Starred Fall 2013

Starred

Fall 2013

Wayland-Cohocton High School’s Literary Magazine

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Starred

Editorial staff

Rachel Wormuth Editor-in-the-Hat Alexis Becker Thing 1 Editor Allison Becker Thing 2 Editor Olivia Bernal Sam-I-Amitor Elizabeth Reigelsperger Green Eggs and Hamitor Hunter Willoughby Grickle-grass Bigger-er Alison Bligh Thneed Reader Grace Sellers Once-ler Editor Mr. Folts Faculty Suess Advisior

Special Thanks: Mrs. Forsythe and Mrs. Severson for continued assistance with artwork submis-sions. Ms. Quinn, Ms. Henry, and Mr. Lynah, for serving as distinguished fiction judges. Cover Art: Caanan Farrell

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Table of Contents

Work or Title Name Page

Roxanne Rachel Warmouth 5

Photography Olivia Bernal 8


Always Normally Dysfunctional Elizabeth Reigelsperger 10

Free Alexis Becker 12

Photography Luis Rodriguez 13

Ash and Snow Jacob Hamsher 14

A Renewal Alison Bligh 18

Clothing Sizes Kaitlin Matthews 20

Photography Vanessa Motzer 20

Ode To Fireplace Kaitlyn Bernal 21

Photography Rebecca VanDuzer 21

Ode to the Death of a Deer Aziel McHargue 22

Photography Joe Cartella 23

Artwork Alexis Carnrite 24

Things I Have Seen Veni Vidi Vici 25


Artwork Caanan Farell 27

Photography Cheyenne Donley 29

Photography Rachel Warmouth 29


Artwork Mackenzie Weber 31

Artwork Alexis Becker 32

Artwork Caanan Farell 33

Artwork Pamela VanSkiver 33


Ode to Worm Charlie Coley 35

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Table of Contents

Work or Title Name Page

The Harsh Truth or the Beautiful Lie? Alexis Becker 36

Abstract Art Veni Vidi Vici 38


Photography Cheyenne Donley 39

Adversity Danita McClure 40


Ode to Fog Micheal Fineman 42

Photography Marissa Wise 42


Photography Rachel Wormuth 44

Photography Skler Sims 44

Ode to Halloween Mikayla Bernal 45

Artwork Caanan Farrell 45

Ode to Apple Cider Iasabella Benton 46


Ode to Skateboarding Christian Deummal 49

Jumping the Shark Grace Sellers 48

Photography Brittany Leaty 50

Ode to that Fall Dirt Megan Curtin 51

Photography Brittany Leaty 52

Photography Danita McClure 53

Without Rain Danita McClure 54




Social Networking Mary Otchy 58

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Fall Fiction Contest Winner

Roxanne Rachel Wormuth As she looked back on the work she had accomplished, Roxanne was proud. They were dead, every single one. 43 filthy disgusting piggish men lay bleeding out on the floor, all seeming to have a shocked look on their faces that would now be frozen for eternity. They would never hurt anyone ever again. Not her or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps some could argue that a select few of those men where simply at the wrong place at the wrong time or accidentally got mixed up in the wrong crowd. It was hard for Roxanne to justify letting them live considering 85% them wore their wedding rings into the brothel. Better safe than sorry. She sat down at the bar covered in shattered glass from all the gun fire, placing her weapon on the counter, to look at her fine work. Then she proceeded to take her gold-plated compact out of her brazier and her lipstick out of her garter to touch up her makeup. It was a habit she always had, layering it on thick be-cause the men liked to see her in red lipstick. That habit died today, because as she looked at her fake eyelashes wiggle while blinking in the little round mirror, it was just a reminder of her past. To hell with it, to hell with it all! It was like war paint, and she had already won the war so she no longer needed to wear

“No more makeup, no more rhinestone, no more eight inch

heels, no more bruises, no dancing,

no more sleepless nights and no more

tears.”

