Fructidor Art and Literature
H.O.P.E. VOLUME II ISSUE I
About Humanities Online Platform for Everyone (HOPE) is an independent, student-run online journal that creates opportunities for high school students in the United States and around the world who are interested in the humanities to publish their outstanding works. These include creative writings (poetry and prose), research papers, editorial reviews, and visual arts. We realize that publication opportunities for high school students interested in the humanities are very limited. Thus, we hope to create this platform to help high school students to earn credit for what they have written or created. This is not merely a journal, but a place for lovers of the humanities to express themselves and receive recognition.
Submissions
Submissions are published on a monthly basis. You may submit at the following link: www.hopehumanities.org. This issue features winning pieces from the 2020 H.O.P.E. Writing and Art Competition.
Staff Design
Amy Wang Alice Shao Andy Xu Holly Zhuang
Managing Editors
Tim Mei Tony He Asya Lyubavina Mona Zhao Jack Cai Seth Amofa Alice Shao Linda Pang Amy Wang
Editors
Slade Huang Elaine Shao Yuhui Huang Tracy Li Tina Zeng Ruosong Gao Yutong Yang
Contents Cover Summer
Anonymous
1
Boxing on 42nd and 8th Lian Wang
1
"Wave" Landy Zhou
2
" Torn" Cynthia Jin
3
The Rickshaw Angel Zhou
6
" Threshold" Juju Qiu
7
七月四日
7
“Cheep" Siduo Zhang
Hanzhi Yu
1
Boxing on 42nd and 8th
Lian Wang
A man is boxing on 42nd and 8th.
still crept out parted lips in
He squints ahead, throwing
his sleep. His mother
sharp jabs, dodging cleanly
didn’t stand a chance,
that hook at his left.
sweat cleansed soil from her wrinkles, traced the curve of
He boxes the cold, the 41 degrees
her eyelids, gluing them shut.
that feels like 20, with a flannel tied around
He boxes the life that’s too
baggy jeans, hanging on a frame
real. The stubborn breath,
too narrow.
the kid with his son’s nose, the good mornings that some
He boxes his one loyal pal
give him. They keep him awake.
who has ears of a gentle breeze that carries his sounds in whiffs and howls, who buries his secrets and fears in the ceaseless laughter, in no one who knows his name. He boxes his body, his arms too shaky to wield a drill, his mind too muddled to tell a chai latte from a flat white. But jokes on them, he survives with pennies to his name. He boxes the illness that killed his family. His son inhaled his lungs open, seizing candy air. He never exhaled, but life
"Wave" by Landy Zhou
2
"Torn" By Cynthia Jin
3
The Rickshaw Angel Zhou
His stomach grumbled, protesting the lack of sustenance felt deep in his abdomen, while his eyes focused on the sagging ceiling composed of gaping metal boards, unable to sleep. It wasn’t the putrid smell of liquid filth seeping from the narrow walkways that kept him awake, not his aching vertebrae pleading for a softer surface to lay upon, nor was it the alarming news of another vicious virus spreading in a neighborhood where clean water had always been a luxury. It was the deafening cries of his infant son that kept him awake, among many other concerns like the few rupees hidden underneath the insole of his left shoe. Were they still there, and if so how many were, and did it even matter? When news of the pandemic and a government-issued quarantine approached, Amit was still sweating amidst the sultriness of the March air. His back arched and ached. That day, the rickshaw he commanded held an unusually corpulent customer, an American lady-her accent gave her away-who repeatedly asked him to speed up in a muffled voice as she held tightly to her cheap fleece, not wanting to be late for an international flight back home. Upon their prompt arrival at the airport, she hastily searched through her wallet, only to find crumpled sheets of five hundred rupees. After some hesitation, she gingerly handed him the money, treating it like soiled underwear, it was a pandemic after all, then rushed through the glass doors. In return for receiving a generous smile from the green Gandhi, Amit’s wife tended to a new blister on the bottom of his left foot. The second blister could wait, for now. That was the last time Amit pulled his rickshaw. Walking back home, he heard from another rickshaw driver, Dheeraj, that people living in the city were becoming sick with “the crown prince virus.” The germ wasn’t allegedly deadly to young adults, Dheeraj told him, but fatal to the old and the young-it tended to extremes. Dheeraj also announced that the government had ordered a “lockdown” for the next twenty-one days. What was that about? Moreover, Amit was told to imminently stock up on necessities, which would be subsidized for those who lived in the slums, if one had a proper ID that wasn’t expired. With a valid purple sticker issued this year. Signed in blue ink on the back, not black. Amit didn’t even want to look. All Amit could think about was the fear that if the virus spread among the slums, like the odor of curry and spice, his son, Rahul would be among its first victims.
