Literary Arts Journal '14-'15 by Word of Mouth

B E C K MAN H I GH SCH O O L | V O L. 2, 2014– 2015

LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL W R IT ING • A RT • P H O T O G R APHY

There was a star riding through the clouds one night, and I said to the star, “Consume me.” 2

—Virginia Woolf, The Waves

Cover Art: Angyll Suarez | Special Thanks: Ed Fund

forward What’s in a story? Writing, art, and photography make up a huge part of what it means to be alive and thinking in the 21st century. It’s what populates our Tumblr dashboards and our Instagram photo feeds; it’s what we turn to when we need to crawl under the covers with a good book or escape into a fantasy world of our own making. It’s also our means of piecing back together the shards and pieces of our everyday lives, trying to make sense of things through jotting down our thoughts or shuffling our feelings into neat arrangements of pixels, words, or paint. It’s more than just spilling ink, dripping paint, or catching light: in a world drowning in noise and inundated with often senseless imagery, to create is a radical act. Making something where there used to be nothing is hard, but within these pages, we’ll show you just how worthwhile it can be. Colophon Word of Mouth ‘14-’15: Kevin Chu, Sabrina Oh, Vivien Nguyen, Mayu Tanaka, Marissa Gerchick, Rachel Sun | Mrs. Mintz Contributors: Ryan Apolinar, Ramaa Bhimsen, Jillian Boor, Andrew Chan, Kevin Chu, Summer Davis, Lili Dong, Madison Fong, James Fridel, Marissa Gerchick, Bria Hebert, Kurt Huckleberry, Ian Hung, Emily Kim, Katie Kim, Maddie Matsui, Tamy Nazha, Hannah Nguyen, Vivien Nguyen, Lauren Nguyen, Andrea Nugent, Sabrina Oh, Lilian Pan, Alex Qi, Denisse Rincon, Ariana Roshanzaer, Sabrina Santoro, Sarah Sivjee, Rachel Sun, Daniel Villagomez, Kelsi Yu Inquiries: bhswordofmouth@gmail.com

Looking for Immortality “Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.” The year hardly matters. I don’t remember it anyway. But with these irreplaceable respirations, I can recall the audacity of an earnest young man, and the tender feelings that had been elicited but were often forgotten. I was about to close shop, when a boy about eight or nine entered. He didn’t appear apprehensive or uncomfortable, but I was puzzled by this young and, frankly, sorely-unneeded customer. He looked around nonchalantly; I stared directly and intently at him. “Is there something you need?” I asked outright. He crouched down and hugged his knees, before getting up and approaching the counter. “You have a nice shop.” “Thank you.” 4 “It’s very clean.” “So am I.” The humor was lost, as seen uncomprehending brown eyes.

his

“How were you able to find it?” “I read about it in a magazine.” A girls’ magazine, he neglected to say. “Is there something you actually need?” “Don’t you—Aren’t you known for things?” He fidgeted. “Depends.” My hand reached for my finely groomed moustache and tugged on the its ends. “Like everlasting youth?” “In those jars over there.” “Or reversing age?” “In these drawers.” He looked around the room—with all its shiny glass cabinets and material contents—in amazement. “I didn’t know if it would be true.” “It cer-tainly is.” I cocked an eyebrow. “But why would you need face cream, young man?”

“I don’t need aging or eternal youth, actually. What I’m looking for, is immortality.” “Immortality? That isn’t easy to come by.” “It isn’t?” “It sold out a long time ago.” He nodded, thinking it was completely natural. “Would this immortality be for someone as young as yourself?” “No. It’s for my mom.” His eyes lost some of their glimmer and his voice faded like rising ashes into the air. “She’s sick. You know, cancer.” “It afflicts many. So, you would use it on her?” He nodded vigorously. “Completely?” “Yes.” I thought about it for a good deal, and then some more. Believe me, it was quite the decision to mull over. The boy remained unabashed the whole time. He was a courageous little thing, and I admired anyone with such a quality. It compelled me to help. That, and our striking resemblance in familial circumstance. “Well, you’re in luck. I have what you seek.” I flipped the back curtain open with the back of my hand, and extracted a precious artifact. “What is it? “It used to be called a ‘cam-era.’” I brushed some of the dust off and frowned that so much had even accumulated. I prided myself on cleanliness. “It’s so old!” He examined it with wide eyes. “Not many are around any more. They require a lot of love and care.” I got out a cloth from my pocket and began wiping it meticulously. It was true that cameras had become obsolete and with that, less people looked at one another, remembered to remember each other. More precisely, all faces without a touch of familiarity began to look the same. “But how is it immortality?” “I know what you’re thinking. You wanted something to cure your mother, like immortality.

