THE  STORM  

BOOKER  LITERARY  TEAM  

 

EDITORIAL  STAFF  

VICTORIA  BYRD  

VIVIENNE  TEYKE  

SARAH  BELL  

KAETLIN  RILEY  –  COVER  DESIGN,  GRAPHICS  

SPONSOR:  HELLEN  HARVEY  

WITH  THANKS  TO    

THE  EDUCATION  FOUNDATION  

AND  

DR.  RACHEL  SHELLEY  

PRINCIPAL  OF  BOOKER  HIGH  SCHOOL  

 

 

 

 

IN  MEMORIAM  

KRISTEN  EBONY  CONNOR  

1994-­‐2011  

 

I  AM    

I  am  what  I  am  And  that’s  all  I  can  be  

But  people  make  it  hard  for  me  To  be  what  I  am  

I  am  sorry  that  I  can’t  be  what  you  want  me  to  be  

But  I  choose  to  be  me  I  am  me  

I  am  the  most  talented  Head-­‐turning  Eye-­‐popping  Super  woman  

Loving  To  friends  Helpful  

Beautiful  as  a  rose  Painful  to  the  touch  

Hard  to  stop  looking  at  The  most  important  person  

To  you  To  family  I  am  

Ms.  Ebony  K.  Conner  I  am  Crazy  

Sexy  cool  Just  like  TLC  

Creative  like  Shakespeare  A  Leader  

Like  the  great  Martin  Luther  King,  Jr.  I  am  

Smarter  than  a  5th  grader  Yes  

That’s  me  Miss  Queen  Bee  

The  head  and  not  the  tail  So  

GET  LIKE  ME!                                                                                                                              Ebony  Conner                  

A New Beginning I sat on that table for an hour and a half. The crinkly white paper beneath me making noise with every move I made. The sterile smell of the room was what was throwing me off. For my whole life I had connected that smell with death and sickness. I couldn’t see that changing. The whole while I was sitting there, there was a song running through my head. I couldn’t remember the name of it. Some young boy wailing about how things should go back to the way they were yesterday. How ironic? I thought. Dr. Stratford came in the room, closed the door softly behind him, and sank into the armchair in the corner. “You’re gonna have to make a choice soon, Miss Becky,” he said. I looked down at my weathered hands folded in my lap. The creases in them told a story almost eighty years old. How did I ever let myself get this old? Bradley took one of my wizened hands in his. My Bradley. My Bradley the skeptic. My Bradley the Catholic. Husband, Friend, Lover, Caretaker. So many things I could call him, none of them entirely accurate. Without Bradley, there is no doubt, I would not have lived to this ripe old age. Despite the gravity of the decision I am about to make, he just smiles and kisses my hand. He trusts me. I turn my attention to Dr. Stratford. Dewey. My former student now one decision away from using my own discovery on me. I trust him. That’s not the issue. The issue is Bradley. I can’t leave my Bradley. Even though he tells me over and over again that I will not be leaving him. I just can’t believe it. I know I will always love him, and he me. But what about those words? What about “Till death do us part?” What if I don’t want to part? I may be old, but I have a hell of a lot of life left in me, and so does Bradley. But if I don’t take this chance who will? I set my gaze on Bradley. After fifty-seven years of reading each other’s minds, he knows exactly what I want to say. Even though I can’t quite push the words out. He kisses me gently.

“Okay,” he says. That’s all he says, but again there is a spell of silent communication between us. He was never one for vocalizing sentimentalities. I turn my attention to Dewey. He is like a son to Bradley and I, since we have no children of our own. He stands, also knowing exactly what I want. “Alrighty then. Let’s do this.” He reaches for the syringe on the cart in the corner of the room. In that instance, behind the mirror on my right, there are about thirty other doctors and interns scrambling for clipboards and pens and pencils, ready to witness history. Before I know it, Dewey is swabbing my arm with antiseptic, the skin under his cotton ball turning a slightly greenish hue. I take a deep breath. There’s no going back. The needle pierces The dimpled skin just above the crook of my elbow. As Dewey depresses the syringe, about a million bacteria particles are entering my bloodstream and breaking down the genes that cause aging. This is my discovery. A serum that returns the patient to their peak of health and stops the aging process altogether. I have discovered immortality. Megan Adams

Art: Olivia Janowitz

Stella Adler once said, “Life beats you down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” Art may be one of the most rewarding things I have ever involved myself in. No matter the talent possessed, everyone should be involved in an art form. Not only is art a simply beautiful thing, but it can also work as your own personal therapist, develop your brain in ways nothing else can, give you the pure satisfaction, and can be a great contribution to society. I’m sure everyone in this room has or has had emotional or psychological problems in the past. I’m also sure that, being teenagers, any one of those people that in turn

Zöe Verbil

been asked to go to therapy has been defiant or reluctant. I personally don’t believe that talking can solve all of your problems. Art is an alternative therapy for me: visual art, performing art, anything. Art can not only bring you to another world but also really allow you to get in touch with yourself at the same time, as paradoxical as that may sound. On some of my worst days, the most relieving thing can be taking off my stress-ridden shoes and walking into an enchanting realm that is a dance class. The simple relief of leaving my troubles at the door immediately lightens my mood. How do you feel when you dance in the rain or sing obnoxiously with friends? What else can give you that kind of effortless satisfaction?

Art: Olivia Janowitz

Not only can you release yourself through art, but it truly is the best and most forceful way to understand yourself. Great art does not have to be sensually perfect; it just needs to have passion behind it. I have learned so much about myself simply by digging into memories and feelings necessary for acting, singing, dancing, and creating visual art. The reward is simply indescribable and merely something everyone needs to try.

Taking classes at school and reading text books obviously makes you more intelligent, but is typically more strung toward the development of the left brain: being analytical, logical, and objective- but, how interesting can a merely analytical person be? Being creative and working the right side of your brain immediately makes you a much more interesting person. Take writing, for example. I right now could be giving you a list of some reasons why art is good. I could even give you a few statistics that would probably fly over your head. Integrating creative writing skills and other forms of art like infographics can make you more captivating, more relatable, and more contemporary. Art may have been around since the beginning of the world but it is a new language becoming more and more useful.

