Janus 2012Kenston High School

9500 Bainbridge RoadChagrin Falls, Ohio 44023

(440) 543-9821www.kenston.k12.oh.us/khs

Editorial Staff

Advisor

Mrs. Nicole Costigan

Literary Editors

Bob Craig (Layout)

Geoff MastersHannah Sellers (Layout)

Bridget Wiberg (Layout)

Alli Wittenberg

Art Editors

Kyle Kennedy (Cover Art)

Brigitte Kolibab

Coordinators

Lindsay Cook (Introduction)

Cara Fagerholm (Art Assistance)

Special Thanks

Don Allen of Allen Graphics, Inc.

PatronsThank you to all of our patrons. We greatly appreciate your support and hope you enjoy this year’s publication of Janus.

Platinum ($250+)Chagrin Valley Rotary ClubNational Honors Society Student Council

Gold ($100-249)Academic Boosters Bainbridge Civic Club Mr. Continenza M.E. Gabella Paul and Margie GoldbergKHS AdministrationSharon Schnall and R. Drew SellersJim and JoAnn Weaver

Silver ($51-99)Chris and Patty CookJim and Nicole CostiganThe Wiberg Family

Bronze ($5-50) Mr. Barrus Kris Carroll-Bainbridge Library Mr. and Mrs. David ConsoloRobert and Kelly CraigLynn Fagerholm Mrs. Fruchter Joy Gray Mr. Holley Debbie Hunter Andrew Kenen Julia Kolibab Mr. Kowalski The Krause FamilyMr. Marchesi Janet L. Mast Geoff and Marjie MastersThe Messner FamilyMrs. MorrisMr. and Mrs. David NulickMr. Ray Mr. Segulin Hannah SellersThe Shively FamilyStainless WorksMrs. Subel Mr. TripiEmily Tucker Mr. Vasil Mrs. Zeigler

ContentsDear TypewriterPapaThe Consumption of LightMirrorSpoken ForSomethingMagnificent MarvelsConquerors of the UselessFatherhoodGlowUnwrapping TraditionGood-bye MaineBattle of ZionSomewhere in New YorkSensingLullabyeForever LazyClaudius’ ConfessionsSmells like TexasGrandma’s WhisperUntitledA Fabled FowlRZAIndependenceThe First Snowfall of the SeasonFrozen FallsOnce Upon a TimeTechnicolor PathI am WindStability Crash TriggerIf You Dreamed Like I DreamAdolescent BeachWho am I?Lock My Heart AwayUntitledPainting of PaintArt

Hannah BatesTess FergusonKelsey LeeEmily BlazekNick CappelliMads O’BrienKarl RandallGraham DiNicolaHannah KubaitisJenny BaumgartnerCara FagerholmBridget WibergMiranda KyleBetsey ClarkAllie SavioliChance Brinkman-SullKatie BentonLia SfiligojMegan MolnarElizabeth KantraLogan HonsakerHannah SellersKyle KennedyJosh SellersMads O’BrienMaKayla BrownHannah KubaitisRoss HenryTaylor MorehouseLia SfiligojJenny BaumgartnerAlli WittenbergBrigitte KolibabEthan BushAllie SavioliKatie RobinsonEmily BlazekNatalie BraunBrigitte Kolibab

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Every day, if only for a few fleeting moments, a ray of afternoon sun wheedles its way between the shutters, casting the entirety of the room in molten gold. Few have seen it; if anybody ventures up there, it’s usually for a single trinket or one misplaced postcard. The attic is dark. Dim. Musty. To one who has never been bathed in the ephemeral glow, this is all it ever was, and all it ever will be. You trundle up the old stairs, flashlight in hand, on one of these single-minded whims. Tucked away in a dog-eared book, there was a poem. Would it still be up here? Having unbolted the door, you step tentatively into this stag-nant room, its memories jarringly alien and hopelessly entangled with your own. Dust motes dance in the narrow beam with every shoebox you set aside. It has to be here. Leafing through yellowed photographs of faceless strangers, you remain resolute. It has to be here. Despite the darkness and the heaps of junk and the general mustiness and all the weird old letters and-- If asked to describe it, you would say the room is burning. Not with greedy tongues of flame, mutilating all they consume, but with pure, vibrant life. As sunlight streams through the panes, the dingy attic may very well be the Library of Alexandria. Portraits, books, and toys gain meaning forgotten in time’s eternal march, and a wash of truth engulfs even the darkest corners of the loft. You stand mesmerized in the haze. You look upon these new realities with clear eyes and a rejuvenated mind; everything you need is here. The subjects of the photographs are no longer scrawled, meaningless names—they are mothers, fathers, children, lovers, friends, and mentors. Some were long ago; some have yet to be. Their passages meander and con-verge capriciously as the wind, but are all inevitably tethered to Truth. To time: the steady, visceral pulse. You close your eyes and feel this pulse sing in your very veins. Nothing gold can stay, but you’ll let it linger as long as you can.

Introduction

Dear Typewriter

Hannah Bates 5

Papa

Tess Ferguson6

Darkness is nothing but our carnivorous friend,He feasts on colors and colors on end.

He is constantly hungry during the daytime hours,While He spends time salivating over the luscious flowers.

The bright colors of the earth are enhanced and amazing,As if they are winking at Darkness and always gazing.

After twelve hours of waiting to ravish the light,Darkness has His turn to soar like a kite.

He slowly consumes the deep blue sky,But that doesn’t please Him so again He will try.

The emerald green forests, the burning red maples,Those are His favorites; His absolute staples.

And when those aren’t filling, just not enough,He savors the lilies, tulips, and all kind of stuff.

Eventually Darkness has reached His fill,And the entire world feels a sort of chill.

The chill lasts for the next twelve hours,Until the color returns to the trees and the flowers.Daytime has a dark side too and devours the dark,

So when She too has Her fill, She’ll unveil Her distinguishing mark.

