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LITERARY & ARTISTIC

Magazine

20 22 Eaglecrest High School

dedication

To the EHS community of young authors & artists You inspire us with every stroke of the pen, sweep of the brush, and click of the shutter. Keep creating.

Editorial Staff Editors Simone Beauchamp Crystal Li Sam McGuire Mandalena Peou Mila Schreder Meagan Smith

Advisor Kim Torpey

Cover Art Mandalena Peou

raptorlitmag@gmail.com

Letter from the editors Imagine this: you and your partner have been trying to perfect the waltz because a dance competition draws near. You began practicing two years ago, so the competition should be a piece of cake, right? Wrong. During Year 1 of your partnership, there was an unexpected shutdown. You only got to know your partner on a surface level. No deep connection was made, so saying a temporary goodbye was fairly easy. The problem, though, was that “temporary” extended to “indefinite,” and the thread between you and your dance partner was left flimsy at best. In Year 2, life resumed as did your relationship with your partner. You enthusiastically expected to pick up where you left off and were determined to become the best of the best at the waltz; however, it was awkward. It was difficult. Too much had changed. You both sought perfection, but you didn’t know how to be in the same room anymore, let alone the same dance floor. Your partner wanted to see more effort from you, and you wanted your partner to slow down. Your chemistry was strained, and you both kept stepping on each other’s toes. So often, that it began to hurt. You both had forgotten the basic fundamentals of dancing, much less the nuances of a waltz, so practicing was no longer a priority. We, the editorial staff, know this sounds crazy, but when we reflected upon our first year back from whatever last year was, we drew the comparison between new dance partners and our relationship with school in general. When the pandemic struck, we all took a step away from school. We tucked away our textbooks because our grades couldn’t drop. We decided to not communicate with our teachers because our grades couldn’t drop. During the pandemic, any connections we made were through black-out screens or N95 masks. We were confined to our bedrooms and home offices, wanting to connect but not knowing how. The following year, we were forced out of our bedrooms. We were reluctant to return to school and rebuild connections with our peers and teachers. We wanted to try our best, but the disconnect felt overwhelming. We repeatedly stepped on each other’s toes, trying to remember what school was. We were away too long. Enough time has passed for us to let go of awkward practice sessions and to finally waltz. A real waltz, without toe stepping. There can only be grace and elegance now. We all deserve that. This journey has been special and a learning experience for all of us. We hope that the journey will continue to be special for you. We hope that the artwork and writing pieces curated from our community will reacquaint you with everything wonderful and inspiring about school and to lighten any frustrations - or toe-stepping - you encounter along the way. Even though we would all like a few more practices, it is time to dance.

The Editorial Staff of Literary and Artistic Magazine

CREATE.

Simone Beauchamp

Jojo Brooks

The warm glow of the LED candles Created a smooth glaze over Her lifeless eyesor maybe that was just the embalmer Her nails were painted a pale lilac Her necklace lay boujee, it looked tight around her neck Her hair was placed in neatly arranged curls I’ve always loved her natural hair

h e r

Her dress perfectly ironed Her lashes curled to perfection Her lips looked different than they did before and her cheeks rosy with the content of death We celebrate her soul Her life, her heart But what outlives her is who she truly isWasAnd what our eyes take in today In this cold blue room And as the sounds of ugly weeps Infest the damp air of the funeral home Her coffin lined in lace, Her tomb sealed, Her pillow stiff,

mila schreder

We acknowledge the pain behind the only thing promised to her in lifedeath

There on the worn down dirt path Our bodies amble aimlessly Searching for a way to feel some sort of satisfaction In safety, In Living But not ‘living’ But Living A gift that doesn't feel like a gift is the mere existence of me And of you, of us

An invisible serial number on each of their wrists, labeled as the newest defeat in a world where there is no proof of your existence, A tally, grows rapidly but painlessly, it's familiar As this new body on the path lays in its own vanquish in sticks and stones, the bones aren’t broken There is something About the appearance of this corpse That brought not numbness but grief She had prosperity before I could tell

in a post apocalyptic world

But as we walk through this dimly lit world We count bodies rotting on the path Almost like a traveler’s game

Her ripped shirt, the worn shoes her cold hands For as i watch her lay there I cover her with leaves And say a prayer so she can finally rest

Tess Rosen

Broken love and sorrow reflected in glass; tender heart trembling; innocence stolen, even as the faint moonlight lingers in the air. The word ‘Father’ is seen through the dreary fog. Snow settles on her dark hair, and her ash gown falls still. She looks at her glittering watch and sees the pale stone her father lies beneath. Time comes to a halt, but the watch keeps ticking. She moves to the stone where her father lies. She gently sets down the shattered watch on her fathers grave.

