Connectivity

Westlake High School 2012-2013 Volume 30

Connectivity

The Final Draft

Lauren Lardner

very year, Westlake’s literary magazine, The Final Draft, has an open submission call to collect a wide range of student produced art and writing. Throughout the course of the academic year, the magazine is compiled by a class of student designers and editors who oversee the magazine from its conception to completion.

Due to the large variety of art-work and writing we receive, it is often hard to find a theme that universally wapplies to all the submissions. Our theme, Con-nectivity, describes the concept of linking art and writing to-gether seamlessly in a coherent fashion. Playing off this concept, we be-

gan pulling elements out of each piece of art and applied them to the entire spread. In doing so, we were able to create a unique theme that’s inherent to each individual spread. We hope to broaden your perception of what connectivity can represent in both a collection of art as well as in life itself. Sincerely,

The Final Draft

E

Zoë Nathan

Front cover photography by Maria Gomez

Moira H. Longino

2013 Staff

Designers And Editors

Laura BrewsterMckenzie FellNoah HannaAnndrea HeffingtonCole HildebrandHunter Rainard Krysztof TellezBen Wallace

Assistants Michael DeisherKayla Franklin Wil HarrisAnika Hattangadi Cameron Henley Ashlyn Henry Allye JohnsonNicole Khoury Nicole LyssyReese Marrero Rachel Pedley Ana Sanchez Noah Sleeper

Adviser

Editor-In-Chief

Sarah Berg

Writing

Table of Contents 01050709111315171821232527283133343739414344454749505153555759

Michael DeisherZoë AshtonNikki RoopMichael DeisherEmma BlekerAnnie FisherReese MarreroNoah SleeperJerod ThorntonNoah SleeperMichael DeisherChris MurchMichael DeisherCole Hildebrand Michael DeisherCole HildebrandBenjamin WallaceLivvy BennettCole HildebrandEmma BlekerSarah PhillipsNoah SleeperEmma BlekerAndy PhamKayla FranklinAnnie FloresWil HarrisRachel PowerEmma BlekerJerod ThorntonCole Hildebrand

Adverse AmityMy Own Identity

SentimentsAsleep

Chance Contrast

A Sled for DaisyI’m Screwed…

Forest Chest In Between

B. The Way I See It

Eat, Drink, and RememberEntertain Yourself

Fast Food Blues Squirrels in the Sunshine

Guilt is Good Suburban Daydreams

At the Barbeque Nurture

VoicesAir

To Think Everlasting Strife

Annie Air Head

Moon Eyes The Bare White Walls Remind Me Of...

ConceptYou Are My Tree

Passengers in Peace

The Final Draft 2012-2013

Sculpture

Paint

Pencil

Digital Media Photography

Anndrea Heffington

Amelia Mouw

Ashlyn Henry

Carley McNicholas

Christian Thomas

Courtney PerkinsElliot Richards

Jordan Lange

Juliana Moskow

Krysztof Tellez

Lacy Lichtenhan

Lauren LardnerLogan Leamons

Maria Gomez

Mary Burns

Molly Stotts

Noah Thompson

Robert Graf

Ryan Carslile

Sam Morton

Jerod Thornton

Christine MeyerEmily Hill

Madi Wright

Julia Caswell

Christine LeeEmma Martino

Madilyn Pflueger

Zoë Nathan

Laura Brewster

Tessa Coffey

Julia Caswell

Audi GarverRyan Carslile

Helen Goman

Avery Martinez

Anna Duckett

Rachel Williams

Janice Sung

Anna Roe

23

10, 11, 21, 24

27, 39, 40

12

13, 14, 22, 59, 60

45

33

01, 02, 34, 58

07

07

08, 29, 46

41

42

12, 4344

05

06

13

03

04

5135

36, 48

37, 38

38

18, 19, 49

55

47

50

09

15

16

29

26, 30 31, 32

57

17

53

54

25

Betsy Yang61, 62

The sun and the moon were such a curious couple. Sun was so vibrant,Yearning with love(Or was it lust) For a woman he’d only seen.His tongue of fire burned brighterWhenever he caught a glimpse of Moon’s silvery veil.

Adverse Amity

Moon loved him equally,But with a quieter passion.

She was more inclined to write poemsOr songs for her paramour.

It was as if she was embarrassed of his affection. She hid within the secrecy of night,Blushing when Sun looked her way.

Their tale,However,Is tragic.

For they are destined to chase each other as the days pass,But neither will feel the embrace of the other.

Michael Deisher01

Ryan Carslile

Adverse Amity Ryan Carslile

02

03

Lacy Lichtenhan

04

Ashlyn Henry

00--

I would rather roll in the mud with thesloppiest of pigs, knowing who they truly are,than to even dine with the “royalty “of maskedones and devouring their mouthwateringdelights.I would rather have gray wings than none at all,the smell of mud, than a fake flower.If I had an choice to be whatever I want to be,I would never choose to wear a mask.

