Revision #3

Edward H. Clifford 

October 8th, 1928

Dear Diary,

My slow descent into madness has not been a quiet one. I feel myself growing more and more aggressive as each day passes. My hands shake, my brow sweats, and even daily phone calls from my sweet mother no longer help me. The voices in my mind overpower hers now. Sometimes a scream escapes that I cannot control. It is a scream of rage. I try to keep my grievances private, but occasionally my roommate will hear me through my locked door.  Ever since I was sent to Lawrenceville School for Boys in New Jersey, I have grown farther away from myself. The headmaster found me stomping through the halls at two in the morning last night after several noise complaints from my peers. I was babbling loudly about my desire to kill and that concerned the boys in my dorm building. Some days, I even scare myself, but other days are filled with the fulfillment of my utterly joyful and unquenchable desire for human flesh. I want to feel the warm ocean of blood rushing over me. I want to know what it feels like to wrap my slender, pale fingers around someones sturdy neck.  I am only 18, but I am above all of these low-life prep school boys. I am worth more than they will ever be. After all, my father is a billionaire. I hardly ever see him but he gives me beautiful clothes and the sharp ivory knife I always keep in my right hand pocket. I will inherit Clifford Industries and I will bathe in the blood of those who stand in my way. I must go now. My roommate is arriving and my little knife needs something to cut. 

E.H.C

Revision #2

• Talks too much or not enough
• I still count on my fingers.
• Seventeen years and still no relationship.
• I'll always cherish the quiet life.
• Music takes me to another world.
• Excessively talks about my best friend
• Don't make me just a sidekick.
• I thought 140 characters wasn't enough.
• I'm just a number to them.
• I regret living without any regrets. 
• I want to leave my house.
• But I am scared to leave.
• I have changed in many ways.
• Realist in a world of dreamers.
• Its very hard to make revisions.
• I am such an introverted extrovert.
• I must refuse to censor myself.
• I leave censoring to my family.

Revision # 1

The glow of the paper lanterns in the sweat stained tavern transported him to thoughts of home. He missed the scent of baking bread in the air, even the dirty streets, bustling with people of all shapes and sizes. No matter where he lived, he was reminded of Paris daily in his accent and in the letters that his mother sent him. His mind wandered to the pile of tattered, yellow notes scattered on the floor of his dingy city apartment. 
He lifted the bottle to his lips, hoping he could stop the bitter memories with the bitter taste of vodka. The first sip of alcohol penetrated his tongue, each drink slowly becoming easier than the last. He let the booze flood his brain as he had so many times before. His wandering mind took him back to his sober day, beginning with a pounding headache. He had a long afternoon at work, the greedy screams of young children still rang in his ears. 
With another drink, a sloppy smile crept upon his bright, painted lips. So often he forgot why he moved away from the home he loved. The children. They were the ones that brought him the most happiness. The art of clowning was a dying one, and America was the only place that seemed to have any traveling carnivals. Suddenly, the hearty laugh of a man with a graying beard sent him back into drunken reality. He felt so out of place in the company of men. Their voices were gruff and their jokes were inappropriate and rowdy. Pure disgust came over him. 
He knew he was alone in this world. The heart of a child beat inside of his costumed chest. Tomorrow he could live his dying dream again, his inevitably pounding headache going away with each child's joyful giggle. He let out an exasperated sigh and took another drink. He hated the smell of cigarettes. He hated the fowl language that escaped their mouths. His vision grew obscured as he shot up from the table, the subtle clink of silverware and porcelain shaking from the impact. None of the men questioned his sudden behavior. They hated the clown just as much as he did. They became silent and watched him as he stumbled out of the cafe, vodka on his breath.
The clown clumsily rushed home and looked in the mirror, swiping a sweaty, meaty hand across his painted face. The broken man was revealed behind the clown, as it was every evening. He would never come to terms with himself. He stared angrily at the sunken, aging face that peered back at him. It felt inhuman. His hand grazed across the postcard from Paris that had been tacked to his mirror years ago. He smiled, thinking of his young, limber body, riding his rusting bicycle through the square, he would set his straw hat on the cobblestones, performing tricks as he heard francs clinking into it. He felt a sudden pain in his head and was brought back to his dirty apartment, open pots of face paint all over his dresser. A yawn escaped his lips as he stretched his worn joints. He got up and sank into his spring mattress, a loud creak emerging from beneath him. He closed his tired eyes, dreaming of twinkling paper lanterns.

