Mikaela Liotta, Cake Head Man, mixed media
The Cauldron Senior Editors Grace Jaewon Yoo Muriel Leung Liam Nadire
2015
Staff Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck Phoebe Danaher Daniel Fung Sally Jee Prim Sirisuwannatash Angela Wong Melissa Yukseloglu Faculty Advisor Joseph McDonough
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Poetry Emma Woodberry Remember GyuHui Hwang Two Buttons Undone Khanh Nyguen I Wait for You to Have Dinner Angela Wong Euphoria Sabi Benedicto The House was Supposed to be Tan (But was Accidentally Painted Yellow) Canvas Li Haze Adam Jolly Spruce and Hemlock Placed By Gentle Hands Jordan Moller The Burning Cold Grace Jaewon Yoo May Silent Hills Lindsay Wallace Forgotten Joelle Troiano Flicker Jack Bilbrough Untitled Valentina Mathis A Hop Skip Jessica Li The Passenger Daddy’s Girl Eugenia Rose stumps Brandon Fong Ironing Ryder Sammons New Year’s Cold Shayla Lamb Senior Year
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Prose Muriel Leung A Great River Zorte
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Mixed Media, Ceramics Mikaela Liotta Spine Mermaid Teddy Simson Elephant Skull Eye of the Tiger Katie I Imagination Sabi Benedicto Geniophobia
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Photography Rachel Choe More Please Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck DEAD Spin Swimmingtotheschor Bigfernfloating Lydia Stenflo LA as seen from the Griffith Observatory at Night in March Beach Warrior Meimi Zhu Reflection Jessica Li Juvenescence The Last Door Brandon Fong The End is Neigh Sunday in Menemsha Liam Nadire Hurricane Sandy #22 Pride
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Painting, Drawing
Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, DEAD, photography
Katherine Liu The Forbidden Temple Rachel Cho Boom Phoebe Danaher Synthetic Jazz Natasha Lee The Chandelier Apple Tart Hannah Pesce The Three Graces
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Katie I Risen Oban Galbraith The Divide Joni Leung HK – The Street Venice Start of an Adventure HK – Lan Kwai Fong Phoebe Danaher Triple Skull Head Light Pollution Sentinel Muriel Leung Quiet Space Angela Wong Away Alisa Wan Moonlit Lighthouse Summer Garry 9 am: Boy Reads Gun Catalog
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4 Katie I, Risen, oil on canvas
Remember Emma Woodberry
The bitter tonic of January Mingles with our blood. Pinprick stars speckle the night Like trailing crumbs of the Swollen moon. A nocturne symphony Flickers in the silence. We can see the horizon, where The celestial crust ruptures At dawn. We breathe, And squint our midnight-crusted eyes Against the naked light, ripe in the Adolescent morning. So are we. Mourning. Remembering the stumbling snowflakes, The snow-caked spruce trees, The bitter tonic of January.
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Two Buttons Undone GyuHui Hwang
Through my window, I see some grown-ups hurry. Trying to look like businessmen, Trying to look comfortable in awkward black suits, They struggle to figure out how to work their buttons on their shirts. I would laugh at them if I could, I would call them na誰ve if I could, Yet I am afraid that one day I will be one of those who believe that Figuring out how to work the buttons means figuring out their future. I see a tall man walking along the sidewalks. He looks like a freshman in the fake grown-up club With a suit not black enough and two buttons undone. He slowly runs to join the other men in darker suits, With eyes like those of a puppy that wants to be loved. As soon as he joins the other men, they walk further into the dark.
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I know they would not listen to me, For I have not eaten enough birthday cakes to join their group. Funny how they fail to remember their childhood, The only time when pure happiness could be felt. I would like to tell those men in black suits that every day They are getting closer to the funeral of their own. But I know they would not listen to me, For they ate more birthday cakes than I did. Funny how they fail to remember their childhood, The only time when pure happiness could be felt. I’m not sure if I will ever see the man with the two buttons undone. Maybe he’ll be too close to his funeral to return.
Mikaela Liotta, Spine, mixed media
I put the black suit that I got as a gift away in my closet. I shove my cake in my trash can. I take out a photo of me laughing while holding my parents’ hands. I smile at the little me. And hope that remembering my childhood Will stop me from joining the men struggling with their buttons.
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I wait for you to have dinner
Khanh Nguyen
I wait for you to have dinner The moon is already there, shining A ruby piece on the orchid tree Would see you on the empty road The moon is already there, shining You might still be cycling Would see you on the empty road Is the gloaming unfolding on the golden field You might still be cycling The cooker with steamed rice is waiting Gloaming unfolds on the golden field You might be thinking of home? The cooker with steamed rice is waiting I stand under the orchid tree You might be thinking of home? Sunset seems like a twinkling blouse I stand under the orchid tree A ruby piece on the orchid tree Sunset seems like a twinkling blouse I wait for you to have dinner.
