Parks Schmidt

10th Grade

Mrs. Vanier-Kaminski

Fight for an Ideal, I Know Nothing About

While working at the Virginia Beach Surf & Rescue Museum, I have been able to enhance my belief. I lead a veteran outreach program called Heroes of Hampton Roads, where I continuously search for and interview local veterans about their service. A very special interview I conducted was with one man who served in Vietnam attached to a signal corps battalion. He shared stories of heroism and bravery.  Stories of sadness and grief. But he shared one story that has stuck with me ever since a story of people caught in a war being fought for reasons they did not know, for men they did not elect, to protect an “ideal they knew nothing about.” This man is Larry Hazelwood of Toano, Virginia.

The clinking of 7.62 shell casings rattles throughout the UH-1 Huey flying overhead of an intense firefight. Hundreds of Viet-Cong and NVA regulars charge en mass out of the tree line, descending on an utterly outgunned group of engineers repairing a telephone wire in the jungles of Vietnam. 

“Hold on Specialist, we’re going in,” hollers the pilot, steering the craft towards the soil, littered with blood, shell casings, and telephone wire.

Larry Hazelwood gripped the side of the helicopter with one hand and pulled the trigger of his M60 machine gun with the other, laying down heavy and accurate fire support during the descent. The chopper lands and the engineers begin running to the helicopter-like men possessed. Larry held out his left hand to pull six men inside and used his right to lay down superior fire on the incoming communist hoard. The pilot nods to Larry and takes off after the engineers are on board. The spray of machine-gun fire roars back to life as Larry begins to cover the helicopter.

This was one of the most heroic events that Larry participated in but in his interview, he shrugged it off as “just another day.” However, he reminisced on one particular aspect of the war: the orphanage near his base camp. 

Larry had just stepped off of his mud-smeared and hole-riddled helicopter. He takes his helmet off and runs his fingers through his sweaty, mashed down hair when his friend rushes up to him and tells him he has gotten his leave approved. Larry, thrilled at the news, showered and changed into a, if not clean, cleaner set of fatigues and headed to the supply shed. He pulled a 16-ton truck up to it and began to fill it with crates of supplies. He turns the ignition on and drives out of camp. Soon, he arrives at an encampment no larger than a handful of corrugated metal huts. Soon, his truck is surrounded by Vietnamese, speaking a language Larry knew little of. He opened the door and walked to the back of the truck, surrounded by this overwhelming force, one holding onto him so he doesn’t run away. He opens the tailgate to reveal a number of his friends carrying bags of rice, boxes of medicine, and small parcels of gifts. 

“Merry Christmas Mother Superior,” Larry says to the French nun, crying tears of joy as she holds Larry’s hands.

Larry directs his friends to lay down suppressive fire on the Vietnamese with haste. Soon, a fierce and terrible onslaught of Christmas gifts pours down into the arms and smiles of the 30 or so orphans. Whenever Larry had any downtime, he would always go to a nearby orphanage, caring for many half-American and half-Vietnamese children, orphaned by dead, missing, or uncaring parents. He would always bring the orphans anything he could buy, trade, or beg for: whether it be a truckload of supplies or a single C-ration.  When I asked Larry about it, he simply told me that he cared immensely for these orphans. The only people caring for them were French nuns: the American government did not want to be responsible for them and the Vietnamese would kill them due to their mixed status. Larry found this horrific and decided to give his all to help the victims of this often under-examined casualty of the war.

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A Conversation Between a Girl and a Toilet  ~Emily Flynn

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To her bewilderment, the girl found refuge in the gas station bathroom. Once-white floor tiling flaunted a sienna hue which one could smell through the 1957 Chevy windows from a rather notable distance. Grime coated the blistering wallpaper in all different shapes and patterns.  In addition to the flavor of tobacco in the back of her throat, she tasted the suffocating under-abundance of off-brand Lysol. She was faced with an assault on her senses, and the culprit was quite literally a decade of shit. The toilet was a corner her sensory neurons did not even want to recognize. This lack of identity made the toilet an ideal listener.

“Hmph,” she exhaled; disheartened thoughts acknowledged the light she had lost in the years. “You understand that,” she snickered at the humble toilet before her.

There was silence. The girl sat - leaving no distinction between her pressed thighs and those feculent floors beneath her. Physically, the confines of her twentieth century marriage flattened her.  She ached for the archaic, liberalizing sun. The sunless cold had been ever-shrinking around her, and the singular sensation of solar rays was so tantalizing. In the light, the energy of the world was hers and she its.

For a moment she considered the toilet, since it was in fact a toilet in a gas station bathroom, had never experienced the heat of the sun.

Deliberately detaching her tongue from the soot of her mouth, she told the toilet, “It has been so long since I felt a surge of vibrance. I just want to be free.”

Faint pipeline hummings echoed back.

Decidedly, this was an announcement of agreement. It was time for the girl and her toilet companion to execute their personal coup d'état. The spirit of internal resistance which had once been hers was not gone.

With the revived taste of triumph on her tongue, the girl began to pull. Her fingertips felt the radiating frost of the metal pipelines - thankful she had not witnessed filth accumulate since the last wash - and the conduit buzzing deepened until it surpassed her audible limits. The intricacies of the virulently-odored plumbing did not overcome her, for she had such a focus on the task at hand. Pulling and snapping and busting and ravaging with such urgency, like wildfire swallowing a desert, until finally the girl noticed the toilet had separated from the wall.