Let the world know of the masksthat they hide themselves behindbut they still think they’re beautiful.I want nothing more in life than to blend in with the vast night sky, and follow the tracks that a shadow left behind.Feeling the warm, soft kiss of the golden sun,smelling the cool spring air on the highest ofmountains, and loving but the simplest ofthings cannot even equal the life of a maskedone, with the biggest of diamonds and theshiniest of pearls.

MZoë

Elliot Richards

Y OW NI

D E N T TIY Ashton

Emily Hill

06

3. I’m sorry for saying itbut I miss youand I miss your roomand I miss minewith you in it

Sentiments

Courtney Perkins

Mary Burns

Nikki Roop

1. If I am your sunflowerpraised todayand slowly wilting,then you are the blue Iceestuck on my tongue,gone beforeI knew it was there

2.Your dimplesare half-crescent moonsin a skyof fleshbut I only see themwhen the lighting’s right

07

6.I think the best wayto describe happinessis looking for pajamasand not grabbing yours

Anndrea Heffington

4. Skin and bone and musclecannot loveand yet here I amof skin and bone and muscleand I cannot stop

5.We are like bacon and eggs:exquisite together.But people like us just as wellapart

08

AsleepAn ink-filled lake ripples with every move the body makes, sweet nothings dribble down the sides of its mouth.

Michael Diesher

Anna Roe09

An ink-filled lake ripples with every move the body makes, sweet nothings dribble down the sides of its mouth.

Lovers and dreamers and sinners and priests bob upon the thick liquid,each of them as soulless as the last.

Everything must come to an end, the lake bubbles. You can only pray that you end in peace.

Lauren Lardner 10

If there was even a chance

that you wouldn’t be on this

earth tomorrow,

I would pack my things

and write my last poems

so I could walk you to the

bus stop

hands full of love

just to tell you it was alright

to go without me.

ChanceEmma Bleker

Lauren Lardner11

Emma Bleker

Juliana Moskow

Krysztof Tellez

12

ContrastAnnie Fisher

Maria GomezMaria Go-

Maria Gomez Maria Gomez

Laura Brewster

Laura Brewster Maria Gomez

13

Fast under a flicker of dove’s wings,paper rustled free of my hand and – just like that – danced down cement like snow borne on the wind.

Speak, paper, speak to the field-grown daisiesand the lace-tangled china doll. I wonder,

will you die and rise againon the screaming whitecaps in the stormy harbor?

Maria GomezMaria Go-

Maria Gomez Maria Gomez

Laura Brewster

Laura Brewster Maria Gomez

14

I wonder,will you sleep in endless nightin the skeleton cavern of a storm-torn ship?

Certain as a raven’s steady drop,pebble slipped right through my fingers, fated perhapsto sink into the water dark in silence.

Whisper, pebble,whisper to the ghostly seaweed, and the craggy barnacled rocks.

Most poems you seeHave really Really weird structureToThem

And the lines have

Nonsensical punctuation?As well

They also have random partsThatAreFrustratingly difficult toInterpret?Purple monkey dishwasherThe wind isBlowing

Then when you’re done

A Sled for DaisyReese Marrero

Zoë Nathan15

You look backAnd seeThatThe title hadNothing to do withWhat you justRead?

Then you’reTold

If you didn’t UnderstandThisPoemI guess it was justToo deep for You

Really weird structure

Christine Lee

I’mScrewed...

As the string broke,as the tether snapped,as the tower—the bastion of okay—collapsed in upon itself,I said;and my family reinforced,and my friends muttered,and that dog barked,and the quiet kid wrote with his fingeron his ghost-town lunch table,and the soldier got inscribed on his wrist where he could see it,and a cancer patient included in her second-to-last entry,June 7th,and a son told God while laying in bed at 3,and a mountain rumbled in the dis-tance,and that girl who used to date that guyrepeated over and over to herself,like somebody could hear her,and the nations cried out in their native tongues, “I know, I know, I know, all screws screw the same way.”

Noah Sleeper

Tessa Coffey 17

somewhere between your apathy and your deafening moans,I heard you say you feel happier whenyou’re alone.but how do you expect me to leaveyou alone,with those russian lipsand those slavic bones?

remember that old tune we used to listen to?and how we danced and kissed and touched on your roof?

you said the sound of that melodymade your heart much too heavy.it grew old, now it’s out of tune.

yet my broken ribs still gasped and wheezed,like a sputtering accordionwith soot-covered keys.

