Definitions, Catharsis 2019-20

Definitions def·i·ni·tions /def-uh-nish-uh n/

Catharsis Literary and Arts Magazine

Volume 11

Coral Gables Senior High School 2019-2020

Letter from the Editor I’ll tell you one thing: I certainly didn’t expect the year to end like that.

Taking on this eleventh volume had always been a bit of an unknown – about what you can expect, succeeding a vision which has endured for a decade – but thinking back even two months ago seems like accessing some sort of alternate reality, or a dulled SENSE. I find myself constantly surprised at the relative ease with which we’ve accepted that living in quarantine is our new normal, and even more so at all those silver linings we so eagerly seek out.

Still, I suppose that making the best of change has always been something we’re good at (even in the Definitely-Not-A-Deadly-Virus sort of smaller scale). For as long as I’ve been a part of this magazine, thinking about Catharsis has always felt a bit like an exercise in changing. It is a malleable place, shifting its many colors until what came before becomes a stage in our never-ending transformation. I’ve come to understand that our book is really a reflection of the people who are in it – a mirror into their hopes, fears, abundant angst, and occasional

snark. Always at the mercy of the elusive, shape-shifting cryptid known as the teenager, Catharsis changes by the editor, by the staff member, and sometimes by the week. What comes out of this constant EVOLUTION is a theme. This year, and in these trying times that have redefined everything we thought we knew, Catharsis is an homage to the process.

To me, this classroom exists in a state of identity MORATORIUM. We consider, stumble, make choices we regret, discover things we love, and grow stronger for it. I am certainly not the same person who almost didn’t apply for fear that my writing wouldn’t be good enough. Every year, we meet new people and become new people, or reinforce those versions of ourselves we already liked; and among all those versions and drafts and edits of our experiences, we achieved GENERATIVITY. That is what I think of when I think Catharsis. It is the process, and it is also the irony: the idea that the things which we create to endure for posterity become a step in the journey to decipher our DEFINITIONS.

Ana Rodriguez

CATHARSIS Volume 11 2020

DEFINITIONS “I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.�

Virginia Woolf

Coral Gables Senior High School 450 Bird Rd. Coral Gables, FL 33146 Phone: (305) 443-4871 Adviser: Michelle Zaldivar E-mail: mzaldivar@dadeschools.net

All content featured in Catharsis magazine is original work of the students, faculty, and alumni. The views and opinions expressed in the published pieces do not necessarily reflect those of the Catharsis staff or Coral Gables Senior High School.

Cover and section art by Allyson Turino. Design by Adrianna Torres and Nidia Volmar.

Table of Contents SENSE Silhouettes(A.T) Womanhood (V.B) I’m Sorry, but I Forgot the Title(A.Z) A Trip Down the Rabbithole(V.B)

.P.3. .P.5. . NF . 7 . .P.9.

Andrea Gonzalez Isabella Rodriguez Allyson Turino Laila Moussa

EVOLUTION The Hydrofact(E.R) Banana Pudding(V.B) Ode to the Bad Date(A.T) Le Nuit de L’Automme (K.G)

. P . 13 . . P . 15 . . P . 17 . . P . 19 .

Penny Richards Sophia Campos Katerina Valdes Angie Villalobos

MORATORIUM Infestation (A.T) The Puppeteer(K.G) Compartmentalizing with Packing Peanuts(C.G) The Monster Under the Bed(K.G) Time After Time(O.R)

. F . 23 . Tatiana Batista . P . 25 . Nayelis Cardenas . P . 27 . Chloe Grant

. P . 29 . Sophia Martinez . NF . 31. Tatiana Batista

GENERATIVITY One Moment More(K.G) Under the Pink Willow Tree(E.R) Bigger than Breadsticks (V.B) Napoleon Bonaparte: the man, the myth, the legend(A.Z) Observance (K.G)

. P . 35 . . F . 37 . . NF . 39 . . NF . 41 .

Ariatna Gaudin Sophia Campos Daniel Toll Daniella Berrospi

. F . 43 . Lucas Warfman

Sense sense /sens/

noun. An intuitive awareness that something is the case.

The perception of being present.

Silhouettes

by Andrea Gonzalez, ’20

For the many quiet silhouettes, Of moon night skies, Mind began to burn like cigarettes; Left with silent recognitions Of the things had and left unaware Which ran with a lack of ambitions, From the gasps of puffed air That had strangled me still.

So I began biting lip, With the shadowed remnants Of a starlit room, There began the silhouettes to appear The festering lights that paraded Flooded this numbed out corpse Sat etherized upon a desk chair— I’d rather catch a breath and later be suffocated So let us begin our joyous course I’ve seen frail, back broken women, And she was not born to be one among them, This mother bright yet with her faults, Still breathing and carried wisely on her own Her working hands gentle and harsh hold mine when in doubt of myself, But i have left for granted What privilege that is.

The hugs i’ve received and held— Although given tiredly— give way to tippytoed snapshots of time, a camera flash captured momentarily the cautious telegram of a daytime the short times I can see my father are to many a lifetimes wait.

To the many dark figures prompt the urge to behold my life to newfound friends when they quiver and marble. ones who’ve stuck by my triggers by my melts, breaks and meters, i’ve found it the flatter that it is to be lucky to matter, in abundance to someone— and yet in multitude! when that is a privilege many do not hold.

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I hold this snapshot of the silhouette Of persons who’ve provided nothing but an opportunity palette, from the aeroplane across a sea reminding me of the privilege given; the nutrients, the comfort, the safety, my hands are not gripping molotov or bleeding for a country where I’ve come from and have fallen off faded the people from my memory.

Unfiltered Optics,

thus this starlit room encases me, reminds me of the gloom of the screaming banshees, it engulfs me in the reality. it pertains to my happiness that I see the festering lights.

My breathing mother and father, My quivering friends, and the immigrant morality to revive a numbed corpse with gratefulness and a prosper. C

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Womanhood

by Isabella Rodriguez, ‘21

So, you’ve been called a bitch.

