Inkwell 2022-23

Inkwell

VISUAL ART

Tropics

Elená C Martinez, Grade 11

Birthstone Haiku

Ms. Miller’s Earth Science Students

Opal is precious colorful and elegant lavish and shiny

- On Opal by Erick Estrada, Grade 11

I Control Three Stones

The King, The Sea, Dazzling Moon

Power and Beauty

- On Moonstone by Cole James, Grade 11

Diamonds are shiny

They shine like a star at night

So very brilliant

- On Diamond by Miranda Siddle, Grade 12

Pretty rigid shape

Purple spikes a sight to see Helps heal my body

- On Amethyst by Lu Hassan, Grade 10

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Birthstone Haiku (continued)

It shines like the sun big and bold like sunflowers Its beauty glows bright

- On Topaz by Ella Cushman, Grade 11

♦ Deep ocean jewel Gleaming like the water’s surface Bright as a star

- On Sapphire by Gerardo Macaraeg, Grade 11

Shiny summertime Whilst watching the sun descend Into the ocean

- On Moonstone by Jalin Copeland, Grade 11

red like my heart beat it is shiny like a star it is red as fire

- On Garnet by Anthony Oltraver, Grade 11 ♦

Sapphire is dark blue Jet blue just like the ocean Raindrops on the ground

- On Sapphire by River Toma, Grade 10

Just a field of grass, As green as a dark forest Shiny like the light

- On Periodot by Mirsha Corona, Grade 10 ♦ Pretty as a star Diamonds glassy shine The light shines through

- On Diamond by Ray Rivinius, Grade 10

Magic stone so blue Pretending to be worth more Pay back in beauty

- On Zircon by Cooper Oberg, Grade 11

The shiny perfect

The beautiful wonderful The colorless stone

- On Topaz by Alberto Guerra, Grade 11

The month of April 06 is the time of year The Diamond chose me

- On Diamond by Braden Rutledge, Grade 11

Colors in motion

Opals shimmering delight

A gemstone treasure

- On Opal by Kaden Marquez, Grade 10

June’s glittering clam

Holds the blue ocean’s beauty

Those gorgeous white pearls!

- On Moonstone by Kai Reynolds, Grade 10

Photography by Rebecca A. Dolin, Grade 11

The Count’s End

Art & excerpt from a longer work by Noah Green, Grade 9

It was a dark and perishable afternoon over in Germany Sunday would be the last blood moon of the year Samuel looked over at the clock It’d be a quarter before midnight It was the second to last midnight before the clock struck twelve on the eve of the new year. Samuel was soon packing his bags for his business trip over to Transylvania. He’d packed his most important part of his journey, his journal as his superior told him to jot down any suspicions he found while visiting this so-called ‘Count Dracula.’ He had a few questions for this trip but was immediately shut down by his boss as he only wanted ‘Yes’ for an answer, a simple ‘No’ would get him kicked out of the firm forever, which he wished he could have said, then he wouldn’t have ended up in this mess He headed out to the street and called for a taxi to take him to the train station so he wouldn't be late He hummed as a taxi would pull in, as the driver rolled down the window and glared at Samuel

“Where are you headed, kid? Sure got a hell lotta crap with you Heh,” the taxi driver sneered at him He had a very ugly and deformed nose, and it looked like a pig's snout

Samuel just got in and looked at him, “I’m heading to the train station a few blocks up ” Samuel brushed his combed black hair out of his face, which was blocking his eyesight as he put his beige glasses back on. “Do you mind if I have a cigar, sir?”

The taxi driver couldn’t care less about what Samuel did, as he was already having a cigar while driving.

“How unprofessional is that, I mean I’m asking to do the same thing but I’m not that idiot driving! God, he could probably hit some pedestrians, his windows are so misty you can’t see a thing!” Samuel's thoughts clouded his head like a thunderstorm. He just went on with it and lit the cigar, taking puffs out of it every so often and staring out the window looking at the pale moon in the night sky, sighing and putting his head back.