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Rachel Choe, More Please, photography
Oban Galbraith, The Divide, oil on canvas
Euphoria Angela Wong
Falling into white-washed linens That entombed the smile of the night, I faded with the rising sun— Bursts of creamy pink Puckering into blue.
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Joni Leung, HK–The Street, oil on canvas
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The House was supposed to be Tan (but was Accidentally Painted Yellow) Sabi Benedicto
It’s difficult to dance when our legs are dark with bruises. We can’t remember love if we make love to our excuses. Bathing bare and naked in our ignorance and pride, The toxic water poisons us, and plagues us with divide.
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The truth about our childhood is that it must decay. January must expire to thaw the ice for May. The soldiers have no more to eat; they beg to end the war. They question if their covenant is one worth fighting for.
Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Spin, photography
Yet still we drink the poison, Yet still we dance away. We desperately so wish to love, But I know I cannot stay. Tell me how we built this home, Lest that we forget, Because after the fires, the floods, the pain You’re all that I have left.
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Lydia Stenflo, LA as seen from the Griffith Observatory at Night in March, photography
HAZE Canvas Li
I always said that I would show you around my city at night, When the dark fell and the streetlights lit. Yet now darkness comes with the haze, though the sun is still so bright. You said that nowhere you would rather be than the City of Light, So I wished to row with you in my glowing, flickering Beihai when the dusk hit. I always said that let me show you around the city at night. Sadly, one can no longer breathe the air here and feel alright. Standing on the bridge and looking at the lake, one cannot see a bit. Now darkness comes with the haze, despite the bright sunlight. When you asked me to name my favorite sight, I could not settle on one answer but I was sure of the time that fit: I would show you around my city at night. But I’ve just realized, that specific time can’t be right, Since the defining characteristic of the day—daylight—is no longer legit. Darkness comes with the haze, not sunset, when the sun is still so bright. I hate it when you talk about my polluted city with slight, But now I cannot find any, any excuses to defend it. I always said that I would show you around my city at night. Yet now darkness comes with the haze, though the sun is still so bright.
*Beihai (North Sea): a lake in an imperial garden in Beijing, close to the Forbidden City.
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Phoebe Danaher, Triple Skull Head, oil on canvas Teddy Simson, Elephant Skull, pencil and watercolor on a wood board 16
The Burning Cold Jordan Moller Your name burns Ice cold tonight. Tonight, your cold name— Ice —Burns. My ego burnt by long torturous nights spend sleeping on Ice. If only you Were more than a name. I am cold, so bitterly cold.
I’ve built up the fire to burn away a name that drifts in my thoughts tonight. You’re Ice. Ice breath, spine shivering with cold. Your Telltale burns Tonight Recall a name Name: Ice. Tonight I am reminded by the cold and the burns of a love of yore. Your name burns Ice cold Tonight.
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Muriel Leung, Quiet Space, watercolor on paper
May
Grace Jaewon Yoo Off she goes again, breaking the morning dew white fences hang too loose, too low, and she walks into the grass. Morning grass wakes at the faint tap of her feet, a quiet dance only the wind knows. Water footprints remember her falling steps all the way from home. She says she is lost, but I think she likes it here, Floating along the rumpled meadow. She says she likes to walk on grass, perhaps because the fences say no. So in the dusk of May, she walks into the watery bloom. 18
19 Katie I, Imagination, mixed media
A Great River Muriel Leung
It reminded Francesca of the sort of houses she used to draw with Daffy curled at her feet. A fairytale: the little white box stubbornly digging its stilts into the mountain, a pine sprig peeking from a decorative sled on the red front door. “Are you sure this is your aunt’s house?” Francesca asked Peter. “Number five,” Peter replied, looking at the post-it on the dashboard. “The instructions say number five.” They were staying with Peter’s aunt Esther, who lived fifteen minutes away from Drew Laurence Observatory, where he would be researching galaxy formations with a university professor. From the moment Francesca met Peter, she knew that he was in love with the universe. More than he could ever be in love with her, maybe. An arc of light washed over them as the cranberry door swung open again. A woman glided forward, loosechestnut ponytail and thick wool sweater. “Peter, Peter, it’s been years!” She embraced his thin body, seeming unfazed when he returned her warmth