Tacenda - La Pluma Vol. 1 by La Pluma Magazine

la pluma 2021-22 | Vol. 1

art by claire yang

Letter from the Editors

HE MONTH OF JANUARY IS SLOW AT BEST, a sock-footed tip-toe out of first semester back into the rush and fervor of the second. However, it’s also a month of new beginnings, the idealized thought that “this will be my year”. As we begin another 12 months, we also look back at what we leave behind. Boxes of polaroids, flowers pressed between letters, unsent messages — the things that could have been. As seniors, the editors have been poring over four years of memories, the looming threat of the future, and the unsettling realization that we are not who we used to be. It might seem confusing that the magazine is titled Issue 1, considering we’ve been around since 2009. But our archives are riddled with holes — the La Pluma legacy has faded like an old film reel. As we began to rebuild, taking naught but our Google Drive login into the new school year, we rescheduled our meetings, reformatted our website, and refilled our pens. With a new advisor, a new team, and a fresh new perspective, we began our first in-person meetings in 2 years. As we watched our members talk late into the night on our discord server or collectively plot a pig rebellion against an evil bunny regime, a warm, close-knit community took shape. Every piece in this publication is a testament to our growth as we remember to look to the future as well as the past. Let’s dust off washed-out photos and flip through forgotten journals filled with streetlight dances, graveside confessions, and stargazing not-quite-lovers. Throughout this semester, we learned to see a blank page not as vast emptiness but as infinite possibility, and that while some things are better left unsaid, no voice should go unheard.

tacenda (n.): things better left unsaid playlist: https://tinyurl.com/tacenda-spotify moodboard: https://tinyurl.com/tacenda-moodboard

Table of Contents 76 days

empty words

alyssa yang saarika nori

gaps and spaces

no worries

lavi sundar

shivani verma

annika lee

descend the beyond ashley kwong

sovereign

a sedated wreck

silence

anvitha mattapalli

socialization procrastination

olivia tsui

sonia verma isabelle hung

sophia ma

anika bhandarkar

just passing through

william zhang grace wang zayd musa

body let us out

all the red flags

rudrika randad

tvisha gupta

mishty bansal melody cui

file: redacted

no words

sury dongre

marlys kutach sonia verma

please leave a message after the tone

the poet’s ending

clair de lune

(star-gazed)

shivani madhan

elizabeth lee

manasi ganti

76 daYs T

writing alyssa yang | art saarika nori (content warning: suicide)

HE 46TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: She lets you kick and scream at her grave without complaint. You shout, curse, bleed fury into jagged motion, towards the sky and the little chapped tombstone, towards the crumbling grave dirt and even her flickering form. It’s only when you begin to claw at the earth beneath your knees, hiccupping, that she reaches out with fingers that pass right through you and send you shuddering to a halt. You don’t remember how long you stay like that, trembling on your knees before her, with the world reduced to nothing but your ragged breathing. Saya makes to say something with the childish voice she’s stolen for today—too young, too small, her entire appearance snatched from the midst of time. “Shut up,” you say, before she can make a sound. “Shut up! Shut up!” And then the tears are once more choking their way out of you to splash upon the earth.

For better or for worse, Saya doesn’t try to speak again. By the time to pick yourself up to leave, the cicadas have already begun their nightly concert, a flurry of discordant judgment that twangs at you. “I know,” you say to them. The graveyard gate swings shut with a clang of finality. “Believe me, I know.” THE 49TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: Your history essay has been overdue for a week. You turn it in with a short smile and a shorter apology; your teacher just sighs. Behind her, Saya pulls a face. You get fourteen-year-old Saya, today. You haven’t missed her. At that point, Saya had been all vapid smiles and insecure edges, which hadn’t smoothed over until sophomore year, but —she’s still Saya. Gross-Saya is still an improvement over No-Saya.

tacenda “You’ve been in difficult circumstances recently, but I know you can do much better than this,” your history teacher says. Blah, blah, blah. The words dribble onto her grey slacks. You slant a droll look at Saya, who giggles. At fourteen, Saya had still had traces of baby fat clinging to her cheeks, which curve now as she laughs. The sound is just as Wbright as you remember—she’s practically bubbling. It’s almost easy to imagine that time is sliding off your shoulders, peeling with it all the blood and grime that death has brought, until you are once more standing in the academic quad. You are not trapped in mires of grey grave dust; you are watching Saya bound across dusty-red brick to you, framed by streaks of rusty gold, about to poke your shoulders or tug your attention with a here here look at these new rings aren’t they so pretty? and she is laughing, laughing. Bubbling. “—the Mexican-American war won’t be as important in the long run. I’m sorry life has not been kind to you. But if you want to move forward you need to—” The world slides back into focus. Your eyes are not closed, but they still feel as though you have just awakened from a dream. A… a good one. But still a dream. Saya’s laughter tinkles in your ears, but it feels wrong now. Faded. You do not turn to look at her.

follow you through your classes, stats and economics sinking cold through your belly like the breakfast you didn’t eat this morning. All the while, Saya says nothing. During physics, while the teacher is lecturing, Saya stands by the window. She’s staring out towards the parking lot. Dark circles stretch into canyons beneath her eyes. Your attention drifts to your teacher—rotational inertia and linear speed—and when you glance back at Saya, her face is perfectly smooth. THE 60TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: You don’t see Saya all day. You scream into your hands. It doesn’t really make you feel better. You get up to look for Saya, which does, until she’s nowhere to be found. Again. Again, again—

it’s almost easY to imagine that time is sliding off Your shoulders

THE 58TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: The first time you try to open your locker, you mess up the combination. The lock doesn’t budge. An auspicious start—an omen, as when your locker does come free, yellow paper flutters out from its belly. MURDERER, says one. YOU PUSHED HER OFF THE ROOF, another; REMEMBER HER; SAYA; SAYA; SAYA— You slam the door shut. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a flash of yellow. One of the sticky notes lies face up, its scrawled message taunting you. SHE LOVED YOU Your mind blurs. When you come to, the paper is crumpled in your fist. You are breathing hard. Your fist is crushed into the locker. There is a noise from behind you—when you turn around, you see Saya, looking mournful with her twelve-year-old doe eyes. “What?” you ask. The word comes out as too accusative, even to you, but Saya doesn’t seem to notice. She just blinks rapidly. “Nothing,” she says, after a beat of silence. But she’s quiet all day. You shut your locker, but its accusatory hisses

THE 64TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: You check the graveyard last. Each tombstone stands bare, alone, trembling beneath the wind. There aren’t even any flowers. Someone must have cleared them away.

THE 68TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: She appears in the supermarket. Aisle 13: canned goods. Your head jerks towards her, thoughts of beans and milk forgotten. “Saya,” you say, but the response you’re waiting for never comes. You turn into aisle after aisle. Flour. Cereal. Spices. The air is saturated with cinnamon where you find Saya huddled by the bottom shelves. She’s crying. You step closer, but she only hiccups, breath accelerating and choking in her throat. “No, no,” she mumbles, twisting her fingers in her hair. “No.” Cinnamon rings red around her eyes, throat, nose. The best thing you can do here is walk away. Back to Aisle 13. Back to the groceries that spilled out of your bag, clattering along the floor. You try to pick them up. They are always rolling, slipping just out of your fingertips. You cannot keep hold of anything. You stay there, reaching, reaching, reaching but— “Ma’am?” Cinnamon makes your head spin. “Ma’am, the store closed ten minutes ago.” You turn and stare at the clerk. TYLER, reads the name tag on his faded-green vest.

“Oh,” you say to Tyler. “Sorry.” Canned peaches are still rolling by your feet. THE 75TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: You get in a fight, again. “You’re a monster,” one of Saya’s former little friends spits at you. A flurry of gasps sounds from the growing crowd, slick phones and sticky bodies swirling restlessly, but you just look at her—at the twistyturning guilt percolating behind the anger in her eyes. “You should look in a mirror before accusing me of anything,” you tell her, after a pause. The girl clenches her fist. You have time to think, uh-oh, before she punches you in the face. An hour later, sitting in the hard black chairs of the front office, you have the hindsight to acknowledge you should have just kept your mouth shut. Saya, Saya. Saya-Saya-Saya. It’s always about her. Nothing you’ve done has ever been enough, and nothing you do or say now will be, either. REMEMBER SAYA, say people in the hallways, say plastic social media posts, say those notes in your locker. You don’t need their help; no matter what, you’ll never be able to forget. Rage is indistinguishable from guilt is indistinguishable from bitterness is indistinguishable from the cold fire sluicing under your skin. It trickles down to caress your knuckles as you push open the graveyard gate. It drips bloody tears down your cheekbones as you see Saya, five years old and sitting on her tombstone, with black crackling down her face as she stares up to the sky. It pools at the divot of your lips and on your teeth as you open your mouth to scream, scream. Scream. Why did Saya have to die? Why weren’t you enough? Why couldn’t you just live, Saya? Tough it out and own up to your mistakes instead of making me pay the price? Your throat hurts. Breath, in, out. The graveyard is silent. Saya watches you with her canyon-rimmed eyes—no, not Saya. Five-year-old imitation Saya.

you, a face emerges from the dust. Your instinctive response of, “Saya,” sticks behind your teeth. The woman can’t be Saya; her face is all lines and edges and dead bodies don’t age, only rot. But… maybe. Maybe. She’s crying. Worms bleed and wriggle out of the dirt where her tears mingle. “I could have lived,” she says. Dust shudders from her face with the words, catching on her eyelashes. “I could have gone to college, finished that poem about Julia, written a dozen more and lived in a tiny apartment with two dogs. I could have lived. Why couldn’t you let me live?” The Saya-who-did-not-die stares at you, empty, empty, as the world spins in a shower of dirt. Worms break away and fall apart before reforming as concrete. Wind buffets your body as you stare down the three-story drop. Cars and people swirl below, pulsing, never-ending. Cinnamon perfume stands behind you. It fills your head. “You pushed me off this roof.” “No,” you say, without turning around. “I wasn’t even here.” Hands wrap around your shoulders. Tilt you gently over the edge. “It’s a metaphor, darling.”

