THE IHS TATTLER
January 2019
Table of Contents Poetry
First Place “Expiration Dates” by Valerie Chen p. 11 Second Place “Sunflower” by Irena Rosenberg p. 28 Third Place “Photo of a Soldier” by Hannah Stedman p. 47 “Overflowing” by Zoe Gras p. 04 “Fresh Baked Bread” by Carla Martinez p. 05 “Winter” by Julian Mangino p. 05 “Thoughts of a Thoughtful Pirate in The Crow’s Nest” by Cyrus Kurman-Browning p. 07
“My Past No Longer Defines Me” by Julia McNally p. 16 “New Year” by Alyssa Fieldman p. 17 “Tattered Origami” by Eleanor Randl p. 18 “Red” by Othmane Fardaoussi p. 20 “The World at Night” by Zachary Foley p. 21 “Full Disclosure” by Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out p. 28 “Fallen” by Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out p. 29 “Snow” by Zachary Foley p. 32
“Blackstone’s Slaughterhouse” by Leland Xu p. 08
“Icarus” by Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out p. 39
“Shrimp” by Kyrill Mueller p. 08
“Choose Yourself” by Julia McNally p. 41
“Untitled” by Star McCord p. 09
“she grows wild” by Zoe Gras p. 42
“The Tattler” by Kyrill Mueller p. 10 “News!” by Julian Perry p. 14
“New Year’s Resolutions” by Yoonsuh Kim p. 46 “Advice to a Friend” by Valerie Chen p. 46 “Expiration Date” by Aidan Campbell p. 47
“Untitled” by Jeremy Sauer
“Mea” by Valerie Chen p. 47 “The Spaceman” by Aidan Campbell p. 48 “Stormy Skies and Hurting Eyes” by Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out p. 50 “I Am From...” by Star McCord p. 50
“Ronic, the slowest thing alive” by Elliot Houle p. 44 “About Me” by Catherine Lin p. 44 “Horror” by Jacob Yoon p. 55
Short Fiction
“My Dearest, United States” by Hanqiao Wang p. 54
First Place “Memories of Rain” by Vicky Lu p. 12
Visual Art
Second Place “Heaven and Hell” by Raia Gutman p. 52
First Place Untitled by Donovan Redd p. 43
Third Place “A String of Events” by Alexander Yoo p. 34
Second Place Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 26 Third Place “Polygonal Self Portrait” by Yoonsuh Kim p. 48
“Tension” by Abigail Glickman p. 06 “Untitled” by Star McCord p. 09 “Soldier 3279” by Ezekiel Lawrence p. 22
Untitled by Donovan Redd p. 26
“Dreams” by Charlotte Hoekenga p. 24
“Escape” by Joseph Yoon p. 32
“Silver” by Charlotte Hoekenga p. 28
“Threaded Leaf” by Ned Carlson p. 42 Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 44
“Tomato” by Star McCord p. 31 “The Witness” by Jinho Park p. 51
Photography First Place Untitled by Max Stephenson p. 19 Second Place Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 12 Third Place Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 33 Untitled by Jefferson Sheng p. 01 “Venice Skater” by Ingrid Comella p. 04 Untitled by Joseph Yoon p. 07 Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 09 Untitled by Emma Loiacono p. 09 Untitled by Emma Loiacono p. 09 Untitled by Ramona Gore p. 09 Untitled by Max Stephenson p. 09 Untitled by Max Stephenson p. 10 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 12 Untitled by Rotem Leshed p. 13 Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 15
Untitled by Julia McNally p. 36
Untitled by Julia McNally p. 17
Untitled by Ingrid Comella p. 37
Untitled by Julia McNally p. 17
“Snapshots of the Seasons” by Jefferson Sheng p. 38
Untitled by Max Stevenson p. 18
Untitled by Zachary Foley p. 39
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 20
Untitled by Joseph Yoon p. 40
Untitled by Max Stephenson p. 22
Untitled by Max Stephenson p. 45
Joseph Yoon ’19
“Gaudi” by Ingrid Comella p. 22
Untitled by Emma Loiacono p. 49
arts@ihstattler.com
Untitled by Julia McNally p. 23
Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 50
Untitled by Joseph Yoon p. 24
Untitled by Emma Loiacono p. 50
Untitled by Zachary Foley p. 27
Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 52
Untitled by Ingrid Comella p. 29
Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 53
Untitled by Ingrid Comella p. 30 Untitled by Ned Carlson p. 33
Staff 2018 – 2019 Editor-in-Chief
Vaynu Kadiyali ’19 editor@ihstattler.com
News Editor
Julian Perry ’19 news@ihstattler.com
Opinion Editor
Isaiah Gutman ’19 opinion@ihstattler.com
Features Editor
features@ihstattler.com
Arts Editor
Chloe Moore ’20 Sports Editor
Asha Duhan ’19 sports@ihstattler.com
Literary Editor
Eleanor Randl ’19 literary@ihstattler.com
Back Page Editor
Sophie Wray ’19
backpage@ihstattler.com
Center Spread Editor
Anna Westwig ’21
centerspread@ihstattler.com
Copy Editor
Justin Heitzman ’20 copy@ihstattler.com
Photography Editor
Jefferson Sheng ’20 photo@ihstattler.com
Layout Editor
Jacob Yoon ’21 layout@ihstattler.com
Business and Advertising Manager
Samuel Bazarov ’20 business@ihstattler.com
Webmaster
Tony Yang ’19
Untitled by Max Stephenson p. 33 Untitled by Star McCord p. 33 Untitled by Zachary foley p. 35
web@ihstattler.com
Distribution Manager
Fiona Botz ’19 Karuna Prasad ’20 distribution@ihstattler.com
Archivist
Aurora Wulff ’19 archivist@ihstattler.com
Faculty Advisor
Deborah Lynn
advisor@ihstattler.com
Zoe Gras I cry the poison Of deadly flowers Growing in the silent night. Washing away the death Washing away the anger Washing it into the breath Of my own cowardliness. It fills my throat Creeping and creeping up Until I am overflowing With sorrow and hatred To the point where I cannot breathe And I am left alone In the suffering Of the night.
“Venice Skater� by Ingrid Comella
Winter Julian Mangino Winter you are so cold, Winter you are so brutal Winter you are so white The sun on your snow is so bright You might put up a fight Making me slip, On your ice. Your salt and slush, ruin my shoes that looks so nice. Winter why do you leave so fast, When spring brings rain, I miss the frost, I can not wait until next year, When the snow falls again, And you come back.
Fresh Baked Bread Carla Martinez Feelings suck a lot Sometimes I want kiss Other times I want to dead I’ll just eat some bread When I feel depressed I start to obsess Toaster baths are bad for you Eat some fresh baked bread I want kiss I want to dead I want to eat this fresh baked bread
Tension
the air. Tension crowded the already tight space between the two walls and dislocated all else. Tension engraved each scene, in the taut lines that threaded through the pictured machines, in the talon-like fingertips pointedly placed upon the young woman’s shoulder, in the contrast of the photographs’ black and white and the grays in between. Tension was the gap separating each body, left to be filled by a future generation. Tension revealed itself in the marriage of a man and a woman too young to wed, in the alabaster veil struggling to conceal her naive features, and in the broad shoulder pads that added years to his facade. Tension lingered in the staged poses and rigid postures, in the emotionless stares that seemed to be searching for something beyond the camera.
