Johnson High School Arts and Literature Magazine

Excalibur-2023

Pamela Alvarez Digital art

Isobel McCain Mixed media

Paper stack border

Emanuel Anaya Skateboard deck

NULLA LEO EROS, GRAVIDA AT MAXIMUS ferm entum in turpis. Donec non lacus justo. Suspendisse potenti. Nunc in consequat ornare eu velit sed consectetur. Duis in lorem interdum, sollicitudin mauris non, iaculis libero. Curabitur ullamcorper, mauris vitae imperdiet hendrerit, felis nulla congue ligula, at malesuada nisl felis sit.

Asher See Graphite on paper

to tell, for the light was immensely dimmed by the thick blanket of clouds that stared me down relentlessly. These clouds coated the land beneath with a thick fog that impaired the eyes and stifled the air with a chilling wind.&nbsp; 			 Beyond the dimmed atmosphere, I could scarcely perceive the mirage of some group of distant objects. So with the lack of any other ideas, I decided to woefully tread into the darkness. Ahead of the fog, the vague shape of a town was taking form, each passing step I took a further development of clarity. Stepping forward with stubborn ignorance, I breathed heavily through the filthy air, my arms outstretched, desperately searching for any vertical plane to rest upon.&nbsp; But the more I struggled to perceive what surrounded me, the less I understood any of it. The darkness quickly seeped into my psyche, blurring my cognitive ability, like how the dark drop of liquor disturbs a man’s head. As I clumsily maneuvered my surroundings, one thing became deathly apparent. I had found myself lost, astray in the corrosive air of a bygone town.&nbsp; 			 As this painful realization set in, I heard the distant cry of something cruel and inhumane: a gravelly clamor from many miles away that rang in my head. I recognized it immediately. It was Them. With my pain mounting and the sounds coming closer, I desperately began searching through the fog for anything that could hide myself from the monster. I finally stumbled into and hid behind a set of barrels, where I crouched wearily. I heard the cry again. It was otherworldly, with a confounding lack of any noticeable pattern, which seemed to deny any law of the universe I could possibly understand. It could have driven a man to madness with enough exposure, and I was already feeling the dawn of mental unsoundness. All I could make out of it was a shrill growl that evolved to a powerful shriek, ending with a deep and gruff bellow. The more it crescendoed in volume, the faster my heart raced. Fear was the only thing I felt at that moment. Cruel fear, that clutches the heart mercilessly and ever so gruesomely, and with stubborn grimace, breaks us to our core, engorging our bodies with paralysis and doubt that numbs the senses and disturbs the mind. But after a few moments of hiding, the sounds ceased. I peeked over the barrels and spotted, a couple hundred feet away, a light gray shape dragging some sort of bloody carrion across the ground. The thick fog clouded my vision immensely, so that I could only make out the fact that the monster had four legs, red eyes, and gray skin. I knew it was no wolf, due to the lack of fur, but before I could ponder further, it had scampered away into the darkness. 			As I stood there in shrill silence, the only noise being the thud of my heart and my shaky breathing, I examined my new surroundings. It was one of the most ravaged, decrepit locations I had ever witnessed. There was a cobblestone road a few feet away, which led only further into the omnipresent fog ahead. It winded forward and eventually split into two paths, forming a circle in the middle where two benches and a street lamp resided. Adjacent to the road, there laid never ending buildings that crawled forward and disappeared into the gloom like a worm disappearing into the dirt, and a thick hue of grayish blue was cast over the derelict hamlet. The area was awry with a spark of sheer catastrophe, unparalleled by any other horror I had witnessed in my dark lifetime. It engulfed my mind with curiosity and paranoia, and I knew that if I didn’t leave soon, the creature would come back for me. So I sneaked across the road and into a dingy house, where the fog continued to creep in through the doorway. Next to me lay a kitchen with a stove. The cupboards and drawers had been ransacked in a desperate attempt to scrounge up what little was left, and the stove was weary and beaten down. Across the kitchen, I also took note of a table with two chairs and a wooden staircase going up another floor, the wooden boards rotten and damaged beyond repair. As I sat down at the table with a sharp exhale, I received a sparse moment to think, which had become a rare occasion as of late. Ever since the Inception, the path which I have taken into adulthood has been one riddled with blood-stains and abysmal mayhem, in my psyche and my surroundings, with

