Creations Senses and Perception 2024

CREATIONS

Senses and Perception

ETONDear Readers,

We, the editors, are proud to present the 47th issue of the Creations Art and Literature Magazine. We are honored to showcase the phenomenal talent of our very own Warren students. This spring semester’s theme is sensations and perception, featuring submissions from all mediums: paintings, drawings, photography, ceramics, and short stories. Each piece was skillfully crafted with thought, meaning, and depth. Because of this, we thank each and every one of our artists for their contributions to this semester’s publication. You all did an excellent job, and we can’t wait to see your talents grow. We would also like to give a big thanks to Ms. Knutson; without her none of this would be possible. Finally, we want to thank our readers for supporting this magazine, and we can’t wait to see you for next semester’s issue.

The Face Behind the Mask - Avari Edwards

P O I N T

O F V I E W

Lens, clear, varying, perspective

windows on the other side of the walls, bringing the little sun there is into the space A group of men–around seven, in navy and black suits are in a circle in the middle, fingers holding onto cigars They’re the bosses The men get Lang into the circle of fire, and they let him go as another group of bigger, more armed men take hold of him He’s hauled to the lavishly-dressed men in the middle One of them jolts out of his leaning position on one of the sandbags, and slowly walks towards Lang with a cigar and a smile on his face.

“Mula, mula, mula,” the man says, laughing as he does. The others behind him chuckle as well The biggest of the men carrying Lang rips the blindfold off him, but keeps the shackles on Lang blinks a bit to regain his complete vision He sees the leader coming towards him, slowly, with a smug swagger “Name?”

Lang pauses for a bit He turns back to Vargas, who’s waiting right behind one of the ammo crates, hands folded He turns back to the leader “Lang ”

“Last name?” Lang’s heart pounds as the man gets closer

“It’s Lang ” The man turns to Vargas

“Oye, quítate las esposas ” Vargas walks to Lang, uncuffing him “You know who I am?”

“No ”

The man chuckles, “Jorge Rivera Pleasure is mine, señor tortuga Is that what they call you?” The others laugh again Lang keeps his stoic expression, even in the heart of darkness, right in front of his boss–Don Rivera

“When do I go?” He growls

“Why so angry? Join us, tortuga ” Rivera turns back and walks to a platter of small glasses and a bottle of alcohol. “Zefiro Cocchiola–the best.” He pours a glass, and passes one to Lang, who holds it still in front of him. Rivera pours one for himself and turns back. “You know, no mula I’ve had in the last four decades has been quite like you A good businessman–an honest businessman–that’s the real money With these animals in México, Texas, you don't find loyalty But with you, Mr Lang–” Rivera turns back to Lang, “Eres la oveja negra The black sheep ” Rivera presents the glass up to everyone, showcasing it to everybody all around him, and gets back to Lang “To loyalty Salud ” E C L I P S E D J e

REFLECTIONS

Prisha Shah

Serrano

PointofView

GAMER GIRL Shailee Grospe

F E E L I N G S

Happy, sad, love, angst, storm

CERAMIC BUST

BellaWittwer

S O U L S E A R C H I N G S h a i l e e G r o s p e L I F E E l i z a b e t h N a v a r r o

PURPLE FIRE

Stefani Arcos

Stefani Arcos

S U R R E N D E R

FAIRYTOPIA

Grace Lewis

T H E T A R G E T B A G D R E S S A v a H o x s i e

M E M O R I E S

Experiences, sun, maps, light, nostalgia

RUBY LESTER

Ceramic Bust

THE MAELSTROM

Akhil Yerrapally-Ravindranath-Babu

Warmth flooded the room, shielding it from the frigid cold of the winter blizzard It was a cabin of oak–brown, singled near the mountains’ feet Outside was a small shed for mules, rusting away It was as though God had washed this place of all life, leaving nothing to be spared Nothing but two wandering souls

There was a man and his horse Inseparable, as were all He wore a brown, dried scarf, and covered himself with a gray huntsman’s jacket and a withered ten-gallon hat A repeated hang over his shoulder The man seemed uncaring, completely unresponsive to the cold His face whispered tales that spanned years, many ages before this very moment His complexion was as dusted and unkempt as his person.

The horse was tall and buff, with legs standing like trembling sequoias waiting to be ridden of life The cabin was a mile away His knees were to fall at any moment The man rode on as the faint sun ’ s glare licked away at him It was covered by a vicious, gloomy blue, and under it was the furious blizzard, unrelenting in all its might The horse’s steps were weak and slow, moving mere inches with each stride. The frigid wind was too much to bear. The shed seemed to disappear in the snow.

The horse fell, giving out to the storm The disheveled rider grunted loudly as crashed into the ice He tumbled down and watched his

INSECT CIRCLET

Nicole Jasiak

companion’s life fade away All it took was a few seconds He struggled back to his feet, and his cut boots dug into the snow He tumbled to his horse’s saddle and reached for a single nip of whiskey He choked it down, and took his rifle back from the ground The cabin was a few hundred yards away to his naked eye The trees under the storm harbored rabbit, elk, perhaps even wolves. Death seemed to be waiting for the man through the maelstrom, and it would be slow.

For hours he walked on The blizzard soon got to his shins, then his knees He shook as a twig would in a hurricane, desperately reaching for the next stride. His face was red, andhis hands were darkened by the frost. Winter was feral, and it could not be tamed; not even

by the best of men. Even the corpse of his horse could not be seen through the falling snow anymore. He knew it would be ravaged by the wolves. What he feared was their coming to him while he lived. The man looked at his hands, which appeared shaky and doubled His eyes strained as the minutes began blending together

It was not long until he followed, until he too fell to the storm. Moments before, he fell to his hands, and crawled as would an infant. He panted heavily, breathing in grunts, wheezing. With each step, he seethed and heaved more, as though he were screaming. In his final few steps, he coughed up blood which fell to his bare hands and dripped into the snow Rasping for life, he looked up at the dark sky.

Yet another life, the winter claimed.

SNAKE DANCE

Anonymous

C A N V A S P A R O D Y

L u c y M o o r e

Tessa Harper COIL

An Inner Child, Lost Amidst the Darkness - Gillian Hausfeld

D R E A M S

Clouds, moon, dark, sleep, nightmare

25 COILPOT Dreams

Josie Schenk

JosieSchenk

Hailey Maine COIL POT

Special Thanks

Mr Stocker, Mr Oddo, Mrs Stepek, and Mr. Georgatsos. Thank you to Joe Doyle at the Warren Township Center for working with us for Open Mic Night and Andrea Zepeda-Tamez for all the articles published in Scratch Paper.

Production

Creations, Volume 47, was produced by the Creations staff at Warren Township High School in Gurnee, Illinois.

Fonts include: Cormorant Garamond, Cormorant SC, and Cinzel.

Creations Staff

Soulee Heller

Shannon Pharr

Eshelle Zeeshan

Scott Pilgram Vs The Temu Pyramid Scheme

Red Hot Chicken Feet

Gehrig Winograd

Daniel Garcia

Daiana Barrera

Jacqueline Ramirez & Taylor Leafblad

Kalista Lee

Viviana Salgado

Giana David

Spongebob Nekros

Mentally IL

Violet Garden

Sawyer Vincecnt Band

Wall Crawlers

Gisell Angulo

Chloe Terrones

OPEN MIC NIGHT

October 20, 2023

April 12, 2024

Warren Township Center, Gurnee, IL

SENSES AND PERCEPTIONS

WARRENTOWNSHIPHIGHSCHOOL

Caileigh Donahue