The literary magazine of Arvada West High School is dedicated to showcasing the endless creative talents students possess through all forms of prose, art, and photography
Winter 2023
Edition:
Perspective
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This is My Perspective
Poetry by: Alisha Renggli ('24)
This is my perspective
Das ist meine Perspektive
C’est ma perspective
Esta es mi perspectiva
questa è la mia prospettiva
это моя точка зрения
це моя точка зору
Detta är mitt perspektiv.
dette er mit perspektiv
dit is mijn perspectief
bu benim bakış açım
Αυτή είναι η δική μου οπτική γωνία
ez az én nézőpontom
これが私の考えです
这是我的观点
toto je můj pohled
Das isch mini Perspektive
They all say the same,
They all mean a lot
to someone out there;
This is their perspective
Origami Dragons
366
New years lingered still,
January bit coldly.
A father and daughter rest wearily,
The hospital unnervingly clean,
time dredging slowly.
The daughter, afflicted, ailing, anguished,
Given a date,
the end of the year,
Three-hundred and sixty-five days.
Father gifts her a promise,
Every day,
he’ll visit,
spirits he’ll lift,
Every day, a paper dragon will be folded,
Later released, off the cliffs,
The cliffs of his old home,
Of Norway.
This promise he did keep,
Every day, he visited her,
As time did creep,
Every day, another dragon was folded,
Her health serenely eroded,
As the doctors boded,
Through tomorrow, then tomorrow again.
Three-hundred and sixty-five days.
Yet this year leaped,
The year leaped, promise unkept,
Three-hundred and sixty-six days.
He hurried on that heatless, horrible hour,
Set in motion,
Skies grey, ground glossy,
The ice grasped and pulled, envious of his devotion,
He foolishly slipped,
his ankle twisted.
Limping on, toxic thoughts cluster,
Too late, her last hour passed, he had missed it.
A tear was all he could muster.
Three-hundred and sixty-six origami dragons,
Stuck in a box,
Stuck in a closet,
Stuck in a quiet room.
Life continued to drag on,
Accented only by grey.
New years lingered still, like that day,
A man worked wearily,
Cubicle suffocating, life being drained,
His joy, the devil has claimed,
No longer matters, his heart is maimed,
Two scars now mar it.
Day by day,
endless drudgery.
Life was written as a tragedy,
To which he lost to malady,
To which he came back home,
Alone.
Or perhaps, not home anymore.
Without them, perhaps just a house,
Abandoned, gone is love,
From its solemn walls.
“Perhaps,” He thought,
Amidst his sorrow,
“Perhaps I’ll pack and go back”,
“Go back to Norway”,
“Once again live my way”,
It took little more hesitation.
Upon the paper he signed,
Told his boss he resigned.
He went back to that house,
And began packing, teetering excitement,
Box after box, one caught is eye,
In her room, never could say “goodbye”.
The box was open, in it resides:
Three-hundred and sixty-six dragons.
And one diary, her diary,
Her thoughts and views,
It wouldn’t hurt to take a look,
For his sake, just one look.
Cracking open this memory, words began to sing:
She didn’t like origami,
Yet still folded paper with him.
She knew her doom was close,
Yet her smile shined most.
She didn’t care when she’s recast,
She just hoped her love would last.
She was just glad her final laughter,
Was spent with her father.
He had stopped,
By: Ethan Threlkeld ('24)
His guilt had popped,
Restlessly racing around the room, he realized,
“I didn’t fail in her eyes”.
Atop those sacred cliffs,
In hopes her spirits, he’ll lift,
Finally fulfilling, that New Year's promise.
In his hands, a box, inside that box:
Three-hundred and Sixty-six dragons.
The father opened the box, unfastening the locks,
Burst forth a paper swarm,
Despite the cold breeze, he felt warm.
The dragons softly glided,
Her soul they calmly guided,
But one stayed,
It’s rainbow paper shivering,
Perhaps it’s afraid?
So in his hands, he took it,
Released it into the air, happy, it looked it,
Until it landed upon father’s head.
