Torches n' Pitchforks online literary journal Spring 2015

torches n’ pitchforks

SPRING 2015 VOL. 7 NO. 2

hunting for voices that rise above the angry mob

AT

This issue is an artistic collaborationbetween Sisters High School

and Crook County High School

Cover: Hannah Tenneson, Watching Our Shadows Bleed

ContentsFICTION

Takeout by Emily KreachbaumDamaged Goods by Baily TarabochiaThe Package by Ashley Bond

NONFICTION

The Secret of Origami Cranes by Jayana HinkleThe Sit n’ Spin by McKenzie ThompsonThe Wind by Shannon LoveWhat Lies Behind the Darkness by Brianna HumestonPointe Shoes by Anna RoseneauStitches in a Leather Glove by Ashley Elliot

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POETRY

from Crook County High School

Canvas by Madison PhamYour Long Awaited Presence by Trinity Churchill-DicksLove, Lust and Lies by Destiny PetersonThe Rock, by Jon GraceThe Force of Ending by Marissa HakimianBlue Lines by Zach SmithI Will Make you Proud by Maddy Tibbs

from Sisters High School

You are Love by Brenna WeemsDeath Personified by Hannah StuweUntitled by Sianna FlowersFear by Emily ChristenAdrenaline by Casey LaneExcitement by Gabe WillittsRegret by Haylie HudsonThe Dark Path by Logan GillA Message for My Fear by Nila LukensGuilt by Harriet BurquistRebellion by Margo Bruguier

Review: “A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me” Poetry Analysis by Anna Mollere

Acknowledgements

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81

Chawndra Craig Octopus 1

Fict

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Sierra Dean- Racing-Time

8 //torches n’ pitchforks

Hannah Tenneson, Stardust

torches n’ pitchforks // 9

Take-outEmily Kreachbaum

“The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.”-President Roosevelt Amanda checked both deadbolts for the tenth time before sitting down on her couch, ready for dinner after a long day. It was grocery shopping day, the day she dreaded most out of each month. It meant she had to leave her house for a whole half an hour and walk down the block to the local store. Balancing three bags of food and walking home was always the worst, almost making her wish she had a car. But she knew she couldn’t buy one. They were way dangerous to ride in. And even if she did miraculously survive the driving part, it would only attract burglars and murderers to her house. She picked up her phone, a special government issued one that nobody could track her calls from, and dialed her favorite Italian restaurant. “Thank you for calling Russo’s, you’re local taste of Italy. How may I help you?”Russo’s restaurant was the only one she trusted. Nobody had ever gotten sick there, and no crimes of any type had ever occurred within a four mile radius. Plus they delivered, so she never even had to leave her house. “Hey Tommy, its Amanda.” “Oh hey Amanda. You want your usual?” “Yes please. Who’s delivering tonight?” “Actually Fred and Ernesto are both out sick today, so you’ll have to come pick it up.”There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “I have to do what?”

“Come pick it up. Sorry for the inconvenience. I’d deliver myself if I didn’t have to work the register.” She thought for a second, weighing the risk. “Okay Tommy, I’ll see you in a little while.” She hung up and sat there, regretting her decision already. Her horoscope had told her to take a risk today, so with a sigh she resolved herself to the dreadful task ahead. She pulled out her purse and opened it to check and see if she had ev-erything. Her lucky four leaf clover, rabbit’s foot, and horse shoe all seemed to be in order. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a can of pep-per spray, just in case. Before she left she stood in front of her mirror and gave herself a pep talk. “You can do this.” She said out loud. “Naperville is the safest city in the country. Nothing bad will happen tonight.” She tapped her knuckles against the wooden door three times so as not to jinx anything. Peeping out her front window and both peep holes before walking outside, she quickly locked up and trotted down the street. The walk there was relatively easy. She checked around every corner before stepping out, and she only had to cross to the opposite side of the street once, when a family with three rambunctious kids climbed out of a minivan onto the side walk. When the youngest one waved to her she put her head down and picked up her pace. When she finally got to Russo’s she peeked her head inside, scanned the interior to see that it was clear, and slipped inside. “Hey Amanda, long time no see!” Tommy was waiting with her order at the register. Pulling out her wallet she handed him the cash and reached for her food. “Let me run to the back and grab your change.” He turned and walked behind the beaded curtain that blocked the kitchen from view. Amanda turned when she heard the little bell above the front door ding. Five teenage boys walked in and took the booth closest to the door. Her face drained of color. She hated teenagers, especially boys. Nothing good ever came from them. “Hooligans.” She muttered to herself. Dangerous hooligans. She added in her mind. “Keep the change!” She yelled back to Tommy before scurry-


ing past the boys and out onto the street. When she was about fifty feet away she heard the door to Russo’s open and one of the boys yell something to her. She quickened her pace to a half walk, half run. Over the rushing in her ears she could hear multiple pairs of sneakers slapping the concrete as they ran after her. Thoughts of knives and guns filled her head as she broke into a dead sprint. The tears in her eyes made her blindly turn down the wrong street into a dark alley. A cold hand seemed to grip her heart and squeeze. She reached in her purse for her pepper spray, but realized in her rush to escape the boys she had left it on the restaurant counter. She dove behind a garbage can in a feeble attempt to hide. When she saw their shadows stretch down the alley, the pressure on her heart increased. Her arms shook with the adrenaline pulsing through her veins. By the time she realized the pressure on her heart wasn’t just her imagination, it was too late. She spluttered and shook, as her heart finally gave out.

“Ma’am you forgot your purse!” One of the boys called down the alley.


