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LETTERSA literary publication of the students of Randolph-Macon Academy,2014 - 2015Published April 2015

Student Editor: Meghan MelbergFaculty Editor: Robert DaviesCover Design: Meghan Melberg

Thank you for your help and support: Jonathan Ezell, Cindy Rodney, Tracy Kaminer, Celeste Brooks, the English department, and the Parents’ Association of Randolph-Macon Academy.

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Possible Expands by Katia Berger

If we could hold fire, In our very hands,Would you tell me it’s impossible,Or that possible expands?

If I touched the sky,And some rubbed off on me,Would you think it preposterous,Or consider it possibility?

If I flew through the clouds,As graceful as a bird,Would you come with me,Or call it plain absurd?

Some things sound quite crazy,Or irrational or daft,Or insane or asinine,It’s the imagination’s craft.

Every man in this life,Or any other for that matter,Has some quiddities and quirks,Both the former and the latter.

So are you going to make unthinkable a choice,Or only just stand by?I would be naïve to think to change the world,But I’d be foolish not to try.

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Baseball: Objective/Subjectiveby Robert DeBerry

1. A game of ball between two nine-player teams played usually for

nine innings on a field that has as a focal point a diamond-shaped

infield with a home plate and three other bases, 90 feet apart,

forming a circuit that must be completed by a base runner in order

to score, the central offensive action entailing hitting of a pitched

ball with a wooden or metal bat and running of the bases, the

winner being the team scoring the most runs.

2. Pine tar. The pop of the glove as the ball hits it. No hitters. Perfect

games. So close but so far. The crack of the bat. The soaring arc

as the ball clears the fence. Diving plays. Miracle throws. Slides.

Errors. Safe or out? Dirt swirling. Freshly cut grass. Dirt and grass

stains. Walk offs. Grand slams. Cracker Jacks. Beer. Nachos.

Cotton Candy. A feeling of relief or a feeling of devastation. A

game where the impossible can and will happen. Baseball.

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Jingwen Gong

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Danuta Lesko

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Boyhoodby Anthony Vaccaro

There was a boy thrown into the game of life,And his every sight and action molded

an intricate persona,And he was born with a best friend, a twin, to play the game with … for many years and cycles of years.

The newly peaked sunset and glorious moonbecame a part of this child,

And the first snowflake on his tongue, and the morning hoot of the mysterious owl,

And the scent of the backyard rose bush, and the taste of figs on the blooming fig tree ...and the inevitable escape of frogs from his hands …and the bite of fire ants ... all became part of him.

And the mystery of caterpillars transforming to butterflies became part of him … tiny tadpoles eluding his net, and the wonder of a sunbathing blue-tongued skink,And pretty pools and blonde beaches and winding woods and muddled mud, climbing trees without fear of fall,And the first of many phone calls to his mom and dad began … he and his sidekick wreaked havoc on playgrounds and classrooms,

And the new best friends brought him newfound joy… and his twin kept him busy as they fought Bionicle toys and built forts of grandeur, and jumped off the top of swings and diving boards and played Call of Duty and gorged on hot Cheetos and Sour Patch Watermelon,And new experiences occurred every second of every day.

His dad … leaving to war as mom was left with three wild childs … and endlessly correcting the behavior of their children,They dedicated all time to teaching him how to read, add, subtract, tell time, and navigate … and these became part of

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him.

The boy beginning to question his purpose for play,The boy collecting momentous hopes to be an astronaut, policeman, or superhero…a strange turn of the body and soul deciphering right from wrong…a small boy scared of big bullies and

even larger expectations:The brother supporting and protecting throughout, and mentally molding a strong brotherhood,The sister, providing guidance and bringing lines of attractive women which create the boy’s strong affinity for love flesh, The rejection, the affection, the first crush, and first heartbreak… the search for belonging and the never-ending craft of the unique soul Now questioning the monotonous Sunday masses … wondering if God even exists … the ever-important liberated thought of self-reliance and independence,The newfound passions for soccer and wrestling and football and track…the love for success and praise fueling his drive for belongingSurrounded by foul intentions to corrupt … potions and pills gobbled by old friends and new enemies.

Schoolwork trumped by friends and pleasures … uncaring for the undesirable future…the always avoided irreversible, inevitable future of responsibility, sedulousness, and bills.His mother’s tireless attempts to better his future … father on his third year in Afghanistan … he began to fully comprehend responsibility and accountability, … he began to fully comprehend responsibility and accountability,Long, greasy hair … dynamic Mohawk … buzz-cut … gel and comb … new appearances of a boy searching for his identity,The first taste of true success … the first taste of true failure … the first taste of loved lips, the first taste of a Philly Cheese Steak …even after years every experience is a first,

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Change …never noticed but always occurring…integrity…always corrupted but never waning… Questions … always asked but never answered.

