2011 -- Java - Mount Vernon Township High School

Table of Contents
JAVA Magazine
Table of Contents
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
The Office makes me laugh.
That show is the best.
Yes, I have become obsessed.
Now, I have to watch the rest.
Jim is always my favorite.
He is so tall and fine.
He‟s super romantically sweet.
I just wish he was mine.
Pam is thoughtful and wise.
She is as pretty sweet as can be.
Every guy falls in love with her.
And, that‟s pretty plain to see.
Michael thinks he‟s so funny.
The poor guy just needs some friends.
He tries hard to get attention.
But he has trouble making amends.
Dwight is such a weirdo.
You can never figure him out.
He tries to succeed in everything.
But he doesn‟t know what he‟s talking about.
Stanley is such a powerful man
Who never cares about what he does.
He sure loves his crossword puzzles
And passing out from stress he was.
Meredith drives a minivan.
She has fiery red hair.
Her attire is inappropriate to wear.
Kelly is an Indian woman.
You could never keep her quiet.
She‟s the hugest flirt in the office.
She once fainted from a diet.
Angela is rather short and petite.
Her life consists of cats.
She is a very religious person.
She wastes no time on chats.
Creed is a super old man.
He‟s kinda creepy in a way.
He steals many things from the office.
Some odd things he does say.
Mrs. Sarah Watts
Ryan is just a kid.
He costs the company money
Kelly and he are off and on.
He‟s not even that funny.
Phyllis is everyone‟s mother.
She tells it like it is.
Sometimes she blackmails Angela.
And she's also in the sales biz.
Kevin is one of the best.
He really is a teddy bear.
He‟s hilarious and slow.
Not everyone treats him fair.
Oscar is a Hispanic.
He works in accounting.
He never agrees with Angela.
He‟s never slacking.
Andy has some anger issues.
He‟d love to sing for you.
People find him annoying.
And he‟s a suck up, too.
Toby‟s always had a crush on Pam.
He‟s a pretty laid back guy.
Michael hates his guts.
And he works for HR, no lie.
I hope you‟ve enjoyed my poem.
I‟ve had a lot of fun.
You should know The Office by now.
Thank you and I‟m done.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE ONE
Poetry
What everyone says can‟t be true
THEY don‟t see what I see
They don't hear what I hear
They don't KNOW what I think
They must have it wRong
They could be the death of us
With this HEARTBREAK
Reminds me that I am human
I experience every emotion
This IS something that makes me
Regret being humans
Why can‟t I just be oblivious
This is TO MUCH for a human to bear
Losing you
Losing you
Casey Brandt
PAGE TWO
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
I want to RUN AWAY with you
pretend LIKE it‟s us against the world
At like oUr love CAN never be stopped
But as I dream, I know it can‟t be
You leave me hanging on your every word
What happens when you speak your last
My dream won‟t SAVE ME
The pain YOU CAUSE
Is the worst
EVERY word you say
Cuts a deeper wound
In me
EveryTHING you throw back at me
Causes a bone TO crack
Every wrong you point out
Swells a wound
But your not HURTing me
Deep down
I am bruised and broken
But all they see is an image of
Perfection
JAVA Magazine
PAGE THREE
Poetry
Green‟s only emerald
After the rain
Numb‟s only comfort
After the pain
Air‟s only quite
After the sound
Until declared lost
You can‟t be found
Fire‟s only warm
After we‟re
We only feel young
After we‟re old
Waiting to be moved
Chess pieces on a board
Action-reaction
What are we waiting for?
Sky‟s only calm
Before a storm
Wrong‟s only right
When it‟s the norm
Can only miss
What‟s already gone
Can only regret
What‟s already done.
Last night before I went to bed
Thoughts of you filled my head
though I have not cried this way in
many years
Onto my pillow fell six silent tears
The first was for your smile that I miss
And your tender lips I long to kiss
The second was for your angel face
And thoughts of your loving embrace
PAGE FOUR
The third came as no surprise
As I thought of your beautiful eyes
The fourth came rolling
Instead of my pillow, it should have
been you I was holding
The fifth came for one reason alone.
I felt my love for you wasn‟t fully
shown
I really love and miss you my dear
And there just fell the sixth silent
tear
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
Brooklyn, your light burn so bright
A starry night, blurs as cars pass by
Questions and dreams are brought here to die
We can only turn a blind eye
Brooklyn, the waste of time in the sky
Save yourself and leave the rest to cry
Watching from afar
From distant dying stars
We hope one day they‟ll rise
To join the brightened skies
But save yourselves and in your eyes
We are blind, the sins you hide
But we see all, and know one day that Brooklyn will survive
A loss of faith, a gain of fear
What left do you have to live to for in here?
The pain inside, too much to take
The darkest gray comes over night
I can‟t even seem to find wrong from right
I must get out...this place is fake
JAVA Magazine
PAGE FIVE
Poetry
Happiness
Pleasure, Delight
Smiling, Singing, Skipping
Joyful and Laughing, Depressing and Crying
Suffering, Faking, Lying
Discomfort, Grief
Misery
Music
Loud, Moving
Singing, Screaming, Feeling
Fast and on key, off and nothing
Connecting, living, believing
Mute, awkward
Silence
PAGE SIX
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
The Marine Corps,
Honor, Courage, Commitment
Devil dogs, Leathernecks
Rough hard men.
Ready for Battle,
And Prepared for Death.
We fight „till the very end,
When all hope is lost.
We believe war is the answer,
And peace postpones the inevitable.
We are your best friends,
And even worse friends.
Guns make ghosts,
And so do we.
We are the United States Marine Corps.
I am in love
My head is in the clouds above
I am in love
How can it be
To see me in love
All my dreams
Are about you, it seems
Every thought in my head,
While I‟m lying in bed,
Is you and me in love
JAVA Magazine
PAGE SEVEN
Poetry
Phone Rings…
heart beats…
eyes blink.
You‟re always there.
Pulse rises.
Blood flows.
Knees shake…
it‟s not fair.
Give me a sign.
I knew you were there.
Give me hope.
I still know you care.
Shake my cage…
light my fire.
Center stage…
I can‟t get higher.
Lift me up but I still can‟t reach.
Growing old...but there‟s still more to teach.
Give me time.
Earth will eventually spin around.
There‟s only silence…
so give me stillness of a sound.
Rely on the future but what‟s really not there.
Give me tasteless words that are forced out of your mouth.
Give me something to look back on.
Give me a promise.
Give me faith.
Give me chances.
Give me life...because I might die…
give me the word…
but in the end…
I will always be given a lie.
PAGE EIGHT
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
You‟re drowning in your own self pity-I won‟t save you.
I‟ve done what I could, never tried to change you.
Craving attention like a starving child no matter.
How many times I try to reconcile. Are you that wrapped up in yourself
that you fake who you are to please others? Or is it that you feel like
you have no other choice? So worried about making a good impression,
putting a smile on their face. You think you‟re doing justice but you‟re
really acting fake. You don‟t know yourself-don‟t pretend that you do.
With every word you say, you‟re transparent I see right through you.
Reality should slap you in the face before I do. I have no respect for
someone who can‟t love themselves for who they are not who they try to
be, and whatever it is you‟re going for, it‟s not working. I thought you‟d
change, thought you‟d change, thought you‟d be better honestly, you‟re
worse than before. You really should pick up what‟s left of your sorry
self confidence up off the floor.
I don‟t feel sorry for you, I never have. I think it‟s funny how sad you
have become. I think it‟s funny how sad you have become. You regret it
now; they‟ve figured you out, cry yourself to sleep, so hard that you‟re
eyes never let you see me again. I‟m really sick of making fake amends.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE NINE
Poetry
We are all moving too fast
Only seeing blurs in our eyes
Only feeling left over emotions
Missing important points
We all move too fast
Faster than we need to
Sometimes faster than we want to
Air is blowing in our faces
Yet we cannot breathe
Our eyes closed and ears muffled by the wind
Lost in the shuffle of everyday life
Only taking short moments to inhale
And exhaling on the way
We don't know where we‟re going
We never could
We move fast to see anything in front of us
Wonder if we would care
Just take small steps or big leaps
One at a time
Wait for your turn
Wait for your time
Move just a little slower
So the blurs come back to shape
They look so much different now,
Beautiful, ugly,
Sad.
