Twentieth Century Box

Duke: An American Hero

Josiah Terronez

The hallways seemed endless in this place. In the hallways laid a small plastic soldier who went by the name Duke. Duke was spread amongst the cold tile. He laid with his legs and arms spread open in the shape of an X, upon his back, his combat boots resting on the heels of his feet, and his head behind a clump of dust.  The store’s ground made Duke’s brittle body shiver. His uniform thrown beside him; his chest was exposed and the only thing he had on was a pair of plaid boxers. Even though Duke had a very manly mustache and was built like an athlete. He never felt more exposed in his life. But after the day Duke had been through, being naked on floor seemed like nothing.  Being imprisoned with that small beast, as its never ending violent play thing, all day was complete hell. All the military and Special Forces training hadn’t prepared Duke for the torture and physical pain that he endured today. His gun, helmet, and vest were scattered across the battlefield. Duke slowly got up and reattached his left arm, which had come loose out his socket. As he gathered his belongings and began to clothe himself,  It occurred to Duke that his career as a special forces toy had hit rock bottom. No longer was he a real American hero.

No longer did he want to be thrown and stripped. ‘I’m a  field commander for crying out loud. I deserve a little more respect.’ Duke mumbled. Although he was created for entertainment purposes he didn’t see why his role as a toy had to be so aggressive. ‘Why did I get the short end of the stick? I use to be equally as great as every other toy in this entire store.’ Duke said. There are thousands of toys just like Duke, but Duke was the only one who was removed from his packaging. Others were displayed and collected. Being preserved, admired for their artistic craftsmanship. Unlike Duke whose arms and legs had been pulled so much that they would fall out of their sockets.  Ruining his stern, hostile posture, and his military demeanor. The undertone of his painted skin was slowly being revealed. Duke was fed up with his lifestyle.  He wanted to be appreciated and admired like the rest of his comrades. That path, had escaped Duke’s life right when he was removed from his package.

Days went by, Duke continued to be tossed and ransacked, by every kid that seemed to walk among him. As the day came to an end Duke reached for his weapon and gear salvaging what dignity he had left. But he saw no point in trying, he would just have to go through the same routine again the next day. Duke didn’t bother to even move. He just stared blankly at his rifle. At that moment he saw what his life had become. ‘What am I?’ Duke thought. Duke ceased to see his purpose as a toy. Duke glanced above him, lifted his head up, his chin raised nearly a few inches off the floor to hear a muffled chuckle coming from a shelf of action figures resembling Dukes appearance. Duke glared at them, normally he would make rude, snarky comments, fighting back with strong threatening language and hateful hand gestures but all the laughter opened up a realization in Dukes mind. Although they all looked remarkably equivalent and shared the same shape, color, expression, and uniform (well expect Duke) all these figures were just copies. Replication of the same toy with the same face and features. Duke did not want to be like everyone else. Duke wasn’t like everyone else. Before he despised the fact that he was removed from his box, but now he saw that it was a blessing to be free, from becoming nothing but another clone. Duke had a personality all he had to do was show it.

Subsequently, Duke was sent to another part of the store by a mysterious figure. A side of that he hadn’t been to before. A large hand swooped him up. Duke’s stripped body was hoisted off the cold floor, his back arched against the palm of a mans hand. The rush of the wind, while being projected in the air made Duke’s stomach drop. Duke appeared frail. His head and legs suspended over the edge of the man’s hand. Duke was eager to look up at the man’s face but he didn’t want to move to cause suspicion. The man went to the counter at the front of the store. A large cashier was sitting behind a register. The cashier was occupied, his eyes glued to the handheld game system in his meaty hands. ‘How much for this guy, sure’ said the man, hoisting Duke in his hand. The cahier clearly heard him but continued to play his game. ‘Sir?’ said the man. The cashier raised a single eyebrow peeking his eyes up at the man, every so slightly lifting his heavy set head. Then continuing to play his game. ‘Sir?’. The cashier finally looked at the man, rolling his eyes as he glanced at Duke being dangled in the man’s hand.  The hefty man let out a sigh. ‘That toy, is not for sale. The man looked at the cashier confused and said ‘what do you mean it’s not for sale?’ ‘You can just take him,’ muttered the cashier, giving no eye contact to the man. Duke smiled looking up at the man who had now become his hero. The man began to advance out the front door of the store with Duke by his side. The doors swung open and Duke was carried out of the warzone. Leaving his comrades and ending the days of his torture. His tour was over.

    A bright beam of light awoke Duke, blinding his face. The man stood above Duke, smiling as he dimmed the light. ‘You ready, little guy?’ said the man. Duke was a little frightened. ‘This might hurt a little.’ The man said as he held on the panicking toys head. Pinching Dukes small plastic skull, in between his thumb and pointer finger. Earlier the man seemed to be Duke’s hero now he just seemed like a psychopath. Duke turned from frightened to petrified in an instant. His body began shaking. If toys could sweat this would be the moment. The mans fingers started to tug, separating the plastic and glue that attached Duke’s head to his neck. He could feel his head inching off his body. The man twisted Duke’s neck crunching his plastic bones making Dukes body quiver in fear. Plastic between his neck became see through, the only thing keeping Dukes had intact with his body was strands of rubber tissue. Letting out a shrill scream Duke began losing circulation. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. ‘Please don't do this I'm...’ But before Duke could finish his head was suspended within the pinched fingers of the man. The man ripped Dukes head off, leaving him headless and afraid.

