The Grail
“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light for my path.” -Psalms 119:105
Literary Magazine Spring 2023
Archbishop Riordan High School San Francisco, California
Table of Contents
Poetry
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Pages 1-15
Fiction
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Pages 16-58
Art & Photography
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Various Pages
Manny Lopez ’23
"Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919-2021)
Co-Founder of City Lights Books First Poet Laureate of San Francisco 1998-2000
Poetry How the Sun Never Left My Side Caitlin Dowd ’25
The Sun might be my favorite thing You hug me with your warmth when you peek through on the cold day You give me confidence when you make my freckles appear You give me a schedule rising and setting every day The giddy feeling waiting for your sunshine to stay all day Only to set at 8 And I learn to appreciate you most when that fog is coming through I’ve learned that the most comforting thing about you is that you are always here Behind the fog behind the rain You, the Sun, are in my back corner rooting for me Getting ready to appear And once you’re here, everything starts to make sense The warmth, the confidence, the schedule When you are here life is serene And when you’re not I have learned that it will be soon Because the Sun never leaves my side
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Joseph Zuloaga ’23 2
Peering Out
David Pham ’23 In a sea of people Peering out my window on an autumn day For no reason at all, just an impulse. I find myself above a sea of people. Leveling my eyes, I see more people. Shifting higher, I see even more. Why am I, in a sea of people, so alone? As if there was a barrier called anxiety, keeping me away. I want to be a cool kid, I also want to have friends. I wish for good laughs, I wish to have fun. So why, in a sea of people, am I so alone? How am I isolated in such a dense sea? Either concede to the ever-changing tides of change. Or get out of the pool, there is no resisting. I find myself pondering my worth, Am I a necessary drop in such a sea? I do not gather drops together like her, I do not have charisma like him. I am a lone drop, like them. Peering out my window on an autumn day, I find myself so isolated in this sea of people. I am alone, oh so alone. Am I less human? Why can’t I be like them? I have my own reasons.
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Georgia Michalchuk ’26 4
Permanence
Talia Bumanglag ’24 I look around my room And nothing is the same as it was The aroma of candles is different The jackets that stack in piles on my chair Are from newer, trendier stores Books that cling to the shelf Are more mature than my old ones And even the dust that has settled within confines of this room Aren’t the same specs of skin and dirt as they were I don’t want to be here And yet I miss how I used to be Obsessed with the thought of living, How exhilarating every breath felt Now every breath feels like a drag from a fresh cigarette My lungs and heart are teetering on the brink of collapse I can’t shake the feeling in my chest That I will never be that person again No matter how much I crave it No matter how much I wish I could go back Cherish moments a little longer Hold on a little tighter Forgive a little faster I can’t. And as I walk towards the future I am still looking back Wishing I was in the same place I prayed to leave
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Joseph Zuloaga ’23 6
Tulsa Race Massacre (Survivor's POV) E'moni Ferdinand ’26 Never shall I forget the deep rooted hatred they felt The yearning feeling their bodies had to burn the place to the ground The passion they had when acting as unmerciful The yearning feeling their bodies had to ensure there wasn’t so much as a whimper in sound Never shall I forget the wails and screams of the targeted The sounds of their feet to the concrete as they ran, literally, for their lives The recurring reminder that they were to always be the inferior existence The emotional strain so thick it could be cut with knives Never shall I forget the deafening sound of the bullets fired The unrealistically red liquid pooling from bodies The silence that came after they blinked for the last time The silence that came after they breathed for the last time Never shall I forget the look of all the color drained from a mother’s face The denial of the reality occurring The confusion of whether or not these were images from my deep slumber The title it holds for living as one of the worst incidents of racial violence in U.S. history.
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Charlottie Yip ’26 8
Friendship Like a Butterfly C. J. W. ’24
Friendship like a butterfly Growing only to fly away Will you come back to me? Moments flit through my mind I still think back to when The caterpillar could not touch the sky Hours of conversation melting into a few phrases Was it to pass the time or let the time fly? Fly away, and leave me here It's okay, I say and think Being lonely isn't too bad But losing what you had Takes your wings away I can't fly away like you
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Charlottie Yip ’26
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Grandmother’s Passing Isaiah Sanchez ’26
Never shall I forget that afternoon, the day that my grandmother passed away, the day that moved slower than a sloth. Never shall I forget the Zoom meeting of relatives saying their “goodbyes”. Never shall I forget the last few moments with my grandmother. I remember my last time visiting my grandmother, a week before her death, on her birthday. Never shall I forget texting my closest cousin in sadness and pain as we watched our grandmother pass on a Zoom meeting. It felt like a samurai sword slashing through my heart. Never shall I forget the moment the nurse announced her heart stopped beating. The moment of silence within our family was like an eternal break of time. Never shall I forget the screams of agony coming from my aunts’ mouths. The sound of pain in their voices reflecting upon core memories with my grandmother. Never shall I forget the multiple days of prayer after her passing. Daily rosaries with a mournful vibe. Never shall I forget the two viewing days when we saw the lifeless body of my grandmother in her coffin. These two days were some of the saddest moments of my life. Seeing my grandmother for the last time was sickening while unforgettable. Never shall I forget the day of her burial. All my relatives were gathered together dressed in black like a flock of crows mourning a death. The church was silent as night. Her coffin was blessed with Holy Water like a baby’s head during Baptism. Never shall I forget moments before burial, throwing flowers onto her coffin. Never shall I forget white balloons being released into the sky as we said goodbye to our loved one. Never shall I forget the tears that ran down relatives’ eyes. Never shall I forget the endless prayers to God between her death and burial.
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Frederica Michalchuk ’26 12
Foreign
Talia Bumanglag ’24 It’s a foreign feeling Missing someone so deeply Forgetting the person they used to be And witnessing them in the flesh Only to remember You know exactly who they are Like a word you’ve been trying to rack your brain for It’s punishing To see you so clearly Remembering the divots and crevices Of the dimples adorning your once sweet smile. You were the puzzle piece I searched for Lurking through the ins and outs of my mind. But now you are the piece merely forgotten under the table. Your position did not equal permanence, But you were the addition in my life That I so deeply cherished.
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Nico Faba ’26
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My Old Piano
Sasha Feliciana-Chan ’26
The keys of piano, white and all strong Melody soars, its beauty none denied Bringing music to life with her sweet songs Heart full of passion, soul full one of mine One moves her soul and soothes the spirit for two Bringing forth a beauty love can't replace It speaks of love that never was known to you So when the notes of the piano play The music of the heart is sure not to rest One day, one may hit the keys to not pay A place of beauty of song and of best The note you play: a sweet harmonic sound Love and life under the keys of the mend Please save my mind so we will not end.
