Seeking immortalityBy Jake Sadowski Why do we seek And do nothing to heal? immortality? Why do we wonder? Why do we care? Don’t say you don’t Because you do Maybe it’s because we’re human Look within yourself and it’s true And that’s what humans do We all have our forms What if our lives are just God, seconds Writing, And the only thing that Our legacy; provides any proof of usBut what is the point when we will all disappear is time? How can we manage to cope anyway? with being so belittled?All will render to nothing How can we cope with being All will be forgotten so small; And none remembered What is to stop us from So why the constant worrying, just giving up on our Little Why do we put so much Tiny thought into it? Selves Even as I question it, And embracing death, where when I think of death we could become something there is a pit of fear Larger than the universe more? Maybe it’s just the slim will ever be hope of doing somethingSo why all the questions, Big. The worries, The troubles; Why do we hurt ourselves 49Volume 51
memes By Molly Avery The art of memes The face of the American Dream Holding America together at the seams Isn’t that how is seems? To hear laughter is why we make memes To twist a frown into a beam To let the sunlight gleam And say society is redeemed But maybe memes Have gone to the extreme? We’re praising a girl for her schemes Spent election day on Harambe’s team Use Pepe to represent that whites are supreme I’m starting to notice a theme That maybe memes Are the American Nightmare, not dream Tearing America apart at the seams Isn’t that how it seems?50 Voices and Visions
The Portrait CollageBaillie Whittington Mixed Media 51Volume 51
52 Voices and Visions Lightning Strike Jewelea Shubert Photography
RemnantsBy Hailey Glenn Where the dried up puddles Where snow forts once stood are the only remnants Now melted, and the cause of those brown patches in the grass, they of the creek we used for had seemed so sturdy but nothing our adventures could withstand the changing seasons Where the burned down tree house Where piled up pebbles amount Provides no further to mess, no longer a home built haven from baths and for dreamt up fairies to inhabit, the 8:30 bedtimes offerings we thought they had left for us, but acorns and mushrooms Where wooden swords can no longer protect from dragons And where bikes lay rusted, fallenThey were, we found out, carved by vessels that once carried us over cracked concrete and eroded hills cruel hands, not welded in righteous fires and This place is one I barely recognize At one time faultless and unmatched dipped in pixie dust Truth masked by young naivety, Where the fire pit out back has blissful become a black hole, no longer the gathering place of happy, ignorance could not stay the reality backyard campers, devoid of any warmth, now cold and desolate 53Volume 51
Ode to Sleep It went down, it went downby Abbi Findley Oh my judge, oh my lord it went downI sit here now in this open So my pen connected to myfield mind, my thoughts, itI have bloodshot eyes from connected to the enemytrying not to sleep My noose kept me fromThe evil I have done from thinkingwriting and loving The darkness kept me fromJust goes to show how my pen seeingtransforms into a harpoon And so I wrote theseWhen the light goes dim and monstrosities, these evildoors start to close doings, these evil thinking’sThis is why you must judge Oh lord these things weren’t even mineme, must take me awayInstead of keeping me in this But here, in this field, I now wear them on my bodyopen fieldYou’ve locked me up by giving My judge, my lord, please take me from this line I’mme my freedom walkingBut only behind bars will I Take me from the piertruly be freeYou are my judge, but instead Take me from this meadow, take the noose awayI heard your cries Save me from my suffering,So you let me go save me from his penYou gave me back my penYou thought you handed me a Save me from the darkness,leash, but it’s really just and then save me once again Give me a sip of your holymy noose water, I’m begging on myI need to be free, please kneesjust give this to me Just please…Just look at these words that Save me.I have scrolled when the sun went down54 Voices and Visions
BreathlessJose UribePhotography 55Volume 51
A Simple Farm back of the house, his sight filled with an endless amount of fields. He’dBy Alex Craig already finished most of his coffee and set his mug downThe rooster’s cry flooded on the glass top of a little table between twoover the small house and comfortable wooden chairs,the dew covered fields their cushions hidingbehind it. The soft light beneath them out of fearof the morning trickled in for the rain. He walked upbehind it onto a woman clad to the white clad womanin white, her work in the kneeling in the the soil,field already diligently placing seeds.started. In the house, He leaned over, hugged herDeath slammed the space waist and kissed her cheekaround his alarm clock before he began to to headbefore sitting up to push over to his section of thethe “off” button that was field, careful not to stepnever there when his eyes on any of the plants. Thewere closed. After woman clad in white and aslipping into his worn yet light film of dirt was namedcomfortable work clothes, Life. Everyday she woke uphe walked out of his room. and was thrilled by whatAll he owned was work surrounded her. She wasclothes. He wandered able to do the one thingtowards the screen door, she loved more thanabsentmindedly looking into anything, and woke up nextthe kitchen on his left. On to the man she would throwthe counter was a nice it all away for. She calledreminder of the love he to Death “There’s quite aheld for his wife. He bit ready for harvest. Oh!turned the corner to the And be careful, you know56 Voices and Visions how much I love them.” She added quickly so she