“Why?” he asked,
“Why don’t you fly”, perplexed
“You're free!”
The dragon simply replied:
“Three-hundred and sixty-five dragons”
“Their fate was to fly”,
“To be released”.
Father’s eyes barely dry,
“My fate”,
“Was to protect her father”.
POETRY
Perspective through
ART
"FSH" By: Grace Scott ('26)
The Life of a Fat Girl
Narrative by: Izzy Wynne ('24)
I know my body is very far from perfect. The rolls in my stomach droop, red lines stretch around my body, and dots of red find their way to my back, arms, legs, and stomach. I grew up being told my body was not pretty enough.
¨You would be so much prettier if you lost a few pounds.¨ or there is always the classic manipulation my mom loved to pull, ¨If you lose some weight I'll buy things for you¨. Everyone is very quick to judge you when you are a fat girl, that is all they see.
A reflection of a girl looks back at me. Her puffy face and red eyes tell me she's been crying. Scars sit on her upper thigh as it was a good place to hide marks. The girl should be used to the comments by now, the simple nickname ¨porkchop¨. It's silly really, one word that normally wouldn't have any effect has left her crying and judging herself in the mirror.
The dim cafeteria lights drift a shimmer through the whole room, I have always hated eating in front of people. I´m always hungry when everyone else isn't, always ready to eat a provided lunch when ¨normal¨ people would just eat half. Willing to take extra food others don’t want.
When I was young I sat unjudged, enjoying extra chocolate milk and leftover pizza crusts from my friends but now, not so much. Now my friends and I gather on the steps on the floor. As they all sit and enjoy their lunch I sit and sip on some water. I always wait to eat until I'm at home. It makes me more comfortable.
Are you sure you don't want a bite, Izzy?¨, my worried friend asks. With a smile, I reply, ¨Yes I'm sure, I'll eat once I’m home, I promise¨.
I could be eating a salad and still get disgusted stares, so why put myself in that situation?
The purple-painted room is filled with the sound of clanking metal. I make my way to the elliptical in line with all the others. As I start my workout I think of all the comments ¨just go to the gym¨, ¨it's not that hard to just workout¨. With music pumping through my ears, I take a look around and make eye contact with a few people, I don't think much of it until I notice many stares. I just move on from that and make my way to a new machine. Once I was done with my workout I couldn't help but feel out of place, I'm just trying to do something for myself and I got stared at like an animal in a cage.
Over time I have learned to love myself. I think I'm genuinely beautiful and I wouldn’t change my body for the world. That doesn't mean people around me wouldn't, people continue to make the fat joke, and find some way to make me feel less of myself. It doesn't stop me anymore. I just stop and laugh, I sarcastically fling my body around like I´m highly affected by a stupid comment.
The girl who used to stare in the mirror with red puffy eyes and tears now stares with a smile and a shine of confidence. The still drooping rolls drop with a sense of pride, the scars on the upper thigh have now healed and showed as a memory. She is a completely different girl. A girl who truly loves herself.
in the animal kingdom
perspective
Paintings by: Haylee Griffith ('23)
I can’t pinpoint the moment.
I started to stop.
Worrying when my parents wouldn’t come home on time.
Somewhere in between the left behinds and the “We’ll be back soons.” I suppose.
The sigh of relief when the garage door closed.
House growing quiet, I could finally breathe again.
26 steps to the kitchen.
49 steps upstairs to grab a book I’m halfway through.
32 steps back downstairs to squish myself between the cushions of my mom’s comfy chair.
I relax.
I lose myself.
Live without a tight feeling in my chest or a presence on my shoulders.
My head quieting.
Pasta and cake and a whole new thing that’s French I think.
I grab the broom and sweep the kitchen.
Brush dust bunnies off framed remembrance.
Travel the entire living floor, it’s sparkling.
Glistening like a river of gold.
I lay in the sun shining through the window, taking deep steady breaths; my house I live my life.
Then the garage door screeches open.
I hear the turning of unoiled gears.
The strain of chains heave up to let my family back in.
I panic.
