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Wild Horses Wild Horses Literary Magazine Literary Magazine
2015-2016
2014-2015 Volume 3 Volume 2
John Muir High School John Muir High School Pasadena, California Pasadena, California This book is made possible by a generous grant fromisthe Rotary Clubby of aAltadena. This book made possible generous grant
from the Pasadena Educational Foundation.
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Table of Contents Cover Paintings
Wendy Zavaleta, class of 2019
Cover Design
Samuel Ramirez, class of 2016
Art
Domonique Bellew 52 Breanna De La Torre
23, 58
Rebecca Diego
17, 29, 44-45
Yasmeen Estrada 6 Rebeca Guizar 50 Jasmin Guzman
18, 33, 56, 70
Jizelle Munoz 1 Paola Nieto 62 Lourdez Olvera 26 Andrew Perez 51 Victoria Pulcifer
31, 35, 53, 57, 68
Melissa Rocha 59 Yasmine Rodriguez
19, 25, 48, 65
Maria Salgado 7, 42 Cynthia Sandoval 47 Grant Taylor 54 Graciela Urquiza 81 Chris Vasquez 30 Brianna West 63 Estela Zarate
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4, 46, 71
Poetry Sydney Cattouse
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Ivy Gonzalez 27 Lauren Hamlin 58 Yeimy Hernandez 7 Jennifer Martinez
64-66
Jay Montano 5 Victoria Pulcifer 59, 70 Maria Salgado 43, 72-73 Daniel Socop 69 David Vega 11 Philomena Loucille Verceles
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Prose Tyson Aquino 24 Melissa Castro 57 Emily Cattouse
47, 53, 60-61
Jose Claros 6, 55 Rachel Ford
20-23
Danielle Obregon
34-35, 44-45
Vanessa Placidon 80-81 Victoria Pulcifer 28, 49 Yasmine Rodriguez
10-16, 32-33, 74-79
Adrian Suarez Martinez
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Marlo Trejo 62 Drae Upshaw 36-41
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Art by Estela Zarate, class of 2017
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Breathe By Jay Montano, class of 2017
You reach down and tear apart the branches of my lungs My chest caves in and you see my struggle Yet you hold my hand and caress my petals Then pick them off one by one I wince at the pain It’s like the bark of my skin being chipped off The butterflies in my stomach are free I am lying there on the forest floor The tears roll down the side of my face Forming a cascading river But what do I know when there’s weeds growing around my brain And I hope that this is all just a hallucination But it can’t be The mushrooms growing around are left untouched Your laugh.. Like the screech of a crow With all the force I have left, I manage to look up at the sky You dig into the crevasse left in my chest Yank out my heart and drop it instantly Shocked at the maggots chewing on what is left of my polluted heart You leave and walk away Just leave me there A decomposing soul ... Becoming the beautiful Earth
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What Would I Write? By Jose Claros, class of 2017
He stood there looking out into the field. Feelings flowed from the wounds in his mind and from his eyes dripped words that didn’t explain how he felt. He stood there, in the field, and remembered what it was like to be with someone strong enough to break his silence. He stood there and imagined the faces of all the people who told him he could be great, but all we said cut only skin-deep and the puddle of desperate muttering beneath his feet grew larger when he heard us. For a moment he screamed and in the next moment he drowned. I walked over and picked him up with an empty sheet of paper.
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Photograph by Yasmeen Estrada, class of 2016
Art by Maria Salgado, class of 2017
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Love By Yeimy Hernandez, class of 2017
I love the feeling of the ball slipping out of my fingers seeing teammates hitting dingers I love the feeling of catching the ball with my dusty glove seeing the love and the bonds we have created with each other even though we lose at games in our hearts we take The Chunky W. with every practice we get better and better therefore next time we can take the W at the game that’ll bring fame to the New & Improved Softball Team we All love the feeling of the sand, the uniforms, and the feeling of being part of an Awesome Team.
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2:22 By Sydney Cattouse, class of 2018
I really can’t go any longer. I think I don’t have any breath. But that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m beginning to catch shin splints. But that shouldn’t be an excuse. I should’ve run cross country, played soccer. That definitely would’ve helped Well, it’s too late now, the season is here. Only thing I can do is run every day No Breaks. Must make up for that I lost. Must listen to what the coach says. Because he has done it all before. And because he can still do it now. 2:22 for 800 meters is … ehh But I have to live with it. Next meet I wanna go 2:18 It’s probably gonna hurt But that’s what this is about To push myself farther and farther. To go faster and faster.
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Not a Tragedy By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
You go to my head And you linger like a haunting refrain …
Now, let’s hope this isn’t another tragedy He designed.
I’ve lived too many lives to count. A Babylonian king? Been there, done that. A French peasant starving at the hands of the bourgeois? Wasn’t as pleasant as Babylonian King but I’ve been there. I’ve even been a woman a handful of times. I’ve also married and have done everything associated with it, producing offspring and all that … but there was always something that was never there … never. I’ve never looked at my betrothed and had fireworks blurring my vision or had their radiance blind me with a simple smile. I’ve only felt that with people I couldn’t have ... I have never held love in my hands without it seeping through the cracks in my fingers. My life -- lives are one big tragedy of le douleur exquise. A tragedy of experiencing heart-wrenching pain again and again, pain worse than the great Eagle that pecked away at Prometheus’ liver for eternity. I’ve never had love reciprocated with the person I ached for. Just as I’ve lived too many times to count, I’ve been in love more times than I can count. Just as I’ve been in love more times than I can count, I’ve also wanted to kill myself more times than I can count but alas, killing myself would only restart the vicious cycle. But hey, at least I get a short period of pseudo-obliviousness during childhood until I regain my memories at the strike of 15. I don’t know why He chose 15 .... Yeah, I could be a fool for wanting to kill myself for something as measly as some person rejecting me when, in fact, people are not entitled to return your affections but when you haven’t experienced reciprocation in your thousands of years of life you’re bound to be bummed. I mean people kill themselves for this kinda stuff. Some even kill people for rejecting them! What keeps me going, well sorta, is some curiosity. Hey, right now is the best time in my lives. Sure there were some great times during the Black Plague and throughout WW2, but right now the culture is the most diverse, tolerance is growing, and I love my smart phone. Too bad we’ll probably nuke ourselves to extinction. If not, I just realized I’ll probably live to see the end of the world. I’ll just wait for that since suicide hasn’t done the job. Then there will be no more people --or living organisms -- to be (unless alien reincarnation is a thing.) Right now, I am just a teenager in Los Angeles. People would think I thought most about grades and which colleges I’d apply to but no -- I think about avoiding potential love interests. Me being bisexual in this life doesn’t make things any easier, in fact, I have a doubled chance of falling in love and I don’t want that. We all know where this story ends. Whether you want to stay and read as I go through the vicious cycle once
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more or couldn’t care, what occurs will occur and I don’t care if you stay to witness my pathos or not. Nothing will stop it from happening. Fate is fate and it exists. I certainly have no choice here. Sure, small choices like deciding between strawberry or vanilla ice cream exist. Sure, small choices have results, outcomes. But me falling in love again with non-reciprocation is very inevitable. It seems He thought it was my destiny to be miserable. “Hey, Cal, you gotta delivery.” Jim Turner, is a no-nonsense sorta guy. He takes his job way too seriously and he’s only assistant manager. His eyebrows are eternally downturned and his attitude, eternally grumpy. Beckoning Jim’s call, I get up, heading right into a delivery even though we just closed because some jerk decided to order a pizza five minutes before. The box is hot in my hands as I load it on the front of my bicycle. After I strap the box in, I lift my leg over the seat and tap the address into my phone’s GPS. See, I mentioned I loved this life the most. You can use a device to navigate anywhere you want with ease! Not to mention all you have to do is follow what the robot voice said. After I stuff my phone into my pocket, I start pedaling. I’m not too weary of shady characters. Nothing bad has happened to me yet. No one has robbed me and I’ve never had a collision with a car. The worst to happen was getting hit on by a middle-aged hag who ordered pineapple on her pizza only to find out she was my friend’s mom.
Take a left on Pine Street and in a half mile you will be at your destination.
I speed down Pine Street, ready to book it home once I made this delivery. I hit the brakes and hop off the seat, box in tow. With my bike rested against the gate, I stride towards the doorstep, my first instinct being to rap a rhythmic knock onto the wooden door even though there’s a doorbell to the left. Hearing footsteps and a voice, I anticipate shoving this box into the customer’s arms and collecting tip. The offender looks through the the tiny window of the door and I can’t care to decide if their eyes are brown or hazel. After they see me with the box at hand, they unlock the door and I finally see the face of the person that I hated most in the world three seconds ago. “Ten dollars, right?” I nod. Whether I nodded to answer his question or to approve of his looks in unknown to me. “We just moved here and we don’t exactly have food in our fridge so … yeah, pizza! Haha. Your place was the closest, not to mention the cheapest.” He just moved here? Oh no. “Alright, thank you! Good night!” He closed the door. I was already having gut feelings of the worst happening. I didn’t want these stupid hunches, but there they were, punching me in the gut. I shake my head, considering that I probably look like a statue with a permanent carving of disdain on its face. At that, I jog over to my bike rested against the gate, pull it away a few feet, hop on, then pedal into the unknown. I can’t help but compare the stark darkness of the road ahead to my own situation. The streetlights are out with the exception of one that was too dim to even be considered functional and an abundance of tall pine trees line up on both sides of the road, protecting the narrow street from intruding light that threatens to provide a visible path for my eyes. No
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visible path. Not for me. No light seems to want to grace me with guidance or even some insight on why I have to live like this. I saw his stupid face. I spotted his stupid poop-colored eyes and his toonarrow nose and his ugly, wavy black hair. Yes, he goes to this hell forsaken school. The jerk that called Pizza Paradise at 10:55 two days ago. I saw him sitting at the back of the room like a loner. The type I usually ditched my seat for to strike conversation with but I would avoid a conversation with this guy. I even saw the look he gave me. The one of recognition, you know, the squinting eyes, the doubletake. But he didn’t try to talk to me. For the rest of the day I saw his face. EVERYWHERE. He littered my class periods with his awkward new kid smile. Then last period came. AP Literature. My favorite class, mind you. We read books I read ten times over thanks to my unfavorable life’s circumstances. Easy A. “I’m going to assign you all partners so you could answer the reading questions together.” Once those dreaded words slipped from the crevices of Ms. Hoover’s red, chapped, old lady lips, I literally wanted to jump out the window she always kept open by her messy desk. No. No no no no no. She waddled over towards him and next thing I knew, she glanced towards me and his eyes followed her lead. “Hey, Calvin, do you mind pairing up with Michael? He hasn’t read Frankenstein and you’re the one that can help him out the most here.” No. “No. I mean, no -- I don’t mind, sure thing, he’s fine.” I mentally cursed at myself for reacting this way. He’s fine. Oh wow. I eyed the runs in her nylons as she waddled away on her bright red heels, not wanting to direct my attention towards him. Michael... We were quiet. I pretended to be skim through the questions while he read the summary at the back of the book. “Woah, I didn’t know Frankenstein was the scientist. I always thought he was the monster …” he spoke. “How are you pizza delivery guy? Missed me?” He propped his elbow onto the wooden surface of his desk, his cheek eventually resting atop an open palm. I ignored him, pretending to concentrate on one question in particular. “That pizza was bomb. Real good. Guess you could say I was in … pizza paradise.” I cracked. Okay, it wasn’t funny but those sorts of jokes tend to make people endearing -- admit it. “So, you going to help me answer these questions?” Michael nodded toward the paper on his desk.
