1: a subtle distinction or variation 2: a subtle quality : nicety 3: sensibility to, awareness of, or ability to express deli-cate shadings (as of meaning, feeling, or value)

Etymology: French, from Middle French, shade of col-or, from nuer to make shades of color, from nue cloud, from Latin nubes; perhaps akin to Welsh nudd mistDate: 1781

[http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/nuance]

Nuances 2007-2008

Nuances 2007-2008

Millard South High School

14905 Q Street

Omaha, Nebraska 68137

Millard South Literary Magazine

Volume 32, 2007-2008

Colophon

Nuances was produced using Adobe InDesign CS2 version 4.0.1 on eMac computers. The printing was done at the Phy-sicians Mutual Insurance Company printing facility in Omaha, Nebraska, on a Docu Color 6060 Xerox printer with Horizon Booklet Maker. Adobe Photoshop was used for image editing and graphic design. We used the font Gara-mond 10 pt for art citations and 11 pt for main text and author names. The font Cochin 14 pt was used for pull quotes and 16 pt for titles. The font Zapfino was used for titling purposes in the following sizes: 20 pt, 12 pt, 10 pt, and 5 pt.

Acknowledgements

Art DepartmentEnglish Department

Christine KaldahlSherry Monico

Mike LesleyPhysicians Mutual

Principal Dr. Curtis CaseAsst. Principal Dr. Vicki Kaspar

Asst. Principal Brad MillardAsst. Principal Jenna LichterAsst. Principal Heidi WeaverAsst. Principal Nolen Beyer

Advisors:Charles GouldCathy Wollman

We would particularly like to thank Dr. Vicki Kaspar for her support of our magazine this year and throughout the years.

Editor-in-Chief:Dianne Hradsky

Written Submissions Editor:Alysha Urbanec

Art Submissions Editor:Vicki Freeman

Andrea AndersenShelby BauerAdelle Burk

Megan DurhamSara Frederickson

Readers:Steven Odom

Katherine OrdonezVictoria ReeseChristi Schuck

Jenna Workman

Layout Crew:Adelle Burk

Megan DurhamVicki Freeman

Dianne HradskyAlysha Urbanec

Vicki FreemanDianne HradskyBrittany LeachPage Magnett

Marissa Meyers

Dear Readers,

This being my final year at Millard South and with this Literary Magazine, I’d like to say a few words to you, the readers. First off, I’d like to thank Andy Meyers for his technical help with the website that we launched this year. He has been an asset to our club on many occasions. I’d also like to thank Mr. Gould for knowing just when to urge me to get things done and to also know when to calmly support instead of pressure. He’s kept things going in the right direction. This year, the Literary Magazine would like to present Volume 32, Nuances. We hope that you will find the definition on the front cover the easiest translation of the theme. This year’s theme has been incorporated throughout the magazine in different measures. Flipping through the pages will reveal the timeless color spectrum on the edges of the pages. The front cover and title page demonstrate this gradual change; the lines and circles reveal the colors we carefully selected within the rainbow. The term “nuances” does not just refer to the slight changes in color along the pages. It accurately describes the content within. The poems and prose written by Millard South students hold nuances in feelings, thoughts, and ideas. These pieces show how experiences from person to person are all unique but easy to identify with. We invite you to join us as we discover the subtle changes between the colors that define our lives in Nuances.

Dianne Hradsky Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents

Writing

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Cookie of DestinyEuler’s LegacyWindForgetting How to FlyThe Woods WithinTwilightJust an IllusionA Gift for YouUnsurpassedAaronFinding AnthonyThis StarFaithThe Justifiable PremonitionPencil and PenThe Evolution of a StorySalvador DaliRubricUnbelievableRenaissanceI Am MeLoserSocietyLove is WarA Forever Pinky PromiseAnd When I Shall SleepPotentialityNew KidsI’m So Gangsta It HurtsI Am ManyA Letter to My DaughterSugar RushThis Disquisition Is for YouA Moment Before SunriseImagination to LandscapeWriter’s BlockEmpty PoemAmaranthineKaitlinThe Heart’s DemiseAflameDifferent PerceptionsTriuneI CryIf The World Was Like a Sauna...ShadowTwelve Chimes

Jordan ReynoldsJacob GruberAdelle BurkAriel WhiteCody SemroskaSteven OdomDillon SchumanJess ZiegenbeinJenna WorkmanAdelle BurkEric RobinsonDianne HradskyGarrett FangmeyerChristina BlumSteven OdomJordan ReynoldsKC GallagherJordan ReynoldsJenna WorkmanJenna WorkmanDillon SchumanKrista WeisePage MagnettMary JorgensonAriel WhiteAriel WhiteBrittany LeachJordan ReynoldsJenna WorkmanKimberly DavidsonJenna WorkmanJenna WorkmanJordan ReynoldsJordan ReynoldsDianne HradskyJenna WorkmanJordan ReynoldsKelsie MillerAdelle BurkDianne HradskySteven OdomKameren TevisSteven OdomJenna WorkmanJordan ReynoldsAdelle BurkDianne Hradsky

Title Author

Art

4678101112141517181920222324262730313234353637383941424344454748495051

Chinese BuildingWater LiliesIowaSelf-PortraitAbandoned GardenPortraitThe Grip on LifeBabylonClowning AroundArt NouveauEnseuñoFortLunar DiscontentJellyHidden FlowerQuestionFlower PotThe UptownTo a Soldier’s WifeDuskDon’t Wanna Miss a ThingReachCiao, BellaConfettiDisenchantedAcross the SkiesIndian CavesGingerbread LatteThese Bones Have ShadowsDark MusicLazy DayPulseArt Nouveau II9 CrimesTreeReflectionFlowers of Gold

Shane WeiserChristy BurgerKen HanrahanDianne HradskySammi StahlneckerJosh NovakJosh NovakLogan DeanLogan DeanHolly JernstromLogan DeanAriel WhiteDianne HradskySara WyantMegan DurhamJessie AlbrechtChristy BurgerSammi StahlneckerLyndsy WilletMegan DurhamSara WyantMegan DurhamSammi StahlneckerSammi StahlneckerSammi StahlneckerMegan DurhamMarissa MeyersSammi StahlneckerKelsey LynchMary JorgensonMegan DurhamJosh NovakHolly JernstromDianne HradskyHolly JernstromMegan DurhamMary Jorgenson

Title Artist

Hello, my crunchy darling,Please tell me of my life.

Oh, what manner of riddle Will seal my fate tonight?

Please open up to me,Know you don’t have to hide.

Sink into my embrace,And show me what’s inside.

I read your hidden messageAnd smile to myself.

It’s something vague about prosperity,Of happiness and wealth.

I slip the paper in my pocket To save your helpful tip.Caress your golden surface,And bring you to my lips.

This is the grand finale, Where two will become one.My fate is just beginning,But your destiny is done.

You’re gone in just three bites;I grab another from the tray.Hello my crunchy darling,What have you to say?

Cookie of Destiny Jordan Reynolds

Chinese Building by Shane Weiser. Ink, Colored Pencil.

4

Nuances

How necessary is it, though,To know that many places?

Of course that is the challenge thatA number theorist faces.

And would I be conceitedWere I to speak of i?

Far less understood than eAnd more abstract than pi.

For the root of negative numbersHolds little place on Earth.

It may be that only GodMay calculate its worth.

But despite its cryptic nature.It helps us calculate

The electric charge of circuits,Although this has “sparked” debate.

For how can it be used?How can it be expressed?Can this imaginary unitServe engineering best?

Yet these three numbers can be bound,It is simple to be done.

For e to the power of i times piIs equal to negative one.

Euler’s Legacy Jacob Gruber

The never-ending randomnessThe plethora of digits,

Form our favorite constantThat gives number crunchers fidgets.

Enumerating all of it,An everlasting session.

If only we could calculate A converging expression.

But alas, that is impossible.Perhaps it’s for the best,As accepting limitations

Could be mankind’s greatest test.

So cheers to you, oh number,And may you never die.

That which encompasses a circle,The venerable pi.

e is quite a number,It differs much from most.

Its own log base, the natural log,It could fairly boast.

Despite many years of trying,The best we can ever do

Is approximate this numberAbout point seven above two.

But on goes time, and with it growsThe digits that we know.

Indeed, now known: One-hundred billionThanks to Shigeru Kondo.

5

2007-2008

The waves of wind will yet descend, To whisk away these tired leaves

Which rustle in my opened mindIn sacred, untouched symmetry.

When finally the darkness trembles,Until insanity escapes,

A sense of eerie expeditionEchoes from a farther place.

Bristling with a strange precision,The forest’s womb has wound a thread,

A silken string of dissonance, A wisp of wind in a furnaced room.

Wind Adelle Burk

6

Water Lilies by Christy Burger. Acrylic.

‘Forgetting How to Fly Ariel White

Telling me to forget you, Telling me to forget my love for you

Is like telling a birdTo forget how to fly.

I will continue to love youUntil the day the bird’s

Wings stop beating In the wide blue sky.

Nuances

To bring the start to sorrow, To douse the light of day,

Death comes soon to follow, And ends our passageway.

Fire pulled from ashes, And vision well gone, too.

When blood flows from gashes, What are we to do?

It seems so very sad, Like a story that once was told Of a young and innocent lad

And the cross that he must hold.

Now the end is so near;The start to twilight is now here.

Twilight Steven Odom

In the woods, I crouch and sneak To find the game that I do seek.

The day is desolate and very cold, Yet I push on brave and bold.

I cross mountains, rivers, fields, and streams.I find many new and interesting things.

Forward I push, sure and true,That I will find my game anew.I come upon an empty field.I do not falter; I do not yield.

In my haste, I almost passA buck whose memory is sure to last.

