Volume 28
Bullseye
2013
The Literary and Art Magazine of Douglas MacArthur High School
North East Independent School District 2923 MacArthur View San Antonio, Texas 78217 (210)-356-7600
Bullseye 2013 Table of Contents
Art
Sara Kay Kevin McGinty Brittany Abbott Haley Prieto Marla Mattila Patty Zaragoza Taylor Wilcox Christina Smith Celine Wu Brianna Garcia Jessica Martinez Chelsea Theriot Emily Barbary Leah Howell Chelsea Theriot Emily Lovo Arlen Guerrero Elsa Diaz Jae-Seong Yoon Marcella Pastrano Chelsea Theriot Emily Barbary Lauren Tessitore Hannah Webster Marla Mattila David Gerald Smith Madison Baber Mara Webster Brianna Garcia Marla Mattila Samantha Ayala Hannah Webster Leah Howell Leah Howell Marshall Garcia
4 7 7 8 10 10 12 15 15 15 19 20 21 23 24 25 27 28 29 29 31 32 34 35 36 38 39 42 43 43 45 49 52 53 57
I Speak for the Trees Hope Pet Shop Iguana Eye of the Beholder Shhh! Mermaid Drippy Brother
18 54-59
The Ruby
Hickory Dickory Dock
Paper Clip Art Room Sink My Eye Kiki’s Silver Gaze Cat in the Hat Emotional Explosion Rebirth Mind Doodle Shoe Store School Buses Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover
Board ‘em Cherubim Giraffe Bananas Doodle Skull Shy Eyes Giraffe Farm House Peace Flag Día de los Muertos Okay Pulling Strings Womb Beach Color Rogue
Prose Ashley Aytes Dominic Dorsa
Asymmetrical Warfare
Poetry
Cynthia Soto Marjorie Cartwright Madelyn Esquivel
5 9 13 Mavis C. Maharaj-Escobedo 16 Audrey Hankins 22 Tristan DeLeon 26 Rebecca Jenkins 30 Tyre Wilson 32 Mavis C. Maharaj-Escobedo 37 Danylle Hernandez 41 Steven Dowdle 44 Mavis C. Maharaj-Escobedo 48
Nature I’m Always Alone Rain The 23rd Sonnet A View on Myself Potpourri Underworld Heat Hurricane Broken Glass To: _____ The Confession You May Never Get
Landscapes and Gas Chambers
Photography Sara Kay Alexis Manzur Taylor Wilcox Taylor Wilcox Taylor Wilcox Brittany Abbott Samuel Jaramillo Taylor Wilcox Hannah Rose Hannah Rose Ty Moderow Jordan Fabilenia Arcely Rodriguez Mitchell Howard Taylor Wilcox Danylle Hernandez Patrick Gibbens Lauren Tessitore Paige Reeves Rye Beres
6 7 11 12 14 17 21 38 38 40 43 46 47 47 47 50 50 50 51 52
Psychedelic Frog Dandelion Fish Drippy Brother Chairs Messages to Heaven Gato en sueño Bee and Flower Noah Shattered Feeding Frenzy Styrofoam Balls Hooked Amusement Cactus Sunset Edinburgh Around Chicago Cracked Skate
I Speak for the Trees
04
Sara Kay
Nature Waves come around; winter breaks the heat; storms make the sound; summer takes the lead. Cold droplets fall to the ground; come and melt on my face. I listen; there is no sound; they fall with such grace. The summer’s heat, the shining sun, the sand on my feet, to the sea I run. Nature is beautiful; nature is wonderful. Cynthia Soto
05
Psychedelic Frog
06
Hope
Kevin McGinty
Pet Shop Iguana
Brittany Abbott
Sara Kay
Dandelion
Alexis Manzur
Eye of the Beholder
08
I'm Always Alone I’m always alone. With people, without people. I feel so empty Inside of a crowd. Why am I invisible? I have to build walls. Why refuse to know? I doubt that they will notice. Can you see me here? No. No you do not. It seems that you never do, and I feel empty.
Siempre solo. Con o sin que alguien. Estoy vacio Con multitudes. Puedo construer muros. No lo hacer ver. ÂżSaben ellos? Creo que son ciegos. ?Pueden verme? No. No puede. Ellos no queiren ver, Estoy vacio. Marjorie Cartwright
Haley Prieto
09
Shhh!
