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Creative Writing & Art Eastmont High School 2017-2018

Annie Lisa by Mataya Wallis


Featured Students: Cheers to our teachers whose passion for the arts, caring connections, and creative assignments inspire students to pursue their varied artistic talents. Thank you to Jody Leonard for the app, tutoring, and technical support. Special thanks to Jeannette James, who persistently encouraged many of the contributors to submit photos, art, and poetry.

Cover Art: Mataya Wallis

Dafne Anguiano-Arias Jasmine Bachman Calvin Barnes Audrie Benge Rodrigo Castaneda Emilee Craddock Adrian Damian-Gonzalez Jack Falanga Carson Flaget Calvin Hanson Hailey Harmon Madalyn Johnstone Kadin Juchmes Tianna Larson Jasmine Lavin-Cattin Joey Miller Elena Moore Javier Najera Tanner Nelson Jillian Paxton Emma Patterson Ollie Porter

Emily Scaramozzino Kristen Stagner Nolan Vaughan Evan Vey Mataya Wallis Jessica West Teala Williams

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Coordinating Editor: Lisa Lewis

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Additional Art: Jack Falanga

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Featured Students: Cheers to our teachers whose passion for the arts, caring connections, and creative assignments inspire students to pursue their varied artistic talents. Thank you to Jody Leonard for the app, tutoring, and technical support. Special thanks to Jeannette James, who persistently encouraged many of the contributors to submit photos, art, and poetry.

Cover Art: Mataya Wallis

Dafne Anguiano-Arias Jasmine Bachman Calvin Barnes Audrie Benge Rodrigo Castaneda Emilee Craddock Adrian Damian-Gonzalez Jack Falanga Carson Flaget Calvin Hanson Hailey Harmon Madalyn Johnstone Kadin Juchmes Tianna Larson Jasmine Lavin-Cattin Joey Miller Elena Moore Javier Najera Tanner Nelson Jillian Paxton Emma Patterson Ollie Porter

Emily Scaramozzino Kristen Stagner Nolan Vaughan Evan Vey Mataya Wallis Jessica West Teala Williams

A,---

Coordinating Editor: Lisa Lewis

~-~

'/\,,,

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t -;/;;-.

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Additional Art: Jack Falanga

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Photography

Solitude

by Jasmine Lavin-Cattin

Prosperity

Photos by Jessica West


Photography

Solitude

by Jasmine Lavin-Cattin

Prosperity

Photos by Jessica West


Anger

by Madalyn Johnstone

Sneakiness

Cat

by Elena Moore

by Ollie Porter


Anger

by Madalyn Johnstone

Sneakiness

Cat

by Elena Moore

by Ollie Porter


Poetry Safety Safety. Safety is silence, loaded with my thoughts. Too much noise makes my gut tie itself into knots. If I do too little, I should have done more. I get told off if I do too much, causing me to feel like an eyesore. Safety is the comfort of my friends. They’ll always be there through odds and ends. Safety is my choosing, no one else’s choice. With this in mind I should rejoice. The world is open, containing more than those close to me. I can imagine, however, safety like the shade of a tree. The tree will not move, but I can, along this path. Knowing there are more trees, I also know there will be some aftermath. I look and see them off in the distance. Getting there would be easier with assistance. Safety is the small things, like a hug. Or when summer is here, with the sight of a lightning bug. by Jack Falanga

by Rodrigo Castaneda


Poetry Safety Safety. Safety is silence, loaded with my thoughts. Too much noise makes my gut tie itself into knots. If I do too little, I should have done more. I get told off if I do too much, causing me to feel like an eyesore. Safety is the comfort of my friends. They’ll always be there through odds and ends. Safety is my choosing, no one else’s choice. With this in mind I should rejoice. The world is open, containing more than those close to me. I can imagine, however, safety like the shade of a tree. The tree will not move, but I can, along this path. Knowing there are more trees, I also know there will be some aftermath. I look and see them off in the distance. Getting there would be easier with assistance. Safety is the small things, like a hug. Or when summer is here, with the sight of a lightning bug. by Jack Falanga

by Rodrigo Castaneda


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Found Poems by Hailey Harmon

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“Pinky/Sarah Barrett Moulton” Portrait   by Teala Williams

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Oh little Sarah, so gentle and sweet With your silken white dress billowing around your feet The soft satin of the orchid sash blowing in the breeze. The lace ‘round your collar shines silver in the light Your lapis blue eyes look curious and bright. Your strawberry lips are pursed, perhaps in thought Much like the red flowers, the background that they dot. And no doubt perfuming the grass sweetly beneath your feet A cushion of green and red, how neat. Are you cold, my dear? Your smooth cheeks are flush! Did you see someone who struck your fancy, earning a rosy blush?

Thi s boy Is lost.

Your soft satin bonnet with long loose ribbons to match your sash Edges of lace and short curls of ash-brown clash. You stand by the ocean and the salt of the sea taints your tongue While the fresh ocean breeze floods your lungs.

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Found poem, from e ings ey Carried by Tim O"Brien, and art by Mataya Wallis

On the edge of a cli , wearing white stockings and polished black shoes Over a background of dark clouds, the sea and its overcast views. One hand in front of your chest, as if to block something from your heart The other behind your back, my dear, you truly are a work of art. (In 1794, omas Lawrence painted Sarah Barrett Moulton’s Portrait. omas Gainsborough painted “ e Boy in Blue” in 1779. e two portraits painted by painters named omas have come to be linked, and hang in the Huntington Library opposite one another. Sarah Barrett’s portrait is now referred to as “Pinkie.” apparently, paranormal things happen when you separate the paintings.)


