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Common Ground Volume 1, Issue 1 (May/June 2014)
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Le phénoméne de cirque
Volume 1, Issue 1 May/June 2014
Common Ground
she made her way back to
the girl.
"You worthless brat! Show them your gift or you'll regret it," threatened the ringmaster in a voice of
hate.
The ringmaster reached for her whip to show the girl she wasn't kidding. 16 years of abuse sparked the fire in the shell of a girl everyone was watching. The ringmaster leaned close to the girl,
gripping the whip.
"Perform, you freak."
The girl stared back at the ringmaster. The girl pulled out a knife that was tucked away in the folds of her dress and thrust the knife into the r ingmaster 's
stomach.
The ringmaster stumbled back and touched the knife. The girl pulled out the knife and tilted her head at the ringmaster. The ringmaster's pale stomach covered in a dark crimson liquid. She fell
to the ground...dead.
The girl stared at the petrified audience then let go of the knife. Levitating in the air, it dripped blood. "As
you wish, sister."
And
the
tent
goes
black.
wicked smile before taking a
stand in front of the girl.
"Hello my darling. Are you
ready?"
She ran a cold finger down the girl's cheek, but the girl didn‟t react. The ringmaster stepped away and looked
at the audience.
"Prepare yourself for the
shock of your life."
The ringmaster joined the crowd to watch. All eyes focused on the girl with a flame starting inside of her. A fighter still lived in the
shell of the girl.
"Perform sœur," said the ringmaster with a hint of
frustration in her voice.
The girl stood still, holding the plate. She stared at the ringmaster with a flame
growing in her eyes.
"Show the world your gift."
The girl did nothing. The ringmaster growled as she s tared at the gir l .
"Now!" she screamed.
The girl looked at the plate then at the ringmaster. A small smile tugged on the end of her lips. She let go of the plate and everyone watched as the plate fell to the ground. The sky blue plate shattered to pieces at the girl's feet. The girl looked at the broken plate, then her eyes met the
ringmaster's.
The ringmaster's green eyes clouded over with hate as
Joy B.
The sounds of cheering and animals could be heard in the small tent. So could the sound of a woman. A bright light shined on the woman who was dressed in black shorts, high boots, a one buttoned leather jacket, and a top hat tilted to the side. Her crimson red lips were pursed and her green eyes scanned the audience in
front of her.
"Welcome, welcome," she said, "I'm your host for tonight. You can call me The Abnormal R ingmaster . Ton igh t w i l l be an
unforgettable experience."
The crowd roared loudly. The ringmaster's green eyes filled with the darkness that lied inside her. Everyone could see it, but it's the circus. Here, nothing is as it
seems.
"Hush now, hush. Our first performer is something of a freak. She can move objects...with her mind. Now I know you're thinking I'm
lying, but just watch."
A bright light flashed behind her and a girl appeared. Her face was split down the middle in two different colors. The left side was midnight black and the right side was as white as death. She was dressed in a tattered black dress and torn fishnets. In her small hands she held a sky blue
plate.
The ringmaster flashed a
Lanier High School Literary Journal
Inside this issue:
Le phénoméne de cirque Joy B.
1
We are All Broken Records Klara C.
2
Heart of Africa Aline M.
2
What is a Story? Valerie G.
3
My Father Antonette F. and Quran T.
3
Moonlight Madness Anabelle V.
3
This I Believe Rosemary L.
4
Snap Roger R.
4
Remembering You Dayana S.F.
4
Westside Story Mark T.
5
Say & Tell Madelene G.
5
Is it Over? Leslie A.
6
Beautiful David P.
6
In the School that Has No Windows Alejandro V.
6
Couches Emery A.
7
Mess Jacob L.
7
Klara C.
Bruises, scars, tattoos, and birthmarks are the only remains we have to prove the blank canvas that is our body has actually lived. Scratches, scrapes, and shattered pieces are the same marks to vinyl records as our bodily
signatures are to us.
