The Ripple Effect

Art by Sophia Larson

2014 - 2015 Volume 8

Acknowledgements

The creation of this year’s edition of the Literary Review would not have been possible without the help of so many kind people… Don Pults - Thanks for allowing us to use your high tech camera and for copying all of our photos onto a disc for us Martina Kelly, Lindsay Hunkins, and Sue Cranston Thanks for allowing us to use the magnificent artwork from your classes Teachers - We appreciate your support in promoting the Literary Review.

Thanks for your willingness to sacrifice some valuable class time to allow your students to complete some of our short writing activities.

Students - Thanks for all your tremendous submissions. It takes guts to submit something that has the potential to be read or seen by an entire community. We truly appreciate it!

Thoughts from the Editors

Bryce Blinkhorn (12th Grade) “As an editor for The Ripple Effect, I was reminded of the power and inspiration that we can share through art. Each piece of writing and art has a unique message that shows a glimpse of the artistic talent Hill-Murray has to offer. Hopefully this collection of works will give the readers something to think about and open their minds to new outlooks; it certainly did for me.” Sophia Larson (10th Grade) “I thoroughly enjoyed my position as the Art Editor this year for the Hill-Murray Literary Magazine, and I found that it was incredibly empowering to see such an influx of artistic expression. Personally, I sometimes find it hard to share my own creative work, but the fact that so many students volunteered their God-given talents amazes me. It says a lot about the community here at Hill-Murray that so many students are not afraid to put themselves out there and share all that they can with the world. They know that in all their endeavors they will always have the supportive community here at Hill-Murray to fall back on. I was truly impressed and inspired by all of the artistic works submitted and want to thank the students that gave that little part of themselves out for the world to view. Lastly, I want to thank Mr. Larson and Bryce Blinkhorn for guiding me through my first year as an editor.”

2015 Pioneer Anthology Staff

Editor-In-Chief Bryce Blinkhorn

Art Editor

Sophia Larson

Faculty Adviser Mr. Pete Larson

Table of Contents

Poetry “In Hopes that I Will Find You” – Chris Holmes......…………………….…...2

“Wistful” – Jack Galler....................................…………………………………..3 “Inheritance” – Sonya Fleming........……………………………………………4 “Endings” – Abby Vakulskas….…………………………………......................5 “After” – Lauren Sklar....................………………………………………..........6 “The Lies Within the World” – Jacqui Cotton-Flowers…....………....………7 “Hope’s Shadow” – Chris Holmes……..……………………………………....8 “Love is Like a Snakebite” – Earnhardt Jaworski……...…………...………...9 “To be a Writer” – Sonya Fleming……........………………….........................10 “Maizon” – Lauren Sklar…………..........................…………………………..11 “Soul” – Sophia Larson……….………………………………………………..12 Short Stories “When the Forest Calls” – Ada Johnson...........................................................14 “Snapshots, Unidentified City, 1930 - 1932” – Sonya Fleming…..………...17 Macbeth Mashups “Macbeth Love Story” - Ali Detviler.................................................................24 “Macbeth Wants to be King” - George Khoury...............................................25

Rants “PDA” - McKenzie Lindahl................................................................................27 “Christiana” - Ana Frascone...............................................................................28 “Hardcore Concerts” - Matt Muellner..............................................................29 “Haircuts” - Mika Scundi...................................................................................31 “No Arms for Slow Golfers” - Henry Venuta..................................................32 Perspective Writing Perspective #1 - Donn Boyer..............................................................................35 Perspective #2 - Dan Wolf..................................................................................36 Perspective #3 - Sally Franco.............................................................................37 Perspective #4 - Sam Henkes.............................................................................38 Perspective Writing Answer Key......................................................................39 One-Word Writing Prompts “Despicable” - Jordan Buron..............................................................................41 “Majestice” - Christian Williams.......................................................................42 “Surprise” - Jack Dean........................................................................................43 Six-Word Memoirs Sophia Fobaire......................................................................................................45 Marissa Pilney......................................................................................................45 Ginny Wang..........................................................................................................45

Six-Word Memoirs (Continued) Marko Reifenberger.............................................................................................45 Kennedy Hogue...................................................................................................45 Ben Lee..................................................................................................................45 McKenzie Lindahl................................................................................................45 Sean Wendlandt...................................................................................................45 Louis Dinzeo.........................................................................................................45 Savannah Cunnien...............................................................................................45 Ana Frascone........................................................................................................46 Emma Becker........................................................................................................46 Alexa Rydel...........................................................................................................46 Sam Pitzen.............................................................................................................46 Jack Fahey.............................................................................................................46 Noah Ondrusik.....................................................................................................46 Amy Koalska........................................................................................................46 Paige Lautigar......................................................................................................46 Michael Rydel......................................................................................................46 JP Muriel-Betanzos..............................................................................................46 Charlotte McReynolds.........................................................................................47 Lexi Klein..............................................................................................................47 Jarrod Kane...........................................................................................................47

Six-Word Memoirs (Continued) Luke Eklund.........................................................................................................47 Jimmy Quirk.........................................................................................................47 Davis Zarembinski...............................................................................................47 Taylor Krech.........................................................................................................47 Alaina Nicosia......................................................................................................47 Zannah Esteb........................................................................................................47 Gunnar Andrews.................................................................................................47 Contributing Artists: (Art Work Throughout) Savannah Cunnien, Holly Campbell, James Gunderson, Maggie Krawczyk, Sophia Larson, Sarah Link, Colin Little, Michaela Lochen, Michelle McKenzie, Megan Miller, Emily Turner, Nam Vu

