Wild Horses Literary Magazine Volume 2

1

2

Wild Horses Literary Magazine

2014-2015 Volume 2 John Muir High School Pasadena, California This book is made possible by a generous grant from the Rotary Club of Altadena.

1

Table of Contents Cover Design Fatima Robles, class of 2017

Art Jessica Bernal 7, 42 Raven Bridges-Jackson 34, 69 Andres De La Torre

21, 27

Cheyenne Goddard

9, 38, 62

Jesse Gonzalez 8 Melissa Gonzalez 53 Juan Guillen 39, 60 Dyllan Johnson 59, 79 Michaela Jordan

15, 51, 73

Constance Kay 44 Consuelo Martinez 29. 74 Francisco Merlos 12-13, 30 Jerzy Messan 22, 47, 77 Victoria Pulcifer 1, 35 Esmeralda Robles 71 Delacey Rodriguez 23, 41 Jayson Salvador 32-33 Wendy Trujillo 55 Georgina Velasco 54

Poetry Oscar Benn 70-71 Jose Claros 12-13 Eric Duncan 43 Consuelo Martinez 4-7, 74-76 Rosa Morales 22 2

Yesenia Nunez 52 Vanessa Placidon 45 Victoria Pulcifer 23 Philomena Verceles 54

Prose Taicyanna Butler 32 Sydney Cattouse 40 Angel Diaz 24-26 Eric Duncan 72 Rachel Ford 10-11, 56-58 Rebecca Gutierrez 28-29 Danielle Obregon 14 Logan Patton 46 John Marshall Pointer 31 Victoria Pulcifer 61 Anthony Ramirez 44 Yasmine Rodriguez 63-68 Drae Upshaw

16-20, 48-50

Julio Zelaya 36-38, 78

3

A Letter to Everyone

By Consuelo Martinez, class of 2015

Dear black students, you put your fists up in the air chant “black power” and preach about how black lives matter but you will still draw white chalk lines between yourselves tell each other you are not black enough if your skin is too amber, too honey but black men will still want women lighter than their mothers, lighter than their sisters Young Latinas will wait on you hand and foot if you are caramel as their frappuccinos, with colored eyes that have tints of blue and specks green that remind them of rolled joints, Heineken bottles and money they don’t have and they will tell you they want light skinned, colored eyed babies before they can even tell you what they want to major in yet you will call your own worse than those more privileged than you for being too black that they disappear into the darkness Criticize your women when their weave isn’t Brazilian or Indian but put them on a pedestal if it’s “white” enough shame them when they are confident enough to show off their real hair And the only compliments they will know growing up is they are “pretty for a black girl.”

Dear people who say they want to have light skinned babies, where were you in biology class?

Is the concept of recessive and dominant genes so difficult to fathom?

That you cannot predict the skin color of a mixed child?

I hope your child’s eyes are darker than the blood that is spilled on our streets.

With ethereal skin, dark and rich as the earth in which King was buried in Dear white America that appropriates just about anything, You are just everywhere aren’t you?

Prancing around Olvera Street in search of something “ethnic” a bindi on your forehead, crop top with ironic statements, poetic justice braids, you call it aesthetics But that “exotic” shirt on your back sewn by my Mexican and Native brothers and sisters does not belong to you.

And you are so used taking things and claiming it yours.

Put a hashtag on everything, “Bring back OUR girls” as if you haven’t taken enough.

Society disses people of color but will want to look for our features in someone white.

You take our bodies, our hair, our style on us it’s ghetto, ugly, it makes others uncomfortable But it’s chic, it’s trendy, it’s new, on you.

And then when I call you out on it, 4

you’ll call me a reverse racist and go on to blog about your day.

I just gave a lesson in biology, so here’s one in privilege Racism is based on a system of oppression.

You cannot oppress the oppressor.

Dear current generation, You tune out the discussions in your history and American government classes about current events, refuse to join into the conversation, refuse to understand, but bring up a debate on why marijuana should be legal and suddenly everybody begins to itch. But no, you continue to stare blankly at your Instagram feed, turn up the volume in your earphones, then have the audacity to say, “Why should I care? It doesn’t affect me, this isn’t my problem.”

There are women too scared to walk down a street alone in fear of being catcalled, being told that she was “asking for it,” yelling “fire” because no one will ever respond to “rape” There are young colored boys too scared to walk down a street alone in fear of being questioned because of the skin they were born with, being frisked, yelling, “don’t shoot” but still feeling the bullet.

Your own kin are being thrown back across borders every day.

Your own kin are being killed every second of the day.

People in the communities surrounding us see our faces and the melanin of our skin, see the hoods that we grow up in, see the school that we go to stick us under a stereotype, a statistic and think we won’t make it anywhere in life besides the streets, but you still say, “This isn’t my problem” Dear history teachers, We are taught about freedom, but voices are silenced.

Words edited to fit pages with margins too thick, paper too thin.

They say that ideas are bulletproof but mine have been shot down too many times that the glass has shattered and my words are already bleeding.

You will want to worship someone, something, out of the norm then those expressing their “freedom,” will deride it turn a world against you You see, people are so quick to defend problematic beliefs with “freedom” So let’s turn the tables believe it or not there are comics that make a mockery of 9/11 but how many do you think ripped up those pages?

So pull out your “freedom” card, draw a comic about the Paris massacre, and practice what you preach.

I ask you, if it was your God,

5

would you still be pulling out Voltaire quotes? no religion, no God, is ever violent yet we tie violence to faces tie those faces to a religion and call it terrorism.

You say “je suis Charlie” I say “je ne suis pas Charlie” I am not Charlie.

Because I will not slander a religion so beautiful and call it a right.

It is all blasphemy.

You say you are Charlie, but you are part of the problem.

Call it what you will, but all you are doing is terrorizing the freedom of others.

Martin Luther King Jr. once said “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”

Dear friends, When you see an interracial couple hold hands You joke around and say, “This is what MLK died for” no he didn’t he was murdered.

Dear Trayvon, You would’ve turned 20 this year.

February marked 3 years but you started fading after the 4th month becoming another name on a list of slain black boys another lyric in rapper’s verse another hashtag white people felt obligated to tweet.

We worried more about a hood on a young black boy rather than the white hoods that already exist because let’s face it, if the KKK were any other color but white, it would have been labeled a domestic terrorist organization and dismantled before it could even begin.

Dear Emmett, It’s been 60 years Dear King, It’s been 47 years Dear Sean, It’s been 8 years Dear Oscar, It’s been 6 years Dear Brandon Franchise Jackson, It’s been 4 years Dear Jordan, It’s been 3 years Dear Eric, It’s been 10 months Dear Tyree, John, Michael, Dante, and Ezell, It’s been 9 months 6

Dear Tamir, It’s been 6 months Dear Rumain, It’s been 5 months Dear Eric, Walter, and Freddie, It’s been 1 month Dear next victim, You make me count and recount all of my loved ones every day.

Dear Dr. King, I am sorry that we have turned your dream into a nightmare we have yet to wake up from.

Photograph by Jessica Bernal, class of 2015

7

Art by Jesse Gonzalez, class of 2018

8

Art by Cheyenne Goddard, class of 2015

9

Dian and Thorn

By Rachel Ford, class of 2016

10

A seven-year-old girl by the name of Dian Evans walks out of a dance studio at six-thirty p.m. heading to her orphanage. She’s still in her ballerina outfit, since she doesn’t feel comfortable changing clothes there.

You’ve been waiting too long, Thorn.

Her living quarters are about an hour away, half the time if she catches a bus.

But she never does. Too many people tend to stare at her outfit and question her age.

Your time is almost up.

As the sun begins to set, she picks up the pace. It’s far too dangerous to be out this late. She knows this because her caretaker constantly nags her about it.

All you’ve been doing is watching a girl go through her days.

She’s nearly home. Just a couple more blocks….

It’s time to act.

She stops as I appear about five yards in front of her, standing under a flickering street lamp. Her breath begins to quicken. “U-um ... hello? Mister? Are you all right?”

“….” I raise my hand and point it towards her. The street lamp bulb breaks; Dian flinches at the sound and begins to back away in fear. She turns to run, but something grabs her from behind. She hears her own voice from behind her: “Relax ... it’ll be better soon.” The girl struggles to get away, but fails as her own shadow covers her mouth then the rest of her body in black. She tries to let out a scream, but no sound emerges. I slowly walk towards her and put my hand on her head.

“I’m sorry, but that was necessary.” She stops writhing at the sound of my voice. The shadow melts into the ground again, leaving her unconscious. Her skin is now a light gray, her outfit now torn and black. There are white ribbons covering her legs and hands. Her already black hair seems to have grown longer. I gently pick her up and cradle her in my arms.

At least I got one .… A black portal opens next to me; I step inside and close it, leaving Earth. *****

“One? You only got one?? JUST ONE??” My advisor, along with the rest of the council, is glaring at me in frustration. “Do I have to go over how to claim minions again?!”

“N-no it’s just --”

“All you have to do is find an orphaned child at night, use their shadows to corrupt them, and speed up their growth process! It’s not that complicated!”

“I know, it’s just that --”

“What were you DOING for those three human months?? I know damn well you weren’t just sightseeing --.”

“LUCAS. Look, I’m new to this whole ‘minion’ thing, but I get the gist of it. I was focusing on a particular orphan.”

“FOR THREE MONTHS?!”

“Yes. I-I don’t know, she just reminded me of the daughters I built a while back....”

Lucas covers his face with his hands in irritation. “I don’t think you should be focusing on that at the moment. I am sorry for your, hell, all of our losses, but we’re going to war with the Lightened again, and I don’t think they’ll focus on crap like that.”

“... You’re right, I guess….”

“You’re lucky that the other soldiers managed to go over their quota. Those minions will have to fill in for your loss. Now go home, please. Try to prepare the one you DID get for war.” He and the council step out of the room through the main doors.

I leave after them to avoid their cold stares, deep in thought. It isn’t that difficult to find human children who won’t be missed as much. A decent amount of Earth’s kids are without parents or assumed to be dead. All they will be missing is a life of work and mediocrity. Yet, I can’t help but hesitate when I pull a human from their reality. They’re mentally fragile creatures, each with their own beliefs on how the world was created and how it sustains itself. But no absolutes. All they can do is blindly grasp at answers and call it fact. I honestly believe that’s a good thing.... It’s better than our reality. It’s so easy to pull them out of their own turmoil and into ours, and most of us don’t give it a second thought. That’s probably why the soldiers could fill their quota quickly.

“Thorn? Thorn!” The vibration snapped me out of deep thought. “Would you quit standing there and come in already? It’s getting creepy.” That’s when I realized I was already in front of my house’s front door. Oh.

“Sorry.” I stepped in and closed the door quickly.

