Graphite Volume 3

Editor’sNOTE

Dreams are something we all have, at one point or another. From the wild imaginations of a six-year-old to the zonings out of a high schooler, we all have our own dreamscape.

At the heart of our first section, inception, is the celebration of small beginnings. All dreams start with something, whether it be a whisper of an idea in your mind or someone else’s whisper into your ear. As Leonardo DiCaprio’s character said in his 2010 film Inception, “What is the most resilient parasite? Bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm? An idea.” The pieces in this section capture a vitality of life, a vitality often most present at the inception of an idea.

Our second section, melancholy, shifts the focus to a more somber tone as our contributors explore the darker side of reality. This section discovers the silver lining–yes, melancholy is bitter, but its bitterness makes the sunshine of tomorrow even brighter. Dreams can be scary, but their ability to push you out of your comfort zone makes them all the more precious.

In a stark juxtaposition, euphoria ends off our publication with a bang, paying homage to the happy chaos and pure excitement a simple dream can bring. Life does not always go as planned; in the same way, art can have a mind of its own. But in that spontaneity lies a beauty and warmth not found elsewhere.

From the start, dreamscape began out of a desire to give our peers the artistic freedom to create a world of their own. The literary magazine was meant as a place to rewind and destress and be proud of the work we have put in. I hope you enjoy exploring Graphite’s dreamscape as much as we do.

Sincerly,

Josephine Lim Editor-in-Chief

Alike / Gabriella Veltri 22

A Dream About Her / Dylan Wisner 23

Facade / Hannah Jiang 24

The Shaking Within Me / Elizabeth Escue 25

Goofy Goofs / Audrey Zinnert 26

The Pied Piper / Maryam Haq 26

Tick Tick / Haylee Citty 28

Reflection / Maria Stea 29

10:18 / Makenna Allen 29

Lunar Love / Teddy Baker 30

Cosmos / Josephine Lim 32

You Are Death / Dynali Weerackoon 32

Contents TABLE OF Graphite

Literary Magazine

Hagerty High School 3225 Lockwood Boulevard

Oviedo, Florida 32765

www.hagertyjourn.com

inception

(n.) a new beginning

Shop

Iveigh Bock ‘24 | Short story

KEEPING

My eyes started to become heavy and lazy as the perturbed customer on the other side of the counter looked quizzically at the product in his hand and cast out a question each minute without waiting for an answer. There was no one else left in the shop; just me and the stubborn shopper. He didn’t seem to notice or care that I was only half listening to his critical catechism and continued on while I struggled to remain roused. The fading of the daylight had doused the shoppe’s interior in a warm, cozy orange luster before I parted my lips to speak.

The contents inside sloshed around, illuminating the bottle a jewel green-blue and echoing sounds of the sea. “Are you interested in purchasing this dream, sir?”

his face. Then glanced at the bottle in his hands and back at me. “What kind of dream is this?”

I held out my hand and took the bottle. I lifted it to my ear and gave it a gentle shake. Inside, the contents sloshed, releasing the sound of waves hitting the side of a strong wood boat with the gentle outcry of the ocean wind. “I’d say sailing on the sea,” I estimated, handing the bottle back to the customer.

There was no one else left in the shop; just me and the stubborn shopper. “

“Sir, I’m sorry, but are you interested in purchasing this item?” I inquired in a professional voice, hoping the twinge of annoyance

The older man finally looked up at me, his silver eyes almost looked shocked, as if he’d forgotten I was there until just then. “What asked, the tips of his pointed I pointed in his hands.

“Well, I’m not sure,” the man replied, looking once again quizzical as he turned the bottle in his hands. “You’ve heard me express my concerns about this kind of product. I only mentioned to my friend about how dull the dreams we’re issued are, and he recommended your shop, but I’m not sure if I even should use vivacious dreams. I know the other townspeople praise them, but I don’t want it messing with my head too much, you know.”

I nodded, though I did not share his understanding. “So it’s a no then?”

The man continued as if he didn’t hear. “But I should try something interesting or hold my tongue while complaining, right? And you have so many options.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“I had such a hard time deciding, there were so many.”

“Sir,” I interjected. The man lifted his head up to look at me again in surprise. “The dream. Are you going to buy it?”

The man blinked at me without a shadow of an emotion crossing

His face shifted back to quizzical. “Is the weather suitable for sailing?”

I shook my head. “Waves sound pretty calm and the wind is soft.”

“Is it rocky waters?”

“Should be smooth sailing far from land, but not too far out to sea.”

“Are there sirens or pirates?”

“Only the natural world accompanies you.”

“Ghastly monsters of any sorts?”

“That would make it a nightmare, sir.”

“And you said it was sailing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well that’s no good. I’m afraid of drowning.”

