Holy Family School
Student Literature and Art Issue MMXV
Student Literature and Art Issue MMXV
“For every man in the world functions to the best of his ability, and no one does less than his best, no matter what he may think about it.” ― John Steinbeck, The Pearl
Holy Family School San Jose, California
Words :: Features Instagram, Vine, Snapchat ‌ Oh My!! // Tanya Nobal ......................................................................................................one Keeping Your Eyes Open // Ruchira Rao...........................................................................................................................three The Secret of Holy Family Teachers // Melissa Benefer, Elizabeth Lyon .................................................................. five
Words :: Gothic My Sister’s Diary // Matthew Fitzgerald ..........................................................................................................................seven The Memory // Alec Fore ..................................................................................................................................................... eleven Abjection // Nolan Roggy.................................................................................................................................................. thirteen Madness From Loss // Jonathan Cooper................................................................................................................... nineteen
Images Old School Selfies // Mia Love // Alliyah Angeles ............................................................................................ twenty-one Old School Selfies // Nolan Roggy // Alexandra Lyon.....................................................................................twenty-two Old School Selfies // Thuy Anh Tran // Matthew Fitzgerald ..................................................................... twenty-three Old School Selfies // Maria Fuqua // Jasmine Nguyen.................................................................................. twenty-four Old School Selfies // Evan Hersey .......................................................................................................................... twenty-five Picasso-esque Selfies // Bradley Caldwell // Mason Ordaz // Katie Szoboszlay................................... twenty-six Picasso-esque Selfies // Kevin Nguyen // Shelly Seymour // Nicholas Amireh .............................. twenty-seven Picasso-esque Selfies // Adam Rusboldt // Christopher Nopwaskey // David Nguyen ................ twenty-eight Tribal Mask // Tanner Amaya // Bradley Caldwell // Kelly Seymour // Matthew Shurm ................. twenty-nine
! ! ! y M ...Oh
Of
the entire world population, more people own a cell phone than a toothbrush. Surprising? It may not be as shocking as it seems. In America,
seventy three percent of teenagers have a social networking account. Whether they have an account or not, social media affects most people today. Our modern society seems to care more about what is on the internet, whether it is on a social networking site or getting help for homework assignments. Even at Holy Family School, we students have multiple social media accounts which we use regularly, including Instagram, Snapchat, Vine, and Twitter. “I spend about four hours a day,” admits seventh grader Katie Szoboszlay, “but not all at once.” Many other students spend around the same amount of time. “Around three hours a day, more on weekends,” agrees eighth grader Nolan Roggy. While having any kind of social networking account may seem time consuming, it comes with benefits. “It‟s easier to keep in touch with my friends from my old school,” says Bradley Caldwell from the seventh grade. He brings up a good point. Social media can help people keep in touch with those they do not see as often. “Social media can help you get to know more people,” relates Katie Szoboszlay.
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While there may be some upsides to social media, there are some drawbacks as well. “Cyberbullying,” states fifth grader Mitchell Shurm. “Cyberbullying is much easier with social media,” seventh grader Kiana Layam agrees. Twenty nine percent of teens have cyber bullied someone else through the internet. This includes, but is not limited to, rumors, threats, and teasing. This also can be related to the fact that it is easier to say harsh words anonymously over the web. Twenty nine percent of teens have been contacted by a stranger or an unknown person. The internet has proven its importance in the modern world. It seems that everyone needs to have an account for constant updates on what is happening with their friends or their favorite celebrities. For some people, social media has been more than just a way to keep in touch with their friends. They become famous from different forms of social networking websites, including Vine and Youtube. These internet celebrities post videos of themselves doing funny challenges, tags, and collaborations or even videos of them covering popular songs, which has lead to them becoming famous. The real question is: How does it affect us in our everyday lives? “I think it affects our level of patience. We expect things to happen [more quickly],” replies Mrs. Pala. Other students have admitted that it affects their school work and homework. “We get distracted more easily,” explains Deanna Nguyen from the eighth grade. But what does social media really mean to us? Jessica Shoulda of the seventh grade claims, “It‟s important, but I can live without it.” Others have responded in similar ways. Bradley Caldwell explains, “If I‟m with my friends, I can just hang out with them.” Deanna Nguyen states, “I only feel left out if I see my friends hanging out without me.” So while social media claims a part of our lives, it is not the most important part at the moment. We have friends and family, which is what really matters to us. So as you continue with your day, whether you are in kindergarten or in junior high, remember what really matters.