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“What does the monster think his creator owes him?” “I mean, Frankenstein just up and abandoned him. It’s like a dad walking out on his baby -- except there’s no mom --! Not to mention that it’s Frankenstein’s fault the monster is suffering. He made him! He didn’t have to but no, he wanted to be all ‘Hey guys look at me look at me I am a scientist!’” I nodded, “But what does Frankenstein owe him?” “Life.” I knew where he was going with that answer but I inquired anyway, “But he granted him life. He created him.” I challenged him.
“No, I mean, the creature has a beating heart and he can breathe and all that but he isn’t really living. Not without someone to understand him. Not without love.” And that is why I relate to the creature. Why I condemn my own creator. I mean, sure I have a lot more support than the creature- but I can relate. Why was I ever made? Why was I crafted this way, from His hands? His hands, the religious would die to hold them, believing they’ll receive salvation. All I have ever received from those damned hands are misery and desolation. Emptiness and sorrow. I would give anything to have those hands ball up and smash me to bits, to have every particle float into oblivion .... “You okay?” I diverted my attention to Michael. Compassion was present, swimming in his umber eyes, thick eyebrows furrowed. Obviously it was a response to the look on my face. It wasn’t until I blinked that I realized I was crying.
Crying.
“Crap -- I’m so sorry.” I wiped the dreaded, salty liquid from my eyes with my sleeve, grasped my pen, and hovered my head above the paper, trying to derail the situation to put the focus on the page of questions due at the end of the period. “Don’t apologize.” I found out not long into our friendship that Michael loves jazz. He wanted to go to Swingy’s almost every week since it opened. Every Friday night. Those nights, the sandwich shop was filled more than with the aroma of deli meats. Live jazz bands took the shop by storm with their half-improvised symphonies (minus the full orchestra.) While the sandwiches at Swingy’s were superb, the music was sublime. Whenever I walk into Swingy’s, I always recall the Jazz Age. That life of mine was short lived, ended in 1932 from a drug overdose … but the smashing of piano keys, the rapid strumming of the bass, the slurred arpeggios of the trumpet, and the sweaty, dancing bodies encased in a screen of smoke from cigarettes and heated lights always stayed with me. The scene at Swingy’s was much more tame, but the music ... the music, it’s just as passionate, reeking of slick reeds, vibrating strings, and fluttering keys. “They’re playing Horace Silver.” Michael’s eyes gleam as we walk in. “What’s this song called?” We spot a table to the far left, the notable feature of the spot being the expressive painting against the wall of a man playing his sorrows on a sax. I lead and he follows, grasping the fabric of my shirt so he wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Michael’s actually quite touchy and while I like feeling his touch, I also hate it. I’m surprised that he is, too. I told him my sexuality two months into our friendship. Usually guys would avoid touch because it was too “gay,” or I’d “get the wrong idea.” I figure it is because he’s just a guy comfortable with who he is. Also, he’s a sap. “Blowin’ the Blues Away, man, this trumpet player is lively I love it!” He laughs and performs a little hop on his chair. He proceeds his jazz rush by mimicking the pianist, bringing his hands down at every chord. He’d try to impersonate the trumpeter but he concluded not too long ago that he wouldn’t mimic such “perfection.” “He is,” I agree. “I like the drummer, though.” I mimic the drummer’s actions, pistoning imaginary sticks on a drumset only I can see, trying my best to keep up with the song.
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ments.”
“Man, we’re losers. Pretending to play because we can’t play real instru-
“Actually, I can play a few.” Try six. The first instrument I ever learned was the crumhorn, which I now realize sounds like a dying goose. Pan flute, sitar, harpsichord, violin, and piano soon joined the list and I admit, they are far more pleasant-sounding than the crumhorn. “What?” The faux-pianist exclaims, stopping his motions. “You never mentioned this!” I raise my hands up in mock surrender, “Hey, you never asked.” “We’ve been coming here for four weeks and you didn’t say anything?!” “Nope.” “You’ve been doing air trumpet when you can actually play?” “I don’t know trumpet,” I start. “I know piano-” “Can you play jazz piano?” His voice exuded excitement at his new discovery. “I haven’t tried. Just a classical guy.” I first learned piano back in the 19th century. Mother and father insisted, after all, every other male on our bougie street was learning. The Arlingtons couldn’t be the only family on the street with no piano-playing boy. “You should try, I think the only problem you’ll have is letting loose,” Michael puts his hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Not that you would have an issue with that… But yanno, the classical pianist in you probably would want to be more precise and uptight, haha.” “Not wrong there.” “I want to learn trumpet,” Michael stares longingly at the trumpeter on the stage. “Classical trumpet is cool and all, but I refuse to believe that trumpet was made for it, I think it was brought here to play jazz. It sounds so perfect. It is as if it is speaking to us with every slur and tongue.” He says those words with love dripping off his full lips. Seeing the glint in his eyes and how he just lights up makes my heart clench, makes it hard to breathe properly .... “Music is amazing in general. How one can communicate their soul’s voice… it overwhelms me, I literally can’t even breathe ….” You overwhelm me, I thought.
You go to my head And you linger like a haunting refrain …
“Sorry, I started rambling,” Michael chuckled. “Don’t apologize,” I probably looked like a fool. “Keep going ….”
And I find you spinning round in my brain ... Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne
“You go to my head.” “Hm?” He stopped in his tracks and I just felt like slamming my face into the table. I said that out loud .... Get a hold of yourself, “Nothing, was talking to myself.”
Can’t you see that it never can be?
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Michael’s demeanor changed for the next couple of hours. Before he was all charismatic and talkative, as he usually is, but since the hour consumed us with its music, we didn’t speak. Just listened.
He wringed his hands together a lot, occasionally touching his face and I caught him glancing my way a handful of times. I bet he knows… Why did I allow myself to slip up like that? He isn’t supposed to know … it’d ruin everything … I feel like crying. Nothing escaped those lips that yearned to buzz against a trumpet, that is, until three hours into the evening. “It’s that time of night folks, free for all! Know how to scat like O’Day or blast like Armstrong? Now is your chance!” The stout announcer straightens his black tux and sets the microphone down on the stand before walking off. Just as he walks off, Michael makes the loudest noise he’s made in the past two hours, that is, the sound of his chair scratching against the floorboards. He doesn’t even look my way, he just walks to the stage like he has a purpose. Upon getting to center stage, he turns to talk to the musicians that just finished playing George Gershwin’s But Not for Me in the bebop style. Particularly the drummer and the pianist. He seems to be requesting a song and my hunch is confirmed, well sorta, when the musicians nod in some sort of compliance. Is he …? As long as I’ve known he’s into jazz, I’ve also known he’s a singer… but I’ve never heard him. Michael’s form appears before the microphone and he seems to be grabbing his bearings. I could tell he’s trying to get a grip on the mic, as if his hands are too sweaty to keep it up. He trembles and inhales, “I’m going to sing Fly Me to the Moon … enjoy.” The piano comes in first and I instantly recognize the arrangement. The trio was missing a guitar and a string section but honestly, anything can be pulled off with a piano. Soon, the drum joins it, the faint sounds of taps and cymbal hits join the piano in the background. Then … he comes in.
Fly me to the moon Let me play among the stars …
My throat tightens and a tremor quakes my upper chest region, a shaky exhale escaping my nostrils.
In other words ... Hold my hand.
Honey sprinkled with ash and tears cascades from his lips, pouring like the waterfalls lost travelers have only mirages of. While smooth for the most part, it’s also raw with emotion.
In other words Darling, kiss me …
While I acknowledge the backup instruments, my ears reach for his voice, blocking away just about everything else including the loud thump emitting from my anxious chest.
You are all I long for All I worship and adore.
As my umber eyes gaze at him … my angel ... he gazes back. I’ve seen those eyes express compassion, excitement, sadness, and passion, but never this. What is this …?
In other words, please be true He’s looking right at me. No … he’s just seeking support from me … he’s
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never sang here before … so he needs it ....
In other words I love you.
While the music went on, Michael spoke, “I love you, Calvin.” My heart swells tenfold and anxiety comes in like a tidal wave I couldn’t run from. My hands seem to be magnetically compatible to my parted lips, for they fly there in an instant, now glued while my eyes quite literally bulge out my skull. Wh-what …? This isn’t possible …. Michael doesn’t actually love me …. Those eyes don’t move. They’re like a held out note, unwavering. Not only do fireworks blur my vision, tears do too. As love has always slipped through the cracks of my fingers, tears did the same as my trembling hand stays stuck to my yearning lips, leaving a trail of salt and potential happiness on them. His voice comes back, reassuring me,
Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more You are all I long for all I worship and adore. These words … they’re for me.
In other words, I love you.
As we dance in cut-time, I avoid wondering what the future holds. I rest my forehead on the side of his neck, inhaling the faint smell of laundry detergent and that wonderfully awful cologne I’d hate on anyone else but him. I just want to capture this moment, tuck it away into an impenetrable crystal, and wear it around my neck. I want to have these moments with me everywhere I go. His scent, his body heat that very much resembled the heat of the earth, the way he holds me … like a child that cradles a favorite stuffed toy …. The lingering worries are still deep-rooted .... never in my lives have I been this happy. Did He finally bestow mercy upon me? His unfortunate creation? Or will this happiness be short-lived? His fingers nudged their way between my hand and his chest, curling when he slipped them through mine -- then the worries melted with the heat of his hand, like the wax in a scented candle, letting out the sweetest aroma as it burned. His radiance made the path visible. The path that my creator hid, the one I called the Realm of Darkness and Misdirection. Sure, the future is never clear, but my future with Michael was clear to me right then and there. And this time, my future wasn’t a tragedy.
