The Composer 2020 by LASA Composer

THE

COMPOSER 2020

COLOPHON The twelfth edition of The Composer was designed by Persephone Sween-Argyros, ‘20 with help from Kye Kane, ‘20. Cormorant Semi was used for cover title and literary titles. Cormorant Light was used for body text. Assistant SemiBold was used for artwork titles. Assistant ExtraLight was used for author and artist names. Cover art by Persephone Sween-Argyros, ‘20. Shells and starfish designed and drawn by Persephone Sween-Argyros, ‘20. This edition is in 8.5 by 11 format, designed for online publication. This edition was designed in Adobe Illustrator CC 2020, Adobe InDesign CC 2020, and Adobe Photoshop CC 2020 on MacBook Air 2013. This publication is 124 pages.

THE COMPOSER

Liberal Arts and Science Academy High School 2020 | VOLUME 12

THE COMPOSER

TABLE OF CONTENTS Colophon

Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

SUNLIGHT

Hope is But a Dandelion Kollin Clarke

A Poem, If You Could Call It That Rachel Cox

Bridge to Another World Evan Hadd

Goldfish I Won at the Fair Lorelai Myint

Colors Sally Edwards

Ocean Waves Helen Mah

Sweet Thang Rachel Cox

Uelo Cierra Wickliff

National Geographic Helen Mah

Cheesy Love Poem Audrey Sandlin

My Worst Fear Cierra Wickliff

For My Grandchildren Audrey Sandlin

Jewish Girls Like Micah Heilbron

You Belong Here Lilli Gordon

Tortillas Ethan Estrada-Stroud

Deep Space Kaden Kerwick

Untitled Ella Neff

LASA Map Champ Turner

me, You Micah Heilbron

The Garden of Eden Eliana Hurley

20 4

CONTENTS

TWILIGHT

The Deathly Breeze in Winter Trees Sachin Allums

The David Audrey Sandlin

Organic Helen Mah

Playing in the Dirt Audrey Sandlin

Thank Every Lord We Have Frank Maya Ravi

Looking Out Eshita Sangani

Freckles and Curls Tara Lassiter

Morning Coffee Chris Smith

Forest Witch Alleen Koenig

Locked Up Evan Hadd

Untitled McKenzi Popper

Whizzing By Chris Smith

Janet Ethan Estrada-Stroud

United Sally Edwards

MIDNIGHT

Sand then Sea Mele Perry

The Color of a Chameleon Sachin Allums

Grandmother’s Kitchen Hailey Ripp

A Weak Mind, But A Strong Heart Keshav Srinivasan

Walking Across the Shore Nathan Elias

Untitled Ella Neff

Solitaire Maya Ravi

Untitled Helen Mah

The Flower’s Spring-Time Tragedies Sachin Allums

Calloused Rachel Cox

Untitled Gaelila McKaughan

Puritan in a Poisonous Environment Logan Vaz

백양사 Helen Mah

Untitled Ella Neff

THE COMPOSER

The Day It Rained Grace Sam

ABYSS

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Too Much Love Lorelai Myint

Scars Hanna Lou Rathouz

Your Ink Hailey Ripp

Swift Rain Persephone Sween-Argyros

an eye for an eye Lucie Young

Saved by the Rain Eliana Hurley

The Girl Next Door Persephone Sween-Argyros

The Hunted and the Loved Harsha Venkataraman

Untitled Ella Neff

Silenced Circus Hailey Ripp

Milkshakes Jamie Corum

Love is An Acrylic Nail Filed to a Point 67 Emma Rohloff Stories from a Heart Hailey Ripp

Backstreet New York Evan Hadd

Frostfall Alexander Burton

Poetry Sucks Alan Bao

A Mother, Friday Night Services Micah Heilbron

Letting Go Avik Ahuja

My Last Will Mandala Pham

NYC Skyline Persephone Sween-Argyros

His Ode to Patroclus Harsha Venkataraman

Falling Lily Yeazell

Love Yourself Angela Cassera Gonzalez

Through the Rock Evan Hadd

My Clap Back at Racism Aaron Booe

A Promise of Promise Harsha Venkataraman

Daydreams of Spring Jonathan Woo

CONTENTS

Death is Only the Beginning Alleen Koenig

Tranquil Lorelai Myint

108

A Stranger Comes to Town Raphael Stone

Flourish Zoé Dubin

109

Winter Ryan Deng

Donna Lucia Zoé Dubin

110

Austin Lights Persephone Sween-Argyros

Am I Woman? Zooxanthellae Deckard

111

About My Perspective Junaid Rasool

No One, Just Talking to Myself, I Guess 112 Micah Heilbron

Falling Apart Raphael Stone

Untitled Helen Mah

114

To Another Place Persephone Sween-Argyros

‫مت بج ےگوآ‬ Priya Malhotra

115

Inside of Earth Evelyne Rees-Eissler

116

TRENCHES An Evening in Venice Rhea Jain

102

A Day in the Life Julia Ding

116

I, The Young Artist Harsha Venkataraman

103

Checklist Mandala Pham

117

The Dragon that Spared Me Hailey Ripp

104

Basket on Death’s Doorstep Harsha Venkataraman

117

Dear Mauna Kea Mele Perry

105

Untitled McKenzi Popper

118

Freedom Helen Mah

106

Bought, Sold, or Traded Ben Porter

119

Bathed in Moonlight Tara Lassiter

106

Index

120

Staff

122

My Leafy Buddies Julia Vance

107 7

THE COMPOSER

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Dear reader, Thank you for taking the time to look at the 2020 publication of The Composer. Even though at the beginning of the year, expectations were slightly different, the way everything has turned out has pleased me more than I ever could have thought possible. I had ambitions that the staff was more than happy to help me realize, and I couldn’t have done it without their support. I also had you, as the reader, in mind as we worked hard to publish. 2020 has been a trying year, to say the least, but we hope that this brings light to you and your community. The theme this year is the ocean. I have always been fascinated with the life that happens underwater, and when looking for a concept that would have specific chapters, it seemed too perfect not to use. I’d like to think it reflects our current situation. The ocean has many layers of depth, the deepest being unknown and foreign to us. The mystery of discovery frightens us, and we’re afraid of what could come from the bottom of the places not yet explored. However, even on the seafloor, life finds a way to thrive. Sunlight cannot penetrate into the deepest layers, and yet, despite the darkness, creatures prevail and adapt. The future of our society is unknown and rightly terrifying. Still, I am confident that life and happiness can flourish in the most unlikely of places. The staff and I want to dedicate this magazine to the people we have lost. To the routines and structures of our daily lives that suffered because of this time. To the motivations that have wavered and the strengths that have been challenged. LASA students are no strangers to change and challenges, so we hope that the light and resilience within us will reach everyone still struggling. The submissions represent the creativity and talent that our school holds, and I couldn’t be happier to have experienced and been a part of such a productive and hard-working community. I also would like to say thank you to Kye Kane, my co-editor and art editor, for all of her effort and working so well with me. While he didn’t have the opportunity to see his financial management come to life at the end, Asa Flores-Rascon kept me sane and helped immensely with submissions and decisions. Persephone Sween-Argyros also played a huge part in design, so I thank her as well. I thank Mr. Sharp for supporting the class and having faith in me to run this whole operation. Everyone in the class deserves a huge thank you for dealing with my insanity and helping this all come together in a way I am so proud of. Lastly, I want to say thank you to everyone who submitted. We really couldn’t have done it without you. Now that I have sufficiently rambled, we wish you happy reading. Stay safe, y’all. Lydia Coleman, Editor in Chief ‘20

SUNLIGHT the epipelagic zone

THE COMPOSER

CHEESY LOVE POEM

audrey sandlin, ‘20

Beauty is petals of velvet That drop from the vase to the wooden countertop. Beauty is wisps that trail behind an airplane Across a pink and orange glowing sunset. Beauty is the scent of a baby’s head While he drifts off to sleep in your lap. It’s that minor chord in a silent room That strums the strings of your heart. Yes, you’ll see that even the cockroach is lovely And the spider web is too. There’s no limit to things that beauty can be If those things remind me of you.

FOR MY GRANDCHILDREN

audrey sandlin, ‘20

How many times will the sun rise for you? I shudder to see it now, shudder to See that hot amber shimmer Peeking out in a deadly, disastrous sliver. The beatings of death’s drum swell In the background of my everyday life. I suspect by the time they reach you They will sound nothing short of atomic. The sparkler burns more as the days go by It blackens the gray cocoon wrappings While somewhere in the Atlantic the butter-churned Hurricane foments in red and neon green. Am I selfish to want you? Will you resent me, resist The desperate grasp of my frail, spotted hand? Who will feel it the most— That punch of our inevitable mortality— When we sit on my mosquito netted porch and puff fat cigars because we’re gonna die anyway Which of us will feel it? You or me? 12

you belong here lilli gordon, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

THE COMPOSER

She couldn’t tell beforehand, but she definitely wasn’t breathing inside that pod. Between the thunderous pounding beats of her heart, Laika can hear the radio crackling even louder.

DEEP SPACE

Gathering her wits, Laika forces herself to stand, struggling to clear it of the fog obscuring her thoughts and memories. There’s almost nothing else around her, other than dozens if not hundreds of other pods carrying her sleeping—hopefully not dead—colleagues. If not for the flickering station lights high overhead, Laika would be in complete blinding darkness.

kaden kerwick, ‘20

The station lights are flickering. The radio is crackling. Laika is awake, but she should not be.

Her pod slides closed with a soft puff, and the plastic turns a light shade of red, displaying the message, ‘Emergency Power Failing,’ in bold text. That would explain why she woke up so suddenly, but it doesn’t explain why this is happening.

The station lights are flickering above a single pod, illuminating a single dark-skinned face. The radio is crackling, straining to pick up a signal just on the cusp of its range. The rest of the station is dark and silent as space, dead almost.

The sound of the radio static is becoming piercing now.

Laika is awake. She is not dead, but she should not be awake. And maybe, then, she should not be alive either.

Sighing deeply and wincing at how the action hurts her raw throat, Laika turns towards the radio. It’s a small shortwave radio, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, and the signal is visibly going wild, flying from the single digits to numbers in the thousands.

She can see the flickering lights, the reflection of her steady gaze in the glass of her pod. She can hear the crackle of the radio that she did not know existed before now. And beyond that, she can hear the silence of the station, the soft creaking of a large metal machine hurtling through the vacuum of space which she should not be awake to witness.

She doesn’t remember it being there when she first went to sleep, but again, she doesn’t remember much from back then. At this point, she’d just be happy to turn it off.

But most of all, Laika is cold. Incredibly cold. Frost forming on her skin, under her nose, on the very ends of her breath. Blocking up her throat and filling her with indescribable sensations. She tries to relax in her rather claustrophobic pod, but it feels like her heart is in her throat, knowing somewhere deep inside her that if she does not get out of the pod soon she will die. She doesn’t remember much else.

Laika takes a few unsteady steps towards the shortwave, her legs nearly failing beneath her as they likely haven’t supported her upright for centuries. She leans against a neighboring pod, breathing hard. This isn’t supposed to be happening. She should be relearning to walk with the help of a clinical robot. She should’ve been waking up along with everyone else once the ship reached the new galaxy.

Laika feels up the sides of her pod, wondering if there’s some sort of release button to let her out, but her memory is rusty. Her fingers catch on a multitude of hatches and latches, but no matter how she pulls or tugs, she can’t get out. She turns to banging her fists on the thick plastic above her head.

But that’s not what’s happening, and Laika is terrified. Still staggering, Laika manages to push herself close enough to the radio to grab it. She doesn’t recognize any of the dials or buttons, but thankfully the power button is clearly denoted by a ⏻.

Suddenly, the pod bursts open, shoving Laika out and onto her knees. She lands hard; her thin, off-white clothes flowing lazily around her, and gasps for breath.

Just as she’s reaching to press it, the radio seems to crackle to life. 14

SUNLIGHT

malfunctioned, as otherwise that could quite possibly mean that the others are dead. She does not want them to be dead.

… and in any case, that was just plain stupid. I mean, come on. Everyone knows that lilitan profti don’t just have outer teeth—they have thousands upon thousands of inner jaws, so being inside one is really no better than being outside of one, even if that one happens to have an operational machine gun for some reason.

“I need help,” Laika mumbles aloud, her voice feeling strange in her mouth. She wonders again if the voice on the radio can hear her, and again if it could even help her when she’s in a situation like this. So far, the voice has spoken nothing but nonsense to her.

Oh well. It seems some people just never learn. In other news… hold on just one moment, listeners. I have just been made aware that we have a new listener on air! Laika, how are you, buddy?

Ah, the new listener speaks. Welcome, Laika. What do you need help with?

Laika’s eyes widen as she realizes how directly the voice on the radio is talking to her. Would it hear her if she responded? Can she even respond? Her vocal cords have sat in disuse for so long she’s not honestly sure if she can speak. She was supposed to have a clinical robot for that too.

The voice inquires. Laika is stunned silent for a good few moments, trying to comprehend everything that’s happening, but finally she decides that she’s not going to be able to understand it. “I woke up. I’m not supposed to be awake,” she explains.

Mm, just woke up?

It happens.

The voice continues when Laika doesn’t answer.

The voice concedes.

That’s okay, we forgive you. It’s not often that we get new listeners here. Hell, it’s been a couple centuries since the last one! But I digress, the news is more important than a happenstance answer from dear Laika.

“No, I’m not supposed to be awake for a long time. I was in cryosleep,” Laika repeats, growing a bit frustrated with the nonchalant tone of the voice. “My pod broke. The entire ship broke, I think. I need to fix it, or I’m going to die alone on here.”

In other news, some bodies are gaining a vegetative state. They are supposed to, because that is just how that race of beings is. In other other news, our bodies are currently passing through the gigantic Syriasis Nebula, a huge mess of dust, stars, and time. If we start breaking up, or the signal, quite randomly, switches to one from far in the future or one far in the past, do not be afraid. Accept.

But aren’t we all going to die alone, dear Laika? I wouldn’t worry about it too much, it sounds to me like you’re living a normal, healthy life. Laika growls. “Well I’m not. There’s no one else awake in this place, or maybe everyone else is dead. There’s no robots either. You’re being just as helpful as everyone else in here, and I’m tired of it.”

We do not yet have a name for the strange object that has been growing nearer every moment, though it is clearly on a direct course for something that is not us.

Already? Well, we’re dearly sorry, dear Laika. It’s not commonplace that we take a break from reporting the news to help a listener, but you sound like you’re in serious need.

The voice must be talking about the ship Laika’s on now, she realizes. And that means that her ship might be passing through that Syriasis Nebula too. And, if the nebula is capable of warping radio signals, then that means it must have an adverse effect on technology. It would explain Laika’s pod malfunction. It would explain the flickering of the station lights. It would explain the apparent absence of service or clinical robots.

The voice says, pausing for a moment, and there’s a shuffling sound not unlike papers. Laika’s pretty sure it’s not papers, regardless. Explain the situation.

Laika really hopes that her pod was the only one that

“I already did,” Laika grunts, clearly annoyed. 15

THE COMPOSER

invulnerable as possible, but she still can’t get herself to remember nearly anything at all. Instead, she focuses on a slightly bigger problem; “I can’t walk,” she grumbles.

We cannot help you if we don’t know how to, Laika. We need you to explain yourself, Laika. The voice continues. Laika huffs out through her nose, wishing she had enough strength to chuck the radio away. “Fine. I’m in a spaceship, heading to Alter 2B-”

Neither can we! Though, we do not have legs, like most species. We presume you have legs.

The voice cuts her off.

Unfortunately, you will need to walk if that is the most proficient way for you to travel. In fact, you must do much more than just walk. You also must exit your spaceship, and expose yourself to the nebulaic dust of the Syriasis Nebula.

I’m sorry, where? I’ve never heard of an ‘Alter 2B’, and I thought I’d heard of everything in this universe by now. Laika grumbles at the interruption. “Maybe you call it something different out here. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. The point is I was supposed to be heading somewhere very far from my home, and in order to make sure everyone on here survived to actually reach the location, we were put into cryosleep. Something broke and so now I’m awake, and we’re clearly not at the location. I need to fix my pod, and go back to sleep.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Laika asks, clearly taken aback. “I, um, don’t know what you are, but I can’t just go out into space. Maybe you can, but I can’t. If I go out there, I’ll die pretty much immediately,” she explains.

You want to sleep through your journey in space?

Laika rolls her eyes. That sounds totally believable. “Is there oxygen, then? Cause I breathe oxygen.”

Not in the Syriasis Nebula, dear Laika. There’s a high concentration of many gases here, most of them the breathable gases of several thousand planets.

“A journey as long as this? Yes.”

We’re sorry, you what?

Fair enough…by chance, are you on what appears to be some sort of jagged space rock drifting quite close to our station?

“I breathe oxygen,” Laika repeats.

The voice asks, showing a hint of emotion as concern shines through its voice.

Well, dear… you are really unlike anything we’ve ever met before. Never mind all that, though. There is a small amount of oxygen out here, so we’re sure you’ll be fine.

Laika feels her throat tighten. “Drifting? Like, aimlessly?”

I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works, Laika grumbles to herself, but she knows she has to do it. It’s the best chance she has of getting her pod to work again, however that makes sense. “Alright, um. Do you see any exit points? I don’t remember what the ship looks like or anything.”

Aimlessly… aimlessly…. Hmm, no I suppose not. But it is quite slow. Answer the question, Laika, before you ask any more of your own. “Well then yes, that’s where I am,” Laika sighs. “And it’s not space rock. It’s a spaceship. The most advanced technology built by the human race when we, well, left. Who knows what they’re at now.”

Close your eyes and you will see. The voice answers simply. “What’s that supposed to-”

That’s a spaceship? Wow. We just-. Wow. We’re going to leave it at that: ‘wow.’ It is the best thing we can say at this time.

Close your eyes, and you will see. It is the way of the Syriasis Nebula. We only get to pass through this amazing space cloud every thousand years, so feel a bit thankful that we are here to help you utilize its abilities now.

Whatever the matter, it seems your technology was not meant to survive the Syriasis Nebula. It is malfunctioning, and perhaps it is even a blessing that it hasn’t yet stopped moving of its own will completely. You will probably have to act fast.

“Fine, fine,” Laika agrees, shutting her eyes.

