Inkwell The Literary-Art Magazine of West Hills High School
2021-22
Inkwell The Literary-Art Magazine of West Hills High School
2021-22 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 Natalee Modica, Grade 11
Student Editor Annella Rice, Grade 12
Faculty Editor Suzanne Sannwald, Teacher Librarian
Inkwell POETRY Birthstone Haiku
Loki to Thor WW1 Letters or Poems from My Sons Sea of Emotions Untitled Who do you want to be?
Bobby Mendoza Ryan Self Katheryn Alonso Elena C. Martinez Gannon Thorsnes Lauren McClure Anonymous Brooklyne Aldous Brennan Ryan Sadie Sengthong Alexandra Dearie Borquez Riley Smith Rebecca A. Dolin Rebecca A. Dolin AVR Jay
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9 12 13 14-15 17
Rise of the Phoenix The Tundra Deviation from the Norm Perfidiousness Acceptance of Your Humanity
Peter Danchise JOAN N. Ching N. Ching Lucia Moody
2 5-8 10 16 18-19
Dvalin (Stormterror) Spectacularly Unfinished Art Hiraeth Two Faced Artistic Chaos Mind Complicated Poem-inspired artwork Decay Untitled Poem-inspired artwork Untitled Edward and Kim The Growth of a Being
Sarah Angeline Macaraeg Ramon Evans Elena C. Martinez Arizona Burke Elena C. Martinez Elena C. Martinez AVR L. Ashleigh M. Rubic AVR Rubic Shayla Morreale Kavinda R. Gamage
NARRATIVE
VISUAL ART
CONTRIBUTORS
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Dvalin (Stormterror) Sarah Angeline Macaraeg, Grade 11
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Rise Of The Phoenix
Excerpt from a longer work by Peter Danchise, Grade 9 Author Note: This is the prologue of my novel Rise Of The Phoenix. “Dad, tell me about The Time Of Chaos,” asked the little boy as he climbed into his bed. “Are you sure? That story isn't like the fairytales you hear about. It doesn't end with the dashing prince saving the beautiful maiden.” His dad responded with a small chuckle. The boy nodded his head. The father grabbed a chair from the desk nearby and sat down in it. “First you need to know about The Guardians.” “Long ago a darkness arose. The people who had never seen anything like it were scared, but one by one, the darkness corrupted them. Though, seven people who refused to fall into the bitter hold of Chaos stood up.” The father took a breath. “They were known as the Guardians. In reward, the Spirit Of Light gifted everyone spirit animals which we still have today. They guide us through our lives and take form depending on who we are inside,” the father pressed a finger to the boy's chest right where his heart was. “Spirit animals can take many shapes, from the smallest mouse to the biggest elephant. But, the Spirit of Light gave the Guardians an extra gift, the power to pull strength from the Spirit itself. With this new power, they won the war against evil. But, the Spirit Of Light knew that it would be back. So, it appointed each of the warriors and their families kingdoms. Though the kingdoms never fell, the families did. One by one, they were hunted down. Only three survived in hiding. But, that's not the end of this story. Hundreds of years later when this story has been reduced to myth, the Darkness stirred and the Phoenix woke up.”
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Birthstone Haiku
Pebbles, stones of sun River red glint, greenish grime Spilled with crimson blood
Ms. Miller’s Earth Science Students Purple Pyramids Rich in color and edges Buried beneath us
- Lauren McClure, Grade 12
- Bobby Mendoza, Grade 11
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The gem of the seas Its beauty graced with pale blue May it protect me
Diamond in the beauty Pushed into every heart Never ever leaves
- Anonymous, Grade 11
- Ryan Self, Grade 11
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♦
Sky deep as blue seas Stars fill up the sapphire sky Stars glow way up high
A sunny delight The astonishing topaz Golden and bright
- Brooklyne Aldous, Grade 10
- Katheryn Alonso, Grade 11
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A beautiful stone. The true beauty of Amber The true love gemstone
Turquoise Haiku The sky couldn’t beat The smoothness, calmness, and strength Of my gem, turquoise.
