Floréal Art and Literature
H.O.P.E. VOLUME II ISSUE III
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 Submissions are published on a monthly basis. You may submit at the following link: www.hopehumanities.org
Staff Design
Amelia Jenny Lucy Stella Unics Yu
Art
Commentary
Paper
Literature
Editors-in-Chief
Alice Cathy Wang Ava Zhang Forrest Leila Lucas Xie Mo Moxuan Xiong Scott Ray Cheng Tim Mei Vivian Zixi
Athena Laurance Lochien Neil Sam Sean Lee Victoria
Brooke Cam Cassina Cynthia Dora Ross Tina
Amelia Neil Ross
Contents 1
I'm Sorry, Love Emily
7
Photography
2
Photography
8
A New Beginning Ziyue Wu
3
Danse Macabre
9
Tomato Falls Thalia Renaker
4
Ephemeral Landy Zhou
5
In Time of Plague
6
Peter Luo
Anonymous
Cheryl Li
Philip
Photography Anonymous
10
Tim Mei
Homes Jackie Huang
Cover Photography Stella Shan
1
I’m Sorry. Love, Emily On the top shelf of a little white bookcase in my room sit two notebooks. They were my great grandmother’s. I didn’t know her well, and even today when someone talks about her nothing comes up in my mind but the word “old.” By the time I was old enough to remember things, she had succumbed to the final stages of Alzheimer’s that she, according to my parents, had fought back for years. Whenever my family took the 45-minute-journey to her trailer-turned-home in the woods, I would mourn the loss of my sunny Saturday afternoons. While my mother prayed and burned red candles painted with Jesus’s open arms, my brother and I played explorers in the grassy patch outside the house, avoiding the insects’ nests that festered in the untouched space underground. My aunt would call us inside to spend time with Doris, most of this time we spent sitting on her old floral print couch (smelling faintly of cigarette smoke as all old floral print couches do), nodding along to my mother’s narration of Great Grandma’s youth. Every time she spoke of a particularly funny memory she would glance at her grandmother, waiting for some kind of response. She never got one. While my mother lectured us on what a wonderful woman my great grandmother was, I searched for something in her eyes that would give me a hint about how she had been before; before she got sick and before she moved in with my great aunt and before I played in her yard as my mother burned Jesus candles and, before she died, just a few months later. In her wake, a stiff dress deemed pretty by my aunt clung to my skin in the humid May air. My great grandmother, in her open casket, wore a powder pink dress. An easel with a picture of teenager Doris sat to the left of the casket in the otherwise empty room. I peered into the casket, immediately begging my mom to let me go outside when I caught a glimpse of the pale cakey skin on my great grandmother’s
2 hand. My brother said she could get up and walk right by and he wouldn’t be surprised. I found my dad conversing genially in a group of distant family members I had never met and pulled him outside onto the steps of the funeral home. The clouds had all left by noon, leaving the sun alone to shine on the new pavement, causing the whole world to smell of tar. The top of my head burned. “I don’t really feel sad,” I confessed, looking up to my father for support. My dad sighed and fussed with his dress shirt collar, “you didn’t really know her, not like these people did.” My stomach kept flipping upside down and I caught sight of an assemblage of ants surrounding a dead member of their nest on the pavement. One of them crawled right over that dead ant and picked at its antennae. Another member from the group noticed a crumb nearby and redirected his focus, breaking away from the mortuary to inspect his new interest. I peered into the casket, immediately begging my mom to let me go outside when I caught a glimpse of the pale cakey skin on my great grandmother’s hand. My brother said she could get up and walk right by and he wouldn’t be
Anonymous
3 surprised. I found my dad conversing genially in a group of distant family members I had never met and pulled him outside onto the steps of the funeral home. The clouds had all left by noon, leaving the sun alone to shine on the new pavement, causing the whole world to smell of tar. The top of my head burned. “I don’t really feel sad,” I confessed, looking up to my father for support. My dad sighed and fussed with his dress shirt collar, “you didn’t really know her, not like these people did.” My stomach kept flipping upside down and I caught sight of an assemblage of ants surrounding a dead member of their nest on the pavement. One of them crawled right over that dead ant and picked at its antennae. Another member from the group noticed a crumb nearby and redirected his focus, breaking away from the mortuary to inspect his new interest. My grandmother Mary’s cursive handwriting was recognizable, as it appeared in all the Christmas cards I forced my mother to read out loud to me even though I was in the second grade and was “supposed to know these things, what are they teaching in those schools?” At