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“Go conf ident ly in the direct ion of your dreams. L ive the l i fe you’ve imagined.”

—Henry David Thoreau

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Sara Jarrett F loat Away | Photography

Index of Artists and Authors T

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Rachel Rosenfeld........................................47

Grady Saunders.........................................15

Lauren Skolrood...........................................6

Hayden Smith............................................30

Abby Sneddon...........................................37

Taylor–Paige Spencer..............................5, 38

Jenny Sukh................................................39

Corey Hannah Summers..............................26

Tye Thayer.................................................19

Lauren Thomas.............................................4

Lauren Thornhill..........................................28

Lacey Todd................................................17

Julianne Woodson........................................2

Katherine Yang..........................................31

Sarah Zeleznik...........................................19

Doug Agee...............................................12

Jessica Akers..............................................33

Abby Ayers................................................42

Emma Beckett.............................................35

Stephen Bernys...........................................29

Emily Bishop.............................................44

Kendra Blackstock........................................8

Joseph Bolinger..........................................10

Katelyn Coker............................................40

Siddiq DeVaughn.......................................43

Grace Earnhart..........................................27

Sierra Ehrich................................................9

Molly Flanigan.............................................3

Nathan Foust.............................................34

Gabrielle Gatzke........................................43

Anna Grim..................................................7

Lindsay Harrison.........................................23

Scott Helgeson...........................................21

Jonathan Hudgins.......................................13

Rebecca Hurt.............................................11

Kasey Jager...............................................32

Sara Jarrett..................................................1

Heidi Klockenbrink......................................45

Andy Lee..................................................25

Allison Lindsey............................................48

Kristen Long..............................................18

Eric May...................................................46

Harley McDaniel........................................36

Paris Mumpower.........................................16

MacKenzie Plaia........................................41

Emily Pilat..................................................49

Tim Radford...............................................20

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Molly Flanigan New York Times | Mixed Media

Julianne Woodson | The Wri ter T

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the Writer toiled and worked ink stained hands whirling over the parchmenther memories, details in his grand book eighteen years ago the idea was born the Writer jumped out of bed for it had to be written day by day and year by yearhe wrote the childinto a girlinto a youthinto a young woman her childhood happy days on the beachand her older days marked by passion he carefully crafted her school yearstongue betwixt clenched teethup until she was to go away

to study in gleaming citieshe closed the book with a thudand pushed it away rubbing his thumb over the coverhe examined the tome the Writer laughed, and smiled to himselfshook his head and said

“but the story isn’t over yet!”

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Lauren Thomas Broken Hear t | Photography

Taylor–Paige Spencer | Shat tered THE M

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A wounded heart can be healed over time. A punctured heart can be mended back together. A broken heart can be sewn back together; left with a small scar from a painful memory, but still able to love and to cherish as it had before. But a shattered heart, a shattered heart cannot be healed; it cannot be mended and it can never be sewn back together. How can something that has been dropped on the ground and shattered be fixed? How can something that has fallen and shattered into

a million tiny pieces be replaced? Should it be left on the ground for people to step on, like shards of glass? Or should the pieces be picked up and thrown away, like memories? Even then, there is always going to be the one piece that is missed and left behind to cause pain for someone else. So what can be done with a shattered heart? It takes forever to pick up the broken pieces. It takes a lifetime to put them back together again; still, unable to ever go back to its true form.

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Anna Grim The Peacock | L inoleum Block Pr int

Lauren Skolrood | Fly T

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Ever since elementary school, when asked which superpower I wanted most, I have always responded I wanted them all. I have strived for perfection ever since I can remember. I have built up a determined, motivated work ethic; sports and school were my domain. However, almost two years ago, I had to stop participating in sports completely. Standing for over twenty minutes had become excruciating, not to mention climbing stairs. After a year of endless doctor appointments, I was finally diagnosed and scheduled for two surgeries at Duke Hospital. My junior year was supposed to be the year for recruitment in soccer, upperclassmen socials, and a school performance. Instead, reality brought a disappearing act in the first semester of school. I thought I had lost everything I put my all into, but through it all, I gained more

than I could have imagined. My injury had become a blessing. My perspective changed, and I truly learned how important the small things are in life. Now, if asked what superpower I want most, I respond without hesitation…the ability to fly. When injured, I missed the feeling of running, wind rushing past as my muscles screamed for oxygen. The simple pleasures had become that much more important when faced with physical pain every single day for almost two years. From the beginning, I wanted to be able to say I would not take back this journey, no matter how steep the incline. Upon reaching the top, I would not be dissatisfied by all the things that could’ve happened, or what I could’ve done. The thought of flying had allowed me to become closer to the person I hope to one day be.

