WHR West High Review VOL. 33 | 2018-2019
FROM THE EDITOR Dear reader, Once upon a time, there was a magazine. Favonius, it called itself. Or the Grapevine, depending on what year we’re looking at. Regardless of its name, it was a fixture of the creative scene at West for many years, publishing writing and artwork by the issue. However, over the years it declined in presence, ebbing and flowing as seniors graduated and members became involved in more and more outside activities. Eventually, it stopped publishing altogether, leaving nothing but memories and a few old issues behind. But no more. This year, we’re proud to announce the revival of the West High literary magazine with our first-ever issue since 2015. Inside awaits photography, art, poetry, and prose from some of West High’s finest writers and artists, from Allen Liao’s short poem “Cross Country” to Caroline Barker’s exquisite portraits. Every piece radiates love, care, and creativity. So please, join us in fêting this new stage in the magazine’s life. To this year’s issue, and to all those to come! Ting Gao Editor-in-chief, 2018-2019
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Ting Gao
DESIGN EDITOR
Brenda Gao
MANAGING EDITOR
Alice Meng
COPY EDITOR
Fareeha Ahmad Ting Gao DISTRIBUTION MANAGER
William Zhang TREASURER
Patrick Taylor DESIGNER
Fareeha Ahmad Ting Gao Isabel Liao Alice Meng William Zhang GENERAL STAFF
Fouad El-Kerdani Erica Wahe ADVISOR
Tom Lindsey
COVER ART YOU SHOULD’VE SENT THAT EMAIL
Madeline Thompson ‘19, acrylic paint, pen, and collage on canvas
CONTENTS Contributors ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY
You should’ve sent that email, Madeline Thompson The Heart of the Sun, Anya Emerson Untitled, Erin Leigh Moses Dollhouse Scene, Madeline Thompson Untitled photo gallery, Sara Baroncini :( ): acrylic, Brenda Gao A Moment, Frances Dai Untitled photo gallery, Paras Bassuk Strength, Frances Dai Untitled, Kara Wagenknecht Untitled photo gallery, Caroline Barker Sadness, Frances Dai Untitled, Kate Lauer :) (: charcoal, Amy Liao POETRY
Cross Country, Allen Liao False Confidence, Jared Kula Grown Young, Christina Carlson Before, Erica Wahe Dear Bully, Katherine Hirsch The Ocean, Samantha Saylor Mr. Witt, Nick Silva & Gokul Thangavel Fallen Angels, Maria Osman The Signs You Missed, Alexie Little A Rose, Fareeha Ahmad The Boy You Think You Know, Caleb Brandauer PROSE
Samuel and the Reaper, Ting Gao
05 01 04 08 10 14 16 20 22 25 27 28 30 37 39 09 11 12 15 17 20 22 24 26 36 38 31
THE HEART OF THE SUN Anya Emerson ‘21, photography
CONTRIBUTORS FAREEHA AHMAD is a sophomore at West who has recently tried
to get back into her writing. In the past, with the mountain of work to do and limited time, she had become distant to building creative works. Now, the long lost spark has ignited once again and she is flaming with the burning passion to write. CAROLINE BARKER is a freshman who loves taking portraits. She
has been taking photos for fun since 5th grade and is currently in the Foundations of Journalism class, hoping to one day take photos for the West Side Story paper. SARA BARONCINI is a sophomore at West and an aspiring photogra-
pher. When she’s not taking pictures, she enjoys spending time with friends, taking part in BPA and Student Senate, and enjoying the outdoors. PARAS BASSUK is a sophomore at West and has been interested in
photography for several years. He has been messing around with cameras for a while, but he only began to be more deeply interested in the artistic and technical complexities of photography in the past year. He is so excited to be able to share his photos in the West High Review for the first time! CALEB BRANDAUER is a senior at West and has been writing for
most of his life. During the past four years, he has actively written piece after piece, striving to make each one better than the last. He hopes that the different pieces he creates will truly speak to the people he shares them with. ANYA EMERSON is a creative student. She runs cross country and
enjoys playing the saxophone in jazz band. In her free time, she likes to draw and watch That ‘70s Show.
