Scripta Book 2016

Be shameless. The words stuck to Sam’s mind. “Joe is right,” Sam said aloud. For Sam’s entire four years of high school he had tried to dohis own thing. High school was the greatest time to be completelyshameless. Sam knew he was going to try, because what’s the point ofliving if you don’t do anything? For as long as Sam could remember, he loved writing. Whenhe bottled up his feelings too long the best way he could get them outwas through words. It didn’t matter to him anymore if people didn’tunderstand what he had to write, he was going to write because that’swhat gave him his personal joy. Writer’s block was defeated. Sam had won the battle. A seedhad been planted and was growing rapidly by the water and sun ofcreativity and motivation. Sam had found what he was finally going towrite about and even though Joe was probably not the most positiveinfluence, the words still stuck with Sam. Be shameless. Sam cracked his knuckles and took a deep breath. His fingersconnected to his computer keyboard as he began to type...

Something To Look AtRenz MachielaSecond Place Painting/Mixed Media

Picture ThisNicole LarsenSecond Place Photography

Take Me BackBy Elizabeth OkmaTake me backto the little green house in the woods,blanketed in snowand with a Christmas tree shinning through the window.When the power went outand the whole house went coldyet we played battle ship for hours, or so I’ve been told.Take me back to when the street was ours.When we played in our drivewayand stared up at the stars at the end of the day.Take me back to the beach,where we dug holes in the sand,rode the waves, and just simply tanned.Take me backto when it was easier.When time wasn’t rushedand my innocence wasn’t crushed.When all I saw was your face,not your gender or your race.When I wasn’t afraid of terrorist attacksand people weren’t judged for being black.When I wasn’t afraid of what people thoughtor of the battles I had fought.Please take me back.I beg of you,Please take me back.

Dreamy MallardsBy Jake Vroon & Mikaela VanHuisDreams of Mallards dancing in Jake’s headWhile he rested and slept in his bedOutside his window, he heard a duck callFor now he knew, it was truly fallHe leaped out of his bed not missing a beatGrabbing his shotgun to go get fresh meatJade, his black lab, was right by his sideas they went to the marsh to look to hideThe waking up of the marsh is a beautiful sightAnd definitely a hunter’s delightThe first ducks came in, a hen and a drakeJake raised his gun, their lives to takeThey fell from the sky just like when it rainedJade jumped in the water, just as she was trainedShe returned with the ducks, retrieved a perfect doubleNow Jake only needed a coupleSuddenly a flock flew overIt was time for Jake to takeoverFallen from the sky, two ducks were killedNow the limit was finally filledSuddenly, Jake awoke and sat up in his bedHe realized it was just a dream in his headIt was time to go hunting, his dream to fulfillFour mallards he was seeking to kill

The EgretLian Robinson

End Of The World?By Abigail SallSecond Place PoetryWe are human.We struggle.We have problems: too much homework, not enough sleep, crappyjob.They are problems, and they are annoying sometimes.But probably not the end of the world.When your weekend had too much homework or you couldn’t sleepin,My dad who fulfills the meaning of my name–Abigail–My Fatherrejoices,He couldn’t remember it.Not even Abbie or Abs.As he was struggling to find my name, there were tears welling up inmy eyes.I can’t cry because he doesn’t understand.So I bite my lip to cause physical pain to distract myself from myunbearable emotional pain.“Elizabeth” he says “Do you want to go paint the house?”“No, Dad” choking back tears, trying to come up with a good excuseto get away “I need to work on an art project in my bedroom.”Running to my bedroom, I hear, “Okay.”With the prickly, soft, and now damp carpet rubbing against my face,I lie on my bedroom floor.The only thing I can think while crying is “Why” into “Why this?”“Why Now?”I hate crying even though sometimes it helps.If only my weekend was filled with too much homeworkInstead of filled with too many tears.Filled with too much stress, so much that school is a stress reliever.Filled with the nauseating diagnosis of Frontotemporal Dementiaslowly degenerating the parts of his brain that make us human.Filled with too much responsibility:responsibility because my dad doesn’t remember,responsibility because my mom can’t after complex neck surgery,responsibility to be the most creative and innovativeso my dad doesn’t feel dumb, because he’s notso my mom doesn’t bend, pull, push, twist, lift anything more than 2