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it. Roxanne had fought against all odds and won. No more makeup, no more rhinestone, no more eight inch heels, no more bruises, no dancing, no more sleepless nights and no more tears. 8 years now this had gone on, 8 years too many. It was time she took the bull by the horns and never let go. Roxanne found stray napkins from the bar and wiped away all of the layers of goop on her face, ripped off her pearl necklace and yanked out her matching earrings. And then she saw a stray knife on the back counter, and took it to the back of her neck, cutting her long, red, curly hair up to her ears, though she had just styled it up less than 2 hours ago. She could go to a barber or something later to have it evened out, but this would do for now. She always wanted short hair but was never allowed to have it. Each strand hitting the floor drew Roxanne closer to the pools of blood, which also had captured her baby white fake pearls that were now turning red little by little. To see all of those expensive suits on the floor, with fine silk ties going to waste, was a real pity. Roxanne gently tip-toed around to find one useable for her disguise, one not perforated with bullet holes. Finally she settled on a short, thin man wounded in the head. Perfect. She put on the navy blue suit with a gold pocket swatch with a matching tie, Roxanne then crept around to find a hat and pair of shoes to match, and cuff links of course. Perhaps even a pocket watch because why not enjoy the spoils of being a scoundrel while the opportunity is there. With her new assembled outfit, Roxanne stuck her

“It was time she took the bull by the horns and never let go.”

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hand in the pocket discovering a thick black wallet filled with cash, and also some odd pictures of pointy shoes. That was something she hadn’t thought about yet, money (not pointy shoes). It was going to be necessary if she wanted to live on her own for a while. So she went around to all the all of the bodies, collecting as much as she could without making her pockets appear conspicuous and then filling a small brief case as well, making sure there was still room for her hand gun. Unfortunately, it was difficult to find large bills because of the location of the event. Most of it was just singles. As she pre-pared to leave, Roxanne was facing the reality that she never had to be in this hell-hole again. She unlocked the door to the back room so the other girls could also escape, eventually. They were all asleep now, or pretending to sleep. Not all of them were used to the gunfire yet. Finally, she placed an expensive cigar in her mouth that was in one of the pockets and lit it with a pack of matches that she had lifted as well. And then placed it under a red sensor box by the back door. The fire alarm and sprinklers went off. What better way to clean up a big mess like this than with a nice refreshing shower? Roxanne left for good. Sirens in the background, she blended in with the panicked crowd. She was seen again, but never recognized. Traveling from place to place, killing more men just like those ones, and trying to make the world a better place, bullet by bullet. She couldn’t save them all, but that did-n’t mean she wasn’t going to try.

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Photo By Olivia Bernal

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Fall Fiction Contest Honorable Mention

Always Normally Dysfunctional Elizabeth Reigelsperger My family is often times dysfunctional. We never know what’s going on with one another. Dad thinks that Mom is picking us up from school, and Mom thinks Dad is. Nothing ever seems to work out to say the least. We each have our own persistently bothersome habits that we just can’t seem to shake. One cannot understand until they have experienced my day-to-day life. With this, my life is hon-estly, and forever will be, a struggle in itself. Mom is so carefree, it’s almost a curse. She always waits to do laundry until Sun-day night when all of her work clothes are dirty and Christmas shopping always happens exact-ly one day prior to the holiday itself. But nobody ever gets frustrated with her. We just learned to accept what she has to offer, and to pick up the slack where she forgets. We pick up the slack quite a bit. Dad, on the other hand, has a completely different

set of abnormal characteristics. He’s insanely clean, and as

you can imagine, Mom being so carefree about everything

does not pan out well when it comes to Dad’s neat fetish.

He cleans the house daily and she leaves papers everywhere

and laundry on the couch waiting to be folded. I often

“We are a dysfunctional

family, but somehow it

works.”

