Mind’s Amaranth Presents...
p Ins
ire
MONTGOMERY HIGH SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE
Ins i g h t ,
2017 VOLUME XI
Intrigue,
Full B
m o ol
1016 ROUTE 601 SKILLMAN, NJ 08558 WWW.MTSD.K12.NJ.US
Editors:
Editor-in-Chief: CHRISTINA LI Senior Editors: ISABEL WON, Editors: TEAGAN
LAUREN YOON
MALAKOFF, ANNIE LI, ANGELINA HAN, MARGIE HE, NOAH CHOUDHURY
Advisors: MS.
Staff:
MARSHALL, MS. RITSON
MELISSA LOUIE, LAURA ZHOU, RICHA PATEL, GRACE YAN, JENNY XU, SARAH FLORENTINE, EMMA AGOSTINO, PARTH DESHMELAH, JOY JOHNSON, ETHAN BAKER, JOSHITA KAMALAKANNAN, NIVEDITHA BALAN, ANANYA IYENGAR, PRIYANKA SHAH, GAURI SHARMA
Mind’s Amaranth: The amaranth is a plant that bears a deep red flower. Its popular image is rooted in ancient Greek mythology as an immortal flower revered for its healing powers. Idols and tombs were decorated with it as a tribute to immortaltiy and strength. Over time, the mind changes and fades.Yet its expressions in print or any other medium are pernament like the everlasting beauty of the amaranth. That transcription from the mind to paper is captured in this magazine.
Cover Art: LAURA ZHOU Mind’s Amaranth Logo: YIBIN ZHANG
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Production Notes: The Mind’s Amaranth is an afterschool club focused on the publication of a student-based literary magazine that strives to produce a diverse and all-encompassing magazine reflecting the ideas of the student body at Montgomery High School. The staff consists of a dedicated group of students who meet one to two times a week all year. We are advised by Ms. Marshall, a member of the English department at MHS, as well as Ms. Ritson, a member of the guidance department. We begin the year with studentmade advertisements that encourage all grade levels to contribute to the magazine, emphasizing that everyone is welcome. Our posters and commercials also encourage students to submit their creative works during this time. Excitement heightens as winter rolls around and we begin our annual
fundraiser, Haiku for the Holidays. During this event, we sell studentcrafted bookmarks with seasonal haikus to raise funds for the magazine. After the winter break, the staff refocuses on advertising for the submissions of all different media and genres that make this magazine possible. As each new piece arrives, it is kept anonymous and scored by our staff using rubrics specially created for each medium. Once we have selected the content of the magazine, we brainstorm a theme for the upcoming edition. The staff votes on a theme based on a recurring motif that we see throughout the majority of the submissions. Then, the selected pieces are arranged into spreads. During this
step in the publishing process, the staff often meets two or three times a week to design and edit the magazine layouts in InDesign and to decide on aspects such as composition, order of pieces, and typeface. This year’s fonts are Perpetua, Letter Gothic Std, and Gabriola. Finally, the Mind’s Amaranth is published and distributed in its final form to the student body and faculty in June.
in the arrangement is the Lotus. The message of mystery it conveys complicates what we have already seen and pushes us to explore further. After the Lotus comes the Evening Primrose. Representing inconsistency, it causes us to question long-held ideas. Finishing the bouquet is the Zinnia, a flower which symbolizes lasting affection. Its bright colors remind us of the good in our lives up until now, and the memories we will carry with us to the future.
The entire bouquet together is a journey through the complicated yet beautiful human experience. The language of flowers begs us to search below the surface appearance for hidden understanding and clarity.
The Language of Flowers: During the Victorian era, blossoms with carefully-chosen meanings, which discreetly expressed the sender’s true sentiments, could be sent to lovers and enemies alike. For this year’s edition of the Mind’s Amaranth, we have gathered a bouquet of flowers that express a deliberate set of meanings in their own language. As readers flip through the magazine, they will experience the many floral varieties that comprise the bouquet. The vibrant yellow of the Forsythia will stand out first. Symbolizing anticipation, this flower blooms in the early spring and heralds the coming of warmer weather. Next
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TABLE OF FORSYTHIA Cyprinus by Jessica Mekeel......................................................................................... 6 Gone Fishing by Grace Yan......................................................................................... 7 Stuck in Motion by Brinda Dhawan...............................................................................8 Shooting Star by Emily Borowski..................................................................................9 Uplifted by Brinda Dhawan..........................................................................................9 Release by Laura Zhou............................................................................................... 10 Sonnet 42 by Emily Ren............................................................................................. 11 Stars in Our Eyes by Annie Li......................................................................................12 Mellow Milk by Jenny Chen....................................................................................... 13 Milk Teeth by Ujwal Rajaputhra....................................................................................13 Caring Tree by Vivian Gong......................................................................................... 14 A Dance Forgotten by Emily Borowski..........................................................................14
LOTUS Let It Out by Michelle Chen........................................................................................ 16 Crescendo by Carina Manek........................................................................................17 Glacial Distortion by Brinda Dhawan............................................................................17 Snow by Melissa Louie.................................................................................................18 Glacial Blanket by Brinda Dhawan................................................................................18 (excerpt from) Chasing Spaces by Ujwal Rajaputhra......................................................... 20 Reflected Distortions by Grace He............................................................................. 21 Flying Forks by Michelle Chen.................................................................................... 22 Therapy by Katie Zhang...............................................................................................23 Coffin by Melissa Louie...............................................................................................24 Dimension by Lauren Yoon......................................................................................... 24 Overcast by Laura Zhou............................................................................................. 25 26 Something Unknown by Fiona Pan.............................................................................
