Mirage 2009-2010

STAFFORD HIGH SCHOOL

2010 LITERARY MAGAZINE

‘09-’10

S ome search for

beauty with the idea

that it must fit a

certain criterion, a certain

description. However, this

idea causes us to overlook

our own fascinating sur-

roundings. This failure to

see beauty in the countless

things we run into in a day

can draw us further from

understanding ourselves.

Here, we take a step toward

understanding what we see

as worthy of a few strung

together lines, and conse-

quently, learn a little about

ourselves.

STUDENT EDITORS Nina Gonzalez

Dawnthea Price

FACULTY ADVISOR Jim Andrews, PULBLISHER

Linda Keefer, ART

Sue Gill, TECHNICAL

LINDSAY CLEMENTS

2

... 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS

OUT OF MIND/COURTNEY MISKELL…………………..………………….…...6

IN THE LIGHT/JESSICA LANE…………………………….…...…………….7

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE/AMBER HOWELL…………………………………………8

HAULT/JOHN KOVALCHIK…………………….……….….………….….….9

ONE, TWO, THREE/K.RICKARD….…………………….….…….……..…….15

BODY FROM SOUL/S. HAGGINS. . . . . . . . . . .…. . . . . ….. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . …22

POETRY

PROSE

4

LIKE A DIAMOND/ASHLEY STERNE.………………….…….…………….….10

MEMOIRS OF A POSTER/L. MESSI…..….…….....…..…….….….…….….…...12

FROM A CHAIR/ASHLEY STERNE……………………………...…………......14

ABSENTSQUARES/J B BROWN.....……………………………………….….16

ADAN & EEVEE/ALANNAH PAULE….……….…..……..…..…….……..….…19

THE BADGE/EMILY CHURCHILL……………….…………….….……….….20

TAKING IT IN/A.COPELAND…………………….…..….….…..…...….……24

A WRITE REASON/EMILY GRIFFIN….………...….…...…..……..……....….….25

A REEL WORLD/ALEX VAN HORN…………….…...…...……..….….…….….26

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

5

CHRIS CARR….……….…..…..…....….......…..…..….…….......…......….….5

LINDSAY CLEMENTS.…………….….………….….............COVER, 2, 7, 11, 13, 16

MELINDA GILL………………….…...…..…...….....…….....….....…21, 26, 27

NINA GONZALEZ….………...…..….....…..……………...…....…..…......23, 24

HUNTER…………….….….…..…..........…....…..…...……...…..…......….22

JESSICA ICEHOWER…………….…....…..….........…....…..….…...…..….….25

NATASHA JOHNSON………….….…….....…......……....…..…..…….….…...6

RHIANNON MUSSLEMAN……………….…….….…...…..…..…..…...….….15

SAM O’NEIL…………..….…….…............……...…....….…...…….….….29

MICHELLE SLOAN…………..…..….....……....….…...….….....……………9

CHRIS SULLIVAN……….……………….…........….........……..…......….17, 30

LAURA SVITES………………………….…..…...…..….…..…....….......8, 18

MARIE TURNER….……….…..…..…....….....……..….……....…......….….14

CHRIS CARR

As I sit in this empty chair,

I noticed that you don’t care.

Whatever happens,

Is what it will be.

Notice how I just prance around,

When all you do is frown,

I see you will never be,

What you were ashamed of me.

When I see you,

I know it’s not true,

You will never be,

All that I made you.

OUT OF MIND By Courtney Miskell

NATASHA JOHNSON

6

Step into the light, my fair young girl,

And watch as the sequins on your gown shine.

Feel the rush, and your head whirl.

Your heart skips when you breath a line.

You are now a victim of the joy,

Doing anything to have it in your hands.

You have become its puppet, a mere toy,

Sucked into the age-old dance.

Put on your show young dear,

Perform for all to see,

For it has become quite clear

Who you choose to be.

IN THE LIGHT By Jessica Lane

LINDSAY CELMENTS

7

LAURA SVITES

Love is like two veins pumping in

One heart a bump for every

Second of life in that heart a

Thump for every moment

Cherished between the two veins

Bump for love

Bump for life spent together

And another bump for the all of their

Love.

