Wild Horses Literary Magazine Vol. 1 by John Muir High School

Wild Horses Literary Magazine

me 1 2013-2014 Volume 1 John Muir High School Pasadena, California This book is made possible by a generous grant from the Pasadena Educational Foundation. 1

Table of Contents Cover Design Drae Upshaw

Art Aylin Acosta 20, 68-69 Stephanie Aviles 21, 46, 57 Jessica Bernal 72-73 Rogelio Cano Catalan

4, 62

Diego De La Torre

1, 18-19, 33, 50, 66

Brenden Dickerson 45 Rebecca Gutierrez 30-31 Cheyenne McGee 55, 65 Kimberly Mejia 47 Manuel Mendez 71 Cindy Ortiz 16, 37, 53 Victoria Pulcifer

12, 35, 70

Jasmine Rocha 15 Maria Salgado 23, 39 Sinae Saravia 13 Adrian Suarez Martinez 51 Drae Upshaw 11 Julio Villegas 49 Lance Wyndon 6-7, 29 Eduardo Zarate 67

Poetry Bryan Ambriz 18 Domonique Bellew 22-23, 79 Phillip Chase 71 Arline Garcia 73 2

Jose Gomez 30-31 Ivy Gonzalez 6 Juan Guillen 50 Paola Nieto 17 Vanessa Placidon 32-33, 72 Victoria Pulcifer 68-69 Luiz Reyes 19 Ivan Rodriguez 7 Yasmine Rodriguez 14, 64-65 Adrian Suarez Martinez 51

Prose Destiny Arriaza 44-45 Jameela Burch 70 Rachel Ford 8-10 Abigail Jacob 38-39 Lydia Jimenez 48-49 Constance Kay 58-62 David Martinez 16 Sara Mata 5 Vanessa Placidon 56-57 Yendrick Porras 56-57 Victoria Pulcifer 34-36, 63 Yasmine Rodriguez 74-78 Matthew Toral 52 Drae Upshaw 40-43 Lance Wyndon 24-29, 54-55

Illustration by Rogelio Cano Catalan, class of 2016 4

The Seasons By Sara Mata, class of 2015 I. Winter The smell of pine trees and cinnamon cones tells me it is winter. My mom wakes up early every morning to make us hot chocolate. My family is always in a better mood around the holidays and we all get along. Every year, my family and I go to Griffith Park to drive through the wonderland of Christmas lights. It is so beautiful. II. Spring The wind blowing. A sweet smell in the crisp air. In springtime, my family has a barbeque at least once a month – at home or in the park. My favorite gatherings are at the park. It’s fun to see so many people having fun; sometimes we see people riding horses. These memories are the best: everyone is happy. III. Summer My favorite summer ever was two year ago. The anticipation grew in intensity that last week. When we awoke at 5:00 in the morning, our luggage was packed. We were on our way to San Francisco! It was my first visit there and the long eight hour trip made me anxious. My mom finally announced, “We’re here!” I looked out at the city and instantly fell in love. I know that I definitely want to live there one day. IV. Fall My favorite season of the year. I always seem to be in a good mood in the fall. All the coffee shops offer pumpkin spice flavored drinks and I can’t get enough. Also, all my favorite TV shows come back on. And the best holiday of the year is just around the corner, Halloween! The one time of the year when you can be anything or anyone you want and people give you free candy. It can’t get any better than that.

When I Lie Awake By Ivy Gonzalez, class of 2016 When I lie awake at night Alone with just my thoughts I really start to lose my mind They consume me Eating me alive Driving me insane I scream Trying to get rid of them It only makes it worse Screaming Crying Begging Pleading For them to go away Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gone mad, havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I?

Photograph by Lance Wyndon, class of 2014

One Day By Ivan Rodriguez, class of 2017 Today, I feel like no one cares if I live or die like if I was to disappear no one would notice I can’t even remember the feeling of being alive Then, I felt like I was stabbed through every inch of my body, I didn’t want to take another breath I felt everything would be better if I was gone One day, I want to feel alive I want to feel happy again and know what to live for I want to know what it’s like to be there when someone’s in need I want to feel

The Room of Human Instruments By Rachel Ford, class of 2016 “Sir! We found another human instrument that seems to be intact.” “Bring it in.” The two gray troopers opened a portal and wheeled in an ebony grand piano. Finally, one that wasn’t missing any keys or important pieces. As a matter of fact, this one looked as if it was built yesterday. I walked to it and ran my hand across the finish. Not a single scratch. How could this withstand such a devastating war, and still come out in mint condition? I pressed a key. The sound was amazing, not damaged in the slightest. Even the keys still held their white gleam. “Thorn?” The voice of my brother brought me back into reality. “Y-yes... this is perfect. I’ll take it from here,” I stuttered. The two troopers nodded and left. “Need help pushing that into your music room?” my brother asked. “No no, I can handle it on my own, Vine. I’m not a baby anymore.” “Of course you aren’t.” His eyes turned bright yellow with amusement before walking away. Ignoring his statement, I looked back at the ebony piano and began to push it into my room of human instruments. After moving some larger percussion instruments, I placed the piano next to the ivory and upright version of itself. Standing back, I looked around the room, marveling at the collection I had put together. Since the extinction of the humans and the near destruction of their planet, the only way we’ve been able to play their music is in our synth booths. As clear and sweet as they sound, I never appreciated them as much as the real thing, so I decided to start a hunt for any intact instruments anyone could find on Earth. Luckily, the dispatched squadrons were able to find most of them, along with yellowed, partly burnt pieces of paper with musical notes written in an orderly fashion. Using these, I was able to teach myself to play every instrument in my collection, except the piano. I just couldn’t seem to understand the notes for it.... It’s much more confusing than that of the violin or clarinet. Even so, I was thrilled to have this new addition to my collection. Maybe I could try to play better on this piano instead of the worn down ones I was barely able to fix up. I pulled a seat to the white and black keys and sat down. Just before I put my hands on the keys, I began to hear a strange 8

animal-like cry, although it didn’t sound like any animal I’ve heard before. I stood up, walked to the window, and opened the curtains. Nothing but Darkened walking on the streets. The cry rang out again, this time from behind me. I turned around to see the ebony piano giving off a strange, eerie glow. Was the cry coming from the piano? No, that couldn’t be possible. I sneaked to the piano and rested my ear against the side. Sure enough, the cry rang out again from the inside. “M-maybe it’s just in need of some tuning,” I whispered to myself. The cry turned into a loud screech that didn’t pause. I covered my ears in an attempt to block the sound out. Then, the screech stopped. The room went silent once more. I put my hands to my sides again. What was wrong with this piano?? Maybe an animal was stuck inside? I tried to pull the top up, but it wouldn’t budge. I looked around the edges. No locks, no tape, no glue, nothing. The glow diminished to nothing; the piano looked normal again. I blinked twice, then rubbed my eyes. Maybe I was just seeing things. I hadn’t rested my eyes in a couple days, maybe that was it -- just a pair of tired eyes. I sat on the stool and ran my hands across the keys. It played just like the music scavenged from the remains of Earth. I couldn’t help but play the few songs I knew, even if they were just the basics. After playing for a little while, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from inside the piano. Was that there before...? I gave it a gentle tug and it slid out and landed in the spot used to hold the music sheets. It was one single sheet of the most complex arrangement of music notes I had seen yet. It was difficult, but I was able to decode the notes. It seemed to be a song that could only be done by the hands of professionals, but it couldn’t hurt to try, right? I set my hands in position, each finger lying on each needed key, and pressed them down. Just then, something strange began to happen. I lost control of my hands, and they began to play the music themselves flawlessly. I tried to pull them away, but it was no use. I couldn’t move from the seat. The song continued to play itself, using my hands as the instruments. The song had a complex yet slow melody; my hands slowly moved across the keys, pressing them for one second before moving on to the next. It gently calmed me, and after a minute, I closed my eyes and listened to the music. Then, a strange feeling swept over me, and the touch of the keys along with the feel of reality began to slip away. I opened my eyes to see nothing but white mist surrounding me. I 9

put my hand against my head and looked down. Was I standing? I couldn’t tell; the mist was so thick I could barely see my own hands. I took a step forward, then the mist parted to reveal the ruins of an Earthling town. The ground was cracked and skeletons were scattered around the destroyed homes. The air still smelled of smoke and decay. How did I end up here...? I kept walking along the street. The skeletons came in all sizes, ranging from fully grown adults to still developing infants. I noticed two adult skeletons wrapped around a smaller one, which was holding them back. The scene was so horrific, I had to look away. They probably knew what was coming. They all knew. The only thing they could and did do was hope for the best... Just then, I heard a soft giggle. I looked around to find the source of the noise. “Who’s there?” I called out. “Find me!” The voice seemed feminine and childish. I looked around again. Nothing but rubble and mist. Another giggle echoed through the area. “I’m right in front of you!” she said in a singsong voice. “What...?” I noticed the mist fade away and reveal a young blonde girl in a white dress. There were more ghostly silhouettes behind her; I counted about thirteen. She giggled again. “We’re waiting...!” “Waiting for what??!” “You to make us!” “Make... You?” “Yes, daddy.” Daddy? My race isn’t able to produce females or humans... “What do you me-” I was cut off. I could hear the piano playing again. It was soft at first, but gradually became louder with each passing second. I could feel the mist enveloping me again. The last thing I heard were these words from the girl.... “See you soon.”