The beautiful colors will grace the land as Darkness repeals,While He patiently waits to devour His next savory meals.

The Consumption of Light

Kelsey Lee 7

I am a mirror—honest, pragmatic, and solid, yet full of contradictions and illusion. I am misunderstood and misread by many. My intentions are often unclear from an outsider’s point of view. I can be crystal clear or as mystifying as smoke and mirrors. I am solid and strong, yet delicate and fragile. The glass I am made of cannot be bent at will but will shatter when hit with enough force. I am made from millions of minute particles that are mixed together, melted and fired in a furnace, molded and cooled. I am polished and silvered until I shine. To be the smooth, untarnished, shining surface you see, I had to undergo a long process; I will have to be constantly cleaned to stay that way. My purpose is to reflect others, show them reality, reveal truth. This task is a delight and a burden. To reveal hidden beauty or something truly won-derful in another person is pure, unaltered bliss. To witness others see another piece of themselves for the first time, watching the epiphany in their eyes, and seeing the joy light up their face gives me no greater pleasure. But with great pleasure comes great sorrow. I also have to show them the ugliness or darkness within themselves. Though it has to be done for change to come, it is not an easy thing. Some despair and become miserable while others become angry with me. I’m not trying to hurt them—I don’t want them to think the ugliness is all that they are, nor do I want to see them lose themselves in mindlessly pur-suing perfection. That is not my point. My point is to let them see themselves as they are and help them see how they could be, for the better. I simply want to help them grow, but I can only do so much. The rest has to come from them. They have to be willing to look deeper. I am willing to help them, but if they are not ready and willing to put their hearts into it, there is little I can do. I cannot change my nature to reflect. It is how I am, yet I often question my own identity. Though I reveal to others who they are, I cannot do that for myself. If I try to look upon my own reflection, all I see is a blur. No one can tell me what I truly look like. When people gaze at me, they see themselves looking back or what they want to see. Is that it for me? Or will a day come when someone is willing to look past what the mirror shows him or her and look at the mirror itself? I suppose we’ve all got a little Narcissus, and looking inward is not a bad thing at all; but

Mirror

8

Emily Blazek

we have to be willing to look past the reflection, the surface, and truly see the people around us. I’ve been waiting for someone to really see me. I long for him or her to see the cracks, smudges, and tarnishes, and not walk away; see the fingerprints others have left and how they have changed me. For once, I want to be seen for what I am and not what I do. But that may have to wait. I am a mirror—honest, pragmatic, and solid, yet full of contradictions and illusion. I am misunderstood and misread by many. I am strong, yet fragile; crystalline, yet elusive. I am what I am. My essential nature of reflection cannot be changed, but maybe it will be worn and shaped by time so that I can not only reflect but also be seen for what I am.

9

Spoken For

Nick Cappelli10

“A person’s a person,No matter how small,”An elephant once said

As he hoisted the Whosto the sky.

But II’m smaller than WhovilleIn everyone else’s eyes.

InvisibleI turn sideways and vanish.

A murmur of a memoryAble to slip through the cracks

of a door.“Have I seen her before?”Someone asks rarely or

not at all.I’m a ship lost at seaNo anchor can pull me

back to Earth.It’s as if I’m

thinking screaming feeling wailing pleadingBut they’re not hearing

‘Cause I’m not makinga sound.

I’m disappearing,Pie c e b y p i e c e .…Then, a glance.

She asks me ifI’m okay.

I say, “Fine.”But she doesn’t stop

looking.Then she speaks,

Words like cobwebs

Something

11

being brushed away.Corners old and forgotten cold and rotten

Gently coaxed into the bright.She asks silly questionsAbout my so-called life

up to that pointPaying attention without

pretending.She shares her dreams,Fables of friendly faces

And faraway places.She fleshes out

My sketchy outlineDoodling depth and dimension

Letting me stand on her shouldersTo try and touch where the giants live

and to seem big and tall for once.Suddenly I’m

laughing dancing smiling breathing lovingbeing a being.

She drew flame from this candlePoof-- like magic.

Brought a soft glowTo a dark empty attic

Wrought something fromnothing…

Me.Who I am would not bewithout who she was.

She was my growth spurt.An elephant never forgets.

Mads O'Brien12

The fluffy clouds touch down on the rocks.The bright red desert rocks shine;

Shining among the rugged, dull ground before them.What a beautiful sight.

Behind these rocks blooms a vibrant, blue sky.They almost look surreal, these rocks.

Almost too perfect.Under the middle formation, an arch.

An arch that leads to a World beyond these rocks.But could such a World exist?

A world beyond these gleaming rocks…What could it hold?

What could live in the dark shadows of such a magnificent marvel?A windy road among the foreground may lead a lucky individual to the sight,

An up-close view on the radiant rocks.At the tip of dawn, these rocks gleam in the early morning sunshine amidst its

gloomy surroundings,

Is it possible they look this magnificent in complete darkness?It can only be pondered.

What a magnificent thought.

