e Little River Review - Gorham High School!

�e Little River Review 

�e Literary Magazine of 

Gorham High School 

Edition 2 - Early Spring 2012

Editors Notes 

�e year has �own by, and graduation is just a short jump away it seems. In this whirl-wind of senior year, 

one thing I will walk away with, is the great experience of having co-edited Gorham High School’s literary 

magazine. I can remember it being just a though bounced around between Mr. Patterson, Olivia, and I last 

year, and am so lucky to have watched it grow and to have helped it to do so. �is school has so much literary 

talent, most of it hidden, and both the submissions and their authors always take me by surprise. As an 

aspiring Copy Editor, this experience has been an immense and crucial one for me, and I only wish it had 

come into my high school career sooner. 

�ank you so much to everyone who contributed and/or supported the magazine, and I hope it will continue 

to grow a�er I am gone. 

Sincerely, 

Sarah Doughty 

Co-editor 

�e link between writer and reader is fascinating and �exible and important, and this is why I believe the 

Little River Review is a signi�cant medium of expression and thought for GHS students. As readers make their 

own interpretations of the language and story chosen by writers, they perceive connections to ideas they have 

had and events in their lives. Conversely, writers are able to share their thoughts, experiences and expressions 

of creativity with their peers in a direct way. I think this connection is especially powerful because it exists 

between the students at our school and helps us to become a closer community. 

-Olivia Marshburn-Ersek 

Going through the submissions for this issue of �e Little River Review, I was amazed at the quality of the 

writing that was submitted, and how strong the writing community is here at Gorham High School. We had 

submissions from people that had been writing for years, and people who previously had never considered 

themselves writers, and submitted on a whim. Years ago, I was one of those non-writers who wrote something 

and just sent it to a contest, just to see what would happen. �at one piece was what started me writing, and 

I never stopped. My advice to everyone who submitted is don’t give it up. �e more you write, the better 

it gets, both in skill and satisfaction. You have a talent that so many people appreciate, and that’s something 

worth holding onto. Write on! 

-Cassaundra Martel 

Magazine Contributors: 

Sarah Doughty - Organizer & Creator 

Olivia Marshburn-Ersek - Organizer & Creator 

Cassie Martel - Editor 

Amy McCarty - Editor 

David Patterson - Mentor 

Arthur Lockman - Editor and Design Artist 

Our sincerest thanks to the Gorham Educational Foundation, for without their 

generous grant, this magazine could not have been brought to you. 

~ 3 ~

Contents 

Poetry 

Away from everything that you know, away from what you think is the world 

Birds Nest 

Cold 

I can wait 

I Too, Sing 

If Only Heaven Was Closer 

Outside and Inside 

Letter to my signi�cant other 

Letters to No One 

Little Bird 

Love Poem 

Lullaby to a Narcissist 

Magic 

Rag Doll 

Real Maine 

Ten Bucks 

�e Teenage Burden 

�ink 

Where I’m From 

Short Stories 

A Blessing in Disguise 

Doors 

New Year 

Nicknames 

Perfect Little World For Me 

Maybe if we play louder, people will think that we’re good 

Rosie 

Shark 

Strangers in Aisle Six 

�e Young and the Old 

Art 

Bubble 

Eagle 

Innocence is Also Bliss 

Untitled 

Untitled 

Untitled 

Snow�akes! 

Spiders on my Window 

~ 4 ~

Poetry 

~ 5 ~

Andrew Johnson 

Away From Everything That You Know, Away From What You Think Is The World 

Away from everything that you know, 

away from what you think is the world. 

He fell down some cli�, for the third time 

that day, bruised, bloody, and battered on every part 

of his body. He looked at the path where had come, getting 

angry at the patch of rock and dirt that had wounded him. 

His anger turned to despair as he looked the 

opposite way, seeing just a faint sign of civilization 

on the horizon of the dark woods. �is man was not used to such hardship, 

had never felt this kind of despair. He had lived in a 

land of corporation and business, always trying for more, 

exhausting himself in the quest for knowledge. 

�at was all he thought was the world, that 

nothing else existed but work and industry. But as 

he looked over those woods, he saw the sunset, but 

like nothing he had seen before. He felt his worries and pain 

disappear as he gazed into Mother Nature’s work of art. 

He had never seen a Sun without anxiety in the back of 

his brain, never seen a sunset without skyscrapers of 

worry clouding his view. Right then, at that moment, 

that’s when he began to breathe true air, not choked in 

the fumes of franchise. He breathed out, and felt that 

the old him had been wiped away as he looked over the 

trees. He now saw shades of orange, red, yellow and green 

in the forest instead of endless darkness. Instead of clouds he now saw a 

great expanse of blue, with a blinding Sun in its heart. He still 

did not know if he would ever escape that forest, but when 

he le� that spot, he le� the quest for knowledge behind. 

~ 6 ~

Kellen Adolf 

Birds Nest 

Birds Nest - Cold 

A bird’s nest fell from a tree near my house. 

It was a robin’s nest. 

�e blue eggs were smashed and their contents scattered everywhere. 

�e nest held together though. 

Made well, by whichever bird made it. 

Sticks and twigs. 

Some grass. 

A string, for �ying kites. 

Amber Anderson 

Cold 

�e cold. 

It’s a Maine tradition. 

For up to four months, we wait. 

�e chill moving down to our bones. 

Young kids play in the snow. 

Slide on the ice. 

Teens stay inside, complaining of nothing to do. 

No where to go. 

�ey wait for the signs of Spring to push through the frozen ground. 

�e birds are gone. 

�e animals are hibernating. 

�e days are silent. 

When the �rst bird sings. 

Some rejoice. 

�e warmth will be returning. 

~ 7 ~

Jack Trapper 

I can wait 

I Can Wait 

I miss you. 

I miss you like I miss warmth 

At the end of a long, painful, cold day, I miss you. 

And I have to look at you, 

Like a starving man looks at food through glass, 

Able to see but nothing else. 

I tell myself that you’re happier. It helps. 

I tell myself you’re better o� with him 

He’s a better guy 

I’m not good enough for you. 

It helps. 

I tell myself I can grit my teeth 

And take the pain 

A self-made martyr. 

I’ll be hurt if that means you’ll be happy. 

But you aren’t happy. 

For the �rst time in your life, 

You’re having doubts 

Maybe regrets. 

I try to tell myself it’s just the guilt. 

It’s just natural. 

But a part of me wants to believe it’s more. 

A big part of me. 

People tell me to forget it 

Let it go 

She doesn’t deserve you 

She’ll just hurt you again 

I laugh at that one. 

�ey don’t get it. 

I’m already hurt. 

Tell a man in pain he can’t have pain meds, 

Because he’ll get addicted and when he has to stop it’ll 

hurt 

You think he’ll listen? 

No. 

I’m already hurt. 

You tell me you wish I hated you. 

I don’t hate you. 

You want to feel worse, take my pain 

But I won’t let you. 

I love you. 

I love you and it hurts. 

You always treat yourself worse than everyone else. 

~ 8 ~ 

Like you don’t deserve human emotion. 

Basic human rights. 

Look, you are human. 

Just like the rest of us. 

I don’t blame you. 

You want me to, but I wont. 

I just want you to love me again. 

I hope someday you might �nd you still do. 

I don’t know if you will. 

But I’ll wait. 

People tell me not to tie myself down to someone 

who obviously doesn’t return the feelings. 

But you used to. 

Maybe you still do. 

Maybe it just wasn’t the right time. 

Maybe I’m just fooling myself. 

