The Quill

The Quill Literary Magazine of Hendrickson High School Volume 1 May, 2017

Defining A Broken Heart meant for the days that we linger in silence our chests synced together as one rhythmic force. beating as fast as we fell through the darkness. believing that someday we’d find love on our course. meant for the moment we spend belly laughing. giggling and crying until we cannot breath. spending a lifetime in these precious pictures. our smiles form lasting crinkles to see. meant for the broken and the undesired. beaten and trodden by societies views. twisting and turning the mind’s pure perceptions. until all that is left is left is a box of rusty screws. meant for the sound of your voice as you whisper. brushing my ear as you lean in real close. speaking of love and the secrets you’re hiding. only revealing the edge of your ghost. meant for the heartbreak and words that stand hanging. spoken but refusing to receive the result. using these last little bits of good-bying, to express our great sorrow with a jolt. meant for the days that finish our story, Holding on tight so we don’t have to leave, picking up pieces from the messy disaster, that last words you utter are “Do you love me?”

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Photo by Kendall Payne

Megan Borholthaus

Before the earthquake...

There was silence...

Before the heartbreak and sorrow, there was anticipation.

Those moments where everything is so quiet that you can hear your own tears falling as your realize what comes next. Because silence is always followed with disaster.

Followed with the hear-wrenching words that flow from his mouth as easily as he said them the first time....But...if you still love me... why would you leave me? Why would you put me through an emotion that has filled my lungs and crushed my heart and pierced my soul enough to damage it to the point to no return...?

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Because love means seeing me finally return from that point. It means watching me finally get over you and start over. It means seeing me hold someone else’s hand and kiss someone else’s cheek and being a big enough person to smile and be happy for me, even though you aren’t happy for yourself... it means letting the birds in your heart fly free from their cage of holding on... no matter how much you don’t want to...

And so...

“We breathe slowly.

We remember the good times, and smile, but we accept that It’s not good for us to be Together.

And we be there for each other.”

And I promise with every blood cell in my body that love you Enough to let you go.

Photo by Mac Perisho

Megan Borgholthaus

Art by Megan Pound

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The Only One Left sitting in silence, a heart beats in terror, Her breathe fills the air as she inhales her fears, Listening as the pouding of heavy, dark footsteps, Reaching the top of the long, winging stairs. cowering under the blanket she clenches, Her fists trembling more than her words as she speaks, “Come in.” she invites as the knock hitts the doorway, The handle then turns and her heart becomes weak.

In walks the man that had seen her first breathe, watched as she tumbled right into his arms, Fighting off all of her monsters and bullies, And protected her from the one she calls mom.

She gasps as she looks at the face in amazement, tears filling quickly in her precious, blue eyes, she runs and embrases his camouflage wardrobe’ Now free from the grasp of death and demise.

“I’m here.”

He assures as he cradles her skeleton, Beaten and bruised by the one he calls his wife, “I’m the only one left.” She cried into his shoulder, As she remembered the scars on her back from the knife.

Downstairs they listen as her mother is taken, Drug by the nice men who saved her from sleep, Her nightmares no more than a washed away dreamland.

Rescued from the monster that had pulled her so deep.

Dressed up in silk, she stands in front of the judges, Describing the horrors that engulfed her world, The bruises still visible for everyone watching, The momories etched in her mind start to swirl.

Sitting in silence, a heart beats in anger, Her breathe fills the air as she exhales her life, “For child negligence and abusing your offspring, You hereby sentenced to life.”

Megan Borgholthaus

Monster

Art by Mary Ann Honeyman

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Alone I sit at the corner of my bed. The window is open and the sun gently warms the room with its hate. The mural is very sophisticated, and there are many of my possessions laying around the floor. To any boy or girl, this could be paradise. Many children dream of such a luxurious life.

But I’m not happy. No, I’m not a spoiled brat.

I take nothing for granted. Yet something’s off. I wear a cloak of negativity the warmth of it are my emotions. To my eyes, the world is full of colour and joy, yet to me it is dark, cold, and stale. My room is but a prison cell, the most gourmet of food can taste like expired fish, and the light of the sun radiates with hate.

Clearly there’s something wrong. Ever since I was a child, I was different. I wore a cloak and a mask, both of which I unknowingly purchased from a monster, in return for the draining of my joy.

Dread and sorrow are written all over my cloak.

It comforts me, and keeps me warm with the will of my soul drained and the weeping; forlorn emotions of the cloak take its place. It blocked all the society I dreaded for me, but also blocked all the elation in the world.

Elation shines on my face, however, because of the mask. Unlike the cloak, the mask was more expensive, as it hid my hateful and melancholy feelings with a shiny, yet false coat of joy. To anyone, I was but a normal and happy kid. But underneath the mask is my true self: the being no one has ever seen.

For many years passed, and while my possessions deteriorate and my friends move on, my cloak and mask only strengthen. Now, it’s nearly impossible to differ the mask and what’s underneath it. Yet like anything, the mask too, will give way to the elements, revealing my true self.

Good days or bad, everything and everyone was the same. The monster I bought my mask and cloak from decided to move in with me, making my own life significantly more complicated.

He’s cool to play cards with sometimes, but that’s about it. He can’t pay the rent and his breath reeks of the corpses that have fallen to him. He’ll always threaten me and even beat me for any reason, no matter how petty.

I kept him anyway. My torture of this life was too much to bear and the more he threatened me, the more he sounded right. I was well aware of the pest, the disease he was. But he was all that I had.

Just as I fell into his claws, just as I was going to give up, just as I saw my life flashing before my eyes, the memories of my early childhood playing outdoors, or the day my sister was born; everything came back at once.

It overwhelmed me so much, that I let out a soft yelp through the sound-proof yet dying mask. To my surprise, someone reached out and picked me up from the ashes where I used to live.

Killed him? No. He is still there. Yet he is so powerless and feeble that he practically doesn’t exist. But on a quiet night, when the silent moon rises where the land meets the sea and the stars poke a hole through the black night sky, you can hear him threatening me, “You’re next”.

Cracks in the soil Dry Parched A crack in the droughted ground Tumbleweeds flying around.

Nothing, Empty, Not a cloud in sight, Just blue sky, Tinted by the orange sun.

Soil deprived of vital and precious water.

Shall there be a remedy in sight?

At night, Everything comes to life.

The foxes, the snakes.

Our world awakens while we sleep.

Empty is not in their vocabulary, While we slumber.

But we mustn’t forget, The cracks in the soil.

Now, The red sun awakens, As the foxes, the snakes flee, To the cracks in the soil.

Now, Man has arisen.

From the cold, Dry, World.

-Cristian Curran, 2016

Gone With The Rain Upon the vacant stop, I remain.

Somber, Alone, Isolated, Gone.

The cover that shields me from, The rain, Has holes in it.

Cold are the wet drops, That fall on my pale face, Gone.

My mother vanished.

She prefered a white powder over me, My father withered away like sand in the wind, And no one has felt any sorrow.

Gone, I get up.

A bridge awaits me on the other side.

I peer over the edge.

The wind blows but everything is still.

My toes hug the edge not wanting to do the honors.

But I ignore them.

I bend my knees slightly and let go of the railings.

The rain becomes snow, As I leap.

Cristian Curran

The Toilet

It was a cold December night.

We were returning from a long, tiring road trip. We were so close to home, so so close. Yet, I had the slow, growing feeling of possibly the worst thing to happen to any person during a road trip. I had to use the restroom. Now, if we were even remotely close to home, this would pose no problem; but alas, we still had an hour left in the trip. At first I could see no relief from my living hell, for what fell before my eyes was an ever growing landscape of pure darkness, the kind of darkness to give you chills at bed as a child. There was no end in sight. Until, finally, yes! A gas station! I ordered the driver to stop, this was my safe haven, my small beacon of hope in an otherwise barren and abandoned landscape. A gas station! A gas station, in the middle of the dark, surrounded by the light illuminating from inside of the store and the giant sign standing out front, tall and proud, letting the highway goers know the gas prices; it was lovely, in a way.

Under normal conditions, I would have rejected the thought of having to urinate in a gas station bathroom; however, under the circumstances I was in, I saw no other option. Oh, how I wished I had listened to my heart, my soul, telling me to not enter that restroom, to hold it in, or to urinate somewhere else, but no, I had listened to my body, begging for the sweet release of my bodily excrement, tired and worn from holding it in for so long. Oh, how I wish to reclaim my innocence, taken from me at such a young age! As I walked hurriedly to the gas station restroom, I could tell that something was horribly wrong. The bathroom door was left slightly open, revealing the light from within. The light reached across the field some 50 yards, revealing the crops, yet to be harvested. I walked to the door, and what I saw has never left me, after all these years.

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Upon flicking the light on, a humming noise began, and I had found that inside the restroom, there was a toilet in the far left corner, with a sink to the right of it, along with a soap and towel dispenser. The floor was composed of large, white tiles, with gray cement keeping them held together. Along the wall, there were smaller white tiles, up until about shoulder length, where they then stopped and became white painted walls. The room was lit by a flickering light directly above the door which gave the room a blue tint; one of the bulbs was in obvious need of a replacement, flickering on and off again.

But, there was something that turned this once clean, fresh toilet into a portal to hell, a wormhole to the twilight zone. All along the left of me, spanning from the toilet to the wall, from the floor to the ceiling, was a black substance. The sharp contrast of the white bathroom and the black substance immediately shocked me, for I thought it was blood. But it wasn’t. Oh, how I wished it was. No, it was something much worse, much more sinister; it was human feces.

The toilet, brimming with brown and black water, gave me this realization. Somehow, someway, a human being, that lives on the earth that we inhabit, managed to take a dump so colossal that it completely flooded the toilet and reached across the wall and above the ceiling. The stench was unbearable. I screamed, and I ran across the way towards the field. Upon reaching the edge, I pulled my pants down, and I took the fastest piss of my life. No other piss that I have ever taken has been that fast. I believe this was due to the fact that I was afraid for my life; nothing could have prepared me for what I saw in that gas station bathroom. I ran, still screaming, back to my car, and we went home. This is the first time I have told anyone this story. To the man who took that dump in the gas station restroom, I hope we never meet.

Photo by Victoria Hoang

Gabe Mackenzie

Who Are

I am Gabriel Mackenzie Yes, that is who I am Yet there are times where I question myself Times where I feel as if I am not myself.

I am tired This I know of And this is not caused from a lack of sleep Rather a lack of relief from the life I am currently living.

I am finding it hard To answer the simple question Who Are You? What is your purpose?

More and more I am finding that answer to be lost

Art by Timothy Benton

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You?

The weight of my pride In body and mind I am held down By this unbearable weight It lets me know that I am not strong I feel that if I let it fall So will reality And so I hold it above Hidden from the world The Weight of my Pride Do I really need that?

Is my pride worth the sacrifice?

Or should I just abandon myself?

But without this weight I lose my true self While I am questioning it now The future will hold the truth The Weight of my Pride It hurts me, but the pain is needed It makes me who I am And it reminds me That I am myself And without it Who would I be?