Laika’s pretty sure that they built the ship to be as

Good, now think about the outside of your jagged space rock. 16

SUNLIGHT

“It’s still a spaceship, dude,” Laika murmurs, her brow furrowing as she tries to think about the space station she’s in. For a few moments, there’s absolutely nothing, just the black blankness of her mind. “It’s not-” she starts, cutting off as color suddenly explodes in her vision. She sees herself for half a moment, leaning back against her broken cryopod with closed eyes, and then her frame of view zooms out, dragging her away from the sleeping room.

little weird at first. “I’m sorry, what is it doing to me?” Laika barks, fear spiking in her heart. You sound upset. But please, don’t be. It’s helping you. And besides, since your ship was so unprepared for the Syriasis nebula, you’ll need to wait until you’re out. You won’t be able to restart your pod or fix any robots until then. Thankfully, the nebula makes it so that you can do these things once outside the nebula, even in empty space!

Her thoughts rush through layers and layers of ancient metal, past robots that seem to be malfunctioning in more ways than one and then finally out through the thirty-feet-thick hull of the ship.

No matter what the voice on the radio says, Laika just feels more frightened. “And how long will that take?”

Panicking, Laika tries to grab on to something, anything to stop her rapid expulsion into space. She’s surprised when her hand actually comes into contact with metal. All at once, the stark reality of existing in space slams into her feeble form, and she very nearly lets go of the side of the ship. Holy hell. She’s outside of the ship. How did she get out here?!

Hmm… maybe a few dozen years? That’s okay, right? “No!” Laika yells, feeling a flood of memories hit her with the spark of anger. “No, it’s not okay! My people only live a ‘few dozen years’! When I was last on Earth, our oldest humans were only one hundred and thirtysomething!”

Oh. Well. Would you look at that? You teleported. I forgot that that was possible. It’s been a while.

Well, how old are you now? So dismissive, yet again. Laika clenches her fists. “I’m twenty-eight. Does it matter? I’m still going to be much, much older than my colleagues afterwards, if I manage to survive that long. I’m supposed to be in college, I’m supposed to live with them! What’s the point if I just end up going mad being alone for that long?! There has to be another way.”

Never mind that, you’re here now. How do you feel? For a moment, Laika can’t speak to answer, her senses completely overwhelmed as the nebula dust rolls over her, around her, and into her. It feels like she’s freezing in her cryopod all over again, while simultaneously burning up like an asteroid in orbit. Her lungs seem to tighten on any word she even thinks of speaking, and for a moment she worries that she’s going to choke.

We’re sorry, dear Laika. We’re afraid that there’s not. If your ship isn’t prepared for the nebula as yours isn’t, there’s really no way.

But then, she can breathe again. She can speak again; “I- I don’t know. I thought I was going to die. What the… what the hell is going on?” Laika asks, her voice wavering. How is she breathing? How can she hear the voice from the radio, which she isn’t even holding anymore—it got left behind with her unconscious body in the cryopod.

Laika feels her stomach drop. There’s no way? She’d rather die than live out the rest of her life alone. She’d rather let go of the ship now, let herself drift off into space and die one way or another. But at the same time, she doesn’t want to believe it. In fact, she can’t bring herself to believe it. In fact, something in her gut screams otherwise. In fact, for once Laika feels confident about something she remembers.

Besides, she’s in space! Sound waves don’t travel through space! This is going against everything she’s ever learned, and yet here it is, happening.

“No. No, you’re wrong,” she hisses.

Your body is just becoming used to the Syriasis nebula. It’s completely normal for your first time. It’s coating your body and lungs in protective materials, which can certainly feel a

We’re sorry?

THE COMPOSER

“This ship isn’t as incapable as you seem to think. We built it to resist any kind of turmoil. Even the electronic type,” Laika points out, trying not to pause in her words as memories rush over her like ocean waves. “Something’s broken. It’s not just the nebula doing this. The entire ship is functioning on emergency power. And me….” She looks down at herself. “I’m an engineer. Or I was. That’s why I woke up, isn’t it? Something broke.” We don’t know, Laika. We don’t know everything, even if we sometimes act like it. “Yeah, about that,” she continues. “You. How are you hearing me? How am I hearing you when everything else electronic seems to be messed up? That radio isn’t a radio, is it? It’s something else, or it’s unpowered completely—you’re something else and you want me out of the ship for a reason.” Laika, weThe voice tries to interrupt, but Laika doesn’t even pause to take a breath. “I don’t care. I don’t care what you are or what you want. I don’t care what you think is going on, but I’m getting back on the ship, and you’re leaving me alone.” Wait, don’tLaika opens her eyes back in the ship, likely never having been outside, and she throws the radio as if by a sharp convulsion of her muscles. It hits the side of a pod and shatters, the voice from the radio breaking into a static scream. It’s hard to tell if there was ever actually a voice coming out of the radio or not. Scrambling after it, Laika quickly smashes the shortwave with her foot again and again until it’s nothing but shattered debris. She’s free now. “Alright. I need to fix this ship now,” she grumbles, standing again. She still feels a bit limp and awkward, but at least it’s all getting easier now. Hopefully, even more of her memories will return within time and that voice on the radio won’t come back.

SUNLIGHT

lasa map champ turner, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 19

THE COMPOSER

THE GARDEN OF EDEN

eliana hurley, ‘22

I walked down the paved cement sidewalk, holding my breath and terrified of what was to come. Fear of the future gripped me and drove my emotions out of control. Tears threatened to fall from my tired eyes. I struggled to lift my head up, but then I abruptly stopped and stared in wonder at the sight in front of me. The ethereal beauty of it filled me up; it rolled over me like waves. I’d never seen anything so perfect. It washed away any bitterness I could possibly hold. Its strength was greater than any evil. Even the feelings I didn’t know I had, it knew. The scenery swept me off my feet and romanced me away to a different world. As I took everything in, I let my breath out slowly. I could hear the soft colors of the flowers, intertwined with the grass. It was soft and sent me a playful invitation. Weight was lifted from my poor body, and it released the tension it once held. The Garden’s beauty restored all balance and healed all sickness.

worked for the Devil, forbidding us to acknowledge the wondrance of the world. Those who were unable to see through their veil of ignorance were robbed of the way the Garden could have cleansed them. Their pounding heads were full of nonsense, though they couldn't understand that.

Leaves fell all around, but they seemed to be leading my eyes to one spot. There the bench sat in the middle of it all. Some of the leaves were scattered on the outskirts, but they congregated near the bench. Each dry leaf bowed in reverence to the holy bench, praising it with everything they had. The bench leaned on the tree of life that dutifully held it up. The tree showered the bench with leaves, honoring it. The spectacle pulled me in, urging me to rest from my troubles. I desperately wanted to lay near the bench and bask in its heavenly presence. I couldn’t help but feel compelled to worship. The birds sang charming songs to the flowers, who appropriately bloomed brightly in response. The entire world seemed to be in harmony. The sun peeked through the trees, highlighting each part of the paradise. I felt the presence of much more than just a bench or a tree. Divinity resided in the bench and everything around it.

But in an instant, I was pulled away from the scene. I was violently pushed out of view of it and dragged along far away from it and back into reality. I struggled, wanting to stay. I grasped at the threads that so delicately tied me to this new world, but I couldn’t return to it. I knew that the paradise would never leave my mind, and that I would fantasize of it for years. I wonder if it was a glimpse of heaven. I’m convinced that it was divine. The way that the sun hugged the leaves on the trees was too brilliant for it not to be. Every detail was exactly how it was meant to be. It was as if magic had resided in that small, red bench. It looked frail with its age, but it truly demanded power with its radiance. I wouldn’t dare compare it to anything; everything would pale in comparison. The grass was a valley of peace, unwavering. It restored strength to those who felt that they could not go on. I knew that when I came back, I wouldn’t hesitate to sit on the beloved bench, barefoot. I would feel the dewy grass beneath my toes and dig them into it, hoping to plant everlasting roots here, in this glimpse of the Garden of Eden.

The brown wood peeked through the chipping paint of the bench. It called out to me to come and sit. Its wooden color warmed me, and shielded me from the sharp, cool air. Its age gave it an elderly respectfulness, and I yearned to be obedient. It told me to stop moving and forget what I was doing. I was mesmerized by its sight. All doubt and hesitation that I stubbornly held flew away and were replaced with adoration. The bench repeated my name, refusing to let me ignore it. It wasn’t nagging but sweetly murmuring, reminding me to breathe. In and out.

My shoulders relaxed, absorbing the peace emanated from the scene. It was undisturbed by everything around it, and it slept peacefully as passersby came and went. Some of them realized its magnificence, but others could not relinquish their thoughts that so chaotically prevented consuming their unsuspecting minds. They

SUNLIGHT

HOPE IS BUT A DANDELION

kollin clarke, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Oh what to do oh what to do When hopes are blown away from you Your wishes caught upon the wind Only to grow back again Down to the earth your wishes fall As if spoken to a thick brick wall Where hopeful seeds will now take root Into the ground their tendrils shoot Oh what to say oh what to say When wishes do not go your way You wished and hoped for many years And now you have confirmed your fears That childish games and wishes on weeds Are nothing more than hopeless deeds And that flowers do not understand When you ask them for a helping hand Oh how to know oh how to know Your wishes they will go and grow In springtime push up through the ground And wait till theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re by children found When yellow turns to soft, thin white With their wishes they will take flight And some of those wishes will come true And bring your springtime back to you.

THE COMPOSER

A POEM, IF YOU COULD CALL IT THAT

rachel cox, ‘20

Why must poetry be so non-comprehensible? So… intimidating? Why must it rhyme and then Not rhyme And maybe rhyme again? Isn’t the point of writing something for other people to get it? To relate? To say “AHA!” “WOW!” “Johnny dear, Robert Frost just made me realize that women are people too! And with a profound lack of grandiloquent language no less.” But no. Poetry just leaves the common pleb in an itchy, confused mess scratching their head and feeling stupid. Poetry has to be complicated and confusing and unorganized and a headache. Because God forbid we just write things like how human beings say things. You could talk about a salamander and how it really got you thinking. 22

SUNLIGHT

I’ll write that poem now: Yesterday, I saw a salamander scurrying beneath some rocks. I almost missed him entirely. He was so small, so vulnerable. I even thought I could crush him beneath my shoe if I wanted to. Yet he looked safe and warm and I thought I even saw him smile. And as I was looking at him he was looking at me and in that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if a giant shoe was perched just above my head. And here is a much better, more profound poem about a salamander: Mark but this salamander, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It scuttles over mound all passed Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of figurehead, Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Compelled me with thine innocence? Wherein could this creature guilty be, Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now. ** Now be honest, if not with me then with yourself. Did you understand one word of the second poem? It would be nice to converse about the complexities of the lines and dispute the author’s intent with their punctuation. Perhaps over a glass of red wine? While you swish it in your well-manicured, un-calloused hand? And perhaps tilt your nose up and purse your lips at the unfathomable idea that a comma could maybe just be a comma. I hate to break it to you, but most people hate poetry. Maybe it’s just me and everyone else understands the beauty and artistic nature of holy sonnets But I am a simple man A simpleton if you will And I like to understand what I am reading. **poem is adapted from John Donne’s “The Flea” 23

THE COMPOSER

bridge to another world evan hadd, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

SUNLIGHT

GOLDFISH I WON AT THE FAIR

lorelai myint, ‘22

There was a fair off of I-35. I can’t recall if it was a school night and couldn’t care less, but I know it was winter with a clear sky. The ferris wheel was flashing, blinding with LED lights, and it was unsightly. I feel unsettled at places like carnivals. I begin to think, how do we get joy from things so artificial? I am surrounded by artificial walls, painted with smile-stretched lions. There are artificial sounds, blaring organs and creaking metal, sounds so hollow that I am falling deaf to the calling of flower fields. Artificial lights streak abrasive against the black above; beautiful from a distance, but I hate it because everything is beautiful from a distance. And there are artificial things, cheap prizes: little scraps of plastic that will be lost once they leave the car and reach home, big plastic blowups that take up more space than they are worth, and most common, the plain animals stapled with leftover fabrics and stuffed with no love. They remind me that we are hopelessly materialistic. That night at the fair off of I-35, I played a game with red solo cups and ping pong balls, and I won goldfish. There were stacks of them, each in their half-pint resin case, painfully contained under lids of blue, green, and pink. I felt so much pity for those fifty goldfish, their futures dependent solely on the way I could throw ten flimsy balls. The shopkeeper felt pity for them too because I didn’t score anything that night, but I still won the goldfish. I blew eight dollars on two tries and for each try I received a little one. I was grateful that they weren’t going belly up by the time I got in the car. I took them home. They weren’t scraps of plastic, they took up less space than they were worth, and they weren’t made of stuffing with no love. My father put them in our old tank, two new fish, a poor replacement for the many we loved before. But you don’t throw living things away. Carnivals are still unnerving for me, but I like to think I made a better life for two goldfish that day. They’re still alive, in case you were wondering.

THE COMPOSER

COLORS

sally edwards, ‘22

The color of hair might not seem like a big deal to most people. It is a rather trivial aspect of someone’s looks, and many people do not give it a second thought. Personally, I don’t really care what color your hair is, and I never have. This made it all the more surprising when last Friday, I was taken aback by a comment made about my hair color. It was a silly remark, made by someone who I do not know, simply stating how the color of my hair was different than that of my mother’s. It seemed like it was not a big deal at the time, but the more I thought about it, the more angry and bothered I got. Why, after going through life not giving hair color a second through, was I so bothered by this comment?

talking about hair color, but that they were questioning our overall differing racial appearances and identities. I know that my appearance, that the color of my skin gives me certain unfair advantages in life. I do not want to diminish this fact, and I certainly do not want to make it sound that I completely disregard this reality. However, I also know that my appearance hinders me from fully embracing my culture as it prohibits me from experiencing adverse events that other people of my heritage have been forced to endure. This fact causes me to feel guilty about claiming my racial identity. I feel that I have not been completely “initiated” into my culture as I have not had to experience direct racism due to the pigmentation of my skin. For as long as I can remember, I have had to wrestle with this in order to find a way to be proud of my identity, while also acknowledging my ignorance when it comes to direct racial abuse. As a result, I feel insecure about my racial and ethnic identity.

To give you some background information, I come from a biracial Caucasian-Hispanic family. My father’s side is white, and my mother’s side is Hispanic. I take an enormous amount of pride in this identity, and I believe that both of these parts of my family are equally important parts of my culture. However, more often than not, people do not think that I am Hispanic as my skin has a light pigmentation. In fact, I have been asked if I was adopted when being picked up by my mother, as many people do not think it is possible that someone who looks the way I do could be multiracial and have a multiracial family. This is something that has bothered me for as long as I can remember before I even knew what race and racial identity were.

On Friday, when this poor stranger asked their question, all of these thoughts and emotions flooded my head, like a giant wave crashing onto the shore. Overwhelmed by these thoughts, I stood, speechless, as the stranger walked away. The interaction brought up all the feelings of both pride and guilt caused by my racial identity. However, as I was analyzing my thoughts while writing this paper, I understood that my racial identity is just as definite as, well, the color of my hair. It is something that I was born with and something that I can never change. I can attempt to ignore it or simply cover it up, but it will always be there, always the same. It is nothing to be ashamed of and is something that contributes to my identity as a human being.

Last Friday, my mother and I were approached by a stranger and were asked if we were related. We both laughed and said that yes, we were mother and daughter. However, the person continued to stare at us, as if they were trying to understand this obvious fact. After a few moments, they stated, puzzled, “I’m just trying to understand the difference in hair color.” My mother politely explained how I had inherited my father’s hair color as I quietly stood beside her, astonished at the stranger’s statement. I knew that they were not just

SUNLIGHT

ocean waves helen mah, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

THE COMPOSER

SWEET THANG

rachel cox, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

It is 2:00 pm on a Sunday and I get a text, nonchalantly.

How you doinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; sweet thang? I love you and think you're the most beautiful girl on earth.

The text is unprovoked, unexpected, and I look at it for a long while, devouring each word, hearing his voice in my head speaking the words to me in that deep, calming voice of his, and the distance between us closes. The next time I see him, we're driving to get tacos or something, and I bury my face in his neck and breathe in his smell: like Old Spice and cable knit sweaters. And when we come to a stop, he rubs my back and recites our sacred mantra, following it with a string of compliments, each more specific than the last. I have shit-brown eyes. The color of shit. But he tells me they are the color of rich hot chocolate serving to warm and fuel him. I have a horribly masculine square jaw. But he tells me it is strong and dignified as he traces the shape of it with his finger. I have thin, unremarkable lips. But he tells me they are perfect and would be saddened by any other shape or size. He tells me I'm beautiful. Never "pretty," always "beautiful." And says he can't believe how lucky he is. And sometimes I really don't understand how he can see all that in me how he feels the need to treat me like some divine creature And I think maybe he's just stupid. Maybe he doesn't know any better. Maybe he's young and foolish and this is a phase all youth grow into and out of simultaneously. But he persists. And when I look at him, I know he cannot lie. And it's been almost three years now of growing in love with this boy who is every part as strong as he is kind, every part as caring and genuine as he is funny and charming, and I see no flaw in him. So the next time he looks at me and says these things, so nonchalantly, I see how beautiful he is and I believe him. 28

SUNLIGHT

UELO

cierra wickliff, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 The most hardworking, bravest man I know is my grandfather, Tomas Cruz. I always saw him in shades of brown and white from his dark coffee, tan cowboy hat, and dark brown skin to his silver hair and crisp white dress shirts. Many people call their parents' fathers different names: grandpa, papa, or grandpappy, but my cousins and I always called ours "Uelo" short for "abuelo", and he died two weeks ago. Uelo was born in Mexico in 1928. He worked on ranches for most of his life. He had a hard childhood. He only had the opportunity to receive up to a fifth or sixth grade education. His parents died when he was six. His brother was younger than twelve when he witnessed a crime and was killed by the culprits, one of which confessed. However, I'm not sure if there was ever any justice. It makes me angry thinking about it, and I only imagine them as faceless cowards. Because of this, I've considered pursuing a career as a politician because if I could give a single child a better education or somehow prevent their death, it would be worth it. Uelo immigrated to Texas alone when he was fourteen. Younger than I am now. I can't imagine moving to another country alone at this age. I couldn't even leave Austin without someone's assistance. Honestly, I'm too dependent on my parents for my own good, but that's what parents are for. My grandparents met in a small, rural town in the south of Texas in a market. At the age of twenty-eight, he married my grandmother, who was sixteen. It was different times, but they were young, happy, and loved each other. They raised eight children, one of whom is my mother. They were never rich, but their adoration for each other shined brighter than gold ever could. My grandmother passed away two years ago, so my family knew Uelo would not be far behind. I aspire to experience a love like my grandparents one day. I don't expect to find a spouse by next year like my grandmother, but someday I will. I have seen Uelo many times throughout my life, yet I have only been able to speak a handful of words to him as he knew little English and I know little Spanish. My mother always said she would teach me Spanish, but she never did, so I resolved to learn it on my own. First, I was going to learn Spanish for my grandparents. Then, I was going to learn the language for Uelo, but I was too late. Now, I will learn Spanish in memory of my grandparents. I think I will always see that as a failure of mine for as long as I live. Uelo witnessed my first few days of life, and I saw his last. My mother cries often. Sometimes it is just silent tears or sobs that wrack her whole body with heaving shoulders and quiet gasps. My father and I always hug and comfort her, but I know it is difficult. On some distant day, if my parents are ever sick or in danger, I would give any possession, pay any price, and cross any line just for more time with them. I think the death of one's parents causes a wound that never completely heals. Maybe that thought is what causes my attachment to my parents, from my constant need for their approval to the excessive time I spend with them just watching movies or running errands, even if I have homework to do. My grandfather and I have lived such different lives. He always lived in small towns, while I couldn't imagine not ever living in a bustling city. He had little education, worked hard, and barely knew his parents, but I spend most of my waking hours with my parents and the only callous on my hands is one from holding a pencil wrong. I didn't know him well outside of stories told by my family, but I loved him. Sometimes, when I struggle with small challenges, I think of my grandfather's bravery and perseverance in life against obstacles I could never begin to imagine. 29

THE COMPOSER

national geographic helen mah, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

SUNLIGHT

MY WORST FEAR

cierra wickliff, ‘21

It was an innocent, sunny day last year, with the trees steadily regrowing their leaves after a long winter. I was on my way to class in a hurry, and the traffic in the hallway was an absolute mess as usual. I noticed a gap of space in the hallway. Strange. I decided that it was probably perhaps a spill on the floor and to simply continue walking. As I got closer, I finally realized what people were avoiding. It was my worst nightmare: a hideous monster. There was a cockroach scuttling across the floor, trying to avoid the stampede of students’ shoes. It was certainly more scared of us than most of us were of it. However, I am not most people, and I’m not afraid to confess that I am deathly frightened of bugs.

he always made people laugh when they were having a hard time. One day, another girl in my class put a pencil down the back of his shirt and told him it was a bug. No one could have predicted his reaction. He went haywire and ripped off his shirt, but it got worse. The principal was strolling by the classroom at that exact moment. My peers had a mixture of responses to this event from sympathy to insensitivity towards this boy’s reaction to the prank. Honestly, if that had happened to me, I would have responded far worse, and as horrible as it sounds, after that incident, I was relieved to know that I wasn’t alone in my burden. I’m not sure why I feel this way as there isn’t a specific event in my childhood to trigger these feelings. Although, I do have one vivid memory of being in the supermarket early in my life and seeing another little girl cooing over a cricket. I was revolted by the beast, so I proceeded to declare it a “roachie” and stomp on it. I cannot imagine doing that now. As I have gotten older, my attitude towards bugs has slowly morphed from one of simply disgust into intense fear and repulsion.