She hauled the toilet out of the gas station bathroom and placed it in the passenger seat of her husband’s vehicle, intently watching as water soaked into spots in the seating, and ensured the window was rolled down so the sun would permeate the toilet. The woman did not wait for her husband to return; rather, she slid into the driver’s seat and peeled the platforms off her heels.

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Untitled ~Cindy Eddington

Closing the door behind me, I put my bag and keys on the table. After an exhausting day at the beach, Sunny is curled up in a ball on the floor. A smile stretches across my face and my high-pitched "baby voice" says, “Hey, sweet boy!” His head perks up and with the wave of his tail, sand whooshes with every gust. Groaning, he makes a grueling attempt to stand, then as he walks towards me my heart sinks, my smile fades and my eyes widen with despair. Something is wrong.

I drop to my knees as he limps over. My blood pressure rises whilst all I can hear is my rapid breathing; for a moment my mind is blank. Sunny licks my ear, bringing me back to reality, as I examine his back leg. “He is hurt,” I think, trying relentlessly to stop him from licking me so I can get a better look. With every touch comes a jolt and immediately I know he is in pain. I get up on my feet with my hands grabbing the back of my head as I replay that day on the beach. “What could have hurt him?”

He refuses to put weight on his leg and with every three-legged hop, a piece of my heart breaks. Sitting idly by waiting until the morning is too agonizing; I have to help now. Frantically, I start researching; my eyes scanning every word from left to right. Among the results are some over-the-counter medicines that are safe for dogs. Buffered Aspirin is used for temporary pain relief but I can't find any in my medicine cabinet, so I rush to the nearest pharmacy. Making sure that the dosage is safe for his weight and breed, I disguise it in a piece of ham and he gladly accepts.

The next morning, as I walk outside, this heavyweight that overtook me the day before is lifted from my shoulders and I am overwhelmed with excitement. Sunny is running back and forth in the yard playing fetch. In this relieve, I realized how much I enjoyed learning about how to help my dog and I want to learn more. Being a part of the little relief Sunny might have received with my care was enough for me to be more interested in how I could help more animals. I never want to be in a situation where I am useless; I love animals too much to see them suffer, that is how I know that I need to be a veterinarian.

Untitled ~Skylar Floyd          

Beep!  “Put the pan of chicken in the oven!”

While running frantically to deliver orders to the tables, a wave of sauteed onions and garlic wafted past me.  Can I tell you the joy of seeing such grateful people?

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Throughout my years being involved in the Virginia Beach community, my favorite contribution has been participating in “The Winter Watch” at Holy Family Catholic Church.

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This annual church event helps the homeless by providing a safe place to sleep, clean bathrooms, and homemade meals.  For the past two years, I have been in charge of setting tables, preparing dinners, and making personalized bags to take with them.  

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Serving can not only lift one’s own spirit but also the spirit of others.

"Family Redefined"

Shivering, I stared at the TV screen as my hand loosely held my Xbox remote. Tears fall. My mind raced, attempting to process the unbelievable news. Similar to an intervention, my mom and two stepdads had sat me down, staring at my six-year-old self with wrinkled brows and pursed lips, hesitating to tell me what they could no longer hide. My biological father was in jail and there was nothing I could do about it. He may not have always been around, but I still cared for him. Yes, he would eventually be back after a year or two, but we all knew he'd end up in jail again. And this is exactly what happened. After a second stint in jail, he fled the country in fear of the law, never to return to his “beloved” son.

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Although it sounds odd, my biological father leaving would end up becoming a blessing. I have two stepdads (one my mom’s ex-husband and one my mom’s current husband), which I can identify as unorthodox, yet be grateful for at the same time. They picked up my biological father's slack and then some. They provided life lessons and guidance that have been the backbone for my transformation from boy to man. For example, they drove me to the bank a few years ago and opened an account for me. My account has accumulated thousands of dollars through paychecks from work and I was able to buy a truck. This taught me the value of the dollar and how important it was to monitor and take care of my assets.

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Both of my stepdads have shaped me into the man I am today. They taught me various lessons and guidance that have pieced together my character and personality. They inspired me to always work towards goals, whether it be receiving my Eagle Scout or being at the top of my class. I may have failed my first Algebra test freshman year, but I still finished the course with an A. I may have fractured my ankle against Ocean Lakes last year, but I recovered and still played some of the best football of my life. I may have lost my father, but I still grew into a strong young man. My drive for success and the ability to stay fundamentally focused can be credited to these two men. They are my role models, my guides, and my inspirations.

"Pink: a Color Symbolic of Strength"

“Girls, I have to tell you something,” my mom’s voice echoed in the kitchen. The grease from the takeout food we ordered was quickly wiped away as I walked over to where my mom and sister were sitting. Her expression remained placid as she stared into my sister's and my souls.  A whirlpool of questions entered my headspace. What is she wanting to tell us? Are we going on a surprise trip? What could it be? I turned my head towards my father. My heart dropped; his eyes welled up with tears. Something was wrong. My father has never cried in front of us. I turned to my mom waiting for the next words to fall out of her mouth. It read the date read May 20th, 2017. My eyes peered up to meet my mother’s icy blue eyes, as the words fell out slowly “I have breast cancer.” My world crashed before my eyes; my lip quivered as I whispered under my breath “Why?’