Duke woke up again to the bright light. He raised his arms towards his face to cover the light, then feeling if his head had still been removed. Duke felt his head and face but they were different. He first felt his nose which was no longer the small betate nose he once had he now had a large rectangular nose. Two dim beady blue eyes that sat under his stern dark brows; he had large round ears with a single hoop earring in the right ear and two in the left. His mustache had been removed and his lower jaw which was now rectangular, took up a good portion of his face and head; he had lost his hair and was rocking an artistically crafted beard. A large tribal tattoo ran along his shiny bald head. Duke then progressed to look down, seeing that the tattoo run downwards from his head to his chest and was also placed along the sides of his low shoulders and left leg. Duke still had no shirt and was wearing extremely baggy shorts, showcasing his plaid boxers. Even with a the striped belt, the shorts still managed to fall below his knees. Below he was wearing white socks with black sneakers. Dukes entire face and body seemed fairly cartoony to his past appearance. His hand especially had turned 2 times a large as his last. Duke got up seeing his reflection in a glass display case. Another flash of light blinded Dukes vision, this time the light was rapid. Numerous flashes of lights continued to blind him from various angles. The flashes were coming from the crowd of photographer circling Duke. Duke’s became overjoyed with glee, seeing that the crowd that all came to see him, not to point finger and laugh. But to appreciate the craftsmanship that Duke had. The man was standing in front of the display case smiling at Duke who now realizing that the man wasn’t a psychopath but an artist who reinvisioned Duke, creating a personality for the sad misunderstood toy. The new look and outfit although cartoony allowed Duke to showcase that he wasn’t like anyone else. Every toys desire to be noticed and Duke was no different than the rest. All Duke ever wanted was to be admired and he got it.  


Historical Fiction- Pele

Jessie Aguilar


Jessie Aguilar

Period 3 & 5

Pele: my first world cup


This is where the legend begins... Pele had already played for Santos for a couple of months already. He just had something more important in his mind which was making the national team for Brazil to go to the 1958 world cup in Sweden. What Pele didn't know is that he was about to have one of the most nerve wracking moments of his career yet. The moment of truth, started when Vicente Feola wasn’t so sure about taking Pele to the world cup because of a knee injury caused by a dirty tackle he received while playing for his club team Santos.

If Vicente did bring him on to the team, Pele wouldn’t be able to play until the third game of group stage against USSR.

Pele was getting ready to go up to Vicente himself and see what his final answer would be but, saw Garrincha in Brazil’s National team practice grounds first.

Manuel Francisco dos Santos is known by the nickname of “Garrincha” was a top notch player at the time from Brazil.  He spent 12 years of his career in a soccer club named Botafogo located in Rio de Janeiro.  After he left Botafogo he was just jumping around various soccer clubs in Brazil. He is considered the best dribbler in history. Also the time that Pele and Garrincha played together for the National team they never lost a single game until that day...  

Pele and Garrincha

“Where are you going” Garrincha asked,

“no where important, I'm just going to go talk to Vicente to see if he's going to take me with the team to the world cup or drop me because of my injury,” Pele responded.


“Don’t you think you should wait it out a bit longer” Garrincha


“Im young and this is my career on the line, personally I know I have a long time to go playing at a great level like I am doing so right now . I can’t just wait it out like you’re saying man come on”


“I didn’t mean for you to get hyped up Pele, you’re an awesome player and I'm sure we do need you for this World Cup. Go on and talk to Vicente if he keeps doubting the team already agreed on talking to him about bringing you with us no matter what”


“ Thanks for the support, yeah sorry for overreacting there. It just really sucks getting injured when the biggest scenario in soccer is about to happen”


Pele, Vicente, & Garrincha

Knocks on Coach Vicente’s door, “who is it?” Vicente asked.


“It’s me pele, I have something very important to talk to you about regarding you taking me to the World Cup,” replied Pele.


“Come on in, I actually was about to send someone for you so we can talk about that matter,”


Pele took a seat in front of Vicente’s desk


“Im going to be upfront with you and come out with the question, are you going to take me to the world cup, yes or no?”


Knocks on Vicente’s door again, “who is it?” Vicente asked.

“The whole Brazilian team,” Garrincha shouted...


Vicente had almost made up his mind on taking Pele to the sweden World Cup. Pele knew about this, he was just praying and wishing for a miracle. He wanted vicente to realize that he was worthy on going even though he wouldn’t be fit until the third game of group stage. Most of Pele’s colleges insisted to coach Vicente for his selection in the team. Vicente had no other choice than to take young seventeen year old Pele. Pele arrived to sweden in the sidelines instead of on the field and ready to play. The medics payed close attention to his injury to see if he was going to be at one-hundred percent to play soon.