Tanya Nobal Class of 2015
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Keeping Your Eyes Open D roopy eyelids are not going to get you A‟s. Falling asleep during an important
lesson is not an option. But what is it that causes us to be tired during school? Maybe it is the late, extended nights crammed with homework or the
unreasonably early mornings spent doing last minute studying. Either way, it is
crucial to be alert and awake in class. Those A‟s on your report cards are worth
it. Waking up in the morning is a drag. Admit it, no one wants to go through the agonizing process of rolling his or her lethargic body out of his or her warm, cozy, inviting bed. But it must be done. Opening up the blinds to a new day may sound dreadful, but it is a great technique to help you stay awake. Start off the day with a splash of water on your face and a tall glass of chilled water. Try drinking as little milk as possible towards the beginning of the day, as it is scientifically proven to make you feel more tired. Top your morning off with a large, healthy breakfast packed with carbs, fiber, and protein. These simple steps will aid you with starting the day off with a bang! Classes are hard to get through, especially if all you are thinking about, is crawling back into bed. Sitting in a classroom, trying to keep your eyes open is not the ideal way to spend the school day. Try stretching out your legs by getting out of your seat and moving around. “I get up and walk around the classroom if I‟m able to,” Alyssa Perez from 8th grade states. Then with a laugh,
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she continues by saying, “If I can‟t, I try to think of something funny so that I laugh, which makes me more alert.” You can also try to force yourself to answer questions your teacher asks in class. This ensures that you are paying attention (so that you are not falling asleep), and it can help with that conduct grade of yours. You just killed two birds with one stone. It is finally lunchtime. Try to avoid that soda that you so desperately want to drink. Why? After giving you that amazing sugary rush, your energy level drops below what it was before you drank that soda, leaving you with a more tired you. Surprisingly, you aren‟t the only one trying to keep yourself awake. When asked how she keeps her students awake, Mrs. Pala states, “It is a humongous challenge. I try to mix in a lot of kinesthetic activities like skits, tableaux, and posters because apparently you like that. But there are assignments that you just need to push through and there is nothing I can do about it. Humor does the trick. And of course, the occasional jumping jacks.” Keeping yourself awake is not only a challenge for you, but also for your teachers. The bell signals the end of a jam-packed school day. Hopefully, you got through without nodding off on your textbooks. Still having trouble? At the end of the day try not to eat dinner too late. Eating at unnaturally late times can make you more tired and you can gain quite a bit of weight. Try to stick to times between 6:00 and 6:30. This way, your dinner will sustain you throughout your work-loaded night and up until the next morning. Lastly, sleep consistently. Your body needs eight to nine hours of sleep a day for it to function properly. Kaitlin Furtado in 8th grade agrees: “I probably get 8-9 hours of sleep. Honestly, when I sleep too much, it makes me more tired and lazy throughout the day. And when I don‟t sleep at least eight hours, I feel like falling asleep in class.” Don‟t deprive your body of what it needs. Staying awake in class is a critical part of a student‟s life. Follow these simple tips and tricks and see if they can help you.
Ruchira Rao Class of 2015
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The Surprising Truth About Holy s r e h c a e T ly i m Fa
A
dmit it! You have always wondered what teachers do in their seemingly, non-existent free time. Maybe they stay after school till the break of dawn grading our tests, or maybe they bring it all home and work there. Many of the students here at Holy Family have some intriguing ideas, and I went digging to find the truth.
When interviewing the students, there were numerous opinions on the matter. One seventh
grader, Christina Pham, described how she thinks Mrs. Hopkins spends her day. “I remember, many times, Mrs. Hopkins telling us about her weekend with her adorable little granddaughters.” Deanna Nguyen of eighth grade said, “They probably go home and cry because their students annoy the heck out of them.” Later, I went off to see what the kindergarten class thought of their teacher, Mrs. Mehringer. “Out of 1-10, she is 100!” exclaimed one of the kindergarteners. Interviewing the teachers was a little more difficult due to their full schedules, but some teachers were more than willing to share. Mrs. McGuire stated, “I do my grading during the weekend because I want to go home and relax [after school].” Did you know she loves to oil paint and garden, as well? When going online to teacher websites and looking to find the „about me‟ tab, I found Mrs. Khus‟ website had plenty of information. Did you know that this is her twenty-sixth year as a teacher? Wow! Mrs. Hopkins‟s page revealed that she spends as much time with her grandchildren as possible. When interviewing Mrs. Medal, she explained to me that her weekend was filled with endless cleaning and cooking. “During the weekend, I always attend church and the rest of the time is usually spent on chores.” We all know how that is. She also chuckled, “Most teachers go home around four on a normal school day.” They must get all of the preparations done in an hour! Mrs. Mehringer, another kindergarten teacher, told us, “Most teachers go to the copy room and hang out after grading, but we usually leave as early as we can!”