Marla Mattula
Fish
Mermaid
Patty Zaragoza
Taylor Wilcox
11
Drippy Brother
12
Taylor Wilcox
Rain Two parts strongly interwoven A melody that can’t be broken Two headstrong personalities Crashing into harmonies One is quick and one is deep Two that share a passionate beat Together onward they will blow A single steady strong tempo Dynamically they rise and fall Always ending in a draw A song as sweet as a summer’s breath They sound till they have nothing left When the conductor lowers His baton The silence will be good and long Then there will come a true applause Because hidden in that pregnant pause An echo of their love lives on Their beautiful phenomenon And tonight when you go to sleep In your dreams there lives a beat Because somewhere in the skies above Two angels play a song of love What do they call these loves you wonder? One is named Lightning, the other Thunder Madelyn Esquivel
13
Chairs
14
Hickory Dickory Dock
Paper Clip
Christina Smith
Celine Wu
Taylor Wilcox
Art Room Sink
Brianna Garcia
The 23rd sonnet Slow but subtle she whispers in my ear, Her soft hair blows in the night’s cool breeze, Telling me her plans; end is getting near; That memory fades into the present with ease. Chilled but thrilled to please my Mistress, Sheets of crimson coats pure loving intentions, Through sanity’s veins run pure emptiness, And of our sins nothing is mentioned. Her intentions blurred by experience, Nevertheless my fallacy is loyalty, But my heart shows and knows no defiance, We continue on our deadly fantasy. Our love proceeds: blood, loyalty, and lust, And together we are more than enough. Mavis C. Maharaj-Escobedo
16
Messages to Heaven
Brittany Abbott
17
The Ruby Breathing heavily, Charles Mason watched from his library window as a slender figure, dressed in a chocolate brown dress, made her way through the winding path to his door. The fabric clung suggestively to her curves, bringing a burning desire. He could not make out the face under the plum colored hat, but he knew by the light and girlish gait that it was the woman who brought him torment for seven years. Really, Charles! Get a hold of yourself! He chastised himself as he contemplated his transparent reflection in the glass panes. He was just the way unfortunate ladies preferred their men: tall, dark, cold and irresistibly handsome. Only his mouth disfigured his otherwise angelic face. It curved into the delicious shape of an intoxicatingly seductive, yet terrifying, smile. “Master Mason, you have a guest. May I show the fine lady up?” Korey, the Mason family butler of twenty years, peered in with his ancient head. “Yes, yes. Show her up.” Charles waved his hands impatiently, wanting to get the meeting over with. Light footsteps were heard outside the library door and without waiting to be introduced properly, the woman opened the doors and shut them behind her. “Hello, Charlie. My, not many things have changed, have they? You are still an unscrupulous rascal, if the story these gossipy rats tell me are true.” The easy and unassuming way she spoke caught him off guard. The guest’s amber eyes lit up, her shellpink lips pulled up higher in the right
18
corner than in the left as she smiled. Dark, raven ringlets spilled untidily from a now crooked hat over a rosy, heart shaped face. In other words, to Charles she looked very much the same as she did when she had left. Every heartbreakingly beautiful detail was still heartbreakingly perfect. “Hello, Miss Gregory. Please, do take a seat. You are often fond of taking anything that belongs to me anyhow,” Charles spat, not meeting her eyes. She rolled her eyes, and settled herself on a velvet maroon loveseat. “Why don’t you kiss me on the cheek and call me Annie, as you used to?” “Annmarie Isabelle Gregory, I welcome you home.” With a theatrical flourish, he made a deep bow and kissed her hand. The smile died away from Annmarie’s lips but the impish fire in her eyes only grew brighter. She stood up from the seat and pretended to be fascinated by the collection of books on the shelves. “Why did you come home, Annie? After all this time, why come back now? You never replied to any of my letters even after you told me you loved me, too! And I waited for you, for seven years! You haunted my dreams and my days. I’ve had not one day where I haven’t wept for several hours over the last letters you sent. I loved . . . and I love you. And you haven’t done anything but treat me as if I was beneath your notice,” Charles burst out, unable to contain his rage any longer. “Really, Charlie, you think I am that evil? It was you who abandoned me.