Poetry by: Marian Stanley ('24)
Home Alone
Picking myself up off the floor and grabbing the belongings that have migrated down the stairs with me.
I hear their excited yells and shouted glee as I scramble for my phone charger stuck in the wall.
I hear the door knob turning and the creaking of the hinges as they struggle with groceries, new toys, and memories without me.
Their laughter and angered shouts grow louder as the door finally lets loose, drowning out my frantic race up the stairs, taking 4 at a time.
I quickly throw all my stuff on my bed and race to shut the door as quietly as possible.
They can not know I understand where to find the living room.
They simply can’t learn that I know where to locate the kitchen or the nice comfy couch downstairs for then they would request me to be there.
And I wouldn't be able to handle the pounding in my veins and the weight on my shoulders.
The unrelenting constriction of my chest and the pressure in my head when I fake smile and fake nod.
My body, no longer my own.
Unable to be myself.
I would be what they picture and not what I am.
I don’t think I could ever truly be one of them.
I can only be my precisely sole self without the overbearing weight of design.
I sometimes wish they would leave more often.
N
o one dares venture near the woods, for they hold the most psychotic people one will ever see in this life. Those people are nothing short of a cult without a leader. For they pray to a tree so that they can live while their children die. Oh, that minuscule village that resides deep in the woods, anyone born there must have been cursed by god himself in their past life. Many have tried to run but eventually are caught and sacrificed to that horrid tree. The village itself is the definition of death. Nothing grows there, the woods themselves have parted to make way for the village. The only sign that mother nature was ever there would be the tree that has been dead for as long as anyone can remember that sits in the middle of the village. The houses there are nothing more than small tents used for camping. The children must sleep outside on the outskirts of the village as punishment for being born. This cult believes that new life is a sin and refuses to care for it. If children try to leave, the guardians of the tree will hunt them down and then tie them up to the tree. Eventually, they will die from thirst and hunger then the crows will pick the meat off their bones. Oh, that horrid cult; for it’s all the evil from the world in one group of people. Those who live on the other side of the woods don't dare venture in, for they know they will be killed. People on the other side of the woods actually know of the dangers that lie within the woods excluding the village, they don't let their young venture anywhere near that place for the last time the child was found torn to ribbons laying next to a boulder. Ever since then, the boulder has been known as the Bloody Boulder, a cousin to the tree in the village. For they both bring misfortune and impending doom.
Now, back to the tree, the tree is known as the Tree of Life to the village despite everyone else calling it the Tree of Death. The tree has a long dark history, the village was built around it. For the people, they were just a following without a leader, and the first thing they saw they needed to pray to. The group were actually runaways from a much larger village that is now destroyed, which used to be a cult. These people seeked freedom and ran towards the woods in search of a new life. They wandered around aimlessly for a month in those dark woods, many were driven insane and strayed from the path which ended their pitiful life. When they finally reached the clearing in the woods most collapsed. It was such a joyous day no one would have thought would ever come. At last, the people were done with their journey, they could finally relax and be free. In the middle of the clearing, a dead tree stood; it was the symbol of hope for the people. Their journey came to an end when they spotted the tree, perhaps that is why they worship this tree. They pray to this tree and do practically everything in their power to keep this tree maintained the way it was and has been since the day they found it. The only problem the people had is that they believed that this was their tree and their tree alone. After all, it had saved them so why should it be shared with anyone else who had not been with them on that journey. People gave their lives to help find this tree, the saviour that freed these people.
