A note from the editor...

I would like to thank everyone who participated in the Pomona High School Analecta Club, if it was just for one meeting or a whole bunch.

We would like to thank those who all submitted work for this year collection, because without the submissions, this magazine would cease to exist. We would like to thank all of the students who helped to put this magazine together, and also to help get it all prepared.

A huge thanks to Mr. Allen, Mrs. Reed, Ms. Kline, and Ms. Mullen for their ded-ication in not only hosting each meeting but for all of the time and effort they put into the creation of this years Analecta 2012-13 Magazine.

Thank you to everyone who has been apart of this experience. It has truly been an absolute blessing.

-Kaleigh Hanrahan Editor in Chief Senior Class of 2013

Analecta:Editor in Chief: Kaleigh Hanrahan

Layout and Design: Britt Baxley, Jonina Diele, And Jesse Smith

Staff Members: Gretchen Gorden Logan Davidson

Cheyenne Millard Delaney Hanson

Faculty Sponsors:Mr. Allen Ms. Klein

Ms. Mullen Ms. Reid

Ms. Champion

Cover Artwork: Mona Sawaged

ContributorsShayna Kurtz: I’m Shayna Kurtz and I’m a senior in High School. Tyler Rossi: My only goal is to see my work giving people a good day and having a couple of laughs.

Angela Sullivan: Hi, my name is Angela Sullivan and I’m a senior. I’m pretty shy and I like to write poetry.

Emily Anderson: My name is Emily Anderson. I am a junior. My favorite color is yel-low, I love to dance, and I love smiling.

Michelle Kaplan: My name is Michelle Kaplan and I am a Senior. My artwork is a drawling of a lighthouse. I was inspired by my trip along the Oregon coast.

Kayla Wolfe: I’m Kayla Wolfe and I’m a senior. The photos I submited are from my trip to Italy and Germany this summer.

Carolina Ramirez: My nmae is Carolina Ramirez. I am a senior. The artwork is a paint-ing of the Arcade Fire album: Funeral.

Samantha Brunken: Hi, I’m Samantha Brunken, I’m a tenth grader. I entered a writing and a painting. I enjoy expressing myself in ways that will help others understand me.

Adrianna Jimenez: Hi, my name is Adrianna, but i go by AJ. I’m a freshman and i am pretty outgoing, but its hard to get used to certain people. I love sports and being weird. I love sing-ing and acting and want to be a lawyer. Poetry is my inner outlook on life.

Sara Hashman: Hi, my name is Sara Hashman. I’m a senior and I’m going to study Anthro-pology at Beloit College. My piece couldn’t have been possible without my teachers and my family encouraging me to write, and, of course, the influence of Doug Rosen. I chose to write about Doug because he lived to make people special, and he changed my life.

Kimberlynn A. Domingues: Drastic experiences with little look backs spark my writing, that would also engulf my mind and life, changing it eternally. This allows me to cry without involement of another. Sharng a glimpse into my secrets, mind, and life. I love, those heart shattering moments, and lyrical happiness.

Ellie Crimmins is a senior at Pomona High School.

Tone’ Contreras is a senior at Pomona High School.

Dakota Edwards is a senior at Pomona High School.

Shelby Corning is a senior at Pomona High School.

Logan Hill is a senior at Pomona High School.

Delaney Hanson is a freshman at Pomona High School.

Julia Smith is a freshman at Pomona High School.

Mallisyn Bruce is a freshman at Pomona High School.

Terell Smith is a junior at Pomona High School.

Kristen Seltenreich is a senior at Pomona High School.

Steven “Drew” Bradley is a freshman at Pomona High School.

Ben Amon is a sophomore at Pomona High School.

Holland Hoogstad is a freshman at Pomona High School.

Tyler Rossi is a sophomore at Pomona High School.

Kim Domingues is a junior at Pomona High School.

Caitie Pascua is a senior at Pomona High School.

I am from By: Angela Sullivan

I am fromScorching hot pavement,Sitting by a cold AC,&Heating up on the back porch.Backyard BBQ’sScreaming babies&Bickering siblings.FromSalty tearsQuivering lipsMake-up run faces&Sleepless nights I am from79 mealsTomato sauceEnchiladas and sopapillasAmici’sWishbone& family owned Emil-Lene’s Sirloin House.Homemade ice cream and ranch dressingLemons with salt, pickles,&Sugar butter tortillas

I am fromTeen parentsYoung grandmas&JCSD cell #7c12From6 aunts and uncles,A father lost to suicide&my loving mom-my hero.FromFamily Sundays,My best friend became my sister,Grandma’s kitchen tableJesse’s room,Daddy’s grave,&Mama’s caring arms. I am fromBe independentEveryone is beautiful&I love youFromStay strongHe won’t replace himDrop me dimesBe the better person&Always do your best.FromYou can do itYour dad loved youI’m always here for you&more I love you’s. I am from Love.