Not myself, that is for sure

Gabe Mackenzie

Time To Go (Letter to Future Me) Dear Ismael,

At this point in our life, you’ve probably noticed the road is a hella lot longer than we expected. Our family is almost gone, older siblings, mom and dad. Gone. I guess our fate was sealed due to the age gap. We’re all that’s left. All alone. I think it’s time we get ready to go. Our children are all that’s left of us. Our best legacy. Our lonesome road is coming to an end. Maybe beautiful planet Earth has changed. Maybe politics have changed, we’re in peace for now. Maybe scientists have found a way to reverse global warming, leaving a safe world for our children in which they can thrive and evolve. Maybe we use environment safe and reusable energy instead of oil. Maybe the rainforests are coming back. Maybe none of these events have happened. There’s a consequence to every action no matter what we do in this world. That is reality.

My message to the future, the legacy I’m leaving, is that if the mortal world will not change in our favor, then we as the human race must change. Changing our world through the journeys we experience. Your road gets rougher from here if you do not change, the end of mine will lead me home, it’ll remind me of why I had roamed the Earth. Home isn’t the location we were born. Home is a place both far and close to this realm. If you look outside your window now, we’ll see all the work we brought into this world. I can see the history I have burned into the surface of Mother Earth. I think we’re almost ready to go. We can only hope, that Death will free us. But when we leave this world, Death will not insure that our message is heard, she will only help lead us into the afterlife. If our message is heard, we hope that the humans will use our words to our advantage.

Photo by Mitchell Casazza

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There is nothing left for us in this world, it’s time to leave it up to the future. The future is the legacy we’re leaving behind for those who come after us to pick up. It doesn’t matter whether Death opens the door to Heaven or Hell. Nothing satisfies her but our soul. She can free us from the sadness and sorrows that have eternally plagued this world. It’s time for us to let go. We used to think that Death was our enemy for slowly taking everything away, that’s a lie. She has no choice. Unfortunately it’s just equivalent exchange. Death’s job is to take away something in order to give.

It’s time to go. Don’t be afraid, we know too much about Death to fear her. Our journey through this world has taught us that Death is not an enemy for taking those we love. She’s our savior and friend for giving us freedom from the pain of loss. It’s time to join our Ancestors, and to watch over our descendants. This may be the final goodbye to this world in this body, but our legacy, the things we’ve marked into this world, will live forever. Since the beginning of life, many have been afraid of Death, but not us. We accept Death as our friend and ally. This is our final goodbye to this world. It’s time to go now.

Sincerely, Ismael De La Cerda Pacheco (2017)

Haunted House Story

There was once a mansion where it is rumored that terrible experiments had occurred. A professor who has supposedly since passed, lived there for over 50 years.

However, not one of his neighbors knew who he was. Stories said that he used the ancient scientific art of Alchemy to perform his experiments. Most of the professor’s experiments were performed on humans to create super humans but they all failed with a mutant which would proceed to die before data could be collected about the behavior.

Other stories claimed the reason for his reclusiveness was due to his membership of a secret shadow government organization known as the Venom Syndicate. The Syndicate watches every human being on earth and proceeds to kidnap those whose bodies are built for evolution. Many people believe in these theories due to a eerie incident involving the professor and a few of his neighbors. No one has ever seen the professor except one day when his nextdoor neighbors watched him come out. That was the only time he was ever seen, but it also was the last time his neighbors were ever seen alive.

Photo by Ashley Lister

After a long day of work, a young man comes home to an empty house filled with a bed and a trash can sized refrigerator but nothing more. As he lays down, he contemplates about what got him to this point in life. The young man chose to visit his old high school the following morning. The freshman class which he called “new bloods”, moved into the school and a storm darker than his failures rolled in and began raining.

Within each rain drop he could see the person who had compelled him to fail. The person who failed the young man was himself. He looked deep within himself later that night and fell into his own sub-consciousness, where his mind forced him to walk through an abstract world. The farther he went the more he began to lose himself to his failures, the world got deeper but it was beginning to become smaller. At the end of his road, a figure in a black and red cloak stared at him with eyes that pierced his soul. The young man asked the figure who he was, to which the figure replied, “The angel who failed you many years ago.” After a pause, the figure spoke once more, “One last chance.” The young man woke up in his childhood home. The young man realized he had been turned into the boy he once was back in his freshman year, the figure gave him one chance only to fix his past. The boy wondered if his life was all a dream until that moment. However, that question would never be answered.

A True Nightmare Story

Ismael Pacheco

I Am

I am Hispanic I am creative I am a thinker I am a fan of underground rap I am a shy guy sometimes I am protective of friends and family I am happy when with friends I am grateful for what I have I am hungry I am bored I am tired I am not thinking of anything else to write I am going to stop in a few I am sleepy I am going to sleep I am sorry I didn’t write any more for this, it’s been a long day

Photo by Kylie Bowlus

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You Are

You are at the bottom of the ocean You were the black figure that follows my movements You are trapped in a singularity You are now stuck in a single moment forever You are where you belong You are in the past behind me You are far from me You are no longer in control You are an utter cloud of evil You are waiting for my return You are wasting your time You are always a part of me You are still in my dreams You are embraced by me You are my greatest enemy but my true best friend You are a demon from Heaven or an Angel from Hell

Ismael Pacheco

Friendship When I learned of my destiny, I believed I would fail.

I thought I could bail, And return to one identity.

Then, I met one wearing a mask of ebony.

He showed me that I’m not frail, But that I can as tough as a nail.

His smile proved that he was no felony.

protect And fight evil and turn dark to light.

And that’s because of our trust in each other.

Any damage, we’ll correct, And we will win any and every fight.

Me and him, always one for another.

Because of him, we now

Photo by Victoria Hoang

Rotten Poem In the shadows of my mind, Blue eyes of the sea come in.

They drive me deeper in a trance, Leading me to thinking about him.

I watch him too closely, But I don’t know why When he looks my way, I no more get shy.

I smile widely at him, He grins back like a cat.

Then suddenly, He disappears, just like that.

Photo by Kaitlin Mackey

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What really hurts than him gone, At least to me, Is that we know our names,

But not our identities.

He’s kind and cool, Charming and brash, But he sure knows How to make me laugh.

I stand close to him, Yet he steps away.

I know why, though.

There’s things he can’t say.

I want to take off the mask, But I know the rules.

But this time, for once, It’s the rules I want to refuse.

In the English language, my name is considered unique. In Spanish, it’s not; a common name.

Pretty obvious that my name has a Spanish origin. With my Ecuadorian and European ancestry, it can go one way or another. It can be a special name, or it can just be a name that 10 other girls have.

But, in my family, our names are unique. Not the kind of unique like original names, but the kind like not the first thing that pops in your head when considering names for future ones.

My brothers have names that are different than

your simple names. The first is Bryant, a strong and powerful name. The other is Brendan, which sounds like nobility.

As for mine? Well, I guess my own is special.

It’s most known because it was the name of a Spanish queen long ago.

My name means, “gift from God”. Sometimes, I wonder if I really want to actually be like that, a gift from God. There are some who don’t give a crying shame about religion. Since I’m from a LDS family, I know that it will be hard trying to be myself when others want you to be something else.

I’m afraid that no one

will like who I am: just a normal girl with a normal life. The girl who stays quiet all the time, doesn’t interact with pretty much anyone, sits in the far side of the class, and is considered a teacher’s pet or a bookworm.

Then, I remember that there are some who do.

Being who I am is all I will be. I might change through the years, and so will everyone else around me. But, what matters is that what I do every day that counts. My parents chose my name, but I make my identity and I choose my destiny. Who am I? I’m Isabel, a.k.a, me.

Photo by Kendall Payne

Name Origin

Isabel McDougal

Italian Sonnet Am I too sensitive or too strong Have these feelings been built up for so long Breaking down over something small Don’t want you to be sad, so I’ll stand tall Your emotions pile up but are thrown to the dirt If love is beautiful then why does it hurt Why does it feel like a knife deep in your chest?

Though, maybe I’m too young to be this stressed Looking up, I know things will get better Never break down again, I’ll stay strong forever Expectations run high, while my feelings hang low Running through my mind, all the feelings I don’t show It won’t be easy, but I know It’s worth it Happiness will come my way; I know I deserve it

Photo by Ashley Lister

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The Flower Underneath You spend your whole life trying to recreate a feeling The feeling of happiness The feeling of security But you question if you’re doing it right Every day you put on a show Deep down no one really knows If only everyone can see Everything that’s underneath It’s more than emotions It’s more than a thought It’s more than just a flower

Art by Brittany Salazar

Brittany Salazar

Photo by Emma Harting

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The Fall of Love New state, new air, new faces, new school We crossed paths so unexpectedly You were a few years older, and people questioned us But I had no doubt in the connection I felt with you Months drifted by, and things got harder Lies piled up, but were thrown to the side We argued all the time Yet I still wanted you to be mine Things were never as they seemed Not a worry in the world whenever we were together You took what I gave But the silent treatment remained It’s okay to not be okay I learned that the hard way You came and left as you pleased So now I will leave with ease Walking away weren’t my intentions And even though there are some thoughts I neglected to mention Forever in my heart you will stay But only the memory of you has remained

Brittany Salazar

Art by Leah Walker

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Reflection I know that you try to act tough When you’re dying inside.

I know that you act clam When rage runs through your veins.

I know that you cheer people up When you’re the one who needs it most.

I know you care for things When it seems you don’t.

I know that you try to stay quiet But you can’t seem to shut your mouth.

I know that you think you are not lost When you keep going in circles.

I know that you think you are alone When you’re to blind to see who’s beside you.

I know that you think i don’t know When you don’t realize i do.

Because who knows you better than me You talk to me every time you look in a mirror.

I am the reflection that stares back at you.

I am your pain I am your sadness I am ...you.

Jacob Serna

What Am I I am an ocean; my reach goes far and wide. I can be small waves or become huge tides. Water is all you see, but inside me there is so much more. There are things that coexist within me and each other. Together we make a complex system into one simple thing-- A whole. (My Being) I look calm as my waves scrape the shore, along with that gentle breeze that softly touches the earth. But the times when my rage gets the better of me, it will reshape what has been made and drown those who are near, never thinking of what will become. Also below me, deep in the depths, there are volcanoes constantly erupting, never ceasing in their work of always creating. (My anger that is mostly dormant) Blue is the color given to me, but in reality, I am clear, only reflecting what I see. If you use me to see a reflection of yourself, you won’t get the image you had in your mind. You will only see how I see you. I will not deceive you because I am clear; you can see through and past me.

(The Truth)

Painting Write A ladder constructed by human minds Used to reach things that are above us It does not matter how many ladders you have If not used correctly you will never reach what you are trying to obtain A ladder contains steps and each step brings us closer But in order for us to go to the next step we must have the resolve to do so.

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Art by Rebecca Tobias

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Photo by Ashley Lister

Cold It’s different from regular existence.

Cold as can be and unforgiving.

There’s no escaping The glares that follow you from a distance.

Hard on the body and worse on the mind.

Without the end in sight, You must submit to the frostbite.

But no matter who you encounter, they

are always kind.

The bitter work and hours committed For the mear minutes to make an impression, Nothing is up for question.

The sacrifices made will never be admitted.

But things have played out well.

And the memories are here to stay.

Jaime Tate

I am forced to hold my tongue.

I am mentally beaten into submission.

I am threatened with everything I have.

I am interrogated every second I breathe.

Light at I am questioning more and more, but I am shot down quickly.

I am borrowing time to stay away just as often as the I am borrowing clothes because I am neglected just enough to make no one question.

