Journey 2012

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Contents

Introduction

Writing

Fiction

Non Fiction

Poetry

Art

Ceramics

Painting

Drawing

Mixed Media

Oil Pastel

Photography

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Journey’s staff reserves the right to edit grammatical errors and spelling mistakes without the author’s permission. The authors and artists retain the copyright of all printed submissions, but grant Journey the right to publish them in this edition, and in the future for any promotional purposes.

E d i t o r i a l P o l i c y

Journey is Calvary Christian Academy’s Literary-Art Magazine. The main purpose of Journey is to provide student writers and artists with the opportunity to publish their creative work, as inspired by God, for His glory.

Each submission received by students in grades 6 - 12 was considered by a judge committee: Writing—Lisa Grosso, Krissy Brown, and Anitra Parmele; Art—Elaine Panella and Sonja Timmer; Photography—Rod Pearcy and Heather Camargo. The process was smooth and fl awless. After all the entries were received and numbered, individual packages were created for the judges. All the names and grades were removed to ensure all the judging was done without prejudice of any kind. Judges only got to see the piece of writing, art, or photography, which arrived to them on a CD with an assigned number. Judges reviewed each submission and selected the winners in two critique rounds. A special thanks to these art afi cionados for taking the time to critique these wonderful works of art; and to the English, Art, and Photography teachers, as well as administration, who made it possible for Journey to showcase the literary and artistic talents of Calvary Christian Academy’s student body.

At a time when many schools across the nation are pressed to discontinue their fi ne arts programs for various reasons, our students are so blessed to have a school with remarkable resources that allow them to explore their interests and talents. We believe that we were created in the image of God, and we are expected to refl ect the image of Christ in our lives, and in everything that we do. Journey is that opportunity for writers and artists to use their words and works of art to bless others, and God.

Grace & Peace, Maritza Cosano GomezEditor/Creative Director

The eye of the artist is where the process of vision originates. as a writer, I cannot think of a concept more stimulating and yet so basic. a story. a work of art. a photograph. We see it all through the eye of the artist. and sometimes that makes us pause and think: through what kinds of lenses do they see what they see? For centuries, God has inspired writers and artists to express the beauty, emphasize the power, and summarize in their words and works of art his point of view.

a look at this year’s award winning collection of writing, art, and photography, lets us see how deep these young writers and artists went to use what their eyes, ears, and hands have absorbed as they followed the cadence of their hearts—their vision—that beautiful refl ection of the holy Creator, and the originator

The Eye

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Writing

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WritingFiction

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A lone figure sat motionless, encased in darkness. An electric blue light appeared, illuminating the small chamber, and casting an azure haze over a man. He sat in a large, wooden chair, which had endured as many cold nights as its ancient master. The ends of the chair’s armrests were smooth to the touch, and pale hands clenched over them.

Piercing, gray eyes widened as they focused on a mirror in the center of the room, edged with ancient symbols in its silver frame. It had come

to life, emitting the blue shroud as its markings glowed and hummed with power. The glass vision was obscured as a cloudy mist swirled within it.

The man slowly stood from his seat and moved closer to the mirror. It reflected a youthful face, long and angular with a sharp nose. His silvery white hair, just brushing his shoulders, contrasted with his lean and toned physique.

He watched as the mirror finally cleared. He could see through the physical plane, or at least, the plane he now resided in, to the Mortal Nations: the realm of Kas’Arayu. Specifically, the proud kingdom of Kratos in the south. Their queen, Hypatia, was bestowing a gift of thirty of their best stallions to her son as a coming of age gift.

“Travelers of Kas’Arayu venture from across the countryside for the promised pleasures told of Kratos, as well as the riches and good charms to all who enter.” He rolled his eyes at the thought.

“However, its tales of profit are only fleeting; its grandeurs only short-lived, as are the people who inhabit it.” A small frown marred his features as the Portal panned to the edge of the kingdom, where blackness was beginning to form at its borders. It stretched around the entire southern border, into the wilds of Aereches.

First Place

By Alexandra Gomez

Shadow LandsShadow LandsPROLOGUE

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“As if Aereches doesn’t have enough wildlife,” he thought sardonically. The door to his chamber opened, and the man turned to a new voice, only mildly surprised by who it was.

“If I am correct, that place homes the creatures of the night, vicious beasts that stalk the corners of children’s dreams,” said the stranger as he stepped into the small room.

“Treacherous as they are, none too many are foolish enough to venture past the acreage’s borders. As far as it is known, no man dwells in the forests of Aereches.”

“Very good, Amaleus. Would you like a medal for such outstanding brilliance?” The man muttered with another roll of his eyes. He swung his gaze back to what the Portal had to show him. The blackness was slowly edging past the borders and into the woods of Aereches, and creeping up to Anicett, the “Unconquerable Fortress.”

“Ah, Damias, always in a foul mood, I see. Never coming out from under your rock and seeing the wonders of light above ground,” said Amaleus, absently as he drew near the desk, pushing his boundaries with an air of oddity.

Damias regarded the other man silently through the corner of his right eye. The fact that he had the audacity to come so near to him, stepping into his domain as if he belonged here, was enough to raise the hairs on his chest and arms. Aside from that little sentiment, which really was not so little, Amaleus very well knew why it was that each Guardian stayed to their post, and why the Portal must always be watched.

Why was he here?“I don’t know what iniquity I’ve made to deserve your company, but I’m busy. Whatever

it is you’ve come here for, let it wait until I’m through,” Damias said in clipped tones, as he turned, sending Amaleus a look that normally sent ordinary men running out to their hiding posts. But Amaleus, he knew, was no ordinary man. Still, he had no patience for those who wasted his time speaking of trivial things. It only spiked his annoyance. The mirror showed the kingdom of Zotis, and Damias closed his eyes with a sigh.

“The kingdom is crawling with Shadows, how did the people not act when they found them approaching?” Amaleus said with a pinch of pity displayed in his voice.

“It was a surprise attack. They had the capital surrounded before the king realized what had been happening. Not that they would have made much of an impact if they had any warning. The kingdom of Zotis is known for its hospitality and friendship among brethren—a refuge for travelers, wanderers, and outcasts. It is not terribly advanced in the ways of war. You, of all people, should know that.” Damias snapped back, knowing full well how Amaleus would react at the mention of that word.

Amaleus didn’t bite. At least, he didn’t flinch. The man was the model of cool. “And what of that? That place of desert and rock? I have never seen it before,” asked

Amaleus, pointing to an area of land above Aereches. Damias gave a dry look.“Have you never learned the geography of the mortals? How long have you been a

Messenger Guardian, anyway?” Amaleus frowned as Damias smirked.“You know I haven’t been a Guardian for very long. I know most of Kas’Arayu, but there are

some areas I have never traveled. From the looks of the place, I think I’d rather not.” “Hmm, yes,” said Damias looking at the young Messenger with something of a cross

between pity and disdain. “The North is left a deserted wilderness, consumed with the taint

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once strong kingdom of Kleit was known by all as, ‘Kingdom of Splendor.’ But they fell victim to our enemies that lurk about the wasteland, of Kleit, that we see in this day.” Damias quickly rose to his feet, and reached for paper and an ink quill pen from his desk. Amaleus watched as the older man mumbled to himself as he wrote, his hand working in a frenzy down the page.

“What are you doing?” Amaleus asked. Damias snapped the pen to the desk in frustration and folded the finished letter.

“Do you do nothing but ask pointless questions?” replied Damias. Never had he interfered in the lives of the mortals except in direst of moments, in which he had been so commanded. This day and age would be one of the few.

He sealed the letter and shoved it into Amaleus’s waiting hands.“You were sent here for this, weren’t you?” Damias asked as he saw the slow smirk stretch

across Amaleus’s face, his brown eyes flashed with amusement. “Don’t answer that, just go. Take this to Paramone and leave me in peace,” Damias said with

a wave of his hand, shaking his head. “The Ancient gives His thanks. As do I, Watcher,” Amaleus said with a grin. Before Damias

had a chance to comment, Amaleus vanished in a plume of red smoke. “Good riddance,” Damias murmured.He looked down to the sand timer on the table, and watched how for the first time, the

sand fell from the top of the bottle into the grains below.“Anicett has not yet felt the taint of their touch,” he said in a somber tone. “ War has begun.”

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“A deception that elevates us is dearer than a host of low truths.” —Marina Tsvetaeva, a Russian poet

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Amelia Adams wasn’t thrilled to be walking the streets of New York City on one of the coldest days since she’d moved there. The raw cold January wind cut right through her Prada sport black coat like long sharp needles, and as she passed the long row of store windows, she could have sworn that she could see icicles forming on the tip of her nose.

She picked up her pace, cursing herself a million times over for leaving her wallet back in the apartment this morning.

“Idiot!” She scolded herself as she crossed the street and another wave of cold air hit her sideways, hard enough to almost make her miss her step. Back at her school campus, she had toyed with the idea of asking somebody for twenty bucks for a cab ride home.

