Category: Junior Literary

Often I wonder, “what’s ahead?” As an overthinker and a person who tends to live in their head where anything I desire Is real, I think about my future a lot. I think about other people’s future a lot. I think seemingly non-stop or at least until my breaths slow and my eyes shut for the few hours of sleep I manage to get.

Just last night, April 26, 2021, the night of the pink moon, my roommate and I got into one of our many nightly discussions. These nightly talks usually consist of how our day was then lead into any and every topic. We usually have to stop each other from talking when we realize we’ve been talking for far too long.

On this particular night, I was sitting in my bottom bunk bed and she was sitting at her computer mustering up motivation to complete work. Little things like that is what I’m going to miss most about my life at MSA.

Room 402 will be missed and the memories it holds for me. The door handle takes a certain finesse to open it. At any given moment, you’re sure to hear me playing music and softly singing along. It smells faintly of citrus and lavender upon entrance, but more often then not, the smell of food overbears it. Both my roommate and I  like to operate on full stomachs.

I’ve mentioned my roommate in previous blogs, but I can’t help but mention her again. Not to brag, but I have thee best dressed senior of the class of 2021 as my roommate. I love it here!  She has seen me cry more times than I’d liked to admit and each time she would offer me comfort as best as she knew how.

We’ve given each other motivation speeches often throughout the school year. She has really made my first year at MSA go smoothly. I hope to be as gracious and generous as she is my senior year. I admire her and all of her many talents.

Probably Standing by the snack desk,

Taylor Noelle (1/2 of ROOM 402)

*I forgot my room number, hopefully this is the right one, if not, lets pretend friends. It’s been a long week lol 🙂

Oh man, has gotten back into video editing been a doozy. I forgot just how time-consuming it was, but I also forgot how FUN it was! I remember back when I was a kid making little videos and memes on iMovie using the family computer. It was a different and more carefree time back then.

I spent around 20 hours editing this video in total, and man, the final product sure is… something. In short, I definitely still have a lot of work to do in the practice department. Anyway, I was told I could keep this short, so enjoy the video! It was also posted on Rise, so make sure to support the magazine as well! 🙂

for lack of a better term, it’s been a hell of a year. it simultaneously feels like it’s been 4 years in one and just yesterday i was unlocking my door here for the first time. i longed for this school for a year and a half before i arrived, tugging at every ounce of it i could manage. i remember coming to my papaw’s house down here, then the biggest smile rushing to my cheeks as i saw the side of the SLC in passing. i knew i would be here when the time came, and as my intuition often goes, i was right.

this year has been amazing. i made some of the best friends anyone could ever ask for – the kind who want the best for you, no matter what – the kind who see past your flaws and love you anyways – the kind who spot you when you need it, and the kind who know they can come to you no matter what. i won 4 submission opportunities, put works in the school’s literary journal, printed a collection of my poetry and sold 15 copies, and experienced a lot of “firsts…” and “lasts.” i’ve loved a lot, maybe more than is healthy for me, but it’s the truth. 

i’ve also lost. i lost more than 15 literary journal submissions, i lost a bond i thought would last much longer than it did, and i think i lost my fair share of hair clumps from stress in the process. my grades and mental health began to slip before halfway through the year, and just as i was picking myself back up, the realization set in: half of the amazing friends i made this year… are leaving.

come august, my snap maps will have bitmojis scattered from new orleans to new york, and of course i’m excited for them and their journeys, but part of me is terrified of how empty the halls will feel without them. it may be different if this were any other school – if i knew the majority of them would be at the local community college for at least 2 years to come, within close enough proximity to not miss them so much. i’ve spent more nights than i’d like to admit crying over the possibility of losing touch with all the people i love.

but, as the cookie crumbles, i know next year will likely be so much worse – being the one leaving this town, on to something better. i’ll likely join my best friends (hello ayden and madalynn) at mississippi state, but maybe i won’t. maybe i’ll go to the u********* of m*ss*ss*pp* and check out their writing program, stray a little farther from home. maybe i’ll say “screw it” and take a spot at LSU, leaving everything in mississippi behind.

in any case, i’ll be off this campus. i won’t be studying behind the column of cooper like i know i’m not supposed to. i won’t be reminiscing bittersweet memories on the side-steps of JI, i won’t be pouring my heart into a google doc on the second floor. wherever i am, i won’t be here, and that scares me to no end. 

