Misty Morning Lane by Nirvana Monsur / Unknown by Sophie Froehlich

“Unknown”

Sophie Froehlich

“Misty Morning Lane”

Nirvana Monsur

During the morning of Misty Morning Lane, mist filled the air. It was as if an enveloping cloud fell from the sky. The bright porch lights illuminated the dark sky. The blinding sun was no longer blinding.

Chills shivered down her spine. The thick air intoxicated her lungs. The fog stung her eyes. The mist had led to misty thoughts.

At Misty Morning Lane, mist filled the air from dusk till dawn.

Untitled by Ella Bagchi / Untitled by Erika Petersen

Untitled

Erika Petersen

Untitled

Ella Bagchi

Cold, thin air whisked through my nostrils and sliced across my face like the blade of a grim reaper. I could feel my toes numbing as I trudged upward in the snow. Gusts of snowy wind howled in my ears like a haunted chorus of wolves. The storm threatened to throw me off the mountain, into the sharp rocks so far below. I felt the storm and my own fear like liquid fire in my bones, seeping into my shivering veins. Jetstreams of ice pelted my eyes, making them water. My legs burned, but I kept climbing, fighting the unstoppable forces pushing me back. I kept climbing through the treacherous terrain ahead of me. I kept climbing the mountain, carrying the fear in my soul. I kept climbing because I had to. And then, suddenly, everything stopped. The howling wind became a soft murmur, a memory of what it once was. Sparkling snow fell sparingly and gracefully in calm flurries. My body ceased to burn, because I had stopped climbing. I had reached the peak of the mountain. I inhaled the fresh, still air and took in the panoramic postcard around me. The aggressively gray sky had melted into a serene blue that touched the majestic mountains surrounding me. A river weaved through the mountains, glazed over with a veneer of ice. I was enveloped in a surreal, freeing silence. Warmth bubbled in my heart up into my face, and I smiled uncontrollably. Frozen in time, I had never felt so warm.

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2023

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2023

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

During Christine’s high school years, she showed great promise as a poet, and the hope of her parents is that this award will encourage other students to pursue in their writing the spirit with Christine so beautifully demonstrated in her own.

A faculty committee has chosen

Cristiane Richardson

to receive this year’s award. 

Bagged Oats

Inspired by “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou 

Some oats slide into a bowl. 

They soak in milk and sugar,

Mixed with care and attention.

Their flavor and texture are delightful –

Sweet, creamy, and puffy –

As they pervade my mouth,

Claiming my admiration.

But other oats remain in the bag.

They crack from dehydration.

They are flat, thin, and small,

Their flavor lackluster.

They are tasteless and their skin is dry,

So they shuffle and dance around.

They dance,

They fly,

They jig,

They glide.

Never has a bag of oats seemed so energized.

Some oats dazzle with cinnamon. 

They swell with love,

Cherishing their time in the spotlight.

They tan and warm up in the oven;

Toasty is their flavor.

As they cover a dollop of strawberry jam

They make the plate their own.

But other oats lie still in their bag.

They roll over each other and sag.

They sit, wanting the light.

They sit, wanting the warmth.

They sit, dreaming of their own flavor.

They are tasteless and their skin is dry,

So they shuffle and dance around.

They dance,

They fly,

They jig,

They glide.

Never has a bag of oats seemed so energized.

IN MY HEART

Inside my heart there is a sacred place. One can discover the candy red walls and high arches and be humbled. One can discover the deep red marble floor and feel grounded. One can discover the back rooms and center room (or the drawing room) saturated with warm, dim light, and feel at ease. One can discover the soft, candy red, velvet-covered lounge chases and enveloping egg-shaped chairs and feel comforted. One can see, almost at the wooden, burgundy, arching front door, the round glass table with flecks of various shades of red and a silver platter of jam cookies sitting in the middle of it, discover the chairs with backs of black-painted metal, configured into a soft diamond shape under an arch, with candy red cushions on the seats, and feel welcomed.