Footprints on My Heart

By Sara HashmanI walked through the stage door and on to the stage stopping to hand my sheet music to the pianist. I

took a deep breath, mustered all of my courage, and turned to face the practically empty theater. “Hi,”Iwhispered,trying—andfailing—tosoundconfident. “Hello!” called the cheery odd little man sitting ten rows back, “How are you?” “I-I’m OK,” I lied. “Nervous?” he asked. “Yeah.” “Do you want to hear a joke?” What an odd thing to ask, I thought. “Sure,” I replied. “Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” “Interrupting cow.” “Ohh, I’ve heard th—“ “MOO!” he yelled. I laughed. And that was how I met Doug Rosen.

I met Doug Rosen the summer before 7th grade, the Arvada Center’s Teen Intensive Summer theater produc-tion: High School Musical.Iwasshy;Iwasn’tconfidentoroutgoing,andIwassodistractiblethatDoughadtoinventa planet that my mind traveled to during rehearsals. I can’t count all of the times that Doug had to reel me back from “Planet Woo.” At the end of every rehearsal, Doug would pick his favorite. It was never me.

I wanted to be Doug’s favorite so bad I could taste it, so that year I took audition classes and Doug’s triple threatclasssothatthenextsummerIwouldbehisfavorite.Isupposeit’sfittingthattheshowwasSondheim’sSweeney Todd, Dougcasttheshowandthenhedroppedout,andtheyflewinaguyfromNewYorktotakehisplace.He had been diagnosed with liver cancer. He said that if he could, if he was feeling well enough, he would come to rehearsal some day.

Each day we would eagerly look at the doors whenever they opened. Doug never came. As it always does, the show went on. But it wasn’t the same. There was no trademark laughter, no favorites,

no little gnomey Jewish man yelling, “Over the top,” at us. No Doug. High School Musical was upbeat and happy; for the most part we all got along, but Sweeney Todd was full of bickering and crying and misery. Those who had worked with Doug for years were lost without him, and those who had never met him couldn’t understand what the big deal was. I remember standing up one day and saying to everyone in the cast, “What would Doug say if he were to walk through that door right now?”

Openingnight,CassieranbackstageintearsandtoldusthatsheheardDoug’slaughter;hehadfinallywalked through that door. After the show he came backstage, skinny and pale with dark circles around his eyes. Holding on to his mother’s arm he smiled at us and said that he was happy to know that the program would go on after he was gone. I refused to believe I would never hear him say that his favorite today was me. But then I was forced to see the truth; the AIDS and cancer took him on September 5, 2009. Just weeks after Sweeney ended.

It didn’t seem possible that he was gone. Doug Rosen was immortal: he couldn’t die and leave us alone. We werelatetohisfuneralthenextdaybecausewecouldn’tfindthefuneralhome,andsowehadtostandinthehall-way. As we walked in, I heard Cassie taking the stage to give a eulogy.

“I remember,” she said “someone said that if Doug were to walk through that door right now what would hesay?”Ididn’tcrywitheveryoneelseatthefuneralhome;Ididn’tcrywhenwewatchedhiscoffinbeingloweredinto the ground. But the hollow thunk ofthedirthittinghiscoffinasItookmyturnwiththeshovelfinallybrokethrough the numbness. That was when I cried. Tears streaming down my face and sobs racking my body. I wasn’t alone though. Cassie, who had been so strong during her eulogy, was sobbing. Cory—big, strong terrifying Cory was crying. Cipriano, Stephanie, Eric, Jennifer, Mark, everyone from Sweeney. We all stood together, hugging each other and giving what comfort we could.

“WhatwouldDougsayifhewerehere?”someonefinallyasked.“Sell it,” someone replied.“Overthetop!”saidanotherinaperfectimitationofDoug.Wecouldn’tnotlaugh.Itwasfitting,thatwe

would leave the cemetery remembering things he had said and done and smiling through our tears. Doug could make you laugh just by being himself. We went to his mom’s house after the funeral for food and to reminisce. And we ended up singing show tunes from someone’s iPod for everyone there. I think Doug would have jumped up on to the porch with us and sung along.

I didn’t know until after he died that he was diagnosed with AIDS when he was 19. He lived 25 years longer than the doctors said he would. He was just too ridiculous to die.

Doug was funny, sweet, caring and gay in a way only Doug could be. He put people at ease and never treated us like we were kids. And in return, he earned our devotion and our respect.

