word volume 10

WORDMillburn High School Literary Magazine, Volume Eight, 2011

WORDM H S L i t e r a r y M a g a z i n eV o l u m e 1 0 , 2 0 1 3M H S L i t e r a r y M a g a z i n eV o l u m e 1 0 , 2 0 1 3

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WordMillburn High School462 Millburn AvenueMillburn, NJ 07041

Volume 10, June 2013

Principal Dr. William Miron Vice Principals Dr. Michele Pitts, Dr. Robert Keenan

When we look at an infant, what do we see? Two big eyes, two tiny feet, one ski-slope nose that we swear is passed directly from the mother. Or perhaps what we see is the potential for the range of human experience—joy, triumph, heartbreak, loss. The pieces in this volume of Word attempt to consider that infant’s path. They explore the human condition, which, if it can-not be defined, can be evoked in literature and art. These some-times somber, sometimes funny (but always thought-provoking)contributions delve into universal truths about human nature. Many pieces refer to the end of life’s journey. Are the students at Millburn High School morbid creatures with dark hearts? We’d like to think not. We believe instead that students write maturely on this subject because each reflection yields a different under-standing of the complex nature of life; we therefore write about what we wish to conceive more fully. Many people have helped us to bring this volume to frui-tion. We would like to thank the administration and our teachers for their unwavering support, Mrs. Harte for helping us find art that is intellectually and visually stimulating, and Dr. Jooma for sharing with us her humor and her expertise in publishing.

Marlee, Hannah, & Michelle Editors-in-Chief

We dedicate this volume of Word

to our Vice Principal, Dr. Michele Pitts.

Dr. Pitts retires this year after 19 years at

Millburn High School.

We thank her for supporting our endeavors,

enabling our accomplishments and

validating our successes.

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Table of Contents

The Gift of Language, Molly Blevins...............................................5

An Admirable Hue of Gray, Sara Nuta............................................6 Untitled, Amanda Prager.................................................................7 Illustration, Viraj Khetani....................................................7

Arfie, Josh Kimelman......................................................................8 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried...........................................9

Stage Fright, Aparna Raghu............................................................10

Loss of Imagination, Chloe Chan...................................................11

Looking Out, Owen Schumacher....................................................12

The Sangre de Cristos Mountains, Lara Moehlman.......................13

Montage, Zoey Peterson.................................................................14 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried..............................14, 16, 17

Proliferation, Samuel Liu...............................................................18 Illustration, Alexandra Bass...............................................18

Free At Last, Ishan Pandey............................................................19 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.........................................21

The Perfect Gift, Noah Orent........................................................22 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.........................................24

Art-chitecture, Alexandra Bass.....................................................25

Staircase of the Mind, Eugene Zeng.............................................26

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The Basement, Lara Moehlman..................................................27

Coming Home, Katie Dolan........................................................28 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.......................................30

The Dieter: a Personal Experience, Michelle Lou and Aparna Raghu......................32 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.......................................33

The Dancers, Lauren Gomez......................................................34 Illustration, Jonathan Duan............................................35

In Limbo, Angela Lin................................................................37 Inevitability, Viraj Khetani........................................................38

Through My Eyes, Jake Oleson.................................................41

Mother’s Scent, Simran Malhotra.............................................42

In the Afternoon, Chaerin Ahn...................................................43

Bats in the Belfry, Alexa Paley.................................................44

Love, Josh Kimelman................................................................45

Hate, Josh Kao...........................................................................45

A Day in the Life of Dog, Angela Jin.......................................46 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried......................................48

Dead Hearts, Amanda Prager...................................................49

Words, Chaerin Ahn.................................................................50

Solitude, Owen Schumacher....................................................53

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Spaces, Mackenzie De Lisa..........................................................54

Run, Before Dreams Get You, Chaerin Ahn................................57

One of Those Days, McKenzie Sutton.........................................58

Ninety Parakeets, Michelle Waters..............................................59

A Colorful Couple, Ravi Patel.....................................................60

Thinking Inside the Box, Aparna Raghu.....................................61

Lost, Jake Oleson.........................................................................63

The Ripper, Josh Kao..................................................................64 Illustration, Charlie Ehrenfried.........................................64

Memories, Chloe Chan................................................................65

The Farmhouse, Michelle Waters................................................66 Illustration, Shiv Malhotra................................................67

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The Gift of LanguageMolly Blevins

They say that multi-lingual kids, Have bigger brains and winning bids,

Because when they were very young, The lullabies that they were sung,

Did stretch their minds, and help them think, And learn new sounds without a blink.

So I am glad that Mum and Dad, Gave me much more than what they had,

They gave me English, yes they did, But also German, as a kid,

A gift that stretched around the world, And left my language-love unfurled.

With Deutsch and English, off I went, And French and Spanish, heaven sent,

And now at high school, lucky me, To get Chinese in one-two-three,

And have the skills that let me speak, To millions more, both strong and meek.

But with these words, what will I say? What grammar will I use today?

What is the message of the year, The words I want the world to hear?

Each language lets you think new ways, and make new friends, and seize the days.

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An Admirable Hue of GraySara Nuta

When I woke up, I knew the sky was gray just by the soft light filtering through the thin blinds that made everything feel drowsy. It wasn’t that harsh, abrasive gray, the kind that omi-nously looms before a storm. But it wasn’t a bright, attention-seeking gray you find on a crisp December day, either. It was a neutral gray. It cast its glow over the town and made everything look soft. No one takes the time to appreciate this gray for its beauty. They think of gray as the promoter of frowns and can-celler of beach days. This gray was a remarkably bashful color. It didn’t have the audacious vibrancy of cerulean skies, the alluring mystique of navy blue nights, or the charming daintiness of powder blue mornings. It was simply there. This gray was a modest color. It did not wish to call too much attention to itself. And so, on that March day, I decided to stroll through the park to pay homage to the underappreciated color in all its reticent glory. This gray was an adaptable color. It clashed against the bright spring colors, yet it was still somehow compatible with the surrounding environment. It didn’t quite fit in, but it knew how to blend in just enough so you wouldn’t think much of it. The pearly silver sky demurely hung over me. It starkly con-trasted with the newly sprouted grass, yet seamlessly blended with the concrete sidewalks and buildings. I walked and I smelled and I watched and I listened. The vast sky, the slightly metallic scent of rain, and the light whooshing of the precipita-tion made me feel insignificant. It was all very harmonious—soothing even. I was simply just there and the gray had kept me company, asking nothing in return. I reciprocated the gesture by merely admiring the sky, and I realized that that was enough.

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UntitledAmanda Prager

Don’t ask me for my Adderall,Because pills don’t fill in answers for you

And it’s not some magicalThrill

That gives out A’s on tests.No

My diagnosis I am not;Gaze through the window and dream I can

with amphetaminesSpeeding through my brain

I am not the culminationOf my flawsSquint and

Anyone can be a disorderIf you look hard enough

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ArfieJosh Kimelman

The sun is outside playing and the boys too, I am a boy too but I don’t play with the other boys today I will play with them they are outside with a ball laughing and running I will play with them. Quick, I run out. There is grass outside but I run on hot pavement. I get out my guitar, I want to have a concert; the boys will clap the boys will like me. In my palm my guitar feels like it does when I pee and I play but some boys come up to me interrupt my concert. They are laughing. I am too, but then one of them hits me, hits me again I do not understand. I run, run on hot pavement toward grass, toward the house, and I see mother, wet eyes.

Everywhere I go I look back and there she is, mother. She follows me like a shadow. I look back and she looks away I smile at her. Sometimes I look back and there she is a little smile on her lips like something is funny. I laugh. She tries hard to smile but it is hard for her. Her sad eyes make it hard for her to smile.

