1 FRONT COVER.indd 1
5/4/2018 10:55:49 AM
2017-2018 2017-2018 Staff Note Staff Note The submissions to The Final Draft document the intelligence, structure, and life of the student body of Westlake High School. Therefore, we decided upon three central parts for our magazine: the brain, the skeleton, and the heart. The submissions to The Final Draft document the intelligence, structure, and life of We theselected studentthe body of Westlake School and, therefore, decided upon intricate brain to High open the magazine and let the we thoughts of the three centralunfurl partsslowly for our the brain, the skeleton, and the heart. students or magazine: cut to the point like a scalpel. Through writing, art, and photography, the section devoted to the brain creates a mental image, firing off We selected theeveryday brain tolives openand thethoughts magazine and let the thoughts of the students snippets of the of students. unfurl slowly or cut to the point like a scalpel. Through writing, drawings, and photography, section devoted to thethe brain createscenter, a mental image the everyday The the skeletal structure supports magazine’s holding theofcreativity of lifethe of abook student as rarely seen in day-to-day conversation. together with its steady spine and supportive ribs. We decided to use the skeleton because of its significant role in the function of the body. The skeleton sec At theprovides center of magazine is nestled structure to hold thewith cretion thethe backbone of the magazinethe andskeletal stands bold and determined ativity of thenuances book together a steady spine and supporting ribs. We decided to its subtle of mostlywith black and white. use the skeleton because of its significant role within the everyday function of the body. The skeleton section backbone and stands Reserved for last is the provides pumping the heart: the engineofofthe lifemagazine and the infamous gen-bold anderator determined in the subtle nuances of that black whitewith pages. of the countless flux of emotions weand undergo every passing second. In this section, the core feelings of the students are proudly worn and revealed to Reserved for last is the heart: theteenage engineaspirations, of life andhumor, the infamous of show the many intricate layers of love, andgenerator loss. the countless flux of emotions that we, as humans, undergo with every passing second. In this the core feelings of the arebrain, proudly worn and and With long section, hours and premature gray hairs, westudents present the skeleton, revealed manywithin intricate layersfolder. of teenage aspirations, humor, heart, to all show neatly the wrapped a manila The 2017-2018 edition of Thelove, Finaland energy. Draft has been aptly named “Student Records.” WithWe long hours and new gray hairs, the brain, skeleton, and heart hope you enjoy this year’s editionwe ofpresent the magazine, all neatly wrapped within a manilla folder: the 2017-2018 edition of The Final Draft whichThe hasFinal beenDraft aptly named Student Records. We hope you enjoy this years edition of the magazine, The Staff of The Final Draft.
2
2 STAFF NOTE.indd 2
5/9/2018 11:45:01 AM
2017 - 2018 Staff Faculty Adviser Moira H. Longino
Editors-in-Chief
Varsha Gopal
Eric Jenkins
Assistant Editors
McKenna Applewhite Ellie Marin
JessicaBenadof Cassia Meditz
Designers/Staff Abbey Archer Ella Bressi Lila Denton Kate Hirschfeld Andrew Loomis Chloe Mantrom Ava Milligan John Riedie Sylvia Sit Claire Winters
Jamie Ashworth Lorena Chiles Olivia Fouch Lily Howe Anna Lowrimore Mina Mashhoon Samantha Perl Turi Sioson Jacob Stoebner
Special Thanks
The Gopal Family Westlake Chipotle Westlake High School WHS English & Art Departments WHS PTO 3
3 STAFF PAGE.indd 1
5/8/2018 11:24:11 AM
Table of Contents (27) THE SKELETON Section Opener // Art by Nolan Weinschenk (28-29) Moron Oxen by Cassia Meditz // Art by Myles Kovalik
(30-31) Oblivion by Ellie Marin // Art by Jessica Benadof
(32) The Aesthetic of Life and Death by Abbey Archer
(33) The Old Ones by Eric Jenkins // Art by Chloe Mantrom
(34-35) Guns and How They Destroy the World by Jaclyn Cockrell // Title Art by Chloe Martin // Art by Ellie Marin
(36-37) A Common Perspective by Jaclyn Cockrell // Art by Nolan Weinschenk (38-39) Day 300 of a Cat’s Captivity by Sylvia Sit // Art by Eric Jenkins
(40-41) My Blue Skin by James Odryna // Art by Veronica Mieres
(Back Cover)
Art by McKenna Applewhite
(42) Art by Audrey Hollingsworth
4
4-5 TABLE OF CONTENTS.indd 2
5/9/2018 12:18:35 PM
(7) THE MIND Section Opener// Art by Lily Howe (8-9) November Beginnings by Turi Sioson // Art by Ashlee Hampton (10-11) A Liquid Boy Born by Roxanne Pulido // Art by Ella Bressi (12-13) City of Circuits by George Kyle // Art by McKenna Applewhite (14-15) Opportunity by Miles Sigel // Art by Eric Jenkins (16-17) While Green Parrots Sleep by Aidan Perez // Art by John Winters (18-19) Woman by Adrienne Murr // Art by Haley Respass (20-21) Some Thoughts About Humans by Madeline Szoo // Art by James Odryna (22-23) Retrograde by Kate Hirschfeld // Art by Tate Miller (26) Art by Olivia Fouch
(43) THE HEART Section Opener // Art by Eleanor Scott
(24-25) New and Drowning by Turi Sioson // Title Art by Chloe Martin // Art by Claire Boatman // Art by Ava Curry
(44-45) Rachel Carson by Bryn Battani // Art by Lila Denton (46-47) The Soul I Stole by Ambar Ancira // Art by Lila Denton (48-49) Mountains by Anonymous // To Her by Jessica Benadof // Art by Shelby Sperling (50-51) Bakery by Adrienne Murr // Art by Helen He (52-53) The Waltz by Madeline Szoo // Art by Claire Winters (54-55) All My Years by Nikki Ecoff // Art by Isabel Burke (56-57) Soup Children by Abbey Archer // Art by Laura Cho (58-59) Entangled by Sam Hewitt // Rich in Rancor by Naran Shettigar // Art by Jacob Stoebner (60-61) That’s Him by Ryan Quinn // Art by Christina Logwinuk // Colorized by Jessica Benadof
(66-67) Goodbye by Cassia Meditz // Art by Isabel Burke
(62-63) Chapter Seven: Married by Varun Jawarani // Art by Isabel Burke (64-65) Sprinkle of Love by Grace Brewer 5
4-5 TABLE OF CONTENTS.indd 3
5/9/2018 12:18:45 PM
6
6 DESIGN ELEMENTS.indd 1
5/9/2018 11:25:09 AM
“I have a drive to convey atmospheres that I find are representative of moods that I find myself in.�
Isabel Burke, 11
Lily
How e
7
7 Mind Opener.indd 1
5/6/2018 11:50:30 AM
Ashlee Hampton 8
8-9 NOVEMBER BEGINNINGS.indd 2
5/9/2018 11:44:44 AM
n
so
io iS
r Tu y b
Childhood pouring and spilling back into the veins of ones who left the label long ago, who
tore the chains of serenity from the holding cells and broke the bearings away from the
commiseration so flippant in its liveliness. There is no royalty in the hands of children, but
that does not stop the crowns from bleeding heavy against their tiny skulls.
