Nation Ford High SchoolVolume 8 | 2015

Artist Name Title of Piece

(Corbel, 9 pt)

A publication of Nation Ford High School1400 A.O. Jones BoulevardFort Mill, South Carolina 29715(803) 835-0000nfhs.fort-mill.sc.us

Marissa HuddyMisty Woods

SCSPA Best in State 2014SCSPA Best in State 2013Cover Photo: Kyle Henderson

Fire. Breath. Smoke. Flash.

Vol. 8 | 2015

Editor’s Note

e tend to hide behind our own smoke screens, not wanting people to see our inner selves. We often fear being judged for who we really are. Unless we show our true selves, we are ordinary, easily overlooked by future generations. However, we need to let others know they’re not alone, and in turn, each of us can impact the world. This magazine reveals the truths inside of us — we are no longer afraid to unveil our thoughts, feelings, and imaginations. When you open this magazine, we hope you realize the importance and beauty in letting the world know what’s hidden behind your smoke screen.

Taylor BigelowGates of Charleston

W

2 3

Hannah BucciarelliVoices Editor, 2015

Table Contents

TABL

E O

F CO

NTEN

TS

“Behind the Smokescreen” Shelby Eaton ............................................................Poem ................6 “Light of my Life” Jessica Meeks ................................................................................... Art ................7“Unlikely Savior” Chase Holland.............................................................................Fiction ..............8“Brown Eye, Brown Dog” Kyle Henderson ........................................................... Photo ................9“Deer Hunting” Abigail Garrett-Dye .......................................................................Poem ............. 11“Fall Leaves” Kyle Henderson .................................................................................... Photo ............. 11“Pollen Carrier” Kyle Henderson.............................................................................. Photo ............. 12“Fury of Bees” Petra Hurley ........................................................................................Poem ............. 12“The Honey Bee Tree” Justin McGuirl ...................................................................Fiction ............. 13“Watch Out” Ginelli Lopez ............................................................................................... Art ............. 14“Calling Mom” Paige McKay ......................................................................................Poem ............. 15“Speak Up” Taylor Jane .................................................................................................Poem ............. 16“Afro Beauty” Jessica Meeks .......................................................................................... Art ............. 17“Hold on to Something Beautiful” Ginelli Lopez ................................................... Art ............. 18“Enough” Shaie Porter ..................................................................................................Poem ............. 19“Tell Tale Heart” Samantha Davis .................................................................................. Art ............. 20“Fire in the Hearth” Megan Lauka ...........................................................................Poem ............. 21“The Giving Hand” Jessica Meeks ................................................................................. Art ............. 22“Acoustic Artist” Hannah Bucciarelli ..................................................................... Review ............. 23“Dreams from the Night” Jessica Meeks .................................................................... Art ............. 24“Enduring Dancer” Petra Hurley ...............................................................................Poem ............. 25“Lunar” Samantha Vanderwalker ............................................................................ Photo ............. 26“Pie” David Ford ..............................................................................................................Poem ............. 27“The Hamburger Picture” Hannah DeSio ................................................................. Art ............. 28“Fire and Brimstone” Britt Helms ................................................................................. Art ............. 28“Speckled” Kyle Henderson ..................................................................................... Photo ............. 28“Bowling Alley” Kyle Henderson ............................................................................ Photo ............. 29“Twinning” Kennedy Brown ........................................................................................... Art ............. 29“You’ve Got That Wrong” Britt Helms ......................................................................... Art ............. 29“Ride at Midnight” Leah Hawkins ..........................................................................Fiction ............. 30“Absence of Feeling” Jason Rodean ............................................................................. Art ............. 31“Seasons” Julie Gerstl ...................................................................................................Poem ............. 33“Dew Drops at Dawn” Julie Gerstl .......................................................................... Photo ............. 33“Behind Closed Eyes” Chase Holland .....................................................................Poem ............. 34“Aviation” Samantha Vanderwalker ........................................................................ Photo ............. 34“God’s Tears” Jonathan Tuer .......................................................................................Poem ............. 35“What if” Brooks Hoyle ................................................................................................Poem ............. 36“Backyard Living” Hannah DeSio .................................................................................. Art ............. 37“We Burn the Bridges” Sydny Long .....................................................................Fiction ............. 38“Rainbow Bridge” Kyle Henderson ......................................................................... Photo ............. 38“Dreaming Of...” Grace Prentice ................................................................................Poem ............. 41“Like a Card” Kyle Henderson ................................................................................. Photo ............. 41“Books” Ashlynn Hinson ..............................................................................................Poem ............. 42“Oreos” Jason Rodean ....................................................................................................... Art ............. 43“A Writer’s Worst Fear” Cece Douglas .................................................................Drama ............. 44“Hidden” Madisyn Perkins ............................................................................................... Art ............. 45“Light to My Path” Brianna Black ................................................................................. Art ............. 46“Innumerability” Shelby Eaton ..................................................................................Poem ............. 47“Boy at the Beach” Taylor Bigelow .......................................................................... Photo ............. 48“The Power of Memories” Justin McGuirl ..................................................Nonfiction ............. 49“Focus in Red” Kyle Henderson ............................................................................... Photo ............. 50“Wrath” Megan Lauka ..................................................................................................Poem ............. 50“Ex-Adventurers” Danielle Lisk ....................................................................................... Art ............. 51“Best Bonfire Ever” Abigail Garrett-Dye ................................................................Poem ............. 51“Niagara Morning” Kyle Henderson ...................................................................... Photo ............. 52“Flares” Jonathan Tuer ........................................................................................Nonfiction ............. 52

Destiny HackneyShades of Grace4 5

7

Jessica Meeks

Light of my Life

mokescreenShelby Eaton

smoke

curls around his fingers

binds his wrists

floats up from his hair

day after day

he wears ash as a second skin

hiding spectres that besiege him;

they writhe within and thrash

against his flesh

striking his insides

like matches; white hot flames

consume him, licking the walls

of his skull. his body is an asylum.

a scream tears at his

throat. no one can see the inferno

rising in his eyes. his hands

tremble. he is surprised

to find them

cold.