Different phobias can cause certain annoyances you wouldn’t have ever thought of before. For example, if someone is afraid of heights, action movies could be a problem. Personally, my favorite movies are horror and science fiction, so there can be occasional complications. In the movie Mimic, a species of insects mutates to become the size of humans to effectively become their predator. It’s a fantastic movie. Nevertheless, I turn my eyes away from some of the more grotesque scenes because they’re too real for me as that’s how I view all bugs. In my perspective, this fear is just common sense. After all, mosquitoes can bite through clothes, yet they are so small. No creature should have that power. Furthermore, many insects do carry diseases and act as parasites, so my phobia is not completely irrational. They simply disgust me to no end.

Fortunately, I can usually rely on my friends and family to assist me in any unavoidable encounters with insects, yet I have always yearned for the day that I will be able to stand my ground. Regardless, I have made peace with the fact that that time may never come and remain thankful for those around me willing to humor my antics.

In middle school, one of my classmates was a bit of a class clown. He never took any situation seriously, yet

THE COMPOSER

JEWISH GIRLS LIKE

micah heilbron, ‘20

Jewish girls like wearing those little blue opal hamsa necklaces. Jewish girls like Jewish boys who wear chai chains and play basketball in the JCC. Jewish girls like posting about their sleep away camp on their Instagrams with the caption “homesick.” Jewish girls like gossiping. Jewish girls like telling other Jewish girls that their hair is frizzy. Jewish girls like hooking up with boys that they went to preschool with at youth group conventions. Jewish girls like youth group conventions. Jewish girls like to pretend that their family’s latke recipe is better than anyone else’s or that it is unique in any way. Jewish girls like to send Instagram posts by “hey.alma” or “jewishgirlprobs” or “jewthings” to all their group chats. Jewish girls like to complain about Jewish guilt, yet they are fully aware they will pull that shit on their kids and grandkids. Jewish girls like to list everyone they know named Rachel, Rebecca, Josh, and Ben. Jewish girls like to brag about how they go to shabbat services sometimes. Jewish girls like to hate on JAPs while wishing they were one. Jewish girls like to grill their friends when they come back to the cabin 45 minutes after curfew after “just talking” to a boy in a hammock. Jewish girls like their hammocks. Jewish girls like to feed their Jewish boyfriends. Jewish girls like when the Rabbi looks like them. Jewish girls like running for leadership positions in youth group. Jewish girls like acting as if they actually know all the words to Birkat Hamazon, especially the Shabbat version. Jewish girls like when Jewish boys wear yarmulkes to Shabbat services. Jewish girls like playing Jewish Geography. Jewish girls like talking about their trip to Israel this summer, and trust me, they are just about to show you all the cheap jewelry they bought in an Israeli Shuk, for guess how much, 10 shekels! Jewish girls like to kvetch. Jewish girls like to kvetch about how Jewish/not Jewish enough they look. Jewish girls like to kvetch about their camp hookup. Jewish girls like to kvetch about their hunger, their weight, their mothers, their friends, and how they swear that Hashem is out to get them or something. Jewish girls like to say they will send their kids to their sleep away camp. Jewish girls like to rush AEphi or SDT, but not DphiE because they are weird. Jewish girls like to say “I’m turning into my mom!” Jewish girls like to buy multiple pairs of chacos, or tevas, or blundstones. Jewish girls like to hit on Israeli boys. Jewish girls like to watch Jewish TikToks. Jewish girls like Timothee Chalamet, Andy Samberg, and all NJBs. Jewish girls like talking about gentiles. Jewish girls like discussing their favorite tune to Henei Matov or Ose Shalom or Hashkiveinu or Michamocha. Jewish girls like and dislike Jewish mothers. Jewish girls like getting married to their camp sweetheart.

SUNLIGHT

TORTILLAS

do you want to make tortillas, mijo, when the El Milagro ones work just fine? I laugh at her. “Mama, the last time you made tortillas was like a year ago.” Her eyes look into mine. Okay, pero vas a ver. I mean, you think it’s easy. It’s hard work. “I know, mama.” No you don’t. “Ma” You don’t mijo, she laughs.

ethan estrada-stroud, ‘21

The light filters through the white curtains of the kitchen window, slowly revealing your hands in a mixing bowl, a bag of harina, a tub of manteca, and various other supplies strewn around you on the dustless countertop. As the light takes you into its featherlight fingers, you use it to knead the masa, the soft squishing of dough becoming duller and duller. You grab the fruit-patterned secador from one of the too-full drawers of the kitchen and lay it on top of the bowl.

First, we prepare the ingredients we’ll need. La harina, la manteca, some salt, baking soda, hot water–it needs to be boiling! She measures 3 cups of flour, pinches some salt and throws it in, 2 tablespoons of baking powder, la manteca with a spoon, the water from the saucepan fresh off the stove.

While you wait to cook las tortillas, I imagine you sitting at the dining room table, sipping coffee from a chipped coffee mug. The beans are refried. The chorizo mexicano is warming up. The papas are wrapped up in a towel, drying after you soaked and cut them. There’s only a temporary peace–before the kids wake up, before the husband comes to sit and eat while you stand serving. There’s only these seconds burning up like palms.

She kneads as I watch. Me duelen las manos haciendo esto, I want you to know. I look at her worriedly, beginning to regret the whole thing. This arthritis. I’m happy to do this, it just hurts a bit. Just know. “Yes, ma’am.” My mother finishes masando la masa and grabs a cotton cloth with a pineapple print on it. Bueno. Now, we’re going to let it rest for a little bit. This is the worst part. Put the timer on for 15 minutes. The minutes are excruciating, but necessary, like coffee through a coffee filter.

You pray while you sit. Last night, you prayed for the strength to handle your husband as he came grumbling into the house. You felt the tension in your intestines, like they were curling into a ball that just sat in your stomach, a stone weighing you down. You wanted to be the paloma on the Whitewings harina bag, but instead you got up and started making him a plate. You heated up three tortillas for him to eat with the picadillo and frijoles you had made for dinner. Your fingers grazed the comal as you flipped each tortilla, but they felt nothing. The night slides over the sky like a woman donning her black veil as she walks into church, reverent at your door, carefully tying itself around the edges of your house into a delicate knot. Your stomach is damp under your nightgown. The water of the sink always splashes your belly as you wash dishes for the last time, your hands tired. I pray you sleep peacefully until the night unties itself and slips across the Western Hemisphere until las tortillas are ready to be made again.

Now, the fun part. First, we make the testales, my mother says, the small circles of dough we’ll roll out. My mother does this part, her thumbs and fingers working quickly, dexterously. While the comal heats up, we talk. My mother used to make a stack this high, she holds her hand a foot from the counter. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “Wow.” Yeah, she says. And the tortillas weren’t even the main dish. My mom wears a smile that makes her glow. My mom used to do it like this...my mom didn’t even measure the ingredients, she just threw them in… she used to use her hand to scoop out the manteca… can you believe that? I start cooking them as soon as she finishes each testal, the tortillas bubbling up perfectly, the color just right, the smell sacred. Get that one off the comal, she orders. I reluctantly do, waiting for the smell of the next one to waft to my nose. We eat them with refried beans and leftover arroz con pollo. All the flavors intermingle, and the warmth of the tortilla spreads across my face like a smille. While we eat, we’re silent–a happy, nostalgic silence. Abuela visits us as the evening sun that yawns into our apartment.

I beg my mother to make your tortillas. I beg my mother to invite you into our home, the smell of cooking tortillas the memory of you. After weeks, my mother relents. She laughs at me. Why 33

untitled ella neff, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

SUNLIGHT

ME, YOU

micah heilbron, ‘20 My hair Has gotten So long now

It reaches to my hips almost I can pile it up on top or Let it fall down and down until it covers me totally And I can disappear I mean I will grow my hair for You Do myself nice for You It’s the longest it’s ever been! I feel so pretty Pretty girl So pretty I wish You could see how long my hair has gotten now Maybe when You come back You will say Wow And I will ask you what And you will say your hair Has gotten So long now 35

TWILIGHT the mesopelagic zone

THE COMPOSER

PLAYING IN THE DIRT

THE DAVID

audrey sandlin, ‘20

When we grow we float away A helium balloon tugs, ever tighter Pulling us away from the ground We used to dig our hands and Faces into like prayers Worshipping the stringy earthworm, The weed, the grub No one does that anymore except to garden.

audrey sandlin, ‘20

The veins on the hands, everyone wants to kiss and pick apart, wet strings of vine tendrils sewn across carvings in soft stone petals

looking out eshita sangani, ‘20 38

TWILIGHT

MORNING COFFEE

chris smith, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

As he moved quickly up the steps, the stiff rubber of his soles stretched under his weight. He reached the top knowing he could open this door without a second thought. The moment he stepped inside, he was greeted by the familiar flood of noise and the gentle ring of the bell above. The thoughts that were swirling around in his head had now vanished, and he proceeded to straighten his tie. After checking his watch twice over, he walked straight up to the counter and ordered a plain old coffee with milk. He stood waiting patiently, no longer worrying about time or the work ahead of him. As the steaming cup arrived in his hands, he looked around for the window seat perfectly placed in the corner. He sat there for a while allowing his coffee to cool and for the sun to break free from the horizon. His eyes wandered around the coffee shop for the first time, observing the crowd. The room was mostly occupied by businessmen like him, wearing their suits like uniforms. They too

needed a place to go to simply forget about money or stress. Maybe they had been working on a project for weeks with the deadline right around the corner, yet they sit there savoring the short period of relaxation they get. The man in the corner turned back towards his coffee. He considered picking up a newspaper from the stack not far from him, but instead he sat there admiring the thin, wispy clouds ascending from his coffee cup. The scalding edges of the cup provided the perfect excuse for him to remain there taking in the environment around him. Even as the normal morning customers started arriving, he waited. Eventually he had the first sip of coffee. Its bitter but friendly taste rushed through his body at just about the perfect temperature. He proceeded to slowly enjoy the luxury of coffee in the morning. Then he had finished, and as fast as he had moved up the steps, he moved out the door with a surge of thoughts returning to his head once more.

locked up evan hadd, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 39

THE COMPOSER

WHIZZING BY

chris smith, ‘20

The soft click-clack of the spokes as they spin round, How the wheels begin to melt into a perpetual blur With no intention of breaking from the ground. Atop one sits, with all the choice of what’s to occur, The gears, struggling to keep up with the demand, Never cease, but steadily continue to whir.

UNITED

With sudden twists and turns on rugged land, Pedals continue to fly. The rubber, once whole, Is now well-worn. Thus, a new motive takes command:

sally edwards, ‘22

The sea’s light perfume, the moon’s distant beam The clear blue glass with white lace-like foam The silver stars in the heavens brightly gleam.

Finding a way to gain back more and more control. Yet, some decisions are destined not to be made But should follow the direction of the soul.

The world revolves, the same as at home, And yet it feels so different, new, surreal That we are all living under the same blue dome.

Through bumps and potholes, the trip is delayed, The coupled joints of metal rusted snapping through An adventure to remain unknown. As the trees swayed,

Every man, every woman, every person concealed In the same beautiful planet, but situations Differ so starkly in every ordeal.

The wispy wind was felt under a new view. No longer was the wavering rhythm through its frame, But another winding path, welcoming those to pursue.

There are so many people with different obligations To themselves, their beliefs, their jobs, their goals That it seems unreal that we have any similar motivation.

That familiar energy returning, all the same, Contained by the fingertips, accelerating down To the feet where the power resides, ready to reclaim.

But we all do, in fact, share the same roles. In dreams and in hopes and in fears united, In the very depths of our being, down in each of our souls. We all want to feel happy, we all want to be loved. Hopes of compassion and joy which we all glorify Connect us so deeply, we cannot be divided. Though we all have our differences, similarities amplify We are all joined together as one Under this large, blue, star-dusted sky.

TWILIGHT

SAND THEN SEA

mele perry, ‘20

The sand slipped through her fingers, drifting through the wind and floating back down to the shore. Her shoulders were burnt, as if the sun was warning her to leave. Their disapproving faces watched her from the beach house as they made her dinner. She stopped, her mind blank as a canvas. The current called her name, and the seagulls sobbed for her. She was trapped, gripped by the rocks and entangled in the shells. The sea sang to her. She ran towards its voice. Splash. She was intoxicated by the ocean, letting the salt scrape her eyes, and the seaweed wrap her legs. The ocean took a breath. So did she. Her toes imprinted the ground beneath her, as if she had signed her name. The tide pulled her close, as the crabs watched from afar and the fish grazed her legs. It was everything she had hoped for. The absent clouds and unwrinkled wind made perfect waves. She glided over them, letting the sea carry her farther and farther away. The shore missed her that night, but the ocean held her close.

GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN

hailey ripp, ‘23

The ugliest backsplash you’ve ever seen Yet the cleanest counters. Worn corners from encounters with half-asleep hips When they wander in for a midnight snack. Clean, yes, but looking closer, A scatter of crumbs that should have been swept up, But the cat may “accidentally” clean them up instead. Plastic tupperware that fed kids and grandkids alike, And the bright window thrown open Casting a sheen on the far-from-polished silverware. A little too much love baked into the walls of the oven, And the clock that inherited her smile.

THE COMPOSER

SOLITAIRE

maya ravi, ‘21

Kiyo waits for the day When yesterday’s coffee dregs will scratch stains The legs of her lonely, pink tray

WALKING ACROSS THE SHORE

And her window panes like butter knives Will scoop spoonfuls of black chains Strewn about those hives That litter her weary sky. Kiyo forgets her name as ginkgo thrives,

nathan elias, ‘23

Waiting behind the white streaks of lye Leftover from the century That greeted her like a mayfly.

Among the many grains of sand, The beams of light gleam near the water. The red rays of light reflecting upon its surface, Bringing the blue bottom from underneath.

Soon the ginkgo will cease its strife, Leaving Kiyo tinged gold Like the band that choked her finger into a wife.

My eyes rest upon the vast shore, Where waves of water crash wildly onto it. I think back to when I picked those lucky seashells, Which added to my fond, ever-growing collection.

Kiyo closes milky-soft eyes, day old And threads spindly veins through Her whitened widow’s peak like a blindfold

To me, the beach is a large group of stories. From the water splashing, To the warm comfort of the sun. I always will see the beach as a pathway to old memories.

Kiyo hides her years in the sole of her shoe And finally folds throat against papery sternum. The ace of spades? What bad luck for you. 42

TWILIGHT

THE FLOWER’S SPRING-TIME TRAGEDIES

sachin allums, ‘21

a flower has the tendency to sing in the opening days of a flourishing spring to learn ‘bout the earth and how much it’s worth to sleep and dream dreams of a time where the words of today won’t always rhyme to imagine a sun as an ocean deep blue or an explosive-shaped tree with crinkled pink as its hue. and this innocent flower freeing its cheeks in spring and releasing its petals in a sweet nectarine with a song underway under the tsunami sun that sings of the crumpled up pink tree of fun dances along on an evergreen ground with flowery dreamers twirling around with purple plum toys and lavender joys trapping bees in a spell with a passion to tell outrageous stories of majestical creatures their hopes and queries and different features. but this sort of speech is not what bees teach, so lessons are taught bad habits will rot and the flower will learn

that it can’t be carefree it will be taught to yearn for some worthless honey. and like the flower you’ll sprout legs and walk past all the old, grown-up talk and ride far, far, far away but in doing so, you just may kill the flower that you once were and transform into a menacing burr for when you spring forth with the sun beating down and start running north away from hometown your petals may wilt may rot and decay and you might tell a lie to yourself on the way when you blossom your legs and walk out from your thoughts of warm orange fires or gold tater tots you may lose an entire world full of rhymes or a creative thought that’s shattered in times. and as spring turns to summer and the sun gazes down there’s no embers that sear no dreams are around only gray, colorless coals can be found petals are crinkled; they litter the ground.