Maybe I’m just being a teenager. 

Probably. 

But I doubt it. 

I love you. 

I miss you. 

I can wait...

Chloe Gray 

I Too, Sing 

I know I’m kind of quiet sometimes, 

And I know I don’t always �t in 

Or act like you do. 

I know you think I’m weird for that, 

But it’s okay, 

I don’t mind. 

I know I don’t play sports, 

Or wear short shorts 

Or put on makeup, 

And I know you think I’m weird for that, 

But it’s okay, 

I don’t mind. 

Because I know that some day, 

You will understand me. 

You will understand why I don’t mind. 

You will understand 

�at I’m okay with being di�erent. 

You will understand that 

I’ve learned to accept who I am, 

Because I love who I am 

And I love being di�erent from you. 

Some day you will see. 

Maybe tomorrow, 

Or in a week, 

Month, 

Year, 

Or decade. 

Take your time, 

Because I know that some day 

You will see 

�at I sing the same song you do. 

I too sing that song. 

A little bit di�erently, 

But I too, 

Sing that song. 

I Too, Sing 

~ 9 ~

Natalya Gorsky 


If only heaven was closer 

I’d pack up some clothes 

And some other things 

But I’d leave my cell phone 

Heaven doesn’t have good reception 

I’d take all my stu� and visit 

I’d visit everybody 


I’d visit my dad’s parents 

I never got to meet them 

I’d bring my mother too 

She never met them either 

I can’t sit still for long 

But they’d be sitting in their chairs 

I’d sit on the �oor in front of them 

Listening to all their stories for hours on end 


I’d visit my grandmother 

I bet she has a huge garden up there 

With hundreds of iris �owers 

I’d help her in her garden for hours 

Just like I used to do when I was little 

She used to smile all the time 

And go outside every day 

But if we were in heaven she’d be herself again 


I’d visit my uncle Nikita 

He probably has a pool table in heaven 

With a scratch along the side 

Just like the one he had in his basement 

We’d play and he’d let me win 

Like he always did 

Maybe he won’t have to let me this time 

I’ve gotten better over the years 

I regret that I never got to say goodbye to him 

But now I could visit him 

I wouldn’t have to say goodbye 


I’d visit Chandler 

Didn’t get to say goodbye to him either 


Nobody did. 

He towered over everybody 

But yet everybody still looked right over him 

We’d swing on the swings 

Talking for hours 

I’d �nd out why he did it 

And I’d understand 

�en we’d go to the pool hall in heaven 

Blasting the Backstreet Boys all the way there 


�ere’d be a lot of tra�c heading there 

Everyone would want to visit 

And nobody would want to leave 

Nobody likes to say goodbye 

Nobody would want to go back home 

But that’s not going to keep me from wishing 

It’s not gonna keep me from thinking 


~ 10 ~

Madeline Susi 


On the outside I am you 

I am pretty, funny, and sweet 

I am loving, happy and free 

From a past of high expectations 

And punishments for not meeting them 

�ose who look at the sight 

�at I �rst appear to be 

Will only see what they want to 

But this will never be the truth 

Due to the one and only reason 

�at I form myself to what you need 

As if I were a ball of clay 

For on the outside I am you 

But on the inside I am me 

On the inside I am me 

I am depressed, hurt, and stressed 

I am an actress, a faker, and a liar 

From a past of bullies’ cruel jokes 

And being taken advantage of 

�ose who are my true friends 

Know who I really am 

And how I truly feel 

�ey are the only ones who know 

I form into many shapes and sizes 

Seeing right through my act 

As if I were a sheet of glass 

On the inside I am me 

But on the outside I am you 


~ 11 ~

Meg Towle 

Letter to my signi�cant other 

Letter to My Significant Other 

Dear Milk, 

�ere are no words 

eloquent enough to 

elucidate how much I long 

for your touch. 

Drenching me in your everything, 

bringing an in�nite oasis 

to my desert skin. 

Washing away the days I spent 

waiting 

praying 

longing 

for you to come wash me away into 

a sea of white and saturate me, 

making me complete. 

And we can sail away to the horizon, 

riding your waves, 

blissfully content in our own private bowl. 

Always thinking of you, 

Cereal 

~ 12 ~

Jason Meuse 



Dear, no one, 

I write these letters to you. 

Letters like the buds that sprout out of the soil that is my brain. 

Alternate personalities that bring worlds of meaning to the right reader. 

�e stains on the paper? 

�e food I accidentally ran it through as I rushed to get out the door. 

�e scribbles litter the paper from what I decided to cut out. 

A letter is no where near perfect. And it doesn’t have to be. 

It just has to make it to the blue United States Postal Service drop box. 

A letter. Interpreted as a personal �le or a saintly epistle, 

Can change the way one thinks, reacts, and knows a person. 

And the written word is where those feelings live. 

�ose feelings live on a bleached lined paper just waiting to be read. 

�ose feelings live forever because the writer brought them into the world. 

A man pens his love to a family, written forever on stationary. 

Messages scrawled on the bathroom stall, 

Or drawings created on the lunchroom napkin. 

�ey’re letters to no one. 

�rown into the trash. Only being glanced at by the person that matters most. 

�e writer. And they know that these letters are an art form. 

�ey’re art for the artist’s sake. �ey turn you free, let you loose to create for yourself. 

No one, these letters I write, they’re for me. 

�ey’re for me. 

And even though they might end up in the blue United States Postal Service drop box, 

�e feeling of the word is felt by the one that matters most. 

Hopes. Dreams. Hates. Loves. 

All �nd their way scrawled onto the letter. 

All scribbled out in some way. 

�e words just didn’t say exactly what I wanted them to. 

And Nobody, I want to make it perfectly clear. 

I want to make it clear that you’re gonna read these letters someday. 

I’m gonna show you. 

I’m gonna pull them out of the blue United States Postal Service drop box. 

And show them to you because this is what I desire. 

I want you to see who I was and the person who came out of it. 

I want to see the emotion resonating from inside. 

I want to see the maturity that these letters fostered. 

Sincerely, no one. 

~ 13 ~

Sarah Doughty 


little bird from so young knew its dream 

knew it would do whatever whenever wherever 

for this scheme 

no matter how far from the nest 

little bird would have to �y 

no matter how many times 

little bird would have to say goodbye 

but little bird did not see 

that goodbyes can be so hard 

never would it change its mind 

little bird knew 

never to compromise would it be inclined 

little bird knew 

but little bird did not see 

that knowledge can change 

that a tested theory can suddenly not be 

little bird did not see 


so when little bird is ready 

now not so little 

to do whatever whenever wherever with wings steady 

for that dream 

to �y so far through the sky 

to say goodbye 

-An unchanged mind kept whereby 

she cannot. 

~ 14 ~

Krista Warren 

Love Poem 

Whenever you’re around, 

Whenever you are near, 

I can barley talk, 

I can barley hear. 

I dream about you day and night, 

I think about you night and day, 

Every time I close my eyes, 

�e thought of you takes me far away. 

Whenever we’re together, 

My heart beats very fast 

I feel like I’m in a race car, 

How long will this ride last? 

Your eyes are like a rainbow, 

�at always brightens my day, 

Your laughter is a beautiful sound, 

�at takes my breath away. 

Your every word has a meaning, 

You voice is like a preacher, 

Your always number one to me, 

Your the most wonderful creature, 

Your heart so sweet and kind, 

Is like a lollipop on the inside. 

I’ll miss you all the time, 

When you travel far and wide. 