Art: Victoria McIntyre

Since I was very young, I’ve always found myself singing to the elderly at Christmas time. As boring as it may sound, there is just nothing like an old man retired to a wheelchair telling you how happy you’ve made him and how great it is to see talent. Art is an amazing contribution to society and lights up the faces and minds of countless individuals. Get involved in an art. Just do it. You don’t have to talented, and you don’t have to devote yourself. Dancing while making pancakes, or painting a card for a friend can really cut it. Be creative. Be happy.

Remember being in kindergarten and painting the most awesome flower you ever had? You even covered it in glitter and wrote your name on the bottom right corner of the paper. How great did that make you feel? Creating something is truly the ultimate reward. . I’m sure anyone highly involved in an art right now can relate. There is nothing more rewarding than knowing that you’ve made something, improved yourself, and maybe even inspired someone.

Photo: Gabrielle Nutter

Daniel Moctezuma

We find ourselves through dancing, singing, painting, writing, acting We do what we love And we love what we do They try to limit us Define us By what we say and do But you tell me Is that all there is to it And then you tell me How are we gonna get through it? You can’t tell me what to do Feel or believe So look I’ll do me And you do you

So I’ll act my play

So I’ll sing my song

Do my dance

Paint my painting on a wall

Art:Olivia janowitz

So go ahead

You watch

And you wait

But guess what?

I’ll laugh

While I paint

Chandler Powell

That’s me being me

Him being him

Her being her

Us being us

We find ourselves through dancing,

singing, painting, writing, acting

We do what we love

And we love what we do

They try to limit us

Define us

By what we say and do

But you tell me

Is that all there is to it

And then you tell me

How are we gonna get

through it?

You can’t tell me what to do

Feel or believe

So look I’ll do me

And you do you

Photo: Photo: Asia Odom

The years won’t crop I can not think so I will drink It tastes like winter in a Styrofoam cup There is work to do so I bid you adieu Sandy Zanetti

All I ask for are the grinds To keep myself from cold Down the main street My feet start to fleet The aromas fill my nostrils As the heat consumes my throat Chargers and sounds Creamers and grounds The steam swarms my face As I instantly awake Computers hum My mind is numb So much to do With so little time No time to relax When the work attacks The seasons don’t stop

Photo: Sierrra Schwabach

Cassidy Chatfield

Beautiful, Black and Bold -Bianca Sumter

Is it the color of my skin that scares you? I am a somebody how dare you Do my strengths make your run? When I look at you with piercing eyes like the sun You can feel my anger inside My respect for you at last has died Beautiful Black and Bold A dime a Jewel and a piece of Gold I am special and I am bright and If you don’t see this lose your sight You look down on me but how could this be? What My voice may not fear you But I know my words do My gender may not intimidate But, I know this world is waiting for me to strike like a powerful earthquake Beautiful Black and Bold A dime a Jewel and a piece of Gold I have integrity and you’re filled with stupidity But I will make my stamp on this world Because I am a precious pearl I will break your judgment link by link And I will do it all dressed in pink

Beautiful Black and Bold A dime a Jewel and a piece of Gold

Art: Olivia Janowitz:: Doofish

Awareness of Settling By: NeSharri Jones Is this what we have settled for? Is this what we fought for? For our women to be degraded and our self-value as African princes and queens to be demised. We as a nation of immigrants were driven; we were going for making new records what has happened to the face of the minority? Have we been conquered by European supremacy? Or has the ideal supremacy image conquered the independence of our brains so that we are the two dollar hoe on 27tth street or the 47 cent rapper and hustling on the side, with 3 kids and three different baby mamas, who he refuses to take care of because he questions whether his 30 seconds in really created the blessing of the child. But I am no longer questioning the face of man but rather our morals. For there lies within THE rooted problem. Open the blinds to the window of the world and seize the opportunity. There are plenty of things that shall attempt to stop us but we are available to the new and the unknown. Remove curtains and indulge in the sunlight of life. Let no pest seize sunlight for this is a new day and a new chance for all that has been implied. The ignorant do not thrive. google images

KNOWING IS MORE THEN HALF of the battle. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. So call me a fool or just wise, but be brisk with what I presented. But only in my dreams did I want to dream But I was born out of a drum clearly from my native of red clay. Fear me not of what I am capable of but fear of what I know. I know my lineage. Lineage of our people. Our ignorance will only harm us. Running in blind circles of pantomime. Yes ,how vigorously it preys and heaves from deadly hallows, but we should not be consumed ,we shouldn’t be tainted. Fear not us knowing but fear what’s to come for those whom know no better. Please do not be insulted, but rather just aware. Inflicted with such a heavy weight for words not spoken do not need to be retracted. We are unwilling to ponder on the ignorance but rather synthesize the emptiness of the mind. Hmm the emptiness. The mind is in a state of poverty when hope is deprived of all its true meaning. Let me inflict you with the knowledge and awareness of your heritage so we may stop flowing in the circles of cumbersome ignorance

Trapped In Time I’m searching For my purpose in time I’m stuck I can’t go forward I can’t go back I’m overloaded The sand is falling on my back, dragging me down I’m buried By inventions, discoveries, and fame I’m flailing about Some one may notice me and help I’m giving up The sand is almost full I’m done Time is up Sydney Starcher

Photo: Sierra Schwabch

The Stormy Winds Blow Over The Sea This song contains a secret message. See if you can crack it. The stormy winds blow over the sea O’ Big Brother with art thou Please don’t delay me, There is much haste The stormy winds blow over the sea Stow away, Stow away away Did you hear the news today The stormy winds blow over the sea The red dawn rises over the mountain but at night the light remains The stormy winds blow over the sea Its light will tough all But hold tight so you don’t fall. The stormy winds blow over the sea Superman is not here But you should not fear The stormy winds blow over the sea O’ Big Brother with art thou Please don’t delay me, There is much haste Wade Turner Google images

artwork:  Willem  van  de  Velde  II  (1707)  

