As the school year draws to a close, our senior staff members and a few guest writers were asked to reflect on any experience they had this year. This is what they said, unmpromted.

My name is Carson Mayeske. I am one of two editors-in-chief of the Echo Literary Magazine for the 25-26 year at North Springs High School.

In a week’s time, I will be ritually crushed by a giant anvil at our graduation ceremony.

To you who dare venture into the Throne Zone in pursuit of the fabled “literary magazine”, I give you my final words…

Have fun with it! Don’t take things too seriously. The great part about being a part of the lit mag is that if you are simply authentically yourself, you’re already doing it right. You can be funny, you can be serious, you can be introspective, you can be romantic, you can do all of the above at once and more if you really feel like it!

Alongside that, it really helps grow your critical eye for art and writing. Healthy discussion and constructive critique is a constant in the class, but it all happens anonymously and without judgement, so it’s not even an embarrassing process.

Go in with an open mind and an open heart. It’s a great opportunity to be a part of the wonderful body of writing and art that North Springs creates. I hope you join the lit mag! Best of luck to you all in these coming years.

-Carson Mayeske

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School blows,

I knows.

Lit Mag though,

Not all that bad, though.

Lit Mag is pretty cool, though.

Thanks for 4 years of pristine learning, Mr. Throne.

-Jaxon Hewitt-Zmich

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In 2023 I arrived at this school feeling nervous and scared, but my determination said I would make good friends and do good things, and maybe even become better at something. And it wasn’t wrong; time and my words proved me right. I arrived as a shy student, waiting for class time. It took a long time for them to choose my classes. Well, in short, in 2023-2024, I had an easy time. They really helped me a lot; I had support.

Well, what can I say about the teachers? They were really good, even though I didn’t understand what they were saying (I barely had the ability to translate). I would just say yes and that’s fine, doing everything backwards. But after two years, I can now understand what they’re saying (well, at least guess at it, and carefully), since some teachers speak fast. But now that they speak clearly, I can do the things I’m capable of doing.

The truth is, what can I say about my friends? We’ve done hundreds of things. In fact, so many things I can’t list them all, but I can mention some like running, playing soccer, quick games, small pranks, and other things Well, there’s not much I can say about my friends, to be honest.

Ms. Degive, what can I say about her? There’s a lot of history, to be honest. I’ll just mention some important moments. The first was learning about Algebra, and the second was saying that goldfish chips are good, and she looked at me with a face like, “Don’t mess with my goldfish, okay?” I laughed a little, but I apologized later. She’s my favorite teacher, honestly.

I’ll just say thank you for your patience and for the words you said to me. I was the only Hispanic student in this first-period class, so thank you, Mr. Throne.

-Jose Zapata

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“Time with the people you love is never guaranteed.” This phrase has reshaped the way I understand everything. It is a simple sentence, but it carries a weight that cannot be fully understood until life forces it into focus. If more people truly lived by it, we would stop postponing love, stop assuming tomorrow is promised, and start valuing the people in front of us while they are still here.

About two and a half months ago, I had a day that started like any other, yet ended as the kind of day that divides life into “before” and “after.” For once, I was actually having a good day at school. That alone felt rare. Everything seemed light enough to breathe through—classes passed quickly, conversations were easy, and for a few hours, life felt normal. Then I got a text from my mother telling me to come straight home after school. No explanation. Just urgency.

At first, I convinced myself it had to be something small. Something I had done wrong—unfinished chores, missing assignments, something fixable. I spent the rest of the day preparing myself for consequences, unaware that my mind was still operating in a world about to collapse.

When I got home, nothing looked normal anymore. Police cars surrounded my house, turning a familiar place into something unrecognizable. Flashing lights washed over everything, breaking the afternoon into fragments of red and blue. My sister was there too, standing outside just a few doors down, faces already changed by something I had not yet been told.

Then I learned the truth: my two-year-old nephew had shot himself.

There are moments in life when language stops working. This was one of them. The words entered my mind, but they did not feel real enough to stay. A part of me kept waiting for someone to correct it; to say it was a mistake, to undo it. But nothing changed. The world did not pause, even though mine had just broken open. It felt like the ground beneath me had disappeared, like I was standing somewhere without stability. I remember thinking how strange it was that everything around me still looked the same. The world hadn’t changed. Mine had.

Before that day, I understood time as something endless in the background of life. Something assumed, not questioned. I thought there would always be another visit, another laugh, another ordinary moment saved for later. My nephew was only two—full of life in the way only children are. I never imagined that “later” could disappear so suddenly.

There is a quote I think about now more than I ever did before: “The reality is that you will lose what you take for granted.” I used to see it as abstract. Now it feels direct. Grief does not arrive all at once. It settles quietly, showing up when silence feels heavier than noise ever did. But alongside that grief came a lesson I cannot unlearn.

Time is not something we are owed. It is something we are given without promise. It does not wait. It simply moves forward, whether or not we are prepared. That realization has changed how I live. I pay attention differently now. I try not to leave words unspoken or moments half-lived.

My law of life is not just something I wrote—it is something I carry: “Time with the people you love is never guaranteed.” It is a reminder that presence matters more than perfection, and that attention is one of the most honest forms of love we have. Life does not warn you before it changes. But it does leave you with a choice afterward: to go numb, or to let it reshape the way you value every moment that comes after. I have chosen the second.

Because now I understand—time does not ask to be noticed. It only asks not to be wasted.

-Maiyah Roman