l u c i dPEGASUS XXXIX

Peg a sus

National Council of Teachers of English Superior Nominated for Highest Award 2014American Scholastic Press Association First Place 2014

North Carolina Media Association Award of Distinction 2013

Peg a sus2014-2015 Vol. XXXIX

National Council of Teachers of English Superior Nominated for Highest Award 2014American Scholastic Press Association First Place 2014

North Carolina Media Association Award of Distinction 2013

The Pegasus Society

Dreams can act as an escape from harsh realities and an entrance into a world of possibility and imagi-nation. As students in high school, we often face uncertainty about our futures. Nightly, we retreat to our pillows and allow dreams to wash over us, and it is in these dreams that resolution and clarity are reached at the dawn of each morning—a lucid state.

This year’s magazine, lucid, explores the concept of lucid dreaming. Lucid dreaming is the state of aware-ness during sleep, the clarity amongst the confusion of dreams where a state of transparency is reached. We chronicled the process of dreaming within the pages of the magazine, paying careful attention to the transi-tion between sleep and dreams, from dreams to nightmares, and finally the resolution into wakefulness.

We are proud to be a part of a literary magazine which strives to excel and create deeper meaning in writ-ing, art, and design. Through this trinity, we have discovered the importance of literary arts in interpreting the world and stimulating personal growth. We would like to thank each staff member of the 2014-2015 Pegasus Staff for inspiring us with their passion and creativity. We would like to dedicate this year’s mag-azine to our graduating senior staff members for their commitment to fostering the artistic community at Myers Park High School.

Laurie Booth. Adelaide Conway, Rachel DeMay

editors’ note

Hold fast to dreams / For when dreams go / Life is a barren field / Frozen with snow. - Langston Hughes

The Pegasus Society

Andrew and Kelli AddisonAl and Kathy AlexanderKathleen BambrickHeidi BassWade and Swan Bennett Emile BidencopeCharles and Hannah BlantonLisa BobbittAlice BuddenClaire and Craig BuieJeanne ButlerPaige Caotes HamiltonCindy ClemensLinda CoadBoyd and Anne Hay CogginsSabrina ColliasDe and Annie CordellSteve and Karen CrawfordSarah Curan Stephen and Kathy DockeryMichael and Jennifer EguesBonnie, Babak, and Laleh Emadi

Brian and Luisa FeinglassBill and Kerry FlyeCarolanne FlynnGodwin FamilyMark and Alissa Grant Nancy GreenwayMarty GriffinBrian and Susan HardenBob HarnsJim and Tracy HarrisonAndrew and Catherine HensleyKaaren Sailer and Toan HuynhHeather HillBeth KilgussRebecca KraissJoseph LittleHarold MarottiJohn Mcbride and Lolo PendergrastStaue MobleyMercy MooreDale Mullennix and Jane SummeyNancy Nicholson

Nicholas NguyenKatie Oates¬Tim and Jane O’DonoghueJames Owens and Marcia Harris-Ow-ensRay Owens and Sally HigginsChristi PringleRaymond FamilyAlan and Lisa ReischeDavid and Meredith RitchieShannon RogersJohn and Amanda RoncevichAlan and Mary Howard ShawEric and Nancy TarggartMartha TeferaTempleton FamilyKim WellerWhittle FamilyZerkle FamilyJoe and Emily Zuyus

Candace and Dante Taylor AndersonWill and Cindi BernartBrett and Melissa BondJohn and Linda BoothMargaret CarpenterJonathan and Cheryl DorofiSkip and Gray DunawayRalph and Nancy FallsCynthia FrankJoe and Kim Glenn

Robert and Sue GoodlingTom Levi and Sally HawkFraiser and Jane IvesThomas MortonPorter FamilyAnne N. RansonLarry and Jeanne Sauder

Kelley Anderson and Ann CaulkinsPeter and Sandra ConwaySteve and Karen DeMayBill and Jennifer FoxGreife FamilyStephen and Melissa RatliffMike and Anna WilderKeith and Mary Ann Wilson

editors’ noteScribe

(donations of $25 or more)

Scroll(donations of $100 or more)

Quill(donations of $50 or more)

Members of the Pegasus staff are carefully selected through an application process in which the applicants are interviewed and their portfolios are reviewed by current staff. Staff members seek writing and art submissions, edit the chosen pieces, and create spreads which combine them and utilize numerous design elements. The editors of the magazine select the spreads of the highest quality and create the final layout

of the magazine.

The staff would like to thank and congratulate all writers and artists who submitted and contributed to this year’s magazine.

The Pegasus Volume XXXIX was printed by CMS Graphic Production Center on 8” by 8”, 32lb. bond paper. Century Gothic was the font used for the magazine title. Tahoma was used for the staff page, the donors page, and the editor’s note. This year’s publication utilized Adobe CS6 for InDesign and Photoshop.

