Graphite - Volume 2

Our Staff

Caitlyn Hale

Janell Lim

Josephine Lim

Brit Taylor Adviser

Dynali Weerackoon

Hannah Kuerbitz

Julia Bochkarev

Editor-In-Chief Co-Editor Staff Staff

Staff Staff

A WINDING DESCENT

Mundane hours I spend trapped in shackles, twisted in a monotonous cycle I can’t unravel As I pull against the chains, the tears in my soul burn for a minute taste of freedom; I can only yearn

The scars in my heavy heart sting when losing another battle, but all of a sudden, the ground beneath me begins to rattle What could this bring? What could this mean? Is this a change, or is this a dream?

Falling faster than I could ever comprehend, dwindling down a winding descent Thud!

I come to my senses, I look around Treading to keep my head above oceans of doubt

Could this be real? Could this be happening? Am I finally free? Or am I imagining? I hit the ground running from the old version of me, who was locked in that stagnant prison of a tree

I try to forget my past, but that attempt didn’t last, For I wouldn’t be here without my tribulations and mistakes, though, in order to move on, I needed to be a sailor leaving pain in my wake

Soon enough, I plant my roots in heaps of healthy land

Fresh, free, and fertile – my new surroundings allow me to stand, So, when the wind blows by and inquires if I miss who I used to be, I’m able to blissfully reply that this change was the best thing that’s ever happened to me

Because without that major fall I would have never grown this tall

Sol Anatomy

Christiannie Anderson |

Only the people who really know me relate me to the sun. Sure, my hair is golden like the rays that warm your skin. That the only jewelry that ever compliments me is gold. But I am so much more than what I look like on my outer corona. Within my benevolence is a glowing ball made of pain and passion. It’s the nuclear fusion that is built from my past and memories- the living chemistry of everything I’ve gone through. Tell me, if you saw the darkness that lives within my core would you think of me the same?

For, I did not choose to be the sun… I was made into it. So I will drench anything that dares to face me with the radiant light of my compassionate heart and ability to love.

I am the giver of light and beauty- to change the temperature in every room you open the blinds to.

But being just as torrid, I will burn those who dare to come close and face all parts of me.

You will not leave me without the evidence of dots sprinkled along all the exposed parts of yourself- the consequence of knowing me. My warmth is familiar like a kiss of a memory. But, to love me- you can’t get too close until you accept and understand the anatomy of my layers. Fall into my gravity and I’ll show you what makes up my solar system.

WONDER

WONDER

A Crazy Tale

Janell Lim | 12

On November 19, I met a lunatic. He was crazy, positively crazy; that’s what everybody said and what I said— I even told the lunatic he was a lunatic, positively crazy, and he just looked at me crazily with these sad pale green eyes. Crazy, I tell you. I had heard about him years before I met him— some crazy man off his rocker who decided to jump off the cliff and into the unknown. They say the light made him crazy, turned a perfectly safe, sensible young man into some rambling fool. Poor thing, they said, shaking their heads. The tribal leaders want to chain him up, lock him away forever for his blasphemies. Poor thing, I said, shaking my head.

That was approximately two years ago— or was it three? I swear, I’m going crazy after spending all that time with the crazy man. I don’t even know why he came here— on the doorstep of my hut, or all huts— came to me with those brightly pale green eyes speaking some nonsense, some gibberish about freedom and liberty and the light— I swear, and they must have been right, the light did make him go crazy. He only stayed for a few days— or was it weeks? I swear, I’m going crazy because of that crazy man. I can’t walk straight, can’t think straight, my thoughts filled with some garbage gibberish my mind latched onto for some reason. Roaring blue waves, crashing on a yellow— no, not yellow, amber— amber coarse sand— coarse, that’s the word he used, some crazy word I’d never heard of but for some crazy reason stuck in my head.

I’m thinking about this word right now— I swear, I’m going crazy because of that man— I’m thinking right now, wondering if the dirt underneath my toenails is coarse, whether the limestone underneath my fingertips is coarse, whether the wooden rickety bars in front of me are coarse. He stares at me across those bars, with those brightly pale green eyes— crazy eyes, I swear, they make me go crazy. I swear, I’m going crazy right now, I think I see those brightly pale eyes get even impossibly brighter— even impossibly brighter with hope— that’s the word he used, a really ridiculous crazy word that for some reason stuck in my crazy head. I must be going crazy, I must be— that’s why my hands are reaching to the bars, unlocking them— I must be going crazy, I must be— that’s why my hands take his and my feet run with his— running, on coarse dusty dirt and coarse limestone sand and into his brightly pale eyes.

I ran into them and for a moment, I was blinded with pain, but then I saw. I saw the roaring turquoise waves, crashing on an amber beach, and I knew, in that moment, I knew. I’m crazy.

FREE TO BE INSANE

Julia Bochkarev | 11

When was the last time you ran?

