Editors' Note
Welcome back! The Apricot Journal’s first issue of the 2021-2022 school year is finally here, and we are so excited to share all of the amazing writing we have received! As the seasons change, we invite you to join us in a time of reflection reflection about life, about the past year, about the seasons themselves. Many of the submissions within this issue are deeply rooted in contemplation, and they challenge us to step back and to think about how we act and feel towards the world and others around us.
Additionally, over the course of these past few months, we have received many pieces that deal with topics such as stress, anxiety, and mental health awareness. These subjects are prevalent in our world, especially now, and we hope that the short stories, poetry, and essays published in this issue provide awareness, as well as an opportunity to simply step back from everyday life and enjoy being immersed in the moments our authors have created.
On a more general note, as life gets back into full swing, we have enjoyed being able to meet our staff in real life and host writing workshops in-person in the lovely new Media Center! We believe that the ability to be physically together, as opposed to online, is strengthening our community and bringing us closer together. We see a bright future for the Apricot Journal in the coming year, as we will continue to host monthly writing workshops and are excited to publish our first ever anthology in time for the holiday season! We wish everyone a happy and safe Thanksgiving break, and we hope you enjoy the first issue of Volume 2 of the Apricot Journal!
All the best,
The Editors-in-Chief
Anya Geist and Emma Robeau
Strength
Alix Coran
Grade 11
So much depends on… strength
Can you hold on to the monkey bars?
The pit on mulch mocking you, Sticking their tongue at you.
So much depends on… strength
Can you pick up your friends?
Wiping their tears, A stream without an end.
So much depends on… strength
Can you keep in the fire? Burning you silently, Leaving internal marks.
So much depends on… strength
Can you hold the weight of the trauma? Carry it on your back, The load never lightening.
So much depends on… strength
Can you take the waves of anxiety?
Hitting you like punches, Knocking you out.
So much depends on... strength
Can you fight the darkness overcoming you? The relentless sadness, Digging your grave and marking your tombstone.
It's Okay to Not be Okay
Carissa Hochkeppel
Grade
11
Today in society a lot of people tend to be more focused on the negatives than they are on the positives. I completely agree with this because, sadly, that’s how I am. I catch myself complaining more about the negatives and forget all about the positives, which in some situations are more important.
Being happy can tend to be more of an emotion that comes and goes and honestly that can be a good thing. Being sad or angry can actually make you a stronger person in the future. You can learn and grow from experiences that make you feel that way. But, when we are sad or angry, we also need to remember that it isn’t always our fault. It’s not always the easiest to control how sad or angry you are.
So, like I said previously, people do tend to be more focused on the negatives than they are on the positives. But, we need to remember that it isn’t always our fault and all we need is just a little guidance and support.
Just Before the World Woke Anya Geist
Grade 10
Fog rolled off the hills in great curling surges; it was as though the mountains breathed out massive waves that cascaded through the hilly region. Now in the early morning, the sky was grey; at the very top of its heavenly dome its hue was dark and marbled, hiding the infinite universe that lay beyond, though down near the tops of the hills and ridges a soft light began to permeate the solemn mass; and so the clouds were slowly lightening.
The people living all throughout the hills still slept, tucked under layers of wool blankets, oblivious to the way the air outside was fresh and moist, cleansing and new; and in the valleys, the lakes were still, disturbed by only tiny ripples that slightly rocked the boats at the piers. Their sails were down, these boats, carefully folded up and stored, and so they seemed bare, exposed in their entirety to the early morning. All was silent. The sheep who blissfully roamed those luscious green hills did so in peace; the birds were not yet awake and singing; the whole world was quiet.
A man was climbing up one of those hills, his forehead plastered with sweat that shone dully in the grey light, although the air was cool. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his pants rolled up to his shin; and in his hand he held a walking stick made of knotted wood. He was of no threat to the world, though, with his light brown eyes that held a resplendent warmth akin to that of a summer day; with his neatly trimmed dark hair that called to mind memories of biting into bittersweet chocolate. The man moved with purpose, quickly, quietly, up the hill, his eyes upon the soft grass beneath his feet.