A A s Y THE 75TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: Let’s try again. You are standing in a graveyard and everything is breaking in your fingers once more, but it’s okay. You can try again. “I’m sorry,” you try, and you are telling the truth. It isn’t the fault of this small, porcelain Saya that the older (real) version is (was) so spineless. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” Saya’s face doesn’t change. She says, with her tiny metallic voice, “That’s what you always say.” THE 76TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: Morning dawns in the graveyard. Wilted flower petals whistle through your ears and you are dimly aware that you are dreaming. Wake up, you try to tell yourself, try to say aloud, but your lips are stiff and unmoving. The world tips upside down. Your lungs balloon with grave dirt. Above

THE 76TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA: THE 76TH DAY WITHOUT SAYA:

tacenda

gaps and spaces lavi sundar

There lies a small infinity In the space between my words. My sentences are filled with these Gaps unsaid, unheard. You bloom in cracks of wordlessness, Live in voids of black. My dreams call your name in permanence. Dearest, please come back.

no Worries :) shivani verma

no worries, you say. You’re worried. Worry crawls up the back of your throat and makes you gag, causes tears to spring to your eyes. Every time you think you’ll get yourself out of this mess, somehow you get yourself into another one. what’s wrong with you? what are you doing? Your chest ignites, and it burns, fueled by the paper of all the lists you’ve made — lists of things you are and you are not and you will never be. i believe in you. And you say it because the mirror talk is supposed to work. But you don’t mean it, not for yourself at least, and so when you say the words it feels like yanking teeth, like pulling a rubber band tighter and tighter until it breaks, until it snaps and the damage isn’t done until you say it is, and so when you say, i’m doing okay the words scrape your insides raw, leave marks and tighten their hold around your heart, squeezing until you’re gasping, until someone looks over and looks concerned, until you’ve given it your all. They ask you if you’re okay, and by then the truth clogs your throat, stuck and forever lost. By then, you haven’t been honest in a lifetime. So you say, i’m fine. i’m doing okay. no worries.

emptY Words

annika lee

HE MOMENT THE PHONE RINGS, IZZY KNOWS IT’S BAD. Not bad news, but bad because of how Ellen sees the caller ID and her shoulders immediately rise to meet her ears. She turns the volume on the TV down to half-listen to the onesided conversation taking place. “Hi, Mom.” Ellen picks at a loose thread on her sweatpants, pulling away from Izzy’s side. “Mhm. Yup. Izzy’s here.” Lowering her phone from her ear, she turns to Izzy. “Mom says hi.” Izzy smiles. “Tell her I say hi, too.” “She says hi,” Ellen says into her phone dutifully, eyes soft. Izzy listens to the faint, tinny voice of Ellen’s mother, Anna. She’s a lovely woman, but Ellen’s face darkens as she strides to their apartment balcony, soulmate tattoo peeking out of her sleeve. Most everyone has a soulmark. Somehow, the universe decides that someone out there is the person for you, that their relationship to you will be the most important in your life. When you’re born, the universe sews their last words to you into your skin. You’ll know who they are through the handwriting — their handwriting. Scientists have been trying for centuries to figure out what the universe uses as ink. Among the romantics at least, the popular theory is stardust. They say that the stardust is shaken off the farthest stars of the night sky, mixed with water from the darkest depths of the ocean, then strained through the finest silks to create the dark ink that stains your body. Izzy thinks it’s blood. She never fails to wince at the sight of E l l e n’s tattoo. Black ink carves a thick, harsh line across Ellen’s wrist. Izzy knows every single curve and corner by heart, could trace it with her eyes closed. After all, it’s her handwriting on Ellen’s skin. Reflexively, her fingers begin to write it out. I can’t do this anymore.

Who the hell says that as their last words to their fated person? Izzy Chang, apparently. She clenches her fist, stopping the movement of her traitorous fingers. Ellen usually tries her best to cover her tattoo up; she knows how uncomfortable it makes Izzy. But she doesn’t understand it, not really. Izzy’s eyes fall to her own tattoo. The words I’m sorry spill over her wrist in Ellen’s sharp, jagged scrawl. Izzy squeezes her eyes shut, but the image of her tattoo is burned into her retinas. She covers her soulmark with her hand before she even dares open her eyes. It’s silly to pretend that covering her mark will prevent Ellen from saying it. That doesn’t stop her from doing it anyways. The leather band that hides her tattoo is a staple in her wardrobe; its tanline is as baked into her skin as her soulmark is. She only ever takes the cuff off in the presence of Ellen, who insists on removing it and running her fingers over Izzy’s mark with a reverent awe. Izzy doesn’t get it. When she traces her own tattoo, the anger woven into the words scalds her fingertips. What does Ellen feel in the black ink that makes her ghost her fingers over it night after night? What does she feel that Izzy doesn’t? She’s tried touching Ellen’s tattoo to see if she feels anything that Ellen might when touching hers. She only ever feels whitehot guilt and bone-deep sadness pulsing through each letter. Izzy yanks her sleeve down further to cover her tattoo. She doesn’t want to think about their last words to each other. They’re going to be okay. They won’t say their words to each other for sixty years, at least. She’ll make sure of it. Ellen emerges from their balcony fifteen minutes later. She falls into the cushions. Pressing her hands to her face, she groans.

the anger woven into the words scalds her fingertips

tacenda “That bad?” Izzy pauses the TV. Ellen settles her head in Izzy’s lap and nods. “Same thing as always,” she says into her hands. Izzy runs her fingers through Ellen’s hair. Ellen’s voice goes shrill as she mimics Anna. “When will you start trying to find your soulmate?” “Hmm.” Izzy’s fingers twitch. At Ellen’s wince at the pull on her scalp, she forces her hand to relax. She wants to shove her wrist in Anna’s face, wants to cry that Ellen has known for years who her soulmate is, wants to shout that it’s Izzy. Ellen peeks out from behind her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she says. Izzy’s heart skips a beat. She knows that she will always feel that sharp swoop of fear every time Ellen says that she’s sorry. Izzy slides her hand down to trace Ellen’s mark. Ellen shivers as her fingers brush over a particularly sensitive patch of warm skin. Izzy exhales, shaky. Ellen is alive, and breathing, and she will not die today. Izzy will not lose her lover today. “Izzy, I’m sorry.” Izzy laughs, harsh and grating. “No, don’t be.” Ellen sits up. “No...I know it’s hard for you. I just...I can’t do it. I can’t tell them.” “I know you’re scared,” Izzy says, fighting to keep her voice level. “But what can they do? You’ve moved out, you’re not dependent on them anymore. Why can’t you…” “I can’t.” Izzy throws her hands up. “Why?” “They’ll take it badly. You know this,” Ellen says, looking at Izzy with a hurt expression crumpling her face. “I’ve told you about this.” “How do you know that? Your family loves you.” Ellen shakes her head. “I can’t risk it.” “I risked it.” Ellen’s expression shatters. “My family was... they were worse than yours. They took it fine. Why can’t you do the same? Your mother is the sweetest person alive.” “My dad–” “You don’t even talk to him! Ellen, between me and your family, who do you choose?” Izzy’s heart thuds against her ribs, straining to break free. “Do I have to choose? Why can’t I have both?” “Both?” Izzy’s voice climbs high with incredulity. “Like right now, isn’t this enough?” This? Enough? Every time she speaks to Anna, she has to smile through the comments about Ellen not being adventurous enough to go out and find her soulmate when all she really wants to do is scream it from the rooftops that Ellen Dickinson is her fated person, that their

souls are so intertwined that their love stained their bodies. Izzy lets a humorless laugh bubble out of her chest. “How is this—” she gestures to their apartment with a sweep of her arm, “—enough for you? Your family knows me as your roommate! I’m your soulmate, for God’s sake!” “Fine! Maybe it’s not enough! But I can’t choose, Izzy. They’re my family.” “And I’m your soulmate,” Izzy says quietly. “I can’t choose. Don’t make me choose.” Izzy shakes her head. She walks to their bedroom and starts packing an overnight bag. “I can’t do this, Ellen. I’m leaving. Call me when you’re ready.” She shoves jeans into the bag with more force than strictly necessary. “Izzy, no, please. I can’t,” Ellen says. “And what about me? I can’t keep living like this.” Izzy yanks the door open. “No, Izzy, please.” The door starts to swing shut. “I can’t do this anymore.” The words come out low and vicious. Her anger chokes her, clawing at the back of her throat. She tries to swallow her rage down. It’s no use. It leaves a sticky, cloying aftertaste. She almost wishes that she had spoken louder, so at least she would be able to spit some of it out. Even so, her voice seems to echo in the apartment. Her blood runs cold, chill spreading from her veins. Izzy knows that she hasn’t turned to ice only through the pulse hammering at her wrist, but she is frozen to the ground, voice dying in her throat. She wants to stuff her words back into her mouth, as if it will slow the inevitable. She’s gone and done it, said the last words she’ll ever say to Ellen. Ellen glances at her tattoo, eyes going dim and soft and sad as she reaches the same realization. Maybe, Izzy thinks fiercely, barely breathing with the ache of desperate hope crushing her lungs, maybe, if Ellen doesn’t say what’s on her wrist, if she doesn’t say her last words to Izzy, maybe they’ll be okay, she’ll let them both cool off and they can talk things through, they can figure something out, they’ll be alright, they won’t say their last words to each other for another sixty years, please, she’ll do anything for six decades, six months, six days, even, just please don’t say– “I’m sorry.”