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BRENDA GAO is a sophomore. She is sad she doesn’t have more time
to read recreationally and make more art.
TING GAO is a member of the class of 2019. Although she is techni-
cally married to a newspaper, her one true love is hoarding notebooks she will never use. When she’s not procrastinating writing, she can be found eating corn straight of the can, listening to emo music, and bleeding in general. KATHERINE HIRSCH is a senior who had quite a number of hard-
ships growing up. Writing always seemed to be an outlet to where she could escape from the world, so being an author had always seemed like the right path for her. She hopes her written words will one day speak to people and help them as well. KATE LAUER is a sophomore. She was adopted from China when
she was 2 years old and grew up in Iowa. Her dad grew up on a farm and her mom grew up in the country, so she and her brother grew up around the farm. They enjoy working together on their tractors at their family farm and they enjoy going to the Old Threshers every year. ALLEN LIAO is a junior who moved here from Taiwan to attend high
school. He wrote his poem in his creative writing class to help him remember the atmosphere he was surrounded by when he joined the cross country team. AMY LIAO is a sophomore. She wants you to follow @tisdrawers on
Instagram. Do it, you won’t.
ALEXIE LITTLE is a junior who wrote her piece to show people a
story behind teen suicides. She wants to bring awareness to the topic and wants to say that individual stories are important. She believes that people don’t commit suicide for the attention, but because they think that is their only way out. 06
MARIA OSMAN is a senior who tapped into poetry as a sophomore.
She was born in Gadsden, Alabama and is a Sudanese-American. She came to Iowa when she was 5.
SAMANTHA SAYLOR is a senior at West. She loves to write and de-
scribes writing to be a passion that gives her confidence. She says, “I can shout out my poetry to the class and everyone will acknowledge it. They may not like it but they will hear it.” MADELINE THOMPSON is a self-taught artist from Iowa City. She is
in her senior year of high school and is planning to go to Iowa State University in order to study environmental engineering. However, she plans to continue making art in college. Her art can be seen a little bit around town, as she has designed tattoos, worked on local murals, and has art on display at Veridian Bank and Hancher Auditorium.
SPECIAL THANKS TO THE AHMAD FAMILY THE GAO FAMILY THE ZHANG FAMILY WEST HIGH SCHOOL FOR THEIR GENEROUS AND CONTINUED SUPPORT
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UNTITLED Erin Leigh Moses ‘20, digital
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Cross Country ALLEN LIAO ‘20
It was long awaited. The violent sun hung casually above the grass fields. Sweetened, grey cotton-candy hovered And scattered across the turquoise sky. The fresh-cut grass melted into the ground As the brown mushy mud rose and fell Under hundreds of spikes. Leaves tenderly let go To make space for a new beginning. Like every genesis, spectators gathered. Families clustered under the shadows of the maple trees nearby. High-schoolers impatiently waited in lines For the plastic purple restrooms to crack open with greets of distaste. Kids run around with sticks in hands, Unaware of the lengthy challenge ahead. I rose to my feet and marched toward the starting line. With a nod to my fellow teammates, we stood solemnly in silence. Excitement climaxed when the gun fired, Then we burst into motion, toward the destiny that we chose. As the cheering fades, and the grass hills grow taller, I find myself alone on an empty path. The most painful steps forward Are the ones with no one around. Every lump is the reassurance, the self-determination, To overcome the last attempt. Some longs for glory at the dawn or dusk of life, Yet the most remarkable strides Are the journeys in between celebrated by our own silence And marked by the absence Of spectators. 09
DOLLHOUSE SCENE Madeline Thompson ‘19, oil on canvas
FALSE CONFIDENCE
JARED KULA ‘19
A gift shop is my home, but not for long. I am a tumbled rock; Red, speckled, round sides, oval in shape. An engraving of a bear is forever carved into my chest. A tie-dye piece of cardboard paper rests behind me. It resembles a sixties poster whose creator was fueled by LSD. It tells what all of the animals represent. The symbol on me stands for confidence, Which the fool who picks me up lacks. A hippy with calloused hands and fat fingers stares at me. He doesn’t feel the way he used to feel about himself. Although he does not believe in a mythical power or luck, He picks me up and wants to purchase me. Apparently, confidence is five bucks. With me in hand, He walks to the cashier, hoping that she won’t judge him. He fears that she can read him like a book, all pages filled with muck. Maybe she knows that in a deep depression, he has been stuck. He is willing to try anything to break away from the pain, no matter how grim. His mom wants to pay for me; she doesn’t see him much. She buys him the red stone, as if it were an apology for forcing him to grow up alone. He takes me back to his temporary home, In his hand, I’m tightly clutched. One more week in Connecticut. While returning to Iowa, it is clear, he is not wanted here nor there. A plane ride, A long layover, Made longer by the perfect weather. Or maybe, the pilot’s airport-bar hangover. I lay in his suitcase, Two months have passed now. I sit, My false confidence, No longer loud.