S

6

1

9

SaviorChase Holland

He knew what he was looking for. Or rather, sniffing out. The old woman’s scent could be picked up 30 miles away in every direction, even if he wasn’t a wolf. He could catch the aroma of pipe smoke, alcohol, and unpleasant chemical odors – all in one reeking whiff. The air was thick with it. His nose itched, but he discreetly shook off the sensation. It was supposed to be a rescue-and-retreat job. With witches like this, though, anything was possible. The little girl who had been forced to live with the spell-mixing hag was only 11-years-old, and she couldn’t have known her grandmother was an illegal magic dealer. All the girl knew was that when she went over the river and through the woods and came up to the old, rickety shack, she had to stay in the house. Unfortunately, that also meant she was at the mercy of her grandmother’s unpredictable, violent, drug-induced outbursts. He had to get the girl out of there, and he had to do it fast. The wolf crept up on the shack, the night concealing his gray-fur coat. He could hear the low, muffled voice of the old woman behind the dingy, wooden wall. She sounded scornful, as if she was chastising a disobedient child. And then he heard it—the crack of something against flesh and a yelp of pain. His instincts almost forced him to growl, but he smothered the feeling and kept his composure. The woman would pay later. On trial, by sentence. He suddenly felt a small, sharp pain shoot up from his paw—a splinter from an old wagon wheel. Using his canine teeth, he removed the splinter, and lifted the wheel with his mouth. He twirled a few times, and let the wheel go into the brush behind the house. It hit a tree, and ricocheted off of several more, breaking into pieces in the process.

Unlikely

8Kyle HendersonBrown Eye, Brown Dog

10

I sit in the woods at 6 in the morning

So dark I can’t see

No sound

Hours crawl by

I see the sun slowly rise

Sun rays peek through the trees

I can feel light’s warmth on my face

Birds begin to chirp somewhere in the trees

I hear the leaves crunching behind me

Slowly I turn and see a deer—

A doe

I pick up my gun and aim

Before I can pull the trigger

The doe runs

Abigail Garrett-Dye

Kyle HendersonFall Leaves

He heard an unsettling croak from the old woman as she expressed her shock aloud, and he watched as the front door was thrown open, and the hag stumbled out in a drunken stupor. She barked at her granddaughter to stay put or have a lashing again. She plodded over the bridge and disappeared into the dark woods. The perfect opportunity, just as he planned. He sneaked into the house. The young girl, wearing a tattered red hoodie and worn jeans, was shackled to the floor by thick iron chains. Only a dim lantern lit the room. The girl gasped at the sight of the large wolf. He flinched when she began to scuttle backwards and fell against a rotting oak table, scraping open wounds on her arms and back. There was nothing he could do for her pain, only explain. She was shocked at his ability to speak — fluently — but she was still distrusting. As if to prove himself, he shattered her chains with his immense jaws, then lowered his body, so she could climb on his back. Limping toward him, she suddenly stopped, paralyzed, her eyes wide with terror — CRACK! He felt a sharp pain on his spine and howled in agony. The old woman had returned with a metal rod in her hand. Seeming to grow in stature, the wolf pivoted to face the witch, a cold rage in his eyes. The young girl scurried away, driven by fright. He knew every crime this... thing, this waste of life, had committed. She had beaten and traumatized her own granddaughter, claimed countless lives with her illegal spells, and assaulted a figure of authority. He was finished with reason. A feral rage clouded every ounce of rational thought. He felt himself let out a bellowing roar, shaking the

house. The next thing he knew, he had the old woman’s arm in his jaws — SHRRRIP! It came off like a stubborn two-day-old band aid. The disarmed old woman stared in horror at the red stub left dangling from her shoulder, and she let out a bloodcurdling screech. The sound pierced the wolf’s keen ears and drove the young girl farther back into the closet where she had been hiding. He leaped onto the dying witch and clamped his mouth over her torso, locking his teeth in place. His jaws tore through the wrinkled flesh, and he could taste tainted blood as it ran down his tongue. No sooner had he prepared to rip her in half, when the old lady exploded into particles of black dust trickling down in the air like remnants of burnt autumn leaves. The wolf recovered from his wild rampage, regaining his former sentiency. Assessing the situation, he strode to the river, dipped in his muzzle, and washed off the blood. Fantastic, he thought. Retaliation by murder. He had to recall his mother, the only thought that calmed his seething anger. If only his father hadn’t been so fickle. She might have survived... The girl noticed a distinct change in ambiance in the house, so she cracked open the door, looked around, then emerged, shaken. A small, fresh pool of red permeated the wooden floor a few feet from her, but she shook off her nausea and went outside Free at last. She spotted the large wolf, breathing heavily near the riverbank. He had saved her from the hag who had ruined much of her life. How ironic, she thought. The “Big Bad Wolf” had rescued her. The most unlikely savior.

11

Deer Hunting

12 13

Kyle HendersonPollen Carrier

Delicate drones

Zig zag through fields of

Buttercups laden with pollen

Their wings whiskey-strong

Enough to carry them home

Little do we see

The other side

When the hive is in peril

Call to arms

The fury of bees

Unleashed

In the midst of those heart-chilling days in slow February, when joy is

foreign and happiness is a vacation, I reflect on my journeys to the honey

bee tree. When I wasn’t a prisoner to a wheelchair and could venture the

world beyond my dull, colorless window, I would relish the opportunities

the world offered. I’d travel through the local white oak grove, stroll over

the small, quaint bridge amid the fragrance of crisp pine cones to roam

through the infinite, sunny fields of wavy, ankle-tickling grass. On a far, flat

field of golden yellow wheat stood a grand maple tree with leaves of in-

tense, fiery red and roots that dug deep into the ground and surfaced like

a prairie dog. This was place was paradise. It was mine.

