Idle Hands 2019 by Eagle Valley Student Media

IDLE HANDS 2018-19

IDLE HANDS VOLUME 4 2019

Eagle Valley High School 641 Valley Road Gypsum, Colorado 81637 1

DEAR READER, Welcome to our fourth edition of Idle Hands. The work you will find within this magazine’s pages reflects the complex and clashing emotions that many teens experience on their path to developing their personal identity. Sometimes we wonder about the nature of our actions, the expectations thrust upon us by society, and the unexpected events that forever alter our paths. Through creating, we get the chance to process these thoughts and anxieties. Through creating, we get to express ourselves. And through creating, we get to connect with others. Thank you to our contributors for striving to express the teenage spirit and the arduous journey of finding one's self. Thank you to our readers for their support. Thank you to Eagle Valley for making work for our idle hands. Until next time, The Idle Hands Staff

IDLE HANDS LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE

Idle Hands is Eagle Valley High School's student created literary arts magazine. The name of our publication is inspired by Eagle Valley's mascot, the Devils. "Idle hands" are said to be the "tools" or "play things" of the devil. We are Eagle Valley Devils. Art and writing are our "tools" of expression, our "play things," our work. This is Idle Hands.

EDITOR IN CHIEF Jessica Esparza '19

STAFF Blake Emory '20 Celeste Guzman '22 Aileen Mainhart '19 Lee Zimpel '20

SPONSORS Amanda Hawkins Hannah Shapiro

SUBMISSIONS POLICY Submissions by Eagle Valley High School students are sent by email to evhsidlehands@gmail.com with the creator's name and a title for the submission, or a hard copy is submitted to Amanda Hawkins or Hannah Shapiro. All submissions are blindjudged by the staﬀ of Idle Hands.

EMILY CONKLIN | PAINTING

TABLE OF CONTENTS 7 9 11 14-15 16 18 18 18 22-23 24

COVER 2-3 5 5 5 5 6 8-9 10 10 11 12-13 15 16 17 18 18 19 19 19 19 20-21 22 23 25 26 26 27

WRITING

SALLY McDONNELL MARIA MARIN GARCIA MIGUEL CASTILLO AVERY DOAN KARLINA FEDUSCHAK STEVEN MANZO LINDSAY ALANIZ JOSEFINA LAZALDE MADDLYNE SCHENCK FINN MOTT

ART

SILAS BERGA EMILY CONKLIN ESTHER SAN DIEGO ANSLEY STONE XIMENA LOZANO LEAH AOKI KEVIN CHAVEZ HERNANDEZ AILEEN MAINHART MAILYN GARAY ESTHER SAN DIEGO LEAH AOKI SILAS BERGA EMILY CONKLIN MACEE HARRIS HANS TAAGEN KORINA TAPIA CLAIRE WHELAN JACKSON VINCENT SYDNEY WEIMER LESLIE SERNA ALEX CARAVEO DECLAN MINER RILEY KROMER RILEY KROMER RILEY KROMER SETH BRETTA SETH BRETTA JARED MORALES NAVARRETE

ASPEN TREES THE FIRE WITHIN FINDING IT WHY AM I LIKE THIS? TOTALITY ONE SINGLE BULLET SOY DE TU SANGRE NACIDA EN MEXICO LIGHT AS A FEATHER WONDER & WORRY

DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY ACRYLIC & INK CHARCOAL COLLAGE CHARCOAL COLLAGE CHARCOAL COLLAGE CHARCOAL COLLAGE MAPLE, WALNUT, OAK TABLE ACRYLIC & INK COLORED PENCIL ACRYLIC & INK MIXED MEDIA DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY ACRYLIC & INK DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY WALNUT UKULELE CERAMICS CERAMICS CERAMICS CERAMICS CERAMICS CERAMICS ACRYLIC DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY INK & WATERCOLOR INK & WATERCOLOR PEN & INK

