Pebblebrook High School Literary Magazine Spring 2012
Pebblebrook High School Literary Magazine
scripted
Spring 2012
“Looking Out” By: Rebecca Stewart Dedication and special thanks to the Student Leadership Team. The SLT helped to fund the publishing of this magazine; they used their own funds to “pay it forward”. Thanks for making this edition of the literary magazine possible.
Cover by Crystal Astuhuaman
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Table of Contents . . . . . 2 —”Looking Out”
Rebecca Stewart
4 — “Morning Lights”
Cristeta Sawin-Porter
“Big Bang Theory”
Samuel Ekoubegzi
5 — “Bullying: Something to Think About”
Frank Sainfort
6 — “Her Life is Like a Story”
Quran Alston
“To the Caesura” 7 — “5-Sense Poem”
Cydney Gardner Dacia James
“Thank You”
Keithan Geboyd
“Life”
Deja Guest-Justice
8 — “Chained” “No Vel La Hora” 9 — “Yesterday’s Love“ “What Do You Want Me To Say?” 10—”The Tone Road” “Where I’m From”
Mary Otoo Crystal Astuhuaman Jasmine Brown Cydney Garder Samuel Ekoubegzi Mary Otoo
11— “Living in My Past”
Chanda Caston
12—”T.H.I.N.K.”
Frank Sainfort
13—”Hunger Games”
Crystal Astuhuaman
14—”I Missed”
Jessica Drayton
15—”Snow’s Nightmare”
Se’Quoyah Carter
18— Untitled
Quran Alston
“Colorful”
Dacia James
19—Self-Portrait
Ashley Wilkinson
20—”Jungle of Eden”
Amanda Whittington
21— Untitled
Dwayne Guthrie
22—”It’s Pronounced Upperclassmen”
Montrea’l Johnson
23— “Solar Energy”
Ariel Lucier
24— Untitled
Anchie Ivey
25—”Graffiti Race”
Crystal Astuhuaman
26—”Short”
Precious Davis and Ashley Wilkinson 3
Morning Lights By: Cristeta Sawin-Porter
THE BIG BANG THEORY
BY: SAMUEL EKOUBEGZI
It’s kinda funny how that’s the story of my life. A theory no one can prove or understand. Even if proven or understood, the enormity of it still baffles the human mind. No one knows of its existence or why it exists. What’s the reason for me to exist? Everything has a reason for its existence. Sadly, I don’t know mine; to become a mystery to yourself can be saddening. Yet, all I can do is trudge on with my life and expand my horizons, just like the universe. When the universe expanded, it became something that was next to impossible to predict. The difference between me and the universe is that it’s billions of years old. I’m only 15, still I am at the stage of being a compacted sphere of energy. Filled with nothing but empty space. A void that, by my choosing, can destroy my sense of being. When do I fill my void? For my personal life, that is the ultimate question. A question of pure perfection deserves an answer. Sadly, again, I don’t have the answer. 4
Bullying: Something to Think About By: Frank Sainfort Can I ask you a question? What’s the point of being bullied? Is it because it’s fun to have the funny looks up and down the hallway? To have the prestigious honor to be the official school’s punching? To be the subject of ridicule and to be abused by the peers you share a classroom with? “Always remember, you are different, just like everyone else.” I heard someone say. Then what’s the point of being different? Well…you seem to know the answer. Every bruise, every insult, and every punch that comes your way, you always seem to endure the waterfall of tears from hammering down your face. So… what’s your secret? Because somehow, my insecurities and flaws show through like I’m an open book. Because some reason, treating others the way you want to be treated doesn’t comply with society anymore. Because somehow, this excuse for a world has lost its meaning of favors, forgiveness, and love. And my job was to suffer along with it. All I ever did in this world was breathe, lived, and attempted to shut off all the self-loathing that I bottled up inside. Is my existence causing this problem? It shouldn’t be… No… it won’t be! I suffered all my life trying to fit in with those who made it their life mission to
Discredit me Damage me And reduce me into nothing… Well, that’s all they’re getting out of me NOTHING Because I refuse to be a part of society where I don’t belong And I refuse to be called out for being different I am me Only me And that’s what makes me…ME
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Her Life Is Like a Story By: Quran Alston Her body is persuasive,
I can have a monologue about her,
Her attitude is non-fiction,
Right there in front of her face,
She will always have a story,
She won’t know,
Every time her heels are clicking,
And her walk and talk is such a comic relief,
Her drink is informative,
Struggling her words out,
I can paraphrase her night,
Shaking in her knees,
While her fashion is the supporting details, And her archetypal theme is, Her introduction paragraph is in her face,
Deception,
The thesis statement is in her eyes,
Hiding what’s in her,
Telling you something there,
I call it flexing,
But you should look closer on the inside,
And the stage directions are real,
Vocabulary may vary,
Comparing what she really is up to,
The transition words are loud,
Contrasting what she shouldn’t do,
So therefore,
And the conclusion,
She does things orderly,
Is at the end,
Like at first,
She is who she is.