The Staff Would like to Thank:

Pegasus Advisor: Yvonne ElyPrincipal: Mark Bosco

Art Department Chair: Lynn WuPhotography Teacher: Lisa Holder

Special Thanks S ta f f

The Staff Would like to Thank:

Pegasus Advisor: Yvonne ElyPrincipal: Mark Bosco

Art Department Chair: Lynn WuPhotography Teacher: Lisa Holder

Special Thanks S ta f f

Hunter Ives Zack Kennedy

Yvonne Ely

Rachel DeMay

Laurie Booth

Adelaide Conway

Njeri Allen Zoë Blandford Lucinda Bond Keenan Caddell

Sarah Cline Madeleine Fox Megan Goodling Maddie Harrison

Sara Howell Hannah Kinney- Kobre

Sidrah Marotti Anne McBride Madie Mercer Kayla Reische

Carrie Sauder Kylie Spencer Caroline Wilder Leigh Ann Wilson

Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief

Writing Editor

Design EditorPromotion Editor

Business Manager

Business Manager

Advisor

Ta

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of

Conte

nts

Ode to Sleep by Brigid Meier

Pool by Adelaide Conway

Flash by Jordan Carson

Natural Divide by Emily Land

Used Vinyl by Brigid Meier

VW Bus by Adelaide ConwayGatekeeper by Anonymous

Dunes by Mary Carver Deal

Emptiness by Emily Shinn

B&W Funk by Alley Bell

Peace of Mind by Sara Howell

Mountain by Adelaide Conway

Toxic by Ava Burnett

Chair by Sydnie Newman

Alter Ego by Megan Goodling

Pink Flowers by Sara Howell

Spirits by Carrie Sauder City Scape by Rachel DeMay

Seeing Stars by Ava Burnett Pixels by Laurie Booth

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Ta

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Fish Tanks by Zoe BlanfordCosmic Forest by Kayla Reische

Adventure by Laurie Ellen Moore

Face Cliff by Sydney Farris

Night Flowers by Hannah Kinney-Kobre

Light Marks by Kayla Resche

Violet by Zoe Blanford

Sunset Parking Lot by Caroline Margonis

Smell the Flowers by Brigid Meier

Fleur by Madie Mercer

Drowned Dreams by Laurie Ellen MooreSunset Beach by Adelaide Conway

Giving Up by Anna Rinehardt

Lanterns by Madie Mercer

Arabian Nights by Carrie Sauder

Camels by Sarah Rose

Too-Feyst by Hunter Ives

Double Profile by Zachary Kennedy27-29

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30-31

32-33

34-35

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Upside Down by Lindsey Noonan

Bubbles by Jordan Carson

New Places Leave An Impact by Chris W

illiams

Block City by Megan Hunter

Hope of Disaster by Daniah Almahdawi

Flog Trees by Leigh Ann Wilson

Rainy Day by Carrie Sauder

Jellyfish by Anna Martin

A Sight Unseen by Ricky Lancaster Floating Eyes by Alley Bell

Mobius Strip by Zoe Blanford

Cloud Dunes by Maddie Harrison

Forget About It by Sarah Cline

Red Umbrella by Mary Carver Deal

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Freedom Into the Unknown by Leah Caple

Coral Reef by Lucinda Bond

Mini Golf In Arabi by Kyrie Mason

Pastels Cube by Anne McBride

Muse by Zack Kennedy

Stacked Triangles by Laurie Booth

Whisper by Ava Burnett Crystals by Lucinda Bond

6 Word Stories

Rainbow Glow by Madison Fisher

Collaboration

B&W Classroom by Zack Kennedy

We Used to Have A Red Door by Brigid Meier

Blue Door by Adelaide Conway

Liberated by Brigid Meie

r

Floating Flowers by S

ara How

ell

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ODE TO SLEEPBrigid Meier

Adelaide Conway

10

Open

Far too dark

How did I get here, because

The last thing I saw was paradise and this is the farthest thing there is Now

instead of warm breeze

I’m Surrounded by the hum of crickets and mild crescendo of cars passing by too

fast while kissing the puddles on the asphalt

Taste of sleep on my tongue

Eyelids heavy eyelids

heavy

Eyelids...

Close

11

Peace of MindSara Howell

Adelaide Conway

My hands use to sweat,

My voice used to shake.

I was uneasy,Unsteady,

All sorts of confused.Until I opened my

eyesand freed my life-

I then foundA peace of mind.

She can’t look back.The past is toxic.

But she can’t help it.Eyes were meantTo look forward.

And we were meantTo be dreamers.

But every once in a while,Comes one who

Dreams backwards,And looks the wrong way.

Her eyes shielded by Nightmares and nostalgia.

She knows that it will never be okay.They know that

Okay is the worst it will Ever be.

While she cries and craves The four letters

That will take the weight of the World from her shoulders,

They take them for granted.

12

Sydnie New

man

Ava Burnett

She can’t look back.The past is toxic.

But she can’t help it.Eyes were meantTo look forward.

And we were meantTo be dreamers.

But every once in a while,Comes one who

Dreams backwards,And looks the wrong way.

Her eyes shielded by Nightmares and nostalgia.

She knows that it will never be okay.They know that

Okay is the worst it will Ever be.

While she cries and craves The four letters

That will take the weight of the World from her shoulders,

They take them for granted.

T O X I C

13

Jordan Carson

FLASH

EmilyLang

14

I’m brushing my teeth When lights break the darkness of My bathroom.

There’s an ambulance leavingMy neighbor’s driveway, Slowly.

It putters down the street,And I should feel relieved Because slow means okay.

Instead, I feel strange Because I can’t recall Their names.

I live in my own little universeAnd they live in theirs, butI finally realize.

For a moment, we shared a universe Even if it was for one unknownNight time ambulance flash.