The sleek progress report paper teased me; it showed my straight A’s have dropped to C’s. My tear-stained face glanced up to meet my teacher’s eyes; with an eyebrow raised she wanted to ask the same question that has probably been going through everyone’s mind: what is going on? I thought I was strong enough to get through this without anyone knowing, but I couldn't keep pretending. Later that evening, the blinking cursor from my computer screen sickened me. “I can do this,” I whispered. When I looked back up from my computer screen, the sky was dark with only the moon shining through my window. I clicked, “send email” and stood up. With the phone up to my mother’s ear, I walked into the kitchen eavesdropping on her conversation. “I’ll be okay, just some operations have to be done and some radiation, and worst case, I’ll have to get chemotherapy,” she explained. She seemed so unbothered by the whole situation. If I’m being honest, she was doing better than I was coping. I walked back into my room and stared at my reflection. My skin was pale, my eyes had dark under eyes, and my acne was worse than ever. Something had to change.

The pencil scratched the paper; the question burned into my head “What is your favorite color?” I scribble the color down and continue. After spending many months in theater, I was finally applying to join the International Thespian Society. I listed my experiences in the program, how I was now a head costumes designer. The door slammed; interrupting my thoughts. With my dad walking behind my mom, she walked slowly. She just had chemotherapy. She sat down on the couch and I followed not too far behind her. Her voice was tired “How was school today?” I explained that I picked up forms to join honor societies, how I’ve brought my grades back up, and all in all have a good day. As a faint smile formed on her face, she whispered, “You are so strong, thank you for taking care of me, and yourself.”

“Heat is not gonna help your hair!” I exclaimed to my mother as she curled her shoulder-length hair into ringlets. She rolls her eyes “I want to look good for your induction, I don’t want anybody seeing my bald spots.” Tonight was the night I got inducted into the International Thespian Society. With the candle behind held tight in my hands, I looked in the audience to find my family. There she was. The brightest face in the audience was my mother’s; who has been going through intense treatments. She looks the best out there. She was also the loudest when they called my name to walk across the stage.

I often get asked, "Why do you like the color pink?" I don’t wear pink often nor do I incorporate it into my lifestyle. It’s not so much the color, it’s more of what it means. Throughout the months of my freshman and sophomore year where my mom fought cancer, the color pink was everywhere I went. Today, my mother is in remission and is stronger than ever. As for me, I try to help everyone who has been going through what I have gone through. My teachers from those years still keep in contact, often asking how my mother and I are doing. And as for the question I keep getting asked, pink is a color symbolic of strength and perseverance.

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Untitled ~Kenzie White             

The curtain opens. Blinding lights shining upon me. I stand dead center in front of hundreds. This may sound like an uncomfortable scene to many, but this is something I’ve enjoyed for eleven years. Breathless silence turns into undeviating beats of instruments echoing within the entire building, and I shift in accordance with each. I steadily execute each movement with as much strength and grace as I can conjure. Intertwining with the music compels my body to life until all of a sudden the music ends, leaving me where I started, dead center. Roaring applause replaces the silence, and I take a bow before I exit.

I was first introduced to the dancing world when I took classes at BellAdance Studio at six. Through enhancing technique and choreography, I was able to work my way up to the top company by age thirteen. Performing in parades, charity events, and recitals were highlights. Dancing took me to several places, including Disney World where I danced at Magic Kingdom, as well as New York City where I danced in Times Square and on a Broadway stage. Performing as a dancer has given me opportunities others can only dream about.

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All dance events were a plus of course, but the real reason dance had such an impact on my life was because it guided me through a tragedy that rocked my world. When I was twelve, my father passed away from stage four melanoma cancer. Life definitely took a sharp turn, and I was not ready for it, but that’s where dancing came into play. I used it as a way to express my emotions of staggering confusion and unfathomable sadness. That sharp turn in life led me in a different direction with my dancing career, one that was passionate and true. I found myself improving like I never had before and realized that I could no longer continue to grow if I stayed where I was.

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This ultimately pushed me to seek a different dance environment to continue my passion, and that’s when I landed at A&B Dance Company. I danced there my sophomore year and loved it the moment my foot stepped through the door. This studio was different, however, because they did not participate in parades or recitals. Instead, the company competed professionally. I was excited to experience something new. “Don’t think, just do,” said my dance teacher, Ashleigh on multiple accounts. With her constant effort to make me a better dancer through advanced technique and movement quality, I was challenged in ways I had never been challenged before, but this was what I was searching for and I was up for the arduous task.

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Now I am in my senior year and still dancing at the same studio, continuously being encouraged to explore my capabilities through assiduous determination. I understand the importance of challenging myself to look beyond the horizon and think of the possibilities. Just as I searched for and discovered the right path to take in dance, I now search for the right path to take for my scholastic future. I will be carrying all the lessons I’ve learned through my dance experiences onto impending explorations of the unknown where I will be able to turn the “I can’t” into “I can.” As the curtain closes on one stage of my life, I go forward to open a curtain on a new stage.

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Untitled ~Hannah Levi           

Beads and candy flew through the air, colorful and festive floats glided through the streets, and jubilant music reverberated around me.  Hooked from an early start, I have continued to attend Mardi Gras.  As I attended the festival each year, I observed that the parade routes wind through many famous historical streets, neighborhoods, and buildings.  New Orleans is rich in history, with renowned sites such as Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral, St. Charles Avenue, the French Quarter, and the St. Louis Cemetery.  During a trip to New Orleans as a rising sophomore, a tour guide mentioned that the New Orleans Preservation Coalition worked to preserve the historic architecture of New Orleans.  