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Photograph by Rebecca Diego, class of 2016
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Art by Jasmin Guzman, class of 2016
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Art by Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
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War Story: Part Two By Rachel Ford, class of 2016
[Recorded at the _______ on _/_/_ at 2:15 PM] [UNCENSORED] "You want me to do what now?" "Jackson, tell us your life story. We've already gone through what you've experienced in the war, but we'd like to know the events that led up to you participating in the first place and the battles leading up to the fall of both kingdoms." "Um... That's a toughie. My memory isn't as good as Allen's... But I guess I can try." "Please do, it'd help us greatly." "Alright. Well, for starters, I do remember how soldiers were born and raised in Stelline ‌ the country was never really as free as history led us to believe. Once you were born, you were given a career to take on based on your parents' jobs. If you couldn't do that job or didn't belong, you were reassigned a new one. But only three times... After that you're deemed useless and fed to the dogs. Sounds harsh, but it really made the kingdom strong as hell. Everyone knew to do their job well and lots enjoyed what they got. Can't say much for the ones that didn't like any of their jobs, because I enjoyed mine from the start, being labeled a soldier and all. Soldiers were treated a bit differently... A newborn in that group would be taken from their parents quickly after birth and given to another caretaker, usually a man, along with around ten other kids. I think it was to boost loyalty to the king ...? Not sure. Then they're sent to train at around... Four? Five? I think five. That's the most I know about that." "Do you remember your training?" "Of course! Right up to when I got drafted! I was put into one of the larger groups with one of the best caretakers I could have ... maybe because I only had one to start with. He never told his name, but I still remember the tough-as-nails love he used to give us. Constant training, day and night, no breaks until we collapsed from fatigue, hunger or thirst. Once everyone did, there was always that one kid who wanted to be a pain to everyone and not collapse for hours, really hated him. Afterwards, the caretaker would prepare us some of the best pork chops and greens, along with sweetened water. Then once a month, we'd have a free-for-all of sorts to see who got the strongest. It was always me. Yup, none of those runts could knock me down long enough. One of them even got so desperate that he tried to kick me below the belt. Those were such good times." "How did this caretaker know you or any of the kids were ready for the field?" "The cutoff age is eighteen. No more, no less."
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"... But you said you were drafted at twelve...?" "The country was in a very desperate state at the time... Velisse was really kicking our butts. So the king -- or someone who decides this stuff, I don't know - lowered the age cap to twelve. Right as I turned twelve. Convenient, right?" "That must've been very difficult." "Difficult? Difficult?? It was the best thing I heard on my birthday! I was going into the field a whole six years sooner! Do you know how excited everyone was for that? We threw a party that very day!" "A-A party?" "Yes! All the rations we had in our group were cooked in one go! We were allowed to eat then fight one another again and again that entire night! It was so much fun whooping all of them, I think I even had the boss on the ropes at one point! I think I crashed just as the sun started coming up, thanks to one of the still standing runts knocking me on the head with a bone." [Jackson rubs the back of his head.] "The dent's still there too. He must've been mad." "Sounds like it. Did the drafting start the very next day?" "No. It started a little bit after I was knocked out. Whew, the scolding I got for that... The training for in-field battle barely lasted two hours before we were shoved into the fray. This was when Velisse was trying to uh.... What do they call it when they want to make everything all new and shiny?" "Modernize?" "Yeah, that. Stuff kept blowing up in their faces. Stelline won battle after battle for ... I wanna say five years straight. During that time, I was getting higher and higher in the ranks thanks to some serious leader incompetence. I mean really, our general was just shouting 'Just run into the enemy and cut them into pieces! It's not like they have extremely ranged weapons or anything, it'll be fine!' Unbelieveable." "So then how did Stelline's army get such a winning streak?" "I would erase the general’s drawing board and put up some actually decent strategies, then let him take the credit so the army wouldn't die in a giant bloodbath of shame. I mean, everyone knew it wasn't his, but they didn't care as long as they could, you know, live. After that long streak, the general got offed in battle -- thank goodness, he did by the way -- and a much prouder one came into play. He was slightly smarter. Slightly. And he always thought his strategy was best, so he'd erase mine and put his back up. Yeah, that messed us up for a good three years. We did win a couple battles here and there, but other than that, it was just appalling. After that, the king noticed that half the kingdom was somewhere in a
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ditch, so he decided to actually do something smart and separate the general position to make a strategist position." "'Something smart?' Didn't all of the soldiers have pure faith and trust in their king?" "Hah, no. We were loyal to the kingdom and the ruler. That doesn't mean that we think he's the smartest creature to ever walk the Earth. If we did, the kingdom would've fallen the second Velisse decided to challenge us." "And you never tried to overthrow the monarchy or anything?" "Nah. Loyal, remember? Anyway, I was assigned to the strategist position thanks to all of the lower soldiers ratting me out about the first general. Not that I minded... I mean, now I could tell that damn general off. And I did. For a while. A long while. Next four years were pretty much stalemate, and we nearly ran out of men to battle with due to parents hiding their kids from war and, of course, all the casualties. The general died in the field of battle again." "Again...?" "The first general did that too. I don't know why, anyone in a general position just had a habit of rushing into the field for no damn reason. Then again, I did it too. But then again again, I didn't die to a sniper." "Ah. Then you were promoted to general position, correct?" "Yep. That's when the winning streak really happened. It was short, about two years, but in that time Velisse was hurting so bad that their armies were barely in the hundreds. It was great. But then they got allied with neighboring countries. Actually, I think they barely allied up in time for the war. My memory gets a little hazy there." "That explains how Velisse's army exponentially grew in numbers. But why didn't Stelline do the same?" "Didn't need it. We didn't have many soldiers, but we had the best skilled highrankers in Stelline history on our side. Velisse and those other countries would've went down if they didn't destroy both kingdoms in one go with some faulty piece of space junk. I won't lie though, that final battle was fun. Allendre is pretty good for a rookie." "I thought he was a high-ranking soldier in Velisse?" "[Jackson chuckles.] A high-ranking soldier to them is a rookie to us. The most they can do is hold up a gun and pull the trigger after apologizing to you fifty million times. Buncha wusses. So, is that all you wanted?"
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"Just about. I'm going to bring Allendre in here next and ask about his life, but you'll have to wait outside." "Damn. I've always wanted to hear how he got such a giant pole up his back side, but I guess that can wait for another day. [Jackson stands up.]" "Heh." [End of recording.]
Art by Breanna De La Torre, class of 2016
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Failure: A Memoir By Tyson Aquino, class of 2017
The day when I received my first set of bad grades, I was devastated. I thought that I was done with school and had to find alternatives such as getting a GED or taking a test to exit school early. I realized that I had failed, badly. The worst of it all was that I did not only let myself down, but the people around me as well. My parents put the blame on themselves thinking it was their lack of help, even though in truth, it was my lack of hard work and dedication that put me in this position. Inside every person’s success story comes a time where he/she is first faced with defeat. Steve Jobs was initially ousted from Apple as CEO and failed with the startup of his separate company, NeXT, before Apple ever flourished, becoming one of the most influential tech companies in the world. In high school, Michael Jordan tried out for varsity but was deemed too short to play. Later he went on to join the NBA, winning six national NBA championships with the Chicago Bulls. In many cases, failure is not always a bad thing. For some, it is necessary to use as a stepping stone for success. A person can take those experiences and apply it to make improvements in the future. This is why I believe my failures are some of the most important experiences that I have ever faced. Expecting to do great on something the first try is, again, unrealistic. I fell nearly a dozen times before successfully learning how to ride a bike. In fact, all of us can attest to having multiple attempts to overcome failure. When we are babies, taking our first steps may even take a few tries. Upon realizing that even the role models of the world have experienced failure, I have come to approach my own failures with deep gratitude and respect. I am now unafraid of coming face-to-face with defeat, as I had already many times before. Now I take failure as a learning experience, knowing that I am able to pick myself back up from the mistakes that I have made. Recognizing my own failures helps me step back and remember that I am only human. I may not always do well, but with dedication it is possible that I can get reach my goals. Every time I achieve a level of success, I recognize failure as one of the contributing factors. People often view failure through a negative lens. For me, it has had a truly positive effect, helping me overcome problems -- great and small -in my life.
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Art by Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
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Art by Lourdez Olvera, class of 2016
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Soy Una Chingona By Ivy Gonzalez, class of 2016
I am a Chingona A fearless woman With a heart of gold I was born and raised in America But to me Mexico is my home I am a Chingona A beautiful woman A smart woman I was taught to be silenced But I will never silence myself I will always say what’s on my mind I am a Chingona A caring woman A passionate woman My culture has been mocked My people have been discriminated against But we are still strong Soy una Chingona Poderosa y hermosa Nunca vencida, jamås
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Core Values: A Personal Sttement By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
“Delta Flight, ateeeeent-HUT!” I carefully observed my Period 7 class as they stood up from their desks. All seemed well--. “Gonzales, do not put your hands in your pockets while in the position of attention! Again.” The classroom rang with groans and the shifting of bodies as the class sat back down. This was the 3rd time we had attempted to start the class now, and I was growing just as frustrated as they. But as they say, “3rd time’s the charm”, and this time around the whole class behaved. We even managed to get through the Pledge of Allegiance without any misconduct. Only one thing left to do before I could return to my desk. “Core Values?” Integrity first, service before self, excellence in all we do. “Good. Return to your seats.” Of course, there are an impressive amount of more profound, deep, and thoughtprovoking statements out there. I could have easily Googled a saying from Ghandi or Martin Luther King, Ceasar Chavez or even Malcom X to get a strong point about leadership across. But what I admire about the Air Force Junior ROTC Core Values Statement is that it doesn’t need to be profound, deep, and thought-provoking. In my opinion, it sums up what being a leader is all about perfectly. I’ve had plenty of experience leading others. During my last few years of elementary school I held the reigns in any and all group projects. I evolved from not caring in the slightest about homework to considering anything under an A- complete failure, so for the longest time I was admittedly a control freak. In some ways, I still kind of am. But spending 3 years in JROTC reminded me that leading others and being a leader are two completely different things. Leadership isn’t just about breathing down everyone’s necks, it’s about communication and collaboration. It’s about being honest and accepting responsibility. It’s about ensuring that all members of a group perform to the best of their abilities, because a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Simply barking orders at my cadets could have made it easier to control them and keep them in line, but that’s not what us cadet leaders were taught to do. In order to ensure that my cadets respected me as a leader, I had to influence them by displaying the core values of integrity, selflessness and good work in everything I did, be it drills, giving back to the community or even something as simple as taking tests. And I try to keep doing that always, even without my cadets.
