The Levee 2019 by Rio Mirada

the levee

Rio Americano High School vol. 33 | 2019

the levee literary magazine

from the editors

Rio Americano High School 4540 American River Drive Sacramento, California 95864

In our 2019 issue of The Levee, we did not set out with a theme in mind. However, looking over the final product, we couldn’t help but notice an overwhelming trend. Our prose and verse is very preoccupied with time. This is found in the mental regression to simpler times in “These I Have Loved” and “Love Ya Bunches,” and overt fear for the future in works like “Confessional Poem” and “Starlight”. This is understandable, considering that nearly all of the work found in this issue has been written by high school seniors. After this year, all of these student’s lives will be different, and such change effects each of us in our own way. With that said, we encourage you to read on with an open mind, but also unafraid to contextualize. We would like to thank you for reading, and we hope that you are able to learn something from it, whether it be about yourself or the world around you.

Jack Harris jackhrrs12@gmail.com Alexandre Lydon alex.lydon@icloud.com Jane Snyder snij71@gmail.com Michael Mahoney mmahoeny@sanjuan.edu Online edition available at issuu.com/theleveerio

Alexandre Lydon Editor-in-Chief

Jack Harris Literary Editor

Jane Snider Arts Editor

Contents Blind Images, Deaf Words The Sun Will Rise Again Strawman Marilyn

Stephanie Timfeyeva

6 8

Allison Weichert

David Davini

Chloe Planche

Claire Long

The Tides of Life Secret: My Dad is a Felon in Jail

Constrution Site

The Traveler

Julie Ewert Jack Cartwright

The Death of Olivia Brown

Claire Long

Love Ya Bunches 38 The Bunnyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Carrot

Jane Snider Logan Duffy

Starlight 42

Jack Harris

Confessional Poem 46

Abdul Barrie

These I have loved 48

Sam Buck

Untitled 50

Marley Fortin

Ethan Crowe

Face In the Mirror

William Long

Watchman

Ben Davis

London People on a Train

Chloe Planche

Gretchen Kerr

Playtime

Secret Poem 36

Everyone Needs a Country

Sam Buck

Wander

Meg Snyder

William Samuelson Katlyn Shaw

Humanity in Nature

Blind Images, Deaf Words Dost thou weep my brother?

For the light to shine, come morrow. Dost thou weep my brother?

For the birds tis be drowned of sorrow. Prithee may I say, my angel

Darkness fills a void in thy heart. Prithee may I say, my angel

Silence tempts a courageous form of art. Tis’ not to see oak trees nor rising sun

My Brother, means to standeth alone.

Tis’ not to have dreams of journeys nor memories of the past My brother, means to lie under thy stone. Please brother, no more shall you weep.

If you want my brother, I’ll give you my heart to keep.

poem by Stephanie Timfeyeva art by Allison Beck

The Sun Will Rise Again

A girl shines like the sun in front of a green and tall bridge and her smile says it all. But little does she know, a deep, dark canyon looms below. She can cross the emerald bridge to reach bliss, but no, she wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, she is as timid as a mouse.

So the wind starts blowing, the sky grows dark, and the sun gradually sets behind her and she grows as dark as the night. Happiness is fading as quick as can be but she knows the sun will rise again. The sun will rise again.

poem by Allison Weichert photograph by Jake Steinberg

Strawman

He was born, fashioned from sackcloth and lush ryegrass. Cradled by the hearth in the calloused palms of his possessors. Hoisted, through the vineyard, through the summers’ balm. Then, heaved into the gravelly earth, rock shards scraping bloody scars across his oak spike, he was unborn. Prisoner to the narrow shade of the peach, he stands watch alone, occupying himself by fingering the wet soil, foraging for earthworm belly dancers. Finding one, he slips it between his palm straws. It dangles. Boyish laughter scratches against his stomach, as his eyes trace the rhythmic wriggling of its ring. Its swaying stutters, then stops. Its soft flesh starches, and he siphons it with cupped hands into his mouth. Tonguing it, he finds it stiff, and still. Straw-like. He sniggers.

poem by David Davini art by Phoenix Folger

A snap. He straightens his slouch. He is stiff, and still. Straw-like.

