To My English Teacher and the World
Anonymous This account is based on true events. It was on the news again tonight. May 31st. And yet still, I don’t feel anything. And I know, I see it in your eyes- you have the numbness too. But you have the age to account. I do not. We talk about warzones, love lost, actual real friends in real danger, dogs dying- yet not one tremor is in either of our voices, it’s like discussing the weather, and students and staff alike shuffle away just a bit, because we talk of social taboos, take the skeleton out of our closets and banish them like trophies. You have the right, the jurisdiction to be numb- your an adult and maybe know what you’re doing. But me- I suppose there must be one in every generation, in every family (my class in the academy is my family too, as much as my biological one)- one that is an aged and crippled soul in a young body. Where you the same in your generation, in your younger years? I think maybe you were. Did you too seem to where that invisible neon sign above your head that says I can solve all problems! Because I can’t, but it’s not that I won’t try, and that’s the worst of it. I can’t help but trying. I’ve gotten off track, but allow me, dear reader, one last tangent. My English teacher, who made the class both hell and anchor, tell me- do you hid behind Shakespeare as I do behind ginger-haired Jedi? I think you must. Onto the point. May. 31st. It should have impacted my life significantly, I assume. Yet I am numb. To the world, I scream this- should I not feel? Should I not think? And if by God you can’t fix me, if I must stand forever in my own strange offset world, with the handful of others, like my English teacher, and watch the world go by? And if you do nothing, if this cry like so many others goes unheard- Nothing will happen. Why would you, dear reader, care? You’ll simply close this website and go about your day, chatting, talking, texting. So let me ask you this, dear reader (but I do not ask my English teacher, for he knows this well) if you don’t care, why should I? Don’t be stupid and think this is some suicide note. BS. No, I’m telling you, if justice isn’t done for the countless May 31sts happening around the world, why should we cry for our fallen- it’s easier to just be numb. Yours, A Falling Angel |
A1
Kelsey Freeman (Acrostic) Many students are hard at work Reading carefully to pick up Details they could use for their poems Enough time passes by, and they are ready to give up Mr DeMott encourages them to keep persisting through Of course he always wants what's best for his students Twenty students are lined up asking for help Twenty students go back to their desks, satisfied with their poems Smiling knowing they are going to get an A+, All of his class’s poems got published, they are the number 1 class in the whole school |
THS-LITX
April / May 2020 DOUBLE Issue Featuring Work By: Xander Diaz EDM Sarah Greene Amelia Hansel Anna Hendrick Freda Kekeh Diana Nguyen Maeve Ragno Destiny Roberson Lilian Shuhy and Anonymous PHOTOGRAPHY by EDM *The Rainbow poem was invented as a creative writing activity at THS. It consist of 7 parts (often reduced to 7 lines) in which images are heavily used to connect to the emotions associated with the colors of the rainbow. The first section (or first line) is attached to red, the second to orange, the third to yellow, the fourth the green, the fifth to blue, the sixth to indigo, and the seventh to violet. The color may not be mentioned in the poem. A variation of the rainbow is the reverse rainbow in which the images move from violet to red. The images from each section ultimately are to create a cohesive whole and/or singular message.