End I am so close, yet so far; I am counting down my last 15 months of this. of I am scared to disappoint them, but I am ready to be free. the I am gaining courage, and Tunnel I am gaining support.

I am happier but now, I am just waiting.

Photo by Ernesto Gonzales

My End You are the scum that collects underneath my shoes.

You are a plague that sweeps over an entire nation.

You are contagious with anger and resentment.

You are cancerous.

You are the puppet master to innocent marionettes.

You are the terrors that storm little ones’ nightmares.

You are the cause to all of my grief.

You are the dread that shows in the bags under my eyes.

You are the reason behind the dark streaks of black mascara down my cheeks.

You are the pain behind my tears.

You are the holes in the walls that in return, leave scars on my knuckles.

You are dead and decaying in my heart.

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You are my angst, and paranoia.

You are the uneasy feeling on the back of my neck.

You are my night terrors.

You are my end.

Dream Chaser

His eyes were an easy brown And he always kept a smile on his face.

His hair is a strong green, And was kept in a sharp mohawk.

He would talk to me and laugh While chasing me around.

One day, he disappeared; It was years until he came back.

I hadn’t forgotten him though When he returned, he was hard to recognize, But his smile…His smile was just as big, Yet it seemed to be plastered on.

His punk rock stature had disappeared, And he wears a black jacket with dark blue jeans.

He slicks back his green hair, And always keeps his hood on.

He never talks anymore, And he just stands in the background.

Although his eyes were replaced with scars and sewn thread, He watches me almost like a guardian.

He’s my oldest friend.

Photo by Abigail Hill

Jessie Engdahl

Art by Truong Pham

Confused Confused is what people perceived when they saw the colors put together.

Orange with it’s blazing hue, drawing attraction to everyone in their path. Quite wild, and a little snarky. Blue and it’s several meanings: sad but happy, intelligent, talkative and annoying at times.

Blue gives off the sarcastic vibe, throwing remarks whenever they can (in their heads most of the time).

And when they fuse together, they produce an uncommon duo. A wild yet calm combination. A pairing that wasn’t so perfect -- and no one really ever considered -- but just what they needed.

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The Beautiful Girl She was the most beautiful girl in all of the town. Everyone knew who she was. Even when someone just mentioned her name, everyone knew exactly which girl they were talking about. Her luscious strawberry blonde locks bounced as she strutted the halls in her expensive new outfit, black heels clicking against the dirty tile floor.

Green eyes glistening in the sunlight as she passed by a wall of windows. Eyes of fellow teenagers watched her walk by; girls wished to look as gorgeous as her and some guys wished to date her. Though she was the most popular girl in school -- and most likely in the entire town --, behind closed doors she was more broken. Her heart was

broken, knowing that her first love was on the other side of the world, not wanting to even try contacting her. Her best friend had died, and knowing there was nothing she could do, she sat in her bed and cried.

Her eyes weren’t their normal dazzling green, they were darker now; circles darkened under her eyes from the lack of sleep.

Her head was always aching. She cried for hours while holding onto a boy who loved her, wishing for it all to be over. He knew she was the most beautiful girl in the small town, but he also knew she was the most broken. And he wanted to do anything he could to help her.

Art by Leah Walker

The Red String The red string hugged her pinky as she wrapped it around her finger. She was laying on the floor, stomach rubbing against the carpet. “You know,” A boy laid down next to her, watching the string cover her pinky. “We’re never going to get our project done if you sit her playing with string all night.” Her eyes peeked over at him with a laugh, “We have a whole week to do it, we’re fine!”

a Chinese folklore about red strings,” The boy cleared his throat, eyes focused on the string. “People are like...connected by a red string, and it means that they are destined to be together. No matter the time, place or anything.” His hand hesitantly reached for the string that dangled from her pinky and began wrapping it around his right pinky.

Her eyes widened, heart pounding too quickly for her liking.

The boy shrugged, leaning on his hand to get a better look at her. They sat in a comfortable silence, watching her pinky become fully wrapped in red yarn. “There’s

As he finished, the boy looked over at her.

Her head was slightly tilted on her shoulder with adoration in her eyes. He smiled, and she smiled back.

Laila Trevino

Don’t Think

Trauma Ow! My hand At least there’s no blood But oh no! Look at it expand Thud! Look at that blood flood!

Don’t touch me you freak I hear the dog bark I wish he could speak Because he sure can leave a mark He has everything Except for me I treat him like a king But to him, I’m a flea All I wanted was a pet But I guess there’s no forgive and forget

White walls make me sweat I can twist the truth But I can’t renew my youth My mind feels like a cassette Death and I are singing a duet Although I can use bluetooth I already lost my front tooth And my armpits are still wet Though they say that time can heal I still see my feet turning gray Cutting the cord is not an option The future holds and abundance of steel There’s no need to feel dismay But if this perspiration continues, I’ll need a stronger concoction

Don’t Sink Poetry is the ocean.

The ocean full of plants, animals, and sand.

There are swordfish, There are crabs, There are whales, There are trees.

Some drown, Some can float on the surface, And some can dive down into the depths.

There’s trash, There’s spilled oil, There’s blood thirsty sharks, There’s salt.

But above all of these things, There is a sea of opportunity.

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Art by Alyxandria Ramos

Logan Smith

Just A Moth I am the little moth that landed on your window that evening.

You glanced sideways unconcerned, but then perhaps I am a butterfly? You get up to check and are disappointed. You look at my somewhat intricate patterns and amuse yourself with thoughts of more interesting things, such as ladybugs.

Yes, ladybugs are nice.

Not disruptive like myself.

Pretending to be something else- someone I’m not.

Of course you’ve seen through my disguise, the sweet little puppy eyes I’ve used to trick you, you took me in because you couldn’t bear to see my cry. Well, I’m okay now, and I should go, because your parents don’t want a dog like me, I don’t fetch, I don’t play. I’m useless and gun-shy.

Speaking of guns, I’m the horse that they take out back and shoot before the race even starts, don’t trouble your heart feeling sorry for

me, I didn’t do what I was told, didn’t run fast enough.

I was unhealthy-a disease, I am sick and everyone else believes that they are the cure and when they don’t work surely medication will do the trick!

But I’m getting ahead of myself, what am I? Oh, that’s right, I’m the raven feeding on other people’s strife, not because I want to, but because it’s all I can stomach. You are disheartened by my plumage, discouraged by my smile. Like a bird who thinks it is a fish, I am drowning in denial.

Let me go off on a whim I promise I’ll be less grim.

What if we all were what we said we were? What would we be then? We might all be clever foxes, but then who would be the hen? That is why what I am doesn’t matter, I am who I will be, but next time you glance at that moth halfheartedly, you might wonder what it wishes to be.

Photo by Ashley Lister

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What My Name Wants For the longest time, the meaning of my name was a question I didn’t want to ask. or couldn’t. A question I thought no one would answer. Like, “where do babies come from?” Or “what’s a congress?” My inquisitive soul always yearned for answers... imagine my surprise to learn I was named after a river. Why a river? Why not a famous building? Just think, I could’ve been the Louvre! But a river will do I suppose... It flows. With my middle name- derived from my mother’s magnificent one- it sounds more beautiful together and like a river, it deepens as I grow older.

When I was young, I was the only ‘me’ I’d ever known.

One of a kind. To this day I’ve never met another ‘me’ in person -Never had to share my name with anyone.

This was both a blessing and a curse.

In elementary, my name was often interchangeable with a number of similar

sounding words that made no more sense than my real name. Endlessly butchered by every substitute ever to the point of humiliation, my name made me like a rare Pokemon that no one wanted to catch. My moves were as follows: (1) Interrupt the teacher (2) start a fight with a boy (and win) (3) tell “yo mama” jokes (4)correct other students pronunciations and definitions of words longer than 4 letters.

You may have guessed that these moves weren’t very effective at making friends.

But make friends I did. And when we weren’t queens of the rock climbing tower, (not as cool as it sounds) they would hang with me in the library during recess.

Being one of a kind In a school full of Sarah’s and Nicks and Hannah’s made me come to appreciate my identity and other aspects of myself. Like my unruly curly hair, or my mixed ethnicity.

When I google my name, a few things appear. Models, actresses, I think there’s a congresswoman in there somewhere. And if you look hard enough you’ll find I have my own IMDB for a short film from 2011. I feel like my name has a destiny.

Like I’m meant to do something great. To be an author or an actress or a composer, those are big dreams. Ones I might not live up to, but you never know.

My name, separate from myself, has it’s own aspirations in mind for me, ones I didn’t know about when I was named. But I think I understand now- I hear it clearly. My name wants to be relied upon, the default setting in one’s head when they think, “Whom do I trust? Whose company do I enjoy? Who do I love?”

Sabine Idalia Gray That’s who.

Sabine Gray

Photo by Kaitlin Mackey

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Dust 47, 48, 49, 50.

I count the fibers that glance within the largest dust mote that currently occupies the private air space of my room. I keep counting.

51, 52,53,54,55.

As pointless as it is, to count something as inconsistent as an ever changing and shifting body of dust, I count. for no particular reason other than to focus. I’ve been having trouble with that lately.

It gives me perspective, I think, at least a little bit.

I play with them in my mind, imagining lording over them all even though I have less control on them than I do my own life.

On their own they are nothing special, just little reminders of my own insignificance.

Following the ebb and flow of what little air circulates my room.

But then I stare at them and wonder; what would they look like if they settled?

Unstirred and still, laying

where they may.would they still be as insignificant and unnoticeable on my shelves and floor as they are now?

One pillow fluff away from being tossed back into their frenzied dance? Or would they envelop and suffocate everything, including myself? Covering the contents of my room like a fresh blanket of snow.

Now they appear sinister, almost threatening in a way. they have the power not to tell the future, but the past. In the way they settle amongst items and mementos. untouched. Burying them with the finality of their unimportance, and therefore death in the eyes of the owner. In the eyes of whom they have lost their importance to.

But I think now, as they dance through the air like snowflakes, tracing invisible paths to nowhere, that they are, in a way, beautiful.

Alone, they aren’t much, but their perpetual dance begins to speak to me, and I

realize that they have color, little color swatches of the textiles of my room. And in the sunlight they glisten.

They are the daughters of diamonds, just as beautiful but valueless in their size. So they float like a dream. Little souls lost in limbo, always moving but going nowhere.

Then I remove my lenses and see the unfocused but unfiltered image of stars-no, Galaxies. They are like the ever expanding contents of the universe! Shimmering celestial bodies of space.

Unbound by gravity as I am, they soar freely, slowing but never stopping, picking up speed and catching currents.

Riding them like explorers of the new world. And The sails of their ships are overwhelmed with wind, guiding them along like a hand toward new horizons.

I could gaze at them forever.

Something that most people wouldn’t give a second thought to, now has new meaning in my eyes. I keep counting.

Sabine Gray

Jesse To what nature may you be compared, A goddess in a foxes clothing, A wildflower, a barren landscape shared, And yet these compliments meet loathing.

Your person still feeds an evil envy, A great darkness grows in this chest of mine, A need like no other, you satisfy, Lust for attention, not forgot in time.

Your name rolls sharply off the tung, Gorgeous, viney script leaf cuts, A music to me, I wish would be sung, Said before you, before the window shuts.

Hidden in these words a message from heart, Dark, deformed for you‌ second loves start.

