CCHS Fine Print 2021, Volume 2 by CCHS Fine Print

Staff

*portraits were drawn by Judy Chen

Abby Barnes Co-Editor-In-Chief “I’ve had great success being a total idiot”- Jerry Lewis

Viv Montoya Art Editor “Quack quack to a duck and a chicken too” - Nicki Minaj

Judy Chen “Sadge” - Stefan Kern

Mikayla Lin Co-Editor-In-Chief “noyce!” - Stefan Kern

Sarah Bian “I plead the fifth.”

Kalisi Loveridge ““I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Maya Angelou

Melissa Chu Co-Editor-In-Chief “I’m still thinking” Melissa Chu

Addison Smith “All I know is fine dining and breathing” -Spongebob

Emma Hoen “Don’t give up on your dreams. Keep sleeping :)”

Ms. Vernal Pope Our Wonderful Sponsor “The aim of art is not to represent the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance”- Aristotle

Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, It is with great joy and pleasure that we present to you Fine Print 2021 Vol. 2, the product of another year’s hard work of dedicating ourselves to the celebration of Creek’s artistic and literary talent. While we were fortunate to receive the highest number of submissions we’ve ever had, it was all the more difficult to choose which pieces we wanted to include in this edition. There were so many incredible pieces this year that we created two volumes of Fine Print. You hold the second volume in your hands right now, and we highly encourage you to pick up the first. All of our pieces were anonymously and objectively reviewed so that we could afford every piece an equal opportunity of being published in the magazine. We are incredibly proud of all our artists and writers, and encourage them all to keep pursuing their creative passions, regardless of whether we could publish their work this year or not. 2021 has been a difficult year as we’ve navigated through remote and in-person learning, all while handling global problems including the pandemic. We’ve faced tremendous changes in a very short timespan, but we’ve managed to keep going forward every single time. Thanks to everyone’s efforts and hard work, we’ve been able to develop to match the changes. Whilst reviewing our magazine, we saw these changes reflected in the pieces of our artists. While there were many times where everything seemed overwhelming and hopeless, we eventually learned how to fight and keep living. We decided to use what we saw in our pieces to inspire the theme of our magazine. Deciding upon a theme for every edition of the magazine is always an organic process, based on the impressions that our submissions as a whole provoke as we discuss each one in a socratic seminar-like process. Our theme this year is growth, based on the events of 2021 (and, of course, the year before it). Our experiences this year have shaped who we’ve become. As we reviewed the works of our artists, we could see the pieces display a narrative of happiness, despair, perseverance, and finally, reflection. The first volume of Fine Print 2021 illustrates life during the childhood to teen years. The second volume illustrates adulthood to death and after. Be on the lookout for the order of our art pieces, as it illustrates a story of its own. These incredible works will have you look into your own growth throughout the year. We hope you can take some time to reflect on your experiences and appreciate all you’ve managed to do, no matter how small it may seem. We three editors take great pride in the magazine we’ve put together this year and have taken great efforts to publish this magazine in order to showcase the amazing talents of our community. We hope this magazine will resonate with you and encourage you to keep moving forward, no matter how trying the times may be. Keep going and keep growing.

With kind regards, Abby Barnes, Melissa Chu, and Mikayla Lin Co-Editors-In-Chief

Table of Contents Talking to myself - Abby Barnes A Garden of Flowers - Melody Nigam If I Had Known - Miri A Wish at Dusk - Briana Chen Untitled - Mahi Chalicham Roads, Rivers, Railroads - Angelia Long Changes - Rachael Gladu Oh, to be Young in America - Sanya Bhartiya Legal y Seguro - Andrea Lan City of Dreams - Yunseo Jung the melting pot has boiled over - Kalisi Loveridge Lies - Anonymous

Talking to myself - Abby Barnes Milk - Anonymous She - Priya Bhavikatti Evanesce - Leena White Rose - Andrea Lan DYNAMIC TAXIDERMY - Esha Sury Untitled - Sydney Lang Untitled - Sydney Lang Artorias the Abysswalker - Micaela Adam Dragon Slayer Ornstein - Micaela Adam O! King of Dreams - J.G. Margos The Shovel Soldier - _______ In Faithful Knighthood - _______ to victory, soldier - Zachariah Gibbons A Guest - Laura Lambuth Ink - Anonymous Grandpa Ben - J.J. (Jahnavi K) Untitled - Victor Stamenkovic Relic - Abby Barnes Sickness Come In Too Many Ways - Grace E. Galligan Persephone’s Pomegranates - Saloni Agarwal