The taxi driver pulled into the driveway of the train station, glaring at Samuel and grinning at him “We’re here sir ” He eyed Samuel’s bag as he was requesting money

Samuel handed him four Euros and shivered as he grabbed his bags and ran towards the platform, seeing his train just sitting there e got on and waved to the conductor, showing him a sign of respect and love Samuel headed towards the train’s private carts He soon then sat down in his car and glared at the piercing sunset It blinded him for a quick second

Author Note: When I first read the novel Bram Stoker's Dracula, I was really astonished by the work and honestly wanted to see if I could make an excerpt of the novel as a little short creative writing project and just see how it ended up looking! So, when I started to write this novel, I was happy to see how my character layouts were gonna be played out in the story. I hope people will get a fun experience and really love my character and my short story. I am not intending to copy Bram Stoker as I think he is honestly a creative genius and has made amazing pieces of fiction and his work is genius.

Underwater Exhibition

Art & Poem by Rebecca A. Dolin, Grade 11

Along the Isla Mujeres lies an underwater exhibition

Filled with every pathological omission

With every new repetition

Comes a new addition

A written definition

Of our latest mission

And once one is granted admission

Their soul begins to transition

Voiding all of their intuition

While the prophecy comes to fruition

Everything leading to our eventual decomposition

Next to Cozumel lies a great barrier reef

We stood there watching in great disbelief

The sharks circled and the fish came forth We won’t ever speak of this henceforth

Not the horrors of his death

Nor the secrets of the depth

As the evidence gets destroyed

The soothing sound of waves will never be enjoyed For the worst part of it all

Is that there was no one left to heed our fall

The memory of the man

Gone as was the plan

The only remnants remaining Are in the museum entertaining With its true origin lost to time

The display truly is the best crime

The police don’t suspect anything

All my lies pulling the string

We’re going to be fine

As long as we keep the main storyline

That we don’t know where he is

We will pass this quiz

Our fall is postponed

Decomposition on pause

We will get away with this

We will beat the laws

Scotophobia: Fear of the dark is a common fear or phobia among children and, to a varying degree, adults. A fear of the dark does not always concern darkness itself; it can also be a fear of possible or imagined dangers concealed by darkness.

At least once in every child's life they have feared the darkness, but it's never made clear why nor what caused this fear I'm about to tell you, the reader, a story of when I was 5 ½ years old to 6 years old of how I developed that fear I find it fitting to give this story a name so let's call it

The Dark

P

D, Grade 9

Year One

When I was five I got my first nightlight, it was a basic white tube fully enclosed, but it got the job done The year was 2011, and me, my mother, and father had just moved into an apartment located in uptown El Cajon. Every night I would lay awake on my bunk bed fantasizing about being a captain of a submarine or the leader of troops in a war, but like most good things, it had to come to an end. After a month of owning the nightlight, it began to project shapes onto the light blue walls even though there were no cut-outs on it. The shapes would move and dance about my bedroom walls. At first I enjoyed it… that is until the silhouette of a man started to appear on my wall. This was no ordinary man either, there was something about the way he moved throughout the bedroom walls and how he would stare soullessly at me, eyeless, yet ever present was the feeling of being watched. Even during the day I could see him on the wall, waiting until it was just me and him again in the night Eventually he began to come off the wall, every night he got closer and closer to my bed until he was right at the foot of it I told my mother and father, but they didn't believe it, or rather didn't want to believe it was happening to me, too Then, one night, the light went out, and when it came back on the shapes were gone, so was the man, but the feeling of his presence didn't As I looked up, I saw him, clear as day off the wall yet still a shadow just inches from me on the bedroom ceiling His face was indescribable, pitch black darkness, but I could tell he was smiling, his hand gripping the ceiling and the other reaching towards me I could not tell whether he had gloves on or his skin was that naturally dark All I could do was scream, as loud and as shrill as a five-year-old could, hoping, praying that my parents would get to me before he did. As I screamed, I saw my father and my mother turn on their bedroom light from down the hall, its rays like holy light descending upon me. Then, he was gone. As my father came into the room holding something followed closely by my mother I knew it wasn't just imagination that made the man. They asked me what was wrong. All I could do was point to the nightlight. The very next day, I begged them to throw out the nightlight and just let me sleep in the dark. After a lot of convincing and whining, they hesitantly threw it out for me, but every night I knew that he was still there in the shadows… watching me, waiting patiently for when I turned on the light. At least I couldn't see him That's good right?

