The Rough Draft - Volume 19

‌because good writing is never finished

Flint Hill School Literary Magazine Volume 19 2019-2020

Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet.

Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious. And however difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at. It matters that you don’t just give up.

Stephen Hawking

Flint Hill School 3320 Jermantown Road Oakton, VA 22124 litmag@flinthill.org www.flinthill.org 1

Table of Contents Dark vs. Light

Brigit Cook

12

Venerations to a Tree

Seth Nelson

13

American Chestnut

Kyle Moxley

14

The View of Rain

16

Poseidon’s Revenge

22

Sunset on Desire

25

The Duality of the Lemon

26

Blue

28

He Ascends the Mountain

31

Sunny Side Up

Natalie Naylor

32

I’m No Newton

Calvin Lucido

35

Daylight Savings Love Letter

36

Molten Lava Cake

38

Reflection

Calvin Lucido

42

Moonlight

Mengyuan Yang

45

Dry Your Tears

46

Five Ways of Looking at Cereal

48

Blocked Out Voices

Thomas Herrick

49

A jar

Amrith Kumaar

50

Alarm Clock

52

God Save Mount Diablo

54

Field Day

56

The Things I Lost

61

Cross Country

10

Brian Scherer Kinsley Helmer Simon Van Der Weide Lily Min Emma Conkle Seth Nelson

Kyle Moxley Joy Alemu

Kyle Moxley Caroline Rich

Cecelia Yang Calvin Lucido Julianne Cuevo Izzy O’Bryan Ethan Qiu

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Bathtime

64

The Robbery

74

Collective Delusion

76

Goodbye Iran

78

A Poet’s Wandering Mind

80

Amor et Labor

82

Unspoken

Zoe Bredesen

85

Right and Left

Nik Tolpegin

93

Sydney Collo

101

On the Topic of Maci Movement and Expression in Heart of Darkness Shatter

102

Aspect

108

you are infinite and you are beautiful Emily Townsend

111

That Star

112

Excerpt from Extralife

116

Beginnings and Endings

119

Revelation

127

Zero Pointer

129

Sometimes There Isn’t a Reason

132

Betrayed

141

an outcry aka reminder

142

Contingency

144

16 Minutes of the Universe

Ethan Qiu

151

When the World Dies

Abi Baker

152

Another Lifetime

Jansi Patel

96

Alyana Dempsey Jonathan Breen Abby Ward Cameron Sabet Emily Townsend Simon Van Der Weide

Emily Townsend Emma Conkle Ethan Qiu Kyle Moxley Julianne Cuevo Jaime Wise Emily Townsend Ethan Qiu Kyle Moxley Yasmeen Mogharbel Morgan Starnes Calvin Lucido

8 10 12 12 13 13 14 16 18 19 22 22 22 22 22 22 24 26 27 28 29 30 32 34 37 39 40 44 44 47 50 53 54 57 58 58

Photography

Dusk and Dawn Untitled Redwood Tree Canopy Old Things Into The Wild Capri Waters Warrior Textures Halls Sunrise at Bethany Untitled Sunrise Malibu Sunset II Untitled Canvas Jellyfish Lighthouse Volcano The Cut Across The Final Frontier Weather Balloon Orange Tree Sunset Waterfall Leaves Sunset in Yellowstone Fall Leaves Untitled Salt and Pepper Swing Beach Ten-nis Solidarity Little Life Balance

Ethan Qiu Ronald Ayers Morgan Starnes Emily Townsend Marcus Pennisi Devin Host Deena Hamandi Erica Kim Erica Kim Erica Kim Alexa Gianoplus Brian Scherer Brian Scherer Brigid Radtke Maya Jaffe Erica Kim Deena Hamandi Erica Kim Tess Brady Devin Host Devin Host Cameron Sabet Erica Kim CJ Nkenchor CJ Nkenchor Marcus Pennisi Tess Brady Sydney Rothka Courtney Nguyen Brooke Harrison Morgan Starnes Brian Scherer Marcus Pennisi Erica Kim Morgan Starnes Barrett Harrington

58 58 59 59 60 65 68 71 73 78 79 79 80 84 86 89 91 94 100 100 103 104 106 108 110 112 114 117 118 121 122 124 126 128 140 142 150

Hibiscus Singularity Thornbed Bud Untitled Solitary Confinement Extension Light Admin Psycho Look Forest Otherside Cave Backyard Colors Staircase Untitled Bokeh Style Lantern Festival Lights Ketchikan Sunset Alaskan Ice Field Untitled Pastels Northern Lights Eclipse View Line of a Drive Cat in the Sun Haze Inside Old and Rusty GMD Big Data Stoneleigh Middleburg Bay Bridge Birds on a Wire Sea Lion

Maya Jaffe Erica Kim Erica Kim Erica Kim Evelyn Stuart Morgan Starnes Erica Kim Nik Tolpegin Morgan Starnes Marcus Pennisi Devin Host Nik Tolpegin Morgan Starnes Erica Kim Emily Townsend Erica Kim Brian Scherer Barrett Harrington Emily Townsend Emily Townsend Devin Host Devin Host Shal Jagannathan Morgan Starnes Tess Brady Tess Brady Alexa Gianoplus Ethan Qiu Erica Kim Devin Host Regan Lloyd Barrett Harrington Devin Host Brigid Radtke Alexa Gianoplus Emily Townsend Jessica Jarratt

20 21 42 63 78 83 92 130 145 146 149 152

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Art

Untitled Untitled The Street Italian Rainbow Hygiene Untitled Untitled Free Spirit Deep Field Pulse Deep Field II Evan

Rhea Shah Rhea Shah Will Chu Sophia Bishop Morgan Starnes Rosalie Armao Rosalie Armao Hanna Murrell Ethan Qiu Ethan Qiu Ethan Qiu Rosalie Armao

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Award Betrayed

Yasmeen Mogharbel

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Award for Poetry 52

God Save Mount Diablo

Calvin Lucido

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Award for Prose 112

Excerpt from Extralife

Julianne Cuevo

Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize

96 7 154 155

Movement and Expression in Heart of Darkness Letter from the Editor Colophon Masthead

Emily Townsend

Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, This edition of The Rough Draft was made possible by the most dedicated and creative staff I could ask for. We began the year with a theme of “versus,” focusing on contrast and opposing forces. After reading most of our work later in the year however, we realized that the closest “versus” we could have was past vs. future.

So we took a new approach. We realized that perhaps not all our pieces needed to fit into a binary classification system. We created a timeline, a gradient that extends back to the prehistoric and all the way up to the heat death of the universe. We found something other than what we set out for, and I appreciate it all the more because we went through this journey together.

This year, I am most impressed by the diversity of works that we have received. From blackout poetry to science fiction, from oil paintings to particle simulations, we have seen many different forms of work, challenging what it means to create literature. I suppose that from all that we have seen, we found that science and technology have more in common with literature and the humanities than we expected. They represent two ideas at the ends of a continuum. One of them seeks to understand the world from the natural end, and the other from the human. I wish you the best of luck in finding harmony in our magazine and on this gradient.

A special thanks to Dr. Schmidt for her work and support.

Ethan Qiu, Editor-in-Chief

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8

Ethan Qiu

9

Dark vs. Light Brigit Cook

The darkness has cold hands, I’ve discovered the light gives warm hugs, and I’m covered by the thundering screams of the growing monsters and not by the sun or with strength I can muster.

The darkness wraps its fingers around my throat and silences my breath light can never fix it, and we will never know what’s next.

My darkness is always running my light stands alone.

I walk among the lonely faces the night all I’d ever known.

My heart sits in the night sky’s hands my bones are filled with moonlight.

My brain has cobwebs and scary things my eyes guide me through it at night.

Sleep brings the black screens light can never stop that.

The corner of my mind is blurry in wait of dark tomorrows have I sat.

A tiny box casts no shadow the glares and stares aren’t colored.

The light may embrace my spirit the darkness has cold hands, I’ve discovered.

10

11 Ronald Ayers

Venerations to a Tree Seth Nelson

Emily Townsen

d

The tree sprouts before a single spire, crumbling over the shifting grasses. It glittered once, polished marbles moving across its face like veins slithering over skin surface. Vivified, it passed the days and nights as penultimate figure of the humble abodes below.

And centuries passed, and suns rose and fell, and so stood the tower, black shadow stretching over the gray land. The solitary form stretched, and its nighttime did not end.

Yet, gripped by self-gravity, the tower’s immortality slipped from the heights, and the figure fell from ascendant hubris.

Shattered, rusticated, it now kneels. A failed venerable renewed in venerations to a tree, the tree sprouting before a spire.

12

Morgan Starnes

Marc

us Pe

nnisi

Devin Host

American Chestnut Kyle Moxley

Dream like an American chestnut.

Dream only like a dying god Watching the sun grow old.

The fungus is sowing its evil in the land But you You are not running.

And when death seeps yellow through your skin Your hands will be to the sky.

You will sleep with your eyes open.

Know there is a plan here.

A mind that is eternal Does not trouble itself with the decades.

When every walking thing is wiped off the face of this Earth You will live again.

You will have your fun.

The chestnut, fossilized before, blighted before, Crushed and killed before, does not despair.

It waits.

13

The View of Rain Brian Scherer

Most are unaware that rain pauses in its plummet to last night’s mud.

It slows until its movement is only perceptible to the eagle’s eye And peers ponderously at the ants below in their forest.

Each droplet has a unique view, but they laugh as they fill the sky like a blanket immobilized in the air as it spreads over a sleeping six.

Parents can’t see their dreams, but they can feel their delight as they Notice the 16 lions grazing in the field, the diving dingos and the dreadful sloth.

Dreadful? But why as she moves toward her mate does she seem reluctant?

The water suspended sees something else, too.

Something moves deeper.

The trees part, the glass ground shatters, and the silence is suffocated.

An elephant breaks through the trees, and the raindrops on leaves vibrate.

A second later an hour slips on a moist trunk and falls between younger tusks.

Triumph is fresh water on the second creature’s face.

The rain’s cousins follow the waterslide down, whimsy written in the creases.

14

Deena Hamandi

As the droplets sit watching the sun fill them orange, They observe once more A lone falcon flies toward the sun.

Somehow it is faster than the sloth, and it seems to grin as it glides 24 feet from the mud.

Onward and toward the sun it flies, looking at the ground but seeing Nothing of sustenance there.

It disappears into yellow and red.

As shadows blind the water, they find they have broken up The blanket has finally landed, and the drops vanish like the memory of a dream The child awakes, and sees no time has passed and his parents in the doorway They both glide away, though, leaving the little child to rest.

Outside it pours.

15

Poseidon’s Revenge Kinsley Helmer

Hello readers, I am Poseidon, the Olympic god of the sea and earthquakes. You may know me because of my ability to create wild storms and shake the earth; I can bring the sea back to a calm state too, but that is not nearly as fun. I am going to tell you a little more about me before we get into this story.

I have two places of residence, one being Mount Olympus (the mountain where many of the gods reside) and the other being the depths of the ocean, in a place with lots of jewels and gems (only the best for me, of course). I don’t like it when things don’t go my way, however. When that happens people will pay and regret ever making the choice against me in the first place. I have no idea why in the world I would be writing a journal entry right now, but I guess it could bring me a bit of joy.

Anyway, I will start my story back a few days ago…

Today is the day. The day the people of Athens will choose Athena or me. One of us will win over the people, and that person will, without a doubt, be me. If it is not me, then everyone—and I mean everyone—will feel my wrath. I have all my power saved

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up, and I am more than ready to use it. Well, goodbye for now; the next time you will be hearing from me I will have won over the people of Athens and left Athena in the dust.

Later that day…

Well… well… well… I guess the people of Athens aren’t afraid of my wrath. Just to sum it up, the people of Athens chose Athena.

We had a competition to create something that would be useful to the Athenians. I wowed the crowd with my power and might by striking the earth with my trident and creating a humongous well of water all for the people. I thought I would be a shoo-in because everyone needs an endless supply of water, right? Who could possibly turn that down? Oh, right, the people of Athens. Athena, on the other hand, made a wimpy olive tree to symbolize peace on Earth… wow; how sweet. How, just how, could the people possibly want an olive branch that essentially provides them nothing when they could have a well full of water that would never run out? Well, all I care about is making the people of Athens pay and making them seriously regret their absolutely horrible choice. How could they seriously choose Athena over me? Just how! These people are evil, evil citizens!

Erica Kim

17

The next day…

Good morning to everyone who still cares. Today is what I like to call Plot Day. This day is great because I get to find ways to use my powers to destroy those who have done me wrong, which seems to happen frequently. I don’t know why people still do this; have they not learned by now?

Hmmm… So many choices… I could create the most powerful earthquake ever, which would destroy all of Athens and leave them with nothing or, better yet, leave them dead. That’s not an original thought; I need something better, something that will make those Athenians realize that they never should have angered me in the first place. Something that will show them just how far I will go to get what I want around here and that I don’t care who I have to hurt to do it.

I’ve got it. I’ve got it! The perfect plan. If they didn’t want my well with an endless water supply, why should the people of Athens have any water at all? I am going to take all the water away from Athens and ensure they never have any water again.