Ol1oritn«.Uon helladt'Ootacl.O~

fOl'-o a,o,w;n,d •!'11$ a,OUM

“Pinky/Sarah Barrett Moulton” Portrait   by Teala Williams

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Oh little Sarah, so gentle and sweet With your silken white dress billowing around your feet The soft satin of the orchid sash blowing in the breeze. The lace ‘round your collar shines silver in the light Your lapis blue eyes look curious and bright. Your strawberry lips are pursed, perhaps in thought Much like the red flowers, the background that they dot. And no doubt perfuming the grass sweetly beneath your feet A cushion of green and red, how neat. Are you cold, my dear? Your smooth cheeks are flush! Did you see someone who struck your fancy, earning a rosy blush?

Thi s boy Is lost.

Your soft satin bonnet with long loose ribbons to match your sash Edges of lace and short curls of ash-brown clash. You stand by the ocean and the salt of the sea taints your tongue While the fresh ocean breeze floods your lungs.

>A

J

Found poem, from e ings ey Carried by Tim O"Brien, and art by Mataya Wallis

On the edge of a cli , wearing white stockings and polished black shoes Over a background of dark clouds, the sea and its overcast views. One hand in front of your chest, as if to block something from your heart The other behind your back, my dear, you truly are a work of art. (In 1794, omas Lawrence painted Sarah Barrett Moulton’s Portrait. omas Gainsborough painted “ e Boy in Blue” in 1779. e two portraits painted by painters named omas have come to be linked, and hang in the Huntington Library opposite one another. Sarah Barrett’s portrait is now referred to as “Pinkie.” apparently, paranormal things happen when you separate the paintings.)


The False Man

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Poem and art by Jack Falanga

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"This is the only way to feel anything."

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Hands are things that allow us to create. We can create a story that lull children to sleep, art that catches the mind’s eye. Hands as soft as silk hold hands that are rough like sandpaper, both the perfect match for the other. The soft hands reach up to caress the face of the other. They smile and lay their hand over the soft ones, gently bringing them to their lips. Hands can bring life and love to this world, but they can also take it away. For some, hands are their worst nightmare, for the way they feel on one’s skin can cause tears to pour down their face. When my hands move, they move slowly. They creep towards my face, even when I know nothing hinders me. I always feel like I’m in a dream. A dream where I can’t run, even if there’s no reason to run. It starts with my eyes, weighted with lead when I need to see what causes my fear. I try to scream, but I have nothing in my lungs. I don’t even know if my lungs are still there. My arms and hands don’t listen to my words. ΩΩΩΩΩ

There once was a boy, emotionally frail. Filled with doubt, depression, and anxiety, he was an unstable, mental, atomic cocktail. This boy felt unloved and this messed with him, it seems. Preventing him from chasing his dreams. Everyday the mirror lied to his face. It helped him realise, slowly, he was a disgrace. He had too much curve, and not enough flat. It made him feel like a lie and a copycat. His voice rang, for it was too high. He wished he could be quiet like a firefly. The boy’s face was curved, soft, and pale. His burning hatred for it made him want to cover it with a veil. He felt empty right here, and right there. Everyday was a waking nightmare. He feels numb, he must confess. Give him love or death, no more and no less.

"I'm ne but it hurts a bit."

Poem and art by Jack Falanga


The False Man

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Poem and art by Jack Falanga

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"This is the only way to feel anything."

~,.')

('~I \( oc,ti ,,1<~c,1 ,;, f((,',CO/:t l"(';

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~o,f Hands

Hands are things that allow us to create. We can create a story that lull children to sleep, art that catches the mind’s eye. Hands as soft as silk hold hands that are rough like sandpaper, both the perfect match for the other. The soft hands reach up to caress the face of the other. They smile and lay their hand over the soft ones, gently bringing them to their lips. Hands can bring life and love to this world, but they can also take it away. For some, hands are their worst nightmare, for the way they feel on one’s skin can cause tears to pour down their face. When my hands move, they move slowly. They creep towards my face, even when I know nothing hinders me. I always feel like I’m in a dream. A dream where I can’t run, even if there’s no reason to run. It starts with my eyes, weighted with lead when I need to see what causes my fear. I try to scream, but I have nothing in my lungs. I don’t even know if my lungs are still there. My arms and hands don’t listen to my words. ΩΩΩΩΩ

There once was a boy, emotionally frail. Filled with doubt, depression, and anxiety, he was an unstable, mental, atomic cocktail. This boy felt unloved and this messed with him, it seems. Preventing him from chasing his dreams. Everyday the mirror lied to his face. It helped him realise, slowly, he was a disgrace. He had too much curve, and not enough flat. It made him feel like a lie and a copycat. His voice rang, for it was too high. He wished he could be quiet like a firefly. The boy’s face was curved, soft, and pale. His burning hatred for it made him want to cover it with a veil. He felt empty right here, and right there. Everyday was a waking nightmare. He feels numb, he must confess. Give him love or death, no more and no less.

"I'm ne but it hurts a bit."