Cover 1 2 4 5 6 7 9 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 22 23 23 24 25 26 27 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

The God - Victoria Schnell The Tooth Tree Grove - S.W. Haven - Anrem Untitled - Hunter Bryant Untitled - Brinklee Swanson Connections - Priya Bhavikatti Acknowledgements

36 38 39 40 41 42 43

A Garden of Flowers Melody Nigam

If I Had Known Miri

Maybe if I had known-- but then again, no. That was before. Before the crater appeared on the moon, the debris dotting the eastern hemisphere with holes. Before my children and my children’s children returned to the earth. Before the sky turned black and the planet froze. Before the rain caused cancer. Before that starless sky was set ablaze, casting the entire earth in endless light, looking so much like a miracle that we ignored the hole in the sky. Before the seas boiled and the world was left uninhabitable to all but me. It feels like just yesterday that I prayed to god for a few more years. What a fool I was. That was before my body was too thin to move, my skin more cracked than the desert rocks I lay on, before the radiation filled my head with unending static. The sun is much brighter now, and soon it will consume me. 2

I hope that is the end of my story. As I lay here, paralyzed under the twilight sky, I can finally see stars again. Two rows of them, right below the moon, curved like a gargantuan mouth laughing at me. The moon stares down at me, the crater in its center so dark it threatens to rend my mind asunder; pure, unadulterated vantablack, boring into my soul. Maybe if I’d known, I could have avoided its gaze.

A Wish at Dusk Briana Chen

Untitled Mahi Chalicham

Untitled 5

Mahi Chalicham

Roads, Rivers, Railroads Angelia Long

Changes Rachael Gladu

October 3, 2017, 12:07 a.m.: “Rachael Gladu?!” I hear my name called pulling me out of my slumber. My mind is foggy and my vision blurred, as I open my bedroom door. My hands uncontrollably quiver as I’m face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. Nothing has ever awakened me quite like the rush of adrenaline as my fight or flight response kicks in. My passive nature forces me to hide behind my door, only showing my ghostly pale face. My vision clears, allowing me to see a group of police officers in riot gear in front of me.

- I had never been good with change as a child. I’d cry if plans were canceled, have panic attacks if due dates shifted; I even had my whole life planned out by the time I was twelve. As kids, we’re taught that a parent is a constant in our world, so naturally, I viewed my dad’s presence as an area of control. He was my rock, best friend, and only support system; however, all the security he provided was stripped away in a matter of seconds. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been expecting them that night. My parents knew that my dad’s boss had someone break into her home, slit her throat, and rob her; she insisted my dad did it. That’s how I started high school: my dad being arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. He was in jail for five months until he was out on bail. His trial date was January 11, 2019. I was certain he was going to be found innocent and stay home, but I was wrong. I came home on December 30, 2018; my dad was in tears. He had to take a plea the next day because it was impossible to prove him innocent; the evidence was circumstantial. I spent that night crying over the loss of life as I knew it. My innocent father was sentenced to 25 years in prison. My mind spiraled. I was desperate for control where I had none. All I could think about was how my dad wasn’t going to watch me graduate, go to college, or walk me down the aisle. I fell down the rabbit hole I had been digging for years. I had outbursts where I’d bawl for seemingly no reason. I couldn’t bring myself to do my schoolwork because I thought that if I failed high school until my dad was out, I wouldn’t have to move on without him. I just wanted things to slow down, but life didn’t stop.

I had a gun pointed at my face, yet I was still unwilling to accept that my life was changing. I grew comfortable with feeling miserable; depression and self-destruction became my new constant. I was poisoning every area of my life because I was too stubborn to admit that my choices were hurting, not helping. This slow build lead to me nearly attempting suicide. That was my breaking point. I was terrified of myself. My obsession with control had caused me to lose control of myself. I needed to accept a new normal, because if I didn’t, it would have killed me. I assumed I was stuck, but I was actually choosing to dwell on my grief. My dependency on control was merely a way to deflect from my suffering. With the knowledge I‘ve gained, I no longer view change as a bad thing. Change is the catalyst for growth and growth is the foundation of life. We fear change for its uncertainty, yet change is the only thing we can be certain of. I acknowledge that I was in a traumatic situation, but that situation no longer defines me. My relationship with life is finally healthy. I’ve accepted change, because embracing change is welcoming life, and I am finally ready to live.