Photo by Danzi Bradley

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I fear the morning sun, the light of dawn For when the dawn break I dress again In the only barrier hiding a blade from my heart.

The words of companions blockade my fear, Preventing the paralysing flood threatening my very existence.

Hidden in a mail of steel, my being continues Only through the theft of that same life from those around me.

I sicken at the thought of such acts.

A constant siphon on the wellness of others.

A demon among the never ending horde.

I feed on the purities of this world.

Creative painting/ Poem

I awoke among mangled sheets, My cot a direct reflection of my inner turmoil.

Written by the light of candle, this message is to you, my love.

Love.

Joy. Serenity.

They are a meal I cut and devour, A single innocent at a time.

I fear the morning sun, the light of dawn For I am a devil in the light But I write to you as a loving father in the night.

Photo by Ernesto Gonzales

Samuel Cano

A Pond, By Any Other Name What do you see when you look at me?

From the outside looking in, I resemble a shallow pool. An undisturbed pond. At first glance, you see only what you expect. A handsome surface. A calm, clear, reflective body, projecting what you wish to see, what you expect to see. But I implore you, no, I DARE you to dive in. You think you can see the bottom, but I believe you may find it to be a little more… expansive than you think. Before you challenge my unfathomable depths… a warning. Don’t try to understand what you experience.

The sights, the sounds, the pure emotion… you’ll just lose yourself trying.

Maybe you see me as a puddle of water.

Maybe I’m a stagnant pond. The longer you look, the more you may notice this is a facade. On the surface, I look calm and ready, an eerie beauty, a silent majesty.

Maybe you believe that’s the bottom, you see quite near the surface. You can see right through me, I’m not so tough. I’m a simpleton. A boy with brains and no substance, exactly who you believe me to be? Why? But the real question should be, why not? Why should I deliver myself onto you, without you risking thyself as well? My

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natural trust of humans has been washed away long ago, to learn anything you want from me you have to dive in. Fully. You already know looking won’t help, so here is your invitation! Delve into the dark depths, it may come as a bit of a flood, a feeling of shock will wash over you when you realize just how much of me there is.

I warned you once before, reader, and I’ll warn you once more. Inside me flows a million currents; a billion caverns and crevices. Emotions flash. sounds and thoughts float around. drifting. waiting to be held, observed, and ultimately thrown back into the deep where they reside. And oh the sights. The apparitions, the scenes, the faces, the cuts. The swirls of darkness hiding in every inch left untouched by the light. You can feel it shifting, like sand under your bare feet. A black silt floating in clouds. They are threatening every second to fill every inch... to utterly consume you…. Until the one spec of light breaches the veil and you know it’s okay. Walk along my cliffs and explore my crenulations. experience the wonder I do in discovering the world that lies within me. The one hidden from the rest of the world by a reflective, seemingly shallow surface.

Samuel Cano

The Night Court ‘Bove stars pierce the sky, soldiers in a wreath Sworn to sheild for centuries long in plight Mountains at your back, mirrored lake beneath A land consumed in unending moonlight Sunlight blinds and burns, maring the cast’way These brands, are you, become you, consume you everyday second place trophs on display The sun is not a star, take this as true Starlight’s warm touch to sisters scolding press Here the broken can at last be remade The forgotten find themselves in darkness This holy land is worth any crusade This is the court for those brave ‘nough to dream Flee to shadow though fright’ning it may seem

Photo by Ethan Ochoa

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I am Nigerian?

I am black?

I am african american?

I am a NI am not that.

I am anything I want to be?

I am a believer?

I am catholic?

I am stuck in the hot sticky- but I guess not as hot as it could be- grips of purgatory I am not complaining I am smart -but as smart as my sister I am athletic -but not as fast as my brother I am a writer -but not as good as the next person I am whatever helps me sleep at night I am not here I am in uncharted territory I am caught between worlds I am not the hero of this story I am a tapestry of all lessons learned I am a collage of all emotions felt I am a hoj poj of all that’s come before me I am a “cry baby�?

I am passionate.

I am overwhelmed?

I am not drowning.

I am not gonna be forgotten under these waves.

Marieatta Onuoha

Photo by Abigail Hill

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Dad’s Time

You excitedly hop into the backseat of the balloon filled car, your dads in the front seat. Your curly haired eccentric dad, who you’ve taken to calling magi-dad, is in his colorful magician outfit and practicing some magic tricks in the front seat. His magician outfit is more like a jester costume than anything though, even if he insists it’s got a “carnival aesthetic”, whatever that means.

While magi-dad practices his over dramatic routine, your other dad who you just call “dad” climbs into the the driver’s seat. He shuts the door quietly before he looks over his shoulder at you.

“Hey sport! You ready to go?”

He asks, ruffling your hair lightly.

“Mhm!” You chime, kicking your legs against the back of magi-dad’s seat. “I’m as ready as I always am!”

“Glad to hear it!” He turns to magi-dad with a soft, sort of silly smile. “Honey, are you ready to go?” He asks sweetly.

Magi-dad whips the hair out of his face, producing a rose out of what he would like to call “thin air”. You, of course, know that he really just pulled it out of his sleeve, but it’s fun to pretend that it’s real magic- like the kind santa or the tooth fairy have!

As your dad laughs and takes the rose from magi-dad, you wonder if you’ll get any of the treats from whatever party magi-dad is performing at today.

You usually get at least one goodie on a busy day, but today isn’t that busy as far as you know. Which is sad, but at least you’ll get to actually spend time with magi-dad after he’s done performing.

You and your family drive to a white suburban house with a dark brown roof where your dad will be performing.

You get out of the car, pushing the balloons out with you. Meanwhile, your dads get out and unlatch the moderately sized stage-with-wheels that you drive to every party. You start throwing the balloons onto the stage while your dads discuss plans or whatever they usually talk about.

As you finish you wander over to your dads to see if they’re done talking yet. Thankfully, they’re just finishing up and hugging when you walk over.

“Do a good job honey,” Your dad says before giving magi-dad a quick peck on the cheek.

“Oh you know I will!” Magidad says, pointing finger guns at your other dad goofily.

Your dad laughs and waves goodbye before coming up to you and giving you a pat on the shoulder. Well cutie, how about we get some lunch?”

You jump up and down with a big grin on your face. “Oh! Oh! Can we get pizza? Wait, no, cookie pizza??”

You dad sighs and chuckles a bit as you both hop into the car, waving goodbye to magi-dad. “Well, maybe not a cookie pizza, but maybe i could get a normal pizza.”

“Awh…” You sigh disappointedly. “Well, okay, but don’t get hawaiian again! It’s nasty!” You stick out your tongue and make a gagging noise.

“What? How could you! My own child, turned against me!” He says in an over dramatic manner, mimicking his husband. You giggle at his antics as he starts snorting at his own joke. “Okay, okay, no hawaiian. What about we get anchovies instead?” He asks, a dumb, cheesy grin on his face.

Tessa Purdue

Art by Alexis Pence

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Leaves They sat at the edge of a river, looking at the water. It’s a chilly day. The leaves are falling off the trees as the brisk wind rushes by. Their eyes are glazed over as they get up.

The leaves are turning different colors- yellow, orange. It goes nicely with the red in the water.

Flowers In The End Flowers in bloom Hard to find your tune Little kids in june Playing in the flowers Accept your doom Looking toward the moon Little kids in fumes Rotting with the flowers Sparkling petals, Rusting with a sigh Find the heart to cry Not done saying goodbye Crumbling metals, Growing with the rye Harsh against the sky Just now saying goodbye

Tessa Purdue

Photo by Anthony Flores

What’s In A Petal I was born in the Philippines but given a French name.

I was often reminded of the stories behind it, but I was promised none of it was made in vain.

I try my best to believe that.

On the tongue of any other, my name only turns into a mess of misheard syllables and confusion.

But in French, the seven letters of my name molded together means rose.

Before it fell into my hands, my name belonged to a saint.

It was the old loss of one life that led to the name of a new birth.

It’s a pretty meaning-until the red stains on your fingertips are from the thorns you’ve pricked yourself with, not the soft blooming petals.

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Photo by Ernesto Gonzales

Metaphorical Me I am the crash of every ocean wave that kisses the shoreline, only to run away right after.

I promise my bark is worse than the bite I can never bring myself to give, because although the loud noises of my wave’s downfall sounds angry, I will help cool you off on a hot day. I am sorry if I fill your lungs, and the air is too hard to come by.

I will let you run with me to the horizon, where the sun and I like to play. I am sorry if I end up crashing down, only to bring you down with me.

I want to be there with you when you are lonely. I want to the be the friend you talk to when life’s not doing so great, because if I’m being honest, I’m in need of a friend too. But I am sorry if when you try to catch up with me, I only rush back to the ocean where I had been hiding from. I don’t mean to, but the overwhelming thoughts of someone caring for me are far too intimidating

It’s always when the numbers on the clock slowly grows bigger do I finally feel the bones in my chest spread apart to let the colors of my blood drip down.

When the fiery flames of the sun mingle with my blue hues, a red spark scatters all around, and I always liked the pretty way the bright lights would make my eyes tear up-- a rare sight to behold.

On days when the clouds are grey, blocking out the summer sun to bring in the winter wind, are times when it’d be best to block out the words coming from my tongue but never passed through my mind. When the warmth around me is gone and eyes hooded with the weight of the storm soon to come, please don’t try to be a ray of sunshine and waste the warmth you need for yourself.

I am when the waves of the oceans touch the clouds in the skies; where the fish have learned to fly and the wings on birds have been used as sails.

Therese Espiritu

For Me The only way we knew each other were through shy glances and knowing smiles.

Although words were never shared between us the conversations we held by our eyes were enough For me.

I was fine with the way things were between us, but apparently the hands that held our destiny were lacking in patience.

We met through a series of unfortunate events, all of them too much of a blur to remember.

The only memory worth remembering is the flash of your smile when we finally ran away from the heat of everyone else, and the first words we spoke to each other were only for our own ears.

All of them For me.

We spent a lot of our time in each other’s arms, our hearts learning to beat in sync with one another.

We learned to share a lot of things: our words, our thoughts, our love.

But something you wanted to keep for yourself was her.

At that moment, I had realized why mothers warned their little girls to be careful with their hearts, because no amount of bandaids can fix the cuts from playing with your emotions too much.

I realized that the smile that had kept me warm in the winter we were together wasn’t For me.

I tried to fix myself.

Time, which had previously been the remedy to all sicknesses of mine, had too many side effects.

I had abused the medication like it was some sort of candy, spending most of it on the couch, letting the TV run so the noise can replace the words you said the day you left me.

But suddenly, weeks turned into months, and before I knew it, a year passed with the thought of you Gone.

I fixed myself For me.

We knew each other through shy glances and knowing smiles, but that was all we were.

You were an experience.

You were a lesson.

You were a mistake.

For me.

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Art by Brianna Flores

Art by Emily Nagayama

Therese Espiritu

Art by Gavin Bergman

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It It can sting sand in your eyes Creating a thumping bass A consensus of noises Or silence An exhaling diaphragm Instant relief Surfacing the water Breathing Or submerging Digging up the muck Finding it Throwing it back No-one cares But you do You can feel it A pincushion Every bit They can’t They wouldn’t They dig it up They keep it They use it You wouldn’t Would you?

