Noctis Winter 2014

NOCTIS Hertford County Early College

Literary Magazine

Vol. 1, Winter 2014

Lastly, I would like to thank the Noctis staff, as well as those who’ve helped me make this literary magazine possible.

Noctis Staff -

Co-Editor - Karla Rueda

Editors - Alexis Chestnutt, Head of Poetry Angel Staton, Head of Art Brianna Tenhet, Head of Photography Deonsha’e Vinson, Head of Literature

Faculty Advisor - Jennifer Smyth

Hello, my name is Addison Hoggard, and I am the Editor in Chief of Noctis. First of all, thank you for picking up a copy and showing your support for both me and the rest of the Noctis staff. I created this literary magazine as partial fulfillment for my Senior Project, though it is my intention for Noctis to continue on even after I am gone. Noctis is meant to serve as a voice to the students, and is there to provide a creative outlet for Hertford County Early College. Without the students who submitted to this magazine, Noctis wouldn’t exist, and so I’d like to thank everyone who submitted. I will admit, when first starting work on my Senior Project, I was very wary of putting my grade into the hands of others, but looking back I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Noctis has allowed me to forge relationships with individuals that I never would have came across by any other means. Noctis has also provided me with the experience of working with an editorial staff, which was a blast.

FOREWORD

TABLE OF CONTENTSPOETRY - Alexis Chestnutt Steam 1 Free Yourself 2 Keziah Goddard The Optimist 3

ESSAYS & FICTION - Kayla Wolverton Being Red Headed “Sucks” 4 Addison Hoggard The Last Frontier 7 Anonymous The Dash 17 Brianna Hardy Unbreakable Bond 22

PHOTOGRAPHY & ART- Bailey Vaughan - Pages 2, 4, & 6 Addison Hoggard - Pages 1, 5, 7, 10, 16, & 21 Karla Rueda - Pages 3 & 13 Brianna Tenhet - Page 19 Angel Staton - Interior Art: “Noctis”

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Steam By Alexis Chestnutt

It burns and hurts sometimes

what’s hidden and kept inside

only waiting to surface

with a vengeance like no other

Rising up with tension

Dividing, Destroying

The eruption of the volcano

For it’s contents were buried,

Contained for so long.

So when they came up

they held nothing back

destroying the thoughts,

most lovely things.

Because a build up of tension,

Will one day let off steam.

Photo by Addison Hoggard

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Free Yourself By Alexis Chestnutt

Pretty bird in a cage

trapped inside yourself

escape your imprisonment

For you’re overwhelmed

By something much larger than

you,

larger than life.

You cry at night

dreaming of freedom —

your great rendezvous

into a far away place

Nightmares of your late

hunting you

throughout the eternal day

Break away

Spread your wings

Free yourself

Oh caged bird, sing.

Photo by Bailey Vaughan

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The Optimist

By Keziah Goddard

I am the optimist.

I dream a little too big.

I am the hopeful romantic.

I am the cheerful poet.

I close my eyes and I dream of things that will never be reality.

My mind is full of unrealistic notions that I wish to come true.

People say follow your dreams, but some dreams are not meant to be

followed.

Photo by Karla Rueda

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Being Red Headed “Sucks” By Kayla Wolverton

I’ve noticed in my short life time

countless injustices based solely on the

pigmentation of my hair. The hue of my hair

has given way to a plethora of insults and

taunts that entirely ruled my childhood. I was

never one for fitting in anyways. The fact that

I was born with an unusual trait only made

things that much more complicated for me

growing up and making friends. Having red

hair has taught me different lessons about

being misunderstood, accepted, and unique.

I’ve come to realize that being

redheaded is like being a book only known

for a cover. I felt like being born a way that I

didn’t ask to be born was just unfair. I live in

an area that doesn’t have much of a redhead population. Considering that people didn’t really see

red hair often, they just jumped to think that there was something wrong with me. I remember

feeling very insecure. When I'd meet people, I would think they wouldn't like me – that was an

actual thought process – because I'm a redhead. The worst part about it, people just saw me for


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my fiery copper hair and automatically assumed that I was a strange person before actually

getting to know me for who I am. It’s always been one big misunderstanding.

