Rise Above the Challenge - Coco Gong, freshman

The blanket of blue above the forest canopy disappears as clouds begin to gather. Like splashes of gray paint, they swallow the grand canvas that we call “sky.” The forest becomes eerily silent as the air falls into a telltale gloom. Without warning, a streak of blinding light splits the sky in two. A rumble of thunder shivers within a storm cloud looming in the distance.

A bluebird sweeps in from its perch on the outstretched arm of an oak tree. Burrowing into the shelter beneath the small dwarf-like shrub, the bird soon disappears.

Not too far away, a brown tail flickers as the sparrow descends into the undergrowth, vanishing into a little green bush.

Upon the cavity of a pine tree, the black head of a chickadee withdraws sharply as another draft of frigid wind scrapes by.

The birds are fading away.

All except for the eagle. Unlike the others, this magnificent creature perches atop the tallest pine tree, towering above the rest of the forest. It surveys the world below with its keen eyes, unfaltering as another vein of lightning snaps with another clap of thunder.

A droplet of water lands on its beak. The downpour begins.

Crystalline balls of small droplets cascade from the sky; first a drop, then two more. Splashing and dripping, they slowly wash off the months of gathered dust upon the leaves. Heavier and heavier, the rainfall presses down. In the distance, the windows of a lonely house rattle and quake as the wailing wind slams into the feeble glass panes.

There is not a single trace of the small birds. As if frozen in time, they hide in utter stillness and silence underneath the bushes.

However, one lone silhouette is soaring in solitude through the dark skies.

Gallantly, the eagle ascends, shooting into the gray heavens. The brilliant beast flies straight ahead as another torrent of wind clashes against its feathers. Its majestic wings only spread further, catching the draft and sailing into the tempestuous clouds themselves.

Higher and higher until the rain fades away; until the bird glides above the clouds. The eagle is beyond the rage of the storm, beyond the lightning and the thunder, beyond the calamity that overrules all other feathers.

This bird, chose altitude over escape.

Marilyn, Jessalyn, and the Cyclops By Desiree Lepore-Mendez

One lovely day in a city near Mount Olympus called Bronze lived I, Marilyn. I was celebrating my eleventh birthday with my friend Jessalyn who was also turning eleven. Many people were complementing our hair and eyes. My eyes are golden brown and hers are sapphire green, while my hair is midnight black and hers is a rich brown. Everyday we stand and wonder what we could find in the deepest cave on Mount Olympus, the mountain of the gods.

In my house my family had prepared a birthday dinner. My one wish was that Jessalyn and I get the strength to go into the deepest cave on Mont Olympus. The next morning Jessalyn came up to me and said, “Let’s go up Mount Olympus!” I don’t know why or how but I said, “Ok, let’s go!” We packed up and said we were going to play in the city center. An hour later, we found ourselves halfway up Mount Olympus. We had passed five caves, all not deep enough for our adventurous ways!

We had passed every cave, and were almost at the top of mount Olympus. When we had lost hope, we found one last cave at the top. As we entered the cave, we had found it, the deepest cave on Mount Olympus! Inside there was a faint glow. Had someone come before us? As we went deeper we found Zeus, the God of Thunder, with fire. We tried to sneak past him because he looked angry. Unfortunately, Jessalyn stepped on a twig. The god roared, “Who goes there? I demand you reveal yourself!” Luckily there was a goat wandering outside that he got distracted with. Then we were able to tiptoe into a tunnel to just explore.

Sooner or later at the end of the tunnel, we found keys and a place that looked like a dungeon. A giant cage was locked. We were very curious so we unlocked it and entered, We looked around and saw what looked like human skeletons. We were terrified at the sight! Then a thundering voice boomed “Mmmm... yummy. Is this a special dinner?” We looked up and saw a giant Cyclops. We ran for our lives into a random tunnel. We went into a room and closed the door. We found a globe.

No sooner did we find it, the globe showed poor Prometheus being tortured on a rock. Then a voice was coming from a tunnel, “Come back, you’re mine now!” We began to run again. Then we bumped into a god named Hercules. We told him a god named Prometheus was being tortured. He said he would try to help him escape. As we kept running, the Cyclops came from a tunnel only a little ways. So we turned around and began to run again. Finally We saw Zeus and the fire. We ran past him. Unfortunately he heard and held us back asking us what we were doing. Then we all heard the Cyclops storming his way towards us. Zeus, for some reason, let us go. We ran to the exit of the mountain. Then I slipped, but luckily Jessalyn gabbed my hand and helped me climb the mountain.