Damaged GoodsBaily Tarabochia As I sit upon the windowsill with a gray ragged blanket draped across my shoulders, I see the sun rising, vivacious color of the flowers blooming, and the grass getting greener by the second. Wondering how the earth can be so lively and colorful when I feel so hopeless and som-ber. I view the world through the state of mind of despair and loneliness and can only think of the way my life is being wasted away. The winter months fit my attitude and mood the most. It felt com-forting knowing that the earth was ugly when ugly events were happen-ing in my life. January of last year began the falling of my happiness. The strongest man in my life lost to a battle of cancer. No more of grandpa’s apple pies, guitar strumming to ole Merle Haggard, or rides up in the Minam with the horses. It had a bigger affect on me then I had imagined it would. The thought of not getting that person back was devastating in itself. Although the death was a breaking moment in my life, I realized I still had the memories to hang on to and other important people in my life to help me through this; a loving family and the love of my young life. Optimism has always been my strongest characteristic. Little did I know optimism is the reason I was soon blindsided. My dad had left his family in the following May. Never giving a reason as to why. Why couldn’t I keep my dad around? If he loved me why did he leave? Why would he leave knowing he had to leave me? Wasn’t I enough reason for him to stay? My mother’s words haunted me. “He doesn’t want to see you. You think he cares about you? Then explain why he hasn’t texted or called you. All he cares about are your brothers. You’re too much like me, a useless split tail.” As much as I didn’t want


to believe it, I couldn’t help but the feel the truth of those words as they stung my heart. He never made an effort to see me or simply text me to ask how school is going. I watched my brothers get to spend endless time with my dad, going fishing, receiving gifts of love and all I got was a slap on the back and a “see ya.” I got better grades than my brothers, had a job, accepted into multiple colleges, and on the road to a successful life. Why didn’t I feel successful? I couldn’t even keep my dad in my life, someone who I am a part of. Not only did I lose my dad I mentally lost my mom. Out past midnight at the bar and waking up in the middle of the night to the door slamming and sloppy kissing. All these strangers coming in night after night using my bathroom, laying down their head under my roof made me feel disgusted and dirty in my own house. I didn’t understand. Why can’t she just be okay with having us kids? Her own blood wasn’t enough for her; she had to search for something else. Then I lost another person in my life. The one who has been with me through it all, accepting me with all my baggage, flaws, and faults, com-forting me when I was at my lowest was gone with the blink of an eye. “You’re too much to handle, I can’t take this anymore. You are cre-ating more stress for me then I need in my life. I need time to figure out what I want.” Just like that I was broken again. The pieces vanished once again. Was two years of love not enough? Why wasn’t I enough? Why am I being punished for losing my grandpa and dad? Why couldn’t I keep anyone in my life? My grandpa didn’t have the fight to stay in my life anymore. My father didn’t want to fight to stay in my life anymore. And my boyfriend didn’t know how to fight to keep my in how life. Why couldn’t I keep a man in my life? Not even my own dad and boyfriend who promised they would never leave. Broken in all areas and ways possible, I search for attention, I search for myself. I find guys who love my body and love to touch me. And I let them. If I wasn’t enough for my dad and ex lover I will find someone who thinks I am enough. Whether I have to take off my clothes or send promis-cuous photos I will find the attention that makes me feel like I’m someone.


If I do what they please, they shouldn’t have a reason to leave, right? Only to find out that it is the same vicious cycle. I find an attractive boy who thinks I’m cute. They call me pretty and tell me everything I want to hear. It feels good to be wanted, I am subconsciously give my whole being to them yearning for the love that will never escape from me. But they do leave me. They stop talking to me, ignore me at school, and act like I don’t exist anymore. I’m right back at where I started with a useless and lonely feeling. So I do it again and again and again. In search of someone new to take away the pain and the void. Only to find my search goes on and on. Why do I do that to myself? I set myself up for failure every time. I should know by now that no one could ever love me. I am damaged goods. That’s why they leave. I’m only good enough for what they want but too dam-aged and complicated for them to stay. I hated laying my head down to go to sleep encompassed by pain and loneliness knowing I had no one there to hold me. My mom was out do-ing her nightly routine and not worried about what she had left at home knowing that I could use her comfort. Every night trying to fall asleep my mind is crowded with regret and moral issues. But this night was different, instead of feeling empty I felt whole. I felt a presence of hope and hap-piness. I then had this chill sent down my spine and I realized it was my grandpa looking over me and reminding me of myself worth. I woke up the next morning feeling anew and vibrant. I had come to terms that those men that had left me and used me did not deserve my love. My love is something that should be won and not just given away. I am more valuable then I gave myself credit for and I have realized that the people who truly matter will make go to worlds end to have me in their life. Looking out the same window, I see rain pouring from the dark gray clouds above, the trees slowly losing their leaves, and the grass yellowing by the second. But this time I finally see the beauty in the world. Although there is no sun shining, I feel the sun in my life and can see the happy that this world does have to offer. It might be ugly outside right now but it will soon rise to its full beauty again as myself has done.


The PackageAshley Bond

Chelsea opened her eyes only to stare blankly into the darkness that was around her. There was no sign of her being alive. As she ran a mental check to revisit the events that led to this moment, panic ensued. Her breathing rapidly increased as she felt around to discover she was contained within a wooden box. She began to press up against the sides only to realize that the pressure from the outside was exponentially greater than which she was exerting. Chelsea began to cry as she processed what was happening. She was buried alive and no one was going to find her.

It seemed innocent enough for the FedEx man to arrive at her door. He was only doing his job. Chelsea stepped out onto the front porch in her dingy, Rolling Stones t-shirt and oldest pair of boxer shorts. The man who had knocked on her door refused to make eye contact. It appeared as if he would look


anywhere but at her face.

As she signed for the package, she began to feel uncomfortable, as his heavy breathing became apparent to her. Without saying a word, he walked back to his truck and climbed in the back. Chelsea walked back inside assuming that he would just leave the entity on the front step. Approximately ten minutes has passed by the time she peeked outside her front door. The FedEx truck was still parked in front of her house. Due to the driver’s recent episode of heavy breathing, she walked outside to the truck and stuck her head inside the back of the storage area.

