrounding us providing us with our oxygen!” I sit down on the ground and pick at a branch until there is nothing left on it, and dream of air conditioning and blankets. It’s not like I don’t have friends, because I do have some. “Some” is up for interpretation as you wish, but at least I’m not completely alone. It’s just that I am already over this trip and wanting to be home. A group of us decide to go for a walk, and with the argument that I have nothing better to do, my few friends drag me along. It’s then that I notice she’s there, with her boy toy hanging off her arm like a coat on a rack. She walks like everyone in the world is kissing the ground behind her, and in actuality, aren’t they really? But those two are inseparable, like she and I once were. All you used to hear was “Jess and Ella” but now it’s “Jess and Edmund.” “Ella, quit dragging your feet!” I hear someone yell from the back of the group. I pick my head up and try to do the same with my feet. I trudge around the dense forest. Light peeks through the trees, creating mosaics of sunlight on the ground. I put my head back down to watch for any protruding roots that are looking to sabotage me. I look to my left and notice she’s right next to me, almost on top of me. And her boy isn’t with her. Suddenly she’s looking at me like she’s forgotten everything that happened. Like she wasn’t the one that ruined my reputation. Like she never relished my misery last year when she announced everything to the school, making me a laughingstock. No, she seems to have forgotten all of that. And suddenly she’s acting like my best friend in the whole world, trying to talk to me and laugh and smile like we used to. And I’m hearing nothing, just muffled sound, like when a person’s trying to talk to you but a train’s zooming by and you hear nothing but see their mouth moving. “Ella. Ella. Ella, did you even hear me?” Mary Elise Nolen : color photography The resounding answer in my head throbs, No, of course I didn’t hear you. Why do I even want to hear you? But the words that come out instead are “Yes, Jess. Just calm down.” That seems to make her happy again, and she continues on babbling, putting words together that don’t even make sense. And I’m back looking at the ground and nodding when there is a pause. Then her hand is on my arm, and I immediately shake it off, trying to walk away from her. Her hand is back, and I want so desperately to be back home. I walk even farther away, but she is still babbling and saying my name in that whiny voice she used to use when I wasn’t giving her the And I’m daily amount of attention she hearing required. She follows me into the trees, and then suddenly, nothing, we are alone. I look up to see just muffled just her and no one else anywhere close to us. I can’t even sound, like hear their smothered laughs when a through the thick woods, person’s and I panic. trying to Jess seems fine, as if this talk to is normal. you but a “Jess . . .” I say, trying to train’s mask my panzooming by ic. She continues in her and you hear dream world, nothing but chatting happily about the see their sunlight and mouth how it reminds her of moving. summer and this place she went to on the beach and— “Jess!!” I cut her off, and she glares at me with her mouth opened midsentence. She notices the agitation 19 in my eyes, and immediately, her motherly instinct kicks in. That instinct that means she’s trying, trying to find a way out. She turns her head to the left, then the right, finally noticing our predicament. She reaches for her pocket, then brings her hand back to her face with realization. “What are we going to do?” she whispers with horror. I realize we have no idea how long we’ve been walking, or how far away everyone is, or where in the world we are. I’m reminded of the time Jess and I decided to go camping because it was the cool thing to do back then. As a freshman, you’re always trying to fit in, so you do anything you can to move up I could the social ladder. That worked feel the well for me, well at least until last year. The cool thing to do anger as a freshman was camp. Just creeping up bring your friends out to the woods somewhere with a tent my throat, and call it camping. No parthreatening ents, no chaperones, just you and your friends being rebelto choke off lious in the woods. Of course, my sanity. Jess and I had to participate. I was a different person back then, one who cared about what others thought of me. So camping was a must. We couldn’t afford people to think we didn’t know what was cool. So we went camping in Jess’s backyard. She invited over as many people as she could think of, and most of them came. Jess and I had fun back then. We used to hang out after school everyday because 20 her mom and dad worked late, and because Jess was an only child, they didn’t want her to be home alone and bored. So she stayed with me. We would lie on my bed and laugh at girls and yell at my little brother when he barged into my room. We would make snacks together and talk for hours and hours, and when she left, we texted and messaged. We talked boys and gossiped and acted like we knew everything. I even trusted her with my biggest secret. The one about my dad and how he wasn’t, actually, my dad. No one else knew that. She used to get grounded a lot back then, but her mom slowly stopped grounding her, which I guess explains how she is now. When we went camping, we all just sat around, only about a hundred feet from Jess’s house, laughing and eating s’mores that we made in her fire pit because actual campfires seemed too difficult. We were just freshmen girls, after all, not Eagle Scouts or something. Everything was fine until Jess heard a noise. “What was that?” She stopped the group. She looked around at us with wide eyes, and although none of us had heard it, we all became petrified of something out there to get us. Maybe it was the neighbors, or a wild dog, or even a bear that we feared would eat us, although we were nowhere near any bears and we were making far too much noise for it to even come close if it was there. “Jess, I didn’t hear anything.,” our friend Candy said. She was smacking her gum and leaning back like she was trying to stay calm, but you could see the fear in her eyes. She crossed her arms and looked around at us for confirmation. “Did you guys hear anything?” Some girls nodded for fear of Jess. Others shook their heads for fear of Candy. Since Jess was my best friend, I nodded my head vigorously for support. “No, Candy, I swear I heard something,” Jess insisted. “It came from behind us. I wanna go check it out. Who wants to come with me?” “Jess, are you insane?” someone said. “Why would we go out there if you heard something?” another one shouted. “Jess, think about it,” I said. “If there’s something out there, it probably won’t be too happy if you go out there looking for it.” Jess looked at me like she had just sucked on a lemon. “You guys are all just scared,” Jess said as she stomped out into the cold Vermont fall. “We can’t just let her go alone,” I argued. This statement was a mistake, because they volunteered me to walk in the front of the group. I walked carefully, constantly looking down at the ground, because I was clumsy even back then. We walked in a pack like wolves, with Jess always a few feet in front of us. She stopped occasionally, looking around and glancing back to make sure we were still with her. I was getting suspicious when she stopped abruptly in the middle of a clear patch. It was so dark I couldn’t see past her. She turned around, with fear in her eyes but a smirk on her mouth. I knew something was up. “Guys, I heard it again,” she whispered. I knew this wasn’t right. Jess would never voluntarily trudge into the woods. All of a sudden she screamed, and five dark figures came rushing out into our crowd. We screamed and flailed our arms around, trying to hit at whatever was attacking us. Maybe it was thieves trying to Elizabeth Holley : color photography steal our valuables. Or maybe kidnappers who heard a group of girls hanging around and decided to have some fun. These both seemed like logical possibilities until I heard one of the figures laugh. I turned to the source of the noise and saw a masked person with only eyes visible. We made eye contact, and then he raised his hand. I was scared he was going to slap me until he put his hand on his head and pulled off his mask. I stared into those clear eyes for the first time that wasn’t a dream. It was Edmund Clair’s eyes that I was looking into. I didn’t realize just how long I would be staring into those eyes, but in that moment, I knew I wanted to for the rest of my life. He saw my face and laughed, making his eyes sparkle. He turned around, and I remembered where I was and that I was scared. His eyes had made everything go away. All the attackers were taking off their masks. They were laughing. At us. Edmund turned back to me and grabbed my hand. I looked over at Jess for an explanation to find her exploding with laughter. “You guys should have seen your faces!” she howled with laughter. I would’ve been angry if Edmund hadn’t been holding my hand. I looked up at his face and got lost in his sea green eyes shadowed by his dark brown hair. “Wasn’t that just the funniest thing, Ella?” Jess exclaimed to me, breaking in between Edmund and me. I sighed and looked at her, disappointment furrowing my brows together. “Jess, what in the world was that?” I could feel the anger creeping up my throat, threatening to choke off my sanity. “What do you mean? It’s called a joke, Ella. Just 21 learn how to play along,” she said casually, as if we were all as happy and lighthearted as she was. I turned away from her, hoping that was the direction back to Jess’s backyard. I felt something pull on my arm, and I jerked back around to find Edmund again. “It’s this way,” he said with a smirk. He led me back, and I thought that was the last I would ever see of him. I was wrong. So all this walking in the woods reminds me of the fun times I had with Jess. How she used to play pranks on us just to see us squirm, but how I would always decide they were harmless little jokes at the time. Jess comes to a halt next to me, and I look at her, hoping she’s thought of something to do. She stands there in silence, staring at the endless maze of woods. “Why are we even out here in the first place?” I ask her simply, implying that the way she came next to me so casually was not normal. “What do you mean? We were walking and talking like we used to, and now we’re lost. There’s no one around and . . . do you have your phone?” she asks abruptly, and I’m surprised she doesn’t. “Um, let me check,” I mumble as I pretend to rifle through my pockets. The harsh reality is that I know my phone is back at the tent. I can visualize it sitting there, waiting for a call, but knowing it doesn’t have enough signal to perform any of its basic functions. After about two minutes of my fake searching, Jess shouts, “We’re doomed!” and storms into the woods in whatever direction 22 Emma Hutcheson : color photography she pleases. I jog after her, yelling at her to stop walking because I know that will only make it worse. She whips around. “This is your fault!” she yells in my face. “If you hadn’t been so mad at me in the first place, maybe we could still be friends and we could be with the group! This is YOUR fault!” My jaw drops as I feel tears spring to my eyes. They sting of anger and resentment, and I turn away so she doesn’t see them and mistake them for reconciliation. Then, I hear footsteps rush- ing away from me, becoming quieter and year again. When I realized it wasn’t worth quieter as they go. I turn around. She’s albeing her friend. When she told everyone most a football field away from me, her feet about my family secret that— pressing into the ground with purposeful “You know, I always cared about you,” strides. I sprint after her, and when I finally Jess blurts out of no where. catch up with her, I’m out of breath. I stare at her in confusion, wondering “Jess, we need to think logically here. We where in the world that thought just came can’t just go stomping through the woods from. She bores into my eyes with determilike monsters without knowing where in the nation, making sure I know that she’s telling world we’re going.” the truth. How could she care about me It’s evident she’s not taking it as she when she did what she did? There’s no way. continues blazing into the “I cared about you I tried to woods, ignoring my warnand your family and your find things to brother, and especially ing. All of a sudden she yelps as she loses her foot- fill the void. after I heard, I cared about ing and slips into a ravine I you even more. I never didn’t see just five seconds I tried to find stopped caring, and once before. She absentmindyou stopped talking to me, friendships edly—or so I hope—grabs I tried to find things to like yours, my arm, dragging me with fill the void. I tried to find her into the darkness. friendships like yours, Ella, Ella, “Are you all right?” is I really did. But there’s I really did. my first question after I renone out there. Edmund cover. I feel my arms and is sweet, but he’s not real legs just to find bruises instead of broken like you are. Like you guys together were,” bones. I look at Jess, hoping she’s the same she continues, bringing up my past with way. If she is injured, I might have to care Edmund that I tried to block out months for her, and help would be a whole lot more ago. “You guys were perfect together, and I difficult to find. ripped you apart. I didn’t even want him. I She stands up and brushes off her never did.” She stops and looks at me with blue shorts, huffing as she runs her fingers sad puppy eyes, hoping I’ll forgive her just through her blonde hair that’s now coated with that face. in dirt. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just dirty,” she says “Jess, nothing can change what you did,” bluntly, trying to see if I care about her I explain. clothes. She knows it’s true, because her look Which of course, I don’t. I’ve become changes to one of complete misery. all the more bitter since she brought up last “You can’t just . . . tell people that my father isn’t my real father and expect us to be okay. I trusted you with that. I told no one that, not even Edmund.” My voice was getting louder and louder with every syllable. “And you broke that with a simple text, claiming that you ‘never knew’ that it was going to the whole school. Like I would believe that for half a second.” “I get that, okay? You think I don’t know what I did to us! I didn’t think it would spin as out of control as it did! I didn’t know you would . . .” she broke off with a choke. “What? Lose Edmund? Is that what you mean? Because that was your fault, too,” I accuse. I’m on the edge of losing control. “Ella, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I took your happiness and future away from you. You deserve better than me, better than what I did to you. But can we just . . . focus . . . on getting out of this? Please?” she reaches for the top, and I can’t tell if her apology is sincere or not. I look at her confused, but my reaction changes when I finally realize what situation we’ve put ourselves in. “Okay, I’ll boost you up since I’m taller,” I say. She jumps on my back to reach the top. “I think I’ve got it!” she shouts, as I feel her weight shift from my back. She scrambles to the top and turns around. I reach out for her hand to help me up. She reaches down to grab it, and as we make eye contact for one second, I think about the great memories we’ve had and what this reconciliation means for us. Then she lets go. 23 Actions, Not Allyson Payne Can love really be summed up in just three little words? 24 PERSONAL NARRATIVE I Words believe that love is actions, not words. As your average teenage girl, I enjoy reading romance novels and watching the chick-flicks that go with them. I love seeing the main character finally come through for his damsel in distress, promising himself and his love to her with valiant words. And up until a few weeks ago, that’s what genuine love was. My family attends Briarwood Presbyterian Church each Sunday, and every week we get up at the crack of dawn to make sure we sit in the same velvety red pew with the high wooden back that always makes sure you sit up extra straight. Usually a middle aged couple sits down in front of us. The lady is a yellowing skeleton with thinning hair from her battle with cancer, and the man has kind eyes and a weary smile and strong shoulders that droop. The couple had become a staple of our Sunday morning with their friendly waves and smiling hellos, so it was very noticeable on this particular Sunday when they were not in their seats right at 7:50. The large clock on the back wall struck eight, and the organ bellowed out its usual notes to begin the service, yet they were till missing. I looked around for them, but was soon distracted by our pastor who was raising his large hands, bidding us to stand and greet one another. When we were all standing, I noticed some faint movement coming from the back and quickly realized that people were parting down the middle like the Red Sea for a man pushing a thin lady in a squeaking wheelchair. I recognized them immediately, and as they got closer, I saw that the the lady, who was sunken back in the cracking vinyl of her chair, was fading, and the man’s hair was grayer and his shoulders were drooping further than usual. Reaching their front row pew, the man very carefully lifted his precious wife out of her wheel chair and held her up as the enthusiastic worship leader got the first song started. The man blushed red from all the attention, and the woman’s pale blue eyes looked helplessly up at him. The scent of sickness wafted towards me. The people around them who had been staring soon lost interest in the couple and their plight, but I didn’t. In fact, I found it extremely difficult to listen to our pastor go on as the man continued to take care of his wife throughout the service, making sure she had enough water and making sure her sweater didn’t slip off of her slim shoulders to ward off the cold air that was making the fine hairs on her arms bristle. I was so enamored by his dispassionate yet passionate gestures towards his wife, and I realized that all I knew about love was undone because true love is not words but making sure the one you love is taken care of. I realized that St. Paul was right. Love is patient, and love is kind. Love bears all things, and love endures all things. This is not to say that love cannot be expressed by words, but it is to say that the words must be backed up by actions if they are to be believed. In Jane Austen’s famous romance novel Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy makes one of the most heart rendering speeches to Elizabeth, in which he tells her that he “ardently admires and love[s]” her. While the speech certainly is a nice one, it would be nothing without the actions that Darcy takes after Elizabeth turns him down—reclaiming her lost sister and getting Bingley and Jane back together. No reader would believe the accuracy or the intense emotion that Darcy felt behind his words if he had neglected to follow them up with actions. This is why I believe that love is not words but actions. Watkins Youngblood : acrylic 25 Football: The New Religion? Ellie Tarence T he religion of football in America, specifically in Alabama, is an everincreasing trend. More and more people are converting daily and are growing increasingly radical in their faith. Auburn, Alabama and Tuscaloosa, Alabama are the Meccas of our great state. On Saturdays, the entire population of Alabama humbly gathers together for worship to their gods. Both congregations admirably persevere through all three to four hours of praise and joyous singing. In Miriam Webster’s dictionary the word religion is defined as “an organized system of beliefs, ceremonies, and rules used to worship a god or a group of gods.” In the great state of Alabama, football is the chief religion. The two predominant denominations are Auburist and Alabaptist. However, for those less radical and weaker in their faith, there are some lesser denominations that are available as well. For example, for the believers who do not have the time to dedicate themselves to numerous trips to the two holy cities, you could choose churches like UAB 26 SATIRE or Samford. These two options provide just enough worship to where you won’t feel guilty or isolated on Saturdays, but the level of commitment and intensity decreases drastically. You can still call yourself “a man or woman of the faith” but without all the sacrifices that the stronger believers have to make. Once you find a denomination, preferably either Auburist or Alabaptist, there are many avenues of praise in which to express your affection for your gods. For example, both denominations have exquisite shrines that each cost over eight million golden talents. Bryant Denny Temple seats the unimaginable 101,821. That is over one hundred thousand souls won over for the gods of football! What a remarkable feat! You may also find statues where you can be intimately close to Saban, the arch-demigod. You can take photographs with Saban’s brazen image or maybe even say a little prayer to it! The great thing is that there is freedom in this religion, and you can express your affection for the gods freely and without fear of ridicule! Some are so incredibly radical in their faith that they go to the point of poi- soning the shrubbery in front of the other denomination’s shrine in an attempt to win the favor of their own gods. Now that… that is truly living out your faith. Another way to show your love for your religion is to consider what some of the great men of faith have done in the past. For example, show that you are a true follower and name your children reverent saints’ names like Alleigh-Bama or Crimsyn Tide. That would be a great way to show you are sure of your salvation! Finally, it is important to know how to be able to live out your faith in day to day life. First of all, make sure to ALWAYS be ready to testify about how your contribution to the success of the team resulted in the win. After all, you basically are the star player, so why should people not at least hear about it? You deserve at least a little credit for all you did to get the big win! Secondly, make sure that you rest on Saturdays. There is no need to do anything but kick back in your lazyboy recliner and worship. You have been called to rest on this Sabbath Day. Men, make sure you grab a beer and a chicken wing and ignore your wife if she exhibits less than faithful devotion. After all, she is not a true believer like you, so you could even go so far as to do a good work and pray for her during halftime. All that matters on Saturday is you praying hard enough and being so rooted in your faith that your team can come out victorious. Who cares if your marriage falls apart? You are on the road to fifteen, baby! Finally, you must learn to hate the people of the other denomination. If they are not on your side, they are demons. Spiritual warfare is very real, and you must do everything possible to defeat the enemies of the other denomination. You do not even have to consider them as human-beings if they do not worship the same god as you do. Make sure you are a truly dedicated believer. All of your time, devotion, and energy must go towards your gods. You are called to raise your hands to them, cheer to them, and tithe large sums of money to get a better pew in the temple. Make sure that you are “all in.” In closing, I want to say that your life will never be the same once you buy in to this religion. Take a leap of faith and submit yourself to the process and the joy that this new religion will bring you. There is no satisfaction like the feeling of seeing your gods reign victorious. It is a direct reflection of who you are and your value, so make sure you choose wisely when selecting a denomination. You will not regret your decision to join this new movement. It will change your life. Your life will never be the same once you buy in to this religion. Whit Pittman: pointilism 27 What If 6 6 What if we realized the norm was wrong And the weird was right, To see things for what they were, Not just the warped view of the world That has conformed us? What if we have all been brainwashed, But the those we thought were brainwashed were in fact sound Of mind—the roles reversed—or the fish swimming against The mainstream were swimming to something, Something far beyond Our reach but just within our grasp? Or rather someone, Reaching out to us? But we in turn must turn From this world and stretch out our hands in faith To someone or something far greater Than we could ever imagine? Faith is a thing to grasp. Grace Giles 22 28 1 1 55 44 33 Time Time is the thing that has bound us all Time stands as our barrier brick wall Time is the bars that I am stuck behind Time clipped the wings of the freedom I ride Time is relentless and stops for none Time does not stop until its job is done Time is the stealer of far off dreams Time is heartless and cruel it seems You see the smile on the child’s face? Time will soon take that smile’s place Children age and flowers fade Time is a master in this game we have played Mary Glynn Scharf 77 Internal Clock Everything that takes a breath Every thing that will one day eternally rest Contains a clock That continuously goes tic tock 88 Each clock is set accordingly It’s ticking is the priority For as the minute hand moves around The closer to death’s grip they are bound When it is life they are without Darkness will surround There will not be even one sound As death Steals that final breath Closer and closer they come to their end For on this internal clock their lives depend It’s tic tock sound rings in their ears Tic tock tic tock is all they hear 99 Cynclaire Jones They know as time goes Death’s cold hands become more exposed They know the clock will only sing for so long At one point it will stop its song Yet they continue to waste their time In some eyes this would be considered a crime They waste their resources on things that are materialistic Yet they know they are being optimistic Putting off the thought of their parting The grim reaper they are always darting Until that final day or final moment, no one can say When that clock runs out Forrest Dreher : colored pencil 29 WE’RE N T GONNA TAKE IT W e live in a world filled with injustice. Wherever we look, we see people trying to put their fellow man down. We see a school yard bully taking a kid’s lunch money, a politician drafting a new tax to fatten his wallet, or a cable company worker deliberately putting some poor sap on hold for an hour. However, what sickens me the most is that people just stand by and allow these actions to take place. At least … they do most of the time. Recently, some brave young souls stood up and said enough is enough. On a Friday night, a group of young men and women went to their local movie theater. Rather than enter by traditional means, they slipped in through the back door. The reason for this was simple. They didn’t want to pay. After all, prices these days are so high, who could blame them? At twelve dollars a ticket, it would make more sense to steal a Redbox machine from Walgreens. At first their presence went unnoticed, but eventually a staff member was alerted. He approached them in the theater and asked them to leave. They refused, saying he had no right to remove them. However the employee insisted and even became aggressive. At this time one of the young men said, “This isn’t fair! You’re only making us leave because we’re teenagers.” The rest of the group agreed, shouting 30 SATIRE Phillip Jauregui out statements like “Yeah, we have just as much right to be here as anyone else!” and “This is discrimination!” Despite this, the employee forced the teenagers to exit the building. The next night the young men and women returned to the theater, armed with picket signs and a bullhorn. They stood all night protesting against the theater and their unfair policies. They shouted chants such as “We wanted to see a show, but instead we were shown the door” or “They took my popcorn away! What kind of sick, twisted person does that?” People started to walk away from the ticket window and concession stand to hear what the fuss was about. After listening to how the young teens were singled out and forced to leave based on their age, the people became angry towards the theater. Not wanting to support a corrupt and discriminatory institution, they took their business elsewhere. As they continued to protest, the young teen who lost his popcorn became hungry and went inside for a snack. He walked behind the counter to grab some popcorn and a soda, but was stopped by an employee. The employee