She slowly steps away, feeling the ground move beneath her. She looks back, and there he is, a pale shadow of her father standing before her. She turns, and when she looks back, he’s gone. She finds an old, crumbled rose, and walks to her mom's grave, right beside her father's. She places down the rose and watches the flower come back to life. She looks back to her dad's grave and gently bends down to pick up the watch. It's fixed!

time Bailee Wheeler 11

Reagan Butler

Sydney Crouthers

i must be my own defense Freshman year of highschool, when my hair reached well past my waist, I went to seminary to learn. Seminary, for the fortunate who’ve never gone, is a thing Mormon parents send their Mormon kids to at seven in the morning to make sure that these Mormon kids become Mormon adults who pay tithing and go on missions. Freshman year of highschool, when I only wore hoodies, I actually paid attention in seminary. I sat politely, my legs glued to the metal folding chair as my eyes followed the teacher walking back and forth, back and forth in front of the chalkboard. And I’d wait. Wait to hear the Spirit, the Holy Spirit, whispering to me. And sometimes it did. And sometimes when I didn’t feel like listening to the spirit, I would stare at Luka Langston, wonder if he liked me, wonder if I could get him to like me, wonder what it would be like to wake up in his body. Luka was tall. Luka had short, curly, blond hair. Luka had a flat chest.

We were sitting in the hot tub outside of his apartment complex in early October; the cold air only able to touch you if you rose too high above the bubbling water. Sarah’s glasses got fogged over; I remember how she kept complaining about it. For some reason I remember admiring Avery’s waist as he got into the pool, wondering what it would feel like to rest my hands at the spot where it dipped, and then immediately after wondering if I would go to hell for thinking that. “I have a secret to tell you guys.” Is how Avery opened. It was me, my sibling, Avery, Sarah, Sarah’s sibling, and Emma in the hot tub. “I have a secret to tell you guys.” Avery said. “But I’m afraid to tell you it.” “We’ll love you no matter what.” Sarah said. “Yeah. We’re here for you.” Emma added. “Thanks.” He took a deep breath. “I think I’m trans.” Is all he said.

That was my schedule. Alternate paying attention to the teacher and paying attention to Luka on the opposite side of the dimly lit seminary room.

“We love you anyways.” I managed to say on behalf of Sarah and Sarah’s brother and my sibling and Emma. Avery smiled, and the night moved on.

Avery came out as trans my freshman year.

I got home and I cried. I cried until my pillow was soaked and my head hurt.

that you didn’t shiver in the car until the heat turned on.

Avery was going to hell.

Not late enough that I couldn’t wear a hoodie.

This choice was going to send him to hell.

I only felt comfortable leaving the house when I had a hoodie. I felt exposed otherwise, I felt embarrassed. I felt uncomfortable.

Outer darkness. Avery was going to be alone forever. He was going to be cast out from the light of God. And Avery was going to hell.

It happened right at the beginning. The teacher was about to begin his lesson, when he paused, tablet in hand, and said, “Did you guys see the person Ellen’s dating? They’re… trans… right?”

Why would he do this to himself? Why would he choose to go to hell? It didn’t make any sense.

I remember that I stopped fidgeting with my hoodie strings when I heard that.

The daylight came again. The next day happened. I’m pretty sure I went to school. Went to seminary.

“Yeah. They’re trans.” That was Rachel.

The question followed me, why would he choose hell? And eventually the answer came. It wasn’t a choice. He didn’t get to choose if he felt like a girl or not. And if he couldn’t choose, then God couldn’t blame him for it. He had no agency in the way he was created, and God only judges us on our choices, not the circumstances of our birth. That’s what I had been taught.

“Ok, that’s what I thought, cause I saw Ellen and her-” The word, the chosen pronoun, the pronoun my teacher had chosen, the awful dirty misgendered one, wiggled into my ear and I sat up straighter, more awake. “-together in the parking lot and I was like, that doesn’t look like a man, you know?” Teacher said, laughing his stupid little laugh in his stupid tan pants, his stupid tablet still in hand. Laughter spread across the room, the dim lights barely reaching the corners and my backpack resting uncomfortably against my leg. My stomach was twisting in uncomfortable knots and I wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else.

And that answer was enough for me. It happened in seminary. Late in the school year, but not late enough that it was light when you left the house. Not late enough

Teacher paused a little, weighing if he could say this or not. “What’s the deal with trans people anyways? Like, it’s kind of weird, you know?” “Just a little bit. A lot.” Someone laughed.