halfheartedly. And then she was hugging Francesca. “And Francesca. I’ve never met you, and you’re practically my niece.” A boy ran out carrying spatulas and trailing cheesy, wonderful smells. Peter’s cousin Gus. Gus looked eerily like thirteen-year old Peter—a smiley, eager version. At his heels was an enthusiastic Golden Retriever. Francesca thought of Daffy, her old weimaraner. “Down, Cheddar! Bad, bad girl,” Gus called. Then, “Hey guys! Do you want lasagna? We got two kinds—mushroom and meatball.” Esther watched the pair as they walked inside. Thin, hard runners gliding as if their feet were on clouds. There was something else about the way they moved. Like they were held together by something old and precious; something you’d be afraid of breaking. Francesca awoke in whiteness the next morning. Watching low-lying clouds drift dreamily past her window, 20
her own circumstances rolled over her—the trip, Aunt Esther, mushroom and meatball lasagna. It was seven AM. Peter had been gone at the observatory for two hours. Francesca wasn’t sure what to do with herself, in this place that wasn’t her house with these people who weren’t her relatives. At last, Francesca descended into the living room. In the wide-windowed room, a reading lamp glowed defiantly against the ghostly fog. On the nearby sofa, a golden blob shook with snores. Cheddar. She watched her eyelids twitching under the thick eyelashes. Off in doggy-land. What had Daffy dreamed about—their adventures? What adventures they’d had. When the sun set and the emptiness at home became unbearable, Francesca and Daffy would head out together—Daffy setting a running pace—to Lyzen peak, the local “mountain.” Francesca would look down at the houses—glowing boxes keeping the icy stars at bay—and imagine herself floating into them, finding herself and Daffy a home. The day Daffy died, for the first time, the houses seemed as far away as they really were. Unreachable. Just like Daffy would always be. For a while, Frances stared at the untouchable lights—and then started running again. Down, down. Usually she ran because she was bursting with hope and light—this time because she was drowning. She didn’t know where she was going. She was on a strange road, nice houses with gates and great big swimming pools. “Hey you!” Francesca jolted to a stop, looking around. A thin boy was leaning out of an overhead window. His pale face and taught arms illuminated in his window’s light, he reminded Francesca of dancers—light, ropey, not quite human. “You should run a little later, when the stars come out.” Was it still light enough to he see her tears? Quickly, Francesca turned away. “That’s dangerous.” The boy’s white face pinked. He shrugged. “No, its awesome. I know because I go every night.” “Well, you’re crazy,” said Francesca, and kept going.
Joni Leung, Venice, acrylic on canvas
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“Just try it!”
“What’s her name again, mom?” “Shhh, don’t disturb her, Gus.” Francesca started. The whole house was now in sunny, midday glow. Esther was standing by the door in grey and lime green; Gus, electric blue jacket and brown eyes sparkling on a pink face, was inches from Francesca. The air smelled of pancakes. Francesca scrambled up. “Oh—I’m sorry!” How long had she been there, sprawled on the sofa like it was hers? “Dumpling—“ “Do you want to go on a super-awesome adventure?” “Hmm?” Francesca asked, looking at Gus’ mother. Esther sighed. “Well, there’s a slope over there. They call it The Pearl. When it snows its like a slide—makes you feel like you’re flying.” “It’s magic!” Even though Esther’s smile said no pressure, something about the duo’s bright colors and warm expressions tempted Francesca. Before she knew it, she was in her own jacket. They followed a slim black road up the mountain until it gave way to a tree-cloaked gravel path. Eventually, the trees drew
Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Swimmingtotheschor, photography back and the mountain plunged down in a white fluff, like a foamy waterfall frozen in time. Half a mile away, the land leveled off and gave way to the sea of trees again. “You have to watch this,” said Esther, breaking Francesca’s out of a trance. “This is my favorite part.” “Cheddar, baby”, she called. “Slide?” Her ears pricked up like she had suggested a treat; her tail whirred. And then, she had lunged into the snow. Down she went crouching on her paws, like she was skiing. She howled—or laughed? Francesca stared. “No way”, she said. “Does she even want to do that?” “Oh, 100% concentrate!”, which Francesca took to mean yes. “She likes companions, too.” Cheddar bounded—or tried to bound—up the slope again. And she was pushing Francesca towards the ledge, huffing and snuffling. Esther and Gus laughed. The slope was steep. Francesca didn’t like falling. But everyone was laughing and encouraging her, and she hadn’t felt so light in a long time. “Here”, said Gus. “Hold onto Cheddar. She’s like a lucky charm.” So Francesca wrapped her arms around Cheddar’s toasty frame and letting herself slide onto the incline.