And then he reached the crest of the hill; and as he stood, looking out, he breathed a breath of contentment. The whole world was at his eye, it seemed. He could make out the webs of light that traced their way through the sky; he could see how the mortal world was sleeping, how the little huts that dotted the hills were motionless. The boats in the lagoons waited placidly; and great waves of fog rolled off the hills. It was surreal, he thought, far too good to be true, that he was the one to witness the world just before it woke.
Being Your Black Friend
Cynthia Njenga Grade 12
ced I’m black. Specifically e you are friends with. My que. As you know this country is built on racism (and more specifically anti-blackness) and whether or not you want to admit it to yourself; you're racist. You have these implicit biases towards black people: we are dangerous, we are dumb and we are lazy. So you act different towards me without even realizing. It’s important that you acknowledge the struggles I… your black friend-- go through dealing with your ignorance.
One of the worst things I’ve had to deal with as a black friend to white people is white fragility. You shake in your boots when I mention that you don’t have it hard for being white. You never want to talk about racism even though it’s something I have to deal with whether we talk about it or not. How do you say you're my friend, but you don’t care to learn about the issues directly affecting me? You ask me why we can’t all love one another and be happy and why I am “causing division.” As my white friend I say this with full offense why don’t you shut up and listen sometimes. I can’t hope and dream that the KKK will stop hating us because its not nice.
Pretending racism doesn’t exist doesn’t make it go away.
Now onto the gaslighting I face as the black friend to you-- a non-black person. You tell me I’m overreacting when I tell you that you being friends with racist people makes me upset and genuinely hurt. You tell me: “Okay but I’m not racist so who cares”. News flash— I care. You are who you hang around. So if you’re okay being friends with someone who’s racist… what does that show me about you?
I tell you that the teacher said a racist comment to me and you tell me to just brush it off its not a big deal. You make a “dark humor joke” about black people getting killed by cops and tell me I’m overreacting for being mad and not to be so “sensitive”. I tell you that you can’t get box braids because that’s cultural appropriation, and you say “You can’t gatekeep a culture.” “I’m just appreciating it.” You forgot that the world loves to see my culture being appropriated, but hates to see it on the originals. And no don’t bring up the viking. None of my feelings are valid. My anger is ignored. My sadness is just drama. Its honestly draining being your friend. But I push through because you don’t know any better.
That's a common phrase you say too actually. “They don’t know any better,” you say while you describe your racist family. I don’t know why you feel the need to tell me about how your father thinks that black people are lazy and stupid. Now I know to avoid your house; And protect my peace.
The last thing that I can’t stand is when you constantly force me to play the role of educator for you. I’m not MLK or Malcolm X. I’m not google. I don’t have all the answers to your race related questions. Don’t put that burden on me to constantly correct you on your ignorance. Why don’t you just be more cautious of what you say instead of asking me to analyze your every statement. It’s exhausting. I’m too busy dealing with racism.
And these are only some of the BS things I have to deal with as your friend. You are probably listening to me and thinking “Nah, I’m good.” “I’ve never done any of these things.” You are far from good. Unfortunately, I can’t list all of the ignorant things you’ve said or done. That’d take a while. Your ignorance doesn’t make you a bad person. Your inability to change does. So by all means keep acting like this. But as your black friend I’m not gonna wait around. If you are willing to do better, then evaluate how you're treating me.
Sincerely, your black friend.
Hey, the Seasons Change
The crisp air
With the power to make the blurry crystal clear.
Tiffany Rose
Grade 12
rmanent position.
But without a doubt, winter comes barreling through boldy
Impatient - monotonous - coldy
Upcoming seasons already on the prowl
Nature’s windy howl -
Foreshadowing the arrival of Mr. Jack Frost
Fun in the snow is almost here
But at what cost?
A solemn farewell to the heat that radiates forcefully upon us.