I’d rather die or turn into an ice statue than ask anyone, had been her last thought as she’d braved the freezing temperatures. There were two things Amelia didn’t do: do favors or ask for one. Both had the ability to make her heart race at an accelerated pace.

“Oh, gross...” she shuddered and drew her coat closer, as a dirty homeless guy riding on a bike passed her and blew her a kiss. She was working at perfecting a sarcastic comment when he drew up close enough to see her face. A car horn made him veer sharply to the right and just like that, he was out of her sight and replaced by a handful of strangers passing by.

It was staggering how many people walked the streets of New York City at any given time, Amelia thought as she sucked her lips between her teeth in a faint hope to warm them up. She liked New Yorkers. She always had. They were tough, as they said they were.

Second Place

The MirrorBy Alexandra Gomez

CHApter 1

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A dim sunray gilded the tips of her brown hair and the cool air filtered through her torso, making her shiver. Dust kicked up from the ground as she shuffled her feet, sending a stray pebble rolling across the wide and grayish sidewalk. The cold wind scattered litter down the full street, mixing with the persistent drone of Manhattan traffic, the blare of car horns, and emergency sirens, which were audible for miles.

Amelia walked and walked with the hoard, one out of a thousand nameless faces. Some looked like they could be executives and bankers, others like eccentric theater people. While the rest wore a variety of masks, similar to her own. Happy. Standoffish. Vain.

She stopped at the corner of West 34th Street and Broadway, already crowded with waiting pedestrians on both ends of the street. After ten minutes, the stoplight went red, and the masses on either side meshed together in their efforts to get past.

Amelia kept her pace as best as the next one. Nobody could tell that she had only been here a few months. Already she had assimilated the no-nonsense, fast and confident, get-out-of-my-way walk, which true New Yorkers were known for. With a sweet stride, Amelia made it to the other side of the road and began to walk brusquely toward Midtown. Her black stilettos clacked against the pavement, and the long chain of her belt tapped against her toned right thigh. But she paid both no mind, as the shining letters of store titles caught her eye.

There will be plenty of time for that after I get home and drop off my books, she thought. The shoulder bag weighing down her right side reminded her of the load she carried. She sighed in annoyance.

What…NYU couldn’t afford lighter textbooks?The setting sun met her, and its rays of light nearly blinded her. Pink and orangey hues painted

silhouettes on the buildings’ walls, illuminating each crack and peel of paint. Her breaths came out in puffs from the afternoon chill, and she pulled the lapels of her black coat closer to her body. The farther she traveled, the more people assimilated the night-life scene: glowing neon lights, women strutting the sidewalks in their long coats and flashing accessories, men in fine-tailored suits—a circus of wealthy aristocrats with much time to spare from their frivolous lives, she thought. As if she could talk.

The streets of Fifth Avenue were flooded with the upper class of the east side, and Amelia was proud to be part of the elite in this fast-paced city. But for today, she would put aside her special Visa to do some bookwork that would be due the next day—a rare occurrence as it was for her to actually be doing schoolwork. It always amazed her how much people would do for fifty bucks. An essay on the History of American Theatre Arts had cost her as much. But after she got word that her Theatre Arts professor had smelled a rat after he’d read her piece, she decided to face the unavoidable and do the stupid thing herself.

How hard could it be, really? It wasn’t like he was a distinguished English professor with numerous titles added to his name, Amelia

reasoned. Her guess, Mr. Cooliat was an ineffectual hack, with smelly breath and a bad hairdo to match. She had seen right through his scruffy and dirty clothes as he’d made that last comment in class yesterday.

“If you don’t want a failing grade, I would advice you to turn your work on time.” She got the message, all right. Amelia’s feet were aching from all the miles she had already walked. If she had any sense, she would call

one of her classmates and end her misery now. Thirty-five minutes later, frozen to the bone and in no mood for pleasantries, Amelia entered her apartment building and strode through the lobby.

“Good evening, Miss Adams.”“Yes, well… evening is at least right.”

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Amelia didn’t wait to see the old man’s face fall; instead she walked past him, digging into her purse as she fished for her keys. As her leather gloves met the metal bunch, she sighed with relief. At least she had remembered those.

“Hold the elevator!” she called as she saw the doors closing. An older man, probably mid-fifties, stopped the door just in time to let her in. She didn’t quicken her pace. Her feet hurt, and what was more, the leather on her feet had cost her a small fortune, and she wouldn’t ruin them for someone that could surely wait a few seconds.

“What floor?” he asked when she had made it inside.“Twenty-four,” she said tight-lipped. He pressed the buttons for “twenty-four,” and “fifteen.”“Penthouse, eh? Nice,” he remarked. She restrained the urge to roll her eyes, and simply stood there,

smiling, her face placid, her manner reserved. A room over the twentieth floor in this apartment building was an assurance of your status. The twenty-fourth floor was just below the roof of the building—the exclusive Penthouse in one of the City’s most unique and stilt-style skyscrapers.

Discreetly, she did a once over on the man’s overly simple and plain style of dress, and almost wrinkled her nose in distaste. Clearly he was no match. She tilted her face away from his intense gaze; his blue eyes narrowed, his expression hard—more than she anticipated. Amelia ignored his presence until the bell of the elevator dinged for the fifteenth floor.

The man walked out slowly and then turned, directing his parting words with precision. “You have a good night, now, Amelia.” She didn’t like the way he said her name, with intent.

Wait a minute. He knew her name? The elevator doors closed and she was left alone in her climb to the twenty-fourth floor. Unlocking the

door to her apartment, she stepped inside and kicked her shoes to the side. She tried to shrug off her thick coat and place it on the wrought iron rack, but that too missed the mark.

Oh, well... I’m too tired to care, she thought as she dumped everything else on the floor. The room smelled fresh and clean, with a hint of Pine Sol and other detergents that played with her

senses, making her forget the old man and their strange interaction. It was Wednesday. The maid had been here. “Oops, forgot to leave the tip. Oh, well…” She would have to remember to leave a few dollars next time. No worries, she thought.Amelia deposited her black Coach bag on the long couch in the middle of the spacious living room, and

made for her room. Turning on the hallway lights, she approached the bedroom, and opened the door. It smelled of roses. Upon turning on the lights, she saw the vase with red roses on her night table, but then something to the right caught her eye.

A small red box.Amelia walked over to the chair in front of her vanity and lifted the box. It hadn’t been there when she

left that morning, and the only one who had a copy of her room key aside from the maid, was her Aunt Sylvia who lived in the Hamptons.

That is…very strange, thought Amelia, as she shook the box to reveal the contents. But nothing gave her a clue of what was inside.

She examined it closely, finding no return address. However, neatly printed on the top of the box on the lower left-hand corner, was the word, “Irritum.”

“What in the world…”

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She had no idea what it meant, which added to her curiosity. It could be a gift from Aunt Sylvia. “Come to think of it, she never did get me anything for my birthday last month,” said Amelia to herself

as she made a face. Without waisting another thought, she walked over to her desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. She didn’t want to cut through the tape keeping the box tightly closed, so she maneuvered through the Styrofoam ever so carefully. Finally, she was able to uncover a package wrapped in thick, protective paper. Carefully ripping it off, her curiosity was rapidly growing with the flicker of refracted light hitting her eyes.

Maybe it’s a piece of jewelry! She thought excitedly. It was a mirror. How odd. Amelia held it by the handle, and admired its smooth, silver frame. It was

bordered with intricate carvings of twisting vines, and precious stones that glittered in the light from the bright lamp.

“It’s lovely!” She thought, as she looked into it and smiled at her flawless reflection. “I should probably put this somewhere safe, though it’s too beautiful to leave in a drawer.”

She walked over to her vanity, and sat the mirror down on the counter. But somehow, just leaving it there didn’t sit well with her. The very thought made her uneasy and she didn’t know why. Amelia quickly retraced her steps and sat down in front of her vanity, picking up the mirror, which laid comfortably in her hands. She looked again into the clear glass, but her eyes grew wide in confusion. The reflection had changed, though it was Amelia still.

“W-what?” Her reflected image did not shift to match her words, nor mimic the gawking expression of her face. Rather, she, the mirror, gave a catty smile. She flicked a stray wave of blonde hair from her face, and lowered her gaze to her perfectly cut and shaped nails, scrutinizing them in boredom. Amelia noticed the reflection’s outwardly too faultless appearance. It was unnatural and utterly unachievable beauty she found that she could only dream of attaining. Severely unsettling it was, so much so that Amelia couldn’t believe it was her own image. For the first time in a long while, Amelia began to doubt her beauty.

“Who…who are you?” she asked. The effect of the question was immediate. The reflection laughed—mockery read clear in her voice.

