Cover Art: Drowning in Myself by Emma Rheault

Cover Design and Graphics: Rob Ford

 SPARK Spring 2016

STAFF
Megan Kim
Abbie Hocking
Amanda Armas
Andrew Ford
Christina Cannon

ADVISORS
Casey Mayben
Chris Hillis

Spark is the student-run literary arts journal of

Cascade Christian High School, Medford, Oregon.
Material appearing in Spark is selected anonymously.
Staff submissions are selected anonymously by school faculty readers.
Send any questions and feedback to the editor at spark.litmag@gmail.com.
Copyright Spark 2016 Cascade Christian High School
Spark

EDITORS NOTE
Spark (v): to ignite

When I first visualized a Cascade Christian literary magazine, to ignite was one of
the earliest title concepts to occur to me. I wanted to begin something that would spread
like a wildfire. Sparks. Snippets of creativity exposed to the world. Vulnerability. The human
experience embedded in paper. Dialogue. Matches made of words and images with the ability
to set the school ablazenot to burn it down, but to heat it up. To illuminate it.

This edition of Spark is the first. Its a trial run, a debut with the potential to either
fail or grow into something greater. Its up to you, the readers. How will you react? Will
you run, seeking shelter in safe, well-worn thought paths? Will you pour water over the
tiny flickers reaching to you this kindling, snuffing it out? Or will you cultivate the conflagration,
passing a torch of conversation from one student to the next? Will you feed logs to the
hungry embers of human expression? Its time to decide.

What awaits you within the pages of Spark is a range of literary and visual arts from
voices you already know. Now is your chance to hear them in a new way. Listen. Warm
your hands and hearts over their ideas. Inhale their smoke. Once youve heard, let them
boil within you. Let them change you. Add to the narrative. Or dont. But at least open
your eyes to read, open your minds to think, and open your mouth to thank the Creator
for inspiring His Creation to create. And let them try.

Megan Kim | Editor-in-Chief

THANKS
We would like to express our gratitude toward the students of CCHS.
The following people have our sincere thankswe couldnt have done it without you:
Mrs. Mayben and Mr. Hillis, our brilliant advisors.
Mrs. Rickabaugh, Dr. Long, Mr. Fennell, Mrs. Phillips, Mr. Mills,
and the English department.
Debbi Armas, Lori Toombs, Rob Ford, the Kim family, and Abigail Long.
Finally, a huge and heartfelt thank you to Rick Moir for his generosity.

4
 CONTENTS

Poetry
DeeperAustin Nachbur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Wilted HeroesMaeve Payne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
PrecipiceAmanda Armas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
QuestionEmilee Kuyper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
BrokenAnonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
ParisMadeline Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Fiction
ImmortalSara Shelton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Dear HalmoniMegan Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Emerald LaneRebecca Emerson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Ex NebulumAndrew Ford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28

Creative Nonfiction
Skipping Class to SurfMr. Scott Mills (Vol. 1 Teacher Feature) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
When Tyler Met HannahAbigail Hocking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Photography
Beauty in Small ThingsGrace Boisen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
PerspectiveGrace Boisen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Lost CreekMatthew Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Snow DayDanielle Maheu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Bench with FlowersChristina Cannon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Bridge ReflectionChristina Cannon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

Art
Drowning in MyselfEmma Rheault . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cover
Audrey HepburnLauryn Squyres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
ArchitectureEmilie Copley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
We Dont Believe Whats On TVMaeve Payne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Rising AboveCici Yang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
ReminisceJulie Buck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

5
 power muse speaker
stanza narrative
pentameter

perspective
rhythm
POETRY
verse sonnet
life

language
imagery

emotion

Joy. Sorrow. Relief. Guilt. Fear. Pride. Nostalgia. Pain.

Emotions reborn as words.
Language, undiluted, stripped down to its essence.
Whether we are overflowing with glee over a remarkable achievement
or sobbing hysterically in the midst of heartbreaking tragedy,
words can become our catharsis
verse by verse by verse.
An unrestrictive art, alive and potent,
Poetry is
relied upon by those who write away their troubles in free verse or elegy,
enjoyed by those who seek laughter in limericks and haikus,
adored by those who sing of unrequited love in ballads and sonnets.
Poetry is
all-inclusive,
an outlet through which we bleed ink and stanzas
that have the power to influence and inspire others
and ourselves.
So please, take a moment to invest.
Invest in the voices of others hearts.

Abbie Hocking | Poetry Editor

7
Spark
DEEPER
Austin Nachbur
The surface glimmers with
A sprinkling of Stardust,
Remnants of glory gone.
Tears of ethereal
Sky, where the stars did play.
Faceless and nameless, one
Amongst the millions,
I seek something more.
There must be something more,
Deeper, Deeper I must go.
The first level below
The ground, a cavern wide
And long, though lacking depth,
Held gems and crystals bright.
But these fair things melted
If held in hand too long.
Temporary treasures,
Faded quickly, empty.
There must be something more,
Deeper, Deeper I must go.
The next caves uncovered
Were vast and unexplored,
I could spend years within.
But the deeper I delved
The greater I felt an
Inexplicable warmth.
I knew somehow I had
To find its source below.
There must be something more,
Deeper, Deeper I must go.
8
Farther down, further in,
I chased the growing warmth.
Past fading pleasures brief
I sought the blazing heat.
The deeper caves began
To glow with firy light
Shadows danced along the walls
Just one more depth to seek
There must be something more,
Deeper, Deeper I must go.
The fire blazed, I had
Come so close, and stepped,
Where I thought the blaze had
Dwelt and fell, down, down, down
And hit the ice-cold ground.
The flame was a lie,
The heat a faade,
Deceived, I had lost all.
There must be something more,
But nowhere left to go.
There I lay in silence
Hopeless, freezing, dying
As I watched the stars so
Far high above my fall
No one would save me now
But lo, it could not be
As I watched the breaking
Dawn, something, someone, who?
Is there anything more?
How much deeper must I go?
 Poetry

A hand reached from above

Arrayed in warming light
Come to me, called a voice,
And have rest for your soul
Torn I was, as dying
Lay, smote by my own fall
All I had to do was
Reach out my hand in faith

Yes, there was something more.

But higher, higher I did go.

9
Spark

WILTED HEROES
Maeve Payne

Faces sneer down at me,

Chewing flowers to the bones
As I bathe in false tranquility.
I step bare-footed on the white-hot stone
As I avoid their grasping hands and hear their groans
And whimpers; I listen but do not act.
I weep and writhe at the utterance of their moans.
In my ears, the sounds cataract and blur, fusing into one
As the dances of the dead and forgotten simmer,
Their feet resonating and churning in a frantic symphony.
Their falsified coats of heroism shimmeriridescent shells.
Those who join the dance turn their blades upon themselves
And begin to move their feet;
Their vessels now silent
And still.

10
 Poetry

PRECIPICE
Amanda Armas

I step along the shoreline

The water looks so nice
It seems to beckon
With its perpetual ups and downs
Pushing and pulling

It reminds me of myself

I see a seashell on the seashore

Sounds like a tongue-twister I would repeat
Over and over and over
Seashells on the seashore
Seashells on the seashore...
I hold it close to my ear
I dont hear the ocean

I hear voices

I put it down
I lose my footing
for a moment, the world is wrong
The sky is in the sea, and the sea becomes the sky
But... maybe thats right
I cant remember
My eyes deceive me of late

And my brain hasnt flipped things around yet

I get back on my feet

The sand feels like a bed of hot coals
Like Im walking on thin ice
But that doesnt make sense now
Does it?
What does make sense?

11
Spark

What is sense?

I see a rock and I start to climb

I look downthats a mistake
Im so high up
How will I get down?
I could climb down
I could jump down

Maybe I could fly down

No, this doesnt feel right...

Somethings off
If I back down Ill lose my way
If I jump, the wind wont take me
If I spread my arms out and step off
This narrow ledge,
This precipice,
I wont fly

How will I get down?

I sit and think

The sun goes down
The world is submerged in moonlight
When I finally realize how to get down:
Ill wait

Ill wait for someone to find me.

12
 Poetry

QUESTION
Emilee Kuyper

The words that prod the mind

Then plead with the mouth
They hide behind our thoughts,
Waiting to be chosen, selected,
Given their final shape as they
Pass through the lips
And become
Real.

It is primal knowledge that every question

Asked is not in its original form.
For it is the tongue that takes
Simple, curious words and twists them,
Stretching them into
Something Ugly and Hateful
Or maybe
Something Beautiful and Kind
Or further, into more important questions,
Ones that should be asked more often
To heal or uncover secrets
Or pull away a mask.

Most questions do not care how they are formed.

Whether they are hateful or kind
It does not matter to them.
They leave the mouth with haste,
Colliding with the Answer and then
Dissipating into the nothingness of
Forgetting.

13
Spark

But there are some questions

That are rarely acknowledged as they sit silently
Waiting in the far corners of the mind.
These questions want to exit the mouth with
Fierce gentleness and dance with the Answer
Not to be forgotten, but to be contemplated.
To dig deep into the soul and create what must be created
Or else destroyed or unveiled.

But those questions are seldom seen or heard of.

They know their time and place,
But their vessels do not.
The questions often wonder why they are ignored,
Held back.
But perhaps the fear is ingrained within the vessels themselves,
A fear
Not of the Question, but of

The Answer.

14
 Poetry

BROKEN
Anonymous

Loving is Meaningless
Because Love is Broken
I do not believe that
I will find the Sweetness in its Sting and be Sincerely Loved
For
Love is Pain
And yes
Lovers are Broken
I, a wounded animal, and my fellow
Humans Need to be Loved
This is a fallacy
Survival is the Necessity
I myself am not willing to Sacrifice my own Heart
If
I cant expect to receive someones own Alive, Beating Love
Be Vulnerable and others will Expose their Essence
This is a Lie
This World is Empty, containing no Sincerity, no Purity
To say
Love Transforms, Heals, and Unites
How nearsighted.
Taking without Renewing
I refuse to solely focus on its temporary effects
Tender Intimacy and Passion
I wont forget
But also
Fleeting Fullness and Emptiness
Not
Thriving
Now no longer Surviving
Love had is Life
Dead
No longer living to Be

Only through selfless Sacrifice can a good, full life be attained, for a life not lovely and one
that is will both end in death; thus, life solely seeking Survival is pointless. This narrow
perspective on love must be reversed. [now read from bottom to top]

15
Spark

PARIS
Madeline Kim

Because Paris is dangerously ugly

in your mind

Theres never been a prettier sight than that of Paris

the pictures never do it justice.
You do all the traditional sightseeingbecause, really, its Paris
and you find yourself falling in love
with the city of lights and its vibrant heart.