We are inside. I am eating lunch, licking the plate clean. Mother is cleaning the dishes, but not with her tongue. I put down my plate and I sigh. Squeeze my hands together. That feels good.

My arm hurts where the boys hit me I touch it with my hand and I yelp. Mother looks over at me. I squeeze my hands together again. My hand goes up to my arm and I yelp again and mother looks at me opens her mouth slightly. I want a cola.

Who made you? she asks me. I look at her. I want a cola, I say. She puts the plate she is cleaning down. Walks over to the table, puts down the brown bottle opens it takes my plate. Who made you?

God, I say. My arm hurts.Germans, she says. I hold the cola bottle up to my mouth

with both hands.It’s because of Germans, she says, that you are the way

you are. We had to wait too long.I drink my cola, big gulps. I love you, Arfie, she says, and

kisses me on the cheek. I look at her and I drink my cola with

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both hands.Mother is at the shuk. One time I went with mother to

the shuk it smelled tasty but I got scared, mother doesn’t take me to the shuk anymore. Aba is at his desk working cracking sun-flower seeds with his tongue. I caught a bug in my cola bottle but bugs don’t do anything they just sit behind glass. Smile at the bug, I hope it likes me why don’t the boys like me I don’t know. Squeeze my hands together. I press my face out the window the boys are out there playing but I can’t go out, why can’t I go out. Tomorrow I will play with the boys now I will go to the pictures on the table, the pictures where Aba is smiling and me and mother. There is a square around her face. She is smiling. Smooth skin bright shiny eyes. Only there is a square around her face. Her body isn’t there. The square around her face is pretty wood.

She is shiny. She is at the shuk, not there. She is smiling, her eyes too but I know she is not happy. Nothing trapped is ever happy.

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Stage FrightAparna Raghu

Half swagger, half stumble upFull of resolutions that you cannot convince your bodyAre for the better.

You’ve practiced, pained, perfectedBut your limbs are still skepticalAnd you battle them until you are on stage.

And you start to agree with them As your feet are nailed into the ground.And your knees start to tremble like hummingbird wingsWithout the relief of being able to take flight and escape.

Your terror is obvious in your barely-seeing eyesAs you distract yourself by counting dust particlesIlluminated by too-white lights, rushing at youReady to claw your frozen face.

All while the accompaniment impatiently lilts in the backgroundDragging your tumbling thoughts back to center state.Your throat opens and you caw, somewhat melodiouslySighing after the screeching high notes have passedBreathing as if you are bearing Atlas’s burdenAs if you are being crushed while trying to gulp down oxygenBefore your will breaks.

Finally, half sprinting, half attempting to look saneAs you double over into an awkward bowAnd stumble off stage, tripping over your own relief.

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Loss of ImaginationChloe Chan

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Looking Out Owen Schumacher

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The Sangre de Cristos Mountains Lara Moehlman

The southern Colorado sun peeked out from behind the tall pines. I could hear my heavy boots trample the tiny twigs as the bird calls steadily softened. A gentle breeze tickled my burned face. Soon, we would be above the tree line. Soon, we would turn our backs on the exhausting humidity of the pine forest and behold the open Sangre de Cristos Mountains. The sun would go down with its painful heat.

I was only a naïve Northeastern suburbanite who fantasized about the Colorado wilderness. In my dreams I conquered the Rocky Mountains, scaling 14,000-foot cliffs with speed and endur-ance. My hair trailed down my back, shimmering under the soft sparkling sun. My boots were perfectly new; my backpack perfect-ly placed. But as dark clouds swallowed the sun’s yellow streaks, I awoke abruptly from my slumber. It began to rain. At first, scattered drops playfully bounced off my bare arms to my dirty knees; water therapeutically pounded my sore shoulders and slid down my aching back. But soon pierc-ing pellets crashed upon my head, striking my cheeks like icicles. The sun had completely disappeared. I tried to open my backpack, but my hands were numb. I could barely request help through my furiously chattering teeth. Eventually I tore open my pack and spread my rain jacket over my body. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to picture the flawless explorer of my dreams. Instead, white lightning flashed across my inner-eyelids; loud thunder vibrated through my chest. Disappoint-ed, I opened my eyes. It never rained in my dreams.

At night, the rain stopped, leaving behind a stark black pal-ette, a few lonely stars. My sore legs tingled in my warm sleeping bag.

In the morning, the sun’s rays seeped through the tent. My frizzy hair smelled of mud and rain, plastered to the sides of my face. My hiking boots were still soaked and caked with dirt. Stretching my sore arms up to face the brilliant radiating sun, I smiled.

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MontageZoey Peterson

I. The ImaginationWhen someone has a lot of this, they’re generally scolded

as a child. “Get your head out of the clouds!” is a popular phrase, since they spend a large part of their time daydreaming. Staring out the window, or at the ceiling, or even at someone’s face, thinking about what makes them smile, what makes them frown. They see phantoms in the dark and fairies in the day. They run through life, pretending to be kings and queens, talking to squirrels and casting spells, making potions and flying through blue skies.

In adolescence, they’re just as vital, just as vibrant. They’re the ones who still believe in unicorns and still check under their beds at night. They talk with their hands; they’re swept away by romance; they read and they write. Their heads are full of stories. Sometimes paranoia plagues them so badly they scream at a simple touch; other times they’re so guileless, they skip down city streets at midnight. Their lives are a phantasmagoric whirl of fear and excitement and passion and delight.

They grow up and they wonder at societal standards. They have children and teach them to dream. Every day, they get in-spired. They have daily midlife crises. They live in the future, and love it. These are the people who change the world.

Sometimes it feels like a burden. This never-ending tur-15

moil, like a kaleidoscope flashing before your eyes, beautiful and disturbing and glorious all at once. They feel like gods and pau-pers, the whole time wondering if there’s a pause button on life, so they can be sure they never press it. They think about the moment it’ll all end. They think about the moment it all began. They think, and they wonder, and they dream, and they feel, and they see. For people with this, every day is an adventure.

II. The Dance As a dancer without training, I know what it means to move. A trained dancer is taught motion, or how to move her body, and how to keep the beat. But an untrained dancer carries the beat within her, and learns to move through stillness. She must learn to hear the music in silence. There has been nary a moment in my life when I am with-out music. In times of stress, I hum in the way of my grandmother, slow, invented tunes reminiscent of hymns. I wear headphones during any necessary mundane task. On summer days, I take walks for hours at a time, with no destination, with no belongings except my old yellow walkman. Frustration instantly melts into serenity when I play the right song, and my body moves; my mind moves my body; my heart moves my mind.

But before a dancer can move, she must be immobile. She must understand the necessity of moving herself, of falling and tripping. She must learn to move herself first by being moved. As the informal dance teacher of many friends, I have much experi-ence with teaching others to move, teaching young bodies already stiff from stagnancy to find rhythm. It is something that, once found, is never lost. As a child, like most, I was immobile. I knew my world, and only that. But as I grew older, others moved me: a girl from China who would become my best friend, my great-aunts in Trini-dad who would expose me to a lifestyle both foreign and familiar, my mother who would show me the benefits of hard work and the hardships suffered by those disadvantaged. When I began to move,

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I discovered my strengths and weaknesses; I began to understand the connection between all mankind despite his many different backgrounds and upbringings. I wanted to help others understand this, the universal beauty and ugliness of all people, and how to reconcile this within ourselves and one another.

But how, when I could barely do this myself? I looked at myself in the small mirror in my room, and wobbled on uncertain legs. Where even to start? Where to go? Life wasn’t a summer walk, I needed a destination.

Move.I looked to what I loved. I ignored those who said a love for

all mankind would do nothing for me in the future. I ignored those who told me my hippie mentality would take me nowhere. I broke through the expectations, and heard the music of life with more clarity than ever before. I turned and walked away from the paths decided by others for me. And in that long walk, with my ears filled with the melody of time, my destination made itself clear. I opened my eyes to the future, one full of difficulties and stumbles, of awkward movement and learning experiences, and its music resounded in my ears.