Megan Goodling

Sara

How

ell

16

Okay, I know it sounds weird. Well, I prefer eccentric. My alter ego was born when I decided to stop telling the baris-ta at Starbucks my real name, and told him to write Gray on my coffee cup, only because I was sick of hearing my bland name called out again and again. Gray. I liked it. (I just had to make sure I didn’t pay with the debit card that says Megan.) The first few times I said it, I cringed, glancing at the cashier’s reaction to deter-mine whether he believed me. Believed me! As if someone would hear me and respond, There’s no way thats your name. You must be called something more plain, like Megan. But once that absurd idea cleared my thought process, I became more comfortable saying it. Soon, every time I was asked for a name for a reser-vation, or a dressing room white board, I started telling them my name was Gray. And sure enough, after a few months, I would respond to Gray if I heard it called at a coffee shop. One day I was given a

form to fill out for a program in which I had absolutely no interest, but I felt rude tossing the papers in the trash. With care-ful consideration and a few strokes of ink, Gray had a last name, address, email, and telephone number. She even had her own interests and hobbies, according to the form. It was liberating. I had created a whole new person with her own identity. Now, If a foreign weird guy approaches me at a concert, he doesn’t meet Megan; he is introduced to Gray (crisis averted). If I am required to answer an online survey, it is Gray who fills in her personal infor-mation. Whenever a friend accompanies me to Caribou or Panera, they shoot me a weird look when I give my name, which has now become a habit. I explain my-self by simply asking, why not? Why not change it up, instead of being stuck in the same old person forever? I love that I am able to pick another identity if I want to.Why not consider the what ifs, and just think, who cares?

17

Chaotic souls with stomping feetWho bear their virtue no regard

And catch between the boughs of treesAnd cavernous seats of humming cars;

Riders of the midnight windLike cavaliers from homespun tales

Who seek with hands of summer nightFor stygian swords to hone their goals;

Peaceful portents drawn from dustAnd auguries spun from spider’s milk

That pull at time like babies’ pawsAnd bode of something darker still;

Patrons of the halls at duskThat crow their victory to the dawnAnd wing unsought for like the wind

To conquer memories unknown.

S p i r i t sCarr

ie S

aude

r

Rachel DeMay18

I looked to the sky,And all I saw was Empty blackness.

Then I looked to you,And found galaxies

In your eyes.

SEEING STARS

19

Used Vinyl

I can’t get over you.You’re the record that skips on my favorite song,The needle jumping as it reaches a groove in the vinyl,

but never playing more than a jumbled chord and messy lyric.I keep trying, Bringing the nee-dle back in lame at-tempts to play it again.

To hear 3 1/2 minutes of pure blissAll of the memories.All of my favorite parts.I can’t get you out of my head.

Brigid Meir

Adelaide Conway

THE GATEKEEPER

20

THE GATEKEEPER

I watch people,But they don’t see me,

They cry and I comfort them,But they don’t feel it,

But I listen,I speak and she understands,

She travels the cemetary,She smiles when she sees me,

One day I ask“Why am I so alone?”

Why doesn’t anyone feel my comfort?”She doesn’t speak,

But she points,I turn to see old flowers,

Dying in the wind as they do on cold stone,Cold Stone that reads my name;

I am overcome with sadness,But understanding,I turn to thank her,

But she is gone,Only a door stands,

Not a door,A gate,

A wooden gate that doesn’t indicate heavens nor hells,I open the gate and see nothingness,

But feel light,I turn for another glimpse of this world,There she stands smiling a lovely smile,“Thank you” I speak and so does she,

But only a strong breeze escapes her lungs pushing me,Hugging me to the afterlife,

Comfort from the Gatekeeper

Mary Carver Deal

Anonymous

21

Emptines s

Alley

Bell

She wasn’t there that day.

A conversation through her phone, but not with her.

My heart tuck in my throat, breath caught short.

Making me hollow, like that rope made her.

The gentle saltiness of tears running down my face.

Imagining the smell of her, choking back silent sobs.

I couldn’t imagine the loneliness she felt.

And it was just me.

So empty, so alone.

I remember these things, too.

Emptines s23

Emily Shinn

I remember these things, too.The fresh, earthy scent of the soft grass beneath me.

A bright, burning, hot sun, glaring over the large open space.I repeat my motto, “hand-hand, foot-foot” to the beat of my cardio-induced heart.

One flat pasture of space for children to roam in the roam in the center of a bustling city. A playground filled with nothing but sky and land. A cartwheel.

A sweaty palm covered in dirt and green blades-Taste of salty liquid drips onto my tongue.Simply a helpful mom giving patient instruction to her restless child.

The sharp sound of my mom cheering, “I think you got it!”My joyous reply back, “Finally!”

Something big found in a simple turn.

I don’t know whyBut somewhere lost be-

tween cheesy dialogue and my white comforter I fell for you.

My face hasn’t hurt from smiling this big hardly ever.

Now the songs that I couldn’t listen to a month ago sound sweet again,

It’s cliche like every romantic comedy there isBut you came in like rain after drought

Led me out of the dark into a place I could finally see. See what had been hidden

under thorn and wireRoses growing in my soul

I’m so glad you decided to stop and smell the flowers

Smell TheFlowersBrigid Meier

Madie Mercer

25

I remember these things, too.The fresh, earthy scent of the soft grass beneath me.

A bright, burning, hot sun, glaring over the large open space.I repeat my motto, “hand-hand, foot-foot” to the beat of my cardio-induced heart.

One flat pasture of space for children to roam in the roam in the center of a bustling city. A playground filled with nothing but sky and land. A cartwheel.

A sweaty palm covered in dirt and green blades-Taste of salty liquid drips onto my tongue.Simply a helpful mom giving patient instruction to her restless child.

The sharp sound of my mom cheering, “I think you got it!”My joyous reply back, “Finally!”

Something big found in a simple turn.

Upside Down Upside Down

Lindsey Noonan

Jordan Carson

Too - feyst

Zachary Kennedy

Those with faceswho keep me up at night

talking talkingalways talking

about who?Me

Wearers of lies and decietSpinning their spoolsTreating the friend

as if he is a foolI believe in one day,

one dayI’ll be like them.