Oh, to be Young in America Sanya Bhartiya

Oh, to be Young in America. To worry no further than the shade of pink of your crop top or the plastic diamonds on your prom queen crown or which girl you’re going to kiss at the dance or whether or not that girl will be breathing because of the knife that she keeps in her car for the moment she gets an F on a test or because of the pills that she started taking after meeting the boy who didn’t ask for permission or because of the street where she moved after she told her parents that she wasn’t a boy or because of the man on that street with a shotgun who thought her skin was too dark to be safe or because of the accident 9

that she was in during the worst snowstorm in the last hundred years or because of the gunshots that accompanied screams resounding in the school hallway or because of the air that she inhaled near someone who decided that placing cloth on their face was an infringement of their personal liberty. Oh, to be Young in America. To see no further than the six inch diagonal of glowing cool light that speaks of numbers of likes on endless selfies or which celebrity couple is spending their Christmas in Cabo or the multitude of videos to waste time watching like the one of someone sobbing and shaking under their desk, praying that the lifetime of drills worked

or the one of the man who screeched for help until the sound of his voice would forever be silent or the one of the state that will be entirely submerged in only fifty years or the one of luscious green foliage engulfed in ashen orange and grieving gray or the one of the curve getting steeper in the wrong direction as doctors witness carnage equivalent to war or the one of shattered glass and tattered ballots and insidious shirts and flags and grins that you thought was a scene from a movie until it wasn’t.

how to embrace natural selection all in one generation adapting adapting adapting how to cope with being completely and utterly powerless

as everyone around you falls into phantoms and you wonder whether now is the time to mourn them or to join them and above all, to be immensely and unstoppably grateful for the Wonder in dulcet chirping of birds against the golden sun in the morning Oh, to be Young in America. for the Warmth To learn no further in a mother’s hug when bulbs of snow glide down from the sky than the outline of the face of the boy with swoopy hair for the or the words of archaic fiction that could never come true Comfort in clean water, central heating, mattresses, and access to or the equation on the whiteboard that doesn’t exist food because it’s a Powerpoint presentation while they are all still here and for the very entrance and exiting of breath from your replaced by the silver lessons of the wrinkled: lungs how to watch as the uncontrollable and unexplainable because if you’re not mutilate the breath might never return. the dreams the hopes the loves

Oh, to be Young in America. To be pressured no further

every forest will be thriving every head will be above water and every breath will be permitted to be easy.

than the decision of which nearly identical beanie to wear Oh, to be Young in America. today or the laughter of the students observing your collapse in the cafeteria or the scarlet letter inscribed at the top of your paper which you are told is the very basis of your humanity just as you are told that whatever precedes “U” is the endgame of existence just as you are told that blinking is a waste of eyesight if no money is on the table just as you are told that the apocalypse is creeping closer in this timeline that you are the Solution by those who thwart your attempts to do so by being complicit responsible for or active in the problem. And ultimately, to hopeless Hope that we are not helpless that we may Triumph in trying to temper the troubles and transgressions and prolong and perfect the Progress of the present and past so that one day 11

Legal y Seguro Andrea Lan

City of Dreams Yunseo Jung

the melting pot has boiled over Kalisi Loveridge

oh America, land of the freely giving, readily loving, and openly compassionate; home of the brave who answer the call to arms, the calls for aid, the calls of Karens unhappy with their Amazon orders.

making cents to a man’s dollar, because, America, there is no sense, only convenience, in pausing the game when you’re already winning in a system that we the people have borne and still bear on breaking backs—this, America, is our breaking point.

oh America, land of those free to speak hatred with uncovered faces and go unpunished, home of those brave and brazen enough to walk into our Capitol bearing zipties and brandishing firearms because they expect to walk out free.

because America, this is bullshit.