“What, we’re you thinking about how to buy yourself more time?” His eyes flickered in amusement as the colors flashed.

“Oh ha ha. Did you meet your quota too, Vine?”

“Of course I did! Actually, I’m going to train them right now. Gotta get them in their prime and everything, ya know? Anyways, your minion is on the couch nappin’.

Good luck with that.” He strolled out through the front door; I watched him leave then stepped into the main room. Dian, like Vine said, was asleep on the left half of the couch in a fetal position, surprisingly at ease. I sat next to her and patted her head gently.

The likeliness between her and my last daughter was astounding. I couldn’t believe it.

Maybe.... She shifted a bit, stretched her arms and legs, then quickly sat up. The look she gave me was the very definition of tired.

“...? Wha... Where am I? Who are you? ... Who am I?” Her expression became blank, as if she just realized what she said. I forgot. Minions don’t remember their pasts.

“I’m Thorn. You’re at home.”

“Home? Uh... Where is that? And again, who AM I?”

“Just home... I’ll explain it later.”

“Alright, but WHO. AM. I.”

I was trying to dodge the last question to come up with a name, but I couldn’t think of anything good. “Uh. You are...”

“Uh-huh?”

“K...K-Kidd.”

“Kid?”

“With two D’s.”

“Better than nothing, I guess.”

“Oh. Okay then!” I said.

She jumped off the couch and looked around the room. “This place is HUGE.” She glanced at me, then looked up at my face with her mouth wide open. “Are you a giant? How tall are you?” She jumped onto my lap. “You must be like, twenty feet tall.”

“W-Well uh... I’m not that.”

Before I could respond, she was already perched on my shoulder.

11

Breathing

By Jose Claros, class of 2017

To explain how I feel would be like running up a hill, And after jumping off it, I expect my wings to fill I feel like someone has wrapped a cloth around my head so tight, That I can’t see any light Someone burns me with a hot poker, While another burns me with ice, Though both tell me their feeling is right To tell the truth What I know most is, Being left out at sea, knowing no one is coming to rescue me Breathing here, underwater, makes me think of life as more than just a bother After I’ve given up and sunken down I realize that I’m not going to drown But beneath the crashing waves, Where happy thoughts implode under the pressure And angry screams travel faster than ever, Deep below me great plates shift But I drift on slow currents, unnoticed It’s not a choice to stay

12

Swimming Out to You

By Jose Claros, class of 2017

I wish we’d be together Maybe we never will These thoughts have left me Up on this lonely hill Do you know that shattered feeling, When your heart can’t find its meaning Well, I just don’t know if I can roll into the sea again I just don’t know if I can do it all over again I’m caught again in this mystery You’re by my side, but are you still with me?

I know the answer’s deep in you Cause your pretty face gives me no clue But I just have to tell you that I, Know you’re amazing in so many ways I have to tell you that I, Love you so much these days, it’s true Your gorgeous sea lies in front of me, And beauty is all that my eye can see I’m rolling in and caught again Swimming out to you

Photograph by Francisco Merlos, class of 2015

13

11:00 Relapse

By Danielle Obregon, class of 2018

One hour before midnight, the thought that has always been lingering in the deepest corners of my mind came out and attacked me. I am going to die. In fact, with every second I am alive, I am only a second closer to death, so are any us really living, or is life just a 90 year long obstacle? Noise pounded harshly on my windowpane and everything inside me felt ice cold except my eyes, which overflowed with heat. Half of me wanted desperately to be gone, and the other half thought maybe it’s not that my wish was to die or be murdered or kill myself, but to be dead without having to go through the trouble of dying, getting murdered or killing myself. It felt like hours had passed, but it was barely midnight under the water that burned my skin and dried only to make me cold again. Did I cry in my sleep? Did I even sleep at all? One, two, three in the morning, and if knowledge is power, then relieve me of it, let me be a simple minded person with a simple life, free of tormenting thoughts, living my life oblivious to horrors and secrets and unanswered questions. The only thing that scares me about that is conforming to the ways of the world, to not grow or to not understand. I decided I didn’t know what I wanted, not now or ever.

My curtains are opened to reveal the black sky and the transparent tongues on my window. And with all those frozen smiles on my wall, at six in the morning, I began to feel like one big painting, but never a masterpiece ….

And when the world was without time, there I was, my fingers were stiff and plastic, but they were still my fingers, and my brother stood before me, and I saw myself in him. I saw the stars on my ceiling, just sitting on my ceiling.

Art by Michaela Jordan, class of 2015

14

15

The Sandwich

By Drae Upshaw, class of 2016

16

17

18

19

20

Art by Andres De La Torre, class of 2015

21

What is Love?

By Rosa Morales, class of 2018

Love is the best You always smile as he says your name in that special way that makes the butterflies go crazy the way he holds you as if you were his life preserver the way his eyes glow when you’re around as he comes closer your heart beats rapidly boom boom thump boom boom when you’re near him time shows down tick … tock … tick … tock … tick … tock all you see is his face his eyes are clear as ice so full of love for you you know he is the one for never before have you felt this way you feel a flame inside you spark for the first time in a long time you feel alive

Photograph by Jerzy Messan, class of 2015

22

Flowers

By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

I look at the flowers and feel happiness.

Colors that drown in the soft golden rivers of sunlight, Scents that are foreign but welcoming, like a dream.

A touch of silky flesh, petals.

When the rain falls, they capture the delicate beads of crystal And cradle them like small infants; silent, asleep.

Perfect spheres of water, unbroken.

When the wind blows, they sing. It is a song you and I cannot hear.

A song which coos softly to the fluttering butterflies and the buzzing bees nearby.

Together, in harmony, this is the softest song of nature.

Photograph by Delacey Rodriguez, class of 2015

23

Layla and Majnun

By Angel Diaz, class of 2015

24

I couldn’t hold on much longer. My grip was loosening but She didn’t seem to be fazed. “Hold on!” I scream, but She was slipping out of my hands and I knew if I let go She would fall into that abyss that didn’t seem to have an end. When my grip finally gave out I could see Her going down in the distance. What’s this feeling though? It felt like I was flying away from Her. I wasn’t flying, I was falling, and She’s the one that let me go. I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming. It was just a dream. This must have been the third time this week. It was just a dream. This mantra kept me from remembering the vivid scene reverberating in my head. Wait, what was it again? It was just a dream.

Why can’t I remember? It was just a dream. It was just a dream. The only comfort I had was thinking about Her. Somehow I got some more sleep and decided maybe I should go to school. I hadn’t seen my friends for a while and hadn’t been to school even longer than that.

Mom still hadn’t gotten home from her trip so I didn’t have to but I decided to go anyway. The worst part of being at school was running into my ex Natalie who was still mad that I was spending too much time with Her. Either way She told me to break up with Nat because she was too demanding and she could never understand the relationship that we shared. I believed Her. She always knows what’s best. Always.

After school I thought I heard Her calling me to come back to my house so I followed Her voice. As I walked home I looked at the cars passing through the busy street. They didn’t look as dangerous as people make them seem, and I also felt that if I were to walk in the street and be hit by one it wouldn’t hurt at all. I started to walk off the curb, but right before I had a chance to find out, someone pulled me away screaming his head off. Something about the guy screaming “What’s wrong with you?” made me laugh and put me in a good mood.

When I got to my house I found Her waiting for me upstairs in my room with the shades drawn and the lights off. She spoke for a few minutes about life and death and how the transcendence is the most enjoyable part of the entire cycle.

I talked about how I saw Nat today. She got angry and stopped speaking. I could tell that She didn’t want me to see her anymore. I could tell that She didn’t want me to go to school anymore. She wanted me to be with her longer. She is more important. She is always right. Always.

She got up and left without saying another word. She never really says goodbye and I think its because She never really leaves. I looked at the clock; it said 11:34. That’s wrong. There’s no way it’s already 11:34 at night. I went downstairs to check the other clock and to see what time it was and I saw that the sun was still up.

I knew I couldn’t have been up there for six hours, but still, all the other clocks had the same time. I walked out to get the newspaper after breakfast. It was dated Tuesday, January 16, 1950. That couldn’t be right. Today is the 15th. Did I stay up in my room for 18 hours? It can’t be. It was only a couple of minutes. It was only a couple of minutes. It was only a couple of minutes. *****

A man dressed in a jacket and tie knocked on my door. He came inside and introduced himself as a truant officer and said that I’d missed a couple of weeks of school. He also kept saying that it smelled horrible inside. I didn›t like him and I›m sure She didn’t either. He demanded to see my mother, but I told him that she was away on a trip with her new boyfriend and that she would be back on Thursday. He

nodded and told me to go to school tomorrow. He was on his way out when he stopped abruptly. He looked at the floor and saw a puddle coming from my mom’s room that I hadn’t noticed before. He looked at me sternly and then opened the door. He told me to stay where I was but I rushed over; I saw my mom… dead on the floor next to a revolver.

There was blood everywhere.

The cops told me my mom had been dead for at least a week and that her boyfriend said the trip had been a disaster, they’d broken up and returned home two weeks ago. The cops believed my mother had been so traumatized she shot herself a few days later. A psychiatrist met with me and said I wasn’t well because I couldn’t remember any of this and I didn’t notice that she had been dead in the house. He told me that I was going to a place where I could get better. I didn’t want to go. They can’t take me. I won’t be able to see Her. They can’t do this… they can’t! I tried to leave, but to no avail.

Then I saw Her. I’m not sure how She got there but She told me to calm down and that She would follow me wherever I go. I smiled.

Next thing I knew I was on my way to an insane asylum. I was told I would have two years of therapy, then, if I improved, I would be released into society again. When I got to the large brick building I saw nuns rushing around trying to keep the loonies from eating things they shouldn’t and relieving themselves on the floor. I wasn’t like them. They’re animals. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.

That first night I dreamt of Her; Her soft, mesmerizing voice resonated through my skull like an echo through the chasms of time and space. Her appearance morphed between a Venus of Urbino and a Leviathan, something to be admired and desired at one moment and then something to be avoided like a succubus. Her snow white hair and pale skin contrasted with her blood red eyes which stared out empty and expressionless. Her half smile was always warm and inviting, and gave the impression that She knew something I didn’t. I loved Her more than anything, more than King Midas loved gold.

The next day I told the shrink everything about myself, but for some reason, he was more interested in Her. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia and he told me that I would not be able to see Her for a while if I wanted to get out. She came to visit me a few days later. I told Her I was going to start treatment and that She couldn’t visit me for awhile. Her face didn’t change but black tears started to run down Her face.

I tried to comfort Her, but She wouldn’t respond. Maybe She was in shock. I started panicking and shouting and the nurses dragged me away from Her. I kept on screaming “I love you” at the top of my lungs, and the last thing I remember before they sedated me was seeing Her smile again.