As Chelsea peeked her head through the doorway, two men, one of whom was the FedEx driver, lunged at her. She tried to scream, but she only managed to stifle a squeal before the larger of the two men reached her and muffled her shriek for help. Within a matter of minutes following the attack, she was tied down to the floor of the delivery truck and no matter how much she struggled, she could not unbind herself. Tears streamed down her face and snot bubbled out of her nose as she balled at the idea of losing her life. The larger man grew irritable


Hannah Tenneson, Why?

with her whimpers, so he climbed into the back and injected a clear fluid into her right arm using a syringe. Her vision became hazy and she quickly lost consciousness.

Chelsea began to lose sense of sanity while lying within the box. She desperately wished to see sunlight seeping through a crack in the box. Or, even a sound so that she may know where she was. As time passed, it became difficult for her to breath. Consumed by terror, Chelsea frantically began scratching at the top of the box with her barely existent fingernails. In the minutes following, she felt drops of water on her cheek. Deeply dehydrated, she adjusted her face only to taste the coppery flavor of blood on her tongue. Chelsea kicked and screamed until her energy was all but depleted. Following her fit, Chelsea began to cry again as she could hear her heart pounding loudly in her ears. This was the first sound she had heard in what felt like days. At this point, she knew this was the last sound she would hear. She was dying.

In her last dying memories, she thought about her mom. She thought about the fight they had and that her mom wouldn’t even think to look for her for months. Chelsea thought about how she had recently finished college and how no one had contacted her following her graduation. She realized that her body might never be found. When they would discover she was missing, the men who kidnapped her would have already covered their tracks. However, her most prominent memory was the most upsetting of all. It was knowing that she had never ordered a package. That was the thought that haunted her until she was no longer breathing.


Gail Lowry-The-Taj

Nonfiction

The Secret of the Origami CranesJayana Hinkle

Fold the top corner to the bottom corner. Crease. Fold again the other way. Crease. Turn the paper over. Fold. Crease. The instructions of how to make the pa-per crane turn into instinct as I make my umpteenth thousandth crane. When I look at the tiny piece of art, it takes me back to when I was making cranes while I sitting in the cafe at the hospital. Fold. Crease. Turn over. Repeat. I’m with my aunts and cousins as we make hundreds and hundreds of the paper cranes; all of us putting our silent prayers into the cranes. Aunt Talicia said she read that you get your wish when you make a thousand paper cranes. We were all wishing the same thing; that she would wake up. That Grand-ma could talk to us again and laugh with us and we could see the twinkle in her eye. We are all hoping and praying that these tiny Japanese birds grant our wishes as we fold, crease, turn over, and repeat.


The same process happens when I’m at the hospital again 5 years later. New state, new hospital, new per-son. I am frantically folding. Creasing. Turning over. Making these cranes, some big and some tiny from the left over paper, praying again and again. She needs to get better. I want her back home. Make the tumor shrink, make the chemo work. I want my mom back. Fold. Crease. Turn over. Keeping myself busy while worrying about the problem at hand. Mom is hooked up to all these machines that are helping keep her alive for the time being. These cranes have to work. I’m back folding the cranes in the present, think-ing about the people I have lost in my past. The cranes did work, though. They did not bring back the people I wanted, the people I made the cranes for, but they did give me something else. They gave me hope. All those days I spent in those white and hollow hospitals, I was putting my prayers and hope into these paper birds. The cranes kept me sane in those lonely hospi-tals, and somehow reassured me that things would get better. But how could these small squares of colorful paper give me that much hope? They were telling me that a higher authority is taking care of everything. The cranes weren’t religious by any means; they just told me to keep hoping and keep praying. Everything will work out. I will never forget these lessons as I hold the small paper Japanese bird in my palm. Don’t stop pray-ing. Don’t ever stop hoping. Fold. Crease. Turn over. Repeat.



HannahTenneson, Predictable-Movements

The Sit n’ SpinMcKenzie Thompson

In America there are approximately 876,000 divorces in one year. 13 years ago everything seemed to be in the right place. As a toddler there were no cares in the world. My biggest worries were which toy I was going to play with. Whenever we went to grandmas house it meant our family was com-ing together. Laughter and chatter would fill the air, while aromas of grand-ma’s breakfast casserole baked in the oven. Playing on the sit n’ spin was afavorite of my cousins and mine. While spinning around in circles I was still in the center of my world. I knew when I got off nothing would come crashing down. Everything was alright.

I belonged.

13 years later. I walk into the same house and only see memories hanging on the wall. To anyone it would seem like a happy household, only to know it’s broken. No one is ever there at the same time. Homemade food has turned into “Eat whatever you want”. The world is spinning but everything is off balance. The dizziness has led to a crashing moment. Our family has no sense of belonging anymore. As we all rush by memories sit in the houselike they never happened. The sit n’ spin sits in the attic with a layer of dust over it. At this moment I know our family is broken. No one belongs to it anymore.


Tessa O'Hern Child-of-Innovation

The WindShannon Love

Can you see the wind? You can feel the wind, but can you really see the wind? What do you supposed wind would look like, if you could see it? I remember a cold day in January, a chilling scream fills the empty house. A life changing moment. As soon as the scream is released, I fly down the stairs, not touching the stairs themselves at all. My younger brother meets me at the back door, blood pouring from his head, sticky and hot, the crimson substance covers his hands and has soaked into his hair and head. He suddenly goes quiet as frantic phone calls are made and my adrenaline shoots through the roof. A towel is se-cured on his head by my steady hands. Everything but my hands are shaking. Silence. It’s almost as if time itself has stopped. Nothing moves, no birds. A cool wind blows past me; I would have ran back into the house if the circumstances were differ-ent. The wind seemed to taunt me, to jeer and press me. It curled around me, daring me to break down, to just give up. Blood drips down from my brother’s head, plopping into the cold grass, steaming. I look at my brother sitting there, his head in his hands, not saying a word. I did not know how close our family was to losing one of our members. My brother did not cry, shock is a good thing for the body. Often times, it keeps you from ex-periencing the pain that comes with a traumatic experience.