No matter the number of crashes we have, 

We can always �x those dents, 

�e important part is our Love, 

And that’s what always makes sense. 

Meg Towle 


Don’t mind me, I’ll sit 

Just here, smoking your smile 

drinking your drawl 

Trying not to choke on your laughter 

Trying not to drown 

in endless seas of you 

dancing in distances, dark 

& darling. 

A whispered refrain 

to never refrain 

from lighting love’s brief candle 

but to repeat and sustain 

that inchoate, incalculable 

bright brilliant burning: 

To swallow silent screams 

and scowl at the sun 

and ever, always, only 

Spill secrets to the moon — 

�e only ears that matter. 

To live, 

— only — 

In the light of a thousand golden hours. 

To love, 

— always — 

In the dimples of smiles a dream devours. 

To light, 

— ever — 

In verses reversed to charm and empower. 

To fall in love with yourself, 

And compose odes to the only one 

Who matters. 


~ 16 ~

Clara Stickney 

Magic 

I believe in magic. 

Magic 

It is EVERYWHERE. Everywhere you look. 

�e green grass grows 

irrepressibly 

even as it is stepped on, laid on, and walked all over 

it still grows 

because it has a life and a green and will of it’s own and even though you can tell it 

ten thousand times 

that it will never touch the sky, it will 

Never. Stop. Reaching. 

Out arms as lovely and so� as the kiss 

of an adoring spring breeze that wakes 

the hazy grey world from it’s enchanted reveries. 

I believe in magic. 

Like the pouring love of a teakettle-mother who cares 

for every droplet child 

like the one she once had in a cradle that rocked 

to the tune of the moon and of 

put-on-hold dreams 

that are now something larger beaming 

down from the stars and the scars of an immaculate past 

life where you once jumped o� 

on a grenade to save comrades in a stark, red, dessert 

where someone pulled you up out of the quicksand �re 

and into your very own reality 

when they really could have let you drown. 

I believe in magic, 

and when you think happy thoughts, 

You, me, and Peter; 

we can all �y 

~ 17 ~

Katie Selens 

Rag doll 

If I were a rag doll 

�en I’d be covered in grape jelly stains 

And wear magic marker makeup 


I’d smell of the underneath of 

�e backseat of a silver mini-van 

Of stale Burger King french fries 

And of shared Double bubble gum 

Rag Doll 


�ere would be no brown strings of hair sprouting from my scalp 

Blue sharpied locks would be what graced my otherwise bald head 

My body would have clorox bleach stains 

From too many unfortunate endings to perfectly good days in the mud 

�e front of my red and white gingham dress would be faded 

Due to hours of cloud watching in the beating summer sun 


My sides would be leaking love and �u� 

From 

Rides down the slide, naps in the playground sand box, and swims in the kiddie pool 

Bursting the stitching that held me together 

�ough 

�e thread that might tie my clothes 

It would be unnecessary 

I’d hold together just �ne with tight bear hugs and toddlers smiles 


My body would be made of old rags 

Of tee-shirts and socks that Grandma had found lying around 

My skin would be a patch work of colors 

I’d be the streaky green of romps in the backyard 

�e sticky, colorful concoction of the arts and cra�s cupboard 

And 

�e spots marking tea-parties miscalculations 


I would love without a heart 

Hold hands without �ngers 

Run without knees 

And 

Sleep without blinking 


�en I’d be covered in grape jelly stains 

And wear magic marker makeup 

~ 18 ~

Laura Holt 

Real Maine 

Real Maine 

My real Maine is countless 12 ounce co�ee cups in the backseat of my mother’s station wagon. 

It’s cheap cars, but mostly trucks on our dirt and tarred, mostly pot-holed, roads. 

It’s me at the age of ��een driving down the back roads learning how to drive and my sister screaming, 

“brake, hit the brakes!” 

It’s every kindergartener learning how to plant a tree in the school yard. 

It’s especially famous local diner food, pot roasts, and Kool-Aid stands. 

Maine is the place with sweet elderly neighbors with kind hearts and antique tea kettles. 

It’s seeing your friend’s parents can their garden grown tomatoes in holey jeans and a stained white t-shirt 

that has UPTA Camp printed on the front. 

It’s pointless trips to Wal-Mart in thirty-�ve degree weather just to get a thing or two. 

It’s standing by the window in a dimly-lit room feeling the warmth of sunlight. 

Maine is walking past houses and seeing smoke �ow from old chimneys. 

Real maine is close and distant but strong relationships. 

Real maine is pure and sweet maple syrup over sunday morning pancakes. 

Real Maine is having your own ice skating rink in your backyard. 

It’s a place where you can wander into the woods and see animals, view beauty, and always be pleased by 

what you see. 

~ 19 ~

Amy McCarty 

Ten Bucks 

Ten bucks. 

Ten big ones. 

I’ve been everywhere. 

You name it. 

I’ve been crumpled into 

a miniscule ball 

and jammed in the 

back pocket of a man’s pants. 

You don’t want to know what goes on back there. 

I’ve been tossed and turned in 

a wet abyss of someone’s 

shirt pocket they forgot to check before washing. 

I’ve been stu�ed in 

a nervous high school girl’s 

sweaty bra before she goes to homecoming, 

ensuring her spot dancing 

with that guy she can’t stop talking about. 

I’ve been quickly stashed in 

a bag and handed to a 

guy waiting in 

front of the counter with a gun pointed 

at the other man’s head. 

I’ve been given to a boy by his mom 

as she says, 

“Get her something nice, okay?” 

I’ve been carefully tucked into 

a glittering pink card 

by a pair of wrinkled, callused hands, 

and watched as a little girl opened it 

with a look of surprise and joy on her face. 

I’ve crossed state borders and country borders, 

traded for useless key rings and priceless art. 

And I’ve been folded patiently 

by tiny �ngers and slipped into a thin slot. 

Now laying in a dark corner of a pig’s wide belly, 

I await my return to the light and circulation of 

hands young and old, in lands far and wide. 

Ten Bucks 

~ 20 ~

Arthur Lockman 

�e Teenage Burden 

Take up the teenage burden; 

Working �ngers to the bone, 

On meaningless tasks a plenty, 

Which teachers ‘signed for home. 

Parents breathing down necks 

You have to make the grade, 

Otherwise you might lose 

�at money you just made. 


College board at every turn, 

Always being pushed, hard, 

Always learn, learn. learn. 

All they care about is test scores, 

And their money - but of course, 

�ey don’t care one whit 

About if you succeed or not. 


Messy drama in the halls, 

�e sounds of shouts and crying, 

Bouncing in between the walls. 

Girls �ghting like savage cats, 

Clawing, biting, scratching, 

Over something quite trivial, 

Who has the better hat. 


Packs �lled to almost burst, 

With books, papers, and pencils, 

Kids backs are bound to hurt. 

But they’ve had these all along, 

Backpacks slung across their backs, 

A study said they’re somehow better, 

�an carrying paper bags. 


Having parents bent on success, 

Nothing seems to matter, 

Save the grade on the latest test. 

If you don’t do well on that, 

The Teenage Burden 

�ere’s little hope of rejoice, 

Parents crush your tiny one, 

With their powerful voice. 


Self-centered teachers run abound, 

�inking that your time is theirs, 

Not yours, don’t mess around. 

Your evenings are for homework, 

Not for other activities, 

You’ll never need any other skills, 

But these; only these. 


Put yourself into our shoes, 

See what life would be like for you, 

Which life would you choose? 

You’d choose your cushy life of old, 

One you know so well, 

You ne’er ever would return, 

To your own teenage hell. 