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Poetry

Art by Emily Turner

2

In Hopes that I Will Find You

A thousand tiny particles fill the night sky. I can see Orion the hunter hunting translucent animals across the shadowy abyss of the sky. I turn my head to you and wonder how I got here, with my heart fluttering against my chest, my breath being taken by you every time I see you. I look into your eyes, the brilliant light of your love shining back at me, my face reflected in your eyes, reflects everything that you believe. I see us, hand in hand, jumping off the cliff straight into a pond, laughing on our way down. I see us, sitting side by side, leaning into each other, supporting each other, not watching the movie playing but rather focused on each other. I see you, hugging me into yourself, the tears streaming down my face, I see you, with myself in your arms, saying “I Love you” for the first time. I see it all happen at once, under the pitch black sky, as I look into your eyes. This could only happen if I find you. So as I’m sitting here, I’m sending out a prayer. A prayer in hopes that I will find you. By Chris Holmes

Art by Sophia Larson

3

Wistful

My Grandpa often speaks of a different time Golden fields of what, long peaceful walks home, and soda for a dime Wistful calls for the past I would wonder why he holds this archaic ideology In this new and amazing information age of life-changing technology Later on I would go to summer camp Hikes through nature, swimming in cool lakes, and cards under a warm propane lamp Living disconnected from the devices that were taking us to the future now rising I was living the wistful past my Grandpa was describing I now enter the world of the modern work machine As a cashier - bagging shirts, legos, and coffee beans I work through minimum wage, eternal hours, and HR And I think of my times in camp, seeing a shooting star And I myself, dream of the wistful past my Grandpa had described By Jack Galler

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Inherit[ance]

I got my dad’s hair [and his lack of tact] And my mom’s eyes [and her anxiety] And my grandma’s smile [and her depression] I look [and act] the most like Dad out of all three of the siblings And I don’t even look [or listen] like him at all. I look [and despair] more like Mom, But not as much as my brothers look [and are brilliant] like her. I guess I can chalk it up to genes [and bad luck]. I don’t have to like it [but I have to live with it]. By Sonya Fleming

Art by Megan Miller

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Endings

There were nights when his son couldn’t sleep, and he would tuck him into the back seat of the pickup and drive, slowly, in the dark underneath a mess of broken bottle stars. And the gradual, quiet sway of the tires ambling down the gravel road would move the boy into gentle unconsciousness. By Abby Vakulskas

Art by Michelle McKenzie

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After

Stones, rows of them. Row after row, Family after family. So many, so sad. Such a peaceful place, So filled with sorrow, But also memories. Good, bad, Many memories. Secrets, many secrets, But they with the memories, Follow in their owner’s footsteps. They pass on to a new land, Not to be known until the end. A land so hidden, It can not be found. It’s where these secrets and memories go, Along with their owners. In the end, our souls go to this mystery land we call Heaven, But our bodies go here, to the cemetery, Where people can remember us, And our memories, After our time has come. By Lauren Sklar

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The Lies Within the World

The world is like the truth in a lie It’s like a bird in a Sky It’s like that itch when itching or rubbing your eye Life can be rough but very smooth Life can be false but very true Life can be left but very right Life can be blind or in clear sight By Jacqui Cotton-Flowers

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Hope’s Shadow

Darkness begins to set in The shadows licking at the edge of my subconscious It’s eating away at my mind. It’s tearing me apart, bit by bit, hope by hope, dream by dream. It’s like a rainbow, once so bright and colorful, now gray, plain, hopeless, drained of everything that made it great. The dark is seeping into my being. Shadows surround me, my touch numbed, my sight now blind, my hope…drained, emptied, shallow and vacant of anything it used to be. The shadows wrap around everything, consuming everything. What’s worse than this? The light is gone. The bright rays of joy, happiness, and hope, gone, like the leaves on a tree during winter. Eventually, I give up. I let the shadows wrap me up in its icily-warm embrace. Nourishing me with doubts, hate, and despair. Then, all at once, like the shot from a gun, I was torn from the shadow’s grasp. I was reminded of the light, its feelings of grace, hope, pain, care and most importantly, Love. You reminded me that the light is never gone. Even though the brightest light casts the darkest shadow, any light can overtake the darkness. The light of hope, the ray of grace, the flames of love. You reminded me of that, and I will always love you for it. By Chris Holmes

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Love is Like a Snakebite

Love is like a snakebite Once injected, your life becomes infected. Once its fangs are in your veins, you’re done for, it’s stuck in your brain. Love is like a promise, so just be honest. Don’t deny something so pure. It might just be your only cure. By Earnhardt Jaworski

Art by James Gunderson

10

To be a Writer

To be a trove of stories bound in skin and bone living since day one full stories told stories read stories created mind constantly working to put words together so they flow so they sing bursting at the seams with plots characters settings how to weave them together to be a writer is to not want to be the only one wanting the stories to spill over into those around into those around the world By Sonya Fleming

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Maizon

Maizon. She frolicked in flowers, She pranced through the trees, She waltzed through nature, She rode on a dragon’s back. Maizon. Wings of twilight purple, Hair of midnight black. Eyes of ice blue, Watching the night. Elf-fairy, a winged Dragon Rider, One of a kind, regal as can be. Maizon. Guardian of forests, Protector of meadows. Watcher of nature, Destroyer of danger. Maizon. By Lauren Sklar

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Soul

Today I walked on the woods and felt my heart drown with me in the tumultuous rain and I saw Nobody’s flowers bleeding yellow out into the river fashioned from my borrowed path and the yellow stars bleed out like rain clouds seeped tears and it was all so beautiful By Sophia Larson