You see, I still have the little ruby pendant you gave me when you wanted me to stay. I have never been anything but loyal to you. I love no one but you, Charlie. You made me leave. We were both alone.” Annmarie crept closer to Charlie, wrapping her slender arms around his neck as his muscular arms wrapped around her waist. “Will you stay this time?” “Until you no longer want me.” He drew her closer, and sighed. His thin lips barely brushed her plump ones, exacting a gasp from Annmarie when he pushed her away. She stumbled a few steps back, hurt glowing in her eyes. “Ah, but here we come to a hitch,” Charles smiled ruefully, rubbing his lips with a finger. “I cannot afford to make any more bargains with you.” “Charlie, I only My Eye ask for your heart. Remember that you have already promised me your soul . . . which you have still not given me. And I do not like to be kept waiting.” “Must we? Can’t you just allow me to love you?” “It simply doesn’t work that way, Charlie. I must be paid.” “Annmarie, listen! You must let me.” Annmarie kissed his lips softly, then stepped away as Charles choked for air, blood sputtering from his lips. A thin, ornately jeweled blade protruded from his heart. “I shall receive my payment, Charlie,” she whispered as he fell to the floor. She knelt by his head, stroking
his dark hair from his icy eyes. She wiped the blood from his cold lips and kissed them one last time. “Is Master Mason going to take his tea?” Korey asked as she closed the library doors behind her. “Not today. He’s lost . . . his heart for tea this afternoon.” Annmarie smiled as Korey bowed and showed her out. Once again, a slender figure in a chocolate brown dress walked the winding path in a plum colored hat. But no one watched her light feminine gait from the window of the library; only the fading beats of a dying heart sounded the victory march for the succubus’s triumph. As she neared the gate of the mansion, a brilliant ruby pendant on a threadlike silver chain slipped through her fingers and Jessica Martinez bounced into the ferns.
Ashley Aytes
19
Kiki’s Silver Gaze
20
Chelsea Theriot
Gato en Sueno
Samuel Jaramillo
Cat in the Hat
Emily Barbary
A view on myself They take my body and paint female “This looks nice”
No
They take my body and paint female “This looks nice”
No
They take my mind and paint female “This looks nice” They take my tongue and paint female “This looks nice” They burn my clothes They burn my hair They burn my teeth my eyes “This looks nice” Clear my skin
A refreshing wash my mind
my burns
I take my body and paint my colors I take my mind and paint my colors I take my tongue and paint my colors I create my clothes I create my hair I create my teeth My eyes “I look nice” “But you can’t like those people, because you are one of them” “But you can’t look like those people, because you are not one of them” You have to be who you’re born as You have to live how you’re told, and like what your color is But like who I was, who I am, who I could be I’m born as me I live how I say
Audrey Hankins
22
Emotional Explosion
Leah Howell
23
Rebirth
24
Mind Doodle
Emily Lovo
Chelsea Theriot
25
Potpourri Potpourri of uselessness, what is your purpose? Just sitting there, doing nothing in a bowl. Your colors are very dull. I guess you’re a pretty interesting decoration in the end. I do like the message you send even if you are worthless and serve no purpose. You are a fading trend. Tristan DeLeon
26
Shoe Store
Arlen Guerrero
27
School Buses
28
Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover
Jae Seong Yoon
Elsa Diaz
Board ‘Em
Marcella Pastrano
Underworld Light as day Bright as night Walk alone On this indecisive night Demons call For souls that are kind Torment and pain They hope to find Falling fast In the lake of souls Aimless wondering Is what they know Love is lost Lust is gained Souls devoured By Lucifer’s Rage Rebecca Jenkins