Hunter Ives

v i o l e t

26

v i o l e tZoë Blandford

27

Violet, I just finished drawing you. You know what that means: I’m thinking about colors, as per the usual. The brain can only store so many memories, and yet the mind is infinite. Humanity has always had the power to delve into the vast void of time and space and further and further still regions of their own imagination. So, as you can imagine, in between the corridors of

my common sense and my sanity, you’ll find you. An anomaly. You were an anomaly. In the middle of my mind, you were a memory that refused to live in the restraints of every thought I can remember yet possibly forget.

Your name was Violet.

You were a girl. A young girl. A pretty girl, as far as inconspicuous ones went, and I saw you for the first time when twelve-year-old Billy Hawkins decided one day to figure out how many punches it would take for my face to change colors by just using the power of his two fists. He was a burly guy, whom I assumed ate twelve live pigs and downed it all with a glass of orange juice every morning, but I digress from that. Bottom-line: he was huge. I wasn’t. And he was out to kill me, with every other person in the hallway chanting him on. His eye color I wasn’t so sure about, and it was a bit too hazy to tell since I was far-sighted and my glasses were strewn into some random crevice of the school hallway. I figured out that day I was far-sighted when I figured out you had hazel irises. Big ones. Sad ones. Ones quietly asking if my swollen ones would heal, saying they were all too sorry. My head rattled with every right hook, my blood matching the lockers, and I could feel him getting closer to his answer. How many would it take? Or was that even his question? Why did he persist? “Yer dead, pal! Ya hear me?! Dead!” Maybe it was just because he wasn’t all that fond of me. He had things to let out. “How da ya like THAT one, huh?” Seventh grade was hard. Kids can be cruel; we both know that much by now. The blubbery pieces of meat slammed against my bruised cheeks, almost in unison with the stamping of feet and clapping of hands of the screech monkeys that gathered in our little tight-knit ring of blood and tears and zits and hormones and confusion and temper and Billy Hawkins’ devious left jabs to my side. All you could do was stare. You didn’t cheer. Laugh. Speak out. Stare. You stared. I didn’t blame you. I stared too. I tried desperately to concentrate on what color Billy’s sweat was, and yet your striking hazel eyes were my focal point. Your eyes. Your eyes hid under matted, frizzy, ebony hair that dangled over your blue-jean-covered shoulders, as you clung your algebra book and strapped it against your chest. And your skirt, this flowing, green skirt that you used to wear every Thursday after this fiasco that made me think of the hills where I used to draw everything I ever loved. My grandfather’s lake house, the ducks in the park that scavenged for breadcrumbs in the afternoon, my cat Socks, and you. I always drew my favorite colors. Red used to be my favorite, but I got tired of it.

28

He left me sprawled out on the dirty, dingy marble floor, head leaned against the scarlet lockers and echoes begging for more bouncing through the angles of my emptied mind. But I then thought of what color pencil would be best for your skirt. Your name was Violet. I always drew you.

*** When high school came around, your skirt got shorter and your frizzy hair was gone. And by gone, I mean that I could see your shoulders. They were bare. Tan. Yes, you were tan. Your tan fingers would nervously twirl around your bronze locket whenever Billy spoke to you. He got it for you because it matched your eyes; we could both feel the dishonesty at the opposite ends of brown’s scale. But he wouldn’t care to know that. You wore sunglasses in the middle of November, and they shielded the hazel and its clear glaze from possible changes. Lined with scarlet veins and surrounded by grey and black and sadness, they became hollow, as you did. When he was gone, the fingers still twirled, albeit not as violent as they would in his presence. What color do you consider tears? After observing you for these past four years, I’ve yet to find the answer. It grew harder drawing you on the hill, as it does everyday. I hate drawing glasses, since they remind me how hard they are to find, and your frizziness and the pain in your face made me think of how you needed to hide in it. It was difficult still to draw what made me happy, and high school is hard for anyone, and it makes us forget the innocence we once had that got replaced by the limited life we never thought could exist. What do you believe in, Violet? What do you love? What makes you happy? Do you ever wonder what it would be like if you stood on the side of the dock but could never jump into and immerse yourself into the endless, infinite blue? Do you imagine what it would be like if you looked up at the grey, dying sky and never saw a rainbow? Have you ever seen one? Red was all I was used to. The color of lockers and scars and blood, cheeks, balled fists, anger, rage, zits, confusion, love. And then I saw you, and all I can see are colors. I picture your tan hands stroking my bronze cat’s fur, your palms cupping beige breadcrumbs for the yellow, waddling ducklings passing by. Your white smile, your glasses out to sea, and you and me under some umbrella in some courtyard in some state in some other country with different colors on their flags as we point at the seven streaking colors, with you walking up to the end of it and finishing the spectrum. Yet your tears are colorless, as are anomalies. Only light could bend through water to make a vivid display that was made for you. You end every thought as I end every drawing, and as you may never know my name, I will see you on the hills, diving head-first into the infinite sky.

Your name is Violet.Violet.

Do you know where to start?

29

Come a little closer.Closer,and tell me if it feels likeyou are at the bottom of a fish tank,watching the gold slide right pass youin that swirling lack ofglistening oxygen.

The vines swirl around your ankles,with your worn shoes that used to slam against my heelsbecoming one with sand.No colors leave them,And neither can you.

Leaves fall,and you extend your tonguea season too early.Tastes like memories.

Memories have no taste.

Swim closer.Can you taste the sand?

Zoe Blandford

Kayla Reische

31

Drowned

Adelaide Conway

Dreams

Laurie Ellen Moore 33

Drowned dreams haunt me.

Silent stones thrown in their watery graves

Splash.

Ripples of the past

Glimpses of what could have been

And what will never be.

Their ghostly shadows lurk

Calling

Crying

Whispering in tones of nostalgia

Echoing guilt

Egging doubt.