Globe Rebel Prologue Falling, it is a thrilling and terrifying experience. Landing and reaching the ground loses the thrill factor. Then your world goes black. I open my eyes to look at my new surroundings. Majestic trees are all I can see. I try to stand up to figure out how tall they are. The grass beneath my bare feet is heavenly. I’ve learned to not trust heavenly I need to get away from what this place that seems like a haven. The need to leave this forest is so strong. I seem to have claustrophobia, a fear of enclosed spaces. The question is am I really enclosed can I run out. I need to run to make sure that I still can. Running, now I am free. Don’t ever turn back, for if you do you might lose yourself. Thud! This is where my hope has started to form a crack. Could it be an invisible wall?

Art: Stevenson Villarson

That would be impossible though. After a close inspection I see that it is glass. But why would there be glass in this seemingly beautiful forest? Before I can really ponder what is happening I feel it, the earth beginning to tremble. There is dust beginning to rise, and now I am also seeing fairy flecks, but why? Then the world goes pitch black, am I unconscious again? No I am very awake I see a blurry outline of fingers. A giant hand is covering the sky. But how is that possible unless. Oh God it all went wrong. The hope I once had now shatters. Sydney Starcher

Drifting The girl was innocent. Her baby-soft skin, golden as the rays of the setting sun, was rouged in delicate pinks. Her lush, blonde hair was held high with a single, purple band. Her glacial eyes held bright sparks of intelligence, taking in the surrounding field.

The field was alive. His dappled grass, green as The Irish farms, was shining With morning dew. His floral décor, lavender lilacs and red Rosebushes ,rushed to meet the fragrant breeze; soughing as the constant waves. He Gazed upward, coveting the Brightening sky.

The sky was omniscient. Her mother’s embrace on the world suffocated. Lonely she gazed down With lofty control. Her golden, midnight-white eyes glossy with troubled intent. She was wanted. Needed for the comfort her children cried for. She was hated. Loathed for the freedom she never gave them. Dejected, she followed the sweeping travels of a lone hawk.

The hawk was dying. His gaze fell on the flesh of the world, the humans… the animals. His lean stomach caressed the wind, gaining speed. His weakening wings halted movement, trusting the sky to carry him down. Atop a branch, his eyes sparkled with need. A need no human, no field, and no sky could meet. The world turned on him… offered little food… offered little shelter… offered little care. He slowly dropped from his precarious perch. Jacquelyn Fullford

Photo: Sarah Bell

Burning  in  my  own  path  of    destrucEon  

Why  does  this  always  seem  to  happen?  This  inevitable  cycle  that  follows  me  no  maUer  

where  I  go.  Everything  that  I  touch  crumbles  or  burns  to  the  ground.  My  connecYons  shaUer  

and  I  have  to  start  over.  I  always  end  up  hurYng  the  ones  least  deserving,  and  my  heart  aches  at  

the  thought  of  it.    It's  not  something  I  can  parYcularly  control,  and  I  hate  myself  every  day  for  it.  I  wish  I  could  just  end  it,  this  deplorable  and  dreaded  thing  that  

always  creeps  up  on  me  in  the  midst  of  perfecYon.  It's  always  my  fault,  people  get  hurt,  

and  I  lack  compassion  unYl  I've  gone  and  screwed  it  all  up.  I  am  despicable,  and  I  cannot  be  trusted  with  anything.  Though,  people  seem  to  think  that  giving  me  the  most  fragile  of  them  

is  a  good  idea.  Where  this  misconcepYon  comes  from  I  have  no  idea,  but  it  could  quite  possibly  be  from  my  falsely  sweet  disposiYon.      

That  storm  churning  inside  of  me  will  always  be  there,  even  though  I  can  placate  it  at  Ymes,  I  try  not  to  become  too  aUached  or  everyone  gets  hurt  in  the  end.  I  am  the  perfect  example  

of  a  terrible  being,  and  nothing  will  ever  change  that.  

 Now  of  course  it  is  that  I  seem  to  regret  

everything  that  has  happened.  Not  by  choice,  but  by  my  subconscious.  I  see  the  people  I've  hurt  and  what  they  have  turned  into.  I  don't  feel  bad  about  my  decisions  per-­‐say,  but  I  am  saddened  by  the  outcome  of  it  all.  These  

beauYful  creatures  have  withered  and  died  on  the  inside,  giving  up  all  hope  for  their  futures.  Nothing  maUers  to  them  anymore,  and  I  feel  responsible.  I  only  wish  I  could  help,  and  

maybe  be  set  free  from  these  ropes  that  are  bound  around  my  waist;  pulling  me  farther  

down  into  the  water,  as  these  human  anchors  acquire  weight  while  they  sink  into  the  

darkness.  

