2014
The Tumbler
CHIEF EDITORS Sara Nichterlein Kim Ravold
EDITORS
Elizabeth Gutierrez Jessica Molz
Oludunsin Olabinjo Christa Ouellette Gianna Santoro Jackie Sheaffer Maggie Swindells
Mentor: Ms. AnnMarie Byrnes
With special thanks to Sr. Claudette
for giving us a home when we had none
Copyright 2014
COVER ART: Jackie Sheaffer
ARTIST PHOTOGRAPHERS Jackie Sheaffer Kim Ravold
Peter David STAFF
Mike Balabon Tim Cusack
Sophie Czerniecki Monia Graham Alexandra Jacko Rayven Laing
The Tumbler 2014
a literary and art magazine produced annually by Holy Cross High School, Delran, NJ 08075
featuring work by students past, present, & future
See our expanded eTumbler 2014 online at www.holycrosshighschool.org or at
https://sites.google.com/a/holycrosshighschool
.org/ms-byrnes-english-class/
Plot Lines
By Kim Ravold
They say that they'll shoot for the moon and the stars
While we sit on the grass strumming broken guitars,
Breaking deals, losing bets, buying wishes.
But war's breaking out, we've got nowhere to run,
The night's getting strong in the dying day's sun.
And we've yet to return to the dishes.
The stovetop is burning, pot's spewing out steam,
And we'll try clinging on to the American Dream,
But we're lost, we're confused, and we're breaking.
The things is that no one observes the forgotten,
The misfits, the liars, the hearts that have
rotten,
Caught up in the life that we're faking.
But I've heard that it's better to try to be wise,
To stare at the books from sunset to sunrise, And look at our lives like a story.
Monotonous days are the killers of plots.
They'll make you forget to connect all the dots.
You'll be lost to the world in false glory.
And I've heard that it's better to try to be brave,
Forget all the rules, break some bones, misbehave.
It's a break in the cold repetition.
But adventures are odd, are confusing, are naught
But a dream once remembered, a dream I
forgot,
An escape from a failed rescue mission.
Bravery is known to go only so far
When your life's on the line and it kills what you are,
But this journey was made for a fighter.
So try to remember- it's not that you're weak.
Your bones will not shatter, your mind will not creak,
And from here it can only get brighter.
So sing your sad songs. You can grieve all you please.
Do whatever you think puts your body at ease.
Your burdens will soon start to lighten.
Your mind's seeing stars and your spirit can't die.
You're a life that was made to be more than a lie.
You're a life that was born to enlighten.
mermaid in a bathtub
told every day how special, how lovely,
never knowing what other creatures live in the sea.
By Jessica Molz
Squishy sand beneath my feet Palm-laden trees and frothy sea Laughter of children fills the air
I do not want to go back Mio Dio
The sound of waves reaches my ears Remember this.
Note:
These two poems were written collaboratively.
Each line was contributed by a Tumbler staff member.
It’s a new sensation
I’ve never felt this warm In the snow
There is a polar bear
With snow flakes like crystals in its fur While the sun starts to rise
And color spreads across the ice It looks so nice.
So peaceful and free
I could live in this moment forever As happy as can be
As the snow flakes fall everywhere
White on ground like skin so fair
I shiver.
A Child’s Poem
By Christa Ouellette
Sometimes when I feel blue I go to the zoo
Everything there isn’t always fuzzy, warm, and free But I don’t mind for only a ten dollar fee
I like to sit and draw different animals A lion plus a fish that is immense and tall
Each animal is different and the same like me and you There are funny monkeys and sad cockatoos
Or maybe there’s a crazed giraffe and a hyena who likes to say “BOO!”
That’s what I like about this place
It flips upside-down the frown on my face
So when you aren’t feeling like your best you
Just think of a place to be the opposite of blue
Grandfather
the smell of salt water Old Spice and Budweiser a laugh filled
with the sounds of family calloused hands
and warm brown eyes
the man who was proud of me who made sure
I knew he loved me his smile full of mischief the kind that never grows up and a faint accent
even years in America couldn't get rid of
where I got my stubborn from he also taught me to laugh My Pop isn't the easiest man but he loves me with all his heart
By Danielle Newman, Class of 2013
Grandmother
gentle hands warm hugs
the smell of sunshine and home lifting voice
smiling eyes quietly listening letting us know
when we've done wrong in that quiet way
that tells us
she loves us anyway so patient
so loving the most just the most fair
woman i have ever met her Irish eyes are smiling proudly watching her grandchildren
grow into adults
For You
By Christa Ouellette
Your eyes are the sun that always shines bright, sweeter than Swiss Miss with two feet of snow.
When I'm in your arms, everything feels right.
It is my love and care I want to show, but I know no other way than writing.
I wish I never will forget the ways...
The thought of you shoots through me as lightning.
My pulse stops as I gaze into your gaze.
Your dark chocolate eyes meet my crystal blues.
Goosebumps rise at the touch of your rough skin.
Your smile always seems to me so true, Your heart inside, incapable of sin.
And even though our love is just brand new, I will always do anything for you.
Note: This poem was published by Creative Communications.
25 Years After By Katie Ward
Art by Yori Elita Narpati at yorinarpati.deviantart.com
Willow Mellark and her brother Rye grow up in Panem,
twenty-five years after the last Hunger Games.