I pull up my gun, set my sights;I am ready to turn out his lights.

But then I stop, I think, I consider.Is this why I have come hither?

I drop my gun from my shoulder.I think now I might be even bolder.

I leave the wintry woods at bay,To find myself another day.

The Woods Within Cody Semroska

Iowa by Ken Hanrahan. Acrylic.

7

2007-2008

Self-Portrait by Dianne Hradsky. Linocut Print.

8

Nuances

Shh, don’t speakDon’t say a word

Can you feel that beating?That’s my heart pounding away at my ribs.

It’s scaredScared of you

It’s scared that it will fall for one of your tricks againA trick that you perfected that has me clinging tight to you

In an act of desperation of wanting to feel wantedNeeding to feel needed

That’s why I threw myself at you twiceHoping you will catch me when I fall

Hoping you will destroy my painBut like it usually is

It’s just an act

Shh, don’t speakDon’t say a word

Can you hear that beating?That’s my veins pulsing from anger

With all the lies you spewedLaying them on the table like cards

With your magic fingersYou take the cards and change them

Change them into something other than realOther than normal

Something that you can’t back out ofSomething you cannot denyMaking me feel not wanted

Making me feel not even neededJust another act in your illusion

An illusion of games that you played with meAn illusion of hope that you put in my head

It’s all an illusion

Shh, don’t speakDon’t say a damn word

Can you hear that beating?No, you can’t, because my heart is done beating for you

Twice you hurt me but once againThis little act is over for you

Now I open the floorFor you to show your magicBut it won’t be seen by me

Because I know the secrets to your tricksYour illusions are nothing but a waste of time

Time I wasted trying to seeSee through what I couldn’t

Now, the curtain has fallen on youAnd everyone can see

It was all just an illusion

To tear myself to shreds for youTo hand you my whole heart.

My fingertips are bleeding throughTo rip myself apart.

My skin can only stretch so farBefore I am undone.

With nothing left but one big scarBefore the prize is won.

My blood will seep into the groundTo feed the death below.

I’m dying from this love I’ve foundThis death is painful, slow.

You have the bleeding mass of me Held in your shaking hand.

Just leave the rest to rest and be And rotting where you stand.

A Gift For You Jess Ziegenbein

Just

An

Illus

ion

Dill

on S

chum

an

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2007-2008

With inches between beating hearts, The fervor in my spirit starts, A mellow chaos in my brain Erupting in my every vein.

When I feel that flawless skin, I can feel my soul within,

Dancing in its light surprise And bursting through my widened eyes.

Lashes brush against my face, While tucked inside his warm embrace.

There’s something vibrant in the air As soft as the strands of his hair.

Gazes deepen even more. Perfection fills my every pore. This intensity is unsurpassed.

Elation builds, my pulse beats fast.

We’re interwoven, smiles aglow, As sparks begin to overflow,

Meeting lips with strong intent, Immersed in that enchanting scent.

Within my chest and in my mind, This bliss cannot be confined.

I feel the ties no force could sever. Our hands are interlocked forever.

Unsurpassed Jenna Workman

Abandoned Garden by Sammi Stahlnecker. Watercolor Pencil, Charcoal.

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Nuances

The shutters of my window rattle indistinctly, and dim light flickers from the lamp beside me. I lie motionless on my bed and try to think, but the air that surrounds me is a brick wall that suffocates all thoughts and desires. The feeling of mental asphyxiation becomes too overwhelming, and I feel an unconscious part of my own body wrenching me upward from my bed, jerking me to my feet. “Given the effort that it takes to care, I don’t see any reason to try,” a voice says abruptly, and I am surprised by its deep familiarity to find that it is my own. I pace quickly around the room, with restless indecision, and thrust open the door to the liquor cabinet, seizing a bottle almost instinctively. My blue eyes gaze into their own refection in the bottom of a shot glass and watch themselves being drowned by the brown liquid I pour from the bottle. The familiar sensation of alcohol on my tongue and the ease with which it slides down my throat puts my mind at rest for a moment and washes away the nightmares playing inside my head. With the shot glass empty and my thoughts now once again becoming saturated with contempt, I turn to the man sitting in front of me. Staring, waiting, probing my mind, he watches me and echoes my movements. His clothing is unkempt and casual; his hair is disheveled yet somehow still charming, with stubble littering his upper lip and chin. The man’s eyes have a dull, blue hue, but with one deliberate flaw, as if in the midst of his cool, collected appearance, he carries a hint of mindless sanity. Those eyes, burning in his skull like

candles in a lantern, cast shadows through my veins, and I feel suddenly and horribly vacant. “I’m sick of this, Aaron. I want this to stop.” My voice is a whispered plea that sounds pathetic, even in my own ears. The man does not answer me at first, but merely stares soullessly back, with an emptiness that drives into my mind deeper than an axe. “You know I can’t do that,” he tells me in a deep voice tinged

with mockery. “I’m the only person you have, and unless you want to give up everything, you can’t leave me.” I hesitate for a fraction of a second, and then spit back derisively, “That’s crap. Have you seen the way all of the women look at me? They’d drop everything and run to me if I snapped my fingers.” “They only want to use you. And seeing the way you treat them, I’m honestly not surprised.” Aaron lets out a ringing laugh, almost too high-pitched to be coming from his masculine frame, which pierces my mind and makes me cringe. “You have no one.” “Shut up.” “Listen to me. You are worthless.” “Shut up. SHUT UP!” I seize the shot glass and thrust it to the floor. Without even stopping to watch it smash on the carpet, I turn to Aaron, my reflection in the mirror, as my fist collides with his face. My blue eyes appear demented, as if I am on the very brink of insanity, as I watch the mirror shatter into a thousand shards of glass around me.

Aaron Adelle Burk

Portrait by Josh Novak. Watercolor.

11

2007-2008

The Grip on Life by Josh Novak. Pencil.

12

Nuances

Finding Anthony Eric Robinson

You’ve all been scared at least a couple of times throughout your life – whether it was when the lights went out or you came face-to-face with Buster Douglas. There is always going to be a point in your life when you are just plain scared. Believe me, I know. I’ve been scared once or twice in my life as well. There was that time when my X-box wouldn’t turn on or the time when Tim Allen’s Home Improvement was put on Nick-At-Night to replace All in the Family. However, there are probably not that many things that scared me as much as the day when I found Anthony B. Foreman. Dylan, Trevor, and I were walking around the neighborhood with nothing to do. It was blazing hot outside, probably around ninety-five degrees, and we had nowhere to go. “Hey, man,” Trevor said, “I know where we can go to cool off for a bit.” “Where’s that, T?” I asked. “It’s kinda far away, but there’s a creek under that bridge about a mile from here. I’m not saying let’s take a dip, but it’s got to be a little bit cooler down there.” Sweat from my forehead was beginning to stream down into my eyes, bringing on a slight stinging sensation, so I was all for anything that would cool me off a bit. “All right, man, let’s do it,” Dylan said. The walk took a lot longer than expected, so by the time we got there we all wanted to take a dive. The water was way too shallow and dirty for that; nevertheless, the air was cooler down by the water. In fact, it was close to freezing. I walked down the creek a little bit, looking to find some sort of entertainment. Just around a curve in the creek, I saw a white car turned over in the middle of the slowly moving water. My first thought was why someone would ditch their car here, so I went to check it out. Dylan and Trevor jumped to the other side of the creek while I remained on the same side to get a closer look. I was just about to look inside of the windows when T said something that startled me almost to death. “Oh my God, dude,” Trevor said, “there’s feet dangling from the window.” “Bull,” I replied. “No, man, he’s not kidding. There’s actually feet hanging out of the window,” Dylan said. I chuckled in disbelief, refusing to give in to their little joke. “That’s not funny, dudes. Come on let’s ditch this place.” “Dude, we’re not lying. There’s freaking feet in the window. Come over to this side, dude. I’m not lying,” T said. So I decided to please them by jumping across, not

because I believed them, but because I just wanted them to say they got me and shut up. As soon as I jumped the creek, my ankle slipped into a massive hole, and I twisted my ankle. “Ah, crap!” I exclaimed. Dylan and T seemed to pay no attention as they kept looking at the passenger window of the car.

After I climbed out of the hole, I walked over to where they were standing and turned around, expecting to see nothing different from the other side of the vehicle, but as I turned, I saw two feet hanging out of the window, moving with the soft flow of the creek. My heart dropped to my feet, and blood rushed to my head. I was about to pass out. “There’s no way that there is an actual person in there,” I said. However, I knew I wasn’t just seeing things, as Trevor and Dylan were both looking at the same thing I was. “Hey, dude, we need to get somebody, man,” Dylan said. We headed out to the main street just off the creek and tried to flag down the first car that passed, but it just drove right on by. Trevor then decided to stand in the middle

of the road for the next one that came our way. It went around us and began to stop, but as soon as we started moving in on it, the person inside decided to drive off. Finally, all of us

decided to blockade the whole street for the black SUV that was coming. The middle-aged man with white hair and thick glasses rolled down his tinted windows and asked what the heck we were doing. First, we asked if he had a cell phone on him. When he told us he did, we told him he should call the police because there was a car down in the creek with a body inside. The man got out of his car and walked down the hill to see if we were just messing with him. As soon as he saw the car, he began to call the police. He said he had to go home and grab something, so he left us in charge of waving down the police when they got in the area. We then saw a Sarpy County Sherriff squad car with its lights flashing and siren on, coming toward us. We tried to wave it down, but it just kept on going right past us and took a right. The next one we saw didn’t have either a siren or the overheads on until it reached us. “Hey, why didn’t that other cop stop?” I asked. “There’s a fire up the road from here,” the veteran cop replied. He then asked where the car was, and we pointed down the creek. He began to go toward the car, and all three of us followed him down about halfway. He got on top of the car and looked over the passenger side. “There’s an occupant in here,” the cop radioed in.

