Journeys Magazine 2018-2019: Between the Lines by Journeys Magazine

Journeys Magazine 2018-2019

cover art by Bryanna Phimphachanh

The Editorial Board Editors-in-Chief Athena Bamrick Annika Park Sarahbeth Zohrehvand Head Literary Editor Anjana Saravanan Head Art Editor Catherine Dong

Co-Publicists Nathalie Lai Ellie Song Fundraising Chair Sydney Reil Graphic Design Annika Park

Editors Diana Barseghyan, Emma Benitez, Jacob Cook, Catherine Dong, Vienna Hawes, Hannah Hunter, Mackenzie Izzard, Ines Kang, Serrineh Khachatourians, Claudia Kim, Nathalie Lai, Aangi Parikh, Elizabeth Peterson, Bryanna Phimphachanh, Sydney Reil, Anjana Saravanan, Ellie Song, Katarina Stankovic, Madeline Yi, Sienna Zamlich

Dear Readers, Thank you for taking the time to appreciate the works and talents of Cresenta Valley High School's student body. Each piece you are about to read went through a thorough selection process to be featured in this magazine, the best in each category even winning monetary prizes for their work. As per the title of the magazine, this year's theme is "Between the Lines," reflective of the idea that there is more to understand in these pieces than what is explicitly stated. For the creation of this magazine, we would first like to thank our editorial board, comprised of qualified students dedicated to the arts and each with a passion for creating it themselves. We would also like to recognize our supervisor, Mrs. Waters, who continuously offered valuable advice and support throughout the entire process. Without her guidance, this magazine would not have been possible. Lastly, it is important to thank the very students whose works are the reason there even is a Journeys Magazine. It is only because of their passion for the arts that we have this outlet through which the many artistic talents at Crescenta Valley High School may be showcased. With all that said, we hope you enjoy the magazine and are able to appreciate the work that's been tirelessly poured into it over the course of this past year. Co-EICs Athena Bamrick, Annika Park, & Sarahbeth Zohrehvand

Table of Contents PROSE 1 vengeance aglow, Sienna Zamlich <WINNER! 5 Untitled, Connor Eubank 6 Untitled, Connor Eubank 13 Garden of Ruin, Teresa Patrikyan 16 Let the Rain Pour, Hannah Hunter 27 My Walden, Sarahbeth Zohrehvand 29 Train ofThought, Sarahbeth Zohrehvand POETRY 2 KĂşdos, Anonymous 3 False Warmth 4 We Told Her We Loved Her, Hannah Hunter <WINNER! 8 Favo(u)rite, Vienna Hawes 9 Golden Days, Mikaela Stone 10 Checkmate, Claudia Kim 11-12 Our Technological Scapegoat, Diana Barseghyan 14 Structure, Elizabeth Petersen 15 self love, k.k.j. 17 Everything is fine, Anonymous 19 My Momma (and her demons), Riley Helberg 20-21 On the Limits of Intuition, Athena Bamrick 22 The Learned and the Learning, Athena Bamrick 23 The Things I Needed to Learn, Athena Bamrick 24 Constant Turmoil, Claudia Kim 25 boy without brackish, Sienna Zamlich 26 In the silence, Anjana Saravanan 28 Sweet Rain, Anjana Saravanan 29 wistful, Annika Park

ART 2 3 4 6 14 15 16 19 20 23 26 29

Gen Z, Bryanna Phimphachanh Golden Neptune, Serrineh Khatchatourians Delicate, Hannah Hunter Sunkissed, Bryanna Phimphachanh <WINNER! Raw, Bryanna Phimphachanh Spring, Aangi Parikh Oh Baby, No Baby, Bryanna Phimphachanh Almost Real, Bryanna Phimphachanh Onna-bugeisha, Bryanna Phimphachanh Untitled, Brianna Leetch The Upside, Serrineh Khatchatourians Spirit Rising, Nathalie Lai Three Wise Men, Lucy Levine