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Some of the teachers that I spoke with said that they have hidden talents that nobody knows about. “I was a ballet dancer until I was 16 and I make quilts,” announced Mrs. Medal. Mrs. Mehringer states that she can touch her tongue to her nose. I bet you did not know that Mrs. McKinley, a seventh grade teacher, makes costumes for shows and was a competitive ballroom dancer. I bet you didn‟t see that one coming, did you? Mrs. Kuhs, the seventh and eighth grade teacher is the person you want to go to if you want to scrapbook or enjoy some arts and crafts. “I can crochet and I enjoy card making along with paper drafts.” We then decided to ask some of the teachers what they enjoy doing in the small amount of free -time that they have. Mrs. Medal loves to eat out. “I absolutely love to go out to dinner with my friends.” Mrs. McGuire, on the other hand, prefers to stay inside and relax. “I, personally, love to stay in and cook for my husband.” Mrs. Bowers enjoys reading, projects, planning parties, and being outdoors surrounded by nature. Mrs. Pala is probably the most active of the teachers that we had interviewed. “I enjoy running, hiking, and theatre but most of all, I treasure every second with my husband and two sons.” Mrs. Petro likes to read, decorate, cook, garden, and her favorite type of music is smooth jazz. In the end, we have gotten an inside look at the lives of the teachers here at Holy Family. Up until now, you may have only seen your teachers as test-grading, lesson-planning, rule-enforcing machines, but now you know that they, too, are real human beings.
Melissa Benefer Elizabeth Lyon Class of 2015
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just four years before, I remember - distinctly remember, when I was a bright young boy, who attended primary school like every other boy.. Mother bustled about the house tending to us while Father toiled at the bank tending to money. I also had an older sister who would listen to me when I poured out my sorrows, played endless games of war in which I devised ways to conquer the world with my tin soldiers, and cuddled me at night when the thunderstorm’s roar jolted me awake. She also kept a diary. The cover was cheerful and bright with all the colors of the rainbow, but that was all I had seen of it. She forbade me from peeking at its contents, so at the time I did not know what secrets it contained. Then, one day, she succumbed to the madness, a terrible, merciless madness that chokes the brain of all reason and sense. The doctors called it dementia praecox, but I think of it as an unholy curse. Oh, how that madness changed her. Her hugs turned into choke holds, her soft, soothing voice became ragged from screaming, her once beautiful, emerald eyes now red and bloodshot with anger and hatred. The doctors looked at her and calmly stated she must be removed to a sanitarium for my safety. Two years ago, that sanitarium burned down with my sister still chained, screaming, to the walls. I know this because she never returned home and her screams echo in my dreams. Though my sister’s death put a dull, painful damper on my life, my life still had to go on. In late December, my closest friends Brian Williams, Tom Mathewson and I decided to play our special version of tag. We called it Black Tag, a much more thrilling game played in the darkest night with lanterns in the forest. Brian, the slow, sluggish one, was “it”. “Why am I always it?” Brian drawled as Tom and I ran endless circles around him laughing like fiends. “That is because you can never tag us!” Tom, the fastest and most athletic student from our school, laughed back. With over-exaggerated effort, Brian lunged at me through the deepening snow and finally touched me so I had to give up my lantern. Now I was “it”. Since I knew Brian would get upset and churlish again if I took back my lantern, I decided to stalk Tom. 1
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As I ran after Tom in the black of night, I tripped on something old, wooden, and charred, causing me to stumble and land face first in the fresh powder. Since I did not have my lantern, I could not see what it was, but I felt a twinge of fear rising in my gut. When I arose and started treading through the forest again, I realized the wooden stump had felt brittle, like charcoal. There must have been a fire, I thought, but what could have started it? As I pondered those words, I saw a whole grove of burnt trees. It seemed that the further I went, the thicker the charred trees became, standing in rows like a skeleton army. These trees seemed shrouded in evil, eerie, dark and dangerous. Then, I saw him. He appeared to have a single, yellow, glowing eye. Cold, vile smelling mist emanated from his yellow jaws. It was Tom, trying to hide from me, facing the wrong way, crouching inside a black, charred log with his lantern. Ever so slowly, I stalked my prey and pounced! With a wild scream, I tackled a terrified Tom and yanked his lantern out of his white knuckled grip. He seemed to be starring in the distance, and did not even register how savagely I tore his lantern out of his grip. “Mordred?” Tom whispered, “Is that not the sanitarium your sister went to?” When I peered at the building in the distance, I knew it was the place she spent her last days. Shadowed by blackened trees, their branches ever so sharp and deadly, stood the accursed sanitarium where my sister had died. The feeble light from our lantern could not seem to pierce the veil of blackness surrounding that forsaken building. The trees, the ground, even the insects seemed gnarled and contorted by the omnipresent miasma of evil. I felt drawn to the blackened building, as if my sister were beckoning me. I shook my head and thought no, I shall never enter that forsaken place. As if some specter knew what I was thinking, I began to hear what I thought was the wind, whistling through the talon-like trees, but actually it was a low sound, almost like sobbing - coming from the sanitarium. At that precise moment, it started to grow colder, colder than the heart of a demon, and I heard a howling sound - a blizzard. We were so lost in the deep forest we did not know the way to get back home. We would have to enter the sanitarium and take our chances or remain outside and freeze and suffer a slow, horrible death. I made up my mind and decided if there was something that would kill us in the unholy sanitarium; it would kill us much faster and less painlessly than the blasted cold. I ran to the sanitarium with Tom following closely behind me, but then I began to worry. 2
