Table of ContentsSpring 2020~"Bridge" by Xavier McCreary
~"Words" by Kyla Whitten ~"Escape" by Shaniah Holloway ~"The Eight Steps to Achieving Academic Success" by Kyla McGhee ~"What If It Didn't?" by Xavier McCreary ~"Rats of Germany" by Sanaa Powell ~"Goodbye" by Kyla Whitten Fall 2019~"Broken Glass" by Kesenia Dewell
~"The Meaning is Yours" by Addy Gyll ~"Fear Within" by J. J. Barnett ~"Untitled" by Bari Elliot ~"Stories" by Ethan Blackburn ~"Fruit of the Mind" by Addy Gyll ~"Purple Pansies" by Addy Gyll ~"The Recipe" by Connor Lindsay Spring 2020Bridgesby Xavier McCreary
What plights upon the ones who must decide,
Found stuck between with no support below? One point cannot persuade them to a side, The bridge will fall and chance will surely go. When looking left, you find a house of love And concubine to spend on days of rain. With happiness until you're called above, But unfulfilled you will always remain. When looking right, you see your dream come true The only problem being what to wear. Success and wealth will always follow you, But at the top with no one there to share. Your choice is wrong no matter what you choose: You fail, you fall, you drop, you drown, you lose. Wordsby Kyla Whitten
The blade of your tongue cutting through my heart,
So deep a thousand slashes of the sharpest dagger can't compare. Every word so vile your own mouth hates the taste, Like ink on paper, every word spreading through my skin, it's not fair. Every word you say tattooed to me like a scar I can't rid of - Collecting unwanted words to rot. All your words could make me, but insist on breaking me. Escapeby Shaniah Holloway
I can’t even lie,
I think about you, for the longest time mainly your lies linger in my mind. I have my highs and lows where I whine and complain about our flow, and about what it could’ve been. But nothing good comes from jumping in a dangerous tide, where I am tied and you are the hope sinking me. The Eight Steps to Achieving Academic Successby Kyla McGhee
Have you ever come home and thought about how much homework you have to do? It’s like your teachers don’t understand how much work you have to do in other classes, but then again you had a full week to work on your assignments. Then when the final day comes to do it, you have to learn how to finish on the same day. You’re lucky I’m gracing you with my presence because I am the queen of perfecting this skill. Now sit back, relax and let me teach you how to get closer to your academic success.
Step one: Gather all of your materials Once you get home it’s time to work. You must have the mindset that you’re ready to work, so when you walk into your house, put your backpack down, get out your agenda (yes, you should’ve written your homework down), and then get out all of your homework that you need to complete. You have to get out: your AP Psychology textbook, chemistry homework, your math worksheets, and lastly you have to complete your rhetorical analysis worksheet for Pre-AP English. This is a great way to start because once you finish a subject, you can pack it up and once you pack up one subject, you’ll feel a sense of relief. Step two: Stare at your work After you have everything out, it is important that you stare at your work; the more you stare, the more time you’ll waste. Staring at your work gives you the chance to decide which subject you want to start first. For instance, the radicals on your math homework look irresistible, but those elements on the periodic table just make you so happy inside. I get it, it can be difficult deciding which subject to work on first, I even have a tough time. That’s why I take my time when I’m staring, so my working mindset can sink in. Step three: Grab your cellular device You may get a notification in the middle of your staredown and that’s okay. You simply just grab your phone and take a little brain break. You scroll through Snapchat and you see your crush snapped you back. THIS IS THE MOMENT YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! Of course you have to send a photo back, but you can’t open it too fast because you’ll look like a stalker. You wait at least five minutes before opening and once the time is up you send back a cute selfie. Unfortunately it’s taking you awhile because the lighting in your kitchen sucks. You find the best place you can take the picture, but Snapchat is just not cooperating. This is the ultimate struggle! An hour later, you finally get the right selfie and send it to your crush. Mission complete. Step four: Go to the fridge Whew! All those photos were a lot of work so it’s only