stated, “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just walk back here and grab whatever you want!” The teen responded, “What right do you have to keep me from this food? All I want is to use your product, and you won’t let me. Why? Well, the answer is simple. It’s because I’m a teenager. You look at me and you see a lazy, stupid, uncultured moron. You see what you want to see. You limit me to a stereotype and then act on your assumptions. Just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean you can take away my rights!” After hearing this, the employee and his fellow coworkers tried to kick the teen out, but were unsuccessful when the protestors rushed in and started beating them with selfie sticks. To counteract this, the movie theater started playing Beethoven and smooth jazz over the PA system to get them to leave. Their young ears were unable to handle such frequencies, and they were forced to leave the premises. Horrified by the theater’s extreme actions, the people in the lobby immediately left, vowing never to return. It seemed as if the teenagers had moved on; however this was a huge error in judgment on the theater’s part. On Friday, a week after the first offense had taken place, the teens approached the theater. This time they were not alone. With them marched a few thousand angry teenagers come to support their cause. Over the past week, the original group had texted and tweeted about their movie-going experience, racking up an impressive twenty thousand retweets. Soon they had gathered the support of almost every student from the surrounding high schools. They marched into the theater and began to occupy each of the viewing rooms, chasing out the theater’s customers. The theater again played classical music in an attempt to drive away the protestors. However, the teens slipped on their Beats and drowned out the music by listening to modern classics like “Turn Down for What.” Empowered by their generation’s anthem, they attacked every customer in sight and did the Shmoney Dance next to their unconscious bodies. Unable to stop the stampede, the theater Mia Mauberret : color photography staff was overwhelmed and called the police. When they arrived, they met with the staff and the leaders of the protest. The protestors appealed to the police and said, “Officers, we are merely exercising our right to assemble and protest, never mind the sixty year old lady we trampled in the process. The workers of this establishment treated us unjustly and forced us to leave on multiple occasions. They did this because they are adults, and we are teenagers. They think they can do whatever they want to us because they are older. Well, we have rights too, and we will not let them be stolen from us. So, we have occupied this theater in protest of their discriminatory actions and will not leave until justice and popcorn have been served.” The police turned to the staff for an explanation. The manager stepped forward in an attempt to clear things up. “Officers,” he replied, “these delinquents have caused multiple disruptions over the past week. They have lowered our reputation, broken into our building, stolen our merchandise, injured our customers, and disobeyed our rules. You have no choice but to arrest them.” One of the teens then spoke up, saying, “You can’t listen to a word he says. He’s trying to frame us! He hates teenagers, and he’s trying to make us look like the bad guys. He comes up with excuses as to how we’re the ones at fault, when really it’s the other way around. He’s trying to make you forget about all the unjust things they’ve done to teens simply because they’re younger. Don’t fall victim to his ruse! He can’t persecute us simply because of our age.” After hearing this, the police blinded the manager with pepper spray He’s trying and placed him under arrest for discrimination against the to make you juvenile youth. So many times things like forget about this go unnoticed. People just all the stand by and let the bigger man win out. Finally someone unjust said they weren’t going to take things it anymore and beat the bigger man. They stood up to one they’ve done who says, “I’m going to pick to teens on you because you’re differsimply ent than me,” and they won. They kept him from making because they excuses about how they were the ones at fault. They revealed are young. his attempts to go off track and mask his true intentions. We need more people like this in the world. We need people who will find the injustice in the smallest and most unlikely of places, and expose it so that those who are at fault may be punished. Perhaps if we do this, the world will become a much more tolerant place. 31 Jane Walsh Harrison Cain 32 acrylic acrylic Lauren Palmer acrylic Hannah Hall Ellie Mulvaney acrylic acrylic Andy Ball acrylic 33 My Love for Road Kill Miller Kinstley G Although it all happened so fast, it seemed as if everything was moving in slow-motion. 34 PERSONAL NARRATIVE eorge Jones seemed to always come across the radio in my truck late at night. “Bartender Blues” had me singing along like Possum was sitting right next to me in the passenger seat. It was a cold gloomy night in late January around 11:00pm on highway 119. My headlights shone on the back of an old clunker minivan that was traveling in front of me. Then suddenly a blur of lights, a flash, and a thundering boom happened simultaneously. My heart dropped to my right foot slamming on the brake pedal. Usually if it is a weekend in January, it is hard to find me because the deer are in rut and I am hunting out of town. Yet this night was different. I had decided to bow hunt on some property down the road from my house and meet up with some friends afterward. I saw a mature buck I wanted to kill, but I could not get a clear shot. After hunting, I shot the bull with my buddies for a couple hours and decided to head to the house to catch some shuteye. Good ole NoShow-Jones was coming through the speakers as I was driving home. Then a quick blur came across the headlights of the van in front of me and the entire road was dark. A loud boom came from the front of the van and fragments of plastic and glass sprayed into the sky like twinkling stars as the headlights were uncovered. Then a small three-point buck, no more than a year old, was gliding across the hood of the van, floating into the oncoming lane with a helpless look in his eyes. His body slammed the ground and scraped down the asphalt about ten feet and rolled to the shoulder of the road. Although it all happened so fast, it seemed as if everything was moving in slow-motion. About this time I realized I had been slamming on the brakes since I first noticed the unknown clockwise from left–Preston Fights, Forrest Collier, Hannah Duke : scratchboard figure’s silhouette. Time sped up to normal speed, and my immediate reaction was to turn around at the next intersection. As I did this, the old dilapidated minivan disappeared into the night. I turned my flashers on as I pulled over in front of the deer. For the next fifteen minutes, I sat on the tailgate and waved a flashlight beam to warn ap- proaching vehicles for their safety, as well as the deer’s. The young deer was struggling to keep his head out of the small puddle of blood on the road, but he slowly improved. Eventually he worked up enough strength to bring his head up and sit on his side. Everything in me wanted to go pick him up and help him walk back in the woods, but I knew he could run out into traffic or run at me if I scared him. Then I realized the irony of the situation. Earlier that afternoon I was trying to kill a buck, and now there I was trying to keep one alive. This is when I realized exactly how important the lives of animals, as well as the management of animals, are to me. This strong passion for wildlife helped me decide which career field I want to go into. Long story made short: an officer pulled over to help and almost had to shoot the deer because it kept stumbling across the road, but the deer eventually ran off into the woods like nothing ever happened. When I climbed back into my truck to leave, George Jones was no longer on the radio. Nothing was on the radio the rest of the way home. I was just spending a few minutes to take in everything that had just happened. Never would I have thought that something as simple as a dying deer on the side of highway 119-something that most people would not think twice about-would have such a great impact on me. 35 War Zone Colleen Shuford M ei, pay attention!” the teacher screeched. “Gomennasai, sensei.” I sigh. Why does she hate me? Why do we need to learn about the countries we are fighting with anyways? I sigh and go back to gazing out the second story window to watch for the kindergarteners who will arrive Anyone in a few short hours and then bound to the wall and that’s not will wait, not so patiently, for their fighting parents. I watch, a pink backhas mental packAscomes into sight. Suror physical prised, I slam my elbow on the and my book falls onto problems. desk the ground. Or both. Murmurs swarm around me like angry bees. Yuki. “Mei, if you refuse to listen, then leave!” I hear the quiet chuckles of my classmates. I smile menacingly at my teacher. “Arigato,” I growl. As her jaw drops, I gather my 36 FICTION things and leave the room. I run down the hall and fly down the stairs. Normally I wouldn’t do something like that. Normally I am calm and collected. Normally. . . . “Yuki,” I call out, bursting through the outer doors of the school. “Mei.” She runs and jumps into my arms. I know somewhere on the second floor my teacher is watching me and deciding what she will write to my father this time. Her efforts are in vain. He doesn’t care. My normal is not normal. “Yuki, why are you so early? Where’s the rest of your class?” I ask her. “We got out early.” She smiles. As if. I ease onto my knees so I can look in her eyes, not caring that my school uniform might get soiled. “I was tired, so I left.” I sigh, get up, and take her delicate hand in mine. “Come on.” Nothing about our life can be described as normal. “Did you bring extra paper to do your homework on?” “Yes!” She laughs and lets go of my hand so she can skip ahead of me. “Can I have a cookie?” She calls out behind her. “Sure. Whatever. Just do your work first.” I sigh. We reach the bakery, and I run to the back to change out of my uniform and into my khaki pants, yellow collared shirt, and brown apron with the word ‘Bakery’ on the front. As I leave the changing area, the sight of a small Yuki twirling around and giggling greets me. I smile and take my place behind the register. “Konnichiwa, Kuran-san.” I say to the robust owner of our shop. “Konnichiwa, dear,” she replies, a smile on her face as she watches Yuki. I’m so thankful that Kuran-san loves Yuki and lets her stay here. “Why are you here so early?” she asks me. “Have any customers come in today?” I ask. “Yes, there’ve been a good bit, so I’m glad you have come early. How is your father? Has he written you recently? I know Katie Lee : color photography how long it takes to get letters from the front. As a matter of fact it was only two days ago when I finally received my first letter from my son, Misaki. The date on the top said it was written three months ago. Three months! Well, I guess that’s just because of the war, but back to your father. . .” she rambles. “I think he’s doing fine. He tries.” “Good, good. Now would you mind the register? I’ll be making more cakes.” She turns and goes back to the kitchen. As she leaves me to the customers, Yuki bounds forward and sits behind the counter, her usual spot, at my feet. “Yuki-chan, start on your work please,” “Shouldn’t you be trying to find a job?” I ask condescendingly. “I have been. I was about to apply here. But you never answered my question, Mei. Why aren’t you and Yuki in school?” “School got cancelled today,” I lie easily. “Hmm. I wonder why?” he asks. Ms. Kuran hurries in and grimaces at the man. She doesn’t know who he is. She doesn’t need to. Anyone that’s not fighting has mental or physical problems. Or both. “What can I do to help you?” she asks. “Actually, I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you. You see, I am looking for a job at the moment. Is there any need for me here?” My father asks hopefully. To be this desperate, he must have run dry a few days ago. “Unfortunately, we have no need for any extra help. Maybe after the war is over . . . ” she trails off and looks at the picture of her dead husband that hangs on the wall for a I ask. few long seconds. She wipes away a tear, and “Yes, Oneisan,” she says faithfully and then she shakes her head and comes back to pulls out papers. Yuki is comfortable here us. “Mei-chan, go get the bread out of the because the only customers are female. All oven before it burns.” the decent men are fighting the war after all. “Hai.” I hurry to the back. I hear my I hear the bell on the door jingle. “Wel- father thank Kuran-san for her time, and come to our humble bakery,” I call out and when I hear him leave, I sigh with relief. If then look up to see a tall and skinny middle she had given him a job here, I don’t know aged man. what I would have done. There aren’t many “Mei?” our customer says, surprised. places that will let a thirteen year old girl “Father.” My response is short. work, war or no war. “Father!” Yuki jumps up and runs to I take the bread out of the oven with hug the man. I stare in disgust as he hugs ease. I’ve done it thousands of times. People my sister and pats her head. love Kuran-san’s bread. When I was young“Shouldn’t you be in school?” our father er, we would come here with Mom, and we asks. would eat it when it was still hot. My eyes 37 start to burn from reminiscing, and I rub them forcefully. Yuki can never see me cry. I go into the front of the bakery to give the fresh loaf to an eager customer. They thank me and leave. “Mei-chan, would you mind running this dress down to Sou-san?” Kuran-san asks. “She had to sell all but one of her dresses to support her family, and I think this would suit her.” “Hai.” I smile at Kuran-san. She really does care about others and never thinks of herself. I turn to my small sister still sitting under the counter. “Yuki, stay here and don’t cause trouble for Kuran-san. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I glance at the clock on the wall. 1:15. I pick up the modest beige dress off the counter and hurry to Sou-san’s house. Katie Lee : color photography It should only take me fifteen minutes to get to Sou-san’s. I walk “No,” I mumble, trying to look downwith my head down until I reach her house. trodden. Everyone thinks my father is fight“Sou-san,” I call, “Kuran-san sent me here ing. I’ve lied to everyone. “I really need to to give you something.” get back to the bakery,” I say apologetically. A gorgeous woman opens the door. She smiles. “He will be home soon, and “Mei-chan! It’s been a long time since I’ve you should be very proud of him.” seen you. How’s Yuki?” she gushes and She slides open her door to let me leave, moves aside to let me in. but suddenly a piercing siren slices through “She’s fine. Thank you.” I smile and enthe air. Sou-san grabs my arm and pulls me ter her small home. Sou-san’s husband died back inside. two years ago, but he died fighting, so she “I have to go to Yuki!” I scream at her can be proud of his death. as I struggle to get out of her grip. “Have you heard from your father’s “Mei-chan, you can’t right now! We are troop lately?” 38 under attack!” Sou-san screams back at me. Tears stream down my face as I think of my little sister hearing the sirens and being alone. I sob, and Sou-san drags me under her table and holds me to her. “Sh, Mei-chan, it’s okay.” She strokes my hair as my tears stain her shirt. I go limp in her arms, and she rubs my back. I’ve never been through a fire bombing before. The screams and crashes from outside terrify me. The whole house shakes, and I clutch Sou-san. I bury my head in her shoulder, and she holds me tightly. It seems that I’m not the only one frightened. After with the work ‘Bakery’ across it. what feels like hours, the bombing stops. Other living people join me in the street. We stay folded over each other for almost They dodge me as I fly by. They stare at me an hour after the last bomb drops. Finally with pity in their eyes. we break apart, and I wipe away my tears, “Yuki!” I scream again, praying for a shamefully. small voice to respond. I finally reach the “Arigato,” I say to Sou-san. bakery and begin throwing bricks off the She leans down and kisses my head. “Of pile, frantically hoping to find Yuki alive. course, child,” she murmurs. Others come to help me. They must recI hesitate at her door. Trying to breathe ognize me as the girl who lost her mother, evenly, I turn the handle and push open the whose father is away at the war, presumably door. It looks like I died dead. I barely glance at and went straight down to I try not to them as I feverishly keep hell. Small fires are gothrowing bricks to the look at the ing in houses, shards of sides. Blood runs down buildings layer the street, faces of the my cut knuckles. She’s the and bloody body parts are only person I love. lifeless bodstrewn on the ground— “Mei-chan,” I hear people who didn’t make someone murmur pathetiies, afraid it to the safety of their cally, and I think I’ll be they might be sick. I turn my head slowly homes. I walk through the demolished town toward people I know. to the voice and then to the bakery, toward Yuki. where they are pointing. The smell of burning flesh Kuran-san’s lifeless body makes me pick up my pace and run. I try is surrounded by strangers. My stomach not to look at the faces of the lifeless bodturns and I vomit. Hands rub my back. I ies, afraid they might be people I know. kneel on the ground with my arms clutched Finally I’m on the long, familiar street, around my middle. She was always so nice and the bakery is almost in sight. I keep to me—taking me in, letting me work for running, and for a split second before I her, loving Yuki and me. Now she’s dead. see the bakery, I wonder about my father. I stay on the ground. I cannot rise. A few Did he make it to a safe place? Then I see people surround me to comfort me while the bakery and nothing else matters. It’s in the others keep looking through the rubble. shambles. My heart stops, and I run faster If Kuran-san couldn’t survive, how could than I thought possible to reach my baby Yuki? I remember holding her in my arms sister. “Yuki-chan!” I scream repeatedly. It’s for the first time, helping her walk, laughing just a pile of bricks, and a huge, broken sign together, and playing in the leaves. By now I am praying to every god I’ve ever heard of—Ancestors, Buddha, Allah, Jesus, Jehovah—please whoever is out there, let her be alive. “Mei-chan!” Someone screams my nameagain. I turn my head and see a man carrying little Yuki. Her eyes blink at me. “Yuki!” I cry, ecstatic, and run to my sister. Her face is red from crying and she has cuts and bruises, but nothing worse than that. She reaches her arms towards me, and I open my arms. The old man hands me the small form. “A man held her in his arms, protecting her from the rubble,” the old man tells me. Then he points to a group helping a tall, familiar frame out of the rubble. My father. I thank the old man profusely. He nods at me and pats Yuki’s small head. I walk towards Yuki’s savior and I look into his deep eyes as my own fill with tears of gratitude. He hesitates and then slowly smiles. I rock Yuki back and forth as she cries into my shoulder. I survey the scene and looking at all our neighbors sorting through the fallen buildings, searching for more survivors. “I need to go help with the search,” my father murmurs and then squeezes my hand before he finally releases me. I nod to him, “I’ll see you at home then.” I kiss Yuki on the head and walk home, all the while thanking the god that saved her and brought my father home. 39 Kelly Bemis acrylic Ashley Musachia acrylic 4040 Katy Broughton acrylic Ellie Mulvaney Marly King acrylic acrylic acrylic Matthew Wood 4141 Those Stupid Numbers To Mary Cornish, having read “Numbers” I despise the unpleasantness of numbers. The way, for example, they hound and follow everything and everyone: five unpaid bills, one malfunctioning lung, seven hours of homework left. I dislike problems with addition— add kids’ soccer practice with work to do— the overwhelming sensation: three bills for medical care, five more sitting in your mailbox. Even subtraction can be a loss, taking and giving to something else: eight hours take away three, the three for someone else to have. And multiplication in school of homework times teacher whose assignments breed under the unsuspecting nose of an exhausted student. There’s a complexity to long division, as it takes a day and chops it up piece by piece, inside the time span of a single day multitudes of activities. And I am often shocked at the tragedy of an odd remainder, ostracized, all alone: five friends divided by two equals two, with one remaining. Three hours to complete four hours’ work, two friends leaving out a third, one more minute of sleep please. Hannah Hynds 4242 A Student of Plato Oh Life, my love! I have wandered far to dance with you In your own banquet hall Adorned in your own finery. The empyreal beauty In your merry voice Rouses my heart to speak In your own banquet hall. A single thought scours my brain, Sears my heart, scratches my soul. “I shall never be Adorned in your own finery.” It was not you, dear Life, With whom I sailed the oceans. It was not you I sought to please In your own banquet hall. Yours was not the savage voice That broke my joy into the jagged edges That plunged into my lungs While I fell, adorned in your own finery. Mary Elise Nolen : color photography Robbin Reese 43 43 Trey James You think we’re advanced now. Well you just wait and see! Your concept of a well developed school will be completely blown out of the water. Everything you know about your dream school will be torn to pieces and replaced with this new phenomenon. 44 SATIRE A s you know the implementation of iPads at Briarwood is a stroke of genius. Our wifi has never functioned better, and Edmodo is a genius piece of software that will one day change the face of social media. It is because of this success that the administration has decided to begin phase two of its plan for streamlining simple processes with complicated technology. Indeed by now many of you have seen construction going on in the tennis courts. Disregard all rumors about improving the science department and cages for iguanalama hybrids. The administration has been working in close proximity with apple to bring you the new iBuilding. The new building will be filled with all kinds of problems and distractions no one would have ever had to deal with if it was not for the new building. Things like silicone grout that changes color outside of certain teacher’s classrooms to tell you their mood and conveyor belts to carry the increasingly obese population of America seamlessly from classroom to classroom while force feeding you Snickers bars. Also, all of your conversations will be monitored, for your protection of course. Unless you happen to say anything we disagree with. Some of the more observant readers have already asked, “What will happen to the old building?” Who cares? Maybe the administration will put the tennis team in there, or maybe we can create a sacrificial chamber there to appease our overlords who live up in the Cloud. Both Steve Jobs’s and Tupac’s holograms will be there to cut the virtual ribbon on the new building. Another important announcement that will affect us all is the immediate termination of all teaching staff here at Briarwood. They will be sorely missed. However, we are happy to announce the release of phase three of our plan to make everyone’s lives easier by making them more complicated by announcing the new iTeacher. The new teachers will be solely reliant on wifi to function, so they will even sometimes be operational. Facial recognition and voice analysis will assure you won’t be misidentified and misheard any more than you are by certain faculty members now. Pay no heed Katy Broughton : pencil / Thomas Collier : photoshop art to the rumors that these things grade papers too harshly and feed off the souls of goats. Extensive testing has proven otherwise. Do not be alarmed! They will still have to wear ties under their sweaters. A final announcement is preparation phase four. Phase four is the instant eradication of the entire student body. These new and improved SMART students will communicate more easily with their new robotic over lords, and will be invariably a better hope for the future of America. Disregard their soulless stares as you walk through the hallowed halls of this school. They have assured the administration that they are only trying The adto decide what miniskind of frosting goes best tration with you. Howhas been ever, it is with great pride that working the Briarwood in close family is currently informed proximthat this is the ity with first robotic high school Apple to ever with a bring you dress code. The author of the new i the announcements is happy Building. to announce that even he has been replaced and is feeling much more efficient with apple support. Whoever said, “Don’t fix things that are not broken,” was a misguided pessimist and a liberal. Fixing things that are not broken is the path towards the future. 45 Libby Hennington J NO FAULTS IN THIS BOOK ohn Green’s The Fault in Our Stars is an incredibly witty, touching story that pierces the hearts of readers. An author who, unlike so many adult authors, does not underestimate the capability for intelligence or capacity for emotion of teenagers, Green captivates his readers by bravely writing what we all feel: terrified, joyful, awkward, insufficient, self-conscious, bitter, adventurous. Green’s understanding of the human emotional spectrum and his ability to convey it never cease to engage 46 BOOK REVIEW me. Furthermore, he is honest about the way life works. When the love interest of The Fault in Our Stars, Augustus Waters, says, “the world is not a wish-granting factory,” Green’s insightful voice shines through. This is a love story disguised as a cancer book. The narrator, Hazel, is a unique mixture of cynicism and compassion. A melting pot of teenage emotions and the confusion that comes with a diagnosis of cancer, she finds her stride in humor very well. She once tells the reader that “there is only one thing [worse] than biting it from cancer when you’re sixteen, and that’s having a kid who bites it from cancer.” She obsesses over a book, An Imperial Affliction, with the same passion any teenager obsesses over anything. Many critics argue that she is far too mature for a girl of sixteen, intellectually and emotionally. To say that a sixteen-year-old could not be that intelligent is a disservice to the book’s young adult readers and to teenagers in general. Her emotional maturity is a direct result of her battle with cancer. She is an extremely dynamic charac- This book ter though, because she also thinks like a teenager. When brings a describing Augustus Waters, new light to the boy staring at her at her life, love, Cancer Support Group, she says, “Look, let me just say death, and it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and grief. Green it is, at best, awkward and, at engages worst, a form of assault. But a readers by hot boy…well.” This brings us to the beloved juxtaposing Augustus Waters. He has a youth and penchant for extravagance, and bravely satiates it whenev- death. er he can. “I’m a big believer in metaphor,” he once tells Hazel. His signature metaphor is to keep an unlit cigarette in his mouth, as he “put[s] the killing thing right between [his] teeth, but [doesn’t] give it the power to do its killing.” He is a genuine, lovable, overconfident boy who fears oblivion. As this young man seeks to lead a significant life, he learns the meaning of true significance. This book brings a new light to life, love, death, and grief. Green engages readers by juxtaposing youth and death. He gives teenagers the credit they deserve, as emotionally and intellectually capable beings. This story of two young people in love is compelling and truthful. Readers can be thankful for Green’s honesty and rejection of sugarcoated story telling. This book moved me to laughter, to tears, and even to healing. I have faith it can do the same for you. Madison Russell : color pastels 47 Preparedness Drew Bonner I did not know the stern side of my grandmother that my father and my uncle had known when they were children. 