The twin nearby with an independent identity as if looking through an inverse mirror … growing apart in dreams but growing together in spirit,The dying of friendships and the dying of old habits and the dying of new dreams and the dying of loved neighbors and family;The breaking of bones … the breakdown of muscles … the break-ups with vixens … needed to build a better understanding … make better choices … lead a better life,The newly peaked sunset and glorious moon

became a part of this boy,And the first snowflake on his tongue, and the

morning hoot of the mysterious owl;These became part of that child who trod new paths every day, and who now trail blazes and will always trail blaze every day,And these become of him that stay with him now.

Timi Idowu

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The Crippled Sovereignby Johnny Wong

A venerable figure sits upon a painful throne of thistle,His sooty cowl obscures a visage too old to be a man.

He has felt joys and sorrows through a lengthy existence Yet till that ticking heart has breathed its last

His ebony cane shall continue to tap his life’s taleA tap for a blissful marriage,

his rising prominence, and the ruin of his bloodline.

Alas, even a bard runs dry of epics but the tapping only briefly pauses.With refreshed vigor, the aged king continues his lunacy as if possessed

Its purpose no longer one of thoughtful contemplation, but of bestial necessity.

On his hundredth tap and no more events to chronicle The forsaken king falters and crumbles

The dappled goat beard swaying in the wind like the flag of final conquestThe final tale now done.

The Metal Behemothby Johnny Wong

Clashing chunks of colossal steel,Great thundering blows of brass pistons,Bold engines roar and hunger for more,

Tearing and rending empty earth.

A behemoth born from a crescendo of hammer and flames,Worthy of gold surging through its copper veins,

Clinking gears twirl and thrash,Singing the praises of an incandescent god!

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Song of Solomonby Danuta Lesko

The villagers of Pietro-Ramo said he was a magician. In many ways, he was. Caressing his golden harp with his swift moving fingers, Solomon could spin songs able to persuade the stoniest heart to melt and the most joyous laugh to tears. On dreary, weary days, the villagers would eagerly hustle into his villa, begging him to take his harp and spin a song, for Solomon, the minstrel of Pietro-Ramo, could with his music conjure up a sun-lit valley, a treasure trove of glittering gold, or a raging hurricane holding enough wind to freeze a heart in fear and then blow that very fear away. Yet, once his caprice changed, he would strum his harp once more, causing his spinnings to drift apart like cobwebs. Solomon was a minstrel of magic. “Bring me fifty golden guineas, and perhaps I shall consider your request.” Solomon arrogantly shooed the villagers of Pietro-Ramo out of his stonewalled courtyard. “You shan’t have a snow song unless you pay for it.” Scurrying to sate Solomon’s ever-growing demands, Ananias the village treasurer brushed the sweat from his brow and impatiently kicked aside Noah, the village fool. “Get out of my way, idiot.” Ananias hissed under his rank breath. The day was sweltering—the hottest in fifty years—and Solomon desired a guinea for each one. With the treasury growing emptier and emptier, Ananias had no option but to collect from the village fund for Valentinia, their annual celebration of love. “I have returned,” he asthmatically wheezed, “with the money.” Clinking each coin into Solomon’s hand, Ananias glanced expectantly towards the sky, following the gaze of the sun-browned villagers. With a swish, Solomon brought his golden harp out from beneath his embroidered robe and began to play, coaxing the villagers to recline on the withering grass. Slow notes, soft notes began to flit toward the clouds like butterflies above the heads of the crowd. Beating their wings faster, stronger, the song spiraled higher and higher. Light notes, soft notes, airy notes—notes high and silvery, crystallized with sharp beauty in the villagers’ ears. “Stop!” A wave of dark silence crashed over Solomon’s villa as he abruptly halted his song with a discordant thrum. Noah, the village Fool stood to his feet. “We have labored hard for the money we have,” his for-once serious voice echoed sharply over the gold-plated walls of Solomon’s courtyard. “We rise every morning, every day, before the sun and only rest when its last rays have vanished. Are all of this year’s hard earnings to be given up so easily, for an hour of snow?” Like a ripple of warm sunlight,