the beYond

ashley kwong

tacenda

sovereign

anvitha mattapalli

A IN PATTERS AGAINST THE GROUND IN PELLETS. The sky’s tears mist Finn’s dry eyes. In his unwavering grip, a bouquet of lilies, piercing his numb skin. He strides in time with his heartbeat, steady and confident. As the moon sheds light upon the sign before him, Finn takes a sip of his tea, wraps his scarlet scarf around his neck, and steps inside. Stones of all kinds — from bloodstones to moonstones to tombstones — grow from the ground to greet him. Freshly watered flowers beam in his presence, opening their petals. Finn doesn’t take note of them, though. He looks at the grave markers before him, etched on stones. All the words they could never say. All the words he could never say. Finn instinctively follows the route etched in his mind, twisting and turning between stones to reach the one he’s looking for. Water seeps through the name engraved in rusty concrete. Sadie Corvina. A loving daughter, niece, and aunt. Girlfriend. They forgot girlfriend, but Finn’s lips were stitched together with newfound freedom. The memories of her locked within him are only for him to see. His long-sleeved clothes and scarlet scarf protect the scars decorated across his body from the toxic whisper of the world. His body is a work of art, one too gorgeous for some people to see. Not an inch of his ccanvas is unpainted. A long scar wraps around his back and over his right shoulder. His left arm has folded skin, black burns dotting it. Hues of midnight splash across his skin, mingling to form tender bumps. Scars below itch to rise, but the tattoo of a moon shields them. Finn’s fingers gently brush over a cerulean bruise blooming on his ring finger. Pain pulses through his veins as he lets out a strangled gasp. His eyes dart around the graveyard. No pair of eyes meet his, but that doesn’t stop the tears threatening to spill like tea across his cheeks. Finn forces them back. A tingling rose over his skin with illusioned knowledge, as if the bodies sealed below the earth and saved from life were gossiping of the boy — not man — who clings to a late loved one.

The whispers of the dead hiss, but Finn silences them with a raise of his sleeve. When the paint strokes across his canvas brush the harsh air, they suck in a breath before slowly relaxing. Drained monochrome pigments into the colors of sunset for the dead to bask in. The sudden sound of thunder startles Finn, but when he would once cower under its authority, he now merely winces like the stinging of hot tea on the tip of his tongue. This newfound freedom pulses through his veins with confidence, beyond the whispers and gossips. At the sight of Sadie’s death date, it wavers slightly. They say that fateful night, as the moon shed light upon her room, she took a sip of her tea before a scarlet scarf wrapped around her neck. Finn’s newfound freedom forges forward. He places his bouquet of lilies upon her grave. It would be a difficult change for Finn, to live without such a prominent figure in his life, but he’ll make do. With time, he believed, he would be able to overcome Sadie. And in some ways, he felt he already made the first step.

silence anika bhandarkar (content warning: sexual assault, self-harm, & suicide)

Silence: It’s what greeted me after he was done with me, and left me broken.

Silence: The world around me When I hurt the boy ‘cause he wouldn’t talk to me.

Silence: The opposite of what’s happening in my head. I can’t erase him.

Silence: When I tried to talk But nobody would listen, Leaving me alone.

I got mad. I swear I didn’t mean to hurt him. But he called me names.

The ghost of his touch haunts me. I can’t stop thinking about what he did.

“You freak,” he called me. “You,” he spat, “make everyone uncomfortable.” He didn’t mean that. He was mean ‘cause my rape was too taboo for him.

Silence: Me as it happened. He took my purity. I’m not clean anymore.

can you hear me?

i’m not clean. I was left alone As I healed. Eventually, the bruises faded.

somebody listen. Cuts healed. Pain lessened. But the mental bruises got worse. And they hurt more.

i can’t erase him.

“Get away from me.” I got mad. I punched him. I just wanted to talk.

Silence: I can’t take any more. Is my life too triggering? My pain too taboo?

somebody listen. i’m not clean. can you hear me? i can’t erase him. an you hear me? i’m not clean. i can’t erase him. somebody somebody listen. listen. i’m not clean. i can’t erase him. somebody listen. ancan youyou hear me? i can’t erase him. hear me? i can’t erase him not clean. i’m not clean. i’m not clean. ime? can’tme? erase him. anhear you hear i can’t i’m not clean.erase. ou somebody listen. somebody listen. somebody listen. can you hear me? ii’m can’t erase him. i can’t erase i’m him. not clean. i’m i’m not not clean. clean. cannot youclean. hear me? No one seemed to care No one missed the knife, or saw the cuts on my wrists. I was going back to school next Monday. Maybe someone there would care.

Silence: What surrounded me When I first came back to school. The stares were scary.

Silence: Everyone as I try to talk. I just want someone to listen.

Silence: Somebody listen. I’m screaming. Can you hear? Or Do you not want to?

Silence: It’s what greets me as I hit the ground. The fall felt longer than it looked. A broken person Finally breaking. It hurt only a second. And then, silence.

. m .

a sedated wreck sophia ma

descend writing william zhang | art grace wang & zayd musa

HE NECKLACE WASN’T LIKE OTHER JEWELRY. The tentacle-like patterns ensnared a small, garnet-like gem. The sizable frame was connected to a thick, black chain that weighed as much as a padlock. I was required to wear it all the time for a reason unknown to me. Whenever I was outside, I wore a collared shirt with the top button secured to cover it up. One day, a sense of freedom when breathing bothered me, but I never noticed until my friends pointed it out. “Draven, you didn’t button that top one today,” “My wh–” I reached for my neck and fumbled with the button until it fell into place. “You’re hiding something,” Providence said. “It’s quite obvious.” I shook my head. “I’m not hiding anything.” My friend stared at me intently. “You can’t hide anything from me. I’ll find out anyway.” “You don’t have to be so stressed about not buttoning that top button,” Rigel Gagliano assured me before I could leave. “Who does that? Isn’t it uncomfortable?” I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. “Don’t blame me for my choice of dress. My mother makes me do so, but she hasn’t given me an explanation yet.” “Your mother has no idea what freedom is, then,” Rigel said. “It’s not right to have you locked up in a suit every day.” I sighed. “Honestly, I don’t care. Thanks for looking out for me, but I’m fine with it. Just let my mother be my mother, okay?” My friends fell silent, and left me alone for the rest of the day. I returned to the empty house once school ended. The collared shirt stuck to my back from sweat. I peered at my mother’s locked door. I wish she would just tell me what was up with my necklace. Sighing, I took out my computer and set it on my desk. My unfinished homework glared at me, but the thoughts kept on coming back. Why do you want to hide who you are, Draven? What’s wrong with displaying the necklace? “Damn it, all because of that stupid button!” I yelled at the computer screen. Everything was deathly silent. I could hear my heartbeat getting faster the longer the silence continued. I exhaled deeply to settle my nerves, but the wispy, meddlesome mystical force returned in my head. Why are you hiding a secret you don’t even know? Does it matter if your friends know?