Congratulations, you’re officially a woman.

Welcome to the world of being called baby, sweetheart and darlin’ by men twice your age and being touched and squeezed in places you don’t want to be touched and squeezed.

Welcome to the world of being called a prude for wearing a knee-length skirt, but being called a hoe for wearing a thong; of not being able to wear ripped jeans or shorts for fear boys and childish men would be distracted by your knees.

Welcome to the world of the pink tax, because feminine hygiene is considered a luxury to our government; where your body is debated in Congress because god forbid a woman chooses not to keep the fetus.

Welcome to the world of being asked “Is it that time of the month?” of being told “you’re too emotional” and “that tone doesn’t suit a lady”.

Welcome to the world, of having to carry a knife or pepper spray or both when walking alone, of having to constantly watch your drink for fear you might be roofied and raped behind a dumpster.

Congratulations, you’re officially a woman.

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You wield the power of life and death and you are so strong.

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Congratulations, you’re officially a woman.

Silouhette

Welcome to the sisterhood, a place full of women who will stand behind you hand in hand cheering you on and fighting for you.

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I’m Sorry, But I Forgot the Title

by Allyson Turino, ‘20

I’m sorry, but I forgot the title.

Nothing saddens the soul more than a good idea forgotten.

Is it inspiration that has failed me so? It is not for want of words that the screen glares back in an angry, blank white. I had been carefully arranging the pretty patterns of letters onscreen before I had starkly realized that I had forgotten what I was getting at. For what good are words if there are no true meaning to them? Are they not then an assortment of letters with no real meaning? Attempting to write a decent story, I question if I am literate.

My mind prints out what might be colorful, what might be coherent, but all that appears onscreen is akin to the meaningless dribble of letters on a printer’s test page.

What was it that had inspired me to write in the first place? For the life of me I can no longer remember. The typing of keys trickles into my mind with an erratic melody that mimics music but is incomparable to the real thing. At this point, I’m not sure if the record is broken or if I’m the one resetting the needle as I emptily repeat the last coherent thought my feeble mind scrounged up before “creativity” failed me in the hopes of igniting some sort of whisper of a flame.

Beautiful blazes of crystalizing color crinkle to the sound of fairy dust in my mind as I try to create some semblance of a fantasy world, but the only fantasy I am caught up in is the fantasy of writing something good.

Frustration growing, I type frantically, grabbing at the wisps of the idea that had inspired the story, its ghost tormenting me with the memory of once having remembered. The words rush out in a brash burning blaze, my accordion of a

heart squeezing out harsh notes unti life seems to pump back into my prose before it gives out and I give up.

Smooth, silken sonnets dancing like fire across my smoldering tongue, I read and reread work of others I admire aloud, but then I am so wrapped up in their creations I have quite forgotten that I had meant to write at all. In the quest for creation I have distracted myself.

Inspiration forgotten is a spark extinguished at the touch. If words were the candle, and the plot was the wick, then my memory is the gust of wind that blows out the light. I needed that light to see by, damn it. The wind, my feeble memory, attacks in moments I least expect. In hopes of quieting my vision, this missionary’s adversary seeks to flush anything that desperately arises from the deep well of my imagination. Oh, crude memory, why must you leave me like this?

My original plans for poetic prose forgotten eventually I reckon another concept will come to mind. Occasionally, I will have the sense to write it down.

And once I get to writing, it feels beautiful. Like a waking memory, or perhaps a lucid dream, reality seems to blur into a spinning vortex of color, ambiance and atmosphere at the back of one’s mind.

I become entrenched in a world of my own until nothing else matters but me, my mind, and the crisp crinkle of the page.

Until I am crudely interrupted as those pesky responsibilities of life draw my attention elsewhere. And when I finally return, the train of thought is gone as I wait at the train station of my own mind, absently wondering if there ever really was a train at all. C

Forgetting the Flowers, Amanda Zamora, ’20, Digital Art

A Trip Down the Rabbit Hole

by Laila Moussa, ‘21

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butterflies fluttered their paper-thin wings through delicate winds. she ran after them, eventually taking flight as her small companions did. the breeze coated her cheeks in a cool layer, yet an unfamiliar warmth spread rouge from her nose to her toes. colors swam around the air, their acid glow an encouragement to soar higher, so she glided further into the atmosphere, and finally caught the sun’s treasured rays in her palms. they had been such a tease, with every flirty gleam they sent, when she stood on earth, feet in dirt. a lick of her dried lips, and she opened her mouth to shove her prize deep into the dark cavern. however, instead of an ambrosia-like juice,

Crazies, Virginia Benedetti, ‘20, Digital Art

she spat out a gushing liquid, tears forming at the overwhelming taste of iron. pained, her ability to mimic the butterflies ceased, body numb in a fall back down to the ground.

shaky hands pulled at the tall strands of grass that surrounded her, evil they were, with their grotesque deformities, incoherent groans. glass shard adorned her now bruised face as if she was an ornament to be hung on some meat rack, owned by the devil himself. in a daze, her eyes fell upon the realities she had misconstrued. the rays she had attempted to consume was a lightbulb. shattered remains pricked her bloody tongue until she felt the sensation no more. and those lovely hues were in fact artificial, fabricated by the police car, which housed a freakishly thin man who flashed a serpent smile. still under an influence too heavy to appeal her reflection in a piece of glass, blurry but clear to her delusions, caused her to hurl pathetically over herself, then succumb to sleep. a soiled corpse hidden beneath unassuming greenery, her traces would be found years later. C

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Evolution

ev· o· lu· tion /ev-uh-loo-shuhn/

noun. A transformation.

The process of change from indefiniteness to complexity.

The Hydrofact

by Penny Richards, ’21

I detest the gentle sksksk Pouring from your gloss smeared, Mobile lips Carmax glinting in the harsh summer light.

For I wish you, And the internet, And my gullibly idiotic peers, Would just stop.

