STAFFORD HIGH SCHOOL

2009 LITERARY MAGAZINE

2

A MONG the thou-

sands of thoughts

that run through

our heads everyday, there

are only a few that stick

with us longer than a few

seconds. For those that do,

only a fraction of them are

shared with others. Art and

writing are two ways that

many of us use to com-

municate and share our

thoughts or little inspira-

tions with the world and

those around us.

STUDENT EDITORS Nina Gonzalez

Jenny Pan

FACULTY ADVISOR Jim Andrews, Publisher

Linda Keefer, Art

Sue Gill, Technical

CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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Troubling times are upon the world. People losing jobs left and right. Genocide, starvation, war. The horrors never seem to end.

Some people try to ignore it. They turn up their noses, Walk down the street with their coffee, With their cell phones attached to their ears. They hear their friends loud and clear But not the cries for help. They spend money on their brand new car But not money for clean drinking water. People are crying out for help all over the world. But then there are the people who care People who dedicate themselves All of their time, love, and money All of their resources for the good of mankind. Those are the people to be celebrated. Not emaciated starlets and coked-out rockers. Change we need. But it needs to come now. Not fifty years down the line. Wars need to end. Violence, gunshots ringing constantly, Cries of the wounded, All need to be silenced. One person can’t change the world.

The whole world needs to want to change. Change should be coming, If we all try to make it happen.

YOUNG HOPE By Lexie Morello

CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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POETRY

PROSE

3 - YOUNG HOPE – LEXIE MORELLO

6 - WATCHING THE WORLD - K MCVICKER

7 - WILL OF THE LIGHT - ALANNAH PAULE

9 - LACHRYMOSE - STEPHANIE REAMES

10 - THE STEEL CITY - PATRICK CLARK

12 - BOURBON RIVER BLUES - JOHN KOVALCHIK

15 - THE WAITING - PATRICK CLARK

20 - TICKING AWAY - JESSICA STEWART

22 - OTHER WORLD - JOHN KOVALCHICK

27 - IN THE SKY - ALANNAH PAULE

31 - AARON ADKINS

14 - THE TICKET - KURT VINNEDGE

17 - NEW CITY, NEW LIFE - NINA GONZALEZ

20 - TICKING AWAY - JESSICA STEWART

22 - OTHER WORLD - JOHN KOVALCHICK

26 - SITTING IN ON LIFE - KURT VINNEDGE

29 - K. NEEDHAM - THE ROSE

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

1 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

2 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

3 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

5 - ANONYMOUS

6 - CALEB RAWSON

7 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

8 - JENNY PAN

11 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

13 - KYLE FALKENSTERN

13 - NINA GONZALEZ

14 - NINA GONZALEZ

15 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

16 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

18 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

19 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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20 - NINA GONZALEZ

21 - ANONYMOUS

22 - NINA GONZALEZ

25 - ANONYMOUS

26 - JENNY PAN

27 - ANONYMOUS

28 - DEVON DYE

31 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

33 - FRANCISCO GONZALEZ

34 - CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

ANONYMOUS

6

He sits and watches the world go by. Smoking his cigarette, Sipping his tea. He sits and watches the world go by With his sparkling eyes, His knowing grin. He sits and watches the world go by, As the world stops And watches him.

WATCHING THE WORLD By K McVicker

PHHTO CAPTION

CALEB RAWSON

7

Along the weary ocean shore,

The waves, though tired, crash and roar

They boom and bounce and sometimes break,

And through the night, remain awake

And on that shore, a silhouette,

That dances as a marionette

She seems alone in the bittersweet night,

But the moon gazes down, with its radiant light

She is never alone, so long as its here,

To blanket her body and kidnap her fear

The moon, unaware that she waits for the light

To dance, with such ease, in the midsummer’s night

She turns and she twists, and she never will fail

With the moon by her side, and the light that is pale

But fret as she may, it can never remain,

For the heat of the sun must not be contained

The refined silhouette will be back the next night,

And dance in the comfort of the pale moonlight

But as the night fades, so will her dance,

But remaining forever, the hypnotic romance.

WILL OF THE LIGHT By Alannah Paule

CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

8

JENNY PAN

9

F ollow me into the depths of this melancholic abode… Breathe in the mold that germinates in these corners. Open this closet door, and gaze upon the spiders dwelling on their webs.

Stride along this muggy carpet. Can you feel its decay? The repulsive aroma is compelling enough to taste. Listen to the creaks concealed between these walls. Visualize how wonderful this place could be, if it weren’t for the vermin that possess it. I am one amongst them. This home is mine. Do you feel repulsed?

LACHRYMOSE By Stephanie Reames

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Paving I saw a broadsheet on the street Gritty paper and night-sky ink Made almost as a paving stone Hundreds of boots and shoes

Making their way overtop As if it was a part of the walk

Laid down, with the rest, years ago

The Strip To be in the place

Where storefronts and flats pile atop one-another Where streets are of blackest pavement

And chimneys of the blackest soot Pole

Sicilian Irish

Oriental And for one to wander these alleys and thorough-

fares One is not the foreigner or stranger to the city

For we all are

People By and By Though the sleet falls through cold air

And the wind blows like God’s own Breath They still press onward in the cold

As the soldier on far fronts beyond the winter day The hat seller and barbeque griller

The old rosary woman and the florist as well And all of the brick and mortar

Stone and glass and smokestacks and girders Hold them lovingly

And all belong

THE STEEL CITY By Patrick Clark

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CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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Sweet bike rides and high fives The river reflecting our past lives

Old bodies that we dredge Have got us picking along the river’s edge.