That, my friends, will teach them a very good lesson as to why it is never, ever good to mess

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Erica Kim

with a god as powerful and mighty as me. When they are thirsty and have no water, they will think of me and remember why they should have chosen me over Athena. It is time to get revenge. Let’s put my plan into action.

First, I need to get to Athens. I am currently living underwater and I need to travel across the sea to reach my place of attack. Of course, I have the best mode of transportation around: I travel across the ocean in a golden chariot with dolphins surrounding it. Why would I travel any other way? I am the great Poseidon, after all.

With a simple strike of my trident, I am able to suck all of the water out of Athens. The water swirls out of their city and into my sea leaving no more water for them! HA, HA, HA! Revenge is what I do best.

If anyone else dares to mess with the great and mighty Poseidon, be warned I will do to you as I have done to the people of Athens. But, whoever I need to get revenge on next will feel my wrath the way no one has before. Watch out.

19

Rhea Shah

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21

Sunset on Desire Simon Van Der Weide

As space between us grows, so fades the light, that once entrancing blaze within my mind; it darkens all the colors, greys the white.

The memories now so out of reach—I find it sometimes better just to leave them be, to let them die, let fire burn to ash.

The ache of lonely days is no less fee than loving one who leaves you in a flash.

We live, so we are victim to the rush of oxytocin, love hormonal (lust?).

The brain, a wondrous valley, far too lush with paintings burning lest they come to dust.

Some shine anew each time I see him here, but, most days, they just burn and disappear.

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Brian Scherer

Maya Jaffe

Brian Scherer

Alexa Gianoplus

Erica Kim

Brigid Radtke

23

Deena Hamandi

24

The Duality of the Lemon Lily Min

The lemon, yellow as the sun Glowing in all of its grandeur, Shaped like a football, and no less important The lemon, cut by a knife Like rumors cutting into your soul Sharp as glass, smooth as butter The lemon, placed in your mouth The juices exploding with every bite As if your mouth was attacked by the taste The lemon, twisting your face Its acidity burning your mouth Its sourness scrunching your nose The lemon, juices acquired Adding the liquid of life Adding the syrup of heaven The lemon, transformed completely Into a new and glorious taste The nectar of the gods The lemon, full of deceit Sour once, then sweet The duality of the lemon

25

Blue

Emma Conkle If you follow the canyon walls up, Up to their impossible height, Follow the layers of reds and browns and tans and purples You will eventually reach the sky.

If you can tear yourself away from the towering rocks Your eyes will find the sky.

The blue expanse is real, The color so vibrant That it could never be reproduced.

But I want to try.

I want to reach up and cut a cloth from the sky.

I want to make a sweater that makes heads turn.

Surely it has enough.

But it seems that I can’t.

My arms don’t reach that far.

The sky is always there to tempt me with its color.

But maybe part of its beauty is that it can’t be reached.

Erica Kim

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27

Tess Brady

He Ascends the Mountain Seth Nelson

The artist was alone, for now. He only painted when he was alone, with long, beautiful hands tensed, tendons spread across its back, palms down, fingers straining yet steady, locked in artful repose, brush strokes articulately rolling across the canvas.

An onlooker might suppose it chaos, a splash here or there, blacks, reds, whites. But the chaos belied a hidden complexity. Just as dancers spiral across broad stages in effervescent leaps, they dance the edge, the dividing line of precision and chaos. That’s where the beauty lay.

From paint appeared a dark night sky filled with a thousand staring stars, a jacket, just a splash of red on that clean, eternal white. Wind-battered and worn, he fights the slope, legs encrusted with snow, red eyes weeping from cold. Lungs heaved like bellows, suffocated by the thin atmosphere, as he stumbled to the peak rising far above him. It seemed a pitiful story, the weary voyage of one man to breach the sky, while all the world warred against him.

And yet, resolute, alone, he ascends the mountain.

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in Dev

t Hos

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Cameron Sabet

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Sunny Side Up Natalie Naylor

Last night I had a dream about you, after all this time About being thirty-five with you About asking you how you like your eggs even though you’ve always liked them sunny side up, watching the light stream through our curtains in the kitchen And about you counting my carbs when it’s your night to pick the restaurant, About watching the rain instead of the movie and grocery shopping on Sunday afternoons because that’s the way my mother did it, About getting young together the way we used to When I could tell you I’d been thinking about you again.

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I’m No Newton Calvin Lucido

When a peach Falls off the tree I’m sitting under, I don’t think of the cosmos— Just the force That pulls Me back to you

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Erica Kim

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CJ Nkenchor

Daylight Savings Love Letter Kyle Moxley

I know the secret Of what shortens the days When the summer ends I know how the Sun feels When he lingers, Each day rising slower If I were the Sun You’d be my horizon It would be twilight forever I would never let you go

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Molten Lava Cake Joy Alemu

Oh what a beauty to behold From its ooey-gooey filling to its hard outer mold Hiding behind a layer so thick that none can break, Though it is merely a cake Many surrender to such a wall Not taking the time to see it waterfall Patience is key when it comes to something so sweet Cause the outside is just a barrier to the inside that is discreet But for those who wait They will bestow something great For once they get past the exterior Will they find the innermost is superior Many judge the beauty thinking it is cold or shy But they won’t even give it a taste or try The wall has been built to keep the harshness away But by chipping at it, one will find a reason to stay.

36

CJ Nkenchor

37

Reflection

Calvin Lucido There are no mirrors in my house. When my family moved a few months ago, I wasn’t afraid of switching schools, finding new friends, or learning new routines—all the traditional hardships of moving—since we were staying in the same town. Instead, I encountered an admittedly pettier change: I couldn’t pick out all my flaws in the bathroom mirror.

For the first week, I blinked in disbelief at the bare wall every morning when I was getting ready for school. I tried propping up my phone behind the sink, using the camera as a makeshift mirror, but that was too clunky of a solution.

But what was I looking for?

I found it in my blue-tinted silhouette reflecting off my bass guitar’s lacquer finish. I was backstage, grin aching and eyes bleary, after my school’s culminating concert. It was my third time participating in the tightly choreographed performance, my third time giving myself up for judgment before a thousand people. I was fearless—not because I had grown used to such a large audience, but because months of work drove away the possibility of wrong notes.

I found it in the funhouse distortion of my sweating face in my cousin’s mirrored sunglasses. I was just across the finish line of a half-marathon with a friend from the cross-country team, our legs screaming and our skin freezing. He convinced me to run at the last minute. I wasn’t prepared, but it was still perhaps the most transcendental experience of my life. A study shows that longdistance running affects the brain in a way similar to meditation; entering that state of mind with someone was a strangely intimate experience. We aren’t close friends, but there is still a connection that neither of us can describe.

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Marcus Pennisi

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I found it in the sliver of my face in a rearview mirror. It was a windows-down, music-too-loud night coming home from a homecoming game I never thought I’d watch. Even though I’ve been at the same school since sixth grade, it took until my junior year to buy into the idea of school spirit. My friends were cynical too, which let me feel safe in my complacency and, honestly, laziness. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but going to that homecoming day permanently changed my attitude toward my school: even though I had more commitments than ever, I went to more games and dances in my junior year than in previous years combined.

When I stopped looking in the mirror, I changed my language from “I look” to “I feel”. I was too busy being a real person to think about the identity I was performing. And I still feel that: I am in a state of constant revision, constant becoming. I am not fixed, but fluid.

I wonder whether my twin in the mirror is lonelier now.

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Tess Brady

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Moonlight

Mengyuan Yang

night dim light turn -ing white leaves calm -ly lie sol -i -tar -y sky swal -low up si -lent cry dew in -to frost since to -night as those old al -le -go -ries sigh moon at home -town is al -ways more bright but how could the new -born un- der -stand why once swear the oath with res -o -lute eyes now jad -ed heart need sym -pa -thize vague -ly back to par -a -dise mem -o -ries haunt in sight stars scat -ter time flies lin -ger de -spite the moon -light is like bite

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Will Chu

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Courtney Nguyen Sydney Rothka

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Dry Your Tears Kyle Moxley

It’s November and the trees are singing Some still green, others Blushing in the intimacy of a bitter wind.

A few are already bare Not dead, but breathing They remind me to go on.

They sing of the kindness of time That carries me from evil Into my brother’s arms.

They remind me to grow is to love life.

All over these mountains, beings Stronger than my sorrows: They will carry me ever to light.

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Five Ways of Looking at Cereal Caroline Rich

1.

It seems That the eye Is larger than the stomach.

Swirling in never-ending supply Is the cereal.

2.

A teenage girl sprints out of the house with no time for breakfast And leaves the box of cereal on the shelf.

3.

I do not know which to prefer, the crunch of the cereal or the sweetness of the milk.

4.

Ravenous growling awakes the boy.

Padding down the stairs, as the moonlight seeps through the frosted windows, His tiny hands grasp around a box of Frosted Flakes.

5.

There is a reason why it is Captain Crunch.

Pirates sailing the seven seas were not looking for diamonds.

No, they were looking for the true treasure, Cereal.

Inspired by 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

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Brooke Harrison

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Blocked Out Voices Thomas Herrick

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A Jar

Amrith Kumaar

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Morgan Starnes

Alarm Clock Cecilia Yang

It was 6:45 in the early morning.

The sun was barely rising and the sky was mostly dark.

A few stars shone in the sky like blinking eyes, and the moon’s pale white silhouette hung on to the last bit of the night’s coolness.

It was 6:50 in the early morning.

A few birds perched on the blossoming cherry tree in front of the house and were almost beginning to chirp. A squirrel passed by, stood for a moment, then hurried to the opposite side 50

of the house and quickly vanished into the thick bushes.

The alarm clock rang.

The student did not open her eyes. She instinctively grabbed the pillow and covered her ears, frowned, and reluctantly stretched out an arm to temporarily stop the piercing sound. She put the pillow back and pressed her face on it.

The alarm clock rang again.

She wrenched and twisted her bedsheet with her fist. She buried her face deeper into her pillow, but the thin fiber and soft cotton did nothing to stop the distressing sound from reverberating in her ears. It echoed in the room. It echoed in her brain. Each decibel a blatant attack on her comfort, each second an elongation of the torture. The migraine felt like a swarm of bees had taken shelter inside her forehead, and the coldness of the morning felt like a thousand icicles had grown from her bed. Pieces of memory flew back to her from nowhere. She remembered her 10th birthday, the math test she barely passed, and the history homework she spent hours doing last night. These recollections, random as they seemed, popped up from the corners of her memory’s maze and surprised her at this moment of mental battle. Too much came to her all at once; she was submerged under the waves of thoughts and memories, some of which she was not certain whether she had experienced or imagined. Pieces came together to form an indecipherable puzzle, which she gazed upon and found nothing significant. Her mind, caught between the sweet unconsciousness of somnolence and the cold reality of the impending day, decided to cling to the former. As Quasimodo desperately longed for a droplet of water under the burning sun, she needed just one more minute of sleep. Rays of sunlight broke through the curtain; she turned away from it. The sunlight soon filled up the room; she enveloped her head with her quilt. She stretched her arm again but paused in the air.

There was a voice in her head. The voice of reality. The voice that looked down upon her free will and laughed at her resistance. It reminded her, time after time, that she did not have a choice anyway.

She got up.

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Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Contest for Poetry

God Save Mount Diablo Calvin Lucido

I wish my grandmother were more than an 8-lane interchange on the I-680.

I wish Telegraph Avenue were more than a rented Mercedes at a clone-stamped Starbucks.

I wish the Bay Bridge were more than a business class flight across a continent.

I wish El Cerrito were more than a Boy Scout funeral, tumbling down the young hills.

I wish Pinole were more than the threat of silence followed through.

I first kissed the Pacific that weekend‌ At least Lafayette is still dinner that lasts too long.

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Br

ian

Sc he

rer

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Marcus Pennisi

Field Day

Julianne Cuevo It was strange because you could run, after all. Earlier that day, you had gotten second place in the hundred-yard dash. Later, your mother would tell you that the other girl had only beaten you because she was tall and had long legs. This was when you would learn that you were short and short legs. Before, they were just legs. They took you places. Height only mattered in the mornings, before your spine settled back into itself, when your extra half-inch was verified in Sharpie on the kitchen wall.

But it was strange. You could run and you didn’t. Even as your fellow kindergarteners pushed you and screamed that they couldn’t lose the race to the other class, you stayed put. And so it should’ve been no surprise when the PTA dad picked you up and carried you to the finish line. Because you knew him. You would pray to the God hanging above every doorway that today wouldn’t be his turn supervising naptime. He had seen that boy kiss you on the cheek at recess and told the teacher. And now, the only thing your fearless kindergarten heart feared was bouncing you in the air, holding you up with his long, orange limbs. Why hadn’t you just run? You weren’t half 54

bad. You had gotten second place in the hundred-yard dash, short legs and all. When you finally felt the ground again, you peeked through the dancing blotches of sun in your eyes and saw that you were standing in his shadow. Your teacher laughed at you.

Your legs itched and it was all your fault.

Afterwards, your classmates sat on the hill with their ice cream. Wooden sticks for spoons. You held it on your tongue to taste the trees. Instead of spooning ice cream, the sticks catapulted ice cream onto sweat-stained shirts and shorts. Droplets of ice cream pooled at your socks. If I were taller, you would tell yourself later, this wouldn’t have happened, although you would never be able to explain why. You did not think about men. About how you did not know you were a girl until a man held you dangling in the air. About how you never stopped looking up.