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The Dark (continued)

Year Two

Artwork by Phoenix Goodman, Grade 9

About a month or two later we moved out of the apartment and moved into my Grandma's “Basement,” and by that I mean the underpart of her two-story house. It had been months since I had last seen the man and I was beginning to get back to enjoying my sleep. But, that victory was short-lived. Now at the risk of sounding cliche, the TV turned on in the middle of the night and wouldn't turn off for hours on end, even when it was unplugged (for some background information, this was a single big room, like a studio apartment with four walls, one bathroom, one door out, and one window) The TV would turn on and wouldn't go off no matter what we tried I swear I could see something staring back at me through the static on the TV as if it was watching me as I was it From then on, things got worse, much worse I began to see the man again but this time more clearly, his appearance burned into the back of my mind like ink on a page. I could never forget that face no matter what. His cold empty eyes on his pale shadowed skin accompanied by what looked like a pitch black coat // robe, and he wore slick black shoes with pitch black dress pants, his smile or what I think was his smile I can't unsee, almost like one of those over-exaggerated smiles you see on cartoon characters all teeth pressed together in one creeping smile from cheek to cheek, his posture perfect yet there was something unnatural about him as if he was not human. After his appearance, I began to wake up with long shallow cuts on my arms but never any blood to be found, on the red on my arm never any in the bed or on my pillows I began to call him “the toilet monster” because he always appeared in the bathroom, and I told my parents about him but with a name as childish as that, they assumed it was a nightmare Every night, whether the door was closed or not I could tell he was there watching This went on for several months until one day I was playing outside in the yard and who I assumed was a friend of my parents came over to visit He entered the house and didn’t leave for several hours When he came back out he had a tired yet happy look on his face That night I didn't see the man nor did I ever see him again I had never slept so well in those two years, the presence was gone and so were the cuts on my arm, never to be seen again but never forgotten

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The Dark (continued)

Epilogue

I had forgotten all this up until recently when I was looking through a photo album and saw my old apartment The memories came back (repressed, I suppose) and I began to ask my mom what had happened She sat me down and told me everything She said that it wasn't just me who saw the man, but her and my father, as well She said that she saw her greatest fear as my father saw his My mom feared for my safety so she saw me hurt, hence the cuts on me My father abused animals so he saw a phantom dog whom he could not hurt, but it could hurt him. The man that came was a priest from our church, and he had come to bless the house. The worst part about this story though, is that it's true. But, at least it's over.

Author Note: After talking with one of my friends about paranormal experiences, he said something that caused my mind to snowball into a very detailed and vivid recollection of two and a half years of my life living in an apartment complex in uptown El Cajon Please note that this is not intended to be professional or captivating in any way, this is just a passion project, and it will stay that way

Anxiety

& Depression

Artist Note: This piece is a part of my AP Art Portfolio and represents the physical symptoms of anxiety.

(left)

(below) Shayla Morreale, Grade 12

Artist Note: This piece is a part of my AP Art portfolio and represents the feeling of drowning when struggling with depression.

zEntangle

Elená C. Martinez, Grade 11

time

Cristiana V., Grade 11

the being that beckons day after day without interruption chasing me through every thought every moment captured by seconds every achievement overshadowed by minutes daydreams seized by deadlines its ticking chorus thunders in my head as a eternal reminder that continuously time moves forward always it choses for itself, without falter spinning my mind to an exasperated lull I don't desire a marathon, nor a race why must I follow time’s pace?