I don’t mean a jog around the block with a Fitbit counting your steps; I mean ran.

Childish, arm-swinging, heart-pounding, nauseating running. The kind that makes your feet hurt and your lungs burn with relief; the kind that makes you wonder what ever made you so boring, so strict.

Forget the fancy language. Forget not sounding like an idiot. Forget the red flags.

Throw your shoes into a pond; roll your fresh hair around in the dirt; make a face at the birds and scream at them until they fly away; laugh out loud like a maniac.

Don’t pretend to go mental; be mental; allow yourself to be mental. Do a cartwheel! Laugh at yourself and wave to people who push their children away from you and closer to their sides.

Jump into the lake of uncertainty because if one thing is for certain, it’s that you will certainly be free.

SAKURA

Janell Lim | 12

First in March, last in April, Pale and pastel, Fleeting and fading, Sakura, sakura.

Lasting for a day, or perhaps a week, But no longer than two, For life leaves it soon.

But why mourn? Why cry? As the flower falls, The cycle begins anew, A life begins anew.

A life perhaps not of this world, A life perhaps greater, A life perhaps more.

Natsukashi, ne?

A hanami under the clouds, Under the haze that grows and wanes, Time stills for the bloom.

The Forgotten

Ashlyn Gorczany | 11

Do you remember me, when I was young? I spent hours playing within your vine, Losing my voice in echoes to be sung. A loving relationship so divine.

Do you remember me now? I am older. I held your decomposing bark in my heart. I found a new burden on my shoulder, I realize that now is the time to start.

Julia Bochkarev | 11

Do you remember me? I lend a hand. Even as the world crumbles around us, I try picking up bottles from the sand. Despite everything, it’s never enough.

Remember me; I will remember you. To see a world with beauty through and through.

YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE I HAD TO HEAL

Air on G String

Ashlyn Gorczany | 11

Beneath a glass surface lies the philharmonic Cascading lullabies hiding under the worlds curtain

The billionaire’s scraps

Cacophony forged into harmony

White noise bursting with color

The toad belts a great opera

Crickets fiddle on the violin

Bees buzz humming their own tune

The rustle of a tree’s tambourine

Yet they blend seamlessly into the air

As if playing from the same sheet

Soft melodies echo across the lake

To this great song the world spins in rhythm

Each sound its own distinct gift

The orchestra of the wild

Cold Fire

The thought of him is so sweet

His laughter an addiction my bones crave

He provided a bed for the homeless heart

And I fear my heart only exists in memory.

But I’m greeted with something different

Something new.

Stitches repaired the cracks of my heart and the holes

filled with his

My body filled with warmth as I look at him

But his hands are bleeding and his eyes tired

For he took parts of his to fix mine.

I was blind to the fact that the damage done to me was damaging those trying to fix me.

His love was a flame to the winter sadness

Cold love being a guest in my life

Nurturing me to be afraid of a heart on fire for another

But his eyes cooled an unspoken ache

His skin was gold

Like a Bruise

Chloe

Sanna | 11

Talk about it as much as you want It’s not your fault it happened, And it’s okay to hurt even if that person doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Someday you’ll walk past them And feel nothing.

It’s hard right now Like a bruise, At first it’s all purple and blue You feel like you’ll be stuck here forever Pelted with ice while they’re partying without a care.

Over time it fades and turns yellow. You don’t even realize it Until it stops hurting. When you look down and see no bruise; You should be proud it’s gone.

It’s And to

If you keep pushing it’s always going to hurt, but if you stop pushing And stop thinking how it’s right there, Right in front of you You can get over it.

THE SUMMIT

Lilia Wilken-Yoder | 12

The Flood

Ashlyn Gorczany | 11

A river that wasn’t supposed to be there

A path ruined

Debris left behind Run to find cover

You feel your heart beating fast

Here comes the flood.

No time to evacuate

We were too late

We went to the roof and hoped Hoped for the best

Hoped for safety

Hoped for minimal damage

Here comes the flood.

We hoped for a rescuer

But they never came

Now I realize it was all in vain

We were never rescued, never saved From the brutality that nature has brought. It is not something we could have fought. Here comes the flood.

Things will never be the same

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

Here comes the flood.

Looking Glass

Josephine Lim | 10

They came in the dead of a moonless night, guided by the shadows.

My parents had no choice in the matter. I’m one of the lucky ones, saved by the recruiters from a life of poverty and desperation. At least, that’s what they tell me.

Throughout my time at the Academy, I frequently wrote letters to my parents. Even with my mentor’s reassurance, I couldn’t help the bile that rose in my throat every time a letter didn’t arrive, only able to be soothed by the bright white envelope, letters scrawled in my mom’s loopy handwriting.

Eventually, I stopped writing. I got promoted to a higher rank, and my responsibilities got in the way. Being a prison guard was a respectable position, but it left no time for anything else. The distrust of my leaders had vanished by then, and I believed them when they said my parents were okay. I didn’t feel the need to double check.

