2020-2021 EHS Literary & Artistic Magazine by quill&canvasreview

literary & artistic

TWENTY &

TWENTY-ONE

EAGLECREST HIGH SCHOOL

MAGAZINE

Dedication To the Community. For contributing to a final magazine worthy of showcasing every piece of work.

To Mrs. Torpey. For hosting every meeting and supporting the staff to the final pages.

RYLEE PAULSON

THE MEMORY PEST Memories seem more real to me

A world only covered by a cloth. A

than what I’m living in now. Like,

cloth to keep a pest from spreading

I’m not living in the current

and multiplying. How much longer

experience. Being covered limits

until our worlds can be seen

my interpretation of what is going

without two layers of cloth blocking

on around me. Not seeing a smiling

them?

face of a friend sitting next to me, forces me back into the past to

Hearing : not understanding what

remember what their smile actually

someone says and wondering if I

looks like. Some smiles I can’t even

need to get my ears cleaned. But, if

see. I can’t put a face to a name; I

I get my ears cleaned, I’m afraid the

put a personality to a name. But

bug will come home with me.

that personality is limited and is

Buzzing into my home causing

missing something, everything,

confusion, destruction, and chaos.

because of two layers of cloth.

Tearing down immunity walls built up over the past sixteen years.

Touch : missing the feeling of

embracing someone I love. The

Smell : sanitizing chemicals fill the

people I love are scared. Scared of

air. Cancerous smelling chemicals

an unrecognizable and invisible

spread everywhere, to “stop” the

bug. A bug that varies in size and

bug from spreading. How do we

shape. A pest that reacts differently

know these bug repellents work?

from its own species. That same bug stops me from what’s right in

Taste : shunned if we eat or drink in

front of me.

public. Pulling down a cover to get one sip of water. And then, looks

Sight : not seeing someone’s face

and whispers are directed to us.

clearly through a computer screen.

Can the bug even survive in water? I

Wishing to Zoom past the barrier

know we can’t live without water.

and see them fully in their own

All of this is limited. Everything

world.

limited. Limited to memories.

06 Wandering Nowhere

DANY WHITNEY

The

Loss

Reality

By Edmund L. Kunnath The lights flash repeatedly in an instant as cars pass by. People line the streets passing amongst each other, crammed worse than a tight elevator. As the people pass by, you get a glimpse right into their lives. One is a successful businessman who is trying to make appointment after appointment through his young assistant. A fresh, new face that has yet to see the test of time, stress, and age. The assistant is only at the bottom of the food chain. There’s only one way to go from there. Up. Another looks down the street worrisome. His wife just minutes ago asked him for a divorce. The expression on his face is one of panic. He’s trying to avoid any of the emotions beaming through his mind, all the memories, all the arguments, and now anguish. All the happiness, anger, excitement, care, and love are now gone right before his eyes. The reaction his eyes hold back the tears recalling each and every one of those moments. The memories have become a mirage.

A child looks down the street in awe. She sees all the people passing by and walking right along side her, as her mother grips her hand tight, so the child never gets lost and tangled throughout the sea of people. She sees the lights from every angle she looks, red, green, blue, pink, maroon, teal, mauve. The colors get more complex as the child’s retinas process the infinite variety faster than anyone else there can even identify. A group of friends walk down the street drunk. They have been at the bar all night, gulping down alcohol. Cinnamon Whiskey, Cranberry Vodka, whatever they got their hands on they attempted to drink it. Others keep passing by, purposely ignoring the horrific stench and constant stumbling, always within inches away from slamming their jaw onto the grime and gum-covered concrete. It doesn’t matter to them though. There is no goal, no mission, just the dopamine running through their blood, laughing at anything that exerts from their collective minds. They surely will not remember the moment the next day, but they are here now trying to make the best of the puzzling surroundings with their distorted view.

A large light then fills the vision. The sunlight peers into a dimly lit room as the virtual reality headset comes off. The eyes adjust to a new view. It’s an empty room, a twin bed stuck in the corner and a desk with papers scattered across every corner. There’s not a single sound in the room, no people, nothing. The vivid perceptions, the pinpoint colors, all blurred. What replaced it was isolation. The businessman. The soon to be divorced husband. The child. The drunks. Where are they? What happened to them? What happened to the emotions? Does it even matter?

I am intoxicated by reinvention. Standing at the edge of a precipice, weighing my options, everything exhilarates me and bores me. Yearning for a creative breakthrough, my page remains blank. What if it were my page? Is it worth considering?

I am the red wheelbarrow, But so much depends upon the white chickens.

William Carlos Williams had it wrong. (I think,) says I, the red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water, the white chickens are always pecking, clucking wanting–

what do they want beyond grain and sunshine– after fresh rain water?

AMBER ANDERSON Quoted poem by William Carlos Williams

Judd Brimmerman 13

standards BEAUTY ISN’T FREE IT COMES AT A PRICE YOUR NATURAL BEAUTY CAN’T AND WON’T EVER SUFFICE. “BEAUTY IS PAIN”. IN OTHER WORDS, IN ORDER TO BE CONSIDERED “BEAUTIFUL” YOU MUST PUT YOURSELF THROUGH “PAIN”. YOU MUST SUFFER . . . ? IN ORDER TO BE “PUARLOP” OR TO HAVE A “PIHSNOITALER” OR TO MAKE “ENDSIRF” DO YOU HAVE TO BE ? THE FACT THAT A TEENAGE GIRL IS QUESTIONING THIS PROVES THAT

"TETRPY“

SOCIETY IS SDRAWKCAB .

georgia lujan

everyone has the string Kathryn Hotzfeld

Everyone has the string.