ESTHER SAN DIEGO | DRAWING

XIMENA LOZANO | DRAWING

ANSLEY STONE | DRAWING

LEAH AOKI | DRAWING

KEVIN CHAVEZ HERNANDEZ | MAPLE, WALNUT, & OAK TABLE

ASPEN TREES SALLY McDONNELL

I thought that Having pieces of myself Portions of my soul Stolen from me Was what love was supposed to be like You took them readily enough It made sense I had never been in love before And it was easy to forget That I was a whole person Not just an extension Of you

You were a shining summer meadow Haunted by a mountain lion Crisp Clear Beautiful Deadly A double edged sword Blinding enough That I didn’t notice I was bleeding Until it was too late

You fell victim to illness in late August Foolishly, I tried to nurse you back to health To ﬁx you Initially, Your bark healed over, Your leaves grew green again Yet disease still lurked Beneath your skin Toxicity transferring Between our roots I thought I was recreating you But in reality, I was destroying myself Now, as the last leaf Of my aspen tree is about to fall, I know that I am not yours to take, I am mine to give.

We were like aspen trees The world’s largest organism The world’s strongest We lived and breathed as one Little did I know If one of us got sick We both would die

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAA

THE FIRE WITHIN MARIA MARIN GARCIA

Why is it that, we, as humans seek admiration from others? Is it simply the fact that since infancy we need someone to hold us, to nurture us, and to love us? We go on with our day making decisions based on what we think society will approve of. Is perhaps our approval not enough? Is the fire within us dull and extinguished? The fire that motivates oneself to carry on and to love ourselves day by day. Did we let go of the selfconfidence, the self-care, and the self-trust? I am guilty of it too. I cannot seem to find that spark within me. The spark that once illuminated the mornings. The spark that had me excited for a new day. The spark that whispered in my ear, “Everything will be okay.” Everything will not be okay because we are broken individuals seeking love in all the place but within ourselves. Within ourselves, we will find real love. There is no bigger love than the love that you harvest for yourself. The love that will cultivate

smiles and happiness. The love that will start a ﬁre so big, no one will be able to extinguish it. You will feel a longing for everything that makes your heart happy. You will enjoy life itself knowing that the most important person in your life is you and you will do anything to be content with yourself. Now, you go with your day, staring at the sun, feeling its warmness kiss your face and admiring the birds and the smell of the air. You are thankful. You are grateful because you know you brought this happiness to life. You nurtured it. You nurtured yourself and you learned to love everything about your interests and every inch of your body. You are thankful because this love for yourself and for the world are within you. They aren’t built of fake promises and fake love from the people that surround you. Your happiness is yours and nobody - nobody can ever take it away from you.

AILEEN MAINHART | ACRYLIC & INK

MAILYN GARAY | DRAWING

ESTHER SAN DIEGO | DRAWING 10

FINDING IT MIGUEL CASTILLO

It was July 15, 2018. The final day of a three day Martial Arts tournament. This was my opportunity to face the best fighters I have ever fought in all of my eleven years of competing in Karate. This was my opportunity to move from the Advanced Division to the Elite Division, a move that would enable me to be eligible to train at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs, get sponsorships from brands like Adidas, and be AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA recruited for the United States Olympic Karate team. As I looked at my division of eleven other competitors, I thought about who I could be possibly fighting. I thought about whether I could keep up with the uptempo of this division. My competitors looked intimidating. They were bigger than me, and they had more experience in the ring, and we were all going for the same goal. But I was focused on my goal. Ready to go, I bowed to the officials. I walked up to the end of the ring and thought of nothing but my opponent directly across from me. We bowed to each other, the traditional sign of respect. The first fight, I was getting a feel for my competitor. It went by fast, but I saw how he moved, and I learned what to expect for the subsequent fights. In the second fight, I found myself annoyed. My competitor kept moving back, and I couldn’t get a punch on him. As time winded down, I landed a couple in, and I won the match. The third fight went by really fast. After three fights, my muscles were fatigued, and I was short of breath. I was hoping my final opponent felt the same. But when the final match started, my opponent had speed that I had never encountered before. That didn’t stop me from trying to achieve my goal. During the lengthy fight, my body felt like easily giving up, but my mind had other plans. I came back from a two point deficit with thirty