Magnificent Marvels

Karl Randall 13

Conquerors of the Useless

Graham DiNicola14

He sleeps. His eyes flutter. His breath hiccups. He dreams. His tiny lips form a heart-shaped pout. His messy brunette hair droops in an angle on his brow, and his tiny fingers clutch a teddy bear. Careful not to wake him, you cradle him in your arms, and silently tiptoe through the hallways for your new apartment. Drool escapes the corners of his mouth, and his plump cheeks bounce with every step you take. He struggles to situate himself against the crook of your bony elbow. Staring at him, you recall a memory from earlier that day. His angelic giggles echo through your head like a song. You recall his endless babbling and his name for you, Dada. You get chills every time he calls you. A smile spreads on your face, from ear to ear. Your nose fills with the intoxicating smell of sweet apple shampoo and talcum powder. As you gently unload him into his crib, he fidgets and groans. You tuck him in a quilt your own mother had made, just for this occasion. You lean over and kiss him softly on his rosy cheeks. You sit just across the way and watch your son, your creation, bask in the dim moonlight shining in from the open window. Crickets chirp in harmony, cicadas hum their gravelly tune, and fireflies dance around like tiny glowing ballerinas this summer night. You wait awhile, and watch your future sleep, and at that moment you vow to yourself, as long as you live, he will be your first priority. Your thoughts turn to your future with him. A future filled with exotic camping trips in the mountains, teaching him to ride a bike or drive, or simply teaching him to hit a baseball. You prepare yourself for the mistakes he’ll make, and even though you wish to shelter him from pains and sorrows, you prepare yourself to watch him fail sometimes too. Tears of joy roll down your cheeks and your breath becomes uneven. This is your son. This is your future. This is your life.

Fatherhood

Hannah Kubaitis 15

Untangle my laces because I’m tongue-tied again. Revel in my magical splendor and enjoy the moment. Slip me on. Take me off. I light up your imagina-tion and captivate your wandering eyes. I am your light up shoes. Remember me? Floating in your not-so-distant past? I’m still here! I’m just waiting for you to forget about today, your troubles and worries, so we can at last play again in a sepia-toned montage. I know you miss me and I know you want to play, so what’s holding you back? I’ve been longing to feel the warmth of your toes and to run carelessly through the grass. I want to remind you that those fireflies—the ones you see right there, dancing around you, reflecting in your innocent pupils—I want to remind you that you are one. You’re a firefly. And you can run on top of the world. Please, grab my poor worn-out laces and put me on, at least just this once. I’ll show you the world my way—the way it’s meant to be—miraculous. Can you feel it? Can you feel the lightness effervescently bubbling through you? Can you see it? Can you see the road illuminating beneath your eager feet? I’ll help you realize your forgotten dreams and I’ll teach you how to smile again. Smile the right way. The way you used to and are meant to—where beams of unadulterated happiness and joy shine out of your pearly whites. I can help you remember. I can help you live. Your eyes light up as you marvel at my multi-colored lights. Your fingers trace my worn-down soles and caress my loose threads. To your wondering imagination I seem otherworldly—surreal—even magical. You don’t know how I came to be or why I am; but it doesn’t matter. Your insides spark and wriggle with excitement when I am around and this is enough. I release a burst of enthu-siasm with every step you take, encouraging you to move forward and snatch the stars right out of the sky. We will grow ever brighter, feeding off each other’s energy, until we at last implode and come drifting down to Earth. Fearlessly venture into this dark, mysterious world and blaze a trail of lightness and wonder behind you. Never look back and never stop to question why. The destination is unimportant. Come to think of it—was there ever a destination? As long as you are moving forward with your mind open and free, I

Glow

16

promise I will not lead you astray. When you are lost think of me and remember you are special. When you are lonely think of me and realize I’ll never leave. And when you are sad think of me and know you are loved. To travel with me is to travel with destiny, freedom, and immortality. An almost unbearable lightness radiates out of me illuminating every-thing before you in a wonderfully mysterious glow. Around every corner is a new wonder—a new marvelous adventure waiting to take place. No path is too long and no trees are too tall. You’re an otherworldly being now—you can reach the twinkling stars, take a sip from the Milky Way, and nap on Saturn’s rings. I am your light up shoes.

Jenny Baumgartner 17

Unwrapping Tradition

Cara Fagerholm 18

I look up. The gray early morning sky peacefully sits around me. The clouds hide the little sun that dares to wake up this early in the morning. I look out. The thousands of trees are scattered all over the mountains. The choppy waves splash into the sides of the boats anchored in the middle of the lake. The American flag flaunts its colors as it flies above the bushes of blueberries. The rocks surrounding the island act like a wall protecting the pre-cious gems. I look down. Little minnows and sunfish swim in circles waiting for their breakfast of stale bread and cold pancakes. The fish are on guard in order to snatch the biggest pieces of bread but also to avoid the giant net that could come swooping down at any moment. I look behind me. Cousins and relatives exchange hugs and laughter. My parents run back and forth, making sure nothing is forgotten. I walk back down the dock and slip on my sandals. The dew from the grass tickles my toes as I walk down the lawn to join the party of good-byes. I look back at the lake one more time and silently bid it farewell. Until next year.

Good-bye Maine

Bridget Wiberg 19

Fueled by some sweet, translucent tonic the diamonds, they dance within the skies

a mystery to man and me our competence must not rely

on science,evolutionary thought.

The very make-up of our dangerous replies create a method written in Pisces’ eyes

a magnet gravitating such great heights that shape us,

who we are tonight.

Underneath the gods, they say, a verge befriends a civil fray

for those who bite the hand that feeds keep eating son to satiate,

your gluttonous feign.

There are legends, you see,that bind the moon and the sea

thus that silver-tongued goddess creates a tide that is empyreal

where the gods sit and watch from their temples.

Hereby on this night where demons crawl

these sins spawn evil within us all a bittersweet eternity

for these shadows have won this brawl...

the battle of the heavens ended in nightfall.

Battle of Zion

Miranda Kyle 20

Somewhere in New York

Betsey Clark 21

My Feet areperpetually dirty;

toes sinking fast intoearly afternoon mud

My Eyes are

impossibly blinded; sensitive from the

long winter imprisonment

My Skin iseternally Kissed;

sweet rays of warmthmingling on the surface

My Heart is

pounding fast;exhausted from

splashing through spring puddles

Sensing

Allie Savioli22

Just you and the moon and no one to hold,You’re tucked in your bed but still you feel cold.

You think to yourself, I miss him so bad.Just think of this song and soon I’ll be back.

