The Final Draft
Connectivity Westlake High School
2012-2013
Volume 30
Lauren Lardner
E very year, Westlake’s literary
magazine, The Final Draft, has an open submission call to collect a wide range of student produced art and writing. Throughout the course of the academic year, the magazine is compiled by a class of student designers and editors who oversee the magazine from its conception to completion.
Due to the large variety of artwork and writing we receive, it is often hard to find a theme that universally wapplies to all the submissions. Our theme, Connectivity, describes the concept of linking art and writing together seamlessly in a coherent fashion. Playing off this concept, we be-
gan pulling elements out of each piece of art and applied them to the entire spread. In doing so, we were able to create a unique theme that’s inherent to each individual spread. We hope to broaden your perception of what connectivity can represent in both a collection of art as well as in lifeSincerely, itself. The Final Draft
2013 Staff a oir e M r s vi Ad
H
o gin n o .L
ief h C -In Editor
Sar ah B e
rg
Designers And Editors Laura Brewster Mckenzie Fell Noah Hanna Anndrea Heffington Cole Hildebrand Hunter Rainard Krysztof Tellez Ben Wallace
Assistants Michael Deisher Kayla Franklin Wil Harris Anika Hattangadi Cameron Henley Ashlyn Henry Allye Johnson Nicole Khoury Nicole Lyssy Reese Marrero Rachel Pedley Ana Sanchez Noah Sleeper
ZoĂŤ Nathan
Front cover photography by Maria Gomez
Table of Contents Writing Adverse Amity My Own Identity Sentiments Asleep Chance Contrast A Sled for Daisy I’m Screwed… Forest Chest In Between B. The Way I See It Eat, Drink, and Remember Entertain Yourself Fast Food Blues Squirrels in the Sunshine Guilt is Good Suburban Daydreams At the Barbeque Nurture Voices Air To Think Everlasting Strife Annie Air Head Moon Eyes The Bare White Walls Remind Me Of... Concept You Are My Tree Passengers in Peace
01 05 07 09 11 13 15 17 18 21 23 25 27 28 31 33 34 37 39 41 43 44 45 47 49 50 51 53 55 57 59
Michael Deisher Zoë Ashton Nikki Roop Michael Deisher Emma Bleker Annie Fisher Reese Marrero Noah Sleeper Jerod Thornton Noah Sleeper Michael Deisher Chris Murch Michael Deisher Cole Hildebrand Michael Deisher Cole Hildebrand Benjamin Wallace Livvy Bennett Cole Hildebrand Emma Bleker Sarah Phillips Noah Sleeper Emma Bleker Andy Pham Kayla Franklin Annie Flores Wil Harris Rachel Power Emma Bleker Jerod Thornton Cole Hildebrand
Photography
Digital Media
Laura Brewster 13 Mary Burns 07 Ryan Carslile 01, 02, 34, 58 Anna Duckett 42 Helen Goman 33 Maria Gomez 13, 14, 22, 59, 60 Robert Graf 47 Anndrea Heffington 08, 29, 46 Ashlyn Henry 04 Jordan Lange 26, 30 Lauren Lardner 10, 11, 21, 24 Logan Leamons 25 Lacy Lichtenhan 03 Avery Martinez 23 Carley McNicholas 53 Sam Morton 55 Juliana Moskow 12 Amelia Mouw 29 ZoĂŤ Nathan 15 Courtney Perkins 07 Elliot Richards 05 Anna Roe 09 Molly Stotts 54 Janice Sung 45 Krysztof Tellez 12, 43 Christian Thomas 44 Noah Thompson 27, 39, 40 Rachel Williams 41
18, 19, 49 Jerod Thornton 61, 62 Betsy Yang
Sculpture 36, 48 Julia Caswell 31, 32 Ryan Carslile 38 Audi Garver 06 Emily Hill 37, 38 Christine Meyer 50 Madi Wright
Paint 57 Julia Caswell
Pencil 17 Tessa Coffey 16 Christine Lee 51 Emma Martino 35 Madilyn Pflueger
The Final Draft
2012-2013
Ryan Carslile
The sun and the moon were such a curious couple. Moon loved him equally, Sun was so vibrant, But with a quieter passion. Yearning with love She was more inclined to write poems (Or was it lust) Or songs for her paramour. For a woman he’d only seen. It was as if she was embarrassed of his affection. His tongue of fire burned brighter She hid within the secrecy of night, Whenever he caught a glimpse of Moon’s silvery veil. Blushing when Sun looked her way. Their tale, However, Is tragic. For they are destined to chase each other as the days pass, But neither will feel the embrace of the other.