Your other dies?

Tied around their finger, it flies

The string disintegrates

between

It's worlds

to get to the other.

devastating. especially when the cord falls away

Sometimes,

unexpectedly. a thousand miles.

Sometimes, less than one. It all varies.

Lucky for us, no one can see the string but yourself. No one can tell if

My string is yellow.

your love

It's tied around my wrist-

is gone

not many people have it that way. Personally, I believe the placement has a reason. But we've been told that it doesn't; it's just Completely Random. Cutting the string is impossible. The only way to break it is through death.

from the world. The string connects us to our person. Our soulmate, one might say. The people we are destined to be with. Sure, your souldmate can be your best friend But the universe had decided that the two connected were destined to be in love. I haven't found my souldmate yet. Sadly. I'd love to meet them, but... 19

KATHRYN

HOTZFELD

SOMETHING

FELT

BARE

Art by Janelle Hailey “Faye!” my mom’s yell interrupts my thoughts. “Sabrina is here.” Aw, yeah. Sabrina. My partner in crime. We’ve been best friends since elementary school, where she found her soulmate, like the lucky duck she is. They’re dating now, and they’re about the cutest couple I’ve ever seen. They post pictures of themselves cuddling, kissing, having fun with each other on their Snap story. Constantly. You’d think it makes me jealous - I’m just happy for them. I crash downstairs nearly knocking into the couch that sits uncomfortably close to the bottom of the stairs. I slide across slippery hardwood floors to the front door and swing it open. “Sabs, Hi!” I squeal, giving her a hug. Her black hair surrounds my face; it is fluffy as always. I’ve always loved hugs.

“Fayeeeee!” She drags the e as far as possible, smiling at me. Her smile is beautiful; shiny white teeth compliment her skin well, and her lipstick choices never disappoint.

“I am so excited for this,” she beams.

“Me too!” I smile, spin, and plop onto the couch, grabbing my yellow Vans and shoving them on my feet. I jump up, not even bothering to tie them. I seize the $50 my mom left for me on the small table near our front door. “See you at 9:00!” I call out to her, pausing, waiting for her usual reply: “Don’t forget to wear your seatbelt!” I smile at Sabs who knows the typical by now. “I will!” I call, bouncing out the door with my pal. We walk down the driveway and the view of her old car isn’t as much of a surprise as it was when it was in her own driveway two years ago, the day she turned 16.

“Oh, yes. The ol’ Volkswagen. 1962, right?” Sab opens the driver’s door and nods. “Yep. 1962. 58 years old, and it hasn’t broken yet...surprisingly.” She laughs. I get in the car and buckle my seatbelt, following my mom’s orders, slumping down into my seat. “Not even once?”

“Oh, no. It’s broken down lots of times. Just not completely yet.” She starts the car. “Well, that’s a blessing.” She laughs again. The car lurches forward as she hits the gas, but after a minute of driving on the new, smooth roads, it returns to normal. Sabs and I cruise down the streets toward our destination.

After a moment of silence, Sab talks again.

“So, any updates on the string? Found anyone of String.com?” An online dating service. Kind of stupid if you ask me.

I shake my head as the Volkswagen hits a pothole in the road, and the car shifts completely to the right before straightening on the rocky road again. “I haven’t even made an account yet. I just...it’s not...fate.”

“Fate, Faye. Fate, Faye. That’s all you think about, huh?” Sab turns her head to look at me, a small smirk on her face, making sure it’s obvious to me that she’s joking. I shrug. I’m excited to meet my soulmate, to cuddle, to kiss, to get married...but the talk is boring. I want it to just happen.

“Don’t worry, pal. You’ll meet them one day. It’s been proven that only 17% of people don’t meet their soulmate in their lifetime.”

“Not zero,” I responded with a tinge of despair. “Faye.” Sabrina glares at me. An awkward moment of silence. As the streetlights pass by, I raise my legs onto the dashboard. Mom never said I couldn’t do this. What a rebel. But, unfortunately, Sab catches my act of rebellion. “Faye, you shouldn’t do that.” She stares at me for a moment, regrettably taking her eyes off the road.

As I drop my feet with a pronounced roll of my eyes, the world stops. It stops, but it ends with a distinct flash of red light.

Brakes squeak, but nothing makes a noise. Senses suspend in the air.

Crash. Sab’s body flies over the large steering wheel of her car, her head ramming into the bent circle. Blood immediately spills out of her skull. Her hair, like a dark, matted sea fans her face, filled with broken glass.

My body flings forward too. The forceful projection felt delayed, but I was right there with Sab. The weight of my body slamming into glass met Sab’s skull smashing into the remnants of a windshield. My eyes blur. Everything around me blurs. My field of vision, clarity lost, becomes a mesh of red blood, brown car interior, and clear, shattered glass.

Despite a throbbing head and the full force of shock, I thank my mom. Seatbelts. Always seatbelts. In that moment, I thank Sab too. She told me to move my big feet off the tiny dash before the unimaginable happened.