Abigail Glickman As the fluorescent lights turned on, the long and narrow corridor was illuminated with a harsh intensity. Picture frames filled with long dead relatives lined the walls on both sides of the hallway. The unknown yet familiar bodies wore unsmiling faces; and upon them, and glinting from their eyes, from their furrowed brows, from their sealed lips, was the manifestation: Tension. It seeped out, past the boundaries that held the photographs in place, and pierced 6
Joseph Yoon
Thoughts of a Thoughtful Pirate in The Crow’s Nest Cyrus Kurman-Browning Shiver me timbers My butt cheeks flap in the wind Then the fan turns off
7
Blackstone’s Slaughterhouse Leland Xu Better ten thousand people hanging from the gallows Than a single innocent lamb lying on a plate.
Shrimp Kryill Mueller The all-time favorite, delicious, finger-licking, delightful food. Let me show you the magnitude of shrimp platters Shrimp cocktail, shrimp salad, shrimp stir fry. That’s broad, let me specify Cold shrimp with cocktail sauce, Shrimp salad with mayonnaise, Coconut-ginger shrimp stir fry But the list is short, let me multiply Shrimp burrito, Shrimp enchiladas, Shrimp in a pineapple The list is still too short, let me modify Bacon wrapped shrimp, Chicken fried shrimp, Keto breaded shrimp There are more that qualify Cheesy shrimp garlic bread, Shrimp fried rice, Louisiana shrimp dip The list is extensive, The price inexpensive There are more, but they’re a bore Shrimp is the best, And I am obsessed. 8
Emma Loiacono
Ned Carlson
Untitled Star McCord Waves crashing, people yelling, and my feet tapping calmly. It was just another sea voyage to discover new territories for my country. Even though I was a woman I was respected for my talents and skills both on the sea and off. I could take down any man despite my petite size and I was the smartest person most people have met. I have often been called a witch, heathen, devil worshipper, and everything else one could possibly think of. I didn’t mind, mostly for the reason that I myself don’t know how I do it. I should’ve died many times but I somehow always escaped death without a scratch. A burly man trotted over to me and shouted in a deep bear voice, trying to be a decent amount audible over the thunder of waves crashing into our boat sides. “Ma’am, there’s a dip in the water not too far ahead! Should we turn around?” he questioned. Everyone’s worried eyes burrowed into my skin as
they walked by, waiting for my response. “Full speed ahead.” I coo in a calm voice. We would most likely just fall down to a lower body of water and pop up again, especially with me here. As we drew nearer I noticed fog ahead of the dip, making it impossible to see what was after it. I simply smiled and made my way to the end of the boat, puffing my chest and lifting my leg to rest on a box. The ship slipped over the side of the falling water and we made our way down, down, down. I got nervous when we didn’t hit anything and suddenly we were falling slower. We glide through a large cloud and when we exit I stare, shocked at the vision. The world was floating far above our heads and colorful hands that faded into nothing gently caressed the outer layer of the hovering island I had called home. I guess I’m no longer a round earth believer. 9
The Tattler Kyrill Mueller The school newspaper Incorporate me somehow I can write haikus I’m not all that great But it’s the thought that counts, right? Writing’s a delight I should conclude this Took a while to produce this Please, please include this
Max Stephenson
Emma Loiacono
Valerie Chen
Expiration Dates
Max Stephenson
Ramona Gore
1
Almost all foods have an expiration date, A time when they go rotten, When they start turning a fuzzy White or black and begin smelling like Dead things. That’s just how It is sometimes; you can’t enjoy those Open cans and containers forever. Now, do you ever wonder if Other things have expiration dates? If the memories we make and the Experiences we encounter will end, too? Will they become ugly images in our minds, Decaying just like the expired food Sitting at the bottom of our refrigerators? Will we forget about them until, sooner or later, We open that fridge door in our memories And see all the disgusting, rotting, perishable things That remain in the back of minds?
11
Jeremy Sauer
2
1 Vicky Lu I’ve always loved the rain. Back when I was still on the surface, before we were all trapped down here for being ‘unique’… it’s been so long, I have to remind myself. What it looks like, sounds like, smells like, feels like. My boys were born down here, and being the curious tykes they are, they would bombard me with questions at bedtime every night. Our tradition instead of reading stories.
this green from our pajamas? Or like, the green from those olive things you showed us?” Then, one day, Alois asked a question about something I thought I’d long forgotten. “Dad? You know that water falling from the sky thing you told us about when we were littler than now?” “...Rain.” “Uh-huh. You sure that was real? The kids at school don’t believe me.”
“Was the sky a ceiling? Like, just a really tall, blue one?”
“Your classmates were born down here. They never experienced it.”
“How could the grass be bright green? Like,
“But still,” he protested, “it’s water falling 12
from the sky. Where did it all come from? Was it like the droplets in the caves?”
storm, when the rain was falling. With only a jacket and umbrella, I would watch the world be coated with rain, and breathe in the smell of things being washed away. Problems, responsibilities, all your burdensthey seemed so far away. It was just you, the rain, and your own little shelter…”
“That’s condensation, dripping down from the rock formations above. Real rain was different. When it rained, the whole sky-” “The blue ceiling?” Axel entered, finished with his nightly hygiene routine. I pulled him up into my lap, and tried to imagine how I could possibly explain mother nature to the two younglings.
“Do you think we’ll ever see it one day?” Axel asked. I almost choked on the answer I knew, instead giving him a “maybe” that him seemed satisfied with. “Now, shoo. Go to bed.” They scrambled off my lap onto their respective bunks, and I tucked them in.
“Not a ceiling, Axel. It didn’t end. When it rained… “The sky would turn gray with waterlogged clouds, and countless drops of water came pelting down all at once, whether just for a few minutes or hours at a time. There would be noise, sometimes. A long, rolling sound like a drum following flashes of light that connected the sky and the ground. The rai- the droplets would come together on the ground and sink into the earth, or flow into a nearby body of water…”
“Night, Dad.”
“That sounds scary,” Axel said, and I felt him shudder in my lap.
When soft snores came from inside, a sad smile lifted my lips.
Alois nodded, agreeing with his brother. “It sounds dangerous. Did the light ever burn anything? Didn’t the extra water overfill rivers and stuff?”
“I wish you could,” I said, “I wish you could.”
“Thanks for the memory, Dad.” I gave each of them a pat on the head, whispered “good night,” and closed the door to their room. I found myself frozen in front of the entrance, feet unwilling to leave and mind lost in memories of rain.