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CONTENTS EVENING PRIMROSE Hands by Margaux Chen.............................................................................................28 Things Lost by Jenny Xu............................................................................................ 29 Do You Believe in Ghosts? by Angelina Han................................................................... 30 Flustered by Lauren Yoon............................................................................................31 Scattered Beads by Emily Borowski...............................................................................32 Black and White by Grace He..................................................................................... 33 The Same. by Fiona Pan..............................................................................................34 Two-Faced by Michelle Chen.......................................................................................35 Mask of Me by Jenny Xu............................................................................................ 36 Under the Surface by Vicki Lu.................................................................................... 37 Human Features by Michelle Chen...............................................................................38 (forgetting) by Isabel Won.......................................................................................... 39
ZINNIA Exposure by Vicki Lu.................................................................................................40 Define Love by Alex Liu.............................................................................................41 The Land I’m From by Claudia Campo Mirabent..............................................................42 The Pine Tree by Vivian Gong...................................................................................... 43 Lost and Found by Helen Yang..................................................................................... 44 By the Witching Hour by Laura Zhou.......................................................................... 44 Her Park by Alisha Lekh............................................................................................. 45 Leftovers by Sabrina Wu............................................................................................. 46 Catfights by Lauren Yoon............................................................................................ 47 Speckles of Light by Alex Wu..................................................................................... 48 Flower Fields by Ellie O’Brian.....................................................................................49 Maybe Even Dandelions by Jenny Xu.......................................................................... 50 Ubiquitous Fidelity by Gauri Sharma............................................................................50
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Cyprinus JESSICA MEKEEL
Cornered in a hotel lobby, Empty and quietly still, Stirs a dancing streak of poppy Speckled with bursts of daffodil. Unencumbered by the atmosphere The koi flashes its flaming scales. Light falls on water so clear, Igniting the golden details. A creature so slender and swift Splashing bright life into the air, Has shown me the beautiful gift That is nature in all her flair. And I will forever cherish This here refreshing reverie Of that one fiery koi fish Dancing on in my memory.
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FORSYTHIA
CE
GR A
C (A
RYL
ng ishi IC)
AN
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Go n
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Stuck in Motion BRINDA DHAWAN (PHOTOGRAPHY)
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FORSYTHIA
Shooting Star EMILY BOROWSKI
My thoughts are shooting stars in my mind. Gone too quickly to remember them. Recalled is the memory of the experience occurring, forgotten is the chain of events that transpired. If only my thoughts were stationary and connected like the stars secured in the belt of Orion. Reinforced and retained and complete. My arrow would travel unquivering, transcendent and direct.
Uplifted
BRINDA DHAWAN (PHOTOGRAPHY)
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Release
LAURA ZHOU (GRAPHITE, INK)
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FORSYTHIA
Sonnet 42 EMILY REN
Out there! A house stands battered in woods deep, A sight so frail, my eyes can barely hold; I glimpse of dark, a draft of damp that seeps And tastes of something ancient, base, and cold. But mark! A gleaming light through window frame Throws tess’llate fractures on the hardwood floor; See there, a ray shines through cracked window pane To shine on verdant bud in hidden moor. At last, I peer into the gaping shade, And there–concealed–rests wispy sprigs of green! Among the rotted, splintered planks decayed Grows bursts of emerald in the space between. The sun hath set, and so did my belief: A reverence that gloom can be with leaf.
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LI
in O
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(A C
RYLIC)
Stars
E
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AN NI
s e y rE
FORSYTHIA
Mellow Milk JENNY CHEN (PHOTOGRAPHY)
Milk Teeth UJWAL RAJAPUTHRA
There was a time when I was boundless. I used to siphon blood from the night sky, where a tapestry of stars softly pulsed. I crushed legions of Suns into bloodbones and sundered gore and slag knuckled mandibles, whirling typhoons into callow gods and gods into godless mavericks. I used to breathe Dynasties into the cornsilk everglades and Crusades into misspelled tombs, fiery Spritelands into soggy asphalt gyres and floating Jungles atop frayed silicon steeples. My thoughts whispered Magic into the gray quagmire of
Now, all that cloudless Magic’s simply sputtered away, with the icy strokes of chalk butts and colorless lectures. The phantasm I once saw burst from the seams is dead, sapped between the shrieks of bells and the lead syllables of deluded Authority. In presence of it all my lips split to barky mâché, and I fade, a shallow husk wondering why blue mornings still glimmer: why it still hurts so much to blink.
the World.
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Caring Tree
corner of the studio as I always do. By confining myself to the spot in the corner I decrease the chances of me VIVIAN GONG intruding in anyone’s space to dance. (ACRYLIC) Dancing in this spot is like being inside a bubble. Rarely do the eyes of my dance teacher or my peers glance in this direction. I have more freedom to mess up. Class begins. We line up to dance across the floor on the left side of the room. I make a beeline to the back so I can have more time to practice the turns and the leaps the teacher instructs us to do. Even though we roughly do the same combinations across the floor every week this doesn’t stop the steps from getting jumbled up in my head. The teacher tells us to pique turn into an alisicone and just as the words leave her lips I start repeatedly going through the motions until it inevitably reaches my turn. The feeling of anxiety intensifies when I forget which foot I start on. Do I start on the right or the left? Left or right? Right or left? I start turning across the floor without even thinking about it, just like a robot. Once I make it about halfway across the floor my self doubt heightens and I start to think over and over, Please let this be right, please let this be right. The teacher hasn’t even corrected me yet EMILY BOROWSKI but this doesn’t stop from noticing all the things I’m doing wrong. As I swing It’s strange to watch yourself move in the mirror while you my foot to my knee it’s crooked and dance. My shoulders are hunched over but that’s pretty standard for me. I feel the tension disappear when I let my shoulders relax. sickled. I try spotting the corner of the room so I don’t get dizzy while I Next, I switch my attention to my face and I try changing my turn. I’m struggling to whip my head forlorn expression to one that’s more neutral looking. My smile around fast enough to maintain my has the unfortunate tendency to curve downwards which makes focus which causes me to wobble into me look unhappy, even when I’m feeling perfectly content. I assess the rest of my surroundings. I’m standing in the back the last few remaining alisicone turns.
A Dance Forgotten
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A wave of relief and embarrassment washes over me when I finish and I hurriedly make my way to end of the line. I feel lousy about the job I did but I’m happy that it’s over with. Now I have to figure out how to do the same turn sequence starting from the right side. The cycle repeats. I nervously try to figure which foot I start on, my feet end up being sickled, and I can’t spot to save my life. Instead of doing more turns and leaps across the floor, the teacher tells us that we’re going to work on the recital dance and that she wants us to go over the dance amongst ourselves while she gets the music set up. The room bursts into a loud chatter as everyone breaks off into small groups to practice what they remember. I don’t bother to join a group. I can only vaguely recall a few steps in the incorrect order. It wouldn’t be fair to everyone who did remember the dance to have me bog them down. I stand by myself waiting in anticipation for the music to start. The teacher finally flips our song on for a few brief seconds which is our cue to get into places. You’re fine. It’s the first time running through the dance with music today.They don’t expect it to be perfect the first time. The music starts. Instead of knowing which count I enter, I listen for the part of the song for my cue. I’m a second late strutting to my spot, which isn’t too bad I reassure myself. For the rest of the song, I try my best to keep up with everyone else. Even though I don’t think I did a bad job of looking like I knew what I was doing, it’s still important that I remember the dance. Once the song ends I scan over the dance in my head in a hollow attempt to remember it. There are parts of the dance I know pretty well and there are parts that refuse to stick in my brain. We run the dance again and I do better this time. I’m on time, I hit most of the counts, and the dance has a familiar feel to it now. The steps aren’t engraved into my memory yet but it’s an improvement compared to the beginning of class.
