The Voice is a purely student run composition of interesting and relatable articles,

short stories, poetry, fun facts and cultural notes. Edited by Alyssa McClure, under the guidance of Mr. Cummins, The Voice strives to include a piece in each issue for

everyone. This particular edition of The Voice includes two halves, which meet in the middle - which half will you start with?

This issue includes work by:

Steven (Andrew) Lazickas

Patrick Jackson Elizabeth Jones Calvin Nemec Riley Walsh

Jonathan McClure Fyodor Raskolnichism

Chris Stoll Alyssa McClure Bumpi Tjordle

Ben Kutina

Cover artwork designed by:

Margaret Schrecongost

Grandma Elizabeth Jones Hi. It’s me. I peeked into your eyes, the big blue ones we share, when I was but a baby. Remember me? I skipped and scuttled as a stripling alongside you in the parks and museums. Remember me? I gathered golf balls on the course outside your house I spent a summer by your side. Remember me? I watched you in the hallways of my home. watched the memories flee from your mind, the gaps grow grander every day. I watched the spark of tender recognition flicker for a moment in your eyes, the faint idea drown in the sea of blue eyes. Why can’t you remember me? Why can’t you just remember me? Nevermind. I’m pleased to meet you too, Grandma.

Untitled Jonathan McClure

The bay looks gorgeous at twilight. The slowly

setting sun paints patterns across the cloudless sky - hues of yellow, pink and orange mix in a natural painting that rivals the View of Delft. If you squint, you can see boats out on the water - working vessels finished trawling for the day or coming home after a long journey, or yachts of the wealthy trying to avoid them while still impressing their friends. Rich or poor, they all hang back, reluctant to leave the freedom of the sea and reenter the overcrowded hell called Empire Bay. The pier is crowded - not with industry, but with young, happy families out for a romantic evening stroll alone with everyone else. You can hear the vendors try to convince the couples; the sizzle of the flame and the smell of burning charcoal act as a beacon for the hungry or the gentlemanly.

I came alone.

I look down. Here in Sand Island, the water is murky. The swirling mass of green is punctuated by various glistening articles of refuse - a candy wrapper, a bowler hat. Heaven knows, the hat's owner is probably under the dock - this neighborhood is getting rougher all the time, especially late at night. I stare at the water, but it betrays none of its secrets, hiding them beneath a thick layer of sludge and seaweed. Looking out at the setting sun, I see that the water looks shinier there, like an enormous mirror. It seems impossible that the two surfaces are one and the same; the shiny and the murky merge somewhere, each trying to outdo the other.

The bars are starting to get louder, as the sun goes down and things get hotter. The alcohol is flowing freely, and you can hear the sounds of some drunks singing heartfelt renditions of their favorite hits from the forties, accompanied with curses and breaking glass as various drinks get spilled and customers square off. In this neighborhood, if you-

"Dinner!” I hear.

I pause the game and go upstairs as the menu music softly plays.

Dr. Steven’s Advice Column Editor's Note: Dr. Steven is not a real doctor (but he has portrayed one in a fictional ad), nor do his friends call him Steven. None of this is important though, and neither is the advice he gives; what is truly important is that you do not seek legal action against The Voice or Dr. Steven, we only have this piece to fill our column quota and to our dismay, he has a contract somehow. Ask Dr. Steven for advice by sending your profoundly whiny requests to The Voice. Please note that The Voice does not necessarily agree with Dr. Steven’s opinions or advice in any circumstance. (Really, we don’t.) We apologize in advance for any discomfort caused by Dr. Steven; he isn’t exactly cozy. Dear Dr. Steven, My best friend, let’s call her “Jane,” recently started a relationship with a great guy and they obviously really love each other, however she has stopped hanging out with me and all of her other friends. Her time is only devoted to her boyfriend and she can’t stop talking about how much she loves him, and how they will be together forever. I don’t know if I can wait for “forever” to be able to spend time with my friend. What can I do to get my friend back? Sincerely,