Then,
To the Caesura
And last,
By: Cydney Gardner
The body paragraphs can put you on blast, She has so many genres, But never fiction,
Understanding has proven to be a lost cause Overlooking the hills of promise
Cause this is real life,
Heading straight for the trenches of death
And the dramatic irony is,
To have death before life is vile
She doesn’t know where she’s going, But I do, Come on now,
To not have twirled or experienced the fond touch of another. To not have shaped and fulfilled one’s imaginings “Not I” said the caesura
I’m Prince-Q,
The impedance, yet the continuance,
But the tragedy is, The stuff she does at night, Is very r-rated,
Like his sister the cadence, deceptive so he could live He noticed the closing stages in the vicinity Yet he had to continue.
It shouldn’t be in a children’s sight,
So he stopped, and he thought,
And the drink is the cause, But she is the effect,
Understanding has proven to be a lost cause, But the caesura didn’t care
And my personification to her actions,
He chose to live.
Is like an animal, 6
Especially when I cursed your name at every chance that beheld me. By: Dacia James But you never hated me, you even forgave me for the fury generated in my heart. Happiness is sky blue So that, therefore, is the greatest gift of all. The power to overcome the villainy that sought to It sounds like the noise from a concert consume me through my insecurities, It smells like sweat, after accomplishing something You infused Greatness in me, It tastes likes Lemon cake for dessert Strength to go to depths no man has imagined to Happiness looks like a big smile be true. Right on your face Speaking things the world told me could never come to pass. Making it manifest from the trust that rests in the outskirts of my soul. Thank You By: Keithan Geboyd Digging deeper in myself, Absolute Desire Finding gems whose value exceeds that of anything You pump love though my veins, the world has slaved from the hands of man. Making my once raging and now subtle heart beat. Now my resolve is a fire never to be extinguished, Causing each thump to match the rhythm of angels For it is lit by the hope that I boldly contain stringing harps. In the confidence of your name. And with every strum of it’s melodious ring, This is my Thank You, for never abandoning my selfBliss begins to soak into my brain, flushing joy through condemned soul and accepting me for who I am. my body. Even when I never accepted myself. Even in the realm of my continuous sin, You adopted me from my filth, “Life” Washed me with a liquid passed down through By: Deja Guest-Justice generations of Legendary Kings, Mixed in the kingdom of the almighty. It’s like lemonade on a hot, summer day. Once I was clothed in fear, It’s like fall, jumping into a pile of leaves, feeling Searching for answers void of existence, the ground beneath you. To questions born of malice The smell is incredible, Seeking vengeance against a world who hated me beWinter, sitting by the fire , as the smell of marshfore my cell aggregated to make flesh. mallows surrounds you. Once my dreams were filled with constant screams, Life sounds like the breath you take and the note Running from the devils I created. of your voice. Constricting my future in ropes of failure because all I Life looks like the view you take as you go place could ever see was the reaper’s cold blade taunting to place, country to the next. me, It makes me feel joy about myself and possible Saying you could never be nothing. yours too. Before your light illuminated my darkness, Oblivion was my only prayer. 5 Sense Poem
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Chained By: Mary Otoo We celebrate diversity, and the beautiful cultures that others have But do we ever sit down to understand it? We say we are free, slaves no more But do we ever sit down to understand it? We are chained by our own thoughts and actions Divided just like pies into fractions Black History Month, dedicated to the heroes, the ones who helped in the struggle You know how the story goes But do we ever sit down to understand it? Segregation is abolished, no more sitting in certain areas Does it have to do with just the color barrier? “We are the world.” Michael Jackson said Is it just a song that runs through our head? Do you think about the sunset, beach Jamaica? Or the murder, rape and killing Jamaica Do you think about what you are going to eat today? Or the hungry, poverty-stricken Somalia We are still slaves of our own actions Divided in to pies like fractions Shackled together, and led by insecurity This world is ours, Yes you and me There’s not much time left Cause the world is overruled by murder, injustice and theft It’s time for us to break the chains, and walk on free This world is ours, Yes you and me
“No Vel La Hora” By: Crystal Astuhuaman
We are all leaders in our own way The change is big, but it starts today Slaves no more Let us sit down to understand it
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Yesterday’s Love
What Do You Want Me to Say?