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Photograph by Rebecca Diego, class of 2016
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Life By David Vega, class of 2016
Leaders aren’t born They are created through life They form as they grow Stronger and stronger as every day goes by Those leaders don’t come from perfect environments They are pressured by these surroundings Yet they persevere The best leaders emerge through the worst situations They are the best since they’ve overcome the worst They stand strong on their two feet Alone but invincible
Drawing by Chris Vasquez, class of 2018
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Art by Victoria Plucifer, class of 2016
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A Reason to Be Proud: A Personal Statement By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
“Band! Atten-tion!” With my battered Yamaha flute parallel to myself, I focus on my distorted reflection on the silver-plated surface. Student instruments are usually plated, prepared for a lifetime of battery. But I treat my flute like a mother to her infant, only being mildly rough when love coerces me into doing so, when my passion provokes me to play too vigorously or to dig my fingers into the keys too hard. I even gave my child a name: Flutey. Tweeeeet! The drum major’s whistle delivers a strident hiss. “M-U-I-R!” Step off with your left foot. A single drum tap morphs into a cadence of beats. With three years of marching experience, I don’t give adapting much thought. I used to. My eyes used to wander to my polished shoes, afraid of being off beat. I’ve realized thinking about it too much causes fumbling, so I’ve decided to simply march with eyes straight ahead and head held high. As one of the two seniors in a small band, I must be a leader and set an example for seventeen other members. Twelve are freshman especially in need of guidance. Approaching the entrance to the field, I recall how jealous I used to get seeing rival school bands five times our size. I used to be too self-conscious of what my classmates thought of my dingy old marching uniform or of how many people trailed behind me. I alone make up half of flute section! At one point, I’ve even made up the whole section! I cared too much about what people thought when I marched in the Mighty Mustang Band. That anxiety carried over to other activities I do. With writing, I did not let anyone read what I wrote lest they’d grow disinterested. With art, I did not let anyone see what I was sketching in fear that they’d say “I’ve seen better.” I was ashamed of things I received the most joy from. That’s no way to live. The bliss in celebrating a football team win, in laughing at the same silly jokes as the freshman, the random jam sessions, getting lost in music, this is why I do this. Marching in my little band, undaunted with flute in hand is one major factor in how I’ve matured and learned to put my all in everything I do. The only thing I worry about anymore is if the freshman members feel ashamed. I don’t want the way I used to feel to fester in them and kindle self consciousness. I want them to care for our organization, not what other people thought. I want them to be proud … they have a reason to be. “I want to join. I don’t want you to be the only flute. I want this band to flourish when you’re gone.” Upon hearing those words from the freshman flute player, I felt warmness consume me, prodding at my heart and stretching the corners of my lips. These are the kind of people we need in this band. If I can help others feel whole with what they do as I have, it would be more valuable than any sort of satisfaction I’ve gained for myself alone. Only with pride can this organization flourish.
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As we march passed the gates and approach the waiting crowds, I think of how their sense of humor made my eyes roll, about how disobedient they can be ‌ but I also think of their laughter and the music we produce together. We have a reason to be proud.
Art by Jasmin Guzman, class of 2017
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1/9 By Danielle Obregon, class of 2018
Vincent might’ve said the moment before he hit cold cement, his whole life flashed before his eyes. But it didn’t; there was not enough time -- or at least, that’s what he assumed. The truth was, (a truth that he would now never know) he was scared, in denial even. It wasn’t that there was too little time to quickly flip through the pages of his twenty-seven year long life, but there wasn’t enough to flip through in the first place. All his life, he lived on the more mundane side of things; doing as little as possible, dressing without thought, eating the same microwavable dinners, each organized to match a specific day of the week -- fish sticks on Monday, chicken pot pie on Tuesday … never been to a beach, never appreciated contemporary art, never. He could not question who he was or he was becoming, because all his life he’s stood completely still. He tended to color inside the lines -- but more often than not, he didn’t color at all. Everyday he went around with a grey cloud above his head. Lately, it was more than a cloud; it was a whole sky, large and grey. This sky hovered over him, sinking down onto his shoulders, the weight of everything crushing him in almost a gentle way. He once thought it was similar to the greek god that held up the sky, but the idea vanished quickly as he felt nowhere near godly. This particular morning, his alarm went off at 6:00 AM, and he didn’t bother to hit the snooze. The sun had risen about halfway, and before it was completely up, Vincent was out the door. He was never at work this early, but the janitor had opened the building by the time he got there. Up to the thirteenth floor of a dull office building, to the back of the room, staring out a window to the shimmering city below. All alone in this room, he was free. He could say or do anything and it would be real to him alone.
He could literally do anything. That’s the worst part of everything. It’s why he
opened up the window and let the brisk morning air sweep over him first, as if warming up, and …. And he imagined a pool. He went back to when he was a child, jumping into the swimming pool without floaties for the first time. Off the diving board, aiming to make the biggest splash ever. He remembered how before he did it, he did not think; thinking made the whole thing more complicated. The second he was engulfed in the water, all the nervousness was reduced to nothing. It was as if he had jumped into the deep end a million times before. He didn’t think then and he didn’t think now. Those past twenty-seven years were all a blur. He hadn’t even hit the ground but he was already dead.
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Vincent might’ve said the moment before he hit cold cement, his whole life flashed before his eyes. But it didn’t; there was not enough time -- or at least, that’s
what he assumed. The truth was, (a truth that he would now never know) he was scared, in denial even. It wasn’t that there was too little time to quickly flip through the pages of his twenty-seven year long life, but that there wasn’t enough to flip through in the first place. But there was something he had missed -- it wasn’t the past, it was the future. The simplest things. He was not getting married. He was not getting a raise. But the season finale of his favorite show was on tonight. His freshly-planted roses were starting to bloom. His mother’s birthday was next Friday. Everything good that hadn’t happened yet was right around the corner. Then he was greeted with the strongest hug of all time --
Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
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Dog Ball Comic By Drae Upshaw, class of 2016
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Drawing by Maria Salgado, class of 2017
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Tell Me the Truth By Maria Salgado, class of 2017
Is it true that, The look of defeat, Lives on my face? A stare full of sorrow, Sleeps in my eyes? My sight is forsaken To see hell all around? Unsaid words, barricade behind my lips? Dead laughs, Animate my smile? My dreams drowned by my nightmares, Scarcely look for air to breathe? My distraught thoughts, Lurk in the frontal lobe of my brain? That Sadness rules and dominates The depths of my mind? The tips of my fingers, Hold a touch of death? Is it true?
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Solace (Part One)
By Danielle Obregon, class of 2018
Watch the glow of the sinking sun long enough and it will become the gold in your bloodstream that brings your fragile bones to life. This is the place where I sail down roads into the moon, next to you, always. Here we drink cups full of fallen stars and inject our veins with the different colors each day brings. Here our dreams chase us. We do not run from them in fear, but for the fun of teasing the future and her impatience. We sleep and dream in the clouds, we build our memories into beautiful mountains. Every day we swim through oceans of memories and mangled emotions, diving deep into complex ideas and thoughts, or floating at the surface of laughter and bike rides. This is enough to create more people within you; you guard it in the cage deep within you, where your lungs hold it gently. Keep it quiet, and keep it soft. When you look out the car window and see everything passing by so quickly, and you feel like a stranger on your own planet, close your eyes and fall back into a time where your youth was eternal. Allow all of it to fill you up, warming every cell and sending waves of bittersweet nostalgia through every nerve. Here, your youth is eternal. You will be climbing fences and and staring at open skies and running swiftly. Your bruises never heal. Sometimes you hear crying, but it is never enough to tear you away from the heart of the world, you are nailed down by each finger. You are tied down from your ribs -- why would you ever want to fight that? You start breathing again for the first time in years. The backseat of your best friend’s car is heaven, and the wind that brushes over your face as you speed down empty streets replenishes your entire system. This lifeline we’ve created is planting itself deep within our skulls, it is the permanent scar. It becomes the wine we indulge in with meals of the blurred memories of the past. We thrive off these things, these cold showers, these rotten fruit trees, these open sunroofs. And it’s so beautiful -- your existence is an artwork hanging on the wall of a modern art museum, or a stained glass window in a Catholic church. We’re not safe here, but let’s keep the windows and doors open anyways so we can smell the flowers dying and the neighbor’s cigarettes.
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Photograph by Rebecca Diego, class of 2016
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Art by Estela Zarate, class of 2017
Parrots By Emily Cattouse, class of 2019
During the summer, these loud green parrots take over the entire neighborhood. They travel in flocks. Their presence is warned by their screaming, not so different from seagulls. You can hear them from miles away. But the parrots are so beautiful. When I was little, I would collect their feathers and I believed bird catchers from around the world would pay millions to own one of my iridescent feathers. So I hid them in an old, dusty box that I threw away by accident. I remember trying to chase down the trash truck for it, but I had to stop because I’d run outside without any shoes. I sat down on the sidewalk and cried. But, when I looked around, one perfect feather laid before me. I still have it to this day.
Photograph by Cynthia Sandoval, class of 2016
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Art by Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
He is Very Good at Smiling By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
He is very good at smiling. That’s what they see and that’s what he knows. He walks to school every morning, smiling. He smiles around friends, teachers, even the folks he doesn’t like so much. Like his ex girlfriend Paula that dumped him a couple of months ago, saying that she wasn’t ready to commit to a relationship. Here she comes now, walking by and holding hands with that senior. He never did catch his name. But it’s all fine. That was two months ago. There’s also his pre-cal teacher from last year, who tarnished his chances of getting a scholarship because his test scores weren’t fantastic and apparently it didn’t matter that he did all of his homework and classwork and worked with the teacher after school to learn the material to the best of his ability. But it’s all fine. That was a year ago. Then there’s also Latiana and her stupid, obnoxious, ghetto friends, yeesh. Do they ever shut up? Always standing in a ring blocking the hallways, maliciously picking apart anyone who dares imply they should quiet down during classes or assemblies like scavengers standing hobbled over the remnants of basic manners and etiquette. They’re heckling him now as he walks past -- don’t forget to keep smiling. He goes home to his parents at the end of the day, who also see him smiling. They smile back. “How was your day?” “Good!” “Just good?” “Well, nothing particularly special happened today.” Every day, this same conversation plays like a triggered event in a video game. Different word choice sometimes, but it’s really all the same. Just shut the hell up and let him go to his room already. Done. The door is closed, and no one can see him. So he stops pretending. The smile drops in every afternoon as quickly as it appears in every morning. And this goes on for one, two, four years. The same performance that he must execute convincingly around different people. He is there for their entertainment and satisfaction, but they are not there for his. He won’t let them be there for his satisfaction, no. These are secrets he keeps behind a mask around even his closest friends, who have worse problems than him: One is struggling in a dirt-poor family, one is bisexual with bigoted parents, one has mentally handicapped siblings …. The list goes on, and his pain is trivial in comparison. So he takes small doses of pain daily, slowly killing himself from the inside out while others just down the whole bottle, get it over with. Depression turns to anger, and his emotions gradually stack up like the world’s most unstable Jenga tower and before he knows it his health declines and he’s smiling less and he’s aggressive and tired and cranky and furious and he can’t think straight and then he decides screw it screw e ver yo ne and the n And so the cycle continues. He walks to school the following morning as he has done every morning, smiling. That’s what they see and that’s what he knows. After all, he is very good at smiling.
