2018 Cascade by MHS Mind's Amaranth Literary Magazine

SHARING RILIA LI (ACRYLIC)

MINDâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S AMARANTH PRESENTS...

CASCADE INTRIGUE. INSIG HT. INSPIRE. VOLUME XII // MONTGOMERY HIGH SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE 2018 1016 ROUTE 601, SKILLMAN, NJ 08558 // WWW.MTSD.K12.NJ.US

MHS LITERARY MAGAZINE Senior Editors

ANNIE LI ANGELINA HAN Editors

ANANYA IYENGAR PRIYANKA SHAH Advisor

DIANNA MUZAURIETA

Staff FIONA PAN SOPHIA SAPIENZA GRACE YAN APURVA IYENGAR KAIA O’REILLY JULIA FREITOR PIPER EPSTEIN EMILY REN ELLENA YANG TALYA DEUTSCH

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 immortality and strength. Over time, the mind changes and fades. Yet its expressions in print or any other medium are permanent like the everlasting beauty of the amaranth. That transcription from the mind to paper is captured in this magazine.

COVER ART: FIONA PAN AMARANTH LOGO: YIBIN ZHANG

VICTORIA LANG LAURA ZHOU EMMA NI NICOLE FENG MIKI OBA JENNY XU EUGENA YOUM NEENA O’MARA MELISSA LOUIE GAURI SHARMA RICHA PATEL

PRODUCTION NOTES

The Literary Magazine is an after school publication group that strives to produce a diverse and all-encompassing magazine called the Mind’s Amaranth. We publish a variety of poetry, prose, artwork, and photography, that reflect the ideas of the student body at Montgomery High School. The staff consists of a dedicated group of students who meet once a week for the majority of the year and then twice a week towards the end of the year. Our advisor is Ms. Muzaurieta, a teacher in the English department. We begin the year with student-created advertisements that encourage people from all grade levels to join the club. In the late fall, we shift gears

to prepare for our fundraiser, Poems on a Pumpkin. During this event, club members write fall-themed poems and decorate miniature pumpkins, in order to raise money for the magazine. Right before Thanksgiving break, we sell the pumpkins. After the winter break, the staff focuses on the publication of the magazine. Our posters and commercials encourage students to submit their creative works during this time. Without the hundreds of pieces we receive of all different media and genres, this magazine would not be possible. As each new piece arrives, it is kept anonymous and scored by our staff and editors. Once we have selected the content of

the magazine, we brainstorm a theme for the upcoming edition. The theme we choose is based on a recurring motif that we see throughout the majority of the submissions. The selected pieces are then arranged into a layout using Adobe InDesign. During this step in the publishing process, the staff meets more frequently to design and edit the magazine. We also make important decisions such as composition, order of pieces and typeface. This year’s fonts are Gill Sans MT Condensed and Constantia. Finally, the Mind’s Amaranth is published and distributed in its final form to the student body and faculty at the end of the school year.

tumultuous and the mysterious. Vast and temperamental, the waves buoy us up one moment and dash us against the rocks in the next. The Brook, meanwhile, symbolizes change and renewal. The rush of water as it pours downstream leaves no room for hesitation or regrets. Upon reaching the Pond, there is space for contemplation and reflection. The mirror-like surface of still water prompts us to look inward and find peace with our own thoughts. Finally, a Raindrop hits us playfully in the face, inviting us to let loose and

live a little. The raindrop’s cheerful pitter-patter reminds us that life is fun and calls upon us to see the wonder in the world. Water is an ever-renewing cycle: the same water you drink today existed before the dawn of humanity, and the tears you shed yesterday will reappear in someone else’s coffee mug long after you are gone. In this way, it is comforting to think that we are never alone. The overflow of everything you feel right now has been shared by people across millennia, all of us connected by the ebb and flow of water.

CASCADE Water takes many forms and plays various roles in our lives. Water in small amounts sustains us, yet an overflow of water can easily overpower us. It is this duality between the benign and the deadly aspects of water that makes it so alluring. This year’s edition of the Mind’s Amaranth explores water as it flows through various places and times, with the everchanging nature of water serving to illuminate different aspects of our own lives. The Ocean represents the

O F E L B A T OCEAN

Sharing by Rilia Li.................................................................................................Inside Cover Convenience by Melissa Louie................................................................................................6 Wind Through Golden Hair by Apurva Iyengar..................................................................7 Kobane, Syria by Ananya Reghupathi.....................................................................................8 Glitter by Allen Zhang..............................................................................................................8 Excerpt from The Devil, the Star, and the Prince by Angelina Han.................................9 Garbage! by Richa Patel.........................................................................................................10 Under the Bed by Kaira Fenix................................................................................................11 Br(ok)en by Riley Pellizzari....................................................................................................12 Prisoner by Kaia Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Reilly........................................................................................................13 Wild Vastness of Versailles by Brinda Dhawan..................................................................13 Rise by Ananya Iyengar...........................................................................................................14 Numbers by Melissa Louie.....................................................................................................15 Vaadaki Nu Fal (Bowl of Fruit) by Richa Patel...................................................................16

BROOK Tenacity by Harry Feng..........................................................................................................18 Untitled by Stephanie Wang.................................................................................................19 Generations by Helen Yang..................................................................................................20 Beyond by Gauri Sharma........................................................................................................21 Mandala Effect by Gauri Sharma..........................................................................................22 Dewdrops Like Teardrops by Piper Epstein.......................................................................23 Dear Self, by Annie Li............................................................................................................24 Shadows by Anna Galvin........................................................................................................24 Rush Hour by Laura Zhou....................................................................................................25 Mindless Serenity by Brinda Dhawan.................................................................................25 A Colorful World by Clara Yu...............................................................................................26 Urban Colors by Annie Li.....................................................................................................26 Pollination by Anna Mehlhorn.............................................................................................27

CONTENTS POND

Third Eye by Nora Wynn........................................................................................................28 The Fire Burns by Niveditha Balan.......................................................................................28 Infested by Michelle Araya.................................................................................................29 Natural Monochrome by Ananya Iyengar...........................................................................30 Paradox by Literary Magazine Staff......................................................................................30 Of Swing-sets and Battle Lines by Jenny Xu.....................................................................31 My Common App Essay by Catherine Podell......................................................................32 Broken by Nora Wynn...........................................................................................................33 The Price of Freedom by Sophia Sapienza..........................................................................34 At What Cost? by Rilia Li.....................................................................................................34 Black Box by Alexander Liu..................................................................................................36 Labyrinth by Annie Li...........................................................................................................36 Memory Span by Serena Tian...............................................................................................38 Whisper, Creak by Angelina Han........................................................................................39

