Letter from the Editor
Dear Reader,
I am pleased to present you with this edition of the Wildflower, which is unique in that it is a revival. Beginning circa 1970, but fading away after 2002, the student-produced literary and arts magazine, Wildflower, showcased the creativity of Temple High School collectively. It enabled students to express themselves without the pressure of instruction, appreciating the beauty of written and visual works that would otherwise not encounter an audience in more mainstream publications. It also fostered a sense of community, not only for those who submitted but also for those in the extracurricular club. The magazine is meaningful; its revival here should focus on keeping this impact alive in our Wildcat community.
Under the supervision of Mrs. Laura Betik, an editorial staff of high schoolers was created to develop the club. I am grateful for her and the new and deeper friendships made within the team. Brainstorming, then implementing ideas together show the value teamwork possesses. I can undoubtedly speak for every member on the team that our first year of operation, the 2022-23 school year, has been a fun journey. We hope the Wildflower served as a potential outlet, simultaneously uniting individual identities to form common ground we never knew existed.
Sincerely,
Kathryn Jie Editor-in-Chief Class of 2023
Welcome
Editors
Kathryn Jie ('23) — Editor-in-Chief
Miles Gaunt ('23) — Fiction
Mekena McVean ('23) — Nonfiction
Angel Santiago ('23) — Poetry
Keion Grant ('23) — Visual Arts
Laura Betik — Faculty Advisor
Managers
Jeremy Carrera ('23) — Submissions
Samuel Maxson ('23) — Business
Carmel Ankrom ('23) — Publicity
Mya Davenport ('23) — Publicity
Staff
Josephine Craig ('24) — Assistant Business Manager & Layout
Rima Sikka ('24) — Poetry Selection Committees
Simeon Tollerson ('24) — Fiction Selection Committee & Layout
Genevieve Allen ('25) — Fiction Selection Committee & Layout
Julianna Morris ('25) — Fiction Selection Committee & Layout
Rania Ahmed ('25) — Fiction Selection Committee & Layout
Jade Fritz ('26) — Nonfiction Selection Committee
Nevaeh Tobe ('26) — Poetry Selection Committee & Layout
Ballad of the Caretaker // Ivan Lopez-Andrado '25
To A Kid Who Loves Stars // Sadie Lopez '24
Power of Will // Josephine Craig '24
Hide and Seek // AnnaSofia Garcia '24
He Is Rain // Destiny Corner '26
The Past Is A Vacant Curve Ball // Claire Little '24
Hope Is A Sad Trophy // Tyrell Williams '24
What It Was // Miles Gaunt '23
In Another Life // Jade Fritz '26
The World Is Run by Bees // David Petrarca '24
A Hidden Wife's Revenge // Ariana Delgado-Ruiz '23
There Is No Cell 47 // Ezra Perez '23
Tiny Little Boxes // Ayla-Marie Book '23
A Prayer of Hope // Claire Little '24
Headlights // Sadie Lopez '24
Anxiety // Sadie Lopez '24
Los Caminos de la Vida No Son lo Que Yo Pensaba // Fernanda De La Garza '23
'23
Deltas // Daviannie Tirado-Alejandro '24
The Complexity of Life // Erick Lemus '23
Finding Faith // Alexis Cowan '23
Labyrinth // Adrian Padula '23
Beautiful is Boring // Taylor Heisterberg '24
Inner Voice // Jennifer Kennedy '24
Null and Void // Keion Grant '23
Serene // Ayla-Marie Book '23
The Red Bird of Paradise // Kathryn Jie '23
Untitled // Kathryn Jie '23
Alone // Kathryn Jie '23
Valley of Eklutna // Berkey Powell '23
Ocean // Carmel Ankrom '23
Girl in the Bubble // Ayla-Marie Book '23
Heartache // Ayla-Marie Book '23
The Ancient Elephant // Juan Tijerina '23
Amanita Muscaria // Kierra Jenkins '23
3rd Person Comfort // Emily Perkins '23
Random Piece // Michael Baggett '23
// Sadie Lopez '24
// Marshall Thomas '23
Flowers // Keion Grant '23
THE WORLD IS RUN BY BEES
David Petrarca '24
Believe it or not, the world is run by bees. You have no faith in it, do you? How often do you see a beehive on your front porch, or just conveniently placed in a corner? It is from corners that you are afforded the most shade with the most visibility--they’re watching us, all of us, from their shady corners. They pray and hope we don’t find them, and when we do, then the big boys come out. Bees, by the dozens, go around and steal DNA from off of flowers to conduct their research on how to raise the ALL-FATHER from his slumber, and when their surveillance equipment is discovered, they know. They don’t act immediately though, no no no, if they maintain an appearance of weakness, then they’re not an issue. But they are too; they are absolutely an issue, and when you go take down their evil surveillance cameras then the BEES come in and sting you, filling your blood with their vile, rotten nanomachines.
That sounds inanely, rather, insanely absurd Can you tell why though? Sure YOU know that bees gather POLLEN from flowers and inject people with VENOM and not nanomachines. Beehives are the homes of bees and not cameras, but you know that. You could never guess what happens in a beehive just by looking at it your eyes aren’t magic, you can’t see through solid matter. If you knew how small technology could get, but not anything about bees, you’d think that all those little weird guys who sting you for only seconds later, a lump appears those little weird guys who land on flowers and pick up yellow powder, those little weird guys who climb inside the little cone in the corner of your porch, the one with plenty of little slits in it that you could see out of but not in to, you’d think they were up to something sinister.