Poem and art by Jack Falanga


Poem and art by Jack Falanga Some Days Some days are quiet and dark, just like my mind. I worry to myself, “In this state, am I unkind?” I cry, some days, about simple things. So much so, I wonder if I’m being controlled by strings. It feels like my brain is curdled milk. Never will it run like fingers over silk. My tears fall upon my hands, dainty and small, for a man. I ponder the thought that these control the length of my lifespan. It is simple, some days, you see. A simple slice here and there, and my life would flow like an endless sea. My heart beats, sadly, and I wish some days it would not. Ideas like this leave me deep in thought. Some days, I scream and scream until my voice is but a whisper. I should just close my mouth with a zipper. I see myself in the mirror and it hurts me so. I feel like a part of a one-man puppet show. Some days I see myself as the hero, but mostly I see only a fool. To myself I seem fine, but to most others I am just a ghoul. My body that I have and hate is wasting away, bit by bit. It would hurt more if the body was mine, but it’s not, as luck would have it. Everything is wrong, horrid and twisted. The reasons why go on and on, both listed and unlisted. Perhaps, some day, I should stop existing. The thought is always persisting.

"I wish I were . . ."

Poem and art by Jack Falanga

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Too Much, Just Too Much I feel numb and tired of everything. When I actually feel anything, I feel like puking. Sometimes, everything is just too much. Even just a light touch. My body is disconnected from my mind and heart. Almost like a piece of abstract art. Blood flows through my body, though I wish it would not. I just want my body to lie somewhere and rot. My eyes flood, again and again. Luckily it’s hard to tell in the rain. When I smile, my vision sways. My eyes glaze over, causing a fogged gaze. My mind races, my hand shakes. When I breathe, my body aches. I’m broken, shattered on the floor. All I am is an eyesore. My body is just a rotting vessel for something that’s actually alive. My want to live has taken a dive. My thoughts always fly, fly away. They always end up on my death day.


Poem and art by Jack Falanga Some Days Some days are quiet and dark, just like my mind. I worry to myself, “In this state, am I unkind?” I cry, some days, about simple things. So much so, I wonder if I’m being controlled by strings. It feels like my brain is curdled milk. Never will it run like fingers over silk. My tears fall upon my hands, dainty and small, for a man. I ponder the thought that these control the length of my lifespan. It is simple, some days, you see. A simple slice here and there, and my life would flow like an endless sea. My heart beats, sadly, and I wish some days it would not. Ideas like this leave me deep in thought. Some days, I scream and scream until my voice is but a whisper. I should just close my mouth with a zipper. I see myself in the mirror and it hurts me so. I feel like a part of a one-man puppet show. Some days I see myself as the hero, but mostly I see only a fool. To myself I seem fine, but to most others I am just a ghoul. My body that I have and hate is wasting away, bit by bit. It would hurt more if the body was mine, but it’s not, as luck would have it. Everything is wrong, horrid and twisted. The reasons why go on and on, both listed and unlisted. Perhaps, some day, I should stop existing. The thought is always persisting.

"I wish I were . . ."

Poem and art by Jack Falanga

\

Too Much, Just Too Much I feel numb and tired of everything. When I actually feel anything, I feel like puking. Sometimes, everything is just too much. Even just a light touch. My body is disconnected from my mind and heart. Almost like a piece of abstract art. Blood flows through my body, though I wish it would not. I just want my body to lie somewhere and rot. My eyes flood, again and again. Luckily it’s hard to tell in the rain. When I smile, my vision sways. My eyes glaze over, causing a fogged gaze. My mind races, my hand shakes. When I breathe, my body aches. I’m broken, shattered on the floor. All I am is an eyesore. My body is just a rotting vessel for something that’s actually alive. My want to live has taken a dive. My thoughts always fly, fly away. They always end up on my death day.


LOVE Keeping our love growing may be tough The road to pleasing each other may be rough But we’ll see each other through Such that none of us will ever rue

1 We are the unknowns We the beautiful women We are the new world

Yet you may find this difficult to believe Your pains you may feel I’m hoping to relieve; You may think I’m just trying to deceive Alas! It is love I perceive!

2 When I looked upon your handsome profile I was exposed to beauty

Moments of affectionate love may be few And fighting may seem due; Coping with each other may not be in view But our love will forever be new True love, they say, is full of trail Especially when it will more than fill a phial Still the number to your heart I try to dial And that is because I STILL LOVE YOU!

by Dafne AnguianoArias

“the girl is crying the girl is sad the girl wishes she could hug her dad she didn't know what had happened when he left for milk and didn't come back again now she's all grown up with kids of her own forgotten her dad under she gets a call on the phone hey sport he said to the machine been a while and i hope you're okay i have never stopped thinking about you since that day he finished speaking and the hung up the girl called him back, knowing how he feels he reached for his phone and let go of the wheel. he drove out of the lane and into the next swerving around as he then got a text

by Adrian Damian-Gonzalez

he started to turn a little too far he knew it was too late and tried to jump out of the car

by Jack Falanga

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~ ,.-,

water floods in from his open door he didn't want to die but his seatbelt held him there in place and there was his daughter who sat down and cry because just like before he went away without a note or even a trace"

by Joey Miller

Haiku


LOVE Keeping our love growing may be tough The road to pleasing each other may be rough But we’ll see each other through Such that none of us will ever rue

1 We are the unknowns We the beautiful women We are the new world

Yet you may find this difficult to believe Your pains you may feel I’m hoping to relieve; You may think I’m just trying to deceive Alas! It is love I perceive!