We are all broken records.
We all come out of the sleeve, brand new and no imperfections. Impatient to hear the first few notes of a
new tune.
The accidental scratches and cracks never disappear. The
fingertips that handle these vinyl beauties are the people
who touch our lives.
After the months, years, and decades of playing our melodies, the cracks and pieces seem to multiply on their own. We‟re fragile and need to be cared for. We need to be placed on a podium and be displayed for all to see, even if it means more imperfections within our
grooves.
The grooves are our experiences, pre-recorded but awaiting to be played, waiting to permanently become a part of the record,
of the person, itself.
We all have fault lines that are deepened by pain and eventually break. The misshapen, pointed and used-to-be precious pieces now lay on the floor until they are swept up and discarded, each scrap never forgiven but
entitled to forget.
The interrupted grooves that hang right on the edge just don‟t connect because an empty space separates them. Those bad memories that we try to forget are cause-and-effects of others that we want to keep, but they just don‟t
seem complete.
We Are All Broken Records
Heart of Africa kids run, playing and speaking the language that I couldn‟t understand. I would run to Mama crying, saying that “I wanna go back home,” „cause I felt like I didn‟t
belong no matter what I tried.
I remember when my teacher would ask me to read out loud. I would sink under my desk, then start reading. I would mix English with Swahili, Swahili with French, French with Spanish, Spanish with French. Then I would start all over again; I would mix Swahili with English, English with Spanish, Spanish with French. I would feel my head spinning like a wheel that keeps on spinning without stopping. I would fight with books, dictionaries and textbooks, wondering if I‟m ever going to make it. I would pronounce words in different languages; I would say I love you, nakupenda, ndagukunda,
je’taime, and te amo.
Students would stare at me, but all I do is say, “Hey, I‟m
fifth lingo!”
I was raised in a place where
people speak more than a
thousand languages, I was
raised where kids play with no
rules, I was raised where
people have the right to
speak their mind because I‟m
African. I have the African
blood in me, I carry the
African pride on my shoulders
„cause I‟m African, I carry
Africa in my heart. You can
see Africa when you look close
in my eyes, you sense the
African blood when you hear
me speak, you can see my
African pride when you see
me walking. Africa is the land
I call my home „cause I‟m
African and proud to be!
Aline M.
What do you see when you look at me? When you look in my eyes, do you see me as I
see myself?
I know how you think of me when you see me walking down the hallways, I know what you think every time I open my mouth trying to speak, do you judge me by the way I look before you get to know me? Well, let me tell
you something about myself.
I‟m an African Girl; I‟m an African girl that struggled to have a normal life like other teenagers. I‟m the African girl that you see walking in the hallways and you would think that I have it all. I‟m an African girl that speaks more than three languages. Remembering back in the days when I first came here in the so-called “United States of America,” I would see other
Page 2 Common Ground
When the song finally ends, some of us will be treasured classics and others will be
forgotten indies.
Inevitably, when the needle
lifts, the silence will fall.
We are all broken records.
“I would pronounce
words in different
languages; I would say I
love you, nakupenda,
ndagukunda, je’taime,
and te amo.”
-Aline M.
Would you like to be published in Common Ground? Send us your work and you could be included in an upcoming issue!
Email your submissions to: [email protected]
Be sure to include: your name and grade, your English teacher, the title of your piece,
and your revised and edited submission in the body of the email (1,000 words maximum)
The deadline for the September/October 2014 issue is September 19th
Page 3 Volume 1, Issue 1
Valerie G.
What is a story, and what makes a story worth reading? I sometimes wonder what makes an author write what they have. One time, I thought about the stories we and others have read in the past. For example, our Sleeping Beauty is much different from their Sleeping Beauty, or should I say Sun, Moon and
Talia.