01
Adverse Amity
Michael Deisher
Ryan Carslile
02
Lacy Lichtenhan
03
Ashlyn Henry
04
Y
OW N
I
D
E
N
T
I
T
Y
Zoë Ashton
Let the world know of the masks that they hide themselves behind but they still think they’re beautiful. I want nothing more in life than to blend in with the vast night sky, and follow the tracks that a shadow left behind. Feeling the warm, soft kiss of the golden sun, smelling the cool spring air on the highest of mountains, and loving but the simplest of things cannot even equal the life of a masked one, with the biggest of diamonds and the shiniest of pearls. I would rather roll in the mud with the sloppiest of pigs, knowing who they truly are, than to even dine with the “royalty “of masked ones and devouring their mouthwatering delights. I would rather have gray wings than none at all, the smell of mud, than a fake flower. If I had an choice to be whatever I want to be, I would never choose to wear a mask.
00-
-
M
Elliot Richards
Emily Hill
06
Sentiments
Nikki Roop
1. If I am your sunflower praised today and slowly wilting, then you are the blue Icee stuck on my tongue, gone before I knew it was there
2. Your dimples are half-crescent moons in a sky of flesh but I only see them when the lighting’s right
Courtney Perkins
3. I’m sorry for saying it but I miss you and I miss your room and I miss mine with you in it
Mary Burns
07
4. Skin and bone and muscle cannot love and yet here I am of skin and bone and muscle and I cannot stop
5. We are like bacon and eggs: exquisite together. But people like us just as well apart
6. I think the best way to describe happiness is looking for pajamas and not grabbing yours
Anndrea Heffington
08
Asleep
Michael Diesher
An ink-filled lake ripples with every move the body makes, sweet nothings dribble down the sides of its mouth.
09
Anna Roe
Everything must come to an end, the lake bubbles. You can only pray that you end in peace. Lovers and dreamers and sinners and priests bob upon the thick liquid, each of them as soulless as the last.
Lauren Lardner
10
Chance Emma Bleker
If there was even a chance that you wouldn’t be on this earth tomorrow, I would pack my things and write my last poems so I could walk you to the bus stop hands full of love just to tell you it was alright to go without me. 11
Lauren Lardner
Krysztof Tellez
Juliana Moskow
12
Contrast
Annie Fisher
Fast under a flicker of
dove’s wings, paper rustled free of my hand and – just like that – danced down cement like snow borne on the wind.
Speak, paper, speak to the field-grown daisies and the lace-tangled china doll.
I wonder,
will you die and rise again on the screaming whitecaps in the stormy harbor?
Maria Gomez Maria Gomez
13
Certain as a raven’s steady drop, pebble slipped right through my fingers, fated perhaps to sink into the water dark in silence.
Whisper, pebble,
whisper to the ghostly seaweed, and the craggy barnacled rocks.
I wonder, will you sleep in endless night in the skeleton cavern of a storm-torn ship?
Laura Brewster
Laura Brewster
Maria Go-
Maria Gomez Maria Gomez
14
A Sled for Daisy Reese Marrero
Most poems you see Have really Really weird structure To Them And the lines have
They also have random parts That Are Frustratingly difficult to Interpret? Purple monkey dishwasher The wind is Blowing Then when you’re done
Nonsensical punctuation? As well
15
ZoĂŤ Nathan
Christine Lee
You look back And see That The title had Nothing to do with What you just Read? Then you’re Told
If you didn’t Understand This Poem I guess it was just Too deep for You Really weird structure
I’m Screwed... Noah Sleeper
As the string broke, as the tether snapped, as the tower— the bastion of okay— collapsed in upon itself, I said; and my family reinforced, and my friends muttered, and that dog barked, and the quiet kid wrote with his finger on his ghost-town lunch table, and the soldier got inscribed on his wrist where he could see it, and a cancer patient included in her second-to-last entry, June 7th, and a son told God while laying in bed at 3, and a mountain rumbled in the distance, and that girl who used to date that guy repeated over and over to herself, like somebody could hear her, and the nations cried out in their native tongues, “I know, I know, I know, all screws screw the same way.”