No Throw it back Throw it Throw it

Painting Free Write 2 Construction zone External limitations Caution tape Moonlight saturation Fault lines Depressed cheek bones Shadows of eyes Malnutrition Exit lights No entry Rerouting Not right Driving all night Need a new GPS

Tommy Chittenden

Art by Tatyana Kelly

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Vollund My mind is slipping away from me and I don’t know what to do.

First it was the little things: anxiety, forgetfulness. Now i’ve noticed I think less than I did before. Whenever a color comes to mind it always reverts back to the painfully sharp purple of both the crystal spears aligning the darkness, and the strange uniform that constricted my body as if it were armor. Some infectious disease tinged the cool air of the cavern and ate away at my thoughts. A painful pincushion of crystallized spears have grown from the darkness of the cave around me to the inside of my skull. A never ending pain. A looping cycle of “I want to get out”.

“I can’t get out”.

Small pointed spots of incursion in a never ending game of connect the dots. Shapeless, no direction.

“I was here for a reason, what was that reason? Did I come to retrieve something I had lost?”

No. That wasn’t it. Whatever it was it wasn’t of my own volition. It was too late to climb out, I had already tried that. I remember caving in the way up and I have no idea why. Whatever I was doing, I never had any intention of getting back out, at least not the way I came. So I put my trust into my past self. I ventured further into the caverns, practically playing eenie meenie minie moe whenever a fork was found.

The darkness started to chill me from the inside out. The only thing to ward it off my

battery flashlight. I did the math. It seemed that I had at most three more days given the amount of food and water I had left in order to get there, wherever there was.

Maybe four if I was really frugal, and this isn’t even considering the possibility of my flashlight going out, then I would really be screwed. The flashlight went out…

“No”.

“This is really bad, This is really bad”.

I frantically double checked the bag for batteries and ran my hand through my hair.

“Not like this, NOT like this!”

I collapsed to the ground, pressing my face into the cold rock. The purple uniform constricted my body and I lay awkwardly across the cave floor. This cave was killing me, this is where I was to die, right here, never knowing why, or for what purpose.

Maybe this was my purpose, to get lost and die in some cave, to be forgotten by the rest of the world…

No. That wasn’t it. I had a purpose, I had a quest. I set out to get something, or get somewhere in this cave, and so that’s what i’ll do.

I stood and unhooked the baton from its parallel position on the side of my bag and felt the ground as if I were a blind man. I knew my general area before the light cut out and followed the cave downward into that direction. I moved aimlessly into the dark for a couple hours cutting myself on random crystal spears until lights flashed on and off in the distance. The lights started to scan over my cavern. I hid. The

intruders came from below and when the light filled the room I found myself up on a ledge that I very well could’ve fallen down from if it weren’t for these… robots.

My heart skipped a beat and it all came flooding back. If the Vollund government told me anything in my years of service, this was terrifying news. Robots were said to have been eradicated; wiped from this world. They were faulty, they killed humans and started war. My new friends below confirmed the claims of the vollund.

Their movements were clumsy, uncalculated. Their eyes shone a bright green onto the crystal walls and they seemed hypersensitive to the outside forces around them.

I think that my purpose was now known to me.

For the honor of the Vollund, I was sent to destroy the robot threat!

I surveyed the environment. Four robots, two possible exits. The only option was to wait them out until I found the opportunity to strike. I waited about an hour before the robots decided to move again.

I trailed them down the cavern until we reached a large metal hatch. They knocked in sequence and were let inside one by one, possibly as a security measure. These robots were much more intelligent than the Vollund claimed. It was now down to the last robot, now was my time. My electric baton ignited and I lunged at the robot, it narrowly dodged my blow. I let out a huff and sidestepped its mechanical grasp from reaching my throat. I was taking too long, the others would soon peek out the hatch once more, and I needed this robot dead.

Tommy Chittenden

A Piece of My Heart Where are you my loved one?

I have given you a piece of my heart, So that I can always stay by your side, During your most darkest times.

However, I cannot find where you have went, I have looked over and under, I have look near and far, I have looked everywhere and anywhere, But I cannot find where you have gone.

Did you go to another land, Where the eyes of hundreds of strangers, Shall stare down upon you, Like a creature from another world.

Or perhaps you opened your wings, To soar to the heavens above, Where all the angels and saints alike, Envy you and your fleeting beauty.

Oh of course, how could I have forgotten?

On that fateful night, You took the mask of your face, To reveal everything true to yourself, And walk away from everything we have done together, Towards the start of a new life, With another man.

Photo by Victoria Hoang

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Decisions I am lying down.

I am sitting up.

I am standing between two choices.

I am contemplating between life and death.

I am falling down to my knees.

I am covering my ears with my hands.

I am crying.

I am struggling.

I am hearing my name being called throughout the storm of my hardships.

I am seeing the faces and support of those who have stayed with me through thick and thin.

I am now choosing life over death for the sake of others.

I am Tuan.

Photo by Danzi Bradley

Tuan Tran

Hopeless The darkness has taken over.

The bright light that has had once shone throughout the world, gone.

The heavens turn away and ignore our pleas, draining away the colors.

The underworld embraced us just as death would, releasing the inner demons in all to spawn.

For what did we do, to deserve this pain?

To when we glance at the sky, to only see the pitch black stretch endlessly across the horizon.

To when the light that once enlightened us, is now just a legend told through the generations again and again.

To when we thought we were doing the world justice, only to realize all too late that we were the ones causing the destruction.

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You said that we should still save everyone’s dreams.

That we could restore the colors of reality.

That I would be the one to do it alone by all means.

That this wasn’t your cup of tea.

That you are the queen of queens, And that you had no reason to get dirty.

You left me to die.

I came after you for vengeance.

You wanted mercy, and began crying hoping that I would turn the other eye.

I saw through it all and knew that I wanted independence.

You screamed asking why.

Well… When you want to go and kill, You don’t need a reason.

You just need the will.

Photo by Ernesto Gonzales

Tuan Tran

THE VIOLINIST

The screech of skin, Vibration of veins, Violent vibrato of a shaking hand.

A sting of steel, A nick in the neck, A creak of a cry, A desperation that became a desire.

He’d practice for hours on end, Till he passed out on stage.

Everyday he’d play his music, Hoping one day someone would listen.

Music was addicting to play, Music gave him relief.

Music was his emotions, Music was all he had left.

This music was made by a boy, Who didn’t desire talent but rather a voice.

He’d one day be known, With a speech of great deeds to set him free.

He’d was a composer, An unknown inspiration to others.

But like many others, He made a deal with a devil.

Then the day came, His bow was sharp, His music was silent, His audience was demanding, His stage was bloody, His mentor was harsh, His stage curtain was secure, The cheers for an encore were deafening.

He played violent that day, He produced the most beautiful music that day.

Till his violin began to creak and crack, Then he dropped on stage.

His wrist was his violin, And his bow was his razor.

His music was his cries, And his audience was his mirror.

His stage was his bathroom, And his mentor was his bullies.

His stage curtain was his locked door, And the cheers for an encore was his blood.

This song was his last.

His violin was broken, His energy was gone.

As a bow plays a violin, A mind plays an heart, And a razor plays a wrist,

THE BELL.

The soft sound they make are almost soothing to the ears. Ding Ding. Smooth to the touch, made from metal. Ding Ding. Such an innocent joy that would stay around for many years to come. Ding DIng. With many different purposes in store. Ding Ding. Aren’t you happy they buried it with you?

Ding Ding. Too bad there’s no one around. Ding Ding.

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A SOUL MADE OF LEAD. His hands fell heavily on to her body, She was smooth, and soft to the touch.

He let his hands wander across her body, She had been so loyal and brave.

His love for her was bright and defiant, She had been his one and only.

They met when the night was young, Their age not considered and illegal.

They were rebellious and outwitted everyone Their life was always on the edge.

They dreamt to be together, Forever.

But, All dreams come to an end.

She had grown cold and unforgiving, He began to fear her abilities.

Her sweet words became twisted,

His hands would now shake when near.

She soon was full of evil, He became her loyal shadow.

She would go off in a bang, Steam would leak from her ear, Her body would recoil, And her emotions would keep her locked in place.

His hand fell heavily on her body, He had enough.

Her once warm body was ice cold, She wouldn’t move.

His love for her was confused, At this state she was still loyal and brave.

Tears cascaded from his eyes, Her ice lips pressed against his head.

His hand held hers, This time they didn’t shake.

Her soul was made of lead.

His was no better.

And like that she went off with a bang.

Photo by Emma Harting

Alyssa Ellinwood

Breathe

It’s been one week I still taste you in the back of my throat -it burns Feeling your uninvited limbs in the most sacred parts of me You stole the moon from the night and the flowers from the spring And the stars from the sky You stole oxygen from the biosphere And i am left here to suffocate nonchalantly with my secrets It’s been one year I can now brush my teeth without remembering what it felt like to have my jaw ripped open by a monster that will never be a man i start to see flowers blooming again and i begin to glimpse at the moon with admiration for how well she lights up the sky when nothing else dares to enter the darkness of night, i even mumble wishes at the first star i see gleaming But It’s been one year and sometimes i still can’t breathe

Photo by Danzi Bradley

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Here I Here we ate out last family dinner Here i stayed up all night christmas eve night just to find out santa claus was another one of my parents lies Here i hid from the screams that seemed to seep through the drywall Here i camped out in the backyard for the first and last time - my tent was soon evacuated due to the monster like shadow the tree cast Here I drank until the arguments melted into a melodic melody Here i believed life wasn’t for everyone-it certainly wasn’t for me Here i realized to be loved but not able to love in return was slightly more painful than to love and not be loved Here i wondered why i couldn’t bring myself to love them, what’s wrong with me Here it hit me i would never be able to love another until i loved myself Here i made the best decision of my life , I will love myself Here i laughed until i threw up - then i cried because i threw up Here i began to find beauty in even the ugliest of things Here i realized that life would go on with or without me but i wanted to be apart of it

Pretty Pretty- you say it loud, you let the word roll off your tongue as if it’s a wave that can’t be stopped. I stand and yell intelligent, you look confused. I scream-adventurous, kind , spontaneous. You place your finger over my mouth sew my lips shut- pretty.

Makayla Watson

A Piece of Him you were proud of me you said “you’re all i ever wanted you to be”, i never thought you could be cruel, but it turns out i had admired a fool sober. some nights you came home in a haze i wasn’t worried because i thought it was a phase fighting and yelling became part of our daily routine it was a side of you i’ve never seen buzzed. one inch off and it could’ve been worse i sat on the bed getting stitched up by the nurse you tried to apologize but mom was out there was no way i could forgive you, without a doubt drunk. every night you played poker but with your luck, your card was always a joker i had to get a job because you lost all our money i learned to live life without you because you couldn’t support me hammered. five years later and i don’t have to see you you remind me of nothing but the dirt beneath my shoe you used me like a pawn and i finally feel free once i know you are gone.

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Photo by Ashley Lister

Unsolicited Affection “Why would you say that? You know I love you,” “No you don’t. You never show it and i feel unappreciated all the time. Love is supposed to be about communicating with one another, making each other feel safe, loving the other person unconditionally even though we may argue, not giving up on one another when one of us makes a mistake… you don’t act like that towards me. You push me away, constantly, I try to ask you what’s wrong and you always say ‘nothing’ when there’s clearly something wrong. It feels like you don’t trust me. What’s a relationship without trust?”