He dedicated his life to teaching kids, but I didn’t appreciate the gift he gave me. I wanted Doug to be proud of me, and when he died I felt as if I let him down. I never told him how much he meant to me, how much he taught me about theater and life and myself.

“Sara can sing, but she doesn’t,” he once said. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time, but I don’t feel like I let him down anymore. If I could say one thing to him it would be that I always listened to his advice, and I still do. I hold his words and his laughter close to my heart and when I sing, I sing for him.

“You were all his favorites,” his mom said as she left the cemetery, it was bittersweet that one tiny sentence I had always longed to hear him say came after he was dead. Doug taught me to embrace life, to be not just a better actor but a better person, to embrace who I am because that’s what makes me special. I hope that wherever that wonderful creature is he’s singing show tunes and cheering us on yelling, “OVER THE TOP” like he always did.

In everyone’s busy chaotic life, there’s always that one person who comes into our lives and when they leave, they leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same. Doug Rosen left footprints on my heart and how wonderful those footprints are.

“Remember me in light.” –Henri, The FantasticksDouglas J. Rosen

Feb. 24, 1966-Sep. 5, 2009“He lived to make others feel special.”

 

By: Terell Smith

The Battle By: Ben Amon It was a hot summer’s day, the earth, an oven under the nova-like sun. There was an unusual man standing with a handgun rolling it back and forth weighing it in his hand. He had an odd shaped scar on his upper neck on the left side. He was two houses down from the church just standing. The look in his eye was keen on the hill to his left. He wasn’t blinking or turning just looking at the hill. He didn’t try to hide his gun nor did he do anything except roll the gun back and forth. He seemed to be waiting for someone as he loaded a clip into his faded black weapon. He unwittingly aimed at the next car coming over the nearest hill. It was a large SUV, painted matte blue, with several holes in each panel of metal plating, most likely made by bullets of varying size. At the same time the person in the back of the car pushed the barrel of a worn, old AK-47 out of the window and unleashed utter hell on the man. Holes of a dark crimson color covered than man’s torso and abdomen as he fell to the ground. The car came to a stop and what looked to be a hierarchy of suited men stepped out. They all had assault based machine rifles, glinting brightly in the summer sun. A tall man, the tallest of the group, wearing a jet black suit began shouting orders at his small insertion of men. As they approached the bloody mess a shot rang out and a shiny bullet blew a hole through the driver’s forehead. The man in the black suit aimed, and pulled the trigger. Bam! Blood gushed from the man’s blown-through skull, covering the bare pavement in a sheen layer of crimson. After that hell met Earth. First the car exploded into a fiery inferno of metal shards and ignited oil, sending an enormous and immensely sharp piece of metal through the pelvis of one of the suited men. His stomach had been ripped straight through and as his innards began to spill out of his abdomen he spluttered out blood and he gasped his last raspy breath. Bullets started leaping from the trees and pinned down the group of men behind the wreckage of the car. Multiple men dressed in full brown and green camouflage robes with dark green masks shrouding their faces, emerged from the forest each holding a Light Machine Gun equipped with 100 round clips, guns blazing firing shot after shot into the body of the car. The suited men reacted by blind firing over the car out of the pure fear of hav-ing the feeling of having nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. They only managed to clip the shoulder of one of the assaulters. Bullets started ripping through the black, burnt, smoldering body of the car and

hit one of the men. He had a light gray suit which now had a gigantic hole in the upper left part of the chest. Blood gushed from the wound as a waterfall from a mountain. Through all of this no one noticed the third party of men marching up the hill. There looked to be 20 or so in number but the sheer amount of munitions they carried were enough for maybe 80 men. They wore clothing as a band of rebels might during an uprising. With a flurry of cloth holding its place covering their faces, each man holding his own pair of small compact submachine guns which glinted with each step in the sun. Also equipped they each had 2 fragmentation grenades and one smoke grenade with a .44 magnum at the belt, with new infrared heat goggles ready to cover their eyes. They came over the hill marching but now slowed and walked ever closer to the scene. They looked sharp, sleek, and smart, like they knew something the others didn’t. At that moment a plane buzzed overhead almost unheard over the shrill sounds of metal on metal. A man from the woods went down and 2 men in the same uniform replaced him on the line of assault. Whenever one was out of ammo and had to reload another took his place. Whoever these men were they knew what they were doing. The men from the hill started their own assault by each throwing a smoke grenade to create a Gray-White wall where the others couldn’t see them, then pulling on their goggles so they could see. They now each threw a frag grenade into the midst of their own smoke wall. The suited men started making an escape when the first grenade went off and smoke had already engulfed the area. As they ran a grenade hit the straggler at the back of the group square in the fore-head and knocked him out cold before exploding sending shrapnel into every direction. Seconds later several more explosions went off as a compound of terrifying sounds filled the air. Many men from the forest and 2 of the remaining 5 from the suited men went down in bloody metallic messes. Now all but one of the men from the hill were standing with only three of the suits. The 2 groups of the hill and of the forest opened heavy fire on the suits and mowed down 2 of the three before the 19 of the hill turned on the forest group and buried everyone in sight with unrelenting blast of bullets to each part of the body exposed. The last man other than the men from the hill stood and turned to run but not before firing on the man readying his grenade, the lucky shot blazed through the mans wrist sending the grenade to the ground. The men had no idea what happened until the explosion which killed or crippled each and every one of them as the suited man made his escape. That didn’t last long either, as a small piece of shrapnel implanted itself in the base of the man’s vulnerable skull. And as the blood spilled from his head and the moans and groans of indescribable pain from the other men rang out, The Battle was over.