"Are we there yet?" Rye whines. I grit my teeth. He's been complaining for the past half-hour, and Mom looks like she's going to snap something in half. Dad, with saint-like patience, smiles.
"Almost."
We're on our way to Memoria City, where there will be a televised memorial for all those lost in the Second Rebellion. Mom and Dad were both rebels back then, and leaders of Panem. That's what we learned in school, along with videos of how it looked after the Rebellion and stories of the old days, when kids would be forced to fight to the death in an arena. My parents were in that too. I guess everybody sees them as leaders, but they don't know how cranky Mom is without her coffee or how Dad is the absolute worst at helping us with our math homework. To me they're just my stubborn, protective, adventurous, ordinary parents.
Before I know it, we're pulling into the shining city. Rye jumps out of his seat as soon as the train pulls to a stop. A few people are milling about at the station. A red-haired woman is getting out at the same time as us, in a car across the platform. She has a sort of weird stare on her face, as if she's not fully here with us. With her is a grinning blonde man.
Annie Cresta, and her son Finnick.
Mom and Dad drag Rye and I over to their old friends, whom they hug and talk with.
"Why are you staring at him?" Rye whispers.
"Who?"
"Finnick," he replies, and before I can stop him he's grinning and
teasing me. "Willow has a crush, Willow has a crush!" He taunts, jumping
out of my reach before I can hit him.
Mom sees us fooling around and grabs Rye's hand while Dad grabs mine, and Rye and I are dragged away into the building where the ceremony will be held. Finnick waves to me as I go, and I nearly faint.
Inside the building, there's hundreds of rooms and hallways, enough to get lost in for days. We drop our bags off in our assigned room, then head down to the Banquet Hall, where Mom and Dad can reunite with old friends before having the televised Memorial.
There aren't a lot of people there yet, but Mom and Dad smile when they see them. In the corner there's a woman shouting at a guard, who looks terrified. Two elderly men are sitting in seats, one with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. A small group of people are by the far wall, talking jovially about something. And a group of three women and one man, one of the women with skin a pale green, around a table, laughing.
"Looks like Johanna's having fun," Mom mutters to Dad, as they glance at the shouting woman. Dad smirks, and they walks over to the two
elderly men.
"Plutarch," Mom nods. Both of the men get up and kiss Mom on the cheek and shake Dad's hand. "Haymitch, nice to see you haven't changed much."
"Don't know what you mean by that, sweetheart," Haymitch replies, but takes a long swig of his whiskey and grins at her.
"You've met the kids before. Rye, Willow, this is Haymitch."
"You look like your mom," he tells me. "Perhaps you have her gentle, endearing nature too," he drawls.
"Oh, she does, so I'd watch out, Haymitch," Dad laughs. Mom gives Haymitch a withering gaze, but before she can respond, a woman glides over to us, followed by two women and one man.
"Effie," Mom greets.
The woman gives her a hug, then Dad, then me and Rye. "Oh, you two look just like your parents. Simply darling. Katniss, you look lovely as always. I love what you've done with your hair."
"Thank you, Effie."
"Oh, you should go see Cressida, she has the cutest pictures of her new baby. And Pollux-- Oh, Katniss, he's become such a popular filmmaker it's hard to even meet with him for lunch!"
"Octavia, Venia, Flavius, you're all looking well," Dad interrupts, only to stop the endless flow of chatter.
They all look very.... colorful. One has green skin, another has orange hair, and the third has gold tattoos on her face. They stare at me and Rye until my skin crawls, and I inch behind my mother.
"Oh, look at that, she's shy!" one of them coos. Mom glances down at me.
"Well, we'd better get going. It looks like the ceremony's about to start," Dad says. They nod. Effie kisses us all on the cheek.
There's a table at the front where those making a speech will sit:
Plutarch, my parents, President Smith, Johanna, and a few other people who were rebels in the Second Rebellion. When we all try to sit down, one of the guards tells me that the table is only for those making a
speech. It takes my mother a few seconds to realize that he means we'll have to sit at a different table. She gets so infuriated at that and makes such a fuss that finally he just pulls up two extra chairs next to Dad and Mom's seats. Mom glares daggers at him as we pass.
The shouting woman sits next to me just before the ceremony starts.
She looks at me smugly.
"Johanna Mason. You're Katniss and Peeta's kid." I nod.
She looks like she's going to say something snarky, but stops. "Your
parents and I go way back," she tells me softly.
President Smith comes to the podium, cutting off our conversation.
"Hello, Panem. It's been twenty-five years since our glorious revolution, and every day we remember the sacrifice of those who lost their lives for the cause." A few seats over, Mom rolls her eyes at his ______. "And we honor the heroes who led us to freedom. Without further ado, here is Katniss Mellark."
Mom gets up and walk to the podium. Unlike everyone else, she doesn't have notes or flashcards for a speech. "It's been a while since the Second Rebellion, and yet I know that most of you have not gone a day without thinking about someone that you lost. I lost so many over the years. All the Tributes from the 74
thand 75
thHunger Games, whom I couldn't save. My sister and father. Nearly everyone in my Squad, most of whom died protecting me.
“We weren't supposed to fight." She takes a deep breath. "Nobody was supposed to fight. Not the children, in the Hunger Games, or you all, in the rebellion. Nobody. But we did. We fought. We lost those we loved.
We suffered." I think this is maybe the only time I've ever seen my mother cry.