THE COMPOSER

UNTITLED

gaelila mckaughan, ‘21

digging, I hold fistfuls of sand making mountains at my ankles. digging, elbow-deep in mud, I am imitating the ocean making pools. and like clockwork, she comes quick with big reaching arms, and wipes the shore clean. i start again.

fireworks explode from the water boom, boom, boom, my heart is sore from the kickback. it’s so cold. why is it so cold? i forget to wear white on new years. we jump into barton springs hand in hand heart pounding legs racing i float on my back, returning a stare to the piercing winter sun. inhaling, I try to catch a breath that doesn’t seem to want to come back. and i wonder how being under the same sun can feel so different.

and again. these are old bones. on new years eve

백양사 helen mah, ‘20 44

TWILIGHT

THE DEATHLY BREEZE IN WINTER TREES

sachin allums, ‘21

as leaves fall and boughs become undone and all wings have left and been replaced with solid roots in a dark, black forest with trees that are simply, solely, stripped bare, shivering in the crispy cold of the air where fall seems to fall into the cold into all the dark, aging years of old, we recall warmly lit evenings with milky hot chocolate under a fireplace smoke that billows around and tucks one into a gentle, welcoming sleep where now you can dream of a life lived well because now all is good; all has been done now we can sink in the soft winter sun and recall all of the days ago with colorful dreams and broken things of sailing seas within the breeze into the age of the working bee and spreading one’s roots in a family tree then raising one’s seeds and watching them sprout through their dreams in spring and adventurous summers and their rooting falls and winter slumbers but all that’s past; all of it’s done there’s no more joy in spreading one’s wings to fly there are no stressful tasks to do or else die. and even though this winter is old with chanting winds howling in the cold even if you leave or rot in time your legacy is there in the shape of a vine in the sprouts and blossoms of a new, dreaming bud that may become the sailor you wished you could and although you’ll go through that splintering frost know that not all of you has been lost so now as we go away to sleep we give up a blissful soul to reap.

THE COMPOSER

organic helen mah, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

TWILIGHT

THANK EVERY LORD WE HAVE FRANK

maya ravi, ‘21

I'd always known that there's something supernatural about the AISD school buses. If there was even a sliver of doubt in my mind, it was immediately pulverized when, as I sat unbeknownst to my imminent enlightening, the marrow-splitting, sweat-inducing, cancer-curing utterance of Frank Ocean descended upon me.

breach from the molten pit of the plastic bus seat was absolutely otherworldly. If you've ever been fortunate enough to experience the sheer sacrosanct sovereignty that is Frank Ocean's being, you know that there is no need for elaboration. In a world where apathy is revered and being absent is the ideal, this celestial being seemed to put forth voltage so immense that I could feel the white boys of SoundCloud quaking in the wakes of our melanin champion's being. As I listened to him travel through both adversity and acceptance, I, too, traveled through years of unbridled laughter, of blistering shame, of loss. When he preached of clouds of pink and yellow, my own eyes traced wisps of sun-soaked pink, as if the window tint between me and the sky had been peeled away.

It was 7:13 AM and the petrifying morning breath of Satan himself, the bus' air conditioning, was sputtering an ungodly volume of dehydrated confessions directly into my facial cavities, effectively blasting away any moisture left in my eyeballs. I'd just trudged up the stairs of bus number 0816 with the poise and character of the gargantuan raccoon that had fallen through the ceiling of my school’s truly astounding fortress four days earlier. If my possession of even half a gram of dignity was somehow still plausible seven weeks into freshman year, I'd swiftly negated it by greeting the ground with my face about two feet from the painfully transparent doors. Nonetheless, I was finally in the safe, irradiated-yellow grasp of AISD and was barreling past the decimated war zone that was my former middle school, which was honestly more than I'd prayed for before departing on my journey to school earlier that morning.

In "Bad Religion," Frank Ocean was David Levithan clutching the entire soul of anyone who has been afraid to love another. In "Nikes," he was David Foster Wallace leaving the listener awestruck and scrambling on all fours on a quest for awareness. In "White Ferrari," he was John Green holding the hand of every individual who has someone they can't bear to forget. And in "Moon River," he was someone who could still easily launch me into serious danger of cardiac arrest, stranded at 7:13 AM, gaping at the waves of pink and yellow, the effervescence of moonlight, the worlds upon worlds just past the bus window.

Scrolling through the impressively vast array of halfdecent songs that Spotify had blessed me with, my spastically sleep-deprived fingers were drawn by an exceptionally mighty force emanating from an album emblazoned with the word "blonde” and an image of a decidedly not blonde man. That momentary

Thank every lord we have Frank.

THE COMPOSER

FRECKLES AND CURLS

tara lassiter, ‘20

A scene like springtime in Greece. They’ve wormed their way through a hole in a fence, a boy and a girl both dusted in freckles like paint splatters. Pathetic, worndown fence, decked in vines like Amazonian pythons, and snow-white honeysuckle abuzz with birds bees butterflies. Run-down cottage, chipping paint, wild blackberries erupt from bushes wild as Grecian beasts, best when blanketed in cream, noshed on a hot summer day. Hot like today, red hot, hot like July, like white-hot sand beneath bare feet, hot like that curly-haired boy she kissed that one hot summer night so long ago. Was it really that long ago? She can’t remember. Freckle boy’s hand in her hand is hot and sweaty.

Thud of feet ‘gainst damp earth rock roots fades to nothing and now she’s someplace else. Crisp October breeze brushes gainst her cheek, murmurs sweet nothings lost to carnival music and chit chat. She turns round, finds herself face to face with Jonah, Alex ‘n Paula - the other’s have wandered outta sight. How’d she get here? No time to think. They’re downing cider now, hopping board rides fast as all hell, fast as time flies when you’re having fun, too fast, hunting exhilaration fleeting as fireflies trapped in glass bottles early summer. Enjoy it while it lasts! She’s soaring bove the world now, cheeks flushed but not cuz o the cold tearing at her scarf but cuz o the boy sat beside her, curly haired and twinkle eyed and man how she’d like to never get off this janky ferris wheel. Heart beats fast, too fast, music can’t keep up, slows, fades. She snaps back to it. It’s springtime in Greece. She and freckle boy have wormed their way through a hole in a fence, ran till soles bled rose, till bare feet hit white-hot sand, creamy color o’ berries drowned in half-n-half. They’re laying side by side now, drifting in and outta sleep, till finally freckle boy gets up and taps her shoulder. Heart heavy, unsure how come, she keeps her eyes shut tight. He shrugs, runs off, dives into waves blanketed in sleepy golden rays, color of honey, leaves her behind to dream of curly hair and feel the ocean breeze against her cheek.

Clammy hand in hand, he and her push on, bare feet brushing gainst grass decked in dewdrops till used-to-be garden melds into landscape wild, free, infinite. Grass turns to damp earth rock and roots—he and her push on. Dew-decked soles bleed crimson, cheeks glow an apple-y rose color—he and her push on. Cross fields speckled with wildflowers color of cool October evenings, gold brown orange, color of crunchy October leaves caught in gutters ‘n sidewalk cracks cross the neighborhood. Thoughts wander toward thoughts of Halloween and houses shrouded in yards o cobweb, jack-o-lantern guts ‘n costumes that pinch in weird places, laughter, hole-y pillowcases stuffed full o candy, Twix Kit Kats Milky Way, mouths full ‘o nuts and chocolate, and man, wouldn’t a caramel apple hit the spot right bout now. 48

forest witch alleen koenig, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

THE COMPOSER

untitled mckenzi popper, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

TWILIGHT

JANET

ethan estrada-stroud, ‘21 When I believed forests could fit into backyards, we hung out every summer day until they bled into hot summer nights, roaming cracked-asphalt roads radiating summer heat, fingers of dusk getting tangled in your hair, my muscle shirt and basketball shorts always soaked with sweat. We ate tamarindo-covered lollipops with mango at the center. We built tree-houses on the crepe-myrtle tree en el jardín de mi mamá. I pushed you on the swing, and you never pushed me back. You always disappeared at midday. Your excuse was third-grade algebra or chores you had forgotten to do the day before. But from my bedroom window, I saw you eating raspas with somebody else, trickling down your face as you laughed like ice becoming water. I heard you got pregnant at 16. And guilt and anger and wistfulness all bloomed inside of me like the child was inside of you. And I’d moved away long before you’d even known how sex worked. And I’d wondered where you were and who you’re with. If you’re with him. Y me pregunto si te arrepientes. And if your mother’s alright. And if your brother made it into the marines. And if you married an American like you wanted to, so you could get your citizenship like you always talked about. And if your family still calls you la negra because you’re so white. Y si te llaman gorda para que te enojes (porque siempre eras tan flaquita). And I wonder if you know I think of you, and I wonder if you think of me. And summer nights still remind me of eating fish on your front porch and choking on their tiny bones, of the horns of ranchera and the accordions of banda, of dancing to YouTube videos in your bedroom, and playing tag at nighttime and you disappearing from my sight as simply as passing out from underneath a floodlight.

MIDNIGHT the bathypelagic zone

THE COMPOSER

THE COLOR OF A CHAMELEON

sachin allums, ‘21

black bird wouldn’t have snatched him up.” “I don’t think the chameleon could’ve outrun the bird,” I said as I braced myself for a conversation that I didn’t want to have. “Chameleons can’t run that fast.” “But why didn’t the chameleon use his camouflage powers?” he inquired. “His camouflage powers?” I questioned, eyebrows raised. “Yes! It’s the chameleon’s superpower,” he stated, straight-faced. “Why didn’t he just blend into the ground? Then the bird wouldn’t have seen him.” “Maybe the chameleon didn’t see the bird coming,” I reasoned. “Maybe it was too sudden for him to do anything about it.” “Well, couldn’t he have seen the bird’s shadow and realized what was happening?” he asked as he continued tracing his X in the ground. “Then he could’ve at least moved.” “I don’t think that the Chameleon would’ve noticed the shadow.” “But he should’ve known somehow that the bird was coming,” he said as his X became thicker and more defined. “I’m not sure that the chameleon could’ve done

“There are some things that you just can’t outrun,” I told him in a futile attempt to cheer him up. He stared down at his green light-up Sketchers and outlined the letter “X” on the mulch below before finally perking up. “Like the Flash?” he answered. “Exactly like the Flash,” I laughed. He puffed up his chest in pride, and for a brief moment, his eyes were smiling. “You can’t outrun the Flash,” I said. “Not even if you ran 100 miles an hour.” “That chameleon couldn’t outrun the bird,” he whispered as his smile disappeared and he shrank inside of himself again. I wracked my brain for something to break the long silence that followed. “Well, you also can’t run faster than a cheetah.” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from a somber topic. “You can’t outrun a car, or a train, or an airplane, and you definitely can’t outrun time.” “But why?” he asked. “Why couldn’t the chameleon have just run faster?” he looked at the spot where the incident had occurred, and I knew that our conversation about running was about to take a grim turn. “If the chameleon had just run faster, then that big

MIDNIGHT

this, I had nothing more to say. He seemed to be content with this explanation, and I wasn’t going to stop him from accepting some reality about chameleons and their true colors.

anything about it because it was just too fast,” I said. “But he should’ve known,” he cried as he shifted his feet back and forth into his letter X. “It’s just not fair!” “Even if the chameleon did, it couldn’t have outrun the bird very easily.” “That’s why he should’ve used his camouflage powers!” he roared, scattering bits of mulch everywhere and ruining his dirty creation.

We continued on our walk in silence, and it wasn’t until a week later that I stumbled upon the chameleon again. On the same X in the road, I spotted what must’ve been that same chameleon, or what was left of it anyway. There were stained rivulets of color and thick clumps of blood oozing out like spilled paint. A group of insects feasted on the tiny remains of the chameleon, and their cumulative buzzes produced a hypnotic, droning noise that wasn’t quite able to cover up the rotten stench of the decaying animal.

I had to admit: the kid had a point. “Well, what if it couldn’t?” “What good is a chameleon if it can’t use its camouflage powers?” he asked and finally looked up to meet me with his blazing eyes. “Maybe the chameleon was just tired of pretending to be something it wasn’t.”

I moved on quickly from the scene: it was too ugly to look at.

He mulled this over for a while and resumed crafting his X in the ground. “Well if that’s true, then what is the true color of a chameleon?” he asked. “Uh, I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe the chameleon finally got to be himself when the bird gobbled him up.” he concluded, and, at

THE COMPOSER

A WEAK MIND, BUT A STRONG HEART

keshav srinivasan, ‘22

I am living with the smartest man I know. He lies in bed all day, every day, only waking up for meals, while living in pain, groaning and moaning with arthritis and joint pains on his fragile 92, almost 93-year-old body. It is as if he is a baby, fully reliant on others to feed him, to clean him, and keep him comfortable. This brilliant, once in a generation mind, slowly withers right in front of my eyes, with his heart beating strong, but his mind remaining weak. It is difficult to live with an Alzheimer’s patient.

days, he does not recognize his own grandchildren, or his daughter, or even his wife. Currently, he does not know the date, where he is, or the names of his closest family. He cannot solve the easiest of sudokus, he has not touched a chess piece in years, and he lacks the interest to even play one game of Connect-4. My grandparents moved from Winnipeg to Austin a few months ago so we can all be together in the next chapter of their lives. Now, it is a family, team effort, with everyone helping out in their own way from preparing a small dinner of mango pieces and yogurt for my grandfather to eat in bed or changing bed sheets after some accident or even just entertaining him when he is awake. I help to lift him out of bed, as he does not possess the strength to get up by himself anymore, and even when out of bed, he longs to go back and sleep in the dark bedroom that he resides in for most of his time.

Just a few years ago, we had lively, joyous conversations at the dinner table after my sister and I went for long bike rides through the calm, beautiful neighborhood, breathing in the fresh, crisp Canadian air. He truly has an incredible mind, being fluent in seven languages, an accomplished author, and a retired professor of mathematics at the University of Manitoba. He would teach me something new every day, from a fascinating chess trick to a random word in Russian. We would play chess and decipher sudokus and crosswords from the Winnipeg Free Press in the morning while lounging around in their small, peaceful home during the summer. He would beat me in chess every time, without any contest, and finish the infamous “very hard” sudokus in the newspaper in mere minutes. My favorite experiences from these special summers were when we would play Connect-4, a seemingly ridiculous, simple game, which made him laugh cheerfully, showcasing his beautiful smile I haven’t seen often.

It is difficult, no doubt, to take care of someone with these many needs, but I believe that having compassion and helping someone who needs such help is reason enough to continue, not as something that is a burden to me or my life, but as a privilege and a duty to my family and to my grandfather. It is a great honor to take care of an elderly person, to give them the kindness and dignity they deserve.

All of these memories are forever ingrained in my mind, yet are completely gone from his, as if disappeared into thin air, completely erased from his memories. Many

untitled ella neff â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

THE COMPOSER

untitled helen mah, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

MIDNIGHT

CALLOUSED

rachel cox, ‘20

I have this dream a lot. It starts with me at the top of a slide looking down at the miles and miles of curved plastic below. And my tiny hands with my tiny square fingernails grip the edges of the slide so hard that my knuckles turn white and they’re shaking and just as I’m about to cry and scream my eyes meet his and his arms are out and his calloused hands are reaching for me. And then I am suddenly awake. And just as suddenly, I remember. I remember that he died from brain cancer seven years ago. And that those calloused hands have been turned to ash and scattered across mountains and rivers and football fields. Returned to the land that made them. When I think of him I feel sad but also cheated. I hear stories of his conquests: “Kevin Cox, the man who mooned tourists in the desert” “Kevin Cox, the man who drank wine out of his lover’s shoe” “Kevin Cox, the man who could pull off a billy goat beard” I hear these stories from his ex-coworkers, acquaintances, resurfaced best friends, people who are not his daughter, and I feel cheated. That they got to see the full picture while I watched blurry previews from my booster seat. How is it that all the memories I have of him the memories that must now last me a lifetime are only of his hands or the strangely feminine nature of his voice and even those are fading. They say that dreams seem to go on for hours in your head but in reality they last only a few minutes. I worry that this dream’s running time is in decline and soon I will be all out of minutes and the page will turn and he will only appear as a posed picture on my wall smiling for a camera held by someone that really knew him. Someone that wasn’t me. 59

THE COMPOSER

PURITAN IN A POISONOUS ENVIRONMENT

logan vaz, ‘21

The air is thick today, The fog so obfuscating, Yet through the dense, Which clogs my perception, I see this path continuing.

Far away is Calvalry, That place for which I’m longing, And yet am never reaching. Yet if all is well and done, If the Elect has been chosen, Why should I follow on, Filled with doubt, Constant wondering, Trying desperately to kill The sinful part of me.

This single path, Which in the forest lies, Upon which I make my trek This single path I’ve walked all my life, And ‘til now I hadn’t looked back. Yet even as I glance behind, Onwards must I fly, So I sigh and on I go, Through the fog, my vision breaking, And as each second shivers past, The light ahead is fading.

If fate has chosen, Why stumble on, I know who I am, I know all my flaws! So, if I’m not Elect, Why not stumble off this path Away from the destiny, He fixed for me, To the forest, where I, at least, am free?

And all those pieces in my head, Those thoughts still unformed, All those puzzles I couldn’t understand, Slide in place then out again: Answer found and lost, Doubting then certain, Each and every moment.

But in the air, I see that place, Then and then and now again, And each time I step from this path, The memory holds me in her grasp. And so, fixed, I moan, Cry out for reprieve, Yet with that same breath, Ask that again Calvalry might be seen. The two desires, so different, the same, How this ambivalence Binds me, as if by chains!

With clouded mind, Through foggy sky, I stumble, Eyes full of tears of longing, Head fixed down upon the path To which I am so shackled. Oh, my bonds are bought, My hands are free, Yet still I stumble on Upon this same path of pang, Which I love yet also hate, But still, enticed by it, do follow.

Can I suffer, knowing faith isn’t enough, Or else turn from the path of the righteous? Can I go on, through this path, Which promises to become more desolate, Or else turn into the woods, Where who’s to know what might occur?

I look down, I turn back, I claw my eyes, try to dig them out, But still, I know what I am seeing, In the distance, Golgatha,

I’m damned, I know the color of my soul, The Elect are superb, and I’m no apostle, So the path is light I can never reach. 60

MIDNIGHT

And though the forest is the same At least in the journey, I act as me. Perhaps, in the forest, so sensually alluring, I’ll find reprieve for a moment, Laugh in unrighteous ecstasy, And smile ‘til the beast of sin takes me.

And step by step I walk the path, Whereupon the raven moaned, Desolation is ahead, And yet, that despair, That pang, holds a sweetness of its own.

For indeed all is chosen, If indeed, faith alone means nothing, Well, the beast Even had I stayed on the path, Tried and tried to be a better person, Would have found me eventually. So why not enjoy a laugh, Then return to dismay as I am slain?