BELIEVEBy: Emily AndersonThe stars only tell the truth when wished upon, for a shooting star only goes just as far as the wish itself, and asfar as the dreamer will take it. A star is a fortune cookie, not quite landed on your plate, not quite materialized infront of your eyes. So, wish upon that shooting star outside your bedroom window, and take that dream to thefarthest outskirts of life, for you never know what lies beyond, and you won’t until you try. Just try, because if you doeverything will follow in your path, but only if you take that very first step that starts your jour-ney, that first step thatcreates what you will become. If we’re afraid to take that first step into the abyss, we’re afraid to take that first stepinto your pathway, and wish upon that shooting star, flying outside your window, and believe what you must, but justtake that first step. For, nothing is too far beyond the reach of a believer, for that is truth.

 

By: Terell Smith

Tulip

By: Holland HoogstadThe sky with its first hint of gray

Turns a bright shade of pink

As I walk in the brisk cold air

The pure white snow crunches under my feet

As I walk along that lonely street

Not a soul in site

For I left them all far behind

In the road on Elm St.

A warm coat and gloves are all I have to wear

In this brisk cold air

I turn the corner on to a street

Finally for what, I must know

I look at the land all covered in white

Soon I find what I have come for

A lonely tulip one of many to grow

However, this one has survived the bitter cold snow

I pick it up with cold blue hands

And walk the way I came

I soon appear back on that lonely street

It brings me hope

Life is what it provides

This tulip was strong yet weak

This tulip is me

Not long ago

I was left in this cold lonely street

Left to die all alone

But I came through

I was strong yet weak

Poor but rich

This tulip is me

By: Shayna Kurtz

The Memories Still Carry OnBy Caitie Pascua Ring! Ring! The sharp reverberation of the phone pieced the long, drawn, out silence in Phillip’s office. Phillip had just finished making the most important presentation of his young career. The harvest orange sun dipped low in the sky as the sun began to set. As Phillip glance out the sixteenth floor of the twenty story office building with its mesmerizing view of the purple majestic mountains, he let out a contented sigh. Startled by the shrill, irritating sound that continued to punctuate his musings, the dreamy, young, six-foot-tall lawyer slammed his files on the desk with a loud thwak! and reached for the phone. “You have reached Phillip Kent with Dewey Cheatham and Howe. How may I help you?” he answered, a bit too smugly. “Hello,” a deep, clinical, firm voice responded” I’m an emergency room physician at Lutheran hospital and your wife, Michelle< has been admitted here. How quickly can you get down here?” As Phillip struggled to comprehend the words which had just spewed forth from the opposite end of the phone, he heard the doctor say, “We can discuss her condition when you get here. I need to get back and check on your wife.” Phillip slammed the phone down onto its cradle with considerable force, knocking his files from the desk to the floor. Papers flew everywhere as he bolted out of his office and into the elevator. The lifeblood drained from his face, and his heart began to pound as fear rose up like bile in his throat. Exiting the eleva-tor, Phillip approached his car at a dead run. As he jumped into the car his brain was flooded with millions of thoughts, rushing over him like a tidal wave and threatening to drown him. Michelle was his rock. She was his sanctuary, his sounding board, and his soul mate. Without her, life would be incomplete. Phillip drove like a bat out of hell, the sweat rolling down his face as he cursed at each red light, that took an eternity to change and left him entirely too much time to contemplate Michelle’s condition. He arrived huffing and puffing, gasping for each breath of air. Though his drive seemed to take an eternity; in reality he had made it in seven minutes—seven long and endless minutes. Within those seven minutes, he had aged ten years. Deeply distraught, he had imagined all kinds of horrors. A warm breeze flowed past the admitting desk as he paused to get directions to Michelle’s hospital room. There on the third floor trauma unit reserved for head injuries, lay his ashen faced wife on a hospital bed scanning the room wildly as if being pursued by a predator. The right side of her head had been cut and stitched and was swathed in gauze bandages through which blood was slowly seeping, its scarlet stain spread-ing slowly but surely through the pristine, white bandages. Her slender five foot seven inch frame was covered with ugly purple bruises. Her long, lush, blonde hair was tangled in knots like shoelaces. Michelle’s legs and arms twitched continually Phillip ran to his wife’s bedside. The haunted look on her face, and extreme fear in her eyes, shattered his heart. Michelle was nearly unrecognizable to him. Coming up behind Phillip, the physi-cian tapped him lightly and directed him with a ball point pen to the hallway. “Hi, I’m Dr. scott Steven and I’ve benn aring for your wife.” “What happened to my sife? Is…is she okay?” asked Phillip haltingly stumbling over his words. “Michelle was injured in a serious car crash with a Ford truck early this morning. It was a head on col-lision. Her Honda Civic was totaled. She has some facial lacerations and bruises; but the thing I’m concerned about is her severe head injury. The tissues in her brain are swollen and are putting pressure on her brain.” Phillip exploded, “Why didn’t you contact me earlier?” “Michelle was found unconscious at the scene and she had no identification on her. The police weren’t able to identify her until an hour ago. Your next door neighbor provided the police with the name of your employer twenty minutes ago so that we could contact you. At this point, Michelle has no memory. Your wife doesn’t know who she is, where she lives or anything about her past. It’s as if her whole life has been wiped clean in one fell swoop,” replied Dr. Steven.

