William Byrd Sketches
2013-2014
Jordan Richards
Emilie Hughes
A Senior’s Mark
Kristy Hanshaw
High school, what does it mean to you? As a high school senior for the class of 2014, I have to be honest with you, the past four years have been some of the harshest years of my life; but I have made a lot of great memories along the way. To simply say it: you make friends, you lose friends, you fall in love, you fall out of love, and, most importantly you, define yourself. Whoever you want to be is up to you. Life gets tough sometimes, but it is up to YOU to decide how to handle the situation. Remember that when one door is shut another door opens. Do not hold on to the past, look toward the future, and enjoy every single moment you are given, like it is your last.
To the Freshman class of 2017, you have four years of being a kid – don’t rush it. Make memories that will last you a life time and always remember to smile. To the Sophomore class of 2016, congrats you made it past your first year, are well into your second! Just be yourselves and remember that you are good enough for whatever you want. To the Junior class of 2015, after this year there’s only one year remaining! I know that this year has got to be one of your toughest years in high school, but you can do it; just don’t give up on yourself EVER. Finally, to my fellow Seniors of the class of 2014, we did it; it is almost over. We have made it through the last four years of high school, and we will forever be the Dog Pound.
Bailey Mann
Bailey Mann
The Leap of Faith
Karyn Heisig
Taking a leap of faith, joining the wind as it blows
The tears of yesterday and its sorrows long gone
Wilting flowers and rotten emotions toll in my mind
Seasons long past resurfaced to join the parade
The tears of yesterday and its sorrows long gone
I fall now into a world of black and blue
Seasons long past resurfaced to join the parade
Never un-see the cascades of the past
I fall now into a world of black and blue
The time has come to become one with the horror
Never un-see the cascades of the past
Step into the gleaming terror of the future
Where I'm From
Candy Carden
I am from don’t stress and just
do the best.
I am from where I wear my shoes ‘til
the soles are gone.
(If I were going to end up in the same bed
as the night before).
I am from playing outside is the best time,
to Facebook and the internet is the best thing now.
I am from my sisters, and brothers knew me best,
to they don’t know me at all.
I am from scrap metals and hard working.
I am from Laura, Micheal, Lauretta and
Rammon.
I am from handmade clothes to a craftsman
and hand painted wood cut-outs.
I am from don’t give up on yourself and give
a hand to who is in need.
I am from children are meant to be seen, not heard,
"clean that or you can’t go!"
I am from spaghetti night to cabbage, ham
and potatoes the next.
I am from hiding from the police, and work
hard ‘til you’re beat down tired.
I am from where all my worries go away,
when shutting my eyes for the moment of the night.
I am from when you get put in your
place by the age ten, and stay home and keep
baby sister out of danger.
Dublin, Cork, and Clare
Ms. Oliver
The top of a double decker—
the railing chipped from hands of strangers,
from tourists munching chips, sipping
sweets through straws, with the Nikon
strapped around the neck, the batteries running low,
from the litany of photos—
of mountains unremembered,
of rays of suns you can’t forget—to stare at
velcroed sneakers, the specks of dirt
attached as shadows, a glimpse of mingled time
in centuries left unfurled, through guided tours
of narrow naves, down darkened corridors,
where children pull on parents’ legs,
beg for fast-paced resurrections, hand-held games—
below, Viking foundations and Bronze Age gold,
where bog bodies linger behind the glass
for the tapping of fingers, the oil— the last
trip to the toilets—no soap, no water;
where currency’s exchanged in hands, in shops, for
coffee, maps, a sense of the journey unraveled
in the folds of worn-out jeans and baggy sweaters—
arranged for slick-sweat layovers—
the reminiscence of kissing stones,
of cows that roam the pastures of manors
dilapidated from years—neglect—the Reformation;
that carved crucifix in stone, the Celtic crosses
littering the parsonage, to be forgotten by
less-than-transfixed eyes, effacing dates and facts
intoned from lips of age-worn workers,
belted khakis and emblemed collared shirts—
deaf to sunrises, porches in September,
sitting rooms of bed and breakfasts,
kettles placed on hold while bodies lay at rest,
in the sway of on-shore living,
spotting sails on the horizon—
of fisherman who worship the haze of dawn
in Indian summer, in rolling hills of bleating sheep,
where gray skies weave the stories of surrendered crowns,
of fair women sold to chieftains, for cattle,
for fortitude on cliffs, encircled with
blades of stone, impaling invaders,
letting loose the entrails of strangers—
evading the whispers of stone walls;
the pose is for self-timers, where your hair
blows in the face of Gaelic warfare,
in the song of hidden histories,
interred within the soil
Of death
And birth
and rebirth.
Mrs. Camp-Martin
Impurity
Callen Buchanan
The hill was sloped heavily
Downward, the dusting of
Snow lying delicately
Across the field,
I glimpsed at what we all
Saw, a glorious white cascading
The mound, waiting for our sleds to call
The name of childhood freedom.
As we were growing,
We began to see things we did not
Before, like the collection of snow congregating
In the crevices of the road, tainting
Its purity with opaque
Emotions; masking the glow
Of a kind humanity with angst
And roaming anxiety.
And as our sleds grew smaller,
So did our thoughts.
It is growing harder
To blind myself from the merciless kings
Winter is no more
A Cheerful season, a transformation from
Innocuous to worry as my body grows sore,
The hill was sloped heavily, making it hard to climb back up.