“Get out of my store,” I said flatly. The customer looked offended and I gave him a long hard look, making an enormous effort to swallow the frustration that erupted in my chest. He only looked back with a lack of understanding. Nonetheless, he left, setting the dream on the counter. I rubbed my temples in attempts to alleviate the headache before closing the shop. As I retired upstairs, the daylight was clinging to the mountainside, casting long, dark

shadows on the cobblestone streets below. I sat in my apartment and watched from the window as the playful silhouettes of the townsfolk danced along the walls as they rushed to get home. They scrambled this way and that, trying to get to their lodgings before the light fell behind the mountain entirely and the night sky settled in.

Turning my gaze from the window, I glanced at the gray box by the bed: the bottles of issued dreams glinted simply among the few blue and purple containers I’d thrown in next to them. I walked over to take one for the night, though felt no excitement to dream that night. The past few nights, I’d partook in less and less extravagant dreams. The more I

Inside, the contents sloshed, releasing the sound of waves hitting the side of a strong wood boat with the gentle outcry of the ocean wind.

explained and regaled about the dreams I crafted and sold, the less impressive the magic seemed to be and the more tired I became at the end of the day. I no longer had it in my mind to go on adventures in my mindscape every night and found myself continually choosing the simple, space-filler dreams issued by the king’s court rather than the thrilling, enchanting fantasies I’ve concocted.

Now, I played with an irrational thought: why not skip the dreams? Yes, why not just fall into a deep sleep? No fast-paced stories or immersive adventures to take my tired mind on a whim. No lackluster loops of waves crashing on the same beach or the same breeze blowing through a field of tall grass. My heart sighed at the

mere thought of a blank, restful sleep.

A scream came from the street, halting my train of thought. I peered out the window to see a young man running down the intersection, following the last bits of daylight before the night caught up to him. Muted panic came from the surrounding windows and lights shut off. I backed away from the window and quickly grabbed a bottle from the box. Uncorking the dream, I took a swift drink and made a move for the bed. No sooner had I thrown the covers over my head did I hear a cry of despair from the young man. As my eyes began to close, I watched as the large, lumbering shape of a Nightmare passed by the window. Its engulfing darkness spilled into the room until I shut my eyes, the blackness and shrill shrieking of a man’s worst terrors fading into the calm hush of an ocean breeze and the lapping of waves onto shore.

A Day at the Beach

Jiana Velez ‘26 | Photography

Yi Ru Liu ‘25 | Poetry

UP I Go

Up I go

As I climb the stairs of life Gleeful of what I’ll find Where achievements and successes lie Where everyone finds delight.

Up I go,

To this glamorous desired place, Walking straight into empty space, Not knowing how long it’ll take.

Up I go,

As I trip and fall, Motivation picks me up As I remain, standing tall.

Up I go, As people walk by I’ll always try To keep my pace Cause it’s not a race.

Up I go, I’ll get there surely, Fast or slow, Steps high and low.

Up I go, Nothing will stop me, I will persist Even if it’s rainy or cloudy.

Up I go, I’ll always keep my dreams close All the paths to take Are immeasurable.

Up I go, Dreams washed up on the shore, in the distance on a boat I’ll never know Where to reach and go.

Up I go, To strive

To keep my head high. No tacks, splinters, or cracks Will it ever make me turn back As I wonder in the distance Not knowing where I’ll end up last.

Thoughts in

ENGLISH CLASS

You lay up–thinking, coffee table

You had new paper to staple

Taxes are compromising new stables

Horses, poses, keep your nose behind the wood door

Before they realize you plan to leave soon

and they’ll call you “fool,” wouldn’t they they feel it too, wouldn’t say

But you are scared to be you, shouldn’t you

Would it be better to be a tool

Wheat field? Poppy fields

How many quills?

Would people take from your wings

Until you stay frozen

For , who are the losses?

Broken sharpener on the dresser

Pile of notebooks, old led, crescent Sunburn, earth filled, drought the content of air on your lungs

and they’ll call you “fool,” wouldn’t they they feel it too, wouldn’t say

But you are scared to be you, shouldn’t you

Would it be better to be a tool

New tooth comin’ in the strength to leave

My mistake still follows me the roots planted to my feet regrets keeping me awake

But I’ll still take the Bus to Maine

Lety Carrasco Garcia ‘25 | Poetry

Macy Drewry ‘25 | Multimedia illustration

Angie Espenscheid ‘24 | Graphite and colored pencils

Lady with a Balloon Dog

WHY

dream

Somewhere in between adulthood and childhood the perception of dreams changes. When we are young we are told to follow our dreams to the moon and back again. But soon afterwards we are told that that is simply impossible. That we must wake up to reality. But isn’t reality just the world made up of dreams that came true? The means of planes, trains, and automobiles are just dreams that came true.

But isn’t reality just the world made up of dreams that came true? The means of planes, trains, and automobiles are just dreams that came true.

world today may not be tomorrow. The world around us is constantly changing and the question is are you going to be the change in the world? Or are you going to let those who follow their dreams be the leaders, the doers in society. While some of us are not doers and leaders. They fall in line with society’s will.