Illustration by Drae Upshaw, class of 2016 11

Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

Art by Sinae Saravia, class of 2014

My True Love By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016

That’s love.

My one true love, Makes me happy inside ... Excited to be human, alive. My one true love, doesn’t mind the attention. They don’t mind me watching ... Nor mind me stalking. Watching ... stalking?

When one is so intoxicated with elation to the point of tears ... That’s love. When one is eager to draw, or write, or play, or create, That is love. And that love will never fail them, never abandon them, or hold them back. Love doesn’t take only one form, it takes multiple. It can be the pencil strokes that adorn a blank sheet of paper with tender imagination, the images I create. It can be in the form of flats and sharps, eights and sixteenths ... dancing through the air when the deafening silence was too much. It can be in the form of words on a page ... like this. You are probably not wondering if I grinned like a fool to myself when writing this. The answer is a yes. I did.

What are you?

Some kind of psychopath? The answer to that question is plain and simple. No. But you see, wait, waitYou actually think my true love is a human?

As if!

You see, my one true love isWait for it ... passion. Passion? How is that possible? How is that a true love? Well, it is simple. Passion brings out the best in a person ... in me. When one gets so excited that their chest feels it has a force of its own ready to burst and potentially kill them from a happiness overdose, That’s love. When one is so full of enthusiasm they squeal and make incoherent noises, That’s love. 14

Art by Jasmine Rocha, class of 2014

S.O.S. By David Martinez, class of 2017

I never told this to anybody, but I’m not who you think I am. I am not human. I’m more like a …. Wait! How do I know that I can trust you? You won’t tell anyone, right? Uhhh. I don’t know about this, but I’ll trust you – whoever you are. Well, I’m … round, red, and bouncy. Found out yet? Okay, yes. I am a ball. And yes, I’m a ball writing a story. No, I don’t know how this is possible, but it is. And according to my knowledge, I am the only ball alive. But you have to help me! I am slowly dying. I have had this hole on my back every since my owner kicked me towards a spiky bush this morning. Then he just left me there! I know, right? That’s a crime! Like can I sue him for a hit-and-run and get some JUSTICE! Well, it doesn’t work like that anyway because I can’t speak and I’ve learned that no one cares for balls around here. I’ve seen them get thrown, kicked, struck, and smacked. Anyways, I’ll be gone any second now so don’t bother helping me, but please help the others. I know that they feel pain, too. I just know it! So please be kind and think about your violent actions. Well, I’m down to my last bit of air. So bye; hopefully you can make a differen

Illustration by Cindy Ortiz, class of 2014 16

Nothing By Paola Nieto, class of 2016 Nothing makes sense. This love that we share. The fire we kindled with our two souls Makes the sun itself envious. We speak the language of love that men’s ears strain to hear and Men’s tongues can’t speak And minds can’t understand. Before you leave, my head next to yours, You whisper love’s language to me. It makes no sense. For when I look at you My arms are envious For all I want to do is hold you. My lips call for you, for just one kiss, And my heart Calls you in a vernacular that only those in love can pretend to understand. Yet it doesn’t make sense. Cause would I die for love? No. I would let our kindled fire die. Shut out my heart. My hands no longer seek to hold you And my lips no longer call your name. And the language of love will disappear forever from my soul. I would step back into the darkness And give the envious sun back its pride. And yet here I am slowly accepting the pain. Nothing makes sense. 17

Happy By Bryan Ambriz, class of 2017 waiting for the sun to rise waiting for the sun to light up the sky maybe this day is the one to have some fun with family cousins friends and bicycle races running and never stopping except to tie your shoe laces with water balloons and Saturday morning cartoons not wanting to go to bed, because the stars are still awake forgetting about everything just for this summer Photograph by Diego De La Torre, class of 2014

Sadness By Luiz Reyes, class of 2017 Sadness is when you don’t want to talk, an emotion where you feel like crying or running away. Sadness is like a crying mother who lost her child, like missing a part of yourself, like those words that break your heart are the only language left in the world. Heavy sadness can affect you socially and mentally. Being despondent is a feeling everybody has experienced. Sadness is common in teens because of many reasons: not fitting in, being bullied at home or problems at school …. Sadness hits you hard, making streams run down your cheeks. When you see someone sad, try to help them out. Remember that even if the surface seems perfect, down deep inside there may be pain and heartache. Why? Sometimes it’s easier to fake a smile than explain why you’re sad.

Art by Aylin Acosta, class of 2014

Art by Stephanie Aviles, class of 2014

The Stalker Anthem By Domonique Ballew, class of 2016 I called you a million times and texted you a million more If you don’t answer, I’ll have to show up at your door I’m not stalking you but you should know I kept that t-shirt that you wore I think about you day and night While holding it That’s not weird, right? Well if it is I guess I’m weird I’m not stalking you I just like your beard And the way your new furniture looks from your lawn You know your bed smells like you even when you’re gone? And your cat still likes me Yes it’s true I played with her while I was in your room I hid from you when you got in I was watching you with a silent grin Can’t find your cat? Oh that’s right I’ve got it I’m not stalking you I just like hiding in your closet You open the door Oh, crap you found me But we’re meant to be together Can’t you see? And don’t bother with that restraining order For you I’d illegally cross the border I’m not stalking you I swear I’m not I know you’re a little scared Okay a lot 22

But I promise not to tell a soul That you drink your cat’s milk Out of her bowl Just think us over I’ll give you some time Meanwhile I’ll be under your bed waiting till you’re mine Today you begged me to please just go Am I stalking you? I didn’t leave, so yeah I guess so.

Photograph by Maria Salgado, class of 2017

Abomination By Lance Wyndon, class of 2014

Our eyes met for a moment. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up; my heart skipped a beat. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on -- a goddess, developed to the peak of perfection and I was the peasant who worshiped her. Suddenly, her eyes moved away from mine to the schedule in her hand. “Psychology class?” She breathed heavily. Her voice was soft as air. “You’re late,” the professor grunted disdainfully as he scribbled words on the whiteboard, “don’t let it happen again. Take a seat.” The class was comprised of just a few students and she quickly found a seat near the door. Stop being a creep! My conscious scolded me as it realized that I was still staring. Was it wrong that I wanted to know her? Was it strange that I wanted to touch her to see if she was more than a figment of my imagination? I wanted to paint her, to capture the essence of her beauty through the gentle stroke of a paint brush. Drawing and painting were the one place I felt comfortable, where I could be unaffected by the scorn of my peers. I had always been the odd-man out. I was that weird guy in high school who liked to sit by himself. Class ended. I watched as she slung her satchel over one shoulder and ushered herself out of the room. I rushed home so I could capture her image on canvas as quickly as possible. I tried to replicate every detail I remembered, from her cute cheek dimples to her purple eye shadow. By the time I finished the painting, the sunlight had drained away and the sky had turned a starless, inky black. I fell spread eagle on my bed and soaked in the silence, exhausted. It felt bittersweet to have the luxury of peace in my own home; I felt transformed. My memories drifted back to my miserable childhood. IT loomed over me; the air around me reeked of musk and alcohol. A cold sweat slipped down the side of my neck. My skin burned with the ache of fresh bruises and scars. I remember the taste of my tears. I remember the feeling of horror that had lodged in the pit of my stomach and grew until I was drowning in it. I took slow steps back until I was pressed against the wall. I remember wishing I could dissolve into the stone, to become solid. To become someone other than the person I was. IT slumped over, tripping over its own feet in a drunken stupor, muttering. A single ray of light shown down from a gap in the curtains revealing ITS bloodshot eyes and even then I couldn’t recognize the monster of a person that was my father. I remember wishing that I could disappear. I remember wishing that all of it would be over. I remember wishing that I was dead.