pounds.Filled with the balance of school and home.Filled with keeping the diagnosis of dementia a secret to preserve hisdignity because he was and is brilliant,even if he doesn’t make sense sometimes.Filled with distracting myself hoping reality will not catch up to me–just yet.Filled with fake answers to the dreaded question of how was yourweekend, night or break?Filled with hoping those answers are good enough for the person ask-ing.Filled with feelings of guilt when I have to choose homework overwatching the new movie with my dadbecause the movie sounds better and there might not be a next time.Filled with living in the moment yet needing to look at the futurewith dread and fear.Filled with frustration.Filled with whys.ButFilled with being thankful with what I have so my days aren’t filledwith tears.Filled with laughter.Filled with reminding myself that things could be worse.I am loved and that’s what’s important.Because Life is filled with Blessings.Filled with family.Filled with love.

ExploringChristian Koele

The Cigarette GirlsBy Ryley VerdeFirst Place Short Story The door swings shut behind me, so only the click of the lockcuts through the silence of the alleyway. I step away from the warmthof my home and into the night. A soft light flickers from the dingylamp secured to the wall, throwing the jagged bricks into relief. I run my fingers through my hair, as if the very motion couldshake the worries from my mind. My footsteps lead me to turn onto the main road. A canalof wildfire unfolds before me, a sea of harsh red intertwining withflashes of white. Treading the line between the cramped street and itssupporting counterparts, I begin my nightly journey. A motorcycle,aiming to bob through the lanes of cars, edges too close towards theside. Its wheels squeal against the pavement just behind my heel.With a curse, I scramble forward, fading into the shadows of the sidestreet. My heart thuds in my chest, startled into action by the nearcollision. Ragged breaths tear from my lungs, crystalizing in cool airin puffs. I lean my forehead against the cool brick of a wall, urging myheart to still and my mind to stop pounding. You would hardly think the driver saw me, so busy with hisgoing somewhere, having a place to be and needing to be there in-stantaneously. That fool driver probably didn’t stop to consider thoseon the side of the road, certainly not the life he’d nearly ended, but,then again, neither did any of the other drivers. The river of progressflows at too fast a pace to lend time for observing the scenes of thenight. Fearing another potential collision, I amble closer to thestacks of crates, revealed under the blues and greens of the streetlamps. They’d been abandoned from the day’s work, providing amplespace for men to sprawl out along their length. Now, two such men doso, cupping little heartbeats in their hands. The cigarette butts glowand fade, then glow once more: the pulse illuminating the steady paceof the night. Upon seeing them, I instinctively draw my fingers towardsmy pockets, rifling in my jacket for a cigarette. The craving alreadyscratches at my throat, my nerves needing relief from the adrena-line rush the motorcycle driver had so graciously provided. Besides,a smoke would clear both my nerves and my thoughts, maybe even

aleviate the headache hovering just behind my eyes. The men’s murmured whispers reach my ears in betweenwisps of smoke. I’d ask them for a light, if I only I had a cigarette, oreven a drag from their own, but it would only tease my craving. Thescent of smoke swirls around me, the dampness of the air weighing itdown until it fades away to return, once more, to the smell of streetgrime. With the last rays of sunset, the nightly chill settles in, and Ishove my hands in my pockets to avoid the biting cold. Habit guidesme towards the bridge, where the cigarette girls usually gather. Thefactories let out near the bridge every night. The girls wold slinkalong the streets, offering loose cigarettes from their cartons. Theyknow they will sell each one before dawn creeps along the length ofthe horizon. It’s the way of the world, a necessity of the mind. You scrapea couple cents to spend on a cigarette, if only to get you through thenight. Nicotine flows in the very lifeblood of the evening, and thecigarette girls know how to tap it. The buzz of the street — honking, screeching, the rumblingof engines — all becomes white noise, the thrum which strings mealong. I follow the winding road, offering whispered greetings to thefamiliar faces I pass. The city fades, but the nightwalkers emerge totake their place in the scene, a great play of the night, orchestratedtogether by routine. The city lights brighten my path and the mangy pup thattrots in front of it. Its mangy paws collect a thick layer of mud, and itswings its head up to look at me before slipping back into the shad-ows. The bridge spreads the length of the river, holding togetherthe two halves of the city by its rusting iron fingers. It strains to drawthem together, and I cross over it, walking willingly into limbo. A man draws his cap lower over his face as he cups his handaround the flickering light. He draws the lighter away, stepping awayfrom the girl who offered it to him. Taking a drag, he saunters away,as obsolete as the girl who sold him the smoke. In the same way onewalks on the road without registering its occurrence, you can observethe exchange without actually observing anything at all. They are simply part of the scenery. The girl, having finished off her carton, throws a smile myway as she pulls a fresh pack out of her jacket. She pockets the emptyone to keep count of her earnings that night.