the time, I wasn’t sure how the gift had gotten to me. Did she send it down from heaven? Or did she plan ahead and write me the card before she had died? It wasn’t until my mother explained to me what a nice idea it was for my grandma to write those things that I put the notebooks down and stopped wracking my brain to remember what kind of handwriting my great grandmother Doris had. I thanked my grandmother even though her present made me want to throw up, wrap those notebooks right back up into their package and never look at them again. She didn’t know what Great Grandma Doris would say. Maybe she hated me still and would’ve rather written “you were a horrible great grandchild for not crying at my funeral,” or “it’d be better if you were in this coffin” or something like that. Instead, they all went on ahead and pretended like I deserved those notebooks. I decided that I couldn’t tolerate the books and their little angels singing songs
4 of peace. When my mother saw that I put them in a grocery bag and left them by the trash can she took them and put them right on top of my bookshelf, next to my 2nd grade diary and a pocket English dictionary. I’ve only touched them once since. On the top shelf of my little white bookcase sit two notebooks. Only one page has been used. It reads: I’m sorry. Love, Emily.
5
Danse Macabre
Cheryl Li
“One can’t, perhaps, but two can. With a little proper assistance, you might have left off at seven.” - Through the Looking-Glass, Lewis Carroll I’ve always loved the dark. Truly. Even when dusk has settled, and there are dove-grey shadows creeping across the floorboards, I refuse to turn the light on. It is better to sit and play blind than to see that which I loathe. I only have to close my eyes — the dingy little room where I’ve slain and buried a thousand slivers of laughter is gone — and feel complete, like peeling back a dried scab to reveal the gnarly pink skin underneath. I’ve been prideful. Half-healed wounds bleed when you tear at them, do they not? Even if it’s only a gentle, unintentional tug in the wrong direction. It makes a sting, a grimace, and more often than not, a muffled curse. The cracks on my hands are all the proof I am in need of. Days are still quite warm here, but nights have turned chilly in spite of the old silk comforter I’ve wrapped myself in, and they’ve bled my skin dry. Each jerking movement of my finger rip the crevices a little more, and a pin-sized drop of crimson liquid would well up, only to be rubbed down into a tiny circlet of blazing sunset; I’d reach for the tube of almond oil, only to remember that it is gone. Empty, like the gaping hole I have inside, a hole where joy had once resided. I have nothing except my memories. To give or to turn to? Both, perhaps. It is quiet here, almost peaceful – provided one can ignore the ceaseless murmurs of countless yesterdays. The surface of my worn chair is tepid as I press my palms against it, grateful for the deafening
6 silence. Noises are downright abhorrent. I remember, back in March, a week after my first real birthday, when I dragged you along to watch Captain Marvel with me at a real cinema. Not the wide-screened TV I hog to myself at home. The first few moments were agony as my head throbbed to the roaring volume. I inhaled the creamy fragrance emanated from a tub of popcorn held by an elegantly dressed young woman sitting close at hand. I told you that this is what I wanted, over and over again though you never once argued otherwise. The pounding anguish didn’t stop until the two of us were out in the crisp city air again, and you bought me a new pair of shoes. They are here, right now – just under the bed, with its dust-covered sheets and frumpy pillow you once stuffed full of lavender. I haven’t worn them yet, it’s been more than eight months. What can I say? It’s been a... preoccupied... time. Since that Saturday. I feel as though I’m torn in half. One part, me, is still here. What’s left behind is still hurtling through the last few years, whipping in and out of sight, amid the piles of roses and ash. The dark suits me; a gangly boy proclaims into the dullness, his voice thinner than a matchstick. A smattering of applause, accompanied by a few high-pitched laughs from the spectators, breaks apart the rapt silence. "O you possessed sturdy intellect..." and the scarlet-cheeked man raked a hand through his saltand-pepper curls. Your way is opening up, dearest, you whisper as you press your solid chest against my thick black locks. The worst might be here, but I – You what? See, I know all about broken promises. You said these memories would drain me, and they did; you said that I’ve known misfortune, and I had; you said you don’t recall much of anything, and I repeated to you what little there remains to treasure between the two of us, smiling over whatever details I described. Too many days with too little meaning on them: when it all ends there will only be a headstone to prove that it ever happened, and I ever was anything.