17
Tessa Coffey
Forest Chest
Jerod Thornton
somewhere between your apathy and your deafening moans, I heard you say you feel happier when you’re alone. but how do you expect me to leave you alone, with those russian lips and those slavic bones?
and our dissonant voices filled the room with a lovely cacophony.
remember that old tune we used to listen to? and how we danced and kissed and touched on your roof?
one, two, three; connect the dots and then pull them apart. I caught you sleeping in the corners of my heart.
you said the sound of that melody made your heart much too heavy. it grew old, now it’s out of tune. yet my broken ribs still gasped and wheezed, like a sputtering accordion with soot-covered keys. I sang you a song I’d never sung to anyone and you sang it right back to me.
and you’re always changing your mind or rather changing your heart. but to me your birthmarks still look like abstract art.
so I guess I buried you in sandcut your hair while you slept and then I made you a man. and with your hands in my forest chest, you said you’d love me with every breath you drew, in every way that you knew. so I nailed those horseshoes to you.
Jerod Thornton
18
19
Jerod Thornton
20
In Between
Noah Sleeper
Dead trees, thousands of years old— Or so it seems. I have no guide So I step in between The road not taken and the road never acknowledged, And the dead trees no longer tell their story— No longer groan and shed and lean.
21
But you and me, you and me; We are new as the holes fresh chewed into leaves, We are new as the foam topping the White-feathered creek. We are new as the snap of the twigs, They lie dew-studded at our feet. So follow me, why not, though I won’t beg.
Come in between the old, dead trees— In between the charred roads—the same choices That have lingered there for ages upon ages; For surely you and I will turn this winter into spring.
Lauren Lardner
Maria Gomez
22
B.
Michael Deisher
Avery Martinez
The family sat in a half-circle around the
hearth, argyle socks strapped around their mouths. No one moved a muscle; no one breathed. Their solemn eyes had long lost their shine and now seemed as if they were rusted pennies stamped into a crumbling mold of flesh and bone.
23
A low rumble rose from the ground causing the
cabin and all of its inhabitants to rattle and shake. Those socks never left their lips. Leftover spaghetti from the previous night rested in a pan, sticking to itself and anything around it. The shaking caused it to tip over and flop onto the floor, jiggling like jello that had just been touched.
Lauren Lardner
Birds began to caw and leap from their nests, not
bothering to spread their wings, and fall to the Kentucky forest-floor in a morbidly beautiful display of poetic suicide. Known as the speaker of the family, Cali moved her head and began to caw back at the birds, a few strands of her brunette hair falling over her joyfilled eyes.
A few moments passed and she turned back to
face the stone-cold fireplace, settling back into her original position. Everyone’s eyes were focused on something balancing on the hearth except hers. The book soon fell off the brick and onto the wooden floor. Right as it hit the ground, the socks slipped off of their lips and into their melting laps. 24
Logan Leamons
The Way I See It
Chris Murch
What goes into life as we know it Analyze life as though we are all poets Find something but stay silent as though we are stoic Comfort, brings happiness, but also complacency But in a peaceful place at once we see Life, and how it’s raving, eloquent beauty Can be misguided by the travesty of living life one step behind By the faux success set upon us in our mind But to whom do we give thanks for placing these thoughts? 25
Jordan Lange
Parents, who at some points can act as goal-inducing robots, By the leeches who stand by your side only to feed their wants Or by corporate juggernauts spreading their ideas like terminal cancer Fed the fantasies of Donner, Blitzen, Rudolf, and Dancer But also succumb to the reality of recessions and depressions Force feeding their points of views into the psyche of adolescents Now evil is all around and some embrace it All their problems laid out before them but too weak to face it Just hoping, hoping, praying and praying to find an equal and stay adjacent But with all the temptation around us... I don’t think we’ll make it...
26
Eat, Drink, and Remember Michael Deisher
They told me that if you mixed some flour and some water, then you’d have a body. And if you mixed some grapes and a little bit of time, then you’d have blood. All I ever got was stale bread and cheap wine.
27
Noah Thompson
Entertain Yourself Cole Hildebrand
When you can’t bear to converse with your mother’s hand mirror anymore, you search the internet for a chest to rest your head upon.