And I danced.

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III. The Forever Flawless Every time my sister walks in the door, she’s a more fa-

miliar stranger. She has a personality like a kaleidoscope—ever changing, ever evolving, but always beautiful. An animated aristo-crat with phantasmagoric moods. There is no one in the world that can match her urbane charm, her wit, her madness. Yet my mother approaches her with a furious face—You’re overdrawn! Why don’t you ever call? Don’t tell me you lost your phone again! Oh, dear, here it is, more evidence of my sister’s occasional flightiness. Yet always I am peacemaker to their conflicts, ready to defend my slightly irresponsible sister until the ire fades from my mother’s eyes. Because no one can see like I can (or perhaps no one is blind like I am?) Her flaws are a part of her, and therefore they too are perfect.

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ProliferationSamuel Liu

Many a poet the world contains,Struggling to write original orations.

But one voice is lost among thousandsAnd one man’s conception becomes a hundred’s.

For how easy becoming a poet is,A pen and shredded wood pulp,

are all that is needed to become a legend.So simple the ambition

so high the goalyet the competition

is the essence of creationbut the price of this incentive

of ultimate Darwinian motivationis the industrialization of expression.

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Free At LastIshan Pandey

I took a few quick, shallow breaths and readied myself. My eyes, a dark shade of burnt sienna, began to mist over and my heart rate slowed. I felt my father’s rough hands push me with a startling jolt and in a flash of panic, I closed my eyes. I felt as if there was a miniscule drummer stuck deep inside my chest, beat-ing to an off-tune rhythm. I did exactly as my father had taught me to do, bringing one foot down, and then the other, mindlessly repeating the same pattern over and over. Much to my surprise, it seemed to be working. I felt the wind whistling in my ears and the crunch of the rubber wheels against the sun-burnt cement. I opened my eyes to see a green blur racing along beside me and the serene landscape laid out perfectly before me. It was beauti-ful and perfect. And then everything went horribly wrong. The steering began wobbling out of my control. The wheels began to screech in exertion, cutting across the cement. Fear spread across my body like wildfire and my breathing quickened. I let go of the sleek, metal bar and closed my eyes. It was gone in an instant: my moment of freedom was over and the moment that I feared was upon me. The drummer had escaped into my throat, and I could no longer feel my heart beat. It was all out of my control now. Metal grinded against the blood-stained road as my tender skin was shredded by the coarse cement. My father rushed to my side, but it was too late. The bike skidded slowly to a stop. My eyelids felt unnaturally heavy. I opened a small crack between them and sunlight came flooding in. I grunted and raised my arm to try and shield myself from the glaring sun. I could hear my father tying to talk to me, trying to make sure I was al-right. I untangled my feet from the bike and staggered to my feet. My mouth felt dry. I felt my father’s giant hands in mine, trying to comfort me. “I’m fine, Diddy,” I managed to croak out. I had lied to him. I wasn’t fine and never would be. Not until I had finished what I had started. I had to do this. I had to prove to myself that I could do this.

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“Are you sure? Are you sure you’re not badly hurt? Come on, let’s go home.”

“No. I want to try again,” I replied, a fire burning in my eyes.

“Don’t worry, Ishan. We’ll try again tomorrow. Let’s just go home and get some rest.”

“Please Diddy, I want to get it right.”Diddy opened his mouth as if he was going to disagree,

but he stopped.“Okay. One more time.”

I do not know why he agreed. Maybe he saw that fire burning in my eyes and the passion in my heart. Maybe he saw how much I really wanted this. Or maybe he just wanted to give me one more chance.

Diddy had been guiding me all day, trying to help me get rid of the dreaded training wheels. Diddy was a very stubborn man: when he decided to do something, he put all of his mind and heart into doing it, and wouldn’t rest until it was completed. That’s why, whenever I talked to him, he seemed to be pay-ing only half attention to me, with the other half fixed on some problem from work that he could not figure out. My mother used to tell me that I inherited that trait from Diddy, except that it was ten times as strong in me.

At the time, I was an out-going, four-year old boy. I was decent at any sport I had played, but I really excelled at soccer. There was only one athletic activity that I knew of that had truly stumped me: biking. And that also happened to be my father’s fa-vorite activity. My father used to bike four miles every day when he was a kid to get to school. He had really grown attached to the sport and still preferred biking over taking a car or walking. It really frustrated him that I was so clumsy that I kept on crashing into things and getting hurt even with my training wheels on. He felt like I was missing something that had been a vital part of his childhood.

One day Diddy had asked me what was stopping me, why I couldn’t do something he thought was so simple.“How can you excel at such a complicated sport as soccer, and

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yet be so stumped by something as simple as riding a bike?”I had to think about the question for a few seconds, but in

my heart already knew the answer.“I’m scared of falling. I’m scared of crashing into some-

thing and never getting back up. Like that guy did in the movie we saw last year. Because I know that would make Mummy very sad.”

Diddy just stood there, staring at me in shock. I guess that was a strange thing for a four-year old kid to say. The next day, Diddy woke me up early and brought me here, to the park. He wanted to teach me to overcome my fears.

“If you live your life in fear, you will never get a chance to live. Remember that, Ishan,” Diddy had told me one morning. Now, I would stop at nothing to surpass the seemingly insur-mountable mountain of fear that stood before me. I wanted to make my father proud. I picked up my bike, took a deep breath, and took my place on its seat.

‘There’s nothing to fear,’ I reminded myself. I felt my fa-ther’s rough hands push me off again, but this time I didn’t close my eyes.

‘Free at last…’

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The Perfect GiftNoah Orent

Now you’ve heard of the Grinch and of Who-ville;I’m sure we all know that by heart.But have you heard that story about—Now, what was it?Remind me. How does it start?

I’ll tell you what happened; I know this tale well—And it is a good one, you’ll see.It’s a tale of three kids seeking presents—And a special one—now, shall we?

Once, on a Christmas Eve not too long ago, There was a place that I used to know. A place where all the people liked Christmas a lot. Except for a certain three who did not.

These three hated Christmas—hated it, all right! But it wasn’t ’cause Santa Claus came by night.No, the obvious, utmost reason of allWas because they never found a good gift at the mall.

The aforementioned gift wasn’t meant for them.No, it was for their parents.And each year was mayhem!

Staring down from Rockefeller Center with afrownAt the brightly-lit windows that made up their town,The siblings knew every person down belowWas hanging up stockings and mistletoe.

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“They’re done with their shopping!” said one with a sneer.“And tomorrow is Christmas! It’s practically here!”Then his eldest child growled as each finger was crossed, “We must find a present for them at all costs!”

For tomorrow, their peers—the girls and the boys—Would wake bright and early and unwrap their toys.As the children yearly boasted of the gifts they boughtFor their parents, the Unhappy Trio found themselves caught.

They never found the perfect gift for their parents, you seeAnd every year the other children would laugh at the Three.That’s one thing they hated! The taunting and teasing! ’Twas something the siblings couldn’t stand (next to sneezing).

The more they all thought, the more people started to sing’Til the two eldest thought, “We must end this teasing!We must find a gift and we must find it now!The only question left is ‘Exactly how?!’”

In his anger, the brother started to scream and shoveWhen he heard a sound like the coo of a dove.The three turned around and they looked quickAnd saw a man who looked just like... Saint Nick?

The man smiled and said, “Excuse me, but why?Why are you so upset, my boy? Why?” And the youngest sister, no more than four,Had no intention of hearing complaints anymore.