“One of my friends thought he was trans,” Josiah said. I hated Josiah. I hated his voice and his stupid laugh and his chin and the way he made me feel uncomfortable and like someone had taken a cheese grater to my back. He made me feel unsafe.

they’re sick. It’s like if someone had depression, instead of saying get help we said yes! You have depression! Good! Encourage that part of yourself! They just need help.” And all I did was shrug. And all I did was shrug.

“So he tried dressing like a girl for a day,” He said, his eye twitching like some kind of dead spider. The unsafe feeling was crawling up my back again. “And he said it felt really, really, wrong. I think they’re all faking it.” “I mean, they probably are. God doesn’t make mistakes like that. They’re all lying about it for attention.” I felt my words rising in my throat. I felt them sticking at the edges. I felt them spreading their wings and then closing them and then opening them again, the feathers tickling the top of my mouth.

That conversation stuck with me. That conversation haunted me. The words echoed in my ears at night. I spent a while just remembering, remembering the cream color of the walls and the patterned carpet. Mostly I just remembered the teacher in his stupid pants and stupid button-up, and the way he just got to let words, stupid, dirty, dirty, bad words, fall from his mouth as easy as bleeding. I remembered that. I spent a while remembering my response.

“Hey- have you guys ever actually met an actual trans person? They’re people who just want to be happy-” I began.

I just shrugged. I just agreed. I just let it be.

“I have trans friends.” Rachel said, as if that was an adequate defense for the words that had just tumbled from her lips. “I love them, really, I do, it’s just a little weird you know.” Rachel. I looked up to her.

I found myself lying awake in my room one night, sophomore year, tears streaming down my cheeks and snow streaming past my window, wondering why it mattered so much that I hadn’t stood up more for Avery. For trans people in general. Why I hadn’t defended them more.

“One of my best friends is trans. They have some of the highest suicide rates in the world. If it stops suicide-” I began

Why did I do that?

Was it cowardice? Was I afraid? Why did it matter anyways?

“Yeah yeah yeah I know,” Teacher. “I just think

“Why was I still stacking words, forming them into weapons, for a battle already fought, a five minute conversation that happened a year ago?

Part of me had known for years. Part of me knew that if I woke up tomorrow a boy I wouldn’t mind.

Why did I care? I wouldn’t care. Why did I care? I’d be happier. Why did it sting so much to remember the way people I thought were my friends said those things and the way they laughed and why did it hurt so much to know that I hadn’t said more?

I’d wear the clothes I wanted. I’d like my voice. I’d talk more. I’d love the people I loved and I’d laugh the way I’d laugh and I wouldn't hate taking showers anymore.

Why did I care? I'd be happier Why did I care? And that’s when I knew. Because I’m trans. And that’s when all of me knew. Said the little voice in the back of my head. That’s how I knew. Because I’m trans. I’ve never felt more trapped in my head. I wanted to get as far away from a thought as possible. How could I ever be trans? How could I be trans? I’m not trans. How could I be trans? But part of me felt relieved. Part of me was smiling and relieved and part of me already knew.

I don’t really go to seminary to learn anymore. In some ways, it’s already taught me all there is to know. I’m trans. People will hate me for it. And I must be my own defense.

Part of me had known for years. God, I must be my own defense.

anonymous EHS student

Emma Lamberth

Simone Beauchamp

her furrowed brows, her vicious grin, Her single façade drowned my thoughts like a treacherous tidal wave that I could hardly rise above myself and I hated everything about Her. I hated how she talked. Her diction fluently dragged itself along and rattled my mind. The raspiness and grit in her voice like limping on an arid dirt road, yet Never knowing what she genuinely wanted to say, she drained and drowned her thoughts, a muffled scream from the top of a mountain like A false summit upon a false summit upon a false summit, a mountain with an endless upward climb to grasp the moral of the story, yet my fingertips barely grazed the surface, A false climax burdens me in the depths of my soul, a pet peeve I have to overcome yet No importance was yet to be discovered in the tone of her voice, lacking depth: scripted. I hated how she talked. I hated how she walked. A slow amble with shoulders back, an abundance of confidence she reeked of yet lacked, A confidence I strived and craved for, yet had no intention of accomplishing. I hated how she talked. I hated how she walked. I hated her for who she was, yet I was lacking an image of her true character because the surface she portrayed wanted itself to matter more so I only knew her for her plastic smile, her wind-up voice, her fake intimidation upon all who sat at her feet, and A true narcissist if it existed, someone who believed in their own arrogance, someone who looked in the mirror and didn’t like what she saw yet felt the need to tell herself she did, and yet years passed of looking in the same mirror and somehow it hasn’t cracked off the personality that displays its appearance upon it, the exact same mirror distorting her to look like a monster to herself yet she was feeble at best, and She sat at her own knees. Yet now a deeper rooted issue lays itself upon her instead of the necessity of feeling perfect. Self amoration.