“It did, sometimes,” I admitted. “Occasionally, forests full of trees would catch on fire because lightning- the hot flashes- would hit them. But the rain always put it out, and the water that flooded always receded back from whence they came.” “What about you? Were you ever scared when the rain came?” I thought for a second. The way I described it, factually, did seem to be a hazard for living things. However, I had never been afraid. “No,” I told them, “I don’t think I ever was.” “How come?” Alois demanded, “If it was dangerous, how come you weren’t scared?” “Maybe he was brave,” Axel suggested, “Or maybe it wasn’t as scary as it sounds?” “It wasn’t-” I caught myself. Had I been talking the whole time in past tense? Just because I don’t experience it anymore didn’t mean it ceased to exist, so instead I told Axel, “It isn’t. When it rains, everything… changes. Things fall silent, people leave for home… the world becomes something else. “When I was younger--around the same age as you two, I should think- I used to go for walks during a
Rotem Leshed 13
News! Julian Perry If gym comes for our GPAs Or teachers start to demand a raise Who’s to make sure the community knows? Who’s to tell students how it goes? If Tom and Tracy come to school Gotta tell the world how they’ll rule If Jason and Luvelle be eerily conspirin’ Best have some independent journalist be eyin’ If there’s an actual election for the BoE Who will inform voters, who if not thee? If you keep an eye on the town and watch every election Then write for The Tattler’s amazing news section
Ned Carlson
My Past No Longer Defines Me Julia McNally I ask you to put everything you thought you knew about me
Those thoughts make real goals
And put it in a safe
Many thought you were already gone
You survived, I didn’t think you would
Maybe we can look back on it later, years later
But you are as resilient as a forest after a wildfire
When you’ve found your real self
We’ll look back at some point, when all is settled
But you’ve changed, you’ve changed so much
When the kids are in bed
The past is still the past, and fact or still facts
The lights are dimmed in the newly bought house
But you are not you anymore
All the caseloads are done for the week
You are no longer scared of the mirror
The fire place is burning
You almost have a real smile
His head is rested on your lap
You allow yourself to be smart
Snow is falling lightly outside
You take care of your body
You’ll look back and realize you made it
You nurture your mind You respect your life as a whole
You made it through what was supposed to hold you down
I couldn’t be more proud of the progress you’ve made
What was supposed to hold to hold you back
So I ask you you to put your judgement and limitations away
What was suppose to make your existence disappear
Those were for that scared little girl
You have your head your head about you, feet planted in the right direction
The one who couldn’t stand her own reflection
I will not let you stop until you’ve reached every goal
The one who always smiled so no one would question
Until you’ve gotten everything you’ve dreamed about
The one who acted as dumb as people painted her
It’s all there, I know it is
The one that starved herself
Because if this new way of life was out there
The one who slept the pain away
Anything is
As you can see, things that applied before, don’t apply now
I ask you, beg you to to let this girl shoot for the stars
Make new goals
of an entire year
Let nothing stunt her growth
See the goal of survival has past
She makes promises
You are living now
and lets you break them like wishbones
What do you want to be? What kind of school do you want to be in? Where do you want that 4.0 GPA to take you? What do you want your life to be like? 16
New Year
Julia McNally
Alyssa Fieldman The new year always comes with an icy rose between her teeth and as January melts into April, the water puddles on her tongue spilling like a sloppy child’s attempt to drink a glass of water and all of the dedications to her triumph dissolve into the liquid, whorls of black ink erasing commitment you brushed upon her frozen lips The new year always comes with a promise clenched in her fist and when you reach the peak of summer you find out it’s nothing more than rotting fruit spilling out of her hands
Julia McNally
and the flies have gathered to taint the sugar The new year always comes with hope nesting in her hair and the eggs are far too fragile and when they hatch you find that the things inside have been long dead and you hold a burial for something that never was The new year always comes and awaits your blandishments while you converse with a sculpture, pretending it’s scripture endless palaver with yourself and no one else with flesh to feel Since when did January 1st become crowned queen of an entire year She makes promises and lets you break them like wishbones 17
Tattered Origami Eleanor Randl I listen. I sleep. I wake. I eat. I move. I stop. I move. I eat. I listen. I listen. I listen. I sleep. It was brisk when I took your hands, awkward in their way, and placed them into my pockets. Creased with your ancestor’s work. Coal. And fire. And black boots stamping at the doorstep. The snow that fell off in great chunks. The tiny mirror strung up with twine and wire. Everything they owned or ever owned. Your father, quick fingers that could sew tapestries of faded indigo. Or the hole in your glove. Your sweater. Your red light up backpack. His fingers, punched numbers. Like every moment counted. Adding and multiplying under his breath, he tried to beat the total before it lit up before him on the tiny screen. The bang of the cash register closing. The call that sing-songed the entrance of the customers. The gray tiled floors with specks of green. Of emerald stars. Of the stars that are dead but keep shining. The thousands of light years you traveled to touch me. I listen. I listen to your eyes, rolling down my spine. Your fingers pressed into my back. Each individual point it took for me to be here. The coldness of your hands. The black silk of my inside pocket. And our love. That is like tattered origami. Our hands too big to fold it neatly. To tuck the paper with that quick carefulness that runs in your family. We make up for it in great abundance. In silly remarks. In the night we spent hanging cranes from your ceiling. So we could watch them flutter, through lantern light.
Max Stephenson 18
1
Max Stephenson
Red Othmane Fardaoussi The color that sparks rage in bulls, The color that flows through our veins, Not blue, not green, but red. Magnificent red. The color that makes you stop at first sight, And the color that lets you know your phone battery is about to die. Red does a lot in our lives. Red is usually the “Do not press button� And of course, red catches our eyes.
Jeremy Sauer
The World at Night Zoe Gras The world at night Nearly devoid of light Stars glowing white Creating the only light Snow crunches under the feet Creating footprints clean and neat The moon shining through the trees Quivering in the cold night breeze And yet in the distance, there is a howl And in the tree a large owl
Soldier 3279
Max Stephenson
Ezekiel Lawrence As I forced my way up the steep, sandy hill, the glare of the noonday sun glared into my eyes. My suit, which was out of power, was no help at all. None of its capabilities would function, including life support. The heat was overwhelming. The other members of my unit were nowhere to be found—I was utterly alone. Pushing down the panic, I checked my scanner to see if there were any camps nearby. It displayed just one, only 4 klicks from my position. My throat was screaming for water as I tried to keep myself going. “Just a little bit longer,” I told myself, as I trudged towards my destination. As I came over a rise, the camp finally came into view. It was there, at the limit of my endurance, that I gave in to the heat and my exhaustion and collapsed. When I woke up, my arms were spread above my head and bound by electronic shackles. I figured out quite quickly that the enemy had taken me prisoner. I had been stripped of my suit and left with only my clothes. I tried struggling against the shackles, but they didn’t give an inch. One of the enemy soldiers lifted the flap to the tent and said to me, “That’s a nice suit you’ve got there,” he said, gesturing towards my suit, lying limp on the ground. I stared him down, keeping the fear out of my eyes. “Where’d you get it?” asked the soldier. The only answer he got was my cold silence. “I see that we have to go the hard way.” Taking an electric prod from a holster at his hip, he moved toward me with a menacing glare. As he did so, I hooked my feet around his weapon and disarmed him, the prod held between my feet. He let out a few choice swear words before closing in to attack. I flicked the prod up to my bound right hand and turned the tip to my left hand, short-circuiting the shackle and freeing myself. He attempted a quick jab to my head, but I dodged, and drove the prod into his side. He screamed in pain, then passed out. Reaching over with my left hand, I took the prod, and freed my right. My legs buckled from exhaustion but I was finally free. I crawled my way to my suit, then remembered that it was out of power. I tried turning on the reserve power, but it failed to engage. I then realised that I could hardwire the suit’s power module to the electric prod. Having done so, the suit powered up with
“Gaudi” by Ingrid Comella
22
a faint whirring noise. I quickly put it on, to hear the familiar words, “Greetings, Soldier 3279,” the suit’s artificial voice said. “I never thought I would be glad to hear your voice,” I replied. “Why thank you, Soldier 3279.” “Is the power at full?” “Affirmative, Soldier 3279.” The suit, which strengthened my muscle movements, made me feel like a new man. The life support blew cool, refreshing air at my face. I queued up my favourite song on my wrist computer and exited the tent, with a renewed sense of confidence. “Halt, intruder!” yelled another enemy soldier. I stunned him easily with my arm-blaster and just kept walking. I started whistling along to the tune as another soldier ran up and started shooting. I dodged the shot and dispatched him just as easily as I had the first one. I walked out of the camp without so much as a hitch. It was only another 50 klicks away until I would get to military command. I asked my suit’s computer if my jetpack was online and it confirmed my query. Igniting my jetpack, I took off with a great boom. I sailed over the sandy ground, leaving a trail of dust behind. A few hours later, I called up military command to inform them of my position, saying, “Soldier 3279 requesting landing.” “You are cleared for landing, Soldier 3279,” replied the communications officer. As I approached military command, its distinctive box-like structure came into view. I landed on a large concrete platform, hot under the midday sun, and was greeted by a couple of repair crewmen to relieve me of my suit. I was led down a set of spiral stairs leading to a narrow hallway. We walked down a corridor, which ended at a large, grey door on the right-hand side. One of the repairmen opened the door, and we came into a spacious room, full of sophisticated electronics and many military personnel. A high-ranking general approached me, and I gave him a crisp salute. “At ease, soldier,” he said in a gruff voice. “Come this way for your debriefing.” He guided me across the room to a smaller chamber, with many other military officers seated at a long, wooden table. It was time for my debriefing. He asked me to tell the story of my mission. “I was planning on a targeted recon of the enemy base,” I explained. “But somehow, the enemy was ready for us. I can’t explain it. In a matter of minutes, my whole unit was killed. They hit us with an EMP charge that disabled our suits, then completely annihilated us. I was the only one who escaped.” “How did you survive?” inquired one of the officers.