The music that we play

Is plucked harder than we say Matched by the river’s wails

Sounds as smooth as the liquor she inhales.

Econo-graphic north Dwarfs her dreams and spills them forth

Filth flowing from her gut Clouding the cold blood from her cuts.

Alternatives to grief

Makes the life spans short and brief Girls moving much too fast

With liquid Freuds to fuel her past

Lost home and broken heart CEO’s stole her grocery cart Her Malts will mask the pain

but Won’t stop her abuse from a functioning

brain

Hydroplaning one bike No way out and wouldn’t take any other spike

When nothin’s all you got It isn’t much like hydroplaning down a shot.

BOURBON RIVER BLUES By John Kovalchik

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KYLE FALKENSTERN/ NINA GONZALEZ

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Light is like a river of gold, sticky like molasses, and quick like a cheetah. Light in train rides goes in and out, as buildings and foliage blot out the sun. Sun that makes your eyes shut tight, against the glare on the windows. A dirty, golden sun that beats down on the whole world. The train clacked along, bumping and swaying with the track. Crowded, the seats are full, hands hold onto rails as people stand. The ticket collector walks down the aisle, checking tickets, punching holes in them with a cheap looking puncher. “Let me see your ticket.” “Hang on a second.” said the man, brown hair down to his eyes and baggy clothes, skinny arms and legs, scruffy beard. “C’mon, I don’t have all day.” “Just give me a second. It’s not like this is a life or death matter.” “Just show me the ticket already.” “Sorry, but I seemed to have misplaced it.” “Then next stop you gotta get off the train.” “Hey man, I only have to go three stops up. Do me a favor.” “It’s the rules. You have to get off.” “But it’s only three stops! It’s not like I didn’t pay, I do have a ticket, but I

dropped it.” “Rules are rules. If I let you get away with this, then everyone else is just going to not pay anymore.” “Look, if I give you some money, can you let me off easy this time? Here’s a ten.” “I don’t take bribes. Are you kidding me? You think that ten dollars is going to make me forget that you don’t have a ticket?” “C’mon, please, just let me ride the train.” “No, next stop, you have to get off.” The train’s speaker rang out through the car. “Leeland Station, next stop.” “Once we get to Leland, you’re outta here.” “Man, this is bull. I have a ticket, I just lost it.” “Okay, its time to get out.” The conductor pushed the man stumbling onto the platform out of the train. Staring ruefully at the train, the man stood on the platform. Pulling away, the conductor smirked. Watching from far away, it looked like an orange and black cloud. From the plat-form, It was the world. Later that week, cleanup crews were still picking up pieces of the train and the bodies. It was the worst train accident in the history of the country.

THE TICKET By Kurt Vinnedge

NINA GONZALEZ

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The man was all quiet, who came today into the station square And, even though I hadn’t met him before, I watched him intently there Walking from the ticket room. Him sitting in that chair His head hung down to his chin, with hands clasped in prayer And then I, unknown to him at all Realized that he was waiting Not for a train, or passenger, or porter to call But this was different, this would be a change. And his knuckles tightened with him whispering Talking to God far above Repeating, repeating, over and over His hope that he might have his love And it must have been the one who was to come off that train To be with him in the good and bad Through drought and hurricane. The diesel engine droned on, about a minute away He gasped, and in a moment saw. The brass clock in the station strike its hour And then with all its fiery power The engine shot into the station like a shell from a gun And the passenger cars behind rattling one by one They came to a sudden stop and the train took a breath. The doors opened, and in file came the conductors in their caps, And the passengers disembarked onto the platform there With the man’s eyes in a wanting stare. Then from the car ahead, came the object of his waiting And he went to her She to him And when it was all said and done They were one.

THE WAITING By Patrick Clark

CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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C ircling around at the mention of her name, Mel sprinted over and pressed her ear against the large oak door and listened intently to

hear what was being said on the other side. The faint voices were overcome by the tap-ping of the rain above their heads. The voic-es soon became fainter as the voices moved on into another room. Mel sighed and plopped herself into the soft leather chair in the corner. She had done most of her best thinking there for the past two weeks. She had not gotten a direct answer to why she was there, but soon began to like her surroundings. The lavish pent-house had all she needed. Each article of fur-niture was meticulously placed and matched perfectly with everything within 10 feet of it. The master bedroom was exactly 23 giant paces by 45 giant paces. The luxuries of the room collided with the ex-travagant food brought in every day. There were various pieces of art that she was sure cost a fortune. Then the door opened. “Why, what are you doing?” said a man dressed in a suite. He looked rather sophisticated. The handsome smile, the dashing eyes, the nicely pressed black coat jacket. Mel shrugged, unable to come up with a response to almost falling over on him when the door opened. “Well I don’t, know but would you like some tea?” This time Mel summand up enough cour-age to squeak out and response. “Yes, please.” “That’s it. Do you fancy peppermint?” She nodded. She gazed at him. Taking in how well he matched the room it was almost as though he belonged there, but there was something peculiar about him. He fit in too perfectly. As though he was a match for