A low gurgle. Crow. Crow is skulking along the fallen twigs, cocked neck, cracked black eyes examining the fruit above. Crow is scratching between the branches. Crow is dangling like dead moss from high boughs. Strawman shudders, soundless. A curl of hat hay quavers down his forehead faltering at eye height, a flaxen noose. Crow is everywhere in eruption. Cawing, cackling, thrashing, scything swoops, silky onyx threads through the air. feathers rattling against God’s gravity. She burrows her beak into the peach’s flesh, slime oozing out her neck slits and down across her slick coat. Strawman, ever still, wreathes a dandelionaround the stalk of his big toe by curling it gently. Scraping his worm against his cheek for comfort, he whimpers silently. Strawman is straw-like. Strawman is straw-like. Strawman is straw-like. No tears come.

Marilyn Marilyn

poem by Chloe Planche art by Shannie Nim

A delicate flower she was I would like to say she always bloomed But more often than not, she wilted Under those bright and flashy petals, she was collapsing upon herself Could never stand alone, no Always needed a sturdy oak around her waist Her decay spread to theirs And the marriage quickly weathered To cope with being alone She turned to something that would poison her stomata It was the weeds and fungi coaxing her With sick intentions and selfish agendas And one day, Marilyn succumbed to it all And took in the bright sun one last time It was a pity they said As they cried alligator tears

Starlight inspired by Van Goghâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cafe

story by Jack Harris art by Allison Beck

17 The couple walked along the River Seine at night, as couples in Paris do. It had rained that day, and now the walk was wet and reflective. The ground under their feet was bathed in the same warm yellow of the light posts above them. The rain had gone, and the clouds had mostly dissipated, but enough weakly remained to smudge the light of the moon and the stars, still bright. The river moved as silently as a river can, water gently rolling over itself. All the couple could hear was their own footsteps, and the rustling wave of trees caught in the wind’s attempt to usher the last of the clouds out of Paris. The couple walked in silence, afraid of what would come out of their mouths when they finally spoke. They walked with her arm around his, holding each other close. It should’ve been very romantic.

They split off from the Seine and walked into the dead streets of Paris, past all the places they used to go. They were all shuttered and darkened as it was late, late in the night. They silently knew that was probably for the best. Only one of their haunts would be open this late at night, but they made a point of not going there. Too many familiar faces. They walked aimlessly, trying to lose themselves in their own home. Neither of them lead the way, at each intersection they went a direction in unison, as though they both knew the way to their nonexistent destination. They finally came upon what had to be the street in Paris most foreign to them, but really it was just like every other street in the city. Cobblestone ran up its gentle slope and water trickled down it, weaving its way between the rocks. The effect made it seem as though the street had as much of a flow as the Seine did. The street was still alive at this hour, a result of the coterie of bars and cafes that lined the street. The two most occupied establishments were across from each other, and a few people

were strolling back and forth between them. Presently, the patio of the cafe was empty save for one large group, making a lot of noise. There were no street lamps, but the bars, cafes, and apartments were so alive that the street was illuminated with a comforting glow. The last of the substantial clouds had been expelled, and the wispy remaining ones acted like more of a fog or mist, stretching and swirling the light of the stars. The tree above the couple was the only still bit of life on the street, besides themselves, indicating that the breeze had left. They looked up the street in silence, knowing what the other would think just as well as their own opinion of it. While the scene was a bit boisterous for their tastes, they both knew this street was entirely absent from their memories, which was more than they could say for any other street in the city. “It’s turned into a pleasant night,” He finally spoke. “Patio?” She replied. They walked, arm in arm, to the cafe’s patio and sat themselves in an outer corner. He sat facing the the cafe itself, and could see the waiter lingering in the doorway, glaring at the other party on the patio. The man watched the waiter’s cigarette droop slowly in the corner of the waiter’s mouth. The man watched for so long, that by the time the waiter noticed he had new customers, his cigarette ran parallel to his chin. He came over to them and said nothing, but looked at them expectantly. “Whisky,” the man pointed at himself, “rouge,” he said pointing at the woman. The waiter straightened his cigarette in confirmation and walked inside. The couple looked at each other in silence, the woman leaning forward against the table, the man leaning back. Then the other group on the patio became very quiet as one of the men at the table rapped is knife against his glass and stood up. He stood out amongst the dark suits of the day and the table with his bright seersucker suit. He was swaying slightly as he waited for his party’s attention. When he finally had it, he began to speak. He first tried to speak French, but it was