Sure, thanks to Disney, it‟s a family movie. But, what is the real story about this classic? I‟m pretty sure if Disney made it the same way as its ancestor, no parent would
take their young child to watch something they are too young to understand. Even though there are crazy theories and other bad messages about the modern day version, this version is safer and more valuable than its creepy ancestor. The same rules apply to The Little
Mermaid and Cinderella.
But there are others where there are too many stories that it is hard to know what is the original telling. For example, Little Red Riding Hood: there is a good ending, yet there are also bad endings. There is one where the wolf gets caught and Red
and Granny are saved, but there is one ending where Granny didn‟t make it, thus leaving Red and the wolf alone with no axe-man in sight. Depending on what story it is, Red either lives, dies, or does something awful and dies. The same thing applies to Goldilocks and
maybe Thumbelina.
There are plenty of fairy tales that differ from what we were read while young, but this flower of thought just appeared when the seed was created during a movie franchise run. The thought of having more than one fairy tale came together to make a
madness. For, if I do, the cries of those who fell shall continue to linger within me. Their demons shall become my own and my angel shall become their hope, their guide, and their salvation to the endless
madness and pain.
For if their guide shall lose his way, the single feather may have once been lost, but was never truly alone within the moonlight madness. For it is of this single feather that shines brightly within the madness of the darkness and guides those who have lost their way back
to the eternal paradise.
Anabelle V.
For the light that shines through the darkest night that leads me to the eternal paradise. For the guide whose fur shines like a thousand diamonds and eyes who glowed like an eternal flame. But, to the moon whose light showed the way, the madness of the darkness shall continue
to fight.
And I, as the angel of light and the demon of darkness, shall roam for all eternity, never to rest my wings under the light of the moonlight
What is a Story?
Moonlight Madness
My Father to my heart. With the IVs running through your veins and the monitor beeps traveling to my brain, I begin to feel your pain. A pain so real only someone so close can feel. But, in the end you take your path either to Heaven‟s gate or to fit your family‟s heart with a case. Either way, I will wait.
Pick your fate.
Antonette F. and Quran T.
As I watch my father slowly slip away, I reminisce about our days. Reminiscing of when you were amazed by me and when I set your nerves ablaze. You gave me life, so I owe my life to you. With you slowly slipping away, you‟re leaving me with nothing else to do. My eyes fixate on your scars; each sends an emotional bullet
“My eyes fixate on your scars; each sends an emotional bullet to
my heart. With the IVs running through your veins and the
monitor beeps traveling to my brain, I begin to feel your pain.”
-Antonette F. and Quran T.
new story begin; that is what created this seed of thought. When it first happened, it never occurred to me, but when I wanted to learn more about the character from the series, I found different versions of just one tale. This made me think of what authors write about, and why
they write that they wrote.
Honestly, reading more than one version of the same tale can be interesting, and what makes it interesting is the thought about what writers and authors put into their world. It gives an insight to what the i r t ime and
imagination is like.
Rosemary L.
The beautiful smile I once knew is back; it projects my happiness in the hallways, and in the sun. I barely remember your name or your face. I can finally sit by myself and think. I believe I found happiness
when you left.
I no longer stay awake at night wondering how bad of a girlfriend I was. I stopped crying at night. My tears no longer hide in the back of my eyes. I don‟t have the need to cry. I finally feel beautiful. I believe you were the reason
behind my sadness.
The girl my friends once knew is back. She laughs, hangs out, even smiles. That girl finally feels free to be herself again.
She no longer thinks about arguments she had with you in the hallway, she doesn‟t even cry thinking about the arguments. That girl is finally able to be happy. I believe you were holding her back
from happiness.
That girl everyone once knew is smiling that beautiful seductive smile they all loved. That girl finally started singing in the shower again. She went back to her old ways. She wears a ponytail and gets to school early. She no longer has to wake up early to fix her hair and make-up to impress you. That girl you once knew is gone. I believe
she is finally free.
Or is she?
