TThe he Apricot Apricot Journal Journal
A compilation of literary works written by South High Community School students.
Dear South High Community School,
As we barrel towards the end of the school year, we reflect on the events of this year The good, the bad, the happy, the sad So much has happened in the life of our school, ourselves, and our peers. For us at the Apricot Journal, a meaningful way to think about this year is through revisiting old pieces that spoke to us.
As such, the Apricot Journal is excited to announce our first-ever Best of the Year issue, featuring some of our favorite work from our authors throughout this past year. Though all of our authors are immensely talented, some pieces in particular stood out to the staff These pieces spoke to us for a number of reasons, whether it was their sophistication, imagery, emotion, or thoughtfulness.
Written in multiple languages, expressing different cultures and backgrounds, and reflecting on deeper themes in life, these works of writing encapsulate the diversity of experiences that South High holds. They are who we are as a school.
We hope this issue is as special to you, the reader, as it is to us. With summer approaching, we encourage you to keep these pieces in your mind as you go about your life, to think about the different perspectives that our peers and ourselves have. Reflect on your own life. Maybe you’ll be inspired to write something too.
Have a great summer!
All the best, The Editors-in-Chief
Anya Geist & Denisa Iljas
Autumn
Rania Amallah, Grade 11
Is there a season better than Autumn
The season of sweaters and joy
The season where summer is destroyed
I gaze upon the autumn leaves of red, orange, yellow, and green
That fall against me as I walk through the town at the age of eighteen
I feel the soft breeze blow through
I smell the scent of the drizzled rain that fell not long ago
I smell the scent of maple and pumpkin pie
I see the glistening fruit awaiting its harvest
I see the enchanting pink sunset that falls through
For this is the season of amenity
The season of love
The season of knitted sweaters and knitted gloves
The season of the turtle-dove
The season for we are unworthy of
But there is another reason why I so dearly love Autumn, Beyond the glazing bonfire that sits beyond us
Beyond the taste of candle apples that lingers in my mouth
Beyond the red sun that blooms like a rue
For there is another reason why I dearly love Autumn
For it is the season where my heart flew
Autumn is the season when I met you
The First Snowfall
Anya Geist, Grade 11
tomorrow the world will be soggy it will be forty and drizzling loudly shoes will make squishy noises in the mud roads will be grimy and wet as cars tear across them the air will feel damp, angry and the sky will look like scratchy wet wool
but right now the first snow falls and the night is still white flakes descend silently upon the ground softly they cover yards and driveways and perch gracefully atop bare branches the occasional car is muffled—its sound hidden, its lights dimmed and far up above there are warm grey clouds as the world is lulled blissfully to sleep
Fog
Muriel Gibbons, Grade 9
Fog.
Fog forces over my shoes, Paralyzed.
Glowing gazes observe, Always watching, Never here.
Dark.
The trees tremble, Spiders sprawling slowly, Whispers wallowing, Coldness calling.
Breathe in sharp. Lavender lips, Haggard hands, Concealed countenance.
Lost. Fog.
The Gardenia
Emma Robeau, Grade
12
She never had a permanent home. She was always moving around from city to city, attending every apartment viewing or open house she could find. She never had much luck. Everything was out of budget, too expensive for her to afford She was an author, or trying to be, at least She wrote horror novels for a while, then attempted fantasy. Each book she published failed to bring in enough money. But she never gave up.
She got a call one morning, as she was sitting in her car. An apartment, finally one she could afford. She had gotten it! Her eyes teared up and her heart filled with joy. For the first time in a long time, she was to have a place to call “home.”
She moved her things into the apartment within an hour and a half. There was not much to bring in; her entire life was packed into five medium sized cardboard boxes.