Time Never Lasts
Meagan Webb
Time passes way too fast,
Before you know it, present is past.
The year is almost gone,
Too fast, it didn’t last.
School is almost here,
Summer days disappear.
Tick tock, tick tock,
Before you know it,
Christmas is near
Practices and deadlines,
Busy till we’re blind.
Nobody ever stops,
To feel this life so fine.
Tick tock, tick tock,
Too fast is life’s clock.
Tick tock, tick tock,
The time’s already gone.
Time passes way too fast,
Before you know it life has past,
Everything’s dead and gone,
Time never lasts.
Chamberlynn Bruner
Wonder Woman
Callen Buchanan
I see a warm little fire
And a simple little
Selfish girl that doesn’t know
Any better. I can’t seem to
Blame her really
She’s had it good,
And if I were raised in that lovely
Little house
Down the street, with such a sweet
Simple family, I’d damn sure be selfish too.
Watching what they watched
Only a year ago, how death can
Creep and slither up a mother’s leg
And work its ways through the cracks
In her faith until it is crushing
Her insides. And to watch her smile
Only break once, because Wonder
Woman who held the worlds
Burdens on her shoulders, had to place them
In her children’s arms. They handled it with
All the grace in the world. Just like
Their mama did; diving into the sea
With a tumor on her back.
Her smile only broke once.
She pushed and pulled herself
Out of bed everyday. Only to get
On her hands and knees again
While our “only hope” slithered
Through her cells and killed off so
Many she could no longer stomach
A laugh. I tell you they’re lucky.
Not a sane person in this world
Would believe me though. And I can’t
Blame one of them. As soon as
She took me in, the world took her out.
And I learned a lot about love
In those eight months. Apparently it makes
You strong enough to drop-kick those burdens
All the way to NYC. And if you were raised in that lovely
Little house
Down the street, with such a sweet
Simple family,
There wouldn’t be many broken smiles in the world.
Broderick Munsey
C’est la vie
Awar Biong
There she was, Lovely, looking at her reflection, numbed by the sight of the hallow woman staring back at her. She was a vision of sadness and groomed beauty in a creamy white gown, a hand-me-down that once was a glimpse of a true future, but now the sealing of her fate, the garb of a death march.
The Women floated around her, poking and prying, indulging in their last moments of control. The bird was furrowed and feathered, peacocked to perfection, ready for take-off. They raised her to be polite, elegant, and bashful. It was by their brooding eyes that she strayed from any hope of “rebellion” and pathetically handed over her life, succeeding the next generation. They were the matriarchs, the product of decades of cultivation, not one of them raised.
Lovely considered her surroundings. She was in a florescent holding cell, sprawled across a velvet divan. She eyed the table to her right accommodated with dainty collations and fawn colored refreshment quaintly situated in ice. She preferred the latter though there was no hope of tasting the sweet poison. She was too young to feel its warmth. She was too young to be in love, but never too young for marriage.
Time passed like a flash of lightning, everything streamed together until the sound of the bolt awakened the world.
They were lining up now. The orchestra played its music, a slow sad tune seducing the lamb to slaughter. She thought about her life as she exited the cell. She was once an innocent girl, filled with false confidence in a life she knew would never be her own. It made sense then, but not now.
Not now as she approached a short robust man known simply as Father. Not now as she took his hand. Not now as the flower girl threw her petals, each one landing, gracefully preparing for trample. Not now as the Women began to weep. Not now as the bride’s maids walked towards the altar. Not now as the room stood. Not now as her world fell apart.
Her numb feet weighed her down like blocks of ice being dragged across an aisle. She could almost hear the faint cries of the petals beneath her, only to realize the sound came from somewhere inside. It was the sound of a scared girl. The sound her mother made all too often in the middle of the night when she thought no one would hear her and the children were asleep. But Lovely was always there standing in the doorway watching, thinking about how beautiful the strange noise was coming from the mysterious woman. She wanted to make that sound back then, but not now.
Not now as she approached the Old Reverend behind his ambo. Not now as her father stopped, no leading her past the rows of onlookers. Not now as she saw the face of the Young Man she was to marry. Not now as Father let go of her hand, leaving the weight of the ceremony quaintly situated on her shoulders. Not now as the Young Man led her up the steps. Not now as she surrendered.
Maybe he would make her happy. Maybe they could grow old together and have a few children. He was smart, handsome, wealthy, and young. He was everything she was designed for. He was the perfect specimen, but all she could see were faults in an expensive suit.
The roses began to weep again. Just as she believed she was going to lose control, the Young Man leaned in, close to her ear now as the Old Reverend spoke.
“I could have been a boy,” he whispered as the cold ring was placed on the fourth finger of her left hand.
She tilted her head up and truly looked at him. His face was handsome and youthful. There were laugh lines around his mouth, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Embedded within the brown orbs was fear and for a small moment she loved him. But lightening flashed and the sound of the bolt awakened the world once more.
“I do,” the Young Man said.
“And do you …take him to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the Old Reverend asked.
“I do,” Lovely said, playing her part.
“…husband and wife…”
And as the room cheered and the Women wept, as her father wiped his tears and the Old Reverend adjusted his holy vestment, everything and everyone stripped away from vision.
There they stood, lost together in a new world all their own, so close to paradise but far from heaven.