Why is your father not around to tell you? “What does my father have to do with that necklace?” I shouted. I tore through the top buttons and pulled out the necklace, the red gemstone glinting maliciously in the dim light. The gem must have been speaking in my imagination. I could think up a hundred ways to destroy it, but it wouldn’t matter in the end. It was a nuisance that had become a small part of me, and I was forced to live with it. The sound of a door being opened interrupted my thoughts and I jumped from my seat. My mother dragged herself out into the kitchen, still hazy from sleep. She was a bat in human form, leaving the house regularly in the night for work and returning in the day to sleep. It was a bad sign if she woke during the day. She looked at me groggily, pinning me to the spot. I did not dare move. “Why are you causing so much noise, Draven? Go make me some breakfast before I get back up again.” She trudged back to her bedroom and shut the door. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The afternoon sun was gentle and accompanied by a pleasant breeze. I had just returned from errands that my mother had ordered me to carry out. I eyed my mother’s car in the driveway, a glistening black Mercedes, the same car that she drives to work every night.

tacenda The house was empty when I entered, but I immediately noticed an unnatural presence. It didn’t take me long to realize what felt wrong. “Her door’s open?” I whispered to myself in shock. “Where is she?” I couldn’t resist the urge to peer inside my mother’s room. My heart was racing, its beating growing stronger every step I took towards that room. The interior, which was usually closed from my eyes, was impossibly dark even in broad daylight. Did she board up the windows? How does she get any fresh air? I grasped the side of the doorframe and pulled myself in. “Holy—” Scrawled across the walls and ceilings in black ink were hundreds of arcane and eldritch symbols, drawings, and diagrams. There were massive tentacled monsters accompanied by atrocious handwriting that made me dizzy. My head had no place for thought as I was rooted to the spot from shock, mouth agape and fighting to scream, unblinking eyes gazing at the monstrosities that lined the floor and walls. The more I stared at these grotesque drawings, unable to break out of their trance, the more terrifying they became. My heart beat against the necklace’s weight, its pulses growing more audible every second. Faint, otherworldly whispering invaded my brain and refused to leave. I felt myself taking shaky steps towards the center of the room against my urge to turn and escape. Then, I felt an agonizing pain in my head and I fell unconscious as if I had ascended to heaven.

will to do so as if the chain was gradually becoming heavier. Instead, a wave of curiosity replaced my aftershock of terror. After formulating a plan, I grabbed my phone and dialed a call to Providence. “Hey, Providence. I need some assistance from you and Rigel. Can you tell Rigel to drive to my house tonight? ” “What a change of thought,” Providence mused. “Sure, I’ll go and tell him. What will you do?”

I was rooted to the spot, mouth agape and fighting to scream

I woke up many hours later from a horrendous headache the next day. The necklace felt heavier than usual. As I stared at it, it stared back like a malevolent being. A sudden, sharp pain shot through my head and brought back knocked-out memories of my mother’s room. I gripped the necklace in my hand and smashed it on the dining table in a rage, denting the wood. Everything about my mother and the necklace now felt wrong. Where does she go every night? Does this have anything to do with the necklace? My father? I need to know. I wanted to take the necklace off desperately. I just wanted to get rid of the thoughts. Taking it off should have been easy, as the chain was long enough to accommodate my head, but the otherworldly feeling kept coming back. Weakness seeped into my muscles until I lost the

My mother woke up hours later. I hastily texted my friends. Get ready and park near my place. Timing is critical. Her eyes were weary from a lack of sleep, which I found odd, because she must have been sleeping for most of the day. But when I thought of the drawings in her room, I felt horrible. “Enjoy your breakfast before you leave,” I said impassively, looking at my texts again. I watched from the front windows as her Mercedes left the driveway. I barged out of the front door and hopped into Rigel’s sedan once the Mercedes turned. “Let’s go,” I said, and Rigel nodded. He tailed my mother’s car well, always keeping behind it and dashing through lights just to keep up. “So, the details?” Providence’s voice came from the back. “Right,” I started. I reached for my collar and took a deep breath. Okay, here goes. I unbuttoned the top two buttons and pulled out my necklace. Providence jumped in her seat. I felt the car jolt from Rigel’s reaction. “Woah! That’s a huge necklace you’ve got there. You’ve been hiding that the whole time? But why hide that under a collar?” she asked. “Why not display it?” “My mother said not to, and I’m going to find out why.” “Turn off the headlights, just in case she notices,” I requested, as my mother’s car turned towards the edges of the city. “Got it,” Rigel said. Relying only on my mother’s rear lights, we were able to sneak all the way to her workplace. But the location of the workplace was one I never expected. “Why does she work in an abandoned public garage?” I wondered.

“That is strange,” Providence agreed. “Just make sure you don’t die in there.” I watched my mother’s batty form swoop out of her car and disappear into the abandoned garage. “How about you?” I asked them. “What will you do?” “We’ll stay here until you come out,” Rigel replied. “We’re your friends. We’ll support you.” “Agreed,” Providence said. I nodded, still feeling worried as I turned away. I crept along in the darkness, following my mother. Even though I wore a jacket, the frigid air passed through the sleeves and crawled up to my chest. I shivered, clutching my hands to keep them warm. My mother’s footsteps tapped along the ground quickly and quietly. Not wanting to give myself away, I could only follow at half her speed. The cold made it worse as I was forced into a stagger, clenching my teeth to prevent them from chattering. My mother arrived at an old elevator that seemed out of order, but she pressed a button and the elevator doors creaked open like a waking beast. The lights inside shone like ghosts, illuminating the floor with her cloaked silhouette. I hauled myself behind a concrete pillar as my mother turned around. The elevator doors closed as old machinery cranked into motion. I waited for the elevator to return. After I hurried inside, the whole elevator shook as it started to descend. The worn cables threatened to send the cab into free-fall. After a harrowing ride, the elevator finally halted and opened its doors. I stepped out, keeping a hand on the door to prevent them from closing, but they moved in on each other regardless and forced me to let go. I was shut inside complete darkness. The room was dark enough to obscure my own limbs. The cold, damp air froze my face and hands until they were numb. I wanted to turn back, but retracing my steps to find the elevator in the darkness was futile. I reached into my pocket for my phone and turned on the flashlight, hoping to find security in the light. After my eyes readjusted, I continued trudging through the cryptic garage. As soon as I shined my light on the first inky sketch of an eldritch, deformed diagram, I screamed and immediately turned the light off. My heart rate and breathing were uncontrollable as I tried to erase the image from my mind. The echo from my scream faded slowly. The dragging of feet and the rustling of clothes replaced the echo as someone came into the room.

“Who’s there?” a gruff voice asked. I panicked as my legs moved on their own, but only to trip over each other. The person quickly closed in on my position and grabbed me by the neck. I tried screaming some more, but my vocal chords failed me in the man’s grip. “Why are you here, you meddlesome fool?” he demanded. “I— I—” I gagged. “We don’t take risks here,” he growled. “We don’t want any tales about our organization coming from you.” He dragged me along like a rag doll while I suffocated in his grip. I could hear faint noise in the distance as the man dragged me down a set of stairs. Only then could I make out the dimmest light casting massive shadows on the walls. There were more people, chanting in a completely alien language that made my head hurt. When I finally got a clear view of them, they were huddled tightly around an altar, which had a statue of some being of horror carved into the wall behind it. At the foot of the altar was a cloaked cult member. “High priestess Amiya!” my capturer shouted at her. “I found an intruder in the dark.” My mother turned around and lifted her hood. Her expression changed from annoyance to surprise into absolute rage. I didn’t dare move as her grip replaced the man’s and dragged me up to the altar. “You disappoint me,” she growled as she ripped my jacket off and the shirt underneath it. She grabbed my necklace and threatened to rip my head off with it. “Do you think that everything I taught you, all the rules you must follow, were for nothing?” “Please, mother,” I begged, finally able to speak. “Spare me. I understand now. I won’t ever come here again! Make me forget all this, please!” “No, you deserve a proper punishment!” she fumed. She let go of the necklace and I felt the cold metal of the frame hit my chest. My dread grew with every second of silence. I glanced at the other priests, but I couldn’t make out their expressions in the dim light. They were trembling and mouthing prayers. The otherworldly voices and my headache returned as the priests mumbled and chanted in that dark language, gradually building in intensity. Soon, the sheer volume of their maddening ritual was too much for my brain as my mind split open from the pulsating pain. My mother emerged from the crowd and approached me with

my dread grew with every second of silence

tacenda a silver knife. She took hold of the necklace while I screamed, and cut the chain with one clean slice. Immediately, the room was silent. The chanting and the eldritch sounds in my head dissipated into the darkness. The clang of metal against ground echoed as the necklace fell to the floor. “Behold, my lord,” my mother announced, breaking the silence. “Your son has awakened.” A horrible sensation surged through my body. My nerves grew numb as my limbs lengthened into black spines, which thickened into slimy tentacles. Those grew along with my torso and chest, which swelled into a blob and grew eyes and mouths at random locations. My new, grotesque body continued to grow, causing the cavernous garage to rumble with my movement. I tried to scream, but instead I released a sound so horrifying that the priests’ heads immediately exploded into carnage. My titanic tentacles flailed about, slashing through stone columns as if they were made of sand. As the garage collapsed and my atrocious form absorbed the damage, my sanity disappeared as I descended into a blackout.

