Editors:
Gabrielle F. is serving her second year on the Literary Magazine staff. She is a dedicated member of Cave Spring High School's Dance Team, serving as Captain her senior year. Gabrielle has a great appreciation for the arts, taking part in various art classes throughout high school. She plans to attend University of Mary Washington in the fall.
Niki F.has been on the Literary Magazine staff since her sophomore year. She is Editor-in-Chief of Cave Spring High School's newspaper, the Knight Letter, and plans to continue studying mass communications at Virginia Commonwealth University in the fall.
Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.
Marissa S.
Banner Design:
Joey M.
Art Director:
Olivia M. is eager to attend James Madison University in the fall. She has a passion for fashion as well as anything else artistic. She is an optimistic, free spirit who embraces all the uncertainties the future holds and can’t wait to see where life will take her.
Teacher Sponsor:
Anne Pfeiffer apfeiffer@rcs.k12.va.us with special help from Pat Carr
Friday, June 18, 2010
Healing Flower, by Tyler W.
Tyler W. is a senior who spends all of her time at work. She spends too much time playling Tetris.
Devon W.
Devon W. is a rising junior interested in expanding and expressing his
talents. He loves to draw, sketch, write poetry, play video games, and bike on cool days. In addition to being an avid student and employee he strong pushes his belief in the aboliton of animal use, period. He’s been a vegan for coming up on two years and couldn’t be prouder of it.
No Runner-Up, by Garrette J.
A rhythmic tapping emanates from a closed, white room. Although the sound is hypnotic, a constant tensity is in the air. But, what is the cause of the feeling? It is nothing more than a mere white ball. A blur as it travels back and forth. It touches the table for just a second, as if it was a kiss, and then leaves again.
Flying through the air, it is struck back down, skimming the table yet again before it leaves. Constantly this pattern repeats hit, table, air, hit, table, air, until suddenly the hit becomes a striking blow. The pattern is changed, but the rhythm remains the same slam, table, air, slam, table, air. Seconds turn into minutes as the ball continues its travel unaware of any higher motives until suddenly, with a flick of a wrist, it spins off course. This time the pattern is broken; this time there is only table and air. The ball bounces to the ground no longer it’s pale white but instead a burning pink. After a few minutes, the lights turn off leaving nothing more than a glowing pink ball in the darkness. Outside the room there are no words only a single handshake, and why? Because in ping-pong, there is no prize for the runner-up.
Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.
Flying through the air, it is struck back down, skimming the table yet again before it leaves. Constantly this pattern repeats hit, table, air, hit, table, air, until suddenly the hit becomes a striking blow. The pattern is changed, but the rhythm remains the same slam, table, air, slam, table, air. Seconds turn into minutes as the ball continues its travel unaware of any higher motives until suddenly, with a flick of a wrist, it spins off course. This time the pattern is broken; this time there is only table and air. The ball bounces to the ground no longer it’s pale white but instead a burning pink. After a few minutes, the lights turn off leaving nothing more than a glowing pink ball in the darkness. Outside the room there are no words only a single handshake, and why? Because in ping-pong, there is no prize for the runner-up.
Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.
By the Sea, by Anna A.
From my bedroom widow I see,
Hidden and cloaked in night.
A glowing city by the sea
Where I shall be by light
Never shall my fantasy be,
So distant from my sight
My life in boxes, I am free,
To leave here if I might
The lights like guides calling me home,
Tapping on my windows,
I feel that I must surely roam,
When the morning sun shows
All that is left, a memory
I fear it is too late.
Where I should be is by the sea
Till light I watch and wait
Hidden and cloaked in night.
A glowing city by the sea
Where I shall be by light
Never shall my fantasy be,
So distant from my sight
My life in boxes, I am free,
To leave here if I might
The lights like guides calling me home,
Tapping on my windows,
I feel that I must surely roam,
When the morning sun shows
All that is left, a memory
I fear it is too late.
Where I should be is by the sea
Till light I watch and wait
What Happens When You Notice Everything, by Holly P.
Stare at the table,
Listening to the scribbling
The clicks of misguided fingers
Writing
The sound of shattering
I watch the clear glass,
Liquid splashing over the sides as
It tilts,
Crashing to the ground
In a violent beautiful way
Like writing
Words spilling on to page
Thought after thought
Word after conspicuous word
Because you can not rest
Until your mind quiets
Lulling you with the dull hum of nothing
My parchment
Is ruined
Ink smeared
Running
Look out the window,
Snowing for days and days
Has finally stopped itself
But the cold
Expectant
Air
Grips
Like a blanket
Something needs to happen
A storm
Blizzard
Explosion of
Sound
A pen drops
And my thoughts are interrupted
I stare surprised
And watch as the pen rolls away from me
What are we doing?
We should be writing,
But writing revolves around thinking
And that I can not do.
Listening to the scribbling
The clicks of misguided fingers
Writing
The sound of shattering
I watch the clear glass,
Liquid splashing over the sides as
It tilts,
Crashing to the ground
In a violent beautiful way
Like writing
Words spilling on to page
Thought after thought
Word after conspicuous word
Because you can not rest
Until your mind quiets
Lulling you with the dull hum of nothing
My parchment
Is ruined
Ink smeared
Running
Look out the window,
Snowing for days and days
Has finally stopped itself
But the cold
Expectant
Air
Grips
Like a blanket
Something needs to happen
A storm
Blizzard
Explosion of
Sound
A pen drops
And my thoughts are interrupted
I stare surprised
And watch as the pen rolls away from me
What are we doing?
We should be writing,
But writing revolves around thinking
And that I can not do.
Holly P. is a hair standing on edge; tripping over people tripping over shoe laces and face planting teenager who’s out of place and wears jeans covered in paint too often. She’ll always be a writer because she can never seem to pull the right words out of her brain at the right time. With out writing down her thoughts she’d probubly loose her mind.
Plastic Cups, by Tyler W.
Tyler W.is a senior who spends all of her time at work. She spends too much time playling Tetris.
Little Lion, by Zoe N.
Hands, slender, free of flaws,
Occasional bruise.
Velvet skin wrapping bones
Structured fine.
Smoothly sifting through hair
Searching for no end.
Moving from fingers to scalp
To fingers to flesh.
Fingertips of Little Lion
Prowling through a jungle
Of tangled hair
And consumed thoughts.
Downward, to a freckled back,
Grazing shoulders, wracked
With the dull pains of the day
Hands will mend.
If I could
Let these hands, Go
Infinite. Never stopping.
Please?
A loosened grip, my plea denied.
Hands resume, casually.
My Little Lion
Answers.
Occasional bruise.
Velvet skin wrapping bones
Structured fine.
Smoothly sifting through hair
Searching for no end.
Moving from fingers to scalp
To fingers to flesh.
Fingertips of Little Lion
Prowling through a jungle
Of tangled hair
And consumed thoughts.
Downward, to a freckled back,
Grazing shoulders, wracked
With the dull pains of the day
Hands will mend.
If I could
Let these hands, Go
Infinite. Never stopping.
Please?
A loosened grip, my plea denied.
Hands resume, casually.
My Little Lion
Answers.
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