28
Anndrea Heffington
29
Amelia Mouw
Jordan Lange
30
Fast Food Blues
Michael Deisher
Ryan Carlisle
Tyler continued his way through the small and cramped tunnel, the sun from outside making the yellow plastic glow. He felt as if he was in a warm memory; somewhere distant from where he was then. Children’s voices buzzed throughout the atmosphere, drowning out all other noises and erasing any hints of concentration. The frame of the playscape rattled and shook as hoards of slobber-stained toddlers and condiment-smeared faces threw themselves onto the polymer frame. McDonald’s is packed today, he thought to himself. As he reached his foot forward to take another step, it landed in something squishy. He fell backward and collapsed into a small bag of french fries. His hands struggled to keep him balanced, but slid down the sides of the small cylinder. The whole playground was lathered in a not-so-healthy serving of grease. If you squinted hard enough, you could actually see the wisps of grease vapor emitting from the pores of the plastic. Something stopped his hand from completely reaching the bottom of the tunnel. It felt like bumps of some sort. Looking down, he saw that the words “Made In China” were protruding from the material. Of course, he didn’t know what the letters meant, but they looked beautiful to him, almost like a painting. “Honey, we gotta go!” Echoed his mother’s voice from below. 31
Ryan Carlisle
His body froze. His mind raced with multitudes of ideas until it came to a complete stop, focusing on just one. He would pretend he didn’t hear her. That usually worked. Content with his decision, he lifted his small hands and clasped them around the back of his neck; something he usually did to take a rest. This time, something didn’t feel right. He pondered this for a bit, going through each of his usual ailments. It couldn’t have been hunger, he just ate... His shoelaces both felt like they had the right tightness... His miniature suit felt not too loose and not too tight... His bow tie—his bow tie. Frantically, he grasped at his jugular, the familiar silky fabric not resting where it should have been. Tears welled up inside his eyes, but he pushed them back. He had to rescue his favorite accessory. As if by instinct, his small feet led him backwards to retrace his steps. As he exited the tunnel, something caught his eye. Beneath the squished faux-potato that he had been resting on peeked a glimmer of ruby red. Tyler’s tie was ruby red, that shade of ruby red. He lunged into the tunnel head first, ignoring the safety signs outside of the entrance. Gooey greasiness squeezed its way through the space between his fingers, including the ruby red color he had spotted before. The precious article had disintegrated upon his touch. The thought of ketchup hadn’t even crossed his mind yet. Before he knew what was happening, he began to weep. 32
S q u i i r n r e l s
S u n t s h h e i n e
Someone should pry these dead squirrels from the street before they become a part of it.
Someone please pry these dead squirrels from the street before they become a part of it.
Twelve cars, one by one, have flattened and molded my skin to the unpaved pavement.
You could use a spatula?
Naturally, I am afraid to forcefully rip my body from the asphalt. The rodents around me, of course— they’re dead. But I’m alive, believe it or not. 33
Cole Hildebrand
Helen Gomen
And call the police. Because a mere spatula won’t tear me from this frying pan. My tissues are gooping into the cracks. All I smell is heat and burnt rubber and I taste bloody undercooked scrambled eggs. Have you finally pried these dead squirrels from the street? Or have they just become a part of it?
Ryan Carslile
Guilt is Good
Benjamin Wallace
I could never be a vegetarian. Food is better when I know something died for my fleeting enjoyment. Because we all know it’s the ground-up horse bones in Jell-O that make it good. And it’s the pig anus in hot dogs that make you feel like a fat, bloated god.
34
Madilyn Pflueger
35
Julia Caswell
36
Suburban Daydreams Livvy Bennett
Part 1 A swift slap on the wrist would suffice. Susan always wondered how her mother’s mind worked. Like some methodical machine with an appropriately programmed response for every wrong doing. For sticking her moistened finger in the sugar, a quick simple slap would be just fine. For coming home after nine o’clock a quick simple push down the stairs would work perfectly. Susan liked to wonder what her mother might do if she stuck her fingers in the contents of the urn over the fireplace. Papa’s ashes, a father, a corpse, a pile of sugar even sweeter than that from the kitchen. When Papa left and the urn replaced him, Susan’s mother changed. If Papa was sugar her mother was salt and if papa was gone her mother would never leave.
“I was hungry. I’m sorry.”
“Looks like you’ve ruined the whole bowl.”
Her mother tipped the pot of sugar over the trash can, producing an avalanche of Susan’s secret sweet. Susan’s focus retracted so that only the shiniest bits came through her vision. Her mother’s watch, the light from the windows, the knife on the counter, the urn over the fireplace even peeked through the threshold of the kitchen to comfort her.
Susan eyed the thick wrinkles on her mother’s forehead. Perhaps if her mother lay vertically the wrinkles would look like the grand canyons, deep, vast, and only amusing but for a second before they are discovered to be depressing crevasses of unproductive space. Susan felt the impact of another swat before she acknowledged her mother’s words.