Worried in the 11th grade. Dear “Worried,” While I don’t really care about your loneliness, or your friend, or your friend’s boyfriend, I do actually have some advice. What I can’t say to you is this: Don’t worry, they will break up sooner or later. If there’s anything I know best, it’s heartbreak. Either this “great guy” will turn out to be a scumbag and end up hurting her or she’ll lose interest, like all women do when they’ve had their fun. They’ll probably go through some arguments, like really bad ones and you’ll be there to support her. You can use this to your advantage, and imply that he may not be the one for her and remind her how happy she was when they were not together. You could even be bold and point out how badly he treats her, and you can put a little spin on it and make her feel like she’s been wronged. Make sure you always word it correctly though, because ideas are transferred through words. Never tell her that you feel he’s stealing her from you, but show her how he manipulates her time selfishly. Hey, you know what? I should write a book about this. How to Manipulate Friends and Control Others, kind of like a dark side of Dale Carnegie. Yeah, I think I’ll do that. Then I won’t need to write articles for a high school literary magazine anymore. Well, back to your issue. Just assume that they won’t last forever, because they won’t (if high school sweethearts get married, they usually get divorced too) and take advantage of every little thing about him that can be turned negative. Or you can just lie, and tell her you saw him and the cheer captain together. See, life is a funny thing, and most of the time you can get away with anything you want with little repercussions. This only happens if you cover your bases though, so be careful and go out there and get your friend back, at any cost. With all due cynicism, Dr. Steven

Seriously Dude, Don't Judge! Patrick Jackson

One of the highest callings parents have is the urge to connect with their children. Not just

on an emotional level, but on a “Hey, I'm still cool, right?” Almost all teenagers can recall Über

embarrassing car journeys where a parent blasted some forgotten song whilst singing along out of

key. Some more adventurous parents have been known to throw in an air instrument or two.

Although at first glance these moments can be easily dismissed with a roll of the eyes and that ever

present whining adolescent plea to just *gasp* “Stop it!” I must urge the general population of the

school to stop before they dismiss their parents' jams.

The truth about music is that it is, in fact, an art. As with all art it is a means of conveying

emotion and deep feeling to an audience. Another artistic facet of art is that it is subjective - that

is to say, open to the opinions and interpretation of every individual. With these facts in mind, let's

pump the brakes on the freight train of judging.

Next time your parents begin to indulge themselves in their vehicular recitals, remember

that they are experiencing an emotional connection with the music, which more than likely relates

to events in their life. Your momma or pops is putting their past and their essence on display for

you. Laying themselves bare in front of you because they love you or love something. I don't want

to delve into that, it's lame. I do want to say, that if you listen to those songs closer you'll discover

more about your parents, or friends, or whoever is enjoying the music, an amazingly larger amount

than if you had just dismissed it as, well, lame.

It may not be what you are used to, but at one point it was cool. Perhaps it still is, you

won't know until you actually give it a chance.

Unless it's Journey. There is no excuse for Journey.

Spencer McGowan

Fun Facts to Boggle Your Mind Jonathan McClure

The numbers '172' can be found on the back of the U.S. $5 dollar bill in the bushes at the base of the Lincoln Memorial.

According to one national survey on drug use, each day approximately 6,000 Americans try

marijuana for the first time.

The world's largest stockpile of gold can be found five stories underground inside the Federal Reserve Bank of New York's vault and it holds 25% of the world's gold reserve (540,000 gold bars).

While it contains more gold than Fort Knox, most of it belongs to foreign governments.

Rock star Ozzy Osborne saved his wife Sharon's Pomeranian from a coyote by tackling and wresting the coyote until it released the dog.

A dog's shoulder blades are unattached to the rest of the skeleton to allow greater flexibility for running.

Chain letters seemed to have first begun in 1935 as a get-rich-quick scheme. The source of the

letters is unknown, but the letters became so popular that post offices around the nation had to hire extra help.

During the Depression, distressed farms were sometimes sold at 'Penny Auction' (forced auctions) in which farmers would assure that a distressed neighbor would be able to buy back his own farm by holding bids down to pennies, nickels, and quarters. They would dissuade those who wanted to

make higher bids, sometimes symbolically with dangling nooses at the auction scene.