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE By Amber Howell

8

MICHELLE SLOAN

9

Plastic squares

Dark circles cloud judgment

poor structure sentence

To see through the gruff

Through the dark plastic that smells of the oil it was made

a poet

As the world stridently marches forward into the twenty-first century never yielding with its technological

gait

the world is shrinking

Borders blur in the face of the faceless technological "advancements" that change the color coded

political maps

filled with the pinks and reds and greens and blue hues of our innards

HAULT By John Kovalchik

The glistening water shines like diamonds.

The murky brown of the subtle waves

Sloshes like coffee in a dark lake cup.

He stands there with his hands on his hips

Staring into the water as he contemplates his thoughts.

A girl walks the edge, about to jump in

Her dress is held tightly in her hands

So it won’t hit the water.

Her chestnut hair is pulled into a tight ponytail

On top of her head

Gentle as she may seem, her eyes harbor

The hardness of a diamond.

Her heart is stone cold, as is the wall that she hides behind.

He glances away for a second and the image of her is fading.

She stands on the edge of the water holding her heart

In her hands.

She glances up at him and smiles that same old smile

That he fell in love with.

Her eyes hold his for a second as she fades into a ghost.

The lake stands silent awaiting her re-arrival.

The brown water sloshes quietly.

He stands waiting,

Waiting,

Waiting,

Waiting,

Nothing.

He collects his art easel from the shore.

Walking beside the water, he notices something.

He leans down to pick it up.

A small diamond ring sits stuck in the mud.

He sets the ring slowly into the water and pulls it out.

The mud washed away and the gleam of a diamond

Shines in his eyes, the heart in the middle shone

Brighter than the rest.

He smiles slowly as he puts it in his pocket and walks away.

Behind him there sits a girl. Her smile is evident

As she watches him walk slowly away from the lake

That was once their place.

He looks back at the girl and blows her a silent kiss.

She vanishes slowly into the great unknown of the lake

Away she goes forever.

The heart of diamond faded away as she left the world,

Both going their separate ways,

Her to heaven, him to the reality of life.

LIKE A DIAMOND By Ashley Sterne

1

LINDSAY CLEMENTS

1

MEMOIRS OF A POSTER By L. MESSI

H e keeps staring at me… I wish he’d stop.

It’s becoming a bit annoying. He does

this every day, gets up from bed in his

Power Ranger footy pajamas, strolls

over here, and lays a big smelly kiss on me. It’s dis-

gusting, I’d vomit if I were… well alive. He then fum-

bles towards his door whispers and ‘I love you…’

then leaves to brush his teeth and takes a shower. The

whole thing is disgusting. Why doesn’t he kiss me

after he’s brushed his teeth, and why does he wear

footy pajamas? It’s all just too ridiculous.

He seems to be in his late teens. I know he comes

off as grotesque, and I don’t even get around all that

much. He has dark red bumps; I think they’re called

acne. He’s absurdly skinny, and collects dolls. I don’t

want to be stuck on his off- white walls anymore. I

don’t mind just hanging around; that’s what I’m made

for, but is it too much to ask to actually be

put in a nice girl’s

room. Maybe a living

room so I can watch

people go back and

forth. I’d rather be rolled up in

the trash than stay any longer in this juvenile’s dirty,

stinky room.

His mom comes in once in a while and picks up

dirty socks and poorly placed articles of clothing. I

don’t very much like the sight of her either, but maybe

I’m just a little stuck up. I came with a 42-dollar pack-

aged CD, and I’ve won a Grammy…. Well I haven’t

per se, but I portray the woman who did. His mom

looks a lot like the boy, but withered and old. She ig-

nores me, thank God, but her husband, her husband

sneaks in here in the middle of the night, and just

stares. JUST STARES!

They’re all creeps! I really want out. Just a few

years, and maybe I’ll get old and worn and they’ll

throw me in the trash. I’m actually looking forward to

that. Across from me is an old desktop computer. He

has stacks of books and plates and bowls.

I kind of just wait till he comes back in. I’m pretty

excited seeing as he’ll be gone for about 7 hours. I

think its something called school, and I couldn’t be

happier. The door opens and he has a towel on, fig-

ures. He would take only a five-minute shower; he’s

such a pig. He drops the Scooby Doo towel revealing

a boney chest. I want to vomit, or at least close my

eyes, but of course I can’t. I’m just a picture. He starts

humming a catchy song out of tune. He actually hurts

my ears. At this very moment every day, I wish for a

paper shredder.

