Frisson. Issue 3- Synapse

Apr

il, 2

014

Staff Editor-in-Chief. Clara Chin Editors.

Claire Schermeister Kaleb Davies Cover Artwork.

Kristen Hwang

fris•son [frē sōn′] *A moment of intense excitement; a shudder. **Means “ friction” in Latin and “shudder” in French, according to the Merriam Webster Dictionary. “Frisson” describes the emotional shiver experienced when listening to music, viewing artwork, watching a film, or writing. It is suspense, it is love, it is creation. It is the emotional response to art. It is proof that magic does exist; it is a non-scientific reaction of the soul to the bustling world around it. Just as any good stew needs that extra kick of good flavor, every story needs a little bit of frisson.

*the

free

dict

iona

ry.c

om

*If you would like to contribute artwork, writing, etc., contact inkgriots@gmail.com!

“Desiree,” Clara Chin 1,3 Artwork by Adeli M.L., 2

“Kaleidoscope World,” Ryan Hall, 4 Artwork by Skylynn Thangwaritorn, 4

“The Beginning,” Maya Roe, 5 “Rivalry,” Anonymous, 6

Artwork by Hannah Park, 7 “Sylvania in Winter,” Maya Roe, 8

The Sweetest Mortality, Claire Schermeister, 9 Artwork by Marie Schermeister, 11

“Daddy,” Mariah Engel, 12

*All images and texts are original works by the author (unless other sources are noted or are clear references to a famous work) and are the property of their

creators.

Publicity. Aaron Barlin Austin Olson

MESSAGE FROM THE EDITOR Hello readers! We are very excited about the release of the third issue of Frisson and hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed putting it together. It’s April, and we high schoolers are all in a sort of transitional period right now—studying for AP tests, worrying about the upcoming prom, and looking forward to the summer. This is one of the reasons we chose to name this issue “Synapse.” Once you read the stories and enjoy the visual art, you will know why else. Our magazine is growing very rapidly, receiving 3172 and counting views on issuu.com! This issue also has our highest number of contributors. You can read Frisson online at issuu.com/chiarezza/docs/frisson3 to see the artwork in color. We’d like to thank the Tamura family, Phil Schermeister Photography, Thrive Florist, and Bobazone for their generous donations. Bobazone was our very first advertisement! These donors make it possible for us to print and distribute copies. Please email inkgriots@gmail.com if you wish to contribute or donate. Happy reading, Your Editor

Desiree, Clara Chin Her reflection stared back at her in the hotel door. It wore a black pantsuit, a glittery, gold top,

and beige, glossy high heels. Her hair was pulled back in a neat half ponytail. Her face seemed at ease, yet it felt strange to be in the city again.

She half-smiled at her reflection, somewhat satisfied, and turned to begin her scout for a good restaurant. The city was a wonder. The lingering scent of old ladies’ perfume drifted by her nose, accompanied by sporadic whiffs of the burnt, rotten stench that could only be weed. An occasional shack-like house hid amongst the crowd of hotels drenched in wealth. Desiree could not decide if the two-man band in the middle of the sidewalk or the steam chuffing out of storm drains was more difficult to stop staring at. It was as if a supreme being had severed pieces from multiple regions of the world and squished them together into the condensed mix that was San Francisco.

“Yes, that restaurant had really good reviews on Yelp.” “Let’s go there, then.”

Desiree’s ears found a conversation. Desiree’s eyes found a couple. The silhouette of a man with a pompadour held the hand of a woman with majestic, waist-length hair. They walked the streets confidently and seemed like they knew where they were going, so Desiree followed them discretely in hopes of a good meal. As she strode up the buckling sidewalk, she stared wide-eyed and gape-mouthed into restaurant windows. Windows filled with food and people and lights and warmth. Every window held at least one couple, their eyes shy and trusting, round like peeled lychees.

She wished she were on that side of the glass. Finally, the couple entered a restaurant. She thanked them in her mind and looked around. There

seemed to be no table seats, but the sight of glistening salmon and the smell of earthy potatoes kept her waiting. Finally, a seat at the bar became available. Desiree observed the small, white candles throbbing in the darkness against the earthy, red background of the walls. A waiter handed her a menu. She ordered the salmon and garlic potatoes, but was not well versed in terms of drinks.

The pair next to her seemed deep in conversation, so she turned to the kindly looking man to her right. He was astonishingly good looking.