~ 21 ~

Ellyn Touchette 

�ink 

Think 

Hey listen. 

Every single one of you was born with a gi�: 

You are capable of taking in smells and lights and sounds 

and producing a complex series of chemical reactions 

that we all like to call thoughts; 

and back in Da Vinci’s day a lot of folks 

would take these things called thoughts 

and use them to create greatness. 

But 500 years was all the time it took for 

our mental state to deteriorate and 

now a person who thinks is about as common 

as inhabited planets and we take what is told to us 

and we accept it as doctrine truth. 

I pose the same question to the closed-minded evangelist as 

I do to the hard-headed anti-authoritarian atheist: 

why are you not thinking? 

Why did it not occur to either of you that the other 

has some merit to what they are speaking about? 

Why do you not look past the threshold of your 

own purported omniscience and see that the world 

outside holds out no answers upon silver platters, 

and that anyone who claims di�erently is a liar? 

I challenge you to swap shoes, hold hands and walk a mile. 

We live in a country where we can dig holes and climb 

mountains and walk away with the same perspective. 

�is is a world in which the dazed stupor has become 

the fashion market’s newest sensation 

and even the world’s most brilliant scientists 

are jumping onto bandwagons with reckless abandon. 

I’m not telling you not to have a religion, 

I’m imploring you to invent your own. 

Build a relationship with your God that you feel is real 

and rewrite the Bible according to what you know to be true. 

I want you to write the gospel of YOU 

and I want you to scream it to the clouds from the top of Everest 

and sing it to the archaebacteria in the Marianas trench. 

I want you to agonize for years, consider every possibility 

and read every holy book and memorize the tenets of every 

point of view since the dawn of man, and then I want 

you to forget it all. 

Use your brain, ladies and gentlemen. Open your eyes and 

realize the lies that tempt and tantalize us on every street corner. 

I can tell you that anyone who claims to have the answers does not. 

Anytime someone tells you that they know what’s above us and below us, 

what awaits us a�er death, what someone else is thinking or 

what the universe has in store for them, smile politely and walk away. 

�ey do not know. You do not know. And I know this, 

because I don’t know either. 

~ 22 ~

Amber Anderson 



I am from the New England states. 

From soothing red autumns and harsh white winters. 

I am from a blue house with gardens throughout the yard. 

From birds in the air and horses in the woods. 

I am from a gravel driveway to a grass path inside. 

I am from warm apple pie and cold iced tea. 

From hissing cats and a barking dog. 

I’m from stubborn women and whipped men. 

From a house with deep secrets. 

I am from ghosts hidden in the walls. 

I am from missing pieces and bleeding hearts. 

From a fatherless childhood to a motherless life. 

I am from one AM hospital runs. 

From ICU’s to emergency rooms. 

I am from a will refusing to break. 

I am from country music and horror �lms. 

From Garth Brooks and Nightmare on Elm Street. 

I am from the hum of an oxygen machine. 

From the wail of an ambulance to the sob of a girl. 

I am from a lost and broken childhood. 

~ 23 ~

Short Stories 

~ 24 ~

Lia Van de Krol 



I was the kid who sat alone at recess robbed of innocence, too mature to play House with the 

rest. Life at home was like an atom with a valence of one: ready to react violently at any moment. As the 

youngest of four, I was unaware that the worst of the arguments occurred when I was not home. 

I was a statue in the passenger seat, remembering. Seven years a�er the divorce, my mom shared 

the full truth. �e scars on my sister’s wrists, that I thought originated from the cat licking too much, were 

actually from self-in�icted wounds. �e �ght that branded itself onto the delicate mind of my nine-yearold 

self was one of the mildest that took place. �e same clip of my past kept muscling its way to the front 

of my mind. 

I see little Lia pound on the door in a desperate attempt to stop the yelling. With every quickened 

heartbeat and fallen tear, confusion melds with hurt. She screams because her family is dying in front of 

her eyes. �e caring father she knew for her short life was mutating into a sel�sh stranger. Success: Daddy 

stopped roaring at Peter. But Daddy’s footsteps grew louder and the next thing little Lia knew, she was 

scooped up in his arms. Her heart had never pumped so fast. She was terri�ed of her own father and what 

he might do in his rage. 

�e memory stops. 

I listened to my mom talk about my father as she drove. Harsh memories crashed like waves. My 

dad’s cruelty shocked me. �e agony in my history seemed excessive a�er being separated from it for so 

long. I thought I had set my past away like a tear-stained novel returned to a bookshelf, but I was now fully 

engulfed in the story again. I realized the good that had come out of the disaster who was my father. 

When a person goes through trauma, the natural coping method is to take out su�ering in a 

negative way. My sister Juliana internally hoarded the pain of our denatured family and cut herself as early 

as fourth grade. I, on the other hand, tested the phrase I had heard hundreds of times in Sunday School: 

“Jesus loves you.” At nine years of age, I yielded all my hurt to the God who created me. He was there for 

me with arms open wide. 

Where most people might predict I would have abandoned religion a�er enduring so much 

devastation, I found faith. Beyond comforting me throughout the divorce and bitter confrontations within 

my family, God was and continues to be my unconditionally loving Heavenly Father. Today, I cannot help 

but love the people around me in response to the overwhelming joy that calls my heart home. My days 

are �lled with smiles and laughter. When my senior portraits were taken, I struggled and failed to keep a 

straight face for more than three seconds because I simply love to be jolly and to make it evident. My past 

does not follow me in a raincloud; the love of God is greater than my painful childhood. 

~ 25 ~

Amy McCarty 

Doors 

Doors 

As I walked through the dimly lit halls, I passed doorways and windows to the memories of 

years past and almost forgotten. 

A polished, sparkling glass window looking out to a bench in the courtyard, under a tall oak 

tree. A bright sunny day, and a red-haired boy I’d never seen before. He had looked up from his 

books in surprise when I sat down next to him. 

�e door to our common room, the wood stained and worn so� from the oil of many hands 

opening and closing it through the years. Peeking through it in the early hours of the morning one 

would have seen that red-haired boy and a blonde-haired girl sitting closely by the embers of a 

�replace. 

A wide door painted red, with a Christmas wreath hanging on a hook. As I slowly turned 

the knob, I breathed in the smell of pine and mint. At the far corner of the room, the girl stood 

in solitude, nibbling at a piece of pie. �e boy walked up to her bravely, staring above her head at 

what hung there, and kissed her on the lips. 

A door painted by many hands in di�erent colors, ideas, and techniques. Inside, some 

people were lively and sociable, others were reserved and quiet. �e boy turned away from his 

friends and dipped his paintbrush in a dish of orange tempera. It splashed onto the girl’s painting, 

right beside him. He gave her an apologetic look and she giggled, taking her brush and splattering 

green paint onto his canvas. 

A heavy metal door that clanked loudly every time it was closed. A carelessly thrown ball, 

a shout. �e boy stormed out from the gym, holding his blood-stained hand to his nose. At the 

sound of the door slamming behind him, the girl winced, looking at the ground. Anger, shame. 

�e looming, dark ebony door to a classroom, with a tarnished silver knob. �e red-haired 

boy putting his hand on a brown-haired girl’s leg, and the blonde-haired girl watching from the 

shadows of the stairs. �e girl throwing a glass at the boy’s head. Shouts, tears. 