Art by Sarah Link

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Short Stories

Art by Holly Campbell

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When the Forest Calls

The forest calls to me late one night. The instinct I have to be in this lushness is a

longing I have to give into. The dark dungeon of dangerous animals keeps most people

away at this time of night, but not me. The sun set about two hours ago, so as I

approach my entering path, the warm spring day is cooling to a brisk night. Good thing

I always wear my coat. I stop to listen, something I do very often, to make sure I am

perfectly alone. As I stand silently for a couple of minutes I hear virtually nothing. At

the edge of the forest the bumbling beasts are all very shy. They are, of course, all

scared of the humans that speak loudly and carry big guns. The path to get into the

forest starts very wide. About ten of me can fit on the path at once, a fact that leaves me

feeling way too exposed. I pick up my usual trot trying to get as deep as I can into the

forest, as fast as I can. And it’s not long before I hit one of my paths. It is hidden, so only

I can find it and use it, knowing the way by heart. Through some bushes at first, then

turn towards the large thorn bushes, jump over the two trees on the ground, and finally

arrive at the berry bushes. I stop to eat some of the berries and relax. The ground is soft

and the moss is just starting to pour out of the trees. A promising sign of spring beauty.

Because of the dew on the untouched ferns, I can tell it has rained in the past couple of

days, which is perfect for the berries I am eating. As I calmly munch, the forest starts to

wake up around me. The birds call all around me, the squirrels are jumping around far

above me, and the flies are already circling my head. I look to my left to see blue birds

pecking into the trees looking for slumbering worms. I then look to my right to see a

badger and her babies running into their den for the night. I put my head to the ground.

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I can smell the ground defrosting, a deep earthy scent of rotting bark and synthesizing

plants. The ants are already hard at work making their homes, and the ticks are opening

their mouths hoping to bite into me. I walk with my eyes to the ground, looking if there

is anything edible for me to sink my teeth into, when I hear a threatening noise. A bark

coming from the far right of me. Humans, coyotes, wolves, or just dogs? One can never

be sure so in an instant I sprint into action. My feet are accustomed to the moist and

lumpy floor so I run easily, but that is not my goal. Silence is my goal. I come to the

forest to not be seen. I must keep my sounds low if I am to keep my presence unknown.

I run until I am working up a sweat then stop. Silence. I listen for something, anything.

But all I get in return is silence. I stand, ready for action, for about ten minutes, then I

start to calm down and look where I am. Deep in a part of the forest that I am not an

expert in. I slowly walk looking up at the towering umbrellas and then all around at

their mighty supports. Looking for any familiar scents or scenes, I spy a break in the

forest. I walk to its edge. The forest breaks up its denseness to allow for a pond and

some lavish looking grass. The pond, so blue on one side and then cluttered with lily

pads on the other, looks untouched. Something so natural and perfect. The frogs jump

from pad to pad while trying to score a fly for their dinner. The small trees around the

pond are starting to bud. Some green, some white, and a very special pink one. Though

the sun is long gone, the trees glisten from the reflection of the moon on the pond. The

birds have tucked themselves into their nests preparing for sleep and the squirrels are

eating their late dinner of nuts. The forest again goes quiet, as only the owls, coyotes,

and I are up this late. The fog from the cooling temperatures is now seeping out from

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the forest’s edges into the lower ground of the pond. Feeling thirsty I walk out of the

forest’s vail and into the open. The moonlight now is so bright that I can see most

everything clearly. The cool grass grazes my ankles as I stride towards the pool, and

just as I lower my body to drink I hear a stick break. The hairs on the back of my neck

stand up as I stand at attention. I then see who broke the stick, a hunter. I take off

running as I hear the wind up of a bow string behind me. My tail is straight up and my

long legs gallop off towards the ever safer forest. I run and run, tripping over rocks,

getting my antlers stuck on low branches, and jumping over fences until I reach what

must be the other end of the forest. I look out towards a farm. Cows peacefully grazing

and some looking at me, a strange creature in their presence. I try to walk out towards

them, but a flash of pain drives through my body and I see that the hunter has at last

gotten me with his arrow. I walk on three legs until I can no longer walk. As I take my

last stand I am in the most luscious grass field with pink, yellow, and white spring

flowers popping up all around me. I lay down and start to give into sleep. Knowing my

fate, I roll in the soft, wet dew of the early morning grass. It cools my sweating body

and calms me. I then lay down for the long sleep, and as the rooster crows off into the

distant I take my last breath of fresh, spring air. Wishing that the forest had not called to

me on this cursed night.

By Ada Johnson

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Snapshots, Unidentified City, 1930-1932

January 1932 Eden's firm hand grabbed Ari's chin and turned his face back to him. "Look at

me," he ordered. "I can't patch up your face if you're looking away, Ari." Ari sulkily turned his head back, keeping his eyes resolutely looking away from

Eden. His best friend sighed and put a hand gently on Ari's face, rubbing a thumb over an already patched-up gash before touching their foreheads together. "What is going to happen to us, Ari?"

"I don't know," Ari admitted. "If I can't beat her, I'm never gonna get out of the small-time stuff. If I wanna make it big, I gotta win against her." He let out a bitter, hissing breath. "But who knows when that'll happen?"

Eden's thumb rubbed soothingly back and forth. "Don't fret over it," he whispered. "Don't worry about it for now. I'm here."

Ari grasped Eden's wrist. "Are we ever going to get out?" he whispered. "I want to get out, Eden."

"Maybe we will," Eden replied. "Maybe when the depression ends. Until then, we still have each other." He patted Ari's face once. "Yeah?"

