Journeys Magazine 2018 | Loose Change

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Journeys 2018 Literary Arts Magazine Volume 32

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Crescenta Valley High School 2900 Community Avenue La Crescenta, CA 91214

Dear Readers, We welcome you to an eclectic collection of voices from the students of Crescenta Valley High School! Journeys Magazine is a platform for the talented young artists and writers on campus to showcase their distinct and diverse works. Our board of editors have engaged in discussion and analysis of submitted works throughout the school year to create this magazine, a cohesive compilation of outstanding pieces by the student body.

This year’s theme is “Loose Change”.

We would like to thank the authors, poets, artists, and photographers of Crescenta Valley High School for sharing their perspective with us.

We would also like to thank our staff editors for their commitment to presenting the multitude of voices of the student body. Lastly, we thank you for taking the time to read our magazine, and we hope you enjoy a glimpse into the artistic world of young visionaries.

Co-EICs, Titash Biswas Raya DerBedrossian Sarahbeth Zohrehvand

our Editorial Board Raya DerBedrossian Co-EIC

Titash Biswas Co-EIC

Sarahbeth Zohrehvand Co-EIC

Abbey Markham

Saya Linney

Co-Graphic Arts Editor

Co-Publicist

Elizabeth Petersen

Julieta Corral

Co-Graphic Arts Editor

Co-Publicist

Alexis Karakas Head Literary Submission Editor

Joanna Kim Head Art Submission Editor

Athena Bamrick Fundraising Chair

Table of Contents Art 1 2 3 4 5 7 8 13 13 15 17 19 21 22 23 25 26 31 32 33 35 36 39 40 43

Little Talk, Noel Lee Unkept, Bree Phimphachanh Touch, Ellie Song A Simple Smile, Sydney Reil Long Island Summer, Camille Roberts Omnis, Saya Linney Girls in Pieces, Ellie Song Confidence, Sydney Reil Masked, Camille Roberts Golden Tears, Bree Phimphachanh Unheard Melancholy, Bree Phimphachanh Untitled, Ellie Song Ciera, Camille Roberts Self-Love, Love Lee Piece by Piece, Madeline Yi Warmth and Wind, Sydney Reil Laurel Hollow, Camille Roberts Standstill, Nathalie Lai 0312, Bree Phimphachanh Jackie, Anonymous Moose and Mountains, Nathalie Lai Untitled, Ellie Song Curls, Lindsay Thomas Happy Hand, Micah Gerola Untitled, Ellie Song

Photography 1 3 6 6 9 10 10 12 14 14 16 17 18 19 20 24 27 28 28 31 32 33 34 35 37 38 42

Rest, Reach, Risk, Keya Martha-Bajaj Poised for Flight, Nathalie Lai Burt and the Ballerina, Alithea Louise A Way Out, Alique Kalachian Plum Blossom, Mackenzie Izzard Stop and Go, Maddie Yi This Burdern, Nathalie Lai Untitled, Jace Jensen Hypebeast, Martin Punongbayan Untitled, Annica Reyes The Forgotten Ones, Maddie Yi Beauty Encaged, Keya Martha-Bajaj A New Day, Maddie Yi Street Life, Maddie Yi A 1,000 Paper Cranes, Maddie Yi Desert of Real, Saya Linney Black Beauty, Elizabeth Bedrossian Jacana, Nathalie Lai The Pink Sea, Joanna Kim Untitled, Juliana Merida Untitled, Jace Jensen Egg in Black, Elaina Marriott Penitence, Angelo Garcia Moose and Mountains, Nathalie Lai Pardonne Moi, Alithea Louise Untitled, Colin Fitzgerald Machu Picchu, Kira Webster

Winner

Winner

Prose 2 4 7 8 8 9 11-12 14 15-17 18 20 21 23 23 24 25 25 26 29 30 33 34-35 36-37 38 39 40 41-42 43 44

Eyes, Alique Kalachian The Ups and Downs of Life-Reading, Elizabeth Petersen Fresh, Chole Park Not a Goddess, Anahita Ahmadi My Rainbow Letters, Sedona Elliott Life, Anjana Saravanan Mitty, Sienna Zamlichz Sixty Inches Tall, Cassidy Prasertsit Shiver, Diana Barseghyan Little Light, Serrineh Khachatourians Yearning, Anjana Saravanan Dragon Boy, Anjana Saravanan Do Re Mi, Anonymous One Man Band, Brooke Beer The Mango Girl, Anjana Saravanan All At Once, Anonymous Toes and Dishes and Ms. Jamaica, Sedona Marie Elliott Silent seeming too loud and crowded, Emma Benitez Two Lightning Bugs, Anjana Saravanan We shall get there someday, Anonymous Why They Love to Hurt Us, Hannah Hunter Journey, Anahita Ahmadi To Love and Be Loved, Anjana Saravanan The End of the Desert, Teresa Patrikyan Hairs, Claudia Seo Young Kim Lemon, Ginger, and Honey, Claire Gantan A Body and a Man, Anjana Saravanan what would I do without my mind., Serrineh Khachatourians Him, Anjana Saravanan

Winner

Poetry Secrets, Megan Minter Free, Ellie Song WRITER’S BLOCK, Anjana Saravanan Cruel Crime, Teresa Patrikyan Parent(s) Trap, Lizzy Brookey The Audition, Diana Barseghyan Herself., Athena Bamrick Mi Amor?, Elizabeth Petersen Bath, Ellie Song Poem of Observations, Katarina Stankovich You’re Gone, Megan Minter In The End, There is Nothing But Absence., Athena Bamrick

Winner

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1 3 5 5 6 13 18 19 22 27 31 32

Rest, Reach, Risk Keya Martha-Bajaj

Secrets

Megan Minter Do you ever just want to explode?

I love listening to people And I don’t mind keeping their secrets But I feel like I’m full of secrets, everyone’s secrets.

One cut and a secret will leak.

So here have a knife Where do you want to cut?

Who’s secret do you want to hear? And how many?

If you want mine you’ll have to go straight for the heart.

Little Talk Noel Lee

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Unkept

Bree Phimphachanh

Eyes

Alique Kalachian If someone were to look into my eyes, they’d see little brown circles, like of a brown M&M. They’d see small specks of gold in my eyes, and every time the light hits them, the small specs of gold become big rays of shimmering sunlight, the kind that creeps into even the darkest corners of a room and brightens everything up.

My eyes are like a warm autumn day, the ones that make you want to feel seven years old again and rake up all the leaves in a pile just to jump into them. Blurs of brown, yellow, and orange leaves swirling all around.

My mother’s eyes never stop smiling.

There are so many different hues in her eyes, always changing, but always bright. When I look into her eyes, I see shades of green, green like the leaves of sage, and brown, like the wood of a fresh-cut cedar tree. I see the extravagant feathers of a peacock. I see the blue-green lakes of my homeland, the beautiful, sweet water splashing everywhere when someone threw pebbles in it, trying to make them skip. Splashing colors of emerald and warm, golden-brown.

My father’s eyes are painted with a warm shade of brown. My father’s eyes are comforting, like drinking hot chocolate on a cold, rainy day.

His eyes are like the perfect sip of hot chocolate, the sip that fills someone’s whole body with

warmth and they feel so much better and happier than when they did two seconds ago.

The hot chocolate would be filled with sweet, fluffy marshmallows, splashing around in the cup. Splashing the soft, comforting shade of brown all around the cup.

My little sister’s eyes are so full of innocence. Her eyes are like two bright yellow dots like two big sunflowers on a beautiful summer day. The sunflowers, that brighten up a whole yard and make everything look so much happier. Her eyes are so yellow, someone would think they can’t ever get brighter, until they see her smile. When she laughs, her eyes gleam, shining brighter like nothing anyone’s ever seen before.