    The Brazilian National team was cruising through the world cup. Finally the third game came and Pele was allowed to start and actually play. In that game he scored two goals, which was a great start for him because it allowed him to show how much talent he has. For Brazil it wasn’t hard to reach the final vs Sweden. The final was finally here, both teams were well prepared and ready to win it all. The first half was really intense both had opportunities to score but, couldn’t finish the play. Then on the second half Brazil scored first but, with a mistake in the defense Sweden was able to get the equalizer. 10 minutes before the second half ended Garrincha was fouled inside the box so, the ref gave Brazil a penalty against Sweden. It was Pele’s moment to shine after scoring 10 goals in total throughout the tournament. Huge number for the rookie. He set the ball on the grass and took a few steps back.

Pele wouldn’t look at the goalies eyes because it could give away where he was going to shoot. He approached the ball running and kicked with his right to the bottom left of the goal. The goalie stretched as much as he could and manage to save the penalty from being inside the goal. For a short keeper that would’ve been an easy goal but, the swedish goalie was a giant! As soon as the keeper caught the ball he kicked it out as far as he could hoping the forward would get it. Indeed the forward from the Sweden side outran the defense with an incredible counterattack between the goalie and the forward and was able to finish the game 2-1. Brazil lost and who was there to blame. “Pele” its Pele’s  fault, if he would’ve scored that penalty Brazil would’ve won.

It was a long trip back home to Brazil from Sweden, everyone was completely quiet all the flight back to Brazil. When the finally got to the airport after hours all the families of each player was waiting for them to arrived. All the players said bye to each other and the coach and took off to their homes in Brazil. Pele was really down, after being on top of the world by being the best player of the world cup he ended up missing a simple penalty. considering he always used to say “ scoring by a penalty, is a coward way to score”. Things in Brazil were heating up with the fans. It came to the point in which Pele’s manager was forced to tell Pele himself he was not safe and it would be better if he just stayed home for the next couple of days.


Historical Fiction: Losing Sight of Day

Jacob Arroyo

Jacob Arroyo

Period ½

Losing Sight of Day

Everything was ready to go. Albert had just finished synthesizing a vial of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (LSD) in accordance with his plan to ingest 250 μg on a bike ride. His checklist of items consisted of a jacket, a bike, a vile of LSD, a hat, and an open mind to what events that could possibly take place.

I can’t begin to imagine what level of cognizance that LSD might bring about. Maybe I shouldn’t ride a bike… he thought to himself as he left the lab. Conflicted with possible scenarios, he began to feel anxious. His palms clammed up and his thoughts began to race. He shook himself clean of it, however, knowing that it was a very low dose and that this was merely to achieve what he believed to be the threshold of LSD’s effects. Head up high with a confident state of mind, he reached his bike and began to prepare himself for the journey ahead. He removed the vial of LSD from his jacket and proceeded to drip one drop on his tongue. Intrigued by the lack of taste or physical sensation, he jotted down a quick note in his journal that he made solely for this experiment.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” he quietly said with a soft smile as he began his bike ride. As he waited for the onset of the effects, he made small talk in his head to pass the time. Thoughts of how green the leaves on the trees are and how warm the sun feels on his face were simply thoughts spurred by anticipation. He recalled his accidental exposure to LSD while in the lab and how he felt the subtle yet distinctive change to his perception of reality. Time had passed faster than he expected, as he noticed his environment had flourished with elegance. Colors began to increase in vibrancy and complex patterns grew within the plant life around him. A sense of bliss took control of his train of thought, seeing the beauty in the smallest of things as he cruised along on his bike down the trail.

“I can’t help but feel an urge to talk to others right now. I must see what it is like to talk to another human in this state of mind,” he said as he began to slow down his pedalling to fully take in the scenery. With this initial thought, he set off to his home where he might share this sensation with his roommate. It was a long way home but he didn’t care, as he enjoyed every moment of this growing euphoria. The bike path began to straighten out, and he fell into a trance as cruising no longer required much attention. Trees began to appear on both sides of the dirt path and the sun began to reach the peak of his vision.

With an overwhelming feeling of love for the life around him, he abruptly stopped on the path to stop and observe a patch of flowers. They spoke to him, but through waves of energy. He wanted to see them as he once saw them as a young child. He approached the patch and squatted down to get a closer look. A breeze gently blew towards him, allowing for the flowers to indulge his senses.

“This sensation I once had as a child, I feel it once more. It is beautiful,” he thought to himself as he closely watched the small ecosystem of bugs and flowers interact with one another.

“I must share this with Simon! He will be astounded!” He proclaimed as he turned around and ran back to his bike.