He finally begins getting dressed, wearing his

standard brown Khaki pants and a pull-over vest. He

has no sense of style at all. He wears his dorky dark

red glasses and strolls over to me after placing his re-

tainer in his disgusting mouth.

“Hey baby, I gotta go to school, but I’ll see ya real

soon.” He pushes a hand through his soon-to-be

greasy hair. I would be turning green or having a fit of

nausea If I could actually move. He leans in close to

me, and I know what he’s going to do. I’m hoping he

makes it quick. He puckers his thin lips stands on his

tippy toes and leans forward ready to kiss me.

“Darrel…” A woman shouts from the doorway. He

turns to see a plump older version of himself. I’m

overwhelmed with joy. Yes!

his mom actually does

something positive with

her meager life.

“What are you doing

to that poster?” She asks, and he bites down on his

chapped lips.

She marches over to us, letting me get a good look

at her double chin and unfeminine facial hair. “What

you’re doing is unnatural, you should go out… find a

real girl,” she continues, and I agree. That was my

sentiment exactly.

I wait a moment. Darrel has his head down in em-

barrassment. I was waiting for one of them to speak,

and all of a sudden, without warning, the older woman

begins taking hold of my sides.

“I’m sick of you and your dad worshipping this

damn thing…” she says, anger evident in her growl.

She took hold of my other side, and began pulling me

off the wall.

I stare shocked. This is the best day of my unnatu-

ral life. Darrell begins fighting with the plump woman

to leave me be, but she’s terribly stubborn. She re-

moves me from the wall and begins rolling me up,

rolling and rolling ‘til the only things I can see are

wayward shapes all around me.

I can make out Darrel’s distorted body trying to get

at me. I hope she puts me somewhere very far away…

You should go out... find a real girl... “

”

1

LINDSAY CLEMENTS

1

A s I sit here in Mr. An-

drews’ room I notice the

clutter like it is a normal

thing. No one’s room

should ever be this cluttered. Stuff is

strewn all over the place like a lepre-

chaun came through and ransacked the

place looking for a shiny pot of gold. I

sit at my desk at the back of the room

looking from a panoramic view,

around the room.

The first thing I always notice

about the room is that the door is al-

ways open, always inviting people to

come in and have a chat about some-

thing relating to English. The comput-

er on wheels cart sits about two feet

away from the door, bleeding battery

life from the laptops that are never

shut down properly.

Pictures of past students line the

walls of the room, making me wonder

what those students were like to gain a

place on Mr. Andrews’s wall of fame.

A small diagram of a Trojan horse

catches my eye. The purpose of the

diagram is unknown, but it helps spice

up the room.

The corpses of computers past line

the sides of the room, shells of the

once great computers they used to be.

Above the white board at the front

of the room is a poster with the head-

ing “Metabolic Pathways.” I have no

clue what it means, but the scribbles

and lines confuse me every time I try

to decipher its secret code.

Wait a second; we have had a mur-

der in the classroom. I look up toward

the ceiling where I see Winnie the

Pooh hanging from a paperclip. Win-

nie lived a good life, but all that honey

he was stealing from the bees bit him

in the butt.

Turning around in my swivel chair

I see bookshelves housing anything

but books. Boxes, tape dispensers,

plants, anything and everything are in

those bookcases; it’s like a random

junk pile.

Well, apparently Mr. Andrews is a

member of the Mickey Mouse Club, or

so says the laminated poster that sits

behind his desk. A popcorn popper sits

under the projector screen and I won-

der if we are ever going to use it, as I

could use some popcorn as I am writ-

ing this essay.

File cabinets sit to my right and

behind me. I want to go over and open

one, but I am afraid of what might pop

out. Who knows, Mr. Andrews could

have dead bodies hidden in there and

none of us would ever know. An un-

used white board sits in one of the cor-

ners of the room like a depressed child

whose lollipop got taken away. It sits

there unused and abused.

As the bell rings and I stand up to

go out of the room something weird

catches my eye. All of the vain girls

and boys stop at a mirror next to the

door to catch their reflection. I briefly

look in the mirror knowing that I am

the slightest bit vain and do care about

the way I look.