“ “

But what is a dream? A dream is the future. Whether it is the near future or maybe a future we will never see. Each of us has one even if we don’t display one. Some of us may even have the same dream. They float from mind to mind. Some dreams are for a better society, some are for fame, some are for money. But all dreams are not meant to become reality.

So we ask, why? Why dream upon the world, if our dream is physically impossible? I respond with what is impossible in the

Those are the dream crushers. They vandalize not just their dream, but other people’s dreams. The ones who say that’s impossible. The ones who argue someone else’s dreams, because they have given up on their dream. But the most common dream crush there is in the world is ourselves after one sees failure.

Failure is something that hits all of our dreams. Some more than others. But it is the choice of whether you get back up and try again.

Failure is something that hits all of our dreams. Some more than others. But it is the choice of whether you get back up and try again. Or just sit there and wonder why? Why do dreams fail? Why do

our dream and ourselves. For every time we fail, we change the world. We lay the groundwork for the next dreamer to arise. Nobody said changing the world would be easy. Nobody even said that a dream is guaranteed to come true in our lives. But even if it is not our dream that comes true, maybe the next generation will have the same dream, and maybe they will follow our footsteps. But first we must make sure to leave footsteps for them to follow.

So to all those dreamers out there. Follow your dreams to not just make yourself successful but to make the world a better place.

Antonio Pizza ‘25 | Speech

Areli Smith ‘24 | Digital illustration

ON THE WALL Mirror Mirror

Huixin Chen ‘25 | Poetry

To experience the unknown, or admire those that do?

See how they brave against the strong winds too?

While others sway with the breeze, I ask her, why do you turn against it?

But I can see it in the way she sits, she cannot (will not) just submit.

Amberous jade in the sun and a mesmerizing emerald under the rain.

When she smiles and dances, you cannot feel her pain. Though the winds and storms damage the weak, She does not falter, remains unique.

the beauty of the and his

lies in herrebellion art Artist

Once treasured moments, now they sting,

The art of us, a shattered thing. The artist’s hand, once warm and kind, Left cold betrayals in my mind.

Each memory, a painted scar, A gallery of what we are. His promises, like fading light, Revealed the truth to my hindsight.

They will stare, and gawk, and ogle, and leer.

“See how she sticks out from the rest? What a queer.”

Still, she dances and smiles and sparkles in the sun, Unashamed for being eccentric; the isolated one.

To experience the unknown, or admire those that do?

Those who only watch will never understand what she goes through. The pain will relish, the storms will sting, the sun will sometimes burn. But the pain will subside, the storms will provide, and the sun will comfort her eterne.

Lia

Markx ‘25

| Poetry

The canvas of our love, now torn, With hues of trust, so falsely worn. Yet through the pain, the art stands clear, A part of me, still held so dear.

In the art, our love’s refrain, But the artist, I can’t entertain. For in his strokes, the hurt remains, A bitter muse, a love in chains.

the KEEPER

Isabel

Wood ‘25 | Short story

The boy was lying on sand, just as he had been the time before. Soft light fell through the curved glass walls and wrapped around the small space, barely big enough to hold ten people. Above, the glass curved into a rounded ceiling, smooth and refined to perfection. Starlight trickled through it, the infinite expanse of space in perfect view from the room.

There was a man in the center of the room, waiting. All around him, the sand angled to where he stood, slowly falling away. He did not seem to notice.

The boy stood, struggling to find his footing in the ever-shifting ground. But he’d been here before, and this time he was not afraid.

He looked up to the man, who did not move from his spot, and said, “Why did you bring me here?”

The man shrugged. “I did not bring you here. You came here yourself. Both this time, and the last.”

“And you? You’re always here?”

“Probably. Not entirely sure.”

“I’m dreaming,” said the boy.

“Yes,” said the man. “And no.”

“How can it be both?”

“You’re asleep. This is your dream. But it is also not your dream.”

The boy sighed. “You do realize that makes no sense at all, right?”

The man simply shrugged again.

“I know what this place is,” the boy announced.

“Do you?”

“It’s the hourglass,” said the boy, pointing upward.

“You’re clever,” said the man. “This is an hourglass.”

“The Hourglass. Or a representation of all of time.”

“Sure.”

“This is where dreams of the future come from,” he finished. “I want to see them.”

“Them?”

“The people from my dreams.”

“Of the future?”

The boy looked annoyed. “What else would I be talking about?”

“The past,” the man said. “But no one is ever interested in that.”

“Why would they?” asked the boy. “It’s already happened.”

The man sighed a long, weary sigh. “What do you want to see?”

“I keep having dreams,” said the boy, “about the end of the world.”

“The end of the world, hm?”

“I need to find out how to stop it.”

“The end?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t stop the end,” the man said. “It will come eventually.”

“I can if I stop the event that causes it.”

“But eventually—”

“Just show me the dream already.”

The man sighed again, then knelt in the sand, running his hands through the flowing grains.