wouldn’t forget. was nothing they could do,“You love all of them once the leaves dried theysweetie.” Death replied as needed to be harvested. Thehe reached the crops. He fruit was still glowing astood over a large brilliant, pure white, sosection of blackened , not everything was lostdried leaves. They were all with this one. After a longin groups of three, three day with an ordinary amountfor each plant. The secret of too ripe plants, Deathwith these plants was the retreated back inside hismore dried out the leaves house.were, the more ripe they He rubbed his back as hewere. Squatting “...the more walked, that down and last fruitplanting his dried out the leaves refused to movefeet firmly in for the longestthe soil around were, the more ripe time. He openedthree leaves, they were.” the front doorhe grabbed the to the smell ofstem they all his lovely wifeshared and pulled towards setting down two bowls ofthe sky. Normally they just chicken and dumpling soup,pop right out, but this one one of his favorites. Theywas a part of the stubborn talked a little while theyfew. After a few seconds of ate, Life preparing forstrain, the earth released bed right after dinner. Shethe plant, its bounty needed to get up early,disappointing Death. The just like every morning.fruit still had some green Death watched a little bitin the veins that ran of TV before slipping intoacross it’s skin meaning it bed with his other half,had emerged too ready to start another day.early. These always madeLife a little sad when she 57Volume 51was told of them, but there
Hope Never Dies by Jose Ubrie I hear ravens calling our names Soon they’ll take us away We have their mark They never miss their prey There is no light to plea for Cold and dim are the skies Wounded, lying on the floor, running out of life, we lay In your eyes, I see our hopes and our future But now we must let go Must be split apart Or we can rise and fight For a right to live blissfully Through all the pain And fire in our hearts We will rise like the phoenix Out of the ashes, seeking vengeance Our hope never dies58 Voices and Visions
Jewelea ShubertPeace, Love, Serenity Photography 59Volume 51
60 Voices and Visions Greatest Generation Connor Fox Graphite
Sweet Prince By Jessica Tressler In the beginning it was beautiful An explosion of warm air in her chest She felt it in his smile Burning her skin where his fingers pressed His words coaxed her into a soft haze And it wasn’t long before she was gone Captivated by the way his words caressed her And his smell, which lingered long She studied the details of his smile She watched his fingers dance She memorized the sound of his voice When he sang songs of romance His words would never fail To weave their way into her heart He always knew just what to say To pick her, piece by piece, apart The smell of blueberry syrup and summer The tragic harmony of a violin’s songShe reveled in the beautiful parts of their bond But failed to acknowledge what of it was wrong She didn’t see his tongue flicker as a snake’s She didn’t hear his lies She ignored her loved ones warnings: “Beware, it’s a disguise” 61Volume 51
The Truth Game by Julia Rose ForkI stare at my bare Like my imaginary friendsreflection in the old, from when I was young.dusty mirror,‘That’s real.’ But then, I think of you.I tell myself, How you had scared me soThough, to all else, I am badly,but a reflection of this How I was so afraid,image,So, perhaps it is a lie. But the more I question what had happened,I play this game a lot. The more I repress, theTrying to figure out what’s more I don’t know,the truth, what’s a lie, The more insane I feel I’mand what I’ve simply becoming,repressed. The more I play the game“You’re never alone,” the of discovering the truth,singer says in a calm toneto me from the radio. As I try, and try and try and try and try toLie. decipher fact over fiction, As I try to relearn myI’m alone right now. past,Perhaps not. As I try to be truthfulPerhaps the spirits of my with you,past, or of my late loved As I try to be truthfulones are with me.Or… Not. Maybe that’s notreal, With myself62 Voices and Visions
Hannah Holland 63Volume 51 BlueColored Pencils
Because I Remember By Elise Clonts I’ve been sitting on the floor for hours, with stiff joints and tired eyes, my fingertips dark and smudged. Shifting positions because I can’t sit cross-legged like I used to in these old pictures, some at least fifteen years old. Young grandparents and still married aunts and uncles, stilled animation of faces, not motionless tombstones. The single moment of time captured in every slide of film is precious, and the love kept in those memories is perfect forever. Big eyes smiling at loving faces mouthing out words of dearest affections, tiny hands grasping the bigger ones that taught them how to walk, and sleeping faces from a long day of happiness. I miss that now. I remember the most irrelevant bits of the past that still lead me to no conclusion as to who the little boy was in the picture taken of me as a child. And I sit here now, sore from the oak wood floor, and I try to remember, prying through old shoeboxes and albums, my life sitting here at my aching feet, my whole childhood. But one thing, one thing, I will keep doing this. I will keep looking back into this past, not to remember the good old days, but because sentimentality is humbling. This kind of sentimentality lets you look back into the most simple yet beautiful of time capsules and be happy. Be happy that you have these old memories stored in a box in a closet you rarely go into anymore. Brush the dust off the lid and smile. Smile because you remember that you genuinely didn’t care about anything, but most of all, smile because you remember.64 Voices and Visions
Voices and Visions 2016-2017 Editor-in-Chief: Molly Avery Design Editors: Alex Craig, Max McDaniel-Neff Managing Editors: Elise Clonts, Bailey Tressler Submission Editor: Aidan Kierans General Staff: Russel Adams Rachel Crawford Rose Fork Jewelea Shubert Shael Strom-Brusco Nathaniel Thomason Sabrina Gaytan AcknowledgementsVoices and Visions would like to thank all of the students who submitted their wonderfulpieces to the magazine. All of them were amazing, and we’re deeply sorry we cannot usethem all. We appreciate all of the teachers that helped encourage students to submit theirpieces to the magazine. Specifically we would like to extend our gratitude to Mr. Nobblitt, Mrs. Miller, the creative writing two class, and the journalism classes for helping makethis magazine possible. Lastly we want to thank Mr. Palmer, our wonderful sponsor who stayed ridiculously late nights with us, and bought us awesome food.
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