Self Portraits

TAXI   It was just another night in the city. Neon lights flash through my cab as I make my usual routes. Rolling down my window to throw out my cigarette, the stench of cheap liquor and garbage fill my lungs. Not exactly the ideal place to drive a cab but it provided a decent amount of customers. It was around the middle of the night when I pulled over to the quick stop to fill up my gas tank, and grab something to eat. As I walked out of the store I noticed something unusual. There was a man walking very fast down the sidewalk. He was wearing an expensive suit, and was holding a black leather briefcase tightly to his chest. He was clearly in the wrong part of the city but I didn’t think that was the only reason why he was in such a hurry. Every couple steps he would turn around and look as if someone was following right behind him. From where I was I couldn’t see anyone after him, but I could tell that someone had him spooked. Once I had finally got into my cab, I saw the man walk over to a black car, get in, and then speed off down the street. At the same moment I heard a rapid tap on my passenger window, I unlocked my doors, and a different man wearing a black hoodie entered the back seat of my cab. He also seemed to be in a bit of a rush. He told me that he would pay me double my rate if I would follow the black car that had just gone down the street. Without thinking twice I took off after the car and into the night. I tailed the black car for what seemed like hours, before he finally stopped in front of a dark alleyway. The man in the suit stepped out of his car, stilled holding onto the briefcase, and disappeared into the dark. The man in the black hoodie told me to wait for him to return; he then got out of the cab and entered the alley. Just as I was lighting another cigarette, I heard two loud gunshots that seemed to echo throughout the neighborhood. The man in the hoodie came running out of the alleyway with the briefcase in hand, and jumped back into my cab. He yelled at me to hit the gas, but I told him that I wasn’t going to go anywhere. So he then took out his pistol and waved it back and forth in my rearview mirror. Once I saw the gun in his hand I took off down the street. After a couple miles or so, he told me to pull over so he could get out. As he exited the cab he threw the money he owed me through the window, heard the police sirens in the distance, and ran around the corner. When I drove away I noticed something was still in the backseat of my cab, so I pulled over and realized that it was the black leather suitcase.

BY CHRISTIAN SCUTT

Truth    Dear  Friend,  How  can  you  treat  me  so?  

Must  you  shun  me  and  dislike  me  for  something  I  did  not  do.  Must  

you  believe  word  of  mouth  more  than  actual  fact.  You  said  I  lied  and  shaUered  the  trust  that  

we  once  had  with  eachother  but  what  proof  do  you  have  that  shows  that.  Have  I  ever  been  the  

kind  of  person  did  what  you  say  I  did.  You  have  known  me  long  enough  to  know  I  am  not.  I  ask  

for  your  forgivness  and  pray  that  you  will  forget  these  lies  that  were  released  from  the  serpants  

mouth  and  use  the  great  judgment  that  we  are  all  given.  

 Veronika  SchueUe  

Artwork: Sandy Zanetti

Life  of  a  Candle  Sydney  Starcher  

 The  candle  dimly  glows  

     Someone  passes  by  and  praises  it’s  strength  and  beauty  

The  Light  is  brightening  and  enlarging  

     Up  to  the  sky  it  flows  overjoyed  The  flame  is  the  brightest  it’s  ever  

been        Walking  by  someone  says,  “It’s  not  

preUy  but  it  will  do.”  The  light  is  dimming  puzzled,  what  

did  it  do  wrong?        Candles  next  to  it  are  being  oooohed  and  aaahed  at.  

The  candle  dies.  

Wilted  worries  haunt  me.  I  second-­‐guess  my  senses.  I  pull  the  covers  over  my  promise.  What  would  it  take  to  welcome  wonderment?  How  do  I  see  the  sights  of  saints?  I'll  let  go  today  and  lose  guessing  tomorrow.  I'll  swim  against  the  Yde  only  to  be  sucked  into  the  sand  tomorrow.                                          How  are  you  so  badly  burnt  from  bats  of  bleakness?  Rachel  Pischer    

PHOT0: SARAH BELL

I can tell you were raised well Educated in the good and the bad Yes the arts are amazing but some people Think the arts are for weirdoes Oh yah they see something and it’s cool But they don’t understand How that could be someone’s life painted on a canvas Expressed in a song Written about in a play Or danced about all day long They don't understand or try to understand How art music theatre dance is one of that particular persons personal way of being themselves Of communicating They don’t understand That that’s me being me That that’s you being you Him expressing him Her expressing her They don’t understand How Our talents Hold the keys To our lives Our futures Our dreams Chandler Powell

Photo: Sierrra Scwabach

           A  Writer’s  Work  is  Never  Done  

             SomeYmes  my  fingers  stroke  the  keys,  feeling  the  short  vibraYon  of  every  click  up  through  my  very  nerves,  connected  to  the  leUers  that  are  pouring  out  onto  the  page.  Other  Ymes,  my  fingers  move  violently,  urgently,  as  if  every  digital  sentence  strung  together  may  be  my  last.  Every  key  unlocks  another  door,  another  opportunity  to  create  a  potenYal  masterpiece.  My  eyes  scan  the  page,  picking  up  each  syllable  and  tossing  it  around  in  my  mind.  My  fingers  hover  over  the  keyboard,  awaiYng  their  next  command  with  a  certain  urgency  that  has  my  hands  trembling.  So  many  ideas  occupy  my  mind,  brewing  like  a  witch’s  cauldron  and  bubbling  over  with  potenYal  brilliance.  Electricity  sparks  as  another  bolt  of  inspiraYon  runs  through  me.  It  traces  a  path  to  my  fingers,  charging  them,  itching  with  anYcipaYon  as  they  struggle  to  form  coherent  sentences  out  of  a  hanging  thought.  It’s  a  war  between  words  and  wishes.  The  story  behind  my  eyelids—every  vivid  image  and  precise  detail–lingers  on  the  edge  of  literacy  

                             The  words  baUer  and  shake  me  like  a  storm.  I  can  taste  

them  on  my  tongue,  see  them  in  a  fog  behind  my  consciousness,  but  they  hang  onto  my  thoughts  and  refuse  to  be  shaken  free.    

             My  fingers  know  what  to  do.    It’s  insYncYve,  almost  programmed  as  they  flicker  to  the  backspace  key.  My  brain  stalls.  Bad  idea,  it  screams  at  me,  but  I’m  overcome;  trapped  under  the  ever-­‐present  writer’s  block,  heavy  as  lead.  Click,  and  hold;  I  watch  my  thoughts  disappear  one  precious  digit  at  a  Yme.  The  process  is  a  tedious,  torturous  cycle,  constantly  ebbing  and  flowing  with  the  current  of  my  mind;  inspiraYon,  generaYon,  annihilaYon;  lather,  rinse  and  repeat.  Brilliance  goes  unrecognized;  genius  goes  unsung.  I  believe  in  that  respect  a  writer’s  work  is  never…  

             Victoria  Parisi      

                                                                 What  is  love?  

