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W H A T E V E R + wes tlake high school + 2013 - 2014 + volume 31 + -13-
the final draft
STAFF Designers & Editors: Kassandra Garcia Noah Hanna Sarah Haywood Emily Krakow Zachary Schroeder Noah Sleeper Editor-in-Chief: Ben Wallace Faculty Adviser: Moira H. Longino
Front cover art by Cameron Brotzman
Special thanks to the English and Art departments for their generous donations and Creative Writing I and II for their help with submissions.
MAYBE,POSS/BLY,
WHATEVER.
This year, the future of Westlake’s beloved literary magazine, The Final Draft, was pretty up in the air. We started the year with a breakfast-club-esque crew of seven students and $35 in our class account. Last year, we only had enough funding to print 100 copies for contests and our community. It was a great magazine, and we’re proud of it, but people kind of forgot it existed. Although it was discouraging at first, the freedom to work without expectations was liberating. Whenever people asked whether we were publishing more copies this year, we replied with a tentative “…Maybe.”
Michelle Jacobsen
But it ended up coming together. We had our work cut out for us. We begged for additional funding. We learned by trial and error. Most of us had never used the designing and publishing software The Final Draft is created with. We figured out who was good at what and stuck to it. Some of us had an eye for art, some were good at editing, one (thankfully) was organized. Each of us knew just enough
to get by. Did we know what we were doing? Possibly. Our editorial board was more flexible on the idea of a theme this year. We weren’t looking for “angsty” pieces or stories about “humanity.” We were drawn to things that didn’t waste time trying to preach any philosophical messages. We really just tried to pick the best work we could find. “We’ll figure the theme out later.” And here we are. Later. On the theme page. For a magazine that’s the product of a staff that decided a theme was ultimately “unnecessary.” So here’s why The Final Draft works: we don’t pull punches. Honestly, picking a theme felt... arbitrary. But we were able to recognize the talent that hides within the litany of creative kids at our school. It doesn’t matter what it is, how you did it, or what it’s about. If it’s good, it’s in. Whatever.
4.
7.
Outside Photo
5. Photo 6. Art
Susannah Crowell Tim Whaling
Tim Whaling
Justin Dorland
What I Am and What I Am Not
8. Grandparents Art 9. Art 10. Art
Angel Ramirez
Erin Reichle Ben Wallace
Justin Dorland
11.
Kevin McBrayer
Three Hundred and Sixty Five
Bailey Kroll
Photo 12. Sculpture 13. Sculpture 14. Kitehead Art 15. Art 16. Art Night 17. A Good Photo 18. ArtArt 19. Art 20. Photo 21. Swiss Cheese Photo 22. Art 23. SevenArt 24. Photo 25. Art 26. Austinites Photo 27. ColdArt Dakota Montet Madi Wright Madi Wright
Erin Reichle Paulina Trevino
Andrea Burgess Justin Dorland
Amanda Starkes Jonah Boatman
Andrea Grant ZoĂŤ Jentzen
Andrea Grant
Jonah Boatman
Katherine Anderson Jonah Boatman
Justin Dorland
Susannah Crowell Justin Dorland
Jonah Boatman
Ben Wallace Eric Shih Rachel David
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Erin Reichle Erin Reichle
Justin Dorland
Parasite 28. Art 29. Photo 30. Photo Sculpture 31. 1:37 32. Art the Wolf Followers 33. And Art 34. Art Romo Haiku 35. Tony Photo Joe 36. Hobo Art 37. Chubby Janet and the Dance of Death 38-39. Art 40. Art For Sale 41. Sister Sculpture 42. Art Black Belt 43. Sculpture 44. Art King 45. Art 46. LieArtWith Me 47. Art 48. Art Domestic 49. Art 50. Photo 51. Sledding in a Cemetery Sarah Holland Sarah Haywood
Tim Whaling
Emily Sheffield
Daniela de Souza Alyssa Thomas Robert Mitchell
Hunter Quesada
Amanda Starkes
Kevin McBrayer
Ryan Rees Kassandra Garcia
Liam Gerrity Kevin McBrayer
Kevin McBrayer
TABLE OF CONT(in)ENTS
Eric Shih
Emma Tomlin Mary Catherine Morrison
Cameron Brotzman
Madeleine Imhoff Cara Sechovec
Georgina Kuhlmann
Ian Yonge Cameron Brotzman
Sarah Holland Sarah Haywood
Kevin McBrayer
Justin Dorland
Noah Sleeper Andrew Bertin
Jonah Boatman
Noah Hanna
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Liam Gerrity
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by S u s a n n a h C r o w e l l
Come sit with me, darling Up upon the hill Where birds are the chatter And air isn’t still. There isn’t a group Running restless about Young, stale corridors talked up And yet, filled with doubt. For no one can doubt Such a bright, simple place Where no words will exist Until we fill the space. But our blissful silence Is all we will need Come sit with me, darling Here, under the tree.