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times wonder how he got that way. I don’t dare to ask, as Dad is not only a neat freak, but he’s touchy about the subject. Jane, I’d have to say is the most normal of us all. Her only issue seems to be that she cannot possi-bly keep her hands off of anything. Shopping with her around is the definition of impossible. She grabs every scented candle and touches the squeaky dog toys at least a billion times. Every other look, she’s pressing each and every holiday Santa on the shelf. Mom used to have one of the cute animal leashes for her. She left it lying around one day and Dad picked it up and did who knows what with it. I could go further on to discuss the abnormali-ties of my family, but the truth is that they are so dys-functional, I often lose sight of what is truly out of the ordinary and what is normal. This is their gift to me. Truth be told, I love them all dearly and would-n’t trade them for the world. But, borrowing someone else’s family for a day is something I would not be ter-ribly opposed to. We are a dysfunctional family, but somehow it works. Dad cleans up after Mom’s messes and makes sure that everything Jane touches is put back exactly where she found it. Basically, we’re nor-mal, even though we may not seem to be. This is par-ticularly true because, as my teachers have told me, I tend to ramble. I’m working on it. Like I said, we are a normally dysfunctional family.

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Fall Fiction Contest Honorable Mention

Free

Alexis Becker

Keep your head down low, walk in a straight predict-able line, and do not speak are the basic rules in society. Supposedly we weren’t supposed to even think, but I highly doubt I could have managed that, not like anyone can moni-tor thoughts anyways. We were meant to work, go to the living cubicles, sleep, and eat as little as possible. “For the love of our county we will suffer” is the only excuse we heard for all this. I used to think we’re in a war but no one really knows for sure. I was considered a pariah be-cause I once whispered hello to my neighbor. I’m really the biggest rebel you’ve ever seen. I remember being so young and nothing like this existing. I remember running in the fields and singing with my friends instead of being some number in a list as a worker for a factory. Sometimes I wondered if I’m the only one who remembers what it was like to be free. Everyone else just stares back with blank eyes when I make eye contact. Once in a while, I’d see just a spark of some kind of emo-tion, anything, and that’s what makes me wonder. I think I made a friend this way once, in fact, we held eye contact for several moments and even smiled. He stands next to me on the way to work every day now, so I think that’s a good sign. Or that he is crazy. Either works, I suppose.

“It was kind of boring being a spiritless

person, I guess you could say.”

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While walking to work for 54th time, we heard this strange noise, as if an old song was playing. I stopped, actually stopped. I did something no one has had the confidence to do since the time when we were free. I immediately felt a body behind me stop against me and a grunt of surprise. The source of the sound was birds flying above. In all the time we’ve been living in this way, I’ve never once seen a bird. Nothing living besides people. It was kind of boring being a spiritless person, I guess you could say. I must’ve thought I was a real rebel at that point, that I might as well go all out while I’m at it, because I grabbed my friend’s hand. It was a shame that I do not even know his name, but I asked him to go with me. I didn’t even really give him a choice. I pulled his hand and we were going to follow the bird. Why? I’m really not sure; following birds seems really ridiculous looking back, childish even. I figured it knew bet-ter than the mindless zombies back there that had just seemed to notice we were missing. A siren went off even, and I felt really important that they cared enough to set si-rens off for us. How sweet. We couldn’t keep up with the bird’s pace after a while; I guess I should’ve worked out more. I guess that’s the story of how I escaped.

Photo By Luis Rodriguez

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Ash and Snow Jacob Hamsher A man’s whistle pierces the dark of the hanger bay. Striding throughout the facility in a slick and composed manner, a swagger with an intimidating posture. The cheerful tune he whistles bounces off the carbon-steel walls like a bullet. The grin he bears sly and smug cuts through the twilight. It seems to be the only source of illumination. His eyes study and calculate his surroundings. The appear-ance of this individual would seem to some as charismatic and hypnot-ic. Poised in the most elegant and alluring stance. A solitary hand creeps up his body to-ward his face. He re-moves the shades he dons gently with two fingers and introduces himself, his voice and attitude both equally calm and collected. A mischievous smirk spreads a crossed his face, revealing a set of teeth whiter than the snow out-side the facility. He pursed his lips for a moment then ut-tered “Well, isn’t this just something.” He paused, “Mr. Hasker.” CIA Special agent Keith Hasker was recuperating from the anesthetic the mysterious figure had administered to him hours before this confrontation began to slowly re-turn to reality. When his sight had improved and the fluo-rescent lights above him flickered on with the loud droning

“Hasker was now in a state of panic unlike anything he had ever

experienced in the twenty-two years he’d been working for the

CIA.”