After IT had its fun I would hide in my mother’s closet wishing that she, or anyone, would come looking for me. No one ever did. I was alone, with just my thoughts. Looking back, I should have told someone what was happening. However, at the time I felt little self-worth, as if I didn’t deserve having a voice or friends because I was such an “abomination.” Try not to think about it. My conscious whispered, trying to ease the shakiness in my tightened fist. I focused on peaceful thoughts and slowly regained my composure. That night I slept well and dreamt of her. My classes over the next several weeks passed slowly, with the exception of my psychology class which never felt long enough. Today, in particularly, she decided to sit in front of me. Her hair released an intoxicating smell of strawberries. My eyes traced the curves of her body. I noticed more little things about her too, like the way she tapped the pen against her lap whenever she seemed confused about something. Why don’t you just talk to her already? My heart started fluttering and butterflies began to form in the pit of my stomach at the thought of speaking to her. She probably wouldn’t even like a guy like me. You’re

so self-deprecating. I thought we had passed that stage of teenage angst and insecurity when you turned twenty? Let’s save us all the time, energy, and internal conflict about whether you should or shouldn’t and just do it. You’re an amazing guy and anybody would be lucky to have you, even her. The way my conscious pronounced the words “even her” made the

butterflies in my stomach fly. I couldn’t imagine me being with anyone, let alone her. I tried to muster every ounce of strength that I had and took a long deep breath. “Hey, I’m Henry.” I touched her shoulder gently. She turned around and smiled up at me. My heart did several back flips and cartwheels. She was even more breathtaking up close. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Jane,” she whispered, as she moved a strand of hair out of her eyes. I couldn’t breathe or think properly. I had never been particularly good at speaking to girls and I started to flounder.

Well, don’t just sit there. Say something idiot!

“Uh,” I stuttered madly trying to think of my next line, “so you’re a new student here? I haven’t seen you around.” “Yeah, I’m a sophomore transfer from Brookwood Community College.” “Oh cool,” I tapped my fingers against the armrest of the chair.

Make her laugh.

“And how are you enjoying the prestigious life of a Wilside University student?” I said in my best Schwarzenegger impersonation. She giggled slightly. Making sure the professor couldn’t hear us, we talked quietly. 25

“Honestly, it’s pretty tough and not at all what I expected, but then again nothing ever is,” she admitted, leaning in closer. She frowned, obviously upset about something. “Nothing ever is.” I didn’t know her, but from the way she spoke she seemed so fragile and a crazy idea formed in my head about us being together and me being her protector. I needed to wrap the conversation up with a big, red bow so I decided to take the leap. “You’re very beautiful,” I blurted out, “and I wondered if you wanted to get some coffee or something— as friends.” A long awkward pause followed. I tried to block off my conscious’s roars of anger about how idiotic I sounded asking for a date “as friends.” “Sure, that sounds like fun,” she replied, smiling. Friday, I sat at a small coffee shop, waiting for her. The door sprung open and Jane walked in along with a gust of wind blowing through her hair. “You look,” I paused trying to think of a suitable word to match her perfectness. “Amazing.” “Thank you, Henry, you look very nice yourself,” Jane responded wistfully. I noted her deep sorrowful eyes, and wanted to take her away from whatever thoughts were plaguing her. “Have you ordered yet?” she asked politely. “Of course not, I was waiting for you to come before I made any moves,” I winked nervously. “What would you like me to order for you?” Smooth. My conscious laughed sarcastically. We decided on iced carmel macchiatos. By the time I sat down I was sweating badly. I had never felt this way before about anyone. You’re Welcome! My conscious gloated. “So,” I began, taking a sip of my macchiato, “what do you want to do after you graduate?” Jane leaned back in her chair and chuckled. “I know this is going to sound dumb, but I want to be a Neurosurgeon.” “Why do you say that sounds dumb, because it isn’t?” “Well, it seems that way for everybody in my family. Ever since I was little my Papa used to say that I would grow up to be a teacher. The only problem with that plan is that I never wanted to be. Teaching isn’t my passion, the brain is. I love the complexity of the brain and how each part operates to help run the human body. I hope one day to work in a hospital as Head Neurosurgeon. ” Jane bit her lip softly and the very motion made me gasp for air. “What did your mother think of this?” “My madre died giving birth to my little brother when I was five,” she said. “I can’t really remember her, but I do recall she had a voice like an angel. She used to sing to me whenever she needed me to go to sleep or stop 26

crying. Enough about me though, what do you want to do after college?” “I want to be an artist. I’m really interested in painting,” I reluctantly confessed. I had painted her on a daily basis ever since I’d met her. Now thinking about it, I couldn’t recall just how many times I’d painted her over the weeks. “What kind of things do you paint? Have you ever painted me?” Her remark set me on edge. It took me a few seconds to understand that she was joking.

Don’t tell her.

“In fact, I have.” I regretted my comment the moment the words left my mouth. “I bet you’re amazing. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love to see them,” Jane ventured, staring directly into my eyes. My heart stopped. I took a large gulp of my coffee. Before I had the chance to contemplate how I would respond, my mouth opened and said, “Yeah, I’d love that. How about after we’ve finished our drinks?”

What the hell are you doing?

I apologized madly to my conscious. I was insecure about my artwork and had never shown it to anyone before. “They’re not very good,” I pleaded, trying to slowly move the conversation to something else. “Good or not, I’d love to see them. I love art, in a way it’s sort of like the brain: eccentric and diverse. It’s truly fascinating to me.” “Wow, smart as well as beautiful,” I gushed stupidly. “Oh you like?” Jane stood up and spun in a circle to show off her sparkling dress. “I wanted to try something new for my boyfriend tonight. What do you—“

Uh-Oh!

I know this may sound like an exaggeration of epic proportions, but I literally felt like I was watching my world crash and burn. I wanted to scream out in anguish and destroy everything in sight.

Henry it’s ok. You don’t need her. Why would you need anyone when you have me?

I tried to silence the voice of my conscience, but it rang through my head with more power and menace than I knew possible. My thoughts were scrambled and I felt as if an anvil had been dropped on the surface of my heart. This couldn’t be real. No, this wasn’t happening. The word “abomination” echoed in my ears.

I have been here with you from the beginning. I suffered with you when you had nothing … when you had no friends, family, or anyone to care for you. I am your friend. I am your family.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I muttered. Tears started to form in my eyes. I wanted to be sucked up into a hole in the Earth and disappear forever.

Poor little Henry with no friends or somebody to love him…Do you want your mommy to come and protect you? Oh wait, you left them all behind. “Henry? Henry?” Jane called out curiously, “Are you okay?”

I’m tired of you trying to run away whenever something doesn’t go your way. You’re a coward Henry. I wanted to give you some hope. I wanted to give you the courage to hold onto and believe in something even if we both knew that it would never work out. I’m tired of you letting someone come into your life only to screw you over. You don’t need Jane and you don’t need anyone, all you need is me!

A single tear fell down my cheek. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just had something in my eye,” I said, removing a pretend speck from my eye. “So about those paintings?” Jane looked intently at me. What could I say to her now that I had discovered the truth? My existence felt like a lie, an ugly scar on the face of the world. You don’t need her. My conscious repeated slowly. “Yeah, let’s go.” For some odd reason I felt the urge to show her my work. I wanted closure to my fantasy, despite the irrationality of it all. Walking in silence, Jane and I left the coffee shop and followed the sidewalks until we reached my grey building on South Street. I slowly opened the door to my apartment and a cold chill ran down my spine at the sight. Littering the entirety of my small apartment were hundreds of paintings of Jane. On the walls and windows dark charcoal drawings of Jane’s smiling face were on display. On the floor were paintings focused on single details of her, from her eyes to the skin on her hand. On the ceiling were horrific images of her with half her face gone, lying dead in a coffin with blank eye sockets.

I warned you.

The most startling of all my artworks was a picture of her holding a bloody heart. I knew instantly that the picture represented how she had stolen my own heart. My vision seemed to blur and everything got fuzzy in my head. What have I done? When did all of this happen?

I was trying to protect you.

I looked at Jane’s perfect face and the one thing I saw was terror. My arm abruptly sprung into action, without my conscious thoughts to move it, and slammed and locked the door shut.

All you need is me.

Jane screamed hysterically and began to punch me. I begged for my body to stop moving, but it had a mind of its own. I will not let you be hurt any longer. I WARNED YOU! 28

“STOP! STOP!” I bellowed at the air as my body leapt atop of Jane’s. As my fist swung into her skull, my vision was tented with a thick layer of red, an image of blood. I became savage and the built up rage and frustration that filled me was released. Jane wailed in pain. The world seemed to drain away into silence and I blacked out. When I awoke, the room was a mess. I sobbed desperately. In my bare hand I held up her lifeless heart; I marveled at its texture and color. She stole your heart, so I stole hers. The word “Abomination” echoed in my head and for once I understood what it meant.

Photograph by Lance Wyndon, class of 2014 29

A Hit By Jose Gomez, class of 2016

There he lies in his bed, needles and tubes attached -suffering, yet still living. I visit him every week, every time it hurts more and more, It hurts me more and moreâ&#x20AC;Ś Before he was a funny person, calm yet active. He would run like a cheetah, while treating everyone with kindness. Smooth and gentle as a wave. He was a poet, poems for every little thing, for celebrations, for warmth, a warmth that would always ease us. Then, he went to lying on a bed, in a hospital, without moving, without speaking, pain, just the pain. Finally, Our Father, Our Grandfather, Our Great Grandfather moved on to a better place, a place not only where he may watch over us but reunite with his first love. We can no longer see him, we cry until we are out of tears. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll forever be in our hearts. 30

Now and then I lie in my room, hurting as if a bullet is tearing through my core, and remembering. All the simple memories I have of him arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t simple anymore, their value increases ten-fold. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll forever be in my heart.