"I, for one, think about the Rebellion every day. How it hurt us. And how it strengthened us. How we repaired ourselves as a people. How we will never again become like we were: fearful and weak. I know how much it hurts, after twenty-five years, to be reminded of those who die.
But they died for a reason. They died for a cause. My little sister, and the people in my Squad, and the people in District 12. They all died for a reason."
She pauses for a moment, to let that sink in, before she points at our
table. I look around to see who she's pointing at, but when a big picture
of me appears on the screen, I know she's pointing at me.
"This is my daughter, Willow. People say she looks a lot like me."
People smile. That's an understatement, they're thinking.
"I know that she has my spirit, too, because I've seen her helping people around our District. I've heard that she stands up for her classmates in school. She loves her brother endlessly. The only thing different about her and I . . . is that she'll never have to grow up afraid that she'll die. Or that she'll be forced to kill someone. Or that she'll be starving, or cold, or poor.
“Things are better now. For our children, and their children, and their children. In our sacrifice and loss, we have secured a better future for the generations to come.
“And so I ask you, when you are thinking about those we loved and
lost, to remember one thing: They did not die in vain. They died for the
future of Panem, and the future of our children, and for freedom."
what i'm worth by Jess Molz
i curled my hair this morning and my fingers, too
around the barrel of the iron which made me good enough.
i held it long and fast to my head
'til the reek of burning hair filled the bathroom and ruddy sores swelled on the crown of my skull and the tresses fell away acrid and melting
in perfect spinning pinwheels
which clogged the sink with prettiness.
i blacked my eyes this morning with mascara and bruises.
darker, prettier, more makeup, i said;
'til indigo aurora bloomed on my skin
an infection so tender, so pretty, like flowers trailing from neck to chest to inner thigh.
harder and harder and angrier i pressed 'til none of me was visible, only garden skin to hide the hideous girl beneath
in lovely, lacy, velvety pain.
i dressed before the mirror this morning;
tied corset strings around my neck and slid on rings of thorns, which cut
like hangnails slipped down to the knuckles.
i stood back arched and braced against the glass
while fingers wandered sensually over xylophone ribs.
a moment gathering breath, eyes closed - then violently the hands pressed in
and crack;
the new dress slipped on beautiful over bones splintered inwards
pushing comely against organs.
good.
and i thought of all the compliments i would get from all the girls with broken fingernails
run chipped across mottled skin;
girls just like me, whom i loved
who determine my worth in a passing glance.
and though my grin always shows through lips pulled back by staples
i smiled and smiled 'til my lips split the corners.
and my laughter sounded raw and hoarse with pain of overuse
and my eyes popped out of their sockets when they cried, yellowed and burning and i was so happy i shook and seized as i looked down at what i had done - so beautiful, finally good
enough.
Note:
This poem won a literary award at the 2014 NJ Teen
Arts Festival
and was chosen for their annual showcase. It has also been published.
By Kim Ravold
I dream of Dreams
By Alexandra Louise Jacko
The sun is extinguished streets are vacant
eyes are closed minds are dreaming
An athlete down the street
dreams of playing on his favorite team.
With the score tied,
he makes the winning touchdown, the crowd chants his name.
A baker across the way
dreams of running her own shop.
Butter-cream icing,
swirled on cookies and cakes,
what delicious beauty she creates.
The girl in this house
dreams of changing the world.
White lab coat on,
searching for answers in her microscope, making new discoveries every day.
The athlete awakens, as does the baker.
I wake with a passion--
to make my dream come true.
Phantoms
by Arigo Oghoghome A bright light greets me.
It's jarring at first,
but The realization that my existence has begun quickly shakes me to my senses and I take my first breath.
I bend my head back to see the blazing blue sky above me.
When I look down, the wet and cold grass beneath my feet reveals to me what I'll be standing on for my years to come.
I peek to my to my sides and am greeted by countless spirits who have also just begun their trudge through this volatile journey we know as life.
These are those who will serve as my companions.
It is now that the idea of "I" begins to set in.
The thought that who I am is different from who you are.
The notion that at any given time
even for all of my days, weeks, months and years spent wandering about, I will only ever be me begins to smother me with an otherworldly grasp.
The nature of this idea is as one which can both frighten, and enthrall simultaneously.
One which to some serves as their reason to embrace existence and meet new people, and to some as their very reason not to.
I begin to understand feelings as I experience the coolness of summer breezes when they roll across my face,
and the warming of winter suns as they gaze down upon me.
It's now that I begin to wonder if "feeling" is really objective.
To me the slight chill of that summer breeze might seem utterly frigid and be the coldest thing I've experienced in my whole life
It might be a thing which serves as a stark reminder of the events which transpire beneath this 9th cloud
I've been so doggedly protected by since I can remember.
But to some that fleeting feeling of warmth given off by the winter sun might be So unexplainably alien to them it sears and burns their very soul
as they wonder if that is what love might feel like.
Only as this bright light fades do I ever reach the conclusion that no matter what,
Whenever I look at someone's face,
absorb every detail of their outward being, and they do the same for me
We will never know
what's really going on behind those mysterious white orbs we call eyes.
A Second Too Late
By Jenna Markiewicz
I was there
To watch another life wasted The phone in his hand He was calm and attentive
With the words he read
Eyes wondering across the screen One hand to steer the car
the other holding the piece of destruction The headlights flashed before that little girl's eyes
Who just wanted to be home for dinner in time The man didn't slow down
My heart raced I felt helpless Then a loud crash My knees weakened
Was the phone worth this precious 12 year old girl's life?