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Like a rollercoaster, everything started out slowly. But all at things were out of control. They were light, streaking across the white expanse with nothing to stop them and no stop in sight. And there was wild exhilaration. Cheddar felt it, howling and panting. As Francesca dug into Cheddar’s golden mane, she felt like she was riding a unicorn through a celestial storm. Like she was running with Daffy again. Everything would be okay. Francesca didn’t know how much time had passed on the slope, but the sky had faded to a grayish blue when they crashed back into the cozy house. “You’re a natural,” said Gus, as they sat down to hot cups of maple-sugar milk, which Esther served in big white mugs with bear cartoons. “I promote you to five star general.” “That’s a real compliment,” Esther smiled. “If you come with us again, you might even be promoted to Commander.” The hum of an engine, a slamming cardoor, and Peter walked in. He stopped when he saw them huddled together in the living room. “Hello, Peter, how was everything?” “Alright, thanks for asking.” He stared at Francesca. “And you?” Was Francisca imagining hurt in his tone? “We went sliding down the mountain!” Gus crowed. “Sliding?” “You should come with us someday. Maybe if we go early in the morning.” “I don’t think my schedule allows it. And you never know about ice… But thank you, Aunt Esther.” He finished folding his scarf. “Excuse me; I’m going to go log in my journal. Such an interesting day.” Francesca watched him slowly, neatly climb the stairs, and she felt somehow guilty. 24
A few nights after the strange boy had talked to her, Francesca went on his run. She hadn’t planned on it, but at night her house was so heavy with emptiness. When she found the boy stretching outside his grey house, she made it clear she still thought he was weird. They stopped at the top like she and Daffy had. Peter taught her the constellations— where the nearest galaxies were and what held them together. He told her he wanted to be an astronaut; he ran as physical training. Soon, Francesca realized, Peter was alone like her. He had parents who were home more than Francesca’s. But Peter was like a cat, wandering in and out, taking food and leaving. He was searching for the Meaning of Everything, and Francesca became his companion. They stared meeting after school—they would check out about galaxy formation at the library and read them at Francesca’s house while she made them meals (nice ones from New York Times recipes). Big questions about the beginning of our universe. Francesca felt comforted by their ritual. It gave her the sort of feeling she got running up the hill—creating purpose, forgetting she was lonely. “Come, I’ll show you where the slide is.” Francesca had proposed their running there as a substitute route to Lyzen Peak while they stayed with Esther. She had also proposed bringing along Cheddar, which Peter had halfheartedly agreed to. They followed the gravel path, headlamps throwing ghostly shadows and Cheddar’s panting chasing away the silence. And then they were swimming in the stars. The snowy slope, which had been a mighty sea in the sun, was now a shadowy afterthought. Francesca suddenly felt lonely. “Look…over there’s Vega and Altair.” Peter gestured at the two tiny stars on either side
Joni Leung, Start of an Adventure, oil on canvas
of the swollen Milky Way. “The Herdsboy and the Weaver Girl,” he said, referencing an old folktale. “Separated forever by the great river.” Francesca laughed at his serious tone. “They could have just gotten a boat.” “Well, yeah,” he said distractedly, then continued. “Think about it, they really are meant to be lonely. All those stars. Accelerating away from each other…” Francesca felt restless. It was their universe, yes, but why did they always have to worry about it? And Cheddar. Where was Cheddar?
When had her eager panting stopped? “Peter?” He didn’t respond. “Peter! Where’s Cheddar?” Peter’s hand no longer held a leash. Wild panic. Had she gone after a deer? She could be anywhere on this dark, terrifying mountain. How could she face Esther—Gus? While the sky danced, the land remained dark and undecipherable. Had Cheddar gone down the slide? Even when Francesca shone her phone flashlight over the edge, it kept its secrets like a black hole. Gingerly, she climbed over the edge. She pushed off, plunging one hand into the icy cold 25
to slow her fall while she clumsily scanned the darkness with the other. “Chess? What are you doing?” “Having fun,” she snapped. “What do you think I’m doing? Looking for Cheddar. What are you doing?” “Why would Cheddar—“ “She just might. Keeping looking up there. Her phone flashlight only carved small slivers of light. It was like Peter trying to understand the eleven dimensions from three, she thought. Useless. “Cheddar!” When she got to the bottom, she felt the weight of what had happened. Like Daffy, Cheddar was gone. She met Peter at the top. “He’s gone,” he said. His expression, stark in her phone’s light, made her think of his reaction when she finally told him about Duchess, the year after Duchess died. Peter had averted his eyes, uncomfortable, like a foreigner in a land he couldn’t begin to understand. “I guess we go back and tell Esther then,” said Francesca. They began walking down where they had came from. Their footsteps, quick and free before, where now heavy and too loud. Francesca couldn’t believe herself. That’s what she got for being reckless, she thought—insisting on taking Cheddar along. Peter was never reckless. And she realized, it was Peter’s fault not hers. Peter had let go of the leash, looking at those stupid stars. When they got back to the house, there was a golden mass on the porch. Cheddar. “Oh, girlie, girlie! Francesca flew to her and wrapped her arms in her sweet fur again. Cheddar’s tail thumped. She looked exceptionally proud of herself. I came home. Francesca looked at Peter, his features glowing in the porch light. That soft, stardust hair and those eyes like swirling nebulae. He was her Northern Star, offering endless wonder. But, she realized, he was fixed in the sky and could never be home for her.