Down goes the tree Edward Ramos ’23
Down goes the tree, which has stood so tall Down goes the tree, with the inevitable fall Down goes the tree, no breath to breathe, yet finally free, without a worry for any given thing True freedom—true life Technically dead but spiritually alive 15
Xiaojian (Jeffrey) Cong ’24 16
Fiction 2077 Angelina Denefeld ’24 Welcome to San Francisco, read the old rustic sign, its oxidized corroded metal practically falling off its rotten wooden post. The once famed peninsula was now abandoned and all that remained were the fond memories of the once bustling city. Practically a garbage dump, all seven miles were engulfed in a miasma of malodorous gas that either kills or mutates its victims into horrific monstrosities—humans, only an ignominious thousand remained. About thirty years ago, Jeff Bezos bought San Francisco and made a series of remote attacks to make way for the “New World.” First there was the EMP, disrupting communications and access. And then there was Lucifer’s Envy, the gas that floats over the city like an ominous mist. The remaining survivors of the attack have migrated to Treasure Island, and rebuilt it to form a new drug factory for the infamous cough drop brand, Luden’s. This is San Francisco in the year 2077. “Aw man what a dump! Mr. Shanks must really be desperate for new parts if he’s making me scavenge through there,” a youthful man with a British accent chirped. “Bloody hell this’ll take all day!” He said scratching his head in frustration, only to light a cigarette to calm his nerves. “Welp, ain’t no time like the present I guess.” Gearing up, he rode closer and closer to the desolate city of the once beautiful Golden Gate. Enter Wilder; a US military veteran with shaggy, dirt-blond hair, a cybernetic scope eye, and equipped with a robotic arm. He was Mr. Shanks’s personal scavenger and bounty hunter for Shank’s Auto Industry; his sole purpose was to serve his employer. Rub him the wrong way and you’ll be blown off the face of the Earth. “Alright, just gotta find a few catalytic converters and some engines, a couple of GPS systems, and a handful of bumpers and we 17
should be good to go!” he noted, his voice muffled due to his gas mask. Having arrived in front of the SF Zoo, near the Great Highway, he pulled out a small blue orb and crushed it; its blue powder rapidly spread around him and a holographic map of SF appeared out of thin air, specific areas marked with warning signs noting high concentrations of the gas. “So it looks like I’m here…” He said aloud, pointing to the fat red star on his map. “Looks like I’ve got the whole city to myself. Lovely. I won’t have to deal with any pests.” Wilder sneered, gritting his teeth at the thought of running into competition. The mephitic air of the poisonous sky caused many organisms to be rendered lifeless––plants, microorganisms, animals, and people––after the attack. Wilder knew he was walking into a graveyard. He entered the ruins, the stone roads littered with the ashes of the innocent 30 years before. The cars were covered in dirt and dust like a thick layer of snow seen in the movies. He nonchalantly approached each vehicle, wiped them off, and carefully removed the necessary parts. After a few hours of scavenging, he found what he needed, but oddly enough every single car he can find in that region was missing a catalytic converter. “How peculiar, someone must have taken em’… filthy rats.” Wilder didn’t have much respect for life, and in fact he detested living organisms whole heartedly. The only reason he obeyed Mr. Shanks was because he owed him his life. Mr. Shanks is the one who picked him off the streets, provided him with a home and food, and practically raised him as his own. “Bloody hell, I’ma have to venture farther into the city…” He sighed reluctantly, holding his head in his hand. “Let’s gear up and head forward.” He collected all of the car parts in an antigravity-carrier-sphere and connected it to his speeder via a tow cable. Once again, he mounted his speeder and rode farther into the ruins of San Francisco. Stopping at almost every point in the city, he searched and raided the cars, looking everywhere for catalytic converters. “Dammit. There’s none here either,” he huffed, “I can’t seem to find any of these damned CATs!” Trudging forward, he made his last stop in 18
Glen Park. The state park’s greenery grew abnormal boils, while the branches of the trees oozed pus from its dead bark. “My God! What the devil happened here?! It looks like a science class gone wrong!” He spouted, appalled at the grotesque state of the park. Suddenly, Wilder heard a strange noise behind one of the bloated trees. He flinched and turned around, trying to catch whatever was stalking him. Slowly grabbing his rifle, he aimed it at the warped fluorescences. Almost immediately he felt a hand caress his nape. There was a sting, then there was black. A piercing bright light pricked Wilder’s retinas causing him to blink repeatedly. Once adjusted, he sat up, observing the new setting. He was in a workshop; there were tools scattered along numerous surfaces, a mountain of scrap metal, and two large work tables, one of which he was seated upon. However, the most alluring thing that caught Wilder’s attention was the pile of dozens and dozens of catalytic converters sitting in the farthest corner of the garage. “Great. I’ve been kidnapped by a rando and the thing I need the most is right next to me after two days of searching.” “Who are you calling a rando, buzzzzzter?” An unfamiliar, melodic voice rang. From the darkness emerged a creature, no, a thing, a horrendous, putrid thing! “Ah! What the hell are you?!” Wilder screamed, his eyes widening with fear. Standing before him was a creature he could not properly describe: it had the stinger of a bee for an arm, but the body of a human, half of it covered with a familiar yellow and black pattern. It had insect wings, transparent and veiny, but the creepiest feature of all was its face. Half of its face was that of a bee, a big black eye and yellow fuzz, yet the other half was human flesh with dark brown hair, pale pink lips, and a singular bright blue eye. “I’m Neriummmmmmm,” the mutant said, its head twitching violently back and forth. She lunged forward, making hers and Wilder’s faces level with each other. Nerium’s breathing was labored and heavy, and he could feel the heat radiating off her. She was far too close, making his skin crawl. “You’re a filthy pest, what in Christ’s name happened to ya?” 19
he spat, disgust laced in his voice. His skin became inflamed with the urge to itch, hives covering his arms just looking at her. “I wazzzzzzzz human onzze. But the rezzzzt is blank…” she said, backing away from the man sitting on her work bench. Her eyes saddened. Just by looking at Wilder made her miss her human body even more. The only reason she kidnapped him was because she thought he could help. She hadn’t seen a human in years. Wilder started scratching, raking his skin raw, making it bleed. He could not take this. He felt dirty, he felt unclean. He needed to devise a plan, a way out, just some sort of escape from this infested hell. “Tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you.” “I’m lizzzzzening…” “How much do you want for those car parts?” “Thozzze partzzzz are NOT for zzzzallllllle…” “I’ll give you anything you want for them, doesn’t have to be money.” “Like what?” “I can find a way to turn you,” he paused at the thought of making this possible, “human.” “IMPOZZIBLE!” “I know a pretty good scientist back East.” he lied. He didn’t know anyone back East. “Really?” “Totally! All you gotta do, my friend, is give me those car parts,” he said, pointing at the catalytic converters. “Intriguing, I might just conzzider it, but I don’t even know your name.” “Wilder. Good to meet ya.” Nerium extended her arm, taking his hand in hers, and shaking it with inhuman gusto. Filthy. Filthy, filthy, FILTHY, FILTHY! The audacity of this THING touching him, ney, grazing his skin was enough to make him go off the deep end. He snapped. “Die you infested hell spawn!” He cocked his robotic arm up and aimed straight at her face, activating his built-in flamethrower. 20
“Ahhh! You wretched human! What have you done?!” Nerium screamed, burning alive. She made one last attempt to lunge at Wilder, but he kicked her back into the pile of catalytic converters. The heat from the flames ignited the precious car parts, causing the fire to spread throughout the garage. Despite the impending danger, Wilder chose not to flee, as the monstrosity still drew breath. He approached its writhing form and pulled out his handgun. “Life’s not fair, little bug.” BANG. In an instant, Nerium’s last moments of life were extinguished as the flames immolated her. In the span of 10 seconds, only ash remained. The sky wept, its murky tears washing over Wilder’s face as he silently walked back to Glen Park to collect his belongings. And for the last time, he mounted his speed bike, and rode off. µµµ
"Solemn Golem" (2023) Quan Tran ’25
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Manny Lopez ’23
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A Game of Chess Aiden Jantz ’24
“Humanity is so intent on becoming master of its own destiny, master of the Earth, master of the universe itself. But the universe is not wavered by our schemes. It will do whatever it wills to do. We are but pawns in its cosmic game of chess, and it is folly to try and rise any higher.” – Alexei Dmitriev As the machine hummed to life, Jacob’s heart pounded. It took up half the lab, a giant halo of metal fifty meters in diameter, a cylindrical chamber at its center standing five meters tall and three meters wide, with a sealed door on one side. Large housing units branched off in all directions, packed tight with every electronic component you could possibly imagine. Eleven years. Eleven years of theorizing, research, and unending work that had culminated into this. Every wire, every sheet of carbon fiber and alloy, every little detector, processor, computer, thing-a-ma-jiger, painstakingly crafted and fine-tuned, even invented to form this final, glorious, terrifying device: a functioning time machine. And now he was going to send someone through it for the first time: himself. It was safe, of course, they’d sent living creatures through it many times without them dying. In their early trials, the rats they had jumped had landed in the past as scorched piles of goop, but thanks to Mark’s protective time capsule and e-matter shield, side effects had been reduced to some dizziness and nausea. The humming grew louder. Jacob scanned the lab, looked at all the tables and desks covered with equipment and strewn papers. A sad smile formed on his face. Mark. Mark should’ve been there. He’d put as much effort into this project as Jacob had, if not more. He’d been the one to suggest it was possible in the first place, lead the project, make deals with the Pentagon to get funding for this massive effort. Mark deserved to be in this lab, on this night, and revel in this triumph with him. Old age and a broken heart had pre23