Pamela Alvarez Pencil

"The worst thing that can happen to a man is to lose his courage." 		- Robert Woodson Johnson

Ashley Aldaco Graphite on paper

Sara Muro Color pencil

Emily Hernandez Acrylic

April Cerritos Photography

From left to right: April Cerritos - Editor Catherine DeCocco - Advisor Nancy Nguyen - Team member

Sara Muro Mixed media

Questioning the approach to control these emotions, my desires, my longings. 	&nbsp;Have I completely gone!?&nbsp; 	Turning away and murmuring, I let my voice go unheard, so honest. 	&nbsp;I bring it upon myself, it’s my fault. 	&nbsp;All that I need to accomplish for you was to demonstrate that I merited your time and exertion, 	&nbsp;I need to be different, unique. 	There’s blood on his self-evident lies. 	&nbsp;Be that as it may, he doesn't want to eat me; 	he won't satisfy me, 	His words clarified how he detested me,&nbsp; 	how I've lost every single drop of pleasantness.&nbsp; 	“I’m sorry, please forgive me.” 	Feel free to fall in love,&nbsp; 	expanding your midriff.&nbsp; 	Though I know I can’t execute the child inside, I can’t bear to let you go. 	&nbsp;Everything is dubious everyday, and then, like that,&nbsp; 	goodbye my child.&nbsp; 	I know I must learn from my mistakes.&nbsp; 	I look my eyes the alternate way, 	&nbsp;I'll figure out how to escape from the real world.&nbsp; 	I'm heartbroken, I feel it, 	&nbsp;but I'll accept the torment if it's all for you.&nbsp; 	I am so happy, 	&nbsp;saying goodbye,&nbsp; 	everyone that ran my life,&nbsp; 	if it's not too much trouble,&nbsp; 	don't hesitate to consume my all.

Paper texture

“Dreams are like songs. Their task is not to offer an exact image of the world, but a suggestion of it.” -&nbsp;Bernard Cornwell,&nbsp;Excalibur

DANCING IN THE RAIN By: Atticus Rose

re-flec-tion: noun 1. the throwing back by a body or surface of light, heat, or sound without absorbing it. 2. serious thought or consideration.

Here we are Cold rain coming down But with hands intertwined Even the coldest winds or harshest rain Cannot dampen our fire As we are dancing in the rain Eyes to the sky Sight on each other Circling no different than Yin And Yang A mix of fire and water Warmth and cool A juxtaposition of life Two hearts thinking in harmony Two Brains beating in sync 2 pairs of feet paving a story And two fools Dancing in the rain