Photograph by Rebecca Gutierrez, class of 2016 31

A Piece of Advice from Me to You By Vanessa Placidon, class of 2016

I speak these words to myself, But to you I cannot. I bury them in me In the darkest places I know of, But they beg for an escape, Longing for the day When I’ll give them the opportunity To let others HEAR them, embrace them. Truth is, I can’t. I can’t tell you about me… But let me tell you about YOU. Yes, you. You make your way around this place, Thinking you know it Thinking it knows you, And thinking you know yourself. But let’s be real You might need a little help. You’re not who you want to be, You’re not who you say you are, And you don’t do what you want to do. But you’re also not what they say, Nor what they think. You’re someone else entirely. You’re exactly who you DON’T want to be. You put on a show For the rest of us to see.

A smile, A shield, The face of someone who isn’t hurting. But I’ll tell you right now, I see right through you. I see right through your soul, Through the pain, Through the suffering, Through everything you try to hide. But why? I see your questioning eyes. You question those you love, Those who love you. Why do they turn away? Why don’t they walk your way When you need them most? Why can’t they hear your words? And you question your faith. You kneel before the altar, Day after day, Year after year, Praying for help to come, Praying for forgiveness, For this, for that But where is your God When you need him most? I’ll tell you where he isn’t. He isn’t kneeling down beside you Listening to your words, Answering your prayers, Easing your suffering, Art by Diego De La Torre, class of 2014

Annie Meets Sandy By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

Annie kissed her parents goodnight as usual, brushed her teeth as usual, changed into her pajamas as usual, and climbed into her bed as usual. But tonight was not the usual night at all. She pulled the decorative cotton bag from the corner of her bed and pulled it to her person. It was a tad heavier than she had anticipated. But, upon undoing the string and removing the doll, she knew it was her little Angel, just as she had seen him when the pleasant old fortune teller had given it to her, claiming that their meeting was meant to be. He rested there on her palms for a moment, brilliant blue eyes wide open, staff in hand, ready for action. She gently stroked his soft cheek with her thumb. “I suppose I should give you a name, now that you’re mine,” she spoke quietly. Lying on her bed, doll pressed against her chest, she dwelled on the subject for a long while. Such a special doll deserved a special name, after all. She thought and thought until, at last, such a name came to her from the stories her mother always read her. “I do believe,” she declared, “that you should be called the Sandman. After all, you are here to give me pleasant dreams tonight.” She cradled the Sandman in her tiny arms as she closed her eyes and smiled. For the first time in months, Annie knew she would finally get a good night’s sleep. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself sitting in the dark, which now seemed strangely purple with a misty air all about. She felt a cold metal surface beneath her. Looking there, she realized that she was somehow on top of a refrigerator, hovering alone over a vast nothingness. She sighed wearily at this rather troublesome situation, for she was very afraid of heights. “Now, if only I could get down,” she said to no one in particular, “I should feel more comfortable.” Her fear, however, kept her perched up there, alone, on the floating furniture. The unfortunate girl let her legs dangle and kicked her tiny feet against the door of the refrigerator for a while in silence until she gradually noticed a radiating warmth from up above her. Looking up, she saw golden sands forming into a halo above her head as they swirled gracefully towards her. She felt oddly comforted by this and extended a hand to the sky, letting her fingers sift through the warm, coarse grains. They traveled down her arm and gathered in front of her like a tiny, entropic assembly. Annie giggled as she cupped her palms 34

under the glowing formation, witnessing as the sands gradually took shape. Soon, to Annie’s surprise and relief, she found her little Sandman sitting on her hand with his big eyes shut. They fluttered open and stared into his new playmate’s beautifully green eyes, the first thing he’d ever seen in quite a while. He grinned widely. “Hello-!” He spoke cheerily. Annie grinned back. “How very good that I should properly meet you here. My name is Annie, and you’re the Sandman, if you should like that name.” “I like that name very much,” the doll replied. “Well, Sandman, you were given to me because you can give me good dreams, which is something I’m very much in need of.” “Is that so?” asked the Sandman as he looked around his surroundings. Annie put him down gently and let him walk about the perimeter of her platform. “As you can see, I’m stuck up here. I’d very much like to get down but I can’t tell how far down the floor is. Though, I suppose, your company should make this experience better for me.”

The Sandman said nothing for a while as he wandered about some more, searching carefully for any signs that there was indeed a bottom. “Criminy.” He sat down in one corner and thought for a great while before his eyes lit up with what he thought was a very good idea. “I do think,” said he, “that the best way to get to the bottom would be to jump there.” Annie’s eyes widened as she leaned back, aghast at the idea. “I do Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

not think that would be so wise, leaping blindly to a place I don’t even know exists.” The Sandman only smiled. “But you won’t be blind, as I shall jump with you, for as long as I remain with you, nothing bad should happen. Is that not why I’m here, Annie?” The girl considered this for a moment, and decided it was actually a very logical route, even it was indeed intimidating. “I suppose that I shall put my trust in you, for you are my new friend, and, in this world, my only friend.” And with that, she opened her arms, allowing the Sandman to walk to her. She held him close and stood up, cautiously walking towards the edge. Annie jumped immediately with her eyes shut, for she knew that if she stopped at the edge and looked down, her cowardice would surely best her. She felt her stomach roll up to her chest with nausea and held back the urge to cry out her regrets. But, upon opening her eyes again, she realized that she wasn’t falling as fast as she thought she would be. In fact, she seemed to float down in slow-motion, drifting in the darkness with her new friend, the Sandman. And, while the Sandman had positively no idea how he was helping or even what his odd stick was for, he knew that at the very least she was now comfortable with him there, drifting off to a surface that may or may not have been awaiting. And so they remained, silently enjoying each other’s company for what seemed like several minutes until Annie felt the tips of her shoes gently touch the ground. The dark skies succumbed to brightness, the purple mist dissolved, and she awoke to the warm sunlight touching her face as the Sandman remained still in her arms. It was a good night’s sleep, indeed. She kissed her now normal doll on his soft forehead, sat up, and smiled.

Art by Cindy Ortiz, class of 2014 37

The Homeless Honor Student By Abigail Jacob, class of 2014 During my eighth grade year, my personal life was something I hid from my friends. I was afraid for them to know that my mom was addicted to drugs, my “home” was a Motel 6 room, and my family had to rely on public assistance. I wanted to be known for what I did rather than where I slept. I was so scared that I used to tell my best friend’s dad to drop me off at the Denny’s by the motel, claiming that my mother would meet me for dinner. I just didn’t want anybody to know what was happening. During the months at Motel 6, I mentally and emotionally became an adult, while the constant yelling began to seem as normal as hearing the cars on the nearby freeway. “What can I do?” was the question I asked everyday in that small beige room. It was the worse feeling seeing my family barely being able to survive and being unable to do anything significant to relieve that struggle because of my age. My mother and sisters had always been strong women. They constantly reminded me that “work, not tears,” solved problems. However, the stress had gotten to them. They would often cry, apologizing that this had to happen to me. I would just smile, show them my grades, and say, “Do you know what a 4.0 GPA means? It means I’m okay. I love you and no matter what situation we’re in, it’ll be okay.” I learned that I needed to be strong for my family and show them I could try to get us out of our situation, maybe not now, but in the future; we needed hope. Since then, I made it a goal to take and excel in the most rigorous courses my schools could offer, in hopes that it would help me pay for college and secure a career that was a ticket out of poverty. We stopped receiving public assistance and couldn’t afford the motel anymore. I moved into different relatives’ homes by myself, and jumped school to school. I got used to moving, and found it easy to adjust to each new school’s curriculum. Many of the values I have now as a young adult were influenced by the people I met in those schools. They taught me that to truly live is to have a passion and never give up on that passion. My passion rests in the field of engineering, where creativity, innovation, and problem solving can be targeted to problems that make an impact on society. A career in Biomedical or Materials Engineering would 38

make it possible for me to research and create products that have an impact on society while doing something I am passionate about. Some may say that is a grandiose plan, but I know I am capable of fulfilling it. I work hard to not only be a student who excels in academics but to also be one who excels in finding solutions. Due to financial issues, I have moved with my mother to my twentyfive year old sister’s home in Long Beach. This change of address means I now use the Metro rail and bus system for a two hour commute to continue attending John Muir High School and Pasadena City College, for my statistics course. Even with the long commute, I have maintained good grades by passing all of my high school courses with A’s and my statistics college course with a B. Two years ago, my second oldest sister, Angela Jacob Bermudo, was legally given permission from my mother to be my temporary guardian because my mother’s health problems had made it difficult for her to care for me. Yes, it was hard getting used to the fact that my mom, the person who was the doctor, teacher, and superhero in my life, was no longer able to support me. However, I am still going to persevere and never give up on my passion of engineering and innovation, my dream of graduating high school, and graduating from a university into a life where I can give that same sense of hope and strength to the community and the world that has made me the strong and motivated young adult I am today.

