Journeys Magazine 2016 | Looking Glass

Looking Glass JOURNEYS MAGAZINE

2016

JOURNEYS 2016 Literary Arts Magazine Volume XXX

Looking Glass

Crescenta Valley High School 2900 Community Avenue La Crescenta CA 91214

Dear Readers, To all the new readers that just have stumbled upon the magazine: Welcome! Journeys Magazine has been celebrating literary and artistic talent of Crescenta Valley High School (CVHS) for thirty years now. You are about to embark on a compilation of our student body’s finest works.

Each year, staff editors work to participate in constructive and creative dialogue, assessing each piece under anonymity of the author/creator.

Dedicated editors meet weekly to discuss submissions to create the best magazine possible. Hours of work over the course of the entire school year result in the magazine you are about to read. Our intention is singular: to showcase the raw talent CVHS has to offer.

This year’s theme, “Looking Glass,” held a particular meaning to our editors.

With a diverse student body comes idiosyncratic perspectives. Every student sees something a little different through their own looking glass.

The whimsical connotation is a tribute to the iconic classic that celebrates the spirit of the individuality. Carl Sagan once said, “Every one of us is, in the cosmic perspective, precious. If a human disagrees with you, let him live.

In a hundred billion galaxies, you will not find another.” Journeys thrives on the unique interpretations of the student body, without which the magazine cannot be what it is today.

To all the artists, poets, photographers, and authors of Crescenta Valley High School: we commend and thank you for sharing your point of view.

Our goal was to capture the many perspectives of fellow classmates. We hope you enjoy the thirtieth edition as much as we did creating it.

Co-EICs,

Jemma Kwak Gina Seojin Lee Titash Biswas

Our

Editorial Board

Jemma Kwak

Titash Biswas

Co-EIC

Co-EIC

Michael Chu

Head Art Submission Editor

Tristan Ganzon

Head Fundraising Editor

Gina Seojin Lee

Jennifer Gorman Head Literary Submission Editor

Saya Linney Co-Publicist

Co-EIC

Minji Kim Kim

Head Fundraising Editor

Jessi Edwards Co-Publicist

Abbey Markham Head Graphic Arts Editor

Poetry

Photo

Untitled by Elizabeth Brookey 2

Ophelia by Jessica Shumate 1 Mirrors by Isabella Magdaleno 3 Glass by Amy Sara Lim 3 Sky Impressed Upon The Water by Jackie Dall 6 W I N N E R The Unspoken Words by Anonymous 3 Lights by Grace McAuley 7 Air by Amy Sara Lim 4 Can you hear me scream? by Isabella Magdaleno 13 A Date by Amy Sara Lim 5 Apertus by Jackie Dall 18 The Majestic Oak by Jackie Dall 5 Distant by Tristan Ganzon 19 Flower Child by Jackie Dall 20 Naive by Raya DerBerdrossian 5 Untitled by Vivien Adamian 26 Lights in Darkness by Kimball Strong 7 Roundabout by Johann Park 29 If Time Were a Circle by Milan Sanchez Welsh 8 Demystify by John Jazin Lee 32 Ha-Shoah by Jennifer Gorman 9 Raindrops by garrett butterworth 34 Bystanders and Victims by Joanna Kim 11 Untitled by Jessie Kovacic 35 Untitled by Angel Ramos 14 Fourchette by Johann Park 38 Words by Ted Iamsirithaworn 14 Untitled by Kaylene Woo 43 Time by Amy Sara Lim 18 Binding Freedom by Sydney Reil 44 The Disease of the People by Jessi Edwards 20 Mary Shelley’s Monster by Milan Sanchez Welsh 21- 24 Escape by Saya Linney 44 El Nino? by Colin FitzGerald 47 Untitled by Anonymous 25 Rachel In Red by Jessica Shumate 49 Senioritis Haiku by Jacob Matthews 29 Stella by Jessica Shumate 50 Wind by Ted Iamsirithaworn 29 Final by McAuley Grace 55 Back Garden by Raya DerBedrossian 34 Pot of Gold by Mckenzie Davidson 56 Vanilla by Lea Hassakorzian 36 Temperature by Johann Park 58 White by Madeleine Heeg 37 Ink Bom by Jessica Shumate 60 Stars and Mountains by Kimball Strong 41 W I N N E R New Beginnings by Tristan Ganzon 60 Upon Seeing the Stars by Kimball Strong 41 The Castle by Tristan Ganzon 62 Lost Time by Amy Sara Lim 49 Spilled Milk by Jessica Shumate 67 A Vengeful Heart by Aayushi Katrina Priya 50 Untitled by Kaylene Woo 68 Let Me Love by Kimball Strong 50 Morning Coffee Alex Khachatourian69 For Her by Anonymous 50 Sunday Morning Alex Khachatourian 70 Coat by Aditya Saravanan 51- 52 A Question by Anonymous 53 Reflection by Jennifer Gorman 53- 54 Coming Up Yellow by Suzanne Whifler 55 Fleeting Moments by Kimball Strong 55 November 13 by Arlen Nassir 57 HippoTangle by Michael Chu, Cover Piece I Love the Way, Los Angeles by Jessie Kovacic 62 Razor Girl by Rachel Ward 11 The Puppeteer by Kimball Strong 63 Acceptance by Susanne Carpenter 12 Untitled by Sevana Shahbazi 64 Clouded Mind by Imola Torok 14 Nova by Ted Iamsirithaworn 66 Frankenstein by Susanne Carpenter 21 Haikus on Perspective by Elaina Marriott 66 The Great Birth of a Scream by Michael Chu 24 WINNER Up In Smoke by Kira Valera 28 Birdy Birdy by Rachel Ward 31 Innocence by Susanne Carpenter 37 For Now... by Joshua Son 38 The Girl Under the Starry Night by Imola Torok 42

Art

Mirror Neurons by Michael Chu 45 Ascent by Vivien Adamian 52 She’s Nothing but Decay, Son by Rachel Ward 53 The Embankment by Jackie Dall 54 The Order in Madness by Michael Chu 61 A Disconnected Façade by Michael Chu 63 Zoom-In-Chanted by Michael Chu 64 She’s Nothing but Scribbles, Son by Rachel Ward 65 The Gift by Bayla Bash 66

Films The Dream of Life by Elliot Lee 71 The Deal by Peter Shin 72

Prose Riptide by Amy Sara Lim 2 A Paradox by Saya Linney 6 op.0 no.1by Ted Iamsirithaworn 8 Reaching Out For One In The Infinite Sky by Claudia Kim 10 Wrinkles by Claire Gantan 12 Eden of Nod by Samuel Lee 15 -18 Secondary Colors by Lea Hassakorzian 19 The Window by Sasha Monterroso 25 The Father, The Son and The Cruel War by Aditi Purandare 27- 28 Clockwork by Ted Iamsirithaworn 30 The Art Of The Kill by Colin Davidson 30 W I N N E R Freedom Isn’t Free by Tristen Schmidt 30 Sky Devil by Milan Sanchez Welsh 31 Epilogue by Isabelle Gereaux 33 Lonely Clouds by Sydney Reil 35 And It Stands Tall by Stephanie You 36 The Sun Leaves Without a Farewell by Sue Bin Lee 37 Untitled by Aditya Saravanan 39 Stream of Consciousness by Emma Cary 40 Her by Anonymous 45 Flowing With Ink by Izzy Lieberman 47 Room by Milan Sanchez Welsh 48 The Waving Treehouse by Ellie Kohn 52 Morado by Logan Liu 54 Untitled by Aditya Saravanan 59 The Paintbrush by Lea Hassakorzian 59 Metamorphosis by Aditi Purandare 61 Words by Anonymous 65 Memory by Will Ozeas 67 Workspace by Milan Sanchez Welsh 68 Masterpiece in the Making by Maya Allaire 69

WINNER

WINNER

OPHELIA

Jessica Shumate

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CVHS Literary Magazine

UNTITLED

Elizabeth Brookey Your lips are like glue.

Every time you kiss me, I feel a little less broken.

Your arms are like rope.

Every time you hold me, I feel a little more secure.

Your eyes are like heaven.

Every time I look into them, I feel a little less damned.

Your voice is like candy.

Every time you speak, I feel your sweetness run through my body.

And your love is like a lifeline.

Without it, I would drown.

RIPTIDE

Amy Sara Lim

When he saw her running down to the riptide, all he wanted to be was her left-hand man. Not her right-hand man. Because after all, she was left-handed. She did everything with her left hand-painted, touched the water, collected shells, pulled back her long, sandy hair.

The frigid beaches of his new home in New York were quite unlike anything he’d experienced in Texas. She said that he’d been running from himself and that the cold sea was always good for discovery. The cold sea had made him turn to her warm eyes.

He’d discovered himself not in New York, but embedded in the reflection of her irises every time she looked at him. He couldn’t help but stare at his own distorted figure in her eyes and wonder if that’s how she saw him.

In the evenings they’d retreat back into their cabin by the sea, and they’d play the piano and sing some old songs from old books where the lyrics were so faded and indistinct, they’d make up their own. There was one song that she liked to sing, but somehow she’d always get the words wrong.

He liked to hear her voice tumble around the words like a pail lost at sea.

And then they’d go back outside, running down to the riptide as the stars ran down the dark backdrop of the sky and into the milky ocean. And it was in that moment when she’d be humming the tune to their song, and had her left hand brushing the sand out of his face, that he kissed her.

Because standing in the middle of the riptide that pulled at every inch of them, all he wanted to be her left hand man.

Journeys 2016

2

GLASS

THE UNSPOKEN WORDS

And there she wasspotting her across a dance floor was easy.

I want to tell her What would I tell her?

How do I tell her?

What would I say?

Amy Sara Lim

As the lights glanced off her body I watched her move as if she were made of fluid glass So frustratingly tempting to touch as her limbs flowed from her body; in a continuous stream captivating any observer.

And she was waiting She was coming towards me now, her hands cascading down my back I could taste her on my invigorated tongue.

And we danced like fluid glass all night.

By morning we were shattered pieces.

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Anonymous

Tell her about the words, Each flying to my lips, Then away, like a bird The words that show her how I feel With no distractions to mask what is real Tell her about my heart How when I see her it pounds In my chest like a cage How when we’re apart, it hurts Day after day I want to tell her Every time I see her But how can I tell her?

The good friends that we were

MIRRORS

CVHS Literary Magazine

Isabella Magdaleno

AIR

Amy Sara Lim You’re sitting there Across the room as the dust rises from the cement floors And the sun shines through each particle.

Inhaling, exhaling. coating our lungs.

And you stumble to the window crack it open, watch the dust fly away like fireflies But only smog comes in to replace it.

And you wonder why we’re in a world so impure.

Where there’s no relief from the filth that we breathe; that becomes a part of us.

And you back away from the window.

You see me struggling to keep filling my lungs with the dust and the smog.

And you run to me as I fall to the cement floors And I can see the sunlight just barely from behind the dust and the outline of your figure And you’re scared because I gave up and stopped Inhaling, exhaling.

And you put your lips to mine to give me your air And all at once it fills me.

Fresh, clean, serendipitous in a world of pollution.

And with your lips, you restore me.

