STAFFORD HIGH SCHOOL

LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE

M I RA G E

-2 0 1 4-

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Let me live, love,

and say it well in

good sentences. - Sy lv i a P l a t h

Cover artwork and border design by Jessica LaFratta

S T U D E N T E D I T O R S

Caitlin Green

Avery Crowder

F A C U L T Y A D V I S O R

Jim Andrews, Publisher

3

T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S

P o e t r y

Bleach… Journey Keleman …………………………………………. 4

Speak to Me… Hannah Furchak ……………………………….…….7

Remembered Roots… Caroline Stimpson………………………….. 15

Beauty… Allison Fagan……………………………………………...18

Icarus… Nick Clark……………………………………………...…. 23

Noise… Caitlin Green………………………………………………..24

P r o s e

Avaricious… Nicholas Lusk………………………………………….8

Cancer… Diana Simpson……………………………………………10

A House… Delaney Smith…………………………………………..12

Wise… Dani Raymond…………………………………...……….…17

Claustrophobic… Avery Crowder…………………………………...20

A r t w o r k

Jessica LaFratta……………………...…………..…. cover, 2,5, 11, 16

Tamara Isaak-Harrington……………..……………..... 6, 9, 14, 24, 27

Erin Lottes………………………………………………………...... 13

Madeline Carr………………………………………………...……. 16

Lizzie Miller……………………………………………………. 19, 21

Taralynn Martin……………………………………….…. ……..22, 25

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I was an April shower,

I remember how it felt to bleed,

I used to bleed blood of blackberries and dirt,

my veins were roots of tomatoes and roses,

I gained two souls in those days,

we, and I, floated through hushed hallways,

sweet scents tiptoed away from silent cribs,

earthly bodies held fragile souls,

we were all in denial,

sticky orange fingers held on to the air,

I used to live in capital letters,

we hoped and held onto nonexistent obligations,

our roots changed with the seasons,

I have learned to breathe again.

along with the Spring, I will bloom,

every rose has it's thorns,

I remember braces lined with traces of apples,

some apples are red on the inside,

stomach acid grew on trees,

and we all ran away,

down sidewalks and winding roads,

eventually we find where the sidewalk ends,

holding on by a thread,

I loved to hurt,

as much as I hated to love myself,

I melted into scars and bleach,

I fell into salty comas,

I dreamed of being a real girl,

but my skin was made of metal,

I have seen what it's like to drag cold finger tips

across bars.

I remember the feel of needles,

I remember the still scent of washable markers,

I remember how it felt to breathe tainted air,

I remember how it felt to feel my flesh breathe,

I have heard it gets better,

I have learned that happiness is mine, if I want it,

happiness is ours,

peace is ours,

if we want it.

I have thawed,

I have learned how to breathe again.

B L E A C H By Journey Keleman

Artwork by Jessica LaFratta

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She walks through the crowd.

They whisper hateful things into her ear.

She says to them “speak to me.”

They whisper louder and louder,

But never raise their voices to her.

She says to them “speak to me.”

She turns to them as they mock.

She stares them down without a thought.

She says to them “speak to me.”

They look up at her shocked that she would respond,

Her calm eyes glancing at not just their bodies, but their souls.

She says to them “speak to me.”

They still speak not to her, but to themselves.

She knows they will never listen nor answer her plea, but still

She says to them “speak to me.”

Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington

S P E A K T O M E By Hannah Furchak

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Te’tan was the one who told me the

value of human worth. He was the one who

told me happiness can be bought or even

love. His words and ideas scared me, but he

was my companion in this everlasting war

between the human-consuming beasts that

dwelt in our scorched, torn-down civiliza-

tion we called earth. We were on the verge

of uncovering a hive of these Beasts. We, a

long time ago being several months, came

across a hive large enough to fit an entire

city the size of Old Haven. We carefully

infiltrated the hive and

exterminated every last

living thing in it, and

by every last thing I

mean every last Beast,

Egg, Food Source, and… humans in captiv-

ity. I would dare not lay a hand on a fellow

human, but Te’tan… His greed for simplis-

tic items led to the best of him, his greed for

human souls, his greed for sacrifice. He was

the one who told me about the worth of a

human soul, how much it would sell on the

Hale’id black market.