Behind all the smiles and giggling is still sadness. It‟s worse than ever. She doesn‟t cry at night, instead she cries in the shower as she sings to
the song that y‟all met to.
That beautiful smile people think is back is fake. She puts it on for show to make you think she‟s doing better
without you.
She doesn‟t stay awake at night because her sleep is the only thing that helps her escape her sadness in this
world.
You think she‟s done crying over arguments, when in reality she urges for them, just like she urges for you to look
at her.
your mom—who is really nice and considers me her daughter just because of you—she talks about you every single time we are alone because she doesn‟t want me to get in trouble with
my step dad.
Even though you try to make it up to me, there‟s something that stops us and makes me
get away from you.
Every time, you come running to me and make me fall for
Dayana S.F.
I hate that I try to get away from you, but then you come
along again into my life.
Your name is stuck to my mind. It doesn‟t want me to forget about you and your smile that looks like you are thinking about doing some trouble. It makes me melt every time I
see it.
I try to go on with my life, but then one call, one message stops me every time. Then,
you.
Six months have passed since the last time I saw you, texted
or talked.
Now, you come as a call and tell me that you still love me, that soon you will be back home, that this time there will be nothing stopping you from getting with me. After that call from you, my heart starts beating fast every time I hear your name. Then, you show up
in my dreams every day.
This I Believe
Remembering You
Snap
unexpected, but will hit you hard. The pain will be
unbearable.
Your heart will shatter since she was all that mattered to you...at the time. The pain will disappear. She isn‟t the only girl in the world. There are many other girls out there; you‟ll just have to find the
right one.
Roger R.
I fear...I fear love itself. How it can be so beautiful but be so painful. In the end, one person
will be hurt the most.
Love is just two people holding a rubber band. The longer it is held, the more of the pain you feel. When that person you shared “forever and always” and “I love you” with lets go.. . the pain wi l l be
“Love is just two people holding a rubber band.”
-Roger R.
Page 4 Common Ground
She doesn‟t wear make-up or do her hair anymore because she wants you to fall back in love with the girl you fell in love with when you told her
you liked her.
She misses those long romantic walks around downtown. She cries because she needs your love and support that you once gave her. She longs for the sweet taste of your lips on hers when you tell her she‟s beautiful. She wants you to make her feel like she‟s in heaven again. Most of all, she prays to God every night you text her saying, “I love you,” because when she‟s not with you, she feels like her whole world is falling apart. I believe a smile can hide one‟s
true feelings.
Is that a warning or a sign that this time will be different
than the last one?
Mark T.
Here we go on a trip
Deep inside my mind
It‟s a story that‟ll be told
Coming out the Westside
Let you in on my secrets
And how I see life
I take it to the old school
Of San Antonio
It‟s the countdown city
Just in case ya‟ll didn‟t know
The home of the Voks
We never say die, just
multiply
And then we roam
Unwind with family
And sometimes I feel alone
So these rhymes I kick
Are to let the story be told
Of this life that I‟m livin‟
Just never seems to get old
But with blood by my side
No telling how far I go
No telling how far I go
Just when you let it go
Continue to be yourself
When others, they seem to
fold
These eyes, they see the lies
I don‟t believe what I am told
I was raised up right
With morals and set goals
From start to finish
I‟m incomparable
I got the love for the music, so
I let it unfold
And let my culture know
That I‟m in it to win it with all
my heart and soul
Here we go on a trip
Deep inside my mind
It‟s a story that‟ll be told
Coming out the Westside
Let you in on my secrets
And how I see life
Have you ever been through
The path that I take?
Have you ever seen the
struggle
In this life that I face?
It‟s a complicated factor with
decisions to make
And no matter what it is
Decisions decide our fate
We start off with a clean slate
And caught up by our mistake
So I demonstrate routine
How I was brought up every
day
„Cuz my parents I portray
And my lyrics are never fake
My flow that I let go through
my soul is on the page
For so many years now
I‟ve been feeling encaged
Westside Story
Say & Tell
different things. You tell me one thing and say different
things to others.