“... all we saw were the feet...”

13

2007-2008

My stomach began to churn, and I was feeling a wave of dizziness sweep over me. T knelt down and put his hands on top of his head, sighing in disbelief. Dylan put his hand over his mouth, whispering oh my God several times. Within the next five minutes, about three more squad cards showed up at the scene along with a yellow fire engine. The firemen checked out the scene and then took out the Jaws of Life and hooked it up to a power line nearby. The roaring of the Jaws was intense, and it shocked me at first. A younger-looking cop then approached us and began asking questions like our height, weight, eye color, phone number, address, etc. When he was finished with his questions about how we came across the vehicle and what we were doing down there in the first place, he told us we could go home. The rest of the day was a blur. We went back to Dylan’s house first to tell his mom, who didn’t believe us at first. We then went to my house and told my dad, who was easier to convince. “Jesus,” is all that he said. We never went to Trevor’s house, as I think he didn’t want to tell his dad.

Dylan’s mom then called the newspaper to have Dylan tell them the story. Dylan and I, however, weren’t all that concerned with making headlines. He told his mom that if she wanted it in the paper, she could tell the journalist herself what happened. We all wanted to forget about it as soon as possible. Eventually, the effect wasn’t that great on us anymore. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about it, but it didn’t startle me anymore. I mean, all we saw were the feet, and I thank God for that. I don’t even want to imagine what the face would have looked like. Reports say he had been in there for up to four days in the cold water. We’ve all had life-changing events in our lives. It just makes me wonder why most of those life-changing events have to be horrifying. There is now a cross on the side of the road next to the creek displaying a picture of Anthony B. Foreman with his name written underneath it. All three of us wanted to sign our names on the cross, but we never got around to it. I think it’s because we don’t ever really want to revisit the site. Anthony changed my life forever, and may he rest in peace for all eternity and then some.

14

Babylon by Logan Dean. Acrylic.

Nuances

MothersBrothers

When the battered and broken give upShots ring clear beneath the darkened sky

We call this death

Never to seeChildren… who have lost everything

Never to knowWhen the young girls are raped for belief

FathersSisters

The elderly pushed past their limitsInfants lose their lives due to cruelty

We call this death

Six points Six lines

All because of this starSix of my parent’s children dead

Six tears I’ve shed

The killing fight The corpses carted off like rubbish

The burning sight Choking smoke rises into the sky

KillersSinners

For I am a damn Nazi soldierBut I am a Jew inside my heart

Forgive my past

I’m stopping this Traitors do not belong with my God

I’m ending thisI’ve heard that the Damned don’t like liars

Don my old coat With the dusty star patched on the sleeve

My pride comes back Even as a shot rings in the night

And a star twinkles for all to see

This Star Dianne Hradsky

Lost in a daze,Swirling around me,

This is my creation.This is my creation.

This is my disease. Keep on fighting,Will this war ever end?No more, no more.

This pain will not fail me. Faith will make me whole.No more, no more.

It’s time now, it’s time.Take a stand.

No more now, take no more.

15

Faith Garrett Fangmeyer

Clowning Around by Logan Dean. Pencil.

2007-2008

The Justifiable Premonition Christina Blum

Chaya pulled her sunglasses off, looking directly at the military official who was working at the airport that day. Pulling her carry-on by one hand and holding the straps of her matching faux-leather tote bag on her shoulder, she said, “You know, if I’m going to be working here, you should at least get your employees with it. I’d prefer not to be marked in the category of terrorists.” The tall, tanned man wearing the standard olive-green uniform looked at her. “There couldn’t be attention drawn to you. It was easier this way.” He walked off to the side of her as the pale off-white walls passed by them, the florescent lights making the long hall seem endless. She looked around her thick, wavy, auburn hair, shifting the shoulder straps of her black dress, her hazel eyes scanning the hall. “Yes, but I had to spend two hours of my life being questioned by someone who had his head so far up his-” “You will be taken straight to the residence you marked as a close friend. Don’t worry about money. The cab driver is an off-duty cop,” he said, cutting her off as he opened the doors from the pale hallway to a loading area where a compact taxi was waiting for her. She put her sunglasses back on, smiling at him and being as gracious as possible. She was being hired by the U.S. for temporary foreign security observance. Basically, that meant she’d been hired to help the government keep tabs on known terrorists. Israel had agreed with Palestine, but that didn’t solve any problems. The groups still didn’t get along. It was like putting a Band-Aid® on a leaking dam. The taxi driver got on Highway 6, cursing at people as he cut them off. Chaya sat in the back, looking at the city of Tel Aviv pass her by. When the car went up hills, she could see the horizon with the ocean on one side, and, on the other, the wall separating the two countries. She let out a sigh, looking down. She had so much responsibility now, and she was only twenty-seven. Sure, she could see the future, but it wasn’t like she was the only one. She’d be working in a department full of them, so why her? After about two and a half hours, she finally got to the coastal-side city of Haifa. Her friend from college recently had a baby and lived there with her husband. Chaya’s only options were living with Esther or on a military base. She opted for the friend.

She rang the doorbell, her sunglasses still on even though it was getting dark. They were her emotional barricade to the world, keeping everything in or out. Her family was in the States with everything else. She was working out agreements to get her cat shipped. Esther answered the door, screaming happily and hugging her. Chaya half-heartedly hugged her back. Esther had her coal-black, ringlet hair pulled back and covered with a scarf. It was a custom of wives to cover their hair. She was wearing casual attire consisting of a long jean skirt, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a spit-up rag on her shoulder.

“How was your flight? Horrible, I bet. I’m glad you called me telling me you’d be late. I can’t believe they needed to confirm who you were. It’s not like you’re a terrorist,” Esther said, her voice high-pitched and running fast.

Chaya smiled a bit, the blithe attitude of her friend distracting her from the world and making her more comfortable-not at home but comfortable. “Yeah, I didn’t understand the security issue either, but I’m not going to let

something so petty upset me.”A few months passed by while she

stayed with Esther. She didn’t talk much, mostly keeping to herself. She only opened up after a month of working in the department.

Her co-workers, David, Bianca, and Vanessa, -all relocated from England- made her open up. They became like her second family. Esther was determined to have Chaya date a guy, which is why she had set up for Nadav, her brother, to take Chaya to Jerusalem for a day trip.

“I know this little shop we could go to,” Nadav said, the sound of cars echoing in the tunnel.

“That sounds nice,” Chaya said.Nadav drove the car out of the tunnel; everything

flooded with sunlight. Chaya looked around as her eyes adjusted. “Turn right up here. There is a little deli at the end of the street. I want to go there. I’m hungry.”

He was Esther’s brother completely, having the same features, only more masculine. “So you’ve been here before?”

“No.” It’d been a few months since she’d been officially hired to work with the Israeli government to help predict future attacks using her gift.

“This vision had come so last-minute.”

16

Nuances

“I can’t get parking here. We’ll have to schlep a few blocks.” He was trying to interject some humor.

“Drop me off then,” she said, not getting the humor.

She could see the same white car from her premonition stopping in front of the deli. The middle-aged woman, dressed in a university sweatshirt that was three sizes too big, was getting out. She jumped out of the car, her purse open, as her hand groped inside for the gun. She wasn’t an irrational person. She normally thought everything over so precisely, yet she’d barely thought this over. This vision had come so last-minute.

She felt sick. Her insides were turning as she pulled the gun out. It was almost touching the woman’s back as Chaya out-stretched her arm.

Chaya didn’t even notice the two college students engrossed with their books, the mom with twin infants just trying to get a sandwich to eat, the teenage couple, or even the old man behind the counter whose wife was dying of cancer. Her heart stopped as she pulled the trigger twice. She dropped the gun almost simultaneously as the woman’s body fell. Everyone around her ducked from instinct.

Within minutes, military officials were there, one of them the man from the airport. Nadav was left in dismay as he tried to argue with people as they pushed Chaya into a car.

“That woman had a bomb! Just look for yourself ! All those people! They would have died! I know it!” Chaya started to sob hysterically, barely able to breathe as the car started off down the street, her conscience hitting her all at once. Even with her gift, she didn’t know if she’d be charged or excused for this crime.

17

Art Nouveau by Holly Jernstrom. Oil.

2007-2008

Pencil on paper.Ink on a board.Time to color later,Though time you can’t afford.

Art is a stream,Though it flows like air;It billows like steam,Even if no one is there.

Take the paint.Take the pen.Just don’t faintWhen you score a ten.

Pencil and Pen Steven Odom

18

Ensueño by Logan Dean. Watercolor, Ink.

Nuances

How does a story evolve? Or, perhaps the proper question is, can a story evolve? Do the character’s lives continue past the final page, or are they only allowed the life experiences between the covers? Do they only exist as you read them and disappear as soon as the book closes? Are they not allowed to live again until another person reads that book? Perhaps they are trapped in the same situations over and over again (like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day), depending on what’s being read at the time. Or perhaps not.

The Evolution of a Story Jordan Reynolds

Maybe a book is more than it seems, and we are only granted an infinitesimal glimpse of its entirety. My preferred analogy for explaining this concept is a pot of boiling water. Just because we only see the lid, solid and unchanging, does not mean that, underneath, the water’s dance has ended. Perhaps a book is like that. Nothing is ever over. No epilogue needed, because the story refuses to cease. Fate is the character’s to forge, just as our fates ultimately belong to us. In that case, the author is powerless to determine the ending no matter how many loose ends are tied. In actuality, the story was never up to them at all. Wouldn’t you like to read a book like that?

Fort by Ariel White. Photograph.