I regained my consciousness in a rainy, desolate land. Scrap metal and bent steel columns were strewn over crushed cars, uprooted trees, and broken furniture. I was naked and shivering in the rain. It took me a while to notice the tug on my neck and the cold metal of a familiar object resting on my bare chest. I walked over the ruins, feet aching from the rough terrain. “Draven,” came a familiar voice. I turned to see my mother’s rainsoaked form emerge from behind a wrecked building. “Now you see why you must wear the necklace,” she spoke, her voice easily carrying across the street. “You now know that you shouldn’t meddle with my business, no matter how tempted you are. You could have had a happy life with your friends, yet you decided to break our peace and discover these secrets yourself.” “I’m sorry, mom,” I breathed, feeling even worse than before. “Please, I want to go back to the way things were. I’ve known enough, and I understand.” “I have no such power, and neither does your father,” my mother said. “You have paid your price.” After that, she turned and walked away. Before I succumbed to tears, I managed to shout, “Who is my father? Tell me!” My mother ignored me and turned a corner, vanishing from sight. I dropped to my knees and wept, shouting to the wind and rain, begging for life to return to the way it used to be. I dug around for Providence or Rigel, but everywhere I looked, I saw headless corpses surrounded by pools of blood. I shook in terror at the thought of my

friends ending up just like those corpses. Please let them be alive. At long last, I could finally discern where the abandoned garage was— at the edge of the city. Beyond that were standing buildings spared from the destruction. I began searching around and quickly located the wreckage of Rigel’s car. My nerves filled with dread as I removed more rubble. “No, no, no, no, no,” I muttered, each word growing higher in pitch until I unleashed another scream that tore at my vocal chords. There were only two massive splotches of blood in the deformed vehicle, two stains that used to be my friends. I flung my head onto the hard concrete and let the blood flow into my eyes. What else was there to live for? My friends were dead, my mother had rejected me, a city was in ruins, and I was the one to blame. All because of the damned necklace, a sinister, cursed entity, and a secret that was better off left unsaid.

olivia tsui

socialization procrastination writing sonia verma | art isabelle hung

Hello, how are you? I haven’t seen you in a long time One blink, the quicksilver flip of a dime like the low moon in the summer sky lands as fast as summer passes by To think of all the nights I thought that Maybe I should text, or call, or Write a letter, anything at all to get in touch but Once the weather’s hotter I’m too busy living and sweating a life I’ve been deprived of to talk much. Hello, how are you? It’s not my fault or yours it’s just the cessation of school is the liberation of my soul from the Fetters constricting my brain Without the constrain of busy work and miserly company, it’s better. Because ever since preschool I’ve been classically conditioned to Keep with precision school at school and home at home (with homework as an exception), So when I’m outside of school why bother being known? Hello, how are you? I’m conscious I’m unconsciously creating a division between Me and everyone else; stay 6 feet away I’m looking at you from above a mask covering half the mask that I’ve worn since 6th-grade that I’ll probably wear to my cold ashy grave. I can’t bear to see the three dots flicker and fade In the grey bubble at the bottom of a glassy plastic screen And then disappear As soon as I’ve seen it

Hello, how are you? Or should I say ‘’Sup?’ or ‘Hey, bestie?’ All of these social cues always get the best of me Well, I hope you’re doing well and not welling up At the thought of meeting a real human being Against all my efforts of self-purgation From my godforsaken school during summer vacation So, forgive me if over the summer I wasn’t in the right place, right headspace - mentally positioned to make the decision to shoot a message and ask: Hello, how are you?

all the red flags

writing melody cui | art mishty bansal (content warning: domestic abuse & body image)

You told me I couldn’t have a “guy best friend” but that I could have just “guy friends.” I didn’t know what differentiated the two. You said “guy best friends” are always into the girl, and that you would know. I asked why you could have a “girl best friend” because didn’t that imply you were into her? You said it was different.

We argued. A lot. Some people say a healthy relationship includes disagreements. But I don’t think that’s applicable when the arguments happen on a nightly basis. You altered my words, escalating solvable misunderstandings into static screams. We fought

over the smallest, most inconsequential things, and when you were frustrated, you would hang up. You always called me back fifteen minutes later, apologizing.

Locker room talk. You would comment on other girls’ bodies right in front of me — too big. too wide. too small. I couldn’t help but look down and analyze myself, comparing my body with those you were critiquing, or if you were generous, praising. You talked about it for hours, ignoring how uncomfortable I was as I stared at you in silence, hoping you would notice and stop. I mentally apologized to each and every girl you talked about.

tacenda But you continued, your words flowing faster as your friends joined in, pushing my presence — my discontent out of your mind. And when I finally told you how I felt you said that every guy did it and that it was a joke.

You had a box. A plain box. The box had words, phrases, sentences, that you knew would instigate me. And instead of closing the box and locking it up, you would, every day, pull out a slip, read it out loud, and wait. There was always a moment of silence before my heated words streamed out, my tongue scraping the surface of your ignorance. You thought it was cute whenever I got mad; you giggled and laughed, telling me to calm down. I asked why you continuously provoked me, and you said it was because you wanted a reaction out of me.

7. I had a body. You said you loved that body. You pinched my stomach, laughing at the excess skin wedged in between your fingers.

s ev e

You never how far was too far. You never knew how much was too much. You pushed me to the edge and I almost fell. But you told me you loved me so I stayed.

I had a body. You said you loved that body. Your hands caressed that body as your words berated it. You said I should work out. You said I gained weight. You said I was fat. Was I fat? No. Did I gain weight? No. Then why were you saying it? It was a joke. After a while, it didn’t feel like a joke.

I have insecurities. You knew about them. Channeling and turning them against me seemed to empower you. You constantly brought up my acne, my stomach, my chest size, but it was a joke so it was okay. And when I finally turned around and told you to stop, you got mad. You said we were glorified friends, and can’t friends joke around with each other? You said I was being unreasonable, that I was being sensitive. You said I needed to learn to take a joke.

You were friends with your ex-girlfriend. She was your “girl best friend,” as you labeled it. You called her every night and when she said she needed to go, you hung up and called me. You pitted me against her. You threatened to hang up and call her every time you were mad at me. You made me hate her. But you said you were just friends. You even told me you would block her — for me.

Let us out

tvisha gupta

O ONE HEARS HER PUSH OPEN THE DOOR, so softly that it doesn’t even make a creak. No one hears her tiptoe to her desk, her feet barely touching the ground, as though she were floating. She carefully places herself in the far left seat of the back row. No one notices her. She’s blended into the beige walls of the back, her pale skin and light clothes seeming like parts of the walls themselves Voices flood the air as the people around her, their words echoing life school boys girls work plans. Kirah stays quiet. She pulls out her supplies, a small black notebook and black ballpoint pen, and scatters them on her table, none of them making a sound. Soft lo-fi music flows through her ears, and she presses

Ursula. The evil queen determined to make her life a living hell. The tendrils shoot back into the ground and her coven disappears, the bright light and atmosphere melting into black, black darkness. She sees the smirks on their faces, and she braces herself. They spit their words out at her, like daggers to the heart. They know exactly where to stab, and the barely-healed cuts from before open right up. She can’t move, she can’t dodge them, and each word pricks her arms, legs, face, until there isn’t any clear skin to prick. So they prick at the wounds they’ve already created, stabbing deeper and deeper. The pain

the top volume button on her phone. The music surrounds her, blocking out the voices of the people around her. She shuts her eyes and lets herself disintegrate into a different reality. The soft beats plant themselves into the ground and red, white, purple, green, yellow sprouts emerge all around her. The sky pulses with color at every beat of the music. She unclasps her clenched fists, and lets the unfamiliar sensation of relaxation flow over her. The sun is nowhere to be seen, yet everything around her is bright. Clear. Beautiful. The lush plants create a protective coven around her, and she feels secure. Protected. The leaves tickle her face and she feels the beginning of a smile come on. Her muscles, tight from having been unused for so long, ready themselves to break out of their slumber. The tendrils of happiness bloom in her chest, and she takes a deep, satisfying breath, letting the air flow out and with it, all that she’s been concerned about. She’s comfortable, at peace, happy. Until— Three loud knocks startle her out of bliss. Her eyes fly open and land on the girl standing in front of her. Maleficent.

overwhelms her. Tears run down her face, the salt stinging her open wounds, but she can’t stop. Kirah stays quiet. Unsaid words fill her thoughts, rumbling, moving around, hitting every wall in her mind. They beg to be let out, to burst out and zip towards the three daggers in front of her, ripping through them and breaking them, ruining them. They pound their fists, creating a rhythmic thump. Let. Us. Out. Let. Us. Out. Kirah stays quiet. The girls walk away from her, and Kirah sits there, silent. She doesn’t can’t move a single muscle. It hurts. She hurts. Everything hurts. She wants to talk, to beg them why, why they refuse to leave her alone. Why is it that they feel the need to comment on everything from her face to her clothes to her life, how they know everything that’s gone wrong for her and why they pick at exactly those things, why they refuse to stop their fists from clutching her heart harder and harder and harder.

soft beats plant themselves into the ground

tacenda But she stays quiet.

Three months ago, people used to know what her voice sounded like. She spoke, she laughed. She wasn’t the background, she never tried to blend. But then they entered. Kirah can’t remember where they came from, nor why they seemed to instantly hate her. But they had some sort of a personal vendetta against her, and they tried their absolute best to have it fulfilled. Asserting their influence and prominence over the school wasn’t difficult for them, and they soon made everyone follow the same wavelength that they were on. Then, from small dirty looks, they graduated to snarky, quiet comments, ones only she could hear. They hurt, but she ignored them. Then they got louder, louder, and louder. People heard what they said, people saw the things they posted on social media, they believed the rumors spread about her. That she hooked up with every guy from the Science Olympiad team so that they would sneak her the

teacher’s password so she could change her failing grade. She had a 95. That she had flirted with the assistant principal to get on his good side. He was her uncle. Kirah didn’t stay quiet. That fateful day, 3 PM after school. She confronted them about it, demanded to know why they were targeting her, why they seemed to care so much. She spit out her thoughts at them, not caring about the impact whatsoever, because she spoke. She talked. They just smiled at her. “Wait and watch now,” was all they said. And she did. And they did. And people did. They wanted her best friend but they couldn’t stand that she got to label him with it. So they took him away from her. Told him that she was manipulating him. That she was up to no good. That all she wanted from him was the recognition and attention he received. That she didn’t care. She cared.

