About This Volume of the Magazine
Senior Editor: Tristan Beiter
Junior Co-Editor: Nick Stine Junior Co-Editor: Catherine Baker Managing Editor: Johanna Burke Financial Editor: Júlia Raup-Collado Magazine Staff Benjamin Pegg Catherine Baker Johanna Burke Alex Myers Júlia Raup-Collado Nick Stine Christina Perez Ellen Connuck Dr. Brian Ferguson-Avery, Advisor |
Editor’s Note
Dear Reader,
All of us here at Crossings wish to extend our thanks to you for your willingness to give up your hard-earned time and money to purchase and read this magazine. We couldn’t have produced this magazine without you. After all, what is the purpose of writing if not to be read, of art if not to be seen? This magazine is produced every year, and this is its eighteenth year, for you, because all of us on the Crossings staff want to share the literary and artistic fruits of Danville High School with the big wide world, or at least as much of it as we can reach. As always, the rest of the staff and I were blown away by the sheer volume of interesting works, both written and visual, that was presented to us and we lament that we cannot include everything by everyone in the entire school.
Speaking of the rest of the staff, you guys are great, keeping me from driving myself and all of you crazy, while applying your discerning eyes for quality, arrangement, and compatibility to every work that passed through our hands. As usual, I am proud of the magazine and the way it turned out, especially given our late start this year. We shouldn’t have worried; the school came through with more writing than we knew what to do with.
It’s been a wonderful year for us here at Lit Mag, so once again, thank you for allowing us to continue to share our efforts. The only thing left to do now is to tell you to dive into Crossings and hold out a hope, that, when you do, you find as much inside the covers as we found when filling them.
Tristan Beiter
Senior Editor
Dear Reader,
All of us here at Crossings wish to extend our thanks to you for your willingness to give up your hard-earned time and money to purchase and read this magazine. We couldn’t have produced this magazine without you. After all, what is the purpose of writing if not to be read, of art if not to be seen? This magazine is produced every year, and this is its eighteenth year, for you, because all of us on the Crossings staff want to share the literary and artistic fruits of Danville High School with the big wide world, or at least as much of it as we can reach. As always, the rest of the staff and I were blown away by the sheer volume of interesting works, both written and visual, that was presented to us and we lament that we cannot include everything by everyone in the entire school.
Speaking of the rest of the staff, you guys are great, keeping me from driving myself and all of you crazy, while applying your discerning eyes for quality, arrangement, and compatibility to every work that passed through our hands. As usual, I am proud of the magazine and the way it turned out, especially given our late start this year. We shouldn’t have worried; the school came through with more writing than we knew what to do with.
It’s been a wonderful year for us here at Lit Mag, so once again, thank you for allowing us to continue to share our efforts. The only thing left to do now is to tell you to dive into Crossings and hold out a hope, that, when you do, you find as much inside the covers as we found when filling them.
Tristan Beiter
Senior Editor
Rhino
Nick Stine The big, gray unicorns of Africa, Large, lumbering beasts. Lacking the grace known in myths, Majestic creatures in their own right, Despite being large and cumbersome, Without golden horns and snow white pelts. In plain sight, yet people fail to see That rhinos are unquestionably The big, gray unicorns of Africa. The True Arbiter (excerpt)
Nate Adler I reopened my locker, grabbed my binder, and quickly walked to my first class, which was history. As I sat down in my class I looked at the teacher who was sitting at his desk typing on his laptop. My history teacher’s name was Mr. Dunsworth; he had a particular nature to him. He had a muscular build and snow-white hair. He was also a huge fan of baseball and liked to talk about sports. “All right, did everyone do their homework?” Mr. Dunsworth said to the class. “Yes sir,” the class replied. “All right, let’s see who’s a liar then,” Mr. Dunsworth said as he stood up with a handful of detention slips. “You. What’s the type of government for Britainia?” the teacher asked, pointing to another student. “A hierarchy,” the student responded. Correct. You. What is the name of Britainia’s Arbiter?” the teacher asked, pointing to another student. “Lord Eisen,” the student answered. “Correct. You. What is the type of economy system of Britainia?” the teacher asked, pointing at another student. “Free market, sir,” the student answered. “Correct. You. Besides the annihilation of Great Britain, what was the first country to fall to the Britainian Empire?” the teacher asked another student. “The student suddenly looked pale. “Um… Germany?” the student responded nervously. “Wrong! You obviously lied to me about the homework. You know what liars get? A zero on their homework and a day of afterschool detention!” The teacher handed the student a detention slip and tossed his worksheet in the trash. “You, answer the question. Besides Great Britain, who was the first country to be completely destroyed?” the teacher asked, pointing at me. “I believe it was Italy, sir,” I answered. “Are you sure?” the teacher asked, as if he was trying to make me nervous or test me. “I’m certain, sir,” I said with a straight face. “Correct,” the teacher said with a smile. A Stroke of Spirit