That night, lying restless in my room, waiting for my mom and brother to get home, thoughts and emotions jumped around my head. It had been a long day, probably the longest day of my life. Time seems to drag. Finally, they walk in. My brother



smiles at me, “Thank you, Shannon, I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

I’ve never forgotten the feeling of standing there, my hands pushing so vigorously on the towel on my brothers head and the wind. The wind. It cooled the blood drops the instant they fell to the earth. The wind that told me to give up. This wind is the same wind that curled around me that day fishing with my brothers on the Crooked River. The tromp through the shrubbery to the water’s edge, the laughter, the food and the memories that filled that day, the same wind. The spin of the reel as the line whipped back and forth until finally finding its destination on top of the water. The cool breeze against my face giving me a relaxing and calming sensation. I sit there, absorb-ing the sunlight on my skin and breathing in deeply the sweet smell of summer.

I think of the different faces of the wind. The sweet beck-oning face, that pulls you into it on a hot day and refreshes you. Or the face of menace, when the wind rips across the prairie to a small house and farm, tearing it down board by board. I think back to that mind wrenching day, the day I almost lost my brother. The day that could have ruined me, and my family. I think of how easy it would have been to run, to leave and real-ize that I could not do anything. Like, the wind, that is there for a second, and then it vanishes. He needed me, how could I run and leave? That day had a huge impact on my life, I realized how precious life was, and how easily it could be taken away and ruined. Foundations must be built, or the wind will tear you down. Wind is a strange thing, like love. It can help or harm, and often times, you do not know which until it hits you. Can we really see love? We can see the effects of it, but feel it? I doubt it.

What Lies Behind the Darkness Brianna Humeston

The breathy rattle beneath me, stillness in the air, as light dances through my window into the black abyss of my room causing changing shapes and shadows to take life. At six years old, lying in bed, trying to fall asleep can be a frightening and lonely experience. Even though I now know that it was just my baby brother lying on the bottom bunk sleeping and the cars passing by with their high beams on, it’s still hard to face the dark, where the unknown are known. So many stories have been told in the dark that add to my fear. As a child, I heard that the Boogie Man was someone or something that would get me in the night if I wasn’t good and asleep. He would steal your good dreams and replace them with nightmares. Through these night-mares, was a portal that allowed the Boogie Man to physically interact with you. Since then, I believed this story and was afraid to sleep at night for fear that he would come and get me in my dreams. I’ve never seen the Boogie Man. He is always lurking in the shadows just waiting for me. When I was younger, I saw the Boogie Man as a dark kind of figure and very unsettling. Through my eyes the dark was a prison that I could never escape as soon as I closed my eyes. They were black patches that would engulf my room and never leave me alone, but now I see things a bit dif-ferently. As I’ve got older, new perspectives of this “black abyss” have formed. Instead, I see the darkness as a form of peace. It has a settling and calming atmosphere to it. What used to be the sense of a monster in my room is now an angel or loved one watching over me. Their presence comforts and makes me feel less afraid knowing that they are here to pro-tect me. The darkness is like a blanket that will always cover me at night when I’m cold and afraid. Even though there is silence, there is commo-tion between the shadows of the night. I’ve become accustomed to the


dark and am not as afraid because of the activities that happen among it. The truth behind the darkness and its sounds are known. I now know that the breathy rattle was actually my father snoring in his room down the hallway. The slight murmurs that I thought was the Boogie Man consult-ing with his friends really came from my brother’s mouth as he sleep talks. All those slight screeching and scratching sounds that I believed were the laughs of the devil and his nails trying to break through my walls to get to me was just the water heater and a mouse in the wall. I don’t know if it was because I had a wild imagination as a child or plain scared, but all those assumptions that were made about the dark are gone. I am no longer afraid of what is hiding in the shadows of my room or the wispy sounds that are brought by my air vent. All these sounds and shadows are a part of my nightly ritual now and make me feel safe and sound. I have finally discovered what lies behind the darkness and all the stories following it that I was once afraid of. The single thought of coming into contact with this dark mist gave me shivers and the idea that I would never awake once consumed. Now that I am older and more aware of my surroundings, it has become clear to me that my fear was just a progres-sion that would dissipate over time.


Pointe ShoesAnna Roseneau

Point shoes consist of pain and beauty but people only ever see the beauty. I remember trying so hard in dance just to meet my goal of getting point shoes. I was so desperate I went into our shop and started wrapping wire around the tip of my sneakers so that I could make them stiff enough to stand on point. It didn’t work. I almost thought I would never get them; that I wasn’t good enough for them.

Once you have achieved one goal you must find a new goal. You must find something else to go for to work for; something to give meaning and purpose to what you are doing. Once I had fi-nally attained the goal of getting my point shoes my new goal was to get into invitation only: the highest class there is at High Desert Dance Arts. After being in the class just below it for two years, I began to grow desperate. I was thirsty for being in that class so bad and to be denied of it once more was exhausting. When you only have so much time and energy, sometimes you just need to let go and work towards a new dream and focus all energy on that. At the end of September, I will let go.

Point shoes got me to this level but I’m afraid its time I put them away. There are many feelings attached to point shoes for me but at this moment they are years of desperation. I have desper-ate to get them, to get new ones, to get them off because my feet are bleeding and hurting, to get on my box to do the move right. Most of all I have been desperate to not be disappointed in my own dancing.

