Creations Senses and Perception 2024

CREATIONS

Spring 2024

SENSES AND PERCEPTION

Issue 47

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CREATIONS MAGAZINE

Senses and Perception Dear Readers,

NOTE

We, the editors, are proud to present the 47th issue of the Creations Art and Literature Magazine. We are honored to showcase the phenomenal talent of our very own Warren students. This spring semester’s theme is sensations and perception, featuring submissions from all mediums: paintings, drawings, photography, ceramics, and short stories. Each piece was skillfully crafted with thought, meaning, and depth. Because of this, we thank each and every one of our artists for their contributions to this semester’s publication. You all did an excellent job, and we can’t wait to see your talents grow. We would also like to give a big thanks to Ms. Knutson; without her none of this would be possible. Finally, we want to thank our readers for supporting this magazine, and we can’t wait to see you for next semester’s issue.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Memories

POV

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The Face Behind the Mask - Avari Edwards The Mule Akhil Yerrapally-Ravindranath-Babu

04-05 05 06 06 07 08 09

Eclipsed - Jenna Heron Optimism - AJ Serrano Reflections - Prisha Shah Gamer Girl - Shailee Grospe Coil Pot - Bella Meinert Monster - The Reckoning - Grace Lewis

18 19 20 21 22

At Peace - Gillian Hausfeld

CeramicBust - Ruby Lester The Maelstrom Akhil Yerrapally-Ravindranath-Babu Insect Circlet - Nicole Jasiak Snake Dance - Anonymous Beautifully Broken - Ashley Bridges Canvas Parody - Lucy Moore Coil Pot - Tessa Harper

Dreams

Feelings 10 11 12 12 13 13 14 14 15

16 17 18-19

Creeplox - Giancarlo Milan Ceramic Bust - Bella Wittwer Soul Searching - Shailee Grospe Life - Elizabeth Navarro Purple Fire - Stephanie Arcos Light Painting - Princess Ochil Surrender - Jessica Lawson Fairytopia - Grace Lewis The Target Bag Dress Ava Hoxsie

On the cover The Hand of God - Jessica Lawson

On the back cover Coil Pot - Caileigh Donahue

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An Inner Child, Lost Amidst the Darkness - Gillian Hausfeld Mouth of Fingers - Cat Alexander Carreto Coil Pot - Josie Schenk Snail - Bella Wittwer Stargazing - Anonymous Coil Pot - Josie Schenk Coil Pot - Hailey Maine

Etc. 30 31 32

Thank You’s, Production, Staff Open Mic Night video

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The Face Behind the Mask - Avari Edwards

POINT OF VIEW Lens, clear, varying, perspective

Point of View

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THE MULE Akhil Yerrapally-Ravindranath-Babu

1980- Guadalajara Dusted truck flaps move forcibly as Lang steadies the pace of the truck on the road. The sun is slowly rising, giving the sky a dark-khaki hue. The sunlight gets on the truck’s windshield, and Lang’s eyes strain through the glare. He turns to the passenger’s seat–Vargas pays no attention to the driver. He simply looks out of his window, observing the desert. As the truck drives down a swell in the road, more of the landscape reveals itself; a large warehouse, in particular, is present a few miles away. It’s rusted, all alone, yet abnormally surrounded by a dozen cars. He slowly closes in on the spot.

“You see it?” Vargas asks.

“Yeah.” Vargas pauses for a bit, looking down at the road.

“You ever been to Guadalajara?” The man urns to the windshield.

His eyes have a tired melancholy in them.

“No.” Vargas turns his gaze back to the warehouse, “Pull into the driveway.” Lang slowly decreases the speed of the truck, and turns into the warehouse’s dirt road, leading into a large, steel garage door. He feels the wire beating against his chest. A rusted camera picks them up from the top, and the garage door opens slowly. The mechanical sound from the machine is deafening; nothing else can be heard. A few men in buttondown shirts and pistols hatched back come to greet the truck. A trickle of sweat caresses Lang’s face.

“Do we leave?” Lang asks.

“Follow them inside.” Lang does as he’s told; slowly creeping up the damp road into the garage.