Photograph by Maria Salgado, class of 2017 39

Twist By Drae Upshaw, class of 2016

Three Simple Words By Destiny Arriaza, class of 2017

It was a cloudy day; the world was grey. Jai Reynolds logged into his Twitter account and saw three simple words: You have changed. He held his head. Jai had been getting hate for quite awhile. He wondered why people hated him, and why they thought he was a bad person. He wasn’t; he was just misunderstood. He always tried to make others happy. Every time he logged in, or went anywhere, he got hate. He couldn’t understand it. Why did he and his brothers get so much hate? They didn’t deserve it. “Faggot, stupid, idiot, ugly ….” Jai felt like he couldn’t be himself anymore. That’s why everyone said he was changing. What did they want from him? Jai always wore thick clothes, even in summer. Others found it a bit strange, but took little notice because it didn’t really matter. Only Jai knew the reason why he wore the heavy clothes, and it wasn’t because he felt he looked nice. At night, in the dark, after his family had gone to bed, Jai would take a small blade he’d broken off an old knife. No one knew he had it. In a cold sweat, breathing heavily, he would cut himself. He always regretted it, but felt unable to stop. He believed the cutting helped relieve his pain. Afterwards, feeling so unhappy, he would drown himself in sad music. Jai felt he was the problem. His older brothers were also suffering because of him. They got hate because of him. Everything was his fault. Jai went to the highest building he could find. He sat on the edge, and looked over the world with tears in his eyes. He heard piercing, grating noises, so much noise. The world was so noisy. In his head, he heard their voices, he saw the hateful writing. All of this was building up in his head. Meanwhile, Jai’s brothers were at home, clueless to everything. Luke asked Beau where Jai was as they walked into their room. Both boys froze when they saw a note on Jai’s bed that read, “It’s all my fault.” Luke and Beau got in the car, and sped to where they knew Jai was. Jai sat upon the ledge. He began to stand, and took one last look at the world. A white feather drifted past his eyes, flying with the breeze. Jai wanted to be as light and carefree as that feather. With eyes closed, he began to lean forward. 44

Luke and Beau ran up the stairs, with tears running down their faces. “No, Jai!!” yelled Luke. Beau saw Jai leaning forward and ran. He put his hands on Jai’s chest and pulled him back. Jai fell into Beau’s arms, crying. That night Jai logged into his Facebook account and wrote, “Three

simple words could be the death of somebody. Think before you speak. I didn’t die today, because I was fortunate enough to be saved by my brothers. Just remember, you are never alone in the world … there is always someone there for you, even when it doesn’t seem like it. Never give up. You are worth it.” Jai stayed up all night, watching the kind comments on his page grow. When the sun rose, he was smiling, eager for the new day.

Photograph by Brenden Dickerson, class of 2014 45

Art by Stephanie Aviles, class of 2014 46

Photographs by Kimberly Mejia, class of 2015

The Time Is Now: A Speech to Educators By Lydia Jimenez, class of 2014 During the first semester of my AP Biology Class, we went into depth about evolution, including vestigial structures and natural selection ... and a question came into mind. Why is there evolution, these patterns of change over and over again, different each time? In short, life itself is change. Our world is changing. Therefore, the way you provide education must change too. This is why the Partnership for 21st Century Skills advocates that teaching should not be static -- the same each day, each month, or each year. Teaching is learning and learning is dynamic. My generation is not the same as yours; we are full of surprises. We students are masters of technologies: cell phones, tablets, computer systems, iPods, even three-dimensional printing. We navigate multiple social media: Twitter, Edmodo, Instagram, and Snapchat! And just as different as we are from students twenty years ago, what the world needs of us is different too. This is a radically altered working world we are talking about. This world doesn’t want geniuses, perfectionists, or someone who has over 500 friends on Facebook, but leaders! Technology has opened doors for us; today we have the power of limitless information at our fingertips. But to do what? What can we do with this limitless information? The world wants and needs leaders who can advance social consciousness, people who communicate through social media with multiple technologies to benefit not only themselves but others, since we, as citizens, all grow from one another’s knowledge. You, educators, are our agents of change. Please keep in mind that we are fragile. What you do and say can affect us and our ability to overcome life’s challenges. Don’t assume by our grades that we are perfect and “just fine,” or lazy and unfixable. Instead, create a relationship with your students. This will help you understand us, where we come from, why we act the way we act, think the way we think. Gain our trust, and in return you will gain an open-minded and open-hearted student. Less correcting and more connecting with students will help us develop in social, creative, and emotional ways, ready to be agents of change ourselves. 48

For it is we, the students, who will lead this rapidly shifting world. But we need you. You already have the resources, technology, skills, and education. All you need now is the motivation, acceptance, dedication and hope. The time is now ... itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s up to us ...itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s up to you.

Art by Julio Villegas, class of 2015 49

Where I’m From By Juan Guillen, class of 2015

Where I’m from I can see beautiful tall mountains, while energetic hikers and bikers pass by my front yard. Where I’m from I can see a strong woman who raised me all on her own, wishing I could give her a better life. While many obstacles try to pull her down, she keeps moving forward with a smile. Where I’m from tasty tacos and a cold beer bring family together. Where our problems are never said to others’ backs but to their faces. Where at the end of the day we’re still loved regardless. Where I’m from I can lie under my shady tree during the raging summer heat and eat as many oranges as I want.

Photograph by Diego De La Torre, class of 2014 50

Guardian Angel By Adrian Suarez Martinez, class of 2017 Walking down the street, I have an odd feeling. I am alone. So alone and scared that something bad might happen to me. A feeling that someone is watching. I wait for the attack. So scared. I am lost, so lost I don’t know where to turn. Evil surrounds me. I feel close to death. Then when the sky is cloudy, a ray of sunshine touches me. I feel a warm drop on my cheek. It’s not even raining. I hear whispers in my ear. Saying, “I’ll protect you.” Who will protect me? I don’t understand. When the light from the sun dies, everything goes quiet. No one is here but me. But when I turn I see a flash of gray fur and the eyes of a wolf. He follows me wherever I go. This is my Guardian Angel. Watching me, following me, protecting me. I feel safe and happy. I feel protected whenever he is near me. I am no longer alone. I can now walk in peace.

Illustration by Adrian Suarez Martinez, class of 2017

Griff By Matthew Toral, class of 2017 It was another quiet day in my tank. I looked around for something to do. There was my cave I liked to sleep in, my logs I liked to climb and my plant that sat next to my plastic alligator skull. My water bowl was almost empty. Before I could think of something to do, Master came home. I don’t know where he goes but he leaves every morning and comes home in the afternoon hungry and tired. “Hello Griff,” he said, passing my tank. He returned a few minutes later with some water for my bowl. He gave me some crickets to eat and held something up. “Look Griff,” he said, showing me a small plastic airplane, “I made it for dad; it’s his Christmas gift.” After that he left. Master had been very busy this week and so he could not play much. Night came, and by 10:00 p.m. Master was asleep. I pushed the lid of my tank and climbed out. I crawled to the kitchen to get some food and found some chips; I ate some and left the bag on the floor. Master will clean up after me -- he always does. I went to the living room to explore. In the middle was a large tree, unlike any I had ever seen. It was bright and flashy, with lots of colorful boxes under it. I heard footsteps and hid under the tree. Carefully, I poked my head out. It was the dog so I stayed hidden. I don’t like that dog; he tried to eat me once but Master stopped him. As I was hiding, I thought about the other lizards I used to know. Were they still at the pet store or did they get good Masters too? I explored under the tree for awhile. There were boxes with names on them. One said “Griff” on it. What was inside?, I wondered. Then I heard the door open and a man dressed in red came in. He was large with a long, white beard. He put more boxes under the tree and left. I came back out and I saw something on the floor that read, “Dear Griff, Christmas is a time for giving and making others feel happy. From Santa.” After I read that, I finally understood what Christmas was. It was almost 6:00 a.m.; Master will be awake soon. I walked back to my tank and shut the lid tight. I laid down, closed my eyes to sleep, and thought happily of Santa and my presents under the tree. Then I heard Master ask, “Who ate my chips?”

