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October 2023

Table of Contents Cover photography Alexa Borrego 1

Digital art

Azael Guadalajara

“Autumn”

Chloe Juarez

Photography

Victor Sobrevilla

“I Hate Autumn”

Alexa Borrego

1 - Digital Art by Azael Guadalajara

Photography

Cesar Palao

“Creak”

Addie Weston

“The Eternal Wedding”

Cesar Palao

“Red Pops”

Victoria Giraldo

Ghost Story Contest Results Featured Photography by Arturo Arriola

“El Angel de la Muerte”

Amanda Ong

“The Horseless Vaquero”

Daniella Trujillo

“The Haunting Echoes of Texas Hills” Chloe Juarez

“The Phantom Wrangler”

Francisco Rodriguez

“Panchito’s Haunted Story

Max Camarena

Autumn

by Chloe Juarez Autumn has grown on me. The only season I don't hate when it's here. Nevertheless, I miss it when it's gone. In my younger years, I Despised the half-dead trees and The bitter bite of cold air and

The sudden need for a coat. As I've become older I have come To understand fall foliage. The sensation of being ripped apart Being torn away from the branch you Were once deeply rooted in. I long for the strange comfort the cold provides, yet I find pieces of myself in the frailness of dying trees. But I have come to love the patches of sunlight Where my friends and I huddle to savor the warmth and Talk about life as if there was no tomorrow. Autumn has grown on me. For the way that it makes the world stop. Everything gets a little slower. Everything becomes a little clearer. Notice how the air mists as you breathe, How slowly the leaves change color, and How the cold creeps up like a silent shadow in the night. Autumn has a way of letting the world freeze time and Letting it move at a speed we so often try to quicken.

It reminds me that even through hardship, there is beauty.

3 - Photography by Victor Sobrevilla

I Hate Autumn

By Alexa Borrego

Nobody talks about the pain of Losing someone forever. The pain is constantly present, and the memories are recorded. They say it takes time to heal yet fallen leaves never return I hate autumn It was October when I had to say goodbye As I watched him slip away from life on earth One last breath, one last ache One last cigarette after ten.

I hate autumn It was October when I wept for days, To a box full of ashes, I knew I had to let go someday. All I could think about were my prayers But God’s grants are always greater. I hate autumn I learned to appreciate the sunrises. I learned to appreciate the way the sun sets. I learned to appreciate all the advice. Grandpa taught me that there are no regrets. In spring, the leaves come back.

Creak By Addie Weston Night past fallen, in the hall I hear the floorboards creak. Isn’t it funny how everyone's tread is unique? My mom glides lightly, rhythmically in fact. My dad stomps heavily, his steps exact. But these steps are different, precise and calculated. I strain my ears and try to contemplate it. If my parents are asleep and its nearly four, Then who is tapping on my door?

The Eternal Wedding By Cesar Palao In the dark a monster hides, Waiting patiently for his soon to be bride. When she did not attend the wedding, he went into a frenzy, Hunting her down with a machete. When he found her, she was already dead. She ended her own life, at least that is what the monster said. If you go to their wedding venue, you can still hear the wedding bells. However, along with bells you can hear her yells.

5- Photography by CJ Palao

Red Pops By Victoria Giraldo Bright red popsicles, icy and sweet, In the butcher's hands, a sinister feat. "Just for you," he whispered with a grin, But his intentions harbored a darker sin.

The butcher claimed they were healthy, you see, But the truth was far from what it seemed to be. My, oh my, the delectable taste of life's red ooze, Slowing dripping like fresh, cold booze. As the popsicle melted in the summer's heat, A ghastly secret began to complete.

For within the frozen treat, a sinister surprise, Lurked the essence of those with lifeless eyes. The butcher's smile held a dreadful charm, As you savored the treat with unknowing harm. Bright red popsicles, a wicked delight, In the butcher's world, where darkness takes flight.

Ghost Story Contest Results

Any and all DRHS, DRFS, and ECHS students had a chance to write a short ghost story to accompany this photo by Arturo Arriola. Many student submitted ghost stories for a chance to be published in Written Art Magazine.

