The Rough Draft - Volume 21 by Flint Hill School

The Rough Draft ...because good good writing writing is is never never finished. finished. ...because

Flint Hill Hill School School Flint Literary Magazine Magazine Literary Volume 21 21 Volume 2021-2022 2021-2022

Our Mission 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 forms.

Flint Hill School 3320 Jermantown Road Oakton, VA 22124

litmag@flinthill.org

www.flinthill.org

Table of Contents 9

The Exposition is Hazy

Alexis Stengle

If the Roles Were Reversed

Zoe Bredesen

Snuffed

What Happens to Unbelievers?

Katie Chong

Flowers in My Lai

Zoe Bredesen

Dandelion Milk and Crimson Rivers

first play date

Corbeau Coupé

The Battle of Dino Nuggets and Rhinoplasties

Your Real Changing Self

silent symphony

Floating in a Nutshell on the Wide Gray Ocean

Devin Dunn

Where Mold Grows

Zoe Bredesen

Drive Slow

Madi Benton

Poem for Dead Fox on the Side of the

Zoe Bredesen

Road

Hudson Eaton

Madeline Chang Zoe Bredesen Harriet Hosking Ida Guerami Caydn Harris Brigit Cook

The Evolution of Tragic Theater: Character Identity as a Vessel for Genre

Cooper Brown

Breaking Out

Esha Banerjee

Sensation

Saigon Falling on the 4th of July

The Royal Map Hat

Delaney Miller

100

Wilt

Andrew McKee

102

A Lifetime Long Forgotten

104

Antecedent & Aftermath

112

Wilt and Wither

114

Love is Friendship

Neha Matai

116

A Song of Eternity

Sofia Yu

126

Elements

128

Luna Moth

Abby Lyons Zoe Bredesen

Andrew Ajamian Anna Guethoff Kat Nurik

Brigit Cook Zoe Bredesen

Photography 8 10 14 17 18 21 24 27 28 31 33 34 36 37 40 42 43 54 60 61 62 65 67 68 72 73 74 4

City Light unnamed Untitled Sunrise Over Dulles dreamer unknown Jiangnan 2 Berkeley Little Places Nelumbo Nucifera Jiangnan 1 Ducks Beauty of Guilin Denali Mountains tangled up perspective Sunset Marquee West Lake Untitled Untitled Night Shot (Cars) Beauty Amidst Pollution chemistry blaze Reminisce Child No More Morning Fog

Sam Song Xander Krauskopf Wil Thomas Daniel Kalan Emnet Mekonnen Emnet Mekonnen Yixuan Zhang Zoe Bredesen Zoe Bredesen Jessica Li Yixuan Zhang Brianna Son Yixuan Zhang Grant Host Emnet Mekonnen Emnet Mekkonen Cooper Brown Sam Song Necati Unsal Necati Unsal Tom Weed Zoe Bredesen Emnet Mekonnen Ida Guerami Shal Jagannathan Shal Jagannathan Sam Song

76 77 78 82 100 102 104 106 108 110 112 114 114 115 116 120 124 127 128

industrial Emnet Mekonnen Untitled Bryson Robertson phases Emnet Mekonnen Time Sam Song Outlook Not So Good Cooper Brown vibrance Emnet Mekonnen Bees Jeanne Marie Greathouse Winter of the Long Island, NY Yixuan Zhang Scarlet Haze Cooper Brown Storm Warning Cooper Brown Trailer Under the Tree James Murphy Iceberg Lake, Glacier National Park Adam Rotker Haleakalā Zoe Bredesen Best Friends Zoe Bredesen Wasatch Summit Porter Hoel Concrete Sky Rhett Pomeroy Atlantic Breeze Cooper Brown Shanghai’s Night View Yufan Wu Sunset Zoe Bredesen

Art Art 7 13 22 22 23 23 38 44 47 49 51 53 57 70 88 89 91 92 95 96 99

Avocado Light Civil Transformation, Angela Davis Refuse to be Silent, Malala Yousafzai An Eternal Light, John Lewis Ruth Bader Ginsburg Farewell, My Beloved Desesperanza Profile Mask Charcoal Self-Portrait Pupper Master Eleanor The Things I’ve Done Crystallize Falling Streets Shark Watch Wildfire Crossing Daybreak Crossing Caribbean Masts

130 131

Colophon Masthead

Jessica Li Sofia Yu Olivia Khan Olivia Khan Olivia Khan Olivia Khan Zoe Bredesen Zoe Bredesen Zoe Bredesen Jessica Li Andrew Ajamian Zoe Bredesen Madi Benton Zoe Bredesen Sofia Yu Sofia Yu Amelia Miller Amelia Miller Amelia Miller Amelia Miller Amelia Miller

Award Winners Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize 10

If the Roles Were Reversed

Zoe Bredesen

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize 54

Devin Dunn

Floating in a Nutshell on the Wide Gray Ocean (Excerpt from Untitled)

Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize 66

The Evolution of Tragic Theater: Character as a Vessel for Genre

Cooper Brown

Jessica Li

8 Sam Song

The Exposition Is Hazy

Alexis Stengle

The exposition is hazy Remembering city lights, the camera pans Now the action begins, except they haven’t been introduced yet Just waiting for the narrator to finish the monologue On and on and on until the screenwriter may have erased their name Finally, it dissolves, tracked deep down after talking and pushing and twisting The curtain rises, and the show can begin.

Winner of the Junior/Senior Creative Writing Prize

If the Roles Were Reversed Zoe Bredesen

You say to me, if the roles were reversed I’d throw a fit. If the roles were reversed, I’d be turned over halfway down the river where my blood runs south. I would see a sun so bright it scorched my eyes instead of the rocky underbelly littered with still bodies. If the roles were reversed, as you say, my mother might’ve walked to school on a yellow brick road, poked her tender little head up during reading and declared herself a poet. If the roles were reversed, fields of jasmine rice would disappear from mind. Forest fires. The fishy taste of betrayal. If the roles were reversed, men and women borne from boats might’ve cast their anchors in, would’ve had a home to go home to. And maybe, just maybe, what was left of my grandfather’s body could’ve been retrieved.

You say, if the roles were reversed, so I swallow an abandoned landmine before I answer. Try to remember my grandmother's patience, wrap her befallen cloth over my mouth before I say something I shouldn’t. Cause if the roles were reversed, I’d laugh with the force of a thousand splendid suns while I questioned the validity of your existence.

I’d do so while sipping sweet tea. I’d go to brunch. So I indulge your fantasy, hypothesize its history. And I humor you with my silence. Cause if the roles were reversed, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Xander Krauskopf 11

Snuffed Hudson Eaton Good and Evil. Yin and Yang. Light and Dark. Balance. We base our media, religion, and beliefs on the idea that balance is the prevailing force in the Universe, but is it? Once, there was a child. He was a kind one. Throughout all of his daily interactions, he sought only to make people happy, to help others, to make friends. He was a giver, a provider of comfort and light, and he loved it that way. The boy sought to live in a world like the ones he saw bathed in the blue hue of nighttime TV—a world filled with heroes, a world filled with people who made real differences in the world—and dedicated his time to growing into someone like that, someone he could admire. It was within these fantasy worlds that one could accomplish anything. The hero, the one in the right, could defeat the villain, no matter the odds. Even in the face of this, however, the boy was always bothered by something. Yes, the heroes always won in the end, but the villains always came back. This ideological conundrum refused to leave the poor boy alone. No matter what he did, how kind he tried to be, how much he tried to help others, something always seemed to counter it. It started with little things like cleaning the kitchen only for someone to come in and leave a mess again, but slowly evolved. Eventually, even what he felt to be his biggest accomplishments—physical, intellectual, or otherwise—all began to be overshadowed by some unfortunate incident or after-effect that seemed to manifest in response. Soon, others began to compound the growing poison of meritorious stagnance by acting as vesicles of hate, seemingly doing their best to tear down the beacon that the boy was, to impart their insecurities on one who once had none. The boy was not oblivious to this; he recognized that his peers no longer saw him as one of them, and it made him feel astonishingly alone—for what had he done to deserve such treatment? Something dark stirred. 12

In spite of this adversity, the boy’s spirit did not break. He was resolute; he was going to find that place, the world where there could be light without dark, the world where good could prevail and remain victorious, but the world seemed to violently reject this notion. Pain, loss, tragedy—every time the boy peered into the state of the world he was surrounded by these tenets of humanity. If he looked to the past, he saw genocide. If he looked at the present, he saw mass ignorance and commonplace malice. If he looked to the future, he saw a world where even the environment itself was hostile. Something dark woke. The boy wanted to have hope, to trust in humanity, to believe they would eventually come together and push for a world without darkness, but the world slowly but surely beat out of him the ability to trust. “I’ll have to do it myself, push for the future on my own,” he would think to himself. Eventually, something responded: “All by your lonesome,” It grinned. “That’s an awful lot of weight.” It was a lot of weight. The boy had taken onto his shoulders the weight of the world. He placed the burden of responsibility for all the world’s evils—trauma, murder, hate—upon his success or failure in achieving his goal of creating the world of light. The boy was aware of It’s—the darkness’s—speech, but he did not recognize the voice as not belonging to him—at least the version of himself he was familiar with. Something dark had risen.

Sofia Yu 13

14 Wil Thomas

As the boy’s burden intensified, his ability to connect with others lessened. The boy began to expect much of himself and nothing of others. Friendship, something that had once been a two-way affair, had become an act of martyrdom. No longer did friends provide support to him, yet he remained a steady stream of support, a bastion of comfort. The boy found it difficult to let people close, and, in turn, the people stopped trying to get close. The boy seemed to only attract those who needed emotional support and were incapable of giving any in return. Over time, the mere thought of talking to a “friend” exhausted the boy, and he began avoiding them altogether. “They’re leeches, parasites,” It said. “They don’t actually care.” Still believing this voice to be his, the boy began to believe it. Something dark began to grow. The boy pressed on. A fire burned within him. In spite of what he witnessed in the world, in spite of what he experienced himself, in spite of what he believed his own voice of reason to be telling him, he needed to make his world of light a reality. While it was easy to lose sight of this practice in the busier days, the boy was one who thoroughly enjoyed introspective thought. The boy believed that—in order to build a world of light—he had to be the best man he could be—if not better—and believed that the best way to do this was through continual self-improvement: something well accomplished via constant self-analysis. These “sessions” once acted as a respite for him, a place where he could do nothing but think and improve. The boy didn’t always fully acknowledge it, but he needed those times to just sit and think. As It—malady that it was—grew; however, the boy’s mind darkened. As his mind darkened, self-improvement became self-deprecation; self-analysis became self-hate. Before long, what had once been his respite had become the boy’s torment. Something dark took form.

The boy grew tired. At every turn, every stumble, every bend in the path on his journey to his world of light, It haunted him. Even though the boy knew the voice sought to tear him down, he was near-powerless to do anything about it—for all he knew, the thoughts were logical in origin. It stalked his every move, forcing him to doubt every accomplishment, to linger on every failure, to impute mistakes—whether he was responsible for them or not—onto himself. The boy was forced to watch as his confidence, his spirit, his light was slowly broken in front of him. He grew miserable; all that in which he once saw light was slowly enveloped in the cold embrace of the dark. The boy could feel It closing in, an impenetrable wall of shadow, shrinking him into an increasingly claustrophobic space. It was then that the boy finally took notice of It—that which dwelt beneath the waves of his spirit. “What… are you?” the boy inquired. “I… am you,” It sneered in response. Something dark revealed itself. The boy, realizing there was indeed a figure to blame for his pain, raged. Is this what I’m supposed to accept? What life is doomed to be? No. You can’t be me. This pain, this hate, this rage—it’s your fault! he thought. You are mistaken. It chuckled. We have always been here, we are one. You seek to create a perfect world, to upset balance. How can you do such a thing, if you cannot permanently tip the scales within your own spirit? The boy paused. His wrath subsided and was replaced with an ocean of anguish. It was right. He thought. How could he even dream of building a path to the world of light when his tools were made of nothing but darkness? The boy broke. It… it’s too much, he thought. Just let go. It sneered, knowing what was to come. Accept your failure.