Poet Note: The beat of time has long ticked inside my brain, making me realize that I am on a continuous clock Every moment of my life is measured by a set of numbers that repeat themselves Every action must occur within certain limitations, many times out of my control. It's the reality that everything must keep moving forward, leaving you without the choice to pause. To this I ask you, why must we follow time's boundaries, why can't we follow our own pace?

rulebook

alternate title: the inside conversation emily cortese, Grade 12

longing, but not for that hurting, but not for long

what is ideation? what is need? what is the urge to do something permanent, just to see? why am i here, why are they not? why shouldn't i die, tell me, whos that judge?

the preacher says God, and he smiles brutally, blunt teeth for breaking, screwed eyes in effort of shaping, remaking the preacher tells me it is God, but also that i am all wrong

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the stars say it is the Moon, with her patience and resilience, they say: "look, look happily down that road of lessons!" a friend, a conscious, a thing without body but still real, still mortal

she will chime in too, the Moon, and claim the Sun is strongest all of them you can see; that the stars are the universe; that the universe is meaning She says God is the stars and the Sun and the tears i cry, she says pick a name

an old friend, she is rougher than the others; spitting truth i know, but havent yet discovered, like pulling strings i feel but didnt see. the moon says, "where is god? why does it matter?" in incredibility, the moon screams, "silly girl,

what could you possibly mean?

you want to find God so go to the trees! you need a ground to fall into, so find mud and dirt and debris! you want to be okay, then make yourself so! you want to be in pain? well, you already are "

check, says the Moon If there is a list, cross it all off if there is a revision, forget it and let it be lost you don't need numbers, or reason, you don't even have to do it just like them, but living isn't the kind of thing you achieve.

it isn't like learning the best, most productive way to breathe. it's not about God, not really, or the Sun or his endless brothers and sisters deep in the galaxy it’s learning and hoping and trying. "pick a name! check it off! be done, be done!"

longing, but for what? hurting, but for how long?

the Moon almost chuckles "get used to it," she says, "you will miss it when it's gone"

Poems by Rebecca A Dolin, Grade 11

Flows into Serenity

In the middle of the ocean, on this boat, on this terrace, as I sit alone with my thoughts and the ocean, everything seems serene. The lack of sense provides a sensation of clarification and transparency There isn't a pattern, a reason one wave crashes into another These waves, so harsh and loud, collapse with no purpose, no underlying reason that is going to pop out later They crash and they fall and they break and they get put back together and everything is alright, and somehow there are fish living beneath it with no idea of all the craziness that lies above the surface. They don’t seem to see the struggle, the people, the repetition of everyday life over and over They don’t see the waves crashing and rising and falling and the brutality with which they slap against the boat. Underneath it all is a level of tranquility I wish I could understand. You have to get through the dissatisfaction and the hard part to get to the calm place we all want to be. The water crashes and shocks and pushes its way to the surface and lets out all the anger So the ocean takes a breath; in and out and winds up with white clarity that flows it back into serenity

Downpour

It’s just a drizzle, I’m fine. This light drizzling of rain that hasn’t decided whether it’s ready to fall or not. The type of rain you don’t take an umbrella for because it is so soft and delicate that it doesn’t really bother you, the type that makes the air smell like wet concrete. It waters the plants so we don't have to, and makes the slugs and frogs come out of hiding. A light drizzle that created a rainbow in the sky, reflecting the light into beautiful colors of hope.

That light drizzle turned into a thunderstorm that has been descending on me for weeks. This downpour of everything I thought had evaporated, everything I thought was gone but was really just being stored until it was ready to come back. It’s blown away my umbrella, got mud inside my rain boots, and soaked through all my hoodies. I have no protection from the storm anymore, it’s just me versus the sky. An imaginary concept that I can never fight because no matter what it will always win.

Back When I Cared

I used to think that black cats were bad luck. I used to think that sadness was temporary Thought that bad things wouldn’t happen. Back when I cared. Back when black cats were my biggest problem. Well, black cats turned into bad grades and a backlog of undone homework. Blue skies and billions of friends became black nights and being by myself. Back when I cared. When black cats were my biggest problem. Blissfully ignorant, beautifully unaware. Bad things happen. Bare back broken from that blank truth. All alone blanketed by the fact brave babies turned into broken adults who don’t belong. Barely getting through the week, blanking, forgetting to breathe. But don’t worry bout me, because I’m okay. Only, open wounds still bleed, organs still ache, and oxygen can’t reach my lungs. Obligated to lie and be okay. All the time, my brain overflowing like an ocean in a storm. I took an oath to obey the objective. Lie occasionally, never offend. Always be okay.