Lilian Pan

I’m sorry to say that I don’t have that cure, and I can’t produce miracles. No one can—except maybe the future.” The boy looked crestfallen once more, but he persevered. “Still, you brought this out for a reason.” “I know a different immortality. One where you can cure the mind.” “Of what?” He leaned in. “Of forgetfulness. You’ll be able to preserve your memory of her, with this.” I pressed one of the buttons and the shutter flew open, sounding like air being cut. I pressed it again, and it closed more softly and slowly, as if curling inward. “That will turn the camera on and off. And this—“ I pointed at a larger black button. “—will take a picture, but you have to aim it—carefully. Afterwards, the picture will come out at the bottom.” I indicated towards it. “Got it?” His eyes were so large—so clear and focused upon me that I could see my misty and unwavering reflection. I placed the frayed straps of the camera around his neck. 6 “Be careful. Be very gentle.” He took it with both of his hands. “It’s lost most of its other functions because of its age, and it doesn’t have much film left. That means you don’t have many chances.” “I can keep it? Don’t I have to pay?” “Yes and no.” I could tell he was going to ask why, because it was forming on his lips. Being courageous didn’t mean you were hard to read. “I don’t have much use for a derelict camera. Especially in this shop.” Yet, I looked at it with some longing, some nostalgia. This was an important decision after all! One that would haunt me if it ever did fall into the wrong or poorly shaped hands. Though the lustrous black paint had worn and faded long ago into dull smudges, and there were a few chips colored white, the lens remained intact with scratches only the size of a dime’s width as far as I knew. I remembered how much I had prized it at one time. And one day, how I had stopped.

“But that’s immortality for you.” I sighed, feeling the full weight of my wizened magnificence. “Isn’t there anyone you want to take a picture of?” I gave him a severe look—for good measure— before answering calmly. “Not anymore.” The boy bent his head down. Perhaps it was in shame, or to take a closer look at the camera. I could not tell because his eyes were shaded. The eyes say everything and the most about a person. “It will get dark soon. It’s best if you leave before then.” I ushered him along. “Is that okay?” “I don’t see why not. Or do you need me to fetch someone to send you on your way?” “No. This is enough.” He gestured to the camera. He left promptly—and uncertainly. I imagined that he still had questions and wondered over the camera’s workings. But I resumed my previous task in spite. I closed all the shutters, draped cloths over the scattered mirrors, and took a final sweeping glance of the store. My eyes passed over each sparkling cabinet, the tile flooring, and finally, the velvet curtain that concealed more to the eye than most. I locked the door behind me when I left. I put the keys into my coat pocket, where they remained until the next day. Years and years later, he came back as an adult. I did not recognize him. Only the vastly used camera gave him away. “Did it work?” I asked. “Yes. For a while.” He patted it fondly. “But it was nice while it lasted.” “It usually does.” He chuckled, and proceeded to recount his life. Its ups and downs. The long journeys toward and from. And what life was like, after his brush with immortality. It’s funny how you remember the oddest stories when you’re about to die. It’s even funnier that I know they won’t return. No one will feel the same way as I do. — Kelsi Yu

lili dong

Poem: james fridel| art: alex qi

JAN

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Elegy for 9th Company Against a scene of blood and gore, With muddy kingdoms burned before, Death lies hidden, close but stored, By our Brown River Bank. Our sense of drive has long since passed, Our spirit, they knew, could never last, With help from angels, falling fast, We lost our Brown River Bank. Their lighting upward, shot or thrown, To upheave our king from his blood red throne, Sent by the eagles , this we have known, So we died on our Brown River Bank. Through the hunger and plague, we stormed on through, Through the men and steel, we’ve starved out dues, And all I may say is, “The colors changed hues.” So we left our Brown River Bank. Well the words I gave were not wise, And the life I gave has not died, And the king I love has now lied, So I return to my Brown River Bank. I miss the cold and the snow, This war was no more than a show, I’d return to the home that I know, But I drowned in the Brown River Bank.

An Unrequited Journey into Space I tried to steal the stars, but you already had them swimming in your eyes. Twinkling amongst a blanket of blue. Shining for anyone that breathed your name, With the lonesome exception of me I tried to grasp the moon Only to find it beating in your chest A place full of such warmth it would burn any creature inside it So safely guarded by walls unbreakable by any of my tender affections. 10

I tried to catch a comet, and found myself too distracted by the sound of your laugh. I searched hopelessly for hours trying to find where this lovely sound was coming from. In the end, you were no where to be seen and the comet had since vanished. I tried to pocket the universe. Except, you kept expanding it, growing it. And blindly I still ran after in search of an end. You smiled darkly and told me to just keep going. So even though I was so terribly exhausted I did it for you.

Poem: jillian boor | Art: ian hung

FEB

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15 Rules for Succeeding on Social Media Hey—you!

Yeah, you. Yes, you, the person who’s been sleeping for the past five years and is just now getting into social media. What? Did your mom finally let you make a Facebook account so that you can “study” with friends online? In any case, there are a few crucial rules that you’re going to need to ingrain into your very being if you want to stay alive in this bird-eatbird virtual world. Social media really isn’t as simple as the apps make it look—whether it’s Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Vine, etcetera, you can’t post and go just like that! Some standards (in no particular order because they are all equally irremissible):

1. 1. First and foremost, your unequivocal goal on social media is to acquire likes, favorites, and retweets. The number of these merits you acquire directly correlates to your social worth. 2. If you are going to post a picture of the sky, a word of advice: don’t. Most of your friends/followers are people who live near you (am I wrong?), which means that they’re probably seeing the exact same sky that you are. So, unless you are literally staring at the Aurora Borealis, keep it to yourself.