I sang you a song I’d never sungto anyoneand you sang it right backto me.

and our dissonant voicesfilled the roomwith a lovely cacophony.

and you’re always changing your mindor rather changing your heart.but to me your birthmarks still looklike abstract art.

one,two,three;connect the dots and then pull them apart.I caught you sleeping in the corners of my heart.

so I guess I buried you in sand-cut your hair while you slept and then I made you a man.and with your hands in my forest chest,you said you’d love me with every breathyou drew,in every way thatyou knew.so I nailed those horseshoes to you.

F o r e s t C h e s t Jerod Thornton

Jerod Thornton 18

19

Jerod Thornton

20

=

Lauren Lardner

Dead trees, thousands of years old—Or so it seems.I have no guideSo I step in betweenThe road not taken and the road never acknowledged,And the dead trees no longer tell their story—No longer groan and shed and lean.

But you and me, you and me;We are new as the holes fresh chewed into leaves,We are new as the foam topping the White-feathered creek.We are new as the snap of the twigs,They lie dew-studded at our feet.So follow me, why not, though I won’t beg.

Noah Sleeper

In Between

21

Come in between the old, dead trees—In between the charred roads—the same choicesThat have lingered there for ages upon ages;For surely you and I will turn this winter into spring.

=

Maria Gomez

22

he family sat in a half-circle around the hearth, argyle socks strapped around their mouths. No one moved a muscle; no one breathed. Their solemn eyes had long lost their shine and now seemed as if they were rusted pennies stamped into a crumbling mold of flesh and bone.

low rumble rose from the ground causing the cabin and all of its inhabitants to rattle and shake. Those socks never left their lips. Leftover spaghetti from the previous night rested in a pan, sticking to itself and anything around it. The shaking caused it to tip over and flop onto the floor, jiggling like jello that had just been touched.

B. Michael Deisher

Avery Martinez

23

T A

few moments passed and she turned back to face the stone-cold fireplace, settling back into her original position. Everyone’s eyes were focused on something balancing on the hearth except hers. The book soon fell off the brick and onto the wooden floor. Right as it hit the ground, the socks slipped off of their lips and into their melting laps.

irds began to caw and leap from their nests, not bothering to spread their wings, and fall to the Kentucky forest-floor in a morbidly beautiful dis-play of poetic suicide. Known as the speaker of the family, Cali moved her head and began to caw back at the birds, a few strands of her brunette hair falling over her joy-filled eyes.

Lauren LardnerAvery Martinez

24

B A

What goes into life as we know itAnalyze life as though we are all poetsFind something but stay silent as though we are stoicComfort, brings happiness, but also complacency But in a peaceful place at once we seeLife, and how it’s raving, eloquent beauty Can be misguided by the travesty of living life one step behind By the faux success set upon us in our mindBut to whom do we give thanks for placing these thoughts?

The Way I See ItChris Murch

Logan Leamons

25

Parents, who at some points can act as goal-inducing robots,By the leeches who stand by your side only to feed their wants

Or by corporate juggernauts spreading their ideas like terminal cancerFed the fantasies of Donner, Blitzen, Rudolf, and Dancer

But also succumb to the reality of recessions and depressionsForce feeding their points of views into the psyche of adolescents

Now evil is all around and some embrace itAll their problems laid out before them but too weak to face it

Just hoping, hoping, praying and praying to find an equal and stay adjacent But with all the temptation around us... I don’t think we’ll make it...

Jordan Lange

26

They told methat if you mixed some flourand some water,then you’d havea body.And if you mixed some grapesand a little bit of time,then you’d have blood.All I ever got wasstale breadand cheap wine.

Michael Deisher

Eat, Drink,

Rememberand

27 Noah Thompson

Cole Hildebrand

Entertain YourselfWhen you can’t bearto conversewith your mother’shand mirroranymore,

you search the internetfor a chestto rest your head upon. 28

Amelia Mouw

Anndrea Heffington

29

Jordan Lange

30

Fast Food BluesMichael Deisher

Ryan Carlisle

31

Tyler continued his way through the small and cramped tunnel, the sun from outside making the yellow plas-tic glow. He felt as if he was in a warm memory; somewhere distant from where he was then.

Children’s voices buzzed throughout the atmosphere, drowning out all other noises and erasing any hints of concentration. The frame of the playscape rattled and shook as hoards of slobber-stained toddlers and condi-ment-smeared faces threw themselves onto the polymer frame.

McDonald’s is packed today, he thought to himself.

As he reached his foot forward to take another step, it landed in something squishy. He fell backward and col-lapsed into a small bag of french fries. His hands struggled to keep him balanced, but slid down the sides of the small cylinder. The whole playground was lathered in a not-so-healthy serving of grease. If you squinted hard enough, you could actually see the wisps of grease vapor emitting from the pores of the plastic.