So I step and step and step and step, Through the falling leaves, Past the shadowed meadow, To the river where many weep, Past a darkened castle. Air so thick, wind so grating, On my body, on my soul, But at last there is reprieve, As the wind calms for a moment.

Yet, this logic, I betray, And onwards ‘pon this path, I stumble in dismay -

I breathe and look down the path, To yonder sight, which perchance I might have.

Wishing for a time long past, For a time of happiness, Longing for before this storm, When the path was not stone, but flowers.

My soul is black, I should be damned, I know I cannot be Elect, And yet having seen that distance light, Having marched through this mire, Having bled to reach yonder sight, How now can I reverse my travels?

Wishing time could be wrapped, Could be bound, could be twirled, And the past might fade away. Then…. Perhaps I’d not regret what might have been, Perhaps, I’d not regret who I am….

So step by step I find my fate, Marching, marching forward, But at least I’m on the path, And did not turn to the forest.

Oh, How sharp these stones, How thick the air, How deep the shadows, On this trail.

And despite my endeavors, Should I never reach the light, At least I saw it burn, And having seen that glorious sight, Did not into the forest turn, But rather marched and marched, Towards what I don’t deserve.

But still, I stumble forward, For should I turn into the woods, I’d end my life ashamed. For I had not the strength to last, On the path which had been chosen. 61

THE COMPOSER

untitled ella neff, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

THE DAY IT RAINED

grace sam, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Step outside, bright lights in my eyes Birds tweeting and water droplets falling Morning rays of light and clear blue sky

A five-year-old girl fixed in her dreamworld Could never have imagined this torture To the poor animals and plants, while we were curled

Yet only hours ago, the world was drawling And dark as thunder claps and water drops All the way down to the ground it goes sprawling

Under the blankets, safe with no horror As sleep whisked us away from land To be later awoken reminded of the terror

Lightning hits and the dog jumps and yaps And troubled kids look one to another While the rain keeps pouring down nonstop

The day it rained had brought with demand To be noticed and remembered as the day A five-year-old girl learned of her homeland.

Me, on the other hand, looks at no other And thinks about the state of the world And all the pain it endured while us undercover 62

MIDNIGHT

THERE’S TOO MUCH LOVE

lorelai myint, ‘22

There is love in my heart, too much of it, and I think it is killing me. When I speak, I choke on it, spluttering and stuttering, love dripping down my chin. I make a fool of myself when I open my mouth. I don’t know how to tell my brothers and sisters. There isn’t a direct translation for “I love you” in Burmese. My friends throw around the phrase the way in speech they stammer the word “like.” I never tell my parents either, though we share two tongues, borderlining three. It’s my pride that stops me, the fault of my bitterness, always weighing their wrongs and rights. When I dance, I trip on love, staggering and twisting, tumbling down into a mangled heap. There is too much feeling to contain in my body, too much to put on display, to channel through my veins. My face is a distraction when I dance. Expressions are a dance of their own, so I try to perfect them, try to perfect one part than my whole. They take over, so when I step to a rhythm, it is only my lips that move instead. I cannot see my body in the mirror, I can only see my face. When I fight, I leave my desires, bleeding in the name of Aphrodite. I lock up all I have ever wanted. I bear the scars of love’s reform. I cannot be differed from slave or soldier, but karma forbid I tear skin or hearts for spite’s sake. When I cry, I don’t let anyone see, afraid of giving them the satisfaction that they’ve broken me. Love leaves simmering streaks down my cheeks, singeing my lips, tongue scalding at the taste of scorched salt. When I sleep, I let go of my yearning, love granting me shut-eye, gifting me dreams of flight, secrets, and shoulder blade kisses. It is the same love that weighs down my eyelids, hunching my back over backward, denying my need for all except rest, a break, an escape. But when I lean back into love, I am haunted with fever-night visions, losing my will to sleep. When I wake, I wake to love, hand in hand with my hate. I collapse in gray vinyl and walk through something like a prison, where I despise the white tile beneath my feet. But my friends, my family keep me in line, in a state where I can’t shatter or sink. They clasp me by the jaw, a thumb and forefinger hold, and tilt my head towards setting suns and fluorescent skies. So for them, for their love, I keep my chin held high, shut my eyes, and all their souls surround me. There is love in my heart, too much love, and it may be killing me. But without this love of those around me, I wouldn’t have a chance to live. Not with this mind.

THE COMPOSER

YOUR INK

hailey ripp, ‘23

I like knowing that you write about me. Two dimensional flattery at best, But hyperboles are still sweet to see. Words form with passion from beats under chest. The lines spill from the mouth of your pencilAdjectives of me, eloquently dressed... Your charm takes me somewhere existential. I do try, in turn, to write about you. But my words… they require a stencil. Your poems: inked-in memories, tattoos. Mine: cold flowers on thin vines of weak rhymes. What I’m saying is, the lyrics you brew Wrap me in fantasy, dazzling my mind. I hope to be everything that you write.

AN EYE FOR AN EYE

lucie young, ‘23

when the occupants pray, the pleas trickle down to the creek full of concrete and smog, (pray—prey?) and the saint watches them dissipate like altar candle smoke. (who will help them now—won’t you?) work boots in a flower field, evening early, and i ask the saint, “what do you grace here? what do you watch for?” the saint’s answer has been grown over by greened copper. in his little bowl, my fingers drift, deft among metal doves and painted rocks. i sift out the pennies and the dimes and i put them in my pockets without looking away. “does it bother your divine mind that i have stolen from the gods?” the saint says, “go home.” he sounds like my father. i cannot tell if it is a blessing or a curse. i wonder if the greened statue knows why i steal, or if his godly counterpart above knows why i take. these coins will buy me nothing but a shortening in the red string of time. the divine watcher never needed it. he already has metal, his small, statue body flush with it. i steal for a body too, for someone equally as divine. is he angered? then send me to hell. i have unfinished business with its creator. (“do not be afraid,” the saint says when i am not looking to it.) my boots squelch in the spring’s mud. the water rushes toward me in eager greeting, malicious or enthusiastic i will never know. i kneel. guide me, i ask. not to the saint. ichor is unreliable. my father has never been. the saint turns his cobweb empty eyes all the way around, to find mine. “you’re desperate here,” he states. the hospital catches light of the blazed sunset. “i’m not the only one,” i tell him. “surely, you hear them.” does he not? does this copper miracle not guide the patients to health and the lovers to peace? i could never tell, because he let my pleas sink in the river he watches. he let my father go. in my hands, his coins will rest, an unsin. 64

MIDNIGHT

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR persephone sween-argyros, ‘20

You don’t need me to know what it means to be lonely. You never needed me, never gave me a second thought. I was the girl next door, yet practically invisible. And time and time again, you’ve shattered me to pieces. You know, they say that everything heals in time, But we both know now that you will never change. I oft’ believed your cold heart would change, Thawing out each of my icicles of lonely, If only I’d given you just a bit of time. So I hung onto your words with every waking thought, Hoping for a chance to realign the pieces, But you had no idea, to you, I was invisible. Years have gone by now with me still invisible. You’ve made me accustomed, so why any change? And yet, it still cuts me how each of the pieces Of me are being scattered by wind, all left lonely And overlooked, just rejected without thought, Chipping away at my soul with the passing of time. You did this to me; once you took the time To make me feel loved and not simply invisible And we were doing fine, or so I thought, But then something happened, don’t know the change, Now all I can see is my life passing by, lonely Once again, and I’m left to pick up my pieces. I wish you could know how I’ve broken to pieces over you, so trusting you–it’s harder this time Knowing when all is said and done, I’ll end up lonely, Fading into the background of your life–invisible– Being overlooked by the winds of change and passed on by without another thought. So much time’s passed and so much’s changed, I thought I was over you, but I still find there are pieces Of Us that I miss, things I never want to change, That I want to make last to withstand the storms of time Even though to you, I will always stay invisible, Letting the cycle go on, every time just left lonely. I still want to believe you can change, though it’s a hopeless thought, ‘Cause in the end, I’m simply lonely, surrounded by pieces Of “Once upon a time”s: I’m not the princess, I’m just invisible.

untitled ella neff, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

MIDNIGHT

LOVE IS AN ACRYLIC NAIL FILED TO A POINT

emma rohloff, ‘20

Lena Sevilla was a thin-wristed woman, a woman with weak teeth who was known for saying that the towns she visited were much worse, much more cursed than they actually were.

a bony eel, wriggling and writhing under the warm currents of a Parisian river. She steps out, and like clockwork, like a spell, a hush descends on the audience like a thick quilt. She steps to the icy-warm spotlight, cool like the moon. She looks down at her sandal, notices that the strap has gone loose, and grinds the ball of her foot into the ground for a second, before she looks back up, her eyes sharp like she’s locking eyes with every member of the audience. Then she sings.

She was the star of the traveling act, the 10-man circus of juggling, fire eating, and finally her song, which was simple enough to pull the chaotic threads of the night into a braid that would stick in the minds of all those who witnessed it. She was a snake charmer, her clear-asglass songs luring them in until she had her pick of the ladies in town, married or engaged or truly unattached. It was a spell she casted, knowingly or otherwise.

A song simple, a song clean, like a spotless mirror that shows every imperfection. A song like a black bird on a cloudy sky, like the rattle of salt as it lands on a plate. Lena sings, she strums her guitar and feels the vibrations beneath her fingertips, and for a moment she feels like a bird. Then, as soon as it began, the song is over. She hears the thrum of applause hit her ears, and she grinds the ball of her foot on the floor again before she goes backstage.

It didn’t hurt that while she was young, flush with her family’s old money that she had long since abandoned to become une artiste, she wound herself around the magic happenings of the house on the edge of town, the one that always had something odd brewing on the stove that her Aunt Martina would offer to her. The only concoction that the young Lena ever accepted was some mauve liquid that was uncomfortably thick and uncomfortably warm as it slid down her throat with the promise that after drinking, Lena Sevilla would never have to worry about not being heard again.

She leaves her makeup on when she leaves the carnival tent, keeps the sparkly blue swirls on her face because it makes her feel a bit like an otherworldly being. She walks across the grounds, as ethereal as a ghost. Some man will say hello, will ask her if she knows where she’ll be lodging tonight. She says no, she says that she prefers the company of other women, if not just herself in a dusty motel room, booked last-minute. Then, she walks again, nearly floating, the loose strap of her sandal irritating her but not anymore than everything else does. Then, a timid hand on her shoulder, and she turns.

Lena knows the routine of every night, of every performance. First the acrobat, twisting and turning in on her own body like a fleshy mobius strip, then the fire breather, who makes the audience gasp with a frightening clarity. Then the juggler, then the mime, and then Lena.

The girl is different every time, but she’s always there. Maybe named Kayla, maybe Anna, maybe Maria. Long hair, short hair, married or not. The song/makeup/ loose strap on her sandal may not change, but the girl always does.

Her guitar is missing a string, so her song is written around it. She tells everyone that she didn’t lose it, that she unwound it from her guitar (the one that shines silver under the lights) and let it free in La Seine like

The girls all blur together, as their voices, loud and quiet 67

THE COMPOSER

and high and gravelly say that her performance was amazing, truly fantastic, and I’m here alone because my husband/my fiancé/someone was away on a trip and I’m alone in the house, and… on and on until Lena has a place to stay for the night and warm company.

alive. She’s used to the dead plastic air of a melancholy housewife’s home, the kind that has the scent of bleach fluttering through the air and hitting Lena in the face with every other breath, so strong that she needs to kiss the sensation away. When Lena enters the house, and with an ease like it was a habit that she’s maintained for the past century, sets the guitar against the wall right beside the door, she notices that the head of the guitar rests perfectly in the small dent in the wall, small and charming like a dimple.

Lena has been living her life on a repeating loop for years, and tonight doesn’t look like it’ll be any different. Winnetka, Illinois looks like every other town does in the late fall, and their carnival looks the same as every other carnival. The people look the same, her guitar still misses its string, and when she steps on stage, she looks down and finds that the strap on her sandal actually fits her tonight.

How do you know, asks Lena as she sits in the living room’s second hand love-seat, the one crowded into the corner and plush with a bit too much stuffing. How do you know about me? Jezebel stays standing, and she reaches her hands to her hair, gathering it up and wrapping it into a lopsided pile on top of her head as she answers. I listen to the signs, don’t you? What signs? Lena. Tell me you didn’t know… I didn’t know. At least not about you. I knew something would be different, I suppose. You’re different, that’s for damn sure. What I know is that you are my destiny, my love, on that there is no question.

She realizes, with a dull shock of a ghost, that something is either very deeply wrong or quite beautifully right. She grinds the ball of her foot into the ground, and starts singing. Things are so close to the same that Lena feels a bit like sobbing. The song is the same with it’s glass notes and crystal chords, and the applause buzzes a bit louder than usual. When she walks out that night, no man approaches her, no hand falls on her shoulder. It’s only when she’s at the entrance, that big, crooked arch marking the beginning of the carnival, that she hears it. Lena. Lena. Lena Sevilla. She turns around and sees a woman, tall with silk-black hair that hits her hips, and wide, fortune-teller eyes. Lena Sevilla, she says. Yes? You are my destiny.

Lena can see the stubbornness in the curl of this girl’s lip, and feels a crushing closeness to it, like looking in the mirror and seeing a birthmark on your hip. I can’t be your destiny. I have to go tomorrow. The small town of Moline is next on the circus track, there’s no getting out. Moline can wait, Lena. It won’t, not for me. Maybe not. But is it even worth it? What can Moline give you that every other town already hasn’t? The house lets out a big sigh, an ungodly creak. Me too, thinks Lena and Jezebel at the same time. Spend the night here and reconsider in the morning. I was already going to do that, says Lena with a smile, a smile so charming you could tell that she had to practice it in the mirror until you didn’t notice the chip in her front tooth that threw it off-balance. I know that, says Jezebel. I just wanted to hear you say it. I will.

Jezebel Mendoza’s house has three different record players from three different decades, a blanket on the floor instead of a carpet, old foundations and walls that sigh and groan through the night, and a long black stain on the faded wood floor that spans from the doorway of the kitchen to the window in the living area that Jezebel herself never put there. It’s uneasy, thinks Lena, being in a house that’s so quietly 68

MIDNIGHT

Jezebel puts a record into the player in the living room, and Lena watches with heavy eyes as when the music starts streaming out, a mix of syrup-thick notes and the warm thrum of static, Jezebel seems to breathe it in, heaving a deep, swaying sigh.

Are you tired? A little bit.

Lena reaches her own hand out to her cheek, her thumb brushing the sweet ridge of her cheekbones. Jezebel’s breath hitches, and Lena leans in, and gives her a soft kiss on the forehead- merely a brush on the lips, before pulling away and locking her eyes to Jezebel’s.

Lena feels like she’s sinking in the soft quicksand of the love-seat, and the wholly unfamiliar weight of comfort on her chest is only increased when Jezebel joins her on the seat, their bodies mashing up against each other as they arrange themselves around each other, easy like they’ve been doing this their whole lives, and when they find the right spot, the one that makes Lena’s heart speed up and slow down at the same time, the spirits send another sign.

Her eyes. They’re quite nearly a perfect black, a hypnotizing sort of color that has her trying to figure out exactly where the iris ends and the pupil begins. Let’s go to bed, then.

Rain begins to dot the noise of the room, one plop to another, until it builds up into its own static thrum, layered on top of the music like it was always meant to be there.

Lena wakes up before Jezebel does, her body still facing aftershocks from a traveling performer’s life, or maybe just reacting to the sudden quiet of a finished rainfall. She looks to the clock on the cluttered bedside table, and sees that she has an hour before the train leaves.

Lena can’t help but stare at Jezebel’s lips as she begins to sing along to the song on the record player. Then, she sees the lips move without the aimless purpose of a slow song, now with meaning. ...Where did it go, she asks, the first part of the sentence a droning jumble lost in the fuzzy, wine drenched feeling of the music. What? The guitar string. Where did it go? It’s swimming in La Seine. Maybe it’s in the sea now, maybe caught in the gunk at the bottom of the river, maybe it’s in some lake in Moline, and that’s why I need to go. I know where I put it, not where it is now. You know why we’re soulmates? Why we’re les âmes sœurs? Why? I sell guitar strings.

Lena looks to Jezebel, just barely lit by the early morning shining through the muslin curtains, and decides that this is her destiny. This is their bed, their future, the next couple decades of naps and weekend late awakenings and dreams and nightmares. Lena Sevilla goes back to sleep and allows love, that crazy magic, to bring her to life again.

Jezebel fits a blue string to the guitar, and it’s an eyesore among his silver brothers. Lena loves it. She watches Jezebel’s hands as she does the work, and when it’s all done, she takes the hand and lays a kiss on the back, chivalrous like a knight. It’s getting late, says Jezebel as she looks at the back of her hand. There’s the softest outline of burgundy lipstick, faded from the hours since the song, since the carnival, since before Lena Sevilla met her destiny. 69

THE COMPOSER

STORIES FROM A HEART

hailey ripp, ‘23

The way the wheat fields sigh, wishing they could be up in the sky they stare so hopelessly at, longing to be among the stars. The foxes weave their way through the golden sea, feeling the warmth on their fur. The wheat is so vast...

Under the calm of night, the branches gave a break in the stars, like the cracked ground its roots relied on for cover. Peaceful, the owls stretched their feathers, the guardians of all that rest with closed eyes, and soft skin. I stared at the rusty locket in my hands, shiny from my tears. The only one that mattered to me, couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t find any reasons, or any explanations. I

My sack swayed against my side, the books and trinkets enjoying the journey as much as I was.

frostfall alex burton, ‘20 70

MIDNIGHT

thought I had to be strong, but it helps to cry. The moon wept with me.

The whole cosmos swirled in the palm of his hand, and yet. And yet the world is broken, the hearts scarred. And I am left here, as a token of what true power he can have. I am left here to tend to the dying, the real definition of his abuse, his capabilities.

Funny enough, she was wearing the shoes I had patched up for her the first time we met. Her hair had been washed recently, I noticed that. Was it for me? Was she thinking of me?

The world was ending. Her smooth lips in a hug with mine, the curvatures of our bodies locking in, like puzzle pieces. I knew she would never let go of my heart, for it was in her grasp now. Why would we ever want to walk different paths?

I saw a broken girl. Beat down by expectations. Society. The crave to be better than anyone could be. But she didn’t know. Didn’t know it was okay to have imperfections.