Close your eyes, dear, but open your heart.With you on my mind we’re never apart.

With each star you count I’m thinking of youThe times that I’m not are really quite few.

Drift off to sleep like a ship sails at sea.Follow your heart and then you’ll find me.Don’t be surprised if you see I’m asleep.I’ll be dreaming of you, lost in the deep.

Without a friend like you, life just isn’t fun.So I’ll look at the stars and wait till night is done,

Until I come back and we are together.I hope that these words will make you feel better.

Lullabye

Chance Brinkman-Sull 23

Forever Lazy

Katie Benton 24

The blood of my family runs through thy body. I may not be thy father, but I am knowing of thy cunning ways. Young Hamlet, thou art an unpregnant child. You retain madness in thy speech, but you act with grave intentions. And the night of the play did no such help to front these accusations. Hamlet, thou knave, thou must know what others have been blinded to see. How else would the players compose such a grim story? The play mocked my power, and you reenacted a brother’s murder, a sin worthy of the primal el-dest curse, and a sin upon’t being committed would surely be hidden and denied by the perpetrator. But from whom could thou have obtained such information? I may be unaware of the truth, but if I were to confront the provider of such knowledge, I’m surest that he would suffer a foul, strange, and unnatural death. Oh, clever young Hamlet, thou may have convinced others of your mad-ness, but I know thou art truly mad with knowledge. You must be halted of thy torrid reign before you threaten my crown. By the forces of God, I have already escaped death, but at the expense of Polonius’ life. Oh, poor Polonius, that inane rat, he was too o’er wrought with what he wanted to believe was true. Poor Polonius, I could have easily been slain and bloodied at the hands of Hamlet, but I wasn’t, and in return Hamlet must feel and undergo the wrath of my vengeance, and where th’ offence is, let the great axe fall. And so I must thank thee, poor and unfortunate Polonius, for without thy death, my plans to cease Hamlet’s destruction might not exist. And as fate would have it, Laertes’ return to Denmark has come at the most conve-nient time for me. Laertes, thou were quick to accuse a righteous king of murder because of thy vindictive spirit, but thou were told of the true offender, and thou know the murderer is Hamlet, a beast damned by traitorous gifts. And as thy thirst for vengeance for thy family’s deaths strengthens, I will seize this opportunity to seek revenge upon Hamlet. Oh, foolish Hamlet, you may think you possess privileged knowledge, but my power and ambition outweigh your feeble intelligence, for I have the skill to

Claudius’ ConfessionsCreative Response To Hamlet: Interior Monologue of King Claudius

25

convince the naive Laertes. His young mind, so vulnerable and so easily manipu-lated. He threatens with a sword, but only to mask his unyielding grief; and for this I will utilize Laertes’ hostility and distress to my advantage. As he weeps at the time of death, I will cater to his every whim, but I will also propose a plan. Yes, a plan, a plan so diabolical, so absolute, that the devil himself would succumb to my trickery. I will use Laertes’ prowess of the sword to initiate a meeting with Ham-let. Here Hamlet will feel no other choice than to fight, for he will collapse under his jealousy of Laertes’ skill. The court will believe it to be a friendly match, indeed, like a meeting between two brothers. Alas, Laertes will use a sword unbated to display his mastery, and he will undoubtedly prevail against the wretched Hamlet and requite him for his family’s deaths. But I mustn’t forget my duties, for I must show my grace towards Ham-let. Oh, how he will be honored when I prepare him a special chalice for the nonce. A drink spiked by poison, so detrimental that when drunk the poison will hold such an enmity within the blood of Hamlet. It will be at that very moment that Hamlet will fall lifeless at the foot of the throne. Stricken by shock and turmoil, the people of Denmark will look nowhere but to their King for guidance. No one will think to question, all will listen. To-gether we will mourn, and the kingdom will bear their hearts in grief, but not for long, for grieving is futile and will do no good for the state. Hamlet will be laid to rest near his father, where, like my brother, his toxic secrets will be buried and returneth to dust. Oh, how my punishable deeds will go unnoticed. Hamlet’s death will fall right, and again I will bask in the glorious effects of murder, for I will again be restored of my crown, my ambition, and my queen.

Lia Sf iligoj26

Spearmint gum tastes like Disney World,like princess hugs and autographs

on hot Florida days.

Shania Twain sounds like fond memorieswatched on a home video.

I wish I could really remember those moments.

Sparklers look like Oakmountand the big yellow shed.

Will I make it back before my light burns out?

The tears of childhood are warm and wetwhen Mommy and Daddy are fighting

and the dog in the movie dies.

Youth and hindsight heighten your senses,but in the end,

it all just smells like Texas.

Smells Like Texas

Megan Molnar 27

Grandma’s Whisper

Elizabeth Kantra28

what goes through his head when a father says goodbye?what is he thinking as he leaves his family behind?

what does he care when his own son is crying?broken and distraught there is no denying

what does he say when he knows it’s all his fault?what is he yelling as his fists pierce the walls?

what does he explain to his already crying wife?or his son who wonders what will happen to his life?

does he believe he is sneaky and like the fear?the fear of getting caught drives them both near

crafty, he makes it into his own little gamein which he believes he wins all the same

if caught, he still has the significant otherif not, he has a wife, two sons, and a mother

but this is where he is terribly wrongit’s not fun and games so don’t play along

destroying a family is not something to riskbut you’re good at cheating believing you’re briskis a father upset when he gets caught in the act?

does he get angry at you or does he keep tact?he is the only one here to blame

love for my father left much quicker than it cameand I wish I could say that love came back

but that would be lying and I’ve had enough of thatonly caring for yourself so save your plea

leaving is what you’re good at, don’t say you love melove drives one closer, to further indulgeyou left me crying and alone feeling smallhearing the phrase “like father, like son”

makes my blood run cold and my body numbyou and I are nothing the same

all we have in common is our DNAwhat does a father think as he reads all of this?

does he wish he can go back and see all he has missed?his kids growing up without him there

thinking their whole lives that he just doesn’t careand they are not wrong to think he is badsee, I have a father but never had a dad

Untitled

Logan Honsaker 29

You’ve heard I supposeof that bird the turkey,who during Thanksgivingis preferred over jerky.