2 When I looked upon your handsome profile I was exposed to beauty

Moments of affectionate love may be few And fighting may seem due; Coping with each other may not be in view But our love will forever be new True love, they say, is full of trail Especially when it will more than fill a phial Still the number to your heart I try to dial And that is because I STILL LOVE YOU!

by Dafne AnguianoArias

“the girl is crying the girl is sad the girl wishes she could hug her dad she didn't know what had happened when he left for milk and didn't come back again now she's all grown up with kids of her own forgotten her dad under she gets a call on the phone hey sport he said to the machine been a while and i hope you're okay i have never stopped thinking about you since that day he finished speaking and the hung up the girl called him back, knowing how he feels he reached for his phone and let go of the wheel. he drove out of the lane and into the next swerving around as he then got a text

by Adrian Damian-Gonzalez

he started to turn a little too far he knew it was too late and tried to jump out of the car

by Jack Falanga

l

~ ,.-,

water floods in from his open door he didn't want to die but his seatbelt held him there in place and there was his daughter who sat down and cry because just like before he went away without a note or even a trace"

by Joey Miller

Haiku


Work for One

Short Stories There were eyes. He didn't know why, but they glowed, those eyes. The eyes were everywhere; his skin, his mind, his soul. They were not beautiful, nor had they ever been. Over time though, he had learned to love his eyes. The feeling of them blinking under his now old white jacket. At first he had tried to get rid of them; scraping, scratching, burning even - to see if the flames were brighter than the glow of those eyes. That had just gotten him this white jacket in the first place. No, he accepted these new creatures. They were a part of him just as much as his name was, and they would stay there as long as his name, his identity did. If this white jacket of his could tell him anything, it would be that he wouldn't have an identity for long. by Jillian Paxton

A Dystopia by Tianna Larson, in collaboration with Kadin Juchmes, Kristen Stagner, Emilee Craddock & Nolan Vaughan

Criminals jam packed in prisons, homeless people walking the streets, retired and disabled people surviving off the benefits the government offered. That’s how this all started, and one after another they began to disappear. It wasn’t noticeable at first, when criminals were being moved and homeless people disappearing raised some eyebrows, but people were more glad than worried. Finally old grannies and the smell of homemade apple pie vanished, and that really got the people’s attention. I’m Axeton Law, a former Government agent in Racoon city, and today I’ll be telling you all about “The Arena.” The people, mentioned in the previous lines, they’re pretty useless right? Except for grandma and her pie. Besides that though, those people don’t work. Lots of the time, they live off the government, and people began to realize that could be an issue. Why should the government be wasting money to support these people, is a question that the people began to ask. The debt in America had quadrupled fifty-two trillion, causing mass outcry in the nation. Taxes raised, and riots began to sprout in every city you could think of. New York City, Seattle, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, you name it. There had to be an answer, and of course the Government had to stick their nose in it... All the stores and property in the middle of town began being bought. Shop owners that wouldn’t agree to sell began being pushed out through various different methods. The mall got demolished, then the movie theater, Peter’s Pizzeria, Mattress Depot, and the Pet Bungalow. Civilians began to have to travel outside of town for groceries and all their other supplies. Construction began smack dab in the middle of Summit city with no explanation of what was being built. People knew, whatever it was, it was HUGE and made of some transparent, adamant material.

by Jack Falanga

While citizens were left in the dark about the new building, the government also started enforcing these new work microchips. With my government experience, I was of course the guinea pig for these chips. Once ‘The Man’ decided the work chip was working on me, they began enforcing it upon normal workforce employees. The way the chips worked was as you walked into your job, the chip would be scanned, and your work hours would be recorded. That was all… For a little while at least. Soon, the constitution was considered obsolete, and it was decided to throw it out completely. The main point in people’s lives revolved around contribution, and new laws came about. People’s chips needed to log at least four hours of work, daily. As time went by, the people who could not work, or chose not to work, would disappear. The big building finally went up in a dome like structure, complete with hundreds of small roomed cells. “The Arena” was printed on a giant banner over the sliding glass doors at the grand opening. People weren’t allowed in yet, but certain government officials were picked to travel the building. I was one of them.


Work for One

Short Stories There were eyes. He didn't know why, but they glowed, those eyes. The eyes were everywhere; his skin, his mind, his soul. They were not beautiful, nor had they ever been. Over time though, he had learned to love his eyes. The feeling of them blinking under his now old white jacket. At first he had tried to get rid of them; scraping, scratching, burning even - to see if the flames were brighter than the glow of those eyes. That had just gotten him this white jacket in the first place. No, he accepted these new creatures. They were a part of him just as much as his name was, and they would stay there as long as his name, his identity did. If this white jacket of his could tell him anything, it would be that he wouldn't have an identity for long. by Jillian Paxton

A Dystopia by Tianna Larson, in collaboration with Kadin Juchmes, Kristen Stagner, Emilee Craddock & Nolan Vaughan