My mind goes blank. I wake in the hospital. It’s almost as if the bed is made purposefully uncomfortable. My body aches: my head, my legs, my arms. Every square inch of me's covered in gauze and bandaged tightly. It feels suffocating.

Monitors beep, and the air smells of isopropyl alcohol and medical supplies. An IV runs through a primary vein, providing me with healing nourishment. I grab hold of the remote to summon the nurse.

I wait for her and look around the small (somewhat oppressive) room. The walls are a calm-butboring brown, and there are two minimalist paintings hanging neatly. One is blue, white, and purple. The other is red, orange, and yellow. It’s a terrible pairing. Warm and cool colors? In the same room? Insanity.

A small TV is mounted on the wall directly in front of me, and there are plenty of chairs for visitors.

I wonder where Sab is.

Just as I am aware of her absence, the door opens. Sabs, her head also wrapped in bandages, walks through. The door shuts behind her.

“Faye!” Sab runs forward, her arms embracing me. “Are you okay?” “I am. I am. Sab, are you?” I say, ignoring the obvious. Who is walking, and who isn’t? “Yes, yes I am.” She pulls away, her eyes full of gratitude. “You look miserable.” The shine in her eyes disappears.

“True. Yeah. I am.” The phrase starts to sound different. I am. I am. I am. My head throbs. Sab speaks after a moment of silence. “The other guy died.” The silence continues: homage to the dead stranger. The moment passes quickly.

“Oh, that’s devastating,” I reply, feeling numb. Sab and I had killed someone. Our negligence or just our bad luck? Are we murderers now? Are we going to jail? What will my mother think?

At least you wore your seatbelt!

A chunk of my hair falls into my face, the universe merely reminding me that my limbs exist. I lift my bandaged hand to move it out of the way. I hadn’t noticed in the moment, but something felt different about my arm. It felt...bare and,

sadly,

it was.

Swept

the

Under

Rug

WRITTEN BY STEVE MURO JR.

Racism, Prejudice, Inequality Often, things that are Swept Under the Rug. Further down, you will find the same thing in high school, Only with looks and terms like “ugly” and “tool." The only ones who are favored are the strong- bodied and weak-minded; The intelligent are looked down upon for being the very force that will prevent them from being anything. As a result, our world is what it is now. The intelligent feel they cannot be that way and stop. That intelligence is swept under the rug. “We The people” are a group of Peoples today because of prejudice. This is Swept Under the Rug. One day, what is true and what is right will prevail. 24

Claire

Urban

WRITTEN BY AMBER ANDERSON

AMMAN,

JORDAN:

OCTOBER 26, 2018 I am hurrying to see my daughter’s race. I nearly step on a dead kitten. His fur is wet from the night’s hard

rain, matted into peaks like gray frosting. Before my eyes

avert, they record the image: he lays on his left side against the curb, eyes closed, tired, hungry, but now at peace. I shake my head to erase the image–like dissolving an Etch-sketch picture. My eyes look to the bright blue sky, but the image keeps pulling me to my knees. I am aware of scurrying down the hill towards the school, eyes searching for more obstacles that may create a slip or fall: in the post-storm mess, I see and hear the screaming children and teachers clinging to rocks, each other, benches–anything–as rushing, muddy water pulls them towards the

Dead Sea. Just the day before, a

school defied government warnings and a seaside picnic turned tragic: twenty-one children gone in the rush of a flash flood.

Screams fill my ears–head shakes again. Swimsuit-clad teammates cheer: standing poolside, fists pumping in the air. Strong, smooth bodies glide through bright blue water while only hours ago strong spirits fought ferocious

flash floods.

Only a day separates the finish. I cling to the bench and watch my daughter touch the wall almost simultaneously with five others. I glance out the wide window and see the

blue fading into gray, blinking back tears.

Sabrina Petrocco

Nano

BY FARIA KHAN

A wave of depression and suffocation, with souls crumbling slowly beneath the cruel idea of reality. Death. The silent but inevitable end to all. Our most precious treasures snatched from the very hands of the universe. But as time slaves away, memories lay as a thick blanket, providing the only sign of comfort. Images pass right before us, of the kind souls once in our lives, with smiles bright enough to put the sun to shame . Little moments - from the way they walk, to how they talk, to their innocent curiosities, and dedication to everything they ever touched - thrive inside our minds, our hearts, and our very souls. Time passes by, life moves up its never ending staircase, but forever they shall reside by us, every step of the way. ~Dedicated to my Nano (Grandmother), who has recently passed

ART BY JUDD BRIMMERMAN

"The

Ones

Who

Could"

Breath in: Race, Hate, Servitude. Breath out: Blood, Sweat, tears.

America. Breath in:

The land built on the backs’ of others, The backs’ of savages,

The backs’ of the less thans. Breath out: Who we have to be. What we are forced to be. Breath in: "Your skin does not decide your worth." Breath out: "You decide your worth." Because you are strong. And you are great. Breath in:

"So why do you need anyone to tell you you’re good enough?" Breath out: "much hate we have faced." Yet we stay standing. we are still standing. The strength of Black. Then, the power of Black. The ones who could And the ones who did. Breath out.