Scrunch up your insecurities, Throw vintage hoodies over your dreams, Allowing you to sink deep, And drown in the nothingness.

Reflect on your actions, For a Hydroflask Does not make a woman, Or a man, It just makes them: Hydrated. C

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Scrunchie, Esther Rubio, ’21, Digital Art

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Banana Pudding

by Sophia Campos, ‘20

my eyes fluttered open the coldness of the room ripped through me, and the crisp air wafted through the air vent sharply

I inhaled the cool vapor, my lungs expanding and freezing in dead ice, and although I was in my bed I felt estranged with every blink it got colder, and I got farther, my body anchored me to the floor and every step i took from my bed took longer and longer.

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the swirls in my mind exploded and gallons of colored syrup captured my brain, like a fish once submerged now flopping in its net.

I knew what I wanted yet, my own ideas, my own inventions, I let them weigh me down, I let them call the shots. the icebergs under my feet began to melt, and the paints in my spongy brain oozed out, mixed together, creating the pitch black hole I found myself falling through as I approached the kitchen, I opened the fridge, accepted my fate, I knew I would forever be trapped in my mind, in the cold, colorless expanse inside my skull. but at least nobody ate my banana pudding. C

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Ode to the Bad Date

by Katerina Valdes, ’21

Waiting patiently by the window, my head begins to spin.

I begin to perspire, until your car pulls in Toyota Corolla 99, my chariot for the night.

Not a knock but a honk.

You are already a delight.

“Sup shawty”, my greeting.

Axe fills my nose.

You take out your vape.

It crackles and glows

You turn on the stereo.

Bobby Shmurda plays.

You take a fat rip.

I can barely see through the haze.

The car finally stops.

You lean in for a kiss My vision wanders, Applebee’s...

I shaved for this? C

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Le Nuit de L’Automne

by Angie Villalobos, ‘20

He stands,

bathed in autumn’s wardrobe,

his trench coat a field of red leaves.

He paces.

Leaves crunch in his wake.

Autumn dangles in his oversized sleeves, Seeps into his jean pockets.

His muffler mimics the hue of a lover’s blush.

Its folding embraces his chilled neck.

With a startle,

his eyes twinkle

shades of bark and twig.

Like autumn’s beauty,

his presence promises change.

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A daydream, a vision.

He approaches.

The festival’s a center piece with stars as its backdrop.

Fireworks hush our greetings to whispers, painting the night sky.

Swirling and mixing a palette of acrylic.

We stare, awed,

inches between us lessening.

Chilled fingers intertwine and scare away the cold.

Our gazes are pulled towards

bursting fireworks as we step closer and closer. C

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Moratorium

mor· a· to· ri· um /mawr-uh-tawr-ee-uh/

noun – psychology. The active search of alternatives to current circumstances. Exploration of what lies beyond and one’s place in it.

Infestation

by Tatiana Batista, ’21

Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, there’s something growing within my womb. An infestation, a common disease. A parasite wriggling itself around and around, stealing from me, making my rib its own and pinching its claws deep into my membrane. She stirs, she whispers, she spits and dribbles. She gags and occasionally screams, but even in her apparent torture and isolation, I am the lonesome victim.

It started like most: a fateful night of wonder and curiosity. A curse being birthed at the result of a crippling, naïve temper, a burning fire in an unstoppable crescendo as I gave into my free will. To be then topped off with a feeling of emptiness and pain. It wasn’t till I got home, that the leaking began. A pinkish red dribbling down my sides that drooled and pooled onto the floor. It was strange in how it steamed like it had been boiling, like it had emerged from the fiery pits of hell. Then came the cramping, which felt like my insides were being squeezed by the will of a god. I couldn’t walk those first three days. I felt sick, like something inside me was brewing, and that whatever was there wasn’t meant to be there. The pure agony I endured couldn’t be brought down, no matter how many medicines I took nor teas I drank.

Every morning I feel a certain nausea and find it too hard to eat. I try to cook the meals I know I’d like but I always end up heaving over the toilet, letting the bile spill out of me and into the depths, letting every bit of sanity throw itself out of my gut. Then I’ll try and get up, find whatever strength is left in my legs and drag myself to find a will, a reason to get off the floor, a reason to not let my head rest on the bacteria covered seat, and let my eyes close till I reach eternal slumber, never waking up and taking her with me. Sometimes I’ll wake up in a pool of my own sweat with a fever raging through me. Then I remember what lives inside me, then I remember how putrid life can be.

It worsens at night, when I feel her moving. It’s like a slimy mass twisting across my insides, and as I yearn for peace and solitude, the sloshing and squishing keep my eyes open. The constant reminder that she is always awake, always plotting, always whispering, haunts me to my core. The harder I close my eyes the more I hear her, and I’m tempted to drink away.

To poison myself and to fight her fire but who knows how it’d affect her. Who knows what devilish powers she holds?

And if I try to poison her how much of me shall I lose before I struck out at least one

nail on her body? How much will I lose of I have attempted to get rid of her. myself just to lose her? Banished child of I’ve taken pills hoping she’d stop growEve, I can only hope that my tears evapoing. That she’d peacefully pass through, rate towards the heavens. That in my valley but all it does is make the cramps more of fears may she mourn her own wrongdointense. I’ve become fond of objects that ing. have prodded and stuck against her side.