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Noah’s words zipped through the crowd. “An extra donkey would benefit me more than a few snowflakes.” “He is right.” “My hammers are rusting away,” the easy-going blacksmith agreed, raising a bushy dark eyebrow. “New ones would make my work easier.” “So,” Solomon’s deep, musical voice glided through the murmurs like a sleek snake, “the village Fool has made you forget the refreshment of a soft snow, the joy of a moment to ease your heavy toils?” “No disrespect, sir,” the blacksmith rose beside the Fool, scrunching his honest, weather beaten face in thought, “but my little Susie would feel better in this heat with a full stomach. She can’t eat snow.” Nods of assent with the blacksmith’s booming articulation rippled across the crowd. “If you please, could you return our money?” Solomon’s eyes blazed for an instant with ice-cold hatred. “If that is what you wish. But,” he paused, giving a thin-lipped smile to draw a mask over his anger, “allow me first to entertain you, free of charge.” The weary crowd settled down once more on the grass, content. “If they desire snow and ice, I shall give it to them,” Solomon evilly muttered to himself. “As much as they want and more!” Tossing back his head, Solomon closed his ice blue eyes and began to play as never before! First caressing, his fingers hardly touched the strings, yet soon they danced more fervidly. Whip, whip, whip, like swift snakes, they wound in and out of the harp, faster, faster, faster. He stood to his feet. Wind began to swirl around his head. The notes spiraled—swirled around him like a blizzard, gliding up, up into the air. In a vortex of sound, they flew, like birds of prey, drawn to the sky—then silence. “Where is it? Where’s the snow, daddy?” little Susie, the blacksmith’s golden-haired daughter, whispered perplexedly. Solomon’s icy eyes opened; he sat down on his gilded chair. With a flourish, he swept aside the many folds of his embroidered scarlet robe and gave a last bittersweet strum on his golden harp. The snow then began to fall--first gently, like feathers drifting down and dusting the audience, bringing joyful grins to their weary faces. A cool mistral ruffled the villagers’ hats. Noah pulled off his fading jester cap and faced the wind with a contented smile. He had gotten justice and his wish. That was when the blizzard struck. One-thousand screaming winds battered Pietro-Ramo with all their pent up fury. Howling like angry demons, the snow and ice charged down from the sky! Then it was over, only a cool silence remaining. Disinterestedly brushing the snow from his protective cloak,

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Solomon stood to return inside his shining palace. The blacksmith’s little Susie was frozen, hand in hand with her burly father. Ananias was stuck, cowering near the gate with several golden guineas cemented into his twisted hands. All of Pietro-Ramo were frozen statues. And there was Noah. Brave Noah, the village Fool, was proudly standing with his beaming face turned to the sky. In his ice-sheathed hands he clutched his brilliant green jester cap. Yet as Solomon walked by the ice encasing him, Noah’s tranquil grin seemed to twist into a leering sneer, and his honest eyes seemed to bear some devilish secret. On his chin, an icicle curled like a goat’s beard. Suddenly tired, Solomon turned from his palace, leaving through his bejeweled gates. A mocking laugh echoed through Pietro-Ramo; he would never return to that desolate museum of statues. Then Solomon began to run! Faster and faster he sped, tripping on his luxuriant robe, down the winding path of his mountain. Yet, he had forgotten his most-prized possession. On his chair lay the magical golden harp, the silvery strings imprisoned by ice, never to play the songs of Solomon again.

Xin Ma

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Extinctionby Meghan Melberg

The white bear shuffles through the glittering snow whichPowders the vast tundra expanseWith gleaming mountains of ice stretching towards the sky.A home built upon the dense, unmelting ice. Your grandchild turns the page.

The blue whale drifts through the clear seaUpon his thousand mile journey through the untainted watersJaw gaping wide to swallow the thousands of little fishThat bob and weave in front of his massive maw. Your grandchild turns the page.

The crouching tiger stalks his preyThick muscles coiled ready to pounce Hidden among the dense foliage of the jungleThe verdant cover of his hunt. Your grandchild turns the page.

The book thumps shut,This book with pictures Of the last vestigesOf long-lost creatures.

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The Point of No Returnby Jacob Dodson

Now the final journey is certain,No turning back, no pulling the final curtain.The end is near, and the pressure rises,Utmost scrutiny fills the days,And follows one in a variety of ways.Though, this is truly the end,No longer an opportunity to fend.The finish line is in sight,And only one more defining fight,Remains this day.The opportunity of opulence,Or the principality of paupers,The final battle of acceptance,Recognizing the man I am.

Somkene Medichie

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Pepsiby Madeleine Oram

There are 365 days in the year, 364 of which are irrelevant. The sun will rise, the sun will set and they’ll be forgotten. However, there is one day which everyone notices. There is one day which has the unparalleled talent of catching the attention and raising the hopes of the nation because as the sun rises on Christmas Day there is only one thing every child knows for sure, Santa’s been in town. The cheerful music, family gatherings, beautiful decorations and some of the most delectable foods of the year all make Christmas special, but it is the promise of presents that leaves millions of children holding their breath. “Father Christmas doesn’t come unless you’re asleep,” my Mum said for the hundredth time that night as if I wasn’t already fully aware. The sun was setting, my teeth were brushed, and I was ready to go. There was one last thing to do before I got into bed that Christmas Eve. I fetched a carrot from the fridge, a snack for Rudolf, just to help it get through the night. Meanwhile my brother, Alex, was given the mission to unwrap a minced pie, especially for Father Christmas. Usually we’d leave a glass of wine as well (apparently adults like that sort of a thing), but our new cat, Pepsi, kept knocking it over. Finally the job was done, we had made out offering to the almighty Father Christmas, and now it was time to keep our fingers crossed for the morning. The warm covers and protection granted by my personal security guard, Mr. T. Bear, combined with high hopes for the next day, always made falling asleep on Christmas Eve an eas task. Tonight was no different. I was deep in dreams filled with Turkey and Christmas pudding when all of a sudden I couldn’t breathe. I was being murdered! I sat up, terrified as an equally terrified cat jumped off my chest. Pepsi! The ginger kitty had stirred me from my sleep and was unapologetically purring at the foot of my bed. I looked into the corner and that’s when I saw it, taunting me in the darkness. Its cruel emptiness filled me with terror as I realized that my stocking was still empty. Father Christmas had not been yet, and I was awake. I would never forgive Pepsi for this, I decided. Never, ever, ever, ever. I tossed and turned, turned and tossed as all my dreams floated away. I’d never been so heartbroken before, I now knew what it felt like to go through complete and utter tragedy. I wondered if it was possible to survive after your heart had been broken. Tears started to flow as I imagined the presentless Christmas before me. There was no hope left for me now. I’d worked so hard all year to be good so Father Christmas