Aria Wilson 29

Kate Blanchard

BLACK LIVES MATTER. By: Faria Khan

America. The once liberated country, overrun by corrupt and mistrained cops. Keep your head and your eyes down, pray and obey. But for how long? "Mama," he muttered, his breath slowly leaving him. "I can't breathe," he mustered, laying against the cold, hard ground, a knee slowly suffocating him.

WE COMMERORATE: Daunte Wright, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Eric Garner, Ahmaud Arbery, Rayshard Brooks, Daniel Prude, Tamir Rice, Tanisha Anderson, Elijah McClain, and too many more... 31

TAYTIANNA WISE

CONNECTION AND YOU Connection : a relationship in which a person, thing, or idea is linked or associated with something else.

How can we talk about connection when we are constantly hunting others for their differences? How can we talk about connection when we are busting down the foundations of our democracy? How can we begin to talk about connection when at every turn we are fighting with each other, When we smother the words of the younger for wanting change, When we would rather turn our heads the other way than fix a problem?

Connection is about helping the fallen, the jobless: not stalling, waiting for someone else to do it. The Generation you label as addicted to our phones is also the generation unrestricted by your words. This generation is committed to the problems you decided to ignore, and While you divide this country, we are providing the base for a movement that will outlive even us forevermore. My generation is connected by the very things you abhor, Those things that tie the strings across states that allow us to fly over the tangled nest of controversies you decided to ignore.

How can you talk about connection when all your rejections led to misdirection that has split this country to its core?

A R T W O R K

B Y

TAYTIANNA WISE

On Monday, March 22, 2021, Boulder, Colorado was rocked by the third deadliest mass shooting in Colorado history. Though shootings like this one are, unfortunately, not uncommon, we cannot neglect to take a moment and remember the 10 lives lost in the attack.

Thousands more were affected, and our hearts are with everyone impacted. These photos were taken at the site of the shooting 2 days after it took place. A memorial along the fence outside the King Soopers was created y the community, replete with flowers, messages, and candles.

34 Photos taken by Simone Beauchamp

Ava

Cohrs

How can we Heal? Walking down the street, the right lane was blocked off, allowing room for the lines of people walking alongside yellow tape, heads down and shoulders slumped. A low murmur fills the air, a hushed hum. The air here is oppressive, as if there’s a weight hanging above us. It’s a heavy silence that envelops the chain-link fence and the people crouched alongside it. A slow march of mourners moves along the sidewalk, bundled in coats and hats against the biting cold. Roiling gray clouds loom above, dimming the vibrant dots of flowers that riddle the fence. Messages of well wishes, of regret, of empathy, scrawled in children’s writing and typed carefully onto laminated pages, stamp themselves into my memory. Love to all those suffering Never forget Boulder, we love you Stop the Madness Rest in Peace A banner of names flaps joylessly in the breeze, a heartwrenching reminder of lives lost. An officer in black walks carefully, a dog in a matching black vest beside him, sniffing passersby. It was only a Monday, only a grocery store, only one day of one year. But the wound is real, raw and gaping for too many. We aren’t the same; we can’t be. History has repeated itself too many times --even in my short 17 years of life. Denver, Arvada, Deer Creek, Aurora, Arapahoe, Colorado Springs, Thornton, Highlands Ranch, and now Boulder: too many cities, too many people.

PG. #

So as I walked alongside that fence, though I had no close connection to the victims, I felt an entirely new depth of pain and empathy. That same overwhelming feeling was evident in the eyes of everyone I passed -- if they could tear their eyes from the ground, the fence, and the grocery store behind it. Even in my mother, whose emotions were rarely on display, I could see profound grief. Tears welling, she whispered to me, a crack in her hushed voice. “I don’t want my kids growing up in a world like this.” She was a first-year teacher in Colorado when the Columbine shooting happened. That was five years before I was born. A year before my sister was born, there was a shooting at Deer Creek Middle School. A year after my sister was born, there was the Aurora Theater shooting. Months after my brother was born, the Arapahoe High School shooting happened. It’s profound, that sense of loss. And it’s terrifying, that underlying dread that forms, accompanied by questions of how and why and what’s next. Standing beside a frail fence, surrounded by flowers and police tape and candles and armored vehicles, it’s all too real. How can we heal when every time our guards lower, some new, horrific event happens? How can we live without fear when our children have to go back to school the day after a school shooting? How can we move on when every time we enter a King Soopers we remember the lives lost in that very same place not too far away?

PHOTOS & WRITING BY SIMONE BEAUCHAMP

Isolated incidents feel less isolated when they happen year after year. 4

REMEMBRANCE

ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL, FATHER, AND FRIEND. Mr. Shane Snyder is often described as a pillar of the community. He was heavily involved in Eaglecrest and had an impact on nearly everyone he came in contact with. Mid-March during 2021, Mr. Snyder unfortunately passed away after a long struggle with cancer, leaving a void in the community. From students to colleagues to friends, Mr. Snyder is remembered as a man of integrity, of patience and calm, and of compassion. A paradigm of the Eaglecrest Raptor spirit, Mr. Snyder always showed up for the school's students and staff. Ask anyone who knew him, and you are sure to hear a story or three about his willingness to help or the genuine joy he brought to the building. His impact on the 38

community will undoubtedly live on for years to come.

