first last - roanoke county public schools · 2017. 2. 28. · keith pfeiffer..... 24 emily...
TRANSCRIPT
-
F i r s t L a s t
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
-
F i r s t L a s t
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
I n d e x o f ar t i s t s a nd Wr i t e r st
he
M
US
E
th
e M
US
E
�
Douglas Agee..................... 26
Jessica Akers.................... 32
Jenny Badamochir................. �5
Elizabeth Camilletti........... �4, 4�
Madhura Chitnavis................. �
Katelyn Coker..................... 2
Katie Cunningham.................. �3
Angel Dean........................ 3
Evan Dermott...................... �8
Sarah Driscoll.................... 23
Grace Earnhart................... 38
Sierra Ehrich.................... �9
Molly Flanigan.................... 34
Madeleine Garber................. 39
Shannon Haines.................... 8
Scott Helgeson.................... ��
Dylan James....................... 48
Sara Jarrett...................... 46
Kathryn Kallam................... 43
Olga Kamenskaya.................. 33
William Lucas..................... 27
Matthew Moore..................... 22
Paris Mumpower................... 42
Paula Pekic.................... 30, 47
Keith Pfeiffer.................... 24
Emily Pilat.................... 7, 3�
Grady Saunders................... 40
Diana Schaefer.................... 9
Vannesia Smauldon................ 37
Ashleigh Starkey................. 44
Elizabeth Stump................ 5, �0
Lauren Thornhill................... 6
Oliver Thorum..................... �6
Cassie Waldron.................... 35
Baylis Wallenborn................ 28
Nathaniel Wulff................... �7
Sarah Zeleznik................... 45
Madhura Chitnavis
The venetian door
photography
-
th
e M
US
E
3
An g e l D ean
The sun shines bright
Almost blinding they say
The air talks to them as the wind goes their way
They lay on their backs
The grass is so green, each blade so straight
A perfectly clear river
There’s nothing to hate
At night the darkness falls and the way the stars shine seems so unreal
They reach their hands up
Is it the clouds they feel?
But the sky is free of clouds and the moon is visible
An imaginary rope, they pull the moon close
No need for a microscope
Then the strangest thing, as they press their fingers into rocks
A rush of cold air
An unusual smell
They’ve figured out where
But it can’t be the moon (continued)
is it a dream?t
he
M
US
E
2
Katelyn Coker
Rain
photography
-
t
he
M
US
E
4
It’s just their imagination or maybe a dream
Of course it’s not true
Although…they all can’t be dreaming the same dream
Surrounding them is a weird shade of blue
As they sit in shock rain starts to fall
The drops are warm
A sound of silence and curiosity forms
As they stand on their feet, forward they look and they see a bright light
Walking closer and closer, no one in fright
Suddenly each one in their own bed
How or why, it can’t be said
The day so perfect, the night so strange
It had to be real, their feet still cold
The same story each of them told.
