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This year’s arts magazine has been made possible by the following people:

Supervising Editors: Arely Ortiz, Marissa Hernandez, Emily Terramani, and Ashley Rice

Fiction Editors: Melanie Guardado and Izel Varela

Poetry Editors: Emma Frias and Danielle Gutierrez

Visual Arts Editors: Jackie Tejada and Tori Morales

Performance Art Editors: Samantha Rose Gonzalez and Amanda Melendez

Faculty Editor: Matthew Carrillo-Vincent

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Foreword

Unapologetically Artistic. Two images seem to surface from this title: anarchy and

cockiness. Anarchy, in the sense that this magazine might contain art that is outside the conventional: a calculated attack against society’s oppressive influence over the lives of the young, primarily that of teenage girls. Cockiness, in the sense that this magazine is some kind of Tumblr post: full of cliché ideas about life mixed with color-coordinated photographs of places.

If these were the images you thought of when opening this, we hate to disappoint you. This magazine isn’t a rebellion against society in a Tumblr aesthetic; it’s a bold statement. A clear indication that we see the world in a certain way and aren’t afraid to make it known.

Now, we aren’t saying society’s stereotypes toward women do not have an impact on us. Nor are we attempting to downgrade our pride for this magazine. As unapologetic artists, we are both prideful in our work and conscious of the world’s expectations. We, however, cannot be bothered to follow these expectations. Our purpose is not to bring awareness to the invisible bubble that traps teenage girls – this bubble was brought to light long ago. Instead, this magazine is simply a showcase of our student’s talents. It is a collection of snapshots of our students’ lives, small moments that represent how they see the world and the expectations it places on their shoulders. Every worldview is different. Each one represents the “perfect moment” in our artist’s life, capturing the moment the world became more than what it appeared.

As a community, we appear the same: we’re all teenage girls, transitioning between society’s mixed signals of how we are both children and women. We all attend the same Catholic school. We all wear the same uniform. Yet, as you read through this magazine, the most poignant similarity between us will not be our gender, our age, or even the clothes we wear. It will be the simple need to be heard, to voice our “perfect moments,” to share just a glimpse of the world as we know it.

A word of caution: our world is not picturesque; we do not skim the surface, avoiding the ugly parts. It also isn’t brutal: our focus isn’t to overdramatize the world’s faults, to bring out its ugly side in the name of the arts. The world is confusing; we are just bringing that to light, as all unapologetic artists do.

Unapologetically,

The Editors

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Table of Contents

“The Page” – Tori Concepcion………………………….…..…..7 “Yo Más / Me More” – Lily Perales…………………….…..…...8 “Night” – Charlotte Zhang…………………………….…...…....9 “Modern Romance” – Nathalie Diaz………………….…….….10 “The House of the Church of Girl” – Sophia Torres….…….….11 (First Place, Writing Contest in Poetry) “Blinding” – Jackelyn Tejada………………………….…….…..12 “Pay the Piper” – Sophia Reyes……………………….…….…..13 (First Place, Writing Contest in Fiction) “Views from the 424” – Alissa Barrera…………………………24 “Eucalyptus” – Danielle Gutierrez…………………………..…28 “5senses” – Sophia Sandoval…………………………....……....30 (Runner-Up, Writing Contest in Poetry) “The Sense of Up” – Angela Domingo....………………………31 (Runner-Up, Writing Contest in Poetry) “Because I Am a Woman” – Danielle Valenzuela………………32 “Facing Death” – Samantha Herrera…………………………....34 “Insect Sketch” – Jenny Huang………………………………....35 “Madness” – Alexis Chin………………………………….……36 “Trapped” – Samantha Rivera………………………….…….....37 “Fallen Leaves” – Monique Rios………………………………..38 “The Fight” – Kaylan Amezcua………………………………...40 “Kurt Cobain” – Danielle Gutierrez……………………………41 “Farewell” – Isabella Rea……………………………………….42 (Untitled) – Vida Ubalejo……………………………………….44 “Star Wars Haikus” – Katie Selko………………………………45 “Lolo” – Angela Domingo……………………………………...46 “The Mostly Fictional Adventures

of the Girl Called I” – Sophia Torres……………………...47 (Runner-Up, Writing Contest in Fiction) “Gilbert” – Sherry Deaquino…………………………………...53 (Runner-Up, Writing Contest in Poetry)

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“Where Are You From” by Emma Frias…………………….....54 “Close Up and Not So Personal” – Jackelyn Tejada……………56 “Oblivion” – Tiffany Guzman………………………………….58 “Build Up Knock Down” – Audrey Ruiz………………………59 “LA Streetscapes” – Nyah Austin………………………………60 “Lost in Los Angeles” – Madeline Garcia………………………62 (Runner-Up, Writing Contest in Fiction) “Untitled Series” – Emilee Reichenbach………………………..72 “Photograph” – Emilee Reichenbach…………………………..74 “Who Will Save Us?” – Stephanie Varghese……………………76 “They Told Me” – Alyssa Herrera……………………………..77 “We Become One” – Angela Domingo………………………...78 “Waiting Game” – Sophia Sandoval……………………………79 “Girl” – Anna Lu………………………………………………80 “Filthy Adventures” – Daniela Salatino………………………...81 “Torment” – Victoria Morales……………………..…………...82 (Untitled) – Stella Rugama ……………………………...……...83 “Cerebral Streams” – Cecilia Nuñez…………………………...84 “The End” – MariaElena Gutierrez……………………………86 “Ramona Girls” – Izel Varela…………………………………..87

The Performance Arts Supplement to this Year’s Unapologetically Artistic is available at:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2QruU87EdkaHKbndRcPX9A

Please see work by:

Tiffany Guzman, Vanessa Zamalloa, Arely Ortiz, Marissa Hernandez, Emily Terramani, Seven Wu

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“Wild tongues can’t be tamed, they can only be cut out.”

- Gloria Anzaldúa

The Page Three years into this assignment with only one more to go and I've yet to write this single most important page. Voice silent. Mind blank. Fear and nerves conquer all that I recognize of me. Not the me I want him to see. I got this. I can do this. Is all that I repeat. It's only a simple assignment, yeah right. The assignment of my life, so far. Pen to paper. Thoughts to action. The page that took forever to craft cause of never ending nerves was a work of simplistic art. He read the page and stared for hours. His surprised response to a shared emotion. Out of his pocket, a folded page one for me to read. Three years wasted filled with unnecessary nerves and fears.

Tori Concepcion

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Yo Más / Me More

If I ever tell my grandma how tired I am, she laughs and says, yo más. And on my birthday when she asks how old I am, I tell her, but she always says, yo más.

And when I dress up and my mom tells me how pretty I look, my grandma smirks and says, yo más.

It's been eight years since my grandpa has died and my grandma has had to live alone. I sleep with her every night so she's not lonely but it's not easy. She snores. A lot. If I told her that I snored loud she would definitely have to say, yo más.

She puts so much cream on her face that if you hugged her you'd be left with a shiny cheek. And if you'd ask her, Mamamia which has more grease, you or these papas? She would have no choice but to say, yo más.

And whenever I leave my grandma's house in the earliest hours of the morning, I kiss her greasy face and say, te quiero mucho. And she always says yo más.

Lily Perales

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<Night> Deaf, dumb Savage Red lips, Pointed teeth. Lips move— No sound Huge bedroom followed Silent giant duke. Cocktail with red soup. Ocean recognizes Your name.

