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Jason de Jesus 12

A child cradles a crayon in hand.An idea flaunts within a mansMind. Subject to reactTowards their newfound pact:Creation, goals burning within their minds.An image, enough to profess to the blind.Complementary colors combat concreteWalls covered by coloring book pages.ObsoleteMind blocks barricade their notion from thepage.Armed with sharp weapons: crayon and wit.

A gaugeDisplays a measurement of higher order. AbeatFlows. Their melody knows not of defeat.This childs picture shows keys,Unlocking evolution in mans mind to curedisease.No nation can stop man, armed with animagination.

Its All About Me

Emma Fredrickson 15Marker

Crayola IntelligenceCrayola Intelligence

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Brenna Conley 12

A beautiful princess locked in a tower,Runs away from an evil monster.Childhood games have lost their luster

Since Ive lost you.Like a litle girl struggling to catchsnowflakes on her tongue,

I struggle to hold onto quickly evaporatingmemories.

Swirling and dancing just out of reach,Slipping through my fingers.

Its never too late to say goodbye.Such comforting words form such a lie.Time has worked against me,Princess is out of luck.

Tear down, pack up--Play time is over.

Imagine we have oneMore day, one more chance.Imagine we could, we wouldSing, dance, live, laugh.Sentimental, never accidental,You would smile once more.Once more, thats all I askUntil I lose you again.

Jennifer Bauer 14Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contes

FINALIST

Inching along the curve,

Searching for anything to photograph,Hidden behind wild grass sits a subject

Blown out windows,Fallen ceiling boards,Trying to tell if its inside or out

Everything leffor dead,Chairs toppled over,Fireplace lefhollow,Wind-chime swaying

Vines overgrown,Something scurries in the back,Mystery hangs like smoke in the airBright blue walls fight to stand

Questions linger as the car rolls away,Thought by all who pass but spoken by fewHow?Why?What happened to the bright litle house

on the corner?

Inching along

the Curve

MOUNTAIN TOWNMOUNAIN OWN

Noah Aylward 14Acrylic

regret.

Golden GirlGolden Girl

Anna Rinaldo 12Pastel

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Cheyenne Oseguera 14

Lonely grows the greedy heartWho truly yearns for nothing moreThan fame and money and power

and artWith nothing more to care for.

Quiet grows the weary heartThat holds onto the litle thingsBut oh so ofen falls apartWhile silently it sings.

Seldom grows the gruesome heartThat judges every other manBut every so ofen wants to startAgain and find a helping hand.

Afer time the greedy heart,The quiet and gruesome lifeIs really just a body partThat will ultimately fade and die.

Lonely Heart

Out On a LimbOut On a Limb

Anna Kurilla 12Acrylic

Nikki Flores 12

Her voice is angelic and alluringShe speaks with such healing wordsThe way she sings is time enduringWhen Im with her I can fly with the

birdsEvery note plays with such sincerity

She beckons me to sing along

Her love gives my life more clarityWe grow closer with each and every

songTo strum a strum and hum a hum

My fingers glide to and froOur hearts beat loud like a drum

Together we put on a fearless showSome may see her as just a guitarBut to me she is my biggest star

Cassie

Blind Contour HandsBlind Contour Hands

Alyssa Noonen 15

Marker

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Tess Vrbin 15Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFINALIST

Leave me to my own devices; see how long I last.Please dont drop me now because youre all I really have.

I cant protest the naked truth; I know you never lie,Your voice is striking such a pitch it makes me want to die.

Feeling trapped inside my skin has never felt so free This newfound sense of boundaries just makes me feel

complete.This isnt an epiphany; Ive heard it all before,

The consequences of my faults going too long ignored.

My delicate identity Ive batled hard to claim,To keep from vanishing inside obedience and faith.

But what is faith? Is it not all-consuming, as they say?I want to keep control of who I am in every way.

You spin a web from all my empty words and namelessdreams,

My worries so irrational, my petitions unclean.And you recite the list of things you plan to take from me.

Im trying not to beg as I sit coldly in my seat.

Im not the way I used to be, but not the way I should;

My fears and my rigidity are blocking out the good.Too lazy to move forward, too relaxed to move at all,Too lost inside my fiction to discern a warning call.

I keep forgeting what I have until its almost gone,And I lose track of what is right, engrossed in what is fun.

My sensitive persona needs to get a backbone now,Before my lack of effort drags me further, further down.

I answered when you asked me what Id do with one more go,And when I heard the answer yes, there you heard a no.

I wasnt leting go just yet, I guess I answered right,

Because you gave me one more chance, my errant pastdespite.