th
e M
US
E
5
Elizabeth Stump
camouflage
acrylic
-
t
he
M
US
E
6
Lauren Thornhill
water leaf
photography
th
e M
US
E
7
th
e M
US
E
7
Em i l y p i l a t
Awakened the garden girl
clung fast to her bed
Still wishing and hoping
it wasn’t all in her head
With a small tear
and a sniffle of doubt
She cursed the dream
now over with shout
She was alone once more
in the quiet and dull green
Leaving her anger to be hidden
behind a calm screen
The birds and buzz of the woods
persisted through light
And the girl was forced to fully wake
in fear of forgetting the night
Through the morning
the memory of dream began to fade
But the charming face of the city boy
still stayed
separatedRising with noise city boy
lay tired and weak
Confused to the memory
of the girl he continued to seek
He wondered if she would care
for his strange word
Of the dream world they’d entered
before he had stirred
Thinking he should not
in fear for her doubt
He’d never write garden
to talk of their bout
He left and went
as though the girl hadn’t been near
Despite the feelings he held
for the beautiful sere
As he shuffled round each corner
and tall scape
He saw her face in the distance
unwilling to escape
-
t
he
M
US
E
8
S hannon Ha i n e s
Watch the tallest tree
Sway in the wind
Or waves in the sea
The tides they send
I saw the calm child
In mother’s arms
Rocking as she smiled
Humming sweet charms
Always ebb and flow
Breathing calmly
Serenity’s bow
Lowers softly
unity
th
e M
US
E
9
Diana Schaefer
industry
monotype
-
t
he
M
US
E
�0
Elizabeth Stump
green fence
colored pencil
th
e M
US
E
��
S c o t t h e l g e s o n
The wind ruffled his hair, tossing the wavy strands barely contained by the
elastic of his hat. Dead silence reigned supreme, seeming to spite the twenty-
two thousand people that populated area between the tee box and the green. Human
nature called for communication, and yet not a sound was heard. Standing behind
the ball, he knew that all the dedication he poured into this sport was going to
be returned. A calm feeling came over him and the tension fell away. With each
step existing for an infinite amount of time, he strode to the tee. It had been
his destiny ever since his childhood, when he had first gazed upon the game of
golf. For the next thirteen years, he had devoted his mind, body and soul to the
mastery of a game; a game that had defeated the gods, as they were seen, including
Walter Hagan, Gary Player, Arnold Palmer, and even Jack Nicklaus; and yet it
was a game that demanded more. Every subtle nuance of the game distinguished
champions from those that fell short. An individual game so demanding that
even his heart was ruled by it; the war between the love and the hate of golf
itself raged through him leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. He had
given himself fully to the game, sweating through the pain, crying through the
heartache of loss, and bleeding through the wounds of an ongoing battle that he
could not win. (continued)
the birth of a champion
-
t
he
M
US
E
�2
Every moment, emotion and action had lead him to this one nanosecond of time.
Stepping up to the ball, he felt everything from the sun shining through the
immaculate blue sky to the ground beneath his feet, and finally knew his fate. He
would win. The grip of the 6-iron poised in his strong grasp held no sweat, for
nervousness had become a wraith by the second hole. Now it held no place in the
iron-hard confidence of his mentality. In the second it required him to draw the
club back, he knew where he would hit it. He saw the draw, the perfect club path
and ball flight that would result in the milliseconds to follow. The two hundred
and ten yards shrank to one as his vision seemed to blur and refocus, appearing
as if right next to him. He swung through. To the spectators around him, it
appeared a blur, nothing more than a specter as the polished steel flashed
through the bright sunlight; and yet to him, he had the time to individually
direct each piece of his swing, perfecting it while in motion. The ball traced
the path from his mind’s eye, seeming to drift like a leaf through the dappled
light around the green. It landed, hopped once, spun back and rolled closer
towards the hole. Teetering on the edge, he proffered a quick prayer to anyone
listening to just award him this one moment, this one victory over the game he
had given so much. And it fell. It took what seemed to be forever for the ball to
drop in the cup, but yet it fell. It fell, and he knew that he had won. The Masters
was his, and he had accomplished his dream.
th
e M
US
E
�3
Katie Cunningham
apache wolf
illustrator
-
th
e M
US
E
�5
J e n ny badamo ch i r
I am sorry that I didn’t say goodbye
I didn’t know, I should’ve lied
If I would’ve known how hard
it would be
I would’ve soared the sky
and sailed the sea.
That day, that night, that moment,
you and I
Should’ve never met
if I knew I’d die.
And now I see your broken soul
Deafened and drenched
in your heart I stole.
I waited for you
in that moment of crash
Who would’ve known
I’d be buried in ash.
Why didn’t I see it coming,
watching over youwhy was it me
Why am I now catching my breath
in the dead sea?
The thing I need to hear
is from you now-
Please don’t cry
and sorrow your sow
Move on without me, live your life
Have a happy ending with no strife.