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Kendra Blackstock F ior i d’Acqua | Photography

Sierra Ehrich | Seasons THE M

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Seasons pass as memories fade,Things to be remembered will never be recalled,

The pain, the joy,The sorrow, the confusion

Leaves fall as the fallen rise.Seasons will no longer pass as they had before.

The pain, the joy,The sorrow, the confusion.

The remembered will no longer be the forgotten.The recollections happen as though never gone.

Seasons passed no longer effect the memories faded.

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Rebecca Hurt Ci ty | Mixed Media

Joseph Bolinger | The Deser t T

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Endless views of nothing, nothing at all.I’m beginning to wonder how soon I will fall.

The vultures circle above me and prepare for their next meal,while I lay on my bed of sand wondering if my wounds will heal.

Six months ago, six months, I resided on my own,planning out my future and looking at new homes.But one day came a raven, who sat upon my sill;

he stared into the doors of my soul and I was forced to bid his will.Hour after hour, day after day, I followed his command,

until I found myself lying here, on this bed of sand.He had me forced into a trance—I could not act as I pleased;

the dust storms alone would drive a man insane with ease.Now my time has come, my demons have begun to lurk,

my daily routine stays constant as I restart each day with work.

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Doug Agee A Door | Chalk Paste l

Jonathan Hudgins | Si lent Screams THE M

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Sitting, waiting, watching, listening, the pure essence of the silence is deafening.As I look around the vast room,I silently wonder what will come to pass.

The weather outside is rapidly vacillating,from the sound of the rain crashing on the roof,to the melancholy silence of the bleak alcove.The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

The soft buzzing of the fluorescent lights, echoes in my head like a swarm of bees.The sound reaching a sudden crescendo,and forcing me to bite my tongue rather than cry out in madness. (continued)

Grady Saunders Mawnster | Acr yl ic and Colored Penci l

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The hands on the clock seem frozen in time,drawing out my torturous punishment.Another stolen glance around the room, shows the general disinterest, but fills me with gloom.

A groan, a crack, fingers on keys,the constant auditory assault bringing me to my knees.But at last I’m free and I pack my things,and I will keep my sanity, for today.

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Paris MumpowerKeep Going | Mixed Media

Lacey Todd | A Fal len Soldier THE M

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It is now dusk and the time has come, A fallen soldier is what you’ve become.Your gun in the ground, your helmet atop,The possibility of death did not make you stop.We gather to honor you, a man with great skill,With bravery and might, and unprecedented will.Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,You fulfilled your duties from coast to coast.I find comfort in that verse,It seems this situation couldn’t be worse.Second Corinthians five six through eight,

Makes me wonder, “was this fate?”They talk of courage, of faith, of heaven,But the most significant verse is seven.It says we live by faith, not sight,Forcing us to realize that this is His fight.The sun is setting, it’s getting dark,So I’ll leave you with this final remark,As I bow my head and lift my left hand:This war is something we can withstand.Trusting in the Lord will help you cope,After all, His is the one who holds the hope.

Tye Thayer Worst Fear | Acr yl ic

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Kristen Long | Lost T

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Sarah Zeleznik Paramore | Digi tal Drawing

I walk with my eyes closed, not fearing that I will run into anything. My shoes are miles behind me and the grass softly brushes against my bare ankles. With my vision being absent, my other senses are overwhelming. The birds sing the tune to my hum, the breeze rustles the leaves, and I hear the rushing water of a nearby river. The cool, pure air on my skin is comforting and I feel the weight of my sketchpad on my left hand as I take in a deep breath of the earth. I pause whenever and wherever I desire to sit and draw something that captivates me. I am lost in nature, in myself, in my thoughts and feelings; stress is deficient and emotions flow

with the water. The mountains of Colorado contain many habitats for animals, which I wonder about and watch for. If I am lucky I will see a mother bear with her cubs, or perhaps a settled down herd of deer. But I will only know if I further my adventure and wander deeper into the mountains. The natural surroundings consume me, the way nature goes on without human interference in a beautiful, untouched way. Creation will never cease to amaze me, the naked truth of the environment revealed daily, with each season bringing new of life. Here, like everything around me, I am at peace, untouched, and complete.