REMEMBRANCE

COACH, TEACHER, INSPIRATION. Mr. John Green was a part of the Eaglecrest community since the very beginning of the school, Integral to the Eaglecrest track and field team as well as the entire district, he was a teacher, coach, athletic director, and even worked with Olympiccaliber athletes. The week of March 21, Mr. Green, unfortunately, passed away after 5 years of living with colon cancer.

Despite his success as an athlete and as a leader outside the track, Green is most remembered for his unforgettable presence. Always caring, Green was not only knowledgeable but humble and always ready to crack a joke. A mentor, teacher, a coach, an accomplished athlete, and an excellent administrator: Coach Green was larger than life. And yet he made room for each student, athlete, coach, friend, and even stranger in his life; he will be missed dearly by many. Adapted in part from Nest Network coverage by SImone Beauchamp

Kylie Rho

- Anonymous 41

Andrew Brown

Alone Together Crystal Li I’m alone in this cold, dark world So stop telling me that The world is still full of colors Because at the end of the day People are fighting each other I refuse to believe that I love the company of others You don’t need to tell me that Loneliness is all I know It’s not true that Others will make me a better person Because no matter what They will all bring me down It’s a lie that They’re a support system I can say that I’m better off alone And I’m in no position to believe that We will get through this gloomy world together (Now read from the bottom up)

WRITTEN BY

RYLEE PAULSON Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. I rolled over and stopped my alarm. I didn’t want to go to school. It was too much work, and it was sooo early. Mom wanted me to take the bus, because she had to get Larkin and Calvin (my younger siblings) to school. The bus was only a ten minute walk away. I didn’t want to go to school; however, the thought of staying cooped up at home one more minute forced me to get out of bed, pack my backpack, get dressed, do my hair, and take the ten minute walk to the bus. There weren’t that many kids on my bus, and nobody talked. “Why am I doing this?” I thought as I climbed up the steep bus steps. But then the thought of going back home entered. “That’s why I’m doing this.” As the bus bumped along, my sleepy mind started to jump back into reality. I noticed the sunrise. The blue and purple, pink and orange sky was mixed together, with streaky bright white clouds. The sun was just starting to peak, and the rays of sunshine warmed the bus windows. I noticed the birds. Flying and diving through the air, like weightless angels coming down from heaven. I wanted to fly with them. To feel weightless, like nothing was pushing down on me. No school. No family emergencies. No COVID-19. Just to be free. I noticed people taking early jogs and walks, sometimes even with their dogs, and my heart longed to run with them. I wanted to run somewhere where politics and disease didn’t drown so many people; however, there’s no such place to run to. The whole world is filled with hate and despair, sadness and iniquity. But as I sat there on that bumpy bus, I realized that there’s still a part of me that believes. Believes that “birds” and “sunrises” exist and still thrive. You just have to notice. Notice the little things. The little things that bring happiness and joy and fill the whole world with faith and hope, kindness and love. As I sat on that bus, I was overcome with emotion and realized that I don’t have to be sad and lonely, cooped up inside my home. I can notice the “birds” and “sunrises” in my family, in the healthy food I eat, in the Zoom calls, in the cards I get. And I switched. I changed. And you can too.

WAKE

ZOEY HUCKABEE

Toby Middlemist

16 JANUARY 2022

Dear Future Self Dear Future Self,

27 January 2021

The thought of creating something that can be considered a primary source in the future when historians document this messed up decade we’re living in is weird and oddly empowering. I know it’s hard to understand at the age of sixteen, but the adult in the room right now is telling me that I have the power to construct a beautiful life for myself. I love this idea; I get to decide who and what I want to be. SOOO…. here’s what I want you to remember and what I wish for you: I know you’ve been through a lot these past few months. Hospitals. Mental illness. It’s no matter. You are almost there. You need to focus on your priorities. School. Family. You have had plenty of time to have fun – especially since some of that fun has been destructive. You have had plenty of time to go crazy. Now is the time to focus and work on yourself, your grades, your passion, and your future. Learn to build trust with your family and other adults. Learn how to self-care. In the past, you have given up on yourself, your confidence, and your will to apply yourself. You should be proud and take credit for once. Learn to love yourself and keep pushing through these “unprecedented times.”

- Anonymous

Nerves

SIMONE BEAUCHAMP

Icy fingers of dread crawled down her back. This was it. It was a day she thought she had prepared for, but now that it had come, she realized that there was no preparing for this. She walked to the starting line. Took a deep breath. Clenched her fists. And let go, her hands shaking. She stepped forward, her whole body shaky with nerves, fingers and toes tingling with anxious anticipation. And...BANG. The gun went off, and they went flying. Legs stretching out before her, arms moving, her feet ate up the ground beneath them. Her legs ached and her feet were on fire. Her breaths quickened and her lungs strained. Yet, she felt free. With each step, she felt the solid reassurance of gravel, just before she pushed forward, ever seeking the next step. She heard the breathing of those around her, mingling to create a new beat to which her arms pumped. Their pulses quickened with their steps, fighting for the front, for the best. They were united in their rivalry. Their pain was temporary, but their exhilaration, their strength, and their final step over the finish line --well, that was forever. 52

Lorenzo Zordani

CLAIRE 54

URBAN

F a r i a

K h a n

B U B B L E S

Such grace and fragility. The warmth and pleasure of a spherical shape prances around a child’s wanderlust dreams.

Bubbles.