RAINDROP Orange by Jenny Chen..........................................................................................................40 This Fateful Condition by Hossein Zolfaghari...................................................................41 Rendezvous by Rilia Li.........................................................................................................42 Playful Articulation by Brinda Dhawan..............................................................................44 Earphones by Divya Ravikumar.........................................................................................45 The Summit by Ruma Arabatti............................................................................................46 Into the Sunset by Ananya Iyengar........................................................................................47 Hidden by Fiona Pan.............................................................................................................48 Define Love (Reprise) by Alexander Liu............................................................................49 Waves by Laura Zhou.............................................................................................................50 The Dying Sun by Jenny Xu..................................................................................................50 Wings of the Wind by Literary Magazine Staff.................................................................51 Escape by Literary Magazine Staff........................................................................................51 Open Sesame by Jenny Chen.................................................................................Back Cover

CONVENIENCE

She has seen nothing but unending expanses of brown grass rippling in the slight wind, for several hours. The convenience store almost comes out of nowhere, jolting her out of her longdrive daze as she robotically pulls into the cleared dirt area in front of the wooden building. But of course there is a convenience store. There are convenience stores everywhere, even in the middle of the South Dakota prairie. A small rusty bell croaks on the door as she opens it, revealing a small, dimly lit room. Everything is wooden and yellowed, the postcards on the thin rack sporting pictures taken decades earlier, from when people let their hair hang loosely down their tie-dye shirts. Paintings line the room, brown and yellow and blue paintings, of the prairie, of buffalo, of insects parading under the shelter of a stone. She stoops down by one of the tables to examine one, of a girl standing in the middle of the grass, holding her hand out, with something in it. She leans closer, squinting. “Can I help you?” She jerks her head up to meet the eyes of a woman, coarse-skinned and wearing a faded T-shirt that reads, “The truth is we’re all dying.” “Oh sorry, I was just looking. Could I get a pack?” she asks, pointing to the row of faded Marlboro boxes behind the counter. The woman reaches behind her and slides it onto the counter. “Matches too?” “Oh yeah. Yeah, that would be great.” A small box of Diamond Matches appears on the counter. “Better be careful not to burn down the whole prairie with these.” She laughs thinly, nodding in assent. “What brings you here? Not that I don’t expect to see everybody and everything pass down this road every day, but I’m just wondering.” “My mom…she’s in Washington State. I’m going to see her. I live in New York, see, and I’m just passing through here on my way to Washington.” The woman raises her eyebrows, her hand

MELISSA LOUIE

still on the box of Marlboros. “Guess the plane was too mainstream for you?” “I wouldn’t say mainstream. I guess I just wanted some time to be by myself and think before getting to Washington. The long drive doesn’t bother me.” “Hmm.” The woman behind the counter holds out the two boxes and says, “That’ll be five dollars, thanks.” But she does not take out her wallet or reach out her hand to accept the cigarettes and matches. “My mom,” she says, “would always give me a kiss goodnight before I went to sleep. And right before I closed my eyes, she would tell me, ‘Honey, the world is going to be so different when you wake up.’” “How’s that?” “Oh, you know. People on the other side of the world have gone about their day, learned something new, talked to a stranger. All while I was still in dreamland.” “Huh.” “Yeah, my mom, she had a theory about everything. She rode her bike everyday to wherever it was she was going, and she refused to shift to a lower gear even if she was going uphill. ‘It makes it easier, but you can’t go as far in one rotation of the pedals,’ she would say.” “That is true.” “She had this one book that she read like a Bible. I don’t know what it was called, but it had a crying woman on the cover. My mom never cried though. She told me that I couldn’t change the world by crying. She was always talking about change, always on the steps of some Capitol building with her trusty megaphone, getting people to want to clamor for change, for something. Her favorite joke was to slip a penny or two into the envelope when she was mailing letters to senators and congressmen. She said pennies were useless, but she saved them up anyway, just for these letters.” The woman chuckles slightly. “She sounds

OCEAN like a strong-willed woman.” “Oh, for sure. You know what the funny thing was? She would tell me that oppression gave her a purpose. That she was born to be a protester, to change things, that was her purpose, but oppression shaped her, gave her that purpose. Without any of that, she would have no mission.” “I never thought about it like that. That’s interesting.” She smiles, sighs, looks down at the knots in the wood of the counter. “Making this drive, across the parts of the country where there are hardly any people and there’s only the sound of your tires making millions of revolutions and paving a straight path through the prairies and the mountains, this was something she used to talk about doing. We were going to do it together.” “Do you think you’ll ever get to it?” She sighs again, smiles again, more tightly, shaking her head slightly. “My mother took this road herself, when she moved to Washington. And I’m taking it now…by myself.” “Well, at least you halfway did what she wanted, right?” The woman chuckles. “What do you think she’ll say to you when she hears how you

got to Washington?” She freezes. “What will she say to me?” “Yes.” “She…she won’t say anything. I’m going to her funeral.” “Oh.” The woman does not know what to say. “Forgive me, I—” “She died yesterday. An aneurysm. That’s like a bubble of blood in the brain.” “My deepest condolences. I’m so sorry.” “Thank you.” They look away from each other for a second, avoiding eye contact. After a few moments, she repeats it and begins to walk towards the door. “Ma’am, don’t you want your cigarettes?” She turns back around, remembering. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I asked for them. I don’t smoke. Thank you, though.” She walks back to her car, the wind tickling and livening the dust that is momentarily crushed beneath the heels of her desert boots. Within minutes of starting the car and pulling onto the road, despite the flatness of the terrain, the receding convenience store is no longer visible in the cracked rearview mirror.

WIND THROUGH GOLDEN HAIR APURVA IYENGAR

KOBANE, SYRIA ANANYA REGHUPATHI

My three year old son, whose balloon stands to reach the sky Looks to me with curiosity With innocence in his eyes. How do I explain this atrocity? With words of the same meaning we were in their minds? Or with actions that carry the same weight as the bomb they dropped behind? My three year old son, whose balloon floats by his head Walks through the wreckage, not seeing the disaster that lies ahead. His steps play the song of humanity, The low grumble of the rubble, the sweet sound of tragedy. My three year old son, whose balloon sits as our home now does Hears the silence of what was. He looks past the desolate land At the place his home used to stand, Surrounded by mortality and And, in the center, a large gaping hole of morality.