Nagging suspicions.

Awaking paranoia.

Angelic fingers reach for the surface

Stretching for the light

Working for rebirth.

The enemy of time.

Drowned dreams haunt me while they cry for ven-geance.

adventure Laurie Ellen Moore

Sydney Farris

Perhaps the strongest question ringing in the last of my rational mind is, Why am I doing this? Indeed, logic could pull forth no reason for me to be running for my life in dense trees alongside a lake in the middle of nowhere with nothing. No shelter, no bathroom, no food, no

plan. Just the sweaty clothes clinging to my skin and the rapidly diminishing light of day as the purple scab of night began to form over the hazy arching sky. Figuring going any further would only

lead to more problems, I focused my energy on finding things to fix a shelter for the night. The ques-tion was what to use. The sparse branches of the pine trees disobligingly hung many stories above my head.

Toothpick-like needles littered the uneven ground. Roots stretched upwards, reaching through the hard dirt to bask in the moon’s feeble glow. A cool wind came from the direction of the river as if the water were yawning as

it awoke to perform its nightly duty as a mirror to the stars. It played with my long hair, pushing the sweat-damp-ened strings across my cheeks. I swept it away with the palm of my hand and carefully tucked it behind my ear.

The night began to raise its voice as summer cicadas hissed and frogs chorused in ribbits and croaks. It seemed to whisper messages of the futility of my quest. Distant coyote cries hinted at the dangers lurking in the vastness of

the darkened wilderness. I walked on a little further, sweeping the ground with my eyes for a ditch I might be able to lie in for the night. Eventually I spotted a large dip in the undulating forest floor. Veering towards it, I gathered needles and leaves, scooping many up into my arms and trapping others as I shuffled my feet through the dirt before unceremoni-

ously dumping the stiff, crackling leaves into the ditch.Once the pit hid from view underneath my makeshift leaf façade, the sun had given up on the day and all that remained of its light was a gray haze that blanketed the world, blurring the trees into the sky and fading the

edges of the twigs and leaves on the ground. My head swam with exhaustion and dehydration, recreating the world around me in bizarre, unintelligible spectacles.Fireflies teleported through the air in flashes of iridescent

yellow-green magic. My limbs were heavy and moved spastically, convincing me an unseen puppeteer controlled my actions. Stars were holes poked in the black fabric someone had draped across the sun. Tall grasses wagged back and forth like dogs’ tails. Owls screeched in uncontrollable laughter at the beauty of the wonderful miracle

that was the nighttime. I felt a peculiar freedom when night settled into the forest. My vision was limited so that I could barely make out the outline of my five long fingers branching from my palms at arms’ length and the night stretched on infinitely beyond them, out of the forest. The world was both calmer and more alive than it had been while the sun illuminated every last needle and painted the world in bold shades of browns and greens and blues.

The pale light given by the moon gave the world a softer edge and colored everything in rich purple and navy hues, broken by the glittering eye-shine of shy animals whose domain was here in the unconquered darkness. The night gave the world a new face with new possibilities, new characters, and new hopes. It could hide ob-

stacles and shroud doubts in its far-reaching cloak. It warped the world, mystifying everything it stroked with its cool fingers. At night, I could be anything I wanted. In the still of the night, when the world slowed and made its stage for hopeless dreamers and eager-eyed lovers, the quiet girl was cast aside for an alluring temptress, set on

capturing the world and men’s hearts with the command of her divinity. Everywhere night touched could be mine. I could own the night in a way the light of day would never allow.

Yet my rational mind grasped hold of me through my exhausted haze, reminding me that it was indeed late and I needed rest if I was to do anything tomorrow.

Sighing deeply, I stepped into my makeshift bed, the dead leaves crackling like old paper as I sank deep into the layers on the floor. I shifted around and swept my hand over the top of my pile so I was completely covered save for the tip of my nose. The world around me faded into distant sounds as my eyelids crept over my eyes and my mind drifted off into the world I created, the world I dared only to

visit in the solitude and darkness of the night. 35

Night Flowers

We go swimming at ten. It’s very dark out—the sky is black and dotted with occasional pinpricks of light.

The small pool is filled with warm water and a layer of flower petals float atop the water. My friend cleans

the pool and dips a toe in. The water is slippery with too much chlorine. “Make sure there are no bugs!”

I shout. When the flower petals are as few in numbers as the stars, we jump in, float on our backs, and

stare at the murky blackness above. I dip my head under the water and laugh, a joke in bubbles.

36

Kayla Reische

Hannah Kinney-Kobre

She runs.Faster than she has before.Trying to escape the darkness trying to consume her.Faster and faster she runs till things blur.It’s always right there behind her.After what seems like eternity she gives up.She can’t go on.She sits silently.Waiting for it to consume her.Tears slide down her face.Still she does not run.Still she sits there.The darkness reaches her and begins to devour her greedily.“I’m sorry.” She whispers.Then she is no more.The darkness takes her away to never return.Gone is the happy little girl.Gone is the girl who was never sad or upset.In it’s place was a girl who was beaten down.Torn with depression and anger and hurt.At the end was only chaotic soul with pieces.An empty shell of what used to be.

Night Flowers

We go swimming at ten. It’s very dark out—the sky is black and dotted with occasional pinpricks of light.

The small pool is filled with warm water and a layer of flower petals float atop the water. My friend cleans

the pool and dips a toe in. The water is slippery with too much chlorine. “Make sure there are no bugs!”

I shout. When the flower petals are as few in numbers as the stars, we jump in, float on our backs, and

stare at the murky blackness above. I dip my head under the water and laugh, a joke in bubbles.