or musicians • A few tasteful emojis (if it’s more than eight, you better reevaluate!) • A heartfelt statement about a family member/loved one (don’t overdo this one; people only go for it every once in a while) A few caption No-No’s: • Cliché Quotes • Overused song lyrics • Puns (pun fact: nobody thinks they’re funny) Really—don’t be afraid to do a few caption rough-drafts; it takes time to hone your captioning ability. 4. When hashtagging a photo or post, quality is certainly more important than quantity. A picture that is littered with lines and lines of hashtags will simply make its poster look like a tacky try-hard. You should use at least one hashtag per post, but no more than four or five. Often times, the best hashtags encapsulate a portion of the caption in them. But make sure your hashtag isn’t too long, or your followers will be too lazy to read it and, in their eyes, you will lose all worth as a human being.

3. As Confucius once said, “A picture is 5. One of the unspoken qualities of social only as good the caption that follows it. media is timing: You have to play smart if Yolo-swag.” Basically, if your post is not you want to avoid Rush Hour. First of all, #captiongamestrong (don’t worry… we’ll don’t ever post during the day, especially get to hashtags soon), you won’t be able if you are in high school. While some to maximize your like, favorite, or retweet people might be on Instagram, Twitter, capacity. Some ideas for caption material: or Facebook during the day, most are not. Also, don’t post while everyone else • Song Lyrics (in a funny, ironic way) is posting, because then your photo will • Funny quotes from hipster authors also become insignificant quickly.

6. And don’t post late at night because most 13. Your Profile Pictures should always make people will be asleep. Oh yeah, and don’t you look better than you do in real life— post too often, because then people will seriously: Edit those things like crazy. think you’re annoying. But then again, ((Celebrities without makeup)) don’t post too infrequently, or people will think you’re socially dead and they’ll 14. Speaking of editing, it is more than okay unfollow or unfriend you. Got it? to edit your pictures, but don’t ever use the built-in filters on the social media apps 7. Don’t use social media as an outlet for themselves. Using those convenient, easysocial change or honest communication. to-navigate features makes you look like Really, it was just intended for pictures of an uncultured swine lacking the technical food, hipster plants, and outfits of the day know-how to successfully manipulate (#ootd). the finer aspects of a photograph using a more sophisticated editing software. I 8. Make sure that your ratio of followers mean…c’mon. to following on Instagram and Twitter is greater than one. One of the first things 15. Let’s get something straight, people: a person does when they look at your Just because your hair is #onpoint today profile is compare the number of people doesn’t mean a selfie is warranted. Yes—if you follow to the number of people who you are a movie star, model, or ridiculously follow you. Having a ratio that is less than attractive human being, a selfie is always one is the social equivalent of farting justified. But if you’re just an Average Joe, during a dead-silent testing period. try to limit the selfies to worthy occasions. A rule of thumb: ask yourself, “Would a 9. Don’t post memes. Ever. Kardashian post this selfie?” 10. You might be wary about following or 16. Don’t be afraid to look to your cell becoming friends with people you don’t phone to combat emotional problems. really know beyond the screen of your Social media is a great place to make iPhone. But seriously—don’t worry about yourself feel better and others feel worse. it—it’s not like you have to really know Posting pictures that make yourself look them; all you need is for them to like your unrealistically attractive is sure to garner posts. And besides, all they’re seeing is some good compliments, and maybe even some of your most personal information. inspire envy (dare I say self-loathing?) in What’s the worst that can happen? others! What a rush! 11. If participating in Throwback Thursday, (#tbt), remember that two or three weeks is not an appropriate “Throwback” time frame. Baby pictures are a powerful tool, but, like Nutella and Peanut Butter, overuse renders them useless. 12. If you will soon be applying to college, make sure to change your name on your social media accounts so that admissions officers cannot locate you on the Internet. You wouldn’t want them to see any information that accurately reflects your personality, now would you?

Whatever you do, always remember that the experience should be about the picture: not the other way around. Taking pictures to capture legitimate experiences is a classic mistake that social-media rookies and interactive imbeciles commonly make. In the end, your memory and your body will die off, and all that will be left for your greatgreat grandchildren to brag to their friends about will be a picture with a clever caption. So why does it matter if that photo doesn’t accurately reflect reality? Isn’t life these days just one big photo-op, after all? — Marissa Gerchick

Poem: vivien nguyen| art: katie kim

MAR

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Things I Learned in School Diamonds aren’t forever(they’re thermodynamically unstable): scientists have proven that diamonds evaporate under intense light. But they can’t prove—they(I) can’t explain — why it is I look at you and feel—forever. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” — but it’s only yours that I can catch in a crowd, the only name that calls me to attention(like it was meant for me to hear) and has me feeling—forever. Cantor proved that there are two types of infinities— the countable kind, the uncountable kind. We’re not infinite(not even aleph-0). We are an absolutely finite set. But I could count the days by your laugh, and they sure feel like infinity to me. I know some things(chemistry and Shakespeare and calculus), but not the future. I don’t know forever, but I know you— and I think those might be the same thing.