48 PERSONAL NARRATIVE I am a seventeen year old in high school. I put good effort into school and other activities that I participate in. Many people in my life have taught me to make school and other activities important enough to me to try to do well in them. I believe in the importance of being prepared before you do something. When I was about eight years old, my parents went out of town and left me with my grandparents for the week. I had always viewed my grandmother as loving and unable to find any fault in me. I did not know the stern side of my grandmother that my father and my uncle had known when they were children. This all changed when my grandmother decided that she was going to sit in the back of my piano lesson. My parents had gone on a trip for a week, leaving me with my sweet and homely grandparents. Both of my grandparents seemed to have a scent of brussle sprouts when they came, which took some time to get used to. My grandfather was mainly there to have fun with us, but my grandmother was in charge of taking care of us for the week. My parents hadn’t told her about my piano lesson, which I thought would be fine because I thought she would never make me practice anyway. So the week passed by, and I enjoyed the freedom of getting sweet and cold soft-serve ice cream after school and having piano-free nights. Then, the day of my lesson arrived. About an hour before my lesson, I told my grandmother that I needed her to drop me off at the church for a small, unimportant piano lesson. Upon hearing this, my grand- mother let out a gasp that could be heard around the house. I could feel tension in the house grow from her reaction. She had not known that I had a piano lesson, and since she had forced my father to play piano when he was a child, she knew I was not prepared for my lesson. Still, my grandmother wanted to use this as a lesson, so she gave me a ride to the church and walked me to the piano room, and as I was about to stop her from coming into the room to hear my ill-preparedness, she pushed her way through and introduced herself to the piano teacher. Then the nightmare began. I walked into the stuffy room with piano pieces stacked above my head on all sides from previous fallen piano students. I took my seat, that felt like a rock, next to my obese piano teacher. I felt that she could smell my fear. She asked me whether I had practiced or not, and I untruthfully responded, “A little.” I set my fingers slowly on the piano keys in an attempt to prolong the inevitable. My fingers began to sweat and slide on the keys. I stared at the piece and hoped for inspiration to save me from the doom of the two stern ladies next to me. Missed notes and poor rhythm dominated my lesson. The sound of my playing burned in my ears. My grandmother could take it no longer and Kat Smith : pointilism demanded that I stop playing. My piano teacher agreed that this was probably for the best. My grandmother apologized to my teacher and led me out the door. I was not rewarded with any tasty soft-serve ice cream that night. Although this event was painful while it was happening, it taught me an important lesson about preparedness. Now that my grandmother has passed away, I will always remember her loving yet stern manner that taught me this important lesson. I walked into the stuffy room with piano pieces stacked above my head on all sides from previous fallen piano students. 49 7:02 A Allyson Payne fly buzzes noisily around me in the darkness of the cottage and lands in my unkempt grey mane. “I’m not dead yet,” I think to myself and slowly turn my neck in a feeble attempt to get rid of it. But in spite of its annoying constant hum, I am glad to have company, and I go back to waiting. I hear my time ticking away. Toes that peek out of the thread bare quilt feel the cold fingers of the infinite brushing. My shriveled tongue tastes the bittersweet, and my nostrils catch the dank reek of despair. My heart feels alone. If I could have anyone in this world living or dead here by my side in these last moments, I would choose only Kit. Kit was not only my first love but my only love, and when I had to choose between him and my family, I chose him. When I had to choose between loving another and living out my days alone, I chose the latter. Not that it matters much, seeing as how, even if I could be near my parents and older brothers, they are probably already dead by now. “Even if I could . . .” I think to myself again trying to reconcile my decision, but my eyes are feeling heavy. I think that at last it is time for rest. 50 FICTION towards town. I am falling into the dark nothingness, “Well, I still have time for eggs,” I say but a heavy thump from the kitchen forces to no one in particular, but as I turn back my eyelids to open just a crack. “Ahhh!” I towards the pantry, a knock sounds on the cry out and immediately shut them again window. I turn slowly to face the window as tightly as I can, but the morning light again, and I feel my heart stop. still burns through. “Morning light?” I ask A cloaked figure stands there. My mouth myself incredulously. I heave myself out of freezes open in a silent scream, and I can’t bed and shuffle into the kitchen. make my legs move away from his horrifyI stop in the doorway. “Kit!” I cry and ing shape. He lures me in, slowly pulling me run to him. toward him, silently calling me. His evil lips He puts his mug down on the table and curve into a terrifying grin. holds his arms out for me to fall into. Kit The next thing I know, I’m lying on the hugs me for a long time and then holds me cold tile floor. The cloaked specter is gone at arm’s length to look at me. “My, my,” he from the window. Confused, I push myself says with a laugh, “you could have at least brushed your hair, love.” I give him a playful up off the floor and to the front door. I step out, shading my eyes from the blinding sun slap, effectively removing myself from his with my shaking hand. arms and go to the pantry for eggs. There is no sign of the sheathed thing. “No time for that today. I have a lot of work to do,” he says, kissing my forehead on his way out the door. I stand at the kitchen window until his old pickup rumbles away down the dirt road Mia Mauberret : color photography Thinking he may have escaped around the back, I put on my jacket and sprint around the house. Rushing out into the tiny vegetable garden, I trip over a hidden root in the grass. I can’t catch myself before my head hits the dirt. I push myself up, searching for the thing and rubbing the scar at my hairline, which came from falling over a similar root as a child. The yard is empty. I turn back towards the house to wash my face, but I can’t help tossing furtive glances over my shoulder, scanning the property once more. In the bathroom, just off my little bedroom, I run water in the small basin in front of the gilded hanging mirror. I bend over the basin and splash water up on my face, pink from the excitement. I get close to the mirror to look at my scar one more time, but I end up just examining myself. My dark, waist length hair is disheveled, and my grey eyes have a tired look about them. I brush the specks of dirt from my nose and run my fingers down my braid to smooth the hair back into place. I cup my hands under the running water one more time and bring it to my face. I close my eyes and let the water cool me. I stand like this for a long time, thinking to myself, like I always do in still, lonely moments like these, about the last conversation I had with my father. -“I said no, and that’s final,” he says sternly. “But I love him!” I answer. “I don’t understand why that isn’t enough! Why can’t you ever just understand me?” “You’d better watch that tongue,” he says and slaps me, sending me reeling. “You don’t see him like I do. You can’t see that he’s a good-for-nothing —” Infuriated, I cut him off, cupping my smarting cheek, “That’s not true! He is good for plenty of things!” “It is, and you can’t marry him. Not under my roof.” “Well fine, I’ll just leave then!” I storm out the back door, letting the screen slam against its worn wooden frame. I take off running towards the road where Kit is waiting in his rusted pickup. My torn jeans and faded flannel are the only possessions I have left in the world. I hear glass shatter against a wall and see my father tearing out of the house in a fit of rage. “You’ll be back, girl, you hear me? You’ll be back! And you’ll be sorry!” I turn in my seat and watch him out the back window. “What a fool,” I think. “He can’t even see what’s right in front of him.” I face the front again, laying my head on Kit’s shoulder. “He never could.” -I never went back. I guess the only thing I have to really be sorry about is that I have no idea if he’s still living. A loud thump startles me, and my eyes snap open. Reflected in the mirror is the hooded figure outside my bathroom window. He is pounding his fist against the glass. Seeing that he has my full attention, his bony hand beckons me to come nearer. As much as I am afraid of this thing, I am strangely drawn to him. I hesitantly obey, taking small steps towards the window. Then I am face to face with him, with only the bathtub as a last barrier between us. But he points his crooked finger at me once more and draws me closer. I step over the edge of the browning porcelain, into its waterless curve, and put my hand The out carefully, squeezing my eyes tightcloaked ly shut as our hands meet through the glass and my breath fogs the window. specter He has a magnetic force over me, is gone pulling me to himself so strongly that I accidentally push the glass open. from the He quickly reaches his arm window. through the window and grabs mine, digging his sharp claws into my flushed skin, tugging me out of the window until I’m barely hanging onto the inside sill. He lets go of my arm, takes my face in both of his hands, and yanks me up to his face. I close my eyes, too afraid to look into his, but I can smell and feel his stale warm breath when he opens his mouth and whispers frantically into my ear things that I don’t understand. “Please,” I say to him without looking, “please tell me what you want from me. I don’t understand!” He whispers again, this time piercing and urgent. “I don’t understand…” I repeat. “I don’t.” I say this softly, more to myself than to him. He laughs a low disturbing laugh, and in one frustrated motion, flings me back through the window into the bathtub and storms away. I curl up in a fetal position where I lie 51 with one hand holding my lower back where it hit the side of the tub. Silent tears make wet trails down my face, but soon the soft wind blowing from the open window into my hair dries them and the occasional chirp of a bird lulls me into a shallow sleep. Even in my sleep there is no solitude. I dream of the thing in the window and how he draws me. As if on an invisible string, I am bound to him. I try to run, but it pulls me back in a never ending cycle, controlling me like a puppeteer with his marionette. It consumes my body and soul, and suddenly that is all I really want — to be consumed by this thing that haunts me. I know that if he catches me, I am no more, and that’s what I can’t get past. Am I not already nothing? Who am I at all? These are the questions that we push aside in the daylight. We fail to realize that in the night, the subconscious reigns and frees all the mangled monsters of their cages. Kit calls to me from far away, but I beg for him to leave me be with what I desire. “Go away. Just please go away!” I’m screaming when Kit finally shakes me awake. “What on earth are you doing in the bathtub? And why do you want me to go away?” he asks cautiously. Embarrassed, I stand up and run my hands down myself, trying to smooth the deep wrinkles in my cotton dress. It’s the one with the tiny marigolds sprinkling the white fabric, his favorite. He grins and sweeps me off my feet, lifting me out of the tub, and playfully tosses me onto the bed in the next room. 52 “You are so strange sometimes.” He pauses secure it with the gold pin Kit gave me as a to gaze at me. “But that’s why I love you, wedding gift. I pinch my cheeks to add color you know?” He bends down and kisses me to my drained face and smile at the thought briefly, but when he starts to straighten back of how lucky I really am. up, I stop him, holding his face in my hand. But I can’t stop glancing past myself in I look into his eyes, searching for a better the mirror to the closed curtains. It’s like the reality, one without the hooded specter. figure is silently begging me to open them “What?” he asks. just a bit and tempt fate. I try to shake his “Nothing.” I let go quickly. “Just making call, but I can’t. I creep towards the window, sure.” stepping into the bathtub once again. I put He clearly doesn’t understand what I my arm out to open it and hesitate for a mean, but I offer no explanation, and he moment. But I can’t resist. I rip back the seems to move on. “Hey! I have an idea. curtain as if trying to surprise a small child Its already so late, so how about you don’t in hide and go seek. I cover my eyes with worry about dinner tonight? I’ll just throw my hands, unwilling to look for a moment. together some sandwiches, and we can have I finally peek through my fingers, but to my a picnic down by the lake, just like old times. relief—and distress—only the muggy sumWhat do you say?” mer night air greets me. I stand there for a I smile my response. He moment taking it in, and then As if on an I make my way out of the whistles his way into our tiny kitchen. I listen to him and lie invisible bathroom but only with the there still, waiting, as he bangs occasional glance tossed over string, I my shoulder. around, trying to make a suitable picnic. I finally roll over I wander down the hall am bound to onto my side, facing the bedand into the kitchen, paushim. side table, and brush my hair ing to lean against the door out of my eyes to look at the frame, not wanting to disturb little brass clock on the night stand. “7:02,” Kit quite yet. I watch him silently, and a grin I read out loud to myself. “7:02. Could it tugs at the corners of my mouth as I watch really be that late? Surely I haven’t slept that his strong, work-worn hands handle such long.” But I have. I go back into the batha delicate thing as a sandwich. His back is room, this time pulling the light blue curtensed up as it always is when he’s focused; I tains closed to shut out any unwanted—or decide that its time to interrupt him. I tiptoe wanted—visitors. I examine myself in the up behind him and slip my arms around his mirror again and run my hands through my waist. He turns in my arms to face me. hair trying to untangle its masses. I twist “You, my love, are a terrible sneak. Do it into a knot at the nape of my neck and you know what happens to sneaks?” Abby Parks : pen and ink I shake my head. He hesitates as if deciding on my punishment. “Mustard.” I laugh. “Mustard?” “Oh yes. Allow me to demonstrate.” He wipes the edge of his sandwich-making knife off with his finger and smears mustard across my unsuspecting forehead. “You little,” I shriek and unable to find an adequate insult, I dip my own finger into the open jar on the counter and cover his forehead with the yellow paste. He puts his hands up in surrender and walks to the end of the counter to the waiting picnic basket, slipping the sandwiches inside. He opens the back door, but quickly closes it. “What’s wrong?” I ask. He puts the basket on the kitchen table. “Rain. You’d better just get some plates.” I do as I’m told and place two plates on the wooden table. Kit sits down in his usual chair, disappointed. “It’s okay, darling. We can just go another night, okay?” I say as I set his sandwich down in front of him. He nods curtly and bites into his sandwich before I can get another word in. We eat our meal in silence except for an occasional comment from Kit about “this blasted rain.” I want to tell him about the hooded thing, but now doesn’t seem to be the time. “Later,” I assure myself, “we can talk about it later.” Kit sets his glass of water down heavily, still brooding over the weather, and I jump, thinking of the creature that is stalking me. Kit throws me a cursory glance and goes back to his food. I sit there still, only picking at my food occasionally. I can feel the ominous presence of the figure glaring into the window behind me, but I am resolved not to give him the satisfaction of turning around. Kit finishes and tosses his napkin onto his plate. He stands. “I’m going down to the pond to check on my boat.” He tugs on his galoshes that he keeps by the door. I contemplate begging him to stay so that I won’t have to be alone with the thing, but instead I just ask feebly, “Don’t you want your rain coat?” Not bothering to answer, he goes out the door, slamming it behind him. I take the plates from the table and wash them in the sink. I don’t dare look up because I don’t want to meet his stare. When I finally do, there’s nothing there but residue from the rain that has recently stopped. I squint, trying to see through the drops down towards the pond. Instead, all I see is the dark figure moving through the tall grass towards the house. And its not Kit. Terrified, I slump down in front of the door and cover my head with my arms, breathing heavily, to keep him from seeing me and wanting to enter. After a long two or three minutes, my breathing slows to semi-normalcy, and I dare myself to look up. I cover my eyes again almost instantly. He’s at the window 53 watching me. Even with my eyes shut, I can sense his yellowing teeth grinning at me. I can hear his low rumbling chuckle. I know he is watching me. And I love it. But I keep my head covered and wait for him. Two can play at this game. I sit there for what seems like an eternity, and I imagine that I can hear his breath hitting the steamy glass. Then I hear it. A knock sounds at the door behind my back, and no matter how much I try to stay seated, I can’t stop myself from opening the door just a crack. There he stands in all of his grim glory, his hand extended as an invitation. I accept, and he pulls me tightly to his body, lifting me off of my feet. He takes off running towards the pond. I begin to fall as he slows down, nearing the tangled weeds and deep mud. I grasp at his cloak, begging him not to let me go, but he does. And I am falling. I am burning for the evil thing that I have done. Sinister faces dancing in the rising flames laugh at and torment me until I am sure I can stand it no more. Yet, I know that I must stand it for a thousand eternities. Cold fingers pull me from my delusions. I force my eyes open, and I am faintly aware of the marshy ground seeping through my dress and the fingers lifting me. It is dark tonight with only a sliver of a moon out and an overwhelming fog that sweeps the water. I am not standing on my own. I am in someone—or something—else’s suffocating grasp. I try to shake myself loose, but it is useless. My captor holds me so tightly that I cannot breathe, much less fight back. 54 Suddenly he lets me go, and I fall to the ground, unable to catch myself. He kicks me roughly in the side, and points toward a spot ten feet from where I lie. A body lies face down in the shallow water of the lake’s shore. I look back at the man, but he just thrusts a bony finger towards the lifeless form. I grunt as I force myself to my feet and shakily slip down the bank. I crouch down next to the body to find that it is a man. Something gold catches my eye on Charlestan Helton : oil speaks the words that damn me for all of his left hand in the murky waeternity. ter. I bend down, lift the hand, and see that “Oh my love,” he moans, “why did you the gold is a wedding band. I examine the do this to me?” inside, but I know exactly what I will find, In this moment I know exactly who this Kit’s initials are engraved on the inside. I cry out and drop it as if it were on fire, ghastly figure is and what I have done. It’s strange how the mind works, weavand I scream, but no sound comes. I drop ing its cruel ways. When I was younger, it to my already bruised knees and struggle to seemed a relief to forget, but now it is my turn the body over in the muck. Kit’s dead way of condemnation. Hearing those words, eyes stare blankly up at me. Frightened, I jump to my feet, momentarily forgetting my I am taken back in time to the night of my earlier lethargy, and back away slowly, stum- terrible transgression. -bling at each step, until I hit the grim figure The clock reads 7:02. I fall to my hands behind me. I turn to face him, an apology and knees, scrambling on the cold tile of on my tongue, but his look stops me short. our kitchen. He said that he would be back He is still pointing at the Kit in the water, at 7:00. I am trying desperately to pick up but he has pushed back his dark hood, all the tiny shards of the broken plate. I and all at once I know why I have been so hear the truck rumble up to the house, the helplessly drawn to this being. Kit’s blazheadlights through the window illuminating green eyes pierce my soul as he finally ing every little piece of porcelain still lying off the ground. Then he explodes, flingon the ground. I haphazardly sweep the ing the bloody pieces at me with all of his remaining pieces into my trembling hands, strength. I throw my arms up to guard my leaving small gashes on my palms. I hear face, but still the tiny knives slice through Kit’s heavy footsteps on the back stairs. my arms and legs. I try to turn my back There is no time to make it to the disposal, to him, but he doesn’t let me. Digging his so I just clutch the broken pieces behind my strong fingers into my shoulders, making back, not realizing blood is dripping down me look him in the eyes, Kit forces me to a my wrists and spotting the floor. standing position. The door slams, and I hear his drunkHe slides his belt out of its loops and en—though familiar—slur, “Where are you strikes me with it. “This is for the plate.” hiding, woman?” He hits me again. “And this,” he pauses, Fear courses through my veins. focusing on the blows he is inflicting, “this “I’m in the kitchen, darling.” I try to is just because I want to.” sound cheerful, but I know what he’s like The sting of the leather rains down on when he’s drunk. I glance down at the me over and over again, and the last thing bruise on my upper arm from the last time, I see is the rage burning in the eyes of my and then stare a hole in the god. The last floor as Kit enters the room. The wind beating the “Sweating blood are we?” thing I see house eventually wakes me. Kit asks sardonically. I groan in agony as I force is the rage “Blood?” With a nervous myself to my feet. I lean laugh, I try to figure out what burning in heavily against the counter, he means. “No. I don’t think fighting for breath. Fiery tears the eyes of so. What a silly idea!” burn my eyes. I take the small He lunges for me, knockmirror from the drawer, and my god. ing me into the counter. “Do as expected, angry red welts you think I’m some sort of fool? There’s cover my chest and one side of my face. Fublood on the floor, you little idiot,” he rious, I fling the mirror onto the ground and exclaims, waving his hands in the direction watch it shatter just like the plate. “Never of the stains on the ground. Kit strikes me again,” I promise myself, “never again.” again, this time knocking me to the tile. Daddy was right to try to keep me away. I The broken plate falls out of my hands. see Kit’s galoshes are missing from their I watch in horror as his eyes sweep from the place by the door, and a plan swiftly comes pieces on the ground up the thin blood trail to me. I take a knife from the rack and go leading to my hands. I brace myself, but to out the back door. my surprise, he calmly picks the little pieces As I near the pond, I recognize his unyielding form sitting on the bank, and in that moment, my resolve vanishes. Out of fear, I turn and try to steal back towards the house. But fate won’t have that. In my haste, I slip on the slick ground and fall. I freeze where I lie and steel myself as his strong form pushes himself to his feet and moves towards me. Before he even touches me, I know I’m in trouble and that I will pay. He lifts me off the ground, his hands at my throat. “What are you doing out so late?” “I—I don’t—I don’t know really. Hone—” He must not like my answer because his grip tightens and cuts me off. As I gasp for breath, I know that I only have one option—the knife. I grope for it where it is hidden in my dress and finally got a hold of its handle. Feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline, I bring the knife out and up into his side in one fluent, violent motion. He lets go of me with a groan and falls into the water, and with a surge of adrenaline, I hold his head under the water until the bubbles stop coming, in a moment of mutual power and weakness. -The hooded Kit shoves me down into the shallow water beside the lifeless body, and the executed becomes the executioner. With my knees in the cold mud and my head in my shaking hands, I implore God Almighty to take away my sin. I receive no answer. Then I know that there is nothing to be done about the dead man’s hands on my neck and the rising water around me. 55 ry th 50 niversa An Alumni Graphic Designers Geoff Sciacca—Class of 1999 The Artisan: Where and how did you receive your training? Geoff: I graduated with a BFA in Graphic Design from Auburn University in 2003 and got my MFA in Communication Design from Louisiana Tech University in 2005. The Artisan: Tell us about your work experience in Graphic Design. Geoff: After finishing grad school, my wife and I moved out to Los Angeles and I got a job as a Junior Designer at a firm in Santa Monica. Within two years I worked my way up to Lead Print Designer, and ultimately to the Art Director position. Those two years proved more educational than seven years of design school. And while that was the last time that I worked full-time as a Graphic Designer, I still keep an active freelance practice designing every- thing from book covers for Moody Publishers to a full branding identity for a custom denim company. The Artisan: What does your teaching work involve? Geoff: I am an Associate Professor and Program Director of Graphic Design at Elmhurst College in Elmhurst, Illinois. I actually started the program here, and have since rewritten the existing classes completely and doubled the amount of courses in Graphic Design. I teach everything from 200-level Intro to Graphic Design and Typography courses to 400-level Capstone courses. My favorite class is a Screen Printing Poster Design elective. While I have been teaching at the college level full-time for the past eight years, next year my family will be moving back to Birmingham, and I’ll be assuming the role of Creative Director at Restoration Academy in Fairfield. The Artisan: What would you tell someone who is interested in graphic design about the life of a designer? Geoff: Graphic Design is a beautiful synthesis between the analytical and the cre- ative, and while I’ve had students who have been more gifted in one over the other, it’s important to be able to tap into both sides of the brain. It relies heavily on problemsolving, with the “solutions” relying on the designer’s ability to visually communicate a specific message to an often specific target audience…using the most creative means available. Find a school with a program that has diverse strengths in both print and web design. There has been a tremendous resurgence in print media, with more “primitive” methods of production such as screen printing and letterpress growing in popularity; but there’s also no denying how much of our profession is spending their creative energy on things that will never be printed. The Artisan: Could you talk about your particular specialty or focus? Geoff: I focus primarily on print design and have spent a lot of time solidifying screen printing (on paper). While I spend a lot of time in front of a computer designing, I have always valued analog methods, and still spend a lot of time incorporating physical methods and aesthetics into my design. This is a poster I designed, screen printed, and donated to an auction to raise money for Doctors Without Borders relief work in Haiti after the earthquake several years ago. The concept was built out of a thought-provoking Haitian Proverb that I came across. To me, in light of events such as a devastating natural disaster, it is challenging to rest in the notion that God’s pencil does not have an eraser, and that nothing happens without meaning.