vented that, and for the past four years, Jacob was left to take this next great step in human history alone. But not for long. Jacob could vividly remember it, the last time he’d seen Mark alive. Laying there in that hospital bed, hooked up to a jumble of tubes and hoses, his life slowly coming to an end. He could barely talk, but he’d still managed to force out one last dying wish: please, if Jacob ever figured out how to travel through time, save his son. His only son, all the family he had left, perhaps even the one person he truly loved, until a freak car accident stole that away from him. Mark’s health had begun to deteriorate shortly after. Now, Jacob could change that. Travel to the past, stop Mark’s son from entering his car, and prevent the tragedy from ever happening. Free of heartbreak, Mark would live as well, even if for just a while longer. It was still unclear how interacting with the past could affect the present, but tests had been run involving small-scale events, and no matter what they did, they were unable to create any sort of paradoxes or unravel reality or anything like that. Whatever Jacob did in the past, it wasn’t going to break the universe. He nervously glanced at the doorway, hoping to God no one walked in. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to perform any jumps without strict permission from the government. But then again, it was his time machine… why shouldn’t he be able to take it for a test run? Besides, if he was going to save Mark’s son, it would have to be now. Once the Pentagon got word that people could safely travel through time, security would get a hell of a lot stronger. Then he’d never have the opportunity to do an unauthorized jump. But no one was going to catch him now. It was two in the morning, and all the dozens of other scientists working on the project had gone to sleep hours ago. He was alone. As the humming reached its peak, a high-pitched beep rang out and a light turned green, indicating the accelerators had reached max energy level and the time machine was ready to be used. Jacob’s stomach churned. Slowly, he walked over to the wall of monitors. He ran calibrations to make sure everything was working properly, and when it all showed up good, he typed in the landing destination and the time he wanted to land: December 28, 2034, 24
8:00 AM – the morning before Mark’s son died. Jacob pressed the confirm key, and the latches on the central cylinder were released. He walked towards it, ducking under the large ring, the source of the loud humming – the accelerator, filled with magnets and superconductors to produce the massive amount of energy required to power such a machine. When he reached the cylinder, he rested his hand on the bar and hoisted the door open. He stepped inside and, taking one last look at the lab, closed the door shut behind him. It was completely dark in the chamber but for one red LED shining on the ceiling. Through the dim light he could see the small, cone-shaped pod with a hatch that was his ride out of the present: the time capsule. It looked much like one of those crew modules you’d find on NASA’s or SpaceX’s rockets, but shrunk down so that only one person could fit inside it. Like he did with the large cylinder previously, he pulled open the hatch, crawled inside, and pulled the hatch back down. He sank down into the very uncomfortable seat inside (he made a note to add cushions for future jumps), strapped on his restraints, and faced the control panel on the wall facing him. A single command was present on the screen: a green button titled “Begin jump procedure.” Hesitantly, Jacob pressed it, and his heart raced ever faster as the sound of locks sealing him inside the capsule clicked through the walls. A countdown began on the control panel. nine…eight… Though he couldn’t see it, he knew what was happening to the capsule. A small chamber located at its tip was opening up, exposing a vial containing a miniscule amount of caesium-137, a very heavy, very radioactive liquid. seven…six… This was it. Months of preparation, going behind the Pentagon’s back, and now it was time to change the past. Jacob repeated the order of operations in his head. five…four… Travel back five years. Recover from the jump. Take an auto to the city. Meet Mark’s son. Convince him to stay home. Save his life and Mark’s. three…two… 25
Simple as that. one…ze– A deafening warbling noise bombarded him from all sides, the sound of focused quantum rays frying the caesium, instantly bringing it to a dangerously unstable energy level. The caesium collapsed upon itself, a loud crack echoed through the walls, and the ensuing black hole engulfed Jacob’s time capsule. A deep vibration shook every surface in the capsule. Gravity no longer had an influence on Jacob, and he lifted off his seat a few centimeters. Technically, it was an Einstein-Rosen bridge he’d just created – commonly known as a wormhole – a type of black hole that just deposited you somewhere else in space and time instead of absorbing you into its singularity. Even so, the inside of a bridge was a very hostile environment, to put it lightly. Outside the capsule was a black void of literally infinite amounts of pressure, unfathomable heat, and astronomical levels of radiation… however, thanks to the time capsule and the protective e-matter shield it emitted, Jacob felt only moderately uncomfortable. The rumbling noise coming from outside rattled his insides, and the zero-gravity inside the bridge had him feeling much more nauseous than he’d expected, but he was better off than those rats, that was for sure. It was an odd sensation, knowing that you were traveling through a literal wormhole, the stuff of science fiction. Even more so knowing that you were the first person to do it. Jacob Starnes, the world’s first time-traveler. No one would know it, who knows what the Pentagon would do to him if they found out about this, but he would know, and he would carry that pride with him till the end of his days. He would smile, but the nausea was starting to really get to him. Just when the shaking of the capsule started to become unbearable, it stopped. The vibrating stopped. Jacob fell back into his seat. All was quiet. All was still. He was in the past. Deep breaths… in through the nose, out through the mouth. Jacob closed his eyes, composed himself. When he was ready, he pressed the button on the control panel, this time a different command: “Open hatch.” The locks clicked, and Jacob pushed up the door with his foot. 26
Dim sunlight shone into the capsule. Jacob leaned forward and not-so-gracefully somersaulted out onto the ground. He stared up into the sky for a few seconds. Trees, tall, tall trees, a hundred meters tall, shot straight up all around him, filtering the morning light into bright rays. It was beautiful. A sharp headache pierced Jacob’s skull. He winced and clutched his forehead, groaning in pain. The overwhelming nausea was still present, and when he opened his eyes again, the redwoods above him were spinning. While time traveling in the capsule did not have any permanent damage on living organisms (as far as they could tell, at least), it certainly put on a lot of strain. Traversing through black holes, rapidly jumping between two different places in space and time… well, the human body was obviously not equipped for it. But that was alright. He had time to rest, and there wasn’t much chance of him being discovered, thankfully – he’d intentionally picked a remote part of Muir Woods to land in. Recovery took longer than he’d anticipated. His state worsened within fifteen minutes. For hours Jacob wavered in and out of consciousness, lying there on the ground, dizzy, sick to his stomach, migraines coming and going. By the time he felt well enough to stand up and start walking, it was already past two in the afternoon. No one knew exactly when Mark’s son had left his house, only that the wrecked car containing his body was found at around ten-thirty at night. Jacob needed to move, and fast. Slowly but surely, Jacob forced himself up and started walking. He knew where to go, he just needed to get to someplace that had service so he could call an auto to take him to the city. Jacob walked over a short hill and the capsule disappeared out of view. It would stay there until he returned that night, and he would take it back to 2039. Tearing a black hole into existence left a considerable weakness in spacetime, meaning that once it closed, ripping it back open required a comparatively small amount of energy – enough that the little time capsule could accomplish it. Jacob would hop inside and take it back through the wormhole, putting him back in his lab at the exact time he’d left. Jacob headed due east until he reached a trail and took it south. He passed a handful of people along the way, a couple, a mother and her two children, an elderly man, and others, all en27
joying their Thursday afternoon, all unaware they had just walked past the world’s first time traveler. After half an hour he arrived at a visitor’s center, with a parking lot just past. Jacob followed the connecting road further east until he picked up service. He called an auto through the app on his phone and sat down on the side of the road. Eventually, the auto arrived. The car, its sensors spinning all around the frame, drove itself up and parked next to Jacob. He opened the passenger door and slumped down in the (thankfully cushioned) seat, shutting the door behind him. The car drove off to the destination he’d set on his phone. After half an hour of driving out of Muir Woods, windy road after windy road, the peninsula of San Francisco finally came into view. The skyscrapers of downtown towered over the surrounding neighborhoods, a little fog laid low over the western shore, and the approaching sunset cast a faint golden glow across the whole city. Jacob had never lived in the Bay Area, but he had family who did, and he was familiar with the city. From a distance, 2034 San Francisco didn’t look too different from present-day, except that the Salesforce Tower still held the title for tallest skyscraper – the Golden Gate Pillar was still under construction. Down to the southern tip of the Marin Headlands, across the Golden Gate Bridge, into the Presidio. Jacob sat, and he thought about what he was doing, how he was in the past, about to literally reverse death. Reverse death… that brought a smile to his face. What was the thing that the other scientist had said, Alexei? Oh, that’s right: “Humanity is so intent on becoming master of its own destiny, master of the Earth, master of the universe itself. But the universe is not wavered by our schemes. It will do whatever it wills to do. We are but pawns in its cosmic game of chess, and it is folly to try and rise any higher.” Yes, Jacob remembered that little spiel very clearly. Years ago, he and Mark had first entertained the idea of time travel, they believed they’d found a way, were sharing their discoveries with others in the field, excited that they might find a way to alter the 28
past, make the greatest step in the history of humanity, when this scientist, this Alexei, piped up and said that such a thing was not to be trifled with. He went on some rant, claiming that even if it were possible to travel through time, attempting to change the past was against the will of the cosmos, the will of Nature itself, and he used that speech about chess as his rebuttal. The man was drunk, and he stumbled out of the room shortly after, but it was still quite a damper to their spirits. Well, who was laughing now? Jacob was currently in the past, about to rewrite history for the better. They’d executed experiment after experiment in that lab, sending pens, fruit, animals, now a person back in time with perfect success – the “universe” was either unwilling or unable to stop them. The full gravity of the situation hit Jacob, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Whatever atrocity the almighty universe threw at them, they could simply go back in time and avoid it. Humanity was in control now. Millions of years of unending battle against Nature, and they had finally come out on top. They were no longer pawns. They were the grandmaster. The auto pulled over and came to a stop. Jacob snapped out of his triumphant brood. He looked out the passenger window, and a large apartment complex loomed above him. He had arrived. Heart suddenly pounding, Jacob opened the door and stepped outside. It was getting dark outside. Some crowds were still walking up and down the street, the last few before everyone went home for the night. He set the auto to wait for him on his phone, then closed the door. Deep breaths… in through the nose, out through the mouth. Jacob closed his eyes, composed himself. Then he took a step towards the complex and entered the front door. Jacob walked past a stairwell to his right and stopped at an elevator. He pressed the “UP” button on the wall, which glowed as the elevator whizzed down to the ground level. The metal doors slid open with a ding, and Jacob stepped inside. The doors closed behind him. Up, up, up the elevator went, each story ticking by on the panel next to the doors. As it neared Floor 13, the box decelerated and came to a stop, and the doors slid open again. Jacob stepped 29