“Ah. Here.”

He stood, hands full of violet sand, and threw it at the boy.

The boy sputtered, coughed, and glared at the man. “What was that?”

The man’s eyebrows were furrowed tightly to his face. “Just wait a little.”

“Wait? For what—?”

And then he saw them.

The man waited, watching as the sand around his feet swirled and churned. Eventually, the grains would fall to the other half of the hourglass, the place of things that had already passed. Until they fell, they were just possibilities. Likely possibilities, but still. Things could and would change in days, hours, minutes.

Not that the man actually knew what time it was.

The boy was quiet, staring past the walls, the sand, the stars. What exactly he was seeing, the man wasn’t sure. But he was seeing something.

After a moment, the boy snapped out of it. He looked angry. “That’s it?”

The man was impassive. “What’s it?”

doesn’t know. If time doesn’t know, no one knows.”

The boy growled. “I’m not asking for what will happen when the sun eventually explodes or whatever! I just want to prevent what will happen in two years! That explosion, it could seriously cause everything to end! You have to help me.”

The man sighed. “I’m never of much assistance. But…I could try. What did you see?”

“An explosion. An eclipse. And a lot of blood.”

“

I can’t help you much.”

A look of irritation flashed across the boy’s face. “Why not?”

“Your dreams are exactly matching with what the sand predicted,” the man explained, sitting down and running his hands through the violet grains once more. “That means that your precognition is especially keen. It also means that you have all the information you could possibly get.”

Until they fell, they were just possibilities. Likely possibilities, but still. Things could and would change in days, hours, minutes.

“That can’t be right,” insisted the boy. “There has to be more. I have to stop the event.”

“You do realize how nonspecific that is, don’t you?”

“I saw my brother,” he paused. “I saw him a lot.”

“What was he doing?”

“Nothing,” the boy said. “He did nothing. He just stood there, watching me, as if I was far away.”

“And you?”

“I was…” he frowned, trying to remember. “I was trapped,” he finally said. “I couldn’t move, or speak, or think properly. Like everything had stopped. I guess

“How do you know you won’t cause the event? How do you know that trying to stop it won’t make it worse?” The man shook his head. “There is no use in trying to find the rest of the future here. The rest is undecided. It is yet to come.”

The boy glared at the ground. “I have to do something. I don’t want the world to be destroyed.”

“No one ever does. But some things are beyond our control.”

“And you would let it burn, wouldn’t you?” There was an

“Things can not happen without people to make them happen. If you find the people that cause the event, and stop them, the future can usually be altered.”

The boy looked unconvinced. “Is that really all?”

The man sighed. “The future is not some supernatural or unstoppable force, like so many of you want to believe. Nothing is ever set in stone, nothing is ever final until it becomes the past. The future is up to you. The sand simply makes predictions on what could happen, usually what’s most likely to happen. But that can always change.”

“But what do I do?” the boy asked desperately. “ What can I do to change it?”

The man stood again. “You, just as everyone else has done for all of time, do the best you can.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

Here, the man hesitated. He looked up at the stars, the impossibly far away twinkling balls of fire. So far, and yet they still came through, after all this time.

“It may never be enough,” the man admitted. “It may never work out. But that doesn’t mean you

“Somehow, I see this as something you’d call ‘generally normal.’ No, what I meant was,” the man paused to dig in the sand, looking at it hard for a moment, “talk to your brother. Your friends. They’ll probably be involved in the mess that may come, but even more than that, they’re an integral part of your life. And based on the sand’s reading of your past, you’ve been neglecting to allow that connection.”

Here, the boy looked guilty. “I was busy.”

“So you say. But you asked for my advice, and here it is: Love is strange. Life is strange. And you cannot change the past. Your future, however, is what you make of it. You only need the will to do so.”

“The man walked back to the center of the hourglass, where the sand sloped upwards around him and swirled downwards at his feet. He waited a minute, then two, then couldn’t wait any longer. He knelt down and swept up the sand in his arms, watching it carefully.

Moments passed, then the man stood up with a smile. Things had shifted.

The boy had already changed the future. Maybe not forever, but at least for now. He hoped it stayed that way.

It was never up to him, though. The boy would barely remember him by morning.

Love is strange. Life is strange. And you cannot change the past. Your future, however, is what you make of it. You only need the will to do so.

The wind began to pick up, sand swirling around them despite the fact that they were both in an enclosed hourglass in the middle of space. But it was a dream, wasn’t it? The boy supposed anything was possible. The man knew anything was possible.

But that was alright.

The man brushed the sand from his hands and stood once more, tall and still. He stared out into the stars beyond, watching them twinkle, ever present and ever persistent. They may die out eventually, their light fading away, but for now they are still here. For that, the man appreciated them.