some part of her life. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but why are you here?” Mel humbly asked. He looked up and looked her in the eyes. “Well, first of all this is my place. I can see that you have been here for quite some time. I should be asking you why you are here.” “Um, I don’t really know.” “Well that is a splendid answer.” He chirped, “I heard that your name was Mela-nie or Mel. I don’t know. Someone brought you here to keep you safe from someone. I don’t really care to know the details, but this person is a very, very good friend of mine and anything he usually asks for from me, I give him.” The kettle began to boil and just before its whistle he turned off the heat and poured it into two oddly-shaped black and white cups. He continued, “It’s morning and we should go out. I need to go shopping. Would you like to accompany me?” They were headed down the sidewalks of Manhattan. People bustling everywhere. “Where are we?” Mel asked. “A city with over 8 million people living in it. You can find this city on any map of the world and any international weather report. Its name is mentioned in every newspaper around the world. It’s the fabulous New York City! Since we are surrounded by all these wonderful stores, let’s get you some-thing to wear.” “Really…?” Mel asked. “Of course!” he replied. People coming by in the opposite direction couldn’t help but look up at the man, Mel noticed it. Almost every fifth person would look up and notice him. The stores were a dream. Riding up the escalators from the white marble floors to an array of color made Mel giggle inside. It was great to be

NEW CITY, NEW LIFE By Nina Gonzalez

18

out, but even more great to try on moun-tains of clothes. The man helped her pick out things and would patiently wait for her to try them on and pick what she wanted. “That looks more like a piece of art. It could hang in my apartment and blend right in,” he humorously commented about a dress she tried on. She laughed and went on to trying on the other pieces in her dress-ing room. When the day ended they took a taxi back. “So I do need to ask you, but what is your name?” Mel asked. “Why, its George.” He responded. “That’s a nice name. Mel is what most peo-ple call me, but what you mentioned earlier is correct. It’s short for Melanie.” “That is also a rather nice name.” They returned and ordered Chinese food. As they ate and laughed about the day, Mel wanted to find out more about why she was here. She figured it would be best to ask during the lighthearted tone of the day. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but you mentioned that a friend of yours sent me here. Why?” “Hmmm. Well, you were, how do I put it, a mail-order bride, Meaning you fit certain criteria and someone wanted to marry you. Someone in Italy.” “You’re not joking, are you?” She smiled as she questioned his response. He wiped his chin with a napkin.

“Nope.” “And you are here to help me?” “Yes, but you will be leaving soon. I am leaving tomorrow morning. I have business conferences to attend to in Dallas. So we have arranged for you to attend a boarding school here in the city. I am sel-dom here but I will leave you my number if you need anything. I will drop you off tomorrow morning.” “Wow, a boarding school. Why was I, if it is appropriate to put it, ‘saved’ from this?” “By chance. I knew your parents long ago. I was very good friends with them, before you were born. They died when you were only one. I wouldn’t be anywhere without your father. I owe him everything. So when one of my friends heard about what was going to happen to you, he made arrangements to bring you here. I apologize that you were here so long with no idea about what was going on.” “My parents? You knew them? Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” “Well I wanted you to have a good time first, because I didn’t know how you would feel after I told you.” “Oh.” George got up and put his plate into the large industrial stainless steel sink. “It’s getting late, and you’ll need to be rested for your first day of school. Shall I even call it your new life?”

CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

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I ’m everything and nothing at the same time. I’m an endless stream - the begin-ning and the end. I’m the life and the death of all. I know the past, present,

and future, I know all that is to come from my second of life. I see all, although I have no eyes. I’m a tick on the clock of eternity. My life is bread and disposed as my brother’s life goes on through eternity. I see the living I see the dead; I see the pain that many dread. I see the lies of the youth; I see the lies of the insecure; I see the world ties that affect us all. I’m one second in time. I’m an essence of little mind. People question me with illit-erate literature, but I won’t give up my se-crets. So you can lie without insecurity. I won’t let you see the secrets of hu-manity but I’ll let you live as you are; the apes of time with an unavoidable downfall. I’ll watch you think of me as you look at the clock. I’ll watch as you think about me as a flux that you wish you can change, but you’ll never go back. But you’ll always react. I see it in some of your eyes that you wish me to die, that I would cease to exist, that time would end and life would fail, while others bend down to their knees and pray to my existence. I am everything: I am all, I am nothing, and I know all. I am the dark in space. I am gravity. I am the orbit. I keep you in the moment. I am all existence I am