Charlotte Zhang

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Modern Romance “Romance,” Ghosts say “Is calmly dashing through A muddy cemetery. In your newly dug grave, You are dry At last.” Ghosts are Grinning now. “Romance is horror And Illnesses are your Apology.” Ghosts’ grins Falter. Romance Is their specialty.

Nathalie Diaz

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The House of the Church of Girl The closet full of clothes has become my confessional Because in the closet of my own is where I hold my sins The boys in the band have become my preachers Because their sermons stir the depths of my soul The cabinet of medicine has become my tabernacle Because there is stored the foods that make me whole again The drinks full of alcohol have become the Blood of the Christ everlasting Because the chalice is raised to the sky then taken in by my body The boy that I like has become my saint Because I kneel before him, but never worship fully The dresser topped with makeup has become my pew Because I sit there trying to cover up my sins with questionable practices

Sophia Torres

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Photograph by Jackelyn Tejada

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PAY THE PIPER Sophia Reyes

Hello,

This is your best friend. I haven't contacted you in a while, not since

we parted ways in middle school nearly three years ago. This message may

seem a bit random, but I must write to you regarding an urgent situation.

For the past two years you have been a member on the social network

Piper. On this site you have religiously followed a user by the name of

Penultima1216. I know this because I am Penultima1216. That person is a

lie. Let me explain. The last time you saw me nearly three years ago, I was

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happy. I had a loving family. I had a best friend (You). I was pretty. I was

popular. I was a happy young girl, albeit an ordinary one.

Until I sold my soul to a stranger on the Internet.

If you haven't figured it out yet, this message is a dire warning. I still

wonder why I didn't contact you years ago, and tell you to beware, to delete

that godforsaken Piper app and run. Now it's too late. The Piper has called

to you too. I've betrayed you, my friend, it's true. By this last warning I

hope to bring you some closure and peace, even if I can't save you. You're

a better person than I am, and you deserve better! But alas, I can only hope

this message reaches you in time. I know I am being watched. I know the

countless eyes on my back are going to alert him. The Piper. He's coming.

And yes, I'm talking about the Piper app who has for ten weeks been the

top seller in the iTunes Store. The Piper who has been heralded by

antisocial teens and entrepreneurs alike for its "social versatility". The

fabled Piper who can make you a cult figure with a million followers within

a week. I believed it all.

What an idiot I was.

I haven't slept in two days. The watching has become unbearable. The dripping is driving me insane. I can't stand it. I can't stand it; the guilt, the pain, the feeling like I'm going crazy. Perhaps I am. Perhaps it started the day I purchased the Piper App for 99 cents. I couldn't resist the siren call of instant popularity, worldwide fame, global adoration! I worshipped the picture-perfect Piper idols, those bold, outrageous, girls! They pronounced swear words as though they were sacred. They made the most raunchy escapades into epics worthy of Homer! They spoke every sentence as though it meant everything and nothing. I could tell you some of the

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wilder things they said and did, but I think it would disgust you. These girls were my favorite worst nightmares. I don't understand why I was drawn to them. But I was. I wanted to be the life of the party. To have fun. I know this sounds so uncharacteristic for me, but I can't explain it. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be adored. To be laughed at. To be followed. I got my wish. I asked for a drop of rain, and I got a flood. I was up late one night, still on my phone. My parents and brothers were asleep. I opened my new Piper app. I created my Penultima1216 profile on Piper and decided to call it a night. But then music, beautiful music began to blast from my phone. I hastily silenced it. How weird, I thought. It wasn't even my ringtone. That's when I got an alert for a message. I was bewildered. Who on earth could be contacting me in the dead of night? I shook off my sleepiness and saw that the message was from someone whose name was The Piper. My hands shook as I read it. This Piper individual welcomed me to his platform, explaining that he was the creator of the Piper App. He asked whether I needed help building my follower base. I almost squealed. Just think, the creator of a world renowned app contacting me, insignificant, ordinary, me! And even more, he wanted to help me find followers! I felt confidence surge through me. I replied boldly:

Penultima1216: Hello Piper! I just want to say thanks

for showing so much interest in me! I'm literally in

tears right now.......tears of happiness! X'D. So,

what can I do to get more followers?

The Piper: Salutations Penultima1216! I am most eager

to welcome you to this humble platform. ;) Your

eagerness, in turn, has delighted me greatly. If you

are truly willing, I shall assist you in your search

for discipleship. :P But you must be dedicated to the

cause.

Penultima1216: I am! : D

The Piper: And you must truly wish to be followed. ;)

Penultima1216: Yes! :DDDD

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The Piper: You have passed the test. You have your

first follower! ;)

Penultima1216: Alright I got an alert, saying that I

have one follower. Wait.....what......but my account

details still say I have zero followers :'( Is this a

joke? >:(

The Piper: Look up, sweetheart.

Penultima1216: Hahahaha you con artist I'm looking

up.......HOLY SHIT

A pair of green eyes hung in the air above my head. They looked

down upon me, blinking silently. I dropped my phone and almost

screamed. The eyes followed me. I looked at my bedside clock. 3:00 am. I

turned off my phone and flung the covers over my head, heart pounding. It

was fatigue, I told myself. Fatigue, and over-excitement. I don't remember

much of that night. I must have fallen asleep soon after from exhaustion

and terror.

When I woke up, the nightmare continued.

Seven pairs of eyes hung above my head. There was the green pair

from the previous evening. There were others too, some blue, some

brown, one black and two dazzling hazels. All of them were staring directly

at me. I often wonder then why I didn't think I was crazy. I suppose my

horror was soon mitigated when I turned on my phone. Seven new alerts.

Seven new followers. I can't explain it, but the acceptance of those few

anonymous souls quashed my uneasiness. I went about on the business of

my day, and I was HAPPY. The little eyes followed me, and I felt a sense

of security. They were my eyes. They were my followers. They were the

Piper's gift to me. I shivered when I thought of the mysterious Piper, and

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what he could make me. He would make me a hero. A queen. A goddess. I

ate breakfast with my brothers, went to school, and the tide of eyes

followed me out the door like a flood.

It continued all throughout the day.

More alerts from my phone.

More followers.

More eyes, whirling around me like planets around the sun.

I basked in an ocean of gazes.

I won't tell you the things I did, the things I said, the lies I posted to that

miserable Penultima1216 account.

You've already seen it anyways.

And you're probably disgusted.

Since you're much better than me.

By noon I had gained 1000 followers. I was in heaven.

And by dusk I was in hell.

I was walking home from school that day. The streets were oddly

quiet. The people I passed didn't give me a glance. I thought nothing of it,

wrapped in my blanket of gazes. I opened the door of my house and

walked in. My family was eating dinner. I sat down. They didn't

acknowledge me. We ate in silence, and I checked my phone under the

table as the cloud of eyes grew thicker around me; a curtain of white orbs.

They glassily reflected the light from my screen. I typed away.

A snide remark here, which I thought witty.

A rude joke there, which I found fine.

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All eyes on me.

Heart for Favorite.

Thumb for Like.

Star for Important.

Everything lies.

My family and I got up from the table. My brothers walked right through

me on their way up the stairs. My mother dropped her keys through my

translucent stomach and plunged her hand into the haze to pick them up.