Tim Whaling
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What I am and What I am Not by Angel Ramirez
I Am a boy. I am not What you want. I am not A shemale, Not A faggot, Not A queer, Not Confused.
I Am a boy. I wear a constricting binder, Cut my hair short So I feel the wind on the nape of My neck.
I am not A girl Simply because “God made me one�, Or because you raised me to be one.
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I Am not A girl Because you say I am. Not Because you want me to be one. Because this life is mine. Not yours. And the decision is mine. Not. Yours. I Am a boy.
Grandparents. by Erin Reichle
“Damn,” he murmured under his breath, right before he lifted the dry chicken into his mouth.
“Nothing.” He barely bothered with one word. His irritated manner worried her.
Maurie looked over at her husband, and her eyes found his wrinkled, furrowed brow. She examined his pale, fleshy skin, and the way his hair was thin but still slightly greasy, pulled over his patchy bald spot in a combover.
“Jim.” He looked up and their eyes locked.
She thought they were about to have a moment. But all Maurie saw was ugly blue pupils, and the minuscule purple veins that ran through his eyelids. She felt her own unattractiveNo matter how she looked at him, ness reflecting back at her off of she would still see ugly. Maybe she his face. She felt her small eyes and had been looking at him for so long dumpy nose and all of the weight that she had forgotten what he really she had gained with her age, and her looked like to people who first met stomach dropped. him; to the people that loved him. “Jim, do you want to leave me?” “What, dear?” She was aiming for a caring tone, but her voice came out “Yes.” flat. They returned to their food, and never spoke of it again.
Ben Wallace
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Justin Dorland
Kevin McBrayer
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three-hundred and sixty-five by Bailey Kroll
Remote backwoods in a small town A cozy house that does the job Natural lawn, nature’s landscaping A long, winding driveway Lined with an asymmetrical array of elms All shapes and sizes A small hike away from the river Come summer you can sit in the golden fields Keeping yourself amused for hours with the power of curiosity When the rain arrives in the morning of April, The brilliant violets bloom While the sky stays a solid grey Daffodils fill your backyard, like a sea of creamy butter Your peach trees bloom, ripe and ready with fruit, Eager to help you create a peach cobbler You have neighbors within a ten minute walk Children, slightly different ages and a mix of gender Every night after school you run off to a new adventure: Can you run the fastest? How far can you throw the ball? Can collect the most snails? How many rocks can you fit in your pockets? You play: Cowboys and Indians Pirates Princes and Princesses Cat and mouse, dog and cat But you come back in time for dinner
In fall, the leaves turn to varying shades of Yellow, orange, brown, and red — Like the feathers of a holiday turkey Overcast skies accompany fresh apple pie and relatives — Your Aunt Linda, Uncle Paul, Cousin Billy, and Cousin Lisa Join you and the rest of your family for a wholesome meal As dusk turns to night, you gather around A crackling bonfire and a meaningful conversation You lose yourself in the beauty of the crimson flames, Dancing with the vibrations of the world Stargazing and Making s’mores, oozing with rich chocolate and gooey marshmallows Playing a game of Candyland and Baking pumpkin muffins, their aroma filling the house with memories from the past Building with Legos, Playing with puzzles Reading Lord of the Rings, Snuggling up on the couch with your handmade-by-Grandma blanket, Wrapping it around you like a cocoon Watching a nice Christmas special on TV, or Listening to a nightly radio broadcast As your eyelids grow heavy, you stroll off to bed Put on your favorite baby blue pair of PJs and Crawl into your cradle to recharge and dream Your mind wanders for a bit, still wide awake Then settles down into the rhythm of your breathing as you drift from reality
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Madi Wright
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Madi Wright
Dakota Montet
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Kitehead by Erin Reichle
I’m looking for some feeling in an expanse of numbness Sometimes I’m in my thoughts and I lose myself I lose sight of what people think Of what’s normal I wake back up It’s been too long I see their faces and I know that I no longer belong And talking is difficult Because you’re fine now, but Bruises almost always Show up in the morning I think you’re right for me because The things that mean something to me Mean something to you too Happiness, however, is a heart monitor The happiest you’ll be Is when emerging from your lowest sadness And sometimes there’s always a problem Even when there’s not supposed to be And my head It doesn’t belong here, It’s too loud I walk around with my brain up in the clouds
Paulina Treviño
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Andrea Burgess
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Justin Dorlan Justin Dorland
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A Good Night by Amanda Starkes
Do not go gently into that good night, he said. What good night? I replied. What night is ever good? You lay there in solitary darkness, waiting for a sunrise to brighten your isolation. But what about a night spent in the arms of another? He countered. What arms? I replied. Those arms. If they were to wrap around me they’d be wrapped around the soul of a murderer. And murderers do not take kindly to comfort from the arms of intruders. What is wrong with comfort? He inquired. Comfort is brief, I replied. It never lasts. Like a warm spring, it never outgrows a bitter winter. But what about love? He pressed. Is love not eternal? No, I insisted. Love is for the fickle joys of men’s hearts and for the yearning young dreams of girl’s minds. Love is what I would call, a good night.