PHOTOGRAPHY 1 reglam part 1, Agnes Lamn 2 Untitled, Mackenzie Izzard 5 Golden Gate, Juliana Merida 7 My Starry Night, Noemi Grepo MMXIX, Noemi Grepo 8 Untitled, Ines Kang Double-sided, Katarina Stankovich 9 Duomo di Siena, Mackenzie Izzard 10 reglam part 2, Agnes Lamn 11 Keya, Talin Ghazarian 12 Untitled, Mackenzie Izzard 13 Mayan Ruins, Kira Webster 17 Us Five, Maddie Yi 18 Sunset, Nish Mehta 19 Locked In, Nicholas Carreno 20 Ocean Jelly, Juliana Merida 21 Layers, Maddie Yi 22 Alexithymia, Nicholas Carreno 23 Bathtub, Mackenzie Izzard <WINNER! 24 Just the Beginning, Jordan McWhorter 25 Untitled, Mackenzie Izzard 26 Mystique, Katarina Stankovich 27 Drop, Michael Bomar 28 Untitled, Mackenzie Izzard 29 Cotton Candy Contemplation, Vienna Hawes

vengeance aglow (best prose) by Sienna Zamlich you sit, there’s a light burning above inches away from a russet eye you’re writhing, your hands are chained, and you berate me with a series of “why’s” but the chains are words, the light is guilt, and you suffer from wanting demise you wish it were physical, you wish it were knives, you wish it it had nothing to do with your past you wish you were sorry, you wish you were smarter, and oh bother ! how you wish your decisions weren’t rash but its not, and we’re all grinning, because the thought of your tears means that i’m winning there’s nothing in the world better than an aching stomach for all the right reasons meaning, i laugh with delight when i watch you weaken everything you never felt is now coursing through your demented system how does it feel? do you like being agony’s next victim? i hope you burn like this forever, and you wish to turn back time but that’ll never happen, and that will keep me satisfied until my deadline suffer, you fool, suffer until you know the way it feels to be flattened, to be blamed, to be jaundiced, to be real

reglam part 1

by Agnes Lamn

Untitled

by Mackenzie Izzard

Kúdos

by Anonymous

Gen Z

by Bryanna Phimphachanh

You will not be like her You will never have to wake up Every morning Saying affirmations to yourself You’re too strong for that Keep your mouth shut That way you can’t say anything you might regret Instead they’ll be staring at her mouth With teeth sunburnt from smiling so much Then, when we’re old and senile She’ll have a black lake there And I’ll have crowns, I think. Affirmed?

Golden Neptune

by Serrineh Khatchatourians

False Warmth

by Vienna Hawes

The crevices of light between the trees morph, collaborating and contributing to The Whole. I can see your face from it. It greets me, wistfully begging me to free myself to these lights, to become a part of the beauty. I am reluctant. Suddenly your face grows angry, timid and tense. Sun beams redden as the yellow joy is extracted like chemicals from substances. Out of beakers, glass tips hum, singing a song, introducing the madness, a shattering. But not in the way you would think so. It dissolves into sand, for wind has crushed it and crushed it and crushed it. I should follow. I am pressured. My lungs inflate and cannot deflate unless you command them to. The sand pricks my throat, stabbing and prodding continuously. Blue becomes unfathomable, flashing colors. It pushes me. I accept your madness, your lost yellow beams, false warmth. Not fully, as all are not it itself, but the partial multidimensional framework of such. You are still the Whole. Suddenly I become it. I become The Whole. And We are the Whole Together. What have I done. 3

We Told Her We Loved Her (best poetry) by Hannah Hunter We told her we loved her, we told her we cared Then pulled at her roots, set fire to her hair We told her she was beautiful, then ripped her apart Drilled straight to her core and picked pieces from her heart Her anger thundered, she quaked and trembled And still we manufactured, bought, sold, and assembled She flooded us with her tears and burned us with her rage We whispered sweet nothings and promised her change And as she lay dying, we looked the other way Towards the vast universe and it's infinite sway And yet she held steadfast to our promise of love Returned it in song of the wind and the breath of the trees above She relinquished her life so we could have our own And we lied to her And we left her, Beaten, battered, and alone