Something stopped his hand from completely reaching the bottom of the tunnel. It felt like bumps of some sort. Looking down, he saw that the words “Made In China” were protruding from the material. Of course, he didn’t know what the letters meant, but they looked beautiful to him, almost like a painting.

“Honey, we gotta go!” Echoed his mother’s voice from below.

Fast Food Blues

Ryan Carlisle

32

His body froze. His mind raced with multitudes of ideas until it came to a complete stop, focusing on just one. He would pretend he didn’t hear her. That usually worked. Content with his decision, he lifted his small hands and clasped them around the back of his neck; something he usually did to take a rest. This time, something didn’t feel right. He pondered this for a bit, going through each of his usual ailments. It couldn’t have been hunger, he just ate... His shoelaces both felt like they had the right tightness... His miniature suit felt not too loose and not too tight... His bow tie—his bow tie. Frantically, he grasped at his jugular, the familiar silky fab-ric not resting where it should have been. Tears welled up inside his eyes, but he pushed them back. He had to rescue his favorite accessory.

As if by instinct, his small feet led him backwards to retrace his steps. As he exited the tunnel, something caught his eye. Beneath the squished faux-potato that he had been resting on peeked a glimmer of ruby red. Tyler’s tie was ruby red, that shade of ruby red.

He lunged into the tunnel head first, ignoring the safety signs outside of the entrance. Gooey greasiness squeezed its way through the space between his fingers, including the ruby red color he had spotted before. The precious article had disintegrated upon his touch. The thought of ketchup hadn’t even crossed his mind yet. Before he knew what was happening, he began to weep.

Someone should pry these dead squirrels from the streetbefore they become a part of it.

Twelve cars, one by one,have flattened and molded my skinto the unpaved pavement.

Naturally, I am afraid to forcefully rip my body from the asphalt.

The rodents around me,of course—they’re dead.But I’m alive, believe it or not.

Someone please pry these dead squirrels from the streetbefore they become a part of it.

You could use a spatula?

And call the police.Because a mere spatula won’t tear mefrom this frying pan.

My tissues are gooping into the cracks.All I smell is heat and burnt rubberand I taste bloody undercooked scrambled eggs.

Have you finally pried these dead squirrels from the street?Or have they just become a part of it?

Cole Hildebrand

Squirrels

in

the

Sunshine

33

Helen Gomen

Guilt is GoodBenjamin Wallace

I could never be a vegetarian.Food is better when I know something died for my fleeting enjoyment.Because we all know it’s the ground-up horse bones in Jell-Othat make it good.And it’s the pig anus in hot dogsthat make you feel likea fat, bloated god.

Ryan Carslile

34

Madilyn Pflueger

35

Julia Caswell

36

A swift slap on the wrist would suffice. Susan always wondered how her mother’s mind worked. Like some methodical machine with an appropriate-ly programmed response for every wrong doing. For sticking her moistened finger in the sugar, a quick simple slap would be just fine. For coming home after nine o’clock a quick simple push down the stairs would work perfectly.  Susan liked to wonder what her mother might do if she stuck her fingers in the contents of the urn over the fireplace. Papa’s ashes, a father, a corpse, a pile of sugar even sweeter than that from the kitchen. When Papa left and the urn replaced him, Susan’s mother changed. If Papa was sugar her mother was salt and if papa was gone her mother would never leave. 

Susan eyed the thick wrinkles on her mother’s forehead. Perhaps if her mother lay verti-cally the wrinkles would look like the grand canyons, deep, vast, and only amusing but for a second before they are discovered to be depressing crevasses of unproductive space. Susan felt the impact of another swat before she acknowledged her mother’s words. 

“I was hungry. I’m sorry.”

“Looks like you’ve ruined the whole bowl.”

Her mother tipped the pot of sugar over the trash can, producing an avalanche of Susan’s secret sweet. Susan’s focus retracted so that only the shini-est bits came through her vision. Her mother’s watch, the light from the windows, the knife on the counter, the urn over the fireplace even peeked through the threshold of the kitchen to comfort her.

“Are you happy?” her mother demanded.

Susan forgot how people defined happy. The absence of guilt?

“No ma’am.” 

“Stay out of the kitchen unless I tell you otherwise, understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”                                                                                      

Susan watched her mother leave and again allowed the dancing sunshine to sift through. She felt the urn peer through as well. She did miss Papa. She so longed for some part of him, any part of him to come back for her to hold and love once more. 