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Art by Rebeca Guizar, class of 2016
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Art by Andrew Perez, class of 2019
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Art by Domonique Ballew, class of 2016
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What Keeps Me up at Night By Emily Cattouse, class of 2019
I have 136 glow stars in my room. 97 are on the ceiling, while the rest are scattered along various spots on the walls. Why? I’m still scared of the dark. More specifically, what’s in the dark: things that go “bump” in the night. These soft lights scare away the inky blackness that threatens to suffocate me as I sleep. These stars smile down on me, reassuring me all is well. Even though they cost just three dollars, they provide a sense of security that is priceless.
Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
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Ride Like the Wind By Adrian Suarez Martinez, class of 2017
The 2015 Ford Mustang GT is the most beautiful sports car I’ve ever seen. With its 435 horsepower and a 5.0-Liter V8 engine, it can race up to 16 mph cities/25 highways. From the moment I sat down and grabbed the wheel, I could feel the power in her. I step my foot on the gas pedal, and the tires screech, the engine roars, and the “grand tourer” zooms. I hold tight on the steering wheel, keeping it under control. My eyes are straight on the road. Just then, I feel like I’m riding a horse. A wild mustang. The mustang gallops. The wheel is his mane. The pedal is his flank. The tires his hoofs. The engine his heart. The faster the mustang runs, the stronger the breeze on my face. The mustang zooms on, leaving dust flying into the air. I will never forget this moment ... the moment I ride like the wind.
Art by Grant Taylor, class of 2016
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Rainy Days and Thursdays By Jose Claros, class of 2017
Soft rain kept falling. In truth he didn’t mind the water, but as he ran outside he covered his face. He has told his father he wouldn’t be coming back and this time his father believed him. The clouds overhead gave him no reason to pause for only they could match the uncertain mood that always seemed to interrupt his thoughts. As he ran his footsteps rang against cold bottles and their bitter contents, a pair of sharp eyes with a dull glare, and fenced houses with their warms lights, expecting. He slowed down as he reached an old church, its thatched roof almost as old as its creed. He stopped at its steps and dropped into a steep dive, into memories long past. The fever; “I don’t wanna die with you.” Those were her final words. She laid her head back and closed her eyes with her last image being that of a sobbing man and their jaw clenching son. One morning she woke up with a complaint. The next evening her brain boiled and its memories left her head in a gaseous form. The priest told them it was the Lord’s way of testing our will to survive and persevere, testing our patience for rapture. But as the caped man tried to give closure, the boy’s heart tore its seam and couldn’t seem to mend. His father’s heart had plated itself and caught fire. The hatred; it grew in the house. It climbed up the walls and crept beneath the floors. The boy saw it everywhere, though not in himself. His father only helped it grow. The boy would come home to his father muttering solemnly at her grave, then he’d begin his rage by fueling its ignorance with a rancid concoction; hurting his own mind before moving on to someone he might’ve actually still cared for. The boy didn’t blame his father, but would wonder if this is was what the fever had seen in the sobbing man. The sieve; now filled, though he didn’t know with what, needed to find a way to seal. He paid his father a due goodbye and went to find the rest of himself. He started to get up, but felt footsteps through the wooden doors. They glided open, despite its aged hinges, and an ancient priest called his name. He stayed there staring at the priest. The priest stepped out and looked at the placid sky. “Come in it will rain.” “You won’t crusade as a savior anymore, Father.” The priest felt a cold talon reach in and pluck at his soul. With one hand wrapped around his shoulder, the other with a blade in his ribs, the smiling boy looked into the priest’s eyes. A plea of mercy lay upon them, but the lack thereof ended his plight. The clouds let go a torrent of tears and cried for a fallen man. The boy now knew what he’d been searching for. He smiled at a dead father for a second time that night and the father’s eyes saw its last image. Upon the boy’s twisted face soft rain kept falling.
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Art by Jasmin Guzman, class of 2017
You Can’t Do This or That By Melissa Castro, class of 2019
No, Melissa, you can’t do that. Eres una niña. My mama says this when I want to do something with my brothers. No puedes hacer tal o cual! I do not get it; it just isn’t fair! My mama and my sister say I can’t do some things because it’s not lady-like or because I am a girl. Una niña pequeña. A little girl who should be as innocent as a fragile newborn baby. But there are times when I have to do things that my brothers don’t have to do. Tengo que hacer lo que tiene que hacerse. Things that must be done … chores, such as cooking, cleaning, and, oh, babysitting. And during all of that and more, I have to remember to breathe. I don’t do this, I don’t do that. Well, unless I am told I have to.
Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
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Paintbrushes and a Canvas By Lauren Hamlin, class of 2019
“Sticks and stones may break my bones But words will never hurt me” A silly saying said by many in times of pain And those who have no mercy Verbally, it’s all fun and games Until words stab you with a knife A canvas and you get to choose the colors That’s life Your tongue is a paintbrush You can create a masterpiece or a catastrophe The different strokes you make All depend on you So paint with bright colors And not with dark hues
Art by Breanna De La Torre, class of 2016
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Procrastination in a Nutshell By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
I put a pen to paper because it’s due at noon I put a pen to paper that I know will be due soon. I’m trying very hard to think of what I want to say, But I think “just one more video”, so I surf the web all day. I know to be productive that I must have peace of mind, But these deadlines turn my stomach so that peace is hard to find. My inner turmoil’s mounting and it’s becoming hard to fight, So I distract myself, check my accounts, and stay up through the night. My body yearns for rest and it is longing for my bed, But sleep isn’t productive, so I’ll catch up when I’m dead. Minutes bleed into hours, and hours become weeks, And now my parents nag “Clean your room!”; it’s neglected and it reeks. The first hour or so always goes by slow, but after seconds pass, I realize that there’s little time left before the work’s due for my class. I put a pen to paper, but because my will is dead, I let this deadline slip away, and I fall asleep instead.
Art by Melissa Rocha, class of 2017
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Curls: A Memoir By Emily Cattouse, class of 2019
Walking out of the Westfield Santa Anita Mall, my hands full of back-toschool shopping, a cherry red “For Sale” sign catches my eyes. It’s attached to the slightly dusty window of an old hair parlor. The once shiny decorative mirrors reflect a disoriented mall scene, making everything look like a painting that Picasso would conjure up. I steal a glance at myself -- call me narcissistic -- but this time, I see more than what the surface reflects. I see my past, reminiscent of the day I first strode into the shop over three years ago. * * * Growing up ugly was tough. In elementary school, I only played with the boys while girls sat on the side braiding each other’s hair. I was remembered as the obvious tomboy amongst my classmates. While the girls played with dolls and makeup kits, I indulged myself in the world of sports. My goals were to be the fastest girl in the class or to be unbeatable in tetherball. And I was. My motive behind this was not just my personal interest but because I couldn’t fit in with the girls. I didn’t put too much thought into this or really believed anyone would care until I got to middle school. Nobody taught me kids could be so mean. You see, I never really knew I had curly hair. I always thought it was some weird type of straight hair or something was wrong with me. I wore it back in a sleek bun that made people question my gender identity. My clothes were always from the boys section because apparently nothing in the girls sections existed outside of bright pinks and glittery purples, not my taste. Everything I wore from my gray hoodies to my Batman socks read tomboy but in middle school, they screamed weirdo. The first day of sixth grade, I was greeted by a boy approaching me who asked, “Are you a boy or a gir?” From that day on, I tried not to exist in that gloomy world of middle school. Every day was a reminder of how far from beautiful I was. The other students’ words spawned the roots of my insecurities that still follow me today like a dark shadow. Those verbal lashes left scars that will heal but marks that will never fade away. Sometime in March, towards the end of 6th grade, my mother took me to accompany her to the hair salon. (Yes, that hair salon.) While I sat in the lobby, waiting for my mom to finish getting her hair done, a hair stylist with long fake eyelashes approached me. In an angelic voice, she said, “Hello, young lady, I saw you come in and I can’t help to ask can I do your hair? I’m on my break and I’d like to do your hair for free.” Upon hearing this, I laughed and nodded my head thinking, I can’t look worse, what more can I possibly lose. She led me to a sink where she rinsed out the gel that held my hair back. What she did next seemed like magic at the time. By adding a little conditioner and curl-styling creme, she transformed my squirreltail mess into a soft, flowing mass of curly awesomeness. Black curls framed my tan skin and my smile glowed. This was the first time I truly felt beautiful. I thanked the lady with tears of joy and I strutted out the parlor like death is not real. The next day, I woke up super-early and did my hair just like the lady taught me … or my best attempt. I even put on a little bow in it. I left my house feeling like a
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million bucks … only to be shot back down by the kids at school when I arrived on campus. This is how my day plummented from great to terrible in a few seconds: “OMG, is that Emily?” My heart swells in my chest, in anticipation of compliments. I tilt my head up with pride: “Ewww, she looks ugly.” My heart shatters. I turn my head down and keep walking, telling myself, it’s ok; you look great. “Aww, guys give her a break, she looks fine.” “Hahahahaha, stop lying and call animal control.” My walk turns into a sprint and I run into the bathroom. Standing in the cold stall, I hold my mouth so nobody hears my sobs. The rest of the day is a harsh blur. The day after that, I resume my sleek bun. As middle school continued on, I tried various hairstyles and through trial and failure, found a truer me. By the time 8th grade came around, the kids were more accustomed to me. I believe this was the year I truly started to change. Adolescence did me a ton of favors in other ways and my clothing upgraded to the teens section. My appearance reflected more of a lifestyle and less of an experiment. I changed more deeply the just my outer shell. From the crowd I hung out with, the way I carried myself, my hair color, and my kind demeanor. It all left me. That year, I experienced my first fight, my first real kiss, my first argument with my parents (more followed), my first time I ditched class, and many more firsts that I am not so proud of. I excused my poor behavior with, oh, I’m just trying to find myself. but the truth is, I had never been so lost. * * * Today, I walk outside the mall, the sun kissing my skin. I walk passed the parlor that ended my depression, but opened a new door of sadness. I walk passed the ghost whispers, product of years of taunting that return in my nightmares. I walk passed the catcallers, unaware that I am just 13, their “compliments” come like clouds on a sunny day. I walk passed a little girl begging her mom to buy her short shorts that her dad will never approve of, she just wants to fit in. I walk passed a boy on his phone who looks up, giving me a smile that signals intentions. I walk faster. Like I said, trial and failure made me. Time brought me knowledge which I apply to my decisions. I feel great being able to tell you I have changed greatly. One thing I learned is cool kids are overrated. The world is a nicer to you if you are beautiful no matter how many anti-bullying campaigns exist about “what matters is what’s inside.” But this isn’t a story about that. This is my story of how a visit to a hair salon changed my life. So many factors had to be just right for that moment to take place. But sometimes I wish I stayed home, and perhaps spared my innocence for many, many years to come. If I could go back in time, I would go to the little girl crying in the bathroom. I would remove her cupped hands from her face and wipe her tears. I would lead her out of that cold bathroom and lead her into a bright future, telling her, “you are, and have always been, beautiful.”