“Oh, my God! Oh my God! Why did this happen to Michelle? Can’t you do anything to fix her?” “At this point, all we can do is wait for the swelling in the brain tissues to subside. Head injuries are complicated. Memory loss is often the body’s way of dealing with severe shock or trauma. With time, some of the memories may come back to her on their own, but there is no guarantee. Michelle may have to relearn everything over again. At this point she is terrified and is going to need your support to get through this. I have to finish my rounds, but I’ll be back to check on her within the hour and we’ll talk further,” Dr. Steven replied. Phillip turned his face away from Dr. Steven as the tears rolled down one by one down his face. Reflected in the depths of his chocolate brown eyes, was immense sadness and hopelessness. His mind raced in all directions searching for a solution to Michelle’s dilemma and finding none. Never, in the seven minute journey to the hospital, had he imagined that his wife wouldn’t know him. Phillip screwed up his face into what he hoped was a picture of courage and confidence and walked swiftly back into Michelle’s room and stood by the side of her hospital bed. Grasping her small hand in his, he kissed it with unbelievable passion. Michelle jerked her hand away from him shrieking, “Who in the hell are you?” “I’m Phillip, your husband,” replied Phillip with a catch in this throat. “I don’t have a husband,” retorted Michelle, her eyes glittering like steel knives as she rolled to-wards the far side of the hospital bed. “Michelle, I’m the love of your life. We spend every day together as if it will be our last day togeth-er on earth. We finish each other’s sentences. When I’m with you, it is as if the air is infused with the fra-grance of happiness. You’re a beautiful, courageous, young lady who always has a smile on your face and never backs down from a challenge. Deep down I know that you know who I am: your soul mate—your lifeline. I’ll be here to help you through the darkness, encouraging you and fighting with you to regain the memories lost within the shadowed halls of your mind.” “Get out! I don’t even know who the hell you are. How do I know you’re telling the truth? For all I know, you could be some sick, perverted criminal staking out hospitals and preying on helpless women who don’t remember who they are,” retorted Michelle. Phillip recoiled in horror. This was obviously not the woman he married. All that remained was a shell of her former person. Even her demeanor had changed. His sweet Michelle detested cursing and never used foul language. The very essence of Micelle had vanished, and he had no idea who this person was who was inhabiting Michelle’s body. All of their shared experiences were gone with the wind, having been erased from her mind by the accident and might not ever return. The blood coursing through his limbs turned to ice water as he contemplated the thought of a life without Michelle in it. Fear began to creep slowly into his body. His pulse began to race, and his head felt as if someone had stuck a thousand knives into his skull. He could not let Michelle go. He had to help her regain her memory and restore her sense of self. Phillip turned to Michelle, his brown eyes searching her blue ones for some sign of recognition “I know that you are terrified,” he said, “and I can’t imagine what it must be like to have lost your memory. I do know that it is your decision as to whether you want to make a life together with me, and your decision alone. Not mine.” Michelle curled up into a fetal ball and burst into tears shrieking, “Please leave me alone.” Phillip, choking up with tears himself, replied convincingly, “I’ll leave you in peace to think about your decision. I know that you are a lot stronger that you look and feel today. You can choose to fight to regain your memories. I love you.” With that, Phillip left Michelle’s hospital room and walked down the hall into a small alcove that the hospital had set aside for visitors. Phillip sighed and sat down heavily in a loveseat; he briefly won-dered if Michelle would ever curl up beside him again. Placing his head in his hands, he reflected upon