19

2007-2008

Lunar Discontent by Dianne Hradsky. Watercolor Pencil.

Open landscapes, melting clocks,It’s clear to me this painting rocks.

Of this artist, I’ll never tire.Is that a giraffe on fire?

He must have been on LSD.Is that thing a he or she?

In his self-portrait, his face is flaccid.Must be what it’s like to be on acid.

Twisted figures, distorted forms,Violating all the norms,

Surrealism to the max.Is that gorilla wearing slacks?

I can only guess what he was smoking.Perhaps it was supposed to be thought-provoking?

Salvador Dali KC Gallagher

20

Nuances

Open landscapes, melting clocks,It’s clear to me this painting rocks.

Of this artist, I’ll never tire.Is that a giraffe on fire?

He must have been on LSD.Is that thing a he or she?

In his self-portrait, his face is flaccid.Must be what it’s like to be on acid.

Twisted figures, distorted forms,Violating all the norms,

Surrealism to the max.Is that gorilla wearing slacks?

I can only guess what he was smoking.Perhaps it was supposed to be thought-provoking?

This is dedicated to all you poor high school boys, to all you tormented souls who have girlfriends that claim you are never romantic or tender. Never fear. I’ve come to rescue you. I know what it is you need. I’ve personally solved this conundrum. I alone possess the answer you seek. And I am willing to share it with you… but just this once. Pay close attention.

The following is a basic rubric of all you need to write them a poem so pumped full of sap that these pages will bleed with it.

First off: What color are her eyes?

(Note: If you do not know the answer to this question, then just give up now. Neither I nor anyone else can help you. You’re on your own, Buster.)

Blue? Claim they are purest sapphire Green? Spicy emerald Brown? Fiery amber Gray? A polished dime Black? Deepest night Hazel? … Save yourself a headache and just say she has beautiful eyes.

WARNING!! Whatever you do, do NOT claim her eyes contain starlight. It is painfully cliché.

Next: Describe her hair. Here are some good describing words: ~Skeins of silk or some other fine thread ~Waterfalls or something with flowing water ~Tall grasses caught in a breeze

~Some kind of animal fur but only of some kind of adorably cute and fuzzy animal, such as a horse’s mane

Don’t make it all physical. I mean, don’t go too crazy describing every bit of her. Stick to the basics: eyes, hair, lips, skin, even hands. But don’t go much further than that. If your girlfriend is any deeper than a rain puddle, she’ll want more than just a flowery description of her appearance. Say something about her laugh; that it sounds like distant bells or some such thing. Or go on about her smile. Say something drippy and cheesy, like “it radiates light.”

Note: Some physical attributes are NOT to be commented upon. I think you know what I mean. Trust me; don’t even go there. If you do, I shall personally track you down just to slap you.

Moving on…

Claim that she is in your thoughts—but don’t overdo it. You don’t want to come across as a psycho stalker, even if that is indeed what you are. What I mean is, don’t go on about how you dream about her every night, and sometimes during the day, and that you would follow her to the ends of the Earth… or the mall… or pretty much anywhere else she goes. Too much information, my friend. Do something simple, like, “you are my first thought waking, my last before sleep claims me.” For some, even that may be a little too stalkish. Just say you think about her often or some such bursting of cheese.

Your sappy poem doesn’t have to rhyme, but you will earn über-sensitivity points if it does.

To make your life easier, just have the title be her name.

So there you have it, a crash course in cheesy, sap-bleeding poetry to woo your girlfriend and make her stop ragging on you to be cutesy and romantic (for a good week or two, at least). Time to test out what you’ve learned. Are you ready? I wish you all the very best of luck.

Rubric Jordan Reynolds

21

2007-2008

Delicate… Like a floral breeze,

He touched me.

And my smile… It did not appear on my lips.

But I felt it. Exploding.

In my chest.

His lips… They lingered,

Like a lover’s scent.

And my thoughts… Though so clear; so colorful, Were nowhere near coherent

Nor conventional.

And I walked away, Our fingers slowly unraveling.

We stared, longingly, Until he had gone.

And as I moved away, Under the porch lights,

I felt my skin twitch And I knew.

And now, My eyes are filling.

And my pulse… It’s throbbing.

And the pauses, The spaces,

The punctuation in my mind, It’s nonsensical

Because I’m saturated I’m overflowing

With him.

And though I know nothing Of the components of music,

The effects of distance, Or the physiology of bodies,

I know that We’re inseparable, And I know that Our heartbeats

Are harmonized

Forever.

Unbelievable Jenna Workman

Jelly by Sara Wyant. Acrylic, Aerosol.

22

Nuances

Renaissance Jenna Workman

Dreams are stirring, Sparks are igniting, Creating a gentle

Quake inside.

There’s something there That’s undefined. A forgotten need, The deepest urge.

Thoughts are twisting, Walls are shattering,

Throwing rubble Like confetti.

Something there That’s powerful,

The preemptive destruction Before rebirth.

Suns are beaming,

Smiles are forming, Laughter is heard As bliss erupts.

Something there That’s innocent,

As natural as Uneven grass.

Eyes are opening,

Clouds are touching, As smoke begins

To disappear.

Nothing here But misty eyes Finally seeing Blatant truths.

As hearts are beating, Hands are brushing,

Clearing all Uncertainty.

Nothing here

But endless love Blooming from

The sky.

Hidden Flower by Megan Durham. Photograph.

23

2007-2008

I am a golden spear of painted heartsThat pierces the skin of a friendship

That was once bright, as bright asThe rising and setting suns,

Brighter than the reading lampThat I have spent many hours underTrying to depict different solutions

To make a follow the leader type friendship last

I am a silver dollar of talking importanceOf words that are heard by our ears

And are felt by our heartsShining dimly in the glaring light of the sun

That marks the beginning and endOf a day that was spent trying to get a friendship back

I am a hawk of soaring goalsThat flies in the air with a purpose

Of something close to determinationTouching the clouds as though touching my past,

Past lost in the wind with those cloudsAnd like those clouds, the memories

Are light and dispersed amongst the skyAll floating and moving in unison

With my hawk-like wings beside themCasting a shadow on the ground

Putting the friendship in darkness

I am like the pair of glassesThat one wears to see

With eyes that were impacted with a vision not of 20/20.Like those glasses I am, it helps meSee clearly from the fogged view

That life trying to please another of importanceIs not, what makes my heart beat

I don’t need that person to breathe in oxygenOr to pump blood to my beating heart

I don’t need them to see the way I can live my lifeThat’s why I am a pair of glasses

Clearing my view and opening my visionSeeing that friend for what they really are

I am a person, me, and myselfA being of sovereign pathways

That I follow along, making sureTo stay straight in the middle

And not to stray off to the edgeOf the border line to set back to where my life used to be

For Me, my peach skin, my brown hair, my green eyes,They are all what make up who I am

A person of independent values.Now that a friendship is lost,

I am ME.

Question by Jessie Albrecht. Pencil.

I Am Me Dillon Schuman

24

Nuances

Give way to the princess in her perfect shining crown.Push back to the loser wearing the sad tortured frown.

No one seems to care about her, don’t you see?She’s there, but no one wants her to be,

Sitting in the desk at the back of the class,Holding within herself, a soul as fragile as glass,

Living a lie all these years.Stories of friendship now fill her up with tears.

They called themselves her friends, then turned around and stabbed her in the back.She tried to ignore them and tried to get back on the right track,

Tried to concentrate on her school work rather than on what everyone was saying,But she just couldn’t hold it all in. She thought she would go insane.

She sat on the couch after school one day,Wondering what she did to make her life this way.

Why did all these people give her nasty looks and sneers?Why did she have to sit at the lunch table alone for almost a full year?

And why did they all act like her life was a joke,Like the world hated her every morning when she woke?

It just wasn’t fair; she did nothing at all.She just wished that at one point, a friend would call,

But that was the problem, nobody cared.They all hated her, so no one would dare.

She thought to herself, maybe they’d be happy if she disappeared,If she got lost in a current, no need anymore for teasing or tears,No need to go out of their way to make her miserable anymore.

She’s already gone, went straight out the door.

Loser Krista Wiese

25

2007-2008

Our freedom is strangled by the clutches of society. To be free is not to be cattle in line for slaughter,For that is what we have been destined to since natality.We go through school and college, the teachings sappier. We work for years to pay for material needs.Everything in order, everything plain,Joining in the useless bond of marriage, our dreams hackneyed.We reproduce only to be dismayed by our deceiving children.

We wrinkle and age until we begin to look less human and more carcass.The children we loved send us away; our only company is the thought of death.We realize then what we have done, the life we led all useless.We wait for the pain to finally fade away when we take our last breath.

Our lives never to be remembered, our history decayed,

Unless you are one to step off the path that society has laid.

Flower Pot by Christy Burger. Pencil.

26

Society Page Magnett

Nuances

words made to fill the spaces. nervous, brilliant, silent touching. screaming, driving, heavy rain.the neon-illuminated crashing cracksdrawn into the falling sky. his skin dripping, pressed against mine.still beneath the thunder strobe-light.lips to curve into a smile,our feet atop a city skyline.placed before the rough horizon.above an world of pain.dreaming wide alive.Manhattan raging bright nightborn into the fight,to never let us die.spinning like a stormwith a heart to hold it safe inside.for the few things worththe waging war.love is what I’m waiting for…

The Uptown by Sammi Stahlnecker. Photograph.

Love is War Mary Jorgenson

27

2007-2008

“Emily?”“What is it, Nicole?” I ask, looking at my five-year-

old sister.“Will you always be my big sister?” she asks.I wonder what brought this on, but I only smile.

“Always,” I tell her.“You promise?” she asks, her voice becoming small.“Of course,” I tell her, placing

my hand on her small cheek. It seems cooler than normal but not enough to be of concern, though I do wonder.