By: Jasmine Brown
By: Cydney Gardner
Yesterday, you loved me and yesterday I hated you For the boundaries of love had long ago been crossed When fists against cheeks, took the place of arms around backs And I know that you can tell a difference, because sorry became the excuse for what your senses and good will could no longer control As you painted the shades of purple and red across my face, I became the canvas that told the story of a love gone wrong But the question lies behind my eyes Why? Why is it that an emotion which brings the human race to smile and the reason God sacrificed his only begotten child isn’t enough for you? To express in beautiful words, and praiseworthy actions A heart can only take so much Sao battered and bruised I scream the words I hate you! To whoever is willing to listen Because now that you have shown me what love really is, I fall for anyone who shows me sympathy Not only because I feel sorry for myself, but I don’t know any other way but pain Honestly, it burns me up inside But today, is a new day, and today I learned to love myself I hope that this is enough for the both of us, because it is something you no longer know how to do I refuse to continue to be your canvas But yesterday you hated me, and yesterday I loved you. 9
What do you want me to say? That I’m happy with who you are? That there is no kind of pain surrounding my heart? What do you want me to do? Run into your arms Like the daughter that you Would like to come home to Well I can’t I can’t say that I’m proud to look just like you Or be your loving child I can’t pretend to be glad to smile like you do Or even look you in the eyes I can’t overlook the hurt that you’ve caused By showing how little you care So don’t expect me to ignore the fact That you were never there What do you want from me? For me to take it all back? To say “Daddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean that.” What did you expect? To win me over by pretending to know who I am Was that your plan? For so many years you didn’t even try Do you even know the color of my eyes? Or my hopes, my dreams, My passions in life? When I was young, I dreamt of what it’d be like For you to try to be in my life. Now it’s too late to try. I never understood what I could have done To have you hurt me so much.
Where I’m From: “The Tone Road”
Where I Am From By: Mary Otoo
by: Samuel Ekoubegzi
I am from brooms and mops, from soap and sponge. I am from disinfecting wipes and sanitizers.
I am from a road, A road that hasn’t felt the step of burdens, Steps that deem attention, I am from the land that is desolate, Unnerving my psyche to its certain limits, I came from disappointments of named loved ones, Looking upon myself to do better, Striding to perfect myself, Only to realize, I also, give myself broken promises, I am from the planes that hungrily seek out the Gates of Heaven, I am from the mountain of dreams, To see all that I can achieve, Yet, not having the drive to fulfill it, An odd way of seeing things, I am from the relatives of their failures and mine, One road that stands against you, Knowing how to achieve success, Wondering if you even want it, I am from the people of past glory, Road that is ripe and fresh in its nature, Where knowledge rises out and grasps your powers, I am from a short story, A road, a lone road, that fights against me.
From handmade fabric, kente and beads. I am from the smooth soil admired by all sorts of vegetables and fruits. Trees dancing to the wind and the sun smiling at its people. Where the air is filled with nature’s gifts. I am from bright orange trees and beautiful red apples, with roots as deep as mine. I am from “Thank you,” “Yes Sir”, and “Please” From “Dream Big”, “Be content with what you have”, and “Thank God” I am from singing and long black hair, From Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, From Noelle and Sylvester and love in abundance. I am from the “My have you grown” and the stretching of cheeks till they are thin as air. From family dinners, summer vacations and made up holidays. I am from early Sunday mornings and iron pressed dresses, From ‘Our father’ and prayers every step of the way. I am from snow white beds and nurses yelling “Push”! From slavery and hatred, a shed where the first generation was created. From the leg my great grandmother broke during the 1904 Olympics, and the kidney my great uncle gave to save a life. I am from the wall where old memories are never old, a chest overflowing with treasures every pirate wants. I am a leaf from a remarkable tree; the family tree. But also from a four letter word that holds a lot of power. I am from L-O-V-E
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Living in My Past By: Chanda Caston I am from the past cause that’s where I live My every thought stays in it. I lived on the corner of denial and negligence, Failing to realize the theft of my innocence. Not realizing my dreams came up empty I live in the past because it was the last time I ever lived. I stay their afraid that If I come to the new reality I’ll die with no air. I am from the body of a little girl that once knew how to dance. I am from the pink bed that she woke up smiling in. I am from the picture of my last day in New Orleans. I come from roaming about in the French Quarter and showing people how you really eat beignets, with no shame. I am from the bridge that took me to Georgia. From I-10 to I-20 The bridge that caused my despair, The Bridge that caused me to shed my first real tear. I came from the bridge that gave me the truth when lies wore off. The same bridge where my people stood moaning and crying. Sighing and groaning. Screaming out with no answer. They were stranded, jam packed like the iPod I never asked for. Like the iPod I never got because where I came from… I came from the outdoors, walking barefoot across the lawn With my daddy’s persistent command to put my shoes on. I came from the city of jazz loud, trumpets sounding. Where crescents stayed in the skies. I came from the dinner table where gumbo covered up family lies I came from the corner store painted blue, Where I got mama noodles after school. I came from the place where daiquiris and snowballs are called hurricanes. I came from a place where we truly make it rain. Never did I know that place would never be the same, But our party, our loving, hospitable spirit lives on. I came from the city with the best fans and best friends. I came from the house with the burgundy swing. Singing on Lake Ponchutrain, filled with glee. I came from this state line. I came from the bullies that killed my confidence. So I turned to the last place I lived. I turned to the past and never looked back. 11
T.H.I.N.K. By: Frank Sainfort
You wouldn’t think when a kid bullies someone; you’ll have an open mind and intervene. You wouldn’t think that when a teacher looks up to a student. They wouldn’t know that previous teachers before them thought that your favorite student was a menace and thought that and one day, they will be one of thousands who won’t contribute to society, but instead would useful to create news and headlines on the front page. You wouldn’t think when you say to yourself that a parent should be so proud of their own kid’s achievement. But at home, their parents looks at their own child different and ask why to don’t act this person or why can’t they perform even better at school or why he/she doesn’t hangs out with other kids who are more mature than their own friends. You wouldn’t think if a person who doesn’t use profanity or speak the same way as you do. You automatically critique them, create rumors about them, and then completely shun them out until they are socially non-existent. You would think when a kid gets bullied almost every day, he doesn’t cry. He does. He does a lot. He keeps asking why it happens to him, only him, and not everyone else. You would think that me speaking up requires a voice. Well it does now. You wouldn’t know You wouldn’t understand No can understand it Better than I can I been through highs I been through lows I can explain it better Than you will ever know.