Because … with winter we must make our own heat.
Not quite the easiest feat
Moments when we are freezing, and summer is our deepest desire
That’s when we test our own skills; instead we make a fire
Self-sufficiency is the key - and we must engage
As we get accustomed, we move slowly, page by page Hey, the seasons change, that’s not our fault --So, we take this challenge with a grain of salt
Nature makes us change course so often - the audacity!
But we continue trying, because if there is one thing mankind has, it’s tenacity
Thy Bus
Shannon Dennehy
Malaak Massoud
Lila Tallagnon
Grade 9
Thouest, oh thouest, why hasn't thee bus arrived, You leave thyself, shivering in the winter, For frostbite hath claimed thy fingers and toes. Leaving them unable to survive.
Thouest, o thouest, has thou never thought of being home on time? Thouest hast cast a spell on thyself, Leaving me to stare at the sky, Waiting for thy bus to arrive.
The Last Day of School Luis Sanchez
Grade 11
It’s time.
As I step outside, the radiant heat from the Sun burns my skin, or what used to be my skin. I begin to walk up along Apricot Street, remembering the days that I used to walk up this same street to attend my classes. Now I only walk up this street, or any street, once a year.
The June sun always scares me. The kids playing outside always scare me. I’m pretty sure I scare them as well. Too bad. I’m walking up this hill for one reason and one reason only. With the rose in my left han-- arm? No, stick? It’s not my hand, but it still protrudes from my body, so I guess it is my hand? There aren’t many words to properly describe it. There aren’t many words to describe what I am. As I keep walking, some kids with a basketball stop bouncing it and run home. I can see them looking out the window. I can feel their gaze. I can feel their stares. What do they think I am? Once I’ve walked far enough, the basketball starts to bounce once again. Poor kids don’t know this is a two-way trip. Best part is, I don’t get tired.
I continue walking up the hill, and before I know it, I’m seeing the entrance to my most hated place on Earth. The school is old: good thing they are building a new one. It won’t make me forget what happened, though; the incident is drilled into my brain. I sit on the bench and wait for sundown. I can’t lie, the view from here is spectacular. I can see the huge turbine next to Holy Name, along with the downtown buildings; it’s a great place to be during this time of year. For everyone except me.
As the sun begins to lower down into the horizon, I stand up. I can still hear the sirens. I take about two steps, no, four? I can’t even think straight. I take a few steps towards the entrance, and at the door, I kneel. There are these monstrous voices in my head; they always arrive for this day. “Look at what you did,” they said as they closed the door on me. This rose is the one thing that helps me keep going; this constant reminder of what she did for me. I close my eyes and re-imagine the entire scene. It was exactly on this day, a few years ago, when my entire life changed.
It was a Thursday, I remember. The last day of school, my freshman year at South. I was a small child, and the seniors were twice my size. Once the last period bell rang, I ran towards the exit. I had already cleared out my locker, so I was carrying only my heavy books. I started going down the back side’s stairwells, and as I hit the final step I tripped. I didn’t fall, but I stumbled. My geometry book fell and along with it, all of my other books. The heaviest first, down to the lightest. They didn’t fit in my backpack. Right then and there, all of the books fell right on top of the lead pitcher’s left foot. His yell was terrible, but the crack from his foot was worse. I stood there frozen. His friends whom he was talking to immediately looked at me, and I ran to the locker room. I didn’t need to look back to know that they were chasing me, I could hear their rapid steps. Turns out, fear-driven energy is better than weight-lifting energy. I somehow ran faster than them, for the first 2 seconds. As I passed through the locker room door, they grabbed me and pulled me up. I tried to scream for help, but one of them covered my mouth with their hands. Either way, all of the teachers were too distracted by the star of the baseball team and his broken foot. “Why were you running!?” “You hurt him, you know that right?” “We have a summer season for the first time and our chances of winning it are now ruined!” “Look at what you did!” They carried me out of the locker room and into the pool area. They shoved me in. They locked the doors. I was mad at myself for no reason. I let their words penetrate me. I went downstairs to cry. After a few minutes in the dark, I noticed that all of South’s electrical things were surrounding me. I grew fear again, as I saw water start to leak onto the electric wires. Seriously, who thought about putting the electrical stuff below the pool? I got up to leave the bottom floor, but one of my backpack’s zippers got stuck on the wet wire. I was so stupid. I pulled too hard. Everything went black.