As he had done for all of time, the man stood still as the present

melancholy

(n.) a feeling of

melancholy

of deep sadness

Alike

Gabriella Veltri 27’| Digital illustration

adreamabout her

People say that I should dream about her, if I’m so desperate to see her again. I mean, our mutual friends tell me about it all the time. Last night she came into John’s dream and gave him a sandwich. The other night she had a road trip with Casey. She hasn’t visited me, though.

and they weren’t there when she mustered those final words, “I’m sorry.” I was always there for her, yet I’m the only one who can’t find her in my slumber.

Just another night for them. Just another dream for them. Just another person for them.

You’d think it’d come naturally, having spent 20 years of our life together, but she always escapes me. But our friends do it so easily and seamlessly, like it’s nothing at all. Just another night for them. Just another dream for them. Just another person for them.

I suppose I could just think about her, but even then it’s so flaky. As soon as I catch her in my mind’s eye, the voice, that face, her touch, it slips away. Onto the next thought, the next moment. She never stays, she’s always fleeting.

“ “

I’m a little jealous, to be frank. I mean, they didn’t know her like I did. They weren’t there when she complained about the little things people said to her that day, they weren’t there when she wept about her diagnosis,

And now her visage has become blurry. I can’t recall the small details, like what color eyes she had. The eyes that I had looked into for so long. How could I forget something like that?

It was all a blur. Her face just a pool of faded colors and swirls of features. I knew she was in them, but how could I be sure?

Last night I had a dream. I was walking through our house, a

woman humming a tune. It was distant, but alluring. I had to follow it. As it grew louder and louder, I spotted the walls of pictures. Pictures of us. I was laughing and smiling, my happiness so near and close. I could almost hear it. When I tried to make out her expressions, I couldn’t. It was all a blur. Her face just a pool of faded colors and swirls of features. I knew she was in them, but how could I be sure? That face might as well have belonged to anyone. I continued down the hall, the song becoming clear. There a woman stood in the kitchen, her back towards me. She heard me come in, and turned to greet me. I couldn’t make out a word, though. All of her distinct features had been swallowed up, leaving nothing in its wake. She didn’t have a face anymore. Just a hole.

Dylan Wisner 25’ | Short story

Hannah Jiang ‘25 | Digital illustration

shakingthe within me

Elizabeth Escue ‘25 | Poetry

Apprehensive, tense, hesitant

Concerned, disturbed, nervous

Picking hair, panic attacks, constant waching Consuming all the human body

Everyone silently judging your smallest insecurity

How I look?

How I act?

Where I go? reason falling into the abyss

Sitting up against a wall feeling hopeless and even lifeless

trying to keep the little stability I have within

Goofy goofs

Audrey Zinnert ‘27

|Colored pencil

Haq ‘25 | Poetry

It was dark when he came here

It was the first stroke of midnight

A shadow dancing over the roofs

A dream twirling round the orange streetlights

He flitted to the house

At the end of Riverbend Lane

He leapt up to the window

And he whispered my name

I was asleep when he got here

Though my eyes were open wide

I could not see through the colors

That throbbed gently inside

Dreaming’s not hard if you try hard enough

Though it’s better to take care

And guard your dreams closely

Lest they turn into nightmares

But the familiar sound

The enchanting whisper, it threw me

The silvery voice of pinprick stars

That twinkled that they knew me

That hinted that they saw it

The one thing I had yet to see

At the horizon or just beyond

A dream meant only for me

I slipped out of bed and searched

For my glasses on the nightstand

I could not find them, so all I saw

Was the golden flute he twirled in his hands

I poked my head out the window

And floating right below

Was a hollow wooden boat

With a pair of oars to row

Putting the flute to his lips

With a flash of a wicked grin

He hopped off the windowsill And played a melody from within

The birds, the leaves, the grass

The sky, the rain, the seas

Maryam

The laughs, the shouts, the cries

The tune of the Earth on the breeze

The stars hummed along

My breath caught in my throat

I leaned out my open window

Till I stumbled onto the boat

He skipped across a staircase of air

I sailed through the velvet sky

We glided right up to the clouds

The Pied Piper and I

Follow me, follow me

Burbled the stream of air

To the place where dreams are kept

So your dream can be kept there

The creamy swirls eddied around

As the boat dipped and dived through the hazy sky

They hadn’t seen a person in a while

I knew now why they liked to cry

We passed the spires of towers

And the marbled moon

The wind whipped my face to life

But it was all over far too soon

We came to a sandy shore

An island in purple glow up high

When I finally joined the line of empty boats

That stretched to the ends of the sky

Before I could set a foot on the sand

He blocked my way with a piercing stare

I gave you a ride, he sing-songed

Now it’s time to pay the fare

“A fare?” I asked, uncertain

Everything has a price, it’s true

Your dream, his eyes glinted

That’s all I ask of you

Before I could respond

He landed lightly before me on a dune

He fluttered his fingers across the flute

And began to play a different tune

He breathed in instead of out

And the song played in reverse

The garbled sound was strange

But the draining feeling was worse

The wisps seeped out of me

And leeched away from my skin

The colorful mist pranced away

Leaving me empty and blank within

No, I tried to cry

But my voice was strangled in my throat

No, I tried to cry

And I lurched off the boat

I leapt at the flute player

And gathered the strength to say

“No!” As I wrenched the flute from him

And started to back away

Do you regret believing in a dream?