Whispers about her began before her arrest was even made public. We called her the “Banshee”, the topic of drunken conversations and whispered words. Violent protests with explosions and suicide bombers, rallies that left half the city in ruins, burning shops and anything else in their path. She had done it all.

I shake my head, the rumors circling in my head as I walk toward her cell, wondering how such a monster was created. I balance the tray of food precariously on my knee as I type in the passcode into the keypad. The door buzzes as it slides open, and I step into the weary gray room. I grip the sides of the tray with both hands, knuckles white. I face the infamous prisoner, ready to stare into the eyes of a monster. Of someone who would risk anyone and everything for a flimsy cause they don’t truly believe in.

Instead, I find the eyes of my best friend.

Her eyes are red from crying, but they’re a shade of piercing blue that I would recognize anywhere. A shade so familiar to me during my childhood at the village.

The words lodge in my throat, never leaving my mouth.

The Banshee--Kia--looks up, shock crossing her face as realization dawns upon her. She rubs her eyes in disbelief. “Jonas?” She asks, her voice unsure, unsteady.

I flinch at the sound of my old name, quickly molding my features into a scowl.

“Kenzo,” I bark at her, my anger the only thing suppressing my feelings. Feelings of a ghost, a ghost I left behind and thought I killed. “My name is Kenzo.” I place the tray of food in front of her, turning quickly to leave before I lose control.

“Jonas,” she whispers, her voice soft and sad. Like a plea. As if she’s mourning something she lost.

Commander Alinsky raps the board with his stick, unnecessary considering everyone’s already at attention. He pulls down a map from a bar attached to the ceiling, and points to a spot in the rural countryside. “This is our next target, the village of South Tadchat.” My blood runs cold at the name. “We’ve traced the Banshee back here…” I stop listening as my eyes cease to see

anything but the point on the map, the point sitting right on top of my old village.

“Kenzo,” Alinsky barks, shaking me out of my stupor. “You’re going to be leading the Epsilon squad, attacking from the south quadrant.” He pulls down another diagram from the bar, this time showing my village in a close-up aerial view. “Right here,” he says, pointing at the south entrance of my village. The one I used to live near.

“Torch the crops, burn the houses, whatever you can think of,” Alinsky continues. “We’re gonna make this Banshee regret that she ever messed with us.”

My legs feel like lead as we hit the ground running towards the south entrance of my village. My thoughts are scattered, unfocused, the exact opposite of who I should be during a mission. What am I doing here? Why I am here? To serve your country. To serve the government who saved you from a life of poverty.

BOOM! The sound of an explosion rattles my teeth and snaps me out of my thoughts. A house goes up in flames, its wooden structure gasping its last breath.

I go numb as muscle memory kicks in. I shut the visor of my helmet. We enter the village, guns in hand. The flamethrowers go to work behind me, the heat radiating off the nozzles, flames licking the sides of houses.

Left and right, everywhere I can see my childhood going up in flames. The park where I used to play, in ashes. The tiny village school, gone in an instant. The ashes settle on my once immaculate uniform, choking my breath and stinging my eyes.

Through the flames, I see two figures moving past the haze, trying to escape. Two familiar figures. Figures I’d recognize with my eyes closed, because I remember their touch as they ruffle my hair, their smile as I proudly show them my makeshift sand castle.

My heart leaps at the sight of them, but whether it’s from happiness or nervousness I can’t tell. I quickly find my answer when I see one of my squad members coming towards them. He waves his gun in the air, angrily shouting while pointing at my parents.

My dad shields my mom from the barrel of the gun, his hands splayed defensively in front of her even as his knees shake. I grip my gun, my finger on the trigger, the safety down, ready to… ready to…

To do what? The question stills my finger and freezes my feet. My mistake.

In my split second of hesitation, my dad attempts to shove the soldier’s gun away. The soldier yanks the gun away from him, his face contorted with anger, with disgust, with fear.

My finger follows his. The soldier pulls the trigger. I pull the trigger. One second late.

The soldier’s gun, a M2 Browning machine gun, explodes in a flurry of bullets. 50 rounds per second, compared to my Glock’s 20 rounds. Metal smolders in the air.

Three bodies fall to the ground with a thud.

My Glock falls to the ground, as do my knees. I struggle to breathe inside my helmet, and I snap the visor open, inhaling smog. The smoke burns my throat, stings my eyes with acid, but it gives me an excuse to have tears in my eyes.

I look at the blackened metal of my badge, the words inscribed around the emblem. Acta non verba. Deeds, not words.

I rip my badge off, the fabric tearing with a resounding rip. I hold it in the palm of my hand, the gold lining reflecting the amber flames. It glistens against the low light as I throw it into the fire.

I don’t see it burn, don’t see the flames engulf and consume it. Only hear the roar of the flame. Matching the roar of my heart.

Hagerty High School

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