“I was surveying the mission from a sand dune about half a klick from the enemy camp, but my suit was affected by the blast as well. I had to run for it to survive. I escaped to the middle of the desert and was looking for a base where I could recharge my suit.” I then continued to explain how I was captured, and my subsequent escape. “With all due respect general, if it wasn’t for your orders, then my unit would still be alive,” I argued. “That’s a very dangerous thing to say, Soldier 3279,” replied the general. “I believe that this war has gone on for too long. Too many good people have died for our cause. We can’t lose any more,” I continued. “This is a court-martial offence, soldier!” he exploded. “I’m perfectly willing to accept my punishment. I just wanted to inform you of your corrupt nature.” “That’s it. Take him away,” said the general, turning his head from me in an act of complete shunning. A couple of large, heavy-set guards came to escort me to the stockade. They walked me to a holding cell about halfway through the bunker, and roughly shoved me into one of the cells, initiating the force field. I was sentenced to five years and stripped of my rank. After my seemingly eternal sentence was over, I was released, and was sent to basic training. I had to start all over.
Julia McNally 23
Dreams Charlotte Hoekenga “Is this real?” I ask. I think it’s not, but who am I to know? The air is soft and warm, and I’m sitting on the banks of the creek in the woods by my house. It’s running a little high, but nothing to worry about. “What do you think?” Lizzy says. She throws a stone into the creek. I watch the ripples and see the stone sink through the clear water. “I don’t know. I’d like it to be.” Lizzy laughs. I haven’t seen her in years, ever since she moved out west. It’s nice to talk to her again. “Lex, when has anything nice ever happened because you wanted it to?” I’m about to protest and say that lots of nice and good things have happened when I wake up. I lie in my bed for a while, trying my best to remember what happened. But the dream slips away around the edges until all I can remember is the shining water. I get up, put my boots on, grab my phone, and go to the creek. The earth around it is caving in. The water is muddy. I watch the water and pull my phone from my pocket. Feeling nostalgic, and also like something is desperately missing, I call Lizzy. She doesn’t answer.
Joseph Yoon
2
Ned Carlson
Donovan Redd
Untitled Star McCord I’m trapped. You keep me tied down on your level With chains made out of fear and guilt. Hazel eyes scream and pupils contract With anger and send a regretful shiver down my spine. Choking out squeals and cries, Trying to communicate my hate for everything that lies In your words; meanings of disappointment. Joints pop and crack like bubble wrap while My heart creaks and aches with intense pain. I loved you. You loved me. We’re a happy family.
26
Zachary Foley 27
2
Sunflower
Like the very waves you pointed out to me When I was only three The rolling of your years began to pick up speed You were my sunflower too Your petals gradually wilted with age Furrowing at the corners like the very Skin around your moose fur eyes The song became less frequent Appearing only when asked You told me things I already knew But I let you with grace Acknowledging the passing of your brighter days I will forever reminisce as your sunflower
Irena Rosenberg You would always play me the song The song that summed up a substantial visit Cheerful in nature Beckoning to be played over and over again You called me your sunflower The light of your life My reflection in your circular, thin-rimmed Glasses danced with subtly
Full Disclosure
You are the darkness and the light that play havoc with my senses You are the cage, the key, the chains around me You force me to the brink of insanity but you’re the one who steadies me when I teeter on the edge. You are the one who catches my hand when I slip into the abyss. But you never hold on long enough. You smile at my blinding heartache Press a finger to the lips that beg for mercy Give me the gift of your presence And in return conquer my conscience and carve your name in every pillar of my mind.
Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out You are the one who pushes me through hell and back. You give me wings and tear them away in an instant A capricious god who is youthful but ageless. Both wizened and naïve.
Silver
bars for extra reinforcement, but outside we have a nice wooden porch that we sit on during the day.
The first lesson anyone in my village learns is to not go out after dark. The second is to not let anyone in, no matter how much they scream, but honestly, that can just get rolled up into the first rule.
Once, years and years ago, my brother went out to bring my little sister in from the porch. She was old enough to play on our porch alone and she should have been old enough to understand the rule, but I guess she didn’t. Either way, my sister had wandered off, and my brother had still been looking for her when the sun went down.
Our houses are all small, built into the wide hill that makes up our village. Each house has a single door and one window, both facing out. Both are built with thick wood
I had thought that he was smarter than that. If it was me, I would have cut my losses and gone back inside with at least a half hour to spare before sunset.
Charlotte Hoekenga
28
I saw them both last night, but they’re almost unrecognizable. My brother scratched against the window and I saw rough silvery skin through the curtains. My sister called for me and my parents through the door, and pounded against it, but the way she said our names sounded more like howling wind than a child’s voice. Mom and Dad stayed by the door, sitting quietly, and made sure they couldn’t come in. I went to bed. They come for us nearly every night but are always gone by dawn.
Ingrid Comella
Fallen
It was too envious to stay in the sky
Charlotte Hoekenga
A golden ray
It’s said that on the fourth day God created the sun, moon, and stars She rolled a ball of light between soft brown fingers Carved out the underbelly of pale wood And plucked snowflakes from the ground to set upon white-hot fire It’s said that God created the sun, moon, and stars But I feel like they’ve all fallen down First came the sun when you walked in
The sun reached too far and fell from its throne On its way it left behind You stole it for your smile Second came the moon when you spoke A siren’s lullaby lured her down
The gaze of their beams and your soft glow You plucked a handful from the sky And held them just too high for me to reach I stood on my tiptoes and stretched my hand up to heaven I gave you one lucky star Do you still have it?
Her caverns softened and her eyelids drooped
They say God created the sun, moon, and stars
The moon fell from the heavens as she drifted to sleep
The sun is at your mercy Searing with jealousy
To the sound of a gentle song
The moon is under your spell
She carried the tides with her
Enchanted, enthralled, dreaming
Last were the stars when you looked at me They shone on us there in the dusty room Rendered me blind twice 29
And the stars you carry in the ivory palm of your hand I named one after you When I look up to the skies, I see you in every constellation.