For a long time, they stayed clear away from fraught but eventually things had to change. When the first baby of the village was born chaos erupted, and fraught came and oversaw the rest of the village. People were scared they didn't want their tree to go away just because a new life was brought into the colony. However, these people weren't murderers so they couldn't kill the child. The parents of the child and the child itself were later tied to the tree and were to sit and wait there for a month. Plenty of time for the crows to come and pick the meat off their bones. After a month a grave would be dug for everyone except the child. The child's bones were thrown into the woods as a reminder of those who’ve died in those woods. For they never got to see the tree in all its glory. After seeing this brutal form of punishment people became scared of one another thinking that they might turn on them any minute none dared to have a child anymore. Some tried to convince one another that there would be no one to continue the legacy after they died, and most people said the tree would keep us alive forever. It was utter madness and one of the most violent acts that these people have ever witnessed. Only three children were ever raised in that village, they were raised in secret since the parents didn't want to die nor did they have the heart to kill the child themselves. The oldest being 12 and the youngest both being 9 since they were twins. The children knew of the wrongs of this cult; they seeked escape and freedom. When they asked their parents to leave the response was grim. No one has ever tried to leave before at all in the 36 years of living here. There wasn't even much security in the village, only a few guards would stand in night duty even though there were no mortal dangers. So this family devised a plan they would make their escape through the opposite side of the woods that the cult haven't ventured through yet during the cloak of darkness at night. They needed time to gather supplies so they would leave in 2 days' time.
Everything in the village was simple and easily done, only a few tasks needed to be done. No one would ever suspect that something catastrophic would even happen. Yes, everything was innocent and the same as any other day. As the children crept in the shadows to gather anything that would be useful to their journey, all the way from blankets to food to fabric to make a tent. There was one item that would require difficulty to obtain: that item was an axe. Violence is prohibited in this village and only 3 axes exist in this village, all used to cut down trees and all heavily guarded by the elders. Trying to steal an axe would be impossible so the only choice they had was to try to sharpen rocks off one another. The children chose the sharpest rock they could find and started grazing it up and down against a very textured rock. It took a whole day and a half to gather everything but it was worth it. Tonight they would escape. The only trouble that they would have is running across the clearing to get to the woods. Luckily their house was located near the outskirts of the village so they would be harder to detect. As they watched through a window on the back side of the house to wait for a guard to leave, the youngest brought all their materials in 2 backpacks which they had the two youngest carry. The guard started to walk towards the right side of the village and the family knew, it was now or never. They all crept out of the window one by one, oldest to youngest. They looked both ways as if they were crossing a street and made a run for it.
The next morning when the parents showed up to their jobs as usual the elders crept up behind them and in a low muffled voice asked “Screams were heard last night from your direction, young high pitched female screams. Care to explain why?” The father responded with not a slight bit of remorse on his face “A problem was taken care of.” The elders nodded and walked away. A few hours later 3 graves were dug in the graveyard, one for the oldest of the three children and two for the twins. All that was buried were the bones, all picked clean with not a stain of blood around the area they were found. A guard found the bones on daily rounds and calmly reported them to the elders. In fact the elders knew about the children all along and were waiting for the parents to leave them to whatever was in the woods, for that creature had forbidden safe passage. That's why the people pray to a tree. They pray to all die and be exactly like the tree. Free from burdens, free to lie down peacefully, free to not be bothered by the dark reality they live in. For anyone that supported life and supported bringing innocence into this hell deserved to die tied to the tree that was supposed to be a beacon of hope and free them all.
A Short Story by: Syd Rosentrater
Misty mornings
Gently falling oil,
Grace the Earth below,
Sink into rich dark soil,
Help green things grow.
Your touch, soft and silken,
Smoothly slipping down sleek skin,
A warm and wet embrace,
Sweeter than hugging my own kin.
Creating a crescendo, tapping on tin roofs,
A lullaby of celebration,
I hear your sweet, gentle sound,
I can’t help but leap in elation.
Your scent arrives before,
Earthy aroma tainted air,
A promise for a storm,
More exciting than a carnival fair.
The epitome of gracious generosity,
A cruelness about your ways:
Sandy Sahara soil never sees the end to your wickedness,
While the Amazon sees your altruistic praise.
By: Maddie Lyon ('24)
Your presence is rarely constant,
Fleeting like darkness with the coming dawn,
But everytime you make yourself known,
Like a moth to a flame, I am drawn.
From now until the day I die,
My love for you will never fade,
I’ll still enjoy splashing in puddles,
And watching dew form on every grass blade.
I’ll marvel at your beauty,
While tasting your very essence
And will get excited to see you
Even into my late adolescence.