She starts towards me, plastic box in hand, but anotherwoman reaches me first, having finished giving a light to an elderlycouple. Offering her selection to me, I pick out the cheapest brand.Although she isn’t my regular girl, I pass over the money in exchangefor a smoke and a light. I feel the flash of flame against my palm, andthe cigarette’s end shrivels up into ash. I breathe in the smoke, then pull the cigarette from my lips,taking sweet pleasure from the drag. I exhale, letting the wisps poolaround my face before they circle high towards the heavens. I tap outthe end of my cigarette as I turn towards the girl, but she has alreadyslipped away, the interaction already forgotten. Ambling over to the bridge, I lean against the railing, peer-ing out towards the cityscape. The city lights reflect on the water,shooting arrows of color across the rippling surface. Those colorfulswatches pale in comparison against the light of the moon, shimmer-ing down between the edges of the clouds. I pull the cigarette back towards my lips, sipping at thesmoke as I watch the city’s nighttime routine. My shoulders hunchtogether to avoid the chill, but I have a heartbeat in my hand to keepme as warm as need be. Another night, soon to be chased away by theoncoming day, only to fade back into the night. Is it possible that if something happens routinely enough, itdoes not happen at all? Perhaps this city would never realize its ownobsoleteness, and perhaps I’ll never fully realize mine. Flicking my cigarette to the ground, I crunch it beneath myfeet. The pile of ash blows away in the wind, and I turn away, lost inthe night once more.

Park TheatreRebeka RooksHonorable Mention Painting/Mixed Media

Thrown AwayAbigail Venlet

A Hurting BoyBy Mariah NelesenClosed windows and closed doorsthe unspoken oathyou keep your junk inand we’ll keep oursopen wounds and open soresfestering, begging to be revealedand healedthe blister explodespain materializes in the thick airanxiety heightenswhat is going on?the door opensrevealing the junkthe yuckscarlet and sapphiredarkened,tingedby the blackness of this nightrace to intervenecharcoal ore embraces the woundencompasses the vulnerabilitysecures the attemptcontains it - doesn’t heal itso much is unknownthis mother’s wailthis sister’s tearsthis father’s confusion

all cry in unisonbegging for one thingthe healing of this hurting boyAnd Quietly It BloomsTessa VanDeWalker

In The ShadowsMariah NelesenHonorable Mention Drawing

Build This House By Adrian HuizengaLet’s build our house on solid ground Let’s build, build, buildTowers will crumble and cities will fall as well as mighty fortresses so on this faithful, solid ground Let’s build our house The house’s walls are full of hope so nothing can dismayaround the house there’s garden fields lilies full of faith The beautiful house is built for any day The building’s roof is full of truth protection from the rain with windows with discerning view clear blue sky and bay The beautiful house is built for any dayLet’s build our house on solid ground Let’s build, build, build