It’s the season for forgiveness to taste bitter in the mouths of those who have forgiven too
many times.
9
8-9 NOVEMBER BEGINNINGS.indd 3
5/9/2018 11:45:20 AM
Ella Bressi
10
10-11 LIQUID BOY BORN.indd 2
5/4/2018 11:23:30 AM
by Roxanne Pulido
A boy was implanted on Valentine
Sown by royalty, blue blood dribbling from his facial depressions
Flower and fungus bloomed from his pores by the reminiscences of original persons
Time wavered in place with the cunning knowledge of itself as a whole
And all was in motion
Deep, embedded between cushions of chastity
out
Nails of maternal confinement etch wails into his skin
A voice that had once combed his inky locks back into his flesh now rip them
Root by root by root by root and the same amid
The nature in his flesh was dug out, a mess of red and yellow and green
Infamy trails in response and soon does shame follow
Arduous scrapes down a neck, a neck decorated with few freckles and fewer moles Freckles and moles that are shielded by thick coats of paint that “just happens� to be lighter than his sun-kissed skin
Blood mixing with his tears, transforming trails of the sea into maroon clarets
And Time is inanimate for him so suddenly
A liquid boy implanted on Valentine, a year concluding
11
10-11 LIQUID BOY BORN.indd 3
5/4/2018 11:26:55 AM
12
12-13, CITY OF CIRCUITS.indd 2
McKenna Applewhite
5/4/2018 11:21:04 AM
by George Kyle Legend has it that there is a city made of technology, but it isn’t the infrastructure that makes this city interesting. It is the inhabitants. They are all variations of the same structure. Cold steel, stained black by the cities smog. When they walk you can hear the crunching and cracking of the meshes of metal strung together so perfectly yet haphazardly. Their eyes pierce all that their gaze touches and dart around as if to analyze all of their surroundings. Their limbs and joints connected by small sockets of sinewy liquid that hold their cold bones together. Some walk around in tattered robes of pale colors, some of their robes have fur but most don’t. Their robes are pulled taut around their bodies but the unfortunate ones have robes with gashes and cuts all over, exposing their cold bodies inside. Their mouths are always open, unless they wear their robes, in which their mouths only open on occasion. Their teeth move up and down depending on the amount of sound they wish to emit. Laced around their bones are small red and black vessels that run all over their body and meet at the center. The center is the most interesting part. It emanates a faint white glow from its transparent capsule. Inside the capsule is a liquid, this is where the glow comes from and it is horribly sticky, it sloshes around in the capsule until there is no liquid left. Then they fall over, spasm a little, and lay still, for their time is up. This liquid is the true miracle. With it they can function: emulate emotion, pain, intelligence, but most astounding, the ability to learn. They can adapt, become civilized, build cities. They are even said to assume the identity of their creators.
Us.
13
12-13, CITY OF CIRCUITS.indd 3
5/4/2018 11:21:42 AM
Opportunity
by Miles Sigel
Many believe that how we respond to adversity describes our character However, I believe it is rather how we react to our greatest desires which defines us Only the moments in which our blood is replaced with the mindless fuel of adrenaline do we see our true colors The seconds in which your brain follows one goal, one desire, one need, is when we see the makings of a person’s inner thoughts It is within these experiences where we are led by nature not nurture Your body going into autopilot and your brain turning into one of an addict An overwhelming urge, surging through every twist, turn, and curve enflaming your body with an unquenchable yearn A fire that cannot be extinguished because its flames are frolicking in the very wind from which it draws its undying strength Its lifeline is that thought, buried deep, deep, deep inside our unconscious state that we call everyday life When the fire flares, that hidden memory, suppressed deep within, comes to the forefront of our mental consciousness After identifying this erratic addiction is when the crucial test of character takes place The question of desire or restraint Inaction in the face of opportunity does not describe a despicable person The ability to have perspicacity in one’s blindest moments describes a person worthy of admiration Selfishness stems and strives from a spot on a hill above all else When someone summits but leaves the rest behind, they act on desire Confronting our greatest desires and rejecting them on the premise of others can be nearly impossible However, the people who decide to not act on underlying impulse at the expense of others are virtuous An action taken after considerable thought usurps one born of pure intuition Forgo instant gratification and consider
Opportunity 14
14-15 OPPORTUNITY.indd 2
5/4/2018 11:21:42 AM
Eric Jenkins
15
14-15 OPPORTUNITY.indd 3
5/4/2018 11:21:57 AM
SHE SPEAKS WITH CARE, While counting pares Of wallpaper scenes in her room, Should I take what’s dealt If I’m forced to melt With the clouds that hide to moon? Will I find you there? In bleached, purple-blue air? The highway wonders. Night time ponders. While late, I toil. My heart gets coiled. But her words should dull my mind. by Aidan Perez
16
16-17 WHILE GREEN PARROTS SLEEP.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:42:02 PM
YET, HER MIDNIGHT GLOW Tells me she knows The clock might forget time. But if it’s frantic Is it less romantic? Morning falls soon. We’ll sleep in to the afternoon. And here I sit, While thoughts don’t quit. Her voice is all I hear. The cage of the phone Now tells me I’m alone And I know I need her here.
And if I dreamed you... Would you dream me too? Would dreams seem more clear... If I held you near? Won’t you let me... Love you only? The pain is deadly. I fear I’ll lose you.
John Winters
16-17 WHILE GREEN PARROTS SLEEP.indd 3
17
5/6/2018 12:42:26 PM
ass
p es yR
le
Ha
18
18-19 WOMAN, SHOES.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:41:44 PM
Woman by Adrienne Murr
I’m in the grocery store, the one down on the corner of my street, where the bus stops every forty five minutes and weeds poke out from the curb between the pavement and the cement. As soon as I place the box of Sun-Maid raisins in the basket and check the item off my list – only one salmon and a bottle of Pledge remain - I look up. My heart drops to my stomach, and my stomach drops to my toes. There, at the end of aisle seven, standing gruesomely in front of the ice chests with her back hunched over like a question mark and her knees turned in towards each other, she lurks. Someone in the next aisle over gracefully knocks down a can of crushed tomatoes and the old hag looks up. I catch a full glimpse of her face, ominously illuminated by the fluorescent lights that hang and hum above her. Greasy bangs fall halfway down her face, matted and tangled and pressed down on her pock-marked cheeks. The left corner of her mouth is consumed by some unnatural, horrid growth. The woman sets my skin crawling. I turn sharply away, making a beeline for the first checkout line available. Throwing my things on the belt, I can’t help but feel entirely disgusted by the woman. Is it the way in which she stands so painfully? Or the way in which she seems as though she is all alone, with no one to help her? Unkempt.