Even when I’m old and gray,
I will dance beneath you,
Watching a rainbow form above,
Revealing at the view.
Into the Abyss
BY: erin l. ('23)
DIGITAL ART/ POETRY
A short story by: Miles Aguayo ('25) on the next four pages
days
000
My name is Lily, Lily Brown. I was born into a large city in Britain on May 16th, 2003. My parents used to say that I was their pride and joy. My favourite things to do consisted of finger painting, playing at the local park with my friends, playing football with my dad, and watching shows on my ipad. But, that was a long time ago. This is my story.
In late May of 2015, our country was invaded. It started with air strikes, then bombing, then, the military flooded in. Martial law was imposed, and everyone began fleeing. My father wanted to stay, but, after the raids began, we were forced to leave like the rest. I remember the first bomb strike like it was yesterday. We were getting our things packed into our car. I stood there, watching people screaming and running in every direction. Cars sped past, making my hair fly with the sudden rush of wind that followed each vehicle. Everything seemed to blur together. The people, the screams, the planes flying overhead. I remember my dad shouting my name, and my mum reaching out to me with this horrified look on her face. Then, I felt a wave of pressure overtake my body. Pressure and heat surrounded me. I didn’t have time to scream, but even if I did, no one would have been able to hear me over the myriad of shouting, crashing, honking, and many, many other things that I couldn’t possibly distinguish. A piercing ringing was the only definable sound I heard as I dropped to the ground, and only then did my vocal chords finally strain themselves into, what I imagine, was a high pitched squeal.
My dad rushed over and grabbed me out from under the rubble. Luckily, I hadn’t been completely crushed by the debris. I didn’t even notice the scrapes and bruises that had formed on my skin while my parents loaded me into the car. They had seemingly forgotten about the rest of our belongings still on the side of the road as our car raced away from the scene. I was never a tearful child. I’m surprised that, even then, I managed to hold back my tears. But, that hadn’t lasted for very long after what would be the first of many encounters with the German military.
My father was a very prideful man. I envied his pride. But, in the end, it was his pride that got him killed. On day 24 after the evacuation, he was caught by the military. He thought he could sacrifice himself and get all of us away safely. Me and mum couldn’t turn back to save him. The next night, we held a funeral. My mum lit the candles as I watched, reliving the day before. Would he still be here if they hadn’t brought me? If I was never born, would my parents still be alive? Would they have been able to escape safely if they hadn’t had to worry about me? If they didn’t have to pull me away from those soldiers, if mom hadn’t had to choose between me or dad, would he still be here? If the answer is yes, better me than him. Why not me?
Before I knew it, my second birthday since the invasion had arrived. It had been two full years. Two whole years of famine. Two agonising years of depression. And, two grief filled years without dad. On day 686, my mum wished me a happy birthday while she handed me a small, poorly wrapped, stuffed rabbit. But, while we both knew it wasn’t a very happy or special day, I appreciated her lighthearted attempts at making me smile. We had made it to a new refugee camp a week ago. We had been transferring to different camps as we made our way across the country. My mum had begun putting up missing posters for dad. She started doing this a few months after we had lost dad whenever she got the resources. I didn’t have any hope left that he would return, but she did. Her hope is what kept me going. On day 689, I met Arthur. Him and I, we became brother and sister. It was apparent that both of us had been through horrible things, but Arthur, he never stopped smiling. He became my secondary source of light, and later, my only source of light.
It had seemed as if things were going well. In fact, they were going too well. I was getting full meals, and good rest. I had made friends, I even began to feel a little safe. I was forced back into reality on day 720, when our camp was raided. All of a sudden, screaming and gunshots echoed into the atmosphere that once consisted of low talking and friendly conversations. These were sounds I had become all too familiarised with by now, but, no matter how familiar you become with the sounds of pain and fear, you will never get used to it. Believe me.