“Who am I? Who AM I? You dare ask such a thing to me? I’m worth more than those petty rhinestones hanging from your neck, worth more than the scrap-piece of leather you call a Coach purse, more than all that meets your eyes in those putrid district shops. So, WHO ARE you?” The mirror paused, giving the girl a once over with scrutiny. Amelia could only stare, gaping in shock and confusion. Feeling extremely inferior, she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Just look at yourself, you pathetic excuse for a debutante. You disgust me. The very sight of you amuses me…how pitiful humanity is.”

The mirror’s laughter increased with her newfound incredulity. It was a condescending sound. But then, Amelia gasped as the woman’s countenance warped. No longer was her skin flawless, no longer were her cosmetics even and accentuating, no more were her nails painted fashionably red, no more did her thick hair fall in ringlets. No longer was she perfect.

The mirror’s image had become grotesque. Her face and neck were now covered in red, splotchy boils, her eyes lazy and lidded with the stain of makeup, fingernails and teeth black and yellow with dirt and puss, hair matted and tangled with splits in the ends, followed by a mad screech that echoed through the room. As if a bolt of electricity had run through her veins, Amelia dropped the mirror to the floor with a frantic cry, imitating the mirror’s horrific sound.

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By Alexandra Gomez

“I’ve told you times before, man. That stuff’ll kill you.”Jack peered down at the stack of paper now slapped upon his desk. Using two fingers, he removed the

cigarette from his mouth and slowly let out a puff of smoke, not bothering to look up as he grinned.“I recall saying in reply: keep your medical journal to yourself.” The other man sighed, but dropped the

issue in favor of nodding toward the top page. “Just read it, Foxx. I think you would like it.” Rolling his eyes, Jack read the headlined title: “Every Kind of Painful, written by Jaime Anders.” He couldn’t

say that it stirred much more than a dispassionate shrug of shoulders. “I know you didn’t come all the way to Manhattan just to show me your manuscript. What do you want?”

Jack sat back, easing himself on the black Italian leather sofa, a few comforts left from his celebrity days. “I need your help, Jack,” Jaime said curtly. Jack Foxx. The name once brought with it a lilting connotation of awe and praise. But that was a page

from memory lane. A street sign that induced bright eyes, raging fanatics—or fan girls; he preferred the

Third Place

CHApter 1

Every Kind

of Painful

1515

former—and even some tears, depending on the time and place during the era of his stardom. A decade later and it had all gone with the wind.

“No, Anders,” he said. He didn’t need to be reminded of his past mistakes. He didn’t miss the world of film.Much. “Why not? You haven’t done anything in what, three years now? You’re only thirty-six years old, man. This

could bring your career back.”This was the problem with Jaime. Talk to him for five minutes, and he makes you want to run a marathon

when you can’t even run a mile. There were reasons he hadn’t done another film. Good ones. Reasons that had him in the penitentiary for a year and a half.

“No. If this was all you wanted to ask, then get out of my house,” Jaime sighed.“Oh, come on. This is how you treat your best friend? Your only friend,” he mumbled under his breath. Jack

heard it and looked up, but said nothing. He couldn’t. “This could be your chance…and mine, man. Help me do this,” said Jaime as he paced the floor,

emphasizing each word with each step. “I don’t know anyone else that can pull off the role, you know…” Jack regarded Jaime for a long moment, taking another puff of his smoke…and exhaled loudly. He

returned his gaze to the script, and scanned the character list on the second page. “Who’s casting?” Jack asked. When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he slid his gaze back to his

friend, who had taken up a decidedly nervous smile.“Anders…” There was a chilling warning in his tone, and Jaime winced slightly as he looked to his shoes.“Stephanie,” he mumbled. Jack’s face went to stone.“Forget it.”“Oh, come on, man. It won’t be that bad.” Jack gave him a look of unadulterated disgust.“You wasted a plane trip, man. I’ll never again in my life work with her.”“You only say that because, you know, the way things ended…”“Save it. I’ve put that time of my life behind me.”“She may be…difficult, but she’s the best at what she does.”“Not interested.”“Then why do you still have her number?” Jack hesitated. It was his undoing.“How do you know that?” said Jack, and Jaime grabbed Jack’s iPhone from the table and checked

Favorites. There it was. Stephanie. Jaime turned the phone facing Jack, who didn’t bother to look up. He didn’t have to. He knew what he would see.

“Exhibit A,” Jaime said. He was entirely too smug for his own good. Jack let out a groan in sheer frustration, rubbing the now sore spot between his eyes. There were days

when that pain would zero in and penetrate his skull, all the way down to his soul. It was the kind of pain not even an extra strength prescribed migraine pill could cure or give any sort of comfort.

Stephanie. He couldn’t remember the last time he thought of her, but he could describe her so well even a blind

man would be able to see what he saw. Chocolate brown eyes, shoulder length dark brown hair, so silky you could see highlights reflected on each strand. She wasn’t tall or skinny, or the drop dead gorgeous type, but she was beautiful. Classy. Sophisticated. Kind. Stephanie had a very unsual walk. Fast, determined, as if she couldn’t wait for the next step. He’d always had a hard time catching up to her. He stop trying when things slowed down for him in Hollywood—the City of Angels.

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Jaime made a sound in his throat. And that was enough to bring him painfully back. He was afraid of attempting to describe Stephanie more than he had. And yet, he was drawing her smile in his mind.

“I don’t think this is going to work, just so you know,” said Jack. “I can always trust you to be skeptical, at least,” returned Jaime with a smirk. “Oh, for goodness sake, stop your insufferable grinning. It’s irritatingly hopeful,” Jack deadpanned as he

stood. Jamie followed suit, grabbing the manuscript off the wooden desk. He didn’t deign to wipe the grin

from his face as he started for the front door, downstairs, in Jack’s commodious, brownstone apartment in Greenwich Village: a perk of his ten years in the entertainment industry, after his starring in several successful (and some not so successful) films. The two had been in his office, on the top floor. Jack liked the room for its scenic windows that displayed a wide scope of the New York tree-lined streets.

Once they had passed the kitchen, Jack veered into it and pulled a drawer that held a cigarette tray. “Why me?” he asked, jump-starting the conversation. Jaime only gave Jack a long look.“Oh, fine. Where are we going?” He knew he would have to leave the comfort of his home if it meant

seeing her again. “Los Angeles. Where else?” Jack almost smacked himself in the face. Now he had to go across the country

for this buffoon. Okay, it wasn’t for him. Who was he kidding? “Pack your bags, and start reading…” Jaime said as he threw the script on the cocktail table. “The

flight leaves tomorrow morning, so I’ll pick you up at eight. I’m staying in a hotel about a few blocks away.” Jack slid his gaze to Jaime, who now had the barest hint of a “skip” in his step as he continued toward the

door. He cursed quietly to himself. “You would pick the morning flight,” Jack mumbled. “Of course, we have to get there as soon as possible. And by the way, I already bought your ticket.”

Jack paused in rubbing the remaining stub of his cigarette on the tray.The little weasel. He had already anticipated the outcome of this conversation before it had even taken place. Apparently,

Jack was just that predictable. “Do me a favor…”Jack through over his shoulder, not expecting a reply.“Yeah?” Jaime grinned.“Get out,” Jack barked back, grabbing the script.Jack heard the door click and then heard a muffled laugh from the other side.

Alexandra Gomez, 16, is a sophomore at CCA. She enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and non fiction. She is working on three books, and plans to make one a trilogy. She also enjoys music, and she sings in CCFL’s Liquid worship band.

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The LetterFourth Place

February 2, Tuesday Night Christine sat in the last seat of the final train departing from London.

She looked lethargically at the empty, cold seat next to her; a single tear rolled down her pale skin. Her twin brother Sam should have been seating there. Both had dreamt about a trip through Europe for years.

Christine and Sam resembled each other in almost every way; with they’re emerald green eyes, light brown hair, and tall figures. His recent disappearance had been devastating for her. Even the thought of it brought new ache to her heart.

As twins, they shared a special bond. Just a few days ago the two had shared a much awaited 21st birthday. How could they have known that it would be the last time they would see each other? Christine had always known that he was putting his life in danger as an agent, but she had never prepared herself for the phone call. The dreaded phone call from the F.B.I. in Langley, Virginia.

Samuel Ford had gone out of contact. It was like the wind had been knocked out of her and her words ran

dry. The phone had dropped from her hands and hit the ground with a dull thud. She was stuck in a trance; unable to move or even to cry. Every possible explanation had come to mind, and every horrid scenario played out before her very eyes. She had just been able to hear the muted voice coming from the phone continually asking, “hello?”

The tears had come, later. And never stop.

By Kaitlin Connor

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Christine wiped her face with both hands and forced herself to look out the window. Maybe things weren’t as bleak as they appeared; her bright green eyes roved the bare landscape. Sam was probably finding his way home at that moment; probably coming home… but she just couldn’t bring herself to fully believing that. Sam was a strong man, someone who could get through just about anything. She had known this as long as they had grown up together. He had always been dedicated as a boy; never quitting anything that he started… that was what got him into fights and that was the kind of attitude that drove him into the military.

“I want to do something big, Christine,” he had told her the day they graduated high school. “I just can’t settle for less.”