FORSYTHIA With class time running out, the teacher quickly teaches us step by step a new part of the dance. With only being taught a few counts I feel optimistic that I’ll leave class having remembered the new part for the following week. The teacher goes over the steps a few more times and I repeat the moves word for word in my head. Kick, cross, turn high, turn low, fan kick, roll. Kick, cross, turn high, turn low, fan kick, roll. In the minutes remaining before class ends we run the dance from the top one last time. When the song reaches the new part my counts are a little off and a bit rushed, but I think I got the steps down. I leave class feeling more confident than usual with the routine fresh in my memory. I put on my coat and haul my heavy bag of dance shoes over my shoulder. I escape the crowded waiting room and I play a game of Where’s Waldo with my dad’s car until I spot it parked on the opposite side of the lot. Annoyed, I half jog to the car to beat the cold winter air. As I buckle up I try going over the dance again in my head only to discover that most of it has already slipped from my memory. I’d be lying if I said I was surprised by this. Even though I forget the choreography every week I was foolish enough to think that this time would be any different. As he backs the car out of the space I stare out the window to distract myself from thoughts surrounding the dance I failed to remember.
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Let It Out
MICHELLE CHEN
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(ACRYLIC)
Crescendo
LOTUS
CARINA MANEK
The keys, Like the teeth of a dragon Waiting to catch my fingers, Cause fear to clutch at my heart. The audience, Like vultures, Focus on my every move. I tell myself, “GO for it!” Any fright in me pushes away As I sit tall on the wooden bench And gently place my fingers upon the teeth of the dragon. I tell myself, “I’ve got this!” I hit the first note. It is fierce like a dragon’s growl And gives me the confidence to soar. I wrap my arms around the song. Tapping out quarter and eighth notes, I play the melodies. I let my fingers glide and dance Along the blacks and ivories. Staccatos and fermatas, Mezzo piano to forte, Music fills my soul And gives flight to my imagination.
Glacial Distortion
BRINDA DHAWAN (PHOTOGRAPHY)
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Glacial Blanket
BRINDA DHAWAN (PHOTOGRAPHY)
Snow
MELISSA LOUIE Esther’s boots sank into the soft snow beneath her feet as she walked briskly to the drugstore. Thank God there was only about an inch or two on the ground. Any higher and it might have spilled into her boots as she walked, and she hated the feeling of snow melting against her ankles. Be quick, Mama had said. Just get the medicine and get out. Don’t spend time talking like you always do, you hear? I want you back home before the storm comes. The clouds had already gathered in a tightly knit clump of
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gray above the wooden houses of the town. There was little wind, but the air was cold and sharp against Esther’s uncovered cheeks. The pine trees stood patiently with their boughs still sprinkled with the last snowfall, stretched out as if asking for more. She reached the drugstore as a gust of wind pressed against her, whipping her scarf around and stealing her breath. She could feel the searing cold enter her lungs and stay there. Eyes and nose streaming, she grabbed the worn metal of the door handle and
yanked it open, sighing with relief as she stumbled into the warm, lit wooden room. “How are you today Esther?” Mr. Hadley beamed down at her from behind the counter, putting his pen down in the book he used to record customer credit. “There’s another storm brewing today. Folks won’t be able to get out of their houses until next week.” Esther smiled. “I’m here for Father’s medicine. Mama wanted to have it for when the blizzard came, in case we weren’t able to get here with all the snow piled up.”
“Your mama is extremely smart. I’ll bet you it’ll snow so hard that at least one branch on the old tree out front will snap.” Mr. Hadley laughed heartily. He turned around, took a bottle from the shelf behind the counter, and made a mark in his book, then held it out to Esther. “That’s good for twice daily for three weeks.” Esther took the bottle and tucked it into her coat pocket. The door jerked open and a sharp blade of wind entered the store. Esther’s friend Thomas stood in the doorway breathing heavily and coughing. “I need to get something,” he mumbled as he pushed past. He began grabbing jars of dried fruits and pickled vegetables, dropping everything frantically into his bag. He brought everything to the counter and Mr. Hadley began counting everything up and tallying it in his book. “You certainly bought up the whole store,” Mr. Hadley joked. Thomas looked around wildly, explaining, “My mother told me to come and get as much food as I could as quickly as possible. With the snow coming, we… we won’t be able to come for a while and…” “Is it really going to be that bad?” Esther looked at him skeptically. “Everyone’s saying that it’s going to be the biggest storm since our great-grandparents were alive. Why risk anything?” Mr. Hadley had finished counting and Thomas grabbed the bag. “Thanks, Mr. Hadley. I have to go now. I’m sorry I can’t stay. See you later, Esther.” Thomas tightened his scarf and vanished out the door. “I should probably get going,
too.” Esther tried to speak with more conviction than she had. It would be so nice to stay in this comfortable, cozy room and joke around with Mr. Hadley instead of going out into the biting wind to her cold and quiet house. She tugged her mittens on and reached for the door. “Stay warm.” As she pulled the door open, bracing herself, she was thrown off her feet and fell backwards into the store. The ground was trembling violently, pitching back and forth. Little knives of snow, propelled sideways by the wind, shot into the store and pummeled Esther’s back, but she barely noticed it as she tried to flip over and cover her head with her mittened hands. Just as suddenly, the ground was still again. Esther held her head down for a few more minutes, gasping and quaking in fear. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked around the store. Oddly, none of the jars had fallen off the shelves. The vat of pickles was still upright; she could hear the brine sloshing around inside and gradually settling down. The row of wooden bowls that Mr. Hadley kept perfectly straight on one of the shelves in the back was still straight as a ruler, everything in its place. Esther pushed herself up and moved cautiously towards the counter. Mr. Hadley was crumpled behind the counter. She dropped to her knees, shaking him. “Mr. Hadley?” She shook him by the shoulders, gently at first, then more vigorously. “Mr. Hadley!” He jolted and opened his eyes. “Was that an earthquake? I
LOTUS
wasn’t bargaining for an earthquake, I thought it would just be a snowstorm!” “And nothing in the store got jostled around except for us! Look!” “Esther!” Thomas had run back into the store. He was no longer carrying his bag. Hiccuping and crying in terror, he choked out, “Did you feel that…what just happened?…I don’t want to go out again right now…what if it happens again…” She joined him at the door and stared outside. The snow was falling thickly now, blanketing the town in a muted white layer. “Cassi! Please put that down. We’re leaving now.” The little girl, who had been mesmerized by the Hallmark snow globe, reluctantly shook it one more time, letting the little specks of white fly to the top of the dome, and set it back down on the shelf. Her mother impatiently took her hand and pulled her out of the store, the bell on the door ringing as the door opened and closed. Behind them in the snow globe, white flecks of snow settled over the miniature wooden buildings and plastic pine trees.