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would bring me nice presents, but even coal would’ve better than waking up to an empty stocking that I was now destined for. All of a sudden I heard a sound from miles away in the lounge downstairs. It was 9:21pm; no normal human would be awake so late. Could it be? Was it possible that Father Christmas was in my house? If it was, if Father Christmas was in my house and didn’t already know I was awake, I wasn’t going to reveal myself. I pulled the covers over my head, got into a tight ball and closed my eyes so tight I was seeing funny patterns. My heart was racing; I’d never done anything quite so daring before. Father Christmas was magic and I was, well, me. But the possibility of presents gave me a previously undiscovered determination. Father Christmas was coming up the stairs. There was only one option now, I plugged by ears and counted to a hundred. Ninety-seven … Ninety-eight… Ninety-nine … One hundred. My room was silent. Thousands of years went passed as I waited to be sure I was alone. Since that day there have been a lot of nerve-wracking moments in my life, but none have, and I doubt ever will, compare to the moment that I dared to peek my heard out of my invisibility shield of blankets. Angels started to sing! It was as if all the joy that there was, or ever had been, filled my room. I was drowning in pure bliss, a sense of happiness that had been impossible up until that moment in time. I had gone from the deepest gully of despair to the zenith of happiness, for when I dared to look across the room, I saw my stocking full of presents.

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Things Every English Person Will Think When in Americaby Madeleine Oram

• “It’s like as soon as I talk, people think I’m 10 times smarter here … awesome!”

• “Oh no, please don’t ask me if I’ve met the Queen. That’s such a stupid question.”

• “Hmm, I wonder if this person has met the President … I’m gonna ask.”

• “I was really hoping for more fat people.”

• “What’s a Wyoming?”

• “I really hope they understood that was sarcasm … Uh oh.”

• “Ew, why do these people drink cold tea?”

• “If one more person says that they love my accent, I’m going to jump out a window.”

• “Who the heck says pip-pip cheerio?”

• “What’s a Boston Tea Party? It sounds fun.”

• “Note to self: Don’t ask why guns aren’t illegal.”

• “Did that shirt just say ‘I love British Boys’? Trust me, honey, no you don’t.”

• “Yes, random stranger, clearly I know your distant family member who just happens to live somewhere in England.”

• “What? That’s a real thing? I thought it was only in the movies!”

• “America is kind of awesome. Oops, I hope nobody heard me think that …”

19Sarah Vaughan

Roop Atwal

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Ixel Ochoa

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Xin Ma

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Meghan Melberg

Yanjiao Wang

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Patterns from the Accused (and Treatments) as Given by a Mad Scientistby William Wong

The common reaction one may have when he or she is accused of something is “I didn’t do it!” This may be seen in classical examples such as the Watergate Scandal, Lance Armstrong’s doping case, and anything involving gridlock within the U.S. government. In some (okay, most) (okay, very much almost always) situations, the second reaction from the accused person is one whose primary purpose is damage control: i.e. shifting the blame, downplaying disappointments, or the all-time favorite, avoiding the subject. In recent years, these patterns have become ubiquitous throughout society; one only needs to fabricate some absolutely ridiculous accusation towards somebody and observe his/her reaction. It is likely that whatever ridiculous claim you have created will have some sort of neurological impact within the accused, causing this ubiquitous defense to arise. Indeed, it seems to have been scientifically proven that mankind has evolved into what may be called a “it-wasn’t-me syndrome,” in which initial responses are always denial and secondary responses are always damage control. Such sudden evolution over the past ten years has already had massive global implications throughout the world, causing mass hysteria, gridlock, and inability to cooperate! Thankfully, there seems to be a treatment for this horrible malady. Although waterboarding could technically be considered an effective method to prevent such evasions, such ... injury-prone tactics have since been outlawed. In addition, the second, just as illegal but somewhat safer technique, involves the use of truth serum. However, the ultimate solution to prevent “it-wasn’t-me syndrome” seems to be implementing an isolation technique in which a person who fails to accomplish a task has no interaction with others, and thus cannot blame others. Such a revolutionary and effective technique should be a common treatment within a few months now!

The author of this story does not condone the use of any sort of suppressive (or oppressive, for that matter) techniques used to prevent imaginary syndromes.