My older sister’s name means snowflake, which are what her eyes are like- so unique and beautiful, someone would have to look for a long time before they get enough of them.

Her eyes are very dark, though, almost black.

Sometimes, in just the right lighting, her eyes will also look like bright hazelnuts, though.

She’s special that way. Her eyes will change colors and hues, like a canvas always being painted over and over because the artist can’t decide which shades they like more.

Journeys 2018

2

Touch Ellie Song

Free

Ellie Song I wait for the midnight sky of the night When the planets align And the stars are alive Only then my cage would open And I could fly Little did I know it was always midnight.

Poised for Flight Nathalie Lai

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The Ups and Downs of Life-Reading Elizabeth Petersen

As anything will, books left a mark, a candlestick, a seed. This seed has sprouted and grown inside me over the years, shaping how I presently think and act. When I was young, Dad read me stories from Aesop, before bed. As I learned of The Boy Who Cried Wolf and The Tortoise and the Hare, morals and life lessons began to mold my thoughts. Even today, I perform an excellent job of remembering to be honest in everything, and trying my hardest to avoid arrogance. Subconsciously, morality became an instrument that I played constantly, by strumming and listening for its sound in every day.

Tapes, with recorded fairytales, took the place of Dad’s voice when he was at work. I continued to seek out the life lessons, and along came the awakening of my imagination. Now with the stories came senses of smell, taste, sight, and sound. Reading was never the same, it became better, it became real. Words were places and people. Letters were an alphabet soup, that I couldn’t eat enough of. Choosing basic books for reading practice were always the best because I could sit and read what I wanted for homework!

For the longest time, I would do any school assignment faithfully, and willingly, for the sake of praise from parents and teachers. Trusting people is a talent I possess, that often borders between gift and curse. How peculiar it was, when the peers I trusted began questioning the parents and teachers I looked up to with “Why? Why do we have to do homework?”. Change carried on, when teachers introduced a new homework assignment called a “Book Report”. Appalled by the idea, I chose to dislike the assignments of reading books from unfamiliar sections in the library. My expectations of satisfaction came from fantastical elements. Between the grades of fourth and sixth, where Book Reports were often assigned, fantastical elements began fading from the literature, and so did my love for reading.

The ‘Whys’ were the cause of my very own civil war. In fact, this civil war I fought every day, and continue to, everybody does. It’s the war of behavior, time-use, focus, and all the small choices that have impact on ourselves, our day, and everyone we’re around. As crazy as it sounds, I didn’t even know this war was occurring, until I was reflecting over myself, and thought, “You used to love reading Lizzie...what happened?”. A plan to change took form when I overheard another student’s idea for the summer- to complete a summer booklist. Inspired, I created my own summer reading list, filled with the stories I wanted to discover.

School ended this last year, and I set off on my journey, through book portals, into time and space. I read about lands of magic, adventures of young heroes, and was pleasantly surprised when, I began taking interest in online articles, scientific discoveries, interesting statistics, advice for wholesome activities, and even Sydney Reil lives of historic people. It felt like an old pair of reading glasses had finally been wiped clean, and placed in front of my eyes, reading was wondrous again.

A Simple Smile Journeys 2018

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WRITER’S BLOCK Anjana Saravanan

Winner

Something.

More things.

The sky is blue and the yellow sun is shining.

I feel as though I am floating in the waters of time all alone untethered uncaring floating Without purpose or meaning or will Where is the edge?

Will I float forever in this bland infinity?

Write something anything just write it please Throw your thoughts onto paper and pray that they will stick, like spaghetti on a wall.

Headache.

It is what it is what it is what it is stop Why can't my words flow and paint and dance like the words of others?

Mine are so blunt crude like bricks stacked up between me and the story I wish I could tell.

CRUEL CRIME Teresa Patrikyan

I stare at the boy on the throne.

His father’s crown is too large for his head.

His fear are well hidden like a face behind a mask.

He does not flinch.

It sends a shudder down my spine.

He sees the blood on my hands and the iron rings around my wrists connected by a single chain.

He doesn’t need to ask what happened.

He can read me like a book.

He knows.

As if he witnessed what I had done.

“Please,” I let out. The word echoes in my skull.

Regret runs through my veins.

Judging on the way he looks at me, there is no hope of mercy upon my soul.

“This is no way to treat a king.”

Long Island Summer Camille Roberts

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Burt & the Ballerina

Alithea Louise

The Parent(s) Trap

Lizzy Brookey

They’re so stuck In this whirlpool of hatred from the past They’re offering me more love than they have in their pockets But they would rather sink separately Than dare to swim together And I’m supposed to get better!

They’re cheering me on from the sidelines They’re hypocrites!

Why should I have to work when they don’t?

I’m watching them drown while I stay afloat But no one will listen to me Their ears are closed over, only to open at any sound of potential ammo, Anything they can use against their opponent And I’m stuck in the middle of their gunfire.

A Way Out Alique Kalachian

Journeys 2018

6

Fresh

Chole Park

No familiarity felt at all around me. Questioning every step I go. Doubtful of where I am, where I’m going, where I will be. Will anyone notice the good in me, will anyone notice me at all. But even with all this fear and anxiousness settling into my mind I manage to bring out hope, once trapped deep inside a lockbox, hidden away, waiting for the right chance to emerge from its shell like a snail. With that hope, I carry on, trusting its smile. It leads me on, like a map leading the reader to the big X marking the spot, to the treasure, where I would find a warm welcome, a second of thoughtfulness, something so simple, but what I had been looking for. The walls didn’t seem cold and restricting anymore, the fluorescent lights weren’t as interrogating; I saw the good in the place, as I had hoped it would see it in me.

Omnis

Saya Linney

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Girls in Pieces Ellie Song

Not A Goddess Anahita Ahmadi

I’m not a goddess. I can’t control water, nor can I heal. So many people expect to be a circle, flawless, but I embrace my imperfections. Anahita, the guardian angel of waters and a healer. I’m not who I was told to be, but I’m me. I’m a tiny, clear bouncy ball with colorful lights inside, bouncing through the halls of high school. I’m yellow and purple and green. I’m me. I’m not popular and I’m not cool. But I’m more than a normal girl. More than two eyes behind big glasses. More than an ID number and prejudicial comments. I’m determination. I’m perseverance. I’m me.

The air around me is red with passion.

I am a girl who stays up studying. I’m a girl lost behind the books that tower above my desk like a skyscraper. I’m not a goddess, nor am I an ordinary girl. I’m me.

My Rainbow Letters Sedona Elliott

Synesthesia. A literary device. But it’s more than that - I should know. I own the colors, and so do my words. Names, numbers, letters, colorful phrases. Not colorful in a cursing way. Colorful as in green Es and red As and purple Fs. Colorful as in orange Kaydins and purple Toris and brown Jodis and Leightons.

Synesthesia works in mysterious ways. Some letters’ colors scream out like a barrage of barking dogs. Others are quieted, mute, soft like the fur of a mouse.

Because of this, subject colors sometimes override the sum of their letters. Brown is brown and not B blue. Buzzing bees aren’t blue or green.

In this way my mind lies to me, as it often does. It tells me that the world is more colorful than it is. But I don’t mind. A spice of interest, a hint of color in my bleak, privileged existence.

