Art by Audrey Hollingsworth & Shelby Sperling
Art by Elle Hebert / Photo by Audrey Jezek
Writing by Anonymous
20
Art by Ms. Moira Longino & John McManus
Writing by Turi Sioson & Cole Winters
Art by McKenna Applewhite & Chloe Martin
Writing by Shelby Sperling
12
16
Writing by Cole Winters
Writing by Chloe Poustovoi
Writing by Melinda Vel / Art by Isabel Burke
Writing by Aihika Mitra & Turi Sioson
Art by Mary Grace Baez & Miny Kuang
Art by Mary Elizabeth Potts / Photo by Ms. Moira Longino
Writing by Ellie Marin
08
14
Art by Eliot Burke & Emma Nebeker
Photos by Eliot Burke & Ellie Marin
Writing by Tae-Kyung Kim
10
Art by Katherine Sheffield & Cole Winters
Writing by Ellie Marin
04 Photos by Marlo Beesley & Ms. Moira Longino
Writing by Sofia Galvan
Art by Dorothy Childs & Chloe Martin
06
Photos by McKenzine Mooring & Katherine Wickham
18 22
26
24
Art by Audrey Hollingsworth
Art by Quinn Erickson & Dane Hildreth Writing by Kate Hirschfeld
Writing by Anonymous & Turi Sioson
Writing by Ms. Valerie Taylor & Anna Wilson
Theme Statement & Staff Page
Writing by Abigail Barton & Ms. Lee Carnes
Front/Back Cover by McKenna Applewhite
50
48
02
Art by Sam Kartiganer
TABLE 0F C0NTENTS
Writing by Fiona Carter
44 Art by Ava Davis & Emma Wheal
Writing by Maha Ikram
40 Art by Shelby Sperling, Ming Thomas & Ella Virostek
Writing by Roxanne Pulido
Art by Ryan Cantrell, Dorothy Childs & Shelby Sperling
Writing by Rose Furnish
Art by Isabel Burke & Ryan Mulcahy
Writing by Elena Kay
42 Art by Katherine Sheffield
Writing by Ethan Vasquez
32 36
Art by Eliot Burke & Isabel Burke
Wiriting by Anonymous
28 Art by Emma Nebeker
30
Art by Marina Latto & Ms. Moira Longino
34 38
Photo by Mr. Chuck Nowland
46
by Sofia Galvan
do you ever get tired of it? -a habit? the same thing every day; same sun, same moon. same coffee till noon. same time to shower (same time in the shower) same way you dig your fingers -through your hair with shampoo don’t forget conditioner‌
Chloe Martin
Dorothy Childs
An old man and a boy were having breakfast. The geezer, aged like wine and with leathery skin rougher than a canvas’ surface (and just as pale as one) sat across from the boy. His face was cracked and like a parched desert road, an ancient thing of desolation and despair. The years had been unkind to him. Ten wars had come and gone, and in all, a hundred years— each with a toll. It was a wonder how he was able to sit at the table, reach for a slice of toast and spread the strawberry jam across it. It was truly a marvel, how every joint in his body didn’t simply crumble at the weight of the butter knife. The boy watched and waited. He did not have a plate in front of him. Instead, he sat, arms crossed and legs shaking like a violent tremor. His attire was that of a schoolboy’s—a uniform of black and nothing more. Black shoes, black socks, black trousers, black shirt, black coat, and hair the shade of a drenched crow’s wings. His eyes were sunken in and though he appeared to be calm, his voice had a tone of urgency as he whispered to the old man, “We should hurry. You should hurry.” The old man stopped and set his toast down. “Just a little bit longer please,” he said in a raspy voice.
The boy nodded and watched as he finished the buttered slice of bread in one bite. “Now?” the boy asked, slightly agitated. “Not yet, please,” the old man said. “Can you pass the eggs?” The boy sighed as he reached over the table and handed him the plate. They were sunnyside up and seemed to smile at the old man. He, too, gave a wrinkled smile. His fingers met the boy’s as he was handed the plate and in an instant, felt cold. “Your hands—” “Cold? I know. You should hurry or your eggs will be, too.” “Is it cold there?” Marlo Beasley
“Hm?” “Well, what I meant to ask was... is it cold where you’re from?” “No.” The old man sighed with relief. “Good. Good… I hate the cold…” “I can assure you, you’ll love it once you get there. I loved it.” “Are you going to come with me?” The boy looked down and stared silently at the floor, fiddling with his thumb before he gained the courage to face the old man once more. “Only for the first part.” “Oh…” the old man said, disappointed.“That’s a shame. I was starting to like you.” The old man pushed his finished plate away and stood up, wiping whatever was left around his creased lips with the sleeve of his shirt. Seeing this, the boy grinned and grabbed the old man’s hand. The clock struck twelve and the old man walked out the door just as he had entered it.