outside. The doors closed behind him. Jacob knew where to go. He turned to his right, walked for a bit, then turned left, then right, then right again, and then he reached Room 39. He stared at the door for a long time. Then he knocked. Hurried footsteps from within the room, coming closer and closer until the doorknob turned and the door opened and there stood a very handsome, very anxious-looking young man, about an inch or two taller than him. Jacob had not met Mark’s son many times, but he clearly knew the face before him. Chiseled jawline, ruffled, curly hair… the only difference was that his usual charming, warm smile had been swapped with a look of utter stress. His expression changed to confusion when he recognized Jacob. “Doctor Starnes! What– why–” he stammered, “what are you doing here?” “Good evening. May I come in for a moment?” Jacob asked. “Look, I-I’m sorry, I’d like to talk, I really would, but my wife just went into labor, and I really have to get to the hospital.” Jacob knew this, of course, he’d done his research. His pregnant wife, down in Half Moon Bay visiting her parents, went into labor a month prematurely. Her parents drove her to the nearest hospital and she called her husband, who was found a few hours later dead in his smoking car, crashed on a beach off of Highway 1. No drugs or alcohol in his system. No one else involved in the wreck. No rain or fog or any other hazardous driving conditions. The accident didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. Perhaps his stress simply distracted him and he lost control. No one would ever know what had happened, and that perhaps was the thing that pushed Mark past his breaking point. The young man’s anxiety and hurriedness complicated things, for sure, but Jacob felt that he could handle it. All he needed to do was stay calm and give the alibi. “I only need to talk a few moments,” said Jacob. “Look, now really isn’t the time–” He walked in anyway. He wasn’t going to accomplish anything standing in that doorway. Jacob stepped past him and into the living room, a quaint little place with a sofa, some chairs, paintings hung on the wall. A small window displayed a pleasant view of the 30
ocean, the sun nearly dipping below the horizon. “Hey! Did you hear what I said?” Jacob heard the door shut and the bewildered man marched up behind him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk now! You need to leave!” Jacob turned around to face him, a serious look on his face, and one he wasn’t faking, either. “Sir, you are in danger.” That stopped him. He stared at Jacob, incredulous. “What?” Jacob began his alibi, the story he’d made up to convince Mark’s son to stay home. “You know your father is involved with the government?” “Yeah, but he won’t tell me how. I imagine he’s making laser guns for the army, or something.” “Yes, well, there’s been an infiltration. Foreign enemies are trying to access information regarding your father’s work.” “Jesus…” He suddenly looked worried again. “Oh, God, is Dad safe?” Jacob put his hands up reassuringly. “Your father is fine, you don’t need to worry about him. But these people, they think you know what he does, and they’re after you.” “Me? Why would I know anything, I’m just some statistician for Salesforce, why…” “I don’t know, I really don’t. We can protect you, though. There’s an auto waiting outside for us, and it’ll take us to a safe house in the East Bay.” That bit was a massive bluff. He would just have them get in the auto and drive east across the Bay Bridge, then at some point he’d pretend to get a notification that the crisis had been averted. A little dumb, honestly… but it would work. “We’ll stay there until everything’s been dealt with.” “But… my wife! She’s at the hospital, I need to go see her, I need to be with her, I need to… I need…” “I’m really sorry,” and Jacob meant it. “But you need to come with me. It’s not worth the risk.” The conflicted husband stared at Jacob, a pained, confused expression that cut Jacob to the heart. For what seemed like forever they stood there, the time traveler and his mission, until finally the latter stepped back and collapsed onto the sofa. He buried his face in his hands. Jacob began to relax. His heartbeat slowed. His plan 31
was working. Jacob gave him some time. The man sat there, hands in face, for quite some time. Then he looked up, elbows on knees, and stared off into space. His face was scrunched up. He was clearly very deep in thought. Jacob checked his watch. It was ten past five. In reality, they could just stay there until ten-thirty, after which Jacob could be certain that the accident had been avoided, but he needed to keep up the integrity of his moral lie. He took a small step forward. “We need to leave soon. Are you ready?” Jacob asked. Still staring. Something had come over this man. He no longer looked confused. He didn’t even look anxious. He looked determined. “Yes, I am ready.” He looked directly at Jacob. “But I’m not going with you.” He stood up and walked towards the front door. He was – how did – what did he think – this doesn’t – scattered thoughts ricocheted at high speed around Jacob’s head as the previous sentence failed to register in his mind. What was he doing? This didn’t make any sense, this wasn’t supposed to happen, how was this happening? Jacob hurried after. “Wait! Wait, you don’t understand!” “I understand perfectly well.” He pulled his jacket off a hanger and slipped it on, that same determined gaze fixed on his face. “I just don’t care.” “You don’t care? Your life is in danger, how could you possibly not care!” Jacob hadn’t seen this coming, not in the slightest. He’d expected a calm, rational man like his father was, or at the very least someone who’d be willing to hear him out. But, irrational, he kneeled down to put his shoes on. “My wife is about to give birth. Danger or no, I am going to be there for her. You can tell your friends from the Pentagon to escort me there if they like.” He stood up and locked eyes with Jacob, their faces inches apart. “Do you have anything else to say?” Jacob stuttered, but no words came out. What was he supposed to say, that he was from the future, that the man would die if he drove away, that his father would later die from heartbreak? That was even crazier than a foreign adversary trying to abduct him. Jacob failed to say anything. 32
“That’s what I thought.” He nodded in a final gesture to Jacob, then turned around and reached for the doorknob. A last-ditch effort. Jacob leaped forward and blocked the doorway, pushing him back. He glared at Jacob, a dangerous fire burning in his eyes. “Get the hell out of my way.” “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.” “I’m not going to ask you again,” he growled. “Please,” Jacob begged, “it’s me, I’m Doctor Starnes, I’m your father’s best friend, just listen–” A blur of fury and Jacob found himself forced to the ground, shoved against the coat hanger. When he got his bearings, the door was open and he could hear heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway, the success of his mission getting further and further away. Jacob pursued. Out the door and into the hallway. He caught a glimpse of the jacket as it whisked around a corner, and Jacob sprinted towards it. Corner after corner he followed Mark’s son, towards the elevator and straight past it, then a sudden left and into the stairwell. Down, down, down, Jacob flew, one story after another, his pursuant barely in sight and never any closer. Panic began to bubble in Jacob’s chest. He could see it in his head, he could vividly imagine what would happen next. That man would get into his car and drive away, he’d be full of anger and confusion and anxiety and he would do something rash or not pay attention, and then the accident would happen. No, Jacob would not allow that. He had to stop it. At the bottom of the stairwell, a hard right, past the elevator again and away from the front exit, down the hallway and the man disappeared behind a back door. Jacob continued in pursuit. The door opened into a stairway that continued down below the ground floor. Jacob took the steps three at a time and suddenly found himself in a wide parking garage. He searched for Mark’s son and found him ten meters away, his keys out, closing in on a small, blue car. “No!” he yelled. In a final burst of energy he sprinted ahead as fast as he possibly could and somehow managed to reach him before he could enter his car. He threw his hands over the man’s 33
shoulders. “Get the hell off me!” and Jacob was met with an elbow to the gut. He recoiled but quickly grabbed the arm of his aggressor, who threw a punch with his other, and Jacob narrowly dodged it. Another punch, then another, Jacob leaping back to avoid them, and he suddenly found himself in battle with the man he’d come to save. In an attempt to stop the fighting altogether he leaped forward and wrapped himself around the man’s body, pinning his arms to his sides. They stumbled away from the car, spun around one, two, three times as Mark’s son struggled against Jacob until finally he broke away, lost balance, and fell over. His head smashed against the side mirror of his car with a crack that echoed across the entire garage. He bounced off, then fell back and hit the frame of the car, and his whole body slid slowly down until he landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Seconds passed. All was silent. Jacob stood there, unmoving. His best friend’s son lay there, unmoving. All was silent. Jacob’s heart had returned to a normal rhythm. His breath was held, his gaze transfixed on the sight before him. All was silent. Jacob kneeled down and prodded the body, shoved a hand against his back. Nothing happened. He rolled the young man over. His eyes were closed. Blood trickled out the left side of his head. Jacob put his fingers under the neck to feel for a pulse. Nothing. No. An icy-cold sensation spread from his chest to his arms and his legs all the way down to the tips of his fingers. For a moment that was all he felt, and a question pounding in his head. What had he done? The world began to sway, and overwhelming nausea forced him to the ground. His stomach convulsed and he threw up on the floor of the parking garage, and then the anxiety crashed over him in a massive wave, tensing up his muscles, shaking his body, blood was pounding in his ears and his throat was closing up that he couldn’t even cry out, though he desperately wanted to. No no no no no no how did this happen? He was supposed to save him, save Mark, fix the wrongness of it all, but now… oh 34
God.