We arrived home, our lesson learned. We regretted going up Mount Olympus. We will never wish a wish like that again. This memory will never fade away for as long as we live. But we wondered where Hercules is? Has Prometheus escaped? We will always wonder. We were lucky, thankful, and joyful to get home before anyone noticed we were gone.

Atlas and the Machine - Erin Mulazimoglu, junior

The foot of the mountain was familiar now, but it had not been when Atlas descended the mountain for the first time, free to leave but not free to walk away as the same man.

He punched in a code into a little box, the gates opened, and he breathed. He looked over his shoulder, at a silent yet jittery technician behind him. Atlas knew that the technician was playing with a couple of spare parts in his pocket, which jingled with his every step.

“I’m a little overdue to visit,” Atlas said, heading to double doors set into the rocks, “but nothing is wrong? No excess pressure, or anything rusted?”

“Everything is still stable,” the technician replied, as the two stepped through the doors, which opened with a hiss. Atlas was handed a hard hat, along with the technician.

“Safety is paramount,” Atlas mused, and smirking, he added: “Although I’m sure these won’t help us much if the machine fails.”

The elevator was so rapid, Atlas’s stomach lurched when he felt himself rise. He tried not to quiver so visibly.

The elevator stopped, and Atlas sighed, his nerves cooling as a dark, gloomy cavern was revealed, alight with the ironically warm light from lamps embedded in the slate floor.

Atlas looked around, his eyes focusing on the machine that held up the weight of the sky. The task that had once held him to this mountain every passing second of his life now required a check-up every few months.

Atlas didn’t remember how he ended up on the mountain, and all he knew of the first days were pain, a pain so great that his mind was too empty to even consider screaming. But by the fifth day, he learned the art of balance, and he could think.

First thought: How dare they sentence a physicist to hold up the sky? Make my science obsolete? “You good?” the technician asked, his black eyes matte and smooth in the dark. “Yes. Yes good,” Atlas said, but still looked around for a chair. Seeing none, he sat on the floor, restricted by the metal in his back. Then he fell back, sprawled just like before.

When Atlas surrendered the weight to the machine, he had to be pushed from behind. Even though the sky had no surface, no feel, Atlas felt when he lost contact with the sky. The blinding, original pain returned, and he lay in a heap on the ground, shapeless and paralyzed. He needed the sky, the weight that he could not bear.

He was picked up, and his bones screamed where he was held. His legs dangled useless and numb.

Sea level came and trees and animals. Oxygen rushed into suffering lungs, and Atlas’s soul flew like a kite...into a thunderstorm. The ragdoll that he had become was passed onto alarmed doctors, who did to Atlas what he had done to the sky: screwed it up to metal so it regained its ability to carry--and be--itself.

Broken - Desiree Lepore-Mendez and Anh Thu Bui

It was the peak of the night. The glowing full moon stood high over the tip of the brown

hill, illuminating an empty mansion surrounded by graves of the dead. Passing the lifeless trees

aligned on the disurbed gravel, I cautiously amble towards the glowing vantablack building- only

to notice its humongous size as I got closer. An eerie silence suddenly overwhelmed every noise

around me, leaving no sounds to be heard– no sounds of the crows, no sounds of the winds, and

no sounds of my footsteps. Before I could even reach for the handle, the chipped wooden door

slowly creaked open. The gloomy grey exterior somberly advised not to enter, yet out of

curiosity, I took a step in. The mansion held its ceilings high, and loomed over me like the roofs

at the Basilica. Around me long silvery cobwebs hung at every single corner. The small tickle of

dust hung around the air, I listened for a sound and the house replied with the echo of silence. I

heard a small creak and swiftly turned as the door slammed shut, I mean it was windy outside

anyways. The walls were decorated with torn wallpaper drooping down heavily, the sad

lavenders patterned evenly all throughout. As I studied the walls I felt a presence looming over

me; I turned sharply and saw no one; I looked up and saw a grand chandelier, beautifully placed

at the center of the high ceiling, heavy and unstable she seemed to await her victim to fall upon.