Pupils dilated. Eyes blinked open. I thought I was dead. I thought that was the afterlife. Soon I saw someone beside me. God? It was a woman. A goddess? A custodian. She was tweaking something to the left of me. What could she have been building next to a possibly dead corpse? My head was aching terribly. I lifted my head and turned to see what she was wiring. It was a long metal stick. My hand? My hand! My arm! I couldn’t feel them! Right where my arm was supposed to be, a metallic subject stands! She turned and looked at me. Her eyes were filled with hope. They shone with care and pity. She seemed to have sensed my confusion and told me everything in her soft, delicate voice: I had gotten electrocuted. She’s a custodian with a masters in biotechnology. She said she found me unconscious, and noticed that my left arm, both my legs, and part of my right torso were completely fried. I needed amputations. With cheap tools, she did the amputations. Then she built me legs, an arm, and patched my right torso. She created me. After a long time of waking up, going back to sleep, and waking up again, I began to accept the animatronic-humanoid I had become. She stayed with me the entire time. Even when she wasn’t twisting a screw on what used to be my arm, she stood beside me. She was amazing. Suddenly, someone was knocking forcefully on the door upstairs. It was either the security guard who finally noticed I went missing, or the baseball boys looking to finish beating me up. Either way, I had to leave. Without uttering a word, the woman understood my feelings and helped me stand up. I thought she outdid my legs a little; I definitely grew about 4 inches. I also felt more mobile. I needed to ask her name to thank her, but my mouth was numb. I managed to get some sort of mumble out.
“Vhat-- ith-- uhr-- nhem?” I managed to ask.
“Rose,” she replied.
The knocks grew louder. It felt as if whoever was behind the door would knock it down themselves. She gave me a black blanket to cover myself in. The doors upstairs busted open. I sprang above and moved out of the way as the policemen barged in. There were like twenty of them. I hid behind the very door they opened; it was a dark place and with the black cloak, no one could see me. Suddenly the police, from the pool floor, aimed their guns at Rose on the electrical floor. They screamed at her to put her hand up and walk out. I wanted to do something, but Rose looked at me and shook her head. She raised her hands, looked straight at me, and with her left hand, she grabbed one of the tools she used to make me and stabbed one of the electrical cables. Some lights flickered outside. Horror grew in my face as I saw Rose being electrocuted, perhaps the same way that it happened to me. Her skin grew pale. Her veins jutted from her skin. Her face became swollen. What was once her pearly-white eyes were now bloodshot. The way her body vibrated like a washing machine filled to the brim. It was as if her body decided to break the rules of physics. For me, it lasted an hour, but to everyone else eight seconds. The woman who helped me cheat death, couldn’t cheat it herself. The policemen put their guns away, and focused their flashlights on Rose. While they were distracted I slithered away.
From that day I have been living in the sewers. From that day, I have been wondering what in the world happened on June 8. I wasn’t the only one left wondering. My family filed a missing person report. I was almost found when a cop was sent looking in the sewers. Luckily I have become much faster than them. They wrote me down as “kidnapped and killed.” How stupid. I knew I couldn’t go back to my family, they’d think I was a demon considering how religious they were. I felt really bad for them, though. My mother was on T.V. crying against my father’s chest. And the picture they used of me? 8th grade. Really? They couldn’t find a better one? Perhaps one after I had hit puberty? Maybe one during a soccer game? The school mourned the loss, but neither the cops nor the principal told anyone what had happened after school that day, or where it happened. They just closed the pool area. Their excuse was for maintenance. Just like that, and no one questioned anything.