7 I’ve been practicing my poker face. It doesn’t take much effort to render my features utterly impassive. Unlike armor, I am not holding a city besieged; I curve my lips upward when people tell jokes, and press them together tightly when people look at me for disapproval. Ridiculously easy. The most dangerous moments are when people try to make eye-contact — the only thing I can’t really hide from is the emptiness within. Eyes, like a pair of deeply acrid wells, heavens on a starless night, absorb all light and return nothing of what they have taken. I can’t tuck that away behind a smile or a frown, nor when emptiness clashes against entropy, nor darkness resents the impurity of another darkness. You don’t understand that! It gnaws me, rankles me, and scorches me. What right do you have to tell me when, what, where, and how? You are not wearing my scars, but you insist that you feel my pain — perhaps you do — and then again, you turn on the lights when I am desperate to hide. I know shadows attached to the soles of my feet are with me wherever I go, imprinting a stain that no flowing water can wash away. I can drink the water or drown in it, with the flash of sunlight dancing on a stream. I need to cleanse the twisted smile gathering dust in the back of my mind, but it has grown onto my mask and into my skin, latching and burrowing deep into my flesh, so that when the time comes to remove the mask, I must rip and tear and flay my own face. I am waiting for Mephistopheles to die. Money is not my problem. There is no shame of admitting how much I am fond of it. Don’t tell me how virtue makes up for poverty, because virtue here is an empty promise, and I’ve had my fill of it. It won’t keep me warm on a freezing night, or hide my sallow skin with dripping jewels, but is wasted, with only the slightest pang of regret, to keep my demons purring. It’s all a spur-of-themoment decision. You ask me why I keep doing things that bite, and I brush a stray strand of hair behind one ear before declaring that I simply can — to
8 feel something solid and mine beneath my fingers, to know that I still have some semblance of controlling over what I want. You can stare at all you like. It makes no difference to me, not when I know that you have already accepted it. Me, and all the rest. You promised me before that everything you owned one day would be mine. All your property, amounting to a few respectable numbers. We are not rolling in wealth, but then, I have never dreamed of it. My dreams are such regular visitors who look practically the same – entrancing enough, horrifying enough, startling enough to find me in a cold sweat. Is there still a drop of water for my parched throat? Yes, and I gulp gratefully from the tumbler you press into my hands, coolness drowning smoke and ashes, to course through thickened veins and loosen my sluggish blood. I’ve made a few promises to you of my own, about what kind of house I’d get, how I’d keep a room ready for you forever. You could visit me — two days out of seven — the way you do right now. Surely, you can hear the jingling gold in my voice. I hate it when my own words sound hollow. Because we both know that it’s never going to be that simple, and we both know how much I like to be alone in the dark. You fill a room with chatter and noise, but only lingering love I feel keeps me from pulling a blanket over my head. I can hide my frustration from the world, but not from you. Nothing’s ever simple between us and the world: wasn’t, isn’t, and won’t be. I can make beliefs that whatever’s outside the door I’ve shut doesn’t exist, and can only lose that illusion when you come bouncing in -“Why do you sit in the dark?” you said on flicks the light.
9
In Time of Plague First they postponed the carnival, Then they cancelled the church service, Soon they would lose their sanity, And then their spirit, and then flesh. Fortunately, I came across you, In the unfortunate time of a plague, Raging, raging through the city Like an invisible flame, hungry for life. The bronze sculpture of an aged general on the horseback is wearing A mask, too. So are the paintings in the gallery, And a flock of crows, flying by. Last night I came to visit your apartment, And brought along with me three roses, one dead, one frail, and one strong —for the past, the plague, and us. A doctor wearing a bird-like beak, Stopped me at the entrance and pointed At the seven red crosses, freshly drawn. Seven deaths —he said—the plague had claimed them. The Plague, I heard, was a shape-shifter.