19
18-19 WOMAN, SHOES.indd 3
5/6/2018 12:42:07 PM
Some Thoughts About
Hum ans
by Madeline Szoo
1 2 3
Though impossible by definition means “not possible,” this is truly a relative term. Impossibility is usually in reference to unlikely or improbable, but very rarely is the term used in indication to physically impossible. There is always a way around the impossible. Take flight, for example. Such an action is so foreign to human nature—so impossible. Yet, humanity has made it common. The plane connects our world like no other device in human history. Skydiving is an activity of recreation. Even the heart has known it could flutter for millennium. People fell in love (yes, falling is another form of flying)—overcoming the impossibilities imposed on them centuries before.
Consider the difference between a mind and a brain. There’s nothing to it really: a brain is an organ; a mind is a soul. A brain is composed of conductive tissues, ordering around rapidly firing neurons. Without the brain, function of the body would be completely improbable (note, even impossible is void of purpose in this circumstance). Without the brain, function of the mind would be completely improbable as well. You see, a mind is a series of intangible, abstract thoughts which flutter around in the recesses of the brain until they land upon the cerebrum (the thought center of the brain). Scientists like to assign so much meaning and value to the brain, but what they really seem to miss is the thought behind it. Computers have “brains.” Birds have brains. But what really separates humans from the average eukaryote is the ability to think, the ability to love, the ability to create. That is where the mind comes into play.
Lastly, some thoughts on truth. See, “true” is a funny little word that humans use to describe something that is “factual.” Sadly though, the word humans have created in assigning the correctness or validity of something has the least valid definition of any other word in the whole of humanity. There is controversy surrounding this word through and through, and the only word that is looked to in defining such a term is that word itself. It’s (truly) a paradox. Truth is not true. Up is no different from down. Right is no different from wrong. Humans are too attached to their own shoes to slip into somebody else’s, to stand on the ceiling in understanding another definition of this word. But, even more a horrific perversion of truth than ignorance is the redefinition of truth in supporting one’s own interest.
You see, while humans have brains, they often neglect to utilize their minds, to look beyond their own periphery. It is with this lack of interest in the surrounding world that humanity becomes consumed in the impossible, greedy for the improbable, and twists the truth to serve their own actions. 20
20-21, SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT HUMANS.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:41:46 PM
James Odryna 21
20-21, SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT HUMANS.indd 3
5/6/2018 12:41:48 PM
Tate Miller 22
22-23 RETROGRADE.indd 2
5/8/2018 8:14:36 AM
RETROGRADE
by Kate Hirschfeld
How drunk off this diluted dreamlike existence you must be To rather break your neck stargazing than meet this world face to face Yes, the stars are beautiful, but dang it so are you And this world But you wouldn’t know that either because you’re circling Saturn as we speak and spaceships don’t go in reverse. I know, It’s easier to stare and write odes to cosmos than to feel what this earth has to offer Because sometimes it’s not all beautiful So you settle for stars that can only be seen, never reached. Believing nothing can hurt you when you’re a million miles off our atmosphere But these things have a way of catching up to you When you’re head’s up in the clouds so long,
THE FOG BECOMES FAMILIAR
Voices are muffled so you let go, still reaching for something you can’t touch And before you know it my mercury is in retrograde,
and she’s not coming back anytime soon. Please, Focus your eyes on me for just a moment. Give me a second for the light years you’ve absorbed. Count your fingers, or my freckles, or anything that’s not infinite. Look down at your feet. Forgot they were there didn’t you? Forgot I was here didn’t you? Forgot who you were,
Didn’t you?
23
22-23 RETROGRADE.indd 3
5/8/2018 8:15:01 AM
Ava Curry 24
24-25 NEW AND DROWNING.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:41:32 PM
1. “Little black bowtie in the shadow of the holy one, divine prowess on a tether until the dissipation can show three times fast and nine times distraction.” The line is breaking down from the voices of the children still holding the toys they used in wars outdone and petty brawls outshone, until it is but a myriad of words they use to entertain the ones already grown into thinking they are fearful of it. They step in reflections of their own bodies and paint personalities into their eyes, dance around the music with all their might and claw at the gardens to blame the weather on something other what they have been whispering to the trees. Their names cannot be said aloud so they must be called by numbers of rhyming schemes, from 1-2-1-2 to 3-5-5-3; It’s more than a mouthful for those who give the illusion of caring for them,
Claire Boatman
24-25 NEW AND DROWNING.indd 3
by Turi Sioson
2. but in the end it does not matter what comes out of their mouths so long as these rhyming schemes are fed and bathed by sundown. In all that they tell, they have bowed to their superiors and given gifts to the appended additions to their hands intertwined, and have done no evil that has so split the earth in two since that very first day of creation and downfall. They tremble in the presence of the headmasters and cackle when they are left alone, cough up the recipes long stored in their seemingly compressed minds, until the day will come when they are to let it finally go free against the powerless force of their so-called prison. They may not know the difference between dusk and dawn in their shadowed guise of being frail, but their hands do not shake in the reflection of their own horror.
25
5/6/2018 12:41:39 PM
Olivia Fouch 26
26 MIND CLOSER.indd 1
5/4/2018 11:27:19 AM
Nolan Weinschenk
“Being around people is like standing in the center of a museum filled with history and stories.� Cassia Meditz, 12
27
27 B&W OPENER.indd 1
5/9/2018 11:33:26 AM
Moron Oxen by Cassia Meditz
“Enjoy High School while it lasts!” They call. “The real world is a lot different!” What words to grow up with! They’re flung at us from all corners, Carelessly impressed upon our impressionable minds!
There’s a general agreement, That the life of a millennial is, Pardon the expression, Screwed. Well, that’s just perfect. Will our lives be any better? We are, After all, Only a few years apart!
Myl
It’s a crazy world. It tells you to pursue your dreams, Then it laughs in your face When your efforts meet societal barricades. Money ones, too! We are all stereotypes, Filling our cliché stories. They yell, “Be original!” Er, problem is; All the original ideas are gone. We are the future generation! We exist to make the world a better place! Couldn’t they have helped with that? Also, obviously they think younger siblings don’t exist. They’re the future, too!
es K ova lik
The world is a scary place, They say, Full of monsters in human skin. You’re born and you die. You spend the majority of your life running, To where? I don’t know. It’s a rat race, for sure. Except the rats end up eating each other, Caught up in the Hunger Games. Survival of the fittest and all that rot, You know.
28
28-29 MORON OXEN.indd 2
5/4/2018 11:26:58 AM
But then, There are adults who are just as sheltered As us! It’s up to the decisions we make now, The ways we act, That determine our lives. Please, Don’t feel pressured. What pressure! It’s not like Victoria Falls is pushing down on our heads. No, It’s atmospheric pressure you feel. And the hope of future generations to come. Thought I might just add that in there. In all honesty, though, You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t get caught up in where you’ll be, Say, Sixty years from now! There is no possible way you’ll know. Life likes to take your calendar, Stomp on it, Make it into a fruitcake, And give it to a shark. It’s what happens. We are not moron oxen. We are fruitcakes. We last forever. Just joking.