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excerpt from
“Chasing Spaces”
UJWAL RAJAPUTHRA
October, midnight, cold outside. I remember a time dreams came to me sparingly, when often I’d pray for their aurous return. Now, I’m a cosmicist; and dreams are but abundant, icy nightmares. During such crises my father would come to my bedside. He’d offer no aid, nor any comfort becoming of paternal instinct; there was only faraway gloss in his eyes, and an inquiry more haunting than therapeutic: “What if the only reason you’re awake is because something else is asleep?” The man died at his desk in Bellevue Sound University, absinthe-infused merlot spilled over a frame of my late mother. From what little my father told me when he was drunk enough, my mother had been an angelic singer: “like a nightingale in silent dawn.” I’m not sure if he was referring to her voice or her ability to flutter away without trace. Maybe he wasn’t sure either. I never once posited a semblance of empathy or sorrow unto his demise. Dr. Mercer Galilee’s grave was kept hollow, the sentimental pro-bono of Bellevue’s delegatory funeral parlor. And yet his lifelong obsession with Cyprian dissertation and libertine creed had managed to plague my conscience to this day. Perhaps, amidst his disjointed, diabolist ratiocinations, some sense flickered dimly beneath a mortar of madness. Genius, in respite. A sort of intellectual martyrdom. I can feel father’s mental immolation approaching: the lust for a deep, sensual reverie only sacrilege can soothe. In its wake I am tortured nightly by such repetitive sequences of outlandish, otherworldly vistas: A cosmic city. Cyclopean masonry, non-Euclidean geometry and clusters of menacing, morbid architecture awaiting my descent into the netherrealm. Human phonetics couldn’t possibly pallette its hues into mortal lament. Instead, imagine peakless coppices of empyrean tableau, monoliths draped in shadows, obsidian steeples without gravity, cloudsewn promenades crested upon hinterlands of bleeding nebulae. Every sallow color, every ghastly substance was so impractically disordered bursts of inertia cast my peripheral into chaos. This Hell
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is unworthy of both sky-flung wonder and pitchforked despot; it is simply a dreaded graveyard, where lost Gods weep their deepest, most sinister nightmares. Now, I’ve lived on these shores my whole life. A part of me wants to deny its spiritual poise but it’s the other that’s weak: the pinkish, rose-cheeked lamb now marbled underneath the power of these dreams. Something’s calling me. Something beyond, divinely malignant. Though I can’t be sure of its reality I am bound by its venom to an obedient thirst. It wants me to stroll the Sound. To watch for something - a marvelous, blistering event of galactic horror. Or, perhaps, I have unknowingly assumed the infliction of the Galilee male linage. Perhaps I am insane already. Foggy, morning. High tide. My name is Israel. This may seem like vital information, but I assure you I didn’t forget to tell you so before; it’s more that I believe man’s most petty custom is his romance with names, and the prosaicism thereby spawned. My father named me shortly after my mother had perished in childbirth. Israel: he who wrestles with God. “So that through your might and anguished conviction the Lord may deem you worthy, and grant you Paradise.” Out of all pious folk, my father was the most hypocritical. The parable of Jacob isn’t stunning particularly in its principled construct, but rather in its mystery. I never did know, why God awarded Jacob for his enduring petulance; or whether the God with whom we wrestle is the Lord of Abraham at all. In my curse the latter myth has been blessed. Though, only with a more unknown deity. These were the wounds of my conscience as I looked upon the Sound shore: its lonely sunset, seafoam green with a glow so blasphemous one could not help but be driven to near madness. Amidst the horizon’s tide blazed a column of light. The beachgoers had all paused
at once; I stood alone at the ocean lip, swallowed by an intangible vice as my eyes contoured the column summit. There was no commotion. No physical acquaintance to the damp sediments, nor supple foamy thrashing of saltwater pulse. There was only a tear in the stormburst above the smoldering pillar: stardust swirling; a breach of gloomy darkness from a faraway galaxy, and a fire-spangled wave of splitting, licking horror. Light danced into the heavens like boughs of Alabaster. At last, the cosmic starshow vanished into shade. That night I delved into my father’s occult research. All around me alien whispers sang in gentle, supple breaths, with timbres so grim it felt like cacophony in a chasm. Letters began to inscribe my notepad, in venomteal ink: “D’tughya wyha ghuahl lhaman halgul whu M’lakh jahgul”
LOTUS
It was only then that I’d noticed that the deep wine of my candleflame had sulked to ash long ago. Darkness all but drooled my flanks, and now a supernatural mist, spitting letters onto cimmerian notes. I didn’t have a clue as to their meaning but my fears grappled onto the phonetics; M’Lakh. They were the rhinestone of Dr. Galilee’s passion and sorrows: a precursory race of netherworldly eminence; the Elder Ones, Old Shadows; subsidiaries to the demiurgic force and Universal nativity. Any autonomy I’d treasured was now vested in those inky inscriptions. Soon, I was back at the Sound shore, knelt coarsely in mud and awe of the immense beasts churning through the saline depths. They were snow-gold, glimmering titans. Dreaming. Singing. Chasing the spaces between spaces in a mirrored world. A world I had to flesh open.
Reflected Distortions
GRACE HE (OIL PASTEL)
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Flying Forks
MICHELLE CHEN (ACRYLIC) 22
LOTUS
Therapy
On Day Zero, they let him out of the white room, a bottle in hand. On Day One, he isn’t shaking as much, feels better about this new thing.
