GRAPHIC NOVEL

Once Upon a Time

By Katie Healy

GRAPHIC NOVEL

Black Belt

by Antonio Diaz

PERSONAL ESSAY

May Your Ink Never Run Dry

by Camille Jatho

One of the most common phrases you’ll hear in Mr. Antos's first period honors band class is “give the phrases a shape.” In musical terms, that means to change the way the phrase is played dynamically or sing out the parts that should be prominent and shy away from the softer, more lyrical parts. Of course when he says this he’s thinking about getting his students to play like real musicians, but it can really mean so much more. In writing, it’s giving the sentences pinnacles and depressions that can affect the tone of a piece. Emotions evoked or even effectively used statistics or facts can give an effective tone to the writing that may flavor it up. Periodic sentences are a personal favorite of mine. They tend to leave the subject or the main clause of the sentence until the end, almost like a hidden surprise. For example, in “The Death of a Moth” by Annie Dillard, she opens her essay with “I live on Northern Puget Street, in Washington State, alone.” Leaving the word “alone” until the end creates an extra sense of seclusion and emphasizes how it affects her. She gives shape to the sentence by saving the loudest dynamic marking for the end. The simple structure of the sentence allows for a more expressive way to get the message across.

In the time I’ve spent in my AP Language and Composition class, I’ve learned quite a few techniques about writing, but I found that the most important tools needed to write have very little to do with the words and more so with the ideas. While there is no specific structure and formal formatting to everyday writing, it's always beneficial to have those ideas organized. Being able to understand how writing works and what techniques there are allow the ability to utilize them to make the ideas work, because knowing how to write based on the subject is an advantage that can create a connection with the reader.

The structure of an essay, or any type of writing for that matter isn’t necessarily formal in its presentation. In creating a novel, an author won’t create a series of theses and choose the best; rather, they think of what ideas, plots, or events they’d like incorporate them to enhance the story. Structure is informal. Words cannot be plugged into a formula like in math and produce a “perfect” piece of literature. By choosing to think of my ideas before I make a sentence, I could create the order in which I want them to be perceived and how effective the manipulated structure and words can be. Not everything should be monotone, but that doesn’t necessarily mean everything should be sporadic either. Create a pinnacle to the subject to give the work a full dynamic range with contrasts of softness and intensity.

Another important step in the writing process begins before you ever even think of a subject. One cannot become a writer if they are illiterate, right? So the first step is to learn how to write. In order to give those phrases shape, you need to be able to utilize techniques and strategies. Musicians cannot play Mozart if they don’t know how to play their instrument. Basic understanding of language gives knowledge of simple structure, while simply reading more can help teach new vocabulary in an unforced way that will enhance the tone of your passage. Who better to read than a favorite author? Readers can learn plenty of tricks from the masters, without a textbook, while also enjoying themselves.

One of the better parts of reading more books will also be the experience and the emotions that remain after you finish it. The emotional connection or analysis of reason most often leads to creating a memorable experience. The same strategy can be applied to writing. Leaving a subject a little room for interpretation allows the reader to connect with the piece in their own way, making it more memorable to them. I find that the easiest way to do that is by keeping my ideas and words simplistic. In “The Figure a Poem Makes” Robert Frost said, “The possibilities for tunes from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless.” The more simplistic the words are, the more room there is for the reader to change and perceive the tone.

One way to make certain that the work is kept simple is to not over analyze it. In a term paper it might be important to make sure that there are no mistakes, but in a free written essay, the more analyzed, the more detailed it becomes. Subjects can become clouded by unnecessary adjectives, over complicating the message and confusing the reader. Allow some “wiggle room” for interpretation. Allow the reader to find their own interesting version of the words.

Up until junior year, the school system teaches their students to create a conformed version of writing. The treacherous five paragraph essay is praised and tweaked until it creates a box so square and cramped around the writer that it chokes any voice and changes the vibrant style to a prison gray. It is assumed that a five paragraph essay is a set outline that gives structure to the looseness of oral language, when in reality it only confines the writer and dulls the subject. I always thought I was decent writer; Never perfect, but well enough to make it through middle school and freshman year with plenty of ease. All thanks to the unchanging walls of the five paragraph essay. My teachers always told me I was an excellent writer, but in all honesty, I wasn’t. I had no creativity and simply followed the prompt because I’m a fairly straight forward person. The realization of its extent only occurred to me once I entered sophomore year in Honors English II with a teacher who saw right through my writing act.

Never in my entire life had I ever received a “B” on any paper. So it came as much of a surprise to me when I actually did. I repeatedly struggled through that class trying to write the perfect five paragraph essay; writing, rewriting and then revising again until I came to the epiphany that I just wasn’t a writer. English would never be my subject.

So, imagine my face the first day of Junior year in AP Lang when our teacher told us everything we’ve learned about perfecting the five paragraph essay was irrelevant. I was ecstatic! Never again would I be forced to rewrite my thesis a thousand times or to make sure that every connection was done with the intentional and precise purpose. Never again would I be confined into the most formal structure of writing.

Up until that moment, I had never known exactly how to free write with a purpose. In my mind there were two different ways to write: creative writing without punctuation and with no end and then the treacherous five paragraph essay. AP Lang began to introduce me to a world of free but structured writing. We often read books on how to write or the effective ways to write. Nonfiction books quickly became some of my favorite reads because I could recognize the similarities that I wrote with. It wasn’t long before my passion for words rekindled and I could write freely again.

The greatest instruction for any writer is to write on a subject that they have a passion for. No matter how well of a writer someone is, if they are not passionate about their subject, it will show. Increased drive will help words flow onto the page and especially by writing about something you care about, others will begin to see it's value and they will read. A writer should never doubt themselves.

I’ve discovered the artistic side of writing that’s sparked me back into the inspiration of words. Interpretation means everything to a reader, so it shouldn’t be over complicated trying to make the message as specific as possible. The beauty of writing is that everyone gets a different experience from it. Above all else, passion is required. If you write on what you love and how special something is, your work will be interesting and people will listen. The techniques and personality play dual roles in writing.

AP Lang has developed me in so many ways. As a writer, I am strong and independent. I feel more confident as I let my pen flow to my paper with a loosely organized plan, taking me where ever I wish to go.

 As long as there is passion for a subject, your ink will never run dry.

WRITER'S SPOTLIGHT: Britany Robinson

Untitled

by Britany Robinson

July morning sun
Gravel crunches under my car’s tire
The sun creates a glare on my window

This was my first rock concert
I was excited beyond compare
With my friend by my side

Small bands walking the line
Trying to sell CD’s and T-Shirts

Everything seemed so new and wonderful

I left my car
And got in line
The heat makes my temperature rise

I decide I needed water
As soon as I take out my money

I heard footsteps coming up behind me

A band asked me to buy a CD
So they could keep making music
I felt I couldn’t say no

Then band after band came
By the time the event began
I was out of money

So my mom had to bring me more

Unintended Target (Slam Poem)

by Britany Robinson

Her name was Takiya.
She was eleven years-old .
She was not the intended target.
But what does that change?
She will never grow up
She will never fulfill her dreams
And she cannot be brought back

That girl could have been president
That girl could have cured cancer
That girl could have changed the world

But now she’s gone

All because she was not the intended target

So what did he intend to do?

Did he intend to destroy a family?

Did he intend to ruin lives?
Did he intend to shoot her father or brother?

If he did Takiya would be here
But she would still be dead

They say no pain no gain
But what if the pain you cause is greater than what you receive?

What did he gain?

Yet I know all my questions will go unanswered
Because violence spreads like a cancer
It moves through society in clusters and infects
Hundreds and thousands and millions
Until it destroys a nation

So I ask you this:
When did the light turn into darkness?