He had to get out of there. He couldn’t just leave the body where it was, if the death was linked to him it would result in a domino effect of issues in both the present and future and potentially cause paradoxes, no, he had to cover it up, hide the body, place it somewhere else, or make it seem like he died under different circumstances, like… like… A dark clarity washed over Jacob, realization that chilled him to his bones as the pieces started to click together. How ironic. A murdered man created many more problems than one killed through natural causes. He knew what he had to do. He had to make it seem like an accident. A car accident would suffice. Jacob grabbed the keys off the body then hauled him to the other side of the car, opened the door, and pushed him into the passenger seat. He walked back, wiped the blood off the ground with his shirt, then entered the driver’s side. Without looking at the body again, he turned the car on and drove off. As Jacob rode south and took Highway 1 down the coast, he failed to produce any coherent thoughts about this final deed, a sinister yet necessary fulfillment of history. Even while pulling over, dragging his friend’s deceased son into the driver’s seat, and letting the car drive off the cliff after checking to see that no one else was coming down the road, no emotion registered in his mind, the shock being too great. Only after calling an auto and driving back up to Muir Woods did he think of Alexei. “Humanity is so intent on becoming master of its own destiny, master of the Earth, master of the universe itself. But the universe is not wavered by our schemes. It will do whatever it wills to do. We are but pawns in its cosmic game of chess, and it is folly to try and rise any higher.” µµµ
35
Georgia Michalchuk ’26
36
Dead Flowers
E'moni Ferdinand ’26 Dear Diary, It was Sunday, June 11th, 2050. I laid there on the grass, taking in the strong scent of the fresh, healthy, succulent flowers. I lived in a world where everything was perfect without flaw. Not a scar or scratch in sight. I lived in the age of immortality that was quickly developed a few years after what people in the mortal age called the “Corona Virus” or “Covid-19.” “Dying” or being “killed” were unheard of in our world. Unless initiated by one’s self. Our AI’s, or artificial intelligence systems, created a world without pain, inequality, starvation, and everything else negative in the mortal age. Though death wasn’t something that happened, it was still possible. I lived in Arcane, a small, yet very overpopulated city. This particular day had been my favorite day of the week. The day of resting. It was the day I could relax and reset my mindset for school the next day. As I admired the colorful scenery in front of me, I heard giggling. Though, I couldn’t exactly identify where it was coming from. That’s when it hit me..literally. A wave of ice cold water had landed on me from above. Then more giggling. “Haha! Got you Essence!” My little sister shouted. That’s when I looked up to see her and her friend Devyn running away laughing. “I’m gonna kill you Devyn!” I angrily shouted back to her. Literally? No. Figuratively? Absolutely. She had completely ruined my favorite day for me. Just as I gathered my belongings while shivering, I walked towards my house, only to trip over the sprinklers and head face first into a pile of dirt. From that point on, I knew my day couldn’t have gotten any worse. However, I might’ve spoken too soon. Sundays went from being my favorite day of the week, to being the day I dreaded most in our so-called “perfect” world. Later that day, at around 4 pm, the bells had rung. It was a signal for everyone to gather outside the administration building; what 37
we call ‘AI Headquarters.’ When my family and I made our way to the rest of the crowd, I remember being so greatly confused by the look on everyone’s faces. They looked startled, panicked even. We usually gathered once a month to introduce a new AI. We had done that last week. I got an alarming feeling in my stomach. I tried my hardest to ignore it but the more I did so, the louder said alarm blared. I was able to maneuver my way through the crowd up to the front to see the stage. I remember this moment like it was yesterday. The dull stare coming from the widened eyes that stared at us in the crowd. There was nothing behind the depths of that strong gaze. Except death. There laid the body of a man I didn’t exactly know, but rather knew of. Sure, it was abnormal to see someone’s body lying on a stage, but what caused the soft, hitched gasp to leave my mouth was the deep shade of red liquid pooling on the floor of the stage; coming from his abdomen. My sister came up from behind me to see what grasped everyone’s attention, but I was quick to cover her eyes. Although it was definitely a sight to see, it wasn’t a sight that should’ve been seen. My attention was then stolen by the sound of boots against the floor. I looked to see Governor Davis. He was in control of all the AI’s in our city. He walked up to the mic with an unreadable expression painted on his face. However it did seem that while he was physically here, his mind was off yonder. He pulled out a piece of paper, I assumed to read from, and cleared his throat. “Attention all residents of Arcane. As your governor it is with pleasure that I inform you of our new system.” I will never forget the way the word “pleasure” rolled off his tongue; with such distaste and regret. He explained the history of our city and how major changes to it needed to be done for a better future for the new generations to come. Two words. Two words was all it took for everything to connect. “Population Control.” He hesitantly gestured over to the body. It didn’t take long for everyone else to realize what that meant either. Considering there was a lifeless body just a few feet away from Governor Davis, and it just so happened that he would 38
mention population control. Commotion erupted through the crowd. Everyone was confused and had a countless amount of questions. But the ultimate was, what was to come? And how long would it be before one of us was next? Then, Governor Davis brought out a group of about fifteen men and women. They all held large weapons: knives, machetes, flame throwers, spears, and much more. “These are your terminators. One day, once a year, many of you will be chosen by them to be terminated. You must not resist in any way. You must accept your fate and think about the new generations to come. They will need homes that are being occupied by you. Each termination will be four hours starting at 5 pm. There will be three bells. One will be a thirty minute warning, the second will be the starting bell, and the third will be the ending bell. And with that being said,” he turned to the terminators, “you all have four hours starting now. See you all at nine pm, or maybe just some of you.” Just as he finished, what I assumed to be the starting bell rang. The terminators smiled. Though behind those smiles, were their own sinister tendencies. They began to rush off the stage on both sides. Run! Is all I could think to do. So that’s what I did, along with everyone else in the shooken crowd. I grew scared. Not for me, but for my family. I lost them in the crowd and couldn’t yell loud enough for them to hear me. I just prayed they would find somewhere safe to hide from the slaughter that was to come. When enough gaps of space were made through the terrified crowd, I was able to maneuver through and run faster. People ran in different directions trying their best to escape. Some did. Some didn’t. While running, I watched as many of us were being struck with multiple weapons. Falling dead to the ground in an instant. Luckily I had the luxury of getting out of the area, and ran somewhere I hoped they wouldn’t find me. I climbed the ladder of the old, small tree house I built with my 39
sister when we were younger. The rich, smooth, golden brown wood ran across it. It consisted of one window and two entrances/ exits. I looked out the window in hopes of not finding anything or anyone, except for my family. I remained in that tree house for what felt like forever. Though I didn’t know exactly how long. I eventually climbed down from the tree house and discreetly made my way to my house. On the way, I took in the region in which I lived. What used to be a safe, admirable neighborhood where I used to daydream about the scenery, was then a ghost town that had the remaining of all those I once knew, painted on the cement. I debated whether It would be smart to use the front door, however the possibility of a terminator waiting for me or my family’s presence was high. So my best and only option was a window. I rounded the corner of the house to the back where my room was. Only it was on the second floor. I struggled climbing the unsteady ladder as it shook with each amount of pressure my foot put on it. When I eventually reached my window I carefully opened it and climbed inside. I grabbed a duffel bag and stuffed it with clothes and changed my shoes to running ones. I then glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It read 6:45 pm. Two hours and fifteen minutes left. I tiptoed out of the room into the hallway and looked over the railing to see if there was anyone down stairs. The house was empty. I rushed down the stairs to my kitchen and stuffed as much food and water into the duffel bag. I grabbed a pen and paper and proceeded to write my family a note just in case they came back here. ‘Mom, Dad, Devyn, this note is to inform you that I am still alive and plan to remain alive. Just in case it just so happens that my family isn’t reading this but rather someone else, I will not share where it is I am going. I love you all and hope to reunite with you all soon. - Essence.’ I put the note on the table and left the house. Outside of my 40
neighborhood there were people everywhere. Many were running and screaming, and many were still and lifeless on the pavement. I hid in the bushes observing everything. Governor Davis watched as the people he would greet every morning, brutally lost their lives. I watched as a terminator seemed to do the same as me and watch. Only a significant difference separated the type of people we were. A monstrous smirk had painted his face as he watched with passion, the screaming and crying that took over every positive emotion one had. Through his penetrating, dead eyes, it was a beautiful chaos. I felt weakened all of a sudden. My blood ran cold and the hair on the back of my neck stood. It was then that my eyes connected with his. A look with the intensity that could set fire to a building. A look with joy that kills. I ran. I ran until I no longer had feeling in my legs and feet. Stopping to catch my breath wasn’t an option. Because that breath would soon be my last. I almost ran past an unclaimed weapon. It was a spear. I grabbed it from the ground and continued to run. I eventually stopped as I had ran more than enough and he was more than likely nowhere near me. Or so I had thought. I leaned on the wall of the alley behind me and thought about my next move. Only that was cut short when I heard a sharp sound hit the wall beside my head. I turned my head to see the stainless steel my reflection was more than visible in. I then slowly turned my head when that unsettling feeling came back. He had found me. No, he hadn’t found me, he followed me. I believed I had gotten away when in reality he never let me out of his sight. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you go that easy did you?” He bitterly said, a hint of amusement laced through his tone. “I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time y’know.” I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. “You don’t remember me do you?” He asked, he almost sounded..hurt. But those six words tied everything together. I remembered him. His name was Cameron, we went to school together. “You’re Cameron. I remember you - you left my school last year.” My last words triggered something in him as his 41