Journeys 2016

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THE MAJESTIC OAK Jackie Dall

O, hear the rustles and listen closely to the swaying of the branches and the pain of their sorrows Fertile soil, yet barren land roots delve deep into the heart and history of the world Faithfully growing, holding fast to the earth brings blessings and a more perfect harmony With sundown, comes magic a rustling of leaves; begins a time of blessings As the seasons change, the oak’s leaves preserve its spirit like a phoenix rising from the ashes from a simple tree into a rejuvenating force it transforms-New possibilities New seeds New life

NAIVE

Raya DerBerdrossian basking in sunshine could never last forever learned this the hard way

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A DATE

Amy Sara Lim Along the river leaves fall breaking the surface of the pristine water And she’s with me, our footsteps breaking the silence of the solstice day Our hands come together like new branches breaking the space that was between us So we stop underneath a beech tree along the river breaking the cadence of our silence conversation And I want her willow figure closer to me breaking the boundaries of the good kids we should be Along the river leaves fall kissing the surface of the pristine water.

SKY IMPRESSED UPON THE WATER

WINNER

Jackie Dall

A PARADOX Saya Linney

It’s a funny thing, love. Really it’s directly correlated to pain. There are those who argue that no, love is the opposite, love is beauty and all that is holy, while pain is something to avoid, the ugliness that clouds our everyday. But those people don’t truly know what love or pain are. Pain is the gun; you are the bullet. Pain always surrounds you, waiting only for the pull of a trigger. When it is pulled, you are supposed to run, to flee as far away as you can. But love, love is the force that binds you. It is the force that makes you stay, and makes you want to stay. It keeps you where you are, next to the one you love and who loves you, no matter how badly the world is crumbling around you. It roots you to the ground, and no trigger will ever move you.

Love is pain. But you welcome it.

Journeys 2016

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LIGHTS

Grace McAuley

LIGHTS IN DARKNESS Kimball Strong

A hundred cars go past me A hundred people living Crying Breathing Being A hundred lives which I will never know They will live Love Laugh Learn And I will never know

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A hundred lights flashing Lights will illuminate, warm Though I will never see or feel Some are bright Dim Short Long Lights of all different colors, trying to leave Their mark on the night And all fading My own light flashes too I shine briefly into the dark night Hopeful Hoping my color will endure Even after I have swiftly gone

IF TIME WERE A CIRLCE Milan Sanchez Welsh

There is a place in my mind of rapturing divinity Where, like her smile, a memory holds both good and evil Of honest sanctity Cut me open and you will see In the pool of spewing blood A reflection of my memory, Of her moonlight fingers that dance my heart to sleep A heaving whisper of desperate promise Her union of stars that I know will fall and weep In the darkest of night she reveals this art Her head baring my chest in infinite jest Ear pressed against my breast My heart trembling out of existence Every atom splitting until I feel weightless in her grasp I am air I am see-through Turned by her hand into nothing but molecules And when I hear my angel speak I come together again So that one last moment can be breached To hear that heavenly sin My skin frail and moving like leaves in the wind, If only time were a circle So that I may live and die on this day And be borne back into her arms once again Instead the chorus of her love has reached its end But the end of me exceeds far beyond the limits of happiness and tranquility And into the dark depths of where my heart doth pretend.

op.0 no.1

Ted Iamsirithaworn

Foreign notes black and dim, lay suspended, drifting faintly upon the dusty score. With keys and strings wound tight, the timber aches in silent expectancy. The cords are not clasped, the melodies unmade, unamused, unaware. Hushed into muse, the composition commences with capriccio. The tone soft and unsteady, the music’s starting cleft unknown. Youthful, the notes stumble and fall into each other, progressing nonetheless. A dissonance of space between the maestro’s playing and brain.

The page is turned and the tempo begins to tremble with essence. The beat now aggressive, roars with a passionate persona reflected, a vibrant spectrum. The sonata fluxes from waltz to nocturne, never in a state of monotone. The colors echoing off the keys leak into the pith of the audience listening. The symphony searches for souls beyond the composer, paint lush and vibrant. The sounds reverberate with a bitter, forceful, familiar taste. An opus orchestrated through those same black notes conveniently misplaced through time.

Journeys 2016

8

HA-SHOAH

nobody understood Where is He?

ghettos encircled us oddly peaceful, but ruled by delusion we clung to hope aimlessly our lives ceased to matter

don’t be afraid of the devil at your heels as if this were a game condemned youth locked in hell the death of God in the soul of a child who suddenly faces absolute evil

disturbing news we refused to believe Jews stranded here waited for better days content with their fate without passion or hate

abandoned by the whole world no longer thinking their faith, flimsy they had stopped smiling all the faithful had gone

forced to leave everything clinging desperately, all in vain never shall I forget we tried to reassure each other, but nobody had told us tomorrow could be worse yet

there could be no greater torment in God’s hell poor devils, we felt shame in our souls we were quickly forgotten an unimaginable nightmare as he felt the first chinks in his faith

heavy silence surrounded us to indiscriminately strike defeated prisoners no one left with voiced optimism because our hearts were not in it

God of Mercy? he could break our hearts meaning escaped me numb with indifference protest against Him silence now

except the darkness of the night the world kept silent empty and dead without ever mentioning the damned souls who ceased to be men

I never looked back I couldn’t the good days were over no prayers no candle nobody believed

while paved with suffering hell does not last forever keep your faith how we would have liked to believe that we pretended, but ceased to pray

nothing mattered to me anymore I felt no pity the whole world had abandoned us don’t lose faith in yourself I couldn’t every man for himself

a startlingly wizened face predicted Redemption I kept silent I no longer felt anything

a prayer to this God whom I no longer believed remains in my memory no more faith man is stronger, greater than God out of the darkness emerges free men

Jennifer Gorman

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CVHS Literary Magazine

REACHING OUT FOR ONE IN THE INFINITE SKY Claudia Kim

Goodnight my child Sweet dreams tonight May the stars sparkle and shine under your beautiful smile So dream on my sweet angel For it is time to say goodbye to the sun and say hello to the moon and to the stars that watch tonight I’ll be right here next to you so don’t be afraid Remember honey that I will never leave you alone I will always be near you no matter what So near that I will be in your heart

The only fragment I remember before I was brought into the orphanage was a lullaby. A sweet woman’s voice sang as I was in her arms, my head against her neck. And the only thing I saw were the stars and the moon. And the only words I remember her saying after the lullaby was “Goodnight Luna.”

Maybe because of this memory, I have always loved the sky. Especially when it’s at night. Even though I have moved on in waiting my life for this woman who I know is my mother, I still felt warm and comforted just by looking at the night sky. Even though man has created so many things and have made it difficult to see the stars, at the same time, the skyscrapers and lights from the cities are stars too. Stars of people working hard in their lives and surviving against the obstacles the world likes to throw at us. But we will try our best to continue to fight and burn our light. Even though I don’t see all of them, I know the stars are still there. Just like how I am still here in this huge world. And just like how that sweet woman is still out there too.

Amongst those stars, there is me. There is my family from the orphanage. There is my friends from school. And there is my birth mother. I wish and I hope that for just one day, I’ll be able to meet her to say thank you. Thank you for letting me be born in this world. For letting me see the beauty and the stars that the world has brought forth. And in letting me to receive and give the same warmth you once gave me, to others who needed the help the most. That I still remember the lullaby that was filled with your love and sing it to others to give them love too. Thank you. Even though you were barely in my life, that one memory filled with love means alot to me. Thank you mom for everything. Thank you. No matter where you are, in this infinite world with it’s infinite sky, I will always be here for you, as you were there for me, in my heart.

Journeys 2016

10

BYSTANDERS AND VICTIMS Joanna Kim

I watch as the crowd claw at her face.

I do not bother to help.

Why should I? I’m finally high enough to look down.

I hear her screaming for someone… anyone...

I do not bother to help.

Why should I? My voice is finally loud enough to be heard.

“Bystanders are just as guilty” But I think… I think that bystander are just as innocent.

Just as much of a victim as the helpless prey.

Because whether we enforce or are enforced, we still experience.

We still experience the terror and the evil that envelope every human being.

And these experiences alter our choices…

Therefore, I watch…

Therefore, I hear, but do not help…

Because I too am a victim: victim of selfishness, victim of arrogance… victim of humanity.

RAZOR GIRL Rachel Ward

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ACCEPTANCE Susanne Carpenter

WRINKLES Claire Gantan

Grandma says don’t worry too much you’ll get wrinkles and you’re still young. Mom says always tilt your chin up so it doesn’t sag, and put lotion on so the wrinkles don’t show. I say wrinkles are not for the ugly, but my point of view never gets shown, like a crack in the corner that’s always overlooked.

Wrinkles are not for the ugly I say as they spend five hours putting on all of their makeup. Wrinkles are not for the ugly, I say as the wish upon every shooting star that they will look like they did when they were younger. Wrinkles are not for the ugly, I say as they buy yet another lotion pack that swears it will turn back the clock. Wrinkles are not for the ugly, I whisper as they watch the actress who is a grandma yet looks like she’s in her thirties because of all the plastic surgery she’s had. Wrinkles are not for the ugly. They are for the women who laugh and smile, women who don’t let their beauty define who they are. For it is not the outside and the wrinkles that define you, but the heart and the person who acts upon what their heart desires that matters the most. Having no wrinkles means you’re beautiful in my family. To me wrinkles mean you lived, you loved, and you didn’t let anybody’s view of you let you down. You might have woken up and fell asleep with your hair looking like a bird’s nest, but you had fun. You enjoyed the life you were blessed with, and you looked at your heart more than a mirror. To me, having wrinkles is a part of life that is looked down upon, but shouldn’t be. To me, the more wrinkles you have the more inspiring and confident you are. To me, having wrinkles is not ugly when you have a story from every line and crease. To me, that’s beautiful.

Journeys 2016

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CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAM? 13

CVHS Literary Magazine

Isabella Magdaleno

UNTITLED Angel Ramos

If I told you how I felt, you wouldn’t comprehend.

Here’s a couple of words for you to see instead.

So when you finish, please, don’t leave me on read: Inside my head you make me feel dead.

My heart grows heavy and it weighs like lead.

There’s too many tears in the night that I’ve shed From the marks in my heart that you’ve so deeply tread.

Drops change blue to red, from the blood that I’ve bled.

And tomorrow will be another day that I dread.

But I couldn’t let you go without the words I never said.

Let me sleep peaceful, goodnight, I’m going to bed.

CLOUDED MIND Imola Torok

WORDS

Ted Iamsirithaworn Impacts heavier than a crushing wave Gentle as the dawning day A sky painted with written stars Atop vibrant landscapes Yet swift like gunshots Can toss your heart down Like his body from the rooftop In response To fragile sounds

Journeys 2016

14

EDEN OF NOD Samuel Lee

“Where am I?”

As he wondered his whereabouts he began to examine the room. After some quick glances he realized that this room was quite unique. This room had neither doors nor windows. What the room had was an endless stretch of four gray concrete walls surrounding him. He felt like he was trapped in a gigantic, gray box. Feeling hopeless, he observed the room again and noticed a minute orange opening in one of the concrete walls. It was at that moment he ran to the opening like a dog running towards treats.

After more observation, he realized that the orange opening contained food. The food was similar to a granola bar but its flavor was something he had never tasted before. It tasted like chocolate mixed with strawberry jam. The bar was so sweet it gave him a brief moment of comfort and assurance that he would make it out of the box.

Days later....

“I think it’s been about five days” as he talked to his friends. Life in the wall hasn’t been that bad the past 5 days; actually, he began to like the life living inside of the box.

He didn’t have to worry about money, relationships, or food. The box provided him “Sandoz”--the name he gave to the bar of the food--every time he was hungry . The bar wasn’t the only thing that he named. He named his four friends Mud, Concrete, Cement, and Sand. They were always around him and always surrounded him. He loved his friends because each of them was unique. He loved Mud because she was very soft and nice to him. Concrete was like his best friend because Concrete always told the hard truth.

Cement was like a mixture of Mud and Concrete, sometimes being soft and sometimes being hard to talk to. Sandy was the laid back friend who approved everything and she always agreed with any decision. Life was great. “what is this?”