What happened to the light that gave us hope?
Why is the night now a time for violence?
When will we stop sitting in silence?
Why is the world filled with so much sorrow?
Will we ever see a better tomorrow?

Because tomorrow looks a lot like yesterday
Filled with pain and stained
By the blood of a country in chains.

Strictly Business

by Britany Robinson

Did you think arranged marriages still happened in 21st century America? Because I sure didn’t. 

I just found out that I will be marrying the oh so charming billionaire, Damon Pierce. Never in a million years did I think something like this would ever happen to me. 

Before I get too far ahead of myself, let me introduce myself. My name is Stephanie Blake and this is the story of my unnatural life.

I woke up, looked outside my bedroom window, and took note of the beautiful, sunny, and cloudless sky. 

“Perfect weather for a perfect day,” I muttered sarcastically to myself. 

Today was the day I will meet The Devil himself: Damon Pierce. I think I prefer my little nickname for him better than his real name, it’s a more accurate indication of his personality. I let out an audible sigh at the thought. I know it may seem like I’m being unfair to judge him so quickly but seriously what do you expect from me?  My father and Damon Pierce have ruined my life as I know it. I never wanted to be forced into a relationship of any kind. Why should I suffer for my father’s mistakes? He’s the one who gambled all his money away and now I’m paying the price. Apparently since Dad didn’t have the money he owed the devil, they concluded that offering my hand in marriage without my consent was the only tolerable option. I’m 19 years old for crying out loud I should be able to make my own decisions. 

The Devil has no use for me anyway: I’m a very simple looking girl with a simple life. I have long sandy brown hair with dull, green eyes and I’m 5’3. I’m not like those models he’s used to having with blonde hair, blue eyes, and long legs. There is absolutely nothing special about me.

I decide to wear a royal blue cocktail dress with gold embroidery around the edges and gold flats. I am too lazy and didn’t care enough to do an up do so I decided to leave my hair down and curl it and used minimal makeup. The only reason I dressed up at all is because my dad promised to let me pick the wedding venue if I did. If I’m going to have to get married, I at least want to choose where. 

We walk into some fancy French restaurant and got seated. As I peek over the top of my menu I see a tall man with medium length, raven black hair, electric blue eyes, and he is wearing a very well-tailored suit. I, of course, know exactly who he is but although he is attractive, my feelings towards him have not changed. He saw my reaction towards his presence and gave me smug looking smirk. I scoffed in annoyance at his ego and turned back to my menu. 

“So, Mr. Pierce, how are you tonight?” my mother said nervously. 

He flatly replied, “No need for small talk Mrs. Blake, I am here to collect what is mine and that is all. This meeting is strictly business.” 

How dare he refer to me as if I am his property? 

“Excuse me Mr. Pierce,” I replied in a venomous tone, “but I am not your property and I will not let you treat me as if I am.” 

My father whispered lowly to him about something I could not quite make out.

 “Well my beloved fiancé, you will be shocked to know that your father signed a binding contract and you are legally bound to me until I can no longer stand to see your pathetic face every day,” his tone made it clear he was mocking me. 

That comment made me do a double take. After a few seconds of silence, I gained the confidence to reply, “If I’m so pathetic to you then why in the world are you forcing me into this marriage?” 

He seemed a bit stunned that I had the nerve to talk to him in that matter but that did not concern me at this point. His reply was quite short but it took me by surprise, “Business is business. Now we are leaving, I assume your bags are packed and you are prepared to move into my mansion. The wedding is in two days so we will spend all of tomorrow finalizing preparations.” 

I almost choked on my food, no one told me this wedding would be so soon.

It’s now morning and I am not looking forward to all the wedding preparations I’m being made to take care of all alone. The Devil told me that he is too busy to bother with these details. I suppose there is some good in the fact that I get to choose how I want the wedding to be without him trying to change my ideas. While I spent the day listening to event planners drone on and on about the decorations and such, I focused on trying to find a way out of this. Unfortunately for me, there doesn’t seem to be any loopholes in the contract. I’m trying to find some sort of comfort in the situation but it’s very difficult. I will never get the chance to fall in love or be an independent woman. The contract states that I will not be able to work after the wedding, I am to be a perfect, quiet wife in public but at home I am to act as though I do not even know Damon, and I cannot have any type of contact with another man who is not family or I will be fined $500,000. At least not having to spend time with Damon inside the house is one thing I can look forward too. All this wedding nonsense is making my head spin.

Once the wedding planners finally leave and I can have a minute of peace, I get myself ready for bed. I step in my bathroom and take a very scrutinizing look at myself in the mirror. My eyes look dull as if someone reached in snuffed out the light. Why did fate decide that I was deserving of this cruel and unusual punishment? Ugh, I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this. I never thought I’d say this but I can’t wait until morning so we can get this wedding done with. Nothing will be the same in my life again and after tomorrow I will be able to figure out a way to live with that fact. Nothing about any of this feels right but it’s not something I have control over. There is no point in continuing this pity party so I may as well go to bed.

In the morning, I immediately got up to get ready. My mother comes over to help me get ready but I’m not as happy to see her as she is to see me. Can you blame me? She let my father sell my soul.

“Hello mother,” I snapped.

“Don’t you snap at me I’m your mother, have some respect,” she replied in a tone that can only be described as shocked.

“I do not have respect for those who don’t respect me,” I said.

“What did you expect me to do? He would have thrown your father in jail if this arrangement wasn’t made?” she whimpered.

“So instead you decide to ruin my life because Dad messed up?”

“I won’t discuss this anymore. Stop whining and lets get you ready.”

Before walking onto the aisle, I take one last peek at myself in the mirror. My hair is an array of flowy curls with a large braid around the crown of my head keeping them all in place; the makeup I have on is a bit overdone for my taste but I suppose it makes sense for the event; and my dress is a princess style chiffon with a sweetheart neckline and rhinestones scattered around the skirt. I swallow my nerves, step onto the sparkling white aisle runner, and plaster a smile on my face. 

Damon is staring at me with surprise but quickly masks it with an arrogant smirk when he notices I was watching him. We proceed with the ceremony and the reception then eventually we get into a limo to go home. I sit as far away from him as physically possible. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Damon turns to me and says, “When we get home you go inside and don’t think about going out anywhere. I won’t be home until tomorrow so don’t wait up.” 

I cocked my head to the side in confusion and asked, “Not that I care but where are you going?” 

“I have a date,” he smirked. This angered me to a point where I thought my head would explode. 

“So you can date but I can’t? How is that fair in any sense?” I basically screeched. 

“This relationship is strictly business sweetheart. You are to be a perfect wife and make me look good to the press. We can’t have you running the streets now can we?” he replied in an amused tone. 

This is all just fabulous. I’m going to be stuck living with a cheating, lying, heartless husband for the rest of my life. One day I will find a way out of this, I don’t know how but I swear I’ll do it. No one deserves to be treated this way and he’s crazy if he thinks I’ll stand for it. Let’s test these rules of his. If he can go on a date then so can I. I pull out my cellphone and call my ex-boyfriend, Tyler. We ended on good terms and I know he still has feelings for me so I figure he’s a good candidate for this date.

“Steph? Is that you?” he answered.

“Hey Ty, yes it’s me,” I replied trying to sound happy.

“It’s great to hear from you! How are you?” Tyler said.

“I’m good, are you busy right now?” I said almost too quickly.

“Umm no, why?”

“Well would you want to go out for old times sake? I’ve missed hanging out with you.”

“Of course! I’ll come pick you up from your house in an hour and we can find something to do.”

“Sound perfect, I’ll text you my new address and see you when you get here.”

After hanging up I couldn’t keep the smug smile off my face. I’ll show him what happens when you try to control me. Damon Pierce has no idea who he’s messing with but he’s about to find out.