Later, you came back for more ice cream. The lady looked at the stains on your shirt and told you “no seconds.” Wooden nonspoon spoon sticks littered the ground. Soil soaked with creamy white. Ice cream tastes different outside, you wanted to say. Like fallen wood and hollow victory.

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This piece contains references to sexual assault and harassment.

The Things I Lost Izzy O’Bryan

Dear You, As I write this, I cannot help but picture you and the girl I used to be. How simple it was before; I, a naïve seventeen-year old, and you, one of my close friends, on a night that was supposed to be nothing short of magical. And perhaps that was what horrified me the most; I was in a safe place. I was with someone I knew and trusted.

Yet, even so, I could not stop you. I wish I could’ve left a scratch or a bruise on you; something to signify that I put up a fight, but I do not think that would compare to the unseen marks you’ve left on my body. I struggle with that term, sometimes. My body? It does not quite feel that way anymore, after you stole what you wanted from it.

My favorite color used to be yellow. I decorated my room with it. It was the color of my dress that night. I spent the next week sleeping in the basement because I could not look at those yellow walls without having flashbacks of what you did to me. My walls are now gray. I haven’t worn yellow since.

A month later, we spoke on a balcony in a country far from our home. You told me that you would never stop being sorry. I spent almost an hour comforting you. I spent the rest of the night crying, curled up in the corner of a bathroom. I wondered, and will never stop wondering, how you managed to turn my best qualities against me.

You took our friend to the dance. I spent much of the night with my phone in my hand, fearing a tearful call from her saying, “Me too.” I didn’t get one. I will always live in fear of that call.

The ways in which I am different from that young seventeen-year old girl are so many that to count them would be too time-consuming. I used to be softer and kinder, I suppose. My soft lines have sharpened. I am not upset about this. In some ways, I have become more compassionate because of it, more willing to stand up for others rather than sit quietly by.

You have been my brotherly friend, my confidant, my prom 56

date, my enemy, and my worst nightmare. But now we are strangers, I suppose. I do not fear you anymore. I do not fear anyone. For I am far stronger, far more powerful than you could have ever anticipated. I am more forgiving, more purposeful, and more compassionate than I was before, and for that reason, I thank you.

Erica Kim

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Har ri

an org

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ngto

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Erica Kim

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Evelyn Stuart

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Cross Country Ethan Qiu

A white line stretching across infinity A sea of vibrant colors, undulating around a future eventuality The air tinged with nervous excitement “Runners, on your marks!”

A crack that rings the heaven A cheer that shakes the ground The colors spill across the line Runners jostling each other, struggling to fit into the tight bottleneck I look ahead Hundreds of runners, kicking up clouds of dust I look behind Barren land and an official nonchalantly bringing up the rear Giants soar ahead with beating wings Termites grapple behind in their footprints A war to rise above, to cross the checkerboard line at the top of the mountain I look at the horizon Champions claw the rocks to stay from the abyss below In my mind, I’ve already fallen, so I climb

61

Bathtime

Alyana Dempsey I slowly step in, One foot at a time.

The water splashes and bubbles as it envelops my legs, Skin submerged, Gravity and stress dissipates.

I scooch down until I am just beneath the surface, The warm soapy liquid coating every inch of my being.

I close my eyes, All is quiet, All is well.

62

Sophia Bishop

63

The Robbery Jonathan Breen

Sal was in the hallway keeping an eye on the customers. There was a child crying, buried in her mother’s arms. He could see the fear in the mother’s eyes. He had no intention of hurting them, but he kept a gun pointed at them just in case. Everyone’s phones were in a bin by his foot. Sal had tripped over it a couple of times while trying to bind the customers’ hands. They shook like poor, pathetic puppies. The splatter of rain drowned out the customers’ murmurs.

Behind him, Sal could hear his brother shouting at the clerk to put the money in the bag. But there was another noise, barely audible over the thunder.

A siren, getting louder and louder, but Jackson hadn’t said anything about the police yet. Sal was concerned. He looked out the windows for anyone who might thwart their plan. There was a huge flash of light, temporarily blinding him.

“Hey! You hear that? Why hasn’t Jackson said anything?”

Sal yelled, scaring his brother Will. Suddenly, a noise came from behind Sal. They both looked at the door. Standing there was a cop, drenched by the rain and followed by a loud crack of thunder.

Sal was in a rough spot. He had been fired from several jobs over the past year after they discovered his record. He and his family were barely scraping by. Nobody wanted to hire him.

He was innocent, though, and the only people who knew that fact were Sal and the man who framed him. While in prison, Sal was a lab rat. Mad scientists ran tests on him by injecting him with substances. Sometimes, a strange tingling feeling flowed through his body.

Sal was eventually released from prison, and after several failed attempts to get a job, he went to his brother Will for help. Will was always the naughty one as a child, and he hadn’t changed in adulthood. He was involved in some shady businesses where he met some friends who might want a worker like Sal. 64

Morgan Starnes

65

Sal, Will, and Jackson, were playing their weekly game of poker. Sal had always been the worst, but he enjoyed it the most.

The three of them usually tossed in $20 each, but today Will could barely toss in a fiver. They tried to ignore it and played the game as they always had. Jackson won some pots, Will the others, and Sal maybe won one lucky hand. They played on their father’s old table that was still chipped from when they were kids. They sat in cheap, cold folding chairs. They usually talked about their families, but today it was so quiet that Jackson could hear his wife rolling out dough in the kitchen above them.

“How about we rob some place?” Jackson blurted out. He was a policeman, but he didn’t always do what was right. Sal suspected that he’d taken some deals on the side for some wealthy people.

Jackson always had the best intentions for his family, but no one else.

“Are you insane? We have no idea how to rob a place… not to mention no money for equipment,” said Sal. He had always been the person who never wanted to do any wrong. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“I’ll supply the equipment if you two help me,” said Jackson.

“No,” Sal said. “I refuse to rob a bank. I already have a record, and if I get arrested again, I’ll never be able to get a job.”

“If we’re successful, we won’t have to worry about money for a long time. And, we won’t be caught; I am a cop, after all. I can’t bear watching the two of you wither away to nothing. You can’t tell me that you’re all right with the way you’re living. Have you seen your house? There are holes where the windows should be! There are vines slowly growing into your bedroom! If you think you’re in a decent spot, you’re only fooling yourself.”

“Jackson’s right. We need to do something, otherwise both of us will go broke. We need to rob this bank,” said Will as he tossed his cards on the table. “I got a flush.”

“I got a straight,” said Jackson.

“I got a pair. Take my chips,” said Sal as shoved them toward Will. “What if we do rob the bank? We would need a hideout and a blueprint of the bank. We have no idea what security it has.”

Sal was thinking about what he would do with his newfound 66

wealth. He wouldn’t have to live in a hovel. His wife would be able to buy new clothes. Most of all, he might be able to send his kids to private school.

“Don’t worry about that, I can get everything we need from the station. I just need your help to pull this off,” said Jackson.

“I’m in,” said Will.

“Go get the supplies, but don’t ask for my help,” said Sal as he sighed, giving up on trying to dissuade them. If he was being honest with himself, he needed the money badly. They continued playing until Sal was down to his last chip. He bet on a straight; little did he know, Jackson had a flush. Sal tossed his chips to Jackson and stood up. He was done playing.

Sal looked around the room looking at all the mementos from his childhood piled up in Jackson’s basement. Jackson’s basement wasn’t in much better condition than his own. The pipes were visible and there were spiderwebs in the corners. He climbed the stairs and said goodnight to Jackson’s wife, but not before complimenting her cooking; he smelled apple pie from the basement the whole game.

The trio met a few more times, using poker games as cover.

Jackson brought the plans of a small bank on the edge of the city. It hadn’t been robbed in a long time, and its cameras were old. It had two entrances: the main door and the steel back door, which was protected by an armed guard inside the bank. Will’s contact told them that a new sewer hatch that popped up right in front of the back door. If one brother went in the front door and knocked out the guard, the others could come in the back door.

Jackson volunteered to knock out the guard because he could use his police uniform as cover. Will got the guns, while Sal had the more innocent job of buying bags and zip ties. Once they got to the hatch, Jackson would knock out the guard around 5 o’clock and let the others in. Jackson would then be the lookout. Sal and Will decided to meet at the entrance to the sewer at 4:30 p.m., giving them enough time to lug their cargo to the hatch.

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The next few days were stressful. All three were on edge, as if those around them would figure out the brothers’ secret and expose them. They all kept communication to a minimum as they collected all the supplies. They made a few minor fixes and finalized their plan, and then finally, it was the day.

Sal met Will by the sewer, loaded with bags. Will was there with the guns he had gotten from his contact. The smell of the sewer was overpowering. Sal covered his nose with his shirt. The entrance would have been beautiful if there hadn’t been shit pouring out of it. The sewer was built years ago. Stone blocks formed a stream in the middle and a walkway on either side.

After adjusting to the smell, they entered the dark abyss with their wimpy flashlights barely shining a couple feet in front of them on the tiny walkway. They treaded along silently, unsure of themselves. In the water, there were some eerie crabs that scurried away from Sal. They crawled on the ceiling like Spiderman and emitted a glowing green aura. The strange thing was that they only moved away from Sal, not Will.

The crabs were unnatural, probably a science experiment like Sal had been. Maybe they recognized each other as scientific waste.

Soon Sal and Will reached the hatch. They had arrived much quicker than expected, so they sat underneath staring into the dark waters. The only noise that broke the silence was a slow drip into the sewer and an occasional clack from crabs scurrying by. Fifteen minutes passed, and Sal saw that Will had passed out with his spiky hair pressed against the wall. Will awoke, startled by Sal’s gentle tap.

“It’s time,” Sal said. They climbed the ladder and propped open the grate so they could see out. Sal looked around before he looked at the door. “It’s still locked. Jackson hasn’t opened the door yet.”

He began to descend the ladder.

“No, look! It’s cracked just a little,” said Will, pointing at the door. Sure enough, the small tip of something was holding open the door. They popped off the grate and were relieved to be out of the sewers. The air finally smelled great, and they no longer wanted to throw up. Sal looked back at the door and he finally recognized the object. It was Jackson’s favorite pair of Yeezys. Jackson was 69

always superstitious and claimed that those shoes gave him good luck, so Sal wasn’t surprised that he was wearing them now. It was beginning to drizzle, so they rushed to the door.

“Hey, Jackson, open the door. Our hands are full,” said Will.

They waited a few seconds for a response, but none came. They struggled to open the door, but when they finally did, they noticed that Jackson wasn’t there. He had left his shoes so that he could leave quickly without suspicion from the bank tellers. They went into the building quietly, hoping not to alert anyone of their presence. Will passed Sal his gun and a mask, and he stood up, ready to go. Sal was nervous, thinking about how everything could go wrong and what would happen if he was caught.

“Hey. It’s OK. We can do this; no problem. We’re family. If you get caught, we’ll be right with you,” said Will.

“I’m not worried!” Sal protested. “I’m ready to go.”

“I can tell you’re worried. You’re doing your thing again.”

Sal looked down and noticed that he was rubbing his fingers together. He had done that all his life as a way to deal with stress.

He stopped, grabbed his gun, and walked into the main part of the building. Will quickly followed.

“Everyone put your hands up, and put your phones in the bin!” shouted Will. The bank was closing soon, so there were few customers and luckily only one teller.

There was a child crying, buried in her mother’s arms. He could see the fear in the mother’s eyes. He had no intention of hurting them, but he kept a gun pointed at them just in case.

Everyone’s phones were in a bin by his foot. Sal had tripped over it a couple of times while trying to bind the customers’ hands.

They shook like poor, pathetic puppies. The rain was pouring now, drowning out the customers’ murmurs.

“Put the money in the bag!” said Will. But there was another noise, barely audible over the thunder.

A siren, getting louder and louder, but Jackson hadn’t said anything about the police yet. Sal was concerned. He looked out the windows for anyone who might thwart their plan. There was a huge flash of light, temporarily blinding him.

“Hey! You hear that? Why hasn’t Jackson said anything?”

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Nik Tolpegin

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Sal yelled, scaring his brother Will. Suddenly, a noise came from behind Sal. They both looked at the door. Standing there was a cop, drenched by the rain and followed by a loud crack of thunder.

It was Jackson.

“Phew! I thought you were a real cop,” said Will. It was as if Will had jinxed it; two police cars appeared with sirens blaring.

They pulled up in front of the bank and climbed out of the car.

“Hey Jackson, are these the brothers you want dead?” said one cop.

“Yeah, and you’ll get your share when you’re done,” said Jackson. He walked over and grabbed the bag of cash from Will.

Sal and Will were awestruck. As Jackson walked back into the storm, his two cop friends lined up their shot to kill the brothers.

Suddenly, there was a noise behind Sal, and as the room slowly turned green, he heard a familiar noise: Click clack, click clack, click clack. There, behind Sal, was an army of the sewer crabs. There was a sea of them covering the floor and the walls, clambering over each other to get to Sal. Sal looked at them with horror as they ran by him, seeking the men trying to murder him. He heard the screams of pain from the cops as he and Will escaped to Jackson’s car. As he ran, he saw the crabs cut off the customers’ zip ties with their claws.