I’d often sit under the low-bending branches, which protected me like

a parent protects a child from the scorching, Georgia sun. Stretching out

against the bed of smooth wood, I listened to the hum of honey bees,

soothing as a lullaby. Bees floated like clouds, taking their time waltzing

around the trees.

The bees and I have a treaty of peace, for we are equally native to the

tree. As they sing their song, I rest, while a cool breeze carries the sweet

smell of untamed dandelions and violets, springing up in the long grass.

Completing their mission, the bees pilot themselves to each wildflower,

collecting nectar, and transport their cargo load to the grand hive situated

high in the tree and camouflaged with leaves. Here, I am happy.

My eyes open to see a simple bed, with a plain, white pillow, an old table

with harsh scars from the years, and a bleak, gray rug. With a shaky hand, I

swipe a tear away and vow I will soon return to the tree, again and again.

and forever.

The Honey Bee Tree Justin McGuirl

Fury of BeesPetra Hurley

14 15

Ginelli Lopez

Watch Out

As soft winds sweep away the days,

I look back on life through a haze,

Remember parks and friends,

With a childlike gaze that never ends.

Will memory ever return

To the guiltlessness of young eyes?

Teenage years were kind of rough.

I sure wasn’t very big or tough.

You taught me to defend what’s right

And never back down from a fight.

So I learned the hard way to stand,

And with each tumble, I found your hand.

But there the line of fate was drawn —

One day I blinked, and you were gone.

I found myself confronting the sun,

Not woman, not girl, motherless one.

Eyes blinded by emptiness inside,

I could not believe that you had died.

Finding it to be true,

I could do nothing without you.

Please Mom, today just hear my call.

My life is wrecked, and my knees bleed,

My emotions are undisciplined.

I can’t get up, though I try.

Please don’t be upset if I cry.

Though I can’t fight what I can’t see,

Please Mom, say you’re still proud of me.

Mom allingPaige McKayC

Taylor Jane

once thought It was better to say nothing than risk scrutiny I once thought My voice had no importance so I missed the opportunities To contribute and to share my point of view I realize now my mindset was askew Let me review

It isn’t easy To open my mouth after years of silence It isn’t easy To break that cycle of mental violence Words are meant to be released and ideas meant to be shared When they cloud the mind my thoughts become impaired I’m unprepared

It all comes back The self-hatred and anxiety take my life like a storm It all comes back The emotions I suppressed and the pressures to conform To others’ standards rather than rely on my own But instead of fighting them I hide in my comfort zone I feel alone

I stop and think Maybe I’ve placed too much weight on opinions and scrutiny I stop and think My ideas have no less value than anyone’s around me I observe my biggest mental block when I look in the mirror It’s time to open my lips and to let the world hear One thing is clear

The world would suffer less from acts of violence If good people decided to end their era of silence And Speak Up

Jessica Meeks

Afro Beauty16 17

Like the cut on her face, her heart bleeds.

Her hand wipes away her tears while the darkness feeds.

She’s holding her tears in from the insanity that took place.

What is she going to tell her daughter about the bruise on her face?

She sticks around thinking that it will be all right.

She prays every night that he’ll make her his wife.

In her lost mind she wants to believe it’s not his fault.

As he makes every hit stronger, yet physically, it’s just the start.

She can’t break away only because in her mind he can change.

Ginelli LopezHold on to Something Beautiful

Shaie Porter

What comforting words can she tell him to make her home a safer place?

Lie after lie, there’s no truth in his voice.

He tells her she’s worthless and that he will always be her only choice.

Cut after bruise after every hit

Is only making her life more damaged than what it already is.

She holds her baby girl tight in her arms,

Wondering if she knows about the actions going on. She hears…

“Why does daddy beat mommy,” the painful sound in her ear.

Her little girl watching the bruises slowly disappear

And yet all she knows is how to cry.

Reminiscing on the sweet man he once was in her life,

When will she know that enough is just enough?

Trying to escape from this hell is going to be rough.

She knows in her mind that she can’t put up a fight —

Just one more hit could end her life.

She runs with her daughter, she runs away from the truth,

She runs away from her past, which she now calls “Abuse”.

18 19

Sparks flew in the air, ash

Falling like snow.

A girl sat at the hearth, fire

Pulsing in the rhythm of her

Heartbeat, tendrils of flames

Snatching at the sky,

Desperate to

Hold onto something

Tangible. Shadows clawed

At the little girl, threatening to

Consume her light. Waves of heat

From the fire pushed back the dark,

Denying any foothold.

Megan Lauka

Samantha Davis Tell Tale Heart

2120

22

AcousticLights dim and murmurs rise in

the giant arena. No falsified beats or bass drops introduce the entertainer – he walks on stage in silence, accompanied by only an acoustic guitar. Unlike most of today’s artists with their cliché tracks, Ed Sheeran has climbed his way through the top charts by writing his own songs with meaningful lyrics – and no synthesized bubble gum pop music. Sheeran is beaming as the audience screams and chants on Thursday, Sept. 11, possibly thinking about the last time he played at Time Warner Cable Arena, which was as Taylor Swift’s opening act. That was more than a year ago. Since then, he’s put out a new album, x, which debuted at No. 1 in the United States and the United Kingdom. Sheeran seems mesmerized by the adoring fans as he takes a sip from his water bottle. “My job for the next two hours is to entertain you guys,” Sheeran says, causing the crowd to quiet immediately. And entertain he does. The British singer released his first EP when he was only 14-years-old. He then went on to London, getting gigs and releasing more EPs – all without a record label.