My stomach roared, I was hungry and decided to check for a kitchen maybe something was left

from the previous owners. I began to climb the old wooden stairs, while I climbed I tripped as I

almost fell through one of the large gaping holes. I looked through and all I could see was

darkness. I finally made it to the second floor. I found a kitchen, as it seemed to be placed in a

room, maybe there was another somewhere on the first floor. I looked around the room. It

seemed to be of a young girl. There were dolls lined up on the shelves. One drawer was labeled

“BROKEN” and my curiosity only peaked. I opened it up and saw doll heads, bodies, arms and

legs all removed, even some strands of hair. Even in their inanimate form they seemed forlorn.

Immediately I closed the drawer back and headed to the small kitchen. There, I opened the

cupboards and found a box of crackers. I opened it up and found that they looked fine. As I ate

crackers two mice ran out of their holes and began to stare. Their deep black eyes were begging

for just a piece. I showed them a cracker and let their eyes follow it and then placed it on the

able, where they couldn’t reach. They jumped and scratched and tried so hard to reach the food,

I sat down and ate more crackers slightly entertained by the mice. One of the mice eventually

collapsed the other went to it and laid by it. I left the room and explored the mansion. I found

five other rooms each a clone of the other. Lifeless grey walls, royal red covers, beds made, a

wooden drawer in front of the bed. I walked around with another box of crackers I found, bored

out of mind. As I exited the last room a door slammed shut behind me. I shook it off until the

stairs creaked as though someone was coming up them. I grabbed a lamp from the table

instinctively and peered down the steps and saw no one. I bolted down the stairs, tripping over

myself as a stair fell through behind me. I reached the first floor and looked around. All was at

peace. I calmed myself I was only hearing things there was nothing there. I began to explore the

first level just out of curiosity and stumbled upon three paintings. As I stared into them I felt a

sense of familiarity, almost like belonging. There was a mother a father and a daughter. The

careful brown curls bouncing on her shoulders, the mother had a loving expression on her face,

carefully and sweetly smiling back. Her pallid blue eyes looked straight through me and

welcomed me with open arms. The father started sternly forward, though I still felt the same

familiarity. His brunette eyes pierced through me and his wavy blonde hair seemed to float just

atop his head. I looked at the girl her pigtails carefully falling, framing her face. I studied her soft

innocent face, grinning at the artist. I stared into her hazel eyes, they moved. I sprinted to the

door trying to get out of there. The door wouldn’t budge. I banged and screamed- over and over

again. I kept pleading but the door didn't comply. I ran to the window and aggressively threw the

lamp, no cracks, a rock, no cracks, my shoe, no cracks! This was driving me insane! I fell to the

wall and slid down, sobbing, how was I to get out? When would this house let me out? How did I

get here? Help! Help! My cries faded with my tears. I ran from door to window and back. Help

me please! Let me out! No answer. Let me out! Next door. Please!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many women and children had disappeared in the last year. All cases were unsolved. A

report came in about a man screeching for help. The address was 312 Old Willow Rd. We busted

through the door 28 year old Harold Grey was sobbing in the corner for help. Please let me out!

Oh please! We began to take him and he screamed. Please I only regained my memory please

forgive me! I know what I’ve done is wrong have mercy and let me out! He cried out. Cara

please forgive me. We struggled getting him through the door. You were my sister I didn’t mean

it I’m sorry. We took him to the psychiatric hospital. One of the men checked around the house

for a horrid smell. He found a door labeled “BROKEN”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LA TIMES SATURDAY OCTOBER 30, 2019

Mass disappearances source discovered. 28 year old Harold Grey found in his own

house, delusional. Neighbors claimed he was acting normal two days ago. His last victim, his

sister, Cara Grey.

Untitled - Jessica Wallihan, senior

“I’m a lesbian,” I say, hands fidgeting with the hem of my obnoxiously patterned button down.

“Oh. Okay,” they say. Then, “how long have you known?”