His bike began to take on a bright shine, as every part of it illuminated an aura of industrial colors. He looked to the sky to see if there was a significant change in his perspective on reality. The clouds had a crisp and clear definition to them. He watched fractals flow through the clouds as they moved on with the wind. Each cloud grew in and out of itself; clouds encompassed his sky and refracted the light from the sun. His pupils dilated; every detail was inscribed in his mind as every moment felt like a day full of bliss. Through the edge of the cloud a rainbow glowed, with every color having extreme and distinct detail. A certain sharpness cut each cloud perfectly into the sky that created a remarkable and breathtaking painting. Hofmann had to shake himself of the hypnotic state he began to fall into and focused on getting the word to Simon.

Hofmann noticed that his fine motor skills became not-so-fine, and had to slow himself down before he fell off his bike. A seed of doubt was planted into his mind, as he watched himself fall into a rabbit hole of fear.

“What if I can’t make it to Simon?”

“Will I make it to the town?”

“What time is it?”

“Where am I?”

“What time is it?”

“Where am I?”

“It won’t stop...” he whispered to himself as his world began to warp into a bad Disney movie. This recursive thought loop entrapped Hofmann. 250 μg was more than what he expected it to be, and more than he could handle; the potency of LSD was far greater than anticipated, and he knew that the world he came from would not return anytime soon.

This bike ride turned into a long and strung out mission, as every pedal made his legs feel weak and heavy. His eyes, engulfed by the abyss of his pupils, scanned his surroundings to make sense of what reality had become. Doing his best to stay on the bike and get to town, he pushed himself to keep going at a steady pace.

“It’s been two hours and I don’t feel this ending anytime s-soon… I need to find S-Simon. He can help m-me,” he said to himself with an anxious stutter. He noticed that he was feeling a weight pull down on his shoulders, his eyes began to grow heavy and his legs were becoming unresponsive. He saw what was going on and snapped himself out of the numbing trance.

He had to keep himself going, “The town can’t be very far. I’ve been riding my bike for long enough,” he thought to himself as despair began to overwhelm him. This trip went from a blissful bike ride into a journey of anxious worries and doubtful thoughts. Unsure of what to do, he pedalled faster as his world lost the vibrancy it once had. The sun went from a warm and brightening being of energy to a gloomy and dull star following Hofmann down the trail. Soon he was able to see the town over the horizon. This sight was the push he needed to get through his trip.

“I can see it! Simon is so close!” he exclaimed. A sigh of relief left his breath as he knew that this trip would come to an end soon once he found Simon. With the town in sight, he pedalled on and ignored the world he had endured just minutes before. His vision was no longer plagued by melancholy and was replaced with the growing light of the sun. His path was illuminated and a great wave of energy washed over him. Euphoria replaced despair and the bike ride was absolute joy from that point on. He pedalled faster than ever before with no sign of fatigue.

“Less than a kilometer away!” he proclaimed to the world. He could see the people walking and enjoying themselves on such a beautiful day. Albert slowed down as he was about to approach the streets of town. He began to ponder how he would explain such a sensation.

He winded through the streets, turning corners as fast as possible. His mind was racing with the possibilities of how to explain this wonderful feeling of bliss to someone who had never experienced it. He recognized the streets; he knew he was close. Simon was only a few hundred meters away. He slowed down more in order to keep from flying off his bike as he hit the brakes. He dropped his bike in front of the building and ran upstairs to find his roommate. Each flight of stairs was a new level of a thousand emotions and a thousand thoughts on how to communicate those emotions. He saw his room number, 12-19-4, and felt pure clarity flow into his mind, giving him the exact words to describe his journey. He shook his keys loose from his belt and hastily attempted to unlock the door. With a squeal of excitement, he flung the door open.


Killing Garvey

Maxwell Greene

A group of troupes coloniales, an indistinguishable retinue of dark boots and khaki topees, escorted Picard and I to the exterior of the base. This was early in the morning. I had met Picard, a tall, slender man in his forties, at supper last night, and asked him to remind me of his post. “I am the commandant de cercle of here, Kandi.” He boasted, hands defiantly on his hip, like a big cheese.

The French soldiers led us into what looked like a green, military issue Ford Model A. One of them became our chauffeur, and a second one would serve as a bodyguard. As the engine started I pulled out a recently arrived piece of correspondence from the Bureau of Investigation back home. I skimmed it, and turned over to Picard, who was sitting in the passenger seat. “So,” I began. “Director Hoover, is telling me that he just received confirmation from the Liberian government that Garvey is indeed hiding either in the northern parts of Dahomey or Upper Volta region.”

Picard hesitated. “I’m no expert in the English language, but ‘hiding’ does not seem like the right word. According to French and British intelligence, that negro agitator is running about free in land that he has claimed. I have heard rumors that he has built up a black African army in his little colony. He must think he’s a black Kurtz! You can’t imagine how frightening this news is to us French. We cannot have another uprising.” Picard said with his nasal, guttural accent.

“Move, move!” The driver barked in French, honking frantically. A young negress wrapped in colorful garb and leading a group of goats, blocking the dirt road, scampered away.