But have you not wonderedof its origins and when

it became the plump birdof today? Indeed, then

let me calm your queriesand I’ll try to explain

how the turkey we knowis not the same

pheasant of times past.So, listen and I guaranteeyou’ll learn something newif you pay attention to me.

In Earth’s beginning whenthere were few human eyes,

it was the noble turkeywho ruled expansive skies.

With impressive wing spannone could match him in flight

and an endurance unrivaledhe’d soar all day and night.

In eloquence therewas none to compare,

and in most sophisticateddiction his opinions he’d share.

A Fabled Fowl

30

The turkey’s voice waslovely: a delicate pitch.

His words were his songand indeed his niche

among his woodland neighbors.But I’m sure you’ll recognize

most often our gift isour weakness in disguise.

For though his comrades wereenthralled whenever he spoke,there was no stopping Turkey

once that spark of speech took.

And if you disagreed withTurkey’s words so token,

you’d better not speakfor debate only stoked ‘im.

His stubborn hubris flawmade Turkey’s golden voice

not a revered soundbut an avoided noise.

There was no middle groundit was Turkey’s way or fly.

And so usually to his decisionsothers would comply.

But it is inevitable thateveryone meets his matchand for Turkey it occurred

in a great corn patch.

31

On nuts and fruitturkeys are apt to feed,

as well as insects, salamandersand upon any seed.

So, truly the corn patchwas a good source of cuisineand, having flown a distance,

Turkey was an eating machine.

However looking aboutwhat did he see?

A doe nibbling aroundcompletely carefree.

With his hunger bitingTurkey lacked all charm,

thus when addressing thedoe he wasn’t too warm.

“Now see here, Doe,I’m like a bottomless pit,

you’ve had more than enoughso get on with it!”

Raising her neck calmlythe doe softly said,

“Here I first found foodand a place to bed.

Should not it be I,who discovered this field,

demanding that you, Turkey,to me kindly yield?

32

And though you speak in,I’m sure, unintended,

ill-mannered tonesthis can be amended.

By taking a second glanceyou’ll soon come to see

there’s food a plentyfor both you and me.”

But the turkey as usualpreferred his own voice instead

and in protestation cried,“Bed! Bed! You say bed?”

“Oh no, silly Doe,you ignorant thing.

To take rest in this fieldwould be like stealing,

from great creatures likeme who could have dined

on food your sleep will crushSo, do you mind?

I am near-starved,having journeyed all day,

and require solitude.So, Doe, go away.

As a bird well-traveledI have earned the right

to sup alone.Therefore, leave my sight!”

33

Pausing amidst hisarticulate roaring

Turkey was shockedto find Doe ignoring

his words entirely;munching serenely instead

in a patch of fielddisregarding all he said.

Incensed he spokelouder than ever

hoping to convey his messagewith a stronger endeavor.

His preaching and speechingand outrageous demandsand hemming and hawingand pointed commands

continued for hoursuntil abruptly slain,

by a voice crackand a sudden strain.

For so focused oncrying foul play

Turkey had neglectedto even, say,

eat, drink, or restand recuperate.

His energies were sappedand it had grown super late.

34

In an attempt to solemnlyconclude his one-sided squabble

Turkey opened his mouthbut produced only, “Gobble! Gobble!”

He was at a loss for words,quite literally had used them up.

Turkey’s privilege of speechwas an over-turned cup.

Panicking he took in deepsoothing breaths of air

and rapidly began inflatinglike a balloon at a fair.

Turkey had absorbed the hot airhe’d expelled while talking

His resulting rounded figurewas positively shocking.

All that remained ofhis stunning physique

were his powerful feathersnow standing peaks.

They had formed a stopperto contain his inflation.Turkey’s new image was

an awful creation.Now, every day Turkey is reminded

of the consequence that liesin someone’s refusal

to simply compromise.

35

He’ll never be admiredabove in the sky

for due to his cumbersomeform he can no longer fly.

As today we all know“Gobble!” is all he can declare

purely because Turkey felthimself above the need to share.

Perhaps now frommy tale’s clear progression

the value can be seen insometimes making a concession.

Hannah Sellers36

RZA

Kyle Kennedy 37

It starts as a small spark.Then, the breath of the multitudes

turns it into a roaring firecrying out, “Enough!”

I can see this happening

on the news with:Syria, Egypt and Libya.

The Middle East has exploded

into a rebellious infernothat will not be denied any longer.

Angry protestors are asking for

what has long been neglected:freedom.

Independence

Josh Sellers38

We’re sick of sloshing through the slushOf dreary December days.Flakes shrink to puddles

And smiles to sorrowAs winter weakly rears its head.

But you wake up one morningAnd know something’s there:The glow hitting the window,

A slight chill in the air;The first snowfall of the season.

You stumble to the windowAnd the world’s wiped white.

A fresh canvas waitingFor marks to be made;

A marvelous, breathtaking sight.You step outside into the gleam

A world erased of everything,Save the cold that fills your lungs with ice,

And humming all around you isThe tranquil sound of snow.You tear through the yard,

Churning the plainsInto small mountain ranges.

The snow is your clay andYou the grand sculptor.

You shake the snow cloaks off the treesAnd fling the snow off swings.

You send the avalancheAtop the playground plunging

Onto an unwary friend.Finally you plop down in mid-romping

The First Snowfall of the Season

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To let yourself be swallowed byDeep caverns made of snow.