R E T T I L G 8

AL L E N

ZHANG

EXCERPT FROM

OCEAN

THE DEVIL, THE STAR, AND THE PRINCE

ANGELINA HAN

Do you remember the comet that streaked by so bright in the sky? It scared the living daylights out of all the peasants that year. That’s just an expression, of course. Humans don’t have living daylights inside of them, only stars do. I remember that comet. Halley’s Comet, it was, crossing England in 1066. It made all the monks fall to their knees and pray, for they believed it was God come to earth, or an omen of the devil. King Harold the Second did die later that year, but it wasn’t the comet that caused his demise. It wasn’t me either, although everyone believed otherwise. What humans have trouble understanding is that stars don’t age as they do. We are wise from the beginning and live eons longer before fading out quietly. I was a young star then, born within a week of the comet’s bright journey, though by human reckoning I looked to be a girl of about fifteen. It had been festival time in the sky, and nobody was paying much attention to the children. I tell myself they didn’t mean to drop me, but it just so happened that somebody got a little too merry, and in the midst of all the dancing and drinking, they let go. Down I went, streaking towards the Earth behind the comet like a shining afterthought. Hardly anyone on Earth even noticed; they were too busy gaping at Halley to watch. The only person who paid me any mind that warm summer evening was the farmer whose rye field I landed in. He thought I was a miracle, a saint, or some sort of spirit come to curse them or anoint them. When he first found

me, he babbled some indistinct words of shock as he took in my glowing skin. “Are you an angel?” he asked when he had recovered his senses. “Have you come with good news?” The villagers were fascinated with me. For the rest of the summer my name danced often on their lips, until the one day word reached us that the King had been killed in battle, and it was the evil omen of the fallen star that had caused it. Then their moods changed in an instant. No one wanted to have anything to do with the girl from the stars who had plunged from the sky the same night as the fated comet. I was different from them; that much was clear from the beginning. Only now, reverence at my mysterious origins was replaced by fear and uncertainty. Their eyes slanted with suspicion and hate as they chased me from their town. This is how you found me, Lucifer. This is how you find most of us: starving, alone, and weak. You certainly have a nose for the easiest prey. All of your victims yearn for one thing above all else. For me, it was a sense of security I traded you for. I was so tired of being chased, and you were so kind and charming. You made it seem like a fair bargain: one immortal soul for an eternity of belonging. Here’s one thing to be said about the devil: you certainly keep your promises. I have my sense of belonging now, among the damned, the other unfortunates who toil for you endlessly. You give us what we ask for, but the price of your trade is a high one. Only the desperate would make a bargain with you.

GARBAGE!

There’s a ghost in your closet. It’s not like it’s some sort of dead childhood memory, like Casper the Friendly Ghost or whatever you decided to name the noises of the night. This is actually a full-fledged spirit of the dead. How do you know this? Because the other day, as you were getting ready, brushing your hair just right and flicking the curve of your eyeliner, there was a shuffling. A thump. A shake. Then, when you opened your closet door, mascara wand held in front of you like a Swiss Army knife—nothing. Only that science project from fourth grade that your mom never lets you throw out, that old teddy bear you used to play with when you were like five but not anymore because it’s creepy, and the homework that was due a couple days ago. Except the teddy bear is on the ground, not the top shelf where you had put it, and the papers are scattered all across the floor, where you definitely did not see it yesterday, because otherwise you would have turned it in. So obviously, the only answer is that one of the dead is in your closet. You call that old lady across the hall, Mrs. Shut-Up-And-Leave-Me-Alone. However, it turns out that Mister Shut-Me-Alone has taken a surprising amount of interest in your dilemma. So he comes over, and takes a look at it. He tries to make a pentagram, or something, but it looks more like a picture of Squidward instead. You start to think that he’s making fun of you, just a little bit. But the next morning you wake up and there’s a diagram on your old homework peeking out from under your closet door. Before you post the picture you take of it on Instagram and Twitter and Snapchat, you decide to flip it over. Good thing you did, because it turns out Mr. Shut-Me-Alone has made it worse, because there’s a picture of his drawing on the back. It only takes you a little bit to realize that it’s a map, and it leads to the apartment next the door. The family that lives there is the Take-My-Food-It-

RICHA PATEL

Tastes-Good-I-Swear! Gang, and you really don’t know why the ghost would be hanging out there. It’s not like spirits can eat. So you go over to the Food-I-Swear! Family, and surprisingly, they also let you in (obviously the ghost’s doing). The map isn’t very well drawn— it’s almost like the ghost is one of an animal, or it doesn’t know how thumbs work—but you decide it’s pointing to their trash can. You stand there for a little bit, twiddling your thumbs, until the Food-I-Swear! twins try to get you to eat their smelly brownies. Then, you toss the map in the trash and hightail it out of there. The next day, there’s another map. Thankfully, this journey is short. You grab the rest of the homework along with it—so the spirit has nothing to write on and it’ll stop haunting you, maybe—and dump all of them in your own trash can. Then it’s written on one of your shirts, directed toward the garbage can at the end of the hall. You only pause a minute to wonder why your demon has a thing for trash cans, before dragging your shirt out of your apartment, but there’s no trash bag anywhere in the hallway. It turns out you’ve been holding your shirt upside down. The ghost has practically ruined it, though. There’s some weird stains and blue hairs, which really sucks. It was your favorite shirt, and now you have to throw it out. The ghost begins to be known as Garbage! to you and the neighbors, because of how much it loves to send you to, well, garbage. Though one time it was that big dumpster a few blocks away, when you had to take your teddy bear and pillows. You realize Garbage! is your mom halfway through though, because nobody else cares if you clean your room. You had suspected the Food-I-Swear! Family might have just wanted to lure you over without making it too obvious, but they stopped asking you to try their meals after the first three visits.

OCEAN The one other time you tried talking to the Shut-Me-Alones, the Mrs. slammed the door shut in your face. They seemed to get the ghost mad, anyways—you didn’t need them and their stupid musty apartment. They were the ones missing out on the adventure of a life (or death, you don’t discriminate) time. So you follow what Garbage! says to do, even if it does involve throwing out most of your belongings. Funny, though, your mom never mentions what’s happening, but she’s been busy with work lately, moving and all that. Soon enough, your room’s empty. That’s when you finally decide to talk to your mom about this. After all, she hasn’t packed up yet. And where are you even moving to? She’s sweeping the floor when you approach her. She grins. “Look who finally cleaned out their room!” she says. “Wait…” You look at your hands, then back at her. “You weren’t trying to get me to clean out my room?” She shakes her head. “Then who was leaving the maps?”

“What maps?” Your room is empty. But when you open the closet door, everything is gone, clothes included. The only thing left is the teddy bear, the creepy one with the patchy fur that you swore you had thrown out. But that isn’t the biggest problem right now, because the ghost has probably escaped because you left the door open and everything’s gone— You run across the hall, to the Shut-MeAlones. Their apartment is empty. The same thing goes for the Food-I-Swear!s. You try to go back to your apartment, but the door won’t open, no matter how hard you shake it. And when you kick it, the only thing you’re left with is a throbbing toe. Your eyes flutter shut as you inhale tightly. Exhale. Mr. Shut-Me-Alone is playing a prank on you, that’s all. When they open again, your vision is a little blurry, so you decide to go to a mirror, wipe off the tears, maybe gather an angry expression before you go yell at the neighbors. You hear a gasp of shock as you glance at it. Black-button eyes smile back at you.