Journeys 2018

8

Life

Anjana Saravanan Let me tell you something Life, to me, is a series of failures But it’s also the boy kissing his older brother on the cheek as he gets picked up from school The twins running home, their laughter leaving a trail of bright sparks Watching someone when they don’t know they’re being watched It’s love and fresh mangoes and eyes and books Life is crying alone in the bathroom thinking no one understands you It’s giving up and getting angry and hating yourself Being nervous around somebody Yearning for someone’s love Feeling rejected and not good enough and wishing you were different Life is realizing that others don’t see the mess that you are It’s that sneaky feeling of pride Unexpected love Life is the all of the above answer on a multiple-choice test Or maybe it’s NO CHANGE It’s everything and nothing all at once It’s a beautiful mess, a bounded infinity A tragedy of immeasurable proportions, a lighthearted comedy, maybe even a sappy romance Whatever it is, you and I are trapped in it.

So what do you want to do about it?

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Plum Blossom Mackenzie Izzard

Stop and Go Maddie Yi

This Burden Nathalie Lai

Journeys 2018

10

Mitty

Sienna Zamlich Their nails, equivalent to that of dirtied water bottle caps lacerated riotously at the organism of rising and falling agents wielded together in a frighteningly secure way.

The refugees had the capacity to only reach towards the wave of sightless passer byers and extend their hope, stationing it in our hands. Yet no matter the struggle they effectively demonstrated, the officials kept them away, their hair tousled aggressively in a glorified manner of dishevelment and disorganization. Another being of its own, the growling, the bellows, the anguish, the mumbles of disembodied voices. No one was of the knowledge from where they had originated from, as if they wasted enough energy for genuine concern. In an unfortunate observational state, in high-waisted shorts, elevated converse, and Metallica graphic shirt tucked beneath my bottoms, I couldn’t help but recognize a lonely, chillingly familiar face painted with sorrow.

Mitty.

The realization was not instant; it was shielded by shock and refusal to digest such a sight. My pupils made an effort to run their horror up and down her figure, watching as she held a bloody hand against a long-destroyed striped top that complimented horn-rimmed glasses. Her Indonesian yet Dubai-glazed skin sparkled in the radiating sun as I watched with distress, the painful elevations of her chest against a suffocating garment of clothing.

Mitty.

As if by chance, she captured my eyes. She took them, pleaded with them, and made her own produce wells of salty bodily fluid that resonated with mine. Her fingers curled slightly as she sorely extended a welcoming hand amongst an unwelcoming crowd of melancholy. I could not recall finding myself reaching back, wishing, sobbing, bolting to her miniscule presence.

Mitty, Mitty, Mitty.

Dear friend from the Emirates, I do love you so. Dear friend from the Emirates, you don’t deserve this. Dear friend I wanted to meet, I wish I hadn’t met you like this.

Wailing clamor of police cruisers became instinctively drowned out by selective hearing, my body seemingly caught in an inescapable freeze-frame accompanied by a frenzy of panic and disbelief. I would not let aching bunions and callused feet to conclude my forlorn quest.

Mitty, wait.

The need was addictive, yet unwanted as my body was promptly yanked back, a yip following after. My mind could not process whom it was, daring to constrain me. I kicked, I screamed, I cursed, and I shouted as if the volume of my voice and delirium was enough to end the day with a peace treaty. But the breathing organism would not let me get to her, would not let me fulfill the need.

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Mitty, you’re not at fault.

The shouting failed to cease, but the abuse took joviality in launching directly towards me, the fists that burrowed within my face, the shins that made satisfactory contact with my abdomen. The gravelly, strained vocal chords that never halted to release roaring tumult. They were metal, they were heartless, they were merciless, they were unearthly. They were out to keep me from replenishing universal rectitude and propriety. They were out to fortify their fervent ignorance.

Mitty, what do they have planned for you?

The ringing was deafening, the faces, the disenchantment, the no-faced men of wrath and blank emotions. Mitty was my parallel, being tortured, kicked, punched, mocked, stripped of liberty and natural rights. The invisible tie between us left her determined to skim my fingertips, the desire flaring in her drive as she used every last drop of energy and integrity to crawl through her segregated bunch of homogenous individuals. But not even determination could quench the slovenly situation. Oxygen struggled down my throat and hitched as the manifesting organism lifted a black rifle.

Mitty, duck. Duck so we can talk again.

A familiar cracking of disturbance in the air rang out, the surrounding people dropping to fetal positions and wincing as the noise ripped through eardrums and through the goose bumps arisen on their skin. The sight of Mitty collapsing to her knees as a nonvisible crater began to seep of scarlet. The sight of my patella snapping instantly, the numbing feeling of lead piercing through. The inaudible screech that surged through my innings and flared my nerves.

Mitty, I’ll curse you if you aren’t there.

A nauseating silence. Greed of news anchors, standing in the fourth circle of hell. The silence of disapprobation and censure.

The view of a corrupted haven.

Dear friend from the Emirates, I do love you so.

But you’ll never hear me say it.

Untitled Jace Jensen

Journeys 2018

12

The Audition Diana Barseghyan

Three little knocks on the door Two little pumps in my heart One leap to the carpet floor Less than one beat right before They closed the door.

Shrink to the ground Where the only sound One can hear is the beating drum.

The beating drum of the metronomeHum of the clicking phone And a clock telling me That I Might End out

Confidence Sydney Reil

So I picked up my heart And I gathered my life My music hanging on to the tip of my mind As I stood on the judging panel My memory blank And I played for them right For the first time in my life.

I got it.

Masked

Camille Roberts

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Hypebeast

Martin Punongbayan

Untitled Sixty Inches Tall

Annica Reyes

Cassidy Prasertsit

Nobody cares about height when you are little. Then everybody grew, like weeds, but I didn’t. They say, you are so little, how old are you? I say I am 15 but they deny it, like I don’t know myself. 15 years old and barely 5 feet. A mouse next to an elephant.

The giant next to Jack. I hold my hand up to another, the hand looking down at mine, discouraged. At dance, I stand with the girls with long legs and elegant arms comparing them to mine.

Even Jalen puts his arm on my head and says, you are the perfect armrest and laughs. What was wrong with me? So I took in the settle mockeries and the laughs held in my insecurities and made a joke out of it. Pretending to accept I was different. A hidden outcast. But it’s fine I say. I guess it doesn’t matter.

Journeys 2018

14

Shiver

Diana Barseghyan We stepped into suffocation. The blow of mourning compressed us into everyone else, down to the last thing possible; silence. A sea of black blocked our path, as a huge line of adults stood to wait their turn, to do the one thing possible to comfort the parents, of their lost son. But this wouldn’t do anything, I think. The only possible comfort, they can get right now, from a hug, would be from the 30 something year old man, lying pale faced, in the coffin. I never knew him very well. He was always a familiar, friendly face at family parties, and events, but I am just a child, the invisible child, who isn’t really a part of their family; so I would just stand next to my best friend at those parties. I had known her all my life, and she was his cousin. So the moment I walked in, I saw her, sitting in the second row of mustard colored chairs, in this room, lit as brightly as qualified for the day before a funeral.

My parents went into the line of comfort, as my brother and I, went to the second to last row, and sat down, as quietly, as invisibly as possible. I glared down at the black dress my mother had gotten me the other day, then glanced up to stare at him: the father, of the man in the box. I had known him, my whole life. He brought us to America, helped us, taught us. He was always the host at the family parties, since he was the only “family” we have in America.

He would greet us with such a familiar smile on his face, that it looked like it was the only emotion possible, to be composed on it.

The happiness always shined bright from him, glowing like a giant halo. So I stared.