As I recall, being redheaded was like

having a bad day every day of the

week. Starting school was difficult to

deal with because children would

always bully me for my bright hair and

my pale freckled skin. I eventually let

the taunts and the name calling rule my

life. The way children would treat me

and judge me just made me an overall

emotional, unhappy child. I became

really sick of having red hair and

always being mistreated because of it. I

grew to hate my hair color because no

one was willing to accept me.

Being a redhead is like being a

vegetable in a fruit salad. As a minority,

I didn’t know any other red haired

children which only made me seem

even weirder. I was always getting nicknames. Ginger and Carrot Top are some of the nicknames

that came along with the red hair. Despite how bad being called out of my name made me feel, I


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had to find something positive from it all. I’m the only sibling out of two others that was born

with red hair. I should embrace being different. I should enjoy being unique.

While teasing and bullying can just be a normal part of life, whatever age someone is,

being a bit different as a child does leave room for being more vulnerable to be picked on. The

lessons of being misunderstood, being accepted, and being unique started to change what I

thought of myself. I took all of the pain and frustration from my childhood and put it into the

effort of appreciation. Growing up made me realize that people notice things differently. I want

to be noticed in the world; I want to mean something to people. If my red hair can help me do

that, then I can do anything.


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The Last Frontier By Addison Hoggard

Corben always possessed a deep lust for adventure, and as he sat, staring out of his

bedroom window, he felt constricted. Stuck in the attic of his family’s cabin, locked away in

some eternal prison. The rain was his visitor, and his mother his guard. He could see her now,

sitting downstairs, waiting for a man that would never return from a hunt. Corben seemed to

have a firmer grasp on the concept of death and loss than his mother, who remained fixed to the

past.

Ever since he had died

she hadn’t been the same. She

was a husk. A lifeless body,

unable to feel. It had been three

years, and still there were nights

when she sat down by the fire,

staring into the flames. She had

a certain look on her face, as the flames danced in the serenity of her eyes. A certain longing.

Often, Corben would find himself drifting down the old wooden stairs in the darkest hours of the

morning, his gaunt body moving quietly through the shadows, only to find his mother staring at

the eternal inferno.

Corben, despite his youth, knew that her mind was leaving her. Or rather, that it had left

her, almost in the same way that his father had. She had turned it out of its cage, and all at once it


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fled from her to a great perhaps. He often wondered if his father had drove her mad long before

his death, because in her eyes he could sense the same lust for freedom that he possessed, though

it was different. It was dim, suppressed by his father, but it was still there nonetheless. He could

imagine his mother, long before his father whisked her away to the high country of Appalachia, a

vibrant soul who followed the wind. A free spirit that was only to become a bird in a cage. He

had seen the pictures, as well as the strikingly colored dresses and extravagant jewelry that

remained hidden in her wardrobe, stashed behind the monotone garbs of the present. Though

now, looking into her eyes all he could see was despair.

His parent’s relationship was always something of an enigma. His mother loved his father

immensely, from what he could tell, though he had only bared witness to 10 years of their

marriage. They had been married 4 years before he was born, though he didn’t know their reason

for waiting to have children. He often thought that his mother was hesitant to start a family,

because that would just be another thing keeping her locked away, high on some lonely

mountain.

Corben was at an age of understanding, and he could see things now that he couldn’t

before. Through all of the confusion surrounding his parent’s marriage, there was also a cloud of

mystery enshrouding his own childhood. Looking back, he could never really tell if he was

happy or not. Or if he was, in fact, the crazy one. Being raised in isolation had made him strange,

he thought, but no stranger than any other mountain born child. He worked on his father’s stead,

and was responsible for caring for the animals. The chickens and the two dairy cows, as well as

the pigs that were raised for meat. His father was responsible for the garden and the vegetables,

plowing the land and all the like, though when he disappeared Corben had to assume that role as

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well. He loved all of the animals, though he especially cared for the chickens. He had given them

names and personalities, human lives and feelings. They were his companions, his enemies, and

his family when his own parents were too distant to care for him.