UNDER THE BED

KAIRA FENIX 11

BR(OK)EN RILEY PELLIZZARI

OCEAN

PRISONER KAIA O’REILLY

The prisoner sits silent Troubled The chains bound around his ankles loosens Without him seeming to care Why leave? What’s out there? He deems it pointless to think about anyway

In the room sits a prisoner Alone Chains wrapped around him however tightly Without knowing they’re there It doesn’t matter Nothing matters He doesn’t intend on leaving anyway

The prisoner draws himself to the door Open He stares at the ground in front of him Without the will to leave He’ll want to come back He’ll not want to leave He doesn’t have a say in it anyway

In the room he sits alone Purposeless It lived within him but left Without a trace of escape Not felt not seen not heard Not looked for He wasn’t searching for it anyway

The prisoner’s eyes dart around Curious He turns away from the door Without a full consensus There’s no point in leaving There’s nothing out there He steps out of the room anyway

WILD VASTNESS OF VERSAILLES BRINDA DHAWAN

E S I R ANANYA IYENGAR 14

NUMBERS MELISSA LOUIE

OCEAN

They tell a story, but not the one you think; the final scores show not the beads of sweat or broken ankles but a medal, more heavy than happy, that gathers dust. You blink, but youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gotta stand up and try butts in, encouragement from Pink. How many medications, how many envelopes to lick? A funeral guest list. how many times did he laugh, how many years did he live? Numbers, they tell a story, just not the one you think. His toothbrush packed, take one last drink. One hundred goodbyes done, one million unfinished. These numbers tell a story, but not the one you think and the market changes, some lose and some gain, with rosy pink faces. The lifespan of a frog is smaller in magnitude than that of a human; but the number says nothing about things that matter. what matters? how many times one watched the sun sink in the furnace of the sky, or listened to the in-between stations? It tells a story, but not the one you think. On the radio, when the signals of 98.1 and 98.3 mix, Alice in Chains says itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gonna rain when she dies. Eighty years, even ninety, they happen in a blink.

VAADAKI NU FAL

(BOWL OF FRUIT) SAFARJAN (APPLE)

When I was little, parents fed me full of stories about men ruling kingdoms, foxes with their tricks, owls with their wise thoughts, God singular, gods plural. Indian folktales and American fairy tales. And for once, I listened to their stories of war and trickery and animals and became swollen with ideas of fantasy. I remember one, specifically. The reason that that one stays in my memory is because I wear it on my skin, next to the scars on my leg from the time I fell over my bike, red and ugly. It was about a queen, with lips as red as apples. Listening to it, it was as if they had placed a crown on my head, gold, glittering, and shining. She had overthrown the good and kind king, but with trickery. Then the kingdom became a rotten and terrible place, and so she was known as a tyrant, a hag. Of course, the humble and caring prince overthrew her by the end of the story. I had to take off my crown when they were done. It was made of thorns now.

RICHA PATEL

“Mama,” I finally asked my mother one day, as I ate the apple slices she had chopped up for me. “Can I hear another story?” My mouth was garbled with fruit, but she understood me anyways. She always did. I couldn’t say the same to her. So she unspooled worlds where I was the main character. Where I journeyed up mountains and met magic and flew into outer space. Where I was the hero, where I was a queen, where I, where I, where I. And whenever I think about who I am now, it starts there, with the apples and my mother’s words. A mixture of English and Gujarati mixed, unrecognizable to both a typical American and to a typical Indian. It was a bastard language, for our ears only.

KESARI (ORANGE)

I used to eat orange rinds. I didn’t know any better. They were always ugly and bitter, but I ate them anyways. Why wouldn’t I?

OCEAN

I used to pronounce words like my parents. I didn’t know any better. It was different than the people on the TV, but I said it like them anyways. Why wouldn’t I? Or, at least, until I was corrected, one day in kindergarten. We were playing with colored blocks. I had mentioned that one of them was the color of an apple. What followed was laughter. “Did you think it was ay-pul?” But she was sweet about it, like citrus, and almost fairy-like, with her palepale skin and shiny brown hair. “It’s ahpul.” I made sure to copy her when I told my parents the same thing. Or-egg-a-no, not oregg-ah-no. Thunderstorm, not thunderstrom. Ah-loo-min-um, not ah-loo-min-ee-um. Laugher and all. It was a joke, after all—the same way the other kids laughed at me when I said those things. The same way I’d laugh at the actors on Indian serials’ accents when they tried to speak English. Later on, I’d say things like this to my friends—“Oh my god, my parents are so embarrassing! Ignore their accent.”—and promptly blush. I’d say this, to my parents, on the other hand—“I don’t want to watch your dumb movie.”—and promptly go back to watching a dumb show on Netflix. Apparently eating orange peels is good for your health. Doesn’t mean that they taste nice, though.

LIMBU (LEMON)

The only language I know is English. I speak it fast and disjointed, and half the time I don’t even know what I’m saying. It doesn’t make me feel like a true American, like my parents had hoped. Instead, I’m left grasping for pani at the water fountain and staring in silence at my grandparents.

I’m familiar with the taste of lemons. Not because I eat them a lot—I hate them, actually—but because I feel it in my mouth every time I say that I don’t know something Indian. When I can’t talk to my grandmother. When I try to stumble over a word and fail, because I “sound too American.” I’ve gone to India, once. With only one glance, everybody automatically knew I was a foreigner. I wish that I could say that lemons taste like regret. Not because it’d be poetic and all, but because it would mean that I’m not angry, just sad. That I’m accepting the fact that I’ll be the last of my family that can at least understand Gujarati. That I’m the last that can truly feel that ethnicity goes back farther than skin color, that it traces over the ocean and the hardship of our ancestors and the poverty and discrimination they had to face and so much more than anything I can say. That they’ll never know the sound of wonder on my family’s face when they call on the phone and say, “Masi, the only thing I want when I come to America is a chocolate coin,” or the Bollywood movies that I can belt along to without actually understanding, or the days and days of a wedding and the happiness vibrating in the air. But instead they taste sour, because I know it’s all my fault. I never eat lemons alone now, not since that time I accidentally spilled a drop of juice on my cut. I do add them to my pani sometimes, though. Hah. That’s water. Lemon-water. (I don’t know how to say that in anything but English.) Fal, I say sometimes. It’s one of the few words I actually know. All it means is fruit.

HARRY FENG Bloody and bruised, the young boy smiles.

TENACITY

There is not a soul in sight for many miles, except for biting words and heavy punches; still he stalks home into the night’s clutches. Memories of pain and emotions, by meeting, bring out an enduring character for greeting.

Wild and free, mighty laughter rumbles from his pack, but masks a loneliness that he alone must begin to attack. In his heart, this sorrow corrodes the walls of his soul; nonetheless, he extinguishes and moves beyond the toll. Behind the scars of age and time, is a darkened stain

remnant of wretched moments spawned by God’s bane. Only the dutiful endure; only the determined focus;

gradually conquering all to overthrow ill-gotten purpose.

Even though he suffers under the influence of incurable disease and Rodin’s gates of Hell swing open for him with horrifying ease, his soul crosses the precipice of suffering as he achieves recovery and rejects the path that Dante wrote to relish in life’s discovery. An attribute to the forefathers of every nation and the rulers of old, the present continues the tradition of hardship for the ultimate gold; not as a material product of earth, but obtained by a soul’s labor

and drawn upon as strength for the mental strain against a neighbor. The ability to persist and thrive without the corruption of veracity from the pressures and duress of the world around; that is Tenacity.