- Brennan Ryan, Grade 11
- Elena C. Martinez, Grade 10
My little baby The prettiest pink color You are so precious
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♦ Mine is peridot The unique green shade and designs This is from august
- Sadie Sengthong, Grade 11
Compassion birthstone Inspire eloquence and cheer Always brings delight
Beautiful color Like ocean brings peace to mind Happy it's mine
- Gannon Thorsnes, Grade 11
- Alexandra Dearie Borquez, Grade 11
♦
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Spectacularly Unfinished Art Ramon Evans, Grade 11
Artist Note: This is an art tribute for the Spectacular Spider-Man television series. This is based purely on nostalgia from growing up. I was not able to fully complete this, but I figure it's nice to show a work in progress, to show that even I am not perfect. It's no secret that this webhead has brought entertainment and joy, is one of the most iconic heroes, and is also a very down-to-earth character despite being fictional. The movie trilogies are amazing, but the show I feel represents a perfect way to show a relatable aspect on the subject of high school, how even a teen with powers struggles to live a normal life while dealing with financial problems at home, loss of a family member, school work and grades, struggling to earn/make money, being bullied, finding a girlfriend, keeping good friends, and all the while juggling these responsibilities while fighting crime and keeping his identity a secret so the people he cares about are in no harm's way by the villains he has to face. The ever-so-present theme of living up to responsibilities is always haunting Peter, but he never stops to codependent defeat. And, when he is at his lowest, he still has friends and family there to support him. Not everyone will have moments like these, but in times like those, we need to remember that we are not alone and seek help from those who are willing to help and care for us. Life is not easy, but you find a way to balance it and have good people to be there along the way. To wrap things up, I'm gonna put the iconic quote here: "If you have the ability to do something, make sure that you do it for the good of others. If you can stop something bad from happening, do it." And, “With great power, there must also come great responsibility."
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The Tundra
Excerpt from a longer work by JOAN, Grade 11 Author Note: ‘The Tundra’ was one of the first chapters I wrote for my project ‘Biomes,’ a fantasy open world in which every kingdom consists of a unique geographical setting and has its own deity guardian. The character Dendera is used as a lens to explore this world, as she travels throughout them with a goal to learn about the magic and the mysteries that surround it. The ear-piercing roar of a blizzard tore across the Tundra, wind howling like ravenous wolves. The sky above was darkened with heavy weather, the only light coming from a few sun-soaked clouds sprinkled about the greyscale expanse. A stone fortress was visible from the entrance to this new world, its walls standing at attention like soldiers, stiff and vigilant amidst the wild uncertainty around it. Inside of this formidable structure were a few rooms that had been dimly lit with flickering candles and torches. Though safety from the harsh winds was adequately supplied here, warmth was not, at least not to foreigners like the dark-haired girl huddled up within one of these rooms. Even a fur coat couldn't pry her mind away from the flaring pain that washed over her like a wave with each breath of icy air. This girl had a tan complexion that was far too warm and golden to have yielded from a place like this and jet black hair that was cut short, loose curls plastered to her forehead and circling her ears. A backpack was sitting in front of her, leaning at an angle that threatened to collapse at any moment. Missing from one of its many pockets was a stiff leather-bound book, which sat in the girl’s lap, open to a page only half filled out in neat yet frantic handwriting that had a harsh left slant. It was a research journal, and this young woman had been filling it with her findings for months, but sadly, it was not complete. Not yet. “Dendera!” a boy's voice called out, shouting the girl's name in an attempt to find her. Seconds later, a guard with hair as dark as Dendera’s, but far more disheveled poked his head in through the doorway with a confident smile on his face. He had introduced himself as Kallik when they had first met no more than half an hour ago. “Found you- the sled is here. Silla says that your request for an audience with the monarch has been accepted.” Dendera looked up from the journal, shutting it and slipping it back into the bag in one seamless movement. She hadn’t expected to hear back on her request this fast. “One second, let me regain feeling in my legs so I don’t fall on the ice again,” she said, her voice tight and shaky from strain against the cold. This sentence seemed to flick on a lightbulb in the head of the young guard, and within seconds, he was digging through the small satchel perched on his hip. “Right! Silla also told me to give you this-” he said, fumbling with a little black bottle no larger than his palm and handing it to Dendera. continued on next page