“Hey, what’s a good thing to drink?” He smiled cheerfully. “Well, you could always go with a margarita.” She stuck with that. When the waiter left, she turned to the man. His sandy brown hair was

growing unkempt. He wore glasses. Something about his left-skewed smile seemed tinged by sadness. The man stared at the candle in front of his dishes.

“What’s your name?” “I’m Tom,” he said. “Desiree,” she said. Her voice was kind but businesslike; she could not shake off her

professional tone after a long day jammed with meetings. Formalities ensued. Where do you come from? What do you do? Desiree wondered if she should ask him if he had a girlfriend, but she remembered what happened the last time she did that. She quickly forgot to ask; plus, she was having a good time anyway. The food came, and so did her margarita. The crushed salt surprised her, not to mention the taste of alcohol alone, which reminded her of the nail polish remover she spilled on her hotel desk just last night. Nevertheless, Desiree quickly began to feel peculiarly relaxed. “So, Tom, do you come here often?” Tom laughed. “Have you read Marie Claire lately?

(continued on next page)

Adeli M.L.

Desiree laughed. “That’s my favorite magazine! How did you know?” “I figured. So, what do you plan to do in the city?” “I’m not really sure. I’ll probably go see the Golden Gate Bridge, maybe go to Chinatown,

maybe Fisherman’s Wharf, ride the trolley.” Tom nodded his head. He needed to help this poor girl. “Well, if you really want to see San

Francisco, I have some suggestions for you. First off, you need to go to the Uniqlo flagship store. They have some fabulous sales right now. Second, go to The Blue Mug off 17th street. It’s the best coffee shop. It’ll be the one with no sign and a really long line out the alleyway.”

“Oh. But, isn’t that a little…you know. Shady, or something?” Desiree furrowed her eyebrows. “Shady? Not at all. If you want to get shady, take the Bart. Don’t even bother with the trolley.

It’s totally not worth your time. You should also look at some of the Chinese restaurants outside of Chinatown…”

Tom continued talking, gesticulating grandly, pausing for dramatic effect. Desiree nodded her head every so often, but the words dissolved before they reached her brain. All she heard were blurred sounds, sounds soft and rich like milk. Tom’s face was so beautiful. His eyes were round like peeled lychees. And his outfits! They were even better than hers. Desiree began to feel kitschy in her sparkly top. Desiree watched Tom’s mouth move. It reminded her of Ryan Gosling. She imagined Tom’s mouth saying, “You are, and always have been, my dream.” Desiree knew Tom was special.

Desiree took a deep breath and stared at her plate, nothing left but salmon bones. “So, uh, do you want to get out of here?” Tom raised his eyebrows. “Desiree, I would love to, but I can’t keep my partner waiting.” Partner? Business partner? Desiree’s mouth became dry. She knew this wasn’t what he meant. So he did have a girlfriend after all. Tom continued. “My husband’s going on a business trip soon, so I need to make sure I see him tonight.” “Your…who?” Desiree stared in confusion and blinked rapidly. “Goodness, Desiree. Haven’t you ever met a gay man before?” Tom laughed heartily. “Obviously, why wouldn’t I? I mean, of course I have!” Desiree said, sputtering. She waved

goodbye to her Ryan Gosling dreams and began to closely examine the split ends on her hair. ‘Must. Avoid. Eye contact,’ she thought to herself. The bartender swung by and Desiree asked for the check. She waited another tense five minutes

until the receipt was returned. She pushed in her chair, and brushed off her coat, nearly tripping over her foot. “Well, I guess this is it,” Desiree said. “Have a nice evening, Desiree,” Tom murmured politely. Desiree shuffled out of the restaurant, thinking about the room service dinner she would order the next night.

Kaleidoscope World, Ryan Hall Staring down at the unceremoniously split skin, I realized the blisters burst from the task that