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Jonah Boatman
Andrea Grant
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ZoĂŤ Jentzen
Andrea Grant
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Jonah Boatman
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Jonah Boatman
Have you ever seen lightning Dancing across the starry night sky? Because it’s not all I was hoping It would turn out to be. I don’t think it’s worth it, not really. All the rage over love is a waste. Or maybe my heart’s too chilly To feel anything but distaste. It’s nothing like a fiery blaze. I’m not consumed by an ardent passion That guides my way through this endless maze. It’s naught but the latest, fleeting fashion.
Justin Dorland
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Seven
by Susannah Crowell
Sometimes I feel like I am seven people And all of them love you Though not all of them want to They all have their interests Their weaknesses and strengths Their schedules and lives And their depths and their lengths They all live within me But one cannot live Seven lives in a body That can give one life
Justin Dorland
So I do not know The next time we shall meet But I know that kiss will be Seven times as sweet
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Ben Wallace
Jonah Boatman
Rise and shine, Texas kids. I want you to play your gigs. Texas is a large state, And it is not a mistake. Known for its culture and art, It’s as glamorous as a party bar. Famous for its films and music, We take pride in its art and hit
Austinites
by Eric Shih
Nightclubs and studios, Orchestras and radios, Publishers and art galleries, Stadiums, unions, and agencies. As artists, performers, and athletes, And stars of South by Southwest, We always dance our steps, Winning our games and bets.
Popular bands and schools, Friends that are so cool, We promote ourselves and our skills, And we have looks to kill. You have seen New York boys, L.A. girls, and Nashville toys. But never deny Austin, Texas, Because we deserve the same success.
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Austinites are artists and writers. Austinites are musicians and singers. Also as models, athletes, and actors, Loyal to their teachers, The Live Music Capital lights, Are home to Austinites.
Rachel David
Cold
You are a snowstorm White flakes rain down the window Shivering and bundled in warmth
by Erin Reichle
Cold steam on a dark night We’re here laughing Whispering in your ear I wet my lips Laughing and it’s way too real I know all of you And none of you I want more of you You’re my rush My confidence My insecurities My pain You are laced through my laugh You reflect off my eyes when I smile
And I can’t get you off my mind And I wish I wasn’t in so deep And I love it
eichle
Er in R
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parasite by Sarah Holland
Flames of hair lick the damp darkness of comatose city streets. A spark in the shadows, she darts through apartments and the space between your ears like a mere afterthought. Always on the fray. Always far away. Only getting close enough to take what she needs from you: A name. A hope. A secret. And she’s on the road again, armed with fragments of your soul to clog the ragged hole in her chest.