UNTITLED STEPHANIE WANG

BROOK

GENERATIONS HELEN YANG

Mismatched chopsticks lined the rounded hongmu table, a memory of the days back in China. Some made of wood, others bamboo, a select few porcelain—nonetheless, all lying straight against the polished wood, rubbed down after decades of use: thousands of bowls clanging against the surface, not a single grain of rice left at the bottom. Li li jie xing ku, my mother would scold us, etching the phrase into the tips of our chopsticks, leaving no farmer’s efforts wasted. Han di he xia tu: I pictured an elderly rice planter, spine curved over, sweat seeping into the grains of rice, his toothless grin haunting us each time even a single grain of rice was left in our bowls. If you waste food, then you will be punished: punished by planting rice yourself. We had it better than the others. Their lifetime of work limited to merely the clanking of chopsticks against the china, no mind paid toward the families of our sourcer. No care toward the others. The adults sat around the same table, hours later, after the floralrimmed plates and soy sauce-stained tablecloth were stripped, replaced by the washing of pai, the white plastic faces painted by symbols, each representing a family, pushed around and mixed with the others. It was temporarily quiet—the little ones on

the balcony squealed with delight, teenagers gathered around the throw rug, staring intently into a chunk of metal, where, apparently, their entire social life lay. A sheer curtain of age separated the adults and the children, a divide between the generations. A division of standards and society. Ai ya, Auntie Lin spoke, repositioning the wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her button nose, the curves resting in the crook of her ears. Ears thick like Buddha’s, Nainai used to say. Good fortune, good future, good family. And certainly, like the rest of the families that sat around the table, she was lucky. Blessed. Remember the first few days we came to America? The table rumbled with chuckles, voices reminiscing in unison. Their deep hickory eyes glossing over. We all came over with eight hundred dollars in pocket, a suitcase full of silk dresses, stomachs rumbling from hunger. I remember this story, the one all aunties and uncles told at gatherings: the eight of them, squeezed in one hotel room, doing everything they could to forget the stabbing pains in their abdomen. We didn’t know if eight hundred dollars was enough to snag us a meal—how clueless we were! And when they finally succumbed to the groaning of their bodies, they sat on the streets of the downtown

BROOK simply, age) taking its effect. Remember the first gift I gave you for our anniversary? Baba chimed in. Mama nodded, dimples inscribed into her rosy cheeks, painted by a glass (or two) of wine. It was a Kate Spade purse. Clearance. A nice little bag. They giggled, as if young lovers again. I think we ate canned chicken and broccoli for a month after that, since you blew your first paycheck buying that for me. Mama winked at Baba, eyes twinkling. She still has that purse, locked in her closet among other valuables of staggering different prices. I’ve always questioned her why; why a cheap, old purse among your new, more sophisticated ones? It was crumbling now, the exterior

(PE N

& INK)

D YON

R A SH I R U A G

laughing, tears streaming down their face. I remember walking into that buffet, the scent of oil bogging down the air, asking them how much it was for one person. And once they found out it was just six dollars and ninetynine scents for one to eat as much as they desired, China Star became their cafeteria, stuffing themselves to the brim with food that tasted just slightly of home—enough to keep them from going insane, in the concrete jungle of exotic lands, clutching on to each other as if letting go of one would cause the others to collapse. Children these days, though, they’re too spoiled. Too blind to see how lucky they are. Our first room, in the basement of 49 Badger Street, the first door on the right. I remember thinking: how lucky I’d be, if one day I could own a home like this. It was a quaint little place, a simple two bedroom home with a modest family, sharing their space to make ends meet. It’s funny, Uncle Gao chimed in, how much we all craved to own a house like that. Our houses now? Easily twice or three times the price and size of that. Eight heads bobbed up and down, wispy black hair tangled amongst strands of grey and white, years of strain (and quite

leather worn by years and years of use. It’s quite sad, that pandora bracelets mean nothing to them except another bracelet to add to their collection, a closet filled with materialistic items at the sheer age of seventeen. Uncle Hu readjusts his gold encrusted watch, his balding head reflecting light off the glass chandelier illuminating the room. (One in every room, custom designed, of course). It’s a shame they’re living life so easily. Luxuries handed to them as if it fell out of the sky like raindrops, plentiful and unexceptional. As if we didn’t build our legacy from nothing.

MANDALA EFFECT

GAURI SHARMA (PEN & INK)

Mama and Baba argued about this a lot; how I should be working to pay for college, how they should stop feeding my guilty pleasures. It’s as if she snatches these gifts like how she eats rice: quickly, and without a care to how much work was put in behind it. And they’d shout, in the walk-in closet of theirs, surrounded by walls and walls of shoes and purses and suits, into the darkness of the night. But it always ended with Baba: The world is a bitter place to be. But don’t worry—soon they’ll get a taste of the ku, they’ll get a taste of our past.

BROOK

O R P D S W LIKE T E D EARDROPS moonlight glows silver on soft petals, shines upon crystal clear dew; diamond teardrops is it the willow who weeps? leaving signs of dismay, fear for sleep that never stops;

tears for the hummingbirdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s emerald wings, when thick smoke leaves the thin feathers tarnished like diamonds turned to coal; dulled, lifeless things within Her world, an ongoing carnage but dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s balmy rays glint off of the beads; a thousand reflected stars, fixed, captured upon Her Earth, untainted beauty breeds distorted in the rounded orbs, fractured? maybe so, but preserved, saved nonetheless by the tender hands that sooth Her distress

PIPER EPSTEIN 23

DEARANNIE SELF, LI Rejoice, for today you dress in glory, for even morning stars envy the way your skin folds into a home for lost scars, hands melt into cotton clouds to hold, milk bones never expire. For you smile with pink tongue & white teeth. Rejoice, the pink & the white.

SHADOWS ANNA GALVIN

RUSH HOUR LAURA ZHOU (ACRYLIC)

MINDLESS SERENITY BRINDA DHAWAN

A COLORFUL WORLD CLARA YU (ACRYLIC)

ANNIE LI

(ACRYLIC)

URBAN COLORS

POLLINATION ANNA MEHLHORN (OIL)