Jessica MeeksThe Giving Hand

It wasn’t until 2011 that Sheeran signed with Atlantic Records after one of his EPs had reached No. 2 on iTunes with no promotion. After signing, Sheeran released his first studio album, entitled +, and began co-writing songs with major artists. Eventually, he tagged along with superstar Taylor Swift on her Red tour. Tonight, Sheeran includes songs from +, creating a nostalgic aura. Music has always been an emotional outlet for artists, but Sheeran takes it to a new level when he sings “Afire Love” from x. He prompts the crowd to stay silent throughout the entire song, saying the song impacts him and his fans are able to relate to it. Sheeran does more than perform – he interacts with his audience. As the end of the night rolls along, he creates a harmony throughout the entire arena by giving sections of the audience different notes to sing. Not once does the crowd feel left out. Going to Ed Sheeran’s concert is a fantastic way to spend a Thursday night. The concert feels more intimate because it is not sold out. He shares his emotions fearlessly, transferring them to the eager crowd. Ed Sheeran proves through his concert that real music still exists in today’s synthesized world.

ArtistHannah Bucciarelli

23

Enduring DancerInspired by Midnight Dancer digital art photomanipulation by Ranka Stevic

Jessica MeeksDreams from the Night

Violet torrents of fabric

Her hand laces through the air

Rumble of the thunder

Night lights in the sky set

The beat

She moves with the elegance of a feline

Drapes sway in rhythm

To her woeful tune

Faded rose petals lie

By the ballroom shoes in the corner

Desolate in her wake

Petra Hurley

24 25

1 2

Artist Name Title of Piece

(Corbel, 9 pt)

Pretending is its own game.

We puzzle through mysteries, frightfully asking why even try.

The Day of the Dead is an oxymoron fighting love.

The Lives of the Lived are no different – we still pay the wages.

We are full of emptiness;

Nothing satisfies our cravings.

Unnatural disasters must be eternal, trials without the future gains.

If no one did the done, the past was imagined.

How can you revolt when all there is to rely on is sin?

Ignorance unites a class with a grade, dust to dust.

Searching for more pride is not what you are fooled by.

Listening to silent demons, you shout their ambition.

Having knowledge of what we walk in requires more than just a mystery —

Faith is reality welcoming the new life ever-ringing the doorbell.

Nothing exists because it can. Even Satan has background beyond Hell.

Games are better than wishing for them. Stop desiring your arrogance in Heaven.

We smile, caught in our own traps while we have merciful thoughts that add up

to more than twenty-two divided by seven. Pie

Samantha Vanderwalker

Lunar

David Ford

26 27

14Britt HelmsFire and Brimstone

Kyle HendersonSpeckled

Britt HelmsYou’ve Got That Wrong

Gallery

Kennedy BrownTwinning

Kyle HendersonBowling Alley

Hannah DeSioThe Hamburger Picture

28 29

I lie on my back with my arms resting on my stom-ach and stare upward, my eyes following one blade on the ceiling fan as it twirls around. When I lose track of the blade, I rub my eyes with clenched fists and turn my body so that I’m facing the alarm clock resting on my nightstand. It’s dim in my room, and the only thing I can focus on are the glowing red numbers that read “11:49 P.M.” — though it feels much later. I’ve been lying on my bed for 50 min-utes now, unable to fall asleep. I groan and stare out my window, hoping to find something willing to entertain me until my eyes feel heavy. All I see is a flickering lamppost going off and on like a bomb trying to diffuse itself. Each time the light flickers, a ghostly yellow surrounds the lamp, al-lowing me to faintly see the old abandoned train tracks lying lonely in the starless night. I try to recall the last time they were used, and I could think back to 10 years ago when trains used to rumble past every single Sunday afternoon, emitting smoke like a furious bull. Ten years ago I had great times at home with my parents, watch-ing cartoons every morning while my mother made me homemade pancakes with fresh strawber-ries plucked from the garden. Back when my dog Chestnut, a chocolate Labrador, was alive, I’d walk with her outside, and we’d mosey on down to the creek at the bottom of the hill, splashing and trying to cool off in the summer heat. I’d come home from school in the winter to a plate of cookies and milk on the counter,S so I could curl up on the couch by the fireplace and eat them with delight. I twist my body so that I’m lying on my back again and sigh. All of that is gone now. I try to

eliminate these thoughts from my mind, so I hum a sweet melody my mother always sang to me when I was a child to make me fall asleep. I close my eyes. Halfway through the song, my bed-frame starts to creak. I can feel the mattress slightly vibrating, and I press my palm against it to try to locate the cause. I rub my hand over the mattress, but I can’t find the source. I peel the covers from my body, then climb out of bed so that I’m standing, wob-bling a little because my legs have been useless for almost an hour. I face the bed, hands on my hips,

and study the surface of the mattress. I see nothing. I stretch out a hand to lift up the mattress, but before I touch it, I look towards the nightstand, and the alarm clock that now reads “11:53 P.M.” is shuttering — it sounds like a human fingers drumming against the wood. I doggishly cock

my head sideways and furrow my eyebrows. I take a couple steps backward and accidentally trip over a cardboard box, gasping and landing with a firm thud on the carpet. I place my hand on the side of my face in frustration and curse under my breath, but then — I hear something. It’s faint, but I can hear it. It’s eerie. Perhaps it’s a banshee concealed in the closet, preparing to strike at me the second I turn around. That’s silly, though — I don’t believe in ghosts. Just in case, I turn my head with caution to look inside the open closet directly behind me. Nothing there. I shrug it off and assume that maybe there’s a problem with the air condition-ing. That doesn’t explain the rattling though. I stand up and brush my backside, noticing the

Ride at Midnight Leah Hawkins

“That’s silly, though —I don’t

believe in ghosts. Just in case,

I turn my head with caution

to look inside the open closet

directly behind me.”