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We were leaving behind Brian in the forest and he would surely freeze. I told myself that all we have to do is last the night and in the morning we could find him. As we approached the sanitarium, we tried to open the front door but it was locked. As we went searching for another entrance, I found a hole, barely large enough for us to fit through. With a pained grunt, I squeezed through and Tom followed shortly behind. As soon as I stood up, I immediately noticed it was darker inside than the ebony keys on my piano, the air was so bone chillingly cold I could not feel my body, and there was a charred skeleton, seated right in front of me. There was something about that skeleton which seemed frighteningly familiar. A terrified scream sprang from my mouth which echoed through the blackened halls like a tormented banshee. I quickly squirmed back out of the hole. After what seemed like an eternity, Tom coaxed me back inside the building where it would at least be warmer. As we explored the passages, we finally found and claimed a room that was not touched by the fire. The room was an unblemished, padded cell. Though the padded floor was not exactly a down feathered bed, it was soft and warm enough that our backs would not break overnight. We decided to search for some materials like blankets we could sleep in, or wooden planks we could burn for warmth. We explored our surroundings inseparable since we only had one working lantern and our courage was not fierce enough to brave this strange place alone. After some scavenging, we found some broken nailed planks and a few, frayed blankets. We dragged our spoils into the padded room, and it became quite cozy in a surreal way. That is, until Tom found a painting of a queer old man. The copper plaque attached to the painting stated he was the director. Tom thought it looked funny, but I wanted to toss it into the fire and spare the world from his hideous gaze. The way the man’s eyes squinted at me made me believe he was disapproving of my very existence. For some strange reason, the character in the painting seemed to blink every so often and his eyes would turn the same emerald green of my beloved sister. Every time I witnessed the painting move, I yelped out of fear. Tom could see nothing unusual in the portrait and said it must be my fears overacting. I feared he was mistaken. A few moments later we heard a scream emanating from the hole in the side of the building. As we raced towards the hole armed with our nailed planks and lantern, we saw Brian. He had barely managed to fit in the hole and was all scratched up from the tight space. “What took you so long?” Tom asked. Brian, still gasping from discovering the skeleton, managed to stammer, “I...I 3
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got lost in the w...woods. Why is there a skeleton in here?” “There was a fire in this place about a year ago.” I uttered. Then, a revelation came over me and I knew why the skeleton seemed familiar. “Actually,” I stammered, “I believe this is my sister.” I nudged the skeleton with my plank. The skull rolled off under the bed, staring at me with blank, eyeless sockets. I shivered with fright. Wait, I thought, if this was my sister, her diary surely must be in here too! In a frantic flurry, I scoured the room and found it. My sister’s secret diary was concealed inside a blackened metal box under the bed directly next to the skull. The skull seemed to be staring at me in chastisement. I placed down my lantern and opened the latch on the box in a low, quiet squeak. Finally, I thought, I might actually see what was going on in my sister’s head! As I opened up the diary, I noticed the cover was less bright than it used to be and the binding was frayed. I payed no attention to this. After fully reading the dirty pages in the dim, flickering light of my lantern, I believed I understood what my sister wanted me to do all along. There on every page was written the reason why she was mean to me. It was as clear as glass. At the bottom of each page, she wrote, “If Mordred still loves me, he will kill his friends. They are evil and are turning him against me! They are agents of Satan and I hate them!” At the time, it made so much sense! I could appease my sister so when I died, she might love me again! With that I picked up my nailed plank and strode confidently toward my victims. “I finally figured out how to appease my sister!” I shouted with a glint of madness in my eyes. “Wait, you mean your dead sister?” Tom asked. “Why yes of course!” I shouted back. “ I’m going to make her love me again by killing both of you!” In an insane rage, I swung and hit my target. Brian screamed in agony and a look of betrayal spread across his face, then he collapsed. The last thing I remember is Tom crying in shock and sadness and then hitting me on the head with the flat end of his plank. Even after the course of a year, the screams of my dying friend and sister still haunt me in my dreams. I feel as if I too am slipping deeper and deeper into madness with every pained, saddened cry which emanates from my dead friend and sister’s mouth. I believe that is why I too am chained to a wall in a dark, forgotten sanitarium. After I murdered Brian Williams, the doctors must have believed me mad like my sister- yet, I am not like her. It is simply not possible. Though I killed that poor soul, it was not entirely my fault- it was my sister’s.
