INSPIRLIONS

December 2014

INSPIRLIONSVolume One Issue 2

December 2014

All contents © Littleton High School INSPIRLIONS, 2014

StaffEditor in Chief Nyx DealeyLiterary Editor Emma OlsenPhotography Editor Kathy LeContributing Editors Holley Brown Maya Harris Ellen Huggins Isabel Rowland Brynn SvenningsenSponsors John Kron , Alex Thieme

INSPIRLIONS is a publication which provides a forum for the creative writing, artwork, and photography of the students, staff and alumni of Littleton High School, Colorado.

ContentsFeet Page 4by Emma Olsen

Sick Page 6by Nyx Dealey

Wobbly Lines Page 12by Emma Olsen

A Winter Garden Page 14Samhain Page 19by Nyx Dealey

Foreign Colors Page 20by James Koehane

Denver Zoo Lights Page 24Death Mist Page 28by Holley Brown

Emma Is Kind Page 29by Kevin Brooks

Artwork and Photography Kathy Le: cover, 2-3, 16, 18, 24-27

James Gordon: 4-5, 10-11Jennah Smith: 7, 8-9

Emma Olsen: 13Samantha Burke: 14Isabel Rowland: 15

Kristin Kron: 17Brynn Svenningsen: 23

FeetYou can see thingsif you look down at the worldlives printed into the stonethe asphaltthe tile

You can see things if you flip over your shoeand wonderwhere every pebble in every canyon of every piece of factory rubberhas ever beenbecause soles are like soulsthey whisper thingsso quietly you have to look down to hear themso dimly only the peoplewho trap fireflies in their glass jar eyescan make enough light to read their stories

You can see thingsif you look down at the worldif you look at feet not facesand wonder what dust what mud what fire what waterhas flowed over every tiny toewhat fingers this little piggied themwhat shoes they’ve wornwhat paths they’ve walkedwhat demons they’ve run fromwhat floors they’ve danced

who they have walked beside

what fireflies they’ve caught

PAGE 4

Poem by Emma Olsen, grade 10Photograph by James Gordon, Social Studies teacher

PAGE 5

It’s so strangeHow many people say“I’m sick of everything”And don’t mean it, or they say“I’m sick of everything”And they do mean it.I am sick of everything.I’m so sick of human natureAnd of people I don’t know the stories of,Sick of not knowing their storiesWhen I want to learn them all so well that I get sick of them.I’m sick of the same school routine,Sick of students walking in just a few seconds late,Lamenting about how school is such a huge source of stress!Not like that changes anything,How sickening.I’m sick of hearing “love is the answer,”Especially coming from the pretty bullies that would rather see you suffer for your crime ofresisting insecurity.I’m sick of how anything makes me sick. Milk, bananas, the wrong kind of music,And I’m sick of how I can hear horror stories and see gruesome imagesAnd feel just fine;Why is it I can only stomach the things that are bad for me?And I’m sick of the way I forgot how to love myselfAnd all I remember how to do is destroy myself inside and out.I’m sick of making decisions,And decisions that hurt people;I’m sick of saying sorry, especially when I don’t mean it;I’m sick of seeing scars on the skin where I should be seeing stars on the soul.I’m so sick of hearing “your body is made of stardust and your soul is a galaxy”Come from people who don’t stop to fathom what that really means.I’m sick of seeing my beautiful body when I know I was meant for a different one,Sick of saying “no, I’m not a girl” and “no, I have no gender” and “yes, I am trans.”I’m sick of the fact that I was almost late to chemistry because all these thoughts were slowingme down,And the fact that I’m holding back tears now that they’re coming out of my pen;I’m sick of feeling emotional about stupid trivial teenage things because I grew up too fast andI’m supposed to be acting like an adult,I turn 16 tomorrow.I’m sick of the way I pay more attention to my stupid poetry than I do to these school things thatteach me nothing about living,Only about life, and its stagnant unchanging natures.The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.But we are not stagnant unchanging creatures.