created them. Sighing and ignoring the slight stinging sensation, my fingers latched onto the cool metal of the carts. My already illegal amount had me slightly struggling in the rain. Not to be stopped once, twice, but three times summing up the line at a total of nine carts. Pushing through the wall of artificially warm air, the wet wheels squeaked, rolling through the door. Pushing the carts into the corral and spotting my manager, then quickly pivoting to avoid the scolding I had coming. She called out my name and I cursed under my breath at being caught. Turning back around, I wore the itching fake smile that I had perfected over the months of working at Albertson’s. Marlene walked forward and met me halfway in the entrance of the store. My back faced the dark, cool night and I could feel the slanted rain drops on the exposed skin of my neck as I nodded to her reminder that the MOST carts I was ever supposed to take in at a time was five and under no circumstances was I allowed to be handling nine carts, especially during the rain. For my safety as well as the customers. Walking back outside, the beads of water rolled off the lights, creating some odd kaleidoscope patterns in the damp car windows. This weather was so temperamental yet so fascinating. If I were a storm I would leave nothing in my path but the serenity of a barren land. No life left of any kind. But aren’t we all storms, battling with words instead of temperatures? Are we all hurricanes destructive to anything that does not touch the eye, or, I suppose, the heart? Thunderstorms bellowing the anger, the pain of the soul before the lashing of lightning? If I were some all-powerful, omnipotent being, I would not want to create humans. If I had the supremacy, I would create storms so powerful and enchanting, the world would remember why we name them after humans. If I were some all-powerful, omnipotent being, I would create the world anew. I would turn wars into dance battles cheered on by the laughing children of the world, guns into blooming rockets of light and hope, fists into open hands flowering with patience and creativity, turn the stars into a piano to play the sky into the ground so we could have a soundtrack of our greatest nights, have the sun emit wine instead of light so we could be drunk with the happiness of another day rising. It would be a single part of an odd kaleidoscope in the constellations of the damp car window universe, a pattern seen by the rest of the presences of a cosmos unknown or the parking lot attendant.

The rain lightly drizzled into my uncovered hair and darkened the color as I grabbed one more cart, a total of five before I walked inside the brightly lit store. My manager slightly smiled as I pushed the carts into the corral.

Skyl

ynn

Than

gwar

itorn

The beginning, Maya Roe

Sparks and stars As innumerable as the prayers in my heart Twirl above me, witnessing this chapter of my life beginning In this moment, I am in my own world, adrift from the safe harbor of all I understand. The tiny light of my soul pales in comparison to the deep confusing night of everything that is new and impenetrable. Suddenly from the lips of these amazing strangers, a lifeline is thrown suddenly I can see through the night the faces of my new friends each of them, lost lights too, all of them afloat on this ocean of beautiful newness. Together, tonight, our lights together will carry us To a new shore, where we will create ourselves and learn together, Where we will understand the language of our new home. Pines and snow The silent spectators of us on this night, As we look from our tiny candles, up into the vastness Of the starry night, even the northern star, Higher in the sphere than I have ever seen it before, Welcomes me home to a place I have dreamed of forever

Phil

Sche

rmei

ster

Rivalry, Anonymous It all started when we were put into squads of four, with three squires following one knight.

Mine, of course, had him in it—Cedric. Sure, he was good-looking, popular, and skilled, but he was a total jerk. At least I had my best friend Leo to keep me from going insane. Our kingdom had sent out emergency orders for all men who could fight to pick up arms for war. This included the squires, so we took a crash course in battle training. But with someone like Cedric constantly outshining me, I kept letting down my guard, deep in thought.

“Hey Frederick, put your shield up! Concentrate!” “Huh?” I blinked, and saw a brown blur headed towards my rib cage. Next thing I knew, I was flying, with my side on fire, and roughly landed unceremoniously on

the ground, with Cedric sneering at me. “Bet you won’t even survive against a page, loser.” I ignored my burning face, retrieved my practice sword, and stumbled back to the bench. My teacher, Sir Edwin, a strict but kind man, had a word with me afterwards. Yes, I should pay attention more often, and stop “daydreaming” because it might get me killed. But what did he know about having a rival? I decided to ask him.

“Oh…Cedric? I know he’s skilled, but you can’t let this bother you. You have your own strengths as well.”

“Easier said than done, as you always say. Besides, what am I good at?” “Well…you’re kind, creative, and can sew.” Yeah, thanks for the self-esteem boost. “Not that sewing would ever help a knight,” I snorted. Sir Edwin told me not to focus on my weaknesses and to instead work on improving and honing

my skills—and my attitude—again, much easier said than done. Later, at lunch, Leo, ever the student, gave me advice on improving my defense, and loaned me a book of sword techniques. The next session, I lasted twice as long as my last defeat—not that much longer, but still better. But gradually, this became a pattern. I would still lose, but between Leo’s advice, training with Sir Edwin, and becoming fired up by Cedric’s insults, I became a tougher opponent. I noticed that some students weren’t cheering when I lost. I realized that Cedric was losing his temper more often as well. Then, one day, I got up after barely losing. For the first time, I demanded a rematch, finally sick of Cedric’s condescending remarks. I readied my wooden sword and my posture. Cedric did likewise after recovering from his shock. I could tell from his eyes that he was seeing me as his equal, but wasn’t about to admit it aloud.