With my interest sparked, I decided to investigate if there was a similar group in my city, and was brought to the Virginia Beach Historic Preservation Commission website.  The website had information about the application process of the Historic Preservation Commission’s subcommittee: the Student Leaders Committee.  While filling out my application, I was prompted to choose my favorite historic landmark in Virginia Beach.  I selected First Landing State Park, where the English colonists first arrived in North America.  As a child, I walked along the beautiful trails and enjoyed learning about its fascinating history. After my first ever, rather intimidating formal interview, I am proud to say I was accepted. 

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As a member of the Student Leaders Committee, I was tasked with researching First Landing State Park and writing a description of its history to be published on the “Clio” app: a smartphone app where people can learn about historic sites.  While researching, I was shocked to find that one of my favorite places had more complex, racist roots than I had previously thought.  Not only was this the site of atrocities towards Native Americans, but also the park refused to open when desegregation was being enforced. As I discovered more information about my city’s history, whether fascinating or disturbing, I felt compelled to share my new knowledge with friends and family as well as formally discussing my findings with commission members.

After a year of active participation in the Student Leaders Committee as the secretary and head of the social media team, the commission appointed me co-chair of the Student Leaders Committee as well as one of the two student members on the Historic Preservation Commission.  I enthusiastically embraced the unique opportunity of serving on the interview panel to select new members.  This year, I have the honor of leading the members in carrying out numerous goals including organizing our annual historical scavenger hunt, designating historical sites for the “Clio” app entries, encouraging school initiatives such as Virginia Beach historical facts on the morning announcements, and expanding the committee's presence on various social media platforms.  As a liaison between the committee members and the commission, I regularly present the committee’s progress in our goals and projects. 

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In hopes of emulating New Orleans’ success in preserving its unique history, I have played a role in the preservation of Virginia Beach’s parks, buildings, monuments, houses, neighborhoods, schools, and lighthouses.  As I prepare to leave Virginia Beach to pursue the next step of my education, I am excited to bring my passion and experience in preserving history to my new home. 

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Untitled ~Emily Finguerra

The date was September 5th, 2017, the first day of freshman year. It was 87 degrees outside and I was wearing a purple dress. Around 4 p.m. I heard, “Ring! Ring! Ring!” I looked down at my cracked phone screen and my mother was trying to reach me.  “Hello?” I asked. My mom responded, “Emily, go sit with your brother and put me on speaker.” I sunk into my brother's full-size bed; beads of sweat dripped down the sides of my face. My hands were clammy and  I reluctantly said, “Okay, go ahead.” The other line was silent. My mother hesitated and her voice was shaky and then she said, “Guys, Aunt Bee passed away earlier today.” My ears rang and every other word she said was muffled. Nothing made sense. Aunt Bee was 35 with a husband and a five-year-old! Did she get into an accident? How do we know for sure? Has anyone contacted my grandparents? Who found her? My mind raced, and then it went quiet.

Drugs are a silent killer, slowly taking away any bit of pride left in an individual, ruining relationships, and stripping away conscious thoughts. Nevertheless, Bee was a force to be reckoned with. With her pearly white teeth and bronze skin, the second she would step into a room, everyone’s face would light up, but nobody would dare test her abilities. If she wanted something done, it would get done. She wanted to lose weight, she lost 50 pounds; she wanted to have a huge wedding, she had over 500 people attend; she wanted a baby, she gave birth to my cousin in 2012.

She cared for everyone so deeply, so I wanted to do the same but during most of my high school years, I projected my own insecurities onto others. It was not until this past year that I realized what I was doing. There was one day I realized my heart was beating a million miles a minute and I could not figure out why. Why was I so anxious? I had to do something that would distract me, but make others feel appreciated.  I got in my car, drove to the grocery store, bought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, Gatorade, cheese sticks, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I put together about eight bags and drove around my city, passing out these bags to the homeless and less fortunate. That day, I saw how a simple act of kindness can change someone’s life, even if it was just for a second. The people I met, the stories I heard, changed my life. I think about those people to this day.

My mind often wonders if somebody, like myself, checked up on my aunt, she wouldn’t have chosen drugs as an option. If she had felt as if there were people willing to listen and get her the help she needed, she would still be here. My mother always said, in a soothing voice, “it is important to have empathy, Emily, you should care for others' feelings and place yourself in their shoes.” I pride myself on being the friend that checks up on people. I will ask “Hey, are you doing okay?” or “Do you need someone to talk to?” because I have seen what loneliness can do. Being empathetic is not easy, but listening is.

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Untitled~Tommy Edwards       

Running into the building as the one-minute bell thundered, I continued sprinting to my classroom. As soon as I stepped foot by the classroom door,  the final bell rang but the door shut in my face. Begrudgingly, Mr. Smith let me in class then started his lesson. Suddenly, Mr. Smith came to a brief halt. “My god! What has happened to your neck son?” All eyes were on me. My face got cherry red and all I said was, “Umm, it's actually a birthmark.” Mr. Smith confidently said, “You have the biggest hickey on your neck I have ever seen.” Everyone chuckled. Finally, after about a month Mr.Smith said, “Why hasn’t that hickey gone away?” I stuttered, “Because it's a birthmark.” His expressions altered, realizing it truly was a birthmark. He apologized, then moved on into class like nothing happened. This interaction was considerably challenging for me, the embarrassment I felt during class was like none other. I remember going home this day and all I could think about was what happened. All evening I was sobbing uncontrollably. I was barely able to sleep that night; I didn't even show up to school for the rest of the week.