That night, she sat on the lime-colored couch in silence, a part of her terrified. She didn’t feel the excitement she had felt that morning when she got the call. Instead, she felt afraid. She had no family to call, no friends to talk to. She was alone
The next morning, she went out for a walk in the local park. It was springtime, flowers blooming practically everywhere, it seemed. She picked as many as she could find, thinking they would make a nice bouquet for her apartment, a nice splash of color against the dull, white walls. She passed a metal bench, not noticing the elderly woman sitting there.
“That’s a beautiful bouquet.”
She turned around, surprised. She looked down at the flowers, slightly wilting in her hand. “Thank you,” she said to the woman. “And I love that flower you have. A gardenia, isn’t it?”
The woman looked up at her, her eyes filled with amazement. “Sure is. I’m surprised you knew what it was, not many people know flowers that well.”
“My mom loved them. She kept a flower garden in our backyard when I was a kid.”
“That’s wonderful. Why don’t you take a seat? You look like you could use a break.”
So, she did. They talked for hours. She told the woman about her writing career, her big move, and her goals for the future The woman simply listened, her kind face being a comforting presence for the girl.
“It’s getting kind of late, I should go. It was nice talking to you,” she said.
“Of course. If you ever need someone to talk to again, you know where to find me.” The woman winked playfully.
“Do you come here everyday?”
“Yes. My husband and I used to take walks here every morning. We would always sit on this bench, and I would watch as he picked gardenias from that bush. Now it’s just me, and I make sure to pick a flower for him, so I can feel like he’s here, with me.”
The girl’s eyes began to tear up. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I can keep you company.” The woman’s face lit up with joy.
And, sure enough, the girl went back, everyday, to sit and talk with the woman. It became the one thing she looked forward to. They talked about life, recent events, and television shows. They talked about the woman’s dream to open a flower shop, about her husband’s endeavors as an architect. They became close friends, and for the first time in a long time, the girl didn’t feel alone anymore.
A couple days later, on a bright sunny morning, the girl grabbed a gardenia she had bought and planted in a little pot for the woman and walked down to the bench, except this time, she wasn’t there She was always there before her. The girl looked around and sat down on the bench and waited. She came back everyday, hoping the woman would be there on the bench. But she never was. That afternoon, when the girl made it back to her apartment, she picked up the newspaper on her way inside. She flipped through it, as she always did, but this time, something caught her eye. The obituary section. There it was, the woman’s face, her kind eyes holding the same comforting gaze as they always did The girl began to cry, those cries eventually turning into sobs. She had lost the one person who truly cared about her, the way no one ever had, and she didn’t even get to say goodbye. She went to bed that night clutching the newspaper under her arm, the gardenia on the side of her bed.
She walked down to the park early the next morning and planted the gardenia next to the bench. She sat down, letting the warm, summer air touch her face She opened her eyes and glanced up at the sky Above her, the clouds came together to form a flower. A gardenia. She smiled and looked out upon the pond in front of her. She was finally home.
Driving in the Berkshires
Benedict
Morrow, Grade 11
Driving in the Berkshires
Purple mountains and trees
Switchbacks
Trying to keep speed, Keep position
Going to some college
Financial aid and admissions
Dorms
Is this it?
Will I spend my life in this small town?
Hard to think
The future is far
The present is here
The road winds
And I cannot see the next turn
I cannot see where my life is going
De donde Soy a Donde voy
Carina Diaz Perez, Grade 12
Mis sueños han nacidos en lugares
Que no han sido míos, se siente muy raro y ajeno
Mis sentimientos, lo que siento en cada lugar.
“Amor mio”
¿A dónde vamos? Si es contigo no hay fin
Aunque le demos vuelta al mundo y más allá,
Ambos sabemos de donde pertenecemos.
Pertenecemos de la tierra, vamos a las estrellas
Solo contigo triunfos no guerras.
No quiero estar en otro lugar o en otros brazos
Mis labios y mi cuerpo se siente seguro junto a ti,
Pues mi amor por ti es infinito
Y tu corazón, para mí, es oro fino.