I sat alone, in the cold wind that lashed against my nightgown. I was stupid. Of course he wouldn’t accept me. He never felt the same way as I did. No, I knew he wouldn’t understand, but I needed someone to tell. I trust him with my life, and nothing could have ruined that. Well, except this. I thought this as my tears were swept off of my cheeks by the wind, more gentle now that I recognized the ghastly truth. The wind was here now to comfort me.

The little boy, with messy hair and a threadbare shirt, stared up at the sky with worlds of wonder filling his eyes. The omen left us all wondering. Left us with no hope, no help. It was all we could do but cry. Weep. Sob helplessly into our hands, not aged by time, but by experiences we shouldn’t have known. Wars we shouldn’t have encouraged to rage on. Nevertheless, our aged hands grew salty, and the ground thanked us for the moisture.

The piano had sat there for ages, watching me and my brother grow up. Now it played a most beautiful tune. Beautiful, yet the only sad tune I had ever heard it play. Now, at the time of my brother’s death? But not all those days I stood, gazing out the westward facing window of the childhood house? Not when I needed the sad tunes, but now, when I need to be strong, the piano is jerking my tears away, cutting deeper into the scars already engraved in the flesh of my right arm.

Dreams swirled in the fountain as we embraced, many thousands of years of affection, love, woven into our entangled arms. Encrypted in our wrinkled hands. I led a simple life. Sat at home brewing ideas for the once-in-a-lifetime adventure I knew would never come. I still drempt. Of the people I would meet, the friends I could lose. It kept me at ease. She knew I loved her. But in anger, it can be hard to see through the opaque layer of red that contorted vision, controlled one’s actions so cruelly. But I have much faith that she loves me. I know she does. I know she did. In another timeline, when we were young. She did love me, but not for long enough.

THE COMPOSER

A MOTHER, FRIDAY NIGHT SERVICES

micah heilbron, ‘20

Look. The light of the Eternal Flame twists around itself, flies high from the floor, and pops the popcorn on the ceiling. The red and the orange and the hope and the love, they burn and burn and burn and burn. The light of the Eternal Flame swims up my throat and into your ears and catches fire to the carpet between us. Us, meaning you and me, but also our people: our children and our parents. I don’t know if The Flame is made of fire or porcelain, but you can still ask me. I do know that we can not be extinguished. We will keep our Flame lit in the face of torches, in the face of gunpowder, in the face of fire. It is easier for us now. But still, the scrolls are not to be touched, instead to be shared. The scrolls live within belts within blankets with embroidery within a fancy little case at the very front of the room, below and to the right of the Eternal Flame. Please, read and feel and love them, but love them only with your mini metal hand. With your Yad, therefore your respect and your distance, you can touch the scrolls, as your father and his father and his father and his father and every father before him did. Lift the scrolls above your head, each knuckle white around its legs. Please, hold strong to these legs. If it drops, our hearts will break, and we would all, even if we blinked, be forced to fast for forty days. Be careful. This is how it goes. He welcomes you in. The doors of the case of the scrolls open, and they creak, for they hold the weight of thousands of years. And we don’t have enough money for WD-40 spray for the hinges. In the silence, the silence born of ancestral respect, you can hear the thin paper of the scrolls scape against themselves. Listen. We rise and sit, and sit and rise, and the floorboards and the chairs without cushions creak too. Some men in here are mumbling the words to themselves, and they bow little bows and go up and down on their tippy toes. No, they are not scary, they are sacred. Please, my sweet boy, have respect for this place. Your family and their family and their family died for you to be in this place, and to sing these songs, and to read these words on these scrolls, but not to touch, and see the light and feel the heat of this Eternal Flame. You should sing. You know the words. You can read the words in your book, and, please, read in the right language. We, meaning you and me, but also our people; our children and our parents, are alone in here. The world is outside, and it tries to seep in through the cracks in the stained glass window, and we do not let it. Please, my sweet boy, breathe in the Eternal Flame and breathe out these songs that keep us in and the world out.

MIDNIGHT

MY LAST WILL

mandala pham, ‘21

Now I don’t want to die alone That’s just a state of fact. I’d rather live without a soul Than lose you through the cracks. I’ll lay down on this empty lawn But with you by my side. And if I don’t wake up at dawn Could you please close my eyes? I’ll follow birds beyond the trees And soon I’ll hit the sun. Keep swimming till I drown at sea And breathe until it’s done. See autumn leaves that wander off And paths that never cross. I’ll hide inside a hunkered loft Let time guide me to rot.

HIS ODE TO PATROCLUS

So I don’t want to die alone Shame me for wanting that. Into my grave I’ll take my woes Entombed in sullen black.

harsha venkataraman, ‘22

The leaves on the trees curled up and fell to the ground, more scared than dead. Like a shrieking bird scrambling into the sky, away from the lion’s roar, painted in sorrow with a mouth covered in blood, the enemy trojans fled from Achilles’ song. A song that erupted like the great volcano Vesuvius, it too drew deep bowls of dust into the air, Threatening to swallow the sky, as Achilles did when he clawed at the ground, muddying his face, painted rouge with the blood of Patroclus, as if to conceal or cloud the face the son of Menoetius once loved. The land itself clamored, eyes tightly shut, The wind silenced its warring ways, the sea bowed up and down to the shore calmly in the horizon, as if they too feared the wrath of the son of Peleus. 73

THE COMPOSER

love yourself angela cassera gonzalez, ‘21

MY CLAP BACK AT RACISM

“You’re so white,” a white friend of mine said. I forced myself to smile through the remark, obviously intended to be a compliment, before redirecting the conversation. This is not the first time I’ve been told this, nor do I expect it to be the last. I’ve been accused of being white my whole life. Growing up in America, a country that markets itself as a cultural melting pot, you would think that observations on my personal traits wouldn’t need to be correlated with the color of my skin. Despite this image of America as a cultural melting pot, the America I live

aaron booe, ‘20

MIDNIGHT

in is a startling reality that forces African Americans such as myself to confront our country’s culture of institutionalized racism.

Simply put, it’s because we exist within a system where racism is so normalized that it is not noticed in casual conversation and daily interactions. Every time you choose to comment on “how I talk white,” or “how smart I am,” or even how “I’m pretty for a black boy,” and these are just a small portion of the casual racial microaggressions thrown at me on a daily basis. All said without any shame, remorse, or consideration as to how these so called compliments damage my sense of identity as an African American.

Why is it that people take one look at me and assume that I’m poor, or uneducated, or ratchet? And why is it that they feel the need to congratulate me on my ability to charm or hold intellectually stimulating conversations? As if my making myself more palatable, more digestible, more white is something worth celebrating. I am not sorry that I am not confined by your bigoted and narrow minded views as to what constitutes a black person and how we ought to act. I will not apologize for being more than your race based generalizations. And to those of you who make these generalizations and refuse to acknowledge them, I challenge you to truly think and process before making a joke about black people or using the N-word. Every time you mock or belittle me, you reinforce a long existing power dynamic in which I am not a human being but a grotesque exaggeration of your preconceived notions of what a black person looks and acts like.

During lunch one day, some of my friends and I were talking about affirmative action and why it is such a critical tool needed to fight the injustices of systemic racism. My friend, who is not a person of color, claimed that affirmative action prioritized unprepared kids over prepared kids. When I attempted to counter with the very real impacts of slavery, and the Jim Crow Laws and other forms of disenfranchisement, I was told, “That happened over a hundred years ago. Can you get over it?” This is the reality I often face when discussing the racial power dynamics of the past, and the effects felt to this day. Ranging from noticeable economic disparities on average between blacks and whites, and to the prevalent divisions in the city of Austin from your neighborhood to your school zone. In that moment, I, the only racial minority at the lunch table of ten, was stared at simultaneously dismissively and expectantly. I was livid, but mostly I felt attacked, receiving a stern reprimand over how I should process the experiences of my people, their trauma and injustices, as well as my own and very real experiences with racism.

I understand that is sometimes seen as comedic when a joke about racist stereotypes is made. I often crack a sharp remark about white people much to the disdain of my white friends. I receive questions about the moral integrity of such jokes, but simply put, my jokes don’t lead to the incarceration of white youths, placing them into a system that shatters their identities, leaving them defenseless and voiceless. I am not capable of taking the power away from you and all who look like you, and thus cannot threaten you.

The next time you think your racist comment is a compliment, please take the time to reconsider. I and the countless other people of color are very real human beings, with very real emotions and thoughts that are not defined by the color of our skin or the stereotypes attached to it.

Why is it that we don’t talk about the fact that I am more than your predisposed ideas? Why is it that I have to compromise myself, monitor any and all of my mannerisms, to make sure I’m not being too black? As if I need to be the one who conforms, making myself more palatable. 75

ABYSS the abyssopelagic zone

THE COMPOSER

SCARS

hanna lou rathouz, ‘22 A long time ago in a world which most humans can’t remember, you could trade a piece of the universe to an unknown man with an unknown name. You couldn’t get anything you wanted in return for the unknown man would choose what he wanted to exchange. It was a gamble to trade with the unknown, and to trade with the universe no less. But what you got in return was usually worth it, for the unknown man possessed a magic no one had ever seen or experienced.

from the universe. It was stealing, but at the time nothing of that idea crossed my mind. When the ladder was finished, I unfolded the first section and carefully climbed up the metal rungs. At the top, I would unfold another part of the ladder and then begin climbing again. Around my wrist was a small velvet pouch that would hold my little piece of the universe. Excitement hummed through me as I climbed, anticipation making me sweat.

There was much talk of humans flying through electric blue, and children making flowers bloom between their skinny fingers. The possibilities were endless and tempting for the normal human. There was one issue though, none could capture the universe. Until me.

For hours I ascended, my breath becoming foggy in the air. My legs ached, and my face was an electric shade of universe white. But I kept climbing, even as my stomach sloshed and each one of my toes felt as if they were going to break off like a brittle piece of candy.

It was a gamble and I knew that, but there had been talk of magic and I was far too curious to do nothing. So I built a ladder. A simple metal ladder that unfolded itself. Each day I would wake at dawn and hammer vigorously at this ladder, building it up higher and higher until I was sure that it would reach the moon. The moon was going to be my vantage point at which to take something

Then my cold, bleached fingers brushed something as soft and fine as silk. It was an odd type of sand and it fled into my face, momentarily blinding me. When my eyes had been restored sight, I stared out at the fantastic moon, so full and fleshy it was extraordinary.

ABYSS

My worn body flung itself on to the surface and laid there, my limbs flung out as if I was dead. I swear on my life that it seemed as if the moon wrapped her arms around me in a hug.

sprinted towards the ladder. My knees ached as I started to descend, but I didn’t stop climbing. I was coughing up blood and tears were still pouring down my face, some crimson, some not.

Soon enough, I got my bearings and stood up to observe the environment around me. I was amazed when I discovered the vast loneliness of the universe. Far away I could see another planet, but nearby stars jolted around me, filling up the matte blackness of the sky.

It was only until I reached the bottom of the ladder that I realized that I was completely naked. Vulnerable. Rusty blood and moon sand caked my entire body. The only thing left was the velvet pouch, still containing my many precious pieces of the universe.

A peculiar and uncomfortable feeling of greed filled me up to the top of my head, bubbling over. I wanted to take everything from around me, and feed it to the unknown man as if he was a small child.

I took my pouch to the unknown man the next day. He lived in a small brick structure at the very end of the town. When I entered his yard, the world became deafeningly silent.

Without realizing it, my hand reached out and plucked a single star from the sky. It burned my chilled fingers, and I quickly shoved it into my pouch, my fingers left with a sharp sting. In reaction, the night sky seemed to swirl in a passionate rage. At the time I would think nothing of it, wrapped up completely in my own selfishness.

The unknown man looked as if he had been dipped in a vat of boiling oil. His skin was red and puckered some scars black or yellow, others red, blistering, and plump. Puss seemed to seeped through the pores of his skin. He was bald, his head covered in more burns and scratches all an angry red color. Bright spots of blood were scattered across his head and neck. The stench was unbearable, and seemed to grab onto me as if it was trapping me in. The most significant thing about him was that he had piercing black eyes that undressed my soul.

My hands reached out again and this time took more stars. They burned fiercely when they touched my white flesh, but I only hid them away in my bag. The night tried to hang onto them for a minute, desperately trying to pull them back from me, but my greed only made me stronger. Suddenly, something wet dripped on my face. Confused, I brushed my hands lightly along my cheeks to find that I was crying. I opened my mouth in surprise, and a raspy sob leaked from my shriveled purple lips.

The unknown man beckoned me inside, and his scarred fingers pulled the velvet bag from around my wrist. When he saw what I brought him, a wide smile spread across his lips. I caught a glimpse of dark crooked teeth jutting out from grey gums and my stomach heaved. The unknown man pulled out each star feeling the light and heat in his palms. The flesh of his hands seemed to catch on fire as he held the stars, but he paid no attention and only sighs with uncomfortable pleasure. He paused and turned to look at me, his dark eyes boring into my soul. Pain flickered at the back of my mind. He reached out and clasped my shoulder.

I keeled downward towards the moon surface, clutching my stomach as more tears broke through my wilted eyes. I shook myself, hoping that the tears would fly off into space and never come back. They cleared little by little from my eyes, and I took the chance to stretch out my hands and grasp at as many things as I could and pull with all my willpower. A burst of light hit my chest and tears poured down my cheeks. My hands were on fire and a gasp ripped from my chest. Pain spiked in my throat. A drop of red dribbled onto my stars and with a wet choke, my trembling hand reached up and wiped my eyes. When my hand came back down, bright red stained it like red wine on a crisp tablecloth. A wheeze released from my throat; I stuffed the stars into my pouch and

“What have you done?”

swift rain persephone sween-argyros, 20

ABYSS

SAVED BY THE RAIN

eliana hurley, ‘22

As the last of the day’s seconds inched by, we held our breath. We ran to the bus gleefully, almost bursting with excitement. We were on the brink of a breakdown, but finally done. We just barely made it, and it was all over until Monday morning. This was the release of pressure we didn’t think could ever happen. The last bell was still ringing in our ears as we rode home. Anywhere that wasn’t there was home to us. I glanced at her, and she knowingly smirked back. There was no need for words; the silence told us everything. Though it was only for a fleeting moment, we escaped. I couldn’t believe we made it out. We weren’t slaves to ourselves anymore, but free to do anything. I felt all the power in the world with none of the responsibilities. We experienced nothingness, but it wasn’t bleak as you would imagine. It felt light and we savored the taste of it. Our eyes met and we knew. And as we walked through the gate, we realized we entered another world. It was unforgettable. The rain didn’t veil the world; it remembered the forgotten beauty of ordinary things. I wanted to believe in its magic, Lord, help my unbelief. We were high off the escape from reality. We felt truly clean laying in the streets. The rain poured into our souls, filling them up. They would soon be drained and forced into silence, but we ran, unashamed of our childishness. The rain cleansed us from our sins. The drops kissed our faces and embraced us as we stomped in puddles. We giggled uncontrollably. It was hilarious and so maddening because we would have to leave soon. “But don’t think about that yet,” I pleaded with myself. We wouldn’t dare think about it because it would haunt us if we tried. The rain granted me freedom for a moment. I was completely infatuated with it. It was a leave from war. We had returned from the front lines, but our souls were weak and spirit heavy. We filled each other up. As she ran, I looked up in the sky and cried uncontrollably. I couldn’t handle the sheer purity of it. We were in love with the rain, in love with the sky and the trees. We held onto it until it slipped through our hands like sand. It slowly faded, but our memories remained. The feelings flew past, but we managed to catch them. The cold didn’t feel sharp as it usually did. It soothed our aggravated souls and healed our aching. Stress fled from our minds. It rushed to find cover in our minds, but it wasn’t welcome anymore. We were unapologetic and hysterically happy. We laid on the gravel in the alley for hours, but that didn’t mean anything to us, for time had been paused. We felt each other breathe, and prayed for it not to end. The thought of returning to time was laughable. But it was inevitable. As the moment faded, our spirit returned to its cage. Rhythm and schedule had returned to lock us up. We were prosecuted by time for our recklessness, and there were consequences. As we walked through the door again, soaking wet, we smiled and reluctantly accepted the anxiety and stress of daily life again. But we had escaped from life itself, and we knew a way out, besides death. It was our secret passageway to happiness. It was a gateway drug to pure joy, and we were addicted.

THE COMPOSER

THE HUNTED AND THE LOVED

harsha venkataraman, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

The hunter with his arrow between his teeth and bow resting on his shoulder. Watches the colorful cascade glimmering in the sun, perched on a branch. She spreads her wings, showering upon the world, her artisan sonnets. Her feathers, bronze and gold, Like shattered armor from a fallen soldier.

He leaves behind his weapons of ruin. What once were his companions, no more important than his form. He plummets, not towards the earth but away from the stars. The breeze whose gentle undertakings, falls attention to their devotion, binds the world in stone. He turns the arrows into songs, and the bow into wings. Wraps the vines to rekindle, hatred into flight. and thus, the hunter becomes his prey.

The hunter waits in the patience of a good pay off. Plays the sweet mockery of a little songbird. He waits, day after day, watching and waiting for the bird. And she stays in the light of praise. She perches and croons her innocent melodies.

She rejoices, but alas curtails her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lessons, to fear the hunter. For while she dotes upon her thoughts, she is struck, by an arrow, and sinks to the ground. The hunter flies away, knowing that he neither deserves or receives the sympathy of anyone.

Then the day comes, where the leaves rain down upon the world in anticipation of snowflakes that rest on eyelashes like leaf-filled gutters. The hummer turns to leave. But not without stealing the eye of the hunter.

And yet the songbird however sweet, for we only know to miss what is gone, was ordinary in the eyes of all of humanity, but her hunter.

His spirit forgets the home he carries upon his back and flies towards his dear,

ABYSS

SILENCED CIRCUS

hailey ripp, ‘23

now the ringmaster’s tired, the lions, once tamed, grow hungry in their dens. the ballerina’s step is clumsy and faltered, faces forcibly frozen in grins rusty hoops grow frail and heavy, a fire breather’s insides charred. the trapeze’s pulley shrieks with effort, the tent like a fallen civilization. not one came to witness the circus for the ground’s too littered with shells, the acts seem withered and hellish, or the masters cruel to the creatures... with each boorish comment made the clown’s face melts in steady drips. the horns echo from stage right, a cold shiver of the circus’s goodnight.