Why do I feel that we live in an oxymoron. In other words, There are a lot of oxen And they’re all morons. Sorry. We’re told to live one way, Then we’re told that our way is wrong. We’re commanded, Pushed, Prodded, Until we feel like oxen! No one seems to realize, That the life we live now, The life we’re just beginning, Is reality. Sure, it may be somewhat sheltered.
My point is, Live your life so that when you look back at it, You can laugh. Not derisive, Just the laughter of acknowledgement And respect. You can see how far you have come, How much you have lived. Don’t look back and see yourself as an oxymoron. Don’t let life make you into a fruitcake. Just live each day by the hour, Minute, Or even second! It’s your life and yours alone. P.S. Please let it be noted that I have nothing against oxen. I’m sure they’re very nice. Also, if you want to be a fruitcake, You be a fruitcake. I’m sure you’d be a very nice fruitcake. Ciao! 29
28-29 MORON OXEN.indd 3
5/4/2018 11:27:45 AM
O B L I V I O N
by Ellie Marin
Jessica Benadof
It is a cold blue morning in rural New Mexico.
Wind howls through the plains. From horizon to horizon, there is little more than rock, sky, and dust. Cliffs
surge from the land, their eroded titan selves stark silhouettes against the lavender backdrop of the nearing dawn. Scrubs blanket the earth in a primitive pattern. There are no voices here, only howls: of wolf and coyote, of doubt and amnesia. Stretches of desolate road crisscross the terrain like patchwork.
Our story starts on one of those highways, where a woman has just awoken from a deep sleep. She rises, first
in blue naivetĂŠ, and then in rapid, brighter alarm. She unlocks the doors of her half-smashed sky-blue Prius and steps outside, bewildered by all the endlessness around her. She looks around, and whips around again, searching for any indication as to where exactly she might be. She grasps a clue from the crypts of her mind, connects the dots, and pinpoints a possible location based on the familiarity of the landscape. She enters her car once again, inhaling that holy air, and 30
30-31 OBLIVION.indd 2
5/8/2018 11:06:01 AM
n
starts the engine with a pair of keys that hang dormant in the ignition.
The woman starts down the desert road, her hands whiter than the moon. She drives cautiously, and to what
she presumes as home, and the hours of the day brush past her like blades of grass. The sun spins gloriously across the sky. As she goes, the woman tries to remember the circumstances that led her out to the desert, to waking in a car that does not belong to her on a road less traveled. She has no recollections of emotional trauma, no visible injuries, and any concrete memory of the days, months, and even years before having seemingly disappeared, no matter how forcefully the woman wrests with the safe of her subconscious.
At long last, the woman enters a valley where a small town gleams defiantly under the sun. Her heart aches; she
is home. The road winds down to the plains level with the hamlet, and a strange echo sounds through the air. She hears it, and she remembers. Then the memories flood her synapses with charge…
She skids to a stop, her heart throbbing in her chest. The earth is filled with the sound of her fear, her question-
ing, her need to know more. There were flashes that bolted behind her eyes, pieces of a story she couldn’t manage to put together. Metal was crunching, and red lights flickered at night, but no voices spoke. She tries to ignore the thoughts that seep in and infect her focus.
The oddity on the road in front of her takes her back to the New Mexican desert; it’s as if the land itself has
warped. The plains have been transformed into a stormy ocean surface; little asphalt waves at least four feet high crest in stillness. She wanders over the undulations on foot, gracelessly climbing and descending each wave, and notices how the waves begin to spill out into smaller ripples as she continues towards the town.
A gravity grows in her with every step; her brain becomes hijacked with discordant addiction. Inside, she is
quickly becoming disconnected between memory and self, no matter how vivid the flashes become: lightning whistling through electrified sky, a child scribbling at homework, and bottles breaking on grimy concrete. She can’t connect these visions, but they are nonetheless drops in the ocean of her past and identity, a sea she longs to swim in once again.
The woman reaches the outskirts of the town and sees the houses lurching sideways. She walks further into the
heart of it, the visions vaporizing from her past like flames extinguished by wind, further into the jungle of two-story motels and churches and city halls, further into the synaptic catacombs of her identity.
Exactly in the center of the hamlet, the woman finds a black box pulsating with royal blue and yellow light. To
any ordinary person, this object would seem to be something fantastical or imaginary, but the woman has experienced more than enough strangeness this morning, from the wilderness to the asphalt ocean, from the silence to the gravity within her. The box emits the gut-feeling addiction she’d felt before, the temptation of boundless, sightless knowledge. She reaches the epicenter of her memory, believing that there are answers for all her lingering doubts contained within. She questions her awakening, the concrete waves, the ghost town she knew was once living, and who she really is. She longs to shed her ignorance like a skin.
The woman feels the undercurrent of the pavement, the heat thickening on her neck, and hears voices on the
wind. But something inside of her tells her that the voices are the dreams, and that this town is in fact real. The whispers aren’t intelligible, but soon they are incessant and booming; they become louder and repeat. The woman kneels down to the box, that mysterious snake, and prays to the sky for some clearer answers, or at least directions. She opens it, not out of will but of desperation, and a sound rips and explodes through her…then the waves are crashing all at once… the sand rushing…the wind whipping…the memories flooding…all the blurry chaos mixing into one color…
But you shouldn’t worry, because this woman isn’t really there. She is sitting in a different car off a different
road, with her eyes rolling back to the clouds, to her true self, where either treasure or torture await. You should consider, though, because she is you, why you look to your past to define who you are when you could choose for yourself in the endlessness of the same tomorrow she didn’t follow. 31
30-31 OBLIVION.indd 3
5/8/2018 11:06:04 AM
The Aesthetic of Life & Death by Abbey Archer
I don’t know if I believe in a god, and I don’t know if I want to or not. Some purgatory in between believing and not believing is more appealing to me than either side.
I don’t want to think about death until I’m about 50. When I have to choose between being burned up, or having my naked corpse dressed, bathed, and primped by a complete stranger. What’s the point of it all anyways?! It’s not like anyone says what they feel at funeral-type of gatherings, because they’re too afraid as to how it will affect other people. Sometimes people are thankful for the death of others, it releases them from some sort of responsibility. Yet they still go to the funeral and cry, purely for the aesthetic of life and death. I hate weddings too, and pretty much all those weird, commercialized passageways into a new kind of life. Do people not realize that a wedding used to be an official negotiation between the fathers of the bride and groom? This is how it used to go down--“Will you take 34 goats for your eldest daughter?” “I would take nothing less than your finest milking cow for her.” “What about 2 chickens in addition to the 34 goats?” “Deal.” (Or at least that’s how I imagine them going.) Oh, and don’t even get me started on baptisms. I do not understand why people feel the need to be dunked into a tub of water in front of a large group of people, or why they subject a wrinkly old man wearing a funky hat to ever so slightly terrorize their newborn child by slapping a handful of water on their head. There is absolutely no reason why everyone should clap in appreciation of this event. The baby cries excessively and spits up on their frilly outfit that their grandmother’s grandfather wore to his baptism, as the audience sheds tears of joy.