drunken and slurred and grammatically uneven so he quickly switched to English. His English was also drunken and slurred, and also present was the hybrid accent of an American who had spent a little too long in France. He was impassioned while rambling on about what amounted to nothing. He spoke of his adoration of the friends present, his sorrow of his departure, and how he’d never forgot them or this city. Very touching drunkenness. He was crying by the end of it. The couple watched the ordeal from their table in silence, her tracing her finger around his hand. The waiter was also watching, standing a few feet away with a whiskey in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. The speaker finally sat down, and his table applauded. The couple felt obliged to applaud, too. After that, the large table was much quieter. The waiter curtly brought the drinks and went to linger in the doorway. The man watched the woman take a sip of her wine. When he got caught staring, he gave her a small smile and then looked down at his drink in anguish. When he looked back up, the glint in his eye was gone. She squeezed his hand and looked at him with boundless sympathy, “We had fun, didn’t we?” He took a sip, “You could still come.” “Your life was never here, mine always was.” He was a fit man, but in this moment, it seemed as though every muscle on his face was of immense weight. The corners of his mouth drooped, his cheekbones sank, and his forehead collapsed over his brow. His eyes were trained on their hands, clasped in the middle of the table. “It is now.” “Don’t say that.” “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” he took another sip. He finally looked her in the eyes, “you could still come.” Now she looked down at her glass and said nothing. She took another drink. The other party on the patio got up with a lot of scuffling and left. The street was now silent. When she finally spoke, “When do you need to be there?” He looked at his watch, “2 hours,” his voice

cracked. They sat there a short while longer, absorbing each other. They avoided finishing their drinks, as though emptying the glasses would’ve made time move faster. They stood up slowly, paid slowly, and slowly walked out into the street. They kissed under their still tree. The smudged stars had moved on, and at the slow bend of the street the sky was pink and golden. The sky darkened as it rose, directly overhead being the phantom of the night sky. The breeze came back, and the rustle of the still tree broke their kiss. As the rest of the city was waking up this street died. The empty block carried the shallow howl of winds, echoing through its gentle curve. The couple watched the sky brighten under their quaking tree. Only when the sky was entirely pink did the two people walk up into the howl.

Secret: My dad is a felon in jail I dont miss him The man in there Three times over Stuck in a four Wall cement brick casket I dont miss him With the secrets trapped Between his dirty lips Never bothering to share I miss the man that I knew The one that helped Who gave me hope Who told me that It will be alright Who held my hand When times were dark But heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s long gone Replaced with this maligner And I dont miss him.

poem by Julie Ewert art by Natalie Clausen

Construction Site Everyday we lay down another two by four. Trying to rebuild our bridge to the way it was before I wish you would change my name to nobody Because then your cries would be reality Every time you say nobody will care I’m here at your side, telling you I am there And yet we sit so near, facing back to back, Trying so hard to build back our bridge track Our arms are folded and our knees are up I want to connect sides but yearn to give up A sign that reads “under construction” To rebuild our relationship before it’s destruction Step by step, I cross our mind’s bridge Waiting to see you from over the ridge Are you on the other side? trying to connect No blame, no pointing, nobody is correct We need to connect our bridge, there’s no riddle As I walk across I hope to find you in the middle

poem by Jack Cartwright photograph by Vlad Statnyk

The Traveler poem by Ethan Crowe photograph by Christian Melliza

The light flashes at his touch. Turn it on, turn it off. Turn it on, turn it off. He leaves the desk. No more. Off the beaten path lies a place of magic and wonder He belongs here. Nobody tells him that he is too slow, too dumb, too weak to understand. Simply breathing is like taking a bite out of a cloud sent to him on a cool Arctic gale. The sun shines with the warmth of a tender embrace, a soothing heat. Roads paved with soil and buildings framed with leaves, shimmering like emeralds, Form the streets of the forest city. Crunch, crunch goes the gravel beneath his boots, Boots designed to carry his soul to the place where he can rest.

Jingle, jangle goes the pack upon his back, A pack to bring with him everything he needs for his voyage to a better place. His place. At the peak, he finds his place. In a single moment, the world appears as it is And not merely as it seems. The river teems with energy, eager to wash away his pain and stress. A world of peace and serenity that he found all on his own, And it is beautiful.