“I know and I’m sorry! How many times do I have to tell you that I can’t open up to people. I know you would never judge me, but I just can’t help but think that there’s this small possibility that you would.

I love you, I know I don’t show it in ways I probably should, but I’m trying. You have to give me a chance to try, please.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can handle this. I love you, too, but sometimes I think we’d be better off separated, as much as that breaks my heart.”

“I promise I won’t let you slip away from me.”

I stare at him, unsure.

“I pinky promise” He sticks out his pinky, waiting for me to hook mine.

Hesitantly, I hook mine with his and smile slightly.

This Is Me i am delicate i am sensitive i am often hurt i am confused i am a victim of bullying i am taken for granted i am used but i am a survivor i am looking forward to my future I am going to make myself happy before anyone else i am confident i will find love i am hopeful i am smart i am insecure i am myself i am a teenager

Photo by Megan Vickery

Vanessa Traversy

Photo by Kendall Payne

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You are like…

You are like a tree with all the flowers in the spring You are like the feeling of love when a child sees his favorite movie You are like a letter of a love song You are like the sea, simple from the outside but complicated in the deeps You are happy like a bird singing Or you are sad like a man in a sad movie

Simply Not I like my name! Not a lot of people have it. Even in Spain.

I’ve ask my parents why did they gave me that name, and they said that they heard it, and they liked it. As simple as that.

I think there’s nothing special about it, but that doesn’t mean I’m simple. I think that if people know someone with the same name as you, they directly associate it with that person. But is not like that. I think it’s not important where the name comes from but how do you want them to remember you saying your name. Claudia.

You are always there for me You are awesome

Emotional Mountain My life, sometimes is beautiful like a flower, when it gets the light of the sun. But sometimes can be sad like a tree without leaves.

I can compare my life with multiple things and one of them is a mountain. It is a good example of my experience in the US this year.

At the beginning I was at the lowest part of the mountain. I didn’t know what I was doing here so I didn’t want to be here.

My first thought when I got here “who has sent me here and why did I leave all of my friends and family in Spain. I felt like a leaf being moved by the wind in an autumn day.

Two days after, I got better. I was happy like a bird singing beautiful songs that everybody loves to hear. At this moment of my life, I was climbing that mountain full of emotions .

Every now and then I feel good. I’m getting use to it. I know things that my host family doesn’t like so I know what and how to do them.

I’m a “flower person”. That is how I call it. You might not understand, so I’ll explain it to you. The flowers, when they born, they are closed, but when they grow, they open their petals and they are beautiful. That is what happens to me. At first, I’m a shy person, my petals are “closed” but when I meet more friends, I love to talk with them and do things with together.

To conclude, life is like a mountain of emotions. Some days I’m going to be at the bottom of it, or sometimes as high as a cloud.

I know that during this year, my emotions are going to change from bad to worse (hopefully not that bad) or even from good to better.

Claudia Caro Aranguren

Pictures Everyone smiled As the camera snapped.

But when the picture was done Reality came back.

Back to the fighting, Back to the tears.

Continuing screaming, Continuing fears.

No one got along Unless the camera was there.

When the flash went off There was a calm, still air.

We pretended to love...

We pretended to care...

You see it was always good When the shutter clapped.

But everything would change When the picture snapped.

Climate Change I am drops of spring-time rain when the roses bloom I am a ghost ship sailing through dark and choppy waves I am a set of floodgates created to hold back tears And yet I am just a drop in the ocean.

I am the burning wood and coal used to keep you warm at night I am the flaming depths of hell, refusing to release the innocent souls I hold captive I am a raging forest blaze, demolishing everything that has been loved And yet I am just the floating embers; softly drifting away

I am a soft soothing breeze that calms you after a storm I am the strong gusts of a tornado tearing through the place you call home I am the silent winds of spring that are never paid any mind And yet I am and always will be the final exhale of the one you hold dear; longed for after I leave.

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The Journey of Self-worth

My life has been a series of hardships and victories. I’ve endured so much, yet, I look back, and am filled with peace and contentment. My life has been an ongoing tale of beastly-ness to beauty.

I was dirt; messy and disregarded, scattered and stuck. Yet I always helped the things I love, grow. I made love, friendship, laughter, and hope all thrive. Constantly allowing the ones around me to flourish, while I felt as though I was shrinking.

I was grass; riddled with weeds and pests, stepped on and ignored. Continuously cut down and thrown aside. Yet somehow finding a way to make another’s day simplistic and bright...2 times greener. I allowed the people around me to live freely and with happiness whilst I felt...trapped within myself.

I am now, a rose; beautiful and growing, Colorful and fragrant.free from the prison life I once lived; finally released from beneath the soil which helped me grow. I am now released from my, once debilitating, shackles. I have found my happiness and will continue to bloom into the beautiful woman I am meant to be.

My life thus far has been a series of uphill battles. I have endured hardships and tragedy in my journey up my Mt. Everest of a life, and have now grown an appreciation for the view I see on the summit . I was dirt, ignored and worthless. Yet I continuously helping others grow. I was grass, walked on and cut down, yet I unfailingly found ways to make another’s day simple and joyful. I AM finally a ROSE, beautiful, blooming, and full of color. I am finally ALLOWING ME TO BE me.

Photo by Ashley Lister

Janelle Castaneda

Tectonic Tension I am strong, sturdy and grand. A tourist attraction for those intrigued enough to wander up my hillsides, only to twist their ankles in my cracks. A misinterpretation of a grand scene from afar, but an obvious form of chaos when personally experienced.

A volcano of a woman. I’m full of internal pressure, pent up potential, and the fear of what i may cause. Letting loose has never come naturally for me. I feed from the core of my soul, never sharing, never willing to explode.

Never willing to cope with the internal rage i possess, passed from my father and his father. It’s ingrained into my being, and like all things, i’ve learned to accept who i am. I was created from my parents tectonic tension, not born into destruction.

But destruction is inevitably in my nature and cycles repeatedly, warning those close to me to only peer from behind the safety fence if they must. To feel the ground’s vibrations under their feet and proceed knowingly into risk, stumbling on shaking knees into my realm. Do volcanoes feel remorse as their magma oozes like molten molasses down their sides, gracefully decimating the beauty that surrounds itself? I do.

I exhale smoke to relieve the turmoil. Consequently expelling noxious gasses, choking the lungs of the brave chested birds who once rested on my top, but now flee to the sky, only to blindly fall back. I paint the blue sky black and hex the Earth a hellish red. Thrashes of lightning chastise my back with whips that split and crack.

I solidify the silhouettes of spectators, so when the ash dissipates, a monument of remorse is revealed for the sky to cry rain upon and mourn my mistakes.

A volcano of a woman. A path paved by the tension that dwells beneath me. Tectonic friction between a mother and father who could only create a vessel for their rage.

A being who was birthed between pressure and inherited a legacy of a lack for self control.

Art by Haley O’Dell

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Rebirth

Drag my body into the woods Blow the whistle for the feasting wolves Blaze the bonfire and scream at the sky My time has come The rivers run dry Tie my body to the stake Steal my organs Return at daybreak Slit my throat to water your crops Satiate their bloodlust Reverse this lands curse They planted my tendons in the ground That sprouted limbs and thrashed around The wolves that tore my flesh to shreds Used the ribbons to sew on my head The fertile soil births my new vessel I arise with the tide Screaming past the tree bristles Ring the bell and signal the guard The knights return brave and armed I deafen their senses with metallic shrieks Their knees are buckled and horses unseen I feast on fear saturates flesh Satiate my hunger with blood soaked revenge

Photo by Danzi Bradley

This land will always return to reap those Who killed it out of spite and greed.

Victoria De Leon

Petal

The trees surrounding her were saturated in the golden light of midday.

Leaves blew past each others bodies, reflecting the light and seeming to wink at her as she sat against a log. The natural chimes of branches bending against the wind and various chatter between birds resting above filled her senses and drowned out everything else. This was her sanctuary.

A single patch of untouched nature and somehow it made her feel more real and more distant from the unnatural chorus of cars emitting from the highway. It was surrounded by a bubble of magical protection that allowed her to relax and contemplate.

She’d only shared it with one person since she discovered it as a girl. But he was long gone, god knows where, probably indulging in the kind of destruction he seemed addicted to. His energy had affected her favorite places sanctity. He liked to pick apart owl pellets, pick flowers, throw rocks at snakes and set fires. His presence was initially welcomed as a companion to share her personal patch of paradise, but in time, she saw the consequences of introducing him into her flora. And he left. And the sanctuary healed it’s dark patches and she thrived in her solitude.

Until one day in early summer, while napping in a tree she heard a new sound accompanying the birds beside her. That’s how they met. A sweet flower girl napped in a tree and was awoken by the soothing tunes of another’s whistling. Every day they tended to their special place. She showed him the branches that hung low from her favorite tree, and how if you held tightly, with your eyes open, you could swing. And he showed her that if your hum into the flower beds with your eyes closed they would flourish well into fall.

And that’s how they lived. Lounging in the sun, growing with their earthly counterparts. Until they grew past them. When they left, her mom said the creek weeped for her. That it hadn’t rained since she left and her flowers were riddled with weeds.

But one year in early summer, they returned with their daughter. And while playing outside she stumbled upon her parents special place. And every time she visited her grandma’s house, every year, she hummed into the flower beds and they flourished.

Photo by Emma Harting

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Victoria De Leon

Only Savior

Photo by Ashley Lister

Halo and suits on the hanger Breathes beating like Baby Banger Hands so holy Jesus, mom, and Joly please hold me Sunday fights; knees, hands, floors, and tears Hold my fears near the doors of devils peers Damp shirt; snot caught in pot Of hot soup, “Mama, sunday’s near” Door slam, “Love you more than God loves Children” Then why beat’em, mama sneered “Please don’t take her here, No God is there to hear her fears” Black tie, collar smeared Lips of candy sweets, mama pleads “Leave”. Pleases to see the wreck of mere Peas. Holy, God hold me Away from Baby Banger and near my Halo hanging mother of sun fried Teen bride, sweat tide, sweet side, and Only savior

Van Do

The Fault Bright white clouds Blur to oceans of grey waves On the side view mirror I take a right on Owlwood And a left on Colin to get to work The commute is long But the pay is worth it Stopping at a red light I thought to myself 4 more days Just 4 more days We spend 2 weeks on the color of flowers Another on the kind of white And 3 more for the perfect dress Everything is perfect now, Everything is ready The red lights turned green And I tap the gas pedal left on Colin Then a flash of blue Enter my peripheral vision 1, 2, and it’s right in front of me A man with a blue shirt I gripped the steering wheel And with all my strength Try to pry the wheel right The oceans of grey waves Turned to valleys of horns and beeps Screams and holler It seems as though the sky Has wrapped me in its arms Swirling and spinning of colors The blue was no longer

in sight There was a bang on my right And searing pain engulf my body the song of the sirens start to surrounded me Part 2 Bright white lights Blocked by fuzzy grey Moving shadows “It’s been two months” I heard.

I try to move And ask them what day it was It couldn’t have been two months There’s no way What about my wedding?

My wedding I try to shake, yell, and shout I want to tell them they’re wrong It took so long to plan Time waits and dollars flushed 2 weeks on the color of flowers Another on the kind of white 3 more on the dress It was perfect, perfect.