Without sight, I saw Dry roots and winter rain To wash away the endless ends. To forget once more, I peered upon the blur’red sea. Coming across a familiar spirit! A stranger that resembled the likes of me! Perplexed wore the fragmented reflection. Wandering short, a static stare-the seams of neck did seem to part, from looking down, so long, a while. 16

I, the last, never looked up, like all those before me. Too proud to consider that, that above, could help me move forth. Heaven above, the Stars were bright; At lasting linger, I stole one glance: a curious haze... dead land stirring. Set forth to follow, the light of my life, a star in the sky: a manic daze--an honest lie? Prying, though, I questioned not, fixed upon a serendipitous dream,

It seems, I’ve found Myself in you. Intransigent still, my faithful guide, I fell, and through, I followed. Propped upon the pins of my soul, so hollowed, so gentle... gentlemen stare, with no fuss nor frenzy. Their parched voices, they whisper. We only begin for ends, they say, a project of projections, faceless and telling. Wading alive, the water it rose. With eyes wide shut, I said none while in blur’red sea, I said none while I could not breathe. The dove descending, the moon—it crumbles. In red, submerged, I saw. Sitting above, dry and glimpsing, With freed attention, no mind or bother Purple tongues so daringly declare, All, Look at all! The Fresh roots and spring rain.

Poem: Andrea Nugent | Art: Sarah Sivjee

APR

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You and I “Let us go then, you and I.” “Where’s that from?” She asks me, but doesn’t let go of my hand. “T. S. Eliot.” “Cool.” She grins. “Old guy?” “Dead guy.” It’s been a month since we started our grand voyage of the world. I didn’t have a set course in mind, but I hoped to go as far as I could for five months. In truth, it is tiring to hop from airplane to bus to car to foot. My feet and back hurt (I wish I had been more athletic) and I can’t imagine what all this traveling is doing to my savings account. But it’s for her. It makes her happy, and it might sound corny, but I think the money couldn’t have been better spent. I believe it’s the greatest thing I will ever do. 18

That’s saying a lot for a twenty-seven year old. “Let’s stop here.” She lets go of my hand and looks up at the sky, the vast depths of the deepest blue. She touches the swaying grain. This simple moment is special to her, magical, even. To me, it’s more of a gentle slapping motion against my legs, especially with the sudden gusts of wind. And I know I’m going to find dozens of bug bites up and down my legs. But it’s nice. “You know, when we started this—I had some doubts. I didn’t know if I could feel this happy. And when we made our promise, I didn’t know if either of us could keep it.” “What promise?” “Let’s also forget that promise and the promise about not talking about it.” “Okay.” “Because I have to tell you something important.” “I’m ready.” She inhales sharply. “I was afraid before, and I didn’t know how to say it, but I feel like… like I’m ruining you.”

“What?” “Well, we’ve been to Japan, Bali, Spain, and now, France. And I’ve been thinking that when the inevitable happens, I don’t want you to remember these places with me. I don’t want you to feel sad. I guess, I don’t want you to mourn me.” “I don’t know if I can control that.” “I want you to come back to these places for your own experience—to live your own life. Be more selfish. Think more about yourself than others.” At this moment, it strikes me. A feeling of frustration and suffocation and bittersweet amour. Because I know how she wants me to feel and that I should consider it as a thoughtful and kind gesture because she has so little time left, but it’s not. It’s really not. No matter what she says, I still want more seconds to minutes, more minutes to hours. I don’t want to sink into this delusion that she’ll always be there beside me, in my heart. I want a good thirty more years before we have to think about our health. And I know I’m not supposed to (I’ve read the books), but I’m already grieving the time we didn’t spend together. I’m already cursing God and science and chaos. But I don’t want her to know and I’ll smother my shameful side, drown myself further, if that’s what it takes.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. “So I’m not supposed to mourn you, and I should be more selfish?” “Yes.” I touch the grain. I stop the swaying of one, but it is momentary, temporary. “Okay. I understand.”

This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. — Kelsi Yu

lili dong

Poem: emily kim| photo: summer davis

MAY

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Orphan General In commemoration of General Gaebeck, leader of the last army of Beckjae

I will not be like the women Who will jump off the Rock of Falling Flowers. My family’s blood is still woven Into my hand from which it cowers.

Three. Seduced by its armed men, their dying fights, Boys neither us nor I have no more, Us she leads in red flower, leading our flights—

The Plain. I will be like the sand against Here lies the red grass and sky, the river, Here lies the sticks of my men, Grasping the last three castles— And here lies familiar blood forever. I saw—a while ago When I spilled my family’s One. smiles. It greets us in iron rain, Comes upon us, I dream of them, in the sky ten thousand strong. Free from its hands, Men! Let this army retreat; And I too, smile as I die. never again— God bless this Lost country. Two. For I knew ours would not be Victory’s song, I have stamped out my love, my lights Us she led in youth, but not for long—