SICKby Nyx Dealey, grade 11

PAGE 6

artwork by Jennah Hughes, Art Teacher/Librarian PAGE 7

PAGE 8

What is the powerhouse of the soul?I’m sick of people saying “love” because that’s what they’re supposed to say and not whatthey’re actually living for,And I’m sick of people living for romance because soon they’ll be romanticizing the suicidecaused by heartbreak,And I’m sick of being 15 years and 364 days old writing down these stupid thoughts as if I haveall the answersWhen the truth is that I cry all the time because a boy broke up with me almost a year ago yet hestill holds me when I’m cold and kisses me goodnight and says he’ll never leave.I’m sick of how I’m indecisive and my longest relationship since December only lasted fivemonths.I’m sick of being addicted to caffeine because it gives me butterflies and tricks me into believingI’m not empty after all.And I’m sick of always, always, always being tired because 8, 9, 10 hours of sleep just isn’tenough when you have nothing left to wake up for.

PAGE 9

photo by James Gordon, Social Studies Teacher

PAGE 10

I’m sick of never writing a poem long enough, deep enough, pretty enough to get this feeling outof my chest.I’m sick of saying “you’ll never find it if you’re looking for it” about everything, right before I golooking.I’m sick of people saying “I’m sick of everything” when they’re actually just sick of themselves.I’m sick of myself; I’m sick in the head,And I am sick of the same routine of everything,Sick of “breaking the routine to seek adventure”;Been there, done that!And I’m sick of having no purpose since every purpose I can think of ends in loss andheartbreak.I’m sick of all my short poems because they all say the same thing with the same words;I’m sick of being a broken record saying “I’m empty, I’m sad, and I still love you” over and overand I’m sick of how it changes nothing and nothing changes.We are not stagnant unchanging creatures and maybe I’m so empty because I no longer lookforward to my birthdayAnd you kiss her with the same half-there expression on your face that became permanent inour last months together.I’m sick of being so possessive just because I’ve known you longer than they have andbecause you say I’m still your favorite and you still love me most;Just because you love me doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love them too, at least that’s what yousay, nor does it mean I should be getting so jealous a year later.Even now I’m saying the same things that I always write about and whisper to myself at 3:00ambecause I wake up and repeat what’s familiar to go back to sleep.I’m sick of the fact that I can’t cry when I need to and I only cry when I don’t want to,And I’m sick of the fact that you’ll never find it if you’re looking for it.I’m sick of the thousands of things I could keep writing down but won’t because anyone readingthis is probably sick of it by now.I am sick of everything,And it’s strange,Because if love is the meaning of life, why am I, why is everyone so full of sickness?

n. k. c.

PAGE 11

Wobbly LinesStory and Illustration

by Emma Olsen, grade 10

Red light. The wobbly line of girls came to a halt. Cars filled the emp-ty space in front of them, whooshing by in a flurry of sound and sight and smell. Green light. The line bumped and spilled and giggled and jounced forward onto the crosswalk, skyscrapers standing sentry, watching with a thousand glass eyes to make sure they were safe. Clad in red and green plaid pinafores and puff sleeved shirts, hair drawn back in red bows, knee socks drooping over mary-janes, they were a postcard of idyllic schoolgirl life. Waiting drivers smiled as they gripped their steering wheels in one hand, their lattes in the other. Old-fashioned beauty like that was not seen so often downtown, where everything was sleek glass and concrete, clean, crisp, and oh so brand new. Yet the girls didn’t come from this part of town. The sweat on their brows, even in the crisp, anticipatory wind, told a differ-ent tale. A tale of a long walk down streets littered with bottles, with shad-ow-cloaked phantoms in every alleyway. A street lined with buildings too worn, too old to watch over their occupants, with bars over broken win-dows. That street held secrets, dark secrets, and so did its occupants. Which is why the strained and frazzled mothers and fathers, empty-stomached and tangle-haired, sent their daughters to St. Philomena’s school for girls. The safest place on their street. They had walked. They had walked all the way from St. Philomena’s to see something special, Miss Primsy had said. Yet as the girls looked up with bright eyes, at things taller, cleaner, newer, shinier, than they had ever seen, they somehow already had. The wobbly line bumped and spilled and giggled up to the steps of a different kind of building. They stopped. Craned their necks. Miss Primsy smiled a slow, wide smile, one that matched the energy radiating from the building and its brick, its shutters, its wide white trim. “This, girls, is the Library. It’s a little bigger than our reading corner at school, huh?” PAGE 12

“Uh huh,” came the awed reply, breathed rather than spoken from twenty tiny lips. They went up the steps. They opened the door.

