The Apricot Journal is thrilled for our first issue of the year! We’ve had an exciting and busy start to the school year, bringing on several new staff members and hosting a fun Halloween writing workshop in the library. Our staff are enthusiastic and committed to bringing the best version of the Journal to you all, and we think that this issue will display that.
In this issue, you’ll find several pieces inspired by our Halloween writing workshop, which create unsettling and spooky moods. Additionally, our writers tap into multiple tones, evoking a variety of emotions, from confidence to hope, longing, and reflection. They create vivid imagery that will transport you into their writing, into their world.
This issue marks the first publication of our fourth year. It is incredible to see how far the Journal has come in four years, as well as the continued dedication of our submitters, who send us writing again and again. We are grateful for them, and for everyone who has supported us throughout our journey and we hope you enjoy this issue of The Apricot Journal!
All the best,
The Editors-in-Chief
EDITORS’ NOTE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TREE
TARREL (OLUWATOSE) EDEBIRI, GRADE 9
LIFE GREATER THAN LIFE
JASON MURILLO, GRADE 12
I’D MELT FOR YOU
AMITA KLEVANSKI, GRADE 9
THE ICE CREAM MAN
SHANNON DENNEHY, GRADE 11
RELIGION, NIHILISM, AND OTHER CLICHES
CODIE BOUCHARD, GRADE 9
UNA FAMILIA SEPARADA
JASON MURILLO, GRADE 12
BITTERSWEET
VASIANA MANCOLLI, GRADE 9
UNTITLED
LEIRE CUBERES, GRADE 11
I AM
KAYLEY SALGADO, GRADE 9
UNTITLED
VASIANA MANCOLLI, GRADE 9
Tree
Tarrel (Oluwatose) Edebiri, Grade 9
There was a tree; From its own leaves It bore seeds. It was not one, Not two, But so many more. There were hundreds of seeds in the tree.
At that time, There was a gust of wind; A wind so strong It blew the seeds Out of the leaves. Thus, the seeds dispersed. They glided much swiftly Into the smooth spring air.
Of the hundreds of seeds, There were only less than forty that survived to sprout. Ten of them rotted out. One was from a weed, And another from a quick stomp. The other thirty were in need.
Before they knew it, It had become summer.
The sun beat down
Upon the strengthless sprouts.
Five more dried out.
For the young trees, It became a bummer.
By the time fall rolled out, There were only twenty-five Which remained alive.
The warm air cooled down,
But for the poor plants, It's only getting worse.
As for winter, The piercing cold attacked.
The now eighteen sprouts
Barely brought about
By the furious blizzarding
Of their frigid climate.
Now it has yet again become spring. A long year had passed, Only there were many more to catch If the years could ever progress. Soon, they would confess As a tree.
Life greater than life
Jason murillo, Grade 12
I pray that God, the Universe, Whoever or whatever, Lets those who we took from Be given back in factors of millions i
May the poisoned bees
See miles and miles of flowers
A diverse field of them from places they Would never see
May the tuskless elephants Have a vast playground of water
To bathe, cool down in, and drink from All at once
May the nets of fish he multiple giant nets of fish ve in seas free from predator And man
Oh, hear my prayer nd grant even greater ones
That I could imagine them life greater than life was Amen.
I’d Melt for You
Amita Klevanski, Grade 9
Another blackout in New York City had dimmed all of the light in the large metropolis. Maria was pacing back and forth around her apartment unit, hoping to find some source of light in her living room. Her hands bumped into two objects: a small, plain, white wax candle, and a lighter. Wanting to pass the long, dark night quickly, she grabbed the objects, climbed into her bed, and placed the candle on her bedside table. Her finger rolled the spark wheel several times, not quite getting the light she desperately wanted.
“Come on, the one time I need you, you don’t want to work, what is this?” Maria muttered under her breath as she fumbled with the igniter. She brought the lighter closer to her ear and gave a small shake. It seemed to be almost empty of fluid.
She rolled the wheel a few times more, her frustration growing with every failed attempt. Finally, the wheel gave a promising spark, a wisp of grey smoke, and out came a blazing, scarlet flame. Maria gave a meager cheer of triumph and lowered the fire to the candle. The small fire burned the fresh, white taper to a blackened crisp. Maria watched as the meager but dynamic flame dissolved the shadows of her room. Her eyes stayed fixed on the brilliant teardrop of orange, the one that brought life to the deathly atmosphere. The candle continued to burn all night, the lone clock on the wall ticked as the wax dripped down from the wick.