De Donde Soy a Donde Voy
(Where I Am From, Where I Am Going)
English Translation
Carina Diaz Perez, Grade 12
My dreams have been born in places
That are not mine—it feels very strange and foreign And, for each place, I have different feelings.
"My love"
Where are we going? There is no end if you come along Even if we go around the world and beyond, We both know where we belong.
We belong to the earth, and we go to the stars Only with you are there triumphs and no war.
I don't want to be far away or in someone else’s arms
My lips and my body feel safe with you, Because my love for you is infinite And your heart, for me, is pure gold.
Ode to Joy
Alina Liu, Grade 10
And you must be happy, because you are supposed to.
And you should be delighted, because those were the intentions.
And you have to be enraptured, because all else is too busy to care for you.
And why aren’t you happyis it because you’re bad?
And what happens, when one is stuck climbing And climbing through the painful journey to joy?
Ginger Playground
Shannon Dennehy, Grade 10
the location of beggars asking for knowledge my overwatered memories laid to rest in this ginger playground. vermillion years of energy and concentration. the swings were our temple of bright eyed innocence. ice cold nights at the brink of dawn and the escape into our overgrown garden. visiting this ginger playground feels like striking a match with the sun and holding it in your hand waiting for the moment it envelopes our wildest temptations.
74 Aspen Court
Leah Bai, Grade 9
If you walked to 74 Aspen Court, opened the front door and walked up several flights of old creaky stairs, if you set down the ladder and opened the hatch, if you pushed past the piles bins and of stores, you would find a mirror with a small window next to it. It’s a rather large mirror with a simple frame, but it seems that someone liked it, for they made their home there. You see, covering the mirror is a web, and in the middle of this large web is its maker: an innocent little spider Now through the piles of bins and boxes, back through the hatch, back down ladder, back down the creaky old stairs is a person. This person is also quite ordinary. They work a nine to five, like painting as a hobby, and have a few friends. They live a neat lifestyle with little excitement, but they like it like that. That is all you need to know about 74 Aspen Court.
The web is shaking again. I know what this means. I steel myself in preparation; as it hits me, I block, in sync. It snarls, “You cannot protect this world forever you know. I know you grow weary of this same routine one day we will break through.” It is right. I have grown tired of defending this world for so long, but even so, just like everyday, I chant, “esse superis tempus tuum hodie non est quia adhuc custido speculum.” Its side of the mirror flashes and it darts away.
That is my life. Every day one or more of them from the other side try to break through, try to escape their prison of their own regrets, their own pain, their own failures—trying to release their anguish on the world. My pedipalps quiver thinking about the nightmare the world would become if that happened
Long ago, their world was prospering: they had technological wonders in everything from medicine to transportation. However, it didn’t take long for them to become obsessed with their progress.
Instead of the safe state-of-the-art transport, they made unstable portals. They had mastered the art of medicine and creation but it wasn’t enough, so they tried to take the next logical step Instead of healing the living or creating new life, they sought to bring back the dead. Their hubris and obsession led to their world being torn apart and them becoming just mere shadows. Unknown to this world, they were able to make one stable portal the one which I was tasked with guarding from them all those years ago. And so here I stay year after year, decade after decade, looking out at the chest of drawers and the vanity that was moved in here some time ago.
My master knew that if they were to get through they would try to start again, bring back the experiments that doomed them the first time. They would try bringing back loved ones they lost, would try to use our world to fix theirs. My master knew the rebirth of their world would be the death of ours, so he left me to guard it.
I can admit in earnest that if it weren't for my oath to my master I would’ve never taken nor kept this job. Some days I almost can’t remember why I do this, why I fight everyday At first, it wasn’t so bad The people knew of the other world, and hailed me as a hero. But now after all this time this world has forgotten, about me, about the other world, about the mirror. It is to no surprise that they forgot me. After all, not many people are fond of spiders. They no longer know the constant danger I protect them from. This ignorance that they now possess is dangerous, for if one of them discovered me I do not know that they would let me be. So it is with a heavy heart and a weary mind that I still guard this mirror, until death do us part.