30
Cherubim
Chelsea Theriot
31
Heat I am a desperate man. My love is gone. In my profound sadness, I splurged on myself to no end. By the time I was done, I was completely exhausted and severely disappointed in myself. She was my hot pocket. That saliva-inducing package which I’d came to love. I would love to slip her out of her pocket incasing and reveal her. Hot, steamy, and filled with the reddest of liquids. Unfortunately, hot pockets are no longer a part of my life and I have to settle with soggy Orville Redenbacher. Tyre Wilson
Giraffe Bananas
30
Emily Barbary
31
Doodle
Lauren Tessitore
Skull
34
Hannah Webster
35
Shy Eyes
36
Marla Mattila
Hurricane Sheets of soft hair fall like rain. Electrifying eyes strike like fear into me again. Flooded with emotions: lust, betrayal, and pain. The memories flood in again. I wish it would go away. My confidence, taken by the wind. Strong as a storm, her breath blows me away And she kills me slowly, just like a hurricane. Mavis C. Maharaj-Escobedo
37
Bee and Flower
Giraffe
Taylor Wilcox
Gerald David Smith
Farmhouse
Noah
Hannah Rose
Madison Baber
39
Shattered
40
Broken Glass Broken glass Crunching and crashing down Fire burning, almost reaching the sun’s rays Palpitating, running from the destruction The memories Vague images flood her conscious Her feet, bare She keeps running Abandoning the already abandoned wasteland All that’s left is fire, fire and Broken glass . . . Danylle Hernandez
Hannah Rose
41
Peace Flag
42
Dia de los Muertos
Feeding Frenzy
Brianna Garcia
Ty Moderow
Mara Webster
Okay
Marla Mattila
To:__________ The confession you may never get Your eyes are more honest, holy, and hypnotizing than the North Star This is your beauty and it’s just a piece by far Your smile is more luminous, lovely, and lively than a moonlit shore For this is your beauty so bright no one can ignore Your voice is more pleasant, praiseworthy, and peaceful than a bird song in the spring air For this is your beauty that angels from heaven can never compare Your touch is more rewarding, refreshing, and rejuvenating than the summer rain For this is your beauty that God Himself cannot explain Your body is more tantalizing, tight, and tempestuous than if the goddess Aphrodite was calling my name For this is your beauty that can ignite a man’s flame Your laughter is more jolly, joyous, and just than a celebra tion for a newlywed For this is your beauty that makes me smile then turns me red Your kindness is more blissful, bright, and bountiful than an apple tree in harvest season For this is your beauty that the world receives for no reason Dear Friend These words are for you So sacred So true For this is your beauty written with love and compassion So hard to define yet harder to imagine Steven Dowdle
44
Pulling Strings
Samantha Ayala
45
Styrofoam Balls
46
Hooked
Amusement
Aracely Rodriguez
Mitchel Howard
Jordan Fabilenia
Cactus
Taylor Wilcox
Landscapes and Gas Chambers Empty bodies march, no, goose step outside, Leading us into this place, Where we have nowhere and nothing to hide.
Footsteps pad on, cramming us in, Shivering bodies fill this room, A place we have never been.
Toxins leaking through the taps, Coughing, seizing, and screaming, We can feel our hearts collapse.
A feeble claw at a window, Hoping to see a way, an escape, Only to see a final glimpse, of the day . . .
How beautiful is the world outside of here . . .
Soft winds blow, taking our breath away, As leaves fall onto the glistening snow, On a cold winter’s day.
Ice crystals dance upon the air; Branches heavy with winter’s mist; Icicles drape down where the seasons kissed.
Small and quaint, the rabbit scampers through, Fur as white as the clouds in the sky, An image of life where things only die.