Christine Meyer
“Are you happy?” her mother demanded.
Susan forgot how people defined happy. The absence of guilt?
37
Christine Meyer
“No ma’am.”
“Stay out of the kitchen unless I tell you otherwise, understood?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Susan watched her mother leave and again allowed the dancing sunshine to sift through. She felt the urn peer through as well. She did miss Papa. She so longed for some part of him, any part of him to come back for her to hold and love once more.
There lay a part of someone. Someone who was held and loved. And now, this part was dead and devoid of love. Finally Susan cried. She let her new tears fall on and around the dead part. She wiped her eyes and somehow her face felt even more moist with the sadness. She felt better retracting her focus and so she saw the sunlight and the blood and the kitchen knife. Even a small grain of sugar on the small delicate finger was reflected by the burning star.
Christine Meyer
Soon the sunlight became too much to resist and Susan stepped outside to feel the atmosphere of something farther from torment. The cool air blew her frail blond hair back, forcing the fragile locks backward toward the door. She thought for a moment if she should follow their lead and return inside. She knew better though, for she once heard that hair is nothing but dead strands of ourselves. Dead and directionless. So instead she decided to follow her feet as they reached down the steps of the porch and toward the sidewalk. She watched her tiny white shoes alternate, propelling her away from where she came. She looked up to analyze the sky. The sunlight was still so elusive even as she regarded it in full focus. Something intangible meandered in her mind or in the sun. She looked down and noticed a red stain on her tiny white shoe. At first she thought nothing of it until she recognized that the particular shade of red was the same that covered Papa after the accident. The world halted as she stared at her feet. Another cool wind came and this time she turned back to see a small red mass on the sidewalk. She approached the object not with fear but with familiarity. There a dismembered finger lay on the pavement covered in crimson worry. She squatted to examine the item and recalled her father.
Audi Garver
Want to keep reading? Scan this QR code or visit http://finaldraft. weebly.com/suburbandaydreams-by-livvybennett.html 38
Noah Thompson
At The Barbeque Cole Hildebrand
A sudden sickness Excuses yourself from the table And you sway into the restroom. You’re peeing now. You flush. No you don’t. You forget to flush.
39
It’s okay, This bathroom smells better. At least better than The food outside.
The back of your head’s Burning up. Put it in the sink, Turn on the faucet. The automatic paper towel dispenser Has sensed your presence And a sheet is ready For your head. But splash your face A few times. You really need it.
Noah Thompson
I know how you feel. It’s the first time For you, right? You’ll get used to it. Most people, At some point, Feel this disconnection With reality. A fear that you’re Mentally handicapped And you Never even knew? That’s greasy.
Not even sure if The people in your life Are real? That’s red-meaty. It’s all a bit nauseating— This swirling— Isn’t it? It’s all just as Greasy And red-meaty As the food you ate At the barbeque Four minutes ago.
40
Nurture
Emma Bleker
Someone threw an insult at my feet yesterday
So I polished their sharp edges
so I picked it up brushed it off and said
until they gleamed with confidence and compliments
why would you treat the words so harshly
I treated them as if they were my children
they did not choose to be bad words
and then let them go
they were born that way.
and maybe they will survive without me.
Rachel Williams
41
Anna Duckett
42
Krysztof Tellez
Voices Sara Phillips
His voice had a lilt His words climbed up a gravelly slope Before slipping down a smooth valley He didn’t talk often But when he did, everyone heard
43
Kryzstof Tellez
Her voice had a twang Her words rose high in the sky on a fuchsia pink balloon She chattered all day like a brainless parakeet But nobody ever heard her
Air
Noah Sleeper
I am the cold on the back of your throat. Is it pain or is it something... else? I am the breath that fills your lungs.
Christian Thomas
I chafe your nostrils and steal your papers and give you a gentle reprieve when the heat is heavy.
I am the waves of your voice that fill a stadium or slide into a lover’s ear.
I am the navigator’s guiding hand, and the arsonist’s accomplice.
I am your first cry and there with you until your last breath.
44
To Think Emma Bleker
Last night I forgot to remember your anniversary, half anniversary. The one that you celebrate every year, even though no one else ever remembers it. So I promised that this year I would celebrate it with you, for you. I even wrote the date on my arm in ink every day for three months but I still forgot, and to think three years ago you were here with me.