4 Only five months and six days old, his eyes were dark like Amit’s yet unclouded, and his smile bright enough to light up the night; an age much too young to die. Moreover, Amit worried about the subsidy, and that purple sticker, because, after all, Dheeraj lived in a slum approved by the regulators and he resided in one without legal recognition. There would inevitably be a bureaucrat who had a problem. That was life. And no, the bureaucrat wouldn’t care about poverty, which Amit was more familiar ever with. Engulfed by the looming darkness of the busted and crusted ceiling, Amit contemplated for solutions, afraid to let his mind even go to the idea that this time, there may not be one. Then again, just yesterday, Amit witnessed a woman who lived across the street from his shack, surreptitiously scurry a plate of cold rice in her arms. When Amit asked her where she had gotten it, the woman didn’t say a word, for fear of spreading the virus through her lips, but she pointed...towards the dumpster. His bushy eyebrows converged as another thought entered. Amit still did have his rickshaw. And even though everything was technically on pause or mute because of the crown prince bitch of a virus, people would still need necessities - some aspects of life would have to carry on. Perhaps, Amit’s rickshaw was the last straw his family could clutch on to. Or was it a dagger? Amit knew that driving the rickshaw meant two things for sure - more green buddhas and another green - the lurking germ of the crown prince unseen. He shut his eyes, tight. Should he stay locked down at home, as the government ordered, or join the fight? A man had a duty to feed his family, that was for sure, but what if he caught something in that rickshaw, and like a stalking ghost, it followed him to his home and had its dinner there? Amit knew, were anyone to get sick, the hospitals would be overrun anyway. Even if they were lucky enough to beat the crush of a line, the medical bills would bankrupt them for life. After all, Amit was in that middle zone, not destitute enough for free care, he wouldn’t ever be there, but no health insurance either. Once any doctor found out, he would be kicked out. Pleasantly. That night, Amit mentally chastised himself for having to reside by the slum, but eventually, he figured that perhaps in his case, history was the guilty culprit. If he were a rickshaw, history was the driver who pulled Amit towards his destiny. Amit’s ancestors were called the untouchables, victims of the now abolished caste system. But its shadow lurked. Although Indian Independence brought an end to the loathed colonial system, Amit often felt the ominous echo of its history. It was an omnipresent and obscure cloud stalking him and all those who live in the slums. He saw its reflection in the eyes of his neighbor as she carried home the plate of rice. He saw it everywhere.
5 Amit saw something else however-stars that embedded into the night sky. For the first time, due to the lessening of human activities, the air grew clear of dust and smog, and obtained a hue of blue-magnificent in both days and nights. He felt a kinship in these bright lights, which he briefly imagined were holes poked in the sky, looking up and into a brighter world, like the holes in his bedroom ceiling. This evoked in him for the first time, a sense of hope. So, he began to think, though this virus ravaged lives now, would it save some too? Was this earth’s way of healing, or at least resting? Would animals be happier while they bathe in the coming day’s rays of unfiltered virgin sun? By dawn the next morning the first ray of pure sunshine shone through the uneven holes above Amit’s tiny shack, landing upon his forehead, gently caressing his taut cheeks. Almost like God’s apology for a restless night. His gleaming jet-black lashes fluttered, then revealed a pair of determined eyes. Without disturbing his wife and son who were still in slumber, he lifted his back and swiftly swung his feet to the edge of the squeaky bed. Carefully, he fitted his swollen feet into the worn canvas shoes and pushed through the thin screeching door. Amit carefully examined his callous hands, so as to position the unworn parts on the wooden handless. His feet started out in a shuffle but steadily increased to a stable trot with no signs of fear. No signs of fear whatsoever. No fear. None. He stepped out into the sun.