You spend most of your time drowning

In the beauty of Paris and the beauty of its people
so really, its no surprise that, when an older French boy smiles charmingly at you,
you let him buy you dinner.
Hes perfect in every sense of the word
opening doors and pulling out chairs for you
and maybe thats why youre wary.
(Or maybe its just because everything in Paris seems perfect to a fault).
But, in spite of this, you let him take you up the Eiffel tower and kiss you,
whispering three little words that come out so smoothly
youre sure theyve all too often graced his tongue.
And you decide Paris is pretty enough,
enough for you to stay awhile.

There is a lingering feeling of disappointment that you

cannot quite shake off from your vacant bones.
It claws its way up your aching throat
and ignites a fire in your mouth.
The fire burns away your doubts, though, and you cannot complain.
The air feels thicker around you,
but the people in Paris move in and out of your life so easily,
like you are nothing more than a hotel with rooms
that are pretty enough to waste a night in.

16
 Poetry

The familiarity of it drags you into memories that twist and pull at your heart.
Your mouth curls around the acrid taste of smoke as
it snakes between the seams of doubt,
And you decide Paris is pretty enough,
enough for you to waste all your nights in.

But the lights begin to blind you,

and everything feels so wrong, that soon,
you find yourself longing to return
to the home you were trying to escape from in the first place.
Because although home means shackled wrists and shackled dreams,
it is Paris where your mind unraveled
and your world fell out of alignment,
and you realized that you had been running from
everything and nothing.

So you make bad choices and do stupid things,

and you feel better (really, you do)
until night descends and you drown
in the dread and the guilt that ride the waves of darkness.
Paris is dulling your troubles, not causing them
at least, thats what you keep telling yourself,
swearing it has nothing to do with the damage you have sustained
(though maybe it has everything to do with it).

Nothing really seems to matter anymore,

and you find yourself not caring,
destroying your mind in the sickeningly beautiful glow that is Paris.
It is called the City of Love
but you cannot even fathom the reason for its title
because for you, it is the City of Black,
insane in every way.
You suppose you should leave,
but you cannot quite bring yourself
to let go;
after all, a place so loved by the world surely cannot contain
as much cruelty as your twisted morals insist it does.

17
Spark

She calls you, asks you how it is,

and you lie, telling her its magnificent.
But it isnt a lienot reallybecause it is magnificent:
magnificently tragic.
You can hear the longing dripping from her careful words,
and you promise to paint her a picture
of the lights reflecting off the Seine; that pleases her.
So as the sun falls,
you sit down at your window and paint what you promised,
vowing to make it all as pretty as it should be;
shes sure to flash her bright smile when she sees it.

But your mouth sits in a grim line

as your brush skates across the surface of the canvas
and your shading is too dark
and your lines are too harsh.
You cant quite complete the painting the way you wanted
Because Paris may appear lovely and picturesque,
serene as a sleeper,
but beneath the surface it is not quite right:
There is chaos where there should be calm,
there is black where there should be light.

And your painting is twisted,

the image disturbing, but only
if you look a little too closely.
It can appear beautiful at first glance.
But then again,
so can a nightmare.

18
 character theme point of view short stories denouement

FICTION
epiphany
romance plot
fantasy
imagination hero
allegory literature thriller antagonist development

Once upon a time, a little girl moved her feet. Eventually, others joined in, creating
a graceful ballet of ideas and building up a city of words that became almost real.

Once upon a time, an old woman moved her mouth. Her lips formed syllables and
wove them together into breathing tapestries. They floated through the airsightless but
not soundlessand planted themselves in the hard ground. This seed of creativity grew
into a flowering tree that flourished under the rain of many retellings and alterations, until
it bore fruit that produced an entire forest.

Once upon a time, at the edge of the horizon, where the water falls off the edge of the
earth, a young man moved his hand. By the soft tangerine glow of a single flame, gripping
a feather dipped in drops of midnight, he infused a parchment with a little piece of his soul,
clothing it in rich robes of imagination.

Once upon a time, someone told a story. The story entered the world like a pebble into
the ocean, and from it sprang ripples that reached far and wide. For some, it offered escape.
For others, it offered truth. For many, it offered both.

It began with Once upon a time. But it will not conclude with The End. So long as
a story exists in human memory, it is not over.

Amanda Armas | Fiction Editor

19
Spark

IMMORTAL
Sara Shelton

F ather Time has not been kind to the old man. His hair is sparse and grey; his skin
is leathered and wrinkled. His eyes are sunk in, surrounded by dark circles, and have taken
on the rheumy cast of the blind. His bones have become frail and his once strong muscles
can now barely help him to stand.
There was a time when his now stooped back had stood tall, and his arthritic hands
had been able to buck hay and feed the horses and milk the cows. There was a time that he
could stand unaided and direct about those under his control. He could ride all day and
work all night. He would take on coyotes and brave the fiercest storm on a cattle drive
without a second thought.
This all, of course, when he was immortal.
Old Man Winter has seen the elderly lady a few too many times. Her skin is loose on
her fragile bones, hanging off her like an old sweater. Her shoulders droop under a lifetime
of gravity pulling her down, never to let her rise again. Her hair is only a wisp she would
rather hide than show. Her nose is now hooked and her lips are a single, hard line above a
once proud chin.
Those same lips were once full and had laughed all night long under the lights of the
city that never sleeps. Her feet, which she can now barely walk on, had borne her weight to
every party worth making an appearance at. Her lungs, that have now betrayed her to never
ending fits of coughing, had been able to bellow out notes in a song that no one else could
hit. And her eyes, which now see almost nothing, had taken in the finest sights that were
ever known to man.
This all, of course, when she was immortal.
Mother Nature clasps the young woman to her bosom. Her hair is full and lush,
catching every ray of light. Her teeth are white, her lips are full, and her smile could blot
out the sun. Her energy never ceases and her laugh dazzles. Her eyes sparkle like stars
and her skin gleams like the moon.
Little does this young woman know that Mother Natures favor is ever fleeting. Her hair
will thin, her teeth will yellow, and her energy will cease. Her eyes will lose their sparkle and
her skin will wrinkle. Her body will betray her to ailments she doesnt even know exist. When
she enters the room, people will stop looking. When she laughs, people will stop listening.
But she does not know this, and if she does, she cares not to think about it. For that day
could never come. She could never end up like those old folks she sees walking down the
street every day. They are crippled and old and she will gladly help them cross the street,
but that will never be her. She is too strong, too young, too vibrant.
This all, of course, because she is immortal.
20
 Fiction

DEAR HALMONI
Megan Kim
March 2, 2005
Dear Halmoni,
I am ten years old today. I wish I could celebrate my birthday in Korea with you,
instead of here in Medford. Maybe you would make me a birthday meal, with seaweed
soup and noodles. Umma says you are a great cook. She says she thinks your kimchi must
have a special ingredient in it or maybe just a lot of love, because she has never had kimchi
as good as yours.
I am tired of school, but its not because I dont want to learn. I do like learning,
especially math. I like numbers because they make sense. People dont add up nicely like
numbers. Most times they dont add up at all. Maybe this is why I am tired of school.
It could just be that Im ten now so things are different, but I feel like Im starting to
notice stuff I never noticed before. There are a lot of kids in my class, almost thirty, but
none of them look like me. Most of them have light skin and light hair. There is one boy
with brown skin. He gets teased a lot, which doesnt make sense to me, because he is much
nicer than some of the other boys, and smarter, too.
The other day Chloe asked me if I was Chinese. Shes never talked to me before. I didnt
understand why she thought I was Chinese. No, I said. Im half Korean. My mom was
born in South Korea. I told her you are still there, too. I said, Someday Im going to visit
my grandma in Seoul.
Whats Korea? she asked, and I laughed because I thought she must be joking.
Its a country in Asia, I said. Next to China.
Oh. Well you have Chinese eyes, she said. I probably smiled. I dont really remember.
It was recess, so she ran off to the playground.
Are my eyes Chinese? What makes a persons eyes anything but her own? I always thought
I had Rowan eyes. And Sage has Sage eyes, and Umma has Umma eyes, and Daddy has Daddy
eyes, and you have Halmoni eyes.
Halmoni, what was it like when you were in school? Did people say you had Chinese
eyes? Umma said that when you were my age, Japan had annexed Korea (Im still not sure
what this means) and that you had to learn Japanese in school and use a Japanese name.
She told me this in a sad voice. If it makes you sad, please let me know. I wont bring it up
again. Anyway, did you get asked strange questions like I do?
Ill write again soon. Im practicing my hangul, so maybe my next letter will be partly
in Korean.
Love,
Rowan
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September 24, 2006

Dear Halmoni,
Thank you so much for the postcard from your vacation! Maybe someday we can
take that trip to Jeju Island together, and walk on the beach. I would like that. I would
like to meet you. And Jeju looks so green and lovely. Exotic. Thats a word I hear a lot.
I only just now learned how to use it well in a sentence. It was one of our vocabulary
words in English class.
Its not a new word for me, though. I get called oftenprobably at least once a month.
People usually say it like a compliment, so I always thought it meant something like beautiful.
But thats not what it means at all. Do you think it is a compliment, Halmoni? How do you
say it in Korean? Have you been called exotic, too?
Sage is ten now. He is a tall boy, and his hair is lighter than mine. He has never been
called exotic. But by the time I was eight, it had become normal for me. Umma gets called
exotic too, sometimes. Never by Dad. Dad always calls her beautiful. But other men and
women say shes exotic. Its always the first word they use. She sort of bobs her head and
thanks them, but her smile doesnt seem to turn on those lights she has in her eyes.
Sometimes they ask if she is Chinese. Then she doesnt smile at all.
I am in fifth grade now, and we are learning about World War II. The kids have started
playing Pearl Harbor at recess. My great-grandpa on Daddys side was killed in that attack
did you know this? I didnt, until recently, but I am proud he died for this country. In our
game, the boys are always the sailors trapped on the ships. But in my classmates version
of that day, they blow all the Japs out of the air and save the fleet. They always ask if I want
to be a Japanese bomber. Every day. The other kids take turns being Japs and Americans,
but I never get a choice. I stopped playing. I get a weird feeling when my classmates say
Japs. Its a sad feeling, I guess. Hard to describe. Umma doesnt like the Japanese much,
and I know you dont either. But I hope that one day you will be friends, and everyone
will smile more often.
Im not too upset about changing my recess plans. I like doing Sudoku better, anyway.
Im good at numbers. Even my teachers say so. Mrs. Tyler said she could tell from the moment
she first saw me that I would be good at math. I was a little confused. Do people who are
good at math look a certain way? Are you good at math, Halmoni? I smiled at Mrs. Tyler,
that one smile that Umma does that stops before it gets past her lips. I was glad to hear
I looked like a math person. I just hope it doesnt mean I dress like a nerd. Maybe its
because I wear glasses.