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Throughout the years I've waxed and waned regarding how I feel about my birthmark. It wasn't until later when I changed my outlook. I was in class when the landline phone rang. The teacher called my name aloud: “Tommy, main office now!” My mind raced. Once in the office, a guidance counselor asked me how my day was going but then became asking me about the mark on my neck.“Is everything okay at home between you and your parents?” At this point, all I could do was laugh. The counselor's expression changed; she was genuinely confused. Once I began explaining what was on my neck, her face became relieved.

Moments like this make me realize I can’t spend all of my time worrying about the next remark I may or may not get about my neck. Now when people question it, I tell them it was a bear attack or a flying squirrel. This birthmark is not only who I am, but it's made me into what I am today. From this, I have gathered to make the utmost of every day. I don't know what will happen in one minute, one hour, let alone in a year; but I can live in the present, and make the most of it.

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Untitled ~Sam Bucklew

As the clock reaches four in the morning, a pounding chime blares from my bedside table. “It would be so much easier to just go back to sleep,” I mutter. “None of my other friends have to do this before school,” I think, “I could just tell him I overslept.” Nevertheless, I, yet again, get ready and drive out to the pool. Jumping into the freezing water, I am ready for my first of two practices of the day.

Who would have known thirteen years ago when my mom signed me up for my first practice I would be learning so much more through the sport than just the basic strokes. I’ve learned how to persevere, manage everything on my plate, and the importance of friendships. Voices constantly fill my head saying “I am not good enough,” or, “why do I keep putting myself through this when it is so easy to quit.” What has been the most difficult part though this is the missing support from others when I was performing poorly. I’ve had to learn to fight through the mental obstacles myself. The challenging sets, long nights, and muscle aches have made me the stronger person I continue to strive to be. I look forward to the feeling after completing something hard. This has been carried with me outside of the pool and into the classroom. I have learned how to persevere and take challenging courses because, in the end, it will only be for my benefit.

Arriving home in the near dark on a normal weekday can entail a long night of work. Being gone for up to fourteen hours in the day, and having to come home to more work has made me learn to manage out my time. I am aware of exactly what I need to do and how much time I have to do any tasks. Being able to manage my time around school and practice has become a skill I use in all aspects of my life and will continue to use in the future. It has been able to help me do homework on time, finish chores around the house, and complete all my errands while allowing myself to have time to relax.

Throughout the years, the bonds I have created with teammates, coaches, and others have been the most important reason to me as to why I swim. The relationships I have formed with my fellow teammates have led them to become some of the closest friends in my life. I have also had the opportunity to meet others who swim within the whole state I would have never known existed if it weren’t for going to meets. I have established strong communication skills and trust with authority figures through speaking with my coaches. These bonds I have created through the sport have taught me how important it is to have strong connections with other people. I have learned to value time spent with every person and cherish the impact each person lends on my life.

The countless hours spent staring down at the black line on the bottom of the pool have presented me with plenty of time to reflect. Every time I stumble upon an obstacle,  I remind myself what I am doing. Especially over the past couple of years, I began to truly understand why I continue to come back at the start of each year. The bonds I have created between myself and others, and the relationship I have formed with the sport, have provided me with knowledgeable skills I can carry with me for the rest of my life.

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Untitled ~Hannah Whalen          

Sounds of rolling thunder shook the pictures hanging on the rough, plaster walls. The soft smell of rain drifted through the open window in my room, lit only by the twinkly lights strung loosely around the perimeter of the ceiling. Creaky wood floors groaned as distant stomping in the hallway moved closer. She stormed in shouting,“I want you to leave!”

I quickly snapped back, “I don't want to be here anyway!" I grabbed my keys and stormed out. Tears spilled onto my drab, grey shirt that was three sizes too big but somehow fits just right. I sprinted to the car, keys jingling in my pocket.

The car came to life as I slammed the door. I didn’t even bother to turn on the radio; silence was what I needed. Lightning struck nearby, illuminating the dark road. Trees danced in the wind. Suddenly, the car swerved, and my shaking hand gripped the steering wheel.

The rain droplets fell on the hood of the car in slow motion. Screeching the tires slid across the slippery asphalt.  Glass shattered like fireworks and shot across and through the car. The air was filled with smoke and burning metal. Touching my wet hair,I wondered, "What does my head hurt?" I slowly pulled my hand to my face, feeling as if I was in a dream. The tinny taste of blood and my heart beating was the only thing that I focused on. I reached for the door handle, quickly realizing that my legs had been pinned to the seat. Flickering red and blue lights. Blackness. Soft rain on my cheeks. Flickering red and blue lights. Sweet smell of honeysuckle. Blackness. Flickering red  . . . . 