To his surprise there was a desk next Sandy. The desk had an odd appearance; it was covered in blue, yellow, and green. Someone must be really terrible at art he thought.

Then he noticed a black notebook and an orange pen next to it. The notebook was titled “Pandora” and the owner appeared to be someone named Icarus. In it were daily recordings of someone’s experience trapped in a box. It read like this: “December 31, 5015

If you are reading this it means that I have failed to escape. Icarus, this is me Icarus.

I know you don’t remember writing this notebook but it’s fine. Just know that I am you Icarus. I don’t have much time to write down everything that has happened to us within the last five years. Yes, five years Icarus. it’s been five years since we’ve been stuck in this damn hellhole. It may seem like five days because of Sandoz. Stop eating Sandoz Icarus.

I’ve found out that Sandoz is actually a drug to make us forget reality. The more you eat that crap the more you would be blind to the truth. It is time to face reality and begin to escape this place. The more you kick the can of reality down the road, the more you will never be able see the truth about this place. I discovered that Sandoz is a drug because when I stopped eating that bar for eleven months and thirty-one days, I saw the truth.

Also stop talking to your “friends” Icarus; they are nothing but walls. You are talking to damn walls, not people, but damn walls! Wake up and take the initiative to escape this place. On the back of the notebook I attached a device that determines the amount of time we have spent in this box. Also underneath the table are two sets of wings for you to

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CVHS Literary Magazine

escape with. How? It’s time to look up Icarus. Remember the life we used to have outside this box.

Best wishes Yourself”

It didn’t take much time for Icarus to process the information and realize the cycle of insanity he had been in. After a brief moment of acceptance of reality he turned the notebook around and noticed the device his past self described about. The device read: “December 25, 5051”.

“What? This device must be broken. According to what my past self wrote the device should read January 1, 5016. Hey Concrete do you think this is correct? Really?

Then are you claiming that I’ve been in this box for about 40 years now? Wow. But I haven’t aged....”

Then for the first time since Icarus was trapped in the box, he looked down at his fingers and saw the wrinkles of time embedded in his skin. His clothes were all ragged and he realized that he no longer wore underwear because Mud always took care of his biological waste. He then ran his feeble hand down his cheeks and felt the small valleys that have formed over the years. The valleys contained an excessive amount of bushes that were never there before he entered the box.

Though the past Icarus suggested that he must escape the box, a part of him did not want to. In the box he had food, friends, and security. Nothing actually bored him in the box; so why leave and face reality? Why did he have to face the cold reality?

This reality provided an everlasting supply of food that Icarus would never have to worry about. Also unlike reality he had friends that won’t stab his back. He could predict what his four friends would say and be able to hear the things that he wants to hear. These friends would always cheer Icarus on and keep him positive. In the box there were no outsiders that made negative comments to Icarus. Lastly, the box was very secure and felt home-like. Icarus never saw conflict within the box. However, the world outside the box contained war, crime, and conflicts. Inside the box, he never had to enlist as a soldier to fight for a war he never wanted to fight or be involved in. The more he thought about life in the box, the more he realized how corrupt the outside world really was.

“Perhaps.... just maybe... living here would not be as bad as it seems.”

Icarus decided to live in the box for the next three days. He ate what was given to him, wore what was given to him, and behaved the way as he always have done in the past 45 years. His daily life was so predictable that one could write a script. Until December 31st at 6pm.

On December 31st at 6pm, Icarus was going through his daily routine of eating Sandoz on the black table. Then he remembered about the useless notebook that advised him to “look up”. At that moment, when Icarus’s curiosity mandated his head to physically look up, he saw the “truth”-- that this place was not a box with a cover. Above his puny head was a vast, starry night sky. Engulfed by the nature’s beauty, Icarus just sat there and was occupied for five hours. Icarus envisioned himself flying the sky with Zeus, visiting every star in the night sky, and interacting with celestial beings.

“I can’t stay here! I want to see the world outside of the box.”

Then a mysterious voice responded, “Why? You know well that this place is better.

The box is absence of the evils of the world. Outside this box you will face hunger.

Outside this box you will encounter evil beings that dare call themselves humans.

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These so-called humans will bring you down, denounce your ideas, hate you, and take advantage of your naive heart. Outside this box you will need to enroll and fight for wars that old men started. You will see countless lives used like a chess piece old men play and gradually you too will become their chess piece. Icarus stay here. All you need to do is what you have been doing for the last 45 years. Just leave the decisions to us.”

Icarus admitted that what this voice spoke was parallel to what he believed.

However he wanted to fly out with the wings his past self created. He wanted to make the decision. He wanted to no longer be associated with the box. If facing reality was the price of his own free will and decisions, it was worth the price.

Icarus looked up and responded, “You are correct that the world is corrupt and that life in the box is better. However, as a fellow human being, I too have free will; a trait that no other animals of this world have. It is due to free will that people kill each other, compete against each other, and drastically change the environment. Despite what another human’s free will is considered to be evil or good, it should not stop me from living. I now realize that I too have free will and the ability to change the world with my own decisions. So when I escape this box I will shape the world according to my belief of justice. Thank you for everything and farewell mysterious voice.”

Icarus took his set of wings and began to fly out of the box, towards the starry night sky. His feeble arms were able to keep flapping and his motivation to escape encouraged him to keep going. After three hours of flying, the Sandoz began to take affect on to his brain. He slowly forgot how to fly and reached for his ragged clothes.

By sheer chance, his panicked fingers reached into one of the pockets. In there he found a blue pill labeled “eat when you forget”. “Probably my old self inserted this pill here for precaution”, he thought. Icarus hurriedly dumped the pill into his mouth and it brought Icarus back to reality. Suddenly, Icarus innately knew that the tip of the box was near and his escape was near. Like driving out of a dark endless tunnel, the brilliant sun shone upon him with such an excessive amount that he was blinded. It was like an infant coming out of the womb and seeing the first light. Yet, unlike the infant seeing his or her beloved mother, Icarus didn’t encounter that experience.

As he flew through the sky he observed what was below him. There was nothing but desolation. The land below contained no forms of animals or any sign of green. The ocean was purple with grey cods floating mindlessly with the ocean’s current. On these oceans were big black factories smoking their harmful chemicals to the sky. He noticed small flashes below him. After looking closely, the flashes were emitted from humans shooting each other. Yes, war was raging on this planet. During the war, only machines were visible to Icarus that was still standing and killing. Then he noticed that the starry night sky was not full of stars. It’s light came from the aerial warfare. Being disgusted by what he saw from a bird’s eye view, he thought that perhaps the ground below him contained some sign of hope. As he slowly descended, odor began to invade him and for the first time Icarus smelled the scent of rotting flesh. Death was walking on Earth and infants laid quietly on the ground. With his ragged clothes covering his mouth, he searched for anything that was still standing. Yet the only object present in the desolated area was his box. With a bit of remorse, he looked back at his box and discovered a sign that read “Eden 1”. He also noticed the box was covered with colors such as: red, black, and brown. Perhaps an artist might be still alive, he thought. As he walked along the desolate ground, searching for hope, he noticed a dead man. The dead man wore a badge that read “World Peace Association”. Icarus then realized that though the dead man was deceased, he firmly held a gun in his right hand. Upon further observation, there were two things that Icarus could not grasp about this deceased man. First, the

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CVHS Literary Magazine

dead man wore a smile on his face. Second, his left arm held a sign and on it was written, “Welcome to Nod”.

“Where am I?”

APERTUS Jackie Dall

TIME

Amy Sara Lim A moment, A challenge for all of us, The terrible inconvenience.

Great expectations draw fresh fire.

It’s a symbol and warning of our fate: The death of our sun.

We will all be dead by then.

A brief history.

We don’t need to make a movie out of the world.

We are living it right now.

This day and every day.

Journeys 2016

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SECONDARY COLORS Lea Hassakorzian

I sometimes miss the feeling of the stagnant tranquility I felt when I was alone. My soul radiated rays of soothing violets and purples, calm but content. We started off as strangers, hopeless strangers, looking for someone to spend the nights with. As I slowly familiarized myself with your strange habits and salient gestures, I became addicted to the oddities that made you whole. Scratches on your nose when you were nervous, the gleaming in your eyes when you heard good news. Purple was no longer enough for I silently craved the beam of yellow that you lustered in. No religion could compare to the enlightenment I felt when I was purified by your light. Everything was high; overwhelming emotion consumed my spirit. Everything was high; perhaps too high, for when I began reaching closer to you I felt a sudden jolt of withdrawal. Your fluorescence was no longer comforting but rather blinding. I began to notice the pursing of your lips when you were about to yell louder, the glimpse of hopelessness in your eyes, quietly acknowledging the end of our historic fable. Your irresistible luminosity faded into an infinite black. Emptiness engulfed the winds that surrounded us. We ended as strangers.

DISTANT

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Tristan Ganzon

THE DISEASE OF THE PEOPLE Jessi Edwards A sickness overwhelms the city, the nation, the people Lurking in every house, every room, every corner It sits and waits Waits for a victim to let it in Striking full force, it has found its victim Procrastination enters It strikes Venom spreading rapidly through the unfortunate Venom undetected by the affected Life is fine Everything is fine Life is fine Everything is fine The future comes Nothing is fine Nothing is as it should be Everything has changed Plans are turned upside down Deadlines come quickly Unexpected events occur The venom has reached the heart Spreading quickly to the brain Turmoil approaches Tears come Screams and stress become permanent Procrastination The avoidable disease strikes Affecting the unfortunate Projects left uncompleted Dreams left unattained Goals left unmet Ideas left unexplored Work left unaccomplished Procrastination Cities devastated Nations devastated People devastated The disease thrives

FLOWER CHILD Jackie Dall

Journeys 2016

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FRANKENSTEIN Susanne Carpenter

MARY SHELEYS MONSTER Milan Sanchez Welsh The first thing humans do is cry But I was made not to, my soul unaccounted for Does this make me a lie?

Carpenter of my feelings You hold my world together Through your shaky strings You make the worries smaller things Now sing that song of ether So that this breath of fresh air may last forever That beautiful song, loves true charm Blow the world away like a wishful feather.

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CVHS Literary Magazine

Then the stars above moved Slipping quietly away So did the moment And then came day Along with the torment Forever thinking life could be this way You see me as a monster But if you look into the pools of my watchful eyes You will be faced with a mirror And see the true monster look back in disguise Smiling with a monstrous fear To end it all now would be wise.

But now you run

I hear mosquitos hum In my ear My heart a drum Here comes the fear I cannot live To see this end Love is submissive Feel my heart bend I feel like dying The bats are flying All around inside this carcass of mine, crying They all want to be free But self-destruction seems to be a defining part of me My mind’s impending doom grows taller Know that and remember Because soon I will never know What it’s like to be loved and be a lover Everything in this life is learned What comes natural is the breathing we’ve yearned Unless you’re me Then the only thing that comes natural is the incentive not to be I tell myself it gets better That my mind will settle But how can it when my contagious actions spread to another, to my own creator?

They’ll follow me to the end All the way till I’m screaming: Where’s my life at?

Dreaming, Wish it was only that.

Time now has strapped me down On a stake hands bound As a great hand descends Baiting me with sweet memories Memories never mine, Then recoils and extends again Torturing my sensibilities When will this isolation end?

When my soul goes hungry?

Oh by then I will do nothing but paint the world with colors of death Again and again, take my revenge until my last dying breath On a life that was never mine Because who told this story?