Maria awakened the next morning with a radiating ache in her skull. She turned to the candle, still burning.
“Ah, What is wrong with my head? Why does it hurt so bad? I probably didn’t get enough sleep…” Maria's quiet thoughts barely interrupted the buzzing white noise, deep in her brain. Her head felt a little bit lighter to her as she walked to her high school. As she went through her mundane school routine, the agony spread down to her neck, shoulders, stomach, arms, and even legs. Exasperated, irritated students pushed and shoved each other as they made their way to their rooms, but Maria, leaning against a locker, was unbothered by
any activity. She stared at the cold, tile floor of her school. The simple, little design of alternating tan curls and lines, melted into a swirling mess before her eyes. Feeling a sense of fear mixed with dread, she ran to the house of her beloved Michael after the school day has ended. Her limbs were starting to go numb, and her skin sagged a bit from her flesh. She told him about her pain and the candle that she lit the night before. Feeling confused and distressed, Michael decided to search for her peculiar symptoms on his laptop. Only one search result came up: a small article about a cursed candle. They read it together and went silent as they finished the blog.
“Do you think-” began Maria.
“Check if the writer is still….” said Michael.
Maria searched for the name of the author, and another article showed up and stated that she had disappeared without a trace. Police reported her body missing. The two tried everything to douse the candle at Maria’s apartment. They blew on it. They stuck it into the moist soil of a pot, containing one lonesome chrysanthemum flower Maria had on her balcony. Every endeavor they made to extinguish the fire was futile, not even water could put it out. The eternal flame had melted half of the wax, and Maria’s pain started turning into something much more sinister. Her skin was now partially drooping from her arms, legs, shoulders, and even parts of her face. “Maria, please, stay with me,”
pleaded Michael. He pulled her into a tight embrace.
“It's too late, we can’t do anything.” Maria pulled away from him, sighed, and hobbled to the living room.
Soon after, Michael’s sorrow turned red-hot in a matter of seconds. He could not lose her. Burning with rage at the situation that he was in, Michael grabbed a dictionary and smashed the candle to bits. He heard a scream coming from the living room. He ran into the room and saw a puddle of fleshy mush on the floor. A person who knows about the legend of the candle cannot pass it to others, the poor, unfortunate blog writer found that out the hard way. I hope that you enjoyed reading this tragic tale, for my head is pounding and feels strangely soft at the touch.
The ICe cream man
shannon dennehy, Grade 11
Lasburg was not a normal city. It was anything but. The city folk were normal, as were their homes, lives, occupations; however, it was the after-dark hours that were strange.
Lasburg had a reputation. Sunrise to sunset it was the perfect beach vacation spot. Families would flock to the city to spend their waking hours lathered in sunscreen and roasting in the balmy sun.
After sunset, it was a different story. There was no legal curfew, yet it remained unspoken between the frequent vacationers and locals. You’d think that with such a widespread knowledge of the happenings
in Lasburg the culprit would be caught, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong.
In the end, it didn’t really matter everyone knew about it.
The first incident occurred in May of 1996, when poor little Susie Chapman disappeared in the night. In the police report, her parents recalled hearing the eerie, twinkling sounds of an ice cream truck far in the distance. In the summer of ‘98, Henry Jerkin, Allison Graves, Whitney Omer, and Houston Thorn faced the same fate, never to be seen again. September of 2001: Killian Hugo; March of 2005: James Walter, Sarah Kristen, and Gregory Denver; July of 2008:
Lauren Feldman; April of 2011: Hope Jackson, Margot Winters, and Owen Smith. August of 2016: Jason Toro and Maggie Goldman.
In total, there were twentythree kidnappings, and the one thing they all had in common aside from living in dreadful Lasburg and being between the ages of nine to sixteen, were the sinister echoes of an ice cream truck.
Strangely, for a beach destination, none of the ice cream shops on the boardwalk owned ice trucks. When the police searched the DMV for ice cream truck license plates they came up empty handed. Lasburg is the kind of city where it has everything you could ever need because it’s located in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town
was forty miles away, so surrounding towns aren’t close enough, nor are they populated enough to generate substantial business for ice cream trucks. No matter where officials searched, they hit a dead end. Every. Single. Time.