Home Again It’s nice to retreat into a world where all of my worries seem to dissipate into the air. Where my preoccupied mind shifts into a state of tranquility and contentment. I hear the pages crinkle open, the sound familiar to my seasoned ears. The words shift around, 22 begin to form images, faces that I’ve known for some odd decade, I return to friends whom I’ve ignored for a chunk of time now, I can feel their smiles; they’re excited to see me after some time away. They don’t directly say it, but I know they’re wondering where I went. Apologies spill from my mouth: life has been a stone wall on my journey back to them, But they continue to shower me with love and friendliness, because they

know I’ll always return. We skip the formalities and they bring me back on their adventures, ones I’ve been on before. I may have traveled with them a countless number of times, but it is still new and exciting for me. I forget about school; forget about my lack of direction in life, I only care about my friends I’m with, as they battle evil forces working against them. They remain strong, although they have moments of weakness. However, I urge them to stand tall, to not give into the despair that clouds their lives. By taking on their worries, I forget all about my own. Somehow I become more resolute and learn a few things from my friends. What takes place in the panic centre of my mind is something I learn to deal with. It’s refreshing to be with people who don’t care about my aptitude for mathematics or lack thereof.

No matter what situation I’m going through, they invite me into the myriad of words that make up their world. It’s not straightforward, but I take in their lessons of love, family and loyalty, They continue to teach me, even after I’ve soaked up their advice Because sometimes I forget and I need to be reminded, What are friends for if not to be there for you at your worst? As my eyes gather the words that are displayed, the conversations my friends have, the actions they take, I know I’m not alone in the realm I live in. They’ll always be there for me, never a feeling of hostility from them. Until the universe ceases to exist, they’ll remain, forever immortalized as they are. Long after I close the pages and set the book away on the shelf, My friends will live on, giving guidance to other lost souls like me.

Poem: Ariana Roshanzaer | Photo: bria hebert

JUN

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Poem: lauren nguyen | photo: Tamy Nazha

JUL

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Untitled Descent from self begins unhurried, Veracity on shelves and without worry; Fixed in an illusory realm, With skin of Soil and limbs of Elmâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Does it not overwhelm? No, oh no! For this lowering of heart Feels usual at first, not set apart From the regulars, the ordinaries; but When do desires vary? Realizationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;epiphany! How could one not ever see That threatening Thief take, in plain sight, What was held beneath the pillow at night? But we know; We all discern, deep down inside Whether soul was sealed or open-eyed;

But we choose the Dreams and the Deception, Expectant of no resurrection. And we know not At moments of magnetic attraction, That the whirlpool will lead to perpetual extraction Of what once was felt by hands and heart; When did I fall apart? And the vortex, it continues to entice, This Ratio of gold, this Summer of ice; To my chest I hold so dear; But the skies, always so clear, For one moment, erase my fear.

kurt huckleberry

The Unknown The world is drenched in darkness; The earth filled with fear Of the things we imagine not And the things we do not know.

A Simple Symbol

A symbol of cooperation; A symbol that more than one can hold; A simple symbol of A team, A friendship, A connection. A High Five is more than what it seems; My heart is full of sadness; It is all of the above and even My soul the color blue more to me. With the things I have cherished the action and I cannot fathom used it frequently, And what I do not understand. It could be done at any time and be used simply. My head hangs in limbo; The High Five is more than an My brain swims in doubt action, With what I overthink It is a simple symbol that one And the darkness I fear most. can caption A friendship, A team, More than just a connection.

Poems: Rachel sun, Hannah Nguyen | photo: Andrea Nugent

art: Vivien Nguyen

AUG

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Poem: ryan apolinar | photo: summer davis

SEP

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I’m not going to think about her

I’m not going to think about she would lean on me whenever we were sitting together.

I’m not going to think about her. I’m not going to think about her eyes. I’m not going to think about her light-brown hair. I’m not going to think about the sound of her voice. I’m not going to think about how we would always hold hands.

I’m not going to think about how she would pat me on the back whenever I was feeling a sad.

I’m not going to think about how we would say “yup” when we had an awkward silence.

I’m not going to think about how we thought everything was going to work out.

I’m not going to think about the way we pet each other’s hair when we hugged.

I’m not going to think about how we thought we were perfect for each other.

I’m not going to think about how she looked when she took off her glasses.

I’m not going to think about how she stopped texting me for a week after that one day.

I’m not going to think about how she always carried around this orange bag whenever we went on dates.

I’m not going to think about how she took everything I ever gave her, put it into a trash bag, and left it at my doorstep.

I’m not going to think about how she loved to wear leggings.

I’m not going to think about how she would talk to me when she was feeling depressed, but she doesn’t anymore, so she probably found someone else to talk to.

I’m not going to think about how I gave her my jacket that one night when she was feeling cold.

I’m not going to think about how sometimes it felt like we were the only two people on earth.

An Afternoon at PackMoon It was A

shleigna’s first day at PackMoon. PackMoon is a clothing store that is often called a boutique by those whom actually buy things there. PackMoon is considered a luxury brand by those rich enough to buy their clothes and brave enough to wear it in public and insane enough to go back there again. Ashleigna was one of those people.

