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Inkwell The Literary-Art Magazine of West Hills High School

2019-20

Inkwell The Literary-Art Magazine of West Hills High School

2019-20

Featuring work by

West Hills High School Student Body at Large Published in conjunction with the

West Hills High School Readers & Writers Club Cover Artwork Jyleer Martinez, Grade 11 Student Editor

Cheyenne Harris, Grade 12

Faculty Editor Suzanne Sannwald, Teacher Librarian

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POETRY Concrete Poem Excerpts from The Tune The Way You Make Me Feel Your Friendship Our Death Grandma Manifested Love I Am Ugly Transgender Poem Collection Excerpts Wings Join the Waves

A.P. Brandon Griga Jay Alyssa Touw Toni G. Evalynn Whitney The DWT Heather Allgood Liliana S. Miranda Siddle V.M.

2 3 4 6 8 9 9 23 24 25 26

Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love Chapter One of JV’s Upcoming Novel

Kayla X. Lopez Julius Virginia

Primarina Autumn is Here Untitled right hand She’s So Koi Tribute Ricky "Horror" Olson (Motionless in White) Word Portrait Love I Wish To Live A Quiet Life blissful Just a paper tiger Looking into tomorrow

Madison A. Jyleer Martinez Fatma Ismail bentai Shayla Morreale Jyleer Martinez Kirsten Fraga

1 1 1 1 2 2 3

Dunn,Hannah Natalie Narciso Lindsey Johnson Lindsey Johnson A.P.

4 4 5 5 5

NARRATIVE 10-15 19-21

VISUAL ART/PHOTO

continued on next page

VISUAL ART/PHOTO (continued) breakup shoes. Shattered Past Land of Giants Untitled Untitled Industrial Technology The Hermit Toni Collette Screaming From The Movie Hereditary Holding On Carnation Courage&Loyalty Oppression Peace&Love Hope No Air This is Gonna Get Weird Constellation Night The Sun, the Hermit, and the High Priestess Star Wars - Original Trilogy Hi - Sad - Why Pain Pink and Orange Robot Under the Maelstrom Water Aerospray A Pretty Girl in Pink A Sly Man in a Hat Jewel Wings and Space Be You! Triviality Strength Tree Nature

ky Jason Tran Jason Tran Anaheta Hamzai Fatma Ismail Nicole Mannino Lauren McClure Darla Schaefer Darla Schaefer Darla Schaefer Kirsten Fraga Kirsten Fraga Kirsten Fraga Kirsten Fraga Amy M. Drew VR Swaim Morgan J Miranda Drew VR Swaim Nicole Mannino Dilbar Ameen Dilbar Ameen Jason Tran Jason Tran Jason Tran Jason Tran Huntyr Rasmussen Huntyr Rasmussen Huntyr Rasmussen Dunn,Hannah Lindsey Johnson Lauren McClure Morgan Doose A.P.

6 6 6 7 7 7 8 8 9 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 16 16 17 17 17 18 18 18 18 22 22 22 23 25 26 26 27

CONTRIBUTORS

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Primarina

Autumn is Here

Madison A., Grade 10

Jyleer Martinez, Grade 11

right hand

Untitled

bentai, Grade 10

Fatma Ismail, Grade 11

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Concrete Poem

A.P., Grade 11

Poet Note: With the type of poem, I felt that the poem needed a very theatrical/ orchestral feeling to it, and that is just what I did. I hope that people will get a vibe or a certain feeling from reading it and maybe have a different view on it than I do.

She's So Koi Shayla Morreale, Grade 9 Artist Note: This was a really fun free ﬂow pen and ink drawing, I just let my mind wander and wanted to create a piece that was outside the bounds of reality.

Tribute

Jyleer Martinez, Grade 11

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Excerpts from

The Tune

Brandon Griga, Grade 11

Ricky "Horror" Olson (Motionless in White) Word Portrait

Poet Note: This is a sampling of poems from a series about guitar and music and how much they both mean to me.

Kirsten Fraga, Grade 12

Haiku Good technique is key Consistency is greater All great masters know

My ﬁngers sting bad I'll never play this riﬀ well I keep on trying

The chord sounds so warm It is pleasant to the ear It's nice and peaceful

I strum the guitar The notes ring in harmony The crowd is silent Cinquain Happy The guitar awaits. The song in mind is ready. I perform the song perfectly. encore

Artist Note: Ricky is one of the guitarists for the band Motionless in White. This portrait is made with lyrics from said band.