The one whose mouth been gagged To see scenes so gory So unbind, rewind

Journeys 2016

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So that you may never know this loneliness The invisible kiss my only bliss The snake on my back, its hiss the only sound I miss And then she came to me In a dream Dancing in wild strings of golden light Or so it seemed Like a child’s ghost set free And all the world was right Her cheeks in my mind pounded like a restless thunder The scientist’s feverish grin drowning me under All the temptations of his pride And after ending the dream that was mine I will go to him and take his bride.

So time and time again Love has failed my quivering pen No more ink to spread hope across the page My voice has died and withered with age The sweet song of summer is gone Alone I’m left to play, playing the notes so wrong What melody is there for me?

Will the trees ever write a song my heart can follow, Unimaginable beauty?

No, too late, now I am here A nameless fear that has no face For I have the face of all who see near I am the fear in us all, nowhere and everywhere Watch the stars They mark me with unforgivable scars Their light falls onto me Like snow laced with tar Trapping me in a field of amber So that I may never know Nor remember What it’s like to move far Instead I am here forever The lonely stone that never How I want to travel to the ends of the earth until plains grow vast Until there is nothing left Not even the past To find the tree that hangs over the lake with a crooked moaning breath Broken in flames that hover over the dark blue with its great depth Watch her burn, the embers dying a sweet death

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Watch now as I walk across the pine Fire eating away at my steps no mercy Sweet specter of death knows this is divine I drift with it now into the abyss My burns cooling with a hiss But my suffering has just begun For my mask of fire still breathes underwater far from the sun Alone I am in this darkness With a fear and anger I can no longer harness Now you must walk down the ashen path In hopes that humanity will never again know of its despicable wrath.

THE GREAT BIRTH OF A SCREAM Michael Chu

WINNER

Journeys 2016

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UNTITLED Anonymous

I will find an empty room And I will paint the sky on the walls The mountains on the floor And the heavens on the ceiling Then I will wait And on a windy day, I will throw open the windows And sit in the middle of the room With my arms widespread and my eyes closed Feeling the air sting my face And tasting adventure on my lips When my eyes open I will be flying across the painted world I created And this is how I will free myself.

THE WINDOW Sasha Monterroso

“Even the heavens are weeping today”

I picked my head up to gaze out the chapel window as raindrops went racing by me, creating a view of nothing more than indistinct blobs of color. As I watched the rain come flowing by, I felt my eyes begin to participate. I looked up hoping that my tears would dissipate, at least for the time being. “Don’t cry” I repeat religiously to myself as the rabbi stands at the pulpit. He’s standing by her coffin. I don’t believe that she is dead. I don’t believe that she will never hold my hand again, I don’t believe that I will never tell her that I love her again,I don’t bel- I felt my cheeks becoming wet and jerked away from the rabbi to look back outside.

My heart began to feel like the window I was looking out of; Useless. Why have a window if the image outside is not visible? Why have a heart if it is only going to cause you pain? Anger began to fill through to my fingertips as I felt the tears hit my chest with a heavy thud. The raindrops continued mercilessly, blissfully unaware of the suffering i was feeling just inches away. I watched with more and more intent, hoping to dismiss the sadness that was stationed in my heart, when I realized something. All of the water hitting the glass did not ruin the mirror. Yes, it is a different view than normal, and yes, it seems a bit chaotic, but why is that a bad thing? The image was still beautiful; just in a different way. Even though my grandmother is gone, it does not mean that the beauty in my life is as well. It also doesn’t mean that my life will go on the same way it always has. My life will go on and it will be beautiful, just in a different way.

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UNTITLED Vivien Adamian

Journeys 2016

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THE FATHER, THE SON AND THE CRUEL WAR Aditi Purandare

The window was open, letting the cool air gush inside the large bedroom. The birds chirped outside with different pitches, volumes and tones, almost like they were competing to see who could chirp the best. The orange evening sun’s rays made their way into the bedroom. Eleven month old Holly’s giggled as her father, Mike was trying to teach her to walk. Mike gestured for Holly to walk towards him, as Tom, her four year old brother clapped his little hands to encourage his sister. “Go Holly!” he yelled in his excited voice. Mike smiled at him and they both watched with adoring eyes as Holly hobbled a step ahead, causing Tom to squeal. It was Holly’s first step.

She then wobbled a bit and then landed on the white carpet with a soft thud. The weight of her head caused it to jerk behind. Just as it was about to hit the corner of the dark brown wooden nightstand, Mike put his hand between her soft brown hair and the nightstand. The sharp corner of the nightstand pierced his hand, causing dark red blood to ooze out of the back of his hand. Seeing his father’s hand bleed made Tom cry.

Between sobs he asked, “Why did you do that?”

“Put my hand between the nightstand and her head?” Mike asked.

Tom nodded, his green eyes sparkling with tears.

“I couldn’t see Holly get hurt, I love her and you way too much for that.” Mike clarified, pulling both Holly and Tom into a tight hug.

“Don’t cry, I’m fine” Mike whispered in Tom’s ear comfortingly as he patted Tom’s back.

Just then, the sound of the front door opening startled the three of them, revealing Mike’s wife and Holly and Mike’s mother.

”Mommy!” Tom yelled in delight, forgetting about the nightstand incident.

”Hey buddy!” she said, smiling and hugging Tom. However, this smile did not reach her black eyes that were filled with anxiety and grief.

Sensing this worry, Mike mouthed, “Everything okay?”

Kimberly shook her head in response. She pulled Mike into the kitchen, leaving Tom and Holly playing with Mr. Fluff, Holly’s pink stuffed unicorn. Pulling out a white envelope from her navy blue purse, Kimberly said, “There is war. They want you to leave tomorrow for the next eight months.”, as tears spilled out of her eyes like an overflowing sink. “Eight months”, she repeated as those words echoed in her mind. A whole eight months she would not see her husband as he would be off, defending his nation in war.

“They will go by quicker than a blink” Mike assured.

“I hope so”, she nodded, drying her eyes. They walked into the living room, and sat on the carpet next to Holly and Tom.

“Tom?” Kimberly called.

“Yes mommy? “ Tom asked with wide eyes. He remembered the last time his parents had talked to him like this. His father was probably going to wear his green and brown uniform and leave for a long time. His heart sank.

“Is daddy going to leave again?” He asked, his eyes glossing with tears once again.

“It is just going to be a little while” Mike said. Tom stared at his parents and ran out of the room, sad and confused.

The night passed and the sun rose once again, a reminder of Mike’s leaving. His family watching him from the patio, he looked at them, and a smile broke across his face. Kimberly had picked Holly up and Holly had rested her head peacefully on Kimberly’s shoulder. It was Tom who had Mr. Fluffy in his hands. He and Kimberly had put on a brave smile on their faces. It would be silent conversations like this that Mike would miss the most. Tom’s not-so-bubbly anymore voice shattered the silence.

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“Don’t you worry daddy, I will teach Holly how to walk” he said. Mike hugged all of them, waved and then turned around. He was now a solider on duty.

Seven months passed and with the help of Tom, Holly learnt how to walk. One Saturday morning, the phone rang. The hospital had called the family to let them know that Mike was in the hospital. He had become paralyzed from the waist down. To Tom and Kimberly, the world had come crashing down. Even the eighteen month Holly could feel the tension in the air. They rushed to the airport, took the first flight to the state Mike was in and eventually, reached the hospital to be welcomed by a grim sight. Mike was sitting on a wheelchair, a pained expression on his face.

“Dadd..ddy” Tom whispered, stuttering, taking Mike’s hand into his own .”It’s fine. I saw how you were trying to teach Holly to walk, I learnt that. I would not let you get hurt either. I couldn’t see Holly get hurt, I love her and you way too much for that”

It was in this moment that Mike had realized that the cruel war had caused a reversing of roles with his son.

UP IN SMOKE Kira Valera

Journeys 2016

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ROUNDABOUT Johann Park

CLOCKWORK Ted Iamsirithaworn

As the cogs spiral around the building bot, you watch with silent reflection The edges are rough, but in unison, worn down by the pressure of grinding steel. You look as the parts, stiff with rust, turn forcefully at the sound of each tick. You can’t help but flinch as the mechanisms spin, all at the same selfless pace. The clock is grinding itself to dust, the outside world still revolving without a need for it.

But, you can’t help but cry, the only one appreciating and depending on its turning. Commemorating its simple design, without a question to any possible new invention, you remain there motionless, simply watching the dust form in monotone, the gray of your workshop matching the mechanical tocks of your broken clock.

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THE ART OF THE KIL L

WINNER

Colin Davidson

Blood rushing in anticipation. Dancers behind a heavy, dark curtain. The black wall lifts and suddenly they are exposed: bare porcelain in the absence of ebony. They flutter throughout the room like a dozen white birds in silent, circled flight. But caged birds cannot know true freedom, and the burden of the King’s gaze lay heavy on their wings; he will select one for his taking. The girls spin in perfect synchronicity, presenting themselves like livestock before a butcher - but one breaks the façade.

One girl spills forward from the circle and pauses before the King. She bows before him, imperceptibly sliding her hands into the folds of skirt, slowly wrapping them around the handle of a concealed blade. She rises in a flash and slashes his throat open in a deep scarlet line that mirror itself against his gilded throne, spattering crimson blood against her white gown and skin. Her kill is silent, but rings throughout the room like a gunshot; the silence is broken by blood-curdling screams and the birds, forgotten in the bloody commotion, walk through unguarded doors and take flight.

FREEDOM ISN’T FREE Tristen Schmidt

We all know the lyrics, sung at Friday night in every other high school, with two thousand people humming along. To wrap up the song, someone in the crowd whistles loudly. It is a song used to unite us. Yet few people in the crowd think about the lyrics or have ever thought about the lyrics and what they mean. It sends chills down the wounded veteran’s spine, and leads to the uniform removal of all hats. The Star Spangled Banner unites us. It tells of the battle fought by our fathers for the freedom of future generations. It tells of people who gave their lives to found a country of free men, one that they knew they may never see again. It tells how the hearts of Americans were able to defend Fort McHenry despite overwhelming odds.

As a free country, we don’t pray to the same god, follow the same culture, or look the same.

What unites us is our love for freedom and love for a symbol that lasted throughout the night. The American flag is something we all look to, pledging our allegiance as a nation, not to a church or a man. It represents a place where someone can pray to Jesus while the person next to them prays to Allah.

Without freedom there is no happiness for the majority. It is a delicate concept that is still a young child, only two hundred and forty years old. Before that, freedom and happiness were only something the rich knew about. Monarchs ruling with an iron fist knew happiness, not caring who was happy so long as they were satisfied. Our forefathers gave their lives so such a revolutionary concept could take hold in a new land. I am not as proud to be free as I am that people fought to keep me free, though they may never have experienced it themselves. They knew that their children would be free, a freedom they could celebrate as they looked down from Heaven, Jannah, or Olam Ha-Ba.

I hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal. One should not value his or her life over others, because every one of us has value.

SENIORITIS HAIKU Jacob Matthews I used to get so Motivated for it all I no longer do

Journeys 2016

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SKY DEVIL

Milan Sanchez Welsh

Mountains of clouds, twirling each other slowly in the sky like a pair of Gods who don’t know time, howled past the edges of my iron face as I sped through them, red rain collecting like rolling beads where my forehead lay exposed to the skies of electric blue. The blazing storm in the distance wrestled over the horizon like the demons inside me, moving our cities across the sky, reminding me of the desperation to feel the cool sands of the earth spill over our sun-scorched skin as if to be unearthed, shaken from the sandy skies above. Hanging there adrift in the sky stilted on nothing but a ladder dropped from the moving city above, I felt myself turn inwards until my heart was inside out, my soul fluttering in the wind. Being so close to the edge of my demise never made me feel so alive.