The driver got out the car Stared at the lifeless body Kicked her bike to the side Panicked and fell to his knees The sound of sirens filled the air
25 years in jail He meant no harm
But he was a second too late That text could have waited That girl could have been home
Happy as ever
She could have lived a successful life But she's gone
Just because of one mistake To watch another life wasted
I was there
Innocence and Adolescence By Sara Nichterlein
Mama put the bottle down
That slick poison doesn't deserve to touch your soft lips
It's hard to adapt
I hope Kayla finds it easier Mama put the bottle down I heard Dad remarried
His new kids are spoiled brats
Don't be sad, his wife reminds me of a monster Mama put the bottle down
This apartment smells like death I miss waking up to warm sunshine Where did your smile go?
Mama put the bottle down Kayla got honor roll
I thought we could celebrate somehow I'll give her the dollar I found on the street Mama put the bottle down
I made a friend His name is Joshua
We both like visiting the lake Mama put the bottle down I got sent to the principal's office They don't like my sense of humor It's not my fault I can't pay attention Mama put the bottle down
I got a job to help with the bills You can be pleased now
The electricity will return soon Mama put the bottle down I might have stolen something
My job isn't enough to keep you content Hopefully Joshua won't notice
Mama put the bottle down I hate school
Everyone thinks I'm strange
They gave me a journal to write in
Mama put the bottle down
Documenting my thoughts doesn't help
Kayla told me something was wrong with my eyes They seem a more dull blue than usual
Mama put the bottle down Joshua got a girlfriend Her name is Heather
I think she's attracted to me though Mama put the bottle down
Joshua's angry at me
Heather told him what we did He's threatened to hurt Kayla Mama please put the bottle down I did a bad thing
You're all Kayla has left now Please take care of her
Mama I need you to put the bottle down I feel a sense of freedom
Behind these cold bars we're all the same They're sending me to therapy
Mama I wish you had put the bottle down Your children are alright
Kayla's such a beautiful young woman She's strong, like you once were
Mama I wish you the best
I'll be the parent Kayla never knew She'll be safe I promise
Be safe up there
Baby Blue Notebook
By Sara Nichterlein
Author's Note: This is the prologue of the upcoming novel I am writing
about the hardships and struggles of a young man named Adeon Moore and how he develops through adolescence. Within the novel,
contemporary topics such as divorce, alcohol abuse, and teenage
depression are covered. The story is told through Adeon's perspective and covers his life from his parents’ divorce, when he was ten, up until he turns eighteen.
They're making me keep a journal now.
It wasn't anything special, but apparently writing down my thoughts and emotions was supposed to help me “cope” with everything that's
happened. I personally found no interest.
It was a baby blue, raggedy, spiral-ringed notebook that had my name hastily scribbled on the front with a dollar-store pen. Inside the front cover was a small photograph of my younger sister and me. She said that
looking at her picture would cheer me up. I think I like her methods better than the doctors'.
“This book represents the days leading up to...” I paused. Leading up to what? The day I lost all hope in the world? The day they took my sister? I shook my head and ripped out the first page of the notebook, tossing the crumpled ball of paper onto the corner.
“This is the life I've chosen to live and the accounts that have caused me
to be who I am. My name is Adeon Moore.”
Stains
By Sara Nichterlein
Tiring arduous days I stare blankly
My tattered baby blue notebook Hanging loosely from my fingertips Sloppy writing
It stains the page
Ink marks and smudges
My writing hand is unclean
Long hours of the night
I stay in these confines
Of marginalized sanctity
I'm free here
Starlight
By Christa Ouellette
Looking up Midnight so alive
Stars shining Dancing lights Formations (I see)
Picturesque night Frost bitten
Ears, nose, (and) fingers Eyes to sky
Fires of night Twinkle above
Far from me Radiant
Friends of the Full Moon
Starry Nights
why would you say what you're not?
By Mary Liz White
I wonder if you have many mornings
when you wake up more tired than the night before I hope it's not out of line
for me to say that you wear your scars very elegantly.
I think it's very pleasant – I think that you should try To watch the clouds break at dawn
Before all of the cars come out
These days, who can afford to be emotional?
(we can be honest now)
A straight and fast escape route is the best investment anyway.
I think we're past the trappings now, so,
I'd like to confess I harbor a certain fondness for you.
how quaint to toss out the metaphors and be simple.
I hope your summer has been well, but, in the spirit of bluntness, I've been sad.
Remember that book we read
and someone said “sad” would become obsolete.
You would be either happy or unhappy.
But I think – and I think you'd agree -
that “unhappy” leaves some doubt in the mind.
there are many places between happy and sad
why would you say what you're not? I am sad.
I think we are in different places
if you will forgive the burdensome metaphor you are at a pinnacle, and I, a plateau
Winston and Julia were not high romance or anything so simmering Only a rare juxtaposition of right place and right time.
Here, I think, we can analyze the finer points of need versus want.
Have you seen the way the trees look from up here?
If you don't mind – take my hand tightly and look at the leaves with me.
Don't say anything; don't try to fix me. Watch the boughs sway
Funny – how if you ignore the leaves long enough, their colors change I think autumn is coming. You can let go now.
Late Afternoon
By Peter Nguyen David
Peter won first place in the digital photography category of the 2014 New Jersey Teen Arts Festival.