PAGE TEN
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
Here we again
on the edge of everything
we‟re about to fall apart
how could it end like this?
we gave up a long time ago
but we went through the motions
pretending it was okay for so long
secretly we were both dying inside
when we were together
we were only half of ourselves
I did love you at one point
I did try
but this is the end
maybe we should go our separate ways.
try to move on.
good bye.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE ELEVEN
Poetry
Deep inside, something is missing
Maybe it‟s the love and tender kissing
He walked out himself
Now I talk to myself in the mirror at my reflection
My heart is dead
And soon it will make a resurrection
Once the wounds heal and I am loved for real
With a type of live I can feel
But wait-nobody loves me
Nobody cares
Nobody loves me and that nobody is me
I can‟t love myself because nobody does
I am all alone and no longer what I once was
But the only thing that keeps me alive
Is knowing that tomorrow may change for the better
And that nobody becomes somebody
PAGE TWELVE
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
Go between the cropping
Drop into the pit
There waiting, a single tree
The wreath of pain
Wrapped in a slithering sense
Around the limbs and the decadence
Here lay a fruit
Smashed and rotten; fitting
Smashed underfoot, brushed aside
Left, is laughter laced madness
The right, pure death and silence
The forward path, the same as the past
Alone and dreary
A mile of pain
How might the sun pass by my skies?
It holds no barter here
Overcast as my mind has swirled
Intensity of an ocean
As deep and consuming
Stretched between
No avail
I have burned through my final remains.
September 8, 2010
Proof of life
I trail along the cynical
Laugh beside the ever living
Can not escape my own foreboding
Wish the life would overtake me
This is never ending
Spitting fire at my feet
Chicxlub come again
Break this broken world
Put it together again
Reformation of the light
Veiled in dust and minute matter
Ashes of ourselves
Sheltered within
The metamorphosis will return
Come now do not tarry
For your looming imminence
Will bring hiatus to our scurry
Life will be; as it may
For consciousness is proof of the eternal
And fact of our everlasting wake.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE THIRTEEN
Poetry
Winds, they change, and the seasons will follow.
Leaves will fall, when the ground grows hollow.
Shadows are cast, as the distance is deep.
Nothing is forgotten, and then clouds, they weep.
With pain to the touch, a chill enters the air.
Leaves are shed, the trees grow bare.
Time will linger as days pass too slow.
When coldness falls, a white blanket will glow.
Months go by and a flower pushes through the ground.
Changes come clear as birds fill the air with sound.
The sun will shine, but a heart will never see light.
The bird loves to fly, but is too scared to take flight.
Memories drag on, and the seasons remember.
From the warm days of August,
to the chilled days of December.
As the wind blows, a familiar breeze passes by.
But, it never matters, because with every passing year,
the flower will always die.
Chelsea Johnson
PAGE FOURTEEN
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
What would you do if your life fell apart?
What would you change if you were told you have no heart?
What will happen when the familiar breeze blows?
Ask this constantly…but nobody knows.
Today an angel has chosen to fall.
She has lost her voice, so no one can hear her call.
Its not that she has lost her wings…
She‟s just lost the will to fly.
Watching your face…as the distant future pasted her by.
No one will sing, no one will remember her name,
Just because no one saw hope in her heart that isn‟t tame.
Rewind freeze to a time unspoken.
To a time with love and a time when hearts weren‟t broken.
Forgive her now like you swore you never could.
Hold her in your hands just like you should.
Suffer silently as she passed you by.
She turns her head before you ever saw her cry.
She misses the stars and how they would shoot across the sky.
Watching the, as they would fly by.
Making wishes that have yet to become true…
Living in sorrow each day not talking to you.
Feeling free is what is missed.
Thinking back on a day they last kissed.
An angel fell a long time ago.
Before the leaves fell and the sky gave us snow.
Back to a day when the air was dry.
There were so many truths and just one lie.
Each time thinking back an angel will fall to her knees.
Begging to God…begging him please.
Don‟t take this away…don‟t take my dream.
And down her face fell a steady stream.
This all happens so fast and no one could tell…
That the day you left… an angel fell.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE FIFTEEN
Poetry
Life
Life
Life
Life
isn‟t something you throw away like trash
isn‟t about who has all the girls or cash
can be fun without all the bad people and drugs
is all about the kisses and hugs
Life is too short to make stupid mistakes
So you have to do what it takes
Don‟t be a snake, be a shark
Don‟t be light, be dark
And make sure you don‟t name your kid Mark
You also have to make sure your dog can bark
Because if you don‟t you will let your dreams sink
As quickly as a wink, your eye will be pink
Now it‟s time to move on
Live life large like King Kong
And be a champ at ping pong
Don‟t eat too many Ding Dongs
And stay away from Pokemon
PAGE SIXTEEN
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
If I knew it would be the last time
That I‟d see you fall asleep
I would tuck you in more tightly
And pray the lord, your soul to keep
If I knew it would be the last time
That I see you walk out the door
I would give you a hug and kiss
And you back for one more
If I knew it would be the last time
I‟d hear your voice lifted up in praise
I would video tape each action and
word
So I could play them back day after
day
If I knew it would be the last time
I could spare an extra minute
To stop and say “I love you”
Instead of assuming you would know I
do
If I know it would be the last time
I would be there to share your day
Well I‟m sure you‟ll have so many
more
So I can let just one slip away
For surely there‟s always tomorrow
To make up for an oversight
And we always get a second chance
To make everything just right
There will always be another day
To say “I love you”
And certainly there‟s another chance
To say our “Anything I can do”
But just In case I might be wrong
And today is all I get
I‟d like to say how much I love you
And hope we never forget
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone
Young or old alike
And today may be the last chance
You get to hold your loved one tight
So if you‟re waiting for tomorrow
Why not do it today
For if tomorrow never comes
You‟ll surely regret the day
For a smile, hug, or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant
someone
What turned out to be their one
last wish
So hold your loved one close today
And whisper in their ear
Tell them you‟ll always hold them
dear
Take time to say “I‟m sorry”
“Please forgive me,” “Thank you,” or
“It‟s okay”
And if tomorrow never comes
You‟ll have no regrets about today
Mallory Smith
JAVA Magazine
PAGE SEVENTEEN
Poetry
He could have gone and changed the world,
The nation he might glean,
But no one ever told him to,
So he was only green.
Her face a map, a billet-doux,
She could have been a queen,
But her entire life she lived in heed,
And she was only green.
I dreamed I could do anything,
Of the places I could have seen,
But in this constant state of being constant,
All I am is green.
Waking up with no energy
Childish games with silly lames
Like they want to get rid of me
How it all makes me tired
Doing things left and right
And not catching my breath
Annoyed while the fight
I should have just left
How it all makes me tired
It‟s about that time for me to go
From being a seed into a root
That turned into a black rose
How it all makes me tired
PAGE EIGHTEEN
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
I awaken in a cold sweat, cold chills down my spine.
I see a phantom in my room, Is this another dream of mine?
It‟s as if I sleep in paradise, and awaken in hell.
This ghost stares into my eyes. Seems he too has a story to tell.
It‟s a tragic comedy where our hero hates himself but cant explain why.
Thinks he‟d be better off dead than alive.
He feels love‟s a lost cause because his dreams aren‟t reality
His sad self with slumbering fatality.
The ghost says the hero shouldn‟t dwell on his problems as they‟ll go away
He should be positive and enjoy his days.
I tell the ghost I don't care, I have my own problems and
cant deal with tall-tales
The ghost says his story is a lesson because the hero, in trying, fails.
He says it‟s a warning for those who follow.
I ask why me, am I to fall behind those so hollow?
I start to put things in perspective.
The haunting story, why so effective?
Im overcome with fear, is this really my fate?
To live a life, filled with depression, jealousy, and hate.
If only I could know the who, when, and how.
I want to know the reason, and I want to know now.
Is it because I am too destined to fail?
The ghost tries to calm me down and explains a hero shall always prevail.
I argue that I‟m not the hero in the story. Im just me, king of person purgatory
The ghost smiles and fades in the wall.
He says, keep that attitude and you‟ll be the hero after all.
I stand confused, not knowing what I‟d seen.
Was it a dream? And by god what did it mean?