Ms. Moira Longino by Tae-Kyung Kim
06
Ellie
Eliot Burke
Marin
by Ellie
Light, time, space, and earth. Microbes, lions, fish, birds. Human rises and learns to till the land, And the wolves still howl at Yellowstone. Temples bloom from a ripe earth as Humans scatter from tribe to dynasty, Conquering, warring, and doing other human things, And the wolves still howl at Yellowstone. The dew hums on a field at Delaware, Horse-feet pound New England’s trees into dirt, The rebel drums repeat their tune, And the wolves still howl at Yellowstone. Fast forward two hundred-some years, when The land weeps as its Dissected, quarried, mined, violated, Burned, stripped, bloodletted, and worse— The wolves don’t howl at Yellowstone.
Marin
by Cole Winters Cole
W in
ters
the birds herald my coming Singing songs of joy and panic Wheeling on wings of fire Mist creeps in patches Crawling through the undergrowth Trees sway in the howling gale Shaking in fright and delight For I am the death bringer, the star lighter, the world destroyer My gaze is fire and ice Pass through and emerge reborn or as ash scattered in the wind or as a statue shattered in the garden
Katherine Sheffield
For mine is this earth Mine is the power Mine is the glory And the birds know it, And the mist knows it, And the trees know it If you pay attention to the signs watch the stars keep an eye on the winds You know it If you don’t You’ll know soon enough
10
Elle Hebert
ie by Ell
Marin
Eve wakes to the tune of 9:00:00:00, And again to 9:09:00:00, And again to 9:17:00:00, For there’s no rush out of Eden For a woman with a diamond ring. Tick-tock-speed, clock-speed. Revolving time, holy face, Wires blue, mechanical grace, Plants grow, Hearts beat, Sirens howl. Tick-tock-speed, clock-speed.
Digital sun wakes to the tune of 7:00:00:00.
Adam returns to apartment number 66B At precisely 17:47:06:01, Two television dinners in hand, one for himself And another for the person he’s becoming. Tick-tock-speed, clock-speed.
Up! rushes Adam out of Eden’s gate, To streets lined with inbred flowers, broken tiles, stray cats; Adam whimpers in his cubicle, for there’s No wine for his land. He sits at a desk, for To work goes Adam, and to death goes he. Tick-tock-speed, clock-speed.
Digital sun sleeps to the tune of 20:30:00:00, Its obscurity a lightswitch rather than sunset. Adam crawls under his covers, And Eve off her throne, Until digital sun wakes to the tune of 7:00:00:00 And the roosters crow from their VFX nests. Not everything is perfect here, and Eden is not Immune from time. Tick-tock-speed, clock-speed. Tick-tock-speed, clock-speed.
Crowned by pixels of purple to orange, the star Spurs the plants to action, the people from sleep, and The roosters from their virtual barns.
Audrey Jezek
borders
by Chloe Poustovoi
the first cut always leaves the thickest scab that i keep picking and picking at until it splits open and soaks me in rose i always do this i always demand it gets better from behind the wall i’ve built and maybe if i just left this whole thing alone i’d be whole Eliot Burke
Emma Nebeker
14
Audrey Hollingsworth
by Shelby Sperling and Isabelle Franco
She lby
Spe rlin
g
he bell rings. Everyone files out into the hallway. You overhear mindless conversations about Game Of Thrones spoilers, test answers and how many touchdowns the Rockets kicked last night. Then, quiet. A few faint gasps break the sudden silence. Almost simultaneously all heads turn, yours included. There she is. You avoid eye contact—her presence is too intimidating. Your legs go weak at the sight of her educated opinions, you take a knee. As she walks by you can sense her empowerment. It gives you goosebumps. As she turns the corner she leaves a trail of whimpering male chauvinists. She goes by many names, her personal favorite:
Isabel Burke
4. Amour - n. A hidden & special love.
You have a face any mother would love But I don’t know if my mother would love you I know it’s not fair, but can I hide you? And if I knew you would like me I wouldn’t hide me.
by Melinda Vel
1. Hiraeth - n. A longing for a place one can never return to. My first love filled me up And left me empty Stuck in my soul Far away and here My first certainty My first confusion You were a simpler time I was a difficult fool.