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buzz of electricity he managed to make out the man before him. “Arlington?” Keith thought. He managed to form the words but choked. He strained with every fiber of his being to call out to the man. “Don’t worry, it’s normal,” he paused. “It’s a very po-tent anesthetic” Arlington said. “Amobarbital. Really nasty stuff.” He shuddered and pulled his suit jacket tighter to his body. “You know,” he started as he removed a golden light-er from his pocket and lit a cigarette, “I’ve always thought the snow was pretty, even when I was knee high. Now it’s just a burden.” Arlington coughed and slinked over to Hasker. He tapped the cigarette and the bright orange embers drifted gracefully toward the snow covered floor. “Pretty frosty outside isn’t it?” he croaked. Hasker was now in a state of panic unlike anything he has ever experienced in the twenty-two years he’d been working for the CIA. He starts to slip into his memories of past occasions but Arlington’s harsh voice brought him back more recent events. “But it’s about to get a lot hotter in here kid” Arling-ton said, his eyes cold and demeaning, the ends of his thin red lips curled. He lurched forward. Agent Hasker squirmed in his chair. Arlington now held his still burning cigarette like a pencil. He forcible held the trembling agent’s head back. Without hesitation he plunged the cigarette into Hasker’s left eye. Hasker howled with pain and writhed in the chair he had been bound to this whole time. It burned the blood ves-sels in his eye causing his eye to turn a dark red. Arlington

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flicked the butt of the cigarette at him, spat in his face, and muttered something obscene under his breath. He briskly walked over to a gasoline can on a utili-ty cart and few feet away from the tied-up agent. “How could I have missed that?” Hasker thought as he tried once again to free his hands and fumble with the thin-rope. Arlington continued his cheery whistle and un-screwed the cap. He began to walk the length of the com-plex covering every possible inch of the Dura-Steel floor with the shiny slick liquid that shined rainbow in the xen-on lights that lined the corners of the floor. He twirled and spun around with the can until he finally covered Hasker with the remaining gas. Hasker now had the strength and courage to speak. “It’s over Arlington, SERT teams are on their way for my extraction and they have all possible exits covered, Thiers no escape.” Arlington cocked his head and made his way over to the chair. “You always were one to jump to conclusions Keith. For I have my own Calvary.” The hanger-bay doors slid open. A squad of private soldiers stepped in, their weapons drawn and their breath fogging up their masks. “You see I am and will always be one step ahead of you” he said as two of the armed men handed him his jacket and a hat. “If you think killing me will stop the Gemini ex-periment, you’re dead wrong!” Hasker, emboldened, said through gritted teeth. Arlington let out a chuckle. “Ironic you should say that” he said as he with-

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drew another cigarette and his lighter. Hasker knew exactly what would unfold next. Arlington flicked the lighter, the little flame danced. An enraged Hasker shouted “YOUR GOING TO BURN FOR THIS!” Arlington stepped back and cracked a smirk. “Maybe so, but at least when I burn I’ll already be dead” He proclaimed as he blew smoke from his nose. “You know, you really shouldn’t smoke these things, they’ll kill you.” Without hesitation he bent down and lit the trail of gasoline ablaze. “I will take my leave” he said putting on his hat and coat. He reached for the sunglasses on his lapel pocket and slipped them on his face. The screams of agent Keith Hasker could be heard even as Arlington and his squad walked away. The bright orange and yel-low blaze reflected in his dark shades. His squad slid the hanger bay doors shut to muffle the screams of agony. Arlington was silent as he stepped into a limousine and calmly handed the driver some cash. “Anywhere but here,” he said. And with that word the limo cruised down the ice covered road and disappeared into the blizzard. Agent Keith Haskers body was burned beyond recognition. The agency labeled the body as “Unrecovered.”