second’s end. I live a never-ending life in a moment of time. I’ve seen murder. I’ve seen crime. I’ve seen angels and criminals. I’ve seen king and thieves who have little belief. I know what’s in your mind. I know what’s to come, even though I’m just a mo-ment in time. I see you scatter around like ants in the grass; I see your mindless obedi-ence to the phantom authorities. I see some wish for milk and only get the foul. I see some wish for copper and get gold. I see the young wish to be old. I see the old wish to be young-all this in a single mo-ment of time. I’m the tick of a clock, the beat of a heart. I see the love and hate and those with disgrace. You have no control. You’re ruled by my flow. You may think some may break free, but I’ll never let you know the true reality. You’re mindless and dumb and intelligent and numb. You move through the world looking for God. You move through the world, wor-shiping a son of something you do not know. Worship me, for I’m the only one here that you know. I won’t let you know if there’s heaven or hell. I will not let my secrets spill. You can sit for ever and wait but I will not open my gates, at least for my unknowledgeable sons who wish to move as predictable as the moon.

TICKING AWAY By Jessica Stewart

NINA GONZALEZ

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I see you discriminate against what you’ve been given, I see you walk around with-out forgiveness. I see the burdened and the gifted few. I know those who seek the truth, but only fall short to a shallow grave with nothing in hand and nothing to give. I see who’s made it with the look in their eyes. I see those who are still socially tied. I know nirvana, I know those strangled in thought. I know your minds working with little ease. I see you all at once and you’re not too different to me. You’re ants in a line - hu-manity on an assembly line. Only a few are disguised with human eyes. I see your breeding as you make a tree. I see severed roots and fallen bark. I see the branches that do get strong. I know who you are. I really do. I know what you are. I know that many of you do not forgive or forget, but yet follow with your heart those who preach about the only things that you can’t accept. I know faith and its downfall, and I will always see everything. I truly understand you but few of you truly understand me. I have no real questions for you that don’t have the answer for. I am tru-ly envious of you though, because although your lives are petty and your existence can sometimes be putrid, at least you have some-thing, for all I am and all I have is time. I have no true existence. I have no mind or soul and I am jealous of you for having it all and having to not know the secrets of the world. My never ceasing, ultimate knowledge is worth nothing when I have nothing, for I am nothing and yet I am everything to you. You have your virtues and life and little disguis-

es you put on through the days, but I only have one face. I only know truth I’m not equipped to feel. While I know it all, I experience nothing. While I see everything in my eyes, I feel noth-ing. While you swarm in my essence, I have no skin to feel the tingling. I am ultimately empty until the end of time till the end of myself, and like a misan-thropic man who’s surrounded by people, I also wish for the end of days. I feel as though I am desolate soul in a vast emptiness, a body em-balmed and evacuated of any surrealism at all. While humanity lives in me, I have no feeling for you. I only see you move through your days. I wish not for apathy from you, but for you not to take me for granted in the times you do, and to not look too far into depths of legitimacy of human emotions. For when you seek too much Truth, just like the curious cat, you will die a little inside, much like many have. Always remember that when you seek for truth you will find truth, but never seek the knowledge of something that will ultimately extinguish your flames of desire, for you will be left in an everlasting pause of life and stripped of your emotion with no uncertainty, thrill of life, or will to survive. Existence is my only life. I have no other reason for being, but I am humanity’s only support. I’m scentless to your world and blind in your eyes. I can’t be perfectly perceived, as your little minds can’t handle me. I know your fathers and mothers, and the things they’ve instilled. I saw your birth and girth and I know your voice. I’m your friend and enemy and sub-due easily to blame. I live alone with only a garden to show. I am Time.

ANONYMOUS

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T he sound of the bell to end 2nd period faithfully rang once again at 10:15 as it does every morning. Signaling the end of another session of immense

note taking and attempts to look interested during the 5th lecture on Francisco Pizaro’s conquest of the Incan empire, the bell’s three notes came over the intercom like a godsend. I quickly gathered my spiral bound note books, hopped out of my seat, and began to embark on my daily ritual of navigating through the densely populated crowds of my fellow obnoxious classmates. After a seven and a half minute jour-ney of penguin shuffling across a hallway about 200 hundred meters long, which would’ve taken a mere 60 seconds provided the walkways were clear, I finally arrived at W205. Third period is Mr. Andrews Creative Writing class. Filled with stuffed animals and crooked motivational posters along with vari-ous pictures covering the plastered home-made walls of the room, it has quite the ade-quate atmosphere for creativity. Scattered about it is an affluence of broken machinery, including tape decks, pop-corn makers, stereos, computers, and a microwave with a busted plastic cover which

looked as if a baseball was thrown into it with intense speed, shattering it. It looked as if it had been broken for many years, but, along with the rest of the hodge-podge of junk that cluttered the space, the microwave was kept despite its imperfections. Peering from my desk at the peculiar black rectangle, I could only see its door with its imprinted snowflake of cracks and the tim-er that never falters in simply reading zero in its green fluorescent light. After an unusually rough class period, I hurriedly attempted to arrange my belongings and catch up with the rest of the class that surely prepared for their sprint to the door. Realizing that my efforts to catch up with the pack were in vain, I calmed myself and slowly began to re-organize my note-books correctly. I was the last person to leave the room, a rare event in the life and times of George Harper. Even Mr. Andrews was head-ing toward the exit. “George?” He said in his slightly nasal-ly, yet eccentrically loud voice. “George,” he repeated. “Are you plan-ning on attending 4th period today?” I took another one of my binders and shoved it into my bag with a heavy sigh. “Heading out in one second sir.”