Point shoes consist of pain and beauty but people only ever see the beauty. These days I only ever feel the pain.


Stitches in a Leather GloveAshley Elliott

A softball mitt cannot compare to the bruises and stitches they can give you if not used properly. Every stitch grasps every memory from our red covered field. Sweat and blood stream down my worst clothing, dirt scratches underneath my eyelids, and my fingers turn muddy in my leather glove. Even though you can over-think the harsh consequences from being an athlete, they can truly be brutal. When you head dive into a base, metal cleats crunch your fingertips, the dirt burns your thighs, and you hear an umpire stampeding above you shaking their hands. Spit and sunflower seeds scatter, being pulled by the wind that lands on my lightly colored strands of hair. Switching turns between offense and defense, my knees tremble as the ball whistles down the straight-away above the bat-ters knees. The crack of a bat slaps me in the face and speeds to the peak of the grass that creeps over the red dirt. I watch my teammates scatter across the mixture of minerals that lay uneven on the ground, and the base runners carry our dirt within the cracks of their shoes that trail behind them. I watched one of my trusted teammates grasp the ball in her hand as she looked at me straight in the eyes. I hear the rest of my teammates scream for my name, expressing to be ready to catch and swipe for an out to end the inning, As I am anticipating the brief few moments it takes my teammate to set herself to make a throw to home plate, I watch her head turn away from me. A feeling of confusion hit me as I felt cleats slide into my bony ankles. Our first baseman missed the throw, as everyone was expecting it to come to home plate. Pain trembled all the way up to my thigh as my kneecap bends inwards. I felt my helmet slip off, only seeing the blue and black bars slide past my eyes. A moment of silence passed as a girl twice my size was underneath me and more cleats clicked over home plate. After a blackout from my kneecap being shoved out from its original spot, and not realizing the brutality that I would experience from this accident, I could feel a moment of sadness soar throughout each of


my teammates. From that moment, we had no catcher left to play for the game. It was the sixth inning, and we only had a few minutes left to find out who was going to take the catchers position after only having nine girls left to play. We were down by five by the beginning of the seventh inning, and the girls worked hard. Unfortunately, we lost the game. As the seasons switched between the growth of flowers, to the damp-ness of leaves covering the ground, and the beginnings of our harsh winter were upon us, I had made a life changing decision. After previously hav-ing my kneecap dislocate, it continuously got worse. Accidents would occur from simple events like walking on a carpet and falling against a door. My family decided to adventure with me to an orthopedic center to get more answers on why my kneecap still dislocated after a terrifying event with the sport I love. News was on its way, machines ran over the top of me, and we finally received a secure answer. Just from how unique I am, it was decided that my kneecap naturally grew a few millimeters off from where it was supposed to be. After acquiring news and figuring out how to fix it, I remember waking up with a baseball sized knot behind my kneecap. My knee was wrapped, and I experienced pinching and pain traveling up into my hip. Waking up was like trying to pry my eyes open from being super glued together. My parents weren't next to me and a hard feeling flew into my chest. I realized I was in for a rough experience. Recovery time included eight months of slipping on ice, learning to drive a stick shift again, and regaining mobility. The stitches have sew my leg together to form something new. Even after having brutality play a major role in my life, it has paid off to function better than before. Stitches that hold in my surgical screws in underneath my patellar tendon are like the stitches in my mitt that holds my hand securely inside.


Chawndra Craig Octopus 3

Poet

ry

Maya Weiland, The-Labyrinth

Canvas Madison Pham

This one’s for the sidekicksFor the ones whose best friend was always betterFor the channels of TV static they always pass by but never the ones to catch their eye,I see you For the girl whose name is never remembered And for the boy whose glasses cover his intelligence but doesn’t change the fact that it is thereI remember itI see itAnd I see youFor the trumpet in the bathroom sitting next to the girl eating lunch alone For the countless unseen broken hearts that reside in so manyFor the ones who are pained by the opinions of those who matter without reasonI see youI feel for youAnd for those who aren’t told enough that they’re beautifulI see youAnd right now, I am telling you.You are a canvas, to be left blank or to be painted To be scenery or abstractYou are artYou are more than extraordinaryYou are the Milky Way compacted into one star that shines brighter than you can seeAnd you are so much more than beautifulYou are the worldEncompassed by people who do not understand you

But I do. And someday they will too.


Made possible by the generous support of Facebook and the National Writing Project

Your Long Awaited Presence Trinity Churchill-Dicks

Your absence…an awful itch under the skin.Your name, singing through my veins leaps through my chest,and I can’t help but cry out empty sighs.Like the wolf, I am taunted by the moonlightof your sweet memoryas I lay here.You are my moon song…

Patience comes with licked fingers awaiting the next page to see you again.For the pursuit to discover ourcrafted story has been more than worth every void my heart once hopelessly sang into,and as the sound of folding parchment turns over through the space where time can’t be counted but only lived,a surreal ambiguity hits my heart.

I know that the age of my soul far outdates my body…

I prepare to let go of the darkness that is behindand forever wake up to the galaxies I breathe in just from seeing your eyes.



Brandon, 7

Kahini hosts workshops, readings, and gatherings; connects writers together across borders of all kinds; and presents the work from these new conversations in public fora: including readings, open-mikes, panels, craft talks, conversations, and presentations of the spoken and written word.

All Kahini experiences are designed to build cross-border relationships, mutual empathy, and understanding, which spark new writing, new conversations, and new ways of being in the world.