“Fill The Page” by Cassandra Clovis

“Fill The Page”

Cassandra Clovis

“Fill the page,” my teacher instructed to all of the students in my writing class.

But how should I? And why do I need to fill a page,

a lengthy, long page, to get out my deepest feelings

in the form of a poem? Yes, I write poems-

I feel that a poem deserves the blank spaces

between the lines and empty holes in the margins

and the pauses snuck into each of the stanzas

with the whispers of the white page.

A poem needs the emotional connection to quiet, 

as quiet resembles peace, loneliness, and much more;

A crowded poem isn’t as clear without the choppiness

all over the page, and a poem with too many words

may become meaningless, no matter how sophisticated or repetitive it

is. 

So, I can get my message across in half of the words you expect

and perhaps maybe that message has more of a reason

to exist in its shorter form.

I do not want to ruin a pure piece of writing to meet a minimum

requirement,

I do not want to push my wondrous brain further than it already works,

For if I do, I may not be able to tell my stories.

It all comes back to preference and imagination. 

With my scarce amount of words,

I will construct a whirlwind of ideas for you.

Poems have no requirements. Poems are written with freedom.

This spot intentionally left blank.

Sprinkled Donut – Desiree Bailey / Sprinkled Doughnut – Jakob Womer

Sprinkled Doughnut

Jakob Womer

Sprinkled Donut

Desiree Bailey

A donut without sprinkles is just a frosted donut

a donut with sprinkles is a kids favorite order. 

Drizzled in strawberry flavored frosting

purchase a twelve pack and you become a hoarder.

Coffee on the side to compliment your donut 

all together you have a morning idea of a meal.

Add some sugar to the cup and you have some taste

Put them together and you may seal the deal.

To start off your morning class you get an idea of it

A morning that’s calm and is filled with excitement.

Soon you look down to see that your smile is gone

Your teacher has just handed out your next assignment.

“MockingBird” by Roshan Mehta / “Last Melody” by Rui Zhang

“Last Melody”

Rui Zhang

“MockingBird”

Roshan Mehta

Harry James raised his trumpet above the water’s surface and began to play a tune.  Broad sweeps of sound fluttered out of his bell, swinging from high to low as a seagull does across an open ocean.  The powerful, yet fragile tone gradually softened as the quiet ripples of the strings crescendoed into waves, and as the waves of brass crescendoed into a tsunami.  Again, the trumpet arose, only this time, it was different.

His sound seemed louder, yet softer, in terms of its emotion.  The quiet, continuous ripples in the background emitted a spray of salt, while the bright brass conveyed a current of light.  He brought the two together to fashion a sea of bittersweetness — no — of reconnection after years of separation.  He manifested an emotion.

Music always relates to our feelings.  Yet, when Harry James raises his trumpet, the whole world watches as he spins a sea of song, listening for the depth of its soul.

“Safe House” by Joseph Razzano // Weathered by Evan Fecko

weathered / evan fecko

Safe house

joseph razzano

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, they widened in surprise. The inside of the house was not like the decayed exterior, reflecting nothing the ugly words of the town bore onto her. Because the smell was unique. The first hit was one of dust and mold and rotting wood, but had undertones of beautiful, french cooking. Because it was warm and dimly lit and a fire blazed in the fireplace to fill the room with dancing shadows. Because the stairs were grand and had carved designs that couldn’t go unnoticed. Because the carpets were foreign and had woven colors that the people in this small town couldn’t name. Because it seemed like a different world; I have never seen something so beautifully ancient in my life.

I feel safe.

“Wednesday Morning” by Jaxx Parsons / “Ghosting” by Tyler Murphy

Ghosting / Tyler Murphy

Wednesday morning,

Jaxx Parsons

Sitting in my well worn office chair, she stares at her half-empty room and what’s left of her bed. A few old blankets left on the end. The pillows they couldn’t take with them left to collect dust until she comes back for the holidays. They fiddle with Garlic, a white goat their dad bought them when they were eight. His legs shriveled from the years of make-believe and pretend adventures. A yellow eye lost to one of the cats. Though they would eventually sew the eye up they never stopped feeling guilty about it. 