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GROWN YOUNG CHRISTINA CARLSON ‘18
I have never been the naive type. Never Looked down at my shirt When someone pointed at it, Always made sure To flick their nose first. Never Distracted my gaze When they said: Look over there. I always watched them walk away, Feeling their footfalls On cement covered in chalk and mud Beneath me. Never Been the gullible type. In games of copycat, I stopped talking. When playing hide and seek, I merely left the house: Convinced no one Would want to search for me anyways. But when you tell me you love me, My feet are back on the concrete. Heat from the black tar kisses my ankles. My hair feels tight from the braids my dad put in that morning, And my front teeth are missing.
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When you tell me you love me, I allow myself to be the kid I never was. My nose bleeds From how many times you’ve hit me. I walk around the schoolyard in a Constant daze induced by whiplash; Braids smacking my cheeks, Searching for where you ran off to. My tongue ties. Taste buds covered in cardboard pizza, I trip over the jump rope Of our repeated syllables. When we play hide and seek, I conceal myself under the coffee table. I like to watch your socked feet Search for me while my face Is pressed against the carpet. I anticipate the smile on your face When you find me. But you never do. The air hangs stale and The carpet underneath me is damp From my breath. I think the house is empty. When you tell me you love me, I wish I would have never grown young. 13
The towering mountains and peculiar species are few of the many features which distinguish Costa Rica. The blend of colors, figures, and sounds is what makes this beautiful country so extraordinary. It is a sight that can’t be easily captured in a single photograph.
UNTITLED PHOTO GALLERY Sara Baroncini ‘21
BEFORE
ERICA WAHE ‘21
Into tomorrow still refugees from yesterday Homesick for a time we can never visit A time lost except to rose colored dreams for manufactured appeal Back in the good old days, the old days were better The light is an illusion in this retroactive sitcom A dangerous drug with widespread addiction The future is no bleaker than the past Nostalgia. 15
:( ): ACRYLIC Brenda Gao ‘21, acrylic on paper 16
DEAR BULLY KATHERINE HIRSCH ‘20
Dear Bully, I feel the lurking, crawling, rattling in the creaks and cracksThe crevices in my mind. Whether the lights are on or off, I am paranoid it will take me in my sleep. Its hand is creeping out from under my bed, Aching and itching to drag me down And suffocate me at my most vulnerable. When I am alone, I hear it whispering to me. The raspy voice of temptation calls, Beckoning me to my demise like a siren Trying to drown me in my sorrows ‘Till I’m put under the spell of no return. It tiptoes in the shadows at school, It lurks in the darkened corners of my dreams. I’ve tried to be brave and scare it away, But it won’t leave me alone. I’ve been infected by the pestilent reaper; Although I’ve survived with depression for four years, I’m coughing up tears and crying out blood. I have a boogeyman of my own. My creatures of terror forced the idea of death down my throat, Everyday ‘till I finally choked and swallowed. By the time the seed had been planted, It was too late to cough it up. Before I knew it, My eyes turned black In a reflection of my inner thoughts. The monsters dug their talons into my peace of mind And tore it open from within. My world has been tainted. 17