Jason RodeanAbsence of Feeling

30 31

louder by the second. I stroll to the bed, deliberately making my way around the cardboard box, and hop on top of the mattress. I lose my balance on the crumpled, uneven covers. I struggle to stand on my tip-toes and strain my neck skyward, reach up, and place my hands over the air vent. This vent isn’t even on. I lick my lips and as I drop my hands, I’m nearly knocked off my feet by an earthquake-like rattling. A sinister echo rings in my ears, and a luminous light glows through the window and flashes against my face, blinding me for a fraction of a second. I cover my face with my hands as my room continues to shudder. I fall to my knees, cover my ears, and I barely open up my eyes. It seems as if the ball of light outside the window is hurling itself forward and penetrating the darkness. Curiosity courses through my mind. I get up from my knees, steady myself, and trot out of my bedroom and into the living room. When I round the corner, it’s like everything freezes except for a prodigious train outside, hurtling down the tracks with whistled screams. There’s nothing I can do but stand there in awe at the flashing beast. My eyes follow every car that blurs past, the devil-red lines on the sides and on the spokes of the wheels. The chugging of the wheels on the tracks is mesmerizing, and I move to the door and reach for the handle. I open the door and step into the dark, but when I place my right foot on the grass, it’s as if someone cupped their hands over my ears — everything became silent. I blink at the speed of light, and the train was gone. I lean over, look to the left, then look to the right. Nothing there. It’s as if the train has morphed into the night itself.

Brianna BlackLakeside at Midnight

32

1

Seasons

Buds begin to form

Raindrops shower head to toe

Ruby roses rise

Sleeping in till noon

Tourists crowd tranquil beaches

Golden rays of sun

Crisp, cool air swirling

Vibrant trees fill the landscape

Peach leaves pirouette

Flakes spill from the sky

Snow canvases wet soil

Footprints lead the way

Julie Gerstl

Julie Gerstl Dew Drops at Dawn

33

34 35

The smell of self,the seed of you,the taste of reality —bitter nightshade and ambrosia.Here, in this place,all things are known —nothing is secret.All you see, all you touchcomes here to staywith your thoughts to play;here, you are free, yet imprisoned.All the space to run wild:the open country of ocean,seamless seas of sand, anything to exploreawaits behind this door.Ruined cities in collapse,shining metropolis anew,together at once, where worlds collideand galaxies divide,ancient knights of oldmeet warriors of today —

B ehind Closed Eyes

Samantha VanderwalkerAviation

the loss of everythingjoins with gain of all.Your deepest fearswill meet your strongest pride;legends of your victoryclash with rumors of your fall.Be more alone than you can be,find more friends than you could ever believe;here, if you need to see,all you’ve doneto yourself and your kin;here, everything is yours.All you have to dois close your eyes,and think, picture —imagine.

God’s Tears Jonathan Tuer

In the book of old and newLord’s tears swept over the world and cleansed itReceding thenAs you opened new life Letting the sun kiss the soft, green cheeks of new terra

Long since the old was ever new Kept us filled with tears of love Tears shed from heavenSplashLife grows as the waters soaks the land

The skies turning dark and grey In the shadow of a thousand tears Carried in every sorrowful nimbus As they life rain from the heavens

Sprinkled from thee floating palms of puffy white With invisible fingers that pull and heave the seas To the brow of mountains Bathing and rinsing the precious sediments of life Flowing into the streams that fed us the riches of earth

Watching over us, answering our hot sorrowsWith tears of endearment.

Chase Holland

2

Brooks Hoyle

What i f someone was there when you thought you were alone?

What i f the darkness is not what i t seems?

What’s that in the smoke, in the darkness , in the corner of your eye?

Some wi l l say i t ’s nothing, but is that a l ie?

I f you were the only one lef t at world’s end,

can you say you’d stop checking beneath the bed?

Hannah DeSioBackyard Living

What if

36 37

They woke the world. In the febrile daylight, their Ford was a shadow. They wove through light like a needle lacing through a tapestry of violent orange and visceral crimson. The sun loomed, a tarnished coin against a sky of deep, citric red. Below, the city rose – first in low stone walls and graffiti-daubed storefronts, then in majestic peaks and glass-eyed apartment complexes. Their exteriors were frosted with gossamer shrouds of mist that clung to the cement with the delicacy of wedding lace. It would have been a romantic sight had the buildings not been gutted and in the throes of such decadence that not even the crows would rest on the weary ledges and parapets. At ground level, where the fields of concrete grew wide and grey, there was almost nothing left to wake. The Ford navigated the narrow streets, its tires devouring glass and silicon, windshield glinting like a newly minted penny in the dawn. It took to the roads with an inveterate ease; the driver anticipated every dead-end and intersection, maneuvering past with such grace it became less of a rote task and more of an art. The driver held the wheel in one hand. Her hair had been dyed red, then teased and pomaded into spikes that crowned her square, simple

We Burn the

Bridges

Sydny Long

Kyle HendersonRainbow Bridge

face. Nothing was revealed by the sturdy set of her jaw, but contained in her beetle-black eyes was a glimmer of something raw and feverish and wild. She looked to be on the precipice of something, on the verge of speaking, of doing. This something was, for the moment, piloting the Ford through the once – opulent city. Her passenger lay heedlessly across the seat, as if picked up and deposited there as an afterthought. There was a linearity about the sharp angles of her joints and measured slopes of her muscled limbs. She blinked against the light refracted into their vehicle by the steel reinforcements embellishing each building’s foundation. A hand went to her ear. The hearing aid was cool and slightly gummy with sweat. Upon turning it on, the first words she heard were “We’ve got a big one today.” She laughed and adjusted the aid, but her face held a strained expression. “We talking Golden Gate?” “No. Maybe a three. But it’s mostly steel, and we’re low on gasoline again. It’ll be a hell of a job.” She looked to the girl with the flames for her hair and smiled. “That’s okay. We’re still the best.” The Ford skirted past a quarantined post office; the sun had bleached its yellow notices to a sickly