Time seemed to slow down, and I saw Sir Edwin’s worried face, Leo staring at me, and everyone else holding their breath. Cedric and I began circling each other in a deadly dance, swords erect. I performed a butterfly sweep, only to be met by his sword. We each shoved our full weight into the locked wood. I sidestepped, swinging at his exposed shoulder as he fell forward with no support. He rolled and quickly resumed his defensive stance. My sword sang through the air as I swung at his right; Cedric parried the blow and kicked me in the stomach. Reeling, I barely got my sword up in time to meet his frenzied assault. He grew more careless with each swing, and I desperately thrust into the opening in his defenses.

Clang. What kind of a noise was that? I already knew the answer: Cedric was wearing chainmail. The

crowd murmured in shock. Squires weren’t supposed to even own such expensive luxuries! We were only allowed to have leather armor. Cedric glared at me with the furious gaze of a crazed basilisk, his secret discovered, and charged. He knocked me into the hard, stone wall. I sank to the dirt floor, feeling faint.

I can’t lose. Not now, with everyone watching. This is the closest battle in our heated rivalry, and won’t end in another loss.

Before Cedric could gloat, I stood up. The crowd gasped as I rushed him and used the technique I was learning that day when my resolve first grew—disarming. His sword flew through the air, landing behind him. My sword was already hovering near his temple. We stood there, frozen, with the only sound being that of our breathing. He locked eyes with me, holding up his hands grudgingly. I finally won was the last thought I had before the darkness came.

Later that night, I was in bed, exhausted, when Cedric came in through the door. But much to my surprise, he bowed and told me that he had been dishonorable.

“Will you forgive me for my misconduct?” The images that flashed through my mind were certainly not pleasant. He had humiliated me

many times over, but I knew I would be no better than he if I kept a grudge. “Stand up. Of course I forgive you. After all, that’s what comrades are for, right?” He stared at my smiling face and slowly grinned. “Really, Frederick?” “I can’t have you distracted in battle by such thoughts, after all!”

That night, I dreamt that I was a teacher along with Cedric and Leo, and that we joked of the times in which we clashed. That dream is now in my waking hours, and I have never been happier. Hannah Park

Sylvania in Winter, Maya Roe

All around me is the silence of February.

My skis cut through the soft powder,

painting my course across the frozen lake

in twin lines.

Ahead of me, a dark band of trees

cuts between the blinding whiteness of the snow

and the faded blue of the sky.

What better paper

What better pen

could I wield to tell the story of my adventure.

A story so impermanent

that the memories are already

being covered by a feathery drifting quilt

of lost snowflakes.

Phil

Sche

rmei

ster

An Excerpt from The Sweetest Immortality, Claire Schermeister This is an excerpt from a novel I wrote about Beethoven and someone he loves very much

named Maria. They have known each other for about 10 years at this point. Beethoven was very sick during his lifetime, and this excerpt takes place after they have just visited his doctor together to try and take care of his serious health problems. He has just been diagnosed with Hepatitis and is feeling very stressed, overwhelmed and worried. She tries to comfort him, but nothing she says seems to make him feel any better. In the previous installment, the both of them share a few bottles of wine, and presently he gets drunk. Despite her admonitions, he drinks too much, vomits and loses consciousness. Panicking, she carries him upstairs and runs to get the doctor. Doctor Anton bleeds him and then, seeing that has done no good, operates on his stomach to remove the excess alcohol and flush his system with water. He tells Maria he has a good chance of surviving, but there is nothing else he can do. She becomes very worried and distraught, especially since the minutes tick by after the operation and he shows no signs of consciousness.

All of this worrying about Ludwig had made Maria quite exhausted, and she nestled herself up against him and fell asleep, but only after instructing the doctor to watch extra carefully over him. Once Maria was asleep, the doctor looked at the two of them and sighed. He had never seen two people who loved each other more. Not a mother and son, or a married couple. The level of concern she had for him was unbelievable. Usually it was the man who rushed to the woman's side, but if Ludwig woke up, he would credit Maria with saving his life. If she had not run to get him, he would have not stood much of a chance. He checked his watch. It had been half an hour since the surgery. He had supposed Ludwig had a good chance of waking up, but how long would it take? There was nothing else him and his assistants could do but wait. He sighed and looked again at Maria sleeping so peacefully next to Ludwig. "Please, wake up," he thought with a sigh. "She needs you."