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Fan Fiction
“The Hunger Games” By: Crystal Astuhuaman Disclaimer: The following stories are fan fiction. The authors do not own the rights to any of the characters or the stories. The authors were inspired by Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games series.
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“I Missed” By: Jessica Drayton If Katniss had missed the chink in the arena what would of happened? How would she be punished? Who would die? How would they die? Take a look... I rise, turning to the force field, fully revealing myself but no longer caring. Only caring about where I should direct my tip, where Beetee would have driven the knife if he'd been able to choose. My bow tilts up at the wavering square, the flaw, the … what did he call it that day? The chink in the armor. I let my arrow fly, see it miss its mark and vanish, pulling the thread of gold behind it. My hair stands on end and the lightning strikes the tree. A flash of white runs up the wire, and for just a moment all hope drained from my body. I'm thrown backward to the ground, body useless, paralyzed, eyes frozen wide. I can't reach Peeta. I can't even reach my pearl. My eyes strain to capture on last image of beauty to take with me. They find nothing. I know the Gamemakers won't be pleased with my attempt to destroy their force field and I'll be punished, maybe everyone will. Everything seems to erupt at once. The earth explodes into showers of dirt and plant matter. Trees burst into flames. Finally, a place for the girl on fire I think to myself. Will they let anyone survive? Will there be a victor of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games? Maybe not. After all, what is this Quarter Quell but…what was it President Snow read from the card? "…a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the capitol…" Not even the strongest of the strong will triumph. Perhaps they never intended to have a victor in these Games at all. Or perhaps my final act of rebellion forced their hand. Maybe, if we had all played by the rules, they might have let one of us live. A shadowy figure materialized above me without warning. I want to scream, run, fight this creature off but I'm frozen. I feel a painful injection into my forearm. I'm completely numb but my heart rate and pulse return to normal as if I was never wounded. They have not spared my life to crown me victor but to make my death as slow and public as possible. This figure hoists my up and drags me over to Beetee. I try to close my eyes and shield myself from the horror but my eyes lid won't shut. Forever open to the air. As I watch a single bullet penetrate Beetee's eye socket. His blood splattering on my face, my stomach churning, and in the distance the sound of the cannon rang. My eyes burning from the lengthy exposure to oxygen was unbearable. The image of Beetee's final moment was unbearable. Every aspect of my life was unbearable. He dragged me to Johanna's body, she was fully awake and aware just paralyzed as Brutus's and Chaff's bodies lay motionless mere feet away from her. I assume the chip in her arm must be causing her motionless state. Dragged across the arena we both were as I was made to watch her die in the section of the clock we called blood rain. Drowning in a single puddle that was just a little too deep. 14
Next was Finnick. His body just as motionless as Joanna's was dragged to hour 2-3. Watching the fog consume him in his feeble attempt to run. I knew every thing he was feeling, the attack on his nerves like the effect of a stroke on every part of your body. This point I was empty on the inside. Until I remembered there are three left in this arena; Katniss Everdeen, Mysterious Man, and Peeta Mellark. My eyes almost bleeding from the pain, the screaming inside me that would never show to the audience. The worst of all watching Peeta the boy I sought to protect with my every being. Stripped and thrown into the water, water that if I'd had the chance I could of taught him to swim in back at The Seam like I did Gale. Blood curdling screams from his mouth chilled my very spine. Clinging for life, flailing like a fish out of water, and the last words of his life "Katniss." I now know what is worse than death. Many unanswered questions I now didn't care about. Does District 13 exist? How will Prim behave in school tomorrow? Will my mother fall pray to another trance of depression? Will the rebellion proceed? Will my loving cousin Gale be punished for my selfish actions? As my lifeless body was thrown into the blue waves one last dying thought surfaced President Snow's voice echoing along with the smell of blood & roses, There is no place for a girl on fire.