And then they were gone, slowly at first, clumps and clus-ters thinning, dissipating. Each girl dissolved silently into a world she had never imagined, folded comfortably between the pages of something she could fit in her lap. And they forgot. They forgot all that their homes were not. And they remembered all that books were. It was real, right, safe. And to that wobbly line of girls, who were no longer a line, but an abstract shape, loose and connected at the same time, it was home. They walked home as the shadows grew long, backpacks pregnant with books and hearts and minds so full that no broken home could empty them.

PAGE 13

A WINTER GARDEN

Memories of Summer’s Splendorto Warm Our Frozen Hearts

Photograph by Samantha Burke, Grade 10

PAGE 14

Photographs by Isabel Rowland,

Grade 10

PAGE 15

Photograph by Kathy Le, Grade 10

PAGE 16

Photographs by Kristin Kron

Language Arts TeacherLion’s Roar Sponsor

PAGE 17

PAGE 18

SAMHAINI see the orange of the timeless sunset,Catch the gleam of something next to me;Tearing my gaze away from the reddened oak trees,I see the glow of golden eyes,Wild yet soft grey hairFraming an aged and smiling face.“My child,” she says. “I’m so glad to see you.”We embrace and I shed but a single tear,On the festival of the Dead,Because how many others will I be able to see tonight?“I hope you have been keeping up with your duties,”She says, stern as anyone remembers.“I have,” I respond. “I’m getting as good as you.”She chuckles and it sounds just like home.“We’ll see about that,” she laughs,And her voice is like being wrapped in a blanket.We take each other arm in arm,And walk through the trees until the stars(The ones that decided to stay in Heaven tonight)Are twinkling above us.“Nyx,” she says, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to meOr the ancient goddess of the night.“Look at the stars. See the moonlit trees and tell me againThat all is not beautiful,” she says to me.“That you are not beautiful,” she says to the night.

Poem by Nyx Dealey, Grade 11Photograph by Kathy Le, Grade 10

PAGE 19

Age five

“Mrs. Orizaga...I’m sure you’re aware that, at this stage in Eva’s de-velopment, we can’t really help her in any significant way.”“No, I don’t understand. I thought the injection could help her.”“No, I’m sorry. The injection is only for children ages four and un-der.”“But she isn’t as physically developed as the other children in her preschool. Are you sure she is too old for it?”“Well, we could try it, but the effects might not be positive.”“...What do you mean?”“At this stage in most children’s development, the injection would only exacerbate any potential problems.”“Oh...”“However, like you said, she is underdeveloped. It is entirely pos-sible that the injection could have a positive effect on her at this point.”“...”“Mrs. Orizaga?”“Hm? Yes?”“Are you willing to let your daughter have the injection?”“...Yes. I am.”

Foreign Colorsby James Keohane, Grade 12

PAGE 20

Age ten

“Hi, Eva. How’s my favorite patient?”“Good. How are you, Dr. Berwald?”“Good, good. Now, let’s take a look at you, why don’t we?”“Okay.”“...Hmm. Doesn’t look like there’s any significant development...”“Does that mean I’m not gonna be smart?”“No, no, that’s not what it means at all, kiddo!”“Then what’s it mean?”“...Eva, did your mama ever tell you about things called mental ill-nesses?”“Yeah.”“Do you know what they did to those who have them?”“It hurt their minds, right?”“Right. Well, you have one that’s called depression. It causes you to feel sad, tired, and overall just not very good at all. Is that how you feel?”“...Yes. Every day.”“Well, what we do here is we give you medicine that makes you not hurt anymore.”“But it doesn’t work.”“...I know, kiddo. I know.”