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Natasha Lee, The Chandelier, ceramics
Natasha Lee, Apple Tart, ceramics
Forgotten Lindsay Wallace
Games of icy dance left your fingers bare— You, caught in the whirl that left your mind blank, So entranced you were that you left me there And so alone and empty I grow rank. While once I was good for gentle tracing For shielding your skin from bitter wind. My world is now naught but the blade’s racing I’m solitary while once I was twinned. I am unraveling at all my seams, Empty and useless, a lonely reject. I won’t last much longer, amongst these screams But I’ve no fear, as I’ve naught to protect. With this rink my grave, my tale unwritten Will die with me, your forgotten mitten.
Angela Wong, Away, watercolor
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Alisa Wan, Moonlit Lighthouse, oil on canvas
Flicker Joelle Troiano
Of all the things that shine unsteadily in this grand and terrible world, you are one. (breaths snagged on the icy horizon, starlight like thorn bushes clawing at scraps of the air around you) You are on. You are off. You are a candle dancing in the wind. You are a string of firecrackers in the rain, The dampened explosions of a thousand heartbeats, and there is nothing wrong with that. I think we all live somewhere along those lines— either a nightmare or a dream between the loony bin and a junkyard— either life or death as the water climbs high. We are the leapers and the makers of wings on the fall towards flying. We are the echo of empty space, we are all the words unsaid, and we are all the moments for which words are meaningless. We are On. off. On. Off. We are a flicker, and, I swear, we are magnificent.
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Untitled Jack Bilbrough
It’s pointless—you realize that, right? The way we cover ourselves, acting as if we could stay warm— As if our coats, crafted by unsteady fingers— Could serve some purpose. Although we lie to it, plead with it, the Wind cuts right through us. And us!—we sit, Approaching education in front of a board, You only know January is passing. Skipping building to building— Wearing coats, and thinking of integrals, The icy air defies us The Wind rips right through us. We know life in a steady flow, A glow, oozing out of the windows across the valley. We are reminded, by the spruce and alder Of our fathers—working in dim basements. The smells of cedar chips, the dark weight of oak. We feel the horizon stretch at sunset, An ominous hum in the air A sinking feeling no one will admit to. We are reminded of the creeping evils of night. We are reminded of the death that hides behind the trees, Wild and strong. We turn from the wind, hands shaking, and walk inside.
31 Meimi Zhu, Reflection, photography
A Hop Skip Valentina Mathis Tap, Tap, Tap Tap Tap, Tap, Tap Tap Footsteps
Back
And
Forth
We go on Runningalong we don’t stop —it’s getting harder to stop No one stops They Keep Going
On and on and on again Swooosh (But we run off—so we don’t have to stop ever again)
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Sabi Benedicto, Geniophobia, digital imaging
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Joni Leung, HK – Lan Kwai Fong, oil on canvas
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The Passenger Jessica Li
He was a passenger unallied. I asked him what was his destination, He told me: “I’m just along for the ride.” But we were all headed to a side, Determined to succeed. Always searching for our location. He was a passenger unallied. No matter what direction. Like a high tide, Crashing, not afraid of speculation. He told me: “I’m just along for the ride.” Then he said: “come with me and we’ll ride into the night,” the stars, they shine in the sky. Be confused without hesitation, Lets both be passengers unallied. I wanted to cast my doubts aside, leave my dreams behind, say goodbye to those obligations! Because he told me: “I’m just along for the ride.” But I am afraid. We all have our own war cries. We were not all meant for liberation. He was a passenger unallied, He told me: “I’m just along for the ride.” 36
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Jessica Li, Juvenescence, photography
Brandon Fong, The End is Neigh, photography
stumps
Eugenia Rose
waves crash with the wind over the sand howling, a blanket working, always trustworthy proceeding to play in the fields, watching, people lying to the stars. shelter filled with dust serving to protect and waiting for the eye,
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siding with the hypnotized, satellites fall to sleep.