Storm At The BeachBy Elyssa VandenTopWe came to watch a sunsetColors flash across the skyBefore they shift to solid black;The darkness of the nightInstead of red and pinkThe sky’s a clouded hueInstead of a quiet sunsetWe watch a storm blow throughThe wind is blowing wildlyThe waves becoming violentThe sand beating against usIs anything but silentThe storm heading for the beachSome might find it frighteningBut nothing could replace the graceOf the water under lightningWe watch it come from rusty swingsSoaring carelessly and freeBefore it starts to rainWhere our sunset was supposed to be



InsomniaBy Elyssa VandenTopThe time that I’ve been waiting forHas been taken from meI’ve trudged through most the dayWaiting for some peaceBut when I lay my head to rest,I can’t put myself to sleepMy mind is like a battlefield,These thoughts, they just won’t leaveI hear the cracks of thunder roarAs it starts to rainThe violent pounds of waterAgainst my window paneMy thoughts are violent too,Always pounding in my brainBut I’m forced to tune them outAnd swallow all the painMy heart is like a burdenAlways heavy in my chestIt hurts me most to knowI don’t suffer like the restThese thoughts, the rain, the lightningIt puts me to the testTo act like I’m okay,I try and try my best

Christmas MoonLily Lemkuil

I’m Not WolfbaneBy Elizabeth Okma It takes some time, but I manage to pull his unconscious bodyfrom the pipe and down to a nearby riverbank. The collapsed con-crete bridge gives protection from the oncoming rain that threatensin the background. I lay him down on a cleared spot among the rocks.My mind says to just leave him; he’ll just shoot me when he wakes upanyway. For some reason, I can’t though. Turns out there is a part ofme that’s actually human. Besides, his leg is broken, and I know thewoods enough to know that he wouldn’t make it to morning. Instead, I wad up my leather jacket to cushion his head andrace to get wood before it’s too wet. The flames are soon chasingaway the night, and I make my perch on a small boulder, listening tothe sound of his breathing and rubbing the inside of my forearm withmy thumb. My eyes analyze every detail of his uniform: the curvesin the camo pattern, the tears reveling flesh, every blood and dirtstain. He’s still young, like me, with so much future, but all my mindsees is the soldier. The same soldiers who called me a monster andstuck needles in my arms, who locked me away and caused so manynightmares. One by one those nightmares slip back into my mind. Ibegin to feel the cold cement floors and see the long black hallways.I remember the steel tables and electricity running through my veins.The phantom screams of people begging to die seem to echo in thenight. An hour or so passes, and I can’t take it anymore. I have tostand up and walk down to the river’s edge. The damp night air feelsfresh in my lungs and calms my racing heart. I let the river caress myaching fingers for a couple minutes before filling a couple spare can-teens. The last cap is being screwed on when I hear the shifting ofblankets. I turn to see him sitting up, staring at my dark figure in thenight. Surprisingly his gun isn’t aimed at my head. “Where am I?” his voice is coarse but audible. “I think those before us called it Hamilton,” I gently say, asI walk back up the slope. He watches me cautiously the whole time,but he accepts a canteen when I offer it. For a while, we just stare ateach other until he gets the nerve to ask me a question. “So, when are you going to kill me?” For some reason, I knew this question was coming, but hear-

ing it is something completely different. All I can do is ask, “Whywould I do that?” “Because you’re mutant. I heard the rebels call you Wolfbanebefore I passed out, and I saw your number tattoo. They gave thoseto every mutant entering holding facilities. Yours ends with a 13,which means you were in Blackmore. That place was hell on earth foryou guys, and people like me put you there.” I don’t know what to say. He’s right in many ways. People likehim were the ones who took my innocence away, killed my friends,and gave me scars that I can never get rid of. Slowly, the hurt and an-ger that formed over eight years of captivity starts to bubble up. Myclaws beg to come out and do what they were designed to do. No onewould ever know, and if so, I’d just be what they believe I am. That simple thought suddenly scares me as I look down at myfingers and the black shards protruding from them. Then I rememberthe reason I pulled him from the tunnel in the first place. “People dressed like you put me in Blackmore, and most ofthem are just scared of what they don’t know.” For the first time, he studies my eyes, and after a moment ofquiet, he speaks again, “You know, back in the barracks, they wouldtell us stories about your people, about Wolfbane, the creature thatwould never die no matter what you did to it. They warned us thatif we ever saw its yellow eyes, that all we could do was run, shoot,and pray to God that death would be merciful because the creaturewouldn’t. So when I saw your eyes, I instantly believed it and thoughtthis was the end, even though you saved my life.” “It’s okay. I’m used to what people think about me because ofthe name Blackmore gave me when the guards were tired of callingout my number. Besides, in your defense, I do look kind of scary atfirst sight.” My lame attempt at a joke actually gets a chuckle out of theboth of us. He then smiles, “Well, now that we know that we’re notgoing to kill each other, how about a proper introduction?” He offersup his hand, “I’m Colton, and thank you for saving my life.” I hesitate. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Sorry. It’s not you. I just….I’m not used to being asked mynormal name. It’s kind of hard to remember it sometimes. I think Iremember someone calling me Rebecca once.” “Rebecca it is then,” he nods, as I shake his hand, and we startover.