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Stanleyby Erik Wagner

“This is a story of a man named Stanley. Stanley was an ordinary man with an ordinary mind and with an ordinary job. All he did every day was sit at a desk and push the buttons that his computer told him to push. But this day, Stanley felt something was different, very different. He stood up and left his office room. He saw that none of his coworkers were there; did he simply miss a memo? He walked up to two open doors and took the door on his right to go to the meeting room.”

Instead of Stanley listening to the narrator, he took the door to the left. The narrator was baffled.

“Even though Stanley knew that this was not the correct way to the meeting room, he still took it. So, Stanley walked on and found himself in the shipping room. He was on a platform, and a bridge connected to a different platform in front of him. There was a sign next to this bridge and it said: Penalty for damaging bridge is $100. Penalty for jumping off the bridge and plummeting to your death is $5000. Stanley walked onto the bridge and continued his way to the next platform.”

Instead of Stanley walking to the other side, he walked to the middle of the bridge, saw a bridge beneath the one he was on, and he jumped down to it. He started walking down this bridge.

“Look Stanley, I think we got off on the wrong foot here,” the narrator said, “If you follow my instructions, you could be saved. Agemmghgm. With this thought planted in Stanley’s head, Stanley walked into the mind control facility room at the end of his bridge.”

Stanley looked around and noted a different door that had the word Escape on it. And again, Stanley, thinking that he had the power to control his own body, walked into this door and found himself in a very, very long hallway. He walked down this hallway. “Stanley, listen to me, all this hallway will bring you is death!” the narrator exclaimed. “Just walk back and you can save yourself and your friends!” With this, Stanley kept on walking. “Stanley, I’m serious. You will die if you go down this hallway. Save yourself!” Stanley still kept on walking. “You know what, Stanley? I don’t even care anymore. Go ahead, go kill yourself.” Stanley came up to a hole that said Jump and then walked all the way back to the mind control facility room. “Oh so NOW you decided to come back. Okay, Stanley, I’ll give you one more chance.”

“Ahe…ghm, Stanley walked into the mind control facility and walked up to the On and Off switch.” Stanley did exactly what the narrator said. “Okay, Stanley, Listen VERY carefully. Stanley pushed the

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Off button.” Stanley pushed the on button and all the screens around him went red. Then a number pad popped up. “Ohhhhhh, now you’ve done it, Stanley. Stanley, I’m so disappointed. I thought we could have something productive here, Stanley, but NOOOOOOOOO, You just tried to make your own decisions and now you’re going to die for it. Ok, Stanley, two minutes on the clock!”

A counter appeared on all the red screens and started counting down. “Stanley this is very simple, all of these counters will go off and a nuclear explosion will go off, but you can stop it Stanley. Just simply put in the right code in that number pad.” Stanley panicked and put in four random numbers, and the counter skipped down to thirty seconds. “Oh ho ho, Stanley, that won’t work. You have to put in the right numbers.” Stanley didn’t listen to the narrator and put in two more random codes and the counter went down to ten seconds. “Stanley, I hope you know you can’t do this, your brain is incapable of comprehending this! It’s the size of a T-rex’s for God’s sake!” Stanley panicked and froze. “You know what, Stanley? I’ll give you more time, only because I LOVE you.” The timer went back up to a minute. “Stanley, your life is insignificant. You tried to get power by controlling the minds of all your friends. To put it simply, Stanley, you are stupid. Stupid, Stupid, stupid.” The clock hit 30 seconds again. “I put all of my hope in you and you ruined it all; have fun in the afterlife!” The bomb went off and Stanley was instantly evaporated.

“NO!” Stanley thought, “I have control! The Timer stops!” “WHAAAAAAAT!” said the second narrator and, in fact, all

of the narrators down the line were astonished. Because each narrator narrated the next narrator. So because of Stanley doing this, he created a paradox. In a million stories the bomb went off. But in this one, the one Stanley was in, he merely disappeared...

“This is a story of a man named Stanley. Stanley was an ordinary man, with an ordinary mind, and with an ordinary job. All he did every day, was sit at a desk and push the buttons that his computer told him to push. But this day, Stanley felt something was different, very different. He stood up and left his office room.”

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Lucas and the Sea of Storiesby Lucas Costa