The greatest thing of his childhood, he remembered, was his home schooling. He had

always possessed an uncontrollable thirst for knowledge, and he was always impressed with the

wisdom his mother would impart to him. She was from the city, and had acquired a first class

education, something that not many people had at the time. He remembered the way his mother

would change when it was just the two of them in the den of the little wooden cabin, sitting on

the floor with a world of possibilities open on its spine between them. It was in these moments

that he felt he truly knew exactly who she was. The way her voice changed from a bleak whisper

to a melodic incantation that painted the most vivid pictures in his mind. The way her face

changed from gray and plain to bright with life, with her mouth opening to a smile that showed

gleaming white teeth. This is who she is, or was, he thought.

Looking at her now, though, he could never be certain whether it was all some

convoluted dream. Some form of wishful misery that haunted him day and night. He longed to

see this part of her again, but just as his father had stopped bringing fresh game and harvesting

fresh vegetables, she had stopped teaching. Now that version of her was nothing more than a

ghost that hung around her, watching her with resentment. Corben couldn’t even be sure that she

was his mother anymore. He felt no love coming from her, and he was hardly even

acknowledged when serving her dinner or reminding her to bathe. When someone’s freedom is

taken for so long, he thought, they don’t know what to do with liberty. Corben felt bad for

thinking about it in that way, but he had no other way to explain it.

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However, one thing was always very clear. Corben was not to leave the stead. The only

time in which his mother moved from the old rocker in front of the fireplace was when he went

out to feed the animals or to work the garden. She stared at him emptily through the dirty kitchen

windows, watching as he traversed the rocky earth on the way down to the valley where the

animals were kept. He could always feel her forever present gaze. The woman who once had

longed for an escape had become an oppressor to the boy that had the same dream.

It was on this day, the day of his 14th year, that he

knew he had to make an escape. Though, he understood that

if he left, his mother would become totally detached from

this world. He often wondered if that would be the best thing

for her. She was a miserable existence, a body living without

conviction. If she was to succumb to death, would it really be

a defeat? Would it not be a blessing to march into the last

great frontier? Corben, having been raised alone, had no

sense of the faith of his parents, or any faith for that matter.

And so, he crafted his own belief system. He believed that

his father, if he did die, was still out in the woods

somewhere, a wandering spirit, one with nature. He could

feel him in the cool mountain winds that blew across the stead, just as he could feel most of his

mother’s spirit in the fire that crackled in the fireplace. What difference would it make, he

thought, if she was gone? The only difference that he could conceive was that if he didn’t leave,


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he would soon be dead as well. He could not keep existing in this way, as a child who couldn’t

have a childhood.

And with that resolve he began to act. His birthday was on the cusp of the new spring,

and he would begin storing food in an alcove of the small chicken coop little by little. He had

planned to leave on the first warm day, when the snow would begin to melt and the streams

would swell with fresh water. He began gathering materials from the cabin: wax candles, jars,

and textiles that would aid him in his journey, wherever that may lead him, and began packing

them into a sack he had found in his mother’s room. Corben had little knowledge of the land that

surrounded the stead. There was no path or road, for his family never left their land. However,

there was his father’s hunting trails. He knew that they lead no where by design, but decided that

it would be best to rely on a set path as long as he could. He decided to take the one that he felt

was the longest, judging by the time his father would be away after following it’s guidance. He

remembered it to be rare for his father take this particular trail, the one that started behind the

cabin at the very top of the mountain, and he also remembered how his father described the

perilous nature of the trail. Maybe it was the peril and mystery that drew him so, but Corben

knew that when he fled it would be by way of that trail. The one thats mouth gaped down at the

cabin, threatening to swallow it whole.

When he awoke that morning, he felt a different kind of warmth. The heat from the fire

emanated from the stone chimney that ran through his attic bedroom, but today he felt an

external heat creeping along his skin. Today was the day, he thought, as the darkness unfolded

around him. He sprang from the bed, cringing as his feet hit the hardwood floor. He quickly

dressed, and grabbed the stuffed haversack that was stashed below his bed. He knew his mother

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was awake, because she never slept in the first place. She would be sitting by the flames that

were probably growing weaker and weaker as the Appalachian sun crept up the back of the

mountain. He knew that it would be easy to sneak past her, but he wanted to be sure that there

was no room for failure. He tossed the sack out of the attic window, watching it as it tumbled

down the snow covered tin roof and hit the ground with a soft thud. He was next. He eased

himself through the window and out onto the slick metal roof. This would be tricky, he knew, but

it was worth his freedom. He stood there for a moment, clinging to the window pane as a strong

wind whipped around him, icy in the heavy warmth of the new spring air.