She cared more than she ever had before, and when he came to her door and demanded an explanation and she begged him to stay as her mind went blank with terror and love so much that she couldn’t even make a tear fall down her cheek, he left. He believed them over her. And as he stepped down her driveway, she waited for him to look back. Waited for him to tell her that he loved her and that he wouldn’t ever believe them, but he didn’t. Every step he took away from her was another kick to her stomach, until he drove away and she lay on the ground, bloodied and in so much pain that she couldn’t even think. He told everyone what she was like. That she was an attentionseeking, manipulative person. One that cared about no one other than herself. That she could never love someone. People believed what he said. People drifted. People cast her out, shunned her, hated her. Despised her. Detested her so much that no one listened. No one cared. No one was there. And her love and anger and fear and friendship went wasted. They went for what was dearest to her. Took it from her. Threw it so far away that she couldn’t find it no matter how hard she looked, not even the smallest outline. So she stopped talking. Her thoughts, her anger, her sadness were better k e p t

inside of her. There was no need to say anything. Not if she wanted things to get worse. She would stay downcast. She wouldn’t talk. She didn’t need to talk. Who would she talk to? About what? There wasn’t a need for her to do so when everyone she tried to talk to didn’t even matter. They weren’t him. They weren’t the one person she loved beyond imagination, the one person she could call her friend. So Kirah stays quiet.

Kirah stares at the wall in front of her. The people around her talk in hushed tones, digesting what they had to say to her. They take it in, start to believe it. Work on adding it to the list of things they hold against her. Kirah’s tempted to say something. But she can’t. She shouldn’t. She won’t. She doesn’t need to. So Kirah stays quiet.

bo d Y writing rudrika randad art anishka khatwani (content warning: eating disorder)

HE SUPERMARKET DOORS SLIDE OPEN AND I TAKE A DEEP BREATH. The bright, glossy packages in the aisles call my name. My legs threaten to give, I’m so grateful. Relief is so close. I need donuts. I need the exact vanilla-glazed donuts that they had at the diner with Kai. When it was raining, when we were matching, when it was safe. I also require an apple pie. A whole one; a happy family pie but just for myself. And real parmesan — the kind that looks like one of those pink Himalayan salt lamps, the ones I could never afford. I make a beeline for the refrigerator section of the grocery store. I don’t need a cheese grater; there are going to be teeth marks in mine. I’m simultaneously scandalized and impressed by how expensive real Parmigiano-Reggiano is. 38 bucks a hunk. It lands heavily in my basket. The anticipation makes my temples ache, and by the time I’m at the cookies and cakes, I’m drunk with all the options. I could get Winchell’s. I peer into the windowed box, but their donuts are the wrong texture. The dry cakiness, the way you can pack them in your guts like drug mules swallowing condom balloons isn’t what I want. I need the greasy, fluffy, bread-y ones. In the bakery section by the bread, I spot a six-pack of donuts. According to the plastic dome they were packaged four days ago. The top one has kissed the inside of the box, leaving a smeared ring of glaze — it looks obscene. I want it. I select a sleeve of macarons. Not very nice ones. A tub of mac and cheese from the hot bar, because why the hell not. I rove the walls of snacks, the metal basket handles pressing urgently at my forearms. I grab handfuls of snacks blindly, then dash to the line before anyone can point out the overflowing basket. I pay for it all on my own debit card. Rent is due in three

days and I haven’t checked my balance in weeks. I hurtle myself to the apartment; flying so I can’t change my mind. I shove my arm into the plastic bag twisting round and round my wrist and scratch at the top of my right hand, trying to pry open the clamshell of donuts. I grab one and cram its cloying stickiness into my mouth. Press it in and gnaw. Sheer heaven. I lock eyes with a girl in a cheetah-print jacket talking on her phone — she has the decency to look away. I lick my lips and grab another. Gorging. The streets are packed with commuters: flocks of moms, screaming young children. Some are even jogging. Jerks. That’s what I love and hate about Brooklyn: it’s so densely populated, I’m camouflaged. They barely see me. And if they do, they don’t care. By the time I’m in the lobby, I realize my mistake. Six donuts is not enough. I should have gotten twelve. I race up the stairs, pulling myself up with the banister handle, calves complaining at the fourth-floor walk-up. Galloping. Thundering. I’m so close. Cumbersome fingers fumble with my keys. I kick off my shoes. I lock the door even though I’m alone. I peel off my coat and my sweatshirt, dump them into the tub, tie my hair up, and sit on

tacenda the floor in my bra. It’s dirty and exactly what I deserve. I gather my companions around me as I eat and eat as fast as I can, before the rest of me notices and tries to stop. Adrenaline is shunted straight into my heart. Gratitude floods my nervous system as the sugar takes hold. I eat so fast that it doesn’t count. I eat as a velveteen curtain of serenity descends over me, the mechanics of my jaw hypnotizing me the way competitive marathon runners hit a rhythm. I swallow and swallow until my stomach is distended and my head aches from repeatedly grinding away at the eating. I grab a handful of Chex Mix and doggedly eat it out of my own hands. I put Pringles together and make little spaceships and destroy them in my mouth and do it ten more times. Twenty. Sweat gathers at the back of my back and seeps into the waistband of my jeans. At some point I’d undone the top button and unzippered them but at no point did I personally witness this occurring. The macarons look like those cupcakes that are actually soap, but they’re pretty. Colorful. Kinda like jewels. I hold the glassy box to my nose and smell nothing. The pads of my fingers are impossibly sensitive, trembling, and I’m gripped by a singular purpose. I eat them in order; begin too bright, tart, or robust and you’ll deaden your taste buds for everything else. The sensation of my teeth piercing the delicately crispy outer layer, easing into the ganache, the viscid chewiness, makes me close my eyes — it’s too narcotic, too pleasurable, and still I can’t even tell if it tastes good. Orange. Brown. Lilac. I’m bludgeoned by sugar. I can’t discern perfume from texture. I’m thrilled at the devastation. Destroying beautiful things so carelessly and fast. The mac and cheese is a paste. It’s gloriously gluey, sticking my mouth together, cementing all the sharper foods, lending a contrast. Some cushioning. I eat a fifth donut. And then just the top of the last one. I dig into the glaze with my thumbnail and rip it off and scrape it into my mouth. It’s almost time. I run my tongue on the roof of my mouth. It tastes metallic — it’s pulpy and stinging, cut up from all that’s going on. The cheese balls are a mistake. They dissolve too quickly, so they don’t provide that choking sensation as they’re going down. But they taste great after vanilla glaze. The whole ritual feels as though I’m being run over by the slowest-moving train. I can’t get off. I vaguely want to, but it’s overruled because truly, this is the only thing I can count down. This has never left me no matter where I am. I polish off the last macaron and there is no enjoyment. Finishing

is drudgery and it’s still all in my teeth. I’m still chewing when I crawl out onto my knees. This view: I hate it. Looking at the toilet bowl from this angle. Directly into it. As if at an altar. I retch into my hand, another kind of sacrament. I do this so the telltale splash doesn’t give me away. Even when I’m alone. I’ve always been a little proud of this: how quickly I can hit reset. I keep going, putting my mouth where people shit and debasing myself the way I always do, trying to exorcise the hate and anger and never managing to get it all out. When I flush again, the swirl is still a sour, hazy rose-orange. Blood. Body. I sit in the tub, on top of my clothes, knees gathered to my chest. The faint whine of tinnitus tethers me to reality, alerting me to my movements. It feels like the high-pitched hiss of air escaping my head. It’s only then do I notice how cold the room is. That the heat stopped working. I hoist myself up and look myself in the mirror; there’s a hundred of me, reflected on every stained counter and glass. Eyes watery, panting, cheeks purpling, bright-red lips wet. Flecked with slick clumps of undigested food. I am ruptured. I’m filled with devastating pity for every single mirror version of me, all those times before, the youngest ones making me the saddest of all. Watching myself have compassion for me in the absence of anyone else makes me cry harder. I wash my hands with soap. Thoroughly, front and back. I dry them, then bring them up to my nose. They still smell of ruin and spoil. I rub toothpaste all over them, hating myself, hating the way that it feels. Hating the fact that I have to watch myself do it, yet unable to tear my eyes from this horrible shadow version of myself that gets its way every time.

velveteen curtains of serenitY descend over me

File: Redacted sury dongre

PLEASE NOTE: THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT IS CIA MATERIAL. HANDLE WITH CARE.