Part 1 Livvy Bennett

Christine Meyer

Christine Meyer37

Suburban Daydreams

Soon the sunlight became too much to resist and Susan stepped outside to feel the atmosphere of something farther from torment. The cool air blew her frail blond hair back, forcing the fragile locks backward toward the door. She thought for a moment if she should follow their lead and return inside. She knew better though, for she once heard that hair is nothing but dead strands of ourselves. Dead and directionless. So instead she decided to follow her feet as they reached down the steps of the porch and toward the sidewalk.  She watched her tiny white shoes alternate, propelling her away from where she came. She looked up to analyze the sky. The sunlight was still so elusive even as she regarded it in full focus. Something intangible meandered in her mind or in the sun. She looked down and noticed a red stain on her tiny white shoe. At first she thought nothing of it until she recognized that the particular shade of red was the same that covered Papa after the accident.The world halted as she stared at her feet. Another cool wind came and this time she turned back to see a small red mass on the sidewalk. She approached the object not with fear but with familiarity. There a dismembered finger lay on the pavement covered in crimson worry. She squatted to examine the item and recalled her father.

There lay a part of someone. Someone who was held and loved. And now, this part was dead and devoid of love. Finally Susan cried. She let her new tears fall on and around the dead part. She wiped her eyes and somehow her face felt even more moist with the sadness. She felt better retracting her focus and so she saw the sunlight and the blood and the kitch-en knife. Even a small grain of sugar on the small delicate finger was reflected by the burning star.

Want to keep reading? Scan this QR code or visit http://finaldraft.

weebly.com/suburban-daydreams-by-livvy-

bennett.html

Audi Garver

Christine Meyer

Christine Meyer

38

At The BarbequeCole Hildebrand

A sudden sicknessExcuses yourself from the tableAnd you sway into the restroom.

You’re peeing now.You flush.

No you don’t.You forget to flush.

It’s okay,This bathroom smells better.At least better than The food outside.

The back of your head’s Burning up.Put it in the sink,Turn on the faucet.

The automatic paper towel dispenser Has sensed your presenceAnd a sheet is readyFor your head.

But splash your faceA few times.You really need it.

Noah Thompson

39

I know how you feel.It’s the first timeFor you, right?You’ll get used to it.

Most people, At some point,Feel this disconnection With reality.

A fear that you’reMentally handicappedAnd youNever even knew? That’s greasy.

Not even sure if The people in your life Are real? That’s red-meaty.

It’s all a bit nauseating—This swirling—Isn’t it?

It’s all just asGreasyAnd red-meatyAs the food you ateAt the barbequeFour minutes ago.

Noah Thompson

40

So I polished their sharp edges

until they gleamed with confidence and compliments

I treated them as if they were my children

and then let them go

and maybe they will survive without me.

Someone threw an insult at my feet yesterday

so I picked it up brushed it off and said

why would you treat the words so harshly

they did not choose to be bad words

they were born that way.

NurtureEmma Bleker

Rachel Williams

41

Anna Duckett

Rachel Williams

42

His voice had a lilt His words climbed up a gravelly slopeBefore slipping down a smooth valleyHe didn’t talk oftenBut when he did, everyone heard Her voice had a twangHer words rose high in the sky on a fuchsia pink balloonShe chattered all day like a brainless parakeetBut nobody ever heard her

VoicesSara Phillips

Kryzstof Tellez43

Krysztof Tellez

VoicesSara Phillips

I am the waves of your voice that fill a stadiumor slide into a lover’s ear.

I am the navigator’s guiding hand,and the arsonist’s accomplice.

AirNoah Sleeper

I am the cold on the back of your throat.Is it pain or is it something... else?I am the breath that fills your lungs.

I am your first cryand there with youuntil your last breath.

I chafe your nostrils and steal your papersand give you a gentle reprieve when the heat is heavy.

Christian Thomas 44

Janice Sung 45

Last night I forgot to remember your anniversary, half anniversary.

and to think three years ago you were here with me.

The one that you celebrate every year,even though no one else ever remembers it.

So I promised that this year I would celebrate it with you, for you. I even wrote the date on my arm in ink every day for three months but I still forgot,

To ThinkEmma Bleker

Janice Sung

To think five years ago you were just starting to go to the hospitals; to think you said not to think anything of it, to think I said I love you last and you sounded out of breath and sad the last time I spoke to you.

To think I always remember one day late; to think that I think of you every day of the year but on your anniversary, I can’t seem to remember that the day is different.

To think I never remember the day you went away.

Anndrea Heffington

Andy Pham

War is like a storm that rises out of anger,A storm that rains fire and breeds death,Zephyrs, that fuel currents of blood,Raindrops of metal pound into fleshThe cacophony of torment resonates throughout the field,Death reaps his harvest as humanity suffers from the forces of entropy

Everlasting Strife

Silence,Only faint whispers of the wind echo in the war-torn barrens now,Each breath is a testament to strength,For there is no victor,There is no right and wrong,There is only the last one standing.