45
Janice Sung
Anndrea Heffington
To think five years ago you were just starting to go to the hospitals; to think you said not to think anything of it, to think I said I love you last and you sounded out of breath and sad the last time I spoke to you.
To think I always remember one day late; to think that I think of you every day of the year but on your anniversary, I can’t seem to remember that the day is different.
To think I never remember the day you went away.
Everlasting Strife
Andy Pham
War is like a storm that rises out of anger, A storm that rains fire and breeds death, Zephyrs, that fuel currents of blood, Raindrops of metal pound into flesh The cacophony of torment resonates throughout the field, Death reaps his harvest as humanity suffers from the forces of entropy
Silence, Only faint whispers of the wind echo in the war-torn barrens now, Each breath is a testament to strength, For there is no victor, There is no right and wrong, There is only the last one standing.
Robert Graf
47
Julia Caswell
48
Annie
Kayla Franklin
Short hair bobbed above her chin, like mine Dyed red and black to shade her insecurities Ears lined with attention-seeking piercings that I once desired. Upgraded from padded to push up after I had my first one Her old, damaged, slider phone filled with partial photos of men to boost her self-esteem Her distressed texts to me about the breakup with her girlfriend shortly after I came out to her myself Anxious talks of her first kiss dampen her polished lips Her confidence stained with blush and dark, painted eyes In the past she was no more than a reflection Now she is only a clone of a once flawed beauty.
49
Jerod Thornton
Air Head This is a balloon. Filled with a dense space of hot nothing bouncing back and forth between rubber walls, easy to prick and burst with the slightest edge.
She wavers in the wind quivering, bobbing In the current of the passing breeze. It goes through her right over her around her, shoving past And she waits, anchored to the ground, for the nausea To go away To not feel so sick So dumb and so empty With nothing but this thick groggy air swirling relentlessly inside yanking, jerking beneath a sky pulling upward.
Annie Flores
The summertime passes over the dome of her head And a happiness comes A stupid contentment That she will not float away and deflate into something that will finally feel nothing.
Madi Wright
50
M
n Eyes
She tapped her fingers anxiously against the side of the steering wheel, her forehead broken out in an icy cold sweat. Her eyes focused upon the tar black asphalt which stretched out before her as she passed beyond the the city limits. The sky was a dark abyss of midnight black-- the same color as the deep trenches which lined the bottom of oceans. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered gently under her breath as she drove down the dark rural road, the lights of city evanescing out of existence beyond her. After about two miles she turned onto the serpentine road which lead up to her house, the still paved portion lined with the elms her father had planted two years ago. It was a mild spring night, one where the average temperature would be in the low sixties. This far north of Amarillo there was little light pollution. That is, unless you counted the red dots from the industrial plant or the ones from Sunray, which was still more than 15 miles off. The winds which blew north from Lubbock could reach gusts of up to 70 miles per hour at their highest. She felt her spine freeze, small tendrils of frost spreading down from her neck to her lower back as the ominous rustling chimed through the verdant green leaves of the elms. Her car slowly made its way down the thin tar road. She saw the trees in front of her illuminated with a strange sense of clarity, almost as if they were brightened by incandescent sunlight. She saw them rush past her face appearing where there should be none, some forming expressions which matched those of horrid agony, and others which seethed with a type of acidic hatred. Each one’s eyes were baleful and collagenous, staring her down. They seemed to fade as quickly as they had appeared, falling back into the night as the asphalted road ended in a sudden drop off. The car rocked slightly as it hit the dirt path, coming off of the ledge between the two pieces of the longer road. She continued rapping her fingers lightly against the plastic edge of the steering wheel, whistling softly. Virgin plain stretched out to either side of her, the dry golden grass, yucca plants, and small patches of shrubs lined either side of the path with the dry rocky brown soil.
51
Wil Harris
She could see small upshoots of prairie grass coming up in the space between the indentations that the treading of tires had made over the years. Her foot pressed closely against the gas pedal and she shuddered as she hit an unusually rocky patch in the bare light brown soil, the kind that could only be found on the southern plains, the kind she had used to play in as a child. The noise of the chips of mica, gravel, and quartz crystals grinded against the rubber tires sounding slightly disturbing, almost sinister. Gritting her teeth, she pressed on the pedal, causing the cherry red needle to rise up to about 40 miles per hour. She felt her heart pounding away within her chest, and started chuckling, her bright blue eyes wide with a nervous fear. The chuckling turned into a sort of psychotic laughing. The fit stopped and she stared back out the window. Moving her left hand to the dial, she turned up the music until it was blaring in her ears. The song was ACDC’s “Highway to Hell,” not exactly the most comforting choice, but much better than leaving herself to her own paranoid thoughts.