Emily Hernandez Acrylic on canvas

Pamela Alvarez Mixed media

distraught violence and a never-ending plague of madness and catastrophe. The more I sat there and let my mind wander, the more I slipped into the infinite stream of consciousness in the back of my mind, where ideas and schemes hustled forward like the train that brings about fresh perspectives and concepts from the New World, but with the wondrous luxuries, also brings about paranoia, fear, and anxiety. I began to ponder on where I would go from here, and what I would do. But that was when it dawned on me that I didn’t know. I wasn’t marching towards sanctuary and comfort. No, I was marching towards nothing but suffering and darkness. If I continued to walk my path, I would not escape Them. I would not escape Him. There was nothing left. Nothing remains. 	Just before I slipped down into the mental Tartarus that is madness, my thoughts were disturbed by the noise of a distant roar. It was Them again. I threw the empty can away, hurried out of the shack and tore down the cobblestone road, into the infinite layout of luminescent street lamps and obscure buildings covered in thick and cruel fog. I panted heavily as I raced down the road, the repetitive pattern of the cobblestone bricks driving me on a slow degradation to madness with each passing footstep. The harder my body pounded, the more the thoughts of my life’s insignificance inched closer into my psyche. The lights grew thicker and brighter, stinging my eyes. In a joint effort with the fog, which was the thickest and most toxic it had ever been, the elements practically denied me vision. The howls were gaining tremendous volume as I barreled through the village, desperately searching for any possible way out. But as I neared what I presumed to be an exit, the dull pitter-patter of the feet against the cobblestone was replaced with the shallow crunch of freshly-fallen snow. The gradient of the ground I stepped upon shifted upwards a substantial amount, and I soon noticed that I was moving upwards against a mountain. As the snowfall increased and snow-covered trees appeared, I trudged diligently through the thick, now knee-high snow that slowed my movements to a crawl and tired my muscles to supreme exacerbation. For what felt like eternity, I toiled up the mountain, each passing moment another thought of giving in. I knew that in time, I would have to stop struggling. So I wondered: why did I struggle now? Why would I delay my wonderful freedom from the eternal and impedimentary bout against my inevitable death? This slowed my body as I neared the top of the mountain, for I figured that there was no real point in continuing to struggle if every path leads to further suffering. 	When my body finally fell, it became apparent that I had reached the top of the mountain. There was nowhere else to go now. The harsh winds whipped my hair in all directions, coating it in a light seasoning of snow. With pulsating muscles and dwindled energy, I stopped running. There was no point in doing so. Even if I was able to escape Them, what would become of me then? I would be nothing but a vagabond to death, bound by the eternal shackles of suffering and measurable time. This thought, that I was done running, done struggling in a decayed, rotten world, seemed to entrance my body into a moment of peace and solace, one which I had been searching for all my life. I became aware that I had found my purpose. It was not to survive. But to adapt. Adapt to His will. As I dropped to my knees, the winds cleared and I entered a state of euphoric joy, for I had no need to suffer any longer. I was free from the restraints of life, of suffering, of time forevermore. I was not giving up. I was accepting a divine gift. An honest purpose from the greater power. As the clouds cleared, an impossibly large pupil approached closer and closer to the mountain, growing in size with each passing moment. It was a beautiful structure: an orange iris surrounded the perfectly black pupil, with a milky sclera enveloping the celestial marvel. The presence and nature of this being was much more altruistic and pure than that of humanity. It was a perfect being. This was Him. My one true purpose. As I stared into His pupil, I became inebriated with complete nirvana. A flawless equilibrium, as if the universe itself was giving in to His indomitable will. Every man, creature, plant, and god kneeled to Him. Even the supposedly indomitable human spirit was utterly pulverized by the immaculate nature of His unbridled essence. Shedding illustrious tears, I fully accepted his hold over my own human self. And as the sounds of the world faded out like the sun at the end of the useless and monotonous day, I assumed my destined purpose. And I bestowed upon Him my eternal consciousness.

Small dotted paper

“Quando a gente está com problemas é útil descobrir alguém que esteve na mesma dificuldade.” ―&nbsp;Bernard Cornwell,&nbsp;Excalibur

Asher See Graphite

"When you're in trouble, it's helpful to find someone who's been in the same difficulty." - Bernard Cornwell, Excalibur