Matthew Fitzgerald Class of 2015
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The
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sobbed hoping she, my dear loving sister, would come back to me- wishing life could start over, as I trudged with a creaky, old lantern giving off diffuse light in the thick fog. I was out of Willesden when the raid happened; I was fetching sugar cane that was miles away. I
rushed back upon hearing that Willesden, my town, was on fire, but I arrived too late. Now, here I am again. The raiders stripped this burnt, desolate town of everything except for one structure, for the raiders wanted revenge for our hanging of their leader many years ago. That lone piece is a skeleton of the house I grew up in when I was a boy; it was once a dark blue, grand structure with sparkling glass windows, for my family was very well-to-do. The house had an upstairs conservatory with a grand piano that my sister loved to play. But now, all the color is gone, as it is charcoal black from the terrible fire. The windows are broken and the large front door is a crooked slab of wood. I cried silently, but just a little-so little in fact that only the eye of a hawk could see the true sorrow of that tear. I kept moving along. Only the sound of my footsteps broke the silence of this eerie night as I kept forcing myself to move. Suddenly, I heard music coming from the house. I thought a poor person or maybe even a survivor from the raid must have slipped in to take shelter for the night to get away from the snow. The song was slow and sorrowful. I wondered how a living soul could learn to play the piano so magnificently. I shuddered with fear hoping this was something I was imagining. Then, I cautiously picked up the pace to a purposeful walk as I made my way to the front door which had been spared by the fire. At first, the music was quiet, but then it grew louder as I moved nearer to the house. My heart beat more quickly; no not beat, but pounded in my chest, ready to burst as the music became even louder. I reached the door covering my ears and as I opened the door-the music stopped. I laughed and asked myself, why was I so afraid when it was just my imagination? I decided to check on the piano just to be safe as I still feared 5someone was here. I held the dimly lit lantern close to me as it gave me comfort from the darkness. I walked up the stairs that barely held under
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my weight - rattling and creaking whenever I moved. When upstairs, I saw the grand piano where it always was with nobody sitting on the chair. Again, I chuckled nervously and said, “It was just merely my imagination.” I slowly walked down the stairs until I heard footsteps from below me. I stopped dead in my tracks. It sounded like it came from my sister’s chamber. I started to carefully go down the steps when again I heard the pitter patter of footsteps sprinting across the corridor into my sister’s chamber. As soon as I got down to the parlor, I could not decide whether to leave or examine my sister’s room to see if anyone was inside. With some thought, I decided to check my sister's room even though I was anxious to get out of the house. I scampered out of the parlor into the corridor where I heard the footsteps. Shakily, I stopped, staring at the charcoaled door. I took a deep breath. I turned the loose door knob as slowly as possible, not wanting to face whatever stood before me when I opened the door. My heart was now ready to explode as I gradually opened the door with my grip getting tighter around the door knob. Suddenly, I jerked the door wide open and screamed with pure terror. There was nothing; nothing but a room filled with darkness. Calming myself down, I collapsed onto the floor leaning against the wall to regain my breath. Remaining on the floor, I moaned, “ I am sorry! Do not fill me with these horrors! I tried, but I could not save you! Please forgive me!” I began to cry with pain and agony from the soreness that afflicted my soul. I weakly got up and dragged my fear weathered body to the door. That was when I heard something that made me cry out. I heard a familiar cry for help back upstairs in my room. Still weak and weary, I dashed upstairs, but the stairs gave way and I tumbled down to the cellar below. When I hit the floor, I heard a crack in my arm as I tried to stop myself from landing head first. I knew I had broken a bone, but I did not care. I could still hear the screams raging on and I covered my ears. I cried out and tumbled all around the cellar trying to get the noise out of my head. I banged my head against the floor which caused my head to bleed. I stopped as the blood trickled down to my nose and into my mouth. The room had wine barrels lined up all around the room that looked untouched even though all the other furniture and accessories seemed shredded. Besides the barrels, all there was, were spider webs and a dusty cement floor. I realized then that the revolting cries had ceased, and that there was more pain than I realized from that broken arm. I began to weep knowing truly for the first time that my sister was lost forever, and that I would never be the same as my face was wrinkled with sorrow. I shrieked to God, “Why! Why have you brought down so much pain before me! Please give her back to me!” Then I uttered in a whisper, “Or take me to her.” My life was too devastating for I had no one to love and chose death to be my savior. I said goodbye one last time to the world and then I took piece of glass that had burst from the lantern when it hit the floor and did what had to be done. 6