Playtime The young boy played with his toy car Driving it around the neighborhood With the windows down and radio blaring Ignoring the speed limit and traffic signs Stopping by his favorite fast food joint The boy ordered some fries and a shake Throwing the cherry out the window He took off without a single thought of the bill The local officers pursued this juvenile delinquent With his drink running down his shirt And foot barely reaching the gas pedal, Through the chaos and adrenaline The boy heard a distant cry A familiar maternal voice Demanded his presence at the dinner table Adventure suspended and action paused The boy set down his toys Promising to return at a later time When he would be older And bold as can be

poem by William Long art by Allison Beck

The Death of Olivia Brown December, 1971. I stood outside the station in the pouring rain, patiently waiting for the husband to show up. This was a particularly tragic case. Some newlyweds had moved to the country for some “fresh air,” only for the wife to kill herself a few months later. The husband, one Andrew Brown, wasn’t a suspect per se, but we still had some questions about the death of his wife Olivia, untimely as it was. Though she had only died the night before, we lived in a small town, and word travelled fast. So here I stood, my umbrella at best a flimsy shield against the weather. A good thirty minutes later, Brown pulled up in his dinky little sedan. As he parked, I walked up to his car. He got out and shut the

door. I asked him to come with me. No surprises there. He complied. Again, no surprise. In the office, we took off our soaked coats, let ourselves dry, and then the detective and I made the situation clear to him. We weren’t accusing him of anything – at this point, we had absolutely no reason to believe anything other than the official account. “We are very sorry for your loss,” I began. “However, we were just hoping you could clear a few things up for us. What exactly happened?” Brown nervously fidgeted, his fingers playing with the lowest button on his shirt. “What do you mean?” he replied cautiously. “Well... what were the events leading up to her death? Feel free to go into detail – you never know what information could prove helpful.” “Helpful for what?” I was getting impa-

story by Ben Davis art by Miranda Hansen

‘I know this sounds crazy – believe me, I know it does. But he’s real. He broke the window this time.’ “This was her darkest recurring vision”

tient. “Clearing things up for us, I guess.” Brown sighed, a long, soft exhalation, then began: “I’ll start at the beginning. I had moved to the countryside this past July, hoping that getting away from the bustle and noise of New York life would improve Olivia’s disposition. You see, my wife was prone to ... ‘episodes.’ At least, that’s what we called them. Though perhaps ‘hallucinations’ would be closer to the truth. She was a diagnosed schizophrenic, and I considered it my responsibility to take care of her. So, yes, I had quit my job, packed my bags, and moved a few hours outside of the city. But it was worth it, because it was for her. We hoped that, with time and distance, Olivia would be able to leave her past behind her; we knew that living with her episodes was no longer an option. “Especially after the last one. I came home from work to find her huddling in the corner, clutching at a shard of broken glass, sobbing hysterically. It was when I ran to comfort her that I noticed the blood on her wrists. I patched her up the best I could – ‘no hospitals’ was one of her firmest rules, and given her past with hospitals, I couldn’t really disagree. As she sat there, shivering in the corner, I desperately tried to calm her down. “‘He came again,’ she said. I quickly embraced her, reassuring her the whole while. “‘Olivia, you are safe. I promise you.’ I didn’t want to continue, you see. But I knew I had to keep pressing the issue. ‘Please, Olivia. You’re safe. You know he’s not real, right?’ That set her off. I gripped her tightly as she sobbed, but I kept going. ‘I know it seems so real. But he’s not real, Olivia. He can’t hurt you.’ “‘He’s not like the rest of them, Andrew! You know that!’ Olivia paused. She was shaking badly, and her trembling was interrupting her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as she proceeded. ‘I know this sounds crazy – believe me, I know it does. But he’s real. He broke the window this time.’ “This was her darkest recurring vision – a sinister, obscured man that meant her harm. It was one of her oldest ones, too. Olivia had been having this vision months before we even met five years ago. And, unlike the other visions, the pills couldn’t get rid of him. Sometimes, she claimed she would find things moved, discover doors left open, or hear footsteps around the house. Those were the benign encounters. Other times, he would be staring at her from across the street, or through a window. He never said anything, and she could never make out his face, as it was always covered – he wore a dark trench coat, she would