If you get this letter
please don’t let it go
Keep it with you, keep it safe,
but please know
I loved you, I always have,
and forever will
I know it’s long but I’ll wait here,
not up there,
Here, watching over you.
th
e M
US
E
�4
Elizabeth Camiletti
relaxing on the rr
ink and watercolor
-
t
he
M
US
E
�6
O l i v e r Thor um
I am the light in the dark.
I wonder if I will ever leave a mark.
I hear the calling of the ghost,
I see him searching for the one he loved most.
I want to help the old dog bark.
I am the light in the dark.
I pretend to do all my work.
I feel the shadows that silently lurk.
I touch the rough stones of the wall.
I worry for those who don’t give their all.
I cry for the ones who didn’t make the ark.
I am the light in the dark.
I understand people in pain,
I see how hard it can be to stay sane.
I dream for the day I make something of the world.
I try to see myself as a leaf being twirled.
I hope life will just be a walk in the park.
I am the light in the dark.
I am . . .
th
e M
US
E
�7
Nathaniel Wulff
the mind
photography
-
t
he
M
US
E
�8
Evan Dermott
sight
monotype
th
e M
US
E
�9
S i e r ra Ehr i c h
Her name is Kyra. Dressed in an
oddly simple black dress, she stood
in front of a mansion in the middle
of nowhere, debating on whether to
face her future or not.
I wish I had never turned 18, she
thought, and then the agency never
would have let me go. They would
still have me. I would still have
them.
“Are you coming in, or not?”
a male voice interrupted her
thinking, shattering her train
of thought. Looking around, she
couldn’t see anyone. It must have
been an intercom, she thought.
kyralie “Hello? Anyone here?” she called
out into the silence surrounding
the Victorian décor.
Slowly she turned, getting a feel
for where she would be working for
the rest of her life. Kyra took in
everything, from the paneling of
the walls, to the mantle, and to the
small porthole on the kitchen door.
As she turned her body back
towards the stairs, a figure
suddenly loomed behind her. A
piercing yelp escaped, unwilled
from her lips. Standing right
beside her was a man with startling
green eyes. She hadn’t heard him
(continued)
-
t
he
M
US
E
20
approach, nor had she expected to be
scared like that.
Quickly looking him over, she
noticed he was wearing clothes that
matched the house, Victorian.
Immediately she caught on that he
was scrutinizing her, the same as
she was him, if not more.
“Well,” he said, blowing his
plantimum hair off the perfect,
porcelain skin of his forehead.
“I am Nikolias; you may call me Sir
Nik.”
“Haha ‘Sir?’ Nowhere near.
I’m calling you Nikolias. I don’t
respect you near enough to call you
Sir Nik and I don’t know you—refuse
to know you—to where I can call you
Nik.” His stare was cold, despite
the sweet green color of his eyes.
“Very well then, Miss…?”
“Kyra. My name is Kyralie Lance.
Ignore the last name. All I am is
Kyra. If you do use my last name,
I will refuse to answer anything.
That name is scum. It is nothing to
me now. Nothing.” A flash of sorrow
came to his eyes for a split second,
almost too fast for her to catch.
But right as the emotion came she
saw his eyes—at first impassive and
cold—become a holder of sadness she
thought was not possible. Although
as fast as it came, it was gone once
again.
“Of course it doesn’t matter…
th
e M
US
E
2�
It never did, didt it?” he mumbled
then catching himself he said
louder “Master is expecting you.
Please follow me.” With that, he
started up the stairs, Kyra close
at his heels.
Everywhere she went, she saw
portraits of people through almost
all generations. Glancing around,
Kyra was looking for something that
looked like it came from the last 50
years. Sadly, there was nothing of
the sort around.
Nikolias, noticing that she
kept glancing around, spoke up and
said, “This house was built very
late in the �400’s; in the �800’s
there was fire. I, I mean they,
had to completely redecorate and
rebuild the east wing.” At least he
was trying to be nice, she thought,
and here I was being mean to him.
