Interlude | Spring 2023

INTERLUDE

Writing - Design - Photography

3 7 9 10 11 13 14 15 17 19 20 23 25 27 29 30 31 33 37

Poetry/Photography - Josiah Bowles

"Judgement" by Stella Madsen

Digital Art - Cyrus Billetter

Photography - Remi Langwerowski

Photography - Chelsea Wee

"I tried my best" - Sam Cundiff

"Something Beautiful" - Sophia Singa

Poetry - Jaden Alberto, Eugene Krueger

Paintings - Lan Wen, Calico Dant

Sculptures - Naomi C-W

Mixed Media | Digital Art | Pencil

Neon Pastels

Color Pencil, Watercolor

Poetry - Ava Lowe, Theo Coker-Edwards

Sonnets - English 1

Ceramics - Naomi White

Sculptures - Finch Drake

Photography - Film 1

Video Poetry - AP English

LETTERFROMTHEEDITORS

If you're wondering what "Interlude" means, we are too. Just kidding, here's why we selected it for the title of our first literary magazine: (1) It's a cool word; (2) an interlude is something extra either in theater or music. It is music between words...amusement between entertainment.

Though this magazine is not a musical endeavour, the word is fitting because this it really came to life after the hectic year of working on our yearbook.

We needed a breath from all the other things our publications program does. This was out lighthearted way to end the year. We think everyone who worked on this magazine can vouch for that. Anyways, we hope you enjoy Encinal's first ever literary magazine and all the incredibly talented artist's work featured within it.

- Gabby Benaquista and Isa Anderson

SPECIAL THANKS TO DESIGNERS:

Malia Gordon, Naomi Chalem-Wallach, Valerie To, Reanna Soltero, Angie Sanchez-Cordero, Sadie Merry, Inky Arneson, Abby Cho, Lara Natouf

"Salt"

You caught me bleeding so I used my cotton and ice

Rub some salt all in my eyes

You won’t ever see me cry

Your teeth are sharp as knives

Cut the strings up in my mind

Sleep with you for a night and call you mine

I’ll call you mine, I’ll call you mine

Josiah Bowles

"Tongue"

"You know I hate to say I’m wrong. Learn to swallow my tongue. A million times, a million one. But I was never anybody I should fall for. And I know you hate the way I hum–never better than your own. On my head’s your favorite place to drum, But I was never anybody you should fall for.

Josiah Bowles

"Wisconsin"

Can you write me from Wisconsin, do the Great Lakes keep you warm? I’ve been meaning to call.

When I write you’re not responding, does somebody keep you warm? I’ve been meaning to call. I’ve been meaning to call.

Josiah Bowles

"Butterflies"

The butterflies are near again, on a flight to Michigan, tonight. Had to work a couple extra weeks–the end of summer, three weeks sober. I bought you a one way ticket–somewhere south of here. We could live with everything we’d ever need. As long as you hold it safely, keep it to your chest–everything we’d ever need.

Josiah Bowles

JUDGMENT

A short story by Stella Madsen

A chill passed down her spine as she descended down the steps into the Under City. Michelle preferred to avoid these parts of town as much as she could. It was a shame nearly every public transit network commuting to the Corporation passed solely through here. It was a stark contrast from the Uppercity, with its laughter and cleanliness and safety. Down here, all was quiet, save for some soft murmurs from the Abandoned and the underground river’s viscous sloshing. Few sconces lit the path to the boat, dimly illuminating the Abandoneds' dim silhouettes that urged her to move faster.

The driver stood at the docks, one hand extended with a flashlight and the other waiting for coins. Michelle dropped her payment of two coins into his grasp, being careful not to rock the boat while boarding. She took a seat near the other passengers and pulled her scarf around his face to shield from the stench of the waste. They had all their backs turned towards the Abandoned, for there was no fear of them boarding. They likely didn’t even have the two coins needed for passage.

The barge jostled when the driver began its trip through the tunnels beneath the city, his flickering light reflecting on the murky waters ahead. Sitting near the front of the boat, she could see the writhing bodies of the sewer snakes in the dark water.

Even without much light, the sounds of its slithering echoed clearly along the stone walls. Some believed that these snakes were just one huge, endless snake, encasing the entire city with its overlapping loops. Occasionally, the driver’s beacon drifted to the edges of the waterway and caught the figures of the Abandoned in its light. Like gargoyles eyeing churchgoers, they turned their gaunt faces towards the passengers, who lowered their gazes. Groups of Abandoned always lined the underground rivers on the route to work, a constant reminder of what could become of the workers if the Corporation willed it—and the nerves were more ignited than ever considering the arriving date: Judgement Day was near. Some passengers were discussing the matter in quiet voices.

“Do you remember Theodore being cut last year?” One person asked.

“Theodore?” Someone responded. “I do. He still wanders into the caffi shop sometimes. But he can’t afford anything, the poor soul.”

“Don’t say that,” the first speaker hissed. “He wasn’t nearly dedicated enough. It was obvious he would get sent out. He did this to himself.”

“Of course.”