There are steel chains and the butchered cadavers of animals all around, hung on wire and shackles. The fumes and scent of the meat mingles with the heat of the desert outside–Lang pushes through and is ordered to park the truck within the small space within the garage. The men from outside follow Lang’s door, and order for him to come out. Vargas jumps out of the passenger seat, and joins the others in escorting Lang out. They forcibly push Lang against the truck, and shackle him with handcuffs. Vargas takes him by the chain.

“You know the routine,” Vargas growls quietly.

“Yeah.” The men tie a black cloth around Lang’s eyes, and take him to the garage door, but they’re interrupted by another man rushing in from beyond the garage.

“Hey!” he runs to the group, “Rivera quiere una mirada.” Vargas walks to the man, and has a muffled conversation with him. He turns back, and gestures with his head for the others to follow him. The wall in front of the truck slowly opens with the same mechanical hum, and they drag Lang along with them. As the men crawl out into the warehouse, more bodies, crates, cargo, and men reveal themselves. They’re armed with guns; pistols, machine guns, anything one could get their hands on. There are two large

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Point of View

ECLIPSED

Jenna Heron

windows on the other side of the walls, bringing the little sun there is into the space. A group of men–around seven, in navy and black suits are in a circle in the middle, fingers holding onto cigars. They’re the bosses. The men get Lang into the circle of fire, and they let him go as another group of bigger, more armed men take hold of him. He’s hauled to the lavishly-dressed men in the middle. One of them jolts out of his leaning position on one of the sandbags, and slowly walks towards Lang with a cigar and a smile on his face.

“Mula, mula, mula,” the man says, laughing as he does. The others behind him chuckle as well. The biggest of the men carrying Lang rips the blindfold off him, but keeps the shackles on. Lang blinks a bit to regain his complete vision. He sees the leader coming towards him, slowly, with a smug swagger. “Name?”

Lang pauses for a bit. He turns back to Vargas, who’s waiting right behind one of the ammo crates, hands folded. He turns back to the leader. “Lang.”

“Last name?” Lang’s heart pounds as the man gets closer.

“It’s Lang.” The man turns to Vargas.

“Oye, quítate las esposas.” Vargas walks to Lang, uncuffing him. “You know who I am?”

“No.” The man chuckles, “Jorge Rivera.

Pleasure is mine, señor tortuga. Is that what they call you?” The others laugh again. Lang keeps his stoic expression, even in the heart of darkness, right in front of his boss–Don Rivera.

“When do I go?” He growls.

“Why so angry? Join us, tortuga.” Rivera turns back and walks to a platter of small glasses and a bottle of alcohol. “Zefiro Cocchiola–the best.” He pours a glass, and passes one to Lang, who holds it still in front of him. Rivera pours one for himself and turns back. “You know, no mula I’ve had in the last four decades has been quite like you. A good businessman–an honest businessman–that’s the real money. With these animals in México, Texas, you don't find loyalty. But with you, Mr. Lang–” Rivera turns back to Lang, “Eres la oveja negra. The black sheep.” Rivera presents the glass up to everyone, showcasing it to everybody all around him, and gets back to Lang. “To loyalty. Salud.”

Point of View

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OPTIMISM AJ Serrano

REFLECTIONS Prisha Shah

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Point of View

GAMER GIRL Shailee Grospe

Point of View

COIL POT Bella Meinert

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Point of View

MONSTER Grace Lewis

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pick text pages 9-15

THE RECKONING Grace Lewis

Creeplox - Giancarlo Milan

FEELINGS Happy, sad, love, angst, storm

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CERAMIC BUST Bella Wittwer

Feelings

Elizabeth Navarro

LIFE

Shailee Grospe

SOUL SEARCHING

Feelings

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Feelings

Stefani Arcos

PURPLE FIRE

Princess Ochil

LIGHT PAINTING

Stefani Arcos

Feelings

Jessica Lawson

SURRENDER

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FAIRYTOPIA Grace Lewis

THE TARGETBAG DRESS Ava Hoxsie

15 Feelings

At Peace - Gillian Hausfeld

MEMORIES Experiences, sun, maps, light, nostalgia

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Memories

RUBY LESTER Ceramic Bust

Memories

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THE

MAELSTROM

Akhil Yerrapally-Ravindranath-Babu Warmth flooded the room, shielding it from the frigid cold of the winter blizzard. It was a cabin of oak–brown, singled near the mountains’ feet. Outside was a small shed for mules, rusting away. It was as though God had washed this place of all life, leaving nothing to be spared. Nothing but two wandering souls.