It wasn’t like she wanted to settle for anything either. Only a month or two out of high school she had already set up opportunities to pursue her dreams in medical school in London, their home for the last seven years. She herself had always been daring, yet extroverted, maybe a little self-centered, and absolutely scared of failure. But this wasn’t what she wanted to focus on.

Her thoughts again ran to that of her home around the time of their birthday. After everyone had left, and the house had been cleaned up, Sam had handed her a letter with strict instructions not to open it until two days had passed. Questioningly, she had taken it from him, only to forget it, until she learned of his disappearance.

The night before she had left for the train, she had remembered the letter. At first, Christine had expected to open some life changing note, something that her and her brother both took turns writing to each other… but this one was different. She had pulled the letter out of her bag and read the words again to herself. But this time only in parts so that she could think it through.

“Christine, right now you’re probably wondering where I am.”She had laughed. This kind of pick up line was one that only her brother would use. But she kept going;

trying to hold back tears in her red eyes. It had been a long day of packing and an even longer day of goodbyes. She was leaving the city for now, she just had to get away from the bustle… or at least that was what she had told her parents and friends. She read more of the letter.

“But, you must not worry about me. I can take care of myself. We’re 21 now you know!” She had paused to take in his next words.“If you’re reading this it probably means that something’s happened to me. But we all knew that would

happen someday.”That’s when her world had begun to spin. She doens’t remember the tears, but she was sure that’s when

they had started to fall. “Now I’m going to tell you something that I probably shouldn’t,” the letter read. “The only reason I am is

that I know I can trust you. I know it may sound stupid but if this information fell into the wrong hands a lot of people jobs and lives would be on the line. So, if you see anyone suspicious, I want you to burn this letter. Right now I am being held in Paris against my will. I identify this because the mission I’m going on tomorrow is doomed to fail. But because I’m here, vital information will never get out. But this means you will most likely never see me again.”

Christine felt the tears pour down now and she didn’t have the heart to stop them. It was the same feeling that had come over her when she had first read it on her bed. Of course she hadn’t confided any of this to her parents for fear it would only bring them into the mess. She quoted the next phrase in a whisper.

“Sis, you can’t come after me.” His voice rang out the words in her head.

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“I love you so much and I know that you’ll take care of the old man and ma. Give them my love.”Christine stopped there; curling over in a ball as she held her hand tight against her mouth. She missed

Sam so much; his contagious smile and his warm nature. The world just wasn’t the same without him. It was like half of her was gone… and in a way this was true.

Christine let her sobs subside before rolling up the letter and stashing it away safely in her bag. She pictured her brother tied to a chair, his face beaten beyond recognition and his words. “You can’t come after me.”

Well, he was too late. Christine was coming after her brother. The sister on her way to becoming a successful doctor was searching for her lost brother. She knew the letter didn’t specify his exact whereabouts for a couple of reasons. First of all, he probably didn’t even know exactly where in Paris he was; second, he had already stated that people’s lives were at stake… but so was his. And this thought crossed out the last reason that he hadn’t said, because he didn’t want her coming after him.

“We’ll be arriving in Paris in five minutes. Please collect all you’re belonging before we come to a complete stop in the station,” the conductor’s instructions rang in her head, urging her on to her destination.

She was going after her brother and no one would stop her. She had already lied to her parents, sold off much of her things to buy a one-way ticket, and basically told her teacher that she wouldn’t be coming back.

Christine’s mind was made up, as she brushed one more tear away. Her brother had been asking for way too much of her when he had told her not to come after him.

“We’re twins,” she whispered to Sam, wherever he was. “We stick together.”A few minutes later, the train stopped and Christine stepped off. At 5’11, she towered over many of the

French people there. The last bit of her money clinked in her pocket as she walked out of the station and into the open air. This one thing she was sure of; her mind was set and no one could stop her… not even Sam.

Kaitlin Connor is an eighth grader at CCA. She enjoys writing, and is working on her first trilogy. Her hobbies include running, acting, and all things that have to do with music. Kaitlin loves to hang out with friends and sing in Kids Live.

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OCtOber 17, 2035

ONE BULLET IS ALL IT TAKES TO START A WAR. One bullet is the only thing necessary to send hatred from a decade of tension flooding out. No one knows who pulled the trigger; all they know is that the trigger was pulled. It could have been pulled on accident, but the only important factor to them is that it hit one of their own. That was all it took for them to release their insanity and begin to attack.

The year is 2035. An epidemic is on the loose. It runs rampant and latches on to those who are not cured. The disease latches onto the brain and slowly begins to destroy a person. It controls a different nerve of the brain for every person and slowly deteriorates that area, rendering that person incapable of everyday activities. The disease began to immerge in the year 2024. That is the year in which CDC named it an epidemic. They quickly discovered a cure for it; the problem was that the cure was only effective on around half of the earth’s population.

These two groups began to build up contempt for the opposite group. The cured people were stronger and smarter, but the diseased were desperate and mad, which must account for something.

I am cured. My name is Frankie, I am twelve years old. Neither of my parents were immune to this disease, though. I have a few memories of my parents, but in those few memories my parents were already succumbing to the disease. Then, when I was eleven, my parents were fully immersed to the disease. That is when the government took me away from my parents.

I was then placed into a family with two parents who were immune. They lived in a city named Chicago. It was a very large city, with lots of wind and smog. My new parents claimed to love me, but I just didn’t fit in. I lived there for about three months before I couldn’t take it anymore. So I ran away. I just left home one day and never came back.

October 17By Adam Watkins

Fifth Place

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I went into the slums of the city and found an old abandoned library, with at least thirty old vending machines scattered around. I resided there for about four or five weeks. I would wander around the library all day reading different books. Sometimes when reading bored me, I would meander through the city, around the nearby neighborhood.

During my wanderings I would hear faint whispers. Nothing very tangible, but it was enough for me to get a general idea of what the problems that were occurring throughout the city. I wanted to know what was happening, but I could never grasp the answers. Everyone would realize I was eavesdropping before the real answers were spilled.

Then one day as I was strolling back towards the library I found a newspaper. It was dated the same date as my watch, which is how I know that it was very current.

The paper explained to me about the epidemic. It also informed of the tension that existed between the group of the Cured and group of the Diseased. Up until this point, I had no solid idea of all the problems that were circulating. I was astonished by the information. I had to assume that I was cured due to the fact that I was not going mad in any way.

Just then a loud sound exploded into the air. It resembled the sound of a gun. Also it sounded close and I know that was not a good sign. I started walking faster when I heard an unearthly wail. It sounded inhuman. That’s when I knew I had to run, so I did. I sprinted back towards my safe haven, tripping occasionally, eventually making it back. But I didn’t stop there. I ran up the stairs to the second level and toward the only window, which was a square with about fifteen feet sides. I watched closely for anything when I saw a tall man with blonde hair holding a hand gun sprinting down the street. He was being pursued by a mob of about a dozen men and women that looked diseased. They wore straggly clothing and all had a crazed look to them.They sprinted by and in seconds they were gone. I realized that I had been holding my breath and had somehow ended up crouching. As I stood my shoulder bumped a shelf and a book tumbled to the floor. I picked it up and realized it was a journal.

I looked through it for any old inserts, but that came to no avail. So I decided to take the liberty of writing in my thoughts.

So everything I recorded on the last few pages is the state of our world in the year 2035, in the month of October. Day 17.

I know that something has been started amongst the citizens of the world. Like it was said in the War for Independence; a shot was fired that was heard across the world. I know there will be war. At this point, I’m terrified and I’m just praying that if there is a God that he will watch over me. I will hide out as long I can in this library. So until tomorrow, friends; if I even make it then, I will write to you.

Good-bye.

October 17

Adam Watkins, 15, is a freshman at CCA. He enjoys reading and writing short stories. His interests include film, science, and programming. He also enjoys hanging out with his friends and going to the movies.

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Writing

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WritingNon-fiction

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The sound of a child’s whimper and vision of an innocent tear stained face will compel one to outstretch their arms and soothe the unsettled baby. Yet, how does the thought of a bloody scream ejected

from a demon-ensnared human being, make one feel? Or consider the shame of an enslaved girl, expected to commit actions too graphic to depict. What would one feel?

Most will feel unsettled, some will flee in a vain act to deteriorate the thought of such an image, or such a sin, convincing themselves that sexual exploitation, demonic possession and obliterated dreams are distant concepts, but not reality. Few will see the first image, for the image of the baby crying, is the image God sees when He sees His sin stained son or daughter.

Over 4000 years in spiritual darkness and decay, 330,000,000 worshipped gods, and over 1.2 billion people inhabit the emptiness of life and hope India has to offer. It is said that if one is to forget history,

history tends to repeat itself. So is the case with India and the ancient city of Nineveh. The two cities had and have qualities that mimic each other.

“Out of the house of your gods I will cut off the carved image and the molded image. I will dig your grave, for you are vile.” Nahum 1:14.