Trying to pick up the spirit and
make him feel less awkward, Kyra
responded in what she felt was a
chipper happy mood. “Really? That’s
interesting. It feels as though
everything has always been here.
Together.”
As they reached the top of the
stairs Nikolias bowed.
“This is where I leave you.”
Looking baffled, Kyra opened the
only door. The master’s door.
Slowly turning the knob, she peeked
in; the room was empty.
-
t
he
M
US
E
22
th
e M
US
E
23
S arah Dr i s c o l l
“You should never sacrifice your
principles for anyone”
The recurring words
Sounding in my ears
Like a bad dream.
“Catholics have not been saved by God”
She reminded me of a tree
Rooted in her beliefs
Firmly grounded.
“He does not need to go below his
standards”
A fizzling feeling like sour candy on
the tongue
Bubbled inside of me
Teaming with disappointment
My naïve religious equality killed.
Blind sidedThere it was
My religion
Lain out on the table in front of me
It crawled with cires of betrayal
And anger.
More alike, more alike, more alike
We are all more alike
Than we
Think.
We all live, we all die
In-between we need each other.
Together we can wake up out of
The deep sleep of
Prejudice and hate
We are all one big
Family.
Matthew moore
bottles
oil pastel
-
t
he
M
US
E
24
th
e M
US
E
25
th
e M
US
E
24
Keith Pfeiffer
eric
photography
-
Douglas agee
th
e M
US
E
26
th
e M
US
E
27
W i l l i am L u c a s
The maelstrom came that day
Destroying everything in its way
The city above the water
Lost kids, mothers and fathers
We had to make a change
A sort of dock to utopia exchange
One new bastion for a city,
O’ weather take pity,
But was this for good or bad?
Because the government went bad
Putting up surveillance and tapes
So no one made any mistakes
They taught us to speak clear
and coherent
The broken cityAnd these are our parents
They said it was a dawn of a new age
But the malediction was let out of
the cage
Sweeping across every threshold
With no treasures to hold
We may be tyros, we may be new
We may be kids but we are greater
than a few
All the macabre acts by our parents
We will not stand for it
The look like a wraith from behind
But we’ll make it, we’ll stay alive
i am a flower among thermometers
acrylic
-
t
he
M
US
E
28
Baylis Wallenborn
untitled
collage
th
e M
US
E
29
-
t
he
M
US
E
30
Paula pekic
submission
monotype
th
e M
US
E
3�
Em i l y p i l a t
The tangled branch that is the relationship between the sky and the trees
begins in vibrancy. Trees dress themselves in fresh emerald ensembles. While
the sky responds with a flurry of sapphire and starlight. Soon the two are
tangoing about, each swaying with the beat of the wind. In no time at all the
two nested hand in hand with nothing but the warm caressing air and dull chirps
of insects between them.
Their dance soon slows down into a dull twirl, floating about aimlessly. The
trees open their arms welcoming to the sky. Branches bent sky bound looking for
the return of affection they had give out. The sky hears the trees message of
admiration and begins to grow cold and gray. This dreary atmosphere no longer
feels the passion they once did when dressed in their beaming indigo best. The
trees breezes “we love you, we love you, we love you,” and the sky must finally
admit, “I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.”
Trees and sky
-
t
he
M
US
E
32
J e s s i c a a k e r s
You are my love
My only love
I could not
Live without you
Because I would die
Without you.
If you leave me
My heart will break,
But since you love me
My heart is full of
Hope and happiness.
If you ever leave me
I will weep
For eternity.
my love
th
e M
US
E
33
Olgakamenskaya
sunset
fresco
-
t
he
M
US
E
34
Molly Flanigan
Barn owl
monotype
th
e M
US
E
35
C a s s i e Wa l dron
In this world no one can ever be happy.
Hate is something we all have to grow accustomed to. I’m not sure why we
don’t live in a fantasy world where everyone gets along, but I’m extremely
tired of all the hate that has spread around. It started off small with words
and fragments that meant no harm, and then they grew into sentences and
phrases that began to tear apart the gentle souls of everyone we know and
love. If you can tell me that no one has ever said anything to you that tore
you apart inside, you will get to know the feeling soon enough like the rest
of us.