A creaky, narrow gray door. I twirled the lock carefully. It unlatched. I was surprised that 

a�er all those years they had not changed the combination. I opened the locker gently. I scanned 

the empty space, looking for some trace of my teen years. My eyes stopped abruptly at unfamiliar 

markings on the inside of the door. “I’m sorry” was etched clearly into the fading gray paint. I 

didn’t go back there looking for redemption, but somehow I found it anyway. 

~ 26 ~

Laura Holt 

New Year 

New Year 

�ere was confetti in my hair, it was the new year, but nothing had changed. I was with Harvey 

and �alia, I watched them as they kissed passionately, like the other ��y couples surrounding me. 

Everyone around me was smiling, and hugging each other tightly, where I was the odd one out. I sipped 

the liquid, emptying the last of my champagne glass. I had been single a little over two years and hated 

it tremendously. I gave up the blind dates, casual co�ee meet ups, and deactivated my account on match. 

com. I grew tired of the regularity of the dates, it was always the same. �e same conversation, the same 

suit and tie, and the same nude heels I wore on each and every date. I craved spontaneity, some sort of 

spark. I knew if I stopped searching, love would �nd me. 

�alia and I exchanged glances. She knew my thoughts. She gave Harvey a squeeze and led me to 

the door. It was time to go home, and she knew it too. �e party was over, tomorrow we would go back to 

our nine hour shi�s. �alia waved a cab over to the curb. 

“What happened to your mystery man? He was cute!” �alia exclaimed, while combing her �ngers 

through her long carmel-colored hair. In an instant I felt woozy, almost as if I were in a dream. I clutched 

my sequined purse to my stomach, feeling something come up. In an instant I turned to �alia, ready to 

speak, when I vomited. “Ew, Elle.” She screeched. Opening my eyes I noticed my vomit on her open toed 

shoes. She tore away from my glance, hurrying inside the club. I held my head in my hands. I felt a hand 

wrap around my elbow, pulling me towards the cab. �e city lights blurred together, like one big moon, 

heavy and misleading. 

~ 27 ~

Jewel Holiday 

Nicknames 

Nicknames 

I believe in nicknames, particularly one of my most notorious label of: “Bernard’s Sister.” 

My brother is two years older than I and the from the very �rst day I was granted entrance into the public 

school system I was given the title of “Bernard’s Sister”. It originated from our bus driver- an older man 

disclosed by his snow white hair and sometimes toothless grin, whenever he forgot to wear his dentures 

to work. It then steadily entangled itself into my life. Teachers, administrators, and lunch ladies that I did 

not even know existed would greet me in the hallways with “How’s it going, Bernard’s Sister?” or “Hello 

Bernard’s Sister.” Even my partner in crime at the time would occasionally call me this. I absolutely 

loathed it. I would go home and complain to my mom with “How do they even know we’re related?” and 

“ We don’t even look alike!” 

As time went on I yearned to not let my wretched nickname de�ne me. I cut and dyed my hair, 

painted my nails, and acted completely di�erent from my brother all so absolutely no one would group 

us together anymore. I also tried to accomplish as many achievements as possible so I would earn my 

own reputation and have other adjectives that I actually liked describe me. During the time I spent in 

elementary school, I became one the �rst in my class to graduate to chapter books and master the art 

of shoe tying. I was also selected to read my D.A.R.E speech at my ��h grade graduation and to star 

in two plays as a bear and a singing narrator. In my pre-teen stage I was one of the top accumulators of 

accelerated reader points in my school and was bestowed a plaque for outstanding citizenship. Now as 

a young adult I’ve conquered several advanced placement tests, Shakespeare, handling my money, and 

almost driving. 

Over the years I unintentionally picked up my new nicknames: the “Fraction Queen”-from my 

(now non-existent) love of fractions in sixth grade; “Earring Girl”- from my adoration of uniquely shaped 

earrings, and even some negative ones such as “�e Teacher’s Pet”. �en when my little brother and I 

began to share the same school I was on the receiving end of the nickname of Wayne’s Older Sister. I liked 

this one way better than Bernard’s sister because now I was distinguished as the older one. 

I have come to the realization that these nicknames don’t subtract from me as a person but add to 

the makeup of me. I even like some of them, because in the end I know I’ll still be me. I now realize that 

even when I’m six feet under I’ll be the fraction queen, the teacher’s pet, and even Bernard’s Sister. I’m 

okay with that. I believe in being your own person. 

~ 28 ~

Amanda Butler 

Perfect Little World For Me 

Perfect Little World for Me 

A perfect little world designed for me and only me. One that no one will ever see or discover and 

one that will remain untouched by human claws. 

Blue grass, long tall grass. �e grass whistles, you know. �ey whistle to each other. �ey talk to 

one another. �ey sway with the wind, the colors blending together. �e wind, the wind carries those 

whispered words that only one could ever hear. �ey are the secret words, the ones heartbroken and 

betrayed whisper for some release. 

Trees. Tall ancient trees, never bothered for thousands or millions of years. �eir dark red and 

brown bark twisting into the most beautiful patterns. �ousands of small critters crawling in and out 

of the perfect sculpture traveling from one place to another, hoping to be the �rst to win the race. �e 

leaves, beautiful colors, sparking with complex tribal like design. �e fruit, colorful in every way. Purple 

apples hang heavily on the branches, bright orange berries clump together on bushes and various green 

vegetables grow beneath the soil. 

�e clouds, wispy and stringy. Many were close to the ground, and if you ever felt one, your skin 

would be covered with a cool fabric, the so�, silk slipping between your �ngers. White against the sunset 

sky, the constant multi colors that fanned across that endless sky. 

But this, was only my Cloud Nine, as I liked to call it. �is was my place of pleasure and happiness. 

Was, being the key word there. 

My world has been destroyed. 

My little, perfect world, destroyed. �e trees, once so tall and so beautiful, burned to ash onto the 

dead sickly gray grass. �e clouds . . . Once so so�, so cold, turned into thick heavy smoke that clogged the 

throats of my beautiful creatures. �e fruit, rotten, burned and poisoned beyond any hope of repair. �e 

world, no longer bright and happy with a blood red sky and black soot to cover my once perfect world. 

I walk alone in this. I walk through the gardens, the once clean air and the once gentle palace. My 

world has been turned upside down with simple words, simple actions. �e sadness etches every day on 

me, the fear of what to expect next eating at my starved stomach. 

I see shadows. Shadows of people. �ey call for someone. Anyone to be alive within this dead cold 

world. I can not call out back. If only they looked a bit farther, a bit closer they would see my small shape. 

�ey would �nd me and bring to another world. To another safer home. Away from these thoughts. Away 

from the darkness that ate at me to the bone. �ey would love me, like I had loved my home. 

Peering closer through the black fog, the shadow of one person becomes more and more seeable. 

Closer they come, closer and closer. But not close enough. 

If only. 

~ 29 ~


Arthur Lockman 


I stood outside room 320, and had only one thought in my head. Don’t mess it up, don’t mess it up. 

Perhaps two, really. Mayonnaise was not an instrument. �is I knew. But what good would that do me for 

my audition? None, that’s how much. I have to get that out of my head. 

�e door opened. I walked in to the room, to see the smiling face of our Director looking up at me 

from the adjudicators table. Next to him was a lady I’d never seen before. She didn’t look too pleased. Ugh, 

another brass player. I’d become familiar with the look. Only snobby �autists could give that look. I knew 

what she was all about. 

Assembling my instrument, that was next. My mind was running in circles. Idle banter, that was 

what I needed. I struck up a conversation with our Director about something or other. I was stalling, of 

course. I was nervous as hell, and had no idea if I could even pull this o�. Sure, I had practiced. More 

than I had ever done before. But still that little voice in the back of my head persisted. You’re going to 

mess up, you don’t know what you’re doing. Mayonnaise is not an instrument. It just wouldn’t go away. 