We were all forced onto our knees, hands behind our heads. I squeezed my eyes shut as the chaos ensued. I heard people running in every direction, and gunshots being fired towards the footsteps. My best shot at survival was compliance. I heard my mother whimpering and speaking frantically behind me. I could tell that she was trying to comfort me, but, I could not decipher most of the stuttering words that came out of her mouth in jumbled syllables. I opened my eyes against my better judgement, and finally, I began to understand the exact reason why she was so panicked. Two men had their guns pointed at my head. They were yelling things at me that I couldn’t understand, while one violently pushed me forward with the tip of his gun. I took this as a signal to stand, and they began to pat me down. It seemed they were checking the refugees for belongings and weapons. Mum was cleared and put to the back in a line, probably so that the soldiers could figure out what to do with her. I couldn’t see her at the time, but, I knew the expression that would have been etched across her face had I been able to turn around and see her.
Thoughts rushed through my head. Was mum okay? What about Arthur? Had he been hurt? There were so many screams, a lot of which were coming from young children. What if one of those screams were coming from Arthur? What about my friends? I worried for my family and friends so much that I barely cared what was happening to me in the moment. I felt myself disassociate farther away as a soldier began to stroke my cheek, malicious intent evident. How long had this raid been happening, and when would it end? My heart skipped several beats as I felt someone grab my shoulder, shouting. The soldier backed away in surprise as his hand was thrown off of me with a force that only a protective mother could wield. I turned to face mum, but I felt myself being pulled away. As we ran, I saw pools of blood on the ground. I gagged thinking of the possibilities. She dragged me inside one of the on site facilities while we dodged bullets. We walked briskly and quietly, passing a multitude of different people. Two were German soldiers that seemed too engrossed in their passionate argument to notice or care about us passing them. I lowered my head, hoping they wouldn’t turn back. Once we escaped the camp, we had to relocate. We travelled and stationed in abandoned and hidden areas. Always sticking to the shadows, never being seen, this is what has always worked for us.
On day 761, we made our way to a smuggler van. They agreed to take us through the Irish border and to the boat site for a fee. We were en route to America. They were supposed to be welcoming British refugees. We made it through the first checkpoint, and the second. On the third, though, I was suddenly awoken from my sleep by gunfire and the painful, tearing sound of glass shattering and wheels screeching. Mum had wrapped her arms around me protectively so that the glass didn’t cut me. Our van sped away while bullets sprayed through the thin, shabby metal. I covered my ears to shield myself from the squeals of fright and pain that erupted from the small crowd of people occupying the bus. Despite my greatest efforts at subduing the mirage of noises attacking my ears, I still heard every word, every gunshot, every shriek, every cry. A man was bleeding. He was the husband of a very kind woman, Jenny. Mum was trying to help him.
She was pumping his stomach trying to keep the blood from flowing. I wanted to help. I didn’t want to be useless like how I was when dad was apprehended, but, I couldn’t bring myself to look back. I smelled and tasted metal. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. I blanked.
When I came to, mum was shaking me awake and hurrying me off of the bus. We had made it to the boat site. It was halfway into the evening by now. She consulted some of the men who were in charge of loading and discharging boats. She gave them the money she owed and began asking them questions about the ride, how long it would take, etc. I listened from a close distance. But, something was wrong. I heard her begin to sob. She grabbed the man’s arm, pleading with him. One of us would have to stay behind.
She took me to the boarding area and explained to me what was happening. I felt my heart sink into my stomach. I told her I wouldn’t get on the boat without her, but she wouldn’t listen. She handed me a piece of paper with her phone number on it. Eventually, she made me promise to get on the boat and call her when I arrived in America. I can still remember the bitter, salty taste in my mouth as I boarded the boat without her. She held my arm with trembling hands and looked at me with that expression I knew too well.
The boat ride was agonising, crowded, and slow. Night had fallen, and I was left alone with my past. I gripped Arthur’s hand tightly, anxiety coursing through my body. I was worried for our boat. This night was not a still one by any means. Thunder was crashing, and the waves raged harder and harder as the night progressed. But, we couldn’t turn around. Not now. We were almost there.