“Let me tell you a story,” I begin. “In seventh grade, I came out as gay. Well, not exactly— I had some roundabout, ten-word-long identity I used as a way to avoid calling myself a lesbian. I told my friends, then the rest of my classmates. My parents, too, eventually, because I got a girlfriend and needed them to drive me to the store to get her a one-month anniversary gift. The end.”

Well, not exactly. Let me try again.

“In fourth grade, I decided that I liked a boy named Stuart. I needed to have a crush on a boy, because Kaitlin liked Dominic and Amy liked Steven and I liked fitting in. So I picked Stuart and decided that I liked him.

I became obsessed with him, obsessed with the idea of liking him, obsessed with obsessing over some mediocre boy. I told anybody who would listen: ‘Do you have a crush? I do. I bet you can’t guess who it is? Come on, guess. It’s Stuart. I have a crush, on a boy, because I’m just like you!’

In seventh grade, I came out as gay.

The end.”

But that’s still not quite right.

Because then I went to a new high school where I knew literally two other people, and I had to come out all over again. This time, though, I gathered up the courage to say “lesbian,” armed with a short haircut and jeans from the men’s section of Old Navy.

They nod, not making eye contact. A long pause, then, “why did you tell me?”

“Because,” I want to say, “I don’t know if there’s any other gay people here, and I want to let them know that they have solidarity in this group of people. Because whenever other people come out, my heart soars at the reminder that I’m not alone. Plus, I’ll probably vomit if someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, and I just want to get ahead of the curve on that one.”

I don’t say that.

I say, “I just wanted you to know.”

Which is true— I do want them to know! I want people to know, and I share my story because when I was younger, nobody ever shared theirs with me. I was the first kid at my middle school to come out. I never knew any women with short hair who didn’t compensate with makeup, or who wore pants that weren’t femininely tailored. I had to figure out what I was going through by myself, being stared at in public restrooms and braving my mother’s anger when I shaved my head.

I go on my school’s video announcements for International Coming Out Day, because there might be a freshman wondering who she is allowed to be, who has never met a butch lesbian before.

Telling our stories is essential to being gay. Our experiences can be incredibly isolating— talking about crushes and relationships always brings up a fear of rejection or resentment, and many of us don’t start dating until much later than our straight peers.

So we create our own communities, through online forums and high school GSA’s and “dressing gay” so we can find one another, wherever we may be. We share our stories because all of us have to search for this community, and putting ourselves out there makes it easier for those who don’t quite know where to look.

My story begins in fourth grade, and again in seventh grade, and again and again and again every time I come out. My story has a billion branching variations, and it changes every time I tell it.

My story centers around one truth, one that has taken me a lifetime to figure out.

I’m a lesbian.

Wildflowers - Rosa Snyder

Walking out of the car, the breeze immediately hit my face. I take in my surroundings. The house was at the top of the hill, just barely edging the bundle of trees. The town was small, and in the middle there was a little square of shops and cafes where potential lovers in a John Green book would meet. “It smells bad James,” my younger sister said tugging at the bottom of my coat.

“You’ll get used to it, it’ll be okay,” I responded reaching for her hand. I walked her inside while our parents unpacked the car.

“The key should be under this heart shaped stone near the stairs James,” my mother shouted as Daisy and I strolled along the pathway. I stopped as I found this heart of stone and lifted it upward to find a shiny metal-thing shaped like a key glistening in the sunlight. I walked onto the porch and opened the front door to our new home. As I looked inside I could feel the disappointment sinking in. This is where I would spend my last year of childhood and it didn’t feel like home. “What are you thinking about James?” My mom asked approaching behind me.

“I don’t know, why?” I responded

“Well, you have this blank stare on your face like someone was just hit by a car right in front of you.”

“Well that’s morbid mom,” I said turning around to face her. My mom placed her hand on my back to comfort me.

“Well don’t worry, you won’t be here for long.”

“Mia can you come help me move these boxes into the kitchen?” My father asked passing by us.

“Sure honey.” My mom turned around and walked to the car. I looked over my shoulder to see Daisy playing in the grass.

“Daisy you’re going to get your dress dirty.”

“But I wanna pick the flowers!” I walked off the porch and into the grass and sat down next to Daisy. “I’m gonna put them in my room!” She said looking up at me smiling and her braids whipping around.