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Flower on a Hill
Lilian Shuhy The flower growing On the hill, the roots grow deep But the bud stays still. Flight of Peter Pan
Xander Diaz The hue of his cape, The sun that rises over Neverland The tinkerer of of bells, The suit of the believer The water they sailed on The marbles they gained The sky that shined above The vile dile that consumed him The fireflies that light up the night The sun that sets in the East The mohawk that left. |
Space Rocks
We blame the stars when we see fire in the future. But what does a meteor, crumbling speedily to its own destruction have to do with our gazing upon it? We ask for answers to the heavens. But what do the stars, undoubtedly already outlived by its shining, have to do with our inquiries? We seek warmth and comfort, knowing that we do not travel with the spirits. But what does the icy realms of space have to do with our unsettled hearts? We look up when others look up to us. We look down when we hang our heads in sorrow. But what do our musings have to do with the inanimate, the emotionless, the blackness. We too are organisms, microbes floating along on a space rock that dances round the hope of an eternal sun. EDM |
Us Ritton Men
Freda Kekeh “I’ll tell you once I catch that mouse…” my grandfather mumbled under his breath, as he set up another mouse trap. He had set his cane up against the wall and he quickly grasped it as he started to lose his balance. “Now I’m gonna go out for a while.” he said, turning to me. Raising an eyebrow, “It’s blizzarding out there.” I stated matter-of-factly, as if there remained the slightest possibility that he didn’t know. He huffed, adjusting his stance on his cane. “You know how us Ritton men. Tough. Plus, a little snow never hurt anyone.” He shuffled over to the armoire, using the end of his cane to open it. “I think you’re about old enough to stay in on your own now. My grandfather used to leave me alone before I could even talk and I ended up just fine.” he stated. I slumped into the couch cushions. Honestly, I couldn’t call this a surprise. He had always had the same routine. Wake up, eat, brush his teeth, set up the mouse trap, go sniff out the mouse den. “Why can’t you just leave the mice alone? They’re not hurting anyone.” I asked, staring through the window at our shed, which always seemed freshly covered in a layer of snow. Before I knew it, my grandfather had appeared in front of me, grabbing the collar of my shirt and lifting me clear off the couch. “Now you listen ‘ere boy. What they doing hurts me. Hurts you too, just can’t see it yet.” he growled, looking me straight in the eye before releasing me. I fell back onto the couch cushions and as he trudged out the door. Looking through the window I watched as he gathered his tools from the shed, before setting off on his normal path. I huffed, crossing my arms as I looked around aimlessly. Suddenly, my eyes fell on a photo frame. It stood out, sparkly and pink, encompassing the entire perimeter of a photo of a small family. I slowly picked it up. The photo depicted my mother as a small child. She smiled brightly at the camera as my grandfather crouched next to her. Crouching, no cane in sight. I had never known much about my mother, only that she had had me at a young age. Her old bedroom, across from mine, always kept locked. Once, I had heard my grandfather talking to her on the phone. He had seemed angry. Angry that she hadn’t come to visit him, that she had gotten married without his knowledge, that she had left me alone with him for so long. I hadn’t had the chance of hearing her full response, but from what I could make out, it had to do with a baby, and some other children that she had recently become “responsible for”. Sighing, I set the picture back down in its place. I made my way back to the couch, before collapsing. Suddenly, I heard shouting from outside. “And to think I raised you! What am I supposed to do with him? I don’t have time to keep him entertained, I got mice to take care of!” my grandfather yelled from outside. I heard a slightly muffled response from the other person on the phone. “I’m too old to raise anymore kids. My leg’s bad, and my gout’s comin’ back. And it’s only a matter of time before he starts askin’ about you, and what do I tell him then?” The muffled voice responded. Suddenly, I heard a click and the sound of a flip phone slapping shut. I saw my grandfather trudge back to the shed, angrily depositing his tools before making his way back to the cabin. He burst through the door, causing the handle to pierce through the adjacent wall and create a small dent. Sighing deeply, he pinched the bridge of his nose and tightly shut his eyes. He remained silent for a long time. “What do you want for dinner?” he asked. I stared back at him, shocked. His face flushed red and he leaned heavily on his cane. It proved quite the sight, for someone in such distress to ask such a simple question. “Spaghetti.” I answered, quietly. Cautiously. He turned to stare through the window, before hobbling in the kitchen. I turned slowly to the side table quickly spotting the flip phone he had used to call that woman. Grabbing it quickly, I hid it beneath my shirt. “I’m going to the bathroom!” I yelled into the kitchen. He had his back turned towards the stove where water sat boiling in a small pot. “You gonna tell me every time you go to take a leak, boy?” he asked. I remained silent. “Go on ahead.” I sighed in relief before making my way to the bathroom. I quietly closed the door, locking it behind me. Slowly, I opened the flip phone, the blue glow illuminating my face in the dark room. “Recent calls”. I whispered to myself, checking the call history. Every call to the same number, under the same contact name, “Maybelle”. The last call the most recent one from this morning and the one before that had from a week ago. I breathed out before clicking on the name. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. “I told you not to call me back.” a woman stated. The voice rushed over me, toneless and cold. I stared down at the phone. Suddenly, I couldn’t speak. My words caught in my throat and my mouth felt dry. “Hello?” the woman asked, more annoyed than last time. I swallowed. “Hi.” I replied. Silence. I could hear her breath catch through the phone. “Hello...” the woman choked out. She sounded terrified, guilty, caught. Suddenly, there loud banging rattled the door, the vibrations disturbing the whole bathroom. “Who you talking to in there boy? It doesn’t take 10 minutes to pee.” my grandfather boomed from outside the door. I quickly slapped the phone shut before tucking it in my waistband. Turning on the sink, I quickly washed my hands. Although, the action seemed futile at that point. I unlocked the door, slowly pushing it open to reveal the shadowed silhouette of my grandfather. He seemed the tower above me, looking down with furrowed eyebrows. He examined me carefully before slowly outstretching his palm. I looked down at the ground, removing the phone from my waistband and placing it in his hand. He closed his palm, engulfing the entire phone. “Dinner.” he uttered before disappearing down the hall. Figured out. Exposed. Revealed. Caught. I slowly made my way to the kitchen before sitting down at the table. Two steaming plates of spaghetti sat before me. I stared down at my lap, fiddling with the loose fabric on the chairs. With a grunt, my grandfather sat opposite me, placing a napkin across his lap. He moved to begin eating before stopping and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Did you hear her voice?” he asked me. I flinched, not expecting his voice to cut through the heavy air. Nodding in response, I still refused to look him in the eye. “Her name’s Maybelle. Used to go by Maybelle Ritton. Haven’t an idea what she goes by now... She lives in Queen’s Field,” he explained. I could feel his gaze on me. Again, I nodded. “She’s your mother.” he continued. I could tell he knew that I already discovered that fact. “But she’s not comin’ back so eat your food before it gets cold.” he stated before shoveling a mouthful of his own meal into his mouth. I sat still in my seat. Tears pricked the corner of my eyes, slowly blurring my vision. Sniffling, I asked, “Why not?” He sighed placing his fork down. “Because she has another family now. One she thinks more important than you and me.” he explained. I could tell it hurt him to say it, but the truth in it hurt even worse. He got up from his seat, holding his suddenly empty plate and placing a firm hand on my shoulder. He sighed, “But you know us Ritton men. Tough. Now come on, we got mice to catch.” |
The Ever so Normal Volcano (Haiku)
Emotions boiling Hot steamy lava assuredly stepping free How new it must feel Sarah Greene (Haiku) |
Moana
Restoring the heart Soaring across the raging blue sea Seeking true meaning Sarah Greene (Haiku) |
A Flame
A flame of anger colours my cheeks, fuming at the naivety of most Something just short of fire ignites, deep in my mind setting all optimistic thoughts ablaze Why can’t you see that my smile doesn’t mean I’m cheerful? That it doesn’t mean I’m happy? The balance between the soft grass and the sharp wind is slim to none, the wind taking over my senses and leaving the threads of grass forgotten A frigid breeze bites at my skin, freezing the tears on my face I can’t look away, can’t close my eyes, straining against the air as I stare at the stars in the almost night sky It’s not sensible, not realistic, to assume a smile is happiness, like assuming all crystals are amethyst gems Hunter Tufarelli (Rainbow Poem)* |
Grounded
Rainbow Poem The apple was glistening in the hot sun The pumpkins are getting harvested, ready to be carved The peach fell to the ground The summer leaves faded away But the sky got even brighter The denim overalls faded, from being in the sun all day The wisteria flowers lay on the ground, from never being cleaned up in summer. Kelsey Freeman (Rainbow Poem)* |
Purge
Glazed eyes filled with fire Bursting bleams of admiration Heat hurries through her body Envy of those around her Ocean eyes filled with tears Rolling down her cheeks (Looks in the mirror disappointed) Alone in the night sky Diana Nguyen (Rainbow Poem)* |
Calendar