The next couple of months were a living hell. The doctors decided that shock therapy would be a good way to help me get better. I screamed before each session and as they strapped me down and put wet sponges on my head, I heard a nurse hum a lullaby that was supposed to calm me down. At night, I could still feel the buzzes of electricity after I was asleep and for some reason I stopped having dreams all together, just darkness. I thought I heard Her voice in my sleep but it was all distorted and just sounded like buzzing. As time passed, I heard Her voice less and less. Memories of my previous life and Her seemed to be slipping out of my reach. Time passed slowly. �������������������������������������������������������������������

Before the two years was up, I was told I had improved and was released. The only condition was weekly appointments with my shrink. So I found an apartment nearby and got a job at a drugstore. I hated my job. I hated this city. I felt empty inside but I couldn’t remember why. Something was missing, but what was it?

Today was very tiring, maybe I should just go home but I was desperate for a haircut.

I haven’t had one since I got out of the asylum. I knew that I couldn’t look crazy if I

25

wanted people to believe I’m better.

When I got to the barbershop, I was led immediately to a chair. The place wasn’t busy that day, maybe because of the room. It had this dingy white paint (just like the asylum), and these old ripped leather chairs (just like the asylum) and the old man looked menacing and evil like some mad scientist (just like the asylum). This is not the asylum. I did my time. I got better. The barber said, “Are you okay son, you’re sweatin’ quite a bit.”

“I’m fine,” I said. I’m not in the asylum. I’m not in the asylum. I’m not in the asylum. This mantra should keep me calm. Then I heard buzzing. I knew they were just the clippers but I got scared. I ran out of the barbershop screaming, “I’m not ready today! I’m not ready for the session!” The buzzing didn’t stop when I turned down the alley that lead to my apartment and I saw the nurse who gave me the shock therapy. She was dressed up as a waitress. She couldn’t fool me. I knew it was her, it had to be. Then I heard the hum of the lullaby. I had to stop that nurse. So I grabbed a brick from the pavement and started to hit her on the head again and again. There was blood everywhere, but I was smiling because I wasn’t ever going to get shock therapy from her again. I hit her again and again until you couldn’t tell that there was ever a head there to begin with.

I looked at the blood with contentment; it reminded me of eyes for some reason. Whose eyes? Then like a bolt of lightning it came to me. Her. But where is She. Where did She go? Where did She go! I threw the brick across the alley in fury, washed the blood off my hands in a large puddle and rushed to the asylum. The shrink knew. He is the only one who would. When I got there he was just finishing with another patient. “Where is She?” “Who?” he said, as if he didn’t know.

“You know damn well, Doc! You said that I had to take a break from seeing Her!” He sighed, “She’s not real; She never was.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I saw Her right before I came in this damned place! You pulled us apart!”

“She is a figment of your imagination! She’s never coming back, you are well now.”

“You’re out of your mind, Doc! I can hear Her now.” And it was true. I could hear Her telling me to save Her and to get rid of the bad man who was keeping us apart.

She’s right. It would be the only way. I need Her now more than ever and if they took Her away I would make sure everyone feels the pain that I felt when I first lost Her. “Look, calm down. I’ll call in the nurse to help us figure things out … you’ve made such…” Before he could say another word I lunged at him and started to wring his neck until his face turned a dark purple. Then when I looked up, She was there and more beautiful than ever. She looked down, gave me a half smile, held Her hand down to my face, and pointed to the pen on the shrink’s desk.

She whispered, “If you love me you’ll stick that pen in your neck, and we can be together forever,” then gave me a kiss. As I walked to the desk with a grin like the Cheshire Cat and tears coming down my face, I finally remembered my dream. I felt like I was falling all over again but this time I wasn’t scared because I knew She was going to be there to catch me. As I slowly impaled my neck with the pen, She giggled uncontrollably and I couldn’t have felt happier.

26

Art by Andres De La Torre, class of 2015

27

Sisters Forever

By Rebecca Guiterrez, class of 2016

“Sara look, come quick, I found something,” ten-year old Annabelle yelled to her twin sister. The identical rascals, as their parents called them, shared the traits of dark brown eyes and auburn hair. But there is always a difference that sets twins apart, for these two it was personality; Annabelle was the outgoing girl, while Sarabeth was the more sophisticated, serious one. Once Sara reached her crouching sister she was beginning to feel sick again, but shrugged it off since she was intrigued to see what her sister had found. It was a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. Its beauty captivated the girls.

Sara was amazed by the miracle she was witnessing. She looked over at Anna, smiled and said, “We should go inside; it’s almost time for dinner.”

Later that evening, Anna and Sara went to their room to get ready for bed.

Their room was beside their baby brother Ethan’s room. Ethan was two years younger than the girls. Unlike the twins, Ethan resembled their father, black hair with the greenest eyes you’ll ever see. As soon as the girls stepped into their room they ran to their beds and began jumping joyfully. “Sara!!!” whisper-yelled Anna.

“What?” groaned Sara.

“Do you remember when we were younger we used to say ‘Sisters forever’ every night because of that movie mom showed us?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Sara said. She smiled and turned around to face her sister.

“Sisters,” Anna started.

“Forever,” Sara ended it and they both fell down on the beds and climbed under the covers. **** It is now 3 a.m. and Sara is covered in sweat, feeling weak. Luckily the girls have their own bathroom. Sara goes in, slumps down next to the toilet, and throws up violently.

Anna hears her sister and jumps off her bed to be with her. When she sees Sara, she rushes to her side and starts rubbing circles onto her back. She fetches a towel to wipe off the sweat dripping down Sara’s face. “Are you okay?” Anna asks.

“No. I still feel very weak, and I think I’m going to throw up again.”

Sara looks pale; it is getting harder for her to keep her eyes open. Suddenly, her nose starts bleeding. Anna stares at her sister with fear in her eyes. Then she runs into their parents’ room to beg for help. “Mommy, Daddy,” she says, holding back tears. Her mom jumps up hearing her daughter plead.

“What, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” she says, inspecting her daughter and waking up her husband, William.

“No, but it’s Sara,” Anna says, the tears now getting the best of her, “she’s upstairs throwing up and bleeding from her nose and I didn’t know what to do, so I ran down here.” Her dad gets up quickly, kisses her forehead and runs upstairs. He discovers Sara lying on the floor. He kneels down and feels as if his heart is breaking.

“Sara, sweetie,” he says, “you’re okay now.” She lets out a weak cry. Lifting his daughter in her arms, he carries her downstairs. “We need to leave now,” he tells his wife.

“Okay, I’ll get Ethan,” she says, leaving the room in urgency. As both her parents run around getting dressed, Anna comforts her sister who is pale, her lips discolored.

Sara whimpers from the pain, so Anna rubs her back and whispers sweet words to her.

Their dad carries Sara to the car, everyone piles in, and they head quickly to the hospital.

28

After five hours of agonizing waiting, the doctors finally emerge from Sara’s room; her parents walk up to him, bombarding him with questions. Anna could see in his eyes that the news he is about to say is not good. Anna and Ethan stay in the waiting room, watching their parents’ reactions but unable to hear. Andrea hugs her husband, crying, while William also struggles to prevent tears from falling. Once they calmed down, they walk towards their son and daughter, who look at them with curious eyes.

“Well,” their father starts, “your sister is alive and that’s what matters, but it’s what caused all this that will be more difficult to explain. Your sister will be sick for a very long time and we’ll need to be careful with her. Sara needs our support and strength so she can get better. Okay?” The children nod in agreement. William and Andrea take both of them to Sara’s room.

Once Anna steps into the room she knows she will have to be strong for her family. She also knows that from that moment on her whole life will change.

Art by Consuelo Martinez, class of 2015

29

Photograph by Francisco Merlos, class of 2015

30

Keep Calm and Lead On: A Speech to Educators

By John Marshall Pointer, class of 2016

The world of education is at stake. We, the students, need to learn from you, our educational leaders, in order to lead the way into the future. As prime minister of Great Britain for a total of nine years, Winston Churchill led his country from the brink of defeat to victory against Nazi Germany in World War II. If one could surmise the one skill and quality Churchill possessed to galvanize his country to greater success, it would be perseverance, the steadfastness in doing something despite difficulty or delay in achieving success. Student leaders are constantly faced with tasks that are important for long-term goals, but in the short-term, these tasks are not desirable. Successful student leaders who practice and hone perseverance and critical thinking during these tasks are happier and better able to handle stress.

Student leaders need to practice perseverance in their communities, in their homes, and in their schools. Students may not necessarily achieve their goals when they are envisioned, but that is clearly what it means to persevere -- to Keep Calm and Lead On until the goals are reached. Churchill stated, “If you are going through hell, keep going!” Why must student leaders in the 21st century persevere? I’m glad you asked. If student leaders do not persevere, who will? I believe the student leaders are the future, which is why you all, our educational leaders, need to ensure that perseverance is emphasized everywhere, but most importantly in schools, because school is the main place where students become leaders.

“What is the use of living, if it be not to strive for noble causes and to make this muddled world a better place for those who will live in it after we are gone?” asked Churchill. Principals, administrators, directors, and all educational leaders must continue to Keep Calm, yet boldly, Lead On today’s youth to become 21st century leaders. Administrators must emphasize to students what Churchill stated, “Continuous effort -- not strength or intelligence -- is the key to unlocking our potential.”

Once both the educational and student leaders decide to persevere, the 21st century skills, which are critical thinking, collaboration, communication and creativity, will be utilized inside and outside of classrooms. We will begin to critically think creatively by using brainstorming techniques and creating new ideas. We will also begin to collaborate with our fellow leaders by communicating new ideas, being open to diverse perspectives, and knowing, “Success is not final; failure is not fatal, it is the courage to continue that counts,” as Churchill stated.

Today, educational and student leaders need the one quality and skill that must be emphasized in schools and practiced in order to successfully lead in this ever changing world: perseverance. As long as we have perseverance, we can Keep Calm and Lead On!

31

My Name

By Taicyanna Butler, class of 2018

My name is Tai-c-ya-nna Qualice Butler. I love my full name like you love your puppy when you first get it, but what I don’t particularly like about my first name is that no one knows how to say or spell it the first two weeks of school. It’s like trying to find a black car in the dark. Taicyanna comes from a singer my mom really likes, Tatyana Ali, but my mom wanted my name to be exotic like a peacock, with so many amazing qualities all in one. So she changed it up a bit to Taicyanna, which is a diamond, perfectly fine. I also adore Taicyanna, like adoring your grandparents because the one woman that gave me life has the same first four letter of her name the same as mine. Qualice, the second hardest part of my name, comes from both my mom and dad. My mom wanted my name to be Shanice after another singer, but my dad wanted it to be Quantity. These names are like a bear and a fish, completely different, so they took the beginning of Quantity and the end of Shanice and that’s how I got Qualice. But sometime I don’t like it because some people pronounce it Quo-LICE, but then I do because it is very unique. I’m indecisive, like a lion trying to see whether to go for the mother or the calf. I have learned that it is going to take some time for people to get my full name, and that’s okay because my name took a lot of thought.