“I’m sure they’ll look beautiful Daisy.” I sat there watching as Daisy picked all the flowers she could.

***

The flowers sat on her dresser. The room was cold and the light peaked through every crack between the curtains. The bed was lonely in the corner with no warmth to comfort it through the night. Her toys are only able to be with each other now. No more hugs, no more play time, no more wildflowers. Just a cold room with no one to grow up in it.

Luxenbrae - Ethan Huang, junior

I sit in the darkness, a black void without light. I raise my hands and I see nothing. They slowly touch the floor I sit on and I begin to crawl until my head hits a wall. I knock on the wall; no sound is made. There’s something behind me, “Leave me be!” I yell. I know it wants me to turn around, I will not, I will not. My fingers feel the smooth wall and I run them across until I hit a corner where this wall meets another. It took ten seconds. I do the same to this wall. Eight seconds. I realized what is happening: this room, this impossible room is shrinking around me. I run my hands across the next wall. Five seconds. I begin to sweat nervously, and begin clawing at the walls and the floor, screaming for someone for help, “Don’t leave me please! Someone, save me!” All the while that thing still stands behind me. No, I cannot turn to it, I cannot. My fingernails begin to chip from my scratching, so I start hitting the walls as they draw close. I feel it closing in on me; my breath is getting thinner; my cries for help become laughter. I laugh uncontrollably and I take one last breath…

I fall backwards and my eyes gaze upon what was behind me. A figure made of pure light. It extends its hand towards me and I see the world around it: an illumination unbounded by the darkness. Tears flow from my eyes as I reach out. Crawling towards it, I feel its warmth. It was always there, waiting. Hope was always there.

Those Curry Spices - Natasha Barsagade, senior

For most of my life, I steered away from being Indian. Back in the second grade, a little girl told me, “Ew! You smell.” My heart sank: What? I didn’t understand what she meant. When I went home later that day, I dashed to my mother’s bathroom, stole her perfume, and sprayed myself over and over.

The next morning, I woke up and strutted to that little girl with my hands on my hips and said, “I don’t smell now. I put on perfume.” But she replied with, “Agh, you smell worse.” I was crushed. What smell is she talking about? That day, I ran home and bawled. From that moment, I started to push away my Indian identity. It started with opening doors and windows whenever my mother cooked, ensuring the strong scent of turmeric, masala, and curry spices evacuated the house. Years later, my parents and I had become more distant. I noticed that even though we lived in America, my parents were still more old-fashioned — but I wouldn’t stand that. Hearing “Don’t wear that because you’re a girl” from my parents and “Be confident” from myself, I felt confused. I may have looked Indian with my café mocha skin tone and dark brown eyes, but I did not know who I was.

It was not until I was away from home for a month for my internship, where I started to find myself. Commuting to my internship, I could smell the freedom to explore and understand myself, so I observed people — the homeless, students, blue and white collared workers, and even a lady with short, neon yellow hair, bright pink lipstick, and a bold, artistic fashion sense that inspired me to see the beauty in what people may see as odd. I was given a new perspective.

I returned home and realized there is another part of me that I pushed aside because I wanted to live the American life. But I thought: Why not take the best of both worlds? My cultural reawakening began with my mother’s cooking. The way the spices — cumin, mustard seeds, cardamom — all intertwine themselves on my tongue, mwah! Every day, I walk with a busy pace in my 5 foot 1 inch body, in my black-heeled combat boots and skinny jeans, making my voice heard, empowering those around me to do better not only for themselves but for the better of the world.

I am still trying to find myself, but the one thing I do know is: I am forever grateful for my parents coming to this country. I may have a very opposite upbringing from them, but I believe in living my most authentic life. As I explore the beauty of my own culture and many others, I will always fight for girls to grow up to whoever and whatever they want to be. So truly, those “smelly” spices that made me feel, oh so, insecure, could not have made me who I am today.

The Asylum of the Mind

The Asylum of the Mind - Talla Ahmed & Nathaniel Bryner, sophomores

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. CRASH. Through the apartment door came a disheveled, deranged man.

Arthur Ward, shocked into a state of alarm, reached for the bedside table, took the nickel plated .357 magnum revolver he bought from the pawn shop down the street, and click--no bullet expelled from the chamber.