All of what had been—the boy’s hope, his spirit, his light— clashed with all that sought to drag him down. He cried. the boy had been so dedicated to his pursuit of the world of light that in the absence of the chase, the boy himself ceased. There was no more light; there was no more darkness. He who had once sought to tip the scales of the world was no more. Something bright had died.

Daniel Kalan

What Happens to Unbelievers?

“What happens to unbelievers?” “They go to Hell.” “Why?” “Because the Bible says so.” I was fifteen. My parents had sent me to a Christian camp for the summ Wednesday, each counselor would pull a camper away for ten minutes to ch Katie Chong their faith. This conversation lasted for almost two hours. War. Famine. Disease. How could such a benevolent God let this happe selor did not have the answers to the above questions. In the end, the discus hollow. I shared my uncertainty. I consulted others. I still doubted. I sought answers. I read the Bible. I still doubted. I prayed. As a child, this is what I was taught to do—pray for guidance, ty, pray for comfort. But, those words were beginning to lose their resonanc I had felt in religion, in something greater than me, was falling apart. Where was God? I yearned for the truth. I found sanctuary in the empirical design of sci mathematics. Exploring cosmological structures and the laws that govern re smallest to largest scales helped me make sense of the world. Yet, not everyt packaged into an orderly equation. Love, consciousness, morality—I pursue manities to understand these intangible aspects of life that science could no above all, I have become an independent thinker unafraid to challenge state supposedly universal truths. So, where is God? I am still working on that one.

18 Emnet Mekonnen

“What happens to unbelievers?” “They go to Hell.” “Why?” “Because the Bible says so.” I was fifteen. My parents had sent me to a Christian camp for the summer. Every Wednesday, each counselor would pull a camper away for ten minutes to check in on their faith. This conversation lasted for almost two hours. War. Famine. Disease. How could such a benevolent God let this happen? My counselor did not have the answers to the above mer. Every questions. In the end, the discussion rang hollow. heck in on I shared my uncertainty. I consulted others. I still doubted. I sought answers. I read the Bible. I still doubted. en? My coun-I prayed. As a child, this is what I was taught to do—pray for ssion rang guidance, pray for clarity, pray for comfort. But, those words were beginning to lose their resonance. The security I had felt in religion, in something greater than me, was falling apart. Where was God? , pray for clariI yearned for the truth. I found sanctuary in the empirical ce. The security design of science and mathematics. Exploring cosmological structures and the laws that govern reality from the smallest to largest scales helped me make sense of the world. Yet, not ience and everything can be packaged into an orderly equation. Love, eality from the consciousness, morality—I pursued the humanities to understand thing can be these intangible aspects of life that science could not explain. ed the huBut above all, I have become an independent thinker unafraid to ot explain. But challenge statements that are supposedly universal truths. ements that are So, where is God? I am still working on that one.

Flowers in My Lai Zoe Bredesen

In My Lai, flowers are sprouting from the trenches while a baby is lifted from his mother’s chest and crowned against a rock. When the apricot blossoms, hoa sữa, and lady’s slippers bloom the air will be so fragrant, my nose will weep joyfully. The worms are churning the earth, feeding the roots, and when they are done, all that will be left is teeth. The rice fields are so still, grandmothers lay down to sleep while plump mangoes grow old on the trees. In My Lai, flowers are sprouting from the trenches and they look almost human.

Emnet Mekonnen 21

Olivia Khan

Dandelion Milk and Crimson Rivers Madeline Chang

24 Yixuan Zhang

A wispy-haired woman sits in a white plastic chair warmed by the California sun. Her cane rests against her leg, and, around her, white couples, hunched with age, scatter the courtyard of the assisted living center. The untended garden is littered with dandelions. Stems ripe with white sap, they spread their milkyblooded progeny with the slightest breeze. Plump oranges, perhaps one of the only friendly sights, hang on trees, and beside the woman, her precious grandson, with a pleasant yet youthful gleam in his eyes, stares questioningly at the gouge in her upper arm. Eyes tracing the sunken, scarred tissue, he says nothing, but her arm feels as though it's aflame, tightening her chest with a twisted pride and guilt. She stifles a memory and smiles, grasping his hand and saying something in Mandarin. Suddenly the courtyard fills with irises—blues and greens, perhaps the occasional hazel—as white eyebrows rise. The woman closes her mouth, handing the small boy a soda. She watches his small brown eyes light up with the pop and fizz of the syrupy drink.

Her eyes trace the soda dribbling down the small boy's chin. As it flows, the brown trickle gradates to burgundy, crimson; it morphs, gaining viscosity, and where there was a chin, there is now an arm. She plunges into darkness. The boy is gone, and, in his place, a lithe young woman cleans a blade. Her onyx hair gleams under the Hunan moon. From a distant room, her parents’ whispers are eerily calm. "I called the doctor." "Sure, don't forget to set out the mugwort leaves." "Yes, I know. I bought the herbs this morning too." There is a slight pause, then the other voice. "Your father will be fine. His lungs will be strong again with time." No response. Then, “Well, let's sleep." The young woman sits silently, eyebrows trembling. The words seem to sew her eyebrows together. She waits for the voices to recede, lingering silently until the croaking of frogs feels like a distant dream. Elegantly, she rises, walking towards the bodhisattva altar at the far end of the room. She kneels as the scent of oranges in a bowl, sickeningly sweet, mingles with the woody smoke of incense. Vaporous sprites dance before her eyes. They dissipate as she bows her head. Then, with a quick movement, she presses cold metal against her bicep. Relaxing the muscle, she makes a calculated slice. Repeating the act, a chunk of flesh, around an inch thick, falls to her hands, a crimson river flowing down her amber skin. The woman grimaces, but there is a frantic hope in her eyes. How the gods will be pleased. Here, she will bottle an ephemeral life and keep it from wandering to the jade palace above. Under the pale moon, her flesh boils with medicinal herbs. She sits beside the pot, covering the gape of her arm with coal. Later, in the darkness of morning, she will creep into her grandfather's room.

Zoe Zoe Bredesen Bredesen 27

28 Zoe Bredesen

“Grandfather,” she will whisper as his cloudy eyes lazily open. “Please, drink this medicine.” “From the medicine man?” He will inquire weakly. “Yes, yes. The medicine man.” She will lift this sacred cup to his mouth and watch, with desperation, the undulations of his throat. With the first light, she will creep back. But, in his sturdy frame, she will find a hollow stillness like that of the canals when the businessmen have returned to their wives, and the merchants have closed their shops, and all that is left is the frogs, holding their breath, floating silently on the lilypads. “Grandmother,” someone whispers. The woman opens her eyes, searching, dazedly. Chatter bounces around her. Straining, she slowly remembers the intonations and sounds, finding this funny language again. It is sunny, and the California oranges around her give off a sweet smell. The tang is stirringly familiar, yet something is wrong. A lack of sweetness perhaps. The woman pulls her grandson close. She wonders, if she had a chance again, would her blood still run red? Or would whiteness spill around her? Would her grandchildren bleed themselves, severing their nerves and tissue for her? She sees how the yard yearns for its young, how her neighbors die alone. Tremblingly, she plucks an orange off a tree, peeling it slowly, deliberately. Its peel is thick; the fruit is not like the thinpeeled golden orbs from her youth. She looks at her grandson, staring deeply into the whites of his eyes. Thin red veins web out from a dark brown, almost black center. She breathes a sigh of relief, pinching his small cheek. And then it is fall, and somewhere, on a barren tree, a single crimson leaf hangs desperately to a shrunken branch. Eventually, it slips downwards, but as it makes its featherlike descent, just before winter is able to creep out of its hibernation, spring drifts in, her vernal tendrils sweeping the red-covered earth, uncovering green tufts of grass. 29

Among this grass, a small foot tramples clumsily, lightheartedly. A small girl wandering a freshly cut lawn plucks a dandelion and desires to drink its milky blood. Raising the hollow stem to her lips, an acrid waft stings her nose. As she hesitates, the front door behind her opens, revealing the once small boy, now grown. "Madeline, come inside." Dropping the milky stem, she will turn around and run inside laughing. "What were you doing?" the grown boy will ask. "Oh, just blowing dandelions," she will answer with a mischievous smile. "Hey, you know not to do that," A chastising tone. "They will spread and kill the grass." Once inside, the girl will run to her backpack, her straight, black pigtails bouncing. She will produce a self-portrait, marching it proudly to her parents. Like all works by little children, it is comically inaccurate, but perhaps this time, the inaccuracies are a little more startling than expected, slightly insidious even. Staring back at the young couple is a curly-haired brunette. In a couple of years, a taller version of this small girl will unwrap a book from her grandfather. "Confucianism," she will read. Her parents will look up skeptically. Later, her father, that once little boy, will tell her that Confucianism is a silly ideology from a long time ago. That night, she will begin to study its pages, declare it un-Christian, and set it down, never to finish it. But spring turns to summer, and under this unmerciful sun, the girl receives her first burn. Glimpsing a pearly line along the arm of her father's friend, she will inquire of its origins later at home. Her father will feign ignorance, but later, she will hear her parents' broken whispers. "White kids…chink…hunted…beat…" "I just can't believe…" a sorrowful response. "…chased up a tree…circled… till dark" a somewhat aggravated tone. 30

Jessic

a Li

"Like a dog…" a quiet rage. The girl fails to fully understand, but a dark little seed sows itself in her consciousness. An innate understanding, perhaps an instinct left over from a dynasty of tragedy, makes it known to her that she should shed a silent tear. At school, the small girl will meet the daughter of a red and white confluence, a milky sister who is half like her and half who she wants to be. A grave somewhere trembles, creaking, crying out, but the small girl is deaf—she is enamored with the beauties afforded by even the smallest amount of milky blood. But the dandelion girl looks at her with contempt. The milk-blooded sister tells everyone that the small girl eats her belly button lint. That night, in the shower, the girl will scrub her nub-like navel until it is raw and her back throbs from the pounding of hot water. Toweling off, she will assess her sun damage as burnt skin flakes off, drifting all around her. And when there is no skin left for the sun to burn, fall creeps in. As leaves turn blood-like and litter the American suburbia, an older, mellower version of that small girl searches for something. Tiptoeing up to her father's armoire, she carefully carries down a dusty jewelry box. Opening it, she rummages through a sundry of valuables and trinkets. Suddenly, she jumps up, triumphant. Grasping a necklace, the girl runs to a mirror. Then, slowly, she lays a red cord around her neck, a jade pendant falling on her chest. Tracing the smooth, gourd-shaped stone, she barely breathes, noting how the necklace tingles against her skin. Small engravings in the pendant, dirty, hold the life of the once small boy. Nestled in these crevices, along with the grime, is his longabandoned promise to a lineage. The girl carefully centers this cold covenant to her heritage on her chest. But her eyes betray a frantic sense of desperation. The other day she had a bloody nose. As she ran across the bathroom, nose slightly upturned so as to keep her blood from sullying the cold, white tile and sparkling white vanity, she looked back slightly, glimpsing a pink trail. 32