On Day Two he notices something growing, but doesn’t know what it is. On Day Four he thinks that he’s getting better, but isn’t really sure anymore. On Day Ten, they say that “he’s performing much better.”
On Day Twenty, his wife says that his eyes “are becoming duller”, but he doesn’t care, since they say he’s getting better and that’s all he wanted to do. On Day Forty, he notices that he’s thinking less, autopilot; maybe, just maybe something is growing inside of him that he can’t control but he doesn’t do anything, since they say he’s getting better.
On Day One Hundred, they say he’s getting better, but he collapses. On Day One Hundred and One, they place him back into a white room and tell him “everything is going to be okay” and other vague phrases meant to console him. He doesn’t care and agrees to let them do whatever they want.
KATIE ZHANG
On Day Negative One, they let him out of the white room, a purged mind, like so many other minds they’ve purged and set free into the world. The bodies, hopeless and dull when sent, meant to be fixed with those white pills, but the question remains as to if they have been fixing these bodies, like so many other bodies they claim to have fixed.
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Coffin
MELISSA LOUIE Guan-yin laid a cool hand on her son’s feverish forehead, watching the quick hiccuping skips of his breaths as he slept. She smoothed the wrinkled sheet under his head and briskly turned towards the door, latching the old wooden bar across the door so the wind wouldn’t blow it open while she was gone. Hui was crouched on the floor, pretending to fish with a stick from the rotted magnolia tree outside. He made tuneless humming noises as he dragged the point across the cold, packed dirt. Jian was awake. He raised his head weakly and rested it on his outstretched arm, watching his little brother play. “I am going to die, Hui.”
Hui stood up and smoothed out his etchings with one foot. “Why do you say so?” “Ma went out just now to buy my coffin.” “Ma’s superstitions are like fishing nets! So many holes in them.You can’t actually believe her.” “She hovers around me all day, muttering angrily about gods and afterlife and wealth.” Jian hesitated. “Hui, if I...if I should die, I think I really would like a nice coffin. To help me...afterwards.” Hui scoffed. “That’s no way to talk. Ma’s got it backwards.You could get a bottle of medicine that would get you better in no time, for half the amount Ma is paying for your coffin. That’s what she should be using her money for, not some silly box that won’t even help you.” “It’s expensive…” “So is the coffin! And would you rather be alive and well or dead in some decorated box? Now, enough talk. I hear her coming.” The door creaked open and Guan-yin entered, smiling. “Jian? Awake so soon? I have welcome news for you.” She shut the door and walked over to sit on the corner of the bed. Her eyes gleamed. “I have everything ready for you. I have purchased the best coffin possible, a shining black lacquered rosewood coffin that will provide you with all the comforts needed for your journey.You will have money and good clothes. My Jian, you will be a king.You will have everything you couldn’t have in this life, and more.You will drink the sweetest wine from the Big Dipper and finish it off with a feast that not even the king is fit to eat!” Hui abruptly threw the stick down and stamped on it with one foot so hard that there was a sharp crack as it broke. “Why are you acting as if he is already dead? We don’t have the kind of money you used to buy that useless coffin. We
Dimension
LAUREN YOON (PHOTOGRAPHY) 24
LOTUS need that money to keep him alive!” Guan-yin sprang from the bed and swung her arm so fast that it took a moment for the blood to rush angrily back into Hui’s cheeks. Hui stepped back, his eyes narrowed. “You’re digging a grave for yourself, not just Jian!” He ran out the door with his dirty once-white shirttail flapping behind him and his rubber tire shoes slapping his callused heels. The real fish, not the clods of clay and earth on the ground of the small mud house, struggled upstream and laid their eggs and died, and Jian was still here. Hui left the house, found work on a fishing boat, and spent his days cutting his fingers with the knotted nets and getting splinters on his feet from the jagged edges of the deck. But Jian was still here. The sons and daughters of the fish rode downstream, and some were caught and some were not. They glistened in the nets, their tails giving a ghost of a twitch even minutes after parting from the water. And here was Jian, sitting up in bed. Here was Jian, walking around the dirty bare room without any help. But here was Jian, crying from hunger, asking why she was feeding him so little. And here was Guan-yin, demanding to know why he was eating so much. Here was Guan-yin looking furiously at that coffin, thinking about that money and how it would have bought them two more meals a day. Here was Guan-yin, hearing Hui’s voice in her head. “Why don’t you just sell the useless thing to keep us alive?” Sell the only thing of value in her house? Preposterous! She would sooner give her head away. And so, when the angry government officials made their biyearly visit to the isolated little house at the foot of the mountain to demand the long overdue taxes, they barged in to find two emaciated figures, one a young man curled up on the stuffed, maggoty mattress, face contorted in pain, the other a tiny woman lying facedown on top of a grand, black lacquered coffin that had been untouched by the dirt and grime of the room, her arms clinging to it like a mother clutching her newborn child.
Overcast LAURA ZHOU (ACRYLIC)
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Something Unknown FIONA PAN (ACRYLIC)
H
s d n a
I IG M A RGA U X C H E N ( D
TA L)
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EVENING PRIMROSE
Things Lost JENNY XU
worn fingers of wool unfurling skyward from a matted palm, tattered fingertips damp with age, and above the sparkling snow a small blue hand waves, long forgotten, from the bare branches. it curls and twists frayed ends bobbing in the breeze, scarlet dancer, twirling into the sky— thank you so much, she’d said, eyes glowing with happiness, white box cradled close as, silently, the crimson ribbon fell away into the breeze. shiny copper consumed by hungry black and unrelenting green it is a study in contradictions: new and old, dirty and clean, dead and alive, ordinary and precious.
it is transferred, cold tin to warm hands, and as dirt-covered fingers fold over the filthy coin the little girl dreams of food. sparkling lavender petals and a crumpled silver stem, nestled in soft velvet. it had once bloomed bright as she smiled into the rain before the water dragged her down and, ripped from its roots, the tiny flower shattered. ridges melt into smooth silver metal, oval body dulled with fingerprints a promise hidden in the shadowy valleys— memories of cozy rooms and warm kitchens, of childish laughter echoing of home.