When Sal and Will reached the car, they saw that the crabs had gotten to Jackson before they had. He was writhing in pain from the crabs’ pinches, and as quickly as the crabs came, they disappeared back into the sewers as the real police arrived. Sal and Will were arrested, along with their brother and his accomplices, who managed to survive the crab attack.

The problem was that no one seemed to remember the crabs except for Sal. As he was led to the cop car, he saw one of the crabs sitting in the street with its claw in the air as if waving at him. He nodded his head at the crab before it scurried away under the sewer grate. He felt a connection to them as he was driven off, awaiting trial for the robbery of B&T Bank.

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Morgan Starnes

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Collective Delusion Abby Ward

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75

Goodbye Iran Cameron Sabet

Forced to sew money Painstakingly, carefully In his ragged pants

Hope sparkles like gems Can taste city lights on the Tasteless horizon

Never knowing when Or if mother will see son Permanent, that’s life

Guns flare up, speeding Bullets pounding into stone Death only inches away

“Get in the damn car!”

A rusty old pickup truck With unknown faces

Chased to exhaustion Asked [The Infamous Question] “Are you Baha’i?”

The man hesitates “Humans running from humans...

We are all one people!”

If yes, you will die If no, you now have freedom He will never lie

Speeding away with Humans piled in back like Animal control

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Hope sparkles like dust Sentenced to years in prison Persistence to death

Sleeps next to a Deep hole in the ground Pungent with urine

Success is only Found cleaning the hands of a Soldier, a Fighter

Sickness and Disease Constant weakness like torture In solitary.

Sweats to the top as A free man in a free world Nothing in his way

alone.

Still empty inside A tiger has awoken Something longs for home

A glad heart and spirit Keeps him from being tortured Keeps him from danger

Chasing clouds away Something has finally come The Metal Phantom

Weak but strong he marches on: the prey now pray To see this New Day

Cradling the mother Pain lives temporarily Bonds are immortal

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A Poet’s Wandering Mind Emily Townsend

A pencil flies across the page…

(See, there’s some personification! You really are a poet!)

But anyway! Suffer through the hand cramps so you can get your thoughts down on paper (and out of your head) There’s always (so many) thoughts in your head (that’s cool, right??)

Hey, you! Don’t lose the thoughts in your head!

Quick, there they go! Grab them—before they get away!

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an Morg

es

Starn

Marcus Pennisi

(Your teacher told you to write a poem for homework) But what’s the big deal with poetry anyway?!

It’s just a collection of pretty words (Words thrown together, strewn together) Words coming in through my open bedroom window, (blown together, flown together!)

Words meant to sound ‘meaningful’ and ‘deep,’ Deeper than the beautiful, majestic, glistening ocean, (which is full of plastic, by the way!)

We are meaningful, of course, but our words are not (what do you mean?) … Where was I?

Devin Host … Before your mind starts wandering (like it always does) It wanders down the hall, up the stairs, and into the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom…

The sink with the faucet that hasn’t stopped leaking since you were 6 (you wish you were still 6!)

Hey, does the bathroom need cleaning?

Does it need more soap or a toilet paper refill? (maybe some Febreeze?)

You should go to the store!

(Maybe you’ll find some poetry inspiration at the store!)

Ow! Hand cramp!

(I have a lot on my mind) (I have a lot in my mind) I just need to get this poem done! … What was I saying, anyway?

Nik Tolpegin I don’t really like writing (But I like thinking) Your mom says you think too much (I have to disagree with her) (I don’t think we think enough) You don’t write what you think about, and I don’t think about what I write!

Your teacher told you to write a poem for homework (and you rolled your eyes) But maybe poetry is okay after all I’m sure you’ll get through it (even the hand cramp) 79

Amor et Labor

Simon Van Der Weide you used to captivate my dreams drawing me in with the promise of a future showing me endless doors endlessly opening and closing i thought you were telling me to go see them you were telling me to drive “drive through everything� never stopping to look at the views the oceans passing by me out the passenger side you wanted me to see nothing but the cold interior of my room as we wandered through the hazy midnight air and separated at the first light of dawn it seemed quieter than usual, peace unlike any other 80

why do you wake me from such peaceful slumber surely you did not wake me with your lyre i have been waiting ever since i ran away away from the wrathful song of cogs in the machine moon and starry constellations as my only company in the twilight when you first found me in my darkness and shined your light refracting it all through your technicolor prism rainbows scattered everywhere “we are leaving tomorrow morning� you told me with a smile, turning over to look at me Morgan Starnes

finding solace in the depths of my dark eyes i thought we could find something new 81

Unspoken Zoe Bredesen

My English is almost perfect; I get it from my mother The only thing she gets wrong is pronouncing ice cream “iysh cream” like she has a baby lisp.

In school we learn about dudes like George Washington, Lincoln, or Columbus I don’t care.

Shakespeare tells me to write in iambic pentameter But I will build my own castles.

See, I’ve been contemplating my privilege to select and reject my education, what it was like for my mother, who received and only received medicine balls anybody more important wanted her to carry.

Look what forty years of practice have gotten her, a baby lisp and nothing more.

What a happy American ending where Anglophones descend upon her, a frenzy of pinchers and skin making me their child, slicing my mother’s tongue clean off its stump.

Apparating back and forth in a flash of napalm powder falls my unknown history because my grandma does not know her own birthday; they made one up on the birth certificate.

When I close my eyes, I still see my oldest cousin sipping sugarcane on the steps of her hair salon My grandma’s sister who looks so much like her, squinty eyes adoring even when I mispronounce my words.

My youngest cousin, we do not need words to double over rolling.

To exchange knowing looks, to piggyback, to laugh because that and silence are the only thing we are capable of.

I did not know what to say.

I only know hellos and how are yous—how do I tell them I would deliver every pail of water, drink every last drop of the Saigon River, 82

that I am as wide and ever-reaching as the sky I would hold up for them.

They do not say I love you much in Vietnam Their grand gestures of endearment are unspoken on the back of motorcycles, holding on tighter than necessary, taking your shoes off at the door, leaving the last dumpling. gia đình I will fold your clothes for the rest of my life.

Crush sugarcane so precisely the juice drips straight into your glass.

Hum while I paint your fingernails in a way that will never match your expertise.

Say chào bu i sáng and ng ngon nhé every morning every night hoping you will laugh at my clumsy formality.

If it means you will know the unspoken.

Rosalie Armao

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Erica Kim

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Right and Left Nik Tolpegin

I dusted off my knees as I stood back up. My boot had become untied sometime during the past hour of hiking. A subtle burn pervaded my legs, and a fly buzzed around my head. Sweat drenched my body from head to toe. The sun was bearing down on me, and on the horizon, I saw dark clouds gathering. I took a sip of water from my water bottle. A storm must have been coming in.

I took a couple more steps, experiencing the beauty around me. The vibrant greens of the forest popped out of my surroundings. It’s a shame I never got around to exploring this part of the farm until now. I sighed. I knew Grandpa must’ve loved it back here.

Grandpa passed away at 94. He had spent most of his life here, on our family farm, toiling away. He loved the land, the work, and the community. Every time we came to visit as little kids, he singled me out from the rest of the family to teach me the ways of the farm. He thought I would be the one to take it over, to continue our legacy. I was never interested, but I was still forced through lesson after lesson after lesson on the farm.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise when Grandpa left me the farm in his will. At any other time, I would have sold the farm and moved on with my life. But I was down on my luck, so I figured I might as well try my hand at farming.

Upon arriving, I learned how Grandpa had been managing to keep the farm going in his old age. To be blunt, he just didn’t.

The farm was ridiculously in debt, with no foreseeable way out. It was still a functioning, productive farm, but even if I ran it at peak efficiency, I would barely be able to meet the interest payments.

So I went on a walk. I know, it probably wasn’t the most responsible idea (but then again, a responsible person probably wouldn’t need an inherited farm to restart their life), but I needed to clear my head. I ended up in the back part of our property, where the cleared farmland gave way to dense forest. I found a small pathway in the trees that I hadn’t seen before.

The path eventually split into two. Two tracks, each precisely 85

alike as far as I could see. I really didn’t have any preference between the two, which led me to pull out a coin from my pocket.

If it landed on heads, I would go right, and if it landed on tails, I would go left. I threw the coin up, and it spun around. It fell and put up a little cloud of dust. As the dust cleared, I could see the coin had landed on‌

Emily Townsend 86

Left Tails. I looked at the right path with a moment of hesitation but decided to stick to the plan. I headed down the left trail. It curved further to the left and up, becoming steeper and steeper as I dug deeper into the forest. The walk became more and more treacherous, as the plants began to encroach further onto the pathway and my footing became harder to find.

My heart rate rose, my breathing accelerated, and my legs began to burn again. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the climb eased, and the path leveled off. I stopped briefly to catch my breath and leaned against a tree for support.

In a single moment, I realized my mistake. I had put all my weight onto one flimsy sapling, teetering on the edge of a steep decline. As you might expect, the tree snapped under the pressure of my six-foot frame. I fell through the air.

As I was falling, time froze around me. I faced out of the forest, and I caught a glimpse of the landscape stretching off into the distance. The treetops spanned a seemingly unending length, meeting with the sharp blue of the horizon on one side and the dull grey of storm clouds on the other. I stared in awe. In that split second, I felt regret. Once upon a time, as a kid, I had wanted to be a painter. To see the world and paint the landscapes I saw. The desire for a safe paycheck had driven me away from that path, but for all the security I may have found, I never found the same level of happiness. At that moment, I wished I had pursued the other path.

I landed on the ground with a thud. My whole body ached, but I seemed fine otherwise. I had fallen roughly twelve feet onto a smaller ledge underneath the path. I sighed, utterly relieved. I rolled over slowly, but my head bumped into something. I turned and froze.

Next to me, embedded in the ground, lay a small but sharp rock. It was about a foot by a foot in length and width, with a sharp point reaching for the sky at maybe eightish inches off the ground.

On its own, harmless and rather ordinary. However, had I fallen just a foot over from where I was, my head would have been firmly 87

lodged in the rock. Had that not killed me, blood loss would have finished the job, as no one knew where I was walking.

The event shook me to my core. I could have died. I’d be permanently gone. No take-backs, no do-overs. I sat there, contemplating my life for what seemed to be an eternity.

Finally, I stood up and hurried back to the farm, carefully choosing each step. The storm clouds began to really set in, and rain began to fall. I made it back to the fork in the road and picked up my pace to a jog.

The wind began to howl, and the trees shook back and forth.

As soon as I exited the pathway, the forest gave off a huge groan. I looked back for a split second, intrigued and horrified. I witnessed a massive tree come crashing down the path, blocking it entirely off. I disregarded it and sprinted home.

The storm raged on for a couple days, giving me some time to reflect and think in the farmhouse. I remembered that moment, suspended in air, regretting my recent life choices. Why was I even on the farm? If I sold it right now, I could pay off the farm’s debts and have a little cash left over to head back to the city and give painting a try. Didn’t I owe it to my younger self ?

And that, my friends, is the story of how I ended up here, sitting at this bar. Afterward, I continued chasing my dream in the city, painting the skylines or journeying out into the countryside to paint nature. I haven’t always been successful, but I’ve never been happier. I like to think that that’s what my Grandpa intended when he left the farm to me, that he wanted me to use it to better myself.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I walked down that other path. For such a small decision that I made by chance, it had resounding effects on my life. Many years later, I went back to the forest, only to find an unbroken line of trees. The storm’s wind and rain had washed away any evidence of human civilization. Raw nature took its place. I guess there are some stories left best to our imagination.

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Erica Kim

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Right Heads. I looked at the left path with a moment of hesitation but decided to stick to the plan. I headed down the right way. The path curved a little bit to the right, and although it seemed long, it was mostly flat, making the walk rather easy. I quickly got lost in my thoughts.

Eventually, I ran into a small shed sitting on the side of the pathway. The walls were made out of an old, decaying wood and there was a tiled roof sitting overhead. The side facing the path held a door. An old, rusted piece of metal jutted out from the door, likely the decaying form of a door handle.

I didn’t want to touch the handle, so I gave the door a good shove with my shoulder. The wood gave way easily under the force of my body; it ripped from its hinges and came to a rest on the shed floor with a loud bang. The entire shed shook a little.

Inside the shed, a thick layer of dust coated everything.

Dozens of boxes were piled up on top of each other. I pulled one down and opened it, half expecting to find treasure. To my disappointment, the box contained nothing but old files full of records. The records seemed to date back over a hundred years, and as I worked through other boxes, I found that the records slowly inched forward in time. They stopped, however, on the day my Grandpa had taken over from his father. I smiled. Grandpa had been a lot of things, but organized wasn’t one of them.

All this had been interesting, but I could see the storm clouds gathering outside. I didn’t want to be caught outside in a storm, so I moved to stand up. As I began to leave, I noticed a small chest underneath a pile of records. I must have overlooked it before. I bent down and eagerly picked it up. I opened the top and saw a glint. Inside of the chest lay dozens of family heirlooms, all made of precious metals. My eyes widened. This discovery shook me to the core, and I sat down again for a second to truly appreciate the impact this could have on my life.

The storm was almost right overhead at this point, so I hurried back along the path. I made it back to the fork in the road and picked up my pace to a jog.