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Alec Fore Class of 2015
Ab
M
jec
y patience was expiring as I anticipated his arrival in this once holy place. Will he
come? Has he forgotten me? Has he chosen to spend his time with Beatrice rather than me? Benjamin had been my best friend since birth and we knew every little detail about each other, but ever since I introduced him to Beatrice, he had forgotten me. All he cared about was Beatrice, not his old friend, Jack-
tion
son. My presence was no more than a dead flower in an otherwise beautiful bouquet, and the only element that defined its beauty was Beatrice, the everlasting rose. Her wavy hair hung down about midway of her spine as her contagious smile complemented her long, graceful strides. She was beautiful to me and to every other man who has had the privilege laying eyes upon her. They love each other, Benjamin and Beatrice. I know it; they know it; everyone knows it. Stirring me from my thoughts, I heard a large, deafening bell ring, signaling the start of a new hour. A putrid aroma carried by the chilling wind lingered in my nose, leaving the hairs on my back standing. I looked to my left and examined a statue of a man holding a cross with piles of bricks surrounding him, wondering what this man’s desires or accomplishments might have been and comparing it to the dull, gray life that was disposed upon me. Standing up from the bench, I wan7
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dered around this sanctuary, searching for my
beloved friend. There were large craters in the ground as well as large holes in the ceiling. Crickets chirped in unison
howling of wolves in the distance. The moonlight sunk into the room as my ears were poised, waiting for a sound or a hint that he may be here. I peered around the corner revealing a corridor full of darkness with a single bright light Was someone there or was this merely my imagination? I picked up one of the bricks scattered throughout the building and, as always, kept my knife in my back pocket. Out of curiosity, I traveled with caution down the hall and after a few feet, a voice began to shriek in my ear. The walls around me seemed to come together causing me to breathe quite heavily. The closer I got to the light, the louder the voices wailed. A midnight breeze swept through the room leaving me frozen. With every short stride, I started to shiver even more and the walls became more compact. It was as if a giant or even an army of men were pushing the walls together in pursuit to destroy me. My feet traveled more swiftly without command, driving me to the end of the corridor; with every yard, a new voice howled in my head as if a choir were performing. I opened the door quickly hoping for warmth and quiet. To my dismay, Benjamin was sitting there on a gray marble bench. He sat before another statue, but this time it was a woman with a full body cloak that held what seemed to be an infant in her arms. The room was shaped like a box with two sections divided by a large screen. Honestly, I would have been glad to see Benjamin, but he was not alone. He was romancing Beatrice, right in front of my eyes. They gazed at me in disgust. Did they not want me here? If anything, Beatrice was the one who came needless of an invitation. I glared at them with such rage, that my eyes became red with tears. They should be ashamed; they should be pleading for my forgiveness. The voices returned, screaming and leaving me with a great deal of pain in my head. “May I speak to Benjamin alone?� I asked, but it seemed to come out as a demanding order that produced fear in my dearest friends. The couple glanced at each other with a perplexed expression painted across their faces. At last, Benjamin stood up and walked out the door I held open for him. As he dragged his heel out the door, I let go causing the door to strike his foot. With a cough and a stumble, he kept his balance. We walked out the corridor reuniting with the man holding a cross. Benjamin seemed alarmed - and I was glad. We walked 8 toward
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n with the
the bench where I had previously sat and
r even just
stopped, staring into each other’s eyes. I was
at the end.