After reading all the submissions, the Written Art student staff had a hard time narrowing down the stories to just one winner. So, we decided to publish the best of the best submissions. Please excuse us, but we repeated the photo or a variation of it for each story. We thought that each deserved to be paired with the image of inspiration. Thank you to all the students who took a chance and wrote their hearts out. We understand that writing fiction and submitting it for others to read is like putting out your vulnerabilities for everyone to see. Thank you for being brave and submitting to Written Art Magazine. Congratulations to all the students who were selected for publication. You all truly have a talent for writing. It was awesome to see the different styles of writing about the same topic. We recommend you read each story. We promise you will not regret it. Please leave a comment for our winning writers and photographer, Arturo Arriola, on our Facebook page, DRHS Written Art.

7 - Photography by Arturo Arriola

El Ángel de la Muerte by Amanda Ong “Why do we have to help hand out Halloween candy? I wish we could go to a haunted house and do something scary and fun.” Lucia and her younger sister were mourning the fact that they were stuck inside with their grandma. Their grandma, Salma, feeling empathetic, let them have a break inside while she told them a spooky tale about El Ángel de la Muerte. The girls begrudgingly gathered around Grandma Salma as she recounted the tale of Veronica Y. Sanchez. Veronica Y. Sanchez was 15 when she began her infatuation with cars. So at 17, when she saw this rusted, abandoned Chevrolet truck in the city’s junkyard, she knew she had to have it. She fixed it up, and the next day, she was driving wherever she pleased. Most of the time, she was giving her best friend rides. On Halloween night, Vero and her friend decided to take an hour-long drive to a nearby city that was having a scare fest. On their way to the fest, Vero kept telling her friend that she could see a man in a cloak in her rearview mirror. Vero was freaking out and telling her friend that the man was getting closer. To calm her down, her friend advised that they stop at the gas station. At the gas station, Vero got

out to get fresh air as her friend pumped gas. “When did you get a customized license plate?” Vero’s friend asked. Vero looked confused, and walked around to see the license plate. She stared with a surprised face at the plate that had her exact initials. VYS, Veronica Yvonne Sanchez. “Huh, I never noticed that, how ironic!” They continued on the road after, but Veronica started mentioning the man in a cloak again. She grew frantic and began to yell that he was right in the backseat, but her friend couldn’t see anyone. She began to lose control of the wheel as though someone else was controlling it, and swerved straight into a tree. “CRASH!” Veronica’s friend dizzily woke up and saw Veronica limp in the driver’s seat. She stared in horror, and called an ambulance. Help arrived at the scene to assist Veronica’s friend with her injuries, but nothing could be done for Veronica. She was pronounced dead at 9:37 PM. As EMT’s carried Veronica's body from the truck, she couldn’t help but notice the numbers on the truck’s license plate. 9-3 -7, the same time that Vero died. The numbers, the initials, the man in the cloak, something didn’t sit right with her. She began to feel sick to her stomach and then she saw him- a man in a cloak. She couldn’t make out any features, but she finally believed Veronica. The next day, she came back to the scene of the crash, and set the truck to drive into a lake. She didn’t feel comfortable with the truck being around

after everything that happened. It just made her uneasy. She watched as it sank deep into the water. She never saw the man in the cloak again after that.

time, his features were clearer. She could see his poncho and hat. He stood ominously by the cursed truck, while her initials and the numbers 0138 burned into her eyes.

“Well girls, enough chit chat. Let’s go finish giving the candy away.”

Accepting her fate, Salma chose to spend her next few hours with her grandkids. She watched as the clock ticked towards Death. It was midnight, meaning she had one hour and thirty-eight minutes left. Salma’s daughter had finally arrived to pick up Lucia and her sister. Salma’s daughter assumed her mother was teary because it was the anniversary of Salma’s husband’s death.

“No! We want to hear more stories, Grandma Salma!” cried Lucia.