THIRD EYE NORA WYNN

THE FIRE BURNS NIVEDITHA BALAN

POND

INFESTED MICHELLE ARAYA

A fanatic chant of “Build that wall! Build that wall!” was that day’s morning greeting. Every weekend, I had walked into his bagel shop at six in the morning to work eight hour shifts filled with familiar faces and the aroma of freshly baked bagels. Like past times, I instinctively let his comments brush past me, and focused on minimizing the monstrous line of hungry customers. After all, my boss was not discreet in hiding his feelings toward my ethnicity. He’d ask if every Hispanic that came in was my family member. He required that I stay later to clean the shop. Worst, I’d discovered I was the only one being paid under the table. An uncomfortable silence grew. All the customers were staring at my boss. He nudged me and laughingly explained, “When Trump’s elected, he’ll deport your family because you’re Mexican. After your deportation in January, I’ll have to find a new employee.” In total shock, my initial reaction was an insincere smile and a nod. As the day continued, I controlled the circulating anger inside my body. I had reached the limit. I could not continue to accept the thoughts and words of this man. I started cancelling shifts until he just stopped calling. A few months later, I got a new job and was trained in the making of smoothies, juices, and the refilling of the yogurt and toppings machines. I quickly learned the ins and outs of this shop. My boss complimented me on my work ethic, informing me that her shop had never looked so clean. Hearing these words, I did what anyone else would do: I thanked her for the praise. However, what I thought to be a

compliment turned into something much more complicated. Five seconds later she asked, “Do you think you could get me in contact with other Hispanic girls? I need more employees and they clean so well. Or do you have any siblings that want a job?” I shook my head and turned away. But the same frustration that circulated my body the day at the bagel shop returned. This time, I was both disappointed and confused. I was unsure how to react and what to feel because I felt complimented yet insulted at the same time. As she, too, was a minority, I expected her to have more sensitivity. I knew there were choices I would have to make; however, it was unclear which one would be most appropriate. I weighed my options and decided to be responsible: I stayed until my shift was over. At the end of the day, I approached her and said, “I cannot recommend any Hispanic girls to clean your shop. With all due respect, your ignorance toward my ethnicity concerns me. Your offensive words impact people and after today I will no longer work for you.” That was my last conversation with her and my last day at the shop. I had left one job due to racially insensitive comments. I was not going to stay for another. I knew I had to make a change within myself before I could start anywhere else. I grew up loving my culture; this new mindset influenced me to speak up against comments diminishing my ethnicity. Now, I have deeply embedded roots into my heritage, creating a greater sense of pride and appreciation. I have found my voice and I refuse to accept a world where I am silent.

PARADOX How strange it is to be snowing in summer, I thought once, feeling the fleeting frozen flakes of snow fall on my tongue. My feet frozen to my shoes, getting colder and colder with each step I take. I am remembering the cozy sounds of my family, the sound of honey, of birthday candles. The scent enlightened my nose. Within me, a sense of understanding blossomed, and I emerged with my eyes cold and clear. Looking up and out at the world, as if for the first time.

NICOLE FENG ANNIE LI EMMA NI KAIA Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;REILLY SOPHIA SAPIENZA NANDINI SHAH EUGENA YOUM

NATURAL MONOCHROME

POND

OF SWING-SETS AND BATTLE LINES

plastic glinting orange-bright above leafy fields: laughing games won in monkey-bar tricks and scraped knees, in somersaults and soccer aim because at three we dreamed of swing-sets. walls of soft yellow washed in afternoon glow: eager fingers buried in new books and old markers in chalk dust and soap bubbles because at six we dreamed in question marks.

sidewalk tinted magenta by sparkling newborn sun: petty rivalries fought in stinging words and stolen hair-ribbons in playground bullies and tattle-tales because at nine we dreamed of jealousies.

JENNY XU

clouds torn by fading ocean skies: silent worries cast in old fashion trends and new body shapes in insecurities and embarrassments because at twelve we dreamed in if-onlys. world painted crimson by streaking dying light: careful battle-lines drawn in decimal points and teachersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; smiles in study groups and library hours because at fifteen we dream in numbers.

ANANYA IYENGAR 31

MY COMMON APP ESSAY CATHERINE

PODELL

I don’t know what to say. I have 650 words to tell you why you should want me at your school and I honestly don’t know what to tell you. What do you want? Do you want a sob story? Do you want to hear about my love for theatre? Do you want to hear about my interfaith family and how I’ve grown? Yeah, you probably do. That’s what I’m supposed to tell you. And you’re supposed to care! I have to pretend that you’re not a person sitting in a room that has the power to decide my future based on if you like whether or not you like what I write. I have to make myself believe that my essay, out of all of the other essays you read, matters, is different from the other essays, the other unique stories. And maybe it is. Maybe what I write makes you cry, or it somehow relates to your life and makes you think about the choices you’ve made or the household you grew up in. Maybe you go tell your coworkers all about this amazing college essay this small white girl from New Jersey wrote. Maybe it changes the way you think. Maybe I have the power to impact you. But I probably don’t. Because that is what I am. I am a small Jewish white girl from New Jersey. I grew up with a mother, a father, a brother, and a sister, all very nuclear. I lived in a nice house and attended a

good school. I had every opportunity. I took voice lessons, played softball and piano. I’m decent at English and suck at math. All very unextraordinary. So here I am, sitting on my couch, wondering what I could possibly write about that will separate me from the thousands of other essays that you read. I could write about my copious medical issues, or how I went from being very conservative to very liberal. I could write about my activism or my sleepaway camp. I really could, and you’d probably like it. But I want to be passionate. I want to write about my passion. But, frankly, I don’t know how to do that. I want to find something that keeps me up at night until I write it down. I want to write about taboo subjects like sex and sexuality. But I’m told that you don’t want to hear about those things. I want to write about injustice and religion and anarchy. But that’s not

POND

BROKEN NORA WYNN

what you’re supposed to write your college essay about. Because I don’t know you. I can’t write about sex because you might think I am unstable. I can’t write about religion because I don’t know what tone you’ll read it in and I might offend you. I can’t write about politics because I don’t know where you fall on the political spectrum. I can’t write about my hatred for people that bike on main roads without a shoulder because for all I know that could be how you got to work this morning. So, you see my dilemma. Here I am at word 522. I have 124 words left.

Have I affected you? Do my words impact your life at all? Will you think about this essay as you drive home tonight? Or will you move on to the next 650 word paper in your pile? Maybe the next one will make you tear up or laugh out loud. And I need to please you. I want you to like my writing. “Wow, how introspective,” I imagine you thinking to yourself. But are you thinking that? I hope so. I want you to think my essay is different from the ones in your pile today. I need you to want me at your school. I crave your validation. Because you decide my future. I am different. Please want me. 650.

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM SOPHIA SAPIENZA Maybe it had not been the best idea to run away, Magnolia Mavis now realized. What had seemed like an adventure, a realized dream, was full of shivering, freezing arms and the persistent growl of an empty stomach. Just a few hours ago it had seemed like a fantasy: in a bleak life, a youth slowly wasting away, to have a sudden freedom of it all. This rationale seemed just fine in gym class, where the students were “playing field hockey.” After all, there was nothing for her at home in sleepy

AT WHAT COST?