Illustration by Cindy Ortiz, class of 2014 53

Origins of a Writer By Lance Wyndon, class of 2014

“When we reach our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change,” this is a line from Legend of Korra, a children’s cartoon, that I am both embarrassed and proud to say represented my situation. In September 2004, when I was 7 years old, my parents divorced, leaving me and my younger brother Chase to live with my mother. My father remarried and moved back to his home state of Texas. I remember trying to suppress the void of abandonment, one that could only be filled with the physical presence of the person I missed. He would call frequently and sometimes visit, but it soon became apparent that the connection we once had was no longer there. After a long discussion, my parents decided that my brother and I would visit my father during the summer months. This created the dilemma of summers being far too long while simultaneously never long enough. In one home I didn’t have a father and in the other I didn’t have a mother. I wanted more than anything to return to normalcy, to go back to the way things were before. However, that was no longer an option. It was through writing that I found my voice, one which allowed me to describe and distill all my frustration, confusion, and disappointment. I wrote about the good times we once shared as a family, and was able relive those beautiful moments of family unity and an idyllic home. Writing was my escape, my liberation from the flaws in my life. It became my long lost best friend, one who had returned to help me find the roots to our lost relationship. Writing taught me the importance of savoring the good times we shared as a family and the importance of finding inner peace. It is from this early meeting with writing that I began to develop a strong interest in reading and writing. My growing interest in literature blossomed to an all new level when I began to write and illustrate my own short stories and read them out loud to my class during Show and Tell. Nothing else could quite equal the level of passion and excitement I felt from its imaginative process. Of all the types of writing that I had been exposed to, fiction was the most compelling. I loved the freedom of being able to create vivid worlds, colorful characters, and otherworldly objects that didn’t have to conform to the constraints of this physical reality, as well as fiction’s ability to be uniquely personal. It became my story, a place in my life where I could finally 54

control the outcome of things. In my world, writing was and is more than just a story; it is artistic, physical, and self expression. Words, like paint, are more than just colors, but represent a blend of emotions that can infinitely vary under the mindset of an individual. Writing is my safe haven in a world of imperfections and the one thing I can truly control. I was then, am now and will continue to be a writer; my desire is to be a great one.

Art by Cheyenne McGee, class of 2014

The Shot By Vanessa Placidon, class of 2016, and Yendrick Porras, class of 2016

“If we don’t take him, he’s going to suffer. This isn’t the life I want for my dog. How can you have brought him here without talking to me about it first? He deserves another chance.” “You – you don’t mean Cuddles, do you? Are you joking? Look at him! That thing looks dead. We’re not taking him back. I thought we came here to find a new pet. ” “I came here for Cuddles. We can’t leave him here. I’ve had him as long as I can remember. I raised him after he was abandoned by his previous owner. He’s a part of our family. We’re taking him home.” “If you think I’m going to take that pathetic thing back, you’re being ridiculous. It’s your fault he ended up here in the first place. If you care so much, you shouldn’t have let this happen. If he suffers here, then so be it.” “How heartless can you be? You once believed that every dog deserved to have a good home. Have you forgotten that part of yourself?” “Oh, I still believe that. The only difference is that I want to give a new dog a home. A dog that has never had the luxury that Cuddles had. We have the opportunity to adopt a new dog and give him or her a good home. What’s so wrong about that?” “This dog was always there for you! He never left your side! He was so loyal to us both, and you abandoned him in this pound without a second thought. He needs us to get him out of here.” “Oh, you are so crazy! Stop going on and on about Cuddles being there for me. He’s a dog for crying out loud! If anything, he owes me! I stopped him from getting hit by a car and I fed him for many years! Don’t talk such nonsense.” “I can’t believe what you’re saying. I’m getting him out of here and taking him home.” “Go on ahead and take him, but he will not be allowed into my home and neither will you if you show up with that mutt. Find yourself and your dog a new place to live.” “What are you doing? Don’t be ridiculous! That’s my home too! If I want to bring my dog into my home then I will. Don’t do this. You’re getting out of control.” 56

“I’ve warned you to not mess with my temper. I warned you! You didn’t take me as seriously as you should’ve, now did you? We’ll see how seriously you take me now.” “What-what are you doing? Stop it. Stop it!” “I told you, honey. You shouldn’t upset me. People who upset me pay a very high price.” “Oh, my God! Put that gun down. We’ll do this your way then. The dog stays here. I promise. Please, just stop this.” “Oops. Too late.”

Art by Stephanie Aviles, class of 2014 57

The Sword: A Screenplay By Constance Kay, class of 2015 EXT.

IN A WOODED AREA – NOON

ANNA and JOHN are walking along in thick woods; there are leaves everywhere in red, orange and yellow. Anna has red hair and fair skin with lots of freckles; she’s about 16. John is around age 17, has short brown hair and tanned skin. Both are wearing medieval tunics, John’s is yellow and Anna’s green. Anna seems to be searching for something. She suddenly stops, causing John to look at her curiously. JOHN Anna, what are we doing exactly? When you asked me to take a walk you weren’t very clear. ANNA John, just stop talking and help me look. Anna starts to look under leaves and kick up areas of dirt. JOHN (confused) Look for what?! ANNA The Sword! JOHN (very confused) What sword?! Why are you looking for a sword?

ANNA Correction we are looking for The Sword.

Anna starts to kneel on the ground and look closer at it, moving her hands all over the dirt, while John starts to back away.

JOHN There is no we in this! I was told this was just going to be a peaceful walk, and what is this sword you’re going on about? ANNA I never said anything about it being just a walk and what do you mean you don’t know about The Sword?! Anna gets up, putting her hands on her hips, carrying an all-knowing look in her face. She steps closer to John, who has stopped retreating. ANNA (knowingly) Well, for your information we are looking for a sword rumored to contain power so immense kings bow before its wielder. JOHN (hurriedly) That’s nice Anna, I enjoyed the walk but I have to go … uh … my mom needs me to … uh … sew the windows shut! Good luck with your search though. John starts to head away from Anna, but then she catches his arm. ANNA John, could you please help me look, at least for today? JOHN No, I am not getting roped into this! First it was a magical fairy tree, then it was an old dragon’s lair, now it’s a sword! John tries to wrestle his arm away but Anna holds on strong. 59

ANNA (pleadingly) Please? If you help me now, I’ll never ask for your help again. JOHN You promise? Anna lets go of John’s arm and starts to move back to the area she was searching before. JOHN Fine! I’ll help you but just to let you know when we find that sword I want... ANNA (enthusiastically) FOUND IT! Anna gets up excitedly, peering at the dirt covered object before her. As she starts to rub the dirt off, her expression starts to fall and she drops the object. JOHN What happened? I thought you found it. ANNA (gloomily) Just a fake. A piece of cheap metal covered in mud. JOHN I’m sorry. Anna sits down at the base of a tree, her head hanging low, as John walks over and sits with her. ANNA I guess I’ll add that to my list of failures.

JOHN We are all wrong sometimes, you just need to admit your mistake and move …

Anna sits back and then gives a sharp yelp, jumping up and rubbing her back. JOHN What’s wrong?! John gets up and moves towards Anna. ANNA Something stabbed my back! John takes a closer look at the tree seeing a hole in it. He reaches in and pulls out a shiny sword. The sword is a bluish silver with a matching scabbard and intricate carvings and a jewel in the pommel. ANNA THAT’S IT! THERE IT IS! Anna starts to jump up and down excitedly and then takes the sword from John’s hand. ANNA Thank you so much. JOHN You’re welcome, now let’s go home. Your mother will be worried. John and Anna start walking out of the woods, with Anna holding her new blade happily. ANNA I finally have another piece for my legendary sword collection. John takes a step back, stops, and just stares at Anna. JOHN Wait, you’ve found more than one of these?! ANNA Of course, duh! What do you think I do in my free time?!

Anna starts to swing the sword absent mindedly. JOHN Um, help your mother cook, clean, or learn sewing? Do girl things? Anna continues her sword swinging while giving a laugh. John continues to stare at her as if she was crazy. ANNA Psshh … that’s dumb. Why would I spend all my free time cleaning or sewing? Anna avoids making eye contact with John. JOHN Sorry, I just assumed. ANNA (curtly) Well, it’s okay, we should get home since your mother was expecting you before dinner. Anna starts to walk out of the woods. JOHN (still a little confused) Yeah, I guess. He follows after Anna, who is continuing to swing the sword. They both walk off as the sun starts to set and the woods darken.

Art by Rogelio Cano Catalan, class of 2016

The Night Trip By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016

A thin ray of light cast itself upon the bed of the sleeping couple.

Yes, sleep, thought the little girl who now stood in the doorway. She shut

the door, ever so gently, and walked back into her room. The worry was consuming little Abbi now. If she was caught she could be grounded for weeks.

Maybe even a month.