Love, Lust and LiesDestiny Peterson

Once silver tongues now bare and pinkShe now sawHow beautiful a web they spunA web she mistook as a safety netUnawareWrapping her in a blanket of silkShe once mistook as loveThat loveNo not love, lustThat lust that tore through herThat lust that filled her and burst like bubble gumLeaving her empty at dawn


The RockJon Grace

You, are like a rock. You have your smooth sides, and your jagged edges. You’re among the infinite amount of other rocks in this world. But what makes you special, is that no other rock can ever have the exact same properties as your purest form. Underneath any changes to yourself: cracks, breaks, chips, scrapes... You’re still your old self. And nobody will ever be like you. In this world, we’re all rocks with the same textures and general appearances. But because of our uniqueness... Because of our differences apart from each other... We are all worth diamonds. Alexandrites. Gold. Whatever you want it to be; your rareness is just as much as anybody else’s. In the end, we’re all rocks. But in the end, there’s no two same rocks. We are all precious, identifiable gems. You too, are a rock.


The Force of EndingMarissa Hakimian

The wounds used to cut me deep

Nearly in two

The roots of sadness once thought to be unmoved

Time is supposed to heal all wounds

Even though you thought this would heal yours

Time didn’t heal this one

Just made the shock dissipate

It forced me to grow from the ruins of a once beautiful life

It pried my eyes open to the strength of kindness and humanity

To the importance of life.



Leilani Fernandez, Jimi-Hendrix


Blue LinesZach Smith

Blue lines- blue lines- a blank piece of paper with blue lines staring back at me.

As I look down I see solid blue lines; the color of the sky on a summer’s day.

A blank page my canvas where I can explore the infinite possibilities of my mind.

Yet I am a slave to it. This piece of paper owns me.

Everyday I write on it and work on it in order to earn another paper.

I say that we are all slaves to paper, be it money or work or a quest for a diploma.

Everyday we all go to work to make that paper.

Does any of it matter?

At our end there will just be a eulogy a speech to sum up our lives written on

Blue lines.

Hannah Tenneson, Inventor's-Desk

I Will Make You ProudMaddy Tibbs

As I stand over your death bed watching your withered face. I know.As I hold your hand, caressing your bold veins and wrinkled skin.I know I will make you proud.

As I lean in to tell you goodbye, watching your heart race in your chest.I know you have put up a fight.As I kiss your forehead goodbye with tear-stained cheeks, I whisper in your ear my last statement to you.

I love you grandma, and I will grow to make you proud.We will meet again, and dance away up in heaven.I will make you proud.

Goodbye.


Hannah Tenneson, IThe-Clever-Innocent-and-Mischevious


You Are LoveBrenna Weems

you are the stones that build the street,the footsteps that echo, and the heart that pounds.you release the butterflies that flutter against our stomachs,and the breath that tickles the nape of our necks.you are the lids gently sealing,and the scent of fresh rain.you kiss the sand like a perpetual wave, only to run back to the sea,and you are the thousands of stars that gleam in the summer darkness.your whispers are heard through the crisp winter air as the snow slips from the sky,and you are the light that glazes the peaks like honey.you are the wind as we glide down the mountain and through the pristine snow.you are the rising sun glinting off the waves,and you are the fingerprints left precisely on the glass.your laughter bounces through the halls of memories,and you are the silly duets that speckle a midnight drive.you are the fingers laced,and the parted lips.you are the prayers to the unknown,and you are the unseen depths below the surface.you cry with us in the shower as the droplets trickle down our spines,and you are the weight as they breathe the last breath.you are LOVE delicate, exhilarating, and breathless.

torches n’ pitchforks // 35Paige Montgomery, Flower-Painting


Death PersonifiedHannah Stuwe

oh, Heart.oh strange creature of wild plumage,where have you been?Why Are You Here?you hurt me.Too Often you sink your talons down into my gut,and you beat your cage like a drum.

Oh, Heart. do you love me? or hate me?to me it's never clear.Your Tongue is Strange,and your game I can’t pronounce. You Tell Me to HateFearBreakand worst of alllove.

Oh, HeartYou are a Backstabbing, Cynical, Masochistic,foolish, child.do you do it on purpose?what did I do, Heart?I know better than to trouble something wielding a knife.where did you get the knife?

Oh, Heart!

You Were Once So Pleasant!and light.You’ve Grown Too Fat.You’ve Let Yourself Go. I’m sorry,that was uncalled for.

oh, Heart.I’ve done this to you,haven’t I?I’m sorry, Heart.I’m sorry.

torches n’ pitchforks //55


Untitled (Pride)Sianna Flowers

I. ColorEverywhere.There is red like Mama's lipsAnd purple like Sister's dress.People are yellingAnd waving signsAnd laughing.They all lookVery happyWhich makes me happy.I like this parade With its colorsAnd ItsSmiles.

II. I let out a yell"Haters go to hell!"I wave my flag and ignore the constant whispers of Fag.They will not define meFear will not confine me.I am proudAnd I will say it out loud.I am gayAnd today is my day.

When Water Meets HerselfBy Rebecca Little

He asked me if I’d like to see how a storm is planted. I said sure.torches n’ pitchforks // 45

III. No one can deny theirFervor.But I can't say I condone it.I don't know what I thinkOf this ruckus.Sure they deserve to be freeBut is it really okay?But then againWho am I to judge?Whatever.It's not my fight.

IV. They make meWant to Hurl.With their flagsAnd acronymsAnd immorality.Surely this is wrong.It only goes to show how far we are sinkingIn the black pit of sin.At least IAm holy.

V. I can't begrudge them their prideBut must they really leave such aColorfulTroublesomeMess?

FEAREmily Christen

It is the color of midnight in winterIt sounds like troubled watersIt is the taste of the air after a hurricaneIt looks like the eyes of the universeI feel surrounded

Fear is black with uncertaintyIt sounds like the worry of a lost childAnd tastes like hard liquorIt smells like fire that burns through wallsIt looks like a ship sinking with no rescueIt makes me feel suffocated

Fear is the color of a deep caveIt sounds like the ringing after a piano finishes its tuneWith a taste like metalA smell of death and griefIt looks like a fall that never endsAnd it makes my head spin

Fear is a fire that incessantly burns



Hailey Mosca, My Cow

54 //torches n’ pitchforks Paige Montgomery, Surrealism Drawing


AdrenalineCasey Lane

Adrenaline is the many colors of the aurora borealis;It sounds like a roller coaster racing on its tracks, And tastes like sweet milk chocolate.It smells like the burning of car tires;It looks like silver.It makes me feel ecstatic.