“Sorry girls, another time.” replied Grandma Salma. They went back to handing out candy outside and Grandma Salma reminisced on her days with her best friend Veronica. After a moment of silence to herself, Grandma Salma headed outside to help out Lucia and her sister. She was handing out candy when she saw a familiar truck parked in the field across the street. She felt her stomach drop. She apprehensively shuffled across the street and felt a hot wave of fear rain over her. The closer she got, the more her fears were confirmed. She checked the license plate to see if it was the exact same truck, but felt relieved when it didn’t say VYS 0937. Then it hit her, she read the license plate over and over again hoping it wasn’t true, but her eyes didn’t lie. SLJ 0138 Salma Lizette Jurado. Her death note was written in front of her, she was sure of it. She looked across the street and faked a smile so as to not instill fear in her grandkids. As she slowly walked back to her house, she turned around to see the truck and saw the man in the cloak. This

Salma lied in bed and stared at the clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The ticks and tocks bellowed through her ears like drums. She awaited her fate but was confronted with confusion when the clock hit 1:39 AM. She was still alive and well. Had it all been in her head? Tired from a stressful night, she fell asleep. When she woke up, she found that the truck was gone. She internally rejoiced and proceeded to have her usual 12 o’clock brunch. In the afternoon, Salma’s daughter decided to bring her a homemade pumpkin spice loaf to cheer her up from what she thought was just widow’s grief. However, she never fulfilled her purpose, as when she arrived at her mom’s house, she was given the news that her mom had died at 1:38 PM from a sudden heart attack.

The horseless Vaquero

by Daniella Trujillo They say you can hear his spurs as he walks through ranches at night. He’s looking for horses. I remember the first time one of my horses went missing, and that’s when I was told the story of this thief spirit. Long ago, there was a man who had a ranch filled with the most beautiful horses. This man had enemies, and his enemies set fire to his ranch, and everything was destroyed, including his horses whom he loved so dearly. Devas-

tated and filled with vengeance, he went after the culprits but was unsuccessful and was never seen again, except for his ghost. It’s a sad story, and I feel for the guy, but it doesn’t justify stealing horses, my horses. I was finally ready to face him and his thievery once and for all. I had a plan, a solution, an idea. I waited and waited for the sound of his spurs all throughout the night. Just when I thought he wasn’t coming, I heard them. The way his boots dragged on the floor, his spurs clinking, I knew it was him. I confronted his spirit and there was a minute of silence, a standoff of who would make the first move. My plan didn’t involve violence whatsoever, but instead it was a trade. All my horses back for a pair of keys. He accepted. I

knew then that I had not only gotten my horses back but saved many future generations of their horses, too. No one knows what I sacrificed that night, and no one knows that I am a true hero of horses. That’s okay with me. Horses no longer go missing and the vaquero is no more than an urban legend in my small town. They used to say you could hear his spurs as he crept through the night, but now the story has changed a bit. You can’t hear his spurs anymore, but you can surely hear the loud engine of some rusty ol’ Chevrolet truck with squeaky tires driving around in the

The Haunting Echos of Texas Hills by Chloe Juarez

The wind howled through the desolate Texas plains, carrying the whispers of a forgotten past. Atop a lonely hill, a man stood silhouetted against the bleak sky. Wrapped in a tattered sarape, he wore a weathered cowboy hat that shielded his eyes from the land's secrets. His name lost to the annals of time, had faded like the old rusty Chevrolet truck beside him.