Nineveh was a pagan city. Historians and Bible scholars refer to it as the bloody city (Nahum 3:1), due to its fascination and obedience to the god of war who was Ashur. Temple prostitution or harlotry was also a sickening deficient in Nineveh. Due to the worship of the fertility god Ishtar, Ninevites justified the act of temple prostitution and considered it a sacred religious act.

In modern day India, slavery, disease and demons oppress the various cities. In an interview with Calvary Chapel Fort Lauderdale’s Youth Pastor, Pastor Mike Leger, who lived in India for a year himself, he said: “It’s the most spiritual oppression I’ve ever felt…I’ve never been anywhere where I sensed it that way. I felt like I didn’t belong.”

InvisibleBy Jessica Gushue

First Place

WarThe

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Pastor Mike went on to describe in vivid memory the results of Satan’s torturous harassment on the people there, especially in a city called Varnassi, where the Ganges River flows through. “If you die in the city Varnassi... and you are wealthy enough to pay a priest to burn your body in one of the Hindu temples and scatter your ashes into the river, you break the reincarnation cycle.” He says the Ganges River is so filthy that “you can’t see an inch past the water.”

Pastor Mike also told of poorer families who weren’t able to pay for a priest to burn their loved ones’ bodies. As a substitution, they weigh the body down and toss it into the river in an attempt to break the reincarnation cycle. The people consider this water sacred and holy and bring disease upon themselves. Religion, rather than politics, permeates everything in India, affecting the social system.

History teacher, Steve Mayo, affirmed this by describing the political fragmentation India was founded on. “Religion fills all of the holes in Indian society. India is responsible for originating three popular world religions: Buddhism, Hinduism and Janeism; however, the most permeated religion throughout India today is Hinduism, which encompasses 330,000,000 gods.” Indians worship these deities in various ways, similar to Nineveh, Indian beliefs include temple prostitution.

“If my child had been a girl, I would have killed her,” said Rukmini a fifteen-year-old Devadasi young mother, as reported on www.servantsofthegoddess.com. “Really, I would have strangled her at birth. She would have become a devadasi, like me. Her life would have been full of pain and sorrow, like mine; I wouldn’t have been able to bear seeing that happen to my child.”

Women dubbed as Devadasi’s are forced to work as ritual dancers, servants, and prostitutes in the temple in order to serve the goddess Yellamma, who is depicted as the goddess of the fallen.

Most Devadasi’s are Dalits, who must resort to temple prostitution because of poverty. The Devadasi system

and practice has been attempting governmental abolition since the 1930’s; however, over 450,000 Devadasi’s still endure exploitation today. The girls’ incorporation into the system usually begins at a pre-pubertal age. In some cases, the girls are younger than eight. When they reach puberty, they are expected and encouraged to begin their temple vocation of prostitution.

Imagine in the pit falls, depths and trenches of fallacy, tragedy, slander, immorality, disgust, heartache and guilt, minutely emerges a glitter, a glint, of a temporary reprieve and as one starts to ponder that distant hope it begins to emerge, in an onerous and exasperating plight, the glimmer begins to augment and in a herculean victory, the light expounds and floods the archaic detritus elating in triumph, for what was once hopeless has become the essence of hope. This imagery is necessary in the restoration of India. Jesus must permeate a culture, where God’s healing must soak into these people in order for them to live abundantly.

“I get reports of tens of thousands of Indian people being saved every day,” said Pastor Mike. Revival is a glimmer now, as truth is finally relieving those bound in the outlook of a torturous world. Jesus’ crimson is becoming their mission, as more and more people are realizing that when “we are nothing, Jesus becomes our everything.”

“It’s the most spiritual oppression I’ve ever felt…I’ve never been anywhere

where I sensed it that way. I felt like I didn’t belong.”

—Pastor Mike LegerCalvary Chapel Fort Lauderdale’s Youth Pastor

Jessica Gushue, 16, is a sophomore at CCA. She enjoys writing poetry and journaling. She loves running, swimming, and horseback riding. She believes God and family is crucial, and being with them is fundamental to her.

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Grandpa’s Stories

The door shut, and out we came, one by one, until all four of us were out of the car. We then headed into the creaky, old, wooden cabin. Inside we met a sleeping silhouette of an old man, shriveled up by the adventures and voyages that took him around the world and back.

“Grandpa!” Joe shouted, as we got closer. My little five-year-old brother had always had a keen liking for my grandfather, always

asking when we would visit him again, and what new and interesting story I thought he would tell us next.

“Oh! Joe! How are you? Oh, and there’s my other favorite grandson!” He said in a playful voice.

“Hi Grandpa,” I said.“Who’s that at the door?” said a familiar female voice coming from the

kitchen. A woman came into view with a familiar smile that I knew I could recognize from a mile away.

“Hello Grandma,” I said. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, my little brother turned and ran up to meet her, shouting, “Grandma!”

My parents came through the door, and greeted my grandparents with a, “Hello Mom,” and “Hello Dad.”

Dad said, “Sally and I are here to…” making hand gestures, as if they had already spoken about this.

“Ahh, yes, I remember,” Grandpa said after a short pause, “Well? What are you standing around here for? Get going. We’ll keep them busy while you’re away.”

“Thanks Mom, thanks Dad,” Dad told Grandpa and Grandma, as he and my mom headed out the door.

“Well, is anyone hungry?” Grandma asked as soon as my parents had left.“I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!” my brother exclaimed. Joe and I had always found

Grandma’s cooking to be quite delectable, so we made sure not to eat lunch before we left home so we would have enough room for her cooking. “Well, I’ll get right to it!” Grandma said.

“Meanwhile,” Grandpa said as Grandma was heading into the kitchen, “I’ll tell you a story.”“Yay!” My brother said, quivering with excitement. For once I actually shared in his exuberant

feeling. Grandpa’s stories were always very fascinating, and I could hardly wait for it to start.“Well,” Grandpa started, “Once upon a time, there was a knight named Borris who lived in the

Second Place

By Jonathan Carberry

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village of Pinestream. Now Borris’s mother was old and frail, so she lived with him in his house, and he took care of her. Every day, Borris’s mother would tell

him about the One and Only God, but Borris wouldn’t listen, and he didn’t care. One morning, when Borris awoke, he noticed that his mother had not yet gotten up,

which was very unusual, so Borris went into his mother’s room to check on her, and to his astonishment, he found her still beneath the sheets, very pale; her skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and her breathing was very shallow.

He immediately went to his best friend, Arthur, who was the doctor of the village. When Arthur examined Borris’s mother and went to tell Borris of his

mother’s condition, he found him pacing the room, waiting anxiously for the news of his mother. ‘How is she?’ asked Borris in a worried voice.

‘I’m afraid this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.’ Arthur said.‘So there is no hope?’ asked Borris.‘Well,’ Arthur started, about to give the horrifying news that there

may be no hope, when he remembered something that he had heard about many years ago. ‘Yes?’ asked Borris after no answer for a few

seconds.‘There may be one cure, but we will need the help of King Jeffery,’ said

Arthur.‘What is this cure?’ asked Borris, a fire of determination and hope in

his eyes.‘I have heard that the ground up tooth of a dragon is a sort of

all-cure for all diseases,’ said Arthur. The temperature felt like it

dropped a few degrees in the room. After a long pause, Borris asked, ‘Do you know where a dragon might be?’

‘Yes, I have heard of a dragon on the island of

Helgath.’

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‘Then what are we waiting for?’ asked Borris, rhetorically, ‘Saddle up your horse, Arthur, we will depart immediately.’

The next day, they arrived at the king’s palace, and asked for an audience, and, surprisingly, they were summoned immediately. When they had entered into the throne room, and addressed the king, they asked him for the support they needed to kill the dragon and acquire the tooth to cure Borris’s mother.

The king agreed, but under the condition that they would bring the scales of the dragon back for him. He gave them fifty of his finest men, ten ships laden with weapons to carry them to their destination, and all the supplies they would need. They set sail the next morning, and Borris decided to journal his adventure, so that he could share his adventure with his mother, after she was cured.

Across the sea they sailed, for eleven days, with Arthur as their navigator. On the eleventh day, Borris, Arthur, and the 50 men landed on the island of Helgath, and immediately set off in search of the dragon. Walking through the forest, Borris noticed that there were no chirping birds, nor were there any game to hunt, and after five weeks of searching, they were running low on supplies.

Finally, after five weeks of searching, one of the men found a huge, old, tree, about five hundred meters tall, split in half, and a few meters from it, a massive footprint, which they agreed could only belong to a dragon. These footprints led a trail to a cave. Inside, they found skeletons of various animals, such as bears, and even lions. Deciding that this must be where the dragon lived, Borris, Arthur, and the men all agreed to wait inside the cave until the dragon’s return.

Borris could feel fear welling up inside of him, so he struck up a conversation with Arthur to take his mind off the fact that he was close to fighting a

massive fire-breathing dragon. ‘What do you think about this dragon?’ he asked, aware that his voice was trembling. ‘It’s definitely big,’ said Arthur, trying to lighten the mood with some comedy.