I exit the always open door and

walk away from the cluttered class-

room for the last time that day. I sigh a

great sigh of relief as I get back to my

normal OCD day. The clutter is killing

me, as I want to clean it all up, but I

know that it’s Mr. Andrews’s mess to

clean up.

I’ll be back the day after tomorrow

with excitement riding through my

body like a freight train. I am always

excited to see what new treasures we

can find in Mr. Andrews’ room.

FROM A CHAIR By Ashley Sterne

MARIE TURNER 1

FROM A CHAIR

I held my hand on her waist,

Sliver of ice, sliver of ice.

Hers rested on my shoulder.

I realized I was holding her.

Finally, finally, a dream come true.

And we waltzed, if you can believe it,

Sliver of ice, sliver of ice.

And she counted out loud for me:

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Finally, finally, a dream come true,

I spun her around, as courtesy dictates,

Sliver of ice, sliver of ice.

And then she held my hand once more,

As her laptop played the resounding score.

Finally, finally, a dream come true,

We stopped our spinning, and paused,

Sliver of ice, sliver of ice.

Ya'll look so cute together, standing there.

At this, she bows out, breaking our stare.

Oh no! Oh no! A living nightmare.

ONE, TWO, THREE By K. Rickard

RHIANON MUSSLEMAN

1

absent squares

loll in distant grievances

and

spatters of

inked credibility

on

walls, paint chipp

ing

as they were

at easing

porches

and

dewed panes of

autumnal, d e c a y ing bursts

of summer mornings

roosting there, in their

defiant circle, bound on parabolic ties

and

mine following eyes

give up the weak that holds them up

to join.

absentsquares By j b brown

LINDSAY CLEMENTS

1

W alk into school with my hot cup o’ joe

and am questioned by friends who surely must know,

asking “Did you eat breakfast this morning my dear?”

so I look at them cleverly, not filled with fear.

I tell them once more that I did not in fact,

that I never have eaten it - to be more exact.

“Eat breakfast!” they scold,

as I’ve often been told.

But I do not like to eat food when I wake,

for my tummy’s not hungry and surely would ache.

I do not have time for hot cakes or eggs fried

or cold milk and cereal or toast, for I’ve tried!

It doesn’t work well and I surely would know,

so despite your statistics, I’ll stick to my joe.

I’LL STICK TO MY JOE By Amber Howell

CHRIS SULLIVAN

1

LAURA SVITES

1

O nce upon a time, there was a man and a wom-

an. They came from the most wonderful

place in the entire universe, and every charac-

teristic about the two of them was perfect. The

man had curly, dark, and luscious hair; the woman had

bright blue eyes that were as clear as crystal. They were

beautiful inside and out.

They went on vacation one day to what they thought

was a nudist beach, but they ended up in a magical forest.

They roamed around and gazed at the lovely flowers,

fruits, and animals that lay in the shade. The woman

thought to herself that this was even better than the nudist

beach, although they were still nude.

They felt slightly embarrassed by being so nude in

front of such innocent animals, so they picked big, green

leaves from a nearby tree and covered themselves. After

wandering around and petting the deer, the squirrels, and

the rabbits that happened to cross their paths, Adan and

Eevee felt a little famished.

Eevee said to Adan that she was sure that they could

find a lovely, ripe piece of fruit in the godly orchard, so

they set out to look. They saw grapes and melons, oranges

and bananas, raspberries and strawberries, but nothing

sounded like it would hit the spot. Then all of a sudden, as

if it had sprung right out of the ground that very instant,

the pair spotted the most glorious apple tree five feet away

from them.

They looked at each other with delight and ran toward

it. Adan reached up and plucked the biggest, sweetest,

juiciest apple on the tree and they sank their teeth into it.

After a moment of eyes-closed taste-bud pleasure, some-

thing felt a little funny in their minds. Adan suddenly

snatched the apple away from Eevee and sank his teeth

into it once more.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Eevee.

“What’s it looking like I’m doing? I’m eating,” said

Adan, matter-of-factly.

“Well yes, Adan, I can see that. I meant what are you

doing stealing it out of my mouth? I’m hungry too, ya

know! I don’t see why you get to do anything you want to,

but if I did it you’d freak out and get all belligerent!” Eev-

ee went on for her 10-minute rant.

During this time, Adan dozed off.

“You aren’t even listening to me!” she exclaimed.