Harris Burdick Story

It was a perfect lift-off. From my frosted glass window I gazed out into the night. The subtle coating of snow on the firs blew off in a blinding blast. A tiny snowstorm began beneath the old Victorian. I watched the towering street lights as they turned into tiny glowing orbs below me, becoming twinkling fireflies. I stood up from my window perch, feeling the ground rumble beneath my woolen socks. I lost my balance, toppling to the ground in a heap of giggles and shock at what was happening around me. I shot up and ran to my bed, gripping the wire frame to maintain my balance. My town turned into a tiny speck below me as I floated above the earth like a king. Regaining my bearings, I ran back to my window, staring at the figures below that gazed at me in disbelief. I would surely be the talk of my town. I floated to the next town over, the Christmas lights flickering as if to welcome me and my flying house. 

My eyes shot open from my dream as my body inched toward the edge of my wire-framed bed. I was completely awake, not even groggy from my deep slumber. I ran downstairs and past the smell of sizzling bacon which I hardly ever resisted. I flung my red oak door open, a swift slap of cool air hitting my face and turning my cheeks red. My home was secure on its foundation, the neighbors were merrily walking their dog, their shoes tapping on the sidewalk. They smiled and waved at me. I shut the door with a quiet thud, sluggishly walking back upstairs to my bed. I laid down and closed my eyes, hoping for another perfect lift-off. 

A Recipe for my Family Gatherings

2 heaping cups of my grandmothers controlling tendencies
1 burnt pie crust because "she likes it that way"
1 grandpa and 2 uncles and maybe 1 cousin screaming at a football game on the TV that only gets 5 channels on a good day
5 offers to take some of grandmas hand-me-downs
1 reluctant "sure" because you can just give them to Goodwill
1 teaspoon of hopefulness that your favorite cousin from Arkansas might actually be there this year
3 cups of disappointment when she's "busy" even though you knew that would be the answer
1 text of "I don't blame you"
4 times you take your phone out
4 "put your phone away"s from your mom
2 plates of great food
2 plates of great dessert
1 "no thank you" when grandma offers her pie
3 secret glances between cousins because you all know you don't want to be there
2 nostalgic memories

Mix together in a jumbled, clumpy mess.
Realize there is nowhere else you would rather be.

Photograph 2014

This is my best friend
his hair is newly shortened
his fingers covered in gummy styling product
he smells like his beautiful green house on Gold road
I smell like sweat
I shaved the side of my head
my mother hated it
but I loved it
We went on a drive in his dad's rickety Bonneville
he is draped over the hood
I only had to get out to restart it once
that in itself was a miracle
but it was always worth the drive
We were alone in a secluded place
I couldn't tell you where
rarely a car would drive by and ask us if we needed anything
I only needed him

This was a moment of solitude in our lives

This is togetherness
through the divorce
the breakups
the nights where we would lie awake
the familial struggles
the financial struggles
we had paused time to laugh
we enjoyed the earth as it was made to be enjoyed
Simply together

Unlikely Heroes

As I was scrolling down the list of the photos, this one caught my eye. The description explained that a man named Carlos Arredondo helped a man named Jeff Bauman after the Boston bombings and that they are now best friends. I wondered what would have motivated this man to help someone he hadn't even met. As I researched, I found out that Carlos had lived a difficult life. One of his sons died in the army and his other son committed suicide. After his first son's death, he was involved in anti-war efforts and attended the Boston marathon to hand out little American flags. He knew no one in the race. I believe that pure fate brought him to the marathon.
He said he saw a cloud of smoke, made the sign of the cross, and asked God to keep him safe. In that cloud, he found Jeff Bauman, whose legs had been blown off in the explosion. He found an old sweater to stop the blood, put Bauman in a wheelchair, and sent him to the medical tent. I began to think, what makes someone a hero? This man was far from being a soldier. He was an ex rodeo clown and wore a cowboy hat every day.
I think one thing that makes this generation different is how we have a reputation for being selfish. When someone needs help, we would rather just save ourselves than someone else. I believe that this perception is extremely untrue. Heroes are becoming more than soldiers or strong men from movies. Heroes of this millennium can be anyone, and Carlos Arredondo is proof of this.