His photograph was displayed in the art galleries at the Burlington County Library and Smithville Mansion.
World Exploded by Grace Grady
The red car sped down the highway, resembling a tiny, fragile lady bug among the giant trucks and vans surrounding it. However, the five people inside weren't aware at all of how vulnerable they were.
"Are we there yet?" Chrystal said in an exaggerated whine, twirling her dark curls around her finger, causing laughter from Todd and snorts from the rest.
Even Ivy laughed, even though she was still nervous. She has just started driving two months ago, and she still felt strange every time she started to get into a car. And yet here she was, driving four of her friends to the shore, all the way from Ohio.
She hadn't wanted to drive, but her twin sister Lynn had. They'd both gotten cars from their parents for their birthday, and their friends had all wanted to go to a real beach, not Lake Michigan or a similar swimming hole. So here they were, heading to the Jersey Shore, Lynn and Ivy each driving a car of four passengers, shoved so tightly into the relatively small cars that barely a second passed without the sound of an elbow hitting something and a muffled groan or giggle.
Ivy didn't like to admit it but the situation scared her. She didn't like having all five of their lives in her hands as she drove at high speeds down the rain-slicked concrete of the highway. The huge, sixteen wheeled trucks passing on her either side and turning
constantly onto the highway from side roads didn't set her mind at ease either.
"Seriously, Ivy, how much farther?" asked Todd, obliviously taking up the more of the backseat than was his fair share, pushing Chrystal and Leila over to their respective sides.
Ivy sighed and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "Well, we've been driving for five hours. It can't be more than two more before we meet at the hotel. Let me check where Lynn is."
She glanced around the road to make sure there was nothing immediately coming
and then stuck her hand in her gold purse, sitting next to her between the front seats,
rummaging around for her cell phone. Ivy tried to keep her eyes on the slippery road,
especially keeping an eye on the orange sixteen wheel truck in the lane next to hers
moving in her direction.
Her hand finally closed over the familiar cool square shape of her cell phone and pulled it up. Glancing down, she clicked the contacts icon on her phone and started to scroll down and find Lynn's number. She looked back up for a second, and then back down. Scrolling through her "a" contacts, then "b".
Suddenly she was aware of loud noise. There was an odd squealing, grating sound, and all the rest of her car passengers were screaming and yelling. What was going on?
"IVY ! NO-LOOK!"
"STOP! TURN! IVY!"
"DON'T, IVY! IVY!"
Ivy looked up and out the front window. The last thing she saw was the front of the
orange truck and the median strip both growing closer to the car. The truck collided and
the world exploded around her.
moose/muse by Jessica Molz
how are you going to find your moose if you don't look for him?
you'd think he would be easy to spot;
he's got antlers.
but moose are funny in that sort of way:
they hide stubbornly when you're searching and lick the back of your neck when you've turned around and given up.
he doesn't seem to like you, your moose.
but that's not true - he's just unruly.
even if his talents are not as good as some of the others',
stay with him; he'll learn; he's young.
don't stop and leave him to starve.
don't look for a better pet.
your eye is trained though your moose is not;
but he will be, if you keep at it long enough.
then he'll win blue ribbons at the county fair
and you'll ride him around in the labor day parade, him heeding the reins, and happily too.
you'll be the talk of the town, just you and your moose
but only if you treat him right.
show him some faith and feed him your love.
he is only as good as your own efforts are.
Little old us
By Kim Ravold
Perhaps we are most poetic at one in the morning because That is the point where we feel most alive.
And we inscribe our names on the wall in hopes that they will mean something,
Even years from now.
But we are wrong to hope that, Or rather,
Wrong to think that that is what we hope.
Because the truth is, years from now,
those that read the names on the wall will likely not know you, Know who you were,
Know who you will become.
We know this. We've known this since day one.
What's attractive to us is the idea attached to those names, The idea that those names were once a part of something greater than little old us,
The idea that those who entered and exited the stage left a part of them to thrive
Within the spirit of the years to come.
Our names will not matter. But the things we do will.
And if you think for even a second that this anything less than inspiring,
Take a step back.
Against all odds, against all fears, We made it.
We are here.
By Kim Ravold
there's a dark color to the things that I write some words in velvet
and others in bronze
there's a loud sound at the end of the highway tiniest pinpricks but
growing ever closer
there's a certain slant of light that I stole from a better poet right out of the air
over her sickbed.
catch.
3 poems by Juliet
The Narcissist
how funny it seems to think of a we
through the eyes of an I
and to wonder what other eyes are like to see through
and what other Is
are like to think through when you will
never ever know.
for is it not mere threadbare trust that allows you to believe
that something else thinks
behind those pretty stranger's eyes?
Writing
writing without looking -
thinking without understanding
it's a wonderful world in which we live
that you can avoid ending a sentence with a preposition
and half the world will call you smart
and the other half will call you pretentious
and you can't decide which side is right
and which is better.
Leap of Faith By Kim Ravold
This blog post published on October 3, 2013 is from my 'Techno Teen Travel Adventure' series. To see the five other stories about my educational travel experience, please visit
www.peopletopeople.com/blog/authors/kim.ravold .
Picture this:
You are twenty feet off of the ground, standing on top of a pole so skinny, your toes are hanging off the edge. Just in front of you, but entirely out of reach, is a wooden bar. You know that you're supposed to jump for it, but with the breeze swaying your balance, you can't see how that even remotely bears any resemblance to a good idea. Below you, your friends and
acquaintances and even some people that you've only just met are calling your name and cheering you on.