Kayla Reische

Anna Rinehardt Mad

ie M

erce

r

* A R A B I A N *

Frame 1Scratched silk, bleached oven breath; the rest a whistling windborne battery of VOICE—an infinity of secrets on high.

Frame 2You have two options: to swim like a new age fish in the endless white or to stall, cocoon, condense like glass.

Sarah Rose

38

* N I G H T S *

Frame 4In the shattered space where undead metal meets unborn dust,a rain-washed rust anthem singsLIFE into the night.

Frame 3A statue waiting in frozen perpetuity, suffocated by walls of endless open air; even giant’s footprints seem like cradles.

by Carrie Sauder

39

New

PlacesLeave

AnImpact

Chris Williams

I remember these things, too.

The feeling of the wind blowing snow in my face, while I’m in a foreign place.

Hearing the wind blowing faster and faster, in a winter I have never experienced before.

The snow falling on my head when I stop to take in my surroundings.

A quick glance at a range of mountains, soaring higher than I have ever seen before.

Thinking only what it would be like to climb on of them and take in that crisp mountain air

from the peak of its existence.

Opening my mouth, and the snow finding my tongue. Feeling the cold, wetness up close.

Listening to the sound of my shoes crunching in the snow, as trudge through the never

ending white.

Smelling all of the foreign food I have never heard of, and wanting to just take a it of it so

that I would know what it tasted like.

I remember listening to the sound of different languages, other than mine, being spoken all

around me.

Remembering a different world forever.

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The Hope of

I’m from Iraq.The place where you see bombs.And smell the dust.

It was beautiful but warIs building up, it’s all ruined.

Spending time with family,

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The Hope of

It’s the best thing you can do.

Taste of warm tea,Family is gathering.

The hope of disaster andViolence will go away.

Disaster

Leig

h An

n W

ilson

Daniah Almahdawi

The rain is not a good omen. The quaint dirt road is churned to angry red mud, the clinging kind that sucks at your feet and makes running impossible. The air is cold and the wind is wild; in all that dripping blue damp no one will be outside. Just one lonely woman, easily seen in her garish mauve mistake of a dress, remembered for the first time just when she wanted to be invisible. I’m surprised my cheeks don’t match the old curtain cloth, but the frigid breath of the wind has stolen any vibrancy from my face. I feel like a ghost, numb everywhere but my heart, which burns. Halfway down the weedy green street, a door creaks open to my left and some snarl-toothed hag leers out from her tin porch. I wave mechanically in greeting, feeling her gaze cut like glass at my wrists. Small town gossip and mother nature are conspiring to keep me in bondage. The shackles of red mud creep around my ankles and I lose a shoe to their vicious grip. Too anxious to stop, I don’t dare pick it up, then realize my mistake too late: evidence in the street and a barefoot woman with orange blood on her legs. Lopsided and gasping, I half-sprint past the dilapidated line of storefronts that hunch grotesquely in the deluge. No pretense masks me now, no neat cut-out house-wife with a creamy shopping bag draped over her arm, only a half-wild human memory clawing her way down the backwoods highway with a dirty linen sack and slick brown hair slipping from her sloping shoulders. Just ahead, I can see it, perched at the end of the road like a signpost to heaven: the bus stop, with the beast itself growling patiently nearby. Fifty steps more…only forty last gimping strides before escape…thirty feet in thirty seconds… An engine rumbles deafeningly behind me and mud splatters up to my waist as tires squeal to a halt in the road. Suddenly, the rain that washes my face stings with de-feat. My hands slacken and my shoulders slump, and then my belongings tumble out into the mire, blouses and brushes and for some reason a ring: a magnet, pulling him straight to me. I leave my ragged hopes stewing there in the scarlet muck with the bus idling op-timistically nearby and haul myself into the ripped leather seat of the truck. My other shoe falls off as the door slams closed and I’m left barefoot, feeling naked, alone in the beaten green truck with him. It lurches and staggers as it gets its footing, then careens off down

the road as curtains of blue rain close behind us on a last act known as freedom.

Rainy Day Carrie Sauder

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Anna Martin

Come a little closer.Closer,and tell me if it feels likeyou are at the bottom of a fish tank,watching the gold slide right pass youin that swirling lack ofglistening oxygen.

The vines swirl around your ankles,with your worn shoes that used to slam against my heelsbecoming one with sand.No colors leave them,And neither can you.

Leaves fall,and you extend your tonguea season too early.Tastes like memories.

Memories have no taste.

Swim closer.Can you taste the sand?

Zoe Blandford

Kayla Reische

Fish Tanks

Alley BellAlley BellAlley Bell

A Sight Unseen

A Sight Unseen

A Sight Unseen

Kayla Reische

I remember these things, too.The dark damp skyThe cool crisp breeze brushing byA distant figure hiding behind a ghostly blan-ketA tasteless powder of winter flurry landing on my tongueFreezing flakes as frozen as my soul, on my face, flying low, while I was numb and expressionlessFinding my way while lost in a divine maze of white, as the pure prison around me sur-rounded me,Slowly rising like the full moon.The scent of soot and smoke elevating into the sinister sky, drawing me nearThe whistling winds, howling like a lone wolf as I slowly reach the door.Stepping inside, hearing a thunderous, omi-nous roar.Turning as I witness a blinding flash of un-certainty.

A Sight Unseen Ricky Lancaster

I remember these things, too.The dark damp skyThe cool crisp breeze brushing byA distant figure hiding behind a ghostly blan-ketA tasteless powder of winter flurry landing on my tongueFreezing flakes as frozen as my soul, on my face, flying low, while I was numb and expressionlessFinding my way while lost in a divine maze of white, as the pure prison around me sur-rounded me,Slowly rising like the full moon.The scent of soot and smoke elevating into the sinister sky, drawing me nearThe whistling winds, howling like a lone wolf as I slowly reach the door.Stepping inside, hearing a thunderous, omi-nous roar.Turning as I witness a blinding flash of un-certainty.