eyes had begun seething with anger. “No! I didn’t just leave your school, I was bullied so badly I had no choice!” There was a change in his emotions. Tears ran down his cheeks while rhythmic laughs escaped his mouth. “I’m sorry..I didn’t know-” “Oh don’t give me that! You were always a bystander! You got the luxury of watching while I suffered!” He yelled. I thought back to all those moments I watched as he got picked on. I realized that I described our world as perfect when in reality, even before the termination, it was far from it. Only I was blinded by my own experience rather than paying attention to others’ experiences. Like Cameron’s. “The last two hours have been me making all those who participated in my bullying pay! Even those who only watched. Because one of you could’ve done something! Anything to help me! But instead you watched and carried on your effortlessly perfect life I only dreamed of living!” He said, so much emotion in his eyes, so much pain behind that threatening smirk he once directed towards me. “I’m sorry you went through what you did but do you really think hurting those who hurt you a year ago is worth it? Will this really bring you the satisfaction you want? Or is this what you think is the only option? Because I promise it isn’t.” I said with genuine concern and sympathy. There was silence for a while, we both stared at each other. I watched him process my words while he watched me do so. I had sympathy for him. I really did. But his retaliation wouldn’t bring him the closure he so desperately wanted and needed. His shoes silently hit the pavement as he walked towards me and grabbed his knife from the wall. I tightened my grip on the spear in my hand as I wondered what his next move would be. I went tense as his arms came around me, engulfing me in a hug that expressed all the emotions he was feeling at once. Guilt, anger, sorrow, and even somewhat grateful. I dropped the spear and reciprocated the hug. We stood there for a while. I don’t remember how long but that hug was the only thing he needed. He wanted to feel like someone cared for him, and that he wasn’t a joke those kids made him out to be. When he disentangled his arms from around me he whispered a 42
quiet “thank you.” Something about that thank you didn’t feel right. Didn’t sound right. It was almost as if it was a farewell, a goodbye. He took two steps back then raised the knife that was once in the wall. In horror, I watched his body fall to the ground as a result of the smooth and quick glide the knife made across his neck. I froze. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I felt as if I was struck in the abdomen by a large fist, causing me to gasp for air. Even though my words had gotten through to him, he still had felt as if death was his only independence, his only freedom. I walked back to AI Headquarters slowly, deep in thought of the events that happened before me. I didn’t know if I wanted to cry, scream, or even laugh. I couldn’t get into contact with my emotional responses to everything. When I finally reached headquarters It was silent. No more running, no more screaming, and no more killing. A big group of what seemed to be the survivors of the evening were gathered in front of the stage. Once I reached them I saw that they were waiting for the time to run out. Five more seconds left. Four. Three. Two. One. The final bell rang and everyone including me had let out sighs of relief. We expected Governor Davis to appear and give another speech. But instead the screen on the stage said ‘Congratulations to those of you who survived the evening! Feel free to celebrate! You all may return home and go about your lives as you did before these four hours.’ How could any of us go back to normal? To our traditional way of life? We watched as our family and friends took their last breaths all for population control. My few seconds of deep thought suspended as I caught sight of my sister. When our eyes connected we ran to each other and provided the most heart-warming hug for the other. “I thought I’d never see you again.” I said to her, tears streaming down my face. “Where is mom and dad?” She asked me. The first question that came to my mind, only I was going to be the one asking it. Neither of us knew where they were or if they were safe. She pulled out a note when I didn’t answer and gave it to me. “Essence, Devyn, we love you girls so much and can’t wait to be reunited with you again. If it just so happens that something happens to us, you are 43
to go to your aunt’s house. She will take good care of you both. How we wish we could have hugged you both if it meant for the last time. Again, we love you. - Your parents.” To this day, I still wonder where my parents are. If they’re alive, happy. Or if that day they too were victims of the town annihilation. Devyn and I hugged once more and started making our way to Aunt Phoenix’s house. On the way there, I stopped walking. I looked at the hill I once laid on earlier that day, before the mass destruction. Essence, my name. It went from meaning fresh, ethereal nature, to meaning dead, stale, colorless leaves that happened to be referred to as nature. My eyes glided over the area, how that was what our future would look like once a year. However, what really caught my attention was the brown, scrunched up petals. The flowers were dead. -
Essence µµµ
44
Frederica Michalchuk ’26 45
Manny Lopez ’23
46
Pompeii
Julian Serrano ’24 There was a warm breeze in the valley. I remember that day, for I don’t believe the winds were ever harsher than then. They blew and blew, and the trees swayed like maniacs dancing without song. The heat of late-summer was unbearable, with temperatures being around 115o Fahrenheit. Nevertheless, the school year was anew, with the same familiar faces of old and a few scattered novel ones lining the chairs of the classes. School had begun only two weeks prior, and the lack of freedom was battering my skull to the point of exhaustion. Class after class, it was both different and the same as last year. The grass in the front lawns and in the fields was void of any semblance of wetness or moisture, as a cloud hadn’t reached the sky in many months. The whole world felt like it was the color of light brown, with the only exceptions being the concrete and the few dusty leaves. Most plant life lay dormant or dead during this season, like the flimsy cottonwood trees of NorCal, or the bunches of twigs that we called bushes. There were no roses to stop and smell, and only the smell of heat lingered in the air. The heat invaded all of your senses, sight, touch, smell, taste, and hearing, in one form or another. Our phones read the same alert in the same red exclamation mark as always. Red Alert, high fire danger in your area. Even so, we believed that the worst of the fires had gone to pass, and that rain would come fervently soon. The rooms of the high school were filled with the damp feeling of the air-conditioner. All I wore on that day was a white short-sleeve and some red basketball shorts. I was a rather skinny teenager, and my soft brown hair gave way for bad sun-burns if the sun ever gently grazed my skin. My name, of course, is Michal Dunsmuir. All around us were great big mountains, some still had a little bit of snow atop their pyramid-like heights. It was a crazy notion that you can be looking at a not-sodistant snow while boiling in three-digit heat. I wouldn’t dare call myself a popular kid, neither then or now, and I talked mainly when spoken to, lest I have another lousily awkward interaction. 47
The day went by slowly from what I recall; Math first with Mr. Dunnigan, Art I with Ms. Dominga, English with Ms. Simon, Spanish II with Mrs. Larina… It was in that fateful Spanish II class with Mrs. Larina that in some far-flung community a spark turned into a blaze, which itself turned into an inferno with the winds. Oh, how the winds blew, like a nurse to a sick candle it made the fire grow and grow to lunatic proportions. Embers shooting up into the sky like reverse-snow. Smoke rising like the flurry of winds up to blot out the great blue sky. The maw of an untold fury was agape and ready to swallow us whole, waiting and churning in the background of sirens. Oh, the sirens! They cried and cried in the plains near some unnamed mountain, with the firefighters mobilized in fear of an unleashed beast not made of any matter. Orange was the color of terror, chasing towards the ruin of a new history like bulls towards red. Like death towards the living. Meanwhile, there I sat memorizing a song about the Spanish months of the year. “Enero, Febrero, Marzo, Abril… Mayo, Junio, Julio, Agosto – Septiembre, Octubre, Noviembre, Diciembre. Estos son los doce, meses del ano.” I had my head in my arms, trying desperately to fall asleep and skip time to the ever-nearing lunch. I even spent my moments dividing up minutes to make myself feel better. “Thirty minutes is only fifteen minutes two-times. Fifteen minutes is only five minutes three-times.” And so on and so forth until it felt as if lunch was just two-minutes away. When it arrived it was, to my utter detriment, the fastest thirty-five minutes of the day. I stood in the lunch-line for ten minutes with the other lousy dregs of school. I talked with others and chatted when I could, with very brief and lousy sentences. Once I got my dull over-greased pizza, I slowly munched the pieces in my left jaw until they became mush and swallowed with a small twinge of disgust creeping throughout my body. My friends and I ate at a table inside near the windows that looked out towards the courtyard. You would’ve been crazy if you were outside in this heat, so me and my friends stayed in the nice and cool air-conditioned eating-chamber. The windows couldn’t see much of the sky without 48