Philip
10
A doppelgänger, of fear. One night it took The shape of a headless man; another day It became a two-head lion, or a nine-head snake. I took down the silver cross on my chest, And my amulet, my mask, just to Be closer with you—so that my bare skin Can touch yours, in time of a plague. Outside, a courthouse was lit on fire, A shuttle bus capsized, A politician fallen victim. I lied—we will be alright— I whispered, holding you tighter. Tighter.
Ephemeral by Landy Zhou
11
A New Beginning
PHotography by Anonymous
Silenced by Tim Mei
12 Ziyue Wu
Eyes barely opening, Cindy Wu squinted at the clock—it was 6 a.m. She felt like a complete wreck. A plethora of anxieties kept her awake for the better part of the night. She peered out the window to see heavy rain pouring down the gloomy sky. It seemed to resonate with her tumult of emotions perfectly—cold, grey, and bitter—paired with the sheer weight of her perturbing thoughts. She could not sleep, yet she could not stay awake either. But she forced herself to close her eyes before she collapsed. After tossing and turning in bed for over an hour, she finally managed to fall asleep. But a lurking sense of unease was already creeping up on her. She woke up again a few hours later and, after regaining consciousness, she realized that today was high school graduation day. What was supposed to be one of the jocular days of her life had to be called off because of the pandemic. It would be heedless to say that Cindy did not see it coming. Quite evidently, there would be no graduation ceremony as classes moved online towards the end of the school year. Cindy knew that students across the world faced a similar fate, but she could not help but feel a speck of regret. After all, she worked incredibly hard to be crowned the class valedictorian. The importance of hard work was instilled in Cindy at a young age. As the only child of working-class Chinese immigrants, she was all too familiar that hard work paved the path secure and financially sound future. Over the years, she managed to maintain an impeccable academic record. Naturally, it did not come as a surprise to anyone, least of all to Cindy, when she earned the class valedictorian. The only motivation to plow ahead was to make her parents proud. She would deliver her speech in honor of them, and they would, hopefully, be pleased enough to smile back at her. Cindy was dreading this day for a while now, for she had to confess something to her parents. High school graduation ushered the end of an era and
13 marked the beginning of a new chapter in life, so it seemed only fitting that this day would serve as her self-imposed ultimatum to talk with her parents about her future. The Wu household usually shunned away sensitive topics that potentially resulted in conflict. Nevertheless, Cindy could not wait any longer to splurt out everything she ever wanted to say. In three months, she would be off to college. Unbeknownst to her parents, she had made perhaps the most critical decision of her life by herself. Although she guessed already that it would not play out well with her parents, she still hoped for their acquiescence. Growing up, Cindy felt the immense pressure of her parents’ expectations. Her friends often teased her about having hawkish micromanagers. Every decision she made was based on what her parents desired. However, she didn’t just excel academically—she was also gifted in art. Unfortunately, her parents made it clear that art could never be more than a hobby. In middle school, Cindy was awarded the chance to exhibit her works at a local art gallery after winning an art competition. Although she had shared this exciting news with her parents, they did not show up to any of the exhibition days. For them, art simply wasn’t important enough to merit leaving work a few hours early. Cindy suddenly didn’t want to showcase her work anymore after learning that her parents would not come to her debut. She still remembered those days when she fell into a miserable, hollow hole. When Cindy moved to the United States with her family, she was only four years old. Oftentimes she would imagine how daunting it must’ve been to leave everything behind and relocate to a foreign country, especially since neither of her parents spoke more than a few phrases of English at the time. When they immigrated, her father, who used to work as a manufacturing engineer back in China, started working at a gas station. Her mother, formerly a high school history teacher, stayed at home to take care of Cindy initially but later worked as a cleaner. Their only goal was to make ends meet. Once Cindy was old enough to understand the sacrifices her parents made, she asked them what influenced their decision to move. They told her that they wanted a better life for her.