Scott Helgeson | Point Seven Seconds THE M

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Tim Radford Captured L ight | Photography

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In point seven seconds, could he change history? In point seven seconds, could he create joy where great sadness had already fallen? In point seven seconds, could he succeed where so many others had failed?

Yes.

Point seven seconds was enough time to catch and shoot, enough time to catapult one basketball team to superstardom, and enough time to win a ring for a group of people that had worked so hard for this single opportunity.

He could do it.

Before the play had even started, before the ball was even given to the player to inbound, he saw the path of the shot, knew exactly how it would leave his hand and sail to the goal.

And then, action.

The in–bounder caught the ball and slapped it. The play started. Two others ran back to set him screens. He ran toward them. A small fake to his right. A dodge around defenders and screeners alike. The three point line was below his feet.

He caught it. (continued)

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Lindsay Harrison Nikki | Photography

Turning on the spot, he faced the basket in a single, fluid motion, as if his bones were composed of pure liquid. His feet, hips, and shoulders all stopped perfectly square to the rim, and his leg muscles flexed, propelling him from the ground. His arms rose, the ball cradled as if the slightest out–of–place pressure would shatter it, and with a flick of his wrists,

He released.

As soon as he could no longer feel the synthetic rubber cover of the ball, the horn sounded. The ball rose, higher and higher, sailing on tentative wings towards the basket.

Closer. Closer.

Tracing a flawless arc through the air, it fell towards the net.

Nylon.

The ball pierced the heart of the rim as if it were built for that single purpose. It was dead center, without ever even chancing an encounter with the metal of the rim. The crowd exploded. He managed a single look at the scoreboard before he was buried under his teammates, and the image of Home 71, Visitors 70 was seared into his mind for all of eternity.

He had done it.

In point seven seconds, he had changed history.

Andy Lee Daily Encounters | Si lver Gelat in Pr in ts

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Grace Earnhart Consequences | Acr yl ic

Corey Hannah Summers | Perseverance T

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Frank sighed. Being such a calm and collected individual, he had not put up much of a fight against his mother when the idea for art lessons was brought up. He was a novice, nothing serious as far as painting went, but his mother saw talent and signed him up for classes with a seemingly angry and vicious French painter. Madame ignored the fact that Frank was a pupil; she worked him at an advanced pace and insulted his work frequently. Despite Madame’s mandates for him to work quickly, Frank painted in a mindful manner, determined to create something at which she could not throw a paltry remark. The lessons went on that way for some time until one day Frank’s unremitting labor finally seemed to pay off.

The painting he had been slaving over was a rustic scene of the countryside, and while he had been working so hard he had failed to stand back and look at what he had created. This would have continued if he had not been startled by an outburst in the form of a loud acclamation from Madame. Surprised, he was drawn out of his concentration and saw his painting fully for the first time. It was a masterpiece, a splendid landscape, practically glowing. He could hardly believe he had produced such a thing under Madame’s profane criticism. It struck Frank that perhaps some disapproval had done him some good—as it turned out, lessons had not been such a terrible idea after all.

Stephen Bernys | Firs t Day of School THE M

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Lauren ThornhillI l luminate | Photography

Walking into school after your last day of summerFresh sneaks, new clothes, number one stunner.

Got your schedule made up—full of errorsAnd there’s that AP class, a room full of terrors.

As you walk into class and sit down in your chairYou see the underclassmen “matured,” but try not to stare.

Twelve pack of pencils, notebook full of paper;A new girl in class, what would you rate her?

Everybody and their brother have dark summer tans,And of course a few who baked in frying pans.

But play time is over, reality is once more beginningThe game is education, and it’s just the first inning.

Not a clue what the school year will lead to,The count–down begins, only 180 days to pull through.