oh America, within you sounds the suffering of those whom you suffer to live in squalor,

and as you’ve already segregated my lineage, you will please presidentially pardon my language, because out of all the groups and peoples you have worked against, my white fraction was never one of them. ew, America. 14

Lies

Anonymous They weren’t always lies. Just half-truths. Exaggerations. Stories. They weren’t always big. Just slight slips of the tongue. Accidents. They just Slipped They weren’t always so effortless. It used to be a struggle. A baby bird, yearning to escape its shell. But the bird gave up. And the lies got easier and easier. Falling from my lips over and over. Tumbling from my mouth in ugly chunks of broken glass. Again and again Until they became easier than the truth. They couldn’t be brushed off anymore. The lies clung to me Hooked into my skin like a stubborn thistle. Inescapable. And they became poison. Eating away at my mind

Leaving only festering wounds. A toxic shield isolating me. Rotting through my very bones. Flowery but empty. Meaningless All the more meaningful for it. A house made of paper that I can’t stop building. So easy to burn Leaving only worthless ashes The lies consumed me. My hair, my clothes. My act. My self. All fake. Expanding Until I looked in the mirror And found a stranger gazing back at me. With hollow eyes And a vacant soul.

Talking to myself Abby Barnes

Milk

Anonymous my lungs are filled with milk my lungs, yes, and my scarlet pumping drum to run the whitest ink overflowing past my thumbs unnumbed, to fall in love with vowels first, i had to hear him say it i didn’t know my ribs would thirst or squeeze the palest liquid insipid, overspilling out a river of milk and inky trout calling me American Beauty the river eats my thoughts and chews holes in the humming of my lungs singular thrum from british kingdoms two suns that do not rise at the same time line by line, his consonants makes every thighbone ache his first thoughts and his last thoughts either side of sleep keeps my whitest ink-soaked teeth by whispering an american, a beauty i never willingly drank this drink before but

She

Priya Bhavikatti

Evanesce Leena

White Rose Andrea Lan

DYNAMIC TAXIDERMY Esha Sury

Start with how we were so tightly hung, clasped like flaking snakeskin in supple hands. I scream to anger the silence of my hollowed skin. Opening my eyes, and then looking through my skin’s eyes the light burns my throat in two circles. I forgot my wings, I forgot my virility. I forgot my own dimension, I forgot my own frame. I forgot my own name, commodified. I am often thick-skinned, consuming. Through my eyes I see Woman. Fingers rattle iron bars suspended. Woman loses herself, Woman is lost. Iron snaps, cuts skin, vein, nerve. Woman bleeds. I flinch, I shriek. Tota mulier in utero. My hands are horns and in fists I pray to shed skin which is not mine. I imagined we all lived like water, uneasy for the cage. Child is disguised like Mammoth, Child is exploited. But truly we all once lived like eroded soil. Not for harvest, digging to grow out of ourselves. Digging, weeding, soil still erodes. Flesh cuts like a great fjord. Girl lies on the exhibit floor, thinking her blood holds great depth. Man stands in glass, shards, gazing soulfully at my own frailty through my skin’s eyes. Tell me you will not forget that you still have a spine when your forehead kisses the glass, body leaning diagonally to glance at the void beneath us. My own skin cannot see the horizon being violently censored. This is our ecosystem, this is the promise that peace does not love us. This is how I see this saddening display, our souls bending, transcending, racing closer to finitude, but the skin stays still. Whims of a feral thing hung on the wall. 21

Untitled By Sydney Lang

Untitled Sydney Lang

Artorias the Abysswalker & Dragon Slayer Ornstein Micaela Adam

O! King of Dreams J.G. Margos

To dream of something that comes from nothing A threshold of a sleeping soul How does a dream become? A beam of pale On which he rides A golden king of sand. His hourglass sways And scythe hangs low. His face obscured; forgot. The king of dreams comes!

A nightmare to scare him pale. Perhaps the kid will scream and wake Perhaps he’ll sleep the same. Then back into the night, he rides. The sun comes up A true king Of bright and radiant shine. Then go, O king On palest horse For dreams have no place in the day.