Maya Shenoy It stood tall before me. Its arms wide open, full of life. It reached towards me like it knew who I was. The water that pulsed through its veins, I could feel it as if it were my own blood. I could see its wisdom stationed strong and hard. I knew this was what I was going to paint. This beautiful mango tree grown in my grandmother’s front yard. It was a symbol of fresh life growing in its prime climate. The thick moist air that rose up after a monsoon season storm gave the tree its glory. A mist-light fog covered the base of the prodigious tree and wrapped around my feet as I set up my easel. With my paintbrush in hand, I began my quest. I felt every stroke, as I filled the basic canvas with an array of colors. It was like and adventure! I could feel the pressure of the brush hitting against the tight canvas, bending backwards, and leaving a streak of paint. My bright choice of dyes contrasted with the gloomy ambiance that spread throughout my vicinity. My eyes were set on the tree and nothing could stop me, except a glass of mango sharbat served to me by my grandmother. “What are you painting?” she asked curiously as she handed me the glass. I tilted my canvas to show her my painting in progress. She smiled with an obvious feeling of appeal and went back inside the house. I continued my mission. As I analyzed the tree, I noticed its intricacy. I became aware of how fine lines ran superficially on the bark of the tree and gave it texture. I pondered for quite some time with the taste of mango sharbat still lingering in my mouth. How could I capture the texture of the tree and apply it to my canvas? Line by line I listened to my artistic conscience and added depth and distinction to the trunk of the tree using various shades of brown and beige. I peacefully worked my way up the branches continuing with the same style for a sense if consistency. The calm environment allowed me to recall numerous brushstroke techniques, which assisted me as I began to suggest foliage with my paintbrush. Meadow
Mary Babameto Soft and billowing, flowing in the breeze—a willow Yellow, poppies and primrose blue A bed of grass, a colorful pillow This is my favorite meadow. The shining sun beating down, hide in the shade of my willow The robins and jays singing a chiming chorus This is my favorite meadow. The smell of grass, distinct, both sweet and strong I swear I can taste it. This is my favorite meadow. King
Johanna Burke Birmingham, Alabama As segregated as a checkerboard No doubt they hated gray Oh, they attacked it with dynamite There was no hesitance to beat, bite, and burn Pistol whipping for brushing a shoulder A system so pristine only great violence could keep it A city broken inside, too volatile to last A place where revolution is born Where if a man stands, surely many will follow But it takes a man, a rare man, who will stand He feared not scrutiny nor violence brought against him He feared not incarceration He feared not death, for he himself proclaimed We must come to see that some things are so eternally true, that they are worth dying for, and if a man has not yet discovered something worth dying for, he isn’t fit to live. Willing to die, but not to kill, he led a movement The most respectable of revolutions its nature King was cast behind bars but his reign would not end The youth would carry his torch, now burning brighter and stronger Souls
Kylie Ann Edwards Individual Living life so freely, So Complete without chains I lay here. Silently-- Thinking of you. I lay here. Crying-- Waiting for you. I lay here. Loving-- All of you. And no matter what, Cause all I need is you-- And all the things you promised. A December Surprise
Calista Toczek "Bye, I'm going to Dunkin' Donuts to meet Christi," my sister, Bethany informed us before she slammed the door shut. The rusted red and green jingle bells on the metal door rang lively before they settled down and there was silence. The fuzzy baby pink fabric of my robe embraced me and warmed me as the cold December night air lingered outside. The house was silent except for the silent murmuring of television celebrities speaking. My mom was in the living room with me, my brother was dreadfully at work, and my dad was busily working on his laptop. I stood up to go bed when the door creaked open and the bells jingled to life. Is Bethany home already, she just left no more than fifteen minutes ago? Alone, my sister's boyfriend, Matt, walks in and greets me with and awkward, "Hello!" Why is he here? He should know Bethany's not here. The two are inseparable. I mean I know he has practically lived here for the past eight, but never has he walked into house at night after he had already left after supper. This was when my night changed. "Can everyone come sit down at the table? There's something I have to ask you guys," Matt asked nervously. I steered towards the table instead of the stairs and sat down at the table next to my mom. The bayberry candle on the table occupied the room with a calm holiday scent and illuminated the ceiling with a jagged pattern while the light from the kitchen dimly lit the vacant space. My parents and I sat looking at each other