“How can I possibly listen to you when you nag ALL

THE TIME?”

“Well I wouldn’t have to NAG ALL THE TIME if

you’d listen to a word I say otherwise! All I ever try to get

you to do is listen to me, or help me out, or appreciate the

little things I do for you!” Eevee said, as she stormed

away into the forest.

When Eevee left, Adan sat against the apple tree and

pondered about what was so annoying to him. It’s her

stupid attitude, he thought, the way she nags and whines.

“Why should I praise her every move when she doesn’t

care about all that I do? I try to provide for us; I try to do

the things I think she’d like. Whatever. Who needs her?”

Adan arose from the sitting position he was currently

in and suddenly took the leaf covering him and made it as

small as possible without showing anything, but if a little

something showed, that was all the better for him. He set

out for the nearest town and strutted around flexing his

muscles and flashing his brilliant white smile at everyone

he passed. Back in the forest he made sure to use a special

tree sap to style his hair so that it could beautifully flow in

the wind without having a cowlick out of place.

Meanwhile, Eevee remained in the forest, looking

around for substances to make her more beautiful. “I’ll

show that stupid man how good I can be. He’ll be sorry he

doesn’t appreciate me!” She thought. She stomped around

in a PMS-like fury and found big sticks to attach to flat

ones and made herself some sky high heels. She also cut

down the size of her leaves and showed as much as possi-

ble without being completely exposed. She put a bird in

her hair, and as it squawked it ruffled her hair to be big

and bushy, just the way she wanted it. She found berries

of different colors and applied a great amount to her lips,

cheeks, and eyelids. “This’ll show him,” she thought.

She paraded around and found her way to the town she

figured Adan had gone to. As she strutted in her heels,

people stared and she loved it. She walked with a very “uh

-duh” look on her face, and the people still loved it!

She finally found Adan and strutted up to him and said,

“Ha! Look at me now, Adan! Everyone like, totally

loves me!”

“You look ridiculous. That’s why they’re staring.

Why’d you put all that stuff on your face?” he said.

“It’s not just stuff. It makes me look beautiful. SOME-

THING has to, since you don’t think I’m good enough!”

“You looked better without it…” he responded.

“What?” she asked.

“I said you looked better without it.”

“Y-you’ve never told me that before” she remarked,

with a shy grin on her face.

“I never had reason to before…”

Adan and Eevee had hated each other since they had

that apple, but it took Eevee’s ridiculous amount of make-

up and Adan’s huge ego to realize what they had become.

So they stopped their immaturity and went back to

their normal too-good-to-be-human ways.

ADAN & EEVEE By Alannah Paule

1

W e woke up early to get to the airport on

time. She packed her attendant’s bag with

the usual fare and buttoned her uniform,

pinning me on the left breast pocket.

We boarded the plane and she walked up and down the

aisles, smiling widely and closing overhead bins. The

voice boomed overhead, announcing our departure. She

buckled us in and her heart picked up, the way it did every

time we were about to fly. Rubbing me for luck like al-

ways, she closed her eyes as the plane took off. As the trip

went on and on, I dozed. The heat radiating from the

bored inhabitants made me very warm.

Without warning, she sat up. She hissed at the steward

and pointed. Several tall, dark men were standing up

slowly, looking around. One put his hand in his coat pock-

et, gripping something long and flat.

The steward stood up as well, and his face was a con-

torted, confused grimace of one who is frightened but

trying to look pleasant. He straightened his coat and

walked up the aisle. She stood too, and quickly made her

way through the kitchen where a few attendants were

lounging. I couldn’t pick up what she was saying, hearing

only a tense, tight sound.

Then the screaming started.

It came from the middle cabin, a high pitched noise that

echoed and reverberated, growing in intensity as it moved.

She ran back and pushed through the curtain, and we saw

what had happened.

One of the men had the steward in a headlock, with a

knife pressed against his throat. Another was making his

way to the front of the plane, waving his knife at the pas-

sengers. He shouted barely intelligible words, screaming

at anyone who tried to rise against him.

The front of her shirt started pounding furiously: her

heart was beating faster than I’d ever felt it before.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” she whispered to herself. She started

sweating, the small droplets falling onto me, making the

world blurry.