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There is a Chinese boy at my school now. Avery Lee. He does not get called exotic. He
gets called Chink when the teachers arent around. That word gives me the same feeling
Jap does. Kids talk about his eyes a lot. I guess maybe he has Chinese eyes, since his parents
are from China. But I think he has Avery eyes, just like I have Rowan eyes.
I have been asking to visit you in Korea. Daddy said, Maybe when youre older.
I will keep asking.
Love,
Rowan

May 5, 2007
Dear Halmoni,
Being half Korean is important to me. I wouldnt change it. But I have to tell you,
there are times when I wish that I had blonde hair. And someone elses eyes, eyes that
never get called Chinese. The boys at my school are starting to ask out some of the girls,
even though they are only in sixth grade. They flirt with the girls they think are pretty.
They never flirt with me. Exotic doesnt matter. It never meant beautiful to begin with.
I dont care, not really. Theyre all annoying, anyway.
I wonder how my life would be if I looked more like those pretty blonde girls at my school.
Would I be a completely different person? Or would I only be different on the outside? How
much does appearance matter? Actually, I know now that it matters quite a bit. It took me
twelve years to really understand that, Halmoni. And I almost wish I never did.
I cut bangs last weekstraight across my forehead, like when I was little. I think its a
good hairstyle for me. When I got to school, my friend Maya said I looked cute. But then
she kind of scrunched up her nose like she smelled something she didnt like and said,
No offense, but those bangs make you look more Asian. I didnt say anything. Why should
I take offense? If I am part Asian, why shouldnt I look it? In fact, she was the one that
seemed offended. Maybe she wishes her friend had soft, light brown hair like her.
Umma got off work early the other day, and she picked me up from school for the first
time all year. Usually I take the bus. When she pulled up, one of my classmates was staring
at her. Then, he turned to stare at me. Rowan, is that your mom? he asked. I told him it was.
Whoa! I always thought you were adopted from China or something! I laughed with him,
but I didnt really feel like laughing. I felt tired, instead. Does your mom speak Chinese?
he asked.
No, I said. She isnt Chinese.

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Really? he asked, and he looked surprised. I couldnt tell. Ya know, because all
Asians look the same? I didnt say goodbye to him. I just got in the car with Umma, and
we drove home.
I dont mean to complain to you, Halmoni. Im just confused. I used to think that in
America, racism stopped after Martin Luther King Jr. got people to listen. But now I know
I was wrong. Really wrong.
Does what I go through count as racism? It feels like it, in the pit of my stomach. It
felt like it when Nick Jackson asked if I was related to Kim Jong-il in math class, and then
called all Koreans crazy in science class and everyone laughed. It felt like it when I told
Veronica Sutton I wanted to be Rapunzel in the school play, and she told me the only way
I could get the main part was if we were doing Mulan. It felt like it in the girls bathroom
when the girls were talking about boys and they said Avery Lee might be cute if he didnt
look so oriental.
It all adds up now. I usually like when things add up, because that usually means
Ive found the solution to the problem. But with this, finding the sum hasnt made me
any happier.
Im still asking Dad and Umma about visiting Korea. Theyre still saying, When
youre older. Really, I think they just want to wait until Sage is older. He cant sit still for
two minutes, much less fifteen hours in a plane.
Love,
Rowan

February 15, 2012

Dear Halmoni,
I am leaving this letter in my room, so that you will find it when I go back home to
Medford. I will forever be grateful for the hospitality you have shown me the past sixth
months. I guess this is my thank-you note, in a way. These are thoughts I will probably
never express to anyone else, but you have always been a part of this journey with me,
even back when Umma had to translate my letters into Korean for you.
At first, I wondered if studying in Seoul as an exchange student was a mistake. I did
want to visit you, of course. And Umma has spoken both Korean and English to me all
my life, so it has not been hard to learn enough Korean to get by in my new high school.
But I was nave. I thought that maybe here, where everyone has hair like mine and
eyes like mine, I would feel more like I belonged. But here, most people have hair a little
thicker than mine and eyes a little more Chinese than mine. My classmates are kind
enough, usually. Some of them make fun of my American accent and when Im clueless
about something, there are jokes about me being a foreigner.

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 Fiction

I am half white. Here, they wont let me forget that. I am half Korean. At home in
America, they wont let me forget that. And I take back what I said at the beginning, about
my school year in Korea being a mistake. I do not regret it because it has changed my life.
That might sound dramatic, but its true. I relied for so long on math, got stuck on the term
half. Half implies less than a whole. But now, I realize that being biracial does not somehow
make me less than a whole person. It does not mean I do not belong in Medford and it does
not mean I do not belong in Seoul. I belong in both, or somewhere else entirely, if somewhere
else is where I choose. I am not worth less than someone fully Asian, and I am not worth
less than someone fully white, and I am not worth any more than them, either. I do not
need to have a split identity or be two identities sharing one body.
I like definite answers, so heres a fact: the origin of my blood matters to the world.
Most days, it matters to me, too. But it doesnt need to.
Another fact: I am wholly myself.
Your loving granddaughter,
Rowan Ki-Seung Reid

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Spark

EMERALD LANE
Rebecca Emerson

A t its prime, Emerald Lane was a thing of beauty. Before the touch of humans,
it was a forest, covered from crown to root in thriving plant life. The only sounds were
natures own orchestra; the sing-song chirping of birds, the rushing of water, and the slow,
fragile journey of leaves falling to the forest floor. The forest was proud of its astounding
features, especially the ancient trees that had embedded their roots centuries ago. Before
humanitys touch, they stood proud and tall, changing with the seasons but never losing
their allure.

The earliest explorers were careful to treat the land with the respect that it deserved.
They were nature folk, a nomadic people that traversed the known world to explore its
wonders. One vital part of their moral code to treat the land as they would a host. They
disturbed nothing, going so far as to consume only raw food and sleep on the ground. In
return, the forest was delighted to provide them with safe passage. When it had not felt
the gentle footsteps of the nomads for an extended number of years, the native inhabitants
of the forest reached out to its migrant visitors: the bees that carried pollen to the surrounding
forests, the birds who signaled the coming of winter and spring, and the scaled beauties
of the river. Upon the return of these messengers, the forest wept. They told of horrible
tragedies, of the war and disease that had wiped out the people almost entirely. For days,
the flowers refused to bloom, and the trees hung their branches towards the ground wet
with dew.

With war came a need for resources. In a measure of time that was frighteningly swift,
even for the ancient forest, humans invaded the land. The proud trees were cut down to
create pikes, catapults, and fuel for night-time fires. Flowers were trampled, some plucked
between the shaking fingers of child soldiers who saw an echo of the innocence that they
had lost in the delicate petals. The war was over in the blink of an eye, and the forest held
no grudge. It cradled the bodies of the fallen soldiers tenderly, wrapping them in blankets
of earth and creating new flowers from the graves.

For some time, the land was silent. It began to holds its breath, listening for the
ominous footsteps and the drunken shouts of human soldiers. The forest worked tirelessly
to replace the life that had been taken from it, slowly regaining the beauty that it had
boasted of so vehemently.

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 Fiction

In the second war, the humans brought a level of noise that forced even the bravest
animals to retreat to safety. Gunshots rang out through the forest amid shouting from
trenches dug deep into the ground, where the soldiers would use the strongest roots for
balance and leverage. The forest felt pain of the most awful sort, the kind that echoed
through its very core and prompted cries for mercy. Its screams were louder, but no less
agonized, than those of the flowers and animals that called it home. This war left the forest
in tatters, its soil struggling to produce the winsome flowers and berry bushes for the
wounded animal population.

The next humans to arrive called themselves industrialists. They wanted to pave a
road through the broken forest and set up a booming town that would fill their pockets to
bursting. Slowly, they did just that. What started as a small road between towns evolved
into a metropolis, covered increasingly from one end to the other in shopping centers and
gated communities as humanity progressed. The forest could only watch in horror as large
machines rolled into the earth, cutting down trees and hauling them away in skeletal
looking things that smelled of smoke and death. As for the animals, they were drawn out
of their homes and shot. Some were treated respectfully, and no part of them was wasted,
but the vast majority became mantle pieces, rugs, or coats for the wealthy.

Before long, only tiny bits and pieces of the original forest remained. Saplings and
bulbs were introduced to the land, but the unfamiliarity was so overwhelming that the
survivors only wept louder. They began to wither and decay, infected with depression, until
they became unsightly and were hauled away in the moving skeletons. Cries of anguish and
mourning were the only music now, drowned out by the life of the bustling city. This life
had throughly replaced the one before it, suffocating the land until only scraps remained.