PAGE 21

Age fifteen

“Hello, Eva. It’s been a while since you last visited.”“Sorry. School.”“...Right. Let’s do the scans.”“Fine.”“...Hhhh.”“No improvement, right?”“Yeah.”“Whatever. If I said I expected anything else, I’d be lying.”“...Eva, we do have a new psychiatric addition to the test.”“Ugh. Fine.”“What we do is we -”“Ask stupid questions, yeah, I’m familiar.”“...We only just implemented this into the -”“I have friends who have to do the same things as me.”“Oh, you’ve found other sicklies? ...Sorry, I shouldn’t use that word.”“Nah, it’s fine. I don’t care. I did find other people like me. We make music together.”“Ooh, what kind of music?”“Anything that helps us...meditate, I guess. Although it’s usually way loud-er than normal meditation.”“So what do you play?”“Guitar, piano, bass, even the friggin’ banjo on one song.”“Wow.”“Yeah. And, like, no matter what I’m playing, I feel better. I don’t hurt as much. ...Wait, what are you writing?”“Just some very good news. Eva, I want you to spend as much time mak-ing music as you can.”“Why should I follow anything you say? You’ve been failing to help me for ten years at this point.”“Because you’ve found something called an emotional outlet. It allows you to relieve the tension that your depression builds up inside you.”

PAGE 22

“Wait, so you’re saying that I’m getting better without medicine?”“Well, not better, but you’re releasing these built-up feelings in a way that doesn’t involve hurting yourself or anyone else. It’s not the same as medi-cine, but it does have a more immediate effect.”“Huh.”“Do you do anything else?”“...I paint, I draw, sometimes I sculpt if my mom brings home clay from the rec center. And I write every once in a while.”“Why don’t you write about your experience with depression?”“Why the hell would I do that?”“Because it’ll help you collect your thoughts.”“Alright. I guess I’ll try it.”

And here we are.

Sculpture by Brynn Svenningsen, Grade 10

PAGE 23

Photography by Kathy Le, Grade 10

PAGE 24

PAGE 25

PAGE 26

PAGE 27

DEATH MISTby Holley Brown, Grade 9

The night was almost to an end,and the faint glow of sun adorned the eastern horizon,what once cascaded the land in a beautiful scene now left annihilat-ed and barren.Everything was now gone,trees now hung in demise,breaking as the seconds went on.Light slowly grazed the land, ending the darkness.Only one thing was not ravished by the savage death,a simple horse.The horse nickered as it tred among the dead surroundings.In an instant a fog so deadly it could kill thousands grew around the horse;sensing the danger the horse began to gallop, in hopes of fleeing in time,but it was too late.The body fell and began twitching;it twitched in such a way it could scar any human and make them lose faith in everything.As the blood in the horse’s body sizzled inside, the horse was reborn,no longer in control.It let out eerie whinny that traveled vast distances across the dead land.Thrusting off at full speed the horse fled the hills into a small village a few miles away,bringing the death mist along with it.

PAGE 28

Emma is kind Emma is tallShe is statuesqueIf nothing at all

Emma is funEmma is coolShe loves to danceEven at school

Emma is happy Emma is hipShe’ll share a good laughAbout that memorable trip

Emma’s my babyEmma is goodShe was born in BrusselsNot in this here hood

Emma seeks justiceEmma wants peaceShe can be feistyShe’ll give no release

Emma is patientEmma is trueI love her dearlyEven more than fondue

Emma broke her legEmma turned greenWhat a parenting disasterThat fat kid was mean

Emma’s in loveEmma found her manThat lucky guyHis name is Dan

Emma Is Kind by Kevin Brooks, Math Teacher and Boys Tennis Coach

PAGE 29

HOW CAN YOU GET YOUR ART, PHOTOGRAPHY, AND WRITING INTO OUR NEXT

ISSUE?

Send Word or Google documents,and/or jpegs of photographs or artwork to

jkron@lps.k12.co.us

Be sure to include “Inspirlions” in your subject line,and indicate your grade or affiliation with the school

Image: http://pixabay.com/static/uploads/photo/2012/04/13/21/35/quill-33730_640.png