‘Well, I hope we’ll be able to kill it, my mother’s life is riding on this,’ replied Borris.

‘Don’t worry, Borris, everything has a weak point, I’m sure that we’ll kill it and bring those teeth to your mother.’ Suddenly, there came a crash then a loud roar, the dragon appeared in the entrance of the cave.

Borris was paralyzed with fear seeing the prodigious monster, with bloodthirsty eyes and sharp claws. The dragon then noticed Borris, turned to him and shot a white hot column of flame right at him. ‘Borris look out!’ shouted Arthur, which seemed to jar Borris to reality just in time to dodge the fire with minimal damage. The dragon then turned its attention on Arthur, about to breathe fire on him when an arrow clanged against the

dragon’s scales, and the rest of the men charged. Arrows flew, swords clanged scales, and men flew

and smashed against the walls of the cave. For Borris, the next few hours were a blur; dodging fire-blasts, tail-swipes, claws, and teeth, all while slashing and stabbing a beast over 10 times larger than himself. At the end of what seemed like days, Borris found a rock to hide behind and took a count of his men.

Over twenty of the fifty men were either dead, too injured to get up, or had run away. As for the dragon, the beast was bleeding in almost every chink of its green armor, with blood running into its eyes, and its face, hideously scarred with arrows sticking out of it, slash marks, and even a sword sticking through the roof of its mouth.

The fight continued for what felt like forever, until Borris got an idea. This battle has gone on for long enough! Thought Borris, It’s just like Arthur said, everything has a weakness, and I think I may have

Borris was paralyzed with fear seeing the

prodigious monster, with bloodthirsty eyes and

sharp claws. The dragon then noticed Borris,

turned to him and shot a white hot column of flame right at him...

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found that beast’s! He grabbed a nearby bow, and looked around for an arrow, but couldn’t find one.

Too late, Borris noticed a huge green tail swinging toward him, and he flew across the room. His vision was blurring, and he was about to pass out, when his mother’s smiling face flashed in his vision. I cannot just sit here and let her die! He told himself.

He pulled himself together, and somehow found the strength to stand up. He looked around, and spotted Arthur on the ground, half-scorched with deep scratches and holes and an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. ‘Arthur!’ cried Borris, running and crouching beside his best friend ‘please don’t die on me!’

‘It’s okay, Borris,’ said Arthur with a faint shaky voice ‘here, take this arrow, and kill the filthy beast.’ He then pulled the arrow out of his shoulder, wincing, and gave it to Borris. ‘And Borris,’ the doctor said, ‘give my gratitude to your mother for everything she’s done for me.’

‘No! Arthur!’ Borris cried. Then Arthur ceased to move. With tears for his lost best friend running down his face, Borris stood up, notched the arrow, closed his eyes tight, and prayed for the first time in his life. God, if you’re there, please let me shoot this arrow straight and true! He opened his eyes, cried ‘DIE YOU WRETCHED BEAST!!’ and let the arrow fly.

The arrow tunneled right through the dragon’s eye, going down so deep, you could only see the feathers on the end sticking out. With a loud din, the dragon fell, twitched, and lay still. For a few seconds, there was complete and utter silence. Then a loud roar of triumph proceeded, as many of the men took out knives and began to skin the dragon. Borris took a count.

There were twelve of the fifty men left, including him, the rest were dead. It took about four days to completely skin the dragon, and remove all of its

teeth. After getting to the shore, they all boarded one ship, and Borris called for an announcement. ‘Many perished as a cost for triumph in this battle, so let us have a moment of silence for all those that were lost.’ After the moment of silence, they set sail.

It took Borris and the remaining eleven men five days to return to the palace of King Jeffery, and after Borris had presented the dragon scales to the king, he immediately returned to Pinestream. He rushed to the house and inquired of the doctor about his mother.

The doctor shook his head, with a hopeless look on his face. ‘She is barely hanging on; she hasn’t got much time left.’

Borris then immediately prepared a soup, ground up one of the dragon’s teeth, added it to the soup, and made his mother drink it. Borris then gave the grave news of Arthur’s demise to the doctor, who had been Arthur’s apprentice. Within a couple of hours, Borris’s mother began to respond to the medicine and her vitals slowly but surely began to resurge; she was going to live. After a few months, his mother returned to normal, and this time when she told him about the One and Only God, Borris listened, and accepted Christ as his personal Savior. As a result of his adventure, Borris’s legend is still told around the village of Pinestream to this day.”

Grandpa smiled as he finished his story. By this time, Joe and I had had finished our food, and I heard Mom and Dad’s car pull up in the driveway. “Daddy!” Cried Joe as our parents came through the door, “Oh we had such a good time! Grandma made us delicious food, and Grandpa told us a wonderful story with dragons and it was so cool!”

“Alright sons, let’s get going. Thanks Mom, Dad,” Dad said. Then we all climbed into the car and drove home.

Jonathan Carberry, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

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Play Review by Alexandra Gomez

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Human Trafficking. Imagine the horror. In the word of Kevin Bales of Free the Slaves, 27 million people worldwide are victims. According to the U.S. Department of State and Justice respectively, approximately eight million people are trafficked

across international borders every year, 50% of which are children. And in the United States, 14,500 – 17,500 foreign nationals are trafficked into our country every year. Human Trafficking is tragic. It’s everywhere. But, the fact that most of us don’t notice makes it more tragic.

This past February 3rd through 5th, CCA showcased Beauty for Ashes, a dramatic dance concert with a mature theme, created to raise awareness for the present-day tragedy known as Human Trafficking. It was a powerful and captivating performance, and commanded much of the students who participated. As CCA high school science teacher, Laura Quinn said, “there was a certain loss of innocence,” whether it be playing the role of a child soldier or a young woman being trafficked into slavery and prostitution.

But the students in no way took this on alone. CCA’s Fine Arts Department and Calvary Chapel Fort Lauderdale’s Outreach Ministry fully supported the cast and crew through daily devotions, prayer meetings, and even encouraged parents to sit in on rehearsals in the Calvary Theatre to pray for them.

“There was definitely a sense of lost innocence in this production,” agreed Theatre Production Manager, Sheri Hecocks. “From the very beginning the students and their parents were communicated with about the content. They were asked to prayerfully make a choice to participate. Pastor Chet Lowe and his Outreach Ministry staff came and talked to the students and the parents on several occasions, and they studied and researched the

reality of the issue. No one was caught off guard, but all were deeply affected.”

Although many of the actors and dancers agonized over the role they needed to play, Fine Arts teacher, Mr. Tim Flay, came and offered them acting techniques for distancing themselves from the reality.

“Pastor Chet came and administered communion to the cast and crew,” added Mrs. Hecocks. “We took this as an opportunity for the blood of Christ to wash us clean from the abomination that we all had to rub up against.”

The audience’s reactions were a bit mixed. According to Pastor Chet, most of them were positive, since many people were not aware of Human Trafficking. He felt it accomplished their goal to “make them aware so that they will help begin the prayer process of involvement.” He was absolutely right. Lines to the info booths outside the Theatre stretched impossibly long after each show, and it seemed like there were never enough info packets to give out. It was amazing to see how many people saw the need, and decided to make a difference by doing something about it. The words of Edmund Burke never rung so true, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” Evil definitely did not win this time.

Though many people would admit that the performance was a hard one to watch, it was unforgettable, and will forever be remembered as one of the most powerful productions CCA has ever produced.

A CCA parent whose children were in the show said, “It was uncomfortable, compelling, dark, and devoid of a happy ending. As I worked in front of the theatre, I heard these sentiments expressed over and over in many ways. But the words of one person stick with me who said, as she left, ‘That is hands down the very best production I have ever seen.’”

Beauty for Ashes Third Place

Play Review by Alexandra Gomez

A Fight Against Injustice

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Christian Teens in America

By Alexandra Gomez and Jessica Gushue

Here we are. We’re between fourteen and eighteen years old and our expectation from the world right now is to finish high school and get into a good college to impact our world. But, while the world wants us to make a splash, it does not give us a list of “do’s and don’ts” to stay affloat as we navigate the years of high school and college. Sure, they expect mistakes, some careless actions, and even a little pain along the way...

Fourth Place

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But what about Christian teens in America? What does the world expect from us? What’s our generation all about, anyway? Now, that’s a good question and to that,

we would say, we’re different. Do we follow the latest trend? Sure, sometimes, but we don’t let them define us. We’re under construction—in the process of becoming who and what God has designed us to be. That’s not to say that we’re perfect, because we’re not. Only one Man in history has been able to accomplish that. And although most of us try to model Him, many times we fall flat on our faces. But the good thing is, we are not stuck there. Even though...