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The wind began to howl, and the trees shook back and forth.

As soon as I exited the pathway, the forest gave off a huge groan. I looked back for a split second, intrigued and horrified. I witnessed a massive tree come crashing down the path, blocking it entirely off. I disregarded it and sprinted home.

The storm raged on for a couple days, giving me some time to reflect and think in the farmhouse. I’m sure this is the point everyone expects to hear about how I treasured the family heirlooms forever. Or perhaps y’all want me to say how I spent them lavishly? Well, sorry to disappoint, but I did neither. I did eventually sell the chest’s contents, but I used the money to pay back the debts on the farm. I still had some debt, but now I could manage it.

I spent many years toiling on this farm, and it’s never seen more success. I’ve more than doubled the amount of land we own, and I have almost a dozen farm hands that work under me.

Grandpa would’ve swelled with pride if he could see me now.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had walked down that other path. For such a small decision, made by chance, it had resounding effects on my life. Many years later, I went back to the forest, only to find an unbroken line of trees. The storm’s wind and rain had washed away any evidence of human civilization. Raw nature took its place. I guess there are some stories left best to our imagination.

Brian Scherer

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Rosalie Armao 92

On the Topic of Maci Sydney Collo

A kid at heart who, when bored, works to perfect their handstand using a wall. In their apartment you can find the beginning of life.

An unfinished self-portrait in the corner, flowers just budding near the window, a room half painted. In the kitchen, they watch a pot of water that never boils.

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Barrett Harrington

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Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize

Movement and Expression in Joseph Conrad's “Heart of Darkness” Emily Townsend

Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” represents the ways in which movement and stillness, whether literally, metaphorically, or syntactically, dominate the novella—and readers’ discussions surrounding the human condition. The juxtapositions that exist with regards to the movements or stasis of the ship, the Africans as a whole, and even the underlying feelings of constant change in the world contribute to the shifting mood. The portrayal of the native Congolese as masses of black bodies that move as a group is a prominent example of how the language depicts the complexity of humanity. Conrad’s use of physical and narrative movement in “Heart of Darkness” presents itself in three ways: through erudite syntax that sets the pace of the story, through literal examples of movement—or lack thereof—that create abrupt shifts in mood or plot, and through descriptions that represent the negative portrayal of the natives as inhuman.

One of the ways in which Conrad’s sophisticated writing style adds to the pace of the story and creates ambiguity is through complex syntax. The structures of the sentences provide readers with a sense of movement—or stillness—that help to establish the pace of the action and plot. For example, even within the first sentence of the novella, “The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails and was at rest” (Conrad 3), the description of the ship and its movements represent the tale’s slow start and somewhat peaceful mood, which will later morph into an anxious, desperate, and gloomy one. In her essay “Physical and Narrative Movement in ‘Heart of Darkness,’” writer Susan Jones states that Conrad “establishes the context of the tale” as one that is created by motion or stasis “in its very syntactical and grammatical structures” ( Jones 390). Conrad’s utilization of the past tense cultivates a calmer feeling, whereas more direct statements and present-tense verbs represent a certain urgency that is further exhibited in the movements of the story’s characters. Similarly, the sudden tonal shift in the narrator’s description of the nature 96

of the Thames River’s current leads to a mood shift from placid to restless. The sentence construction and word choice within the line “The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea” (Conrad 4) works to generate a more frantic feeling, metaphorically, as the current’s speed quickens, literally. The beginning of the novella establishes a “narrative mood” of “anticipation and forward motivation” ( Jones 391), achieved by the use of language through which Conrad narrates even the most simple of moments. The syntactical representations of speed, mobility, and calmness (or the “narrative movements”) contrast from the more literal examples of physical motion that create mood shifts and plot developments.

Conrad’s transitions from moments of stillness to moments of stirring symbolize the ways in which everything is constantly growing and changing. Whether it is the shift in one’s facial expression, a sudden bodily movement, or the descriptions of the boat, certain examples in the novella create action or suspense, furthering the story’s nuanced and multi-layered relationships and hinting at future chaos. When the narrator describes Marlow, for instance, “There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow’s lean face appeared” (Conrad 47), the change in action creates a change in mood. The physical stillness is punctuated by the quickness of a match striking and a face appearing suddenly, and this moment is what prepares the audience for Marlow to return to his storytelling and end his short break from speaking; the character’s change in physical state or position creates a change in the section of the story. Furthermore, the “primitivism of the natives’ movement” ( Jones 393) often interrupts a relatively peaceful scene and shifts Conrad’s tone. For example, in the narrator’s detailing of the journey down the Congo River, the boat often “had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing” (Conrad 35). The chaos the natives create through their animated actions marks the beginning of a new section of the story, as well as the beginning of the interactions between—and the commentary on—the white men and the natives. This transitions into a discussion about the Congolese, as 97

seen from Marlow’s point of view, emphasizing the effect that one person’s movement can have on the direction of the plot, another character’s shift in perspective, or adaptation to a suspenseful mood.

Conrad attempts to convey that, even when there are moments of stasis, there is underlying tension in the Congo that rises to the surface and presents itself in the form of conflict or motion. The subtle remarks on the movement of characters or nature reinforce the idea that the Congo is a living, breathing “heart of darkness.”

This relates more directly to the view of the natives as a single mass, or as objects, that the narrator develops throughout the story. The observations of the Africans’ movements and expressions are used to depict them as inhuman, while Conrad simultaneously proves that nothing (including a human being) is simple.

Both the complexity of humanity and the narrator’s racist preconceptions about the natives are presented through the descriptions of the Congolese as a mob. Conrad emphasizes the negative perspective that those during this age of imperialism had on black people; “Marlow talks of the Africans as ‘streams of human beings’ (Conrad 59); ‘the crowd of savages’; ‘that wedged mass of bodies’ (67)” ( Jones 394), believing them to be unthinking beings. At one point, the narrator perceives “in the tangled gloom naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes—the bush was swarming with human limbs in movement, glistening, of bronze colour” (Conrad 45), simply seeing the natives as a collection of body parts and wild, savage movements. The narrator’s observations of the Congolese are made in a somewhat derogatory tone, while still containing the vagueness associated with his own confusion and shock. The speaker remarks on the “Black shapes [who] crouched, lay, sat between the trees, leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light” (Conrad 17), intrigued by the fact that, although they are merely inferior, grotesque “shapes,” they are the same species that he is. The reader, then, is made “implicitly aware… of the physical body’s experience” ( Jones 391), mirroring the narrator’s shock, in a way, at the grand effects of movement on everything else in the story. Conrad’s commentary on the natives as a people evokes a feeling of curiosity in the audience about how one forms an identity and how it is 98

possible to coexist with those of different backgrounds.

However, the negative generalizations made about the Africans are in contradiction with the narrator’s awed response, which is associated with the complexity of humanity. In the narrator’s earlier commentary, “No, they were not inhuman… They howled and leaped and spun and made horrid faces” (Conrad 36), Conrad reveals a strange fascination with the surprisingly advanced nature of the Africans; the white men are shocked to think that the natives are people just like them. Marlow is overcome with something that resembles respect when thinking of the Africans as humans, which is ironic because of all the racism and prejudice clearly exhibited in the text. This confusion of two different ideas or opinions represents the ambiguity that comes with the process of observing a people unlike one’s own. Furthermore, although Conrad often depicts the natives as lacking in individual movement, such as when “streams of human beings, with wild glances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing,” (59) this could be interpreted as a positive reflection that represents the community of Congolese as a complicated and beautiful group that moves and works as one. “Marlow’s sense of cultural shock” ( Jones 394) adds to the theory that, despite the way Marlow views the natives as a primitive mass of savage beings, nothing in the story— or in life—is as simple as it seems.

In Heart of Darkness, Conrad commentates on both the intricacies of all human life as well as the impact that physical movement has on mood, tone, and the advancement of a narrative work as a whole. His attention to detail in terms of sentence structure, word choice—especially verbs, adverbs, and adjectives—, and context allows motion to manifest itself physically, metaphorically, and syntactically. The presentation of moments of stasis that are punctuated by passage allow the mood of the reader to mirror the fluctuating state of action or inaction in the novella.

In his story dominated with physical and narrative movement alike, Conrad explores the concept of mortality; Jones agrees that “this suspicion of [the natives] not being inhuman” ( Jones 394) prompts readers to ponder the actions of human beings and what it means to truly be alive.

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Emily Townsend

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Shatter

Emma Conkle My whole life I have been taught to love others And to love them unconditionally It is only now that I realize I must be careful Some people can’t be trusted With that fragile glass ornament Hung on the inside of my ribs For Christmas, we always hang the porcelain ornaments Where they wouldn’t break if they fell I had not been so cautious My love, After I nestled it carefully in your hands You shattered it It takes a long time to repair such an ornament I tried to make others tape it back together In the end, The glass only fractures And only now am I learning That I have to fix it myself And then hang it back Where it used to reside Before you came along 101

Aspect

Ethan Qiu In dreams and nightmares, days have passed

Hey. “Hmm?” Tell me a story.

“Once upon a time, there was a boy in China. And he was going to go to school in a distant country.”

Ooh, is he excited?

“Yes, very. He stood by the window of his bedroom, gazing out at the dark night sky. It was summer, and a sweet rain was drizzling outside. He opened the window, letting in the sugary smell of huai trees. There was someone walking with a flashlight, casting amorphous shadows on the face of his apartment building. He looked back over his shoulder at the door, at his suitcase squeezed haphazardly through it. He had spent two weeks packing and repacking, making sure everything was in its proper place, making sure that each item he held dear was in there somewhere. Suddenly panic shot through him, and he began rifling through his luggage, looking for the jade amulet from his grandma. He found it stuffed into a sock.

“He fished it out, feeling the coldness of the stone and the roundness of the shape representing wholeness and completion.

His eyes wandered in the darkness, and he wondered whether and when he would be back here again.”

Well, will he?

“Yes, after a year. The boy opened the door and stepped back into his room, a place of dreams, an anchor of safety when he found himself in a foreign land with a foreign language. No, not English: he spoke the language fluently. No, it was something deeper, more profound and fundamental. They spoke a language of joy and happiness, of belonging. So often when he felt estranged from the people 102

he saw every day, he thought of home, his apartment where all was familiar. And yet here he looked around at his room and realized that time moved on without him. The cactus he had grown for 3 years had split into two pots; the apartment building was recolored; the neighborhood was almost unrecognizable. It was then that the boy finally understood that there was no going back.

“When he returned, he felt the enigmatic barrier again, an invisible chasm that separated him from them. But he wanted to, needed to have someone to talk to, so he went home and fashioned a mask, painting it so that it looked exactly like them. He talked to someone, laughing together for the first time in a while after he put it on. The boy thought, why stop there? He has found a way; he was never going back to being alone. He made more and more masks, detailed coloring under intricate designs. Thus the boy became someone with a hundred faces.”

So he would always have a friend?

“So he would always have a friend.”

How did that turn out?

“He found that he couldn’t pretend through everything. For in spite of all the long nights he practiced and painted, he felt heat leap uncontrollably from his eyes, saw the colors he spent so long perfecting collide and crash, and heard the crisp sound of shattering plastic and porcelain.” st n Ho i How did that happen? v e D “It started on a bright day when he looked past his current school, into college, into a future so

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Devin Host

uncertain he didn’t even think it would happen.

They were to build a path for themselves. So he did. He measured and paved. Then he glanced sideways at his friends.

He noticed a distinct difference: no matter which way he looked, his road seemed to be steeper. It was as if he were trapped in a basin, with uphills on every side; it was as if the land itself inherently repelled him.

“He thought that it couldn’t be that hard, a simple number out of 1600. He imagined climbing a mountain, and he envisioned countless stars stretching out into the horizon at the zenith. He winced at the average acceptance rates for people like him, people that seek knowledge in a foreign country. Then he swore that he would beat the people who raised these mountains at their own game. He began his climb, urged on by more than just flesh and bone, a dark determination driving him into a frenzy. Countless times he sat at home, staring out of his second-story window, gazing out at the spring breeze and summer sun, longing to be outside, to laugh with his friends, only to turn them down to practice grammar and math.

“It was then that the cloud of childhood evaporated from his eyes, and they stung from the sharp, freezing air streaming in. Tears leaped out uncontrollably. He cried for the death of the dream of an easy, bright future, and wept at the incredible unfairness of it.

Regardless, his face was quickly dried by the wind from his ascent.

“Finally, he grabbed the topmost ledge and hoisted himself over, struggling to his feet. He looked around, and found himself alone on a small plateau, with more tasks in front. Up there, in the cold, thin air, he shivered. Alone.”

What about the people he put the masks on for in the first place?

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“After he mastered the art of changing masks, transitioning from magenta delight to emerald dismay seamlessly, however, he realized that there was a price to be paid.”

How so?

“He was—or at least he thought he was—great friends with a group of people. He enjoyed their company and recalled fondly their Friendsgiving dinner. It was a rather warm November evening, and he sat around the hot pot with seven other people, clamoring for freshly stewed beef. Then later, he screamed with five other people when someone rolled a 10 in Mario Party and blew up everyone in the field. He felt at home and at ease, but also that this should last forever.”

Let me guess, it didn’t.