Adrenaline is red like a rocket firing off into space;It sounds like the rumble of a thunderstormAnd tastes like lake water.It smells like the forest after a monsoon.Adrenaline looks like a deep dark cavernous pit;It makes me feel delightfully terrified.

Adrenaline is the color a purplish blue lightning strike;It sounds like a roaring lion.It tastes like peanut butter protein barAnd smells like sage.It looks like a cobra striking its prey. Adrenaline makes me feel addicted.

Adrenaline is the drug that keeps on pulling us back.


ExcitementGabe Willitts

Excitement is the bright pink of a happy flamingo.It sounds like a laughing child.And tastes like soft Mike and Ikes.It smells like fresh baked cookies.It looks like a pogo stick on a sunny day.It feels Wonderful

Excitement is blue like the sky.It sounds like the roar of a crowd.And tastes like the darkest chocolate.It smells like fresh paint.It looks like a dance party. (Lights flashing)It feels Overwhelming

Excitement is as red as the sunrise.It sounds like a garage door closing.And tastes like a lemon cake.It smells like fresh mountain air.It looks like untouched powder.It feels Good in the simplest form.

Excitement is the anticipation of joy.

torches n’ pitchforks // 45Marley Parkins, Sukki


Regret Haylie Hudson

REGRET you’re within us all. Some of us may pity or despise you,While the rest of us just turn our backs. REGRET you’re all around us. We have learned to grasp you, And embrace you for what you lack. REGRET you’re personal. For some reason we can’t hide from you, But the ability to accept you is ours, and nothing will hold us back.

REGRET you’re desperate. Nosing your way into our perfect dreams, Knowing that when we wake up our lives crumble into the despair you live for. REGRET you’re unstoppable. We set aside our life to conquer you, Except you never leave. REGRET you’re me-Living inside a lie,That only you, regret, can answer.


Sierra Dean, Howl


Brandon, 9

The Dark PathLogan GillWhen he leaves for the last time their hearts are filled with desperation.His heart is pure and his intentions are good, he believes in his decision.He sets off with a sound mind and sense of determination.He makes it through training and is set to go, but fear fills his heart with indecision.Too late, he’s made his choice. He can’t turn back now, so he sets his gaze and steels his nerves.He remembers his brother coming back in a box, from the same path that he has chosen.He remembers being given a flag he doesn’t think he deserves.A folded triangle of cloth which will forever mark his heart as broken.Months later he is stuck amid the sand, in an endless wave desperation.His safety gone, and his heart is not so pure.He thinks back to his life before, with a sense of resignation.The past keeps him centered, while the future is so unsure.More and more time passes.Until his sins finally out weigh his chances.His pure heart of gold has now been mined,until all that’s left is the rinds.


A Message for My FearNila Lukens

FEAR. Sit down and give me an ear. Tell me why you are not to blame for whyI have held back shied from risksstayed safe. You have made me obsessed. with perfectionwith achievementwith adequacy. You’re a virus. I know you are there, lying dormant. You wait for me to leave comfort and BAMyou leave me sickdevastatedconfused. You make me angry. In fact, make that livid. All I want to know is why. Why you strike yourself into my heartbodymind. The answer escapes me but you will not. Soon I will find youunderstand youlet you go. FEAR. You are no good to me.

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Hannah Tenneson, Flower-Painting

Samantha Wavrin, The Great Divide

GuiltHarriet Burquist

Guilt is the color of the deep angry sea before the stormIt sounds like pure silenceAnd tastes like bitter cocoa powder.It smells like the foulness of something long dead;It looks like muck, sluggish and dank.It makes me feel broken.

Guilt is the black-blue of the dawn not yet come;It sounds like the mourning moans of something lostAnd tastes like stale breath.It smells like the ocean, fishy and salty.Guilt looks like a beaten animals hurt eyesIt makes me feel heavy.

Guilt is the color of a thick fog;It sounds like a weighty sigh heaved as a last breath.It tastes like bile after the vomit has come and goneAnd smells like the innocence of clean air.It looks like the absence in a cradle.Guilt makes me feel a deeply rooted melancholy.

Guilt is the void that disconnects reality from our imaginations.


RebellionMargo Bruguier

“I fall for youLike I fall for Gold”What is the fun in following the rules?Temptation,A decision,and regret one way or anotherStill, life lacks interest in your absenceEven though I ignore you, flake out on our plans, you don’t seem to give up on meSomeday, Another Day, Tomorrow? you sayYou are a pusher, an incessant drowned-out thought always in the back of my headBuzzing, humming, muttering, appetizing and evilAfter deciphering long and hard,I realize that as thrilling as you are I cannot ignore the condition in which you leave me inGuiltLots of GuiltMaybe even beyond that,more guiltThen I realize you are not a friend at all.


Dakota Wagner, Drawing

“A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me” Poetry AnalysisAnna Mollere

And when that electroencepha-logram shuts down, baby, that’s when the real lovin’ kicks in: Der-rick Brown’s stunning, resonant word choice and expression per-fectly illustrates the intensity of true love in a way that makes it easy for those that hear or read his poem to experience it.