Yixuan Zhang 33

Son

ary

janu

na ian

first play date

Zoe Bredesen

On a street where each home is marked with a laurel wreath, you and I beckon the rain with a dance. Through thick fog, tiny soldiers point and laugh at our girlishness, our lost baby teeth. An accidental shove sends me palms first into thorns. A thousand spiteful pixies puncture my skin, shrieking gayfully that they have chosen me. That I am it. That I am the (shh) duckling. On the front porch, the queen of crabgrass dresses me in bandages. Knots our split ends together. We form circles of protection ‘round our loved ones. Sprinkle salt like prayers, dirty words hushed from our mouths because to speak them aloud is how you catch them. (shh) is uprooted from under the weedy porch where you threw your sister’s Barbie doll and we took turns hacking up globs of spit on her hair to take the pretty from her. At home, I slither into my grandma’s bed to offer my favorite fingernail. I whisper, Please Buddha, don’t let me be ugly. 35

Corbeau Coupé

Stuck in a bubble of fake words and fake hopes, One can only wish for salvation. When given the chance to pave roads For the future, we must grasp it firmly, constraining it. After so long, the bubble has been left, And so, we must be pushed to travel outside the nest. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and the tastes As well as the touch and connection with the wind. It almost seems fake; However, it is very much real, And you can attest to it, But maybe it sounds like a bit of a spiel. The clouds drift overhead, Their gray monotonous tones suddenly full of life You see them as a blessing Although before you saw them as rife. Oh, and the grass, so-so dry and yellow, Now they seem so colorful, So tingent; yet so mellow. The patches of white, they look unnatural, But like the head of a savant who has aged, They find their way and charm. The trees, so much like the grass, yet different The ever-greens are somewhat alive, but the rest? They’re a little dead. Their tones of brown and green are somehow 36

Yixuan Zhang

Harriet Hosking

More boring than the grass and clouds, To you, they’ve never been more vibrant and colourful, but oh so shallow. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and the tastes As well as the touch and connection with the wind. It almost seems fake; However, it is very much real, And you can attest to it, But maybe it sounds like a bit of a spiel. Hear the scratching of a critter on a tree, What do you think it could be? Why it’s a squirrel, looking for its place among the trees. Likewise, Man looks for his place in the Universe But is there one? Maybe, but pondering doesn’t seem too fun. You enjoy the absorption, But something interrupts; It’s the smell of cuisine, And it’s quite welcome to make you digress. There’s some more, But it’s a lot to take in And so the bird returns to the nest, Satisfied, Maybe even over-encumbered with the weight of sense, And possibly also with the weight of frustration and grief.

Grant Host 37

The Battle of Dino Nuggets and Rhinoplasties

Ida Guerami

Zoe Bredesen 38

I’ve always admired my mother. I thought (and still think) that she is the embodiment of perfection and beauty—from her porcelain skin, angelic voice, the sweet smell of her perfume that would linger in every room graced by her presence, her fair skin, her perfect nose, her intelligence, and the way everyone would look at her. I was fascinated by this from a young age; she could walk in the room with her maternity sweatpants and a baggy shirt, and I thought she was walking the runway in Milan. She was everything I wanted to be; of course, I had no idea what beauty was, but it was something I wanted to feel. I wanted to see myself the way I saw my stunning mother. Looking back on it, I know I was jealous of her. I wanted to look like her, sound like her, be like her, and be admired like her. I wanted to be her. As I grew older, the greeneyed monster would come out unexpectedly, and I hated myself for it. The envy, the jealousy, and the feeling of inferiority weighed me down. I didn’t understand the concept of growing up or being able to express my feelings and ideas; I thought I was stuck in this perpetual state of juvenility. Like all other things in life, I didn’t acknowledge my lack of comfort within my own skin; I didn’t need to think about it, nor did I need to talk about it because I felt it. My insecurities and other struggles were always there for me; that little voice in my head that would tell me I’d never be enough never left my side. I knew that I could always rely on my pessimistic brain to keep me on my toes and keep me company when no one else would. The things that people would go to therapy to change would be oddly comforting for me. It was like having my enemy as my best friend, and I enjoyed it at times. I remember thinking that if I was my worst critic, no one could possibly notice that tiny imperfection… until one day someone did. Others’ acknowledgment of my insecurities just added gasoline to the fire burning down all of my confidence. When you genuinely hate yourself and your body, every day becomes a battle. 39

I was ashamed of my body and my non-eurocentric features. I didn’t want to have black curly/wavy hair; I didn’t want to be the odd one out. Lunchtime PTSD is a right of passage for a first-gen American, and I was no exception. I traded my mismatched Tupperware of kotlet and kabob for a pink Hello Kitty thermos filled with bland dino nuggets. But that was okay because bland meant fitting in; bland would mean I could be like the other girls. As my self-hate manifested itself in the form of conformity, all aspects of my life became ordinary. I started to straighten my hair, eat Go-Go squeeZes instead of doogh, and quit my Farsi school. The pain of being an outsider caused me to hurt my family and me. I didn’t want to be Iranian; I didn’t want to have my thick eyebrows and eyelashes, nor did I want to be called Chewbacca due to my arm hair, and I most certainly did not want that colossal nose that other girls would call the perfect camel hump. I wanted to be pretty and blonde. I deduced that I was ready to battle with myself every day until something would give or change, until I could be beautiful and feel it. I was infuriated and jealous at times. Why could my mom look like the other girls? What went wrong with me? And how did she get this perfect nose? As my inquisitive mind ran wild, the green-eyed monster took control. I became obsessed with how to change myself permanently. And it was then I learned about the proper right of passage of an Iranian girl, the coveted, the permanent, and the answer to my prayers: the rhinoplasty. I don’t know a single Iranian woman who hasn’t gotten one. Even most of my uncles have had theirs. It’s the generational battle we all fought in and never acknowledged. In exchange for our silence, we would be rewarded with a new nose: instead, our medal of honor; or would it be our scarlet letter? Our proof of treason? Our history being erased? My feminism is a central part of who I am. I’ve always been progressive and everyone’s biggest advocate for body positivity. I just left one person out of my endeavors…myself. I wish I could see myself the way I see others, but, unfortunately, that’s never been an option. I think that everyone is beautiful; I truly do. And I’d do anything to feel that way; I even would resort to taping up my nose 40

in the middle of the night to see what I would look like (this was when I was 9). My older aunts told me, “You would be so much prettier if you had a smaller nose…or got chubbier; you have the nose of a chubby man,” and made other “lovely” comments that continually deteriorated any semblance of confidence I had left. At some point in my tweens, I was told not to worry and I’d be pretty soon…all because I could get a nose job. I didn’t really want one at first, but as a concept continually reinforced to young children in their formative years, those ideas slowly become the truth, and they most certainly became mine. After my breathing problems worsened to a point where I would be getting internal reconstructive surgery, my mom said, “Why not fix the outside?” and without realizing it, I was at a consult. Mirrors are the most deceptive objects to exist. We all see some type of distorted image of ourselves, never knowing if this is the “real” girl people see. But when someone else, someone qualified, someone who isn’t a family member, starts describing your face (more specifically your nose), states your biggest fears, and confirms that all the “trivial” things you have been obsessing over are real, things go downhill fast. Of course, I cared about breathing and was excited to have a functioning nose, but now I could have the conventionally attractive eurocentric nose, which was terrifying. Watching Dr. Rubinstein examine my nose just as critically as I had was beyond a peculiar experience. A poke here, a squish there, and then came pictures. I was a sixteen-year-old walking into a room adorned with brochures and advertisements for botox, tummy tucks, and an array of other pamphlets, but of those thirty pamphlets, there was not one teen or even twenty-something model in their twenties. I was out of place.

Emnet Mekonnen 41

Emnet Mekonnen When coming in for my consultation, I thought I’d be going to the higher floor where my uncle worked in internal reconstructive surgeries, but, no, I was in plastics. That’s when it sunk in; this wasn’t the routine surgery. I was getting plastic surgery. My mind was in a state of shock, and so was my body; the only reaction I remember having was throwing up in the bathroom while spa music played in the background (quite fitting). For the first time, I was asked what I wanted to fix and how I wanted to look by another person. This was a weird conversation for me, not only because everyone was conversing in a monotone manner, but because I was in a room with my mom, dad, surgeon, nurse, and resident, all just staring at my nose like it was a weird creature they had never seen before. No one was looking me in the eyes—nope, not at all; my two nostrils had now magically morphed into my eyes, and my entire face was just my nose. That’s what it felt like. I struggled to find the words that were supposed to be the answers to all my self-hate. How pathetic? I mean, c’mon, this is the bane of your existence, this is why you hate yourself… and now you can’t even think of what to fix. Then, out of nowhere, one of my enemies was handed to me, cold, sterile, and right in front of 42

me, the mirror was back again. “Take a good look and now imagine what would look good to you.” And before I could say anything, others took charge. The audacity…how could they…speaking for me and my nose? “Her face is too small,” “drooping tip,” “bulbous,” “offcenter,” “protruding,” “masculine,” and so many other phrases were fired from the five canons in the room, and their mouths would not stop firing their ammunition. I wanted to retreat; I tried to wave my white flag of shame and cowardice, but out of nowhere, the green-eyed monster arrived to save the day. I formed an alliance with my long-time enemy; I let this monster back in after locking it away for so long. This monster made itself very comfortable in my body as if it was a match made in heaven, as if it was the one pair of jeans destined for your body, and it took control of my command center within seconds. My security system failed me. Where was my anxiety to protect me? Where were you, ADHD, to come up with a stalling tactic? Where were you, OCD and depression? Today is the one day you go on vacation! The illnesses that were loyal from the start betrayed me in battle, and so I transformed just like Professor McGonagall taught me; this was just to protect myself, right?

Cooper Brown 43

Zoe Bredesen 44

She was here and stronger than ever. This “monster” was now me. I couldn’t refer to her as “it” now; I was it. “Make it smaller, make it belong on my face, make it proportional, and make the side profile like a bunny slope but make sure it’s natural and make sure it looks like a glow up. No one can know this was surgically fixed.” Like Michelangelo with his mallet and chisel, Dr. Rubinstein went to work, photoshopping my face as if I was an Instagram influencer. Pixel by pixel, frame by frame, I watched my own transformation and demise. I felt like Nina as she danced to her demise. Her reality, and her imagination were accessories to her death as they altered the now. Just like me, the white swan that Nina once was now recast into the antithesis of her existence; she was the black swan, and she was gone. There was a sick sense of satisfaction as my craving for greed and power was satiated. The power dynamic shifted and that was invigorating. Could I be Michelangelo? Or was I Brutus? All I knew was that I had control, and I could be someone else. The general was back, but the green-eyed extension of me gave the orders. I could tell that everyone in that cold eggshell-colored room was startled by my request, but their silence was indicative of the mutually understood “agreement” we had. Now that the blueprint of Me 2.0 was finalized, we decided that the last day of school would also be the battle day. I started to brace myself for war as the feeling of unease and tension engulfed my senses. I was so on edge that I became desensitized to my reality and detached myself from the now. I had been the green-eyed monster for so long that I forgot there was another side to me. I had forgotten who I was because I was so consumed with who I could be. I thought this new nose would make me happy, make me feel enough, and make me feel adequate. I didn’t want to feel like I was on cloud nine every day, but I wanted stability, and I wanted to know that I could rely on my selflove. I wanted to fulfill my own need for reassurance and validation. I wanted to have enough.