“Well, you see Sir...” the little girl said with a smile,“My siblings and I have lived here for a while.Each year we go look for a present to giveTo our parents, but the right one isn’t there, Heaven forgive.”

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The man looked at the child. He patted her headAnd he got them hot chocolate and cinnamon bread.And when the three siblings found a place to sit, He sat down and spoke, voice filled with Christmas spirit.

“I admire your cause,” said the man with a smile.It’s the finest dedication I’ve seen in awhile.But Christmas, you see, doesn’t come from a store.No, my dears, Christmas is something much more...

“Christmas isn’t about ribbons or tagsNor packages, presents, boxes or bags.It’s about being with the ones you loveAnd that’s what the Christmas season’s made of.”

Then they talked and talked for an hour or twoUntil it was time for the children to leave for the zoo.

And what happened, then? Well, so they say—the three childrenTold their parents the story that day. And as the true meaning of Christmas came through, The children felt happy—and their parents did too.

And the three heard a voice as they drove out of sight“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

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Art-chitectureAlexandra Bass

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Staircase of the MindEugene Zeng

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The BasementLara Moehlman

It was a dangerous dimension of dragons and crocodiles and clowns.They hid under the couch, lurked behind the television, and disappeared in the darkness. It was a daunting test of bravery, strength, and speed.It was the basement.

The old creaky staircase moaned as I descended, the laundry basket shaking in my small hands.The door shut behind me.The staircase became a slippery cliff, the laundry basket a heavy boulder, crushing my weak arms,plunging me into the darkness. I ran.

Dashing through the darkness, I furiously swatted at thick black smoke that would surely choke me if I didn’t hold my breath. Walls melted into blackness:I was no longer trapped inside a dark dungeon—I was lost inside an endless labyrinth.

As the years passed, the lengthy labyrinth unraveledand my covert missions withered into well-worn chores. Dangerous dragons disintegrated and sharp cliffs caved.

But every now and again, I like to hold my breath, shut the door, and run.

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Coming HomeKatie Dolan

I cannot recall a time when I did not live in Richton, Mis-sissippi. My father used to tell me stories about where we lived before, Meridian. I had only been two years old when we left so that he could find work after his employer died. I was too small to remember the tiny blue house with white shutters that we had inhabited. One of my favorite tales was about his sister, who he had described as the most intelligent person he had ever met. She learned to read from the Bible and to write properly before she was even fifteen years old. Most black folks were never able to learn. Her name was Charlotte and she had been hired as a cook by a man named William Holbrook. My father loved to brag about his baby sister and told me stories of their life in Meridian every evening before we said our prayers. Until last night.

It had all started two days ago, on June 28, 1933, as I walked home from town, carrying my family’s groceries. I was about a block away from Linden Street, the place where my fa-ther’s route usually crossed mine on his way home from work. I had noticed the group of boys following me a few blocks back, but decided that if I ignored them they might leave me alone. How-ever, this hope was in vain. They began to quicken their pace and descended on me like vultures. As soon as I saw the expressions on their faces, I knew they were bored and looking for a fight. The largest one, who had to be at least four years older than me, was the first to strike. His fist connected with my stomach and all of the air whooshed out of my lungs. I gasped. Fell to the ground. Did not struggle. I knew better than to fight. This lack of reaction completely enraged them. Whereas before they had simply been looking for something to do, now they were livid. The second boy’s foot connected with my face and I felt something crack. Blood gushed from my nose, nearly choking me, but still I did not fight back. Fighting would be worse. If I fought, they would win. I scrunched my eyes shut, waiting for the next blow. It never came.

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As I looked up I saw my father towering over the white boys. He looked down at my bloody face, and I was frightened by the look in his eyes. I could tell what he was about to do. I begged God to give him the strength to restrain himself. To give him the foresight to see that retaliating would only hurt us in the end. Desperately, I tried to get up, to stop him, but I was too dizzy and it was too late. His fist collided with the first boy’s face and he let out an ear-piercing scream. I finally forced myself up and threw myself in front of my father, begging him to stop. The boys took advan-tage of his momentary distraction and ran.

They came for my father late last night, the men. There were probably fifteen of them and they all had the same look on their faces. They wanted revenge. No black man could lay a hand on a white person and get away with it. My father knew this as well as anyone, but he had lost control and now he would pay. The men came into our house and dragged my father out with them. Then they came back for me. We were pushed out into the yard where one man was tying a noose around the branch of our oak tree. Two of the men held me, while the others began to beat my father. It was too much. I wanted to run. Wanted to scream. Could not make a sound. Then I understood why they had taken me out-side too. It was not enough for them to kill my father. They wanted more. I tried to pull away from the men, but they were too strong. And so I was forced to watch the lynching of my father.

That is how I ended up on a train to Meridian, praying that Aunt Charlotte was still there. She was the only family I had left. My father was gone. No. Not gone. With God. Watching over me. With my mother and sister. They had gone to God two years ago. After the accident. Father had not been the same after that. It re-minded him of his mother. She and Aunt Charlotte had been in an accident too, when Aunt Charlotte was three. His mother had died right away and Aunt Charlotte had been badly hurt. She had stayed in bed for weeks, barely alive. But one day she woke up and felt just fine. Father said it was a miracle. As I got off the train, I began to panic. How was I going to find an aunt I had not seen since I was two years old in a town I had no memory of? It was much larger than Richton and despite how hard I tried to remember,

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I could not recognize any of the buildings I walked by. I became more and more nervous with each minute that passed. I thought about giving up, about going back to Richton. Suddenly, the realization that this was impossible came crashing down on me. I could never go back. There was nothing left for me there. Without my father, I would starve. After all, nobody in their right mind would hire a scrawny eight-year-old boy to work in their fields. The sound of screeching crows drew my attention across the street and hope flickered within me as my eyes came to rest on a short wrought iron fence surrounding a small graveyard. I was almost positive that I recognized the swirls and spikes of the fence from my father’s stories. As I drew closer, I became certain. This was where my father’s mother was buried. I hurried inside the fence and set about finding her grave. Maybe she would be able to send me a sign to help me find Aunt Charlotte. I walked through the rows, and I recognized my last name on a little tombstone and bent down to take a closer look. After reading the name on the stone, I recoiled. Charlotte Howard. The aunt I had traveled all this way to find, my last living relative, was dead. I felt a numbness spreading throughout my body. This could not be right. There was clearly some mistake. I stepped forward slowly to read the rest of the inscription. It informed me that Charlotte Howard, beloved daughter, had died

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on August 15, 1903. August 15, 1903. The date sounded strangely familiar. I remembered my father’s story about the accident in which his mother had been killed. It had taken place on that day. My knees gave out from under me and I fell to the ground. It could not be true. Father had told me that a miracle had saved his little sister’s life. But there had been no miracle. No God to help the innocent toddler survive. The tales he told every night had all been lies. We had never lived with her in a tiny blue house, never eaten ice cream with her on the Fourth of July after saving up money for weeks, she had never sung me to sleep with an old African lullaby. Had my father, the man I looked up to more than anyone else in the world, been insane? Deluded himself into thinking his baby sister had survived? Or had he simply found pleasure in making a fool of me by making me believe his lies? Either way, one thing was very clear. I was completely alone in this world. There was no God watching over me. God would not have left me with no family. He would not have let my father deceive me. He would not have tricked me into spending the last of my money to find a long dead aunt.

I wanted to be mad, for having been stupid enough to believe in God in the first place. For having been stupid enough to have spent every penny I owned to find a person I had only heard of in bedtime stories. But I was too weak. I had not slept or eaten in the three days since my father’s murder. I had spent the first day in a state of shock and the next two worrying about how I would get to Aunt Charlotte, and whether she would even want me after I arrived. But that did not matter now. Nothing did. Leaning back against the tombstone, I fell asleep and dreamed of a tiny blue house with white shutters.