Criminals jam packed in prisons, homeless people walking the streets, retired and disabled people surviving off the benefits the government offered. That’s how this all started, and one after another they began to disappear. It wasn’t noticeable at first, when criminals were being moved and homeless people disappearing raised some eyebrows, but people were more glad than worried. Finally old grannies and the smell of homemade apple pie vanished, and that really got the people’s attention. I’m Axeton Law, a former Government agent in Racoon city, and today I’ll be telling you all about “The Arena.” The people, mentioned in the previous lines, they’re pretty useless right? Except for grandma and her pie. Besides that though, those people don’t work. Lots of the time, they live off the government, and people began to realize that could be an issue. Why should the government be wasting money to support these people, is a question that the people began to ask. The debt in America had quadrupled fifty-two trillion, causing mass outcry in the nation. Taxes raised, and riots began to sprout in every city you could think of. New York City, Seattle, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, you name it. There had to be an answer, and of course the Government had to stick their nose in it... All the stores and property in the middle of town began being bought. Shop owners that wouldn’t agree to sell began being pushed out through various different methods. The mall got demolished, then the movie theater, Peter’s Pizzeria, Mattress Depot, and the Pet Bungalow. Civilians began to have to travel outside of town for groceries and all their other supplies. Construction began smack dab in the middle of Summit city with no explanation of what was being built. People knew, whatever it was, it was HUGE and made of some transparent, adamant material.

by Jack Falanga

While citizens were left in the dark about the new building, the government also started enforcing these new work microchips. With my government experience, I was of course the guinea pig for these chips. Once ‘The Man’ decided the work chip was working on me, they began enforcing it upon normal workforce employees. The way the chips worked was as you walked into your job, the chip would be scanned, and your work hours would be recorded. That was all… For a little while at least. Soon, the constitution was considered obsolete, and it was decided to throw it out completely. The main point in people’s lives revolved around contribution, and new laws came about. People’s chips needed to log at least four hours of work, daily. As time went by, the people who could not work, or chose not to work, would disappear. The big building finally went up in a dome like structure, complete with hundreds of small roomed cells. “The Arena” was printed on a giant banner over the sliding glass doors at the grand opening. People weren’t allowed in yet, but certain government officials were picked to travel the building. I was one of them.


I walked into the plexiglass dome, into a thickly forested area. My group was led into a door directly on the left, into a dark, damp feeling hall. The hall seemed to go on forever, with both left and right sides lined with small jail cell looking rooms. As we walked, our guide Apollo explained how this place worked. He kept referring to it as, “The Arena.” As we walked on we began to hear noises, and I came to realize some of the cells were full. Apollo kept repeating to not worry about them, and that their time would come soon. I decided I did not like the sound of that, and asked to leave the tour. Suddenly I was hit upon the head and the last thing I saw was my fellow agent Roscoe. When I awoke I was strapped to a chair and Roscoe stood in front of me. “You still wanna quit bud?” He asked me. “Yeah Roscoe, this isn’t right.” I replied, slightly hesitant. “You wanna at least know the whole secret first then?” Roscoe questioned. “What comes second?” My blood chilled as thoughts raced my mind. “Hate to say it friend, but I gotta kill you.” He looked me dead in the eyes. I just shook my head, a gesture that showed I’d want to hear the whole story at least, if my fate was already set either way. “So, you saw The Arena already. You saw the cells, you saw the people. What did you notice about them?” Roscoe asked. “They didn’t look too good. They all looked sick, or elderly.” I made my observation. “Exactly. They can’t work. They haven’t worked. Their chips recorded them not working. The majority of those people were retired, disabled, and homeless. Of course there were a couple who just chose not to work, but by doing that they decided the same fate.” Roscoe stated, too calm for my liking. “So, not working now leads to… what fate is it exactly that everyone keeps referring to?” I asked. Even I could hear my words dripping in concern.

“Then what?” I asked. “I'm going to put you in The Arena. You have a really good chance in there.” Roscoe said, looking away from me. “I won't fight.” I replied. “Then die.” Roscoe said, leaving the room without looking at me again. I got escorted very shortly after to The Arena. I was put in a small cell with a young boy, about nine or ten. The boy was missing both his legs from the knee down, and had a wheelchair covered in stickers. My heart broke. I would not fight. I located my chip in my forearm and ripped it loose from my skin. No doubt that it was painful, but it was the only way. I turned to the boy and got his permission to do the same. Three days later, we were released, and the speech about fighting and winning was played throughout the whole arena. On the outside, I could see my friends, families, co-workers, even strangers watching through the strong thick glass. This was a game, nothing but entertainment. I had enough. I ran frantically to every person I saw. I didn't see them as threats, only as humans who deserved more. I told them how to escape, how not to fight. I began by removing the chips of all who agreed. We always stayed near, not too near to raise suspicions, but near enough. At night, when people finally got bored of the fights for the day, we dug. Any person who could help did help. By day we would cover the hole with large greenery, and it went unsuspected. Although the Government had built this place safe and sound everywhere else, my group and I found they didn't go beneath ground very far. After fifteen feet, we cleared all brick wall, and all we had to do was dig up. Within two nights, we saw the sky again, without looking through some glass. We started riots and speeches. We did what we could to open everyone's eyes. Killing people does not solve these problems. Everybody has worth, even those unable to work.

“That’s where the big forested part of the dome comes in. Once the jail cells get filled up with people, the doors are opened and they’re told to fight to the death.” Roscoe said matter of factly.