He could hear his father’s voice in that gust, he could feel it pushing him back into the

window, telling him to stay. Corben shut his eyes and looked down at the intense glow of the wet

snow, soggy with the heat of the approaching sun and alight with the luminosity of the moon. He

knew what had to be done. He slowly lowered himself to a crouch, and began his descent down

the roof. However, it wasn’t long before he had lost his footing, and the next breath he would

take would be a gasp as the pain of hard earth slammed against his gaunt body. He laid there,

letting his body ache from the fall, before standing in recovery. Once he was well, though, he

knew he could not stay long. He looked up the steep slope that rose from the back of the house.

The morning sun had painted the sky the color of flames, and the trees around the trail stood as

dark silhouettes.

Corben heaved the haversack up over his shoulder, and set off towards the top of the

slope, dragging himself through the snow under the wight of the sack. Streaks of sunlight began

shooting through the trees that loomed before him, like someone tearing down a wall piece by

piece. Suddenly the light looked different, so did the snow on the ground, as well as all of the

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familiar mountains that surrounded him. He felt the weight of his body leave him as he ascended.

He was free.

Upon reaching the summit, Corben lowered the sack and looked back down at the stead.

First, he looked past the rotting cabin, and focused on the chicken coop at the bottom of the

mountain. He heard the distant crow of a

rooster, and saw the hens emerging from the

coop, one by one, readying for first light. He

saw one of the cows, slowly walking to the

stream that ran through the small pasteur. In a

sudden rush of emotion, he realized that his

leaving also meant the death of his precious

animals, but just as he was slowly withering

away, so were they. They would, with time, be free as well, and he knew that he would spend the

next few weeks pondering each of their futures.

Then his eyes settled upon the cabin. He shuddered as he saw a pale figure standing in the

window, looking up at the trail from the cabin’s den. Its eyes were hollow and longing. Its face

was drawn and its mouth was pursed. It couldn’t see him, he knew, but it was looking at

something else. The trail. Corben then remembered something that he had not yet considered.

This was the trail that his father took on the day he disappeared. He stood there, letting that

realization sink in. He watched the light unfold the stead, creeping up the slope, erasing the

figure from the window of the cabin with a vicious glare. He watched as a rainbow formed in the

morning mist, and he stared at its colors. They were the most beautiful things that he had ever

Photo by Karla Rueda

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seen. A blue deeper than frost on the winter grass. A purple richer than mountains in the distance.

A yellow brighter than the honeysuckle of summer. A red fiercer than the orange flames of his

home and fall leaves combined.

Though, in the intense light that shrouded his home from his eyes, he could still sense the

gaze of the apparition. He whispered, “It’s okay to let go. You leap or you don’t. There’s no

middle ground.”

And almost as if he willed it, the house caught aflame. He could hear the old wood of the

cabin screaming as the flames swallowed it. He could hear glass shatter. He could hear it weep

for its tragic family. And through all this he thought he could hear a forgotten laugh. A happy

laugh. He watched as the smoke drifted upwards into the bright morning sky, disappearing into

the mist behind the rainbow. His skin shivered violently as he watched the beautiful scene below

through teary eyes.

Then, from behind, a voice spoke.

“Corben?”

Corben turned to see a tall figure standing in the shadows. He stared silently.

“Corben, is that you?” The voice asked again.

“Y…yes.” Corben wiped his eyes. Suddenly the heat from the cabin became intense. He

felt as though he was on fire as he stared at the figure. It was a man’s, he could tell, and it was

man’s voice that spoke.

The figure stepped forward from the mouth of the trail, and as he did light of the fire

illuminated his face. It danced in his eyes and contoured his features in a menacing way. An

unforgiving way.

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“What is this?!” The man asked.

Corben did not know how to answer him. He was unaware of the words. He wasn’t even

certain that he could speak.

“Corben! Answer!”