later tell me. But, as I so often pointed out, her illness caused her memory to be at times... unreliable. On some level, I’m sure Olivia knew she was imagining things. Yet the realism of this one hallucination terrified her. “And then we moved. The new house was beautiful, well lit, but very much ‘away from it all,’ you know what I mean? It was very good for Olivia, and she was doing much better. For a time. “But the visions returned with a vengeance. She began constantly hearing and seeing things, even when I was there – beams of light coming from cars that weren’t there, noises emitting from around the house. And, terrible as it sounds, I was not surprised to discover one night that she had a heart attack. It was that bad. “I broke the rule that night, and rushed her to an Emergency Room. She wasn’t in any state to resist. “She never really got better. The man kept showing up, and eventually she couldn’t take it anymore. She... She... I found her last night. She had cut her own wrists, deep – to the bone. There was blood everywhere. That’s when I called an ambulance. I guess that’s why I’m here, today...” And at this, Brown’s voice broke. He had been struggling to fight back tears his whole story, but at its conclusion, he gave in. I paused, unsure of how to respond to his sobbing. The detective interjected, awkwardly patting his arm while murmuring that it would “be okay,” whatever that meant. “All right, Mr. Brown. When you’re ready, you can leave. We’ll keep in touch, okay?” The detective’s attempts at consoling the man seemed a little lacking, but it’s not like I could’ve done much better. Brown collected himself and, still sniveling, stood up. “I’m sorry, officers,” he muttered. “I just feel... I don’t know... lost.” Putting his jacket back on, he left, exiting the building with a defeated, shuffling gait. I turned back to the detective. “Who’s the next witness? The neighbor, right?” He nodded in confirmation. One Mr. Luther Wallace trudged into my office, grim, yet with the air of morbid excitement I had come to associate with neighborhood gossips who implored others to let Ms. Brown rest in peace with one breath, only to bring her back as a topic of cheap speculation with the next. “Terrible tragedy,” he said cheerfully. He sobered up when we began asking him ques-

tions, though, especially when we talked about his whereabouts the night of Olivia Brown’s death. “Well, I was at home, officer. I had called in sick to work – Howard Williams’s mill, you know the place – I’ve been working for him since I moved here mid-August – a wonderful man but a bit too strict as a boss, if you know what –” I threw up my hand, interrupting his shambling story. “Sorry, officer. I was home, and I saw Mr. Brown arrive home, too. Only, instead of entering his house, he did something I thought was downright bizarre.” Wallace saw me start, and, with evident relish, he lowered his voice and continued: “I saw him put on his trench coat from the car, then stand outside his window for a good ten minutes. Just standing there. What do you suppose he was doing? I couldn’t see him all that well, on account of it raining so hard – it’s been a really strong rainy season, you know –” “Wait. Say that again.” I interrupted him, not bothering to conceal the horrified look on my face. “I said, he put on his trench coat, and just stood there, staring through the window. I mean, it was raining, so having a coat made sense, but why take it off before going inside? You know?” I turned to face the detective, who looked equally spooked. *** We found Brown at home, clearly surprised to find us getting in touch with him so soon. He only had time to get out a panicked, “What’s going on?” before several officers were wrestling him to the ground. He kept yelling out, “I didn’t hurt her! Please!” He stopped writhing back and forth, and he looked up at me pleadingly. “Then explain these,” I said coldly, motioning to the packed suitcases at his feet. His eyes widened, but before he could get a word in edgewise, I ordered the officers to take him in. He resumed struggling, screaming “I couldn’t stay here anym-” only to be left gasping by a quick baton to the side. The officers dragged him out of the house kicking and screaming.

August, 1975. Andrew Brown plead not guilty, but was sentenced to life in prison in a swift, fair, and public trial on the charge of first-degree murder. His argument that Olivia died of suicide was disproven; on closer examination the coroner had noticed bruising on her wrists. Someone had grabbed them – forcefully. Brown would never see the inside of a prison, though, because he killed

himself the night after the verdict was announced; he hanged himself, using torn bedsheets from his jail cell as a noose. I was about to close the case file when, on a whim, I decided to examine the archived footage from the police station security cameras from the night of his questioning. I was struck by how sincere Brown appeared in his testimony. He was nervous, yes, unusually so – but not duplicitous. Or so I thought. I began to dig into the food I had brought with me when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the end of Mr. Wallace’s questioning. I then realized something. The Browns had moved here in July that year... and Wallace had moved here in August. My head whipped around, my eyes glued to the screen, as I saw a pixelated Wallace leave my office. I frantically followed his movement with my eyes. When he got to the front door, he put back on his soaked, black trench coat. I’ll never forget what happened next: He looked straight at the camera, his eyes boring into me, as he waved a mocking farewell. Then he confidently strode out into the night.