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Love

I Wish To Live A Quiet Life

Dunn,Hannah, Grade 11

Natalie Narciso, Grade 12

The Way You Make Me Feel

Jay, Grade 10 What is it about you that makes my heart ﬂutter, my cheeks pinker, and my smile wider? Is it your lean form that towers over mine? Your calm demeanor that brings the best out of mine? Is it that half smile you make when you see me being an idiot? That stupidly cute one where your eyes are confused and you’re kind of amused, the one where I like to think it’s just for me but maybe you always smile like that and I just don’t notice Or maybe it’s just those clear blue eyes that make me feel like I’m soaring over the clouds Love normally isn’t for me, and whatever I feel for you isn’t it All I know is that when I’m with you I feel nice and I think that's good enough 4

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blissful

Just a paper tiger

Lindsey Johnson, Grade 10

Looking into tomorrow A.P., Grade 11

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Poet Note: I was inspired by when you can lose friends, because they often leave for their boyfriends and come back immediately after their breakup.

Your Friendship

Alyssa Touw, Grade 11 Our friendship was new and we hung out a lot our late nights of fun were ﬁlled with laughter, I thought. You were my closest, most valued friend and then you met your stupid boyfriend you spent more time with him, not me. When I was with you I had to pay a fee. Now that I know what I know now I would not have let you treat me like a cow. You disregarded me, I had seen the true person you had come to be.

Shattered Past Jason Tran, Grade 12

breakup shoes. ky, Grade 12

Artist Note: spending nights together came so easy. hands intertwined, we walked through the gallery. dinner at the diner then laugh at the tv. day after day with your arms wrapped around me.

Land of Giants Jason Tran, Grade 12

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Untitled

Anaheta Hamzai, Grade 9

Fatma Ismail, Grade 11

Industrial Technology Nicole Mannino, Grade 12

Artist Note: This graphite drawing captures the architecture of West Hills High School, while highlighting a main aspect of education.

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Our Death

Poet Note: Death is always in the back of people's minds, but it is crucial for society to enjoy the present.

Toni G., Grade 11

Our lives are constantly decreasing. We can not pause or adjust time. Each moment that passes is an indication of approaching death. Birthdays are celebrations for another used up year. Do not waste minutes thinking of how life will end, Because knowledge has no defeat against it. It is inevitable. It is destiny. It is the way of life.

The Hermit

Lauren McClure, Grade 10

Toni Collette Screaming From The Movie Hereditary Darla Schaefer, Grade 11

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Holding On

Darla Schaefer, Grade 11

Grandma

Evalynn Whitney, Grade 11 As the sun sets upon this life And your soul is laid to rest I know you’ll be up in Heaven Among our loved ones I know you’re watching over us And it takes away the pain I will always carry you in my heart Until we meet again But, the memories of us shine bright Within these broken hearts You’ve touched the lives of the ones you know And we wanted you to stay But, you were needed in Heaven I know whenever I’m lonely I’ll look up at the sky And there will be an Angel Looking down at me

Carnation

Darla Schaefer, Grade 11

Manifested Love The DWT, Grade 11 The divine savior. Made by perfect lawmaker. Lion and the lamb.

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Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love