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Inkwell The Tundra (continued) The girl turned it over in her hands, it was warm to the touch and had a metal cap with a fancy V engraved into it, the symbol of the Volcano Biome. “Do I-” “Drink it? Yeah, not all of it, though. Save some for when it wears off.” Suddenly, an older man's voice sounded from down the hall, and Kallik stiffened, retreating back towards the doorway. “Hurry up- we’ll be at the end of the hall,” he said, slipping back into the dim corridor. Dendera nodded, unscrewing the cap of the bottle Kallik had given her. The liquid inside was a dull orange hue and smelled almost overwhelmingly of smoke. Hesitantly, she pressed the bottle to her lips and took a small sip. Heat carved its way down her throat, quickly spreading throughout her body so fast that within seconds she felt herself sweating underneath her large winter coat. Quickly, she slipped it off so that her thick undershirt was the only thing covering the top half of her athletic frame. Dendera hastily made her way down the hall to the grand double doors, which were held open by a pair of guards. Just outside of these doors was a sled made from ice with three people on it, Kallik himself, an older man with a striking face tattoo who bore a close resemblance to him this was Silla - and a small woman with long gray hair and wrinkled skin that hung loose on her bones who was currently hunched over against a knotted walking stick at the front of the sleigh. With a slightly uncertain expression, Dendera stepped out onto the sled, meeting eyes with Silla. He gave her a gentle nod of reassurance but kept his stern expression. Kallik bumped his shoulder against Dendera and leaned over just enough to whisper into her ear. “You should really hold onto something if it's your first time on a sled,” he warned, standing back up just as the old woman in front raised her weathered hand, making the vehicle take off effortlessly by some greater power. The speed sent Dendera stumbling backward, nearly losing her footing on the icy sleigh before Kallik reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding in a laugh. “Told you,” he hissed playfully, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Dendera's ears grew hot as she pulled her hand away, gripping the side of the sled and moving her focus away from Kallik. In the distance, another stone structure was already coming into view, built into the space between two mountains. Despite its lack of royal flair, this was the Tundra palace. It looked how Dendera would have expected from the stories told about this place, but somehow, none of those stories even came close to describing the isolating feeling that being in the presence of such an unwelcoming structure cast over a first time viewer. The sled made its own path through the snowy fjords, and rather quickly, it pulled to a stop outside of the front gates, palace workers instantly rushing to open the blockade upon continued on next page
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Inkwell The Tundra (continued) seeing Silla, the easily recognizable Head of the Guards. Once they came to a stop, Dendera was escorted out of the vehicle and led inside. The young woman took a deep breath and nervously began her walk down the decorated length of the main hall, eyes trained on the monarch who awaited her at the end of it. The throne upon which the female sovereign sat was staggeringly large and made of marble. The woman herself was no less intimidating, both sides of her head shaved clean with royal symbols tattooed in the space left. She wore a full suit of silvery armor and had a blue cape lined with white fur hung loosely over one of her broad shoulders, spilling off the side of the throne like a frozen waterfall. This was Aput, the war queen of the Tundra Biome and a ruler famed for her merciless habits in war. Her reputation was infamous despite her young age. Only twenty-six, though her stark white hair gave her a much older and wiser appearance. Dendera reached the end of the hall and crouched to one knee, feeling her heart pounding as the judging eyes of the regal woman bore down on her. “No need to bow, I’m not the ruler of your biome” Aput spoke, her voice steady and commanding, “Respect is something I have earned from my people, allow me to earn it from you as well.” Dendera pushed herself back up to her feet, opening her mouth in slight shock to respond to the monarch’s words, but finding no thoughts willing to be spoken. Aput took this opportunity to continue her own dialogue. “I understand you are here on a research expedition, that you have been to… eight biomes thus far? Counting this one, of course.” “I- yes, that's correct,” Dendera sputtered, her hands tightening on her backpack straps. “And where were you last?” the stoic woman inquired, weaving her hands together as she stared down at Dendera. “The Amazon biome.” Aput’s expression shifted gently upon hearing this, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards and her eyes softening at the mention of the Amazon. Within moments, Aput hardened her expression once again. “Then you met Queen Edite, I assume?” she asked, not leaving room for a response before adding on to her question, “What tools did she provide for you and your little… project?” the woman gave a small flourish with her hand as she spoke. Dendera shifted her weight back and forth between boot-clad feet and gulped, trying desperately to recall her past travels in a timely manner. continued on next page