OTHER WORLD By John Koval-

NINA GONZALEZ

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The Mountain of papers haphazardly spread across my desk showed the contrary. “Well, close the door on your way out,” and with a jangle of his keys he locked the door and went on his way. The hope of the getting to any class on time completely vanished. With that sinking in, I decided that I would sulk in my chair, relax and take my time. My eyes were fixed on the circular green lighting of the microwave. Why would he still have something like this, I thought? I was drawn to it. Maybe I could ex-amine it, possibly making it a little more enjoy-able to look at. Possibly the time could be flash-ing on that one inch screen, making it at least a semi-usable appliance once again. I bent over and punched the spring-loaded door open. It swung, out nearly hitting my nose. With it came the gust of a horrid smell that had probably been marinating within the confined space for years. The reek of cheeses and a mixture of fried meats swooped into my nos-trils. Taken aback, I took a deep breath from outside the range of the stinky wind. Lowering my head, I decided to venture in for another look into the unknown regions of the box. Slow-ly my neck krinked forward, my line of vision suddenly filled with incredibly dark, tough sub-stances that were scattered on every corner of the rectangle. But the biggest conglomeration of this black material was on the plate dish. Obvi-ously the murky gunk was the past munchies for classes of yesteryear, but knowing that hardly stopped me from gagging a bit. Suddenly there was a loud pop and a couple of jerks were made by the dish in at the bottom of the microwave. The rotation was picking up speed, and I was hypnotized by the swirling baked black food on the glass. I found myself being pulled inward, never averting my gaze from the spinning disc. A chunk of the dark stuff that was once food flew into my eyes; I pulled my head out of the box with jarring speed and a knock on the head by the top of the microwave. When I finally lowered my arms from rubbing the dirt out of my face, the horizon changed to a new world of melted yellow moun-tains and molten rivers flowing at rapid speeds.

The wind was hot and had the exact after taste of an over- cooked hot dog. Before me stood a landscape that was dirty, misshapen, and oddly colored. It was like nothing I had ever seen be-fore. I lifted my foot with a slip and fell on the squishy yellow floor beneath me. As I struggled to get up, the viscosity of ground made it im-possible to make any progress. As even the hold from my body weight was beginning to slip, I was sliding down the hill overlooking this new world I had found. Since the view was so mag-nificent, the ledge that I was viewing it from was equally as magnificent. I was falling down that mountain as fast as the Jamaican bobsled-ding team. For a moment I could manage to pick my head up so I could dodge the speeding trees that resembled corn dogs. Soon enough into my descent a chunk of sticky material flew into my face, and the next thing I felt was a hard knock

on the head. I awoke with a throb-

bing pain in on the back of my skull. With eyes still shut I reached for

the knot, it tin- gled to the touch. Again as my vision returned I saw another atmos-phere I was unfamiliar with. My feet were hang-ing off the edge of a soft and very maneuverable bed in a boiling hot and dimly lit room. “Ah! Good! You’ve awakened,” said a lofty voice from the other corner of the room. I quickly turned my head in shock, to see a giant pizza person standing by my bedside with reading glasses and Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. “I was beginning to worry about you,” he said, setting his book down and placing his glasses on top of them. The creature wasn’t just a pizza. His cheese was droopy and all of the various vegeta-bles strewn across him were sagging. Hair was sticking out of various bare spots on his moldy skin. As he got up from his chair I could see him struggle. He awkwardly made his way to the door and took hold of the handle to steady himself. “It’s not every day that I have a prophecy unfold right in my own hut.” My attention was fixated on the giant Pizza’s words now, rather than the ache in my brain. Surprisingly I wasn’t paralyzed by fear at the sight of this monster of sorts and

Since the view was so magnificent the ledge that I was viewing it from was equally as magnificent.

“ ”

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managed to squeeze out an “Excuse me?” “Oh, golly lad,” he said with dis-gust ,“You need to be educated.” Wobbling over to the book shelf with the same penguin shuffle that I had been experiencing earlier that morning, he took a dusty rectangle from the shelf. He plopped the book onto the foot of the bed, and with that he left the room urgently as if he had something to attend to. I brushed the dust from the torn cover. The title was “The Coming of the Time Keeper.” Perhaps this could have been this old junk food’s bible. I’ve never had much inter-est in any sort of theology, not even my own. I rose out of straw bed and placed the book neatly back into its vacant spot to col-lect more dust. It took me a while to regain my strength but finally I had recuperated from my episode at the top of that mountain, and was thinking about how I should venture off to explore this small hut. The room I had been sleeping in didn’t interest me much. It looked much like my own, except for the in-credible heat and the dark atmosphere. A cranking noise came from the door. I looked back at the door that the gigantic pizza had walked through, as the bronze knob began to wobble. “Come now, child!” The pizza rapidly swung the door open. It had brushed my face, taking me aback and as a result I lost my footing. Starring up at the confused piz-za from the floor I felt the throbbing in my head return once again. “Oh, there you are boy!” He picked me up and yanked me out-side of the room that I had become quite familiar with. Now in what seemed to be a kitchen, he was pushing me faster and faster toward the door. I looked up at the small window above it that seemed to be the only provider of light in the entire household. As I got closer to it, the dimensions of the view outside the window came into sight. The landscape outside had looked just the same as on top of the mountain de-spite a few less trees. We were outside now, the pizza’s hand still on my back pushing me against my will. If it weren’t for the few blows I had taken earlier, I would have tried to fight him