No longer need to fight or flight, just simply turn around;I found this path so long ago; grateful, I walk it now.

e MillionthTe MillionthSECOND CHANCESECOND CHANCE

The Flapper in MeThe Flapper in Me

Jennifer Peters 14Ink

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Alexis Montoya 15Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFINALIST

Just because Im a Girl Boxer

Doesnt mean Im a tomboyDoesnt mean my punches arent hard and

fastJust ask me how it feels

Just because Im a Girl BoxerDoesnt mean that I cant knock someone

outDoesnt mean that Im not fast

Doesnt mean I cant beat a boy up

Just because Im a Girl BoxerDoesnt mean I dont train harder than a boy

Doesnt mean Im scared to break afingernail

Doesnt mean Im scared to get bruises

Just because Im a girl boxer --Doesnt mean Im scared to spar you!

Just Because ImJust Because Ima Girl Boxera Girl Boxer

Blue WomanBlue Woman

Caitlin AndersonOil Pastel

Katharine Wight 1

a flash eruptsheat emits in waves.

so suddenly, so abruptno longer, I crave.

a thick cloud rises.as the sereneness descends.

a shrieking beep begins to cry

signaling the end.

this craving, now a litle strife.I was watching, I could have sworn.

as a blanket of snow steals its lifeall because of a litle popcorn.

Craving SparkCraving Spark

MaskMask

Lexi Araoz 12Mixed Media

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He should have listened to his father. He hung from the side of themountain, an ice axe in each hand. The

blades were driven deep into the frostedcliffface. His feet dangled, scrabbling forpurchase against the icefall. The harshcrackle of breaking ice split the air as his lefice axe tore itself free. His right shouldershrieked with sharp hot pain and he inhaledas the full burden of his one hundred andninety pound frame shifed. He held on withonly his right arm. He was going to die. Thirty feet below was a jagged stoneoutcrop and beyond that fifeen thousandfeet of rock separated him from the base ofthe mountain. He allowed himself a quick

glance down over his shoulder and squintedin the bright morning light. He was gratefulthat his goggles had fogged up so he couldnot see down to where he would be dashedto pieces against the mountainside. All he

could see was the bright hazy corona of thesun refracted through droplets of moistureon his goggles.

He felt his right hand quiver and loseits grip. He squeezed the handle of the iceaxe like a constrictor snake suffocating itsprey until he feared his hand would burstfrom the pressure. His lefarm hung limpand dead at his side. In seconds he wouldlose his grip and he would fall and he woulddie. He should have listened to his father. Time slowed down and in his headhe saw his fathers face: strong, chiseled,aquiline, with shining blue eyes and bushybrows and short-cropped fair hair. His skinwas leathery and dappled with rugged

graying stubble and his mouth was lockedin a sort of crooked half-smile. He couldnot forget that smile. The smile made himappear at once jubilant and desolate and inthat smile was a universe of emotion. He

could never tellwhat his fatherwas thinking, butthen he had neverlistened to hisfather. His fatherhad told him toclimb the mountainin the summerwhen the weatherwas mild and thehigh passes werefree of ice. Whenhe turned twenty-one his father hadoffered to takehim to climb themountain. He hadrefused. To theyoung man the

ascent seemedpointless anddifficult. Now,at forty-two, hethought himselftoo good for themountain and sohe was going todie. The memoryof his father madehim warm and herealized he did

Summit

6

Green HouseGreen House

Monica Skrzypczak 14Acrylic

Ben Belford 13Robert Collins Creative Writing Award

FIRST PLACE

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not want to die. Sofheat spread through hislefarm and feeling returned. He still had hislefice axe. Confident, he raised his lefarm

overhead and drove the axe forward into theice. He wiggled it to be sure it was secure andpulled himself up a few precious feet. Hisright arm protested as he pulled the otheraxe free, but he ignored it and continued toclimb. Looking up he saw that it was fifeenfeet to the next ledge.Easy. When he reachedit he set one of his axes down and started tolifhimself over the side of the stony shelf.The surface was icy and his fingers scrambledfor a hold. He hung in limbo, his lefhandgripping the ice axe and his right grapplingfor purchase. Afer an eternity he managed to

swing himself up onto the ledge facedown.He landed on his knees and his right leg shotout from under him and knocked the ice axeover the edge. Out of one eye he saw the axefall, fall, fall, spiraling and glinting in thesun. Gasping he pulled the rest of his bodyonto the narrow shelf. He lay shivering andempty. I cannot do this. He closed his eyes and the harshmountain-scape faded. He saw his father,sunburnt, hair windswept, smiling, reallysmiling, not a crooked half-smile this time.