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Inkwell The Tundra (continued) “Well, she gave me a room and let me speak with the Elders-” the girl said, her mind scattered as she replied to Aput. The queen gave a thoughtful glance at one of the many doors lining the corridor, and then nodded, returning her icy and commanding stare to Dendera. “I will give you everything that she did,” the woman said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, “for one week.” “That's- that’s perfect! I mean, thank you, thank you so much- really,” Dendera replied, still shaken by Aput’s presence but trying her best to seem competent and put together. The monarch snapped her fingers and pointed just over Dendera’s shoulder at someone. “You- show her to a room, she’s going to want rest after so much traveling.” Dendera turned to see who this order had been given to and only felt slightly annoyed when she found that it was Kallik, who was just barely hiding his trademark smirk behind an expression of false attentiveness. “Right away,” he said, before quickly ushering Dendera out of the room. Despite the fact that Kallik spoke nearly the whole walk to her room, Dendera hardly heard him. Instead, her mind was swimming in anticipation for her future meeting with the tundra elders, so caught up in it all that she only snapped back to reality when the iron doors of her room were closed behind her with a powerful slam that made the floor shake. It was just as foreboding as anything else she had seen in the palace today, all stone and high ceilings. A wooden wardrobe with scratches and knicks that looked like they had been dealt by a sword sat squarely in the center of one wall, opposite of a full-sized bed decorated with all white pillows and blankets. This was all that filled the room. With a small sigh, Dendera let her backpack slip to the floor. Her feet carried her to one of two arched stained-glass windows, hands resting on the sill as she analyzed it. In front of her was the depiction of a polar bear curled protectively around something that resembled a baby's cradle. It was the most gentle image she had seen so far in this biome, and her eyes danced across it as her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Dendera passively brushed one of her hands down the side of her forearm, tugging up her sleeve to reveal an almost entrancing pattern of black symbols that seemed to grow more dense and close together the further up her arm they stretched. She gave the markings a tender glance, a cloud of warm breath escaping her as she stood there, pondering the same thing she had her whole life: what could it mean? Dendera had been to eight biomes. Eight out of fourteen, and yet, she had only met one other person with markings like this… they had sent her here. Dendera inhaled sharply, tugging her sleeve back down and glancing over her shoulder. She should sleep, save her questions for tomorrow, when she might actually receive answers from the elders of this biome. After all, she had waited her whole life for this knowledge, what was one more night?
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Loki to Thor
Hiraeth
Riley Smith, Grade 9
Elena C. Martinez, Grade 10
My brother I confess My mischief is but a veil. You see, I have been locked up, I have been beaten, I have been ignored And I have been denied.
Artist Note: Please look up the title.
Cold. For the hottest days and coolest nights I have been trying. Trying to prove myself worthy, To climb out of it, Sometimes, yes, I do cause trouble, And I lie to you, father, and other Asguardians But I also act as a king would at times. I may be the god of mischief, But I must do anything to be noticed You are so mighty and perfect in Odin’s eye And my gift is seen as a threat I tried for so long to be worthy But it seems forever I will be Stuck in your shadow
Two Faced
Arizona Burke, Grade 10
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Deviation From the Norm
Excerpt from a longer work by N. Ching, Grade 9
Author Note: A tragic story about a cyborg girl who is seeking answers to her past. The theme is that unnecessary investigations could sometimes lead to danger or misfortune, or the proverb, 'Curiosity Killed the Cat.' Being too inquisitive of topics you should not try to find out can lead to trouble, so it is detrimental to be too nosy.