I could breathe the song of death, its melody dripping shards of fire and ice to the abandoned earth below.

Knowing we are forever bound to the trees, the ocean, and the once deep green of life below, which have all succumbed to our cravings for destruction, I realize that we should not be so attached to the possibility of rebirth if it means destroying the things we love. We are crusaders of the lost world, a virus ready to carry out an ancient function that is, for the most part, engraved in the silent tombs of our hearts. Onward we will go like a raging fire, fighting to build our dreams, and then destroy them with a love that is undefined in the glories of war.

Now, my thoughts blown away by something deep in my future, and as if a great hand had pulled the sun away reclaiming all that is heavenly until there was nothing but rhythmic shadow, a shrill sound scattered through the air like spilling mice all screaming, screaming till the eyes of a million locusts filled my view. I was falling, having let go of the ladder, my skin shredded by the spinning needles of their unnatural legs. Falling until I was consumed by a vortex, a black swirling pool of wings that twisted my mind until I became nothing but air. Death had caught me.

BIRDY BIRDY

Rachel Ward

WIND

Ted Iamsirithaworn An uncertainty screaming Whispers gently howling A breeze softly fluttering Cries desperately resounding Born and excited in the spring Harsh winter squall Youthful in the summer Dead by fall As much with you as against No wonder our voices echo in the wind

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CVHS Literary Magazine

DEMYSTIFY John Jazin Lee

RIVER STONES Anjana Saravanan Your eyes.

A brief glance.

Is there something there?

Recognition?

Sadness?

Joy? First impression.

Is it better to be a brick, smashing down and shattering or a million feathers, raining softly slow, gradual, meaningful?

A lifelong friendship can be summed up in a few words While a momentous meeting takes a novel Who will you be?

Perhaps a river, creating thousands of smooth stones in eons of endurance Or instead a hammer dealing one blow to a single rock Will I fall to moldable putty in your hands?

Or will you try in vain to change me? the moment is gone pinched away like the flickering flame of a feeble candle alone in the darkness “hello� you say and I smile because now the possibilities are endless

Journeys 2016

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EPI LOGUE

Isabelle Gereaux

The afterlife. Many people wonder what’s beyond; what happens after they’re dead and gone. I am no exception. I too wonder about such things, like do I get another chance at life, or do I get to see God, or do I just float around as a spirit, forever wandering this world. Those thoughts scare me, keep me wide awake at night, but I know they shouldn’t. Shouldn’t, for I am too young to think about death now, too young to know, too young to do anything as I’m told.

My grandpa talks about death not being such a bad thing, and I guess, that’s where I get all my ideas from. He is eighty-nine, and well for his old age, but he hasn’t been quite the same since grandma died. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I knew it was heart wrenching to see her go, to see the life drain from her eyes, and the warmth of her body slowly dissipate. I cried when I heard the news, like any innocent, carefree child would, when told about death.

You never really heal once someone you know is gone and you know you’ll never get to see them again, laugh with them, cry with them. Time can only help with that, time and friends. I still think about her and how she’s doing in the afterworld, chilling with God I suppose. But, one thing I did learned about death was, don’t let the depression of losing someone pull you down, remember and move on. Some people never do let go, but I have. Though thoughts of the afterlife still scare me, I learned to move past that and live on enjoying life to it’s fullest, as everyone should.

Remembering and accepting.

I guess this “never letting go” thing goes hand in hand with suicide or I could be wrong and it could be something else entirely, but if I had to pinpoint one reason, it would be the difficulty of moving on. That strain causes some people to just give up and leave, here one day smiling and laughing away, the next at the bottom of the bridge dead and cold.

Now I may be young, and told I know nothing, but I guess I know a few things.

The broken smile you try to hide, the tears you cry alone in the bathroom while everyone else is enjoying lunch. I know, but do I do anything, no. I wait for you in front of the bathroom door everyday, though, so I guess that helps, helps you to know that someone is there everyday to say, “is everything ok”.

One day as I was waiting, the crying stopped. I thought you finally accepted it, but as I went inside to check, red greeted me and not your tear-stained face, finally healing, mending.

That was my second experience with death, though I didn’t know her long.

But from what she told me, it was because her brother died from a car accident.

Sometimes I’m glad that, I didn’t fall, but that makes me sick to think things like that, but I guess it’s only in human nature to be glad it wasn’t me, it wasn’t us, it wasn’t them.

The afterlife is a such a strange thing and I began to think about it again after she died. I wondered if she was happier now, with her brother. I imagined she was and that made me happy. Though I knew I should be mourning over her death, even though I knew her for so little, I knew that’s not what she would want and I guess all dead people don’t want this, this consent mourning for them.

So I just, remember and accept. Remember and accept.

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BACK GARDEN Raya DerBedrossian

i have a garden i keep in the back it is very special and very secret. watch your step on your way in. there are doubts all over the place and i do not want you to trip. i grow some tomatoes over to the left. they never seem to be just right too ripe or not ripe enough. oh look there! pink rose bushes that grow in black soil. some of them are beginning to wilt, but i am happy that all of them have bloomed.

come sit with me in the grass. we can talk about our fears, our troubles, and whatever creatures we find in the soil. i have a tree that grows an abundance of lemons. we can pick them, but they are too sour to make lemonade with. the clouds are starting to move in, it may start raining soon. but even when it rains in my garden, i feel safe and calm, at peace and at home. i hope that you can find a home here as well. we could move indoors now but i’d rather be engulfed with whatever the rain washes over me.

RAINDROPS

Garrett Butterworth

Journeys 2016

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LONELY CLOUDS Sydney Reil

There is a beautiful girl I know. High on her throne, sitting amongst the cloud of bliss, she basks in popularity, enjoying the sweet breath of queendom. She lets the lids of her blue eyes drop, and her red lips curve into a glistening smile. Her smile is beautiful, a smile that is absolutely and completely flawless. But the girl is too high. She rests alone in the misty clouds, above the river of struggle. Slowly but surely, her once brilliant smile dims. Eventually, she steps off the heavenly, the envied throne, and walks through that river, trudging up stream. She cannot remain on her doted throne forever, avoiding the inevitable torrent of the river. But she avoided it for too long. So she is beaten, helpless, and afraid.

She watches, hopelessly, as people move in herds around her, pulling each other through, no one left behind. She wades alone with a pleading heart, begging for mercy with her blue eyes. Every step is torture. Every red smile is a mask, a mask to cover the pain and fear. Where is her throne now? Why can’t she stay above the clouds? Because the higher she goes, the more lonely, the more broken she becomes. She has to face the raging rapids eventually. She is a puzzle, one that is missing the pieces to hold it together. She has been isolated for too long. So she falls apart, breaks down. Maybe one day, someone she looked down on from her throne, someone in the coursing river below, will pick up her pieces, and give her the missing ones. He will pull her through the difficult river, and she will realize that staying in the clouds, playing it safe, basking in queendom, left her incomplete, weak and alone. She will realize, that sometimes, all the time, you must fall apart to become whole. Someone will always be there to put you back together. Then you can travel upstream together, forgetting the lonesome throne and clouds above, picking up pieces, shedding the mask, helping each other along. Unbroken.

UNTITLED Jessie Kovacic

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AND IT STANDS TALL Stephanie You

A squat little house it is, my house. It straightens itself up and stands tall as I walk in to greet the walls. With the year-old paint still smiling brightly down at the comfortably worn sofas it is the reminder that even when colors fade to grey or brown, the fierce aroma of white and black still stands. “It’s cozy and keeps us close” we say if anyone asks if our house is too small.

Most of the time all doors are open, spilling the light of each room to the narrow hallway, a gateway to each of our lives. But sometimes, they are closed. Shut so tight you can’t see even a sliver of silver or a trickle of turquoise. That is when only the deep blue silence hangs in the hallway, the narrow hallway.

Of my squat little house.

The rooms that used to be full of talking and laughing are slowly muted as one by one, the birds leave the nest in suit of finding another tree. The quietness is not a bad thing, I suppose, as it is more calm, more serene, more time to think, to reflect. And even then, every so often there are bursts of noise that seeps in as the birds who leave come back. And they multiply the sounds, the laughter, the yellow and maybe even bring another bird home. My house is a house full of sounds and silence, brightness and blackout. The sounds that balance to bring pleasantness to the ear and to my heart. My house, my squat, and cozy house stands tall as the minutes, hours, seasons, go by.

VANILLA

Lea Hassakorzian I study him closely Play scavenger hunt with his most treasured parts The birthmark on his right arm The scar on his chin The freckles on his back I was almost jealous All the scuffs that sit permanently on his ivory skin Closer to him than I ever will be He places his hand on my chest, I still crave him like chocolate Dark chocolate.

To him, I taste like vanilla Plain vanilla A temporary replacement for a lover he once knew My crevices, my curves do not speak to him A foreign language he does not want to learn As I sit here in this prison cell, rotting He stands guard outside, watching A certainty I no longer deny For when he presses his hand on my chest All I felt was a barrel of a gun

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Journeys 2016

WHITE

Madeleine Heeg

Little footprints leave imperfections across the pearly whites know.

A cool breeze whisks across the trees.

Rustling leaves show signs of life unseen by human eyes.

Children’s laughter can be heard across the river. A single snowflake floats down to the earth as my eyes open to my dark and desolate room; hopelessly grasping to the final images of winter paradise.

INNOCENCE

Susanne Carpenter

THE SUN LEAVES WITHOUT A FAREWELL Sue Bin Lee

There’s something very comforting about sunsets. The sun sings a lighter tune. One that is gently muted and caressed by the clouds and mountains. The Earth goes to sleep. It seems like it’s in a coma. Almost permanent. Sunsets are a signal to the girl that finally another day has passed. The sky reeks of reds, oranges, pinks, and yellows. Like that of a fire. The best part is it’s not restrictive and it happens 365 times in a year. The sun shushes the girl as she admires it from the rock at the top of the hill. Her eyes take every bit in, reflecting the sunset itself. She digests it. She wants to get closer in hopes of capturing the vibrant colors in her hand and shoving it away in her pocket. She wants to be selfish, but she knows the beauty is intangible. The sun is swallowed by the hill, leaving without a farewell. The dark is like a bitter aftertaste. But the girl knows the sun will be back tomorrow. For it said so.

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FOURCHETTE Johann Park

FOR NOW. . .

Joshua Son

Journeys 2016

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UNTITLED

Aditya Saravanan

This world is victimized by customization.

Human run rampant across it, developing themselves to the point wherein development becomes synonymous with negativity. Every development will cost deeply, not from within the hearts of these aggressors, but rather from the resources from which they draw. Nature refuses to remain submissive, however. It fights back, through spontaneous actions that may only affect the course of a single individual to perhaps thousands. Nature preys upon the solid. It seeks to displace them, to change their fate so that they are not so solidly rooted in the ground. To shift them so they may forget about external development, due to their concern internally.

There is a haven to the cloak­-and­-dagger actions of nature. There is a place in which you can build upon the barren land, upon the underdeveloped ugliness, and birth a beauty within yourself, all without moving a stone. Such a place is a green canvas, one not claimed by the earth or its subsidiaries, one perhaps beyond the claims of Nature itself.

Learn to fight. Both physically and mentally you are tested here, and through your wits you must both suppress domination and yet exert it yourself. One may not believe in the prowess of such a rectangular piece of land. It is one where you grow and thrive without components of life, one where you enjoy yourself with others without components of laughter, one where you beat each other to the ground without components of physicality.

Our culture has grown distorted with idiocy. There is no true belief, in our world and out there, that it’s fine to just “do well”. There is simply only the belief that one can win. So matter how marginally or how vast, we only depend upon those three letters.