The last colossal tree, now surrounded by the relentless drone of traffic and heavy
smog, no longer stands proud. It weeps for its fallen brethren, for every last flower that was
trampled upon, for every animal that was slaughtered for sport, and for every moment
it yearns to feel silence and tranquility again. A small memorial was built at the corner
of Emerald Lane and Chestnut Street, it expresses grief for the fallen, gratitude for their
service, and the sacrifice of their lives. No condolences were given to the forest, stripped
of its beauty and left to die.

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EX NEBULUM
Andrew Ford

Watching them burn had become his favorite activity. Sometimes it took as long
as an hour. Other days, only a few minutes. The flames licked up their arms like glowing
fingers, eager to tear the flesh off their bones. But they were already dead. Pale. Motionless.
He was certain of that.
The amber glow painted dancing shadows on his soft, young face. No one knew his
name, including himself. He was maybe nineteen years old, but that too was just as uncertain.
He was the furnace boy, and that was all that mattered. He had been taught how to burn
the bodies of the undesirables. Once the foul smelling carcasses had been reduced to nothing
but a fine dust and wisp of smoke, he swept the cinders from the concrete furnace, then
filled the bronze containers to the brim with the remains. And afterward, he would attach
urn after urn to drone after drone.
The metallic buzzards would glide, as they always had, to the far reaches of the grey city, to
the damp, acrid streets where the gutters overflowed with waste. They bore their once human
burden to the walled-off districts, crowded with rotting men and women who had dared to resist
authority. Upon reaching their destination, they arced downward, making a beautiful display
like a flock of birds, and the ashes rained from the sky. The salt-and-pepper flakes of charred
flesh fell in slow motion upon the people that had once been their lovers, wives, sons, and sisters.
It served as a reminder of who was in control. Of the fat men in the Primary Council, wearing
their pressed suits and looking down crooked noses at the ruin below their silver towers.
They were the men who played like the false gods of old, dabbling with humanity for
their own entertainment and profit.
But recently, they had been shut away, locking themselves within their glimmering
towers, afraid.
No, not afraid. Gods cant show fear, not to the face of their subjects.
Rumors had been running through the city, trickling down the hierarchal ladder, and
now even the undesirables were catching wind of them. It was like a whisper, a breath on the
back of your neck. Few civilians dared to speak of it directly, afraid that it may not be true.
But deep down, the truth was clear.
The furnace boy suspected it too. And in all honesty, it excited him. The rumors had
reached his ears only recently, and hed been lucky enough to overhear them through a
conversation between a council watchman and an officer of the Provincial Guard.
He had been behind the crematorium, in a back alley that lead to a market. Crates of
various exotic fruits were stacked on either side of him, rotting with a putrid scent that lingered
in the polluted air.
The whole things a mess. One big, bloody mess. one of them had said.
Seriously, Davrin, could you be any more cryptic? retorted the other.
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 Fiction

The furnace boys neck craned around a corner from behind one of the crates. One
of the men, the one called Davrin, was tall and fit, with wild eyes, a prickly chin, and curly
brown hair that shimmered with a layer of grease. The other was thin, with a handsome
face and a wiry pair of glasses perched atop a pointed nose.
Davrin snapped at the spectacled man. Im serious, Resner! No one knows whats
going on. Not specifically, anyway. One of the Council members was assassinated. And
not just killed. He was skinned. From head to toe. Not a patch of pink left to speak of.
And no ones taken credit yet.
Ghost stories, Im sure. Some rookie with a weak stomach probably saw the body
and exaggerated the whole thing.
I was there, you idiot! Me! I saw it! But theres more.
Resner sighed without even the slightest attempt to hide his apathy. Do tell.
The furnace boy thought of Davrins wide eyes peering over a broad shoulder, scanning
for any lingering bystanders. They passed over the scrawny figure hunched behind the crate
of spring peaches.
He continued, Theres been sightings. Guards have been disappearing, and people
have been whispering about... something. Some people call it a ghost, others a man. Some
kind of vengeful spirit, preying on the oppressors, so to speak.
You know you can get your tongue cut out for saying that, right?
Im not saying that! Look, the point is that the guards are seeing things they cant explain,
and these murders are starting right after the rumors start? You of all people ought to know
that that cant be a coincidence.
Maybe youre right. Or maybe those guards of yours need to be replaced by the men
that really protect this city.
Suddenly the conversation devolved into a debate over which man held the superior
station, and the furnace boy lost interest as quickly as hed gained it. He continued on his
way to nowhere in particular, thinking about what hed heard.
And now it was all he could think about. His mind had grown numb through the cycling
of years, doing the same thing again and again. He was bored. The only thing he could enjoy
was watching the flames lick up the clothes of the unfortunate souls that the Council had
deemed unfit for society. But that was what he did. It was all hed ever done. Observe.
For as long as he could remember, he had been invisible. An ugly cog in the machine
of society that no one wanted to acknowledge. So he would watch events play out from the
shadows, never interfering, and be entertained in the meantime.
And as he attached another urn to another drone that would fly out the doors to
same city, he decided he would find his entertainment elsewhere. In the phantom that the
very guardians of the city dreaded. While the whirring of the drones rotors faded into the
distance, he smiled, knowing that while others would soon be running through the streets
in panic, he would be watching the whole thing, laughing at the children who were still
afraid of ghosts.
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Spark

Three Weeks Later

Lightning sprinted across the sky, dividing the black nightscape into a hundred
jagged pieces, rain falling in curtains upon the glittering city. Normally, rain was seen as a
blessing. It temporarily snuffed out the scent of pollution that constantly oppressed the
populace. But tonight was different.
Tonight, a solitary figure drifted effortlessly across the rooftops, only visible when the
sky burst with a blinding light. Tonight, the rain would wash away the crimson pools beneath
those slain by a thing that couldnt possibly exist, yet did.
A hooded figure leaned over the steel edge of the precipice, observing its prey.
Sixteen Provincial Guardsmen. Their lieutenant stood idly in the watchtower, blissfully
unaware of the threat looming above him and his men. The predator disappeared in a blurry
motion as the sky went black.
The white noise of rainfall had lulled the guards into a dreamlike state. They patrolled
their perimeters with heavy steps, their minds far from the deluge and the danger it had
brought upon them. The first one didn't even scream.
Fifteen.
One of the more attentive men swept around the area, noticing his missing comrade.
The glint of a blade flashed in the night, and he disappeared.
Fourteen.
Heavy sheets of rain fell on the shoulders of the two men standing at each end of a brick
alley. They swayed in drunk staggers as a shadow crawled along the red wall. A crunching
sound hung in the damp air as the black shade pounced onto its first intoxicated victim.
The second guard turned just in time to see a flying silver knife come to a sudden stop
in his own chest. He collapsed onto the filthy black ground, confused, shocked, and afraid.
His last act was to pull the trigger of the rifle that was lying on his scarlet-stained chest,
signaling his fellow guardsman with the screaming sound of gunfire.
Thirteen.
The echo of the shot was followed by the coarse, sharp commands of the lieutenant. Boots
fell against the muddy ground, men screamed. Six men bolted to the alley and stopped in
shock at the crumpled mass that had once been alive. Their rifles rose, their fingers hugging
the trigger in anticipation.
From the alley rooftop, the hooded figure withdrew a souvenir it had gained a week
earlier, gently tossing it into the alley. The six men turned just in time to see a grenade belt
fall three feet behind them, one pin pulled.
Seven.
An earth shaking explosion rang out, the tangerine glow of fire and the rank scent of
smoke penetrating the atmosphere. The screams of the lieutenant were nearly as deafening
as he spat orders from his tower. Every guard rushed into position, ducking behind stray
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 Fiction

oil barrels, dumpsters, and anything else they could find. Hearts raced, foreheads
glistened with beads of sweat as they realized what it must have been. The phantom.
It watched them from higher ground, waiting.
Light shattered the stratosphere as the attacker faded into the darkness. The bloodshot
eyes of the guards darted across the obscured air, searching for anything that didnt belong.
The soft sound of boot on mud was inaudible through the plethora of noises penetrating
their ears. By the time they noticed, it was too late.
The black shadow appeared from nowhere, knife drawn. It rushed at the men with
impossible speed, taking them from the side. One guards rifle turned to meet the attacker,
but not before a steel-tipped heel slammed against his jaw, and a stained knife was sheathed
by his lung.
Six.
The rest of them turned, hearts beating so fast they were nearly in sync with the falling
rain. The Lieutenant turned, screaming, Fire! Kill it! Take it down! But the phantoms blade
was already felling his men with the efficiency of a machine.
Five.
Four.
Those few that remained began peeling themselves from the fight, deserting without
remorse. The man-shaped monster threw its knife, severing a spine, and withdrew a black
hatchet. It didnt take long for it to catch up to the next guard, hindered by one too many
shots of bourbon.
One.
A terrified lieutenant jumped from the watchtower, twisting his ankle as he crashed
onto ground. He knew he couldnt run. Limping to an aluminum chest, he tore off the top,
withdrawing a three-barrel shotgun. He turned to see a black silhouette twenty feet behind
him, highlighted by the electrified sky. It just stood there, hatchet in hand, staring at him.
Why wasnt it trying to attack him? Not willing to find the answer to his own question, he
pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, and the black shape of the predator twisted with the
deadly impact. But, slowly, it retained its menacing stance.
The lieutenant screamed with a fear hed never known he could feel, unloading the gun
into his nameless adversary. It collapsed to the ground, shuddering uncontrollably.
The lieutenant stood dumbfounded, whimpering in the rain as the creature slowly stood
upright. It was then that he noticed something. A flicker of light under the aggressors jacket.
What was it? It started walking closer, seeming to gain strength with each step. Suddenly he
knew. It was a spark. The same kind of spark that exposed wires make when they come
into contact with water. With rain.
The ghost approached him with one, indelibly clear purpose in mind. The lieutenant
whipped out a handgun, but too late. A cold, metallic hand shot out from the black jacket
and twisted his arm.
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Spark

Tears fell from the eyes of the officer, painting pale trails on his white cheeks as he
screamed and kicked and thrashed like a caught fish. He knew. Vengeance had finally come
for him. In his mind, his past sins lined up like tiles forming a path that had led him to this
exact moment.
And one last time, the sky burst, and he saw what would be his last sight on Earth.
The face of the phantom. Of judge, jury, and executioner. Cold, chrome eyes that burned
with the anger and pain of a thousand tortured souls. Eyes that reflected his every fault and
devoured anything good he had ever done. The thing staring at him was no ghost. It was
a man who had suffered at the hands of the industrial experiments of corporations and
false gods. It had a mangled, pale face masked by a metallic exoskeleton, lips that dripped
with black froth, obscured by the copper wires that held its steel shell together. The only
thing the lieutenant could whimper with his last breath was a simple question:
What are you?
And in a voice that burned like broken glass in his ears, the phantom replied, I am each
and every man, woman, and child that felt pain at your pathetic hand. I am the emptiness
that was left in every family that you diminished. My name is Caligo. But what I am to you,
Lieutenant Resner, is your apocalypse.
Zero.

