Two truths and a Lie by Indee S

A Truth


Look at me and listen carefully. Everything they’ve told you is a lie.

Sharp words—biting thoughts—punctuate a sharp turn, a skid. But there are no memories flashing before these eyes of mine, no fond images to ponder and make me infinitely regretful of this decision. The earth is shattering but only because I’m causing it. They say you go deaf, your vision goes blank but that’s not true either. I see the bright headlights to the left of me, the depth of darkness to the right. I see that tree… And I hear everything; cars honking as they pass (that doppler effect), tires squelching along waterlogged pavement. The bump of my car sliding off the road and into uneven grass…over rocks…past something that squeals…into that tree. My tree… There is no white light.

Everything is a lie.



A lie


Heaven smells like chemical disinfectant and salted fries. It’s peculiar.

The first thing I see when I open my eyes—a flutter—is the bright, blinding light. It swings back and forth between each eye—a pendulum of sorts—and briefly I wonder if this is it, if this is God judging me. But soon thereafter the light moves away—a hand follows—and this room comes into view. White ceiling, white sheets…white noise eventually clearing to introduce the beeping of a machine. The clearing of a throat…

A man’s voice booming overhead.

“Can you hear me?” A pregnant pause, then again “Miss, can you hear me?”

Someone groans faintly. I think it’s me.

“Can you open your eyes?” That voice—so loud, so harsh that I scrunch them instead.

Someone to my left shifts in their seat—the squelch of cloth against leather—and whispers frantically, “Her eyes.”

“Is she waking?”

“I think she is…”

“Open your eyes, dear.”

Another moan pierces the air and I am for certain it is mine. The air is too light, the room is too bright. I’d been waking though I choose to sleep. I hear that man—that voice—murmur,

“It should be any moment now,” before I slip into a sleep that seems to last an eternity.


A Truth

On good days they feed me pudding; Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio…I like to think myself the connoisseur of all things Jell-O.

It’s a ritual of sorts; Some plump, matronly nurse—we’ll call her Pat—rolling in on sunshine and caution, setting an unopened cup (of whatever flavor) on the breakfast stand nearby. She allows me a plastic spoon (perhaps metal ones are too dangerous for the likes of me) and fluffs my pillow all the while spouting her wonted cautionary.

“Now, dear,” Said always with discretion, said always with a grin. “Don’t eat too fast.”

“I won’t.”

“And dear—” Said always with the sort of circumspection reserved for those who pretend to be oblivious but aren’t really. “Don’t forget to take your pills.” Which she lies beside my pudding—today she offers banana, something she assumes is my favorite—with an elevated brow. I know what she means but I shrug nonetheless. No promises.

“I won’t.”

“And dear,” Which she never says a third time but I school away my confusion. “No bathroom breaks until I return. Doctor’s determined you aren’t ready for that sort of exertion.” And she rolls away, taking all the sunshine and caution with her.

When I know she’s gone—when I no longer feel her warmth—I careen toward the ensuite with intent, little guilt. Blue pills are wrapped in white tissue are flushed down a porcelain bowl are followed by pudding before I resume my position in bed.  

Truth is, I hate banana.

My Cheesy End of the Year Blog by Sophie Browner

“This is the beginning of anything you want.” This is the quote on the store bought graduation card that I got in the mail yesterday. There is nothing incredibly profound about these words, but the more I think about it, the more true it seems. Up until now, each schedule, each after school activity, and each class has been mapped out for us by our family, our school, and the state of Ohio’s education standards. Entering high school was the first step toward freedom, but “this is the beginning of anything you want” is for the first time in our lives, completely true. It is a scary and exciting thought that the people I meet and the classes I take next year have the potential to move my life in a variety of different ways. I learned so much in high school about myself and the world. The people of Shaker Heights provided me with new ideas about politics and social issues that I know will take me so far. I feel that now that I have the skills, and I am ready to use them.

I think a little bit more about what Shaker has taught me and I realize that this is not the beginning for everyone. Not everyone has the privilege of going to college, taking a gap year, or choosing their own path.

In college, I am going to work to change this. I want to enter a helping profession, whether it’s nursing or speech therapy, and I want to work towards a world where anyone can have a new beginning- of anything they want.

Raspberry Room- Marg Bart (quoted poem by Karin Gottshall)

Image result for raspberry bush

The Raspberry Room

It was solid hedge, loops of bramble and thorny
as it had to be with its berries thick as bumblebees.
It drew blood just to get there, but I was queen
of that place, at ten, though the berries shook like fists
in the wind, daring anyone to come in.  I was trying
so hard to love this world—real rooms too big and full
of worry to comfortably inhabit—but believing I was born
to live in that cloistered green bower: the raspberry patch
in the back acre of my grandparents’ orchard.  I was cross-
stitched and beaded by its fat, dollmaker’s needles.  The effort
of sliding under the heavy, spiked tangles that tore
my clothes and smeared me with juice was rewarded
with space, wholly mine, a kind of room out of
the crush of the bushes with a canopy of raspberry
dagger-leaves and a syrup of sun and birdsong.
Hours would pass in the loud buzz of it, blood
made it mine—the adventure of that red sting singing
down my calves, the place the scratches brought me to:
just space enough for a girl to lie down.
                                                             -Karin Gottshall
What kind of blood is sweeter to lose than losing no blood at all?
I was 10 years old when I first read this poem. Avery read it aloud to me and 7 other girls, and then she asked, “where is your raspberry room? Where do you go to be alone?”
I think as a ten year old I wrote about this tree I used to sit in. My dad slapped a piece of wood on a branch and nailed it into the bark, leaving the perfect perching spot for a young girl to sit, and to see. I saw many things there, I saw Will, the man who cut lawns on Enderby rd, barefoot and balding. I saw my parents frantically looking around the front yard to find me after hours out, hiding behind the green of the tree. I saw my own scrapes and bruises and blisters from my barefooted tree climbing. I saw myself clearer than I do now I think. The luxury of ten-hood.
I moved out of that house last February, and I wasn’t sad to see it go. It had become ghostly, and my throne on the tree, green and rotted, has become a distant memory. If I was asked again to locate my raspberry room, I don’t quite know my response.
The patch of grass between the boulders?
The woods behind the farmhouse?
The ladybug cottage?
The cold coffee, and warm forehead.
I have entered many rooms in my life that have made me feel safe,
often rooms without walls
often all alone.
To forage for a space is to survive, even if there is bloodshed to claim that room of one’s one.
What kind of blood is sweeter to lose than losing no blood at all?

Old Lasts and New Firsts by Abigail Herbst

Today is my last Friday of high school.

Next week it will be my last day of high school.

It will be my last time driving to school. My last time complaining about my bad parking spot. My last time walking down the halls I have grown accustomed to over the past four year. The last time I go to my locker. The last time I go to class with my teachers who have not only taught me extensive academic knowledge, but also how to be a strong and caring person.

A few short months later, it will be the last time I sleep in my own bed. The last time I take my dogs for a walk. The last time I go out to brunch with my friends. The last time I walk out of the door of the only home I have ever known.

But I know that these last times are only temporary. I will return home to visit, however my perspective will have changed. I’ll no longer be a high school student, striving to get As to impress my parents and colleges. When I return I’ll have a new life, a new room, new coffee shops I regularly go to, new friends and new teachers.

Even though this chapter of my life is coming to a close, a new one is just beginning. The possibilities of this new chapter are endless. Thinking about all of the lasts as my high school life draws to a close is sad, but it’s important to not only focus and be lasts, but think about the infinite number of firsts in the year to come.