Age does not matter here. Size does not matter here. Strength does not matter here.

This place is devoid of all flaws, a place in which you prepare for the ultimate test: the one of life, which only requires strategy and common sense. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the night I leave this place and walk three miles back to my own home. I walk alone, with only the darkness to accompany me. And if I think hard enough, about my victories and my losses, I can sense Nature, nodding her head in approval. That I go and train, not upon a field of turf which has been ravaged of all the grass underneath.

Not upon a developed building in which waxed wood panels lay, unconscious of their impact. Not within a tank of water, stolen from other landform and regularly wasted and emptied.

No, I train in a place where I can push myself to my absolute limits. Somewhere where I feel free, where I feel as though I could float through the air. Where I test myself, and overcome those who were once far above me. This is my haven, perhaps my second home. One where my displaced self can feel centered. A place of both tough love and great victories. A simple slab of green­and­red cement on top of dirt. Maybe here at CV, maybe in another city, state, or country, it doesn’t matter.

Have you ever heard of the tennis court?

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STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS Emma Cary

I lay quietly. Day seven thousand two hundred thirty-five. I know it’s time. I can hear them talking, groaning, complaining, not enjoying the solitude and peace that should be. Should be, because it is six o’clock on a Monday morning. Most people are just arising or will not for another few hours. But here we are. Awake. Preparing.

Waiting. He says go. They all jump. Fear in their eyes that I will be too cold, but more fear that if they don’t jump, it will be worse. As they slam into me I ripple away trying to create space. Changing shape, floating away. As they push against me I try to help I push against them. Urge them faster. Cool them with my being. Refresh. Awaken. The hour drags on and as they get more tired I become the one thing they hate. They hit me. Kick me. Rush away from me as soon as possible. But they know they will be back.

There’s a race today. Those humans, they act so collected, prepared, but they don’t know what’s coming. As the race rushes towards us, warm-ups end, and they leave me alone. I settle back into my place. I also have to prepare. For the anger, fear, sadness, blood, sweat, and tears that they use to beat each other. To beat me. To beat the clock.

Every object becomes an obstacle to them. But for me, I only want to help. I try to be caught and stay in the pocket so they can push themselves faster. But sometimes, it’s impossible, no matter how much I try, they push me away. The race begins. As they slam their weight forward and down, right into me I am catapulted up. They rush to the wall. Push off. Swim. Faster. Faster. Faster. They finally finish. Still inside me, they look up. Who won? The most important question. Who is the best? One person pumps their fist above me, looking to their coach. The others slowly pull themselves away from me. They have been beat. Better luck next time. I have a few seconds to return to my place before the next race starts. I can feel it coming. The storm. The humans look up to the sky. But ignore it. They seem to believe that their plans are the most important and that nothing can stop them. How could anything be more important than them racing through me? Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. It’s getting closer.

I can feel the electricity in the air. Soon I feel drops. Another kind of water, much like me. But dirtier. Falling into me. Onto me. Trying to break through me. But it will not.

The humans realize that because the drops and I are technically the same. Although, we know the difference. The races must continue. So they go. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. The electricity builds, I can feel it almost to us. The humans see the first signs of gold in the sky. They try to ignore it. The races must continue. But as the drums begin, they cannot ignore it any longer. They rush out of me. They realize that my love it here. Lightning. Whenever he can come he tries to be as near to me as possible.

The humans would do anything to keep him away. But our love is stronger. They run into the buildings. Safe. From what is harmless and, apparently, only incredible to me. I feel his warmth and the spark as we touch. Nothing can pull us apart now. And anything that tries will be sucked into the infinity that is our love. Suddenly he is pulled away. He was only given a short time to see me and now we must wait what feels like forever to see each other again. The humans rush to return. They do not know of the sadness I am feeling. The only know of their own agenda. All they care for is their own agenda. Me. Me. Me. They think. While all I can think is him. The races continue. They move. I move.

My energy has come and gone again. All I can think about is when he will return. The races are over. They all go home to sleep. I settle and stay here. No movement. I lay quietly. Day seven hundred two thousand thirty-six.

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STARS AND MOUNTAINS

WINNER

Kimball Strong

Oh thou strong mountain, standing ‘bove the ground You are unmoved by mortals’ blowing gales You are with trees and starlight ever crowned Your courage never falters, never fails Oh bright star shining in the firmament You have most steady course and surest aim To us your brightest light you’ve ever sent Regardless of what clouds or shadows came Oh that I could be as these, firm and proud And ever true to that which true must be Oh give me strength to walk with head unbowed And let my mind be unchained, my will free But I am mortal, and so ever weak And never shall I be that which I seek

UPON SEEING THE STARS Kimball Strong

I marvel at the starry sky upon these dark, cold nights And how the rushing wind will cry, and bring my soul delight I wonder at the mountains here—their glory, strong and proud And how upon their cliffs so sheer the wind sings, deep and loud Bright, radiant lights in heaven set have an ethereal grace Catching darkness in their net of twinkling, shining lace.

I do not know if some great God those beacons set on high And if he also sends the wind, as if to us to cry “Thou mortals, look! Behold these works of beauty and of love.

Behold this glory I have made; rejoice and gaze above!”

And if not so, ’tis no less still, for beauty still abounds Upon each green and grassy hill, and in each windy sound.

These, Nature’s wonders, still shall be to me, endless delight And when I look above and see, I fill with with strongest light For mountains sing, and Nature cries out as I walk these lands Each little birdsong is His sigh, these rugged rocks His hands The Sunlight fills my thoughts with love, the Moon’s shine soothes my soul, The Stars they twinkle bright above, and make my joy grow full.

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Oh look to Nature, all you men who seek for higher pow’r Take in its wondrous beauty, then discover each bright flower Discover what fair things it holds, this still enchanted land Discover, more than jewels or gold, the simple, untouched sand That mountain tall, that river wide, unveil to you their grace Walk among the forests there, and you shall find your place

THE GIRL UNDER THE STARRY NIGHT Imola Torok

Journeys 2016

42

UNTITLED

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Kaylene Woo

BINDING FREEDOM

Sydney Reil

ESCAPE

Saya Linney

Journeys 2016

44

HER

Anonymous

She follows me everywhere. Every breath. Every step. Every moment. I try to hide, to escape her cold and bitter touch, the taste of her negative views. But she always finds me, and reminds me that the world is against me. I wish that she would smile, and wipe away my tears every night, but she just coaxes my sobs. Reminds me that I deserve to suffer. Reminds me that I deserve the pain.

Every morning I try to wake up with new perspective. I breathe in the sun and hope for, not a good day, but a better one. But she wakes up next to me and reminds me that I can’t. It’s not possible.

I try to nudge her out of my life, but she slithers back in. A snake with icy glass eyes, staring me down, telling me to go back to sleep. I succumb because sleeping makes you forget.

I don’t remember how I met her. She’s just always been there, bringing me down. It’s embarrassing, having someone control your life. Makes you wish that she would disappear. Makes you wonder, “Why me?”

I take pills now, so I can ignore her. But she’ll always be a part of me. A whisper on the back of my neck.

MIRROR NEURONS Michael Chu

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HAIKUS ON PERSPECTIVE Elaina Marriott

Through the Looking Glass of the Oldest Child: I pretend not to see Three, two, one “Ready or not” an elbow peeks out Through the Looking Glass of the Youngest Child: Breaths heavy yet soft Crouching under a tall heap She’ll never find me!

Through the Looking Glass of a Procrastinator: Fill in the blank here Insert a witty comment Fix before it’s due!

Through the Looking Glass of a Musician: Black notes on a page, color hides in expression.

Not all artists paint.

Through the Looking Glass of a Freshman: You think, “I’ll be lost!”

Now minnows in the ocean, that’s not the problem.

Through the Looking Glass of a Senior: Where are those four years, I had a minute ago?

The next stage is close.

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Journeys 2016

FLOWING WITH INK Izzy Lieberman

It was game day for my 1st JV soccer game. Like ants marching in a line, we were warming up, all dressed in our white uniforms. Our coach called our team in to read the starting lineup. I was dozing into another world, until I heard my name. I went into constant denial. I heard my name.

Isn’t there two Izzys? I heard my name. I remembered when I went by many names on my old soccer team like, benchwarmer, bench boy, or water boy. I was as useful to that team as a pen with no ink. But I heard my name. All of the sudden, everyone veered at me, like a hawk. I gaze around, confused, and trying to avoid eye contact. Their stares wrapped me in a tight blanket, forcing me to stay in place. My body chilled from head to toe, though I was sweating from the heat. I didn’t know what to think except that, today I was a new pen, flowing with ink and signing a check. For once I am important. I let off a fabricated smile as if I was taking a picture. My friend brought me back to Earth by tapping me on the shoulder to congratulate me.

The game began. The referee signaled the start of the game with a whistle blow. A sound that could be heard from a mile away. The bulls, which were the other team, were awakened and stampeded towards us. As the game escalated our coach kept on making more and more and more substitutions, but never taking me out. I ended up playing the entire game! My confidence sky-rocketed. I felt as if I could touch the sky and smell the yellow sunshine beating down on me. I will never forget the game, on which my ink restored and could flow with ease.

EL NIÑO?

Colin FitzGerald

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ROOM

Milan Sanchez Welsh

His room swelled in his mind like a wound that would never truly heal, condensing his face into snaking lines of sweat. The forest colored walls peeled back, dripping with puss and sap like a living thing. And as the windows by his bedside blew open a hole in the darkness, he wondered how the world around him could breathe more life than he did, twisting in discomfort while the intruding light shattered across the room like spinning glass. Biting down his teeth, he felt the weightlessness of his soul taken by the Autumn wind sailing across his forehead, carving a narrow river of light that streamed over the passage of his prominent vein. His eyes began squinting out the light that exposed his decaying carcass, which had been overwhelmed by a fatal sense of failure, stacked onto him like an anchor from above, trapping him in that room of amber forever. The only noise came from the birds echoing their songs through the morning light outside his window, all other sounds drowned to a silence. Their passing shadows danced and bounced through the room like a silent circus. It was as if his room was sprouting from its hole underground growing into a tall Victorian temple hovering over the rest of the world. He felt his mind fall over the crests of his temple, draping the senselessness of it all, and hoped that, instead of getting out of bed to seize the day, waking up was just a sick dream strung in his head by the world and its puppeteers.

A sudden buzz rained falling marbles over his nightstand, his phone reanimating from its always waking sleep as it entered the stream of his subconscious. As his eyes blinked the same blinding light that emitted from his phone working as two synced entities: one living and one nonliving but both mechanical, he read the pixelated diamonds on the flashing screen, their small indentations and spaces a mirroring image of his static self. Spelling out their meaning, they cut him as if the diamonds had shot out like knives into his skull, tearing out of his sockets a blistering storm of electricity in the hot smug air. He began to feel claustrophobic, invaded by his own mind. The wiring in his head could not process what he was seeing, as if some clue to his existence was being infected by a virus so that his mind remained oppressed by the all knowing system of control. Too early, he thought. The damp sheets in their endless caverns blew upwards as he splashed back into his sulking pain. ‘Tis too early for this whipping.

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RACHEL IN RED Jessica Shumate

LOST TIME

Amy Sara Lim I lost time somewhere between yesterday’s kiss and tomorrow’s promises.

When your eyes hit the light coming from your blue blinds by your bed, and your hands encased mine like ocean waves covering jagged rocks…

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The seconds came crashing away lost back into the tide of time as you drew nearer and your lips parted and your arms wrapped behind me, pulling me in with the tide.

And I lost time as you whispered to me in the dark And promised me that you’d replace the time I’d lost.