—Geoff 56 FEATURE Landon McKee—Class of 2006 The Artisan: Where did you get your training? Landon: I received my Visual Communications degree from ITT Tech. The Artisan: What programs do you use? Landon: For my graphic design work I use the Adobe Creative Suite: Photoshop, InDesign, Illustrator, and Dreamweaver. The Artisan: Describe your work for us. Landon: I am the Desktop Publishing Manager/Graphic Designer for Briarwood Presbyterian Church., serving all church ministries, so my projects can range from Multi-page Global Conference brochures, youth event flyers at the Barn, Camp Briarwood brochures, Youth Soccer registration forms, church bulletin covers, Christmas at the Caroline House postcards, t-shirt designs, logo designs, power-point presentations, and more. I also do work for various Briarwood Board Directed Ministries includ- ing Briarwood Christian School and Campus Outreach. I sometimes do freelance graphic design on the side after work hours. The Artisan: What are some of your favorite projects that you’ve worked on? Landon: I really enjoy doing any kind of project that is targeted for the high school/ youth demographic. With youth events the designs can be a lot more personal and weird than it could be for an event geared for older adults. Kids always want to see something different. The Artisan: So what is a career in the field really like? Landon: A graphic designer has to be able to do MANY different things, and not just the fun artsy stuff you see on Pinterest, but also less exciting, practical everyday designs. Diversification of your portfolio is a must, unless you are REALLY talented at one specific type of design. Web design is a good area to pursue. A designer that can develop, design, and implement a website all on his own would be very marketable. The most important requirement for being a graphic designer is having a good eye. You can learn the techniques and skills required to cre- ate, so long as you have a good eye. Also, develop thick skin. Being a graphic designer means having your work constantly judged by everyone, all day, everyday. The Artisan: What’s the best way to become a graphic designer? Landon: You can learn graphic design at home on your computer with the help of free online tutorials. I learned 95% of my graphic design skills on my own time at home on my computer or at Barnes and Noble looking at design magazines, not in a classroom. There are so many free and great resources out there floating around on the internet for fledgling designers. Do some research, buy Photoshop CC for your computer at home, complete lots of tutorials, try to emulate good designs, do some free design work for a friend, do some paid design work for someone. THEN if you still enjoy the work, get a degree in the field. A portfolio that shows practical skills is worth vastly more than a diploma. A degree is still often necessary, but it’s not like being a banker where a Master’s from UA will automatically land you a nice job somewhere after graduation. The “Get Out of the House” graphic is just a doddle I drew for no reason, hah. It wasn’t made for any project, it was just based on a feeling I had one day about being life being too big and adventurous to be stuck sitting around indoors all day. —Landon 57 Alumni Authors ry th 50 niversa An Colleen Shuford Elizabeth Dewberry—class of 1980 Elizabeth Dewberry has won awards from Sewamee Writer’s Conference (1991), the Bread Loaf Fellowship in Fiction (1993), and the Wesleyan Writers’ Conference (1993). She’s written many successful novels and has sold thousands of copies. His Lovely Wife is about a woman, Ellen Baxter, who is married to a Nobel-laureate and finds herself always referred to as “his lovely wife.” On vacation in Paris the weekend that Princess Diana dies, she goes to the site of the accident and finds a picture of Diana that captures a different side of her from the usual glamorous shots. As she realizes how similar she and Diana are, she starts hearing Diana’s voice in her head, and decides that she must find the photographer, a quest that ultimately Amy Plum—class of 1985 Amy Plum was Amy Burwick at Briarwood. She left after junior high and graduated from Homewood. She wrote a popular novel called Die for Me. Die for Me is about a girl named Kate who has to move to Paris to live with her grandparents after her parents die in a tragic car accident. To deal with her sorrow, Kate throws herself into art and literature, but then she meets the devastatingly handsome Vincent, who boasts that he can melt her heart with his smile. However there is a major problem; Vincent is a revenant, a being who must sacrifice himself over and over again to save others’ lives. Kate can either follow her heart and ultimately get hurt or steel her feelings against him and avoid any more heartache. Jennifer Gerelds—class of 1991 Jennifer Gerelds, who we know as Jennifer Morgan, writes devotions and biblical stories for children and teenagers in magazine or devotional form. She is a ghostwriter for Thomas Nelson and authors such as Sheila Walsh. How to Be God’s Little Princess teaches girls how to dress properly and act properly. It contains tips for manners, etiquette, and true beauty. There are chapters on things like how to dress, take care of your health, how to be a true friend, how to dine with manners, and how to host a party. The book offers many fun activites like checklists, quizzes, and puzzles. And grounds then with Scripture verses that deal with relatable topics for little girls. The theme of this book is how to be a princess in everything you do in your life. It teaches girls how to walk confidently in the Lord and live in a way that’s honorable to him. 58 FEATURE Ben Sciacca—class of 1996 Ben Sciacca is the Executive Director at Restoration Academy in Fairfield, Alabama. Among other nonfiction books about urban ministry, he’s written two fiction books, Kai’Ro: The Journey of an Urban Pilgrim, and Kai’Ro Returns. Ben Sciacca writes under the pen name of Judah Ben. these books are a retelling of Pilgrim’s Progress in an urban setting. Kai’Rois a young man burdened with guilt and shame who lives in the City of Doom. He meets Preacher, who tells him about a king who can free him from his bondage and bring meaning to his life. He just has to follow the Heavenly Highway and stay on it. Christian George—class of 2000 Christian George has his PhD in theology at the University of St. Andrews, Scotland and is the author of the book Godology. Christian George writes about his relationship with God. In each chapter, he discusses biblical truth that will help the reader have a deeper relationship with God. He writes about the true nature of God, obedience to God, and how to show the world one’s faith. Christian uses real life situations and troubles and addresses the solutions to these problems in an easy to understand and carefree way. Christian also has another book called Sex, Sushi, and Salvation: Thoughts on Intimacy, Community, and Eternity. The title hints at the tone of Christian’s writing as he captures what “raw” faith looks like in a digital age. Anne Riley—class of 2001 While Anne Riley, formerly Anne Capitell, taught Spanish here at Briarwood Christian School, she spent her evening hours writing Shadows of the Hidden. This book is about a young girl, Natalie Watson, who refuses to believe that her parents are dead, even though they have been missing for the past five years. She moves to Maine to live with her aunt, and at her new school, meets a creepy, quiet boy named Liam, whose sister died a year before. Natalie notices Liam’s regular disappearances and follows him into the forest one night to see what he’s up to. What she sees there blows her mind and draws her into a quest that eventually solves the mystery of her parents’ disappearance. Now Anne has a new book out with Spencer Hill called Pull, another paranormal adventure involving time travel. 59 59 ry th 50 niversa An O bservations of a Foreigner on the Lisbon Subway (1996) Rain Makes grey strings Against the dark morning sky Down many steps Pay the ticket-man Through glass, Then an escalator, Steep, Eternal. People: Crowded voices echo; Footsteps drip-dripping As water. One single, Two holding hands Three with briefcases, Talking. Shriek: Metro stops. One wave off, The next on, Packing tight. Doors close; Everyone leans In Unison. Whirring. 60 WORKS FROM THE PAST Faces All somehow the same: Eyes shifting, Playing tag, Never meeting. Voices silent. Each makes space With thoughts as Boundaries. Worlds From different Universes— Strangers, All together For an instant, One in purpose And direction, each Understanding each In strange agreement: Respecting distance In the closeness, each Alone. Destination: Doors spit people On cold concrete They spread like spilled ink. A few coins clink In the safe-box Of a cripple Playing accordion His music seeps all over, Up the escalator. A deep breath, Then on and Ascending Outside, Rain sobs on many Shoulders, Asks for sympathy. Soggy newspaper Sucks at asphalt; Headline: War No nations ride The metro. None. Elizabeth H. Bowles Celine Chenowith ‘98 : acrylic When You Return (2005) You don’t know this, but sometimes I muse when the colors of my day fuse to bricklayer’s red and the green of the hills beyond the horizon. I pick them apart, exposing the grays and blues and violets underneath, and yet I never find yellow. The gold of the sun eludes me daily despite my fervent brow searching among its rays. I shall gaze no more. Sometimes I see you under a shadow; a shadow of a shadow of the grass blades between my fingers and my bare toes. Suppose I were to grasp the blackest night and hold its dizzying flame in my heart. Would its power make you start to understand the willow drowning in the image of her own love, or would you turn your back to me again when my friendless tears run down the face of the sky? I shall weep no more. I can’t see you anymore in the shackles reflecting the anguish of the prisoner or the yoke pressed hard upon the sodden earth. Your return is near, riding on the back of the last autumn leaves before a frost, but know, until then, that I am lost without you. The world hears the wings in the distance and prepares to be entranced. I hum melancholy tunes, waiting, and pulling the midnight door to. Sarah Yates Near You (1997) Have you ever lived in a land of pain, An arctic waste where the mad winds meet To smite a single soul with scalding sleet To wrap the world in a torrid, frozen rain? Have you felt the wound of a lonely heart, A blistering boil that brings travail, A sore that slices like the temple veil When a hanging Christ split the earth apart? Have you tasted the hurt that all transcends The pure pain that pulses the mind like fire When wit is only held with whole desire Like a willow grabs for soil amid the winds? Have we both not walked that empty fare? Come, love, there is no pain we cannot share. Stephen Bennett 61 ry th 50 niversa An On Walking Away (2000) to Cecil Day Lewis, after reading “Walking Away” I remember how we used to talk— Slumped with elbows propped on the dinner table, Chins in our hands—about how the days seemed to stalk Us, and how one would come when, like a winged seed Loosed from its parent stem, I would walk Away from familiarity. I didn’t believe It until just now, when the car door slammed behind me Like a boxer’s final blow and I felt myself leave Something there, in the crisp air of conception, When my chest gave its final heavy heave. Your fatherly figure, strangely still Like a faded family photograph, Shows silently the shoes I have to fill In the meeting of this grand new beginning—the true Test, and the labored rise of the will. I have had worse partings, but none that made me see Myself as I do now. Perhaps this Is the only way to understand “free”— To rip all away but the raw And see what stays to make me. Lyndsay McDavid Whitney Alfano ‘04 : pencil 62 WORKS FROM THE PAST W hen Summer Leans (2001) Through a Rainy Night (2000) to Robert Frost, after reading “Acquainted with the Night” I have hurried alone on a rainy night. I have slipped through the mud and slid through the mist; I have felt rain sting my eyes and dull my sight. On warmer days I have walked without reason. I have gathered my thoughts and gathered blackberries; I have meandered through steaming streets in a happier season. I have shivered in the winter, numbed to the bone. I have felt cold wind claw at my face and leave it burning, But dogs must be fed and chores must be done. Tonight is truly awful—gusty, gloomy, dark and damp. We linger long hours, growing callous to our surrounding, Oblivious to rain whipping our cheeks; she is my lamp. I wasn’t cold when the icy drops wet my hair; We held each other like the two hands of a prayer. There’s birth in rotting August, Sprung from sticky nights spent Wondering where to land When summer’s leaning lends to fall. The pang of autumn twitches, Swells the senses, thickens thought, And yells youth’s noosed and ready For September gusts to kick the chair. I itch for sight that stretches oceans, To wear an Asian lampshade hat Or fly from lions’ polished fangs, But I settle for my backyard green Beneath the scattered sparkles of the night. Parallel to ancient ones, I gnaw the memories of ages, Stages, bends and bows of growing’s plight. With wings flared I stand ready To shake a final foot free From childhood’s cocoon and take flight, Maybe float up to that beaming ball of silver, The full face smiling streams of light. But they say, all that glitters in the distance Dulls to dust when seen with one’s own eyes. Elizabeth Stephenson I would freeze if the drops swallowed her light, And I would hurry alone through the rainy night. Robby Austin 63 On the Beach (2003) ry th 50 niversa An on Edgar Degas’ painting “Beach Scene: Little Girl Having her Hair Combed by her Nanny” Daybreak in Alabama (2007) When I become a photographer I’m gonna get that Alabama morning Where the ground sinks into its rich red clay And the hot rays mop across that sultry sky. There will always be The golden orange of ma’s thick molasses On butter bathed pancakes, The taste of thick humidity, The honey yellow sun oozing into the broad bare blue, The sharp scent of the pine needles, The pastel pink fringe of swollen clouds, The white church steeples lining the road, Notes in the musical clef of the Bible Belt. When I become a photographer I’m gonna get that Alabama morning Joy Mathis The yellow sands bleed Into the sun’s reflections on the water. The child fingers the edge of her parasol, Gazing blankly at the cloudless sky. Nurse combs her wet, salty hair, Fanning the black strands like peacock feathers. Her large brown hand steers the little yellow comb Through the dark ocean of tangled locks. This captain has guided many such vessels Through similar waters in her long career. A yellow breeze plays With the edge of her limp apron And tugs gently on the child’s parasol Like a small child pulling on her mother’s hand To wade further out into deeper water. Clouds of jocular families and prim strollers Billow by, unnoticed. The child twirls her parasol round and round. The seams blur into a pale blue Circle of motion. Nurse combs the child’s dark hair With soft patience. Time floats away with the yellow sailboat on the horizon. China Irwin 64 65 The First Song (2005) to Billy Collins, after reading “The First Dream” The breeze allows the leaves to dance in the autumn sun, and as I gaze into the crystal blue I begin to think about the first person to sing, how strangely his friends must have looked at him as they trudged around the cave swinging their clubs, for this was before the advancement of weaponry. He might have gone off by himself, ambling along a forest stream, discovering this strange noise escaping his throat. He had made a sound without speaking or even meaning to speak. It was almost like the birds that flew in the air, that had always bothered him. Then again, the first song could have come from a woman, and she might have done the same thing, getting strange stares from her sisters, and running off into the woods, bursting with curious excitement, but her song would be clear and smooth, and it would come from lovely lips, making her seem immortal, and if he were watching, he might have gone down as the first person to ever fall in love with the joy of another. Katy Donaldson A Dreamed Voyage (2005) Jennifer Bromberg ‘97 : acrylic We were driving up the mountain in the late afternoon between the solid and dotted lines. The sun was like a ship on the watery clouds with light bouncing off the sea. The sky was stained red and its shimmering sea didn’t notice that we were there. One day, I want to sail with you across the sea or sky. We’d be on our own and sip time from white cups and the sea wouldn’t know who we are. John Sherer WORKS FROM THE PAST 65 ry th 50 niversa An Dreaming in Color (2005) when i think of you my thoughts are not capitalized— words ramble around in my head no beginning no end punctuation doesn’t lift words up like a belt or weigh them down like my gramma’s purse but when i dream of you i dream in color yellow neon highlights your words red your kisses navy blue your darkest secrets. gold embosses long-kept wishes whispered in splashes of sunset pink into my ear. So when you go, I scream black Into silent black nightmares, until Reason slips in with capitalization and punctuation, and I no longer dream in Color. Caitlin Lamon 66 WORKS FROM THE PAST Caroline Harwell ‘97 : acrylic A nother Variation on the Word Sleep (2007) to Margaret Atwood, after reading “Variation on the Word Sleep” I wonder if you’re sleeping In my bed, our bed. I wish I could see you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your dreams and see if I am there, of if she is, that dark, smooth wave that threatens to push me out of your mind. But maybe we’re walking in patches of pink grass, with white birch trees where it always smells like ga.rdenias. And I am pretending that cave of worst fears doesn’t exist because she is there. Gerbil (2006) I’m tired of treadmills, Tunnels, and prodding fingers. Toby pokes my side. Adam Trettel You gave me the twinkling stars and one small white flower, a gardenia. You said you would protect me, hold me close and save my heart from grief. Now, she’s there—holding your face with two cupped hands. I’m here, alone in the empty stairway. Grief is here, pain is too, things you said wouldn’t be. I want you beside me again, breathing in, holding my freezing hands. I long to be the air, to inhabit you in those lost moments. Yet I remain unwanted and unnecessary. Amy Hannum 67 Thoughts of a Waiting Man Last. I am last, Last of a kind, The end of a dynasty, An abrupt halt to a nation. I am silent. Fear me, I am the night. I am one last steamy meal You didn’t know was yours. A slamming of hearts, A pounding of doors. I am panic. I am hysteria. I am last. I am rattling boxcars And small bread rations. I am light through tiny slits in wood. I am disease. I am eerie gates screeching. Color me black Color me red. Color me Jew. I am last. 68 The last of a smile. You only know as mine, Marching in the early morning, Feet frozen from the frost In only my Sabbath best. I am the coat I’m clutching, The one I’m not even aware of. I’m the one in the dirt, Fingers clawing at the dust around me. I am putrid stench. I am last. I am bodies all around me. My son and his son below me. Poison spreading through mankind. Dark lines on a yellow page. Cold. Gaunt. Disillusion. I am black and white surrounding. A small girl quivering At the end of a gun, I am next. I am next. I am last. Abby Parks : acrylic I am a rasping cough, A silent scream. Hold onto me As I go. I am man, Too frail to fight. Do it well. Do it fast. Don’t let me feel a thing. In the thunder, In the shouts, There is one thought, One sullen identity. Let it ever resonate with me: I am last. Allyson Payne K omm Rüber Two Rifles move, their boots beating the ground. Another Rifle watches, not knowing their names. A puff of smoke hides his anxiety. The smoke stops, a car has pulled up. It is on the other side of the wall. “Come over!” The Rifle moves. Another life. Its feet fly. Its sole soars. The wall comes alive. It bites a boot. Snatches a rifle. He stumbles. He lives. Tourist Guy Off to the States for Holiday, Excited for a break from work, See Peter has no clue what may just behind him lurk. Among the lights, the crowd, the city sky, Horns honk, birds chirp—a brand new day. He’s off to see the sights from high, Far above the gray. He mounts the stairs, climbs up and up To blue sky, high above the clouds, surveys the view, then turns to pose, never turns around The door slams shut. His breast is beating, His throat is throbbing, And his boot is bleeding. His rifle is gone. He doesn’t need it anymore. just hears a sound clouds of smoke surround falling down and down Abraham Lee Life catches us sometimes. We don’t quite see what’s right behind Until the worst with us collides, Then despair we find. Bekah Blythe 69 Christine Kontos 70 oil Anna Gandy acrylic Forrest Collier Cayman Frederick acrylic watercolor 71 I looked back into the mirror half expecting to see a figure with no face at all. Maybe having a face would be better than the one I was cursed with now. I Trash Removal Grace Giles 72 72 FICTION have always envied those who can look into the mirror and smile. The ones who can see their reflection and not hate themselves. My head screams with the whispers of my peers as I walk down the heartless hallways. At first I didn’t care. I was the new girl in school so naturally I was the hot topic of the junior high lunchroom conversations. But the saying “If you hear something enough, you believe it,” take it from me, is deathly true. I looked around the white wall of my bathroom for a change of scenery. There was this one long, black crack that sent my O.C.D. out of control. I looked back into the mirror half expecting to see a figure with no face at all. Maybe having no face would be better than the one I was cursed with now. Makeup was no use, and my long, frizzy hair was a lost hope. When I couldn’t take anymore of the awful shell that was known as me, Jamie, I grabbed my enviromental paper and walked down the squeaky, wooden stairs to the kitchen. I had been working on this paper for weeks. It was our big project for the year. We had to choose a way to make the earth more green and either make a video, poster, or a paper. I chose the paper in order to work alone. This paper was the first thing that I had been proud of in a long time–even if I was the only one that would appreciate it for what it was. I walked into the kitchen half wanting to share this pride with my parents, but found my dad and older sister already talking. “The big meet is finally here,” Dad said, inhaling his Raisin Bran. “Like we didn’t know,” I thought. “It’s all you’ve been able to talk about for the last month!” I felt like screaming at him. You ready, Brookie? You’re a shoo in for state. And if you beat your PR, you might just get that scholarship we’ve been hoping for,” he continued. “I don’t know, Dad. My record is pretty good,” my big sister Brooke chimed. I maneuvered my way to the cabinet and grabbed my box of Cocoa Puffs. I thought I had mastered this skill from the year of practice in the school hallways until I bumped into Dad and spilled my Puffs all over the floor. No worries though, it’s like he didn’t even notice. As I bent down to clean up the mess, he kept talking about that stupid track meet. “Good is not good enough. We need great. And I know you can be, sweetheart,” he added while walking over to give her a kiss on her forehead. “Right, great,” she echoed, her eyes gazing at the floor. Brooke suddenly looked down at her watch and yelled, “Hurry, Jamie, Mia Mauberret : color photography we’re going to be late for school!” She shoveled a few more bites of cereal into her mouth and grabbed her bags. Even though this was the first time I had been acknowledged all morning, I would rather have finished my breakfast before being ushered out the door. I sighed in defeat and slung my bag into the back seat of the car. Brooke turned on the radio and pulled out of the driveway. She began singing along to the music loudly and off key. I reached over and turned the music down. Avoiding Brooke’s glance, I leaned back to enjoy the few precious moments of peace that I cherished before arriving at school. “What’d you do that for?” Brooke com- plained. “Excuse me for wanting to enjoy myself,” I replied. “Enjoy yourself ? It’s just a car ride.” “Precisely,” I thought. “Look, I know you’re probably annoyed that Dad spends so much time talking about my track scholarship. . . .” “She has no idea,” I thought. “. . . but it’s really important to him. This way I might be able to go somewhere other than Harlin Community College.” “I wonder if she knows that this is not helping,” I asked myself. My stomach dropped as we pulled into the school parking lot. That familiar feeling of nausea began bubbling up inside. “Here we go again,” I thought. “Jamie,” Brooke said, laying her hand on top of mine and looking me in the eyes, “I’m here if you need me.” But I guess I missed my window of opportunity to say something because she was off the next second, chasing a Looking group of her friends. “Bye! Love you!” she yelled into peoover the back of her shoulder. ple’s eyes As I came back to the reality that I would need to walk into the is like school soon, I pulled the strings looking on my bag so it rested high on my shoulders and clutched my straight notebook. I headed straight into the hell hole with my head down, into their careful not to make eye contact. souls, Looking into people’s eyes is like their most looking straight into their souls, their most inner being that makes inner bethem who they are. And I did not ing that want anyone to see me; I didn’t even want to see me. I knew I makes them would be too ashamed of what I who they saw. I climbed the stairs to enter the building where I would be are. imprisoned for the next seven hours. Apparently I was a little rusty because I tripped up the stairs and my papers went flying. It was just like those classic movie scenes, only this was real and it was only the beginning. As I reached for my essay, someone stepped on it, leaving a dusty footprint on my title page. I tried to brush it off the best I could, but the footprint was still noticeable. On the way to my locker, 73 73 some big jocks knocked me into the lockers lining the hallways by the big jocks. I kept my eyes down until I reached the permanent scuff on the tiles that signaled I was only about ten feet from my locker. I looked up and froze as I saw the popular group talking in obnoxiously loud voices directly in front of my locker. I ran my options through my head and decided that I could survive class without my binder. Turning around to go to class, I heard their shouts turn into quiet giggles. “There she is,” one of them said. “Ahh, I can’t wait,” another replied. Ignoring all warnings my mind was screaming at me, I glanced back at them. They were all staring directly at me. My eyes grew wide, and I immediately dropped them to the familiar, safe floor and made a beeline to class. Finally, it was time for Zoology with Mrs. Jinkins. I took my usual seat near the front of the class by the windows. This class was the only bearable part of my day, although it was a whole lot better last semester before the populars joined and turned it into a joke. I placed my masterpiece in the tray on the teacher’s desk and sat back down by the windows. The bell rang, and as usual, the populars came walking in late. They plopped their bags down and sat in the back of the room. After taking attendance, the teacher asked, “Now, which group wants to volunteer first? Or must I pick a victim instead?” The populars’ hands shot straight up, which was highly unusual. They had chosen to make a video on littering. Mrs. Jinkins put 74 the CD in her computer and played it on the screen. They were lined up on stools in front of a white wall. They talked about how trash hurt the environment and the animals and how it needed to be cleaned up. “How profound,” I thought. The video showed clips of highways covered with trash. A narrator talked about how there was trash everywhere. Footage of trash in the Marly King : scratchboard ocean was shown and how the trash washed up on the shore. sure when I decided to run out of the room, “Trash isn’t just found in nature, either,” but I found myself leaning against the locksaid the narrator. A picture of our school ers in the hallway, hot tears streaming down came up on the screen. “There is even trash my cheeks. I heard the muffled voice of my in our school. And like all trash, it must be teacher trying to quiet down the classroom removed.” And then I saw me in the parkfull of wild laughter and applause. ing lot. And another picture of me in the “No more,” I said to myself. “No lunchroom, sitting by myself. And then my more,” and I walked out the front doors. yearbook picture was on the screen with I checked out of school “sick” and took the words REMOVE ALL TRASH FROM the bus home. I couldn’t take it anymore. THIS SCHOOL. The screen went black. I was done. I grabbed every bottle in the At first, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. kitchen cabinet and began swallowing