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The Dieter: a Personal ExperienceMichelle Lou and Aparna Raghu

There was a corpulent woman, so proneto overindulging in ice cream cones.She proclaimed, “Enough! Time to lose some heft.”But in frying bacon, she was ever so deft.Trying to slim down, she bought salad greensAnd doused them with ranch, an amount so obsceneThat Paula Deen would have blushed with shameDespite her lust for butter that brought her fame.Her favorite dessert was rich cheesecakedrizzled with butterscotch after being baked.Or jumbo candy bars, battered and fried.All of these recipes she searched and tried.Hiding evidence of her gluttonyBy hoarding all these treats from company.Dejected, the woman went to the gymPursuing another way to get slim.She registered for P-90 extreme,but went instead to burn fat in the steam of the sauna. Worse, she binged in sorrow.Eating and promising that tomorrowShe would become like the picture she stuck on her fridge. Kate Upton who left her dumbstruck,and mocked her tubbiness from the fridge door.“Oh,” she sighed, “my luck is ever so poor”As she reveled in her guilt, she munched onA whole box of chocolates, twenty bon bonsDetermined to follow her weight loss planShe threw out a freshly-baked brownie pan.She cleared out her cabinets, full of junkSwore off all indulgences, like a monk.

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Eating rabbit food for two days, feeling thinShe went to her bathroom scale to weigh in.And gasped, she was now only three-eighty-two!She’d lost one pound by swearing off fondueShe could now fit into jeans, size eighteen!She celebrated this in Burger King.Moments later, she was surrounded byWrappers of six burgers. Well, a good try.Burying her head in her arms in painShe sighed: “it’s time to diet again.”

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The DancersLauren Gomez

Under the light of the sun,Embraced by the clouds and the light, They danced.

They danced until their limbs were weary,Their heads dizzy from spinning and twirling,Until the sun finally set and they said goodbye.

But the goodbye was to last,There was a divide,A river splitting the two,Nor would the sun again shine.

So the dancers stood before the moon,Under the stars’ light,Cloaked in moon’s dust,Embraced by the night sky,And they danced.

They danced,Though separated, With eyes shut,Dancing not with themselves,But with the air.

And they waited,For the sun to rise,The divide to disappear,And each other’s warm embrace.

But they didn’t come.

No sun rose,No moon set,

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No river vanished.Only they changed,Only they grew old and weary,

So they danced,They danced for life,For love, For suffering,For second chances,But most of all,They danced for the end they now saw coming.

They danced for death,Though once far away,It grew nearer every day.It was gentle.It had known them all their lives,Taught them the steps,Stuck by their side.

Death was there,They just hadn’t seen him.They’d been too caught up in the dance.

Under the moon,And the sun,By the river,By the stars,All together again.All were dancing,All were dancers,All seeing the end,And dancing all the same.

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In LimboAngela Jin

I am wandering. I don’t know how long I’ve been wander-ing, nor do I have a particular destination in mind—I just know that my legs are moving, the walls are endless, and that there are no colors here. It’s almost comforting, the lack of color. Color is too bright, too painful. I wander for an indefinite amount of time, and nothing disturbs me except for an echo that sounds eerily like a cry for help. I pay it no heed, the blackness in my heart still black, and continue wandering. Suddenly, instead of more walls, I come across two iden-tical doors. They are remarkably unremarkable and I stare for a while, trying to feel something but fail; blackness persists. My younger sister appears by my side. I don’t look at her, because she is color and I am black.

“There are two doors,” she says in that ‘oh-you’re-so-dumb’ way of hers, and a shadow of a memory tugs at the fringes of my mind. “I hope you choose the right one or else everyone will be really sad. Me and Mommy and Daddy are really hoping you’ll choose the right one.”

I finally gain enough courage to look at her, and her colors are thankfully subdued, almost disturbingly so. Her expression is grave, and the color of tears dominates. It is color, nevertheless, and I can almost remember what color feels like.

Time passes. My father appears next to my sister. His col-ors are gray, gray, gray. He was never one for color, but at least he was never swallowed by darkness.

They are wearing matching solemn expressions, but my father’s expression is framed by thick reading glasses and thin lines around his mouth, small crevices that hold their own secrets. I briefly wonder if my sister has begun to develop secrets of her own as well; the muted colors could explain that. Secrets destroy, after all. After a moment he speaks.

“I remember… there was this day when all four of us went to the zoo. It was before your depression and all the… you know. It was the saddest day, all cloudy and no animals out and no one even

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InevitabilityViraj Khetani

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around in November. Too wintry, everyone said, but we still went, and God, it was cold. “There was this peacock. It was wandering around with its tail down, and just, out of the blue, whips its tail up and has gorgeous feathers, and you—you just looked so happy for that one moment, like Christmas came early. It was all colorful and vibrant and a bunch of big words that I’m sure you know. And after it brought its feathers up it just paraded around the zoo and no one was there. It was so beautiful, but no one saw it being beautiful, just us. But… it was enough.”

The gray that surrounds him has phantom splashes of peacock green. He stares at me, eyes unreadable but I know he is trying to say something but I’m not sure what. Finally my mother appears, looking the slightest bit lost and terrified, the only emo-tion I’ve seen all this time of wandering. Her motley of colors are dissonant, nothing clear. “Where is this?” she asks after a drawn out moment. “Limbo.” I don’t know how or why I know this. “I don’t like it.” No response. I stare at the two doors for some more time, letting time bend and fold into something that can’t be measured. The three stand rooted to their spots, colors intermingling and connected. I am separated, but I remember what it was like to be connected, to have warm colors wash over me in nostalgia and kindness. “They told me…that you know which door to go down. One is the one you want to go down. One is the one you should go down. I just hope that you’ll choose the right one.” A single tear appears, and she smiles self-deprecatingly, shaking her head. “We should have noticed. Said something, anything. Anything to make you stay with us. I love you. We love you.” Another tear. “God, we love you so much, choose the right door, stay with us, don’t go, please.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and that is all it takes for a little bit of the stony blackness to crack. Color peaks through, leaks in, and I can hear sobbing and laughter, screaming and whispering, and silence that sings. There are memo-ries that are fighting to the surface, images that break free beneath my vision.

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Feeling leaks through. The guilt is crushing and crush-ing and a little relieving, the immense feeling of guiltregretshame almost alleviating. Overwhelmed I cannot think nor speak, just let my body feel what has been suppressed for so long. Black fights back, my brain telling me to fight back; this is a trap, and cop-ing mechanisms are trying to whir into place. But how can I deny something if the memory is right there, shiny and too too bright? I am a warzone of mind, matter, and heart, of things long forgotten and of things that need to be forgotten.

Through this chaos, I have a single clear thought: freedom. It is with this thought that inspiration strikes, and I know exactly what to do. As I step closer to the correct door, the warzone inten-sifies, a cacophony of sounds images feelings too much too much and there are voices, hushed, at the back of my head, but then there is the vision, where He is, yet there they are, solemn-faced; it becomes too much as I reach for the doorknob, twisting it open—where am I—there is blood, red dripping bloody everywhere—help me, somebody—comforting blackness, still heart—“don’t go, please please—”

White light.

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Through My EyesJake Oleson

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Mother’s ScentSimran Malhotra

I hugged her tight–In the crisp, cool autumn air,

our laughter rang loud.

Engulfed in her coat,she would never ever know of

her sweet flowery smell.

Fourteen years ago, justwhen I was forty days old,

my mom had cancer.

She lost her long hair,and her sense of smell was gone too.

Chemotherapy blues.

Now I am her nose,to smell spring blossoms, ginko-stinko,

Make her feel whole again.