The world is looking on. Waiting for us to fall. And yet, while they point at our mistakes, they sometimes justify them as, “not as bad as what else is out there.” While that may be true, we know God’s standards have so much more expectation for us. Whether our niche is playing sports, drawing, singing, dancing, or acting, our soul’s desire is to please the One whose desire is for us. Everything we do, points to Him.

“I Will Follow You,” a song by Chris Tomlin says: “Who You love, I’ll love, how You serve, I’ll serve, If this life I loose, I will follow You.” Truly walking with the Lord affects every aspect of our life. As His desires become our desires we find ourselves becoming different—a God immersed generation, as some would call us. But just in case you didn’t know, generation-naming is not our thing. We don’t like to be labeled. We do believe that Jesus is our hero and He makes us into the people He wants us to be.

Many of us are the product of a generation who made some mistakes along the way but found the right path before they became our parents. They sought to make a different life for us—and here we are, at CCA. They have encouraged us to explore our interests and talents. To seek the Lord with all our hearts, to pray, to honor Him with our gifts. Yet, some of us, a big chunk of our generation, don’t know Christ. They wear a fine mask, hiding behind the label of Christianity, but theirs is a frustrated, disillusioned, and worried world. Thankfully, for all of us, we attend a Christian school, where we are encouraged to be real—with our faith, with our words, with each other. The hope is that we do more

than simply talk about it; the hope is that we live it. That we don’t turn into a generation that totally missed it—missed Him and were left behind.

There is also a light side of us. With our friends, we joke, poke fun at each other just because we can, and still love them despite their faults, as well as our own. With our parents, we respect and obey them (most of the time)—with the knowledge that they do the things they do to prepare us, working for our future. And with a significant other, we cherish and appreciate them for who they are, for what we love and admire them for. We are called, whether it seems arduous, strenuous, or even unfeasible at times; to persevere through any disagreement, misunderstanding, or fight with someone close to our hearts.

In school, we work to achieve. Grades. Homework. Quizzes. Tests. Exams. Report cards. PSATs. SATs. GPAs. Entrance exams. College. Everything is for a purpose. But prepping for the future isn’t our only goal when accomplishing our daily bucket-load of schoolwork. In everything we do, we do it for the glory of the Lord. A simple commandment, but one that commands much from

His disciples. This is what gives us success, and this is what gives us purpose, as we live in a world that has a hard time figuring out which side is up.

Our school life is not only about academics and neither are we. We pour out, essentially, our hearts and creativity into the extracurricular: athletics, clubs, and the arts. The feel of fresh paint under our fingernails, brush in hand; the reverberation of a lingering note as the final chord is struck; the glimmer of the spotlight in our eyes, and the relief and pride as the curtains draw close on an epic performance; the rush of adrenaline after the completion of a perfect pass; or satisfaction as the ball slides into the hoop—nothing but net. All purposing for God to be exalted through our talents, for all things.

The lives of Christians in the Next Generation may not be simple or easy, but if it were, there wouldn’t be a need to be different than what the world expects us to be. That’s the word: we’re different. We’re children of God. And because we are, we labor to be extraordinary. If you must label us, that’s the best line.

But just in case you didn’t know, generation-naming is not our thing. We don’t like

to be labeled. We do believe that Jesus is our hero and

He makes us into the people He wants us to be.

35

Fifth Place

Michael Jordan once stated, “I’ve always believed that if you put in the work, the results will come. I don’t do things half-heartedly. Because if I do, then I can expect half-hearted results.” I never really understood this quote until I got lazy and started to do things half-hearted, and got half-hearted

results in return.The morning I found out the news was just like any other regular morning. I woke

up to the warm, blazing sun hitting my face through the window. As I walked down the stairs, I could hear the bacon sizzling and the eggs cooking. I could smell the toasty biscuits in the oven. The aroma was beginning to fill the house. It felt like it was going to be a great day. Apparently, I was wrong.

After breakfast, my mom called me into her room. Normally, that means I’m in trouble. This time though, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I could hear the tone in my mom’s voice and I could tell this wasn’t going to be good. As I walked down the hallway to my mom’s room, which seemed unusually longer than normal, I started to get nervous, as I did not know why my mom sounded so upset. Once I got to her room, I saw my mom sitting on the couch with a glum look on her face and she told me to sit down with her. “We need to talk,” she said in a humdrum voice.

My eyes started to swell up with tears as my mom told me I got cut from my soccer team. I didn’t even know what to say. My emotions were stuck between angry and sad, and then started to get extremely upset. I had no idea why I was cut. I had been on that team for two years! My mom tried as hard as possible to assure me that it would be okay. But, what she said didn’t matter. My mom told me that there was a team that was one year older than me that I could try out for. But I declined. I told my mom I didn’t want to play soccer anymore. My mom then suggested that I should sleep on it since I was still in shock about what had just happened. So I did.

The next day I felt a little calmer and I decided to try out for the team. I tried out later that night, and made it. I was so excited! I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t mess around and do my best to stay on this higher level team. I was determined to stay on this team for as long as possible.

Now I’m on a great team, with awesome friends and I love it! Playing with older girls has taught me so much more than playing with people my age. I have to be a lot more aggressive, which is okay so I’ll be able to get a scholarship for college one day. As Michael Jordan once said, “I can accept failure, everyone fails at something. But I can’t accept not trying.” I will NEVER forget the time I had to pay the price for playing soccer half-heartedly.

Failure From

Successto

By Ebony Brown

Ebony Brown, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

36

WritingPoetry

37

Every waking dawn.Every creeping night.

He paints it all.His canvas the sky.

Most glamorous waves.Most alive or green.

He paints it all.His canvas the sea.

Grass, trees, rocks, and dirt.Then the shores of sand.

His paints it all.His canvas the land.

What a masterpiece,that was made from land.

He painted it all.His canvas the man.

Broken with heartache.Always torn and trapped.

He saw it all.The time of our past.

Babe in a manger.Throne in human life.

He lived it all,to be sacrificed.

The holes in His wrists,and the storm above.

All of that wasHis canvas of love.

That sharp crown of thorns,and that cross a tree.

He painted it all.His canvas of free.

Fast forward to now,where sin still runs wild.

He still calls me,to be His own child.

The soul matters most,for eternity.

He molds it all.His canvas of Me.

His CanvasBy Mariah McConnell

First Place

Mariah McConnell, 14, is a first year student at CCA. Jesus is her first love, but then there’s music, health, world missions, etc. She is very spontaneous about capturing each moment, whether it be through writing songs and poems, or taking photographs. Eph. 1:11.38

Long ago, I dreamt of white sailsEbony planks with laces of bronze

My fortified cradle which carried meOver crystal expanse of flowing azure

To the depths of my soul and beyond—My heart’s desire of melodious peace

Around snow-capped mountsAlong sparkling streams

Under canopies of trees, leaves glittering with dewAnd through the Gates of silver and gold

Where rest would find me, at last

I remember neither wind, nor rainNot a single cloud marred the sky

Only the golden, glorious sunBathing me in its rays of kaleidoscope colors

I felt neither pain, nor sorrowNot the sting of past transgressionsBut just as I neared the bank’s edge,

Sleep melted away, leaving the reverie in its wake

Time passes ever on, until sunset approachesBones are now weary, body spent

How I yearn deeply for the sight of white sails, once againThe stray wisp of memory slips through my fingers

Like sand through the stones in a rivuletFinally, however, my burden is paid

I may leave this desolate placeSee the Gates which hold my dream alive

I wait for the vessel, and it takes me from portAcross the broad horizon onto cerulean waters

Around snow-capped mountsAlong sparkling streams

Under canopies of trees, leaves glittering with dewThrough the Gates of silver and gold

He stands at the shoreWith a beautiful, tender smile

Hand outstretchedAnd soft, kind eyes

All which beckon me homeWhere the sight of white sails over a City of lights

Find me rest at last

Second Place

By Alexandra Gomez

White Sails

39

The CreatorLord, your love shows through the skies

With every sunset and every sunriseThe leaves of the trees dance in the wind

Making your presence known And making me forget my sins

Your grace is like the oceanNever ending, always in motionIt gives endless second chances

Running so deep, it leaves me breathless

The mountains so high, reach up to youFinding your glory in he skies so blue

In the middle of this darkness, Lord you shine brightLike the glowing moon during a dark night

We stand astonished under the starsBecause it’s all proclaiming who you are

I look up and see your face in the morning sky Watching as the delicate, detailed birds fly by

There is no denying you are the MakerThe earth shaker, love maker, breath taker

The one and only Creator

By Mariana Valenza

Third Place

Mariana Valenza, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

40

Poem in Cinquain Stanzas

Fourth Place

By Tristan Peyton

JesusPure, Blameless

Preaching, Praying, ObeyingHis Father’s words to man

God

SatanAbominable, Evil

Stealing, Killing, DestroyingAll who follow him

Death

CrucifixionTorture, CruelTaking, Killing, FulfillingGod’s perfect plan throughHim

ResurrectionBreath, Hope

Reawakening, Reviving, ResurgingChrist’s body made whole again

Glory

SalvationGift, Life

Renewing, Restoring, EternallyLife for all who receive it

Christ

DecisionSimple, Tough

Defining, Rebuilding, Destroying

One’s life depending on choiceNow

Tristan Keith Peyton, 15, is a freshman at CCA. He enjoys reading classic literature, computer programming, Spanish, and football. His dream is to become a Civil Engineer and to play college football.