pill Then came the laughter. My vision blurred after pill. I didn’t know exactly what they from the tears welling up in my eyes. I’m not would do, but I figured if I took enough pills, it would do the trick. “No one is going to miss me,” I thought, “and I’m not going to miss anyone.” Then I saw my sister’s car pull into the driveway and felt as though someone had hit me in the gut. No one was supposed to be here. Brooke’s meet was about to start! I didn’t want her to see me or what I had done. I tried to sweep all the bottles and spilled pills into the drawer in one quick motion, but some of the pills missed the drawer and bounced on the floor. I darted up the stairs to my bedroom. I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. I stumbled to the bathroom to get some water, tripped, and missed the handle. My body hit the door, slamming it into the wall as I fell to the ground. I lay there, my head spinning. I saw my sister leaning over me. I think she screamed, but the sounds were muffled by the pounding in my head. As my vision sharpened again, I saw Brooke crying on the phone. She seemed to be dancing all over the room. The next thing I knew, my head was lying in her lap and I was looking up into her face. The ringing in my ears slowly came to a stop. I could hear my sister saying my name. “ . . . amie! Jamie!” I wanted to say something but all I could get out was a moan. “What’s wrong? What happened?” “Well, if I could tell you, I would, wouldn’t I?” I thought. She was crying again. And then my head started spinning again, so I closed my eyes. Bad idea because Brooke began sobbing. She grabbed my hand, and I managed to squeeze it back. “Jamie?” I nodded. She must have seen the pills on the floor. “Jamie, why?” I shook my head and opened my eyes. As my vision came back into focus, I could see streaks of black wet from tears streaming down Brooke’s face. “I . . . have . . . nothing . . .” is all I managed to get out “. . . no one.” Brooke tightened her grip on my hand, squeezing my fingers together. “Jamie,” she said. I fixed my eyes on the crack in the ceiling. I couldn’t bare to look at her anymore. “There was . . . no . . . point.” I felt a warm tear fall down my cheek. “What about me? I love you. I’ve always loved you! Jamie, don’t do this. Don’t die! I promise I’ll do better. Just stay here for me!” I looked directly into her eyes and saw that she meant it. That she really did love me. I realized that I wanted to stay with her. “But it’s already done,” I thought to myself. “Brooke . . . .” I was crying now. “I don’t . . . want to . . . die.” “It’s gonna to be okay. You’re gonna be okay,” she said to me as though trying to convince us both. It wasn’t working. I was fighting a losing battle. I had never been strong, even at my strongest. And now, when it mattered most, there was nothing I could do. It was like trying to catch water in your hands. The water was my life. It was slipping through my fingers, and I couldn’t stop it. I felt tear drops land on my forehead as Brooke said, “Just hold on, Jamie, just a little bit longer.” She ran her fingers through my tangled hair, and I remembered that she shouldn’t have been here. “Your . . . your . . .” I croaked. “What?” she breathed in between sniffles. “Meet.” “Jamie, who cares?!” “But . . .” “No ‘buts’, Jamie! I love you and right here, with you, is the only place I want to be.” She had loved me all along. And Brooke was right. Who cared about I wanted track, who cared about all those bul- to say lies at school? Because I knew that I something didn’t anymore. I had my big sister, and that was all I needed. but all I My breaths became short, and my could get vision darkened around the edges. “Jamie, hold on. Do you hear the out was a sirens? They’re almost here,” Brooke moan. said, rubbing her thumb across my cheek and taking the tears with it. I didn’t hear them, the sirens. All I could hear was her muffled voice. She sounded so far away. My eyes rolled to the ceiling, searching for the long, black crack, but my blurred vision made the crack cease to exist. “Jamie, you’re gonna be okay,” Brooke said. I smiled as I realized that I would. “Yeah, . . . I know,” I managed to get out with one last breath. I let go of my sister’s hand and closed my eyes. 75 The Rescue A tiny ray of light, appeared atop the well, and I felt a glimmer of hope. I could not tell what it was. Then I saw a girl so small and brave. I jumped and howled for joy and I began to crave the freedom soon to come, which would end my confinement. She gently knelt beside me buckling the harness craefully to prevent any wounds. Then she picked me up and wrapped me in a rag. Blood seeped through. A strong force pulled us up. It yanked and dragged me and the girl across the street to daylight. She rescued me. Then she placed me on the lawn. Then care. Then health. Then glee. Jud Tarence 76 Lauren Palmer : watercolor This is a Poem About Nothing This is a poem about nothing And how nothing turns into everything Everything running through my mind Till it’s essentially nothing Because something might as well be nothing If that something has no meaning But nothing means something And nothing piles up And begins to overflow And then it’s the something That you’re drowning in. I hope you’re following Because this is the nothing That plagues my mind. This is the nothing We distract ourselves from With other nothings And nothing makes sense When nothing is something Or maybe that nothing isn’t nothing. Maybe nothing is really something And distractions are an attempt To make something nothing Because that something hurts So we push that something out And fill up with nothing Because something is painful And nothing is numb And numb is easy. It’s so easy To be numb and feel nothing But then it gets hard When something becomes Impossible to ignore And turns into poems about nothing. See this is my attempt To put nothing into words Because nothing is not nothing. Nothing is something Just in a different form. Maggie McDavid M y Bully I always try to stay tough But I know that’s not enough To protect me from this plan With which she holds me like a chain No matter how fine I seem Inside I just want to scream She tells me that I’m a fake My happiness is hers to take I wish that they could hear When I son in silent tears She tells me I’m ugly and I’ll always be She Says it’d be better if there was no me I have to hide behind a smile She says it’ll fool them for a while I know I have to obey her Or else I’ll meet my maker There’s no help that I can find Because my bully is my mind Callie Tedder 77 Ellie Mulvaney Hannah Hutson 78 acrylic acrylic Kate Bowers acrylic Jane Walsh Kate Bowers acrylic acrylic Mary Davis Barber acrylic 79 The End of an Astronaut to Charles Webb, after reading “The Death of Santa Claus” His breaths have become short and rapid, and there is no more oxygen left in his reserve tanks, they’ve run empty, during his space walk, his blood runs cold, floating throughout the empty abyss, staring at the stars, oblivious to the world around him. His head throbs, he dismisses it, checks his gauge, he realizes his ignorance and chokes. He can’t breathe, and the beautiful dark place he loves goes white, his thoughts dissipate in the vacuum, he floats throughout the empty void, the stars gaze on his distant husk, and the earth waves goodbye, and the sun shines towards a new day, and he floats like an asteroid into the distance, and on Earth, I’m 6, fantasizing about ships, and going to distant planets to fight aliens, and explore the unknown world, unaware that there is no life, and a day is coming, that will bring a sad truth, that will slowly choke the life out of me, as new dreams rise like the sun. Anna Gandy : scratchboard 80 Phillip Jauregui If You Came Back E rebus What can be said about the Me? To some, I am an ever engulfing flame that consumes their very being. To others, I bring light and life. For some, I can produce romance, or I may bring death within my grasp, gripping life like an owl clutches his prey. I can carry the terrors of a resting child, but the dreams of a hopeful bride may also be found lingering within me. When I come near, one may recall the enjoyment of passed times, or the memories of those less fortunate. I provide safety for those in need. I also shroud the unrighteous from their deserved punishment. A nightmare for the superstitious, but a refuge for the rational. Despite my many meanings, I go by one name. Darkness. You closed your lovely eyes six years ago To watch your life slip out your finger tips. I could not bring myself to watch you go. My darling, come and kiss my lonely lips. Since you left things change and nothing’s the same And if you saw me now all grown and tall You might not even know my double name. I do not think you’d recognize at all And if you came to see the world anew The things on earth today would blow your mind. Oh take me back to paradise with you I’ve heard the Lord my God is very kind. Please walk me through the shiny golden gates But now I sit and patiently I wait. Mary Glynn Scharf Seth Graham 81 Homecoming I walk across the neglected lawn. Sinister things slither silently through the silky grass. The dead, crooked tree casts crazy shadows in front of me. The moonlight is my only guide. I find a familiar room Containing the remnants of scorched, forgotten toys. I lie down beside my burned up bed And remember the night my family left me. The twisting path winds up to the source of my dread, A hollowed out house, no longer the lovely family home Not a glass pane in sight The glass long since shattered by the hoodlum children, I feel them now Their clammy hands slinking down my spine. My heart feels faint, I know not where they are taking me But wherever it is, I dread it. Not a sound but for the tortured groan of the house And the creak of the opening door, Not a scurrying mouse Or a gliding ghost. Jordan Hedge I walk through the once loved hallways Surrounded by the sounds of the home Creak, groan, creak it goes Never letting me forget. The old papers on the floor rustle As the wind cuts through the windows. I climb the winding staircase No railing to protect me. Grace Giles : black and white photography 82 A Happy Child to Margaret Atwood, after reading “A Sad Child” You’re happy because you’re happy. It’s ignorance. It’s bliss. It’s your mind. You can run and jump and they’ll never worry, Or cherish your happiness like your favorite toy You carry around on your hip like your mother. Some children are happy And most are not. So consider yourself lucky, For your happiness is a rare flower, Your secret super power. What power? Your giggles, your smiles That sad children look upon with great disdain As you gallop by in your bright pink Bow with the sparkles on it And your purple dress With the butterflies That protect you from the harmful Rays trying to crush your wings As you remind yourself I am the favorite child. Sweetheart, at the end of it all When your lungs crush inward And collapse your soul with them Or your mind snaps in two As you forget what is most familiar Sweetheart, at the end of it all When your lungs crush inward And collapse your soul with them Or your mind snaps in two As you forget what is most familiar Mia Mauberret : color photography And your red craving for life drains out of you And stains the casing on your pillow Or maybe the ground, or a family member, None of us is; Or else we all are. Eliza Graham 83 Pligh The Dreikäsehoch of the Libby Hennington Every short person has at least once been considered the best candidate for picking something up off the ground. And people love Danny DeVito. 84 ESSAY R andy Newman once said, “Short people got no reason to live.” I would tend to disagree. For one, I find that short people are very employable at Christmastime as elves. Additionally, we can take on important roles as children in plays. Every short person has at least once been considered the best candidate for picking something up off the ground. And people love Danny DeVito. Around the same time that I became aware of Newman’s point of view, which was apparently higher from the ground than mine, I learned of the German word, “dreikäsehoch,” best translated as “tiny tot,” specifically referring to a small child with a bad attitude. It seems that for every human flaw, there is a German concept specifically tailored to hit where it hurts. Similarly, my family and friends have made a witty sport of endearingly mocking my height. I implore the good people of the world not to translate this word into English. The last thing we shrimps need is yet another insult for short people. A bit cheated, genetically speaking, I stand at a towering five-foot-one. I must say, it certainly does not help that, in my experience, hallways can best be described as a “dense collection of torsos,” as Veronica Roth put it. Nor does it support my cause that I often put books under my feet when I sit down so that my feet don’t just dangle a tantalizing inch above the ground. So close! Most likely, I should have kept it to myself that when I ran into the tallest boy at my school, my nose hit his belt. I definitely should have figured out a different way to reach the top shelf of my locker rather than constantly asking people to “please get my Chem book. It’s the purple one.” A freshman once asked me if I was excited to be in high school next year. I am still too bitter to think of a good comeback. As sour as I am about those experiences, I am equally grateful for them. My uncomfortable encounters made great stories and taught me that life is far more exciting if I am willing to laugh at myself. As I look to the future, it is clear that I will not grow anymore, but I’m quite content with that. Perhaps college and my life after that will just be a different collection of torsos, tootall desks, tall people to run into, friends to ask for help with that top shelf, and short jokes to hear. I am confident, however, that all these things will continue to make great stories and keep me humble. Although, I would still contend that calling me a poorly behaved toddler is taking it a little too far. So, Randy Newman, I do have a reason to live, as long as “dreikäsehoch” stays in Germany, where it belongs. Ansley Godwin : color photography 85 To the One Who Has Love I looked towards my North Star Not the place I used to call home But the place that brought me hope To the place that brought my belief The place where I found the one The place where I found love. Home Is with those who believe In love With one Who has hope And sees the stars. I fell in love Where people are born and stars Are made, where I saw the one That made this place home. I haven’t changed my beliefs But I’ve grown in hope. My hands were on the hope Of a new dream of love. I fell in love. The wind didn’t take my beliefs; I looked second star To the right, not to home But to my love and my only one. To the one Who has hope And is my home And the one who fell in love With me and rejoices in the beauty of shooting stars And who has strong beliefs To the person who believes In the same one I believe in. I see the stars When I’m away from you. And have hope In the person who loves Me and calls me home 86 Sam Cargo : acrylic I see you, my person, and believe In my one love. I see the stars, See your hope and know I am home. Ansley Godwin For the Love of a Sun Every early hour and at every dawn the silver moon slips and gives way for the sun to rise over the tips of blue mountains and round mother earth. The darkness fades so slowly and surely until the light blinds and threatens to burn out. and her bright rays shrink and fade to small slivers until she is nothing under the darkness all around she pounds to be let out but the cloud has coveted the sun The burning beam is let out of its solar solitude to shine onto the waiting waters and aching land until the soft light of the moon tiptoes near the sun and takes her hand leading her back, and they fade. All the evening hours he spins her round, long enough, oh how he’s wanted that sun but the day is fading to night and her lover rides to free her out of the icy grasp until the stars hold him back and toss him back round the world all for the love of the galant and graceful he twirls her round and whispers whishful words of what’s out there beyond the milky way, out past where the planets fade of what it’s like to shoot past the gazers in bright array, and soon the sun is sighing and stays in his arms until sun. And this will continue. And I’ll still love you Until the round sun fades out. Allyson Payne the morning and dreams until the dawning moment and rises round the circle of the globe, but the clouds watch the sun and a cumilonimbus sulks at what he’s without the grasses shudder as he passes her and the smile that danced across her face so gaily fades 87 For the L ve Of the Game R - -O-V-E-N . . . Phil carefully spelled out each word of his presentation with a strict motivation for each letter. T-H-A-T . . . His sweaty, droopy fingers slowly drifted across the keyboard as he typed out every word of his mindless presentation. Each word was like a cargo crate, and Phil had to carry out each one specifically until he had them all unloaded onto the captainless ship headed to nowhere that was his presentation. His hand hovered over to the corporate mug sitting beside his keyboard that read “Woodwin Industries.” Woodwin was his employer, and Woodwin was as boring as a monotone math teacher. What is the story behind this stultified cubicle hermit? Well, the truth is, the reason 88 FICTION Nicholas Coker he didn’t listen to his already dull presentation, the reason why he witlessly sipped his tasteless coffee was because his mind was somewhere else completely. Instead of being aboard the ship of stock increases and revenue taxes, his mind was in a fantastical other realm. In short, he was thinking about video games. His fingers kept going and going and performing their lethargic dance across his keyboard. A-T . . . Then he paused. Was he really spelling attorney? As in the millionaire attorney who defended Woodwin against that troupe of food truck operators last year? Or . . . perhaps he was spelling . . . Atari. As in the revolutionary game console that set in his game room at home. Empty-headedly his digits spelled out, A-T-A-R-I . . . He sat back in his lackluster office chair. Now this paper was getting somewhere. Hold up . . . was that, “innuendo” he typed out earlier, as in the supposed innuendo the CEO had made at last year’s international conference? Or was it supposed to read . . . “Nintendo”? Without reason, he scrolled back up, crossed out the word and typed out, N-I-N-T-E-N-D-O . . . Typing those letters made his fingers feel like they were his body flopping and bouncing across an eternal mattress floor! It was such a pleasure to type those eight letters, but Phil couldn’t stop there. More game references, more game references, more game references! There was no stopping him! On and on he went, in vigorous repetition, highlighting words, pressing “delete,” and filling their spaces with those wonderful, sensational video game words! But wait . . . it couldn’t end at just the typing of his presentation. What would happen when he finished? What words could he replace other than his own? There would be no more enhancements to make, and most importantly, nothing dull to enhance! . . . Or was there? What if the whole world was just one big bland presentation? And why not! Why, if that were the case, then Phil sure had a monumental amount of work to do! Those stale streets! Those ho-hum cars! And most importantly, this incredibly tattered, mundane office! They all needed his help. How could he let the world go on as it was? How could he leave these oblivious other people to be led on by its illusory promise of having nothing more to offer? But beyond all that, how could he let his gift go unused? It was up to him now. For now, he was no longer Phil the lackluster office worker, he was Captain P: The Game Master! Suddenly, he was there. He was among the world of video games. He was there! His mind shifted, and in an instant he had gone from the broken-down world in which he lived and had entered the world of the games! In a flash he was within the deep realms of space surrounded by a galaxy of stars of the most brilliant colors: yellow, red, white, and even green. Between him and the stars was his spaceship, and what an elegant star craft it was! There was nothing to it but an understated triangle shape and a stealthy black-onwhite color scheme. Abraham Lee : color pastels And just before him, there it sat—the control. It was just as basic as the ship itself, consisting of nothing more than a skinny black joystick with a big red ball on top accompanied by a bright red “Fire” button just to its right. What an ingenious setup it was! Quickly Captain P manned the station of his ship, and in an instant all sorts of villains were after him—disgusting things that would keep the mundane world in which he lived alive like office supplies, boring office workers, and stained white-colored keyboards that looked like they walked straight out of the most tasteless year of the 1990s. Captain P took control and started to violently tap the fire button as he piloted his ship with the joystick. He noticed that the ship only moved in two directions: left and right, but it didn’t bother him, as he saw that those were the only two directions in which he needed to travel. He was making quick moves, blasting paper clips and destroying staplers. It seemed that every time he destroyed one of the dangerous invaders, their demise was accompanied by an earsplitting noise of an explosion that had been bitcrushed a thousand times over, while the entirety of outer space flashed bright, seizure-inducing colors. He flew through the cluttered space on his mission like the famed Fox McCloud until finally, he reached it: the fiendish piece of machinery that was hated more than any other in his hellish office: that one apparatus that every cubicle man dreaded to have to use . . . it was the horrid and vile copy machine. Captain P knew that this one fatal contraption would take a copious amount of hits to demolish, so he graced his finger ever so delicately on the fire button, took a deep breath, and . . . He pressed the button with enough brutality to equal that of a Scandinavian body builder lifting and hurling a keg into the air. His arm was a blur rapidly pounding on the fire button. He could feel the sweat running down his face, on the small of his back, and in the deepest, darkest crevices of his armpits. As each of Phil’s blows battered the copy machine, it bounced backwards but seemed to absorb each blow. Just as Phil noticed this, it made its move. In a flash it opened its mouth and bombarded him with millions of blank paper sheets. Each piece of paper was like a razor blade, and each one damaged his ship crucially. But that wasn’t going to stop Captain P! He kept his arm moving in precise rhythm! He could tell that the copy machine’s power was wearing thin! It would all come crashing down if he could just keep his strength for a few more seconds! He kept flailing his arm up and down on that fire button. There was no stopping him! He was indomitable! Just a few more shots would end this infernal machine! On the brink of demise, the appliance pulled out its secret weapon. Slowly, but meticulously, it stopped shooting paper, backed just a bit farther away, and began to hum. This was so unexpected that it made Phil stop his arm’s even pulse and watch in awe. Without warning, the machine opened its mouth and obliterated Phil with its blinding green laser. In an instant, the world around Phil disappeared, and he was falling through an empty black world of nothing. He had no idea where he was or what had happened, but before he could do anything, words flashed before him—words in a big, blocky eight-bit font. Regrettably and unquestionably, they read, “PLAYER ONE: GAME OVER” It was over. Phil’s quest to rid the world of its apathy was unsuccessful. Which made him think. His quest was to destroy and erase all of what made the world boring, all of what made it mundane. He had failed. The odyssey was insurmountable. The turkey would never be done. The batter would never even make it to first. Which made him think some more. Clearly, if he couldn’t find a means to his ends, then who could? He was, without a doubt, unable to complete his intended plans, and if that was the case, 89 90 then his plans were impossible! There was no end to the world’s frustration! Abruptly, Phil found himself back in his office cubicle. There he was, surrounded by this unbeatable world! He began to understand the horror it held. For now, it wasn’t just an aggravating habitat that needed to be augmented; it was a cage where the lion tamer was perpetually whipping him! That epiphany led Phil to one sole conclusion: the cage’s existence was invincible, but escape from it was still an option. In fact, it was his only option if he wanted an end to the dissatisfaction. He was up and out of his cubicle. He had to get home. If he could just make it home to his house, go down to his basement, and engage his video game consoles, then he might still have a chance of survival in this cruel world. He walked swiftly through the office building to the elevator. There were the doors that would be the first portal to the world outside. Phil felt like he was the valiant Chell. If she could use her portals to escape her game, he could use this elevator to escape this evil edifice. He was restless. He kept hopping his heels up and down on the stained, thinly carpeted floor. How long was this elevator going to take? His head darted back and forth as though he had a tic. He hopped his heels some more as another man from his office came to wait on the elevator. Anxiety overwhelmed Phil. This thing was going to get him. Violently, he pounded the button multiple times. The man next to him said, “You know, if you press it ten times really fast, it goes into turbo mode.” Phil was too stirred up to respond to this snarky comment verbally, but instead replied with a deranged glance at the man. What this man thought of Phil, he didn’t know, and he frankly didn’t care, but this elevator Hamp Briley : charcoal was taking far too long. Where was it? WHERE WAS IT??? Finally, it reached his floor, and the doors slowly slid open to the sound of a bell. Phil rushed inside, pressed the “Ground Floor” button and then the “Door Close” button before the other man could even take a step. Phil’s urgency did not cease once he was within the elevator, but only got stronger. Once he was outside of the building, the trickiest part of his pilgrimage began: getting home through the crowded streets. Phil had taken the bus to work, but seeing that there was no bus in sight, he decided to book it home on foot. Phil was sweating so much that he felt like he was drenched in rain, but he didn’t care. All he wanted now was to get home to his precious consoles. However, his trek was not without perilous villainy. Up in the sky he began to notice something . . . He initially thought that the figure was flying, but the more he looked, he noticed that it wasn’t, but instead, jumping from building to building. He couldn’t tell what it was, but as it moved closer, its shape formed. When it neared him enough, Phil realized what the figure was with terror. The oncoming shape was a demented, oversized gorilla. One unfamiliar with the gaming world might have assumed that the beast was the famed King Kong, but Phil knew without a doubt that it was the dreaded Donkey Kong. The ape let out a boisterous roar, and Phil took off sprinting. He knew what this oversized primate had in store for him. Quickly Donkey Kong was hurling enormous barrels at him. Phil had to run in serpentine motions to avoid them, and occasionally had to perform an impressive acrobatic jump over one. Unfortunately, his troubles didn’t stop with this simian savage. Next, what would come crashing through a nearby glass building but an enormous centipede? Subsequently, Phil noticed that a massive frog was hopping from the other side of the street towards him. Was there no refuge from this horror? There was! Phil darted into an alleyway where he could hide. But as he entered it, he perceived that it wasn’t an alley, but a cave. The cave was very dark and seemed to be made of red stone. It was lit only with two flaming torches, but in the center of the enclosure, a man stood. The man looked very old to Phil. He was bald, he had a long white beard, and he was wearing a red cloak. Phil then realized he was inside one of the most iconic rooms in video game history. The old man looked Phil dead in the eyes and said, “It’s dangerous to go alone! Take this!” But unexpectedly, instead of handing Phil a master sword, he equipped him with a vintage Nintendo Entertainment System “Zapper” gun. The “Zapper” was legitimate. It was grey, it was accented with off-white, and in bright red letters said,“Nintendo.” Phil was inspired! He smiled at the wise old man, and hastened back outside. Out in the street again, to his shock, Phil encountered the greatest heroes in videogame history! There, just before him stood legends like Link, Lara Croft, Ryu, Master Chief, Q-Bert, Sonic the Hedgehog, and Megaman. But just beyond them, stood the master of all videogame heroes, the granddaddy of all the champions, the famed, victorious, legendary (and mustachioed) Super Mario. Phil was awestruck by this staggering ensemble, but quickly joined them in an attempt to put a stop to their overbearing enemies. Together they went to work against the horrid brutes that were taking over the city, and little by little, swept them away! The fighting was all-for-naught, however. Phil realized that he still needed to make it home. Luckily, it looked like his ride was headed his way. Zooming towards him on the street was a man on a light cycle. Phil readied himself, and promptly hitched a ride on the back of the bike. As they sped down the street, Phil felt a sense of comfort knowing that he was in the home stretch of his journey. His heroic comrades had seen nothing wrong in his quick departure from their melee, but none of them could have foreseen what came next. Chasing behind Phil and the light cycle captain was an enormous yellow ball. This was no ordinary ball, it was the most famous videogame character of all time. Munching up the streets behind him was none other than the eminent Pac-Man. Phil looked in terror at the yellow horror that was destroying the streets behind him, but as Pac-Man neared him, he saw his house moving closer and closer to him. He was almost there! Within minutes he would be beside his beloved home consoles. As the man on the bike passed Phil’s house, Phil rolled off, leaving the unfortunate light cycle pilot to be devoured by Pac-Man. Phil didn’t care. He was home, and thankful to be there. Phil’s hallucinations quickly faded as he strode towards his front door. Once within, he was met by his flustered wife, who was shocked at his early arrival home. He shoved her aside, and headed downstairs to his glorious mancave. When his feet touched the floor there, he felt the need to remove his shoes, as this was holy ground. He slowly made his way past the sofa to the breathtaking menagerie of gameplay computers ahead. Phil’s eyes met his cherished Atari 2600. He stroked the raked, black plastic casing and the wooden finish. The feeling was such a delight that it made him drool onto the white carpet floor. He flicked the The ape console’s external switches back and forth just to feed his irrational let out a hunger. Then he reached for the boistercontroller. Just to feel it and hold it in his hands would be enough to ous roar, ease his everlasting longing for the and Phil love of the games. When he held it, he tingled took off all over. The plastic finish . . . sprintthe smooth red button . . . the prominent joystick. It was enough ing. to make any man melt, and for Phil, it was the perfect lead-in for the final, most important touch. He looked to his left at the nearby bookshelf, and pulled out a game cartridge. He had picked Asteroids. He lovingly plugged it into its port, flicked the console’s “on” switch, turned on the TV, and began to play. He was there. He had made it. Not long after, his wife came downstairs to behold the slob that was her husband. This picture—that of a grown man sitting on an old sofa, and playing with what looked like a bunch of dots on the screen disgusted her. She folded her arms, shook her head, and went back upstairs to her real life, and left her husband to stay in his pointless, empty world. 