My father ground his fist into the roots of my teeth to open the back door.

I was invisible. I was only real to the eyes, and the eyes were my only

reality. Cold gazes shielded in anonymity were my friends. I almost

screamed. For the first time that day I shivered, and a headache pulsed at

my temples. I sprinted up the stairs to my room. The multitude of eyes

watched as I opened the Piper app and began a new message.

Penultima1216: Piper, stop this. I don't know what

kind of trick this is but please stop. I can't stand

being watched like this all the time.

The Piper: Stop, you ask? Why should I? YOU were the

one who wanted to be followed. YOU were the one who

chose this little cyber charade over your family,

friends, and life. It's time you faced the

consequences of your choices. It's time you payed the

Piper, so to speak! ;)

Penultima1216: I know. I know I made a mistake. But

please. Is there anything I can do to get rid of all

these goddamn eyes?! And still keep my followers?

The Piper: Language, my little keyboard warrior! And

don't be so mean to the eyes :'(. You must admit

they're kind of cute, in a grotesque little way. :D

Penultima1216: YOU DIDN'T ANSWER MY QUESTION!

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The Piper: Well if you insist on sending the poor eyes

away there is one thing you can do.....;D I have a

task for you. Give me the names of your followers. For

every name you give me, a pair of eyes will disappear.

And even better......you'll still be able to keep the

followers you have!

Penultima1216: What?! I have over a thousand

followers!

The Piper: Exactly, dearie! Time to get busy, busy,

busy! ;D

I did get busy indeed. I went through my follower list, hundreds

upon hundreds. I copied and pasted names to the Piper, copied and pasted

in the purgatory of my bedsheets. I lost sleep, night after sleepless night.

This was my chance. Get rid of the eyes. Keep my followers. In hindsight I

wonder why the followers were so important. But I needed to keep them.

They were a part of me now. Slowly the massive cloud of eyes began to

dwindle.

And then the weeping began.

I sat with my family, hidden in the still sizable cloud of eyes, watching

the news. You must have heard about it too. Thousands of teenagers gone

missing around the world. Corpses found in the rivers, the lakes, the

oceans. Every waterlogged body with a cellphone in their pockets. A

survivor reported hearing beautiful music, calling them to the water. Those

unfortunate children, running out of their schools, hospitals, cafes, homes,

overrunning their cities like rats. All young. All dead. All followers. Followers

forever. Following me forever. The remaining eyes no longer just watched

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me in silence. Now they wept, wept tears that burned like acid against my

skin. The soft pitter-patter of their tears is a music in of itself. Sometimes I

wonder whether this whole mess would have ended if I had simply deleted

the Piper app. But I couldn't. My thumb would hover over the delete

button, waging a silent battle. But the music of the tears persisted, and the

app remained untouched.

The Piper continued his threats.

He grew impatient when I wouldn't provide enough names. He

threatened to replace me. He taunted me with the knowledge that he

would find somebody "infinitely better" to carry out his tasks. Even worse,

he threatened to not fulfill his promise and take the eyes and my followers

too! That was the worst threat of all. All my followers, gone. Poof! I

shudder just thinking about it. I wouldn't know how to live. Spectacles are

made to be watched, after all. I sent him list after list. The raging tide of

eyes grew thinner. I felt vulnerable without the steady gazes. I was under

attack by a barrage of tears. Yet I clung to the once-hated eyes, clung to the

names on that list.

Until I saw yours.

I clicked on your profile. Saw your followers. In a list of your recent

alerts there was a message you hadn't opened yet. It was from the Piper. I

shook with rage. He was going to trick you. You, who are, and have always

been, infinitely better than me. You. You, watching a train wreck. Watching

me. Having no idea. I told you earlier, my friend, that this message was a

dire warning. And it is. Beware the Piper. Beware the Song. Beware. Do

not dare to reply to his messages. If you do, there will be hell to pay.

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Besides, I don't need any competition.

Damn it! The tears keep falling. I can't tell whether they're from me

or from the damn pair of eyes. The last pair left. A pair of gray eyes, gray as

the ocean before rain.

Your eyes.

That damn dripping.........oh well. I have already given the Piper your

name. I'm sorry, friend. But I had to do this so I could be free. The Piper is

coming for you. And I am happy. No more eyes, no more furtive gazes,

just followers, followers, followers contained in their screen- like coffins.

No more competition. I know you knew who I was all along. I know why

you followed me.

You bitch.

You wanted to see a spectacle. You wanted to laugh at my success,

priding yourself on how much better you were. You would never sink to

what I've become. Don't ask me how I know this. I just do. Your goodness

is an insult to me. You wanted a show, didn't you, you self-righteous

jealous IDIOT?! I'll give you one. The Piper is coming for you. I have

millions of followers. They follow without eyes. They listen without ears.

GHOSTS don't have eyes. CORPSES can't open theirs. There's so many

tears. Why do I weep now? I don't know whether I shed tears for the

thousands I've ensnared or for you.

I'll leave you with one comforting thought, my ex-best friend.

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Remember when we used to sit on the carpet in elementary school

and read that old battered book of fairy tales? Remember those days? One

time we read a story, a story about a Piper. The Piper played music so

beautiful that all the rats in the village followed him. He led them to the

river, and they drowned. We laughed then, you and I. The Piper returned

to ask for payment. But the foolish townspeople scorned him and turned

him away. And so he resolved that his payment would be the price of souls.

He played his music, until all the children of the village followed him out

into the countryside. He lead them to the river. He slowly let them drown,

the sweet music still lingering in their ears.

I think I hear music. Or is it just the weeping?

I can't tell them apart.

Yet I can now.

I know this melody. It fills my head with echoes. It is the Piper's music.

You cannot resist it now. I AM the music. I AM the song. There is no

turning back. The flood begins. My best friend, forgive me. I have betrayed

you.

Your eyes are crying a river of tears.

I'm not even trying to be poetic.

There are puddles of water at my feet.

Those stupid gray eyes cry.

And cry.

And cry.

The water fills the room as the music fills my brain.

The Piper is coming.

I'm going to drown.

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Best friend.

We could have laughed together.

Cried together.

Found comfort outside of a screen.

But now, we will all die like rats, with the whole world watching.

* * *

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Photographs by Alissa Barrera

Eucalyptus

It’s dark in here and reeks of Eucalyptus I recklessly open my unfamiliar window to let in some warm daylight but the grim darkness still lingers- my lungs sting I close my eyes and leave this place for temporary relief

My journey is short but long in the making I enter a world that is constant and unchanging

I am standing in a meadow and there is a yellow goldfinch singing the sweetest song I can hear it now as we sit in the shade giggling telling each other about our day My white shorts are damp from the blanket absorbing the cool off the ground we sit on It lacks a certain comfort but I don’t mind I’m as giddy as the lively June breeze gently flicking the pinkness onto our cheeks We carelessly laugh some more while we finish eating the mini corn dogs we bought from the neighborhood hot dog shack Your face lights up with a warm and unsuspecting grin then I smell it again

Eucalyptus

I am back in the meadow The goldfinch no longer singing It is time to open my eyes- my lungs are still stinging

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I can see us still From here in the dark Though, here, something has changed We are both looking forward and seem to be the same But I am staring at my future and you at your grave Today, I am more like the you who was sitting in the shade than the me I was on that warm summer day

The smell of Eucalyptus is strong now Stronger than it ever was before

It never leaves Burns when I breathe in deeply Stings after I exhale slowly The feeling is so comforting- It reminds me of home It is you that I breathe

You are Eucalyptus

Danielle Gutierrez

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5senses

give me paper and pen so i can write about my life of sin u smell paint and maybe a little pain maybe the pain will make the situation change u hear rap and maybe some laughter

if u close ur eyes it's almost like he's there those five steps will transport u to somewhere a place where tupac's lyrics are embedded in the walls that have no wallpaper 2pac cares, if don’t nobody else care a place where you hear the paint being sprayed onto every surface in the room a place where his existence becomes a work of art a place where he stays this place held his thug side, his ain’t no love here side there’s a heaven for a G almost 3 years, time has passed

sometimes i think i hear him life goes on i become catatonic, shocked how long will they mourn me?