Five Years Later

Voyeur looked down from his perch atop the abandoned crematorium, watching the
guards and commoners tear each other apart. His mind wandered while the gunshots echoed
from below, the tsunami of rioters pouring in at the same rate they had been for the last year.
All the bullets that the Provincial Guard had to offer werent enough to thin the tide out.
Occasionally, he considered joining them, but always decided against it. It wasnt
his way. He would watch, in the same way he always had. After all, that was how he got
his name. Voyeur.
This was his entertainment now, though it was quickly growing tiresome. Not to say
that the occasional public quartering of the unfortunate Guardsman wasnt somewhat
interesting, but he craved something like the tantalizing amusement of the past. When Caligo
was more than just another angry politician. To the days when it had been the Phantom,
god-like in Voyeurs eyes.
He felt the scars on his face. It seemed so long ago, and yet somehow so recent.
He sighed, silently deliberating over the decision he was about to make.
Yes. The time had come. After so many years, Caligo had finally managed to grow
woefully predictable. It was inevitable, thought Voyeur, but it hurt nonetheless. It was time
to end Caligos reign. But first, he had to get its attention.

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Glittering sparks of gunfire swam along the ocean of men and women in the street.
Voyeur sighed. Stood upright. Pulled up his sleeve. The remote between his wrist and elbow
beckoned to his primal craving for chaos and instability. Now, even riots had become another
static aspect of everyday life, and it was time for their death, along with this boorish revolution.
He would mourn for his loss in his own way later, but that was life.
He entered a code into the brass keys of the remote, waiting. A metal hatch collapsed
behind him, and eighteen drones rushed out with a mechanical sense of urgency. They dived
and twisted in the air, circling in the empty space before him. Down below, the rioters and
guardsman saw nothing. For a moment, he let his mind get lost in the beautiful display they
made. It was the one thing that had never grown dull.
He whispered under his breath, Kill, little birdies, kill.
Like predatory falcons, the drones fell from the sky, apocalyptic harbingers come to
end the childish quarreling.
The autumn glow of the fire reflected from his cold, detached eyes. Geysers of orange
flame erupted from each metal vulture, mercilessly arcing and swarming along the surface
of the living sea that made up the riot.
Peaches. The color of the fire made him think of peaches. Perhaps he could buy some
later, he thought, as he licked his lips.
A myriad of screams pierced the smoking air, like a lahar of pain surging to a boiling
point. It was beautifully unbiased. Both guards and rioters tore their vocal chords in incoherent
attempts to describe the way the fire crawled along their skin.
Maybe he could make a cobbler later. The scent of burning flesh had always made him
hungry. And now he had this inconvenient craving for peaches. He couldnt be entertained
on an empty stomach. Nothing a trip to the market couldnt fix.
And afterward, he would find Caligo. Or Caligo would find him. And only one of them
would walk away.

Shadows fell cold on Voyeurs skin as he waited. The glow of the old furnace comforted
him, sending his mind into a steady, nostalgic state.
Soon, Caligo would be here.
Voyeur was prepared. He wore his jet black insulated jacket and boots, and an equally
dark gas mask, two golden eyes reflecting the flickering flames as he watched.
Wires crawled along the walls, hanging from the ceiling like copper webs, connected
to speakers and screens, which were in turn connected to cameras and microphones all across
the city. To every street, where hermits begged in vain. To every alley, where unfaithful
politicians traded money for gratification at the hands of women they would never bother
to know. To every rooftop, where young men and women escaped their busy lives to gaze
at the smog-obscured stars. He would know when Caligo was here.
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But another set of wires made up his greatest weapon against the likes of Caligo.
They crawled along every surface of the crematorium, snaking down to the basement,
connecting to sixteen generators.
Soon.
A blurry shade flew across one of the screens. Voyeur smiled beneath his mask. It was
Caligo, already at Fraxburne Street. Impressive.
Voyeur sighed. Stood upright. Pulled up his sleeve. He pressed several keys, setting a
timer. Caligo had two minutes to kill him. Otherwise, it was over. A subtle clanking sound
echoed from the speaker. Caligo was on the roof, entering through the hatch used for the
drones. Voyeurs hand wrapped around the handle of a shotgun.
It was on the twelfth floor.
Eleventh.
Tenth.
Voyeur found himself laughing with the endorphin rush hitting his body like a storm.
This was it. The end.
Fifth.
Fourth.
Peaches. No. Later. He cursed his meandering mind.
Second.
Finally A dark silhouette stood in the pale light of the corridor at the base of the stairs.
Voyeur gazed at it in wonder, wishing it was the same Caligo that had haunted the dreams
of so many all those years ago. But it had changed. It stood there in the creamy light,
measuring him as an opponent.
Caligo tilted its head curiously, unphased by the man in the black respirator and
trenchcoat. Its voice was dark and oppressive, like that of a monster. Why did you do it?
What did you gain from killing them?
Voyeur sighed. Of course. All Caligo cared about was the rioters. Couldnt it see?
You, Callie. I got you.
Slowly, it withdrew a long silver blade. Yes... you did.
Caligo charged with malevolent anger, ready to skewer the murderer of its followers.
Voyeur blocked the slashing blade with his gauntlet, catching the biomechanical creature
in the jaw.
Caligo staggered back as Voyeur fired the first shell directly into its forehead. It fell
back, pain screaming through its head, metallic exoskeleton smeared with black powder,
ears ringing. Another shot rang out, hitting it directly in the knee from three inches away,
piercing the armor. Thick black fluid burst from the wound as it collapsed to the ground.
Voyeur walked closer, pressing the smoking barrel to the weakened cranium of his
hero-turned-adversary.

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 Fiction

Suddenly, a blade came crashing down on Voyeurs foot, agonizingly pinning him in
place. He screamed as Caligo pounced, sending him careening to the wire-laced ground.
Caligos wintry eyes stared into the golden globes of the mask. It leaned in, and whispered
in its monstrous voice, Whatever this is... Whatever game you were playing I win.
Voyeur turned his head to view his wrist. Seven seconds. He looked back into the
haunting chrome eyes. Well see.
He whipped his fist into the air, striking Caligos jugular. It swung back in shock and pain.
Voyeur peeled a copper wire from the ground, and quickly wrapped the exposed conductor
around Caligos throat.
The last second passed on the timer.
A deep sound ran through the entire crematorium. It was a foreshadow of death: the
sound of sixteen generators activating, ready to inject every last drop of their power into
the web of copper wires netting the building. A crashing sound rang out, and sparks flew
along the wires. Screens and speakers burst as electricity ripped through Caligo, sending
it writhing uncontrollably along the floor. Black froth ejected from its mouth. Every muscle
contracted at once, and its half-mechanical heart beat sporadically.
It was powerless. Any advantage it might have had left along with the surge of power
that was destroying its body one synapse at a time.
And just as abruptly as it had begun, all the lights went dark, save the gentle glow of
the furnace. The lingering scent of ozone hung in the air, and Caligo lay still, paralyzed but
alive and conscious.
Voyeur slowly stood up, removing the knife from his left foot, and limped to his still
opponent. Raspy laughter filled the room as he reveled in his victory over the most feared
being in the region. But his laughter soon subsided.
He stood over the motionless mass of flesh and mechanics, leaning in. You really dont
remember me, do you? he asked, not expecting an answer. He reached up, and slowly removed
the mask covering his face. He looked into Caligo with blackened, bloodshot eyes that pierced
even the soul of the man-machine hybrid. Web-like scars stretched across his pale face, his
charcoal-black hair shaved down to the marred skin.
I remember the day I first heard of you. There were two guards arguing about whether
or not you were just another drop in the bucket of urban legends that permeates this city.
But I knew the truth. You were real. A phantom. A flame. Dangerously unpredictable.
You were something that no one could explain.
I remember I wanted so badly to find you and see that blade of yours put to work. You
were executing guards, and I thought, what better way to find you than to follow one? So
I did. One of the men that had been arguing about you, in fact. For three weeks I stalked
him, always careful to stay in the shadows. And then the day came. It was the day of the
Outpost Killings. The one I followed was the lieutenant. I watched you pick them off one at
a time, counting down every time you took a life. Sixteen. Fifteen all the way to zero.
He sighed, picking up the shotgun.
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You created havoc. Beautiful, unrestricted chaos. When you started on the Counselors,
people were running scared in the streets. He placed a shell in the chamber and cocked it.
But then... you showed your face to the world. You hacked the broadcasting system.
You remember, Im sure. Your pretty little eyes gazed into the camera as you announced
that it was time for a revolution. You wanted to purge the province of all signs of the Primary
Counsel and their government. You became another boring, predictable revolutionary...
How did that happen?! Voyeur slammed the butt of the gun into Caligos chest in
frustration, again and again until he was out of breath.
I didnt want to believe it. But then you came here. The crematorium was one of the
long standing signs of their oppression. You locked all the doors from the outside, and lit
the place on fire. For ironys sake, I suppose, right? He paused, and felt his face. You didnt
bother to see who was inside. If you had, you might have known it was just me. The Furnace
Boy. A boy without name or age. That was when I knew. You had become something else. But
I gave you four years to change, and you never did. And now, its my turn to lead a revolution.
This city deserves chaos. It feeds on it. And in my hands, it will never grow hungry.
Voyeur bent down and gently cradled Caligos head in his hand. It was shuddering.
Sshhhh dont be afraid, Callie. You did what you could. The wire trick was cheap,
I know, but whats a man supposed to do when faced by something like you? And dont worry.
Ill take good care of Wrenmoore. Sweet dreams.
Voyeur placed the barrel in Caligos mouth, and one last shot rang out. He finally had
peace. A chance for a new beginning, for himself and the city. The cycle of predictability
had ended. At least, he believed it had.
But before its last labored breath, before its last heartbeat, Caligo saw the pattern. A pattern
it wished it had seen ages ago. The same pattern that had infected history for centuries.
Caligo had been twisted by the corrupt government. Felt unspeakable pain at their hand.
And it had risen against that government, killing them one at a time.
But after a year of bloodshed, it had somehow become the evil it had sought to destroy.
It had corrupted itself, and through its own selfish action, opened the door to an even more
horrendous evil. The kind of malevolence that commits atrocities for the sake of entertainment.
And one day, years, perhaps decades down the road, Voyeur would meet an adversary
of his own making. An enemy he couldnt defeat. Someone who would take control of his
perfectly incoherent world, break it down, and rebuild the city in their own unholy image.
It was an inevitable cycle, when repaying evil with evil. After all, when evil is fought by
evil, the victor is always the same.
And with this last vain revelation, Caligo died, just as Voyeur would someday.
But at that moment, Voyeur saw no pattern. Only his agenda. He saw no flaw in himself,
and thus made no effort to fix any.
Instead, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a peach.