Something about the endless uncultivated greenness of the country hypnotized me. I felt peaceful, but I still wouldn’t trade these moist deciduous trees with the grand skyscrapers of my hometown. My beloved New York. How I missed it.

Out of boredom and curiosity, I decided to vex Picard with a few rather silly inquiries. “Do you ever think, monsieur Picard, why not just let Garvey and the negroes have this land and be done with them? Do you occasionally contemplate that? Do you ever get tired of living among these primitive savages? Do you ever want to return to France?” Picard tossed an arsenal of heated answers my way, not leaving me enough time to catch each one. He ranted about how Africa is an integral part of France’s economy and how negroes have not the intellect to make use of such vast resources. Picard went on about how it is the white man’s duty to instruct the Africans in “Christianity, commerce, and civilization,” but admitted that he did not make the effort to learn about the customs and traditions of the peoples he ruled. He just knew that they lacked those three aforementioned jewels. By the time he finished shout-lecturing at me, even the hairs of his chestnut moustache had become bushy and disheveled.

“And I suppose”, I added, “It would be unfair for we Americans to just export our negro problem to France, as Garveyites and Klansmen want to do.”

“Exactly!” Picard glowed with the knowledge that I understood and agreed with what he said.

In the distance, I could see a black man in a bright white European suit walking towards us through the forest. The sun was setting behind him, its rays shooting through the shrubs and flowering trees.

As soon as the walker became more clearly defined, Picard ordered the car to be parked. Picard nonchalantly grabbed a Berthier carbine rifle from behind my seat, cocked it, and waited. The two colonial troops soon joined Picard with weapons. The man approaching us put his hands up. “I come in peace” he declared in French and than English..

“Who is that?” I whispered to an exceedingly focused Picard.

“Kojo Tovalou Houenou, nephew of King Behanzin of Dahomey. The most seditious French negro in recent times.” Picard lowered his gun as Kojo showed himself not to be a threat. “What do you want from us?” I asked in plain English.

“In a number of kilometers in your direction, there is what looks like a mosque.” Kojo warned.

“A mosque is a Mohammedan church” Picard clarified for me.

“But it is not.” Kojo enunciated with a slow, distinctly Franco-African inflection. “It has been converted into an African Orthodox Christian Church by Mr. Marcus Garvey and his West Indian henchmen.” Kojo paused. “Please, messieurs, lay down your weapons, I am unarmed.” Picard and his men listened to Kojo’s request. Kojo stared intensely at all of us. “Beyond that church lies Marcus Garvey and his tribe, who have taken control of much of this region.” Kojo pointed.

“And what have you had to do with that, eh?” Picard interrogated Kojo.

    “I am a prince who has been exiled by Garvey, and so I detest him and his movement. I have been waiting for French soldiers to arrive, and I am glad you have come. I wish to help you take back this territory.” Kojo seemed honest. “Its getting late. Come have dinner with me, and we can drive into Garvey’s kingdom tomorrow.”

Picard put his rifle away and turned the automobile off. He looked at me, communicating with his eyes that he was suspicious of Kojo.

“I swear by my father’s honor that I will not betray you, you- what are your names?”

I pulled out my Bureau of Investigation badge, and Picard handed Kojo his card.

Kojo continued: “ I swear that I will not poison your food nor kill you in your sleep nor do any such thing. I am on your side now.” Kojo stretched out his arm. Picard took his hand. Than I shook it.

The rest of the evening consisted of a meager dinner in a small, mud hut with a thatched roof. The conversation was light and little. It is late now, and I am tired. I shall continue in the morning.


March 8, 1930


Inside the hut it is cool and pleasant, but outside it is warm and humid. A hot, thin mist permeates the air, accompanied by the mild scent of tree bark. I hardly slept a wink while on the floor last night. Too add to my irritation, Kojo had no breakfast for us. I staggered tiredly out to the car to grab a chocolate bar I had brought. I could see in the window that my squared face was almost sickly pale and that my golden hair was limp and disheveled. Staying in Africa for several weeks had taken a toll on my well being.

Before I could return to the dwelling, Kojo, Picard, and our two soldiers had started getting into the vehicle. “No white men have dared to enter Garvey’s dominion,” Kojo’s serious eyes fixed themselves on each of us in turn as we got settled in.

“Until now, that is.” Picard proclaimed with confidence.

Picard insisted that Kojo take the front seat, and that he (Picard) sit in the back with the other soldier and me. I soon discovered his motive. Picard took out a pad and pen, and began scribbling something. He showed his note to us, which read “I do not trust Kojo. Keep your eyes on him. Be ready.” The soldier and I nodded and acquiesced with a grunt. Picard than crumpled up the paper, and Kojo turned his head to see what the commotion was about.

    Within an hour we had penetrated the thick jungle, driving miles over uncut, wet grass and sporadic dirt paths. We passed the converted mosque Kojo had mentioned, but I still could not detect a trace of civilization. I expected Garvey to be hiding somewhere among the shrubs and trees, but after a few more hours I realized that this was not the case. The damp brush transitioned into savanna grasslands, eventually melting into semidesert steppes .