~Anonymous

My first ever love was a snowy morning in the front yard of my childhood home in Moara, Minnesota. These mornings would begin like every normal one before: get up, eat my teeth-rotting cereal in front of a Spongebob Squarepants episode, send Daddy off to work with a bottomless hug, then play my V. Smile until Mom woke up. As I popped in Winnie the Pooh: Hunny Hunt, my little sister’s voice was more than heard from upstairs. “It’s snowing!” she bellowed. If her shouts were visible they would have reached over the air, down the steps, and suffocated my six-year-old body. I ran towards the nearest window, much like a breeze colliding into inanimate objects. The front yard that once danced with overgrown grass and bouquets of dandelions looked as though it had been put to bed alongside myself last night, tucked under nature’s frigid comforter. The trees and shrubs peeked from beneath their new capes, greeting every snowflake as they blanket each branch and each leaf. Before I could even begin to process a thought, I was wrapped in my puffy, Michelin Man-like snowsuit and struggling to fit my foot into my boot. Once outdoors, I winced as the numbing air filled my lungs. Snowflakes danced in the sunlight before me, a brilliantly choreographed ballet conducted by the breeze. Frost gently kissed my cheeks as I looked to the uninterrupted blue sky, thanking each cloud for the loveliest morning. Never did I think to imagine a life without Minnesota snow.

Untitled ~Jacob Rodriguez

Splashing into the temperate turquoise water, I enter into a vast realm within our world.

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Snorkel situated in my mouth and goggles tightly gripping the area around my eyes, I am able to join the most colorfully diverse environment known to man. If the snorkel was not needed for my breathing, I would gape my mouth in awe of the array of vividly colored shapes and figures that surround me in the glimmering water. The dead silence of the ocean symbolizes that even the most beautiful aspects of life need not make noise to exemplify their breathtaking characteristics. I attentively watch as each organism completes its desired task or newfound adventure in the salty sea it calls home. Angelfish glide by me en route to a destination I will never know. Clownfish emerge from their anemones, carefully eyeing their surroundings in order to ensure they are not subject to a predator's meal. Tangs gracefully “fly” beside me in schools of hundreds or even thousands, perhaps in awe of the human drifting around their home. Sea horses, crabs, lobsters, and rays stay glued to the ocean floor, safeguarded by its rugged, sandy bottom. A silent shark creeps up from the abyss, uninterested in the snack I may have to offer. My mind becomes entranced by the hustle and bustle of life within the Caribbean waters. Everything is dramatically different from life above the ocean surface, yet I belong. In that half-hour in another world, I encounter a home away from home. A place I have never seen, yet identify with. When I enter the realm of the ocean, I transform into a resident rather than a visitor.

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Untitled ~Kelly Rehak

Every nerve in my body sent waves of feeling to my brain as if a thousand bees had stung me - each joint stiffening, feeling helpless. The clench of my jaw felt that if I bit down with just one more ounce of pressure, it would shatter. A flash of light glazed my eyes and showed me my 17 years of life. At that moment, time slowed. A sharp pain throbbed in my waist and shoulder, my burning eyes flowed with water, and the air of my lungs released a soft screech. I couldn't do anything except hope with every ounce of my body that I was not severely injured. The world appeared as if it was on a scratchy disk that was skipping, stopping, freezing, and speeding up. Glass shattered littered my hair, skin, clothing, and the ground all around me. It was so still as if I reached nirvana or was in the eye of a hurricane. Disturbing the peace was a blaring siren and the tickle of a warm liquid rolling down my ear. I was in the most excruciating pain of my life, but for some reason, I never wanted to leave it. My limp arms rested on my legs, and my back had no strength to be straight; my mind was in shock. Sitting there, I was like a lifeless animal on the side of the road. As I slowly turned to my sister, a faint whisper passed by my lips: "You were going a little fast, weren't you?" She couldn't keep a gloomy face as she chuckled. In return, I smirked, glad to be able to make light of the stressful situation. There was a sound of rolling wheels scratching on the pavement coming to a halt beside me, but my neck wouldn't let me look. As a paramedic shouted, asking if we were okay, his words scrambled, and I couldn't fully comprehend them. My surroundings were unknown, but the comfort of arms engulfed me, like a warm blanket on a cold evening. They felt so secure while taking my seatbelt off and rushing me to the ambulance. Lights slowly shined brighter as we drew closer to the opened doors, finally reaching heaven's gates.

Untitled ~Gavin Gluckle

BRRRRING! I ran through the crowded hallway like a salmon jumping up a waterfall of bodys to the school’s back parking lot; I was late. The early spring sun shone down on the crimson-coated muscle car. Opening the door, the flowery air was replaced by the essence of new car smell™. ”You’re late,” my friend exclaimed as his leather passenger seat creaked to the front. I crammed myself between the wall of his mustang’s lack of a backseat and an obelisk of backpacks. Shortly after I got in, the tires shrieked in pain, and we promptly left the parking lot. The asphalt of the backroads was blanketed with fallen flower petals that rippled like waves in the red streak’s wake. The scenic view of neighborhood houses whirled by as if it was a background in an old Hanna Barbera cartoon. SKRTT! The stop sign beckoned us to break. Ahead of us, a caravan of vehicles barricaded the main road. What relatively felt like hours passed; car after car cruised by until finally, a break interrupted the monotony of our gaze. My friend said something to the other passenger, but the growling of his extended muffler muted any information I could have attained. The roar picked up as we hurled to the gap between the cars. To my surprise, the red bolt phased past the first lane. but honking could be heard. An SUV the color of a ghost crept steadily towards our portside. My mouth stood agape as I tried to spit out the words-HONK! HONK!

CRASH!