You’d give me all of yours so that the only thing I’d lose would be my last name...

A VENGEFUL HEART

FOR HER

Sometimes, you want to hurt.

You want to punch them hard You want to leave a scar You want unforgettable pain You want raging tears Yet all you can do is laugh Laugh.

Because they’d thought you’d be pleased.

Oh please, you’re no fool!

Laugh, because they thought they were ahead Laugh some more, since you’ve already won Laugh, because they’ve got it wrong Laugh, because they don’t know your potential Hide a smile, for they don’t get you Nor will they ever live to deserve you You want to whip them bloody You want to hit that face you once thought great You want to stab them ever so slowly You want bitter revenge Sometimes, you want to hurt.

And that’s when You laugh.

A brief flash on her hair as fair as night A small glimpse of Love’s joy in her sweet smile Will set my troubled, weary heart aright And will my senses and my soul beguile

Aayushi Katrina Priya

Anonymous

Her spirit is a butterfly in flight Her mind a rare and an exquisite pearl Her laughter rings of purity and light She moves as if to dance, to leap, to twirl She is a light that e’er my heart can lift E’en though I know that she my love would spurn Though close to me she sits, her thoughts shall drift To one she pines for, though he’d not return For love is fickle, and is seldom kind And so with loneliness is my poem signed

LET ME LOVE Kimball Strong

Oh let me lose myself within your eyes That twinkle with a joy as gay as night When stars will sing so sweetly to the sky And dance together in majestic flight Oh that I could but live within your smile I would contented be for all my days Your laughter which could ever me beguile Should warm my heart as the sun’s gentle rays Give unto me your soft and fleeting touch That reaches past me and into my soul No other one could draw me, none so much As you, to a joy that is past control And if I could gaze only on your lips For all my life, and never break my gaze I should be joyed, not wishing to eclipse That rosy sight, which sets my heart ablaze

STELLA

Jessica Shumate

Journeys 2016

50

COAT

Aditya Saravanan In a valley between two mountains where lush green flora runs rampant, unchecked where people are far and few between a woman who has seen all and knows all from within her small sphere of life withered and shrunken by her age seeks to perform one last act of virtue before deemed obsolete by those in absolute total control She sits up at her loom and begins to spin the wool that made her life one with opportunity as she remembered her younger days when sheep gave life when wool was her money funny how now while wracked with diseases curable by new­fangled antibiotics which cost so much money she does not want anything Spinning and spinning pricking her fingers as bright red blood spills upon the object taking shape but her raw talent and passion deny any homage which the blood must take in the coat turning her lap red instead for these last nights of her simplistic life she does what she has always done to spin and spin

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CVHS Literary Magazine

and spin and now there is no tomorrow as she has fallen down dead leaving behind her legacy ­ the coat which her husband sells anyway for cigarettes and as the coat passes through the hands of every man in civilization through countries cultures religions it finds its home on the shoulders of a young man he acts differently from those before him and assigns the coat a special meaning within heart mind soul Throughout his years throughout his events the coat remains wrapped snug around his shoulders a meninges for his emotions transparent through until his heart the day after graduation the day he got down on his knees the day when he thrust his creation of life upon the world the coat stayed on his shoulders his broad, forgiving shoulders giving his life meaning the coat is not inanimate it gives back gives his dreams ability and his wishes truth but although there is no substitute for the coat it has been easily forgotten The day his wife’s coffin sank below the surface of the earth when he left the jacket on his chair and forgot about love the coat

cycling endlessly through lost and founds homes for uncertainty although it knew whose shoulders it belonged upon donated for “a good cause”, taken away from its rightful owner the coat rebels and turns to tatters wearing off of the shoulders of a being who does not deserve it and even today the rags of such a coat are found everywhere, conceived in those forgotten pieces of clothing, those forgotten articles which provided such deep meaning to us and they do not deserve their fate even today the old lady looks down from above to spectate our grim society, where one forgotten means one left behind, one uncared for and one unloved.

ASCENT

Vivien Adamian

THE WAVING TREEHOUSE Ellie Kohn

It was a treehouse. With no house. Leaning over my neighbor’s house like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Big, brown, beloved, beautiful. It stood tall on the cascading mountain with roots bulging out of the soil. For many summers the treehouse became my home. My friends and I spent countless hours finding new ways to climb to the top of the tree, with the tree always supporting us. There were always broken ropes waving at us in the warm, summer breeze. Baskets hanging down the side of the tree, carrying endless memories and countless hours of laughter. The worn down trunk always found a way to bury itself in my shoe soles, lifting me to the top. The treehouse was always there for me. As friends would come and go, the treehouse was always there. Inviting me to come play. I would sit in the tree peeking through the leaves, watching the birds dance in the yellow yolk that would ooze through the leaves to warm my body.

Days became years and the treehouse is still smiling. It sits patiently waiting for the beaten feet to grip its bark. Waiting for the day when it would feel love on its strong trunk. But everyday the ropes on the tree wave at me, inviting me to come play.

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SHE’S NOTHING BUT DECAY, SON Rachel Ward

A QUESTION Anonymous

Eyes as deep as the ocean A laugh twinkling on the air Hair flowing in the wind, a frame A face to rival the moon Nervous, shaking hands A slight st-st-stutter One simple word Jumping for joy An overflowing heart A brush on the arm A smile brighter than the sun The feel of a hand Another heart, close to mine

REFLECTION Jennifer Gorman

The scariest feeling was when I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself I was met by glassy eyes and a confused face The person looking back at me appeared to be a foreign being I desperately wanted to cry but I couldn’t I had gotten so used to being consumed by sadness that I felt empty without this familiar feeling I just felt lost within myself Emptiness Feeling empty is just as miserable as feeling depressed

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When my sadness went away I felt like there was nothing left I was expecting to be magically overcome with happiness but this was an irrational fantasy The person in the mirror has transformed before my eyes From foreign to comfortable Every once in a while I glance over and I’m met by a genuine smile

THE EMBANKMENT Jackie Dall

MORADO Logan Liu

What is the color purple? Purple is the smell of lavenders. It’s the sweet tropical aroma that lingers around islands in the middle of the sea. Purple is the combination of a rich red and boisterous blue. It is the combination of two colors that have so much in common yet so much in contrast.

Red is the taste of crisp apples and sweet watermelons. Yet it is the color of heat and anger.

It brings out one’s rage. Red ravages a white canvas like fire on a mountainside. Blue is the taste of refreshing water and savory blueberries. Blue brings out one’s calmness. It cools down a white canvas like a waterfall tumbling down a cliff.

There are three people in this world. Red people. Blue people. And purple people. There are people who have rage like fire and people who have tranquility like water. And there are people who are a mix of the two. People who are calm yet aggressive. Serene yet intrusive.

I strive to become someone who is purple. I want to take charge of my life, yet hold myself back

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COMING UP YELLOW Suzanne Whifler

You A goofy but tired smile With your gentle but spirited eyes Your worn but persistent soul You are like the yellow flowers that grow In the abandoned lots with Empty cans Beer bottles Forgotten toys Broken furniture With patchy grass So what if the only flowers Are weeds They are still stronger And just as handsome As the delicate Forget Me Not As the proud Chrysanthemum Or the prickly Rose You come up yellow As the sky wanes To orange To pink To purple And to black And back again You’re too kind You’re too strong And as the sun will rise again You will live With that gentle smile

FINAL

McAuley Grace

FLEETING MOMENTS Kimball Strong

They say that all you know about “hello” Is that it will end with a “goodbye.”

Perhaps it’s true, this melancholy phrase, We only live to someday die.

Still in between, such beauty grows!

Still how each moment breathes so full!

In moments seeing gentle flower Or hearing mighty thunder’s roll.

People, it seems, are that way too, For the brief moments you may be with them.

Quickly as you met, you bid farewell, But in between such beauty they’ve given!

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You’re leaving now (as well you should), and going to pursue your dreams.

Yet still I know I’ll always cherish The beautiful moments you gave to me.

POT OF GOLD Mckenzie Davidson

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NOVEMBER 13 Arlen Nassir

The day we woke up, the day we realized that this is not a fairytale, the day we realized that the world is cruel, the day that hundreds of people had the urge to get out of bed, and go to a concert or a soccer game, only to never return.

November 14, the day the families of the victims woke up hoping it was all a dream, only to remember the disaster.

The day the world prayed for the victims, and some only to tweet a hashtag and think it helped.

November 15, the day we went back to dreaming, the day that people just left the horrible events behind, except the families who still have to live with the thought that their loved one is gone.

You never think it will happen to you, it has struck some people that one day you could be the one to go to a restaurant, and never make it back.

You could be the lucky one that has to pretend that you are lifeless, for hours, while being apart of someone else’s last breath.

The world is a dark mysterious place, where things can go wrong, at any time and any given moment.

One of the moments was November 13, where the lives of many were forever changed.

It is up to us to be better people, to live the lives that the victims only dreamt about but will never be able to fulfill.

Don’t take your life for granted.

You woke up today, thousands of other innocent people didn’t.

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TEMPERATURE Johann Park

Journeys 2016

58

UNTITLED

Aditya Saravanan

Did you know that physics has already solved the encompassing algorithm of language?

It’s known by the name of Zipf’s Law. After the accumulation of generations of data, we have arrived to discern language, in all of its complexity, as the most simplistic thing that has ever occurred: a pattern. The second most used word will be found 1/2 as many times as the first, the third one 1/3 as many, the fourth1/4, and on and on until infinity; and this law applies to every single piece of literature that has been created within our known universe, from languages like English to those which we cannot even decipher yet.

This begs the question: something as complex as language, with the feelings which it brings itself to express, with the ability to perhaps even change the course of many lives, defined by a simple mathematical equation? Impossible, yet physicists seem to believe so.

But I am aware of how my name was created. I could force myself to believe in the ability of my distinctness, yet that makes me fall into the trap of stupidity. This trap is human nature. I refuse myself the discomfort of accepting that my world is nothing close to extraordinary, and I seduce myself with these falsities until the date of my demise.

I know the name is a list at its roots, a list of names that perhaps momentarily refuses these laws of physics. My grandfather created the list, his intention being to provide suitable options, but he was merely a puppet on a string, and I knew it. Governed by statistics and numbers, and part of an immeasurable whole: every human’s name is nothing definite, and could be anything at all.

Do you know how it feels to reach self­-actualization? I don’t either. We both must lull in that unbelieving state, unknowing. There are numbers behind that list, and behind those numbers, there is nothing but a sea of probabilities, and millions of those infinities must have been the outcome that is currently present.

When I press my pen onto my paper, and inscribe my name into it, am I simply a statistic? Are the letters carefully inked by a printer upon this paper recreations of numbers? The variables reach out and touch me, but I cannot accept it. My mind begs to believe that it is not true, that my name is something more, a special recollection of my aura, of who I am on “the inside”. Science refuses, however, depriving me of the pleasures of my absurd foolishness. I know what my name is. In relation to me, however, it means nothing. Its speaks nothing of my actions, my abilities, my virtues.

It’s just another variable in the equation of life: one which we wait for someone to solve.

THE PAINTBRUSH Lea Hassakorzian

She used to tell me about how she loved watching the different colors drip off of her paintbrush.

How the glorious tints of blue and purple intertwined to create a story. She was an artist. One day after class, she told me a story about her lover. How his hands were his paintbrush. How he painted her body with dark shades of blue and purple. Her lips quivered when she confessed to me that she still loved him. After all, he was an artist. Years later, I read about her newest masterpiece. As the blade became her paintbrush and her wrists her canvas, she was welcomed with a warm sea of endless red.

She watched as the paint dripped.