The once cherished desire of life has deceived me and is now the force that chains me against the shiny surface of my inevitable future. My freedom, my pride, my will, all push forward to break out.

Alas, nothing has changed. The hours tick by, as I sit in my cell. The cold, hard, and mirrored surface taunts me, the reality of escaping continues to fade. Day after day, night after night, I force with all my might. But the fight has ended; my strength finally faded away. The bright light of my future had dimmed,

for I thought the bubble would hold me back into my deepest and darkest thoughts

…

The bubble of society.

It prowls the night, enveloping anything it sees, anything it hears, anything it touches. But my will can never be contained. Lashed down, beaten up, I stand with my weapon in hand. I will break free.

TESS ROSEN 56

KEEP 'EM CRISP Demir Mikulin

Clarissa Montmore has not slept for thirty-seven hours. Clarissa Montmore has also given birth six times in this last thirty-seven hours. She rose from a Hyper-Plastic Polymer bed on Tuesday, March 13 at 6:00 a.m., and it is now 7:42 p.m. on a Wednesday. The world record for sleep deprivation is held by Randy Gardner, with 264.4 hours. She hopes not to beat his record, but it is very well possible for her to do so. We will see. Dr. Joseph Wehling, Jr., the prenatal specialist for the Montmore family, entered the salmon-white hospital room. Clarrisa was positioned on the hospital bed, her blonde hair fanned out across a pillow. She was a short woman; her legs did not come close to the end of her stretcher. Her husband, Geoffrey Montmore, was sitting in the guest chair playing a game on his phone. He stood in great contrast to her and looked like he had come to the hospital from a navy blue sweatsuit convention. He had a medium-sized beard accompanied by a bare upper lip and his stature made it so he looked out of place in almost any situation. “Hey Montmores! Are we going to begin injections? I have a feeling that this time-” He was startled by a chicken noise, erupting from Geoffrey’s phone. He was paranoid. “I’m not feeling so well. Could we hold off for a while?” Clarissa squeezed out. “Could you describe the pain?” The doctor’s leg was twitching and tapping against the linoleum floor - taps syncing with his dialogue. Clarissa hadn’t actually thought about the pain she was feeling, just that it was hurting. She took a moment to reply. “Sore, sore. Kind of hot and rashy, too.” Doctor Wehling responded with a hum and promptly left, off to find some cream or other remedy. Geoffrey looked up from his device and realized the doctor was gone.“Hey, where’d the doctor go?” Clarissa nodded in the direction of the door, hoping that if she didn’t say anything, neither would Geoffrey.“Why? I thought we were starting again...am I mistaken?” Throughout his schooling, Geoffrey had never been a quick learner. But for some reason, passive-aggressiveness came to him naturally.“I don’t feel so good. He’s going to get me something.” “Scale of 1-10. Rate your pain.” His frustration rose. Even more when she replied with “6”.

He got out of the guest chair, walked to her side of the hospital, and picked up a remote attached to the hospital bed. There was an icon with a cross on it to call the doctor. Geoffrey pressed it twice. Joseph Wehling, MD, was the only one in the kids’ play room. He was the only doctor in the hospital, for that matter. The doctor liked it here more than he liked being in the break room. There was a children’s show on the television in which a baby was in a science lab, playing with chemicals and mixing them to form different colors. He had on goggles and his diaper was covered by a lab coat. A beaker of purple mixture became orange and foamed at the top. Now there was foam all over the science lab. The baby rocketed out of the foam. The doctor became quite engrossed in this show until his pager rang twice. “It has been 103 years since pagers were invented,” he thought to himself. The medicine and technologies in the hospital had been drastically renovated, yet he was still using a pager. No one bothered to create something better. This type of dull thinking plagued his mind on triple-shifts. He slid on the linoleum floors all the way to the Montmores in Room 7. His shoes squeaked and he looked like a child. “What’s up...you called?” his head was halfway through the door. “We’re going to start injections now, thanks.” Geoffrey swiveled his head to and fro, his phone following him. “Well, I really should get her some numbing cream, but it’ll only take a few minutes.” He let the door close and Geoffrey caught it. “Let’s do it now, how about that?”

Doctor Wehling felt like he was in a freezer, due to him being in one. The storage room for the hospital was half a warehouse, converted when CRISPR serum was first made available to the public. CRISPR serum had first been introduced in the early 21st century. The United States Organization for Natalism, a subdivision of the Department of Health and Human Services, made it available in the early 2030s. It was modified before being released to the masses to reduce the time one carries a fetus. Semen and Egg combined in dishes and glass slides to be developed in incubation chambers for 3.5 months. Female participants only needed to supply eggs and participate in an expedited gestation.

The doctor was searching for the Montmore supply of birth-making material. He found it in the M-R section and pulled out a few dishes worth. Walking to the table, his foot slipped and he nearly lost his balance. Realizing he had grabbed the sperm of a Mr. Dustin Oriver instead of the Montmores', he quickly went back and switched them out. This time he took a different route to the hospital room, passing a heat source that cried carbon and salty tears. “I’ll worry about it later...worry about it later…” Liquid bubbled in the syringe, and the needle sliced through Clarissa’s skin. The doctor pushed down on the handle until serum and air alike had left their vessel for a new one. He slid the needle out and swapped the empty syringe for a new one. This process repeated itself three more times. The injections combined in her womb to turn a cell into an embryo, an embryo into a fetus, and a fetus into a child. This process took less than an hour and Geoffrey was in agonizing, torturous pain. The constant stream of media and entertainment he had become accustomed to was losing his interest. Several devices were at his side and a few more sat in Clarissa’s hospital kit. None of these interested him. Geoffrey folded himself on the guest chairs and tried to sleep, a classic solution to boredom. His phone buzzed and shook the table with a vibration, as did several other devices in the hospital room. He stood up straight and resumed the dulling of his mind.