best that you deserve a food break. Granted, you ate at school, but that food doesn’t compare to leftover hibachi from last night’s dinner. Your mouth just starts watering as soon as the microwave goes off then you add white sauce and life is perfect. Make sure to clear off your table and move your homework to the side in order to save your papers from getting white sauce on them. Then simply enjoy your meal with the perfect Netflix show--Vampire Diaries. Who doesn’t love a romance show with vampires? Step five: Catch up on your show Okay, you finished your meal, but not your episode so you agree to get up once that’s over. WOAH WAIT A MINUTE! I know they did not just leave you on a cliffhanger! Yep. Nope. Now you have to click next episode to see what is going to happen--is she really going to date the bad brother after dumping the good brother then not even notice he got locked in a safe and dumped into the river by his doppelganger? Yes I know, weird show, but I think you’ll like it. WOAH I know they didn’t just leave you on another cliffhanger! Next thing you know, one episode turns into five until they finally have an episode where you aren’t left on a cliffhanger. Okay, now it’s back to the table so you can start your work. Step six: Get started on some of your work You finally have the motivation to get started and things are going great! You already got chemistry done and you’re onto the next one. You’re zooming through your math worksheets and the English paper was not as difficult as you expected it to be! Then you get stuck on that one subject that takes the longest, AP Psychology, also known as AP Psych. It’s only right that you take a brain break before starting your last subject. You’ve earned it! So I recommend going to check your phone to see what’s new on the gossip. TikTok looks like it’s blowing up with drama, so you decide to go on the app. Scrolling through videos you realize how much you miss summer so you go and look at your old videos to reminisce over the stress-free times. You don’t even notice that you went that far into your memories until you get a call from your mom saying she’ll be home soon. Step seven: Take a nap Since most of your work is done you should give your body a rest. The brain can only take so much schoolwork. In order to go to sleep, you come up with a scenario in your head about your future with your crush. For instance, how he’s going to propose, the wedding planning, having your wedding on the beach, the weather is perfect, then fast forward to having your first born only to find out that you’re having twins! You can see your crush being the best dad he can be while you’re cooking dinner for the family. You’re in your happy place and nothing could be better. Until you finally wake up to your security system announcing that your mother has opened up the garage door. You look at your phone to see the time and realize it’s already eight o’clock! You get up and decide to get back to your work. Step eight: Stay up as late as you can to finish Yes, you waited last minute… again. Now it’s time to push through and get all of your work done. You forgot how long AP Psych would take so of course you won’t be finishing your ten pages until at least 10 o’clock. Then you have an add-on assignment that requires you to take notes and read another passage. And of course the answers are not directly in the passage because your teacher wants you to actually use your brain. Then you find out your mini assignment turned out to be a mini project! You put the finishing touches on your assignment and when you turn to look at the clock it is almost midnight (in some cases it may take longer). You do your Snapchat streaks, put your pajamas on, and head to bed only to wake up at 5:55 in the morning and get ready for school. *
I hope these eight steps really helped you to understand the art when it comes to being the elite student. Remember, this is not for everyone. I wouldn’t be sharing my knowledge if I didn’t think you were capable of such a difficult task. This lifestyle takes a lot of dedication and practice if you want to master it. I can’t think of any other way to help you toward your goal of achieving your academic success. If you want to graduate high school with a 5.0 GPA, this is the only method you can use. Like I said, don’t force yourself into this lifestyle because it’s not easy. It took me a while to perfect these eight steps, but I did and I want to help guide the youth into a successful future by using these eight steps, aka the best way to help boost your chances of graduating.