I stared at the face I didn’t know, the face that was now an orb of grief and sorrow, clearly placed on his face. The room was filling with hushed people, so I stilled my eyes on him. He stood over his son, and in the quiet absence of sound, I was able to hear what he mumbled. “It shouldn’t be you. It shouldn’t be-” Then he broke. He broke like I had never seen him before. His deep sob, louder than any other, caused me to do just the same. I never knew his son, but I knew him. I couldn’t stand to see him like that. This perfect, generous family, suffering so much loss and I dreaded that they would never be fully happy again. So I started praying. I never pray, but now I did. Maybe it was to the world, to them, but I wished that one day they would feel happiness again, that they would find a way to continue. I was so desperate to send this message through, I repeated it over, and over again in my head, until people started clearing out.

My family stayed, and that was when I saw the stillness of his face. He looked so peaceful in that beautiful flower covered Bree Phimphachanh box, almost like he was just sleeping. I had never seen a dead body before. I couldn’t

Golden Tears

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stand how he could just lie there so calmly while his entire family wept over his body. Not a single muscle in him moving. I couldn’t stand it. I stared at him, willing him to move, just one breath, one flicker, one millimeter of movement. Something!

My tears had finally dried, in replacement of dreaded anger toward the world. I only just snapped out of it, when my mom placed her hand on my arm. She cried at the end, and I could see the confused, but pained look on her face, while she watched me. I didn’t want to watch her cry, because she knew him, and she’s my mom. I can’t watch my mom have the same sadness, knowing that what she was imaging was what would happen if it were me in that box.

We were about to leave, apply one last hug to the family before we left. I spotted her then: my best friend, Mary. We used to be put in the same cribs together, same playdates, same piano classes. Now, the same face. She turned to me, with so much emotion in her eyes, saying something incapable of being put in words. I looked at her with so much sympathy, my whole body started to sting, aching Maddie Yi as if I’d been burned with flaming coals. That was when she stumbled over to me, shaking through her older brother’s hug. He’d been holding her together the whole wake, he was the tiny band-aide on her bullet-wounded chest, and despite the fact that this was not a permanent solution, there was still comfort in his 18 year old arms.

For a small, selfish second, I envied her for having a sibling who was older, to be able to hug, but I ignored this thought when she wrapped herself around me. Half a second later, the shivers began, a gasp, and then a wet drop on my raincoat, probably from the drizzling day outside. Her sobs became louder as I tried with all my power, to grasp my best friend together. Squeezing her, like I could replace the shattered glass of her already fragile ensemble. The effort of the hug was so much that I began to cry, not from the grip of her nails clawing into my back, but from the fact that I had been here for my best friend to cry in my arms. My sister, crying in my arms. How could one hug, one mourning hug, bring two people who’ve known each other forever, so much closer? I had never needed to be there for her in a time of such a crucial state, and it was the fact that I was there, someone for her to fall on, for her to feel comfort in, was what brought tears to my eyes.

When we were asked to pull apart, we decided to take a walk outside, hoping a deep breath of frigid air would help us relax, or at least numb us until we felt something worth feeling. It only took 5 steps, before I felt Mary slowing down behind me. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and brought her up to mine, and with a long exhale I let out,“God, I love you so much Mary, you know that?”

I heard her shiver, as through rising tears, she stumbled on, “I-I l-love you t-too.” And not a second later, I had her in my arms again, holding her again, now practiced. I couldn’t cry now, I shouldn’t, even though it was so hard. I cry whenever she cries, even for the most infinitesimal reasons. It may be, she cries in piano class because she can’t get a measure, and I cry too. So when she started weeping again, my resilience faded completely and I jokingly asked, “Mary, why do you have to cry so much?” pushing out an exasperated laugh, swiping the tears from my eyes.

The Forgotten Ones

Journeys 2018

16

She gives me a faint smile, which I see takes a lot of her energy, so we just walk out.

“You know, his parents went to his house in Florida. The day before he died, they went to go check up on him. The next morning, when they went home, in the afternoon, they got a call, saying he got in a car accident.” I gasped, having not known the story before hand.

His parents had just been there, just hours before, they had seen his smiling face, only for the next time to be today, stone cold, a somber look draped over him forever. As my friend began to shudder again, I worried it was because of the freezing weather, but then, I knew it wasn’t. Then we stopped, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, she only shivered in my arms, and I will never forget her pain.

Unheard Melancholy Bree Phimphachanh

Winner

Beauty Encaged Keya Martha-Bajaj

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A New Day Maddie Yi

Little Light

Serrineh Khachatourians

There was a small glimmer.

A shine behind the door.

Among all the darkness surrounding it.

Like a crack behind the thick layers of rocks in a cave.

But there appeared that little light.

Somedays that little light can shine in your head.

Something that appears in the back of your mind.

This glow can be enough to ignore the dark those days.

No matter how much of its opposition surrounds it.

Then there are those days where the hostility will return.

When it is most important to remember that little light.

It is always there, no matter how minuscule it may be.

Herself.

Athena Bamrick

my heart is a cavernous, hollow home, words echo off its walls, the center is filled with empty, resounding darkness, and its walls are paper thin. internally, tears drip in the soundless wasteland, and alone is a small girl crying, huddled up with her knees to her chest. the darkness envelops her, and though she sobs, she is silent. one day, her tears will reach soil and plants will grow where there was no air to breath, and sound will escape her lips, and bounce off of the walls until they crack, and as light floods in, it will engulf the darkness, shatter the silence, and she will smile, she will rise, and she will know that she did it herself.

Journeys 2018

18

Street Life

Maddie Yi

Mi Amor?

?

Elizabeth Petersen

I was walking along in this big world The meaning of love mixed up and swirled Found myself in the same place Confused what it was in the first place Princesses had their happy after A palace and a crown Were these the things I needed to have love around?

Continuing on this road of uncertainty Saw the transfer of money Lust is powerful indeed But real love grows from a seed Posters and magazines Perfection made to be obscene Bodies shown more then they should They don’t understand, they misunderstood Looks don’t determine what a heart could We read books and watch tv Fantasize loves true meaning Remember when you see those smiling faces They come from hard, trying places Love is a seed it needs time to grow You give it all you got and always have it sown Yes there’ll be tough weather and dislikes and concerns But in the end you’ll find that real love will truly burn So when I think of the future, of you&me Remember to be the best that you can be I’ll be good and I’ll wait for you Until we meet --stay strong and true

Untitled Ellie Song

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Yearning Anjana Saravanan What is it about you, anyway?

You’re nothing special.

An run-of-the-mill human being.

But your eyes.

God, your eyes.

A second of contact, and I’m gone.

They’re venus fly traps, your eyes.

They lay in wait for me, draw me in, chew me up and destroy me.

How is it that when you look at me I forget everything?

How is it that you make me act unlike myself?

Why is it that I keep every word of yours in a locked treasure box?

Please, please.

I don’t think I can go on like this any longer.

Your slightest movement, the flicker of your eyes, they destroy me.

I want you like I want air; that is to say, I need you.

I honestly don’t even have a choice in the matter at this point.

Without you I’m a deflated party balloon.

And maybe it isn’t really even you.

Maybe it’s just the thought of you.

It’s what I assume you must be.

But maybe you aren’t all that.

I mean, you are human, right?

You’re me, with different genes.

Maybe you don’t even notice me.

But maybe, maybe, I can change that.

All it takes is a few steps forward and a cautious “Hello?”

1,000 Paper Cranes Maddie Yi

Journeys 2018

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Dragon Boy Anjana Saravanan

I really didn’t think much of him the first time I saw him.

He seemed like a skinny boy, with eyes too big for his face.

That was before I saw him smile, though.

His smile is innocence personified.

It is purely, completely beautiful.

Spontaneous, and always gone too soon.

Wielding the flaming tongues of that beautiful scorching smile, he wore down the walls I thought I had so carefully constructed.

And now I can’t stop looking at him.

He becomes a mystery to me; a mythical creature.