strain, but after a while one of my friends, Peter, noticed something peculiar in the light-blue abode. “Hey, look at that.” Peter announced. “What is it?” Another friend, Anthony, asked. “There’s smoke.” Peter added. “From where?” Anthony asked. “Pfft, I dunno. Maybe Palo Cedro or sumthin’.” Peter answered. It was then that I looked outside with my own eyes and saw a large gray blob penetrating its way up into the heavens, starting at the bottom as a thin cylinder and growing at the top to fit the sky. Well, gray isn’t the most apt description of the laudable bundle of Carbon, for it was more of a dirty brown color. Like the color of dusty-dry dirt, or the result of mixing a brown crayon and a white crayon together on a paper. Either way, it was ominous to the point that a little bird of fear piped its way up throughout my body. Without consort from my friends, I began to nervously walk my way out of the cafeteria to get a better look at it. Under the lens of the sun, I caught a full-scale glimpse of the phantom that hung over us. It looked to indeed be from Palo Cedro, which was a much smaller hamlet farm-town to our east near the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Many other students began to look as well, finding shock and awe in the pillar of smoke. Many took out their phones and caught it on camera. Many others just gathered around and talked crazed antics of what was thought to be the waning fire-season. Soon enough the moment of excitement and talk capitulated to the more pressing woes and intrigues of teenagers, such as video games, social media, fun miscellaneous banter, and other non-physical thingamajiggies. I went back to my group and did the same as all the other juvenile subjects of the board and ruler did. Time slipped through my fingers, and as it did the scenario outside seemed to get worse and worse by the minute, with the winds forcefully shoveling the fire-excrement in our direction. Soon enough it covered around 30% of the sky by the time I moved my body over to my fifth period class. Biology with Mr. Kim was a class with lectures about rot and other pestilence that accumulate on the gristle 49
of life. I would’ve enjoyed that class if it weren’t for the labs, the lectures, and the quiet study. Too bad that that was 90% of the class. There was a window at the far side of the room that saw out far into the distance. That area in the distance quickly led to the edge of town, referred to by many names, chiefly The Boonies. Every once in a while, through Mr. Kim’s lecture, I’d look out and find the smoke creeping further and further upon the skyline, unceasing in its campaign against the azure firmament. It was… unsettling to say the least. Even so, it wasn’t unusual, for smoke covers the skies for a significant amount of the year. Fires would come and go, with the frenzy lasting a day if you are unlucky, and there was no way a fire could move so fast as to clear an entire town in a day. The worst scenario isn’t even that bad, or, for that matter, that likely. So, through my boredom and tiredness, I looked back towards Mr. Kim and listened half-attentively to his plant presentation for what I thought would be the end of the period. The day marched forth like an army to war, and when the period was nearing its end the phones quickly bemoaned and cried their warnings to us. “Alert! Alert!” They shouted, “There is a mandatory evacuation of Anderson. Repeat, there is a mandatory evacuation of Anderson. Alert! Alert!” The robotic voice would repeat that phrase every once in a while, each time forcing your camera to flash its flashlight until you okayed the message. My teacher announced then that he lived in the small village of Anderson, for it wasn’t too far from Redding, the city that the school was in. Although, it was rather intriguing that they would be evacuating Anderson, as Anderson was due south of the city. The fire looked to have been due East of us near Palo Cedro. What was going on? That question quivered on the lips of everybody there. Is the fire going to encircle Redding? And if so, how? I looked outside after having avoided the window for almost forty minutes, and the eldritch sight was nightmarish. The smoke went from brown to black as it hung over the land, covering the sun so much that it shined red down upon us wayward scholars. There was an aura of tension throughout the room, enough that it went all quiet on our front. I always mistook the phrase So quiet you can 50
hear a pin drop with So quiet you can hear a pen drop which caused there to be a tradition where I’d drop a pen and see how loud it was when the silence grew ever abundant. It was as raucous as the thunder of a canon Then, through the corroded air of hung fear, the school decided to end the silence as the smoke settled down to the streets like a thick blanket of fog, dropping white ash pellets like we were fish in a bowl. “Attention everybody,” The robotically scratched voice said over the speaker. “I said, attention everybody. Due to the smoke risk and fire danger you are to report to the gymnasium immediately. You parents have been contacted, and school will be canceled until further notice. Please do not wander the campus unless you are driving yourselves.” Then, without further notice, there was a Crrk and the message was done with. For a moment, thoughts fluttered in our minds like disturbed bees. “What is happening? Is the fire that bad? Are we in danger? What is going on?” The last question the same as it was only moments earlier. That was until some brave soul, after packing his things, began walking out of the class to the gym, following the orders without feign or wonder. Sometimes I wished I was like that guy, for he was a guy that played sports and wore his letterman’s jacket like how a monk wears his robes. He was a courageous young man, and I was merely a blank background character that shared the same air as him. If the world needed a hero, he would be it, not me. We walked with the necks of our shirts pulled above our noses and mouths in a lousy attempt to defend ourselves from the carbon. It was rather futile, to say the least. There was one nerdy soul that had come prepared with a surgical mask, but the rest of us didn’t see that far ahead. When we arrived at the gym there was no silence as even I talked with my friends about the craziness of the event. There were so many cars that the street that fed into the school, Churn Creek Road, got clogged like cattle through a pen door. My friends quickly left, with their families eager to scat. One of my friends, one who I have yet given name to, lived in Anderson which had been evacuated already. My eyes caught a glimpse of his car when he put his backpack in the trunk, which seemed to con51
tain all their possessions in it. The thought struck me that many of these parents didn’t expect to come home anytime soon. What was happening? Many many minutes would go by, with the number of students being whittled down slowly in the chaotic frenzy. One by one by one by two by one by three by one, they evacuated, each holding some sort of saddened fear on their faces. That day, if any, was an awful day to forget my phone. I couldn’t talk with any family member, so I just had to hope that they got the message from the school, or at least knew of the fire and didn’t forget about me. I had no reason to believe the contrary. I was able to get some news from my friend Peter, the one that first saw the fire. He told me that there were many agencies all over the nation coming over to help us, many with weird three-letter acronyms. The fire had grown from Shingleton, ran along the road towards Palo Cedro and made a bee-line south to Anderson. Much of the railroad town became cinder and the crust of despair when that happened. It was a major fire, burning through many buildings and causing several emergency evacuations across almost all of Shasta County. The firefighters mobilized in desperate last stands, heroic sounding and more courageous than a bear facing the rifle. Crews of men who had prepared for many years to defend their hometown from the dangers of mother nature came off of their trucks like soldiers during D-Day. Would the fire ever cease? Who is this, us or Him? The darkness engulfed us like the flame, and soon enough even Peter had his parents pick him up. After a long time under the smoked sky there remained only a handful of kids left outside of our school. Two dozen or so in the fields of what once were and what now can’t be A minute went by, then two, then five, then fifteen, then thirty, then an hour. Something was amiss. There were no more cars, no more parents, and almost no more hope. It became so dark and the ash fell so abundantly that some began to believe that nobody was going to pick us up. Where were our parents? What was happening? What was happening? Panic spread like wildfire through the forest of juveniles, and soon some of the more lanky and crazed kids suggested fi52
nal and desperate solutions to the lingering problem. The fire was moving, and it didn’t look like it was going to end soon. Something had to happen. None of us could take the inaction any longer. Do something, somebody! The whisper from a mile away echoed loudly. It was the wind. The wind was calling out to us, demanding action. It demanded a terse yet definite solution. And action would come, not from the shout of insanity but the lighting of an idea. The man in the letterman’s jacket, Todd Dortmund, saw the yellow school bus staring at us from the corner of the parking-lot and his weariness got to him. He began to walk towards it, his feet moving him as if he were a marionette guided by strings from above. “Where are you going?” Somebody asked the worried hero. “I’m getting the hell outta here. Join me or not, I’m leaving.” He declared while prying open the doors that had broken joints. Without word many of the rest of the students joined him, from emos to popular folk alike they entered with one node of thought trailing them… survive. He busted open the panel with fist and adrenalin and began tinkering with the wires through his pink fingers. After a few grunts and tzsts the engine of the old schoolbus roared with an exhausted delight. “Let’s friggin’ go!” Todd exclaimed. “That’s what I’m talking about! My uncle taught me that move.” With the light nudge on the brakes, it pulled itself forward. Todd licked his lips as he focused on the road, getting onto Churn Creek Road without much disturbance. The tires were roughly wrought, and a few clenched their teeth as it rolled over a bump in the sidewalk. Despite the worry, people put their faith in Todd and his lack of blunderous reproach. I sat in the front right behind Todd’s seat, watching his every move as if I were driving him as he was driving the bus. With every grope and trod forward the scene looked even more and more abysmal. We couldn’t yet see the fire, but it felt like it was near. As if it could creep right up behind us and whisper into our ears. Everything was empty. It was a creeping barrage of madness, clawing at us from the absence of light. The embers fell down beyond the window, and we saw that a small bush was lit, and for 53