the memories of their life together— the memories that Michelle no longer had. There was the magical moment when he first met Michelle in college and their eyes met across the crowded room. It was as if the whole world had burst into song. They had completed each other’s life, like the bow and ribbon on a Christmas package. Their life together was like a circle, having no beginning and no end. He thought about the countless Sunday mornings they had spent curled up together like spoons in bed—Michelle with her head tucked neatly beneath his chin as they talked about how happy they were and discussed their plans for the future. He and Michelle loved children, and lately they lately had been making plans for starting their family. Phillip reflected on their wedding day, the most joyous and significant day of his life. The wedding had taken place outside in a private garden, and there was a rainbow in the sky as a result of an early-morning sum-mer shower. As Michelle walked down the aisle with her dad, he knew he was the luckiest man alive. He was marrying his soul mate with whom he had promised to stay with and support, forever. Together they could face anything…but what if she insisted on a dissolution of that “together”? Suddenly, Phillip sensed a furtive movement in the alcove. As he glanced up from the loveseat, he saw standing next to him a bedraggled, fearful Michelle holding out her wedding band in her hand. Phillip’s stomach dropped. It was over. Michelle had reached a decision. Michelle said quietly to Phillip, “The nurse gave me my wedding ring to let me know that I had been married. They removed it from my hand along with the rest of my valuables when I was admitted to the hospital. There is an inscription inside of it along with a date. It says ‘I love you more today than yesterday and even more tomorrow.’” Phillip replied, “I had that inscribed in your wedding ring to remind you that each day of our life togeth-er my love for you grows stronger. I still believe it to be true.” “I have no memories of you or our life together and that frightens me to the very core of my being. Memories are what make life real, and without them we are nothing.” Sobbing, she continued, “You sounded so sincere—convinced—that we were meant to be together forever. I want to believe you…I don’t want to be this empty person. I will go home with you and fight for my memories. I hope that I don’t disappoint you.”Phillip, rising from the loveseat took the ring from Michelle’s outstretched hand. He placed it on her finger ten-derly and said, “Michelle, you could never disappoint me. I still want to spend the rest of my life with you, even if you don’t regain all of your memories. You are still you. We can make new memories together. That and our love will be enough… for both of us.”

By: Brett Reinke

Untitled

By: Samantha Brunken I was so surprised, so thankful; no words came as tears rolled down my pale checks. “All of it is gone?” my mother asked as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. The man with the stethoscope around his scrawny neck answered, “Yes, for now.” I sat on the same cold, unmovable examining table, in the same grungy room as I did two years ago. It’s even the same gloomy month. The only difference is two years ago, my new journey was just beginning. And, every time I had to sit in this room breathing in the smell of disinfectant and death, I wondered if I would ever enjoy life again. That’s when I would remember my grandmother.

I take a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice that’s the color of the sky, while listening to the loud lapping sound of waves. My grandmother is sitting next to me with her painting set and easel, her paints spread out on her palate. I pay careful attention to the way she mixes the vibrant colors and her confident strokes. This wasn’t the first time I’d watched her paint on a Sunday morning, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. After all these years I’d learned her routine: she’d rinse her brushes, take a sip of her strong, black coffee and then sit back to enjoy what she’d captured. And finally, she’d look at me and say, “One of the saddest things in life is to take something that gives you joy and let it get ruined. Take time to enjoy the things you love, Emily, and do them with your whole self.”

This time I would follow her advice. I walk out of the room and through those dreadful doors, hopefully for the last time, and climb into my jeep. I drive for hours until I reach the horizon and turn into the familiar parking lot I used to jump around so excitedly in. I climb out, stretch my bony body and take a deep breath of the salty air. I grab my bag and start walking, taking off my shoes. I still love the feel of damp sand beneath my feet. When I find our spot I sit down, look towards the ocean and smile. It’s been two years since I’ve last seen it. Two years since I’ve done anything I really enjoy. Remembering the rea-son I came, I take out my sketch book and begin to draw. The warm summer breeze blows my stringy red hair and the sun warms my achy body from the inside out. It’s as if my grandmother is still there beside me, smiling and suggesting ideas to make me a better artist. It’s as if she’s sending me love. I realize this is what I came here for. To realize that this is my joy and this is what I should be doing with my whole self. I decide right then, I’m going to create for the rest of my life and enter my work into galleries. Rather than collecting dust in a dark corner, they will be hanging among other creations for people to enjoy. I gently close my sketch book, gather my things and head to my car. As I’m about to leave I notice the color of the sky. A sunset. It’s just like all those times I watched my grandmother paint. I get out of the car with my camera, position it the way I remember her doing. Click. I get back in my car, deciding I’ll go home and create a painting of my own, just like I watched my grandmother do all those years ago.