Horseradish isn’t an instrument either. Circling round, and round. Never letting me o� of its crazy ride. 

Alright, let’s hear your piece. I snapped, sat straight up in my chair. Already my heart was 

pounding. I tried not to show it though. A�er all, what kind of lame brass player gets nervous? We’re all 

studs a�er all. I wasn’t, but I wasn’t about to let the unknown pompous �autist at the table know that. 

I took a deep breath. You got this, don’t mess up. I blew a cautious note from my trombone. To me, 

it sounded like the trumpeters of the fore horsemen of the apocalypse. �at note from hell was the �rst 

thing that my adjudicators heard. Crap. What could I do now? Take another breath, play another note. 

Argh. Another. Darn it all. Yet another. Not too bad. But I had only warmed up. 

I set my piece out on the music stand in front of me. I knew it so well, yet it still looked terrifying. 

Like I had almost never seen it before; I had no chance of getting it right. Butter�ies took wing in my 

stomach. Deep breaths. I began. 

First movement. As if you are a musician, playing at a royal ball. �at’s what my teacher had told 

me. I tried my best to make it sound like that. One missed note. Two. �ree. Yet the director kept right on 

smiling, as he always does during these things. �e �autist, however, stared grimly at her paper, viciously 

scribbling illegible notes about me, how I was just another brass player, nothing to look much at. I had to 

show her. 

Second movement. Fast, bouncy, fun. �at was what I was playing, or trying to play. See, there 

comes a point when a piece of music is physically too fast for a trombonist like myself to play. �is was 

close to that point. My arm was falling o�. �e owner of the red sedan, you le� your lights on. All I could 

see was Patrick Star, with a trombone stuck over his head, marching in to audition. �at’s how I thought I 

sounded. 

It was over. Our Director looked at me. Good job. Much better than last year. I packed up, thanked 

my adjudicators, and walked out of the room. I thought, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the �autist 

grinning. I turned around to look, but she was back to scowling. Brass players. Always think they’re so 

good, hmm? I could say the same of woodwinds. 

I walked out of the room, down the hall, where I signed out. Another person, a �ute player, walked 

in behind me. I saw the �autist at the table grin. We’ll see how this goes, I thought. Her �rst note was a 

squeak. Maybe if we play louder, people will think that we’re better. 

~ 30 ~

Cassaundra Martel 

Rosie 

Rosie 

I came home from school late that �ursday. She greeted me at the door as usual, struggling 

to get up, limping over, and smacking me with the side of her head, her clouded, rheumy eyes not 

being able to tell exactly where I was in the doorway. I stroked her back, avoiding the bald patches 

and tumors that were spread almost all over her body. She leaned against me, preventing me 

from entering further into the house, not wanting me to move or leave her side. She was old and 

riddled with cancer. My eyes started to moisten, and I buried my face in what little was le� of her 

fur, hugging her head. I �ashed back to when I �rst met her, when I was two years old and chose 

her out of a litter of six. My mother tried to talk me into considering one of the other puppies, the 

bigger, healthier ones; I chose the runt of the litter. I insisted on calling her my “piggy” (all the 

puppies looked like little piglets), and Rosie snuggled in my arms, taking to me before she could 

even walk properly, before she was even old enough to be separated from her mother. 

Rosie continued to be there beside me throughout my life, as far back as I can remember. 

When I was four, I was afraid of the dark and made going to bed very di�cult for my parents. I 

cried myself to sleep every night until my mother thought to put Rosie in my room at night to 

sleep. She would put her muzzle on my bed, and I would pet her until I fell asleep. She would 

still be there when I woke up the next morning. Growing up, I made poor choices in friends, and 

everyday that I came home from school with another crisis, I would be greeted by my true friend. 

She would sit with me and snuggle until I was reminded that I did have a friend who loved me 

unconditionally. When I came downstairs early for school, she would be the �rst to wish me a 

good morning, in her own doggish way, with licks and tail wags and begging for my breakfast. She 

was a member of the family, receiving Christmas gi�s, birthday treats, and as much attention as the 

kids. She would join us on our yearly camping trips, and never failed to give us a killer laugh every 

now and again, wiping out the campsite trying to chase a chipmunk, or collapsing in the freezing 

river a�er a long hike, despite her dread of water. She snored louder than my father (you could 

hear it all over the house despite her being two �oors away) and she would put her muzzle in your 

face, look at you lovingly... and burp. She would crawl under the dining table as soon as we started 

to set it for supper and await the arrival of dropping food, and I would tuck my cold feet under her 

furry belly to warm them. 

�is was all going through my head, from �rst meeting her almost twelve years before, when 

I held a three-week old little black piggy in my arms, up to now, desperately clinging to a blind, 

sickly dog who was balding, limping, and had no appetite, having lost thirty pounds in a couple of 

months. I was painfully aware of the ending to the story and it was not going to be “happily ever 

a�er.” 

I knew when my mom walked into the room and looked at me holding my dog. She didn’t 

have to say anything. I just didn’t know when. It was almost a whisper when she �nally got it 

out. Tomorrow a�ernoon. I had 24 hours, including school the next day with four tests, just 

before grades closed. And this was the last night I had, just sitting with my �rst friend, my best 

friend, the only friend that stuck with me through everything. She had been there through so 

much, always loving me when I questioned if others did. And now she would never be there again. 

I cried in gym class the next day, and didn’t do well on any of my tests. I got home and cried 

~ 31 ~

Rosie 

into the remnants of her fur some more. I was clinging to one of the most important parts of my 

life, and I was about to lose her very soon. My parents �nally pried me o� her, and we got into 

the car, drove the three minutes to the vet, and reluctantly walked inside. �ey didn’t make us 

wait. Jessica, the tech who had known Rosie as long as I had, was watery eyed and hugged my 

mother. We walked into the exam room, and made Rosie lay down on the blanket they had set 

out. We had a few minutes before the vet came in, and you could tell from the look in Rosie’s eyes 

that she knew. She slowly got up, and went over to my dad, gave him a short stare, and laid her 

head on his lap, nudging his hand the way she always did to get petted. She stayed like that for 

a few seconds, and then went to my mom, laying her head on her knee, and giving her the same 

stare. She did the same for my younger brothers, giving each a knowing look, and a �nal few 

seconds. It was as if she was saying goodbye to each one of us, telling us that it was okay, that she 

understood. She laid back down, looking up at me from the blanket. I knelt down in front of her, 

and she put her head in my lap, looking up at me through her cloudy eyes, and I just stroked her 

head, telling her the truth, that she was a good girl, and that she would be okay soon. Her hips 

wouldn’t hurt anymore, that she wouldn’t be blind, that the cancer and skin problems wouldn’t 

keep bothering her. I just kept stroking her head, saying the same thing over and over again. I 

gave her a few kisses, scratched her ears, and let her lick the tears o� my face. �e vet came in and 

said that the �rst shot they were going to use was just to sedate her and would make her dizzy. I 

held her head, but as the drugs began to work, she kept thrashing around, trying to shake o� the 

dizziness. Just as I caught her face, she closed her eyes and settled down. I lay down with her, 

holding her face in my hands and cried into her head for a long time, before my parents, both 

crying, said that we should leave. I dragged myself away, feeling like I was betraying her somehow. 