You say you‟re honest with everyone around you. You tell
me you‟re just playing.
You‟re just confusing this poor girl who can‟t do anything but
love you.
Madelene G.
You tell me that you love me.
You say you adore me.
But yet, you don‟t prove it.
You say and tell things you feel toward me and yet threaten to tell my #1 biggest secret to the one person I
don‟t want to know.
You say you trust me, but yet you tell your friends to watch
me when you‟re not around.
You say and tell everyone
Page 5 Volume 1, Issue 1
Day by day
Through my hustle
My stamina‟s getting faint
My flows you can‟t contain
Putting a strain up to your
brain
Making your body go insane
Till today I‟m here to stay
Competitive in my membrane
So I watch for every strain
„Cause He can take me out the
game
Any day He decides my fate
Here we go on a trip
Deep inside my mind
It‟s a story that‟ll be told
Coming out the Westside
Let you in on my secrets
And how I see life
“Till today I‟m here to stay
Competitive in my membrane
So I watch for every strain
„Cause He can take me out of the game
Any day He decides my fate.”
-Mark T.
Page 6 Common Ground
Leslie A.
Growing up in the Lincoln
Courts was not the best
experience a little ten year
old girl would want. It was not
my choice, I actually didn‟t
have the ability to choose
where I would have lived.
I really didn‟t know anything.
The only thing I knew was I
didn‟t want to be without my
mom, I wanted to be with her.
Being in those courts on the
Westside made me feel
scared. Every night I would
hear fighting going on
between men and men,
women and women, and men
and women. Living in those
courts when I was young was
just embarrassing and ugly to
talk about. I didn‟t know what
to say about it.
I would go to sleep scared,
wondering if there would be
another drive by. Will those
bullets go through my sister‟s
window?
When I looked out my
window, I saw a typical
Westside neighborhood: stray
dogs searching for water,
their ribs showing so much you
could tell they had not eaten
in days; men and women
beside the corner store asking
for money, but I knew they‟re
just going to do the wrong
things with it.
Nights I would hear screaming,
I‟d look outside.
Once, someone had set a big
fire inside the house in front of
our house. I asked myself: is it
over?
Is it Over?
In the School that Has No Windows Now he just needs to ask her
parents, pick up a tux, and
see the lux that is of prom.
The time the mayor dyed his
hair blonde because the
basketball team made it to
the playoffs. They tried their
best to the very end.
The girl who has a child, but I
smile because she and her
boyfriend are lovingly raising
their daughter.
The boy who had a crush on a
girl and for many months they
only talked and now they are
together, maybe forever and
on.
And those times when pep
rallies came, many groaned
and complained, but gave into
the screams and the chants.
Those crazy teachers who we
think are weird, yet we don‟t
even realize we‟ll be like them
in a couple of years.
The girl who came mid-
semester to a new class,
discovering she had a way
with words with a touch of
quirkiness.
We don‟t know when our
stories will end, but each day
a page has been written.
With ups and downs, lefts and
rights, we soar as high as kites
and delve as low as moles.
Our last period will come, but
those words and scenes that
were done will be passed on,
living in hallways, rushing
through doors, and being
made inside classrooms.
In the school that has no
windows.
Alejandro V.
In the school that has no
windows, there are so many
stories, even though it‟s only
two floors. Stories about
teachers whose 1st year of
teaching had commenced.
Overwhelmed, yet over
joyous, they teach with a full
heart and good intentions.
Some, who never had any
thought to become one, had
become great teachers and
great friends.
About a boy, scared of the
world, who is taking a girl to
prom. Accidentally, he asked
but gave into the curiosity of
what going to prom might feel
like.
“...those words and
scenes that were done
will be passed on, living
in the hallways, rushing
through doors, and being
made inside classrooms.”
-Alejandro V.
Beautiful David P.