Snow’s Nightmare By: Se’Quoyah Carter
“It was only a dream”, I say with a sigh. I’ve been having those dreams a lot lately, reminding me of that horrible night: the worst night of my life. I hate going to bed at night, just the thought of it makes me afraid to close my eyes and fall into a deep slumber. I remember that night as if it was last night; I guess that’s why they call it a nightmare. Before that horrible day, nightmares were unfamiliar to me. I never knew what it felt like to be scared in your sleep. Back when I was only eleven, I found out about the affair. He had just become the president of the capital. I couldn’t believe my ears as I stood behind the wall of my father’s bedroom, he gossiped about how big of a mistake he had made. Sneaking off to District 8 to be with a woman who is not my mother, he went on about how she claims he is the father of her twelve year old son. If he doesn’t pay he a certain amount of money, she will spill all of their love secrets to the world. I’m only eleven and my birthday is in a few months. My mother and father were married years before I came along: this means he was sneaking around at the beginning of their marriage. I didn’t want to believe it, but hearing it from his mouth, I know it is true. My father, the man I look up to, the president of our capital: a Cheater!! After finding out about this, I didn’t know how I felt anymore. I was so confused. I was so young, I knew absolutely nothing about adult life and love. So I made it my mission to fins this brother of mine, I wanted to know everything about everything.
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“Wow! I have an older brother!” I said to myself out loud. I then went to bed and dreamed of how my big brother may look or act. The next day, I woke up earlier than ever, slid out of my bed and quietly got dressed. I left a note saying I was at school or something, but it’s really hard to remember. Creeping, I made my way to District 8 in the dark, morning light. It was harder that I thought, finding someone whom I’ve never met. I didn’t even know his name. As I snuck around, hoping not to be caught or seen by anyone who could recognize me as the president’s son, an older boy grabs me by the arm and says, “Come on Jacob. We don’t want to be late to school.” I thought to myself: Who is Jacob? I didn’t say anything, hoping it would lead me to my brother. We made it halfway to the school house when another boy comes along, who looks exactly like me. The older boy who grabbed me looked confused. “If you’re Jacob, then who are you?” he said looking more puzzled than before. “My name is Coronialus Snow!” I say with a big smile, because I think I just found who I was looking for. “And I am here from the Capital to find my long, lost brother.” Jacob looked at me with disbelief, “I have a younger brother? . . . From the Capital?” “I was pretty shocked when I found out too,” I say with the biggest grin on my face. The boy who grabbed me is staring at us both, with a dumb, confused look on his face. “So how did you find out about me?” my new big brother asked me happily, as he gave me a tour around the district. “Overheard my father talking to his best friend the other night,” I say. “Did I say my father? I meant our father!” From that day on, I snuck off every other day to visit my brother in District 8. We had so many fun times together, until one day when we were out playing in the fields. I am very competitive, I always have to win. Betting to see who could finish the obstacle first, we had a race. I wanted to win so bad, I tried to hard and tripped over a boulder, I landed eye first on a sharp, stick-like figure. As a result, I was in a coma for about a year. I was thirteen when I awoke and knew my birthday had already passed. When I first opened my eyes, I saw my mother and father standing over me. But I only wanted to see Jacob, my big brother. He was nowhere in sight. This was the time of year when the Hunger Games had just ended. They were playing reruns on the television. As I looked at the television screen in my bedroom, I saw my brother fighting to win. Killing every person he comes across, my brother was fighting hard to become District 8’s victor. A whole day went by in the games and my older brother killed about eight people. I was so proud to say he was my brother, even proud to say my father was a two-timing cheat. I love my brother; I couldn’t wait for him to come home after winning the games. I was ready to celebrate with him once I recovered. Then I heard the anthem play on the television and saw his picture in the sky and knew he was gone. “Why?!” I remember myself screaming in my bedroom. “That was my ONLY brother!” 16
My mother came into the room, wondering what all the noise was about. She was shocked to see me out of bed and the room a wreck: walls with holes and curtains torn down. “What the hell is your problem?!” she screams. I never heard my mother curse before, at least not at me. I wanted to be afraid, but at this point, I didn’t care about anything but my brother. I wanted to see my brother, hear his laughter, and feel his fist as he nudged my shoulder whenever we passed a fat person. I went insane and told my mother everything: about the affair, the visits, and the real reason I was in a coma. My father had made me lie because he knew the truth. He told me never to speak about the subject right after I woke up; he said Jacob brought me home after the accident. He told me how angry Jacob was and how he asked to sit with me every day until I woke up. But my father told him no because we resembled each other too much, and he was afraid my mother would get suspicious. She acted as if she didn’t care; she didn’t approach my father, nor did she yell or scream. She just calmly walked out of the room and out of the house onto the busy streets. She did the things she did every day; she acted as if nothing ever happened. She smiled, sang, and waved happily at everyone in the Capital. Everyone thought she was perfectly fine, but I knew neither one of us would be fine ever again. I knew there would be a day we both would crack and when that day came, it was terrifying. I was asleep when it began. I didn’t know what was happening, I just heard loud noises and the pictures on my wall were shaking. I jumped out of bed and ran into the hall. And there she was, lying in her own pool of blood, tears dried on her face, gun in hand. She was gone. I ran into my father’s room, he was still out on business. I began to panic, but overcame it. I walked calmly to our garden and grabbed a dozen and one white roses, dried all the blood with twelve of them and left only one on her chest. I hid the roses in the freezer and went back to bed as if nothing happened. It was as if I slept through the whole incident. The next day, I ate one rose for breakfast. That same day every year, I ate rose after rose. Death after death, a dozen roses, twelve dipped in blood, twelve frozen, twelve eaten. I had become a monster, pure evil. I didn’t care whether I hurt someone or not, because I was so hurt myself. I grew up hating everyone and everything. I hate the way I am. No one should have to go through what I went through or what I’ve been through. I blamed my father for everything. He made my brother and sent him into the games. I blame him for killing my mother, even though she took her own life. He made me evil, an animal. If it wasn’t for his lies, my life would be completely different. I wouldn’t be this monster I am today. I would have never killed my father for killing my brother and mother. The smell of roses and blood wouldn’t fill a room once I walk in and I wouldn’t have the job I have today. And I wouldn’t be out to get Katniss Everdeen.