She holds hers out to me. “Pinky promise?” she asks with a stubborn frown.

“Alright,” I say moving to lock pinkies with her, only for her to pull away. “Nikki?” I can’t help but question softly.

“A forever pinky promise?” she asks, staring at me with those cute, stubborn eyes of hers.

I’ve never heard of a forever pinky promise, but I go

along with it anyway. “Alright, a forever pinky promise,” I tell her, smiling.

She grins at me before digging around in the pockets of her overalls. I’m expecting her to pull out a marker or a pen, but to my surprise, she pulls out our father’s pocket knife.

“Nikki?” I can’t hide the shock or concern in my voice as I watch her pull open the blade and position it across the middle joint of her pinky, “What… what are you doing?!” I snap, concerned and frightened. She pays no heed to my query as she slices open her pinky. I can’t do anything but stare in shock as blood collects at the slice.

Nikki simply smiles at me, seemingly unbothered by the gash in her finger as she hands the knife to me. “Your turn,” she states, as if this was nothing but a simple game. It scares me.

With a trembling hand, I hesitantly pluck the weapon from her grip, preparing to run and hide it away from her, call our parents, call the EMTs if I must. But she is watching me with those eyes, those cute, stubborn eyes with which it is impossible to resist or argue with anything she says. So, I bite

my lip and place the blade to my pinky. I had promised after all. And I slice.

The sting is immediate, and I end up dropping the knife, holding my aching finger against my stomach,

staining my shirt with fresh blood. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, and I cannot stop their descent down my cheeks. I pull my eyes from the gushing wound and look at Nicole. She simply stands there holding her pinky out to me, expecting me to lock mine with hers. Unwillingly, I move my hand to hers and lock bloody pinky with bloody pinky.

She grins at me. “So you’ll be my big sister forever and ever, no matter what happens?!” she asks me excitedly.

“Y… yes, I promise,” I tell her, my voice pained and weak.

Nicole sways our hands side-to-side before finally letting go and taking off.

I hear the front door shut, so I know she’s gone back outside. She doesn’t get a Band-Aid®, yet I need one, so I get up and go into the kitchen pulling two Band-Aid®s out of the medical drawer. I bandage my finger first before going to go find Nicole. I go outside and look around. I don’t spot her, which is odd; she’s never been one to leave the yard. I look around some, behind the bushes and in every thinkable hiding spot. She’s gone!

A Forever Pinky Promise Ariel White

“I’ve never heard of a forever pinky promise,”

28

Nuances

“What? You must be mistaken;”

I don’t want to waste time by going back inside to call someone; every moment wasted is a moment lost in the search for my baby sister; that’s the way I see it. I run down the street, searching neighbor’s yards, asking anyone I bump into and, still, I haven’t found her.

My search brings me to the main road. I spot them then: an ambulance, four police cars, and a Humane Society truck. My heart drops like a rock, and I try to come up with any possible excuse, but in my heart, I fear, maybe even know the worst.

I try to remain calm as I walk over to one of the officers. I notice that all that remains on the street from the accident is a small puddle of blood. I close my eyes, willing away the sick feeling rising in the pit of my stomach. When it finally passes, I open my eyes and look at the officer. “What happened?” I don’t mean it to, but my voice is delivered in a demanding tone. I am scared, and I want to know what happened so I can know it wasn’t my sister.

“There was an accident,” the officer says, stating the obvious, but I say nothing as he continues, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore at the moment.”

“Why? I have to know; I have to know right now. My baby sister is missing, and I have to know if it’s her!” I practically snarl at him. I think I must have startled him, because he’s taken a step back.

“Well, I suppose I could tell you,” he says to me, sighing. “Witnesses say a small girl ran out into the street to save a cat who’d run out only a moment before,” he informs me. “Both were hit by an oncoming truck. The girl didn’t survive. The cat, however, did.”

At the moment I don’t care if the cat has lived; I have to see the girl. Diving into traffic for a cat was no doubt a stunt Nicole might have done. “Let me see her,” I tell him.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” the officer tells me.“I said, let me see her,” my voice was somewhere

between demanding and pleading. I have to see her.“But… I…” he pauses before sighing. “Alright.

Alright. C’mon,” he says, leading me to and into the ambulance. The doctor looks at the officer, who nods. The doctor then pulls the sheet from the child’s face, and the next thing I know is the feeling of my heart freezing over. Nicole’s frail face stares up from under the sheet. Her eyes are still open, but they hold no life. I am going numb; she was my baby sister, my angel. I choke back a sob as I back away, hitting the wall

29

of the ambulance and sliding down.The officer leads me out of the ambulance before

they drive away, and he sets me down on the bumper of his cruiser, whispering reassuring words, trying to bring light back into my dead world.

The officer looks down at me when he realizes I am well enough to speak and to answer questions. “Let me ask you something, if you don’t mind. How long had your sister

been missing before you came down here?”

“I don’t know… five minutes, maybe,” I answer weakly.

“What? You must be mistaken; we received the call reporting the accident twenty-five minutes before you showed up,” he tells me.

“That can’t be. I was with her… what was her time of death?” I ask meekly.

“12:27,” he tells me. But…how could that be? Nicole had visited me at 12:28.

2007-2008

And when I shall sleep, I will revive those who I miss so dear.

I shall call their spirits to me to be with them like times once gone.And when I shall sleep,

I will forget my troubled days. I will be free to be who I am,

Like before the world was as such.And when I shall sleep,

May the flower petals grace me, And the sash of eternity take me.

So I may rest forever.

And When I Shall Sleep Ariel White

To a Solider’s Wife by Lyndsy Willett. Oil, Photograph.

30

Nuances

The universe is a rampant placeWhere poetry flows like lines of flight

And language proceeds unfetteredWhere synapses fire in bursts of psychedelic color

Connecting far-flung and infantile ideas Breaking down barriers and creating totality

Diversity in unity and variety in lifeComplexities clicking into one another like puzzle pieces

Consensus building into trembling acuity One moment walking on water, the next sinking

Consumed by a pool of chilling euphoriaClosing eyes along the way, leaving the dead to sleep

Potentiality Brittany Leach

Dusk by Megan Durham. Photograph.

31

2007-2008

Someone explain the concept of the “new kid,” please. I’d really like to know. Because I’m pretty sure that these elusive and mysterious “new kids” have been tossed about by the public school system as we have and for the same amount of time. Their personal tossing just happened somewhere else. So why, then, are they “new”? It’s not as though these students are shiny and fresh off the “new kid” assembly line. They were not placed in non-biodegradable containers along countless shelves in Students’ R’ Us to be selected by the school. Nor, I’m sure, were they fished out of a sea of packing peanuts inside a cardboard box by a UPS man with ridiculous shorts before magically appearing beside you in class. So why, then, are they “new”? Maybe these “new kids” should be questioned to see what exactly sets them apart, or tested in order to prove their new-ness before they’re granted use of the title. Perhaps no one is worthy of the name, and we are all just old and worn kids who have lost our luster. Perhaps our new-ness faded in mediocrity before we even knew it existed, but can be restored - if only for a little while - whenever we are surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar school. I wish someone would explain.

New Kids Jordan Reynolds

Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing by Sara Wyant. Watercolor, Aerosol.

32

Nuances

Hello, my pimps! And my homies as well! How is your posse? Mine, it is swell! It is a lovely morning, And my do-rag fits fine! My pants are quite large, And my grill is divine! My rhyming is splendid! My rapping is nice! Look at my records! They’re cooler than ice! You’ll hear me at the club Where all the gangstas dance! My hotness is renowned From Atlanta to France! Check out my wristwatch! Check out my shoes! Homies, watch out! The women can’t refuse! I’ll steal all your ladies And wed them each twice! Your mediocre hairdo Will never suffice! My rhyming is splendid! My rapping is fine! Pimps, can you see How these blings shine? I’m so extravagant In all that I do! I have a used car! And a press-on tattoo!

My rhyming is splendid! My rapping is great! So, pretty lady, Would you like to date? I know I’m hardcore, And my pants are quite big, But I’m a grand conversationalist! And I dance a good jig!

Lady, I ask, Would you like to kiss? I assure you that It’ll be pure bliss! For I am so ghetto, You will feel so bad! Then, if you want, We can go meet your dad!

My rhyming is splendid! My rapping’s the bomb! So why won’t you let me Take you to Prom? We’ll go to Burger King And eat lots of fries! Only pimps like this Can handle “king-sized!”

You keep saying no, I guess I’m shot down. But I’m still the grandest Gangsta in town! You know you’re just jealous Of my mad rapping skills! I’m so insanely good, It’s giving you chills! My rhyming is splendid! My rapping’s the best! I’m the most urban thug In the Midwest! I wear lots of hoodies And have a gold tooth! So please stop the hating, We all know the truth.

Word.

I’m So Gangsta It Hurts Jenna Workman

33

2007-2008

I am a great dragon locked up in my own mind, A tree on a hill losing my leaves,

A puddle just inches away from the lake. I am a red apple flourishing on a tree surrounded with flowering green apples,

A dream lost in the folds of time and of space,An undiscovered planet flowing with the gardens of Eden.

I am a trout swimming downstream rather then upstream, A lonely snowman in an empty yard melting away in the spring sun,

A star lost in the infinity of time.I am the moon trapped in an endless cycle by the Earth’s gravity,

A scarecrow in a field of dead corn whose friends are the crows that roost in my hat,A girl with the spark of a dragon hidden in the deep black pools of my eyes.

I Am Many Kimberly Davidson

Reach by Megan Durham. Photograph.