But these unfortunate incidents didn’t stop professors Eleanor and Diego Knox from relocating their small family to the dreadful city. They figured that as long as they were behind a locked door by the time sundown rolled around, they’d be safe. Makes sense, right?
Their youngest daughter
Madeline didn’t think so, and was reluctant to go. Her older brother Rhys, was more than happy to live in Lasburg. He’d wanted to start a podcast investigating the city’s kidnappings. But Madeline knew that if the city’s
secrets didn’t want to be uncovered, they wouldn’t be.
It had been three months since March, when the Knox family began making roots in Lasburg. Eleanor and Daniel were making their way up the social ladder and joined an esteemed boating club; they didn’t even own a boat. Rhys made friends rather fast at his high school and could never be found at home anymore; he had quite the social calendar. However, Madeline was his opposite: practically a loner. Her only companion was her cat, Poppy, but he didn’t really count.
So day after day, Madeline would go to school alone, sit in class alone, and was so alone, that she ate her lunch in the farthest corner of the library, in the section were the dictionaries were. No one would bother her there not
that she had anyone to bother her. Thankfully, Madeline wouldn’t have to endure the loneliness of school any longer now that spring turned its page and summer finally began. Kids from school were swarming the boardwalk, their hands sticky from the cotton candy and slushy drinks. Madeline stood at the entrance to the commotion. There were a lot of people.
Through the crowd, she managed to find Rhys and his friends and then decided that she would try her luck with them before abandoning the boardwalk for a book and some ice tea. When Madeline approached the group, Rhys scowled. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Go away.”
“I-I just don’t want to be alone on the boardwalk there’s so many people. I could get lost!” Madeline exclaimed. Rhys rolled his eyes, his patience for his little sister growing thin, ”I don’t see the problem.”
Madeline took a deep breath, trying to hold her tears in. Even her own brother didn’t want to be near her. She was truly all alone. So she span on her heel and ran through the crowd, all the way home. It was a Tuesday night in the beginning of July, when Madeline’s only friend disappeared. Poppy was too curious for his own good, and peeked out through the
door Rhys had left open on his way to a sleepover. Madeline fell to the floor after she scoured the entire house for Poppy. She could no longer hold it in, and soon her tears were flowing like a river. She had no one that cared for her. Her family didn’t even want her: her brother found her embarrassing and her parents were too absorbed in their careers that they hadn’t noticed Madeline’s solitude. Even tonight, Eleanor and Daniel were at a dinner party at the boating club, unable to provide comfort to their daughter. Not that they would have if they had been there.
So Madeline cried and cried and cried. It was all she could do. She cried until there was a singular knock on the front door. Madeline flinched, unsure of who could possibly be visiting at this time of 13
night. What about the curfew? she thought. Who would dare to be caught outside after dark?
Madeline wiped her tears and rubbed her eyes, swollen from crying. She stood on her toes, peering through the peep-hole in the door to get a glimpse of the visitor. But the stoop was empty. A shiver ran through her spine. Its just someone playing a prank, she told herself. No need to worry.
So Madeline decided that she would wait by the door to catch the culprit, if they chose to return. A few minutes passed, and it was so late that Madeline began to doze off. But a knock rang through the room and she shot up quick to answer the door. But again, no one was there.
She walked out onto the stoop and peered into the night but could not see anyone. How were they escaping so fast, and who were they? Madeline took another step forward and the door slammed shut behind her. She turned in fear, but when she tried to go back in her house the door was locked from the inside. No one else is home! How?? she thought, fear and adrenaline coursing through her. Madeline pounded on the door, hoping whoever closed it on her would have a change of heart. When she gave up is when she heard it. Her breathing doubled and her legs were paralyzed. She couldn’t run, and neither could the other unfortunate kids when they heard the dulcet tones of the ice cream truck.
Religion, Nihilism, and Other Cliches
Codie Bouchard, Grade 9
“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering. If there is any purpose to life at all there must be a purpose in suffering and in dying.”
- Gordon Allport
My mom grew up a Christian. Well, it was a lot more than that. She grew up with her mother shoving religion down her throat at any given moment - and it wasn’t just a casual religious family: mom always says that she was raised in a cult. My grandmother had even sent her to church camp once, which was where she had her first kiss. Ironic, isn’t it?