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Untitled by: Quran Alston
My hands cuffed on your hips, my lips cuffed on your lips. Together stuck in a world, making you laugh, as I twist your curls, come into my secret garden, where the flows spring, but the leaves are autumn, the weather is summer, the feeling is winter, my fashion is elegant, my eyes are charming, I came from Venus, and bought along a scale, I tip it, I balance it, and justice never failed, so if you know what I want, and you know how I am, stop falling in love, and land. Land, as the leaf does when it dies, but not in a dark way because, it’s the way of life, and even when you’re going to be stepped on, blew away, shrivel and die, just think about that, as the past, the single life. Oh yea, the relationship thing, I’m kind of bad at that, I need a sensei, a mentor, a counselor, because these three water heads make me, this island, a peninsula, meaning scientifically, we are half of water, and what I mean by water heads, I meant, models shaped like Coca Cola bottles, and me, as an island, I have the most attention, waiting for someone to come conquer, so HEY YOU THERE, listen. Say hello. To a person, who doesn’t sugar coat, I share my feelings, if I love you, I love you, f I like you, I like you, if I don’t, I don’t, yes, it might be harsh, and yes, the truth hurts, but if I would’ve never told you these things, then we are just worst, worst at what we’re doing, worst in what we’re trying to do. It is, what it is, it goes, the way it goes, let me teach you and strip you, of your con’s, let me teach you and level up, your pro’s, we all have a flaw, nobody is perfect, and I’ll be with you , only if your worth it.
“Colorful” By: Dacia James
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“Self Portrait “ By: Ashley Wilkinson 19
Excerpt from: Jungle of Eden by: Amanda Whittington
I hear them. I smell them. They are coming. I force my body away from the jagged branch I’ve been perched in for the past day, waiting for any sign that they were coming and hoping I’d never feel it. There coming would be the death of my kind. My legs wale in protest, my head feels faint. But I shook it all away, I have to move, they are coming… I launch myself to the ground, feeling the soil form around my feet I explode into a run, zigzagging around ancient trees and there deathly roots. This place was beautiful, yet compulsively noxious. I listen to the world around me—silence— hard cold silence. Nothing could live in this jungle because of the smoggy air that was now smothering my lungs with a thick desire to kill; the vaporous air coated my tongue in to an oily tart forcing me to hold my breath and forget about the beauty of this place and focus on my life; the poisonous air would kill me in a matter of minutes. I glance down at my feet, my stomach tremors. Raw, blistering skin boils up my legs—my own flesh being liquefied in to a bloody mess. I look back up at the jungle’s trees dancing around me; I can see the end of the jungle. If I can time it right I will be able to jump right across the ledge –that circles the jungle keeping the poisonous gaseous air trapped with their tangled roots—and warn the village and hopefully not die. I might be dead soon. I’m coming up toward the ledge, a few more paces and my face will smash into the high wall. A few more moment as if I don’t jump I will surely die. I feel my heart speeds up as my breath starts to catch with the idea of allowing the poisonous to flood into my lungs. To cloak me with a pressing kiss that only takes minutes to kill. I flare my nose and the gas burns the hairs. I’m almost on the ledge, it’s time to jump. I suck in the toxic air. I brace my legs. Then I’m in the air. My lungs burn as if I have set a fire inside my lungs and it is licking its way up my throat, the smoke is causing my mind to become woozy and intoxicated. Drunk on a gas that is created to cause the craving high, yet powerfully excruciating, but you still long for it. Nothing amounts up to the light felling it gives you, the pleasure that course through your body as it burns your lungs and throat shut. I could feel the smog deceiving my mind into thinking the high was good, numbing my body to ignore the pain and to allow it to take its course, to allow it to paralyze me and eat me alive. I need pure air. My mind is leaving me. My body is losing its strength. I’m floating through the air. I can’t feel my legs, or arms. My chest is light. My mind is chaotic; I can feel a separate pressure forcing it’s self against my skull, my mind. My everything. I’m fighting to stay, but after so long, during this slow motion effect moving through the air my body and mind is done and tired, ready to leave me and allow the toxic air to con my brain and to let the poison take effect. I’m almost gone… Now there is nothing. I’m gone, maybe dead. Too much toxic air, maybe? Is it eating me? What about them? Will they take over the village? I failed I’m dead— But I’m thinking! The village, they have to be worn or they will parish and our race will be gone. My race—my beautiful and enchanting race that is unlike any other kind; an experiment gone wrong, yet incredibly right. I try to move, but I can’t feel my body. I can taste cool air flushing into my lungs, but I feel faint. My eyes flutter closed and the world around me goes blank and black. I’m gone. I failed. 20