As the countdown went from fifty days to thirty days, I somehow regained a sense of lucidity and clarity. The day before my surgery, I wanted to call it quits; I didn’t want to do it anymore. But I knew that there was no turning back, and I’m not a coward. I had spent years wondering if this would be my chance at self-love; I couldn’t stop. The last day of sophomore year was also my last day with my real face. Everything felt off. Having to scrub down my body in an antibacterial soap felt very fitting; the idea that I was scrubbing away my heritage and my culture wouldn’t leave my mind. I was a fraud, and I continue to battle with that every time I look at my face. The battles that I have continued to fight amass to this war that I know I have won…but at what cost? I don’t feel pretty, I don’t feel enough, and no amount of plastic surgery can fix that. Yes, my nose is now like my mom’s, but I don’t see everyone looking at me the way they look at her. I keep telling myself and others that I did this for me and no one else, but I’m a liar. I did this to fit in. I did this to be conventionally pretty. I did this to be bland. It doesn’t matter if you change your kabob to dino nuggets or if you change your nose; it won’t be enough. And so I’ll continue to feed this ravenous monster that resides deep within because that’s all I can do. The world doesn’t stop, the war hasn’t ended. Yes, this battle has ended, but we are still fighting; time is a luxury that we don’t have. There is only enough time for bandaids on bullet holes, so hurry up. We are losing time here…patch me up.

Zoe Bredesen 47

Your Real Changing Self Caydn Harris

To be content with change is to accept what is inevitable. Not long ago, I came to terms with the fact That I am changing constantly, As well as the things around me. Evolve, move, progress; The entirety of our universe is in this constant state. I’ve wanted true consistency but that is not in my control— Even in my own mind. My morals, my thoughts, my personality, Never consistent for long And changing slightly every day. It used to scare me.

Jessica Li

I would fear rejection from others and myself Everyone around me seemed to be set in themselves. Little did I know, no one is consistent within. If that was so, the end would have been long ago. I would fear hearing or seeing my past actions Worried that I would be embarrassed The little things I did would no longer be who I saw myself as I did not want people to see what I was when they could see who I am. Now I feel pride in the changes I experience. They have made me who I am now, Guiding me to who I am in the future, Adding color and curiosity for who I will be tomorrow. An accusation I used to crumble from has become a confidence booster “You have changed,” say the ones changing slower than me. “I should be,” I say in response. Your evolving self is your real self.

I feel proud of my mindset, though it took me time to get here. Accepting change is not easy for everyone, But the breaking, building, and becoming Is the way forward. There is no use in trying to go back. The nature of the universe is to move forward. Find peace in that reality and You may find peace in who you become.

Andrew Ajamian

god, do I wish to be silent I wish that there was simply a zipper that could shut the neverending onslaught of language my mouth emits duct tape is no solution, I’d simply rip it off and feel the skin burn as I continue to ramble, my words meandering themselves into minds they surround. perhaps if my mind could be quiet, my voice would follow suit. but then again, my words are not always useless, my thoughts not always random. the sounds emanating from my vocal chords, the consonants I form between my teeth, they are conducted by the thoughts in the symphonic rhythm of my mind. perhaps my mind is syncopated, for I know it is not off-beat.

silent symphony Brigit Cook

Zoe Bredesen 53

Floating in a Nutshell on the Wide Gray Ocean Devin Dunn

Winner of the Freshman/Sophomore Creative Writing Prize

54 Sam Song

Introduction: Hospitals Have the Worst Pens, Even Worse Than Hotel Ones My therapist told me to think about things in my life that have touched my soul, that have scraped the bottom of my heart’s recess, that have made me gasp from the intensity of my heart feeling squeezed like a lemon. I’m pretty sure she was talking about positive things, but that’s where my unintentional habit of distortion stepped in and rearranged some things. She didn’t add all the other stuff, only the “touching my soul” part. I twist everything she says, I botch her words and advice like some wannabe Dr. Frankenstein in the hippie circus, and the results are just as tragic. It’s probably why I’m not getting any better, why I still feel underwater while everyone else isn’t. Last summer I painted my room the blackest, deepest blue I could find, but after I woke up in the night crying because I thought I was drowning I repainted it the lightest blue, so light it was almost white. My mum suggested an “Eros pink” because she read online that it gave off “caring and compassionate” vibes, but if I painted my room the colors of “caring and compassion” it would just remind me of things I lack. When she wasn’t looking I tossed the paint chip out the window and watched it flutter to land on our neighbor’s roof down the hill. But I’m getting off-topic. After our session I lay on my bed in my palest-blue room and thought of all the times my heart was squeezed and I choked on its blood in my throat, of all the times I felt touched to the core. With my pen from the hospital in hand and an old red notebook, I looked out into my mind’s great abyss and watched as bits of pain and sentiment floated closer.

“Nutshell” On A May Night

One May evening I went to see a classmate’s soccer game. I barely even knew them, I merely returned to them their Yeti water bottle that I found behind the trash can. It was full of warm, watered-down Gatorade, the weak red of blood mixed with tears. I was seized by the desire to bring it home and keep it on my desk, to pretend that we were friends and that they merely left it there after an evening of eating pizza and watching Twin Peaks. But instead, I returned it and learned that R played soccer for the varsity team and had a game coming up on the ninth. After that we faded into each other’s woodwork once again. The ninth came and I put on my sweatpants that were too big and braided my wet lavender-scented hair. I tried to watch Harry Potter while my brother had sex upstairs with his girlfriend, a normal occurrence on my parent’s date night, but this time even Sirius Black’s death couldn’t help me ignore the rising nausea so I took the car keys and drove to R’s evening game. When I got there I found a wrinkled fiver in the glove compartment and used it to buy Sour Patch Kids at the concession stand, and ate them achingly slow as I felt my tongue shrivel up. It's dangerous, doing things like this at night because my insides get all over the place; I don’t even like Sour Patch Kids, but my cousin K who died last year in a car accident couldn’t get enough. I hardly watched the game, merely basked in the warm wet air that was getting foggier by the minute. My head felt heavy, and the beams of the floodlights on the field were starting to look solid. I started singing “Please Come Home For Christmas1,” because R had the kind of eyes that glimmer wetly like a fish’s in the lights, and I can only imagine how they would look under the illumination of a Christmas tree. Like rainbow fire on water. 2 1

James Brown, not the Eagles (a very important distinction)

2 Reference to the movie Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them: Crimes of Grindelwald, where Newt Scamander thinks Tina’s eyes look like a salamander’s, or “fire on water.”

When the game ended R didn’t run up to me and tousle my hair like I imagined they would, and disappointment still sank in even though I know none of the things I imagine end up happening. My heart squeezed a little when I saw how many people were waiting for them. It made me think about how my brother and his girlfriend are probably eating my 70% dark chocolate like they always do after sex, not even realizing I’ve left. I suppose it’s because my eyes aren’t very interesting to look at. The fog was so thick and wet it felt like I was breathing in the ocean as I walked back to my car. Someone had left a half-full can of beer on the hood, and I drank the rest of it with my eyes squinched shut. I could feel the tears building up behind my eyes, the irrational ones that happen when I feel more underwater than usual. I didn’t put my seatbelt on as I left, and drove exactly 7 mph over the speed limit through the neighborhood backstreets. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, so I turned on the radio to my favorite alternative station hoping it would help. But I was wrong.

ton Madi Ben

The most hauntingly beautiful guitar I had ever heard fell like weightless stones from the speakers, and I tasted my Sour Patch Kids from earlier at the back of my throat. It sounded like dark alleyways, fluorescent lights, and black oceans that reach the center of the earth. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes when he started singing, and it felt like someone’s fist was wrapped around my heart, while the other reached in and scraped the bottom of it that had never seen light. Blood slicked my teeth from where I bit my lip. I couldn’t see any other cars on the road but me, and it was so foggy the beams of discolored light from the streetlights looked as tangible as my pain. If I can’t be my own, I’d feel better dead.1 He had the most tragic voice that laid me bare on the streets. I wasn’t seeing anything but my hands gripping the wheel, I wasn’t feeling anything else other than the tightness in my chest and the tears running down my face. Then the reverie was broken. “That was ‘Nutshell’ by Alice In Chains, on Chicago’s Alternative Rock. Listen in after commercials for more great alternative tunes.” I drove the rest of the way home in a daze and felt breathless after climbing the five steps to the front door. The lights were all off, and everyone was asleep. I threw away a chocolate wrapper left on the counter, before wiping my face and going up to my room. I put my brother’s hockey sweater on over my shirt because I felt strangely cold and exposed, like a babe fresh from the womb.

A lyric from the Alice In Chains song, “Nutshell.”

That night I slept dreamlessly but woke with the covers

st re w

across the room.

Where Mold Grows Zoe Bredesen

Necati Unsal

Every year, the couch is worn deeper to the bone by a dog who is now a ghost.

Nobody comes down here anymore except mice and the occasional cockroach. None linger except the blanket of cold air that descends from the ceiling every morning. Downtown, there’s a funeral for a woman with only the pews as witness.

In Westminster, onlookers are weeping in the streets while a duke passes quietly in his sleep.

Here, underground, there is a single window to the outside with an audience of spiders that sleep on their backs, legs curled like a rib cage. But when the sunlight hits that glass, expands over the horizon with cacophonies of rooster croons,

you might see something remarkably coherent beneath paint chips and wood rot. Just for a brief moment, a miraculous birth.

Necati Unsal 61

Drive Slow Madi Benton EXT. SUBURB - DUSK A TEEN drives down a road in a residential area. There are no other visible drivers or pedestrians. TEEN (V.O.) I’ve always considered myself a dog person. I just think they’re friendlier, nicer. Never got along much with other animals. The TEEN turns up the stereo in his car and bobs his head. Then, cut to a closeup up of a DOG barking (slowmotion). TEEN (V.O) (CONT’D) One thing about dogs, though, is that they’re a lot like cars. The owner of the DOG, a YOUNG GIRL (out of shot), reaches down to hook a leash onto it (also in slowmotion). The dog resists.

CUT TO BLACK. TEEN (V.O) (CONT’D) (solemnly) You can’t always control them. A THUMP can be heard, as if the car ran over something. Then, a dog’s WHINE. CUT (low angle shot) The YOUNG GIRL and the TEEN stand in front of the TEEN’s car, which is parked in the middle of the road, its headlights still on. They are looking down at something. The YOUNG GIRL holds the DOG’S leash. She is crying. The TEEN looks shocked. CUT TO BLACK. Suddenly, the teen jolts up in bed. The shot pans out from his startled face to show his dog sleeping next to him. It is the same dog which got run over in his dream. Bold text appears on screen: DRIVE SLOW. The shot continues to zoom out. The sound of birds can be heard, getting louder and louder.

Tom Weed 63

Poem for Dead Fox on the Side of the Road Zoe Bredesen

Where the road home meets the highway I have grown familiar with the display of its body unaware it has died in such an undignified manner unable to hide its own decay. The pits in its skull have become like clocks letting me know the day is halfway done. Today, I drove home looking for a sign in the sense that there is nothing ahead of me except work and maybe enough children to fill a funeral. Something had changed then I don’t know whether the vultures or another car found it first but what was once a fox is spread like jelly over a sheet of black. Still as death In the sense that Death is never still and quicker than a bullet.