                                               Victoria  Parisi  

What  is  love?  Is  this  that  jarring  feeling,  the  kind  that  throws  you  out  of  reality  and  sends  you  spinning  into  chaos,  unable  and  unwilling  to  escape?    You’re  walking  quickly  through  the  store,  eyes  darYng  around  the  aisles  as  you  finish  last  minute  shopping,  peUy  things  you  really  shouldn’t  have  put  off.  Your  hair  is  thrown  up  into  a  ponytail,  a  quick  and  easy  alternaYve  to  brushing  through  your  mane.  Make  up  was  a  hassle  so  you  went  au  natural,  and  you’re  dressed  to  the  nines  in  an  oversized  Ed  Hardy  t-­‐shirt,  complete  with  your  favorite  pair  of  sweat  pants.  Running  low  on  Yme,  your  hot  pink  crocs  (something  you  swore  you’d  never  wear  in  public)  squeak  against  the  cloudy  Yle  as  you  try  to  push  yourself  faster.  The  incessant  squeaking  comes  to  an  abrupt  stop  when  your  eyes,  darYng  through  the  store  at  the  speed  of  light,  seUle  on  a  man  in  the  aisle  across  from  you;  the  affect  is  immediate.  He’s  looking  through  the  picture  frames  with  concentrated  eyes  (you  can’t  quite  see  them,  but  you’re  sure  they’re  a  striking  shade  of  blue.).  Soj,  strawberry  blonde  hair  sits  in  a  mop  on  his  head,  reminding  you  of  a  playful  puppy,  fur  sYcking  up  in  all  the  right  places.  Freckles  sprinkle  his  fair  skin  scaUered  like  wildflowers,  and  you  can  tell  there’s  more  on  one  cheek  then  on  the  other.  As  you  observe  more(stalking  isn’t  the  right  word,  really),  your  eyes  take  in  his  taUered  jeans,  worn  and  shredded  from  obvious  manual  labor,  his  red  Aeropostale  t-­‐shirt  faded  enough  for  you  to  tell  it’s  his  favorite  too.  He  isn’t  well  put  together  by  any  stretch  of  the  imaginaYon,  but  he  catches  your  interest  almost  immediately,  a  familiar  sense  surrounding  him.  And  it’s  only  when  your  eyes  finally  rise  to  meet  his  gaze,  turned  from  his  picture  frame  inspecYng  to  meet  your  curious  stare.  Your  heart  catches  in  your  throat,  and  your  balance  abandons  you  for  a  moment,  when  you  realize  he’s  walking  towards  you.  Oh  my  God,  he’s  walking  towards  you.    

Sa

Photo: Sandy Zanettii

You  don’t  know  why,  but  it  feels  like  the  gears  of  life  had  finally  started  turning,  and  maybe  this  is  love.    

Maybe  love  is  that  blinding  passion,  the  heartache,  the  rage,  that  takes  over  when  you  feel  stronger  for  his  life  than  your  own;  he  is  your  life.    When  you  find  every  peaceful  moment  is  on  the  edge  of  a  minefield;  one  wrong  step  and  you’ll  explode.  You  can’t  stand  to  be  away  from  him,  it  makes  you  go  insane,  but  being  together  has  the  same  effect.  Your  family  says  its  unhealthy,  how  much  you  think  about  him,  talk  about  him,  and  his  family  knows  you  occupy  his  every  thought.  It’s  crazy  and  chaoYc,  the  fights  that  leave  your  cheeks  stained  red  with  tears,  and  his  with  the  faintly  glowing  remnant  of  an  angry  hand  that  spoke  louder  than  your  words  ever  could.  All  you  want  to  do  is  scream  and  scream  unYl  your  lungs  give  out;  he  says  he  can’t  stand  the  sight  of  you.  But  you  find  yourself  at  his  door  again,  and  he  welcomes  you  into  warm,  loving  arms,  the  embrace  you‘ve  memorized  down  to  the  way  he  runs  his  hand  in  circles  on  the  small  of  your  back.  You  rest  your  throbbing,  Yred  head  on  his  shoulder,  breathing  in  the  intoxicaYng  scent  of  peppermint  and  old  books  that  lingers  on  his  clothes.  No  words  are  exchanged,  the  electricity  between  two  souls  that  belong  as  one  speaks  volumes.  All  fights  are  forgoUen  as  his  soj,  familiar  lips  meet  yours,  and  you  forget  yet  again  how  to  think,  your  mind  like  the  staYc  on  a  broken  TV  set.  It’s  a  frightening  feeling,  vulnerability  and,  in  his  arms,  security.    

Maybe  you’ll  fight  again  tomorrow,  and  words  will  fly  like  knives  from  the  hands  of  children,  each  culng  remark  laced  with  apology.    But  when  it  feels  like  hope  is  lost,  and  the  world  is  crumbling,  you  remember  that  you  will  be  there  to  hold  each  other  up,  and  that  maybe  this  is  love.  

   Or  maybe,  just  maybe,  love  is  that  sense  of  familiarity;  of  knowing  that  

when  you  stumble,  as  humans  ojen  do,  there  will  always  be  one                      who  will  stand  behind  you.    