�e sel�sh part of me wanted to scream, “Stop! I can’t do this! We can stop now and let her sleep 

o� the sedation and take her home” but the part of me that truly loved her did not allow it. 

As we le�, I took one �nal glance into the room. She just lay there, sleeping, still on the 

blanket. �e technician closed the door behind us, and that was the last time I saw my Rosie. 

~ 32 ~

Cassaundra Martel 

Shark 

Shark 

Once the crew cut the engine, the only sound on the ocean was the gentle lapping of the low 

waves splashing along the side of the boat. 

“You only get an hour for the hundred bucks,” said the captain. “You may want to hurry up.” 

With a �nal breath, Susan climbed over the steel edge and splashed into the Hawaiian water. 

�e tropical water was warm from the constant sun, and perfectly clear. �e minute she was 

underneath the surface, she focused in on the sharks. �ey swarmed the baited water, mouths 

wide to catch anything that might be food, remaining swi� despite the distraction of the boat and 

cage. 

Susan, mesmerized by their grace, barely remembered what she came here to do. She 

surfaced long enough to �x the snorkel, then began snapping pictures with her underwater 

camera. �e sharks were everywhere, and the pictures came within seconds of each other, snap 

a�er snap a�er snap. But as she continued to stare, the snaps slowed, and eventually died out. 

She paused as a big shark came by, glancing at her and slowing as it passed by the cage. She could 

almost feel him staring at her, sizing her up, waiting for something. She jumped as he turned 

around, and as he darted away, she noticed he was missing an eye on the other side. She took a 

�nal picture of the empty eye socket as he disappeared. �e look he had given her shocked her, 

like he knew something she didn’t. A quick glance behind her to the boat, and then back to where 

the blind shark had hovered. A look of de�ance crossed her face. In a single motion as swi� as 

the swimming sharks, she dropped her camera through the bars of the cage, broke the surface, 

grabbed the edge, and signaled for the boat to pull her in. 

She wrapped herself in a towel, and started to shiver, despite the warm air. 

“Where’s your camera, miss?” one of the crew questioned. 

“I le� it in the water.” She didn’t look at him, just stared at the horizon. 

“In the cage?” 

“At the bottom.” 

“Why on earth would you do that?” 

Now she snapped her attention from the oblivion to his face, the look in her eyes burning 

through him, not because she was mad at him, but the anger was still present. 

“I was contracted by a �shing company to come out here. �e photos were for an 

advertisement.” 

He remained silent for a minute, and giving up on getting a response, she turned back to the 

horizon. 

“It’s illegal, ya’ know. Marine dumping,” he said, as he turned back to dump the rest of the 

unused bait into the water. 

~ 33 ~

Olivia Marshburn-Ersek 



In Aisle Six of the grocery store, a woman whispers to a man, “Hey you! Do I know you from 

somewhere? �ere’s something about you––just in your eyes, or your hair, or in the look on your face. You 

remind me of someone. I mean, the way you study the back of that box of oatmeal like it’s something you 

love, I don’t know, it just makes me think that I know you. Do I?” 

“No, you don’t,” he says. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, except for maybe here in this 

grocery store. But it’s okay; you seem like a nice person. Maybe I will know you. You are one of the �rst 

people I’ve met who watches people as they pick up boxes of oatmeal in the store.” 

“Well,” she says, “I wanted to know why you looked so fascinated by something so simple. I mean, 

it’s not like oatmeal has some special ingredient in it other than oats. I wanted to know what it was that 

captivated you, what made you stand there blocking the aisle when you could have already moved on to 

getting the next thing on your list, and then on to the rest of your day. Mostly, I wondered what gave you 

that smile on your face! I mean, do you have a love a�air with oatmeal, or something?” 

“Oh, I hate oatmeal actually-that’s the thing. I’d never buy it on my own, but my little sister loves 

oatmeal raisin cookies, so I thought I’d make them on our �rst-ever visit with just the two of us. I was 

staring at the box because I was thinking about how I hated oatmeal when I was younger, a lot younger–– 

how my mom made me eat it for breakfast every morning because it “sticks with you.” It did, but it was 

awful and way too sticky and it tasted like cardboard. I swear. 

I hated the oatmeal––I mean I loved my mother and hated the disgusting, slimy stu� that she made me 

every single day.” 

“I know what you mean. Oatmeal is horrible by itself. It’s not like my mom ever made it though. 

She fed me Cocoa Pu�s and Lucky Charms and Cap’n Crunch because that’s what I wanted and she 

wanted to make me happy. I’m more interested to hear about your sister than oatmeal, though. I have 

something in common with her, because we both love oatmeal raisin cookies.” 

“Yeah, okay. She just graduated from college actually, two weeks ago, so she has a lot of time o� 

now. I mean, she doesn’t have a job yet, and she doesn’t know whether she’s going to grad school yet 

either. She got her degree in sociology and it’s not like there’s much you can do with that, anyway. So I 

have a feeling that she’s going to stay longer than just one weekend, since she couldn’t bear to move back 

in with my mom at age twenty-two.” 

“Hah! It’s nice that you’re letting her stay with you. I know how it feels to be in her position, since 

I majored in comparative literature, which was totally impractical,” she says. “And it doesn’t make much 

sense �ve years later when you realize you’re going to have to go back to school to do something that 

actually pays enough money to live.” 

“Are you in school now?” he asks. “I can’t imagine being back in school myself.” 

“No. �at was three years ago. I’m a teacher now; I’m about to �nish my �rst year teaching fourthgrade. 

I love teaching now, I mean it’s like the passion I never discovered in all those years of college. If 

only I’d realized that I wanted to teach back then! Oh well. Life’s a journey, and this is probably the only 

way I could have discovered that I wanted to be a teacher.” 

“What do you do?” she asks. 

“Well, it’s a long story for me also. I basically have the opposite problem that you had, because I 

was convinced at the age of ��een that I was going to become a chemical engineer. You know, I was good 

at math and science and they seemed like pretty interesting subjects, but not ones that really inspired 

me or anything. I just kept thinking about how I knew it would pay well. So I do have a good-paying job 

for someone who’s only thirty––that’s funny; we’re the same age––but it’s so boring now, working in the 

~ 34 ~


lab with chemicals that don’t really mean anything to me. �ey mean things to some people, like to a lot 

of my coworkers, but all I want to do is write songs. I want to write them, play them on the guitar, sing 

them, and perform them for people. I want to share them with the world. I’m curious––do you play any 

instruments, or sing? You look like a musician. �ere’s just something about you that tells me you’re a 

musician.” 

“I am a musician, actually! In fact, music is kind of my second passion in life a�er teaching. I play 

the piano, and I sing, and listen to a lot of music. I even bring it with me into the classroom. I sing Cat 

Stevens songs to my fourth-graders, and they love them! Or at least it seems like they do, from the smiles 

on their faces. I don’t know what we’d all do without music.” 

“We’d all be happier,” he says, “all the seven billion of us on this planet, if we listened to more 

music. �ere’s something music has that nothing else has––it can make a sad person happy, it can bring us 

back to our past, bring us together. What do you think?” 

She sighs. “I agree with you completely, and it feels great to talk with you-but I came to the store to 

get two things: a bottle of milk and some cat food! I better get going. Really. I mean I don’t want to; this 

has been the best trip to the grocery store ever-I do have to say that. I mean, it doesn’t matter that you’re a 

complete stranger––it’s like I do know you, a�er all.” 

“We know each other” he says. “And we will still know each other when you come over to my 

house tonight to eat oatmeal raisin cookies and play music. I have a piano.” 