What If It Didn't?by Xavier McCreary
What if the sun didn't climb over the horizon in the morning,
if it didn't peer through your curtains illuminating your smooth skin? What if the ocean waves decided to stop crashing against the shore, if it didn't jump just high enough to saturate your bare ankles? What if the clocks stopped their incessant babbling, if it didn't keep tick tick ticking to tell us when our lunch break is? What if your heart decided to stop its perpetual drumming, if it didn't send a crimson tide rushing through each of your veins? If it didn't race while you run to catch the bus? If it didn't skip a beat when the love of your life saunters by? The sun will always climb across the sky, scouring the Earth for a new body to brighten. The ocean waves will always crash against the shore like it has for millions of years. The clocks will continue to let us know at what point we are on this infinite timeline, tick tick ticking even when your heart is not. Rats of Germanyby Sanaa Powell
I lie there motionless,
newspaper covers my body. Mourning fills my ears. They think I am dead, but I am not. I see four beautiful blondes, Clean and well dressed. I knew who they were right away. The Nazis and their girls. They start laughing. At me. At my people. At our beliefs. I hear a woman whisper, I hear another giggle. I hear a man's voice: “say Jews,” And then a flash of light. A camera. I close my eyes. They think I am dead but I am not. No one cares for me or my people. They think we are rats. Ticks. Pests in need of extermination. I hear something old and heavy rolling near me, The wagon. They think I am dead, but I am not. “C’mon ya filthy Jew! C’mon and rise from the dead!” Nazi. “C’mon then. Rise.” Laughter. I feel someone grab my ankles, Someone else gripping my wrist. They throw me into an uncomfortable stack of lumps. The dead. More laughter echoes in my head until the sound suffocates me, Leaving me in a dark and endless abyss. They think I am dead And they are right. Goodbyeby Kyla Whitten
It’s hard to tell you 'bye
For my heart just sits and sighs With all the love to give. And yet without you, I cannot live. You wish to say goodbye With a love like this, I have to pry. Skin so thick, my words don’t stick - Blockade for my love, you make me sick. So ill for you I’m no longer sane - With a love like this, how could you blame? Fall 2019Broken Glassby Kesenia DewellDoes anyone understand how I am like broken glass?
Do they realize that the pain I feel is from my past? People see straight through me, not a single glance. I know my pane is fragile, I only have one chance. The second I crack, the moment I break- It scars me for life and reminds me of my mistakes. Picking up the pieces, gluing them back together; you can still see the cracks in certain days of weather. Your words are like hail, hitting against my pane. Scratching, causing streaks like fallen rain. I am glass; I break; so why don’t you? Surely I am not the only one breaking, not knowing what to do. The Meaning is Yoursby Addy GyllToothpaste lovers
Swim in the sea As the cuttlefish killers Roam the floor free The styrofoam crabs Go from place to place While the cuttlefish killers Set the seaweed ablaze The jeweled jellyfish Glitter and glide As the cuttlefish killers Lay near the ocean's tide The wooden whales Are as big as they are loud But the cuttlefish killers Still stood by their land proud The fictitious fish swam As they dropped plastic tears They knew the cuttlefish killers Would not be gone for years Fear Withinby J. J. Barnett
I dream that there’s a bullet in my chest.
There’s a bullet in my chest when I’m out of line, A bullet in my chest when I’m behind the wheel, A bullet in my chest because I’m not made of steel, A bullet in my chest when I don’t look how they feel I should dress, As if I’m here just to try and impress them. And I am not divine but let there be a day that in their eyes I’m not a Negro, Not a slave to my skin, Not a slave to my race, Not important. Because my face is all they need to see before they judge what I did and didn’t do, My future decided by a trigger tipping on the edge of release, With a gun in my face I freeze and see my whole life ahead of me, dreaming of what I’ll never get to be, I dream that there’s a bullet in my chest And it scares me. Untitledby Bari Elliot
Stories
by Ethan Blackburn
Stories have power. The ancestors knew this, which is why we used to gather around our fires, dancing and telling the stories of our people. Those entrusted with the task of memorizing the tales of the tribe once garnered great respect; as without them, the memory of who we were would be forgotten. It is not so any longer. There are few left that still remember the stories of our people, and even fewer still care to hear them. I am the last storyteller of my tribe, and these days I only tell my stories to an audience of one.