Robert Graf

47

Julia Caswell

48

This is a balloon. Filled with a dense space of hot nothing

bouncing back and forth between rubber walls, easy to prick and burst with the slightest edge.

She wavers in the wind quivering, bobbing In the current of the passing breeze. It goes through her right over her around her, shoving past And she waits, anchored to the ground, for the nausea To go away To not feel so sick So dumb and so empty With nothing but this thick groggy air swirling

Short hair bobbed above her chin, like mine Dyed red and black to shade her insecurities Ears lined with attention-seeking piercings that I once desired.

Upgraded from padded to push up after I had my first one Her old, damaged, slider phone filled with partial photos of men to boost her self-esteem Her distressed texts to me about the breakup with her girlfriend shortly after I came out to her myself

Anxious talks of her first kiss dampen her polished lipsHer confidence stained with blush and dark, painted eyes In the past she was no more than a reflection Now she is only a clone of a once flawed beauty.

AnnieKayla Franklin

Jerod Thornton49

This is a balloon. Filled with a dense space of hot nothing

bouncing back and forth between rubber walls, easy to prick and burst with the slightest edge.

She wavers in the wind quivering, bobbing In the current of the passing breeze. It goes through her right over her around her, shoving past And she waits, anchored to the ground, for the nausea To go away To not feel so sick So dumb and so empty With nothing but this thick groggy air swirling

Kayla Franklin

The summertime passes over the dome of her head And a happiness comes A stupid contentment That she will not float away and deflate into something that will finally feel nothing.

relentlessly inside yanking, jerking beneath a sky pulling upward.

Air Head

Annie Flores

Madi Wright

50

She felt her spine freeze, small tendrils of frost spreading down from her neck to her lower back as the ominous rustling chimed through the verdant green leaves of the elms. Her car slowly made its way down the thin tar road. She saw the trees in front of her illuminated with a strange sense of clarity, almost as if they were brightened by incandescent sunlight. She saw them rush past her face appearing where there should be none, some forming expressions which matched those of horrid agony, and others which seethed with a type of acidic hatred. Each one’s eyes were baleful and collagenous, staring her down. They seemed to fade as quickly as they had appeared, falling back into the night as the asphalted road ended in a sudden drop off.

The car rocked slightly as it hit the dirt path, coming off of the ledge between the two pieces of the longer road. She continued rapping her fingers lightly against the plastic edge of the steering wheel, whistling softly. Virgin plain stretched out to either side of her, the dry golden grass, yucca plants, and small patches of shrubs lined either side of the path with the dry rocky brown soil.

She tapped her fingers anxiously against the side of the steering wheel, her forehead broken out in an icy cold sweat. Her eyes focused upon the tar black asphalt which stretched out before her as she passed beyond the the city limits. The sky was a dark abyss of midnight black-- the same color as the deep trenches which lined the bottom of oceans. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered gently under her breath as she drove down the dark rural road, the lights of city evanescing out of existence beyond her. After about two miles she turned onto the serpentine road which lead up to her house, the still paved portion lined with the elms her father had planted two years ago. It was a mild spring night, one where the average temperature would be in the low sixties. This far north of Amarillo there was little light pollution. That is, unless you counted the red dots from the industrial plant or the ones from Sunray, which was still more than 15 miles off. The winds which blew north from Lubbock could reach gusts of up to 70 miles per hour at their highest.

Her foot pressed closely against the gas pedal and she shuddered as she hit an unusually rocky patch in the bare light brown soil, the kind that could only be found on the southern plains, the kind she had used to play in as a child. The noise of the chips of mica, gravel, and quartz crystals grinded against the rubber tires sounding slightly disturbing, almost sinister. Gritting her teeth, she pressed on the pedal, causing the cherry red needle to rise up to about 40 miles per hour. She felt her heart pounding away within her chest, and started chuckling, her bright blue eyes wide with a nervous fear. The chuckling turned into a sort of psychotic laughing. The fit stopped and she stared back out the window. Moving her left hand to the dial, she turned up the music until it was blaring in her ears. The song was ACDC’s “Highway to Hell,” not exactly the most comforting choice, but much better than leaving herself to her own paranoid thoughts.

Emma Martino

Wil Harris

51

She could see small upshoots of prairie grass com-ing up in the space between the indentations that the treading of tires had made over the years.

M n E y es

She quickly jerked her head, crossing her fingers in sheer hope that she wasn’t right. She saw the keys lying by the puddle of pink blood, and her hope sunk like the Titanic. She saw something move just beyond the pool of light, its shadow dancing across her vision. She gripped the handle harder; yanking it in some frivolous idea that maybe, just maybe the door would open. She knew that if she could get into the car she would be fine. She knew she would have a chance and, come hell or high water, all she wanted was a chance, a chance to survive. She heard a soft sound coming towards her and closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, counting to ten.

