October 2020 issue:

an LA mizpah publication, vol 2 : issue 1

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Celebrate with Lipscomb Academy the imagination & creativity of the dreamer. In this issue: submissions of ART ~ PHOTOGRAPHY ~ WRITING ~ SONGWRITING

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CHURCH IN SAVANNAH by Mary Jane Estes, pen and watercolor


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SUNSHINE by Audrey Gaither, oil on canvas


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RENEGADE by Brittany Crutcher, watercolor and pen on paper


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DAYS ON THE LAKE by Ella Thompson, photography


Alone by Abby Whitman

ALONE by Abby Whitman, original song


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SUMMER! by Caroline Edgeworth, digital


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FLYING COLORS by Chase Kirk, mixed media


The Voice

It was about 3:45 pm, and I had just gotten home from volleyball practice. The sky was bright and the moon was faint. I sat down in my chair to finish my biology homework when I suddenly heard my mom calling me from the kitchen.

“YES?” I yelled across the house… no answer. Annoyed, I got up and walked to the kitchen. No one was there. I looked around for her, but couldn’t see a trace of her in sight.

“Mom?” I asked… still no answer. I walked back to my room thinking she went to the bathroom. I decided to walk to the bathroom to see if she was playing tricks on me.

Not a soul lingered in the empty space. That’s when I started to get paranoid. I picked up the first book I could find--a history book that I used quite often--and used it as my weapon. (I know you might find this silly, but you would probably do the same.) I crept through the living room expecting some kind of scare, but there was nothing.

That only made it creepier. I thought to myself, "maybe I heard the ice machine in the freezer and thought it was something else." Yeah, it couldn’t have been someone! That only happens in movies. I went back to my desk, but as soon as I sat down, the hairs on my back began to rise and my arms were covered in goosebumps. I was really creeped out. First I closed my door and locked it; I wouldn’t be safe if the door was wide open. Then I decided to call my mom. The ringing went on almost forever until she finally picked up the phone.

“Hello, you ok?” my mom's sweet voice asked.

“No. I don’t know if this is a joke or prank, but please stop scaring me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stop hiding, it’s really not funny!”

“Honey, I’m at work…”

I hung up immediately. I looked out, and to my horror…







Anil Makhdoomi


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GHOST GIRL by Bella Ravella, photography


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PETE by Chase Kirk, oil on canvas


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FIREFLIES by Mary Jane Estes, pen and watercolor


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CREATE YOUR UNIVERSE by Abbie Broadway, digital



She once played with Barbies with unrealistic bodies, she

Was innocent with what she saw, a perfect waist and all

No one’s to blame, then again it's plastic it can’t do no shame.

Teenage dreams is what she’ll think, why can’t I be like this

Girl or that girl, as if she’s forgotten she’s her own girl she’ll

Dream to have the perfect waist, I guess the stretch marks

Aren’t enough to love yourself for the best.

She took advice from the who she knew, eat less

And smile more is what they say, next thing you

Know she becomes the girl of the day!

It felt good in the moments, but behind those closed

Doors it was those struggling moments, how can you look

Like Barbie but not feel like Barbie?

She grew sad over time wishing she went back

In time, sitting down playing with her

Barbies with unrealistic bodies.


Najah Carlise


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JARI by Chase Kirk, pencil on paper


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DUSK by Julien Smith, photography


The House

All I remember is walking towards nothing. No, not nothing. There was definitely

something I was walking towards. The house, I was going to the house, yes. I was

walking towards the house that sat so still amongst the fields. The old, simplistic

looking house with decorative shutters, painted red; clouded windows, once used to

look at all the beautiful life that had once swirled around the building. Besides that

house, the only thing that made its rounds in my head was the complex question of

why? Why was this house the one I wanted so desperately to be in? The poor

structure wasn’t a mansion, no, it was a one-story prairie house. Abandoned, although

that meant it was filled with character and messages from a time that had been and is

no longer.