Zoe Bredesen 65

Winner of the Richard Rouse Expository Writing Prize

The Evolution of Tragic Theater: Character Identity as a Vessel for Genre in Hamlet

Cooper Brown

Reflecting the critical values of society and humanity on the dramatic stage has been a pastime for as long as we can remember. However, a great Greek playwright once revolutionized the medium, forever changing a genre we still know and love today: tragedy. In a performance of his magnum opus Oedipus Rex, Sophocles did something unheard of: he chose to both reduce the size of the chorus and add a third actor (“The Battle of the Greek Tragedies,” Sirof ). This shocking shift in the theatrical paradigm created greater emphasis on actors’ performances as vehicles for narrative. Instead of summary, emotional interaction would become the new norm; this change paved the way for Shakespeare to develop the renowned revenge-tragedy Hamlet, which uses the evolutions in the genre to portray a tragic hero’s story through the personalities of its characters. Shakespeare epitomizes the core elements of tragedy in molding Hamlet to the conventions of the ill-fated hero, especially by bestowing him with a tragic flaw (or hamartia) that qualifies his subsequent journey (“Why Tragedies Are Alluring,” Rivas). Hamlet’s persistent equivocation in difficult situations, Claudius’s personality, and the appearance of the supernatural are the leading catalysts of the play’s tragedy.

Emnet Mekonnen Firstly, Hamlet’s indecisiveness contributes greatly to the deaths of those around him and ultimately himself. The path to his downfall is wrought with psychological turmoil, reflecting a realistic battle between reasoning and emotion. When Claudius is praying, Hamlet has the perfect opportunity to exact revenge; however, instead of using emotion to justify action, he wonders whether “[He is] then revenged / To take [Claudius] in the purging of his soul, / When he is fit and seasoned for passage?” (3.4.84-86). Hamlet’s hesitation to kill Claudius—resulting from a contrived belief that he may go to heaven if he dies while praying—is tragic in and of itself; and by sparing him, he allows Claudius to continue freely conspiring and sowing violence in pursuit of his own insidious motives. Shakespeare also cleverly juxtaposes Hamlet’s behavior with that of Fortinbras: while Hamlet “let[s] all sleep” after his father’s death, Fortinbras sends tens of thousands of men to reclaim extraneous land “for a fantasy and trick of fame” (4.1.60,62). In contrasting such resolution and determination with Hamlet’s inertia, the audience gains a deeper understanding of his part in the overall tragedy. 67

Ida Guerami

Furthermore, Claudius himself plays an enormous role in the death and suffering of the central cast. By killing the king, he imbues Hamlet with the sense of revenge that, while realistically rendered moot by his passivity, nonetheless incites the hero’s tragic journey in the first place. Claudius’s pride and stubborn commitment to maintaining control of the throne inspire the cruel and devious actions that dominate his reign. Soon after gaining power, he slights Hamlet and his father’s legacy by implying that his grief is unjustified: “But to persevere / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness; ‘tis unmanly grief ” (2.2.92-94). In this vein, his remarks and behaviors subtly but surely cement Hamlet’s animosity toward him, hence furthering his dedication to revenge. Moreover, when Claudius fears that Hamlet is a real threat, he exploits Laertes’s passion for avenging Polonius’s death. By questioning, “What would [he] undertake / To show [himself ] indeed [his] father’s son / More than in words?” (4.4.122-124), Claudius severely challenges Laertes’s dignity, invoking cunning manipulation to pit him against Hamlet; ultimately, his scheming provokes the climactic duel that claims much of the cast’s lives.

Finally, the supernatural also takes precedence in coloring Hamlet’s narrative with shades of anguish, misery, and suffering. Witnessing his father’s specter is a key impetus for the protagonist’s vengeful journey; after being instructed to, “Revenge [the king’s] most foul and most unnatural murder” (1.5.25), Hamlet resolves to seek out and serve justice. Accordingly, this paranormal encounter exposes his tragic flaw: with his father’s ghost planting the seed that establishes his irresolute quest for revenge, Hamlet’s mercurial odyssey leads to the downfall of many characters by inaction alone. Furthermore, the appearance of the apparition destabilizes his relationships. “O most pernicious woman” (1.5.165), he shouts vehemently, after his father tells him of Gertrude’s betrayal; going forward, Hamlet internalizes spite and hateful emotions toward all women. In the end, his rejections of Ophelia as “[making herself ] another face” (3.1.143) than the one God gave her—being two-faced—result largely from the initial insecurities sown by the King’s ghost, and, in Shakespearean fashion, his meddling leads her down the treacherous and tragic path that culminates in her suicide. In conclusion, the personalities of Hamlet’s characters and the existence of the supernatural are deftly woven into Shakespeare’s quintessential showcase of the theatrical tragedy: one that simultaneously builds on the innovations of the past and transcends the paradigm. Shakespeare’s powerful use of identity frames the complex attitudes and relationships that lie at the root of the narrative and establishes a new prototype for the genre, just as Sophocles once accomplished with his performance of Oedipus Rex. Rather than positioning the audience as mere spectators receiving descriptions of the action, Hamlet deeply involves them in the devastation and suffering of the cast through the behaviors of realistically flawed characters, which Shakespeare wields brilliantly to chronicle the eponymous hero’s tragic fall from grace. Works Cited Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Edited by Robert S. Miola, W. W. Norton & Company, 2011.

Breaking Out

Esha Banerjee

Zoe Bredesen Zoe Bredesen 70

This piece contains references to eating disorders.

BIRTHDAY CAKE Obsession leads to good things, The thought is painted on his cousin’s birthday cake, Emblazoned in rich, sugary, fuchsia buttercream. The whole room seems to stare as his aunt cuts him a slice. His heart palpitates a million beats a minute, But he bites into it anyway, Hating them for reveling in his downfall. Blame it on his teenage angst. High school, the best times of your life, In a hospital, a father looks at his son like a three-headed freak. American euphoria at every football game, “What kind of a man are you? Can’t even eat without trembling like a sissy?” Love and loss swirling together at every dance, The boy’s friends send sympathetic texts, empty messages to quench their own guilt, Teary-eyed college acceptances surrounded by gleeful parents, The boy stands before the doctors like a defendant against his jurors, his guiltiness proved when they see his ribs showing beneath the hospital gown, Ritualistic dares performed underneath incandescent party lights, The boy thrashes violently as the nurses force him to swallow his food, Golden tassels soaring in the air as a final June goodbye. Blame it on his weak heart.

FOSSILS Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap, That’s the sound a skeleton makes when he walks, So soft it almost goes unnoticed. He has sunken eyes from the depths of hell, Bones made of porcelain, So fragile they crack at the slightest touch. There are words etched onto them, Tiny letters scrawled across the paperwhite canvas, Nobody reads them, but he does, Over And Over And Over Until his eyes brim with water and feel as if they’re burning, His breath is reduced to short, shallow gasps, And he sinks to his knees, his hands clawing at his face. Blame it on his brittle bones.

72 Shal Jagannathan

Shal Jagannathan

The room is like a cage, Its drab gray walls caving in on him, Whispering, Murmuring, Begging him To give up, to throw his daggers into the fire. The prisoner is gagged, and his hands are cuffed But he won’t break, No matter how many times His blonde, soft-spoken warden tells him “You have an eating disorder.” She thinks he is trapped in a prison of his own, But he knows that she is a conniving spy from his past, Her mission being to push him towards the edge until he cracks. Blame it on his caged mind.

74 Sam Song

CHANGING SEASONS Summer has given way to an indecisive October, Where the trees edge on autumn if not for The persistent green that peeks through the foliage. His cousins scream with exuberant joy and leaves Are thrown into the crisp air, falling in slow motion at his feet. He marvels at their innocence, the way they run about With no concerns about the past or the future, How they live in the present only. Did he ever live that way? Where he flowed freely with the movement of the world, Instead of confinement in an endless summer? The children grab his hands, and he is whisked away, And soon a full-fledged leaf throwing fight ensues, Laughter painted against the cloudy sky. He forgets himself and becomes one of them, Children of the earth who know nothing of themselves. The boy can only remember times where he felt Addicting happiness, Highs that he chased after and had to clasp with his hands So they wouldn’t escape. Never this, Never this sense of contentment that settles deep within him, Not blinding bright like a radiant Summer sun, But as beautiful and silent as a calm Fall sky. The wind carries him away.

Emnet Mekonnen

His feet take him back to the room, And words start spilling out of him like rivers, The weight of his truth pulling him down to the earth. He had starved himself since he was eleven years old. He had almost died, his body weak from being given nothing. His father looks at him like a problem that desperately needs to be fixed, Which was why he was here at a therapist’s office, on a Saturday night, Looking back in time, Instead of being at a party or a football game like his friends. How much of his life had he wasted? How much time did he spend trapped in his cage, His days a blurry film of shattered mirrors and crumpled old photos? How long had he been untethered from the earth, Dreaming of his escape? What defines him now? 76

He used to run, never noticing the world around him, But now the boy walks, his head pointed up towards The canopy of auburn and gold and wine-red. The burning days of summer have finally given way To the sweet coolness of autumn. He does not know who he is— That will take many more seasons to find. But the ghosts of his past are now his friends, His nightmares have turned into bitter memories, And all that is left of the cage is its shattered remains. He does not know how long it will take to rebuild, Maybe it could be days, months, years— Sometimes it feels an eternity away. But he looks to the sky to guide him, Knowing whatever path he takes, He will walk it as a free man. The boy belongs to the earth once more.

Bryson Robertson

Sensation Abby Lyons

Emnet Mekonnen

November 14, 1979

hatred.

Another day of high school, another day of hatred. I couldn’t stand another month in this town, in this school, in this house, even if there were a hundred million dollars waiting for me at the end of my driveway every day as I got home. It's as simple as that. I know what I want, which is more than anyone at that utterly insufferable prison can say. I want to be an actress. I want to be a performer, I want people to see me. I want the world to see all the characters, the visions, the icons, the personas I can be. I’ll be the girl who loves, I’ll be the lone wolf, I’ll be the sixties queen with the white gogos and big hair, and baby you’ll love me. I’ll serve the people and the people will serve me. I know I am romanticizing it. I know it's risky, and it's aggressive, and it's hard. I mean everyone will tell you fame is a nightmare, that all those stars signed a deal with the devil and they got everything at the price of everything. But I need it. I need to feel it. I’ll do anything to feel it. LIKE WHAT!?!?! To be someone everyone knows, to bare your soul every night, to get paid to be watched and adored and, I know it's materialistic and it’s childish but, THE CLOTHES. I mean can you imagine. I need it. I gotta have it. It's what I love. No more tests about nothing, no more college diagnostic “find out what kind of thinker you are” no. I want to be famous, I want to perform, and I am gonna do it.

hatred. 81

January 1, 1989

82 Sam Song

God.

God. That's the place I’ve gotten to, God. I truly have no words. In my daily life I am silent. Just a face and a name. This used to be everything but lately I just feel like I am. . . drowning. That’s the only way I can put it. I feel like I am drowning. I am drowning in questions, in alcohol, in spotlights, in rumours, in headlines, in sex, in expectations, in disassociation. Every time I get on stage, and I see the beings, the human beings, there to watch me, I feel like an impostor. I feel like an impostor when I see the magazine covers preaching everything I drink to stay thin, knowing full well the real secret is stress. That’s how I stay thin. Crippling, blistering, suffocating, binding, maddening, murderous, terrorizing stress. It’s the building anticipation in the backseat of some car, the heat of the lights, the white hot anxiety over how my latest “fling” is going to affect how much money I make, all of which is piling up in a bank account attached to nothing. What. What am I? I don’t know anymore. I was a girl with a dream. With goals, with passion, with ambition. I was naive. I know I was. I knew it then, but I feel it now. So here I am, praying to God. An impostor even to him. I know there’s no “quick fix.” I am in too deep. They either adore me or they hate me, but frankly, I can’t tell the difference. It’s all just. I have to get out, I know I do. If I don’t I will simply cease to exist. Eventually I won’t be the thing they love anymore. Just like any toy in the hands of a wide-eyed child on christmas morning, in a couple days I’ll be buried in a pile on the bottom of the stairs, never to be touched or adored again. I have to get out. Maybe one day I will. Until then I just pray to god my mother won’t get sent some busted up, distorted, broken version of me, postmarked from this so-called “angel city,” alive or dead.