“�at sounds great, and I would come, but I’m playing in a concert tonight. It’s actually a talent 

show at school that I’ve organized for the kids to play in, then I’m playing a piece on the piano. It’s by 

George Winston, my favorite. You can come if you want. Yeah, you should! It’s just a bunch of kids singing 

karaoke and playing violin duets with their mothers, but I think you’ll like it.” 

“I think I will. Where is it?” 

“Oh, it’s at Je�erson Intermediate School at seven o’clock. You know where that is, right?” 

“I do. And I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll even bring some oatmeal cookies for you, in lieu of 

�owers. Yeah, I’ll see you there, and I hope you have a great day until then!” 

“I think I will have a great day, and I hope you do too. See you tonight!” 

“I’ll see you,” he says. “And just so you know, this has also been my best trip grocery shopping ever. 

�ank you.” 

“�ank you, too! Wait––before I go––what’s your name?” 

“Oliver. What about you?” 

“I’m Jenny.” 

“Jenny, would you like to be my friend?” 

“Yes, I would love to be your friend,” she says. 

~ 35 ~

Alex Swiatek 

�e Young and the Old 

The Young and the Old 

Brilliant rays of piercing sunlight broke through the wisps of mystifying clouds in the 

morning. A train churned to a halt as travelers and passengers began to �ow out. Somewhere, a 

bird answered the train’s whistle with a song of its own. It was his �rst time here. �e young man 

could feel the sprouting city calling; it was alive, a living and breathing behemoth of opportunity. 

�e day itself coated the town in a veil of amiability and mist. �e thin mist only made the daylight 

all the more radiant. A new start for this man, a new home, a new life. His o�ce was on the 12th 

�oor of the burgundy building in the heart of the meager, yet eager city. It was a heart of ambition 

and achievement, a heart young and lively. 

�e old man groaned as his piercing alarm sounded. �e morning wasn’t as vivacious as he 

had remembered. Time doesn’t stop for anyone, he supposed. �e lifetime he had spent in the 

once small town was beginning to overstay its welcome. Even the noble spruce tree was beginning 

to wither. He looked with his failing eyes at the spruce, his childhood friend. �e �rst time he 

talked to his wife was when he was 7, under that spruce tree. He thought of her as the ancient 

Chevy coughed and moaned to life. Perhaps it was the only thing with any life le�. Where did it all 

go? Where were the times spent together? �e times growing and not knowing where next week’s 

paycheck would come from? �e times when all he had le� was himself and his dear wife, his best 

friend? All of those moments were scarcely memories anymore; it was all that was le�. 

�e young man settled into his new o�ce. �e chair was a �ne, black leather, but felt 

like so�, cushioned silk. It felt right. �e window panes painted a picture of the city. �e man 

looked down and sighed. It was a sigh of relief, a sigh of security and a sigh of assurance. �ings 

would �nally work out. He �nally had the better hand, the aces he had been working and waiting 

for. It was time to start living. His phone rang to the song of some ‘90s alternative rock band. 

�e woman’s voice was cheerful, warm and bubbly, as usual. �e woman he loved, the woman 

he would marry. He shared the sites and experiences of his new home, the home she would be 

arriving to in the following week. �ings would �nally be OK. It was time to start living. 

A rusted Chevy dashed through the town, as if in one last e�ort to win a phantasmagorical 

race. An old Creedence song sang out as the old man’s worn hands gripped the wheel. Time 

doesn’t wait for anyone, he was afraid. �is was not the town he grew up in, not the town he 

remembered, not his home. It had died. �e truck barely kept up with life’s �nal hurrah as the old 

man drove away, away from the world and the nightmare of today. Vainly, he drove, as if expecting 

to �nd his old home and friends, just around the corner. Just a little more, and he would reach it, 

he could feel it, the life of long ago, all of the happy memories resurrected, just as he recalled. �e 

car slowed, but the old man ran and ran, as far as his legs would carry him, he ran. �rough blurred 

eyes he could see it. He stopped. He fell. He made it. 

~ 36 ~

Bethany Marshburn-Ersek 

�e �ings Megan Carried 

The Things Megan Carried 

Megan was forced to leave New Orleans a�er Hurricane Katrina and go to California to live 

with her aunt. Megan carried her cell phone, her lifeline to everything that was going on with 

her friends in New Orleans. She never let that cell phone leave her pocket. In her cell phone, she 

carried 43 contacts and pictures of her friends back home. At night, a�er avoiding making eye 

contact with anyone, Megan carried her dishes to the sink and then walked to the porch, dragging 

her feet in sadness. Megan called her friends in New Orleans, and talked to them about who was 

going out with who; she told them that she hated it in California, how she had no friends and she 

asked them why her life was so messed up, but they couldn’t tell her. A�er all, their lives were 

messed up by Katrina, too. 

Megan resented the hurricane and the way it had ruined her life. �e hurricane had taken her 

from her friends, her house, and her school. It took her from her so�ball team, which she loved 

dearly. 

It was September, and Megan had to register to go to a strange school in California. Her 

mother was back in New Orleans, trying to �gure out what to do with their �ooded house. She 

carried resentment with her to the breakfast table and to the car and to school and back home. 

She carried it in her pocket out of habit, even though it was like having acid; it ate away at her 

sense of self. Megan carried more than any girl should have to carry. She carried loneliness 

because she missed her friends, and she carried a desire for things to go back to the way they 

used to be. Sometimes, when she was feeling especially down, Megan carried grief to the back 

porch where she would close her eyes and imagine that she was back in New Orleans and that the 

hurricane had never happened. She would let the dry heat of California in the Spring turn into the 

humid heat of New Orleans. She could literally feel the water droplets condensing in the air and 

feel beads of sweat form on her forehead. When Megan opened her eyes, she expected to see the 

spanish moss that dripped from the cyprus trees, and the heavy, sweet, cell of magnolias in the air. 

She could hear the rumble of the daily a�ernoon thunderstorm back home, but instead she saw the 

orange and avocado trees of California. One day, when she was in a hurry to get home to tell her 

aunt some big news, she accidentally forgot her cell phone on the desk of her seventh period class. 

With the cell phone, she forgot her sadness, and her longing to return to her old life. 

�at day, Megan carried hope that she could have a social life in California, and that she 

could be happy, despite her unfortunate circumstances. Megan carried a smile on her face all 

the way home. When she got home, she burst in the door, �ung her backpack onto the ground 

and ran into the den, where she found her aunt watching her one-year-old cousin Holly, who was 

crawling on the hazelnut-colored carpet. Megan’s words were like �reworks, eat one animated 

and exciting, as she told her aunt that she’d been invited to go to Angel Stadium with Connor 

Ramirez, the junior class treasurer, and a bunch of other kids. Megan didn’t know who else who 

was going and she didn’t care, the important thing was that now she had some friends, o�cially, 

and it felt good to be included. As she walked to her bedroom, Megan glided as if weightless. She 

felt the resentment, sadness, and self-pity li� from her shoulders, and it felt nice to carry nothing. 

~ 37 ~

~ 38 ~ 

Art

Bubble - Sam Cupps 

~ 39 ~

Eagle - Brendan Kelly 

~ 40 ~

Innocence Is Also Bliss - Jewel Holiday 

~ 41 ~

Benjamin Hincher 

~ 42 ~

Lia VandeKrol 

~ 43 ~

Sam Cupps 

~ 44 ~

Snowflakes! - Lia VandeKrol 

~ 45 ~

Spiders On My Window - Jewel Holiday 

~ 46 ~

e Little River Review - Gorham High School!

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