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A Renewal Alison Bligh It was three months after, and it still hurt. I thought I was safe and happy where I was, I never thought the one person I really trusted would hurt me so much; I never thought I would recover. When they told me how long it had been, I couldn’t believe it. It felt like yester-day, the wounds still felt so fresh. The impact still not letting me breathe, I felt like I hadn’t taken a breath in years. They said it was a process, starting over, but in the past I never really felt ready. Now I’m not sure how I feel. Sad, angry, relieved that it’s over. In a way I did feel like I was wasting my life, let-ting this drone on. Giving it the time it didn’t need, that’s not what I want. I miss being happy, liking the little things, like a peanut butter sand-wich, my favorite show being on. It’s those little things that make the big things in life so amaz-ing. But it was then, when I looked into my daughters crib that I knew, now was the time to start over. I wouldn’t let this, me, prevent my daughter from enjoying those little things that I’m sitting here wishing I had again. I could have them again, only now they would be so

“When they told me how long it

had been, I couldn’t believe

it. It felt like yesterday, the

wounds still felt so fresh.”

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much better. I was ready, I’m not letting my past, our past, prevent us from being happy and living our lives to the fullest. You only get one life, and I wasn’t about to spend mine wasting away in the basement, wishing the past year hadn’t happened, especially when there were still so many years to come. I’ll move out of my dusty apartment, go out to someplace quiet. Someplace where my daughter could run in the yard, go to her first day of school, have her first kiss, leave to go to college. I wanted her to have all of those experi-ences that I couldn’t enjoy as much as people should. I’ll get a new job, one that I like, and can help people with. I want to open a center for w omen who went through what happened to me, maybe help them have the same realization I’m having now. This is the beginning, all I feel is weight being lifted off my shoulders and its nothing but relief. That feeling that I had in that moment was indescribable. It was this huge realization that now, nothing that happened can change me or hurt me anymore. It’s over. There was only one thing left to do. I go to the kitchen, grab the bread from the counter and peanut butter from the cabinet, spread the peanut butter on two slices of bread and stack them together. I walk to the living room which was always small but comfortable, turn the TV on to watch Grey’s Anatomy… My favorite show. This is a renewal, This is my beginning.

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Clothing Sizes Kaitlin Matthews

Some people may find it rude that I am so against how people choose their clothing sizes, for reasons like them not having quite enough money to buy new clothing. But honestly, there are ways to get clothing for free, or relatively cheap. In my opinion, there is honestly no rea-son for anyone to be wearing clothing that is not suitable for them. Going out into pubic, present-able, is basically what everyone is taught right from when they start dressing themselves. Go-ing out presentable to me means that you’re go-ing out with clothing that looks decent, fits right, and you don’t smell like you just climbed out of the garbage.

Photo By Vanessa Motzer

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Ode To Fireplace Kaitlyn Bernal The logs on a fire Bring warmth all around. The crackling of the logs Brings a quiet, subtle sound. Every few hours, It loses its spark. And then suddenly, all goes cold and dark. The swipe of a match The closing of a hatch Joy fills the air

Photo By Rebecca VanDuzer

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Ode to the Death of a Deer Aziel McHargue In the woods, it is Heaven. The leaves, Popping of tree limbs with the cooling tempera-ture It’s peaceful. Oh! What was that rustling sound in the leaves? A deer! My long nights have paid off. Come a little closer, Bambi, For you are just out of range. You walk in, and I make the shot. The sound of the arrow leaving the riser, The SHUNK of penetration. The marvelous buck drops. The shot was with pin-point accuracy. I take a look around And find blood. Bright pink; a long shot. My Heart quickens I look around and see him twitching, nearing the light. Thoughts of succulent steaks, Mushrooms and potatoes Drift into my head. For the next half hour, My life revolves around This magnificent buck And his ginormous rack.