Everyone Needs a Country

Everyone needs a country, It’s the newest trend today! You should get one too, my friend, And your troubles will go away! The world’s much more fun with nations and borders Than it is with the astute individual. When you can point and say “British” or “Cuban” or “Arab” People become quite residual. Why today, a man need not bother to hate a man, Only the other’s nation! Just despise their place of origin, Who cares about their situation? We can’t go to war with Bill or Alice or Charlie or Suzy or Sherman. The only one we need direct our wrath towards Is those goddamn Germans! When the sun is up you may wear your country like a brilliant badge on your sleeve. It says that “I love my country so dearly” “In my country I believe!” But when it is gone and the moon is out And your demons begin to haunt you; You may draw your country close like a blanket And find a night you can sleep through. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts So what are you waiting for? All that it costs is the price of your hearts And those pesky morals you had before. Everyone needs a country, Let it deal with all your life’s conundrums! You take care of it and it takes care of you, Padding out your moral corundum.

poem by Sam Buck art by Miranda Hansen

Wander

poem by Meg Snyder photography by Vlad Statnyk I wonder what could happen if we had the day to spend between the trees on a winter morn, or crowded in a cafĂŠ protected by Decemberâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s piercing winds and navy skies. The stars resemble embers from the flames that writhe, enclosed in a grandeur chimney. Humming the carols of last century, I type alone. Wishing for the next break, the next holiday, a world with no responsibility Full of cinnamon-scented dreams of what could be Sometimes we let the mind Wander

Secret Poem Brushing of your hands When I walk next to you Stuttering of my words When I talk to you Fluttering of my heart When I’m near to you a flip of the hair a light airy laugh a shy little smile a sparkle in my eyes Try though I might, It sticks with me stillthis flutter in my heart when I’m near to you poem by Claire Long photograph by Leah Mckechnie

Love Ya Bunches My mother’s mother, Who brings blackberries, strawberries, and love. Her voice fills the house; She bounds towards me for a hug. Her gifts bring joy and You can always tell they are of her giving By the card and its contents The envelope she licks seals the Message that always sings “Love ya bunches, Grandma”

poem by Jane Snider art by Tyler Trias

The Bunny’s Carrot

Oh how that bunny hops And how he hops all day So one day, he decided to hop away Searching for some food, perhaps a carrot, eh? So the bunny hopped As he searched for some crops To bring back to his lair But then he saw something that Made his hair stick up The biggest carrot he ever saw, The biggest carrot I ever saw

Alas the bunny pulled and pulled As I’m sure he’s told Until he couldn’t pull no more Hell, even his pants tore And then he had an epiphany To contact the meanest bunny he knew, Tiffany And so the two bunnies tried with all their might Until the carrot popped out and caused quite a fright So big it was that it squished poor Tif And as if that wasn’t enough, pushed ol’ bunny off a cliff Was it worth it? I’m sure bunny says no But if one thing’s for sure, It really was The biggest carrot he ever saw, The biggest carrot I ever saw

poem by Logan Duffy photograph by Alexandre Lydon

The Tides of Life

Marge sits in the worn out rocking chair, gazing at the fields that spread out endlessly before her. The strong winds push the ocean of green back and forth. The sight reminds her of youth. The days she spent sitting on the edge of Cannon beach, with her toes sinking into the soft sand. Smelling the salty Oregon air, she would lean her head against the young man who was always beside her, and together they would spend hours staring out over the blue expanse. They had dreams for the future—childish dreams one could say. Plans filled with love and hope and wonder, plans that gave no account for any misfortune. How foolish of them to think. It was the summer of 1973 when it all happened. Marge was a senior in high school and James had graduated in the previous year’s class. This year held lots of change for both of them. James had decided that in the coming fall, he would be moving across the country to New York in order to continue with his business skills. Marge was planning on moving with him, excited at the prospect of starting a new life with her love. Their plans were laid out in early May, ready to be carried out. Marge completed her final courses in high school and soon graduation season was upon her. Unbenounced to her, James had put together a special celebration for her graduation. All of the family flew into town, and a beachside building was rented for two nights. Rumors of a proposal floated about the warm summer air, yet none were ever acknowledged as true by James himself. The day of graduation arrived, and the ceremony brought tears to the eyes of parents and students alike. When Marge crossed the stage to receive her diploma, she gazed over the sea of chairs that spread out before her and she found the comforting face she had been seeking. There he was, James. He tipped his head to the side, motioning to something next to him, and that was when she noticed all of the family that surrounded him. Right in this moment, Marge was completely content with her life. She had accomplished her goal of graduating high school, and she was surrounded by the ones that loved her. What came next didn’t matter. The pure hap-