He wore a loose-fiting khakishirt unbutoned

halfway and stoodon a small boatholding a fishingrod. It was one ofthe few times hehad seen his fatherwearing somethingother than hisgray-brownmilitary uniform.As a child he hadrarely seen hisfather because of

the war and whenthe young man wastwenty-two yearsold his father hadbeen killed. Theybrought a litlebox with a Purple

Heart to the door and when he asked hismother about it she said his father was braveman. He knew only stories, legends that hisfather had given his life to save an entireplatoon. But he did not know how his fatherhad died. He imagined his father smiling ashe was blown apart by shrapnel, incineratedin an explosion, shredded by bullets, stabbedin the back, hanged. He could only imagine. Deep in his being he sensed a warmpresence and knew it was his father. He felt,somehow, that his father had died to savehim. To save his son. He did not know how heknew this or how it was possible but he knewit was true and he began to cry. I am listening,Father. The sofcold stirring of the breezeagainst his face brought him back to the

world. Salty tears stung his cheeks. He roseand saw the summit less than one hundredfeet above. Using one axe he began to climb.The ice was pure and white and solid. Whenhe reached the peak there was empty bluesky and bright white sunlight and cold thinair and nothingness. He lifed the veil of thefoggy goggles from his face. From the top ofthe mountain he could see everything andeverything could see him but he did not care.He spread his arms and took a deep breath. Iam here, Father.

WinterWinter

James Hoff 13Technical Pen

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Sam Christy 14

The point of highlighters is to pick out the most important parts.Would you highlight me, or simply leave me scratched in the

pencil?Bookmarks mark the spot that one wants to return to fondly.Would you bookmark me, or just leave me on a page to be lost?Staplers atach things together in a most permanent manner.

Would you staple yourself to me, or leave only me looselytrailing behind?

Do I mater to you like you mater to me?Dont respond because I already know the answer.An eraser make unwanted smudges, marks, and imperfections

all disappear.I know that is your weapon of choice against me.I say that I will find someone else, but who am I kidding?Im just a knick knack, a collectors item, that will always remain

on your dusty, old shelf.

Christine White 1Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contes

FINALIST

summer is tugging at my sleeve, it seems.the sky is unbearably bright.these warm sunday evenings seep into my dreams(your words still follow me home at night.)

the sun glimpses down from an azure sky.the days slip by in a bee-buzz blur.the nights grow short, and they too fly by.(i tried brushing you offbut you stuck like a burr.)

summer is pawing at the spring-thawed ground.this weather is tinting my reveries.its strange to know another years gone round.(im joyous youre on your way home to me.)

Ode to Someone IveOde to Someone IveBeen MissingBeen Missing

Les FleursLes Fleurs

Abbie Francisco 12Pastel

Offi ce SuppliesOffi ce Supplies

BottlesBottles

Natalie Richards 12Watercolor

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Jeremi Zuba 13Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

I see the windows, barred with useless paper.Red marks like blood- from where they tore at my

skinI see a ray of light--using his warm nails to pry his way through theglassTo show me hopeThe crunch of bone rings through my earsas another blood-shot paper crushes his knuckles.

BoredomThoughts spinningAn eagle swoops down incandescently

Its curved talons slice through my fleshThe thin silver beak pierces into my veinThis time, no blood will be taken.

My heart is a fist rapidly pulsatingPumping the clear liquid through my veinsEyes close, lips twist upwardI am high on adrenaline.

snow bites my face down the slopeI give my breath to the wind

Freedom

Oars slice through the waterI give my strength to the boatFreedom

Warm water swells around meI give my trust to the tankFreedom

Eyes open in darkness

RING

Freedom.

SchoolSchool

Red WomanRed Woman

Marian Reyes 14Oil Pastel

ArachnidArachnid

Rachel Berg 14Colored Pencil 9

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Anna Girgenti 14Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

SECOND PLACE

Deep inside the museum,

In the heart of the greatest city,Is a woman frozen in time,Forever young and beautiful,Her body carved by man.

A thousand years lefher skin untouched,But she is naked and lonely and cold.Her perfect mouth leaves her story untold.Thousands of people will see her today:None will ever know her.

Behind her are brush strokes of menFighting a batle they think they will win,Men stuck on a canvas in harmony,Held in bliss eternally.A bright flag in their bloody hands,

They hold an endless optimism.Their chests push out with pride;They believe this new land is theirsAnd the marble woman would roll her eyes,

If she could ever turn to see them.

The Art Museum

At e MuseumAt Te MuseumMonica Skrzypczak 14Graphite

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Kyle Beckett 12

A boy in red and a girl in bluethe boy turned and said I like youthe girl in blue laughed because sheskewand she, in fact, liked him too.