Every day when the sun was at its highest point, a young boy would ride his bike as fast as he could across the dusty dirt roads of the reservation. The harsh Arizona sun hung in the sky, its oppressive heat making the boy sweat as if his body was trying to make a river. I watched the trail of red dust the bike stirred up as he made his way from the school to my little one-story house, all so that the boy could eat his lunch while listening to me tell my stories. Eventually, our lunches became dances of patterned politeness. Every day he would walk in, panting like a dog with a brown paper bag in his hand and ask me, “May I hear another story, Uncle?” I would always smile and nod, gesturing to the small wooden chair sitting across the table from me. I had learned to sit and wait for him to come after finishing my own meal, (after all, I was raised not to talk with my mouth full, and it is always better to tell a story on a full stomach.) While the boy, Alexander Fox, wasn’t truly my nephew,he had become like family to me. “So Ashkii,” Ashkii was a traditional name, and Alexander’s face lit up when I addressed him in the language of the tribe. “What story would you like to hear today?” At first, Alexander had simply asked me to surprise him, but he quickly decided on his favorite story, and soon all he wanted to hear was that same story repeated over and over. It was an old story, one where a brave young man who was scouting ahead for his fellow warrior’s encampment discovered that their enemy was riding en masse towards their village, bypassing the encampment. The young warrior didn’t have time to grab his horse, so he ran as fast as he could towards his home, taking no breaks to rest. The spirits of the land admired his fortitude and softened the earth beneath his feet, and the spirits of the sky rewarded his bravery by blowing their winds and propelling him forward. The young warrior made it to his village just as the sun rose, and with help from the spirits, he led his people in battle and defended his home. When the story was over, Alexander always had a wistful look in his face. He would often ask me, “Uncle, do you think I will ever be able to fight to defend our home, to honor the tribe?” “I think that the tribe’s days of fighting for our home are over, Ashkii, but if you feel that being a warrior is what you are meant to do, and you chase after it with all you have, anything is possible.” I would often respond in this way. Once I had finished my story, Alexander had little time left to chat. He always rushed out the door, apologies and gratitudes trailing in the air behind him. I never took it personally that he left so quickly. After all, he spent what little free time he had indulging an old man. I would simply nod and wave, telling him, “If you still have an appetite for another story tomorrow, you’re welcome here anytime.” Eventually, Alexander graduated from the reservation’s only high school. He didn’t have much family, so when the military came looking for Navajo to join the army, he jumped at the chance to defend his home like he always dreamed of. I would one day learn that the group Alexander joined used the language of our tribe as a code to safely transmit information on the battlefield. One night, Alexander was caught behind enemy lines with intel that his platoon desperately needed. The only problem was, his walkie-talkie was broken. The newspapers called it a miracle when the story emerged about the code talker that ran thirty-five miles in a single night. I knew better though. Alexander wrote me a letter the next day, telling me that he had been reciting our story to himself the whole time, and the ground beneath his feet had felt softer and the wind had stopped blowing against him. When I first read his letter, I smiled from ear to ear, chuckling to myself quietly. Even after all this time, I could still serve my purpose. There was still power in the stories of my people. Fruit of the Mind
by Addy Gyll
Purple Pansies
by Addy Gyll
Purple pansies
Blooming about Purple pansies Deep colored sprouts Purple pansies Filling the air Purple pansies Kill with violet care Purple pansies Filling the mind Purple pansies Glossy eyes go blind Purple pansies Wrapped up nice Purple pansies Above buried lies Purple pansies Stuck in the mud Purple pansies Sick little bud Purple pansies Deep in the ground Purple pansies Don’t make a sound Purple pansies Grow beneath the earth Purple pansies A gentle rebirth The Recipe
by Connor Lindsay
Carefully, I tip the plastic shaker and let a few grains of salt drop into the teaspoon. I need to get this right; I’ve failed on this step too many times before. Slowly but surely, the little white pebbles fill the teaspoon up to the top. Perfect.