Colorful HootValerie VerHage

Wooden WallElisabeth Westenbroek

GazeHannah GritterFirst Place Drawing

To The Girl I Used To Be By Emma DeBoer To the girl I used to be, I pity you;Not because your life is bad, but you really just don’t understand yet. You’re cocky, but it’s not worth it. You think you’re indestructible, but I promise that’s not the case. You want to conquer the world: you can’t. You have no idea of what’s to come, And you aren’t yet strong enough. But it’ll be okay. To the girl I used to be, I’m jealous Of your innocence, Of your immeasurable confidence, Of your easy laughter, Of your eyes that are not so quick to water, Of your anxiety-free days. It’ll all change, but I guess it’ll be okay. To the girl I used to be, you just wait. Wait for what’s to come. There’s good and bad, Joy and sorrows, Dreams and nightmares come true. It’ll be scary. You might want to quit. It’ll be okay You know what? It’ll be more than okay; I promise.

On PointeSebastian Larsen

DreamsBy Bethany VanOeffelenI used to dreamAbout what my future would holdAbout college and careersHusband and kidsBut back thenIt was a long time awayToday I need to make decisionsAbout what I want to doWho I want to beWhere I want to goAnd I don’t knowMaybe it’s because I want lots of thingsMaybe it’s because I’m too young to knowBut maybe it’s because it’s all comingToo fastLike a train speeding alongLife stops for no oneIt keeps moving even when you screamStopI don’t knowWhat I want to doWho I want to beWhere I want to goBut maybe that’s okMaybe I don’t need to know right nowMaybe living in the present is good enoughMaybe I’m not suppose to know right nowLife isn’t about the destinationIt’s about the journey you tookTo get there

Having A Bag Of Oranges Makes Me Feel RichBy Lauren BurkeA world so close is so far away when I ask her“was it black and white in your day?”and she burbles with laughter,I know not of the world she lived inwhere doors were unlocked and music was just easyand when she tells me with memories dancing though her eyes“having a bag of oranges makes me feel rich”I know not of the world she lived inwhere kids played into the night and potato chips were delivered to her door and then I see you there, face aglow from the blue box of light in your handwith your empty eyes and dead face, alone,and I know not of the world we live in.

Deep ThoughtsRenz MachielaFirst Place Painting/Mixed Media

Painted BirchHunter VerdeFirst Place PhotographyLittle BlossomAmanda Stumbo

Where The Butterflies FlyBy Katelyn DeWittWhere the butterflies fly,Where glorious insects gather in summer,Where the fairy-like live under the vast blue sky,Where I see sunshine reflecting off the dainty wings,Where the spectrums of browns and blues ride the wind,Where butterflies glide from one bright yellow flower to the next,Where I am captivated by the majesty and harmonizing simplicity ofa creature,Is where the innocents of grown children forever lie hidden.Forgotten myths are buried deep under forgotten gardens.Once a child leaves the vivid realm, she can never go back.Once the little brown door is closed, it will never open again.The lost child becomes suddenly aware of Her imperfections.Believing the beauty of the impossible becomes impossible.The enchanting world of the young and unwary turns to dust.A childhood, though beautiful, one cannot ever return again.