shade of beige, and they curled, brown at the edges. “We’re the only ones who do it, Shay.” “Yeah. But we’re still the best.” And as they drove, the city stirred on its haunches, circled about itself, and succumbed to sleep again. Shay and the girl called Alani arrived mid-morning. The sky had lost only a shade of its violent hue and continued to swathe everything— the bridge included— in a bloody glow. Resting on a greasy napkin between them was a flaky croissant, so buttery and rich that its innards threatened to collapse in on itself. A steel thermos of orange juice had been crammed into the console’s cup holder. Alani’s gaze did not stray from their destination as she reached across the dashboard, took the thermos, and thumbed its rubber nib. She drank deeply. All of this was done with measured agility. Her eyes had yet to dim. “I miss Geometry.” Shay plucked apart the croissant, studying its intricacies and layers. “That’s dumb.” “I was always good at Geometry. Really good. The only kid in the class who got A’s on all the tests.” She parked the Ford under the shadow of an appliance store. An eviscerated washing machine teetered precariously on the ledge of the shattered showcase window, vomiting cords and wires onto the gritty streets below. “I hated Geometry. I didn’t get any of it. But there was this girl that sat next to me, and she was so good. She did this thing where she double-checked all of the questions on the tests and put these little checkmarks next to her answers. So it took her a long time to finish the tests. I cheated off her the whole year and got an A. But this one time, she saw me cheating, and after the test, she saw me in the cafeteria and told me that I was a cheater. I told her to cover her paper better if she didn’t want people to cheat off of her.” Alani snorted derisively, but the corners of her chapped lips were twitching. “Such a rebel.”

They went about collecting their supplies. Alani unbuttoned the case at her feet— “DANGEROUS THINGS” it proclaimed— and began stacking up matchbooks. Their cellophane packages were still shiny and new. Shay stepped out of the Ford. The gory effluvium of life long since decayed swelled over her. It was a horrible odor, but worse than the smell was the images it conjured: scabrous flesh, unwashed clothes and a great number of sweating bodies crammed together. Her breakfast rose violently in her throat, but all she produced was a vile mouthful of saliva, which she spat onto the rubble. She circled the Ford and started grappling with the latch on the trunk. Once she finally pried it open, she leaned in and took a quick inventory of their supplies. Fresh clothes. Bottled water. Blister packs of Tylenol. Lacrosse stick. Pool cue. And three unopened jugs of gasoline. The dull plastic jugs were cool and slightly textured. She took one in either hand and carried them to the base of the bridge, arms swinging. Alani was there, calmly tucking matches between her teeth and behind her ears and into the pockets of her denim jeans. There was no longer a spark in her eyes but an unfettered, hysterical

glow that razed everything it drank in. Her exuberance never failed to amaze Shay. Forty-one bridges and she still got excited. “You ready?” “Let’s do it.” Shay brushed a stray curl behind her ear and then, after a moment’s consideration, she tucked it into her

ponytail. Then she popped the gallon jug’s rubber stopper with her thumbnail and began to walk along the bridge. It was a relatively modern structure of polished steel and cables that arched overhead like the ribs of something huge and alien. The concrete ramifications had become cracked and weary from so many years of carrying its burdens. They would be easy to burn. But the metal had yet to rust and corrugate, and the cables were sturdy in her grasp, which was why they were doused in gasoline.

***

“Nothing’s ever getting across

there,” Shay added – yet there was

a perceptible note of uncertainty

in her voice.

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Daydreaming of….I lie here, memorizing the shape of his collar bone,

the way his pulsating blood makes us feel so alone

I reach for his greedy hands

and my mind wanders to the edge of our universe

daydreaming of…

these summer arms keeping me warm

autumn hands falling down my hips

winter ice lips kissing me - cold and crisp

I recall those cool days,

his flannel on my pale winter skin

snow reflected in my blue eyes, never faded

I hold mental photos in a beautiful haze called love Kyle Henderson

Like A Card

Grace Prentice

Shay strode down the once noble roadway, tipping her liquid wealth and watering the pavement at her feet. Once these precious seeds were planted— Oh! The things that would bloom! Her body shuddered with a little thrill of exhilaration, the sort of jolt she had longed for since registering the fervor in Alani’s eyes as she imagined the Golden Gate roaring and writhing in flames. She poured and poured until the plastic carton gave no more. When Shay went to gather the second jug, Alani was smirking through a mouthful of matches. “What?” “You’re excited. You can’t wait to see this come down.” “It’s gonna be beautiful.” Shay could scarcely contain herself as she lathered the medians and bolts and cords in liquid gold. But as she reached the bridge’s opposite side, dread tweaked her gut and her mouth went cottony with fear. They would be coming soon. Vultures circled overhead, and the odor was sharper, denser, a veritable wave of miasma that rendered her speechless. She ran hard. The half-empty jug bounced dully against her thigh; her sneakers squealed and skittered clumsily across the slippery, soapy roadway. Everything was harsh and gilded and bloody with daytime, and she wished — God, how she wished — that she could slouch in the plastic chair with a Geometry exam spread out across her desk with the answers just on her periphery. She tripped and landed roughly on her knees, mere feet away from Alani. Before the older girl could lend her a hand, Shay scrambled back to her feet and screamed: “DO IT!” Her voice seemed to originate from the very depths of her being, spiraling and reverberating. Alani extracted a match from her crown of flames, raced it along the cellophane, and raised the tiny flicker to eye level. “It’s been a pleasure.” Just as Shay raced past her, the match spiraled down to the bridge’s base. The impact was spectacular.