Mister oh mister won't you come and play? 
Please oh please - it’s such a pleasant day. 
I cast off my name and you cast off yours.
Then we call for each other and we live here no more. 

A child gently dances down an elegant hallway, quietly singing and humming to themselves. They hold their stuffed animal in front of them, dangling it in the air, both of them dancing to the nursery rhyme. The fox’s fur is faded, it’s head flopping as they dance, as the stuffing in his neck and middle are flat from being hugged and held. 

As tense as a deer the child freezes,  jerking their head to stare at the back of the only door in the hallway. The clicking sound of a key turning seems to echo through the hall. The old silver handle starts to open but pauses, the voices inside barely slipping through the pause. 

As frantic as a rabbit, the child runs to the nearest portrait, one of a small girl in a light blue and white ruffled dress. In a silent, rushed but practiced motion, the child shoves their toy fox into their mouth and reaches up on their tiptoes to pull the portrait girl’s long, light blue hair ribbon. A small click to be heard as something from behind the picture swooshes open. The child steps on the rim of a fern plant’s pot to jump and grab the top of the picture frame, swinging themselves into the canvas and disappearing into the wall.

The child quickly moves to slide the small hidden door close, halting to leave a small gap of light shining into the dark space inside the walls. The child peeps out to see a tall, heavy set, wide built man silently dart in and out of the forbidden room - doing so much faster than seemed possible for a man of his stature. The man stepped close to the door and shoved an incredibly large worn wooden key into the incredibly small silver key hole with an almost violent twist. 

The house held its breath. The man released his. With clam, gentle movements the man purposely removed the key. Glancing up and down the hall for reassurance that he was alone, the man raised the large key to his face. The man’s jaw twitched as he leaned his head back. He opened his mouth, his lips parting beyond, all the way to his ears. Saliva, dripping off of his tentacle-like tongues and knife-sharp jagged teeth. The man lifted the key above his head. His tongues slipped over the key like snakes. As soon as the man let go of the key it jerked into his mouth, his head whipping closed back to looking normal. The man rolled out his shoulders before fixing his coat and leaving the hall with a brisk pace. 

So, I was a Junoir helper for  Literary Seniors Morgan Love‘s and Kaite Spiers‘s Senior Showcase this past Monday. A good bit of their wonderful writing was Surrealism. My little sisters have also been watching shows that tend to put things past the point of normal. I also watched the movie, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, recently I think it has affected my writing. What I have written above is an experiment. So hope ya’ll like it. 

“I can’t breathe.” was a phrase heard around the nation on May 26,2020. This phrase was chanted throughout protests turned ‘riots’ all due to an incident that started with a supposed counterfeit $20 bill on May 25,202o outside of a Minneapolis corner store.

George Floyd was a father, a brother, an uncle, a son, a partner and so much more. But, on May 25, 2020 the police officers who were called to respond to a possible counterfeit $20 dollar bill saw him less than human. Video shows the last moments of Floyd’s life that all but sparked backlash and a swift need for justice.

For 9 minutes and 29 seconds, Derek Chauvin (ex Minneapolis cop) kneeled on the neck of George Floyd as Floyd pleaded for his “Mama” and continuously repeated the phrase “I can’t breathe”.  The other three officers (Thomas Lane, J.Keung, and Tou Thao) did nothing to stop Chauvin nor help Mr. Floyd. Bystanders and people of the forming crowd around the incident pleaded for Chauvin to stop and even offered to help George Floyd in his plea for air.

The total lack of humanity and care gave the nation enough fuel to make changes until big ones came. Even during a deadly pandemic, people marched for justice for Floyd and many others. Even today, they are still marching.

March 29, 2021 is the day the case of Minneapolis v Chauvin for the death of George Floyd started. I’ve been sure to follow this case since I first heard about it. Testimony from the witnesses, both defense and prosecution, stirred emotion and provided insight into the trauma witnessed the day of George Floyd’s death. The ages for witness start as young as 9 years old. 