A Sight Unseen Ricky Lancaster

I remember these things, too.The dark damp skyThe cool crisp breeze brushing byA distant figure hiding behind a ghostly blan-ketA tasteless powder of winter flurry landing on my tongueFreezing flakes as frozen as my soul, on my face, flying low, while I was numb and expressionlessFinding my way while lost in a divine maze of white, as the pure prison around me sur-rounded me,Slowly rising like the full moon.The scent of soot and smoke elevating into the sinister sky, drawing me nearThe whistling winds, howling like a lone wolf as I slowly reach the door.Stepping inside, hearing a thunderous, omi-nous roar.Turning as I witness a blinding flash of un-certainty.

A Sight Unseen Ricky Lancaster

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Leah Caple

Lucin

da Bo

nd

FREEDOM INTO THE UN-KNOWN

The boat engine rumbling. Gliding through the waves.

Up. The parachute opens.

Off. The ocean spray on my face.

My dad by my side. The smell of salt water fills my nose.

Eyes shut tight. Closed.

The taste of salt. “Isn’t this fun?”

Open. The wind in my hair. The air in my lungs. The sound peace.

Freedom. The unknown below.

But not a worry. For I am free.

Small, but free.

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MOBIUS STRIP

50

Zoe Blandford

Maddie Harrison

We’ve been here before.

You and I at the top of a staircase,

Listening to the repeats of a local radio station

And humming against the sameness.My head on your shoulder

And I wonder,Like always,What we are

And why we are And why

It was a staircase.

Sarah Cline F o r g e t A b o u t I t

Mary Carver Deal

Mom?

P l e a s e honey, l e t ’ s j u s t t r yt o h ave a good day.

I wa s j u s t g o i ng t o a s k

Come on , S a rah .I t ’ s b eau t i f u l o u t s i d e ,t h e s un i s s h i n i ng ,and I am happy.

You c an ’ t p r e t end t h a tt h e p r ob l ems don ’ t e x i s t Mom .I t ’ s l i k e p r e t end i ngI don ’ t e x i s t .

I l o ve you .P l e a s e know t ha t .B u t I c an ’ t d o t h i st oday.

L ook a t how t he s un s h i n e s !Don ’ t you l o ve i t , Swee t i e ?Swee t i e ?D i d I up se t you ?

Ju s t f o r ge t a bou ti t . 51

MINI GOLF IN ARABI

Kyrie Mason

Anne McBride

We’re playing mini-golf today. I feel my feet on the soft grass; it feels light, ethereal. The breeze carries the smell of the pond, of life slowly shriveling up in the

cold. (The) sun is hanging over me on thin wires – probably copper – and it’s pale light is heavy on my skin. Imagine autumn in the south: It is raining, and the trees are fad-ed red, green bleeding weakly from their tips. They’re dying. I lift up my head from the

game, look up towards the city scraping against the clouds a little ways away, and I think. Empty thoughts, thoughts without words or concept, only pictures without mean-ing. Drifting in, and out of my head in a clumsy motion, thought feels almost alien. I bite my lip and squint to try and figure whatever it is I’m trying to figure. I’m lost, my head

is. And before I can find it again, I’m taking my next swing at the mini-golf ball, putting it several feet over the soft grass, losing it somewhere in the bush, somewhere

in the pond.

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As I sit here running circles in my mindI glance at a picture of her

For years I see this and it warms meIt inspires me

It refreshes meShe would stare into me and see greatness

Now she has driftedHer eyes focused on a new

She has lost interest in the oldI have lost the dim spark

I stare at this picture beggingShe stares out the window wither her eyes,

Those beautiful brown eyes,Targeted on a new

Zachary Kennedy

Lucinda Bond

54

As I sit here running circles in my mindI glance at a picture of her

For years I see this and it warms meIt inspires me

It refreshes meShe would stare into me and see greatness

Now she has driftedHer eyes focused on a new

She has lost interest in the oldI have lost the dim spark

I stare at this picture beggingShe stares out the window wither her eyes,

Those beautiful brown eyes,Targeted on a new

As I run from, The ruin of my past, Flying, High on regret, I hear your damned name. And I trip and fall, On the broken pieces, Of my shattered soul, As I see the scarlet blood, Blooming from my knees,I hear the sighing breeze,. Whispering your name,

And all I can do is pray The wounds healW

HISPERAv

a Bur

nett

Lucinda Bond

Olivia Larson

Kayla Reische

Mad

ison

Fis

her

six words

We expand to space and beyond.

Help! My balloon left me too.

She couldn’t fly, but tried any-ways.

The dark will die, not me.

Sarah Foster

Dylon Veitch

Kayla Reische

Olivia Larson

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six words

Collaboration

Collaboration

Third Sixth

“Please apologize to John for punching him in the stomach.” The teacher arrived, kneeling

down beside me with her kind, motherly eyes looking straight into mine. Her smile was soft

and sympathetic; although John stood next to her, still crying

with an almost pathetic vulner-ability, she didn’t seem angry. This was mercy. I knew, then, that I would not be punished and I knew, just as certainly,

that I should be. It was my turn

to burst into tears.

“I’m going to tell the teacher.” He scrambled to his feet, clutch-

ing his stomach and groaning with pain.

Surely it was only imagined? Pretend? My tiny fists were

scarcely the size of his eyes, yet I had made him cry. It was the sort of power I had craved, to make them listen to me. I was small, I was quiet, but I wasn’t weak. I needed to prove that. What other way could this be

proved but with fists and hateful words?