Inspired by Sandra Ciscernos’ The House on Mango Street, 1984

32

Photograph by Jayson Salvador, class of 2018

33

Art by Raven Bridges-Jackson, class of 2015

34

Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

35

The Creek

By Julio Zelaya, class of 2018

June 12, 1979

Everything’s been going well here in the Amazonian jungle. The trees are bursting with life and the beautiful soundtrack of birds singing plays over and over again. It all seems too good to be true. Except …. lately, I’ve been hearing music playing from a harp. Sounds crazy, right? Someone playing a harp in the middle of this jungle.

But anyhow, it’s probably Courtney with her silly radio on. We’re here in the forest to find some blue-tipped mango leaves to make a remedy to help patients back at our village clinic; this plant helps cure common diseases and viruses our people often catch. It is nice and quiet here ... too quiet, really. Sometimes I think that someone is watching me. I’m pretty sure you’ve had that same feeling. For some time, I’ve asked Courtney to sleep in my tent because I’m so anxious I would stare at the ceiling all night without her company.

June 13, 1979 Today, I went on a hike down the trail by myself. I asked Courtney if she wanted to tag along but she had plans; I didn’t really mind because she was acting strange this morning. On my hike, I heard the harp again, playing a joyful tune. I tried to chase down the noise but I got nowhere. I told Courtney about the harp but all she did was look at me oddly.

June 14, 1979 Today, we prepared to collect the medicinal plant. We had a general idea of its location, so bags packed, we started on the treacherous journey through the thick jungle vegetation. Along the way, I heard the harp again, but this time the music was sad and mournful. Suddenly, the weather changed its tune also. It got foggy and dark. I turned around to look at Courtney and the others, but they were obviously not hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary. So I kept walking. As the music grew louder and the fog thicker, I felt like someone or something was watching me. I grew more and more uneasy … and I must admit I was scared.

Not too long after, we came upon a small creek where the rocks met their fatal doom. There was a small waterfall at the creek’s bend, surrounded by lush vegetation and grey boulders. I jumped! There, standing like store mannequins, was a little boy with a wooden staff and, next to him, a silent dog. They were all alone, probably lost. I said “hello” but got no response. Wasn’t this a strange sight in the middle of nowhere? I blinked and they, and the harp music, were gone. (Of course, my companions swore they saw nothing.)

36

June 15, 1979 After the incident at the creek, I thought about the leaving the expedition. I knew this course of action would be for the best, but something kept telling me to stay.

The next morning, I went back to the creek to see if the boy was there again. On the way there, the mysterious harp played again. I was partially relieved that no one was at the creek, and yet the sorrowful music seemed to emanate from the jungle itself.

I sat down and started to sketch the creek. As my eyes focused on the waterfall, the music stopped but I saw a harp, large and golden, resting on a pile of rocks. Could this be? I shut my eyes tightly and rubbed the lids. When I opened them again, the harp was still there, shimmering in the sunlight. Quickly, I grabbed a camera and took a dozen shots. When I checked the camera, the waterfall, trees, and rocks were all clearly visible … but there was no harp sitting there.

June 16, 1979 Last night, I awoke to see Courtney leaving our tent. I followed her out into the moonless jungle, but lost sight of her a few minutes later. Then, after lunch today, she again walked away from camp into the jungle. This time, I kept up with her.

Deep down, I knew where she was heading. As she approached the creek, I heard the harp play. Wait! If Courtney wasn’t playing the music, then who was? Freaked out, I turned around and ran back to the comfort of my tent.

June 17, 1979 This morning, I asked Courtney to follow me into the jungle so no one could hear us.

I asked her about the harp music and the creek, but all she did was mumble something and turn away. Just then, a mysterious shadow, a black void, crossed the path in front of us, disappearing into the tall vegetation. I stuttered, “What was that?”

Courtney said, “The phantom.” Phantom? What does this have to do with the harp and the creek. I looked at Courtney, my mind racing with questions. She eyed me with menace and growled.

June 18, 1979 Today is the last of our expedition. It wasn’t until lunch that I heard the harp play again. Courtney dropped her bags and started running towards the sound. I ran after her; when she got to the creek, she stood still, frozen. As I tried to catch my breath, I looked up and saw the black void playing the harp. Standing nearby were the boy, his dog and at least 15 other people staring at the figure. When the music stopped, they all fell silently to the ground. I was shocked , and then the thing stood up and started walking towards me. I tried to back up, then I tried to run, but it was useless.

37

We were face to face. It spoke, “Oh, you silly thing, silly little thing, you must be lost. I’ve been watching you and your little friend. Well, you came here at the wrong time. I know you’ve heard my harp play day after day, lovely isn’t it? Now what should I do with you.” As I struggled uselessly to respond, the thing turned on Courtney and snapped her neck. As she fell to the ground, it picked me up and tossed me a hundred feet through the air. I landed near the harp. The black void appeared above me a second later. It said, “Now listen, human. I’m not going to kill you just yet, but I am going to take your soul away as a punishment for trespassing.”

Just then everything turned black. I awoke in a hospital, in agony, with barely the strength to write this journal entry. When will this near-ending nightmare be over?

He woke ten hours later. Had this been a dream? No, it was all too real.

There it was. The phantom was sitting on the edge of the bed. So it’s true, he thought, it’s really true.

Inspired by Chris Van Allsburg’s The Mysteries of Harris Burdick, 1984

Art by Cheyenne Goddard, class of 2015

38

Photograph by Juan Guillen, class of 2015

39

Push Play

By Sydney Cattouse, class of 2018

Can you imagine what the world would be like without music? It scares me just to ask the question. Music is a vital necessity for me because it has been with me throughout my life and has shaped me into the person I am today. When I walk into my living room I can see my eight-year old self dancing and singing along with my sister. I can see my dad laughing because we kept requesting him to blast the same James Brown song through the ceiling speakers over and over again. I remember my mom walking through the door and dancing with us while asking my dad, “Why is the music is so damn loud!?”

Today, on the weekends, after a run or bike ride, my family enjoys a homemade brunch while my mom puts on a classic rock station so she can chill. I personally don’t like it, but it’s like a gunshot at a gun range. If you’re going to be there, you’re bound to hear it and might as well get used to it. But then again, I have to remember that it brings her comfort and I should respect her music choices. Like everybody, I have personal preferences, so when we hear someone else’s music, we often are not the biggest fan.

If you begin to think about it, music is more than a collaboration of good vibrations.

Music is a key to the vault that holds memories that have been pushed to the back of your mind. For example, you might hear a song that immediately reminds you of an ex. Or a song that was the theme to your favorite TV show when you were a child. If you can, think back to when you first heard a song or when somebody sang to you or whenever you’ve experienced a special piece of music. I’m sure you can describe what was going on at the time, where you were and who you were with.

To me, and I’m sure to many others around the world, music is an art form that is witnessed not only by the body, but also by the soul. It speaks the words of a language only you can understand and expresses something you could never say without a soundtrack. It breaks you down and builds you right back up and provides you with an escape to a different world that many love to explore by pushing the shuffle button. Escape from boredom, silence or pain, or from the loud class the substitute teacher desperately tries to control. It provides escape from the constant drone of the city, and it even provides escape from yourself. So next time you feel like you need to escape whatever it is your feeling, put your earphones in and push play.

40

Art by Delacey Rodriguez, class of 2015

41

Photograph by Jessica Bernal, class of 2015

42

The Tree

By Eric Duncan, class of 2018

i remember the early years of my life all was calm like a tree gently swaying in the breeze not a care in the world jumping up and down on the bed was the most fun I’d ever had a few years passed in my life that tree no longer swayed the way it once did the winds became harsher and less forgiving my nice little family began to fall apart the stress of grades and friendships and responsibilities hit me like a truck more years passed that calm tree was now in the middle of a hurricane flailing around as if about to break the father that i used to admire was now a shadow of his former self he sat on the couch all day without a single word to me my mom so tired after work and dealing with my dad and just like that, the calm tree snapped in two all the pressure and stress of what was happening snapped me in two just like the tree my peaceful family was blown to bits never to be found again but unlike the tree which is already dead i continue to live facing more and more each day continuing on as if that calm tree was still standing strong

43

Family Christmas

By Anthony Ramirez, class of 2018

There is a day that only comes once a year. Where presents are given, love is shared, and people come together and that day is Christmas. This holiday is where my whole family and I forget about all of our problems in life and come together to have a great time. The days leading up to Christmas, my mom gathers all the items we need to have a wonderful holiday such as presents, food, decorations and games.

On Christmas Eve, we make sure everything is perfect. My mom and aunts make traditional foods like posole, tamales and champurrado. My dad and uncles hang the decorations and put up the Christmas tree. Everyone works like Santa’s little helpers. While the adults are busy, my cousins and I play in the yard or come inside and play videogames. When the clock hits 12:00 a.m., we all open our presents, say “thank you” to each other and pray to God for giving us another good year. My family and I may not be perfect but on this one day each year everything else is.

Art by Constance Kaye, class of 2015

44

On Being a Nerd

By Vanessa Placidon, class of 2016

I get called a nerd Because I pass up an opportunity To hang out with friends In order to do homework I get called a nerd Because I stay late at school To get a head start Or study for tests In the study groups I’ve formed I get called lame Because I have a 4.0 And maybe even more

I don’t have the most expensive clothes Or the newest Prada purse But I have an HP-42S Scientific Calculator And what is classified As “nerdy” looking glasses.

So I get told I’m lame I never ditch class And I do my best to pass I take school seriously And treat teachers respectfully So that disqualifies me from being “cool”

I get called lame Because I want to be a doctor Or maybe an engineer

I go to school to learn And not to charge my phone I want to be successful And not end up regretful

I guess I’m not cool Because I like math and science And even formed a club I go to science conventions And do math for fun Science is my favorite subject But wait, I haven’t even begun

So if I have to endure A bucketful of insults Then so be it Because in the end When you’re a future wreck I will not be your friend

I want to make the world a better place So maybe I’ll go into Aerospace.

I want to make an invention And cure those with infection.