Delicate

by Hannah Hunter

Untitled

by Connor Eubank

Nobody ever knows what’s going on in anyone else’s life. Nobody. They get fragments, some bigger than others, but they never get the full picture. Sometimes the person themself doesn’t see the full picture. Maybe you have a friend, someone who sees a happy side of you, who you can occasionally vent your problems to, but they’ll always be there to help, and you’ll be there to help them. Maybe there’s a parent who knows little things about you that aren’t physical idiosyncrasies, or oddities in normal behavior, but underlying emotions that help make you unique. It could be a sibling, who knows the easiest way to annoy you, and the easiest way to calm you down. Whoever it is, they see a fragment. Sometimes people try and piece together other people by putting the fragments together. But there are certain things that people keep inside. We all doubt ourselves, we all have fears. Some of us are secretly (or not so secretly) afraid of the dark. Others hate spiders. Some fear isolation, and others fear death. Maybe we keep inside that regret (or multiple regrets) of what we wish we could have done, or could undo. You never know what’s going on in someone else’s life, and you never really know what’s going on in yours. What may feel right in one moment may not in the next. What we struggle with is not to see others’ perspective, by others perspectives. We all judge each other. That’s just what we do. It’s pretty hard, even impossible not to, and our brains are a constant swirl of emotion and thoughts. The person you think is sad and depressed could really just be shy and socially awkward, actually very happy and content with life. That social butterfly who is perfect at everything, and who everyone kind of wants to be like may be really torn inside. You never know someone else fully, and they never know you. We can only try to understand and make judgments based off of prior experiences, and attempt to be as understanding of others as we can.

Golden Gate

by Juliana Merida

Sunkissed (best art)

by Bryanna Phimphachanh

Untitled

by Connor Eubank

Ray awoke abruptly to the sound of the flimsy door that separated his unit from the hallway being rapped upon. The pounding knock was persistent, annoying, and familiar. It was his landlord, Chuck. Ray rolled off of the couch that he had repurposed into his bed, fully dressed. Most people slept in their clothes these days. It wasn’t paranoia or weirdness; it was rather common for someone to be evicted from the pods for a variety of reasons. Ray pulled on his shoes, wondering what the hell he’d done this time. He shuffled over to the door and rubbed at his eyes. When he slid the door open he was face to face with a very grumpy, very smelly man; Chuck wasn’t really a landlord. He was technically the manager and tax collector of the hall and was in charge of maintenance. He’s just the guy who fixes stuff and takes your money to give to the failing government. “Taxes due,” Chuck grunted. Ray could smell the rank odor of whiskey and cheap (and also illegal) cigarette smoke on his breath. “I paid your taxes three weeks ago. You collect once a month.” “Taxes due,” Chuck reiterated. “Look I don’t-” Ray started. “You pay your taxes or you git out.” Chuck had a very strong southern accent, which was weird considering that people rarely moved these days and they were in the former Detroit area. “Look okay, fine, just a second,” Ray said. He stepped back inside and rooted through the drawers on his measly cabinet that was basically his only form of storage. Two, four, six, eight… Ray methodically pulled out cash. Crap. 200 short. Rent was ridiculously expensive if you wanted any amenities at all. A bathroom that was only used by the people on your floor? Extra 200. Wifi that wasn’t slower than Congress at decision making? 300. Every extra hour of power? 50 dollars. He closed the drawers, and walked over to his couch/bed. He lifted up the middle cushion, put his hand inside the slit that he had cut there, and pulled out a wad of cash, a can of mace, a knife, a spare cable, and the access card to his account out. He pulled out the required amount of money, put back the dwindling supply of it, and shoved the other items in there, checking the sheath on the knife. Ray turned back around and walked over to the door to hand in his government mandated taxes. Well screw the government, Ray thought, but he shoved the money at Chuck and then slammed the door nonetheless, determined to get a little more sleep before he logged on to start working. 6

My Starry Night by Noemi Grepo

MMXIX 7

by Noemi Grepo

Favo(u)rite

by Vienna Hawes

Sanctify my thoughts and satiate my taste for caviar as we play poker on the Mahogany countertop, discrediting our distaste for such a woefully irritating colour for purpose of experiencing an unadulterated joy. As we play, I ponder my enjoyment of an added ‘u’. Such a letter causes my words to feel accompanied. Not in the sense that they become plural, but something metaphysically ‘more’ than the original word. It’s simply fulfilling in that sense. I quite enjoy those minuscule irritants, prodding at my brain, deciding what is satisfactory, and what is not. For even the slightest details can breed unfathomable pride to the mind.