4. Amour - n. A hidden & special love.
So strange how you were once my only My only thought love feelings So strange how I almost forgot about you Different love Fewer feelings 3. Limerence - n. Occasionally enter my thoughts So strange how I changed my mind. A state of infatuation. Maybe I needed you Or maybe you just make me happy My fresh start Return to normality I craved simple admiration My giddy heart took me farther. 5. Wonderment - n.
You have a face any mother would love But I don’t know if my mother would love you I know it’s not fair, but can I hide you? And if I knew you would like me I wouldn’t hide me.
7. Manasu - n. The soul.
A feeling of awe.
6. Mellifluous - adj. Flowing and sweet.
When you lean Your head on My shoulder I think I Could let you Stay right there Forever.
There’s not much more to say than You’re beautiful My person I’d miss you the most.
Katherine Wickham
I’m gold and lead Light and shiny Dark and heavy Alchemy Turing self into sorry. I do my best Who am I to judge myself ?
2. Sillage - n. The impression left by something.
McKenzie Mooring
by Turi Sioson
McKenna Applewhite
i fall victim to the picture of the curl of her hair along her cheeks, the painted laughter i forget the little specks of reshivering all across her teeth, membrance stuck in between when orange was our color the words she left for me, and gold was her gaze. the way they felt to misconit bleeds autumn and i strue and find my balance in, miss her, when the taste so untamed in adolescence. was of falling leaves i forget the little specks and flushing cheeks of remembrance stuck in and wind. i fall victim between the words she to the picture of the left for me, the way they curl of her hair along felt to misconstrue and her cheeks, the painted find my balance in, so laughter shivering all untamed in adolescence. across her teeth, when i forget the little specks of reorange was our color and gold was her gaze. membrance stuck in between the words she left for me, it bleeds autumn and i miss the way they felt to misconher, when the taste was of strue and find my balance in, falling leaves and flushing so untamed in adolescence. cheeks and wind. i fall vic-
mselves like lies, the forgetfulness in july and the collapsing of all the cold that sewed us together with the promise of long chills spent indoors. i let myself forget her innocence and the way she told me secrets that felt like pity and drew themselves like lies, the forgetfulness in july and the collapsing of all the cold that sewed us together with the promise of long chills spent indoors. i let myself forget her innocence and the way she told me secrets that felt like pity and drew themselves like lies, the forgetfulness in july and the collapsing of all the cold that sewed
and flailing for a night so fiery in ditch-deep love, but they will never see her hands shake in the face of her life’s sobriety the way i did. they can keep her yelling and flailing for a night so fiery in ditch-deep love, but they will never see her hands shake in the face of her life’s sobriety the way i did. they can keep her yelling and flailing for a night so fiery in ditch-deep love, but they will never see her hands shake in the face of her life’s sobriety the way i did.
by Cole Winters
A fever dream brought in on faerie wings Sweat-slicked sheets thrown off from thrashing fall to the floor Glazed eyes stare out under lowered eyelids Idle hands clench Beleaguered lungs stutter A shaky exhale Between one beat and the next, sleep sneaks in The morning comes cold
Fingers falling down spines Teeth catching on the edge of Oblivion A dozen snapshots of a dozen moments frozen on the backs of eyelids Somehow Life moves on
Chloe Martin
by Cole Winters
ag·e·last : (n.) a person who never laughs by Aihika Mitra
ry E
Ma
to continue the story:
whsthefinaldraft.com
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be liza
I. When Leo was six, he was in love with the world. His days were filled with adventures in the park, trips to the bright and colorful marketplace, stealing sweets from his mother as she pretended not to notice, and playing with the other little boys and girls. He already had scrapes and bruises littering his small legs and a gap in his front teeth—all of which he displayed proudly with those boxy grins of his. Leo would sit on the kitchen table, swinging his legs as he complained as to why they would make tables so high if he would surely die if he fell from it. His mother would sigh and kneel in front of him as she applied the creams and other medicines they kept in the pantry. His father would bring them back from work every once in a while, usually on those days he didn’t look as tired. She would smile and seal each one with a kiss, ruffling the soft dark brown locks on his head, mumbling against his hair how she wished he would stop going so high when he climbed trees. This conversation wasn’t unfamiliar to Leo, and he would just flash his boxy grin at her and promise her that he would never do it again. When Leo was six, he used to go to bed as his mother sung him to sleep before waking up in the middle of the night to his father trying so hard to be quiet when he came home. His attempts were always futile, as he would ultimately knock into the coffee table and smile sheepishly at his wife who stayed up to wait for him. When Leo was seven, he decided that the world didn’t love him back...