For one night every month, she’d occasionally find herself lying awake, unable to sleep, for any time she’d attempt to drift off, it’d feel like a madman decided to start stabbing her repeatedly in the abdomen, but from the inside. To rid her of her pain, she’d have to either take a pain reliever or get herself a heating pad to sleep with which would also give her the relief she’d need to sleep. The cause of her monthly suffering would eventually end and she’d become noticeably happier. She’d experience a temporary high full of bursts of energy and her face would begin to glow. Her body would then become fertile once again, leading to the end to her all-time high, and the change in her womb would begin affecting her mood as well. The sluggishness resulting from the change in her body would catch up to her and she’d start to notice a lack of productivity which would result in possible breakouts and sometimes even breakdowns. By this time, the girl would need to keep her emotions under control and continue moving forward in life, all while worrying about her next upcoming calendar. Destiny Roberson (Rainbow Poem)* |
Six-word Absence
Original “No flowers, no funeral, no nothing.” Reaction: “Absence of tears, absence of melancholy.” Mikeala Capistrano Time
Dappled sunlight shines On small, lime-green vines That climb Up towering pines Pines that stretch, Pines that grow, Come winter, those pines Will be covered in snow. Snow falling in drifts, Snow sparkling white, White like the moon That shines so bright Bright like a diamond, Bright like your smile, As we run and laugh and talk for awhile Time ticks by, Disappearing, it seems, But it's ok. You're with me. Despina Drosinos |
History
History is ugly. The Earth was beautiful, But we are not. And we brought Earth down with us. History is gruesome. It’s filled with endless wars, And famines, And epidemics, And betrayals. History is revolting. It’s nothing but tales of dictatorship And destruction, And discrimination, And extinction. We are the reason behind this. We are the reason why history is so hideous. Because we are destroyers. But maybe, Just maybe, if we try hard enough, The future can be beautiful. Despina Drosinos |
Mare
She walks along the rocky shore. Her bare feet feel every corner of each smooth, wet stone. The cool north wind whips her long hair into messy tendrils and waves. She can smell the salty air as it fills her lungs and chills her body from within. Sleet-like seaspray pounds her skin but she bears no welt. The sun burning dimly is no match for the frosty air. The harsh gust of wind is so cold it burns her. Rocks become ice with each step she takes. Her linen dress is blown around her tanned legs as she looks at the sky. Through the grains of sand resting upon her eyelashes, she sees the grey clouds marching to the sun somberly. As if they can never go back. She turns her head to the sea. Its rough waves are calling her. She must answer. Almost as if she is floating, she makes her way to the violent tide. Gliding along the cold rocks until her toes touch the course sand. She removes the linen dress that once held her captive. As she pulls it over her head she feels the wind caress her naked, sun-kissed body. Her sensitive body embraces the inclement weather. She can feel every grain of sand as it hits her exposed skin. As she reaches the water, the seagulls and pelicans fly inland. For even their instinct cannot face the great ocean’s wrath. Her desire to touch the lapping water becomes too great. She dips one toe in. The frigid water surrounds her soft, vulnerable skin. She does not pull away. The pain makes her desire the water more. She continues to slowly walk, into the depths of the unknown. As she goes deeper, the water encompasses her legs. Her feet are numb and her knees are tingling. Her thighs feel as if they are being attacked by needles. As each wave comes, her body becomes more and more numb to the pain. The agony of the cold is only bearable because of her uncontrollable desire to go deeper. The water reaches her waist and the waves rush around her as the sea encloses upon the smooth, flawless skin of her hips she sees the sky growing darker, so she closes her eyes. Her hair is no longer controlled by the wind. Now it is in the possession of the tempestuous ocean. Her yearning for the sea is still unsatisfied. Her feet can no longer touch the soft sand. She begins treading through the icy water, allowing her body to slip further under as each strong wave passes. Once she can no longer feel her arms, she puts her head under the water. Her face feels the shock of icicle spurs attacking her skin. The shore is no longer known to her, as if it has been erased from her memory. Everything goes dark. She goes deeper and deeper. No part of her body can feel the pain anymore. She has become accustomed to it. She can no longer feel or think for the ocean has taken her. Her feet lift off of the soft sand as she submerges herself. Neither floating or sinking. Trapped in the limbo between the floor of the sea and the air above. The harsh caress of the ocean controls her vulnerable body. She is no longer aware of the presence of her body. She does not know where the ocean ends and where she begins. She no longer knows anything. As her fate is held within the tight grip of the dark, wise ocean. Far away, a white linen dress blows in the wind, caught on a rock, never to be seen by the monstrous sea, just as she is never to be seen again on land, the wind speeds up and the linen cloth dances somberly under its ruthless control. |