Given the lack of information, assumptions form, there’s no choice but to. If I told you my sister was friends with a dentist and me and her got married, you might believe I was married to my sister, or married to my dentist, when in actuality I’m talking about my loving wife Her Jefferson whom I married last fall. A conspiracy theory is just an assumption on a much broader scale. So many people live life with things that don’t make sense, gaps in information that you could see out of but not into, and they have no choice but to either not think or speculate. They can’t live without curiosity or they can’t live with the answer they most suspect, so they speculate and speculate until it makes sense to them. They speculate until the world is the one they predict, a world in which everything makes sense.
Although, a world that makes sense is practically impossible.
The endless speculation leads to panic and fear, and panic and fear bring about more gaps in information, dissonance between people's interpretations of life and reality, and those gaps in information that you could see out of, but not in to, force you to assume what’s inside; they force you to assume what’s lying within the gaps. And instead of staring at the beehive of information, you stare into the darkness and try to make sense of what that endless darkness could mean, until it starts to look like the lens of a camera.
So believe it or not, but bees run the world they control all our infrastructure and make sure we stay in line. They’re workers taking up all the information in the world so they can feed it to their almighty leader, whoever that is, since there’s always someone beneath the mask.
You can doubt me, call me a fool, but I’ll never give in. So, I’m just gonna keep eating honey and tearing down beehives in hopes that the almighty Bee in the Sky never wakes from his slumber and hurts the people I care about again.
S e r e n e , Ayla-Marie Book '23
A HIDDEN WIFE'S REVENGE
Ariana Delgado-Ruiz '23
The maids of Thornfield often gossip, and they do so awfully loud, it is the only way I am able to keep up to date with the happenings in the manor. The first time I heard the name Jane was when the maids were all gossiping about this new governess for the child. For a while, I only heard good things about this ‘Jane’. Apparently, she is a good teacher and influence for the child. From the maids, I had heard that my husband had taken quite a liking to the girl. I personally don’t know what he sees in the girl, but then again I have never seen her, just heard rumors about her. Jane seems like an alright person; I just don’t like Edward's behavior toward her; he’s awfully close to her. I feel as though he is being unfaithful to our marriage, yet again. How else would you, reader, know how the child, Adele, came to be? I thought he had loved me, I thought I was the only woman he would, and should love. I found out from the maid, Mrs. Pool, that they ought to be married. Miss Jane and Edward Rochester. I was furious. So the next time Mrs. Pool would drown her sorrows with the bitter taste of liquor, I would sneak my way to Miss Jane’s room to pay her a visit. It really wasn’t that hard to escape; all you had to do was be patient. Unfortunately, when I arrived she was already asleep-- not so peacefully though. She was tossing and turning, her face contorting in fear, like she was having an unpleasant dream. I looked around and found a box with a wedding dress. The rumors were true; he really was attempting to marry the girl. I was furious. I picked up the veil from the box, and heard stirring coming from her bed. I ripped the veil in half. I turned to look at her. Her face was ghostly white. She looked absolutely terrified, good.
T u r n i n g , Sadie Lopez '24
THERE IS NO CELL 47
Ezra Perez '23, Written Work Winner of
It was a cold summer day in the state of Wyoming. At exactly 7:06 pm on a Tuesday, college graduate and car salesman Felix Lopez were suspected of murder. He was an average-sized man, but was oddly skinny and always had a face that showed he lacked empathy for those around him. He had no family, no friends, and was completely single. The evidence was stacked against him. At least 7 witnesses were able to point him out as the murderer. The weapon was found in his home, covered in the victim's blood and his fingerprints. Throughout the whole trial, he made no change in his facial expression His eyes showed nothing, but a lack of remorse for what he had done. Still, he fought tooth and nail that he was innocent. Somehow the judge decided to let him off easy, or at least that’s how it had seemed. He was sentenced to 15 years with a chance of probation. The court erupted in rage over the judges ruling. Finally, Felix had changed his expression to that of a large grin.
“Prisoner FE40536, Felix Lopez, as of the court ruling you are to have no contact with the outside world, you will be given three free meals a day, and you will not be given any cutlery or utensils, and finally, you will be staying here in cell 47.”, a prison guard shouted as he escorted Felix down the hall. The other prisoners refused to look him in the eye. He could tell that word had already spread of what he had done. “Do I get a roommate?”, Felix asked while chuckling. Without realizing the prison guard had already begun to walk away, refusing to answer any of Felix's questions. Felix’s brow furrowed in obvious frustration from the refusal of his questions being answered. Felix laid down in the small cot in his room. He closed his eyes and tried to drift off into sleep before being interrupted by a strange whispering.
the Winter Bloom Contest
“Heeeyyy... Heeeyyy...” the voice whispered. Felix opened his eyes in search of what was keeping him up. From the corner of the cell, he saw a small man reaching in through the bars desperately trying to get his attention.
The small man’s face showed an expression of relief knowing that he had Felix’s attention.
“There is no cell 47!” He mumbled loudly.
“What do you mean?” Felix asked.
“There is NO cell 47!”
“Then where am I right now?!” Felix again replied with more frustration.
“You’re in danger! There is no cell 47!” He said once again
Felix began to blink in confusion, and before he knew it, he was asleep opening his eyes to the morning.
A crowd rushed by heading downstairs. As Felix rubbed his eyes he realized it was time for breakfast. As he walked out of his cell and began to start walking towards the stairs, his feet began to slide backward. Every step he took would slide him back as if he was on a treadmill. He panicked while looking down and began to shout in frustration. “HELP!” He shouted until someone bumped into him shoving him out of the way. He looked back towards the ground where he began to slide thinking that it had all been in his head. He followed the man to the stairs and then while looking back at his cell he bumped into the rail. He thought he had made it to the stairs until he realized there weren’t any stairs anymore. He began searching wildly hoping to find some set of stairs. He refused to go back because of the previous event and chose to instead jump down off the railing to the cafeteria. He landed fine until fumbling into a table. "Hey, use the stairs like a normal person! Get back to your cell!” A guard shouted at him while ushering him backward.