All I know is I will probably have a wedding, and a funeral, and I was baptised as a baby.
The reasons why these things will/did take place in my life is because those have been the things to do since our grandparents were kids. And we have to continue doing these things, because if I don’t laugh in a white veil as I blow bubbles on my wedding day, and if I don’t hug my grieving grandfather at my grandmother’s funeral, and if I don’t allow an old man in a crazy hat to pour water on my future child’s head, then why the hell would I need a prescription to Xanax? 32
32-33 GOAT, WOMAN.indd 2
5/4/2018 4:15:38 PM
The
Old
by Eric Jenkins
Ones
The blood moon rises. Covering our small sleepy port town in an intoxicating fog. Making the toughest of men into mere drooling shells. Pulling them from their homes. And plunging into the endless void of the sea. They give themselves to the old ones. The ones with no names. The ones with forms incomprehensible to our minds. The ones that shall rise from their slumber. And once they do so we shall be free. Free to transcend our mortal form and join them in the infinite chaos that is the cosmos.
Chloe Mantrom 33
32-33 GOAT, WOMAN.indd 3
5/4/2018 4:15:45 PM
& How They Destroy the World by Jaclyn Cockrell 34
34-35 HOW THEY DESTROY.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:34:53 PM
I reach back to Post-Classical times I have caused the success of countless crimes I am the EPITOME OF DARKNESS and population decay I am the reason that skies are grey
I am powerful in the right hands but lethal in others I am the reason sons and daughters can’t come home to their mothers Here’s one reason to never forget My sole purpose is to ensure HORRIBLE FATES are met
I am the reason a husband loses his wife I simply have the capability to take human life I am the reason 17 TEENS AREN’T ALIVE In the state of Florida where they could’ve easily survived
“What could I possibly be?” you wonder The simple answer is just down under There is a little reason why we all run From the TERRIBLE TRAGEDY brought by me,
A GUN.
Ellie Marin
34-35 HOW THEY DESTROY.indd 3
35
5/6/2018 12:35:02 PM
ve i t ecll p s erlyn Cockre P on by Jac m om C A
Once you get back from that lovely weekend break It’s time to resume reality for your transcript’s sake College may appear far, but let me tell you, it’s not That acceptance letter from Yale, it’s all we really want Goals aren’t easy, we know that for sure Motivated, ambitious, and dedicated we were For those many years of school before the day of today Oh we have yearned for that easy other way We know those kids who don’t reach as high They prefer pleasure instead, trust me, so would I If only every day weren’t filled to the max I would sit on my bed and simply relax “Life isn’t like that”, my mother would say, “Get up, come on, make this a productive day” I have those big goals, I know I must have them fulfilled So ‘tis the time, my life, I shall continue to build
36
36-37 COMMON PERSPECTIVE.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:35:30 PM
Nolan Weinschenk 37
36-37 COMMON PERSPECTIVE.indd 3
5/6/2018 12:35:45 PM
Eric Jenkins
38
38-39 CATS CAPITIVITY.indd 2
5/9/2018 11:09:17 AM
w
Day 300 of a Cat’s Captivity by Sylvia Sit The humans show no signs of letting me go, as they continue to shower me with baby talk and tight hugs. Seriously, who do they think I am? An illiterate life form whose only purpose in life is to eat, sleep, and use the litter box?
Please. It seems as if I’m the only prisoner who has sense; that brute of a dog shows no signs of discomfort. He gets special privileges, as he is given the chance to go outside, but only to come back. The green bird housed in a suspended cage is a obnoxious thing, as it squawks repeatedly, not able to let me sleep. He tries to converse with the humans on a daily basis, which drives me crazy.
None of the rest of us can speak, why can he? Time after time, I’ve tried to get my claws onto that stupid bird, only to crash down back on the floor.
The bird is safe… for now. The humans - there’s nothing worse than them. The smallest one, the female, grabbed me and ran a hairbrush down my back. Despite my struggling and yowls of protest, she secured dozens of sparkly pink and yellow bows all over my fur and tied a ruby red ribbon on my tail.
Humiliated, I let out an angry hiss and raked my claws on her chubby arms, which caused the evil girl to let go with a shriek and swat me. Her humans ran toward her, asking what had happened. By that time, I’ve slipped away. They continue to keep me in this prison.
I’m afraid they’ll never let me go. But I’ll be watching; I’ll be waiting.
There will be a time when they don’t notice, and that’s when I’ll strike.
They’ve been warned.
39
38-39 CATS CAPITIVITY.indd 3
5/9/2018 11:12:02 AM
My Blue Skin by James Odryna
It awakens Shows me something more Welcomes me where nothing else does Gives me something At least the thought When nothing else does Lets me know everything That only matters To those like me To those who won’t remember, or care So interconnected with it So disconnected with them I play with them The static boys and girls Running and playing in worlds of our choosing But we have to go away Back to the world we didn’t choose The world we never cherished Brings out my veins, bones, and blemishes Takes my time, all the time It needs my life, my progress, my future And I’m willing I’m so close to it I’m so far from them I follow still It shines on me Turns my skin blue Reveals new horizons That I never knew I needed Sacrificed myself to the digital To reap the rewards and the pain Can’t break away, even if I wanted to
40
40-41 MY BLUE SKIN.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:42:52 PM
Veronica Mieres
40-41 MY BLUE SKIN.indd 3
41
5/6/2018 12:43:18 PM
Audrey Hollingsworth 42
42 SKELETON CLOSER.indd 2
5/4/2018 11:34:23 AM
Eleanor Scott
“Being able to develop and understand that expertise really helped me understand that there is definitely more to photography than being in the right place at the right time.� Nolan Weinschenk, 12
43
43 HEART OPENER.indd 1
5/6/2018 11:40:29 AM
enton
Lila D
44
44-45 RACHEL CARSON.indd 2
5/4/2018 11:35:05 AM
RACHEL CARSON by Bryn Battani
I like to think about the afternoon It’s so familiar and warm and soon I zone out an hour and ‘Fore I know it– I’m through! Under an apple tree to enjoy. I read Rachel Carson ‘fore I go to bed I ignore and dream it sweet instead ‘Cause what’s the point? You think I’d plan ahead? When I got me a brand new toy? It’s fun to go to lunch and take a walk in the park Take a drive ‘til at the end of our lives, we don’t know how far we’ve gone.
I like to think about the afternoon The afterlife is too long and far The word “forever” is from a storybook My laughing stock ‘cause it’s false. I read Rachel Carson ‘fore I go to bed Shut down my systematic nerves I’d rather just ignore the consequence I’m just a sanctuary bird.