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Katherine Yang The Reci tal | Acr yl ic on Canvas

Hayden Smith | Graduat ion T

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When you firstStarted kindergartenWe knew thatYou would do great thingsLike the first dayWe put you on the busYour backpack bouncingUp and downBecause it was taller than youAnd as you climbed upThose three little stepsYou disappearedAs it seems you are nowInto the mob of excitementYou’re free from high schoolAnd from your childhood

Jessica Akers | On The Other Side THE M

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Kasey Jager An Act of Kindness | L inoleum Block Pr int

On the other sideThe wind howls

It yells and screamsIf you can hear it

Then soon you will perishSo if you hear the screams

Of the windDo not runDo not hide

It will do you no goodYou cannot run from death

When it is your timeIt will come

So open your arms andCome to me

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Emma Beckett Ref lect ing Pool | Photography

Nathan Foust | True Heroism T

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Today we do not know the true meaning of the word hero. The hero of today is seen as the Hollywood starlet or the latest pop artist, and these individuals have dozens of people kissing the ground that they walk upon. The hero today has made no effort to better humanity, all that is there is a black hole of greed. These “heroes” are nothing but lucky individuals, not worthy of praise as the shock of fame reaches their heads. True heroic individuals do not brag about their accomplishments. The word “hero” resounds today with a dull hollowness, somewhere between completing paperwork and awaiting a dentist to fill a cavity. In a rather materialistic society, we have lost direction and it is quite frankly frightening. However, we still have a few heroes among us in these modern days and times. The greatest heroes do not take credit for what

they do to make our lives easier. The individuals who make our cars run are heroes; the people who pave the roads are heroes, too. They can be police officers, firefighters, servicemen, doctors, nurses, janitors, lifeguards, national guardsmen, pilots, assembly line workers, mechanics, and common individuals. They make a difference by making our lives run smoothly. They are humble and do not take credit for their work, preferring anonymity over the spotlight. Everybody has the potential to be a hero regardless social class, race, religious beliefs, and education. There’s one rule that a hero must follow. The person must be willing to give up their time and resources to help others. It can be as simple as allowing another motorist to merge lanes, or letting a pedestrian cross the road—making a sacrifice to better the life of others. You can be a hero.

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Harley McDaniel Abandonment | Photography

Abby Sneddon | From At las’ Shoulders THE M

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The young girl sat on her messily made bed, trying not to notice the piles of homework which lay around her. She stared at the ceiling, blinking away the tears that wanted to flow down her face. She knew she shouldn’t blame them for this, but she couldn’t help it.

It was her parents’ fault this happened. They were the reason she couldn’t join the track team. They were to blame for her failing grade in geometry. They were the reason she refused to have friends over—because she didn’t want to explain why they only lit half the house at one time. Because they couldn’t afford to turn on anything else.

It was because her parents were recently laid off from their already low paying jobs. Unemployment benefits had been cut and the recently turned sixteen year old girl was forced to take on two jobs paying less than minimum wage. She was forced to frequently leave school early, or worse yet—not go at all.

The way the family divided the payments was lopsided. The young girl paid half of the electric bill and half of the gas bill. Her father paid car insurance and cell phones, and her mother paid internet and cable. All three of them pitched in for the mortgage and they paid for the rest from the young girl’s college fund.

The world was a cruel, evil place. The young girl was forced to get on her hands and knees every night and pray to a deity that had previously failed them. A deity that had failed to make the social workers go away and failed to stop foreclosure on their home. When other teenagers were starting behind the wheel, she was worried her brothers would get sick because they didn’t have winter coats that fit.

She slid down onto the floor and wept openly, aging herself from a fresh sixteen year old to a forty year old, the weight of the world transferred from Atlas’ shoulders and placed upon her own.

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Jenny Sukh The HonaCriz | Graphi te

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Taylor–Paige Spencer | Innocent Bl issLonely little star, shining through the night,

Through the darkness, shining ever so bright.Even in your darkest hours, you hold yourself up high,

And shine, just as bright…You reflect off my eyes, leaving a sparkle of hope.

Oh little star, you are truly beautiful…But not even you can shine as bright as he does.

His light reflects even more than hope…He is the sparkle in my eyes,

He gives me faith and reason,

He reflects the compassion in my heart,He is the light to my soul.

He is the one thing I don’t regret,The one thing I will never forget.

He is the reason I cry,My reason to live and reason to die.

He is the one thing I need,The one thing I can never have…

And now you know,He is the love of my life.

MacKenzie Plaia | Where I ’m From THE M

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Katelyn Coker F lower Studies | Photography

I am from cookie dough, from Toll House and sugar.I am from the flowers on the front porch (purples and blues, that smell like spring).I am from the apple tree, the cherry tree whose blooms blossom in the warm summer air.

I am from the first summer cookout and reading glasses, from Lisa and the Poindexter’s and the Hayslett’s.I am from the know–it–alls and the I’m–right–and–you’re–wrongs.From smile and be happyI am from He who will save me from sin, with His belief in me and I who can name all the old testaments in order.