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In the AfternoonChaerin Ahn

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Bats in the BelfryAlexa Paley

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LoveJosh Kimelman

For you I would pick flowersThough that would bring about their untimely death

For you I would buy a box of chocolatesThough a starving child in Ethiopia takes her final breath

With you I would take a walk in the parkJust to see your hair sway in the breeze

And isn’t it quite fittingHow poems like this kill trees.

HateJosh Kao

Every day is a dreary dayThat wears a crown as pale as clayI find solace in guns, blood and war

Where reality is nevermore.

Missiles and ICBMs are what I desireFlurries of napalm that bring villages to fire

This is where I’d like to be.Outside of reality.

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A Day in the Life of DogAngela Jin

Dog likes waking up Master. Master, Master, up up up up let’s play ball! Master does not like waking up. He keeps telling Dog to leave but Dog does not want to leave, Dog wants to play ball. He does not know why Master does not want to play ball either. Ball is fun. Fun fun fun. Dog wags his tail but Master does not get up until he starts barking.

Yay! Master is up! Dog is going to be good and bring Mas-ter his chew toy and let Master chew it. He tries to put it in Mas-ter’s Important Yellow Meal Thing but Master bats him away. Dog is not happy. Dog tries again but Master yells at him and if Master yells at him then no treats. Dog does not like having no treats. He waits.

Bird! Bird looks at him. Dog does not like birds because Dog wishes he could fly but he tried and Master yelled at him. There were no treats that day. So Dog shows his teeth and barks and is very happy when bird goes away. Dog has won his first battle today.

Master is finally done with his Important Yellow Meal Thing and decides to take Dog on a walk. Walk! Dog likes walks! He can win many battles on walks, especially against stupid squir-rels. Sometimes bigger dogs win but most of the time they are friendly.

Dog trots along, Master tugging him away from all the bushes. Dog obeys because he knows bushes are not his. They are Master’s only like Master’s desk (Master was very unhappy when Dog first scratched the desk. He did not get treats for three days). He sees his first squirrel and wins easily. Squirrels are so stupid.DOG! Dog sees another one and yells HELLO DOG. Other dog responds.

Hi!Hi!We are dogs!I like being dogs!Me too!

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They play and it is fun and even Master is having fun talk-ing to the other dog’s master who is a girl. Both of their cheeks are red and their eyes are happy. Dog thinks that human mating is weird. Dog likes his play pal better.

The humans stop mating and Dog has to say bye, which makes him sad. Master says that they can visit them sometime, which makes him happy again because Dog likes to play with that dog.

Master takes them home and goes to wash himself. Dog does not understand why Master has to wash himself if Master only has fur at the top of his head. When Master comes out he is dressed differently and Dog knows that this means Master has to go away for the rest of the day until he comes home for dinner. Dog does not like this. Sometimes Master stays at home for two days but then he goes back again. Dog wishes Master was home every day.

One time Dog tried to show Master his love by giving him his toys. He put all his toys on Master’s sleep space but Master did not like it. Maybe that is why Master does not stay home every day.

Dog has an itch. Itch itch itch. Itch does not go away. Dog scratches itch. Itch still does not go away so he decides to take a nap.

After the nap Dog is hungry but it is still bright outside so Master is not home. He chews on his toys and runs around and scares away more birds but Dog is bored. Dog wishes Master would come home.

Wait. MASTER! Master has come home when the sun is still out! Dog is oh so very happy right now! Master Master Mas-ter! Dog barks at Master and Master smiles at Dog. Yay! Now they can play fetch and ball and maybe take another walk! Dog is very very excited. Master tells him something about “it being Friday” and Dog does not understand anything Master says but Dog is happy because now they get Play Time. Master refills his bowl of food and Dog eats it and drinks water and is it Play Time yet? Dog whines and wags his tail and Master gets The Ball.

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The Ball is bright red and it squeaks and it is Dog’s abso-lute favorite. Dog could not ask for a better master. Ooh! The Ball is over there. Go go go! Dog runs to the ball and brings it back to Master. They play with The Ball for more time until it is dark and Master is tired. Master gets tired easily. Dog goes inside and Mas-ter is angry about “shedding fur” but Dog does not know what that means either so he goes to bed. Tomorrow Dog will wake Master up and next time he will win a battle against another dog.

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Dead HeartsAmanda Prager

Dear You,

I heard you jumped. I heard you had the choice between burning and jumping and you chose the latter. I wish I had so simple a choice. Potential energy is mass times accelerational gravitation times height. In a moment of insecurity, I asked you your weight and you answered: “118 pounds.”

Even then, you were stronger than me, willing to say your weight out loud and leave it hanging there, without a side note of, “Well that’s what I think at least,” or “that’s what the doctor said.” That means you weigh 53.52389966 kilograms, and the fireman told me that you were on the 91st floor. Your tower was 417 meters and 110 stories tall, so that means each story comes out to roughly 4 meters. 345 meters down. We had so much potential. We were a story that ended on page 7, there was so much that remained unwritten.

180960 Joules.

And kinetic energy. How do I know how fast you had fallen? Well, I know after-the-fact, from the pages and pages of di-ary entries your mother found about me, and the watch I gave you that you told me you’d thrown out but still wore on your wrist the day you died.

Well, at least I know the time. Do you wonder why I ignored you? Despite what you may think, it had nothing to do with social class, or status, because you’re not less than me, you’re better. I ignored you because I was afraid. I ignored you because we have remarkable similarities, more so than you know, and I was afraid because you knew too much, you knew too much about me, and trust is a five-letter word

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WordsChaerin Ahn

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and I have trouble with five-letter words. I thought you would say something. I thought you knew. I felt like I was going to die, every secret I told you helped form the knife you would throw into my back. But I left before you could do that.

Is it wrong to have wished that I had been given the choice too? To wish that you and I could dive together, hand and hand, both of us reaching terminal velocity, perpendicular to the pave-ment. People tell me to “let go.” People tell me to “slow down, it’s over.” The irony in these two phrases gives me a slow burn; you never had a choice whether or not to let go, and my inertia won’t let me. I cannot resist the state of motion I am already in; I am an unstoppable force, barreling forward forever.

1. An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.

These airplanes were the unbalanced force. They came down, hitting you, hitting me, driving our two parallel-line lives apart, never to intersect again. To burn or to jump? That is the question. I understand why you chose to jump because you have been burning your whole life, burning the candle at both ends with your new job and burning calories on a treadmill. Brimming with passion. A human charred and branded by the embers of life. But it was me who burned the bridges.

2. Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass, the greater the amount of force needed.

Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you think you had a chance and then taking it away. I made you think I was the same as every other bigot who took one look and then dismissed what was

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seen. I’m sorry for keeping my rejection burning, fueling the fires with the waves of my hand and the catcalls from others. You called me obnoxious and I laughed, I laughed because I didn’t know how to respond, and that probably made you think I was farther gone than ever.

3. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

I wish you were here so I could tell you that. I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful person and I’m a dipshit, a dipshit for having the chance to have a relationship with such a caring person and let-ting it crash and burn. And this is why I refuse to let you crash and burn, because, even if you’re there now, I still can remember, as tribute to what could have been. I can’t forget. I can’t. No urge to stop writing present and start writing past tense. Or future.

Sincerely,Me.

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SolitudeOwen Schumacher

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SpacesMackenzie De Lisa

The smoke and smog fill the spaces where clean, crisp air once presided. I lie on the carpeting of my office floor and watch as my chest cavity expands, fills with the smoke, and proceeds to crash down hastily. This sight is a painful reminder that with each breath the remaining pockets of fresh air are replaced more and more quickly with the fatal fumes. I’m talking about the pockets in my lungs. The same lungs that were once filled with the cool, vanilla aroma of scented candles that illuminated the table where my wife and I shared our first date. The same lungs that almost collapsed inside me at age thirty the first time I changed my child’s dirty dia-per. The same lungs that I swore would never be contaminated by the smoke of a cigarette, now filled with the most foul stench they had ever taken in.