Only two states, Nebraska and Maine, allocate their electoral college vote in proportion to the popular vote. The other 48 states and the District of Columbia declare all of their electoral votes to

the winning popular candidate in the state, despite the margin of victory

During the first two years of a baby's life, new parents will miss six months of sleep on average.

Ken Parks, who murdered his mother-in-law with a tire iron and attempted to strangle his father-in-law, offered sleepwalking as a defense during his trial. He was acquitted.

A person sheds about 1.5 million skin flakes an hour, most of which becomes embedded in our

carpets.

During the famed O.J. Simpson trial, there were arguments between defense attorney Robert Blasier and an FBI agent about the actual value of pi.

The largest gold nugget ever found is the "Welcome Stranger", discovered by John Deason and

Richard Oates in Australia in 1869. The nugget is 10" by 25" and yielded 2,248 ounces of pure gold. It was found just two inches below the ground.

Nearly $72 billion is spent on weddings every year in the United States.

During its construction, the Great Wall was called "the longest cemetery on earth" because so

many people died building it. Reportedly, it cost the lives of more than one million people.

As a precaution in case of a crash, Prince Charles and Prince William never travel on the same airplane.

Over 2,500 left-handed people are killed per year from using products made for right-handed

people.

Untitled Alyssa McClure

When I boarded the plane in Minneapolis, I hadn’t imagined this. I hadn’t imagined

overlooking the lush greenery surrounding me; I hadn’t imagined the pain, pulsing spasms through

my quads and calves; I hadn’t imagined the embarrassment, the intense sense of inadequacy.

When I boarded the plane in Minneapolis, I hadn’t imagined a 29.4 mile biking adventure through

the Bitterroot Peaks of Idaho and Montana. I hadn’t expected to travel 2,000 feet of mountain,

cut by tunnels and trellises, perched precariously on a borrowed bike and armed with only water,

a helmet and a headlamp. And once thrust onto this gravel trail, I most certainly hadn’t expected

to discover a piece of myself.

The first 14.7 miles I traveled easily; the trail sloped downhill the whole way. Our hike back

up the mountain presented my challenge: after less than a mile back on the gravel, I had a

paralyzing realization. As my body slowly turned to lead, begging already for relief, I

acknowledged that I was not capable of reaching the summit. My bike agreed with me, emitting

popping and grinding noises as I furiously shifted gears, searching for a reprieve. My uncle

expressed his irritation on his face, thankfully refraining from a verbal confirmation of my physical

inabilities as he attempted to usher me along. My vision narrowed, processing only the few feet of

path directly in front of me at any given moment. My teeth clenched, sweat poured down my

body, my head swam – incapable of vocalizing any thoughts, I simply pedaled on. My legs burned

severely, acute pain collecting in my kneecaps and running up my thighs. I gulped down all of my

water, my mouth tasted of ash; I felt as though I had swallowed my tongue. In my head, I

frantically concocted deals with God, making ludicrous promises if only He would carry me to the

top. My pride was shattered; blood no longer ran through my veins, only desperation.

Yet, I somehow found myself at the top of that mountain. I crawled off of my bike and fell

to the ground, panting. As I gulped down Gatorade, my throbbing muscles screamed in protest –

my legs locked in pedaling position, my toes curled. Eight hours it took me to travel those 29.4

miles; an unimpressive average speed of 3.7 miles per hour, yet I have never felt so accomplished.

While my uncle and his friends made plans to ride the trail again – evidently at a much faster pace

– I silently relished a personal discovery. I had accomplished my impossible. Yes, I limped off of

the plane three days later when I returned home, but every minute of my misery was worth it.

Disregarding the excruciating pain and the shame it inflicted, that mountain changed my life

mindset. When I boarded that plane back in Minneapolis, I hadn’t expected to uncover a life

lesson: that even when you tell yourself it can’t be done, if you keep pedaling, you will eventually

reach the top.