Katherine Liu, The Forbidden Temple, scratch board
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Silent Hills Grace Jaewon Yoo
I see these hills falling on me, standing (I am) but barely. There is no end to the beginning of this imaged being. I am swallowed alive, chewed to square bits, tastes (too flat) and spat. It is a great silent hill that eats me whole, strips my skins. I am bare, weighed on by a rolling weight. I see the great hill silent on me.
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Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Bigfernfloating, photography
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Jessica Li, The Last Door, photography
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Daddy’s Girl Jessica Li
The snow, like tiny dancing fairies tap danced on my nose. I let out a Breath. I remember that January night in North Dakota. I remember my breath fogging up the car window, Waiting. Santa stood on the sidewalk drunk. The deafening sound of his salvation bell, I clapped my hands to my ears. I remember that January night, my breath fogging up the kitchen window. My face smushed against the window-pane, Watching. The flickering light from someone else’s TV screen. My mom she pulled me close. I remember that January, you sang me a sweet lullaby your hair brushing my eyes as I closed them and drifted Away. I remember that night. I remember, You left.
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Spruce and Hemlock Placed by Gentle Hands Adam Jolly
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The sun now long-gone, leaving everything in a moonlit haze. The cold air rushed around us, however, we continued into the wind. Losing control now, the icy roads soon took over. Drifting in between the houses, and over the sidewalks, you pulled me close. When we came to an abrupt stop, my legs, and my heart told me to run. I ran.
Hannah Pesce, The Three Graces, mixed media
Spruce and Hemlock placed by gentle hands dotted the environment around us. The trees flew by, bent by the distortion brought on by a speeding vehicle. I glanced over my shoulder, I looked at you, I quickly looked back. Clouds of condensation became clear, the passenger window now fogged by my breath. Words that should have been said went by silenced, and a layer of dark painted over the world.
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Liam Nadire, Hurricane Sandy #22, photography
Mikaela Liotta, Mermaid, mixed media
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Ironing Brandon Fong
On Friday nights, she works late. Beneath the wavering glow Of a halogen too long gone Hunched low over her canvas She becomes slave to creases. Cuff to shoulder, shoulder to pleat Together with soul, she sways with her entirety Her emotions carry her through the full stroke Waist to ankle, beginning to end. She presses, down the drifting sidewalks Of her no-good Midwest childhood – she thought she would never escape – She meets a man to take her away. She sweeps, and in correspondence, words blossom Into something most unexpected Under trivialities and polite inquiries They discover the subtle madness of love. She flees, down the calf, and the crease grows deeper Desperately she yearns to smudge every inconsistency, Words said and unsaid, wrinkles in the fabric of time Verifying the injustice of hindsight. And as I watched on, she bore the final blow Her momentum seemed to carry her Beyond the crease, and vanished into the dark And God, how she yearned to follow. But the flickering light beckons her return.
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New Year’s Cold Ryder Sammons
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Remember our breath that January, As if a ghost in the light from your door, Our lips just mere inches apart. Wary You pulled me close in the night. The cold bores At our bare hands, our skin, our beating hearts. I wonder if something can come of this, In this light, in this night. It is like art; Brushstrokes tracing your eyes, capturing bliss In our bodies, our beating hearts. Our time Together is wonderful. The light from Your door looks inviting. A doorbell chimes Across the street, breaking our silence. SomeThing clicks in my mind; I must go from here, From this light, I have places to be dear.