gino
a Lon
oir Ms. M
by Turi Sioson
midnight color of sweet despair, set high on a childhood shelf abandoned for the indentations of forlorn secrets hidden underneath your skin, locked there in lieu of the chinese checkers you could not use to armor your landings away from adolescence.
you inhaled perfume turned to the satire of a cloudless fable you never saw through, one you locked into the dust and the shadows of your childhood demeanor so long ago.
you bicker and swear and it’s all quite so rare for you to admit that this box holds your proclivity down to its faint integrity; you learned too quickly that so if you forget the key club soda does in the backseat only so much of a foiled lover’s car, to hide the chapstick stain try hard on the party dress not to wish them well of little stares or be so and sharp bewares; put off guard. from those nights that were long and full of the heart that you were breaking.
Ms. Moira Longino
by Anonymous
I grew up in a small town—a happy town—I don’t know where it is anymore. It’s likely been bulldozed by some institution, died off a long time ago maybe; that’s all I know aside from the fact that it wasn’t in America—it was European. I know we had a Language, but I can’t remember much of that, and I can’t remember any of the meanings. It was special, but also derivative, I sometimes spend days listening to internet samples of other languages, hoping maybe I’ll fully recognize one. As far as I know, it had enough differences from other Romance languages to be unique. When I hear Latin, I feel something nostalgic within me, but Latin was the basis for many of those languages, so the origin of mine is still elusive. In this small town, we had no concept of time, of records. I guess we were pretty naive, believing that those who did leave our little community would spread it all for us. Nobody ever left, though—things were great. The point is, we were happy—happy being off the map, happy in our own circle of memories. Despite our town having nothing like television or the
net, somehow people could tell there was a war going on around us. Eventually, we would meet one of the war’s sides. They believed us to be enemies, until they heard our language. At the time, I didn’t understand what they were saying. I now know the language they spoke was English— British English. They were hostile, but they warmed up to us, kept us safe during the war. But despite friendly smiles and a mutual understanding that they weren’t here to kill us, there was a language barrier. I’d watch those soldiers talk to each other, tell stories, tell jokes, all ones I couldn’t understand at the time. But I wanted to understand; I hated being left out. I wanted to be the first to break that language barrier, but without any translator, that wouldn’t be easy. If my town had its own hard-to-distinguish language, how could I learn another without a middleman? Language comes with quirks; it’s not just a linear path of word to meaning. So I absorbed the quirks of the soldiers’ speaking. Even if I didn’t know what their words truly meant at first, I watched carefully, and I could eventually deduce what they would say in response to certain things. Nature became the translator. They might be playing a game of sorts, and I’d notice correlations between the game’s events and what they
would say to each other. Or how they would say something and point to an object. By cross-referencing, and trying to speak with the soldiers myself, I figured out some words, then I stole an English dictionary from one of their little encampments, used the words I knew to read definitions of words I didn’t. It worked out that our two languages used a similar alphabet, even if we rarely wrote things down around here. Two years’ time, the war seemed to be ending. I still didn’t really know much about it, or what year it was. Just that it was ending, and I was the only kid who knew it. I was still happy with this small world, but the soldiers and their language told me there had to be more. The village storytellers always said that the soldiers were either angels or demons, but all the same they wove the outside world into the lore of this inside one, never believing in anything greater than themselves. In hindsight, it was selfish, but they didn’t know much else. But I did. “Yo, Dino, you goin’ back to Italy when this is over?” I heard one of the soldiers say. Dino wasn’t a word I’d ever heard, and when paired with “going back to” I figured out that it was a name, and that Italy was a place where Dino used to live. “Nah, I’m going big time—New York City!” Dino said. City denotes a place, but what the heck did “going big time” mean? At the time I didn’t know. But he sounded hopeful... The soldiers usually did. I guess that was the “quirk” I latched onto. So I abandoned the world I was told of for the world I felt was real. I left the village without knowing where it was on a map, without knowing what year it was, and with stolen money from the soldiers. The town I forgot the name of with the world that supposedly revolves around it, I fled that for New York, reality. I guess I didn’t realize that languages have good and bad quirks. My native language’s one quirk is all I remember of it, and that quirk was mysticism. There was a deep archive of legends (passed down orally, not written—those idiots) for