6
"Threshold" by Juju Qiu
7
七月四日
Hanzhi Yu
几声鸟鸣将他从梦中拉回了现实，晨雾仍未散去，时候尚早，恰好赶上了日出。 他撇了眼身旁熟睡的妻子，便蹑手蹑脚地下了床，走出木屋。用尽全身力气伸了个懒 腰后，他便坐在一块大石头上看着太阳缓缓从山背爬起，清晨也随之来临。忽然，他 眯起眼睛，转头看向了远处的一股竖直升起的黑烟，沉思数秒后站起身来，进屋叫醒 了妻子。“快起来，我们得赶快离开这了。”妻子睁开眼睛，凝视着天花板，数秒后 用稍许不安的语气问道：“又有地方烧起来了吗？” 男人抬起头将目光放在了别处，低声道：“是自燃。”女人听后叹了口气，“ 已经一个月了，什么时候才是个头？”男人摇了摇头，喃喃：“我也不知道。”女人 坐起身，张开双臂抱紧男人，“我们肯定能出去的，不是吗？”男人微笑，“那是当 然。”说罢，两人收拾行李，往前方走去。
"Cheep" by Siduo Zhang
8 埋着头走了许久，转眼间太阳便爬上了头顶，透过层层树叶仍是异常的毒辣。两 人皆已满头大汗。这片森林不同于其他的森林，安静得出奇，除了夫妇两拿开山刀劈 开枝干的声音外便没有其他杂音了，听不见动物的鸣叫，听不见树叶的沙沙声，只能 听到自己的呼吸与脚步声。为了节省体力，两人都没有说话，只顾径直往前走。那股 升起的黑烟离二人越来越近，终于，在劈开无数道杂草之后，一片废墟出现在了两人 面前。一栋倒塌的木屋以及一具烧焦了的尸体。“果然不出我所料。这个人不知道出 于何种原因自燃了，然后挣扎着跑出屋子，活活烧死了。”男人这么说道，女人的嘴 唇微微颤抖，面色有些发白。 男人的惊呼打断了女人的思索：“快来看，这有张地图！”女人惊诧地叫了一 声，跑了过去。“根据地图显示的我们的位置，再往前走就到地图边界了，也意味着 我们要走出这片森林了！”男人喊着，从背包里拿出了记事本，开始记录。 “今天是7月3日，自直升机坠毁以来已有三个月之久，今天终于要摆脱这该死 的鬼地方了，三个月以来，每天都能看到升起的黑烟，这里的生物不知是出于何种原 因，常常自燃而死，这片森林也是该死的燥热，完全不像一片正常的雨林。可能是老 天眷顾吧，我们只需再往前走一天左右的时间便能走出去了，想想我都觉得激动。等 我出去以后，一定要将7月4日作为我们夫妇的另外一个纪念日，就叫它希望日好了。 顺便一起庆祝一下我发现了一片世界地图上没有的奇异森林。” 很快便日落了，两人手牵手坐在有些发烫的草坪上。夫妇与下沉夕阳之间隔了一 层白雾，部分雾气渐渐化开变为云彩。整片天空只有西边还有着温暖的橘黄色，其余 部分都裹上了黑夜与星辰。云朵由橘粉色逐渐转为灰色，雾气与繁星相接，森林的寂 静在此时此刻反而更加衬托了眼前的美景，两人的身旁飞舞起了点点萤火虫。终于， 太阳消失了，而皎白的月亮挂在了穹顶上。 “我想，今晚我们能睡个好觉。”女人面带笑意，从口袋里拿出一瓶安眠药，“ 刚好还剩两片。”男人抱住女人，两人便这样于月色下缠绵了一阵，吃下安眠药后带 着对明日的期待，拥抱着进入了甜美的梦乡。
十一点五十九分，森林边际燃起了熊熊烈火。
7月4日一清早，一个男人从地上醒来，眯起眼睛，看向了前方的一处黑烟。
“又是自燃。”
他走到黑烟处时，看见两具烧焦了的尸体紧紧相拥。
