Mount Mansfield Union High School

Splat. That’s what I am. A splat against the pavement. Covered up by the C on my term paper and the D in health because my partner never handed in their part of the project. I am a splat, squished by anthologies and quarter two projects. Splat against the windshield of who I used to be. Splat. Splat. Splat.
Another test to fail, another unit that needs to be mastered (by tomorrow) and enough vocabulary to feed New York City for a week. I am fed up with being thrown down. I am tired of 6 hours of homework on average a night. I am done. I have become what I thought I’d never be. A fly squished against the ground
That everyone
Walks
By.
Splat. Everyone says I just try too hard. The teachers say I need to try harder. Everyone says I should have gotten and A. But guess what?
There will still be a
C on my
Paper.

Note: This is a rather long story, and if it gets selected I suggest the newspaper publish either Part I or Part V, not the whole thing.

Part I

In my very first memory, the walls were striped red and gold. A chandelier glittered overhead. I remember watching the crystals spin, transfixed, as my mother tried to coax something sticky and white into my mouth. My father sat at the table, eating carefully with one hand while typing on a laptop with the other. His rings flashed in the faint gray glow of the screen.

Then a knock rang at the door and reverberated through the whole house. I remember thinking the knocker must have a hand of iron to make such a noise. My father slammed the laptop shut so hard the Esc key zinged across the room. My mother scooped me up with one hand. The other clutched a steak knife.

“Put it down, Sara.”

My mother shook her head and shifted me so my weight rested on her opposite hip.

Aichan

By Bridget Iverson
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 10

After almost two years of living in Japan, I had gotten used to the stares. The pointing fingers. The whispers. Even the small child who once burst into tears when I smiled could not surprise me. I was the American; I was the foreigner. I was different. I was weird. I was the walking oddity of Isahaya, brown-haired and blue-eyed and utterly, completely strange.

First conversations always began the same way. A knot of girls would huddle, glancing over at me at my cramped desk or on a park bench or, sometimes, halfway up a tree. One would walk timidly over while the rest giggled from a safe distance. Her English would be halting and uncertain, but proud.

“What is your name?”

“Bridget.” The Japanese head-bow had become instinctive almost immediately; to this day I appear to be constantly ducking when I’m nervous. I must also reluctantly admit to bowing while on the phone.

Air whistles as it passes over,
Flesh, feather, and bone.
Wheeling, wheeling, never flapping,
A bird glides on thermals o'er head.
Head upturned, and neck protesting,
Craving to catch the low turning bird.
Colored wings that sing through air,
Craftsmanship unparalleled.
Man's sharpest kites are still unable,
To cut through air like this bird.
Perpetual dreams of soaring free,
Hope has lasted since antiquity.
Buzzard, eagle, kite, hawk.
Uncaring as to what you are,
you fly.

Silver Chain (song)

By Bridget Iverson
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 10

He gave her a necklace of stainless steel
coated with silver so that it looked real.
She bit back frustration expertly masked
and said she’d lost it the next time he asked.

She’s used to reading her lines from a page
and she’s convinced that all life is a stage.
It doesn’t matter what the actors know,
just that the audience enjoys the show.

She’ll keep on going until it’s too late
and like her mother she’ll blame it on fate.
One day the chain of the necklace will break.
The crowd will find out the whole act is fake.

He thinks she’s simple but fun to deceive
because she can’t tell what not to believe.
He gets his joy from messing with her head
and trying to lure her best friend into bed.

She’ll keep on going until it’s too late
and like her mother she’ll blame it on fate.
One day the chain of the necklace will break.

the smell of his aftershave
warms
my cheekbones
rouges them
like a frosty-winds
kiss

you are as sullen as a city street
[at midnight]
eyes cast fluorescent glares on cold concrete
your hands, pale vagabonds, will not stop moving
i shield myself behind graffiti'd glass

the bus stop clock glows bitter on your features
much older now than you seemed just before
[the twilight]

we breathe polluted love at high rise [[daybreak]]
stark shadows cutting corners on the ground
the balcony seethes desert hot in sunshines
and potted plants reflect the jungle:
dead

the faithful buzz of danger by the highway;
the cranes red arms sweep circles in the air
by afternoon the children stop their singing
i wait impatient by the fountains base
[and dream]
the spray glows diamond bright - reflecting starlight
hope from a thousand galaxies away

[[evening]] :
sports bar dreams and no direction
you exhale poison smoke through tired lips
I still - as always - wait for traffic signs
to change, and send me on my weary way

I could tell you a story
as I watch the floodwaters recede
about that place they call before
and the dreams that laughed with it.
But I find the way the twilight slips
over the gasoline-spill-gleam of rotting plants
floating on the water-surface a bit more fascinating.