91 Hannah Duke colored pencil Gin Jager 92 Charlestan Helton oil acrylic Kelly Bemis Sarah Esther Merry acrylic acrylic 93 My Poem to You Hawks in the Dark Who are these nighthawks Perched at the corner bar? Who find refuge underneath the light But not that of a shining star. It is they the darkness stalks. Ah, the ol’ barkeep With his feathers all white, He works to brew that one cup of Joe That like a juicy worm, just might Distract from the darkness that creeps.  A man and woman Nestled side by side, Has this darkness eclipsed your hearts? You long for each other’s touch tonight, Yet he holds a smoke instead in his hand. And who is this mysterious one? Has he turned his back on the dark Or clasped his claws around it and taken it off ? It is the darkness that’s made its mark, And with this one it is not done. Four Hawks in flight, But they do not head south. They find shelter at the end of the street. And for one fleeting moment the dark is snuffed out By the nest that is flooded with light. When I search the ground, I’m watching over you As if with enough attention, I could protect and love you. I see you by the bare trees, taking it in for the two of us. You do not move. Oh how I miss Wool, and the days we spent together, running until we both collapsed looking at the sky, thinking About how much longer I had with him. Little did I know my time was near. Don’t take this life for granted, for the days are short. The time up here is infinite in number More than in a dog’s life—long—multiples by sevens. Rachel Walz Daniel Bruce Grace Giles : color photography 94 E very Man’s Core I think that at every person’s core love abounds even more than any other desire held dear In human hearts the love is clear a man without love is like a book without words without these lettered building blocks the story can’t be heard there are no heroes nor hurt no angst nor anguish barely formed characters left with nothing to do but languish Salute, Farewell To Virginia Hamilton Adair, having read “Good Night, Good Day” Time quite misconstrued is neither friend nor lover. I ran a million roads to find my path but you cast a small silver at my feet; it spiraled to a slow stop, dancing in the deep dust below This poem has an ending, and the beginning I remember quite well. Allyson Payne A man without love is like a sky without stars with no illumination our view on earth is marred nothing but a vexatious void of limitless dark a night sky without hope or light, not even a spark a man without love is like a song without melody without music life would be but sadness with no remedy verses winding and wandering without the wonderful sounds that stir within us all and cause joy to abound Without love a man is less than a man love has been the driving force since time itself began it is love that gives meaning, joy, and light love is what gives us both calmness and might Bailey Murphy 95 From a Daughter Leaving Home When you taught me at eight to ride a bicycle, faltering and shaking as you sheltered me from falling, my face grinning in newfound excitement when I kept moving forward, I kept expecting you to be at my side, while I sped away gaining speed, experiencing freedom, pumping into the unknown, your missing touch cold on my skin like taking off an old watch. Caitlin Coats Kassie Roberts : pen and ink 96 Train Faintly, faintly, in the air He hears the telltale sound Will he, can he, should he dare Make this dangerous bound? And, now! Here! His body springs out and into the sky, And dives for a platform that is near, Toward rough steel while colors whistle by. It must be a mile away But gaining on him fast. He knows he can’t go another day Without feeling its engine blast. His limbs bowl Crashing straight through a box’s open door; As the walls streaked with coal Spin and he sees nothing more. Well-trained ears take in the noise Muscles tense in anticipation To show up all the other boys And ride a great machine to its station. Hard is the floor beneath his back As he wakes and greets a newly-lit day. The shining sun brings him out of the black; He realizes that home is now far, far away. His heart is thumping hard now His palms break out in sweat Should he miss, the monster won’t bow Away would go his life, its fate riskily met. So he sits back and listens as the train chugs along As the train keeps chugging and chugging along. Laura Herren When suddenly, then, the roar streaks past And there burst by bright cars of yellow. With a pull on a cord and a motor blast The machine gives a tremendous bellow. 97 Reid Hodges These are the years in which you must forget what you have learned and take on a new role. 98 SATIRE T A Letter to A 6th Grader he junior high years are the years in which boys must learn to become men. Seventh and eighth grade will tear you apart, unless you are willing to do whatever it takes to conquer them. Absolutely nothing about junior high is long term, so you must learn to think in the moment to survive and thrive. These are the years in which you must forget what you have learned and take on a new role. In order to survive in junior high, you must learn to turn into a person you are not. The trick to effectively passing through junior high with no scars is having a girlfriend. She cannot be just any girlfriend; she must be an attractive, popular girlfriend. Girls are the key to the lock of junior high; the cool kids will have girlfriends. This year is the first time that you will be able to exploit the immense freedom of junior high, and it is essential that you have a girl on your arm. Between every class, there will be five minutes to get to the next class; you must take advantage of this time. A common rule of thumb is to spend four minutes with your girlfriend and use the final minute to rush to class. Try to get her to class on time, but do not worry too much because after all, the relationship is all about you. Moreover, the secret to taking your relationship a step higher is in the physical aspect. Between each class be sure to give your girl a good side hug, so people will see you. If you are feeling crazy one day, go for the full frontal hug, maybe even for two seconds or more. If word gets out that you kissed her, you will receive immediate legendary status. Just remember, you are in the big leagues now, and you have graduated from the high five stage. Girlfriends are important, but the real problem in junior high is sports. I know they say that the small ones can be the best at sports, but that is a lie. The top priority is having a massive body, and I personally suggest steroid use. I understand the side effects and health concerns, but the strength is worth it. Robbin Reese : pencil Junior high will be the darkest years of your life if you cannot maximize your strength, speed, and weight. Sports are the only way through the dark alley of acceptance, and the only hope in sports is to be as big as the best. Disregard all warnings of health problems down the road; simply live for now and be the best you can be. I promise that when you are fifty years old and feeble from performance enhancers, you will look back on the glory of eighth grade football and smile. Not only do sports separate the boys from the men, but they also turn the boys into men. A given fact of junior high is bullying, so you must work toward avoiding it while enforcing it. Most people in junior high will experience some sort of bullying, but the best way to fight back is to bully someone else. Bullying is a chain of events, with a few kids on the top and a few kids on the bottom. If you can’t get to the top, then make a point to ruin someone else’s day for every day that you get bullied. This way, everybody receives a fair share of pain along with the right to pass it on. Also, the worst thing you could do is tell a teacher. Teachers are from a different generation, and no one is bullying them right now, so they have no advice worthy enough to pay attention to. Instead, attempt to team up with the head bully and maybe you could earn the job of head hit-man. In addition, bullying must not be stopped. A good balancing of giving and receiving pain and heartache will keep most junior high students healthy and sane. Despite the critics, it is possible to survive the two junior high years, but you need to form a new person. You will never survive as just an average guy, but if you take a step above par, everything will work out. Each day, focus on your new person as you get a girlfriend, increase your size, and learn how to bully. Strength will provide opportunities to bully, which all girls love. These three will go hand in hand as you face the challenges of the junior high halls. Soon enough, you will have a girl all over you and be the biggest in school. Survival is a daily fight, so keep your eyes peeled. 99 Sunshine Ansley Godwin Walt Disney’s Magic Kingdom is not always what is seems. What if what happens there is bad? What if sunshine realizes the truth? 100 FICTION I was looking at the little kid by the stuffed animals on the Main Street Emporium in Disney World’s Magic Kingdom when Julie turned around and froze. I realized that she had spotted someone she wanted to avoid and she was trying not to draw attention to herself. One notices movement, but stillness makes one’s eyes pass over the object. In a moment she turned around, grabbed my arm, and pulled me toward the door. I looked down at my left wrist where “I can go the distance” was written above my vein. Hercules is my favorite movie. As we left the store and headed toward Adventure Land, she whispered in my ear, “You didn’t see her, did you?” Before I got a chance to answer, she said, “Man, I’m glad she didn’t see us. There’s a few thousand people in this park, but—oh no—she had to be here and I just had to see her.” “Julie, stop! Who did you see? Was it Taylor, Rachel, or. . . .” “Grace. I saw Grace,” Julie said. “The world is so big. Florida is so big. Why on earth would we see her here? We already have to be nice to each other at school, but in public, I’m not for it.” “We probably won’t see her again. Come on. Let’s go find people to watch,” I said. “Do you think she’s stalking you? I mean, if she is, that’s bad, right?” “Seriously, Julie? She’s not stalking me,” I responded. “Even though we hate each other, we don’t talk about it. She’s probably with her family doing family bonding or something.” “But what if she is?” “She’s not. Please let’s drop it.” “Oh! Peter Pan. We have to stop, C,” Julie said, using my nickname. “He’s my favorite.” Why did I ever try to argue with her? She always won even when I was right. She drove me a crazy, but I loved her. We became friends when we were twelve. She had moved here to Florida from Texas right before seventh grade. It was really wonderful timing when she came because that summer marked the end of my friendship with Maggie McDavid : mixed media Grace. We had both been in drama, but the summer before sixth grade, Grace had won the lead role in Matilda in the play at the local theater, leaving me “a kid in the chorus.” Julie had come that summer to Florida and was also a kid in the chorus. We bonded through that. Even though I had Julie, I was still hurt by what Grace had said about the dress rehearsal the night before behind the curtain on opening night. “Caroline, you have no talent. You say your lines quietly and without emotion!” I quickly responded, “I say my lines the way the director told me to say them!” “Well, you don’t,” she jutted back. Heading to junior high without my best friend would have been hard, but Julie filled the gap that Grace left. Julie even called me something different, “C.” It was a fresh start with Julie. I needed that start going into junior high. You would think that would have been in the past and I should have gotten over it, but I hadn’t really, not at that point. But Peter Pan and Wendy awaited. I needed to stop this reminiscing over old times. Peter and Wendy were a joy as I hugged them and talked about Neverland. Julie and I stopped once again to stand underneath the spitting camel statue and watch people wonder why they were suddenly wet. Their faces were always so funny! There were some tables near the Pirates of the Caribbean ride where it was shady and usually pretty quiet, so we decided to stop and watch the cute families from Omaha pose for a picture and watch the street show with Jack Sparrow. After the show, Julie turned to me 101 and stood up. “Was it just me or was that literally Johnny Depp? That was like an exact replica.” “That did look like him! It always amazes me how much the Jack Sparrows look like Johnny.” As we continued walking, we came to the bathroom cut-through and were about to head toward Tom Sawyer’s Island. I suddenly reared back into the covered area and looked down at my feet, hoping that she didn’t see me. Why had she picked this day to be here? More importantly, why had I picked this day to come? “Why did you pull back? It was Grace, wasn’t it?” Julie asked. But she gave .01 seconds for me to respond before she shouted, “I’m right? It was her? Um, C, why aren’t you responding? I know you don’t talk as fast as I do, but you really should try to get a few words out. . . .” I cut her off. “Of course, why on What a earth would I do that for anything good liar else?” She jutted in, “Well, maybe Jason she was. was there, and I know you like him. it Jason? If it had been Jason, it Acting Was would have been SOO cute!” had giv- “Julie, you have got to chill out. It not Jason!” Then I checked to en her was make sure it hadn’t also been Jason. one good “Okay, so it had to have been but if it had been Jason, you quality. Grace, shouldn’t have pulled back! I think he might like you, and honey you TOTALLY like him! I mean how long have you liked him? Since what, first grade?” 102 “Julie, I love you. You are my best friend. Please, for me, quit talking about Jason. Let’s just avoid Grace and go ride Haunted Mansion, the opposite way from her.” As we started walking, Julie said, “Okay, I’ll drop Jason after this one question. You seem kinda mad that I mentioned him. Is everything okay? Did something happen between you? Did he make a move? Oh my. Did you make a move?” “I’m not mad. Everything is okay. Nothing happened. No one made a move. And Julie, way more than one question.” It somehow seemed to silence her to her own thoughts. I should probably tell you that Julie is an extrovert. Extroverts cannot be quiet and absolutely LOVE to talk. Now when I became friends with Julie, I became a better listener and more thoughtful. I realized I was not the center of the universe. Whenever my dad used to think I was acting like the center of the universe, he would call me Sunshine. Let’s just say he hasn’t had to call me Sunshine very often in the past few years. Our high school is near Disney World. I was ready to jet off to college. School choosing became overwhelming this year, so Disney World became my safe haven, from parents, college, and even the thoughts of my broken relationship with Grace. I spent most of my time either on Tom Sawyer’s Island or making friends with DCPs, the Disney College Programers or part-time college employees of Disney for a semester. I grew up at Disney World. This was where magic happens and little kids have their days made. It’s where my roots were, and I hoped to stay established in them. We slid into the Doom Buggy in Haunted Mansion and set off shouting the words to the audio that was playing in the background and laughing so hard that people told us to be quiet. 999 ghosts later, we didn’t sign up to be the 1000th, and we stepped back off into Liberty Square. “C,” Julie said. “Yeah, what’s up?” I said. “Do you think we could head to Tom Sawyer’s Island? I need some time to reflect on my thoughts on the rocking chairs over there.” As we passed the churro and Frozen Icee cart, we stopped to get food and hid it in our bags while we glided over the glistening water to the island. As soon as we hit land, we headed to my special place on the island, the rocking chairs. “I love the creak of the wood,” Julie said, as we walked across the deserted wood planks of the dock. We sat and took in the surroundings. The chicken leg smell drifted across the water and infected our noses, making us hungry. I had brought out my journal to write about all the little things we had seen that day. “Today I went to the Magic Kingdom. I saw a little kid beg his mom for a stuffed animal. A small boy named Ollie from England was lost. I helped him find his parents! It was one of the best Disney moments I’ve ever had.” The birds chirped and the sun melted into my skin. By the end of this day, I would be a sun-kissed brown. Then I heard light Christine Kontos : charcoal footsteps on the dock, the clicking of a camera, and a soft sigh I knew all too well. I’m going to give you a hint; it wasn’t Julie’s sigh. The first thing I saw when my eyes opened were green eyes piercing back at me. The eyes that stood by my side in audition after audition, the ones that took my place on stage. Grace. She moved Julie out of her seat, shooed her away, and slid the rocking chair to face me. Julie glared at her and looked at me for support. I was too shocked to say anything, and before I could answer, Julie stomped away, shaking her head. “That’s just great,” I thought “Listen, Caroline,” Grace said, “I’ve spotted you in the park so many times today. You keep running away, and I want to. . . .” I interrupted her. “Yes. I have been hiding from you, but that’s normal. You hate me, I tolerate you. I keep my distance so you can despise me from afar. That is how we get along in the world. We have been doing it for years. We easily avoid each other. I believe we have become really good at it if you ask me.” “Woah, you think I hate you?” Grace asked. I smiled and thought to myself what a good liar she was. Acting had given her one good quality. “Like you don’t?” I laughed. “Worst lie ever.” “I’m not lying, Caroline. If I hated you, why would I be sitting here talking with you?” she replied. “I don’t even know! You kicked my 103 best friend out of her seat and are already rolling over me!” I shouted. This statement threw her off guard. She pulled back, put her head down, and frowned. “Why…? Why are you so mad? I’ve tried to talk to you about this before, but you never let me get near you.” That had sounded pretty genuine. Was that still acting? “Why? Grace, you hate me. I get that. It is a simple fact that I’m not even trying to deny. It’s okay, Grace. Let’s not make a big deal about this.” “But you have never given me a chance to talk to you!” Grace said. Have you always thought I hated you? Caroline, I don’t hate you!” “Please! You were so rude to me just a minute ago! You were rude to Julie,” I said. Grace stared at me for a second. “I want to be your friend. I mean, you have never given me a chance to tell you I was sorry for what I said back then. You have always run off before I can talk.” “Well, what do you have to say?” I said. I really wanted to hear this interesting explanation from her. “Listen,” Grace said. “I was mad that we were competing. I was mad that we were losing our friendship over this stupid thing. I wanted us to be friends. I didn’t want to tear us apart. But then you got mad and quit talking to me. . . .” I cut her off. “I wasn’t mad. I was just hurt. I thought you were mad at me. I thought you hated me.” “Caroline, I don’t hate you. Can we try to be friends? Start over?” Grace said. I 104 looked down at my wrist. “I can go the distance.” Yes we could try this out. I looked around for Julie and didn’t see her, so I decided to focus on Grace. “Sure. Let’s start over. Things are going to be different. You do realize that? We both have new friends. They are going to have to realize we don’t hate each other.” “I know. I wanted this a long time ago. Do you want this?” she asked in a worried tone. “I guess. Let’s try this out. I miss our friendship so much,” I said, slowly pushing Julie into the back of my mind. Grace Giles : color photography stunned. The raft stopped, Chris jumped in, “Me too!” She quickly assured. We gave each other a hug and decided to spend and another worker on the raft called Guest Services. The people next to us were trying the rest of the afternoon together, but we to figure what had happened while a kid that needed to find Julie. Grace’s family knew saw Grace go into the water was screaming. we were with each other. Texting Julie, we Chris came back up with Grace held across headed back toward the loading dock to his chest not thirty seconds later. The other meet there. worker and I helped get Grace up on deck. “So you like Jason now?” Grace asked as we were waiting on Julie. “Hmmm, I flipped on Julie, “Did you push I’m friends with him, you know. You will her? It’s impossible to fall. She was holding on. I saw!” end up spending a lot of time with him, eating lunch with him, and all of us hanging “Of course I didn’t push her,” Julie said, but was cut off when we finally out on the weekends. Y’all could date. That reached land and Chris pulled me aside to would be so cute!” Julie finally walked up after twenty help with Grace. minutes, looking agitated behind her shy Looking at Grace, I shouted to Julie, smile. We slid onto the raft, and I hopped “We—will—talk about this later.” Grace was on the barrel, waving at Chris, the driver of gasping and tearing up because she couldn’t the boat, my friend who had been working breath. I gave her a hug and told her to here for the Disney College Program. Grace breathe. jumped up next to where Julie usually sat. When Grace finally calmed down, I Julie didn’t seem upset asked her, “Do you know with this, so I didn’t ask And suddenly the what happened? Did Grace to move. I spun someone push you?” talking stopped around as we floated on “I might have been the water to get a last and there was a pushed. I was just looklook at the island for the ing at the sky, and bang, splash. day. Behind me I heard my hands weren’t on the Julie and Grace talking barrel anymore and I was about the weather, but suddenly the talking in the water,” Grace said. stopped and there was a splash. Grace was That didn’t calm my suspicions at in the water when I turned around, gasping all. I turned around of where Julie should for air and floundering. Her head kept going have been and realized she wasn’t there. Had below the water, and each time it seemed she pushed Grace or was my overreacting to make her panic even more. I rememimagination taking over? Running out to bered she couldn’t swim. I looked around Main Street I saw Julie leaning up against the at Julie, but she just stood there as though railing staring right at me. I walked straight to her, and she smiled a wicked smile. “Hello. Are you here to accuse me?” Julie said, “I know you are.” “I’m here to talk.” “I’m done talking. I see that our friendship is about to be thrown out because now you are friends with Grace. I pushed her. I did,” Julie said. “Why did you do it?” I asked. “You are such a hypocrite.” Her voice was cold and level. I had never heard her talk like this. “You got upset with Grace because she was a bad friend, but you basically ditched me when Grace came back. You are a horrible friend.” I stared at her, completely speechless. She had pushed Grace in the water, and she was accusing me. “It’s exhausting being your friend,” she continued. “I always have to talk, and you let yourself be manipulated. You cower so easily.” I saw the hate in her eyes, and I knew the words could never be unheard. I had never felt that Disney wasn’t safe until that moment. What if Disney is safe but I’m not? What if I still deserved the title “sunshine?” Now is the time to change. I turned around back to Julie. Maybe my relationship with Grace could work. Maybe I could be a better friend. Maybe I could officially lose the title my dad named me such a long time ago. Maybe I can learn to be better. Maybe this is the fresh start I need. I need to start over. Sunshine can quit being the center of the world. 