​Untitled
AnMei Dasbach-Prisk (10th grade)
​
Blue ocean.
Green forests.
Bright sky.
Dark clouds hang above misty grey air and dew collects on the leaves of the redwood trees.
Wind whistles a tune that blows on the mountain in the green forests, a tune that yearns for summer.
Down long windy mountain roads to the sea breeze below.
Hot sun beats down on reddened faces and browned shoulders.
Waves crash overhead and the smell of sunscreen lingers on salty skin.
As the day comes to an end and the sun sinks below the horizon, the sky glows a rosy pink.
The sky is now covered by night. 
Moonbeams cast silvery light on the mischievous acts of night.
​Shadows dance across smiling faces as the bonfire burns and grows high.
In the morning all that is left are the embers which still contain the blue ocean, the green forests, and the bright sky.

12th Grade Art: Brigg Busenhart, Indigo Kelly, Unknown, Unknown

Family History
Priyanka Bharghavan (11th grade)

They’d put on a show, their voices ringing through the microphones. The set forever moving across the globe. He boarded an army jet to Europe, the wife by his side rocking the new baby girl in her arms. They shot their film all over the continent, a few years on location from France to Italy, a quick layover in Greece. The passionate voices of strongminded souls struggling to find that sweet spot. That was the plot of the film. That’s what the people saw as they loaded the DVD into the disc tray.

But then, not on camera, the two actors would take a break to go on a romantic stroll in the Parisian plaza, to skip stones in the little stream behind the German cottage, to squeeze the baby as they were serenaded by the gondolier. This was not for public viewing. But this was them.

And they made it back safe and sound to the identical beige San Francisco Presidio facades as the baby girl was not such a baby anymore. The husband still working for the army, the mother with her series of projects and passions. The small antique shop in the Sunset district and collections of dust on old treasures. The odors of the dried seaweed gathered by the tons and woven into baskets. And even now, the little sheep figurines of black pipe cleaners and golden wool.

Below are some of the students' reflections and photographs. ​

Aimee Kerr, 12th grade

County Fair Horse Show
Harmony Caron (3rd grade)

Boardwalk, Summer 2017, Sienna Clifton (12th grade)

English Class Survival Manual for Beginners
Sandy Astone (7th grade) 
 
Entering the Changing Forest of English Class
As you enter the perilous forest there are some things you need to watch out for.
If you see a humongous low-hanging fruit and pour all of its goodness into one big project, that’s good. King Sampad, ruler of the English Jungle, bearer of the etc. etc. etc. will have to take about half of that goodness and cut it right off the page. Then the remainder will get heavily edited. But no use crying over spilled fruit juice. Get back out and show him what else you found. Think about different things. Turn over leaves you haven't thought to look under.  There will be perfect little berries, little gems that go perfectly with the writing. King Sampad, ruler of the English Jungle, bearer of the etc. etc. etc. loves those. If you really want to keep a section of your writing, keep looking for those little “gems of preservation.”
 
Venturing Deeper Into the Undergrowth
I used the title “The Changing Forest of English Class” for the last page. The emphasis on changing. You can be stumbling along making it through (barely) and all of a sudden, you find a clearing full of perfect berries. Each one a new and great idea. Or you can procrastinate and have all of the berries be eaten by little squirrels who want just what you do, and a branch falls on your head in the form of another due date, and while you finish that, it becomes the night before the due date.  By then you are panicking.  Ants have gotten into your soup, your dog has fleas, and bears have mauled your Pop-Tarts. While you are busy scraping the remains of the Pop-Tarts into a project, you stay up late and forget your binder at home. Then you have to tell all the royal adults who teach you why you don’t have your binder and your tent’s rain fly got a leak.
 
Completing Your Adventurous Endeavor
King Sampad, ruler of the English Jungle, bearer of the etc. etc. etc. talks a lot about revision and editing in the beginning of the school year.  As he was droning on and on and on about the importance of editing, I tuned out and read something he gave us, thought about lunch, that sorta thing. I now realize I left behind the salt and pepper. I let a rabbit run away. Choosing to not listen to that was a very bad idea. I found some of the spices on the paper that he handed out, but I feel like he got a bit more in-depth while talking. But now I know. And now I listen much more closely to what he says and maybe if I work hard enough, I can grab that rabbit and use the salvaged salt and pepper to make a project great.
 
To Recap
Don’t be afraid to let him butcher up your paper. He may take out that one sentence that you loved, but know he is doing this to improve your paper. You can make a sentence just as good. Make 5 that are even better. Blow Sampad’s socks off!
Don't procrastinate. I do it all the time, and I hate it. If you need explanation on why not to procrastinate, re-read slide 2. I'm not explaining it again.
Pay attention to what he says. Always listen to even his half-hour lectures. You will learn new things guaranteed.

Holding Hands with Layla, Luiza O'Campo (preschool) 

A Short Story by Priyanka Bharghavan (11th grade) 
​
The snow drifted slowly onto the trail and trapped itself onto the maple mane of the mustang. Its rusty coat hidden under layers of gear strapped onto the saddle. The rider shook his head, snowflakes flying from the brim of his hat. He had stepped out to clear his mind. The family told him it would do him good to let go of his worries before the New Year; they knew the crisp morning air of the Rockies would do the trick. The last year had been tough on him, and no doubt the next year would bring its own set of troubles. These thoughts circled in the riders mind as his horse’s hooves crunched in the snow and left a trail behind him. After all, what was the new year except just another morning. Past experiences don’t just go away because the Earth finished its orbit. Nevertheless, he sat the kids down and told them his resolution: to work harder, for this would be the year things work out. They smiled and hugged him and told him that it would be. And that was enough for now.
He pictured his family back at home. The kids stuffing their faces with chocolate chip cookies left over from Christmas and their wide smiles lined with sugar. He smelled the pines wafting through the windows and the cinnamon from the dainty pastries. He heard the Beatles singing from the radio clashing with the Christmas songs his wife quietly hummed. This would be the year things worked out, he told his kids, he believed it too.