Is she her body? Is she her smile, her walk? Is she the way she talks, the cuts on her hands or the scars on her knees? It has taken an abundance of time to understand that that is not the case, rather, she is the dedication in her mind, she is the veracity in her veins, she is the person she wants herself to be. My past has taught me who I am, and who I am yet to be.

Mila Schreder

emmagin warner

a path i shall go Gabe Gutierrez

Walking through the jungle, a path I shall go. Slithery beasts wrap themselves around the weak – Kings with great, powerful roars stand above, watching. Minnows aimlessly swarm along the stream’s edge, awaiting inevitable death. Peeking through the bush, I struggle to find a place in this jungle. The choice is ours to decide where we stand as people of the jungle.

Inspired by The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien

walker edwards

connor tierney

trenna jones

s d e e s f o ab g a I was given a bag of seeds, made for planting my hope and dreams. I plant them into my creativity and watch them bloom with my ability. To grow the characters I put on a page, to water the stories I got with age. I root myself in the world I’m in and share them with anyone like mycelium. When my seeds are nice and done, they will turn into beautiful Chrysanthemums. Ones that I will preserve in this book, pressed in the pages is colorful hollyhock I won’t fear failure because I know I’ll plant seeds where they will grow.

ks o ro b ia d na 26

Tayti Wise

stay strong sunflower

Some days I don’t think I am happy Some days it’s hard to believe I can be… Happy enough to wrench myself out of bed Happy enough to trudge through another day With the whole world grasping at my coat I can feel their cracked fingertips scratch my skin But when I am dashing through the camphor trees Cool leaves against my cheeks The wind whips my tears away; the grass cushions my feet I am free to be me And I think now I know happiness And I believe that I can boldly be Happy enough to jump out of my bed Every morning filled with excitement for today I am happy enough to saunter into tomorrow To trust that I will get where I am going I am a sunflower gazing to the rising sun In a field of light And now it is easy to believe that I am happy

Soren Smith

amelia fast

Good Intentions Don't Always Lead To Good Outcomes Coirvose garrett

It’s dawn when Elo cuts off the last length of bandage, wrapping it around the wood-bound leg of the stowaway. The storm ended hours ago, and throughout the silence of night, Elo worked meticulously to bring down the stowaway’s fever. Though, after the first 30 minutes or so and a lot of banter, Atlas had finally broken and started helping Elo. That was before Atlas had been called to the captain’s quarters after the storm ended, leaving Elo to hurriedly, yet carefully, move the stowaway as well as any evidence of Elo working to the side room, where another cot and small wooden table reside. It was tiring, but after hours of taking care of the bumps, scratches and other injuries of his crewmates, Elo got it done. Looking back down to the cot where the stowaway rests, Elo again runs over the ridiculous list of injuries the man had: a sprained ankle, an infected bullet wound that grazed the right side of his chest, scrapes and bruises everywhere, a bruised jaw… what the hell happened? Elo sighs, shaking his head. Every herb, every bandage, every time he panicked over another crewmate coming in, he still doesn’t know what caused the stowaway’s injuries. Whatever the stowaway did to become like this, it sure as hell wasn’t good. Elo stands, stretching out his legs. Deciding he needs some fresh air, he makes his way out of the side room, up to the main deck, up the

rigging, and onto the foremast’s top. The view never gets old. Even after months, years out at sea, the way the sun’s rays hit the waves from the horizon is indescribable. The way the water sparkles under the golden light, turning the deep blue of the sea at dark to a bright, sea blue. It’s beautiful. -----------“Captain needs to see you, Atlas.” The navigator was terrified. Not exactly of his captain, but of what he may know. He, Elo, and Theor disobeyed direct orders, and now the consequences of their actions were catching up to him. He still remembers when Elo had proposed the idea to them: “Heron’s taking this too far, he’s like a, like a-” “Like a wall?” “Yes! Like a wall! He’s a stupid, cold, unfeeling-” Atlas almost chuckles at how stupidly easy it was to convince him and Theor. Elo had also tried convincing the master gunner, Edwin, but he didn’t seem to care. The coward. While being led from sick bay to the captain’s quarters in total darkness by Damien, the ship’s quartermaster, Atlas couldn’t stop thinking: Would they walk the plank for their actions? Get thrown into the brig? Dumped into the ocean? Some other horrible method to make them pay? He was nervous.