Untitled

by Ines Kang

Double-sided

by Katarina Stankovich

Golden Days

He thinks back on a world with less flapper girls and better paid factory jobs, where gangs didn’t He wishes for the stalk every big city’s streets. Golden Days— And so it goes chasing itself backwards. My father. Art and society and people, idolizing their He thinks back on a world with less screens and predecessors. more stretching of the dollar, where every airport So what is the Golden Days? suitcase wasn’t double checked for bombs. My ancestors, ship bound from Germany, would But does he remember? say “The Birth ofAmerica.” His father wishes for the The founding fathers, hands dyed in blood and Golden Days— ink, would shout “The enlightenment!” My Grandfather. John Locke and his salon, discussing the very He thinks back on a world with less rock n roll and nature of the universe, would cry “The more patriotic spirit, where classrooms didn’t run Renaissance!” drills for the H bomb. Yet William Shakespeare, unknowing of all that But does he remember? would come after, writes of merry men, who “fleet His father wished for the the time carelessly, as they did in the Golden Golden Days— world.” My Great Grandfather. Still seeking the He thinks back on a world with less Charleston Golden Days. and more bank credit, where young men weren’t Because the difference between the plucked up from home and shipped away. Golden Days But does he remember? and the His father wished for the Olden Days Golden Days— Is a little g that stands for My Great Great Grandfather. GENERATIONAL GAP. by Mikaela Stone

Duomo di Siena

by Mackenzie Izzard

reglam part 2

by Agnes Lamn

Checkmate

by Claudia Kim

I may not have the perfect body but I can still dance I know I’m not stupid so don't saying us meeting was by chance You’re just embarrassing yourself Acting so nice around me Claiming you care for me when you don’t I may not be beautiful but I’m still not half that bad I’m not being narcissistic I’m just stating the facts If you got a problem with me say it to my face Cause I’m tired of playing your charades If you keep on acting this way I have no choice but to play your game Just don’t come crying When I say Checkmate

Tapping on a Screen by Claire Gantan

Tapping on a screen Living life through a filter But no sound you can hear through headphones Can compare to the sounds of the ocean roaring it’s way to the shore Looking up only to find light for the next picture Ignoring the fluffy white foam below and the vast blue sky above Ignoring Going back To tapping on a screen

Keya

by Talin Ghazarian

Our Technological Scapegoat by Diana Barseghyan

The evolution of the human being began a long time ago, Giving every single adaptation, a little time to grow. With every modification, of each wing, each shape, each gene, We come to find a blessing within the pattern we have seen. Look, Mother Nature decided that the successful shall be selected, So within a world of successes, should we not preserve these progresses? Just as the human advanced from a cell, Technology has upgraded just as swell. We need to stop blaming these resources we made, In the midst of all our biggest mistakes. Technology has been made our scapegoat from hell, It seems to be the cause of all our destruction as

well? But how can you say this when the world’s been in chaos so long? Oh right, you didn’t care before your Buzzfeed turned on.

You see, the Big Bang- was fire and turmoil tooand the wars, and the murder, and lies we sewed are true. It is not just technology that caused pollution, and violence, and greed, It is the seed of hatred we planted in our time of need. After oh so long, of anarchy and disarray, people will look for any way to stray. Now I ask you, why- why do you claim to be againstThe only thing that protects many people from death beds? The millions of families separated, and apart, their only form of connection -you think should be “at heart?”

(piece is continued on the next page) 11

Why are you against the tools that supply food for the starving? You see, GMOs will save the billions of lives that you weren’t even regarding. Why do you suddenly decide that you care for the environment, after years of thirty minute showers, and throwing food away with entitlement. Many claim that technology has cursed us from a life with meaning, But I’m sorry, check your Apple watch, how long have you been tweeting? We’re surrounded by technology that has been invented intending growth, And just look at how far we still have to go. There’s so much potential within our buttons, and hands, and feet, It’s just a matter of whether, you are willing to beat the promises and claims you make about the -

“horrors” - of technology, Like how you think it depletes human interaction and hope for better sociology. Here, let me make this clear, in case it hasn’t been done already: Life is created to grow. And growth is created to change. And change is the best way to fix those mistakes we made. Now change can be fostered in many different ways, but why don’t we start with the machines we’ve already gained? Why not benefit from the tools that we’ve built, and put to use the brilliant human minds that may begin to wilt. If we don’t fulfill our nature - to grow, and change, and succeed What’s the point in even trying to make these lives proceed?