Not a day goes by that I wondered what they did to Rose’s body. The closest I ever got to it after her death was at South High’s entrance. I was hidden beneath the trees, behind one of the neighboring houses. I saw when the medics took out a body on a stretcher and pushed her inside one of the ambulances. The sun had just gone down, and darkness emerged. I remember hearing the sirens wail, and my second mother being taken away.
The only things I have left of her are her name and this black cloak. From what I heard when students walk above my sewage pothole, the school made a memorial for her in the auto tech room. Their explanation? Heart attack. No one questioned anything.
I stood up and untangled my robotic claw-- yes, that’s what I’ll call it-from my cloak. The sun had set. The rose was placed. I began to walk-stumble-- down Apricot street, and back into my sewer. The next time I’ll see South again is on June 8. The last day of school.
Splash Megan Ashun
Grade 9
“I’m gonna catch you!”
I remember each heavy step thundering behind me. I ran as fast as I could, but was no match to him. Suddenly I was in the air, held by my armpits. I screamed, then laughed. “Let me go!” I pleaded. He swung me around, his hearty laughter filling my ears and carried away by the breeze.
My feet hit the grass and he took my hand. I strained my neck to look up at him. My dad. “Let’s go eat, buddy.” I nodded, skipping along beside him. He layed out the white and red checkered cloth, preparing our sandwiches. He smiled down at me, “Pickles for the little man?”
I remember the creases around his eyes. Years of smiling had done him good. His chipped front tooth, from learning how to skateboard when he was younger. His dark, curly hair. Mom resents me. Can’t bear to even look at me anymore. “The spitting image of him,” she says in her sad, slurred voice.
I grinned back at him, giddy, “Yes, please!” Dad always remembered how I liked my sandwiches. He never forgot what stories I loved being read before bed, or my favorite cartoon characters. He handed me two slices of dill, which were gone before he could say a word.
“Slow down, kiddo,” he warned. I stuck my tongue out and began to run off again, with my toy car in hand.
It’s probably sitting off somewhere, the shiny red paint covered in dust. I haven’t touched it since.
I circled around the edge of the pool, slippery against my bare feet. I hear him yelling in the distance. “Caspian Jr.! Get back here, now!” I ignored him. We were playing, having the time of our livesSplash.
Cold water rushed up my nostrils. I was panicking, thrashing in the water violently. I was scared. I inhaled in an attempt to breathe, only to be met with a worsening choking sensation. I looked up at the light, then back down, as if something was calling for my attention. My eyes were fixated on the big, black, something at the bottom of the pool. I had only just noticed it. It was pulsing, with more violence after each second I stared at it. It seemed.. angry. It was coming closer, and closer, andI was on the edge of the pool again. I coughed and sputtered, trying to expel everything out of my lungs, but nothing came out. I wiped away at my face, expecting sopping wet hair, only to be met with a stream of tears. I looked down at my clothes. Dry. My hand was clutching at an object, it was beginning to hurt. I dropped it, left with the imprint of a toy car in my palm.
I stood up, “Dad?” I called out. I turned around in a circle, like a lost puppy. Then again, and again. Where did he go? I peered over the edge of the pool to see the top of his head, his dark curls, slowly disappearing. My stomach dropped.
“Daddy!” I began to cry harder, looking at him in dismay. I couldn’t do anything. I was helpless. I screamed again, hoping for anything, anyone to hear me. I watched as he sank, but he didn’t stop going down. I started to beg, “Please!” My voice was becoming hoarse. The last of him had gone under. He entered that big, black, ugly thing. It swallowed him. It took my dad.