Why was it that in those last few moments I couldn’t move a single muscle? I was no longer distracted by the possibility of escap-ing the wrath of these seemingly endless flames in the burning building. Now, my mission was to make certain I remembered every sweet memory before I died and they were taken away from me forever. I was in shock. My mind abducted me and took me through the memories of my past, depriving me of any ability to act productively in the present. The painful truth was that the earth was still spinning upon its axis, the sun was still highlighting the early September morning, and people were continuing their day, oblivious of this single event that threatened to reshape their entire future.

The instant I felt my top eyelashes grace the bottom ones, I was confident that all the clean spaces now ceased to exist and my time on Earth was complete. I opened my eyes just minutes later to the same clouded, murky room I had shut them to. It was disheartening and made the situation seem irrevocable. I grasped the locket that

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I wore upon my neck. I thought of my wife, who was the owner of the identical other half. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t. I wanted to jump to escape the heinous smell, but I couldn’t. I wanted to call my wife and tell her to move on and find love again without me, but I didn’t. My dreams, my intentions, and my memories would die with me because they were all my own, and all anyone else would have of me would be their own recollections of the man I was. For when everyone has said what they wanted to say, and evil has succeeded in committing its crimes, all we have to remember of the people we love are our memories.

With the last tear that trickled down my cheek, the most inconceiv-able thing happened. A figure in a black and yellow suit emerged, sporting a helmet and an oxygen tank. He picked me up and slung me over his right shoulder. The faces of my family flashed through my mind and the feeling of relief intensified with every step that brought us closer to the bottom and closer to the fresh air.

***

Molly bellowed, Austin cried, and I prayed for an angel — one an-gel to appear and rescue us from this horrifying reality. But I knew that nobody was coming. The screaming had ceased and only the continuous crackling of sparks remained. The building was sec-onds from collapsing, but I forced my children to continue reciting their prayers. I told them to save their breath and speak in hushed tones, that screaming would be of no use now, and that we’re in God’s hands together.

I leaned against the jammed elevator door and slowly slid my body downward until it met with the floor. I begged my children to rest their heads atop my legs, and close their eyes to try to go to sleep. They came over and piled on top of me, their combined weights al-most crushing me alive, and I loved it. I loved knowing I could still

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feel them. I loved knowing they were still there. I looked down at my chest and saw the locket necklace whose emblem I shared with my husband. It was an accessory I never failed to wear and I knew he would be wearing his, too. The kids and I had come to see him at work that day, thinking we would surprise him. Then with such a fury, the wires began to shake us, and I drew my fingers to their faces to shield their eyes from what would happen next.

We were going to fall.

I love you.

We were falling.

I love you.

We fell…

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Run, Before Dreams Get You Chaerin Ahn

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One of Those DaysMcKenzie Sutton

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Ninety ParakeetsMichelle Waters

My uncle’s tenant was a hoarder. When she lost her govern-ment aid and could no longer afford to pay her rent, he had to evict her and when he came to the apartment for the first time in months to tell her so he discovered that she was keeping ninety parakeets within.

Ninety parakeets, and I wonder how she went about acquiring them. Did she buy them all? If so, did she buy them all from the same store? Or did some of the original parakeets procreate, begetting more and more parakeets until there were ninety? Re-gardless of how she went about acquiring them, there they were:ninety parakeets. It was a two-bedroom apartment, so I really have no idea where she kept them.

Of course, being a hoarder, she had also filled her apartment with stacks of newspapers, garbage bags full of long-drained batteries. So much junk my aunt and uncle could barely wind their way through the stacks to get to the tenant, who wouldn’t budge or throw anything out. We’ve all seen the reality show. You know what I’m talking about.

I am writing this poem to tell you about the dream I had.I dreamt I was walking sightless around the hoarder’s apart-ment, and I had to rely on my other senses to make sense of it.The metallic taste of the used batteries filled my mouth and all I could hear were the parakeets’ squawks and the soft flutters of the parakeets’ wings and all I could feel were the disintegrat-ing newspapers. The stacks guided me to my destination but the problem, see, is that I didn’t know what my destination was.

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A Colorful CoupleRavi Patel

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Thinking Inside the BoxAparna Raghu

It really stinks to be Hope.Death, Despair, Illness, Crime—they fly around, flapping their great, leathery wings, looming over the innocent, shrieking madly, leaving that nails-on-a-chalkboard cackle reverberating in night-mares.

They are children. Angry, vile toddlers, who fly around, throwing tantrums at whim. Egocentric too. Do they even notice the paper-winged feature suffocating in this dusty box?

I am stuck here.They fly free, uninhibited, spreading insanity and fodder of fear.I remain here.Hope is always here when you need her.

More like always left behind.

Their job is easy. Destroy the human race. Make the people suffer.(Job description courtesy of one very angry king of gods.)I have to be there for everyone. The eternal shoulder-to-cry-on.

They all start by simply calling upon me. When those pests, those eternal brats continue to plague the innocents, the innocents start to beg. To plead. To make rash promises, many of which include giving up unhealthy foods. Why would I care if someone swore off ice cream? (I mean, we all know that would never happen anyway. Junk food heals the pain.)

I really do try. But one boxed-in girl against all the uninhibited evils. They work in packs. Famine tags along with Drought. Ill-ness attacks the children, with their numerable ribs and scooped-out cheeks, and they all watch as the parents beg me to save their doomed babies. Death joins and the accusations pour in.

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I try. I try and try and fail. Do they think I gloat as they succumb to insanity, wailing and convulsing? Trembling as they lay their little ones into the Earth?

I am not the sadistic one.

But I am always defeated by them. Hope always loses. Hope is always lost.

I am still here, inside this box, this archaic, musty, eerie box. But I am lost to you. I hear all the pleas, but they are outside, in the impenetrable world. I can’t help from in here. I am and always have been an idea. Just an idea to hold onto when Despair visits. I cannot do much. I cannot heal you or help you, but I can hear you.

Don’t count on Hope. Don’t depend on Hope. And please, don’t blame Hope.

Blame the Evils. The Fates. Pandora.

She started it.

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LostJake Oleson

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The RipperJosh Kao

At dusk when the lights begin to dim on Dorset StreetThen echoes the faint pattering of the ripper’s feet.The crash of his quick blade is heard upon flesh and meatAs he treads noiselessly away from his kill.

At night when stores are closed and doors are shut tightThe ripper appears hungry and stalks the first in sight.He plunges his knife into her back and without fightShe lies motionless, resting absolutely still.

Next morning, a neighbor comes upon the carcass beside the doorAnd moans dreadfully at the sight of the dead, mutilated whore.Most of her viscera removed, both her stomach and heart toreEach organ extracted with exactness and skill.

All means of seizing the culprit came to no avail.All of the authorities’ efforts had happened to fail.There was never a moral close to this classic tale.Jack lived until he expired by his own will.

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MemoriesChloe Chan

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The FarmhouseMichelle Waters

It’s a fitting way for someone named Bridget to die: jump-ing off a bridge. Today I walked down to the Golden Gate because I couldn’t think of a reason not to anymore.

I’ve seen thirty-two years of soggy, foggy San Francisco mornings, and this was another. I stood on the bridge and looked not out, as I usually did, but down—down at the water that would be my means of escape. I’m sure it’s not this way for everyone, but it’s like my half-memory of being rushed to the hospital with appendicitis when I was seven years old: lying in the back of the ambulance, I feverishly chanted, “No pain, no pain. No more.” And so I killed myself.

Not long after, I took the leap that ended my life, I became aware of myself again. But something was different about that self. It was as if someone had taken my soul and cleaved away the pain. I hadn’t felt this light since college. I wiggled my toes.