Truth

Calvin Nemec

Harvard is the oldest institute of higher learning in the United States, and in the summer

months its red bricked buildings are covered in ivy. I was the only one invited from my school to

attend a camp there for potential student athletes, and snapped up the chance to visit the most

prestigious university on earth. Arriving the day prior, I meandered about the campus and felt

young between the ancient oak trees. There were no students there in July; I was free to inspect

all the buildings free from the embarrassment of being seen as a newcomer by upperclassmen.

The stadium, which looked remarkably like the coliseum in Rome, was where I would spend the

majority of my time I assumed, so I eagerly climbed over a clearly locked gate, losing a flip flop in

the process.My fall was cushioned by imitation grass. The stadium was an enormous heat sink,

baking the rubber earth to my sole. I scampered up the retaining concrete walls onto the seats,

and ran up what seemed like hundreds of steps to the shaded area at the top, in hopes of relief

from the summer. The uppermost bleachers were iron and wood, and they were covered with

stone arches. I sat and listened to the wind between the sun baked stones.

The first thing they did was lie to me. The term: ‘All You Can Eat Breakfast,’ is never factual.

Every day was strictly regimented, and every official made sure you knew where you were at all

times. They took us through each marble laden building, assuring us it would be the last time to

ever see them for most of us. Then practice began. We stood, our helmets pressure cooking

between the sun and the heat stored in the turf. In warm ups, we spelled ‘Crimson,’ the team’s

mascot. It seemed then, just as soon as the several hundred of us were really ready to perform,

practice would end, promptly followed by an informational meeting in the weight room. I work out

in a garage, where the bar’s rust cut calluses into the most seasoned trainer’s hands. This hangar

smelled like it was cut from a Cedrela, and housed more machines than I could count.

They came from far and wide, the Panthers, Buccaneers and Chiefs, from Brownsville to

Caribou and everywhere in between; the old boys got them there. Hundreds of them, and among

them all I was alone. Speed lent herself to most of them, strength the rest; Clio was the only one in

my corner. Not to say I could not keep up, I just found it strange that many of my peers had never

heard of Atticus Finch or Tom Buchanan. However I found that most of the time spent at the

world’s premiere business community, rather than displaying these talents, we spent sitting in a

languor that resulted from poorly blocked schedule. During breaks they told tales of sharing their

house with hundreds; I could not get twenty two. I stared out below the shade of the trees,

dreaming to coax some of my fellow impatient seniors into returning to East Aurora with me, if

only until November. But Sunday came, and the weekend camp ended; under silent moonlight I

departed, picking the ivy stems off of my spikes.

Starsnake Ben Kutina

Chapter 1: Rumors

Rako, Diesel, and I were hanging out in the lounge of the Starsnake. Rako was surfing the Galactic

Web. Rako is insectoid, don’t ask me what species. There are so many different types of insectoid

that they pretty much all fall under the name “Bug”. This one has a red shell and six limbs. The

lower two he uses as legs and the others are arms. He’s almost useless in a fight, I wouldn’t keep

him around if it weren’t for his hacking skills. Right then he was checking law enforcement

databases for any new bounties. “Hey Ander,” he said, “check this out. You know Fayla Kazer? He’s

dead.”

“Fayla who?” Diesel popped his head out of the engine room. Diesel is of an avian species

called Cacks. His feathers have a pattern like orange and yellow tie-die. He is a mechanical genius!

He’s made so many repairs and modifications to the Starsnake I doubt there’s any of the original

ship left. He also lived on Earth for a while, so you might recognize some of his habits. Some place

called Texas, I think. Wherever it was he sure picked up an annoying accent there.

“You remember Kazer.” I said, “He gave us the tip-off we needed to find ‘Red-Eyes’ Rokke.”

Diesel nodded. I continued, “How did it happen?”

“Apparently he was smuggling a bomb when it went off.”

“That’s a load of Kawrick!” Diesel said. That last bit was in Roladian, Diesel’s native

language, but I don’t think I should translate it. “Kazer was a hit-man, not a smuggler! And anyway

he gave up crime!”

“It is weird.” I said. Me and Diesel exchanged a glance, and I knew we were suspecting the

same thing.