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That’s Not Who I Am! By Marlo Trejo, class of 2019
I used to be a loving girl with a huge heart; now my heart is a block of ice. I was the blanket that hugs you at night and the pillow who listens to your thoughts. Then betrayal. Now I can’t help but be the fire that walks alone. I’m just a girl who trusted the wrong person with her love. It feels like I’ve been abandoned and no one cares anymore. The world hasn’t changed for him, but my world shattered. I’m no longer on Earth. If I were you, I would’ve never let me go. But, it is what it is. My heart cries when I see you, yet on the outside, I’m smiling. Forever more, there will be caution tape around my heart.
Art by Paola Nieto, class of 2016
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Art by Brianna West, class of 2016
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Can’t Be Contained By Jennifer Martinez, class of 2017
S~ 7.4.15 You’re like a bullet to my heart You shot with great intention But you just ended up getting stuck in the wall surrounding it & I don’t know how to take you out. You’re lodged in between uncertainty and love The feel of it so bitter, yet so sweet. The feeling of regret follows, but instead the feeling of gratitude swallows it whole. But alas, as time passes, slowly, little by little, the bullet lodged in between is being covered by other feelings. More love being one of them, hatred being another. Thankfulness and regret. Confidence and uncertainty. All of which are covering up a bullet which caused damage but is loved for whatever it was shot for & the aftermath of the destruction. Never will I ever regret the decisions made while in contact with you. You helped me in a way nobody else could. --------------------------------------------------------Now~ 5.14.16 Never will I forget the small moments that we had. Yes, you were a weakness, but you became my strength. When I completely got over your never ending smiles, your obnoxious laughter, & glowing eyes, I realized that you opened a door that indicated that it was time for self love. I focused on myself, and I’m still glad that I didn’t give you all of me. Because of you, I became strong in the emotional sense. I took some time off to pick up some fallen pieces, and in the meantime, I was reunited with my love. He drove me crazy. & I thought that I loved you. The “love” that you & I had wasn’t mutual. I was suffering. But the love that my love & I had drove me insane. So thank you for not taking every piece of me. Thank you for making me realize that I’m so much more than a piece of meat. I value my worth now, & it’s all thanks to you. In Between~ 01.08.16
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Tears blur my vision. Hopefully this ink fades away before I do. Hopefully my tears run dry before the blood pumping in my veins does.
Hopefully this blue ink doesn’t turn into a dark purple. Why do the skies remind me of my own mind ...? Cloudy ... some clearings ... some sparkles ... Why am I so focused on finding happiness? I can never find it ... & if I do, it’s bashed away with doubts & negativity. I told myself, “it’s just a for now.” My mind knows it ... but my heart pulls back. It’s a constant struggle between those two & I’m constantly stuck between the torrents. It’s very rare when someone or something throws a lifesaver out for me. Yet, amidst the tempest ... Amidst the dark ... the one pulling me to shore leaves me stranded once more. Either in the ocean, once again ... or on an island that I have to venture out on my own. I know thoughts are dangerous. That doesn’t stop them from coming. We’re so different, yet so alike. You’re a rain drop ... I’m a hurricane. You’re a teddy bear ... I’m a grizzly bear. I’m a raging river ... you’re the waterfall. I’m the stem ... you’re the flower. You’re the one that can knock me down without trying. It’s happened before & I’m sure it’ll happen again. It’s okay. My eyes have suffered the worst of the storms. My throat, the power of a dam. My soul, the destruction of a wrecking ball. My hands, the power the little monster inside of me has. The sky, my laments and clamors. The satellites, for wishing for something that could destroy me in a matter of seconds. For the pen & paper, that have dealt with the things I can never tell anyone. For my pillows & stuffed animals, for being my supporters when I’m alone. & for the walls, for being my only friends. For myself, for changing the course of the river & for the perseverance to keep on going. & To the heavens for being my safe haven when I needed to vent. Thoughts~ 1.10.16 There are moments where i want to climb up to the highest mountaintop & watch the sun set. Watch the moon grab hold of the night & watch the stars twinkle by, one by one. Just have some tunes flowing through my ears & have the liberty to just wallow in my emotions. Raise my head up to the heavens & find a surge of strength. But no, I’m held captive in four walls & schedules. I just want to run out & be free. Hold my hands above my head & run across a field of flowers. But, I can’t. I’m stuck in a world that is slowly but surely being destroyed by us.
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Feeling a Certain Way~ 1.11.16 It’s crazy how looking at you makes me feel like everything is going to be alright. Your smile makes me melt inside. The way you look when you shut your eyes makes me feel this warm, soft, soothing wave flow through me & if I don’t catch myself, a smile takes place on my face. The way you control yourself just makes me want to hold you in my arms for as long as i can. The way your fingers strum the guitar, The way your fingers touch the piano keys, The way your hands just flow with the beat of the drums, The way your entire focus is applied to your music makes me feel even more proud to call you mine. & maybe it’s too soon to feel this way, but it captures me sometimes. When we talk, either over a text of a face-to-face conversation. The way your lips make me tremble. The way I get lost in your eyes. The way your arms make me feel so protected. So fragile. So happy. So...loved. I love you You’re my light, my prize, my happiness. Even if it might be a “for now”, I’ll hold onto this forever. “And the stars look very different today.”- David Bowie. You’re All I’ve Ever Wanted~ 3.26.16
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For some God forsaken reason... For some God forsaken reason… Please, just let me sleep. Please, just let me sleep. Let my mind be taken over by something that has nothing to do with you. Walk out of my heart & close the door behind you. Stop my daydreaming. Stop my daydreaming. Let my veins run dry. Let my hopes diminish a little. Get my focus off of you I just can’t drag you out. I just can’t. I’m suffocating. No, I’m not okay. I don’t have you. But my thoughts are taken over by you. Your smile is etched into my mind. Your eyes imprinted in my thoughts. I was ready for whatever came our way, but once I took a step forward, you took a step back. & you left me. We left each other. & now, I’m left waiting and hoping for our someday. Someday.
Art by Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
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Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
Contemplation By Daniel Socop, class of 2016
I live my life on a teeter-totter, not literally, but metaphorically In other words I’m saying life has its ups and downs Everyday brings something new to the table some good, and others, not so much To make up for it, i bring my own seasoning for example my skateboard, which adds better taste to the day And I have eaten it while skating before my wheels got stuck on a rock and throws me to the floor Despite that painful fall I manage to get back up and continue on to where I was headed It leaves scars and bruises but because of that, I learn and improve The pure thrill of bombing down the hill speeding past everybody and receiving no ticket The wind blowing in my face the vibration of my wheels across the concrete I’ve enjoyed skating since day one Skating makes me lose time Because life is a blur when you skate on
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Jellyfish By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016
You are cold. You are weightless. It is dark, but you are surrounded by tiny stars that flicker in and out of the black silence surrounding you. It is ominous, it is enigmatic, yet you find yourself At peace. These are the ancient ones, milky translucent beings with the capacity to live across eternities, and although several of them can fit in the palm of your hand it is you who feels small. You are insignificant in the void. They are fragile, delicate beings. They die in your world, the forces of gravity dissolving them, crushing them into the earth Beautifully Tragically. The air you breathe is too heavy. The flesh you wear is too coarse. But you feel nothing in this realm of the stars in a vast aquatic universe.
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Art by Jasmin Guzman, class of 2017
Just a Bruise By Philomena Loucille Verceles, class of 2018
it was a tug of war a lasting game hands got swollen yet there was no pain invisible wounds bled tears of regret that time, the warrior stopped bowed and exclaimed she had enough that moment, the angel froze heart shaken by the abrupt remark it was a clear reflection that simply faded to a blurry black a scarred memory, a stained reality unspoken that day, the war ended release of the tight grips a sign of defeat
Art by Estela Zarate, class of 2017
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Untitled By Maria Salgado, class of 2017
Have you ever thought about looking over a cliff, so much you “accidentally” fall? screaming so loud, it’s silent. those cold nights, wishing your mom was still holding you tight in her warm arms. now just grabbing onto your blanket with your life. speaking silent words. whispering to the dark and shouting at the moon. holding an imaginary gun to your head. debating whether your mind or the closet is the scariest thing at night. counting your blessings and noticing there’s none left. hyperventilating in your room without a noise coming from your fragile body. wanting your coloring books back with your 64 pack of Crayola crayons So you can color your life away? not thinking of anything except what time you’re falling asleep tonight eyes wide open with a smile on your face but cries of pain in your throat noticing no one cares cause you’re not six years old anymore feeling your heart shatter into pieces thinking what did i do wrong, yelling it at the top of your lungs never getting an answer
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always having a feeling of a heartless void of never being enough breaking that promise that you made as a kid to stay good, cause life gets tough setting yourself up for success and letting yourself down looking in the mirror every morning just staring at the bags under your dark eyes having nightmares in the night and not yelling for help cause they’ll know you’re pathetic wanting pancakes with milk and syrup in the bright sunny mornings sitting across from your mom but now she won’t even come out of her room playing with Bratz dolls with your sister and acting out the type of life you want picking the red Power Ranger before your brother did or just the memory of him not yelling in your face when your dad used to pick you up and look at you like you were his most prized treasure but now it’s with pity and disgust not even living life just breathing have you ever thought about looking over a cliff, so much you “accidentally” fall? screaming so loud, it’s silent.