piness she felt was enough, and oh how she wished it would last forever. As the ceremony concluded, Marge ran to her family and the happy reunion began. James presented to her a red envelope, and asked her to open it. Inside, she found the address to the rented building by the beach, and James told her that the whole family was staying. The twelve relatives and James piled into cars and drove the winding road that led to the rented beach house. It was around three in the afternoon when they arrived, and they spent the rest of the day talking and laughing. When the sun started to slip down in the sky, a chill arose in the air and they made a fire pit so they could stay out on the warm sand. They told stories, and watched as the sun set behind the rolling waves of blue. Stars began to appear in the sky, and the glowing embers from the fire pit lost their heat. Marge’s relatives retired for the night, one by one before the only two people remaining were James and Marge. This was the moment James had been waiting for. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and he kneeled down in the soft sand. “Marge,” he said. And she knew what was to come. Her hands covered her mouth and she had to hold her breath to keep the squeals of joy inside. “The moment I met you, I knew that you were the one for me. And as time has gone on, nothing has changed that. Nothing ever will. You understand me better than I do myself, and I feel as though I am the luckiest man in the world whenever I am with you. Nothing would make me happier than being with you for the rest of my life. I can’t imagine my life without you. Marge, will you marry me?” He asked. She fell into him, trying to find her voice to speak. “Yes,” she whispered. James took her hand, and he slipped a silver band with a small circular diamond onto he ring finger. As she hugged him close, Marge felt as though her heart would break through her chest, as it was filled with so much love it could not handle any more. The two stayed like that for many minutes,

arms entwined, slowly swaying in the cold sand. Nei-

44 ther wanted to break the dreamy scene. They wished

that life could stay in this peaceful state for forever. Eventually, the two walked hand in hand back to the house, and each fell asleep thinking about the other. When Marge woke up, it took a moment for her to remember all that had happened. She got dressed and ready for the day, excited for another beautiful beach experience. However when she made her way down the winding staircase to the bottom floor, it was as if she had entered a different reality. The mood was tense, and unlike the day before, the weather felt dark and gloomy. She saw her parents whispering at the front door, and as she walked up, she heard a sniffling to her side. Her aunt was weeping into her handkerchief, while two others attempted to comfort her. Something was wrong. Marge tentatively completed the walk to her parents, yet found herself unwilling to ask what had happened. She felt that deep fear, the kind that stops you in your path. Where was James? She glanced around the room, and found that everyone was present except him. With a rising sense of dread, Marge began to turn around, hoping to retrace her steps up the stairs to avoid whatever this was. As she turned to leave, her mother became aware of her presence. Her mother softly called her name, and gestured for her to follow her outside. They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop walking until they reached the end of the sand. Now only water was in front of them, the tide reaching their feet as it rushed in towards them, chilling their ankles. Her mother explained the accident, gave her the same report the police had given. The drunk driver came into his lane. James was not responsible. It was not his fault in any way. Marge stayed in that same spot all day. She watched the waves crash on the shore, followed them with her eyes as they crept their way along the sand, stretching as far as they could, yet always pulled back into the sea, the only trace of their struggle a faint trail of foam left behind. Never before had she felt such loss. The harshness of this flashback brings Marge back to the present. She touches the ring that she keeps on a silver chain around her neck, the one that remains always close to her heart. The green fields continue to sway to and fro, but Marge knows her time of reflection has passed. She forces herself out of the old rocking chair, making her way back to reality.

story by Claire Long photograph by Alexandre Lydon

Confessional Poem I hear a voice and turn my head, But all I see is a shadow I run to the place where we first met But all I see is an empty meadow I count the days when we crossed paths And when we parted ways You lurk and taunt me in my dreams Yet when I wake up, everything stays... the same. A minute, an hour, a day, a year, What difference does it make When even for a second I still regret my mistakes? I hope someday Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll go to the place again Where we were intertwined And burn down this calendar To end the curse of time... and this twisted game.

poem by Abdul Barrie photograph by Allison Beck

These I Have Loved poem by Sam Buck photography by Miranda Hansen

These I have loved: Warm plates and mugs shining, touch of a dogs fur, sound of them whining. Dry clothes, a soft salty water, wanting to stay a few minutes longer. Friendly ocean, the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cool mist, arriving home late at night, a stolen kiss. Raindrops on the window after a storm, wearing a new shirt thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s never been worn. Sound of popcorn making Aroma of cookies baking The taste of sweet toffee Smell of hot coffee

Untitled

poem by Marley Fortin photography by Jane Snider

Summer is rotting on the vine in this last week of July. Berries drop like shot birds, leaking themselves in the sun-parched dirt, or lining the walls of a sticky-fingered tomb. And I lick the blood that flows from the wounds.