I invent stories about what he does in his free time.

I stare at him with the desperation of a scientist documenting a living dinosaur; wondering at his beauty but haunted by the time I know will eventually come to an end.

He is a dragon to me.

Beautiful and dangerous, mysterious and proud.

But I can only wonder what I am to him.

Ciera

Camille Roberts

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Self-Love Love Lee

Bath

Ellie Song Long, long days I’ve drifted through Feels like forever, all things do I need a bath, bath, bath Hot clear water rushing out Bath bubbles Pink, blue, purple Salts and smells Fresh peppermint leaves Ever lasting rose petals Soothing water It calls my name I sink deeper and deeper The hot, hot water Washes away the dirt of today and yesterday Bubbles froth Away goes my pain And all I remember of yesterday Longer and longer I soak

Waiting till I come out pink and new Go away bad, everything bad Washed away by the clear hot water Leave me clean No more worries and fears Take away the painful memories I no longer want to hear I float away on bubbles Leaving behind the hurt and hard Submerged beneath bath and bubbles No more of the pain I’ve cleaned myself of Myself In the bath of Forget-me-not-blue

Journeys 2018

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Do Re Mi Anonymous

Brooke Beer

For as long as I can remember, music has been an essential factor towards my growth. At a young age I asked my dad if I could take music lessons, and it was the best decision I’ve made. As I sit in front of the finished mahogany masterpiece, glossy white and black petals stay pristine, until the winds flurrying through my fingers disturb them and strike melodious tones I weave into an intangible tapestry. The voices, tones, feelings, and emotions of each piece enter my ears, each moving petal sending an array of sensations before returning to their perfect floral beauty. Every note, every chord strikes an equivalent string within my being, and the union between hands, feet and instrument becomes seamless. And through my relationship with this flower, I find fragments of archaic discovery; I birth and forge my own melodies, my own chords, my own self.

Piece by Piece Madeline Yi

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One Man Band

CVHS Literary Magazine

A happy hum hops from my flute and turns my bedroom into a philharmonic. Warming up is boring and tiresome so I decide to go straight to my piece. What shall I play today?

Bach...Fauré...Schocker... yes Bach. I gently press my worn book onto the music stand in front of me. The flute is shocked when my hot breath first hits its cool silver body. The playful staccato notes in the beginning of the piece slice the air like a samurai’s sword and the next series of notes smell rich as I go into my lower range. The notes seem to fly off of the page and leave my fingers gliding across the flute from muscle memory. The tempo gradually increases and my fingers have to catch up with my gusts of breath escaping from my mouth. I cut off my last note very dramatically and wait for an applause but there is none because I am not at the philharmonic.

Desert of Real Saya Linney

The Mango Girl Anjana Saravanan She was, to me, humanity encapsulated.

She was a wandering child; she was a cynical old crone.

She went to bed at 10:30 on school nights, but smoked and drank with her friends on the weekends.

She told me boys had cooties, but wasn’t a virgin.

She carried my things for me sometimes, but other times she rushed away without me.

Many people did not like her and it’s not hard to see why.

Maybe they were scared of her raw nature, her unpredictable stubbornness, her indecipherable moods.

Regardless, to me, she was an emblem of unfiltered humanity.

She liked to wear makeup, but only around her eyes.

Some days her lashes were blue.

Other days, her eyelids sparkled.

She always brought mangoes to class in a little plastic container with a blue lid.

And one day, she turned to me mid-chew and opened her mouth, a clump of mango cradled by her tongue.

I remember, her eyes were so loud in that moment.

Screeching with laughter, so hysterically it was a wonder no one heard them.

Isn’t this the funniest thing? those hazel orbs seemed to be asking me.

I couldn’t help myself.

I burst out laughing.

Her eyelashes were blue that day.

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Journeys 2018

All at Once Anonymous

The black and white checkered ball sat still on the white circle of painted grass. Ten yards away stood the intimidating goalkeeper, with a daring expression on her face. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just a penalty kick, not the World Cup. I could taste the growing tension in the air, a balloon about to pop. I tuned everyone out like a volume switch in my head, the cheers dying away. It was just me and the ball. Far away I heard the ref blow the whistle, like someone declaring my death sentence. Breathe in, breathe out. You’ve done this before. I charged at the ball, determination swelling within. Contact, then silence that seemed to last a lifetime. Please go in, just for me, I need this. Suddenly the field came alive with cheers and screams of joy. My smile spread from ear to ear as my teammates piled on top of me.

Warmth and Wind

Sydney Reil

Toes and Dishes and Ms. Jamaica Sedona Marie Elliott

She loved me. Ms. Jamaica who wore flowered blue muumuus. They say whenever I visited she would pull off my socks and play with my toes and pinch my cheeks. They say I looked at them with eyes that begged for help. What is this lady doing? my eyes screamed. I was confused. I was a child. I don’t remember much.

They say I wanted to wash the dishes. So they brought out a plastic set, just for me. Plastic dishes, clean dishes. But I washed them anyways. Red bowl and Blue plate and Yellow bowl and Blue spoon and Yellow knife and Blue bowl. Soaped up, washed off, cloth dried.

She wants to wash? I doubt she’ll be saying that in the future. Laughter. The faint voices didn’t exist in my world. I didn’t believe them. I don’t remember much, but I remember that.

I remember other things too. I remember the church, in all of it’s beige glory. I remember the high arched ceilings and the brown pews. I remember my mom’s teary face. I remember the green tent, the dying grass. The coffin. The flowers. The burial. No one needs to tell me about these things. I was only three. But I remember.

I remember Mrs. Marie Lyew who wore flowered blue muumuus. I carry around her sapphire warmth everywhere I go. I won’t forget her. She’s always in the middle. How could I forget?

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Silent seeming too loud and crowded Emma Benitez

In a street, calm as waves, a house sitting on a small hill. A mouse silent tree, soldier laned ferns, a skunk, and a white elephant as guards. Burnt wooden stakes and peach stained stones around the house. The snow white tiger scales its home, as the hazelnut door awaits to be harshly jammed open.

Through the threshold onto the loud stone floor, I hear the screeching of TV’s playing and pots and pans banging, loud and annoying as ever. As I glance around, seeing pictures bearing down at me, making me remember

the happy adventures, as I take a deep whiff of the cooking food, gosh I’m hungry. Sun kissed lights flow through the windows giving off a safe and sound vibe, and two small bears come charging for the door, looking to see who it is. They run and play around all the clutters and cluster. The random things, piling up everywhere. It’s crowded yet homey almost sweetly messy. Each aspect of the whole place completes each other, from my silent seeming street to my loudand crowded house. This is my home.

Laurel Hollow Camille Roberts

Journeys 2018

26

Poem of Observations Katarina Stankovich

Congested jackets and cracked stairs Intricately designed couches and chairs Reflective doors of clarity, helping lightly Sturdily resting wood that can shimmer slightly A flat land rest beneath precisely As she walks abroad while others remain tightly A dock and a pier Imperfect to which is outrageously mere Visibly obvious, yet teasingly more and is still before A smooth sailing and a rustic floor Crackling and peeling slowly, tumbling solely on their precision Barrels of black in bizarre attire, still, moving Serenity stands as an empire Numbing gusts of wind, revealing that they are tacitly mute Against all issues acute Presented and within, is where all adventurers do begin And as colors store a precedent of more The moving of water brings such of that ashore Rigid green, shady blue, temperately watching and all there is to do Treacherously presented, a harsh grey is cemented As a large quantity can prevented within a Intimidatingly giant wall, Grainy like them all Provides a sense of justification to install As it will always represent a union of individuals who represent a blank part Cluttered significantly as they could only grasp tightly This was how they had become When all the fun was said and sung And they were joyously relieved as tensions would have and would be at an ease

Black Beauty Elizabeth Bedrossian

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CVHS Literary Magazine

The Pink Sea Joanna Kim

Jacana Nathalie Lai

Journeys 2018

28

Two Lightning Bugs Anjana Saravanan

Here’s a good one: Two lightning bugs are in a jar one bumps into the other and says, BZZT Ha-ha!