Clarissa screamed out into her box of captivity, her cries pouring out of the hospital room. Contractions had let themselves into the bleak room, a common visitor by now. She screamed at them. She screamed for her parents, for her love in the guest chair, for relief from pain. She screamed for help. It did not come for another 25 minutes. On March 14, 2039, Piers Andrew Montmore began his stay on Earth. He would not be checked in for long. Geoffrey first looked up from his phone when he heard a scream that didn’t belong to his wife. He noticed a helicopter outside the floor-to-ceiling window, flashing yellow. It flew past in a blur of light and Geoffrey diverted his attention to Clarissa and yet another infant. The doctor did not plan to introduce a boy who had been born six times already. He carried him from the hospital bed straight to the baby scale: 6.3 pounds.

Geoffrey slowly got up from his chair, mumbling. “I’m not...quite...done with his exam yet, you can sit back down.” The doctor went away from the scale to write on Piers’ chart. Geoffrey picked up the child and hung him upside down by his abdomen. For Piers, this would be somewhat of a midlife crisis. Geoffrey looked at him from different angles, continuing to mumble and mutter. He stared at the doctor’s back and spoke. “His feet. Feet are all jacked up, see?” Geoffrey held the baby to the doctor. The first time Geoffrey behaved in this matter, it frightened the doctor. Now he began to question if all newborns weren’t treated in such a manner. Geoffrey was right, Piers’ left foot was smaller than his right and missing half of the big toe. Like Clarissa, the doctor said nothing in the hopes that Geoffrey wouldn’t either. But like Clarissa, the doctor could not escape the conversation. Geoffrey tapped him on the shoulder, “I just think we can get this thing right, don’t you? Couple more times, is all we need.” The doctor was desperate, “It’s a condition common among newborns...actually...not that rare. Should heal with time,” the doctor lied. Geoffrey half-believed him, “Does...it have a name?” Now the doctor was in a predicament, being that the condition did not have a name, being that it was not a real condition. He thought of names and could find none that sounded real. Geoffrey could verify his falsehood with a phone, anyhow. The doctor confessed, pleading with Clarissa’s husband. “I can’t quite think of it...but I’m sure--” Geoffrey was right, painfully right. His mind jumped a little, proud of itself. With renewed confidence he said, “Then we’ll try again.” Doctor Wehling took the child into his hands with a loose grip and exited the room. He would return later, empty-handed.

Katie Li

SIMONE BEAUCHAMP

BOX A T

Here I stand in my bubble. A crumb in a corner, Confined and constricted by bounds of consciousness, Unable and unwilling to spread and shape into Something new. It is not a box; It is a bubble. Infallible in its fragility. Afloat, floating along, undisturbed. A thin, glistening veil Wafting with the wind, Its shadow gliding below, A blot amid sunshine.

Children play below, Sunshine and smiles, Running, leaping. Shifting, fluid, Fragile in their infallibility. One touch, And then

POP It goes. A splatter, A shatter, A bubble burst. Falling, plunging, A glinting rainbow Splats onto concrete, Sinking into cohesion, Shadow dissolved.

PG #

Ariana Laboy Bonet

Kristen Hackos

AMBER ANDERSON

In between the rows of blue lockers with air conditioning chilling my bare, freshly shaven legs, I am kissing John Pearson. His hands are on the sides of my tummy that is exposed because my crop top fits so perfectly. My high-waist jeans accentuate my fourteen-year-old curves. I sneak a peek from my closed eyes still paranoid that my mom could come around the corner at any time. She wouldn’t be mad; I’d be mortified. John’s long eye lashes flutter as I begin to pull away, then pull back in for a close hug. “My mom will be coming any sec.” “Yeah, mine, too,” he smiles. He steps back and shoves his fists in his pockets, leaning against the locker. Sandy blonde hair swings over his deep blue eyes. I hide my swoon with a cool shrug. Both of our mothers are teachers at Kenny Guinn Jr. High in suburban Las Vegas, just ten minutes west of The Strip. We used to ride our respective busses home to avoid staying late at school, but since we starting ‘going together’ we hang around as long as possible, sneaking kisses, holding hands…the usual lighting-up of the teenage limbic system. We slide to the floor, leaning back on lockers, facing each other with giddy smiles. We play footsy, and start giggling when the footsteps and voices of teachers break the spell. “John!” sings out Mrs. Pearson, “Joooohhhnnn!” John winks at me and I blow a quick kiss as we both stand up and he announces himself to his mom. Mrs. Pearson and another teacher appear lugging tote bags full of grading for the night. “Oh hi, Amber! How are you liking Lord of the Flies?” Awkward. Mrs. Pearson is not just John’s mother; she’s my English teacher. “It’s really, really good. I’m almost done.” The enthusiastic “done” echoes off the bay of lockers. “Remember to not read ahead!” she demands lightly. “Mhhhm. Yeah. Okay. I just meant I was almost done with the assigned reading for Friday,” carefully correcting myself. My mind is on the savage scene with Piggy and Jack and blood and lust when I snap to–I swallow my embarrassment of the lie, hoping neither John nor Mrs. Pearson notice it sticking in my throat. As they walk out of the freezing cafeteria into the blast of heat that only a Vegas April afternoon can bring, John tosses me one more smile over his shoulder. Mrs. Pearson’s tired voice continues to carry through the echoing cafeteria. I slide back down against the locker, zip open my backpack, and eagerly take out Lord of the Flies.