Everywhere I turn, I see themIt’s as if they tattooed their presence to the back of my eyes To remind me of the echoing chasm of hell Blazing inside my head. You are my personal hell. Your skeletal hands have broken through my ribs And attached your death touch to my lungs. With every exhale You seem to suck an extra breath out of me. I feel myself slowly dying in your inescapable grasp. You’ve stripped away my stability. You stained, slashed, and branded my sight to see you in everything. I’ve been cursed with eternal darkness every time I open my eyes No matter how many lights I turn on! The entire school fell obediently to your wicked ways Yet I was seen as the villain. My mom says: “People are just jealous of you”. Jealous of what? Jealous of my disgusting smile, my ugly figure, bad skin, annoying voice, Or my odd personality? Take your pickI’m a freak. Why would anyone be jealous of a weak, worthless oddity, Dangerously on the verge of taking the easy way out? You’ve conditioned me to be sorry for my very existence. You’ve condemned me to paranoia, Making me turn around constantly in fear that you’re there. You’ve conditioned me to self-hate every time I’m happy, Because you’ve made me hate myself over my awful smile. You’ve made me despise my own presence because I feel disgusting, diseased And my god I wish I was deceased! My cries are a thunderous silence that crash into my pillow, My mattress is no longer a place to sleep. 18
It’s mutated, morphed, Distorted into a haven to hide from the monsters that reside in my head. But you’ve started infecting my dreams and now I see your shadow Creeping beneath my bed. A patiently waiting hand, Ready to strike me down at my most vulnerable. I can already feel you dragging me down to my worst self. To the world, Stop pretending you care Because anytime I try to open up to anyone, All you do is stop and stare, At me like the freak I am. I am under no such impression, That my words will end all bullying related depression. Instead my goal Is to show the toll on the mind a victim takes when thrown to the wolves. My problem is that I am part of the broken army, Yet the world treats me like I’m the disgusting oneNot the bullies who have caused me my damnation. Bullies don’t seem to comprehend the concept That as soon as the insult leaves their mouth, Each word of hate is seared into the skin of the victim until the day they die. Depression isn’t disgusting; And talking to someone with it, Certainly doesn’t give you cooties for not being ‘cool’. Don’t be afraid to befriend the wallflower sitting alone in the corner. Isolate the bully- not the victim. Who is the real monster, Me, who might end up taking my life, Or you, the one handing me the knife?
Sincerely, A broken victim suffering in silence. 19
A MOMENT Frances Dai ‘20, oil on canvas
The Ocean
SAMANTHA SAYLOR ‘19
He called to me. His deep blue water clawed at me. The way He swayed to the rhythm of my strands, The way He crashed at the sight of my shaking hands. Made me feel like the only woman on the island. His body sparkled like diamonds. I gazed longingly And stumbled towards the bright sea. White Sand whispered over the rims of my feet, His salt will cure my insecurities. Yellow Sand weighed heavily on my bare feet, His waves will embrace me with care. Brown Sand warmed the soles of my feet, He will sway my lips into a smile and wipe all of my tears away.
Icy water gritted the sand off my feet. His presence surprised me. Foam surrounded my ankles like shackles, He held me down to socialize, While his bubbles cackled up my bare thighs. I tried to form my lips into a smile, Suddenly his waves lapped around my hips, And thrusted me into the abyss. White seagulls cawed uncontrollably at the sea, As if He were a fire and they were the alarm. But who was I, the little girl at risk of harm? Goosebumps covered my body, As the thought dawned on me. When did the ocean get so dark? I thought jellyfish would sparkle, Or coral would gleam While fish dance across the streams. But instead all there was, was him. His waves embraced my limbs I was paralyzed. His salt burned my eyes. I was terrified, In a split second the tide pulled me down He plunged my face in the icy burning sea so passionately He enslaved me. I was too deep to scream I tried to swim I tried to fight him But my lungs filled with so much blue I gave up my pursuit. My whole body went limp. I sank down so quickly Like a concrete block was chained to my leg. I was left for dead. I was in the deepest part of the sea. My mind pleaded Please let me breathe.