Asher See Graphite

Nightmare The conundrum of time twists away into the dark, its faded sparks falling into the abyss. The seas and jaunt of the light amid the swirling night. Mind, the periphery and the castled king on his throne. The dark-speckled sun distant in the sky, the moon even further out. Clouds dotting the landscape, enlapsing the land like an old comforter. The drizzles of fog, the mist of air painted blue, quick, the leg cradles over the stone tops, sloping over the smooth edge. Arms slick and pressed against the knees, pulled inwards, as the blue sky, the dark sea, the rotted grass and the depravity– It makes isolation, an oyster, an appearance. The dream closes in, collapsing in a chokehold. ... The fire crackles low under midnight. They murmur soft words to each other, low like the flames. The conversation sparks and wraps around itself, a quiet bundle of gold. Along the Riverbend Her hairs curl around my wrist, golden-brown and draped along the river-bend. Eyes which had fluttered shut, lips pursed only slightly open, vaguely peaceful, vaguely awed, as the leaves and petals swirl around her form. I titter by the shore where she lay, hung like useless drapery. Then I make myself a bird, and I chitter a cry.&nbsp;&nbsp; They come tumbling like stones. The ground rattles, full of their uniform marchings, and come to carry the body away. Stoic, commanded, calculated. The last sight I see is the hair over face--the way that her dress clung to her skin the draping of an unbloomed flower, the petals markings blemishing her skin before being carried away. So not another sound besides the remnants of rushing water, the faint splash of current. Dilapidation let me sing a song to you, little song-bird. let me tell you of the essence of time for within my voice, it beckons by the rustle of leaves, my melody ringing, through essence of an orchard your basket at the ready, striking at the sweet curves with your twisted thighs making wondrous imprints out of your delicate lines swinging your hips, for dissecting the tower penetrating limbs in the search for power ... your lips are tasting, biting, having gotten so far only for the rotten apple, having soured, to scar

I hurriedly scampered in an unknown direction, against the foul current of Chicago’s gusty winds. This new kind of dread, unexplainable by any of human nature, had arisen in me as my feet pounded forward with unending diligence. Night trickled ever so lightly into illustrious daytime, and as the sun I saw set in Chicago rose once more with brilliant light on the border of Wisconsin, I collapsed to the ground, my ears ringing in the hollow ambience of my unfamiliar surroundings. The leaves whistled past, every fleeting moment bringing about another ache or contusion on my frail body. But I didn’t have time to waste away. As I grew weaker, the unprecedented dangers that lay before me only grew in strength and number, as if the Earth itself was leeching the essence of life directly from my body and feeding it into the unquenchable gullet of malice incarnate. As time passed, I eventually summoned the ability to arise from the soil and cling to a decrepit sign a few feet away. The twin metal poles I rested upon supported a battered green label which below the muck and grime of time uncountable, contained the message Henrietta, Wisconsin 	Upon looking up to read the sign, I suddenly achieved a keen awareness of my dreadful state. For the entire distance I could comprehend, there lay rows and rows of trees, lashed by the endless crash of the waves of time, scarring their appearance and twisting their branches into uncanny abominations. The path I stood upon was a narrow road of what I could only discern as dirt, although it was hard

D. Garcia Graphite on paper

Johnathan Desamu Digital art

Awoken from a fantasy. 	&nbsp;It's quite exceptional to me. 	&nbsp;This being after the second I felt my pulse rise and I fell in that thing called love, you must've known about it? 	With this inclination, I felt my heart split in two. 	Surely there's an approach to control these sentiments, my desires, my longings. Would I be able to take it?&nbsp; 	Turning away and sighing, I let my voice go unheard, so innocent.&nbsp; &nbsp;All that I need to get done for you is demonstrate that I merited your time and exertion, &nbsp;I need to be somebody for you. Addressing myself why you're continually controlling me,&nbsp; He leaves my body limp and my mind broken. &nbsp;There should be a purpose behind everything, I advise myself. &nbsp;Answers, from them, from me, responding to my own undeniable questions. 	The manner in which he contacts, it attracts me. 	&nbsp;I wish I could say no, yet I can't.&nbsp; 	Anyplace, constantly, here and there, in general, to one side, to another side, fill the want and the need. 	&nbsp;He shouts and yells.&nbsp; 	And yet, the affection inside is completely supportive of you. 	&nbsp;“I'm sorry!” I would constantly tell him.&nbsp; 	Forgive me please, I'm simply terrified being alone. 	&nbsp;All the echoes in my mind, they cry when he arrives, but I must ignore them. 	Your taste is beyond what I can bite. 	&nbsp;The different sides have become my soul. 	&nbsp;Tighten your chains around me till I'm sore.&nbsp; 	&nbsp;I'd rather not be associated with your flawed love.&nbsp; 	Still, I can’t resist your voice. The grief is poisoning me, little by little. 	With this inclination, I felt my heart split.&nbsp; 	How would I fix it?&nbsp;