Damien had noticed too. Afterall, Atlas was fidgeting with the gold rimmed compass attached to his belt. He’d seen what was going on inside the sick bay, and he too didn’t know what to do. “Captain doesn’t know Atlas, you’ll be fine,” Damien whispers, falling back to meet the navigator’s pace. “Even if he did, he’d never throw you off or anything of the sort.” Atlas eyes him back doubtfully, but nods nonetheless. When the two reach the cabin door, Atlas pauses. Voices. He looks back at Damien, who gives Atlas a slight nod as if saying, “It’ll be ok.” The navigator takes a deep breath in, then knocks on the door. Knock, knock, knock. “Come in,” Heron, their captain, says, his voice distant. Atlas opens the door, and is immediately greeted by a mess. Books had fallen off their shelves and stacks of paper separated, leaving an obstacle course in the way of Heron’s desk, which is completely covered- miscellaneous scribbled-on papers are scattered under the maps, while quills and a jar of ink sit to the left. Atlas’s cot wasn’t spared either; another map is sprawled across it, with other accompanying papers filled with Damien’s messy handwriting leaving no trace of Atlas’s resting place. Multiple lanterns are placed around the cabin, the candles inside giving a warm, glowing light in the middle of the night. And then one of the things he feared came true: it wasn’t just Heron.

Four other people are in the cabin besides Heron, all staring at Damien and Atlas as they enter. Atlas’s eyes immediately meet Theor’s, who discreetly nods, a tiny but comforting smile present on his face. Don’t worry, we’re safe. “Atlas! Glad to see the storm didn’t turn you to shark bait,” the loud master gunner, Edwin, exclaims while climbing down from Heron’s hammock, Atlas snorts, bumping shoulders with his best friend on his way back to Heron’s desk. “Oh, so now you’re doubting me?” Edwin shrugs, giving Atlas his signature mischievous grin. “Is Elo doing ok?” Sebastien’s question makes Atlas freeze, the previous thoughts of safety flying out the window of his mind. “I haven’t seen him since the storm started, and I thought he would’ve come up to say something by now.” “He’s…he’s…” Atlas stutters, and Heron’s one uncovered, narrowed, eye meets Atlas’s own brown ones, emotions the navigator can’t quite decipher hidden within sea blue depths. He tries to muster up as much confidence as he can, praying whatever he says is enough to convince Heron. “Elo’s fine, probably busy with the crew as we speak.” Sebastien nods and Heron gives in, breaking the eye contact to instead look up and behind Atlas to his giant of a quartermaster. “Make sure everyone sees Elo and take a group to assess damage, I’ll fill you in later.” Damien nods, moving back to the door.

“Yes Captain.” Just like that, Damien’s gone, leaving Atlas like a lamb at the slaughter. Heron glances around the small group, determination written all over his face. “Now then, we need to decide what we do next.” And that was easier said than done. Early morning light filters in through the small window behind Heron as the six go over everything for what feels like the millionth time, doubts and worries hanging loosely in the air from hours of talking. “Captain, as good as this still sounds, we don’t know what else will be guarding the coins. We could walk straight into a magic hurricane for all we know,” Sebastien groans, re-reading the legend Atlas had scribbled out from one of his books from where he sits next to the desk. “I know Sebastien, but we have to try. The coins are our next step to freedom, to changing our lives,” Heron says, desperation seeping into his tone. “When we find and take them, all we have left is the map He looks to his left, where Atlas cleaned (or shoved everything off of) a spot on his cot, books and papers now surrounding him as he writes it all down. “Are you sure it doesn’t say anything about what guards the coins?” Atlas shakes head, sighing, “Captain, with all due respect, I’ve read this a thousand times just in the past 10 minutes, so believe me when I say there’s nothing there.”

“Ok, for the sake of every idea we’ve had, let's say we get to the island just fine- What happens if someone’s had this idea already? What if the coins are gone?” Theor wonders out loud from the floor where he’s sprawled out. “We find them, duh.” Edwin says from his position back up in the hammock. “How?” Copper deadpans from next to Theor, “It’s not like we have the power to track anyone. Plus, you’re forgetting one important thing-” “-What if the myth is just a myth afterall?” Atlas finishes, then a thunk. Heron’s head falls against the desk with a pained, stressed, annoyed noise coming from every fiber of his current being. “Good gods we need a break,” Edwin says, looking at the sad shape of his captain, who even though his head is still on the desk, nods. “Copper, can you go check on our stowaway? Make sure the storm didn’t set him loose or anything,” the young battle master nods as Heron lifts his head again, bringing back a little bit of his composure. Atlas’s eyes grow, desperation to not be caught growing. He glances down at Theor, who looks to be in a similar state, for a clue on what to do. There’s nothing Theor can do though, so Atlas blurts out the first thing that comes to mind“I can go Captain!” Atlas tries to volunteer, but Heron cuts him off. “It’s fine Atlas, Copper can handle a restrained stowaway, right?” The smile Heron gives Atlas is one too knowing, too telling.