The Pied Piper laughed without mirth

You chased after one and found deceit

That is the soul of a dream’s birth

A dream, he breathed

Tasty, insubstantial, and sweet

I’ll trade you a place in the sky

For a delicious dream to eat

My fingers trembled and I paused

But only for a moment’s breadth

Then I shoved the flute between my lips

And blew out a huge breath

A loud, discordant sound

Grated on my ears

What have you done? He asked

Eyes wide with anger and fear

A whirlwind of colors exploded

From the tail end of the flute

The dreams whirled

Each wisp finding its own route

I sucked mine in and licked my lips

Wondering if I should regret

But it was too late to think about it

Too late to forget

Give it back, the Pied Piper whispered

Holding out his hand

I inched back slowly

Till my heels brushed the end of the sand

No, I shook my head

Holding onto the flute tight

No, I shook my head

As I stepped off the edge that night

The clouds rumbled and hissed

As I fell from that isle up high

They reached out snaking hands to grab my ankles

As I tumbled through the sky

The midnight cover crumpled

And began to close in over my face

The darkness descended to drown me

The sky and I were in a race

My hands still gripped the flute

And I could see my dream in my mind’s eye

So I allowed myself to surrender

And was swallowed by the sky

But it was dark, so dark

That I worried I was dead

It was dark under the blanket

When I woke up in my bed

But light crept through the window

The first shy rays of dawn

The light filtered into my bedroom

The boy with the flute was gone

What a strange dream he was, I thought

Warning dreams only deceived you

I took his advice though

And disbelieved in that dream too

As I rolled out of the covers and stretched

Shaking the cobwebs from my head

I left my room with warmth inside me

And a gold glint under my bed

Tick Tick

Haylee Citty ‘24 | Poetry

Tick tick, the clock strikes one, I feel my cold breath leaving my lungs. I see stars in the sky, brightly spotted A lump in my throat, my stomach all knotted.

Tick tick, the clock strikes two, My knuckles turn white, my face turns blue. As I lay in my small bed, I can feel the blood rushing to my head.

Tick tick, the clock strikes three, My eyes won’t open, I need to break free. I feel so light, yet my head feels heavy, A ringing in my ear, a soft alarm I heard so faintly.

Tick tick, the clock strikes four, The world goes black, I can’t see the floor. I swallow my tongue, my mouth stuck open, Is this all in my head, or was it a bad omen.

Tick tick, the clock strikes five, My body all limp, but my mind so alive. Why can’t I wake? What does this mean? Is this real, or just a dream?

10:18

Makenna Allen ‘27| Poetry

It’s 10:18, and I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of time. Today I watched my life pass by, like an actor on the screen. But it’s not a day, it’s been a week. It’s going much faster than I think. Oh my, oh my, to my dismay, even when I wake, it’s all still a dream.

Love

Love you like the moon

The beam of shining light

Reflections of each other inverted

Pulling me into your eyes

Diving into the pool of black

The cerulean depths

Tapetum lucidum

Tides pulling our hearts together

A constant perigee

Lunar love

Baker ‘24 | Poetry Josephine Lim ‘25 |

Teddy

Dynali Weerackoon ‘25 | Short story and illustration

YOU ARE Death

You are Death. You remember when the sun sparked into existence. You remember the first lifeforms of the universe, and you remember its last. You remember the span of time and the span of space like it was yesterday (or was it tomorrow?), and you remember the face of every human being you have ever lead, snatched, or followed into the great oblivion beyond.

“

You remember when the sun sparked into existence. You remember the first lifeforms of the universe, and you remember its last. You remember the span of time and the span of space like it was yesterday (or was it tomorrow?)

Irony does not suit you—years of being its closest embodiment has rendered you incapable of understanding its effect. Being the butt of a joke is new to you. Luckily for you, you have had the eternity that is five minutes of someone awkwardly shuffling papers to think long and hard on this new feeling, and you have come to the conclusion that you maybe hate it, just a little.

Reveling in

Despite this, the reality of what’s happening doesn’t sink in until they usher you, gentle as always, out of your own door.

You are Death, and you are out of a job.

It has been 4 hours, 23 minutes, and 19 seconds since you were “let go” as the humans now call it.

History is tied to you irreparably. You know it, all of it, like the back of your hand; in a way, it is. You have brought the greatest men to their knees and the smallest souls to their feet. You are the universe, in that you are infinite and all-pervasive and encompass it whole, never coming to a true end.

You are Death.

You did not know that you could be fired.

Sitting politely in the uncomfortable plastic chair, you stare silently at your replacement.

this newfound sympathy for humankind, you don’t notice the first time your replacement coughs in nervous interruption. They have to do it again before you shuffle back in your seat and resume your staring contest.