He took a step back not understanding what was happening until hitting his head in what was behind him. He looked back only to discover it was the set of stairs that had disappeared.
Felix now sat only in his shut cell beginning to question his sanity. His head sat in his hands as he began to wonder. “Does this have to do with what that small man said? Is there something wrong with me or is there something wrong with this prison?!” Once he finally raised his head he looked around to notice the room looked as if it was shrinking and growing. Going in and out as if it was breathing. Felix began to gasp for air before beginning to shout out loud and reach out from his cell. “HELP! THE CELL, IT’S ALIVE! GET ME OUT OF HERE!” He kept shouting until a guard showed up and smacked his arm with a baton. He panicked while looking down and began to shout in frustration. “HELP!” He shouted until someone bumped into him shoving him out of the way. He looked back towards the ground where he began to slide thinking that it had all been in his head. He followed the man to the stairs and then while looking back at his cell he bumped into the rail. He thought he had made it to the stairs until he realized there weren’t any stairs anymore. He began searching wildly hoping to find some set of stairs. That’s when he noticed a set of stairs in front of his cell. He refused to go back because of the previous event and chose to instead jump down off the railing to the cafeteria. He landed fine until fumbling into a table. The guard escorted him out until dawn. He thought that maybe having nothing to eat might have been messing with his hand He went back to his cell to lie down for the night. That’s when he noticed a set of stairs in front of his cell. As he drifted off into sleep he began breathing more and more heavily. The bed began to sink, quickly followed by Felix’s limp body. His eyes snapped awake before he could realize what was happening and he began once again to scream. Nothing in particular, just general screaming hoping to get anyone’s attention. A guard showed up finally banging on
the cell door. A guard showed up finally banging on the cell door. Felix stood up to see the room was completely back to normal.
Felix’s eyes darted back and forth across the room in hopes to come to some understanding of what was happening. The room went silent as the guard began screaming at him. He couldn’t make out anything the guard was saying. Suddenly he began to drag him out of the room. The only word Felix could make out from what the guard was saying was “solitary.” That was enough to calm Felix once again. Finally he would be free from his cell. Then the guard turned the corner and all Felix could see was a cell numbered “47.” He began to panic and broke free from the guards grasp and tried to run. Every corner he turned would return him to his cell. He tried over and over again, but the guards caught up with him. They raised him up as he thrashed out in a panic. Finally, he was thrown back into the cell Before he knew it the door had closed and guards had disappeared. The concrete around him began to melt over the cell door making a fourth wall. “I told you there is no cell 47!” A voice cackled from the corner of the room. Felix turned around to see the small man from earlier, except he was pale and limp. The voice continued to cackle, but the small man’s mouth refused to move. The body fell over as if it was a puppet, but the cackling continued to grow louder and louder. Tears grew from Felix’s eyes as laid against the wall and fell down crying. He had no clue what was happening. Could this be a death sentence, a possession, or a trick of the mind. It didn’t matter anymore as he finally gave up. The floor began to swallow him again as it did before This was Felix’s punishment for his way of life. A cruel end to a cruel man.
BALLAD OF THE CARETAKER
Ivan Lopez-Andrado '25
Come to me, dear family and friends, I will not allow you to meet your ends. Lend me all your troubles and sorrows, And I will forge them into a new tomorrow. Rest your weary heads now in my garden, And I shall release you of your burdens. Worry not om my troubles and sorrows, For your pity is not for me to borrow.
I will be the shoulder you can cry on, The unbreakable tower you can stand upon I can assure your cup will never empty, And if needed, your chariot ready. Your belly will never again rumble, I will not permit your soul to crumble. Do not worry if you see me in pain, For it won’t be the first time this cat sees rain.
TINY LITTLE BOXES
ADVERSITY AND FINDING IDENTITY WHILE BEING A MIXED, MILITARY CHILD
Ayla-Marie Book '23
“What is your race? Please check one."
To some, this question may seem quite harmless, but for a little, mixed-race girl in third grade, this was the most difficult question I had ever faced in my life. I was never one to fit into a box growing up, never enough to fit into just one category, never around long enough to find a place in the world. I struggled with my identity all my life as a child, with my eyes sleeked thin and my hair dark, full, and curled, freckles coating my skin like sand, all while never being able to truly call any place my hometown.
Being a person of color in America may cause others to ask, "What are you?" Well, I'm the daughter of a mixed, army veteran father, and an educated, indigenous mother, and the eldest sibling of three. I'm an artist, and an average American high school student. I am Ayla-Marie Book, but that's never what they meant. They cared about what my skin and demographics said over what I had to bring to the conversation as an individual, to them I was just a statistic. Which then brought on the spiel, “I’m Native American, Hawaiian, Maori, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, German, Irish, and African American.” I would get very puzzled looks as people would try to pick away my features with their minds, trying to visualize my race in my bodily form. Society attempts to force me into these tiny little boxes but that's just the dilemma, I will never fit into just one.
Growing up in a military family was never just welcome home posters and American flags for me, it was sacrifice and resilience, moving around too often to settle, having a parent who was rarely physically present and emotionally absent, truly never having a chance to fit in with kids my age. I struggled all through my childhood feeling like I was never enough for anything. I never looked the same as the other little kids my age. I spoke differently from the kids I grew up with, no matter where I ended up after we moved. Growing up with a military parent tends to shadow their children. I was raised to speak properly, have military-precision manners, and mature quicker than the kids my age. I stood out amongst others and I hated this for years. I hated my entire being just for how I looked and spoke. That was until I truly realized the power behind my lineage.