seconds left on the clock. In the final ten seconds of the fight, I gathered all the strength I had to take the lead by one point and make sure that my opponent didn’t score a point. The buzzer went off. I had won the gold medal for the Advanced Division of the World Karate Federation National Championships. This wasn't the first time I had won a championship in karate, but it was the first time I realized and learned to value how powerful being confident can really be. Now, in everything I do such as sports and school, I know I can actually overcome the obstacles that I face every day.

LEAH AOKI | DRAWING 11

SILAS BERGA | DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

WHY AM I LIKE THIS? AVERY DOAN

"Why am I like this?" That's a question that never gets asked when things are going well. I once went to who I assumed was a therapist to try and get to the bottom of this question, which I had begun to ask myself frequently while things were not, as you might assume, going well. To this day, I'm still not sure whether or not she was qualified to help me find the answers I was looking for. She called herself something like a "confidence coach" or a "grit guru," which I'm pretty sure are titles that do not require a degree from a four-year university. Upon my arrival in her office, she put a variety of scented oils on my neck and had me chant AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA a series of motivational phrases. My desire to answer the question outweighed my skepticism, so I played along, letting the guttural cries of motivation envelop my body. "I am strong. I am loved! I am strong!" After I finished screeching my desperate prayer to the confidence gods, the self-love tutor had me sit on a table and hold my arm out. With her perfectly manicured claws on my shoulder, she looked me right in the eye and asked a series of questions while pressing down on my arm with her other hand. "Try to keep your arm at a ninety degree angle. Push back hard." Alright. "How old were you when you started having issues with perfectionism? One, two, three, four, five, six-" My arm involuntarily floated slowly downwards. Her scientific explanation was that when my subconscious recognized the truth, my immune system would panic and cause my arm to drop. "What person did this event occur with? A teacher? Your mother? Your father-?" Drop. "Is it the fear of failure? Fear of new experiences? Fear of judgment? Fear of success-?" Drop. So, according to this lady an the all-seeing powers of my left arm, I had an interaction with my 14

father when I was six years old that made me afraid of success. I left my appointment holding a box of herbal anxiety teas, $75 poorer and more confused than ever. Could everything I had been wrestling with been caused by one thing that happened when I was six? Probably not, I decided later that day, as I was throwing up those herbal teas within minutes of ingesting them. I wish my psychic arm would've been able to foresee that. It's easy to want to pin years of steady character development onto one moment. If life was like a poorly written fanfiction, my whole personality and life trajectory could be altered instantly with one coincidental turn of fate, like a famous band's tour bus breaking down in front of my house. It's probably human nature to constantly be searching fro one turning point, one miracle, one uncanny twist of fate as an explanation for who we are. I wish I could find a singular event to celebrate (or blame) as the moment that made me myself. The thing that gets closest is probably the day, circa 2014, that I made my acting debut as the title role in the American theatre classic, "Mother Duck." It's highly likely that my brief moment of utter stardom was the origin of my current day love affair with all things dramatic- I was cute, the audience loved me, and I damn well knew it. I'm unashamed to admit that I still chase the love and affection of an unknown audience even to this day. That said, I highly doubt this is the case. Maybe personalities aren't created in one moment, but we have the ability to try on different personalities as we grow up. Like hats! If this is true, I tried on many hats in my middle school days, as it took me a long time to find one that felt right. (Unfortunately for me, finding a real, non-theoretical hat is just as difficult, as I have a surprisingly small head for someone who is above-average height and is supposed to be an adult. I won't deny that I've grown significantly thanks to my experience as a distance runner. This growth was never steady or gentle, like the painless growth of nails or hair. It was more like growing taller. The grinding, pulling, keep-you-up-at-night-