1975 to 2002, the heading of my dad’s tombstone. The most ironic thing? There wasn’t a body under it. They didn’t find one, they couldn’t. Nobody believed me when I told them that something, something big, black, and ugly took him. I was only 6, who would believe me? Everyday since then I had tried to make myself believe that it was something else, that my eyes were playing a trick on me. My hyperactive imagination had made it all up. I tried. That was eleven years ago. I’d like to think that I’ve moved on, but that’d be a bigger lie than saying I like swimming. Can’t stand it. I haven’t been near a pool since that day. I begged mom to move. She’s drunk all of the time, it’s her “coping” method. There’s no point in antagonizing her. I probably would’ve been the same, if it wasn’t for Nathan.
“Who’s there?” I heard a voice call out, echoing through the alley walls. I sat slumped against a dumpster, barely conscious. ‘I’m so tired, dad.’ A painfully bright light hit my face, followed by my shoulder being aggressively shaken. “Hey! Hey! Wake up!”
Nathan’s my best friend, my ride or die. He’s the one who got me into skateboarding, to my mom’s disapproval. He pushed me into getting my grades back up, gave me something to look forward to everyday. He’s the reason I’m here right now. He’s my brother.
“You’re always at my house, man,” Nathan jokingly complained.
I shoved him with my shoulder, “And so what? I basically live here.” ‘Not because I want to,’ I thought. That pool.. it freaks me out. I haven’t forgotten what I saw, and I refuse to be near that, even if it means not going home.
“I want to come over one of these days! I’ve known you for years but have never been to your place.” He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he found me in that alley, crying like a little kid. He doesn’t know anything. The issue with secrets, they always leave you being a little bit irrational.
“What about this weekend?” Instantaneous regret covered me as soon as those words fell out of my mouth. He smiled his big, white, contagious smile. I couldn’t help but grin back. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Knock-knock. I leaped up from the couch, anxiously awaiting Nathan’s arrival. I spent the last few hours making the house spotless, years of neglect had taken its toll on it. The house reeked of booze and cigarettes. I tried my hardest to get it out with several cans of Febreeze to no avail. My mom was nowhere to be seen, not unusual behavior from her. I opened the door to be nearly knocked over by Nathan rushing in. Who knew my twig of a friend had so much momentum.
He looked around, observing. “Huh. So this is what it’s like.” I nodded in response as he wandered further in, touching everything in sight. He oohed and ahead at our collection of plates, then poked around in the fridge. I trailed awkwardly behind him, unsure of how you’re supposed to cater to guests.
Then, something suddenly caught his attention. “You have a pool!” He shouted. He made a beeline towards it, suddenly disappearing from my gaze. I reached for his arm to slow him down, but he slipped out of my grasp. My heart rate began to pick up as he neared the back door, with a complete view of the pool. His hand hovered above the handle.
“Hey, uhm, maybe we shouldn’t go outside? Let’s stay-” A large gust of wind nearly knocked me to the floor as the door swung open. I watched, fear-stricken, step by step as he approached the water.
“Nathan!” I called out. My feet were rooted to the ground. I didn’t want to get closer, I couldn’t. He stuck one leg over the pool, real robotic-like-
Splash.
Suddenly, I was free again. I sprinted to the edge and peered over; my stomach turning, my heart lurching out of my chest and up my throat. “Nathan!” I called out again. I nearly stumbled back. It was there. Darkness. It looked even more ugly, and angry, hungrier.
Not again. Not this time.
Splash.
I was submerged in cold water again, but this time it was different. I was scared, but not for myself. I opened my eyes, wildly searching for him. Where did he go?
My heart began to rise, I saw a face! I reached out for it, but I didn’t touch anything. More water passed between my grasping fingers. Was I hallucinating? Maybe I’ve been down here too long. I look up towards the light, then back down. It was so tempting. Going back up, escaping all of this, but the face was still there. “Nate!” I gurgled out, forgetting I was underwater.
Except.. it wasn’t really him. He looked a bit different. Older. Wrinkles lied where none should be. His eyes weren’t quite right, they were brown instead of grey. The short blonde hair I knew so well was replaced with curls, and-
Dad!