everything. If there was no clear answer, you could build it for yourself and keep being happy. That sounds positive—and it is now that I think about it—but at the time all I could think of was New York, of non-fiction, of logic. I didn’t want the legends—I wanted the real thing. The real thing is English’s good quirk. Everything in English has been built to ensure that records are unanimous, that nothing can get lost. But just like my native language, this quirk is a blessing and a curse. There’s so many places, things, ideas, and while English has many dialects, it feels so concrete. By the time I’d forgotten that native language, gotten a job, walked with businessmen down Wall Street, I had begun to notice an irreparable change in my demeanor. I was sad. I never met Dino again. If I bumped into him, his face likely blended into the millions of people on the NYC streets, his “sorry about that!” holding no meaning other than to wave off the situation as a misunderstanding; everyone says it, it’s nothing personal. When you lose something like that, something that was part of yourself since birth, filling the crack is hard. English can’t fill it. Every country is adopting it—soon other languages will just end—because English means everything other languages mean and more. But in a way, meaning everything makes everything lose meaning. You can relate to everyone, nothing is intimate, nothing is yours to hold entirely. It all feels so manufactured; has English lost words? Likely—there’s so much slang now—but I’m willing to bet at least one word has been removed. Maybe that word has more meaning. Maybe that word is still just as pointless. But we won’t ever find it; every streamlining of the language, every conquest English makes, removes more and more personality from the world. I wonder if anyone might still speak the language I lost... I can guarantee that while I weep as the world ends, they will dance.
Jack McManus
Mary Grace Baez miny kuang Miny Kuang
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teach her to keep her guard up, and her hair down a flimsy cage of protection. don’t give her too much love, she might expect the same from others. tell her not to try. she cannot handle the disappointment. by Anonymous
numb her pain, her happiness because if she cannot feel one the other cannot destroy her.
don’t praise her for her wins, she will don’t them too dear. they will make her believe she is invincible, strong. this is a dangerous thought. tuck her in each night as tight as you can, hoping she never wakes up to face the world around her. her youth cannot guarantee her happiness it can only slow her decay. she is sensitive. it is her best and worst trait. so keep her close, complacent, watch her every move. if she is hiding things, invade. she doesn’t know what she’s doing, even if she’s convincing. she is weak, flimsy, easily bruised. her fragility is the cause of her pain, she cannot handle what others may be able to. but most of all, don’t let her think she’s special. don’t raise her on that deceptive nourishment, promising her potential.
tell her that every child is ordinary. and she is not the outlier. tell her the truth: you don’t know. she may grow up to be amazing, or a miserable collection of her failures. she may simply be a breathing machine from birth to death, the same. don’t feed her falsities that lead her to believe she’s anything more than she is.
worth
if you want your daughter to be human, to be happy, disregard this all. but if you want her to remain living, teach your daughter to numb.
ollings
the drive in her life will disappear, and purposeless, so will she.
rey H y Aud
she will isolate herself in her “specialness,” only to find this lifelong promise e was a lie.
Art b
don’t tell her she’s beautiful, unique, talented. these words are binding curses. she will build herself around them, her defining features. these words, she will embrace on the loneliest nights. when others don’t recognize her supposed talent, her shiny, sparkly beauty. she will cast them off. she will recoil when her true self is revealed, disgusted by the notion that she may be . ordinary.
by Elena Kay
Her flesh is stone. Her arms swords, fingers daggers. She is carved from the finest marble, by the finest artist; every muscle precise, every fine strand of hair meticulous. Eyes of ash, brimming with anger, unforgiving. Brought up through years of training. Born in a land of lies. Armor the color of blood. Hair, black, hidden under the halo of cold metal around her head. Scars across her finely curved back. Memories. Muscles tense with each step of her dragging feet. Barefoot, bleeding against the harsh stone. An outcast, abandoned by her people who she loves. Her teeth chatter as her blades scrape the ground. Wind hits her; she remains looking forward, on her trek. A few strands of hair break free from beneath the crown. The crowd is parting, allowing her passage. Is it fear or respect that keeps them far away? She clenches her jaw, swallowing hard. She might look hard as rock, but it’s no more than a façade. A façade forced upon her by her circumstances. Maybe she’d brought this upon herself. At the end of the hall of people is a familiar face. She smiles at her—she’s an ally, a friend.