Lucas’ head was spinning. The slant asymptote of the function is... E = Planck’s constant times frequency... The war of 1812 was fought between... BRRRRRrrrringgg!! “Times up!” the pig belched from his throne. He was dressed in the most garish of suits with a hideous tie resting upon his gargantuan gut. His flushed face was red with ridiculous responsibility as if he was proclaiming the independence of a nation. In a world of blind men, the one-eyed man is king, thought Lucas as he reluctantly raised his body from his desk. He was herded into his row by a policeman and saw lines upon lines of nervous individuals organized into an anxious matrix. In a futile attempt to qualm their fears, some tried to remember the answers they had written to compare with others in their row. Others who were taking the test for the first time flipped incredulously through their booklets to find their work wiped away. Nearly an entire day’s work that had turned the glossy white test into an obscure, graphite-filled scribble was gone. All those long-sought-after answers swiped from their minds as if they had never existed. But how? Were they not before their very eyes mere seconds ago? It did not matter anymore. All answers were recorded and all tests had been graded in a matter of seconds by automated machines. Just like that, the class of 5039 had been ranked by order of intelligence and assigned to their careers. Some will become teachers, like the pig, others plumbers, still others farmers and construction workers. Any careers that require a higher education such as a politician or business man were saved for the next class. This class was predestined to be a working class. All individual talent was irrelevant. What truly mattered in regard to the test was simply how well you would be able to perform your job. If perhaps one was able to learn math concepts extremely easily or if perhaps another was exceptionally eloquent at public speech was irrelevant to the career that the test assigned because none of those talents are useful. Why then, are there algebraic equations and essays on the test, when my highest aspiration is to plumb an upper-classman’s toilet... Lucas’ thoughts were more mutinous today than usual, but he discovered the answer rather easily. The Board must keep an eye on such specially gifted people. For example, it was rumored that those talented in sports and were made to work in careers in legislation had to be conditioned to enjoy their work. They were forced to read laws and regulations for hours on end. Of course, these athletes would tire easily of their assignment, but the machines wouldn’t. So, in order

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to suppress their talents, these unfortunately skilled individuals were held fast to their desks until they read the required number of pages for that day. This daily regimen atrophied the adept athletes to the point where some were unable to even walk without support. In turn, they became exceptional legislators. Lucas shuffled forward and handed his test to the absurdly plump and portly pig, who thanked him by rattling Lucas’ eardrums and spewing spit like a sprinkler. There may have actually been some words in the raucous response, but they were lost in a wave of indifference. See, the teacher had been conditioned as well. He could only say the certain phrases that were engrained in his memory and the criticisms lost their sting just as the compliments lost their integrity from sheer repetition. This gave an eerie impression that the emotionless instructor was mechanical. I hope I don’t become a teacher this cycle... Lucas shook his head trying to scatter the frightening thoughts. After all, what’s the use in fearing the inevitable? And besides, Lucas still had this last night until career declaration. He was determined to use his last night of autonomy to leave a scratch on the well-oiled machine that was his society. After this night, he would become whatever profession he was assigned for twenty-five years, and after that period he would earn a week of ‘vacation’, most of which was spent preparing for the same test he just took. But just as Lucas was remembering this grave pattern, he remembered who was waiting for him at home. There was a girl he had met walking back from test prep waiting for him. They had spent the entire week together. Lucas weaved through waves of wandering people trying to exit the double doors of the testing building. He made it to the funnel with a bright exit sign above it and squeezed out between the wall and a little boy who had a scared look in his eyes. Lucas remembered how he felt on his first test day... As he took his first steps outside, he gasped for air only to inhale a cloud of thick black something from a nearby smokestack. Choking a little, Lucas made his way through the labyrinth of the city until he arrived home. She was waiting. “Lucy! How long have you been waiting?” “Oh, only a minute. I would have waited an eternity,” she said. Lucas embraced her, pressing her tight against him and asked, “Are you ready?” She told him that she was and Lucas couldn’t help but stare at her. She had this look of excited anxiety upon her fair face. Her light blue eyes sparked up, making the reflected gloom of the city dance in the sea within

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her pupils. How could one not be inspired by those orbs of sheer beauty? Lucas gave a deep sigh as they lay down on the couch. They sat opposite each other so that he could see her eyes as he began. Lucas closed his eyes, breathed in, and then looked at her. Lucy’s eyes shone and the words flowed from Lucas’ mouth. Poems about lovers and nature came as if from memory. Next came a story about a boy and his pet dragon (whatever that was), then about heroes and villains, then another about romance and treachery. All these emotions were so beautifully depicted in these stories that it made Lucy shiver as she sat, mesmerized. Lucy could tell, Lucas was no ordinary man. That was something the test could never tell. And as he told a story of love, a fiery passion burned inside Lucy and it shone through her eyes. Lucas, equally as mesmerized by the sea of fire, began shaking as he roared out a sonnet about a prince, followed by a speech about a queen, followed by a short story about a boy and his dog. The police patrolling the streets overheard them as did the neighbors. A crowd gathered to watch the hysterical man tell his stories as the pair moved into the city streets. Even the police, the most conditioned of all groups were unable to control themselves. Lucy and Lucas were embraced so tightly that they felt each other as one. The lovely rhythms and powerful rhymes echoed throughout the entire town and made it shake under the power of his voice. Lucas then told a story of sorrow and tragedy, and a hurricane developed in those beautiful orbs. The entire sea was in a tumult as the entire town stood mesmerized by the scene. A heavy rain began to pour and gales picked up, but the group was unfazed. Water covered their shoes and began to soak the onlookers through. Droplets fell upon Lucy’s face and they only amplified the storm that hypnotized Lucas. The water rose and people began to hold on to the windows of buildings as Lucas and Lucy floated over them. The policemen sank and helplessly tried swimming back to the pair to continue listening to their stories, but the water continued to rise. In anger, a policeman who had been hanging on to the roof of a building threw his officer’s cap at Lucy to try to get her attention. She had seemed completely oblivious to all that was around her and was completely enthralled by the words. The cap hit her upon the head and for a split second her eyes closed as she yelped in pain. Lucas felt something break within him and gasped. Lucy looked back at him, still embraced in his arms, but the sea Lucas saw was no longer there. The light blue eyes had faded to a slate gray. Lucas shouted in anger as the water, just