Ashleigna considered herself privileged to be working at her favorite store. She was exuberant to be the new face of PackMoon; she could use the extra money for her social endeavors; she also looked forward to all the employee discounts she’d be getting. She could also put this on her college application. But that was secondary… It was 12 PM and the store was empty. It smelled of body spray, new jeans, hair mousse, and minimum wage. But Ashleigna didn’t mind. She liked the smell of college applications hard work and integrity. Everyone was on their lunch break, except the manager, who was supposed to be on her lunch break. But she was more than delighted to talk to Ashleigna and show her the ropes of the store when she was supposed

to be having her pre-packaged Trader Joe’s® Salad and Naked® Green Machine 100% Juice Smoothie…just absolutely more than delighted. The manager saw Ashleigna approach. She quickly glanced at her clip board. “Ash-lig-na?” she asked. “Um, it’s pronounced Ash-layna,” Ashleigna explained, just like she always did whenever she ordered a drink at Starbucks. Ashleigna was very particular about her name. “Oh, okay,” the boss responded, fully knowing that she’ll never her call Ashleigna by name again. “My name’s Felicity.” They shook each other’s hands. Ashleigna noticed that her boss’s name was an SAT vocab word. Felicity (n. intense happiness, joyfulness, delight) talked for a stint of time too long for Ashleigna to pretend to pay attention. Her monologue consisted mostly of the treatment of customers and general tips on keeping the store looking fresh and new. Ashleigna told herself that she would leave that to the janitors. As far as Ashleigna was concerned, this job was going to be an easy college app essay $9 per hour.

“Whew! That was a lot of information! Did you get all that?” Felicity asked. Ashleigna smiled and nodded. “Okay, great! I’m gonna go catch up on my lunch break, but I feel kind of bad for leaving you here on your first day. You think you’ll be okay?” she asked. “Yeah, I’ll be fine; I can handle it—I’ve been to this store basically every day since I moved here!” Ashleigna responded. Felicity laughed, but only because she could leave the store in Ashleigna’s hands while she would take a 2-hour lunch break. “Okay, awesome! The others will be out in about 20 minutes; they’re still on their lunch break too. But I don’t think anyone’ll be in here—what, with it being noon and all,” Felicity said and continued to fill in the dead air, drifting toward the door. As soon as she was close enough, she bid Ashleigna adieu and slipped out. And so, Ashleigna was all alone in PackMoon. She wandered across the polished wooden floors of the store that blasted pop radio from the well-ventilated ceilings. Her shoes made loud clacks as she explored every corner of the store that she was too afraid to see before because of the annoying sales associates

Daniel Villagomez

always following her. She giggled at the irony of the fact that she was now employed as the annoying sales associate. As Ashleigna was thinking about how she would overexaggerate her job on her college application what she would do with her earnings, she heard a new pair of shoes clacking from the other end of the store. She walked towards the entrance to find the dowdiest man she’d ever seen. He was wearing a loosefitted green sweater, with his hands shoved deeply into his tan khakis. His curly hair was disheveled. And he had an abnormal, sleep-deprived look in his eye. Ashleigna ventured to communicate with him. 34

“May I help you, sir?” she asked. She was unaware of how loud her voice was. She had startled the man so much that he’d pushed himself against the wall of jeans. Ashleigna gasped and tried to apologize. “Sir, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ashleigna said, lowering her voice. The man stared at her from his jean-wall. He had a young face, but he still looked so…sleepless. The man slowly let go of the jean-wall and stared at her as though she’d just taken the last slice of pizza in the box. Ashleigna grimaced; his face made her uncomfortable. “—Is there something you need help with?” she tried again. She hoped to God he’d say no.

He continued to stare at her with hostility until he looked at her chest and smiled. Ashleigna looked down defensively at herself, but realized that he was looking at her nametag. “Your name’s awesome,” he said. Ashleigna decided not to respond but instead smile, turn around, and walk away. But he continued to address her. “It’s like lasagna.” Ashleigna whipped her head around at this statement. “What?” “Ashlanya: it rhymes with lasagna,” he said, still smiling, proud of the comparison he was able to make. Ashleigna scoffed and laughed sarcastically. “It’s pronounced Ash-lay-na,” she said forcefully, her voice dripping with frustration. However, she remembered that she was in a professional environment, so she quickly corrected herself. “But, you know, I can go for any pronunciation that works for you.” “Oh…” the man looked around awkwardly. “Is there anything you need help with?” Ashleigna asked once more, almost twitching. “Why do you keep asking that?” the man asked, exasperated. “Gosh…” Ashleigna took a deep breath to calm herself down; she was very self-conscious when it came to her name. She turned and pretended to adjust a rack of blouses.

“Actually, I do need help with something, Ashlanya.” Ashleigna almost contracted an ulcer from stifling a scream. “Yes?” she asked through gritted teeth. “Do you know where I could find some bow ties?” “They’re over there, by the front” she said, gesturing to a turn-table with an assortment of flamboyant ties neatly lining every edge of the display. Ashleigna was calmer, knowing that she’d just helped a customer. As the awkward man walked to the bow ties, Ashleigna noticed that he was walking with a strange rhythm. She knew she was going to regret what she was about to ask, but she asked anyway; partially because she always said what was on her mind without thinking. “Are you okay sir? You seem to be…walking strangely.” The man looked at her, horrified, made a cursory glance around the empty store, then gestured for Ashleigna to come over. Reluctantly, she crossed the store. He ushered her close enough to whisper, even though there was no other voice there except for the brash pop music still playing. “Do—Do you have any porous backpacks?” “Me?” “No, the store.” “W—why...?” Ashleigna tried to wrap her head around his request. “Why do you need—a porous…backpack?” The man

looked around once more, just to ensure that the store was just as empty as before. “I—“ he hesitated. “—I’m on the run.” “W—what! From who? Why?” “I…uh…p—promise you won’t tell anyone?” he asked. Before Ashleigna could answer, the man pulled out a light green coil from under his sweater. It was a snake. Ashleigna hated hyperventilate.

snakes.

