GRANDMA'S OLD LOQUAT TREE Tonye Zhang

Past the narrow bluestone pavement, past the flickering maroon lanterns, past the mottled azure moss scattered on the stone bridge, past the deserted stage of the once flourishing theatre, I balked at an aged wooden gate. Gently touching the somber wrinkle that scarred the all too familiar door, I pushed it open, almost afraid to interrupt the tranquility with a creak. Wisteria and ivy clung to the garden walls, weeds and dandelions overgrew the secluded courtyard. In the corner of the garden, a dying Loquat tree stood forlornly in chains of frosty silver. The withered foliage fell, like torn parchments from ancient volumes, like fading butterflies embracing their destiny. Suddenly, I spotted a tiny patch of gold between the branches. This streak of sunlight tickled my hands with its layer of white fluff, whispering nostalgia for my childhood memories. It all begins with a loquat seed sneaking out of a young girl’s hands and settling in the yard thirty years ago. Loquat sprouts in autumn, blooms in winter, bears seeds in spring and ripens in summer. By the time that girl had become my grandmother, she was already a fairly old tree with lush, leathery textured leaves and luscious fruits. In the piercing cold, feathery snowflakes silently floated down and purified the clusters of snowy loquat blossoms, as modest as Grandma’s white apron. By midsummer, small lanterns of amber and honey yellow could be seen dangling from the thick bough, hiding behind the dark green. I would eagerly spring up the rough trunk and pick the ripest, sweetest loquats, when she would benignly hold me up. On those clear balmy nights, Grandma and I would sink down in a rocking chair under the Loquat tree and watched the stars — Antares, Alioth, Venus, Polaris. Accompanied by the low chirps of insects, she would gently fan the cattail leaf and tell stories about her youth in a calm and soothing voice. Often, she would make me a bowl of iced bean jelly drizzled with osmanthus honey and a pyramid of pale loquat pulp.

The Loquat leaves rustled softly in the evening breeze, crooning me a lullaby. Moonlight smoothed away the clouds and peeped through the luxuriant canopy, veiling the courtyard in a gauzy silver. Sleep eluded me. I thought of the young couple, whom Grandma said bought the house and was having the garden demolished and the Loquat tree hewed. I slipped out of bed and climbed to my secret spot on a high bough. I perched on the bleak branch and bid farewell to this benevolent protector of my family. Startled by a subtle crackling sound, I glanced back and saw Grandma standing under the dim, lonely light. A sudden fear of loss submerged me. I climbed down the tree and threw myself into her arms. She tenderly stroked my back and assured, “The Moon waxes and wanes, yet it will always rise. When the God of Fall arrives, you will have your own Loquat tree.” On that moonlit night, Grandma taught me how to preserve the remaining loquats with brown sugar and white wine and sealed them with red mudstone and hemp cord. She passed me the loquats, hands engraved with the growth rings of age, as wrinkled as old bark.

In the mellow dawn, Grandma rested on a rough elm stool and made plump wontons that quietly crouched in the bamboo weavings. I trod along the quartzite path, under the black tiles, and by the white walls. A few pastry shops steamed with a faint scent and the fragrance of tea dyed the misty rain. The vendors’ street cries blended with the soft patting of water on the light boat. I bought an ice-sugar loquat and slowly nibbled the sparkling crust. Occasionally, a white cat strolled leisurely across the foggy alley, or a couple of swallows glided under the eaves.

MASS MURDERER'S MAGIC

Danya Risam-Chandi xoxo, cupid

The husband and wife sit contentedly by the fireplace. The woman strokes her husband's hair, humming. The arrow cleanly removes her head.

Next house.

He kneeled on the edge of the rooftop, arrow strung, waiting. The joyous couple made their way down the soft lamplit street. The girl laughs contentedly as he twirls her on the pavement. Thud. She screams.

Next house.

The murderer went on, hour after hour.

Till one day, his crimes compounded. His karmic payday arrived. The feared assassin became a babe.

His arrows remained, but their purpose forever changed.

Happy. Valentine’s.

WHOLE Tyler Kinkema

For as long as I can remember

I’ve had a hole inside me

A deep, dark pit

In the middle of my chest

Probably not the one your picturing

This one has curved edges and jagged corners

And for all my life

I’ve tried to fill it with things

Things like books, grades, sports, approval, love

But nothing fits

They all just fall right through

So I wrap bandage, after bandage, after bandage

And from the outside

Nobody can tell a difference

But from the inside

I’m a shell of a human

I will scour every corner of the earth

Till I find the piece that fits

And I will not stop

Till I am whole