She grasped the Crayola scissors she’d stolen from class earlier today. She told herself that she would return them tomorrow and that she was only “borrowing” them just this once. She took a patched blanket from her drawer and laid it out on her bed, proceeding to work alone in the moonlight as silvery beams guided her scissors along the seams. Twenty minutes later, she’d successfully divided the blanket into long strips, which she knotted securely together. She then took one end of the improvised rope and fixed it to her curtain pole by standing on her desk. She took one long, deep breath, and then leaped, blanket in hand. She wanted to scream, but kept her mouth shut tight as she jerked on the rope. Opening one eye, she gently pressed her bright red shoes to the earth, letting go once she knew for certain she was safe. So far, so good. She then proceeded to run. Down the street, around the corner, and through the park, until she finally arrived at her destination: the Maple Pines Dog Pound. Her parents had taken her puppy Roy there three days ago while she was at school, and now was the time to save him. Abbi already knew they kept the new dogs out back for a week before locking them in their pens. Picking the lock to the fence would be a cinch. She grinned confidently and walked up to the padlock, removing a bobby pin from her brunette hair and getting to work. Once it unlocked, she pushed the fence open and granted herself entrance. A few dogs opened their eyes. Most of them were already awake. She ignored them and pressed on to the “special pen” her parents said Roy was in. Upon entering, she noticed that this section was divided into miniature cubicles containing cages that held some rather mean-looking dogs. Among them, a young labrador’s thick, black coat almost blended in with the night sky. But Abbi saw him all too well. There’s my puppy, she thought, smiling softly. In half a minute’s time the cage unlocked. “C’mere, Roy!” Her soft voice rang out to him, and he immediately obliged. Analyzing him, she realized why her parents must’ve sent him to the pound in the first place. Whipped cream surrounded his mouth like a small beard, dripping to the ground, and he was snarling in what she assumed was crankiness because he’d been locked up by the strangers who worked here. “Oh, you hopeless mutt,” she mused quietly. “C’mon, let’s go.” But, as the little girl started back towards the entrance, she heard a low growl. Roy leaped before she could turn. 63

Static By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016 Overflowing is occurring in my head, The static is going, going, not dead Too many words, and phrases, and emotions Being left in that static, unspoken, unsaid. My brain tells me “go!” My lips tell me “no.” They keep themselves glued With super sticky doubts. I really have no problem Keeping to myself. That connection with others Is anywhere but there. If I let the music flow

Would anybody care? I feel I am The only one who truly Understands. I can’t let out blunt answers Without stutters, mutters, and demands. It is getting ready to burst, My brain. If I continue with this static I am sure I’ll go insane. Millions of notes, thoughts, flats, and sharps Struggling to break through steel chains. 64

What stops me is my throat, I try, the sound shakes, I sputter, I croak. Spew irrelevant words, Keep it all inside. Keep that static going. The static claims its prize. Going, going, alive.

Art by Cheyenne McGee, class of 2014 65

Photograph by Diego De La Torre, class of 2014

Art by Eduardo Zarate, class of 2014

Clap By Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016 Into the middle of this hectic life I am tossed, And I’m pulled in every direction Like children fighting over a toy. I’ve escaped autism and death and sadness and sickness, But I cannot break free of the pulls and pushes, The tugs and yanks. The lies, The deceit, Or my own mortality.

If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands! Children’s voices croon the song across an eternity.

If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands! I started thinking about how I was going to die when I was 8. I’d always talk to my friends about how long we’d live, and “What happens when we die?”

If you’re happy and you know it… What would I do about college? About my job? How would I care for and support, How would I provide for my family after my parents couldn’t? I was 10.

Then your face will surely show it! What is the meaning of life? Why do we exist? Is there an afterlife or a greater force beyond us? 11. Perfect grades, perfect attendance. My parents are proud, but I’m scared.

If you’re happy and you know it… Then, it strikes me. We are here, everything is here, for a reason. We were meant to discover, to create. We are given the building blocks of the universe and must carry on from there. There is no big answer we can’t find or some greater force out there. 68

We are the greater force. 15. I have friends; I have family. They are my building blocks. And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll always be there for them when they forget to smile, As I have done for so long. I smile for them, for me, for enlightenment,

Clap your hands.

Art by Aylin Acosta, class of 2014 69

How I Really Feel: A Dramatic Monologue By Jameela Burch, class of 2014

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of meeting someone I would be with for the rest of my life. Then, on that sunny summer day, I met you. It was the first time in a long time I felt important. In the beginning everything was great. But one day, it all changed. I can’t even begin to tell you how I felt the first time you hit me. It was because dinner wasn’t ready when you got home. I shrugged it off though, because you apologized the next day. For months my coworkers would ask, “Lesly, what happened?” I would simply reply, “I fell.” I knew I couldn’t live like this anymore. When I told you I was pregnant, do you know what you did? You beat our unborn son or daughter out of me. I saw our child on the floor. I saw you walk out the door as I almost bled to death. Jason, every time you hit me it was like a plate hitting a wall then shattering into pieces. I was used and abused, even attempted suicide. I really wanted to die, my child was dead, so was I. I was broken. I am broken. Who wants a broken woman? No one. Not even you. I question myself every day that I am here on this earth. Does Jason really love me? The answer is you never did. You don’t tear down the ones you love. You don’t cheat, lie and almost kill the ones you love. I love you; I will always love you. Every minute of each day I love you, but I love myself more. I love myself so much more that I am ending this relationship and ending your life.

Art by Victoria Pulcifer, class of 2016 70

The Crows By Phillip Chase, class of 2014 Failure. Sociopath. Loser. Punk. Why is it that every time I walk around, I hear those words? Is it because I feel dead inside? Is it because I see the world a different way than everyone else? Do those things even matter? No. Nothing matters. It’s because He has finally claimed me as his own. It’s because … I’m me. Everyone doesn’t recognize that, though. And because of that, I can fly like the crows above my head. No one cares. All I do is follow the crows to my doom.

Art by Manuel Mendez, class of 2014

My Name By Vanessa Placidon, class of 2016 You say my name Time and time again Loudly Like a train passing the tracks next to a house Softly Like a catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s purr of delight as its fur is stroked But I ask myself As you should yourself What significance does my name have? What significance does any name have? A name Simply a word That distinguishes one being from another But a name itself holds no meaning For it is just a bundle of letters Put together to create a word A poetic sound We can try and try To give significance to our name By doing something memorable or important To try and make ourselves feel special But all we are Is a word A bundle of letters We may as well be nameless

This Time By Arline Garcia, class of 2017 At this time, in my life, there are many thoughts wandering around my mind like kids running on a playground. I feel curious about life. Not so long ago, in the past, depression hit me and knocked me out. Although I gained my strength and the depression was gone, it left a scar, but this is proof of a battle I won. Someday, which I hope will be soon, I will know why bad things happen to people with hearts pure like water and I will know why people who have hearts made of stone are the most fortunate.

Photograph by Jessica Bernal, class of 2015 73

Light By Yasmine Rodriguez, class of 2016

“Explore Gothic Architecture in Paris! From Abbot Suger’s renovation of Saint Denis to the King’s Sainte-Chapelle!” In her head, she envisioned an enthusiastic tour guide shoving innumerable locations down her throat, repulsive. Depressed wasn’t a word Yvonne would call herself, but she sure wasn’t in the mood for croissants and good French company. Ever since her brother enrolled in the military, she’d been in a dark place. A place darker than a dank corner on the ceiling of an abandoned house’s basement. He could be by her side this very moment if he’d agreed to study abroad, but no, he is going through brutal basic training in the Marines. Yvonne had tried to convince him to let her join up with him just to be by his side … but his last words to her made a harsh chill run down her spine. All she could do now is hope that he took care of himself. Her time in the City of Lights consisted of moping and loathing; she needed an escape. Yvonne considered the churches in her brochure. She knew nothing of Gothic cathedrals, hell, she only saw The Hunchback of Notre Dame once and that was when she was seven. The nearest location was Sainte-Chapelle, so with little pondering, she chose her destination. The brochure was soon crumpled at the bottom of her book bag under a package of French potato chips. Looks like the weather forecast was incorrect. Goosebumps spread over her arms from the cold. Looks like it’s going to rain. The maroon scarf around her neck was raised over her mouth as she realized her misfortune. She forgot to bring a coat. A long sigh of relief escaped her mouth when she recognized the structure from the picture she held in her hand. The royal chapel was definitely extravagant, almost stealing oxygen from her lungs. The height was overwhelming; the massive stone structure stood proudly after eight centuries of wear. It towered over her and made her feel irrelevant. Yvonne took a few steps back to get a better look at the beauty of the architecture. She examined the flower-like rose window, and she took note of the pinnacles that topped every buttress. She then glanced at the somber looking clouds above, floating, drifting. As the realization that it would start pouring soon hit her, she decided she didn’t want to witness the sorrow of nature. When she walked through the gate she was honestly a bit surprised that no one was in sight. Hey, the other tourists probably had dependable weather forecasts. With a few steps forward, she realized the door was a