His captain’s reenergized, his dulling blue eye now filled with something as clear as day- anticipation. Then Atlas realizes. He knows. His captain knows. He’s always known. And Elo doesn’t. We’re screwed. -----------Elo sits down, dangling his legs off of the edge of the small platform and leaning back onto the mast, letting the early morning breeze blow around him. His mind wanders, thinking back to the storm last night. It’d come out of nowhere; one moment the skies were clear, the bright blue surrounding the crew as they sail to the fabled spot of Crescent’s Coins. Then, the very next second, dark gray clouds covered the sky and the rain had started pouring down. They knew these coins wouldn’t be easy to get to, but the storm left the Illusion in a complete wreck- torn sails, lost barrels and crates full of supplies, beaten crewmates, and all it gifted them was a low morale. Everytime one of the crew had come to get checked up on, they’d ask Elo the same question: Is it all worth it?

Elo could never answer, but he kept asking it too. Is it all worth it? Afterall, the coins could be a myth. Atlas’s compass could just be a look-alike to the real deal. And the map, the last piece of the puzzle, could be torn to shreds by now. The Illusion and it’s crew’s whole purpose could be a lie. “Elo!” The shout of his name snaps him from his thoughts. He peeks over the edge of the top to see Edwin, hands cupped around his mouth in an effort to be louder than he already is. “Captain wants to see you!” “Why?” “He knows, Elo, everyone knows!” Elo’s heart plummets at Edwin’s words. “He knows? How?” Elo says, sliding down the rigging and landing on the deck below. “He sent Copper to check on the stowaway as a break from doing whatever the hell we were doing, and lo and behold he wasn’t there,” Edwin relays. “Atlas tried to fight, but Copper was already out the door. There was nothing we could do.” “He knows…” Elo mutters again in disbelief, wanting it to be a lie. But it’s not, and Elo knows that. For the first time since he joined the crew of the Illusion, he’s completely and wholly terrified of his captain. And there’s nothing he can do.

Angela Duodu

Nahira Perez

Illustration iIlustration Audrey Kopp

Audrey Kopp

Taste of sunlight, Painted with doubt. Time a reminder; A delicate warning. Fate a perplexity, A false hope.

Zoey Huckabee

annabell rassin

Bars of steel; they surround me, and they shake; metal pounding. Figures black in the shadows; The rivers are so

shallow

s t e e l

Maxim Karabushin

the cold truth - happiness avery Beach

Most people think happiness is something you can find; The journey can be endless. Navigating the world to discover an ounce of joy. Spending a lifetime scavenging for something indefinite. So, let’s put on our monocles and throw some ideas around.

Delight isn't something solid that you can touch or see. It is a chemical mixture of dopamine and serotonin.

You know it must be nice to uncover contentment in things other than a small orange bottle or the occasional occurrence of deja vu.

emma rae

savannah wonder

Hannah Chavez

the ailment blane natnael

Diagnosis after diagnosis after diagnosis. Life was consistently changing, and I didn’t know how to stop it. It stemmed from me then went on to affect the people I love without warning. It began with me: Type 1 diabetes. It progressed toward my sister: Type 1 once again. It then went on to claim my brother: epilepsy. Like a virus killing everything along its path, it took away the mental and financial stability from my family. My parents constantly arguing over money and distant families coming from afar flooding us in their prayers became a daily routine. Despite the rebuking of the so-called “devilish-spirit” that embodied my siblings and I, problems continued bashing upon us, with them intensifying each time. It was hard to talk to each other, with being raised in an immigrant household, it was heavy enough. We didn’t know how to openly communicate or confide in one another. The sheer embarrassment of our lives magnified. The embarrassment of a beeping insulin pump in the middle of class. The embarrassment of the foreign, bizarre smell of insulin leaking in public. The embarrassment of being told by elders not to eat any sugar because then I’ll “really be in trouble”. The embarrassment of walking down the halls of our old church, overhearing rumors being spread by gossiping aunties. “I heard her younger daughter is sick,” said one gossiping auntie while covering her mouth with her netela to block out her words from the rest of us as if we couldn’t see. “Really? Isn’t the older one sick too? What is she feeding her kids? I have to make sure to keep mine away from hers.” said another in response, clicking her tongue in pity. “Yesazinal, may God bless them.” the other replied, mimicking the pitiful clicking of the tongue. All of these things became a part of our daily lives.