with puzzled glances, thinking of what he could possibly want to talk to us about. "So I came over to ask you guys ... " Matt began hesitantly. Suddenly, that electric spark you build up in your stomach when you don't know what to expect, but have a pretty good idea and it's extremely intense, surged through my body. " ... If I could marry your daughter?" He asked, as his shaking hands pulled a velvet, black box out of his pocket and opened it to reveal a glistening, diamond-crusted ring enfolded in a bed of ivory plush. My mouth hung agape and slowly turned up to a smile filled with excitement. My mom looked at my dad discussing with their eyes their answer. My dad replied, "Well if you truly love her, and promise us you will take good care of her, support her, and respect her then yes, you may marry our daughter." He stood up to shake Matt's hand as Matt said with much gratitude, "Thank you." My mom stood up and gave Matt a loving hug while she said, "You're welcome," holding back tears of joy. Before me, my eyes rested on a scene that looked like it should have been pulled out from a Nicholas Sparks novel. I sat still, with excitement every cell of my body. I was in complete shock. Don't get me wrong, I knew this this was going to happen at some point, but I never thought Matt was the kind of guy to come over and ask parents for per-mission to marry Bethany. Actually, I didn't even this a secret from Bethany and anyone who would see her or anyone related to someone who would see her. This meant I couldn't tell m friends or anyone. I would to live the next week like this night never happened. Just as Matt left and we all calmed down from the excitement my brother came home. He walked into the kitchen where we were still sit-ting in awe and casually asked "Hey, what's up?" we told him how Matt came over and asked if he could marry Bethany. My brother replied, "Cool, now I'll always have someone to play board games with." The board games that knows guys still did that. At this point, I didn't know what to think, so tears of joys started flooding out of eyes. The sparkles on the ring glis tened and mixed with the light from the candle to create tiny sparks of light in my watery blurred vision. I wiped my eyes to get them in focus once again. Suddenly, Matt was in front of me an gave me a hug, telling me not to cry. All I could do was hysterically start saying repeatedly while crying, "I'm just so happy!" Laughter erupted from Matt and my parents, but I was too ecstatic to join in. Eventually, I calmed down and he told us his game plan for the proposal. For several months Matt and Bethany had been planning a trip to New York in mid-December. This date happened to be next Satur-day and was planned so Matt could propose to her· He commenced by telling us about how they were going to Rockefeller Center to ice skate ~d he was going to "pop the question" on the ice. Matt even hired a secret photographer to take pictures of the proposal. All of this made me even more anxio N th us. ow, e catch was to keep he was talking about are the epitome of nerdy board games and Matt, as well as my brother, love to play them. He walked up to his room. My parents and I decided that it was necessary for us to go to bed, but how could we sleep when we knew a gigantic secret that would change the lives of several people? While brushing my teeth, I wonder how Bethany is going to feel when Matt bends down . A I' folding on one knee and her life changes. s m my sheets over onto my bed I think about how ddin nge a dress there's going to be a we g to arra , · •tations to to determine, a cake to taste, mvi 1 k d uch more. write bridesmaids to pie , an so m Oh how much better this will be when she , thi r so secret knows and we can discuss s eve but topic "I J·ust know I won't be able to sleep, 1 . b~~ I'll try. Goodnight," I tell my parents ehino d me 1 door be walk into my room. I c ose my and I am enclosed in silence. I slide under the sheets and the coolness is refreshing. Before I get too comfortable, I lean across the glowing red lights that read a time way too late to be going to bed on a school night and turn off my lamp. Darkness creates mysterious shadows in my room. I've never been afraid of the dark, but if I was I would be able to conquer it with all the happi-ness swelling up inside of me now. My head is caressed by the cotton pillow beneath me. Fi-nally, I close my eyes and it is revitalizing to relax and clear my head of everything that has happened in the past hour and a half. When today started I was expecting it to end like every other typical school day, but when Matt walked through that door I didn't know that everything would change. Instead of falling asleep thinking about unimportant eighth grade drama that has no meaning in my life, I go to bed thinking that Bethany has an ex-tremely wonderful new life planned with Matt, and I have an unpredictable changed life with Matt as my new brother-in-law. The De-cember night air lingered outside as I ceased to think about the unknown future ahead and slipped into dreamland. |
Tell a Story