RILIA LI

(ACRYLIC & 3D MODEL)

Bridgepoint, so why stay? She didn’t listen to the calls of her classmates. Or the shouts of the teacher. She didn’t stop running when she heard the telltale metallic wail of police sirens. Magnolia Mavis was not going back. Reassurances to herself in mind, when she was far gone from her town and anything recognizable, with only her footsteps and the open sky as company, she was giddy with excitement. After stopping to catch her breath

POND and seeing the orange sun losing its grip on the sky, she started laughing. Not because it was a bad idea, but because it was the best idea she’d ever had. Why hadn’t she run sooner? Bouts of euphoric laughter overcame her, and when it started to drizzle rain, pit-pattering softly on the pavement, she danced in the empty streets, because to her, the rain was the essence of joy. She didn’t think about what she would do if the rain became a storm, while she was just wearing a T-shirt and track shorts. And when that happened half an hour later, suddenly Magnolia was very sorry she hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. All at once, the rain didn’t seem so fun. Rain will pass, she reassured herself. The sun will shine again and my clothes will dry out and everything will be okay. On that note, Magnolia Mavis trudged on through the rainy street, frigid puddles soaking her cheap sneakers. Hugging herself, she squeezed her arms into her stomach to numb the mild hunger she felt. Somehow, she’d forgotten in the heat of the moment when she ran to figure out where to get food. In her average middle-class life, she’d never had to wonder about it before. Magnolia figured that maybe if she just went to sleep, then things would somehow be fine in the morning and she could carry on. Settling for a damp, partially-tree-covered spot in the woods nearby, she tossed and turned in the dark, trying not to imagine all the bugs and spiders and—and—snakes. She shivered at the thought, but it may have been the cold. Magnolia hated snakes, and their too-smooth, slippery scales… Could she really do this every night for the rest of her life? Always running, but never knowing where? Had she made a terrible mistake? Yes, she decided, forcing back tears that couldn’t be suppressed. The thought of home, all the things she loved about it—her family, her house, even her school—finally overwhelmed her, forcing tears from her eyes and down her cheeks. Yes, I have. And now, after what felt like a lifetime of restlessness, Magnolia stood up in the pitch-

black and storming night, facing the way she’d come. God knows how far away she was by now, or whether she’d be able to make the same turns to go back home. This is what you wanted. She took a step. It’s not. She took another step, and then another, and soon she broke into a run. Memories of home, of her childhood in quiet Bridgepoint, flashed through her mind. When I was six, I lost my first tooth. I showed my mom, crying from the blood in my mouth, and I was scared. My mom laughed, hugged me, and told me it happens to everyone. She dried my tears, read me a bedtime story, and put me to sleep. I found a dollar the next day under my pillow, and when I asked her how the fairy got in, she said she didn’t know. For my ninth birthday, my parents took me to the amusement park. It was a hot summer day, and the three-hour drive was grueling for an easily bored nine-year old. But my parents rolled down the windows and we sang songs all the way there. After we arrived, I rode the merry-go-round twenty times and drank my favorite cherry soda till I was nearly sick, and we stayed there at the park until the sun began to set. I wish I’d told them that it was the best birthday I’d ever had. When I was ten, they started to fight. Real fighting, with screaming and slamming doors. They promised it wasn’t because of me, but I heard my dad shouting about my education. They split up when I was twelve. That was the year I accepted that the tooth fairy wasn’t real, after my friend Rachel told me her mom said so. They both claimed to love me more. Since then, both working to support themselves, Mom and Dad were distant. I guess they just never had time for me. When that didn’t change, I realized I needed to. I didn’t realize that through all of it, they both bent over backwards to care for me. And now, I’m hurting them more then ever. Pouring rain. Pounding footsteps. Wind howling sharply through trees losing leaves. Magnolia ran down the dark, empty road, vision blurred with tears. The night loomed ahead of her.

BLACK BOX ALEXANDER LIU

jisgo isseuryeona! or something *** You know the cliché forearm pressed against the wall tears streaming? Now add sentiment what’s sentiment? Well scent is mint of 5Gum box on the floor you liked to chew back in the fourth hey! there are your old glasses propped gleaning on the drawer! Who knows why (it’s college) but the next thing you’re flipping the awards binder (after, of course, a few strums not on the strings but the wood of the violin you loved and violently failed—three hours of open strings for a year got you into chamber but are you playing Tchaikovsky?) Here’s an essay you wrote in Chinese school there’s 100 up top circled in the red. It’s the same red as the eyes of your grandpa in the first picture you ever took with the camera he gave you (I miss him so much) he showed me pink bubble gum and joy The essay is about grandpa. You asked him if he had friends and a phone number in heaven.

LAB

POND

Turn now look! It’s Penn Relays on your door near dad’s height marker. Where was the kick this year? Oh, to your knees. Sucks. In the movies you look at one thing and everything comes back to the gut, but real life really hits you with the combo platter. Plaque from the university you think you love but forgot to go to the ceremony. A picture of Carnegie Hall. You were wearing a shirt two sizes small but hey you were damn good. Were. Why is your closet open why can you see the blanket you forgot to use all summer it’s your favorite isn’t it? Where’ve you been? (Take a break. Blow your nose, or don’t, because everything’s watery anyway) Back at your desk, reaching for a lovely lavender index card with lists of life regrets and lonely listlessness. Lavender index cards. Look up!

BYRINTH ANNIE LI

“I’M SORRY” jisgo isseuryeona! something spills, just a little more than usual.

MEMORY SPAN 38

POND

WHISPER, CREAK ANGELINA HAN

SERENA TIAN (MIXED MEDIA)

The whispering elevator, Cassidy always called it when they went up or down. Let’s use the whispering elevator. It was an old elevator squeezed in a dusty corner of the apartment complex and probably didn’t meet modern safety standards, but on days when she was in a good mood, Laurie would relent and let the chubby 4-year-old run down the hallway into the rattley old lift. Do you hear it? Cassidy’s eyes would grow big, and she’d giggle. This elevator tells secrets! Laurie had always laughed too, and played along with Cassidy’s overactive imagination. She did not believe in ghosts or spirits, witches or the paranormal. In high school, she studied calculus and physics, numbers and rules. On Sundays she slept in late while Mass started down the street. The elevator was just a rusty relic whose cables were in need of a little oil, that was all. Notwithstanding, she usually avoided the old elevator altogether when she could. It was just a touch too creepy, a smidge too unpredictable for her comfort. Today, however, she paused at the front of the other elevator: the newer, sleeker one, with buttons that actually lit up. Her sneakers twisted the worn plum carpet underfoot as she stood, thinking. Cassidy’s family was moving, and today was the last day she’d be in this building, doing this job. Laurie felt strangely nostalgic. About what? She chided herself. You aren’t even the one moving. Cassidy is cute, but you’ll find someone new to babysit. Still, she hesitated on the landing, her thumb playing with the zipper pull on her bag. The elevator dinged open in front of her, its shiny chrome walls glimmering invitingly, but by sudden impulse she turned on her heel and walked down the corridor to the whispering elevator. Part of her felt stupid for wanting to try the whispering elevator one more time. Part of her felt silly for giving in to this want. But part of her needed to believe in Cassidy’s magic elevator one more time. Standing in front of the rickety brown doors with paint peeling like tree bark, she wondered