Millions of images flashed through Marcella’s head with barely enough time to register the feelings of apprehension and anxiety associated with them. A hurricane of emotions haunted her in her dreams with snippets of her horrendous past buried amongst the memories forcefully implanted into her artificially advanced brain. An enraged man snatching a baby out of a sobbing woman’s arms. The quick exchange of money between greedy hands. The sharp needle-like pain of an agonizing surgery. The dull throb of her temples from the bright lights located on the ceiling of a lab. The grueling training she had endured while her teammates dropped dead like flies. But how many of those recollections are real? Or are they all just hallucinations hand-crafted by the pretentious scientists who ruthlessly tore apart her humanity and replaced it with mechanical parts? It was a question Marcella originally asked herself often, and she always came up with no answer. Over time, however, she stopped being so concerned about her past. So what if her birth parents ruthlessly sold her to scientists for experimentation? It didn’t matter to her now anyway, and she wouldn’t benefit from finding out either. After all, it was curiosity that killed the cat, and she had learned enough from her training to not snoop into things she didn’t need to know. At least, that was what she wanted herself to believe. Beep! Beep! Beep! Marcella Flynn. Beep! Beep! Beep! Wake up. Emotionlessly, she sat up and shut off her annoying alarm clock. Rubbing her temples in hopes of clearing the remnants of her nightmare, she slid out of bed. What was in the past, stays in the past. There is no reason for her to be tormented by what happened before. After making her bed, Marcella freshened herself up before wearing her earpiece. “452, Marcella Flynn, up and ready. What is the task today?” She asked in monotone, locking her taser and revolver into place along with the various other weapons she owned on the utility belt that accompanied her suit. “452, report to headquarters. General Aiden would like to see you.” The platinum-blonde girl strolled confidently down the steel hall, boot heels clicking on the cool metal floor. She stops at a smooth marble door and closes her heterochromatic eyes, taking a deep breath before she gazed expectantly at the facial recognition device on the side of the door. The scanner examined the strikingly beautiful girl’s face, giving her access to the room after a few seconds. Marcella wasn’t exactly classified as hard to identify. Only a few people can look elegant with a piece of metal grafted onto their face, and she was one of the blessed ones. As Marcella gracefully stepped into the room, the marble doors fell back into place noiselessly and she smiled. This was perfect. This is the last day her superior would remain breathing since Marcella is looking for answers, and she will not stop at anything until she gets them.
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Artistic Chaos Mind Elena C. Martinez, Grade 10
Artist Note: I was really just messing with color combinations and lines. I painted what felt right.
Complicated Elena C. Martinez, Grade 10 Artist Note: Fractal tessellations are pretty fun to draw.
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WW1 Poem or Letters from My Sons Rebecca A. Dolin, Grade 10
I get these letters from my sons, letting me know they are okay. I hear from them not often, as they are so far away. No news is bad news, as if they were alive they could write, Maybe the letters were lost, always look for the light. The light in the dark is where you would go, Write them saying you miss them, just don’t let them know, Their father has died in battle, Their sisters cry for their rattles, Everything is lost, even the cattle. Stories of war, the trenches and all My prayers go to my sons, may they not fall They didn’t start this war, but they will finish it They will protect their home, won’t falter or quit. They are strong young men, my sons Still young enough that they aren’t as big as their guns Drafted as teenagers, not even done with school Living in the trenches, more like a cesspool. They have new weapons, new ways for them to die, Gas that kills, planes that fly They fly in circles watching my boys All of these advancements, horrors in disguise They are getting creative, new tanks and new gas New tactics meant to kill the mass My sons may die, and that has to be okay, They have orders they cannot disobey They are fighting for my freedom, and I miss them so Every morning they are not here, my heart takes a blow.