With him he brings

The Shovel Soldier

In Faithful Knighthood

to victory, soldier Zachariah Gibbons

forward march! step one, step two, step one, step two salute for the ones who have fallen for the ones who still stand to victory, soldier there’s something inside of you that you’ve been pointing your gun at red dot in the dead center trembling angry you’re a whole new person under that big metal suit of armor to glory, soldier the cheers have died down and suddenly you are the one with the red dot square on your forehead the bastard at the end of your gun was yourself your mechanical parts your computer brain your soul or lack thereof we’re really in for it now, machination chimera binding of mechanical soul and ethological cloak monster to many and lover to some to honor, soldier your gun is down but there are a million red dots all over you everybody is enraged at the removal of your exoskeleton 27

you have been what you’ve been taught to hate all along a blind betrayal from under the flesh better get those engines running better start the program back up you can lose control at any time, yknow synthetic foe your mind and body are not your own you are a puppet of something much larger than yourself what’s new, though to the next life, soldier how does it feel to be what you love and what you hate at the same time red hot automaton ice cold individual maybe, if you line up the sight on your gatling and squint you can make it disintegrate the loathing the confliction maybe you can burn away everything you’ve been taught maybe freeze it maybe toss it in the atlantic ocean machines are man made can a machine make a man? you are man and machine decompose take the scraps left over and build away to become something newer forward march! step one, step two, step one, step two salute salute yourself suit yourself

do you believe that there is light up ahead? tell me mechanical man tell me toy soldier your squadron has deserted you half of your platoon is down you have been MIA I believe that there is light up ahead. and no it’s not an artificial light it’s not something out of your grasp it’s your own light an army is not a man but a man can be an army to victory, soldier

A Guest Laura Lambuth

Ink

Anonymous Drops of midnight Tumble from the ceiling, the sky Pooling in the recesses of the forgotten parts of the world Like me Teardrops of it falling, falling Landing on me filling, filling The maelstrom of my mind A silent cacophony Seeping through my eyes, ears, The tears of my carefully crafted mask Spilling from my lips and my hands Making trails down my body Puddling at my feet Until the puddle can join With others That understand this peculiar brand Of madness

They fall to the earth Each bead sprouting a world Each world a story Each story just as puzzling and wondrous as the next Filled with queens and orphans and burning kingdoms

After all Ink is just Tangible Magic

Fat raven drops fall into in my world Where the heros and villans and monsters exist inside of me Blooms of black radiate from the fragile fabric of my universe And I scatter pieces of myself in this strange labyrinth Weightless yet full of gravity

Let me lose myself In this endless maze made of paper and portals Let me out Of this mundane reality that I am trapped in Let me go So that I can find the pieces I have lost The puddles form into a river Let me fly Whose swirls and eddies are filled with power Soar through these spiraling ribbons of meaning The river evaporates Let these surreal bits of Until it forms electric ebony clouds Paper and ink and dreams be a part of me That collect into snow, rain, hail 30

Grandpa Ben J.J. (Jahnavi K)

Untitled Victor Stamenkovic

Relic

Abby Barnes

Sickness Come In Too Many Ways Grace E. Galligan

Sloping into our mouths, riding like Valkerie on the backs of whispers. Swirling into our bones. Rot and rattling breaths.

Hatred, parading as health. The angry red veins feeding a heart beating against empty air as hands pull cotton apart in long-dead fields. Long dead but still breathing like salt in the soil. Long dead but Sores in the coarse dirt of farmland, that still healing like salt in water, like salt in twist into green daggers. It rushes into oceans, teardrops. the rainbow oil congealing with salt. Seeping deep under the skin and farther up Sickness comes in too many ways. In the atmospheric tears, ripped like Too many to line up in a neat row. abandoned couches leaking stuffing onto Too many to dissect. the cracked pavement. But too many to cure? Synapse infection that sparks and festers With wild, growing darkness. Darkness like internal bleeding, like internal weeping. Coiling in the mind like serpents that spew poison, the way we imagine heroes die.