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as easily as it had come, went back up into the clouds. The streets returned to their dry states, the people returned to their homes, and the policemen returned to their patrols. Lucas and Lucy looked at each other again and began to cry. Only, there were no tears and when he tried to kiss her, her mouth was dry. That magical moment where they had felt emotion and feeling through the stories was gone as if it had never existed. All the work that had turned that dull, gray street into a flowing sea of story was gone. But how? Was it not before his very eyes mere seconds ago? Lucas’ head spun and he fell.

Xin Ma

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Where You Come Fromby Jeff Wilson

A child holds their experiences forever,And whatever they see or feel becomes one with them,And it is so, for as long as they can hold them.

The roar of the engines became a part of the child,And the nap on the grass, and the dandelion blooms, and picking mom her roses,And the playful puppy, and the rough carpet, and the climbing tree … and the lady who gave us the “finger” … and the noisy neighbor … and the old shed … and The adventures over the dishwasher … and the little hoop.

The seasons change and the child grows bigger against the Mother’s wishes,And flashes of the camera as the first day arrives, and all the new faces, and the fear of those around him,And meeting Mrs. Smeltzer … and losing his first tooth… and always being in trouble … and cheating on a time testAnd the great move from city to country.

His parents that held him at his lows and raised him to his highs ... and became part of him more than he’d ever know … that sacrificed themselves to help him along … the ones that deserve it all,The mother who worked at his school in the kitchen,The mother who worked long hours and was still always at his events … in professional wear and pant suits.The father who smelled of aftershave in the button-down shirts… and many miles under his belt,The father not wanting to be bothered ... watching the Lions lose … smell of kerosene and oil and the rumble as the garage comes to life,The brothers that are only half his … that he only sees a few days a month,The nieces that could be his sisters … running around the house … playing hide and seek and cops and robbers.

He goes in public and sees only shapes,Only his parents matter until he gets older,

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The curiosity grows in him as he sees more people,Traveling so far to get to school and seeing all these houses,The knowledge of why there is space between houses … and what these plants are,The struggle of saying good bye to friends and welcoming new ones,The traveling cross country for the first time,The ride in a plane for the first time,The best vacation he’s had … and learning of different culturesThe child slowly grows into a young man … He realizes his dream in life

Finally he starts to work towards it and has to leave his parents,This helps build the child to his potential,The child is just a collection of his past experiences... whoever they are,Nothing more, nothing less.

Jingwen Gong

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Writer’s Block by Sarah Vaughan

Cling, clang, shatter, clash, and on they continue. Though only for a few seconds, each one is special and bursting with color. “Irritation” is what I feel today in English class, year of 1952. The desks mock me with a purpose; they know what they are doing every second, and here I am staring down at the spiral blonde curls. Ivory skin with cheeks enhanced by packed and patted rose bud pink tone. “Jealousy” is also what I should not, but am, feeling today in English class, year of 1952.

My eyes move their attention, and I can almost feel the words banging against my skull as I switch positions. I wonder if I look in my backpack at my little mirror case if I can see the exclamation points running across my pupils. New field of view includes this old, thick suit, jacket, and the vest of a male who is bright red and just about breaks his pencil in half when he catches me staring. I can see the wrinkles on his arm all the way from the top of his shirt collar currently digging into his neck down to the bursting belt buckle holding him all together from the deep hatred he shows for possibly any type of schooling. His figure includes bulky, muscular legs that come over small seats. As I watch him, I begin to share the scratchy, hot feeling of “discomfort” in English class, year of 1952.

My eyes start the twitching again. My muscles are scolding and screaming out, “Why?” I beat my knuckles under the desk and scratch my thumb pads with my index fingernail. My throat is itchy and now the words’ formats have changed into red ink. The medicine hasn’t done its job. But I suppose my issues are from a mere cause of too many words clouding my judgment. This is not what I want. “Uncertainty” is what I feel in English class, year of 1952. Our loud, screechy bell makes my senses scream up against my skin causing me to jump. I make my way through the crowds, out the doors, and onto the brightly paved streets marked already with children running and cars zooming. Movement, blink, breath, movement, repeat, repeat, repeat. They would never know, and I made sure of it. How wide their eyes are with want, yet they are so blind.