The truck was a relic of another era. Patches of flaking rust have now reduced its once vibrant red paint. Its windows, cracked by the unforgiving forces of time, reflected the tortured soul of the man who stood guard. The truck seemed to yearn for the days when it roared to life, carrying dreams and burdens alike. The clouds hung heavily above the man and his vehicle with a sense of foreboding. Their ominous gray hue mirrored the weight of the man's memories, and in their shadowy depths, they concealed the horrors of the past. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl that echoed the cries of longlost souls. Once proud and tall, the flagpole was a withered sentinel of a bygone era. The Texas and American flags, tattered and torn, fluttered mournfully in the wind. Their stars and stripes, once symbols of hope and freedom, now told a different story, one of abandonment and despair. As the man in the sarape gazed into the distance, his eyes looked haunted, reflecting the turmoil within. He had come to this forsaken place, drawn by forces beyond his control. The land whispered to him: its stories carried on the wind, and he had no choice but to listen. Legend spoke of a tragic event that had unfolded there long ago—a tale of betrayal and vengeance, of lives lost and souls forever bound to the desolate plains. The man knew that he was not alone on this hill: the ghosts of the past walked beside him, their presence a chilling reminder of the sins that could never be atoned. The wind picked up, carrying the echoes of the past with it. The man felt a chill run down his spine as the ghosts of the old West closed in around him. He turned to face the rusty truck, his heart heavy with the weight of history. With a deep breath, he whispered a solemn promise to those who had come before him—to unravel the mystery, to set the restless souls free, and to bring peace to a land haunted by its past. As the storm clouds gathered and lightning slashed across the sky, the man in the sarape knew that his journey had just begun. The ghosts of the Texas plains would not rest until their story was

told, and he was determined to be their voice, even if it meant facing the darkest secrets buried beneath the earth. As the storm raged on, the man in the sarape delved deeper into the mysteries of the haunted Texas hill. Each step he took led him further into the heart of darkness, where the whispers of the past grew louder and the weight of history pressed down upon him. Finally, he uncovered the truth, a truth so chilling that it sent shivers down his spine. The ghosts of the past were not mere specters. They were bound to this forsaken place by an ancient curse, a curse fueled by the vengeful souls of those who were wronged. The man realized that to break the curse, he would have to confront the darkest of sins, to face the malevolent force that held the land in its thrall. With trembling hands and a heart of fear, he encountered the evil spirit that had tormented the hill for centuries. The showdown was a battle of wills, a clash between the living and the dead. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the ancient scars etched into the earth. In the end, the man prevailed because of his determination and courage. With a final, gut-wrenching scream, the man banished the malevolent spirit and lifted the curse. The wind ceased its mournful howling, and the storm clouds began to disperse, revealing a sky washed clean by the rain. The ghosts of the past and their torment finally ended, faded away into the ether, their ethereal forms dissolving into the Texas soil. The land, once haunted by its history, was free at last. As the man in the sarape stood on the now peaceful hill, he knew that the ghosts of Texas had found their rest, and the weight of their sins had lifted. With a sense of closure, he turned and walked away to the rusty Chevrolet truck, leaving behind a once-haunted place now touched by redemption. As he descended the mountain and looked back one last time he saw the Texas soil, once haunted by its history, was free at last.

The phantom wrangler by Francisco Rodriguez

In the heart of the rugged Texas valley, there exists a legend whispered among campfires and saloons. They speak of a figure cloaked in shadows, a mysterious cowboy who roams the vast expanse, silent as the desert wind, with a purpose known only to him. This enigmatic guardian emerges when the sun goes down to paint the horizon in fiery hues. His presence is felt, yet his identity remains concealed beneath a widebrimmed hat and a tattered duster coat that billows in the breeze. The people from the town call him “The Phantom Wrangler.” It is said that he moves like a ghost through the sagebrush, leaving only a trace of hoof prints in his wake. Protected by a shroud of secrecy, the Phantom Wrangler stands watch over the valley, ensuring its safety from the myriad of threats that loom on the horizon. Bandits and gangs tread cautiously, for they know that justice, swift and unforgiving, rides alongside the mysterious cowboy.