Through  weak  spirit  and  weak  knees  they  promise  to  catch  you  before  you  hit  the  ground,  even  if  they’re  going  down  with  you.  When  you  glance  over  from  your  spot  at  the  trusty  kitchen  sink,  hands  wrinkled  from  more  than  just  the  lukewarm  dish  water,  and  you  noYce  your  enYre  life  standing  in  the  doorway.  Those  striking  blue  eyes,  more  of  a  gray  you’d  come  to  find,  are  nestled  behind  thick  rimmed  glasses,  though  they  never  quite  lost  their  twinkle.  A  smile  pulls  at  his  lips,  from  which  I  love  you’s  have  ojen  tumbled.  His  strawberry  blonde  mop  riddled  with  grey  hair  from  years  passed  and  challenges  overcome,  and  he’s  earned  every  darn  one  of  them.    You’ve  felt  his  touch,  night  ajer  night  and  again  in  the  morning,  his  smooth  hands  steadily  growing  calloused,  payment  for  the  hard  work  he’s  endured.    You  take  him  in  like  the  very  first  day,  that  mind-­‐blowingly  accidental  meeYng  that  maybe  wasn’t  an  accident  at  all,  and  your  heart  grows  warm.  Not  like  the  fire  of  young  lovers,  scorching  with  passion  and  the  hope  of  tomorrow;  it  is  a  soj,  pulsing  warmth,    that  envelops  your  heart  and  swallows  it  whole,  the  thought  springing  tears  to  your  eyes  as  if  they  were  a  fountain  of  youth.  And  you  think  to  yourself,  as  he  limps  over  slowly,  grabbing  a  rag  to  dry  dishes  by  your  side,  that  you’ve  finally  answered  the  quesYon.  It  had  been  mulled  over  and  challenged,  quesYoned  by  each  generaYon  in  a  new  light,  but  you  think  you’ve  figured  it  out  at  last.  

What  is  love?  Love  is  everything,  and  nothing.  Love  is  a  journey.  It’s  flying  and  falling  and  looking  like  a  fool,  knowing  that  once  you’ve  landed  and  the  laughter  dies  down,  someone  will  be  there  with  a  smile  that  tells  you  every  moment  was  worth  it.  You  can’t  try  and  categorize  it,  name  it  and  file  it  away  with  the  other  peUy  emoYons,  it  is  more  than  that.  It’s  different  from  person  to  person,  heart  to  heart,  and  is  felt  by  every  walk  of  life  across  the  global  spectrum.  Love  is  the  reason  we  were  put  on  this  earth,  and  love  just  is.  

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” Who the hell came up with this? Whoever did, must have a cold heart and can’t feel anything. Sometimes, I’d much rather get hit with a ton of bricks than be told some of these mean things.

If you get hit with a stick, yeah it hurts, your mommy kisses it, and then it heals. Stones can break your bones, but once again, it heals. Now remember the last thing somebody said to you that was “mean”. Ever been called ugly? Fat? Worthless? ANYTHING. It sticks with you. It doesn’t just blow past you. You can’t put Neosporin and a band-aid on your heart. Words affect you, there’s no erasing what was said.

By Scotia Hammond

Newton’s third law of motion: Every action is followed by a reaction. HELLOOOOOO Isn’t that common sense? Common sense I have recently learned is not all that common. I have came to the conclusion that 96% of the people I encounter on a daily basis do not realize the outcome and the harm of their actions. They don’t go “hey, if I put my hand on the burner(action), I’m gonna get burnt(the reaction)”. Or “hey, if I say something very mean to someone(action), they might get their feelings hurt(reaction)” No, people don’t think like that. What goes through their mind is only the action, followed by no reaction. “I’m gonna look cool putting my hand on a burner” or “I’m cool since I was mean to that person.” We all have flaws, make fun of your own before you make fun of someone else. Words really do hurt. They cut just as deep as any sharp blade. Next time you go to say something, think of the reaction to your action. Is what you have to say, really worth harming someone’s life? By Scotia Hammond

Art: Rodney Langston

Ghost Story It is said that everyone is born with 2 heads, four arms and legs. However half of your soul is taken away to no one knows where. Sometimes you get born a twin and sometimes you can reconnect but the bond has already been broken. Now whether we realize it or not all the pain, anger, and sadness in the world is caused by that losing half your soul. This story is really about a set of twins that came out still connected but only at the pinky. You could tell they came out early because the soul wasn’t quite split in two. These girls were the happiest girls in the world because their soul was complete. Sara and Anne weren’t two they were one. When the girls started school is when the real problem started. When people see a complete soul they can’t help but be jealous. We all know that jealousy quite often is shown by teasing and bullying. The lives of this complete soul were tormented day and night. One day Sara couldn’t take it anymore and said to her mother, “We have to do something I can’t stand being a freak!” Her mother told her girls that there was a surgery that could separate them and then they would be perfectly normal. Anne really didn’t want to do this surgery but she would do anything to make Sara happy because if Sara was happy then so would she. The day of the surgery the girls were put to sleep so they wouldn’t be in pain. Sara woke up crying out in pain, she felt torn in half it was the most horrendous pain. She looked for her sister in the bed next to her, but the hospital bed was empty. Sara had this feeling that something wasn’t right, and her mom came in and asked her, “Are you all right I am sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up” Sara saw tears in her eye and asked quite calmly, “Where is Anne?”

“Who is Anne?” her mother replied too crisply. The don’t ask now voice wasn’t going to work this time for Sara. Sara threw quite a fit but this only resulted in her mother leaving and the doctors coming and putting her to sleep. She woke up alone and heard two of the nurses talking about her they were saying, “They say she has gone mad” “At least not as mad as the doctor, says the other one disappeared after he disconnected them” “Impossible” “It’s true I’m resigning before anyone else disappears” Sara was eventually checked out and everyone simply pretended Anne didn’t exist. Now she had to go through all of her trials alone and in pain. She learned how to deal with the pain and eventually forgot about Anne, you see it was too painful for her. Sara grew up and met a man in college. He said he was her soul mate, and she said he was her other half. The night before the wedding she spent the night at her parent’s house in her old bed. She heard a noise and another and soon she heard a song, a song that she had made up as a child. No not she, she and who? Then she saw it, a figure that looked like a little girl with a blue ribbon. The child looked almost exactly like her only she always had worn a pink ribbon. Blue was Anne’s color the realization hit her face but it was too late. A scream was heard in the night her mother raced to the room but all she could find was Anne’s blue ribbon. Anne had come back to collect the other half of her soul.