Sophia Sandoval

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The Sense of Up

There was a window in my old house. You could take out the screen and sit out on the roof. My parents didn’t like me up there; they say it wasn’t safe. But I was okay. I’d go out at night when no one was looking and stare up into the smog-filled sky, hoping to find the twinkling stars, only to find the lonely moon with some lonely clouds and occasionally an airplane or two. I’d fall asleep out there if it wasn’t for the smell of cigarette smoke coming from my neighbors backyard. It made my nose itch, that smell. I’d quickly put the screen back, erasing the evidence of my presence, and retreated to my bed, where I continued to stare up at a light-yellow painted ceiling.

Angela Domingo

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Because I Am a Woman

I am the girl who is a leader to others, I vocalize my beliefs, I am an example of what it means to be a strong, independent young woman to those around me. I am also the girl who says “yes,” When she really means “no” because she is afraid of disappointing others, Who always nods in agreement in order to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings, and who lets her commitments pile up when she already has more than enough on her plate.

Because I am a woman, that is to be expected. I am not a woman because of my long brown hair, weak arms, or freshly painted finger nails. I am not a woman because of my ability to soothe a crying child, my natural scent of flower petals, or caring eyes.

Because I am a woman, I have the power to do wondrous things for the universe. It is because of my voice that can soothe oceans and calm storms I have the capability to save the world. The closest thing to God on this earth is a woman’s body; it's where life comes from.

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Because I am a woman, I have been taught that I can do anything a boy can do. That is not true. I can do what I do, because I am woman. I will not marry the man who my father thinks will support me well. I will marry the man who knows my worth and appreciates the beauty that I bring to this earth. No matter what happens today, tomorrow, and the days to come, there is nothing I cannot conquer.

Danielle Valenzuela

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Samantha Herrera

Jenny Huang

Madness Running through her bodyDrawing her in Whispers In the cherry trees Blowing in the air Listening at the windowHer imagination Bending in the half light Alexis Chin

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Trapped Great black yolk, A dark speck, Spilling out, Infecting with fear. A whistling noise, Roaring, Then sudden silence. Red flaming eyes, Slowly tilt, Firmly caught. Struggling craven, Quiet, Bruised, Alone. Samantha Rivera

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Fallen Leaves The tree with fallen leaves shed only by her side. It listened to her, comforted her. Each leaf fell close by. She went to contemplate and fabricate the “perfect life”. To a non-critical place outside, Where her thoughts ran like the wind that blew. Her heart was like a rink of ice, Cut and walked upon. She never knew what to say or do to be enough. The tree with fallen leaves shed only by her side. It listened to her, comforted her. Each leaf fell close by. The tree cried for her so she would survive each day. She did not know, This was the only way. Days passed by, Months and years elapsed. She often held in her tears. The tree did the opposite of that. The tree with fallen leaves shed only by her side. It listened to her, comforted her. Each leaf fell close by.

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Then one day she noticed, the tree trembling. It shed many leaves, Someone was near. Her mom sobbed with sorrow, They held each other very tight. The tree knew why the girl did not cry, This was not a time for another fight. Her mother apologized, Knew how hard she made life! The girl was brave, smart and strong now. They both made time to compromise. The tree with fallen leaves shed only by her side. It listened to her, and comforted her. Each leaf fell close by. Monique Rios

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The Fight It will always be like this, A never ending hit or miss. The best way to know something is by going through it, So believe me when I say I may know a bit. This unending cycle of losing or gaining, Is just extremely draining. It isn’t poetic, And there’s no anesthetic, To the pain you can feel, To this unfair deal. You can fight all you want, But the fates will just laugh and taunt, No matter how important it is to you, Its just simply true, A person, feeling or thing, They wont easily cling. You can lose everything, At just a cut of a string. But there’s still some hope, Because that’s just the way us humans cope. So we continue living on, Even though pain wont be gone. We will continue with the fight, And isn’t that a pretty sight? Kaylan Amezcua

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Danielle Gutierrez

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Farewell A bright light flickered one night A light so bright the sun would be jealous I am in a new world Different than the one before The aching is gone The crying is no more The hurting is no longer here, And the fight is over Not every cat is as lucky as me To have a family treat me so lovingly Memories we had are to be remembered The snuggles in bed The late night tickles and scratches I adored I was always fed And never ignored The day I was let go The trees shook, the wind blew The windows froze, the clouds cried You took me into your arms, gave me one last kiss, Caressed my soft, orange fur And then everything became a blur

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The woman in white picked up A sharp, pointed object And Life became a friend in the distance, Slowly fading away yet gone in an instant As my eyes close shut I could see the tears running down your face Crying out why it had to be me But you shall regret no more For had you not let go of my paw The world would be raw I would continue to suffer, To bawl, to wish for death I will never forget you And hope you do the same For I will be watching from above When you sleep, I will be there Nudging my head under your chin When you cry, I will be there to comfort and listen to everything you have endured When you walk back from school, I will be there Waiting at the doorstep Nothing has changed We will never be apart Maybe in distance But never in heart. Isabella Rea

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In the dead of the night, when you are sound asleep, you may dream about everything from the speckled stars in the sky to hidden monsters or maybe nothing at all. When you have a vivid dream about somebody you miss It is as if you have met them in heaven without actually dying. You have packed your bags for the night and have taken a shrt trip to visit them in their new home When you finally meet them, their simple words are sweeter than sugar. that is far, far, far away from town. Their actions seem so realistic that for a minute you believe that they have never left. You expect that seeing them one last time will ease all pain from missing them but contrarily, their absence becomes a sharp knife which wields itself at you, emphasizing itself and its presence. Vida Ubalejo

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Star Wars Haikus Episode One, No It was so bad, I’m asleep Little Anakin Episode Two, Clones The Republic falls, bye bye Liberty is dead Episode Three, Sith They are back with a vengeance Anakin is Darth Episode Four, Leia Luke, Han, Chewbacca, Obi Wan Death Star blows up, ha ha Episode Five, Hoth Luke meets Yoda, train Jedi I am your father Episode Six, Jedi Luke has a green lightsaber Darth dies a Jedi Episode Seven The Force Awakens at last Rebels hunt for Luke Katie Selko

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Angela Domingo

THE MOSTLY FICTIONAL ADVENTURES OF THE GIRL

CALLED I Sophia Torres

We believe in what we want to believe. That was one of the few truths I understood. My grandfather had told me once that the world is full of lies and that in order to survive we had to find the very few truths. This was ironic to me seeing that the man had only known Sunday to be the “Day of Rest” in which “God” was the only thing to be celebrated. My grandfather may have known the truths existed, but I don’t think he ever did find them. He said the truths were always hidden in plain sight, but could only be seen by those with a beautiful mind. I also think he didn’t know what

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he was telling that younger version of me, seeing as he was practically senile and self-medicating the depression with moonshine and gin. I never thought my grandfather was crazy though; I thought there were very few truths in the world, although weren’t found by those with beautiful minds, but by the foolish girls who believed in their grandfather’s stories. My mind was never a beautiful one, but it had at one point been a foolish one. One that believed that one day I could be a princess, or anyone that could make decent pay without slaving away in an office, “till death do we part.” But now it was matured and realized I wasn’t a princess, merely a girl trying to avoid the lies her grandfather had once warned her about. Trying to discover all the truths before they all disappeared with the rest of human decency.