Phoebe Danaher, Light Pollution, oil on canvas
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Senior Year Shayla Lamb
A lone crinkled leaf falls like a shooting star No point in catching for it’s simply too far. The wind pushes now, testing you, So much to do that you never knew. All is bare, and quietly quivers, Night’s silence is eerie and makes you shiver, But you count your blessings and hold on tight, Gripping his hand with all your might. White crystal snow falls like gems. It’s the beginning of all the ends. A swirl of dancing and dazzling delight Or an unwanted icy plight. You’ve started to learn just how to deal By learning who is fake and who is real, And as the ice chilled wind whips at your face, Your arms open up to his embrace. Soon budding blossoms bloom everywhere the valley’s echoes of laughter fill the air, And the sun begins to rise ever higher, You smile with tears, knowing your time here is soon to expire, So slower now you sniff each and every flower With a little more patience for the occasional rain shower. Like the bittersweet symphony of a flower soon to die, You just can’t believe it’s time to say good-bye. Then emerald fields whisper and you answer their call, The smell of green grass lingers over it all, You slip into the creek—cool droplets dot your skin, Now he follows and your mouth curls into a slight grin. Into the sun you flop, Hoping this date will never stop. You look up to see the last sunny beams radiate Your long tan legs hang off his truck’s tailgate-Under a now purple pavilion sky, But you’re not ready to say good-bye. 50
Brandon Fong, Sunday in Menemsha, photography
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Zorte Muriel Leung
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Ever since Ned was little, the ocean sang to him. Barely a ship’s length from his house, its melodies shaped his dreams every night: sweet fairytales when the seas were calm or, during dark storms, nightmare lands where demons overwhelmed him. When ten year-old Ned risked telling his mother, she laughed and said maybe he had a musician in him. She took him to the town’s Christmas concert, where Alameda Benson, the First Selectman’s daughter, played a Greensleeves solo. He was transfixed. Not just by the pure, fluid notes but by her movements—how she swayed with her music like she felt it, the way Ned almost physically connected with the ocean’s melodies. When his mother saw Ned come alive at the concert, she tried to sign him up for the school’s orchestra. But his father said Don’t confuse your son about who he is, Elsa, and so she never did. But Ned continued going to concerts, mostly to hear Alameda. Listening to her, he felt he’d found a kindred soul. Then Ned turned twelve and started helping his father fish, and had to forget about music and other things that didn’t really matter. Yet he couldn’t forget. To be on the water was to be lost in an infinite orchestra, dizzy as its oboes, flutes, and violas pulsed through his bones. And every time the nets raised the fated fish out of their element, Ned cringed as screaming violins and piano played on burning metal. His father would watch Ned’s pale face with disapproval and tell him to get used to who you are. Yesterday, while he adjusting the net’s cod-ends, his father appeared beside him carrying the flailing silver body of a Zorte fish.
So up close, the desperate melody was dizzying. Ned closed his eyes, filled with pain, humiliation and hatred. “You have to get used to this, Ned,” his father said when the fish had finally died. “This is our—your—life.” “You can’t make me like what we do.” The words surprised Ned, who had never spoken back to his father before. His father’s sea-glass eyes went as still as the ocean before a storm. “And you think its fun for me, Ned?” “It—it’s different for you.” It was the contempt hard on his father’s face—contempt for the son who channeled everything inside himself into doing what he hated—that kept Ned talking. He explained the music. When he was done, his father was looking at him strangely. “Well I never thought to call it music.” He looked down, traced the Zorte’s outline. “But I can sense the fish too.” Ned stared. His calm, predator-like father could hear the same sounds that made Ned nervous and weak? “But what you got is a blessing. Its something that gives you an edge on all these other boats out there with the same engine and nets as you. Its why we are the only ones who can catch the Zorte fish—its why we live a little better than all the other miserable men out here.” “But I hate it.” His father’s features hardened once again. “Well, then go out into the meadow and weave daisies. We’re here to make a living, not to enjoy ourselves, and the sooner you start being a man the better.” Alameda Benson did not move as Ned told his story. “It’s funny,” she said when he was done. Her eyes, colors layered like ocean water over crushed oyster shells, stared earnestly into his. “But I always noticed you. Before you stopped
Phoebe Danaher, Sentinel, oil on canvas
coming to concerts. You always sat up front and you always always looked…so involved. When the violin cried, you tensed like it was part of you.” She paused. “And I couldn’t help thinking that you were like me. That you feel music too.” “Doesn’t it ever hurt you?” Ned demanded. “I hate it. I feel like I’m dying with the fish. It—it makes me weak.” Alameda glanced behind her. Everyone had already cleared out into the lobby to enjoy beer and wine and gossip and to forget the music. “Let’s sit.” They walked to the first rows of seats, farthest away from the doors, and stared up at the clarinets and saxophones, glittering on their musicians’ chairs as if sharing jokes in a secret language of light. “I’ve never hated it, but my grandmother did. Sensa Glenn. She could hear the ocean, like you. She was a fisherman’s daughter.” And Alameda told him a magical and terrible story. The Glenns had been the wealthiest fishers in the town, like Ned’s family now. Their specialty was the a very valuable fish—a fish that brought