Child, do not judge.
When you have watched a world that deserved to be burned
drown slowly silently sensuously instead
and still feel the throb of unjustified pain then-
and only then can I charge you as my equal
and allow you to condone my silence.

Three days of rain and still the land
continues to heal itself.
The rubble that scars my ankles is
back-breakingly cleared and the bones
being to show through.
Here, a simple puddle, almost evaporated - and
a fish still flounders about its edges
trying to find a way back to the sea it never knew.
Here is the nature of denial.

this is when i lost heart:

1996 quiet sundown
the sun melted across the mountaintops
and sparkled in the autumn haze

bitter tea -
i let it steep too long again -
steaming into the air like a sigh

a cricket chirped
i jumped
i missed a moment that could have been something more

i felt the outline of where you should be
like a magnet pulling my heart to the outside
gently
too gently for such a feat

but strong enough so i knew what i would be missing

and it leapt forth from me in a rush of blood and realisations
and it danced across the fading mountains past everything i knew
and it whistled as it went like it was happy to be leaving

and i haven't seen it since

the tea has long since gone cold
i haven't drank it yet

Monologue for Eden

By Molly Pekarik
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 12

Once I felt, and once I fell for sure,
I could never go back to where I'd been.
No garden's simple pleasures can compare
to fiery trails of lingering touches, fear,
and joy unbounded. And if such is sin
I choose deliberately to bask in frigid truth;
for now I know the whole of who I am
and what it means to truly breathe, to see.

As Adam looks to paradise and sighs
and seeks his only comfort, my embrace,
I turn away, recall the angel, tall
and radiant, his blazing and broad sword,
his wings, soft, barring paths to what I'd known,
his face benign and stirring like a breeze
that thrums my heartstrings. In my dreams
I find myself whispering his sweet name.

There is a comfort in the knowing that
you know that you are doing someone wrong.
I never cried myself to sleep beneath
the gleaming desert moon. I never wished
the serpent back to whence it came.

Waking Up

By Gabriel P. Albright
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 12

Because
It was vacation and
Because
We were all together again and
because it snowed for the first time this year we
went outside. Oblivious to
Chill frost's breath in
Our pink ears and
Icy bundles of soft snow in
Our naked palms and
Frozen fingers. We
Slid
In wet sneakers and
Rolled
In white-powdered sweatshirts and
Got as snowy as we could so that
Our rosy cheeks and
Watering eyes
Could have been just as much
from the snow
as from our joy.

And if the powder never ceases to drop like flakes from the tip of a hypothetical iceberg,
I won’t forget those long summer days.
If the leaves all fall from their posts and are covered in a maliciously sweet blanket,
I won’t forget the three never-ending moments.
If the tears of a thousand little girls are swept away in a softly strewn blizzard,
I won’t forget what it was like when you laughed.
If the songbirds still flee from the white raven’s call as they have for so very long,
I won’t forget how your ocean-eyes sank.
If the children all flock to the land on the other side of the glass,
I won’t forget the times you stayed (inside) with me.
If the tree branches thin and crack with un-age and instead collapse from their burdens,
I won’t forget how you snapped me

right in two.

Here's the thing about me;
I am not so very good at math.
Here's something else:
I care about politics a whole lot,
Just one more thing,
let's add this to the equation:
my birthday is November 14th
19
93.
so,
This year I am turning fifteen. The last election,
I was in fifth grade and in all the excitement
(we thought someone was going to replace Bush,
I mean come on four years was enough damage.
Eight was unthinkable...)
I got to thinking
I
wonder
when
I
can
Vote
?
So little fifth grade me did the math
and it went something like this....
I am 10
you can vote when you are
eighteen....
So, if I am ten, and the election is tomorrow,
and my birthday is next Friday, then, hmmm....
I will turn eighteen
the week
AFTER
the 2012
Presidential Election.
I was angry.
I cried,
I raved,
I argued with people about possible exceptions to the rule.
Did any of YOU notice anything wrong there?
It was a long four years

Do not mind the soldiers of the night.
You cannot hear their taps upon your door.
Watch instead their brides in lacy white,
drifting till they land and drift no more.