I’m from Fairfax, where the Poindexter tree meets the Plaia Tree, coffee grounds and fresh baked brownies from grandma’s kitchen.From the spider bite my mom received from the brown recluse, and my grandfather’s hand reached out to hold his daughter through it all.I am from an old photo album tucked away in the bookshelf, filled with aged pictures, and news clippings of no value other than being sentimental.

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Siddiq DeVaughn Ci ty | Graphi te and Ink Wash

Abby Ayers | Coding Bat T

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Gabrielle Gatzke The Accountant | Graphi te

I’m lost in a place, dark and crowdedDense with oak, elm, and pineMy wings flapping in beautiful harmonyBut I can’t get out.

I have all of the tools to get me throughThis dark and crowded place,Sonar vision and thin flexible wings.

I think I’m close, I’m almost throughThis never ending, challenging courseWhen suddenly I crash and lose all hopeOf getting through alive.

Emily Bishop Pointe Shoes | L inoleum Block Pr int

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Heidi Klockenbrink | My Secret THE M

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surroundings so as not to be seen. Luckily, the

agent made a U–turn. Crisis averted.

We arrived at our final destination—The

Skate Center. I breathed a tentative sigh of

relief. We slipped the entrance fee to the

safe–house manager and strapped into our

wheels. I would never admit it to anyone

besides Haley, but I love roller–skating. The

black lights that make your white shirt glow,

the wind that cools your whole body, and the

myriad people that allow you to blend with the

crowd. It’s an escape I look forward to every

Friday night. I even crave the aches I feel in

my calves and thighs the next morning. Skate

centers, childish? Maybe. Skate centers, a

place to play with covert abandon? Definitely!

Mission accomplished.

I kept my car secured, a tactical decision rather than a precautionary one. Wandering civilians might open the trunk and my mission would be compromised. Once school let out on Friday, I initiated the covert operation. After exchanging quick pleasantries with the local “regulars,” I proceeded to my vehicle. Next stop: the residence of my co–conspirator, Haley. ETA was about 40 minutes out; I could not embark on such a mission with people who went to the same school as me, let alone lived in the same county. Haley loaded her gear into the back of the car. Waiting at a stoplight, I noticed a counter–agent in the lane next to me! He was one of the rather good–looking specimens in my school. Haley and I contorted our bodies into all sorts of painful positions, blending with the

Rachel Rosenfeld Lemonade | L inoleum Block Pr int

Eric May | Days Past T

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Take me back to the t–ball daysParents in the stands, kids on the field

Summer nights, skies with hazeOur only concernWas having fun

Hit or miss, catch or dropNo expectations, no cares

Everything to look forward toAnd nothing to forget

Allison Lindsey I Am Sam | Photography

Emily Pilat | Sl i ther T

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I encourage you, encompass meThat spiteful word slithered from my psycheTurn back as soon as you dareFor the venom that wounds warriorsOnly kills my belittling bloodbeat soonerMy own myopic muscle demiseIdeas itching guilt gumming to my gutI desire nothing more than to disappearYet to face this frontal could preserve youI’ll pull the poison from your fleshI’ll take this burden not bravely, nor boldlyFor my anguish was not yours to allowBut mine to cowardly coddle

Hidden Valley High School5000 Titan Trail

Roanoke, Virginia 24018

The Muse Staff would like to thank: alphagraphics

Ms. Angela Brenton Ms. Amy Ebel

Ms. Carrie HonakerKasey Jager

Audrey JamesMs. Sally Miller

Tim Radford Ms. Cathy Watson–Bloch The Photography II Class

The Art & English Departmentsand all the students for their contributions to

the HVHS literary magazine.

Roanoke County Public Schools does not discriminate with regard to race, color, national origin, sex, or handicapping condition in an educational and/or employment policy or practice. Questions and/or complaints should be addressed to the Assistant Superintendent of Administration/Title IX Coordinator at 540.562.3900 extension 10121 or the Director of Pupil Personnel Services/504 Coordinator at 540.562.3900 extension 10181.

MUSE STAFF

Allison LindseyEmily Pilat . co–editors .

MacKenzie Plaia . junior editor .

Katelyn Coker . cover design & layout .

Sara Cubberley . advisor .

Rhonda Stegall . principal .

volume 10

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