Kayla X. Lopez, Grade 9 I could feel the wheat pricking at my feet as I ran barefoot with no final destination. I could run for hours not knowing if I would make it home that night. I knew little of danger, and the word fear had no significance to me. Living in the countryside of Germany helped me make a connection with everything. With time, my feet led me to a big old oak tree, who became my best friend. I could spend hours climbing her branches, letting my overactive imagination fly. I even carved my name into the tree next to another carving that I did not know whom it belonged to. But, it never bothered me, because I had at least left my mark to let anyone else who might want my tree know that she was mine. She was beautiful, more than 10 feet tall with branches just as thick as the pig in my grandfather’s farm that he would raise. My grandfather did not believe that animals were meant to be fattened and eaten afterwards, but they were family. He never harmed an animal, not even that silly old rat that would sneak into the house at night and eat Muffy’s dog food. I remember coming home every night from the fields and finding my grandfather in the farm, drawing pictures of everything he saw. One night, as I sat there admiring my grandfather, he leaned over and whispered a couple words that changed the way I saw the world. “Ingrid, what do you see here?” he asked while passing me his journal. “Well, I see animals in a farm, Grandfather.” “Look again, my love” “Grandfather, I still see the same thing.” “Ingrid, you must learn to look deeper than what is obviously in front of you.” “But, how, Grandfather?” “That is not my choice to make, child,” he said seriously. “Please, Grandfather, I don’t understand.” “I will tell you one thing, Ingrid.” He slowly leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Art isn’t paint; it’s love.” I went to sleep that night thinking of those couples of words whispered in my ears. I just never thought those would be the last words my grandfather told me. Everything after that night was a blur. We had his funeral service. A lot of people came, including my parents, who had been busy with their jobs and had left me with my grandfather for four years now. Everyone was blaming it on being away from the city. I just wish everybody would have known how much this farm meant to my grandfather. How this farm had become his family since everyone else had grown too busy to even give him a call. I grew hatred towards humanity in general for having the heart to be able to come and blame the animals that had actually cared for him more than his own son. I thought I had no voice once I left that farm, and yet on the last day, when I was packing my room, I found a reminder of the voice I do have, the drawing from my grandfather which he had been drawing in the farm the last night we had together. He had drawn me sleeping in the middle of the farm animals. He had slipped it under the door before going to sleep. I couldn’t stand looking at it, and I threw it out of sadness and frustration of not knowing if I could have done something to have my grandfather be here next to me right now. It didn’t make it far, but it did flip over and I saw my grandfather had quickly written a couple words: continued on next page 10

Inkwell Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love (continued) Dear My Beloved Ingrid, I will not be with you forever. But, I will always be with you through Kirsten Fraga, Grade 12 your art, because no matter how hard you try to get away from art itself, it will always ﬁnd its way back to you. The secret of art itself is love, and I love you. Art will always wash away the dust of everyday life. Always remember that. Of course, don’t forget what I said, Art isn’t paint, it’s love. With Love, Grandfather Hans Muller At that moment, I promised myself I would create art for the rest of my life, no matter what. 1939 Frankfurt Germany It’s been four years since my grandfather’s death. Four years since I moved to the city of Frankfurt. Four years since I started to paint. Exactly four years since my new life started. The number four has always been special to me. I was born April 4. I was four years old when I moved to my grandfather’s farm in the countryside. Four years later, my grandfather passed, and my new life began. I guess you can say I've had an interesting life. “Mother!” I shouted as I shut the front door, as I walked into my house, “I’m home.” “Just in time for dinner, Ingrid,” she says as she walks into the hall where I'm standing, unpacking the art supplies I had just bought from Winkler’s Art Supplies Store down the street, which, by the way, is getting harder since war has just started and supply is running low. “Would you mind setting up the table? We have company tonight.” “Of course. How many?” “Just one, and I believe you’re really going to like her.” “Who is she?” “She is an elderly woman who just moved into the apartment down the hall.” continued on next page

Courage&Loyalty

Inkwell Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love (continued) “Can’t wait to meet her.” I walk to the kitchen, set up the table, and then go wash up when the doorbell rings. I can hear my mother in the kitchen finishing up, and my father is in his office on a phone call, so I guess I had to get it. I walked up to the door and looked through the peephole, and I started to giggle a little, because the elderly woman is also looking through the hole. I open the door and greet her. “Hello, my name is Ingrid Muller. How do you do?” “Very well, actually. I’m Rosemarie Schult.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Schult.” “Ohh no no no, it's Ms. Schult. My husband and I separated many years ago.” “Sorry to hear that. Anyway, let me walk you to the kitchen to meet my parents.” As we walk towards the kitchen, Ms. Schult stares at my paintings that I have framed and posted on the wall. But, she stares at the drawing my grandfather made me. “Who is the artist of this work?” “That would be my grandfather, madam.” Kirsten Fraga, Grade 12 “All of them?” “No, madam, just the one. I have done the rest.” “You two have a very similar and unique way of art.” “Thank you.” “You know, art is not what you see, but what you cause someone else to see,” she said and then turned to face me. “You, my dear, have caused me to see the pain the death of your grandfather has caused you.” She then walked away. “Wait,” I said running towards the women. “How did you know about the death of my grandfather?” “Sweety, I know how to look deeper than the obvious, because art is not just paint, but love.” Those last words cause me to have a flashback to the night with my grandfather at the farm. I blinked and had no second thoughts about it. We finished dinner and cleaned the kitchen. “Thank you all for dinner, but I must get going now.” “Ms. Schult, allow me to walk continued on next page