Suddenly, it hits me, and I realize what‟s wrong.
That old ghost was telling the truth all along.
Don‟t get yourself down, no matter the situation.
Can‟t allow yourself to be taken by fear and in trepidation.
We‟re all stronger than this, and don't you think otherwise.
Live life to the fullest cause everybody is a surprise.
Rise above it and be strong and you‟ll never fail.
This is life, just live it, and be the hero of your own fairytale.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE NINETEEN
Poetry
Our love is a bond between us,
It links our hearts together
It isn‟t withered by times touch,
It will last forever
Our love is always growing,
It increases by leaps and bounds
And never hidden is our love,
In our hearts it can always be sound
Our love is angelic wings,
That carries us high and never lets us fall
Our love is strength and perseverance,
That brings us through it all
Our love is a beautiful song
A perfect melody
Our love is, and it will forever be.
PAGE TWENTY
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
The girl on the right...keep your eyes on the girl to the right.
Eyes swell up with rain...trying to find some kind of answer…
Keep an eye on the girl to the right
Without hesitation she might jump...so far just to be unreached
And abandoned
Looking for a right never meant any harm...because truth lacked
The knowledge needed to see the meaning behind her eyes.
Rain...the rain hits the lips of a sinful thought.
Never pause because you might just feel the pain...it lingers
Keep a close eye in the girl to the right
Frightened, she waits. Just standing there along the steep edge.
No second looks no second thoughts...she's fine.
The surface starts to fade to the dulled core.
Scratch the surface, but you will never know the pain of the girl on
The right...just keep an eye on the girl on the right.
Read the word...imagine the hurt that comes along with being quiet.
Suffer in the sweetest silence that you will ever hear.
Feel the chill run down the hollow steepness of your soul and find
That you don‟t really care...nor did you ever.
Anyone can speak words…
Anyone can say things that might just mean something.
Meaning it is what was so hard.
But thankfully no one is actually keeping a close enough eye
on the Girl to the right…
Alone she waits...silently stands…
The tempted girl to the right.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE TWENTY-ONE
Poetry
Soft and soothing
Always calming
Loving, caring, strong
All to them we awe our pleasure
All to them our song
We respect them
And adore them
For they are soft and soothing
Always calming
Loving, caring, strong
Our truthful friends
So close
Yet so very far away
Hotter than an open blue flame
Colder than the Arctic
Faster than a rocket
Slower than a snail
Life is crazy
But amazing
Always stronger than me
PAGE TWENTY-TWO
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
It comes and it goes
Like a tide pulling and pushing
It comes when I think I‟m at my best
When I keep busy
It pulls me under
It comes and it goes
Compromising
And breaking
When I‟m home alone
Just trying to catch my breath
Under the sea
I‟m disappearing
Someone take my hand
Pull me up
Help me to gasp
For something
It comes
I break down
It‟s crippling
Say I‟m sorry
Tell her I‟m sorry
Because
There‟s more
She has to say
Please
I need to breathe
I‟m drifting away
Like pedals on the surface
Being lead
But we‟ve disappeared.
There‟s so much left
Only a few words were spoken.
Tell her I loved her.
Like I never could.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE TWENTY-THREE
Poetry
When the sky turns bright, I know it‟s time
To get out of bed and look for a sign
That the day will be fine
So I turn to my dresser and find a dime
Maybe that is the sign
Then I hear a wind chime
Maybe that is the sign
My mom walks in and asks “Is everything fine?”
I make myself say
That I am going to have a great day
Then she says “you must not delay”
I go outside to play
On the bay
I see some horses eating some hay
What a pretty sight I say
Oh happy day
Riding in the car
Running down the hot sidewalk barefoot
Feeling the warm sunshine
All to see my grandma
All smell the wonderful aroma of her house
To sid outside and enjoy her flowers
And eat all of her honeysuckles
They run around with my cousins
After we‟re done we go back inside
And sleep in her lap
Breathing in her perfume
And now it‟s time to say goodbye
Competing against each other to see who loves the other more
When it‟s truly time to leave, that‟s the worst part of the day
But there is always next weekend
PAGE TWENTY-FOUR JAVA Magazine
Poetry
Injuries are
tenacious
Injuries are
time-consuming
Injuries are
a sharp pain in your leg
or
a pain in your back…
or
anywhere.
Injuries are
Season-enders
Season-enders are
tear-jerkers
Season-enders could
happen.
If so
I will jerk a tear or two.
Injuries describe
my Track Career.
Will season-enders occur to me?
Who Knows.
JAVA Magazine
PAGE TWENTY-FIVE
Poetry
I have to get there
I am not sure why
I have to get there today
There is a strong urge pulling me
My heart is beating
My feet keep moving
Somehow it seems unfair
And I hear them lie
Although I am tired I cannot stop to Lay
They all hear me decree
And none seem to be leaving
I wish they knew it won‟t last
I won‟t stop moving till they hear it
And it might be my end
I do not fear it
But do embrace it
For now I am here where I belong
The place so strong
Chelsea Johnson
PAGE TWENTY-SIX
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
The Halls
They echo with the sound of history
The words of scholars
Some forgotten, some remembered
The lectures are over
The old bell has rung for its last time
All the players have left the court
The stand‟s vacant
The historic gym is empty
The stadium is dark
The classrooms are silent
The wrecking ball meets the old buildings
The walls forfeit their structure to the mass of lead
One after another the buildings fall
All that remains is the dust in the air
All that is left is a memory
Are they the green in the trees?
Are they the soft summer breeze?
Are they the tingling rain,
or are they the birds chirping my name?
I know they are out there somewhere,
watching over me with tender care.
They give me strength like the trees,
they let me live with ease.
They make me soft like the rain,
and they keep me from being in pain.
Who are they, the one‟s I‟m longing for?
They are the two brothers I once never had before.
JAVA Magazine PAGE TWENTY-SEVEN
Poetry
Spring with the Rain
As the rain falls,
I can finally go to sleep.
Shorts are everywhere;
Bikes are on the streets.
The phenomenon is spring.
People begin to fight,
because the air is getting warm.
Deer come out and roam the streets,
and death is a constant occurrence.
The phenomenon is spring.
Leaves are growing,
and flowers are blooming.
The sun is out some,
but so is the rain.
The phenomenon is spring.
PAGE TWENTY-EIGHT JAVA Magazine
Poetry
How about that time,
that time when nothing clicks,
when nothing‟s going on,
and nothing wants to happen.
Is this a good time?
Or is it wasted minutes.
To regret later,
when busy you will be...
What could amuse you now?
Could a friend accompany you?
Or are you your own friend?
Is business required,
or is solitude a gift?
How about that time,
that time when nothing clicks,
at first boredom is seen,
loneliness at its heels.
Perhaps this boredom is a blessing,
perhaps it is a curse,
but what time is this time worth,
if you can only question its existence.
Can one not amuse themselves,
or is company required?
These moments of solitude are numbered,
quickly they vanish.
They are meant to be enjoyed,
let your senses release.
Find yourself some peace,
and don‟t regret it.
how about that time,
that time when nothing clicks?
JAVA Magazine PAGE TWENTY-NINE
Poetry
Am I truly alive?
Just because I am awake and can move,
Does that make me alive?
Because I am still breathing,
Does that mean I am still breathing?
Do the emotions one feels make them alive?
What if I feel nothing?
What if I want to feel nothing?
No sadness, no despair.
Longing for the ability not to care.
If one feels this way,
Are they truly alive?
Or are they only going through the motions?
I can wake and slumber,
and feel and breathe.
But the feelings I feel,
Aren‟t really for me.
Am I truly alive?
PAGE THIRTY
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
We sleep during the morning
we sleep during the night
we sleep during the day
this is why we dream what we dream
The flowing colors that we see
whether it is a child when it sleeps
the blending involved that your mind lets you see
It is but a tiny dream
A mirage in which we seek when we sleep
The closing of our eyes
the trick our minds play
Waiting for the day that a dream comes true
to change into a shooting star or the moon
this is why we dream what we dream
To change our lives
let your imagination flow
at this it will always be bad
That is why we dream what we dream
JAVA Magazine
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Poetry
I speak, but I feel as though nobody is listening
feeling lost and all deserted
wanting someone to notice me
I sit all alone and close my eyes
to find my resting peace
Then you come along
like you have heard me this whole time
reaching out for my hands for yours to grab mine
I look up to you as you look down at me
and then, I know all things are to be true
I hear your voice and it quiets my mind
You keep peace at my heart when I know you are mine
you are the shelter through my storms
the light in my eyes
So tell me again, why am I surprised?