When I was just 14 years old, my mother sat me down and she explained to me about just how much power I, Ayla-Marie Book, carried within myself, and the profoundly powerful lineage I come from. In that moment, instead of hating my skin and features, I learned to embrace the culture that created me. I will never fit into a tiny little box, and I am proud that I won’t. My inability to fit into this boxed, formed me into the woman I am now. I have worth, I have knowledge, and I am more than just a statistic. I am Ayla-Marie Michi Pomaika’i Book
T
, Erick Lemus
A PRAYER OF HOPE
Cl i Littl '24
Dear Lord,
Mama told me to write down my prayers when I have something great to ask, and what I'm asking for is a hefty amount. Some say that York, South Carolina is a tourist attraction for small town gossip, and I definitely got to find the truth of that, so I pray you’ll listen to my humble prayer.
Lord, I’ve always grown up with Mama, Brother Ernie, and Brother Sammy Ernie was Mama’s first son, who came in 1961, whereas I was the youngest, born in the great year of 1970. An age gap that big changed my family’s dynamic, and Ernie acted like a daddy to me. I remember coming home in second grade with a simple block of wood, and 4 wheels. I was told to go home to my daddy, and tell him to help me make a Pinewood Derby Car Of course, me being fatherless, had no idea what to do, but Ernie jumped in and did what he could. Once finished, the car was beautiful, and Ernie took a step back and sighed, “We did good, George. Now we can beat all those boys". There was silence after that remark. Ernie was the only person who knew about my situation regarding men. I liked it when it was that way, but I now have lost that privilege.
Mama was always so observant. She could tell a cat from a squirrel in the forest just from the sound of crinkling leaves as it walked by
November 3, 1987
One day she sat me down after one of my brother's baseball games and stated. "The boys look to be having a good season." As I heard that, the hairs on my neck straightened up, and I could feel her watch for my reaction. I slowly gulped and started my confession, tracing every reaction of hers with precision. After my rant was done, I was dumb enough to expect empathy from Mama. In her defense, she is the kindest woman I know, but also one that will not let anything come between her and you, Lord. She insisted I saw Pastor Willis that day, and so I went.
When I saw the Pastor I knew Mama called ahead, for his hands were full of two things: a Bible and a pamphlet titled, “Sex or Heaven: A Guide for Homosexuals”. I tried to lightheartedly comment on the catchiness of the pamphlet, but the Pastor reminded me that this was a serious conversation. Lord, I was so confused on how a man who preached love could preach against good people. He didn’t stop with the stern conversation, for I heard him talking to my Mama. He said, “A man who favors men cannot be allowed in a house of God.” I was stunned to hear that message, but even more stunned to hear my Mama say, “And there ain’t no man who lives in my house who doesn’t also belong in the house of God.”
h , Alexis Cowan '23
After their remarks, I struggled, and I know you received quite a lot of prayers from me in that time. The news quickly traveled from pastor to bus driver to grocery clerk and onward. I was kicked off the baseball team due to enough parents arguing that they would not let their sons play with a freak like me While breaking the news to me, the principal attempted to comfort me by saying, “Now you might have more time to take some long walks.”; believe it or not, Jesus, a new walking hobby is not what I needed. I needed to not be pushed out by the community.
Yes, I had an urge to be accepted and normal, but I did not turn away from the way I was feeling. I believe that lying about who I was could be just as bad as angering the church. I even tried to go on a date with a boy a town over. He drove over and we ate at a little pizza place about a mile from my house. We were enjoying our night together, but the gazes that ostracized us from the rest of the joint made connecting difficult. After our meal, we started to find a private area to say our goodbyes. We ended up saying goodnight by the streetlight that cornered Marlin Road and Atkins Street, just on the edge of York. I didn’t ever see that boy again, but he made a lasting impact on my life, which I later learned to be grateful for.
This impact that I speak of, is the ultimate uprising of Mama. One of her friends from work saw my date and made sure to tell her. I wasn’t honest with Mama about my whereabouts that night. Until she heard where I really was she was under the impression I was going to try to change after my conversation with the Pastor. Nonetheless, I did not commit the sin of lying, Father; she just made the error of assuming. Error or not, Mama was done with my lifestyle This was when she put into action what she discussed with the Pastor earlier. “You will be changed or you will be gone, and there’s no changing of my mind.”, she said this with not a single tear in her eye. I knew that there was no way out of this situation, and so I chose to leave.
The next day I left on the 9 o'clock train out of York, South Carolina. Not a single goodbye cry, hug, or letter from my small town. Instead I am granted freedom. The freedom to choose who to love, and to love deeply. Lord, I hope you take this prayer, and use it as a guide for others That their hearts will be filled with the empathy I never received. Only you carry the power so strong to stop this, and I know you will.
In your name, amen,
George Michael
L a b y r i n t h , Adrian
Padula '23
B
, Taylor Heisterberg '24
TO A KID WHO LOVES STARS
Sadie Lopez '24
To the kid who loves stars,
Someday you will grow so tall that you can see over the clouds you once dreamed to touch. You will reach up and pluck them right out of the sky because you want to know if they taste like cotton candy. Your curiosity becomes you.
Someday you will dance and sing for crowds, songs so lovely you will get lost in their enchanting melodies. You will spin and sway and belt because your world shines brighter when it's filled with music. Your passion becomes you.
Someday you will find someone who loves you, although not as much as I.
You will want to spend your life with them because they make you feel those crazy emotions we only joked about. Your admiration becomes you.
Someday you will see the dark side of humanity and try to run from it.