Flea Market Photos

Edward H. Clifford 

October 8th, 1928

Dear Diary,

My slow descent into madness has not been a quiet one. I feel myself growing more and more aggressive as each day passes. My hands shake, my brow sweats, and even daily phone calls from my sweet mother no longer help me. Ever since I was sent to Lawrenceville School for Boys in New Jersey, I have grown farther away from myself. The headmaster found me stomping through the halls at two in the morning last night. I was babbling loudly about my desire to kill. Some days, I scare myself, but other days are filled with the fulfillment of my unquenchable desire for human flesh. I am only 18, but I am above all of these low-life prep school boys. I am worth more than they will ever be. I will inherit Clifford Industries and I will bathe in the blood of those who stand in my way. I must go. It is supper time.

E.H.C

Irene R. Nell

Unapproachable love

My heart pounds when I draw near to you

They will never know me

I hide in the shadow of my sin

We kiss

Each one is like a knife into their hearts

My mother is embarrassed

25 and still no wedding band

I spend my days singing love songs

I have a love

But they will never see us

They are blind to their ignorance

I will keep you safe

They will never know

They will never see

We can never love

Photo Hunt

Something From Nature:

We have seen a lot of this bunny lately. At first, I adored her, but now my opinion has changed. I don't remember her name, but lately you could definitely use the words "annoying, poopy, or squirmy" to describe her. 

#bunnyioncethoughtwasadorable

Something That Will Always Remind You of Being at KHS:

The debate room will always remind me of Kickapoo. Debate has always been my favorite part of my high school experience and always will be. The memories I have made in this room will always be an important part of my life. 

#deb8isgr8

Someone Who Makes You Laugh/Smile:

Tony is one of my newer friends at Kickapoo, and he is someone here that never fails to crack me up. We sit together at lunch and I am always guaranteed to cackle when Tony is around. We mostly just make weird noises and make fun of Jessica Lange from American Horror Story. I know I'm going to miss him when I graduate. 

#oooooooooooooohh

Something that Looks Like a Face:

If you tilt your head sideways, you can see it. I thought it was kind of funny because I probably looked weird to whoever it was watching the security cameras. 

#ipromiseimnotsneakingout

A Book:

I love this book. I read it for an English 3 H project last year, and it really impacted me. I have always enjoyed David Levithan's work because his characters center around the LGBT community. The concept of this book is so unique and I recommend it to any teenager struggling with their identity. 

#davidlevithan

Something a Kid Might Notice:

Mrs. Armstrong's room is filled with fun posters, and this Scooby Doo one caught my eye. I loved Scooby Doo as a kid, and I think it is amazing that a TV show from the 60s can still be interesting to a kid today.

#scoobydoobydo

Something Round:

Clocks will always be essential to my high school career. I always find myself watching the clock during the day, counting down the days until I finally get to go home and procrastinate on my homework.

#ticktock

Something Handwritten:

Mrs. BK's board was always what I looked to for assignments. I'm sure it is annoying for teachers to have to write their objectives every day, but it sure is nice for the student because we would always know what we had to do for the day. (And start on the assignment instead of listening to the lesson.)

#iknowhowtoplaythegame

Someone I'd Like to be More Like:

Mrs. BK has always been an inspiration to me. She is such an understanding teacher. If a student has a late assignment because of something they can't help, she always understands. I feel like she makes herself such an available resource for students that are lonely, struggling, or depressed. I would definitely like to be someone like her when I am an adult. 

#bkisbae

Something Square:

Mrs. Wyrick's class was the first class I ever had in high school. I remember what I wore that day, thinking I was super stylish, even though I looked weird. I remember being in that class with a bunch of seniors who needed their second language credit to graduate. We had to greet each other by saying, "hola guapo/a", which means handsome or beautiful. I felt so awkward saying that as a freshman. 

#firstdayoftherestofyourlife

Someone Who Has Taught You Something:

Mr. Baney is my favorite teacher at Kickapoo, and he is also one of my favorite people on this planet. He has been such an amazing coach and friend to me for these past three years. He is a teacher that genuinely cares, which is something that is hard to come by in high schools. He has taught me so much more than communication skills. He has taught me about life. 

#excusehisweirdface

Something That is Beautiful:

I worked really hard on this pumpkin. I have never taken an art class, but I still love to do art in my free time. Even though it got ruined in the rain, I was proud of how it turned out.

#capturedatitspeak

Something That Makes You Feel Nostalgic:

When I think about Kickapoo, I think of my best friend. I met Caleb in my freshman health class. He lives in Arkansas right now, but he came to visit at Kickapoo not too long ago. I will never forget sitting with him at lunch, getting in trouble for talking, seeing each other for a few minutes before class, being in a few classes with him, and texting him in class when I wasn't supposed to. I have Kickapoo to thank for bringing us together. 

#dayquilandnyquil