Untitled

by Mackenzie Izzard

Garden of Ruin

by Teresa Patrikyan

The scent of roses was replaced by ash and smoke. The heavy, nauseating odor poisoned the air, stifling the breath of anyone who entered the once named “Garden of Eden.” This garden was once tended by gardeners who weeded, planted, and watered the intricate flower beds that spiraled into larger colorful images. Now all creativity is gone, and with it, the life of the garden. A fire occurred yesterday and it burned through several acres of greenery. It left nothing except for the skeleton of a bare tree. The flowers are burned and the soil is now ash. The marble statues that once decorated the lush pathways lay like corpses on the arid floor, broken and covered in ash. The flames had consumed the hedges that used to border along the sides of the garden. They provided a place of shade, a solace from the sun’s harmful rays. Those areas of shade are now missing. The garden, alike humans, have moments of dread and misery, a place where it is believed that everything is lost and forgotten. The days will pass, and the garden will regain the strength and beauty it once had. A grove burned in the summer will be green by spring, much stronger than before. Greenery will burst to life in every direction if given the time to heal. There will be no twig or flower set out of place when the gardeners return. The trees and their blossoms will hold nature’s beauty again. The garden will look beautiful and … Different.

Mayan Ruins

by Kira Webster

Raw

by Bryanna Phimphachanh

Structure

by Elizabeth Petersen

Words aren’t just letters scattered and strung together made for amusement and fun Words without meaning and even deceiving are like the faulty glow of the midnight sun Disrupting the quietness- almost worse then shyness- are the spit up words some choose to say Thinking in fact- is not part of the pact when promising to store secrets away The air spoke between us crafts the rope beneath us, tightroping strings closer or pecking into fray Sharp edge, sharp tongue it’s all the same- coaxing to hurt or assisting in the dying flame Still there is one word you control, shaped by the words that layer upon your words- it’s your name Whether good or bad that’s up to today So be careful with what you say ...

self love by k. k. j.

self love is the best love, self love is patient. self love is kind. self love will never leave you in the dark, crying alone at night. self love will appreciate every curve, bump, & bruise. self love will never lie to you, self love always reminds you to flash your radiant smile. self love will always go to the extra mile. self love is stemmed deep inside the soul, & it could take forever but it will grow. self love one day might turn around & leave, but just know that self love comes back eventually. and when self love comes back, it will greet you with open arms. self love will catch up & find out who you are. self love will make you smile on your worst days, self love will always make you feel sustained. self love is like a soft ocean breeze, it caresses your face & you'll never want it to leave. but self love comes & goes, it comes back when we've learned to grow. self love is patient, self love is kind. self love is possible, but self love takes time.

Oh Baby, No Baby 15

by Bryanna Phimphachanh

Spring

by Aangi Parikh

Almost Real

by Bryanna Phimphachanh

Let the Rain Pour by Hannah Hunter

When I am gone, I pray for rain. I desire not a sunny sky, unblemished by clouds that have long since been shepherded away by the breath of a common wind. Not for the warmth with an intensity that allows it to reduce the least bit of water to a harmless invisible vapor. I do not pray for sun. When I depart, I pray for rain. Not for a loveless fog, muddled and cold, drifting lazily along. Present but without so much tangibility as to condense enough to form the smallest few drops upon the eyelash of a young child. I do not pray for fog. When I leave, I pray for rain. Not for lightning and its brother, thunder, the former striking unexpectedly a bright blinding light that ravages the land and sounds the latter, the rolling drum of the enemy marching along as a reminder of its destruction. Leaving a family cowering and hiding in its wake awaiting its end, fearing its temper. No, I certainly do not wish for lightning and thunder. When I retire, I pray for rain. Not for a blizzard, cold and numbing. With snow that buries all joy below it, clearing the world of all that came before with its blanket of white, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pray for snow. For when my soul is no longer whisked along the rapids of fate and the water that bubbles up upon the raging river is all that remains of my memory. I pray that it rains and that the storm that follows is unbridled and unforgiving. I pray that the waters do not drip casually but fall in furious torrents and that they leave lakes of the puddles on the concrete sidewalk and swamps of the mud that sits forever upon the earth. When I die, let there be a single man who sheds a tear with the fervor of a hurricane. Oh god, how I pray for rain.