The boy in red blushed and saidis it too much to hold your hand?the girl in blue just smiled insteadand grabbed the hand of the boy in red.

They sat around not making a sounduntil the girl in blue looked back andsaidi like you too, boy in red

Maybe one day, said the girl in blueI would be able to marry youthe boy in red sat up and saidwill you marry me now, girl in blue?

The girl in blue looked at the boy in redRight now? was all she had saidThe boy in red smiled insteadand wated for the girl in blue

The girl in blue chuckled and saidI will marry you, boy in redThe boy in red chuckled, tooHe finally found his girl in blue

Red and Blue

Primary BugsPrimary Bugs

Paul Boguszewski 13Oil Pastel

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Peter Cimino 13

I peer in the looking glass and what do I seeThings of the past that have come to be

And forever I shall stand in hollowed antiquityTo never be forgoten and to never flee

From Caesar to Napoleon to Gandhi and backThere is nothing within me that I lack

I never change, but I unfold, creating new days of oldForward I greet a wonderful tale

But backward I am of no availHowever, look deep inside me and there you will find

Epic and great stories of mankindWho am I may you ask?

I am history, times great flask

Past ReectionPast Reection

How I See MyselfHow I See Myself

Alyssa Steinhagen 13Technical Pen

ButterflyButterfly

Mallery Myers 12

Mixed Media Relief

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Jaelyn Anderson 12

Dear mirror of my soul...You hold my hands every thought

Behind your black bound raggedy cover.

You have a piece of my mind hiddenBehind your pages.

You afer the beauty under my skin.With your cut out pictures glued front and back

to the white canvases.Ive writen my thoughts and recorded

What I see in the world.Every quirky part of my

personality is packed tightly togetherand bound by bending metal wire,

struggling to hold you together.Every page of try paint

and dusty charcoalwas born by a grand

ballet of my fingers and polishedby tabs and notes

so that each thought will never be lostin the crowd of sketches and colors.

Each page holds a texture so thatEven the blind can see your beauty.

And the deaf can hear my imagination

By watching the elegantly unorganized pages.

e SketchbookTe Sketchbook

No HopeNo Hope

Jaelyn Anderson 12Charcoal

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The single drop of sweat inching downhis beet red face was nothing compared tothe burning sensation his legs were feeling

as he continued on. Hefi

nally could seethe end, but he knew he had at least onethousand meters to go. It was at that momentthat he saw the stealthy black racing shellmaking its way past him. He continued on,push afer push, lying to both his mind andbody about the excruciating pain runningfrom the tips of his toes to the pit of hisstomach. He had been training for this theentire year. There would be no going back,no return of the tireless hours he spenttraining, and certainly no regrets. A tinyspark of cowardice hiding in the back of

his mind told him that he could not finish.It tried to infect his mind, calling on hisbrutally worn out legs for support. Theidea then turned to the racer rowing nextto him, and told Troy that he would not beable to beat him. He considered the idea, butpushed the thought into the deepest abyssof his mind. He was not a quiter. He knewthat now, not later, was his time. Troy wenton. He knew he would have to increase hisstroke rate if he were to stay in the lead. The shiny black boat was threateningto take first, andTroy knew the otherrower would be justas determined to winas he was. The twoboats were bow to bow,sprinting to the finishfor the ultimate gloryof the title and thehonor of the victory.Troy looked over hisshoulder; he failedto notice the other

racers face. All hecould see was the blackboat pushing him torow harder. As Troycontinued to row faster,his lungs struggled forair. His mouth was a

desert yearning for even the slightest dropof water. A gush of air forced its way into hismouth, creating a windstorm dry enough to

dry the entire river. Five hundred meters togo. Only twenty minutes before, thereflection of Troys face glistened in the wateras he anxiously wiped the dripping sweat offhis face. He shifed in his seat waiting for therace to begin. The hot summer sun beameddown his back and formed more shinydroplets on his face. He heat was incredibleand his eyes blurred as the sweat slid downand burned his eyes. The anxiety was getingto him, but he knew he had to stay focused.He took one more deep breath and waited

for the final call. He looked to his right andsaw the other racers preparing for the race.He then looked to the lefand saw the blackboat siting ready. He rowers face reflectedthe glaring sun so that Troy could only makeout his silhouete. Ready, Row! At the exact moment heheard the announcer yell, he took one hardstroke and was off. The twenty-foot slenderracing shell sliced through the water withease under his powerful strokes. He knew hehad six thousand meters ahead of

Jeremi Zuba 13Rockford Womens ClubCreative Writing Contest

FINALISTThe Rowers Drive

BattleshipBattleship

Anthony Saporiti 12Acrylic

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him, approximately sixhundred strokes. He tookone glance over his shoulderand glimpsed the freshgreen leaves on the treessurrounding the river. Manya time he had been able toadmire the wooded inlandwith its abundance of plantsand animals, but not today.