Okay, first you need some background information. ‘Red-Eyes’ Rokke was a gangster, THE

gangster, really. He got his nickname from his eyes, which were burned red by acid in a factory

accident. He was the most feared gangster in the galaxy until the Starsnake Team brought him

down. We found him on a lava-swollen planet called Kerrvix. In an attempt to escape, he caused a

volcano to erupt, burying the streets in lava. He tried to fly off a rooftop, but I shot him, and he

disappeared into the smoke. I ran to the edge and saw someone get swallowed by the lava. At the

time I assumed it was Rokke. But the thing is that ever since he disappeared there had been so-

called ‘Rokke sightings’. I thought they were just myths, like Elvis Presley sightings on Earth. But

Kazer’s death…

“We should check this out.” I said, “Let’s get the Starsnakes back together. Rako, contact

Baranco and Oddball. Diesel, help me prep the engines.” Diesel and I went into the engine room.

“What do you think Diesel,” I said as I refilled the coolant tanks. “You think it was Rokke?”

“Oh man, I hope not!” Diesel said fervently. “If Rokke didn’t kick the bucket back on

Kerrvix, we’re in more trouble than a big ole, fat turkey in November.”

I looked at him.

“What’s a turkey?” Rako called from the lounge. “And where’s November?” Diesel just

shook his head and chuckled. I turned back to the engines. I knew that even though Diesel was

acting lighthearted, he was dreading meeting Rokke again. After all, Rokke was a Cack as well. I

was pretty scared too. Though I didn’t admit it to the news, taking down Rokke had been our

hardest challenge yet. I’m still surprised we weren’t all killed.

Razona-4, Scrrik system.

The fourth moon around the gas giant Razona held a high level of an element known as Zellon. The

Prime Administrator of the Scrikk system made

prisoners mine for the radioactive substance

because it shorted out robots on contact. They

forced the prisoners to dig out the dangerous

stuff until they were practically dead from

radiation, then they sent in another shift. That

was the situation Hyena was in. His real name was Chekkar, but he was named after the wild earth

dog because of his wild laughter. He looked human except for the triangular ears that stood up

from his head and the golden eyes with horizontal slits for pupils. He had been in the mine for six

long hours when it happened. A vein of Zellon ignited in front of him, shorting out the droid that

was guarding him and causing the tunnel to cave in. He ran, barely escaping the collapse. He

barely had time to cackle in triumph when a collector droid grabbed him and shoved him into the

cargo hold of a Zellon freighter. He stood up and looked around the tank. Then a jolt laid him on

the floor again. The freighter was moving. He sat up and started giggling manically to himself. He

might have been crazy, but he could tell what was going on. It would take a day or two to dig

through all that rock. Even if they bothered, the radiation from the Zellon would have turned all

the prisoners into glowing green mush by then. They would have no way of knowing he was not

among the victims. He stretched himself out and put his arms behind his head. This has got ‘Red-

Eyes’ Rokke written all over it. He thought. He cackled wildly, his laughs echoing around the empty

tank. To be continued…

Imaginary

Nathaniel Straus

Alas Winter takes its first seasonal-breath, and blows. A coastless stampede of pallor is made, and across it, are flecks of snow.

Imagine this: pure, pristine, see-through; like the lofty melodies of angels. Something this delicate

has to be broken, for it cannot live in this world.

Take me to the heights of mountains, and even the depths of valleys, and I will tell you there is no place on Earth as beautiful as Imaginary.

Stars gaze from above, and gleam; moonlight and starlight, aurora all around me.

Sirius and Polaris converse: gossiping about their neighbor, Orion. If I could be anyone or anything of the spur, I would choose to be him.

Take me to the heights of mountains, and even the depths of valleys, and I will tell you there is no

place on Earth as beautiful as Imaginary.

Dribble, dribble: the flux of my breath in the salty ocean air. Swimming past me, a school of great white sharks--and nothing to stop me but a witless dare.

Again I say:

Take me to the heights of mountains, and even the depths of valleys, and I will tell you there is no place on Earth as beautiful as Imaginary.