It’s fun to go to lunch and take a walk in the park Take a drive ‘til at the end of our lives, we don’t know how far we’ve gone– One step at a time, right? History isn’t soon. Don’t think about it ‘cause in half a century we’ll be the ones in a textbook, setting an example Right? This isn’t 1962. Don’t think about it ‘cause in half a century we’ll be the ones laughed at and admonished and mocked by the kids in school. It’s fun to go to lunch and take a look at the birds Take a drive ‘til at the end of our lives, we don’t know how many we hurt. It’s fun to throw out crumbs and think we’re feeding the birds. Then we realize we are one of a kind and we eat our bread with dirt.
45
44-45 RACHEL CARSON.indd 3
5/4/2018 11:35:16 AM
by Ambar Ancira
a pressed finger the sound of a click and her eyes widen I thought they might fall right out of her face then I recall to her a camera is nothing but a thief that takes the soul of anyone who dares stand on the other side of it I gulp slowly backing away until miles, hours, borders, all stand between us but in my hands I hold her soul I carry it with me every day, and try to ignore its weight but darkness conjures the look on her face when the device in my hands sucked her whole being right out of its body
46
46-47 THE SOUL I STOLE.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:36:12 PM
once a picture is taken we capture ourselves in the most unnatural form we see our own figure the way another would we dwell on how to control something hands can’t touch voices can’t change and a billion pictures can’t impact we dwell on controlling another’s sight the way they perceive us by the mask we wear around our souls our inner content lays untouched until we forget to wonder if it is still there and become solely the person in the picture searching for angles that can never capture who we are the obsession with controlling how other people see us it begins with the click of a camera lens and ends with silence of a heart that has stopped beating now I know The only weight I carry is my own empty self
the story sat on my chest for months suffocating my breath until I let it spill out and my friend laughed she actually spewed water across the table bent over with the force of it my stomach recoils at the memory she brushed aside the idea that I had done any harm she said they should know
a camera can’t steal a soul she said they’re just uncivilized living in a jungle like that
she threw a look of nonchalance right at my already pained expression at that moment her nose was so high in the clouds I wondered if any air was reaching her lungs adding to the weight of the soul I stole along with that I carry a question who are we, we so-called privileged, so called-civilized people? who are we to say a camera doesn’t hold a billion souls?
Lila Denton
46-47 THE SOUL I STOLE.indd 3
47
5/6/2018 12:36:27 PM
Mountains
by Anonymous
Mountains on a highway Call out on the breaking Of dawn’s chill, They shatter the silence In the time Of ruins on hell-raising dunes They will let The snow fall From the highest of points, And the longest Of nights Will let them go free
From the paired danger They pose Exaggeration will reel them Rampant But all the while They will let the roads Ring into all The grazing That lets them bow To these winds
48
48-49 TO HER, MOUNTAINS.indd 2
5/4/2018 3:32:35 PM
To her. by Jessica Benadof
I dedicate this to her, The one who made me smile. The girl who made me laugh. Her, the one who made me believe again. She made me believe that it is okay, For her, for me, for us. But she,
She did not know that she made me believe. She did not know she made me happy again. Her, With a teasing voice and playful stares. Her, With soft touches and loud laughter. I dedicate this to her, The girl who captivated me, With a single smile. To her, Even though she does not know.
Shelby Sperling 49
48-49 TO HER, MOUNTAINS.indd 3
5/4/2018 3:32:44 PM
Bakery by Adrienne Murr
There’s a little bakery that sits on the end of the block, where Main Street meets Limoncello. It’s cute, with pansies in the window boxes and an old school door with a worn handle on the side. The baker, a small middle-aged man with a modest belly and no hair under his baseball cap, brings out a tray of freshly glazed chocolate eclairs, the chocolate as dark as onyx and the dough the color of amber. He’s a happy fellow, and often his hearty laugh echoes down the street on a fine summer day, when the windows are open and a cool breeze rolls over the town from the ocean. His rosy cheeks give the impression of a yearround sunburn, and everywhere he goes he is greeted with shouts of, “Hey, Sam!” “Where’s the bread, Sammy?” His little shop is the heart of the town, which is nestled into a small cove on the edge of the ocean. Day in and day out, the baker stands at his large wooden table, flour-marked handprints all over the shop, and the warm wood-fire oven crackles. Sam’s old radio, a small boxy thing that sputters out every two hours or so and requires a good thump on the side to get rolling again, plays music from open to close - more often than not, Beethoven or Mozart. As he closes up shop, the pastries slowly disappear from the display window, and the floors and dishes are scrubbed with bleach and dish soap. The ovens fire down, and slowly there’s nothing left except the gentle hum of the refrigerators. One by one, the lights turn off, and the bakery is swept up in darkness. Sam gathers his things - phone, keys, wallet, sweater, hat - and makes his way to the front, opening the door and locking it behind him. “Excuse me,” a voice calls out gruffly but timidly from the baker’s right. He gives a start, surprised by the presence of another being this late at night. He looks down, and as his eyes focus he makes out the haggard, hunched form of a poor, old man. Life hasn’t been kind to him - Sam has no trouble seeing that. “Yes sir, how can I help you? It’s much too late and much too cold to be out and about.” The man gives a hearty chuckle. “Well, you see,” he says, “I was hoping to ask you for a spare roll. I’ve had a run of bad luck and the soup kitchen hasn’t had enough supper for me since the day before yesterday.” Right on cue, his stomach growls, and Sam’s mind wanders back to the three loaves of bread - now two days old - sitting on the back shelf. “Just a moment,” he says to the man, “I think I have something for you. Won’t you please come in and warm up for a moment or two?” Sam unlocks the door and wanders in, turning on a table lamp as he enters. The man takes off his beaten coat, hanging it tenderly on the back of a chair. He sits down and sighs - as if he hasn’t sat and rested for fifteen years.
50
50-51 BAKERY.indd 2
5/4/2018 3:33:15 PM
Helen He
51
50-51 BAKERY.indd 3
5/4/2018 3:33:17 PM
The Waltz by Madeline Szoo One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. It’s been a while since I’ve danced, so long in fact that I have to tell my arms to stop shaking, my breathing to slow to the beat of the song, my legs to move in the right direction. It’s not a dance—not really. But, the truth of what such a methodical movement actually portrays is a reality far too terrible to face at the moment. I first attended this ball some years ago as a younger girl. I was riding in the car with my mother, her knuckles white as they curled around the leather of the steering wheel. I hadn’t known our destination, but it was that dreaded curiosity that propelled me to ask, despite the clenched jaw and pursed lips of the woman to my left. She didn’t respond, not at first, but merely pointed her toe, pushing into the resistant pedal for some greater speed. Only now do I understand her reticence, her stubbornness on the road.
She was trying to escape.
I am in constant hunger for escape each time I step onto this dance floor, slave to my body that moves to the beat of all those around me, but never to myself. It’s too bad that I hadn’t thought of this that day in the car. Instead, I thought only of my freedom, only of my will to understand the world that had ceased in explaining itself to me. I kept asking my mother where we were going, why were we going, how long would we be gone— A car hit ours. Ours went soaring into the concrete barricade to our right... And now I dance.
One.
I tell my arms to steady as a needle takes the blood of my veins to test. But what more wrongness with me might my doctors find?
Two.