a second I felt my spidey-senses tingle. Something felt even more wrong than the blaze and lit room. Cack! The sound echoed throughout the long chamber of the bus. It was so quick, the sound leaving no trace of event, or even of its existence. Boom, done. That’s all the interaction was. Or, at least, that’s all it would’ve been if there wasn’t a desperate shrill cry from a croaked voice. “I’m gonna kill you, Todd!” A girl shouted with all her mind, body, and spirit mobilized in the effort. I looked ahead and saw that a bullet had entered the shoulder of Todd Dortmund, leaving a small streak flowing down his letterman’s jacket, like a tear down a cheek. In a second the girl was being tackled in her seat, with the gun sliding to the floor after being torn from her fingers. I got up to my feet and stood beside Todd, with an outstretched arm signaling my want to give him aid. He was clenching his wound, teeth biting harder than ever, and pain lining his eyes. “Take the damn wheel.” He said quietly. “What?” “Take the damn wheel!” He shouted. I looked back and saw the girl still being tacked, her body refusing to surrender an inch. Then I saw the steering wheel and clasped my hands onto it. There was a ringing in my ears, like an incessant drumming noise as I took charge of driving, with Todd’s body only one inch away from my skin behind me. Soon enough he was dragged away so that he could lie stretched out on one of the bus seats, and now I was in full control of driving the two-dozen students away from the fire. Wait… where was I going? The thought had to be quickly solved, as to my distant right I saw the smoke rising from a fire not too distant from us. I then realized that there was only one place left to go if I wanted to leave the town. Highway 299. If the Highway was already caught by the fire, then we were all thoroughly screwed beyond the point of renewal. So I made my way through the town void of life, hoping and praying that I’d lead the bus to safety and survive with my body intact. The road became graver as it seemed that the smoke was all around us, coming from sources all around us. Panic could not 54
begin to describe my mood, stuck in an un-airconditioned vehicle amongst embers and despairing countenances. Then I saw two vehicles belonging to the rangers, and hope entered me quickly. They waved us down and I quickly pulled myself over. “What the hell are you kids still doing here?” They asked. “Our parents didn’t pick us up.” I explained quickly. “Jesus.” The man exclaimed, clutching his hat from stress. “Look, the only road is Highway 299, and even that might be blocked in a few moments. Get yourselves out of here.” He shouted. I nodded my head. “What about you guys?” I asked. “We’ll be fine. This is our job, kid. Now go!” He demanded with a kind but worried attitude. I nodded my head and began to continue forward, with their cars pulling themselves out of the way for us. There was only one option left, and from what the ranger was saying it looked as if we might just be toast. My last glimpse of the man was of him saying some things in a walkie talkie. I only learned after that his name was Ranger Davis Levi, one of the three-hundred casualties of the Laurets Fire. We rolled through, my prayers guiding me as much as the wheels did. We entered the Boonies not too long after the meeting with the ranger, and I saw the fire was in front of us, and no cars dotted the highway going either way. The murmurs of my peers were deafening, the sound of fire ever frightening. It was the battle that might be the last in my life. The battle of speed, with the bus facing off against the immoral and relentless fire. Fire, fire, fire. Fire! It surrounded us not after long, its heat boiling its way through the windows until all you could see was red and black. The red hue to our left and right, the black skies above and the black road beneath. Oh, God! The fire surrounded us. I see it in my nightmares, and my wife worries whenever I go another sleepless night. You can’t implant a memory of that magnitude into somebody else’s mind with words. The belief that this might be the place where you die; the belief that your sister, brother, mother, father, would never see you again. I closed my eyes for a second and remembered a time when I sat beneath a tree on a sunny spring 55
day. The flowers were so colorfully laid out in the bushes, and my mom called out to me in a silly joy. She had a smile on her face. The soft breeze, the green grass, the game of tag, the plastic-metal playground. The delighted cries of children no longer seemed so near, as when my eyes opened, they were greeted by red and black. There was a thud, as a burning black heap of a tree fell to the road behind us. The thought occurred to me that at any moment a tree might fall in front of us, leaving us trapped and surrounded by fire. We rolled through a mountain that used to contain lush Cascadian pine trees, and I heard people crying in the back, and a few voices of reassurance. The worst of my fears were realized when I saw a great lumbering wall of fire before me. It looked as if the fire beat us in this race. My heart fell to my stomach. It looked like a tree had fallen and blocked our way. We had nowhere to run. Everything turned mad. Cries, screams, fear. People exclaiming sorrowfully, “I don’t want to die!” and their tears choking their throats. I wanna go home! Please! Please, God, take me home! There was no more time for swears or anger, only a bemoaning sorrow and dismay. For many the scene wasn’t real to them. It was just a nightmare, and they’d wake from it, surely. If only we were so lucky! Then, a thought entered my mind. The thought of charging into the fire, hoping on the small chance that we make it through by a desperate miracle. But if there was a trunk then we’d run into it and be stuck right in the fire, with no hope of a drawn-out death. God, it was so hot! My foot acted before my nerves and the petal was pressed in an instant. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and heard the final screech of the women and men behind me before the thought of my mother returned to me. She was so sweet, and the fields so green. Her towel laid in the low-cut grass of the park, and it was nice. Nirvana, the essence of a state of peace. It befell me as I felt the angels plucking me from the mortal plain. My eyes opened and we were through the gap of fire. Nothing left in my mind but empty and peaceful thoughts; the fire leaving us behind after only a few minutes, leading us to the pastures of evacuated cows and horses. The small buildings with tin roofs 56
stood bare and open to the fire that was behind us. Many firetrucks would begin to run past us with brave men hoping to deliver us from the torture that we just endured. So beautiful did the world appear, so seamless and perfect in its delivery that I heard a choir ring in my ears of three-hundred wayward souls. The days would pass and the situation would reveal itself to the nation as a whole. Only a small part of Redding would remain standing, and thousands of firefighters would work to contain the terror and protect the last houses remaining. The firefighters would be the heroes of the nation as the deadliest fire in California’s history was right before my eyes. I told this story to the national news a while ago, but I was too shell-shocked to understand and deliver a comprehensible interview. That is why I am telling my story now, so it isn’t forgotten. We can’t forget what happened that August day before the onset of fall and winter’s chill. My city got destroyed, without hardly anything left remaining. But that wasn’t nearly the whole of it. I lost my sanity afterwards. Every time I smell that incessant smell of smoke a jolt of panicked fear enters my body. So I write in hopes that an event like this can be prevented, by all costs imaginable, so that my burdens plague no other man’s shoulders. So that my “The End” will give you a rock of the mountain I know. Don’t pretend ignorance now. Don’t feign indifference. Don’t you dare forget. Because I sure can’t! µµµ
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The Dead Hour Mario Gutierrez ’23
Chapter 1: Cool winds flow through San Francisco as the clock strikes 3:00 a.m. and the nightly announcement goes off. “The curfew has now passed. Dead Hour is in effect. Lock all doors and turn off lights. Enter subways if unable to enter housing. Any citizens out during Dead Hour will be severely punished!” The public service announcement echoes through the empty city. Engines rumble at the intersection of Sloat and the Great Highway. Delinquents, gangsters, and street racers gather around with loud chatter and big talk. Three cars line up against each other and shake the ground with their modified engines. All of them have one goal in mind: to become the next Speed Champion of San Francisco. As the three street racers get ready, a motorcycle approaches from over the horizon. An 18 year-old girl rolls up on her red Yamaha YZF-R1. Everyone steps aside as the loud chatter and big talk quickly turns into silence. The presence of this 18 year-old shakes the soul of every person at the cold and dark intersection. Her white skin looks cold to the touch, the purple wolf cut matches with each of the purple marks in both of her eyes. The purple marks are next to her pupils and cannot be found anywhere else in the world. You can't look too long because it just might set her off to throw you into the freezing Pacific Ocean. The girl slowly walks in front of the three race cars. “This is it?” she asks in a cold voice. There are no responses, only shivers of fear. “Is this it!?” she yells in a strong voice. “Y-yeah, this is everyone who showed up,” one of the drivers says with a cracking voice. “Then get this race started! The finish line will be the Cathedral of Saint Mary!” retorts the girl as she gets onto her motorcycle. A man walks in front of the cars with a black bandanna in his hand. He raises the bandanna in the air and shouts, “Racers, start your engines!” A huge vroom comes from the three cars. A Mk4 Supra, an Audi R8 and a Nissan S14 all line up as the purr of their engines gives a strong smell of exhaust. “Set!” the man shouts. The racers exchange eye contact with one another while they all shift into gear. “GO!” 58
(To read the rest of "The Dead Hour" scan the QR code below.)
"Light" (2022) Quan Tran ’25 59
Contributing Artists Talia Bumanglag ’24 Xiaojan (Jeffrey) Cong ’24 Jameson Datoc ’23 (cover photo) Angelina Denefeld ’23 Caitlin Dowd ’25 Nico Faba ’26 Sasha Feliciana-Chan ’26 E'moni Ferdinand ’26 Mario Gutierrez ’23 Aiden Jantz ’24 Manny Lopez ’23 Frederica Michalchuk ’26 Georgia Michalchuk ’26 David Pham ’23 Edward Ramos ’23 Isaiah Sanchez ’26 Julian Serrano ’24 Quan Tran ’25 C.J.W. ’24 Charlottie Yip ’26 Joseph Zuloaga ’23
Editors-In-Chief Jordan Clarke ’23 Aiden Jantz ’24
Faculty Adviser Mr. Michael Vezzali-Pascual ’88