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Sea of Emotions Rebecca A. Dolin, Grade 10
Waves
People don’t understand the feeling but to be honest, neither do I. It’s a feeling that comes in waves. Like an ocean storm, crashing boats and breaking docks. There are times the waves crash so loud it makes my head pound. My head the jigsaw puzzle it is, seemingly unsolvable, with pieces that don’t fit quite right and no picture on the box, pounding as if someone was locked out and running from something, hurt from the noise. In times of stress, in times of glee, it's there. Like the ocean, the waves have high and low tides, huge waves that feel like they’re going to kill me, small ones that crash slow and soft but nonetheless crash. It's a pounding in my head. A pit in my stomach, eating me alive. Somehow, it learned to talk. At first it whispered, but now it screams. It screams so loud that it's deafening. Words. The words it speaks which started out as roars and crashes, slowly turn into hate. Hate about my body, my work, my choices. Shouting about how I’m not good enough, how everyone hates me and I’m not worth it. Trying hysterically to make me believe it’s lies, wanting me to break down. Urging me to let it overtake me, let it push me down. They tear me apart, putting so much pressure on me that I can’t get up. Wave after wave, I drown. As the waves crash against the shore, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, the waves convince me, I am useless. I am dumb. I am worthless. I don’t matter. I’m in open waters, nothing around me for miles, drowning, convinced I’m fighting for no reason. I stop. Why fight when nothing matters. The waves sweep me away, taking me to a place I never thought possible, somewhere lower than I already was. But how do you get lower than sea level? Lower than the rock bottom you thought you hit?
Towel Hung to Dry
When you take a shower you need a towel to dry off, but what do you do with it when you're done? You use the towel until its fulfilled its purpose and you hang it up to dry, forgetting it's there until the next time you need it. Being your friend means being a wet towel. You take me out of my safe space, use me until you feel done then throw me back onto your bed or the floor, hang me up to dry, and forget I’m there. I sit on my rack, hanging, bent out of shape and alone, waiting for the next time you use me. Every time you enter the bathroom, my hopes get up and I think, “Today is finally the day” until it isn’t and the metal bar holding me up is suddenly freezing cold, the wall I touch feels like lava, and I feel totally alone. People pick towels the way they pick people- based on appearances, how soft they are, not if they will get the job done. And I would get the job done, I would make you feel warm and like life isn’t so bad. I could be there for you, if you took care of me. Wash me, dry me, hang me back up. This spin cycle is breaking me, I am tearing at the seams from the carelessness of your actions. So you go buy a new towel, because the one you had ripped, and you are more careful with this new one, because it’s soft, and pink, and just the perfect length. Everything I wasn't. You put me in the back of your cabinet, the extra, only used when everything else is dirty or preoccupied. Not your first choice, but your last, because I have bleach stains from the washing machine, tears across my sides from the dryer, and burns in my heart from the pain of being your friend.
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Poem-inspired artwork by AVR, Grade 12
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Untitled AVR, Grade 12
I was never roses Till you made them blossom in trees ------------------------------------------And you sent me a song Quieter than others I know it’s for me, So I can hear through your eyes ------------------------------------------It is an intense fire and rain outside A burning building no one bothers with across the way The comfortable black leather and wilted roses Exhaled the earthy smoke A dark sofa, a cocked head Dim candles, distant neons Bloody wines Inhale the rain humming inside The fire, consuming the building across ------------------------------------------Dried daisies on my nightstand Night stands where lovers lie Lying on the beach Beaches of distant sands Sand in your hair Hair I filled with fresh daises Darling, Dried daises on my nightstand The nightstand next to our bed ------------------------------------------“To look at” we do not Atomically we see inward What we see, we perceive The colors and lights captured in eye As our brain processes each other Such beauties to comprehend This is why I don’t say “to look at you” But rather I “take you in” ------------------------------------------I am my own ghost, I know that the most, And you know many ghosts, So you raise a toast -------------------------------------------
continued on next page
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Decay
L. Ashleigh M., Grade 12 Artist Note: I am in AP Art this year, and I chose a theme of decay. Decay in the world happens mainly through decomposers like bugs or other organisms, so mushrooms were relevant.