because-your-bones-are-literallystretching kind of growth. The kind where a million fire ants scurry frantically up and down the length of your femur, and scuttle around your kneecaps, but no AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA amount of baby Tylenol or leg AAAAAAA rubs from Mommy can make it go away. The kind of pain that everyone, no matter how tall they are, has to bear at one point. The kind of pain that has to happen. Just like growing cannot be escaped, if feels like there was no way I could end up not becoming a distance runner. Cross country is a sport that perennially attracts a large number of high-strung personalities, so it was inevitable that my perfectionist self would AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA end up falling in love with running. AAAAAAAA I have a particular affinity for routine and numbers, which are both quintessential characteristics of long-distance running. Success means reaching a certain number, and reaching that number requires a routine. Perfect! But, then again... maybe not. Running is a large reason why I landed myself in the grit guru’s office. My inescapable tendency to strive for ultimate perfection had created a harmful cycle of self-deprecation and frustration inside my own head. If I was ever short of my goals by even a little bit, my brain would shut itself down into panic mode and refuse to function normally. After a while, I had to figure out how to dial down this tendency to the perfect frequency. Too much, and I pummel myself over the tiniest mistake or misstep. Too little, and I fall into a dreadful state of the most diabolical human emotion conceivable: apathy. Teaching myself to care just the right amount was a difficult task,

EMILY CONKLIN | PAINTING

certainly more diﬀicult than any of the hills I drudged up or mile repeats I stumbled and sputtered through. But did being a runner make me learn this? Or did I choose to start thinking this way? Why am I like this? Have I chosen my personality? Did I remember to close the garage door? What is the meaning of life? As chatty as I am, there are a few matters regarding my life that I just don’t have a say in. I can’t change my race or where I grew up. I can’t change the fact that I have a very small head, or that my stomach does not agree with herbal anxiety teas. I can’t change my bad habit of forgetting to close the garage door (Okay, maybe I can. Just don’t tell

my mom that). I can’t change who my parents are, and I can’t change who likes me or who doesn’t or who has no idea who I am. The only thing I truly believe I have a say in is the way I move through the world. I choose to be loud and a little overbearing because I’m unsatisﬁed with a life that is subdued and moves slowly. I choose to sing and run and write because they make me feel like I’m a part of the rest of the world, a part of something bigger than myself. I choose to try a little too hard sometimes because I want to create the best version of myself. I want to create the best version of my world. So for now, my answer to the question, “why am I like this?” is, “because I chose to be.” 15

MACEE HARRIS | PHOTOGRAPHY

TOTALITY KARLINA FEDUSCHAK

The sunlight had not yet graced us with its warmth, as we had been hidden in the shadows too low to feel almost anything except the freezing air. The chill cut down my throat and flowed into my body, occasionally making me cough as I crawled my way up the rock face. Despite my stiffening muscles and numbing fingers, I knew my only option was to continue to climb, reaching toward the sunlight. We summited the Grand Teton with plenty of time before the the eclipse. I found a flat rock to lounge on, finally feeling the warmth of the sun on my cold body. I looked down onto the valley, and then back up at the horizon. My eyes widened. A darkness was progressing forward; I could see no movement, but I felt it coming toward me. My body stiffened in instinct to shelter myself, but my curiosity overtook my fear. I silently watched the ominous fog surround the mountains. Darkness suddenly consumed the earth, but then, in an instant the sky burst into colors illuminating the entire valley. I was in awe. The moon and the sun aligned perfectly, allowing for only the smallest ring of sunlight around the moon. Red, yellow, orange, blue, and purple streaked across the sky - it was an infusion of colors, not comparable to even the most golden of sunsets. The anxiousness I had been feeling leading up to the eclipse was overtaken by rushes of happiness, optimism, and disbelief the instant the shadows of the sun and the moon collided. I was perplexed, astonished. I didn't understand how in one moment the world seemed to be coming to its doom, and then could spontaneously explode with vibrant colors. I was astonished by the power of the sun, by the power of the moon, by the power of the earth. . . . I grew up in a world that did not consist of technology, it did not consist of busy streets with lots of people and tall buildings. I got to experience raw nature for what it is, how it was, how its supposed to be, the primordial places. Where humans have not conquered it, not changed it. But as I moved away from that small town, and I grew up, I become more involved in this new modern world. I still loved nature, but my perception about it changed. I started to think it was something I had to surmount; win against the wave while kayaking, conquer the mountain while climbing, and seize the snow while skiing. However, through all my adventures, kayaking the Grand Canyon, backpacking for two weeks, skiing rad lines, and climbing the Grand Teton to witness the eclipse, I began to learn that nature should not be something I strive toward conquering. Nature is powerful and scary and brings forth challenges. But that is the beauty, that is what I love. 16