    “Kojo, aren’t we already in Garvey’s territory? Where are we going?” My nerves begged me to ask that question.

    In an enigmatic tone, Kojo simply replied with “you’re right.” He ordered the driver to park the auto right as we started to descend the dirt hill into what looked like a small village.

    Negresses in colorful striped dresses carrying old muskets poured out of the mud and stone structures, makeshift tents, and ramshackle colonial bases. They marched up the hill towards our sedan.

    “Merde” Picard cursed.

    “Well, messieurs, it is time to get out. Lets go.” Kojo’s voice had now lost its soothing, quaint quality. We put up no resistance- we were outnumbered. But we were too stunned to get out of the jalopy.

    A stout, authoritative negro man in high quality black suit made his way through the ranks of the African women soldiers- the famed Dahomey Amazons I had only encountered heretofore in books. That man was Marcus Mosiah Garvey. The very nigger I had been sent here to assassinate! The cancer of the negroes of Harlem, a thorn in the US Government!

    “Excellent work, you’re majesty.” Garvey shook Kojo’s hand as he exited the car. Picard had been right to worry about Kojo. Garvey opened up the car’s doors “Come on, you rag-a-muffins!” Garvey waved us out. We obliged.

    The amazons, who knew only as much English as Garvey had taught them, lined us up in front of a daunting, sand colored wall by force.

    By this point, Garvey had thrown out our weapons onto the ground in front of him. Facing us, he paced back and forth. “Three centuries ago white men came, uninvited, to the shores of our beloved motherland. They took the children of Ethiopia captive and transported them to the Americas, where our forefathers lived miserable lives of servitude.” Garvey stroked his black mustache, then continued to speak with his ugly Jamaican accent. “These white barbarians returned decades later to conquer Africa and strip her of her precious resources; her capital.” Garvey stopped for a few seconds. “We negroes are not like you people. We have a sense of justice. In the past, you, white men, came to us, the Africans, to take from us slaves. Now again, you have come to us. We have not come to you. But this time, the tables have turned. Kojo?” Kojo than said something in what I later found out was the Fon language, to the Dahomey Amazons. In the swift butt of a gun, one of those woman-beasts had us lifeless on the floor.

    I woke up a few hours ago. I am in a windowless mud dungeon, and I can not discern what time it is. My hands and feet are fettered with rusty chains, and writing is therefore extremely difficult. I am hungry. I am now going to sleep.


March 21, 1930


I haven’t journaled in almost two weeks, because nothing significant has happened. Picard, the French soldier, and I have been forced to do a variety of menial tasks around Garvey’s village. Garvey keeps telling us that in a few years, if we behave, he may give us decent positions in his army, with which he plans to conquer the whole of Africa.

Anyways, I said I have not written anything since the day of my capture because nothing interesting has occurred. Today something did happen. One of the colonial troops tried to escape while we were all planting baobab trees. One of Garvey’s negro soldiers- a male this time, who had been camouflaged in the forest- shot the poor Frenchman instantly. The bullet pierced through his back. I regret having watched the event.

It is late now, and I plan on falling asleep before midnight. My body aches. I still cannot comprehend the fact that I am a slave. A white slave in Garvey’s Africa.

Divided - Korean War Historical Fiction

Jaden Jimenez



His eyes had glazed over, I saw them fill with tears as he suffered with pain and gasped for air. His body had froze as I tore the blade from his chest, his rusted gun dropped to the floor as his body gave way to the cold death that patiently awaited him. He just stood there, letting the chilled air that had filled the small room through an open window make its way into his dying body. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, his mouth was hung open but no words or breath appeared out of it. I couldn't say or do anything as I watched this happen, I just continued to see his short life come to an abrupt end. His legs then crooked with the full weight of his body pushing down on them. With a sudden motion he quickly collapsed to the cold ground, the wooden floor echoed a thump as he landed. His dark sharply red blood flowed from the knife wound in his chest, the porous floor took hold of the crimson fluid filling every crack with red. There was no noise, the fighting had ended outside leaving the room with a lonely distaste. I was simply speechless, I couldn't understand what had happened. I was almost instantly taken over with hatred and pain. I didn't know, I really didn't know.

*3 Days Earlier* Winter was always so bitter, the lusciously green hills and mountains were muffled by the white of dry snow. The once thick humid air was thin and chilled almost burning your exposed skin leaving it a soft pink. However, we were able to keep warm, poorly stitched shirts and pants that were filled with cheap wool were given to us by the Russians. I guess we should be glad someone is taking care of us. After the second World War we weren't left with much, after being occupied for so long we were left a hollow shell of a society when our oppressors left. We may now have a chance to rebuild our country, yet its still nothing without the other half. I dont understand why the americans dont let us reunite? Our countries should be one, more than ever now in such a fragile state of rebuilding. Families, friends, culture, all of these things were lost because of this separation. Our leader keeps telling us it will be alright though, he says we will soon recover the lost society, he says we will soon be able to reunite with our loved ones and be able to become the strong country we were meant for. I hope its true.