Oppression

Inkwell Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love (continued) Kirsten Fraga, Grade 12 you to your apartment.” “Ohh, thank you very much, young one.” I walked with her to her apartment. She unlocked her door, and we said our goodbyes. Then, I turned around and started off to my house. “Wait,” I turned around. “Yes, Ms. Schult,” I answered “Don’t let the pain of your grandfather get in the way of your art. He was a great man and hated to see people hurting. I just wish I noticed that sooner.” She then sent me on my way and shut the door. I started to walk back home when I noticed something she said. I ran to her door and started to knock a little harder than necessary. “Wait, Ms. Schult, open the door, please.” She then opened the door with a grin. “Can I help you?” “Before I left, you mentioned something. I was just wondering, did you know my grandfather?” “I knew you would ask,” she said. “Come in.” When I walked into her house, I saw the unimaginable. There were canvases everywhere with art that looked similar to my grandfather’s. I ran up to one and searched for a signature. I could not find one, but I was pretty sure it was my grandfather’s art. Ms. Schult didn’t do anything but stand behind me. I got frustrated, and I just turned around and saw her staring at me with a grin. “Don’t just stand there, help me!” I said, starting to cry. “Please, please, please,” I kept saying to her, then I fell to the floor and started to weep. “Now, now, little one,” she said kneeling down and gathering me up in a hug. “Your grandfather loved you very much. He would have never wanted to see you in this state.” “Please tell me how you know my grandfather,” I said. “With time, little one, we learn that some stories must forever be kept, and the one of your grandfather and I is a special one that I would love to keep for myself,” she said, still hugging me. “Someday you will understand. Now, Ingrid, could I ask you a question?” “Yes, Ms. Schult.” continued on next page

Peace&Love

Inkwell Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love (continued) “Why does the passing of your grandfather hurt you so bad?” “To be honest, Ms. Schult, it's ‘cause I just feel I could have done something to avoid him passing away,” I said and began to tear up again. “Ohh, sweet one, life is the art of drawing without an eraser.” “What do you mean?” I ask. She then leaned in and whispered, “Live with no regrets and that will help you live your life to the fullest.” “Can I just know one thing?’ “What would that be?” “Was art the thing that brought you and my grandfather together?” “Yes,” she said looking into the midst of nothing and then turned to me, “and if you improve in your art, it will not just keep you closer to him, but can help others.” “Can you help me?” “Follow me,” she said getting up from the floor and dusting herself off. She then led me to a secret room where she had a million more canvases. “I’m an artist and I will be your mentor.” “Really?” Kirsten Fraga, Grade 12 “Yes.” I spent the next two months with her everyday, where she helped me grieve over my grandfather and to really express myself with my art. She became my best friend. It felt as though I had my grandfather back. I was at home one day when I got a call that Ms. Schult had been taken to the hospital. I rushed over to the hospital when I saw her being rushed in. I tried to run up to her, but the doctors held me back. When they finally had her stable, I was allowed to enter her room. “Hey, Ms. Schult. How are you feeling?” “A little better. They say it was a mini heart attack, nothing extreme.” “Are you kidding me?!” I exclaimed to her. “Ms. Schult, how long have you not been feeling well?” “Calm down. I was trying my best, but with the war, I had no access to medication.” continued on next page