The white train collided with our side and instantly left a crater. The impact catapulted us into the air. Gravity was nonexistent. Time stood still.  With adrenaline, my ears rang. Tempered glass shards danced around the front of the car like rain caught in a storm. The once-mighty backpack tower crumbled onto my lap as centripetal force pulled the flesh off our bones. -THUD A fire hydrant lodged itself into our headlight. The sulfur smell of the airbags perfumed the air; we sat awestruck. As if in a trance, we all looked at each other, saying nothing.

“Are you guys okay?” We awoke to a middle-aged woman with the kindest face who t-boned us. Cries of the police siren echoed like valkyries, and we stepped out of what used to be a car; the remains of which sat in a sea of muddy water. Car parts littered the road, as we gathered our possessions with saturated shoes. My friend's frozen face was paler than normal, mourning the loss of his baby. 

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Untitled ~Campbell Caron         

Peaceful silence sweeps over the dew-covered foliage of a soft autumn morning. As the warm early morning rays begin their captivating climb over the tops of trees and the soft outline of mountains on the horizon, the sleepy town of Portland, Oregon starts to buzz with activity. It's nothing special for this is the same events that unfold every October morning; the peace and clarity that comes with the soft cry of the birds and the abundant crashing of the waves will never get old. Stretching my arms towards the cramped ceiling of my uncle’s small guest bedroom I stumble out of bed and slowly make my way up the never-ending flight of stairs that opens up into the brightly lit kitchen. Yawning loudly and rummaging around in the fridge I pull out a carton of eggs, some yellow onions, tomatoes, and soy sauce. The satisfying crack of the eggshell echos around the vacant room as the egg whites dribble into the large mixing bowl I had set aside. Turning on the stove with a fulfilling click and feeling the warmth radiate onto my hand; I rest my stainless steel pan atop the flickering blue flame and turned back to my eggs. After what seems like hours of whisking which is in fact minutes I set aside the bowl and began to prepare the other ingredients.

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On a small cutting board, I dutifully slice the tomatoes and onions into small pieces then add them into the bowl that contains the eggs. Stirring the mixture together I slowly pour it into my hot pan, smiling slightly as I hear the hot sizzle of the egg touch the surface, and the scent of breakfast fills my nostrils. Once the eggs brown slightly, I stir the mixture in the pan until it's fully cooked, at which point I slip it soundlessly onto a decorative tray that also hold sliced tomatoes sprinkled with salt. By now the rest of my family has begun to stir from their peaceful slumber and make their way to the kitchen. Greeting them a good morning I place the tray on the table and smile as everyone digs in and lightly talk amongst themselves.

Untitled ~Kyle Videll

I’ve got to say, I find this situation pretty hard to comprehend. I know I may be gobbling out of turn-key, but I’d like to ask a question or two before I get started.

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First of all, what is a president? Is that similar to the man who feeds us, or the one who puts us in our cage? They were vague in describing it to me. I’ve heard from word of beak that the president’s the human who runs the farm, so to speak, but recently gobble has been a bit divided on specifics. I’d love to be pardoned, but if all that means is another cage, I might just take up the family business.

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Second, what do you look for in a turkey? I’m as patriotic as they come: Gumpkin Co. farm is the best farm, nothing will change that in my beady eyes. I have a pretty picturesque frame - mama turkey has told me (on multiple occasions, by the way) that I resemble an apple with a shriveled worm coming out, and that my tail is almost as magnificent as that of a peacock. High praise; Very big stuff. But the thing I wonder is, should I be working on anything in particular? If there is, I have plenty of time and energy. Space, not so much, but for the first two, I’m loaded. I’ll get anything down. ‘Long as it’s not flying, never had much luck there.

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If I had to choose my best quality, I’d say literacy -  They call me Yogobbli because I’m smarter than your average turkey. One time, I predicted how much food this other bird was gonna get, before he got it! I scare myself sometimes. My biggest weakness is probably that I sometimes tend to work alone. Actually, come to think of it, for this job that wouldn’t be much of a weakness. I suppose I have no weaknesses! Don’t ask me to fly, though (it would be awkward for the both of us). As for what I’d bring to the environment, my southern heritage (Straight out of Gumpkin) adds a nice homey feel to any room. Southern hospitality and all, I gobble that stuff up.

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If you choose me as your turkey, I’ll be sure to represent the working American - I’m confident, plump, patriotic, and flightless. And what else is there, really?   

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Chapter 1  ~Alexis Bailey

Every time I left the house to go anywhere to work, the grocery store, even just out for a walk I felt eyes on me. At first, I told myself "You're just being paranoid no one is following you," then the pictures came.

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It started out being every few days until they came twice a day. The pictures were of me at a distance at some of my favorite places: the park, the book store, and even the beach. Some of them were months old all the way from July and it’s almost Halloween now.

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Eventually, the pictures were close-ups of me inside my home. In some, I was making dinner, in others just reading on the couch. To make matters worse the police couldn’t do anything because they didn’t know who the person was and what they did wasn't illegal. I was never "hurt." How lovely! If I wanted my life back, I would need to hope I was attacked?!

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Coming from a tight-knit southern family I turned to the only people I could trust to help. After my family's initial panic and concern, the immediate consensus was for me to get a gun. I almost vetoed that despite coming from a family who had guns, I hate them. They make me anxious and I’m always more concerned about hurting an innocent person than an intruder. Eventually, the "gun talk" was dropped but I was convinced to move in with my uncle for a while.