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Nuances

Dearest Daughter,

It has come to my attention that you are blossoming into a young woman who has expressed interest in mingling with members of the opposite sex. I am not opposed to this idea, but I must inform you that there are ten restrictions as to what kind of activities you and this theoretical member of the opposite sex may partake in. I think you will find that they are quite reasonable and will serve as the best tool in guiding your high school dating experiences.

1. Do NOT eat dinner with him, especially if there is dessert. If he offers you chocolate, DO NOT TAKE IT! Chocolate acts as an aphrodisiac since it is made up of such chemicals as phenethylamine, which can act as a mild SEXUAL stimulus! You may think it is an adorable gift if it is disguised in a heart-shaped box, but do NOT fall for this trickery! Wrapping up an immoral substance in sparkly paper does not make it any less devastating to your purity! 2. Do NOT go anywhere in a car with him. Guys only use cars for one thing, and that is to get innocent young girls to throw away all of their morals in the back seat… Or the passenger seat… Or the driver’s seat. Heaven forbid if he tries to get you on the floor mats!

3. Do NOT go on walks together. Do you know where walks end up? At parks! Do you know what takes place at parks? SEX AND DRUGS, sex and drugs! You may think you are going to look at the beautiful autumn trees, but you WON’T BE when you are under the picnic table doing… oh you KNOW what you’ll be doing!

4. Do NOT go shopping with him. You may think that it is an innocent trip to the mall, but it WON’T be when he “accidentally” walks into Victoria’s Secret and wants you to try on that little Santa number! I don’t know what holiday shows HE has been watching, but Santa definitely does NOT wear lacy undergarments! That is just not NATURAL! THINK OF THE CHILDREN!

5. Do NOT meet his parents! Do you know what may happen if his parents build a friendship with you? They will trust you! And what happens when they trust you, leaving you guys all by yourself in the basement? IMMORALITY, that’s what!

6. Do NOT go anywhere with music. This “rap music” that the young folk listen to these days… OH, WHERE HAVE THE MORALS GONE? All this bumping and grinding… that is NOT dancing! Do you know what my mother called it? Oh, I’d say it... but I dare not taint your mind. All you have to know is that I will NOT have that going on while you are wearing a one-hundred-dollar dress at Prom, Missy!

7. Do NOT go swimming together! Men should not have to preview the goods before they’re bought! No one will be seeing your midriff ! That is solely for your husband and only on special occasions!

8. Do NOT go to the movies! Pressing close to each other in dark corners is HARDLY what I consider a proper date! The only thing you’ll end up watching is your MORALS, FALLING FROM YOUR SOUL AND SHATTERING ON

THE STICKY FLOOR! Oh… and the concessions are WAY overpriced!

9. Do NOT go to the library! You may think you are going to study, but he WILL have other things in mind! You know those librarians… they are old and oblivious! He will take advantage of their poor hearing the moment he gets you behind the bookshelf, mark my words!

10. And last, and CERTAINLY not least, DO NOT, under any circumstances, go… BOWLING. There is so much moral discontempt in those places you may burst into flames the minute you walk through the doors! Do you know who influences young people at bowling alleys? SMOKING, DRUNK TRUCKERS who don’t have careers or morals! And don’t ever let your date stand

behind you in order to teach you how to throw a bowling ball. They don’t want to teach you, they just want an excuse to push themselves against your hindquarters! YOUR BUTTOCKS ARE FOR SITTING, not for flaunting! I raised you better than that! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!?

Other than those ten restrictions, I am open to anything you would like to suggest. I expect that you will find these guidelines easy to follow. Remember that it is your duty as a woman to uphold morality and perfection in every circumstance and that men should never be trusted, for they are only humans by scientific classification, but personality-wise they are dogs.

I love you, Honey!Mommy

A Letter to My Daughter Jenna Workman

Ciao, Bella by Sammi Stahlnecker. Acrylic.

35

2007-2008

Your smile fills my barren mind,Soaking my free, sugared heart.From a kiss from you, I findOur tastes will never be apart.

These fluffy cotton candy skiesCover me when life’s all right.Letting all the laughter rise,Filling me with sweet delight.You’re the icing-coated spoonThat gives my mouth its lasting high.So blow up all of your balloonsAnd float them in our endless sky.

These fluffy cotton candy skiesMake me who I am today.Your love is the sweetest surprise,And now I know I’ll never stray.Blow up all of your balloons,Because even if they pop,I’ll feel the kiss, the sugar rush,And my love will never stop.

Confetti by Sammi Stahlnecker. Photograph.

Sugar Rush Jenna Workman

My mind is full of birthday cakes,Eager frosting-flavored lips,Sunshines over chocolate lakes,And soft-as-whipped-cream fingertips.

As laughter saturates the air,I’m absorbing all my mind can eat.One brush against his velvet hair,And my world’s the sweetst treat.

These fluffy cotton candy skiesCover me when life’s all right.Floating through my empty eyes,And making everything turn bright.With saccharine sweet afternoons,I’ll eternally be sugar high.So blow up all of your balloonsAnd float them in our endless sky.

My mind is full of ice cream cones,A perfect caramel-coated kiss,Merry music with trombonesLeading me to endless bliss.

36

Nuances

This Disquisition Is for You Jordan Reynolds

You are perfect. This is not an ego stroke, empty compliment, or attempt to raise your self-esteem. This is a simple, unadulterated fact. In all the history of the world, there has never been anything quite like you. And once you’re gone, there will never be anything like you again. How truly amazing and precious you are. You have beautiful eyes. No other eyes have ever, nor will ever, see what yours have. They are just one more amazing detail in the flawless sculpture that is your face. Your eyes, your nose, your lips… all carefully designed and combined to pull together the masterpiece that is you. You, my friend, are a living, breathing, priceless work of art – carefully molded by the only artist that matters. Just think of it… you are the single greatest invention of all time. Designed for a sole purpose that may not yet be known, even to you. But it is there. You are the only one who can fulfill it. Such a mighty task could only be entrusted to you. You don’t even know how many lives you have touched, and those you are yet to reach. Your influence is at this moment altering the course of history. Where would this world be without you?

Disenchanted by Sammi Stahlnecker. Colored Pencil.

37

2007-2008

In a moment before sunrise,Just one moment in a lifeIs when the world is formed anew,And possibility is rife.

Don’t take this time for grantedAnd skip to your daily grind.Step outside yourself for onceAnd watch the masterpiece unwind.

Watch as, like a kiss from Heaven,Dawn breathes across the sky.Let the breeze caress your skinAs you feel the Earth revive.

Then you will see it clearly.All will suddenly make sense.For all things are drawn togetherIn this fleeting present tense.

And in this simple momentThat we often let pass by,Say to yourself, “Not this day!”Hold your arms out wide and cry

To the heavens!To the sunrise!To the never-ending sky!

Let your ecstasy surround you.Feel the joy flow through your veins.Tear down all inner barriers.Let emotion run untamed.

And in the moment before sunriseDon’t hold back or close your eyes.Let the moment take you over.What a day to be alive.

Across the Skies by Megan Durham. Photograph.

A Moment Before Sunrise Jordan Reynolds

38

Nuances

In a moment before sunrise,Just one moment in a lifeIs when the world is formed anew,And possibility is rife.

Don’t take this time for grantedAnd skip to your daily grind.Step outside yourself for onceAnd watch the masterpiece unwind.

Watch as, like a kiss from Heaven,Dawn breathes across the sky.Let the breeze caress your skinAs you feel the Earth revive.

Then you will see it clearly.All will suddenly make sense.For all things are drawn togetherIn this fleeting present tense.

And in this simple momentThat we often let pass by,Say to yourself, “Not this day!”Hold your arms out wide and cry

To the heavens!To the sunrise!To the never-ending sky!

Let your ecstasy surround you.Feel the joy flow through your veins.Tear down all inner barriers.Let emotion run untamed.

And in the moment before sunriseDon’t hold back or close your eyes.Let the moment take you over.What a day to be alive.

Imagination to Landscape Dianne Hradsky

Hark! There, where the desolation stretches beyond the mind’s eye well, to those who cannot see the magnificence beyond: words and pictures blossoming within the ink, valleys adorned with the fallen grandeur of the oak, oceans rippling with sailors’ secrets and old wives’ tales, mountains stealing the very breath from your being.Hark! There, where the desolation Stretches. Those parched souls cannot taste the elixir of life faded shades, choking sand leaving mouth dry, mind blank Those parched souls cannot dream of the elixir of life.

Hark! There, where the desolation stretches beyond is where your wildest imagination comes to fruitionThis, I give you, my child of natureThis, I plead of you to keep dear within your heart it needs tending and pruning before it summons a rose of such beauty and pain its death awaits within that bleak society.Hold it precious-- Hold it precious and run far from such overbearing concrete.

Indian Caves by Marissa Meyers. Photograph.

39

2007-2008

Writer’s Block Jenna Workman

I’ve got writer’s block; My mind has no doubt.

I can’t write a poem; It’s not coming out.

I’ve listened to the wind And watched the leaves fall,

But there’s no inspiration. Nothing at all.

How can I think When I’m inside this mess?

How do I live If I can’t express?

What do I do? What do I say?

If my poetic ability Vanishes away?

Oh no… my talent? That cannot go!

It’s all that I have… All that I know!

This can’t be happening, Not to ME!

I’m TOO AWESOME for this! (And don’t you DARE disagree!)

What happens next? What will I do? I think my whole world Is splitting in two! What is my meaning? My life… THERE’S NO POINT! If I cannot talk In rhyme like this!

(Wait a second… “There’s no point… Rhyme like this…”?)

…OH NO, it’s begun! I forgot to rhyme! That last stanza is evidence Of my poetic decline! MY SOUL… IT’S DYING! I feel my brain popping! My IQ is the equivalent To that of whipped topping!