The plane started rocking and weaving, making abrupt

turns. It felt like the worst turbulence in the world, times

ten. She started creeping up through the cabin. The first

man had disappeared, along with the steward. Children

were crying softly, and mothers tugged on her skirt as she

walked by.

“What’s going to happen to us?” a middle aged woman

whimpered.

“What’s happening?”

She shook the woman off and kept moving through the

first class section, where the businessmen and CEO’s had

awakened from their naps and were glancing around, be-

mused.

She started whispering to a heavyset executive when one

of the tall men burst out of the cockpit and spotted us.

“You.” He pointed and muttered in broken English,

“You come. Fast!”

She breathed in quick, shallow breaths.

“Me?” she squeaked.

“Yes. Now.”

She slowly followed the man to the front of the plane

and let out a small cry on seeing what had happened.

Our captain, Victor, was lying on the floor with his throat

cut, blood sickly dripping onto the commercial tile floor.

His eyes and mouth were open, silently screaming at the

ceiling. The co-pilot was bound and gagged to his seat, a

large bruise on his face from the blow that had apparently

knocked him unconscious.

The first man from earlier was controlling the plane’s

direction, though he seemed slightly confused. Our con-

ductor presented us to him in garbled words. A man was

watching in the corner: he looked green, probably from

the plane’s bumping.

“You!” shouted the new pilot. “Where is gas?”

“The…gauge?” she whispered. She was shaking so

badly that I couldn’t get a good look of the strange men. I

was soaked in her sweat. “It’s on your left. Next to the

altimeter.”

He nodded and grunted.

“Good. On schedule. Good.”

“Where…where are you going?”

The man laughed, punching his friend in the arm.

“You hear, Ahmed? She doesn’t know.”

Ahmed laughed weakly, staring into the window.

“Please.” She whispered. “Please, why are you doing

this? Please stop.”

The pilot sighed deeply. “Take care of her, boy. Shut

her up.”

Ahmed blinked and whispered to him in barely-

discernible words. A swift slap made them cease.

“Do as I say, boy! Do it now!”

The man carefully took something out of his pocket and

turned towards us. The look in his eyes was the same as

the children crying in their seats. He opened his mouth as

if to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He

took a step forward, and she took a step back. Another

step, another retreat. The dance continued until we were

pressed against the cockpit door and her heart was racing

so fast it could have been heard on the other side.

“No…please….” she whispered.

A flash was all I saw, and suddenly I was facing the ceil-

ing, slowly being covered in a thick fluid that blocked all

of my senses. I lay, slowly drowning, until a flash of fire

destroyed everything.

THE BADGE By Emily Churchill

2

MELINDA GILL

2

Looking at my body from my soul,

Wow! I never noticed how pretty

I really was.

I never really looked at my face to see what was right,

Only to see what was wrong.

Now when I look down

At myself lying there,

I see the cracks from where I used to smile;

I see the love that I once gave.

I see the real me.

Looking at my body

From my soul

How lifeless I was,

But how happy I became,

How peaceful I became.

Only looking back at my past

One time,

So I wouldn’t forget

How far I came.

Lookin’ at my body I see the bruises

From the war;

I see the dried-up tears that I cried a long time ago,

And I just keep staring...

I think I’m moving...

My face turns to a smile!

I wake up!

I love my life!

BODY FROM

SOUL

By S. Haggins

HUNTER 2

A ll is still

B y night for some time

C rickets ne’er chirping

D awn rests on no rhyme

E ars are not perked

F or there is no sound

G lancing towards beauty

H orizons are bound

I see in the sky

J ust a faint peak of light

K eeping my eye

L ooking to new sight

M y mind is unfathomed

N ot knowing at all

O r is it the beauty

P erchance it is small

Q uaint little glimpse

R eassuring me life

S till in the quiet

T ill time be in strife

U nder the blanket

V iolets do fade

W atching as morning

X anthic in shade

Y awns in new light

Z ero night

ALL IS STILL By Amber Howell

NINA GONZALEZ

2

T he day had gone by very slowly as I

sat there on the couch watching the sun

go down very slowly. Hours had gone

by slowly as if the day would never

end.

I heard the car door slam and jumped up be-

cause I knew it was my owner. I sat at the door

waiting for him to come inside. As he came in, I

barked and he patted me on the head and started

playing with me.