He shif

ed his thoughtsback to the race; he knewhe could not lose focus evenfor a second. The incrediblythin boat demanded perfectbalance, threatening toflip with the slightestmistake. His strokes boastedprecision accuracy as theblades cut through thewater. He could feel the boatpick up speed. He knewhow to pace himself, and he

knew exactly what the race entailed. Strokeafer stroke he pushed on. Four thousandmeters to go. Afer twenty minutes of rowing, and asthe slick black boat forced Troy to continueon, the finish line was only one hundredmeters away. Troy quickly looked aroundand saw the blurred face of the rower whowas effortless maintaining a seeminglyperfect pace. The rower made no indicationthat he was struggling to keep up as hematched him stroke for stroke. Troy hated theother rower for pushing him to go faster, andhe hated him for trying to win. Fify meters togo. Troy could barely think, but for these lastfive strokes he knew he had to row harderthan he had ever rowed before if he wantedto win. Troy closed his eyes, went up the slideand pushed harder than he thought possible.Four strokes lef. Time seemed to slow to anunreal pace. Troy forced himself to go upthe slide and felt his sweaty hands slippingon the oars. He tightened his grip so that hisknuckles turned white. Three strokes lef. Heshifed his feet in the stretchers to position

the balls of his feet for maximum power. Two

strokes lef. At that moment, from the darkcorner into which it was early shoved, theidea of quiting crept back into Troys mind.It beckoned his muscles to quit two strokesearly. It bribed them with the thought of rest,but the thought of the racer in the black boatbeside him overcame the idea and motivatedTroy to take the last two strokes needed tofinish the race. These last two strokes werea blur to Troy and all he knew was that hedrove his oars through the water harder thanhe ever had before.

When he crossed the finish line, he

knew that he had lefeverything on thewater. He smiled to himself as his musclesforgave him for pushing them so hard. WhenTroy opened his eyes, there was no sign ofanother boat nearby. He realized that he hadfinished first, and that he had finished at leastthirty seconds faster than all other boats inthe race. Quietly, he thanked the rower in theblack boat for pushing him until the end.

MidnightMidnight

Anna Girgenti 14Colored Pencil

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Ty Zimmerman 12

Our lives begin without sensationin a world full of temptation

until we begin to feel our first inspirationthat moment lights fire to our imagination

from then on begins the taxationon our revelation

we soon lose all of our motivationas we lead our lives in domination

these feelings become a permutationand we look in desperation

to be part of any denominationto lead us with some kind of navigation

to help us once again find that illuminationand bring us back to stimulation

so once again we may find the titillationof our minds exhilaration

without societys intimidationwe hope to break free of the worlds sterilization

and their atempt at pseudo purificationto perhaps finally renew our identification.

Transformationransformation

CheetahsCheetahs

Ana-Maria Gavranovic 13Sumi-e Ink

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Ben Belford 13Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFINALIST

Every dawn I wakeAnd I grimace as I walk slowly to the cold machineLike an explorer I survey her conditionand once deemed acceptable I jimmy the lock.Finally, the heavy door opens andI am able to gingerly climbinto her simplicity.

Afer coughing out the troublesOf the past

She roars to life.Like always.She slowly backs down the drive withGreen paint chips flutering awayAfer a mile she is ready to face the tiring day.

She is the definition of reliable.A testament to hard work.She carries with her debris from long agowith dust that refuse to setle in current times.

She is not silent. She is not proud.She dares for anything to try to stop her,Because she knows nothing on the planet can.

Ode to JimmyOde to Jimmy

Audi RAudi R8

Spencer Giardini 13Colored Pencil

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Sean McNealy 12

Everyday I put a smile on my face,Sometimes to hide the pain.Afraid no one will understand,

no one will know the strain.

But I think to myself,Life is short, cliche, I know.Why be sad?Why put on a show?

To appreciate everyday I have,to live each day as my last.To forgive my enemies,let their actions pass.

So smile.There is always something to smileabout,for God put me here,to live without regret or doubt.

Katie Day 12Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contes

FINALIST

Just two caterpillars.

no logic. no emotion. no soul.but at least they had each other.

Who did she have now?Since the fire,

she was all alone.

The valley was serene.The only thing that brought her peace.

The warm wind welcomed her.The birds sang sweet songs,

sweet songs of sadness

every time she returned.The flowers blossomed as she passed by,blossoming with compassion.