careful to not allow Benjamin to see the brick behind my back. Why did I bring it? What was my reasoning? Was it because I was scared? Why does it matter, I had told myself. Right about now, I could not stand still. My legs, my arms, my head, everything was rapidly moving and shaking. Benjamin had an absurd facial expression as he gazed at me. Did he think I was ignorant, childish, or even insane? The voices in my head screamed at me, and I felt a sort of emptiness in my stomach. With a quick motion, I granted him to see the brick I had hid from him so easily. I was smart enough to keep him from knowing I had it. If anything, Benjamin was the ignorant one not knowing of my deeds or desires. What was my desire? What did I want? The brick felt lighter than before as my thoughts scattered through my brain. I stared down at the brick and the voices yelled and screamed at me filling me with anxiety. Finally, I swung the brick across my dear friend’s temple and watched as he collapsed to the hard, cold floor trying to get back up. The brick met his skull a final time, leading to a cry and lastly, a moan. He crumbled into a ball on the floor and his body took the color of his eyes, pale and icy. I had lead him to the inevitable moment of death and diminished any chance he had to 9 evade
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the patient, yet overwhelming grasp of
Satan. And with a broad smile on my face, I looked up at the statue. He seemed to mock me with such hatred, I became furious. Why did this stone man hate me? Why did Benjamin hate me? A large moaning cry erupted from me as I launched the perilous brick at the cross-yielding man. Once again, I felt a sense of satisfaction. I turned from the sinister beast that once looked down on me and walked back toward the corridor. What was I doing? I stood at the end of the corridor watching as a figure opened the door at the end of the hall. It was Beatrice. She stared at me, looking perplexed. I knew what she wanted. It was what she always wanted. She did not want me; she wanted Benjamin. I pointed to my left where Benjamin lay. She vigilantly ran over to see to what I had signaled. She peered around the corner and first saw the statue of the man now spotted with red stains. She made her way down until her eyes noticed the body - his body. She screamed and ran to his side wishing somehow he would look back into her wet eyes, but she knew there was no way to awaken our friend. She knelt at his side and cried, whimpering and moaning. I remained where I stood, watching, waiting. Why was I waiting? What was I waiting for? With tears running down her face, Beatrice gawked at me. She screamed at me with such loathing I, myself, started to
The guilt taunts me, her last feeble heartbeats
and my senses tingle a
I feel her 10
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Betel D Class o
cry. What have I done? Now she even hates me! I stared at her, my beloved maiden, with a single tear running down my cheek. My hand slid to my back pocket taking out my knife and I pointed it at her. Now, at this moment, everything had changed. Her hatred had become fear. Her tears had disappeared while more dripped down my face. She took a step back, one after another. I stared into her beautiful eyes and wondered how, in such a dark place, her eyes still appear luminous and soothing. But why was she afraid of me? I took the knife and redirected it towards my chest, where a dark hole lay buried deep. Beatrice screamed as she realized what my plan was. She ran toward me, and for the first time, it seemed as though she adored me. Did she love me? Did she care for me? I realized that those thoughts were inconceivable; she will forever hate me for taking her love’s life. I carved the knife into my chest. In this moment everything seemed all so natural, the loneliness, the hate, the pain and grief. In deep thought I noticed everything was vanishing - my life and my sorrows crumbling around me. I fell to my knees in pain as Beatrice wrapped her arms around me. In my final hour, I felt something I had never felt before that caused me to cry. I rested in Beatrice’s arms waiting for my meaningless life to be over - forever.
Nolan Roggy Class of 2015
echo in my ears endlessly,
as if she was here with me;
r presence enveloping me in a
Daniel of 2015
cloud of despair. 11
seventeen
As I wander past her empty chamber, I hear her playing with her dollhouse, babbling to the dolls as if they were human, and as I enter, she tells me she loves me with her sweet, angelic voice, but I feel no remorse for what I have done. 12
eighteen
Betel Daniel Class of 2015
Madness From Loss
S
hivers traveled up my spine as an icy gust of wind blew past me. I trudged up the aged stairs to the Gothic church. A loud creak filled the air as I opened the fifteen- foot tall door. As I stepped inside, the sound of my own footsteps were all that echoed throughout the desolate, dusty space. Light
from the flames of two candles cast a dull glow over the church. The smell of incense, recently burned, hung in the air. I made my way to one of the worn, wooden pews. I sat there alone, as I had done each night; I came to this house of God to grieve over the loss of my beloved daughter. My poor, innocent Catherine had suffered ever so deeply from her battle with consumption. While she suffered, I watched; the blood exiting her mouth with each cough was like the life leaving her ill body. There was simply nothing I could do to ease her pain. I cannot fathom why she was taken from my arms by the Creator of all. The Being that cares for me like He does the dirt under His shoes. She was all I loved, and now I have nothing. I sat and I drank. Oh, how heavily I drank, in hopes of drowning my sorrows. But the more I drank, the angrier I became and the harder it became for me to think clearly. All that crossed my mind at this point was the deep hatred I harbored for the Lord whom I had once loved. The Lord I praised every Sunday since I was a child. This God took from me my mother, my wife, and now my precious daughter, whom I loved more than my own self. As I sat, I screamed at the heavens. I roared until the veins in my head protruded from my forehead, ready to pop as soon as the next expletive was uttered; sweat trickled down my brick red face and as a breath of air escaped my mouth, I yelled louder and louder. Finally, a vast silence was brought upon the church as I took a short pause to replenish the air in my lungs, and to let my veins settle back into my forehead, and to attempt to regain my composure, but nothing seemed to diminish my fury. The brick red color remained in my face and the anger never drained away. I emptied both of the bottles of whiskey that I carried with me. Then, the clock struck twelve; the bell tower released a mysterious sound that could not have been made without the aid of human hands. I grew curious; I was sure no one was there. Why would someone be in the bell tower in an desolate town at this late hour? I pulled myself up, gripping the pew in front of me with my hands, slick with sweat. My intoxicated self was deeply focused as I attempted to walk without falling to the back door of the church. I was 13
determined to find out who was here, and to possibly cleanse myself of the rage brought upon me in this evil world.