Hope

Inkwell Art Isn’t Just Paint; It’s Love (continued) “You should have told me. I would have found a way,” I said, starting to cry, “I love you.” Two weeks later, Ms. Schult died of weakness and depression of not being at home. Her last wish was to die in her bed surrounded by her art and loved ones, which wasn’t many. Only my family, to be honest, but that was enough for her. We were cleaning her house when I came across a letter written to my name. Amy M., Grade 11 Dear Ingrid, Thought you were going to get rid of me that easy, huh? Well, not really, because you and me were brought together by art, and art will always be with you. I guess since I’m not here to keep my story as a treasure, I believe you are the best person to do it. Your grandfather and I met in 1898 in the countryside. We met at an old oak tree in the ﬁeld where your grandfather was painting. We would spend days playing and painting. We grew up, fell in love, and eventually got married. We had a handsome son. Your father. Which makes me your grandmother. Surprise. But your grandfather and I had diﬀerent plans so we went our separate paths. After many years, I got in contact with your father. I already knew I would be dying soon, so I decided to move to your apartment complex to spend my last days getting to know my beautiful granddaughter. It was the best thing I decided. I love you. I don’t want you to be sad or heartbroken, because think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy. Love, Grandmother Rosemarie Schult Author Note: I was inspired by the struggles that many individuals face on a daily basis and how sometimes I will never forget Ms. Schult. She taught me to love all that is needed is a little sparkle of light and a little life no matter what challenges are thrown my way. I will never forget her loving and mysterious character. love to make a perfect day, which I hope to accomplish through this writing. I hope I give individuals the I will never forget to think about the beauty left chance to experience mixed emotions, for one cannot around me and to be happy. know happiness without some downfalls. Thank you, Grandmother.

No Air

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This is Gonna Get Weird by Drew VR Swaim, Grade 10

Constellation Night Morgan J Miranda, Grade 10

Artist Note: I put a tiny plastic hand on top of my little wooden drawing model and went to town.

The Sun, the Hermit, and the High Priestess

by Drew VR Swaim, Grade 10

Artist Note: I am in the process of writing a book, and I thought a good way to get into character exploration/create character depth, was to associate a tarot card with each character. Then, I thought it would be fun to actually make these cards. The sun, the hermit, and the high priestess were my favorites of the set.

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Star Wars - Original Trilogy

Hi - Sad - Why

by Nicole Mannino, Grade 12

by Dilbar Ameen, Grade 9

Artist Note: This colored pencil piece shows the contrast between the dark and light side of the force inspired by the movie Star Wars.

Pain

by Dilbar Ameen, Grade 9

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Artwork

Robot Under the Maelstrom

by Jason Tran, Grade 12

Pink and Orange

Water

Aerospray

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Chapter One of JV's Upcoming Novel Julius Virginia, Grade 10

Artist Note: This is an excerpt from my work in progress novel that I am planning on publishing within the century (hopefully) but deﬁnitely by the end of my senior year.

To the best of my knowledge, wherever there is a bad person in the world, there is usually a much better person going along behind them and picking up their mess. Whether the better person is a certain amount kinder than the other or a certain amount sneakier, I do not know; but, I do know that whatever wretched deeds the bad person may have caused are usually cleaned up by, at the latest, the next decade. It is debated among scholars and in small libraries who the good person in that situation would be protecting: the bad person or the other people affected. On one hand, no one would ever know what the bad person was doing, and they would continue to cause problems; but, on the other hand, the people that would have been affected would be protected from confusion and bunburyment. The moral issue of this is who to help, no one or everyone? In the case of both a Victorian gothic boarding school and an architectural marvel - which happened to be the same place - the spirits inhabiting it decided on the latter. I don’t quite know the year, but some time between 1837 and the late 1850s, a large, dark castle was ordered by Queen Victoria to be erected in one of England’s most beautiful, rugged forests: The Royal Forest Of Dean. But, of course, it wasn’t called that then. Then, it was just called forestland. She ordered the castle to be used as a private school and winter home for her family and especially her grandchildren. Wilhelm, Nicholas, and George had knocked over a bust of their grandma one Christmas eve when they were young. The castle was used as private property under the crown until the end of The Great War, and then it was turned into a boarding school run by the Christian church. It later changed hands at the turn of the century and its ownership was unknown, but its Christian influences remain to this day. Then, in the 1920s, it went back under the authority of the crown, and the education was modified so that it could be a legally registered boarding school under the crown. That is its current state today, named Luella Downe School after the alias of an anonymous donor. continued on next page 19