1. We believe in what we want to believe.

That was the first truth I discovered. I was thirteen and walking my usual route to the bus stop. I hadn’t seen the old man. The one that I had usually seen every day on his corner, begging for the dollar that was to be his only chance at life. What I did see was the bus rush down the street and pass without me. So I sat at the corner of the bench, while the sun penetrated the atmosphere with an unreasonable vengeance, when out of the corner of my eye a figure had lopped next to me onto the bench. It was him, the man who had left his post. I was almost in shock to have seen him out of his corner squatting next to the sign that read, “ONE DOLLAR CAN SAVE ONE LIFE.” I turned to him and unwillingly began to draw his face with my eyes. “Would you like to hear a story?” an unrecognizable voice had asked. The man noticed my staring and my sudden shock at the sound of his slightly timid voice.

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“I’ll tell you anyway.” I continued to stare politely. “No one knows why I only ask them for a dollar. Well, no one seems to realize that I can also buy a Lotto Ticket.” He glanced at me to be sure I was listening and then continued, “With just that one dollar I can win the Lotto and sit in a chair instead of on a street covered in crap and the shit people give you. One dollar can get me a paper that can make everything I dreamed of into a reality. It’s a cliché line, but I truly believe it can.” He continued explaining how if you believed something hard enough it’s bound to come true. I found this to be beautifully ironic and naïve for someone without a penny to his name. But, then again, the less we have the more we can imagine. Later on in the night, hours after having sat on the bench, I lay awake in bed replaying the odd interaction with a man I hardly knew, over and over again, and thought about how much faith he had for one day getting a better life. I thought about how much he believed that all it took to change his life was a dollar. This belief did change his life, I guess. It made him optimistic and happy, and I guess that’s all we could hope for in certain times. As I contemplated this, I slowly began to drift away into a deep, naïve sleep. I had a dream that night. I dreamt of my grandfather, happy as clam, rocking back and forth in a large rocking chair, laughing his ferocious laugh, and gnashing his stunning smile. That’s when I realized I had discovered the first truth.

2. The most beautiful smiles come from the least beautiful people. I had seen the man every day since. He had never gotten on the bus, but always shared with me a reassuring glimpse of a partial smile and I a smile with him. I was fourteen when I discovered the second truth. It was anything but normal that day. The air

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was damp, humid, and not native to me whatsoever. I waited for the bus to rescue me from the torture at hand. As I sat on the corner of the bench, I turned to receive my daily reassurance when there was no one there. I immediately began to think the worst. I was almost devastated when I continued to look around and search for the man only to be greeted by loneliness. Before I could find him, the bus arrived. So I got onto the bus and continued toward my usual seat when I looked up to see the man already seated at the front of the bus. I smiled at the man and he smiled back, though it wasn’t his usual partial smile. I was able to see a full smile. He had what most people would call a major dental problem, but there was something charming and captivating in his smile; one that I felt to have already known. I made it to my usual seat. I sat there contemplating how gorgeous the man’s smile was. I drew out in my mind the dirt caked in the crevices of his laugh lines, the lights in his eyes, the lack of teeth present, the tint of yellow that stained the teeth he had left, and the familiarity of the smile. It was more than reassuring, to say the least. I then looked toward the front of the bus and saw the man begin to rise. He looked toward me, smiled, and exited the bus. I sat there frozen as if all time stood still, as if the world had become a museum for the universe to quickly glance into, and the man was still there exhibiting his smile. Then I blinked, and the world returned to its normal pace and the man had long gotten off the bus. In that quick moment I suddenly realized whom the smile had belonged to. My grandfather. The man took with him a bag, the cardboard sign, my grandfather, and the second truth. That was the last time I ever saw him.

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2. Love and hate are the same emotion, it just depends on how it’s received.

Love was never something I was able to understand. I was fine with that, though, because I knew the people that said the “L word” to express their emotions about another living thing couldn’t identify or understand it either. I was fifteen and slightly clever and utterly clueless. I still couldn’t understand the differences between the descriptions of the emotions love and hate. To say this sounds tremendously idiotic. Most people would describe love as an “extreme like” and hate as an “extreme dislike,” but both are so much more intricate and complex emotions with a far more vast intensity than just “like” and “dislike.” I saw them as things that were purposefully made to be outlandishly similar to complicate the difficulty of being human even further. Understanding the differences between the two visible definitions was almost as difficult as defining them, because in action both were portrayed as delusion, distraction, elaborate obsession, and the overspending of well-earned money. Again on my usual journey home, I sat at the bus stop and waited. What I was waiting for I didn’t know. A miracle, some hand to reach down from the Heavens, the bus? A girl far more noticeable than I have ever been took a seat next me. How she wasn’t driving a cherry red Lamborghini was beyond my mental capacity. She belonged on the cover of a magazine, but instead posed next to me at a bus stop in the middle of the afternoon, in the typical unenjoyable weather of the season. Then, a truck pulled up the street, windows rolled down, full of boys, smelling like the seventies, and stopped at the red light. A heavily dented truck, caked in dirt, and clearly filled beyond capacity with stupidly libidinous boys. They whistled, honked, taunted, and yelled dirty phrases at the girl so grammatically incorrectly it’s not worth the

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trouble that is auto correct. They yelled at her and felt some sort of pride in doing so. Pride in what? Not even they knew. I felt the need to understand, know whether they were blinded by the love of her body or their hatred of feminism. My guess was neither. My guess was nobody cared either way. Stupid boys never ruined my thoughts on chivalry though. Chivalry isn’t dead, mostly because it never existed. I had gone from questioning the when’s, how’s, and whys of the situation to the question I was most interested in. Are love and hate the same thing? And was this another truth?

4. Every truth is a lie.

I was of no age of importance when I found the truth. My

grandfather has been long gone and my mind was no longer foolish. As I grew up, I observed the world through the eyes of my grandfather. As I grew older, I tried to find a world apart from my grandfather’s. As I grew old, my eyes became my grandfather’s. Even at the age of slight cleverness I couldn’t understand the complexity of the world and its confusing lies and truths. The one thing I am able to understand now is that my grandfather lied to me. There were no truths in the world. When the homeless man believed he could win the Lotto, he knew it as true. But to me it was an utter lie. His unpredictably charming smile was to me beyond beautiful and to everyone else, ugly. The beauty of the girl who sat next to me was true, but beyond the point. The emotions of love and hate, too multifaceted to be labeled as true, false, or anything in between. What my grandfather told me that day was true to him and my young naïve mind. But to me it was all a lie.