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Do You Believe in Ghosts? ANGELINA HAN
“Sam.” “What?” “Do you believe in ghosts?” “...Nah.” His brother’s teeth glinted out of the darkness with a grin. “Liar.” “Shut up Mikey, any dummy knows ghosts aren’t real.” “Thomas Liu saw one!” Sam pulled the covers closer around his shoulders, snuggling deeper into the warm cocoon. “You kindergarteners believe everything.” “Do not.” “...” “Sam?” “What?” “We should go check. At that old house in the woods. Maybe we’ll see ‘em.” Sam didn’t respond. “Chicken...” Mikey was smiling again, laughing at him in the dark. Whispering. “Bock-bock, bockbock…” And that is how they ended up here, picking their way through the soaked autumn leaves with the moon as their only witness. Sam felt the damp seeping through his sneakers, slowly crawling up his ankles and giving him the chills. At least, that’s the reason he told himself he was uneasy. But really, it was probably the endlessness of the woods at night, and the feeling that their parents would wake up at any moment and discover that they’d sneaked out. Mikey’s useless babbling in front of him didn’t help
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either. “Tom Liu told everyone at school today that he saw a ghost in his backyard!” Mikey was saying. “And the ghost told Tom how he got murdered. He was stabbed in his sleep and it happened right in Tom’s neighbor’s house! Can you believe that?” Mikey sighed dreamily while Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s just a stupid story.” Sam said, although the thought of someone bleeding to death in pajamas was creeping him out. His own pajamas felt thinner and more insubstantial, and he shivered involuntarily. The brush underfoot was getting denser by the minute. He couldn’t help but imagine the twisted branches as hands, clawing up from the earth to pull them under. Every twig he stepped on sounded like the cracking of knuckles. Every gust of wind sounded like the keening of departed spirits. Sam reached for his brother’s hand without thinking, but quickly withdrew it when he realized the incessant teasing that would follow. Mikey, however, wasn’t paying attention. He’d begun running towards a clearing up ahead. “Mikey, wait!” Mikey just laughed his crazy laugh and ran faster, crashing through the branches. Sam had no choice but to chase after him. They pinwheeled through the dark forest, legs and arms becoming a tangle as they tumbled into the clearing.
The old house stood there, as always, sagging pitifully on its rotting beams. The roof of the house had long since caved in, and moonlight pooled on the rough wooden floor. Mikey promptly walked to the circle of light, sat down, and closed his eyes. “What are you doing?” Sam whispered. “Shh, Tom says the ghosts’ll come this way. Close your eyes.” “This is ridiculous,” Sam muttered, but he closed his eyes anyway. All of a sudden, a light wind ruffled his hair. And in that breeze, he felt the echo of a human touch. Memories washed over him like the tide over smooth sand. He heard a thousand laughs, felt a thousand disappointments, lived a thousand times. He saw summers, winters, springs, through the eyes of so many people. He was so many people at once... “Tom lied.” Mikey complained, breaking the calm. “I don’t see any ghosts.” And just like that, the moment was gone. Sam blinked, eyes adjusting to the dark once more. He paused. “I dunno…I felt something back there.” Mikey grinned his wild grin, his cheek dimpling in the dark. “You don’t believe in ghosts now, do ya?” “...Nah.” But this time he wasn’t so sure of it. “Liar.” Sam smiled to himself. Maybe a little magic didn’t hurt after all.
EVENING PRIMROSE
Flustered
LAUREN YOON (PHOTOGRAPHY) 31
Scattered Beads
EMILY BOROWSKI I can never string together my thoughts. They fly all over the place, like the beads from a bracelet that’s just been broken. Mending the bracelet is too tedious a task, and even when repaired, it never looks quite the same. The beads are not as tightly strung together; a few are out of order, and a few are gone forever. So the bracelet usually gets scrapped. Just like whatever I had been thinking.
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, AL CO AR CH
GR
ITE) A PH
and White
HE E GR AC
(
k c a l B
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The Same. FIONA PAN
occasionally there are pretty mugs that sit ostentatiously, expensively glaring down at the world. once in awhile there are plain mugs that sit with the comfort of a warm day in, reminding of memories, inflicting peace. One is used to show, One is used to drink. With one quick swipe, both are on the ground, mercilessly lying in pieces on a cold floor. both are broken mugs.
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EVENING PRIMROSE
Two-faced MICHELLE CHEN (ACRYLIC)
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Mask of Me JENNY XU
People wear a thousand masks, they say, masks of smiles and confidence of I’m okay and everything’s fine but then if I’m a thousand people and none of them are me who am I? This is who I am— two years old, choosing a ragged cloth doll over one with plush curls. five, tiny fingers fumbling through books to catch at stories of another life. This is who I am— eight years, making my way through strange hallways of a new school, learning to create stories of my own, to drip water into a test tube, learning to learn.
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This is who I am— ten, staring down at the sparkling keys of a flute, trying to make it sing. Thirteen, armed with pencils, discovering how to capture a moment through color. Fourteen years now, and all of this, I think, is me.
Under the Surface VICKI LU (OIL)
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Hum
e s r u t a e F an
MICHELLE CHEN (ACRYLIC) 38
t t i n e g g r ) o f(
unspoken words find themselves creeping up behind me slipping through the soft underbelly of my memories they find friends for i have many voiceless thoughts left tongue-tied on the bitter tainted tips of my teeth and i’m left repeating familiar words over and over and over until they taste so unfamiliar and for a second i believe i’ve created a new language and as i let those words of remembrance slip past the gaps of my front two teeth they whistle as they escape and my grandma used to always whistle while making my favorite sticky rice cakes and the last time I hugged her she stained my sweater with the scent of dusty marmalade and when she forgets i remind her that she is colorblind but that her favorite color is the color of the sky after it rains and i fell in love with a thought who also left too soon but its aroma lingered hiding in between the shadows woven in technicolor threads of my memories
EVENING PRIMROSE
I SAB E L
N O W
getting lost in my own infinite head of hair and i forget about people because i’m too afraid to say hello afraid of forgetting names, faces, speaking, afraid of forgetting what it felt like to meet you for the very first time
afraid of biting down into an apple of goodbyes feeling its sweet sticky substance sliding down my mouth across my chin between breaths between bites afraid of bittersweet afraid of its bitter taste afraid of saying goodbye to newly made friends afraid of saying hello to all the little indentations your presence has poked into my membrane because when i said i forgot about you i only really meant that i haven’t stopped thinking about you
i guess i never forget i just sometimes turn the kaleidoscope too many times too quickly and things just seem a bit too contorted i’m momentarily blinded because forgetting is — forgetting is just feeling empty in a space that’s always been empty wanting something you’ve never wanted wanting something you never knew you wanted missing something that’s never been lost
i’m left having conversations with myself juggling jumbled disjointed thoughts but at the same time and sometimes i forget to punctuate and sometimes i over-punctuate forgetting is just and sometimes the words inside my parentheses get lonely when i put them there letting loose the hive full of bees (i’m sorry) of tangled thoughts but what can i do, i forget and knotted memories and calling yourself a full-bodied butterfly or maybe it’s because i’m thinking about ladybugs when you are still inside a cocoon and wondering if a ladybug ever forgets about its dots? and being a wooden house or if a zebra forgets about its stripes? pretending to be made of stone or a mockingbird forgets the sound of its voice? the same way that i sometimes forget my own name? forgetting — the same way that i forget where i am sometimes i’m too busy filling in the spaces between the lines forgetting is nothing more than a friend.