Ingrid Comella
Tomato Star McCord Small pops, thumps, and crunches vibrated in my ear. My uncle popped off a cherry tomato from his small tomato bush once, twice, and three times. The succulent fruits are gently plopped into my own hands and I feel my lip curl and straighten itself out a couple of times as I examined its perfect form. There were no blemishes or scars on the smooth, vibrant surface of the barley acidic cluster. My uncle was proud he could grow something after his failure with his blueberries the year before and my grandmother was cracking and snapping tomato after tomato between her teeth as if they were grapes. “Try it! I think you’ll really like it since it’s even sweeter than normal tomatoes.” My uncle exclaimed with a smug grin on his face, lifting his chin up and puffing out his petite chest and frame. I eyed the fruits again and slowly brought one up to my mouth. Small like a grape, red like an apple, named after a lovely cherry. My expectations climbed and clawed its way up higher and higher the closer the tomato got to my lips. After an eternity in my mind it finally slipped through my lips and between my teeth, gently settling itself between the rows like someone late to a wedding ceremony with their face and body pure red with embarrassment. Teeth sliced and popped the thin layer that seperated my taste buds from the innards and suddenly juice and seeds burst into my mouth and flavor covered every inch of my flavor sensors. A drop slipped from the corner of my mouth and slid down my chin until it fell to the ground below, much like the tears I wished to shed after this scandalous experience. My throat quivered and contracted as the remains of the cherry tomato slid down it and I let my eyes fall closed. “Well? How was your first cherry tomato?” My Uncle chimed after a moment. I gave myself plenty of time before I opened my eyes up and looked at him and my grandmother, who displayed expectant sparkles in their eyes. “I still really hate tomatoes.” Is all I could say before the tomato was no longer inside of me.
“Escape” by Joseph Yoon
Snow Zachary Foley Softly does it go creating a soft white glare Flitting through the air 32
3
Ned Carlson
Ned Carlson
Max Stephenson
Star McCord
33
A String of Events
3
Alexander Yoo Snip. They were called many things. Snip. Fates, Norns, the Moriae. Snip. Feared for holding power over even the gods. Snip. A male, age: 46 years, 3 months, 6 days, and 7 hours, a career as a car salesman. Lived wealthily and without hindrance. He would die in an unfortunate accident today. Snip. A female, age 23, 7 months, 23 days, and 2 hours, with a career as a business magnate. She would die as well. Snip. A male, age 62, 5 months, 12 days, and 11 hours, with a career as a sewage cleaner. Lived alone and with low pay. He would die in a car accident. Snip. It was not within her duty to empathize with people—simply to cut their lives short. She and her ancestors held power over everything from the tiny creatures wriggling in the ground to the powerful beings in the heavens. Sometimes she wished for more worldly wealth and power. But here she was, stuck as a mere small-business owner. The bell to the door jingled. In walked a little old lady with a tiny handbag. Rising from her chair, the owner swiftly hid the tools she was working with. “Hello! Welcome to Sewing like Magic. Is there anything you need?” said the owner, without looking. “Just one thing, dear.” The grandma reached into her handbag and brought out a revolver. “You.” With a bang, the owner fell to the ground, and with her, the room and its contents lost their power, returning to simply ordinary tools for a seamstress. The power present had vanished, hiding away.
peek. The box grew stiff and difficult to open. Looking up, she was suddenly seated at a grand table with six pairs of eyes, staring at her. The atmosphere was frigid. She traced the intricate carvings and swirls along the table, until she reached a familiar word: her family name. She looked up to see the women staring at her, some of them coldly. For several seconds, the air was fraught with silence, as no one spoke a word. She broke the silence, squeezing out a few words. “Where am I?” A few of them looked toward an especially old woman. After a few brief seconds of seemingly non-existent conversation, the old woman spoke. “Rise. For the order will welcome a new Fate from the Sephones.” One by one, the women stood, most were about middle aged, with one younger looking woman as well. Moira stood as well and saw the etching on her seat for the first time: a skeleton held up by marionette strings. “As ritual, we shall introduce ourselves. I am Theresia of the House of Baum” stated the old woman. “Maria of the Guerreros.” And so like that, the women introduced themselves one by one. As Moira was watching carefully, she saw the other seats had strange carvings in them as well. One was of a bar of gold being held by a skeletal hand Another was of a heart that was stitched together. A pen dipped in a jar of blood. A blooming rose upon a hill of death. These symbols all emanated a sort of power in their meaning. “What are these?” she asked touching the symbol on her chair. The women stared back coldly. “Foolish child! Do you not even know your family crest?” yelled the woman with the pen and jar of blood on her chair. “Your family is part of the order of Fates. We control every aspect of the lives of humans, from the moment they are created, to the last breath they take. Each family has a duty they must fulfill.” The oldest woman motioned her to take a seat. “You were chosen as the master of death, whether you like it or not. You have a duty to regulate the world along with us. For generations, our seven families have kept the world orderly and safe. You were named as the successor to your late aunt, Skulda.” The old woman reached below her, bringing out a
*** Moira received a call later that day. Her aunt had been shot to death by a brutal thief by the looks of it. Moira raised her hand and asked to go the nurse. She took her book bag and walked out the door, but once out of sight, sprinted down the hallway and out of the building. She went over the directions, like she had thousands of times in her head. She crossed the bridge, probably decades old now, that was decaying over the drying river. She ran through the barren woods full of trees damp with rot. She ran until she reached a small cabin. Opening the door, she dug into the stone floor of the fireplace and brought out a small wooden box. The box was lacquered and smooth with intricate carvings of a time gone by. Her mother had always told her, “Not yet.” With trembling hands, she lifted the box’s lid ever so slightly, trying to get a 34
spool of thread. The thread flowed with a soft silverish hue. “Touch it,” she commanded. Moira reached out to touch the thread and images began flashing through her head. She saw a newborn child, who began growing into a toddler, then a teen. Her finger reached a part in the thread that began to darken, and she saw the horrors this child would cause. After watching for a few more moments, she reeled back in fear. “Your job is to cut the thread, before it starts to turn evil. We regulate the world to keep it in a state of balance.” Moira was surprised to see that the box had arrived with her. She lifted the lid of the box once again. This time, however, she was not whisked away, but rather, she was able to open the box perfectly fine. Sitting at the bottom was a pair of obsidian black scissors. Picking it up, she felt the cold metal in her
hand. “Cut it,” said the old woman. Stretching the thread, Moira opened the jaws of the scissors around the blackened area. Snip. This time, she saw the newborn, grow to be an adult, but die of an unknown illness. Her face darkened. “Did I just kill someone?” her voice rang through the hall. No one responded. The woman who had lashed out before finally answered. “That is your role. Each and every one of us must keep the balance, lest the world be thrown into chaos. Death is imminent for all; you just sped the process up.” “But…” “You must not be deterred for personal reasons.” Moira’s face hardened. “How do I return home?” she asked. “Give it a drop of blood,” responded a woman who had not
spoken up for nearly the entire congregation. She tossed a thin knife to Moira, who grabbed it and cut the point of her finger. A single drop of blood fell onto the box and with a hiss, she was once again in the family cabin. She inhaled the musty air of the cottage. Moira took one look at the box and placed it back into the hole she had dug up. Throwing dirt over it, she was determined to ignore her duty. She locked the door to the house and ran back to her own. That night, as she lay in bed, she thought back to the man she had killed. Could she kill these people? No one would know if she did. That wasn’t the problem for her. Rather, she couldn’t stomach doing that to a person, and not only that, but she thought about the parents of the child. But then would she let Continued on page 36