You leave the mark that angels were hereOn the first snowfall of the season.

Mads O'Brien40

Frozen Falls

MaKayla Brown 41

Once upon a timeGoodbye never meant forever

Imagination was the only high you feltAnd tears were only temporary.

Once upon a timeSecrets weren’t so hurtfulFriends were always there

And loneliness was a feeling unknown.Once upon a time

Sticks and stones could only hurt youCuts were an accident

And your parents could fix everything.Once upon a time

Hearts never ached for attentionRespect was second nature

And dreams could come true.Once upon a time,

Good outweighed badHappiness outweighed sorrows

And love was unconditional.Once upon a time

A boy became a manA girl became a woman

And they only wished to be a child again.

Once Upon a Time

Hannah Kubaitis42

Technicolor Path

Ross Henry 43

I am Wind. The dancing leaves of autumn are a result of my fluttery gusts. When I move in this manner, I am able to run through a pinwheel and make a small child giggle. I tousle your hair, and your sunhat falls to the ground. I come around lightly on a hot summer’s day, and I am often content or stagnant in this weather. I pick up dust every once in a while, but I am mostly pure and clean. My friend, Ocean, depends on me to keep her waves abound and the crea-tures within her alive. I depend on Ocean to fill my life with clouds that keep me weighted to the ground. When the clouds I carry begin to rain, I know that I can count on her to fill them. Despite the security of Ocean below me, I glide where I like. Methodi-cally leading a sailboat across the sea, I often blow with a purpose. I am rarely affected by conditions around me and follow my instincts, for there is only one Wind. North? West? There are so many directions to blow. I charge steadily in one direction until I am inclined to head in another. If you run against me, I may push you down. The downfall of my unpredictable actions is that I sometimes lose sight of others in my path and leave ruin behind me. If the conditions are right, I create a hurricane. I am loud in this state and untamed. A hurricane can often manifest from many small insignificant gusts working against me. If I blow in too many directions at once, it is hard for me to remain calm. Calm is relevant to my environment; I am always unsteady in atypical weather. When one of my storms has caused a stir, I mournfully sweep through the trees. In sorrow, my breeze sends spring blossoms falling like snow. At low pressure points, you hide under a windbreaker and shiver in my presence. While Sun is worshipped upon arrival, I exist unnoticed at times. Sun is blinding and full of yellows and whites, while I am colorless. With Sun heat-ing me, I am thin enough for a paper plane to cut straight through. In the dead of night I may bang on your windows or slam a screen door, but if you awake to close me out, I will no longer intrude. I have to be many places at once, and at the same time I am nowhere. Ask someone, where is the wind? No one will have a definite answer, not even me.

I am Wind

44

You find strength in knocking down a house, but none in my cool breeze to ease the swelter. I can blow softly in the presence of a lighted match or cigarette butt on the floor, so let no small flicker go unnoticed. The beauty of the sand I sweep is in contrast with my destruction. However, the return of my soft summer ballet is when I sail through trees the highest. If ever you hear a tap at your window, I have swayed a branch your way. My plea to you is to never utter the words, “It was just the wind.”

Taylor Morehouse 45

Stability

Lia Sf iligoj46

Looming in the dark, I wait for you. I can sense you coming closer; my cold body tightens in anticipation. What will you do when you see me? Will you plead with me as so many before you have done? What is it about me that forces me to do this? Am I not merciful? Do I not make sure their delivery to the next world is safe? I’m kind, really—nobody ever said I enjoy my job. I’m sure you have a job, too. Do you enjoy it? Exactly. I can hear you now. You’re approaching me and you don’t even know it—at least not yet. I wait for you to come a little closer, just enough so that I can clearly make out the shape of your body. A blazer, pressed pants, dress shoes—I’d say you had a pretty fancy night. Perhaps dinner with a girl you’re trying to impress? I regret to say it doesn’t matter now. Closer, closer. Why are your eyes so unfocused? If you weren’t looking through such bleary eyes maybe you could see me standing here. And your movements—so de-layed. Come now, you were drinking, weren’t you? Yes, of course you were. I can smell it on your breath. And driving? So that’s why I was called here. Nice job, Buddy. Really, smart move—I admire your intellect. Closer, closer. Here it comes. Your last shining moment. The headlights reflect in your slow, unregistering eyes. Your dull brain can’t understand, until…now, precisely. Your life flashes, you swerve, adrenaline pumping—it’s almost boring how pre-dictable you’ve become. And you had such potential too. Ah well. Here comes the crash, the screams, and the all-too-familiar blood. I suppose I should fetch you now from that awful mess you’ve just created. I pluck your fragile being from the encompassing wreckage. How delicate you seem now. How sober and quiet. Your face—it does not plead—it accepts.

Crash

47

“Hello,” you say. “Hello,” I reply. “You did a really stupid thing there, you know that?”“I know.”“You could have hurt an awful lot of innocent people.”“I know.”“I could have them in my arms right now instead of you.”“But you don’t. You have me,” you say un-phased.“You’re right. I have you.”“So what happens now?”“We go,” I answer simply.“Go where?” you ask curiously—curiously, but unconcerned.“Away.”“Okay.” That word “okay.” You said it with such ease—such acceptance. There was no fear—no begging—just…calm. And so I took you. A curious case, you were. I’ve spent many times reflecting over it. Why—why were you so undisturbed? An anomaly in the human race, surely. But still—was it me? Was I more approachable that night? Laughable. What could have fulfilled you so much in life that you had no regrets? And to go out on alcohol—that couldn’t have been the fate you wanted. A crash, a brief conversation, a mystery: you certainly are special.