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 dialogue essay literary technique
worldview
moments

fact
CREATIVE NONFICTION
metaphor memoir truth conversation
learn

vulnerability
humanity

When I requested creative nonfiction submissions, there was a substantial amount of

confusion. Many students had an idea, a half-formed concept in the backs of their minds.
I found it necessary to elaborate. And I found it difficult. It is not an easy genre to pin down.
Creative nonfiction is truth, yet it reads like fiction; it is a bundle of facts packaged in literary
techniques and tied with a bow. It relies on a writers ability to extract specific moments
and piece together a narrative both accurate and artistic. Within these boundaries, endless
possibilities await.

In this issue of Spark, Mr. Scott Mills takes us with him as he relives a harrowing
misadventure in Skipping Class to Surf. With casual and engaging prose, he pulls us
into his thought process and prompts us toward a metaphorical analysis of his experience
and thus, indirectly, our own experiences. In When Hannah Met Tyler, Abbie Hocking
tells a high school love story cute enough to evoke frequent awwwws from readers. In her
distinct, charming voice, she relays a series of events that are highly humorous, utterly
human, and absolutely true.

Megan Kim | Creative Nonfiction Editor

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Spark

SKIPPING CLASS TO SURF

Scott Mills

Skipping class to go surfing was my first mistake. After all, it was a balmy 85 in San
Diego. I know, theyre almost all perfect like that, but this day was different.
The surf was calling, and I was bound and determined to answer. I called my brother-in-law
Gray and said, Lets gooooo!
Sorry, Scottie, no can do.
Can I borrow your car?
You know where the keys are.
Off I went, westbound on Highway 8 to La Jolla Shores. As I pulled into the parking lot,
I noticed something odd for this postcard perfect day. The parking lot was near empty, and
there was NO ONE in the line up. Zero.
Why was no one else in the water? Maybe it was because the surf was so sucky that anyone
with half a brain stayed home.
There was a crazy rip current and a steady onshore breeze. This made the waves as
inconsistent as political promises.
Second mistake? I went surfing alone.
Doesnt every mom everywhere warn, Always swim with a swim buddy!
But I figured I was the exception to that rule. I was a water dog from an early age: swim
teams and beach life in Santa Cruz as a kid. And now, at twenty, I was freaking invincible.
Whats more, Id already skipped class, borrowed a car, and driven forty-five minutes.
Dang it anywayI was surfing!
I suited up, grabbed my board, and paddled out, hopes high.
Most of the waves that day were knee-high mush buckets. No form, no height, nothing
that actually looked or behaved like a wave.
I didnt ride a single wave that day. I just paddled around frustrated that it was such a
complete bust.
After an hour, it was time to wave the white flag. I headed in, one eye on the beach, the
other on the ocean, watching my six.
On the second look over my shoulder I saw something I hadnt seen all day: an actual wave.
A big oneoverhead at least. When youre flat on your stomach, six to seven feet looks like
a mountain to a rookie surfer.
I was in a bad spot. There was no way I could catch it and no way I could out-paddle it.

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I was in the impact zone with only one option: ditch and dive. I ditched my board and dove
as deep as I could.
The wave hit with such ferocity that my leash on my board snapped. Into the washing
machine I went.
Rinse and repeat. It was the most helpless Id ever felt in the ocean.
Now, mind you, I was a strong swimmer, I was in the best shape of my life, and I was
confident in the ocean. But on this day, I was a leaf in a hurricane, at the complete mercy of
the wave.
I finally surfaced in white foam. I gasped for breath and got my bearings. My first concern:
did that monster have a brother?
It did. And that undertow was carrying me right into its face. I had enough time to take
another deep breath and dive for the bottom. If you hit your dive right, you pop out on the
back side of the wave.
Not this time. Spin cycle, take two. My lungs were screaming as the wave dragged me
like a rag doll along the ocean floor.
Finally, I found the surface. I was desperate for air. I looked aroundagain, to get
my bearings.
This time, two inconvenient truths were draining my hope.
One: a third angry wave was barreling down on me.
Two: I was seeing spots in my vision.
My brain, now starving for oxygen, was starting to shut down non-essential functions.
I was on the verge of passing out. Its a generally accepted truth that passing out in the ocean
is ill-advised.
The waves had shattered my confidence. I was actually scared for my life as I dove for
the third time, trying to escape the impact of the oncoming wave. Tumbling and panicking,
my decisions that morning were in sharp relief.
What was I thinking?
How could I be so stupid?
It wasnt so much that my life started to pass before me. I was flashing forward to
Whats next?
Was I going to make it?
Was there anyone on the beach who knew I needed help?
Who would find me?
What would people say about me, a dumb kid surfing alone when he should be in class?
What about my family?

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Whats next?
Isnt that the most important question after a fall, a bad decision, or a big mistake?
Whats next?
Since that day, life, like those three waves, has had me at its mercy on more than
one occasion.
My tendency is to try and hide my mistakes and bad decisions. But Im learning to
be more transparent about them.
Its been well-said that youll impress people with your skill, but youll connect with
people with your transparency. Im learning that connecting with people is of far greater
value than impressing people.
Honesty and transparency are always a better whats next than pretending you have
it all together.
So, what was the conclusion to my near-death surfing experience?
While I was tumbling in the wash of the third wave, I prayed a frantic prayer. There was
no bargaining, no appeal based on my good deeds, no promise of better choices in the future.
Nope. It was pretty much just a desperate cry for help. You gotta help me! or something
like that
The next thing I knew, I was standing in waist-deep water.

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 Nonfiction

WHEN TYLER MET HANNAH

Abbie Hocking

Note: The names of people and places within this story have been altered
to protect the identities of the innocent.

H annah Hockingson met Tyler Westson in her sophomore year of high school. It was
not until the spring of that year, however, that she developed a wicked crush on him. He was
a year older than her, and a boy of few words, yet those few words were words of wisdom.
They had three classes together: Algebra II, Anatomy, and Bible.

It was in her Bible class that Hannah first noticed Tyler. Whenever he raised his hand to
comment on a topic or scripture, his answers were thoughtful and reflective, distinguishing
him from average high schoolers. Eventually, Hannah's ears perked at the sound of Tyler's
voice. One day, when he was absent from class, Hannah was disappointed.
That was the day she realized she liked him. And the crush rapidly grew from there.
Smiles were exchanged in the hallways, brief conversations arose before and after class,
and their deepest discussions occurred over cat dissections in Anatomy. It was quite romantic.
The more Hannah interacted with Tyler, the more she liked him. Nonetheless, toward
the end of her sophomore year, she had yet to tell anyone about her new infatuation.
Unfortunately for Hannah, an evening dinner at Mucho Gusto revealed her secret for her.
Mucho Gusto was an obsession of the Hockingson family. They dined there every Friday
night. Or at least Hannah and her two parents, Natalie and Patrick, did. Her sisters, Jessie
and Abbie, were repulsed by Mucho's food, so they were responsible for their own meals
on Friday nights.
Thus, one evening at Mucho, Hannah's parents were the first to learn of Tyler.
Hannah had no intention of spilling her secret that night, but her parents were innocently
discussing the recent marriage between Tyler's older brother, Ryder, and the daughter of
friends of the family, Lauren.
Out of nowhere, Natalie turned to her daughter and asked, Hannah, doesn't Ryder
have a brother in your grade?
Hannah's face turned as scarlet as a red delicious apple as she put her fork down and
awkwardly stammered, Um... no. But he does have one in the grade above me.
Natalie knew her daughter well and detected something suspicious. She pressed the issue.
Oh really? Whats his name?
Forcing herself to swallow her food, Hannah gulped out, Tyler.