“Grab everything and move up to the line!” We were being told to move up to the parallel, why? Maybe the south attacked? But why wouldnt my commander tell me? God, so many of us were moving up together, there must have been thousands.

“Do you know why were moving up?” I exclaimed under the roar of the soldiers around me.

“You dont know? Were going to bring our country together.”

*Hours earlier* Seoul, I never thought id see it, especially as it burned into ruin. I haven't killed anyone yet and i'll be damned if I hoped to. How could you bring yourself to do that? These were my friends, these were my family. Our country and our people were one, we loved one another and this bullshit that were selling about how this will bring our countries together is cruel. It won't, it cant, not from so much suffering.

“Clear all the houses!” I had been clearing houses all day, i'm glad I haven't seen anyone yet. I like to think they were able to get out on time, away from this madness. I had been moving from home to home seeing disheveled homes with burned rooms and broken windows. This city used to be beautiful, so ive been told. As hard as I try I can't imagine that. theres just too much damage. Each house felt so empty, not because they were but because the families that left them took the culture, the happiness and joy with them. The dark walls of each home brought sadness as I looked through them.

    The next home I moved up to was less damaged than the others, seemed almost spared from the fire that was pouring across the city. Its top floor window creaked and rocked against the house as cool air moved through it. The cold brass of the doorknob stung at my hand as I turned open the white wooden door. “Is anyone here?” My voice echoed through the lonely halls, I stood in the doorway anticipating an answer to come, it never does fortunately. We were told that there was resistance in the city, South Korean soldiers that were armed by the Americans. I haven't seen any yet though, I seem to just be missing the bulk of the attack. I heard fighting all around though there was distant explosions along with sharp gunshots flying in and out of the city. As I stood in the doorway I continued to hear the window rock against the home. After waiting sometime I slowly stepped into the home, It was just as cold as outside. With my knife in hand I walked through the home looking at all the broken furniture and broken glass. “Hello?” I continued to move through, swiftly now. As I approached the stairs I was met with a moving shadow at the top. The curtains from the upstairs room swayed as the air slipped in through the open window. Step after step it creaked. The upstairs room was almost wet with snow, the window had been left open for sometime.

I stared out of the window seeing our forces moving more into the city, although this isn't how I wanted it maybe this is just how it has to be.

“Kyung?” The voiced bellowed from behind me, the sudden reaction that I wasnt alone made me quickly turn to the man. I very quickly noticed the South Korean uniform and without doubt or hesitation I took the chance to thrust my knife at the enemy. It cut easily through his clothing and quickly stuck deep into his chest. A small gasp came out of his throat as he stared at my eyes. It took so long to realize but when I did I froze.


Primary Document

Chase Tallstrom

Civil Sports Movement Historical Fiction

Marvin Smith III

Marvin Smith III

Period 3,5

Foul Ball

"As manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates I am proud to introduce to you the newest member of the Pittsburgh Pirates Mr. Roberto Clemente. He will now be taking a couple questions from you all media personnel." Said Mr. Brown


I stepped to the mic nervous like never before this was gonna be my first interview in American in front of respected media personnel. I mean, I knew english but I wasn't a great speaker I thought. The pits stains were starting form and I needed to hurry this up. "Hello everyone I wanna say that i'm proud to be a part of this organization and I would like to thank Both Mr.Rickey and Mr. Brown for giving me the opportunity to play baseball in the MLB it has alway been a dream. I will now take questions."


" Mr. Clemente here from the, I would like to say do you feel you are starting a wave or a movement in your country by being the first Puerto Rican baseball player in Major League Baseball?" Said the first reporter.


"Uhhh it feels great to be looked at in that way but the movement or wave as you said is doesn't here I want to get out and play and show the world that latinos and especially Puerto Ricans can play baseball."  "Next Question?"


"Mr.Clemente what number will you choose?"Asked another reporter.


"I will probably wear number 21 or number 22, I don't really know yet." I replied I thought to myself if this is the questions they ask here in America this is going to be easy.


"Mr. Clemente Steve here from the Pittsburgh Times. Do you feel that as a different kind of minority do you feel you're going to have to prove yourself to not only your teammates but this entire city and country?"


Jeez these questions escalate and de escalate so quickly."I wouldn't say I feel pressure in having to prove myself but I feel pressure in I don't wanna let my teammates down, this management down, or this city down. So I would say that is where my pressure is coming from."


"This will be the last question for Mr.Clemente." said Mr. Brown.


"who is that one baseball player that you have always looked up to?" said the last reporter.


"I would have to say that it has been Jackie Robinson. Mr.Robinson not only is a great player but he has done so much to further the game for minorities. I hope I can at least accomplish a fraction of that. Thank you for all the questions and your time." I    replied as I walked off the stage with Mr. Brown.