“Boy come here!” he shouted to me,

and motioned his large, fat filled arm for me

to come to him during the extermination.

“Boy, do you see what I see?” his

mouth formed into a gold toothed smile as

he stroked his beard,

“Sir I see human captives.” I began

to shake; moments like this came around

more often than one would think. He turned

to be showing his repulsive smile.

“No Boy, this here is money!” he

chuckled; it shook the fat rolls under his

neck in such a grotesque way I had to turn

my head, he made my stomach turn with his

accusations. He turned back to the six peo-

ple stuck in a webby gunk, positioned his

hand in a straight form in front of one of

their bodies, and plunged it in. He shouted,

“AH! Here it is!” he

pulled out a jar from

his bag and held it up

to put what he had ac-

quired in his off hand.

He took his hand out of the person’s chest

holding a ghastly but bright figure.

“This, Boy, is the Human Soul, can

be sold at the market for a hefty price!” He

fed the soul into the jar, closed and locked

it. It sickened me. My vision of the past

ended as he suggested we camp.

We had camped near the Forest in a

field of fallen trees and flat land. Te’tan,

with his robust figure, laid on his side snor-

ing. I however was kept awake thinking

about our situation. I thought, “What if we

run into more humans? Away from the cap-

ital in this world he can do as he pleases…”

my mind was stirred and my stomach even

more than my mind.

A V A R I C I O U S By Nicholas Lusk

Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington

It was Te’tan who taught me

that happiness or even love

can be bought

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People say they care, that they actually want to help others out. But

really, when it comes down to it, they’re too wrapped up in their own lives

to have time to deal with any of that. There are so many examples of that,

so many times that it’s been proven.

How often do they actually notice when people are suffering? When

they end up in the news headlines or when celebrities start to care? Then

once the news attention is off of it, their minds are off of it. Even on a

smaller more localized scale, people are shockingly clueless. People are so

wrapped up in their own little world that they can’t seem to see when even

the people around them are struggling.

By Diana Simpson

C A N C E R

Artwork by Jessica LaFratta

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Artwork by Jessica LaFratta

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My bones creak and rat-

tle as little feet pitter patter

down the stairs. Giggles and

shouting float through my inte-

rior as the clock chimes in to

tell everyone that it is almost

eight.

“Guys! We’re going to

be late! Come on.” A father

shouts up my stairs before grab-

bing his black leather bag and

kissing his wife goodbye. More

pitter patter and then rushing

and laughing to grab last minute

items followed by the hollow

sound of a door slamming shut.

Then silence. Someone

has left the TV on in the living

room and I listen as the clock

chimes eight.

The wife moves through

me, up and down the stairs,

picking up discarded books and

toys along the way. The shower

turns on seconds later, then the

hair dryer whirling to life and

by the time the clock chimes

eight thirty, the door slams shut

again and I am left in silence.

My floorboards whine under

invisible feet and the TV is still

on in the living room, as the

voice of the anchor man drifts

through the air.

“Breaking news, at

around 8:45 this morning, a

plane as struck the North Tower

of the World Trade Center. The

death count is unknown and po-

lice are scrambling to evacuate

the building…”

The clock chimes eight

fifty and the gnarled branches of

the large oak beside the front

door brush against me like an

old friend.

The clock is on the third

chime of nine o’clock when the

door bursts open, a purse and

keys clattering to the floor as

footsteps bound down the hall-

way into the kitchen. I am quiet

as the phone is picked up rough-

ly and the numbers assaulted by

trembling fingers.

“Come on…come on…

please…please…” A pained sob

rings through me and the fur-

nace cuts on downstairs. The

phone is slammed into the re-

ceiver before being picked up

again and fingers ghosted over

the buttons. It was silent for a

minute, warm sunlight shining

through my eyes as I watched

the woman’s hand shiver

against the phone. The silence is

shattered as a high pitched voice

practically shouts into the

phone.