As the days progress, she makes my Objects that scrape against my insides vision hazy and the faces around me begin hoping to clamp a piece of her skin and to hold no features. I plead and can’t see. drag her out,. But she’s unrelenting and It feels as though she has spread throughthe blessed fruit of the womb spews out out my body, attaching herself to anything more poison than ever before leaving me she can. Tugging on my lungs till I feel as baptized in waters meant to burn. Plungthough I can pass out. Straining my eyes ing me into a purgatory exile. till my vision is blurry and tearing up my I pray that there may be a solution muscles till I lack the strength to move. I still wandering free. For I am only rotten find claw marks on my back, welts on my inside and am decaying faster than ever. stomach. There are bruises on my thighs, The shackles have been placed inside my hickeys on my neck. I am nothing but her body and my time is almost up. My body dummy, her toy and her home. I am a shell, cannot sustain itself any longer. I simply a living carcass for her to fester in. It’s clear hope that I can end her reign of terror, for she has my fate set in stone, or rather set in if she disappears I may finally find peace my intestines. and forgiveness. So, for my own sake, may She’s been growing, too unfortunately. I things go well in my journey towards the have felt my stomach begin to stretch and end if no alternative ever arrives. May the marks on my side grow in numbers like her body decay and rot just like mine has. itchy engravings that never seem to subside.

May her devilish nature recoil at the birth It’s only a matter of time till she bursts out of dawn. O clement, O loving, O sweet like a comet destined to destroy till she rewretched mother. Amen. C leases her fiery hell and takes me with her.

Till my organs come dripping down out of me, rotten, decaying and boiling in the heat as she turns to a savage and takes on a new journey of infestation and plague.

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The Puppeteer

by Nayelis Cardenas, ‘20

Center stage alone and shivering is my blackened box. Scratched, Opened by weathered hands, He’s done this before.

He sewed strings in my body, And still they slice my skin, remorseless.

Even if my puppeteer is gone, I can feel the ghost of his hands A thousand threads piercing through my lips Blocking my airway, Drowning my voice.

Daybreak and nightfall There’s the drag of his hands And his memory reverberates again Then there it is: That sliver of dread cascading down my back With every pluck, There is no result And so I give up.

I’m like a marionette in motion, Slowly being pushed and pulled to his whims The show comes to its close As all horrible things must And he cleans up the stage nice and neat As though nothing had once begun As he puts me in my box again, My strings all nice and neat Back into his corner then Under dust and coats and musk. C

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Compartmentalizing with Packing Peanuts

by Chloe Grant, ‘21

We are a special kind of dumb, I think.

In itself it is a psychedelic swirl of bubblegum and packing peanuts.

The bubblegum is stuck in my hair and the packing peanuts are suffocating.

Mind you, I don’t want to be shipped anywhere all sticky, but not enough butter from real peanuts can get you out of my hair.

While you’re tangled with my brain stem, any song I hear sounds like renaissance paintings.

Oil spills of vibrance drown me as the sea does fish who yearn for land.

Sometimes when I see beauty so finite, I cry knowing I can never trace contour lines quite right enough to capture it.

But this ground I stand on is wetbut not from my tears, no.

Instead, the pores of my feet soak in the earth as a sponge does to breakfast dishes.

And if I could toss you a lifesaver, I would, but cheerios are far too small and far too much digested to be of any use.

27

Myself, I find useless at times.

If I did see you floating in the bay, I’d rather throw myself in.

We’d capsize together, you see.

And when we’re dry and conscious, I’ll pray I never forget the waves crashing down on us, two finless beasts in a basin of salt and cold.

Despite the saltiness of your tongue, and the raisins that replaced your fingertips hours ago, I will hold youfor the shivers are too much extra weight to bear alone when I cannot swim.

But I won’t hold you, so I drown, floating higher the greater the depths I reach.

My skin falls off for it serves no purpose living amongst the clouds, but as I come down to reality, I am submerged once again, in a kitchen sink I shouldn’t be able to fit in.

And so, I wash my cereal dish, scrape the pink from my scalp, rcia, ‘20, Digita and sweep the packing peanuts under my nails lA n Ga a i rt t ris for later use. C h C a, Se

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The Monster Under The Bed

by Sophia Martinez ‘20

His skin is devilishly shiny, No sunken marks on his face.

Those pointy dirt-looking, untidy Locks up his head make My heart race...

Of panic.

My bones ache From my lack of movement For, in this dark place, If I were to crack at any moment, If I were to snap the slightest murmur He’d know and stop. Chase Me, catch and murder.

Months I’ve spent hiding under a home with anything but comfort.

Sleepless days I pass with wonder If the next day I will still remain With only glimpses of his shadow, encumbered Not by his death grin and insane Screech piercing through my soul, My ears, my brain, my minutes then numbered.

I’d rather live in the Northern Pole Than be eaten alive by a child.

No truer truth there is, I mumbled, That there is nothing worse than this child. C

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Monster, Katya Gutierrez, ‘20, Digital Art

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Time After Time

by Tatiana Batista, ‘21

I once heard the line “time is an illusion that helps things make sense, so we are always living in the present tense.” And, although sung in a soothing voice, I cannot help but think about how scary time is.

Time is our own creation- birthed to help life be more organized. Time is the passing of time. Time is the organization of passing days, but most importantly time is one big rat. Time is constant -always appearing throughout the strings of our history. It brings a sickness that we can’t ever get rid of, an underlying uncertainty as to when our fate will arrive, a fever of fear to see our loved ones disappear, a sickening cough realizing we only have one life to live. It crawls within every crevice of our conversations. But for time there is no pest control. It never stops moving. It will never leave the concept of life. It forever remains an untouched being immune to evolution. So, while babies are born by the millions across our tiny world and others face the lottery of death, I will continue breathing until my unavoidable demise.

And I hate time. It drives me away from memories and places. It creates ends and beginnings. Destinies and fates. I hate time because I have to watch myself grow older, I have to see the world around me shift into different visions, I have to see the places I love disappear and especially because it takes me farther away from you. It scares me that as that distance increases, I’ll start forgetting. And it’s so cruel because forgetting is inevitable. I’m afraid I’m going to forget the sound of your voice. Your habits. Our memories. Our dreams. Our conversations. And I hate that time exists because, sometimes, when I think of a question to ask you, I can’t even guess what you’d respond.

And now time makes it so that I can’t visit your old home or your old room. All changed for memories that time left behind. Time changes everything it touches, inevitably everything in life will become altered as a result of this imaginary power. So as time pushes me along, I try to guess what you’d think of me. What you’d think of a joke - although because of time you wouldn’t get the context.