That was my dad, staring right back at me. I swam closer, exerting what little energy and breath I had with each stroke. As I got closer every striking feature of his became more apparent, even his deepset smile lines. I was so overwhelmed with the sight of him- Nathan had left the forefront of my mind.
He smiled, motioning for me to come closer. I could almost feel the heat radiating off of him. He felt so familiar, but something wasn't right. A thought entered my head. What does he smell like? It wasn’t my own, it was as if someone put it there. I was confused by the absurdity of it. Of course I remembered how my dad smelt-
Smell him.
I couldn’t help it. Water flooded my nostrils, and suddenly everything was clear again. The face had disappeared, and in its place was darkness. Big, black, writhing, angry, ugly darkness, exactly how I’d remembered it. Nathan was gone, my dad was gone, and now it was just me and that. I was forced to stare into the endless void, whatever it was. I knew I was trapped. It tricked me. The light was no longer above me, my lungs were burning. I’m so tired, maybe this is it for me-
Splash.
204 Rowan Richman
Grade
11
My lullaby isn’t like the city. I don’t get those traffic noises, ushered to sleep by honking horns. Nah, mine are more like the suburbs, with a whoosh of tires on the nearly empty street nearby. I get the rattling railroad tracks, and freight trains’ steady blare, the warning of a crushing wheel that passes unseen in the night, miles away from my sleeping form.
My lullaby is quieter than most, just enough to let the thoughts creep in when it’s too late to be thinking. It comes drifting over from the neighbors’ backyard where friends are gathered around a fire; obnoxious, but comforting after a while. The dog down the street is barking, and it mingles with the leaves crunching under the next-door cat’s delicate feet. Most of all, it comes from my my own house, the movie on our huge tv downstairs and the piano from the room next to mine, my favorite song played by my least favorite person.
My lullaby gets less soothing when he’s making the music so I don’t hear it all that much. I prefer the stuff I know, cause it might not be quiet and sweet but it sure is comforting to know there’s still people I love out there.
I Remember It Clearly Tyler Nguyen
Grade 9
I remember it clearly. On a sultry summer morning, I waited patiently in line for the ride, watching the Sea Dragon sway back and forth at high speeds on a 180-degree arc. The screams of the passengers as the rocking steadily increased. Leading up to a tremendous plunge like the Titanic sinking, the ride started to pick up pace rapidly. Back and forth until the ride came to its climax. 40foot drops left and right. Everyone held on for their lives as it seemed they were defying the laws of gravity. A sporadic 30 seconds, then It was finally my turn. I entered the seat along with my siblings. We put the seat belt on and tightened them to their limits. The worker came over to us and pulled down the creaky overhung seat belt to hold on to. After fastening everyone’s seatbelts, the worker began the ride. At first, we were oscillating slowly. Then we started to speed up. My heart was throbbing as the climax crept towards us. Then, we kept going higher and higher. I didn’t expect it to be that high up. But as we reached the top, It felt like I was on top of the world. In the beginning, I was shrouded in anxiety, but while on the ride, it felt rather relaxing, like a kid on a rocking horse. I could see the whole Santa Monica Pier from above, the soft breeze pressing against my face with the beautiful ocean view. The ride finally came to an end. I was disappointed after the ride ended so soon. I actually enjoyed it. It was worth the wait. The experience felt like I was a pendulum. It seemed like I achieved stasis, escaping the outside world.
Anya Geist Anya Geist
Editor-in-Chief
Christine Lam Christine Lam
Magazine Layout
Denisa Iljas Denisa Iljas
Web Design
Natalie Boucher Natalie Boucher
Social Media Manager
Daniel Arnold Daniel Arnold
Emma Robeau Emma Robeau
Editor-in-Chief
Leire Cuberes Barluenga Leire Cuberes Barluenga
Treasurer
Jenny Huynh Jenny Huynh
Social Media Assistant
Editor Benedict Morrow Benedict Morrow
Mrs Erresy Mrs. ErresyAdvisor
Editor
Ms. Bishop Ms BishopAdvisor
Acknowledgments