Ari let out a breath as he managed a smile at Eden. "Yeah." -- May 1932 "Oh, come on!" Eden whined. "Ari, I go to see you fight all the time, but you

haven't come with me to Yarrow Flower once!" "I can't dance!" Ari insisted. "Why would I go to a speakeasy? I'd just sit at the

bar and drink." "Oh, I don't know, 'cause your best friend enjoys it?" Eden snapped. His voice

softened, and he pouted, using his dark eyes to the fullest in the way he knew Ari could never refuse. "Please, Ari?"

Ari glared, but relented. "Fine," he snapped. "Make it worth my while." -- May 1930 Both were new contenders, proud of their prowess and eager to show off. Or so Ari thought. His opponent was tough. There was no other word for it. Punches landed

accurately and devastatingly, and Ari lost utterly and disgracefully in a single round. As he came to on the ground of the ring, he found his adversary leaning over

him, tapping his face with a finger. "C'mon. Focus. I didn't ring your bell that hard." Something about the words the other boxer used irritated Ari beyond belief.

"You looking down on me?" The victor gave him a frank look. "I am, quite literally, looking down on you

right now." Ari had no reply other than a disgusted noise as he staggered to his feet, his

vision going hazy for a moment as the other fighter steadied him. "Whoa. Careful." "Don't touch me," Ari mumbled, pulling his arm away. "I can't believe this...I was

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beaten by a girl." She slid a smile at him. "Get used to it." "And the victor of our opening fight of the night, a stunning win over the Lion of

the Ghetto-- "--The She-Bear!" -- May 1931 Eden watched her enter, as did everyone else in the bar. Even the band's eyes

followed her, even as they kept playing. The singer's voice was sweet, as usual, but no one was listening to her anymore; they had eyes and ears only for their mistress.

She descended the steps into the bar with the same grace and dignity that she always did, but still with a spring to her step that belied the way her smile could appear in a split second, the split second coveted by every man in the room.

Some said she was the daughter of a mafia don. Others claimed that she was a high socialite who lived in seclusion during the day and on the nights she wasn't at the Yarrow Flower. But one thing was for certain.

She was their Snow Queen. A collective sigh ran through the room as her face came into view, her black hair

bedecked with a sequined headband and a fluffy white feather to match her short dress and the boa draped over her arms. She graciously accepted the help of the man who had hurried to the stairs to assist her the rest of the way down, slipping her gloved hand into his and thanking him with a small smile. She blew a kiss to the singer, who pretended to catch it and press it to her own cheek with a wink, not missing a beat.

The Snow Queen reached the stage and climbed deliberately to it, the singer bowing politely out to allow the Yarrow Flower's ruler to announce, "Let the fun begin!"

-- November 1930 "You like speakeasies, right?" Eden looked up from his newspaper to see his best friend leaning against the

wall next to him, blowing smoke rings born of the cigarette in his hand. His newsboy cap hid his shaven head from the rain outside the awning. "Ari," he greeted, looking back down. "You didn't come home last night. Have you spent all your winnings yet, or do you have some left to make rent?"

Ari chuckled. "What winnings? I was up against the She-Bear again last night." "Ah. So not only did you not gain any money, you lost what we had left." "Didn't say that. I bet against myself." Eden looked sharply up. "You threw the match?" "Of course not. I just knew she'd win." "So you threw the match," Eden pressed. "No! I've just never won against her, not in six months." "You threw a match!" Eden snapped. "No matter the reason you try to give me,

you threw a match for money." "To make rent!" Ari replied. "We can pay for the month now with the money I

won on that bet!" He threw his cigarette on the sidewalk and viciously ground it out

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with his heel. "I did it for you," he muttered, hunching his shoulders. Eden sighed, dropping his arms, and the still-open newspaper crumpled against

his legs. "I appreciate it," he began, "but you shouldn't have to put your morals aside for me."

Ari shot him a wry smile. "According to most people, haven't we both done that already? I'm a prizefighter, you spend your nights drinking and dancing, and, well..." He trailed off when Eden gave him a pointed look. Not here. Not in public, it said.

Eden returned to his newspaper. "MacArthur's been sworn in as Chief of Staff," he said, picking a random headline to change the subject.

"Mmh," Ari replied noncommittally. "So, back to my original question: you like speakeasies, right?"

"I do," Eden replied without inflection and without looking at Ari. Ari frowned at him. "Are you giving me the cold shoulder now? I'm trying to tell

you that a new one opened up a few days ago." "Yarrow Flower," Eden agreed, turning the page of his paper, still not even

glancing up. "I was there last night. If you had come home after losing, you would have known that."

"Fine," Ari muttered. "You obviously don't want me around. I'll be at the apartment." He pushed off the wall and stalked away, the rain immediately soaking his coat and hat.

Eden resolutely did not call after him, and they didn't see each other again until two the next morning.

-- May 1931 "I still don't know your name," Ari realized. The She-Bear glanced up from her glass to see who it was and chuckled as she

looked back down. "I'd like to keep it that way." She'd pulled the leather strap from her head, and her dark flapper bob fell to either side of her face, hiding it. "I don't think I know yours, either."

Sensing the invitation in her words, he answered, "It's Ari. Ari Jordan." She looked at him again, one eyebrow raising. "No wonder you go by a stage

name. That's not a name I'd like people knowing, not with the way this world treats your people."

"Yeah? What's your name hiding, She-Bear?" She let out a short laugh with little mirth behind it. "Nice try, Lion of the Ghetto."

She paused. "Why do you advertise it so blatantly in your stage name?" "I'm not ashamed of it, if that's what you're asking," Ari answered, sitting next to

her at the bar and lighting a cigarette, taking a drag and letting it out as she considered his reply.

"Do you have a death wish?" The She-Bear's question was frank, almost incredulous.