She

began

“...or in this case, big enough for Hạnh phúc.” The man gestured to the coiled-up snake in his hands. “You’re insane!” “Um, haven’t we established that already?” Ashleigna stormed out the store, screaming her last statement over and over. The man called after her. “You won’t tell, will you, Ashlanya?” She continued to scream until she’d gotten in her car and drove off. Her heart palpitated for the next three stop lights. Ashleigna finally calmed down at the thought of this making a great anecdote on her college app at parties. —Ramaa Bhimsen

“N—no, Ashlanya, no! Don’t get scared, she’s our friend, okay? She won’t tell anyone either! She needs a new home!” Ashleigna looked at the strangely-serene snake, which looked like it was sleeping, and then at the man, who looked like he hadn’t slept for a week and was ready to kill someone. “You’re insane!” “She wasn’t happy in Vietnam, okay? She wanted to come to America for a better life!” “You—you got that Ashleigna gasped.

past…airport

security?”

“Hehe, it wasn’t easy...now do you have any porous backpacks or not? We must be leaving.” “First off…you’re insane! I-N-S-A-N-E. In-sane!” “I know how insane is spelt.” “—and what even is a porous backpack?” “It’s a backpack with mesh on the top so that—“ “—and why would you come to this store to find one?” “Well, I don’t know if you noticed, Ashlanya, but the store is called Pack-Moon, which insinuates that the store sells backpacks that are big enough to fit the Moon,” the man explained, irritated. “What!” Ashleigna screamed.

Wolves Finally, I have come to a conclusion: You are like a wolf No, don’t take that as a compliment. See, Wolves gather around torn flesh, Celebrating new death, Leaving only bones left.

I am the resulting skeleton. Flesh borrowed by your lips. Empty spaces between my hips. Spine exposed, ribs empty. –You laugh Turning my bones to dust. Each sound wave of a chuckle, Breaking the surface, Creating its own path within me. Claiming the joke you created. Wolves howl at their prey to declare death And here you are speaking words into my ear That sound a lot like claws. Reminding me of what you’ve done, How you once torn into my skin, And how you decided that what you had done Wasn’t a sin.

Poem: madison fong| Art: andrew chan

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Poem: denisse rincon| photo: sabrina santoro

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Through the Eyes of the Guillotine I first open my eyes to encounter, a creature Who stood fascinated at me. I did not know what it was but soon I learned it was a human. I stared at it back to realize he did not know I was alive, and that I had grown such compassion over the humans. One day he presented me to millions of them. Though suddenly, one laid on my board and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head went through my opening. I felt chills of love running through me until, I heard the human scream in a horrible way. I did not understand, until I saw his head flying off of him and I knew instantly he was gone. I soon realized I was not made to have such compassion for the humans. Instead, I was made to destroy them one by one.

Thoughts in 3rd Period English 11 AM on a Friday school day It’s April but there’re no April showers Still a mess in the reservoirs—no shampooing Half-dried lakes—no conditioning Like what I need to do to my body before the warm weather In summer, gotta get my skin stop feeling like rough leather And bleach and trim my hair to be light as a feather Room full of students who haven’t figured themselves out yet Having a Socratic Seminar about Romeo and Juliet The beauty of the story is what I don’t get Why are people’s eyes getting all wet 40

I’m in the back of the room, hand on my 5C Low-key eating Cheerios—hope the teacher doesn’t see Online shopping, punching in the “http:” Still don’t know what that stands for—educate me Dude sitting across the room looks like he’s gotta pee These observations just show how bored I can be.

Poem: lilian pan | Art: Sabrina oh

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2 Centuryâ&#x20AC;Ż 21 st

Love 42

kevin chu

Is there no reality in this tangible world? Around us this grass grows green To turn brown in the neglect— In the denial. You kill me, with those rectangle motherships, And those strange seeming smirks— They sicken me to the core. Laughing at others’ expense To be paid for in views and tiny, clickable, digital paper hearts. Is this what the world is to become? A mass, an army of viable young; Youth in their prime chewing on a bag of nothingness Wasted away remains, not luscious Just bones and meat on a wire frame, Glancing aimlessly at the brightness That attracts us so, like moths, fragile and somewhat beautiful To a brilliant dull flame.

Could it numb the pain of the ache in our lonely hearts? Irony, so close at hand, condemning our stupidity Laughing at our expense, for we are all together in this race. Yet disconnected in the connectedness We are all content in this extent For this is our twenty-first century love. — Maddie Matsui

tamy nazha

Looking for Forgiveness He

had been screaming, and it was really annoying. I stood over the dull weight of his figure, it now scrunched up against the clean, cold perpendicular of the concrete wall, breathing in the silent chill that took the place of his gasping huffs and laced oaths. Red dripped down underneath my neck collar. Teeth marks. The floor ceased to reverberate with the thud of his collapse, the knock of his head falling backward into unseeing unconsciousness, and I stopped rehashing the cruel desperation of our twisted lips, cream-white eyes, and rasping shouts.