POETRY

Expectations

by Andrea Aguirre

So many expectations put amongst me
You wanted me to be a perfect girl
Never asked me what I wanted to be
My life went in circles like in a whirl

You said I’d get pregnant at the age of sixteen
A family stereotype that I never understood
Look at me now, just another teen
And all I ever wanted was to be good

You expected me to not be like the other ladies
Your excuse was because you didn’t want me to be hurt
You didn’t realize these aren’t the eighties
And everything I’d do would be curt

For years I tried to be what you wanted
I’d stay home instead of partying
But you took all my effort for granted
All that time I just felt like I was dying

Basketball was the sport I loved
And I changed it to soccer to make you proud
I chose to get shoved
To simply continue to feel lost in the crowd

I chose family over friends
Don’t get me wrong I love my family
It’s just a story that never ends
This might just be another case of insanity

All I want is to be the perfect daughter
As hard as that is to be
For years you’ve been my father
Cause all you’ve done is take care of me

You’re more than just a father you’re my best friend
You’re the reason this poem came to be
But it all just hit me.. I’m a “disappointment”
A disappointment to you.. Not me...

PERSONAL ESSAY

On Writing

Viviana Salas

When I look back on old diaries and journals and even school essays, I cringe. My face contorts into itself with every sentence I read.

Why?

Well, think of it this way. It’s like when you look back at pictures of yourself from middle school and get a feeling of humiliation and shame.

Why did I do that?

Was that actually me?

I can’t believe that’s what I looked like.

It brings back memories of who you were and what you did in your first awkward teen years. We tend to reflect on our past selves and compare to who we are now, thus bringing about that stomach churning feeling of embarrassment and regret.

Of course, this is not about middle school pictures. This is about writing. In this case, my middle school to freshman year writing. Even more specifically, my diary. And there it is, that feeling of shame. I can’t believe that I actually had a diary. And it wasn’t even composed of daily entries. I only ever wrote in it whenever I had an encounter with a boy I liked at the time.

(I hope that you are cringing with me because this is not pleasant to write. I can only imagine how much more unpleasant it is to read. So let me take this moment to apologize for any further discomfort I may cause you to feel on my behalf, so I say now: I am sorry.)

In this “diary,” I would write unpredictably. There could be months before I’d have another entry. But every single one was filled with that tone of girlish hope and infatuation. They would be happenings that I look back on now and know that they meant nothing near what I thought they did. A simple brushing of hands that I thought was “like a spark” was actually just friction from the bus seats. The way we worked together for a game of swim class water polo was actually just team-work tactics.

(Oh I swear that with all this cringing, I’m going to have heavy wrinkles at an early age.)

Over time, I got bored with keeping that diary; I stopped writing. Well, I’m lying. I wasn’t bored exactly. I more so had nothing to write as I no longer had any contact with him after my freshman year of high school. I stopped making entries but kept the diary. In fact, I still have it to date, hidden in a drawer beneath layers of clothes.

You may be wondering why I still have that diary if it causes me so much shame. The reason is because I want to be able to look back at it one day and laugh. Laugh at my past self and the things I did and thought. I used to think that I was keeping it for a sense of nostalgia, but I realized that was not the case when I read Joan Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook.”

Didion referred to a notebook of her own, not a diary (she actually emphasizes her distaste for diaries), but I felt that it still applied. She says, “See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, what I am supposed to do, which is write-on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, paid passage back to the world out there…”

“...when the world seems drained of wonder…”

That’s bad times to come. It is for those bad times that I still have my diary. I know that there will be a time in my life, not now but possibly later on, when I will need a laugh. I feel that my diary will get me that laugh that I will so badly need, even if it is a laugh of self-embarrassment.

What causes me to be humiliated by the journal? I am not completely sure myself. I suppose it could be because I wrote about a boy I had an annoyingly obsessed crush on. It could just be because I sounded like I had an annoyingly obsessed crush. It could be a combination of both. Needless to say, I have learned from that whole diary-keeping experience to not write like that ever again.

That diary experience taught me the importance of tone and word choice. It taught me that certain words will give off a vibe, and vibes affect people. But with that particularly infatuated vibe, it would not have affected readers how it affected me at the time. At the time that I wrote it, I thought that it sounded like true love. Now that I look back at what I remember writing, I know that if anyone had read it, they would have contorted their face in the way that we do when we smell something bad, as I am now.

Why did I write it in such a naive way?

Why did I have to sound so childlike and unknowing?

Just why?

Any other time I’d felt like writing anything remotely romantic after that I decided to base it off of books I’d read before, as a guide. And this didn’t just apply to romance; it applied to anything I wanted to be felt in my writing. This is why I’m always trying to look for the right words.

Infatuation, not love.

Humiliation, not embarrassment.

Happenings, not events.

It’s all about saying exactly what you mean, as Kurt Vonnegut advises. And by saying what you mean, the reader knows exactly how you feel and in turn, they feel it too.

WRITER'S SPOTLIGHT: Dinah Clottey

A Desolate Place

A Personal Essay by Dinah Clottey

Writer’s block is so easy to get into yet so hard to get out of. As a writer, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into a dark place. Caught up in the blackout inside my head, I’d lost sight of what it was I wanted to write about. So I built up gigantic walls around me and continued to surge towards the darkness. When I was inside, it became normal, and so I lost myself. There was nothing to inspire me inside the cave so I could do nothing more than follow the same patterns and stare at the same blank page. By isolating myself I was only feeding my writer’s block, stuffing it with more empty ideas and prolonging my stay. The cave was a deserted island: bare, dismal, bleak, and empty. The cave was my prison.

I spent a lot of my time underneath these cavernous walls. The encompassing stone was jagged and pieces of thoughts laid littered on the ground. The walls arched unevenly high above the surface, con-caving upwards into a lopsided bowl. The air was frigid and cold, void of any heat or light. The only sound was the drip drip drip that came from my only source of cognizance. It sat in the deepest part of the cave, trickling and oozing far back in my consciousness. On the surface, the cave was nothing but dirt and stone. However, beneath the surface, I knew there was life.

It became routine for me to spend my days engulfed in this chilling darkness, hibernating. Sometimes when I slept in the cave, I imagined seeing light. All I had to do was close my eyes and I’d be surrounded by the ambient glow of colors, thrown into a wheel and jumbled all together. I tried to decipher the colors by doing my best to tug and separate them. But my efforts were often fruitless because no matter how much force I used, the colors just swarmed back together, entangling into another impenetrable puzzle. I was in a dream within a dream and I just couldn’t wake up. That light, those colors, were my escape and my way out of the darkness. My way out of writer’s block. And every time I got close, the image would just move further away and I’d tumble back into the dark, waking up and being shrouded in blackness once again.

In this cave I didn’t know how it felt like to have the wind caress my skin and the sun flood my pores. But it seemed dangerous out there. In this cave it was familiar, satisfactory, safe.

This cave was my writing habitat. Dark and dry and so predictable, that’s how I learned to write. I’ve had to conform to standards for so long that at some point in my life I just locked myself up and decided to keep doing the same old thing. I was no longer of my own body. I was void, a hollow shell used to fill up the space I walked in. I knew this; I knew what I was doing to myself by staying in that cave. But I wouldn’t let myself leave and that was my problem.

One day, when I was in the middle of my writing routine, something unpredictable happened. I was sitting on the rocks per usual with a pen and paper in hand, staring at a blank page and caged in by the same cavernous walls. Then something washed over me. Inspiration? That’s what I wanted to instinctively call it, but whether it was the draft that seeped through the air or the ambiguous liquid of my consciousness finally getting to me, it felt unfamiliar. In that same instant a voice appeared in my head and said, “I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing.” I identified the voice as Stephen King from his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. I wanted to dismiss it, but sitting at the same place with the same pen and the same blank piece of paper, the saying appeared inside my head again. Why was I here? Why was I so scared?