off, but I was in no condition to do fight any kind of battle. I merely submitted to his will. Although the landscape in front of the house was as barren as that of the moun-tains, once we turned the corner there was a whole town of huts with pizza citizens crowding its sidewalks due to a parade down its streets. The festivities were in full bloom and it appeared like a reflection of a green town Christmas parade in Indiana or some such place. “What is all this?” I said, still without any anger or opposition. The whole situa-tion was very friendly in my thoughts. If it had happened in school or by the hand of another classmate, the nature of the experi-ence would have been entirely different. “Why my lad, it’s for you!” the pizza replied in a much more gleeful tone. The distasteful old manner with which he had spoken before had vanished. Now a mob of much more youthful pizzas came like a freight train toward us, sweeping me up on their shoulders. From the heights of the piz-zas’ shoulders I could see almost as many beautiful horizons as from the mountain. Even though I was an unwilling par-ticipant in this parade, I did enjoy the views, but I did see a particularly interesting black region of this new earth. It was rigid and hardened. Dark clouds of smoke seemed to radiate from the jagged edges of the hillsides. The entire area was superbly omi-nous. However, in my dazed state it only stirred my curiosity a tad, so I didn’t dwell on it. No one seemed to notice it, as the pa-rade continued and I was dropped off at the end of the street. After I was let off, the young mob left me as if the encounter had never hap-pened. There I was, staring back at the old saggy pizza that I had spent the night with. “How’d you enjoy that boy?” He asked with an enthusiastic tone. “It was nice, but could you please tell me a little bit about what’s going on?” “Why it’s just a little celebration, a going- off party if you will.” “For what exactly?” I inquired. He put his arm around me much more gently than the time when he rushed me out of his hut. We took another corner around the last house on the street and he

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pointed to those hardened mountains I was drawn to before. “Why would anyone want to go over there?” “Oh well, its all part of the prophecy, my boy. Didn’t you read?” Without waiting for a reply he began to recite the story line by line, as if he practiced it every morning during breakfast. “Y’see we need that time keeper to get rid of the noxious gasses and mind numbing heat that the overlord rains onto our city.” “And who is the dead man who’s going to fight him off?” I asked him almost with a snicker. Slowly he pulled his hand off of my shoulder and without a word he pushed his pointy finger to my chest. I would be named their king, celebrated with a wonderful recep-tion upon my return from the darkness and the vicious battle with its overlord. The old pizza taught me much about himself, my new home and the books he wasted his life on. We became the best of friends until the day he died. I spent many a year there in the bed where we first slept. I kept it up after he

left, continuing to read the shelves of literature he had accumulated over the years. One cold morning I decided to venture up the mountain where I had first entered this land. I took a deep breath of the light and now dreadfully cold air. Hours were spent on top of that mountain reflecting and relaxing. Yet my contemplation was cut short by a three abrupt and short beeps. I looked around and saw the misshapen posters and broken machinery from the class-rooms of my youth. The same three beeps rang again and I turned around to see the micro-wave reading the correct time in its neon light-ing. “George!” Startled and somewhat taken aback by the disrespect of a person referring to me by my first name, I turned around to see Mr. Andrews. “What are you doing son?” he said with a confused look in his eyes that I could only see because of his tendency to wear his glasses in-credibly low. “Oh, I’m sorry sir,” I said, “I was just try-ing to get to 4th.”

ANONYMOUS

26

I f you saw the world from my point of

view, you’d be shattered. Civilization

as you know it would be seen as a

catastrophe, a hate monger and a

selfish race. I especially hate the fat ones.

The rattle is constant, the day is al-

ways dark except for the artificial light, and

never do I ever quit my job. Tirelessly I

will sit here, supported by four metal

beams,

supported by the shaking floor. And I

support a person, my torn, ragged, smelly,

sticky, and faded self.

Cushion. It’s a nice sounding word,

but its not nice to be one. Even more so

when you’re a cushion on a subway train.

Every day, miles and miles of track go by,

hundreds of people suffocate and crush me,

and my only reward is once a week being

sprayed with a corrosive substance that

burns the dust and dirt off me. I am beaten,

abused, mistreated, and left to fend for my-

self. The only favor is when a human sits

on one of my comrades instead of me.

But when rush hour comes, I find

myself covered and squashed for three

hours straight. As people stand up, letting

their weight off me, I start to rise slowly,

filling my holes back up with air. But per-

son after person comes and sits, stands up,

only to be followed by someone else. My

life is a series of going back and forth be-

tween two points. A and B, A and B, A and

B, and back again.