14 Thus, Cindy felt the burden to repay their sacrifices through being the flawless daughter. But when her achievements went unacknowledged, she pondered whether her parents ever felt proud of her. However, everything made sense after reading an article about differences in parenting styles between Asian parents and American parents—it was taboo for Asian parents to tell their children that they were proud of them. She wondered if, perhaps, the article unnecessarily fed on stereotypes, but it certainly helped explained her relationship with her parents. As a child, Cindy’s parents taught her how modesty was one of the highest virtues in Chinese culture. So she learned her way—to always remain humble and never accept compliments, no matter how well-deserved. As Cindy walked downstairs, her father enjoyed a cup of tea while reading the newspaper, and her mother was trying to solve a sudoku puzzle. The rain stopped, and sunlight peeked in through the windows, illuminating the living room with a radiant glow. It was the perfect calm before the storm. She started feeling guilty about the chaos she was about to trigger, but she could not hold off any longer. She had applied to five of the best colleges in the country and got accepted to all five with full financial aid. Her parents only knew about her acceptance to four schools. She secretly applied to the fifth, which was the most prestigious art school in the country. She worked tirelessly on her portfolio for months, but she was glad that her artistic talent became acknowledged in the end. Once Cindy opened all her acceptance letters, she was faced with deciding the course of her future. After much deliberation, she decided to follow her heart. As she approached them, she felt it in every bone of her body that all hell was about to break loose. The conversation unfolded with Cindy’s mother bursting into incessant tears and her father scolding her with exploding fury. They told her to revoke her enrollment agreement. Cindy wanted to expound on her decision, but they refused to let her speak. Her mother sat silently while her father launched into a
15 tirade about what a disgrace it would be for her to go to art school—they would “lose their faces” among their friends and relatives. Cindy was exposed to the significance of one’s “face” in Chinese culture at a very young age. Both “saving face” and “losing face” were closely tied to family reputation and respectability. Her parents took it very seriously. Cindy, on the other hand, never quite understood why people fussed over what others thought. Cindy could not stand her parents’ presence for a moment longer. All her life, she tried to be the ideal daughter—getting straight A’s, never missing a single class, and never late for any assignment. But her parents seemed to take all her efforts for granted. Now, she was ready to evacuate as far away from her parents as possible. Cindy broke through the front door and started running. She always found running to be therapeutic. As she ran, she wondered if her passion was worth pursuing if it upset her parents. But again, it was her life. It was better to take a chance and see where it led her rather than harboring regrets about the couldhave-beens for the rest of her life. She was more than the mere culmination of her parents’ dreams and expectations. Cindy’s city had a beautiful trail that ran for over 20 miles. She would often go for runs because she enjoyed the serene surroundings that accompanied her. After an hour of running, she rested by the river and listened to her favorite podcast. The latest episode was a special on COVID-19 stories all over the world. People were stranded far away from home and separated from their loved ones without the slightest idea of when they could reunite. Many lost their loved ones or even their own lives. So many more were struggling to procure food and other daily necessities. At that moment, Cindy felt waves of gratitude gushing towards her. At least, she and her family were healthy—they had food, shelter, and, most importantly, they had each other. Once the podcast ended, Cindy glanced down at her watch. A couple of hours
16 passed since she escaped to her outdoor sanctuary. She had finally broken loose of the heavy metal chains tied to her ankles, but it was about time for her to return home. Cracking open the front door in despondence, she saw her parents seated at the dinner table. “You’re finally home! We have been waiting to celebrate your high school graduation with you.” Her dad exclaimed cheerfully. Stupified by his sudden change, Cindy’s face lit up. She walked closer to the table and was met with her favorite dishes: shumai, century egg congee, and bai tang gao, her favorite dessert. The lighthearted dinner conversation and a thoughtfully-prepared meal were all Cindy needed to dissipate their earlier tension. Not only was her stomach filled, but the meiweijiayao also warmed her heart. “We love you, Cindy,” her mom spoke softly as Cindy savored the last bits of her bai tang gao.
Tomato Falls by Thalia Renaker
17
homes His; down feathers from Hungary gold marble floors flower diffused air looks out crystal glass to see “warm enough”
“too cold”
“too rough”
“too pungent”
Their; blanket woven by rats coarse cement
Jackie Huang
18
“flat enough” “sweet enough”
floor air, rotten like food looking back out a hole from plastic trash cans.