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40
Exposure
VICKI LU (OIL)
ZINNIA
Define Love
ALEX LIU
language: love (noun): a deep feeling of intense attraction. love (verb): feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone). diversity: music: it tells stories, here’s someone distracting…distracting enough. better than mommy’s. wish: so far and yet unbearably close your heart harmonizes with goosebumps the sweetness of a cold heart, the cruelty of an endearing scuttling down your arm. gaze sport: hours and days and weeks, a conversation starts and so does your heart you writhe and bleed but hell— words are revving the engine but it’s not your foot on the glory is tapping its foot. gas… food: we call them indulgences: hands brush and your body starts dreaming little bursts of happiness about the stories it could tell. literature: you wish you could write, everything would be perfect. maybe even speak like this. everything’s not perfect. human: …we’ll get back to this one. this time around though it’s history: fate who’s tapping her foot. vision: your eyes meet your mother’s, life: you might be crying but i’m yours, you’re mine, but those tears are forming her oceans. things aren’t as you imagined. bond: you hug your father everything is more because and your warmth becomes his sunlight. you hold me and i am somehow immersed first impression: you can’t look away in the both of us. “why” will evade you forever. a miracle and stars align and lips touch sweet pretend: sometimes you need to please people you kiss in my language, you bask in my diversity. sometimes you hate to love. let us live a new history, where pretend (pt. ii): sometimes you hate to live, love is on the tips of our tongues.
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The Land I’m From
The scent of cacao and coffee were my childhood companions, and the infinite shades of the flowers were amusement to my eyes. I am from the land with so beautiful waters, it was named after Venice. I am from the land in which colorful birds talk and palm trees grow tall. The flavor of the coconut water dancing in my mouth, next to the howling of the ocean has a life of its own. I am from the land where it’s never cold, and in which sunsets are never dull. I am from the land that once was a whole, and sadly, now it’s broke.
CLAUDIA CAMPO MIRABENT
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I am from the bottom of the earth, down where nobody looks. I am from the land that once was the most powerful of all.
ZINNIA
Pine Tree
VIVIAN GONG (SOFT PASTEL) 43
Lost & Found HELEN YANG
when do we lose our childhood happiness? does it hit like a truck or slowly sneak away? for all i remember was that i stopped chasing butterflies while fighting the sticky humid air. i began chasing for happiness in an endless police chase. then, i searched for happiness in food i searched for happiness in hunger pains i searched for happiness in stress i searched for happiness in my tears but i still could not find it.
i searched for happiness everywhere. i searched for happiness in storybooks i searched for happiness in music i searched for happiness in your face. but happiness was nowhere to be found.
turns out, all these years i was searching for happiness in all the wrong places. happiness, true happiness was closer than i thought. it was never lost, just hidden deep beneath my skin.
By the Witching Hour LAURA ZHOU (ACRYLIC)
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Her Park ALISHA LEKH
She never wanted to move up North. No trees. No bees. Just factory gasses and highways. What would she do? When she got there, the first thing she noticed was that she could not hear the birds singing in the mornings. Only the beeping of cars. There were no fish in the creek behind her house. Just bottles of water and plastic bags. She had begun to feel lightheaded from the lack of fresh air. When she asked her neighbor, “where is the nearest park?” he laughed. “We have one, if you could even call it a park.” He told her where it was. What she found was not a park. The sky, as charcoal as always, hung low and pulled itself tight around the town. The leaves, dull and brittle, drooped from trees slick with coal-black oil. She could find no evidence of the sun ever reaching this part of the earth. Her sight trailed downwards and a gasp caught in her throat. Rabbits stood still strewn across the dirt. Deer lay down with tire marks in their bellies. Doves leaned against trunks, their wings too bent to fly. She wept. Never in her life had she seen such a horrid sight. “I have to save them,” she decided.
And so she took a step towards the catastrophe. She took another. And another. Until she was well into the park that seemed to never end. All the way she collected the still hearts, open wounds, and broken bones in her hands until it became too much carry. The corpses fell to her feet but she forged on. Hooves and paws latched onto her legs and as she fell deeper into the park, the deceased clung to her body like feathers to glue. “I’ve got you now. It’s alright. I’ve got you now,” she whispered to the parade at her feet. Her golden hair wove together, forming a basket so the bodies who accidently lost their grip did not get left behind. “I’ve got you now. It’s alright. I’ve got you now.” She was running now. Through the thick gray fog of the park, she gathered more fallen creatures. They clung to her, to one another. Her tears cascaded down her woven basket of hair and caught the wind caused by her speed. They splashed onto the dead leaves hung limp on branches. She thought of the South, of home. She thought of bonfires on summer nights when songs filled the air. She thought of the sheep and horses lifting her up to reach an apple from a tree. She thought of hikes up the mountains in the
ZINNIA fall and splashing in the lake in the spring. And soon she saw these scenes surround her. Her tears burned holes in the fog, making room for her memories. She hugged her family through her dress of corpses and saw fruit bloom from the tips branches. The fog thickened and fell into a sparkling blue-green lake. She spent her days in the park now. Her collection of creatures forever at her feet.