No? Damn.

That was going to be my lead-in to a deep monologue about how I was one lightning bug and you the other, how we were doomed to circle each other, afraid to get too close lest we burn the other into small quiet bright oblivion.

But I guess it’s not funny.

The power of one to destroy another.

We would know, wouldn’t we?

Being humans and all.

Do we attempt to defy the world and come together, risking it all for a few moments of joy?

Or do we live in fear of our circumstances and spend a lifetime putting distance between us?

Who knows?

Clearly I don’t.

I can’t even tell a good joke.

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CVHS Literary Magazine

We shall get there someday Anonymous

She pirouettes in silence, but it’s a shame the talent never equaled the passion She’s too short to reach the bar; just grit it, yelling will fix it She makes the team and feels worthy, it later creates unwanted impression She becomes dreary; she’ll never live up to the expectations of an insensitive captain She goes through hell, her team adores violent confrontations and sickening tension She laughs because she’ll never make it past junior talent; varsity is a far cry She transfers away, her coach dies; he dies angry at her Her new school is appalling; they bring attention to the confidence she lost Her mind boggles; how could her new friends be so much more sentimental than the last?

Her thoughts wander to the old team; their absence of support solidified thoughts of never-ending pessimism Her new team titles her skilled, some are annoyed; she doesn’t have the heart to tell them about her escapades in Dante’s Inferno Her new captains are announced; she cries for days, she thought hell was enough to reach the goal Her worries grow; she wants a higher position, she wants to prevent what happened before Her captains joke, her friends joke; you’re not captain, but she thinks of her old team and wants to empty the contents of her stomach She thinks of her hero; she dances for him, if he forgives her she’ll have to listen to the sky Her conscious permits episodes of sobbing and rash anger; she’s older than most of the captains, they’ve gone through nothing compared to what she has She probably deserves better; she ignores this, insecurity bubbles and pops with excitement Her companions deem her too attached; let go, but how can she when the horrors never paid off She knows it will be better next year; she knows others want what she does Her friends continue with the insensitive chortles and fits of teasing; they’ll never know what effect it has, she’ll never tell them She’s malevolent, but it’s no one’s fault but hers; grit it, love, grit it and selfhate will blossom into success Her whole being clenches with spite; but it’s okay, she’ll get there, she’ll get there someday

Journeys 2018

30

You’re Gone Megan Minter

It’s gone, Everything I have ever loved is gone.

The beautiful trees we used to climb, They’re gone.

The shimmering lake we used to skip stones on, It’s gone.

The never ending meadows we used to run through, They’re gone.

The make-shift tire swing we made, It’s gone.

The carving we made of our names into the wooden post, It’s gone.

You led me to all of these things and I fell in love, With them and with you.

But you’re gone and so are they And I’m left with nothing but this little flower that I’m watching die in my hand Just like my heart died in yours.

Untitled Juliana Merida

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Standstill Nathalie Lai

In The End, There is Nothing But Absence.

Athena Bamrick

There once was a time where my insides were bright, a time when I sent you envelopes full of sleepover whispers and light You sent me balloons, and I loved them.

They were big and bright, and you called them friendship, appreciation, and sisterly loveI called them the best friend in the world.

And so this went on, and I began to feel defeated, wondering why my sources were becoming depleted If I sent my light, and you sent balloons, why was there an empty space? shouldn’t have your balloons been filling this place? but balloons filled with gases always rise to the top, and there came a time when the balloons all popped,

0312

Bree Phimphachanh

it was then that I realized that your friendship, your appreciation, your love was never there.

And all I had left was no light, no love; nothing but air.

Untitled Jace Jensen

Journeys 2018

32

Why They Love to Hurt Us Hannah Hunter

To them our skin is but a cave, a cave with rich brown floors of earth, shadows coating the walls that hum a resounding melody.

And through their song the shadows tell a haunting story, Of one sided wars, Of forgotten blood spilled, Of excuses of hatred, betrayal, and still the shadows sing the shadows chained to walls with their history, As our color is chained to our skin, And we display a pain that cannot be denied, a pain that we show with pride, And to that we sing And our melody does not fit our circumstance And our abusers cannot understand the way we rise, So they break our bones, and cut our skin to cover it with a red they recognize.

Egg in Black Elaina Marriott

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Jackie

Anonymous

Journey

Anahita Ahmadi

Family, noun, a group consisting of parents and children living together in a household or all the descendants of a common ancestor, but it is so much more than that. A family defines, influences, and is part of one no matter what. They are of the same blood and soul. Without them, one would not be the same person they are today. My eyes opened to a sea of faces flowing to their destination, each carrying a load of their belongings. I took a deep breath, taking in the scent of perfume coming from one corner. From another corner came the earthy smell of authentic leather that gravitated everyone towards he shop.

The bright lights almost made me feel as though it was not 3a.m., but that did not stop me from constantly yawning. As my eyes followed my feet, I could see every gray tile that was precisely and carefully placed on the floor of the neverending airport. The airport was unusually quiet, with only the rumble of the wheels of the suitcases breaking the silence.

Although there was a sense of comfort in the air, a stronger sense of fear took over, sending chills down my back. I took a hold of my mom’s hand and buried deeper into my jacket. Each person who walked by us had a different destination, a different history, and a different story they carried behind them. My destination, I did not know. It was merely a name for me, a name with many expectations that came with it. The United States of America, a place of endless amounts of opportunities, a new beginning, and hope for the future. “What if it’s not a good place? What if all we’ve heard isn’t true? What if things don’t work out?” I could not help but question, as my mind was racing with doubts.

“Attention, flight number KL-432 is now boarding,” informed the passenger service Agent. Warm, salty tears fell from my eyes, as my seven year old self could no Angelo Garcia longer contain the sadness that I felt. My dad’s warm hands lifted me up and put me on the cart that was struggling to carry our loads of baggage. I wiped my tears away with the collar of my new, bright pink shirt, and the sight of my relatives watching us with gloomy, but hopeful eyes came into view. Slowly we drifted apart. My grandma and aunt who I had lived next to all my life, my uncle who I had played with day and night, and my other grandparents who were so lively were all there to say goodbye.

My childhood, memories, and past were staying behind, but I was not ready to give them up. “This is for us,” I reminded myself. My parents had decided to leave the life they had made for themselves, all their family, and their friends behind for the sake of a brighter future. I had to be strong. We trailed away, until our family was merely a water droplet in an ocean of people.“It’s time to go,” my mom quietly

Penitence

Journeys 2018

34

whispered, wiping the tears away from her cheek. It was finally time to board the metal bird Nathalie Lai that would fly us away from our home. From my seat, the vast, white wing was visible, holding the powerful engine. A quiet hum and the caged beast was let free. My ears popped. As my teeth chattered I mumbled to myself, “Goodbye”. Goodbye to all I have ever known, to my memories, to my beginning.

Goodbye to my childhood, to my home, to my country. Goodbye to my family. This was the end of the world as I knew it, but the beginning of something new, at least I hoped. I pulled my blanket up to my shoulders and glanced out the window, where I was greeted by an endless row of airplanes, each filled with passengers eager to take off. “Was the world ready for them?” I thought to myself.