LOVE

DRUG

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN FILLED UP? FULL OF YOUR DRUG IS MY HEART. THE DRUG OF MY LOVE SOAKS INSIDE, AN ADRENALINE INSIDE YOUR HEART. LOVE IS LIFE, AND BECAUSE OF YOU, I HAVE FOUND IT AGAIN. YOUR DRUG IS WHAT I LIVE FOR. YOU ARE THE REASON WHY I TRY. THAT'S WHAT LOVE FEELS LIKE.

Photography by Janelle Hailey

Upon

MANDALENA

PEOU

Quilted

Hill

editorial letter This year's Literary Magazine has been a journey to put together. How do you gather all the art, writing, and poetry from a year so full of experiences under one simple umbrella? Art is a human's natural response to challenge, to sorrow, to pain. And if there’s ever been a year full of challenge and sorrow and pain, it’s been 2020. So naturally, when looking over the submissions, we saw a variety of emotions and stories staring back at us. Eventually, we decided on two categories: loss and gain. We don’t have to explain these words to you; anyone who’s lived through these past couple of years is familiar with them. There are obviously very big, worldwide examples of loss: the pandemic, the political uncertainty plaguing America, and so many others. But we gained a lot too: some time to ourselves, to sit and reflect. Some peace, maybe. Within the editorial staff, we’ve seen a lot of personal examples of gain and loss. Family, friends, stability, predictability, safety: all of those have been at the will of the pandemic. We’re no stranger to the emotions we’re portraying in the Lit Mag. But our Magazine has two parts, loss and gain. And despite and in the face of all we lost, throughout the editorial staff, we’ve grown and learned, and we all made it through. We lost some and we gained some. And hopefully so did you. As you look through this year's Lit Mag, not every piece will resonate with you, but we, the editorial staff, hope you find some semblance of connection within stories, pictures, and works our community produced this year. 72

-literary magazine, editorial staff

Editorial Staff Editor-In-Chief Simone Beauchamp

Editors Crystal Li Mandalena Peou Georgia Lujan Meagan Smith Kathryn Hotzfeld Faria Khan

With Additional Support From: Toby Middlemist Demir Mikuli-Ozi

Advisor Kim Torpey

Cover Art Mandalena Peou

Eaglescrestlitmag@gmail.com

Simone Beauchamp

Editor-in-Chief

Simone Beauchamp is a junior at Eaglecrest High School, living a life of organized chaos. She is an avid reader of books, a dedicated runner of cross country, and a very occasional (and amateur) creator of art. Sarcasm is essential to Simone’s life, and she firmly believes it is necessary for her role as an older sister. Through writing, she has found a voice and a passion. She hopes her own writing will one day inspire someone somewhere --the same way authors like Angie Thomas, Elizabeth Acevado, Suzanne Collins, and so many more have inspired her. Simone is exceptionally excited to be part of the Literature Magazine staff, as well as being Written Content Editor of Eaglecrest’s news source, Nest Network. She is eager to be surrounded by so many wonderful creative talents and wishes everyone the very best in their own artistic endeavors.

Crystal Li EDITOR

Crystal Li is a sophomore at Eaglecrest High School. It’s her first year as part of the editorial staff of the Literary Magazine. She hopes to bring quality content to the magazine for others to enjoy. She loves photography, spending time with family and friends, and watching a good Disney movie. 75

Mandalena Peou EDITOR

Lena is part of Eaglecrest's class of 2024, her freshman year filled with opportunity and new experiences. She's taken the chance to join the school newspaper and literary magazine, and feels lucky to be a part of them. An advocate for all things stress-relieving, she loves visual arts, baking, and color theory. She is eager to share with the school the works of many talented people, as well as collaborate with an equally talented group to achieve it. 76

GEORGIA LUJAN Georgia Lujan is a freshman working on the editorial staff this year. Her main area of writing is poetry and enjoys making abstract art that correlates with her writings. Although reading and writing take up a large portion of her time, she also enjoys baking and music.

Meagan Smith Editor extraordinaire

Meagan Smith is a sophomore here at Eaglecrest High School; this is her second year working on the Literary Magazine. She enjoy writing, drawing, and answering the demands of her cat Honey. She's excited to be a part of this team and proud of all the hard work that went into the magazine. Hope you enjoy!

Kathryn Hotzfeld Editor

Kathryn is a sophomore at Eaglecrest who has enjoyed writing and editing since she was young. She has been a part of the team for two years and hopes to appropriately showcase the creativity of the students at Eaglecrest with the other editorial staff members.

EAGLECREST LITERARY MAGAZINE 5100 S. PICADILLY ST. CENTENNIAL, CO 80015 ISSUE #00