“One teaspoon of salt,” I mutter to myself as I pour it into the large bowl sitting on the counter. It sprinkles down on top of the other contents I’ve already added: One fourth cup of brown sugar, one pound of ground beef, and one handful of bread crumbs. The term “handful” seems vague compared to the other measurements, but at this point I know what I’m doing. At least, that’s true for the ingredients I’ve dealt with so far. Truth be told, most of the recipe remains a mystery to me. I know I should add Worcestershire sauce, but the amount could be anything between one half teaspoon and two tablespoons. And I think I need to add a dash of… parsley? Oregano? It could just be pepper for all I know. But those first ingredients: beef, bread, brown sugar, and salt. Those I know for sure. At this point in the process that I take out my notebook. I’ve been working on this for so long that I have several pages full of notes on the ingredients I should --and shouldn’t-- include. Admittedly, I’ve had a few rather terrible failures in the past; try as I might, a master baker I am not. For instance, I learned quickly that if you add both baking soda and vinegar to a recipe, it creates a rather unpleasant reaction that couldn’t have been good for my oven. I also learned that one cup of chili powder is definitely too much chili powder. I’ve burnt more beef and spilled more sauce than I could ever hope to remember. Yet, even after all those attempts, all those failures, I still feel miles from my goal. The perfect meatloaf eludes me like a white whale on the open ocean. But with enough experimenting, enough trying, enough failing, I'll find it. Eventually. Now, instead of one cup of chili powder, I try one tablespoon. The red flakes coat the mixture, giving the whole thing a crimson outer coating. I take a quick note in my book before continuing. Next, the Worcestershire. Last time I added too much and my whole kitchen smelled like the strong sauce for a week. This time, I am more careful. I add exactly one tablespoon, same as the chili powder. Pour, stir, note, next ingredient. The whole process has become automatic, methodical for me. When I first started, I felt like a random number generator, systematically going through every combination until I find the one that works. I think the saying goes that, if you put one hundred monkeys in a room with a typewriter, one of them will eventually write Shakespeare. Or was it one monkey and a hundred typewriters? Or one Shakespeare that will eventually figure out how to use a typewriter and then write about monkeys? Something along those lines. After several minutes of meticulously measuring and adding other ingredients, I come to the last one. The hardest one. The one that, ninety-nine percent of the time, will be the cause of my failure. Water. It seems simple, right? I mean, the first time I didn't even think to add it. And yet, it seems to be the keystone of this whole recipe. Don't add enough, and the meat burns. Add too much, and you end up creating a sort of beefy stew rather than a meatloaf. I'm pretty sure it contributes to the consistency somehow, making sure everything stays together. But then again, I don't really know; like I said before, I'm no cook. And I sure don’t know how to make anything stay together. I look back over my notes, searching for the section labeled "Water." Across the many trials I've conducted, I've narrowed down the amount that I need to somewhere between 3/4 cups to 1 cup. I decide to shoot straight down the middle, filling up my 1/4 cup fully three times and then halfway once. Once that's added and stirred in, I pour the mixture into a large glass baking pan. Holding it, I stare at the oven. It's time for it to cook. This part of the process is always the most stressful for me: the waiting. I've taken my shot, now I just have to wait and see if it'll pay off. It's similar to the feeling you get after submitting a job application, or sending an emotional text. It's that feeling of "well, it's out of my hands now, nothing I can do but hope it works out." Despite how many times I've tried, I still get that feeling, every time. Maybe that's good; it means that I haven't lost hope yet. It's always at this point that I get the urge to look at it. I don't know why, it's not like anything will have changed. It will be exactly where I left it, at the front of the notebook, taped to the inside cover. The only thing looking at it does is remind me of my own failure, my own remorse. There's really no reason to look. For once, I think I will resist the temptation. Who am I kidding? I flip the notebook back to the front, and there it is. A small piece of paper, yellowed by time, wrinkled from use. Scrawled across its surface are several sentences, elegant handwriting penned in dark black ink. The original recipe. Or what's left of it at least. Here's what I've got: Honeycutt Meatloaf Combine ingredients in a large