The boy fell to his knees, tears flowing from his eyes like a river. The heat behind him

was growing all the more fierce, though before him was nothing but frigidity.

“Did you do this?!”

Corben could not answer. He could not think. The two sat there, listening to the immense

noise of destruction behind them.

Corben looked up into the eyes of the man. “Why… father… why?”

The man’s face contorted. He lunged forward, like a cold, icy wind, and sheathed a knife

in the boys heart. Never before had Corben felt such a unique feeling. The bite of icy steel in his

flesh, the metallic taste in his mouth, the warmth of the great fire as well as the blood that seeped

from his body, the fear and regret. The embrace of his father.

The man whispered into his ear, “I should be asking you the same, son.” The man

removed the knife with a jerk. Corben fell forward, catching himself with shaking hands. He

watched as the pure snow below him was tainted with the red of his life. He felt a fist grab his

shirt collar, just below his chin, and raise him to his feet. Corben looked into the fiery eyes of a

cold face as he took a shaky, blood soaked breath. He was unable to speak. Unable to ask why.

And, like a powerful surge of wind, the man pushed Corben, sending him flying

backwards down the hill. Corben could feel his body tumbling and twisting. He could feel his

fragile bones snapping and breaking. He could feel his life being wrenched from his body. Lastly,

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he could feel the warmth of his mother’s fiery embrace as he slammed into the flames of the

burning cabin.

This is my adventure, he thought, into the last great frontier. Death is my freedom.


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The Dash By Anonymous

Students filed into the large gymnasium of the all too familiar high school. You would

like to think everything would be normal. That’s what everyone wished. Students were dressed in

normal clothes; it was just a normal day… right? Why didn’t it feel that way then? Obviously

something was wrong; everyone could feel the uneasiness in that gigantic room.

Everyone had noticed that one chair in the back of the room that had been unusually

empty for the past week or so. Three days after that there were not one but two chairs left at the

back of the room. It was just mere days after the last big game of the season, and the star player

was nowhere to be seen. No one dared sit in those chairs, and no one wanted to. They were

obviously meant for those specific two people that hadn't been back since the game... It made no

sense why the two people who used to be the life of the class, always so happy and cheerful, to

just randomly disappear.

Everyone sat on the bleachers, on edge for whatever was so important that they had to be

taken out of classes to attend this "important announcement.” There were very few side

conversations, many halting when the principal stepped foot in the gymnasium; dressed in his

business suit and tie, with the red on his tie sticking out majorly against the black of his suit.

Everyone was silent; waiting for the news.

-a week later-

Everyone was yet again making their way back into the gymnasium. The large room was

becoming smaller and smaller, the walls seeming as if they would cave in and suffocate, and

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crush everyone inside. The whole town was, yet again, all in the same place. They'd seen it all

before, flashbacks playing through everyone's minds.

The moments you wished you could go back and fix... to keep things from being broken

like they are. If only we knew, if only there was a sign maybe we could've prevented this from

happening.

"What if's" flooded everyone's minds as they all looked around at the sad faces of the

people surrounding them. It was like being in the black sea, because that's all you saw... black on

black on black. Mixed with the splashes of white from boys' bow ties and silver hair pieces in

girls' hair. The waterproof makeup lined eyes of the teen girls, and the gel-less hair of the guys

that lived for the spikes. Everything was different now. Today was different.

Families already seated on the lower portion of the bleachers, the students scrambling to

get to the top. Not for the fun of being able to talk secretively, no there would be no secret

conversations today. There would be no giggling over the quarterback of the football team, or

debating on which girl it was he smiled at before first period. No, everyone was going to be

quiet, because no one dared break that deathly quiet silence that radiated throughout the room.

The teens sat packed at the top of the bleachers, making room for the family and older

generations that were showing up today for the service. The colors of the suits and dresses

meshing together to create an image of a dark abyss... and that's how everyone felt right now..

Like they were trapped in a dark abyss of emotions, and there was no escape from it.

The football team all sat together, lined up on the opposite side of the gymnasium, jerseys

in their laps. A mother and father sitting with them, facial expressions giving away just how hard

they were trying not to break down in front of everyone in attendance. A total of twenty two

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people sat on the opposite side of that gymnasium,

facing the majority crowd. It felt like something was

missing... and everyone knew exactly why it felt that

way...