I’d like to think that if time were nicer

where I made you cry. I feel the utmost horror reliving the last time I saw you alive, knowing that even with time I still feel the tears I shed when I ran away. I still feel the burning regret knowing that I didn’t even tell you I love you, because even though I couldn’t look at you then, all I can see is your face now, burnt deep into my retinas. Never letting me unsee what I tried to hide from.

I think it’s funny how much time passes, yet it still won’t let you forget the worst parts.

Because no matter how much time passes, I still can’t convince myself that’ll I’ll never see you again.

I don’t think time will ever let me. C

A Matter of Time and Mice, Ollie Ramirez, ‘20, Digital Art

with you, we’d raid area 51 together, watch stranger things in the living room, eat at nice restaurants, laugh as I show you memes on twitter and live in the dreams we’ve had for years. I’d like to think that if you had a little bit more time, things would be a little bit better, because while time left you behind, it left me wandering alone in the abyss that is the future -although for me it is simply known as the constant present.

Time taunts and harasses my mind, punishing it for remembering. When I hear the sound of laughter in the morning, I burst out of my room only to find nothing there. When I hear slippers in the hallway and my heart stops for a moment, it is simply someone else walking past. When the muffled TV on the other side of the wall sounds like the news you’d watch, it’s just a hallucination.

When the smell of your perfume appears randomly in the house for a second, I find the faith to believe in ghosts.

It’s been more than a year, thanks to time. And I have this trembling fear that I’m not the same little girl you love so much. I feel a shake through my veins knowing that I can’t tell you about all my new friends. I feel a weakness in my legs knowing that you can’t share your wisdom with me anymore. I feel a gash in my heart when I relive the memory

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Generativity gen· er· a· ti· vi· ty /jeh-ner-a-tiv-i-ty/

noun – psychology. The time to share and create for the sake of the future. Someone grown, now defined, seeks to nurture things that will outlast him.

One Moment More

by Ariatna Gaudin, ‘22

Long last our trip that results with empty hands, Step foot in their territorials and feel the world’s ours, Roam the streets from noon till night,

Escape our dreadful past even for three sweet swift hours.

To seek triumph away from our silenced suffering is our ambitioned deed.

I’ll race you to the car and you’ll never let me win.

Let us sing-along merry songs,

Watch the beautiful memories begin.

We must cherish our final reunions.

This carousel ride is not eternal.

Our priceless moments clean the rust off our tinned hearts, Enrage the master of the infernal.

I’ll wait beside you, my decaying tree, once more.

Wrap me in your branches and let your leaves sing.

Make me know Evil’s roots are ripped from our soil.

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5

Don’t leave me to soar the skies with only one wing. C

Sunlight, Rinta Rasheed, ‘14, Digital Photography

Smoke, Gianella Rojas, ‘17, Pen on Paper

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Under the Pink Willow Tree

by Sophia Campos, ‘20

It’s taken me years. Years of selfdoubt, of frustration, of hatred. I’ve gone to church my whole life. Father Paul sat me down once. He told me, “Maya-Lou is concerned with your behavior.” Maya-Lou doesn't mind her own business I tried to deny it, mumbling back to him, “What behavior?”

His eyelids went heavy and then he patted my shoulder. Roughly.

“Jacob.” His lips had formed a flat line and then I knew. I looked down. “It’s never too late to steer off the wrong path.”

The wrong path. That never settled with me. I was different, but I hadn’t noticed the day I became a moral abomiThe following Sunday I was back in church. I was feeling antsy after my talk with Father Paul, but then, I saw Nathan and my nerves evaporated into the air.

My thoughts wandered to the kiss we shared under the willow tree out in the field and I could feel my face starting to Nathan looked my way and smiled.

I remember how his dark eyes shone under the warm light and how the small dust particles moved in slow motion.

Time always stopped when he opened

37

The church bells rang, startling me out of my thoughts. Everyone stayed behind to say bye to each other, but I zoomed out the door. I ran as fast as I could and shut myself in the church’s shed, my legs like jelly as I crouched down to sit. Then, a small crack of light peeked through the door. It was Nathan.

He sat next to me and pulled me in for a hug. I didn’t cry at that time, though. I hugged him back, thankful that he found me.

“Is this wrong?” I whispered to him.

He shook his head no and kissed my

That summer of 1989, I spent every single day with Nathan. One of those days we went to the field of dandelions and sat on the ground. The sunset heat had caused our hands to sweat, but we held on to each other anyway.

“I don’t want to go home,” Nathan told me, looking at the view.

My eyes fixated on his profile.

“I like being with you,” he breathed out and then looked at me.

The seemingly miniscule effort behind those words affected my entire being in every way possible. I was completely moonstruck.

I realized at that point that I was in love with him.

Father Paul’s words came to my mind, prompting me to look at my lap. Nathan was gone before I could really think about what it all meant.

We had a sleepover at my house that Summer. That was the night we shared our second kiss. We were building a house of cards and we had gotten it just right after a countless number of tries. I accidentally brushed my arm against one of the cards sticking out and the whole structure collapsed. It wasn’t a big deal, but I felt as though I had disappointed

scooted closer to me and kissed my cheek, telling me it was okay. I turned my head to face him and he kissed me again, on the lips. The warmth I felt from the flush on my cheeks seemed out of place for the shiver that rans through my spine. My mom knocked on the door and we sprung apart, pretending to be buildOnce she was gone, Nathan was all over me again.

I had never seen him cry before the day I told him we had to stop seeing each other at school. I engulfed him in a hug, my apologies being buried into the crook of his neck. He insisted that it was okay “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” but things were never the same and we eventually stopped seeing each other And with that, I said goodbye with a soft smile, under the pink willow tree.