“ANSWER THE

PHONE! PLEASE, JIM!” Tears

splash against me and a body

sinks slowly down onto the

ground. The furnace cuts off

with a soft whooshing as shoul-

ders shake against my wall.

The sound of the anchor

man continues on in the living

room.

“…..is said to have hit

between the 93rd and 99th floor.

Firefighters and police are

working to get everyone out of-

OH MY GOD! WAS THAT

ANOTHER PLANE? It seems

that a plane has just hit the

South Tower of the World

Trade Center!”

The phone hits the

ground with a loud clank as the

women scrambles to get up

from the floor and rush into the

living room. The room is quiet

but for the television before a

roar seems to vibrate my very

A H O U S E

By Delaney Smith

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structure.

“NOOOO!” The sound is

cut off by a sob forcing its way

up from a throat and echoing

around me like a song that’s

stuck in your head. The phone

rings then, shrill and hopeful.

Footsteps sprint into the kitchen

and pick the phone up within

seconds.

“Jim?” The voice

is frantic and hysterical.

A small voice trills out

from the other end and

the women crumbles

again.

“Mom?” The

word is teeth bitten into

knuckles and a sob try-

ing to force its way up.

The tiny voice on the

other end is soothing,

but the sound of tears is

very evident.

“I-I don’t know. I

came home a-as soon as

I saw and…and h-he

hasn’t picked up.” The woman is

pacing from the living room to

the kitchen, stopping every now

and again to stare at the chaos

that was breaking out on the TV

screen. Smoke and alarms and

panic.

“No. They’re still at s-

school…….I don’t know what

floors they hit, mom! I’m going

to try and c-call him again,

okay… Okay, bye. Love you

too.”

The woman leans heavily

against me and tries to stem the

over flow of tears and I want to

wipe them away, but I am only

brick and cement and rotting

wood. I cannot wipe anything

away.

She takes a deep breath

before dialing the familiar num-

ber, this time slow and careful.

No matter how slow or careful

she dialed that number for hours

after, no voice ever greeted her

from the other end. Even after

pictures of rubble and giant

clouds of ash invading the streets

flashed across the TV like a

memory, she still sat in the hall-

way, her fingers trembling and

sweaty as they pressed number

after number.

She only moves once the

clock begins to chime twelve

o’clock. She picks up her purse

and keys, her eyes dead and

swollen, leaning on my walls for

support to get out the door. The

tears had finally stopped

coming after a while, but the

faint ghost trails still marked

her cheeks.

For the third time that

day, the sound of the door

slamming shut vibrated

through me. My eyes still

shone with sunlight and the

furnace cut on again in the

basement. Tiny tear drops

dotted my floor from the

kitchen to the hallway. I

could still feel the heat of a

body pressed against my

wall.

The clock chimes

three just as the door opens

and three teary eyed bodies shuf-

fle through the door, shoulders

slumped and heads hung low. I

waited for the fourth to come,

but he never did.

It was then, that I knew

he never would again.

And the furnace shut off

with a final soft sound.

Artwork by Erin Lottes

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A sapling may think his roots are so deep.

He won’t stop to ask what the old trees think.

When his elders fade, their roots only keep

Till young ones decide it’s their time to sink.

With knowledge today, life’s much like a tree.

Old boughs are forgotten, old leaves extinct.

What is left behind are stories we see

In hymns and steeples, the message distinct.

For sake of comfort and reason and bliss,

Church books are seen as mere paper and ink.

The words of the elders young ears do miss.

Advice from the wiser stands on the brink.

When the world was new, love used to be free.

Now Eden’s remembered just by a tree.

Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington

By Caroline Stimpson

R E M E M B E R E D R O O T S

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Sometimes I feel like the world is moving

and I’m just sitting still. I guess it’s because I’ve

been alive for far too long. I’ve lived my life and

seen a lot of things. A lot of times, I don’t even

know why God has kept me alive. It’s not that I

wish to die, no, not at all. I Just don’t know why

I’m here.

I’ve fulfilled all that I thought was ex-

pected of me. I grew up, got an exceptional edu-

cation, married, raised wonderful kids, and lived

a full life. Sure, there have been struggles and

time that I regret, but life isn’t perfect and pure

all the time.