She’s the real hero. Her long blond hair whips in the wind, her kind brown eyes wide as she reaches her arms out. A hand shake? A curtsy perhaps? No—a hug. The warrior lets herself be embraced by her friend, dropping both swords, letting everything melt. It all clatters to the ground: weapons, the stained metal plates that compose her armor. It was a brutal battle. She cut, slashed, slit, slaughtered. But she did it for her people. Maybe they’ll forgive her now, maybe they’ll accept her. “We’re safe now.” It is just a whisper, but if her friend knew how much it meant to her, she’d have said it aloud, she’d have shouted, screamed it into the sky. Warm tears blur in the warrior’s eyes, threatening to come out. Threatening to reveal who she truly is. She’s human. She isn’t special, stronger, smarter— human. It’s a beautiful word, she realizes as her arms wrap around her friend. As her tears finally break free. She doesn’t attempt to wipe them away, or hide them. Does it even matter? Her people deserve to know who she truly is. And then she cries. And her friend doesn’t comfort her, because she knows the tears aren’t of sorrow. They’re
tears of happiness, tears of relief. She’s released. She bows, lowering her head. “I bow only to you, my queen,” the warrior says, letting her tears drip. But her friend grabs her by the shoulder and pulls the warrior to her feet. She’s smiling, grinning. Her eyes glint with an innocence. “No,” she says. She squeezes the warrior’s shoulders. “You are my queen.” Her voice booms now; she wants the crowd to hear. She wants everybody to hear. The warrior hesitates, her muscles tensing again. The halo on her head is tight, heavy; is it a crown? Her friend bows low, her long hair falling as she lowers her head to the ground. The crowd doesn’t wait. The warrior’s tears don’t stop coming. But she doesn’t really mind the tears, in fact, she actually enjoys them. The crowd, her crowd—her people. They bow to her. Each of them, one by one dropping to their knees and lowering their heads. They are bowing, and not out of fear. Is she being accepted? Does she finally belong? Her friend lifts her head to offer a half smile. She’s proud. The warrior made someone proud. She turns to face her people for
the first time in years. She isn’t special, or stronger, or smarter. But, with her people behind her, she can be. Her people can be the strongest, the fastest, the smartest, the greatest warriors this land has heard of.
The halo is her crown. Her people are her weapons. And she will be their shield. She will be their queen.
Emma Nebeker
My heart is pumping My lungs are expanding My veins are pulsating My blood is flowing Where are you going It’s best if you’re not knowing I am choking You must be joking My fingertips wiggling Slithering Entering the water Molecules are separating Operating Preparing to combust Operating Preparing to combust My organs are bleeding Needing Wanting someone to trust My eyes are seeing The way you’re being Perceiving Yet not freeing Cells make the tissue Tissue makes the organ Organs make the organism Organism makes the money by Ethan Vasquez
Quinn Erickson
Dane Hildreth
by Kate Hirschfeld
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hen the last scene
of an art movie
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ch our y o t
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Even if only for a second.
Ms. Moira Longino
by Kate Hirschfeld
When I can see your old car in my peripheral vision And each of its mailbox and side view mirror shaped dents Then I will know for sure that I am home And when you open your mouth to welcome me back And I hear only windchimes Playing the songs of my softest decades With whole note harmonics curling their lips around corduroy memories You will know too I would introduce you to each of the floorboards in the front room Each step I took when I arrived home from school To the table, then the kitchen, then my bedroom To a heart that beat a song of ever changing chorus A pulse you can see written across every wall, etched into the desk I used to call you from. My own kind of “I was here” In lemon juice invisible ink so that only I knew it was there Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll show you my old friendship bracelets How we used to braid years into rainbow strings Wear them like merit badges saying Look here, I have so much love to give, and I can make four different patterns now Regular, diagonal, chevron, and diamond I’m still learning diamond so pardon me if it’s a little lopsided A few mistakes never stopped my bracelets from being beautiful, or my love from being perfect It always has been, even if I didn’t know it then With a heart that sounded so loudly, so fast, for so much It was all so much It still is
by Rose Furnish
ulcahy
M Ryan
Falling asleep behind barricaded doors, My heart pulsing in time to a beat that screamed fear. The beat that echoed on in the cold and in the burning of bones. My body is just a shell holding my soul as my spirits fall low. In my mind there are thoughts that will never be found. Somehow, I’ll bind my broken heart with bandages of blood. For all that I am is how I mourn the words I left unsaid. I promised to never close my eyes when faced to the sun. But such a sight only makes me remember all the scars you left me. My mind is frigid in a way it hasn’t been before. What haunts me most is I was made to breathe ash. A child of thunder that stumbles on clouds, refusing to drop flowers of the night. Dancing above the raging waters, beneath the bridge on which we stay. I ask myself how did I sink and why do I linger?