Jenny Baumgartner48

I sit with a spiral notebook on my lap. I cannot focus on the page in front of me despite the silence which thrives in the tranquil ambiance enveloping me. I tap the pen cradled in my appendages rapidly against the carpeted floor beneath me. Allison. Logic nudges his way through the haze of my writer’s block. This piece is due sooner than you allow yourself to think. You must start working. Indolence yawns as he strolls into the conversation. He lazily stretches. Just do your homework later! You’ve got all the time in the world. Hush. Assignments are crucial to one’s education. They must be completed this very instant! Productivity swoops in, shooing a scowling Indolence away from my train of thought. She clucks her tongue and titters at Indolence’s retreating figure in annoyance. Are you insane? A shuffling announces the often-forgotten presence of Lunacy. Who dares speak the term insane? He shouts from where he is pacing, muttering under his breath. I can hardly distinguish his slurred words. What are you doing, Alli? Homework? Please. You were supposed to quit months ago. After all, who needs education these- Determination cuts in and truncates Lunacy’s nonsensical rant. Alli. Fin-ish a little today, a little tomorrow, and you’ll be fine. An internal frigidness stiffens my limbs as Fear saunters in. He slithers silently but fatally, and I can taste the sour flavor of his despicable misery. The rest of my emotions fall reticent; without exertion, Fear has dominated them all. His façade is twisted in an ugly smirk and he murmurs softly, almost in a consoling manner. Even though I do not wish to listen to him, I cannot help myself; I strain my hardest to hear his words. Who do you think you are? Fear chortles. You are not good enough. Your par-ents and teachers know it. You know it. No matter what you attempt to accomplish in your pathetic life, you will never make a difference. Disappointment is imminent. Put down your writing utensil before you make an even bigger fool out of yourself than you already have. Fear’s words are seared into the very walls of my brain; I believe every-thing he has said.

Trigger

49

I am discouraged. I close my journal and toss the ball point pen down. I wallow in self-pity, wondering if I will ever be able to alter the truths Fear has so kindly pointed out to me. An Epiphany materializes before me like a dream. I am taken aback by her sudden appearance, but any trepidation I had before was banished scream-ing from my subconscious. The Epiphany smiles, her brilliance nearly blinding. You have allowed Fear to govern your actions and loiter in your life for far too much time. Be brave, as you are underestimating yourself. Fear is the ultimate inhibi-tion, halting people abruptly, blocking them from reaching too high or striving too far. Fear is the most selfish of all parasites; the more one gives into him, the stronger he becomes until he is able to overtake an entire life. As the Epiphany’s soothing lullaby pacifies my exhausted soul, I absorb all the new knowledge she has given me. She is right. Fear has fed off my dread of failure, becoming stronger this year than he ever has been. I am so afraid I will be unsuccessful that I often refrain myself from making a valiant effort. I listen to the voice in the back of my head that whispers I will never get to where I desire to be. With the Epiphany’s encouragement, I push Fear’s slanderous quips from my mind. I pick up my paper and pen and I begin to write, pushing my way through the deafening roar of my doubts. The words I have housed for so long blossom like a spring lily before my eyes. I welcome Confidence back into my life.

Alli Wittenberg50

If You Dreamed Like I Dream

Brigitte Kolibab 51

The bell chime clicks like a metronome,I called it quits and returned back home.

My playtime spot I’d reminisce all the timeLike a crystal ball,

The haze starts to part,A new beginning as if the coast is clear.

The beaches barren,Waves are tearing.

This is my past I’m sharing, So listen closely and take notes.

Take sandy steps but until you sink,Rise again and proceed to think,

Am I happy? Is this right to preach?

I’m pacing circles on Adolescent Beach.

Adolescent Beach

Ethan Bush52

I am the cool fall breeze and the lingering visualizations surrounding your poetry.I am the fleeting thought that makes your heart beat and the details commonly left unseen.I am more than words could say and, even if I was definable,I would never give my definition away.You could never find me in hard ink on the first page,But catch glimpses in rough drafts that were written only yesterday.I am not invincible, at times I self-destruct.My life is unreal and I rely too heavily on luck.I’ve been on Karma’s good side, but I’ve also seen Her wrath.I have hitch-hiked on highways and veered away from the common, beaten path.I am a doll who is bursting at the seams;Victim of your voodoo and the goddess of your dreams.I found the light when spirits were low.I am the whim that beckons you to follow.I have a space where my heart used to be, and it is being refilled with reflections of memories.I am an intergalactic star-surfer,And despite all my answers I am often unsure.I am the broken-in couch that offers you sleep,And I will be your comfort whenever you weep.I am an empty country road, And the only thing I will ever know. I am the glint behind half-lidded eyes,The way the raging river winds.I am the lull of passing time and the secret behind silent smiles.I am the feeling that we will be here awhile,The opposing force of denial.I am a child, afraid of the dark, who still believes in Santa Clause and Noah’s Ark.I am an illusion and I whisper with the wind.I am the footsteps that know where they’ve been.I am a pirate, alone on the sea.

Who Am I?

53

Pillaging villages, yet finding no glory.I am the heat of the Sun’s warming rays, and I may never find my place.I am a treasure, a gift to be given.I am a racecar that has never been driven. I am the song that you never have heard, the weightlessness of a bird.I am a bedtime story,The grinding gears of innocent worries.I am not a duplicate, I cannot be copied.I am the screech of fast tires stopping.I am the flowers of spring,The link between raindrops and their meaning.I am a breath of fresh air;I am all the clichés that you always hear.I have spoken to the silent wall’s ears.I am raw and my heart is for the taking.I have been mistaken.I am the faith behind your beliefs,A jellyfish in a coral reef.I am the fairy that resides in your garden.I have never done time and I am vulnerable to hardships.I am the freedom that is alive in us all,Arms outstretched in an effort to break your fall.I am the calm before the storm, catalyst to your mother’s scorn.I am blue jeans, crumpled and worn. I am exaggerated, I am unstoppable.I am the possibility of the improbable.I am ever-changing, I am me; the only thing I’ll ever be.I am more than the naked eye can see.I am a sample underneath a microscope, and always holding onto hope.I am willing to break the mold.I am the way that the grass always grows,The outcome that the future holds.