Some say he has the ability to understand the land, an intimate connection that guides his every step. His eyes, hiding beneath the shadow of his hat, are rumored to hold the wisdom of the ages and the pain of countless battles fought in the name of justice. The legend of the phantom shadow grows with each passing day becoming intertwined with the very fabric of the Texas valley. He is the embodiment of the untamed spirit that courses through the veins of the land itself, a sentinel against the encroachment of evil. Yet, despite the awe and reverence with which the Phantom Wrangler is regarded, he remains a solitary figure, a shadow who vanishes as quickly as he appears, leaving behind only an echo of hoof beats and a sense of safety in his wake. And so, the legend endures, carried forth on the wind, a testament to the enduring power of one mysterious cowboy’s unwavering devotion to the Texas valley. Then, one fateful evening, as the sun cast long, lingering shadows across the land, the Phantom Wrangler vanished. No trace of him could be found, no echo of hoofbeats on the desert floor. The valley held its breath, as if suspended in time, awaiting the return of its silent guardian. Days turned to weeks, and still, there was no sign of the Phantom Wrangler. Whispers of worry and doubt spread among the townsfolk, a palpable unease settling over the once-secure valley. Some feared that the darkness he had held at bay for so long had finally claimed him. And then, just as he had disappeared, the Phantom Wrangler returned. His clothes bore signs of a long journey. The townsfolks greeted him with a mixture of relief and reverence, their questions met with only a solemn gaze from beneath the brim of his hat. The legend of the Lone shadow endured, but now, it held a deeper resonance. His absence had revealed the extent of his sacrifice, the solitary burden he bore to protect the Texas Valley. From that moment on, the people vowed to honor him in their own way, to carry his legacy forward, and to never forget the mysterious cowboy who had given everything to safeguard their home.

Panchito’s Haunted Story

by Max Camarena Once upon a time, in the heart of Texas, there was a small town named Del Rio. It was a place known for its sprawling fields, friendly community, and a history rich with tales of cowboys and pioneers. However, lurking within the shadows of this charming town was a story that sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest souls. Legend has it, every year on the eve of Halloween, a ghostly figure would appear, haunting the roads that wound through the outskirts of Del Rio. The ghost was said to be that of a man, a traveler who had met a tragic end many decades ago. The locals whispered that this man, known as Panchito, had once donned a costume of a Mexican ranchero, complete with a wide-brimmed sombrero and a tattered serape.

His eerie presence was always accompanied by the distant rumble of an

old, beat-up truck. The vehicle was a rusty relic, adorned with stickers of the Texan flag, though half of the flag was ominously missing, as if torn away by an unseen force. The engine of the truck would sputter and roar, echoing through the silent night, sending chills down the spines of those who dared to venture near. The story went that Panchito was a proud Texan, fiercely loyal to his state and its ideals. He had been a wellrespected member of the community, known for his unwavering patriotism and dedication to preserving the town's heritage. However, his fate took a dark turn one fateful Halloween night when he vanished without a trace, leaving behind only his truck and half of the Texas flag, torn and frayed. Rumors circulated that he had met a gruesome end at the hands of a sinister force, seeking retribution for a past misdeed. Some claimed he had encountered a vengeful spirit, angered by Panchito’s unwavering loyalty to Texas. Others believed he had been cursed by a vengeful soul, one he had wronged in his pursuit of preserving Texan pride.

As the years passed, Panchtio’s ghostly form became more elusive, appearing only briefly, a fleeting glimpse on the outskirts of the town. However, those who claimed to have encountered him spoke of a chilling experience that left an indelible mark on their memories. They spoke of a hollow, gloomy gaze behind the sombrero, and a mournful aura that seemed to permeate the air whenever he was near. Many attempted to unravel the mystery behind Panchito, delving into the town's archives and scouring through old tales passed down through generations. Yet, the truth remained elusive, shrouded in a layer of uncertainty

and fear. Some even speculated that the ghost was a guardian spirit, protecting the town from unseen threats, using its spectral presence to ward off any malevolent forces that dared to encroach upon Del Rio . To this day, on the eve of every Halloween, the distant rumble of an old, beat-up truck can still be heard, accompanied by the faint whispers of a ghostly figure dressed as a Mexican ranchero. The legend of Panchito continues to be whispered among the residents of Del Rio, serving as a haunting reminder of the mysteries that lurk in the heart of Texas.