I often wonder what my purpose in life is

anymore. Mostly, I just watch. I sit on my rock-

ing chair in the front porch. Sometimes with tea

or coffee or lemonade. Sometimes I have a mag-

azine or a book. Sometimes I have a visiting

child or grandchild. Mostly, it’s just me and my-

self. I like it that way thought. That way I get to

concentrate on everything myself, taking it all

in.

I watch lots of things. I watch the sun rise

and set. Depending on the seasons, I watch the

rain and snow fall. I watch the trees shed their

leaves. My favorite thing to watch is people. The

street hasn’t changed much these past years. In

fact, the only things that make it obvious that

times are different are the people. The people

who walk the streets aren’t the ones who walked

twenty years ago. Those people have been gone

for a long time.

Still I watch. I look them over and memo-

rize their faces. Sometimes I talk to them, ask

them their names. If I think long enough, I can

usually connect t them to a neighbor or relative

that I once knew. It makes me feel less lonely

and far away from my past.

My favorite people to watch is the Ben-

son family. It’s a grandmother, mother, and

daughter all living together. I knew the grand-

mother when we were younger, but with her ill-

ness she doesn’t remember much of anything

nowadays. Every day I’m out here and each day

I see this family. They’re close to each other and

travel together. Whether it’s the to the market or

to church, they’re together. They always say hel-

lo and are very niche. Every once in awhile, they

stop by for a sit on one of my rockers.

Usually it’s Laura, the daughter. She

comes and asks me about my flowers or my ar-

thritis or knitting. She’ll sit down and I’ll bring

her a drink. We’ll talk and talk. Sometimes asks

me to tell her stories and other time she’ll tell

me some. They’re about her grandmother, and

how she worried about her. Other times, they’re

about school and boys. She often reveals to me

secrets about her life. How she wishes she lived

with her dad, and that she misses him, how she

wishes to have some time to herself without her

mother and grandmother constantly around.

I think I help her a little. I give her time

on my porch, its swirling railings and hanging

ferns acting as a barrier against the outside

world. I tell her not to be scared and tell her that

sometimes friendships don’t work out and that

boys aren’t the most important things in the

world. Each time she smiles and tells me that

she likes sitting with me and that she’ll be back

again tomorrow. I return her smile each time.

W I S E

Artwork by Madeline Carr and Jessica LaFratta

By Dani Raymond

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Artwork by Lizzie Miller

B E A U T Y By Allison Fagan

Once, I murmured that beauty could be felt

Beneath the bones and underneath the skin.

Softer than silk and more deadly than hell,

Your touch burned through me, scorched me from within.

Who was I to resist the temptation-

The desire for my soul to be set free?

For I am not as noble as the sun,

Nor could my true intentions ever be.

I am nothing but a fragmented soul,

Confined inside of flesh, a slave to touch.

I cannot refuse a heart in its whole;

I cannot loosen a hand from its clutch.

Once, I murmured that beauty could be felt,

But only if one was ready to melt

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They always start with the smallest of

rumbles, like a plane, far off in the distance. The

sky shows hints of darker hues, smudged against

the azure blue. The wind, barely there, whispers

softly, toying with the thinner strands of hair on

my head. Although it’s invisible, I can feel the

pulsing energy. First, it darts between the clouds,

and then the breeze lifts it away, sending it cours-

ing through my body. My heart is filled with the

aromatic promise of rain. As I take a deep,

cleansing breath, I am struck by something as

simple as fresh air. But, to me, it is so much

more. The sharp tang of salt water intermingles

with the intoxicating scent of rainwater. Crisp,

pure, and untouched. The stretch of sand is de-

serted; everyone has taken cover. Sheltered by

aging cubes, they wait anxiously for the pounding

rain to thrash and beat their fragile porches. But

not me. I revel in the growing darkness. My

thoughts have been overpowered by something

greater. As I stand there, alone, a single, dark

speck on the white crystals, I am extraordinarily

completed. The eerie peacefulness of the beach

centers me, and the oncoming storm gives me

seemingly infinite power.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash

of white. I turn to my right and see the bay ex-

panding in front of me. The waves are no longer

small ripples, but massive, powerful whitecaps,

crashing down on one another. The frothing foam

fizzles into the sand once the waves reach the

shore. I watch the endless bubbles, popping as

soon as they’re formed. It seems as though their

destiny is the sweetest: created only to be de-

stroyed, before life has the chance to weather

their innocence. My hair lashes around my face,

obscuring my vision and stinging my sensitive

skin, but I don’t tie it back. It’s part of the experi-

ence. As the wind picks up, the trees, lined up

behind the cottages, begin to shake. Their fallen

leaves swirl into miniature whirlpools around my

feet. Shuffling forward, I move slowly into the

cool water to protect the delicate skin on my feet

from the unforgiving edges of the leaves. The

sudden change in temperature creates goose

bumps that race from my bare legs up to my bare

arms. Although I am only a few inches into the

water, it splashes up onto my thighs. A green leaf

floats by, controlled by the current and begging

to be rescued from its drowning, but I just stare.

The storm shook it from its cradle, so it was

forced to jump. I guess all leaves die young.

A ground-shaking rumble brings my atten-

tion back to the sinister sky. The sunlight is com-

pletely gone, leaving the world below in a dim

and mysterious darkness. The solid mass of gray,

black, and navy blue is swirled together, like a

child’s clumsy finger-painting. A streak of gold

slices through the sky in a blink of an eye and is

gone a millisecond later. Two more bolts follow,

one touching down around the misty horizon line.

Over the booming thunder and roaring wind

whistling in my ears, I hear a faint voice shout,

but the words are torn apart in the vast space be-

tween us. The sky has turned into a raging battle,

fighting internally, while the thunder rumbles like

a dramatic drum beat, amplified by unseen speak-

ers. The tension builds, becoming a few lines of

music before the chorus, promising a sudden cre-

scendo.

I close my eyes in anticipation, blocking

out everything and, more importantly, everyone. I

blindly turn into the wind so that my hair blows

away from my face, rippling behind me like my

own wave. My toes wiggle underneath the damp

sand in the shallows, hardly noticing the sea grass

intertwining itself around my ankles. The hem of

my shorts sticks to my legs, because of the tepid

spray. The freezing gusts create the illusion of

warm water, providing a sharp contrast. The

C L A U S T R O P H O B I C By Avery Crowder

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sharp scent of salt, still evident, even over the

wind, burns my nose. Suddenly, a wave crashes

down upon me, knocking me down. I sit down,

hard, and blink the water out of my burning eyes.

The tangles of sea grass ruined my balance, so I

kick the slimy strings off and stumble to my feet,

brushing the abrasive sand off myself. Looking

back to the sky, I knew the moment was close. I

took a deep breath, letting the familiar scents con-

sume me, and felt a drop of water on my shoulder.

Grinning, I held up my arms, and welcomed the

bursting sky. Torrents of cold pellets rained down

on me. My hair no longer blew, but hung in drip-

ping curls. Flashes of lighting raced across the

sky, low vibrations shook the ground, and the

waves swelled twice their allotted size and heaved

themselves towards the shore.

I turned on my heel, making a divot in the

sand, and raced across the beach, stumbling once

or twice on the uneven ground. Once it starts to

rain, my interest diminishes quickly and is soon

lost. It’s as if the storm represents the rumbles of

a song, growing faster and louder until the finale:

the rain. It’s all downhill from there. I ran back

toward our cottage, back toward my home. En-

closed in the stuffy warmth of our cottage, I feel

relaxed and at peace, strangely calmed by nature’s

most powerful force. People blur in front of me,

caring more about the damp hardwoods left in my

trail than my safety. The lamps throw dark shad-

ows across the sterile walls, contrasting the false-

ly-joyful atmosphere projected in the cramped liv-

ing room. My stringy lumps of hair, a natural

beauty in the eye of the storm, are an eyesore next

to the piles of neat tendrils surrounding me. Thin,

red lips are frowning, layers of curls are shaking,

and heads are bowing with the proper amount of

disapproval. It felt easier to manage the swirling

masses of energy outside than it did the people

inside. The opinions, emotions, and expectations

inside the cabin were suffocating me. Somehow,

all of those abstract things were pressing against

me, trying in vain to mold me into a prim cookie

cutter.