e stumbles through the door, coughing at the amount of dust in the air. The afternoon filters through the windows like light at the bottom of a pond. He navigates his way to the desk in the center of the room, an imposing hunk of oak framed by filing cabinets and the faded yellow-beige walls of the 80’s. The room is vast, outsized for the concrete block that passes for a CIA building. Brushing off his suit jacket, he makes his way across the moldy carpet, hoping his dress shoes make it out alive. Peeking his head into one of the monolithic file cabinets, he realizes what he’s looking for isn’t here. Pulling the massive leather chair aside, he sticks the flashlight into his mouth. A heave, grunt, and more spluttering later, he pulls it out: a massive, brown, paper box tied with twine. Inside, stacks of memos, half blacked out, typewritten on official CIA letterhead, lie in wait. The pages are stark white, almost new, the ink from the typewriter still tacky. Ignoring this, he sorts through: some packets are rubber-banded, some stapled, bigger half-reams binder-clipped, loose sheets, and one packet held together with a small, golden, cat-shaped paperclip. It doesn’t seem important. Each packet has a number on it, typed the regulation half-inch from the logo. He picks out number 93 at random. It reads:

Top Secret. The following contents have been modified for secrecy purposes. Level 5 Clearance required. Update: The recent excursion is a failure. Why did I have to run into

him in the break room again? Is there one coffeemaker in the entirety of CIA headquarters? Withdraw immediately. I hate him I hate him I hate him why does he make me feel this way? Supply lines under fire, constant attack from forces hidden in the forests. He somehow manages to pop up at every inconvenient place. sury sucks at graphic design. Closer and closer to the office, too. Him and his stupid goddamn smile. New plan required. Enemy is stronger than anticipated. Either increase ammunition next time, or send in reinforcements. We cannot win right now. Not when he has the superweapon of his face and the smile that feels like blinking in the sun after a movie theater.

Update: Extraction operation is a go. I’ve decided to put in a request

for a personal coffeemaker in the office. The less I have to see his stupid goddamn smile the better New strategy has been implemented: total avoidance. why is he so bad?? The less we run into the enemy, the better. Changing supply routes. I’ve asked my secretary to stop bringing me those 0.38 mm pens. He likes those. He ends up in my office. Bad. Increased length of travel, but higher stealth. Move when the enemy is occupied. Sending in reinforcements next week. Update:Extraction failure. No matter how hard we try, the

enemy is inescapable. Apparently, the break room coffee maker is broken. Can he use mine? Of course he can. Anytime. But why am I this weak to him? Reinforcements have been defeated, plan 3A has been circumvented. If anything, he’s coming to the office more often. Bending over my shoulder to help me with a document. He looks nice in the light of the desk lamp. Consider abandoning all together. Or retreat further. Clearly, his tactics are effective. I don’t have anywhere to retreat to. Options to be considered. As last resort - consider retaliation plan Update: Last resort plan initiated. He asks if I would like to go to

the movies with him. As an act of total subterfuge and maybe just a little weakness, I agree. The closer you are to the enemy, the easier they are to defeat? Engaging with the enemy fully, combat expected by tonight. I heard his favorite color is red. I peruse through my closet, and land on the perfect shirt. It might make him happy, and then that stupid smile will make a reappearance. Why do I want to see it? Preparing supplies, reorganizing plans, all systems go. If this is a failure, recovery will not be possible. no seriously?? psa from the officers: dont hire sury to do graphic design for you <3 also we apologize for slandering you LOL (but also not really). The time is 8:39:43 PM. Preparing to move out. I get into his car. The seats are warm. So is his hand on mine. This is nice. Being a prisoner of war is a lot better than some make it out to be. Final Update: Mission Success.

Not a Word

tacenda

writing marlys kutach | art sonia verma (content warning: abortion)

HE MORNING AIR WAS COLD AND SHARP, and the September sun had just begun to extend its rays over the horizon– the sky glowed periwinkle, and only a few dim stars could be seen flickering above a small town. The shabby, old buildings below held their breath; the only detectable movement came from the flickering billboard on Main Street, the only billboard in town. It featured six pale hands holding one another in a circle, and in the center it read, in the most proud and pious font imaginable, In God We Trust. Across from it a quiet, shabby house stood silent and tense. A girl lay awake in her bed, breathing deeply and staring intently out the window as the sky grew lighter. She hadn’t slept a wink. And now, less than an hour before her mother came in to shake her awake for Sunday church, the girl lay simmering in anxiety and dread. A heavy weight sat on her chest, as though it was pressing her entire body into the

bed. She ushered in shaky breaths. Sweat soaked her sheets. There would be questions, so many questions. “Is that sweat? Are you sick? Are you okay? What’s going on?” Just my time of the month, the girl would explain to her mother. How easy lying had become. So different from the brighteyed, blonde girl of ten years prior, the girl who couldn’t even hide sneaking an extra piece of candy without breaking down on the living room floor in melodramatic confession. Her mother advised her to drink water and eat a good breakfast. It was almost time for church. Shakily, she rose to put on her dress - white with pink flowers embroidered on the bottom hem, a brown cardigan to cover the shoulders, and the pearliest slip ons in her closet. The girl looked up at the mirror in front of her and gazed into her reflection. She smiled. It was not a meaningful smile,

more like an exercise, as if she were lifting weights. She would hold the smile up when Reverend Smith greeted her at the door at 10:00, sharp. She would carry it at the dinner table and at school, and she would even take it to the grocery store, where Miss Ann would check out her groceries and ask her how she was. And the smile would answer that just fine: just fine. And at 10:00 sharp, as expected, the girl held up her smile, shaky though it was from the intense cramping in her abdomen. Anything to distract her, she searched but found nothing in the piercing silence of the chapel. Instead, blood. Rushing past her ears; it was so loud she could hardly hear her own thoughts. But alas they grew louder to compensate. Guilt, so much guilt. And the weight of everything she couldn’t say, the lies she had to tell was so, so heavy. It was coursing all through her. Blood. The pounding was getting louder. So loud she could hardly hear the reverend call on the people to rise for a song. She trembled as she stood, as did her smile. Keep it up, keep it up. She wouldn’t break, she wouldn’t. The weight of it all, it was pressing into her, pushing her down. Pushing, pushing, pushing. (She hated that word “push”, reminded her of those movie scenes right before the labored mother met her child, everyone all sweaty and loud and the baby was always covered in…in blood.) The pounding didn’t stop, it just got stronger and stronger and stronger and—

on there were instructions for use, and unwritten but even clearer was a reminder to keep things quiet, confidential, classified. Echoes traveled fast in a small town like this. The hour-long ride home was silent and eerie. A tension lay itself across the gray seats and the afternoon sun made the old car’s quiet sticky and hot. The girl fidgeted in her seat as the hot air seeped into her head; almost feverish, she felt as she closed her eyes and sunk into dream-like state. A white room. A single window. A familiar groggy sensation and a woman in a white coat. Dark outside. The moon was new. And that flickering sign, she had seen it out the window. In God We Trust. A hot and sweaty July night. The smell of booze and bad decisions. Too quick, too impulsive. No one was thinking that night. Especially not her. Especially not him. The next morning, hot and sweaty air, and the smell of puke permeated the room from the kitchen sink. The stench of regret and realization was stronger. Weeks later. The night was cool and so was the bathroom floor where she lay. In a pool of anxious tears, the tiles had held her as she soaked in what no prayer could undo. Her mother parked and the girl awoke. The world around her was painted a dismal gray. The house, the walls, the lawn; it was as though some thick fog ran through the town, a fog that whispered her name, her deed, and it dripped with shame. Her mother made her eat, but she could taste nothing.

a fog that whispered her name, her deed, and it dripped with shame

She woke up in a white room, two blurry women peering over her. One of them gasped in relief and the other smiled. She would be okay, the smiling one reassured the other. A few blinks later, the girl realized the smiling came from a woman in a white coat and thick glasses, and the ther was the same, kind-eyed woman that plucked her out of bed and into the church just that morning. The doctor’s smile faded as she made eye contact with the girl. They had met before. Their eyes met for just a few seconds before darting quickly off to the sides. If not for her preoccupation with the call she made to the girl’s father, the mother might’ve noticed the exchange between her daughter and the doctor. She might’ve noticed that look of recognition, or the flittering sense of guilt that lay behind wide eyes. But she didn’t. And neither did she notice that before their departure, her girl was discreetly slipped a bottle of shiny blue pills without any label, but for the small, almost unnoticeable slip of paper inside. Faintly scrawled

A week later, the girl missed the yellow bus to school and found herself instead at a rusty, silver pole outside the town square. In faded letters the number 59 bus would arrive at a bit past seven. The bench below invited her to sit her weary self and the twentypound bags she carried down while she waited. She shivered, though it was not cold. She breathed in the morning air, as usual taking in a bit of smoke from the tobacco shop down the street, plus a touch of gasoline. She would not miss the smell. The bus pulled up not much later than expected, and the bearded man in the driver’s seat greeted her with a slight nod and a good morning grumble. She was the only one on the bus. She sat, and her eyes fell on the driver’s small and humble American flag, protruding from the back end of his seat. She imagined

tacenda herself in harmony with the kids at school, now likely reciting In God We Trust. “In God We Trust,” she whispered, and a tear fell down her cheek.