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Untitled (continued) Don’t find it, ignore me We are all lost in a maze I know the way out But never want to go ------------------------------------------And can you breathe in a room of fog? Are you really breathing if no one watches? ------------------------------------------Fruit flies only live for 60 days They flutter around your decaying mind Moths live for a single month Eating your clothes into dime-sized holes
Untitled
Rubic, Grade 12
Butterflies live a mere two weeks Like your sweet words ------------------------------------------I never write for myself, it feels off So instead I write for an audience No one person I write in hopes to be read And maybe understood These are our quiet thoughts Those we don’t say In constant communication ------------------------------------------So when the world goes dark And when a stranger finds the light They will have our stories To get them through the night So cold they burn Find her darker poems Set flame to wake them ------------------------------------------As the stare To find the heir Locked in lair His pale and fair In tomb’s pair And diety’s care The crone bewares The court’s glare That what’s done is fair Is just and right, Because all is quiet here tonight -------------------------------------------
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Perfidiousness
Excerpt from a longer work by N. Ching, Grade 9 I am Colette, Colette Hart, and I am an A-list actor of FLAG (Female Lead Actress Group). A few years ago, I starred as the main actress of Angel in the Stars, a film about the story of a couple that was parted by death. This opportunity brought my popularity up by a lot and I gained many curious fans. Despite that, there were several haters who targeted me for playing in the movie, and they acted upon their rage by creating nasty rumors and publicly shaming me on social media. The entertainment industry surely isn’t for the faint of heart. In fear that some of the staff members might be behind some of the horrendous posts, my company dismissed everyone and hand-crafted a new team that was considerate and supportive to help me cope with the pressure and constant anxiety of being an actress. I’d say that we had gotten along pretty well and I had placed great trust in them. They were there for me in my darkest times and comforted me when I was at my lowest. They were my life-savers in a sort of way, and I wholeheartedly appreciated them. However, it turned out that their amiability was a complete pretense. “Coco, it is so nice of you to come up here with us,” Brookie, my makeup artist, says. “Isn’t the view up here great?” My agent, Rylee, adds, smiling eerily. Viona, my manager, who led me up to the rooftop of the party, subtly nudged me closer to the short railing and the rest of my team. “Of course,” I reply, offering a smile to each of them, feeling slightly uncomfortable with their suspicious behavior. “Good to hear,” they say, “Let’s take a group photo to celebrate your twenty-first birthday!” Backing closer to the rail to capture the most of the starry night’s beauty, I raise my hand to pose, focusing on the camera. Rylee and Viona take the two spots next to me. Brookie, who was taking the picture, stops and looks concerned. “Coco, there is something in your hair. Let me fix it for you,” she murmured, reaching for my shoulder. I stayed still, waiting patiently for her to remove whatever was stuck. But instead of taking something from my hair, Brookie roughly shoves me, causing me to lose my footing and teeter precariously over the edge. My heel slips and I am sent falling into open air. “Help me!” I yell, desperately reaching for any of my friends’ hands. “I’m sorry, Coco, but I can’t seem to hear you!” Viona shouts, her voice carrying through the wind as she watches my freefall with a smirking Brookie and a laughing Rylee. Flailing pathetically in the air, I scream as I fall fifty stories to the ground, which seemed to be rising up to meet me. I close my eyes, accepting my fate, and as expected…dying hurts. Everything is slowly fading out, my vision becoming progressively blurrier. It takes such an effort to keep my eyes open, it seems that my eyelids are laden with lead. There is a sharp pain in my chest, and I have the sudden urge to cough. My chest weakly heaves and a mouthful of slimy liquid fills my mouth, leaving the taste of iron behind. Every single bone in my body feels like it is broken. In the midst of it all, the blaring sound of an ambulance’s siren pierces through my ears. Muffled voices create a commotion around me, but my brain feels sluggish as if it was swimming through tar. Yet there is one thing that continues to reverberate through my mind. It was their betrayal.