Wreaths of flames so bright they seemed unearthly sprung from the gasoline and went into the world with a strident crackle. Fire voraciously devoured everything in their path, cart-wheeling up the cables, frolicking along the medians and hop-scotching down the furrows of the pavement. Alani struck a second match and hurled it past the first. When no glorious column of fire rose from its brethren’s ashes, she lit a third and lowered it onto the balustrade. Lashing, laughing tongues of fire began to corkscrew around the rail. The tinder was ripe, and the kindle was rapacious. The two girls retreated back into the safety of the appliance store, watching from beneath its awning as the sky went dull with smoke. Alani spit into her blistered palms to quell their burning, while Shay kicked off her gasoline-covered shoes and shrugged off the sweatshirt from her sweaty skin. She breathed a sigh of relief. “God,” Alani sighed as she admired their handiwork. “It’s gorgeous.” “Nothing’s ever getting across there,” Shay added – yet there was a perceptible note of uncertainty in her voice. “Hey.” Alani snapped her fingers and gestured

pointedly to the inferno, which had now encompassed the entire bridge. “That’ll be gone in an hour. And they can’t swim. Nothing’s getting past there. We’re containing it in California now, do you get that? If we keep

burning, we can save the West. And you can go back to cheating off that stupid girl.” Shay stared fondly at her companion and was comforted by the fire blazing deep in the charcoal pits of her eyes. “What would you do if we weren’t doing this?” She shook the matches from her hair. They pattered against the pavement like soft rain. “I was born to do this. We were born to do this. We burn the bridges. That’s who we are.”

*** By noon, they were back in the Ford. Driving downtown, they woke the world.

“What would you do if we

weren’t doing this?”

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Books show you worlds other than your own:

Treasured both now and in the days of yore,

They’re really someone else’s life on loan

In the form of poems, odes, myths, and more.

They can bring you to any time and place,

From forests green to fortresses quite old,

From houses quaint to the vastness of space

And summer bright to winter, deathly cold.

Tales are told of great knights and noble kings,

Of detectives, scholars, and frightful ghouls;

From life’s delights to unspeakable things –

Or humdrum children in mundane schools.

Yet my favorite tales aren’t on a shelf –

They are the ones I make up by myself.

Ashlynn Hinson

Jason RodeanOreos

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2

Artist Name Title of Piece

(Corbel, 9 pt)

WILLA, 17-year-old girl

JACOB, 4-year-old male

THOMAS, Jacob’s 5-year-old brother

WILLA stares down at the blank paper in front of her. She writes a few words, then stops and stares out the window. We follow her gaze and see JACOB and THOMAS playing in the street.

JACOB: Hey! You’re hogging the ball!

THOMAS: I’m not; it’s mine! It’s mine, so I can play with it for as long as I want.

Camera pans out to WILLA again. WILLA smiles and rolls her eyes. She looks back at her paper. She moves her pencil as if about to write, then stops.

THOMAS: Hey! You scratched me! Say sorry.

JACOB: I didn’t even touch you!

WILLA puts her hands over her ears, trying to block out the yelling.

THOMAS: Did too!

JACOB: Didn’t!

THOMAS: Did too!

WILLA stares intensely at her paper. The boys’ shouts are muffled, but still a distraction. She glances at her watch, and then stares back at the largely blank paper. WILLA writes: My Story by Willa Brown.

WILLA crosses out what she wrote.

JACOB: No, I did not! You’re such a liar! Liar, Liar!

THOMAS and JACOB yell, their voices muffled. WILLA lays her head sideways on her desk. She straightens pencils, moves stationary around. Abruptly, she stands. The camera stays focused on her spinning chair

as WILLA walks out of the room. The boys’ muffled shouts continue.

After several moments...

JACOB: Hey! The yelling stops. There is an eery silence. WILLA arrives back in her seat and picks up her pencil. She begins to write fervently. The camera moves out, and we see the empty street where the boys were.

THOMAS’s ball rolls slowly down the street.

A WRITER’S WORST FEARCece Douglas

Madisyn Perkins

Hidden44 45

1

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Brianna Black

Light to My Path

yellowing grass tickles their cheeks, litters their hair.there’s a chill in the air, but they couldn’t beany warmer. his side is flush against hers; their fingerstwine together like plastic twist ties on bread bags.

two sets of eyes reflect the sky, observing thatbreathtaking unknown, obsidian velvet ceiling peppered with countless flecks of dust.twinkling, shining, some brushed off to fall and streak towards the ground. disorder never appeared so beautiful.

as another star falls, they turn to each other, shakingtheir heads in awe. his mouth opens,breathes in the cold,closes again, staring at her as his chapped pink lips tilt up,a hastily-written, lopsided dash.

he whispers to her, to the night, to every living thing, and his voice is full of wonder.“we are the stars. innumerable, uncountable, unpredictable.ever-moving, changing,born and dying in flares of light.”

she nods.a sun blazes on her face;she is a star.

nnumerability Shelby EatonI

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2

Artist Name

Title of Piece

I believe in the power of memories. Memories provide gateways to important emotions I have experienced, which shapes who I am. There is a painter’s pallet of memories in the human brain— joy, peace, misery, and anger.

In an apple orchard, trees turn and gracefully reach towards life-giving rays of sunshine. Memories have the same effect on the essence of our humanity. Human character and mental endurance build strong roots from memories of difficult trials and erroneous mistakes. Views in life are directly related to experiences, and to beliefs we associate with happy and peaceful memories.

Memories have permanently impacted my life. I recall the time when I was in fifth grade, disappointed I was moving away and leaving my friends. I trudged over to my next door neighbors’ house, where my friend lived. That day, we went through our usual routine, except we knew that it was our last time. We cherished our final day outside on his trampoline. The contraption sat perfectly still on the cold, solid earth. A gentle breeze teased through our hair. He noticed the spectacle in the sky first— a giant rainbow that effortlessly floated with vibrant reds and oranges, and soothing blues and greens. The pair of us sprawled on the elastic fabric. We stared at the rainbow, no words were necessary, we just studied the sky.

Suddenly, a second rainbow appeared. Both zipped across the sky crossing each other, creating a colorful X in the blue heavens. Puffy, white clouds consumed the atmosphere, growing and adding more dimension. Every curve- smashing!

Beyond the rainbows and clouds, hints of the night sky began to shine through. Hiding behind that window into the darkness were vividly lit galaxies, swirls spun like wool into fine thread.