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Today is the Day By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016
It was funny how everything collided into her all at once. Their faces were planted in her brain, and only the previous night did those seeds grow into a bud. She al-
ways remembered them ... not too much ... but she did. With a graphite pencil in hand, she sketched the faces she pushed to the back of her mind for seven years. Her memories of them, they had faded long before … but somehow, the smoldering embers still burned. Their connection was somehow still alive and who knows who or what rekindled these memories. Whatever it was, it led her to snatch her sketchbook from under her pillow at 3:38 am to draw faces she had blotched out years before. Emily loved drawing to release every emotion she felt bottling up inside her tiny body. She couldn’t impress anyone with a beautiful singing voice nor produce lovely notes through any medium, she couldn’t arrange words so beautifully to provoke emotion, she couldn’t do a lot of things... but all of that didn’t matter once she had a drawing tool in her pale hands. Her pencil danced frivolously over once blank spaces while the graphite stained the paper. In under five minutes, all the faces were there... extremely sketchy and even inexplicable to others but recognizable to her eyes. Then she smiled. All throughout her classes, Emily couldn’t concentrate. She was thinking of the faces she dreamed about. All she did during those classes was merely hear her teachers’ voices while she sketched the faces all over her notes page, trying to recall names, mannerisms, something, anything. Eventually, she remembered the girl. She recalled her name being beautiful, starting with an A. A memory of playing in a field of grass ... they were catching some type of bug. When it came to the boys ... she only remembered a blonde. She only remembered him so well because she recalled having a crush on him. She couldn’t remember much about the other boy aside from the fact that he was older. “Out of order? They had the whole break to take care of that.” Her cousin, Ellie, scoffed. “Maybe you can go to the single restrooms ...” Emily suggested. Ellie nodded in understanding, “You can wait here, be right back.” Hmm, I guess I’ll just wait here ... she may take a while, so might as well .... Emily took out her sketchbook and looked around for inspiration. Her eyes spotted the water fountain ... boring. Then they journeyed towards a set of lockers ... boring. It was then that her line of sight found something, or rather someone ... interesting. On the stairs to the right she spotted a guy wearing a black hood seated against the wall, legs splayed out across the steps. Bright red tresses stuck out a few places around his face. She couldn’t see his face due to the shadow his hood produced, but he looked way too interested in the lighter he held in his hand while the other tapped rhythms on one of the steps. He was clearly lost in his music. He looks like one of those ostentatious, mysteri-
ous guys out of a movie ... in fact ... he is totally unfamiliar, is he new? He isn’t supposed to be wearing a hoodie. She thought while she started sketching him from afar. I don’t want to be a creep ... but here I am, drawing some guy I don’t know ...
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She was shading in the required khaki school slacks he wore when, from her peripherals, she noticed movement on his part. She jerked away from his line of sight, discreetly moving toward the restrooms. Hope he didn’t spot me ... oh my, I’m a creep ... Ellie ... hurry up ... you can come out now …. As she waited, she felt a presence making its way down the hall. Light footsteps echoing from wall to wall. That’s probably him ... shoot …. The footsteps kept coming … coming … and then they echoed into the opposite direction. “Nice going, Emily,” she scolded herself while she shoved her sketchbook into her satchel. Sure she didn’t get caught … but she had to admit, she was a creep.
“I presume you had a good winter break ... but you all must be excited about trigonometric functions.” Groans erupted throughout the room, the cluster of students resembling zombies. “Mr. L., we just got back, show us some mercy,” a student whined. “I guess the cards aren’t in your favor, no mercy shall be shown in this classroom ... but before we get to the fun, it wouldn’t hurt to shuffle this deck.”
There he goes ... with his card references ... if he loves them so much, why can’t he quit his job and just become a gambler?
“Everyone up front. I have a seating arrangement already.” As he said those words a rhythmic knock sounded from the door, “Excuse me ...” Mr. L. walked through the crowd of students. As soon as the suspect entered the room, Emily cowered behind the sea of students. Why does he have to have this math class? “I see someone was late to the game,” Mr. L. scolded. “Spare me your scoldings. I had to change my schedule because -- who wants to take photography? Not me!” He was straight to the point …. Mr. L. had actually laughed at his words, “Touché ... take off your hood, school rules.” “I apologize for my impertinence, but I didn’t take the time to read the handbook.” Emily couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not ... if he was, he’d be in for a surprise finding out there actually was a handbook that stated “no hats or hoods during class.” “Okay, okay, join everyone else,” Mr. L. waved his hand lazily. “Tim ... Tim, Tim, Tim … you sit on the far left.” As more and more names got called, Emily dreaded it. He’ll not
only know the name of his creep, but where she sits too ….
“Emi -- hm ... forget it, just sit back at your old seat,” Mr. L. gestured towards Emil and pointed at her seat. Ducking her head slightly, she walked towards it. After a few more names, only he was left. “Take the seat up front … any of you have any issues with the seat you were dealt?” Shad, the genius of the glass, raised his scrawny arm, “Actually Mr. L., my glasses broke over break ... you mind if I take a seat up front?” “I wonder how you could’ve done that,” Mr. L.’s eyes scanned the front row for a lucky person to sit in back. “New guy, switch with Shad.” Emily’s eyes grew the size of quarters. “I don’t mind. The cards can be unpredictable,” he lazily waved his hand as if to cue him. “Go on ahead.” Shad made his way up front ... while the redhead made his way down back. I scoff at predestination if this is what it has in store for me .... Sure, she didn’t know if she actually got caught or not, but being anywhere near him again made her feel like the biggest stalker in the world. “Now that the shuffling is over with, let’s finally lay out the cards. You --” He pointed at the new guy. “Introduce yourself.” Emily gave herself the benefit of the doubt and actually made the effort to get a look at his face. With her pale blue eyes on him, time stopped. Everything didn’t just click, it created a storm of emotions slamming her smack in the face with the force of a thousand paint brushes, quickly painting out the emotion of shock. From the shape of his face to the brown spot below his eye that he always had -- it was one of the people from her dream. The eldest.
“Ice cream for each of you …. One for ----, ---, Emily ... and moi. Enjoy.” “Sweet!” The sweetness ... such a nice contrast to the salt from the pretzels they ate before. “Is this your first time Emie? You were missing out!” A blonde boy messily spooned some in his mouth with his tongue. “Axel took us out for some once when you were on a trip!” The girl whose name started with
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an ‘A’ gave her vanilla a misty lick. “It’s so good!” “Emily, almost forgot, check if it says WINNER at the bottom of the cone, it means you win something,” he divulged. “Okay!” We sat in silence on the porch of the orphanage, lapping at our refreshing treat. “I see letters!” “Really?” “Yeah!” “Hurry!” “Guys, don’t make her get brainfreeze, let her savor it.” WINNER. He placed a hand on my head and ruffled my bangs,“Way to go!” “What does she win?” “I dunno, must be pretty nifty if it says WINNER... guess we are going to have to find out.” “Can we go now?” The blonde who was demolishing his ice cream sprang up as if he was the winner. “Sure, I don’t think it’s closed yet. Em, you’ve been quiet… excited?” I nodded and smiled, “I mean, I’m not special and I won outta luck, but I’m happy.” “What’re you talking about? You are special! C’mon, our winner has a prize to obtain!”
“The name’s Axel. Remember it.” At this point Emily threw her previous worries of being a creep out the window behind her. His hair had grown much longer, he even dyed it red! He looked so familiar, yet, like a completely different person at the same time. Those eyes ... the color of shining emeralds took the time to glance in her direction. Their eyes met. You are special! He casually turned away. As a child ... he was like their older brother. He took care of the bullies, he put a smile on their face to replace frowns, he shared his random knowledge ... took them for ice cream on the hot days.
Axel ... you don’t even remember me ....
“Find the six trigonometric functions of the triangle, go. First one to do it gets twenty extra points.” Mr. L. announced before going to his desktop computer to play solitaire. This was one day where she was happy she did well in Pre-Calculus, the teacher knew not to pester her in class for answers. This class period, she’d voluntarily dedicate to thinking about the guy beside her who had no idea of the emotions she felt. Entropy bombarded her thoughts while her heart shivered with excitement. She felt like screaming at something ... but she decided to take it out on her poor sketchbook, which inured the rapid pencil strokes. Hurry .... Emily mentally pulled at Ellie as she waited outside, using every ounce of her nonexistent telekinetic power to rush the girl out of the school. Axel had gotten detention after school. Who gets detention on the first day? Axel apparently. The girl next to him was complaining about sharing a textbook with him and Axel had to retort. Usually Mr. L’s detentions took twenty one minutes unless the student beat him the first time around at a game of 21. She wasn’t eager to see Axel right now. Hopefully he lost.While she remembered him, he took a simple glance and looked away as if he hadn’t seen her in his life. Emily wasn’t shy enough to despise the idea of confronting him, but a lingering nervousness was present nonetheless. Emily wasn’t particularly a timid person. She just didn’t like interacting with someone for the sake of interaction. She doesn’t seek out friends, and she certainly never interacted with someone for no good reason.
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No one else was necessary in her life ... but reconnecting with Axel was im-
portant … reconnecting with the other faces, whoever they were, was important too. Her interaction will have a reason. A motivation. He will remember.
* * * He had to get out. An option was to stay in town ... but that was the first option scribbled off. As much as he loves Zack and Ava, he had to. His foster parents kicked him out at the strike of 18. No one would provide him sanctuary. Zack and Ava were his only friends … they’d give him a home in a heartbeat, but their adoptive parents wanted nothing to do with him. He’d have to buy a place … but considering his lack of cash and the cost of living, it was impossible. Thus he left town. Zack … Ava …. Axel reminisced about his day, recalling his psycho AP Chemistry teacher who took the subject way too seriously, and the weirdo Pre-Calculus teacher that he beat at 21 and the lame card game references he made when he talked. He could only imagine what his other teachers were going to be like the next day. Other memorable things from the day included the kid who lugged around a sitar, the witch of Pre-Calculus who was way too upset about sharing a book, and the blonde who sat next to him in class that he’d caught drawing him at lunch. The smell of salt entered his nose once he pushed the heavy mahogany door out the way. He had always wanted to go to a beach so that was one plus of living in this town. Zack and Ava entered his thoughts, they always wanted to go too …. He wondered how his friends were holding up. Zack was semi-fine the last time they hung out, well, aside from home problems. Ava was fine too. And Emily, he hasn’t seen her in what, seven years? He wondered where she was ... if she stuck to her art like she said she would, if her adoptive parents are treating her well … if she ever thought of them …. Damn ... that ocean breeze feels good, he relished the smell of sea salt and the feel of the wind blowing his red tendrils. As he reached the very front of the school, something -- no, rather someone stopped him on his tracks. The same blonde whom he caught sketching his bad side earlier ... and the same one who sat next to him in math. The sight was oddly mystical, but the girl soon broke out of her gale trance once her pencil fell to the concrete ground. She bent down to get it only to spot someone else bending beside her. Her eyes widened as if she’d seen a giant spider crawling on his face. Her body stiffened and she immediately snatched the tool before slamming it against her sketchbook. Then, it hit him. “Come! Come quick!” “What’s wrong, what happened? “ “Bring a shoe, there’s a spider!” “Coming,” he sped down the stairs and kicked off one of his shoes into his right hand. “Where is it?” “Over there!” “Under here? It is long gone now Em, it can’t hurt you.” He looked under the couch before standing up and facing her. Her eyes went wide. “What? What’s wrong?” “It -- it’s on your face!”