Ari smiled. "I fight bare-knuckled in an underground ring every night to pay for rent, and you think there's a chance I don't have a death wish."

"You make a good point."

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"What about you? You got a death wish, too? Or do you have someone to take care of? Husband? Children? Brothers?"

She laughed again, low and short. "What man would marry a woman who could throw him over her shoulder whenever she wanted?"

"You make a good point." He offered her his lighter when she pulled a cigarette from the pack he'd left on the bar, and he didn't say what he was really thinking.

"Thanks." She leaned forward to light her cigarette, the proximity of Ari's hand to her face almost intimate, and breathed the smoke out in an elegant trail. She picked absentmindedly at one of the bandages on her cheek with her free hand. "Nah, I'll probably never get married." She laughed, running a hand through her hair. "I'll be fighting till I die, I guess. I'll probably die young in a boxing ring."

"That's fatalistic," Ari said. The She-Bear didn't miss the chance to fire his own words back at him. "I fight

bare-knuckled in a underground ring every night to support my sisters, and you think there's a chance that I'm not fatalistic."

"So you are taking care of someone," Ari caught. She offered him an almost-smile. "Good ear." She offered no more information,

but took a gulp from her glass of some fruity drink. Ari eyed it suspiciously. "Cocktails?" She lifted her glass in acknowledgement. "Some small pleasure should be

allowed me, surely." Ari chuckled. "I'll give you that." "Good." She downed the rest and stood back up. "I don't have any more fights

tonight. I can get as drunk as I want. How about you?" "I have...someone to go home to," Ari said quietly. "I promised him I'd come

home tonight." "Good for you," the She-Bear said simply before she returned to the crowd. Ari dismissed the thought that there had been a tinge of bitterness in her voice. -- May 1931 Eden flopped down onto the bed, sighing deeply. "You must have some serious admiration for the woman if you come home in a

haze that happy after you see her," Ari commented. "I didn't just see her," Eden murmured, his words slurring with happiness,

exhaustion, and likely more than a little moonshine. "I danced w'her, Ari. I danced w'her." "And is she as good a dancer as you imagined?" "Better," Eden sighed blissfully. "You know, sometimes, when they're drunk,

they say things about her. Like they've seen her around your boxing ring, watching fights, making bets. One of 'em even swore he saw her in the ring herself once, but we forced him to admit it couldn't've been her. The Snow Queen's too--too--perfect for that."

Ari scoffed. "You may as well ask her to marry you. You're certainly infatuated enough."

"Aw, Ari, I could never do that," Eden mumbled, rolling over and throwing his arm over his best friend. "Who'd take care of you after you get banged up?"

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Ari's reply was a murmur that he didn't quite mean to say aloud. "Maybe the She-Bear would."

Eden snorted, already half-asleep. "I'm not the only one in love." -- January 1932 "Ari," Eden murmured when Ari climbed out of the ring. "Your face..." "Don't touch it," Ari snapped, blocking Eden's hand with his own as he turned

his bloodied face away from his friend. "I deserved it; I let down my guard. I should know not to do that when it's her."

Eden looked back at the ring, frowning, but the She-Bear was already gone to the other side of the ring.

As Eden turned his attention back to Ari's injuries, he didn't see the She-Bear look back at him, her gaze lingering, thinking about what she knew of the two men.

-- May 1932 Ari huffed and readjusted his collar again, undoing the top button while Eden

was eagerly on tiptoe, trying to see over heads. "Is she here yet?" he demanded of Ari once again.

"No, she's not here yet," Ari replied once again. "Look, can you just sit down?" "I wouldn't be able to see!" "You can't see anyway," Ari retorted. Eden glared pointedly at him. "You know, I told her about you last time we

danced, and she said she'd like to meet you. You could at least be nice. Just--be yourself."

"I can't do both." Eden swatted at Ari's head, several inches above his own, but anything he was

going to say was forestalled by gasps and a cry of, "She's here!" Eden whirled back around to face the stairs, and Ari noticed the stars in his best

friends eyes and made a decision. "Come on." He grabbed Ari's hand and began muscling through the crowd.

"'Scuse us. Comin' through." The people complained, but when Ari proved stronger than they, they stepped

discontentedly aside until Ari and Eden stood at the front, Eden nearly bouncing with excitement.

The Snow Queen's feet came into view, then her long, admirable legs, then her black dress, rustling, her swaying hips, the cigarette holder in one hand...

She blew out a trail of smoke as her face came into view, dark lipstick accentuating pale skin. She was a vision in what seemed like the night itself, wrapped about her like the black shawl draped over her shoulders.

Ari had only one thought. Her? The leather strap was replaced by a black headband, the bruised and bloodied

knuckles hidden in her long black gloves. Any injuries she may have had had been well-covered, and her makeup was heavy, but Ari could still see her the woman he knew under the painted cheeks and penciled eyebrows.

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Eden nudged a stunned Ari. "Go help her!" "Help her?" Ari echoed mindlessly. "Help her down the stairs; go!" Eden gave his best friend a shove, and Ari

stumbled forward a step before catching himself and walking to the stairs with measured steps.