One day, Nathan didn’t show up to school. It was odd because Nathan never missed school. He was all I paid attention to in class, so his absence made the room feel empty. I was worried for him,

Petls, Esther Rubio, ‘21, Digital Art

Beautiful as it was, summer had to come to an end and we were starting our first year of high school. This was the year I turned bad. It was the year that I lost him. I don’t regret anything that I did with Nathan, from our first kiss to every electric shock I felt when he touched me. The only thing I resent now is my past self. I always knew that good things couldn’t last. There is an end to everything, after all. I guess Nathan and I were too obvious because we always got looks at school. He told me not to mind the quiet murmurs as we would walk

school let out, I went straight to his house. There was no response at the door. After waiting around his porch for about 15 minutes, I decided to go home and would ask him about it next time.

As soon as I opened the door, I could feel the heavy atmosphere and I knew that something was terribly wrong. I went into the kitchen and found my mom sitting at the table, her face buried into her “Is everything okay?” My voice came out like a croak.

She looked up at me, tears threatening to fall out of her eyes. She pushed her arms up against the table and stood up, her face scrunched up as she kept her “It’s Nathan.”

Nathan had been buried on a hill right under a tree in a field. I didn’t go to his funeral, I knew I didn’t deserve to. 10 year passed by and I felt ready to face him, so I made my way to his grave, my heart heavy. I took a pocket knife and sat on the ground. I carved the three words I never said to him on the bark and traced my finger over the letters. I felt tears prick my eyes but I quickly wiped them away and laughed, feeling pathetic.

38

Bigger Than Breadsticks

by Daniel Toll, ‘20

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Do you ever just sit down in meditation after a dreadfully long day of work only to find yourself drifting to the thought of Olive Garden’s legendary breadsticks? Well, I sure do, and quite often at that.

In a mystical experience that has characterized my childhood, Olive Garden’s breadsticks have incontrovertibly revitalized my interpretation of “our daily bread”. On the average day, I routinely think of Olive Garden’s breadsticks three times - approximately once for every meal. Granted, it is not uncommon that I cross this seemingly consistent threshold and ambitiously think of their breadsticks for a fourth time during a late-evening snack.

In all honesty, they are just far too divine for human beings to resist. Between the intricate drizzles of salt and garlic powders and the perfect coat of melted butter brushed on each golden brown, baked-to-perfection breadstick, Olive Garden has masterfully designed a heavenly treat in every regard. They have become a unifying symbol for all Italian food-lovers worldwide, bringing peace among those with differences more profound than we can comprehend, and spreading delight to any individuals within their direct presence. Not to mention, per Olive Garden President Dave Pickens, these breadsticks are unlimited

through an act of “Italian generosity” that sees over nine million breadsticks served daily in the U.S. alone.

Now, breadsticks are not the only unlimited food option at Olive Garden; Olive Garden also offers unlimited soup and salad to their diverse community of customers. However, while spectacular, these two alternatives do not come close to rivaling the unparalleled glory of the breadsticks. The former has a limited array of options that appeals to an even more limited audience. In the case of the latter, with no disrespect to salad-lovers, there is only so much salad one can take before they just start to get bored.

With every fresh bite out of an Olive Garden breadstick, our mouths begin to water and our stomachs grow hungrier as every individual flavor becomes increasingly magnified on our taste buds, resulting in an unlikely shortage of soups and salads due to breadstick overconsumption. With little demand for these two food options, supply will inevitably remain high for them. Taking this into consideration, how is it possible that Olive Garden can truly offer unlimited breadsticks? It is easily the face of the restaurant chain, so how could this be?

While certain scientific laws assert that the universe has a finite amount of matter, these laws offer no applicability

to the deeper, darker truth of Olive Garden’s unlimited breadstick policy. To me, there is only one reason accounting for everything characteristic of this fan-favorite chain and, beyond thorough observation, no other form of explanation is necessary. Olive Garden is, without a doubt, a monopoly in the grain industry, and it is evident in everything they do.

I am an adamant believer that the abbreviation for Olive Garden, ‘O.G.’, also stands for ‘Operation Grain’ and that, since its opening in 1982, Olive Garden has horizontally integrated all other grain-dependent companies into their own to stimulate their breadstick production. Masking their true identity through a five-star customer service facade, Olive Garden deliberately drains smaller companies of their grain products to selfishly supply themselves.

What other reason is needed to explain how Olive Garden can offer its superior table bread without the reservations or limits set by other competing companies? As we, the unknowing victims of criminal activity, indulge ourselves with Olive Garden’s signature breadsticks, we are simultaneously up

holding an active role in the continuation of the unjust practices of these breadstick bandits.

In doing so, we contribute immeasurable harms to other competing companies and distance ourselves from our inherently capitalist society. Furthermore, in identifying themselves as the ‘Olive Garden’, rather than the ‘Breadstick Garden’, they shift their fanbase’s attention away from their breadsticks to the best of their ability, rendering it nearly impossible for their loyal breadstick-eaters to rebel against their oppressive actions.

If anything, the company should change their name to ‘Oligarchy Garden’.

Clearly, Olive Garden’s breadsticks are a guilty pleasure above anything else, and it is undeniable that the true origin of Olive Garden’s “unlimited breadsticks” policy is one centered around malicious intention. In the case of this fan-favorite Italian restaurant chain, unlimitedness lies not so much in their breadsticks, but in the potential of their unlimited power to distract unknowing customers from their tyranny. C

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40

Napoleon Bonaparte— the man, the myth, the legend

by Daniella Berrospi, ‘20

Once upon a time, Napoleon Bonaparte’s “nationalistic” tendencies did not actually have him exiled to St. Helena, so disregard the factless allegations made by tabloids that only prey on people’s insecurities. Here, you will read the truth, the whole truth and nothing but The only plane he dominates is Wall Street and, by extension, the American economy. Some might even say that Bonaparte’s down-to-business approach to the politics of the avenue trumps Mr. President’s “Let them eat cake!” reasoning in times of political frenzy with the Middle East.