ColoradoBy: Kristen Seltenreich Eyes wide open to the view of giant shadow figures, towering over swaying grass that bends to the whisper of the icy wind, moving to its every command. The figures go on for miles, changing in height and shape: mountains. Sturdy and rocky, they never move to the whisper commands of the wind. They converse with the open blue sky, having intimate conversations with the puffy white clouds that stretch for what seems to be forever. They dance with the wind as well. It’s warm outside. The toasty rays of the sun pierce dry cracked skin in an instant, leaving a stinging feeling where it’s supposed to feel warm. That’s the difference between humid and dry heat. The water droplets that so naturally dance in the air have disap-peared. The sun’s rays are stronger here because he’s not that far away. He is so much closer, almost as if he can reach down and touch the land with his own fire heated hands, slowly warming deep into the dirt of the hard earth. A sweat drop finally makes its way to break through the skin, but is instantly evaporated into the air, where it greets the cloud and becomes one with it. Surrounded by trees, even their branches and leaves dance with the music of the wind; moving in unison with the tall grass, like a couple that moves to a rhythm of a ballet song ever so slowly. These trees are different, and look as if they are dying. Sucking the life from their leaves, they begin to crumble and become fragile. Roots that bump the surface of the floor tease the dirt, not quite piercing it, but showing themselves enough to be slightly seen through the ground. Up the roots is a rugged and thick trunk that caries hundreds of arms that are held straight up. These arms have many hands of many colors that flail with the slightest movement that is swept through them. But when they become weak, and unable to with stand that echo of the voice of the wind, they break apart their bond to the arms, and gently float to the ground, laying out a colorful blanket for the earth’s floor. Shades of sun flower yellow, burgundy red, and chestnut brown, they add splashes of color to such a plain canvas of open fields of grass. There’s a creek. Though it’s not very big, it talks to the trees and its mountains constantly; flowing down bumpy hills always moving and gurgling. The water is blue, but not ocean blue or the blue of a deep lake. This is shal-low, crystal clear blue. Simply looking at the water draws a thirst from inside from a body, wanting nothing more than to gulp a dripping hand full. As the sun begins to hide behind the monstrous figures in the distance, they cast a shadow over the land that calms every piece it touches. The wind no longer whispers, and the grass is stiff and motion-less. The blanket of leaves on the floor is still, covering and warming the thick hard ground below it. As the sun sets, the silence becomes apparent again, besides the gurgle of the creek that never seems to stop moving. As night falls, the sky begins to grow darker and darker. Light begins to poke through the holes of the darkness, lighting up in clusters to form shapes in the black, night time sky. The moon is brighter here, just like the sun, it feels closer. Lighting up the cold hard ground with its white face, it leaves a mystery for its unwanted dark face that is never seen. Two people inside that moon; one is never to be exposed. Surrounded by its babies, they talk throughout the night. Blinking and shining to one another, but talk-ing ever so faintly. Peacefully, they all coexist with one another. The beauty within the nature of Colorado is one that isn’t experienced anywhere else. Natural beauty that seems ancient but is new with every day that passes by. It’s the warmth of the heat, the whisper of the wind, the cold shadow that is casted from the mountains, the colorful leaves that tumble with the wind, fading into the distance, and the talk of the creek that bubbles and splashes with the curves of the land that makes this place none like any other. Falling in love with a piece of land that is so faithful to itself is truly beautiful. A relationship that is non like any other.