…STOP READING THIS! For the love of God! Do you find this FUNNY? Think that I’m ODD? I CANNOT ENTERTAIN YOU AT A TIME LIKE THIS! Go laugh somewhere else While I drown in an abyss.

(Hey… that last line was pretty good…)

40

Nuances

Gingerbread Latte by Sammi Stahlnecker. Photograph.

Empty Poem Jordan Reynolds

This poem is not for a coffee shop reader,So smug and pseudo-wise,To dissect with a fine-toothed comb, Its prongs rending letter from letter, Until the true meaning is revealed.

This poem is not about love, That figment of our own desire, For which no trap may be set. It’s evidence so ubiquitous,And yet so hard to find,Until finally, with just enough failure At securing so elusive a prize,We dress up a similar feeling With silver fastens and laceTo present to the world as “love,”So that we too may claim to have loved and lost.

This poem does not assuage heartache,For that we invent ourselvesWhen foolishness leaves us bitterly wise,And we choose to blame another.Rather than hug our own knees and hang our own heads As the moaning wind tugs at our hair, And the raindrops of past regret Trace weaving paths down our spines.

No, this poem is not about that.

Nor of how lips, confused or alone,But made bold by the passing time, May meet, if only for the briefest of moments, Like two dancers at a masqueradeCome together, palm to palm,Then fly apart like paper dolls Back into the gold and gray massesOf hidden faces and desperate wish.

41

2007-2008

Amaranthine Kelsie Miller

I gazed into her eyes, once deep green, happy, and full of life, now tired, almost pale blue. She smiled at me, the wrinkles on her beautiful face forming dimples and laugh lines. Her fragile hand rose to my face, the warmth barely noticeable. I reached up and held her hand there, caressing it softly with my thumb. She scanned my face and eyes. Her sweet smile broadened, and she took a deep, shaky breath.

“Forever my beautiful angel.” It came out barely a whisper, but I heard every quiver in her voice. I felt the air in my lungs rush out in a gust. Something ached in my chest. She closed her eyes and sighed happily. I waited for them to open again, so I could gaze into them one more time, but they didn’t. She was still, too much so. I laid my head on her chest and closed my eyes. Her heart beat slowed and quieted until it was barely audible.

“I love you.” The words came out of her blue lips, then everything went quiet. I could no longer hear her heart or the blood pulsing through her veins. I clamped my eyes closed and gripped her cold hand. I gasped but couldn’t breathe; the ache in my chest grew, threatening to swallow me.

“I-I love you, too.” I could barely speak, breathless. I opened my eyes and lifted my head. I raised my shaking hand to her cold face. For the first time, she was colder than I, even paler. I held her hand to my face again and shuddered. I felt my body collapse on the inside, leaving only a hole where my heart was. I stared at her pale, motionless face until my vision blurred, not from tears, for I could not cry.

I sank into my memories. I had been in a constant state of confusion for so long. I had had a shock when I saw her beautiful smile. Her long brown hair fell loose around her shoulders, her green eyes shone with happiness. Her smile nearly knocked me to the ground, and her laugh stunned me, like bells chiming gleefully. I was instantly entranced by her, with no hope of escaping, though I had no wish to do so. I was 17, and she was 16. She fell in love with me, too, almost as instantly. It was a fairytale sort of experience that we normally would have only dreamt of. We got married and lived happily together, until one day, something horrid, something I thought impossible, happened. We were walking in the park on a starry night, peacefully enjoying the cool air, when we were attacked.

Neither of us knew what happened, but I shielded her from the monster. I cringed away from the

memory, not wanting to recall that night. She accepted me, though I, as well, had become a monster: forever to walk the earth at night, taking life so I could live myself. And now here I was holding the hand of the woman I love, unable to stop her from fading into nothing.

What was power? What was life, if this was the cost, losing all you love in the world until you were alone, praying for an end that would never come?

The Bones Have Shadows by Kelsey Lynch. Ink.

42

Nuances

Kaitlin Adelle Burk

This desperate choice.Demons playing in your eye.I will never let them take you again.

His lips spoke gently of tragic lines, Of an empty sob in the dead of night.The universe dissolved into a thousand shards.

Breaking down, an effusion of guilt,We heard the echoed warnings of the past,As our consciences bled dry.

You have been torn away.Isolation descends with icy precision,And I am sleepwalking through a sea of blades.

So nearly lostWithin the glittering droplets of sorrow Surrounding, suffocating the world.

In time, you will return,Though life has stolen hope from your beautiful heart,I will never let it take you again.

Dark Music by Mary Jorgenson. Photograph.

43

2007-2008

Carefully, I lay the dead weight down on the polished floor, avoiding the typical thud that could awaken the family. I stand up, my back popping gently back into place after the strain of moving such a heavy object. Looking down at the pallid face and the glassy eyes, I sigh quietly. That single sigh carries the weight of my burdens and troubles, just like I have carried the body from its slumped position by the wall to the middle of the floor. This way, light from the door will directly expose the corpse to its finder. Wiping my mouth on the back of my sleeve, I barely register that it’s ungentlemanly. At night, my mind strays from culture and material things. The only thing I care for is my survival in the human world and the love I have for my friend. She is my world, and if I have to kill to keep her safe, I will. Habitually, I run my hand through my dark hair, be-latedly remembering the sticky remains coating my fingers. I grimace in disgust and use the corner of the man’s white nightgown to clean my hands. Padding silently over to the open window, I take one last glance around the bed-room. H e a v y russet drapes rustle in the winter wind, swaying just be-low my periph-eral vision. The lord’s quarters are finely deco-rated; his appar-ent wealth spent on a variety of objects ranging from Asian vases to aging Renaissance paint-ings. Swathed in deep rich colors, this room makes my human side envious. Apparently, this man is... or more accurately, was greedy, and for that, I find little remorse for his murder. At least, that is what I will keep telling myself, so I can deal with

the guilt. The only evidence of my visit is a littering of iridescent feathers spread throughout the room. There’s not enough time to pick up after myself, I observe after hearing the steady tick-tock of an open pocket watch on the table by the four-poster bed. I need more sustenance tonight if I’m going to be able to last through the rest of the week. The blessed thing about my curse is that I only have to take two or three victims a week. Still, every night I have to return partially to my bird form. As long as Gloriana is

tucked safely in bed, she will never see the plumage I grow at night. I may be weak during the darker hours, but at least I am strong enough to protect her during the day, when she needs me most. I hear the chime of a grandfather

clock resonate throughout the household, signaling midnight. My beady eyes drift to the puddle of blood pooling beneath the aging lord, before I step onto the windowsill. Spreading my arms, I feel the prickle that surges over my skin just previous

to the sprouting of feathers and the lengthening of bones. Wings developed, I take off into the cold of the night. Be-neath the moon-light, I look be-hind me to make out a scattering of feathers float through the open window to the man I have just killed. S i l k e n coattails flutter behind me in the draft I create with my flapping wings. I spot my feathery friends swaying in the branches of an

oak in the park not far off and smile. They’ve waited, like usu-al. The ravens are so dedicated to me, even though they typi-cally shun me after a direct feeding. Sadly, they don’t support my cause to perform mutilations to retain a human form.

The Heart’s Demise Dianne Hradsky

“She is my world, and if I have to kill to keep her

safe, I will.”

Lazy Day by Megan Durham. Photograph.

44

Nuances

I’m one of the leaders of their flock, and they don’t understand how I can love a human girl so much, how I can choose her over them. Yet I would, in a heartbeat, which is what I do every week. Even with that fact, they still come to accompany me on my flights. Soaring above the rustling treetops, I feel lighter than air with my hollow bones. I’m graceful and elegant even if I am a grotesque creature in my morphed form. Half-bird, half-man. I can appear as a mortal during the day, yet there’s still the slight down on the back of my neck, hidden by my dark curls. My eyes always appear dark and slightly devious, even if my intentions are good-hearted. I look like a bird. I walk like a bird. I sometimes will talk like a bird. It’s my true being, and I’m going against nature doing what I do every week just for a little girl. But I love her, and I can’t forsake her. In my weightless travel, I scan windows and doors for a crack or a light. Anyone will do. Over the year I’ve been doing this, I’ve discovered it’s best not to have a preference to age or gender. Once you’ve determined what you like, it’s hard to go back to being cold about it. The lust for blood consumed me once, and I killed in frenzy. I spent several weeks stuck in my raven form, hopelessly watching my little girl through the window. Every tear she shed for my loss, I felt tenfold. I swore I would never again abandon her, and I overcame my addiction. Now, the only thing I worry about is the deaths of the people I kill. If only there was another way I could protect her without causing so much pain to others. Deimos is approaching me quickly, his claws grasping tightly to the rim of my top hat I deposited with him earlier. “Phobos... Are you done for the night?” he caws at me, drifting in the air a few feet away from me. The raven doesn’t want to get close and belie how he really feels. I bow my head once in friendly respect. “No. Not quite. One more and I think I will be

alright. Thank you for coming tonight. It gets lonely without anyone to soar with.” I smile tenderly. This is my best friend, my brother, and the chick I grew up with. He hesitates as if contemplating his next words, wings fluttering gently in nervousness and betraying his desire to get away from me. “We get lonely without you, Phobos. I can’t lead them on my own.” Deimos doesn’t say much more, as usual. He’s always been stern, serious, and pretentious, The complete opposite of me. I tend to be overtly caring and compassionate. We took the responsibility of looking after the flock once the previous leader died in an accident. Of course, he holds bitter resentment towards me ever since I decided to take care of Gloriana instead of them. He needs my support, and I know he can’t do it by himself. I have an oath that I would never leave her, though, so I am at a loss of what to do for them. “I’m sorry, Deimos. I have obligations, and I know that you are strong. You can look after them and do a much better job at it than I ever would.” He has a lack of response, so he drops the hat onto

my head and takes off again. I can feel the disappointment radiate off him, and I know that he wonders how long this will go on. Frowning at his lack of approval, I drift away from the raven cluster in search of the next person I will dispose of. Somewhere inside of me, I know he is right... I know that I can’t live like this forever. I drift on in solitude. As I ride the winds, I feel a tug at my heart, and I frown in sudden anxiety. Gloriana is in danger. Our bond has strengthened so much over the months that I can feel her pain or fear. When I do, it impacts me with striking precision, and I can almost sniff her out akin to a dog. What’s peculiar about this time is that my senses are alerting me that she is nearby. Extremely close, actually, in a house that I’m suddenly circling above like a vulture pinpointing and marking its prey. Swooping down closer, I examine a window on the house that is brightly lit, the contents only

Pulse by Josh Novak. Charcoal.