You saved me from this hurt so deep inside
I never thought it to be true, I found you
in the midst of my darkness, you showed me the light
So why should I not put up a fight?
I am stuck like glue, made brand new
Because of you, I found the one to be true.
PAGE THIRTY-TWO
JAVA Magazine
Poetry
Here we go, all of us
climbing this mountain,
which we call life.
Each of our mountains,
they are different.
Each of us climb differently.
As we head to the top,
some fall short;
others they keep moving.
Some take up camp,
take a break for awhile.
Still others decide,
the mountain‟s too hard to climb.
They quit; give up.
but me, I‟m a climber.
I don‟t pause or quit.
I‟m a climber, and I won‟t stop until I reach the top.
JAVA Magazine
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Poetry
I can feel them
Brushing against my soul with gentle fondness
I can see them draw flashes of light in my mind
But their true sound eludes me
They sit just out of reach, beckoning me
They sit just out of reach, beckoning me
If only to find them and free the trappings of my soul
to express the feelings that brew within
But they run from me
Only to taunt me with their elegance
So many things run through your head
Is this wrong? Is this right?
Choices, so many, too many to count.
Life, one big puzzle. Each decision is a piece.
The people you meet, the words you speak,
make it all worth the ride.
But choose what makes you happy,
choose what will make you look back
and thing you lived with no regrets.
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Poetry
Magic Hobo dancing
in the middle of the street
slowing down traffic
because pedestrians have the right of way
cars are honking at him
but he doesn‟t seem to care
then another man joins him
together they sing about
freedom, peace, happiness
people in their cars listen
everyone in the bars, nursing homes, schools
police stations, real estate offices, and homes
sing about Freedom, Peace, and Happiness
the whole world is changed...
just a Magic Hobo dancing
Mallory Smith
JAVA Magazine
PAGE THIRTY-FIVE
Poetry
I‟m an old man with a coffee can.
Through and through I search the land.
But I trip on a rock.
My knee hurts.
As I fall to the ground.
I eat dirt.
I go to the hospital to get some help.
I don‟t have insurance so they kick me out.
So now I‟m on the streets begging for change.
Will somebody help me I‟m on my own.
Is it my destiny to become the greatest hobo ever known?
People say I‟m worthless because I don‟t have a job.
I‟m happy and free.
A hobo I was meant to be.
I don‟t have a house it got repo‟d
So I went and stole a box from Office Depot.
The cops are trying to catch me.
They say I‟m charged with thievery.
But they can‟t catch me.
I took a bus to California.
I‟ve got a new home for me now.
Don‟t you want to see my new place of residency?
So now I roam the streets of California.
Some things have changed.
Though I‟m still feeling strange.
The one thing that remains.
I still eat dirt.
My knee still hurts.
PAGE THIRTY-SIX
JAVA Magazine
JAVA Magazine
PROSE
JAVA Magazine
Prose
I have a memory I would like to convey. This is a memory that is ambiguously shared among all people. A memory of a snowy night and a crackling fires somewhere far off in a distant land, the angelic silence of the night
before Christmas. This memory is the one that everyone seems to retain even
though not all have experienced it the same way.
Where is my Christmas? That is a good question; I seem to have misplaced it. You see, my perception of Christmas changed over the past few
years, now it is just a cold day near the end of the year and oh, I get free stuff.
I believe that Christmas is best left to the children, I mean they are the ones
that enjoy it the most, and after all they are the ones that have this irrational
belief in magic.
I look around my house trying to find it. I look in my room in my closet,
in my drawers, under my bed, nope, not there. I look in the kitchen behind
the stove; I cannot even describe what I find there, certainly not Christmas. I
look in my entryway closet under some old coats, not their either. I look in my
living room where the tree is kept; I just cannot seem to find it. In a last ditch
effort I look in my creepy attic. It is right above my bedroom; there is a string
hanging down from the entrance in the ceiling that I walk into every time I enter my room. This string just happens to be right in front of me when I open
my door but for some reason I always forget its there. Anyway, I pull the string
and the attic begins to open up, revealing a foldable ladder. I unfold it and put
my foot on the first step; it creaks, and I‟m scared. What if I make it halfway
up and suddenly I come tumbling down like a crash test dummy? Nobody
would find me in time, I would be dead with broken wood scattered across the
floor, and I probably would not fall in a graceful position. I would fall flat on
my face with my butt in the air, what a wonderful way to go. I proceed even
though I do not trust this ladder for a second. I make it up to the attic and for
some reason in my head during Christmas dwarves somehow turned into
elves, I half expected to see them running around corners, snickering, but I
hear nothing but the sounds of the floor beneath my feet. The attic is bland,
bare wood floors and there aren‟t any walls, at least any finished ones. The attic is sparsely filled with boxes. Most filled with pictures or old paperwork. My
mom kept a box for each house we lived in. I have moved numerous times in
my life, my mom goes where there is work. She was not by any means struggling; it is just that her job required her to move a lot. She was a manager of
sales at Coca-Cola. She moved all around the country and then settled down
in Southern Illinois. We moved around there a lot too until we landed here, in
quaint Mount Vernon. When we settled in our house, she made a lot of
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Prose
changes adding rooms, subtracting rooms, all for the sake of her sanity. She
was not used to staying in one place for a very long time so she renovated and
re-renovated. She still does. I go to the box for I think the third house I lived
in, back in 1999. I was five years old. I peek into the box and find pictures of
my older brother and me smiling. I do not think we have taken a picture together since. I have not forgotten my goal, even though I have become sidetracked by melancholy memories of my family. I search deeper and deeper into
the box until I finally find what I am looking for. A holiday card I made my
mom for Christmas. I called it “Christmas on the beach” because we lived in
San Diego then. There was a picture of the three of us; we were on the beach
enjoying the sun. We all smiled at the camera; I was covered in sand and tried
to flex nonexistent muscles while my brothers made bunny ears behind my
head. My mom was awkwardly bent beside me with her hand on my brother‟s
shoulder. She was smiling too, and she seemed so happy. She squinted from
the sun. On the bottom of the card it said “Merry Christmas, Mom, and happy
early birthday because im going to forget its your birthday in too days.” I
spelled everything just like that.
My Christmas is not in the snowflake shaped cookies or in the presents
I give and receive it is not even in the religiously-sensitive holiday parties I attend.
Veronica Justice
JAVA Magazine
PAGE THIRTY-NINE
Prose
“Ahh…” I sighed as I breathed in the calm, sweet smells in the air
around me. The grass in the meadow tickled the back of my neck. I spent a lot
of time here now, relaxing. Now that she‟s...not around. I have to honor her by
coming here. I have to.
My life was so great; extremely normal, in fact. My parents were middleclass real estate agents; however, I liked to call them “house ninjas”. From
this co-employment they were completely capable of supporting our small,
however genuine family. Well, I‟d like to say my life still is normal...but that all
changed the day I met Naomi.
It all started on my sixteenth birthday.
“Come on honey, open up your presents,” my mother urged.
Now let me just say this: No sixteen year old boy likes opening up his
presents. It just isn‟t...normal, and my life was all about being normal. I was
even a normal boy with normal light brown hair and green eyes. My body was
normal, as well; not fat, but not muscular. I blended in with the rest of my
normal town.
I groaned and reluctantly opened the presents my parents had given to
me. I was their only child so I decided I ought to give them something to feel
good about. The doorbell rang as I pulled a red hooded sweater and some blue
jeans from the box. My father answered the door, greeting my grandma. She
walked into the den–as quickly as old ladies are able to-and squeezed me.
“G-ma, calm down! It‟s just my birthday!” I shouted. She let go, kissing
me on the cheek, her dark red lipstick smearing on my face.
“I know Roscoe, I know. But yuh never know when I might jus‟ keel ova
dead! I have to love yuh while I‟m still here. Ooh! Have a cookie, sweetie!”