How beautiful is the world outside of here . . . Mavis C. Maharaj-Escobedo
Womb
48
Hannah Webster
49
Sunset
Edinburgh
Danylle Hernandez
Patrick Gibbens
Cracked
Around Chicago
Lauren Tessitore
Paige Reeves
51
Skate
52
Rye Beres
Beach
Leah Howell
Color
Leah Howell
53
Asymmetrical Warfare
S
itting, waiting, counting stars, pointing my thin little fingers at them, studying the horizon like a crystal ball, choking down excitement when they shoot, digging my toes through my bootsoles when the enemy line feels a little tense and shoots as well. I guess they are watching the stars as I am, considering how syncopated their rounds zip through the foliage. After all, imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Only difference is that stars don’t curdle your blood when they pass overhead. Clouds of smoke obscure most of the night sky above, a reminder to watch your back for Charlie, not at all unlike like Janet Leigh’s shower curtain. Great movie, by the way, Psycho; used to sneak through the rear screen door, pop under my grandmother’s Mountain Laurels and through the fence to go watch the twelve o’clock showings down at Fatty’s Nickelodeon. My mother thought Hitchcock was a barbarian. “How could anyone enjoy such depravity?” she would say. “Whatever happened to wholesomeness?” I would protest, “He was a no-goodmomma’s-boy anyway and at least he bothered to show himself to me every once in a while.” See, I used to keep a Hill’s Bros. coffee can under my bed, and every time I saw the “Master of Suspenders” pop in on one of his reels, I would mark it down on the back of a piece of cardstock from the garage and drop it inside. When I left for Boot, I remembered the can, looked inside and found three crudely scrawled pieces of paper. I couldn’t read a single one of ‘em! Funny how your childhood adventures seem so important, so grand, so great, as if you were the only Sherpa on Everest, or the noblest of all pirates, Errol Flynn,
56
“Cap’n Blood” on the seventh sea. Only when you get older do you realize how non-unique a grain of sand really is, or how temporary a snowflake is in the hand of God. Only when you make landfall with your fellow grunts do you realize how easily blood runs out of each of them. As for Hitchcock, McCarthy tried to name him as an “outright socialist.” More of a sleeper cell in my opinion. His movies burst onto the scene in the post-war period, but it seems that admiration for them skipped a generation. As for wholesomeness, it was my father’s greatest attribute. Or was it homelessness? I honestly can’t remember. Never saw the man. But my mother, being the perfect scale of morals as she was, held him up as high in her mind as she kept Hitchcock low. “I was born on July 17, 1946, in a small town just south of—Jesus Christ, Bowman, did you really write this?” cried out Pearson, not so eloquently. The words, meant to be hushed, came out as more of a prosecution than a question. “I just thought that one day someone would want to hear my side of ‘Nam,” answered the Defense. A command rang back to “stow it”, and it was stowed away. Another, barked in short simple hand gestures, signaled us all to stop. Someone or something was up ahead. Before Tet, the War Department reported the number one cause of death for our troops as being “combat related”. An antiquated statement that some file-boy pulled out of a textbook, General Westmoreland rubber stamped, and Cronkite reported back to Americans everywhere as the “Weekly Update.”
In truth, the brass didn’t really know how, where, or when we were under attack until well after. A byproduct of what armchair generals call, “asymmetrical warfare”. As for the why, we wondered that every day. After Operation Ranch-hand, it seemed that even the foliage, and the thin silt of herbicide that covered them, could strike out at any moment, killing us even as we slept in our beds stateside. That is why Cpl. Russell ordered the unit to stop. He distrusted the jungle just as much as anyone else. “Meyers, what did you say they called this stuff?” “Well sir, I believe that those are called trees,” I replied. The laughter I expected was replaced mid-delivery with a cold, hard glare from my NCO. “Do you think this is funny? Huh?” With the barrel of his rifle, he motioned to the sticky substance on the leaves, and with his mouth in tow, he repeated his question. “Khâm is sprayed up and down like the siding of Johnson’s ranch house, yet we aren’t told a single thing about it.” We all gave out an uneasy chuckle. It was, like most things, an ominous conclusion, but also like most things, uninformed. The “chemical” was probably ash. The area didn’t need much chemical defoliation at the time because late president Diem had use it as a hunting lodge, and had conveniently placed a usable runway only three hundred meters away from where we were standing. A voice from my left brought us back. “Hey Bowman, you should put this in your book, it would probably get much better reviews!” Perdue was pointing to the centerfold in his hand.
The gesture was lost on Bowman. “5 klicks to the southeast of us lies a tiny hamlet,” broke in Russell, “that is where the Montagnard regrouped after the scary stuff kicked up.” “That is also the precise location command had relayed us to reinforce. MACV expects resistance to be heaviest in the north and west. I honestly think we are well in the clear. Eat some K, get some hay, and be ready to move out in the morning.” That night, I noticed that the radioman was furiously signaling in Morse that our location was secure. He seemed to think that this was necessary considering how our lieutenant had sent us out earlier that morning. As unconventional as it sounds, and even more so then, we had been ordered to reunify the company only when at our objective. Some higher-ups were worried that a large visible reinforcement would trigger a larger attack at our weakened west flank, so that is why we all had to slog in almost one by one. By morning anything less than semaphore would have been impossible. During the night, the trees grew taller, the land more hellish, and the fog thicker. In short, we didn’t recognize where we were anymore than a line of topography on a map. Before we could eat, before we could joke, before we could even use the latrine, the static on our radios burst out that PAVN was everywhere. Bullets whizzed by, some thirty meters downwind. Someone else was in the jungle with us. “They aren’t American,” whispered Bowman. “But they aren’t shooting at us either.” The radio had long faded to static, an occurrence only the radio operator, PFC Feely, had seemed to notice. “That is definitely Vietnamese they are shouting,” Feely’s voice whispered across the jungle floor.