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At his house, I was finally able to relax. Unfortunately, that didn’t last long. After three days the pictures started again. This time the pictures had messages on them. Most of them were illegible and frantic as if the person was furious when they wrote them. The gist of them was that I was terrible for "leaving him and hiding." Other than scaring me, he gave me a clue as to who he was. In the messages, he referred to himself as "the man who has always loved me." 

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This person has been in love with me for a while and instead of doing, I don’t know the normal thing and asking me, out he stalked me. I can’t imagine the kind of warped thoughts someone must have to believe that this was the way to get someone to love them back. Maybe it’s better this way. I could’ve gone out with him and falling in love. The idea of falling in love with a man only to find out he has some sick obsession with you sounds like the plot of a Lifetime movie. My life was normal before all of this and now I was too afraid to even go home.

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 I was supposed to be at home with my pets, finishing up arguments for the client I’m representing in divorce court. Going from a respected divorce attorney to hiding under my blankets is not me. I had to do something or else this man would have me living the rest of my life in fear. I decided to go home tonight and in the morning I would hunt my stalker.

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"I Love Her & She Loves Me" ~Calla Hunter

The idea of love has many interpretations. Had Martha May knew this, I wouldn’t be sitting in the principal's office right now.

Most people know love to be from a significant other, shown in an affectionate way. But love can be more than that. I wanted to show Martha May how much I cared for her by trying to protect her from her toxic one-sided relationship. I took the measure she could not take and wrote a nasty letter to her love. I may have gone a little overboard with what I had written, but it was for her greater good. Honestly, I know what is best. Protecting her is my way of showing I love her. She is my best friend and the rock in my life. Being repaid by being sent to the principal's office is not my view on love. After I end this meeting with the head of the school, I am going over to her house and have a word with her. Maybe when I see her we’ll laugh this little incident off and she’ll see I did this out of pure affection. Yes, she’ll understand and apologize for turning me in. Truly, I would not be in this situation if her puny, wimpy and insignificant lover had just manned up. If only he held his tears back while reading the letter in class. I can’t see why he cried.

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The letter pointed out how he couldn’t bench past 40. It also highlighted that one year, at summer camp, he peed the bunk due to a nightmare he had about Care Bears. But, it was all the truth! Such a weak and docile man could not protect my precious Martha May. That is why at the end of the letter I wrote, “Martha does not see you as a man and wishes the best for you.” Ending it with the best of regards should have made him feel decently well. I held back! I could have said, “Martha would like to end things bud.” But, I didn’t! The principal will understand when I explain this predicament. They will all understand that I did this out of love, pure love, and affection for the beautiful and graceful Martha May. She deserves it all. She is my best friend, even though she tells me to leave her alone and not follow her around even when out in public, that is okay. I know she cares for me, even though she did put a restraining order on me when she found me outside of her house crouched in a bush waiting for her to come out. It’s all fun, that’s just how we hang out. It may seem unordinary but that is the beauty of love. It can be molded into anything you want. You can use love to your advantage. Love makes you do absolutely insane things. We only need each other. I only need her. She only needs me. That’s why I love her and she loves me.

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~Lucia Klinkhammer                                                                                                           

     Ayn Rand’s novel Anthem featuring protagonist Equality 7-2521 has received criticism and acclaim alike for its unique take on the world and portrayal of man’s purpose. Many things go into making this novel both a true testament of Rand’s talent as an author and her flawless character development. Perhaps the most important of these is her use of the First Person through Equality. The First Person POV is absolutely essential to the storyline and longevity of Anthem. 

     It would be impossible to defend this position without bringing up the importance of Equality in the story. It is important to establish character to have a window into Equality’s thoughts, motivation, and internal conflict. We learn who Equality is and why he makes the fateful decisions that shape the heart of the book. We can see directly the progression of ideas and how he changes throughout the book. Equality starts the novel with guilt saying, “It is a sin to write this” (Rand). He initially is feeling guilt and Rand is establishing extreme internal conflict. Later in the story, Equality writes, “There is not a thing behind us to regret” (Rand). Equality’s character development and progression of thoughts are crystal clear to us as readers because we are given insight directly into his mind. He goes from feeling regret and guilt to feeling joy and happiness about the same actions and thoughts that were once damned and are now liberating. 

     Next, it is important to see why we must not know the thoughts of all in society, but only Equality. If we knew the thoughts of those like Union 5-3992 who was, “a pale boy with only half a brain,” we would be distracted and the story would become chaotic (Rand). We must be able to see only from the outside, through the actions of the society, what and why Equality has the conflict and thoughts he does. If Rand chose to reveal the thoughts of everyone through a Third Person Omniscient narrator, it would damage the storyline. The setting is another important thing that is developed artfully through Equality’s eyes. Equality has a unique and individual take on society and that shapes the way we view things. Equality mourns, “We are born with a curse” (Rand). He believes due to his take on society, that he is different and that is evil. If we knew the thoughts of everyone, we may not see Equality the same way. We may see that he is not as different as he thinks, but again, that would distract the author from the main character and primary theme of the story. The Unspeakable Word is also better able to be dramatized and teased throughout the story since Equality doesn’t know it for most of the story. If we knew the thoughts of those such as the Saint of the Pyre, the Unspeakable Word would be revealed too early and therefore ruin the excellent buildup and foreshadowing before the final reveal. Rand’s decision to use First Person POV in the telling of Anthem was a wise and important decision. She made the right call in the end, and that choice was vital to the telling of Anthem.