Ashley Tran Pencil and Watercolor

Parchment

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Initially founded in 2017, Excalibur is a club at Johnson High School led by Mrs. DeCocco that strives to represent its creative student body through its official literary magazine. Named for the mythical sword of King Arthur, Excalibur explores student creativity through its publication of a variety of art, ranging from poems to ink drawings. Through Excalibur, we hope to gather students' artwork in order to uplift and showcase everyone's talents outside of the classroom. To celebrate Johnson High School's 50th Anniversary, Excalibur was split into three interconnecting themes as followed: "Reflection, Creation, Connection."

Featured on the cover, art by Emily Hernandez. 

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04. Emily Hernandez - painting 05. Dancing in the rain - Atticus Rose 06. April Cerritos - photography 08. Asher See - Drawing 10. Kota - mixed media 12-19. What Remains of Henrietta Wisconsin - by Zealand A. McCain 13 &amp; 17. D. Garcia - drawing 16. Emanuel Anaya - Skateboard deck 20. Venice - April Cerritos 21. Sara Muro - Mixed media 22-23. Isobel McCain, Pamela Alvarez, Sara Muro mixed media, digital, clay 24-25. Ashley Aldaco, Sara Muro Drawing 26. Isobel McCain - Ink 27. Poisonous Thoughts - Asher See 28-29. Asher See - Drawing 30. April Cerritos - Photography 32. Ashley Aldaco - mixed media 33. The Lady of the Night - April Cerritos 34. Lost Hearts, In Fair Verona - April Cerritos 35. Ashley Aldaco - Phototgraphy 36. Ashley Aldaco - Mixed media 37-39. Aggregate Alias - by 40. Emily Hernandez - Painting 41. April Cerritos - Photography 42. Sara Muro - Mixed media 44. Princess Randolph - Drawing collection 46. Pamela Alvarez - Drawing 48-49. Asher See, Pamela Alvarez - Drawing 50-51. Asher See, Ashley Aldaco - Drawing 52. Johnathan Desamu - Digital 53-55. I'm Sorry- by Asher See 54. Sara Muro - Drawing, April Cerritos - Photography 56. Ashley Tran - triptych 58. Meet the Team / Kota - Painting

They who were once so perfect have been torn with a ragged fray, By Venus, they have been reacquainted, though they’ve switched night and day. They who were Hemera and Erebus have since become Romeo and Juliet, star-cross-stitched unevenly with a past they might regret. While they long to seize a future, there’s a feud they can’t deny between the Capulets and Romeo with the question: Which is worse: death or a goodbye? “In fair Verona” where thou love bears a strain. As Shakespeare’s famed tragedy set a literary game. Two hearts come for solace, guidance from Gíulietta, though the balcony remains barren likely for the better. A white gown stained bloody, a plagued union set in stone. If only Shakespeare knew that there, even vines ceased to grow.

Ashley Aldaco Photography

Hold me down, sweet mercy, hold me down. For Venice hath steal my soul and dares drown me in canals. No bridge or boat can save this mortal from the phantom of the streets, haunting even ghosts in search of unrequited peace. No silence holds more weight than the dreams of the Adriatic Sea, weaving among the cobblestones in a never-ending plea. The screams are silenced by passion; culture shocked by man alone seeking answers in the algae: a threat for Death to atone.