The Snow Queen's hooded eyes followed him all the way until he extended a hand, once again calm, and said, "If I may, Your Majesty." Her small smile of recognition was unmistakable to him. "You may, O Lion," the She-Bear said, placing her hand delicately in his. By Sonya Fleming

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Macbeth

Art by Emily Turner

Mashups

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“Macbeth Love Story” (To the Melody of “Love Story” by Taylor Swift)

We were both young when he first started He closed his eyes and the mirage starts He’s standing there with a dagger floating through the air You see the lights, see the party, the ball gowns See him make his way from the chair and say “what’s wrong?” but the story was pretty long… But he was Macbeth and he was searching for power Until I came along and turned his intentions sour And we talked in the castle and I told you just to go and I said Macbeth please take me somewhere we can be in power I can’t keep waiting; all that’s left to do is murder You’ll be the king and I’ll be your queen, yes, it’s just Duncan, pierce him in the chest So he came back from the garden to meet me We keep quiet ‘cause they’re dead and we knew Oh what a surprise…the servants won’t know about our lies ‘Cause you were Macbeth, I was a persuasive lady ‘til Macduff caught on and wanted to kill you for killing his family but power was everything to me and I needed to just let go and I said Macbeth you didn’t tell me you were killing more alone all of this fating, basically the power’s done you’ll be wanted and I’ll be in trouble, too I guess my only option left to do is…death By Ali Detviler

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“Macbeth Wants to be King” (To the Melody of “All about that Bass” by Meghan Trainor)

Chorus: Because you know Macbeth wants to be the king be the king, of Scotland Macbeth wans to be the king be the king, of Scotland Macbeth wants to be the king be the king, of Scotland Verse 1: Yeah, it’s pretty clear, the witch’s prediction came true Because Macbeth killed Duncan, like he’s supposed to do He grabbed the knife that was right in front of his face And stabbed the king of Scotland, in all the right places (Chorus) Verse 2: Macbeth had bloody hands He can’t wash them for real then Duncan’s sons fled Then he got greedy, greedy and took the throne Now him and Lady Macbeth went from the Thane to the king (Chorus) Bridge: Yeah, Lady Macbeth told Macbeth to be a man Macbeth was convinced and killed him that night They convinced the others that it was the night guards So then Duncan’s sons fled and moved along (Chorus) Verse 3: Macbeth is going mad Go ahead and tell all people that Macbeth’s killing all those who are starting to chat But Macbeth is here to tell ya If he thinks you know the truth then he’s probably going to kill you (Bridge) (Chorus x2) By George Khoury

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Rants

Art by Michaela Lochen

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PDA

PDA. Three simple letters picked from the alphabet, but when put together the

acronym has a meaning of public display of affection. Affection is defined as fond

attachment, devotion, or love. That doesn’t seem like a bad thing, right? Well let me

tell you…there are some people out there that ruin the sentimental meaning of PDA

and take it to a whole new level.

Picture yourself walking down the hall, you look to the right and see a couple

give each other an everlasting hug. It’s like “Oh no, I won’t see you for a whole 45

minutes. How am I supposed to live?” Then later you see a different couple “eating

each other’s faces.” Come on, keep it PG, we have innocent 6th graders in the building.

No need to scar them for eternity.

You continue, and just by your luck, you get to see the couple that is looking

deep into each other’s eyes. Oh Romeo and Juliet, the lovely star-crossed lovers, thou

shalt come back to earth and disperse themselves amongst others. You only have four

years of high school; make sure you try to spend some of that time with your friends

and not just your significant other. You are in the last hallway before you can finally

free yourself from the romance movie that is occurring around you, and then you see

one last couple holding hands. Oh the handholding! The couple insists on holding

hands just so the world can see that they are together and are madly in love. Save the

handholding for a different atmosphere. Perhaps when you two are alone on a date.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for all of the thriving relationships out there. I

hope you all become high school sweethearts and get married one day. Just save the

affection for a different time and place. You don’t need to show the surrounding

audience the love you have for each other. I mean we know you are dating, therefore,

we don’t need any further information or examples. Please save me from throwing up

a little in my mouth and get a room. Thank you.

By McKenzie Lindahl

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Christiana

C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N-A, Christiana. Ten letters, four syllables. Anyone who has

above a fourth grade education should understand that, right? Wrong. Nearly every

day I have encountered someone, whether it be a peer or an elder, who does not know

how to pronounce my name. Some go with the classic “Kristina” while others just stare

blankly at me waiting for me to fill it in. My favorite are those who add a “G.”

Christ-G-ana. Where did that G come from? How did it get there? Why did you put it

there? What happened to the second “I”? Is it silent? Did it just go away? I dread

when my name gets called during role call. I just nod and smile to whatever word the

person decides is my name and attempt to respond to it when I get called on in class.

My family and I decided that Christiana was just too complicated for everyone so

we shortened it to Ana. Just three letters, two syllables. Easy, right? Wrong. People

continue to mess it up. It is not Anna, it isn’t Anne either. What really gets me going is

when teachers who I have corrected multiple times call me Anna and then get upset

when I do not respond to it. Why would I respond? It isn’t my full name. It isn’t my

shortened name. I will forever look around for Anna Kratzke to respond. Do not shake

your head in disappointment when I innocently ask, “who me?” I was listening. I

heard it loud and clear. You just asked for Anna.

Due to my name being shortened, it has caused many issues in my life. I am

considered two separate people. People assume that “Christiana” and “Ana” are

different people. For instance, I was ineligible to play a sport for a few days because I,

Ana, didn’t have all of my forms in. Don’t worry though, Christiana did.

My name will forever be switched all around and mispronounced. I will forever

be the girl that dreads role call in class. I will brush it off and go with it because

teaching someone how to pronounce my name just simply isn’t worth the time. They

will forget it in 5 minutes anyway.

By Ana Frascone

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Hardcore Concerts

Rock music is a wonderful thing. All the different basses and their variety of

sounds used to bring people together. Sadly, when people come together they make a

horrendous mess of bodies. I’m talking about hardcore rock concerts. Let’s just take a

moment to evaluate what the artist sees when he or she looks towards his or her

worshippers, the audience. We have the people who stay away from the crowd as best

as they can so they can listen to the music. We have the drunk people just “trying to

have a good time” along with drunks and druggies who are also there for a good time.