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Photo by Joe Cartella

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Artwork By Alexis Carnrite

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The Things I Have Seen Veni Vidi Vici I have seen war, with men falling bloodied over their comrades on the shores of foreign countries whose names they did not know. I have seen peace, with brothers in arms holding flowers instead of guns and their armor left at home instead of in the barricades. I have seen love, calm and gentle as a winter storm and as powerful as electricity, pulsing through your every move. I have seen people lose their loved ones, whom they will remember and grieve over for the rest of their lives without the hope of recovering. I have seen life, life as carefree as a leaf in the wind never thinking about where it was going or where it would land. I have seen the sparkle, That sparkle in people’s eyes that they get When they are looking at the person they love. I have seen the energy of the universe come and go and I just sit here and watch it go by.

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Artwork by Caanan Farrell

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Artwork by Olivia Bernal

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Photos by Cheyenne Donley & Rachel Wormuth

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Artwork by Olivia Bernal

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Photo by Mackenzie Weber

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Artwork by Alexis Becker

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Artwork by Caanan Farrell & Pamela VanSkiver

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Artwork by Alexis Becker

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Ode to Worm Charlie Coley Leaves, twigs, foliage, what comes to mind? You think fall, I think worm. Feeding on the plenty of leaves, twigs And foliage that fall brings. Burrowing their way through the masses, Of what was once living. And then the day becomes even better For the worm. Leftovers of a shot deer lay in the undergrowth. Bright pink blood layers on the ground. Must have been a lung shot. The sweet liquid provides for a sort of, Garnish for the feast of the day. But today is also a sad day. For the worms, mourning the loss of A fellow worm friend. The un-devoured half left, Stringing out of an apple, that lay on the ground. The worm is the protector at fall, Keeping rotten things taken care of, Making fall, that much more beautiful.

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The Harsh Truth or the Beautiful Lie? Alexis Becker

While I waited for my dinner guest I paced the hallways that echoed each and every one of my steps. My anxiety heightened with each step, I didn’t particularly care if an average guest was late, but my entire life depended solely on this dinner. Most people would get a bit antsy about having in-laws over, but I was stressing over having some low quality on-sale chicken with not only Death, but a mystery guest.

When I was young I met Death; I was only sixteen and got into a car crash caused by a steaming burger landing in my lap. It was proba-bly the lamest close to death experience I’ve ever heard of. When we met I was freaking out; I think most people would when they saw some tall figure by the end of their bed, though. He smiled and shook his head and said “Death by burger acci-dent was most definite-ly not your intended death.” I bargained him to take anything I have in place of my life, not that I figured death himself wanted a smashed car or a ’09 MacBook. He instead offered to give me thirty years to continue on, on the condition that I had to help him tell someone he grew fond of

“When I was young

I met Death”

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watching that their time was up. I didn’t really question it at the time; later on I figured he wanted me to do this because he was a bit emo-tional or something similar. I did it without complaint; of course I wanted to live longer. We’ve always said thirty years after the incident we would have a dinner first, and then he’d see if I could bargain some more time. When I last saw him, he said he’d be bringing a guest. Now I’m no expert on the afterlife, but I’m guessing death doesn’t have too many friends.

I heard a single knock on the door and I stumbled over twice in my hurry. Not only did Death stand there, so did a tall wispy figure. If death stood tall and radiated darkness, this girl was his opposite as she was petite and glowing. Quickly I invited them in, and the figure quietly introduced herself as Life. They didn’t even touch the chicken, and we all sat in silence.

“So what won-” I was saying when I was cut off by Death. “Which do you choose?” he asked, “the lie,” pointing to Life, “or the truth?" gesturing towards himself. The lie would be say-ing I deserve more time than I was already giv-en, and Death had already told me that. Seeing Life smile at me with no genuine emotion, and looking back to Death who looked at me sadly, I already knew what I had to say. I took Death’s hand and walked out my own front door and de-parted from the living world. The most interest-ing dinner of my life involved Life, Death, and cheap chicken, and that seemed worthy enough to mark the end of my life.

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Abstract Art Veni Vidi Vici The table is grey, The walls are white. My shoe is green, And lobsters are red. The sky is blue, Highlighters are yellow.