Yesterday’s AshesBy Hannah GritterYesterday I flew across the fair fallen valley,over flora and fauna and fire-eaten scars of clay foot printed into thesilver-gilded ground.I flew through the sunken ships of trees flying half-mast in the windin remembrance of heroes past.My marigold wings took me to the gathering of the shrinking andshining,ones who wished they were more than their ruby red lips would tellthem to be.The birds blew fire crackers as snacks for the sycamore skeletonsand the sunset cicadas coaxed them to sleep with their tribal dancelullabies and beckoning hip whispers through the minty cloaks ofcitrus groves.At last they were free.I flew to the edge of the green slimmed ribbon river running acrossthe guarded borders of truth and time,connecting the past to the present with every silken rivulet of home-spun dream that slipped through the rake of my quivering fingers.I combed the luminescence of the sun-dappled happenings of thevalleyso that each coveted corner was covered by the rippling jewel-en-crusted cloth of sunbeam and sauna.And yet, as my gold-plated porcelain bones shrouded over with thedrying of the molten blue dewdrops,my wings of film and fire -- steady as ember -- cooled into the statueof “today” and of “now”so that only my mother’s memory cradles the visions of yesterday’svalley, and my fingers kiss away the ashes of what once was.

FluffBethany VanOeffelen

I-96By Maddie VonkThey’re all going somewhereA convoy of wanderers, straight-forwardsSilhouettes mirrored against a frameOf shadows, harsh glowsThey’re all mysteries,Chasing stories, hearths, darknesses.They’re thinking about someone—Someone’s thoughts belonging only to them:He’s longing for, she’s running from.They’re just going…What’s the music he turned on?They’re all listening, hearing something—Quiet, whispers, singing, yelling.What do you think?They’re all coming from somewhereA disheveled cluster of searchers,Leaving stories, hearths, darknessesWho are you? I wonder.

Boat RideLogan Sandstedt

FireBy Lian RobinsonYou keep searching and searchingfor someone to find youyou’re alone in the worldwith nowhere to goyour home is the moonlightwherever it shinesyou find love in the smilesfrom people passing byoh what a quiet walk down the streetoh what a beautiful night, tonightyou sing songs of hope by the fire, so brighthoping nobody can hear your heart out loudoh what a glorious moment it wasoh did it feel like your heart was on firefor once in your life somebody could hear youbut life will go on, at least someone nowcan see youyou walk from the firekeys in your pocketwith tears in your eyeshoping that joy will come find you againyou look to the skyand see the stars shining brightknowing the one who made themwill hold you tonightoh what a night that I’ll never forgetoh what a feeling of constant regretI never gave enough that I could’vebut what could I do, what could I do, for you?oh what a warm, cold hour it wasoh what a story that will somehow unfold

this song is a story, a memory burned in our mindsThis is all that I have, all that I have, I have for youyou look to the skyand see the stars shining brightknowing the one who made themwill hold you tonightStringsAllison Zylstra

Door To CreativityOlivia WisniewskiThird Place Painting/Mixed Media

Sticks And StonesBy Kas GarciaI use to be told this silly little rhyme whenI was younger. “Sticks and stones canbreak my bones, but words willnever hurt me.”As I sit there and thinkof that, the darknessof my room surrounds me.The quiet hum ofa fan spinning in the backgroundas those painful woundslie across my arms.The cool metal soon slips,leaving my trembling hands.A sour flavor starts to emanate,as my body begins to deteriorate.Just like my open wounds,deep scars filled my soul withthose cursing words,dancing, taunting, screaming fill me.Their words playing a sadful tune,as if it were on its final act;my soul was tainted just likemy key had been on the floor.It’s a recurring battle every day,the redcoats come charging in,their guns firing, pinningme to the ground, and stickinga bright red letter “L” on my chest.Then, in a blink of an eye, they’re goneleaving the damage for me toattend. But that scarlet lettercan never be removed.It stays, taunting me.