“Leave me alone!” My fist slammed into his gut once,

twice, maybe even three times. Numbers were reduced to a fuzzy concept, somewhere

behind the writhing black anger that smothered my vision. “Go away and leave me alone!” I

clenched my fist harder, letting red blood leech the color from my palms. I stared, merciless

and hollow, as he slowly began to cry. It occurred to me, distant as the numbers, that my mother

would disapprove.

Culture shock. New School. New clothes. New people. New slang.

New schedule. New morning routine. Drama. Middle School. Elementary school to middle

school.

Private school to public schoolMexico to the United States. For me, it wasn’t just a new school it was a new country. Mexico had uniformed pupils, one classroom that teachers

streamed through, and escolta for honor roll students. It had community, my peers were my

family.

Coming to Charlotte, middle school was always moving,

fights broke out. It was filled with new faces, and new cafete-ria food (gross). It was imper-sonal, institutionalized, a one

size fits all education. It was not horrible. I met new people and had new experienc-

es.

It was just different. Polite, apathetic, judgemental, I ran into them all. The peo-

ple I appreciated though were the genuine ones. People are

different yet the same anywhere you go. I didn’t know if I was

different or the same. I am still not sure.58

A compliation of stu-dent writing inspired by Sherman Alexie’s Tanto

and the Lone Ranger Fistfight in Heaven.

New faces. Staring. Gawking. Judging.

I had moved to North Carolina from Georgia. Everything was unfamiliar. The small-town at-mosphere I had grown up with was gone, and I had emerged

into a city lifestyle. No one cared about me, and everyone just ignored me. There were no friendly “hellos” or smiles

as I walked down the hallway. Just blank faces streaming past, marking me with indifference or

dislike.

I had started skipping, trying to fit in. Every time I skipped, or curse, or cheat they stare a little less and accept me a little more. I was changing myself

into something different. I was the sort of person I used to look down on. A nuisance, a pest. I didn’t want that. It was the last

thing I expected.

I tried to distance myself again, but I couldn’t. Even if I could’ve escaped my new niche, I don’t

know if I would have wanted to. Being alone is terrifying.

Eleventh Tweleveth My parents tell me to get an “A”. Colleges tell me to get an “A”.

Test Day:“I got an A.”

The boy in the back of the class used his phone.

“I got an A.”She stared at my desk and cop-

ied off of me.“I got an A.”

He got the answers from his friend who took the test yester-

day.

“I got an A.”I stayed up until 3 in the morn-

ing, studying.

So next time I didn’t study. Next time I went to bed at 10.

That time Sarah was up until 3, and that time I made sure to sit

near her.

That time “I got an A.” But did I deserve it?

But who cares my parents saw the “A” and so did the colleges.

Jesus I just wanted to survive.

As we finished reading the story of the death of a woman who was forced into marriage, the

dry voice of my English teacher rang out:

“Now, who do you find more sympathetic, the woman or her

widower husband?”

Arguments started all through-out the classroom.

“The woman was happy about her husband’s death! She’s

horrible!”“It says that her husband loved her! And when he died she was only concerned about her new

found freedom!”

The teacher raised his hand, and all fell silent. “I agree,” He began, “The husband is a much

more sympathetic character. He had what he thought was a loving relationship with his wife and it turns out that she found the marriage stifling enough to consider herself ‘free’ when he

died.”

Sitting alone, in the back of the classroom, I could take it no

more. I burst out passionately, causing everyone to turn around

and stare.

“You’re wrong!”

Eighth

We used to have a red door Not a cherry red, But the red that you see

at Christmas time.

There was a mark on the wall where a younger version of myself tried to write

the alphabet with a button and when the light shined just right you’d see a

faint letter A in the paint.

I grew up in a house on a hillTall Forrest Drive, Germantown Maryland,

20874I can’t recall the address

When I try to, all I see is the yellow room that I fed my fish in

All is see is a backyard equip with crappy wooden swing set, initials etched in broken

down wood...

I think we had a deck onceI don’t know my house number of the place

I grew up, where I hid in closets and was a fairy princess, where my parents split up

and I spilled Chinese food on the carpet.

The red door won’t be reopened and my petals from my past are free falling as

I aimlessly attempt to staple or glue or tape them back together all while I try to tape my life into something new because

childhood innocence is so much easier than what I’m living with now.

We used to havea red door

Brigid Meier

Adelaide Conway60

LIBERATEDBrigid Meier

Sara

How

ell

Oh, you silly thing. You just keep running and hiding, thinking it will get better if you keep going it’s time to face the truth, dear. I can’t keep chasing you through every day. I just need you to realize that you can stop. Things will stay okay if you sit down and take a break. You probably need it. I know you’re scared, and this world’s an intimidating place, but there’s no reason to run. The world will be your friend if you let it. Stop running; it’s only from yourself. Don’t fear me either. I am you. I am your mind. Your conscious-ness. Your dreams and nightmare. Your feelings. I know you, and I know you’re tired, so please just trust me, and fall back into a pause. Let yourself appreciate the world, there’s nothing to fear. In-stead of avoiding your emotions, try talking to them. Everything is negotiable if you sit there and think about it. I’m tired of chasing you, don’t you see? You’re getting too far ahead of me, and I don’t like where this will lead. You’re running from your problems every chance you get, but before you know it, you’ll run yourself off a cliff. At least slow to a walk, so I can catch up and talk. I can show you the beauty in this life that you have, and before you know it, you’ll forget why it was so bad. Please just listen to me, this is all I ask. Remember that I’m your soul and there are no pay backs.

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