“Easy,” Roscoe continued. “Last person standing gets to live, never to work again, taken care of completely by us.” I shut my eyes, letting this new information rattle around in my brain. “Axeton, you're my friend. I won't kill you.” Roscoe said.

"Step into your place," propaganda poster, 1915

I thought for a second, “What makes them fight though? Why would sweet old, piemaking grandma turn on car-fixing grandpa?”


I walked into the plexiglass dome, into a thickly forested area. My group was led into a door directly on the left, into a dark, damp feeling hall. The hall seemed to go on forever, with both left and right sides lined with small jail cell looking rooms. As we walked, our guide Apollo explained how this place worked. He kept referring to it as, “The Arena.” As we walked on we began to hear noises, and I came to realize some of the cells were full. Apollo kept repeating to not worry about them, and that their time would come soon. I decided I did not like the sound of that, and asked to leave the tour. Suddenly I was hit upon the head and the last thing I saw was my fellow agent Roscoe. When I awoke I was strapped to a chair and Roscoe stood in front of me. “You still wanna quit bud?” He asked me. “Yeah Roscoe, this isn’t right.” I replied, slightly hesitant. “You wanna at least know the whole secret first then?” Roscoe questioned. “What comes second?” My blood chilled as thoughts raced my mind. “Hate to say it friend, but I gotta kill you.” He looked me dead in the eyes. I just shook my head, a gesture that showed I’d want to hear the whole story at least, if my fate was already set either way. “So, you saw The Arena already. You saw the cells, you saw the people. What did you notice about them?” Roscoe asked. “They didn’t look too good. They all looked sick, or elderly.” I made my observation. “Exactly. They can’t work. They haven’t worked. Their chips recorded them not working. The majority of those people were retired, disabled, and homeless. Of course there were a couple who just chose not to work, but by doing that they decided the same fate.” Roscoe stated, too calm for my liking. “So, not working now leads to… what fate is it exactly that everyone keeps referring to?” I asked. Even I could hear my words dripping in concern.

“Then what?” I asked. “I'm going to put you in The Arena. You have a really good chance in there.” Roscoe said, looking away from me. “I won't fight.” I replied. “Then die.” Roscoe said, leaving the room without looking at me again. I got escorted very shortly after to The Arena. I was put in a small cell with a young boy, about nine or ten. The boy was missing both his legs from the knee down, and had a wheelchair covered in stickers. My heart broke. I would not fight. I located my chip in my forearm and ripped it loose from my skin. No doubt that it was painful, but it was the only way. I turned to the boy and got his permission to do the same. Three days later, we were released, and the speech about fighting and winning was played throughout the whole arena. On the outside, I could see my friends, families, co-workers, even strangers watching through the strong thick glass. This was a game, nothing but entertainment. I had enough. I ran frantically to every person I saw. I didn't see them as threats, only as humans who deserved more. I told them how to escape, how not to fight. I began by removing the chips of all who agreed. We always stayed near, not too near to raise suspicions, but near enough. At night, when people finally got bored of the fights for the day, we dug. Any person who could help did help. By day we would cover the hole with large greenery, and it went unsuspected. Although the Government had built this place safe and sound everywhere else, my group and I found they didn't go beneath ground very far. After fifteen feet, we cleared all brick wall, and all we had to do was dig up. Within two nights, we saw the sky again, without looking through some glass. We started riots and speeches. We did what we could to open everyone's eyes. Killing people does not solve these problems. Everybody has worth, even those unable to work.

“That’s where the big forested part of the dome comes in. Once the jail cells get filled up with people, the doors are opened and they’re told to fight to the death.” Roscoe said matter of factly.

“Easy,” Roscoe continued. “Last person standing gets to live, never to work again, taken care of completely by us.” I shut my eyes, letting this new information rattle around in my brain. “Axeton, you're my friend. I won't kill you.” Roscoe said.

"Step into your place," propaganda poster, 1915

I thought for a second, “What makes them fight though? Why would sweet old, piemaking grandma turn on car-fixing grandpa?”


2094

A Dystopia by Emily Scaramozzino, Calvin Hanson, Tanner Nelson, & Emma Patterson

After the war in 2025, there was only half the population left. It was a simple domino effect. One nuke was set off and then another and another and so on. The world was at a loss and the remaining people were looking for a safe place to live. The world had become toxic, uninhabitable. The Tesla Corporation decided that they could use the ships they had built previous to the war to store and save people. The catch was that each ship could only hold 500,000 people. Since there were three ships, there was only room for 1.5 million of them. The rest had to be left on Earth. Tesla decided that the smartest people would be on the ships. They quickly loaded them and sent the ships into space before any more casualties were suffered. 2094 Théo: Everyday started the same on ship Tesla Industries Two Thousand, which we call TITT. We are woken up at 8:00 a.m. and are sent to go eat breakfast with the people in our ship. After breakfast we go to school and study our speci c elds. The more intelligent people train to be in higher positions such as the next captains that pilot the ships .That's what I am training to be. There are cameras in our rooms, the halls of the ship, the dining hall, the bathrooms, and the commons, for our safety of course. My training was almost complete, and my superior started giving me responsibilities to accelerate my training, todays task was to le the birth certi cates of the newborns. As my day was coming to an end, my thoughts drifted aimlessly as I nished putting the les away, I stumbled upon an odd colored le with CLASSIFIED and the date 2/12/27 written on it. My interest was peaked, everything told me not to open it but my curiosity got the best of me. There were mostly pictures, they resemble Earth but looked almost like Earth 2.0. The globe was surrounded by metal, clean and precise, everything was the same. No different continents or countries, everything was molded together in one piece.