Forty-five minutes after the operation, Maria woke up. She sat up and gently touched Ludwig's face. "Louie? Are you up?" No response whatsoever. She sighed and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you." She said to him as she caressed his face. "I need you to wake up now." She bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. He was warm. She supposed that was good. She turned to the doctor. "How long has it been?" "Forty-five minutes." he replied. Maria sighed and flopped back down on the bed. "I shall wait here until he wakes up." The doctor nodded. "So are we. That is all we can do."

It seemed as if they were waiting forever. Maria laid back down and put Ludwig's arm around her. On one hand, she was very comfortable lying here next to him. He was warm and it felt like he was just sleeping. On the other hand, however, he was very sick, and she was worried to death about him. That made it hard to think about anything else. She waited and waited, and finally the hour mark rolled around. At this point she gently touched him and whispered, "Ludwig, I love you. Are you there? Can you wake up for me?"

Ludwig van Beethoven's consciousness returned. Slowly. The first thing he noticed was the pain, and so much of it. His stomach felt awful, and his arm

smarted as well. His foot stung and he had a nasty headache, too. He tried to move but found this only brought more pain and discomfort. And then he heard something. It was a sound he knew very well. Maria's voice. With great effort, he groaned and opened his eyes.

Suddenly, Maria heard Ludwig groan and his eyes opened a bit. She screamed. "Oh Ludwig, you are alive!! I am so glad to have you back!! Oh, thank god you are going to be alright. Oh Louie, don't ever do that me again!" She showered him with kisses, and hugged him, at which he cried out in pain. "Ah! It hurts!" The doctor got up and rushed over to him. "Maria, please don't do that. He just had surgery on his stomach and is very sore." "Of course." She took her arms away. "I'm sorry, Louie." she teared up and bent down so she was on eye level with him. "Ludwig, I am so glad you are back here

with me. I feared you would not return." She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. He closed his eyes and kissed back; that was all he could do right now. Then, he opened his eyes and half-sat up to look at his body.

Through his blurry and shifting vision he could see he had a bandage on his foot and several cloths and wraps on his stomach. Upon gazing over the edge of the bed, he also saw that his arm had a tourniquet and bandage on it, and a bucket of red liquid sat below it. He did not want to know what that was, and with a sudden queasiness in his stomach, he laid down again. He could not turn to Maria, but when he spoke, she listened closely. "M-Maria.. I- What has happened? Where am I? And why am I- in such pain?" He coughed. "Doctor Anton? Is that.. you? What are you- augh- doing here?” The doctor walked over with a big smile on his face. "Hello, Ludwig. I'm glad to see you're back with us. You've just been through quite an ordeal. Maria will tell you all about it. I am going to stay here for a while to make sure you are alright." Ludwig nodded. He squeezed Maria's hand with his good one, which he had discovered she was holding. "Maria, what... what happened?" She sighed and sat up. "What do you remember?"

He thought a minute. "Well, I had had a bottle of wine, and I danced with you." She nodded. "Yes. After that, you did have 2 more bottles, and you became very drunk and could not speak or walk properly." He nodded. "Ah."

"Then," she continued, "You told me you felt sick and you threw up all over the floor. You lost consciousness and fell down. I had to pick you up and carry you up here so you could lie down. You were very heavy and it was difficult, but I managed." He smiled and squeezed her hand. "Thank you." She nodded. "I checked your breathing and your pulse, and then your liver, and it was quite swollen. At that point I ran to fetch Doctor Anton." She nodded at him and he smiled. "He came and tested your blood alcohol content, which he found to be dangerously high. He cut your arm open to let some of your blood out, and that is why you are hurting there. After he had let enough blood out, he closed you up and waited for you to wake up." He nodded and looked to the doctor. "Why was I bled?"

Doctor Anton got up and slowly walked towards the bed. "You see, Ludwig, your blood was - and still is - very saturated with alcohol. When I let some of it out, your body will naturally produce more, but without alcohol, effectively lowering the saturation in your blood. You are a bit short on blood right now, which is why you may be feeling lightheaded." He nodded. "Then what happened?"