Artwork By Alexis Becker

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Photo By Cheyenne Donley

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Adversity

by Danita R McClure

Looking for a vantage point

seeking out the vulnerable.

Feeling greatly despised,

reaping out vengeance.

Hating those who call your bluff

realizing you’re not all that.

Understanding deep inside,

something is lacking

Outside of the loop,

not wanting to know.

There's sickness spreading,

you appear immune.

You have an ailment,

but others don't see.

Innocently kind,

causing you trouble

Find those who are ignorant

decides to degrade their name.

Spits out insults and cracks jokes,

tries exploring their knowledge.

Opens their eyes to the world,

perverts the ignorant heart.

Breaks down all of their confidence,

Shows knowledge through rebellion

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Misunderstanding the jests made,

having become a target.

Competing to keep your name clean,

rebuking that new knowledge.

Fighting the strong hurt felt inside,

wishing you still had solace.

Noticing that you have been used,

wondering why they chose you.

Ignorance was taken advantage of.

Innocence twisted and corrupted.

Indifference disregarded.

Reputation trampled upon and stolen.

Timidity magnified to extreme.

Victimization maximized.

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Ode to Fog Michael Feinman On a cool fall morning It invades without warning. A mystical blanket No matter where you go you cannot flank it, It pulls you into a dreamy trance, Try and escape it, you have no chance. Although so invasive, It’s touch is all too evasive. While seeming so calming A fierce battle is calling It is cool calm and collected, But when it the sun rises it is affected It tries to fight back, While the sun provides no slack In the heat of the fight It begins to bite. Even though it is defeated This cycle will be repeated It will return for the war Therefore it cannot be defeated forevermore.

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Artwork By Alexis Becker

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Photos By Rachel Wormuth & Skyler Sims

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Ode to Halloween Mikayla Bernal Walking through a dark, dark, room, suddenly you hear a really loud boom. You’re heart quickens as you pick up the pace, you look to the left and see a man with a half-eaten face! You start running and lengthen your stride. Till all of a sudden you slip on a slide. You wake up and you’re outside! The haunted house it turns out you’re not a man, you’re a mouse!

Artwork By Caanan Farrell

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Ode to Apple Cider Isabella Benton Sweet like candy Sour like apples Warm or cool With a Cinnamon stick Goes with doughnuts Or a scone The smell of cider Means home sweet home

Photo By Rachel Wormuth

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Ode to Skateboarding Christian Deummal In fall, Streets are Occupied by Skaters. The wind Is strong And cool, But the Skateboarders don’t mind. The sound Of skateboarders Clicking and Clacking, trying To land that One trick. Constantly Having to dodge Puddles filled with Wet leaves so they Don’t wreck the skateboard’s bearings. Cracks and chips Crawl across the Skateboard but The skaters See these as battle marks. We see our boards as Prized possessions yet Not all things last forever. It’s all fun and games Until the board Snaps.

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Jumping The Shark Grace Sellers I unlocked the door to our apartment and pushed it open. It was filled with silence as I walked in, but the lights were on in the hallway. As I made my way into the small living room I could hear the buzz of the television. I called out his name to no reply. My stomach turned and I auto-matically thought the worst. The characters crossed the screen merrily as I stood, fro-zen in fear. I waited, hoping he would call out my name or walk in from where ever he was hiding. He would come out and hug me tightly. We’d sit on the dark leather couch and talk for hours. There were so many nights like that. I sat reminiscing when I realized that I hadn’t actually seen him yet. Maybe he just has his headphones on, or maybe he went out.

I wandered throughout the apartment calling his name. There was still no answer. I had checked every room I could think of. I checked the bedroom, kitchen, the guest bedroom, even the study. When I passed the fridge I grabbed a Pepsi and decided to sit and wait for him. He must’ve left with one of his friends. I calmed myself down and called a few of his closest friends including his brother. They all said that they hadn’t seen him. My nerves returned and I felt sick. I started pacing across the room, my thoughts now consuming me. I didn’t know

“I called out his name to no reply.