105 The Bridge A bridge was located deep in the woods Very few travelers set foot and stood On it, for it brought out their worst fears And often even grown men’s tears The bridge was shrouded in mystery Rumors spread that people crossing had died The bridge had quite a history At the mere mention of the name, people would hide The bridge was dark and damp It was surrounded by a dreary mist The bridge’s name was the Scamp People said the bridge had even hissed One day a brilliant light appeared The light cut deep into the dark woods Many travelers were happy and cheered For it made the ground visible, where no man had ever stood The light did not stop there It went straight for the bridge The light caused the bridge to let out a swear Then the Scamp was gone, down to the last smidge Travelers now cross often Due to the radiant light The light does not soften Its displays of its awesome might Will Windham 106106 Gillian Ash : color photography The Valley of Peace Oh how I love this valley for how far I have come. Peace and joy have been given when before there was none, Futures made stable by the mysterious unseen. How glorious the triumph of great changes in me. Resting in this peace, when all of a sudden, dark mystified beauty is suddenly seen. An awe inspiring mountain stands in my view. One sputtering and spouting with its smooth jutted grooves. It draws me in, catches my focus, pulls me away from the peace within. Further I lead; away from the valley; up to the mountain yearning to see this mysterious enlivenment. Far from the valley, myself I find, yet yearning for beauty and a place to belong. This sputtering mound, with it I do stay, for amazement it provides, I am now happy I can say. But why does it rumble! It bellows and gurgles and blasts out hatred like a dark crafty devil. I calm it down, soothe and plead, hoping it will love me Elizabeth Campbell 107107 The Red Ultimatum M arcus hurried along the corridor of his family’s luxurious castle, rushing past servants and maidens, taking no notice of anything. He wondered what Clyde wanted with him. He had known that Marcus was going hunting today and that he would need to hurry if he wanted to have a chance of picking up the trail of the minotaur. Marcus burst into the throne room, not waiting for the guards to open the doors for him. He stopped in his tracks, however, when he saw his brother Clyde with the captains of the guard. This did nothing to calm Marcus’s frustration that his plans had been interrupted. “Clyde, you know that I am going hunting today. This Minotaur has ravaged three of our villages. It’s headed for Ashland and. . . . ” The captains flinched as though a cannon had gone off at the mention of their neighboring country, Ashland. “Leave us for a moment,” Clyde said, using what Marcus had dubbed his kingly 108108 FICTION voice. “Now then, I have summoned you, brother, because we are facing a crisis.” “What crisis could be more important than ridding the kingdom of that blasted beast?” Marcus asked. “The fact that your friend, Benjamin, has declared war on us, brother,” he said, anger seeping into his voice. “As you know, King Benjamin and I have been arguing back and forth these last few months. Our scouts have been reporting ever troubling news as he moves his troops closer to the border. Since we have begun talking, he has given me nothing but ultimatums, and today he sent me one final letter.” “What did it say?” Marcus asked hesitantly. “He is marching on Roostoth. He is going to attack our country.” Clyde paused, letting this sink in. “Your little friend, the friend you swore would never attack us, is marching as we speak. You understand what Jordan Hedge this means, correct?” “I do.” “Do you?” “How can you ask me that? Have I ever, ever, not been less then completely loyal to you and this country?” Marcus’s finger traced the jewel on the hilt of his sword. It was their family crest with an emerald in the center; Clyde had given it to him when he turned eighteen. He tended to trace the edge of it whenever he became angry. “Look, let Charlestan Helton : mixed media me go to him, try and talk him down.” “Interesting that you mention this. There was a second letter that was addressed to you.” “What did it say?” Clyde’s face softened, and he dropped his royal façade. He was just Marcus’s brother. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked gingerly. Something about the way he asked this, all warm and concerned, brought a shiver to Marcus’s spine. “What did it say?” Marcus finally asked. “Marcus, you know that I love you, correct? You know that I would never lie to you or do anything to hurt you on purpose, right?” “What…did…the…letter…say…?” Mar- cus asked, slowly. “Read it for yourself.” Clyde pointed to a small table with a vase and a folded piece of parchment. “But remember that no matter what you choose, I will always love you.” Marcus walked slowly over to the letter, imagining a hundred different things the letter could say. With fumbling fingers, he slowly read it, then again, and then a third time. His fists crumpled the parchment a little bit more every time he read it. Clyde walked over to Marcus, but just as he reached to touch his shoulder, Marcus spun and charged out of the room, his armor and gear clanking loudly down the hallway. He kept running, out of the castle, through the city, out the walls, till he was in the spot that he came to whenever he was upset. He hadn’t meant to come here, it must just have been habit. It was a lovely area. It was filled with large trees, evenly spaced in rows as far as the eye could see. Marcus picked up a freshly fallen apple. His mind was still reeling from what the letter had said. He went numb as he slumped against the trunk of the largest tree. He slowly dozed off, and then he began to dream of a memory many years ago. Marcus was riding his horse across the border of Roostoth and Ashland. He was much younger, only seventeen at the time. He was dressed in full armor, armed with a crossbow, broadsword, and shield. He was not just ridHe went ing, but fleeing. Two demons were hot on his heels. They moved like numb as he the wind. Marcus had never seen slumped something move so fast. He had begun hunting them, after hearing against of rumors of an evil wizard that the trunk had summoned them to hunt him down. Still seventeen and already of the an accomplished hunter, Marcus largest had thought he could best them and take them down. His brother tree. Clyde had warned him against this. Marcus saw a small fort up ahead. He recognized it as one of the watchtowers that served as an early warning system for Ashland. He made for it, but his horse was tiring, and he knew it would be close. Marcus was wishing he had listened to his brother. 109109 He saw a man at the base of the tower, but could not tell anything else about him. He seemed to be doing a strange dance. Just as he entered the walls of the fort, he felt an icy cold hand grip his neck, and he was thrown from the horse. The two demons were upon him instantly. He felt their claws tearing through his armor like it was made of leaves. He felt blood seeping into his clothes underneath. He could no longer move or feel his right arm. He wondered if it had been ripped off. He slowly began fading into darkness, but then a sudden rush of light and heat blinded him. The two demons screamed, a terrible, blood curdling sound that had no rival. As the stars faded from his eyes, Marcus saw nothing but a man-no a teenager - no older then he was, standing over him. No demons. No danger. Lightning crashed all around him as the boy picked him up by the arm and stood him up against a wall. “Are you okay?” asked the stranger. “I’ll live. Who are you?” “My name is Benjamin, ruler of Ashland, and you are Marcus, brother of Clyde, the ruler of Roostoth.” “Pleased to meet you, Benjamin. You saved my skin just now. They’ve been chasing me since the border and they almost had me. Where’s your fire ? I’m very cold.” Marcus looked around confused. Fire was the only way to vanquish a demon, and a very hot fire at that. “I have none, but you may accompany me to my castle and you shall be given food, water, and warmth before you return to 110110 Roostoth.” “Thank you, that sounds wonderful,” Marcus said as he mounted his horse, still looking very confused. Marcus awoke suddenly from his dream. Someone had hit him on the head. He jumped up, unsheathing his sword with a swoosh and clank of metal. He looked around, his military instincts kicking in, and saw that it was only an apple. He sheathed his sword and looked up at the sky. The sun was now high in the air. Marcus thought it was strange that he had dreamt of the first time he had met Benjamin. Benjamin. The name swept up a swell of emotions in Marcus. He wanted to both cry and be happy at the same time. He remembered the letter. He reached down to where he had been lying and picked it up. He Harrison Cain : scratchboard read it once more: novice magician then, and I messed up the incantaMarcus, tion. When I heard word that you were going after Today I have declared war on your country, Roostoth. I hope this comes as no surprise to you. It them, I devised a new plan. I would have the demons has been a long time coming. Your brother sits there draw you to me and then I would vanquish them and earn your trust. Then I would use you to gain atop his throne of success while my people starve. access to your brother, and kill him, crippling your Why should one king have so much, while another country, leaving you vulnerable to attack. I made a starves and wallows in filth? I am going to do what mistake however. I grew fond of you. I decided that I should have done a long time ago and take what should have been given to me. I have written to you I would attempt to bring you to my cause before I attacked. If you come to me and lead my armies as today to explain some things. I suppose I should start at the beginning. I sent those demons after you, my right hand, I will spare Roostoth. As a pledge of your allegiance, I will need you to give me access or more accurately, after your brother. I was but a to your castle. I then can put your brother under my control with a potion I have created. This will help us to avoid a war. Light a fire where you can gain me access, and I will be there in seconds. I have been a good friend to you. I hope you will remember that. That was it. Nothing else on the page but the royal seal of Ashland. Marcus barely registered that he was running back to the throne room before he got to the doors and stopped for a second to think. If he didn’t agree to Benjamin’s plans, surely many people, including the soldiers that he knew and trained, would die. If he did comply, he would lose his brother, his best friend. The person that had always been there for him. The person who would never abandon him. The person that he knew would never have considered giving him up. Marcus scared himself when he realized that he was considering giving up Clyde. How can I consider this, after everything Clyde has done for me? Marcus thought as he walked toward the doors of the throne room, but the last line of the letter kept bouncing around in his head. I have been a good friend to you. I hope you will remember that. One little line. One line that had Marcus shaken to the core. Sure his brother had done much for him, but hadn’t Benjamin done almost as much for him too? All the hunts they had been on where Benjamin had kept him out of trouble. He made his decision and opened the doors with a bang. Marcus strode into the room, his head swimming. “Clyde, we need to talk.” “I figured you would want to. Come and let us talk.” Clyde gestured his brother towards the throne. “Clyde you know that I would never ever consider actually helping him to do what he said. You know that I am loyal and that you are family and I would never turn on family and…” Clyde held up a hand to silence his brother’s ranting. “I know you wouldn’t. But I believe that we should attempt to use this to our advantage, don’t you agree?” “How do you propose that we take advantage of this without putting you in danger?” Marcus didn’t like where his brother was going with this. “Look, I may have to be put in danger for this, but it will be worth it. Besides, my royal protector will protect me,” he smiled encouragingly at his little brother. “Let’s hear your plan then,” Marcus sighed. “Very well, I figure that Benjamin won’t have his guard all the way up. He will be thinking that you have forsaken me and that it will be a simple walkthrough. Instead, as he walks in and starts talking to me as you know he will, that is when you will make your move. Once we subdue him, we will force him to give the order for his army to stand down. After that I will put someone I trust over Ashland until the people there can produce a bloodline worthy of the crown. Marcus stared at his brother for a long time, his face unreadable. If they went through with this, they could save a lot of lives, the lives of his soldiers, but his brother would be in mortal danger. If they didn’t go through with it… well who knows how costly a war with a sorcerer who can sum- mon demons could be. “Fine, but we do it my way. I want a group of knights that I handpick to be ready to assist if we need them. Also, you will not move from your throne if you don’t have to. Third, you don’t help with the fighting; you leave that to me. Do we have a deal?” Clyde could tell that his brother would not back down from his terms. “Very well, we will do it your way. Assemble your knights and prepare yourself. We will signal Benjamin in two hours.” The two brothers parted ways imagining very different outcomes to this plan. As Marcus stood at one of the entrances to the castle, striking the steel along the flint, he thought again about any reason to delay. When he could think of none, he continued making the signal fire, dread growing ever larger in his heart. He lit the fire and ran back to the throne room. “It is lit. He will be here soon,” Marcus said, as he caught his breath, leanMarcus, ing against a pillar. “Very good. We will get Today I through this fine I prom . . .” Clyde’s face froze midsentence as have dehis whole body went rigid against clared war the back of the throne. Benjamin strode into the room on your dressed in a red and black cloak. country, The room dropped ten degrees as a mist rolled in. “Marcus! I am Roostoth. so happy that you decided to side with me. I was really worried there for a bit that you wouldn’t. Let’s put a stop to this war.” 111 111 Marcus drew his crossbow and cocked it with a metallic click, “Yes, let’s put a stop to it.” Benjamin stopped walking and turned to face him.“What are you doing, Marcus?” “Did you really think I would have turned on my brother?” “Your family is insufferable. When I was a child, my father would tell me of the loyalty of your family. How honorable they are. How I should try and grow up to be like them,” Benjamin spat these words at Marcus with utter contempt in his voice. “Look, just stand down, Benjamin. I have a group of knights ready to defend us at my signal. You cannot win.” Benjamin looked at Marcus with sadness on his face. “I am sorry you feel this way. I had truly grown fond of you. Now I have to kill you. It’s a Mary Elise Nolen : color photography shame. It seems as if all of your loyal knights have drifted to sleep. I do not raised his hands in front of him and began think that they will be awakining anytime to mutter an incantation. soon.” Suddenly the crossbow bolt flew through Marcus had his crossbow aimed at Benja- the air and struck Benjamin in the shoulder. min, ready to fire the second the mage king His rage echoed through the room as blood made a threatening move. “Stand down, poured from the wound. Clyde unsheathed now!” his sword and charged forward at Benjamin, “We both know that you don’t have the but the sorcerer simply held up a hand and guts to pull that trigger on me.” Benjamin Clyde flew back against a wall, knocking began walking towards the throne, the over a flame pot and setting the floor on candles going out as he passed, so powerful fire. Marcus threw the crossbow to the side was the cold emanating from him. “Now and drew his sword. He flicked his head what to do with you, Clyde,” he muttered to downward to lower his visor. The sorcerer himself at the steps of the throne. Benjamin and the knight circled each other warily, star112112 ing deep into each other’s eyes. There was nothing but hatred in Benjamin’s eyes, and there was little else in Marcus’s. “How could you do this to us?” Marcus yelled over the noise of the flames. “I have always hated the two of you. When the demons descended upon Ashland and my father asked for aid, all he got was your father cowering within his own walls. My father was murdered because no aid was given to us!” Tears were rolling down Benjamin’s face as he yelled this at Marcus. “I have been in charge of an entire country since I was fifteen. I inherited it while it was under siege by the forces of the underworld. Do you even understand what I have endured?” “Our father died by the hands of the same demons. Roostoth defeated the demons, so don’t you dare say we didn’t give aid.” “I always had to hear about your father. I always had to hear about how great a king and a friend he was. When we needed him, where was he? Then your brother took over, he offered aid, but it was too late for my father by then, and the very thought of that sickened me. I didn’t need anyone. I could save my country on my own then, and I am going to do it again. Starting with the destruction of Roostoth!” a mad glare flared in his eye. He raised his hands and the entire room shook. Benjamin ripped the great chandelier from its moorings and flung it at Clyde. Marcus watched in horror as it flew at his brother. He knew there was nothing he could do. “Clyde!” was all he had time to yell before the great glass missile impacted and flung him against the wall. Marcus heard the crunch of breaking bones and stone as cracks spread across the wall where Clyde had smashed against it. The banners on the walls were now burning, catching the wood reinforcements of the roof ablaze. It wouldn’t be long before the whole roof caved in. Marcus charged at the young sorcerer, his sword slashing and slicing, fueled by rage. Rage over his brother’s crumpled body. Rage that he had been lied to. Guilt that he had not protected his brother. Benjamin raised his uninjured arm and shot a stream of green fire at Marcus. The shield took most of the impact, but it still pushed Marcus back several feet. The melted shield dropped at his feet as he stood ready to take another charge. It would not be needed. Benjamin was on the floor, his breath labored and ragged. Marcus put the point of his blade under the sorcerer’s chin and prepared to deliver the final blow. Just then a beam fell from the ceiling and the room began to slowly implode. Marcus looked over to where his brother was and knew he had to make a choice. Save his brother or kill Benjamin. The sorcerer disappeared in a puff of smoke as Marcus ran to his brother. He began digging him out of the rubble as quickly as he could. When he finally uncovered him, his heart sank. Clyde was barely conscious and he would have to be carried out. “Marcus, leave me. Save yourself. I am already dead,” whispered the dying king. “Not a chance. It is my job to protect you, till death.” “Run, you stupid boy. Roostoth needs a leader for this war. If we both die, who knows what will happen? You need to lead our people now. You have to protect them. Now go, and remember that I will always love you.” “Clyde I won’t leave…” “GO! NOW!” The king yelled with the last of his strength. Marcus jumped up and sprinted out of the room, tears streaming down his face, as the walls caved in and buried the king they had once protected. The young king stood atop a tower of the castle, watching as the last of the fires were put out. It had taken hours to defeat the flames that had engulfed the keep. Marcus had already decreed that the site would remain barren, except for the construction of a small monument to commemorate Clyde’s death. The good king’s body had not been recovered. Marcus’s face appeared different than it had before Benjamin’s betrayal and the death of his brother. He looked older, less carefree. He would no longer have time to hunt or sit in the orchard. He would Benjamin have to lead this country strode into now. On top of it all, he had inherited it on the eve the room of war. His scouts had dressed in a reported that Benjamin’s troops had already crossed red and black the border, and they would cloak. be here soon. Troops were assembled, waiting for the coming battle. He looked out towards the assembled ranks of soldiers, and he felt a sense of pride. He knew that they would defeat Ashland. Benjamin had made a fatal error. He had made it personal with Marcus when he killed Clyde. There would be no treaty. Roostoth would not stop until Benjamin’s head hung on a spear. A horn sounded and Marcus wearily turned towards the stairs down into the castle. He still had to go to his chambers to be dressed for the coming battle and ride to the front of the ranks to take command. He preferred the hands-on approach to battles. He sighed heavily. Tonight was going to be a very long night. 113113 Elizabeth Shepherd pencil Ashley Musachia Mariel Kynerd 114 114 pencil pointilism Sarah Burrow pencil Lauren Palmer Madison Chambers pointilism acrylic 115 115 Mr. Dawson’s Court After school I would go down to the courts and walk around to the court looking closer, seeing, almost straining over the fence and imagine I was the one playing tennis, balls whizzing over the net, where my opponent returned the fresh, fuzzy balls on the soft clay. I loved the smell, which stayed in racquet bags, nylon, and in the inner parts where I could smell the sweat and know I had played hard, or at least my best, and later walking home through the pines, which smelled of sap in the cool fall air, as now, remembering Mr. Dawson’s inspiring tennis, I hit on his former court and watch the sun go down. Griffin Oaks 116 116 The Forgotten Sister to Jeffrey Harrison, having read “Our Other Sister” The meanest thing I ever did to my sisters wasn’t running away with the raggedy man in an incredible blue box and saving galaxies, but never going back and making sure that they were alright. What my reasons were, I can’t say: their safety or me trying not to reawaken old wounds, because I chose the adventures and peril over a life with them? But at least I am nothing more than a ghost story to my younger sisters who were barely able to remember when I left them. I wanted to rectify this, if only for a minute, so the Doctor and I snuck stealthily in. There they were, my two sisters together, the older telling the younger a story of what had happened to their imaginary oldest sister. I had run away to another state and started a business. I had tried to keep in touch, but I eventually stopped calling and no one knows why. The older sister was painting me into my non-existent life and desolate tears filled my eyes as they flowed down my youngest sister’s face. I can still see how the older sister gloated that she had the power to invent a person who could cause pain in her sister’s life. I can still feel the blow dart of remorse piercing my soul as I realized that making myself known to them and then leaving again would only cement the pain. My little sisters did not need that pain, and so I flew away in that magical blue box with that wonderful man to go save more worlds, but I will never be able to tell them just how badly I miss them. Reagan Travis 117 117 Harrison Cain Molly Lattner acrylic John Collier 118 118 acrylic acrylic acrylic Elizabeth Gunn Christine Kontos Hannah Hall Molly Lattner Charlestan Helton Anna Gandy acrylic Chase Koslowsky acrylic 119 119 Matt Roberts Beauty,I would say, is something that we cannot explain, but we can experience. Beauty is what we experience when our favorite character dies, or when our hero finally reaches his home; there is nothing else like it in our world. 120 ESSAY S tarry, starry night.” These were the words that forever changed my life. I was in eighth grade, in English class just a little bit after lunch. My teacher, Mrs. Janney, pulled up a slideshow of Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings and played “Vincent” by Don Mclean. She told us to watch and see if we could see the deeper meaning behind the paintings. Some of my classmates laughed at the song, and some just shrugged it off; some probably stayed silent out of fear of being judged for daring to show interest. I sat there, in my desk, hearing the song while I stared at these paintings. While I sat there, something strange happened to me; I felt odd in a way I had never experienced before. As I looked over these paintings, I suddenly felt as though I had been crushed by a giant wave; my eyes began to water; my mouth began to get dry. I felt as though my mind was overrun with thoughts, yet simultaneously silent. This was the first time my eyes were open and I saw beauty; it was as though I saw a glimpse of heaven. What I was seeing was not just a painting, but a man’s life spread upon a canvas; I did not hear a man singing, but an artist’s soul put into words. For the first time, I found a deeper meaning behind art–I found beauty itself. What is beauty? Beauty, I would say, is something that we cannot explain, but we can experience. Beauty is what we experience when our favorite character dies, or when our hero finally reaches his home; there is nothing else like it in our world. When I look at the world around me, the only thing I can think of that embodies beauty is God himself, and when I experience that beauty, I truly feel like I am closer to Him. Every time I experience this beauty, I can’t help but see God in it all. Whether it is being sad from seeing death in a film, or feeling elated at a grand triumph in a video game, I can’t help but see God’s beauty–the true beauty–in it all. Anytime I begin to think about this beauty, I can’t help but revisit it in my mind tales of a man trying to be a god, trying to build some grand utopia, or learning to cope with his sins. Even when the geniuses behind these works look at the world and sometimes see pointlessness and misery, it reminds me of just how great it all will be when God finally restores everything to accomplish his Grant Hester : acrylic glorious plan. I can take comfort in knowing that although some see the world as miserable, I know the truth, and that truth is that everything will be made right one day. Until then, I will take heart and be happy that I can experience this beauty on earth. It is because of this beauty that I have the dreams that I do. I want to be an actor because then I can be a part of these stories and help convey beauty to an audience. I want to give the audience that same beautiful feeling that I was blessed with when I experience beauty. I know it must sound odd, using beauty over and over again, but as I said earlier, there is nothing else like it in the world. If I can give people that same beautiful feeling that I feel when I experience art, then I feel like I will have accomplished something truly worthwhile. 121 A sylum 1 Inside the small dark bathroom The girl is huddled in a ball Sobs shake her small frame She wishes they would stop Monsters follow her No matter where she goes 2 Trapped here for years Trying to forget The images she sees Every night as she falls asleep Screams wake the staff And echo down the long hallways There’s no need to got to her No one can save her 4 She picks up a key with no one watching Gracefully sliding it into her pocket She needs to escape They know They always know Continuing the fearful race Late at night her door Unlocks with a click Footsteps follow her She takes flight up the stairs Through the door On to the roof Flying through the night sky . . . Free finally 3 The sunshine scorches her face She hasn’t seen the light in weeks Never allowed to leave Constantly surrounded by white coats Sweat slithers down her back The wind whistles by Causing a stirring in the nearby woods She watches for them there The dark beasts Longing to devour her 122122 Molly Lattner : mixed media Perfect Insanity Spiraling spiraling That’s how this feels Not quite like falling But something surreal Like I’m in this little world The world that’s my mind Pouring out this nonsense The only words I can find What is this madness What am I doing Lying here in a daze This insanity just keeps coming Pours from within me As it runs out of my veins Like blood but madness I’m going insane I know it I do But what is this I even know . . . What is this... Why . . . ? Maggie McDavid Break Free I pace the floor in this place of confinement that is my room and home. Everything in this house seems too perfectly polished and poised, so different from that world roaming on the other side of my window panes. I sneak my eyes past the door frame, looking toward them, wondering when they will leave their task. Everyday, it seems, they concentrate for hours on those painted pieces, as if within each bit of wood lies some treasured truth. How can they stand to sit as they do and stare at their perfected pictures when there is a far more pressing project to put together, outside their very doorsteps. Young, I may be, but even I can easily see, anything would be better than what they are doing presently, Hiding from the rising sun for fear it will not set, and trapping life within a box, to protect themselves from who knows what. Miranda Shaffer 123123 Pacific Coast Highway A red car zooms by. I take in the bright blue sky. Windows are down; Sun sizzles on my arm That hangs out the window. The smell of the ocean Follows the Pacific Coast Highway Where travel starts and never stops. The seagull’s cry travels as they fly; The otters squeal when I drive by. There’s whale watching And screams that one whale has been spotted. I make friends with the locals who look for whales. I remember their handshakes and wide smiles. Salt burns my eyes When I stop for a picture. The camera clicks To keep the memory forever. Sun reflects off the sea, Stings my eyes, And burns the image of this place Into my heart and mind. The ocean laps against the shore. Waves crash over each other. Water splashes on my feet. Sand squishes between my toes. 124 Elizabeth Gunn : scratchboard Where life is paradise, and troubles are captured by the sea— Take me back to this place please. Ansley Godwin O regon: Warm Springs 1 The cliffs crash into the sea As the waves splash onto the shore And pull me in like sirens. 