HANS TAAGEN | WALNUT UKULELE

One single bullet, el ďŹ nal de una historia feliz, como un nino tratando de hablar, sin poder persistir

STEVEN MANZO

Soy de tu sangre Soy de tu raza Soy de tu lengua Soy de tu alma Pero I am from here I am from Colorado I am part of this I am here now Pero

KORINA TAPIA | CERAMICS

I am Mexicana LINDSAY ALANIZ

Nacida en Mexico, Raised in America, Zacatecas mi ciudad, Colorado a state, Chalchihuites mi pueblo, Gypsum a town. A Mexican life is like a ride on a bike, Mexico en mi corazon siempre estara. JOSEFINA LAZALDE

CLAIRE WHELAN | CERAMICS

JACKSON VINCENT | CERAMICS

SYDNEY WEIMER | CERAMICS

LESLIE SERNA | CERAMICS

ALEX CARAVEO | CERAMICS

DECLAN MINER | AIRBRUSH

LIGHT AS A FEATHER MADDLYNE SCHENCK

Growing up, my hair never fell above my shoulders. As a curly top Shirley Temple, I was used to the ponytails and ocean waves that attached to my head. That is, of course, if my mother decided to style my hair. Personally, outside of shampooing and drenching the mop in conditioner, I never paid any attention to the monstrous nest. My lack of attention meant my hair was always incredibly long, covering my entire back like a fuzzy cape. By high school, I grew tired of wearing this cape that no longer ﬁt me like before. The cape was now a rug of femininity and expectations. My wardrobe now included basketball shorts and all my dresses were lost or waiting to be donated. Skirts were forbidden and spaghetti straps only applied to my favorite pasta dish. I constantly draped baggy sweaters over my shoulders to hide my ﬁgure. Every pair of jeans was either boyfriend or straight leg. Form

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

ﬁtting clothes were my kryptonite and feminine features were no exception. The most prominent was my hair, which became a burden. It dragged behind and with it came a myriad stains that never left the continuously growing mat. Soon, the rug’s weight was metal chains that were anchored to the prisoner. With the stress of cinder blocks bound to my skull, I pressed on, subject to the mass of selfesteem issues, fear, and anxiety framing my face. Months went by and with each one came a wave of weakness. Like the waves in my hair, problems never ceased to appear over and over and over and over again. Every problem only added to the weight. From a kettlebell to an anvil. As strong as the chains had made me, it was time to lighten the load before I would eventually collapse beneath it. The bitter autumn cold stung my face as I emerged from my mother’s Honda. The Fusion