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Leftovers SABRINA WU
The first thing they did when they entered the apartment was turn the television off. Which was a relief. I wasn’t sure how many more mesothelioma commercials I could take. And Elizabeth’s 10-inch, duct taped television had begun to emit a chemical smell. As expected of a television when it had been left on for a week. The man who had turned it off just stood there for a few seconds. He looked lost, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. His companion, a taller dark haired man, moved briskly. “It’s rank in here,” the dark haired man said. “That’s what they never tell you about cases like this. The smell. A smoking television and cat vomit and shi-” “Don’t curse,” the other man interrupted, still holding the remote. “It’s not polite.” A snort. “Yeah? Who’s around to hear us? Watch the pile of cat...defecation in the kitchen.” The disgust in his tone put me on the defensive. Well, what would he have done when his litter box had been left to fester? “Yo, you gonna help me or what?” the dark haired man’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. The other man put down the remote. He swallowed hard, loud enough for me to hear the click of it. “What you even doing, Jeremy?” “In life?” There were sounds of rustling as the dark haired man, presumably Jeremy, poked around the kitchen. “I’m just trying my best. Looking after my mom. Going to the gym on weekends. Learning how to make the perfect risotto.” “Jeremy. Come on, dude. How are you so okay with all of this?” Jeremy popped his head back into the living room, where the other man was still frozen. “Doug, you told me you wanted to help me out. If you changed your mind, you can go home.” Doug snapped into motion. “I mean, I want to help you. But we’re just poking around a dead lady’s stuff! You don’t wonder about what she was like? She was twenty-seven and worked for Goldman Sachs. But all they found in her stomach was take-out and an ungodly number of pills.” Jeremy sighed, rubbed at his face. “Think about all that stuff later. If we can find contact info for her next of kin, if we find her cat, then you’ll get the answers you want.” “I get that, man. But you don’t feel weird?” “Why? The paramedics take care of the body. Someone else needs to take care of all the stuff left behind.” A pause. A sharp intake of breath. And then: “Wait. Doug.You got the cat treats on you?” “What? Why?” Jeremy pointed. And Doug’s eyes followed, right to me, where I crouched beneath the sofa. Doug took the cue. He crouched down, offered a piece of meat. I didn’t
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ZINNIA want to go to him. But he was holding chicken, so I emerged from my space under the couch. When I did, Doug’s face split into a wide grin, and it wasn’t so bad to look at him. “Take the cat to the car,” Jeremy said. “Chill out there a while if you want. I get it. The first case can be overwhelming.” Doug did as he was told. And he sat with me for a while, legs swinging over the trunk of the car. “Jeremy says this is the first case he’s seen where the cat didn’t eat the body.” Doug’s voice was a murmur. “Why?” I butted at his hand. Of course I wouldn’t eat her body. The little fool loved to preen in front of the mirror. She would have been mortified if the paramedics walked into the room and half her face was missing. Especially if any of the paramedics were men with clear-cut jawlines. “What was it like when she died?” Doug asked, giving me another piece of chicken. To that, I had no coherent answer. She had been winding down that evening. I had seen it so many times before. Hysteria and brassy laughter, then stillness. But she always bounced back after that. I
Catfights
was nudging at her hands, but she hadn’t looked at me. Get away. When I hadn’t moved, she had repeated it, more insistent: get away. Get away! Isn’t it funny, how fast a life can slip through your metaphorical fingers? One minute she was clutching me to her chest like she wouldn’t ever let go. The next, everyone was trying to contact her nextof-kin. If there was one thing I could tell Doug, it would be that I didn’t know anything. I had spent a week with just her body and me.Yet, everyday, I had still expected the door to swing open for her to drop down on the couch like she always did. Had it been my fault? Would she have stayed if I had purred a little louder, been a little more affectionate? Where was she now, what exactly had happened to her? What would happen to me, now that she was gone? I remember, Elizabeth liked to tease me. She asked, “On the last of your nine lives, aren’t you?” I had always batted her hands away. She’d been a little fool, and an annoying one at that. But, still, it wasn’t so bad, to spend the last of my nine lives with her.
LAUREN YOON (PHOTOGRAPHY) 47
Speckles of Light ALEX WU (PHOTOGRAPHY)
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ZINNIA
Flower Fields ELLIE O’BRIAN
Colors pepper the sun kissed fields Glistening like water at sun’s rest Embedded into the earth Yet wind blows its figure Feeling freer and freer Hair smooth to the touch Scent soft on the nose Edges pointed to a tip Or rounded for character Lilac Crimson Pearled ash Creating a scene set for an expert Brush ready dipped in a creamy hue Washed haze in the sky Like swirls of a goddess, dancing dress Magenta marigold ceilings Kissing shamrock pine floors Slowly encompassing the brother called night.
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Maybe Even
JENNY
I kneel in light-dappled soil and watch as they heap up, sun-bright heads and crumpled leaves. why are weeds weeds? why is it so easy to compare, to judge, to destroy? what gives us the power to deem a life worthless?
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Dandelions
ZINNIA
XU
I stand and lift a perfect downy globe toward the glowing skies in hands smeared with saffron and the pale wisps dance into the sunlight. maybe even dandelions have a right to live.
Ubiquitous Fidelity GAURI SHARMA (PHOTOGRAPHY)
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e l w o Ackn dgements BOARD OF EDUCATION Mr. Richard T. Cavalli, President Mrs. Amy Miller, Vice-President Ms. Phyllis Bursh Ms. Minkyo Chenette Mr. Dharmesh H. Doshi Mr. Dale Huff Mr. Charles F. Jacey, Jr. Mr. Shreesh Tiwari Ms. Christine Witt
CENTRAL OFFICE ADMINISTRATION
Ms. Nancy Gartenberg, Superintendent of Schools Ms. Fiona Borland, Director of Technology Ms. Kelly Mattis, Director of Human Resources/Staff Development Ms. Mary McLoughlin, Director of Pupil Services Mr. Damian Pappa, Director of Assessment and Testing Ms. Deborah Sarmir, Assistant Superintendent for Curriculum and Instruction Ms. Annette Wells, School Business Administrator/Board Secretary Mr. Ron Zalika, Director of Curriculum
HIGH SCHOOL ADMINISTRATION
Mr. Paul J. Popadiuk, Principal Mrs. Corie Gaylord, Director of Student Academic and Counseling Ms. Naoma Green, Vice Principal Ms. Melissa Hodgson, Supervisor of Social Studies Mr. Anthony Maselli, Director of Athletics Mr. Scott Pachuta, Vice Principal Ms. Heather Pino, Vice Principal Ms. Alma Reyes, Supervisor of World Languages Mrs. Jennifer Riddell, Supervisor of Mathematics Ms. Karen Stalowski, Supervisor of English Mr. Jason Sullivan, Supervisor of Science Mrs. Joanne Tonkin, Supervisor of Pupil Services Mr. Adam Warshafsky, Supervisor of Visual and Performing Arts
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