nineteen
My knees wobbled; I could not walk in a straight line. My vision was distorted, but I fought through these struggles with a motive in mind. I finally reached the back door of the church. I leaned up against the door to take some weight off of my labored legs. I glanced down and saw three door knobs in my fuzzy vision. I reached for the one that appeared on the left and instead I grabbed solely dusty air. I reached out again, only this time I attempted to grasp the middle one. I gripped the door knob, attempting to keep my hand steady upon opening it, but all of my coordination had vanished given the spirits I had consumed. After another frustrating attempt, I almost gave up. Although, I carried on due to the desire to purge myself of anger - to destroy whomever stood on the other side of that door. Thinking of this, I grinned and was filled with strength. At last, I gripped the knob as tight as I would the neck of the being that rung the bell. As the madness overcame me, I tried to twist the bronze knob, but it would not budge; I was quickly filled with intensified anger and frustration. I vowed to rid myself of all of my rage through slaughtering the man that remained outside. With my arms and legs, I kicked and slammed and threw myself at the wooden door, striving to smash it open, but to no avail. Instead, I made my way to the door which I had used to enter the church. As I ventured to my starting point, my knees buckled halfway. My body, driven to its limits by fatigue, collapsed on the frigid floor, causing me to yelp in pain. I attempted to rise, but as I did so the whiskey that scorched my insides left me as I vomited uncontrollably. I wiped the ascitic fluid from my lips and regained my feet. As I eventually reached the door, I assured myself that it must be open, but I was soon disappointed. Flabbergasted, I staggered to all the doors in the church, and sure enough, they were all locked. I began to panic as my mind raced, leading me to once again scream to God, demanding He let me out of this dreadful, ominous church and of my worthless life. Then, I heard the screams. The shrieks of my little Catherine. The desperate wailing of her in pain as the life leaked out of her poor, innocent soul. The sounds of her choking on her own splattering blood as she convulsively coughed it up. These hellish sounds reverberated off of the walls of the church in which I was trapped. I pressed my palms to my ears, running to nowhere in particular, purely attempting to somehow escape from these horrid memories, but it was not possible. I was imprisoned inside a world of eternal terror and unbearable loss and despite my frantic efforts,
I could not escape. 14
twenty
Jonathan Cooper Class of 2015
Old School Selfies :: sans Camera
Mia Love Class of 2015
Aliliyah Angleles Class of 2015
twenty-one
Nolan Roggy Class of 2015
Alexandra Lyon Class of 2015
twenty-two
Thuy Anh Tran Class of 2015
Matthew Firtzgerald Class of 2015
twenty-three
Maria Fuqua Class of 2015
Jasmine Nguuyen Class of 2015
twenty-four
Evan Hersey Class of 2015
twenty-five
Picasso-esque Selfies Bradley Caldwell Class of 2016
Mason Ordaz Class of 2016
Katie Szoboszlay Class of 2016
twenty-six
Kevin Nguyen Class of 2016
Shelly Seymour Class of 2016
Nicholas Amireh Class of 2016
twenty-seven
Adam Rusboldt Class of 2016
Christopher Nopwaskey Class of 2016
David Nguyen Class of 2016
twenty-eight
Tribal Mask Tanner Amaya Class of 2016
Bradley Caldwell Class of 2016
turtle, crocodile, chameleon, monkey, elephant
parrot, turtle, , chameleon, monkey, cat
Kelly Seymour Class of 2016
Matthew Shurm Class of 2016
butterfly, leopard, chameleon, monkey, elephant
turtle, crocodile, chameleon, antelope, elephant
twenty-nine