Look through this mirror,
and then you will see
the beautiful person you were
meant to be.
You‟re more than the stars,
and even more than
perfection.
You‟re the beauty everyone
sees beyond this reflection.
You don‟t need to wish
upon a shooting star
to be the person you already
are.
You‟re the princess in every
fairy tale,
and the hero in every book.
You‟re the beauty seen by all,
so, go on, take a look.
The only thing I enjoyed was
walking to Family Dollar to
buy fake nails and put them
on, stopping the ice cream
truck to get cucumbers with
Lucas, but, most of all, Hot
Cheetos with cheese. They
were my favorite.
Common Ground is a student-led, student-reviewed literary journal begun in 2014
with the mission of featuring and celebrating original student writing of all
genres.
Editor-in-Chief:
Antonette F.
Faculty Advisors:
Kerri Ward
Tiffany Jenkins
Common Ground Lanier High School Literary Journal
Common Ground
again. And overwhelmingly
hilarious how I am still here,
after three years. If the past
is destined to repeat itself,
then we are doomed to stay
stuck in this in-between. You
trying to save every damsel
in distress with your
shattered armor and me
trying to convince the
superhero that not everyone
needs to be saved. It's an
endless cycle, a loop in our
broken romance.
But I think I'll always believe
that I have a chance. She
tells you she loves you one
more time, and with a
glance in my direction you
return the sentiment. And
though my heart turns to
cement, I say nothing. My
throat sewn shut with every
broken promise you've ever
fed me.
So, I stay silent. I give you a
smile. I hold my secret. And I
sit patiently at my end of the
couch and wait for your
body to bend mine towards
you again...
Emery A.
We start off on opposite
ends, but you're a magnet
and I always find myself
drawn towards you. Soon
enough I'm bending until we
are nothing but a tangle of
bodies, awkwardly twisting,
folding, and overlapping in
cheeky smiles and laughter.
but your phone starts an
earthquake in the little world
we have created as it
vibrates, snapping us back
into reality.
You check the screen and
see that it's her again. I sit
and pretend to be busy. I try
to make both of us believe
that this isn't jealousy. It isn't,
can't, shouldn't be. But we've
both been doing things we
shouldn't be for quite some
time, and neither of us has
an intention of stopping
soon.
I have no one to blame, but I
can't deny the monsoon of
emotion you bring when you
come around. Your presence
takes everything I have with
him and buries it in the
ground. But it seems you
have an odd fascination with
fixing broken things. So,
while you work on your
latest project, I sit rejected
at my end of the couch. I
listen as she professes her
undying affection for you. I
stifle a scoff with an
awkward little cough type
thing. I know she makes you
happy or whatever, but the
fact that she's trying to sever
this blurred-lines friendship is
frustrating, irritating even.
You always pick the girls
with needy tendencies, and I
always end up being all of
your liabilities.
I know it sounds like I'm
complaining, but it's just not
entertaining watching them
wear you down one
Christianic lecture at a time.
The way they keep you a
secret should be considered
a crime. Hiding your
beautifully sculpted soul, just
because another born-again
mother is in denial of her
daughter‟s sexuality.
It is quite funny really, how
you manage to weasel your
way into the same situations
over and over and over
Couches
Mess Jacob L.
I splatter brain matter with lyrical hollow tips. Straight to the dome like full Uzi
clips.
Doing drive bys on notebook pages, getting the whole media shook „cuz they ain‟t
„bout that life.‟
Drake verse, brake check first, break it apart and
send it to Jupiter.
No gravity, but keep some sanity or hand sanitizer „cuz I made a mess like splattered
brain matter.
Playing mind games,
Mad Hatter,
Still swinging for the fences.
[Bo Jackson, great batter]
Still knowledge hungry. Say, my mind‟s getting fatter.
Conscious overweight.
Throw me in a pool of sharks
like chum bait.
Now learn to swim.
Page 7