Paranoid Schizophrenia

Shayla Morreale, Grade 12

Artist Note: This piece is a part of my AP Art portfolio, and represents the auditory and visual hallucinations those with Paranoid Schizophrenia experience.

House of Mirrors

RAD, Grade 11

The mirror is my enemy I see myself, but I don’t I see a distorted image of what used to be me but now is just an aberration. I look into the mirror and feel trapped inside with no escape from the perverted reflection of a person I am not. I am healthy, I am strong, and I have nothing to be ashamed of. My brain might know that, but sometimes it forgets. It forgets that a teenage girl isn’t supposed to be able to wrap her hands around her waist and touch her fingertips. Forgets that seeing your ribs and having limbs so nimble that they snap isn’t healthy. Forgetting because it sees all these girls around me who are all smaller than me. They are shorter and thinner and everything I wish I was. The house of mirrors surrounding me with reflections that look like me, but is really just a giant with my face. A me that is really not me but an overweight, porcine version of a me that never was and never will be A house of mirrors where anywhere I look I see my twisted reflection and I hate it I hate wearing clothes because I am a size eleven and not a size two, because I am a large instead of a small I stand in front of the mirror, looking at everything I hate about myself, my stretch marks, my stomach, my legs, and just wonder what it's like to be smaller The misleading, unbalanced perversion of me that the mirror shows is just a contortion, a version of me that doesn’t exist anywhere but my mind But sometimes I forget

The Story That Is True

Phoenix Goodman, Grade 9

This isn’t any story, it's about how it came true. A true story comes from the heart; the heart is where it all begins. The beginning of true happiness. Happiness is the key to survival. Survival can come true when you think of others when others think of you and how kind you are. People see me as an outcast, but I see the true good in people's hearts. They just see me as someone who is crazy, but I am not crazy because no matter how hard, I will ever try to be perfect. They will always see me as the “crazy kid,” and I am not a crazy person because I care about people very much, in fact I care too much about them than I think of myself I want things to go back to how they were because I hate being made fun of That doesn’t change the thing I have planned for my future My future is with family and friends not with jerks who only care about themselves This is just the beginning of something incredible That something is just the beginning of life Life can turn You can turn first by changing the life that you had, but no matter how hard you try there is always someone who will count on you for the same thing that I have asked of you I have family who care very much about me because they are there for me I have many people who care about me So never give up on yourself or others

Thermal

Elená C Martinez, Grade 11

17

Alexis B Mosteller, Grade 11

Keep counting down the days, but why?

It’s just another number

Another year to add to the incessant amount of days I stagger around

Yet, I still find myself counting the days

“Take pride!” they say

“Be joyous! Such a wonderful age!”

But why?

In this marathon it just means I have one more year before my life is my own

One more year before every decision I make will be faltered as its own consequence.

One more year and this high school reverie comes to an end.

One more year and I am unprepared for the life that I was never taught about.

As a kid in the system, you grow in the wrong ways at the wrong time. All the looming court dates and monthly visits. Disrupting your everyday childhood of school and friends.

“Don’t get too comfy!” My thoughts always scream.

“You won’t be there for long!” They always seem to tear down the joy.

Another year and I’ll go from dependent to independent.

Another year they’ll change from go to school to get a job.

Another year and the system will dispense me and my case number will just be simply what it is I will simply be what its digits are to them: A case number

So here’s to 17!

What every foster kid dreams or fears

The year you plan on your own

Poet Note: This was inspired by my feelings towards the upcoming of my seventeenth birthday. Being a foster kid, there are a lot of emotions that come up for birthdays, especially ones that are important in terms of the things going on in your life. I hope it will be understood that turning seventeen as a foster youth isn't always the most exciting feeling and that the words relay the struggle of entering the world after being a dependent of the court.

Untitled

Zine essay

by Rudolf W. Masis, Grade 12

hyperion

McCann, Grade 10

my blinding light shines in the dark but i am just as much a midnight lark i can be your searing sun or your frigid moon i would give everything to be your midnight or noon i would wreck myself like the wrecks below to understand a fraction of what you know i could to be your dawn or dusk i would make myself an empty husk transform into anything you wanted from me which refraction of my light do you wish to see?