It’s so lonely inside this cave. I realized in that moment exactly what King was trying to say. Being in the cave, surrounded by cavity and nothingness, was cowardly of me. I was a coward. I also realized that the only thing I’ve been doing was waiting, waiting for some idea to cross my head and make a story out of. How stupid I’d been, acting like a sitting duck in a dark cave, thinking that nothing could get to me. I was scared about how others would view my writing, of putting myself out there and being faced with countless notices of rejection. I was scared to leave the cave because I didn’t know what to expect. Everything would be so new and foreign and different to me. The very thought made me tremble. I remember dismissing my cup, made out of molded stone and rock, and walking over to the water area. I caught the liquid of my consciousness that spat out from the walls with my bare hands and chugged down the soothing liquid. And I thought, I don’t want to be here.

I went to sleep and the ambient colors appeared in my dream again. I decided to do something different. Instead of trying to separate them, I tangled them more into a disheveled mess. The colors mixed and mingled, becoming darker greens and lighter browns compared to its bright yellows and oranges from before. It wasn’t pretty, but it was mine. I’d finally created something of my own.

When I woke up that morning, instead of being greeted by the darkness, I am greeted by the light. The rockiness of the ground is replaced by the luxuriant surface of luminous greenery. The jagged walls and ceiling are now a seemingly endless sky, clear and blue. I got out. I am finally on the outside. I am no longer under the abundant mass of darkness or the void that kept me in and kept everything else out. The blockage is gone. In this moment, I am free.

The blockage only disappeared once I decided to diverge from my routine and try different things. I was no longer feeding my writer’s block, nor was I forcing myself to get rid of it. By digging into the back of my consciousness with my own hands, I naturally, and peacefully, escaped by allowing the idea of freedom to enter my head in the first place.

Being inside the cave was the most boring time of my life, but it taught me something; I never want to be inside that cave again. So whenever I feel myself sinking into the dark cave of my hollow ideas, I drop everything and let myself be inspired. The most effective way is to go out there and explore. Instead of being scared of the outside world I embrace. I snatch it by the collar and scream, “Are you ready world? Because I’m comin’ for ya!” Then I grab a pen and paper and embark on the advent of my next story.

Adam's Rejection (Excerpt from The Day Girls Started Chasing Me)

A fiction selection by Dinah Clottey

"Open it! Open it!" my mother yells right up against my ear.

Right now we're at the kitchen table and I have a laptop in front of me that will reveal the results on whether I got accepted into Stanford or not. I'm extremely nervous. My palms and neck are caked in sweat and I can feel my heart beating a thousand beats per minute. I felt as if though it could burst right out of my frail chest at any moment.

"Hold on, mom. Just give me a second!" I reply.  I'm opening up the common app. As the page emerges on my screen, I see it.

Standford Results

God, I'm so scared! Take deep breaths Adam, it's all going to be alright.

In and out . . . in and out.

As I release another breath, I let the mouse hover over the link before clicking it.

To Mr. More,

After careful consideration of your application, I am sorry to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in the Stanford class of 2018.

I feel my heart stop. My throat begins to constrict as I try to hold back tears. I can't believe it.

I got rejected.

"What does it say?" my mother asks excitedly from my side as she bends down to peer closer at the screen.

"I didn't get in," I tell her quietly. 

I still sit frozen in my seat. I felt as if the first 18 years of my life just compressed itself into a bat and hit me in the face. All those AP classes, all my hard work, all that stress . . . for nothing.

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry," my mother pouts as she wraps me up in a cuddly hug. "You've still got Colorado State."

That didn't make me feel any better. Anybody could get accepted there. But Stanford . . . Stanford was my dream school.

"I'm gonna go to bed," I tell my mom as I robotically remove myself from her grasp and walk out of the kitchen. 

That night, I pictured things going differently when I opened that letter in my dream. I got accepted and I spent the next four years happy, successful. In that moment, I wished that I'd never wake up.

PERSONAL ESSAY

Blue Bow

by Celia Gonzalez

A beautiful bow sits upon my dresser. The royal blue ribbon compliments each individual bead on the tail of each side. It’s a bit worn out from the hundreds of times I have attached it to my hair. Like many things that seem to lose themselves, the once shiny surface has dulled. It’s been about 4 years since I’ve worn it. I haven’t had the courage to pick it up and pack it away into some box, to finally let go of this gut wrenching feeling and simply move on. Every time I go to pick it up, a cowardly feeling seeps through me in fear of coming to a realization that my life hasn’t changed. The only change in it was myself. I back away.

The bow was given to me by an older homeless woman (around the age of 55-60) in June, four summers ago. Her figure was small and a bit plump. Her eyes were the lightest shade of brown with a few wrinkles on the side. She looked tired, but not unhappy. A few days after I received this gift, a relieving secret came forward that left me questioning almost everything I have believed in since the day I was able to comprehend my surroundings. For some reason I’ve always surrounded myself with people who can only be happy when things are materialistic. I never agreed with this. Kind words from a complete stranger would be able to make my day become greater by the second. I had no idea this woman was homeless. This was a mind-blowing thing for me to process because not once did she mention it and not once did her face seem as if she was struggling financially. She went about her day giving out bows for free to simply see the smiling faces of the neighborhood girls, including mine.

Two months later and this woman was nowhere to be seen. I was devastated to know that no one within the community was able to contact her and find out if she was somewhere safe. Though I was never able to 100% sure figure out what had become of her, I came up with my own bitter conclusion; she lost her way. Something that seems to happen a lot in this generation is people allowing for other surroundings to take over and blind them into seeing what is really valuable in this world. Value doesn’t come in a materialist way, it sides along with what brings each individual soul genuine happiness. This form of value fluctuates between everyone on this earth. Everyone has their own form of happiness and everyone chooses to express it in their own way. However, how can a person express happiness if he or she cannot seem to find something in this world that will make them completely content with their life?

I’ve let myself go. The happiness that used to radiate from my body slipped away into a region of darkness that scares me. That cowardly feeling whenever I attempt to pack away this bow is tied to many fixable changes that I can resolve myself. So why don’t I do it? Our society has constructed these social norms that everyone is expected to follow. I fear the side eyes and comments others would make if I simply followed my inner voice and pursued what truly makes me happy. This cowardly feeling is a way for me to hide how ashamed I am of the way I have acted to myself for the past four years.

No more.

A woman with little to no money was able to find something in her life to give her a purpose, to continue to be happy. There was no need for anything materialistic; all that was needed was a genuine and clean soul to help her get through each day one at a time.

I cried moments after reading Annie Dillard’s “The Death of a Moth.” An immediate stream of tears brushed down my cheeks. I cried because I understood the hollow feeling she felt within the pit of her stomach. I cried because the feeling of emptiness that radiated within her body and the frustration that tagged along because it was near to impossible for her to discover what would make it go away, She writes, “What was my life about? Why was I living alone, when I am gregarious.”

The sorrowful words Dillard shares helps me understand how feeling dead inside causes you to lose relations with everybody and everything. She felt alone even though she was surrounded by those who loved and cared for her. I could never complain about the friends and family that God has blessed me with and I wish to never have them taken away from me. Their support is shown with whatever decision I chose to uptake whether their agreement is there or not. The selfish question of why I feel so alone and empty runs through the back of my mind every night that it causes me to become tired, physically and emotionally. I have found my answer and I have achieved it through one of the simplest tasks a human can do; genuine happiness fails to favor in my direction because I am too scared to recognize that I have allowed this cruel generation to impact my decisions.