Arthur Ward abruptly woke up and looked around his studio apartment located in the middle of the huge, foul city. The dark room--still. He heard a thud from outside in the hallway as if someone had walked clumsily down the hallway. He arose from bed, his head spinning, thinking how nice an aspirin would be--if he could ever afford it.

Turning on the lamp on the bedside table illuminated the drab and dingy concrete walls of the room. Arthur’s bed--if it can even be called a bed, more of just a cheap, dirty mattress atop a rusty metal frame--seemingly the most uncomfortable piece of furniture known to man. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were the lamp perched upon the bedside table which, upon first glance, appeared to be struggling to hold even its own weight much less that of the lamp.

Arthur started toward the front door, a faint glow of light visible under the gap between the bottom and the floor; the thump thump thump outside continuing, getting louder and louder as

Arthur approached the door.

Arriving at the door, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the lights in the hallway flickering, turning off and on, finally settling on glowing an ominous blood red. Suddenly, he heard screaming. He quickly opened the door. He saw the silhouette of someone--or something--inspecting some sort of mound on the floor at the end of the hallway. In the dim glow of the light, the mound appeared to have a human shape. After two seconds, Arthur could make the shape of a woman’s body out of the mound--without movement, lifeless. The silhouette stirred, turning Arthur’s attention toward It. It was some sort of beast, large like a predatory cat, but something about it was... strange; Its tail was oddly shaped, looking like the balances held by Lady Justice, splitting into two separate ends.

It saw Arthur. Their eyes met. Arthur’s exhausted eyes filled with fear, and It with its large, bloodshot eyes filled with rage and an obvious intent to harm. Arthur began to run in the opposite direction down the hallway. It started after him in sporadic bounds. Arthur’s heartbeat growing to a rapid pounding, then he slipped. It slowed to a prideful stride having caught up with its prey. nearing Arthur, It began lowering itself, preparing to pounce like a lion. It pounced, and Arthur blacked out from shock before he could feel anything.

With a sudden jerk, Arthur Ward woke up. The room was strangely, blindingly bright. Arthur didn’t remember leaving any lights on nor any windows open. Despite this, the day seemed normal enough. Athur headed outside, the warm glow of the sun beaming down upon his face. Suddenly, he felt a violent shaking sensation, then he heard a deafening CRACK as the ground split open forming a deep, rapidly growing fissure; as if the earth was caving in on itself. Where there was once solid ground only remained a seamless darkness, a pure black void.

Then out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw a woman; she seemed...familiar. He began towards her. The world still collapsing around him; buildings crumbling, people screaming, and the world still shaking, falling into the pit once known to be the city. He continued toward the woman. As he reached her, the ground fell beneath her feet. Just in time, Arthur caught her arm. When she looked up at him, an indescribable feeling came to Arthur. In the instant he saw her face, Arthur let go of her arm, and she fell, screaming a scream he knew he had heard before. Arthur looked down, watching her plummet into the void until she was not to be seen at all. Arthur turned to run, but he seemed to be stuck in place. He then noticed an enormous crack beginning to form on the skyscraper in front of him. In no time at all, the building began collapsing; the entirety of the structure seemingly on a path toward crushing Arthur. Before the mass of steel and concrete got anywhere close to Arthur, the ground gave way beneath him. Falling into the pit, Arthur could only see the dark emptiness of the void and couldn’t even hear his own screams.

Arthur woke up. The room was…different. His back…hurt. He had fallen out of the bed. Arthur’s attention turned back to the room; the walls sterile, white, padded, no visible door, a bright white light shining from the ceiling.

Next to him Arthur noticed a small square of paper--blank. He reached out to grab the paper and turned it over. On the other side a picture--taken from a polaroid camera. The picture was Her--the woman from his dreams.

Arthur tried to speak, managing barely a whisper to the woman in the picture, “Hannah.” Arthur paused, holding back tears, “I… didn’t… do… it.”

Pongal - Darin Kishore, senior

November 18

Sunday mornings. An idyllic reprieve from the burdens of everyday life.

God, I loved those Sunday mornings. Well, except for one thing. Pongal. My greatest nemesis. It’s a rice dish, yellow in color, and it definitely doesn’t taste bad. The thing is, it doesn’t really taste good either. Coming from a family with amazing food, pongal was a clear winner for least-best food.