God.

April 20, 1996

alive.

I think it’s actually real now. I feel my senses coming back down, finally grabbing back onto something that might be real. I can see the vintage wood paneling on the wall, the plush carpet sinking beneath his paws as Lenny pads his way over to my lap, and the world outside. Alive. Much quieter than the world I had become accustomed to, but truly alive. Instead of a dusty, loud, busy, concrete set, swirling with desperation and smoke screens, it is an ecosystem. Somewhere where everything has a role, a role that matters. In my new life I am in touch with things I can feel and things I believe. This morning as I sat in my garden, taking in the roses and the living beings around me, truly thriving because of something I did, I felt the purpose come back to me. Here I can touch and smell and see life I am impacting. I feel everything I had lost, everything I spent, come flooding back. The life I had, God knows I loved it and I will probably never be able to escape it, but it was illusive. My joy was illusive, my personalities were illusive. My very essence had all become a production. I don’t want to live like that, and I don’t think anyone can really. Live. Like that. One day I know I will return. I don’t think anyone can just abandon passion that strong. But I can no longer spend every waking moment performing. I must have a purpose that is my own.

alive.

August 19, 2006

lucky.

I grew up with her in my back pocket. She was an idol, an icon, a paragon. A career so impressive, and so fleeting, I couldn’t help but be in awe and in fear of her. I can only imagine that with the sheer magnitude of the performances she gave, she was just a never-ending stream of passion and authenticity yet—she was out so soon. I was in awe of the way she grabbed her desire by the balls and made a name for herself, but I was terrified that I too would be swept away. This life was something I took on with much apprehension, growing up knowing the stories of the 70s and 80s. Those stars who seemed to always have the most tragic & tormented lives but—she was different somehow. I’d always thought she was just a big, beautiful, burning flame that had been put out but, as I get older and I start to view living through the days in this world/life as simply surviving, I find comfort in the prospect of anonymity. No. She wasn’t “put out” at all. She saved herself. We have both been lucky, yes. We rode a wave few are ever given the chance to ride, but we both know now, you can always drown. That’s what makes us lucky.

lucky.

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s “The Lucky One”

They’re called fireworks. Today is a celebration, though she’s not sure why. When a hundred colors erupted in the night sky my mother wailed like a baby just born. Forest fires. Clouds darker than coal. She holds her breath and everything is still; the smell of burning fat wafting through the grassy field; my mother’s mother and her mother falling mid-air; a radio-static scream echoes like a stone hurled down a well the war’s over. It’s finally over. She breathes again and the moment’s passed.

Sofia Yu

Saigon Falling on the 4th of July Zoe Bredesen

Sofia Yu 89

The Royal Map Hat Delaney Miller It was a wonderful Wednesday morning and the day I was to receive the Royal Map Hat. This Hat had been in the royal family for centuries, and on the eve of my fifteenth half-birthday, it was to come under my care as it had for many other princesses before me. I had been waiting for this day ever since I first laid eyes on the beautiful Hat. The base of the Hat is a black dome made of sturdy cotton, with the flexibility of a thin piece of cardboard. Atop this dome are two plastic disks that are reminiscent of ears. These disks are what gives the Hat its name, for upon them are maps of unknown worlds. All of the cartographers and explorers in the world have tried to decipher the maps and figure out where they are from, but none have succeeded. The Hat has an ethereal glow to it that captures your senses and draws you in. One is not supposed to wear it for more than five minutes. One princess long ago disappeared mysteriously after wearing the Hat for too long. I was curious about what would happen if I wore the Hat for too long, but I wasn’t going to find out. If I disappeared, I wouldn’t be able to attend my half-birthday party. The Hat was to be placed on my head at the stroke of noon, and I needed to get dressed. I ran to my closet and greeted my servant, Betsy.

Amelia Miller

“Good morning, Betsy. Lovely day, isn’t it?” “Yes, miss.” Betsy doesn’t talk very much unless it is to inform me about my schedule. “Your presence will be required in the Hat room after you have finished getting ready, miss.” I nodded and away to the Hat room I went. When I arrived, I had mere seconds to greet everyone before I had to proceed to the stage for the ceremony. It went quite smoothly with the traditional singing of the Map Hat Song and the placing of the Hat atop my head. Applause, cheers, congratulations, and then back to my regularly scheduled day.

Amelia Miller 92

I had a free hour before I had to get ready for the party, so I decided to spend some quality time with my Map Hat. The Hat room was dark with a single light illuminating the special Hat from above, making it shimmer. I very much wanted to try the Hat on again. I peeked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching and then gently placed the magnificent Hat atop my head once more. I began humming to myself, imagining that I was at a wonderful party. Of course, at this party there would be many people whispering to each other: “My goodness, isn’t that the most enchanting hat you’ve ever seen! If only I were that girl.” I had a ball dancing alone with my Hat until I started feeling a little dizzy. Stars and streaks of light came across my vision. The Hat felt warm, too warm on my head all of a sudden. I needed to take it off, but, before I could, darkness overtook me and I fell to the ground. When I woke up, there was a very strange creature in front of me. It was wearing large yellow shoes, red shorts, and white gloves. It had ears shaped like the disks on the Hat and a smile so friendly that it was creepy. I was flabbergasted when the creature opened its mouth and out came a high, squeaky voice. “Well, hello there! My name is Mickey Mouse!” I was still too stunned to speak, so it continued. “You took a mighty great fall there; I was just sitting here when you came careening down from the sky!” It chuckled to itself. I looked around to see that I was in some sort of side street with buildings on either side. I gingerly tested all of my limbs to make sure nothing was broken. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am, uh, Mr. Mouse?” It smiled as it told me that I was in Disney World. I had heard of this place but had never been there. As the heir to the throne, I had never been out of the kingdom. “Could you tell me how far we are from the Kingdom of Cordinia?” 93

map?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it; would you like to look at a

I jolted into a standing position as I remembered what had gotten me here in the first place. I looked around and noticed that something was missing. The Map Hat. “Pardon me Mr. Mouse, but did you by any chance notice any headwear that was knocked askew as I plummeted from the heavens?” Mr. Mouse’s gaze darkened and became much more frightening. “I did indeed. I removed it from you and it is now under my protection.” I politely asked for it back, but Mr. Mouse gave no answer. I offered to buy it back. Mr. Mouse snickered softly and said, “Snookums, don’t be daft. I checked your pockets and you have nothing. I do hope that this ‘Cordinia’ that you seem to belong to is as penniless as you are; your subjects could come here if they like.” I bristled at this pretty little speech. Everyone knows that the citizens of Cordinia ranked highest on the list of happiest kingdoms. However, that might change if their favorite princess disappeared, never to be heard from again. I needed the Hat back, and I was willing to do anything. When I related these feelings to Mr. Mouse, he smiled. It was not necessarily a friendly smile. “Well then. I shall propose a deal. By the time the sun sets tonight, you must get all of the signatures of all of the characters in this Magic Kingdom. If you do, you and your Hat are free to go. If you do not, you will remain here forever.” I drew myself up to my full height and summoned all of my regal glory. “Very well. Where shall I keep these signatures?” “I shall give you this Book. You have ten hours until sunset. Go.” With that, Mr. Mouse disappeared, and I was alone. I knew I had to move quickly. I grabbed the Book and headed into the World. 94

Amelia Miller I walked around trying to figure out how to obtain the signatures of all these characters. I watched children walking up to princesses and princes, animals, and fairies. They seemed to have a strange ritual of handing the prince, princess, animal, or fairy their book and then posing like statues with them while someone pointed a small box at them and said “Cheese!” After a couple of children, I figured it out enough to give it a try myself. I spent hours in the lines meeting the characters. I felt bad that I could not stay and chat with all of them, asking how their royal lives are, but I had to move quickly if I ever wanted to see my Hat and my kingdom again. I kept track of the time and characters. At the rate I was going, I would barely make it. I had one last signature to get: the Fairy Godmother. I anxiously stood in the line. When I got to the front, I had about thirty minutes before sunset. The Fairy Godmother was very sweet and kind to me as I got her signature. I was about to leave when she looked at me, eyes crinkled with concern. “My dear, are you quite well?” I sighed. I was so tired and just wanted to go home, but I started to explain my situation and it all came flooding out. 95

The Fairy Godmother’s eyes widened as I spoke of my meeting with Mickey Mouse. “My dear, you must not go back to Mickey Mouse! He is very, very dangerous! The Book that you are holding is an immeasurable power source, and all the signatures you have collected only make it stronger. The Book chains Mickey to this place so that he does not unleash his wrath upon the world.” I was astounded by this revelation but was feeling conflicted. I definitely did not want an evil, cartoonish-looking character wreaking havoc on the world, but I really wanted to go home. I conveyed this to the Fairy Godmother, and she asked me if I would be willing to assist her in the takedown of the wicked Mickey Mouse. I agreed on the condition that I would be able to take the Hat and return home as soon as possible. With the short time that we had, we concocted a plan and went to execute it.

Amelia Miller

I returned to the alley where I had woken up and waited for Mickey Mouse to come. The second the sun sank below the horizon, he appeared. “Do you have what I have asked for?” I nodded and took out the Book. The second he saw it, his eyes gleamed with anticipation and danger. He went to snatch it, but I pulled away. “First, my Hat.” He pretended to look thoughtful, then said, “Unfortunately Princess, I will have to decline your generous offer. But I will, out of the kindness of my heart, let you see that your Hat is safe.” He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed my Hat onto the ground behind him. “Now that you see you have nothing to fear, give me the Book.” I backed up as he advanced toward me. Soon I was against the wall, with no way out. “Fine.” I said. “You shall have this book, but first you must defeat me in a vicious game of Simon Says.” Mickey Mouse gave an annoyed sigh but agreed. We went through many rounds of Simon Says, until I, as Simon, had made Mickey Mouse empty his pockets, lay face down on the ground with his hands where I could see them, and sing the Itsy-Bitsy Spider. “Fairy Godmother, NOW!” I shouted. Suddenly the Fairy Godmother, accompanied by the Disney World SWAT team moved in at the speed of light. Fairy Godmother had told me that Mickey Mouse had been caught embezzling money from Disney World, and the only reason he had stayed in Disney World was so that he could blend in and not be found. Now, he had been arrested and the world was forever safe from that creepy individual.

The Fairy Godmother turned to me and smiled. She thanked me for all of my help and asked me to stay for a while. I politely declined. The day had been quite the ordeal and I just wanted to go home. I collected my Hat and went to say my goodbyes. When I got to the Fairy Godmother I started to hand her the Book. She told me to keep it. Apparently, the reason the Hat had been in my kingdom was so it would be protected, and now we would have something else to protect. Mickey Mouse had been vanquished and the Map Hat was mine once again. I put it on and let the familiar uncomfortable dizziness overtake me. When I opened my eyes, I was finally back home. I ran to my chambers to stow the Book and the Map Hat. I greeted Betsy on the way. “Hello, Betsy. Lovely evening, isn’t it?” “Yes, miss. Your presence will be required in the ballroom after you have changed for the party.” I smiled. Everything was as it should be.

Amelia Miller

Tom Weed99

Wilt Andrew McKee

100

I have seen this world through a tarnished lens Ever since I watched you pass. The petals shed each memory, Falling from a wilting rose. Could I find solace in their crimson hue While its color left but a tainted view Of a withered garden you once tended to, Now fading with Fate’s cruel kiss As Death greets a life amiss? So when I go I’ll reach the sky Caught like a glimmer in your eye. I see you in the dead of night With every glinting star, Yet you stand a million miles away When six feet is still too far.