I turned my longing gaze towards the

screened “windows.” The artistically-scattered

bruises covering the sky…the blazing scars ran-

domly decorating wherever they see fit…that all

seemed infinitely more beautiful than the blurs

surrounding me. Despite my background, despite

my quiet intro chords, my love of storms broke

through, so strong that it didn’t matter what I was

raised to think. Inspired, I sat down and began to

draw dots on lined paper: quarter, eighth, six-

teenth. It didn’t matter. I was going to capture the

song of the universe.

Artwork by Lizzie Miller

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Artwork by Taralynn Martin

23

I am known as an invisible.

I walk through this land like a drone;

No one sees me and I see no one;

No one speaks and I stay silent;

No one thinks and I keep my thoughts to myself;

They all seem to be living a wonderful life:

Riches, Fame, Fortune, Love, Life, Harmony…

I am Rich in faith, not money.

I am Famous and televised, for the wrong reasons.

I am Fortunate of what I have, myself.

I am Loved, it doesn’t come easily.

I am Alive, yes, but I feel dead and wasted away.

I am in Harmony, perfect sweet-sounding Harmony, with the others like me.

We are known as the invisible.

We are still here although no one sees.

We are still human even if they don’t think we are.

We are not you and you are not us.

We don’t know you and you don’t know us.

But you and I are sharing the world the same.

But you and I are treated the same.

But you and I are the same.

Shouldn’t that include Riches, Fame, Fortune, Love, Life, and Harmony?

It doesn’t.

You’re oblivious

You’re ruthless

Angry, Harmful, Sodden, Immoral, Wicked, Careless

…Confused…

What have you done to us?

Have you even seen it?

Have you even lived here?

No. You haven’t and

You know nothing about us.

You don’t care about us or what we do,

What we believe in,

And where we come from.

Because we’re all the same to you.

But the feeling is mutual.

The world is one celestial body.

We all should follow in being

Rich and Famous.

Fortunate and Loving.

Alive and in perfect sweet-sounding Harmony…

I C A R U S By Nick Clark

24

N O I S E

You make noise in my bones;

Atoms dancing off your tongue,

Sliding down my throat,

Reverberating against charred lungs,

Settling comfortably like the crackle of a b-side.

Time yields numbing white noise

Till my skin can’t stretch to your screams.

By Caitlin Green

Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington (left) and Taralynn Martin (right)

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CREATIVITY

COLOPHON M I R A G E is in its eighth year of publication. It is published during the summer. The magazine was pro-

duced on IBM– compatible computers using Adobe Photoshop Element 8.0 and Microsoft Publisher; it was

published in Stafford High School using 20-pound paper on an HP 551 printer. The font Times New Roman

was used for the text of all poetry and prose as well as the author and artist credits. The font Freestyle Script was

used for the titles of each piece. The font Eras Medium ITC was used for the pull quote. The font Bodoni

MT was used for all text on the cover. The font Dreamer was used for the inside cover quote and the font

28 days later was used for the quote on the opposing page.

PURPOSE M I R A G E is the literary arts magazine for Stafford Senior High School in Falmouth, Virginia. The pur-

pose of the magazine is to showcase students’ thoughts and expressions through both writing and art. As

with any publication, the views expressed are not necessarily the view of Stafford High School, the editorial

staff, advisor, or Stafford County Public Schools. All students at Stafford High School who are not enrolled

in Creative Writing or Art class are invited to submit their work for consideration in the magazine.

SUBMISSION Submissions should be dropped by room W205. All work completed in Stafford High School’s Creative

Writing classes is considered for publication. M I R A G E embraces every opportunity to post the work of

any students submission, regardless of format or length.

RIGHTS All writing and art submissions are considered by an editorial staff which chooses submissions based on

quality, appropriateness, relevance, and overall impact. The editorial staff reserves the right to edit material

for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted work.

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CREATIVITY

TAKES

courage - Henri Matisse Artwork by Tamara Isaak-Harrington

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