“A Finger, Two Dots, Then Me” begins with two lovers ly-ing in the grass of a park, gazing at the stars, while one professes their deep-seated affection for the other. That simple picture, beautiful in itself, was strengthened and el-egantly interpreted only by Brown’s word choice. However, as the poem

blossoms onward, it seems to transi-tion into a second thought/purpose which, in this case, is God. This poet created such a brilliant and emotion-ally moving piece by using certain words and, with that, developing a solid rhythm. While discussing his word choice and rhythm, these next few paragraphs will also interpret the ideas that flow through the en-tirety of Brown’s poem. There are several points in the poem that speak for the strength and beauty of the words that are used and the imagery that Brown creates by fitting certain words together in a way that one could assemble a jig-saw puzzle—complexly and with skill. The pictures that his words conceive are represented throughout the whole poem but can be undoubt-edly appreciated in a specific set of lines (26-32) which read “I will be


there chasing sound waves, riding them like two-dollar pony ride hors-es that have finally broken free and wild. I will be facing backwards, laying sideways, no hands, sidesad-dle, sometimes standing, sometimes screaming zip zang zowie! My God, it’s good to be back in space… Where is everybody?” By reading these lines, someone’s imagination has the ability to drift to the thought ofa human being riding a carousel horse while soaring through space. They can picture the planets and stars growing and stretching over the vastness of space until they’ve soared past them, becoming distant and so microscopically small that they are once again lost amongst the rest. By use of such powerful and creative words, this poet can make someone feel that excitement--the excitement of the beauty and won-der that this soul is experiencing, and the reader can sense peace and calm overwhelming them when re-alizing he/she’s separated from the chaos of the rest of the world, rather than feeling frightened. Although his word choice plays a major role in dressing up the poem, Brown’s unwavering and effortless rhythm also contributed to its beautification.

I could be considered biased while giving the rhythm and sound of this poem a good review because I discovered it by watching the spo-ken word and hearing his voice and the way he emphasized certain parts of his work. With that in mind, how-ever, there is one part of the poem that creates its own pace and grows in intensity as it advances. From lines 53 to 101, the unnamed per-son wonders “Lord, so many poets have tried to nail it and missed, what is holy?” He continues, once again, to paint a picture for his audi-ence by causing Mars, Saturn and Venus to come to life as they spin, movie screens emerging from them, each holding a projection of images he/she had seen in their life and on each image a flash of the word ‘holy’. It begins slowly and steadily on line 56, as the projections re-veal, “Armadillos—holy, magic


tricks—holy, cows’ tongues—holy, snowballs upside the head—holy, clumsy first kisses—holy, sneak-ing into movies—holy, your mother teaching you how to slow dance, the fear returning, the fear overcome—holy,” however, as it continues, the momentum builds and the symbols become more meaningful [“losing your watch in the waves and all that signifies—holy, the day you got to really speak to your father cause the television broke—holy, the day your grandmother told you some-thing meaningful cause she was dying—holy,”]soon after, the poets notion reaches its peak, the inten-sity no longer feeling subtle, [“the medicine, the hope, the blood, the

fear, the trust, the crush, the work, the loss, the love, the test, the birth, the end, the finale,”] and finally, it slows once more and the rapid pulse of this portion of the poem subsides. The way that the rhythm and word choice fit together so beautifully is what creates a sense of hope and nostalgia in Brown’s supporters and fans, the icing on the cake is that even without such a pleasant blend of these two factors, he still applies meaningful thoughts into his work and tells a story that people can re-late to. To approach the concept in a simple manner, without analyz-ing the structure or literary devices


used throughout the piece, Brown wrote a story about two souls bound together by a love that would carry on even after death. However, this breathtaking poem doesn’t only depict the passionate love between a man and a woman, but it also rep-resents the profound love and de-votion between a man and the God he worships. The poets’ thoughts seem to make their first transition from his lover to his maker between lines 5 and 14, where it reads, “I will love you till there is no till, till I die. And when that electroencepha-logram shuts down, baby, that’s when the real lovin’ begins. Forgive me for sounding selfish but I won’t be able to wait under the earth for you. I will not be able to wait for you… but I will meet up with you.” In spite of his love for her, he can’t

wait for her until her life on Earth has ended; while she lives, he has to explore space on his own, find his soul, and find answers to the ques-tions that overpower his curiosity. After he soars to the edge of the uni-verse, where sound does end, and finds himself as well as the answers to his questions, the poem transi-tions back to meeting up with his beloved once she dies and searches for him amidst the stars. And be-cause the love they hold for one another is never ending, he knows that they will find their way back to each other, as Brown explains in lines 104 to 116. With stunningly resonant word choices, heart-stopping rhythmic tones, and a story that instantly brings goose bumps to its readers,

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Derrick Brown assembled a flaw-less work of art. It began with two lovers lying on the grass of a park, gazing intently at the stars scattered before them, perfectly illustrated the vastness and wonder of space, intensity of true love, and of God, and wrapped up with two lovers lying together, admiring the stars and watching as two souls darted across the universe. This spoken word poem was impeccably written and performed, and is one that I will never tire from hearing and/or read-ing.


View the short film HERE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcoMiGiDRjg

Acknowledgements

Many thanks goes out to Matthew Bradley ofSisters High School for spearheading this collaborative partnership between our schools.

A warm thank you also goes to Art teacher Bethany Gunnarson and Creative Writing teacher Samra Spear- both from Sisters High School- for submitting your students’ work to our publication.

Most of all, thank you to our gifted student contributors; both writ-ers and artists from both Sisters High School and Crook County High School. It is ultimately YOUR creative work which provides meaning for what we do.

-tn’p

EST. 2008, Founded and Edited by Jim Churchill-DicksCONTACT: [email protected]

‘hunting for voices that rise above the angry mob.’

torches n’ pitchforks online literary journal is dedicat-ed to exploring the evolving relationship between form and content in creative writing, while also unleashing promising teen and educator voices to the public.

Funded in part by a generous grant from Facebook, with additional support provided by the Oregon Writing Project.

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Torches n' Pitchforks online literary journal Spring 2015

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