Cooper Brown

101

A Lifetime Long Forgotten Andrew Ajamian

Come here, young one, burn that book; there is more to life than class. Sit right here with me, my boy, and watch this blade of grass. “Which one?” you ask. Well, that’s not up to me, nor does it matter much. Just watch it bend the wind around itself to wave hello to us. Come on close and you might hear the sands of Kali’s hourglass, For now, we look upon the face of a body that we’ve since surpassed. Huh? “What does that mean?” you ask. Well, really it’s quite simple. It all started when i realized that time is artificial. How arbitrary it all seemed from the bench upon which i was sitting, As i fumbled for a cigarette and wondered when i’m quitting, And i wondered What’s their name? and What’s at home for dinner? And Who sat here before me? and Why do people shiver? My mind raged on and soon enough i was asking greater questions, Why do we dream? What does it mean? They came in quick succession. That is until i stumbled on this one thought in particular; At last, i thought so gleefully a thought that’s unfamiliar! i will share this thought with you one day, although that was before– “What exactly was the thou–” Doesn’t matter anymore.

102

Emnet Mekonnen

i backed out of the driveway; i remember all too well. Smiling, i breathed in–boom!--in horror i exhaled. i saw you through my mirror, as your eyes became so hollow; i held you and i wept–a slave to my own sorrow. My drunken brain can’t handle glee, let alone the pain, As when i dare to lift my head, it’s weighed down by chains; But i must bear this steel, and i must hear them rattle, For only with my head aloft, do i escape my shadow. Long ago, i was but a modest blade of grass, Until i sprouted limbs and learned to love and learned to laugh. Still i was a boy that had his nose pressed in a book, Until i learned to question and to take a second look. Once i was a father, i began to understand That life, and love especially, will never go as planned. Now i am a jailbird: a bird who cannot fly. Each day and night i sit alone; i watch this life go by. i dream of life that i once had and know it as a fiction. i know not how to turn back time; i live with my conviction. i know that you’ve forgotten; for now, your face is new. i wonder–in my next life–what i’ll think of me and you.

103

Antecedent Antecedent & & Aftermath Aftermath (An Excerpt)

Anna Guethoff

CHARACTERS: Young Woman - a young, blonde woman who is rather timid, struggles with finding English words to properly express herself Elderly Dame - a geriatric woman that holds a unique perspective about the world and what it means to love SCENE 1: 1917. The bustling main hall of Paris’s Gare du Nord. Billowing white smoke fills the air as trains arrive and depart, heading east to the Front or north to the ports heading across the English Channel. A colossal ornate gold and black clock hangs suspended from the high ceiling, a slight ticking noise emanating from it. Vendors wait for customers at their stalls, colorful white, red, and blue streamers flapping with the strong wind that enters from the south entrance. The dismal gray sky peaks through the open windows adjacent to the railway, while the newly installed electric lights allow the station to be illuminated, even during unfavorable weather conditions.

104

(At rise: a tall, blonde YOUNG WOMAN stands at the center of a large crowd, tightening her grasp on the bouquet of white roses in her hand, a small purse loosely hanging over her shoulder, her lilac maxi dress swaying as another woman jostles past her. She regards the clock, realizing that she is at the station far too early. Moving away from her the throngs to the far side, she seats herself on a brown wooden bench, crossing her legs, all the while anxiously clasping her hands around the flowers. Her eyes dart back and forth, as another strong gust of wind blows the white smoke into her face. She coughs, covering her mouth with her palm, a feeble attempt to shield her lungs from the pungent fumes of the surrounding locomotives. Watching the groups of women mutely await the arrival of the 12 o’clock train, the blonde is joined by an ELDERLY DAME, whose maroon overcoat is elegantly paired with a partially veiled hat. The former scoots down the bench, arriving at the opposite end, leaving a comfortable gap between the two. While the Elderly Dame watches her movement with slight interest, the Young Woman timidly looks away, strands of hair falling into her face.)

Jeanne Marie Greathouse 105

ELDERLY DAME (a gentle smile on her face): And why are you here on such a fine day? (YOUNG WOMAN averts her eyes, pretending as if no one had said anything, focusing on a particularly vibrant rose at the center of the flower arrangement.) ELDERLY DAME (thoughtfully): Hmm, I suppose this is not a very fine day, is it? No sun. Only clouds. Unless it is clouds that you like. They have always been a bit too grey for me. YOUNG WOMAN (quietly): Oui… moi aussi… je n’ai jamais aimé les nuages… ELDERLY DAME: Sorry, dear, I did not hear… Could you repeat that? YOUNG WOMAN (slightly more pronounced, her strong French accent shining through her speech): Yes… me too… I have never liked the clouds… ELDERLY DAME: Yes, there is simply something about them, is there not? Something I noticed a long time ago in Nice while raising my sons. When the sky was clear and bright blue, the world seemed a happier place. The Mediterranean waters metamorphosing into an almost luminescent turquoise, Peter and Paul cycling along the shoreline, laughter alighting their faces. But when the clouds rolled in, which they inevitably always did, my husband would force them to return home, smiles wiped away and destroying any trace of contentment that had been present. It is a somewhat fitting predicament for today, wouldn’t you say? The sky mirroring our feelings, as it did theirs, as we wait… YOUNG WOMAN (mumbling): Le ciel reflète nos émotions? Je ne crois pas que je vous comprends… 106 Yixuan Zhang

ELDERLY DAME: Now, now, that must surely be a lie. How can you truly believe that you do not understand the despair in the clouds? We are both here for the same reason, are we not? (YOUNG WOMAN looks up from her fiddling with the bouquet, although not quite meeting the gaze of the elderly dame) YOUNG WOMAN: Et cette raison est quoi? Euh… (stutters as she struggles to find the English words) And that reason is what? ELDERLY DAME: The same reason why all of us women are here today. You patiently await someone to return from the Front, but you do not know what to expect. You have heard the recounts, I am sure, of those who have returned as someone not quite themself. You are fearful that whoever will disembark from that 12 o’clock train will not be the same man that you saw depart. You worry that you will no longer love him. Or that he will no longer love you. (YOUNG WOMAN freezes, fixed in her impeccable straight-backed posture, staring straight ahead, a blank expression overtaking her delicate features, moisture collecting in her eyes. After a long moment of silence, she opens her mouth.) YOUNG WOMAN (hoarsely): Don’t you worry? What it will be like, seeing them again after so long? If they will look the same, act the same, be the same? If… if you could still… si on pouvait encore les aimer? ELDERLY DAME (curtly): No. YOUNG WOMAN (stunned, but when she speaks again a note of urgency can be detected under her thick accent): But how? How can you be so sure? ELDERLY DAME (sternly): Because the love a mother bears for her child is not something that can be tarnished. I will always, unconditionally love my sons. 107

Cooper Brown

YOUNG WOMAN (as if trying to find a loophole around this statement, anything to help appease her own conflicting emotions): Even ifELDERLY DAME (with an air of finality): Even if. YOUNG WOMAN: But I had not yet finished my sentence. ELDERLY DAME (sincerely): You did not have to. I know I will love my son no matter what. No matter if he returns home broken from the War. No matter if he requires to be fed, as he cannot do so himself. No matter if he lies awake at night screaming, keeping me awake until dawn. No matter if he hates me. No matter if he hates himself. Over the course of my life, I have come to understand that true love has no conditions. And more importantly, no even ifs. YOUNG WOMAN: Mais108

ELDERLY DAME (angrily): You will hear this from me one time, girl. If you do not love him, if you do not love him truly, if you cannot envision a life of responsibility and caregiving, a situation that will inevitably arise, leave! He does not deserve a life with a woman who sees nothing but obligation, repulsion, and lost opportunity when gazing upon him. Not after the horrors he has survived these past years. And you, you do not deserve a man who will inescapably view himself as unworthy of you, who will try to drive you away. So, I promise you this, if you depart now, I will take care of him, you need only give me a photograph. I will tell him not of your reservations, nor of why you abandoned him, for I hold it not against you. (for a moment, Young Woman seems conflicted, eyes continually darting between the platform in the distance, the dame next to her, and the exit on the other side of Gare du Nord. But then, she suddenly seems to have reached a conclusion, pulling out a neatly folded letter from a handbag, a photograph falling out, and onto the floor. She reaches down to pick it up, admiring the handsome man featured in uniform, his dark hair neatly parted and face freshly shaven. Standing up from the edge of the bench, she hands the image to Elderly Dame, who is wearing a defeated and disappointed expression on her aging visage.)

109

ELDERLY DAME (dejected): I see. You have made your decision. (taking the photo from the young woman’s hands) He is quite a handsome fellow, is he not? YOUNG WOMAN: Oui, Thomas was. ELDERLY DAME: Hmm… was… what a peculiar thing to say. I guess you never will know what he looks like now… Perhaps he looks the same? Perhaps he still acts the same? Perhaps he has bettered himself, after having outlasted the Great War. But alas, it will simply remain speculation for you, no? Excuse me, but before we part company, may I ask your name? YOUNG WOMAN: Eloise. Pourquoi? ELDERLY DAME: Just in case he asks for you… I shall make up an excuse… (more to herself ) yes, that is for the best… something along the lines of… missing him dearly, dreaming of reunion, when… (pensively weighing a suitable ending to her story) ELOISE (interjecting, a slight smile playing on her lips for the first time): Et… euh… why would I need you to say that, when I can say it myself ?

110

Cooper Brown

(At that moment, a loud bell sounds throughout Gare du Nord, signaling the incoming arrival of a locomotive. Glancing at the clock hanging above them, Eloise realizes that it is 12 o’clock. Without bidding the unknown woman farewell, she crosses the station with great strides, her long legs carrying her much faster than the other women en route for the oncoming train. She stands, roses tightly gripped in her left hand, as it comes to a halt, men disembarking. She notices how some carry devastating injuries while others look visually unchanged although their eyes display their still remaining terror from the front. Soon, tears are being shed by the women around her who are hugging husbands, sons, or friends tightly. She sees the unknown dame embracing a tall, skinny boy who is clearly not aware of the fact that he is no longer at war. From across the great hall, the two women share a look of understanding, before the dame leaves with the boy still clinging to his mother. Gare du Nord, Platform 10, is nearly empty now, a few remaining stragglers filing out of the inner compartments, and Eloise is still alone. Still waiting. There is evident anxiety etched on her flawless face until finally, a man emerges, a bandage concealing a large part of the right side of his face, rendering him unidentifiable to most. But not to Eloise, who runs across the platform, throwing her arms around the man, and burying her face in the crook of his neck, not letting go. Never letting go again. Then, the lights go dark.) 111

Reap the roots I’ve grown from deep in my belly, Deep in my soul; Rain and pour and Pour pour down Soak through my clothes and Through my skin Water the wilt that is my brain, Hydrate the withered heart Beneath my breast Replenish my love And all the things That make me loveable And make me whole I will be thunder And I will be yours But first let the rain and pour Turn me green And good.

112

James Murphy

Wilt Wilt Wilt and and and Wither Wither Wither Kat Kat Nurik Nurik

Adam Rotker 113

Love is Friendship Neha Matai

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Zoe Bredesen

Like a rose it blossomed from a seedling, A seedling planted from a friendly gesture. The ambiguous interaction that left you smiling, Smiling and wanting to see the progression of this rose. Like a rose it slowly began to grow, To grow into a more meaningful understanding. The kind that only real friends share, Share and grow deeper like the roots of the rose. Like a rose there will be thorns that hurt, That hurt like nothing else before. Because deep down you know they truly matter, Matter enough that the beauty of the young petals will overrule. Like a rose it will stand the test of time, Of time that will fly as the beautiful yellow petals dry. But even this aging is beautiful, Beautiful like the sweet rosy scent released when the petals of friendship dry into love.