So I get called a nerd And I get called lame And people tell me nerd jokes Thinking that I can relate

But let me hand you a brochure On how to be a “nerd” So that in the future Your success will be assured Because according to your definition A nerd is someone with ambition Who has desire and a mission To never let competition Get in their way Of a successful vision

I do my best in school And therefore I’m not cool I say no to drinking And I say no to smoking And as a result I get called lame 45

Where the Real Education Lies

By Logan Patton, class of 2015

Normally social media is often criticized for causing distractions and keeping individuals from interacting with others in the “usual” way. My experience with social media, however, has been an enlightening and, quite frankly, a humbling one. The social media site Tumblr is one of the reasons that I am able to stay so informed about a variety of news stories. It is also a source that has allowed me to continue learning about the different social injustices in the world and to go more in-depth with them unlike my social justice course that only lasted five weeks over the summer.

Tumblr became the vehicle by which I was able to dig deeper into the social injustices against people of color not only in America, but worldwide. It exposed me to the racism that continues to take place in our country, and how not to fall into a system that was not built for historically marginalized groups.

Tumblr is where I learned the actual definition for the term feminism and that it doesn’t equate to hating men, but to achieving equality for all sexes. In my 12 years of attending school, I was never taught about how deep the oppression against women is and has been. School always covered the surface of it by talking about how women never receive the same pay, or voting rights, or the same educational opportunities as men. School never showed how this same injustice is placed strategically in systems to work against women, or how we live in a society that perpetuates and blames women for practically everything, or even how we are taught to think that anything women do is horrible which goes on to justify taking away certain rights for women.

Tumblr is also where I learned to become an ally for those in the LGBTQ community, those who have different religious preferences, and other historically marginalized groups. I learned how simple-words and phrases can affect the way a population of people is viewed or treated. As a result, I’ve learned to use more inclusive language and avoid using words that demean another group of individuals. I’ve also become aware of my privilege as a heterosexual cisgender woman, and I now use that to help those who do not have the same privileges as me.

I have found it important and helpful to be aware about these injustices, as it’s allowed me to reflect on myself as a person and adjust my thought process and actions accordingly in order to ensure that I don’t contribute to the various oppressions that occur throughout the world. I know that along with Tumblr, a university will add to my knowledge and allow me to take further steps to help reform the systems in the world that also contribute to social injustices with their courses that focus more on the histories of women, African Americans, the LGBTQ community, and more, as well as the various organizations that are aimed toward achieving equality for historically marginalized groups.

Tumblr is essentially what allowed me to become more socially conscious, enhanced my critical thinking skills, and helped me become a better citizen of the world. I have become aware that I am a holder of privileges and because of this realization I now have the courage to spread my knowledge to others and take a step closer to addressing the problems with oppression in the world, something the education system so far has failed to do.

This essay was previously published in the April 22, 2015, issue of John Muir High School’s student newspaper The Blazer.

46

Art by Jerzy Messan, class of 2015

47

Sunflower: A Screenplay

By Drae Upshaw, class of 2016

FADE IN EXT.FRONT YARD JOHN IS WATERING HIS YARD. THE SCENERY IS CALM AND QUIET AND JOHN HAS NEVER FELT SO AT PEACE. JOHN

(sighs) If only everyday was Sunday.

FROM THE DISTANCE LOUD METAL MUSIC IS PLAYING FOLLOWED BY THE NOISE OF A LOUD ENGINE AND SHARP TIRE TURNS. JOHN SQUINTS DOWN HIS STREET TO SEE A RED BEAT UP PICKUP TRUCK STORMING HIS WAY. JOHN

What the- AHH! JOHN LEAPS OUT OF THE WAY AS THE CAR CURVES ONTO HIS LAWN CRUSHING JOHN’S BELOVED GARDEN OF SUNFLOWERS. EXHAUST FILLS THE AIR; A TALL YOUNG BOY EMERGES OUT OF THE CAR. HIS BLEACHED HAIR BLINDS JOHN’S VISION. HE WEARS A WORN OUT HOODIE AND RIPPED BLACK JEANS. HIS BOOTS CRUSH THE REMAINING SUNFLOWERS. BOY Sup?

JOHN

W-WHAT THE HELL?!

JOHN’S DAUGHTER TIFFANY RACES THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR AND PAUSES IN SHOCK. TIFFANY

Oh my God !!

JOHN

Tif! Tif stay back! I’m okay! This hooligan justTIFFANY RUNS PAST HER FATHER AND LEEPS INTO THE ARMS OF THE BOY. TIFFANY

I didn’t think you’d make it!

BOY

Anything for my hot pocket.

JOHN JUMPS BACK ON HIS FEET. JOHN

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!!!

48

JOHN PUTS HIMSELF BETWEEN THE TWO TEENAGERS. JOHN

Hot pocket?? Tiffany?!

TIFFANY

Daddy, this is Roger.

ROGER Sup’.

TIFFANY

He’s my boyfriend.

JOHN

Oh, not anymore!! Do you see this?!

Look! LOOK AT MY SUNFLOWERS!! LOOK!!

ROGER

I’ll replace the sun flowers bro. Chill.

JOHN

“Chill”?! “B-BRO”?!

TIFFANY

Daddy, stop mocking him! Roger

didn’t know, he said he’ll replace

them. Now we’re gonna leave, we

have a date.

ROGER

Yeah...We’re gonna go eat some,

(stares slyly at Tiffany) hot pockets.

TIFFANY (giggles insanely.)

JOHN’S FACE BECOMES BOILING RED. JOHN

Oh no, you’re not!! You’re going

back to where you belong! And

you’re going to pay for the damage

you’ve done to private property!!

JOHN DRAGS ROGER AWAY FROM TIFFANY BY HIS COLLAR. ROGER

Hey, don’t touch me!

49

TIFFANY Daddy stop!

JOHN

Go! Get out of here you- you

gangster! You juvenile! Go! JOHN PUSHES ROGER TOWARDS HIS CAR. ROGER

I said don’t touch me!

ROGER JERKS HIMSELF AWAY, ELBOWING JOHN IN THE CHIN. TIFFANY Roger!!

JOHN

(stumbles back) Why you little-!!

ROGER HOPS IN HIS CAR. ROGER

Sorry, hot pocket! No man puts his

hand on me! Maybe next time!

ROGER STARTS HIS ENGINE. JOHN BEGINS TO PICK UP THE REMAINS OF HIS SUNFLOWERS AND VIOLENTLY THROW THEM AT ROGER’S WINDOW. JOHN

Get out of here already!!!

ROGER

Cut it out you freak!

TIFFANY Daddy stop!

A SUNFLOWER HITS ROGER RIGHT IN THE MOUTH. ROGER BEGINS TO FREAK OUT, SLAPPING THE DIRT OFF HIS LIP. HE BEGINS TO DRIVE THE CAR UNCONTROLLABLY ALL OVER THE LAWN SCREAMING IN FEAR. JOHN CONTINUES TO THROW SUNFLOWERS, LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY. TIFFANY STOPS HER FATHER. TIFFANY

Daddy! Stop! Roger is allergic to

sunflowers!!

JOHN

Ha ha... what?

THE CAR EXPLODES.

50

Art by Michaela Jordan, class of 2015

51

Demise

By Yesenia Nunez, class of 2016

Wake up and work Sit down, obey Muffle our quirks But left to our dismay To shun the strangled voices of those around us Told to speak but also to refrain What we say doesn’t matter What we think is limited This is the land of the free, home of the brave But how can we be brave if we are not allowed to be free You hear us as disembodied whispers But we are really screaming So, I’m sorry I can’t put my rage on paper No, that doesn’t mean my pain will turn to vapor Let us speak, let us shout Our diction will certainly be out Down to the pit of my heart Over the ground I stand on .........

I give up I’ve lost Jumbled pentameters, crooked rhymes, broken styles Power so tremendous, it strips us down.

Bit by bit, words by word I’m sorry

52

Art by Melissa Gonzalez, class of 2015

53

Within Me

By Philomena Verceles, class of 2018

I am a glowing light in the darkness I am the peaceful wind I am a blossom in springtime I am a sturdy tree in the woods I am the sound of the rushing water I am a shiny stone by the river I am the free bird high in the sky I am the chill in the evening I am the dew on the morning grass I am the sweet scent of the flowers I am the humming sound of bees I am a great creature He made You see, I am alive, I am alive Inspired by N. Scott Momaday’s The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee, 1991

Art by Georgina Velasco, class of 2015

54

Art by Wendy Trujillo, class of 2018

55

War Stories

By Rachel Ford, class of 2016

(Recorded at the ______ on __\__\__ at 12:45 p.m.)

“Alright guys, are you ready? The recorder is on.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Yes.” “So, can you give me your names?”

“Jackson Wates.”

“Allendre Jenson.”

“Hmm... That’s quite an odd last name for ‘Allendre’.”

“I changed it a while back. It was too annoying to pronounce for others here.”

“Ah. Well, let’s get down to the interview.”

“Alright, what’cha got?”

“Can we talk about the Technology War?” “Oh, of course! That war was insane! It’s where I met this uptight [CENSORED]!” “... [Sighs] Yes, we both participated in it in for over fifteen years. Didn’t it happen around twenty-seven years ago?”

“Close, twenty-eight. You two seem a bit more familiar with it than others. Care to explain?”

“I was drafted into the war at twelve, and worked my way up to General status by twenty-two.”

“I volunteered on my own terms at fifteen and was a high ranking soldier by twenty.”

“Did you two happen to be on the same side?”

“Oh, oh no. I fought for the Stelline country while Allendre here fought for the Veliesse.”

[Allendre nods.]

“Then ... how did you two meet? Shouldn’t you have killed each other on the battlefield?”

“We were close to that point, but-” “Ah, hold on bud. I think he wants the full story, am I right?”

[Interviewer nods.]

56

“Of course you do! That’s the point of this, after --” “Would you get on with it?”

“Would you let me get into story mode? [Jackson clears his throat.] This was the final battle, I’d say around six months in before the other countries decided to end everything.”

“Four.”

“Close enough. I was sent out on the field due to the lack of rookie soldiers being recruited -- all of them were being hidden or some [CENSORED] like that. The field was just like any other battleground, covered in bodies, booby traps, yada yada yada, it was hard to get around. Fortunately for me, none of the recruits on the other side knew how to wield their new weapons yet, so I breezed through them with ease!”

“The new recruits on Stelline’s side didn’t know how to wield a sword, so I ‘breezed through them’ as well.”

“That’s [CENSORED]! You had scars when I saw you!”

“Then you were seeing things.”

[Jackson pauses, then grunts.] “Whatever. Anyway, then I saw this fancy-pants guy cutting my men down like he owned the place.”

“And I saw a cocky soldier with no respect for his men.”

[Jackson pauses.] “Obviously, we were drawn to each other by fate.”

“The last known battle was around the time a satellite station launched a devastating missile which destroyed half of both countries, killing millions, and it was directed near the center of the battlefield. How did you two survive?”