"Well," the doctor said, "We waited for an hour or so for you to wake up, which we thought you would do, but you didn't. I then had to open up your stomach to drain you of any excess alcohol and give you some water to flush out your system." At this point Ludwig's eyes widened. "I was... operated on?" Maria squeezed his hand. "It was terrifying. I didn't like seeing you cut open like that, but I held your hand the entire time.”

"Oh, Maria." He said. "After that," she said, "We waited and waited. I - you were so unresponsive, it was horrible - I couldn't - Louie, I -" She was trying to choke back her sobs, but at this point it was evident they could be held in no longer. She burst into tears. "Oh, Ludwig, I kept shaking you and you would just lie there. You were so pale. I feared you would not- you would not wake up. Ah." Her body shook with sobs and he squeezed her with his good arm. "Sssh, come... come here. Lie next to me." He said quietly. "I cannot move. Here. Kiss me." She sat up and they affectionately touched lips. "Maria... I am here now. You don't have to... to worry about me any longer. I will... be alright." Then he thought for a moment. "So I have been on the brink of death." The doctor and Maria both nodded.

"And you two have saved my life." "It was Maria who saved you." The doctor said from his chair across the room. "Had she not

come and gotten me immediately after you lost consciousness, you would not have had much of a

chance. I have not in my lifetime seen someone more concerned or more caring towards another. She held your hand the entire time you were unconscious. She also cried quite a bit and would shake you and ask if you were awake. Every time you gave no response, but she faithfully checked every 5 minutes for the past 2 hours." The doctor sighed. "This all has been very unusual, but we can all say we are overjoyed to have you back."

Beethoven turned to Maria. "Maria... I..." He reached up to caress her face with his good hand. "Oh my god... Maria, you... saved me. Maria-" "It is nothing." She covered his mouth with her hand. "Don't thank me. You would have done it too. You deserve your life as much as anyone else." "Oh." He choked on his own tears. "I cannot believe I have done this to myself, and to you. It must have been horrible for you to be there with me, and hold me, and ask if I was alright, and I gave no response." She nodded. "It was awful."

"I am so, so sorry Maria." He said, taking her hand in his and kissing it. "I will never... do that to you again, as long as I live. Thank you so much, I-" He sighed. "I'm very overwhelmed. I cannot think straight. Doctor, what else... must I do?" "Well," replied doctor Anton, "You will need to stay in bed until your body rids itself of the alcohol, and you have healed from your operation. I expect that you are still feeling very sick-" at this Ludwig nodded "- and you need to stay in bed for a few more days. I will stay with you until you are well. I expect you to drink lots of liquids and sleep. I do not want you to roll over or get out of bed today, as you are still very sick. My assistants and I will care for you." He nodded. "Thank you... so very much. I'm very tired. Is it alright that I go to sleep now?" The doctor nodded. "Yes. All I ask is that you do not move to do so. I will change your dressings periodically." He nodded.

"May I sleep here as well?" Maria chimed in. The doctor nodded. "Of course, as long as you do not touch his stomach in any way." She nodded. She snuggled up to Ludwig, and he put his good arm around her. "I love you." He whispered into her ear. She sighed. "I love you too."

They were both very tired, and the doctor watched with a smile as the two drifted peacefully off to sleep. Neither was in danger of losing their life now, or worried sick about the other. And wasn't that exactly how life was supposed to be?

Mar

ie S

cher

mei

ster

Daddy, Mariah Engel 12 o’clock. 3 o’clock. Time’s up. Goodbye hugs. “See you next weekend.” Locked away. Dad.

I spent my weekends just like this, sometimes even my holidays, since I was the mere age of 2 until I was 11. Every weekend my mom and I would drive over three hours just to see my dad. She would drive anxiously, while I just stared out the window, reluctant to feel. I knew close to nothing about the man that sat before me each weekend. He was a stranger I was taught to call “daddy”. The dear term meant nothing more to me than a label, a name to a face. But, I knew it should have meant more to me. As I sat weekend after weekend in the dull white visiting room, I kept to myself and stayed quiet. I was not like the other kids who were happy just to run around.