Throughout the entire trial, Chauvin spoke only once. He only spoke to use his 5th amendment right, of not testifying. Other than that, he was shielded behind a face mask due to the pandemic keeping a calm demeanor as he awaited his fate.

The jury took a little over 10 hours to come to a conclusion of Chauvin’s fate. He was found guilty on all 3 counts he was charged with which are, 2nd-degree unintentional murder, 3rd-degree murder, and 2nd-degree manslaughter.

Today, April 2o, 2020, justice has been given to the family of George Floyd. Justice has been shown to the United States people. Accountability for careless and deadly actions by Derek Chauvin was given. But, even in the midst of this small judicial victory, black Americans are still being slain by the police as if it comes in their job description.

Today is a small win but not the end of the road. The fight must continue. We will take this day to rest and continue the protests tomorrow. As a black person, we can never enjoy small victories too often because something usually follows behind it. 

I am happy to see justice being served rightfully after being denied many times before.

With a hoping heart for justice,

Taylor Noelle

This is somewhat of a controversial issue. If you are easily offended, then this might not be the best blog for you.

As most people know, I am a woman athlete.  The issue has risen of letting trans women play women sports.  While I completely support trans people and whoever they would like to be seen as, it just is not fair to cis women.  

Trans women in high school are typically not on hormones, which means they have the strength of a full man.  No one would let a man play women’s sports.  While they are a female they have the biological strengths and advantages of a man.  Even if they are on hormones they still have the strength and height they gained during their time as a man, and despite our best medical technology we are currently unable to change it.

A good example I think of is a female high school wrestling champion.  She had been champion for like 3 years in a row, when a trans women was entered she completely creamed the previous champion. This kind of thing would not happen if she didn’t have some kind of advantage.

Biology and differences go down to our very bone structure between the two sexes.  People with XY chromosomes are typically much stronger and taller than people with XX chromosomes.  Even women who train their whole lives to be strong still fail to compare to most men, even those who are not that active. It is all down to chemicals, men have more muscle building hormones and therefore can build more muscles with considerably less effort.  

It is not an easy decision, no matter what the call is, someone will be treated unfairly.  The best idea is probably to just let kids in high school play with their birth gender and for professional just have a different category for them.  It just wouldn’t be fair to the millions of cis women athletes to give them competitors that have so much of an advantage over them.  It’s really how to be fair to more people.  It sucks but there really is no way to make it fair for cis women if trans women can compete with them.  So you have to make it fair to the majority.

As a women athlete I just want the competition to be fair for us, that’s the whole reason sports are not co-ed after kids go through puberty.  It is similar to a women on steroids, it’s not fair and is ban in sports, it is the same type of thing.  Hopefully in the future our medical advances will make it so there is no advantages that trans women have, and then it would be fair if they can compete.  However we simply are not there yet.  

I am not trying to attack trans people. I respect people and their gender identity. I know some of this might not seem fair, but it really is all down to science.  

As an MSA student, I can firmly say that my Sundays, without fail, are exactly the same. I wake up around 11:00pm after getting a solid night’s sleep for the first time in two weeks; I sleepily trudge downstairs with an objective: move my clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. I am greeted by my dog, excitedly shaking the rubber bone he carries in his mouth. I make the same two grilled ham and cheese sandwiches that I always do and pour out the crushed remains of the same lightly seasoned tortilla chips my parents started buying a few months ago. I eat, go back upstairs, and begin to back my things. It doesn’t take as long as it used to because I’ve finally learned how to appropriately pack for a weekend.

My dad arrives around 3:30pm. I’m already sitting in the living room with my mom; my luggage waits for me in the laundry room. I greet him and my stepmom, hug my mom goodbye, and bring my things to the car with help from all my parents. We chat about mundane things, but the conversation is still comfortable, even fun at times. My dad pulls into the drive through at a McDonald’s in Collins, just like we always do, and I hold onto my food as we cut the long, sharp turn that takes us back to Highway 84. I gaze out the window as I sip on my drink; the familiar taste of a strawberry-banana smoothie dances around my mouth.