[Allendre and Jackson stay silent for a minute.]

“Well ... we both fought and wounded each other to the point of absolute exhaustion, and collapsed next to each other.”

“Best battle of my life, lemme tell ya.”

“Mmm-hmm. I told him that the missile was how we were going to die, and --” “I refused. Honestly, who wants to go out that way? I sure as hell don’t. So I climbed on top of him and shielded the impact of the blast from him. It was a doozy!” “... And it worked?”

“Yes! The original Stelline armor was made to take hits, including fiery ones!”

“I know that. But the General Stelline armor has four large blades across the front of the chest. How did you not wound him?”

“He did. He jammed those things straight into my abdomen. Do you know what he said before he did it?” “ ‘This may hurt a lot.’ What? I was being truthful!”

[Allendre shudders.] “It was terrible. Then he had the nerve to pass out on me. We stayed there for at least an hour before I finally realized I was on my deathbed and dragged Jackson five long miles to a woman’s house in the forest. I was surprised she took us in. Her house had nearly been destroyed from the missile’s impact, after all.

Who’d take any soldiers in after that?”

“And you made a full recovery?”

57

“Sort of. I mean, we were unable to move for... what, almost a year?”

“And the scars never went away. They’re still quite painful, to be honest.”

“Do you mind if you show me the scars?”

“Not at all! I wear them as trophies!”

[Jackson removes his shirt, revealing many dark scars on his chest and forearms. His hands and lower arms are unscathed.]

“Wow. That does look quite painful.”

“You don’t want to see me turn around. That’s where the blast mark is. It’s [emphasis] ugly.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

[Allendre opens the bottom part of his shirt to reveal four long scars across his stomach.] “I heal better than he does. Probably because his body gave up some time ago.”

“Oh, ha-ha. You’re a riot, you know that Allen?”

“Bite me.”

[Interviewer chuckles.] “Did you two stay together after that?”

“Yup. I offered him a chance to get some beer after we finally got off our deathbeds, and he took up the offer. Nothing is better than a life-celebrating beer.”

“That, and he offered to train me.”

“Oh yeah, huh?” “.... The fact that he forgot that should say enough.” [Allendre sighs.]

“What do you two do now? And Allendre, were you ever penalized for going AWOL?” “I have no idea. As if I’d return after that. My family wouldn’t be able to look me in the face.”

“I kept urging him to visit. Hell, I still do. He just doesn’t want to. Something about breaking his soldier pride. [Jackson shakes his head.] Youth stuff.”

[Allendre inhales, but is cut off by the interviewer.]

“And you, Jackson? Do you even know them? I’ve heard about Stelline boys being taken from their parents at young ages to lower the chances of emotional gains and losses.”

“Correct! No idea where they are! Don’t really mind, either. I’m sure they’re out having the time of their lives!”

“Hmm. Well, it was great interviewing you two. We hope to make a little tribute movie to the veterans of this war, and your stories will help greatly.”

“No problem!”

“None at all.”

“Alright.”

(End of recording.)

58

Art by Dyllan Johnson, class of 2015

59

Photograph by Juan Guillen, class of 2015

60

I Love You

By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

I just want you to know that you’re my best friend.

You’re my only friend.

For the longest time, I was left alone in darkness… And then, you showed up.

It was like flicking on a switch, the light just poured in instantaneously. And, well… I loved it. I loved your smiles, your hugs, your laughter. I loved you. You were so... kind and understanding. Towards me, of all people…

Of course, you knew going in. Didn’t you. You… knew what they all said of me.

But you didn’t care. You saw me as just some poor soul in need of a friend. I can’t thank you enough for that. Though, to be honest… I didn’t know until meeting you that I needed a friend. But I did. I did… So, so much. You’ll never know how much you mean to me, even if I wanted to tell it all to you. It’s so much to explain in one shot, you know… just thinking about it makes my heart race and puts a lump in my throat. Of course, you already know I’m not a master of eloquence … … So, now that you’ve heard my corny confessions, you must understand that I never wanted you to go away. I never wanted our friendship to end. You understand, don’t you? I needed you. It couldn’t end.

Yeah, of course you do. You were always so understanding… I feel like I can tell you anything. Like how I dream about you almost every night. I dream that we’re eating ice cream together or watching some really cheesy B horror movies or just… chilling outside together, under the stars. Of course, those aren’t the only things I dream about.

There’s the occasional dream where my teeth fall out or I’m drowning in a sea of viscera, but that’s just trivial, really. I also have a photo album filled with our pictures. I had to cut out some bits and people to… make sure everything fit in the pages, but we’re still in all of them, don’t worry. I figured I’d make it as a gift to you. I would hand it over now, but… you’re a bit of a mess, no offense. It’s my fault, anyway. I should’ve thought this surprise out more carefully.

To be perfectly honest, I knew you would be shocked at first. After all, that’s how most surprises go. But for some reason, that shocked look… never left your face.

I thought you’d be a bit more enthusiastic at some point when I made the proposal to you… But no, you tried to leave me. I’m not mad, but… why? Did I come off as too bold, too imposing…? I’m very sorry if I did… But I suppose that doesn’t matter now. Please, understand that I couldn’t risk you leaving me for good, I couldn’t risk this friendship ending. I panicked, and for that I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. I really am. You had saved my life… And paid the price with yours. But, hey, at least now we get to be best friends forever. No goodbyes necessary.

I love you.

61

Art by Cheyenne Goddard, class of 2015

62

Flammis Acribus Addictis

By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016

Deadpan, sleep deprived eyes stared into the burning flame.

The flame he was accustomed to danced frivolously, radiated light.

This flame was dull.

Consigned to flames of woe… that was his destiny from the very beginning.

He vowed to never write an opera ever again.

~ All this week, she had attended a never-ending parade of lousiness. She had found out her long-time vocal tutor was a perverted fiend (although his wandering eyes would have given that away on the spot.) Her brother was removed from the Trost Philharmonic Orchestra for getting into a bar fight with the emperor’s nephew (to which he countered “I didn’t know it was his nephew!”). To top it all off, the opera she was looking forward to starring in was banned for propaganda. She was out of work until further notice.

“You won’t be out of work for long, Aria,” Ventis, her dear childhood friend, assured. His eyes radiated honesty and reassurance with their sky blue hue, even with chemist goggles clouding over his eyes. At her lack of response, he changed the subject.

“Do- do you want some tea? I made too much for myself…” he said while placing a cork into a beaker.

She blinked as she diverted her eyes away from her lap, “Sure… thank you Ven.” The corners of her rosy lips quirked up into a forced smile. Ventis wrapped his fingers around the handle of the porcelain teapot, pouring them both Earl Grey tea. As his hands gingerly set down the pot, a laugh escaped Aria’s lips.

Ventis reciprocated with a small chuckle, “I should have taken these off before… I can’t see you like this….” Before his goggles could fog up any more from the steam of the tea, he sloppily pulled them off, “Be careful, it’s hot.” She hooked her fingers onto the handle, taking note of the baby-blue hummingbird glazed onto the teacup surface, escaping the confines of a seemingly luxurious golden cage. She took in the small details. The apparent brush strokes evident on the feathers, the beady eyes shining, the cage’s gaping gate, even the small speck of discoloration near the bottom.

Ventis sipped his tea, then, after a period of silence, set it down on the table. “What do you see?” he asked her.

“Hmm?’

“On your teacup… what do you see?”

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, but she responded, “A bird… flying out a cage.”

She spoke in a drawl, as if stating the obvious.

Ventis smiled, hoping she got the message, “Well Aria, I’m going to meet up with some colleagues. You can rest if you’d like or you can accompany me if you want; it is just a small gathering at the tavern, nothing big. You wouldn’t even have to stuff on a large petticoat, my colleagues don’t mind a woman in breeches -- they prefer it, actually.” The creases under his eyes and his light chuckle provoked a small smile out of Aria as she glanced down at her breeches. She dubbed the large dresses women were expected to parade around in impractical.

Aria only left the apartment for two things: work and shopping for groceries.

She never left the premises for her own enjoyment. A result of her hermit-like tendencies is Ventis’ increased concern for her health. He didn’t want her to come with him to 63

get her drunk or force her to socialize. He simply wanted her to broaden her horizons and step

out of her comfort zone.

“I see.” ~

His eyebrows knitted as his musical brain strived to come up with the perfect harmony to compliment the melody. Flutes played lightheartedly in his head. His aim?

A frolicsome melody for a reminiscent childhood … Harmony… harmony…

He didn’t want this to be grand by any means. Just a charming little song to please his smiling patrons. Their son’s sixth birthday was coming up and it was somehow necessary to have a piece commissioned for a brat that probably didn’t appreciate the beauty of music… but hey, income.

His eyes glanced at the paintings hung on every wall of the room for inspiration. All had pastel colors and playful themes. One in particular had a woman on a swing… greenery and statues of demented baby-angels were seen as well as her husband happily pushing her while her secret lover hid in a bush, having a view of her frilly undergarments. Scandalous. It was peculiar knowing his friend collected and enjoyed such art, honestly. Her life was science and philosophy, he didn’t know how bright colored art with insignificant themes got into the mix. As his grey eyes meandered from wall to wall, they came across a suitcase on the kitchen table. She left that where we eat. He grimaced. Lumen usually had her suitcase everywhere she went. The contents of said suitcase? Flasks and beakers of hazardous chemicals that the fool tampered with for fun. She had left to a “meeting” only moments earlier. Did this woman leave this here to purposely lure me outside? He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, using his heels to push the bench he sat upon away from the harpsichord, his preferred working place. I have to bring this idiot her toxic briefcase. ~

The atmosphere was pleasant enough. Dimly lit and kind of shady, but tolerable with the baffled laughs and shouts in the background from scientists arguing over topics she hadn’t heard of in her life. “Another one, fraulein?” The tavern maid picked up her cup. Only then did Aria notice that she had already consumed its contents.

“No, no thank you.”

“Ay, all right, just call me if you want anymore.” Aria listened to the clacks of the maidens heels as she walked away, then sighed. Ventis suggested she enjoy herself or make friends… but she made no attempt to. By no means did she hold a shy bone in her body, she’s sang in front of hundreds and looked the emperor straight in the eye when he praised her. She just didn’t like unnecessary interactions, especially since all she received in attempt at conversation in the past was awkward small talk and flirtatious advances.

She wondered why she agreed to come here. There was nothing to do. Ventis was busy with his acquaintances… all she could do is sit and draw circles onto the wooden table. Time passed… and passed... the smell of alcohol became more and more distinct. The volume in the room seemed to slowly crescendo as intoxicated people grew obnoxious, voices grew and grew -- from mezzo piano into what would eventually be a fortissimo. How could Ventis work in a place like this? As she continued drawing thousands of circles onto the wooden surface, she heard a stool only two spaces away lightly scratch the dirty pub floor.