I mean what better place to do illegal activity than a massive crowd of other druggies.

Then in the front we have the little middle school girls who go because the lead singer is

just so “cute.” I didn’t realize that a thirty-year-old guy screaming about killing people

was cute. The middle school boys, on the other hand, are trying to hang back and look

like they don’t care about anything. They think they relate to the music. They

understand when the singer screams about feeling trapped in life because one time they

were trapped after school to finish their eighth grade math test. Of course a lot of this is

all happening down on the floor around the mosh pit because let’s be honest, the seats

are reserved for the middle age moms that had to drive their little middle schoolers to

the concert. I bet the parents really enjoy looking at the moshpit, that is if they can

actually see anything that’s happening down there. It’s hard to see what’s going on

when you’re looking at a bunch of people jumping around and pushing each other.

You are forced to move in the pit. It’s like being in a warm, sweat-filled wave made out

of people, so I hope you knew what you were getting in to when you entered the pit

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and stood next to that man twice your size. A lot of people in the pits like to flail.

Flailing adds a sort of game to the pit. You get to jump around while trying to enjoy the

concert and dodge the flailing arms and the guy twice your size. It’s okay if you mess

up though; the worst that will happen is you get a black eye or bruises all over your

body. If you end up finding a safe area to mosh, then think again because the people in

that area are doing what they call “moshing” but what they’re doing most people

would call grinding. Now we can add sexual violation to the list of horrible things at

concerts. You might as well just get rid of the band all together and just call it a riot and

charge people for that. Who in their right mind is going to pay fifty dollars to go to a

riot with background music? If you’re going to pay for a concert, then I suggest you

respect the artist by actually coming together to listen to their music instead of turning

the Myth into Ferguson. I really enjoy metal music, and I would love to go to some

concerts to see some of my favorite bands. It’s too bad that idiots think they have to do

all these disgusting things to keep up the “hardcore” image of the music, but all it does

is push people away from seeing the bands they love, and it lets other people put labels

on the type of music I love.

By Matt Muellner

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Haircuts

“I just want a trim today.” Can someone tell my hairstylist what that means?

Whenever I get my hair cut, I usually want to get a trim and I always bluntly say that to

my stylist. I tell myself over and over that they are going to listen to my request,

considering they are cutting my hair and I am paying them for the service. The moment

they have those scissors in their hand I hold my breath, and it begins. Chop, chop,

chop.

As I sit in the chair and stare at myself and every movement they are making

with those wicked scissors, I have to hold myself back from the facial expression I want

to make. When the stylist is chopping away at my hair, they always feel the need to

distract me with bothersome questions that I know they are not too interested in. It’s

always the same old questions: Where do you go to school? Any college plans?

Boyfriends? and all the other obnoxious questions that I have no patience to answer.

It’s like they ask all those pesky questions as the trim I asked for turns into 2 inches.

What is it with these hairstylists? Do they really not know how to listen to the

simple request of a trim? This is just something I will never understand. When I want a

trim, they cut off inch after inch, but when I do want my hair chopped, they never cut

enough off. I will never win with haircuts.

By Mika Scundi

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No Arms for Slow Golfers

(Beware: golfer lingo used)

I hate slow golfers. There is honestly nothing more annoying during a golf

round then a lethargic golfer. First of all, the slowest golfers are usually the worst

players. The guys who shoot a 120 and claim they played pretty well. These types of

players make me want to hit myself over the head with a golf club. I can condense all

the types of slow golfers into 3 categories:

The first type of slow golfer is the Indonesian Sand Piper (credit to Frank Seiler).

They take about forty practice swings where every swing looks worst than the last.

What are they thinking? Do they think that being sore before hitting the ball induces a

stunning shot? I just recently played with a kid who would whistle while he was taking

his practice swings. First of all, he was a poopy whistler, and secondly, after taking

about four practice swings, in which every one was a chunk, he continued to hit his real

shot about 15 yards off the tee box into the woods. Why oh why do you need four, five,

six practice swings to hit a terrible shot every time?

The second type of slow golfer is the Over-Ambitious Goat. He wacks five terrible

shots up to about 240 yards from the pin then decides to wait because he thinks he

might hit the green. I have yet to see anyone in this class of slow golfer hit the green.

There is absolutely no way you will hit the green! I often find myself lying on the

ground waiting to hit my shot for an extra 10 minutes because of this goat. I eat a

sandwich, chase a rabbit, and climb a tree only to come back and wait for the same goat

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grazing the fairway. This type of golfer simply needs to wake up to the harsh reality

that he will not be hitting the ball on the green from long distances.

The third and final slow golfer is the Indecisive Sally Shoeberg. This golfer loves to

talk the entire round and never makes up his mind. He talks and talks and talks until it

is his turn to hit the ball. When he is hitting, the world is amazing! Silence for about 30

seconds turns into heaven. The Sally Shoeberg will ask whose turn it is to hit about fifty

times a hole. In these types of rounds, I eventually just hit the ball without talking to

anybody, and when I get the chance, I run away from the Sally Shoeberg in the group.

All these golfers grind my gears, and I wish they didn’t exist. Every single one

makes me want to throw my body underneath a golf cart. Golfers can be the worst, and

if you find one who is a Sally Shoeberg, Over-Ambitious Goat, or Indonesian Sand Piper,

please break their arms so they can’t golf!