“Ah, what a lovely morning,” I say to myself. Today marks the fifth and final day of my spring cleaning. Unfortunately this means I have the hardest task left for me The attic This is the part I have been dreading doing this whole week. Apparently nobody has entered let alone cleaned that attic in centuries, so I know I have my work cut out for me.
Let’s get this over with,” I say as I take down the ladder. As I open the hatch, a huge cloud of dust comes out. Ugh, this is going to be a long day, I think as I enter “Ew,” I think Standing right before me is moldy and dusty vanity, while right behind it is a chest of drawers in the same condition. “This is going to take forever,” I say out loud to myself. I climb up and down the ladder for what feels like thousands of times until, “Finally.” I go back up the ladder and enter the hatch for my last push. “Almost finished, just have that one last section and then I will have a clean usable attic. . . This deserves a smoke break,” I tell myself as I make my way to the window and pull out my lighter. Then I see it.
There, in the corner, is the largest spider I have ever seen.
Personally, I do not have a vendetta against spiders; however there's something different about this spider. It is just sitting there. I would have thought it was dead had it not moved ever so slightly when I looked at it. Not only is the spider unsettling, but so is what it chose to make its home on. This spider sits on one of the most ancient looking webs I have ever seen and covers a mirror
This mirror the spider is sitting on looked fairly ordinary except for the fact it looks like it was brand new, despite having been here for what I assume is forever. This miracle, I realize, could make me a pretty penny—an antique in such good condition is certain to be worth quite a lot. But I would have to get rid of or kill the spider. Maybe I should just leave it there. It's been there for so long, a sentinel guarding its home. Even if it is just a spider, I would surely have a guilty conscience taking its home from it. “Maybe if I burn it it won’t suffer so much,” I think. I light my lighter and walk towards the mirror until I am right in front of it. I sit on my heels to light the web when the spider looks right at me, in those eyes I see something that feels much more intelligent than it should. . .
Suddenly, I don’t know what to do.
Never Want, Use Will!
Henry Nguyen, Grade 11
I set goals for myself all the time.
Goals keep me alive,
But never, EVER will I include a “want” in them.
“I want to sleep at 8 tonight” I say. That's a cool statement, but not a goal. Adding the want to my statement gives wiggle room for failure, It’s an excuse for my unfulfilled actions
“I will go to sleep at 8 tonight”
That’s a goal! Highly unlikely, but a goal nonetheless. If I’ve completed my goal, great! Time for my next one. If I didn’t, I failed. But that’s okay, I try again.
Oda AL LIBRO
Eileen Rodriguez Rodriguez, Grade 10
eres mediano no tan chiquito no tan grande eres un genio me dices nuevas palabras todos los días me ayudas cuando estoy estresada caminas conmigo para todos los lugares que visito sabes a agua hueles como una flor eres sauve como mi cabello negro tienes variación en color como el arcoiris estas presente en las buenas y las malas cuando estoy triste cuando estoy feliz estas creciendo conmigo siendo parte de mi corazón y alma
Oda al libro
(ODe to the book)
English Translation
Eileen Rodriguez Rodriguez, Grade 10
you are medium not so small not so big you're a genius you tell me new words every day you help me when I'm stressed you walk with me to all places I visit you taste like water you smell like a flower you are just as soft as my black hair you have variation in color just like a rainbow you are present in the good and the bad when I'm sad when I'm happy you're growing with me being part of my heart and soul
Anya Geist Editor-in-Chief
Iljas Editor-in-Chief
Mrs. Eressy Advisor
Benedict Morrow Editor
Natalie Boucher
Social Media Manager
Ms. Bishop Advisor
Social Media Assistant
Denisa
Christine Lam Magazine Layout
Jenny Huynh
Daniel Arnold Editor