Mom got out of that household not long after she dropped out of high school and had my soon-to-be eldest brother. My grandmother moved to Alaska sometime before I was born, I never really thought to ask. Growing up in a very antireligion household didn’t seem abnormal to me. God, The Bible; they were all unknown words to my little mind. We did, and still do to this day, live across the street from a church. I didn’t know what a church, nor religion, was until concerningly late in my childhood years. I asked about a small cross I found in my Memere's room, to
which she explained what religion was. I didn’t get it. How could you devote your whole life to one thing? One being?
In 2021, I was going through a lot. I was in seventh grade, working to keep up with grades and my mental stability. I was alone. There was a strange comfort in that loneliness. I looked into religion as an escape, but every single one shamed me for being myself, for things I can't control. I gave up on that journey quickly; it sent me spiraling even more, leaving me in a never ending pit of depression and isolation. I have always found interest in introspective videos. One day, specifically December 1st, 2022, I was binge watching a ton of these videos. I came across one titled
“Nihilism: The Belief in Nothing.” It explained how Nihilism is a small ideology which is, in the most simple terms, the belief that life is meaningless. It showed how you live, you die, and everything before or after your lifetime is unknown. Nothing can be truly understood in such a short life-span; might as well live freely before you meet your untimely demise.
I took these words to heart, in both a bad and a good way. At first, I was pessimistic: I never saw the good in life, was trying to take the easy way out, and failing the majority of my classes. I always thought, “If nothing matters, why try?” Every time I would do something concerning, or weird, or just straight up stupid, I would defend myself. I can admit,
nothing about that time was worth defending. But I’ve grown since then.
As I'm writing this, I am still a Nihilist. Definitely not as pessimistic as I was, which I'm grateful for. I grew up, even if only by a year. Nihilism has assisted me with my recovery through mental health issues, and I will forever love it for that. I do sometimes wish I took longer in the beginning of my journey through finding
myself; taking my time researching both religions and ideologies. Maybe I would've recovered faster. Still, I made it.
Something I will always remember from this lifetime is one quote: “You have to find the meaning of life yourself, no matter how long it takes.”
Una Familia Separada
Jason Murillo, Grade 12
Una familia latina
Es separada por líneas en un mapa
Pero más obvio
Por números ordinals
La primera familia vive en lujo
Pero la tercera familia vive
En lujo también
De acuerdo la una a la otra
La tercera vive en un bordo*
En las montañas por la ciudad donde
A una familia le cuesta tener
Una granja de café y una vida con éxito
Su vida es sin éxito porque quiere la de la primera
La primera vive en una casa
Dándole estatus en la primera sociedad
Tiene trabajos con salarios
En lugar de depender en la Madre Naturaleza
Pero su vida no tiene éxito porque quiere la de la tercera
La primera quiere estar junta todo el día
En lugar de estar separada por el trabajo y
Tener una vida en que el día pasa sin darse cuenta
Una vida, con la simplicidad, sin el estrés, y con la familia
La tercera quiere trabajos con salarios
Sin el miedo que viene con Cultivar, cosechar, y vender el cafe
Una vida, con la estabilidad, sin el miedo, y con el dinero
Las dos vidas son lujosas
Pero las dos familias no lo reconocen
La basura es tesoro y tesoro es basura
*author’s note: This word has a more common meaning than what is used in this context, but in Honduran Spanish it means slum, the equivalent of the Brazilian favelas
Translation:
A Latino family
Is separated by the lines found on a map
But what is more obvious
By ordinal numbers
The first family lives in luxury
But the third family
Lives in luxury as well
According to one another
The third family lives in a slum
In the mountains by the city where
The family struggles to have
A coffee farm and a life with success
The family’s life is without success because the family wants the life of the first
The first family lives in a house
Giving the family status in the first society
The family has jobs with wages and salaries
Instead of depending on Mother Nature
But the family’s life has no success because the family wants the life of the third
The first family wants to be together all day
Instead of being separated by work and
Having a life in which the day passes by without realizing
A life, with simplicity, without stress, and with family
The third wants jobs with wages and salaries
Without the fear that comes with Growing, harvesting, and selling coffee
A life, with stability, without fear, and with money
The two lives are luxurious
But the two families do not recognize it
Trash is treasure and treasure is trash
Bittersweet
Vasiana Mancolli, Grade 9
Bittersweet
There’s a coffee shop down my street
It’s next to bustling palaces
But it's been dark for too long.
No one seems to remember when there weren't turbid skies swarming it.