Untitled By: Dwayne Guthrie
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It’s Pronounced Upperclassmen By Montrea’l Johnson Juniors. We’ve been stuck in this repetition for 11 years School, summer, school, summer, school, summer That’s enough to drive a regular student crazy and a crazy student buck wild So they can’t be surprised if our activities aren’t their style We’re only pleasing ourselves, we’ve been waiting for a while So life’s about to change Because once we get back from summer break, we’ll finally be in the 12th grade And. The way I see it is... From August to November, we plan what we want to do Whether it’s going to college and continuing school Straight getting a job, maybe working in fast food Or chasing the fame from the talents we grew Trying to put money to our name with whatever we do Couples feeling the strain from the changes we go through These are our last days chasing pavements because once reality meets thought This year will make or break our high school sweethearts But. When the cold comes around Things don’t calm down Going over preparations Handling last minute changes And solving problems by the pound Can’t give in to the crowd Got to provide for our own Be ready to leave our home Then there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. The light lightens the burden The light pauses the working The worry disperses And our schedules open Because then it’s spring time and having fun is at its peak There’s no such thing as jeans Only girls in short shorts and guys in white T’s Not worried about anything but Spring Break and Senior Week So if you’re not planning for that, you’re not planning with me Then before you know it it’ll be time to graduate We’ll finally be out this place! We’ll finally be out this place… No more Pebblebrook, no more chilling with our friends in the halls No more get togethers in those hotels and lofts No more late night sleep overs telling it all Best friends drifting off, no one left to call And the bonds with our favorite teachers go from strong to soft Once the caps fly off it goes from tears of joy to tears of loss This is supposed to be a big part of our lives but we have way more life to live Once our freedom comes in We’ll have experiences to spend Skydiving in the wind, 21st birthday with our friends Doing whatever we want to make us happy in the end See, the end of Senior year is where life begins We’ll make new friends and life goes on. so there’s nothing to fear Man I don’t know about you, but I’m so ready for Senior year. 22
Solar Energy By Arielle Lucier When we were children The sun was a synonym for our smiles She chased us through the summer months Until street lights called us home She reminded us to play To live and learn To be vulnerable
we took pieces of her with us Brightened the gloom of reality with her shine We were her disciples Our smiles were her bibles High school taught us that summers end, but sunrays don’t That somehow, we must continue to shine
That we are sometimes the only light in the room, Especially Monday mornings (laugh) And we must represent our Sun well Illuminate every dark corner with our smiles And our hope And our insight For four years, I’ve walked the halls of this educational establishment not seeing peers, but pockets Bursts of miniature suns that found the greyest corners within me and lit them Sometimes without words Sometimes completely unaware You’ve lifted my path simply by shinning I’ve mirrored your bright skin hoping just maybe I could inspire some unknown face as you did me My classmates, we shine not for our own benefit, but to enrich the glow of those around us in a moments time, it will be our turn to lead, and be the sol/soul for someone else as they grow we have the power to spark fires in the minds of those who come after us to plant seeds that will grow into trees, to leave in our wake, a legacy of light for every day the summer is absent In two-thousand-and-twelve We made history in the midst of adversity Marching to the measure of our own drum Marking the cement with the brilliance of our determination Proving to those who doubted our intensity That we, too, hold astrophysical power in our back pockets This year, if nothing more, We converted solar energy into inspiration and acted upon it We took the lessons our childhood summers burned into us And shared them, as frequently as we could So let that be a lesson to us, the class of 2012 That sun is no longer a noun It is a verb I challenge us to sun as frequently as we inhale To be pocket filled peers And burst vividly for the world to see Wherever we go However we lead our lives It is our time to shine, And encourage those we encounter to do the same No, it won’t always be easy But we’ll take the task in increments Like high school Like summer Like every chapter of our childhood We will illuminate the world, I know That is our calling… My peers, I am thankful that I was able to glow with you That we shone together, and made a lasting impression with our translucent aspirations We are pre-destined to change the world Of that I am sure After graduation, as we enter the world, gleaming even if we don’t remember each other’s faces, my friends…. Always remember the sun She’s been there since the beginning, And She . . . is forever watching.