Isabel Burke
Isabel Burke
by Turi Sioson
by Anonymous
Where we lay is dismay. In the ridge The River lied, “On the bridge, the mortal cried.” On this road I find demise, Dark nights shield my eyes. Forever now, I find my sighs. For all they are, is a false surprise
infection that eats away at the sheltered parts of a boy not yet grown into himself;
what he did will go so utterly still until there is nothing left to bleed of it
from the inside out he will fall back into all the things he could have been, and the rotting parallel of
Eliot Burke
by Roxy Pulido
In the summer it’s pigmented In the winter you know There will still be trees They climb them, hug the top It’s past loosing feeling Loose footing that holds vertical They graze history stored in stone Imagine life easy to grow Easy to lose lethargic philosophies They’re people who rely on saturation Leaves and bees to cool flushed fingertips Burnt by Kafka
In the morning sunset is within reach They don’t hesitate to reel it in Steal so they have it to lose
Dorothy Childs
To tell them after pain numbness fell The set place in the world was gone To feel plastic shielding in the bottom of the well No water
A shoe without soles A bird without feathers To function still but lose flow
perling
Ryan Cantrell
Shelby S
When their spaces crinkle And summer ends It’s a good day to sleep
Out my window, the light of the setting sun is at that moment. Just before it goes down, when the beams can still be seen, reflecting off the leaves at the edge of the treetops against the sky. That fake-looking light, almost like lights on a stage, triggered my memory. The memory of a dream, more vivid than most. Her dress is long, light blue, and white. Plain and simple, but with a slight puff to the sleeves. Sand colored hair, up in a bun at the crown of her head. And him. In uniform, Mousy hair, young blue eyes. Too young to go. The dream feels nostalgic. Bittersweet. A sweet embrace as we stand outside in that sunset light, but it can’t last forever. He has to go.
Katherine Sheffield
by Anna Wilson
The house stands almost empty The piano lonely in the Cavernous living room In another room A pedal sewing machine What value do they have? by Ms. Valerie Taylor
The house was Momma’s at last Momma’s and Daddy’s before A home they created after All the children were grown And gone The piano had been played By three budding musicians In my childhood By others before And others after The sewing machine had Stitched in play and seriousness By those just learning to sew And by those skilled and artful And now their lives have Disappeared Moved What value will they have? Will the memories of The notes The stitches The people Last?
2
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by Maha Ikram
“Four, four,” he repeats. Soon, patties sizzle on the grill, their juices drifting upward like clairvoyant spirits. A flurry of limbs attempt to grab as many fries as possible. Outside: crispy and golden. Inside: soft, malleable, tender. Long swigs of cola follow, there’s no talking. Chairs creak and whine, and napkins crumple under fists. Annoying rattling sounds from the last few sips, through chewed up straws and into parched mouths. More swigs. This time, water. The bottle of ketchup is passed back and forth like a newborn tossed from relative to relative. Toes curl in and out of shoes. Used napkins, empty cups are stained, strained. No one gets up.
Ella V
irostek
The terra Green, toin exhibits every By some o, if it has rainedshade of brown, w It takes f hat distant mou any. I am surrou ortitude n and eight tains and Mars-linded k hours to At the to get here. e desert. p of a hil l on a vas t ranch r Driving u ests a sm p all house th And I am e dirt road te . s ts d is th a p e sh po Up to th e house ainted if the ride isocks of the car, The feeli t the end too sm But I’m gng I get after turb of the journey isooth. Driving ulence on lad it’s ov like er. a plane: th at was fu n, The hou s The horize possesses view s as far a s I gain pe on will allow. r s p e c ti ve when Everythin Ic Nothing g around me her an see h id Symbolis es in 360 degr e. e m is not lost on me views. This e. Outside, o n o n e side of Swirls vio th Sometim lently and howls e house, the wind . e s , Sometim the wind feels e angry. Y s th e win Either w ay, I mak d feels refreshinet, e it a poin g, t to walk cooling. On the o through it. lies calm ther side of the h ouse, the Sometim and quiet. stillness Sometimes, the calm feels e welcomin Either w s the calm feels to g. Yet, ay, I mak e it a poin o war m, stifling . t to breath e deeply.