I count on this memory to fill me up. This apple will always be there for me, always reminding me to have hope, even in the lowest of times, to believe life will always improve, and to never stumble into despair. It has molded me into the person that I am today, sustaining me, along with all my other precious memories. Even the memories of mistakes are important, reminding me how I should live my life. I believe that the power of memories secures people into their destiny.

The Power of Memories

Taylor BigelowBoy at the Beach

Justin McGuirl

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It burns inside like lava and

Even when it cools it

Leaves a hard, black shell

Nothing gets through this

Fire boils underneath,

Steam rises creating a haze

Impenetrable to the eyes

WrathMegan Lauka

Kyle HendersonFocus in Red

Looking for wood

Sticks and tree branches

Near the creek

We stand around the fire

Wood pops and crackles

One big branch snaps in half

Smell the smoke

Rising to the sky

Best Bonfire Ever

Danielle LiskEx-Advernturers

Abigail Garrett-Dye

2

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Flares

Kyle Henderson Niagara Morning

I had always known that in war it is customary to use the art of deception. Forces disguised behind masks of dark camouflage hide behind twisting walls of smoke, silently watch you pass but never stir, as you stare into a wall of clandestine intentions. Deception has always been a necessary evil of such affairs, while truth remains the first casualty of war. In every field, it’s hard to see through to the truth, hidden by the face of fire and smoke lures our minds farther from it. But amid various smoke screens, we can sometimes find a beacon, a distant flare to keep us connected with our allies. Flares show bright in the darkness and even brighter in our minds, made darker by treacherous fatigue. They let us seSe that we are not alone in miserable mystery. It’s the same no matter where you are, out there and even here at home.

The Smoke Screen

An avid viewer of television, I can honestly say that I learned everything that I thought I knew about the world through the lenses of film cameras. I think that it was a white-haired gentleman (everyone probably knew him as Mr. Rogers) who once explained that TV had the potential to educate the masses within their own homes. I think there is some truth to that, but now when I think back to everything I’ve seen, I’d say I knew too damn much about the word terrible and too little about lovely. The images had always drawn me so close that at the end when I turned off the TV, I would just stare into the black mirror of the screen, reflecting reality back into my eyes. As a little kid, I wasn’t too familiar with the world outside of the woods where I lived. The only connection to that world came to me in a staticky voice that spoke through a glass face. My TV only had few channels to watch: FOX, PBS, and shows like Nova and National Geographic films, but needless to say, I watched everything I could. The programs always provoked questions as to why people did all of the stupid and foolish things they do. Later in in my life, I would learn that most other children may have grown up with TV screens as their first window into the world outside, the first glance into the mystery of human experience, the first teacher. Out of all of the events I witnessed on a television, one was the most vivid, the footage of desert storm soldiers trotting through the thick clouds of dust, moving like machines in a strange singularity with one another. It seemed so mysterious and exciting, and I wanted to be there. I wanted to go see it for myself, right there in the world, so brightly displayed before my eyes. But this was just a screen; one that displays its own “TV magic” and all that magic has ever been is merely smoke and mirrors. It’s easy to get lost in the smoke but then you can see the reality reflected back at you from the mirror of a dark, silent screen.

Here at Home

Coming into high school, many of us had an expectation of what we thought our lives would be. Sadly, it’s hardly what any of us meet when we finally arrive. It all becomes so confusing and even painful when our view is so distorted. Like in warfare, we use our own deception to keep ourselves hidden, too afraid or too angry to let ours true selves be known. Often, the friends we assumed to have understood, vanish into obscurity as they hurt us, trick us, but most of all, confuse us. Some of us hide from a world like this, too tormented to chance suffering at the hands of our peers, while others find comfort in returning the same cruelty. In a fog like this, everyone seems like scary and monstrous silhouettes who only desire the suffering of others for reasons unclear and unfair. It’s like war, almost, and we are afraid and blinded by the smoke screen.

It’s never easy to show your true face, but there are still flares and still someone who will take the chance to light one for you. The bright and fiery light, shown by the ones who want to be found, discovered, accompanied. We are drawn to this sort of light, and when we find it, we can finally see through the smoke – people you never truly saw before at last become visible. The smoke lifts, and as you stare into another face, you see yourself reflected through eyes as curiously fragile as your own.

Jonathan Tuer

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Britt HelmsPetra HurleyMegan LaukaPaige McKayJustin McGuirl

Sarah Banford Jay DavisCeCe DouglasShelby EatonDavid FordAbigail Garrett-DyeLeah Hawkins

Voices is the literary magazine of Nation Ford High School. Students may submit as many works as they choose. Those pieces are then anonymously judged by the magazine staff. The staff selects art and photography on the basis of quality and suitability for the magazine. The staff reserves the right to edit manuscripts for clarity, grammar, spelling and punctuation. The ideas expressed by the writers and the artists are not necessarily those of Nation Ford High School or the Voices staff.

Policy

Julie GerstlChase HollandBrooks Hoyle Shaie PorterGrace PrenticeJoe TafoyaJonathan Tuer

StaffEditorsEditor-in-ChiefHannah Bucciarelli

AdviserBeth Swann

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Kyle HendersonBubble Fish

PatronsLifetimeSteve BlairPioneering Software, Inc.Rick SoltBeth Swann

Chuck Walker

PatronKim DixonCrystal TaylorRenee KozlowskiMarilyn E. HagoodRichard DunkleNancy Webber

Colophon Voices magazine was produced by the literary magazine staff of Nation Ford High School. Herff Jones in Gettysburg, PA, printed 300 copies of the magazine on 80 LB glossy paper. The fonts used in the magazine are khmer UI, 12 point type; photography and art credits are Corbel, 9 point type; and author names are Calibri, 12 point type. The magazine featured student work in poetry, fiction, non fiction, drama, artwork, and photography. The magazine was distributed to the student body of Nation Ford and members of our community.

Thank you for reading Voices.

Kyle HendersonSymbol

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