I pondered my thoughts thoroughly. “Who is ‘daddy’?” “Why can’t he stay home?” “Why is mommy so sad?” “Why can’t I be with my cousins if I have no school?” “Why do I feel alone?” I could not answer my questions and I was too timid to ask anyone else for the answers. I could not express my concern to anyone; my emotions were guarded. I never asked my mom why daddy was in prison. I never told anyone about what I did on the weekends. I never turned to anyone for comfort. These tribulations only made me stronger. Yes I was young, but I felt like I had to depend on myself. So I learned to cope with my feelings and do what was needed to be done. I put all my efforts into staying emotionally strong and into my learning. I saw how prison was a restraint for my father and our family. He was the teenager who barely finished high school and ended up in prison. My mother did not attend college either, married a convict, and became a single parent. Both my parents made the most of their troubling situations which inspired me. Seeing their struggles intensified my drive for an education. I want to accomplish what they never did in order to make them proud and to give myself an opportunity to a better future. I push myself mentally and emotionally to strive in school. My childhood experiences gave me motivation to try to reach my dreams of attending college and being the first to graduate from a university. My family’s setbacks have given me aspirations of obtaining a college education and gave me the emotional strength to push for it.

As a child my feelings were secrets between me, myself and I, prisoners of my mind and only pulled out when I was alone. I didn’t fear my emotions or lock them away forever; I freed them anytime I had a moment of solitude and faced them head on. I felt every emotion the way it should be felt. When I was feeling sad, tears poured down my face, eyes bloodshot, and eyes swollen. When I was angry, every cuss word ran through my mind, my heart would pulsate rapidly, and my blood lit on fire. When I felt hopeless, I prayed to god, water filling my eyes threatening to come out, and faith deep inside. When I was happy, I smiled from ear to ear, butterflies in my stomach, and tingles down my spine. Each of these moments taught me strength. I coped with my emotions alone. Not that sharing feelings is bad or anything. But for me learning to deal with my own emotions gave me strength, strength through feeling, through resilience, through independence …strength through me.

Biographies AARON BARLIN, 17, is a junior at West High School and enjoys eating. CLARA CHIN, 16, is a junior at West High School (Torrance, CA). She enjoys music and loves poetry by Anne Sexton. KALEB DAVIES, 16, is a junior at West High School. He enjoys music and running. MARIAH ENGEL, 18, is a senior at West High School. She enjoys sewing, writing, reading, and hanging out with friends and family. One of her favorite writers is Ellen Hopkins, whose work she praises as “poetic” yet “raw and real.” RYAN HALL, 16, is a junior at West High School. She enjoys reading, dancing, and watching movies. KRISTEN HWANG, 17, is a junior at West High School. She enjoys reading, writing, and drawing. She is currently obsessed with the video game Bravely Default and the TV shows “Sherlock” and “Merlin.” ADELI M.L., 17, goes to Tustin High School (Tustin, CA) and wants to pursue a career in animation. She loves polka dots. To see more of her work, visit http://weirdestgirlontheblock.tumblr.com/ . AUSTIN OLSON, 17, is a junior at West High School. He enjoys playing beach volleyball and wants to become an aerospace engineer. HANNAH PARK, 16, first took interest in art when she was five years old. Her writing is posted on three different sites. Her hobbies are reading, writing, drawing, and dancing. MAYA ROE, 16, attends Conserve School (Land O’Lakes, Wisconsin) and enjoys backpacking, hiking, and writing poetry. CLAIRE SCHERMEISTER, 15, attends Connections Academy of Visual and Performing Arts. She enjoys composing, science, and filmmaking. MARIE SCHERMEISTER, 13, is in 7th grade at Sierra Waldorf School. She enjoys drawing dragons and playing volleyball. PHIL SCHERMEISTER is a professional photographer based in Sonora, California. SKYLYNN THANGWARITORN, 16, is a junior at West High School. She plays the flute in NTYME Orchestra. She loves reading and writing.

310. 370. 0604. 4612 Del Amo Blvd. Torrance, CA 90503 Looking for a quick snack? Some food to break that writer’s block? Go to Boba Zone! Their exciting menu features fun drinks like milk tea, fusion tea, snow/slush, ice blended drinks, as well as shaved ice. It is located just a couple blocks from West High School in Torrance!

Patrons of the Arts

Phil Schermeister grew up on the Great Plains where the simplicity of the landscape and the directness of the people still influence his work. As a photojournalist working for newspapers and later freelancing for colleges and universities, Schermeister embraced the concept of the “decisive moment” to tell the stories of the many people he encountered. Continuing his career with natural history assignments for the National Geographic Society, he recognized that the natural world was also full of “decisive moments” which told the stories of the various landscapes he photographed.