All taken away by an accident An accident, no It wasn’t an accident.

That man That man in blue He took it all away It was all his fault And he will pay

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Photo by Ethan Ochoa

Horror

The creature sits on the ball of its feet Hovering over heads of rotting carcasses At sight of this afreet, soldiers deplete Stepping closer, his blooded lip drips Stable and slow with tauntingly wide steps Tightening my fingers around the metal chip Limbs and heads draped over shoulders and biceps The creature’s fangs hover over the headless hips I walk toward the life-sucking horror Lifting the steel rod, aiming for the head his face cover, skin-mask tore her, he wore her Closer, her face, I wed her once and she said “I do” but you took her, cook her, hook her You chirr, stir, and myrrh lives, now you will blurr

Photo by Joel Sosa

Van Do

METAPHORFEIT

In Dante Alighieri’s Commedia (aka The Divine Comedy), there are three stages of the afterlife, each with their own subsections. The most notable (as well as being the first one extrapolated on) is Inferno (HELL), which has nine circles and is, well, Hell. It is followed by Purgatorio (10 stages) and Paradiso (too many circles), less pessimistic chapters, but ironically not as realistic. I like to compare Inferno to the 1975 Italian film Sálo, or the 120 Days of Sodom, as it follows a similar pattern of circles, having four cruel stages (Anteinferno, Circle of Manias, Circle of Shit (scuse me), and Circle of Blood) with each being progressively worst than the last. That similarly describes facets of my own personality, them being a rush of similar fluids, each less compatible than the last. A Concentric Trinity: the River, the Gulf and the Ocean.

Concentrically bound to my core, is the river. Larger than a stream, the river is fresh, devoid of dangerous minerals that form, dangerous ideas and malicious thoughts. But, those do not form in this section. It is the very essence of nature (screw trees), the scenic view of nature is emphasized and abstracted by the presence of this body of water. Fluidly falling around rocks and debris that happen to fall in its path, able to erode geographical land forms with patience and touch, destructive when it is overwhelmed and able to drown the smallest particle of being in the nicest ways.

Babes have floated here, and were carried safely on their way, away from predators, adversaries and families. But, the river would be remiss to claim all this beauty, as it simply is. It does not think, it simply is. It also does not feel, because it simply is. It does not care about it’s beauty, nor does it care about it’s ugliness, it simply is. Regal, Rugged… simple. It all goes downstream from there as we flow toward

The Gulf. My outer core, if you will. Land and water meet, because they hold a symbiotic relationship (or, is it parasitic?).

Similar to relationships I hold with my mother, sister and peers.

The gulf is grounded, surrounded, almost protected. But wild. Nature is born to be wild. In fact, the water bore a hole in the land, but the land was too stubborn to erode. It hurts, drives wedges…

It fracks. It’s grounded, and it yearns for freedom. But, is not there a reason the land and the water are connected? Maybe, the land is metaphorically dried up cakes of water, dried because it can no longer shed itself, it’s salty tears. It has known life and sadness, learned harshly, and keeps the water grounded simply because it does not want history to repeat itself. No pain, no loneliness, no

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originality. See, the water in the gulf is shaped by the land. Water is naturally formless, and it loses it’s regal nature acting as prince to land forms who are designated king. A father-son parallel; rebelliousness is simply a given when this dynamic is presented.

So, the water breaks from the gulf to find itself, and maybe anonymous/monogamous bodies of water formulate into. But, upon missions like these, finding one’s self necessitates to murder of one’s former self. The view taken in this process is less introspective, and more “all encompassing”. As the great Orwell once said, “The water outside looked from Pacific to Atlantic, and from Atlantic to Pacific, and from Pacific to Atlantic again; but it was impossible to say which was which (or something like that).

Ocean. My mantle. Vast, fluid, and lost. Unsure, unconnected, lost. Lost, lost and lost. Mental illness and a need to correct it reside here, lying dormant, then shifting like tectonics.

Memories die within the murky depths of this body. Superficiality is at it’s peak, pushed up by the hidden insecurities and feelings of inadequacy. Below the surface is something so freaking awesome, beautiful, regal, rugged and fluid; Below the surface is something so narcissistic, helpless, clueless, and devoid of self-awareness. Self deprecating and self aggrandizing, all in the same vein. Dreams are translated here as incomprehensible images and unquelled desires. Doubt thrives here as bacteria normally tends to thrive in warm, moist places. The ocean displays the inability to go with the flow, because it is the flow. Being the flow, there is disconnect with being anything else. Causing destruction is simply, innate.

Having low emotional intelligence and displaying a low sense of empathy for the things it hurts is commonplace. Of course, no one seems to care when their trash is polluting me, killing the creatures that inhabit my being, destroying my once beautiful complexion with stressful oil slick blackheads, further feeding insecurity. No one seems to care when I have no idea how to find myself in a sea of naysayers and trash, ridiculous recyclable trash. When I bring storms of trash right back on them, I’m blamed. For. My. Nature.

Well, what else can I be?

Wavy, stiff, still, blue, frigid, murky and all of the above.

That is me. Connected, controlled, loved, rebellious, unique and all of the above. That is also me. Essential, beautiful, pure, regal, rugged and fluid. Every description fits, and they are the fundamentals of the three circles of me: my own Hell, Purgatory and Heaven. Now, how’s that for a metaphor?

Photo by Emma Harting

Jordan Miles

I AM...

I am‌ I am someone.

I am abstractions of the capitalist mental.

I am the product of an awkward-fitting substrate-enzyme complex.

I am whatever i say I am.

I am second pea in a legume.

I am green, and it ain’t very easy to be.

I am the personification of past ideals.

I am me, me is I, I is Myself And Myself is me.

I am not Just A color.

I am not A Jump.

I am not a punk.

I am not The one to Hassle.

I am a writer.

I am an actor.

I am a rapper/musician/all around talented Son-of-a-bitch.

But, I am sad, and I have a hard time believing myself.

I am what i know, and what I want to know.

I am Jordan.

Photo by Ashley Lister

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JORDAN

In Hebrew, my name means “DESCENDING/ TO FLOW”.

I am not Jewish, so * ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ *.

In English, my name carries implication that I can dunk (ya know, with my tongue out).

Now, I am not disputing that as fact.

Buuuuuuut, I am not English, so * ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ *.

It means that I will aspire to greatness, then crash in a blaze of addiction and tragedy…

BUMMER. The river, she has seen her share of dirt, blood and… hair. But, the world has never seen something so REGAL, RUGGED, FLUID. Like Cockney. Like Aramaic.

Like MY MOTHER’S ONLY SON, baptized within JORDAN itself.

Jordan Miles

A Few Insignificant Phobias I’m scared of a lot of things, some of which aren’t even that scary. Spiders scare me, as do bats because they may poop on my head. Public speaking has always been one of my worst fears, and elevators, rejection, and not being wanted.

Failing is scary, not just school but at life. What would I do then? Or what if I never feel happiness?

I’m scared of snakes because they have no legs but somehow continue to get around; I’m scared of falling and falling in love because what then? I will have reached the best point in life and from there the only way to go is down. Falling in love brings me to my next fear: people leaving me. What if everyone I love doesn’t want me anymore?

How I’m going to die is a scary thought. Would I be the cause of my death? Sometimes, my mind scares me. I can’t stop thinking about these things I hope never happen but the more I think of them the more likely it feels they will.

Rats freak me out. They’re so small but their bites must hurt like hell. Big cats have always scared me, little cats are already a bit scary but big ones that can eat you whole are what keeps me up at night.

And doctors… I’m most scared of doctors. I never get good news from them. It always just seems to get worse. I wish I could forget about doctors but then I’d succumb to my next biggest fear which is forgetting important things. Like a first love, which I know I’ll want to forget at some point because of heartbreak.

Some Type of Alienation

Sometimes I have the feeling of loneliness, of isolation. I feel alienated from human beings because I am physically unable to understand they way we think, why we do what we do and how.

But then again, I feel too much. I feel sadness to the extent where I can’t see through the tears I have for no apparent reason. I can’t function without wanting to sit in a corner and rock myself to sleep because I know sleep is somehow the only escape. When I’m happy- I’m overly happy. I’m too happy because of people, and then said people let me down. How do you cope with a loss that’s not an actual loss? It’s not a loss! So why do I feel like I’m losing my sanity every time a person decides to drift away abruptly? It’s not a loss, if anything I’m benefiting from their action.

There’s this feeling I get inside me sometimes where I want to reach down my throat and pull out all of the bad from me. I want to wake up one day and realize that nothing is wrong, that I make up everything in my head. I wish I was crazy. I wish I was a mental patient in a psychiatric hospital with a disorder that forces me to be isolated in a room where all I can do is read and not smile, but not cry.

I want to have no feelings? In a way, everyone wants to have feelings, especially love, which is apparently the strongest feeling but I think sadness and pain are much stronger compared to the pity feelings of love. It’s just overwhelming happiness and devotion to a person who you barely even know.

Then again, do we really know anyone? Besides yourself, of course, you can’t know everything about anyone besides yourself. It’s impossible to even know everything about yourself.

I don’t understand people. I would like to, and I wouldn’t mind feeling things at a normal level instead of constantly going from up to down. No in-between.

The Quill Page 82

Photo by Ethan Ochoa

5 Months Month 1: I have a soft feeling in my stomach, the feeling of a butterfly fluttering its wings lightly.

I run short of breath and begin gasping for air because my memories of you are suffocating me slowly with every thought.

And every time I blink, I can see the crevices of your face, the prominent curves of your nose and the roughly 118 freckles covering your cheeks.

I can close my eyes and stare at you forever, keeping only good images of you.

Because you will never be ruined in my mind.

You will forever be perfect; held up on a pedestal that hangs above my head, far too high for me to reach and bring you down from.

Month 2: My empty head is going crazy with worn out memories of you.

I just want to go up to the you I once knew and hug you, wrap my arms around your neck and smell the scent of your freshly washed ragged t-shirt.

You are imprinted in my mind. The thoughts that I have of you and about you make me feel like I still know you sometimes even when I know that you are not who I thought you were.

Pretending seems to be the best option I have because not knowing who you’re with or what you’re doing or which band is your favorite at the moment is haunting.

Month 3: I think remembering you is a bad habit of mine.

I constantly avoid you or anything that reminds me of you but sometimes when I glance out of the corner of my eye in your direction, everything comes back.

I spiral down a blackhole in my mind filled with everything you ever told me, everything we ever did, and everything I thought you were.

Somehow I don’t regret anything with you though.

I’ll never regret loving you or feeling loved and safe and warm with you because those are probably the best memories I’ll ever have of you and I’m in love with them.

Month 4: I’ll never not miss you. I’ll never regret how we ended because it was something I’ll most likely remember for the rest of my life because you don’t forget an ending.

It’s just another beginning.

So why do things end?

What I really mean by that every time I ask it is why did we end? What happened with us? Weren’t we perfect together?

I guess there’s no such thing as perfect but every imperfection you had just made me love you even more.

And now, I have seeds of you implanted in my body that grow like trees with their roots wrapped around my heart and lungs and intestines squeezing incredibly hard almost to the point where I’d rather rip them out myself than have you strangle me.

But these trees and vines only make up a garden inside of me.

I hope I continue to take care of that garden instead of trying to tear it apart because it’s a reminder of a painfully beautiful first love.