bowl: One pound ground beef One teaspoon salt One-fourth cup brown sugar One handful of bread crumbs one Worcestershire A dash of See the issue? The majority of the recipe is gone, torn off at some point or stained beyond recognition, leaving me only a few complete steps, or otherwise fragments of steps. I wish I could say what happened to the other part; I wish I could at least say when I lost it. But the truth is I have no idea. I didn't care enough to notice, really. Maybe it got put under some boxes, and I went to grab it and it ripped. Or maybe I dropped it on the floor and then I stepped on it. It doesn't matter. It's gone now, that's what matters. Want to know the saddest part? I don't even remember when she gave it to me. Again, I didn't care enough then, not by a long shot. But I guess that's me: Terrible cook, even worse son. The reason why Norma Honeycutt's Famous Meatloaf will never be tasted again. Because I didn't care enough. The oven beeps. It's ready. Hesitantly I walk over, pulling a mitt onto my right hand. I pull down the handle, and a wave of hot steam wafts out of the opening and into my face, blinding me for a few moments. Raising the suspense. I can almost hear a sports announcer in my head: "This is the moment of truth, ladies and gentlemen. Will he finally succeed, fixing his mistake, or will he once again be faced with agonizing failure? Let's find out." I open my eyes and stare down at the pan. It looks right, as far as I can tell. I mean, at this point it's been years since I've actually seen her make it herself, so I couldn't say for sure. But at least it's not burnt. Or soup. In fact, it actually looks pretty good. The light brown meat pokes out above the sauce in several places like little mountaintops jutting out of the ocean. The sauce itself looks uniform, not chunky in some places and watery in others, as it often has in previous trials. And the smell... tomato and oregano are the strongest scents in the mix, with worcestershire coming up as a close second, leaving the vinegar only faintly noticeable in the background. It smells like comfort, like familiarity. I pull the pan out of the oven. Once the pan is sitting on the stove top, I can get a better look. Steam wafts off the top, adding to the almost volcanic aesthetic of the food. The meat is the mountain, the red sauce is lava, and I am the scared tourist hoping I don’t get burned. Or something. That metaphor got away from me a little bit. In addition to getting a better look, I also get a better smell. When it hits my nose, a wave of nostalgia slaps me so hard I nearly jump away from the stove. Memories of me as a kid, sitting at a dinner table with my sister and father as my mother approaches holding a pan full of the elusive meatloaf; each of those images quickly flood back into my head. I am overwhelmed with hope. This is the closest I have ever come. Hands shaking, I reach for a knife and begin carving a square section of the loaf off from the main mass. Carefully, I use the knife to place the slice on a plate, the brown-reddish serving looking almost like a soft brick on its ceramic background. This is the moment of truth. I cut off the edge with my fork and take a bite. My first thought is not comforting: this isn’t right. Something about the spices, the amount of oregano or chili powder; whatever it is, it doesn’t taste like I remember. And yet… it’s good. Definitely not the same as it was, not Mom’s, but good. I quickly shovel in another bite, checking to see if it’s the same as the first. I get the same sensation, not exactly one of nostalgia, but still of joy, excitement. Through my trials, I’ve made something new, something original, and I like it. While part of me is disappointed that I’ve failed again, another part of me is strangely proud. I wonder if Mom would be ok with this, with what I’ve created. I won’t ever be able to make her meatloaf, but maybe I can make my own. And maybe that’s enough. I consider this for a moment, then nod to myself and grab the notebook. I open it back up to the front page, where the original recipe is taped. Using my black pen, I write: Lindsay-Honeycutt Meatloaf Combine ingredients in a large bowl: One pound ground beef One teaspoon salt One-fourth cup brown sugar One handful of bread crumbs one tablespoon of Worcestershire A dash of oregano One tablespoon of chili powder Two teaspoons of vinegar One teaspoon of pepper One and a half cups of tomato sauce ⅞ cups of water Cook for 45 minutes Dedicated to Norma Honeycutt. |
2019-2020 Literary Magazine Staff Senior Editors:
Ethan Blackburn Connor Lindsay Editors: Lily Erb Alie Garcia Sydney Kaelin Artwork Editors: Jayla Corbett (senior editor) Bari Elliot Huong Nguyen Contributors
FictionEthan Blackburn
Connor Lindsay Creative NonfictionKyla McGhee
Poetry
J. J. Barnett
Kesenia Dewell Addy Gyll Shaniah Holloway Xavier McCreary Sanaa Powell Kyla Whitten ArtworkBari Elliot
Addy Gyll |