Darkness. As my eyes followed the path of stars leading to the mysterious sky, my head drew back, and I saw the Big Dipper for the first time. The sky was lit by thousands of tiny shining stars, something that was unusual in Iran’s polluted capital. The small television in front of me held the path, the path to a new life, at least I hoped.

As I slid my hand down the window, my mom softly touched my shoulder and looked at me with her twinkling eyes and whispered, “This isn’t goodbye forever,” then I looked over at my dad, who wore a small smile. I had those who cared about me next to me. I wasn’t alone.

The image of my house was burnt into my heart, with all my family and memories in it. “Don’t forget!” I desperately reminded myself.

I had finally left the land I had called home all my life, the land that was my world and meant the world to me. Days, weeks, months, and years have passed, but I still hold on to the memories, family, and friends I have there. Leaving my home behind was the most challenging obstacle that I have ever faced, but it helped me grow. It helped me open my eyes and see the world a little more clearly. Now I have a new home and a new world to love.

Everything happens for a reason. Life is not a simple car ride. Life is being ready for detours and making the best of each flat tire. It is sometimes going through a smooth road and sometimes going through a rugged terrain. Each journey is different, but what one makes of the journey is what makes each person’s life different.

Moose and Mountains

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CVHS Literary Magazine

To Love and Be Loved Anjana Saravanan

Winner

You insisted that love was two chocolate chip cookies, a glass of apple juice and a banana waiting for me after I came home from school. You said this and accused me of not loving you enough, of neglecting you.

I had no idea how to react to this. What is this conception of love as a quantity to be carefully measured and doled out day by day? Do you count the grains of my love? Do you measure its concentration? Do you taste my love, remarking snidely that it could use more salt or pepper?

I have never thought of love in this way. I always thought it was an ocean disguised as a puddle, playfully inviting you to splash around but drawing you in, slowly, deceitfully, until you are drowning in its grandeur. Others have told me that love is a heavy, sweet, syrupy feeling, a yearning desire. Many people have solemnly informed me that love is simply a human construct born of our need to be accepted. Is love fire, ravaging everything in its path in a scorching blaze of passion and emotion? Or is it water, gently cleansing and exposing?

Some people, when asked what love is, answer not with words but actions. In fact, their words are woefully inadequate, but their faces, their bodies, those answer the question beyond the Ellie Song capability of any combination of letters. I asked the boy in front of me in class what love is. He is a dopey kid, really. Spends most of his time listening to rap music and scrawling messy lyrics in his notebook. But somehow the words spilled out, as words tend to do, and the question was there, in the air between us.

Untitled

He looked at me. Slowly, carefully.

He pushed up his glasses. His mouth opened for a few seconds.

Then he clapped it shut again, muttered something about what a stupid question it was, and turned around in his seat, putting his headphones back in.

There’s the answer to the age-old question of love. Delivered by a mere boy.

Did he really answer the question, though? Not verbally, but he did. He captured it, the essence of love. It’s undefinable. It’s incomprehensible and all-consuming and plain stupid. It destroys and creates, enrages and soothes. It is the ultimate force, the evidence of humanity in humanity.

Journeys 2018

36

We aren’t just biological machines. Why? Because we can love. Isn’t that a wonderful thing, to be able to love and to be able to be loved? Doesn’t it give you hope?

It gives me hope. Because even though I know love has the power to break me, I would rather feel something than nothing at all. Even though I know feelings may fade over time, I will choose to cherish the relationships that I do form.

So thank you. You, with your empty words and broken promises, taught me what love really is.

It is the impromptu birthday party I threw with my friends. We barged in the door, holding a cake for dear life and bellowing the song at the top of our lungs. Only after setting down the cake did it become apparent that we had all forgotten plates or any utensils. It’s okay, the birthday boy said.

We ate with our hands, with napkins. We served the cake with a plastic fork. We had frosting on our noses and our hands, our clothes. We laughed carelessly and loved infinitely.

Love is the boy with wide eyes and an endless smile, who I stare at on the way to class. It’s his puffy winter jacket, his tennis shoes, his heavy eyebrows, his walk.

The way he smiles at me.

Love is an arm around your shoulder. It’s laughing until you can’t stand up any more.

It’s wanting to make someone happy. It’s the drawing I made with melted crayons from the time I moved away from my last home. It’s rainy weather and long car rides and good conversations.

It’s everywhere. All around us. So don’t accuse me of not loving you.

Realize that you must more deeply search me and yourself for the love that exists within everything.

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Winner

Pardonne Moi Alithea Louise

Untitled Colin Fitzgerald

The End of the Desert Teresa Patrikyan

The desert is home to isolation. A barren, torrid field covered with sand stretching as far as the eye could see. The sand settles from its raging storm where walls of dust rolled in from the far horizon, suffocating lungs and blinding eyes with sand and ash. All is lost—or so it is believed. In the midst of the sandy hills, a lost traveler staggers through the scorching sand beneath his bare feet along with the fiery sun above his head. The stranger holds nothing in his hands. No map. No water.

He has no final destination, no endpoint. He uses his remaining might to climb a hill made from sliding sand. At the summit, the traveler falls to his knees. A spark of hope lights in the stranger’s eyes. In his view, he sees a valley of green grass growing out from the small pores of the sand. A sign of life. The desert has ended, and with it, fear. The beginning of life and joy begin with hope.

Journeys 2018

38

Hairs

Claudia Seo Young Kim

My hair hates me, and I hate my hair too. My hair is curlier than instant noodle and it has its own mind. After waking up, it goes wherever it wants to go and it whirls, swirls, and twirls until it is satisfied. Then I punish it by twisting my hair like I do to my ramen with chopsticks, to cool and calm them. But instead, it always turns out worse and bam! My ramen is swollen up after a few minutes. I always imagine myself having straight hair. Then my sister interrupts me and says “Your hair smells worse than the cheese that has been stuck in the refrigerator for more than a year,”, which destroys my imagination. My sister has calm, light brown hair that no one finds attractive. She always looks at the mirror, imagining herself having dark brown hair and applies oil treatment. Then she smells her own hair, which has blue and purple smells. It makes people dizzy and dim because of how strong it smells. It smells like nail polish remover stuck in your nose, leaving a long, lasting smell that you don’t know how to describe.

Curls Lindsay Thomas

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Happy Hand Micah Gerola

Lemon, Ginger, and Honey Claire Gantan

My mom is like ginger Her flavor lingers long after she’s gone And she brings a new element to every dish she’s in.

My father is like a lemon A bit strong at first But later so refreshing you can’t go without it.

My father hates ginger In any other dish their flavors would clash But somehow in tea opposites attract The last flavor is the honey, my brother though at times he isn’t as sweet as he needs to be when the others are too strong Bothersome when you want the other two flavors alone But other times necessary like water for a fish.

And me the boiling water Waiting to be infused with flavors, traditions and ideas.

Together we form a tea, a remedy when you’re down; a drink for calming you down and understanding who you are and who you come from. My grandmother’s favorite thing to give us when we are sick is this drink. A drink that’s more than just a drink, but a story. A drink of lemon, ginger and honey.

Journeys 2018

40

A Body and a Man Anjana Saravanan I was taken to a round marble chamber, which shone ethereally and echoed with unspoken words.

In the corner, a think forest-green blanket was laid out and my notebooks sat stacked upon it. As I watched, he swept in through an entrance on the far side and loped back through, accompanied by my red journal on his return trip.

A few seconds later, my feet had propelled me to the far entrance and I peered inside. My notebooks, which I had snatched up on the way, sagged in the crook of my elbow. The red journal sat innocently, perched atop a large bed. His bed.

He was about to open it.

“Wait.” The word fell out of my mouth and gathered strength in the space between us. My feet, once again taking charge, steered me to his side. A hand (my hand!) snaked onto the bed and darted back with the journal in its possession. Another book took its place.