No longer will I allow for others to influence my own happiness in life. I want to accomplish this for myself first, but I do not want to stop there. I refuse to let anymore of my loved ones feel ashamed of the things that bring them joy. The only way to continue speaking out is through writing. Every detail that causes an irking feeling to me is to be written down. Once I am able to write my inner thoughts down on paper, perhaps I will be able to express these emotions with other people so they don’t make the same mistake I made. With writing comes true inner expression and purpose, and this will be the key for me to finally achieve my happiness.

What clothes you wear or what car you drive has no importance if you still can’t manage to find happiness. This recognition of finally understanding that I have changed is the first step into packing away the beaded, royal blue bow into a box that will finally be able to make me happy with what I am choosing to do with my life.

POETRY

A Letter of Remembrance

by Brianna Ramirez

Dear 4445 Loveland,
Knowing you--even being affiliated with you--was like a party that never ended. 

I was liked, I was protected, and most importantly I felt like I belonged. 

As the years progressed my trust in you grew. 

I saw an eternity, while you saw me as an accessory to the conversation. 

Like most parties, the last hours dragged and left a mess behind. 

You abandoned me when I needed you most.

Having a broken family is hard, but knowing the people you invested so much in could not careless was even harder. 

Three’s a crowd and you taught me that people don’t always know what’s going on in your life, but even if they do they hardly care, they only pretend to care.

Dear Martinez House,
You brought out the outspoken parts of myself. 

You accepted me for who I was, and even when things got ugly you made sure I knew how important I was to you. 

You were funny, and you allowed me to be funny with you. 

What hurts about you is that I never knew what I did wrong, but one day you stopped answering my calls. 

And I wondered why half my friends stopped talking to me. 

You taught me to never get to close too someone because they’ll turn against you sooner or later.

Dear Room 241,
Knowing you felt easy. 

Being able to tell you things was easy.

You made being weird and quirky the best new thing. 

You were perfectly flawed and you weren’t afraid to show that to people. 

I had learned to love sitting in silence just drinking tea and speaking of nonsense. 

With you, running out of ice could be made into a big deal, but I loved that about you. 

With you. nothing was too small. 

Nothing. 

My problem was that I let everyone else get to you before me. 

Because, in all honesty, you don’t know everything. 

You had no idea that I was hurt about hearing you tell everyone else you felt excluded from my life, that I was this brand new disrespectful person you no longer recognized. 

Our problem was communication. 

And what you taught me was immensely heart breaking. 

That it was so easy for you to cut me out of your life, while I saw our small mistake as a temporary state. 

That this distance wasn’t permanent. 

However it became permanent to me when I tried to make things better, and you spit in my face with your silence and indifference. 

A lot of things were easy with you, but accepting your willingness to disregard me so easily from your life wasn’t.

And to quote the movie Ten Things I Hate About You--I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all. 

You taught me what true heartbreak is, so thank you. 

POETRY

El Imigrante

Alex Romo

Struggling people wishing to cross for a better life in search for some aid

Hiring a coyote to smuggle them in their car
Their family wishing they had stayed
They sit there cramped and uncomfortable for who knows how long or how far

I look and see a young boy with his father

He says I left my beloved state of Guanajuato
Mi hijo will be going to live with his grandfather
Because I haven't had a job ya desde hace un rato

But many Americans are afraid of them and groups that are ethnic

They elected that joke saying he'll build a wall
Afraid we’re stealing jobs, afraid of what we can become because of our work ethic
Little do they know that stopping us from coming will be the downfall of the US and us all

We risk our lives to get here and we're here to stay
No matter how much they complain for us to go away

SHORT STORY

Untitled

by Keelin Burchfield

When I look around me, all I see is ugliness. In my wake I leave destruction. I break things, relationships, friendships. I see the world through pitch black colored glasses. It is dirty. It is filled with hurt and hatred. It is broken, like me. We are unrepairable. So why try?

I don't want to die. This isn’t some suicide letter or something. You're not gonna find me dead in my bedroom after reading this. No, I know my family loves me. I know it would destroy them if I was gone. I can’t break them again. I'm just exhausted. I'm tired of trying to fix things when I know nothing will ever change. A bad thing happens, and we get our hopes up so high that things will be better this time round. But they aren't. They never will be.

Aviana Clark was everything to me. All throughout high school, people would come and go. But Avi was always there. I could rely on her. She held me when I cried and made me laugh so hard my drink would come out of my nose. We met as freshmen. Young and naive, terrified of being seen in a world of older, prettier, smarter, more mature people. We went through everything together. She was there for happy relationships and terrible breakups. She was there for the absolute best moments of my life and she was there for the worst ones. The ones I wish I could block from my memory forever. She was right by my side when my father died and my mother fell to pieces. She helped me stay strong for my little sister, Lilah. She fixed me. But Aviana Clark, my Avi, my bestfriend, destroyed me. She ripped out the seams of my sewn up heart and tore me apart. I trusted her and she broke me.

But it had been months since that happened. Since the day I walked into school in my new light purple dress and boots with my freshly dyed, dark violet hair french braided down my shoulder, my emerald eyes twinkling, happy as ever. Months since I ran to my best friends locker, excited to tell her about all the amazing things that happened to me the night before. Months since I was met, not by my beautiful best friend’s smiling face, but by laughter. Stares. Rumors. Months since I ran out of school, red hot tears streaming down my face. Months since she shattered me.

I had been awake for hours, laying in bed and staring at ceiling, searching my mind for answers. Answers to everything. A notebook lay open beside me, every single page filled to the brim with thoughts, emotions, stories. Writing is how I get away. How I escape from this dark world. When I'm hurting, I open my teal composition notebook and let the words overcome me. Making beautiful art out of ugly situations, it helps me keep going.

I closed the notebook and shoved it into my bag, glancing over at the clock. 5:57am it blinked. I slowly stood up and began getting ready for school. As I pulled on my black ripped jeans, band tank top and green flannel, the smell of bacon began to fill the air. I took a deep breath, pulled on my black converse and made my way down the stairs.

My mother stood in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. As she fried the bacon, I leaned against the doorway and watched her. I always admired her. As a little girl I dreamed of growing up and looking just like her. My mother is beautiful. Her blonde hair flows perfectly down her shoulders, framing her face. Her skin was perfect, without even so much as a tiny blemish. We were the exact opposite in appearance, I got all of my features from my dad. Except for my emerald eyes. Those were from her.

“Hello, love.” My mother grinned when she noticed me in the doorway. I smiled in response. I hadn’t seen her like this in forever. She seemed happy. She seemed okay. I wonder how long that will last. The previous time it was about a day. That was her longest. 

“Come sit, breakfast will be ready soon.” she said, breaking me out of my thoughts. I nodded and sat down at the table. My mom set the food in the center of the table and sat down across from me.

As my mom made the plates, my little sister, Lilah came in. If I had to choose who came from which parent, I came from my dad. Lilah came from my mom. She was only fifteen, but she had the same beautiful features of my mom. Her blonde hair fell to her waist, and her bright green eyes twinkled as she grinned and plopped down at the only open chair. 

“Mom, this smells amazing,” Lilah said, picking up her fork. We made small conversation as we ate. When I was done, I rose from my chair and put my dishes away. I picked up my bookbag.

“Bye mom, I’ll see you after school.” I turned to Lilah, “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

“Bye mom!” Lilah jumped out of her chair and grabbed her bookbag, walking out the door after me. 

We got into my dinky old car and I drove to school. We got out and I grabbed my stuff from the backseat.

“Bye sis,” Lilah said, waving at me.

“See ya, Li. Let me know if those girls keep bothering you, okay?” 

Lilah nodded sadly and walked away. The “mean girls” of the freshman class had been bothering her, making fun of her. Lilah doesn’t even have anything to make fun of, but bullies always find something. I took a deep breath, preparing me for the terrible day ahead of me. Another lonely day in the school I despised.