Persephone’s Pomegranates Saloni Agarwal

The God Victoria Schnell

It started with a pomegranate seed. Jack Roshan had been walking home from school when the petite pip had miraculously been placed inside of his jacket pocket. He rolled it between his fingers, not even questioning how it appeared in his jacket. He had been more focused on the several bruises that had just been newly traced over his body. He didn’t even question the out of ordinary events that continued to obstacle his way back home. Jack turned a blind eye to the bird that dropped from living in the sky to dead on the street next to him, he didn’t pay attention to the muffled sounds of crying and screaming that quickly came into earshot out of nowhere, and he wouldn’t even seem to acknowledge how the weather had turned from bright and sunny to a drastic change of stormy skies and pouring rain in less than a minute. Jack continued to play with the seed between his fingers as he began to change his leisurely walk to a sprint back to his house. But it wasn’t because of the dead bird, the disturbing cries of pain, or the sudden weather change that quickened his pace. It was because of the burning. Jack could feel it every inch in his body- hot, scorching pain that wouldn’t sizzle nor die down. It burned, it tugged from deep in his heart to the top of his skin. The rain hitting his skin wouldn’t burn out the pain. He was so close, barely a block away from his house when he fell to his knees, the white hot burning taking over his body. His bare knees hit the wet concrete with a thud as he rolled onto his side. Before Jack let the darkness envelop him, he swore he could’ve seen a rather tall figure appear out of dark smoke. He woke up in his room. Jack immediately registered the thin wallpaper that seemed to rip even more every day. He had become familiar with the smell of mold that had been littered throughout his house. He was no longer fazed by the cracks in the windows, the ripped carpeting, or the fist sized holes in the walls. What did shock him, however, was the man standing at seven feet tall at the foot of his bed. He was tall. Frighteningly tall. The man’s head was a mere few centimeters beneath the ceiling. He wore a black suit one might’ve thought would only be appropriate during a funeral service- dark yet ominous. His hair was a long, black weave of slickness reaching to his lower back. His face was cold and pale. Jack was unable to read any emotion behind the chilling black eyes as they bore into Jack’s body now sitting up on the bed. The man held one hand near his face, rolling the pomegranate seed between his fingers. The man spoke as a black cloud of smoke continued to wrap around Jack’s room like silk. The man then introduced himself as Hades, the God of Death. In a rough and smooth voice the God described that he had indeed placed the seed inside of his pocket, but for a useful reason- Hades explained that he chose Jack to leave the seed with to give him the power to kill anyone he chose as long as he ate the seed. When Jack asked why an all-powerful god chose to give a mortal this power, the god only replied: “I was simply bored.” 36

Well, there was more to it than that. The truth is, Hades had been watching the boy for six months, studying his life and mannerisms to see if he was a perfect option. He watched from above as the boy’s father often used his fists to beat the hope and optimism out of him. He observed the daily routine of school mates cornering him and using the same methods his father used to crush him to a pulp. He noticed how Jack would never know the love and kind touch of a mother, the one that left with a suitcase in hand long ago. And Hades knew how to use these facts to his advantage. An abused boy living in a poor excuse of a house was so filled with anger and fear and resentment. A boy with all these traits would go to absolute lengths to get what he wanted. The god wasn’t surprised when Jack snatched the seed from his hand with no hesitation, throwing it into his mouth and swallowing it whole. “And who is it you would like me to take to my Underworld?” Hades anticipated the answer he knew was coming. “My father. Please, just take him away.” Hades allowed a sinister smirk to spread across his face as the smoke swallowed the room whole. Jack was suddenly no longer in his room, but encased in a cloud of the dark smoke that had been swirling around Hades. He could breathe, he could hear laughter and shrieking, but he couldn’t see a thing. Jack caught his breath as two figures slowly cleared from the smoke- his father and the death god. The god loomed over his father, ramming a glimmering piece of metal into his chest over and over as laughter escaped his throat. His father cried in agony and continued to scream as Hades smiled with glee while bludgeoning the sickly man with the knife. Blood smeared everywhere- Hades’ fine suit, his father’s ragged clothes, the dull knife. Everything seemed to be covered in red blow after blow. Jack stood in awe. He felt no sense of shame. No doubts of his choice. No remorse over choosing to end his father’s life for a chance at happiness. He almost smiled while watching the god murder his father before him. He didn’t even realize he was feeling enjoyment. The smoke cleared. And Jack was no longer the observer. Hades and his father had soon disappeared back into the dark abyss, only to leave Jack in Hades’ position. Jack and his father were now in the living room, no longer surrounded by darkness. A blood soaked knife was trembling in Jack’s left hand, his right clutching the red smeared shirt of his father. He stood from kneeling and looked at the scene before him. His own clothes were drenched in the same thick liquid, spreading across his face and torso. His hands shook from adrenaline that hadn’t been there before. His head was light and he felt the world around him spinning. He killed his father. He killed his father. It was all an illusion set by the god. Jack stood still. He looked around the room to find that Hades was nowhere in sight. He looked out of the window to the front yard, and found his neighbor crying on the phone while glancing at the house in disdain and worry. He heard police sirens arriving in the distance. Jack could barely see the flashes of red and blue flickering among the houses reaching his. Jack looked down and observed the scene- He held a knife stained with his fathers blood. The thick, pungent liquid was smeared all over himself and the living room. There was no one else except him standing alone. “I’ve gained a soul, and you gained a lesson,” The familiar hoarse voice rang in his ear, “Just remember that for a mortal like you, taking another one’s life solves nothing.”