tad ajar. Her slender fingers slipped into the shadowy abyss, with just a bit more effort, her days of suffering would be over. The room was not how she envisioned it. It was relatively bright. Reds, blues, greens and gold covered every inch of the room; it was grander than what she thought was Gothic. A disappointed sigh escaped her lips. Oh well, it was certainly not as cold as outside and with so much brightness surrounding her, it made the chamber all the warmer. She spent a few minutes taking it all in. “You know, you’re not supposed to be here.” Immediately, Yvonne’s posture straightened like a board. “Where are you? Who’s here?” her voice questioned, with a hint of paranoia. “So many questions ... turn around, it is pretty bright in here, you know.” The sight she beheld was a short man in a floor-length black coat that looked too large to be his. “Were you in here the whole time?” She lowered her scarf below her chin to speak clearly, the material now hugging her neck. "Yes,” he said as he strode toward Yvonne slowly. It almost looked like he was hesitant to. “Well … are we the only ones here?” “When I said you weren’t supposed to be in here, I meant no one at all. Except me.” Everything about this man screamed nonchalance. His voice was monotone, his expression bored. “I’m sorry mister, I’ll leave.” Sarcasm was all he got out of her words. He strangely felt obligated to find out what was wrong with her. She seemed lost. “You know what, come with me.” “Where?” Could she even trust this guy? She didn’t sense anything too suspicious, but it was always good to keep her guard up. “Follow me, there’s a staircase to the upper chapel.” He glanced back at her, taking notice of her hesitance. “Don’t worry, I’m perfectly harmless.” That moment, Yvonne concluded she’d trust this stranger. Why? She didn’t know. It most definitely wasn’t his choice of attire, or his unusual haircut, or the dark-circles under his eyes. “Oui, Yvonne, are you going to follow me or what?” “Ha-ha, you saw my name tag. Quit pretending to be some kind of psychic! Yes, I’ll follow you.” “What name tag?” The force of her head dropping to see if her name tag was still stick75

ing to her cotton sweater almost caused a migraine. “You liar.” “Levi.” “Hmm?” "Levi is the name." He started up the stone stairs. “It seems natural that you should at least know the name of the person you’re blindly following, right?” "Not really. When given a name, I feel people are trying to make me trust them for shady reasons. But I guess in general people feel comfortable with a name ... hey, why are you looking at me like that?” "Don't know, I guess you're different." His words were ambiguous, and she was in no mood to decipher them. When she reached the last step she was truly awestruck. The ceiling seemed so far above her. Adorning the walls were window upon window composed of stained glass. Mesmerized wasn’t a word that could compare to her admiration. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Levi shrugged off his coat and let it lay on a vacant bench. “It’s a wonder how this building remains standing with all this glass. Why are you even in here anyway?” “I can ask you the same, but if you must know I am an art history student. I have this building to myself today. Part of my studies.” “Am I an inconvenience being here?” “No, you’re not, but what compelled you to come in here anyway?” His steel blue eyes held her attention. His stare was penetrating, questioning, curious. "Well, it started to rain and someone happened to leave the door open.” She playfully threw him an accusing look. Yvonne knew she was telling the truth, half of it at least. “Ah, that was a mistake on my part. I didn’t mean to, but I don’t mind that I did.” He didn’t mind? People had always minded … oh, Caleb. He continued, “It is nice being in here without people crowding up the place and causing ruckus for a change.” Levi lifted his head to gaze at the stained glass. “I’ve been here many times, but this time is special.” “You mean ‘was,’ you know, since I technically kind of ruined it.” “You didn’t ruin anything, I had enough time to myself, besides, didn’t I already mention I don’t regret it? It is nice having someone here that isn’t annoying.” He turned towards her. “Do you know why stained-glass is 76

so ubiquitous in Gothic churches?” “I didn’t even know it was... but it seems important.” “Ah, you’re right. Many people, predominantly peasants, during medieval times, couldn’t read, so it was important to understand Bible stories without actually reading the Bible. Images are pretty universal. The case with this place is different, though, it was actually the personal chapel of a king.” “That makes sense… and wow, for one person?” She secretly questioned the relevance of his words. Why did they matter? Why is she still here? Just as her eyes were fixated to the ground, the darkness was suddenly replaced with an array of light. The leather of her boots shined with a rainbow of color and the silver shoe buckle reflected a window above. It was surreal. “Oui, for one person … but you know, the light that comes through these windows represents the light of God.” Levi took his hand out of his pocket and held it to bathe in the colors. “The light adorning my skin right now is God’s light, according to religious folk at least. But I feel this light can represent whatever the viewer wants it to, don’t you think?” Yvonne moved her brown irises to gaze at the stained glass. The pupils of her eyes grew smaller with every second of awe that had passed. Hope …. “Lately I’ve been feeling depressed,” she admitted aloud, still staring at an image depicted on one particular window. “I began to doubt the love of someone. They … he left me. No explanation ... no apology .... He was tired of me babying him, of me interfering with his life. ‘Yvonne, I don’t need you coming with me, I’m a grown man, I don’t need someone treating me like a child being taken to their first day of school, just, just mind your own business.’ He said. Those were Caleb’s last words to me, then he left for the military, no goodbye was given. It … it just hurts so much.” She swallowed a lump, as a tear slid down her cheek. “To think I’m not needed by someone. I know he cares but … but I can’t help think … how dare he leave just like that?” Her voice went from quiet and quivering to confident and angry with her newfound resentment. Who do I resent more, Caleb or my-

self? “Calm down, Yvonne. I am sure that although he meant what he said, he didn’t want to hurt your feelings. He should’ve gone about it a better way.” “I know.” She forced herself to look into Levi’s eyes, unashamed of the tears that fell down her cheeks. “I know now. This is … weird … but, just 77

knowing that so many people believe this place is special, I’ve realized something. Moping doesn’t do anything. I always knew it didn’t, but I haven’t been able to truly acknowledge it until now.” “Ah, I see. We always know things, but as humans, we tend to ignore them -- to think of the worst. I’m not too old to have learned that. There is still time to grow. No shame in that.” “You’re right.” A smile etched across her face. Despite the wetness of her cheeks, he could tell all the difference. The relief. The newfound hope. He returned the smile, continuing to give reassurance. “Hikari.” “Hmm?” “That’s my real name; Yvonne is actually my middle name. Hikari is my name.” Her hands dug through her bag to fish out her wallet. The name “Hikari Yvonne Arlert” revealed itself beside her photo on her I.D. “Nice picture, they definitely allowed a retake.” “You’re crossing the line, shorty.” “I’m kidding, mine’s worse. Isn’t ‘Hikari’ Japanese for ‘light’? Why do you prefer your middle name?” “You’re correct. You see, my mother was Japanese. She gave me the name and once she died, I just dropped it.” “Caleb is your brother, oui?” “Yes, you’re right again. I think I should move on from ‘Yvonne,’ as well. In fact, I’m going to write to Caleb tonight and sign ‘Hikari’ at the bottom.” A laugh escaped her lips as she stuffed her wallet into her purse. She sighed at the significance of their conversation. “Hikari it is.” Levi gave one last glance to the glorious windows and started toward the stairs. “You coming?” Hikari repeated his actions then followed. Once they were back in the lower chapel with the reds, blues, greens, and gold, they stood awkwardly beside each other. “So, if you ever need anything.” He slipped his hand out of his pocket and out came a white card. “I have a business card.” “For what kind of business?” She glared at him playfully. “Take it, read it, then you’ll know. It isn’t rocket science.” "Fine." Hikari took the card and stuffed it into her bag, right on top of the French potato chips. As she gave her goodbyes and gave one last glance in his direction, Levi realized that he was glad he left that door open. 78

The Girl in the Mirror By Domonique Ballew, class of 2016 Who’s that girl in the mirror? I don’t know her very well. Who’s that stranger staring back at me? ‘Cause she looks like she’s going through hell. What is her name? Where is she from? She looks quite untamed And frightened, ready to run. Do you think she’s okay? Do you think she’ll survive? ‘Cause she’s just standing there staring Looking half alive, with A dead look in her wide brown eyes. And to me, you see, this is such a surprise. We want the girl that we know With a smile on her face. Not this half dead thing that’s taking her place. Still I wonder how she stands with sorrow crushing her shoulders. Only a day has passed, yet she looks so much older. Can we help her? Or is she past saving? Can she be filled with the love and happiness she’s craving? We’ll have to wait and see because try as she might The world is making it so hard for her to get up and fight.

Colophon Wild Horses is a literary magazine showcasing writing and artwork from students at John Muir High School in Pasadena, California. This first volume is a new incarnation of the Inner Eye, last published in 2002. 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 20132014 edition was created with Adobe InDesign using Lucinda Calligraphy, Trebuchet MS, and Calibri fonts. 160 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 Acknowledgements The Editorial Staff would like to thank the Pasadena Educational Foundation for its generous support of this publication’s printing costs, our school principal, Timothy Sippel, and the entire faculty, staff and student body of John Muir High School. Wild Horses would not exist without the encouragement and guidance of assistant principal, Gloria Rodriguez. Other key staff whose assistance helped make the dream of this book a reality are: William Abanyie, design teacher; Cynthia Lake, art teacher; Lucy Manalo, design teacher; Mindy McKoin, film teacher; and the entire English department. Wild Horses Faculty Advisor Margaret Gillham Student Editorial Staff: Diana Abrego Lydia Jimenez Aa’Jaiilynn Allen Noelle Milliner LaTiara Allen Tre’sor Norman Bryan Ambriz Luiz Reyes Destiny Arriaza Maria Salgado Aurianna Braddy Adrian Suarez Martinez Mason Castro Matthew Toral Phillip Chase Drae Upshaw Arline Garcia Brenda Vazquez Rebecca Gutierrez 80