“I can’t wait for graduation,” I mumbled under my breath as I walked into the school. I walked through the halls invisible, as always. No one even spared me a glance, no one cared. Since Avi, no one noticed me anymore. It was like I didn’t even go to this school. I stopped trying to talk to people months ago. They would just ignore me and continue laughing with their friends like I wasn’t even there. I can’t lie, it pains me to walk through these halls alone when I used to strut down them with my best friend while tons of people tried to talk to us. Now they just talk to her.

Aviana’s locker was directly next to mine. That’s how we met freshman year, as “locker buddies”, and then best friends. It all happened so fast. We just clicked from the start, and soon enough we were inseparable. I approached my locker hesitantly, trying to avoid even looking at Aviana’s new friends gathered around her locker. But I couldn’t keep myself from looking. Her friends were laughing at some joke she made as she grabbed a book and closed her locker, flipping her black hair over her shoulder and giggling as her football player boyfriend walked up to her. Avi was different now. She still had the same curly black hair, the same chocolatey brown eyes, the same beautiful smile. But before everything, she would have never even flirted with a dumb football player. We used to make jokes about the girls she was now all buddy buddy with. The “popular” girls. The mean girls. The girls that had all the boys fawning over them and all the girls terrified of them. The bullies.

I squeezed through the group and pulled open my locker. No one noticed me, of course. I dug through my locker, looking for my AP Chemistry book. I was lost in thoughts of old times with Avi, and everything that has happened since we were little freshmen giggling about the cute senior guys from our lockers.

“Nova Young, right?” 

I turned at the sound of my name, taken aback. I can't recall the last time a student at this school talked to me. In front of me was a girl I'd never seen before. She had long, wavy brown hair and soft blue eyes. She wore a dress that went up to mid thigh, it was a beautiful purple floral with a long beige cardigan over it and a brown belt wrapped around her waist. She had a brown headband wrapped around her head like a 70s teenager. But she didn't look dumb and out of place, she looked radiant. 

She smiled at me widely. 

“I'm Skye. Skye Silver,” she reached out her hand to shake mine. 

I shook her hand silently. What is this girl doing talking to me? Doesn't she know they will destroy her? “I'm new here. I was wondering if you would be my friend and show me around?”

“You don't want to be my friend,” I responded quietly, putting my hand back at my side.

“Yes I do!” She said quickly. I shook my head.

“No. You don't get it. I don't have friends. You can't be my friend.”

“Well I'm going to change that,” she grinned.

“Look, I don't know where you came from. But at this school, I'm the girl you don't talk to. Everyone will hate you if you talk to me. So don't even bother.” I slammed my locker shut and started walking away. I was doing this girl a favor, she's better off talking to Aviana and her minions.

“Wait, Nova!” She called down the hallway. I felt someone grab my arm and softly tug me toward them. I let her turn me, rolling my eyes.

“Skye. I'm not the girl you want to be friends with. You don't know me. You don't know what-” I cut myself off and took a deep breath. “You should talk to that girl over there,” I pointed at Avi, “I'm sure you guys would be great friends.”

“No,” Skye shook her head, “There's something off about that girl. I can tell she doesn't have a good heart. But you do.”

“I don't.” 

I pulled out of her grasp and walked into my first period class. I sat in my desk and pulled my notebook out of my bag, scribbling down thoughts. I was taken away by the writing, and when I looked up, the class was empty. I gathered my things and walked out of the class. I got through the whole day avoiding Skye. Even the class she had with me I practically ran out the second the bell rang. After what felt like an eternity, school was over. I skipped going to my locker entirely and walked to the parking lot. Lilah had volleyball practice so I didn't have to drive her home. I pulled up to my house and got out. 

“Hey mom,” I mumbled when I passed her on my way up the stairs. I changed into shorts and a long sleeved black shirt and laid across my bed, scribbling in my notebook.

“Nova! Sweetie, come down here!” My mom called up the stairs. I looked at my clock. 7:32pm. It had been four hours since I got home. I looked down at my notebook, pages and pages of new writing. I felt like I had been writing for seconds, but hours had passed. “NOVA!” I groaned softly and got up, making my way down the stairs.

“Yes, mother?” I said semi-sarcastically.

“Come meet the neighbors, Nova.”

“Neighbors?”

“Honey, the Andersons moved out. You knew that.” 

I sighed and nodded slowly, “You're right. I forgot.” 

I walked toward the foyer where the neighbors were. Three people stood by the door. A woman, mid-thirties with chin-length brown hair and brown eyes. A man, the same age as the woman with jet-black hair and blue eyes. Lastly, was none other than Skye Silver.

“Hello, my name is Willow Silver. This is my husband, Christopher and my daughter, Skye. We just moved in next door and wanted to get to know our neighbors!” She shook my hand and smiled at me as I shook Christopher’s hand as well. I avoided Skye’s gaze, turning back to Willow.

“I'm Nova. Very nice to meet you.” I smiled half-heartedly and looked down at my socks.

“Nova, Skye is your age. You guys could be great friends,” my mom interjected. She worried, ever since Aviana. She never knew exactly what happened, but she knew I was alone now and she always tried to force me to make friends.

“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled, extremely uncomfortable.

“Nova, quit being rude. Invite Skye up to your room!”

 I love my mother, but sometimes I really despised her hovering style of parenting. I am fine being alone. I've been surviving for months. I don't need friends. I'm graduating soon, I'm getting the hell out of here. I don't need anything getting in my way. I don't need anyone at all. 

“Nova. Go,” she ushered.

“Okay, okay… Let’s go, Skye.” I led her up the stairs and into my room, shutting the door behind us. I sat down on my bed and Skye hovered next to me.

“What's that?” She said, reaching for my notebook on my bed.

“No!” I yelled, snatching it from her and shoving it under my bed. “No one reads that. It's for me.” Skye nodded softly.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend.”

“It's fine. Just sit down,” I said. Laying across my bed and staring at the ceiling. “Look, I only brought you up here so my mom would get off my back. I don't have friends nor do I need any. Trust me, I'm better off alone. I've been alone for months. I don't want anyone.”

“That's such a sad way to live,” Skye whispered.

“What?”

“It's just, there's all this beauty in the world and you refuse to see it. It's like-”

“There is no beauty. There's only destruction.”

“That isn't true. The world is so beautiful and bright. You just have to take the time to see it. All around us there are people falling in love, helping each other, building each other up. Every few minutes there is new life being created and born. Look around you! Look at nature. How beautiful the leaves look changing in autumn, how gorgeous the diversity of small insects and large birds look in our everyday lives, and the sky. The sky is always changing, but it’s still so beautiful in its own way. It's like life. Things aren't always going to the same, but, if you look close enough, you can always find the silver lining even in the darkest of clouds. Sometimes it feels like it's better to be alone, but I believe that maybe if you have an extra set of eyes by your side, maybe it'll be easier to find the silver linings.”

“The only thing an extra set of eyes has ever done for me is break my trust and ruin my life,” I responded. Skye stayed quiet, staring at me, her eyes furrowed.

“What happened to you?” She said softly.

“Aviana Clark happened to me.”

“You have to tell me. It'll never get better if you don't let someone in, Nova.”

I stared back at her, weighing my options. I finally took a deep breath, and looked back up at the ceiling.

“Avi was my best friend. We were inseparable all through high school. She was my rock. She got me through the worst time of my life. I told her everything. I came out to her. I told her I liked girls, and when she found out, she changed. She got, weird. A few days later she told me she loved me, that she was in love with me. She tried to kiss me and I wouldn't let her. I told her that I only loved her as a friend and that I wouldn't want to destroy what a great friendship we had. I loved her, but not like that. She stormed out. She ignored my texts all weekend. I was so confused. I walked into school on Monday. I remember I was so happy, my little sister Lilah had hung out all weekend, pampering ourselves. Just having a great time. I went straight to Skye’s locker to tell her about my weekend, but she wasn't waiting for me. A group of girls were at our lockers, staring at me. Laughing at me. Judging me. And suddenly, I noticed all eyes on me. Everyone down the entire hall was staring at me judgingly. I was so confused.”