THE COMPOSER

MILKSHAKES

jamie corum, ‘20

Thomas James woke up at 2:42am and stared up at the ceiling. It was popcorned and dull white, and there were specks of a darker color where the paint had been chipped away. He rolled onto his side, then his stomach, then his other side, until he slid to the floor. He slouched back against the bed, knees folded up to his chest. Chills rose on his arms, so Thomas reached for a pair of sweatpants on the floor by the wall. Fortunately, the room was small enough he could reach them without moving the better part of his body. He unfolded one knee at a time to slide into each leg, lifting his hips to get the hem up and around his waist. He sat for a moment there on the floor and looked out his bedroom window. It was snowing lightly and the sky was a dark, dull grey. Thomas had a sudden thought that it was an almost Earl grey, despite the tea itself being more of a brown. Just then the phone rang. It was 3:05 a.m. and Thomas was watching his boots sink into snow, a couple inches deep. They were a dull dark brown with scuffed black soles and rubber around the heel and toes. They were good for snow. He sank his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and realized he couldn’t feel his fingers. Yellow light flashed on the ground, then turned red and stayed red. He looked up and watched a pale yellow Volkswagen van bumble through the intersection into the quietly falling snow. It was quaint and stout and vaguely apian and Thomas thought maybe he would ride in one someday. He brushed his nose against the upturned collar of his coat to scratch it as the light turned green and he walked across the intersection. However, his coat was damp with melted spots of snow, so now not only had he not expelled the itch but his nose was wet too. He looked down at his boots again and watched as they left the asphalt and came up to the next stretch of sidewalk. He scrunched his footsteps so that they landed close to one another, as if a very young boy had tried to walk in the snow in his father’s shoes and could only lift them up so far each step. Ironically, Thomas was quite tall.

backstreet new york evan hadd, ‘20 84

ABYSS

Eventually, Thomas crossed another intersection and then another, and then he turned left and walked halfway down the block and turned left again up the walk of an unassuming townhouse. The windows of the first and third floors were dark, but from the second floor a square of greenish light illuminated a few feet of snow-covered yard. In its tinted beam were lit the falling snowflakes like dust particles in the sun. Thomas brushed the snow off his shoes on the bottom step, then went up the rest to the landing and stood on the wicker mat at the door on the right. He pulled his hand from his pocket to knock, but before he could the door swung open to reveal a young man in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. His name was Euli and he had dark hair and pale skin and he had not slept that night. He stepped forward to wrap his arms around Thomas’s waist, sliding them into the space between his unbuttoned coat and the hoodie he had on underneath. Thomas wrapped his arms around the young man’s shoulders and they stood. Then he ran his hand up the back of Euli’s neck into his hair, folding the dark curls down over his face.

Thomas’s sweatshirt over his head and they got into bed together. Thomas was slightly damp with sweat from walking, so he lay on his back and Euli lay on his side nestled against him and put one hand over his chest. “I’m sorry for earlier,” Euli said. Thomas looked at the lights and let his vision go out of focus and the one string became two that moved toward and over and away from each other and back again. “You know how it is.” Euli added a moment later. Thomas did know how it was. And then Euli was quiet for a while and Thomas started thinking about french fries and how he’d heard some people dipped them in their milkshakes. He’d never done it and he wondered if Euli ever had, but didn’t want to ask him. He sort of wanted to walk down the street to McDonalds and try it, but his body was seeping slowly into the mattress and Euli was heavy and warm so he decided he was okay staying right there. “You know I love you, right?” Euli rested his head on Thomas’s chest. He looked down at the top of it, where the locks of hair fell from the crown. “Yes,” said Thomas James. He kissed that spot on the crown of Euli’s head. He was still thinking about milkshakes. “I know.”

“You smell like pot,” said Thomas to no one in particular. He might not have said it out loud at all. Euli pulled back and smiled at him. “Hi,” he said, then stepped back and to the side to let Thomas in. Thomas stepped out of his boots and let his coat sag down his arms. Euli helped him pull it off and hung it on a hook in the wall. The entryway was a little cramped with the two young men standing close to each other and the wet coat dripping to the floor and the door standing open. Thomas shivered, and the young man closed the door and took his hand.

Many years later Thomas and Euli would lie with other men and women and would forget about this one night completely. There would be many more just like it with many other people who were not each other. Euli would go on a date with one woman who would teach him to dip his fries in his milkshakes and love it, but Thomas never would. Instead he would learn how to wake up in the morning without rolling out of bed, and would eventually start sleeping the whole night through.

It was dark inside. Thomas felt vaguely as though his brain was still standing on the steps outside and that his eyes were very, very far away from the rest of the body. Euli felt exactly the same and neither of them knew it. They walked barefoot across the faded carpet in the entryway and up the narrow stairs, and Thomas looked at pictures of landscapes on the walls that looked like they would someday hang in a dentist’s office. The apartment had a peculiar smell, but it was comfortable and the same as it had always been, and he was glad to smell it. At the top of the stairs they stepped through a doorway into the soft light he’d seen from outside. It was not one light, actually, but many. A string of them hung along the seam that lived where the wall and ceiling met. They were tiny and green and made Thomas feel like he was standing in a garden underwater. Euli pulled 85

THE COMPOSER

POETRY SUCKS alan bao, ‘23

Poetry is the worst topic taught in ELA I doubt anyone would hear me say Poetry is cool, meaningful, and fun Because if you gave it a second chance, You’ll find it pointless to our daily lives. Even if It teaches you life, knowledge, and wisdom Poetry is meant to confuse and waste time. And the truth isn’t that Poetry is an art form, composed of rhythms and careful diction Because Satisfaction for poetry can be acquired Only if it is an upbeat and catchy song It is unreasonable to say that poetry is enjoyable It’s agreeable that Poetry Is worthy as Nothing Poetry is simply wasteful knowledge So don’t even try to persuade me to ever say Poetry is my favorite topic in ELA

ABYSS

LETTING GO

avik ahuja, ‘20

It was 9:30 AM on a relaxed Sunday morning in the middle of summer. The birds were cheerily chirping right outside my window and I was laying on my bed in my quiet room swinging in and out of sleep. Suddenly I heard two voices conversing outside my window in the front lawn. I slowly sat up in my bed, rubbing my eyes and stretching. Eventually I peeked through the blinds that covered my window. Outside, my dad and an old man with leathery, callous, oil stained hands and a rugged wrinkled face were timidly talking in the driveway. At first I thought nothing of it and continued to stealthily eavesdrop as my dad and the old man talked, but as I looked around the front of my house something caught my eye. A few neatly stacked papers on the windshield of my dad’s car. Suddenly it hit me: my dad was selling his car. As soon as I realized what was happening I jumped straight out of bed, slammed open my room’s door and ran frantically down the hall to the front door. Now, before continuing with the story, I should explain why this car was so important to me. My dad’s car was an old, gray colored, slightly rusty, endearing 1991 Toyota Corolla that had worked like a charm until about two years ago, when it broke down while we were driving home about a block away from my house. A few days later, when we took it to the automotive repair shop, the mechanic informed us that it was not worth repairing the car. My dad had the Corolla ever since he moved to Texas, over 20 years ago, and it was the only car that I had ever known him to drive and it seemed to embody my dad’s personality perfectly. When my dad had first bought the car, he had very little money and the car reflected that perfectly. It had no radio, clock, CD player, or any other nonessential item that cars normally had, but despite all of its flaws I loved that old clunker. As I approached the front door my dad walked in. His face was expressionless as he said “I just sold the car to that man, he’s going to take it and remove all the working spare parts, if you want to see it one last time, you better do it now.” I ran outside as my eyes started to tear up when I opened the door. The musty scent of rotting leather and dust hit my nose and triggered a wave of nostalgia. As I stood there, I remembered every family road trip, first day of school, infrequent car accident, family vacation, and every single other major event in my life that the car played an insignificant role in. Finally, I stepped into the car to take one last look around before it disappeared from my life forever. Today, as I sit here thinking about that car and that moment, I wonder why humans get attached to physical objects. If I want to remember that car, all I have to do is look through my family photo album. In there you will find that car hidden somewhere in the insignificant background of hundreds of photographs of various family vacations, events and birthday parties. If I want to remember the good times I had in that car, all I have to do is envision what it felt like to sit in those hot rugged seats as my dad drove through the streets. Those memories wouldn’t be any more meaningful if I still had the car with me, in fact I probably wouldn’t even think about them. I guess when you lose something, you start remembering what it means to you.

THE COMPOSER

FALLING

A leaf falls, Softly, slowly swaying With the warm autumn wind. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s calming, orange glow dances in the sunFalling, falling, falling Never to rise again.

lily yeazell, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

A graduation caps falls From the sky after being thrown Triumphantly into the air By an ecstatic senior. The hat rushes to the ground Amongst hundreds of other Identical black, pointy crowns, Marking the joyous occasio-Falling, falling, falling Never to rise again.

ABYSS

nyc skyline persephone sween-argyros, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Rushing water falls Off of a cliff as it crashes violently Towards the stream below. The smooth water fills the cool air With a monstrous, destructive noise, Bringing down everything In its path along with itFalling, falling, falling Never to rise again

A mug falls From the hand of someone Who just lost a loved one. A thud, it shatters Into a million, minuscule pieces That will never fit together again Just like the heart of the one Who dropped the goofy mustached mug. Black coffee falls from the mug. It trickles and spreads itself on the lightly-colored, carpeted flooring, Leaving behind a permanent stain of darknessFalling, falling, falling Never to rise again.

The final petal falls From a single rose In an empty house, Where two people formerly in love Lived together but do so no longer. A fragrant scent fills the air As the stem droopsFalling, falling, falling Never to rise again 89

THE COMPOSER

through the rock evan hadd, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 90

ABYSS

A PROMISE OF PROMISE

harsha venkataraman, ‘22

To be told I was born of promise stolen away too young, staring into my flames. A pyre of ability roaring softly in the wind. And I’d been a little seed, tucked inside her all she’d need a fleeting gust to save away the squandered dreams and set her ship on sail. Battered bruised her hull’d carry on, too late for the rats to chew her ropes free. A story too great for I to hear, this grandiose plank cannot float her in this sea. But lovely on the ears and heart to perceive such a vision flourishing. These rays beyond death could not trouble me, and still to this I prove how sorry they all would be.

THE COMPOSER

DAYDREAMS OF SPRING

jonathan woo, ‘22

At last, a warm and gentle winter day When songbirds sing and flow’rs return to bloom, An early glimpse of Spring’s forthcoming play. Like me, there is one stuck inside a room Below, Persephone creeps toward the air Above to shoo away the winter gloom. But like a feline given simple scare Who will come slinking back in silent spite, The winter will again make landscape bare. The children know this best, what a delight To see them laugh and peek behind the trees, A spectacle of youthful, summery might. I long to join them soon, I must believe The weather will remain when I return, For now I go, I have somewhere to be. Of math, I can not focus but I yearn To be with sun outside these lifeless walls, I watch the hands in hopes they will adjourn. Oh, how the songbirds mock me with their calls As if to brag that they are with the sun. I hope it not too rude I wish them fall. The starting pistol rings! The day is done! I jump out of my seat and out the door, I’m finally free, but only see a ton Of melancholy clouds, the light no more.

ABYSS

death is only the beginning alleen koenig, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 93

THE COMPOSER

A STRANGER COMES TO TOWN

raphael stone, ‘20

I was the first one ever. I made history. I came out from the shop, in the hands of an enthusiastic student ready to be put to use. I was invincible, all he had to do was take out my insides and replace them, and then I would be ready to go. Such a simple process, such complicated mechanics, and I was at the forefront of all of it.

were. I was in shock. She had .5 mm lead. I had .7 mm lead, and the pencils were all laughing at me. Now she was the better pencil, and the yellows wanted to be like her because she was skinnier than I was. I just sat there in shock. I was there first, and they never wanted to be like me. Of course naturally I had to hate her for being better. As if I could do anything else! But after our owners had a project together, our lives changed forever. And no, we did not suddenly become best friends. We were talking about the difference between .7 mm and .5 mm lead. Since we both thought our type of lead was superior, we eventually got in a fight, and accidentally collided and fell off the table. There we were, just lying on the ground helpless with the tip of our lead broken. We waited to get picked up by our owners; as if we had anything else to do. We weren’t going to make small talk. At the end of the period, we still hadn’t gotten picked up, and day after day we waited. Then one day another pencil fell down, except he was closer to the walkway than we were. He was just a normal yellow pencil, so we smirked at him like he was nothing. He noticed our smug smirks and told us how pointless it was to continue living anyway. Then two minutes later, he got stepped on and his tip broke off. He knew it was a deadly wound, so he looked over to us and said, “at least I can die.” At that point, we realized how pointless it was for him to continue his life. With no sharpener around to give his life a point again, he died a slow and painful death.

Ready to go to class on the first day, I got out of the bag, and started accidentally rolling down the desk. After three small little ticks, I stopped thanks to my opposable paper holder, one of my greatest traits. I heard all the other pencils gasp in disbelief as they heard the noise, realizing that they were in the presence of an unusual pencil. They realized this was no hexagonal pencil, but the newest and greatest form of a pencil. I was the peak of evolution. I was the very first plastic mechanical pencil. I was sleek and new with an interchangeable eraser, a detachable tip, and I even came with new packs of lead that could be used as a refill if needed. I heard the whispers erupt around me. All the yellow pencils were gossiping and complaining about how the students go after the hot young pencils that have colors and buttons. Since I knew they weren’t the sharpest, I just ignored them, knowing I was better. I was indestructible. I was the future. Day after day I was brought to class, while all those yellow bullies got shorter and shorter until eventually they got thrown out like the worthless pieces of trash they were. It was bliss knowing that they could alienate me, and I would outlive them. One day, though, a new pencil came who was identical to me on the outside. There wasn’t a scratch that would differentiate us, unlike with the yellow pencils. I was infuriated. How could another look steal my look? What a copycat! But after that first click, I realized just how different we

That’s when I realized that it was a terrible thing to be immortal, because in reality, I would just be forgotten, and left to disintegrate over thousands of years. No longer would I brag of how innovative I was, because there really is something to be said for being disposable and able to simply die.

ABYSS

WINTER ryan deng, ‘22

Ice-kissed fields crease softly underfoot, While Autumn’s breath whispers in my ear Tell me about what lies here, on this snowy route The barren realm tells stories that are drear Above the land of green that weaves Growing and decaying, a natural puppeteer. I look at the branches, husks of fallen leaves The ghosts of the wind, observing my gait Above once golden land, the season deceives. Seeds of nature lie in wait For the passing of the desolate mould, The hues of life will slowly dilate. But there is more liveliness with the bold, Carving on the blinding sheets of white Wild spirits roam through the wintry fold I remember those escapades of height, The rush of adrenaline and speed evokes The ever so high tide of delight. Dancing snowflakes and frosty air coax, The hollow frost aura kindles rebirth While the sleeping earth bears its winter cloaks. Once desolate winds will dawn next season’s mirth What is to come, ‘o time of dirth?

persephone sween-argyros, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

ABYSS

ABOUT MY PERSPECTIVE

junaid rasool, ‘20

My parents had always told me that they were doctors, but I never quite believed them. Back in Austin, my dad worked in check cashing at a corner store and my mom was a homemaker. I would ask why we lived like normal people, since I thought doctors were supposed to live luxurious lifestyles, but they never gave a clear answer. Perhaps my parents wanted to live life simply or set me up for success. That was the assumption up until my family and I visited Pakistan for the first time in the 5th grade. That’s when I knew what legacy my parents had left behind.

to help anyone. He told me the country needed it. His humility led him to internal peace, and he fulfilled his moral obligations to his town having gone to medical school. He wanted to spread the good to America, but was met with the struggle of passing the STEP 1 & 2 exams and the time it would take away from family. It wasn’t something my dad could manage, leading him to a not so temporary job of check cashing. My dad wanted me to live humbly, to find the value in the little things, and the environment I grew up in has done just that. I’ve seen the prestige that comes with being a doctor along with the fortitude that comes from acting selflessly. It’s a unique combination. Growing up in Austin, my life experience has been centered around altruism and humility, and those characteristics will never fade from who I am. This perspective of having lived a double-life is something that can diversify the population. Diversity isn’t only the ethnic makeup or socio-economic background, but also the mindset of the population. A diverse collection of minds is a powerful one, not only to release different ideas, but to also catch the flaws in prior ones and build upon those. I have found the little things in life to enjoy and give back to the community.

The hospital loomed over me like a stranger. It was foreign but familiar to me, like an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was home to my father. He had worked there for many years alongside his siblings and my grandfather, giving life to the ill. It was tradition to give back to the community in which you were raised, especially since my dad grew up in a rural area outside of Lahore, the main city. He must’ve made a fortune from being a doctor, but he wasn’t doing it for money. He told me he would see most of his patients free of charge either because they couldn’t afford it or they were friends or family. The laws weren’t very strict there. Regardless, my father did it 97

THE COMPOSER

FALLING APART

raphael stone, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Running through life, pushing a snowball through the white, pristine forest, down the soon to be made path. Suddenly a turn. I try to keep my snowball, almost taller than me, from breaking, but some tears away, lost in the forest forever. My friends, my hobbies, discarded back into the forest, no longer a part of my snowball, just part of the path of my past, the road already traveled. I keep pushing, starting to strain as I push the snowball to the next part of my life, hoping it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t disintegrate, but it crumbles, only half the size it used to be. It keeps building up, though, and falling apart, with the center, my core, always the same. I will always be me, and I will always keep rolling until the end, until I am a mere puddle.

ABYSS

TO ANOTHER PLACE persephone sween-argyros, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Restless with its own unkeepable secrets, this ache for an ache is as good as it gets. Shadows gaped and roared for him, still wants him, which is more Because she saw herself everywhere, In the air, in the empty air. In flight on flight I touched the highest star Somewhere or other, may be near or far, because that works too to remind us synthetic comfort when the sky was This place, where we can meet Along the shore, and out upon the sea. I saw the sky in the windshield of another city With the sun spilling everywhere on me: Cold, dark, deep, and absolutely clear. Envy wished and nature feared that for all the rain that has been here before Was it not worth a little hour or more? The face not seen, the voice not heard, Made answer to my word. And rapture splendid moments of delight, illuminated by the night. Take me away from this place, And planet-dust upon the edge of space. I tore asunder flimsy doors of time To light upon a love of mine. I minded me of mornings filled with rain In whom alone Love lives again But simply stayed away out there And kissed my brow and brushed my dampened hair. There was no darkness where my spirit flew; Then I dream a little dream of you.