You will cry and kick and scream – it is a cruel, vicious world –but we will be here to drive away the fog. Your strength becomes you.
To you, someday will come at a snail’s pace
To me, you’ll sprout up like a daisy from the Earth. You become your own.
All I can do is watch as you paint yourself in a new light. Your views will shift and your mind expand, but deep down you will want to go back,
To the kid who loves stars
Jennifer Kennedy '24
POWER OF WILL
Josephine
Craig '24
Happiness is a broken promise.
The things like butterflies and child’s laughter and a sunrise.
All is temporary.
Innocence is a desperate plea.
Fighting through hatred and injustice.
Feelings of being abandoned by one’s own home.
Home, with brown eyes and a beautiful smile or Home, where the lake glimmered at night.
Joy in the body of a god or Joy in the chirping of birds.
The pastels painted above you until the glinting of stars overhead.
Racing unimagined worlds and unspoken monologues.
True happiness is never truly occurring, it’s fabricated.
The short moments of relief or silence.
Allowing the home to comfort you.
The words to be soothing to your soul.
All the moments you needed were created by you.
Imagining a life with butterflies, and stars, and laughter.
Until it all goes to reality again and you see
No brown eyes, no pretty smiles, and no laughter.
The reality is always the silent killer.
Meant to break a soul. Or create it.
HEADLIGHTS
Sadie Lopez '24
High school parties are never as fun as they seem on TV. I don’t know why, but watching a group of drunk, underaged idiots shouting at equally drunk and underaged idiots just wasn’t my ideal entertainment.
I knew for a fact that it wasn’t Jess’s, either.
Jessica Lana Foreman and I had been best friends for as long as I can remember - long enough that we took baths together as kids and it wasn’t weird. We knew everything about each other, from our favorite episodes of our favorite show to what college we wanted to go to. (We planned on applying to Harvard that fall.)
That’s how I know Eli had pressured her into going that night Eli Price, Jess’s boyfriend of five years, was the kind of guy you could proudly take to meet your parents and not have to worry about him saying something embarrassingly stupid. She had told me before that she planned on moving away with him, after she finished school, of course. Jess wanted to make it big as a lawyer so she could ‘give her parents the life they deserved’.
She was a dreamer, sure, but she knew how to fight for what she believed in. She was the kind of girl that lovesick idiots write songs about: strong, beautiful, brilliant, funny.
But dumb enough to get in the car with him. Eli threw parties for everything: sports events, holidays, birthdays. Jess even joked that he threw a party to celebrate his dog’s adoption day. I had gone to a few with her, but we often ended up in Eli’s room studying for the next test or sitting in a corner catching up on each other’s drama.
I noticed she had been quieter than normal that Friday, which I assumed was stress on account of semester exams coming up It wasn’t until the night of the party that I heard she and Eli had fought The occasional stupid argument wasn’t out of the ordinary, so I didn’t think anything of it She had asked me to go to the party with her, which I guess was her way of asking me to be her backup in case things went wrong. I remember walking in with her and clinging to her for about ten minutes before she was swept away like a loose pebble tossed into the vast ocean. I held her emerald eyes in mine for a beat and then ... and then she was gone. It was the last time I ever saw her.
When I heard about the accident, I came up with a thousand different excuses that would rid me of guilt. You weren’t driving. Eli was. He swerved the car, it’s his fault, not yours. There was a part of me that wanted it to be true - that tried to accept I had nothing to do with
my best friend’s brain hemorrhaging - but I couldn’t lie to myself. Everyone at that party was to blame. Drinks were being passed around all night and somehow Jess got her hands on one. How she ended up downing a dozen shots and passing out in the bathtub was beyond me, but she must have had some semblance of sobriety to ask for a ride home. That being said, I can’t help but think I should have been there. I shouldn’t have let her go alone.
“Hey.”
Eli had approached me during lunch. It was the day after the incident and word spread like wildfire of Jess’s death The three of us had a few classes together, but Jess usually made sure I never felt like a third wheel That only made it more awkward when we were left alone.
“Hi,” I paused, trying my best to push down the memories that flooded my mind like a tsunami, “I didn’t think you would come.”
“I didn’t think you would either,” Eli spoke quietly as if our conversation was taboo. His strangely empty hands, usually seen holding Jess’s, were buried in his pockets. We never talked without her there.
“How are you?” I asked instinctively. I was uncertain of whether or not I actually cared. Did his health matter in the grand scheme of things?
Eli shrugged, glancing down at the arm sling hung around his neck, “My wrist is broken, but it doesn’t hurt. My mom made sure I had plenty of that pain management stuff.”
“Pills,” I corrected without looking his way, “You’ll be out for the homecoming game.” It was more of a statement than a question
“Yeah, I guess so,” he sighed There was a minute of awkward silence that lingered between us before he spoke again, “Kinsley, do you do you blame me?” I let my spoon full of crappy school lasagna fall back onto my tray and finally turned to face him.
“I blame your faulty brakes. I blame the other car. I blame slippery roads. I blame everyone but you. Is that what you want to hear?” I snapped, brows furrowing with bubbling agitation. Eli’s eyes scanned my face, most likely looking for any sign that I was joking. His lips pursed into a fine line.
“The cops want a list of everyone at the party. I’m giving them one.”
In the time it took me to process what he had said, he had already moved several feet away from the table. I jumped up and grabbed his sleeve with an
anxious fervor and tugged on it to keep him in place
“Are you serious?” I asked with hushed urgency, not wanting to draw attention but unable to hide my growing fear Not good Not good Not good
“Of course I am, Kins. I loved Jess, why wouldn’t I cooperate?”