She felt like an imbecile. She was being needlessly frightened over what some bum and probable drug addict said to her under his breath, about “you are the sacrifice.” Just four stupid, trivial, meaningless, abstract words, and she was clutching at the idea of death like a selfish child clutches at its own toy. She wasn’t some stupid bimbo in a horror movie, and Freddy Krueger, Jason Vorhees, or Pennywise sure as hell weren’t just going to pop up out of nowhere and kill her. It was honestly laughable that she was even thinking about something so ridiculous.

She sung softly along with the music and continued tapping her thin white fingers against the wheel, focusing forward to try to calm her nerves. It wasn’t working as well as well as she would’ve hoped, as she could still feel the pulsating beat of her heart pounding against her ribcage. The wind rushed past the car, and even though she had turned the radio up to an ear-splitting volume, she could hear the foreboding noise that the wind made as it swept across her car, similar to the noise wind makes along the eaves of a building. She shuddered, the fear starting to creep back into her veins, the icy feeling crawling through her like a snake, slowly sending the glacial feeling down her spine, her pale flesh rising slightly. She continued to look outside, the high beams of her Buick illuminating about twenty feet of the dirt path in front of her. She saw something white flash up on her windshield. It was less than five feet away. She jumped back slightly and rammed her foot quickly on the brake in panic.

She jolted forward, her head hitting against the middle of the wheel, splitting open a small gash. She raised her face, her fear quickly evaporating away being replaced by white-hot rage. She kicked the door open and jumped out, her heart once again thumping loudly inside her chest. She walked foreword, her fists pressed tightly against her side, mere inches away from the teal cotton fabric of her shorts. She looked down and saw nothing, nothing except for a puddle of neon magenta liquid refracting the glowing light of the moon. She cringed and reached down, touching it with her left hand. She felt disgusted by it, whatever it was. It was thick and extremely viscous, yet still tepid. It had a sort of metallic smell almost how aluminum tastes, as well as slight sulfurous undertones. Her curiosity got the best of her and she decided to investigate further. Thrusting her hand deeper into the bright pink liquid, she winced and rolled up her sleeve.

She quickly retracted her arm back out, vigorously shaking her hand, watching as the liquid flung out onto the dirt path in small droplets. Her head whipped around as she heard the acute cracking of brush off in the abyssal darkness stretching from each horizon. She slowly pulled away from the puddle, using her arms to resume her usual stance. She started walking to the car, the thoughts beginning to return. Maybe the guy was right. Maybe something was going to happen to her. God knows finding pools of pink liquid isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence.

She heard another sharp cracking, this time closer to the road. She gulped and started walking faster, her feet quickly moving towards her car. It seemed to get farther away, and even though she was borderline jogging, the road had turned into molasses, making her feel as if she was moving at the pace of a snail. This time the rustling grew even nearer, sounding as if it was bordering on the road itself. Her legs thawed as panic jolted through her body, sprinting forward trying desperately to reach the safety her of car. She reached the Buick, hastily gripping at the door which had been shut by the gales. She grabbed the handle and twisted for the sanctuary of the car, her hand turning red with strain. When it wouldn’t open she emptied her pockets in a panic-induced stupor, quickly spilling her wallet and some gum onto the ground, but not her keys.

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harris.html

Emma Martino

52

The Bare White Walls Reminded Me Of Rachel Power

How my anger fumed inside. I wanted nothing more than to destroy its pureness. I wanted to tear down the plaster and watch the pieces turn to dust. I wanted to break it down with my ruthless words and my restless hands. I wanted to leave scars. I wanted the walls to never be the same.

I could feel the fire while my wrath repressed and convulsed through my body as my knuckles grew white. I could feel it in my throat as I shrieked and my feet as I kicked. It was planted in the pit of my stomach; it sprouted in my chest and intertwined with my inner-child. The vines constricted and strained as I found myself staring at what was. Then my barrier broke. Then cracked. Fractured. Shattered. Smashed and crumbled. Finally I could feel it in my heart.

I wanted the walls that once protected me, to live my every pain and feel my every memory. So I tore the wall down, piece by piece, until all that was left were it’s remain; that used were once so whole, undamaged and full of beauty. The wall lay unmended and yet my anger did as well. I poured myself into these walls, and it was time for it to pour out. The bare white walls reminded me...of me.

The Bare White Walls Reminded Me Of...