Do not be fooled! Unreliable sources have pointed out that Napoleon’s trademarked “He will regret it!” catchphrase came out of a disagreement between him and the Tsar of Russia. By any measure, however, it is impossible that he ever find himself losing in these “times of war,” as he would call it. Even on the days when the stock on the market is virtually unsaleable and the negotiation is looking less-than-profitable, Napoleon keeps “defeat” out of sight and out of mind.

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His title as “Emperor of Wall Street” is telling of the fact that he is probably well-acquainted with Machiavellian literature, seeing that his “the ends justify the means” attitude in his pursuit to be top broker revamped the scene altogethAdmittedly, Napoleon’s epic successes in the workplace are not nearly as consistent in his love life. As much of a lover as he is a fighter, his first marriage ended due to infidelity (and Josephine’s infertility, but I digress). Napoleon vowed not to be made a fool of again, and proudly rose like a phoenix from his romantic hardships. He did, however, meet a pretty woman named Marie Louise on his coffee run to Starbucks and made her his wife. To her, their marriage is everything.

With that said, Bonaparte stands at a proud five feet and seven inches, eager to make the best out of life. In his mind, he single-handedly carries the task of making America great again. “Loyalty” cannot be his number one priority by any means-- a man has needs too, right? An old friend and close colleague of his, Jean Lannes, describes Napoleon this way: “He only loves you by fits and starts, that

farther from the truth. Those closest to him would know that he marches through mile after mile of frigid trial-and-error when it comes to strategizing tactics for his work. The ambition he brings to the workplace motivates others to work just as hard as he does, which earns him his rightful place in the sun.

Napoleon, like the rest of us, is not perfect, but he can teach us a thing or two on leadership. C

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he needs to use you.� Napoleon’s complex helps him drive a hard bargain that can knock his opponents to the sidelines but also calls for his pitfall in certain social situations. For one, it can become difficult to play chess with Napoleon at times because he is less than forthright about his shortcomings in his own game.

Other times, it is more difficult to engage in meaningful conversations with him before he goes off on a tangent about something overbearingly political.

There is more to Napoleon Bonaparte than meets the eye. While he boasts his aptitude for math from time to time, Napoleon is aware of his weaknesses.

He actively works on them, unafraid to reveal his ignorance if it means he will learn something in the end. People might even say that he only gets by on charisma, an assertion that could not be any

42

Observance

by Lucas Warfman ‘21

The train left. Maybe I could’ve caught it if I ran. Coming up the platform, I only noticed one other soul across the tracks from me. It was an old man. His beard was grizzled and his clothes weren’t kept well, he had a ketchup stain on the collar of his overcoat. I admired him in a way, being able to expose himself to the public in such a ratty uniform and yet still have the pride and posture of an aristocrat. I observed from a bench.

He checked his watch on his right wrist; the leather strap being held together by what seemed like a single thread, it looked like it had been used by at least 3 other owners before he got his hands on it. It must’ve seen so many things, that watch. It could’ve witnessed everything that life has to offer and more.

From the looks of it, the watch had seen wars of attrition, claiming both victory and defeat on the front lines. Afterwards, it had come back home to settle down and observe a family, it witnessed the flowers of love emerge in the middle of spring.

Despite this, the watch had also seen those same petals rot and die out, leaving nothing but remnants resembling ashes on the floor. The old man didn’t give the face a look of dismay as one would expect though.

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He gave this watch a gaze of respect, like a son should to a mother. He smiled, as if he already knew the time of day, and his look at the watch was a way to keep his mind at ease. He finally put his hand back in his coat pocket, protecting the watch.

I started to become impatient, pacing up and down the platform, shoes squeaking with each step until the intercom announced that the train would arrive soon. By now, some people had joined me up on the platform. A man had a ring on his left hand, the ultimate promise one can make. It looked like he was arguing with the very same significant other over the phone. He was upset about something relating to a garbage disposal, probably not worth the energy.

Drifting in the winds of life must be the most comforting and simultaneously unsettling thing one can do. You can go anywhere you like, unrestrained by pesky responsibilities. You also have no destination to get to though; you sit waiting for life to give you a ride.

The decision to do nothing is still very much so a decision. We who choose this life of motionlessness must be able to cope with the risks and consequences that come along with these choices. The train’s brakes squeaked in front of me, while the man uttered a final goodbye.

I began to walk to my destination on foot, not so far. I clutched my flowers tighter, hoping to trigger some response in my soul, nothing emerged. My former comrades of the train had split up at this point, the faces I saw then were seemingly all sad. Their souls had been struck by disaster, and their grief was on full display. They didn’t show their pain in order to seek attention; it was just a natural impulse that they shared. There was a woman, about seventy years of age, weeping, letting out whimpers fueled by loss. In front of the woman, laid her husband, motionless. Her children wept beside her, hugging her tightly. Another man arrived in the field of sorrow that I was passing through. I heard low whispers of what must’ve been prayers.

He was kneeling in front of a gravestone of a girl who was stolen away by nothing more than bad luck, or fate, as some call it. The man wore all black, mourning silently. A tear fell on her grave, but he maintained his composure, making sure not to give in to despair. He left her with affectionate words, I didn’t hear it, but he seemed satisfied with his goodbye.

These connections struck me, one being affected by another’s absence. I wasn’t sure if it was a trait to admire or fear because of its destructive nature. It also proves one’s humanity though, which is worth the tears. I walked on. .

Straight Lines, Curved Glass, Angie Lopez, ‘19, Digital Photography

The car’s population became a herd of sorts. A melting pot of humans shoved into a box waiting for our turn to emerge.

Each of us stayed for different amounts of time, the sun was starting to come around at this point, bringing gorgeous streaks of orange and red light into the new sky. I grinned at its brilliance in the same manner as I had to the old man. In this chaotic modern life that we live in, consistency is a precious gem that isn’t too common.

The train’s brakes squeaked once again, time for me to go.