Us Five

by Maddie Yi

Everything is fine by Anonymous

Has he just stopped caring? I hear him slowly suck in a flood of nicotine to his poor fourteen year old lungs. Does he not see what’s happening? I hear him desperately cough for the eleventh time. I’ve been counting. What does he want from that stupid, stupid, annoying flash drive? I hear the clock ticking. It’s two in the morning and I can’t sleep knowing that he’s right next door pumping himself with poison. I hear the window close and as the smell of toxic cotton candy leaks into my bedroom from his, I hear a rustling, a belt clinking, steps walking, a door opening. All the while I’m lying down on my bed of conscious ignorance as I have been since I said goodnight to our parents and suddenly, the outside gate creaked closed. I shivered and reached around my black bed frame behind me and nudged the adjacent window open with the tip of my outstretched hand, pushing myself up to look outside. A black hooded figure was leaving our baby blue, two-storied house, and as the street lamp illuminated his face, the figure and I met eyes and my expression gave away nothing of my crushing disappointment to him. He stopped, and from the second floor about twenty feet away I could see that he was pulling his phone out of his pocket. I hear his voice in my ear asking if I’m going to tell mom and dad. I hear him say that everything is fine and even as I try to voice my paranoia he coos back to me annoyingly that everything is going to be fine, and that he’s going to In’N’Out (at 2 A.M.) and that he’ll be back in a few... in a few hours he says. I tell him no, no he can’t do this, he is not going to put this on me (piece is continued on the next page) 17

because doesn’t he understand that while I can’t do anything about his incessant smoking, and his plummeting grades ever since he joined football, I need to stop him from hanging out with this worthless gang of idiots who are probably going to get him arrested and maybe even killed someday. My brother has always been extremely smart. When we were younger he was just this chubby little boy who loved cars and Legos; but he played chess competitively, and if you handed him any math question below calculus, he could answer it within minutes. He was also my dance partner, and he had to dress up like Elvis and slide across the ground on his knees with shades on and his hair slicked back which evidently, taught him to brush his hair for the first time. He actually had this need to always wear collared polo shirts because he wanted to be cool and classy- and looking back, he was absolutely perfect. He dealt with my annoying whining and fought with me, and whenever I wanted anything, he’d be a complete gentleman and would never hesitate to buy it for me even though neither of us had any money. I couldn’t have asked for a better brother to have been my best friend. He’s still all of that really, just in a different way, and after a while, our morals changed so dramatically that we seemed to have nothing in common anymore. But I guess he just wanted to be popular for a change. So with a relocation, a growth spurt, a couple brand name clothes, and years of socializing to catch up on, he did what he had to do to fit in. But everything is fine. Even though it’s Tuesday morning and I have a unit exam in just a few hours in which I will be needing my sleep, it’s just fine. It’s fine that now I am sitting here, worried sick, stalking his every move on Find My Friends and calling and calling and calling and, I hear the phone ringing and ringing and the voicemail box repeating that it’s full countless times and and and and I’m lost. Because it’s five-forty-five now and I have been up up up all night and it’s my fault, my brother, my sweet sweet sweet sweet little brother, my best friend is probably dead! He’s definitely dead. And it’s all my fault. I should’ve done something. He said he’d be back by four at the most, he said that he was just gonna meet his girlfriend or something and that everything was going to be fine that everything everything was going to be fine but I had to be at school in half an hour for band and our parents would be up a little after that and where the hell was he? I fell asleep. I slept through the alarm. Missed zero period. Missed my exam. No one woke me up, everyone was gone, and when I opened my eyes again, a note sat on my bed. “Everything is fine,” it said.