“Aviana sauntered out of the center of the group of girls and right up to me. In front of everyone, she started accusing me of things that didn't happen. She said I told her I was in love with her and had been for years, that I wanted her and only her. That I tried to kiss her and do things to her. But that never happened. I tried to tell people, but everyone believed her instead of me. For weeks, everyone made fun of me and called me a dyke, Aviana most of all. She convinced everyone I was obsessed with her. Everyone turned against me. People at our school aren't very accepting, you'll learn that. After months of incessant bullying, it finally stopped. Everyone just started ignoring me, which I guess is better than being made fun of. So now I'm alone. And you being seen with me, they'll probably call you a lesbian too and start bullying you. So just stay away.” 

By now, tears were threatening to flow down my cheeks. One fell and I wiped it off, shaking my head. After minutes of dead silence, Skye spoke up.

“I'm not going to judge you for being a lesbian or anything. What Aviana did to you was horrible. You could never deserve any of that. I'd rather be friends with you, Nova. Those girls are terrible. I could never associate myself with them. I want to help you. I want to show you the beauty in the world.”

“You can't fix me,” I said harshly, wiping away another tear.

“I don't want to fix you. I know I can't. Things that are broken can never be completely repaired, only helped. I want to help you. You don't deserve to be lonely for the rest of high school.”

“I don't want you to be friends with me because you pity me. I don't need your pity friendship,” I spat. Skye shook her head sharply.

“I don't pity people. I'm not going to be your friend unless I want to. Unless I feel you are a truly good person, a truly beautiful person. And you are, Nova. You really are.” I stayed silent. “I'll show you all of the beauty that surrounds you. I will show you the beauty in yourself. I will make you realize all the good things in your life and all the good things you can have. Once you see that, once you put your mind to it and really, truly try… Everything will look so much brighter. I promise. Just give me a chance. Let me be your friend.” She gazed at me and I stared back. Is it really worth it? Is it worth it to risk the heartbreak of losing another friend?

“You aren't going to lose me. If that's what you're thinking. I don't leave. That's not my thing,” Skye said, basically reading my mind.

“Fine,” I stubbornly said. “I'll give you two weeks. But that's it.”

“Great,” she grinned.

Soon enough, two weeks had flown by. Two weeks with Skye pushing me to be better, pushing for me to see the world how she sees it.

When I look around me, all I see is beauty. In my wake I leave positivity. I repair things the best I can. I sew together the broken pieces. The pieces of me. I see the world through yellow, sunshine-filled glasses. It is bright and beautiful. It is filled with light and laughter. It is broken, like me. But we are repairable. Everything is repairable. And I will do everything in my power to make the best of my life every single day. I will do my best to spread sunshine to everyone around me, even to the people who don't deserve it. All that hurtful people need is a little sunlight. That's what we all need.

PERSONAL ESSAY

Untitled, Unmastered

by Vision Rollins

“So the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking. That would be a different impulse entirely, an instinct for reality which I sometimes envy but do not possess.” - Joan Didion.

In my life, writing has always taken on many forms. Writing can range from a formal essay intended
for school, or just to simply sit down and write music or to jot down random sentences that somehow form into poetry. No matter what kind of writing I am doing, whether it be intentionally focused or unintentional drabble, I can count on two things: my writings will always be inconsistent and will remain free flowing.

I cannot, much like Joan Didion, keep an accurate, hard record of what I have been doing or thinking. I cannot sit down and reflect over my day through pen and paper, or keyboard and screen. I cannot even stop to think about how I feel and write that down piece by piece; I cannot keep a diary. What I can do is take my own emotions and develop them into something completely different.

I can add fiction to non-fiction and fact to fantasy, music to words, but I cannot be consistent.

Little ideas pop up at random times unexpectedly, and if I were to actually keep a diary, the pages would be days- even weeks apart- nothing steady. Writing is not something that I like or dislike. Writing is something that is either mandatory or unexpected. Bottom line, I cannot escape it even if I wanted to.

My biggest “writing reinforcer” in my life would have to be my father. He always tells me, “Daughter, you have to write.” Admittedly, I don’t like to do it because he literally says it for everything. If I’m feeling down he tells me to write about it. If I’m really happy he tells me to write about it. Or to always write music. Ever since I began playing the guitar he has always been encouraging me to write music because he believes, at my age, writing is one of the best outlets for my emotions. I understand what he means, I see his point, but it is not that easy. Just because I’m feeling lonely doesn’t make a notebook my best friend. I can’t just pick up my guitar when I’m angry and play my heart out to express my feelings; that just isn’t me. Sometimes I wish it was. Sometimes I wish that I could express myself through words, but I just can’t force it to happen.

When I write, it happens on it’s own. Some days- those rare days- I can write three songs in two hours. When I write those songs, I like to abandon them for a few moments and pick up an instrument to bring it to life, and when that happens the creative spark dies. I’m focused. I’m working. When I forget about the words and focus on the sound, that takes all the energy out of me to the point where I don’t want to write for a while. I can’t write anything else. That’s when those long intervals of days start. The whole process is draining. Way too draining to enter into just because I’m feeling a certain way. I can’t tap into it, it has to tap into me first.

Writing isn’t all bad by any means and to say that I hate it is a reach- a far reach. Like I stated before, it isn’t something that I like or dislike, it’s just something that happens when it happens. When I am in school and I’m given a writing assignment, I honestly hold off on it until the last minute because I don’t know how to start. Unless the topic is especially gripping, I have to sit and wait for reality to hit me (that’s it's due in like, an hour. Hurry up, girl!) in order to really get into it, but once I’m into it I’ve got it. It is that initial pull and initial drive that I lack because I know how I operate and I know how I function; I know that I could be spending my time doing something that I actually enjoy (napping) than writing an essay about how I feel about writing an essay (no offense). If I can’t write on my own terms, if I can’t create by my own say, I need a push to get me going and that push happens to be time. Everyone is different and everyone knows what works for them. It may seem crazy or irresponsible to you, but time is with me more than it is against me. If I write and complete a paper three days before the deadline, I will go back and change absolutely everything. Things that were once pure, emotions and thoughts that were once untainted, have to be completely changed because my views have changed. I’m looking at what I’ve created from a new perspective, a new pair of lenses, and even full length analysis and paragraph based evidence has to be changed to fit into who I am that day. Maybe I’ve gotten more information, maybe I’ve noticed that I rushed it and could have added too little detail or too much. I used to always do this and in result I’d get bags under my eyes from staying up deep hours of the night working to get it right, to fit my new definition of right. I’ve learned from that, and instead I use time to work for me instead of against me. Everything I feel I get it out before the deadline. All of the evidence, all of the questions and quotes I get before the deadline. I do it once because the first time is always the best time. I work with time.

Joan Didion reminds me of myself more than I’d like to admit. “At no point have I ever been able successfully to keep a diary; my approach to daily life ranges from the grossly negligent to the merely absent, and on those few occasions when I have tried dutifully to record a day's events, boredom has so overcome me that the results are mysterious at best.” I lose interest in writing quickly. It isn’t a hobby, it isn’t an outlet; if I based my living off of writing I’d be broke or on the verge of death. I do it when I have to. It’s not gripping unless I make it gripping, it’s not spontaneous unless I make it spontaneous and that can only happen with time as a push factor or a wave of inspiration. Without that I have nothing. When I write for myself it’s strictly for myself. I don’t care about what the reader may think because I am the reader. I don’t care if the listener doesn’t understand the song because I didn’t write it for them, I wrote it for myself. Unless I have to write in school I don’t take the reader into consideration because I am my own audience. I only care about the reader when I have to. I only consider my audience when I have to. In most occasions, I only write when I have to.