As it intensified, my sister and I had started becoming accustomed to it. But seeing your brother on the floor, eyes rolled to the back of his head, limbs grasping towards you for help, and lips turned to a pale blue, there’s no getting accustomed to that. I can still hear the prayers flooding out of my grandma as she collapsed to the ground, the cries of my younger sisters, and the concerned look of worry shadowing over my mother. It happened again, maybe we were contagious just like the gossiping aunties had said before, or maybe there was some sort of curse put over us. Only God knew. Despite the bashing of this tormentous aliment, a string was created. One tugging between all of us grasping for attachment. Without it, who knows where my family would be. The transition from a closed to an open relationship had started. Suddenly the gossiping aunties and beeping insulin pump didn’t matter since someone next to me knew what it was like. My sister knew what it was like to feel as if your body had given up on you. She knew what it was like to feel so nauseous, it hurts to move. Seeing the toll diabetes took on my sister gave me another perspective. A perspective that had grown even stronger when it had started to affect my brother. The constant denying of the ache in which I went through began when I had seen what my family had been through. The silent, “I need you.” was louder than it had ever been before, amplifying through the actions of my loved ones. The string that had started as a single strand had grown into an entire spider web connecting us as one. My strength started to become my family. All of sudden, my shoulders weren’t burdened by an unbearable weight I couldn’t hold by myself. Instead the weight was shared with all my family in which it became more bearable and tolerable. This amazing worldly “thing” or “virus” became manageable despite how much it grew. Something so manageable in a sense that it didn’t apply to the definition of me, my sister, or my brother. In the paradoxical sense, the weight which rooted from my “devilish-spirit,” fed my resiliency.

Gael Bernal Vargas

Angela Duodu

flicker

There’s a moment Right after the match strikes the box Before it catches fire There's a moment after the light switch is flipped Right before the lights turn on There's a moment in the morning Right after the moon says its goodbye Before your brain starts humming There are moments where the world is dark Unknowing, shrouded Before the dawn breaks the sky People exist in a moment They burn bright for a second before fizzling But when they burn They burn brightly

Sam McGuire 48

Sam McGuire

Life, like the evergreen stem of a rose Can twist into unrecognizable shapes Spiral, into something we can no longer call pretty And as one spirals, like the brown torn leaves towards the ground in autumn Which float effortlessly towards dark places

spiraling 49

Savanna Becker

Grant Alfredson

expectation When I grow up what will I be? Will I be my mother’s scholar Who graduated from college; like my fatherWill I be my father’s leader Who inspires others; like my teacherWill I be my teacher’s color Who paints the world in dreams; like my grandmotherWill I be my grandmother’s writerwho shared creativity like no other Can I be my own Inspiration Who smiles in anticipation Of who she will grow up to be Will I grow up to be me?

Nadia Brooks 52

emmagin warner

perspective of black by meron zeleke

Black is the eerie dusk of a vacant soul. It is the thick smog of a factory and the heftiness of a storm. Black is every feeling bundled, unraveling until nothing. It is the shout of a wolf in the dead of night. Black is a blood curdling scream stilled by utter silence. It is groping in the dark, reaching for what is not there. Black is a nightmare, shrieking at you to wake up. But when the light of day is too much to bear, Black is the cold hand that welcomes you.

bhavsh kumar

until the end until the end Howard Williams

howard williams Age is a measure of the time we have left, even though it counts up and then down.

At birth, you commence it; watching your body die out. You feel your memories decay, You watch hope achingly slip away. You reap more, yet it expires in your palms, and when hope appears endless,

You grasp for more. Just maybe, at this hour, you'll see life through different eyes. But as the credits roll, as though life was a movie with no trailer, You were the actor. Who put on the show?

annabel rassin

Angela Duodu

Emma fertig

one day. Sitting here thinking-One day I’m not going to go to school tomorrow. One day I’m not going to be able to see my friends every single day anymore. One day we’re all going to grow old and forget About half of the people we spent the first 18 years of our lives with. One day some people are going to move far away. One day young love won’t be around anymore. One day I’m probably never going to speak To the closest friends I had at school. One day life won’t be this easy. One day all the things that made me happy when I was young Won’t exist. One day I’ll forget about the amazing time I had with my friends. One day I’m going to be too old to do the things I loved to do. One day my life will change. I say I want to grow up so much; One day I’m going to regret it.

Adia hunt

Tess Rosen

Emma lamberth

Avery Keller

achievement: the desert of joy

Lizards scurry past my feet. I hear heavy steps crunching the sand beneath me. Each breath of confusion, hardship, and regret tries to pull me down. My eyes blur as if they are telling me to stop. I slip and fall through the mountain range of sand until, in the distance, I see a small tree resting in a small clearing of green. As I drink from a small puddle, I think to myself: Although I'm still stuck. Although I'm still tired. Although I have a long way to go, This small achievement, This small field of green has filled a great basin of happiness that will keep me achieving until I have nothing left to achieve.