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At this point, Natalie was smiling. Thats cool. Is he nice? Do you like him?
Hannah nodded, Yeah, I like him. Seeing her mothers watchful face, Hannah
sighed and gave up. Mom, I really like him.
Natalie immediately squealed with delight and peppered Hannah with questions.
Patrick just laughed and occasionally piped in with a question of his own. By the end of
the evening, they both realized their daughter was extremely sweet on this boy.
After her parents uncovered the secret, Hannah knew Jessie and Abbies discovery of
the truth was imminent as well. Jessie learned first, after growing suspicious at a baseball
game. Her first clue was the game itself, as Hannah had suddenly and baselessly gained a
love for the sport and attended most every game. Jessie initially believed it was in support
of their cousin, Tristan, who was also on the team. That theory altered drastically when
Jessie accompanied her sister to a game.
Her aunt conscripted Jessie to deliver a sandwich to Tristan in the dugout, but as she
journeyed toward her destination, Hannah appeared by her side.
Her sisters face held an odd expression, Hey Jess, what are you doing?
Jessie showed her the sandwich, Aunt Nana asked me to give this to Tristan.
Oh, Hannah said, her face still strange, Well I can do that for you.
Shaking her head, Jessie dismissed the idea. Dont worry about it. Its easy. I can just do it.
But Hannah was adamant, No really, let me do it.
Jessie raised her eyebrows, Why?
Because, Hannah paused, seemingly looking for a good reason, I want to say
hi to Tristan.
Jessie didnt believe her. She realized quite immediately her sister must like someone
on the baseball team. Since Hannah had yet to admit it, Jessie refused to enable Hannahs
lies, No, I want to say hi too. Ill give it to him.
She walked away, and thus, Hannah told her everything on the car ride home. She sat
Abbie down once they arrived.
Tyler Westson promptly became the talk of the house. Yearbooks were opened to their
indexes, and every picture depicting him was thoroughly examined. The sisters needed to
envision the boy. They were highly disappointed to discover that, alas, he did not have a
Facebook. But their ingenuity was unparalleled, and one day, as Jessie and Hannah were
driving home from theatre rehearsal, Hannah realized they were taking an unusual route.
Wait, Jess. Where are we going?
Jessie attempted to play innocent, What do you mean?
Hannah started looking around. This isnt the way home.

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 Nonfiction

Smiling, Jessie shook her head. Dont know what youre talking about.
Though Hannah was befuddled, the feeling was brief as her eyes spotted a familiar
car in a driveway.
Her reaction was instantaneous. Oh my gosh. You didnt.
Jessie just giggled mischievously. Oh yes I did.
She slowed the car down as they passed the house, and the girls were able to see
through the window: his family was eating dinner.
Hannah tried to duck down in her seat. Im gonna kill you for this.
But Jessie wasnt done yet. Lets just take one more loop around, shall we?
Hannah was mortified. Jessie was having the time of her life.
Far too soon for Hannah, however, summer came. She was kept from Tylers smile for
three months, yet this passing of time did not lessen her feelings. Its only accomplishment
was to generate excitement in Hannah for the next school year, which was a first for the
antisocial, family-oriented girl.
When summer finally came to an end, another problem arose. A new year led to new
schedules, and sadly, Hannah no longer shared any classes with Tyler; she would have to
settle for hallway glances.
Now, Hannah happened to be very good friends with Kate and Jillian Emardson,
girls who happened to be the younger sisters of Lauren Emardson, who happened to be
the same Lauren who recently married Ryder Westson.
Clearly, Hannah had no desire to inform these girls of her infatuation with Tyler, as
she preferred keeping her feelings confidential, but alas, Hannah was never very good at
keeping secrets.
Kate discovered the truth first, as Hannah spent the night at her house while Jillian
was away. She and Kate were driving home from Albertsons, where they purchased the
necessary supplies for root bear floats, and they were discussing the good-looking Captain
Hook, a character from Once Upon A Time.
Its funny, Hannah began, On TV, Im always super attracted to the dark hair/dark eyes
combo, right? But the last few real guys Ive liked have all had blonde hair and blue eyes.
It was an innocent, passing comment, and nave little Hannah thought nothing of it,
but Kate certainly did.
Her eyes grew wide with a combination of curiosity and mischievousness,
Oh really? Do tell.
Hannah reprimanded herself in her head but tried to remain calm and collected.
She rattled off a couple names from her past, but no one Kate knew.

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Much to Hannahs disappointment, Kate wasnt satisfied, as she sensed Hannah was
withholding key information, Okay... anyone else?
Hannahs face was betraying her, but her words remained obstinate, Nope. No one else.
She breathed a silent sigh of relief as they pulled in to Kates driveway. She awkwardly
smiled and said, Well, time for root bear floats.
Kate raised her eyebrows, but let it go.
Temporarily.
Later that night, she revealed a yearbook.
Grinning at Hannah, Kate declared, The fact that youre refusing to give up guy number
three means I know him, so lets start going through these guys one by one, shall we?
Hannah knew struggle was futilethat her secret was near its endall there was to
do was pray Kate would miraculously skip Tylers photo. Unfortunately for Hannah, that
did not happen.
One by one, Kate went through each boys photo: she would say a name, study Hannahs
face, name, face, name, face, and so on. But when she reached Tylers picture, she gasped a
bit, like the answer had been staring her in the face the entire time.
Kate turned to Hannah, Oh my gosh. Hannah, is it Tyler?
Hannahs face turned a lovely shade of reddish pink as she nodded slightly.
Kate was ecstatic, OH MY GOSH! YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME! Oh wow! Oh
my gosh. Oh, Hannah! You could have gone to Ryder and Laurens wedding! You two could
have danced!
The rest of the night passed in a blur as Kate told Hannah every story and detail she
knew of Tyler, and of all the ways they could get the two together. All the planning made
Hannah slightly nervous, but a bit excited as well.
Regrettably, however, Kate had already graduated and was only home from college for
the weekend, so there was nothing practical she could do to foster a new relationship. Jillian,
on the other hand, still attended Cascadeson, so when she learned of Hannahs crush,
there were plenty of ways to help.
Before Jill discovered Hannahs secret, however, Hannah confided her feelings to another
good friend of hers, Alaina Thompsonson. Alaina was also very persistent in her attempts
to throw Hannah and Tyler together. This was proved one day when she and Hannah went
to get a drink at break, knowing it would allow Hannah a glimpse of Tyler as he ventured
to his next class. But the two lovebirds had already exchanged smiles when Alaina reached
into her bag, grabbed a pencil, and threw it behind her.
Oh Han, I dropped my pencil. Can you grab that for me?
Hannah got one extra look at her man.

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 Nonfiction

Now, one important thing to understand in order to truly appreciate this story is that
Natalie Hockingson is not above using incentives to encourage her daughters to expand
their horizons and put themselves out there. In fact, it is a favorite method of hers. On the day
Jillian Emardson discovered the crush, it was a direct result of one of Natalies challenges.
She had offered Hannah fifty dollars to sit next to Tyler at chapel. A simple task for a
great reward. Hannah was often very cowardly, however, so she agonized over this decision
while sitting in the back of the chapel room with Alaina. Hannah failed to notice that Jillian
was sitting directly in front of her, and her agonizing was quite loud.
Jillian was not oblivious, so she turned around and asked Hannah what was wrong.
Hannah panicked, but told her friend it was nothing.
Sadly for Hannah, Alaina was still saying, Come on Han, you have to do this.
Jillian, of course, became highly invested, Do what?
Hannah tried to shush her, but she was persistent. Finally, Hannah gave in, Jill, Ill tell
you after school, okay? She hoped Jillian would forget and move on, but Jill, like Kate, did not.
Incidentally, Hannah did not sit next to Tyler in chapel that day.
After school, Jillian immediately found Hannah and the first words out of her mouth
were, So what was going on in chapel?
Hannah told her.
OH MY GOSH! WHAT? YOU COULD HAVE COME TO THE WEDDING! YOU
TWO COULD HAVE DANCED!
Hannah was struck by the intense similarity of the two sisters reactions. After the
initial excitement, Hannah made Jillian swear never to tell, which Jillian genuinely promised.
Her eyes, however, reflected a glee of future ideas.
All of the events reviewed thus far led to one fateful night.
The night of the football game.
The day began averagely enough, and Hannah was enjoying herself with a collection
of friends at Alainas house. They had decided to attend Cascadesons football game that
night, but Hannah considerately wanted to confirm with her mom that she was fine with
Hannah going.
She texted, Hey mom, just confirming its cool to go to the football game with my
friends tonight?
Natalie saw an opportunity, Sure! Sounds like fun! A hundred bucks if you go to Tylers
house and invite him along.
Hannah freaked, but sent back, Are you serious?
Natalies response was simple but cruel, Yes. Youd never do it though.
Youre Chicken Little.

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Now, Natalie was driving in the car at this time, so she was dictating her texts to Abbie,
who was very excited about this exchange.
She sent her own text, Hannah, this is Abbie. Ill add five dollars to that bet! Mom said
shed actually pay you, so show her whos boss!
Hannahs friends started encouraging her as well.
Hannah, you have to do this.
Worst case scenario, you get a hundred bucks!
Best case scenario, you get a hundred bucks plus a boyfriend!
In a moment of bravery mixed with peer pressure and insanity, Hannah said, Okay.
Everyone squealed with delight. Alaina asked the real question, Wait. Where does he live?
Hannah smiled sheepishly, I actually know, but itd be weird and obvious if I just
showed up, right?
It was true, so the girls brainstormed, and they came up with a solution: Jillian. First
of all, she actually knew Tyler, diffusing some of the awkwardness. She also had a good
reason to know where he lived. Jillians personality made everything an adventure, and
she would certainly ensure Hannah go through with it.
Thus, Hannah called Jillian immediately, who sadly had not yet obtained her license,
so she petitioned her father, Phil. At first, Jill simply requested a ride to a friends house,
but understandably, it was late, and he said no.
Jill decided to take the honest approach, Dad, you dont understand. Hannah likes
Tyler, and she wants to invite him to the football game tonight, but wants me to be there
when she goes to his house so its not totally obvious. Can you please take me?
Phil happened to hold both Hannah and Tyler in high regard, so at this newfound
information, his response was immediate. Ill get my wallet.
Thus, Jillian joined Hannah at Alainas house. The group giggled together nervously
for a few moments, and then climbed in Alainas jeep to head to Tylers.
They arrived.
Alaina and the other girls waited in the car as Jill and Hannah got out. They started
toward the door.
Step.
By.
Step.
Suddenly, they were there.
At this point, Hannah almost Chicken Littled out.