57
It was true. That added one more solid fact to the pile: unidentified combatants were engaged less than ninety feet away; they seemed overwhelmed; and they were not fighting our own forces. Suddenly, a low guttural growl ripped through the brush, followed by a blood-curdling scream. “What the hell?” rang out Russell. “Perdue, Meyers, take the left flank, Bowman, Pearson and I will take the right. Feely, you are on point. Feely?” The handset was abandoned. Feely was five feet away, taking a look into the clearing, a firm resolve etched on his face. “Could it have been a tiger?” asked Pearson. “Maybe,” I answered, “either way, we are just as vulnerable as they were, so keep your gun fire ready and your eyes ahead.” In a flash, Feely was gone. Pulled into the brush by his arm, we could hear him screaming as he was dragged into the forest. Bowman was gone too, charging like a bull into the thicket after him. “Aww hell!” cried Russell. “Quick, and MOVE OUT!” We chased him for over a mile, always running, never less than five meters from the commotion. Sometimes, we could hear voices from above, or at our sides, unfamiliar voices, whispers, cries. At other times, sharp blasts of light would blind us, and when we recovered, we were maybe thirty feet forward, all in fewer than one second. I even checked my watch only to discover that it had stopped. I thought it must have been a bramble or a rock I had scraped it on as we fled. Eventually we burst into a clearing. It didn’t really help the situation much. “Bowman, where the hell is Feely?” asked Russell.
58
With an eerie hesitation Bowman said, “I don’t know, he’s just gone.” We realized why as soon as the words left his mouth. There was no blood, no gore, not even footprints. His tracks seemed to just lift off into nothing. And there was equally nothing suggesting that he was being pulled. About four feet away, “Buck” Pearson was poking his nose into a thin layer of ash on a tree limb when some white powder shook onto the ground. After about four seconds, he fell to the ground. Dead. His face was swollen like a helium balloon at a party. Bowman dropped on top of him and tried to resuscitate him. I simply pushed it out of my mind and kept scanning for one thing that had yet to be found. “No Feely.” “God! This is some crazy . . .” Perdue’s voice faded away as his jaw dropped and his gaze rose to the sky.
* * *
“Now, before I go on, every time I tell this story, every single time, some little punk calls me a friggin’ liar. Understood?” The man across the table answered back with a slight, slow nod. “All right,” he said. “Where was I at this point?” The man pointed to a single, highlighted line on the printed statement before me. “Oh, so Bowman had just burst into the clearing.” * * * “What the hell is that?” I don’t quite remember who said those words; only that it was meek, barely coming out at all. It was an
unnecessary statement as well. Above the tree line, about ten feet up, was a single, spinning disc. It was pulsating, about twenty-five feet in diameter. We must have just stood there staring at it, crapping our pants for at least . . . I remember an ear splitting shriek emerging from the thing, yet no Godforsaken birds or anything else seemed to respond. It was meant for us. That was the moment I first noticed my ears were bleeding. In my mind, I managed to discern weird sounds, almost voices screaming at me, yelling, fluctuating in pitch and volume. There was nothing I could do but stand and watch as one by one my comrades were pulled down by the same overwhelming force. Bowman was the only one unaffected. He seemed to be muttering something at the ship, oblivious to all else. CPL Russell finally lost his cool and just started shooting up at it, though he didn’t have the strength to go full auto, just a “pop pop,” “pop pop.” After what seemed like an hour, the sound stopped, quickly replaced by a deafening silence. Rogue I remember the ship, must have been one . . . spinning faster and faster. In less than a second, Bowman was gone, and everyone else in my unit with him. There were no bodies left. * * * The man across the table smiled, his teeth glinting in the glow of the electric light. I couldn’t really see his eyes; they seemed like blank white orbs. And I couldn’t really hear what he said next because I was still almost com-