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Excerpt From “Untitled”
By: Anchie Ivey
I awoke to a piercing scream and a loud crash. I jumped down out of my bed, pillows flying everywhere. Instinct taking over, I ran down stairs and into the kitchen as quickly and quietly as I could. Grabbing the 2 biggest butchers knives I could find, I made my way into the dining room. The house was eerily quiet except for indistinct whispers coming from the office. I looked up and saw 2 shadows and immediately knew just what was going on. I walked into the room and saw my mother standing beside the glass table, tears on her cheeks and hurt in her eyes. He was standing 3 feet away, fists clenched and a smug smile on his face. The fat bastard had hit her with her laptop. It lay on the floor in pieces. I rolled my eyes and inwardly groaned. “Oh joy, this again.” They stared at me, the bastard’s eyes staying on the knives I held in my hands. “What are you going to do with those?”, he said, mockery flaming behind every word. And in that moment, I saw myself leap forward, quickly bringing my feet up. They met with his face and the force brought him down hard on the tile floor resulting in a deliciously loud pop as his skull cracked. Without wasting a moment, I put the blade of one knife to his throat, and positioned the other perfectly above his heart. “Burn in hell you piece of shit!”, I screamed furiously. I pressed the knife down on his throat and dragged it to the left, blood squirting everywhere. His body thrashed violently as I stabbed him over and over, a crazed smile on my face. The blood filling his mouth stifled his screaming. My mother screamed trying to pull me off of him, but I shrugged her off of me. I was doing this for her, why couldn’t she understand that? It made me so very happy to watch him die, the pool of blood rapidly growing under his lifeless body. So much crimson…my favorite color… “Huh?” I snapped back to reality, back to his hideous face. I shook my head, clearing my mind of the bloodlust and went back into the kitchen dropping the knives on the counter, wishing I’d have used them. “One…Two….” Right on cue, the arguing began. I ran upstairs into my room, threw on some clothes, and put my headphones on. Atreyu, “Her Portrait in Black”, nothing like death metal and screamo to drown out the endless yelling and crashing of furniture hitting the floor. I grabbed some money and went back downstairs. The house lay in ruins. Furniture toppled over, pictures hanging at odd angles, some lying in broken piles on the floor. “Damn, I just cleaned all this,” I thought to myself, irritated at the fact that no one seemed to care about how much I did to make the place presentable. I walked out of the door and made my way to the QT down the street. 30 minutes, a bag of Cheetos, and a 52-ounce cherry slushy later I stood in the driveway of the house. 3 cop cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck. “Wow…new record,” I thought to myself getting angrier by the second. Mother was talking to an officer, the bruising on her face and body already apparent, tears pouring down her swollen face begging the officer not to throw “him” in jail. “Fucking pathetic.” My older bother sat in the ambulance holding his mangled arm and glaring daggers at the fat bastard who sat in the back of the police car. His face still smug with a grin, I wanted nothing more then to decapitate the man and display his head on a javelin next to the front door telling the world to fuck off or end up like this waste of flesh. These people put a whole new meaning to the word dysfunctional. I sat on the curb and looked down at the ground wondering why exactly I was given to this particular set of individuals. Sure, I was grateful to be out of that orphanage, but where the hell did these people get off adopting a child when they weren’t sane enough to take care of themselves??? I shrugged, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed the familiar number, hoping he would pick up so I could get out of this place as soon as possible. “Hey love,” he said. I cringed.
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“Kyo…can you come get me?” I asked “Yeah…of course. Where are you?” “Hell.” I answered flatly. “Oh…I’ll be right there.” I began counting the seconds that passed by as I watched the squad cars leave with “him” in the back. Watched that woman cry on the doorstep as if her tears would fix her psychotic husband, and felt something stir in my heart.... Pity most likely, that poor woman would stick around until he decided to stop playing and kill her. She stood up and got inside the ambulance with my brother, and it took off, followed by the fire truck. I sat on the curb waiting for him lost in thoughts so deep they would drown anyone with a lesser mind. Soon a black mustang pulled up in front of me and looking back at the house that family called their home, I got in.
“Graffiti Race” By: Crystal Astuhuaman
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“Short” By: Precious Davis and Ashley Wilkinson
Literary Magazine Staff: Precious Davis
Samuel Ekoubegzi
Ashley Ashokhe
Crystal Astuhuaman
Quran Alston
Chanda Caston
Angelina “Anchie” Ivey
Cydney Gardner
Keithan Geboyd
Arielle Lucier
Sponsors: Lauren Knieriem
Ruthann Rust
Thanks for reading . . . 26