41

An alluring smell lifts my body out of bedSleep still tempting the eyes in my head.

Breakfast is best served simple,A waffle or two, no more

Check the mirror, good not one pimpleA bell rings, it’s time for class

Morning still has left fog on the glassClass is great when kept simple,

An easy subject and at bestFriends who smile from dimple to dimple

The smell returns once againSo does the urge to eat

The line is longI dropped my pen

Keep it simple once againI turn the key into the lockTo my room I begin to walk

Math is fun when it is simpleX plus Y

My thoughts on math begin to dwindleMy back returns to the shape of my bed

A pillow soft, beneath my headLife is fun when it’s kept simple

Maybe my poemYour thoughts will rekindle

Fifth Place

By Connor Bass

Simplicity

Connor Bass, 14, is a freshman at CCA. He likes writing short stories about everyday life. His favorite things to do are lacrosse, boating, and going to the beach.

42

Winds of Time

Honorable MentionAs the winds of time doth passAbove my head I see the clash

Of warriors past, through their eyes:A barren field, lit with flame

Dead nature’s cries,The prime movers’ shame

Outside my window, the moon’s glow shoneA thousand pictures move aloneInside my head, fills my thoughts

Of paintings simply drawn on walls:Devastation, rashly chosen pathsThat led to blood and selfish acts

The powdery light, concealed and fledNow casts a shroud upon my bed

So deep and dark, is oppression’s holdHardly, I see the present unfold

Only hence and those who’ve fallenTravelling there and back again

By Alexandra Gomez

Alexandra Gomez, 16, is a sophomore at CCA. She enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and non fiction. She is working on three books, and plans to make one a trilogy. She also enjoys music, and she sings in CCFL’s Liquid worship band.

43

Honorable Mention

CoffeeBy Gabrielle Sirianni

Gabrielle Sirianni, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

I never cared for coffee;the brewed seeds from a plant.

I attempt to keep it away from me,but it seems like I just can’t.

The first time I tried coffee,My lips twisted and turned.Down it went, inside of me,

My throat felt as if it was burned.

The act of drinking coffee,brings an overwhelming feeling of dread.

I would rather have lunch with Gadafi,but he is indisputably dead.

Apparently, I like to exaggerate.

But I feel I needed to get this out.For no more coffee, I would celebrate,

And the world would have to live without.

If you are in need of a clarification,I DO NOT LIKE COFFEE,

This is my proclamation,as you can surely see.

44

The Fire Honorable Mention

By Scott Gordon

A bolt of lightning,So bright and frightening,Strikes a grand, green tree.

The noise it makes is louder than a banshee.

The lightning sparks a blaze.The smoke it creates causes a haze.

The tree, once so lush and green,Had lost its pretty sheen.

While the tree was a roast,Several men were eating toast.

Soon they saw the beauty of the fire,It was one man’s desire.

The man climbed the tree,He thought the fire would set him free,

But embers flew through the night,And set the poor man’s hair alight.

The man jumped off of the burning tree,And ran towards the sea.

He poured on his head what he thought was water so clean,But it was really gasoline.

His head aflame like a torch,He ran towards his porch.

In unintentional panic,He set fire to his hammock.

Which set fire to his house,And his lovely new spouse.

As she was screaming in the night,The fire trucks arrived full of fright.

Little did they know,The gas stove was about to blow.

The burning stove flew through the roof,And landed all the way at Mount Ruth,

Where it ignited a gas vein,And destroyed the whole state of Maine.

So the moral of my story is when lightning strikes a tree,FLEE.

Scott Gordon, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

45

Art

46

ArtCeramics

47

Firs

t Pla

ce

Michaia Lowe, 17, is a junior at CCA.

By Michaia Lowe

Lio

ns

Tail

48

By A

man

da D

iaz

Amanda Diaz, 13, is in 8th Grade at CCA.

Seco

nd P

lace

Untitled

49

Third

Pla

ce

Stephanie Peters, 17, is a senior at CCA. She enjoys drawing, painting and pottery. Her hobbies consist of softball and volunteering. Stephanie loves to help with anything she can, go to the beach, Eagles Troops and hanging out with friends.

Trea

sure

Box

By Stephanie Peters

50

By A

lia H

amm

er

Alia Hammer, 16, is a sophomore at CCA.

Redemption

Four

th P

lace

51

Trib

alFi

fth P

lace

By Jenna Johnson

Jenna Johnson, 17, is a senior who has attended CCA since its beginning. She enjoys drawing, painting, and especially photography. When she is not creating, she’s enjoying her other passion—the beach. Jenna plans to study Marine Biology at FAU next year.

52

ArtPainting

53

Ret

urn

ing

Firs

t Pla

ce

By Madison Holmes

Madison Holmes, 17, is a senior at CCA.

54

By Bailee Cudmore

Field of Flowers

Bailee Cudmore, 14, is an eighth grader at CCA.

Seco

nd P

lace

55

By Carolyn Rowland

He

Mak

es M

e Li

e D

own

in G

reen

Pas

ture

s

Third PlaceCarolynn Rowland, 14, is a first year student at CCA. She loves her new school and had such fun this year playing basketball and running track. She spends much of her time dancing classical balIet. She loves being with her family and friends.

56

By R

yan

Scha

ttin

ger

Under the Sea

Four

th P

lace

Ryan Schattinger, 19, is a VE-ES student at CCA.

57

By Emily Frazier

Girl by the RiverFi

fth P

lace

Emily Frazier, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

58

ArtDrawing

59

By Kelly Merkle

Topaz

First Place

Kelly Merkle, 17, is a junior at CCA.

60

By D

avid

Jon

es

Falling Stars

David Jones, 17, is a senior at CCA.

Seco

nd P

lace

61

By Z

ack

Koch

Heart of Impurity

Third

Pla

ce

Zack Koch, 19, is a senior at CCA.

62

By Ariel Westerberger

Stri

ng

of P

earl

s

Ariel Westerberger, 14, is a, eighth grader at CCA.

Four

th P

lace

63

By A

bi S

umne

r

Abi Sumner, 14, is in 8th grade at CCA. She enjoys drawing and reading. She also loves to dance for her most high God. She loves her family and friends dearly. She will never forget to give God all the glory.Ev

eryt

hin

g B

eau

tifu

lFi

fth P

lace

64

ArtMixed-Media

65

Go

thic

By A

nast

azia

Wes

terb

urge

r

Firs

t Pla

ce

Anastazai Westergurger, 17, is a junior at CCA.

66

My FaceSecond Place

By Kelly Merkle

Kelly Merkle, 17, is a junior at CCA.

67

Han

d o

f Ch

rist

By B

rook

e Sl

ade

Third

Pla

ce

Brooke Slade, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

68

By Jake LeMaire

Fourth PlacePicnic Basket

Jake LeMaire, 13, is a seventh grader

at CCA.

69

By S

aman

tha

Coto

Fifth

Pla

ce

Samantha Coto, 16, is a junior at CCA.

Bre

akin

g F

ree

70

ArtOil Pastels

71

Hu

gs

By E

liya

Low

e

Firs

t Pla

ce

Eliya Lowe, 12, is a sixth grader at CCA.

72

Second PlaceWolf

Ariel Feldman, 11, is a sixth grader at CCA.

By Ariel Feldman

73

By Rachel Blitch

CardinalThird Place

Rachel Blitch, 12, is a sixth grader at CCA.

74

By T

ori N

ail

SunflowersFo

urth

Pla

ce

Tori Nail, 11, is a sixth grader at CCA.

75

Up

& A

way

By J

osep

h Pa

tullo

Joseph Patullo, 12, is a sixth grader at CCA.

Fifth

Pla

ce

76

Photography

77

Refl

ecti

on

s Te

ll A

llFi

rst P

lace

By Madison Holmes

Madison Holmes, 17, is a senior at CCA.

78

By T

aylo

r Whe

eler

Seco

nd P

lace

Pie

r Sw

ell

Taylor Wheeler, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

79

By Avery Reeder

Third PlaceSunset

Avery Reeder, 16, is a junior at CCA. She is a veteran cheerleader, and photography is one of her hobbies. She describes it as her form of art. Avery works hard in her academics and desires to be an emergency room doctor one day.

80

WinterFourth Place

Joey Moreira, 15, is a freshman at CCA. Joey enjoys all forms of art and is in the Fine Arts Endorsement Program at CCA. He particularly likes sculpting. His hobbies are fishing and swimming at the beach.

By J

oey

Mor

eira

81

Fifth Place

New CreationBy Mariah McConnell

Mariah McConnell, 15, is a freshman at CCA.

82

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