I slow my breathing. The cool metal of the stethoscope caresses my skin as I exhale, listening for the resilient beat inside.
Three.
I will my legs to move in the right direction—to move at all, really—but the severed spine in my back prevents them from doing so. My partner is my nurse, my music is the life I trudge through each and every day.
Just like a waltz.
52
52-53 THE WALTZ.indd 2
5/9/2018 11:55:20 AM
Claire Winters 53
52-53 THE WALTZ.indd 3
5/9/2018 11:56:32 AM
by Nikki Ecoff
In all my years as a doctor I have heard thousands of death phrases, words people have spoken with their last breaths as they clutch their loved ones’ hands. I’ve seen sobs, and yelling, and even some words spoken softly as to calm their visitors. It’s rarely directed towards me, or any doctor, really. Not when the patient has no loved ones, and especially not when they do. This time was an exception though, I guess.
Mr. Willis, 87, heart failure.
I was checking his vitals when he grabbed my hand in his. “Yes?” He smiled and with soft spoken words said, “You’re very kind.” I replied with a “Thank you,” and started to pull back, but he gripped tighter.
“She’s coming. You’ll know when you see her. She may seem tough, but she’s not. It’s all face. Treat her kindly. Don’t let this one go. You’ll need each other.”
With an uncomfortable smile, I huffed out a laugh, pulled away, and left.
54
54-55 ALL MY YEARS.indd 2
5/4/2018 3:35:58 PM
Isabel Burke
55
54-55 ALL MY YEARS.indd 3
5/4/2018 3:36:01 PM
Soup Children by Abbey Archer
Laura Cho
Tirelessly sipping the soup life had to offer, growing bored of the recurrent taste, wishing for more carrots and less chicken broth. The people, the situations; nothing was a surprise anymore. A carrot and a green bean fell out of the grasp of the spoon onto the table top, and an ancient Roman amphitheater constructed itself around them.
“Finally I am free!” Carrot howled as broth seeped out of his skin onto the sandy floor.
“Not if I can help it!” Green Bean launched himself toward his brother and tackled him to the ground. The brothers grunted as they rolled around wrestling each other. Carrot felt something beneath him on the ground. He used all his strength to push away Green Bean and grabbed the solemn weapon...
a dagger. Carrot haves at his brother, Green Bean, with the dull knife that slowly progressed further into Green Bean’s flesh. The chicken broth, that had once been a unifying force, had become a prison of boiling entrapment, absorbing energy and turning its contents to mush. Carrot, having been freed from captivity, wanted to run. Green Bean laid in defeat, its contents strewn across the ground.
“If only I had legs…” Carrot said to himself. 56
56-57 FISH HEAD SOUP.indd 2
5/8/2018 11:21:15 AM
“Get yo orange booty back in here, baby carr-carr.” Chicken Broth taunted, waving her malicious spoon high above her contents. The soup was ruthless, there was no likely prospect of escaping.
“Whatever, mom!” Carrot called out and began rolling away. “GET BACK HERE NOW!”
Broth shouted and began scooting after Carrot, her mixture spilling over the bowl’s rim. The baby veggies were on their own, crying, not used to the fresh, untainted air. Carrot rolled beneath the bleachers and escaped his entrapment. Broth began sobbing in utter defeat, as her porcelain skin began to crack, and all her contents were set free. The arena flooded with soup children as the broth evaporated away, allowing the depressed vegetables to be individuals.
“I want to… I want to make my own hot tub company!” Potato proclaimed as he rolled out of the arena. 50
“I wanna be an accountant!” Cabbage exclaimed as she inched out into the world as though she were a snail.
“And I want to…” Carrot paused to contemplate, he had never thought of what he would like to do before. He resumed his speech, “I want to open my own grocery store! All soup children eat free!” Carrot’s brothers and sisters cheered as he ventured out to embrace a life of endless opportunities.
57
56-57 FISH HEAD SOUP.indd 3
5/8/2018 11:21:29 AM
Entangled by Sam Hewitt
Am I cruel in love?
The roots ran deep because that was their purpose.
The foundation tan deep as that is its purpose.
No, but you are cruel in your humanity
You know that this is the right thing to do.
But why, oh what the whimsical nature of life does to prevent sorrow.
Jacob Stoebner 58
58-59 RICH IN RANCOR.indd 2
5/4/2018 3:37:55 PM
Rich in Rancor by Naran Shettigar Snowy dove, cakes of roses, the world is not thy friend. Sullen dirges presage pestilence Virtue itself turns vice Cupid’s wings bandy vain fantasy, cross and full of envious discourses. Love’s heralds, prosperous knaves Empty tigers of villainous shame True love’s rites, unhappy nuptials, Love’s shadows are furious, fatal, infectious. At a madman’s mercy, sweetest flower. Thou art born to shame, wedded to calamity. For thou hears nothing but discord From the fatal cannon’s womb, To grubs and eyeless skulls. Sweet flower, famine is in thy cheeks. The envious moon torments the roaring sea, So rich in rancor.
59
58-59 RICH IN RANCOR.indd 3
5/4/2018 3:38:19 PM
Christina Logwinuk Colorized by Jessica Benadof 60
60-61 VALENTINES DAY, HEART.indd 2
5/9/2018 11:25:48 AM
T h a t ’s H i m
by Ryan Quinn
Valentine’s Day is only three days away, I have to get something for Sara, and the kids. If not, then they would—
“That’s him!” I heard someone say from behind me. In the moment, I thought nothing of it—I wasn’t famous, nor was I a criminal. I kept walking back to my apartment . . . But what if they were talking about me? What would it be for? An old friend maybe, or—maybe someone saw me take that pizza without paying yesterday. Shoot, it’s not my fault they didn’t check me out. Oh no, I am guilty. I’m a criminal. Someone found out!
They are coming for me.
I quickly glanced behind myself. The setting sun silhouetted three figures following me, none of which looked particularly aggressive. Two women and a hunched-over figure, probably an old man. Looking back towards my destination, which was only a few blocks away now. I saw a cop car approach the next intersection.
Just act natural; I’m innocent. I approached the intersection and quickly glanced over to the cop, and to my dismay he was looking right back at me. I quickly flicked my eyes away from him.
Crap. With the cop car stationed behind the crosswalk, I kept my head pointed away from him as I walked by. He is looking at me, he is still looking at me! I tried to make my steps as natural as possible as I reached the other side of the street. In a moment he was behind me, and I instantly became more relaxed.
It was nothing.
I began to laugh at my foolishness. Why would anyone go after me?! Seriously, I’m too paranoid. Stealing a pizza?
Ha! Like they would arrest me for that. Anyway, Valentine’s Day is coming soon, and I have to plan something... but what should I—
“That’s him!” I whipped my head around to see two figures slam into me, and the entire world went dark.