“Well,” you think, with your arms stretched out like wings as if to keep you from falling, “I've gotten this far. I might as well jump for it.” And so you take a deep breath, then take another. After a third, you call out, “3...2...1,” bend your knees, and jump.
Some might think you're crazy. Some might think you're downright insane.
But it doesn't matter, because in that moment, you are taking a leap of faith in the most literal way. You're falling so fast that you might as well be flying.
You are making it happen.
This is the magic known as the Full On Program in Tui Ridge, Rotorua. I'll be honest. When I took my 'leap of faith' and stretched my hands out to catch the bar, I fell a little short. Thankfully, my belay team was paying attention and my safety harness kept me from hitting the ground too hard.
Either way, I still did something I've never done before and accomplished something I'm proud of.
Full On is a program unique to People to People, and it's something that
really reinforces the lessons learned about unity by employing two crucial life
skills –trust and teamwork. As you might have already guessed, when you're
twenty feet in the air, safety is an important factor. My life was in the hands of
my belay team, the people that were holding the ropes that would prevent
me from falling. And those very ropes were in the hands of my fellow
delegates. I had to trust them and they had to work together to ensure my
safety. It was a nerve-wracking experience, but I never doubted them.
Our adventures on the rope courses only lasted an hour or two, and after each helmet and safety harness were put away, we headed back to the main camp to discuss the events that had just transpired. We learned a lot about ourselves that day. Ultimately, we are in charge of our own lives, and while we may not be in control of the things that happen to us, we get to choose how it affects our lives, and we get to choose where we go from there. We learned that with a positive attitude, we can move mountains. Most
importantly, we learned that it is always within our ability to achieve our goals.
At one point during the day, each Student Ambassador was handed a wooden board. We were told that in a few minutes, we were going to get to break it in half. The Full On instructors showed us two different techniques to break the board, and then we broke up into groups to try for ourselves.
Having never taken a karate class in my life, I wasn't sure what to expect. I didn't think that it would be easy, and I was right. While not as difficult as jumping from the pole, the task still seemed a little daunting when I placed my board on the cinder blocks and knelt beside it. My instructor reviewed one of the techniques with me, and then it was my turn to try. The truth is that I didn't break it on the first try, or the second try, or the third. It was then that my instructor suggested a different technique. And on the fourth try . . . I destroyed it!
My day at Full on remains to be one of my favorite days of the trip, and I am so very glad that I was able to partake in the adventure. While we were still out on the ropes, I took a moment to look at all of my friends on the other courses and really appreciate what was happening. Some looked more comfortable than others, and some looked a little shocked to be so far off of the ground, but everyone had someone offering cheers and moral support.
As for my personal experience at Full On, I learned that there's a lot of
success in the face of failure. I wasn't able to grab onto the bar. I wasn't able
to break my board on the first try. But I still climbed the pole and found the
courage to jump off of it. I was still able to break the board because I kept
trying. It just goes to show what you can do with the right mindset and a
positive attitude.
Parochial Quietus By Maureen Masucci, Class of 1997
In memorium of St.
Casimir's in
Riverside, NJ
Brown brick carcasses
scattered like confetti throughout the land
of milk and honey.
Yellowing, moth-eaten drapery revealing dusty
crucifixes and portraits of The Blessed Mother and her Son
Jesus Christ.
Tin roofs leak slowly
crying tears of abandonment.
Regimented bell schedules, Church hymns and children
at play replaced with a
deafening silence.
The Foundation By Christa Ouellette
Little blue eyes and First starting steps
Hopscotch and blowing bubbles A-B-C and G-O-D
In my beginning.
Reading and Singing A tale of Noah's Ark A nurtured and new class
Soon to be gone
All my beginnings lie within a building
where angels once watched over children
But where do they go when the bank is empty And foundations are torn apart?
The Pursuit of College
Part 1: The Waiting Game
25 college visits. 15 essay corrections. 10 applications. Getting into the college of your choice, priceless. I have never been so anxious to check for the mail. Before going out to the mailbox for my parents was a hassle, but now I find myself sprinting to the mailbox right when I get home from school. I've filled out the applications, written the essays, taken the SAT's/ACT's. Now all I can do is wait. I've worked hard throughout my whole high school career to get the grades I needed, play the sports, and join the clubs.
Somehow I still find my anxiety kicking in, afraid that I won't get excepted to the university of my choice. The pain and countless fights this subject has caused between my family is insane. I'm starting a new chapter in my life, this should be a great
experience for me. Conversations in classes and lunch tables somehow always gets around to college and the stress that is riding on our backs. I'm getting gray hair over this and I am way too young to have gray hair.
Part 2: The Big Envelope
The day had finally arrived. I reach into the mailbox and pull out a big college envelope. I ran into the house and ripped it open like a kid opening their presents on Christmas morning. I gasp as I see the letter congratulating me on my acceptance. A huge burden is lifted from my shoulders. Now, even if this is not my first choice, at least I know I'm going to some college. I called my parents to tell them the great news. After the first one came, it seemed like everyday another nice rectangular surprise came in the mail. Talks with my friends now focused around where we have been accepted too and if we got scholarships or not. Just when I thought the stress of getting accepted had finally subsided, I now have to decide which university I want to attend next fall. And to think I could finally enjoy senior year...