them a fortune. But it wasn’t talent that brought them the fish, not really. Because the Glenns had discovered a powerful secret. While buyers would pay glorious prices for the fish’s delicious meat, the Glenns discovered that the bones, when boiled into a broth, could enhance the senses. The more one drank, the sharper one’s senses became. All the Glenns did it, and they could feel the fish moving through the water like vibrations on cello strings. They were almost superhuman—and unstoppable. Only Sensa wasn’t happy. The oldest child in a generation of Glenns with no sons, she was barely ten when she first went on the water. The problem was that she didn’t just hear, she felt the music. And when the fish died, her ears were filled with chaos and breaking and terror. Eventually, Sensa couldn’t bear it anymore and stopped taking the broth, which maybe Teddy Simson, Eye of the Tiger, scratch board and watercolor
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saved her, because one day her father—drinking his broth with fennel, just the way he liked it— went into a terrible seizure and died. When she grew up, Sensa married Taylor Benson, who served as the town’s First Selectman just as his fathers had been before him. But although Sensa no longer drank the broth, she couldn’t undo the hearing. The ocean’s siren song followed her, the same wonderful music that had seduced and betrayed her father. And so she began playing piano. With her own sweet notes, she learned to drown out the ocean’s voice and her memories with it. All the Bensons were now musical by tradition, but for Sensa it hadn’t been a choice. She played to survive. When Ned returned home, his father was sitting by the fire with the Zorte-bone broth he always made Ned drink with him before bed. Ned felt sick. He didn’t want to believe it—didn’t know if he should. “Where have you been?” his father asked without turning. Ned couldn’t move. “Ned?” His father stood up, turned to him. His muscles and bones cut lean, hard shadows in the flickering light. “I was…I was a little too harsh with you yesterday.” “I just want you to be strong, you know that. Its all for your good.” It always was, wasn’t it? “I’ll be right back.” And his father vanished down the dark corridor to his room, a swift and sleek predator, leaving his cup glowing in the fire light. Ned stared into the amber liquid, feeling sick. Until now, he had never understood the appeal of its bland, innocent flavor. His father was back—carrying a silver CD player. “I felt a little bad today. No matter what I said, I know you work hard even if you aren’t happy. I try but I can’t make you. Maybe one day
Rachel Choe, Boom, digital imaging
54 Phoebe Danaher, Synthetic Jazz, mixed media
you’ll realize…” he trailed off. “So I went around looking, because I know you really like all that music-stuff. Asked Rob Duke down the street what I should do because... His wife, she’s really into the radio. He gave me her old model—she has the newest one for herself now—and it’s still got a CD in it. Classical, what you like.” Ned didn’t move. All the way home, he’d forced himself to face what he’d always known—he was just a machine to his father, primed with Zorte broth and kept in line with harsh words. And now, in his father’s extended arms, impossibly, was hope that maybe there was more. “Thank you. I….appreciate it.” What was in his father’s fire-illuminated expression…surprise? distrust? Happiness? “Well don’t start tearing up.” He pushed the CD player into Ned’s hands. “Time for us to get to bed. Tomorrow’s stormy.” He began gliding away. “Father? Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t drink so much of that broth.” His broad shoulders tensed. He turned slowly back to Ned. “Why do you say that?” “Well—well you don’t know what’s in it. I mean too much of anything is bad. Remember Riley Oaker getting mercury poisoning?” His father relaxed. “Well, Oaker’s a fool. Anyone knows you shouldn’t eat so much of the big fishes. Our broth’s all good minerals. It makes us stronger.” His voice was as smooth and guiltless as a weather-man’s. “But…,” Ned began. “Yes?” Ned’s words caught in his throat. What could he say? Have you been drugging me all my life? His father would never admit it. And their relationship, already fragmented, would be broken.
Instead of going up to his room, Ned slipped out the door again after his father retreated with the broth. The silver box swung in his hands. Down the road he went, the bay lapping sleepily to his left, until he came to their boat. The feisty green Lucinda-May. Bobbing up and down, eager for another day at work. He climbed into the matching green rowboat attached to Lucinda-May by rope, freed it, and paddled away. The music, rising up from the water, was so beautiful when it was at peace—softly thrumming drums, melancholy clarinets, the steady cello chorus of the Zorte. The Zorte his father might die for. The radio, set down beside him, glowed silver like a fallen moon. Ned turned it on. He started. Pouring out, graceful and painful, was one of Alameda’s compositions. Selectman Benson must have sent a recording of his daughter’s music to Rob Duke, who was his cousins. And then the ocean’s music changed. The deep, velvety sounds of the Zorte were fading, as if the fish had paused to listen to Alameda’s music. But then slowly, the strings reunited in their refrain, more powerful and beautiful than ever—almost as if it were meant to comfort Alameda’s soaring, crying violin. And then the melody began to fade again. The fish were leaving. All of them. As if something in the music, some ancestral sadness passed down from Sensa Glenn, was asking them to. Ned turned up the volume and listened as the Zorte’s music grew softer. Faster and faster now, the fish were fading into the distance. His family’s livelihood—and curse—disappearing. He turned the volume all the way up, letting the music pour and pour, like golden light at sunrise, over the ocean that would never sing again. 55
Lydia Stenflo, Beach Warrior, photography
56 Liam Nadire, Pride, photography