The two silenced themselves when the Abandoned turned their heads, as if they knew they were the topic of discussion. No one made a peep for the rest of the underground commute.

Much to her relief, the awkwardness broke when the boat reached the lock rising to the Uppercity. The air opened around them and billboards spewed gospel as they passed down the waterway bringing them to the doorstep of the Corporation.

The Corporation’s headquarters stood higher than all other buildings, like the laws decreed. Shipment drones swarmed around the midsection of the Tower in charge of deliveries, zooming out to every corner of the Uppercity. The headquarters was the heart and lifeblood of the city. Without its services, all would topple into disarray.

They arrived at the doorstep of the tower, where the throngs of workers in crisp suits and sleek ties made themselves presentable in organized lines until they arrived at their stations. Michelle worked in customer service, situated on level thirty-seven, just above the delivery floors. The line dispersed, and while some shuffled around uncertainty without its guidance, she walked purposefully towards her cubicle.

Hovering above her desk on the nearest wall was the plaque of the C.E.O, his watchful eyes looking out over the expanse of workers performing diligently under his gaze. Her family, and the families of millions of others, had served under the same eyes for centuries. It was almost like a shrine for the people of the Uppercity.

At the first ring from a customer calling her phone, she answered. The calls kept coming, and she did not cease in her assisting and consulting until a posse burst through the doors to the Golden Elevator—the only elevator leading to the office of the C.E.O, perched at the very top of the tower. Its body was solid gold.

Angels, the workers whispered at the new arrivals. That was the nickname the workers had given them, the C.E.O’s messengers and his most trusted servants.

When the voices subsided, the Angel at the forefront spoke. She was decorated from head-to-toe with badges and pins over a sharp suit. An impeccable worker.

“I would like you all to know that Judgement Day will begin at the start of tomorrow’s first shift.” She did not waste time with pleasantries. Why should she, when this meant prosperity or damnation for every soul in the building?

Perhaps easing the news onto the crowd would have been advisable, because the blunt announcement caused a quiet uproar among the cubicles.

Q&AwiththeAuthor

What was the award you won for this story?

"It was the Silver Key Scholastic Art and writing award."

What inspired you to write this story?

"I was reading this book called Sapiens and the author was talking about how religion is essentially being replaced by corporations in the 21st century and so I went off of that and modeled worship after how we worship corporations."

Was this story difficult to write?

"I hadn't actually written much before this...this was my first [short story] that I finished in years which is why I was super excited when I won the award because I was not expecting it!"

SCAN TO READ THE REST OF THE STORY

Remi Langwerowski

"I really like this picture I took of Todaiji Temple in Nara because of its symmetry and the leading lines. I really enjoy visiting Japan and I love its interesting culture and architecture."

I tried my best

Pain and agony is my middle name

But you didn’t care at all

Just found someone to take the blame

You hurt me for what it’s worth

And you kicked my heart into the deep deep earth

It’s all about the friendship you said we had For a while I told you I was glad

But the pain you pushed on me is the thing that really made me sad

I’m glad the friendship is dead and gone

Though the memories we have will be with me from dusk till dawn

By: Sam Cundiff

There is Something Beautiful About Pain

by Sophia Singa

There is something beautiful about pain. It tosses and turns your insides until they are destroyed, but somehow, it liberates you.

It shows you hell, but instead of running, you let your feet scorch. it gives you a numbing paralysis, yet you absorb it. It names every second, “impossible, pointless, stupid, worthless, absurd,” and you believe it. You find yourself walking in a world of misery, only to discover that you created it; you gave a home to your burdens. You fed them, watered them, and gave them sunlight. night and day, you tended them.

You busied yourself so much that you forgot to take care of yourself. Your meadow of burdens were only blossoming, while your garden, a key turn away from your heart, full of bleeding stars and the magical glow of the moon, constellations that veiled mysteries, peonies and tulips that smelled of honeysuckle, and glass windows to draw in neverending beauty, was now cocooned in weeds and thorns. dulled in shock, you left it in unattended shambles, until you could not recognize your garden anymore. it became a foreign language.

You laid awake at midnight, with a million thoughts rushing through your head. you once shrunk under the blankets when you were told ghost stories, screamed your eyes shut when blood was drawn in movies, and squealed when a character kissed their crush whilst reading. You could not help but ask, “what happened?” You found scars and bruises blemishing your body, your stomach growling, and your eyes sagging. You were no longer in awe of the stars, the sun, or the moon, like you once were when you were ten and your closest companion was the comfort of infinity. Now, the vastness of the unknown scared you more than any other thought.

It became so unbearable, that all you could do was let it wash over you. you closed your eyes, wanting to become blind to the thunder. but, every day that you hid, the world called your name, yearning to see you again.

Eventually, the cacophony broke your silence. You opened your eyes, only to see that everything had changed. It was not perfect, or all you had been searching for. but, it was different.

Funny, how it all seems to end in a cliche. We end up getting our happy ever after. But, we are too willing to let ourselves become enveloped in pain to notice it. To notice that it is not the world that is changing, but us. We are opening up, slowly accepting the love we deserve, and wearing our heart out on our sleeve. We do not hide from others out of fear of heart break; we ache to take the risk, and experience life in its truest forms. We learn to live for what makes us feel like we are on top of the world. and, it is all because we were patient through the pain.