By Taylor Cowan, class of 2013
Hope
Anonymous
It’s Kindergarten
The teacher gathers us all around in Circle
“Say what you want to be when you’re older,” the teacher said The first boy stands up and shouts, “I want to be a fireman.”
A little girl stands out and shouts, “I want to be a dancer!”
A shy boy sitting in the circle whispers, “I want to write.”
The teacher and other students laugh and giggle at what the kids say.
It’s Middle School
“Say what you want to be when you’re older,” the teacher said.
The first boy shouts, “I want to be a football player!”
A young girl says, “I want to be a Broadway star.”
A shy boy in the corner whispers, “I want to write books.”
The teacher and other students laugh at the students’ dreams of their future.
It’s High School
The senior class is close to graduating
“Say what you want to be after college,” the teacher said
The first boy awkwardly stands up and says, “Um, I’m not sure, maybe I’ll be a teacher.”
The young girl, now a beautiful woman, stands up and says, “I want to be a singer but my parents want me to go into nursing.”
Lastly the shy boy stands up and shouts, “I’m going to be a famous writer!”
At what age do we give up on our dreams?
We start off at a young age believing that anything is possible if we believe it is.
Then we learn that sometimes we can’t follow our dreams because we have to be realistic.
We are supposed to do whatever is best even if it’s not what we want.
Why must we live by this rule?
Why must be stop dreaming at a certain age?
Why can’t the girl that sits next to you become a singer?
Why can’t the guy to your right become a football player?
I believe that our dreams and goals give us hope for our futures.
Into the Void
By Anthony Rybka, Class of 2010
Yuri sat in the cockpit of his spacecraft and stared at the planets and stars that surrounded him. Even though he was traveling over five hundred kilometers per hour, they did not seem to move. Here he was so insignificantly small that, even should he spend the rest of his life in this craft at this same speed, he could perhaps see 1/20th of the
cosmos – if that much. Yuri shivered. Would it have killed the space agency to install some form of heating on the craft? “It must be less than 10 degrees Celsius in here. And how long is this supposed to last?” There was no answer – not that Yuri expected one. Mother Russia was still experimenting with single-person flights to the moon. Yuri was alone out here.
He slowly let loose a shallow breath and watched it hang in the air for a moment, and then slowly dissipate. Today was the first day of his
journey; it was 15 o’clock. About this time in two days, he will have reached the moon. His comrades before him gave the cosmos
engineers enough knowledge to give Yuri a successful launch, a decent confidence rate in his spacesuit, and a rudimentary understanding of how to approach a moon landing. None of them were successful in their missions, but their sacrifices can still see pride in Yuri’s success.
His mission is first and foremost to land on the moon and obtain photographic evidence, but also to recover samples of anything he could find there. He had a good feeling that he would be the first man on the moon. He also had a sinking feeling that it’s more likely that he would join the innumerable “prototype missions” that had failed before him, but Yuri stashed the thought at the back of his mind.
He pulled a sleeping bag out of a drawer, immersed himself into it, and slid into a small nook meant to hold him while he slept. It was warmer here. To Yuri, one of the most confusing aspects of the cosmos was that there was, of course, no day or night cycle. The interior of his craft was always brightly lit, and he couldn’t just flip a switch to make it dark.
Maybe he would suggest that shutters would be installed for future craft? He checked his watch again: it was quarter past 15 o’clock. He closed his eyes and thought about home, and sleeping in his bed.
Maybe he could trick his mind into feeling just warm enough for a short nap. He felt his heavy woolen quilt rest against his body while his
fireplace crackled across the room. He slipped into a deep sleep.
In his dream, his vision was completely dark. He was able to hear and feel his slow, steady breaths. He could not feel any clothing against his skin, and he did not feel any ground beneath his feet. He swept his arms back and forth, but could not find any walls. “Where am I?” He willed to speak the words, but they did not come. All he heard was his breathing. Then, starting at his fingertips and his toes, Yuri felt a chill, as if someone had placed ice cubes against them. He panicked and flailed where he was floating, but could not escape the sensation. It then crept up his fingers and encased his whole hand – and then, his feet, up to his ankles. It unevenly advanced along his limbs, as if slugs were crawling on him, leaving an icy trail in their wake. Then, it spread to his torso, and all of the icy trails coalesced into his heart. Its beats began to fade away, but instead of stopping completely, sent ice traveling through his veins and arteries. His limbs went
numb as the ice traveled to his extremities, and then he felt it shooting up his spine. His limbs abruptly became numb. He felt a piercing chill at the very back of his head, and as it swept forward, his breathing became quieter. Before he lost his last breath, he was able to realize that he was dreaming, and willed himself awake.
His eyes took a few moments to adjust back to the harsh light of the craft. Yuri checked his watch: 00:01. “Nice!” He left the slumber enclosure and floated over to his workstation. He pulled a small
envelope out of his luggage, opened it, and took out from it a stack of photos. He wanted to keep himself grounded while in the cosmos, so he toured his hometown and took pictures of his favorite spots. One was of his college, where he studied physics and linear algebra. The other was of a convenience store he would visit daily during high school. Before long, he reached the last photo in the collection: a mechanical calculator that he built before enrolling in the cosmos
program. Maybe he should have taken pictures of his friends. Maybe he should have made friends at all during school. Maybe he should have taken pictures of his family. Yuri shivered. “It doesn’t matter now,
anyway. I’ll take more pictures later.” Yuri replaced the envelope inside of his luggage, and drifted off towards the observation port.