pletely deaf. He seemed to mumble in a language somewhat like ancient Sumerian. “Am I okay to go now?” I shouted. The man in the black suit smiled once again, and after a brief, agonizing pause, nodded his head, “Yes.” I was out of the room. When I looked back through the door window I saw the man packing up the papers in front of him into a neat pile. He pulled from his briefcase a packet of an equal size, containing the Casualty Reports for PFCs Bowman, Feely, Perdue, Pearson and Meyers. There was also another one for Corporal Thaddeus Russell, African American, candidate for Congressional Medal of Honor, Posthumous. With one deft move, he slid them all into a single manila envelope, and called for a file-boy to come retrieve it. I saw on the cover, written in large, bold letters, were the Marshall Garcia words, “Kham Duc: After Action Report for United States Army 5th Special Forces Group; Company B.” Then below that: Casualties: Six Cause: Combat Related Injuries Dominic Dorsa
59
Editorial Policy Bullseye has showcased MacArthur High School’s finest original student writing and artwork in a professionally produced magazine since 1984. Submissions for publications in the magazine are open to the entire student body. Each student may submit up to five poetry or prose and five pieces of art or photography. Text and art entries to be published in the magazine are selected through a threeround anonymous judging process by the Bullseye staff and advisor.
Copyright & Disclaimer
Copyright 2013-2014 by Bullseye, a publication of Douglas MacArthur High School. After publication, all rights revert to the author/artist. These views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Bullseye staff or of Douglas MacArthur High School.
Acknowledgements
Front Cover Design and Accent Art: Hannah Webster; Additional Art: Taylor Wilcox Production and Layout Editor: Meredith Collier Art Editor: Dante Dispaquale Editorial Board: Patrick Gibbens, Tyre Wilson, Dominic Dorsa, Mitchel Howard
Special Thanks Principal Peter Martinez Mr. Whitus and Mr. O’Bryant (Open Mic Night) Ms. Barajas, Mrs. White, Mr. Ricketts (Art teachers) MacArthur English Department Ms. Cardoza (Production) Open Mic performers
Colophon
This issue of Bullseye is available online only. Body text is in the font Book Antiqua, and the display font used is called Okay. All layouts, typesetting, and art design were completed on an iMac computer using Adobe Photo Shop CS6 and Adobe InDesign CS6.
Index Abbott, Brittany 7, 17 Ayala, Samantha 45 Aytes, Ashley 18 Baber, Madison 39 Barbary, Emily 21, 32 Beres, Rye 52 Cartwright, Majorie 9 DeLeon, Tristan 26 Diaz, Elsa 28 Dorsa, Dominic 54-59 Dowdle, Steven 44 Esquivel, Madelyn 13 Fabilenia, Jordan 46 Garcia, Brianna 15, 43 Garcia, Marshall 57 Gibbens, Patrick 50 Guerrero, Arlen 27 Hernandez, Danylle 41, 50 Hankins, Audrey 22 Howard, Mitchell 47 Howell, Leah 23, 52, 53 Jaramillo, Samuel 21 Jenkins, Rebecca 30 Kay, Sara 4, 6 Lovo, Emily 25 Maharaj-Escobedo, Mavis C. 16, 37, 48 Martinez, Jessica 19 Manzur, Alexis 7 Mattila, Marla 10, 36, 43 McGinty, Kevin 7 Moderow, Ty 43
Pastrano, Marcella 29 Prieto, Haley 8 Reeves, Paige 51 Rodriguez, Aracely 47 Rose, Hannah 38, 40 Smith, Christina 15 Smith, David Gerald 38 Soto, Cynthia 5 Tessitore, Lauren 34, 50 Theriot, Chelsea 20, 24, 31 Webster, Hannah 35, 49 Webster, Mara 42 Wilcox, Taylor 11, 12, 14, 38, 47 Wilson, Tyre 32 Wu, Celine 15 Yoon, Jae-Seong 29 Zaragoza, Patty 10
Bullseye 2013