The Tooth Tree Grove S.W.

Haven Anrem

A safe place, Enclosed in flesh, bone, and blood. somewhere thoughts flood. A place where your secrets are stored, And went untold. A place you can’t control. An honest place, Where you can’t lie even if you tried. The only place of honesty even if to everyone else, you lied. A place where you can be yourself, A place where you aren’t judged. a place without any grudges. The only thing you trust, The only thing that understands, A place where you discuss. A place where you feel confidence, where you have independence. Free from all the rules, All the logic. A place where you can be cruel. A place where you get nostalgic. a place where your feelings are hidden. Even if they are forbidden. A place that’s always there. Underneath those layers of hair. Underneath the shield of bone.

Is a place where I have been prone. that my friends, is called a mind. Too honest but as equally kind. Always trying to help, trying to make you happy. A place that can hear your yelp. And knows when you’re sad. A place that’ll never go away, Even when you never asked it to stay. A place where you can think, And words are sent across, Imaginary paper and ink. A place that gives you unwanted emotions. A home to your passions and devotions. The place you should turn to when nobody’s around. when people hear silence but you hear sound. A place that’ll wait when you’re deep underground. A place that’ll save you when you’re lost. A place I call home, because that’s where I’m found.

Untitled Hunter Bryant

Untitled Brinklee Swanson

hopes and wishes that they will not get picked to be part of the wave, they hoped not to be rid on by people or dolphins. As the wave formed the water not chosen cheered and thanked as the wave chosen cried in hope, then the waters heard a crash, on the tan and droopy crash, on the tide pulls the injured and hurt water back in as another wave forms.

Connections Priya Bhavikatti

Acknowledgements There are a number of individuals to whom we are indebted for the fruition of this edition of Fine Print. Our staff is blessed to have the support of all of our dedicated faculty and staff members, particularly Principal Ryan Silva, Assistant Principal Marcus McDavid, Assistant Principal Darren Knox, Assistant Principal Traci Dougherty, Assistant Principal Kevin Uhlig, Dr. Krista Keogh and the Activities Office, Mr. David Stallings and the Fine Arts Department, and Ms. Kim Gilbert and the English Department. In addition, we appreciate the support of Mr. Jim Bartlett and the OneTouchPoint Press staff. We cannot express enough gratitude towards Ms. Alissandra Seelaus, who provided invaluable assistance in putting together every aspect of the magazine, from navigating Adobe InDesign to suggesting fonts and layouts. Most of all, we extend our heartfelt appreciation towards Ms. Vernal Pope, our amazing sponsor, for being our safety net and soothing voice of reason and supporting us every step of the way. We would also like to thank our colleagues in the staff, who helped us make this magazine despite the many extraordinary difficulties this year. If you’ve reached this part of the acknowledgements section, thank you for flipping through and engaging with the material that your students and peers produced. We are a large community here at Creek, and it can be difficult to communicate with each other at times. This magazine is just another attempt at bridging our divides and bringing us together. The Fine Print Staff of 2021

Cherry Creek High School 9300 E Union Ave Greenwood Village, CO 80111 Disclaimer: Any views or opinions expressed in Fine Print are solely the artists and writers’ and are in no way representative of the Cherry Creek School District, Cherry Creek High School, or its staff or faculty.