Compassion was all she knew now.The caterpillars crawled into her palm,

Trying to comfort her.Somehow, she did not feel comforted.

for Oscar and Alphonse reminded her ofher parents,

and she knew that by tomorrow,they would fly far, far away

and leave her, too.

Oscar and

Alphonse

HibiscusHibiscus

Allison Corcoran 12Charcoal

ReectionsReections

Claire Strominger 12Watercolor

The Greatest Gift

`

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Nick Evans 12

I looked around for the girl in whiteShe disappeared you see.I called and called and no one came.Where was my bride to be?

I thought she lef, she took the train.Gone in to the sunset,The night turned dark and once againI was back onto the quest.

I walked around in every room.Nowhere was she seen.I shined the light up the stairs.There was my bride to be.

I ran upstairs to see her faceEcstatic to meet her again.But when I got up the stairsShe faded in the end

Of the hallway and I ran to catch her.She was gone in a flash, she dimmed.Then it occurred the scary thought.She was never there to begin.

Bride To Be

Green EyesGreen Eyes

Alexandra Newton 14Acrylic

Jenna Vathakos 15Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

I am a dreamer and a believerI wonder what people actually think of meI hear the rain on my windowsillI see the people I love all around meI want the world to change for the beterI am a dreamer and a believer

I pretend that all my hopes and dreams will someday come trueI feel as if God is looking down on meI touch the hearts of those that I love

I worry about the soldiers fighting for our countryI cry when my heart is brokenI am a dreamer and a believer

I understand that loved ones must leave at some pointI say that I will meet my Grandpa for the first time someday in

heavenI dream that the war will soon endI try to make everyone else happy when I might be crying insideI hope that people will accept me for who I really amI am a dreamer and a believer

I Am Me

Self=PortraitSelf=Portrait

Jennifer Peters 14Colored Pencil

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Katelyn Maragi 12

theres a dock on a lake where life becomes carefree

the strong calm lake holds a secret world underneath. once morning silence ends a new world begins to awaken. the stereo birds sing their favorite songs dragonflies dart and dash and dance along.the wooden dock swishes and sways with the friendly waves while a school of fish plays its own litle games. the breeze makes its way through to kiss every guestand the sand proves to be the partys pest. the fatherly sun watches over it all and keeps the cold shouldered rain from trying to fall.

as its radiant rays leave the seaweed waves goodbyebut the party still continues with the stars in the sky.

e Dock on the LakeTe Dock on the Lake

Summer MemoriesSummer Memories

Paige Lester 12Watercolor

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Megan Schneider 12Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

Its been too many miles my friendsince we roped together these worn outroads in the red dust of my mindAnd sat.

Here amidst the footprints of the comersand goers I ask:How do you see it all?--the beginning lost in the dust and hills,the destination hidden beyond some lemon

crest obscured by indecision.

But in the middle of the road when the dustcloud has setledit all comes together.The comers and the goers,theyre much the same, you say.Like dust and dirt, theyre not so separate inthe afernoon breeze.

Perhaps someday I shall arrive and realize

Ive just returned to my beginningswhere travelers cease to travel and slip intosome far offethereal place.But today we rise and walk again,two travelers wound together betweendusty footprints.They linger for a moment, there imprints inthe ever-changing landscape, as if to sayDo not forget where weve been.Do not forget who we are.

A Travelers ImpressionA ravelers Impression

Liberty DanceLiberty Dance

Brooke Harp 12Colored Pencil

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Christian Antonacci 14Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFINALIST

Abstract or Blot,Youre in and Im not.

Karate or Kung Fu,I will never be cooler than you.

Metal or Jazz,Classical or Komagaku

I will always be considered thespaz.

Rent or Hamlet,Shakespeare or Iyaz,

Im the one who is lefalone to set

Forever,Collecting dust.

However,I lust.

No, not for women.No, not for sin,

But to beginTo learn the art of fiting in.

The Art of

Fitting In

Self PortraitSelf Portrait

Melanie Timms 15Marker

Anna Phillip 12

The full moon glowing over,The white sparkling snow.My fingers reached out,But it wasnt cold.So bright and white,Completely self absorbed.It dripped right through my

fingers,

Like a sun kissed satin rose.

What If SnowWasnt Cold?