“A woman in breeches,” someone commented, “I wish I could say I don’t see that everyday but I do. That slob of a woman over there -- the one in the brown clothes, she’s a friend of mine, unfortunately.” He chuckled darkly. Aria glanced to her left to 64

see a man atop one of the bar stools, a sulking man at that. She side-eyed him. His chin rested on his palm, he looked bored but if one looked close enough you’d see a subtle grimace and eyes that showed sleepless nights. She honestly had no spare time for this brooding fellow, she had enough negativity in her life for the time being.

“Made me walk through inches of snow to drop off a health hazard, somehow, I felt she did it deliberately.” Aria’s finger stopped its circular motions and instead remained frozen in place. “Could tell you’d rather be anywhere but here right now…” He fully rotated his head to acknowledge her, “So, what’s keeping you here? You have a slob to take care of too?” His brooding expression changed in an instant as he humored her and it was then that she got a better view of his features. He had an aristocratic facial structure, but his clothes revealed a man that looked lower middle class.

She didn’t understand. Having been here for over an hour, no man glanced in her direction. Her masculine clothing made sure of that. But here this man was, repeatedly attempting to speak to her even with her lack of any response other than eye contact. Then she made her decision.

“No… I don’t, he is actually quite responsible.”

~

The strong smell of liquor and the deafening sounds of drunkenness slowly faded away. Eventually this stranger’s voice -- no… Bastion Aliberti’s voice… was the only somewhat tolerable sound that hit her ear drum. She discovered that he composes music. When she called him a composer, he shook his head and made one thing clear, “No, I just compose… I only dare call myself a composer when I make a true name for myself.” His statement provoked her to playfully roll her eyes.

When he asked her what she occupied her time with, she simply said, “I sing… but I only dare call myself a singer when I make a true name for myself,” in an attempt to humor him. In response to her mocking, he pushed himself from the counter and hopped off the barstool. She raised a dark eyebrow, confused but curious. Did he really get that offended? It wasn’t until her eyes widened slightly in recognition that she realized what he was up to. Her buckled shoes clacked along the wooden floor boards until she was within a two foot radius of the bar’s harpsichord and the man who composes seating himself at the bench before it. The instrument was out of place in a tavern like this. Pastel colors and foliage decorated the exterior, it looked untouched. “Didn’t expect to see a harpsichord in a place like this,” she muttered to herself, “going to play something?”

“No, I’m just going to sit here and wait for it to play itself, ” he replied sarcastically, placing his slim fingers onto the keys, veins and bones protruding.

A breath of air escaped her lips, “You’re an incorrigible arse signor Aliberti.”

In response, the Italian just grinned and started what would be a lighthearted piece that was greatly recognized. “You’re quite skilled,” she allowed her ears to listen a while longer, “but as much as I adore Herr Mozart’s work I’d prefer to hear a composition of yours.” His fingers froze and quickly fell into his lap.

“Sing your favorite song,” he suggested, it almost sounded like a command, “then I will improvise a part to accompany you.” Hesitation was definitely present on her part. “I mean, of course I can’t force you… but hey, we can beat two birds with one stone.” His lips stretched into a smile.

The process of contemplating was quite onerous. Why would a musician of her standing care to sing in a place like this? She was accustomed to singing in ornate opera houses full of snobby nobles. Never had she sung in a rundown tavern full of drunks.

Then, a grand fanfare went off in her head. The corners of her rosy lips stretched into a smile when a mellifluous tune followed after, one she adored since she

65

was a young girl. It wrapped itself around her brain and played into her ears. The notes of the score played out sweetly, dolcissimo, engulfing her musical heart in light. The music radiated so much warmth and longing through her body that she was set ablaze.

It ignited her from head to toe, kindling a desire from the lungs in her chest to the cords in her throat.

Bastion watched as she formed her lips into an O shape and listened as the first perfect note made its way out of the confines of its cave. Each note after another sung out smoothly, legato, without breaking the beautiful melody. Bastion gawked at her, stupefied. Her voice was a voice he’s never heard before, a music he’s never heard before. It was as if Apollo, a god of music among many things, came down from above and blessed her with the very epitome of euphony.

It wasn’t until her eyes shifted in his direction that he realized he was supposed to be accompanying her. He quickly gathered his composure, identified the time signature, placed his fingers onto the keys, and conjured up a countermelody. With the knowledge of her melody consisting mostly of dulcet long tones, he countered it with vivacious short tones in the same key. As he gained confidence with the key and time signature, he grew bolder with his improvisation.

Their collaboration didn’t go unnoticed. All eyes gazed at the two in confusion and wonderment. Some were too drunk to register what was going on while some were sober enough to lend their ears for the time being. Most of the audience had never experienced anything like this caliber of music before; they were awestruck. Once Aria›s last sweet note hit every crevice of the bar, the room erupted in applause. One even came up to Bastion in drunken stupor and kissed him on the cheek. “You. You’ve got talent, boy,” the man stumbled, “you keep playing that violin.”

Bastion grinned, amused by his words, then replied, “I will, thanks.” As the inebriated man hobbled away, a blonde man approached the singer to his left. “That was beautiful Aria,” the man said, “see, it wasn’t so bad of an idea to come.” Yes, singer. She wasn’t just a woman who sang. She didn’t need to make a name for herself with that voice.

“You were right,” she smiled, “I… I had fun.” Her, now lively, eyes flickered to Bastion.

“And you, you weren’t so bad yourself,” the blonde directed at Bastion, “in fact, you were very good.”

In response Bastion nodded with a grin, “Thank you, grazie.”

“Ventis, this is Bastion Aliberti,” Aria motioned to the composer to her right.

Yes, composer. He wasn’t just a man who composed. After hearing what he’s capable of, he was just as good as any composer that served the emperor. Just as good as any court musician.

“Nice to meet you Signor Aliberti, the name’s Ventis Wagner.”

“Bastion composes,” Aria pitched in.

“Ah, a composer?” Ventis’ eyes lit up.

Aria’s eyes flickered to Bastion to see his reaction to the title, “No- I-” “Yes, he is,” Aria looked to Bastion with a mischievous smile. ~ It was oddly casual, the way they agreed to another collaboration. He offered.

She accepted. Both never expected a full blown opera to be the result. She got the work.

He got a talented voice. After the bar incident, Aria was offered work from a few wealthy bystanders, men of nobility. She declined, telling many she was booked to which each grumbled and rolled their eyes. She was used to nobles’ reactions when they didn’t get 66

what they want. Working with Bastion was a new experience for her. A new beginning, perhaps.

The man who composes and the singer met every day in the weeks that followed. Aria had never sung at a common people’s opera house. She wasn’t even getting paid much. But never before had she experienced this much happiness dwell within her.

They worked with people who would never be given a big break. Bastion, albeit very skilled, was a man of the lower class. It was near to impossible for him to ever become a court musician for the emperor. The other singers, the dancers, the instrumentalists, the stage crew, all were never going to be given the miracle of serving the emperor, but all enjoyed what they did with whatever they received. She admired that in them. They weren’t driven by money or to be known. They were driven by passion.

One problem that arose was the subject matter of Bastion’s opera. The story was one of romance between a noble woman and a low-class man in the middle of a class struggle in their country. Class struggles weren’t a foreign subject here. It was known how great the divide was between the wealthy and the poor. Thus, the opera was considered propaganda. Threats of closing down the show or even arrests for treason were thrown around, but they eventually faded. Aria was glad that political affairs weren’t going to interfere with her work this time.

As she continued reminiscing on the past month of practice, a voice interrupted, “You ready to go again, signorina?” asked Bastion. Aria adored the way he said “signorina.”

She gazed into his direction and nodded, “Yes.” Her rosy lips formed a smile.

He held out a hand to help her off her seat and Bastion led her to her designated place on the stage, then walked down to the pit with the orchestra, taking his place atop the conductor’s platform. Aria glanced to Ventis and Lumen in the audience of the practice sessiom, bickering about something most likely science related. She smirked, When aren’t they arguing? Her cobalt eyes then found themselves on Bastion, with his baton readily in his right hand. With the wave of the stick, the brass section played a pulsing intro before a lone oboe hung steadily, sweetly, in the air. ~ As the oboe’s swan-like sound faded into silence, she sung out the Latin words as she had practiced them for the past two months. The words she practiced every day and night for this very night. The premiere of Bella Lotta, Lovely Struggle.

“Sic erit; haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae…” Thus it will be; slender arrows are lodged in my heart…

This path month consisted of some of the best days of her life. Everytime she sang this particular song, the words felt teuer and truer everytime. As she sang the Latin love poem, she felt a heavy weight on her heart and her chest constricted.

“Et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor.” And Love vexes the chest that it has seized.

She thought of his lovely smile etched across his sun-kissed face. His cloudy, grey eyes and long eyelashes. The actor she was supposed to be singing to in this “heartfelt” scene was the last man on her mind.

“Cedimus, an subitum luctando accendimus ignem?” Shall I surrender or stir up the sudden flame by fighting it?

She thought of his endearing accent and the way he made her smile when he called her “signorina.” The way he stood below, moving his baton like how a feather would float in the air. He was the flame that fueled her...

“Cedamus-” I will surrenderAs she sung that word with every inch of her heart deeply embedded, a loud

67

bang rang out that challenged that of a brass section playing fortissimo all at once. His baton dropped to the floor, interrupting the seemingly deafening silence that followed.

Time slowed then abruptly stopped.

Audience eyes looked on in astonishment and fear before crowds rushed out of the concert hall. Total pandemonium shook the room, but the only thing that mattered to him was the limp body on the stage. His heart sank to his feet, breaking through the floorboards and experiencing every splinter and piece of sharp wood that would accompany such a feeling.

Dark red stained her pale dress, blooming into an inexplicable shape of tragedy.

His first instinct was to work his wobbly legs into a full-fledged run towards the stairs to the stage. When he was only a few feet away from her, he couldn’t help but stop and look incredulously, desperately, at the unmoving body before him before sinking down to his knees into a puddle of blood. As he felt hot liquid prick his disbelieving eyes, his trembling arms gathered the singer into his arms as he lightly shook her in total disbelief.

His pleas were unheard. His shakes unfelt. “Please…” He felt sharp knives lodge into his chest. No slender arrows as mentioned in the song. How can a creature as beautiful as this provoke such an act of malice? Tears spilled over as he shook almost violently, a large lump lodged into his throat and the taste of salt on his quivering lips. Bastion’s broken voice croaked out in rage and sorrow, “Who did this?” In reply he heard the panicked voices and yells of terrified audience members as they flooded out the room.