Zoe Bredesen

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A Song of Eternity Sofia Yu

116 Porter Hoel

The rain seemed to never stop in this early spring, making people’s every single joint sore and swollen. This is the very season that people would rather lie in their beds and watch themselves growing old. The gloom sucked away the last strand of energy in this world. The curtains billowed out in the gentle breeze while a figure passed through them. The lights were off. He opened the curtains, hoping that the dim light that survived from penetrating the clouds could bring up the heat in his room a bit. A myriad of thoughts arose but was soon deluged by the great silence in the morning. The world seemed empty. He was an unusually skinny boy; a breath of wind could easily blow such a haggard and fragile body down. There was no fat on his bones to support the visible veins and shriveled skin. His lips were white, exhaling more than inhaling. To name the only things that could prove his existence must be his eyes. Sparkling and mysterious, his eyes had the power to look directly at the inner selves of human beings. When they gazed at the night sky, the Milky Way would flow slowly in the crystals as if the universe was within. Gently, a melody emerged in the room, breaking the silence and soon filling up every corner forgotten by the world. As his voice crescendoed, the songs swelled from the great depths of his soul, soothing the nerves of the lonely voyagers tantalized by the great unknown beyond the ocean. The breeze blew over the room, carrying his songs to the world. Even the busiest passers-by would stop to look around for the source of this beautiful voice. The world paused for him. Since the age of five, he had been determined to be a professional singer and to perform in front of his true audiences, ones that would understand him, ones who were his soulmates. Yet the dream shattered without a warning.

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A week ago, he was diagnosed with stage IV liver cancer. Doctors told his mom to let him do whatever he liked or whatever he never had a chance to do while he was hiding behind the door; he heard the whole conversation. Although his time was running out, he had no fear. He didn’t believe that eternity ever existed in the world. Nothing was eternal, nothing. “Death is inevitable!” he comforted himself. Because of the relentless rain, he had been at home for six days. Today he finally decided to go out for a walk in the park and refresh himself. *** At the very corner of the park, she started to dance as a peach blossom fell behind her. This was her first time dancing in public despite there being no music and no audience in the park in the morning. She moved slowly in the mist, sliding her feet like fallen blossom petals rather than human figures. It was ballet, but neither in a traditional form nor in traditional garments. She stretched her arms, waving them from side to side in an unconventional but steady tempo. It was the pulsation of the heart of Mother Earth. She leaped into the air with her dress whirling around her. She was the wind, the blossom’s dancing partner, performing the Waltz of the flower. Swirling, twirling, and whirling, she portrayed the most vibrant picture of a beautiful soul. Captivated by and tracing the scent of the peach blossoms, he found the blossom tree and the girl dancing. He stood under the tree, stunned as if the time became stagnant, watching her with his shining eyes. The girl, the dance, the peach blossoms, and the sweet air cleaned by the successive rainy days reminded him of the pinkest fantasy he ever had. He desperately hoped that he could grasp the moment so that it lasted forever. Hearing the footsteps, she paused, turning to where the sound came from. 118

“You dance so well! And... and it was beautiful, like the blossom behind you!” “Thank you,” she replied, raising her head shyly. This time, he saw her delicate face clearly. Her nose, her lips, her cheeks, and her blonde hair shining like the sun were all perfect. Except for her eyes, he had never seen such vacant eyes. They stared aimlessly somewhere afar, without any sentiment; they seemed to be the only non-vibrant colors on her. Hesitantly, he asked, “Are you blind?” But he immediately regretted it because he knew he shouldn’t have said this. “Oh... I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.” “It’s okay. And you are right. I can’t see.” She responded with a cheerful smile and a tranquil demeanor. Her smile was the brightest light he had ever seen in his life and soon illuminated the darkest corner of his heart. In this way, they met. They met again the next morning near the peach tree, with him singing and her dancing. *** Time elapsed faster than he or she ever imagined as they met days and days. “The peach blossoms are so beautiful, so are you,” he said. “It’s a pity I can’t see it.” Her eyes looked downcast and she lowered her head. “I’m sorry.” He had a strong feeling of guilt for offenses and dropped his eyes. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, slightly swaying his body. Then he looked up, wanting to know her reactions. She seemed relaxed, but he knew that he had stung her heart again. He squeezed his fist subconsciously as an idea arose in his mind. “The moonlight is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”1 He turned his head to her, looking into her eyes. 1 Referring to a Japanese Author Natsume Sōseki’s translation of “I love you” given the similar pronunciation of “love” and “moon” in Japanese. 119

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Pom e

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“But there is no moon...” *** After a few days, she told him excitedly that someone was willing to donate a pair of corneas to her. She would see the light, the world, and this beautiful peach blossom tree. She would see him. His head tilted to one side and a hopeful but feeble smile emerged on his face. “Congratulations!” he said, looking into her eyes. *** The dusk of each day started to come earlier. The longer and colder nights sneaked into his bones and constantly reminded him of the imminent end of this year. He repeated to her over and over, “I didn’t believe in eternity...until I met you. Now I understand that there is something eternal in the world. I have to leave for a while. But I will always treasure our friendship. I will always remember your dance on the day we met. You are an amazing dancer. You are beautiful. And...you are important to me.”

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about.”

She exclaimed, “Why are you leaving?” “I’ve been accepted into a music college that I’ve dreamed

“Which college?” “It’s called the Juilliard School.” “Where is it? Are you coming back? And...can we still keep in touch?” she said hastily. She didn’t even give him a break to answer any of the questions as if his answers would be the epilogue of their story. She was afraid of his answers because whatever he said would make her desperate. “It’s in New York. Yes, I will come back,” he answered patiently. “And I will write letters to you.” “But... but...It is a thousand miles away...” She sobbed, chewing her lower lip. Her body shivered. She had too much to say but couldn’t utter a word. So many times she seemed to have collected enough courage to open her mouth, but they all ended with silence. Eventually, she repressed all the questions consisting of her inexpressible feelings and put them in one sentence. “I will miss you...” “I will miss you too.” He smiled again, but wearily this time. Knowing she could not see him, he no longer constrained his feelings and poured out his endless love through his eyes. After he sang the last song in his life, she danced to him, with a string of tears...

There were no regrets. 121

*** “Could you please make sure that she won’t know?” “Yes, we keep all information confidential at the hospital,” the doctor said. “Thank you.” *** The operation was successful. She now had a pair of sparkling and mysterious eyes. Her eyes had the power to look directly at the inner selves of human beings. When they gazed at the night sky, the Milky Way would flow slowly in the crystals as if the universe was within. She saw the light, the tree...everything but him. She bought a ticket to New York and went to the Juilliard School. “There is no such person in our school.” “But... he told me so... Could you recheck the spelling? His first name is L-I-A-M and his last name is K-E-L-L-E-R.” “Honey...I already checked three times. There is no Liam Keller in our school.” “That shouldn’t be...Is the system not working or...” A string of tears dropped from her face. *** He just disappeared, so suddenly, from my life. It has been a year since that day, and I have never heard of him again. Why is he not visiting me? Or at least writing me a letter? He is not in the Juilliard School. Why did he lie to me? Where else can he be? Everyone in my life tells me not to look for him anymore. They say he is just a total jerk playing with my feelings, but I just can’t believe...He was so gentle, so considerate, so true...When can I actually see him again? Will he be surprised that I am not blind anymore? But I don’t even know what he looks like... “Helen! You have mail. Come pick it up!” “Coming!” Is that from him? He wrote a letter to me? He hasn’t forgotten me! He still remembers me! 122

“Liam Keller...It is him!”

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She opened the letter with her eyes flashing, as if the letter lit up her face. “Mom! Could you read this letter for me please?” She hadn’t learned how to read yet. Dear Helen, Although I am not with you, I am writing this letter to wish you a happy birthday. You are a wonderful person, a talented dancer, and an amazing friend. I hope you are still dancing since you are the best dancer I have ever seen. I am also glad that you can see the world now. I am so happy for you. I hope everything is going well. I also wanted you to know that you are my best friend. I really enjoyed the time we spent together. Anyway, Happy Birthday and thank you! Sincerely, Liam Keller

124 Cooper Brown

“What’s the address? What’s the address! Is it from New York?” Helen exclaimed. “It’s from our neighborhood,” her mom answered, “near the park that you usually go to.” *** When she came to the park again, she saw the peach blossoms where they used to sing and dance together. The peach trees bloomed again in the early spring, carefully decorating the stage for the young dancer. “It is beautiful, like you,” she murmured. Her eyes were blurred, and a tear fell down her cheek. She had been to this place a thousand times after she got her new eyes, but this time she had a different feeling of déjà vu. She knew she had seen this scene earlier than the light entered her eyes. She could sense his presence even though she was sure that he would never come back for an inexplicable reason. At the setting of the sun, she seemed to hear his favorite song. So she danced again, this time, with sorrow but determination. The melody and the dancing silhouette stayed in the park eternally, under the peach tree. “And the wind is gentle...”1 She hummed to the naughty birds whose songs broke someone’s dream on this beautiful morning. 1 Referring to a well-known response of the Japanese Author Natsume Sōseki’s translation of “The moonlight is beautiful,” meaning “me too.”

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s t n e m Ele ook Brigit C

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as the gold spires grasp at the stars, with the deep dark chasm of rubies and blood hidden beneath a shimmering sheen of silver stream the emerald fingertips and obsidian tongue the silent footsteps of iron shoes up the decrepit stone stairs of the tower beneath the moon approaching an ever-so-elegant mass of sapphire skin and diamond tears

u Yufan W

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Luna Moth Zoe Bredesen

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As the gentle breeze combs through the weathered persimmon tree, she is with her hundreds of children, resting on a leaf. Her tattered wings take their final flight to the forest floor. By daylight, the ants will have picked her apart. But tonight the moon is full. She has lived for seven sunrises and now, she is ready to sleep for a thousand more.

Zoe Bredesen

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Colophon Colophon The Rough Draft is a student-led extracurricular. Volume 20, of the 2020-2021 academic year, received a Silver Crown as well as a Gold Medalist Critique from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. Volume 21’s 250 copies were created using Adobe InDesign CC 2022. The magazine was printed by Allegra Print • Signs • Design. The fonts used were Adobe Caslon Pro and Gastromond. The cover art was designed and drawn by Amelia Miller. As in previous years, the publication received submissions in two waves—the first deadline being November 19, 2021 and the second being February 11, 2022. The staff selects work based on the quality of the piece, overarching thematic harmony, and a diversity of authors; furthermore, every piece is evaluated blindly by replacing author names with two-letter codes, stymying reader bias. 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. All work must be published attached to the author’s name and must adhere to the Flint Hill School community standards. Pieces are edited for grammar, and formatting is standardized throughout the publication. If the staff see fit, content warnings will appear with pieces that depict difficult themes. 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, Christine Allred, whose endless support was crucial to the creation of this year’s edition. 130

Masthead Masthead Editor-in-Chief Anna Guethoff Layout and Design Amelia Miller & Cooper Brown Copy Editor Anna Guethoff Editorial Staff Rachel Cai Devin Dunn Vlad Kovtun Isaac Grossman Ida Guerami Neha Matai Andrew McKee Delaney Miller Kat Nurik Clara Stevens Sofia Yu Yixuan Zhang Faculty Advisor Dr. Christine Allred

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