Sunset

by Nish Mehta

Locked In

by Nicholas Carreno

My Momma (and her demons) by Riley Helberg

My momma sees demons in her head They recline with her as she lays on the bed They pull her under the thrashing waves Her happiness being the food they crave The demons laugh as she stumbles along Her screams and cries like their siren song And they visit her morning after morning Her genuine smile I end up mourning They grab her legs and drag her into the storm But I try all my might to keep her warm Onna-bugeisha

by Bryanna Phimphachanh

On the Limits of Intuition by Athena Bamrick

Intuitively, I feel, in my head that I think, in my gut, where my heart is, in my hands, that tremble, in my body, that’s frozen, in this world, that’s unpredictable that I think I can predict, that if I touch, this doorknob, before six seconds, have passed, my mom will die. This doorknob, that’s sitting, just waiting, that has, this sinister plot, that plans (with the universe) to kill, my mom, but somehow

Ocean Jelly

by Juliana Merida

it would be my fault. This doorknob that I think, can think, that wishes my mom to be dead as punishment This doorknob that’s supposed to let me out that locks me in (piece is continued on the next page)

Untitled

by Brianna Leetch

that makes me wait inside of this bathroom I wait and I wait to see if someone will free meif someone will touch the doorknob on the other sidewill enter as I leave will trade for my place as I wish I could for theirs. This doorknob, which makes me feel small which is small but which is somehow big (in this moment) I wish I could reason with this doorknob (with myself) if it would please (just let me out) but if I plead it will know that I am weak.

Layers

by Maddie Yi

Alexithymia The Learned and the Learning by Athena Bamrick

I find, that in my mind, there is a time and place for everything.

My mindtransformed by a lifetimefilled with colors, and magic, and crime. Shattered concentration is white, lime, crimson, magentaShattered friendships are an aluminum graya rusty dull fork thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s broken revealing the shiny new silver underneath.

by Nicholas Carreno

Magic transforms ideas and shapes that I create in my mind that I think are unique. (But are probably not) ((Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m no magician)) The thoughts that replay in my mindjudgement judgement judgement. Trying not to cross the fine line between informative and excessiveTrying not to judge myself My mind, the place where I waste my time, trying to be right and failing.

Sometimes I feel like Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m blind.

Bathtub (best photo) by Mackenzie Izzard

The Things I Needed to Learn by Athena Bamrick

The times that I feel the most solemn, I mourn myself. For I am a selfish person, who believes in potential, who believes it’s something I own, who believes it’s something I was born with. It isn’t. Potential is intangible, it is subjective, it is made of dreams and created by work. I am entitled to nothing.

The Upside

by Serrineh Khatchatourians

Constant Turmoil by Claudia Kim

Everyday it's the same it's all just another game as the world keeps turning I’m tired of feeling weak being used by those around me but maybe If I walk If I run If I try to fly and touch the sun maybe oh maybe As I try to fight and time keeps on ticking by I know I’m getting older but I feel a whole lot stronger When I’m make those origami stars In each, I put a piece of my heart cause I’m hoping and I’m dreaming and I’m wishing that maybe oh maybe All I ever needed was that one word to get me through Everyone said I’m crazy or I’m too stupid to make them true But in reality those voices were me They were my demons my fears my worst realities But today will not be the day that they will be able to take me away those nightmares will finally stop at the dreamcatcher with one push and reminding myself to be gay I know they’ll be back and that the war hasn’t ended But at least I can say I got through it That’s one step towards a hooray

Just the Beginning

by Jordan McWhorter

boy without brackish by Sienna Zamlich

do you talk as if everything is a golden meadow? like warm weather and licking away the cookie dough? you prance around, you add exclamation points beaming, you turn, you glissade, and you never disappoint clap as you might, and i want to end myself a little less pas de bourrĂŠe into my heart; i enjoy seeing you fluoresce yet i fail to step in rhythm to the counts to every arabesque and to every dismount perhaps just this one time, perhaps just this one year i could have been cradled gently and let down without fear and entered your aura of lovely details and pretty mind as you spun, and the world turned to turquoise and grape wine but as the last, i thank you, for existing! all i need is your figure there and your legs near mine and i am always, happy! i am happy beneath the stars, where i cannot reach no further just this is enough, boy of gateau i am happy, beneath your rainbow