It was a magnificent glass bubble that half-stuck out of the craft;
almost like a sun room for the cosmos. It had a small sofa-like area where Yuri strapped himself down to keep from floating away. He stared into the stars, first focusing on certain parts, and then allowing his eyes to defocus completely. The stars had moved while he slept, albeit very slightly, and they don’t seem to be moving any more right now. “How cool would it be if I took a picture from the cockpit every half hour, and when I got back to earth, I assembled it into a five minute slideshow? Then I could see the stars move around me.
Everyone could.” Yuri thought about this a moment longer and soon came to a realization. “What if I don’t ever get to take pictures of my family? What if I don’t ever get to show my town my slideshow? What if these don’t happen because I never get home, period?”
Yuri was alone. If something went wrong, a hug, a cup of hot cocoa, and some time with a Beatles’ record wouldn’t be able to solve it. If he had a heart attack, or a blood clot, or a stroke, there would be nobody to call for a doctor for him, and there were no mentors should he
encounter a situation he did not know how to repair. What if the last time he would ever hold another human’s hand was one week ago?
What if all of his memories, especially the ones that perfectly exemplify the world’s beauty – his old love’s eyes, the equations he worked so hard to solve, the sunrises and sunsets over his favorite lake, and so, so many more – missed their opportunity to be passed onto another’s mind, and died with him in the cosmos? The tears that formed in Yuri’s eyes blurred his view of the cosmos from the observation port, but he knew that the stars sat still in their place. They wouldn’t move for him.
They wouldn’t move for anyone.
Yuri spent the next day entrapped within his own existential crisis. He brought some paper in order to note what he found on the moon, but found it more important to jot down whatever he could, whatever memories needed to live on should he not be able to. He tried his best to remember the kind people in his life, and shed more tears when he couldn’t remember the voices or faces of some of them. He shivered.
He wrote short notes that he’d want people to read – a few apologies to those he’s scorned, a few gratitudes to those he hasn’t yet thanked, and kind words that he’d long waited to deliver. He silently cursed that he hadn’t snuck any vodka aboard – he’s never been
trapped alone with his thoughts quite like this, and he’d wager a few drinks would make the ride go easier. Instead, he chose to sleep. He checked his watch: 10:01. “I have time. Not enough time for me to write everything down, but too much time before I reach the moon and can finally turn this ship around.” He felt his eyelids grow heavy and let the sensation of giving in to sleep engulf him. He didn’t dream this time, and on a subconscious level, that was pleasant. Yuri’s mind was put on hold for several hours, drifting slightly but not held by any sort of gravity. He was at peace.
A BANG! jolted Yuri out of sleep, and it was soon accompanied by a hissing noise. Yuri scanned the cabin, bewildered as to his situation.
Then, the cabin grew brighter! Shadows danced against a wall, joined by popping noises and bursts of light. Yuri threw himself out of the sleeping compartment and pulled himself along the wall, peeked his
head around the corner, and saw a fire. A broken pipe was funneling what must be oxygen directly into the flame, and it grew steadily. Yuri tried his hardest to quickly float his way to the cockpit’s control panel.
As he suspected, oxygen reserves were hemorrhaging. He guided himself back to assess the pipe. The fire had grown exponentially, and the pipe was now inaccessible, as well as its shutoff switch. Yuri floated back over to the control panel. Estimations of remaining oxygen
fluctuated wildly – it based its predictions off the rate at which oxygen normally flows out of the vents, but now that a direct line was
ruptured, there was no telling how much time remained.
Yuri drifted across the cabin to his spacesuit, and slipped into it. He waited until he began to feel dizzy to equip his helmet and engage his suit’s oxygen tank. The fire started to diminish, each pop and crackle grew weaker and tamer, and in no time at all, the fire vanished. There was no oxygen left in the craft. Yuri’s life could now be counted in breaths. He will die alone amongst the cosmos, and the unmoving stars will be his only witness.
He didn’t have much time, and he couldn’t allocate any of it to the whirling maelstrom of grief he felt brewing in his chest. He piloted his craft away from the moon, in what appears to be empty space. He wouldn’t hurt anyone this way. He drifted over to his workstation and picked up his photographs and the letters he wrote. He took a breath, disengaged his oxygen, removed his helmet, shoved all of the
documents inside his suit, replaced his helmet, and reengaged his oxygen. Wherever he went, these would go, too. If he couldn’t bring these back to earth, this was the next best thing – he could die, but as long as written language survived, his memories would, too. The letters rested against Yuri’s chest. The pure oxygen chilled Yuri’s lungs.
He had about fifteen minutes left of oxygen. He drifted over to the observation port, and strapped himself into the sofa. He watched the stars through his helmet. They might have moved since the last time he saw them, but they weren’t going to move now. He knew that they would move even more after his death, and that he wouldn’t see that, either. He knew that they were watching him through the glass. And they did.
The cosmos, full of all of its innumerable stars and planets, watched as Yuri’s air supply ran dry and he drowned in his suit. They watched as his body jerked and twisted, every muscle twitching as he searched for oxygen that he knew he would not find. And they watched years later as Yuri continued to sail through the cosmos, nothing but a skeleton and several tear-stained letters floating in a cosmonaut suit.