4 The culture and pride of the people Who laid the beginning of this land Sparked a story of a new nation, The green-blue of the water Is a reflections of God’s eyes As he stares into the shimmering tide. A nation of chants and calls, A people who respect the unknown And expect nothing in return. 2 The beach like an apocalypse Is void of human life Except for fires crackling along the edge. The chilling wind pierces through my coat Sending a shiver up my spine And down my arms. 3 Children laugh with the promise of toys And bubbles and balloons And things that bring them joy. Along the street, people sing And splash colors on the sidewalk With specific accuracy. Eliza Graham A Beautiful Song A beautiful song is the country at night Everything glimmers like the moonlight The fireflies are footlights in their nightly flight The pond shimmers and reflects the light I can even hear the croaking of the frogs Sitting in the pond lined up like logs What a sound through the mist of the fog The bass is deep out of the dark bog Eventually I hear the night-time bird sing Oh the beautiful sounds it brings I can barely hear the chirp chirp chirp ring I might hear the flapping of its wings All through the night I can hear nature’s song It’s as if all creatures sing along A symphony that will go all the night long Music that sticks with a soul life long. Peyton Feemster 125 125 Conspiracy Times Drew Bonner Y esterday, Richard had received an anonymous tip from someone who said that they had big information about Real Life Investments. He only shared the information with Michael, and Richard was going to meet with the man 126 FICTION with the information at lunch. When he sat down at his desk to get some of his meaningless work out of the way, he could not get his leg to stop shaking or his mind to stop thinking about the meeting. He watched the little clock on his computer screen drag towards noon. Time passes slowest when someone wants it to go fastest. He decided to try to pass some time by discussing the situation with Michael. It’s always easier to pass time with a friend. Richard walked over to Michael’s cubicle right next to the NY Daily sign. “Hey, Michael, what’d you do last night?” “I had to go home and take care of Jimmy. Plus the Canucks were playing the Red Wings. But I did think about your meeting today. I could come along if you like.” “I guess you can, but this is my story. I’ve been waiting for something like this for a while. We probably need to head out pretty soon.” “All right, let me grab my coat.” “It’s sixty-five degrees outside. You are the weakest Canadian I’ve ever met.” “Or the wisest. I haven’t taken a sick day in my career.” “You haven’t taken a sick day because you try too hard. And speaking of people that try too hard, Stephen wants to hang out with me tonight. I don’t know if I want to though.” Ben Collins : pen and ink “Why not? You two used to hang out all the time when I first met you.” “I don’t know. All he ever talks about is his stupid job. I don’t want to hear about his salary or his retirement plan.” Michael closed the sports page that he was looking at on his computer and stood up from his chair to head outside with Richard. As they walked through the sea of cubicles that surrounded them, Michael said, “I think you’re a little jealous of Stephen. It makes sense. You guys have always been friends, and now that he’s got his big-time job, you feel like you’ve fallen behind a little bit.” Annoyed, Richard responded, “I could never be jealous of Stephen. We are practically brothers. I just feel like he is turning into one of them.” He pointed to one of the big offices they were passing by. “I could be wrong, but where are we going?” Michael said as they walked out of the building and into the cool, fall weather on the sidewalk outside. “It’s just a couple streets down. We can walk.” As they walked out onto the busy street with horns honking and people rushing by, Richard thought about Michael’s words. “I’m not that jealous of Stephen. I wish that I had his salary and car, but I’m a good friend, and I’ve been happy for him. Stephen and I have been friends since we were little kids. It’s okay to be a little competitive with your best friend.” As Richard was thinking this, Michael asked him, “Do you have any idea It’s what this guy might know about Real okay Life?” to be a “I don’t know. All he said was that he had big news.” little “Do you think it might have anything to do with people that work with competStephen?” itive “I doubt it. Stephen wouldn’t let with anyone around him step out of line.” “I hope so. Stephen would know your better, wouldn’t he? How much farther best do we have to go?” “It’s right up here.” Richard pointed friend. to a cafe across the street. Richard and Michael made their way across the street and went into the cafe. The cafe was stuffed with people standing and talking to each other. A strong smell of coffee drifted through the air. As they made their way through the loud herd of people standing by the door, Richard and Michael saw a man stand up in a back corner booth and frantically wave at them to come over and sit by him. He was a goofy looking middle-aged man. He wore large glasses and a brown and green striped jacket. He continued to wave at them until they finally fought their way through the 127 crowd. When they sat down next to him at the booth, he shook their hands and introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Timothy Wheeler. Look, I’ve asked you to meet me because I have some information on Real Life Investments. You’re Richard Lloyd, right? I love your articles! Why hasn’t the newspaper used your talent more wisely? I asked you specifically to come here because I felt He wouldn’t you could relay my story better than most journalhave to hear ists.” about Ste- “Well, I just do what the boss tells me to do,” phen’s ex- Richard said. “So what traordinary exactly do you want to tell us about Real Life?” life anymore. “Well, I’m an accountant for the upper management of the company. I’m in charge of handling the expenses for the new office building that they’re building a couple streets down. Yesterday, I was walking down a hallway with a lot of papers in one hand and coffee in the other. One of the papers dropped, which caused me to lunge and spill my coffee all over the carpet in the hallway. It was very early in the morning, and hardly anyone was in the office, so I figured I might be able to clean up the stain without anyone noticing. I went and grabbed some paper towels, and when I came back, three men were on a conference call in a conference room next to where I spilled the coffee. I recognized 128 two of the men because I had done their taxes before, but I wasn’t able to figure out who the third one was.” “What were they talking about on the conference call?” Richard asked. “They were talking to an administrator for Envirolink Energy. He sounded really nervous. I didn’t hear everything clearly because I was trying to not be seen while I cleaned up the coffee. He was saying that some of their employees had been exposed to radiation at one of their power plants. ” “What does that have to do with Real Life?” asked Richard. “Envirolink is one of Real Life’s largest investments. If anything happened to Envirolink, Real Life would be in trouble. The administrators started discussing ways to cover the story up. At this point, I had cleaned up all the coffee very quietly, and I was sitting outside the door. They discussed paying off the families of the employees to keep quiet. It sounded like the guys were either doing really bad or dead.” “Did you hear anything else?” “No, as I was listening, I bumped my arm against the wall and had to run away. I don’t know if they saw me before I turned a corner.” “Can you prove any of this?” As Richard spoke, he noticed two men working their way toward the booth. “I waited a couple hours after I heard everything yesterday and then looked at the company accounts since I’m in charge of many of the transactions done by upper management. I saw that two million dollars had been given to three separate individuals yesterday. I had never heard of any of the names, but I think that this is our link to the families of the Envirolink employees.” Just as Wheeler handed a paper with the names and the account information to Richard, the two men in black suits made it to the table. The men were clean-cut, muscular, and tall. One of them asked, “Timothy Wheeler, would you come with us? Bring your friends too.” Wheeler, Richard, and Michael climbed out of the booth, glancing nervously at each other. They pushed through the crowd of people in the café, walking directly in front of the men in suits. Wheeler leaned over Richard’s shoulder as they brushed off the people in the crowd and said, “Run when I say go.” Wheeler then grabbed someone standing beside him, launched him at the two men in the suits, and screamed, “Go, go, go!” Richard, Michael, and Wheeler pushed and climbed their way outside and sprinted down the sidewalk in no particular direction. The men in suits sprinted out of the café and were on the their tails. Wheeler turned sharply down an alley, and Richard and Michael followed close behind. “Do you think we lost them?” asked Michael. “Yeah, I think so,” Wheeler said. “Let’s hop that fence to get over to the next street.” Richard and Wheeler boosted Michael over the fence first. Then, while Wheeler and Michael hoisted Richard over the top, a black car turned down the alley and sped toward them. Richard frantically climbed over the fence and stood on a ledge to help Wheeler over. Wheeler grabbed for Richard’s hand, but the two men in black suits grabbed him and pulled him towards their car. As they dragged him away, he screamed, “Don’t lose the list!!! That’s our only connection!” The men opened the back door and threw Wheeler into the car. They jumped into the front seat and sped out of the alley in reverse. Once the car was out of sight, Michael turned to Richard and screamed, “What the heck just happened!?” “Do you think Real Life sent those guys to catch us?” Richard asked. “Maybe. I don’t know. What are they gonna do with Wheeler? I think we should call the cops.” Richard thought about this carefully. If they called the cops, then his story would be over. If he could get to the bottom of this without having the cops mess everything up. If the cops came, then other reporters would definitely get this big of a story, and he wouldn’t get any credit. No one else could know about the story yet. This could be the story that could earn the respect of his boss. More importantly, this could be the thing that he could brag about to Stephen. He wouldn’t have to hear about Stephen’s extraordinary life anymore. “No. Don’t call the cops.” “Why not? What about Wheeler? They might be coming for us soon!” “Well…uh…the cops won’t believe our story. Aren’t you tough enough to figure out this situation on your own?” “What are you talking about? I’m calling the police.” “No, don’t. You can’t.” Michael began to dial the number on his phone. Richard was frantic and grabbed for the phone. Michael pushed him away and backed into the corner of the alley facing the corner. Richard looked around and picked up a loose brick off a ledge. As the responder picked up the phone, Richard crept up behind Michael with the brick and slammed it into the back of Michael’s head. Michael dropped to the ground. Richard stood over Michael in shock. He dropped the brick and crouched next to the body. He searched for a pulse, but it was not there. He stood up and stared at the body. He could not believe what he had just done or think about what to do next. He pushed the body behind a dumpster so that people down the alley couldn’t see what was going on. He sat down next to the body and stared ahead at the bricks across from him. He thought about Michael’s kid and his wife. What were they going to do without him, and what was he going to do now? He became frantic and began to pace around the alley. He needed to get out of this alley and talk to someone. The only person he could think of was Stephen. He had wanted to eat with Richard that night anyway. He grabbed his phone with shaking hands and dialed the number after several failed attempts. Stephen picked up quickly. “Hey, Richard, are we still on tonight?” Richard responded with a shaking voice, “Yeah, would you be able to meet a little early?” “Sure. Will Michael be able to make it too?” Richard cringed when he heard this. “I think he’s busy tonight, but maybe next time.” “That’s too bad,” Stephen said, “but I guess I’ll see you in an hour and a half or so at the bar.” Richard hung up the phone and looked at his watch, amazed at how quickly time had passed that day. It seemed like ages since he had first woken up that morning. Richard decided to get to the bar early and get away from the alley. As he walked, he reached his hands into his pockets, felt the list, and remembered Wheeler and his story. He hated that piece of paper that had driven him to madness. He was going to 129 get caught. He didn’t know the first thing about trying to hide something from the police. He wanted justice to come. He knew that he would never be able to forgive himself for killing Michael for such a stupid reason. All he wanted was to talk to Stephen about everything before Stephen heard it from other people. Richard somehow arrived at the bar. He hadn’t thought about where he was going. He went inside and sat in a booth in the back. His phone started to ring. It was his boss, probably to ask him where he and Michael had gone. He put it back in his Charlestan Helton : acrylic pocket. He’d know well figure out what he killed Michael for. soon enough. Stephen wasn’t supposed to After twenty minutes of staring at the list arrive at the bar for half an hour, but he and trying to get his hands to stop shaking, would probably get there early as usual. Richard saw Stephen walk through the door. Richard started to think about what he was He waved and smiled at Richard, then came going to tell Stephen. He pulled the list out and sat across from him at the booth. of his pocket and stared at the names. He He saw Richard’s shaking hands and wondered if Stephen might know anything about these people. He thought he might as sweaty forehead and said, “What’s wrong? 130 You look like death.” “I have to tell you some stuff, Stephen.” Richard started with Wheeler and hearing about the scandal with the Real Life executives. When Stephen heard Wheeler’s name, his eyes opened wide, and he readjusted in his seat. “Do you mean Timothy Wheeler? The one who works at Real Life?” “Do you know him?” “Excuse me. I have to make a call real quick. I’ll be right back.” Richard thought this was weird. Stephen never took calls when he was in a conversation. Richard sat and looked at the local news on a television. A chill ran down his back. The police had found Michael’s body. The television showed police standing in the alley with yellow tape blocking it off. Michael’s picture flashed across the screen with his son on his lap and his wife next to him. They looked so happy. The reporter on the screen said that there was a suspect, but the police could not release the name. As Richard stared at the screen in shock, Stephen returned to the table and said, “Sorry. I had to take that call. Go on with your story.” Richard pulled his eyes from the screen. He knew he was going to be caught eventually. He continued telling Stephen about Wheeler and the chase out of the café and the two men in the black car. He told him about Wheeler telling him to hang on to the list. Then as he was trying to tell Stephen about Michael, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Richard let all of his emotions out even though he knew people in the bar were staring. Tears dropped on the table as he heaved and sobbed. Stephen, embarrassed, looked around at people in the bar. He came over to Richard’s side and put his arm around him. “It’s all gonna be alright Richard. Let’s go out to the alley so you can cool down.” They stood up and made their way out the back of the bar. When Richard stepped out of the bar in front of Stephen, he froze. The two men that had taken Wheeler were standing next to their car. Richard frantically tried to push his way back into the bar to get away, but Stephen pushed him back into the alley. “What are you doing, Stephen?” Richard yelled. “Those are the guys that took Wheeler! We need to get out of here!” “Calm down,” Stephen said. “They’re fine. I called for them. They’re going to help us sort things out.” Confused, Richard responded, “How do you know who these guys are?” “They help us take care of things at Real Life.” Richard suddenly knew what was really going on. “You were the third guy on the conference call with Envirolink. You started this whole thing. How could you try to cover that up? I thought you were better than that, Stephen. You’ve let your job change you.” “Well, it’s not like you’re so great either,” Stephen said. “You did just kill a man. But since we both have something on each other and you’re my friend, I’ll make a deal with you. If you give me the list that Wheeler gave you and your word to keep silent, I won’t have these guys hurt you, and I’ll have them get you away somewhere to lay low for a while.” The two men in black suits looked disappointed when Stephen said the part about not hurting Richard. Richard couldn’t make up his mind. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t take the punishment for Michael’s death, but the men in the black suits looked ready to strike whenever Stephen gave them a chance. He hadn’t meant to kill him, but he knew that it would be wrong to run away from his punishment. If he disappeared with these men, he would receive the justice that he wanted, maybe even Was more than the justice he wanted, but why choose punishment when he could he gohave freedom? Maybe he could learn to ing to live with himself one day if he laid away do what long enough. Was he going to do what was right or look out for himself ? was “I can’t do it, Stephen,” Richard said. right “I can’t run from this.” “Alright, suit yourself.” Stephen said, or look as a grimace flashed across his face. out for “Boys, take the list from him and take care of him.” himThe two men grabbed Richard and self? ripped the list out of his pocket. They began to wrangle him into the trunk of their car. Once they had thrown him into the trunk, Stephen came and stood behind the car. “I’m sorry, Richard. You brought this on yourself.” Richard responded, “I know.” As the trunk slammed over his head and everything went black. 131 Evans Hess color photography Grace Giles Grace Harris 132 color photography black and white photography Hannah Honea Grace Giles color photography Grace Giles black and white photography color photography 133 Eliza Graham I believe that stuff is just stuff and people are more important than things. One rainy day, when I was in seventh grade, I was sitting in class when I saw lightning strike nearby, and it made a huge noise. It made everyone jump and scream, and I remember not thinking about it much When I after that. Around an hour later, called into the office, and walked in Imywasuncle was standing there the house, waiting for my brother and me. had just come back from PE black was Iand was still in my shorts and t-shirt, so I was cold when the all I struck me as we ran to his could see. rain car. Once we piled in the car, the first thing my uncle said was, “Everyone is fine.” My uncle then told us that our house had been struck by that lightning strike. The house had caught on fire, and it had burned almost every room in the house. We lost everything, including my three dogs. At first, I was shocked and upset and 134 PERSONAL NARRATIVE confused about why this had happened to me. I did not want to drive by and see it, but I could tell that lots of people were there. I cried for a long time until I could taste the salty tears in my mouth, thinking about all the things that I had lost, but all I cared about was my family. My younger brother and dad were away on a school trip, and my mom was at work that day. We drove back to my cousin’s house and sat there and waited for my parents to come. My family was all that mattered to me. I was so thankful that they were safe, and I thought about how horrible it would have been if I had lost them. That’s when I realized that stuff is replaceable and people are not. Around a week later, I finally consented to going in the house. From the outside, the house looked normal, except that most of the windows were shattered and black. The scent of burning wafted from inside. It smelled different from other kinds of smoke like cigarette smoke or even campfire smoke because it was all of our possessions. When I walked in the house, black was all I could see. The floors were covered in burned objects that had fallen from shelves and the upper floor. Only a few spots of color remained where the fire had not completely destroyed things. One piece of my bed sheet was still intact, and a picture frame from my brother’s room, but most everything else was black and twisted. The floors creaked, and I felt unsafe walking around, afraid that the floor would cave in like it had in the living room. The fridge still had remnants of food in it, and the cabinets had fallen off the wall. We found spaghetti in the pantry and plates on the floor. My piano was unrecognizable. I could almost hear the notes I had played only a week before drifting away in the empty room. The back of the house was melted and ashy, with a gaping hole in the ceiling where the lightning had struck, and where my playroom used to be. Parts of the roof and the insulation had fallen into our pool, giving it a gray and depressing feel as well. After our house burned, we had to go through the process of replacing every- Molly Lattner : pen and ink thing we lost. This was a long process that required remembering everything we owned, or at least trying to remember. It took us almost two years to finish everything. We rebuilt our house and got all new furniture and even three new dogs. We replaced iPods and game systems and stuffed animals, as though the old ones never meant anything to us anyway. It was easy to replace them because they were not important. It was nothing like it would have been to lose a family member. If I had lost anyone in my family, my attitude toward my house fire would have been completely different. When people bring it up now, I simply say, “It was just stuff.” While it was traumatic and sad- dening, it was nothing because it was just things that could be replaced. Stuff is a lot different from people, and things are just temporary. Since my house fire, I have lost two friends in car accidents and nothing will ever replace them. They are nothing like the things that I lost in my house because they are people and cannot be replaced. Stuff is just stuff, but people can never be replaced. There is no one like you or anyone else, and losing your iPod is nothing compared to losing your family. 135 The Great Calamity Not Her Home What is this great calamity man calls love, With the strength of a mountain and the beauty of a dove, That binds one man but sets another man free And renews the sojourner like a cool summer spring? Dark lines cover her downtrodden face A lost lover steals her life She cannot find her place to Virginia Hamilton Adair, after reading“Dark Lines” Who will never lead the honest heart astray, In the darkest of caverns lights the way, who can subside the tempest’s mighty roars; And lift high the broken who humbly mourn? Every night hounds of the night take chase And her weary heart is only relieved by the knife Dark lines cover her downtrodden face She never would ask God to erase Her memories of being a happy wife She cannot find her place Who lays the arrogant in his grave, And the debts of the humble gladly pays? Who leads the rich on paths of folly, But keeps the lowly heart from falling? When the brave cry out and the mountains rumble, Who shall stand tall when the upright stumble? For when despair rains down from the heavens above, We must cling to this great calamity called love. Will Carlisle She writes this poem to face Her crimes, her infidelity so rife Dark lines cover her downtrodden face He hung from the tree with such grace Without him, she has no will to stay in this life She cannot find her place She longs to hold him again in her embrace She begs forgiveness for her internal strife Dark lines cover her downtrodden face She cannot find her place Colleen Shuford 136 Puzzle I watch as you create the puzzle, confused by how each piece perfectly combines with another. Faintly, I see colors form shapes and shapes form settings. the sky fits seamlessly with the trees, which fit seamlessly with houses. you hold the world in your hand— a small, unbroken world, perfect. As I peer through the window, the child paces as if she is trapped, held back. If only she knew the blessing of her home, the safety of something sure. I turn back to see you working with your back turned toward me. I know I must return, to my own desolate life in a world that is crumbling. Maybe one day I will go inside. Anne Renfroe : watercolor Reid Hodges 137 H igh School Physics Teenagers around sixteen or so tend to be too engrossed in their peers, their school’s popularity hierarchy, and extra-curricular activities to be concerned with the marvels of the universe From the beautiful nebulae, the remnants of extremely massive stars that once ruled their interstellar neighborhoods, now spewed out over several light years in a wonderful display of gas and star forming regions so the process may be repeated To the subatomic, with massless and near massless particles popping in and out of existence, morphing shapes and changing energy levels, in some cases disobeying our current laws governing them, Forcing us to adapt and learn their strange behavior. We should not be consumed entirely with our earthly matters and acquaintances among this blue spec drifting through space. Scientific and philosophical ponderings can serve as an escape from the ordinary, sending us into a muse that will cause us to forget our current troubles and stresses temporarily… Ian Christopher Brown 138 Gillian Ash : color photography Woes based on Rembrandt’s “Old Man with a Beard” Is this the fate of all who trod The earth as it is now, To look on life with pensive brow And know not why or how? Sadness looms in every corner Darkness always there And overall, amid confusion, A sense of sad despair. Where is hope in Old Man’s future? Why does nothing do the trick? He is hopeful for the ending Of a life of rhetoric. If only Old Man tried to listen To the harp strings of his heart, He would know there’s something deeper Than a sad life torn apart. Forrest Collier Staff Editor: Allyson Payne Design Staff: Drew Bonner, Thomas Collier, Ansley Godwin, Eliza Graham, Jordan Hedge, Griffin Oaks, Ashley Ochsenhirt, and Colleen Shuford Selection Manager: Jocelyn Dillard Advisor: Mr. Jon Carter Colophon The Artisan is the literary magazine of Briarwood Christian School in Birmingham, Alabama. This year, we distributed 300 magazines in PDF form and 83 in print form. The PDF form is also published on the school website during the summer. The magazine is typeset on eight Apple Computers using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CS5.1. The pull-outs are in Prestige Elite STD. The captions are in Corbel. The body text is in Garamond. The names on the Polaroids are in Chalkduster. Prose titles vary. The print version of the magazine was printed at Pete’s Printing in Hoover, AL. Policy The Artisan staff solicits art and literary pieces from the student body. An anonymous selection process is used. Literary selections are made on the basis of style, content, and creativity. Art and photography pieces are chosen on most pages to fit the literary content, while art and photography on art spreads are chosen for artistic merit. The magazine staff has committed to having at least sixty students (1/10th of our student body) in our school published in the magazine. 139 140
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