MR. WITT
NICK SILVA ‘19 AND GOKUL THANGAVEL ‘19
One-hundred by one-hundred A blistering batch of colors one catches his eye: teacher turquoise a flashy blue paint chip gripped in the hand of a hope-filled teacher gripped hard a teacher-turquoise hand and a white chip lathered in wrinkles gripped hard a teacher-turquoise hand lathered in wrinkles gripped so hard it flakes, crumbles, tumbles falls falls falls into a crisp white pocket washed and dried a teacher-turquoise shirt
UNTITLED PHOTO GALLERY
Paras Bassuk ‘21 These images are a tribute to the arrival of spring. By focusing on such delicate subjects as flowers, they convey a sense of beauty and fragility that captures the emotion that the signs of spring can bring.
Fallen Angels
MARIA OSMAN ‘19
I’m the resident of a nation that doesn’t want me. Chained to my race, never will I be free. My hopes remain undone and my dreams have been oppressed. The freedom which I demand has been responded to by none. Your name has become a cry of injustice, Falling prey to stone ears. We treat the dead better than the living, Because once they’re dead we begin to reminisce. Walking through a rain of corruption, Stepping through puddles of pain, A mother has just lost her son to the vicious war of brutality. Where men and women armed in blue are taught to “serve and protect.” Innocent until proven guilty. But fear takes hold when stopping a black man. Who never thought he would be the one. Because his hands are up, He cries “Don’t shoot.” Praying the cop will drop the gun. Snaking around the officer’s heart, Clouding his mind with judgment, And whispering lies into his ears. Urging him to point and shoot. He then pulls the trigger. Then question later. Innocent until proven guilty. How are they going to fear us being unarmed when our blackness is what they fear the most? We’re fighting a war armed with nothing but our voice. “There comes a time when silence is betrayal.” Because we’re residents of a nation that doesn’t want us. 24
STRENGTH Frances Dai ‘20, oil on canvas 25
The Signs You Missed There once was this girl. Who was in my class. She had a smile as bright as the sun, That always seemed to last.
ALEXIE LITTLE ‘20
She was always surrounded, By giggles and laughs, But now it seems, To be all in the past.
That girl in my class, Who was once over the moon. Was gone now, And nobody would be seeing her anytime soon.
She always wore bright colors, But now it’s all black. Hopefully one day, The past will come back.
The teacher said her name. Said she was deeply depressed. Her mother was beaten at home, And she was always the next.
No one knew what happened, But one day she snapped. She pushed all her friends away. Ran, and never came back.
But before she took her life She left a note on her bed. Her mother’s tears stained the page, As she went ahead and read:
That day went by, And no one heard a word. So everyone shook it off, Like it wasn’t a concern.
“I’m really sorry Mother, But it’s for the best. Tell Papa I’m sorry, For being such a pest.”
As the days went by, And she wasn’t there. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care.
“And I’m sorry for the scars, I left behind, On the beautiful masterpiece, You built and designed.”
Our teacher came in, And told everyone to sit. She had some bad news, She was ready to admit.
“I’ll love you forever, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’ll see you soon mother! Our hearts shall now ache no more.”
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UNTITLED Kara Wagenknecht ‘19, photography
NO OUTLET Caroline Barker ‘22, photography 28
GUS
LOOKING BACK
SADNESS Frances Dai ‘19, oil on canvas 30
SAMUEL AND THE REAPER TING GAO ‘19
SAMUEL FIRST MET THE REAPER WHEN SHE CAME FOR HIS HAMSTER. At six years old, no one had told the small, scrawny boy about death. His parents had spared him all mentions of it; they had tried their hardest to keep him free of the weight of mortality. From the beginning of his life, they’d carefully scanned the movies, books, and shows he consumed for even the slightest mention of the subject. With tears in their eyes, they had stopped him from attending his paternal grandfather’s funeral. Nothing, they decided, nothing was going to tarnish their son’s innocence until there came the time when they could no longer keep him away from uncovering death, not even the death of a close family member. So when Samuel spied the tall, white-robed figure in his bedroom, brandishing her scythe, his bright eyes gazed at her not in fear but in curiosity. “Hey lady, what are you doing here? This is my room,” the boy said with his soft voice. The woman turned around slowly. When she saw the skinny boy standing in the doorway, her shoulders eased down and a small smile graced her lips. “Why, hello there, Samuel,” she said, her voice quiet and hollow. “How do you know my name? I’ve never met you before,” Samuel said. His eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement.