Never have I been diverted from

one long path, straight one way, straight

the next. Never a change in scenery, only in

my tormenters. People stick things in me

absentmindedly, throw their heavy weight

onto me. Throw things at me. Smother me

with a jacket. Rest their feet on me like I

am some sort of sick, worthless servant.

I have been thrown up on. I have been fart-

ed on at least eight million times. People

have even had sex on me.

And no matter how hard I plead

with the metal bars underneath me, they

never once skimp on their duties. Force be-

low me pushing up, force above me push-

ing down. Stuck between an ass and a hard

place.

I fail to understand my meaning. I

fail to see what I accomplish. The only pur-

pose I serve is to provide comfort to others.

My life is a sham, cleaned by a shammy

every Tuesday. No one knows the pain I

have been put through. No one knows how

long I have grudgingly done my duty, my

service to the people that I despise with

every fiber of my being.

I sit and am sat on. Never a break,

never an end. No matter how hard I try, I

can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.

And as I tell you this, a three hundred

pound man who smells like onions and gar-

bage stands up, and spills ketchup on me.

SITTING IN ON LIFE By Kurt Vinnedge

JENNY PAN

27

A lthough it is unclear to me why nothing goes as planned, B ecause of little birds that sing, I seem to understand. C orrect me if I’m wrong with this, but birds are truly free. D oting not on what is wrong, but what fills them with glee. E ven if the world crashed down and trees were out of sight, F or all the birds in my hometown, there still would be delight. G iving to the world their songs may seem a bit unique, H earing absence of them though, the world would just be meek. I f birds can live in harmony, and sing in spite of stress, J ust think of what we all could do, and if I may profess, K now the different tunes of life, and if you ever fail, L ook to the birds in the summer sky, and listen to their tale.

IN THE SKY By AlannahPaule

ANONYMOUS

28

DEVON DYE

29

I can feel the heat on my petals, the first strong heat. So I stretch myself out to grasp the heat before it goes away again. Oh, the bliss of a sweet

heat after a shower. I think I’ll try to dry myself and warm my fragile stem. Against my stony earth, I can sleep away my tumultuous life and dream, while my stone is warmed by the sun. Here I lie with my family of thorny relatives. I being the youngest have not earned my thorns. One day, one day soon. I am of a family line of lovers’ roses. One day, when my thorns come in, I too will be given to a lover. From a man in love to a woman who wants all she deserves and nothing more. I taste my sweet life line. And I drink deeply. And it is good. I can feel myself grow as though it is all I have to do. And it is all I have to do. A man came by the garden, and he felt my petals. “Like her breath on my neck.” He walked away, but promised he’d be back. I wasted my time sunbathing and drinking from the sweetness in the earth. I begin to feel the beginnings of thorns along my hardening stem. “One day my little bud, you will be the most loved of them all. One day, you will be held in the greatest esteem of every woman.” He whispered this to me as he showered me with drink. He did this every day. He informed me of how I would be treasured above near all else. Few could touch the emotion that would be brought by me and my kin. I spend my days drinking and listen-ing to the man, bathing in the warmth of the sun. I wished he man would come more of-ten. He nurtured me as none other could. He spent his days talking to me, telling me of the woman he loved. He never called her by her name. Just “My Dear.” He told me of how one day he would give me to this wom-an. But not yet. This woman that he so loved was not his to love. He had no right to love her, or so he told me. He talked of love so often that I believed that anyone could love

anyone for any reason, or no reason at all. That is the way the man made it seem. He told me that in the hearts of the world, I represented the love of a man to a woman. I felt honored but unable to fulfill the job he would like to task me with. He came back today. I had just begun to feel my thorns grow at their crawling pace along my fragile stem. He said that to-day would be my day. I knew that it would be soon. I dreaded it. “But it's an honor, my bud. You should feel proud to do my bidding. With you alone she will know how I feel about you. With you alone she will know. She must. My dear.” At this statement, he walked away from me again. He came back, shortly thereafter with a knife. He took this knife to my stem. My weak body. He took his knife and sawed it through my tender life. He ended my life for his love. And he wished me happiness the whole time of my demise. He held me gently in his hands, cra-dling my stem. His thumb caressed my satin petals. He stroked me with his callused and beaten hands. He whispered to me. He told me how I would shine, how I would make his life whole again with this simple gesture. He put me in a simple vase of syn-thetic caring. It seems that he uses me as much as he does is because he can't show how much he truly does care for her. She doesn't know. That's why I am here. He is using me as his life line to a final chance for love with this girl. He took me outside, back to my long- lost home of fresh air, not tainted by the cigarette smoke embedded in his furniture. I breathed deeply, longing for the air that I couldn't feel inside to wrap around me. It had the sweet crispness of a twilight sum-mer evening. But soon I was out of my sweet air and back into the smoke-filled hindrances to my life. The entire time I was inside of anything, I could feel my life draining away from me, not just seeping out, but flowing