54

I am a machine that never stops believing,Nearly immune to grieving.My existence is imperfect and I am flawed.I will never know it all.

Allie Savioli 55

Katie Robinson

Lock My Heart Away

56

A young girl was walking at the edge of a rocky shore. With her arms folded across her chest to warm herself against the cool autumn wind, she drifted gradually closer to the water. Though her pace was slow, there was a quiet restlessness about her. Her brow was creased with worry and her deep brown eyes were haunted with a growing despair. It was the growing despair that brought her to the lake’s edge—not to hurl herself into its ice-cold wa-ter, but to rest on its rocks, look out on the surface of the lake, and let her thoughts flow through her mind like the water before her. She finally found the spot she had been looking for and stopped. Turning to face the lake and sky, she sat down softly, bringing her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and resting her chin atop. She gazed out into the distance, looking where water and sky met. The milky blue and cloud-speck-led sky seemed almost as one, going on forever. Her gaze then drifted to the water in front of her. The currents in the lake made waves that crashed against the rocks of the shore. Her eyes followed the ripples and folds as they danced every which way, falling together and apart. This transfixed her: the folds of the water, brought together in one moment, only to be torn apart the next. Some-thing about this saddened her. In an instant, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, sending its shining image upon the water. It surprised her and she closed her eyes for a mo-ment, the picture of the burst of sunshine still in her mind’s eye. Suddenly, she heard the sound of a little girl’s laughter. Her eyes flashed open and she turned. Looking around, she saw no one and realized what had happened: the sunbeams upon her face and glittering on the water triggered a memory. Once again, she closed her eyes and drifted away… She was running—running, leaping, and twirling in the sunshine. The grass beneath her feet was lush and green; the sky above was bright blue with a few puffy, white clouds. There was a sweet summer breeze about, causing the leaves on the nearby trees to make a whooshing sound. Then she heard it again, the sound of a child’s laughter, as bright and warm as sunshine. She glanced to her left and saw that she was not alone; her childhood friend was there, and they were seven again. She

Untitled

57

noticed her heart felt as light as a feather and that happiness came as naturally to her as breathing. Again she looked around and realized the world seemed big again: big, bright, and open to endless adventures. She looked at her friend and saw the same feeling of pure joy reflected in her eyes. She let out a shriek of laughter and kept running. Then she heard her name and saw her friend reach for her hands. She grasped them tightly, and together they spun and twirled in a circle to the sound of an inner music that only children can hear. She tilted her head back to lean into the wind, the bliss of the moment bubbling over every part of her soul. Then came a voice in her head: “Little girls are only little so long.” Her eyes blinked open and she remembered where she was: sitting alone on the edge of a lake. It had taken one thought to draw her out of her memories and back into reality. That one thought had dissolved the feelings of the child-like joy and euphoria and brought back the growing despair. “That’s not where it ended,” interjected the voice. “I-i-i-it doesn’t matter,” she answered back. “Oh, but you know it does,” the voice remarked with a smirk. An uneasy feeling washed over her, and though another part of her knew the voice was wrong, that part of her was very quiet now. “Go on,” urged the voice, “I know you remember. Take a look.” Though she didn’t want to see, she couldn’t stop the memories from coming… They were no longer seven. As child morphs into teenager, changes are bound to come—it’s only natural. Yet the changes the girl’s friend underwent seemed to make her a little more unrecognizable each day. The girl began to no-tice her friend start to look at her differently, as if she were beginning to forget who the girl was. The girl longed to put off the inevitable, yet the tighter she clung to the friendship, the more distance came between them. It became as if they never knew each other. This was the first friendship that ended this way, but it would not be the last. Faces began to flash through her mind, words said rang in her ears along with others never spoken; all of this began to form a blur. As a child, she could feel love overflowing in her heart and had longed to share it. As broken

58

relationship began to pile atop broken relationship, it became harder to love freely: she was afraid to be hurt again. So much had changed since she had been that child who just wanted to wrap the world in little arms and pour forth the love from inside of her. As the tears that filled her eyes began to slide down her cheek, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jerked in reaction and turned, only to find a friend. The girl had been so deep in thought that she did not notice that someone had come beside her. The friend knelt next to her, wrapped both arms around the girl, and then just looked at her with her deep green eyes—eyes that were full of love and concern, sincere and empathetic. She reached up to wipe away the girl’s tears from her face. She then stood up, reached out her hand to the girl, and then simply said, “Come with me.” The girl looked from hand to face, breathing in deeply, and then took her hand. Though there was part of her that still felt that despair tinged with fear, she began to feel a tiny glimmer of something else: hope.

Emily Blazek 59

Painting of Paint

Natalie Braun60

Art There is something absolutely wonderful about a blank piece of paper. Simple at the very least, it sits expectantly for touch. Its every clean inch is a possibility for perfection. My mind searches its many cavities for the best way to enhance the paper—obviously inspired by its clean, plain beauty. Impatiently I put pen to paper and am let down by anything short of a miracle. The numerous possibilities and this is what I have chosen for my addition? I am infuriated by every scribble, ashamed of every stray mark. I grow to hate the paper and my hand for scaring it. I have taken something perfect and led it to imperfection. It has my struggles and myself messily stamped on its surface. My personal-ity and my thoughts haphazardly spewed onto its body. I have done nothing but create an abomination to all paper. I’ve vandalized its wisdom, made a fool of its wonderful emptiness. I have created a monster. I have made an individual. I have made this paper unique. This paper is no longer perfect. This paper is pain. This paper is flaw. This paper, well, this paper is art.

Brigitte Kolibab 61