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Gilbert at my grandma’s there is a man he sits outside sometimes with a smoke in his hand we all think he’s crazy sometimes he’ll sit in his car and listen to Christian music on full

blast we all blame his mother who yells all the time she’s always telling him to get inside he went to school with my aunt they even went on a date he calls her Brenda but her name is Carol.

Sherry Deaquino

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Where Are You From where are you from I would say you are Mexican but your eyes are a little slanted on the sides because your hair is curly some days and straight on others so I can’t tell where you are from I assumed your love of horses and your dark skin made you Indian but I assumed your nappy hair and dark skin made you African American no but I assumed your small eyes, intelligence, and dark skin made you Filipino so please tell us where are you from where am I from? well my grandma’s from Honduras but does that really define me she comes from a third world country but I tend to forget about my past I just put it all behind me and my other grandma she’s from Mexico although I haven’t ever been to Mexico so why does where I’m from define me? I could never explain my family’s history and I don’t think I’ll ever be included you see I just a young privileged girl living in Cali and my ancestors before come from a long line of strong women my grandmas spend hours of their day working in their kitchens and, see, I work too I just do it differently, by getting A’s in school

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so that when I have a girl she’ll know all about me you see my cousin died getting water from her village’s river and I get mad when my mom doesn’t change my Brita filter I hope my daughter won’t be as selfish as me but you see where I’m from doesn’t define me because when you see me you see what’s outside of me you see my dark skin and only get more shocked when it gets darker in the summer you see my long straight black hair and you think I wonder who’s that girl’s mother so where I’m from does not define me the questions have gone from so where are you from to sly questions and comments like what workouts do you do you’re so lucky you can wear heels and not be too tall do you tan you eat so healthily and when I get lost in the questions everyone is asking me I can’t help but take a moment to stop and remember where I am from.

Emma Frias

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Photography by Jackelyn Tejada

Oblivion Collisions of colors, Illustrate a raven night, With lavenders and emeralds,Tidal waves and roses, Across infinite sky. How ephemeral Is time, When stardust erasesEvolution, creation, Grace, grandeur? Still, Wanderers linger,Along the path Of milky, Glimmering irises,Seeking truth, Purpose.

Tiffany Guzman

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Build Up Knock Down Beautiful Botched Bubbly Bossy Endearing Egotistic Empowering Embarrassing Adorable Annoying Alluring Abnormal Unique Unusual Upbeat Uptight Tasteful Tacky Trustworthy Tricky Intelligent Idiotic Imaginative Immature Fearless Foolish Funny Flirty Useful Useless Unforgettable Unattractive Lovely Lowbred Lively Lame Go away Leave us alone You don’t belong Audrey Ruiz

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LA StreetscapesPhotography by Nyah Austin

LOSTINLOSANGELESMadeline Garcia

Thomas didn’t know how he had ended up here exactly. The letter that had come in the mail announcing congratulations on his winning a magnificent trip to Los Angeles had been highly unexpected, if not completely unbelievable. He had entered only to satisfy his friends’ obsession with what they called his “master of the magic pencil.” In fact he hadn’t even tried very hard to win the competition at all, and had only submitted one of the light sketches that he often drew of the flora in his spacious backyard.

“Go just to get out of the house, Tommy,” his mother had told him, giving him a face that showed clear disbelief at his resolve not to go on the trip. “Do something out of your comfort zone for once.”

His mother’s words of wisdom found their way into his muddled and confused brain as they usually did; how could they not when all she needed to do to convince him is look at him imploringly with her honey-colored eyes? Thomas really missed

       

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those eyes right about now, especially as the biting late night wind brushed passed his face and made his nose feel as if it were turning blue. As he tried to figure out the confusing lines on the map the nice airport woman had handed him with a plastered-on smile, he again wondered just how his mother could have convinced him to come. There was nothing on the itinerary that had sounded very appealing to him: a tour of Hollywood, a tour of a few museums, a suite in a room of the famous Hotel Figueroa. Nothing, Thomas thought, that could possibly beat the appeal of his warm bed, his mother’s famous hot chocolate, and one of his worn copies of Harry Potter, pages thin from the constant running of his loving fingers over them. Thomas thought of all this as he finally let his frustration with the confusing lines on the map get the better of him and held out his hand to hail a cab. It was so strange how there seemed to be endless options for transportation here. In his small town of Bridgeport in Connecticut, you either owned a car or you loved your legs. Thomas didn’t own a car or love his legs, allowing the countless number of taxis, Ubers, and metro trains in Los Angeles to make that city seem more appealing.

As the taxi headed to his hotel, Thomas couldn’t help staring at the overwhelming variety of shops they passed and the multitude of fluorescent lights that sped past him. The beauty of the colors was only intensified when small little raindrops began appearing on his window, making the light patterns cascade in rainbows all over his face and shirt. By the time he finally reached his hotel, extreme drowsiness had washed over his body, making his surroundings almost unperceivable to him. Even so, as he walked through the hotel, he couldn’t help noticing the extreme grandeur and gaudy features it exuded. He felt so plain walking by the beautiful women in sparkly gowns and tall men in expensive-looking suits. These

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people were obviously just starting their night while he, the foreign presence in an atmosphere of grandeur, couldn’t wait to climb into bed and finally end his. The single item keeping his jittery mind at peace was the single white bow tie buried deep in one of the pockets of his khaki pants. His mother had given it to him when he was eleven and he always had it on or near him for comfort, despite the numerous catcalls and disparaging teasing that accompanied it. The elevator music pounded against Thomas’s ears as he drowsily rubbed his eyes and yawned, not caring that the overly dressed couple next to him most likely found it rude. The walk to his suite seemed like an eternity, although it was only a few feet. Thomas didn’t even bother to notice the excessive beauty of the room before he slipped into bed, much preferring to feel the excessive softness of the mattress.

~ Thomas had never particularly disliked rainy days; back home they meant hot chocolate, mudslides, and puddles big enough to swim in. However, right now, looking out the window while reading the itinerary for the day, he couldn’t think of worse weather to kick off his “fun vacation week” in Los Angeles. Out of all the museums it was possible to get a tour of, Thomas was surprised they would choose to show him LACMA; every teenaged girl’s Instagram photos had already given away the interesting things there were at that museum. Getting dressed, he wondered if he should put on his white bow tie. After all, he was only going to a museum; it wasn’t anything special. Deciding that Los Angeles has seen weirder things than an eighteen-year-old in a white bow tie, he decided to put it on, letting the silk of the fabric run through his fingers as he tied it around his neck.