RILEY KROMER | DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Salon sign draped across the cream building. Each exhale from my nose blew a cloud of condensation through the air. The chilled air singed my eyes and forced them to water. The calm afternoon conflicted with my racing heart. As the Salon bell rang and the hair clippers buzzed a symphonic echo, I walked to the waiting room seats. The second guesses and hyperventilation flooded through my head, but the weight of what I was bearing covered the rest of my senses. My personal stylist peered out from a pillar and called my name. I rose up and prepared for a new beginning. We turned a corner and my gaze was met with a leather chair. A colossal mirror grafted into the wall showed me a front row seat to the main event. The stylist wrapped a new cape around my neck. A cape that protected me as opposed to my previous cape of restriction. I saw the throb of my heartbeat in my temples. She began by brushing out my hair. The weights had never appeared heavier. She took two small hair ties and binded the giant tufts of hair into two Pippi Longstocking ponytails. The scissors made their first appearance and she slowly positioned the blades around one trunk of hair, waiting for my signal to cut. I nodded and with a few quick snips, the anvil fell. There is no thud to this anvil. No broken boards or loud crash. The only sounds were from hair follicles breaking. Seconds later, the other lock is chopped at its stem. The stylist placed the protein strands in my hands and to my surprise, they felt lighter. No longer a metal plate or barbell of misery. Not even a rug full of stains. Just a clump of hair that used to define me like an Oxford dictionary. I clutched the two bundles of hair in tightly closed fists. A black rubber hair band tied around each handful. My sweaty, small hands shook in anticipation. The small particles of my own clipped hair tickled my neck and begged to be scratched. I sat on a whirly throne, black cape strapped around my neck, and a moat of locks circled me. The soft snips of the scissors cascaded up and down my nape as a comb raked at the remaining inches attached. My head refused to feel the effects of gravity. The shackles of hair were no longer chained to my scalp. The keratin chains no longer wrapped around my crown. The now unattached bundles laid powerless in my grip.

RILEY KROMER | DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY 23

WONDER & WORRY FINN MOTT

The car stopped abruptly. I held my right elbow thinking far beyond what my head could handle. I looked at my mom who was already looking at me sympathetically. “I can't,” I stammered as tears swelled in my eyes. My mom corrected, “Yes, you can.” My body felt a million pounds, and I could not ﬁnd the courage to move. My mom helped me up from the car, and we walked together into Shaw Regional Cancer Center hand in hand. Breath in breath. Tear in tear. In fear. The cool breeze suddenly chilled my bald head. The world was spinning, spiraling down to death. Side by side, we forced each step that seemed to be going nowhere. At the top of the spiraling stairs heading downward, I stopped. I felt dizzy looking down. My mom forced me take the ﬁrst step, and I felt a wave of fear press over me. It completely coated my body, my thoughts, my feelings, and my life. I took another step and felt my brain pound even though the cancer was supposedly physically gone. But the remnants would never leave. I took another step and realized my blessings of being alive. I took a few quick steps and stopped. I could see it. I could see what was about to happen. I could feel it. I shivered and thought of my dog. I would get through this for my dog. To hug him and scratch his favorite spot. I took another step and put my phone to my ear playing “Battle Scars” by Lupe Fiasco. I tried to believe that my scars make me strong. I

glanced at my ﬁrst IV scar on my left hand. My scars gave me character. I took the ﬁnal step and felt my eyes swell. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. My eyes fought to hold themselves together but they were overwhelmed by a rainstorm. Tear after tear my despair covered me head to toe. My mom sat me in a chair while she checked in. I felt like my entire body would melt into a pile of horror. The nurse said it was time. Blinded by the tears raging from my face, I struggled to rise and walk back. I was against the world. When I got to the exam room, I slunk into the chair feeling as if I would explode into a million pieces of hate. My elbow was forced onto the tray. It was wiped with an alcohol prep pad. I tried to calm down but could not. “Here we go!” the nurse exclaimed as she inserted the needle in my beaten up vein. My blood rebelled, refusing to be drawn up by the needle. It said no. No more. It had a voice, begging to be heard. But it wasn’t. “Let's use the other elbow,” the nurse said as she pulled the needle out. I was crushed, defeated and not ready to try again. She wiped it quickly and inserted a new needle. I could do nothing to stop it. Absolutely nothing except hope. “We got it,” she said and proceeded to draw out my blood for what felt like hours. That’s how it was every week. It was my life.

RILEY KROMER | DIGITIAL PHOTOGRAPHY

SETH BRETTA | INK & WATERCOLOR

JARED MORALES NAVARRETE | PEN & INK