A podium sat in the middle of the room,

surrounded by white, probably the brightest thing in

the whole room. A sad smile formed on some faces

when the last person walked in the room. His hair a

mess and eyes tired. Crying and a lack of sleep

evident in his facial features. He made his way

slowly to the opposite side of the room. His suit was

nice and pressed, and his tie stuck out like an elephant in the corner of the south, it being a

purple. The only dash of color, in the sea of black and splashes of white.

He took a seat in between two of his fellow team mates, sitting close to the mother and

father as well. His head nodded a couple times as he was greeted, not trusting himself with

words, or more or less just not wanting to speak at all. He kept his eyes glued to his feet as his

friends tried to get him to at least say something, but he refused. Just wanting to disappear.

Just when you thought the room couldn't get any quieter, all at once the hum of soft

voices halted, as a slick black, shining funerary box was escorted into the room. The silence just

grew and grew as the preacher followed, dressed like everyone else, in his black suit. In his hand

he held a bible, as he walked passed the closed casket and to the podium.

Photo by Brianna Tenhet

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He set the bible down, and took a deep breath before speaking out, breaking the dead

silence that ran through the room. "We are all gathered here today..." his voice grew quiet as he

glanced to his right, from the corner of his eye. His eyes scanned over the casket, and then

drifted over to the football team, and that one boy.

He looked back over the crowd of people, swallowing the lump that was slowly making

its way to the back of his throat. Why did this have to happen? The question racing through

everyone's minds. The question that no one would ever have the answer to, it seems.

He went on to tell about the magnificent boy, his life story. As if he knew and was present

at everything he had ever done. How he was homecoming king, and trained day and night for

that championship ring, how he found someone to love, and made them feel important like

royalty... about how he gave it everything. All the memories that made people smile before. This

boy made a lot of people smile, and he was special to a lot of people. He never conformed to

society, he was always himself, and that's why you just couldn't help but love him...

"It's always too soon, and it's always too fast..." the preacher took another breath, his

hands fiddling with the bible resting before him. "There'll never come a day that you don't want

them back" he took his eyes off the book and scanned them over the crowd, seeming to lock eyes

with everyone in front of him. "It isn’t about the numbers, chiseled in concrete... it's how they

lived their life in the dash between." he smiled softly before continuing.

"The first breath and the last, marks all the memories of the past. That little line you see,

look past the numbers and see, that little black line defines a legacy that was held."

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And that's how he finished after he did the 'traditional ceremony'. Tears spilled over

everyone's eyes as the preacher turned on his heel slowly, to make his way out. Before he left the

room, he walked over to that one boy. The one boy who had been holding it together for so long,

but was now completely broken. He held not one, but two jerseys. One rested in his lap, folded

neatly, as he clutched the other for dear life.

The preacher wrapped the boy in a tight hug, whispering into his ear softly, "I know what

they did... and I'm terribly sorry. But just remember boy, you made the dash that much better for

him." He let go of the embrace, the boy nodding as he wiped the tears off his face, as more just

cascaded down his red cheeks. "Thank you" he mumbled out quietly.


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Unbreakable Bond By Brianna Hardy

There was a time when I never thought about her as much as I did. Now she just stays on my mind. Every single night, when I go to bed, she’s on my mind until the morning. I stay up all night thinking about her, wondering if she knows that I exist. Every morning while I get myself ready for school, I wonder “I hope she knows who I am.” During all of my classes, I hope that she at least recognizes me, my face, my hair, my eyes, my

anything.

She distracts me.

The way she smiles, the way she laughs, the way she does everything. It’s too distracting to me. I

always smile and giggle every time I think about her laughing at something I said.

Then I start to think, “Will she even allow me to talk to her?”

As the school day ends, I run to where she is.

I run until I can’t feel my legs, and even then I am still running.

I run through the doors, and straight to her room.

As soon as I open the door, she looks at me straight in the face.

I see her examining my face. When she had a good look at it, she smiled.

“I knew it was you. I love you.”

Tears start forming in my eyes when she says that.

“I love you too, Mom.”

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Noctis Winter 2014