“No, they were older than him, so they went before him into college. And then nothing. No calls, no texts, nothing. They were always the ones who had cared about him, driving him around without much complaint.”

Why was driving so important?

“Because he always felt inferior to his friends, like a clumsy rock that needed to be carried around. It was like walking on crutches, every step a crippling reminder that he did not belong, a reminder of the long lines at the DMV. After more than an hour of waiting in line, his document had the ‘alien’ box checked. The lady working at the desk looked up at him and curtly told him to wait until he turned 18.

“Her gaze was like needles, hot and stinging. He felt them sink into his flesh and he teared up. Despite all he tried, all he studied, there was nothing that could change the place of his birth, the place which seemed to define him wherever he went.

“And he wondered who he truly was. What did those he considered his friends see; did they see the efforts he had made to fit in, or did they, too, only see his birth in a place far from their own? He had always believed that there were journeys one must walk alone, but he never wished to feel alone forever. The Monkey’s Paw works in strange ways.”

So where is he now?

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“It had always been the goal to reach the peak, but now, with several acceptances from universities and facing the end of this road, he wondered what it was all for. He had won the game, but at what cost? Where was the reward he had been promised? He felt an emptiness creeping up inside, unstoppable and overwhelming.”

And what of the masks?

“He remembered watching the TV shows and football games his classmates were talking about, sitting through hour after hour of boredom just to have something to talk about. His masks served their purpose: they made him fit in. They didn’t serve a purpose anymore, though. There was no longer a difference between him and the masks. He had become them.”

Isn’t that bad?

“Not particularly. It makes him him. He wouldn’t have done it any other way, because there was no other way. His actions were like dominos; it only goes in one direction and not the other.

There is no closure on what he did, but perhaps there doesn’t need to be any. He does not know when or if his current friends will leave him as the previous batch did, yet he moves on nonetheless.

“Now he stands as he stood four years ago: uncertain.

He marvels at how much he has changed, eyes wandering around his room. His grandmother’s jade ring makes so much more sense now. The end is in the beginning, and the beginning is in the end. His four years gave him more questions than answers. He looks at his passport the color of blood, a proof of identity that saw him through laughter and tears. But he is calm now.

Perhaps there are indeed endless galaxies waiting for him ahead, but now he sees that there is no need to strive for them; they’ll come to him.”

And then what?

“Ah, that is a story for another time… a later time.”

But I’m so curious to know how it ends…

“Me too.”

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nath

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J Shal

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you are infinite and you are beautiful Emily Townsend

tonight, with hands shaking, i told you that you were a star— and yes, i meant it (of course i did). i saw you cry tonight— was it for the first time? was it for the hundredth time? (it doesn’t matter.) i gave you a tight hug, a real one. you were so happy and so sad, and all i felt was love for you. you asked me to make it better, so i tried as hard as i could, because what else would i do? i sat with you and i made you laugh. i don’t remember exactly what i said (it doesn’t matter), but i hope i made you feel okay. i hope i did the right thing. i hope i was good. tell me: am i good?

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Morgan Starnes

we sat with our knees touching; we sat with matching grins. i don’t know if this was an accident, or if it was the cosmos willing us together. (it doesn’t matter.) i wished you the best of luck, and you walked away, quiet as always, and i tried to stop my knee from shaking. we are sitting here together, dear friend, two radiant balls of light in quiet darkness. we have nothing to lose, dear friend; we are Endless—i’m sure of it. for the first time in a while, i’m sure of it.

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Tess Brady 110

That Star Kyle Moxley

It is no longer enough to see the stars.

I comb the sky searching For a single one among billions You, rare and glowing plasma Are worth countless nightly walks To spy gleaming on the horizon I’d travel a million lightyears Hurtling toward you

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Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Contest for Prose

Excerpt from Extralife Julianne Cuevo

When the end came I saw it coming. A blip on the screen, barely visible behind mops of dry, unbrushed bedhead and the coffee tray in my hands, piled high. As a child, I used to look up at the sky and imagine I could feel the stars, roll them in between my fingers.

Smush them into supernovae, see dust and fire in the lines of my palm. Later, I touched the glass, expecting the speck to obey me, to writhe and fizzle. Maybe I would see trails of glittering dust fading off of our radar into nothingness. But the spot remained, unchanged beneath my fingerprint. And we all thought it would be global warming.

I saw it. Charred, craggy edges blurred smooth as it traveled through an endless vacuum. Everyone would say that it was hurtling across time and space toward us, destroying everything in its path, but they were wrong. In reality, a collision is just an intersection of two orbital paths. So we were both heading for each other, us and this asteroid, both unstoppably surging on through no desire of our own, chance bringing us together. At the observatory they showed a chart of the thousands of potentially hazardous asteroids and their paths, which soared and crisscrossed and formed a bit of a flower shape around the sun. Earth was hardly there, more like a bug that barely hangs on to the flower’s unfurling petals as they shudder and shake in time lapse. I did not eat lunch that day. What I mean to say is that most people were wrong, but I did not correct them. But they will believe what they want to. They believed in this, didn’t they? That very, very soon they would all be dead?

If I thought about it—and of course I thought about it; I never stopped thinking about it—if I thought about it, I liked to imagine the collision as reunion, as welcome home. Because who’s to say that this massive chunk of space rock, this non-Earth, was not once part of Earth? This planet formed out of chaos, from concussion and shock. Accrete, impact, repeat. Bits and pieces of young Earth are out there in endless orbit, fragments of our history. So let me believe that not everything is lost. That two bodies can find each 112

Tess Brady

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other again. I liked to think of it speeding through the atmosphere and tumbling into the sea, realizing, oh, this is new. But mostly, I thought of it blazing across the sky at 158,400 miles per hour, right to my backyard where I crushed stars between my fingertips.

I wanted it to burn through my yard with me in it, to take me away so I could at last touch something that still belonged to space and would return there soon enough. I wanted to feel celestial. I wanted to taste a trace of star.

When the end came it did not. And it was not a beginning, either.

The observatory was mine. I leaned back to watch the galaxies projected on the ceiling. I reached my hands out to the sky, into forever. To love something is to keep it in your pockets. When a black hole lures an object into the trap of its gravity, the object becomes warped. It is both stretched and compressed into a noodle shape, and then consumed by the black, gaping maw. All while it must keep moving forward until it no longer is. Only void. To want something is to be held by it. To be pulled and squeezed in every direction until you are no longer recognizable. To look desire in the face and be reduced to nothing.

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Alexa Gianoplus

That first moment, we were all planets around a dying star.

Crowded around the screen, mesmerized by our fate. I could have dropped the coffee tray and no one would have noticed. And then the explosion: all of us blown back by the force of our own insignificance, white-hot and primordial. But the screen remained there, an eye in a storm of our human arrogance and terror. I had never seen them look scared.

I stared at the screen. I saw the inevitability in front of me and I grabbed it. Everything in the history of earth leading up to this point. 4.5 billion years of history gone. As simple as pressing a button, wiping a smudge off the glass. The panic set in later, and the guilt. But for just one moment, I was at peace and not alone.

Me and the world, waiting to be snuffed out like a spark.

If an intern drops the coffee tray and no one is around to hear it, does the world end? A drop of significance presented itself to me: I was the only person in all of history with the opportunity to answer the question. So I dropped it. The cups fell out of their careful formation and spilled coffee onto the pristine floor.

It pooled at my shoes. I found the answer but I kept it a secret.

Between the universe and me. Me and the end.

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Beginnings and Endings Jaime Wise

An open door welcomes you. Enter.

The cat dodges. Eight lives left.

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Ethan Qiu

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Erica Kim

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Revelation

Emily Townsend “Hugo. There’s someone here to see you,” my mother said, poking her head through the garage door as I was fixing her car. (There was a problem with the engine.) I wiped my hands on the knees of my pants and followed her back through the house to the front porch to see who my company was. Since I arrived here with the Hammels, I’ve never once had a visitor. We stepped out onto the porch, and I was shocked to see a familiar face, Dr. Rob, wearing a long, white medical coat and a solemn expression. His light gray hair was frizzy and unkempt, his bushy beard was ungroomed, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in several years (though none of these things were new developments). I was perplexed; what was my childhood doctor doing here?

“Hugo,” he whispered, a small, sad smile appearing on his face when he saw me. “My, my! How you’ve grown; you’re practically a man! We… we need to talk, my boy.”

My mom glanced at me questioningly, but I didn’t have the faintest idea why our guest was here. She patted my shoulder and left the porch as Dr. Rob and I sat down.

“Hugo…” Dr. Rob began, looking around nervously. “I’m an old man now; I suspect I don’t have too many months left, and I I realized it’s time I finally told you who you are, er, what you are.

Things… things are not always what they seem, and I—well. You’re nearly sixteen, yes? I’ll put it this way. You see, all Protectors are assigned to a family when they turn fifteen, and you’ve been—” I shook my head and cut him off. The poor guy had always been kind of spazzy and awkward, but I had no idea what he was talking about. I remember sometimes, at the hospital, he used to tell jokes, but they weren’t very funny. (It was either that or I didn’t understand his humor. I never laughed at all as a kid.)

“Uh, Dr. Rob? ‘Protectors?’ What does that mean? I haven’t been ‘assigned’ anywhere, I was adopted by the Hammels after I was released from your hospital. Remember, Doc?” I gave a short chuckle. Maybe this was one of his strange, senile old-man jokes. I shook my head again.

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“Dr. Rob, what’s up with you? You’ve known me for years as the sick orphan kid who stayed in your lab. Remember? Has everything been alright with you, since I was released?”

“Hugo.” Dr. Rob paused and sighed, looking at that moment so extremely full of despair and regret, so world-weary and tired, that I felt a pang of sadness deep within; it rattled me. “Hugo, you… aren’t like other children. And not just because of your advanced intelligence and your strength and everything else.”

“Advanced intelligence? How… how do you know about my…” I started, but he waved me off and continued. I felt a prickle of sweat on the back of my neck. His eyes stayed on me.

“It’s not just those things. It’s you: your genetic makeup, your very being. You…” He drew in a sharp breath, like when you get sucker-punched, then clenched his jaw and continued, “You aren’t human, Hugo. Far from it, actually.” Dr. Rob gave a slight laugh but still looked weary, as if he wished the conversation would end already.

My eyes started twitching, which happens whenever I get upset. Not human? I curled the end of my chestnut brown hair around my finger, another nervous tic. I suddenly felt stiff, like I was made of wood. Like I wasn’t alive. (But I was, of course.) I blinked hard, and a voice that didn’t sound like mine escaped from my mouth. “‘Not human?’ What does that even mean?! You were my doctor. I had a disease, Dr. Rob; I was sick for… for a really long time, and, what… wait.” I closed my eyes, felt my wooden hand clench into a trembling fist, and said very calmly and clearly, “What disease did I have, Dr. Rob?” My eyes popped open and I turned my head slowly to face him. I felt a wave of anger washing over me now, giving me a migraine and a sweaty brow. “What disease was it, doctor! Or was it all a lie! Was I ever even sick?” I was shouting now. My mom had come back outside to the porch to hear the commotion, but she stood motionless in the tttttttt, like a ghost.

Now Dr. Rob didn’t look at me; instead, he stared at his shuffling feet. I pushed back my curls from my damp forehead. I didn’t want to hear the words that I knew were coming, the words that I knew were true.

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Dr. Rob flicked his eyes upward, the pained expression still plastered on his face. He shifted in his seat, facing slightly away from me.

“You’re right; I’ve been dishonest with you. You never had a disease, Hugo. I wasn’t operating on you, per se, all those years. I was… creating you.” He looked up at me now, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were the same shade of piercing, electric blue as mine; they were so bright and shiny they almost looked fake.

“Hugo, you are one of the hundreds of Protectors I created in my lab. You were made out of spare parts from my workshop.

You were made for the greater good of the world, to keep people safe. But when Protectors turn 15, they can experience certain, uh, malfunctions. They aren’t built to last very long. But you, you’re different. Different from the rest of the Protectors, something I didn’t even think was possible. And as for your so-called family…”

He swallowed, tears now welling up in his eyes. I shifted my gaze away, but could still see his glassy, unblinking blue eyes in my peripheral vision. “They don’t care about you, not in the way that you think…” Dr. Rob continued. “They need you around, Hugo; 121

they need your skills and your help and your protection, but loving someone is different than simply needing them. My Protectors, they can’t understand that.”

“My family?” I squeaked, as the anger inside me was replaced with pain, franticness, and confusion. “But the Hammels, they…

I’ve never had anyone in my life until I came to live with them!

They care about me, of course they do! They must know who I am, they must…” I trailed off, now on the verge of hysteria, tears stinging my face. I can’t remember the last time I cried. Maybe this was the first time; it felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

The tears were streaming harder now, as if I was trying to prove to Dr. Rob, to myself, that I was capable of feeling something. That I had emotions, that I had life. That I was human.

I am human. Of course, I am. (Of course, I’m human. Of course, I am.) … aren’t I? Something broke within me then, maybe my ability to deceive myself. Maybe that rush of something that plunged into my

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Regan Lloyd

stomach was emotion. Maybe it was resignation and acceptance.

Whatever it was, I swallowed it, determined to feel seen, to feel alive, to feel something other than left out, for once in my life.