Now ready, he made his way to the entrance of the hotel to meet the driver the itinerary promised would be waiting for him at

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eight o’clock sharp. The driver seemed nice enough, as long as the passenger could overlook the obvious bags under the driver’s eyes from a late night at work and artificial smile that had been used countless times. “So we’re off the LACMA,” he said, “one of the best contemporary art museums LA has to offer.” “I know, I’ve seen about a million pictures,” Thomas said. Leaning against the car door and looking out the window, Thomas couldn’t help thinking how much he would rather be in bed. It had been cold this morning, far too cold for his taste, and the last thing he wanted to do was tour an overvisited museum with a bunch of strangers. Getting out of the car, Thomas saw a large crowd standing near one of the many light posts the museum seemed to have, correctly assuming it was the tour he was supposed to meet. Thomas silently slipped into the crowd, thus beginning his long day of listening to a man drone on about the meanings of the different paintings and statues. He noticed the extremely predictable clothing choice of the majority of people on the tour: khaki pants or jeans, I love LA t-shirts, Asics running shoes, and a camera strapped around every neck or wrist. The navy-and-white polka-dot button-up shirt he wore with his bow tie separated him from the normalcy of the group; he didn’t mind, it was no different from the way he usually felt at home. Standing at the back of the group with Thomas was a girl that looked about as bored as she was small. Thomas found it strange how she was at least two feet shorter than he, yet seemed to be the one that stood out the most. As the tour guide gave a pointless speech about how a painting of a pipe was a pipe but wasn’t, he discovered that he would much rather observe the girl than pay attention to the guide. The white ends of her chocolate-covered hair made the gray in her eyes, the kind you see in the sky on rainy days, stand out. The ripped jeans, timberland boots, and ACDC t-

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shirt that rested on her small frame seemed to be the last thing that would suit her but somehow it all seemed to fit. Turning his attention back to the tour guide, Thomas wished they would just move on to the next painting; how long did it really take to explain that a painting of a pipe was a pipe but was not? “So how many times do you think he’s said um? So far I’ve counted about 50.”

Startled, Thomas turned to see an earful of piercings and then a grin as the girl he had just been staring at a moments before turned her head to grin up at him. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been counting how many times he’s said you know what I mean, and he’s said it about 40 times, if you know what I mean.” He replied, grinning back. “Oh so frowny face has jokes,” she quipped “Who would have expected?” “I haven’t been having the best day.” Thomas replied looking at his shoes, cursing himself for having given the impression of an uptight jerk. “I don’t blame you, this entire tour makes me want to jump off a cliff,” she smiled. “I’m Jane by the way.” “Thomas,” he replied, turning back around to find that their tour group had vanished. He began to look around in panic as she continued, “So what exactly to embark on this illustrious tour of the infamous LACMA?” He wondered how she possibly could have overlooked the disappearance of their group and wondering whether she cared, then after a moment he realized he did not care either. Walking along, he explained to her how he had come to win the 1-week trip and how his mother had convinced him to take it despite his best instincts that screamed against it.

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“So you’re saying you won a free trip and you didn’t want to come?” Jane exclaimed,” obviously shocked. “If I had won a trip to New York or Paris, the last thing I would want to be doing is staying home. I’m only on this tour for my school art project; there are so many other things I could be doing right now.” Thomas didn’t answer, wondering what could possibly be so interesting that Jane would prefer to do it instead of her homework. Pulling out her phone Jane smiled at him, showing her set of perfectly white teeth. “So where are we going, Mr. Bowtie?” she asked. As if she had been speaking to his stomach, it growled right on cue. Thomas looked at his watch, realizing his regular lunchtime had passed without him even noticing. “Well that answers that question,” Jane laughed as she started typing on her phone. “Now I have somewhere I need to take you.” A few minutes later Thomas found himself in the backseat of an Uber wondering how Jane had separated him from the group and what the mysterious place she was taking him to was. Looking out the window he saw the numerous restaurants and small shops around him had signs that seemed to be in Chinese. “Welcome to Little Tokyo,” Jane grinned at him from her side of the backseat. “You can stop here, sir; thank you so much for the ride.” Stepping out of the car Thomas noticed the numerous different little candies in the side compartments. Realizing they were for the passengers, Thomas grabbed a few and offered one to Jane once she joined him on the sidewalk. “Are you really going to eat candy before you’ve had a proper meal?” She asked laughing. Then grabbing his sleeve she pulled

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him into a little restaurant with fluorescent signs reading “Best Ramen in Town.” Thomas had heard of Ramen before and never really understood what the big fuss was. That is until he took the first few bites and the delicious broth swept through his mouth and down his throat. It took him less than two minutes to devour the whole bowl. Seeing he was done Jane leaned over the table, “So are you ready to see some real art?” she asked. Minutes later Thomas found himself somewhere in the middle of Pershing Square amid vibrant flowing colors of blue, red, white, yellow, and countless others. He couldn’t help standing still as his mind tried to process the countless numbers of colorful skirts swirling around him and the decorated skulls, masks, and face paint the people were wearing. Music was everywhere, hitting him in waves of happiness, joy, and remembrance. It was in this moment that Thomas wished he had paid more attention in his Spanish class while he was in school. He also wished he had his color pencils and his drawing notebook with him; although he didn’t think much of himself as an artist, there were so many beautiful things around him he wanted to be able to capture them in his own hands for memory. “I’ve finally found you!” Feeling pressure on his arm Thomas turned around and there was Jane. Apparently after losing each other in the huge crowd she had gone around collecting all the colorful pieces of clothing she could find. Her waist was now adorned with a flowy blue skirt embroidered with flowers, her neck held bead necklaces in any color a person could possibly imagine, and her face was now outlined with the distinct shape of a skull.

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“Come on now we haven’t got all day; there’s still stuff to see and the sun is going to set in a few hours!” She grabbed his wrist and began walking him out of the park. For the first time in his life Thomas didn’t want to leave the crowd full of people. In fact it was so beautiful he thought he might be content to just stay there forever. However, he wasn’t one to argue and never had been, so Thomas let Jane lead him back into an Uber car and to the next mysterious place that she had no intention of telling him about. When the car came to a stop, Thomas looked out and noticed a very large skyscraper, with elevators that seemed to be made out of clear glass protruding from the sides. Jane led him straight through the lobby and to one of these elevators, seemingly oblivious at his starstruck expression at the grandeur. “This is my absolute favorite thing to do whenever I have free time,” Jane said as she stepped into one of the elevators and clicked the button for the forty-second floor. As the elevator shot up, the lobby fell below him and Thomas found himself surrounded by a number of sky scrapers; he was suddenly looking at Los Angeles from a bird’s eye view. As soon as they reached the top, Jane made him get out and then stand in the hall a few seconds until the elevator had gone down; she pressed the elevator button again. “It’s a little trick I figured out,” she explained to him. “If you don’t choose which floor you want to go to the elevator will just stay still.” Stepping back into the elevator Thomas realized she was right, and he couldn’t help staying on the side of the elevator that was next to the doors. “No that’s not how you do it,” she reprimanded him. “You’ve got to put your head against the glass and look down like

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this.” She demonstrated for him and Thomas wondered how crazy she must be to not be scared at this moment. “Come on,” Jane coaxed. “I promise it’s not that bad.” Thomas allowed himself to listen to her soothing words, gently leaned his head against the glass, and looked down. Everything looked so small; the people walking on the street couldn’t have been any bigger than ants. “It kind of reminds me how small we all are,” Jane started explaining. “If you think about it, no one looks any bigger than a speck of dust. Imagine what we all look like from the edge of the universe.” This kind of thinking had always scared Thomas, and it still scared him; the last thing anyone really wants to do is think about what is going to happen to them after they die. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed in the elevator, but by the time they finally had their feet planted on the ground, Thomas realized how relieved he was that he was standing on what seemed to be midair. Then, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Jane ushered him into another Uber, saying they had one last stop to make before he could finally be rid of her. “Why are you so insistent on taking me to all these places?” Thomas finally had to ask, having wondered the entire day why one stranger would do this for another. “Well, we are friends, aren’t we? Of course I’d have to share my city with a friend,” she explained, making Thomas wonder what she thought a friend was. Then, realizing how much he had learned with her that day, he figured that the experiences they had gone through were enough to deem them friends. “Here we are,” The driver said, stopping the car. Thomas stepped out right into the view of one of the most beautiful sunsets he had ever seen, complete with a view of Los Angeles and more.