Mask, Zoey O'Campo (7th grade) 

Squarespot Fish, Kaya Westbrook (6th grade) 

Kenzie Culbertson (3rd grade) 

"I was like floating. ~ Brigg," Zac Clark (12th grade) 

Untitled, a poem of life stages
Noah Kaplan (11th grade)

I.
A budding flower newly born,
Into a world of love and scorn,
An empty page by grief unstained,
With innocence soon to be claimed;
 
Unshaped by life’s extensive hand,
Your ignorance is a jewel in sand,
But also the most potent curse,
For you’ve no thought of bad or worse;
 
When others’ wills are not imposed,
The doors of fate remain unclosed,
Unbound by shackles of the past,
Volition reigns but cannot last;
 
Inside a maze with walls of law,
Where heroes fall into death’s maw,
You glide through barriers brick and stone,
For unto you rules are unknown;
 
And so where some see sealed rock,
Conventionless you know no lock,
And pass along the unseen trail,
Where it was thought none could prevail;
 
And though you boast clairvoyant sight,
It cannot be a given right,
But rather like the serpent’s scales,
It’s but a skin that will turn pale;
 
When slashed apart by thoughts ingrained,
Ideals born from others pained,
When slashed apart by thoughts within,
Ecstatic joys and heinous sin;
 
To gain the right to live by laws,
And leave behind chaos’s flaws,
The price, is selfhood you shall lose,
The price, is freedom; right to choose;
 
II.
A blossom in the prime of youth,
That seeks only to see the truth,
To find the things that some neglect,
And earn from peers sincere respect;
 
Curiosity governs all thought,
Discovery’s thrill intensely sought,
Inside a maze with walls of fire,
You walk a thin and fragile wire;
 
Despite your care soon, in the end,
You’ll meet a wall you can’t ascend,
And then like paper you shall burn,
The punishment for your wrong turn;
 
But greater tortures you shall bear,
And greater wisdom you now wear,
And so you stand from your defeat,
A lesson learned not to repeat;
 
Now down again the unwalked path,
To brave again the world’s harsh wrath,
To go where none have gone before,
And see what nature has in store;
 
But as you search for the unknown,
And walk down unmarked trails alone,
There will be those who try to shield you,
Unknowingly they shall impede you;
 
They’ll wrap you in their loving arms,
That turn to chains to your alarm,
Once a gentle tender feel,
Fear twists them into stiffest steel;
 
To form a prison without key,
Within from which you must break free,
Alone you must learn right and wrong,
And teach the world your unique song;
 
III.
A golden fruit mature in age,
That’s free of doubt's most crippling cage,
A solid rock by force unmoved,
Once restless mind, now gently soothed;
 
A ship that’s sailed through the sea,
Where life was ruled by entropy,
Shall sail in its learned way,
Into a calm and peaceful bay;
 
To cast an anchor in the sand,
And after years of journeying land,
Upon the shore of stable stone,
To build a life in this new zone;
 
Where on a sound and sturdy base,
A family’s grown at its slow pace,
That’s built from love with gentle hands,
That binds you in its steel bands;
 
You’ll plant your roots deep in the earth,
And build a haven on your turf,
Together shall the world be met,
Your branches form a silken net;
 
To shield from life’s harsh trails and pain,
The saplings that in ignorance feign,
To have the strength to bravely bear,
Life’s crushing suffering, and despair;
 
But even when you know they’ll fail,
That soon they’ll fall beneath Life’s gale,
Remember you were once like them,
A sapling still, an uncut gem;
 
They’ll soon outgrow trees of all sort,
And ask to leave this sheltered port,
And when they ask you must release,
If you are ever to find peace;
 
IV.
A sickly fruit far past its time,
A senior age its only crime,
In youth it grew round and pristine,
Now old it’s shriveled and unseen;
 
The strength and prowess you once reared,
Is far from reach, it’s disappeared,
Like morning smoke you try to touch,
It tauntingly evades your clutch;
 
While memories long gone from the past,
Resurface to your mind at last,
Like specters risen from the grave,
To rend the mind you try to save;
 
They’ll strip you of your peaceful life,
And leave you burden high with strife,
Remind you of the joy you’ve worn,
Remind you of the pain you’ve borne;
 
Exhausted, broken, at the end,
With weary soul to quietly mend,
While isolation will repress,
With family you must contest;
 
With greatest wisdom yours to share,
You’ve treasures far beyond compare,
Like gold flakes lying in the sand,
Through arduous work they can be panned;
 
But some look at their miner’s plate,
And lack the patience to await,
The jewels that come from minor toil,
Too prideful to dig in the soil;
 
And when you’re weak and strength is gone,
And mind has come to twilight’s dawn,
Then will you get respect you’ve earned?
Or will they leave you tired and spurned?

Circle with Hands, ​Ruby Bracher (12th grade) ​