I sat down. Caught my breath. Kicked out my legs, dangled them three hundred feet above ground, knowing fully that, witness to the entire altercation, the midnight sky shied a million winks away from suspending judgement. A construction crane’s silhouette crept out from the corner of my eye, defined only by crisscrossed gradations of gray lancing the aimless black flesh of the night, its empty operator cockpit suspended above the steel gotham skyline as if in weightless defiance of the witching hour’s blank totality. The stars had just watched me beat up a man. Not that they could ever understand why. I wouldn’t be able to either. I should’ve been scurrying for a way out. I should’ve been tying up the body. I should’ve been freaking out—but hey, I’m no Russian axe murderer. Instead, I crawled over to the side of the victim. I began to look at the man. Not like how I started sizing him up moments before throwing the weight of my body’s rage at him; I got the feeling that he deserved to have someone look at him for once. I had time. I had decency, the little of it, after all these years, still remaining in my papier-mâché heart. It’s not like anyone else ever bothered to give him a second’s glance when he was still breathing, either. I got up close to those overturned pupils of his, reached under, fingered through his pockets, leafed through his bag. Hey—I was curious. I had

time. I turned him over against the muted protests of his cracking bones and leafed through his belongings, greedy for an angry fix of recognition or vindication. First, the back pockets: Postcard, 5” x 7”, “Virginia is for Lovers.” Loose-leaf paper, laminated 8.5” x 11”, “If found, please return to owner,” address illegible. Tear-away ticket stub, 2” x 1”, “Admit One.” Fair enough. The carry-on: Empty, except for a frayed index card. Etched in faded black ball-point pen, “Father, hallowed be your name…” scrawled out in jittery strokes, followed by the imprint of a postscript: “Jesus, I’d rather you not look at me when I’m like this.” In the pouch underneath: a thin, waterdamaged photograph, Kodak Porta stock, light leaks and all over the barely-in-focus contour of a woman—no, a girl, I couldn’t tell the age—standing on a sandy shore, eyes half-obscured behind a curtain of wet hair draping down her pale, possibly overexposed nose, dripping saltwater nostalgic. Someone took this. Someone missed this. Front trouser pockets: Depleted pack of lighter fluid, cracked. Alcoholics Anonymous self-support card, corners bitten off. Penitentiary discharge paperwork, edges frayed. I tried to swallow. Neat, I guess. The wallet in the coat pocket did it for me. I didn’t even try thumbing for cash or loose change, because I knew what I was really there for: a name. A glance at his standardized, polymerized, cropped off-white plastic face stopped the systolic rhythm in me, stole my line of breath. I was heavy. When I knocked the wind (and the molars) out of this guy, a switch flipped and tripled gravity’s unyielding weight. Noise, static, a loud immutable din buzzing in my temple and sailing down my ear canal, assaulting every line of thought. Firing, millions by the millisecond, every overexcited brain receptor and incorrigibly effusive neuron. Adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine—this

wasn’t a fight-or-flight response as much it was a why-on-earth-did-I-do-what-I-had-just-done sort of reaction. I never asked to know the person I had just hurt. I didn’t need to know the hospital he was born in, the name of his mother, or that he’d be turning thirty-seven in just two weeks. In a forgotten man’s belongings, I saw flawed intimacy, forlorn identity, and the outlines of a very real, once warm personality that almost promised to erase the last few moments’ atrocities, cannibalizing sanity, sanitizing insanity, too late for formalities. Hello, it’s nice to meet you. Sorry you’re dead. Sorry I hurt you. Gripping the lacerated arm of the man I may have just murdered, pressing on the soft fabric of his chest, hearing the whimpering unraveling of

chafed cotton torn as I began to rock to and fro without fear or shame—the joke was all on me. Twenty years, three strikes, a life term—I served it all in those three minutes, choking and cursing and heaving. I had to hand it to him, no one’s given me a more valuable lesson in sordid, solid remorse. Thank you. I’m sorry. I hate you. I wanted to bleed every profuse apology, confess every crime, repent for each sin, and wipe myself of each vice and violation I’ve perpetrated against this and every man if it could mean forgiveness— freedom and clemency from the thrashing beneath my throat, the pounding in my chest, and the cacophonous noise throbbing behind my forehead—but the wail of flashing sirens, followed by footsteps, came too soon. —Kevin Chu

CALIFORNIA NIGHTS 49

Kevin Chu

*a playlist

1. “california nights,” best coast 2. “sick beat,” kero kero bonito 3. “still sound,” toro y moi 4. “huarache lights,” hot chip 5. “40 watt,” ELEL 6. “6 am,” fitz & the tantrums 7. “miracle mile,” cold war kids 8. “comeback kid,” sleigh bells 9. “whistle for the choir,” the fratellis 10. “seasons (remix),” future islands