Others walked through the sliding doors beside me. Their reasons for being here varied widely. There was a doctor, on his way to save lives so many times to the point where the value of this wonderful task had lost its luster. He continued his work under the impression that others depended on his service, and his morals wouldn’t allow him to let go.

He trudged along, in no rush to clock in; his wrinkled clothes and baggy eyes acting proof that he didn’t seem to care much about his career anymore. He looked terribly sick, perhaps he was sick of his repetitive, boring, routine lifestyle.

We have a funny habit of tricking people into thinking we’re something we’re not in the hopes of a good image.

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The past month consisted of others crying for me, while I simply couldn’t do such a thing; I hated myself for this inherent neutrality towards everything that had made me cold and distant.

Everyone knits themselves into the cloth of society if they feel the need to participate. Most end up joining instinctively, it’s in our nature to care for others.

Foolishly, I observed this great cloth being waved around me, screaming at me to just give in; I didn’t allow such a thing to happen. I allowed myself to become a detached string, a lone piece of cloth in a social world. I didn’t let myself feel any

degrees of pain, but everything comes at a price; there’s nothing free about giving up emotion, I inhibited happiness too. I spent my limited time observing constantly while it feels right to sew myself in a little. I should’ve been observing myself, my actions, instead of just watching others express themselves. I thought, I hoped that I’d be able to start then, even if it was late to say the least.

There she was, I made it.

I sat next to her, and we enjoyed our silence. I dropped my flowers beside her, I thought about the possibility of

her watching me. I’d like to think she does, motivating me as she always had. I never got to tell her how much I appreciated her luminescence. If she was watching me though, then hopefully she heard me, maybe whoever is watching could relay a message for me, just this once. I hoped that when I say what I should’ve, it falls on her ears, and that her voice would reply in its golden tune like it always had before. . I could only hope for her to relieve me of the pain and guilt held in the chambers of my soul, or at least the remnants of such a thing.

I wanted to rid myself of the filth that had festered, so I defied it. I defied myself for once, I went against my monotonous flow of misery; sprinting forward until the sun went down and then some. Maybe this was progress, an observation shedding its passive nature and becoming an evolution, a change to be revered by all who don’t join in its path of liberation. The tears started to flow uncontrollably; I tried to remember those words that the fortified man had said earlier. I recaptured those sacred words that my tongue had never dared to form, but it had nowhere to turn then.

“I love you, mom” C.”

Tracks, Bryan Tucker, ‘17, Digital Photography

Colophon Catharsis is a literary & art magazine produced by the Creative Writing Honors class as part of the Academy of Communication Arts, Film, and Digital Media at Coral Gables Senior High School. Volume 11 was made using Adobe InDesign CC, CS4, CS6 and Photoshop CS4 and CS6. Volume 11 uses Century for all titles, bylines and photo credits. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, Catharsis has published a shortened edition online.

Catharsis solicits submissions of writing and artwork from the entire student body as well as faculty and alumni. All work submitted is evaluated for content and technical quality by the editorial board and approved by the adviser. We actively recruit new staff members from entry level creative writing classes, as well as digital design and honors/AP English classes. Class time was used to complete this magazine, but a large portion was completed online from each student’s home after virtual learning guidelines were put in place. The section spreads were written by Ana Rodriguez. All cover and section art is by Allyson Turino with the layouts by Nidia Volmar.

The goal of Catharsis is to promote literacy in our school and local community.

We encourage artistic expression for all students, faculty and alumni. The editors and staff would like to thank the faculty and administration for their support in this endeavor, especially our principal Adolfo Costa; Assistant Principal of Curriculum, Nestor Diaz; Assistant Principal of CAF&DM, Lazaro Hernandez; Activities Director, Ana Suarez; Language Arts Department Head, Evelyn Torres; our fellow CAF&DM teachers, Melissa Gonzalez and Patricia Passwaters; and our devoted academy leader Ana Zuniga.

Publication Awards You Are Here: 2017 Volume 8 FSPA: Gold Medalist Rating CSPA: Gold Medalist Rating NSPA: First Class Rating ASPA: First Place Rating

Continuum: 2018 Volume 9 FSPA: All Florida Gold Rating SIPA: Superior Award CSPA: Gold Medalist Certificate

Leviathan: 2019 Volume 10 FSPA: Gold Rating NSPA: All American with Five Marks of Distinction

Advisor: Michelle Zaldivar Editor in Chief: Ana Rodriguez

Editors: Layout Editor: Adriana Torres (A.T) Creative Director: Allyson TuriĂąo Business Manager: Isabella Rodriguez Outreach Coordinator: Malika Mckenney Drama Editor: Chloe Grant Poetry Editor: Devon Rall-Taguchi Prose Editor: Lucas Warfman

Layout Team: Amanda Zamora (A.Z), Christian Garcia (C.G), Esther Rubio (E.S), Katya Gutierrez (K.G), Ollie Ramirez (O.R), Thomas Morcillo (T.M), Virginia Benedetti (V.B) Staff Writers: Alvarez-Porto Zedd, Batista Tatiana, Campos Sophia, Cardenas Nayelis, Fiffe Chloe, Gaudin-Olmos Ariatna, Gonzales Andrea, Hernandez Melanie, Hernandez Miguel, Martinez Brandon, Martinez Rafael, Martinez Sophia, Moussa Laila, Pierre Phoenix, Poole Skye, Richards Penny, Rosado Rodrigo, Valdes Katerina, Villalobos Angie

Staff Awards

Scholastic Gold Key: Katerina Valdes Scholastic Silver Key: Devon Rall, Chloe Fiffe, Malika Mckenney, Ana Rodriguez, Lucas Warfman Florida Scholastic Press Association Fall Digitals: Deadline Poetry: Miguel Hernandez, Chloe Grant - Excellent: Deadline Poetry: Devon Rall

Literary Magazine Spread: Ollie Ramirez - Honorable Mention:Thomas Morcillo & Isabella Rodriguez Piano Slam Finalist: Sophia Campos