“Because you wouldn’t be the only one getting arrested!” I raised my voice now, earning a few startled looks from our peers. I tightened my grip on Eli’s shoulder, “If I get something like this put on my record, I - I’ll be kicked off the soccer team. Without that scholarship, how am I supposed to go to college? My mom can’t afford it, Eli!”
"Why should we get to go on with our lives when Jess doesn’t?” his voice cracked. It wasn’t until how that I realized how red and puffy his eyes were. My best friend was dead because of him and he had the nerve to sit and cry to me about second chances. Pathetic, really.
“How do you expect to move on when everyone in town knows about how you drove her home drunk and arguing? People talk Some of them say you swerved on purpose and I don’t know whether to believe them or not,” I hissed and finally let go of his arm The tension radiated from our heated glares like an angry red aura, a current of electric suspense sparking between us.
“I’m going to the police tonight, Kins. I want justice for Jess, even if it was my fault.” Without another word, he stormed off.
“God, you are insufferable!” I shouted to his ading form. I grabbed my bag and abandoned my tray at the table I used to share with my best and oldest friend. She wasn’t there to offer me words of comfort or to make a joke about how Eli was a hothead who usually meant well. It was just me and my spiraling thoughts, crouched in the corner of the (thankfully) empty girls' bathroom.
I loved Jess. She was a shining star in the inky dark sky that was our tiny hometown. I loved her, but I had to look past her death. I knew she always wanted what was best for me, and I would never get into Harvard or any school for that matter if I was involved in a disaster like this She’d understand
Something had to be done
I was the only one with the guts to do it
Eli wouldn’t be able to practice on account of his injury, but he would still be forced to suffer through their ‘Mile-run Mondays’ if my memory served right. Jess used to complain about him not showering after and filling her car with his sweaty smell. Track plus an adamant coach meant his phone would be left in the locker room for at least an hour. That was more than enough time.
After school, I texted my mom that I’d be staying a while to get some extra practice in, then threw my phone in my locker to give me an alibi in case this whole thing went south I was grateful to all those true crime TV shows I used to binge for preparing me for my upcoming life of crime.
“Jess would want you to be happy,” I repeated myself for the entire walk to the locker room. Fortunately, our school wasn’t funded enough to care about the broken camera in the hallway, which left me with the perfect opportunity to sneak in. Without making a sound, I found Eli’s locker, grabbed his phone, and ran.
I don’t remember if I stopped running before I reached the old Mill Street bridge, but that was the moment when I realised how out of breath I was. The crisp afternoon air stung my nose and burned my lungs.
Ignoring all second thoughts, I continued to put Eli’s birthday in for his password. It only took a few minutes of digging to find the guest list and I didn’t hesitate in deleting my name and permanently erasing all pictures of the party that included so much as my blurry arm
Why are you doing this?
Because I have no other choice
I could have just deleted the evidence of my attendance and left the phone in the locker room, but I need to be sure – needed to be absolutely certain – that Eli wouldn’t ruin everything I worked for.
I took a second to stare at the picture of Eli and Jess that was set as his wallpaper. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and he held her at her waist, the two staring into one another's eyes. I remember that day vividly. Eli had just won his first game and they wanted a picture to commemorate the occasion. I took that picture.
I brought my hand up to my cheek, feeling the warm tears running down my face. When did I start to cry? I wiped my face dry with my sleeve and took a deep breath before chucking the phone with all of my strength. There were a few seconds of uneasy silence before a small splash told me I had gotten what I wanted Jess would have done the same thing, right?
In some weird way, I felt bad for Eli’s phone, now at the bottom of the lake; drowning in someone else’s mistake and regret. How dismally ironic.
HIDE AND SEEK
AnnaSofia Garcia '24
A children's game
The game we grew very fond of
We sneakily tip-toed behind the brutally worn in brown sofa
We sit quiet - anxiously waiting for our friend’s laughter to appear
Bursting in joy as we are staring face to face with our seeker
We are delighted to be found
Adolescence comes quickly
And the game we grew oh-so found of becomes real
We continue to quietly hide
Hiding behind expensively made makeup, outlandishly brave clothing, and hurtful words
But what are we now hiding from?
We no longer happily wait for our childhood foes to run to us
Now we wait to be submerged into defeat, pressure, and depression
We sit and sulk as we know what is coming
We can try to run but the quicksand beneath us seems to own the deeper hold
The game we once indulged happily in, has changed
We try everything to not get caught
Loosening our minds, bodies, and souls to find cover
But no one can ever seem to dodge the bullet
The bullet leaving us drowned in our bleeding thoughts
A children's game?
Not so much
HE IS RAIN
Destiny Corner '26
The rain can be gentle sometimes And sweet in the moment
he cries when i can't to show me that i'm not weak
he hugs me when i'm alone
he helps me feel something when i go numb,
But then again the rain could be a pain
he confines me in cold when i want to be warm
he is a bit sassy and only comes when he decides to he pities me because he knows my pain
he leaves as fast as he comes and always making a disarray though you got to love the rain
he's doesn’t judge but listens to my problems and gives me great comfort
Thank you rain
THE PAST IS A VACANT CURVE BALL
Claire Little '24
Memories flow in And present darkness fades
The twist and turns of youth
Have become settle reminders of simpler times
My nostalgia grows as trials arise
It is as if the adolescent curveballs Don't even compare to the monsters of life
I continue to try to walk in a line
But my path coils
HOPE IS A SAD TROPHY
Tyrell Williams '24
Hope is a sad trophy
It sits on your shelf and waits
Waits to be picked up and thrown away
Thrown away by reality and its undeniable truths
Truths that you wish didn’t exist or a lie
A lie that would save you from reality
A reality you wish you could change or at least have more hope
Hope is a sad trophy
Sadie Lopez '24
WHAT IT WAS
Miles Gaunt '23
It was left for us like a Christmas present puppy, Or a pipe bomb.