Poet Note: I think that a lot of people can relate to feeling like they need to change in order to be accepted by other people Light can be manipulated in many ways, and only you can control your own light, but the hands of others can guide yours, whether they steer you right or wrong The name was inspired by the Greek titan of light In all honesty, the only goal I have for this poem is to make people feel less alone, because the worst part of struggling is feeling alone while you writhe in agony.

What You Do To Me

N. Ching, Grade 10

From the moment my eyes laid upon you

Something permanently changed inside me

An ancient foreign feeling lit anew

For a new beginning of bliss and glee

Your eyelashes, fluttering with such grace, Are concealing eyes as bright as the skies

Your freckles, constellations on your face, Are stars spilled over from your lovely eyes

Somehow, my eyes began to search for yours

The world stopped spinning when you weren’t around The waves stopped crashing onto the sea shores

Your absence became extremely profound

Never again can I say I had lived

Never again can I say I had loved

Photo by Rebecca A. Dolin, Grade 11

Grief

Rebecca A Dolin, Grade 11

She is gone She is never coming back She died and the world stopped Everything shut down and I was stuck with my grief for months with no sense of normal How do you grieve when there is nothing to keep you going, to make you remember that life goes on and there is a light at the end of the tunnel That it does get better

He is gone. He is never coming back. He died and the world kept spinning. Everyone went on with their lives as if my world hadn’t come crashing down. As if he was still here to do all the goofy things that made him, him. How do you grieve when the world is spinning a million miles an hour and every one needs you to be okay all the time. When there is no time to stop and remember who he was without taking time away from someone or something else.

How do you grieve when the conditions are perfect? There is no right time, there is no magic way to stop feeling the pain The anger that they are gone The hating yourself for being angry There are no perfect conditions because in the end, every candle, every prayer isn’t going to make up for the fact that the only thing that you have left is a hole in your life where that someone you cared about used to be

Elimination Purple

Elená C Martinez, Grade 11

Artist Note: Fossils from all over

The Human Soul, Icarus, and Rebirth Awaits

Peter Danchise, Grade 10

I hold inside me now

More rain than any storm or sea could dream of More fire than a volcano or forest fire could ever attain More nature than a forest could hope for And enough wind

To keep the sails of my never docking ship full

- The human soul

To laugh as you fall And smile as you drown

For there is beauty in destruction

The calm of death

The symphony of souls

For if you fall

Then once you must have flown

Once the sun must have known your name

But now it is the moon’s turn

And I shall grin as the light fades

And welcome the darkness with open arms - Icarus

How to be reborn

Step one:

Tear yourself limb from limb

Until no expectations of who you are Or what you should be are left

Step two:

Glue yourself back together With poetry and paint

Craft a body made of stars

Step three: Take a breath

It will be ok

Shed your old skin like a snake

- Rebirth awaits

Princess Anemone

Sarah Angeline Macaraeg, Grade 12

Summer Break

Paul A. Leal, Grade 10

Winds lift on a summer night

The people smile with delight

For they know what is to come

As they knock the on wood to the beat of the drum

Singing along to campfire songs

Looking for a place to belong

No one knows what paths they'll take, But there sure to make a great big mistake

Some will learn to live with the doubts

Others will crumble and opt out

But as we grow apart this summer break

Let the voices of the past not keep us awake

Let us learn to live with all our mistakes.

And enjoy our very last Summer break.

Personal Prints

Elená C. Martinez, Grade 11

Artist Note: Each piece of this design represents something important to me.

Poet Note: This poem is about people coming out of high school who are about to have their last summer break I hope people can take away that even if we don't know what life will bring us, or what mistakes we'll make we mustn't hold it over our heads

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

Inkwellis 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

San Diego County Library

Santee Branch Librarian Kevin Vigil

El Cajon Branch Librarian Miko Osada

Grossmont Union High School District Print Shop

West Hills Admin for their guidance & support: Principal April Baker and Vice Principals

Mike Falconer, Carrie Gaeir, and John Hoadley

We are One We are the Pack