Before me stood a shaggy creature chewing grass in a slow, sardonic way that made me feel judged. “Where are we?”

“Peru,” said the creature, its mouth full. I hate it when people talk with food in their mouths.

“Peru?”“Yes,” it said.I looked around. We appeared to be on a hill at the foot of a

larger hill or maybe a small mountain. The shaggy thing—a llama I thought—was standing on the other side of a fence in a pasture filled with sparse brown grass. “I’m an alpaca,” the alpaca added. “In case you were wondering.”

“What is this place?” I asked. The alpaca ignored me. He walked over to another patch of grass and began to eat it.

I felt, suddenly, a strange, sick sensation in my stomach. “I want to go home,” I said without meaning it, but then I started to. I missed the warm feeling of conversing with friends who seemed to fit me like puzzle pieces. Painful as my life was, it had had its mo-ments of joy, its moments of plain comfort in the presence of the people I loved. It had always upset me when people

67

were angry with those who killed themselves. Who were they to say that the suicidal were selfish? But now I understood: they would never see me again. And I would never see them.

“This is your home now, Bridget,” said the alpaca. “Peru is your heaven.”

“But why Peru?” I said. I had never been to Peru, nor harbored any wish to go there. I have no Peruvian loved ones, no primeval connection to the place.

“You may never have been to Peru, but it has always been inside you,” the alpaca said. “In my experience, once you’ve thought about it a little more, you’ll figure it out. Peru could’ve been in your eye, or in your arm. I really don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” I said.“Your death has always been with you,” said the alpaca.

“You humans don’t see the big picture. You think that death is something external, that someday it is just going to happen. But you’re all wrong: it’s internal, a part of you that will surface when your time comes. Of course, in your case, dying when you did was your choice. That’s a little different from most.”

68

I sat down on the ground, still feeling weightless, and thought for a while about what he had said. I tried to locate my death. Had it been in my arm the first time I threw a softball? And the time I sat on my glasses—had it been in my cornea then? I began mulling over my most important childhood memories. “You should also consider the least important ones,” the alpaca called from across the pasture.

I thought back to the day my appendix was removed in the middle of the night. It had started out as a perfectly ordinary school day: I recalled waking up, getting dressed, going to school. And then I had it: Peru had been in the sole of my foot. I had been step-ping on my death every day without knowing it, and each step had brought me closer to the day I was to die. And I alone had chosen it. As the alpaca had said, dying had been my choice. That’s the thing about suicide: you die. “That’s interesting. The sole of your foot,” that alpaca said, “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“You know, that’s getting annoying.”“What, me reading your mind? Sorry. Can’t help it. It’s in

an alpaca’s nature.”“Whatever,” I sighed. I’d never spoken to an alpaca before,

so I took him at his word.The alpaca took another lap around the pasture. I noticed

that he had a bell tied around his neck with a red ribbon. It tinkled softly with each step and movement. “But why Peru?” I said.

“You’ve always known that it existed,” the alpaca said, “but you never understood it. Just like your death.”

I got up and surveyed the area. On the other side of the pasture was the small, densely wooded mountain. Turning, I saw a dilapidated farmhouse at the bottom of the hill. More of a shack than a house, it appeared seconds away from collapse. Beyond that was a dirt road. “That’s the farmer’s house,” said the alpaca.

“The farmer?”“Otherwise known as God.” So I began to walk toward the

farmhouse and the road and God, full of wonder. I am opening the door.

Midnight Strawberry ShortcakeChaerin Ahn

EDITORS-IN-CHIEFMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITORMeg Reddy

ART EDITORAlexa Paley

COVER ART“Displacement” by Chloe Chan

SECRETARYAmanda Rothenberg

SENIOR EDITORSJulia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

Aparna Raghu, Meg Reddy, Amanda Rothenberg

STAFF EDITORSAlyssa Ahn, Antanina Belzer, Molly Blevins, Katie Bowman,

Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,

Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,

Lisa Woolfson, Charles Zhang

ILLUSTRATORSAlexandra Bass, Chloe Chan, Jonathan Duan, Charlie

Ehrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv Malhotra

ART & TECHNICAL DIRECTIONMrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger Keller

FACULTY SUPERVISORDr. Minaz Jooma



Marlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters


EDITORS-IN-CHIEFMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR

Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell, Lisa Woolfson, Charles Zhang

ILLUSTRATORSILLUSTRATORS

ART EDITOR

Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco, Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara

“Displacement” by Chloe Chan


Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,

Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Aparna Raghu, Meg Reddy, Amanda Rothenberg

STAFF EDITORSSTAFF EDITORS

Julia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

Aparna Raghu, Meg Reddy, Amanda RothenbergSimran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

Alyssa Ahn, Antanina Belzer, Molly Blevins, Katie Bowman, Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,

Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,

Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk,

Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell, Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,

Alexandra Bass, Chloe Chan, Jonathan Duan, Charlie Ehrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv Malhotra


manda Rothenberg

SENIOR EDITORSSENIOR EDITORSJulia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

SENIOR EDITORS

EDITORS-IN-CHIEFMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters

EDITORS-IN-CHIEFMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITORMeg Reddy

Marlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters

LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITOR

Marlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle WatersMarlee Birnberg, Hannah Park, and Michelle Waters

Meg Reddy

ART EDITORAlexa Paley

ART EDITOR

Meg Reddy

Alexa Paley



COVER ART

Alexa Paley

SECRETARYAmanda Rothenberg

“Displacement” by Chloe Chan

SECRETARYmanda Rothenberg

SECRETARY

“Displacement” by Chloe Chan“Displacement” by Chloe Chan

SENIOR EDITORSJulia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Julia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,

SENIOR EDITORSSENIOR EDITORSJulia Fine, Caleigh Fogel, Angela Jin, Amanda Kam, Susan

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,

SENIOR EDITORS

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

Aparna Raghu, Meg Reddy, Amanda RothenbergSimran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

Aparna Raghu, Meg Reddy, Amanda Rothenberg

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou,


Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,


Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,

STAFF EDITORSSTAFF EDITORSAlyssa Ahn, Antanina Belzer, Molly Blevins, Katie Bowman,

Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,

Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara

Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco, Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara

Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco, Olivia Chou, Sam Curtis, Louis Danowsky, Emily DelGreco,

Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,

Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,

Lisa Woolfson, Charles ZhangNuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell,

Lisa Woolfson, Charles Zhang

Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara





ILLUSTRATORSILLUSTRATORS


ART & TECHNICAL DIRECTION


ART & TECHNICAL DIRECTION

Ehrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv MalhotraEhrenfried, Viraj Khetani, Shiv Malhotra


FACULTY SUPERVISOR


ART & TECHNICAL DIRECTIONART & TECHNICAL DIRECTION

Dr. Minaz Jooma

Mrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger Keller

FACULTY SUPERVISORDr. Minaz Jooma

Mrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger KellerMrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger Keller

FACULTY SUPERVISOR

Mrs. Kathleen Harte Gilsenan & Dr. Roger Keller

Dr. Minaz JoomaDr. Minaz JoomaDr. Minaz Jooma

Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Kaufman, Josh Kimelman, Grace Layer, Chris Li, Michelle Lou, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park, Simran Malhotra, Meredith Mattlin, Sarah Nelson, Sarah Park,

Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi, Christina Bremberg, Bradley Bunn, Chloe Chan, Jacob Choi,

Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara

Claire Denson, Lauren Gomez, Satyen Gupta, Natalia Havryliuk, Claire Hu, Grace Jing, Josh Kao, Sara Klausner, Caroline Levine, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell, Nuta, Noah Orent, Meghna Patny, Amanda Prager, Alex Russell, Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara Sylvia Levy, Sam Liu, Laurel Meng, Christopher McHugh, Sara

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