You cannot hear their taps upon your door;
tiny feath'ry bodies make no sound.
Drifting till they land and drift no more,
icy soldiers blanket the wet ground.

Tiny feath'ry bodies make no sound.
You cannot hear what you choose to ignore.
Icy soldiers blanket the wet ground,
mourning young men fallen in the war.

You cannot hear what you choose to ignore.
Watch instead their brides in lacy white,
mourning young men fallen in the war.
Do not mind the soldiers of the night.

The warm breeze touched my lips
as the summer air warmed my body
I layed on the dock as the sun sparkled
on my almost bare skin
Water splashing at my face
as the boys jumped off the dock

The sun set, the moon appeared
The warm breeze drifted into cold wind
We walked into that old, dark camp
The couches and chairs were moved into a circle in the living room
We talked, we laughed, we sang, we danced
True friends are something you never forget

The clock rang 3 AM
as we all walked to our desired beds
This crickety little camp
in the middle of the woods
Yet feeling comfort because
he was always laying next to you

Challenging the crisp morning air
just to watch the sun rise once again
Sitting on that same dock
as the pink and purples hues filled the sky
You sat with pure content
wondering what would happen when it all had to end

This is not about what makes us different.
This is not about
Rich.
Poor.
Future.
Past.
This is not about
Right.
Wrong.
Victory.
Defeat.
Then… What IS this about?
Life.
Love.
Hate.
Death.
Then… This is about
Following.
Laughing.
Crying.
Leading.
This is about
Then.
Us.
Them.
Now.
Why is it about this?
Because.
It.
Can.
Be.
It’s about what makes us the same.

O dear Ophelia
My love for thee tis lke a flower
Out of the ground into the sun
In the mourn of the rise
So brightly thee shines
You shall fear not Ophelia
Chariest you may be
For fate will have its way
By one person the buttons could be closed
My temple knows best
So 'tis put on my by thee
Bespeak to your father i hope not
For our love is like a flower
Let the buttons bloom forever
O dear Ophelia

O dear Hamlet
I wish you spoke the truth
My love for you is like a burning flame
Laertes has said otherwise
My father forbids me to see you
How can this be true?
Let our feelings be tenable
You are goodly
I cannot bear to part with thee
You hold truth in which thee speak
I will still love thee retrograde to what my father speaks of
You need not lose your voice
For our tenable love holds true
O dear Hamlet

Do not fear the voices in the night.
----They speak only to me.
And do not ask why I cannot get older,
----why my beard can’t lengthen and turn gray
as you shoot up; six, seven, eight years old now.
----I watch you sprint across the starry fields,
plucking flowers black beneath the sky.
----I know your books tell of colors bright,
of yellow suns and flowers softest pink
----instead of midnight dark as shadows here.
But you know better than to believe fairy tales.

Do not fear the bloodstains on the mantle.
----The dead cannot hurt you. Not anymore.
And do not ask their shady origin.
----I will tell you when you’re older, twenty, twenty-one
with gentle curls framing your pale face,
----your probing eyes. You’ll look just like
your mother, yes, that milky skin, those perfect curves,
----her belly swelling with my child, you…
you have the same name, did I tell you? Rose.
----I picked it out myself, both times,

Pencil on Paper

By Beatrix Hassler
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 11

Pencil on paper
Write what you know
Scribble and cross out
Adventures in snow
Start it all over
Write it again
Find a new beginning
Find a good end
Change the rhythm
Look up that word
Suddenly something
The chirp of a bird
Spring is now coming
Flowers they grow
Pencil on paper
Write what you know.

Facebook

By Emily Marshall
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 10

Who needs magic
When there is Facebook?
Shoot down aliens
Turn friends into werewolves
Become a Disney princess
Grow a garden and stop global warming
Pet a penguin
Get bitten by a vampire
Kidnap someone
Become a human pet
Ride the Oregon trail
Go to a different country
Become a knight
See your future
All with the help
of a mouse.

“You are free to leave,” says the man, the man with the sinister fingers and the black cloth pulled over his hair. “But…oh, let’s see how long you can last, shall we? ‘Tis a mighty shame that comes from cowardice, my lad…” I hear his callous giggle mingling with the creaking rasp of the door.

I see you've grown wings, my angel of death. Beautiful, invisible, raven-black demon wings, long with glossy feathers. They suit you, love, helping you to glide in your steps, hover in silence.