Sydney Starcher

 KrisYn  and  her  family  had  just  moved  into  their  new  house  in  Savanna  Georgia.  KrisYn  was  so  happy  because  she  had  never  lived  in  such  a  big  house  before.  It  had  five  bedrooms  and  three  and  a  half  bathrooms.  Larry,  KrisYn’s  dad,  just  won  the  Georgia  state  loUery  for  four  point  two  million  dollars.  KrisYn  had  two  younger  brothers,  Chris  and  Steve.  Their  mother  had  died  when  KrisYn  was  nine,  and  she  is  now  seventeen.  KrisYn’s  dad  worked  as  a  mailman.  They  were  never  poor,  and  they  had  all  of  their  necessiYes,  but  they  never  really  got  the  extra  things  that  they  wanted.  

 The  first  night  in  the  house  KrisYn  was  lying  in  her  bed  she  heard  a  noise  coming  from  her  closet.  She  sat  up  very  quickly,  and  looked.  She  didn’t  hear  it  again,  so  she  went  to  sleep.  Twenty  minutes  later  she  heard  the  doorknob  on  her  closet  shaking.  She  felt  adrenalin  rushing  through  her  body,  and  she  pushed  herself  back  into  her  bed.  She  finally  got  the  courage  to  go  to  the  closet,  and  check  it  out.  She  placed  her  hand  on  the  knob,  and  stood  staring  into  space  debaYng  whether  she  really  wanted  to  find  out  who  or  what  was  responsible  for  the  noise  coming  from  the  closet.  “It’s  probably  Chris  or  Steve  playing  around,”  She  thought.  

                 She  opened  the  door.  Nothing  was  there.  “interesYng,”  she  thought.  She  just  shrugged  and  went  back  to  her  bed.  As  soon  as  her  head  touched  her  pillow  the  closet  door  flew  open.  KrisYn  was  so  frightened  that  she  could  not  move.  She  began  to  silently  cry  to  herself.  All  of  a  sudden  her  brother  Chris  ran  into  her  room.  He  was  screaming  rather  anxiously  about  how  all  of  his  draws  flew  out  of  his  dresser,  and  he  dreamt  that  something  was  aUacking  him.  KrisYn  wanted  to  comfort  him,  but  she  was  too  scared  herself.  They  went  to  their  dad’s  room  clenching  to  each  other’s  arms  walking  back  to  back,  so  someone  could  see  if  something  were  to  come  up  from  behind  him.  When  they  told  their  father  what  they  had  seen  all  he  said  was.  “Go  back  to  sleep,  you’re  imagining  things.”  

                 KrisYn  and  Chris  turned  away,  and  started  to  go  back  to  their  rooms.  

                 “You  wanna  sleep  in  my  room?”  KrisYn  asked.  She  knows  that  there  was  nothing  her  liUle  brother  could  do  to  keep  her  safe,  but  she  just  felt  more  comfortable  with  someone  in  the  room  with  her.  

                   He  was  also  afraid  so  he  agreed.  

                 They  lay  in  the  bed  side  by  side  for  hours  unYl  Chris  finally  fell  asleep.    KrisYn  just  stared  up  at  the  ceiling  fan,  she  watched  it  go  In  circles  all  night,  for  she  could  not  sleep.  Her  alarm  clock  went  off  at  6:15am  to  wake  her  up  for  school.    When  her  and  Chris  got  to  the  table  to  eat  breakfast  her  dad  and  her  brother  Steve  started  joking  about  how  they  thought  it  was  a  ghost  in  the  house.  

                   “Who  ate  my  toast?  It  must’ve  been  the  ghost  that  opened  KrisYn’s  closet  door,”  KrisYns  father  said  in  a  sarcasYc  voice.  

                   “That’s  not  funny,”  KrisYn  mumbled.  

                   KrisYn  and  her  dad  never  really  got  along  because  he  was  always  so  sarcasYc  and  short  with  everyone.  When  her  mother  died  her  father  never  learned  to  be  that  loving  figure  that  the  kids  needed.  

                   KrisYn  got  home  from  school  around  3:15pm,  and  she  was  home  alone  because  her  brothers  were  in  basketball  pracYce,  and  her  dad  was  at  work.    She  went  to  the  Kitchen  to  get  something  to  snack  on  before  dinner.  She  took  two  slices  of  bread  from  the  pantry,  and  she  sat  them  on  the  counter  then  she  went  to  the  refrigerator  to  get  some  ham.  When  she  got  back  to  the  counter  the  bread  was  gone.  At  first  KrisYn  was  confused  as  to  what  happened  to  the  bread,  but  she  just  sighed  and  thought,  “long  day.”  She  went  to  go  get  more  bread  for  her  sandwich,  and  when  she  came  back  to  the  counter  her  slice  of  cheese  had  disappeared.    

Kristin – Shakaria Ige

My tummy’s turning and I’m feeling kind of homesick It’s a whole new world, a different dimension. It’s too

much pressure and I’m nervous. How could something I’ve been dreaming about and

wanting since the beginning of my beginning put so much fear in my heart?

Is this a sign? Am I not ready for this next step?

“Of course I am” I tell myself, I know it’s either now or never.

As I pack up my belongings memories began to flood my head. Where’s a plumber when you need one?

Suitcases never seemed this heavy before. Why is everything suddenly changing?

Awkward silence filled the car as the wheels glided over the newly paved highway road.

“O#4@!*%$ next signal” read the sign on my right, my future was closer than expected.

Tires screeched and the car came to a halt, doors flung open with my luggage waiting for me.

One last hug and a wave goodbye, it was finally time to depend on myself.

                                                                         Auzhane’  Williams  

Midnight  By:  Jahmar  Lambert  

(Fades  in  Martha  in  corner  rocking  back  and  forth  hair  messed  up  crying  with  torn  clothes  and  dead  body  lying  next  to  her)  

Martha  -­‐Where  am  I  …?  (Turns  head  sees  dead  body  and  Screams)  

Scene  1  (Cut  to)  

(Martha  in  room  gelng  ready  for  party  pulng  on  hair,  make  up)  Martha-­‐  Hey  Cathy  do  you  have  the  direcYons  for  Pete’s  house?  