Sitting in the dark classroom on the whiteboard for God knows how many hours, Waiting to carry out its mission. When finally the keys jiggled in the lock, And a swarm of students came in, talking about lunch And class And the day
One of us spotted it, And we saw their reaction long before what had provoked it. His eyes, once tired and bored, popped open And his mouth fell in one swoop like a collapsing staircase.
Then he shrieked and laughed, and Pandora's box had been opened, And none could put the demon back in the bottle.
We all saw it, and within the moment We were swarming to it like cockroaches on flesh, Like beggars pulling at the hems of a rich man. Nobody could take their eyes off it. The Ancient Elephant,
Taking in every detail, whether they wanted to or not, A cultural revolution.
There were copycats and knockoffs for a long while afterwards, But they bowed to a higher pedestal.
Adults rushed in and tried to restore order, Already seeing the uselessness. It was shocking and scandalous, And as students were shoved aside for a better look, None could deny it was art.
It was Michelangelo's David, Warhol's Monroe, A corpse on the street, An unexpected scene in a movie You watched with your parents as a family.
It transcends art so, I cannot even describe it in good taste. Only that it was drawn in blue marker, It had a long bit, And a short bit,
And that the cartoon's eyes drifted a little too far apa
But even Mozart made mistakes.
When it was brought to its death, It was swift And brutal
An dry-eraser was dragged across its face, Carving a line of pure white between the offset eyes.
It was mourned and grieved for, With a sense of irony (God forbid a teenager care) But it had done its job.
Classes resumed, And discussion was forbidden.
But the student who first saw it went to bed that night A little lighter, and giggling to himself So it had done its job.
A m a n i t a M u s c a r i a Kierra Jenkins '23
G o l d e n F l o w e r s Keion Grant '23
IN ANOTHER LIFE
Jade Fritz '26
In another life maybe.
In another life I'd be in your arms once more. In another life we could’ve made it work. You would be right here, in daffodil twirls.
Films pooling in the background, energy spent; But we were all together and content.
Heads of messy brunette and dark locks sprawled across mountains of pillows.
Sea moss eyes, and warm caramel orbs sparkling a-too. I can still smell your scarlett shampoo. No capsules of lies polluting the air.
Laughs and euphoria would be there instead. In another life, this could be us.
You, me, him and her too...
But instead we got the truth. I can still hear your laugh.
Was that forced too?- I hope not, it was so beautiful; Just like your voice, your salty, caramel voice, your caramel eyes. I hope they find true peace in another life– where it’s more than just a fantasy.
I hope we see each other again someday, in another life, under different circumstances.
Where I don’t have to fall asleep for you to come find me. In another life maybe.
Sincerely, Your beloved daughters
LOS CAMINOS DE LA VIDA...
NO SON LO QUE YO PENSABA
BEING A NEWCOMER IMMIGRANT IN AMERICA
Fernanda De La Garza '23
Hearing the bell ring in second period, my Spanish class, which I consider my safe place due to the fact that I'm surrounded by Spanish and the environment of the classroom, with a smell like Mexican flowers, it hit me the realization of how much I missed my country of origin, my beginnings. Any change of environment, school or even friends can produce a huge reaction in anyone, and for me, having to change my whole life was one of the hardest challenges I've had to face. And after being born, raised, and educated in Mexico, living in the United States was an enormous challenge.
When people like me move from one country to another, and the two countries are so different from each other, like Mexico and the United States, there’s some things that will make us confused, and make it weird to adapt. The language is one of them, and it will be one of the hardest things an immigrant has to face. English is hard if we don’t know at least the basics, if we’re older, or if we don’t live around native English speakers. When I came here, I didn't know more than the basics of English education in Mexico, which are limited to the numbers, colors, and animals. In a future that involves talking, writing, and everything, that doesn't really help us a lot.
And for sure, my English got better; my accent is not too ugly to hear and my grammar got significantly better. But, the struggle never leaves my side; I never stop doubting the words that come out of my mouth, never stop double-checking a word, and I always feel left out when people who are native English speakers tell an inside joke about “American culture,” and I just don’t get it. It's hard, and I feel like I will never get rid of that feeling.
Furthermore, the people are really different. That's the thing with people: we all came from the same place and we live on the same continent, but that’s literally all the things we have in common that I can think of off the top of my head American people have a really different way of life and a different point of view than most of the Mexican people, and well, of the world.
The United States is a privilege. We all know that. Since I was born, I have always heard that if you live in “el otro lado,” the other side in English, which is meant as “the other side of the river”. In context means that you will be happy, that you will be rich and that you will have a much better life. As an example, a middle class person in Mexico can only afford a “vacation” destination in another
state within the country while a middle class person in the United States can afford to go to Canada or Mexico. Another example would be the extracurricular activities, like clubs, sports, and contests which in Mexico are a privilege to even have the money to afford them. And, myself being lower middle class, a lot of things Americans do, surprise me. For example, the English language, sometimes I wish I could do the same–afford a language teacher or afford a college prep tutor.
In addition, everything here is different. The air, the natural surroundings, the people, the way I always saw kids running around playing soccer, little kids going to the store on the corner with tortillas and a coca cola in their hands, the street vendors selling corn or chips, and even the old ladies that gossiped outside at their front gates those are the little things that stay inside of my heart; those warm, familiar and loved images from Mexico that no matter how much time passes, stay there, in my heart. My whole persona changed when I moved to the United States. From time to time, I check on myself, on how I feel about being in this place, and I realize I’m not the same person I was before. My thirteen year-old self would be so confused about the person I am now, but at the same time,
she would be happy and proud.