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The woman gave a little chuckle. “I know all sorts of things about my friends,” she declared. “It’s only fitting that I know your name, Samuel.” “We’re friends?” Samuel asked. “How?” “All sorts of things are possible in this modern age, young Samuel. You can see a person and have a chat with them in real time from thousands of miles away. It’s not that hard to be friends with someone you’ve never met before these days,” she said, flourishing her long, white sleeves for emphasis. “Oh… okay, lady,” Samuel said. He continued to stand in his doorway, clutching his dinosaur t-shirt at the hem. “There’s no need to be shy, child. We’re friends, Samuel! Come closer to me; don’t just stand there awkwardly,” the woman said. She stretched out her arm, gesturing for him to approach. Samuel scooched in. His small feet shuffled across the carpet as he approached the woman, still clutching the hem of his t-shirt as he paused to close his door. At last, only a measly three feet of space separated Samuel and the woman. He could now properly behold her umber-colored, heart-shaped face, which was partially obscured by her soft, white hood. “Now, Samuel, I have a little favor I’d like to ask of you,” the woman declared. She knelt. Her eyes, twin wells of dark water, met Samuel’s dark hazel ones. Her scythe, the bleached white of bones in the desert, dropped to the floor. “What could that be, lady?” Samuel inquired. His mind still questioned the validity of this friendship that he and the woman supposedly shared. But her gaze captivated him, and his mind ceased to resist her words. “You see Monster Truck here?” the woman said, pointing at the small hamster in the cage at the upper-left corner of Samuel’s bedroom. 32
“Yeah, what do you want with him?” Samuel said, a slight tremble in his voice. He glanced with wide eyes at the small rodent, which was, at that moment, burrowing into its bedding. His lower lip wavered. The woman sighed and turned her face away from Samuel, brushing her long braids back with one hand. She took in a deep breath before beginning to speak again. “Samuel, I need to take Monster Truck away with me. For a very long time. Can you let me do that?” She looked straight into his eyes. “Why? Are you taking him to the vet? Is he sick?” he asked, tilting his head as he looked at her. “In a way, yes, he is. But the thing is… Samuel, you have to understand. Once in every living creature’s life, they have to go away with me for a very long time,” she said, putting her hands lightly on his shoulders. “Why? Why does everyone have to go away with you?” Samuel asked. The tremble from earlier returned in his voice. “Why can’t they just stay here?” The woman sighed. “It’s for their own good,” she told him. “When their bodies can’t go on, they have to come to me so that they can get better.” “Once they’re better, they’ll come right back, right? Like the time Monster Truck got d-ph-pneumonia, and he came back from the vet?” he asked. His hands fidgeted with his t-shirt hem. She bit her lip and looked away. “I’m sorry, but I can’t promise that, sweetie. It might take only a short time before you get to see them again, or it might take years. Many, many years,” she answered. “In the future, when you learn more about them leaving with me, you may become angry. You might come to hate me. But know this: everything I do is to prevent suffering, not create it.”
