Dear Readers, I am eager to present the third issue of Caledonia, a literary and art magazine made by students, for students. Thank you to everyone who submitted; I am so proud of the writers and artists in our community! I would also like to thank Amelia Rosch for essentially being a co-editor with me, and sharing her valuable time and input. I hope you enjoy Caledonia; and, as always, contributions are welcome for the spring edition.
Paulina Choh
The Writer Monica Taneja
As the words start to flow and the paper starts to fill a story comes to fruition brow furrowed, eyes clenched he knows his task his surroundings are simple he sits unperturbed ready to begin
his story has disappeared now broken, imperfect he is unable to regain momentum his fingers hover above the keyboard but he has nothing to say he has lost his voice
he pictures the scene his creations come to life the ideal fantasy like a film roll, each scene plays separately he can see the characters each one he carefully crafted all in the depths of his mind click, click, click the writer becomes a machine his fingers fly across the keyboard the wheels are turning chapter after chapter the journey continues suddenly he stops someone has entered the room in one simple moment everything is lost his tranquility has been violated the ribbon of though has been cut the ideas stolen from his mind
The Orphan April Chien
The girl sits alone by the window. She is as special and unique as one of the snow9lakes falling outside, But who can know this? The snow9lake has fallen to the ground, And been mixed with thousands of others. Who will pick the skinny girl in the ugly yellow dress, Whose smile has been wiped from her face. The girl sitting by the window knows many things. She knows that the sun will rise and set everyday. She knows that winter will come and the snow will fall. She knows that the snow will kill the 9lowers She knows that the 9lowers will come back in the spring. She knows that her parents can never come back, Like the 9lowers do. People come and go, Some of them take the lucky children, While the others stand on the side, Watching, Envying, Wishing it was them. The girl knows many things But the one thing she doesn’t know, Is whether she will ever leave this place.
The Scream Emily Wong
His hands clasp tightly against his face But she hears nothing They stole his scream, his dreams She stands holding a camera And balancing sunglasses on her head Where did his scream go? Puzzled She tilts her head. The glasses fall to the floor Shattering She hears nothing The silence is deafening
Charlotte Jones
From A High Place Julia Wood
If one were to drop an egg (of any sort really) from the top of, say, a church steeple (or any other high place), the little thing would ZOOM Toward the earth, quickly gaining momentum (insert gravity equation here) when SPLAT it would be gracefalling SLAM into the sidewalk, Breaking into a billion little eggy pieces (how do you like ‘em? scrambled? Fried?) before reforming and BOING SHOOTING OFF INTO THE SKY Because even eggs deserve to 9ly.
Shifrah Aron-Dine
Claire Bostrom
It’s Not You It’s Me Kat Palvidas
Some people give me a funny look Some people shrug and look at their book Others will turn and walk away But some walk up to me and tell me I’m weird… You thought I was going to rhyme there, didn’t you? Now you’re calling me those names too: Peculiar, strange, belongs in a zoo; She probably plays the kazoo, too. If you’ll excuse me now, I really must shoo. Back to the crazy house, round number two!
Charlotte Jones
Saloni Kalkat
Claire O’Malley
Elegy for Summer Nights and a Close Friend Jane Choi
july 02: 9irecrackers somewhere in the distance i couldn't see your eyes but i think they would have been lovely, opened wide and glistening, two full moons in our planetarium; the darkness was not cold, it folded around us gently, like a glass blanket. we discussed constellations and how we wished we had memorized all of them and as the night got darker we held a brief rendezvous with ursa major we tried very hard to look for orion's belt but we couldn't 9ind where it was hiding. you described to me, when you were little and went camping in the woods and woke up at midnight, you said you saw so many shining lights, stars, as many as the number of 9lowers on the pattern of a sundress you owned, and i could see it all so bright and clear; i kept it in my head the whole way through. i was so overwhelmed by all the nature and the things i wanted to say but wasn't good enough to that i wanted to cry small bright tears like the white pinpricks in the sky; 9inally i asked if there was a god
and we concluded that if there were a greater being then it would live its own life and we would live ours like perfect parallel lines. we heard the 9ireworks go off again; it was all around us like a symphony of land-‐mines. we stood up from the dirt path and searched for the source of the sound fruitlessly but it was better like this, it was peaceful. next we tried using our hands to block out all the arti9icial lights; you said it made the sky seem a whole lot bigger and i cried a little from feeling so small. the dried up lake, i said, if it was 9illed with water, it would re9lect all the stars, right? you said yes, yes, i was thinking that as well. wouldn't that look really nice? the stars beamed down at us from their heaven swings. as the minutes passed the din of the crickets and the frogs intensi9ied; the 9ireworks stopped. it got colder, i checked the time, you said we had better head back and i said all right, we brushed the dirt off our shorts and we walked back in the dark, feeling the ground with our feet, completely blind and completely content
This Is Not A Haiku Kat Palvidas
I promise, it’s not. Just don’t count the syllables. You did, anyways.
what i do not get Shreya Ramachandran
what i do not get: how your tongue can be so warm but your nose so cold
Kaley Nelsen
Epitaph for An Epigram Shreya Ramachandran
My English teacher murdered me And the reason might make you laugh. She told us to write epigrams But I heard it as “epitaph.�
Ravenna Patel
Why I Write Amelia Rosch
My pen needs ink, the tip against my wrist, the trembling, dark purple against white, covered by translucence, waiting, quivering, excited, ready to be released. A cut fast sharp and metallic and the words, spurt out, burst forth. The words, the words, the words. The words that gave the 20th century dictators power, clenched in a fist, strangled by the corruption, manipulated to fragility, brittle about to snap, leather pulled too tight to breaking and strong enough to plow down a population of people, crushing them down to nothing until even history says they are not and never were. The words that gave the tan, too young protesters hope, cradled in their arms, nurtured by the willingness, raised to a power, strong enough to topple, bees contained too long to stop and strong enough to raise up a population of people, motivating them to stand up until the entire world watches and wishes them success. The words that gave me, alone, individual, the ability to stay sane, holding on to the edge
of happiness until my fingers ached, focusing on the images, on their light, golden and bright, dazzling until all the thoughts of the darkness fled, no longer kept barely at bay. My pen is full now. It is time. It is time. I put pen to paper with some trepidation.
Jane Choi
Editor Paulina
Winter 2011-2012 Cover Art by Anne Li