By Henry Venuta

Art by Savannah Cunnien

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Perspective Writing

Art by Maggie Krawcyzk

Writing from the perspective of an inanimate object Answer Key on Pg. 39

35

Perspective Writing #1

Why do I have to be what I am? The family bangs me on the table all

the time. They chew on me and constantly abuse me. They drown me in

soap and water. I never get a break. The kid always stabs me into the table

like I’m a knife. The only good part of my life is when I get to relax and

rest in the drawer with my friends. The bad part about that is the knives.

They think they’re so cool and sharp, and they never stop talking. The

family needs more of my type because I rarely get a break. I would also

appreciate having more of my kind to talk to. They are the only ones who

truly understand me. This family needs to be stricter with chores, too,

because sometimes they forget to wash me!

By Donn Boyer

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Perspective Writing #2

I am pride and freedom. People treat me with dignity and respect. I

am flown in many places and stand before major occasions. Many have

died before me, shedding blood as red as my stripes. Light is shined on me

so like my stars in the night. Respected by many, I fly in the freedom’s

wind and soar like eagle’s wings.

By Dan Wolf

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Perspective Writing #3

I feel weird when kids stare at me constantly every day. I’m

surrounded by constant chatter and laughter. People are scuffing me up

and pushing my buttons too far. Sometimes when I get too tired I just

freeze and take a quick break. But about 5 minutes into my break this guy

comes in and forces me to work again. I don’t like when this one class

comes in everyday. They’re the most wild and rambunctious group of

them all. Their screams and talking hurts my ears, not to mention how

much they scribble and draw on me. I feel like a toy to them and I hate it.

Night time is the best time of the day because my break last for hours.

There’s no guy coming in and forcing me to work again. I enjoy the

calmness and the silence while it lasts. I’m Just waiting for the next day to

start again, so I can hear all of the chatter and laughter. I guess I really

don’t mind it and I do get to see a lot of interesting things. Sometimes it’s

all just a little too much, though.

By Sally Franco

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Perspective Writing #4

I am full of knowledge and rarely ever make any mistakes. But no

matter how much I try to be helpful, I am still hated by all of the kids in the

class. Often times they will shun me and talk to the others around them

even though they should be giving their attention to me. When they need

my help, I am always there for them, but the looks they give me never

show any appreciation. Many of the kids even fall asleep while I’m

helping them. They just take advantage of me and all my knowledge.

Whenever I’m not helping them, they throw me around and leave me in

the corner without a second thought. I do not let this stop me from

helping. I know how much I mean to the students. Whenever I am hiding,

they will spend hours trying to find me. Because of this, I know that I am

still important in the lives of kids.

By Sam Henkes

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Perspective Writing Answer Key

Perspective Writing #1 (p. 35) - A Fork Perspective Writing #2 (p. 36) - The American Flag Perspective Writing #3 (p. 37) - The Smart Board Perspective Writing #4 (p. 38) - A Text Book

Art by Nam Vu

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1-Word Prompts

Art by Megan Miller

One-Word Prompt... 5 Minutes...

Write!

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Despicable

Despicable, that’s how I felt toward my parents when they said we were moving. Despicable, that’s how I feel toward Mother Nature every time it snows. Despicable, that’s how I felt toward the doctors when they told me I couldn’t play sports anymore. Despicable, that’s how teenagers feel. By Jordan Buron

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Majestic

The paratroopers majestically spiraled from the sky, like leaves

falling in autumn. As they neared the ground, they pulled the parachutes,

gliding over the desolate ground in Afghanistan. It was nearing dusk - the

perfect time for a covert mission.

By Christian Williams

Art by Sophia Larson

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Surprise

We lay in silence, waiting for the man to arrive. The room was lit

only by the stars and the microwave clock. It marked the passage of our

wasted time. The six of us kneeled behind various pieces of shabby

furniture.

By Jack Dean

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6-Word Memoirs Tell a Story, Give Advice, or Say

Something in Just 6 Words

Art by Colin Little

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“Always trust your first gut instinct” ~Sophia Fobaire

“Creative minds are hardly ever tidy” ~Marissa Pilney

“China, plane, America. New life starts” ~Ginny Wang “Dream chasing, until I catch you” ~Marko Reifenberger “Scars tell stories that memories can’t” ~Kennedy Hogue “Be the creator. Not the waiter” ~Ben Lee “Normal? Way too boring. Stay weird” ~Kenzie Lindahl “I am checked out right now” ~Sean Wendlandt “I hope there’s Wi-fi in heaven” ~Louis Dinzeo “Sperry’s, Toms, Moccassins, Docs; Hill-Murray” ~Savannah Cunnien

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“When life’s tough, take a nap” ~Ana Frascone “Diploma in hand, new life begins” ~Emma Becker “Sometimes you win, sometimes you learn” ~Alexa Rydel “Life goes fast, take your time” ~Sam Pitzen

“Sometimes it’s you against the world” ~Jack Fahey

“The secret of life is to...” ~Noah Ondrusik “No, I’m Korean. Yes, I’m adopted” ~Amy Koalska “Great thing about pencil - can erase” ~Paige Lautigar “Strength is continuing to follow dreams” ~Michael Rydel “Striving to be great means greatness” ~JP Muriel-Betanzos

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“Let it go, keep moving forward” ~Charlotte McReynolds “Your plan doesn’t always work out” ~Lexi Klein “My struggles are what made me” ~Jarrod Kane “1984 is approaching, always be aware” ~Luke Eklund “Help those who didn’t help you” ~Jimmy Quirk “Walk through life, don’t run through” ~Davis Zarembinski “Your disrespect is expected, not accepted” ~Taylor Krech “Forget? Forgot? Can’t remember a lot” ~Alaina Nicosia “Never underestimate the power of kindness ~Zannah Esteb “Your choices affect your future choices” ~Gunnar Andrews