My name is Charles, and I like a life of fear. I live a life of secrets. I live confused. My writer’s block is real bad and all my ideas may be good or may be bad, but one second they’re there and they’re gone and if I don’t keep up then they’re gone. My mouth is cracking, and the muscles having never moved now stand stiff. The words crawl all over my body, through my ears and brain and gnaw at my teeth. I often get confused and

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run into walls or people, and, oh boy, do they gnarl back at me. I can’t apologize out loud, but inside I am knocking myself across the head over and over. I’ll pick at my finger beds and close my eyes up real tight. I start to shake. My brain is blowing steam and my frustration stabs at me everywhere. I am at a loss for comfort. Today my writer’s block won’t end. And in the big picture of things it won’t matter because people won’t know, they won’t care. I will be forgotten. “Aphasia” is what I feel in English class, year of 1952.

Meghan Melberg

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Reasons people from Twilight Zone didn’t do their homeworkby Jonathan Pederson

• The cat ate it

• They left it in their front-pack

• It’s left in their opener

• They spilt salt on it

• They left it in the sunshine

• Some other kids from the real world did it

• They didn’t do their homework; their homework did them

Cole Johnston

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Cole Johnston

Ixel Ochoa

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Charlotte Moore

Ben Schoonover

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Madeleine OramMr. DaviesHonours Arts in Society9 October 2014

Just Start Writing

15 minutes. Go. “The sky is your limit!” They say to us as we’re growing up, but no one ever gives us instructions to fly. It’s like telling someone to write for 15 minutes straight about anything or everything, but without giving them a pen. It’s just a little confusing how the world has started to expect so much without giving anyone help getting there. Everything has become about a grade. It doesn’t matter if you know all there is about WWII including every detail about the men that fought, and fell, if you don’t get an A on that presentation, you might as well know nothing at all. Where did it all go wrong? Yes this might just be another rant about how… Oh wait, it is just another rant about school. Well that’s not very original. Pause. Reset

Madeleine OramMr. DaviesHonours Arts in Society9 October 2014

Take Two

15 Minutes. Go. It doesn’t matter if an assignment says just write for 15 minutes without looking back, it’s still an assignment. It’s still worth a grade. How can you not look back and want to check when it’s worth something so crucial? Oh wait, I’m going down this route again. Please brain start working, I need an A! Don’t you realize this is late already? It needs to be good, or at the very least memorable. Third time’s the charm. Pause. Reset.

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Madeleine OramMr. DaviesHonours Arts in Society9 October 2014

Third Time’s The Charm 15 Minutes. Go. There’s a particular view at my school, Randolph-Macon Academy, which I always want to stop at. Between Stan Fulton and Crow, in front of the Gym there is a pathway which runs parallel to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Come sun, rain or snow these Mountains are always beautiful. The sky is so big and somehow beautiful, on the dreariest of days. Who knows what could be hiding in the trees carpeting the mountain, or where the trails go. The view of the mountains, the sky and the trees is always so beautiful, but that’s not what I’m looking at. You see before this particular dazzling view, there’s my school playing field but from the exact spot you’d stand to look at the Mountains, there is also a timeline of the last few years of my years. Sometimes that view makes me wonder if I’ve got a little bit insane, which I probably have because when I look out I always feel as if I can see the ghosts of my memories, replaying scene of my life.

“Dude, I think he’s looking at you,” I see myself to my soul-friend on our first day of intramurals. One of the boys on the bleachers continued to stare at her as we walked across the field. “Nah, I don’t think so.” He was. They fell in love.

“People who commit suicide are stupid,” he said. I see myself give him a well-deserved slap on the basketball court. He didn’t know what he was talking about.

I see us taking about a hundred selfies. I see myself smile, knowing how lucky I was to be with people I could call family. “How is she always the only one not derping?” He said, pointing at her. We all laughed. It got sixteen likes on Facebook.

I see myself trip and fall while we came back from running. “It’s a good thing I like you, otherwise that would’ve been pretty funny. Come on!” He chuckled. I couldn’t run anymore, my heart has stopped, “You like me?” He did.

I see the six of us, lying on top of one another staring at the sky. I’d never been so happy. “I have homework,” someone had said, “but I guess we have the rest of our lives to do that.”

Alarm goes off. Stop.

39Jingwen Gong

The Darker Side of Brands/Companies (Star Wars)by Cameron Trexler

1. Jabba’s Hutt (Jabba The Hutt/Pizza Hut)

2. Chipotleia (Princess Leia/Chipotle)

3. Ree-bacca (Reebok)

4. Droids R Us (Toys R Us)

5. Empire Insurance (Empire Insurance- 800-588-2300-85 today)

6. Death-Starbucks (Starbucks)

7. An-droid (Android)

8. Adobe-Wan-Kenobi (Adobe)

9. Hans Clothing (Hanes, Han Solo)

10. Bud Light Side (Bud Light)

11. Forsche Automotive (Porsche)

12. Calvin Clone (Calvin Klein)

13. Ford Vader (Lord Vader/ Ford Auto)

14. Toyoda (Yoda/Toyota)