Zachary Foley 35
Continued from page 35 the hundreds of other people die from the hands of that child? How had aunt 9 done it? She wiped her mind blank and fell asleep after some time. *** Months had passed. She eventually brought herself to forget about the whole ordeal, for better or for worse. She took a breath of the cool autumn air. As she walked, fallen leaves made a soft crackling noise. As she approached her aunt’s shop, she dug in her pocket for the keys. It had been a while since her aunt died, but she never got around to cleaning up her shop. The door took a little push to open up, as it had been untouched for many a month. She traced her finger along the counter, picking up dust along the way. She eventually made her way toward the room in the back, where her aunt generally went to sew and cut fabrics. The room was quaint and ungarnished. Something about it caught her eye. On the drawer, there was some sort of insignia that was barely recognizable. Barely. Her face hardened. It was a skeleton held up by marionette strings. Opening the drawer, she saw dozens of spools of threads. Reaching down, her hand grazed one of the spools. Images began to flash through her head, similar to the events from before. She saw the life of a woman, from birth, all the way to becoming one of the most heinous criminals in history. Seconds later, the drawer started to glow, and soon, there was a brilliant light, all emanating from those strings. The entire room began to follow, with various tools lighting up with a soft glow. Dropping the spool with a gasp, she stopped for a moment to recollect her thoughts. She decided to turn on the little television that her aunt had stowed away in that room to
put her mind off of future events. Little did she know, however, an old lady caught sight of a flash of light from the nearby fabric store. The news was the first channel that the tv had on. She sat there and watched the reports about the weather. “We have just received reports of a hostage crisis in one of the stores downtown,” said the anchorman. She leaned in closer. She could almost make out a face. To her dismay, it seemed to be the woman that she had seen in the thread. “Damn,” she muttered lowly. She turned back, glancing at the spool of thread. She hesitated. In that moment, the anchorman said, “We have heard that three of the hostages have already been killed.” What could she do in this situation? Slowly, Moira stood up. She sauntered out the door, grabbing her jacket on the way, along with that little spool of thread in her pocket. She started running faster and faster, until, once again, she was at the cabin in the forest. Flinging the door open, she dug into the floor of the fireplace, until she pulled out that little box. Taking out the scissors, she stretched the thread, feeling her way through the lifeline. Snip. She did it. The woman would die from a spontaneous heart attack. She collapsed onto the floor, as she’d been holding in her anxiety for a while. Taking in a deep breath, she rose and walked out of the house, taking the box with her 36
this time. *** “Around this time, the culture of this civilization was largely based around the idea of a cycle of life.” lectured the professor. Moira sat dazingly through her history class. She tapped her pencil lightly against her notebook, looking for some way to pass the time. She checked her watch. Thirty minutes left. With a groan, she donned her face of mock attention once again. In fifteen minutes, she ended up asleep on the table. In a lecture hall of over a hundred students, no one noticed. The clock ticked
Julia McNally
hauntingly. Each minute seemed to stretch toward eternity. Eventually, she pulled herself up, eyes swollen. Grumbling, she checked her watch once again. Damn. How long had she been asleep? It was almost forty minutes past the time the lecture had ended. Picking up her things, she scurried out the door back to her apartment. The winter air blew on her face as she trudged down the sidewalk. When she exhaled, she could see the water vapor coming from her mouth. The landscape around was a monotoned white. She couldn’t wait to get home and brew a warm cup of coffee. After what seemed like days, she started getting close to
her house. Strangely enough, she saw a pair of tracks that seemed to be traveling in the same direction as her. When she finally came upon her apartment, she found the door wide open. She gripped the swiss army knife in her pocket. Creeping silently, she looked for signs if the perpetrator was still present. She gazed at the overturned boxes and drawers indifferently. She could faintly hear sounds of someone else, but it could just be her neighbors arguing again. Peering into the bedroom, she saw that none of her valuables had been taken. Odd. Maybe they were gone already. She began to sit down on her chair. However, she then heard a rustling that was too close to be her neighbors. She approached her back room. Surely they would not be there? There was nothing there to steal except old homework perhaps. The door slowly opened as she gave it a push. And there she was. Standing face-toface with a shriveled old lady. This wasn’t one of those sweet old ladies you hear about. The ones that bake cookies, knit sweaters, and other activities like that. This was one of those that had seen the horrors of the world and decided to repay it in kind. She had a spiteful look in her eye. “So you’ve arrived, have you, dear?” said the old lady with a cruel smile. “Who are you?” stated Moira. “Someone who knows how things should really be,” she replied. Revealing the engraved box, she said“You know, this box is quite powerful.”
“What do you want?” responded Moira impatiently. “I want what’s mine,” bit back the old woman. “Many of generations before you were born, this box was wrongfully torn from the hands of my ancestor. It was passed on to her sister instead. Your great-greatgreat-great-great-great grandmother so to speak.” With a look of utter coldness, Moira tackled the old woman. It seemed the old woman’s strength hadn’t atrophied from her old age. She grew more and more feral, biting and scratching at Moira. The struggle continued, with one seemingly gaining the upper-hand, then losing it the next. Slowly, she started weakening. She could only block the fists of the old lady in vain. Realizing she had a definitive advantage, the old woman grabbed Moira’s leg and bent it abnormally, breaking it. Moira winced a little and tried to get up, but she couldn’t muster enough strength to get back on her feet. “Finally. The power is returned to our family,”spoke the old woman. She pulled the box open, revealing the pair of scissors inside. “Yes. YES,” she muttered, lunging at the scissors. Like a bear trap, the box snapped shut, making no sound except a quiet, Snip. The woman fell to the ground. Just like that. Using the chair as a prop, Moira slowly rose up. She approached the corpse, prying the still warm hands off of the box. Unfazed, she took the box and set it on the counter, limping to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.
Ingrid Comella 37
Snapshots of the Seasons Jefferson Sheng
“Spring”
“Autumn”
“Summer” 38
Zachary Foley
Icarus
I inch closer every day The sun burns the tips of my wings A hostile warning I can’t force myself to heed How am I to choose between A fiery death Or a helpless descent You’re wont to pour sea salt onto my broken bones With every word you speak If I don’t pick my poison Both will be my last meal On death row before the sun If I don’t choose my fate Both will befall me I’ll go on feeding your deadly pride Till the moment my feet come to rest on the ocean floor.
Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out I’m told if I fly too close The sun will scorch my wings The salt in the sea will suffocate me The ocean floor will swallow me whole I only fear Drowning in your eyes Losing my way in the wake of your sweet voice Leaving you behind in search of peace I couldn’t escape you if I tried. 39
Joseph Yoon
Choose Yourself Julia McNally
I leave you, shutting the rickety door on the way out. It never shuts properly, why would it now? I run down the spiral staircase that is my thoughts, dizzying and never ending. It’s now a fight between loyalty or self- preservation? Self love or commitment? Stability or freedom? It all came down to those three questions. Now I choose me.