She reached into her purse-I was sure it had become a black hole-and
pulled out a foil covered plate. She handed the plate to me, gingerly. She was
a hysterical old lady, always making people smile.
“Thanks, G-ma.”
I walked into the bright-yellow kitchen. My mom loved the color yellow;
it reminded her of sunshine, and wanted her life to always be filled with happiness. I laid the plate down on the mahogany table, peeling back the foil, and
picking up one of the peanut butter cookies. I bit into the cookie, the sweet
and salty taste of peanut butter flowing into my mouth. I never get to savor
things like this now.
I went to bed that night with an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia and a
headache. The craziest thing happened at my party. Well...after my party. The
doorbell had rung and I opened the door, thinking that it might be my best
friend Jake. All that was there was a brown package with the words “To you,
ROSCOE!” written in scarlet paint. I had taken the package to my room and
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Prose
opened it, trying to avoid darting questions from my mother. Inside the box
was a small photograph of me and a little girl playing a board game together.
Underneath the picture was a velvet bag with an orange and red swirly lily
pad. I had stared at it, the swirling colors mesmerizing me. I had placed the
gifts on my dresser, unsure of whether I was creeped out or not. I had eaten
dinner, taken a shower, and crawled into bed, exhausted from the long day.
I awoke the next morning almost excited that it was Monday. The spring
break had taken forever to get over with and I hadn‟t spent time with anyone. I
drove to school in my new red Jeep (my parents had surprised me with this
one in the morning and parked in the back of the lot. Technically, I didn‟t
have a parking spot yet. But, hey, they didn‟t have to know that. Not many
students were at school yet, so I decided to grab a bite to eat. I picked up a
bagel and some orange juice and headed out the door when I heard a voice
from behind.
“Wait!” it called out.
I turned to see a girl standing where the voice had come from. She was
a short girl with long flowing hair the color of gold. Her eyes were a bright
blue, shining even from where I stood. Confused, I turned back around and
started walking through the door again. She grabbed my arm in earnest and I
turned towards her.
“Roscoe! Where are you going without even saying „hello‟?” Her eyes
were wide open and a smile played on her rosy lips. She was chewing spearmint gum and had a hand on her hip.
“How do you know my name?” I asked. I was anxious to see my friends
and I didn‟t want to be stopped by this stranger.
“Don‟t play around, Roscoe. We‟re besties!”
“‟Besties‟? I don‟t even know who you are! Just leave me alone, okay?” I
sound harsher that I meant, but she was ruining my good mood. I pushed
past her and continued out of the door.
I went through the day, my inner paranoid getting the better of me. I
was looking for her everywhere I went. How does she know me? What if she’s
a hitman? I walked in silence to the Jeep pondering what had happened in the
past two days. On the way home, I stopped and visited the old meadow by my
grandparents‟ house. There was a single apple tree in the center and all
around it tiger lilies popped up out of the ground. I walked over to the tree,
treading through the thick grass, wanting to climb it like I used to. My memory was so fuzzy but something was special about this tree. I looked up into
the tree and stared straight into a pair of big, blue eyes. The girl from earlier
hopped down from the tree.
“You really don‟t remember me? It‟s been...what? Two weeks?”
I stepped back in surprise. She was the last person I expected to find
here. This was my place and she disrupted it.
“I don‟t even know your name. Why are you here? This is my spot.”
JAVA Magazine
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“Oh did I scare you? Ha-ha! Sorry! My name‟s Naomi. Roscoe, I‟m here
because...this is our spot. We used to come here all the time as children. We
were best friends. And that‟s what we need to talk about.” She giggled as I
stepped back even more. Was I scared because of her? Or scared because she
might be right?
“Are you crazy? Who are you? I don‟t know you. If you were my best
friend I would remember that. But nooo! You just pop out of nowhere and
steal my hangout!”
I leaned back against the tree. My head started hurting again. She
stepped closer to me and stared into my eyes. I looked down, avoiding eye contact. She kept staring. When my headaches simmered back down, I raised my
head. She has sat down next to me and was rubbing my arm to comfort me.
She told me stories about when we were kids and stories about adventures
that we had in this meadow. Why can’t I remember her? She grabbed my hand.
“Roscoe...let‟s leave this place for good. It‟s not the same here anymore.
They do things to us, „non-normal‟ people, when we turn sixteen. That‟s why
you can‟t remember me. They erased your memory of me because...well that‟s
not important. But we have to fix it.”
I stared at her blankly, unable to fully process what she told me.
“‟They‟? Who‟s „they‟?”
“The government. Your parents. Your friends. All of them are in it , Roscoe. Everyone you know...except me. They pretend they don‟t know things, because they have the same problem you have. And that‟s why they did. I‟m
dangerous to you. We went adventuring and discovered what they had been
doing to people. They didn‟t want you to spill the beans and I...I‟m not normal
anyway. I ran away, leaving you there. They left me alone thinking I had run
off for good. After all, how would a young girl, life myself, every make it out
there? But I did. With your help of course...I‟m so sorry Roscoe...I left you
there alone. I didn‟t know they were going to plant that chip in your brain just
for talking to me!” She explained it all to me, but I still didn‟t understand. Or
maybe I just didn‟t want to.
“There‟s a computer in my brain? That‟s what you‟re telling me? This is
crazy.”
“Yes it is crazy. They do it to program your body and mind. That way all
you‟ll think about are normal things, and all you‟ll do are normal things. But
we have to fix it somehow. We have to make everything right. Maybe if I…” she
trailed off. I realize now that what she was going to say had to do with her disappearance.
After that, we laid there in the grass for awhile. I listened to the crickets
as the sun went down.
She turned on her side “Do you know why I like this place so much,
Roscoe?”
I shook my head and felt movement close to my ear.
She whispered to me “I like the lilies. They remind me of you. Of how bri
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Prose
ght you are and colorful you are. It‟s when I‟m with the lilies I feel like you‟re
near.. I can be strong with them. I feel alive with them.”
I took her hand in mine and rubbed my thumb against her skin.
“Thank you,” I said.
We stayed like that until the sun had long been set. I jumped up, remembering that I had a life elsewhere.
“Um, I have to go!”
I stood up and grabbed my bag from near the base of the tree. Naomi
placed a hand on my shoulder and turned me around. She leaned up and
kissed me on the corner of my mouth. I closed my eyes and tried to ease my
breathing. I had never been with a girl like this before. My mother was going
to interrogate me when I got home.
“Goodbye,” she said, and I was alone.
I ran to my Jeep and drove back home. On the way it had started raining harder than it had the whole year. I went straight to bed when I got home
and dreamt about Naomi . It was weird to think that I had known her my
whole life. I tried so hard to remember but nothing came to mind. I drifted to
sleep and woke up the next morning with another headache. Naomi told me
these headaches were just a part of the erasing memories process. I had
placed so much trust in her already. I stayed home from school that day, too
tired to even try to move. Naomi came over and brought me a bowl of steaming
tomato soup. She said that it‟s healthier for you than chicken soup regardless
of the soup stereotype. I gratefully drank it, thanking her for her kindness.
She spent every day at my house; we joked, we laughed, and we grew a close
relationship. Her face, her complexion all got more pale and dull as I gained
back my memories. She helped piece them together, but each one gained,
counted as a loss to her. Her hair even lost its bright golden color. I didn‟t
think anything about it, until later. Even though she felt horribly, she stayed
with me, always being a friend. Until...the end began.
That day, a Sunday, was when it fell apart.
These hooded figures with silky, white capes broke into my house,
knocked my parents out, and kidnapped Naomi, who was sitting on my bed
cross legged, telling me a story of a squirrel she adopted once. I was still
sick...and couldn‟t put up much of a fight. They told me they were going to kill
her for coming back and even daring to associate with me. They said that she
had broken the rules, and that‟s why she was banished the first time. Confused and filled with guilt, I chased after her, not sending one thought towards the care of my parents; all that mattered then was Naomi. I saw the two
men in the capes hop into a fancy hybrid car while another shoved Naomi into
the back seat. I got into my Jeep, following the hybrid. The wind started blowing fiercely and I could see debris on the side of the streets. The car stopped at
a place that was very familiar to me. It was our meadow. They dragged Naomi
out of the car and I ran after them.