TRENCHES the hadalpelagic zone

an evening in venice rhea jain, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

TRENCHES

I, THE YOUNG ARTIST

harsha venkataraman, ‘22

We sat crossed legged, our white shoes stained by the grass like the bright shine of our sneakers had spurred little seeds of hazy green growth. You stared into my eyes and in your eyes, we were dancing, older, not wiser. Falling into the same messes as tiny toddlers tripping over rocks and crying over skinned knees. Some falls were worse and others drew blood, I the artist wanted to dip my brush into the wound and paint my pain across my broken smile. Maybe then the world would understand. You’d quell my anger or brush the scattered starry tears across my cheek like when we were younger and watched the raindrops race across the car windows cheering for a smaller droplet before it collided with another drop and together they fell. In the days when you were not taller than me and I’d dream of dancing in flowing gowns in between writing grand novels with a quill in one hand and a kerchief to wipe my inky hand in the other. Wiping the edge of the silk cloth on your paper, your wide grin would momentarily dam my river of prose and I had no choice but to free my soaring laughter. Tapping my shoulder with a cleanly cut sandwich in hand, I’d leave growing crescents like little moons had risen into the sky, a couple from yours floated up when you weren’t looking, I swear. As you talked, I smoothed my gingham dress and watched as your eyes brightened and your smile bloomed when you talked about your dreams. The butterflies that rose from my stomach into my throat at any time of the day calmed and maybe just for a moment the world might be okay. 103

THE COMPOSER

THE DRAGON THAT SPARED ME hailey ripp, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;23

The dragon that spared me Was the king of his flock. His victims felt the thunder of his clawed feet From down below. His scales gleamed in the cold moonlight And his eyes with raw hunger Before he spared me I felt a fear in my heart And it shrieked with the sorrow Of a hundred years. And the dragon approached, No mercy in his blood-scented breath He approached me Shadow dripping from his maw Death trailing his dagger-like tail And his soundless, wicked growl Ricocheted through my frozen bones He took my trembling hand As if I were a glass sculpture. He turned it over and poised a claw Anticipating the gash, the red river. But instead, the white railroad tracks across my veins Caught the light of the accursed stars. The dragon stopped He blinked slowly And a seed of warmth flashed In his long-dead eyes. The waves crashing behind my face Were calmed by his shade. He leapt, sweeping cold dread upon me for a heartbeat. Then he took flight within the stars When the dragon spared me I felt feeling return to my limbs. I felt. The muscles in my face unfroze Yet were stiff from unuse And the sky began to grey, Began to blush, to praise The dragon that spared me 104

TRENCHES

DEAR MAUNA KEA

mele perry, ‘20

Do you know that you are the grand mountain? And you’re more important than the ocean and sand, mountain? For thousands of years, you’ve carried the spirit of your people. As you know, they’ve always given you a hand, mountain. With hundreds of protesters weighing down your rocks and grass, They have faith that somehow you’ll withstand, mountain. Do you even want an extra telescope to add to your collection? Maybe one day, your people will try to understand, mountain. Hele mai ho’ohiwahiwa kou ikaika. Your presence alone brings us joy. The only thing that matters is you’re at peace firsthand, mountain. When Melelanaokalani returned to your island far away, She understood why they’re fighting for your land, mountain.

105

THE COMPOSER

freedom helen mah, ‘20

BATHED IN MOONLIGHT

tara lassiter, ‘20

Silky locks enshroud hot chocolate eyes, inviting and rich and smelling of candy cane and peppermint. Her lips, flushed, are the color of Christmas tree ornaments, red, glossy, and delicate. I’d like to kiss her, but I’m afraid of shattering those ornament lips, that cream-colored porcelain skin. I’d like to take her by the hand, feel her blood pulse beneath my grip—warm like cupped cider on a cold winter’s day—and know that she’s alive, that I’m alive, that we’re alive together. I’d like to take her dancing blanketed in moonlight soft and serene as her china cheeks and I’d like to feel those 4 AM dewdrops against the soles of my bare feet, cool and refreshing like cherries on a hot summer day, cherries the color of her lips like cherry chapstick, sweet and syrupy. I’d like to melt into those syrupy lips, drown in her hot chocolate eyes, trace her porcelain skin, and leave kisses the color of poinsettia upon her cheek. But I’m afraid.

106

TRENCHES

MY LEAFY BUDDIES

julia vance, ‘20

Plants mesmerize me. While my family was captivated by a spectacular waterfall, I was focused on the tiny lichen clinging to the rocks, barely bigger than the water droplets around it. In a town known for its rivers, I was captivated by the flower whose red was deep enough to contain worlds inside. When chopping up peppers, I’m delighted if I find a “baby pepper” growing inside. My love for plants is undeniable. The feeling isn’t mutual.

George’s time was running out. I kept closing my eyes, hoping to spot a new leaf to show that he was okay. That leaf never appeared. I even went as far as to give George some holy water I smuggled out of church. God didn’t pitch in. George died, and he stayed in his pot on the windowsill. I even kept watering him. After mourning for a few months, I decided I was going to try this whole plant thing again. I couldn’t find another George, so during junior year, I got a basil plant, named Basil, and placed him into George’s old home. He seemed lonely, so I gave him a small carved hawk for company. Basil seemed happy, and he grew for a while before turning yellow. I thought yellow meant that Basil needed more water. I thought my extra watering would work, but Basil’s continued suffering in fall shades proved otherwise. I sought professional help from a gardener whose basil was way happier than mine. He told me that Basil needed better soil and drainage holes for excess water. I moved Basil, but his poor heart couldn’t take it. He died of shock.

Each year in elementary school, I was assigned to grow a plant from a seed. In first grade, I grew a lima bean plant. Under my teacher’s supervision, it confidently poked through the soil. Once I took it home, the plant immediately began to die. I gave it sunlight, water, and even begged it to stop dying. The plant didn’t listen and perished. In second grade, I tried again. Like the first plant, this lima bean flourished to impress my teacher, but once I got it home, it gave up. Again, I poured my everything into reviving this meek creature. It too wilted and died. All of the plants from later grades followed suit.

For my seventeenth birthday, I got a rainforest plant, which I named Herbert, which is a pun on “herb”. Anyways, Herbert is in the correct pot with good soil, and so far, Herbert is still with me. The issue is that Herbert hates me. When other people water him, he flourishes. When I water him, he spits it out through the drainage holes and drops leaves. I force-feed him anyways. He is a spiteful creature, but I hope he will stay with me.

By middle school, I had given up my green-thumbed dream. I recognized my uncanny talent for killing plants, and for the betterment of plant-kind, I decided to stop gardening. That was, until freshman year, when I found an adorable succulent. It had a thick stalk that thinned as it went up, complemented by fat little leaves. My love for gardening swept back in full force. I created a terrarium using a glass bowl and decorative rocks for the plant, which I named George. George always made me smile. He grew when I watered him, stretching towards the sun, showing that maybe I had a future with gardening. With George, I was turning over a new leaf.

One day, I will master the art of nurturing plants. Until then, I’ll keep trying my best, enjoying my leafy buddies while they last.

A dead leaf. George had been dropping his bottom leaves. I stupidly assumed that that was normal. However, the ring of dead leaves around George began to grow faster than he was. By sophomore year, I knew 107

THE COMPOSER

TRANQUIL

lorelai myint, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

When the shadows grow long and the crows cease to cry, she strolls down the stairs of her condominium and climbs into her Jeep, reassured that she has locked the door behind her. When the sky is painted orange and headlights are switched on, she drives with ease across the highways, rush hour just gone. When the world starts to darken and buildings begin to glow, her hand shifts across the steering wheel while the other adjusts the glasses sliding down her nose. As she goes on several roads, other vehicles become scarce, disappearing completely once she turns hers onto a trail. Branches scrape at windows and the tires stumble on the uneven ground. The rocky ride gives way to a clearing of uncut vegetation guarded by trees. The Jeep slows in the center of it all; the girl stuffs her keys in her black jean pockets, slowly opening the door. She takes a seat in the ferns and leans against the front of her car, tilting her head back. When a deep blue sheen covers the land, crickets sing their soft song for the yellow lights of fireflies to waltz along. When night falls, it comes swift like a ravenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wing and brings little doves with it. Little, pale doves instructed to position themselves on the stage against a curtain of endless black velvet. And the girl was here to watch their performance. Oh, the stars! So pure, so flawless, so perfect in every way. Their distance from humanity only made greater their beauty. The stars were untainted, and they could serve in every dream. Would you believe her if she said she saw pulsing lights in the sky? If she mentioned the thinnest trails of white that vanish if you stare too long? Soft thrums of wonder surged through her nerves. Her ears were free of artificial noises, her eyes have forgotten the synthetic glares. Her mouth holds veridical words, and her hands only know natural touches. No photograph could faithfully capture the stars, no words could cage those doves. When the horizon turns ashen and the moon fades to periwinkle, she stretches leisurely and breathes in deeply, savoring the scent of morning dew. Her clothes cling loosely to her body, her sweater paws rubbing her dry eyes. The girl stands, shivering, and fumbles with her car keys. Her eyes dart upwards once more, a flicker of a smile on her lips. 108

flourish zoé dubin, ‘20

THE COMPOSER

donna lucia zoé dubin, ‘20

110

TRENCHES

AM I A WOMAN?

zooxanthellae deckard, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

Am I a woman? Some days I am so sure, The curve of my chest and hips bring me pride, The way I sway when I walk, The way I catch eyes, Am I a woman? Some days the question chokes me up, The distinction between boy and girl too hard to find, My chest bound up, The swagger in my step more masculine than ever, And the way I confuse children, Am I a woman? Some days the question breaks my heart, Others I can not answer, When saying yes feels like a betrayal, When the question makes my skin feel too tight, My face too plain, Am I a woman? Something I debate with every form, Can my identity change with every signage, One day proudly female, And the next not so sure, Am I a woman? Today I can not say yes, But tomorrow may bring a different answer.

111

THE COMPOSER

NO ONE, JUST TALKING TO MYSELF, I GUESS.

micah heilbron, ‘20

Blessed are you, our Lord, King of the universe, Hear my prayer. I speak to you from my office. Sorry I haven’t really been around, For a while, papers and papers have piled on me, Weighed on my forehead, my feet, my nose, my breasts I feel like I am drowning. But how would I complain when I can doggy paddle To my top floor downtown condominium. Anyways. I suppose before I start, if I will start, I should apologize. 112

TRENCHES

When You saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intent of the thoughts of our hearts was only evil continually, Were You sorry that You had made man on the earth? Did You grieve in Your heart? Did You grieve for me when my MBA was put in my hand? Did You grieve me when I left my mother to suffer alone? It was not my choice, I had to cleanse myself of poor. I don’t know what to apologize for exactly. I don’t live a holy life, but I am successful in the eyes of the god of America Triple digits are supposed to buy me into heaven. I don’t feel like it. I feel like each star is looking at me. They know I am not good They can see through my skin to what inside of me grows. I think street lights shine to white out the guilt of all the dying suns I hope they die quicker Because I know that each star holds the weight of history Looks at me and knows history And I know that each star was seen by my mother And her mother And her mother And Salmon P Chase And John D Rockefeller Anyways, I don’t know what to do in my current situation I don’t feel love anymore I couldn’t imagine feeling love for anyone new I hate money, and I love wealth And I hate myself, and I love my body My belly must not grow, My feet must not swell, And my heart must not accept anyone, Especially someone new, For dogs will eat dogs, And all dogs go to heaven. Thanks for your help. Amen. 113

untitled helen mah, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

TRENCHES

‫مت بج ےگوآ‬ priya malhotra, ‘20 In the chest of the night, the moon is perched like a shining scimitar. The moon asks where you’ve spent the last evening. I shrug my shoulders and gaze back at the moon, hoping and believing you are doing the same. Twinkling stars shine on my eyelashes and I pray for a monsoon to signal your arrival. When you arrive in all your splendor my darling, flowers in my courtyard will blossom instantly, and rain will thunderously pour down, dancing with enjoyment and fulfilled promises In the hands of the morning, the sun shines like wine in a goblet. Fresh flowers bloom in the bloodied branches of desire. Like the candle’s flames of pain, like the sweet smell of love, my happiness swelled larger and larger and emerged into the sky until becoming a piercing silence to be heard for eons. Should I call nights a barren desert or an ocean without a shore? Constantly searching for an ending, but to no avail. The pride of youth and the smile of spring become a senseless shadow following my every step. I am stuck in the merciless hands of time, like a small bird trapped in the claws of a vulture. In the time I’ve spent in the lanes of frenzy, every pore has been penetrated with the candle’s flames. I used to roam freely as a vagabond, but after tasting blood on my lips, I haven’t been the same since. 115

THE COMPOSER

A DAY IN THE LIFE

julia ding, ‘23

“Papa, what will happen when the cloud collapses and we all fall? Where will we go? Will you be coming with me?” The little raindrop stared up at its father apprehensively.

INSIDE OF EARTH

“Don’t worry, child,” said its father kindly. “Today, we are going to have the adventure of a lifetime. Now hold on tight, I think we’re about to drop.”

evelyne rees-eissler, ‘22

The little raindrop stared in amazement at the sky as a bolt of light shot across it, followed subsequently by a rumbling growl. The sky darkened and the raindrop could feel itself inching towards the bottom of their home as the cloud gave a mighty shudder. It stared down at the world beneath it, the world seemingly miles away. It clutched its father tightly, closing its eyes as a sudden burst of gravity pushed them downward.

And what if there was another world The inside of Earth Whose horizons slope up instead of down So you can gaze up and If the white clouds part See all the copper sands of Arabia Or gaze across The rippling cobalt sky to China And wave to the fisherman on the water.

And then it was free. The world was whizzing by it as it free-fell, the rush of air morphing its body into an odd shape. It stared at the solid red wall-like structure that sped by on a narrow strip of gray, and then all of a sudden came to the realization that this wall was hurtling directly toward it. Beside it, its father hollered. “It’s not every day we land on a car!” he screamed gleefully. They landed with a splat and the raindrop instantly felt itself shoot off in another direction. What an adventure indeed!

116

TRENCHES

BASKET ON DEATH’S DOORSTEP

CHECKLIST

harsha venkataraman, ‘22

mandala pham, ‘21

Death took me in her arms and smoothed the tears on my cheeks. I wait at her gate, laying, sobbing at her doorstep, but she never lets me in. Death wears the masks of those I loved, and calls at my heart in the deep night for she has garnished my soul with her cold fingertips and marked me her apprentice. I call for her in my moments of anguish to take me once more against her chest to beat in rhythm with her song, to dip my mind in her well of peace, of bottomless wonder, too dark to gaze at, though in the darkness we all seem to see beyond. I have doubts, yet ever more I long, for a home with her that has not been crafted if I’ve known, in any image bright or shown. This homesickness in my essence, yet I have not a shred to return to. But I know she follows in the shadows of mirrors and puddles of shine and sunlight, dotting the i’s of my worries with every attention given, and whisper done. Still, once more she will draw my mind to water’s reflection, trace a butterfly’s path across my eyes, and tint my world, radiance telescoped, and if none I grasp in this world to live with tears of her she unveils the beauty in my love and wistful dreams for this life.

There’s raindrops on the window Like blood against the snow I wipe away the droplets Yet more begin to show They line around the edge Uniform till off the ledge And once they’ve hit the bottom Just one drop, no more said The clouds don’t stop their cry The glass just one drop shy Of cracking under pressure And breaking with a sigh Still raindrops on the window Like I have always known I’ll tick them off, one by one Until I’m left alone.

117

THE COMPOSER

118

TRENCHES

BOUGHT, SOLD, OR TRADED

ben porter, ‘20

The bitter tang of long-gone smoke, Mingles in memory with that of sweaty palms. Laughter and challenge, again ringing to my ears. Dark and secret nights of solace entertainment, As cigarettes glow still brightly outside. Like little windows to the past, Trading Cards long forgotten, then remembered. Left untouched by time. To stand guard over memories, That I’d otherwise have left, Stolen by time.

unititled mckenzi popper, ‘22

Standing here, Smoke fills my lungs as I inhale the past. Friday nights bleed to Saturdays. History can be bought, sold, or traded.

119

INDEX

Ahuja, Avik 87 Allums, Sachin 43, 45, 54 Bao, Alan 86 Booe, Aaron 74 Burton, Alex 70 Cassera Gonzalez, Angela 74 Clarke, Kollin 21 Corum, Jamie 84 Cox, Rachel 22, 28, 59 Deckard, Zooxanthellae 111 Deng, Ryan 95 Ding, Julia 116 Dubin, ZoĂŠ 109, 110 Edwards, Sally 26, 40 Elias, Nathan 42 Estrada-Stroud, Ethan 33, 51 Gordon, Lilli 13 Hadd, Evan 24, 39, 84 Heilbron, Micah 32, 35, 72, 112 Hurley, Eliana 20, 81 Jain, Rhea 102 Kerwick, Kaden 14 Koenig, Alleen 49, 92 Lassiter, Tara 48, 106 Mah, Helen 27, 30, 44, 46, 58, 106, 114 Malhotra, Priya 115 McKaughan, Gaelila 44

Neff, Ella 34, 57, 62, 66 Perry, Mele 41, 105 Pham, Mandala 73, 117 Popper, McKenzi 50, 118 Porter, Ben 119 Rasool, Junaid 97 Rathouz, Hanna Lou 78 Ravi, Maya 42, 47 Rees-Eissler, Evelyne 116 Ripp, Hailey 41, 64, 70, 83, 104 Rohloff, Emma 67 Sam, Grace 62 Sandlin, Audrey 12, 38 Sangani, Eshita 38 Smith, Chris 39, 40 Srinivasan, Keshav 56 Stone, Raphael 94, 98 Sween-Argyros, Persephone 65, 80, 88, 96, 99 Turner, Champ 18 Vance, Julia 107 Vaz, Logan 60 Venkataraman, Harsha 73, 82, 90, 103, 117 Wickliff, Cierra 29, 31 Woo, Jonathan 92 Yeazell, Lily 88 Young, Lucie 64

121

THE COMPOSER

2020 STAFF EDITOR IN CHIEF

Lydia Coleman, ‘20

CO-EDITOR

Kye Kane, ‘20

SECTION EDITORS

Art Editor

Kye Kane, ‘20

Design Editor

Persephone Sween-Argyros, ‘20

Financial Manager Asa Flores-Rascon, ‘20

Writing Editor

Lydia Coleman, ‘20

122

STAFF

GENERAL STAFF

Alexander Burton, ‘20 Lydia Coleman, ‘20 Rachel Cox, ‘20 Ethan Estrada-Stroud, ‘21 Asa Flores-Rascon, ‘20 Aaron Gostein, ‘20 Kye Kane, ‘20 Tara Lassiter, ‘20 Helen Mah, ‘20 Priya Malhotra, ‘20 Nico Miller, ‘20 Mele Perry, ‘20 Ben Porter, ‘20 Kyle Read, ‘21 Jordan Riechers, ‘21 Archer Saenz, ‘20 Isabelle Saquing, ‘21 Evan Scariano, ‘21 Carl Svahn, ‘20 Persephone Sween-Argyros, ‘20 Ari Wagen, ‘20

123

The Composer 2020

Articles inside

The Composer 2020