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Who do you want to be? Poem by Jay, Grade 12 Poem-inspired artwork by AVR, Grade 12
‘Who do you want to be?’ Myself But how can I be myself if I don’t even know who that is I am an amalgamation of different facades I can’t even tell the difference between fantasy and reality ‘Who do you want to be?’ I’ve only ever wanted to be myself But people never want you to be yourself They want you to be the person they think is who you are ‘Who do you want to be?’ I can’t tell you how many people think they know me And I can’t blame them They know what I want them to know ‘Who do you want to be?’ I could be myself But I can’t It terrifies me, being genuine ‘Who do you want to be?’ Not me Never me Oh god, anybody but me What a silly little idea to be me When that idea never existed
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Acceptance of Your Humanity Lucia Moody, Grade 10
One: Accept your faults and the things you cannot change. You were made to look like that and the way you look is perfect and not being able to accept and love that will only make you suffer. Hating yourself is like hating the sound of the wind or the color of the grass. It's irrational and not what was intended for your life. You were meant to be and to thrive, not to suffer and cry for hours on end. Two: If you want to fix the things you can, do it with love and care, and if it doesn’t work, don't hate yourself - just try another way. Love and care is the only way you can thrive. Without love, you cannot function, and not being able to function, you won't be able to fix your problem. If you are trying to fix your weight, do it with healthy exercise and healthy food, not starving yourself and working out until you can’t move. Ask for help instead of struggling on your own. You were meant to be with people and surrounded by help and love. Three: Don’t beat yourself down everytime you make a mistake or get a bad grade. Those things don’t define you, they are just another stepping stone to help you achieve your goal, and if you miss one, there is another waiting right beside it for you to hold onto and to help you get back up. Messing up is part of life and should be celebrated and not frowned upon. Failure shows you what not to do and helps you know what to do instead. And, when you do succeed, don't base all of your happiness on that one thing, make it something to strive for again, and if you never achieve that goal, it's all right - there's always next time. continued on next page
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Untitled
Rubic, Grade 12
Inkwell Untitled (continued) Four: Stay happy and hopeful even when the whole world seems like it is against you. You were made to be happy and share your joy with others, not squander that happiness and make others feel it with you. You are always going to have things not go your way and it is your choice to decide if that will ruin your happiness. And when things do go your way, even if it is a miniscule thing, you can decide to hold onto that happiness until another comes along and replaces it. You are an imperfect creature and so is the world so nothing will ever be perfect, but you decide whether or not you will dwell on the fact or move on and stay joyful. Five: Don’t let others get to you no matter how much they say it and no matter who they are, even if they are family. In the end, no matter who says what, the only person that can decide your life and your happiness is you. So, even if they make you feel like you are the worst person in the world, or they make you feel like a worthless piece of trash on the street, you are worth the world if you believe it. Why let others make you feel something that is untrue and not who you are? Let yourself accept that you are flawed but still every bit as perfect and valuable as the person that told you that you aren’t. The way you were created is for you and you alone to truly appreciate, and many may come and go and many may appreciate you as well, but they are not constant. So, love yourself as if you are the last person on earth and never let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t. Why: Because you only get one life, so why struggle through instead of just enjoying what has been given to you that so many others have not been blessed with.
Edward and Kim Shayla Morreale, Grade 11
Artist Note: Edward Scissorhands is one of my favorite movies, and upon rewatching it this winter, I was motivated to draw a screencap from it in my own style. I found this scene to be so sweet and gentle, and I really enjoyed replicating it. I'm so proud of how far I've come with digital art. :)
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Inkwell
The Growth of a Being Kavinda R. Gamage, Grade 10
Artist Note: This work of art was inspired by the growth of a child, and how children grow up over time through school and life lessons. The tree represents the growth while the branches represent the various different aspects of that child’s life. School, home, and personal aspects. The child sitting in front of the tree reading a book represents how the more he or she learns, the more that they will grow.
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Inkwell
Contributors Alexandra Dearie Borquez Anonymous Arizona Burke AVR Bobby Mendoza Brennan Ryan Brooklyne Aldous Elena C. Martinez Gannon Thorsnes Jay JOAN Katheryn Alonso Kavinda R. Gamage L. Ashleigh M. Lauren McClure Lucia Moody N. Ching Peter Danchise Ramon Evans Rebecca A. Dolin Riley Smith Rubic Ryan Self Riley Smith Sadie Sengthong Sarah Angeline Macaraeg Shayla Morreale
3 3 9 13, 14-15, 17 3 3 3 3, 9, 11 3 17 5-8 3 20 14 3 18-19 10, 16 2 4 12, 13 9 15, 18 3 9 3 1 19
NOTE: While students must submit work formally identified, they may optionally be published under chosen pen names.
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Inkwell is 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 Grossmont Union High School District Print Shop Thank you, Bill Dege, for helping us all of these years! West Hills Admin for their guidance & support: Principal Robin Ballarin and Vice Principals Carrie Gaeir, John Hoadley, and Joshua Johnson
We are One We are the Pack