“Emily ….” Was this even real? Was this actually occurring? That girl. She was Emily … little Emily... the girl who was frightened by spiders but fearless of the dark. The girl who only liked strawberry jam on her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The young girl who drew everywhere and every second she could. The inquisitive girl who used her gigantic blue eyes to answer every curiosity that plagued her mind. The girl he was just thinking about moments before! Emily …. Everything else just disappeared. He forgot trees existed, the sky too -- well, he
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didn’t forget, but he wasn’t able to acknowledge anything, anything but her. “Hm --?” Her enlarged eyes were a mixture of shock and yearning. He remembers now? He ... knows ....? Before she could fully register a thought, his body came crashing down into hers, engulfing her into a tight hug. She gave a grunt at the intrusion ... not that he was particularly intruding ... but the contact was just very sudden, the force unexpected but not unwelcome. “I’m glad I ran into you here, kid, honestly, if you weren’t here I’d have probably set the school ablaze by the end of this week.” “I am just going to completely ignore your comment about setting the school on fire.” Emily was surprised with how she interacted with Axel. She hasn’t seen him seven years! Yet they’re acting like they’ve known each other all those abandoned years. She felt … comfortable with him. “You don’t truly know me Emily, I am a pyromaniac.” “True … I saw the way you were eyeing that lighter earlier --,” she smacked a hand over her mouth. “A-ha! You admit to it!” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she denied. “It’s okay Em, you were inspired and I’m pretty cute. Too bad you got my bad side.” She rolled her eyes, “You want to see it?” Without even waiting for a response, she flipped to the previous page from the day and dangled it in front of his face. He reached up and grasped the pad, “What the hell? You were only there for like -- three minutes! How’d you do that? Are you a wizard?” “No, I’m not a wizard.” “You’re amazing! Jokes aside, you’re good kid. You’ve come so far along. You got an art class?” She nodded. “Speaking of class, what’s your schedule look like?” Emily casually took back the sketchbook and stuffed it into her satchel. “Well, today I had chem, shop, ceramics, and weirdo-gambling teacher -- by the way most of these teachers are crazy, why do they even work here? And tomorrow I had photography but I was quick to change that,” he chuckled, “So now I’m taking Latin instead --.” “You’re taking Latin?” Emily bursted out laughing. “Try me, I’m actually pretty good.” “Uhhh … flammis acribus addictus.” “Hm … well flammis is flames … yeah, I got nothing. Tell me.” “Consigned -- or doomed to flames of woe.” “That sounds pretty angsty.” “You got flammis right … uh, it is from Mozart’s requiem, Confutatis.” “Mozart was pretty emo, then,” Axel drawled. She giggled, “Well, he didn’t even get to finish his requiem, he died. And towards the end of his life, he was convinced he was writing it for himself.” “What a loony. Hey, maybe Ava can write mine.” “Ava?” Axel rubbed the back of his neck, “Oh -- yeah. Ava, she plays piano among other instruments and she loves composing music. She is really good.” His lips seeped into a proud smile. Ava … Is she one of the faces …? She looked on in desperation, “And?” “Uh … she likes to play basketball. Her and Zack do it all the time.” “Zack?” “Wait … do you know who Zack and Ava are?” He gave her a quizzical look. “Y-yes … go on.” How could she forget …. “Zack plays music too -- he plays guitar.” Emily continued urging him on. “He likes skateboarding? His favorite color is orange? He sleeps with his hands over his stomach? You want to know everything, don’t you?”
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And she did want to know everything about them. She needed to. She just had to … she didn’t even remember their names … she was such a terrible person. “Can we go see them?” “You … you want to go see them?” “Yes.” He thought about it, “You had the chance these past few years, they’re only three hours away by train, why didn’t you take those chances? You hate us that much Em?” he joked. “I …” Why didn’t she? She knew he wasn’t being serious … but why didn’t she …. He glanced to the girl and saw guilt taking the form of furrowed eyebrows and tears. She looked down at her lap, only paying attention to her twiddling fingers while little droplets splashed onto them. “I was playing,” he assured, “I’m sure it couldn’t have been that easy.” “I forgot you guys Axel … I’m so terrible … I don’t even deserve to see them.” “Stop right there,” Axel brought her head up, his thumb firmly pressed against her chin. Emil did not want to look at him. After the request she made, after asking to see them despite not caring only a week before, she didn’t deserve him trying to make her feel better. “You know what my ideology on meeting people is? That every person I met, I wanted them to remember me … only inside people’s memories could I live forever, yanno? It may seem silly, Hell, I find it to be really cheesy, but that’s what I feel. But even if I don’t, nothing is ever truly forgotten. Just takes time to remember. You wanna know something? I committed a worse offense to Zack and Ava than you ever could. I left them … him. Zack -- he … his adoptive parents abuse him. Whenever he had problems at home -- if I dare even call it his home -- he would text me … to meet up with him, to console and hang out with him. I, the closest thing he has to an older brother, I left him. I abandoned him there … and to make my life easier. It was an impulsive decision and I feel like crap. So … don’t feel like you committed a malicious crime because what you did doesn’t compare to what I did. I had a choice. You, you didn’t. Alright?” She didn’t know what to say. Axel’s eyebrows subtly creased, his eyes narrowed and she swore she saw tears threatening to leak. Zack …. Axel left him. Zack, the boy with the small smile and hair the color of sunflowers … the boy who she learned liked to sing and skate, he was being mistreated in his home … by those that willingly adopted him. “You probably have good reason …,” she insisted, “But if you regret it, you should go back ….” “I’m already settled here.” “But … they need you … more than I do.” “I do regret leaving but hey, if I never left I wouldn’t have reconnected with you.” He smiled warmly at her. “But you know what, I am going to go back.” It sucked, they had just reconnected … but she understood. “To visit. And you’re going to come with me.” Today is the day.
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Advice for Future Graduates By Vanessa Placidon, class of 2016
High school has had its ups and downs. From the friends we’ve made to the memories we’ve built, it has allowed many of us to discover who we really are and what we hope to achieve in life. The ending of high school has brought about a time of reflection. I ask myself in these last few weeks: who has really made a positive impact on my life? Who will continue to support me in the coming years? What have I truly taken from my experience here? And what advice do I have for those struggling to see what the real purpose is? I have gathered what I have gained in the past four years of my life and summed it up here to provide advice for anyone out there who may need it. You are in high school, you are young, and you have the perfect opportunity in your hands in this very moment to use what you have and make the most of your time here. Some of us may have more than others, but regardless of what we think we may have, we all have the opportunity to do something with ourselves, find a purpose, and use our time wisely to prepare ourselves for a better future. You may currently be in a situation that is negatively affecting you and you feel you cannot escape it. I encourage you to see the brighter side and allow yourself to let that brightness in. Amongst all the things that you feel are bringing you down and not allowing you to be happy and move forward, find something, anything, that acts as a flicker of hope and happiness. It may be a far stretch and something so small, but keep reaching for that and use it to fuel you and carry you forward. Once again, we are all young and are in the perfect place for opportunity. Do not allow yourself to be consumed by the expectations of those around you. Do not let the media tell you who you should be, do not let bad friends tell you what you should do, and do not let unsupportive family members tell you what your worth is. Your life is in your hands and only you can lead your life in the right direction. Real friends will support your decisions and help you succeed. I hope you are able to recognize the difference between the good friends who will support the positive aspects of your life, and the bad friends who will only be friends with you if you follow them and are influenced by their choices and expectations of you. Find a way to exclude negativity from your life. Don’t let it bring you down. You may feel that no one else around you will understand how you feel, that no one else has ever been in your shoes and your situation. The world is a big place. There will always be someone who has dealt with what you have dealt with and been through what you have been through. You are not alone and you shouldn’t let that get in the way of success.
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You may not think that what you have and where you are is enough to push you forward. If that is the case, change it. You have the power in your hands to change your situation. Others around you may not like it and may not support the changes you wish to make, but do it anyway if you feel it is for the best. Sacrifices must be made in order for us to be truly happy. You can change your life for the best, but you have to realize it sooner rather than later. Our lives are not set in stone. We can choose the path we wish to take. Some will choose the right path, others won’t. You need to be on the side that chooses the right path. I have not always agreed with the path where my life was heading. It took a while for me to realize that I could change things, but I eventually did. I used what I had to build positivity in my life and turn it to my advantage. I was able to understand the ways in which I could change my life and take the right path. I am now content with most things in my life because I took the steps to become happy and am making an effort to continue to be happy in the future. I made sacrifices and am still making sacrifices, but I am okay with that. Again, I would like to encourage you to understand that you have the power to improve your life. Your entire life lies within your hands and you must choose what to do with it. Rather than feel that there is nothing you can do and rather than simply following what others say, take charge and make positive changes. Do not be dragged down by something that seems so large now, but in reality is something small and can easily be changed. Do not be negatively influenced by your surroundings and do not fall prey to society’s expectations. Be the one to make a difference and become a better person. In the end, it is your life and you are the only one living it from your perspective. Make the most of what life has to offer.
Photograph by Graciela Urquiza, class of 2016
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Colophon Wild Horses is a literary magazine showcasing writing and artwork from students at John Muir High School in Pasadena, California. As with any publication, the views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of the John Muir faculty, staff, or the Pasadena Unified School District. The 2015-2016 edition was created with Adobe InDesign using Lucinda Calligraphy, Noteworthy and Calibri fonts. 150 copies were printed by DiggyPOD. Submissions Members of the Wild Horses Editorial Staff evaluate submissions based on artistic merit, originality and variety. The Editorial Staff reserves the right to edit material for both clarity and correctness. The original writers and artists retain copyright of their work. John Muir students are encouraged to make submissions throughout the school year by emailing: wildhorsesmagazine@gmail.com Acknowledgments I would like to thank the Pasadena Educational Foundation for their generous grant to fund the printing of this book. Their continuing support of this literary magazine allows John Muir High School’s talented students an amazing opportunity to shine. I am also grateful to Rosalina Rodriguez, whose donation to this book’s production allowed us to include more color images than ever before. This book would not exist without the amazing eye and tenacious leadership of Chief Editor Yasmine Rodriguez, a senior, who has devoted countless hours to this project, from the submission to production process. Her intelligence, commitment and humor have made this collaboration a joy. I am also indebted to our school principal, Timothy Sippel, and our assistant principals, Brian James and Gloria Rodriguez, for their encouragement and guidance. Other key staff whose assistance helped make the dream of this book a reality are: William Abanyie, design teacher; Cynthia Lake, art teacher; classified staff Jessica Barrios and Rosalina Rodriguez, who helped with numerous details, and all the amazing teachers in the English Department. Wild Horses Faculty Advisor Maggie Gillham
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