I ipped the page and there was a paper that described every detail of this odd place but what I read, I did not expect. “Tesla model X, The New World.” I could not believe my eyes; I quickly placed the le and its contents back into the drawer where I found it. Was this real? No it couldn’t be. Why would they lie to us? Tesla is painted as our hero, they saved us from destruction. From birth we are taught to praise Tesla and what they did for us. They would never hide a secret like this from everyone. I had to sit and gather myself before I left the ling room. The cameras pick up everything, I couldn’t let them see that I had found out information like this. Under the picture of the odd planet there was a symbol on the le. I had seen it before , it was the T of Tesla industries, and they were all over the ship. But this was different, it had depth and all but one on the ship were painted. I knew I had found something big, whoever put this le in the wrong place had done so for a reason. I hurried back to my quarters, near the one logo I needed to inspect, trying to conceal my curiosity. I came to the corridor, almost where my sleeping quarters were, and inspected the logo. Under the bottoms most stripe that made up the T, there was a small circular indentation. I looked at it, it seemed to be a button of some sort, but when I pushed it with my index nger nothing happened. After waiting for multiple minutes, I tried my thumb, the logo hummed and a small number pad glowed under it. I entered the date 2/12/27 in it, the date I found in the le. The panel that the number pad was attached to suddenly moved into an upward motion. The room seemed to be a small quarters that would be able to hold one or two people. As I sat in the the chair in the room, a control panel seemed to ip up. The pods were equipped with an automatic home setting. The panel read our new planet, “Tesla Model X.” I pressed enter and the pod roared to life, it forced me back into my seat. I quickly strapped in and held on for dear life. The G forces made me blackout.


2094

A Dystopia by Emily Scaramozzino, Calvin Hanson, Tanner Nelson, & Emma Patterson

After the war in 2025, there was only half the population left. It was a simple domino effect. One nuke was set off and then another and another and so on. The world was at a loss and the remaining people were looking for a safe place to live. The world had become toxic, uninhabitable. The Tesla Corporation decided that they could use the ships they had built previous to the war to store and save people. The catch was that each ship could only hold 500,000 people. Since there were three ships, there was only room for 1.5 million of them. The rest had to be left on Earth. Tesla decided that the smartest people would be on the ships. They quickly loaded them and sent the ships into space before any more casualties were suffered. 2094 Théo: Everyday started the same on ship Tesla Industries Two Thousand, which we call TITT. We are woken up at 8:00 a.m. and are sent to go eat breakfast with the people in our ship. After breakfast we go to school and study our speci c elds. The more intelligent people train to be in higher positions such as the next captains that pilot the ships .That's what I am training to be. There are cameras in our rooms, the halls of the ship, the dining hall, the bathrooms, and the commons, for our safety of course. My training was almost complete, and my superior started giving me responsibilities to accelerate my training, todays task was to le the birth certi cates of the newborns. As my day was coming to an end, my thoughts drifted aimlessly as I nished putting the les away, I stumbled upon an odd colored le with CLASSIFIED and the date 2/12/27 written on it. My interest was peaked, everything told me not to open it but my curiosity got the best of me. There were mostly pictures, they resemble Earth but looked almost like Earth 2.0. The globe was surrounded by metal, clean and precise, everything was the same. No different continents or countries, everything was molded together in one piece.

I ipped the page and there was a paper that described every detail of this odd place but what I read, I did not expect. “Tesla model X, The New World.” I could not believe my eyes; I quickly placed the le and its contents back into the drawer where I found it. Was this real? No it couldn’t be. Why would they lie to us? Tesla is painted as our hero, they saved us from destruction. From birth we are taught to praise Tesla and what they did for us. They would never hide a secret like this from everyone. I had to sit and gather myself before I left the ling room. The cameras pick up everything, I couldn’t let them see that I had found out information like this. Under the picture of the odd planet there was a symbol on the le. I had seen it before , it was the T of Tesla industries, and they were all over the ship. But this was different, it had depth and all but one on the ship were painted. I knew I had found something big, whoever put this le in the wrong place had done so for a reason. I hurried back to my quarters, near the one logo I needed to inspect, trying to conceal my curiosity. I came to the corridor, almost where my sleeping quarters were, and inspected the logo. Under the bottoms most stripe that made up the T, there was a small circular indentation. I looked at it, it seemed to be a button of some sort, but when I pushed it with my index nger nothing happened. After waiting for multiple minutes, I tried my thumb, the logo hummed and a small number pad glowed under it. I entered the date 2/12/27 in it, the date I found in the le. The panel that the number pad was attached to suddenly moved into an upward motion. The room seemed to be a small quarters that would be able to hold one or two people. As I sat in the the chair in the room, a control panel seemed to ip up. The pods were equipped with an automatic home setting. The panel read our new planet, “Tesla Model X.” I pressed enter and the pod roared to life, it forced me back into my seat. I quickly strapped in and held on for dear life. The G forces made me blackout.