I see you tearing yourself apart, my perfection mercenary, ripping down the walls that are holding you, trapping you, in limbo. I can't stand to see you fall apart in your desperate attempts to escape this, your loneliness. No, seeing you breaking before my own eyes brings me to tears, watching as the cruelty-drops fall down your face.

I want to save you, want to save myself, so I offer you my heart and you take it, bleeding, in your hands. I close my eyes and suggest you cut my heartstrings and tie them to your own, and I hear you swallow and slide out the knife. I hear the agonizing snap-snip sound of the strings severed and then I feel your spectral body pressed against mine.

I lay sprawled out on the green carpeted mud room floor, helplessly covered in large chunks of sharpened glass which seemed to paralyze each and every part of my body that they touched. On a warm sunny afternoon in early July about 11 years ago, when I was 5 years old, I remember the time my family barbecue in the small countryside neighborhood where I lived left me, to this day, with a memory that I will probably never forget. Filled with a plate of kiwi, watermelon, and half of a hot dog I carefully skipped over to the green picnic table which I had loved to jump off pretending it was a diving board and began to eat my idea of a gourmet meal. Soon after I practically inhaled my food, which left a pink stained hand print on my white dress from my watermelon treat, I ran over to the pool not caring that I had just stained yet another one of my dresses and ripped off the dress onto the ground and hopped in.

Orange flames grow taller as the twigs are thrown on. The flames lick the air around them like arms grabbing at the sky. I look around and see a campfire surrounded by my family and green grass and dark trees and happy dogs and the starry sky. Sticks with white puffy delights on the end of them go to the edge of the fire. Mmm, how I love roasting marshmallows by a campfire. I patiently hold a marshmallow in the fire while my dog Pepper sits by me loyally and waits for a sticky treat. Are we camping? No, the house is just beyond the light of the fire, yet it seems we are in the middle of nowhere, absorbing the heat from the magical yellow-orange source. The sound of crickets, murmurs of people, and the cracks of the fire surround me. Enjoying this night I am in complete peace. I don’t want to leave; I don’t want it to end. But the flames will calm, and then there will be only embers.

The door
the room
the walls
the Red.
The corners
the darkness
the desk
the papers
the ink
the blackness
the book
the candle
the flame
the grief.
The chair,
the man.
The eyes
the pain
the sadness
the shame.
The floor
the stone
the cold
the Red.
The ceiling
the black
the perch,
the wait.
The man,
the tears.
The knife,
the Silence.

Moth
makes attempts,
trying to get in.
Sees the light,
bright.
Might mighty moth
break the screen and reach the
light?
Trying so hard,
so inviting,
but screens of
metal
are not broken by
wings of
cloth.

some day they will realize
we were right from the start
and amidst the rubble
and falling stars
they’ll find the pieces
of my broken heart

this world belongs
to you and me
and when it’s strewn
across the sea
we’ll take with us the light
and leave a world
of dark

one day
some day
they will see
all that our
good world could be
a glimpse of silver
a passing plea
fading
just for you and me

some day when
the sky shines black
weighted sheet
of ash and smoke
and the sirens clash
and death in all the heat
and we’ll be right
but have no glee
for someday
they
will see

Summer skies
Melting down on me

Silently watching
Time pass by

Suspended in a moments breath
The sound of music's
Farwell dance

Sweet tangerine kisses
Of innocence
Passing swiftly by

Deep breath,
A sigh.
I don't want to do it.
Adjust myself,
A forceful remark,
What are you waiting for?
I'm not doing it.
A smile returned,
You're beautiful,
Definetly 40%.
Another no.
Hands shaking,
Tears welling up,
And it happened.
It's over with.
Don't ask me why.
Eyes shut,
Watered down.
Take a glimpse.
There sat his silhouette,
One I will never forget.
Another remark,
What are you waiting for?
It never ends,
Always in my mind,
His forcefulness,
My regret.
He doesn't remember
And I always will.

My feet stood in a shroud of dust,
And my eyes were pensive
In the melancholy sun of an August afternoon.
Nestled in among the pebbles
On the side of the road
A brilliant sapphire,
Dropped from the finger
Of some foreign noble lady,
Lay gleaming amidst the earth and stone.
I flipped it over with a stick
And wondered, as it scurried away,
Whether it would ever know
That I saved its life