45

2007-2008

the tender organ from the man’s chest and hold it in front of her to see. Blood drips down my arm, staining my ebony feathers. Motivated by the gruesome scene before her, she starts to scramble away from me. The woman manages to slip away a few feet before my vice-like grip latches on to her arm pulling her to me. “You’re next, dear.” Letting Adrian’s heart slide from my hand, I pull her close to me forcibly in an embrace. My hands glide up to her neck, and I give it one quick jerk, ending her life with as little pain as possible. In a sudden wave of agony, I collapse to my knees still clutching her lifeless body to me. Tears slip down my feathery cheeks as I realize that this constant battle with right and wrong is over. Now... Now, I can go home.

partially obscured by drapes hastily half-drawn. Landing on the soft ground before the glass, I crouch down and peer into the room with curiosity and increasing dread. My beautiful girl is perched upon an ivory couch, her hands covering her face as her delicate shoulders shake gently. Eyes widening dramatically, I gently lay my palm on the window over her sobbing form in horror. “Gloriana...” I can just make out her terrified sobs, and I watch helplessly as a man strolls into the room carrying a tray of steaming tea. “Ms. Parkinson. Please, tell me what’s wrong. I hate to see you so distraught.” He sets the silver platter down gently on the coffee table and sits quietly beside her, a hand consolingly brushing over her shoulder. “Oh, Adrian... I think I’m losing my mind. I-I think someone’s been following me...” The steady stream of tears slows down to where her speaking becomes comprehensible, and I fidget in a sudden fit of worry. “Please. I don’t understand. What do you mean someone’s been following you?” “There’s... this man. He... I thought he was my friend. I met him at a ball about a year ago, and we gossiped and laughed. I didn’t expect him to move into the house next to me... He’s been... He...” Gloriana collapses into a fit of hysterical sobs and Adrian moves closer to wrap an intruding arm around her shoulders. He calms her down, despite my internal protests and anger at his close proximity to her. “He eats human hearts, Adrian... I saw him walking down an alley once, and he went up to this beggar and ripped his heart out and ate it. I think... I think he’s a monster, because he flew off immediately after that.” I let out a screech of pain at her realization. She had known all along about my curse. She had known, was afraid of me, and now instead of coming to me for protection she insisted on seeing this other mortal instead. Thoughts of how she has betrayed me after all I have done for her spread like quick fire through my mind. In a fit of rage, I pull my arm back and thrust it through the window, causing glass shards to rain on my head. Stepping easily into the room, I glare at their stricken faces knowing that they are full of spite at my horrid looks. My wings drag behind me on the floor, one bleeding profusely from several wounds. Gradually, I approach them and stand before them. The only thing I can feel in my heart is hate. “How could you, Gloriana? I love you!” I yell in fury at her, spittle spewing from my mouth. Fingers emerge from the depths of my feathers, and I use the flexible digits to thrust into Adrian’s chest in one swift move. A piercing scream nearly shatters my tender eardrums and I snap my gaze to her ashen face, frozen in place. Eyes blazing, I rip

A blur of colors,A blur of sight,A roaring fire

In the dead of night.

For one to come,For all to see,

For those who welcomeThe end of thee.

Aflame Steven Odom

46

Nuances

47

Art Nouveau II by Holly Jernstrom. Oil.

2007-2008

Different Perceptions Kameren Tevis

Triune Steven Odom

9 Crimes by Dianne Hradsky. Colored Pencil, Ink.

48

Some will be hurt. Many will die.Those who remain Will watch Power go by.

Many will listen. Others will tell.That true Wisdom Is to learn well.

To walk into danger, To overcome fear,Courage comes and goes, But forever shall be here.

To destroy or create In this beautiful land,Power, Wisdom, and Courage Shall always be at hand.

Different perceptionsNew altercations

Take a minute to listenAnd enter my obsessionsGovernment destruction

Death’s accumulationListen to me for a new world revolution

I’ve seen the truthA new recollectionThrough new eyesDo I dare even mentionMass desecrationSoulless corruptionDemonic descentsAnd meaningless dimensions

Nuances

The world cannot empathizeWith humans unlike what they know.People hide their variance,Too afraid to let it show.Beauty’s miserably concealed,As hate’s allowed to overflow.I feel the droplets on my face.Am I the only one in woe?

The world treads on in darkness,Pressure in the dismal air.Each step becomes more imminent,And everyone is unaware.I feel the wrath of ignorance,And the world seems so unfair.I feel the droplets on my face.Am I the only one to care?

The world remains unchanging,New loathings breeding every day.Intolerance fuels hateful speech,Letting all compassion decay.I hear the words, the prejudice,And shake my head in weak dismay.I feel the droplets on my face.Am I the only one in disarray?

The world’s in endless warfare,Two sides battling ‘til one dies.No discretion for precious life,As abhorrence steals hopeful skies.A cycle of hostilityTakes innocence from joyful eyes.I feel the droplets on my face.Am I the only one who cries?

I Cry Jenna Workman

Tree by Holly Jernstrom. Pencil, Charcoal.

49

2007-2008

If the world was like a sauna,Just imagine what we’d do.

We’d purge tension from our nations,Be revived, refreshed, renewed.

If the world was like a symphony,What music we could make.Our differences in harmony,Just think what we’d create.

If the world was like a washer,True progress would begin.

Gently rinse away our quarrels,And we’d all feel clean again.

If the world was like a sunset,How our colors would combine.Oh, what awe we could inspireIf we’d all just take the time.

If the world was like a brownie,Pure goodness through and through,

We’d live in peace and ask for seconds.Just imagine what we’d do.

Reflection by Megan Durham. Photograph.

If the world was like a Band-Aid®,It could cover up the sin.

Draw together all we’ve broken,And some healing could begin.

If the world was like a novel,We’d be calm and reason more.

For in spite of current problems,Happy endings lie in store.

If the world was like a spyglass,We could look ahead for once.

Our hindsight is 20/20,But that doesn’t help us much.

If the world was like a map,Everything would make more sense.We’d all know just where we’re going,

Yet remember where we’ve been.

If the world was like a lantern,Then we all could see the light.

The possibilities are endlessWhen the future is so bright.

Oh, if the world was like a sauna,If we all just thought it through,If we never sweat the small stuff,

Just imagine what we’d do.

If the World Was Like a Sauna… Jordan Reynolds

50

Nuances

Shadow Adelle Burk

A silhouette, one which I cannot mend,Has followed me into this silent roomAmong the lonely memories I send.

But when the shadows in my soul impend,You are the only light they can’t subsume,A silhouette, one which I cannot mend.

The past will stay with me until the end,Awakened by the scent of your perfumeAmong the lonely memories I send.

And even though I try to pretend,The single hope that finds me in the gloom,A silhouette, one which I cannot mend.

Yet only joyous voices comprehendThe loving words you echo from the tombAmong the lonely memories I send.

And though I’ve searched these remnants for a friend,The truest one I’ve known is, I presume,A silhouette, one which I cannot mendAmong the lonely memories I send.

Twelve Chimes Dianne Hradsky

I can hear the tick-tock of timeMinutes inching by, tempting twelve chimesAs I await the final hourThe crackling of a dying fireMy sheets rustling in protest as I riseI can hear the tick-tock of timeMinutes inching by, tempting twelve chimesThe hoot of the barn owlOutside my windowsillWakes me from my reverie as I riseThe lady’s melancholy melodyUplifting and downtrodden in its notesMinutes inching by, tempting me to rise from my reverieShe beckons me, as the twelve chimes strike my final hour

Flowers of Gold by Mary Jorgenson. Photograph.

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2007-2008

Index

Writing

Blum, ChristinaBurk, AdelleDavidson, KimberlyFangmeyer, GarrettGallagher, KCGruber, JacobHradsky, DianneJorgenson, MaryLeach, BrittanyMagnett, PageMiller, KelsieOdom, StevenReynolds, JordanRobinson, EricSchuman, DillonSemroska, CodyTevis, KamerenWhite, ArielWeise, KristaWorkman, JennaZiegenbein, Jess

166, 11, 43, 51

3415205

15, 39, 44, 5127312642

7, 18, 46, 484, 19, 21, 32, 37, 38, 41, 50

139, 24

748

6, 28, 3025

10, 22, 23, 33, 35, 36, 40, 499

Author

Art

Albrecht, JessieBurger, ChristyDean, LoganDurham, MeganHanrahan, KenHradsky, DianneJernstrom, HollyJorgenson, MaryLynch, KelseyMeyers, MarissaNovak, JoshStahlnecker, SammiWeiser, ShaneWhite, ArielWillett, LyndsyWyant, Sara

246, 26

14, 15, 1823, 31, 34, 38, 44, 50

78, 20, 48

17, 47, 4943, 51

4239

11, 12, 4510, 27, 35, 36, 37, 41

41930

22, 32

Artist