Tony Snyder I live to tell a million stories. I live to face the challenges, But it is what I do that makes me strong; Life is about a series of challenges To see who’s weak And who is strong. So let me live my life, Let me feel the pain, And we will see who stays the same. Others judge, And you can talk all you want, But you will never break me, So don't ever try and judge me, Because you don’t know what I’ve been through. I know I’m a freak; I hardly speak; I got my scars, And they’re, my tattoos that pull me through, They tell my stories, And they speak the truth. Beautiful Christina Perez Beautiful is not a word I want to be Vain is the reflection in a mirror Pretty isn’t what I see Ugly will never hurt me never curb my strength Pretty and Ugly are essentially the same They met in a reaction A creation we do not control What met in the reaction the creation of a soul A soul that wants and needs A soul that cries and grieves A soul isn’t pretty, ugly, or vain Our souls, that we possess are the same Never call me beautiful Never call me vain Never call me ugly For when outside Goes inside Our reflections are the same On Writing
Catherine Baker I absently drummed my fingers on the keys of the laptop, mildly annoyed. I still had no idea what to write. “Margaret, give me something to write about,” I called over to my sister. She paused over the piano, thinking. “Cheese,” she answered after a moment. “Living cheese.” Really, I have no idea where she comes up with these ideas. “Nonfiction,” I said in my best exasperated tone. “It has to be nonfiction.” “Oh. I dunno, then.” The piano playing resumed. “Helpful,” I muttered. I glared at the blank screen, willing an essay to pop up, fully complete. Nonfiction. It has to be nonfiction. The problem was, I had no idea how to write nonfiction. Well, that’s not technically true. I’d written dozens of essays for school before, and we had had a workshop in Lit Mag about all the different types of nonfiction essays. I wasn’t bad at them, per se. The subject just didn’t—interest me. I closed the computer screen firmly. Then sighed, and opened it again. I was not giving up now. I was going to finish this thing if it killed me. Which required it to be started, of course. Nuts. About half an hour later, after pushing keys at random just for the clicky noise, starting (and erasing) half a dozen nonfiction essays on numerous different topics, and two cups of tea, I was faced with the dreaded prospect of not having an essay to submit. Terrifying. I thought to myself, as I sat in a sort of stupor in the kitchen, Why do I want to write this thing, anyway? It’s just for the prize money, isn’t it? Isn’t that why most of the students are entering this contest? Naturally, it was a bit about the money. It always is. But there was something that went deeper (if you don’t mind the cliché), which was the driving point behind my forcing myself to pound away at the keyboard. I needed to write this. Silhouette Alika Lopatka i come out to play only in the midst of the day– from dawn till dusk– when i am on display mysterious and dark, i creep along silently behind all– animals plants and people– throughout the hours when the sun is high in the sky i’m a piece of everyone– attaching to and animal’s paws, a tree’s stem, a person’s feet– as a charcoal drawing on the ground below, changing throughout the day, following in the footsteps of my owner i’m unnoticed by many– just a part of everyday created by the sun– and a companion to some– those children who try and catch me but cannot, as i am like the wind that whistles through their fingers, unable to be grasped but as night falls, i disappear like a piece into a puzzle– as i am dark as night and cannot be without light– as a shadow, i rise in the morning but am enveloped by night Lost but Not Found
Trystin B. Gearhart Happiness was a hard thing to find growing up in the environment I did. Happiness would hide behind trees, in trees, in bushes, anywhere. Happiness wouldn’t let me find it. Friends passing away, getting locked up, Happiness, where are you? I’ve been feeling lost, alone, and scared without you. Come home! I’ve been stuck with your annoying cousin, Depression. Happiness, if you are reading this, please contact and find me! I miss you! You win, I don’t want to play hide and seek anymore! Just stop playing games, you aren’t answering text messages or phone calls; you are acting like you don’t exist. Do you exist, or am I just insane? Depression says you are real. So you are real. Others claim to know you, so why aren’t you answering me? I seemed to forget about Depression until he called me on my cell phone and told me that Happiness passed away. I couldn’t go to the funeral. I’ve lost too much and too many in the last two years. Rest in peace, Happiness. Nothing can replace you. You are one of a kind. We had some good memories that I can remember; I’m sorry we couldn’t spend more time together. I have to accept that Happiness is dead, and Depression is healthy. Hit
Alex Myers It started too quickly. I thought I had more time. Another one hit. I quickened my pace, I had to make it. I needed more time. Another one hit nearby. The black, gray figures swirled around me, shouting. It got darker and brighter, then darker again. I was running out of time. Another one hit. I could hear them hitting all around me now. I’m not going to make it. No, I have to make it. They’re closing in now, hitting all around me. Too close for comfort. I can feel my heart beating out of my chest. I’m running now. My lungs ache, the air is crisp and alive. I’m not making it. It’s close now. I can feel its breath whipping my hair and traveling down my spine. I can see my destination. I might make it. I’m hit. I didn’t believe him then, but a wise friend once told me: “You can’t outrun the rain.” |