Inkwell Chapter One of JV's Upcoming Novel (continued) And now, as our last piece of background knowledge, I would like to share with you some controversial notions about life after death. Some people believe that souls sometimes get stuck in locations after they have died. This is false. There are only two reasons souls would be on earth. 1) Spirits cannot get stuck in the place that they died and are instead ﬂung out of it. Sometimes they will end up in other locations and are so distraught that they stay there. 2) If a spirit is summoned to a location one too many times, their soul may get bound to the land or buildings on it. And, these are the two exact reasons that the pupils at the large, dark boarding school nestled in the Royal Forest Of Dean were unusually safe and comforted for the most part. The spirits that had been drawn there had a purpose and were trying their best in their diﬀerent areas to protect those to whom they felt they were similar. Another thing misconstrued by heteronormative religious society today is the belief that all religions concerning goddesses, gods, and folk tales are all false, and are only to be contemplated by historians or English majors. This is also false. Most religions and beliefs that humans have come up with over the years are accurate and correct, and whatever you believe becomes correct for you, including Greek and Roman religions. I’m sure you remember Achilles, how his mother dipped him in a magic river, protecting every part of his body except his heel (or the back of his ankle), which later proved to be the place a spear was stabbed into him, killing him during the Trojan war. Achilles looks just as you would imagine him, golden locks - which is not uncommon for sun-soaked Greek people - and muscles like a buck. This is all true, and yes, Achilles did walk the Greek portion of the earth at some point, but he was more of a himbo than anyone ever described him to be. And, as a ghost, he was very put out that he was associated with a metaphor for weakness. continued on next page 20

Inkwell Chapter One of JV's Upcoming Novel (continued) He was summoned to the castle five years after it had been refurbished as a boarding school by a superstitious jock who wanted some good luck for an upcoming game of rugby. Unfortunately, the jock had been ill-informed, and Achilles could do nothing for the luck of the team; and, because he was summoned, he was stuck there for seven days. And, as are most ghosts, he was invisible to everyone. So, Achilles waited where he had been summoned - in an old art gallery room that was no longer in use because art history was no longer a class there - until the seven days passed, and he was allowed to leave. But, it didn’t stop at that. The jock’s team, by sheer chance, won the game of rugby that they were sure they would lose. But, in the mind of the humans, this was all Achilles’s doing. So, from then on, it became a good luck ritual for Luella Downe athletes to do a summoning ritual dedicated to Achilles, leaving offerings such as bread, wine, and varieties of sports equipment. And, as I said before, if a spirit is summoned too many times to a particular location, it can get bound to the ground - or, in this case, room - it was summoned on. So, around 1928, after the seven day incubation period after a summoning - during which he had taken accustomed to lounging on a small balcony used for lecturing when the gallery room was actually used - he realized it was impossible for him to leave. He wandered around the school for three more days after that and tried to talk to students a few times, but it took about nine tries before it got through to him that they couldn't see him. And, after the initial shock wore off, which took a few years, he felt he should be doing something useful; after all, he was Achilles, the Achilles, strongest of men. Nothing could bother Achilles, especially not trivial human emotions such as boredom. And, because he was able to go anywhere inside school grounds, including the rugby field, he felt he should become the good luck charm that the athletes of Luelle Downe had assumed he was and took the occasional chance to kick a player from the opposing team in the face. He liked the fact that he was helping. After all, the H in Himbo stands for heart. During the day he watched over the sports pitch, and in the night he lounged on the teaching balcony in the gallery. Ghosts can't sleep, but they don’t need to, and Achilles liked to be alert at all times. Which did leave a lot of time for boredom - which he increasingly tried to ignore - until a soul that was consciously aware of him was flung into one of the larger oil paintings.

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Artwork

by Huntyr Rasmussen, Grade 10

A Sly Man in a Hat

A Pretty Girl in Pink

Artist Note: Started as a joke, turned into a serious piece.

Jewel Wings and Space

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I Am Ugly

Heather Allgood, Grade 9 Waking up in the morning and having to get dressed into something that would make me feel better. Then seeing the mirror on the wall, seeing my naked body, the wrong body. The body that is mine that has too many scars to count. I am ugly. The body that is mine that has freckles that look like a sad version of connecting the dots all over my face, chest, and shoulders. I am ugly. The body that is mine that has not enough curve in the places it should, but enough curve in the places it shouldn’t. I am ugly. The body that is mine that has nothing that society nowadays ﬁnds attractive. I am ugly. I wish my body was like others. I wish I could take a few inches out of my skeleton so then I could be considered thin. I wish I could be taller so that people wouldn’t have to look down on me like I am a burden. I wish I had more of a chest and bum so then I would at least have something worthwhile. I wish I was what society wanted. Everything that I wish I could be and what I have are two completely diﬀerent things. Because society sucks, they manipulate us into thinking that we have to be skinny, tall, curvy, tan, and beautiful to be even moderately attractive. To have someone tell us we are enough. But society is wrong. You are beautiful the way you are, no matter what type of curve or scar, freckle or mole, acne or smooth, tall or short, thin or curvy, thin or thick. None of this matters. You are more beautiful and priceless than the stars.