The “For Sale” sign, big, bright, bold, seems to have been there forever.
It's a weird feeling, nostalgia, dazed but thinking clearly, like frosted ice on a lake.
There’s a thin blanketed layer of dust on the untouched surfaces. The time flashes like a ray of light.
The coffee shop always seemed to scintillate with a warm golden glow from the shafts of dappling sunlight, even as the shop itself is lost to time.
Each Saturday, a lorry steadily drove by the cafe, exchanging pleasantries, and delivering the catalog. The employees hastily rip the package, grateful for the welcome scent of crushed coffee grounds when it emerges from the container. Another day, another inventory restock.
In mere moments, halfawake customers would rush through, the need for a wake up call or an open public space consuming their minds, the stress
getting to the most lively of people. Murmurs of the buzz of bustling chatters await them, along with routine deference.
Teak root tables, upholstered accent chairs, whatever had been thrown out had a purpose in the shop, with club chairs on casters, tea trunk cushions, umbrellas and parasols, mismatched dining chairs with varying sizes and outdated patterns scattered across the layout. The slivers of muted colors reflected off the vintage furniture. This place is tinged with the melancholy shadows of memories for those old enough to experience the river of feeling. Their customers had been lacking as of recently and the business owner was struggling to make ends meet. Before the end of the next year, they went out of
In the winter, when the brisk snow billowed, when the contrasts in temperature fogged the windows, the heat of hot chocolate radiated from everyone’s fingertips. We would submerge ourselves in the hot liquid, deep in thought, and our fingers traced the rims of our mugs absentmindedly.
The cacophony of sounds often enveloped the space.
From the moment you walked in, you heard the ding of the soft bell, a hearty welcome. The employees called out orders. The incomprehensible murmurs of voices and laughter. The dishes clatter.
The spoons clinking, The thick whirr of a frothing machine. The cling of a cash register. And yet, it was never too loud. The winters are frigid.
The memories only make it colder.
There’s this flurrying feeling of quiet longing and wistfulness engrained in the words of that “For Sale” sign. There’s a sense of loneliness associated with nostalgia.
The warm somber glow, the pang of unsettling guilt, the sharp longing, wispy remembrances of nostalgia We were forced to leave the forever behind, with these to hold in our hearts.
Only simple, silken dust remains, telling the story of what once was.
Beautiful and fleeting.
untitled
Leire Cuberes, Grade 11
maybe in another life in a far, far away one maybe just maybe i could have met you a little earlier i could have known another version of you a more forgiving you maybe in that other life i could have said my last goodbye and it would have made all the difference.
I am Kayley Salgado, Grade 9
I am a genderfluid who writes songs
I wonder what I can do.
I hear what my mind says.
I see myself.
I want to get better.
I am a genderfluid who writes songs.
I pretend that I know what I can do.
I feel the words on my tongue.
I touch my pen to go write.
I worry that the song is bad.
I cry to my heart.
I pretend I know what I can do.
I understand my songs.
I say what I say.
I dream about my future.
I try to keep myself in.
I hope to get better.
I understand my songs.
Untitled
Vasiana Mancolli, Grade 9
As the world goes by, There are school children laughing on the playgrounds
There are colleagues at lunchtime complaining about their austere supervisor There’s young parents trying to calm their screaming babies
All their words hang suspended in the air like tired butterflies. All their words blend together, echoing through the ages. A lady comes by each day. She knits. She observes each passing customer. She knits. No one acknowledges her. The continued opening of doors, of faces, of people. She comes to know everyone who walks inside
And everyone who doesn’t.
It’s their curse to know each one, to steal from each one. It’s a blessing she cannot love any one of them. She feels the essence of the love radiating from her tapestries, so agonizingly beautiful
It would be blinding if she could see. How is it so wonderful if the pain is so terrible?
It’s almost alien--how their present is written in the wind, how their time turns to dust
Those who see it as a cheat and for those who see it as a gift
The threads are ugly and twisted and damning and brilliant. But they are never cut. The forgotten threads
are never cut. The strings of a life lived. Each soul, each story, runs through the weaves and warps and welts of the textile.
The tapestry sparkles with life. Glitters with bonded souls. All touched, all intertwined.
The tapestry weaves everything together. Your life, your death, your memory.
The thread is unraveled with the tapestry as they leave through the door.
Another tapestry of stories to remember and regret. She is unsure if the tapestry steals more than it preserves.