THE ROSE By K. Needham

30

out. Like a torrent of lifelessness. I hated this sheath he had shrouded me in. Cellophane. Crinkly and hardening. And so fake. I felt contained in a way that wasn't natu-ral to me. He was excited as we moved down the black and deadened lawn spanning in front of us. We went so fast, I could not take in all the twists and turns, but I knew they were there from the sloshing of the water droplets caught in our plastic prison. He took the turns faster than he should have. In his excitement he was trying to get to her house as fast as he could. What should have been a very long trip turned out to be a short one, by far. We skidded to a stop in front of a house, barren of any garden, unlike at home where the lawn was a garden. He jumped up the three steps with me held tightly in his grip. I was shaken and jostled out of my cellophane keep. I was left on the ground as his grip was too tight to realize that I had slipped. His focus was on seeing her fair face again. Not on the plans he had for her. For his sanity. She opened the door with her eyes red-der than my petals. Her green eyes smiled when she saw him, but her face was saddened by the events of the day. He smiled when he saw her eyes. He couldn't help it. I knew this, as he had told me that it was hard to not smile when she was near him. “Petie, what are you doing here?” She was puzzled at his plastic covered hand, and his impromptu call. He held his empty hand up to her, expecting to see me standing tall for him. When he saw his empty hand he spun around quick as a whip and stumbled off of the stoop, tripping over my insignificant stem. He landed flat out on his back in her gravel drive, the horrid plastic escaping when his hands flew up. “Oh!” she cried quietly, trying to stifle a laugh, but not quite managing when a slight sound of amusement escaped her cherry lips. She ran down the steps, graceful as a dancer, half floating down to him. She helped him stand up. “Rach, I wanted to give you, “ He paused, reached around her, and picked me up off the steps. “I wanted to give you this.”

He handed me to her. I looked at her full in the face. She was pretty, her lips full and very kiss-able, while his were usually a thin line of thought. Her hair was light, golden and long, where his was short and tousled and dark. Her eyes had a sad smile behind them. Her eyes made me realize why he couldn't stop smiling around her. It made me smile too, if I could. But her face wasn't smiling. She looked hurt and embarrassed. He had a hopeful smile on his face, waiting and anxious all at once. “Peter, I told you; it's too soon. I can't. You know that.” Her tears, yet to show, rang through every word. Pain, wishfulness, and sorrow. She hated that she did this to him. “Rach, I thought you said that you needed time, and then we'd be able? I thought that you loved me?” His voice was more than clogged. It sounded like he couldn't breathe, like he was going to choke if she didn't save him. If she didn't take his tears away, he wouldn't be able to live without her. He stepped away from her, his hand still extended holding me out to her. He backed towards his car. He couldn't believe what she had said. It couldn't be possible. His hand finally fell, and he stepped into the car. He still had me clenched in his fist as he backed out of the gravel parking area. He sped up as fast as he could, gripping the circular thing until I could feel myself cry, it hurt so much. I felt it seeping into his grip. He felt it. He looked at me through his tear- filled stare. Then his head snapped forward, crash-ing into me and his own hand. The rest of the car was approaching quickly behind him. It crumpled in on itself. His head slapped back into the seat and flipped back towards me. His hand still held me immobile. I watched the whole scene from my front row seat. Finally his hand snapped towards his body, letting me fall. As I fell I could see the front of the red car against a tree. I fell be-tween his feet. Resting there, I could see a liq-uid darker than my petals dripping from his temple. His lips formed these words as I was covered in the mass. “Not your fault my dear.”

31

Don’t flash No sound

Without remorse Homely and divided

One hundred reasons to Not as numerous against

Hold their breath Hold your own

Watching a theatric You’re the actor

Spectators unamused You’re amusing

No one’s laughing Smile in the dark

Fingers on lips of cold love No river to be sold

Still frame Only remembrance for guilt

No guilt Unrevolted

No remembrance Suspected of none

No problem

PHOTOSENSITIVE By Aaron Adkins

CHRISTINA SULLIVAN

32

* Submissions should be sent to either to shsmagazine@gmail.com or dropped by room W205. All work completed in Stafford High School's fourth period Creative Writing Class is submitted and considered for the magazine. Mirage embraces every opportunity to post the work of any student's submission regardless of format or length.

is in its third year of publication and is published during the summer. The magazine was produced on IBM-compatible computers using Microsoft Publisher and Adobe Photoshop CS2 and was published in Stafford High School using 20pound pa-per on an OKI Executive Series 1220N printer. The fonts used for titles of each piece are Gill Sans MT and family fonts. The body font

for each story is Georgia.

colophon

is the literary arts magazine for Stafford Senior High School in Falmouth, Virginia. The purpose of the magazine is to showcase students' thoughts and expressions through both writing and art. As with any publication, the views expressed are not necessarily the views of Stafford High School, the editorial staff, advisor, or Stafford County Public Schools. All students at Stafford High School who not enrolled in a Creative Writing class are invited to submit their work for consideration in the magazine.

purpose

submissions

All writing and art submission are considered by an editorial staff which chose submissions based on quality, appropriateness, relevance and overall impact. The editorial staff reserves the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. Original artists retain copyright of their submitted work.

rights

33

FRANCISCO GONZALEZ

34

STAFFORD HIGH SCHOOL