My brother was on my team: he didn’t particularly enjoy pongal either. So together, we devised a plan: a beautiful, masterfully crafted series of actions that would free us from the dreaded terror that was pongal forever.

There’s a certain image that’s circled around the internet for the past three years. It’s a black man, wearing a watch, tapping his forehead with two fingers, a self-assured grin on his face. It’s most often used to indicate an obviously wrong solution to a clearly more complex problem. Unfortunately, my brother and I weren’t familiar with the image, as it wasn’t around back then.

If only it was! We could have critiqued ourselves, and decided not to go through with our (admittedly, pretty good) plan. Speaking of: we decided, in true head-tap fashion, “can’t make a rice dish if there’s no rice!”

If only we knew.

In the dead of night, we tiptoed downstairs, and plundered the 20lb rice bag from a cabinet. My noodly arms were no match for the mighty bag, so I got my brother to help. We moved it from the kitchen, and into the living room.

Filled with elation, we moved the couch. We didn’t say a word to each other, but there was a mutual understanding that today would be the day we vanquished that mighty foe. Pongal. As if my arms were mozzarella cheese sticks, I failed to move the bag. I beckoned to my brother, and our four mozzarella cheese-stick-arms did the job just fine.

The bag was behind the couch. Our work was done, and we snuck back upstairs and bamanosed on back into bed.

As the moon faded into a bright, almost blinding California sun, I went downstairs. To my delight, there was no pongal. To my not-so-delight, my parents were waiting for me, arms crossed. I wish I was sound asleep, like my brother, but I would have no such wish.

It’s never fun talking to your parents when they’re less than pleased.

It’s never fun claiming you have no idea of the whereabouts of a 20lb bag of rice when your parents know “damn well” it was behind the couch the whole time.

If you need to know anything about Christianity, it’s the fact that the religion’s based on forgiveness, being a good person, and living your life spreading the word of someone who died for your sins, Jesus Christ.

It’s never fun using your little brother as your own personal Jesus, claiming he must have done the bag trickery, and then having him come downstairs vehemently disagreeing with the idea while shooting you a dirty look.

Our brotherly bond took a hit that day, but he, like Christ, died for my sins, and I repaid him in bags and bags of hot cheetos.

It didn’t really change anything, however.

We had pongal next week.

From a Broken Home - Samantha Garcia, junior

I walk a broken and empty hallway. The paint on the walls peel underneath the sticky heat of summer. The things they’ve witnessed. The fights they’ve seen, it tore them apart inside. But they weren’t alone. The floors cracked underneath the pressure of carrying them all afloat and the shattered pictures adorning the wood stretched thoroughly across the hall. Inside the frame a picture perfect nuclear family, before the explosion- the destruction of springtime bliss. It was their legacy, they’ve carried it in their family tree. A canvas cut from the same cloth, disease woven in the strands-genetics are the heaviest chains to get rid of.

Home was a place I could never escape, it’s one that I’m tied to undeniably, even now. By returning I hoped that when I looked in the mirror I wouldn’t see my fathers cold gaze. That I wouldn’t hear the rasp in mother’s voice against my own. Maybe, just maybe, I could escape it if I could discover closure, wherever it may be. Every step of this journey into the unknown has been overwhelming. From the first doorway’s greeting to the windows spilling under the burning, beating sun; it all wrapped me in a heat so deep I melted against it. Maybe I made a mistake and the truth is better untouched, far away and never revealed. But my legs still drive heavily into the wood and lead me through the house.

And suddenly, it all rushed back into me, crashed down on my skin, filling my body and staining my bones. In a haze, the light from a yellow windowpane spread across three large mahogany chests like a thick blanket, hiding them. My legs lost all strength within and crumpled underneath my body as I found myself face to face with the past. I pushed the latch back and opened the wooden container to reveal the remains.

On the ride home I stared out the window at the golden fields of wheat. They moved away from the house with such urgency, it’s as if they knew. The people that roamed that house had dragged behind me at every step, always weighing heavily on my conscience. As their prisoner I endured torture for years that seemed endless, but that was all before, before I wiped them from my memory, and from life itself.