Sarah Haywood
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Tim Whaling
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Emily Sheffield Emily Sheffield
1:37
by Daniela De Souza
I notice how foggy it is. Well, it isn’t actually foggy; it’s the debris and dust rising up into the stale air. It makes it all look like fog. I see sweat beads forming on the people outside the window. They’re scrambling across the pavement, trying to find something that will secure them. I sit here with my hands tightly gripping the comfortingly hot cup that my tea rests in, my heart pumping softly. I’m peaceful here, although I feel uneven observing the scene. Their shrieks and pleads poison my quiet surroundings. I sniffle, unafraid of my own predictable fate. I should be afraid. The way the women call for their children and collapse to their knees, the way the chunks of what was a building collide with the ground, the way tears flow — it all tells me I should be afraid. I blink my eyes to erase what I’m watching. The scenery ahead of me becomes more chaotic as a building to my left dies. The particles fly up into the sky and into the comforting clouds. I hear more shrills and shrieks crawl through the cracks of my apartment. People jump into one another’s arms, they shove strangers to embrace loved ones, they fall into fetal position as stress controls them. They all look like animals. The breath of my still-hot tea brushes against my delicate cheekbones. I feel the floor beneath me vibrate. A slab of material crashes into my haven. I take sip of my hot tea. It fills my veins with warmth, causing me to close my eyes. I am not afraid. Alyssa Thomas
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Robert Mitchells Robert Mitchell
And the wolf
Follows by Amanda Starkes
Every waking moment, it haunts my anxious mind. It stalks me like a wolf in the shadows. Its friends eagerly snapping their jaws, waiting for a chance to tear me apart. I try to walk with purpose. Back straight, head tall, eyes trained on the path ahead. I try my best to ignore my hungry followers, letting them believe that I am not the weak link in the herd. I ignore the way their eyes penetrate through my defenses, how the intent to kill is clearly seen every time I turn my head. I know that I am the creature that they desire to hunt, so why not let them take me? I use “creature” because that is how I feel. A deer caught in the headlights Hunter Quesada of a speeding vehicle. A dark thundercloud about to burst with cold arctic sleet. The stress and pressure is too much to bear. My mind can take no more So why doesn’t it go away on nights where the sea is calm and the moon is bright? Why doesn’t it evaporate like rain in a desert when luminous warmth fills my hollow bones? So brief the happiness comes, like the rarest rose on a frozen winter’s day. Like the wolf, it never ceases to follow me. It tracks my every move, waiting for the slightest slip-up or clumsy step that will set my path askew, giving the wolf a chance to lunge and rip another limb off from my already broken and rotting body. Yet I still walk. Back straight, head tall, eyes trained on the path ahead. Not bothering with the blood trail I leave behind for the wolf and his friends to follow. www
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Kevin McBrayer
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Tony Rom o Haiku
ees
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ing as winn Romo w nty-three e up by tw y choked He was eall Romo r
Kassandra Garcia
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Hobo Joe by Liam Gerrity
Hobo Joe was a’walkin’ down the beach with his metal detector, trying to get a few coins. Joe used to be a successful detective, with superior deductive reasoning capabilities, but he quit, under the persuasion that beach looting would be more lucrative. Oh sure, he was walkin’ down that beach, until he found a fifty-pound Berkin bag full of dead fella. “Lord, that’s stanky!” He said to himself. He then used his metal detector on the bag. It beeped. He rummaged around the inside until he found a golden wedding band. He took the ring and started down the beach. A few yards away from the bag he turned back to face the stench of putrefaction and said: “Lord, the missus sure did away with you right.” Again he turned around and waddled away.
Chubby Janet and the Dance of Death
by Liam Gerrity
Chubby Janet had dreamed of dance since she was nine years old, but oh! When she was finally old enough, she was too overweight to stand. She spent ten years trying to lose the weight and after trials and tribulations she finally did, but oh! By the time she was thin and as graceful as a gazelle there were no more dance studios. So she decided to save up and start her own. She did so, and she bought a run down old warehouse and fixed it up nicely, but oh! Just as she made enough money, the war broke out. Yes, yes, it was World War II and no one wanted to dance because of it. In her grief she decided to commit suicide by dancing herself to death. So she went to the desk in the corner of her studio to compose a suicide note, but oh! There was no paper, oh no, none at all! So she decided to let her exhausted dead body speak for itself and commenced her dance of death, but oh! She forgot to stretch her ankles and she broke them on a downward plié! Janet crawled to the studio’s pie safe in which resided several cakes which she proceeded to eat until she was chubby again. One day, five girls pranced gleefully into the old dance studio, ecstatic that the war had ended. But oh! They saw the gorged, chubby Janet and promptly left.
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Cameron Brotzman
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Kevin McB
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Eric Shih
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Sister for Sale by Emma Tomlin
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I’m selling my sister for $15. I won’t give her away for free because that would mean she’s worthless, and that would just be a terrible thing for me to imply. Her name is Hannah Marie. Kinda basic, but hey, at least it’s not Bertha or Olga or something completely horrible like that (no offense to all the Berthas and Olgas of the world). Plus, you can always change her name, which will only take you your entire life to legalize. She has brown hair and brown eyes, and her skin has “a nice olive-y complexion,” according to her. She’s a whopping 115 pounds, so you kinda need to get her above the underweight line (she doesn’t eat anything). You’ll never have to worry about her running off to play beer pong or anything, because she doesn’t like parties. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, she’s afraid of human interaction. I guess that makes her an introvert? She won’t conform to your musical tastes (I’ve already tried, but she can’t be swayed). One time I turned rap on in the car, and she threatened to drive off a cliff if I didn’t turn if off. Also, she’s not into the outdoors or sweating, so she doesn’t like sports. She was in soccer when she was seven, and she threw every ball in front of a car so it got squished. The team gave her a restraining order. She does love to read though. She has 10,000,000,000 books all organized by title, genre, color, characters, setting, and length on her bookshelves. She’s kinda OCD. One time she cleaned the entire house like 20 times in a row. It all started because she splattered some tomato sauce on the perfect travertine floors. After cleaning it she noticed a speck of dust on the baseboard, and then a crumb in the grout, and one thing just led to another. Anyways she’s really smart. She made straight A’s her entire school life, so if you need someone to do all your homework, Hannah’s your gal. If you need somebody to rant to about your horrible life, Hannah will definitely listen. She doesn’t talk much, so you won’t have to worry about her interrupting your life story. But when she does talk, your ears will for sure bleed. This is because her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard with a mixture of Britney Spears and Ke$ha singing. It’s pretty bad. It only happens like twice a year though, since she’s pretty much mute. If you’re even considering buying her, don’t expect much. But for 15 bucks she’s a steal.