Almost instantly after this thought, I felt a great shove. I toppled over, hitting a few people next to and behind me. Our boat was being attacked by vicious waves. I held onto the sides of the boat as panic ensued. The driver desperately tried to rev the boat engine back up, but it wouldn’t start. People began shouting and crying as boats began to flip while wave after wave crashed down. I quickly put a life vest over Arthur’s shoulders as our boat thrashed harder against the waves. I held onto him, trying to protect him, but he was thrown out of the boat after one great wave washed over us. Before I could reach for him, I was next. The entire boat flipped, and I fell into the depths along with my brother.
I couldn’t see or hear anything. I fought the ocean, trying to swim up for air, but I kept getting pushed down. A few seconds above sea is all I got before I reached my breaking point and gasped for air, my body’s primal instinct not caring that there was none around me. My chest burned. My lungs filled with water, and I felt my body begin to calm. I stopped thrashing, and my vision began to blur as I was pulled down further and further into the depths of the cruel, violent sea.
I woke up the next day on a sandy shore. Survivors and Americans helped the unconscious, young, and elderly to safety. I don’t remember much that happened during that short period of time. I was carried and loaded into a vehicle of some sort, and I was very disoriented. I then woke up in a temporary hospital in a bed attached to an IV. I was asked questions about my experience, and about Arthur since he was still unconscious. His parents had drowned. I didn’t want to tell him, but, he would have found out even if I hadn’t. Shock, denial, and exhaustion is what his face consisted of as he woke up the next morning an orphan.
We had a long journey ahead, even if we did make it to America. We needed money, food, transportation, shelter. Even if we could have been able to prepare ourselves for this situation, there’s no way we would have been able to get access to all of these things. Since we technically were not legal in America yet, we had to take secluded and dangerous paths. The refugee hospital centre we were at gave us direction and a little bit of money to be set off with. Our next stop was the registration centre. A woman had told us that they would provide us with food and shelter, but, also that we would have to take the journey alone.
On day 1,125, we arrived at the registration centre. We were exhausted, scared, and traumatised. America was loads better than the current state of my country, but there was still so much hate. We were hunted, taken pictures of like zoo animals, called British scum, and more. I hadn’t realised that so much propaganda had been spread about my people. People said that I had started the war against Germany, and that I deserved what I got for being a part of such a cruel, unloving country. I couldn’t believe that people actually believed this. If they knew me, or my parents, or Arthur, they wouldn’t say that. If they knew all of the horrible things we had been through, I had been through, would they still think the same?
After we had gone through proper registration, we were sent off to an adoption agency. We were kept there and given new clothes, food, baths, and a lot of basic cleanliness items that we desperately needed. I finally felt hope. I felt safety. I felt warmth. I took care of Arthur, bathed him, brushed his teeth, just like mum used to do with me. That night, I had the best sleep I’ve ever had in three years.
The next morning, we had gotten exciting news. Arthur had found a new home. I asked when we would be leaving, but their answer stopped me in my tracks. We wouldn’t be leaving. Arthur would be leaving. He would be leaving me behind, just like mum, dad, my friends, my old life. I tried to reason with them, begging them to let him stay, or to at least put us in a home together, but they would not listen. I clutched my stuffed rabbit tight as I was taken into the next room for questioning.
Today is day 2,220. I am nineteen years old, and I live with a new family. They love me and take care of me. I still feel sad that I can’t see my real parents anymore. My mom hasn’t turned up, and I lost hope for dad a long time ago. I don’t know where Arthur lives, but I hope he’s doing well. I write this today to tell all of you the average experience in the life of a refugee in hopes that you will take this crisis more seriously. Today, there are refugees swarming into America all the way from countries like Honduras, to countries like Ukraine. This will never stop if we don’t take action. Spread awareness, fund donations, participate in votes that will make our voices heard. Help the refugees. Help the children. Help us.
BY: Lucia Tanguma ('25)
Poem by: Dezi Nirvelli ('26)
A Bug's Forest
The Girl, The Fox, And The Squirrel In The Forest
Walking through
The misty woods,
Cold fog.
Damp haze.
Depressing smog.