Photo by Ethan Ochoa

Month 5: I can live without you and I think that’s important because I like who I am without you.

I was once more dead but now I’m living in a world of light and shadows and the stars look so much better when I can stare at them and remember things that no longer hurt me.

Karina Gonzales

Creativity is the Actuality of Life Creativity is the actuality of life; the actuality of making history out of your own dreams, stitching a quilt made of different colors, teaching lessons in the truth of mistakes.

It’s the actuality of those who never learn therefore; who were very wrong of the verity, where the smart figured out the puzzle to match the pieces together and create a picture of what needs to be done correctly.

O damned night, magnificent as a stale cupboard. The domain of creativity reveals this- brilliant, startling, a touch of color in your rosy cheeks, a sight into the horizon after the sunrise.

It’s an actuality more complex than gentle, and includes your hopes inside the true meaning-a quiet sapling sprouting on a cloudless day, the sun peeking out into something delicate.

It’s an actuality as severe as sparking a fire from a simple match; of seeing with excitement the first drop of snow, say, when the sky is full of mystery, and an hour seems so defraud and hints you may be asleep.

An imaginative illumination is a great effort to see it in.

Difference makes it rise.

And how, when you’re about to shatter, it feigns that you’re doing it right, leading you as you cry for joy during a T.V show.

The Quill Page 84

A Unique Name like None Other

Alone In the abstruseness of my mind, There’s a story that plays out, Over and over again, Consuming, suffocating, scary, A dive inside will reveal the truth of what i go through.

Some mistake me for a foreigner spelled M-I-A. You pronounce it as mee-ah. Well, if that’s what you want, go pull that string of wool. My colored wool is a nice purple, not too deep, not too light, mysterious as the galaxy, rich as chocolate.

Imagine a world of color, of darkness, of anger, of happiness. Ugliness, beauty, emotion, light. My name is that unique, proving how my situation is a little confusing. My mother’s cousin gave birth to me. She wanted Dana, but mom suggested MY-A. You pronounce it as my-ah. And that’s me.

On May 5th, 2001, A child was born, By a mother who could not keep, And gave up to others she trusted, To take care of that child, To nurture and teach, To raise as the oldest of six.

The pain that chokes me, Day to day, As if it was a job, Traps me, Like a fly in a fly trap, Always falling for the cruel trick of the light.

Fears of finding myself alone once more, Abandoned like before, With no hope of anywhere, Clangs a thudding beat inside me, Keeping me awake at night, The noise of my thought hurting my ears.

How can i express this enough, The torment of my nightmare, One day, Being left behind, To fend for myself.

This fiery fire, Like a ghost of memories.

Alone…

In a dark corner, No way to run, Nowhere to go.

Art by Jacob Rigdon

Then a light from the distance, Comes upon the cruel monster of my brain, And chases it away,

Into forgetfulness.

Mya Kennedy Morris

Sharee My middle name.

To most people it is a scarce name, but not to me.

Not to me because it is my mother’s .

Not to me because it is my grandmother’s.

Not to me because it is mine.

Our names, like books, are judged before you read into them and love the story. Sharee-to me it means everything my mother stands for.

I love that. I love her. I love the name.

I look up to my mother-my bestfriend.

She doesn’t think anything of our name…But I do because It’s family, love, hope, honor and courage.

I hope it will too for my first born daughter.

The Sea

I am different aspects of the ocean and shore together. I can go from tranquil to chaotic within moments. My insides are a whirlpool of my emotions.

I am waves of the ocean. Soothing and balanced-I flow with rest of the sea. Going day to day, not caring what happens.

I am a hurricane. They named me Kassidy. I crash and wreak havoc in my path. I hurt some people and I also lose some in the process.

I am a sand castle sitting on the seashore. I watch the ocean come up to the shore just to go back within the sea day by day.

Sometimes the ocean will swallow me up and I’ll crumble but I will be built again. I will be built bigger and stronger than the last time.

Photo by Ashley Lister

The Quill Page 86

Echoes I look into his eyes, irises glistening as though they are the sun rising; longing to touch the sky.

I listen to him stumble over his words, I want the letters to drip from his lips and sink into my skin.

My heart will become filled to the brim as he confesses his love to me.

“I…” Our eyes meet, the pounding of my heart came in waves hitting against my rib cage; My stomach leaps with every breath he takes, What I see in his eyes makes the swarming Heliopetes go insane inside; “I…” I’m a wreck; when he’s nearby I can’t think straight.

The beautiful smile he holds makes my heart skip a beat; his touch making me weak.

He opens his mouth to speak “I….. want I want….out” My vision starts to blur; I can hear the cracks of my heart echo throughout me.

Can a person feel this hollow?

At by Leah Walker

I see him around.

Our eyes meet, mine well up and my body starts to burn.

Memories breaking the surface, rushing back like a tsunami.

As I walk past them in each other’s arms, I sink back into my sea of sadness.

Kassidy Luna

Photo by Aveline Williams

Anxiety It can haunt my soul at nights when i sleep I lose myself when I’m comfortable When i think about it, i do not eat The true feelings is incomparable It takes all my feelings and emotions It rapes me of my sanity and love My mind is colonized by commotion The over thinking strangles me like a glove Robbing me of my confidence and trust I want the pain and tears to escape from me It turns my heart from healthy to old rust And it’s the happy life that i can not see It takes a lot to live with it inside I hold my anxiety and then hide

The Quill Page 88

Drowning in my heart I see him smile as I talk My heart melts when his eyes meet mine I smell his cologne on his chest as he hugs my waist I crave his love but does he crave mine?

I haven’t heard from him for weeks No texts or calls I’m starting to go crazy without him I need him in my life My heart shatters as I gaze upon him kissing another girl I try to hold back my tears I turn away to hide from the phones I hear the group of laughs as I run down the hall Why would he do this?

What did i do wrong?

Why can’t i be good enough?

Why do people have to be so cruel?

He doesn’t know what he did I have to end it all now I can’t go on without him He will always be in my heart, even after I leave

His love He takes all of my love in his own hand I can see all his passion in his eyes He brings me into my own little love hand And he will always keep me from my cries He always cheers me up when i am sad My heart lights up when i see him right there He even keeps me calm when i get mad And he trusts me that i will always care My love will forever long for his heart I promise that i will never leave him He turns our love into our art Knowing i will always love limb from limb Nothing in the world can change how i feel And i know our love will always be real Photo by Mac Perisho

Kiana Jenkins

Mother You are my other half You are the rays on a sunny morning You are just as stubborn as I am You are always pushing me to be my best no matter what You are getting on me a lot because you love me You are my safe haven when no one understands me, because you do You are just like me in numerous ways You are person I connect with most You are the one that will always bat for me… no matter what the case is You are the cookie to my milk- they just go together You are the one that loves me endlessly You are the one that will pick me up when I fall down You are the best thing since sliced bread You are my role model to achieve greater things You are my number one fan You are the biggest supporter I could ever have You are everything I could ever ask for in a person You are the one that I don’t always agree with all the time You are more than just my mom…

You are my best friend and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Photo by Abigail Hill

When you left me

The Quill Page 90

Elements All the elements speak to everyone in a different way.

Each meaning is unique and different. Those meanings help express who you are as a person. You just have to listen and observe how you react to each one of the elements. Find your inner self.

I am the wind. My shyness is a gentle breeze on a cool morning but my forceful side can show through.

People may not see me, but I will always be there. Calm.

Gentle. At moments I am hard to hear, but the other side of me has a greater impact. Ready to show the world who I really am.

I am fire. I affect the people I hold most dear to me. All it takes is one spark to ignite me. Obliterating everything in my pathway. I am the type of fire that is easy to start, but tricky to put out. But use me for good and I can create something amazing. To fix those scars I caused. To change the world for the better.

I am water. I will go with the flow. Be careful because looks can be deceiving. I cause no harm to living things.

I provide resources to those who need it. I am calm and relaxed. I have no worries. I try not to stress over the small things so they can’t affect who I am.

-Marissa Ohlinger

When you left me, you left me alone Remembering that day pierces my heart like knives being stabbed into me You stood me up… for her Leaving me to rot waiting for your presence.

Blinded by your affection towards me All the “I love you’s” just fade away, realizing that you never meant them Passing by you is like getting a tooth pulled But now I see that you are happy with her The memories we shared have gone to the grave in the bottom of my heart.

Slowly I erase memory of your face But one question still roams my brain, Why did you leave me, for a slob like her?

Marissa Ohlinger

No Return

The Quill Page 92

I am peaceful as I can be but dangerous as I can be. Just like an earthquake or tornado or even a tsunami I can be. It’s only up to you to set it free.

I am an earthquake. Quiet as I can be, one wrong step; I shake everything beneath me. As my emotions collide together causing full destruction, slowly everything diminishes. But then I slowly realized there is nothing but emptiness inside of me.

I am a tornado as both cold and hot air meet each other, my anger rises. I destroy everything in my path anything in sight. I am no longer going to let myself be looked down upon, I am in control now. I will make everything be gone like a tornado leaving nothing behind.

I am a tsunami. I will take you down with me without saying a word. I will rush over everything without return. Bringing death along with me, consuming those around me. I have no regrets or sympathy for those in my path. It is I who has risen above it all having nothing left to prove.

I am a person who may seem calm, but do not feel you can control me. For it is I who can set free and make you think twice before you dare to defy me.

Flashbacks I see myself.

By my side, a Cabinet filled with joy And happiness.

Divided

You are what you want they say.

How is it that nothing comes my way.

I see myself here and there how Come my place is anywhere but there.

The wind swirling Longing to be free.

Slowing beside me Thoughts and memories.

As I walk towards the trees Nearby there I see a Cabinet filled with joy And happiness.

I turn around the sun Shining so bright.

The sky as blue As night.

But now I’m gone.

All that’s left is a Cabinet filled with joy And happiness.

I hear the voices, asking question Over and over.

Like a record playing Over and over again.

You are not perfect they say.

You are different and worthy.

You are a human being.

You have rights, you are equal As the rest.

Keep that in mind they say.

But what I see is division You are this and that.

What side should I choose You are unexplained..

Photo by Abigail Hill

Saira Velazquez Ramirez

Acknowledgements The students of Mrs. Haley Honey’s Creative Writing classes of 2016-2017 have contributed to this literary magazine, building from the foundations of themselves to breathe truth into this text. Every day in class offered a new challenge of how to offer voice, crafting mere words into great revelations in each piece. We give it to you, the readers, not as a mere book, but as documents of deeper parts of our souls otherwise expressed. Our only hope: that you might find yourself in these pages, too.

A big thank you to Mrs. Honey for inspiring new ideas in us each day, for her big heart and strict guidelines, and for teaching us a proper execution in everything we do - work hard, play hard, and keep on a truckin’.

Another big thank you to Mrs. Riemer and her yearbook classes for sacrificing their time and energy for our class, it’s deeply appreciated and wouldn’t be possible without you.

Thank you to Mr. Ivy’s art class and Mrs. Riemer’s photojournalism class for providing artwork to accompany our writing.

Thank you to the people in our lives, we appreciate your daily support and your influence on us inspires these works.

Thank you to our readers for allowing us to introduce ourselves to you, keep reading.

Design by the Talon Yearbook staff Henry Ly, editor Cover photo by Makayla Chamberlain