All the while, I stared at the brown blanket, which was etched through with thin golden lines. My eyes traced one of the glowing paths about halfway down the blanket before I heard the telltale scratch of an opened page. And another. The whisper of a finger traced down a sheet. Then silence.

“Ah.” He spoke quietly. “Yes.” My eyes shifted, slowly, to the notebook and settled on his finger, which seemed out of place among the words nestled between the lines. It struck me that his hands seemed slightly large in proportion to the rest of him, his fingers long and lean.

“This here. Read it to me.” An order, it seemed, but issued casually. My throat cleared itself. My cheeks reddened.

“So strong was that imprint of the night sky that I’m certain I had no choice in the matter, than in fact, the Universe called me.” A famous quote, one which I copied down simply because of its resonant power.

These words, unlike those exchanged between us, floated upwards and lingered, glowing faintly.

I felt the weight of his eyes on the top of my head. They settled, anchoring themselves to my scalp and tugging upwards. But I did not look up.

“You have a good eye for words.” His arm crept across my shoulders, and I relaxed in spite of myself. Still I gazed at the bed, my eyes clutching vainly at the gold lines. “Won’t you look at me?”

And there it was. Our eyes met and mine feasted in the familiarity hidden in those dark windows.

Crinkled corners. Shining amusedly. I remembered.

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CVHS Literary Magazine

I remembered in pictures. A hand on my wrist. Crowds of people, a crazed river. A light blue flannel shirt. Shots slicing through bodies, screaming around corners and through alleys. Then silence. We gathered, as humans tend to do. Suddenly, he was in front of me, wearing a strange uniform. His eyes promised safety, reprieve. His men dragged me away, the crowd’s pity trailing me like the hem of a long dress.

With the weight of his arm like a warm cloak around my shoulders, I continued to stare, unabashedly. Perhaps longer than what was appropriate.

“Words.” He said again. “They are powerful, I’ll give you that. They might damn well be our only hope.” The words between us were starting to pile up. “But you’re missing something.”

Suddenly, he pulled away from me, leaving me shivering once again. I leaned towards him sleepily. It is only human nature to seek out warmth. At least, that’s what I told myself. My body leaned farther, in danger, it seemed, of tipping over. He steadied me.

And all of a sudden, I was on the bed as he peered down from above, strands of ebony hair curling across his forehead.

He leaned closer to me, so close that his hair swept my own forehead. His eyes swirled dangerously, unsteadily.

And then I was alone as he pushed himself up and swung his long legs over the bed’s other edge.

And he left me there, with only a notebook and a pile of glowing words for company.

Machu Picchu Kira Webster

Journeys 2018

42

what would I do without my mind.

Serrineh Khachatourians

it all seems so confusing emotions are not just emotions they are entire entities all on their own capable of tearing someone completely to shreds there is no set time or date to when disaster strikes but everyone expects you to be ready for it everything is swarming around like a never ending whirlpool anything hopeful i hear or see is like another punch to the gut everything i’ve ever felt seems to have been for nothing what would I do without my mind. everything seems so right all my feelings seem to fit in tiny little boxes that each have their own identity i have full control over all my emotions and the power to put myself back together again when I have fallen apart i feel as though flowers have been planted in the garden of my mind they are continuously blossoming into positivity they make me feel confident in everything i do any minute now, my positivity will finally mean something what would i do without my mind.

Untitled Ellie Song

43

CVHS Literary Magazine

Him

Anjana Saravanan I miss him. Or, more specifically, I miss all the little parts of him that added up to what he was.

When I think of him, I don’t see all of him, really. I see his corners and edges pieced together, like a Picasso painting. His hands were like canyons: calloused and worn, but big, not only physically but figuratively; it was like he could hold entire worlds, universes, in those fishing net hands. He would toss them up in the air and wave them about like he did not have a care in the world, while the rest of us could only stare, with wide eyes and hearts about to burst.

His eyes. God, his eyes. Those damn laughing eyes that turned you inside out and hung you up to dry like clothes on a washline, then inspected you from afar, taking notes. His eyes swept over us like twin lighthouse beacons over the sea, alighting upon drowning sailors. We swam towards those eyes in desperation but could never quite reach them. We were content to keep reaching for them, though. No matter how cold the surrounding waters got.

He would never look directly at us, either. Always someplace directly above our heads, as if he was examining some spiritual versions of us hovering just above.

He acted like a child sometimes. He would sit among us like he was an old friend, which we all felt he was, though he wasn’t really. Sometimes, perching on the edge of a table, he would fire machine-gun questions at us. Other times, he stood over our shoulders and watched us work, expressing the same wonder that flowed through us like an electrical current.

Queen of the Jungle Sydney Reil

He almost always wore his shirts a certain way.

Rolled up precisely two-thirds of the way between his wrist and elbow. On the days he wore short-sleeved shirts, a small commotion rippled through us all. The return to rolled up sleeves prompted a collective sigh of relief. We did not want him to change. What he stood for was unchanging, constant, universal beauty, not by physical standards but mental, spiritual, almost.

He stood for wisdom, curiosity, hunger, passion and love. He was supposed to be a constant in the equation of our lives. And he was. Mostly.

We walked side by side once. He talked to me, gesturing with his hands and filling my head with grand ideas. That was the second-to-last time I saw him.

looked at me, directly at me this time, and opened his mouth as if to speak. I held my breath. His eyes fired arrows at mine. Don’t We said goodbye to him by way of a firm handshake. forget, his eyes begged me. The first time I For a second, my hands, which I’ve always thought had seen that sort of vulnerability from him. were big and unwieldy, were dwarfed in his.

And with that, his hand slipped away and his Something went through me in that instant. Some eyes resumed their faint gaze above me. He fraction of the secrets in those cavernous hands. He hadn’t said a word. Perhaps for the better.

Journeys 2018

44

Colophon Editors-in-Chief:

Titash Biswas, Raya DerBedrossian, Sarahbeth Zohrehvand

Advisor:

Jennifer Waters

Staff Editors:

Abbey Markham, Alexis Karakas, Angelo Garcia, Anjana Saravanan, Annika Park, Athena Bamrick, Bree Phimphachanh, Catherine Dong, Claudia Kim, Elizabeth Petersen, Ellie Song, Emma Benitez, Joanna Kim, Juliana Merida, Julieta Corral, Katarina Stankovich, Maddie Yi, Madeline Heeg, Nathalie Lai, Raya DerBedrossian, Sarahbeth Zohrehvand, Saya Linney, Serrineh Khachatourians, Sienna Zamlich, Sydney Reil, Teresa Patrikyan, Titash Biswas, & William Lee

Journeys 2018: Loose Change is a compilation of the literary and artistic works of the talented students of Crescenta Valley High School.

Throughout the course of the year, the magazine staff extensively reviewed hundreds of poetry, prose, and artwork submissions in order to create a diverse publication.. We appreciate all of the efforts and dedication of our staff editors in helping to make this year’s magazine a success.

Layouts were designed by Elizabeth Petersen in Adobe Illustrator and InDesign. The magazine was published on ISSUU’s Digital Publishing Platform. All text and bylines are written in Shree Devanagari 714 and the titles are in American Typewriter.

Journeys would like to thank Mr. Herb Smith and the pupils of the Graphic Arts program for helping with the magazine throughout the years. On behalf of the Journeys editorial staff, we would like to extend a special thank you to Mrs. Jennifer Waters for her constant support and encouragement during the creation of this magazine. Lastly, we would like to thank all of the students for showcasing the talents and skills of Crescenta Valley High School in this year’s Loose Change.