Dust in the WindBy: Tone’ ContrerasThe sky is clearMorning BreaksHues of blacks Of Blues dissipatesShadows consummate

Light glares unyieldingly upon a fieldHills roll and tumbleGreen blades raiseAnd shake to their masterThere, in the glint, the majesty, gold rises

Its many grasps and vestibulesLaunch above the restCaught, in the eyes, is every granuleA harsh hum permeates That wants to create, feast, and take

The sonant is wantingEver wantingDesiring, waiting, and ever sufferingIs nothingOnly thereAs a reminder

It forgets not what it isBut why it isHow it has come to this placeTo twist and dive and danceTo a tune not of its own makingBut to the glitz and shimmer and sheenOf the many handed and one legged bloomer

In the hurrying gloomAs the last stretches of lightBegin to hide As the cold begins to take holdEvery shape and color becomes uniformThe air shifts and a gust swiftsTaking with it the last gifts

The gold, the prizeNow, come into the Is naught but Dust in the Wind

Love of NatureBy: Shelby Corning Pine smoke wafts toward me, mingling with the scent of burnt hot dogs, s’mores, and happiness. I giggle in my camping chair as my dad regales the ragtag group of kids around him with a story of his youth. I never hear these at home. Pine trees sway lazily with the breeze, serenading me with creaking limbs and rustling needles. An owl hoots in the distance; a stable horse whinnies in accompaniment. I never listen to their songs in the city.Pine forests cast moonlit shadows on the ground around me, upset by the flickering fire. Shooting stars gleam overhead, blazing against the canvas of twinkling stars. I never see the stark beauty of our universe above the tall buildings and bright lights where I live. “When the fire goes out, you guys have to go to bed,” a parent idly threatens us; we’re impervious in our paradise. But when the logs burn down to flashing embers, we trudge to our trailers.Sleep encompasses me, and my thoughts turn from natural beauty to majestic cities. Several fifth-grade classmates and I had won a Lockheed Martin competition that spring. My first trip to the East ensued, as NASA invited our families to a ceremony honoring our accomplishment. My dream replays our trip. Even with seven days, we didn’t see a fraction of the city. National monu-ments, prestigious universities, and museums! Skyscrapers and metros and quaint little coffee shops on street corners…so much to do, in such a miniscule area. A smile plays on my lips. I appreciated beyond anything that chance to experience the awe of city life. Forever etched in my brain, the cityscape was marvelous. I still count down the days until my family crams into our car and makes the yearly drive into the mountains to the campground that has been my home for the second week of July since I was born. The pines and stories and animals still speak to me; I’ve grown up on their limbs and words and songs. But now, my paradise is dying. Dead pine trees moan, for pine beetle has stolen their beauty. The once-populated forest seems drained of animals. I see human development encroaching closer and closer.While I remember the beauty of Eastern cities, I hope with all my might to stop the loss of Colorado’s moun-tainous identity. What’s a skyscraper without towering timbers? What’s so special about the closeness of everything without the wide, open expanse of plains and mountain meadows? John F. Kennedy spoke for our society when he said, “If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can help make the world safe for diversity.” Diversity isn’t just skin color or heritage. I’m diverse for more than my race or ethnicity. I’m diverse because of the mountains I grew up in, the nature that raised me. I’m diverse because I plan to make the world safe for Colorado, so that someday, my kids can appreciate its diver-sity and resources just as I do.

UntitledBy: Steven “Drew” Bradley

A tongue so ribaldWords are more than communicationFor they twist there meanings with inflammationA softened kiss of the word of loveWill desecrate the heart of a doveThe words of secrets the words so silentShout aloud with a scream so violentYou take your words that mean so littleAnd hide them in emotions so brittleI know your tricks Houdini of truthFor i am no longer the blinded youthIll shatter your words so carelessly saidAnd bludgeon the lies you faithlessly spreadThe reaper of deceit is what I am calledAs I rip out your tongue so ribald

FACELESS

By: Emily Anderson

People walking. Faceless people. But, I stand there. I stand out in the crowd with my eyes closed, catching every scent in the air, identifying it, figuring out where it came from. I stand there and listen, listen for the tiniest sounds that no one would notice, like a squirrel jumping from tree to tree, way up in the treetops. For a second I think I hear it, smell it, but just like that, its gone.

By: Logan Hill

Frozen & BrokenBy: Kimberlynn Domingues

You don’t say a word.Your eyes reflect emtpiness, all thoughts & feelings gone.

Just emptiness.Where have you gone?

I want to hear you, I want to help you.You turn away, you don’t listen.

Resentment lingers in your cold eyes.Freezing me, startling me to self doubt.

Your cold words & freezing eyes lock me into submission, crumbling.It’s like cold fingers gripping, rattling, crippling.

My mind, my spirit, my heart. Shattering.You can’t melt what you’ve frozen.

You can’t fix the broken.

UntitledBy: Adrianna Jiminez

Baby boy the streets is all you know.You dream of a higher place,

Instead you stay low.You cry yourself to sleep

Don’t wale up to shoot outs in the streetsAl the fears you haven’t faced

Don’t lose your faithBecause storms don’t last always

I know it’s toughYou’re forced to grow up

Life is messed upBut keep your head up.

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