61
60-61 VALENTINES DAY, HEART.indd 3
5/9/2018 11:26:08 AM
Isabel Burke
62
62-63 EAT YOUR HEART OUT.indd 2
5/4/2018 3:40:13 PM
by Varun Jawarani Chapter One : ‘Why am I here?’ Chapter Two : I’ve stopped. The addiction, craving, euphoric fervor I once felt has all but vanished. Occasionally, my senses will be faced with a dark roast from Ethiopia or perhaps an Egyptian blend - and they will fight, leeching at my subconscious will, my stubborn resistance. “No”, I tell myself, “I can’t”, and although I so forcefully reject my aromatic first love, it must listen. I must listen. Tempting, it really is, the forbidden allure of my own Nabokov nymphet, my Arabica Espresso, my Lolita. Chapter Three : The coffee sits hot between my palms, in a porcelain cup, unsympathetic of the debilitating hate I feel towards the saccharine, nostalgic, beautiful taste. It’s far too close, too hot, for any comfort — and yet, I stare into the depths, immaculate with the embellished portrait of a flower stained onto the surface. It’s a tulip. Chapter Four : Once, the fringed tulip was a favorite of mine. I had picked a bouquet of the perennial flower for a certain flame, only for him to leave to another boy he found much more “wholesome” within a few days. “Was I not “wholesome” enough, Walker? This ceramic mug holds more meaning in its silent, insincere apologies than yours ever did.” Chapter Five : I feel myself wavering. Only seventeen minutes have passed, shaky and uneasy in this place I’ve forsaken. “Should I leave? Is it worth it to stay? To feel my hands tremble in helpless apprehension — to have my mind stimulated by the aroma of a Montague’s poison, one for his love? I hope so.” And so, I continue to sit within the quaint cafe of east sixth street, the coffee hot between my palms, waiting. Chapter Six : Soft lavender cologne appears, distinct among the cacophony of caramel lattes and cinnamon mochas, thirty-six minutes late. He’s here. And as he calmly, so unapologetically, seats himself across from me, coffee in hand - my unfettered dread drips away, as always. And so I take a sip, for him. “That’s why I’m here.” 63
62-63 EAT YOUR HEART OUT.indd 3
5/4/2018 3:40:48 PM
Sprinkle of L ve
by Grace Brewer
It was a sweet summer romance -- one I would never forget. And get this… he was even a little bit older than me -- a dream come true. He was 8 and I was 7. He and his family had just moved to my cul-de-sac a few months before school was let out for summer. Though it felt like our houses were miles apart (in fact, his was six houses down), we didn’t hesitate to start playing tag or hide-and-go-seek. The day started like any other day. All the neighborhood kids had woken up early to begin the fun-filled day of games and activities outside. After a quick breakfast my mother had prepared for me before she went off to work, I dashed outside and starting ringing on all my friends’ doorbells to invite them outside, sure that their parents didn’t mind me ringing their doorbell at seven-thirty in the morning. After what seemed like hours, soon all of my neighbors came outside dressed in assorted Hannah Montana shirts with Transformer toys and soccer balls galore. And then there he was: Cody Neil. A sweet blonde-haired blue-eyed boy with a trail of freckles across his nose. His older brother, Chase, went to hang out with the big kids which spared me and Cody some alone time. When he came over to my front yard, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest. We sat down and began with the basics: kicking a soccer ball back and forth to each other, then moving on to drawing huge beautiful stick figures with my very impressive forty-pack Crayola chalk set on my driveway. When that was said and done, he then invited me over to his yard and asked me to wait outside. He went inside his garage as I quickly fixed my hair and smoothed out my Lizzie McGuire shirt that said “this is what dreams are made of.” Lizzie for sure had that right. I was living in a dream. As if this day couldn’t get any better, Cody pulled out of his driveway in his mini orange electric car. I felt my knees nearly buckle under me as I swooned. He mumbled a swift “hop in,” and I did my best impression of all those cool high school girls who puckered their lips and flipped their hair. I got in his car and drove in circles around the cul-de-sac. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion. We drove past our neighbor, Taylor, and I heard her gasp and felt her jealousy at seeing Cody and me in his manly car. I made sure to smirk at her as we drove by. We kept driving on for what seemed hours before I told him to stop by my house so I could go in, use the bathroom, grab us a snack and maybe even a juice box. I could even pretend that we only had one left so we could share the juice box together with two straws. He parked in my driveway and walked with me up to the front door. As I reached for the door to go inside, I realized it was locked. I decided not to panic and told Cody to wait there. I went around to the garage and tried using the code, and again I failed. Now was when I panicked. I went back to the front door and realized now that I really, really had to use the bathroom. “Let’s just go get snacks at my house,” Cody said. I froze. Oh no. “Uhhh … ” I said, still frozen, but now slowly crossing my legs. “No really, we have Zebra Cakes too!” Cody exclaimed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t conceal it any longer, and the “floodgates” burst. Suddenly and completely, I peed my pants right in front of Cody. Cody looked down and realized what had happened and screamed, running off. “I’m sorry!” I dramatically yelled. But it was too late. He had already hopped in his orange plastic car and drove off, going way over the speed limit of 5 mph. As if on cue, my dad opened the door. “What’s wrong, Grace? I heard screaming all the way from inside. Are you OK?” he asked, with sympathetic eyes. He then looked down and saw the pitiful puddle I had left as I awkwardly stood. He apologized for accidentally locking the door and helped me inside. To the day, I never spoke to Cody again, but only saw him driving around the cul-de-sac, sometimes even with that boyfriend-stealing Taylor.
64
64-65 SPRINKLE OF LOVE.indd 2
5/6/2018 12:47:00 PM
65
64-65 SPRINKLE OF LOVE.indd 3
5/6/2018 12:47:25 PM
66
66-67 GOODBYE.indd 2
Isabel Burke
5/8/2018 8:25:00 AM
by Cassia Meditz Where have you gone? Have you left already? Hello? Is anyone there? Please, please answer me.
Why am I alone?
Why do I feel so weightless? Is that your hand I feel in mine? Why is it clutching so tightly? I’m not going anywhere.
Don’t worry.
What’s that music? It’s sad. I recognize it. Are you playing it? I hear crying. Are you crying? I remember I asked you not to. You promised you wouldn’t. I can’t remember why I asked, though. Please don’t clutch my hand so hard. It hurts. I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I can’t feel your hand any more. Thank you.
I hear your voice, as sweet to my ears as the first time I heard it. Still young to me. You say my name. It pulls at my heart.
It hurts.
I feel weighed down, pulled backwards. Scraped by the needles of gravity. No. I like floating. My name fastens like an anchor. I release it. I’m sorry. I know you loved my name. But it was holding me down. The singing is beautiful. It whispers to me of all the hidden moments of my life. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. I follow it, leaving each moment as it passes, leaving myself behind.
I’m sorry.
I said I wouldn’t leave. I didn’t know I could leave. I’m going to forget you. Someday, we may be together again. Until then. . . .
the music really is lovely.
67
66-67 GOODBYE.indd 3
5/8/2018 8:25:13 AM
The Final Draft
Westlake High School 2017-2018 thefinaldraft.co
68 BACK COVER.indd 1
5/4/2018 3:43:17 PM