My stomach turned and I auto-matically thought

the worst.”

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what to do, should I call the cops? What would I tell them, I can’t find my boyfriend, please help? I decided to go get my anxiety medication from the cabinet in the bathroom. I opened the door half expecting him to yell at me for intruding. I wish that’s what happened.

The overwhelming grief washed over me and I choked out a scream. There he sat in the bathtub, the clouded water surrounding his body, his head just barely above the surface. His body was limp. His sea green eyes were glazed over in a blank stare and he faced the blank white wall in front of him. I ran over and shook his cold body, screaming at him to please wake up. He didn’t answer. There his body sat and watched me as I cried. I ran to get the phone and call 911. The operator had to stop and ask me to calm down numerous times as I tried to choke out the words, my boyfriend killed him-self.

He left no note, no video, no goodbye. I feel like a part of me is ripped out, like there is a part of me miss-ing, never to be found. It takes every ounce of my will to even get out of bed in the morning. You always see those stories on the news, but you never think about how bad it is until you’re in the situation. I feel numb, more dead than alive. He must’ve felt this way. I never knew.

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Photo By Brittany Leaty

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Ode to That Fall Dirt By Meghan Curtin Out of the house Left or right Between the trees To that dirt road. The road less travelled Less taken, More preserved Where leaves fall undisturbed. Animals move without a thought As harmony exists, Between The dirt. People walk for the view, The calm feel, Or run, For the world is preserved. There is no Traffic, Obnoxious noise, Or sky high buildings, The road is undisturbed. Cherish the road For there is no pavement Or marks of urbanization. Dirt road let nature Be free as the wind And people enjoy it’s beauty.

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Photo By Brittany Leaty

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Photo by Danita McClure

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Without Rain Danita R McClure Just sitting wondering when the rain will finally come. The clouds arrive and start to fester but move on quickly. Everyone rejoices that the rain isn't coming down here, not me I long for the rain. Raining will be a great relief at this point and is long over-due. I sit out on this day acknowledging the changes but others, they don't hear it. At this moment the tree is mourning as it must forfeit its leaves to the wind. The tree must stand tall in its known position as it can do nothing for the leaves. Those leaves withered, then were knocked down, thrown around and torn up; and the tree had no control. Why can't the tree keep its leaves, why must it start over? Branches are sprawled out desperate for rain, longing for comfort. (and for trust to be rebuilt) Lacking a place to turn the tree is looking to the sky, hurting for his leaves, and asking for rain. If rain can come, and the tree can finish grieving those leaves he can begin to start over. But perhaps a few leaves can stay at least a while longer. Although it seems that this time everything must be stripped away, perhaps there is much more in store. Off in the distance a storm, will it bring the long awaited rain with it or will we remain in this drought without relief? Every once in a while there is a sprinkle falls, touching a sprawled branch, but it is only a glimpse of the rain that

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won't come down. Finally the rain begins to pour from; refreshing, relieving and restoring! Bystanders are in awe, not having seen the warning clouds, confused. They rush away or attempt what they think will stop it or cause less damage, feeling uncomfortable being exposed to this sort of precipitation. But the tree and I are rejoicing in the enjoyable, overdue rain, for we are one in the same.


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Photos By Olivia Bernal

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The Final Word

Social Networking Mary Otchy Look at me Look at me Look at me, me, me I can be pretty just look at me I’m talented just watch. I’m better than them Look at me Look at me Look at me, me, me Look at my perfect family My perfect house And how witty I am Look at me Look at me Look at me, me, me Listen to my troubles Feel sad for my sorrows Pity my problems Look at me Look at me Look at me, me, me

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Special Thanks To the

WCTA Wayland-Cohocton Teachers’ Association

For Encouraging Student Creativity and Enrichment

Through Bi-Annual $50 Sponsorship

Of Student Writing Contests

7 years in a row!

Artwork By Alexis Carnrite

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Starred*

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Documents

Starred Fall 2013