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“Hey! Stop! Put her down! Why are you doing this? I‟m the one who
broke the rules!” I yelled after them, but nothing stopped their advance. The
lilies in the field had been ruined from the storm and floated around in the air.
I ran up to the tree seeing Naomi resting against the log that rested at the
base of the tree. She was alone; there were no government officials with
hooded capes, and there were no threats. Where did they run off to? I kneeled
next to her, picking up her left wrist and pressed my fingers to it.
There was no pulse.
A horrible feeling erupted in my gut as I realized she was gone. I stared
at her innocent face, feeling that desperation when you lose a great friend.
Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes as clear as water.
There was no color to the iris, just clear. I gasped, surprised that she was
moving.
“Roscoe?” she said, in a broken voice.
“I‟m here.” I grasped her hand tighter.
“Please...don‟t hate me. I tried...to tell you. But you didn‟t listen. You
were so happy to have a real friend again...that you didn‟t listen to me.” her
voice strained to speak.
“What are you talking about? What‟d you try to tell me?” My eyes
searched hers frantically for an answer.
She placed the other hand on my cheek. “The lilies have died, Roscoe.
All of them I can‟t...live without the lilies. Roscoe, I‟m not here anymore.”
You are here Naomi! You are!” I exclaimed, tears flooding down my
cheeks. She wasn‟t going to die on me. Not then.
“I can‟t die, Roscoe...I wasn‟t living in the first place, I‟m dead...I was
murdered for being different when they took me away ten years ago. What you
see here , isn‟t Naomi. It‟s a figment of your imagination. I‟ve been here too
long. I can‟t be real forever. You wanted me to be your friend...you didn‟t want
me to die so I stayed. Your prayers made me stay…I stayed and you forgot
me.” A tear the color of her golden hair rolled down her pallid cheek.
“No, no! I didn‟t forget you, Naomi! I didn‟t, I didn‟t! I didn‟t want you to
die and leave me here alone!” Memories of our past flew into my mind, mixing
my sentences up.
Naomi smiled and her hand dropped. “The lilies...are dead. They were
keeping me alive...just...like...you...were…”
She burst into a flutter of a million petals flying into the air. Naomi disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. Grief-stricken, I grasped at the air,
looking for someone to hold on to.
“It‟s not fair! We were friends and you left me again! How could you?”
A voice sounded from within my heart. “I‟m here Roscoe, where I‟ve always been. I won‟t leave, if you don‟t!” Her giggled sounded through my body
for a second before everything was silent again.
My hands fell to my lap and I wept at the tree, unable to move. The rain
started in again and soaked me. The lilies of the meadow were all gone and
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the petals that Naomi had become had been erased with them. They destroyed
me. They destroyed Naomi. And they destroyed her lilies! Hatred and despair
flowed through me as I wept for my friend. After the rain stopped, I climbed
into my Jeep for the last time that night and drove home, my vision a blur. My
parents were on the couch, oblivious to what had just happened. I climbed up
the stairs, everything in a daze. The picture on the dresser was gone and the
petal sat on my bed shriveled and black. I picked the petal up as gingerly as I
could and placed it near my heart before setting it on my bedside table. It‟ll be
safer here. A crumpled piece of paper rested on the spot on my bed where
Naomi had been sitting just hours before. I picked up and read the familiar,
swirly, scarlet paint. The message was branded into my brain now: “THE LILIES ARE DEAD AND SO AM I. IT WAS UNINTENDED; AN UNEXPECTED TIE
AGAINST ME AND DEATH. YOU NOURISHED MY LIFE, LIKE BREAD, SO
HERE I MUST TAKE MY LAST BREATH. AND DON‟T FORGET: ONLY LILIES
CAN TRULY BE DEAD.”
JAVA Magazine
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Prose
The dream played over and over in my sleeping brain, and old food
store, the sounds of gun fire and sirens, my brother– Kile Nightly– screaming
for me to get back in the store and lay low while he went to check it out. I‟d
scream and yell for him in my dreams, not because I was afraid of the gun
shots, but because I know that he‟d never come back into the store again. I‟d
keep screaming until either the dream ran its course, a loud gunshot followed
by my brother laying dead on the dirty parking lot outside the store, or my
foster dad shaking me awake.
The way I awoke didn't matter and the outcome was always the same,
me crying, dripping with sweat and feeling the ever-present rage burning inside me. Its been a year now since my big brother was killed in the crossfire of
a shootout between two local gangs, the memory haunts me still to this day.
Today my “Dad” Alan Stanley– A.K.A. “The Furniture King”- was passed out,
results of his excessive drinking the night before, and I had to ride the memory/nightmare out to the end.
I have had the dream so many times I could tell what was going to happen before it even did, which never really helped. My brother would walk out
of the store, still wearing his cashier‟s uniform with the “Hi my name is…”
name tag pinned to his left breast pocket, while I cowered behind the chips
aisle. Kile would duck low behind a car, peeking out to see the commotion, by
this time I would have tears in my sleeping eyes. He would slowly peek up,
high enough so that he‟s nose level with the car‟s top and then BAM BAM
BAM, a string of shots would shatter the air and sparks would fly from the
car. Kile‟s head would snap back and he would fall to the ground, dripping
blood from two bullet holes in his face, one above the eye and one just above
the hairline.
Usually, that‟s all that would happen. I‟d wake up with a scream in my
throat and tears in my eyes but today was different, the dream store, with its
white walls and tile floor blacked out and I seemed to float in the nothingness
of that blackness. I wanted to wake up but deep down inside I couldn't help
but feel at home in the vast blackness.
It was dead silent, saved for my slow breathing and the sounds of my
heart in my chest pounding away like an angry jackhammer. Soon the silence
was broken by a raspy voice, “I can help you.” The dry sandpaper voice said
before more silence. I tried to say something but my throat seemed to close up
and the blackness of the dream melted way to the real world as I woke up
coughing and dry heaving onto the dirty floor of the living room, I didn't have
my own room and tended to sleep on the couch or wherever I could get some
sleep. I checked the clock– 11:31 A.M.– I sighed to myself, since today was
Sunday, I didn't have to worry about school. But it meant my foster dad would
probably ask me to go to church tonight. I know all I had to say was “No.”
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but the fact that he would even ask was annoying enough. I had slept in the
clothes I wore yesterday and decided to keep the pants, change everything
else. Quickly, I changed into a black shirt, one of many, and put on some
fresh socks, jeans and my favorite shoes. Even though it was a very warm day,
I think the weather man said the high was going to be like ninety-five degrees
or something like that, I rarely will wear shorts, never felt comfortable in them
and never really liked them in general. Turning on my heels I head to the door
that‟ll take me outside but was quickly stopped by a semi-drunken slur.“And
just where do you think you‟re going?” I froze, recognizing the voice as my
dad‟s I turned slowly to see the slumped figure of my foster dad, leaning
against the door frame leading into his bedroom. “I‟m going to the park,” I lied.
Truthfully, I didn't know where to go but saying “I dunno” just makes him angry. He stood there, slumped against the door frame, like some sort of statue
you‟d see in the horror movie, the kind that come alive when you‟re not looking and steal your soul. There was an eerie silence as he seemed to ponder the
idea of if I was lying or not. “Pick up some milk from the store, would ya?”
without waiting for a response, he sluggishly walked back into his room, most
likely to pass out for another hour or two.
I frowned to myself our happy little town of Bright Falls has only one major
store, the very same store where the shootout occurred. I hated going there,
seeing old memories that have rotted and festered in my mind, forming images
that even Edgar Allan Poe would shiver at. “well, I guess im going to the park
today.” I said to myself, sighing deeply.
The bus at the bus stop just outside my house was supposed to be there
by twelve but finally got there at twelve thirty-five. Most of the time, the only
people that ride the bus are down on their luck or heading to a mental hospital somewhere. I wasn't a fan of riding the bus, but, since I didn‟t have a car, I
really had no choice. The bus driver was a friend of my foster dad. I had only
once really seen him during a party and from what I‟d seen, the man must
sweat scotch and reeked of cigar smoke.