We’re different. We are the people that have been growing up hearing the words
scratch at our brains because everyone out in this world placed them into
our minds to grow. “You’re not good enough” begins at a very young age, and it
matures and it seeps throughout your veins until you ultimately believe it.
No matter what you do, you can’t change what you feel, because you didn’t place
those words in your mind, someone planted them, and there’s no stopping it.
Instead of stopping the hate, we begin to plant those deadly seeds ourselves,
hate
(continued)
-
t
he
M
US
E
36
into anyone and everyone around us.
Love is a word tossed around a lot, and the meaning behind it seems so fragile,
that if we even think it exists it disappears from our grasp. The backbone of
that word was ripped apart by hate, and we are the only people to blame for
that. If anyone out there says they have never planted those hate seeds into
someone’s mind, you’re just denying this whole truth.
That’s who we are; we’re trained to hurt other people, because it masks all the
true feelings from ourselves. We are unable to cope with the inconceivable, so
instead we want others to hurt just as bad as we are, so maybe,
Just maybe...
They’ll get a taste of what it feels like to be
Human.
th
e M
US
E
37
Vannesia Smauldon
misery at its best
photography
-
t
he
M
US
E
38
grace earnhart
walrus
acrylic
th
e M
US
E
39
Made l e i n e g arb er
Catching a soul for a worthy blur,
Imperturbable beats that dare to
hold her,
Like a tyro, with love, a falter
settles,
Refulgent is she, with ephemeral
petals
They fall as you pluck off
She loves me, she loves me not.
Do take all you can for your
indigent heart
But be chary in movement as not to
false start.
Her effrontery will raze you and
turn you around
Leave your soul bleeding, lying
overt on the ground.
Open your face.
cautious infatuationFix her illusory words that pull you
into haze,
Allay your fatuous mind and regain
your steady
Realize that she has always been
ready
As you’ve belabored your furtive
love
She has stolen the halcyon words of
the once broken dove
Exhume the buried “ifs”
And reply with a kiss
Let it be recumbent that she knows,
That she is not alone a figment, but
what you call home.
An inane thought to her it may seem
But you’ll evince with heart soon,
claiming your lead.
-
th
e M
US
E
4�
elizabeth camellitti
adam and the ship
ink
th
e M
US
E
40
grady saunders
hallway
mixed media
-
t
he
M
US
E
42
th
e M
US
E
43
Paris mumpower
new york
photography
kathryn kallam
flower
photography
-
th
e M
US
E
45
ashleigh Starkey
broken girl
charcoal
th
e M
US
E
44
Sarah Zeleznik
fall leaves
colored pencil
-
th
e M
US
E
47
th
e M
US
E
46
sara Jarrett
Jade
photography
paula pekic
lone blossom
photography
-
F i r s t L a s t t
he
M
US
E
48
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
Title of workwriting goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
This is where writing goes. This is
where writing goes. This is where
writing goes. This is where writing
goes. This is where writing goes.
The Muse Staff would like to thank:
alphagraphics
Ms. Angela Brenton
Ms. Erika Lucas
Ms. Rhonda Stegall
The English Department
and all the students for their
contributions to the Muse.
Roanoke County Public Schools does not discriminate with regard to race, color, national origin, sex, or handicapping condition in an educational and/or employment policy or practice. questions and/or complaints should be addressed to the assistant superintendent of administration/title ix coordinator at 540.562.3900 extension 10121 or the director of pupil personnel services/504 coordinator at 540.562.3900 extension 10181.
Muse
Staff
Dylan James
Graphic Design
Keith Pfeiffer
Promotion
Sara Cubberley
Advisor
48
Dylan James
jumbled thoughts
graphic Design
-
Hidden Valley High school5000 Titan Trail
Roanoke Virginia 24018