The Dragon's Belly Driving the cart into the chamber, teetering, shakening the mouth. The thing opens its mouth, all salivation and regurgitated oils, a certain glint in its upturned eyes. Hear the way the tunnel hums with fire, the way the tongue lifts and titters. Speak the cart seems to say to the thing and it listens, whistling tufts of smoke through nostrils and beckoning a low rumble. Winds whip around as the thing sucks in. Scales hiss red on hot coals. Metals graze its mouth as steel scales mountains. Lifting its forked tongue along the balaster of the cart, ornating the thing back with a push of muscle. As darkness engulfs, the world collapses in all darks and blacks. Down a maze of color, the swiveling tube, pushing apart like tidepools. Till bottom hits along bones, till they clatter on the floor. Commence the ringing. Metals and flesh fly outwards, crashing into cave walls and flushing the labyrinth crimson. Collapsed against rib-bones the bodies lay there jostled deep. Innocuous, the chamber swirls, tittering the den in its own basin. Marching, That Tread. It's incredibly frustrating, the way in which the system works, the way it lies and works in on itself, only conveying what is wanted through means of its children, its subjects, mere excrements, a projection of its desires. It's a machine, that’s what it is. A secret code which only a select few possess, spoken little but highly. Creating little machines, little toys sponsored by the inventors of above. Little things projected towards a future un-ordained, fuel for the system, letting them run amok all over again. The oil spills out high among the plates these mechanists serve their machines, fueled only by the bosses of those mechanists. Dripping little onto the rest—only ascertainable for those who hold the key. It's a sickening thing, a tumultuous thing, but who am I to speak, when I lie in its midst. Who am I but a faulty keg among the succession of greats, whose tongue is not as silver-tinted as the rest. The qualities of the "code", you say? Who am I, if not the fool who could not break?

Ashley Aldaco Mixed media

The Lady of the Night April Cerritos

“The Lady of the Night” Remember the Lady of the Night with sea at hand with sky and stars, dismay will sharpen her bite. But submit not to wicked schemes of fright, for Venus again would find her Mars. Remember the Lady of the Night, eyes attracting with relentless magnetite; siren heart enticing the vain to spar. Volatility will sharpen her bite activating her unremitting appetite, ever so pleased to leave a scar. Never forget the Lady of the Night. If left unpleased, a fire she will ignite; hardly a tap into her reservoir. Anguish will sharpen her bite. So beware the shadows inhabiting the dark tonight whispering chants of turpitude from afar: Remember the Lady of the Night. Agony will sharpen her bite.

April Cerritos Photography

cre-a-tion: noun 1. the action or process of bringing something into existence. 2. the bringing into existence of the universe, especially when regarded as an act of God.

Princess Randolph Pencil and digital

Poisonous Thoughts by Asher See

con-nec-tion: noun 1. a relationship in which a person, thing or idea is linked or associated with something else.

I lie there, awake, while my mind drifts. My vision is cloudy, My consciousness is faint and unfocused. As my perception of reality diminishes, I feel a surge of emotions, Then, paralyzing numb. Although I hate to admit it, I enjoy it, The times that I don't have to feel. It's so calm and undemanding. I feel at peace. As I regain consciousness,&nbsp; The overwhelming thoughts return. I begin reflecting on repressed feelings and memories. The extreme guilt for simply existing, the useless feeling of only knowing mistreatment, and the terrifying notion that I may never recover from my past. All of the thoughts that I had worked so hard to get rid of started returning to my mind. I've already given up hope, any hope that I had left. I don't feel in control anymore. I just wanted to be okay. Instead, I awaken to the unbearable and insufferable pain of being a burden to those around me. I fully arise, trying to regain my composure.&nbsp; All of a sudden, a smile developed on my face, with no authenticity, or even any meaning behind it.&nbsp; Just a performance, as though I were a puppet, my guilt and shame, the puppeteer.

Isobel McCain - Ink

Name

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