It is time for a new adventure.

What Once Was

by Jaden Alberto

Awoken wondering why, The mind runs, racing, round and round Confused, explored, pondered… Whatever was once was…was washed away.

It runs…

Fleeting like the sun in a sunset…

Fleeting like the sudden screams of savory warfare….

Fleeting like words once lost, forgotten and shattered.

The frozen fire of the eyes of one Are dissimilar to the quitters of some. Can he? Will he? Break free from what once was?

The ringing alarm captures his thoughts, draining them away.

He returns with ringing in his ear

His erect body taking part of the bed’s space

Wishing it never happened …if only they came true.

Escape is Impossible

by Eugene Kruger

The drug world takes its toll, Wes needed out. He heard of the job corps from his good friend, leaving his past life without any doubt.

The Job Corps was on a campus well-kempt. With newly-found dreams, Wes earned his degree. He learned woodwork and hoped his life would mend.

Finding new hope put his mind more at ease, happily, he left to find his new life, triumphant he returned to his families.

Toil as he may, he still lived in strife. Each day became a struggle, and a war Life seemed as if god were twisting the knife.

Moore could not bear his life’s strain anymore, with tears in his eyes, he turned to the stove. Once again, sadly, drugs were what he bore.

Could he escape? For him, it was no. Like Wes, many are trapped in this cycle, Poor unfortunate souls kept on their toes. When might there be a great revival?

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PiecesofaMan

TheDanc e r s

thefrozenmoment

by: Jiarui Wu

Imagine

Mr. BunBee Mori

Logan Laguna

Elizabeth Siddall

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TWO COLD SOULS

BY: AVA LOWE

Your bare skin is touching mine, we are as close as can be. But our minds couldn't be farther apart. My head is resting on your chest, I close my eyes and all I can see is him. I know it's all wrong. I am here with you. I am supposed to love you and I want to but am I ready? His hands are wrapped around my waist but as his eyes look past me into the vast nothingness. I know I am not alone with my wandering thoughts. I know I am not the girl he wants, the girl he desires, the girl he might even love. We share a commonality, We want to be loved. More than that we want to close a gap, we want to fill a void. We are merely ghosts of our pasts to each other.Just two warm bodies wishing for two cold souls.

The Conundrum of Individuality

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Theo EdwardsCoker

"In Gardens"

In gardens, sweet blossoms paint a vibrant scene, Their petals delicate, a peaceful sight. Their hues and scents, a beautiful serene, Enchanting all who wander through the light.

A daisy dances with the morning new, It's golden center glows with pure delight. A tulip stands tall, elegant and true, It's vibrant petals a majestic sight.

The rose, opened with thorns and crimson hue, For in their fragile beauty we can trace, it's fragrance fills the air, enchanting you In love's language, it holds a special place.

Oh, enchanting beauty so hard to hate But, a later date it will meet it's fate.

Helena Beneam

"With Webs of Grace"

Spiderman, with webs of silked grace A masked hero, soaring through the calm skies In spider threads hero's path we trace, A beacon of hope, with purpose that thrives.

With every swing, you nausate the air, A little dance, as you fights for us all. The pressure brings some sense of joy and flair Standing bright, staying strong, never to fall.

A heart so pure, yet extremely unhappy. No darkness, however deep, can light his flame. With great power comes responsibility So he stands up for the sick and the lame.

Spiderman, a talented man so bright, A legend born to battle day and night.

Marion Winslow

Ceramic and Glaze | Naomi White

Ceramic and Glaze | Naomi White

Finch Drake Ceramics

Finch Drake Ceramics

Paralysis of Depression: Violet Sorensen

Nina Sogor

Marianna Turner

Violet Sorensen

Lainey Calnin

Lainey Calnin

Sebastian Saechao

Carter Johnson

Sarah Berhane

Elyssa Leota

VIDEOPOETRY

As I Grew Older by Langston Hughes interpreted by Robel Bemnet

To a Daughter Leaving Home by Linda Pastan interpreted by Gabby Benaquista and Isa Anderson

"ITWAS GREATTO SEE EVRYONE'S CREATIVE ABILITES"

ABOUT THE PROJECT:

AP

teacher

"In general I think some students are reluctant to immerse themselves in poetry, they see it as this outdated kind of art form, and so I was trying to think of a project that would allow students to see poetry as something relevant and interesting. Anytime I can allow students to have a creative outlet, I'm always impressed by what they can bring...and some of the videos totally blew me away. I think my favorite thing about it was that it gave me a sort of glimpse into your point of view, how you see things, how you see the world, how you look at a poem...its so different from how I see it or experience it...I love that, when something a student creates really lets their personality shine through. "

Two Lovers and a Beachcomber by the Real Sea Interpreted by Sadie Merry

Suicide's Note by Langston Hughes: interpreted by ...

Literature

Ms. Kerber talks about video the project

-SADIEMERRY(12)