Untitled

by Mackenzie Izzard

In the silence

by Anjana Saravanan

In the sterile stony silence hands clap hard against cliffs blunt and scarred hands themselves (yet) unmarred by the careful violence which has the rock rinsed which will the body claim and the mind rename as “brain” No funeral bells no tears as death its plain face rears Instead a small red-headed bird, lone witness of the final breathy words, stares beadily at the spectacle Fate, that sister of death, is too fickle

Spirit Rising

by Nathalie Lai

as to pair a dying man with a sparrow who can never hope to understand “forgive me”

Mystique

by Katarina Stankovich

My Walden

by Sarahbeth Zohrehvand

When first I ventured to a new house, bundling my belongings and stripping the memories and emotions from the previous, I was met with feelings of distaste and longing for the warm, coddling, comforts of my past. The weather-stained exterior and chipped olive paint warned onlookers of its prospective insides, and the fur coat of dust on the walls provided no sense of welcome. But as the perennial moments of time tick forward, life finds a way to offer alternate pathways to oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s outlook. And the houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plea for a reconsideration of my dissatisfaction came in the form of its backyard, a gem hidden in its cave, waiting for me to excavate. Although its uneven flora yearns for a groom, and its concrete extremities are cold and abrasive, it gifts me with my own personal cove, allowing me to take the break I had not known I needed. To read. To write. To think. To breathe. And as I ponder and inhale my surroundings, I am greeted with warmth and welcome. The grass takes my coat and the concrete asks about my day. The air whistles a harmonious tune and the smell of rain playfully tickles my nose. I am free to sing. To dance. To laugh. To cry. I often wonder why an unlikeable space has become my inner sanctuary. The air pricks at my skin and the wind tears my eyes with its gifts of debris. But in the bustling, dynamic state of society, one has a need for a residence of release. And although my residence of choice has not a pretty package, it provides me with something nothing else can offer. For here I do not live in a temporal sense. I am alone with its company. It is my freedom. My escape. My Walden.

Drop

by Michael Bomar

Sweet Rain

by Anjana Saravanan

Rain peeled from the sky and splashed orgastically down, drops like soldiers returning home to girlfriends in short summer dresses, like young lovers colliding. Rain at once familiar and slightly hesitant. What has changed since we last met? it wordlessly inquired of its earthy partner, who wordlessly reassured it.

Wet curious lustful noisy sweet rain Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strange. That rain was not at all like this. Not at all like this warm, nervous drizzle. This rain is like thighs almost-touching, like pinked ears and almond eyes, freckles and a pie-slice of a smile, and words thought too much about.

Untitled

by Mackenzie Izzard

Three Wise Men by Lucy Levine

wistful

by Annika Park

i want to live in a house by the sea with rooms as vast as the eyes can see the beds will have sheets as blue as can be while the glistening seaweed floats in the sea i want a sleep as sound as can be without any worries that i can foresee with dreams made of cotton candy and glee while the pittering rain drips into the sea i want to stay in a place i know i can be where i can be home and i can be free with no one to tell and no one who sees i want to live in a house by the sea

Train of Thought

by Sarahbeth Zohrehvand

In silence is when my mind is loudest. The thoughts roar extemporaneously, each combatting for their chance to be heard. The problems of my past face off against the problems of my future as my mind attempts to focus on both, a losing battle. “What ifs” and “how comes” and “why nots” buzz around my head, bees in a hive fighting for the honey. My mind is a train station, the thoughts, passengers searching for their connections. Gleeful passengers. Worrisome passengers. Lost passengers at the wrong station. But these passengers come and go. New ones replace the old, which drift away, kisses in the wind. I find myself often fretting about the future. Tests and assignments outweigh frivolous feelings of fun. “I need to be studying for finals,” “I should have taken more AP’s,” “Where am I even going to college?” To think carefree thoughts is an indulgence when school and responsibilities come first. But the train must take a break. It needs a moment to empty of its passengers and rest its overrun wheels. Alas, these hopes are for naught. One never stops thinking. A stream of consciousness may change directions but it never ends. Cotton Candy Contemplation by Vienna Hawes