Ned Carlson
she grows wild Zoe Gras she grows wild in the night alone and lonely, she hungers for someone to hold and love and when the waiting is over love will find its way through the thick vines she has concealed herself with hiding and protecting only herself, and when the waiting is over she will be free the vines cut down and the flowers grown. 42
1 Donovan Redd
43
Ned Carlson
“Ronic, the slowest thing alive” by Elliot Houle
“About Me” by Catherine Lin 44
Max Stephenson 45
Advice to Friend
By the swift course of life. You think you are dust and dirt. You believe in your Worthlessness, your emptiness, your sadness. You cry and thus you feel like despondency defines you.
Valerie Chen
But it doesn’t. What you don’t see is Take a deep breath, slowly, and let it all out.
All the ways in which you are light.
Don’t be ashamed; it’s okay to cry. Your heart is fiery warmth; you love and you
It’s okay to let the tears fall, marking a path down
Cherish and you enjoy. Your mind is the sharpest
The landscape of your face. It’s okay for your shoulders
Steel; it cannot bend or break. Your strength comes from
To shake an uneven rhythm, your chest to rise and fall with
Within, and your smile shines through the entire world.
Quiet strength.
And when you laugh, you sparkle with so much life and love.
You are not weak. You are not broken. You do not need
You are light, and no matter how much you believe it,
To hide your tears, nor hold your gasps of breath
You will never be dimmed.
In silence. Your soul is not glass; it cannot be shattered
New Year’s Resolutions Yoonsuh Kim It’s New Year, New Me Broken within the first week Oh well, there’s next year! 46
3
Mea
Photo of a Soldier
Valerie Chen It’s December. Outside, soft white snow Blankets the ground, covering the world In ethereal beauty. Tall, dark trees tower strongly In the background, silently standing guard and Protecting the girl in the denim jacket.
Hannah Stedman Flip. Flip. Flip. One more turn and there you are. Black and white, the only picture Anyone ever took of you.
She faces away from the camera, Her raven-black hair a stark contrast Against the dull gray of the sky. She smiles in pure, Unadulterated bliss, unphased by the monotony of life.
Vacant gaze conceals the wound that never Healed, but not the kind soul Underneath. Is that what killed you?
Eyes closed, content with staying in the Here and now. You are a beacon of light, my friend; Though you stand against the Unforgiving cold of winter, a world devoid of color, You are radiant with beauty.
The musket in the Attic, the lye in your Hair, and the photograph of a Soldier Held together by book bindings Are what make you Real. I guess it’s true what they say. Only the good die young.
Expiration Date
It may come from Yellowstone, The super volcano due to explode and cover the world in ash. It may come from a nuclear holocaust, The world irradiated beyond possible habitation.
Aidan Campbell
But the bill comes due. The price for all of our prosperity and innovation is high. And the world is set to expire.
The world has an expiration date. It may not look it, but there is a point of no return. An extinction level event is on the horizon, looming over our civilization. It may come from climate change, From the hundreds of storms buffeting people’s livelihoods. 47
The Spaceman Aidan Campbell Rocket ships on the floor, begging to take off.
Just beyond.
Others on the wall, stationary yet moving.
The stars shining brightly, lighthouses to the eyes.
An open window lets in the breeze and the moonlight,
The spaces in between making them more beautiful.
Searching the sky for a world beyond.
A lens pointing upwards through it.
The wispy outline of the galaxy barely visible upon the black,
Thinking of what is and what could be.
Orange planets revealing themselves along with it.
A single dream leads to a lifetime of work,
One eye more open than the other, Gazing through the lens at nothing in particular.
Looking upward not outward. Not present, in time or in place. Daydreaming and night gazing,
Fulfilling in a way nothing else could be.
3
Sitting, facing upwards, waiting for the moment. You’ve been waiting your whole life, but that bit longer was unbearable An explosion of sound ignites the sunny day, A shaking beyond anything that could be imagined. Then, finally, the stars are in reach, And you never once look back.
“Polygonal Self Portrait” by Yoonsuh Kim 48
Emma Loiacono 49
Stormy Skies and Hurting Eyes Raia Gutman and Louisa Miller-Out Man of broken glass Made of sunlight and shadow Eye of the tempest
I am from... Star McCord
Emma Loiacono
I am from Dream Catchers, From chapstick and hair bands. I am from the small apartment surrounded by flowers, The smell of freshly cooked lamb roast. I am from the chocolate mint on the side of the house, The army of dandelions in the backyard Whose heads were ripped off by me and my brother’s swords made out of fallen tree branches. I’m from dinners on birthdays and gifts on income tax return day, From my grandmother Nanna and my brother Joey. I’m from barbecues and snowball fights, And from napping in the soft grass in spring.
Ned Carlson
I’m from “we only have each other” and “we are a triangle” And “it’s better to be pissed off than to be pissed on”. I’m from summer nights in nanna’s room. I’m from Ithaca and England. Half sour potato salad and salty yorkshire pudding, From horror games in the dark with Nanna and Joey, Nanna screaming, followed by Joey bursting into laughter. Family photos On the wall. “Somebody once told me the world was gonna roll me, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed.” Shrek on repeat, Disney movies on repeat, Twilight on repeat, laughter and happiness always on repeat is where I’m from. 50
The Witness Jinho Park I walk away from all the talk. I don’t need to listen to tactical nonsense for the twentieth time. I know the game and the tactics. I always step up and deliver, regardless of the stuff Coach says. This is why debriefing has never interested me. Bored with the thought, I lift my head up, feeling the frigid air meet my face, gasping in the cold, and releasing a long breath. The air blooms from my breath into complex loops that mimic smoke. I breathe again, almost laughing out loud at the small “smoke” loops coming from my mouth. The hilarity of the situation overtakes me. Here I am alone, behind a clunky dumpster bin, making “smoke” loops from my mouth after practice. Suddenly, I hear a scuffle. I catch a glimpse of silver. Two dark figures pushed up against a wall, struggling for power. The one with the knife holds a clear advantage. I find a familiar face, my closest friend, Casey. The friend who told off those kids on hockey who would tease me for my lisp to get lost. The friend who lacked a witty retort to my dry remarks. The friend who walked with me to the station when my house got egged on Halloween. He is my best and only friend, whose voice now snaps me back to reality. “Where is it?”, Casey rasps. “What? Get off me. I don’t have anything you want.”, the victim says. He speaks with the air of someone who is terrified of Casey, as if he’s been threatened countless times before. His animated gestures of innocence betray him; a glimpse of a hidden brown parcel shows underneath his black windbreaker. It is a glimpse Casey does not miss. Casey’s face wrinkles, his face flashes with anger. He lifts the blade, stabs the victim’s thigh, and runs away with the parcel down the street. It is now when my phone dings. The victim’s head twists as he searches in my direction, attempting to trace the sound. He never finds me. I’m hidden by the dumpster. Thankful for my concealed state, I make my tidy exit through the door. The next day, I walk into the rink. It’s Wednesday, the day of morning practice. I look at the clock. It’s 5:30 AM. I whistle uneasily, the tune sounding eerie in the winter air. I stop myself, make a sandwich, and head out the door. As I walk into the locker room, something is off. Someone says they can’t play, I hear their voice ex-
plaining how they dropped a knife onto their thigh. It was an accident, they say. They’ll be fine soon, they say. I crane my neck around the locker room door to find the victim, it’s Cameron. The team captain, one of our best players. I’ve never been fond of Cameron. Teasing me about the lisp and egging my house was only the beginning. Constant knockdowns on my ability, jealous sneers, hard knocks in practice have littered our interactions throughout the years. I play rather well today. Some subconscious autopilot takes over, guiding my hands to make the moves I’ve pulled off thousands of times. It’s so simple. I act quickly, with conviction. I’ve never been one to think. Yet here I am lost thinking, stuck in my place as the witness. Practice ends. At the parking lot, Casey walks up to me. A guilty look is written upon his face. I remember this look; it’s the same one he gives me after he “forgot” to show up to hangout, it’s the one he gives when he takes a piece of my cookie at lunch while I’m faced the other way, it’s the one he gives our French teacher when he doesn’t do his homework. He’s the culprit. My eyes have not deceived me. I run. I don’t look back.