As I stare at the greenery flying past, something dawns on me. I will only make this trip twice more before everything shifts. Realization sinks in. An entire year’s worth of trips from Soso to Brookhaven awaits me, but after May 16th, I will not drive here with the intention of greeting the same people, nor with the standards I have placed on myself as a junior literary student. While I make my first solo trip in my new car, the class of ‘21 will be spread out across the country, turning the page in the first chapter of their new lives, and the upcoming class of juniors will be anxiously fiddling in the backseat of their parents’ car as I did on move-in day. I will be faced with an abundance of new responsibilities and obligations, and I will not be the person I am in this moment.

The drive continues, despite the sinking pit in my stomach. The drive continues, despite how desperately I don’t want this chapter of my life to close. The drive continues, because it’s time to turn the page.

I glance back up at the trees on my right. It’s a straight shot from my house to MSA: ninety minutes of the same road and the same trees I’ve passed dozens of times before. A strange feeling rises in my chest, and I tell myself it is because everything around me looks different now, that I’m seeing things through a new perspective. But, that’s not true. This sensation only comes from my acknowledgement of the sameness. Instead of trying to find significance where there is none or searching for beauty where I know I don’t see it, I try to absorb my perception at this very moment. I intake the rattle of the car against the cracked streets and the way the bright sun makes my eyes squint. The sound of the seats rattling in the car, and the smudges on the window. The whirl of green that’s so intense it is nauseating at times. The static cutting through subpar music as we break past the limits of our local radio stations.

All students take a unique journey to MSA, in both a literal and figurative sense. No one will make a trip identical to yours; nobody else will pull out of your driveway and into the driveway of the school with the same perspective, the same emotions. Not a soul on this earth will get the gaze on the world around you with the same lenses that you hold presently, in this exact period of your life. On your next trip here, inhale the moment and let it fill your lungs before it becomes a fleeting memory that you only recognize when the shift happens. Cherish and document who you are now, because once you evolve into the more mature, sculpted version of yourself, it’ll be gone forever.

To Whomever Wishes To Go See What Lives In the Mountains And the Forests. 


     An old house. A father in his study, a mother off traveling, a girl left to roam the family’s woods. That’s what’s in the Mountains. That’s one of the things that find you in the Woods. Trees as old and as dangerous as the Mountains they cover. Beautiful Woods. Ancient Woods. Woods of Betrayal. 
     I call them Woods but they are Forests, said to have been growing since the beginning of time. They house strange beats, odd wonderlands, and those that want to hide. Those woods are said to hold the secrets of the universe written in their bark. It is said that their roots reach to the center of the earth’s heart. If you get lost in those woods just adapt, for you have no hope of coming out alive. But if you are careful - if you are cautious - if you bring gifts to the Spirits of Forests, then you might be able to escape only slightly crazed and dazed, but you will quite certainly be amazed. 
     You still want to go? You still want to try? If you are that dead set then these I would sincerely suggest you go find. 


Go find the girl who talks. Keep in mind, she won't say a word. But she can tell you secrets about that world. 

Go find the hole in the house, sat beneath an oak tree. After you find it, you’ll need a new key. 

Go find a bird of sunset, who has yet to fly. If you answer just right you can ask for a guide. 

Go find the writer and ask for his stories. They’ll tell you what to find and where to wander without worries. 

Go find the artist who captures memories. Search through her collection but do not give her yours. 

Go find the twilight but wait until after the morning. This is important. If you don’t then you’ll never see the dawn. 


     These are just the first - they’re as far as I got. If you go any farther then I suggest you keep watch. The things in that forest are not as they seem - for the sweet will be mean and the mean will just scream. If you find a small thing, avoid at all costs. If you happen upon a big just act like you're lost. If you see a young tree then you better help it sprout, but beware the old oaks and what hang about. 
     I know this is cryptic, but it's the best I’ve still got. If you wait just an hour then you’ll get a head start. 


Traveler I beg you - trust this Old Man. For I have seen things you will never understand. 

This is a letter about a forest in another world. This is a letter written to those who like to wander. This is a warning. It hints at ways to survive a magical forest that tends to be just outside of normal in terrifying ways. This letter is written by someone who has braved those woods, came out fast enough to keep his good sense, and continued to live to tell his stories. Others don’t come out so lucky, and most just don’t come out at all.