Em
ma
M
ar
tin
o
She felt like an imbecile. She was being She quickly retracted her arm back out, needlessly frightened over what some bum and vigorously shaking her hand, watching as the liquid probable drug addict said to her under his breath, flung out onto the dirt path in small droplets. Her about “you are the sacrifice.” Just four stupid, trivial, head whipped around as she heard the acute cracking meaningless, abstract words, and she was clutching at of brush off in the abyssal darkness stretching from the idea of death like a selfish child clutches at its own each horizon. She slowly pulled away from the puddle, toy. She wasn’t some stupid bimbo in a horror movie, using her arms to resume her usual stance. She started and Freddy Krueger, Jason Vorhees, or Pennywise sure walking to the car, the thoughts beginning to return. as hell weren’t just going to pop up out of nowhere and Maybe the guy was right. Maybe something was going kill her. It was honestly laughable that she was even to happen to her. God knows finding pools of pink thinking about something so ridiculous. liquid isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. She sung softly along with the music and She heard another sharp cracking, this time continued tapping her thin white fingers against the closer to the road. She gulped and started walking wheel, focusing forward to try to calm her nerves. It faster, her feet quickly moving towards her car. It wasn’t working as well as well as she would’ve hoped, seemed to get farther away, and even though she as she could still feel the pulsating beat of her heart was borderline jogging, the road had turned into pounding against her ribcage. The wind rushed past molasses, making her feel as if she was moving at the car, and even though she had turned the radio the pace of a snail. This time the rustling grew even up to an ear-splitting volume, she could hear the nearer, sounding as if it was bordering on the road foreboding noise that the wind made as it swept across itself. Her legs thawed as panic jolted through her her car, similar to the noise wind makes along the body, sprinting forward trying desperately to reach eaves of a building. She shuddered, the fear starting the safety her of car. She reached the Buick, hastily to creep back into her veins, the icy feeling crawling gripping at the door which had been shut by the gales. through her like a snake, slowly sending the glacial She grabbed the handle and twisted for the sanctuary feeling down her spine, her pale flesh rising slightly. of the car, her hand turning red with strain. When it She continued to look outside, the high beams of her wouldn’t open she emptied her pockets in a panicBuick illuminating about twenty feet of the dirt path induced stupor, quickly spilling her wallet and some in front of her. She saw something white flash up on gum onto the ground, but not her keys. her windshield. It was less than five feet away. She She quickly jerked her head, crossing her jumped back slightly and rammed her foot quickly on fingers in sheer hope that she wasn’t right. She saw the the brake in panic. keys lying by the puddle of pink blood, and her hope sunk like the Titanic. She saw something move just She jolted forward, her head hitting against beyond the pool of light, its shadow dancing across the middle of the wheel, splitting open a small gash. her vision. She gripped the handle harder; yanking She raised her face, her fear quickly evaporating away it in some frivolous idea that maybe, just maybe the being replaced by white-hot rage. She kicked the door door would open. She knew that if she could get into open and jumped out, her heart once again thumping the car she would be fine. She knew she would have loudly inside her chest. She walked foreword, her fists a chance and, come hell or high water, all she wanted pressed tightly against her side, mere inches away was a chance, a chance to survive. She heard a soft from the teal cotton fabric of her shorts. She looked sound coming towards her and closed her eyes, trying down and saw nothing, nothing except for a puddle to calm herself, counting to ten. of neon magenta liquid refracting the glowing light of the moon. She cringed and reached down, touching it with her left hand. She felt disgusted by it, whatever it was. It was thick and extremely viscous, yet still tepid. Want to keep reading? It had a sort of metallic smell almost how aluminum Scan this QR code or visit http://finaltastes, as well as slight sulfurous undertones. Her draft.weebly.com/moon-eyes-by-wilcuriosity got the best of her and she decided to harris.html investigate further. Thrusting her hand deeper into the bright pink liquid, she winced and rolled up her sleeve. 52
The Bare White Walls Reminded Me Of...
Bare White Walls Reminded Me Of Rachel Power
w my anger fumed inside. I wanted nothing more than to destroy its pureness. I wanted to tear down the plaster and watch the pie s to never beRachel the same. Power
uld feel the fire while my wrath repressed and convulsed through my body as my knuckles grew white. I could feel it in my throat er-child. The vines constricted and strained as I found myself staring at what was. Then my barrier broke. Then cracked. Fractured
nted the walls that once protected me, to live my every pain and feel my every memory. So I tore the wall down, piece by piece, u anger did as well. I poured myself into these walls, and it was time for it to pour out. The bare white walls reminded me...of me.