“Our biggest goal is to keep the transition period as smooth as possible,” they say, pulling out a sheet and placing it respectfully in front of you. They have been talking like this despite your pointed silence for over an hour, often repeating strange phrases like pension, retirement, and bucket lists that you know and want to know nothing of.

You have experienced another enlightenment; unemployment sucks. Wandering the streets of a city you certainly know and don’t care enough to remember, you attempt to get used to the horror of being released into the world unprepared.

Somehow, you find yourself sitting in what you think might be a public park—there’s a bench (for sitting, which you have done), and a large grassy lawn. A multitude of humans meander around the area, doing human things like talking and running and spilling little pretzel crumbs on the sidewalk very, very sadly. You think the sun is shining, but the unfamiliar warmth makes you itch.

Being a practical sort of person, however, you get over it and walk to the pretzel stall supplying the sad crumb-spillers. At least, you think it’s a pretzel

stall—to be completely honest, you have never been entirely sure what a pretzel is. It sounds nice, though.

You are observing the pretzels—there are different types, how entertaining—when you feel their presence. Turning around sharply, you find yourself correct; your replacement is waiting behind you in line, as awkward as they had been just a couple of hours before.

You stare at them. They stare back. This time they’ve inhabited the body of what seems

to be a small child—wide eyed and brown-skinned with messy little pigtails that spring out of their head with wild abandon.

“You forgot this,” they say around the little thumb lodged solidly in their mouth.

“What?”

“

This time they’ve inhabited the body of what seems to be a small child—wide eyed and brown-skinned with messy little pigtails that spring out of their head with wild abandon.

“Your body,” they say patiently. “You forgot it. It was in the contract, remember? Your pension plan.”

Guiltily, you find that you do remember that part of the conversation—remember not

paying attention to it, anyway.

“What am I meant to do with it?” you ask, desperate without meaning to be. Around you, humans stream in every direction. “It’s so—” You fumble, at a loss for words. “New.”

Your replacement goes silent, pulling their thumb out of their mouth with a small pop.

“I know,” they say after a moment, almost shy. “I thought it’d be a nice change of pace.”

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there together, but, eventually, you nod.

You are Alive.

euphoria (n.) intense excitement

wonder wonder wonder wonder TEMPLE OF

Tiffany Nguyen ‘27 | Photography

ADVENTURER dreams of an

Yi Ru Liu ‘25 | Short story

The dark, dense forest afar from the bustling city conceals a glamorous secret for adventurers past the thick, tall trees. In only a small portion of the immense area, four adventure courses snake above in the treetops sixteen meters above ground, waiting for daredevils to complete them. The clearing, the center of the unique location, is the brightest of the forest, engulfed in scorching sunlight without the shade of the trees. Surrounding the vast circumference of the open area are conspicuous checkpoints, and above lies the arduous obstacles and mechanisms to guide the adventurers across.

Above, the buzzing of mosquitoes and songs of weary crows at the crack of dawn are drowned out by lively noises of parents and staff cheering daredevils on as they, the same, take their first steps on different courses.

“ “

Weaving through the scattered picnic benches and tables in the area, the aroma of tree sap and bark drips in the air uncontrollably as the adventurer bravely ascends higher and higher in the trees. Above, the buzzing of mosquitoes and songs of weary crows at the crack of dawn are drowned out by lively noises of parents and staff cheering daredevils on as they, the same, take their first steps on

different courses. The courses that heavily rely on the stability of the trees are connected with a variety of ropes, unstable bridges, ladders, zip lines, and other original obstacles designed to challenge the adventurer. The trees, rough as woodworking sandpaper, maintain grip and security as adventurers traverse from obstacle to obstacle. Across from the starting platform is a rope swing, braided like a typical girls’ french braid and harder than thick sidewalk cement. Five meters across, a slender wooden beam is perching precariously, being stepped on thousands of times with fear as down below, is the world view, now strongly resembling a kids’ playmat with everything so tiny.

At this point, the course fearlessly dips and ascends to its climax like a roller coaster as it guides the wary adventurer to its end as they are close to fulfilling their dream as a true adventurer.

supporting boards that give many a false sense of security to continue. Now, the course is drawing closer and closer to the lone harrow road, almost equidistant to the forest’s edges. At this point, the course fearlessly dips and ascends to its climax like a roller coaster as it guides the wary adventurer to its end as they are close to fulfilling their dream as a true adventurer. However, all this strenuous effort is rewarded with a twenty-meter steep zipline that reaches the ladder two meters above the ground. But, the adventure is not over yet! In front of the ending checkpoint is the starting checkpoint for the second portion of the whole course, getting more and more challenging, harder, and longer if adventurers are up for another challenge.