Because  I  am  almost  ready.  Cathy-­‐  No  not  yet  he  said  he  would  text  me  the  direcYons.  

Martha-­‐  Well  then  call  him.      

(Talking  in  background  wile  Martha  finishes  her  make  up.  And  walks  out,  into  kitchen.  Cathy  finishes  up  on  phone)    

Cathy-­‐  If  you’re  ready  then  let’s  go.    (They  both  walk  off  cuts  to  clock  reading  10:30  pm.  Fade  out)  

Scene  2  (Fades  in  to  Cathy  driving  and  Martha  texYng  cuts  back  and  forth  

during  conversaYon)  Cathy-­‐  Who  are  you  talking  to?  

Martha-­‐  Oh  no  one  just  a  friend.  Cathy-­‐  Is  it  a  guy  friend?  

Martha-­‐  Ok  if  you  must  know  remember  that  guy  that  I  met  at  that  club  we  went  to.  

Cathy-­‐  Oh  you  mean  that  tall  muscular  hot  one.  Martha-­‐  Yes  that  one,  I’m  seeing  if  he  can  go  to  the  party  at  Pete’s  

house.  Cathy-­‐  He  should  totally  come.  (They  pull  into  the  driveway)  

Here  we  are.  Pete’s  wonderful  abode  (Cuts  to  clock  reads  10:55  Fades  out)  

Scene  3  (Fade  in  to  Cathy  and  Martha  walking  into  a  house  full  of  people  music  blasYng  people  dancing,  people  swimming  in  pool.  Pete  opens  door  for  Cathy  and  Martha  gives  them  hugs  and  kisses  as  

they  enter.)  Pete-­‐  Welcome,  welcome,  come  right  in,  did  you  find  your  way  ok?  

Martha-­‐  Yes,  we  did  thanks  for  asking.  Pete-­‐  Let  me  show  you  around.  

(They  walk  around  camera  follows)  Pete-­‐  This  is  the  living  room.  (Shouts)  Hey,  you  off  the  furniture  

with  your  shoes.  Mindless  monkeys.  This  is  the  kitchen  all  the  food  is  over  there.  Bathrooms  are  up  stairs  and  to  the  right.  And  don’t  go  in  the  bedrooms  they’re  off  limits!  Well  that’s  it  have  fun.  

(Pete  walks  away)  Cathy-­‐  Did  that  one  guy  text  you  back…  

Martha-­‐  Hold  on…  (Martha  Checks  Phone)  Ok  he  said  he’s  outside.  

(Cut  to  girls  walking  out  to  door  meet  this  guy  Martha  runs  up  and  hugs  the)  

Cathy-­‐  So  what’s  your  name?  

Carlos-­‐  Oh  my  names  Carlos.  I  don’t  believe  we’ve  met  yet.  

Cathy-­‐  My  name  is  Cathy  but  I  someYmes  go  by  Cat.  

Carlos-­‐  (With  a  smirk  on  his  face)  Ok  ready  to  go  party.  

(They  turn  their  backs  to  camera  and  they  walk  away.  They  bring  Carlos  to  meet  Pete)  

Scene  4  (Cut  to  Carlos  gelng  and  bringing  drink  to  Martha.  Cathy  talking  

to  other  people  with  drink  in  hand.  Martha  with  drink  in  hand  dancing  with  Carlos)  

Carlos-­‐  (talks  into  Martha’s  ear)  Hey  lets  go  up  stairs  into  one  of  the  bedrooms.  

Martha-­‐  No  Pete  said  that  we  couldn’t  go  up  there  he  said  it  was  strictly  off  limits.  

Carlos-­‐  So  come  on  have  a  liUle  fun!  (He  starts  pulling  her  upstairs  by  know  she’s  semi  drunk.  Cut  to  clock  it  reads  11:  45)  

Martha-­‐  Well  ok  let’s  go.  (They  sneak  up  stairs  and  find  empty  room  Carlos  kisses  Martha  

and  they  close  the  door  behind  them.  Laughing  and  giggling  for  a  couple  of  minutes.  Then  the  full  moon  comes  through  

the  window  growling,  screams)  Carlos-­‐  What…..Wait…..What’s  happening…AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!  

(Blood  splaUers  on  door)  Pete-­‐  (talking  to  person)  Hey  did  you  hear  that?    …    Hold  on  let  me  

check  that  out.  (Pete  walks  up  stairs,  opens  door  sees  a  bloody  room  and  

monster  inside.  (Screams)  Pete-­‐  AHHHHHHHHHH  (faints)  

(Music  stops  playing  everyone  tries  to  figure  out  what  happened.  Cathy  runs  up  stairs  finds  Pete  on  floor  wakes  him  up  and  helps  

him  stand  up)  Pete-­‐  There.  There.  There  is  a  monster  in  there.  

(Cathy  gets  up  looks  in  room  and  sees  a  giant  hairy  monster  in  there.  It  howls)  

Cathy-­‐  What’s  that,  oh  my  god!  Where’s  Martha  and  Carlos?  

 

Pete-­‐  I  haven’t  seen  her  since  I  met  him.  

Cathy-­‐  Oh  my  god!  I  think…  NO  THAT  CAN’T  BE…  IS  IT.  

(Cut  to  monster.  It  finishes  Carlos  then  looks  toward  Cathy.  Cathy  

in  door  wide  shot.  Makes  its  way  to  Cathy  and  grabs  at  her,  she  

screams,  falls  over  railing  into  middle  of  party.  Screams  echo  

through  out  the  home  people  start  running  out.  Monster  runs  out  

door)  

(Fades  in  to  monster  running  down  road  while  Cathy  is  moaning  in  

pain  and  screaming)  

(Cut  to  clock  reading  12:00)  

(Fades  to  Ytle)  

(MIDNIGHT  in  big  bold  leUers)