The world is eating its own body, nibbling the rot. A practical gluttony. Its teeth catch the hairs on my arm which glint and wince away, alarmed. I am boiled to my core, my wormy pit. I am reborn a pleasant fruit, warm and sunlit.

My body is lonely for a finger to drift through my peach-fuzz face, linger on the rough cracks, feel the raw map of me while the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath blows sweetly and rancidly. Droop down in the limp-stalked grass, open your eyes or youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll miss the moment pass

Face in the Mirror rorriM I look in the mirror, but I don’t recognize what’s there. I reach up to touch my face, but it feels different. Outside is quite, the leaves go “snip” “snap” “snip” “snap” I climb into my car, and I mask my face on my way to school. I may be happy, but I’m like a hermit crab living in a shell. I know what I am, do you? I’m not weird, I’m still one of you. Yet you don’t seem to see that, to you I am a black cat. I wear two different faces, one for the world, and one that no one sees. I have two different tastes, there are two different me’s.

poem by Wiliam Samuelson art by Gretchen Kerr

Watchman I.

Goodbye, said the Watchman as the sickly night had passed the sinister saying sugar man felt the darkness fall at last. The lampost shone down vacant lane and helped him find the thousand ways of disputing the proper ambition. Sad eviction. In those days, he put himself in precarious position.

II.

The Watchman had a life eye to eye saw golden white and some saw red and ran him from his own bed. Blood is never easy. Its dull and red and hard to spread in darkness. Sad in Silk. Love is never easy street! Golden white encasing the lunatic silver mood It’s very unlikely he’ll be out in the streets out in the town..? That’s unlikely

poem by Katlyn Shaw art by Phoenix Folger

London People on a Train This story will not be interesting nor controversial. I may be brash, but I prefer to set up people’s expectations accurately. After another monotonous day, I clambered back into the train station. The dim lighting suited me better than the brash fluorescent light I am so accustomed of working under. My metro card was neither pristine nor battered, just a simple piece of plastic, so don’t go looking here for deep and dark secret symbols to psychoanalyze me. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I kept my head bowed as I traced back my usual route to the evening train, making sure to avoid the pitiful stares of the beggars. I will already have my wife nagging me and I cherish this time alone. The train glided onto the tracks and I waited the polite duration of time to allow the rest of them to leave the train. I walked over to my regular spot by the railing so I am able to use the bar as an armrest, my doctors says I’m starting to show signs of carpal tunnel. I try to save a spot for my briefcase on the seat adjacent to me but a twenty something girl chose to sit there. Perfect. Instead I lay my belongings between my feet, so I’m able to constantly feel my bag brushing against my dress socks. Better that way so I know another crazy train rat isn’t going to steal my belongings. Last time that sent me back weeks at work me created a real pain in the ass for me. This girl seems to have no problem splaying her sweaters and some kind of skunk bag across her lap, which thankfully is covered. The girls these days are comfortable with themselves, let’s just

story by Chloe Planche art by Jake Steinberg

leave it at that. She’s putting on that black crap on her eyes, even with my two girls at home I still can’t remember the name of all those products. Or I choose not to. Either way her elbow is digging into my side and starting to piss me off. My wife says I need to channel my anger differently so I guess it’ll be a lot of heavy breathing until I figure that out. At least the guy next to me is behaving properly, that girl could take a leaf out of his book. He has one of those weekly cliches best sellers splayed open. It’s nice to see real paper for a change. It’s refreshing. I guess that puts me with my newspaper and this gentleman in the same group which is slightly embarrassing. I do feel oddly comforted at the fact that we both have the same blue and green weekly pill bottle. As I try to subtly lean over and we if we both take the oval shaped cholesterol pill, the train rattles slightly and we begin our ride home. I try my best to cram in the articles I know I will have no time to read at home. It’s not that the house will be too loud or too hectic, it’s just I feel my wife’s eyes searing across the dinner table as I read at the paper. As if there’s anything wrong with my minding my business and educating myself on current news. It’s not like I’m watching those brain zapping reality shows. At least I’m present. My Dad never was, and you didn’t see anyone ever fuss over it. Look at me, talking to you like I’m in some kind of therapy session. Look, I’m just a man, on my way home, and I don’t need to explain anything to you.

art by Gretchen Kerr 58

Rio Americano High School 4540 American River Drive Sacramento, California 95864