53
Carly McNicholas
Molly Stotts
eces turn to dust. I wanted to break it down with my ruthless words and my restless hands. I wanted to leave scars. I wanted the
t as I shrieked and my feet as I kicked. It was planted in the pit of my stomach; it sprouted in my chest and intertwined with my d. Shattered. Smashed and crumbled. Finally I could feel it in my heart.
until all that was left were it’s remain; that used were once so whole, undamaged and full of beauty. The wall lay unmended and yet
How my anger fumed inside. I wanted nothing more than to destroy its pureness. I wanted to tear down the plaster and watch the pieces turn to dust. I wanted to break it down with my ruthless words and my restless hands. I wanted to leave scars. I wanted the walls to never be the same. I could feel the fire while my wrath repressed and convulsed through my body as my knuckles grew white. I could feel it in my throat as I shrieked and my feet as I kicked. It was planted in the pit of my stomach; it sprouted in my chest and intertwined with my inner child. The vines constricted and strained as I found myself staring at what was. Then my barrier broke. Then cracked. Fractured. Shattered. Smashed and crumbled. Finally I could feel it in my heart. I wanted the walls that once protected me, to live my every pain and feel my every memory. So I tore the wall down, piece by piece, until all that was left were its remains; that were once so whole, undamaged and full of beauty. The wall lay unmended and yet my anger did as well. I poured myself into these walls, and it was time for it to pour out. The bare white walls reminded me...of me. 54
Emma Bleker
She says she finds the concept of wanting to be broken incredibly odd. But I understand it, I think.
55
We want the grunge of experience under our nails, the dried heartache of betrayal sewn into our belts, we want scars people can see.
We want to exploit others’ scars for our own, brag about our conquests - “I tore his heart into empty picture frames and unread letters.
There are pieces of him and me scattered across the places we never went. I am cold-hearted, bitter wind, leave me be or leave me broken.�
We want the people we love to love us back just as passionately as we want the people we fear to fear us.
We want the pleasure that is associated with ruin.
Sam Morton
56
Y
o
You are the reflection of a stoplight on a dark and soaked street, the broken wood beams and the rust on the tin roof of a barn mid-entropy.
u
A
r
Your splendor and your beauty are inherent in my eyes, like rising bubbles in amber champagne or the mute and damp blue light of two in the morning.
Julia Caswell
57
e
M
y
T
r
e
e Jerod Thornton
You are the rouge-purple glow of distant city lights. And when a tree grows a bit twisted or its branches sprout askew, no one ever says, “What an ugly tree.”
A tree is beautiful no matter how crooked it is, because it is a tree and simply a tree.
Ryan Carslile
58
Passengers In Peace Cole Hildebrand
Maria Gomez
Here’s the aftermath of the car crash. As you can see, it was a side collision. The more damaged car had decided to turn left into a parking lot right as another car going sixty miles per hour was approaching. The driver didn’t see it coming. Neither did the passenger. Those two are being hauled into an ambulance now. They should be fine. At least they haven’t died. Have you ever wanted to slow down time? I’ll say that I have. In fact, I would’ve loved to see this car crash in slow motion. Not from the outside, though. I would’ve wanted to see the faces of the two passengers right as the initial hit began. Their expressions would’ve been blank, I imagine. One would get a sense of harmony seeing their two faces; that is, disregarding the situation at hand. In their mind, no wreck has happened yet. Their mind says, “Good job. You have crossed the road successfully.” Then the initial hit would end and the rebound would begin. And the mind tells them to clench their teeth and hold on. “It has begun.” But back to that moment of blankness: 59
That initial hit, and those blank faces of the driver and the passenger? They’re all a part of one of those spaces in between their frames. They just didn’t realize it. Have you ever thought of it that way? I think it’s very weird to think about life that way. It’s weird to think about life in any way, anyways. And imagine if you were able to slow down time and be able to see the empty spaces! Or you could pause directly on one. You could stay there forever. And if a car suddenly hit yours, you could keep that same blank and serene face you had before the fear happened. Nothing bad will happen in the void. Nothing good. Nothing at all. It’s both comforting and horrific.
Maria Gomez
60
61
Betsy Yang