Soon after his wife walked into the living

room and said “Honey, is that you?” and she

hugged him and gave him a kiss and then they

went into the kitchen where she was making din-

ner.

He asked her what she was making and she

told him she was making stew beef, which was

my favorite, and he told her it smelled good and

he couldn’t wait to eat.

Then he walked out to the kitchen went into

the room and came back out and sat on the couch

and motioned for me to come and sit on the

couch next to him and I did. And as I sat there he

rubbed my head and we watched TV. Thirty

minutes later his wife called and said it was din-

ner time so we both got up and went into the

kitchen.

He walked to the sink and I walked right to

my bowl which was on the floor by the table next

to where he was sitting. We said...well they said

their prayers I just listened and I ate quietly as

they sat and talked.

When we got finished eating he gave me a

bath and did what he usually did when he washed

my hair, which was dry shampooed. He some-

times used mild shampoo, but only when it was

necessary. After he dried me off, he brushed my

hair and then I went and got into my bed and

TAKING IT IN By A. Copeland

NINA GONZALEZ

2

E very person has their own way of expressing

themselves, their thoughts and feelings, their

pain and sorrow. Whether that expression is in

the form of art, speech, fashion, sports, or what-

ever you have a passion for, there is always a good reason

behind why it is done. I write for many reasons, of course

because writing is a form of expression and expression is

who you are, and because I, as well as everyone else, am

many different things.

I write because I believe it’s louder than words and

because my words are usually ignored. I write for the sake

of writing, because I have found that it’s a beautiful art

that was invented by man to be loved and cher-

ished by those who truly enjoy

and appreciate it.

I write because I have bad

days, and because I would rather have

a sore hand than a red, puffy face. I

write so that when I’m old and crazy, I can take myself

back to the wonderful days of my imaginative youth.

I write to serve a purpose, to entertain others as well as

myself, to have something that I can really be proud of, to

show the people who have ever doubted me that I can

accomplish something more inspiring than they’ll even

attempt to finish.

I write so my family will be proud. I write to make

friends—for the farther I go in journalism, the farther I

will get in life, socially and career wise. I write to practice

for the future.

I write because it gives me something better to do than

watch reality television. I write because I like the feeling

of knowing all these emotions and powers and other

things that I have just explained. I write because I believe

it’s going out of style, fading until soon it will be nothing

but an ancient achievement that no longer exists to man,

something that no person will ever enjoy as much as I do

again. And the thought of that depresses me greatly.

I write like it’s my job, because I someday wish for

just that to happen. I write because I want to be famous

and make those millions that my teacher Mr. Andrews is

always talking about.

I write so that I can one day make a difference in

someone’s life. At least, that is what I aspire to do. I write

because I believe it makes people respect me more, and

because it makes me seem more intelligent.

I write because it impresses my friends, and because I

enjoy looking back, even if it’s only to last week, and

reading something that I created with

my own hands. I write be-

cause I think it’s actually one

of the very few things that

I’m really good at. I write to give

myself confidence, even if it sometimes has the opposite

effect.

I write to learn, because I have found that with writing

and reading and learning I enjoy life much more than I

would without them.

I write because I want people to know me for more

than just a name, or even for more than just a girl who

talks way too much.

I write because somebody has to. Where would we be

in this world without literature? We would all be blabber-

ing idiots, and all learning and social advancement would

come to a halt, because no one could learn without the act

of writing. So, one could say I’m writing to keep humani-

ty going. I write to be someone’s hero or idol, even if it’s

just my little cousin who can barely read herself.

A WRITE REASON By Emily Griffin

JESSICA ICENHOWER

I would rather have a sore hand than a red, puffy “ ”

2

I am swimming. Sea water flows through my

lungs, in and out. I pass by all the other fish. I

spot coral. It’s a different color this season. I am

not surprised but I am definitely taken aback. It

is new to my environment. I liked it the way it used to

be, but I’ll get used to it. Eventually, I’ll like it more.

I don’t stop swimming.

I spot Bob. “Hey Bob,” I say.

“Hey Harry, what’s up?” He says back. I talk with

him; we separate.

I spot Jim. “Hey Jim, what’s going on buddy?”

He answers: “Nothing much friend. I was just

wondering…” and so another conversation begins.

We discuss the weather, the recent tidal movements,

the new fish in town, etc.