Cameron Brotzman
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Black Belt
Cara Sechovec
by Madeleine Imhoff
Tori was so proud of her belt. It was about three inches wide and around six feet long. She’d wrap it around her waist twice then tie it in a double knot in the front with the ends going down in opposite directions. It was black and had blue stitching on the end, showing her achievement. Tori was very proud of her belt. She got it from hard work and dedication. She was very serious about her belt. She went to class almost every day so she could get it. She was the tallest girl in her class, around 5’6”. You could always pick her out from the room, her blonde hair in two braids down the side, staring back at you as she stood still facing the instructor.
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One time, Caroline and I used the belt to tie Tori up when she went into a little violent streak. She wasn’t very happy with us. Her face was so red, it looked like an apple. Caroline and I laughed at her... then she punched us. It hurt. Really bad. Tori apologized that night, but she was still proud of her punch. I was proud of it too. She has a closet full of belts like the other, each one a different color, showing how hard she works. A year and a half , that’s how long it took for Tori to achieve her goal. Now she has her black belt, and we are all thoroughly terrified of that girl. I love her anyways.
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Georgina Kuhlmann
King by Ian Yonge
You’re falling Are you falling? Or are you weightless? Floating Descending It builds, the pressure Will you explode? Or will you implode? Your ears ring Soon, the pressure Is unbearable It rises Until you reach A satisfying release Now you are floating Floating in acceptance Or is it defeat? For you it is a victory
Flashes Something flashes It’s not life It’s not heaven It’s something This time the pressure builds Slowly Ominously Try to remember love Laughter Try to remember calmness But all there is Is fear Darkness The pressure crushes you Finally Release Light Melting
r on n
a tzm Bro
You float in this acceptance Until once again You conquered anxiety The pressure builds Overwhelmed by fear You faced it You are king
me Ca
You bask in your victory You strangled the darkness Into submission
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Lie With Me by Sarah Holland
I’m lonely. My heart beats slowly, like it’s the offbeat of another. A greater other. Something far greater than me. You look cold. Why don’t you crawl onto the couch and wrap your arms around me? Keep me company during the darkest of nights, when my computer screen is the only window into an existence outside of my own. There is a world out there: a world of parties and heartbreak
Sarah Haywood Sarah Haywood
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and drunken bliss. A world of living that I both want and don’t want to be a part of. So until then, until I find my place, please, just lie with me. Scratch my wrists just a little deeper. Pinch my stomach just a little harder. Wring my mind out, so it’s just a little dryer. And maybe then, if I’m lucky, I will be fit to make my first public appearance without you.
Kevin McBrayer
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Justin Dorland
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Domestic by Noah Sleeper
I’m in my no-man’s land, the numb ending granted by the screen to many a war without bullets. And this couch is pulling me in, drawing me into the only place clean of blood spots. Now I begin to put my headphones on to drown out the sound of the gunshots. Blood shot eyes... all I’ve known for weeks. And they’re not even mine, I don’t think. But at night in the mirror I see them speak. They say, “You’re weak, and we’re tired.” And with a dying creak they close and remain shut while I brush my teeth, and expose me to just what I’d die not to see. And even as I try to sleep, I hear those gunshots downstairs over the blare of the TV trying so hard to do its job— to make no one feel anything, in return for cheap, ready-made peace. I’m just glad it’s not up to me.
rtin
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Jonah Boatman
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Sledding In a
Cemetery by Noah Hanna
First and second graders throw themselves down the snowy road, most of them with the final date lined on both sides by gravestones, sometime in the 80s. You can always tell who is bringing their kids here for the first time,
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because they haven’t accepted the fact that once in a while their kid is going to hit a gravestone.
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