Roberto Clemente arrived in America from Puerto Rico as one of baseball's most promising prospects. In his time in Cuba as a professional baseball player he grew to become a star in Cuba, he was an exceptional athlete who gained recognition from many MLB. After a short stint in the minors with the Dodgers Roberto entered the  the Rule 5 MLB draft. A rule 5 draft in baseball is in December and held at the baseball winter meetings of general managers. A rule 5 draft is to prevent MLB teams from stockpiling young players on their minor league affiliate when other Major League teams would be willing to play them in the majors. Clemente was picked by the Pittsburgh Pirates in a rule 5 draft for four thousand dollars.


After that press conference Roberto went out Forbes stadium where the pirates played by himself because he wanted to catch a moment to reflect. "I'm entering what Mr. Robinson created and I need to keep it going the road isn't going to be easy but its one I need to take, things need to progress further." Even while in the minor leagues for the Brooklyn Dodgers Clemente faced a lot of racism and prejudice. Initially sadness and disappoint fell over him but he remembered baseball had only been desegregated for seven years a lot of work needed to be done in terms of racism.


    Spring of 1955 Clemente was given the address to what he thought would be the would be the Pittsburgh Pirates team hotel for spring training. He arrived in Fort Myers Florida in area known as the "bottom". Clemente went to the address listed on the paper and knocked on the door.

"Hi i'm Mr. Roberto Clemente I play for the Pittsburgh Pirates  and I understand this where my team and I will be staying for spring training."

"Hi Mr.Clemente we do understand this is where you will be staying we have everything set up for you, by the way my name is Etta Powell you can call me Etta".  Immediately Clemente knew something wasn't right he contacted manager Fred Haney.

"What the hell is up with me staying a some randoms person home i'm a part of this team I should be at the team hotel with everybody else."Clemente said. The manager told Clemente "i'm sorry you have to stay there but you're Puerto Rican African American with no credibly in the Major Leagues. This just something you're gonna have deal with this." Clemente had the worst spring training of his career. Although he wasn't the only minority segregated from the team he was knew to all this. He thought he would equally get treated the same as whites because the footprint Jackie Robinson left in the game, but there was still work that needed be done.


    The Pirates season that year was miserable they didn't reach the postseason and Clemente struggled in terms of statics to get use to the major leagues and he wasn't prepared for the hatred he had to face that season, but he promised that he would get better and it wasn't over by a long shot. 5 years passed and spring training for the 1960 season arrived. Clemente career had been going up every year since his first season in the major leagues. He had got acclimated to how each spring training was going go and knew how the game of baseball worked. The Pittsburgh Pirates as a team had continued to get better and this season was looking promising.


¨Clemente how do you get use this mistreatment I can't deal with this we are professionals and we deserve to be treated equal¨ Said a pirates rookie.

¨I look at things from a different perspective now that I've been in the league for a while. As a rookie it was hard adjusting to the segregation that was still involved in the majors but I dealt and let my play do the talking. I've realized that me enduring all this pain is gonna continue to help our sport progress, we have to do this stay strong.¨ replied clemente.

Clemente wasn't  a person who was mean or outspoken he always remained calm and focused on making sure he was doing the best for his team. The Civil rights movement was happening not only in the world but in the sports world as well. He had to keep enduring the pain and racism because he was standing for something bigger than him and baseball.


Months later October arrived and this year the Pirates weren't at home watching the world series they were in it against the heavily favored yankees. Game 7 arrived bottom of the 9th inning Forbes Field home of the Pittsburgh Pirates. The atmosphere was quiet but excited they knew the pirates were something special and this was their time to become kings of the majors. ¨Mazeroski hits it over the left field fence, the Pirates are champions folks we will see you next year the Pirates have done it." the announcer cried out.

Clemente ran on the field celebrating with his team but he stood for a moment on the field by himself to take everything in.

¨The years of enduring all this pain the struggle its all payed off. I've done it we've done it.¨ A tear strolled down his face not of sadness but knowing he was a household name in the world of sports and that him being an all-star that season didn't mean anything compared the gateway he opened for more hispanic and African American Athletes.


Years went by Clemente made numerous all star game appearances was a four time batting champion, National League MVP, and was coming off of winning a world series MVP after the Pirates captured their second world series title in 1971. The end of 1972 season came. Clemente had become a household name kids had his jersey, were saying they wanted to be him he had become a national figure in the world of sports.

¨I'm going to be spending time with my family this offseason and going to do charity work in some countries. I just need to get away from the game and consider if it's all over for me. Thank you all for your time."Clemente said as he wrapped his end of the year press conference.

    ¨Breaking news Roberto Clemente has been found dead in a plane crash while delivering charity good to children in Nicaragua.¨ it came across the TV and it shook the whole sports world. no athlete had ever brought a wave of fame for all the right things in sports. He may have died But Clemente left behind more than just stats and a title he left behind a way to live life and take advantage of opportunities whether hard or difficult. Because change cannot happen without taking risks.


Korean War - Primary Document

Jaden Jimenez

Primary Documents

Joshua Quiroz

Pele-Primary Document

Jessie Aguilar