Fruit SaladFruit Salad

Shannon Goebel 12Metal Relief

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Gabriel Smith 12Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

Tears start to fall on the dusty floorMemories of pain sorrow happiness and confusionThe tears are like rain falling from the heavens on a

nostalgic desertThe wind echoes past the swaying trees just outsidethe window

As if whispers of memories were chasing each otherin an endless race to recollection

Portraits of family both here and gone decorate eachshelf and every wall

Their smiles give no lasting comfortThe floor creaks as if moaningThe window squeals as if cryingThe room itself remembers who used to dwell here

It senses that he is deadSo it continues to weepThe rain falls once again

Time... it slows... to a stop...And you can truly take in everything aroundThe sights sounds, and even the memories that

decorate the wallsIts so still, like a calm pond in the middle of a

moonless nightIts eerie yet peacefulAnd the rain falls again

The Old

Blue Room

Bone ChatterBone Chatter

Kelsey Gugliuzza 13Sumi-e Ink

PearsPears

Andrea Sotelo 15Oil Pastel

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Abby Wedoff 15Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

Things that annoy me in life:When people wear their Uggs in the summer

When your favorite team loses, its such a bummerWhen girls dress crazy just to look coolWhen people dont try hard in school

Things in the world that make me sad:When war is something people love

When loved ones go to Heaven way up aboveWhen jobs are lost and no one cares

When children have too much to bear

Things that make me happy in life:

When a babys smile can light up a roomWhen loves becomes official between a bride and groom

When summer weathers warm and sunnyWhen friends make you cheerful when theyre caring

and funny

ings atTings TatAnnoy Me in LifeAnnoy Me in Life

Ashley Volkert 15Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

Just because Im a freshman Doesnt mean my backpack is full of books Doesnt mean seniors intimidate me Doesnt mean you can push me around

Just because Im a freshman Doesnt mean I dont know my way around school Doesnt mean Im going to fall for senior pranks Doesnt mean Im a nobodyJust because Im a freshman Doesnt mean I run to class to be there on time Doesnt mean I dont belong at school eventsJust because Im a freshman -- Doesnt mean you never were.

FreshmanFreshman

FORK AND PLATEFORK AND PLATE

Emily Larson 12Charcoal

Still LifeStill Life

Breanna Stutsman 15Graphite

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Lizzy Chiodini 14Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

Welcome to my world,Where chimpanzees are humans,And humans are fish,And fish sing beautiful songsThat get drowned out by the sound of theWavesThat are now rolling cactusesThat no longer know how to survive in theDesertThat is now dessert with two cherries on top

That really just makes the entire sundae taste bad.Bad that tastes like you went to bed withoutbrushing your teethThat have roted with all of the words you havesaid;However, your mind seems to be in perfect shapefrom the outsideWhere people can only seeYour hairThat sticks up from your shower last nightIn the pouring rain that brought down a power line

thatTurned the litle boys TV show offandHis dads Wheel of FortuneThat has been spun the wrong wayBecause the family of 7 now lives in a 2 bedroomhouse.Houses that start to melt when families get heatedandMicrowaves that burn the popcorn even when youuse the right seting.

Welcome to My World.Welcome to My World.

Look Me in the EyeLook Me in the Eye

Lizzy Chiodini 14Acrylic

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Alex SagonaRockford Womens ClubCreative Writing ContestFINALIST

When poems enter my mindthey are like rockstapping against my window in the middle of the nightWho is it? I say,Is it a good one?Will you be the one that I am remembered for?

I go to the window and pull back the curtain.I see a litle black notebook and a penshining in the moonlight.

Cant you see that I am sleeping? I tell them.But they dont care.Whether it is while I am driving my car,feeding my cat,or the darkest hour of the night.They come like the midnight train.And they leave just as fast.

They just look up at me,still shining with help from the moon.

I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes.Well, I say, are you going to come up or not?

Pester Me More

Tuxedo Maskuxedo Mask

Stacy Cussen 12Mixed Media

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Grace Heim 13Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFINALIST

Where grass grows green & lushAnd is laced with bursts of color

Where flowers bloom into endless fields,And fill the air with their sweet perfume,

Where the sun shines day & night,Where the moon gleams

cool & white,Where rainbows fill the sunny skies

And the Aurora Borealis light up the night,

Where the sky is sprinkled with shapely clouds,And the clouds laze in the lovely breeze,Where the breeze whispers in the trees,

And the trees dancewith the wind,

Where there is color up & down,Where there is beauty in the sky & on the ground

There is not one person to be seen,No One to pollute this prety scene,

But No One toenjoy it.

Simple Beauty

Still LifeStill Life

Emma Fredrickson 15Graphite

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Andrew Hazen 14Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFINALIST

Slowly and silently do strangeSymphonies of sound surround me.

Vapors of shimmering SpectersBeckon song and unending psalmTo create echoes in the night

A figure floats forwardFriend or phantom? I ask.

It unfurls from itselfa hollow white mask.

Wear it, says the figureas if I had no choice.