I looked up at my mom. She was paper white, silent and stoic, except for a single tear that ran down her left cheek. It mingled with her eye makeup and gave her face a ghastly, stained appearance. Dr. Rob was now standing and walking slowly toward me with outstretched hands. Was this man trying to give me a hug?

Was he trying to strip me back down to my spare junkyard parts and use them for someone else, some other non-human Protector soldier? Suddenly, I thought of the lyrics to a song I used to like.

It’s us versus the Humans I’m not normal; you’re not, too You want to be just like me But I just want to be like you I pushed on in my conversation with myself, turning my stomach into knots and attempting to convince myself this was all fake. I tried to remain positive and light. (This must be a joke, of course! It couldn’t be real. After all, Dr. Rob was getting pretty old… I mean, seriously, ‘not human’? He must be off his rocker, right?)

But the voice in my head kept screaming at me. What he was saying was real, and I knew it was. (I knew that this was real; I knew it I knew it I knew it I knew it I—) (My eye twitched. My leg bounced. My wooden forearms felt stiff, but I was still jittery.)

But I just want to be like you I am human I am human I am human I am human (But I am not I am not I am not I—) I snapped back to the present moment, where Dr. Rob was standing an arm’s length away, studying me with a quizzical expression, as if I were a lab rat or a difficult math problem he was trying to figure out. He took careful, slow steps.

“NononoNO. Get away from me, please! Please, you… You’re lying! You’re a liar, you…” I babbled. My brain felt fuzzy, like the 123

blank static screen that comes on after the Saturday morning cartoons. (I love those.)

“Look, Hugo, I didn’t want to tell you the news this way, but…

I realized I had made a mistake when I created you, a horrible mistake. And now that my time is almost up, I needed to tell you the truth. The truth about what will become of you in the coming years! You’re going to… You… By your twentieth birthday, you will have… ” The man’s face was now the shade of a ripe tomato and his hair was frizzier than ever. His voice faltered; he could not finish his sentence and began to sob uncontrollably. My chest was heaving.

What was he going to tell me?

I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. I sputtered and came up with nothing. I stood up from my chair, felt woozy, and immediately sat back down. My eyes and mouth kept opening and closing of their own volition. My hands kept clenching and unclenching, and I felt more overheated than I’d ever been before.

It felt as if I were a puppet and some cruel puppeteer had let go of the strings; I was flopping around helplessly, completely on my own.

I wasn’t upset because of the shock of the news, the gravity of the situation, or Dr. Rob’s apparent inability to form a coherent sentence. It was because I knew, and had always known, that he was telling the truth. The fact that I was different, that I was strange,

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had been internalized in me for over a year now, maybe more.

Something had always been wrong, but I had been so desperate for love and acceptance, for a family, that I pushed those feelings deep inside. Dr. Rob was now yanking them back out of me, sending my body and brain alike into a spastic frenzy like I’d never experienced before. Puppet Hugo was floundering; Real Hugo was empty now. (There was no one home.)

My lungs and heart and head were malfunctioning. I looked at Dr. Rob, but I didn’t know him. I didn’t know this man, this collection of skin and bones and glass and plastic and piercing blue eyes and lies. This man had cared for me for years, but he was unrecognizable now; the last thing I had called him was a liar. I never took that accusation back. I opened my mouth to say something, but the world started spinning again. I was drowning.

I was breaking down. I gasped for air. Right before I passed out, I heard three words: “… robot… humans… extinct.”

Dr. Rob was inches from my face now. He reached his hand out and touched the back of my neck. (My eye twitched. My feet shook.) He moved his hand away and stepped back. Then I heard a click sound in my head, like the noise a computer makes when it shuts off. My hands unclenched, my eyes snapped closed, and I felt my head sink down onto my chest. And all that I saw was— Darkness.

Barrett Harrington

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Devin Host

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Zero Pointer Ethan Qiu

I look around at the crowd, knowing the first rule of robotics: “I may not injure a human being.�

But they forgot, arrays start at zero.

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Brigid Radtke

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Sometimes There Isn’t a Reason Kyle Moxley

Endless stretches of sharp grasses pass silently As we speed down the highway from Houston.

Three thousand deaths on these roads last year.

I hold my breath every time my father makes a left turn And watch the cows graze, thinking, “This is what it felt like for them to die.”

The road stretches on despite all this, and now Everything in the world is different.

I don’t want to hide anymore. I have nothing to fear But a truck on a dark Texas highway that didn’t stop When it saw the white car But a house full of unfinished projects that sat empty But the cows in the field that hide from us now Because they know I watch the death-shroud cover my grandpa’s coffin And decide never to feel shame again.

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Hanna Murrell

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Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Award

Betrayed

Yasmeen Mogharbel The brisk breeze ruffled Lowen’s hair as they crouched in the shadows.

“Dad, I’m scared.”

Lowen saw a flash of a white as Azeal grinned and squeezed Lowen’s hand. “Don’t be. We’ll be long gone before they even know that we’re here.”

Lowen nodded disconnectedly, forcing himself to focus on the comfort and warmth of Azeal’s hand and away from his own pounding heart.

Azeal tensed, his hand falling away from Lowen’s as a face appeared in one of the windows. The blinds were drawn shut.

“We’ve been compromised,” he muttered.

“What’s that mean?” Lowen asked. Based on Azeal’s reaction, it didn’t seem good.

“Betrayed,” Azeal replied distractedly. “Don’t worry,” he said after a moment of tense silence. “All this means is that it’s very important that you listen to me and do everything exactly as I tell you to. Understood?”

Lowen nodded.

Azeal’s eyes were constantly scanning the house, his body laced with tension. “Instead of coming with me, I want you to go knock on the front door and distract them. Tell them you lost your parents and you’ve been hungry all day. Darren won’t know who you are.

He must’ve warned them about somebody planning something and that means it’ll take me a bit longer to get past all the locks. All I ask is that you don’t let Darren and the family out of your sight and keep them away from the back room.”

Lowen licked his dry lips. “I will,” he said with feigned confidence. “I won’t let you down.”

Azeal smiled, but Lowen could sense it was strained. Was Azeal nervous?

A shiver that had nothing to do with the glacial air slid down his spine. Azeal gently tapped his shoulder and started ahead, beckoning him forward toward the house.

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The soft patter of their shoes followed him up the steps. He glanced at Azeal, who gave him a reassuring nod from the foot of the stairs and melted into the shadows. Steeling himself, he crept up to the door pressed down on the doorbell.

All the blinds had been drawn shut so he couldn’t see inside.

He heard the soft murmur of voices blossom to life behind the door.

There was a moment of silence, and he warily regarded the peephole. He self-consciously drew his jacket tighter around himself as the door swung open.

“Hi,” he said nervously.

A tall, stern-faced man and slight woman towered over him.

Despite being young, they looked intimidating, and he shrunk back into the folds of his jacket. “Who are you?” the man asked roughly.

The woman Lowen assumed was the man’s wife laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, honey. Look at the poor little thing! What happened?”

“I was with my parents, and I got lost,” Lowen said, desperately trying to recite Azeal’s words from before. “I’ve been looking for them all day, but I haven’t found them or had a chance to eat and I was wondering…” He let his voice trail off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

He glanced up quickly enough to catch the warning glance the man sent to his wife. She pursed her lips. “A few minutes can’t hurt,” she said, more to her husband than Lowen. “Come on in.”

Lowen swallowed his apprehension as they stepped back to make room for him. He didn’t dare look at the man as he slid inside, his eyes roaming the house to make sure he didn’t see any sign of Azeal.

His gaze landed on a figure studying him from the opening to the dining room. The man looked ill at ease and was bundled in a bright red scarf. That must be Darren, Lowen thought. He’d heard about him sparingly but never met him in person. Darren seemed content to quietly stare at him, and Lowen forced himself to shift his attention back to the couple.

"I’m sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled. “I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

“It’s no problem, sweetie. We were just having dinner. And 133

call me Cassie.” Cassie slipped past him and beckoned him into the dining room, sliding out an extra plate for him and scooping a steaming pile of food into it.

Lowen awkwardly made his way past Darren and into the dining room. The husband and Darren followed him inside, seeming to dominate the small space. Lowen ignored their hostile glares and lowered himself onto a wooden seat, muttering a thank you as Cassie offered him food that wolfed down despite his nervousness. There was minimal conversation; Cassie and her husband conversed in quiet tones from their adjacent seats, and Lowen didn’t miss the glances they kept shooting over their shoulders to where he assumed the back room was. Lowen’s eyes strayed to Darren as the man leaned over and whispered something in Darren’s ear. Darren hesitated, his gaze trained on the table and away from the eyes on him, before getting up and disappearing.

Lowen’s heart plunged. If Darren discovered Azeal, their whole plan would fall apart. “I… I have to go to the bathroom,” he said abruptly, drawing all eyes to him. Before either of the pair could consider stopping him, he was out of the room and shadowing Darren’s footsteps. His mind raced and his hand was already in his pocket, frantically pressing the button there, knowing Azeal would be on the receiving end of the warning signal, but still vulnerable while he was working on cracking the locks. He withdrew his arm, rushing into an empty bedroom just as Darren cast a furtive glance over his shoulder and fiddled with a lock on the door at the end of the hallway.

He held his breath as Darren eased it open, peering inside.

Lowen crept forward, close enough to the door that he could stop it from closing completely and locking again. Darren seemed satisfied with what he saw and was turning around to leave when he was jerked out of Lowen’s sight.

Lowen rushed forward to keep the door from slamming shut and to see what had just happened.

Azeal peered at him from inside, finger to his lips, beckoning him in. Lowen stepped inside, letting the door silently seal shut, but keeping his distance.

Darren was on the ground, hands above his head, eyes wide as saucers as he stared up at Azeal. Azeal had his eyes on Lowen and 134

gestured toward his pocket with a smile. Lowen caught the hint of a silver cube. Obviously, Azeal had been successful. Lowen returned the grin self-consciously.

His smile faded as he nodded toward Darren. “What are you going to do with him, Dad?” Azeal’s smile turned into a grimace. His green eyes, normally so vibrant and piercing, darkened. He withdrew a pistol from its holster, and Lowen’s stomach dropped.

“You don’t have to…” he began, but Azeal was already shaking his head.

“Thing is, we have to have each other’s backs. Compromising your allies, not being sure whether you can trust somebody with your life: that’s dangerous. It’s not just about me now; this affects you too. We can’t have anybody thinking they can double-cross us with no repercussions.” He flicked off the gun’s safety. “Always remember this, Lowen, and never forget it. There are no lies among thieves.”

Darren whimpered, and the food Lowen had just eaten churned in his stomach. Azeal turned to stare down at Darren.

A look of remorse flickered across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess you blew your shot this time, buddy.”

The bullet tore through the air and embedded itself under Darren’s jacket. Lowen’s hand flew to his mouth, and he stumbled backwards, ears ringing. A stream of red trickled onto the floor and the deep scarlet stained Darren’s crimson scarf.

“Thank the wife and husband and leave out the front,” Azeal said to Lowen, nonchalantly tucking the gun back into his belt.

His voice was distant, penetrating Lowen’s ears as though they were speaking from separate rooms. “This room is secure—well, soundproof, at least—so they won’t have heard a thing. Say goodbye and meet me next to the dark side of the lamp where we were earlier.”

Lowen nodded numbly, unable to tear his eyes away from the ominously still form on the floor. He was backing away, at the door before he realized it, and he cast a final glance at Darren over his shoulder. Azeal had his back turned, fiddling with a latch on the window.

Lowen gently shut the door behind him, staring at where he 135

had crouched just minutes ago. Darren’s listless eyes, the terrified expression his face had frozen into before he’d been murdered were etched into Lowen’s mind. He shivered violently, staggering forward. He only just managed to stand upright as he lurched into the dining room.

“Thank you so much for everything, Cassie,” he heard himself saying.

She rose uncertainly from her seat. “Honey, you’re so pale. Are you alright?”

His head spun. “I’m fine.”

Lowen noticed but didn’t care as the husband’s eyes roamed the space behind him, clearly searching for Darren. The thought made the nausea in his throat swell.

With an effort, he plastered a strained smile on his lips.

“Thank you for everything,” he said, not realizing he was nervously babbling. “I should get going. Thanks again.”

Cassie frowned, looking concerned as she followed him to the door. “Be safe out there, dear. Come back if you ever need anything.”

He enveloped her in a brief hug, surprising even himself. He stepped back, not sure what he’d done. She’s not Mom, he berated himself. What are you doing? Her features swam as he stared at her, morphing into a familiar face. He shook off the thought and turned away, leaving her standing alone and stepping outside.

The frigid air made his eyes water and he blinked rapidly, glad for an excuse to wipe them. The door shut behind him and he arrived at the post, scouring the dark for a sign of Azeal.

Azeal’s face lit up with a smile as he spotted Lowen, stepping forward and embracing him warmly. “You were amazing back there,” he said heartily. “Great job.”

He took a shocked step back as Lowen began to cry. The more he tried to stop it, the harder the tears spilled down his face. He felt Azeal’s arms wrap around him and buried his head in Azeal’s shoulder as his body shook with sobs.

They stood there, father and son, in the shadow of the streetlight as the wind howled around them.

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“They should be bunched over here, so we can leave right back the way we came.”