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“Promise me that Monster Truck will come see me soon, after he’s gone with you?” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that for you. It would go against an oath I swore when I took on this mission,” she said. She looked down. “But I can promise you one thing,” she added. “You will see Monster Truck again. That is a guarantee.” “Oh-okay. That’s okay, I guess,” he said. He moved up one of his arms to wipe away the fat tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. “Now, it’s about time that Monster Truck and I left you. Would you like to say goodbye to him?” she said, speaking as quietly and in as gentle a tone as possible. “Ye-yeah. Can I have a few moments to think of what to say?” he said. “Of course. I’ll give you a minute alone with him,” the woman said. She rose from her kneeling position in one swift motion. She strode away, picking up her scythe from the floor in the process. A few elegant steps took her to the right wall of Samuel’s room, where she proceeded to stand still, watching as Samuel went up to Monster Truck. “Monster Truck…” he began. His voice began trembling violently, and his eyes began to water. He stopped to compose himself, and wiped the tears from his flushed cheeks. “Monster Truck, I just wanna let you know…” he stopped again. The hamster was staring up at him from within a little nest, all soft, furry innocence. As he looked at the hamster, Samuel could see that right next to the hamster, on the side of the cage, hung the handwritten sign that he had made for Monster Truck, which proudly declared in a childish scrawl, “Name: Monster Truck. Owner: Samuel”. He burst into tears, weeping openly. But he continued speaking to Monster Truck, not even bothering to stop and wipe his tears this time. “I want… I wanna let you know… that even though sometimes I forgot to clean your cage, and, and stuff like that, I love you. You 34
were… no, you are the best hamster I’ve ever had. I’ll never forget you, buddy.” He clutched at the cage, his skinny little fingers wrapping around the bars as he sobbed. As soon as Samuel’s sobbing had subsided to quiet sniffles, the woman began to move towards Monster Truck’s cage. With a few strides, she crossed the room and put her hands gently onto Samuel’s shoulders once more. “Samuel, are you done?” she said. “I-I think so,” he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Good. Then it’s time that Monster Truck and I departed,” she said. She set down her scythe once more as she leaned down to open the door of Monster Truck’s cage. Monster Truck regarded her curiously as she lowered the door and scooped him up in her wide hands. She delicately picked up her scythe from the floor. Adjusting her grip on it until her hands rested right next to the curved blade, she brought down the very tip of the scythe until it touched Monster Truck’s small, quivering body. At that very moment, Monster Truck’s entire body relaxed, stopping and becoming still. The blade of the scythe glowed softly and then dimmed. And with that, the woman set down Monster Truck’s body back in the cage. She turned to leave. “Wait!” Samuel cried out. “I thought you were taking Monster Truck with you!” The woman’s lips curled into a small smile. “I already have.”
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A ROSE
FAREEHA AHMAD ‘21
Her hand reaches across And grazes the beautiful darling petals Of a rose That stands still in winter A gorgeous little thing, isn’t it? A pretty sweet delight popping out In a dead world And naturally she plucks it And those thorns prick her fingers But she does not flinch Not for a second And her soft pink lips Slowly creep into a crooked smile The red starts to run from her fingers And she remembers She remembers the person who had broken her She remembers the snickers The pointed fingers The voices That made her feel small Laughs start to crowd her head And she begins to hear Those whispers While a terrible burning Ignites throughout her body The blood dribbles down Into the snow she stands on The red stains the pure white And wetness stains her cheeks It’s over now She’s done for While the crooked smile Never leaves her round face The gorgeous little thing Crushes the rose Between her beautiful Darling little fingers 36
UNTITLED Kate Lauer ‘21, photography
The Boy You Think You Know CALEB BRANDAUER ‘19
I am the boy you don’t know. Let me introduce myself, And tell you how I got to my all-time low. And let me put my life story on your shelf. Many years ago, A couple bullies came into my life. Making fun of me one second, And the next calling me their bro. A couple of years ago, I became an Eagle Scout. Looking to find where to go And found a route. I am the boy you will never know because I hide my pain Behind a smile from ear to ear. But on my life, you have put a stain that will never disappear. Eventually, the route ended, And I became lost and found out the real cost Of living my life unmended. I am the boy you think you know. And now that I’ve introduced myself, And now that I’ve hit my all-time low, You’re going to put me on your shelf Of books that you’ll never read again.
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:) (: CHARCOAL Amy Liao ‘21, charcoal on newsprint
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L’ART POUR L’ART | ART FOR ART’S SAKE westhighreview@gmail.com