I shed a tear in memory of,
A bygone day,
In the sun,
But to a squirrel,
The fog is safe.
The mist is home.
Flitting through,
The trees and brush,
Hazy fun,
Squirrel on the run.
Yet to a fox,
The fog is trouble,
The mist means no hunting.
The haze means no dinner.
And kit’s tummies grumbling.
So now you see,
Though the mist depressed me,
When the fog spelled safety,
If the haze creates hunger,
It’s all the same to the trees.
The chalice
Our friendship resembles a glass chalice.
Something pretty, something to cherish.
It was set on on a table between us, on a marble coaster
In that chalice held trauma, memories, trust and vulnerability.
I really did cherish this chalice.
I took notice that it started to slowly crack but right down the middle.
Month by month,I watched that crack get bigger and bigger.
One day i think you finally realized what was happening to the chalice.
I expected you to fix that crack like you usually would
Instead you knocked it off the table.
Not only did you spill the memories, the trauma, the trust and vulnerability.
Not only did it spill but it shattered.
You can pick up a glass off the floor and refill that glass of course, but can you pick up a shattered chalice?
No. You sweep up that glass, you soak up the trauma memories, trust and vulnerability with a paper towel.
You toss it in the trash.
You can't fix that chalice.
Poem by: Kira Krueger ('24)
Poem by: Destiny Edgett ('23)
Nerds Gummy Clusters
Nerds Gummy Clusters are yummy
They have lots of crunch
They fill my tummy
I always eat them for lunch
The gummy has a texture of a worm
Nerds Gummy Clusters are scrumy
They have 21 grams of sugars, thats a bunch
They were originally a gift from my mummy
They taste like crack, but that is just a hunch
They are candies that look like big germs
The mud stuck in your boots
The pitch is where you planted your roots
The idea of taking a victory is one that you aspire for
Even being on this pitch now feels as if it is a rumor
Ball spirling toward your hands
The game makes ever-lasting bonds
You find who you are on this pitch
The idea of being a victor is within your clutch
You have an unbeatable itch to play
This love for the game will never decay
The sound of a ball hitting the posts
Lifting a person in the air with a boosts
Plays spiral through your head
Not knowing what lies ahead you begging to dread
Your head whipping to the ground will this be your last match
You hope you get one final rematch
UGBY
Poetry by: Number 2 ('26)
Tik tok tik tok, the sound of a moving clock
And right now my mind is moving fast like a fox
It feels like I’m trapped in a box
So I’ll just stay here in my seat
Until my dream and I meet
Then I’ll stand, with great pride
finally look my dream in the eye,
not run away to hide
Because I’m tired of waiting
Nobody told me this whole thing would be blind dating
At 8 years old I dreamed of being a scientist
But that was before I had seen the entire list
At 9 I started watching old clips of MJ
And at 10 and 11 I wanted to go to the NBA
That changed when my life switched to match play
At 12 and 13 I thought being an english teacher would fill my days
But teachers don’t get enough praise
14 brought dreams of cooking
Switched that up fast when my food was not good-looking
15 I realized my dreams were a mess, looking for a little bit of success
16 and 17 I am lost not knowing what dream to dream
This life thing is not what it seems
So many decisions I’m running out of steam
It makes me scream
Why can't I figure it out? My mind is flooding, filling with doubt
Dream your dream they say
I hope my dream will find me one day
Cuz I can’t keep sitting here not knowing what to do
I guess I’ll have to wait and see it through
Some say you don’t pick your dream your dream picks you
and maybe now I believe that to be true
After all the failed attempts at achieving
When all of them just keep fleeing
Poem by: Colin Chrstopher ('23)
A Special Thanks!
Thank you to everyone who submitted their work and shared their immense talent with Purple Prose! This magazine wouldn't exist without you. Additionally, a huge thank you to our sponsors for their endless support, Mr. Tanguma whose endless beauty is captured to the right, and Ms. Widstrum! We hope you enjoyed this edition and we can't wait to see and read your submissions next time. Thank you!
-Purple Prose editors
"Mr. Tangtang"
by: Destiny Edgett