Miles Loomis

seven years, two feet She laughs. A short giggle, it is sunshine in spring, rolling hills of newly spring lilac, a ray of sun warming my face. Her lips part and a flash of teeth are seen -- a rare change from her usual poised politeness. Eyes alight and hair thrown back, my own expression has no choice but to mirror hers. Childhood comes rushing back, white water rapids of carefree summers and playground friendships. It is strange indeed to be seven years and two feet away, yet feel as if your feet are firmly planted in a different world. School, work, responsibility: you grow up fast.

Simone Beauchamp

w h o a m i ?

crystal li 66

Who am I? To you, I was a delicate doll, displayed in a glass cabinet. To you, I was a monster who created your worst nightmares. To you, I was a nobody, never there and never here. Who are you? To you, I was a disappointment, never meeting your expectations. To you, I was a hoe for chasing your man. To me, I was me. A girl lost in her own thoughts. A girl who only had a few friends. A girl who stayed true to herself… I wish. I wish I was that girl. The world constantly snickers and mocks, so how could I be that girl? So, who am I?

zoey huckabee

sensitive By Meagan Smith

Do they hear the sounds the way I do? Is the world as loud for other people? Is the world as bright? Is the world as harsh? Is my world their world? Do they see the colors? See the words? See the shapes See the patterns? Do they feel it? Do their minds connect dots with both no reason and every reason to be together? I can’t imagine not. I cannot imagine. I cry easily. I cry at sad songs. I cry at sad movies. I cry at sad thoughts. I cry for no reason. I cry easily; I can’t imagine not. Do other people cry easily? Do other people hurt easily? Or is my skin just weaker? Do I just hurt easier? Do I just feel it more? Is the world as loud for other people? Is the world this loud for everyone? Or am I the only one wanting quiet?

Emma Lamberth

the girl with the lists She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. She fingered the list she had fished out of her pocket. Opening her eyes, the sun’s glare was overwhelming, reflecting harshly off the metal swings of the elementary school playground. Squinting, she walked over to the swings, hands hovering around their metal chains. The plastic of the seat was hot as she sat down and began to swing. Lean back, push forward, lean back, push forward. Legs pumping, propelling her body higher, higher, higher, until the sky seemed within reach, the perfect blue hue drifting closer to kiss her outstretched hand. For a second she flies, before swinging back down, her feet grazing the gravelly groove beneath the swing. Once again, she closes her eyes, feeling the movement of the swing as her thoughts bubble up. Thoughts. Thinking. That was her problem. She thought too much. Or was it her perfectionism? No, it was her people-pleasing tendencies. No, it was her fear of failure. Or something else. Something that was at her core, that she couldn’t quite pin down, couldn’t quite fix. Her shoes hit the ground with a jolt, and she almost falls out of the swing as her momentum stopped suddenly. The list in her pocket flutters to the ground, and she stoops to pick it up. She began to walk quickly, desperate to outrun her thoughts. Her inadequacies. She knew she should embrace her flaws, accept herself, not worry so much about being perfect -- but it was easier said than done. Especially when perfectionism earns you the label “organized” or “responsible”. When being compliant makes you “nice” or “helpful”. She looks up at the blue sky, growing darker as the sun dips closer to the horizon. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe she was making a bigger deal of this than she should. There was no reason for her to feel this bothered by such feelings.

70 70 70

As she lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling in the dark, she pushed those dark, festering feelings of inadequacy to the side, determined to be her best self tomorrow. ******** The sun rises years later, the end of high school no longer a distant reality. Today, in 2022, the girl with the lists still exists, though listlessness is now a state of being that she can be comfortable with. The uncertainty was still there, lingering at every turn, but at its side stood confidence, and the two balanced each other out. Fourteen has long since past, and it seems the entire world has shifted. Not quite fallen into place, but reality is somehow different, clearer, sharper -- like an icicle after a cold snap. Change is no longer a terrifying prospect, but oddly comforting at times. Things will change, people move on, and new opportunities arise. And for the girl with the lists, the anxiety and the sense of inadequacy, though not gone, are tempered -- no longer constantly paralyzing. It is freeing to believe in oneself, freeing to find one’s own passion, to release oneself mentally from perceived obligations and internalized pressures. The ceiling no longer feels so low, the room no longer so dark. And the blue sky -- the cerulean dome that so loving kissed fingers on swings -- opens up into possibility. The girl steps off the swings, thighs peeling off of plastic. Her fingers brush the metal ropes and the seat bumps softly against the back of her knees, urging her on. She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. And took a step forward.

Simone Beauchamp

Tess Rosen

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Eaglecrest High School Literary & Artistic Magazine 5100 S. Picadilly St. Centennial, CO 80015 Issue #02