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The girls stood there for two minutes fretting over whether or not to knock. Hannah
was teetering, Its so obvious, she cupped her face in her hands, we cant do this. Jillian
murmured agreements, yet the girls could not walk away.
They stood longer.
Finally, in a moment of insane courage, Jillian rang the doorbell.
Tyler, at this time, had finished work on his roof and was relaxing in his room, watching
Mel Gibsons We Were Soldiers. Quite content for the night, Tyler was more than a little
surprised when his mom opened his door with a baffled expression.
She paused, Um, Tyler, Jillian is here for you.
Tyler paused his movie, What?
His mom, Janet, nodded, Yeah. She bit her lip, And she has a friend with her.
She gestured for Tyler to follow her to the door.
Tyler, though bewildered, turned off his movie, hopped from his bed, and left for the
living room. He saw Jillian and her friend, who looked familiar from school, but he didnt
actually know her name.
Tyler tried awkwardly to greet them, Um, hi Jill. Whats going on?
Hi Tyler, Jillian stammered, We were just wondering if you wanted to go to the
football game with us tonight.
Tyler was baffled. Even though Jillians sister was married to his brother, they never
talked, and she certainly never came to his house or invited him to football games. He did
not know what to think of her request, let alone how to respond.
Luckily, Janet did for him, Oh that sounds fun! Maybe well all go! Why dont you
guys just go on ahead and well meet you there?
The girls nodded and a few more words were exchanged, and then they went to leave.
Tyler caught the eye of Jillians friend, Hannah, and she smiled at him very sweetly.
He smiled back. Then, he went to prepare for a football game.
Hannah was freaking out. Her immediate action was calling home, though no one
in her family actually heard a word she spoke over her friends' screams. She figured they
understood what happened though. Then, she went to the game, eager with anticipation
for Tyler's arrival.
After what seemed an eternity, Tyler appeared with his family on the bleachers. Janet
saw Hannah and Jill, along with the Emardson parents, who decided this was a game they
could not afford to miss, and she walked over and sat next to them. Tyler, however, sat
beside Hannah.
The two chatted throughout the game, except for the moments when Hannah and Jill
went to the bathroom to talk about how much Hannah and Tyler were talking.

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During one of their absences, Phil leaned in to Tyler and said, You know, I'm usually
the last to pick up on these types of things, but I think she likes you.
Tyler had no idea how to respond to that, but he was certainly intrigued by the girl
who randomly showed up at his house.
But when Hannah came back, they continued to talk. She asked him about his classes:
which ones he had, how they were going, if he enjoyed them, etc. She laughed when he
struggled coming up with all of them.
At some point, Phil decided to again intervene, So, do you kids have any classes together?
Hannah smiled at Phils overt questioning, Not this year, no.
We had some last year though.
Tyler nodded, Yeah, Anatomy right?
Blushing slightly, Hannah smiled, Yeah. Algebra II and Bible as well.
Oh yeah, he remembered, we did have those together, didnt we?
Hannah nodded in confirmation, surprised at his lack of memory, but not really
caring. She was, after all, sitting next to him at a football game. And he was just as sweet
as she thought he would be.
Regrettably, all great evenings come to an end, and alas, this one did as well.
Hannah and Tyler shared an awkward goodbye, and then they parted ways.
That night, Hannah went home briefly to tell her family everything that happened, and
then she spent the night at Jills, the two of them reliving every moment. Hannah had more
or less gone on a date with Tyler Westson.
The next day, however, she left for a ten day trip to Wheaton College in Chicago to
visit Jessie, a detail she failed to mention to Tyler, as he searched the school, very confused,
for the girl from the football game. A girl he had liked. A girl he now missed.
Eventually, though, Hannah came back. She told Tyler all about her trip, and he listened
intently. The two started talking occasionally. Then frequently. Then daily.
Hannahs mom bitterly, yet gleefully handed Hannah a hundred dollars, which was
quickly spent on a black leather jacket. Two months later, Hannah asked Tyler to banquet.
Fast forward three years, and Hannah and Tyler are still together: watching Fixer Upper,
baking oatmeal-chia seed cookies, and calling each other Suspicious One. On occasion,
they still laugh and reminisce of their relationships beginnings, each repeatedly telling
their version of the story. The story of the night of the football game. The night of October
19th, 2012.
The night Tyler met Hannah.

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digital portrait
lens composition subject capture

light
exposure
PHOTOGRAPHY
saturation camera flash
time
contrast
monochrome

To me, photography is an art of observation... It has little to do with the things you see,
and everything to do with the way you see them.

Elliott Erwitt

Photography is the art of holding a moment still in time. The subject is a representation
of the present, and once photographed, it becomes a thing of the past. It is impossible to
duplicate. A photographer sees things in a different light than others, perceiving the subject
not simply as a landscape, person, or still life, but as something more. Something requesting
to be captured and treasured. Something seeking immortality through the lens of a camera.
Something demanding remembrance.

Christina Cannon | Photography Editor

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BEAUTY IN SMALL THINGS

Grace Boisen

PERSPECTIVE
Grace Boisen
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 Photography

LOST CREEK
Matthew Miller

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SNOW DAY
Danielle Maheu

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 Photography

BENCH WITH FLOWERS

Christina Cannon

BRIDGE REFLECTION
Christina Cannon
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 model
expression shading canvas realism

ART
perspective
painting
proportions interpretation
sketch beauty
essence pencil watercolor impressionism lart pour lart

A love for beauty is perhaps the one common vein shared by all mankind. From
archaic cinder-etched impressions engraved in caves, to colorful abstractions nailed to the
plaster-white walls of modern galleries, visual art is an ancient craft that has never stopped
evolving. It is timeless and belongs to all people. It is unhindered by language or societal
barriers. It has no limits, save those set by the artist himself.

Visual art is a way of weaving a picture from the abstract threads hanging in the
corners of an artists mind. As every psyche is unique, so is every pencil drawing, every
watercolor landscape, every abstract modern acrylic, every detailed oil portrait, every pen
and ink outline, every mixed-media creation, every digital masterpiece. In the next several
pages, you will find art exclusive to the minds of Cascade Christian High School students,
art that stands as a testament to their skill, passion, and will. Their portrayal of beauty is
something thatno matter where you are from or what you believecan be viewed with
awe and appreciation.

Andrew Ford | Art Editor

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AUDREY HEPBURN
Lauryn Squyres
Pen and Ink

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 Art

ARCHITECTURE
Emilie Copley
Pen and Ink

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WE DONT BELIEVE WHATS ON TV

Maeve Payne
Watercolor and Pen

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 Art

RISING ABOVE
Cici Yang
Pen and Ink

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REMINISCE
Julie Buck
Pencil

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 writer student photographer observer brave

voice

poet
CONTRIBUTORS
creation truth-seeker
artist

human

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Amanda Armas
Grade: 11
Word: delphinium
Fun Fact: She is an official member of the Jane Austen Society of North America
(AKA A Complete Nerd), and in a store, she cannot walk past the candle aisle
without sniffing all the candles, even the ones she knows she wont like.

Grace Boisen
Grade: 9
Word: spiffy
Fun Fact: She has a penchant for water bottles and potted plants.

Julie Buck
Grade: 11
Word: misneach
Fun Fact: She has probably read The Hobbit thirteen times,
and she refuses to eat anything with beans in it.

Christina Cannon
Grade: 9
Word: sophrosyne
Fun Fact: She would rather eat a banana slug than a banana.

Emilie Copley
Grade: 11
Word: petrichor
Fun Fact: She was once locked in a walk-in freezer for half an hour.

Rebecca Emerson
Grade: 11
Word: chryselephantine
Fun Fact: Shes actually a sailor scout.

Andrew Ford
Grade: 11
Word: sanguinary
Fun Fact: He once had a dream involving cloned maternal figures,
questionable baked goods, and a whale that liked bagels with cream cheese.

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 Contributors

Abigail Hocking
Grade: 11
Word: Superwholocked
Fun Fact: She has double-jointed elbows that look slightly creepy
but are awesome for stretching.

Madeline Kim
Grade: 9
Word: sonder
Fun Fact: Shes the type of person that would bring you ice cream
at midnight if youre sad but will forget to reply to your texts for a year.

Megan Kim
Grade: 11
Word: sidereal
Fun Fact: She reorganizes her bookshelves at least four times per year. In spite
of this (or maybe because of it), she can never find the exact book she is looking for.

Emilee Kuyper
Grade: 11
Word: quirky
Fun Fact: She wants to live on a ranch someday.

Danielle Maheu
Grade: 10
Word: facetious
Fun Fact: She once read seven books in one week.

Matthew Miller
Grade: 11
Word: special
Fun Fact: He likes pie.

Scott Mills
CCHS Faculty
Fun Fact: He has lived in fifteen different towns in three different states,
enjoys adrenaline sports and 80s rock (usually together), and is a coffee snob
so much so that he roasts his own.

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Austin Nachbur
Grade: 12
Word: serendipity
Fun Fact: He can do a back flip.

Maeve Payne
Grade: 11
Word: acquiesce
Fun Fact: She has casually watched every anime known to man
but doesnt tell anyone.

Emma Rheault
Grade: 10
Word: elysian
Fun Fact: She is extremely obsessed with reading.

Sara Shelton
Grade: 12
Fun Fact: She once ate cheesecake made from the milk of cows
belonging to a monastery in the Alps.

Lauryn Squyres
Grade: 9
Word: happy
Fun Fact: She really loves hugging trees and praising Jesus.

Cici Yang
Grade: 11
Word: quiddity
Fun Fact: There are a lot of interesting facts about her,
but she cant think of one at the moment.

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 EVERY GOOD AND PERFECT GIFT IS
FROM ABOVE, COMING DOWN FROM THE
FATHER OF THE HEAVENLY LIGHTS, WHO DOES
NOT CHANGE LIKE SHIFTING SHADOWS.
JAMES 1:17

FILL YOUR PAPER WITH

THE BREATHINGS OF YOUR HEART.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1531