Be You!

Dunn,Hannah, Grade 11 Artist Note: Do not let people tell you how to act or what to be. If you want to do or be something, go do it. Don't let anyone stop you. You deserve to be happy.

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Transgender Poem Collection Excerpts Liliana S., Grade 11

Poet Note: I created these as part of an assignment for my English class based on the experiences of myself and others with being transgender. My hope is that it will teach people what it's like and help increase their acceptance of trans people.

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Wings

Miranda Siddle, Grade 9 All of us have wings. All wings are different. Some white, some black. Some blue, and some green. There are some wings that are special. Wings of all colors, like mine. Those with multicolor wings, fly differently than others. Those of solid color wings, fear the multicolor wings. I fly my own path, I fly free. I refuse to fly silent. Those with solid colored wings watch in disgust. They load up their bows, with arrows. Arrows, with words of hate carved on the wood. The arrows hit my wings, breaking feathers. They watch in satisfaction as I crash. I’m on the ground. My tears drain like lakes during a summer drought I look up at the sky, where the others fly. A surge of strength comes over me. My wings are not broken anymore. They never were. They were hurt, but hope heals all. I fly high once again, dodging the arrows and flying free. I fly solo, but I will be okay. Wings are made for flying, not for falling. So why cause others to fall? “Everyone deserves a chance to fly” Fly the way you fly.

Poet Note: This poem is about me and others who have been bullied because they are different. I wrote this as a message of hope to others and myself. I love watching birds ﬂy around, so I named it Wings and went from there. My whole life I always wanted to see people accepting one another and building each other up. I write and write everyday, so I can spread hope to those alone, sad, unseen, and bullied. I know what it's like. I really hope this poem helped you or made you feel some hope. That's all I want to give in my writing. Hope.

triviality

Lindsey Johnson, Grade 10

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Join the Waves

V.M., Grade 11 To this day I still remember that feeling I felt so free and refreshed. It was sunny and breezy that day. It was my first time. I was anxious to venture so far out into the unknown and vast sea. but I was still intrigued. The sea engulfed me and my board as I was battling the waves. I learned that I could not fight against them, but instead I must float with the tides.

Strength

Lauren McClure, Grade 10

Tree

Morgan Doose, Grade 9

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Nature

A.P., Grade 11

Artist Note: I took these photos when I was in a yearbook class. I really love nature and the vibe you get from nature photos.

Inkwell

Contributors

Alyssa Touw Amy M. Anaheta Hamzai A.P. bentai Brandon Griga Darla Schaefer Dilbar Ameen Drew VR Swaim Dunn,Hannah Evalynn Whitney Fatma Ismail Heather Allgood Huntyr Rasmussen Jason Tran Jay Jyleer Martinez Julius Virginia Kayla X. Lopez ky Kirsten Fraga Lauren McClure Liliana S. Lindsey Johnson Madison A. Miranda Siddle Morgan Doose Morgan J Miranda Natalie Narciso Nicole Mannino Shayla Morreale The DWT Toni G. V.M.

6 15 7 2, 5, 27 1 3 8, 9 17 16 4, 23 9 1, 7 23 22 6, 18 4 1, 2 19-21 10-15 6 3, 11-14 8, 26 24 5, 25 1 25 26 16 4 7, 17 2 9 8 26

NOTE: While students must submit work formally identiﬁed, they may optionally be published under chosen pen names.

Inkwell i s a West Hills High School tradition showcasing the creative works of students.

Members of the West Hills Readers and Writers Club would like to thank: All of you, our kind readers of Inkwell Students from previous Inkwell editions who paved the way Staff members who encouraged students to submit work to Inkwell Students who bravely shared work to be included in this edition of Inkwell Santee County Librarian Kelly Chung for fueling our creativity Grossmont Union High School District Print Shop West Hills Admin for their guidance & support: Principal Robin Ballarin and Vice Principals April Baker, Carrie Gaeir, and John Hoadley

Even across distances...

We are One We are the Pack