Tomorrow she’ll be at college, 186 miles away from home. Away from the safe confides of their bed and her weighted blankets. Where they drank their mom’s hot chocolate. Where they collected bugs like the ones in her mother’s office. Where they found Nymo and Oscar and where their dad taught them how to crochet. They twist Garlic’s ear and their bottom lip quivered. Fighting back tears. 

9th & 10th Grade Writing/Art Contest – A Single Place

9Th & 10Th grade writing/art contest: A single place

eva berglund (winner)

Dozens of gray plastic desks line the room in rows and large round tables line the back wall. Hard blue chairs matched neatly with each one, metal baskets underneath the seat. The squeak of whiteboard markers on the board, notes written from period to period. A large desk tucked securely in the front corner of the room with dark wooden drawers and nicked table top. Sunlight streams in from the windows, illuminating dust specks that float through the hazy afternoon air. Faded maps decorate the walls, showing the world in shades of every color in the rainbow. Afternoon class.

neko lin (runner up)

Kőbánya cellar system

josiah mo (runner up)

The looming vaulted arches, uniformly situated, perpendicularly casting their shadows upon the pathway below. Eerie torches allocated at the base of the wide arches, humming gently as they give off their radiant glow. The moist ashen limestone walls, their insalubrious contents infested with mold, their dilapidated quality quid autem pulchritudinous. A well trodden passage, saturated with water on both sides, as if they contain the souls of those who walked here of yore. Gloomy shadows, looming over the path, all is quiet bar the gentle pitter patter of loose water drops. 

HONORABLE MENTIONS

sriman iyer

THERE’S AN EERIE SILENCE ON TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN

hannah berkun

There’s an eerie silence on the top of the mountain. 

Peace before everyone awakens. 

With the sun in its early stages,

fighting the moon for power. 

 

It’s the first day of spring

and yet the weather feels far from it.

I can see my breath. 

Snow is still visible from the peak.

 

But when the sun rises,

Illuminating the sky with its yellow rays.

The ice seems to melt away, 

The lake becomes vibrant and blue.

 

In a few minutes the whole world 

goes from silence to booming.

Looking down from the summit 

Reveals a forest bustling with creatures.

 

The sky now filled with colors,

Is something I could look at everyday.

mary keniry

“Only On Sundays” by Jeremy LaParl / “Dragged Away” by Joanna James

Only on sundays

jeremy laparl

I’ll see you next Sunday, kiddo, his father says. He doesn’t know why it has to always be Sunday. Why couldn’t it be a Friday, or a Monday, or a Saturday, even? Calvin didn’t understand. He didn’t understand a lot of things. He didn’t understand how to tie his shoes, and he didn’t understand what a bunny had to do with tying his shoes either. He didn’t understand why Santa only came once a year, and why he couldn’t get presents every day so he could have all the stuff the other kids have at school. He didn’t understand why his mom cries at night after they see his dad every Sunday. 

Only on Sundays, she sits on the edge of her bed, her face in her palms, elbows on her knees, and sobbing uncontrollably. Only on Sundays, Calvin is awakened by her cries, shoots up from his bed, rubs his eyes, takes his blanket off, and walks down to the end of the hallway. Only on Sundays, Calvin paces towards his Mom’s room, her sobs silencing out the low creek of her bedroom door as Calvin slowly opens it. Only on Sundays, Calvin looks at the back of his heartbroken mom, asking her, “What’s wrong, Mommy?” causing her to startlingly turn around, her dark brown hair whipping in her face, only then to hastily push it towards the back of her head, ushering over to Calvin, picking him up with a forced smile as she says, “Nothing. Nothing at all, sweetie. Now let’s get you back to bed.” Only on Sunday’s, she brings Calvin back to his room, tucks him in, and kisses him on the cheek, wiping tears away from her eyes as she says she loves him, then slowly exits the room, this time closing Calvin’s door so he wouldn’t be awakened by her heart-aching cries. Calvin never understands why all of this happens only on Sundays. 

dragged away / joanna james