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INK BOM

Jessica Shumate

NEW BEGINNINGS Tristan Ganzon

Journeys 2016

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METAMORPHOSIS Aditi Purandare

The warm breeze hit my shivering self. I took several deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Trembling hands. Heart pounding. Huge crowd around me. I was alone. This is what I had signed up for.

I wobbled in my black high heeled shoes to my first round. They were supposed to make me feel tall and confident. Yet, I was nervous. Teenage girls and boys wearing suits in a hundred degree weather were sitting, ready to demonstrate their refined speaking skills. Their confidence was evident in their sparkling eyes. I felt they were glaring to further establish their superiority the way lions do before attacking their prey. This is what I had signed up for.

I looked down at my polished nails. A sudden urge, and I wanted to bite them off. I became a servant to my fear and obliged. This is what I had signed up for.

The judge walked into the room. I smiled at her. She didn’t reciprocate. My brain knew she didn’t see me.

My heart smelled my fear. “She hates you”, it said in a mocking, singsong voice. This is what I had signed up for.

I looked at the paper on which my speech was written.

These words, which I had read so many times that they would generally be echoing in my head, were now abstract foreign words. This is what I had signed up for.

The next half an hour was a loud, homochromous blur of suits and the stench of fruity perfume caused a hundred hammers to pound in my head. The judges intimidating voice then boomed “Aditi Purandare.

Crescenta Valley High School.” I stood up and walked the hundred miles between my chair and the front of the room. I looked around, breathed in all my courage.

Adrenaline hit and I began. This is what I had signed up for and I was loving every moment of it.

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THE ORDER IN MADNESS CVHS Literary Magazine

Michael Chu

I LOVE THE WAY, LOS ANGELES Jessie Kovacic

I love: the way the bright sun reflects of the dusty windows of the buildings. the way the dark clouds lightly kiss the tops of the buildings on the days where the chill makes it feel like Christmas.

The way the sky is lit up, not by stars, but by helicopters, and late night workers in their office, and by frustrated drivers in rush hour traffic.

The way that cement walls that are close enough to whisper to each other, can be seen from the top of mountains that are miles away.

I hate the way that we take the skyline, the beautiful cluster of buildings, the man made objects that take my breath away, for granted.

THE CASTLE Tristan Ganzon

Journeys 2016

62

A DISCONNECTED FACADE Michael Chu

THE PUPPETEER Kimball Strong

You speak with me, and yet, ’tis not with me; It is the puppet ‘fore me that you see.

I hold it out, I move its mouth and arm, I let it speak for me, it has more charm.

My puppet is more human, is more kind; My puppet has a clear, undamaged mind.

He’s better looking, better mannered too-He’s humble, gracious, gets along with you You think it odd that I a puppet use?

Not so, and I will give you my excuse: If I were once to put the puppet down You’d likely in my bitter truth-well drown.

When I am sad, I simply move his face, The corners of his mouth tilt into place, I move his eyebrows up, and suddenly You see a joyful, happy, smiling me.

I’ve made my puppet strong, and good, and fair-My disguise, shield, and weight that I must bear.

Shake my hand, I offer you it free; The hand is of the puppet, not of me Where’er I go, the puppet goes before, Smiling sweet, he cannot but adore The things you say, your clever, funny speech, He pays such close attention as you preach.

From time to time I wish to put him down, This doll I use to mask my aches and frowns.

He tires me and makes me feel worn out, But lose his shield? That cannot come about.

To lose my puppet would make me afraid And naked, hiding deep within the shade.

I cannot part with my vile puppet dear, For I am nothing but a puppeteer.

63CVHS Literary Magazine

UNTITLED

Sevana Shahbazi

My daddy used to tell me stories about the moon, He used to hold me and sing a little tune.

He told me that little angels up in the sky, Said that they sat up there, somewhere, way up high,

Dramatically exclaiming that they would cut up the full moon into a bunch of little pieces, And into the sky the angel releases,

The angels would scatter the tiny pieces in the sky for the next night, The stars would shine in the dark, glowing bright.

My daddy taught me a valuable lesson in the end, He said, “sometimes you can’t see the moon, but you know it’s there, just like a distant friend.”

ZOOM - IN -CHANTED

Michael Chu

64

Journeys 2016

WORDS

Anonymous Words have the power to build up a house of conversation or destroy a house like a hurricane.

Everyone has a voice in this world, but do their words lie? Do their voices of silk turn to glass when they begin to speak? Words. Sweet words, sour words, nonsense words, words of love and of sadness, but no words for me. I’m scared to say any words. Will my words and thoughts be valid? Or will they faintly wash away like rain in the moonlight quickly out of sight. I don’t know it to be true but I believe we can see words. The happy words rolling of the tongue like the wind through a rose garden, the sad ones dropping straight to the floor, but my words stay stagnantly in my mind. My head revolves around this meaningless mess of words like a planet on its axis.

Although I know in the end they will never be heard. I want to say something, anything that matters, something that will make the world listen. Am I too meek? Too shy? No that is all a lie.

For the words I speak are loud but are only shared with a close friend. A friend named silence.

SHE’S NOTHING BUT SCRIBBLES, SON

65CVHS Literary Magazine

Rachel Ward

THE GIFT Bayla Bash

NOVA

Ted Iamsirithaworn When the darkness outside aligns with the one in your heart When the sun’s heartbeat stops and the moon distant Watches the time slow and meld into quiet serenity, When the small city hushed with the lights fading dim Backgrounds the hum of soft wind, brushing the sky with cool colors Maybe there I can be seen, but through the night I am already at death bed With my funeral light years to come To the eyes of the ones Who look into the sky with innocent hope

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Journeys 2016

SPILLED MILK Jessica Shumate

MEMORY Wil Ozeas

We are all whiteboards. We are born a blank sheet. A clean slate. An empty paper. As we move through our lives, our experiences write on us. Our family, the first markers that write on our unmarked surfaces, the first colored strokes that will color us forever, regardless if we want it or not.

Even if erased, the traces of these colors will forever remain, sometimes intangible as an idea, or sometimes as glaring and obvious as a child’s drawing on the walls. Our friends are the next eager writers that shape us into the people we are today. They will find our best and worst parts and underline them in bright highlighter that white-out won’t cover. They will draw self-portraits and reflections. They may get frustrated and draw ugly scribbles. They might even cap their pen, erase their drawings and leave. But the outlines of their changes will still be there if you look close.

I once read about storing memories in jars in a book. I don’t remember what book it was, but the idea stayed. What if you could pick and choose, select and nitpick, which memories you had?

Would you be the same person, even without all the times you fell and broke a bone, the times you called them a name, the times you were hurt and the times you were sad and the times you didn’t know what to do so you ran, ran far far away, away until you could take the memory and put it in a jar?

What if. Can you truly be happy if all you’ve known is happiness? You only remember what you can and what changed you and what made the deepest, uneraseable mark on your paper. I remember that you could store a memory in a jar. But I forgot the book, forgot the author, the person who wrote those words and made that blot that sticks around and won’t erase. These marks are unique to you. No two whiteboards have the exact same pattern of blemishes. But this is who you are. These random stains and strokes have changed you. You can’t do anything but look at them and stare and maybe, one day, you’ll look again and see a portrait.

67 CVHS Literary Magazine

WORKSPACE

Milan Sanchez Welsh

I had just finished watering down the flames, their long streaks of ash stained on the darkened cement, when I was called back inside the house. Looking back over my shoulder, I already started to miss what those black spots beside the streaming ash had once been before they were reduced to shadow.

I wasn’t scared, not one part of me quivered in fear of my fathers hand; my hand lay at rest, steady at my side. I had done everything wrong, but I knew there was nothing waiting for me inside besides the silence.

You do enough bad things and it becomes expected and therefore tolerable for the people around, this is especially true for my father with me. I was only six, but it wasn’t the first time I’d set something on fire.

He invited me into his workspace, a form of punishment I suppose, making me watch him work on his writing until the sun would retrieve behind the mountains. He met me in the hall, and once we entered the room, which resembled more of a dense library, everything about him had changed. I could tell he felt safe, the room a leather cushion for his mind. That is why he loved his books. They offered my father a place for his mind to be soothed into fine print, even if the words weren’t his own, where everything in life that was once unsure and confused suddenly had a beginning, middle, and end.

I disturbed the peace in his room. As if all the books turned on their dusty shelves in defiance to me, my father’s eyes engraved in the titles on their spines whispering in their immortal words a wish to erase me out of existence. In this moment I wanted to light a match and flick it into the soft blanket of my father’s thoughts, aiming to land my pillar of flames between those detestable eyes and turn his world into ash. I stayed in the room, longer than I should have. Staying in a place where I don’t belong is how I turn it into my own. I could hear the ink in every closed book melt into drips of black tears that seeped out of the binding like blood. I watched my father, who could no longer withstand my triumph of silence over him, sitting there cold and alone in his desk as he witnessed this death of language around us, becoming only accessible to mine; a language made up not of words put together, but grunts and hisses, of hate. “You’re disturbing my work! Get out!” He tells me. But there is no safe place for you, father, now that the world is drowned in my head.

UNTITLED

Kaylene Woo

68

Journeys 2016

SUNDAY MORNING Alex Khachatourian

MORNING COFFEE Alex Khachatourian

69CVHS Literary Magazine

MASTERPIECE IN THE MAKING Maya Allaire

8:00 am. My eyes open slowly as if weights were attached to them. The blurry glow of the sunlight’s beams are stretched across my room. At first, I am uncertain as to what the day has in store for me. Then I know.

Not bothering to change out of my pajamas, I walk down my hallway into the living room. It has two large windows on two cream colored walls and a black leather couch that smells like hours of napping and T.V. marathons. Shelves of every book you can think of are stacked just below the windows.

But the best element of them all is the piano. Not a new piano. Not a grand piano. Not even a fancy piano. Just a piano with the sweet scent of simplicity attached to it. I sit down at the bench. My fingertips touch the keys just barely. They are cold from hours of not being practiced on. I don’t take lessons anymore, but that doesn’t discourage me. Before I even have a chance to tell my mind to start playing, my hands are jumping, fingers leaping, thoughts spiraling. I am a changed person now. Time is slowly slipping away beneath the pounding and pedaling of the piano. Every other thought escapes my mind like sand through a funnel.

I write down an idea. Erase. I use a different key signature. Change it. I invent a new chord progression. Perfect. Test it out. Try it again. My mind is racing against itself. It never gives up regardless of feeling hopeless and impatient. My thoughts become more and more compelling, as if I’m running to catch up with a bullet train. And just like that, I hop onto the caboose. I take a deep breath in, and exhale, as I am brought back down to earth again. My masterpiece is finished. I glimpse at the clock.

4:00 pm.

Journeys 2016

70

THE DREAM OF LIFE Elliot Lee

71

CVHS Literary Magazine

WINNER

THE DEAL

WINNER

Peter Shin

Journeys 2016

72

Thank You To All Of Our Editors Jemma Kwak Gina Seo Jin Lee Titash Biswas Vivien Adamian Kayla Bash Natalie Babakhani Susanne Carpenter Ju Young Choi Michael Chu Jackie Dall Raya DerBedrossian Catherine Dong Jessi Edwards Tristan Ganzon Jennifer Gorman Carolyn Gruss Madeline Heeg Christine Kim

Claudia Kim Joanna Kim Minji Kim Saya Linney Jacob Matthews Abbey Markham Sasha Monterroso Abbey Mosman Katrina Priya Aditi Purandare Sydney Reil Aditya Saravanan Anjana Saravanan Suzanne Whifler Sarabeth Zohrehvand

Advisor: Mrs. Jennifer Waters

JOURNEYS MAGAZINE

2016