Leaving me to swirl inmy own Tartarus. Breaking me down,bit by bit until I am nothing.So tell me, how cansticks and stones break mybones, but words will never hurtme? How can I escape,when every little word isBREAKING ME DOWN?It’s not as easy as youmight think it is.You can’t just rub a lampand expect Genieto come popping out.You also can’t just rub ajewel and chant,“I wish, I wish with all my heartto fly with dragons in a land ofapart.”Heck no!You have to be a Spartan.You cannot let thePersians defeat you.So what do you do?You give your battle cry.You strap up your shield, grabyour sword, and poundyour alarm.You fight. You survive.You live to tellanother tale. To tellyour story.ToL-I-V-E.

InnermostHannah GritterThird Place Drawing

There Is OneBy Samuel VegaThere is one who went about his day, with a twinkle in his eyes andjoy in his heart. The daily tasks and same routines were carried out,but he never got tired and never showed signs of slowing down. Healways had a knack for helping the lowest of the low. The commonman loved him and many yearned to be closer, but few were closeenough to him to really understand and feel the level of passion hehad for others. Though he was loved, respected, and honored for hisactions, all he really cared about was just being a friend.But those of the Roman government, military and law were curious,confused, and even afraid of him. Never before in their minds couldthey comprehend a “Son of man” so humble, someone so kind to haveany deeper motives beyond blessing and “Honoring my father”. Theythought, It just doesn’t make sense. It just can’t be real.Nevertheless, he became famous, known by many names, and seen bymany faces. His credits were never ending as he filled his resume withtimes when doctors gave up, when charities lost their purposes, andwhen the needy called for help.Despite all the fame, attention, and even his own building where peo-ple learned to love his services, he never forgot his humble beginningin a time where fear of a cruel leader grew and grew and the chancesof his homeless parents finding shelter were few. Though helpless ashe was when born, that night in the barn would never be ignored.Many years later, there is another, another who trudges on. Lost andbroken, he searches for a meaning deeper and a cause higher thanhimself. His past rings in his ears. His mistakes scare him aroundevery corner, but he still persists, chasing the promise of somethinggreater. He is a follower of God in a new time.As he presses on, easy schemes try to pull him into their empty waysand temptations come at him like flies, but he never forgets all thejoy in what he was taught growing up. His purpose is simple, hisdetermination undying. “I’m goin’ up yonder,” he says. To those whoasked why he is wasting potential chasing a dream, he still answers,“I’m goin’ up yonder, to be with my Lord.”

For even though his arms are weak, his spirit is down, and he haswalked as far as he possibly can, he’s only halfway there. “I trust inyou Lord, and I can’t wait to see you!”Over The EdgeHunter Verde

True LoveRenz MachielaHonorable Mention Painting/Mixed Media

Going Up In FlamesBy Emily DeVriesHonorable Mention PoetryA Photograph--a snapshota moment frozen in timea piece of my soul.There’s a box in my closet,filled with pictures of the person I used to be.The life and times of a ghost.Jigsaw puzzle pieces,forced together in ways that don’t fit–A mismatch of stories,spliced to form a never-ending reel:a documentary of my life.I keep my shadow locked away,in hopes you’ll never see what was.I ripped apart the stitchesthat held us together,because there is nothing but pain for me there.Photographs--keeping me shackled to the pastwhen I should be looking towards the future.A constant game ofbefore and after,and I can’t help but feel like I never measure up.Photographs--From the time that I was born,my mother started making scrapbooks.Page after pageof baby photos and memorabilia.First days of schooland piano recitals,little pink dressesand frilly easter bonnets.I should feel touchedthat my mother spent so much of her time

trying to make me a time capsule,but I wish it would stay buried.I don’t want something to remember my childhood by.The person I was then,doesn’t even share a bodywith the person I am now.Photographs--They’re something that should be cherished,but I don’t even want to look at them.They’re nothing but kindlingfor a forest fire of questionsthat I’m not ready for.So I’m taking the initiative.Bonfire at my place-nostalgia not welcome.Hidden In The ClearAbigail VenletHonorable Mention Drawing

ParrotKatie Bosch