There was a man and his horse. Inseparable, as were all. He wore a brown, dried scarf, and covered himself with a gray huntsman’s jacket and a withered ten-gallon hat. A repeated hang over his shoulder. The man seemed uncaring, completely unresponsive to the cold. His face whispered tales that spanned years, many ages before this very moment. His complexion was as dusted and unkempt as his person.

The horse was tall and buff, with legs standing like trembling sequoias waiting to be ridden of life. The cabin was a mile away. His knees were to fall at any moment. The man rode on as the faint sun’s glare licked away at him. It was covered by a vicious, gloomy blue, and under it was the furious blizzard, unrelenting in all its might. The horse’s steps were weak and slow, moving mere inches with each stride. The frigid wind was too much to bear. The shed seemed to disappear in the snow.

The horse fell, giving out to the storm. The disheveled rider grunted loudly as crashed into the ice. He tumbled down and watched his

INSECT CIRCLET Nicole Jasiak

companion’s life fade away. All it took was a few seconds. He struggled back to his feet, and his cut boots dug into the snow. He tumbled to his horse’s saddle and reached for a single nip of whiskey. He choked it down, and took his rifle back from the ground. The cabin was a few hundred yards away to his naked eye. The trees under the storm harbored rabbit, elk, perhaps even wolves. Death seemed to be waiting for the man through the maelstrom, and it would be slow.

For hours he walked on. The blizzard soon got to his shins, then his knees. He shook as a twig would in a hurricane, desperately reaching for the next stride. His face was red, andhis hands were darkened by the frost.

Winter was feral, and it could not be tamed; not even

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Point of View

by the best of men. Even the corpse of his horse could not be seen through the falling snow anymore. knew would be ravaged It was not long He until heitfollowed, until by hethe too fell wolves. Moments What he feared was their to the storm. before, he coming fell to to hishim while he lived. The man looked at his hands, hands, and crawled as would an infant. He panted which appeared shaky and doubled. His eyes heavily,strained breathing grunts, wheezing.

With each as thein minutes began blending together.

step, he seethed and heaved more, as though he were screaming. In his final few steps, he coughed up blood which fell to his bare hands and dripped into the snow. Rasping for life, he looked up at the dark sky.

Yet another life, the winter claimed. ***

SNAKE DANCE Anonymous

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Dreams

BEAUTIFULLY BROKEN Ashley Bridges

Lucy Moore

CANVAS PARODY

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Dreams

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COIL POT

Tessa Harper

An Inner Child, Lost Amidst the Darkness - Gillian Hausfeld

DREAMS Clouds, moon, dark, sleep, nightmare

Dreams

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MOUTH OF FINGERS Alexander Carreto

CAT

Dreams

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COIL POT

Josie Schenk

Dreams

SNAIL

Bella Wittwer

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Dreams

Anonymous

STARGAZING

Dreams

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Josie Schenk

COIL POT

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Dreams

Hailey Maine

COIL POT

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Special Thanks Mr. Stocker, Mr. Oddo, Mrs. Stepek, and Mr. Georgatsos. Thank you to Joe Doyle at the Warren Township Center for working with us for Open Mic Night and Andrea Zepeda-Tamez for all the articles published in Scratch Paper.

Production Creations, Volume 47, was produced by the Creations staff at Warren Township High School in Gurnee, Illinois.

Fonts include: Cormorant Garamond, Cormorant SC, and Cinzel.

Creations Staff Soulee Heller Shannon Pharr Eshelle Zeeshan

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Scott Pilgram Vs The Temu Pyramid Scheme Red Hot Chicken Feet Gehrig Winograd Daniel Garcia Daiana Barrera Jacqueline Ramirez & Taylor Leafblad Kalista Lee Viviana Salgado Giana David Spongebob Nekros Mentally IL Violet Garden Sawyer Vincecnt Band Wall Crawlers Gisell Angulo Chloe Terrones

OPEN MIC

NIGHT

October 20, 2023 April 12, 2024 Warren Township Center, Gurnee, IL

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CREATIONS

SENSES AND PERCEPTIONS

Caileigh Donahue

COIL POT

WARREN TOWNSHIP HIGH SCHOOL