The horrid smell of cigar wafted into my nose the instant the automatic
doors opened up. “Hey James! How‟s it going!?” The busy driver wore a greasy
white T under his even greasier uniform and his tag claimed that his name
was Tom. “Nothing much, Tom. Just heading to the store.” Tom had lost his
job at Spencers for drinking on the job and word was my foster dad saved him
by recommending him to the bus company or the “bus people” as they‟re usually known around here as. Tom smiled, “Alright get on. Oh! And don't forget
to pay.” Tom may have been a jerk to some but today he seemed to have been
in a good mood which lifted my morale as well.
I put in the money and sat a ways back, near a girl with headphones
shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. When I sat down she glanced over. I never
was good with the ladies so I nervously waved at her which brought a smile to
her face. She also had purple lipstick which matched her purple hair, cut
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short yet seemed in a way “poofy”. I smiled back, turning to face out the window. I watched the buildings pass by, got tired, then looked down at the yellow lines on the road. They seemed to blur together and I had to look away to
avoid a headache. As the bus down the road heading to the bus stop next to
the store, I glanced over to the woman with the purple hair and unique headphones. She sat across the aisle from me, staring blankly out the window, obviously lost in her music. She had a green shirt on with a shiny picture of a
bee with a flamethrower burning a flower. I recognized this as the up and
coming band “Napalm Pollination” that practice in their garage not far from
my house. I realized I was staring and looked away just as the bus was coming to a stop outside the food store.
Jack‟s Food Mart used to be very flashy back in the 1920‟s when it was
built, but now, ever since Jack hanged himself between canned goods and dog
food in 1965, the place has really fallen apart.
It amazingly still functions, though the doors sometimes stick and the
bathroom is no longer habitable even for cockroaches. I got up noticing out of
the corner of my eye that the girl waved to me as I walked off. I half waved,
half walked off the bus as I stepped onto the hot asphalt. The weather man
was right, it was burning outside and the smell of tar, seeped from the black
top, the dirty parking lot was repaired by the city but strangely the actual food
store left untouched. The neon sign that greeted people in the night. was now
broken; someone apparently didn‟t like it and threw a rock at it and the walls
were now stained with dirt and graffiti.
I closed my eyes, trying to swallow back this feeling of dread that clutched
my heart every time I walked near that place. The voice whispered into my ear
again, “I can help you,” I jumped, looking around and seeing an old lady looking at me. She grinned “I said, „May I help you‟?” I shook my head no, and the
old woman, probably one of those senile greeters that are getting popular with
the “major companies” waddled off and sighed, walking slowly to the door,
reaching out with a shaky hand, I pulled it open. Ding dong! The sound made
me jump but I cursed to myself getting scared of the door‟s bell. The store
hadn't changed much since my big brother was killed. The aisles were still the
same, cash registers, probably still have some of the same food from that day.
I went to the back of the store where the milk is kept and grabbed a gallon
jug but stopped mid-stride to the check-out counter. “My wallet!” I thought to
myself, checking my pants and finding them empty. I had some quarters in
my pocket to pay for the bus but I didn't bring freakin‟ wallet! I almost
smacked myself hard in the head for how stupid I was. Sighing, I put the milk
back and walked out the door, slightly being glad that I was out of there. The
bus wouldn't be back for an hour give or take how dependent Tom is, so I
waited for what seemed like an hour or two. Sitting on a bench, I must have
dozed off because almost instantly I was in the darkness again, floating in silence. I wasn't afraid and the darkness again seemed to comfort me instead of
frighten. I noticed something different this time, Bits of shadow seemed to
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comfort me instead of frighten. I noticed something different this time. Bits of
shadow seemed to crawl, forming into a dense ball that morphed and twisted
and took human shape. I tried to make out the shape and soon the darkness
spawned colors, red and green and pale and peach. I soon realized, to my horror, that it was taking the form of my dead brother.
I stared in disbelief as he looked right at me and smiled, “Hello James. I
know your probably wondering if this is a dream or not.” He sounded just like
my brother but there was also something else about his voice. My brothers
voice was always calm and cool, this one was mean and sinister. I just nodded
my head and he continued, “Well, to be honest, its almost a dream, you‟re
asleep but your actions will affect the real world.” I shook my head managing
to regain my voice “Who are you?” my brother smiled, “ I go by many names,
Lucifer is one of my more common name but you may call me the devil if you
wish.”
I shook my head, obviously this was a dream. I didn't believe in god, or
even Santa Clause my entire life. “You...you can‟t be the devil, you‟re not real.”
My brother, who apparently is the devil frowned at this. “Quite your tongue, I
have powers and could make your very bones turn to maggot if I wanted to.” I
close my mouth quickly, not wanting to anger him anymore than I have,
“Why are you talking to me?” I asked.
“Why I‟m talking about the death of your precious big brother of course” I
opened my eyes.
“What...do you want from me?”
“Only one thing… your soul… and for that I offer you revenge.”
“My… my soul?... What kind of revenge?” The devil laughed, a cackle that
chilled me to the very bones.
“The sweetest kind of course.. Bloody, gory, and painful.” I thought about it,
hell, its only a dream. I thought, what could go wrong?
“ Fine, my soul for the revenge of my brother...seems fair.” The devil‟s smile
brightened, and he snapped his finger, making a scroll appear out of thin air.
“Alright, please sign here.” He pointed at the dotted line and I, almost in a
daze, wrote down my name. As I signed the last bit, he laughed, snapping his
fingers again and making the scroll disappear.
“Alright, by tomorrow your revenge will be carried out.” He smiled widely,
showing fangs that could tear through metal. “ Have a nice day.”
He began laughing, that horrid cackle that will drive me to kill my foster dad,
three weeks from no and the horrid cackle that will force the judge to send me
to Happy Meadow Insanitarium where I‟ll hang out with Charles Manson and
the rest of the crazies. My dream vanished almost like I blinked, I shook my
head and got up from the bench, somehow I felt rejuvenated and instead of
waiting on the bus, which I probably missed, I walked home.
My foster dad yelled at me about the milk, even hit me once or twice but I didn't care. I felt relieved and happy for some reason. That morning I had the
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urge to turn on the news...I never watched it but this time I couldn't help but
switch it on. I didn't expect to see anything but when I flipped over to the
news a woman was talking about strange animal attacks happening in MY
town. She was saying that eight members of a local gang were found badly
mutilated beyond recognition and that what‟s left of one of them had to be
hosed off the walls. I didn't feel pity, I didn't feel anything at the time. My head
echoed lake an empty room, the devil‟s laugh, and soon I realized the terrifying laugh...was coming from me...I switched off the TV. It was a school day...
time to go to school..
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“Are you ready?” I nodded slowly. It was so cold that night. We‟d been
requested to investigate on a house that had paranormal sightings, and the
papers to hear all about. All the cameras and thermometers, and EPS system
were on, everything was set up, so all we had to do was walk in and be able to
read all the devices. A lot of the time we were merely left to our own senses,
but because we were doing an actual set up investigation, we had to have all
the extra equipment. Along with the equipment, we also had to have some
people that ran the equipment for part of the night. (They weren‟t paid to stay
all night, so they certainly had no intentions of doing so.) We all went to our
posts where we would be staying all night. They didn‟t was us sleeping so all I
had was my dad‟s old huge, fluffy cross country hoodie from high school, and
my jeans. I took slow cautious sips from my French vanilla cappuccino as I
looked over the room.
The townspeople claimed that at night, you could see maids running up
and down the stairs. And in the room that I was in, the lady of the house
stayed in for the rest of her life, clear up to when she died. She insisted that
she was sick and dying. All the doctors told her she was fine, that it was all in
her head, but still she insisted that she was gravely ill. Every night you can
see the tired servants rushing to their ladies side, attending to her every need.
In this room, you can hear all her wails, and cries.
I have always been interested in ghost hunting. Being a journalist and all, it
always fascinated me. I knew it wasn‟t all real, what with all the fake set ups
and what not, but there had to be something real out there, and it was all interesting just the same, thinking of the fact that you found the key that
unlocked the door to the supernatural.
Every house I went to all basically had the same captivating story that
reeled in young people all over the country to see if it was all myth or real.
Many a time, I found it all to be false. I started believing it was all fake. But
something inside me kept going. Trying to seek the whole truth, Something I
could say, “Yes, that is true . I can prove it.” And maybe not just what I could
see, hear or even feel. Something I could really truly believe in, and maybe
even get a good story out of. Something I could put my complete and utter
trust behind.