It had been four years since the woman had seen her daughter. That blonde, blue-eyed girl. That God-fearing child, the flora of a fawning family. How wide they had searched, how distraught they had been. How often they had prayed, how long they had grieved. Forever, it seemed, all at once, the family had collapsed. The woman’s aging eyes drooped ten fold, and her hair grayed much faster than God had ever intended. A somber era to be sure. But any ordinary Tuesday could bring extraordinary things. That day, a letter. From some address in Portland. Big city, though the woman knew no one there. The large, swooping font on the front piqued her curiosity. At the dining table, alone, she read: Mother, I know. I know. I know. It’s been years. There’s been a lot of reasons, and all these years apart I’ve considered them better left unsaid. To save you some pain, maybe save myself some too. But I don’t think I can hold it in much longer. Do you remember that awful, awful period I had? When I woke up in a sweat and fainted at church in front of everyone? You had to drive me back from the church to the doctor. The doc couldn’t tell you why it was so heavy, why the pain was so bad. She told you it was just some medical anomaly, but I’m here to tell you she lied. I committed one of the worst sins a girl can commit. The doc helped me out, but I did it. And I live with the guilt every day. But believe me when I say that at the time, I couldn’t bear to admit to you my awful, awful mistake. The mistake I made at an hour you wouldn’t approve of, with a boy you wouldn’t approve of, and after a few too many glasses of a drink you wouldn’t approve of. And I wouldn’t know what to do without your approval. You’d never look at me the same way, all our friends at church…they would hate me… and I’d be lost. And so I sinned again just to keep what we had intact, in the process wrecking it further. And I am so, so sorry. You don’t know how bad I wish I could undo it. But maybe this is the first step forward. I hope we can mend things from here. The woman breathed a heavy sigh, her wrinkled forehead shrunk as her brows knit themselves together in some attempt to understand. She read it again. Twice more. Too many times to count. Her heart heavy and mind abuzz, a black fog floated across her eyes and settled itself into her mind.

The woman flipped over the envelope to stare at the address on the back. Only two hours by bus, an hour by car, without traffic even less. And nothing compared to four years of searching– driving to police departments and local newspapers, calling every number in the phone book… Four years wasted. The woman gripped a match in her right hand and struck it with a resentful fury. She watched the paper, with all those wretched, wretched words go up in a plume of reddish orange flame. Smoke floated out of the trash can where the letter was dropped. The house was dry and hot, the woman’s aging skin turned gray as the ash leapt from the flames and coated the place. She breathed in the smoke and closed her eyes. All was burning but for a single tear rolling down her ashy cheek. She flicked it away. After a moment, the woman opened her eyes and slowly retreated to the kitchen to prepare dinner for that night. She felt a small lump in her throat, as if something inside of her was trying to claw its way out of her. But it was soon pushed down by the methodical chopping of carrots, the familiar sounds of cars whirring past. The sun started to set and the woman’s husband returned home. They sat down for dinner, and from the kitchen window they could see the old sign flickering in the dusty evening skyline. And but for the solemn Amen before the meal commenced, not a word was spoken. Not a word.

clair de lune shivani madhan

STER SHOVES THE DOOR OPEN, hearing it thud against the wall as he steps out onto the balcony. His fingers twitch uncontrollably as he reaches into his pocket and draws out a pack of cigarettes. Slipping one out, Aster raises it to his mouth and flicks at his black lighter, waiting for the spark to ignite. After one, two, three tries, the fire finally comes to life and licks the end of his cigarette. He inhales deeply and lets out a puff of smoke, shaking. It rises into the cool night and disappears. God, he really hates weddings. Aster rests his arms on the Victorian railing and takes another drag of his cigarette, a little too aggressively this time — he launches into a coughing fit, pounding his chest in hopes of getting the all-toofamiliar burning feeling to die down. After a minute, he straightens up and lets out a heavy sigh, tears in his eyes. Aster wipes them away and against his better judgment, brings his cigarette up to his lips. “Thought you said you were gonna quit.” Aster whips his head around, heart thumping faster in his chest when he sees who it is. “What’re you doing out here?” Luan shuts the balcony door and joins Aster at the railing, knocking him with his shoulder. “Rude. Not even a ‘how are you?’” “Shut up.” Aster stifles a smile, surreptitiously wiping his palm on his pants as it starts to sweat. “I wanted some fresh air. Couldn’t really breathe inside.” “Ah, same here,” Aster responds, flicking cigarette sparks at the ground. Luan turns around and stares out at the scene in front. “It’s pretty tonight, isn’t it?” Below them is a garden, dew fresh and morning glories in bloom. A large sakura tree stands tall amidst the greenery, flower petals settling onto the grass. A pond filled with swimming koi fish splits the garden in half, and an arching bridge over the water serves as a walkway. Up above, thousands of stars dot the sky, gleaming bright. But the highlight is the moon. Full and round, it lights up the entire night. Today, every crater and crevice is carved clearly. Aster feels a pang, a twinge of sorrow — the moon’s passion is unrivaled and captivating, and the stars pale in comparison. “It’s beautiful,” Aster murmurs, unable to draw his eyes away from the moon and its gravitational pull. “The stars, they’re gorgeous,” Luan says, interrupting his daze. Aster turns to face him, ready to make a silly retort, but is

immediately taken aback by Luan, who had already been looking at him, and the rare softness to his features. From here, he can see the tiny flecks in his dark brown eyes and the slight part of his downturned lips. Despite their proximity, Aster can’t make any sense of Luan’s expression. “Aster…” Luan whispers, the name rolling off his tongue like it was made for him, and only him, to say. Aster’s chest constricts and he wants to claw at it, to bolt back inside, to down a glass of champagne, do anything but stand here under the intensity of Luan’s gaze. But he can’t run away, not now. Aster drops his eyes down to the ground, crushing his cigarette under his foot. He’s caught off guard by the sudden glint of jewelry on Luan’s hand, but musters up his courage anyways. “I’m —” The balcony door slams open, and both of them jump. Wincing at the noise, a petite woman steps out. “Oh good, Luan! Aster!” “Elia,” Luan responds, a slight edge to his voice. “How’d you find us?” “Asked around. You two should come back inside, it’s getting cold.” Luan and Elia continue conversing, but Aster tunes them out. His eyes are transfixed on Elia’s finger, adorned with the same ring as Luan. How could he let himself believe, even for a second? “Sorry about that,” Luan says after Elia heads back inside, the same undecipherable expression from before painting his face. If Aster didn’t know any better, he’d think Luan looked almost… pleading. “What were you saying?” Aster smiles solemnly, lifting his gaze to the moon behind Luan. “Never mind.”

the poet’s ending (star-gazed) elizabeth lee

But I do not merely love the melody: I am the lyre but now the lyrics are lain down in stars And everyone knows the stars are all liars

a melody of youth smashed to dust and sprinkled across the skirts of Nyx

So Orpheus chose the poet’s ending And sang himself to death Turned his face to his lover And his back to the love

I trace the stars in my skin and connect them with sutures, trace the scars in the sky. They spill of the future

-------

You’re the halo round my neck, The scar on my breaths, but While I choke on flowers, you’re struck golden-eyed

---

Lyra, she Is I, a liar, a lover, a poet, a girl, just

--- -----

My Eurydice, To say I love you would be a disservice Too beautiful for a shattered lyre (a shattered girl) still trying to turn the dust back to glass

-------

The stars are naught To the gold in your eyes Reflecting through yours, They echo in mine a rhombus and line, a late summer constellation reaching ever outwards, all that remains of Orpheus in his celestial reticence:

Lyra

So I turn my face to Lyra And hope for a love as strong as yours She promises to forge gold in my eyes, tacenda, to send us star-crossed to our graves.

My Eurydice, To say I love you would be a disservice I love you like the rose loves the vase (The way a damaged thing clings to the first thing that gives it hope, never knowing that a pot is only what it wants not what it needs).

please leave a message after the tone manasi ganti

+1 338-373-7326 October 1 at 3:08 AM •

00:54

Fever-dream-girl / smells-like-summer-heat-girl / fresh-cut-grass-on-your-hands-and-eyelash-on-your-cheek-girl / you’re an indie song a washed out memory did you ever really belong to me? / ready-to-take-flight-girl / always-out-of-sight-girl / dance-under-streetlights-and-run-through-sprinklers-at-night-girl / the crickets sigh and photos come out blurry with red eyes and I wait / by the bus stop / inhaling car exhaust / under the yellow light you fade in like film and drift away like a dream / punch me just once my teeth will fall out like seeds / plant me in your spine I’ll pin you to my wall like a butterfly like a polaroid like / a weed doesn’t need healthy soil to grow and / you’ll never change girl / always-stays-the-same-girl / did you think I would forget the skip in your step and the glow in your face? girl, I couldn’t dream you up if I tried / and I tried / and I / framed the weed / on my wall but I still want to see / your wings / splayed out against the corkboard don’t lock your door tonight.

Staff List Writers

Anika Bhandarkar Melody Cui Sury Dongre Manasi Ganti Tvisha Gupta Marlys Kutach Annika Lee Elizabeth Lee

Shivani Madhan Anvitha Mattapalli Rudrika Randad Lavi Sundar Shivani Verma Sonia Verma Alyssa Yang William Zhang

Artists Mishty Bansal Isabella Hung Anishka Khatwani Ashley Kwong Sophia Ma Zayd Musa

Saarika Nori Olivia Tsui Sonia Verma Grace Wang Claire Yang

tacenda La Pluma | Vol. 1