When I woke up I peeked outside. The surroundings were foreign to me. Metal everywhere, no sign of life at all. I gathered my courage and popped the hatch open so that I could get a better look at what I was dealing with. There were buildings everywhere everything was full of lights and movement. I checked the pod for supplies, and gathered food and water into a backpack I found inside. I decided to head to the nearest building. It was dark outside before I got to the tallest skyscraper I could see it had a “T” on it. It reminded be of the “T” I saw in the ship. I continued inside against my better judgement. When I got inside came face to face with a a group of men dressed in all black but one stood out to me. I remember him from somewhere. IT’S ELONGATED MUSK! The son of Elon, our “savior” He walked my way, signaling his men to surround us. I wasn't sure what to expect, a handshake? A hug? A simple greeting? He grabbed me by the throat and pulled me close.

“In 2025, before the ships had left, we told the masses who boarded the ships that they were Earth’s brightest. We lied, all of you were on the verge of retardation and needed to get you off the planet. All the people who were left were melted down, their organs and bones fused with a titanium alloy now cover this Earth to protect us from the fallout, which Tesla corporation started, blaming the Soviet Union. You are not the rst to gure this out but I will make sure you are the last.” They walked me outside and chained me to a wall where Elongated Musk covered my face with a rag but not before I saw that he had pulled out a gun. I knew I was going to die and the last thing I thought of was the fact that this world was going to be doomed. They had been watching us the whole time, they kept this from us, they groomed us to love Tesla, even though all along they had stolen a proper life from us. I no longer wanted to live in a world that was a lie, I was awaiting what followed next, I heard the trigger clink as Elongated pulled it, and everything went dark.

“You, a pathetic ratbag ship-dweller, do not deserve to gure it out. We took all the precautions, we kept our secret, all until the Insurgents placed our classi ed documents on our ships.’ “I don't understand…” I stammered, how could an entire civilization still be living on Earth? Before I could ask, Elongated placed magnetic cuffs around my wrists. “You already know too much, the truth cannot be revealed.” Before his guards could manhandle out of the entrance I asked again.. “What truth? What is going on!?” There was a long pause until he turned around.

"The Unjust King"

by Jack Falanga


When I woke up I peeked outside. The surroundings were foreign to me. Metal everywhere, no sign of life at all. I gathered my courage and popped the hatch open so that I could get a better look at what I was dealing with. There were buildings everywhere everything was full of lights and movement. I checked the pod for supplies, and gathered food and water into a backpack I found inside. I decided to head to the nearest building. It was dark outside before I got to the tallest skyscraper I could see it had a “T” on it. It reminded be of the “T” I saw in the ship. I continued inside against my better judgement. When I got inside came face to face with a a group of men dressed in all black but one stood out to me. I remember him from somewhere. IT’S ELONGATED MUSK! The son of Elon, our “savior” He walked my way, signaling his men to surround us. I wasn't sure what to expect, a handshake? A hug? A simple greeting? He grabbed me by the throat and pulled me close.

“In 2025, before the ships had left, we told the masses who boarded the ships that they were Earth’s brightest. We lied, all of you were on the verge of retardation and needed to get you off the planet. All the people who were left were melted down, their organs and bones fused with a titanium alloy now cover this Earth to protect us from the fallout, which Tesla corporation started, blaming the Soviet Union. You are not the rst to gure this out but I will make sure you are the last.” They walked me outside and chained me to a wall where Elongated Musk covered my face with a rag but not before I saw that he had pulled out a gun. I knew I was going to die and the last thing I thought of was the fact that this world was going to be doomed. They had been watching us the whole time, they kept this from us, they groomed us to love Tesla, even though all along they had stolen a proper life from us. I no longer wanted to live in a world that was a lie, I was awaiting what followed next, I heard the trigger clink as Elongated pulled it, and everything went dark.

“You, a pathetic ratbag ship-dweller, do not deserve to gure it out. We took all the precautions, we kept our secret, all until the Insurgents placed our classi ed documents on our ships.’ “I don't understand…” I stammered, how could an entire civilization still be living on Earth? Before I could ask, Elongated placed magnetic cuffs around my wrists. “You already know too much, the truth cannot be revealed.” Before his guards could manhandle out of the entrance I asked again.. “What truth? What is going on!?” There was a long pause until he turned around.

"The Unjust King"

by Jack Falanga


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by Calvin Barnes (

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by Mataya Wallis by Mataya Wallis

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by Calvin Barnes (

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"My heart is so heavy, but it's so empty."

"Finally, I feel free."

by Jack Falanga

by Carson Flaget


"My heart is so heavy, but it's so empty."

"Finally, I feel free."

by Jack Falanga

by Carson Flaget


"I'm not broken, I swear . . . please believe me . . ."

Schmauder Lightyear

by Carson Flaget

"The mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death."

Groovy

I

by Jack Falanga

r

iff-1

~

\

"I feel so good around you, especially when I look into your eyes."

,I

(i .,, '

,,r

by Evan Vey


"I'm not broken, I swear . . . please believe me . . ."

Schmauder Lightyear

by Carson Flaget

"The mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death."

Groovy

I

by Jack Falanga

r

iff-1

~

\

"I feel so good around you, especially when I look into your eyes."

,I

(i .,, '

,,r

by Evan Vey

Eastmont High School Creative Writing & Art 2017-2018  

A collective of the submitted creative works produced by the students at EHS.

Eastmont High School Creative Writing & Art 2017-2018  

A collective of the submitted creative works produced by the students at EHS.

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