Although I was disappointed time and time again, it never stopped me.
I‟ve always been hull headed and just kept telling myself, “Maybe next time…”
But each time it was the same result. Never finding anything and coming
back empty-handed with a big fat, “I told you so” from some of my co-workers,
Reading a story would always inspire me, but there was never any proof. Was
there really nothing out there? Are we really all alone? I was never one to
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Believe...in aliens. I always thought that was a bit extreme, and just plain
weird, aliens weren‟t interesting to me. It felt like I had been to every
“haunted” house in America. Yet, there had to be some place out there that
hadn‟t been explored, never ventured into. There had to be someone(or something) out there, whose story hadn‟t been told, and as a journalist, I intended
to find it.
Then I heard a knock at the door, and it suddenly creaked open. I was about
to be mad. I thought it was one of the crew members barging on my work, like
I couldn‟t do it on my own or something. “Hey, you heard anything yet?” I blew
out a sigh of relief. It was just Matt.
Matt had been my friend forever. Seriously, for as long as I can remember, he‟d always been there. And also with that said, I‟d always had my own
little secret crush on him. Thankfully, I kept it hidden well enough to where he
never knew about it. “No, not yet. But I thankfully, I kept have a slight feeling
about this place, if the crew is doing what they‟re supposed to, and staying
still, then I might have heard some footsteps. “ “I thought I might have too,
but it might have been just our imaginations.” “Well, maybe not. It could have
been real. There‟s got to be something out there! Something and we have to
just look for it, and be patient. It might just come to us and we won‟t even
suspect it. There has to be something out there somewhere.” I said looking
around suspiciously. “And I am going to find it.” I said rather “matter-of factly
“. If it‟s the last thing I do, I swear I‟ll do it. I have to.” “Look, you don‟t have to
do anything. And besides, I think you might have something, even though we
haven‟t exactly found it yet. Why else would I have gone so far with all of
this?” A big grin spread across his face, and I couldn‟t keep myself from smiling as well. I needed Matt, more than I needed anyone else when it came to
things like this. He understood me. He kept me sane, and always believed in
me, even when no one else did. He didn‟t look at me like I was crazy all the
time. We knew each other so well, and were always together. Wherever I was,
he was there, and vice versa. We were hardly ever apart, and since we had
pretty much always gone to the same schools together, we were practically inseparable. Always have been. We even went to college together. The only time
we were apart, was when we went to bed. After college was when the real
ghost hunting began. We had done a little bit of ghost hunting, but nothing as
serious as what we‟ve been doing these past few months. We were “big kids”
now, so that meant out of state traveling. Matt was always with, even though
we‟d never really found anything. He was my friend, and I knew he wouldn‟t
leave me and that he‟d always stick with me. That was Matt.
“Just trust me. I know we‟ll find something. It might not be today, or tomorrow. Maybe not even a year from now. But I know we will find something
someday. I just know it.”
“I know…it‟s just disappointing sometimes. Everywhere we go it‟s all the
same thing.”
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if you don‟t want to.” Not letting him hear the total desperation in my voice.
“You know I‟ll come. I always do don‟t I? No matter how crazy it sounds.” I
gave him a playful jab to his ribs “They aren‟t crazy…”
“So where are we going? And when?” I hadn‟t made it that far just quite
yet. “Hmm,…I haven‟t thought of where yet but I thought we should get
thought we should get through with this place, since we‟re getting paid for it,
then this little story is done, let‟s maybe try to go sometime next week. I‟m getting bored here and the paper hasn‟t had any good exciting lately, so I thought
we‟d find a really good place and ask Ms. Gruilly if we could do a column in
the entertainment section. We need to really research this time though. Remember the last place we went? Ugh! It was terrible. Such a waste of time.” “I
agree. It was pretty worthless. But the story behind it was fairly interesting.
Too bad what really happened wasn‟t even close to the real story.”
What happened when we went, it was just a bunch of teenagers trying to get
attention in the paper by doing practical jokes and causing mayhem while the
town believed it to be the town ghost. It was a big story in the town that about
100 or so years ago, a man fell out of the loft of his barn and died. And sometimes you could see his wife looking for him, and at the stroke of midnight
ever month on that first Tuesday, you could hear him yelling as he plummets
to his death, then a couple minutes later, you could hear the screaming wife
as she found her husband‟s dead body, then a soft murmur of crying. This
was partially true, he just didn‟t haunt the place and you never really see his
wife searching through the house or the barn. But that never stopped the people from believing in it.
Matt and I walked right into four traps. Getting caught in nets and water buckets dumped on us. I had to admit, the jokes were pretty well thought
out, but I didn‟t like a bit of it. Especially when we thought the wife of the
house appeared. It turned out to be one of the boy‟s girlfriends dressed up to
scare her ex, and we just happened to be the innocent bystanders of her revenge.
We haven‟t been anywhere ever since. That‟s been about 5 months
ago...the longest we‟ve ever gone without going somewhere. Most of the time
we got offers to go to different places and cover the main attractions either
every other month, or every two months. We‟d spend about a week or two
there, and then work on our stories wither when we got back, or if the place
was bad enough, we would finish it right there on the spot, then head directly
back home. These trips were only for a short time, but it did help sometimes,
just getting away from out hideously boring place that the citizens call a town.
I don‟t know about matt, he was probably thrilled with just staying home, or
at least in one place, but I was dying. I had to get out and go do something. I
hated being cooped up in the house all the time. Work did help. Get my mind
away from it all. But I was always daydreaming and never paying attention.
That got me into a lot of trouble. „You are here to write stories, Miss Jude, not
daydream about your own foolish whims” as my grouchy old boss, Ms. Gruilly,
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had always put it. But how could I not, that was sort of part of being s journalist. I couldn‟t always just whip up a good story, I had to sit there and dwell
on it for at least a little while, in order to get a really good story.
“Why do you even have a real job Charlotte? You never really pay enough attention to it. You get sidetracked too easily. You barely get your columns in on
time as it is.” It was true though. I couldn‟t hold a good, stable job for more
than a couple of weeks, sometimes even days if the job was bad enough. A lot
of them ended with me getting mad, throwing a fit, quitting , then slamming
the door behind me, never to return, not even to shop there. I was always
gone, and half the time, I didn‟t even like the job. Sometimes my customers
got on my nerves, and my temper got me in trouble. Sometimes I just worked
at local sores, but my real job, was writing fort the local papers in the entertainment section and various columns (They usually liked my stories, when I
had them in on time). Matt usually did the same. Nothing in the work force
really appealed to me and I seemed to some that I was a bit too child like. Always “imagining” I was doing something else other that he real task, or daydreaming about something else. That‟s why I just stuck to ghost hunting and
journalism; I could get a good story out of something that fascinated my curiosity. I could also use my imagination there. And matt was always there to
keep me going, even through countless defeats. But, maybe this trip would be
different, and defy all of our other trips, and prove them wrong. Maybe, just
maybe...
PAGE FIFTY-FOUR
JAVA Magazine
JAVA 2011
Matt McClintock
Michael Jones
Reis Barnfield
Tyler Flota
JAVA is a magazine designed and edited
by MVTHS students for the enjoyment of
students and faculty. It was founded in
1976 as a creative outlet for student expression in the arts.
Reis Barnfield, Executive Editor
Matt McClintock, Art Editor
Michael Jones, Literary Editor
Mr. Jamey VanZandt, Literary and Arts Advisor
Mrs. Karen Hamilton, Print Shop Manager
James Clark, Print Shop Assistant
In spring of 2001, JAVA joined Vernois
Publications Group, publishers of Vernois
Yearbook and Vernois News.
All viewpoints expressed in JAVA 2011
are solely the authors‟ and poets‟, and are
not necessarily those of JAVA 2011 or
Vernois Publications Group.
The official fonts of JAVA 2011 are Century Gothic, Bookman Old Style, Kozuka
Gothic Pro, and Lithos Pro Regular.
For the first time ever, staged a new type of art
show by the JAVA Magazine Staff. The show
took place three days of Spring Fling Week
2011 in room 119 H. Artwork poured in from
both MVTHS students and faculty. The Showcase went over well with everyone who attended, and it is hoped that the inaugural New
JAVA Art Showcase will spark a new chapter of
JAVA.
JAVA Magazine