You may think my journey to this house was a boring and long walk. You’d be

quite wrong. Only the one who is more focused on the destination will consider it a

long, hasty, grueling walk. The one who enjoys the sight-seeing on the journey to the

house will not feel as though they are walking, but as though they are floating on a

cloud taking in the wonderful nature and sights around them. There was no “walk” to

the house for me. I was far more intrigued by the little animals playing hide-and-seek in

the tall grass of the fields that was soft to the touch. The flowers I’d pass along the

way felt as if they had been handcrafted, silk embedded into every single petal. The

flowers were not to be picked. Whenever I tried, the soft petals turned ugly and grey, and

the stem crumbled to dust in my hands. I’d never felt more guilty than when I destroyed

that wondrous creation. It was a type I’d never seen before. It was a color like no other

color had ever been. A color that was and wasn’t at the same time. Nothing anyone

could make out of mixed paints.

A lot of things like those flowers appeared on my waltz to the house. Such as

the bird that sang a song so sweet it engaged all of my senses. Symphonies, incredible

symphonies, played behind that songbird’s whistle. In my sight, an abstract of dancing

colors displayed themselves upon every atom around me. The air smelled so sweet.

Not like food or candles, but of memories. My touch was taken over by a presence.

Someone else was with me, but my eyes could not open to them. We danced to the

concert the bird was performing. We danced forwards, backwards, and upside down.

All the while, I still had not seen the someone I was dancing with. When I looked up to

see a face, I was blinded, momentarily, by a powerful light. When it felt safe to open

my eyes, the person was no longer there. Instead, I was faced with a door, the front door of the

house. I studied its contents. Every area chipped of paint, each crooked nail had something

to say, and I could hear every single thing urging me to open the door.

“Take a peek inside,” they’d say in distant whispers, “Come in, stay awhile!”

I graciously placed my hand on the delicately crafted door handle, and twisted it

slowly. At last, I swung the door open, eager and ready for what awaited me on the

other side. I took a step in, and then I awoke. Heavily breathing, I lay looking up at my

popcorn ceiling. The streams of light coming from my window, poking fun at my eyes.

“Only a dream,” the sunlight told me, “it’s time to wake up and hurry on with

your day. There is no time to think about that house.”

In ways, I knew that was right. There was no time to think about that small

house that sat so still amongst the fields. The house with the decorative shutters and

clouded windows.

No time for that, my brain said, not until tonight.

(based on a dream)


Eva Jennette


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AFTERNOON TEA by Brittany Crutcher, colored pencil on paper


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DUNES OF Santa Rosa by Bella Ravella, photography


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GOOSE WITH FLOWERS by Mary Jane Estes, pencil with white colored pencil


In The End

In the end, they were made of flesh that can be cut and bones that can be broken. Two thousand warriors drew their swords for a war they could not win.

Alhad watched his men draw their swords, preparing for a battle they were going to lose. Two months, was that it? The time that had passed felt like centuries, and to most he supposed that this was normal. He however, was different. He was Archean. Alhad hoisted himself onto his horse. There was no sign of the oncoming storm, no dark sky, no blood moon. He lifted his hand and the men charged.

The field was covered in various weapons and pieces of armor, but no bodies. Not a single drop of blood.



Miranda Smith


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PEANUT BUTTER by Brittany Crutcher, colored pencil on paper


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PRACTICE PORTRAIT by Mary Janes Estes, pencil on paper


Editors' Spotlight:

samples of art and writing from the student editors


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by Isabelle Schrader, pen and ink on paper



Below is an excerpt of a novel, Freshman Without a Cause, in process by Abigail. Freshman Without a Cause follows Ari, a fourteen year-old girl who struggles with anxiety and isolation. When her once tight-knit friend group pushes her away freshman year, Ari finds the strength to combat her struggles with a little help from her dysfunctional cross country teammates.

by Abigail McQueen


Photography Spotlight:

Photography students offer you these images free for use as background digital wallpapers.

Vertical Device Wallpapers

Horizontal Device Wallpapers

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curated by the Lipscomb Academy yearbook mizpah staff

student editors in chief : Abigail McQueen and Isabelle Schrader

faculty advisor : Erin Rickelton

Lipscomb Academy