Azeal turned around from the diagram to stare at him as Lowen yawned despite his best efforts to suppress it, and Azeal’s face creased into a smile. “I can see I’m boring you.”

Lowen grinned, stretching lazily. “Yes, planning heists to steal expensive things is so boring. How could you do this to me?”

Rolling his eyes, Azeal turned back to the board to scrawl some final notes on the paper. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so go pack and get some shut-eye.”

Lowen bid Azeal goodnight and headed to his room. Once inside, he turned and locked the door, leaning onto it to steady himself.

Tonight. That was when he had to make his move. He’d pushed it off as long as he could and he couldn’t wait any longer.

His hands shook as he crossed the room and pulled open his drawer. He stared at the gun inside, not willing to pick it up. He hadn’t touched one in years—not since that night. Darren’s glassy eyes swam in his vision again and he nearly shoved the cabinet shut. Just pick it up, he told himself. It didn’t help.

That ringing in his ears, it was back, and before he could put too much thought into it his hand shot out and was pulling the gun toward him. He was shaking all over, shivers coarsing through his body. Fumbling to secure it in his belt, he steadied himself with the top of the drawer until his breathing steadied.

One step at a time, he thought, turning the plan over in his mind. He ignored the lump in his throat as he crossed the room mutely, slipping out with barely a whisper against the carpeted floors. You shouldn’t have raised a thief, he reflected as he ghosted past the room where he could hear Azeal rummaging and packing up. He reconsidered the opinion as quiet enveloped him. He’d enjoyed nearly every moment he’d spent with Azeal, except…

He pushed the thought aside. It was only distracting him from what he needed to do.

The lock sprung open under his nimble fingers, and he was gliding through the shadows, feet intuitively following the route he’d planned out. The night was still, as though the air, too, were tense and waiting to erupt. So unlike that night, the first time. It 137

was the only one he remembered with clarity. All the others started to blur together, the horrified faces and red stains.

He’s a good guy, Lowen tried to convince himself, just one who occasionally murders people.

Tears sprung to his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t turn Azeal in. He was… Azeal. His father. Cheerful, loving Azeal.

Azeal, who had stood patiently by his side as he fumbled time and time again. Azeal, who had killed.

He could see the pulsing lights ahead. He blinked to clear his vision, his steps faltering. But hadn’t he made the decision when he picked up the gun? Decided a gun at his hip was the only way anybody would listen? Hadn’t he snuck out of the house, planned it, and come all the way here?

With Azeal’s easy grin fixed in his mind and tears in his eyes, he stepped forward.

Azeal chuckled and yanked the lock from its place. It gave easily, the links burned away by the match tucked into Lowen’s pocket.

The door yawned open and he followed Azeal inside, locking the door behind them.

“Keep an ear out for any soldiers. This thing is quite important and they wouldn’t just leave it unguarded.” He laughed, fingers flying expertly over the locks beneath them. “We’re so close, Lowen. I can feel it.”

As though on cue, there was a resounding click.

“Finally,” Azeal said, grinning from ear to ear as he triumphantly brandished a silver circle. Out of his coat pocket, he withdrew an unfamiliar, rectangular black object and slid a silver circle into place at the bottom of it. Lowen realized with a jolt that there was embedded in the top the same cube that Azeal had retrieved the same night he killed Darren. “We can save your mother.”

Lowen froze. “What?”

“Hands in the air!” a voice rang out, clear and authoritative.

Lowen’s heart was thumping painfully inside his chest. What had he done? Shaking, he mirrored Azeal and raised his hands above 138

his head.

The shock on Azeal’s face was almost too much to bear.

“What?”

Lowen’s throat constricted. “We’ve…” a tear slid down his cheek, “we’ve been compromised.”

“Who? Who could’ve…”

A tear.

Realization dawned on Azeal’s face.

Another tear.

There was no blame, no disappointment, no anger. Just betrayal. Somehow, it was even worse.

Another tear.

Azeal’s clouded eyes met Lowen’s as he was forced to his knees, hands bound behind his back. Lowen hated seeing him so powerless.

“I guess it’s safe to say there are no more lies between us two thieves?”

Lowen couldn’t bear to answer and turned away.

Another tear.

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Alexa Gianoplus

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an outcry aka reminder Morgan Starnes

i want to be Your voice, and not just Mine to speak without apostrophes IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE i can’t distinguish one sound from another

to speak without apostrophes it doesn’t always have to be soMUCH. i can’t distinguish one sound from another Lighten Up A Bit!

it doesn’t always have to be soMUCH. Hey!(i tell myself ) Lighten Up A Bit! it doesn’t always have to be

(i tell myself ) i want to be Your voice, and not just Mine it doesn’t always have to be so loud in here 141

Contingency Calvin Lucido

You ever think about the improbability of it all?

I mean, what are the odds of God creating this universe? of energy becoming matter? of hydrogen compounding into a star? of dead stars leaving behind iron and bone? of particles accreting into this earth? of carbon and nitrogen assembling into a cell? of cells becoming human? of empires rising and falling? of America being colonized? of my parents meeting? of our families moving here? of us joining swim team? of me driving you home after practice?

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I mean really, really, what are the goddamn chances of the two of us sharing this cold November night on this lonely, human Earth—cheek-to-cheek, staring eternity in the face?

If I searched all God’s universe, I would never find another night like this. I clutch you tight and bury my burning face into your shoulder.

After all, it would have been so easy for your mom to take you home, for me to play hockey, for my family to end up in San Francisco, for my parents to be invited to different parties, for the English to abandon Jamestown, for humans to destroy each other, for life to become anything else, for inorganic compounds to remain inert forever, for matter to miss the critical mass, for our star to fade away, for hydrogen to repel itself, for energy to pulse eternally through non-existent space between us

E

ly mi

To

d

en

s wn

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16 Minutes of the Universe Ethan Qiu

What was, will be The elevator door opens with a hiss, and I step out onto the observation deck. “Good evening, commander,� comes from the speaker above me. The concept of night and day has become rather lost on me. I look around. Weeks of sleepless preparation has led up to this.

It is a dimly lit room compared to the rest of the habitat. A dark horizon looms over the large overhead windows, sometimes illuminated by the faint glow of the white dwarf. A swarm of satellites orbits the dead star, beaming light to the habitat. It is the final source of heat in the universe, providing for the last shelter to humanity.

I open the command console. Looking out across the vast emptiness of space, I mutter a prayer to the apparatus just outside the gravitational pull of the star as I pull the lever to our future.

Today we make our last attempt to leave this realm. Projections show that the energy production of our white dwarf is decreasing.

The white dwarf, with a life so long that most thought it immortal, is finally nearing the end of its life, so we started preparing to make a final effort. Theoretical models predict that, with enough energy focused into a sufficiently small place, a portal to a daughter universe can be created. A universe gave birth to us, and perhaps we can give birth to it.

The swarm changes the direction of its reflective panels. A concentrated beam shoots across the deck toward the dark beyond.

Eight minutes for photons to travel across the void to power the most important endeavor we have ever taken, and then about eight more for the initial reports to come back to me through electromagnetic waves.

And now I wait. The speed of light is fast, but now it feels like a snail’s crawl.

I gaze out at the horizon. I learned that, once, in ancient times, before we left our home planet, we could see the light from other stars. I like to wonder what it would have been like to gaze upwards and see galaxies and nebulae in the beyond, like watchful sentinels, 144

Ethan Qiu

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Ethan Qiu

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waiting for our arrival. I detected the last star from a deep space telescope about 300 years ago. The radio wave was faint. It sounded like a final goodbye, then it died. The gap in between stars widens faster than the speed of light. And now we are truly alone in our system, an island in the dying universe, still clinging to life.

Perhaps living in that age would have been nice. Then I quickly correct myself; I rely so much on the technology of my time. Life was short back then. The average person lived less than a hundred years, a tiny portion of the lifespan we have now achieved. But would that give it more value? I fondly remember celebrating my daughter’s 200th birthday a decade ago. What if she only lived to be half that? I marvel at the hurry with which my ancestors must have lived their lives. Imagine having only 100 years to do what I love; imagine how short and condensed life would become.

My ancestors still made the most of their time they had, sending shy probes outside their atmosphere, landing spaceships on their moon. Countless died before seeing their theories realized, and yet they persisted, only in the faith that someone would pick up their work after they were gone. I suppose they were not unlike their primitive spaceships, burning up and depositing a tiny amount of payload to their destination. They pushed progress just a little bit at a time, dedicating their lives. Generations and generations of sacrifices later, I stand here.

Suddenly the console lights up with a new report. I see that the probe has returned, bringing data from genesis. It is a report of countless dreams, of endless possibilities, of life: the new universe has similar fundamental principles as ours. It also warns that, due to quantum fluctuation, the portal will become unstable in 16 minutes, faster than the nearest colony ship can reach it. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. More power is needed to keep the portal open.

Then I see it in front of me: the satellites. I rush over to the command console, ordering them to slow their elegant ballet around the star and to transfer the maximum amount of energy.

The beam now fuses into a radiant brightness, shining with a hope for the future.

I watch as the satellites that have sustained the habitat for 147

the past two millenia slowly collapse into the star, their velocities no longer enough to escape the pull of eternity, reflecting the last morsels of light as their lives end in fire. One way or another, this system will no longer be habitable. I feel the lights darken as the habitat switches to its backup battery.

It is both infinitesimally soon and an eternity. Then, suddenly, text floods the display screen. Serial numbers for colony ships entering the portal. I scan the list… SN14318. My daughter lives there. I breathe a sigh of relief, and then I see the code for the final supply ship. They are all in.

Now I am supposed to board an escape pod and enter the new cosmos, but that’s hardly possible; I have just destroyed our energy source and drained the auxiliary supply in order to create the new universe. The floor shakes. Lights begin to flicker. The planet looks a lot larger. My station can no longer maintain orbit. It is sooner than I expected, but I suppose it does not matter much at this point. My daughter, my family, and my species are in another plane of existence now.

Not unlike how we were selected eons ago to gain sapience and to rise to dominance on Earth, we are once again selected to carry the universe onto the next generation. With cells eating cells, matter forming matter, energy consuming energy, we have won the cosmic game of chance and drawn the one out of trillions for continued existence.

I look down below at the planet’s surface rushing up to meet me and focus my eyes on the final transmission. SN14318. Perhaps this is what ancestral scientists felt when they died, leaving their work to live on in someone else’s hands.

May our engines never fail; may our hulls never shatter; may all the new galaxies and nebulae know our names. And now, I will become rocket fuel.

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Ethan Qiu

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Jessica Jarratt

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When the World Dies Abi Baker

When the world dies there will be no prize.

There will be nothing left but the sky.

No more projects or tests, no more late nights being stressed.

Your friends will be gone and so will your favorite songs.

The clothes that you wore will have no significance anymore.

All of the items you bought will be out of thought.

But we know this—it is a fact—so why are there melting ice caps?

You can neglect and forget but you will die too.

So while on earth help the planet that helps you.

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Another Lifetime Jansi Patel

He knew it was time to go. The heart monitor had started making longer pauses between each beep of his heart. Everything was slowing. His life was coming to an end before his very own eyes.

But he wasn’t ready yet. He wanted another minute, another hour, another year, another lifetime. Of course, he could never get what he wanted. He would not spend another minute with his mother, flour coating the kitchen in a failed attempt at baking; he would not spend another hour with his wife, tantalizing touches filling the

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dark night; he would not spend another year with his son, cheeks glowing as they ran through the glittering sunlight; he would not spend another lifetime on this earth, enjoying every stolen breath.

And so, with watery eyes, refusing to let them close, wanting to suck up every single last moment he could, he let go, and he quietly slipped away. Nobody would remember the exact moment he left, but they would always remember the hole in the world that he left behind.

Rosalie Armao

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Colophon Volume 18, of the 2018-2019 academic year, received a Gold Medalist Critique by the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, as well as a First Class Rating from the National Scholastic Press Association. All-Columbian Honors was awarded for the Essentials Section.

The Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize is open to students in grades 11 and 12. The Creative Writing Awards are awarded in upper and lower divisions, as the contest is open to all grades.

These award winners are determined by the English department faculty. Each submission is blind-read and voted on in a series of rounds.

Volume 19’s 400 copies were created using Adobe InDesign CC 2020. The magazine was printed by Allegra Print • Signs • Design. The fonts used were Adobe Caslon Pro and Courier New. The cover art was designed and drawn by Rhea Shah, and the nameplate was hand-written by Ethan Qiu. Thank you to the writers, poets, photographers, and artists who contributed to this year’s edition. A very special thank you to our faculty advisor, Dr. Maia Schmidt, without whose endless support we would all still be looking down at our feet.

We seek to provide a forum for creators, both literary and visual; to encourage members of the Flint Hill community to think, to create, to feel, and to experience; to encourage expression, growth, and appreciation of art in all its forms.

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Masthead Editor-in-Chief Ethan Qiu

Managing Editor Nik Tolpegin

Layout and Design Morgan Starnes

Editorial Board Julianne Cuevo Emma Conkle Kyle Moxley Emily Townsend

Copy Editor Calvin Lucido

Reading Staff Anna Guethoff Natalie Naylor

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Cover art by Rhea Shah Lettering by Ethan Qiu