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“Welcome to Griffith Observatory, my friend,” she said, as she moved to join him at the railing he hadn’t even noticed he had walked to. “And the end of the line.” Overlooking fireworks, skyscrapers, and the Hollywood sign in the distance Thomas realized he didn’t care that the day was coming to a close because there would always be tomorrow and tomorrow’s friends. “It’s incredible.” He whispered. “Of course it is; it’s my city.” And walking away she called back to him, “Call me if you get bored again, I put my number in your phone. And by the way, that’s a nice bowtie.” She smiled before she turned away, obscuring her face completely. Knowing he would see her again, Thomas turned around to enjoy the last of the sunset. This week in Los Angeles wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.  

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Photography by Emilee Reichenbach

Photograph

I'm sitting here admiring your old camera

that I used to see you with

time and time again. Filled with your memories, soon

to be full of my own adventures.

Moments unseen to me, only viewed on a screen

months and years ahead. Never

will I forget the times you stopped to take

a photo of me or

the plants and trees or your dog or the motorcycle

that I was just too afraid to jump on

at age 10 but would give anything to ride at age 17. It's here in the back, not wholly, but somewhat together.

Pieces lost as time goes on, replaced by new parts, which isn't bad – who could pass on an upgrade?

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But at what cost? Time passes by.

Things and people come and

go, but the memories stay, concrete, unchanging, alive for eternity.

The click of the shutter

and the moment is gone, but not forgotten, looked at time and

time again, a photograph

capturing one single fragment of time so that each photo together creates

a whole composition of life.

Emilee Reichenbach

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Who Will Save Us? Cloudy fronts And lovely lies Honor, death, And silver knives Drunk-like visions Aching veins God won’t clean The acid rain Mangled wounds And broken hearts Stabbed and slashed And torn apart Sweating tears And breathing hate God is fair But we’re the bait Trudging past While out of breath Though all our friends Have welcomed death Look back and think What have we done? Now who will save us – God or gun?

Stephanie Varghese

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They Told Me They told me I looked tired today. Was it because I didn’t dab concealer under my eyes to hide the darkness? They told me my face looked pale today. Was it because I didn’t have time to paint on my face? They told me I looked mean today. Was it the liner on my eyes that transformed me into a feline? They told me my skin looked great today. Was it the 10 minutes I spent applying foundation on scars and acne that won’t fade? They told me my hair looked healthy today. Was it the extra hour I spent ironing my hair to control its frizz? They told me I looked pretty today. Was it the layers on my face that created a new me? They told me not to try so hard. That I should love myself effortlessly. That loving yourself means loving your flaws in their entirety. But how can I love these flaws after I began to love the idea of not having any to begin with.

Alyssa Herrera

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We Become One I was introduced to videos about addicts. a month ago, quietly in my room I watched people consume the inedible and perform the unthinkable. A woman’s hands itching to grab a hold of the drywall, breaking a piece and inserting it into her mouth. chewing with her eyes closed, in bliss. A man reaching into dark, damp shower drains, bare-handed and inspecting, collecting slimy bundles of brown wet hair and twirling them around his thick fingers, mesmerized and satisfied with his findings. Another one reaching for an urn, twisting the lid impatiently, licking her fingers stuck them into the powdery ash and back into her mouth, consumed the remains of her lover. I wondered how it could be possible, For someone to consume so much of the inconsumable. For someone to perform the unthinkable. I was disgusted; I was captivated. I was trapped. I watched carefully and almost religiously, Beginning to take in their habits, their peculiarities. I realized what happened too late.

Angela Domingo

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waitinggame

I saw a boy once, kill a girl. Tenth grade, school hallway The girl frozen, eyes blurry, bits of mascara running down her cheeks,

Her hand held by the coward boy, the boy draining her happiness fingertip by fingertip

All hurt that boy-I wondered if he felt any remorse, any regret. I can recall

Everyone stopping to see which girl had lost her heart this time. The way the boy held her hand, almost like she was an addict who only had a couple months to live.

But weren't we all sick, weren't we all hooked? Saying we never needed anyone but always looking for a firm shoulder to cry on

The bell yelled, screamed. No one moved. It was like being in a horror movie, as you watch each of your friends get killed and you are next in line.

I don't remember the boy crying, the girl couldn't stop. He couldn't stop saying "I’m sorry"

louder, then quieter, until it became a whisper.

I am listening to him, whispering, the loudest words I have ever heard:

I’m sorry. How slow something rushed can feel. How long until it dawns on you. It is now your turn.

Sophia Sandoval

79

Anna Lu

Filthy Adventures

Your hair, body, and hand, I remove the filth off of anything from your command.

But this filth I see, Might have a chance to overcome me.

It is not just any filth, It is one that seems almost impossible to clean.

Guilt, bad actions, and little white lies Cannot be washed away with small, soapy strides.

But no matter how long it takes, Hours, days, weeks, or years, It will eventually wash away.

However, The streaks will remind you of your fears.

Scrub Scrub Scrub, Scented bubbles floating everywhere, Like a swarm of bees flying in the air.

Careful, For what I am washing is like a newborn baby

Which needs delicate care. From a cleansed conscious a recognizable scent appears,

The scent of innocence and freedom lies in the air. Rinsed with hot water,

No one can see this mess any longer. Now you feel fresh,

After the endless scrubbing On your soapy, contaminated flesh.

Daniela Salatino

81

Victoria Morales

I’m not that smart And I’m okay looking But I can run, and I run Away from people and my problems

I try to stop and breathe But my feet keep moving

I don’t care about the pain My weak lungs and broken feet Only hinder my path

I try and forget the memories But no matter how much I try They flood back to me:

The blushes of happiness the insecurities the fighting the end

So I keep running And I don’t stop

I feel the pounding of my feet On the dry, hot floor Going thud, thud, thud

Stella Rugama

83

Cerebral Streams

Today in class we discussed how as we sleep, cerebral fluid rushes through the brain clearing it of toxins. And as I sat staring at the photo of the interweaving canals of fluid, I considered what if this fluid washed out not just toxins, but memories.

That these rivers cleared out more than chemicals, but also phone numbers, math problems, the name of that new coworker, Humiliation, Fear, Anger, Regret. That “Go to sleep you’ll feel better in the morning,” was more than just an expression.

Maybe it’s these tiny canals of the mind that keep us from drowning in the thoughts that threaten to consume us and swell up over our heads. This water is what is keeping us afloat in a sea full to the brim with the souls of forgotten dreams,

84

Sadness, doubt, guilt, and gives us the chance to start again, reborn from the river every morning.

What if the mind has not only built in systems to stop physical decay, but also keeps us together spiritually? The same water we so desperately need to keep our cells full and functioning keeping us alive in so many other ways.

Cecilia Nuñez

85

The End

The theater Quiet as a desert; Everything empty,

Towering trees, pillars, pillows Silver swords painted crimson

Shuffled out; Striked set

Moments missed, Memories made

Final bows taken, Curtains closed.

MariaElena Gutierrez

86

Sketch by Izel Varela