Rachel Power

Carly McNicholas53

The Bare White Walls Reminded Me Of Rachel Power

How my anger fumed inside. I wanted nothing more than to destroy its pureness. I wanted to tear down the plaster and watch the pieces turn to dust. I wanted to break it down with my ruthless words and my restless hands. I wanted to leave scars. I wanted the walls to never be the same.

I could feel the fire while my wrath repressed and convulsed through my body as my knuckles grew white. I could feel it in my throat as I shrieked and my feet as I kicked. It was planted in the pit of my stomach; it sprouted in my chest and intertwined with my inner-child. The vines constricted and strained as I found myself staring at what was. Then my barrier broke. Then cracked. Fractured. Shattered. Smashed and crumbled. Finally I could feel it in my heart.

I wanted the walls that once protected me, to live my every pain and feel my every memory. So I tore the wall down, piece by piece, until all that was left were it’s remain; that used were once so whole, undamaged and full of beauty. The wall lay unmended and yet my anger did as well. I poured myself into these walls, and it was time for it to pour out. The bare white walls reminded me...of me.

How my anger fumed inside. I wanted nothing more than to destroy its pureness. I wanted to tear down the plaster and watch the pieces turn to dust. I wanted to break it down with my ruthless words and my restless hands. I wanted to leave scars. I wanted the walls to never be the same.

I could feel the fire while my wrath repressed and convulsed through my body as my knuckles grew white. I could feel it in my throat as I shrieked and my feet as I kicked. It was planted in the pit of my stomach; it sprouted in my chest and intertwined with my inner child. The vines constricted and strained as I found myself staring at what was. Then my barrier broke. Then cracked. Fractured. Shattered. Smashed and crumbled. Finally I could feel it in my heart.

I wanted the walls that once protected me, to live my every pain and feel my every memory. So I tore the wall down, piece by piece, until all that was left were its remains; that were once so whole, undamaged and full of beauty. The wall lay unmended and yet my anger did as well. I poured myself into these walls, and it was time for it to pour out. The bare white walls reminded me...of me.

Molly Stotts

54

She says she finds the conceptof wanting to be brokenincredibly odd.But I understand it, I think.

We want the grungeof experience under our nails,the dried heartache ofbetrayal sewn into our belts,we want scars people can see.

We want to exploit others’ scars for our own, brag about our conquests - “I tore his heart into empty picture frames and unread letters.

Emma Bleker

55

There are pieces of him and mescattered across the places we never went. I am cold-hearted,bitter wind, leave me be orleave me broken.”

We want the people we loveto love us back just as passionatelyas we want the people we fear to fear us.

We want the pleasure that isassociated with ruin.

Sam Morton56

Y o u A r e M y T r e e

You are the reflection of a stoplight  on a dark and soaked street, the broken wood beams and the rust  on the tin roof of a barn  mid-entropy. 

Your splendor and your beauty are inherent in my eyes,  like rising bubbles in amber champagne  or the mute and damp blue light  of two in the morning. 

Julia Caswell

57

A tree is beautiful no matter how  crooked it is, because it is a tree  and  simply  a tree. 

Y o u A r e M y T r e eJerod Thornton

You are the rouge-purple glow  of distant city lights.   And when a tree grows a bit twisted  or its branches  sprout askew,  no one ever says, “What an ugly tree.”

Ryan Carslile

58

Passengers In Peace

Here’s the aftermath of the car crash. As you can see, it was a side collision. The more dam-aged car had decided to turn left into a parking lot right as another car going sixty miles per hour was approaching. The driver didn’t see it coming. Neither did the passenger. Those two are being hauled into an ambulance now. They should be fine. At least they haven’t died. Have you ever wanted to slow down time? I’ll say that I have. In fact, I would’ve loved to see this car crash in slow motion. Not from the outside, though. I would’ve wanted to see the faces of the two passengers right as the initial hit began. Their expressions would’ve been blank, I imagine. One would get a sense of harmony seeing their two faces; that is, disregarding the situation at hand. In their mind, no wreck has happened yet. Their mind says, “Good job. You have crossed the road suc-cessfully.” Then the initial hit would end and the rebound would begin. And the mind tells them to clench their teeth and hold on. “It has begun.” But back to that moment of blankness:

Maria Gomez

Cole Hildebrand

59

That initial hit, and those blank faces of the driver and the passenger? They’re all a part of one of those spaces in between their frames. They just didn’t realize it. Have you ever thought of it that way? I think it’s very weird to think about life that way. It’s weird to think about life in any way, anyways. And imagine if you were able to slow down time and be able to see the empty spaces! Or you could pause directly on one. You could stay there forever. And if a car suddenly hit yours, you could keep that same blank and serene face you had before the fear happened. Nothing bad will happen in the void. Nothing good. Nothing at all. It’s both comforting and horrific.

Maria Gomez

60

61

Betsy Yang