I see David. We talk about something that I won’t

be thinking about in ten minutes. I am content.

In the next few minutes I will be a different fish. In

the next few minutes, I will have a “new perspective.”

In the next few minutes…in the next few minutes… I

stumble upon Gregory. “Hey‐a Greg,” I say. He

doesn’t respond. “Hey‐a Greg! I’m talking to you!” I

yell. He doesn’t respond. What is this fish’s problem.

I swim over to him. “Greg!!”

He turns around. I should have known, he has

always been the spacey fish.

“What is it Harry? What are you yelling

about?” He responds.

I look at him,

steamed as ever.

“Are you kidding me,

man? Are you kid-

ding me right now? I

just spent…ugh…I

mean…why didn’t you talk

to me I…ugh…never mind

man.”

By that time he was al-

ready gone. What was up

with that? Is it me? Did he not

want to talk to me? I floated for a few seconds,

pondering this sudden occur- rence.

I saw fish passing but I wouldn’t talk to them,

thinking too much. I didn’t want to think anymore. I

did it everyday, the same cycle. I was an enlightened

fish. I swam in an circle, just to do it. Why not? What

the hell? Other fish watched me, wondered about me,

and swam off. They were going back to the same

place, the same place, I was. I was them, but now, I

was myself. An individual fish. Oh, did it feel good.

My eyes, separated from each other, looked every

which way. I looked at a trench not too far from here,

an anchored boat nearby, and sensed the largeness of

the ocean. I took it in, seawater and all. I suddenly felt

the urge to swim and keep on swimming until the

small world I knew was different. I did this again and

again ‘til I became dizzy. But I understood, and it felt

good to understand.

Then, I did something I had never done before. I

saw something. I looked up and saw a thing. I saw a

light coming through the water, and there, I saw an-

other world. Just as I had felt the urge to swim as fast

as possible, I suddenly felt the urge to climb up there.

Had anybody seen it? I looked down at all the swim-

ming fish. They would never sleep…they would nev-

er dream. I swam. I swam harder. I swam ‘til it hurt. I

fluttered my fins as fast as possible. Things became

brighter and started to hurt my eyes. I opened my

mouth.

I felt all the things in the water, all the little things,

all the little particles. It felt good. The surface had

now become visible. Great violins played at my arri-

val. I closed my eyes as everything went white and

suddenly I burst out of the water… It was different,

definitely different. That’s all I can say. Everything

went into slow motion as I saw a picture of myself. I

was a blue fish, fins outstretched. There was a vast

ocean under me. I was flying in an aura of golden sky.

My mouth, humorously, was wide open. Was it in

shock? Was it in awe? Perhaps. I looked at my-

self again as I gently, in

slow motion, folded

myself back

into the water.

And with a

light PLOP! I

returned to the

sea.

I swam slowly

for a minute. I

got my bear-

ings. What

had just hap-

pened was a

miracle. A

great concert

had been played in the

heavens for me. I looked down. The light reflected

down in great wavey lines. It reflected off the other

fish, the other blue fish that were still talking amongst

themselves.

Bob said to Jim, “Hello.”

And Jim to Harold, “What’s up?”

And Steve to John, “What’s that?”

John looked up with his left eye and examined me.

“I dunno. Is that Harry? What the heck is Harry doing

up there? I don’t understand.”

Steve and Jim approached me. I smiled at them

and they did not understand. They scolded me for not

being in line. I was missing out of the cycle.

I smiled at them, and continued to smile at them. I

went back down to the sea and began to swim again.

Sometimes, when I am not talking to Bob, David,

Steve, or Jim, I look up.

And the sun glimmers upon my fin.

A REEL WORLD By Alex Van Horn

26

MELINDA GILL

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m Submissions should be sent to either to [email protected] or dropped by room W205. All work completed in Stafford High School's creative writing classes is considered for the magazine. embraces every opportunity to post the work of any student's submission, regardless of format or length.

is in its fourth year of publication. It is published during the summer. The magazine was produced on IBM-compatible computers using Microsoft Publisher and Adobe Photoshop CS4 and was published in Stafford High School using 20 pound paper on a Ricoh 410 printer. The fonts used for titles of each piece are Gill Sans MT and family fonts. The body

font for each story is Times New Roman.

colophon

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

purpose

submissions

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

rights

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SAM O’NEIL