“Who did this,” He pulled her close and sobbed into her hair as he stroked her still intact curls, “This was the only time I got to see you in a dress…” He bitterly laughed in place of a sob. His chest not only vexed with love… but with insufferable pain. He moved brown tresses out of her face and gazed helplessly at her. While he internally fell apart at the sight of her, he made an oath.

She was the flame that fueled him...

He did not want to hear another voice ever again.

68

Deadpan, sleep deprived eyes stared into the burning flame.

The flame he was accustomed to danced frivolously, radiated light.

This flame was dull.

Consigned to flames of woe… that was his destiny from the very beginning.

He never wrote an opera ever again.

Art by Raven Bridges-Jackson, class of 2015

69

Sarah, the Goddess

By Oscar Benn III, class of 2015

Dear Futuristic Lover: Hey, I’m at a loss for words right now. And all I can keep thinking to say is “Tag! You’re it.”

You know they’ve always said that When a man findeth a wife he findeth a good thing but baby you’re way passed a good thing. Girl you’re gorgeous You make the sky want to bow to such a firework beauty as yourself I’ll be honest, I’m not much of a love poet but every time I catch a glimpse of you my heart tap dances on the bars of my ribcage Baby I want to paint the town with your laughter and that’s probably why I stay up at night trying to memorize jokes that I think would make you laugh too I want to build a kingdom in your honor and then auction it off with a gesture of your hand just to prove to you that my love doesn’t come with strings attached see, my past is a bungee cord of broken hearts but this time I fall freely with comfort of knowing that your love is the parachute I’ve always needed I know that you’ve got fragile wrists, girl everyone’s got a past I just hope that you can forgive me hard enough to make me put a bottle down, take my earrings out, stand up tall and be the man you deserve I promise baby I’d fight bears for you, Grizzly bears I’d find a job for you, a real job These other cats ain’t got my passion Baby, I’d relive high school for you, with my head stuck in a book Knowing that your set of eyes would be waiting on the other side I’d build a career for you So that I can afford to send you to the spa Surprise you with roses, maybe take a month off to travel, take luxurious vacations You are not a trophy wife, you’re a diamond encrusted Grammy and I’m the world’s luckiest artist 70

There is nothing sexier than a woman with goals In that regard I’ve seen your hands mold metal Defy gravity Shape a pile of teenage dreams and raw potential into a monument that pays taxes to your own name Transform a life of ideas and beautiful uncertainty into a future of canvas skies painted just for us Your first name sounds so much better in front of my last name and I’m wondering If you notice too But every time I look into your face, I keep wondering where you were when we used to play freeze tag Because I swear that I could stay here with you forever.

Art by Esmeralda Robles, class of 2017

71

Mr. Peterson’s Library

By Eric Duncan, class of 2018

Our story takes place in the gloom of a Seattle winter as a young woman walks purposefully down a city street. Elizabeth was 23 years old, with long, blonde hair that resembled rays of sunlight, pale, green eyes and a face that would make you guess she was a model. What set her apart from many other young women was her enormous love of books. All kinds of books – romantic, adventure, autobiography – it didn’t matter; she loved them all. On this day, her book hunt ended at a store she’d never seen before. The rusted sign read, “Mr. Peterson’s Library.” Filled with curiosity and a thirst for knowledge, Elizabeth hurried inside, not knowing this decision would lead to her untimely death.

At the front desk was a pale, grey man with black eyes that seemed to stare into Elizabeth’s soul. As he opened his mouth to speak, she saw sharp, piranha-like teeth. “Welcome,” the proprietor said, in a hissing voice like a snake. He continued, “Please look around. I hope everything you find is sssssatisssssfactory.” Elizabeth perused the stacks of books, picking up one interesting find after another. She heard a noise of shattering glass and noticed it came from a staircase leading down to a basement level. Downstairs, the room was practically empty without any trace of broken glass or anyone who could have dropped something. In the center of the room sat a shabby desk with a strange book with gold trim and a green cover resting on top of it. Elizabeth felt pulled towards the book and enveloped in a weird fog of destiny. She knew she must have it. Afraid it might not be for sale, she grabbed it and shoved it into her satchel. As she hurried to the exit, she heard Mr. Peterson say, “Come back sssssoon.”

After hurrying home, Elizabeth opened the book immediately. The story was filled death and despair, with each character discussing a book much like the one she was holding. As each character meet with one tragic end after another, Elizabeth knew she should close the book and destroy it. But she felt controlled by an unseen force. She was unable to stop reading. By the time she reached the final chapter of the book, she had been up for almost two days. The urge to continue was still all-consuming. The last chapter had two characters: an old man with a long, white beard and a young woman named Elizabeth, whose features were uncannily like her own. As the man lay on his death bed, he uttered his last words, “Don’t read the last sentence of this book.” Elizabeth felt as if he was trying to warn her, but she knew it was too late. She was unable to control her actions, her hands turned the pages on their own and her eyes scanned the words on their own. She tried to resist but it was futile. Her eyes read the last line of the book and Elizabeth fell asleep, never to wake again.

72

Art by Michaela Jordan, class of 2015

73

Note to Self

By Consuelo Martinez, class of 2015

Advice I would give to the girl I was before:

when the kids tease you for having big bushy eyebrows do not pluck them do not shave the uni-brow that’s barely even there those girls now draw in theirs those boys wish they grew hair on their face as fast as yours does your eyebrows will get better. when the kids in school tease you for your name do not shorten it do not assimilate to a culture that took yours to begin with your name tells a story of who you are in Spanish it means “consolation” taken from the title of the Virgin Mary, Nuestra Señora de Consuelo “Our Lady of Consolation” La Morena, dark like you are you are your grandmother’s legacy when you fall in love with the first boy to show you kindness, do not cry when he dates your best friend do not shut off your heart after one heart break you will fall in love over and over and over again each one a new story, you are a writer Taylor Swift in spirit animal tell boys not to fall in love with YOU because you’ll make them your muse tell them to consume you at their own risk because you will write about them so good they won’t even know where to hurt 74

each time you fall in love it’s like riding a bike for the first time your knees will have scars and bruises telling the stories of each time you fell for someone new when you stand in front of a mirror and over analyze every inch of your body, do not curse the stretch marks on your stomach do not pinch at the excess skin do not scowl at the cellulite on your thighs hug yourself you will grow into all of this it isn’t perfect but you love your body now you’ve started wearing dresses cute ones, I may add, and shorts you use your thighs to bring your hands warmth during the cold and use them to hug a boy’s hips when your start to become antisocial and get social anxiety hug yourself take a deep breath do not fear others’ eyes on you do not resist opening up to others soon you will be standing on a stage your lips spilling truth and hurt you will be an open book broken spine, ripped pages and all but someone will to want to pick you up and read you soon, you will the one in charge not your depression when the boy on the bus locks eyes with you for the first time, resist asking for his name and number later on that day do not try to decipher something in his messages that isn’t even there you are not the CIA and his texts are not poetry for you to analyze when you fall in love with this boy do not tell him when you tell him you love him and he tells you he can’t be with you because he’s not ready for a girlfriend, walk away when he soon after gets a girlfriend, do not waste tears, or ink, or paper on this boy stop being stubborn, listen to your friends and walk away when you do begin to write about him, do not let him read it there will be others who appreciate your words more than he will later on when you show him your writing, do not be embarrassed you are a writer you confess your love as many times as possible it is what you do do not stop writing because of this boy if he couldn’t understand the metaphors in your writing he wouldn’t have understood you anyways

75

when your friends have boyfriends and already have had their first kiss do not hate yourself do not ask what is wrong with you do not write poems about being forever alone do not crave the simplicity of holding someone’s hand someone holds you differently now and you love solitude your lover will be a pen and paper and spoiler alert: your first kiss will come and it will be nothing like you expected it won’t be with your boyfriend or a boy you love but special all in the same you will be the first one to lean in after all, you love to take charge now you hold a confidence you’ve never held before when your long time friend hits you up to hang out do not turn him down it may be the last time you see him when you go to his funeral it’s okay if you don’t want to go see him it’s okay if the only memory you want to have left of him is of his lively pink cheeks and a mouth that still smiles hug yourself then hug your friends, tell them that you love them it’s okay if you hold on a little tighter than usual grip onto your rosary and do not be afraid to let God in even if it’s just that night you are in the church you grew up in you haven’t been there in years and it’s ironic how the one time you show up to church, it isn’t because mom forced you or for a quinceañera do not feel guilty when you realize you never said goodbye to him you aren’t good at saying that to anyone some people find it rude how you walk away without saying a word that’s because it’s so much easier to say “hello” than letting go

Previous page: Art by Consuelo Martinez, class of 2015

76

Art by Jerzy Messan, class of 2015

77

Sticks Up

By Julio Zelaya, class of 2018

You can hear the rumbling beats from miles away. When you’re close, you can feel the beat inside like someone is pounding on your chest. The steady tempo makes everyone stay on track. Sticks twirling like spinning stars. The angry bass in the back loud as ever. The thundering sound of tenors playing their part. The flying sticks of snares making sure the show goes on. The bright golden drums can be seen from a far. Every step, dance and part is important because it’s like a recipe, every ingredient is needed for it to come out perfect. The countless hours we spend practicing each cadence over and over again until we get it right. The hard work that goes into this is unbelievable. There’s a lot more than just hitting the drum.

You won’t believe how much it takes just to be on a drum. As we perform, we hear the roaring crowd calling our names. It gets very loud. With the drums playing as loud as we can and the head drummer calling out cadences, it gets very confusing, but somehow we manage to pull it off. Our section is the best; we can outplay any other drum section. As the sticks spin like stars and the beat of the cadence is playing, we are good to go. When we are ready to play, the head drummer calls, “Sticks up!.”

78

Art by Dyllan Johnson, class of 2015

79

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 2014-2015 edition was created with Adobe InDesign using Caviar Dreams, Noteworthy and Chaparral Pro 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 am grateful to the Rotary Club of Altadena for its generous support of this publication’s printing costs. The local chapter of this international organization is dedicated to providing grants to teachers in the Pasadena Unified School District and we are honored to use their funding to showcase John Muir’s most talented artists and writers.

This book would not exist without the keen intelligence and gracious leadership of Chief Editor Yasmine Rodriguez, a junior here at Muir. Yasmine’s vision and tenacity were invaluable throughout the submission and production process. She volunteered her time to this effort and was always amenable to every request. Working with her made the long hours fun and endlessly rewarding. Assisting us were the dedicated students in the Yearbook Publications class. My heartfelt thanks go to all these wonderful teens who approach every task with care and thoughtfulness.

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; and all the amazing teachers in the English Department.

Wild Horses Faculty Advisor Maggie Gillham

80

81

82