When I create something, I usually take pride in it. I can look back at my old pieces or essays and usually feel proud of what I’ve produced. Especially when it comes to school, because I know writing it a couple of hours before the deadline was so worth it. No matter how it gets done, no matter what drove me to do it, at the end of the day I can say that I am proud. It could be the worst essay known to man or the crappiest, cheesiest, most generic song that will ever fall upon man’s ears (second to MMMBop) but I did it. Taking pride in your writing is important. Writing is a journey for a lot of people and it can take a lot out of you but at the end of the day, you’ve made it. It’s a process and it’s a cycle but you did it. And whether you like it or not, whether I like it or not, we’ll find ourselves
doing it again and again. Loving or hating what comes out of it in the end, just to start a new.

POETRY

Eulogy: MY EX FRIEND

by Adolpho Castaneda

I will never forget the first day we started communicating with each other.
I remember:
I got that first message from you saying “Hey how's it going?”
I never knew that message meant something to me.
I was depressed around that time because
I had nobody to talk to.

I wasn't social with everyone.

But because you messaged me that first day, 

you changed my life forever. 

We started off as friends, then we became best friends after.
Three years being best friends with this person was a learning experience.

I realize now what kind of a person she is.

You've made up lies, you made me not trust you anymore, you stabbed me in the back so many times I'm surprised I'm still standing.

You changed.

This person is dead to me.

I hope she has a nice life.

SHORT STORY

GUARDIAN ANGEL 

by Jessica Corona 

​I saw this beautiful but fragile girl. You can see the sweetness in her eyes. The one who broke this beautiful girl’s heart is out her life now. I would hear the cruel words this evil person would say to her.

“You're worthless.”
"You ruined everything.”

I couldn't believe what I would hear. How can a human being talk and treat another person with such hate. Thank God that person is out her life now. Its up to me to make her happy now.

Her name is Aaliah and the first time I laid eyes on her she was in tears. I comforted her so she wouldn't feel alone. She instantly stopped crying and that's when I knew she was mine forever.

As time went by I got an apartment for us but yet I was scared to love her because all she knew was hate. We would do everything together. Aaliah loved spending time with me. Well, I hope she did. She didn't really have a choice. She had no one else but me and her life.

As years went by our relationship grew stronger. We would laugh and talk about everything for hours. Especially about animals. Aaliah had a thing for them. I didn't know much about them but I was happy to learn from her because she new a lot about them. She loved learning new things. I  don't understand why I hated it, but I would listen because I loved this girl more then anything in the world.

I loved her so much I would give her the world if I could but I can't.

I'm not the richest person in the world. They way I make my money is not legal. I hate bringing that home to Aaliah because I don't want her endanger. She's all I got and I'm not losing her. Yet one day I almost did.

We were walking together down the street on a hot summer day and I hear gun shots. I turned and grabbed Aliah. I had her in my arms so she wouldn't get hurt. The shooting stopped and I looked up and see her in tears. I know she's scared but I'm just glad she's okay. Police and ambulance showed up at the scene but all I remember was the police taking her away. After that day nothing was the same.

More years went by and I thought we had it good but I can still see pain in her eyes. I would hear her cry at night. It breaks my heart. I would wonder if I’m doing something wrong that she is going to look at me as a disappointment. I started to believe that when I saw her cry. I asked her what's wrong as I sat beside her but she just sits in silence. She does this every night since the shooting happened. I don't even bother asking what's wrong anymore because all she does is just ignores me. It breaks my heart seeing her in pain when i know I caused it.

She moved out of our apartment and headed off to college. She didn't say a word when she left. 

It hurts me seeing her go but I'm glad she saw she's worth more than the life we had. I may be alone but I'm happy she's free. Free from the life I had for her. I want her to have a better life then I did. She is a beautiful, smart girl and she deserves everything.

Years went by and I never received a call or letter from her. My love for her was still strong. She was still my world. I still go see her sometimes to see if she's okay, but I stay my distance. She has a boyfriend. I hate the idea of it but she need to move forwards and live her life. I hope he treats her right and with respect. I want her happy and to succeed in life, but still every time I see her I can see the pain in her eyes. This pain in her eyes is as if she will never be happy again and it's all my fault. I still don't know how I made her like this. The last thing I wanted was her to be hurt and make her sad.

She finally finished college. Aaliah was number one in her class. I was so proud of her. As she goes up and gives her speech she says, “ People come and go and sometimes everyone you think will be there for you won't be. Others show support and others give negativity. That's why you have to achieve your goals and prove these people wrong, and that's exactly what I did. My mother was cruel to me and my father and she left my life and it might be the best thing that ever happened to me because all she gave me was hate. But you can also lose the people you love . My father was shot right in front of me and lost his life.”

She paused and looks up with tears in her eyes. I couldn't believe what I heard.

Aaliah looks up and whispers, “Thanks dad for believing in me.”

I stood still not knowing what was going on. Why I was still here by her side without her knowing. For some time now I thought she hated me for putting her in that situation but all along she was mad and in pain for losing her only parent. Her mother broke her heart as a little girl. She left her alone. I couldn't never think of leaving the one thing that means the world to me but I did. I got involved in bad things to giver her a better life but at the end I just made it miserable. My little girl was going on in life without her father and it's all my fault.

Time goes by and I'm still here. I feel like God is rewarding me for still letting me on this earth
with my daughter. Even though I have no way of communication, I feel like her guardian angel.

But I know God doesn't work that way and I’m here for a reason. I have to find out why.

Aaliah is moving in with her boyfriend and they have gotten pretty serious. He seems to make her happy.

That's all I want for her. She starter her new job as a veterinary physician. Like I said, she loved animal. Seeing her save animals lives made me so proud of her. It sucks I can't tell her that every day. I wish I can just say a few words to her. Just let her know she's doing amazing .

I'm still wondering why I'm still here but yesterday I found out why.

Aaliah was going home from work when I saw a someone standing outside her house. I couldn't see their face it was dark out so I followed Aaliah to protect her even though I couldn't really because I was dead. As the person turned around and I got to see her face I was filled with anger.

It was Erica, Aaliah’s mother.

Aaliah didn't recognize her because Erica left her at a little age. Aaliah asked who she was and why she outside her house and Erica just blurted out, “I'm your mother.” 

Hearing that made me furious because no mother I know treats there child like they’re. Nothing no mother I know takes her daughter to school and is 20 years late to pick her up. I'm in tears of how mad I am and of how disappointed I am at myself that I’m not there to help my little girl out.

Aaliah is silent with tears coming down her cheek.

Erica tells her, “ I'm sorry I left but I am here to make things right. I thought about coming back when I heard your father died but I had stuff to deal with.” Hearing those lies coming out of her mouth made me furious. I didn't know what to do. I was useless. I kept yelling just to see if Aaliah can listen even. Now I know she couldn't. My daughter-- so sweet and forgiving was going to let this poisoned person in her life.

I almost lost hope as I said my last words, “You don't need her to achieve your goals.”

Aalsah turned around and looked right in my eyes and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

She looked back at Erica and said, “I didn't need you then. I don't need you now. All Ii had was my father and he raised me right. Because of him I have the life I have, so I don't need you so go.”

I stood there with a smile on my face knowing that someway, somehow Aaliah heard me. I knew why I was still here. I had to remind my daughter that the negative people that were in her life didn't get to see her achieve in life. That day was my last day on earth. I still watch over my beautiful daughter every day. Like I said, I'm her guardian angel.