Mr. Chuck Nowland
by Abby Barton
The sun beat down on our backs, Swimsuits clinging to damp skin. Hands were clasped beneath the water, A certain fakeness lying within the gesture. We laughed, we hugged, we smiled, Alas, something vital seemed to be missing. Unable to pinpoint what was wrong,
We let it go. Sunsets came as light fell, Casting an orange mirage on our world Despite all the beauty around us, We couldn’t seem to find any in ourselves. by Ms. Bare feet padded on the moonlit concrete, Lee Ca rnes Shadows dancing in the candlelight. Darkness consumed the scene,
I engag Judging us. ritual, e e in this very tim e, befo I knew it was fake, I knew it was wrong. re ente Inside ring th t h e I knew it wasn’t love, I knew it wasn’t happiness. e hous The th house, I a e. ing abo djust h Yet no matter how hard I tried, ow it f ut bein e g e l i s n side. W a The pe e can c s needed. Bu I was unable to let go. t that’s hoose Are as rspectives I g w v a h a i at to b I’ve lea st as the la n from this ring in n . Strengtrned about m dscape. It is west Texas p a h l y a r c o a e e al place The sh nd center wn that ha e s becom The sh ades of brow dness only f r a n e a sym But thi des of my li and green om being he bol of surrou r fe. s is the e . me. nding m only pl Allows e mirro ace tha me to t fully se r e and r echarg e. Sometim From times taking ourselve s out of Is the on e to time our lives ly w a y to give b I believe ac To us, fo in the power of ak to ourselves. r place and u s I’ve been . what it re c o veals m ing to th I’ve been is d esert for open to th a lo e lessons it has taung time, but it’s o After a fe ght me. nly in the last few y In eight hw days, heading ears b Reds and ours I will be ho ack home down m th y e e e ll a b o mong bu umpy roa ws of sto While th sy s d is p li is The mid is the home I lo ghts, rolling hillstreets surrounded bittersweet. dle of no , and city ve, where is sounds. by the everythin g.
a Emm
al
W he
Have you ever looked out your window at 2:30 am? Specifically the one on the second floor Specifically the one on the left with the broken blinds Specifically the one in her bedroom
a Emm
al
W he
Have you ever looked at the trees outside that window at 2:30 am?
How majestic their silhouettes Illuminated by the light of a single lonely car At least it’s going home Have you watched the sprinklers turn on at 2:30 am? The sound breaks the silence And it looks like rain for a while Until the scheduled sounds sputter out Have you noticed the silence out that window? When the silence becomes deafening, you will break like blinds Because your heart strings were pulled too many times And your eyes become sprinklers Pouring out rain The hurt starts all over again You don’t notice the little things until 2:30 am When you realize how much dust has collected on the floor How empty her bed How untouched her room How lonely this house How lonesome are you Have you looked out the window at 2:30 am And realized that she is never coming home?
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by Fiona Carter
and the 50th year of Westlake tradition yet challenged customs. for original artwork:
whsthefinaldraft.com
High School, The Final Draft staff wanted to create a theme that both honored
Throughout the magazine, we play with elements of chaos and order. A rainbow folio bar bookends the right page of each spread, providing visual stability. Yet, the remaining elements of the page are often haphazard and spontaneous. Images are unabashedly manipulated, at times blending seamlessly into other images. Design elements are cut out and rearranged in whimsical ways, challenging the viewer to question what they are actually seeing. Another radical choice we made was to open the submission process to faculty and staff. Traditionally, the magazine has featured student authors and artists exclusively, but in the spirit of taboo, we abandoned that convention and broadened the scope of this year’s edition to encompass the entire school community. Much like our idiosyncratic staff, comprised of ten multi-level students and a faculty adviser, the Taboo theme proved both enjoyable and challenging, pushing newcomers and veteran designers alike to reimagine publication customs and traditional notions of what a high school literary magazine should be. Special thanks to the Westlake PTO, the English & Art Departments, Westlake Chipotle, and Principal Steven Ramsey for their continued support. We hope you enjoy this year’s edition of The Final Draft as much as we enjoyed producing it.
Sam K
artigan
er
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