In conclusion, no matter which country I may move to, America or Canada, no matter how far I am from my roots in Mexico, no matter how distant I am from my dearest ones in my home country, I’ll never forget them. They will always have an enormous space in my heart–my new, American heart.
V a l l e y o
E
l u t n a , Berkey Powell '23
O c e a n , Carmel Ankrom '23
GREYSHELF
Keion Grant '23
In a tranquil manner the wind grazes over my bare arms, bringing a contrast to the never ending cascade of heat the sunlight carries. I've lost sense of time ever since the batteries in my watch went out yesterday, but just off the position of the sun it seems to be noon. The sky is completely clear today which isn't a common occurrence out here. Most of the time it's a blanket of gray clouds which bring with them an incessant drizzle of rain. The only thing not out of the ordinary is the comforting cool wind and the petrichor synonymous with the region.
Whilst searching for the map in my large bag, I begin to take a good survey of the scenery around me unending waterlogged sand flats as far as the eye can see. The sand in this region, nicknamed "Greysand", is a grayish gravel-like color and it stains your hands similar to lead. This is due to trace amounts of metals lying within making all the water here toxic to drink. Said toxicity results in no life residing here, and looking around reminds me I could possibly be the only breathing thing for miles. While looking at the landscape lying in the sun, it reflects the sun's rays in what appears to be a display of shimmering glass. This is my first time seeing the sand like this in the four days of being in Greyshelf It makes the place look serene despite how desolate it is.
Finally getting the map out of the depths of my bag, I take the time to make sure I'm going in the right direction by glancing over the landmarks I jotted down prior to coming out here. Looking around for one of the landmarks, a boulder, something else stood out more. Halfway buried in the sand rested a white metallic object. With interest taking me over, I decide to make my way towards the mysterious entity.
Upon arriving I notice the object is of a cylindrical shape with rounded edges a layer of white, gleaming hexagonal plates on the
exterior followed the contours of the cylinder. I have no idea how large it is due to only a small part being unburied. Wasting no time, I bring out my one handed shovel and start to dig through the wet sand. After about five minutes of tedious work, the object's true size is revealed. Laying in its pool of gray water, it looks to be about three feet tall, a little over half my height, and one foot wide. Attempting to drag it out of the hole, I soon realize moving this thing is out of my capabilities for now. It’s a shame as the trip to get here and back is about eight days or two days if I had a vehicle of sorts The wet, metal laced sand often makes walking or driving in Greyshelf quite slow. Burying the object back underneath the sand, I take a note of where it is on my map and continue on with a plan of coming back for the thing the next time I'm out here.
The sun continues to beat down on me whilst I resume the walk towards the boulder in the distance. Although the change of scenery is nice, the heat isn't. With time passing I begin longing for when the next wave of clouds would come in to cool me off.
Finally arriving towards the boulder, after what felt like ages, I took the opportunity to sit somewhere dry and eat some of my food. What I have with me is a food cube, dry and hard to eat, but it keeps you full with very little. They're made from a very dense bread and are usually accompanied by dried fruits or nuts within. I dislike these things because of how dry they make my mouth, but it was the only long-lasting food in stock at the markets before I left. I proceed to eat the cube until my hunger is satisfied. To quell the dryness in my throat after eating, I look in my bag for some water. On this trip I brought along with me a one gallon container I constantly refill as it rains out here. The water is a stark contrast from the gritty texture of the food cube. Looking at the sky again, I notice the sun about halfway down, and I feel the heat becoming a little less intense.
With haste, I pack my things up, and begin to get ready to walk again. I could just barely see the destination ahead, a beached cargo ship. Surrounding it are leagues of shipping containers that display a wide range of colors compared to the monotone shades of Greyshelf.
I sit down on a piece of scrap metal and prepare mentally. This is when I knew I had to become cautious when venturing on from this point. Even though I’ve been isolated my whole journey, coming here I knew I wouldn’t be alone out here. The cargo ship here was discovered about a week ago by the Tech Hunters and was charted on their public maps. With any new place to scavenge there were always Mongrel Hounds that wanted a piece of the loot. Mongrel Hounds are ruthless outlaws who take and never give back; their ranks mostly consist of people that had nowhere else to go survive. Knowing
them, they probably got here as fast as they could, a couple days after the location was announced. They act as a barrier that prevents anyone from looting alone or in a small squad as they usually come in great numbers. The smoke columns coming from the ship only confirmed their presence.
I make my way towards the cargo ship and stop about a mile or so away after the long walk in order ,to prepare behind a distant container. What was once a small dot in the distance is now a huge towering metal behemoth. The wet heavy sand here makes traveling slow and by the time I arrive, the sun is already going over the horizon. Putting my large bag inside the container where I stopped, I take out my smaller looting bag to lessen my encumbrance in case things get messy.
It’s nearly time… .
R a n d o m P i e c e , Michael Baggett '23
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COLOPHON
The Wildflower was constructed using Canva on a PC. The masthead font utilized on the cover is Alegreya Sans Bold, size 58; Opens Sans, size 15, is used for remaining cover text as well as all art titles. Welcome texts are in Brittany, size 35 and 105. Wildflower art on page 3 is made available by @sketchify. The font used for literary titles is League Spartan, size 24; subtitles were set in Inter Thin, size 22. Body text is Inter set at size 12. The pieces in the Wildflower, 2023 were chosen by the Wildflower Editorial Staff and selections committees. The magazine was produced by Temple High School's Wildflower Magazine Club. The Wildflower is published each spring for Temple High School's 2,300 students and 170 staff members. The Wildflower is a member of the following organizations: The National Scholastic Press Association and The National Council of the Teachers of English
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