The second half of the agility course contains a series of different, unstable bridges all coated with a thick layer of beige paint, the tiles swinging and dangling over two

The thrilling adventure courses perched high in the trees are hidden away deep inside the captivating forest, concealed from prying eyes, and wrapped in mystery, enticing you into the heart of the jungle and experience the exhilaration of the unknown.

Blossoms

Laura Chen ‘25 | Acrylic

Laura Chen ‘25 | Acrylic

Marcela Carrasco Garcia ‘25 | Digital illustration

Dream Girl

Colorful Gardens

Julianna Canamella ‘25 | Poetry

Chasing DRAGONS

Your heart is a muscle the size of your balled-up hands and it is clenched around a fistful of barbed-wire nostalgia like your fingers are around your mattress covering. You kicked your blanket off in the middle of the night like you always do because your dreams are more than warm enough, something you always regret when you wake up to cold stone-and-tile.

You were neither born nor made, you simply were. You came into existence like anyone does, without knowing that there was a time before you existed at all.

You miss home. You feel like a child when you think it, but there’s a good reason for that — you are. You are as old and as young as anyone has ever been. You lost your home then, and you lose it again now, every morning, when you wake up to this cold, cold place. So you keep your eyes shut tight and hope against hope that you can steal a few more seconds from the past. You were neither born nor made, you simply were. You came into existence like anyone does, without knowing that there was a time before you existed at all.

Vesper Buchheit ‘25 | Short story

when you fell in a direction that was not any you had previously recognized, she wrapped you up in her fluff like a package in styrofoam, and when you landed it was her who took the brunt of the blow. You made a promise then, as you held her very close for a very long time and she felt heavier and stiffer than she had ever been before. You promised that you would do whatever it took to get her back.

And you did. It took more than you had ever realized

anything could; more from you, more from others, more from the world. But you would do it. You would do it all and then some. You learned things that others would think impossible from sources that had paid horrible prices to gain that knowledge, and then you reached a point where there was truly no one who had walked the path before you and when you passed those toll gates, you paid prices just as bad and worse. That was what taught you that

With the adjustment made, you place a hand to the glass and stare at her for a long, long time, feeling both closer and further from home than you have ever been.

there were far worse things to lose than your life. But it taught you other things, too. It taught you what you needed to know. You tear your eyes away from the ceiling and stand, no longer groggy. She’s in there, in the instrument you’ve constructed, gaining strength. You check the monitors. Everything is going smoothly. You still rotate a couple dials here, lower or raise a couple sliders there. You need to be careful. You need to be perfect. This needs to go right, for her sake.

With the adjustment made, you place a hand to the glass and stare at her for a long, long time, feeling both closer and further from

A Desperate Dream

LoveBALLAD

In a vast expanse of time’s embrace, Two souls meet in a tender space. In the cosmic ballet, they intertwine, Where two souls merge, no longer alone

Leonie Ghermay ‘25 | Poetry

SWEET dreams

Amanda Negron ‘24 | Oil paint

THE CYCLE OFLove

To forget is to love, to love is to forget

To love is to break, to break is to love

To break is to be vulnerable, to be vulnerable is to break

To let go is to move on, to move on is to heal

Leonie Ghermay ‘25 | Poetry

STAFF

Not pictured: Laura Chen, Javier Gonzalez-Duarte, Anya Maduro Sykes, Areli Smith, Christin Smith

Contributors

Kenna Allen

Teddy Baker

Iveigh Bock

Vesper Buchheit

Julianna Canamella

Huixin Chen

Laura Chen

Haylee Citty

Macy Drewry

Elizabeth Escue

Angie Espenscheid

Lety Carrasco Garcia

Marcela Carrasco Garcia

Leonie Ghermay

Maryam Haq

Hannah Jiang

Ana Lawrence

Josephine Lim

Yi Ru (Erica) Liu

Lia Markx

Kha Miles

Amanda Negron

Tiffany Nguyen

Antonio Pizza

Areli Smith

Maria Stea

Jiana Velez

Gabriella Veltri

Dylan Wisner

Isabel Wood

Audrey Zinnert

FROM LEFT TO RIGHT Dynali Weerackoon, Macy Drewry, Josephine Lim, Julia Bochkarev, Gabriella Shovak

Colophon

Volume 3 of Hagerty High School’s literary magazine, Graphite, was created using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop. Fonts included Indie, Brother 1816 Printed and Baskerville URW. Submissions were collected throughout the first semester and selected by the editorial staff. 100 copies were printed by Print Solutions, a division of Seminole Public Schools’ Information Services, and distributed to contributors and staff members in May.

Graphite is a member of the Florida Scholastic Press Association, which awarded volume 2 an All-Florida rating, and the National Scholastic Press Association, which recognized volume 2 as a Pacemaker Finalist.

SPECIAL THANKS

Thanks to all of our contributors for a record number of submissions, and helping created the biggest literary magazine to date. Special thanks to the Digital Design classes, who put together several of the layouts, to Mrs. Marinel’s art classes and to Mrs. Forza’s Creative Writing classes for so many quality submissions.