Rotem Leshed 51
2
Heaven and Hell Raia Gutman
I felt something enter my blood as soon as he strutted into the cave. It didn’t leave me until he was out of sight, and even then, whenever my mind would drift to his silken voice, my stomach grew hollow and my head clouded. Perhaps it was his face that put me off - too human, a crooked nose and charcoal eyes that blinked as mine did. My mind wouldn’t comprehend that this man was immortal. Everlasting. The prince of the underworld. The first time I met Lucifer, he already knew my name. An angel with umber skin and wings in hues of ebony didn’t go unnoticed. Not in Heaven, not in Hell. Up in the Corporation, they called me Septendecim, seventeen. The last of my bloodline, the latest after sixteen predecessors. When Lucifer didn’t call me Septendecim, I shivered. He caressed each syllable in his mouth, biting down on the word with marble teeth. “Ben Hashamayim,” he said. Son of the sky. If I was the son of the sky, then Lucifer was the son of ashes - Ben Epher. Ashes were the color given to his hair and his eyes, consumed by orange flame when he angered. Blackened caves hid our silhouettes in the no man’s land between our domains. Heaven and Hell converged for a moment to form an orb of blue and green, mountains and forests, valleys and seas. The mortals were lost in a sphere, trapped within a meaningless cycle at
the mercy of nature. It was unaffected by a corporation among the stars or a host of festering war down below, and that’s where Lucifer approached me. “Angel, aren’t you?” He was crouched on the forest floor, sifting dirt between slender fingers and peering at me. I glanced over my shoulder, petrified for a moment - could this man see my wings? Then I caught a glimpse of the branding on the back of his hand. “You’re a demon.” He nodded, smiling slightly, and examined the mark. A blood red fly writhed in midair, leaving a dotted line in its wake. Spearing through the middle of the airborne insect was a needle dripping blood. I had seen it thousands of times - hidden under gloves, behind hands, concealed with a charm, or covered by a tattoo. Lucifer didn’t hide the ink on his skin. He looked closely at it as if he were evaluating it for the first time. Then he stood up. Long, svelte legs chased after a thin torso and toned arms. A vein swelled in his neck, and both fists were clenched tight, perhaps in fear. He was barefoot, and the tailend of his black silk pants was tucked under his heel. The waistband of his pants dipped just below his hips, exposing an inch of flesh pale as muslin cloth. The color was consistent throughout his body, cool like winter air and fair like midsummer clouds. The only place it differed was the
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flush on his cheeks, spreading fast toward his neck. Lucifer was young like me and perhaps more foolish. “Septendecim,” he muttered, eyes shifting between a number one inked above my left wing to a seven above my right. “Lucifer.” He extended a hand, the one marked with a crimson fly. I shifted my feathered wings to cloak my shoulders and clasped his hand. The chill of his skin paralyzed my vision with a white-hot focus, funneling everything through a narrow scope to the darkness in his eyes and the bite of his freezing hand. And it translated as heat in my head - dizzying, confounding, and overtaken with pleasure. Lucifer dropped my hand and crouched down again, watching as the grains of dirt shifted from one hand to the next to the ground. Once I confirmed that his focus was taken by the soil, I turned my back again and lifted the charm on my wings. They twitched into view, reaching farther as if attempting to capture some of the cool air between feathers. I knelt down and cupped shimmering water in my quivering hands. The water splashed over my shoulders and dampened my wings, rubbing just a bit of their raven hue onto my hands. I felt exposed then, Lucifer’s eyes cutting ovals into my back without the protection of fabric. I felt a finger tracing the scars on my
shoulder blades before I noticed dusty footsteps behind me. “I didn’t know the wings hurt you.” “Growing pains,” I answered, my voice ridden with shudders. “They rip our skin open to sprout.” His finger moved to my left shoulder, this time roaming above and below the thin strip of whitened skin. My entire torso tensed every time his touch strayed. “Mine are much more convenient.” Demons were endowed with thick, leathery wings, not made for flight as much as intimidation. They were silent as he moved and soft to the touch. Humbled by our mounting pain, angels were not abandoned in any regard by our Creator. His finger dipped below my shoulder to press my vertebrae. I shivered. “Do you know this place?” “I was trained here. Just for a week with the other beginners. After a short time we left, but I kept coming back.” “I didn’t know angels trained on earth. I was born here.” “I didn’t know demons were born on earth.” Lucifer’s hand retracted from my back, but I could still hear the smile in his voice. “Will you come back?” Continued on page 54
Ned Carlson 53
Continued from page 53 “To see you?” “To see me? Will you come back to see me?” “I’d like to.” I turned to face him, letting go of water that ran down my chest to my folded legs. “I’d like to see you here again.” The sun wept orange and pink tears into the skies as it faded to
the west, and Lucifer tucked his legs under his body as he stared down at the soil beneath. The ground was growing sullen and cold in temperatures that descended with the sun’s departure. As he rose with the backdrop of fading light, Lucifer hissed his farewell into my ear.
My Dearest, United States
“Return to the sky, Ben Hashamayim.” Dark, leathery wings carried the demon to the fringe of the clearing, beyond the glint of water and the cool dirt. He ascended to the horizon and beyond, but his destination did not lie in the heavens. Perhaps one day I will know you, Ben Epher, I greeted the wind as it tickled my skin.
When the single richest person in your country Has more money than 20% of your poorest citizens, You know you have a problem. When your billionaires can easily become a hero to countless disadvantaged people by donating an insignificant sum of their net worth, yet all they do is sit on their piles of cash, You know you have a problem. When making money matters more than the future of the planet and the survival of our species, You know you have a problem. But what have you done about this problem? Nothing of significance. So ask me again why I hate you so? You’re too arrogant to see your own shortcomings and yet you demand respect from the rest of the world. You refuse to acknowledge your own mistakes and so history repeats itself.
Hanqiao Wang My Dearest, United States Words cannot describe how much I detest nearly everything about you. Your government, filled with white, male politicians, like taking a cup of saltwater and saying, “This is the entire ocean.” Your healthcare, which says, “Money can’t buy happiness, but it does buy you the right to live.” Your education system, dedicated to stressing students ceaselessly from K to 12 until they either give up on grades or on life. Your “modern art”, that was literally a capitalist scam promoted by the FBI during the Cold War, because the US can’t possibly be inferior to a bunch of Commies. Though we all know modern art fucking sucks.
So until you step out of your own maze of denial and realize you’re not the best country in the world, until you begin to address these issues, I will never love you. I will never love you, until you learn to love your citizens your neighbors and your environment.
But the worst offender is your economic system. Capitalism? More like the new Social Darwinism. 54
“Horror” by Jacob Yoon 55
Cover by Jefferson Sheng