Wear it, the ghost echoes,I will become your voice.

Im speechless and confusedby the Specters odd test.

What is this figurethat asks such a request?

My thoughts scream and tell meThat something is not right,

The unfeelingness of a deep, cold glancethe thing I could not fight.

I don the white mask under the moons darklight

and fade away as the music of the night.

e VoiceTe Voice

CanklesCankles

Kyle Beckett 12Graphite

Nick Bimmerle 12

A wide open sea.Opening around me,Sparkling with ink,

Doted with Is sailing around.But as I watch,

From this beach of life,The waves wash come crashing in,

Up the shore,Threatening to crush my home,

Cascading in brilliant reds and blacks,

All around me as I push my boat of lifeout,Trying to navigate to a beter shore,The test-y winds blowing sprays of

confeti at my face,Yet I carry on finding the currents of daily

life,Taking these as I can,

Towards the sunny weekends,These peaceful islands where I can take

shelter,Ready, for another trip out next week.

tHE oCEAN OF hOME-tHE oCEAN OF hOME-

WORKWORK

cATCH OFcATCH OF

THE dAYTHE dAY

Bailey Balentyne 12Watercolor

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Ben Belford 13Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

The sun is not yet risen.A twist of the key,

A stifl

ed cough, a choke, a sput

er,She rises to meet the cool dawn.

The only things green about herAre the peeling paint job

And the tatered leaves stuck in theTreads of those worn, mud-caked tires.

Eleven miles to the gallon,Zero to sixty in

Just twenty seconds, she is abeast of grace and power.

Three hundred horses could not haulWhat those eight cylinders

Have dragged through the endless fieldsIn their twenty years on earth.

She is no stranger to labor,Born with a trailer hitch,

Quietly she has hauled tonsOf dirt, gravel, grain, water.

She carries the stuffnations are made ofIn that rusted-out bed.

She is proud in her old ageAnd shows no sign of quiting.

She was made in America.

Ode to the TruckOde to the ruck

Youll Never KnowYoull Never Know

If you Dont TryIf you Dont Try

Taylor Pyzynski 15Mixed Media

29Laura Bauer 12

What if love potions were real?What if you could control the way someone would

feel?

Is it wrong? Is it right?Would you use once? Maybe twice?

If would be tempting, without a doubt,If the perfect person were to come about.

Someone tall, good-looking, and worth your while,With bright blue eyes and a charming smile.

What if the love potion lasted for life?Would you regret your decision

Once you were their wife?What if love potions really were real?

What if you could control the way someone would

feel?

Love?Love?

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Madeline Bhaskar 15

Expectations were set high

I thought I had a planBut sadly things happened,Things I do not understand

I did all the workI put in the extra time

But things were lefto chanceNothing I had was really mine

My path had changed

But the goal still as strongIf anything it gave me strengthTo prove them all wrong

I may be bruised, but not defeatedMy faith and skill are not depletedI will always do whatever it takes

Because I am the one who controls my fate.

Fate

PawnPawn

Megan Collins 14Graphite

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Colleen Crooks 13Fine Arts Fair Poetry Contest

FINALIST

Love is not easy to define

It contradicts itself in every way.It creates happiness that you get from nowhere else.Then it can nearly kill someone.It takes seconds to fall for love.

& it takes months and years to forget it.

Love is the disease we run from on the playground.Love is the thing we chase in the hallways at high school.

Its the one thing that creates lifeAnd then destroys life in a blink of an eye.

Love is faithful for eternity.And then it turns your back on you to someone else.

Love is a cycle.We have it and swear to never let it go.

We lose it and claim we never want it back.But when it comes knocking back at our door

We grab it tight once again.

Love is what we are made by,Love is what we are made with.Love is what we were made for.

LOVE

Self-PortraitSelf-Portrait

Laura Bauer 12

Pastel

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Emily Way 12Fine Arts Fair Poetry ContestFIRST PLACE

O n e car drives slowly Twothreefour

Zip along splashing through huge puddlesThe young boy in the boots is drenched With water With laughter. To that boy Angels are crying To a weatherman Clouds are saturated To me? My soul is refreshed.Hours progress and the grass is my mood ring. The mist through the mesh of the open window. The drip drip drip against the welcoming concrete. The smell of the worms celebrating the end of a famine. The taste of the thick air napping. Taking a day offfrom its busy, upbeat life.

As am I. I sigh. I setle into the soffolds of my bed. My glass window shuts And my green ones are to follow.

Industrious RainsIndustrious Rains

BLOSSOMSBLOSSOMS

Megan Schneider 12Watercolor

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Contributing Staff

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Boylan Cathol ic High School

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