for the millionth time if it was safe. Maybe this time would be the last, and the ancient cables would finally snap like brittle twigs as years of use caught up in one final plummet. She pressed the down button anyway, and the elevator shook itself awake. Laurie listened hard for any whispers. Any intelligible words. The elevator cranked and shuddered, moaned and squeaked as metal pressed tightly against metalâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;but no trace of whispers. Or was there? Beneath the shifting sounds of steel and gears, Laurie caught snatches of...something. She shivered involuntarily. There had to be people in the elevator. She heard laughter now, and murmured conversation, words blurred through metal and the clanking of cables. The elevator dinged once, faintly, absentmindedly, as it stopped on the eighth floor. Laurie reached up to tuck a wayward strand of brown hair behind her ear, looked up with a greeting on her lips as the door slid openâ&#x20AC;Ś There was no one there. Laurie blinked and pressed two fingers to her temple. She could have sworn that the whispering was real this time, yet here was the normal old elevator, squatting quietly before her. She shoved herself in, shoulder brushing by a faded flyer, and pressed firmly on the button for the first floor. She waited for an apocalypse to happen. For the lights to blink off and

for the elevator to trap her there. But nothing happened. The elevator performed its function smoothly, gliding down the floors, 8...7...6 and all the way to 1. Squinting a little in the sudden flood of sunlight, Laurie stepped out into the lobby. Her sneakers whispered on the clean floor as she walked determinedly away, shaking her head at the strangeness of it all. The elevator squeaked shut and went whooshing back up, the sound of cable on rails laughing as it went.

ORANGE JENNY CHEN

(GOUACHE)

RAINDROP

THIS FATEFUL CONDITION HOSSEIN ZOLFAGHARI

This fateful condition A tough-luck, strike and bang rendition Of a time spent well and free Dreaming and thinking Comets, stars and Mars bars You and me

This fateful condition The magnitude of marring magenta memories Tossing my rag-doll Me through the high-seas of oceans Strewn with effigies To a time not forgotten To a time still hanging from the willow trees

This fateful condition The strife of a wife constantly rejected admission To worlds unknown to those outside These dough-like thoughts relentlessly rise Trying and failing, their commitment to subside: a demise

RENDEZVOUS RILIA LI (ACRYLIC & 3D MODEL)

RAINDROP

PLAYFUL ARTICULATION BRINDA DHAWAN

DIVYA RAVIKUMAR

EARPHONES

RAINDROP

staring out the bus window at raindrops, loneliness crept, a solid reminder your arm touches mine; time quietly stopped. i raised the volume; something in me stirred again, i sat with music in my ears you sat next to me like it was not there you questioned and rambled, sure i could hear gold eyes compelled; i took one out to care but you were persistent, you know that right? you smiled and said it was part of your charm eyes crinkled, cheeks dimpled, laughter so bright the other one left, too, yet i felt warm now when i wear them to cancel the noise, the only music i hear is your voice

THE SUMMIT RUMA ARABATTI

Sunset flame swabbed the treetops, making them shimmer like rubies. I puffed up the mountain trail, dodging sharp gray rocks, a fluttering Alaskan breeze brushing my face. To listen to the wind whistling in the leaves took me away from the hustle and bustle of my thoughts, transporting me to a place where I was at peace. I reached the summit when the sun cast fire on the Alaska range to my north. I scanned around—Denali, the tallest mountain in North America, stood at my west. Yellow aspen trees dominated the forest. Dall sheep clung to the nearby slopes, laughing at the laws of gravity. Flycatchers somersaulted for insects, eagles ruled the skies, and the chattering of cicadas added onto the orchestra. I sighed. This was the most breathtaking scenery I had ever encountered. As I observed the landscape, I noticed one tree in particular: an aspen with bright red leaves. Amid the sea of trees, it was the only aspen with red leaves. It stood at the same height as the other trees; it too quivered in the wind. How did it get those colors? I didn’t want to think in cold scientific terms, where it was just another lucky individual to

inherit that pigment. I knew that tree’s dilemma too well, being different. Did it feel lonely? Different—If I were to play back all the times people had said that to me, the tape would go on for a decade. Even when I first entered a classroom, that word would become my label for the rest of the year. But the word “different” itself wasn’t used. “Quiet” was. I was diagnosed with Selective Mutism at a young age, which was a technical way of saying I couldn’t speak in certain social situations, even if I wanted to. Throughout my school years, I yearned to be that kid who made friends without breaking a sweat. However much I tried though, that desire slipped further from my grasp. I soon knew what a monster loneliness was. That feeling when you long for something and never get it was the worst feeling in the world. The only way I could live with my severe social anxiety was to write it all down. That’s how I was introduced to my destiny: writing stories. I started out by writing about my neighborhood

INTO THEANANYA SUNSET IYENGAR

happenings. There was a woman across the street who had a crazy poodle. There was another time I left my electronic pony out in the rain and a constant neighing from outside kept waking me up. There was something about the silence which made you a great observer. The world became my canvas and I was the artist, painting people around me, their conversations, motives, quirks, with layers upon layers of hidden desires and backstories. That girl who wore plaid every day became an undercover agent. The boy who played in the sandbox? He was a dragon trainer. The sun gave a final farewell, and before I

knew it I was back on the trail. That was when I noticed something on the ground. A heart-shaped leaf had settled onto the path, quivering with a fiery gleam. I picked it up and held it across my hand. I rubbed the leaf against my finger as if I could pick up the pigment. The waxy surface was still fresh. Suppose there was no need to change my leaf color. As I continue my ascent for identity, I will never forget those trembling leaves on that aspen tree. Regardless of which road I take, I know my personality which I fought against for such a long time is slowly becoming my greatest asset.

HIDDEN 48

FIONA PAN (DIGITAL)

ALEXANDER LIU

DEFINE LOVE

RAINDROP

(REPRISE)

“I want (you) to be happy” “I want (you) to be selfish” “I want to love (you)” What point is there in loving only to look back to a trail of half-healed hearts, the remnants of old loves washing away on a beach littered with your bones? The cries of “why” screech and merge with the howling storm of doubt as someone catches your eye and your heartstrings unravel like a rom-com cassette And as you keep redefining

love (noun): a deep feeling of intense attraction

The guilt and the shame and the nights of filthy pent-up blames come roaring around the corner You wonder if you can be happy with wanting to be happy when the alternative is to atone and drown in the winds, oceans, static of old love. But you choose the form and when the words come out they drown too, and all she hears is “I love (you …

deserve happiness)”

JENNY XU

THE DYING SUN

blue ocean skies splayed apart by lime-bud stick-branches a leaf drifts aimlessly skywards, borne by the chilling wind as the mocking-birds screech their praises to its shadow and as the dying sun paints the woolly clouds with streaks of magenta-peach the universe quiets waiting, perhaps for another day to blossom

WAVES

LAURA ZHOU (DIGITAL)

RAINDROP

WINGS OF THE WIND LAUREN NOLAN FIONA PAN RICHA PATEL EMILY REN STEPHANIE WANG ELLENA YANG HELEN YANG ALEXANDRIA YAO

The soft, warm sand met the salty sea and fell in love. The seagulls witnessed this as they soared above Through the clouds, over the ocean waves. Images that drift through the open sky wander aimlessly, moving under the wings of the wind. A compass strung around your heart and tied to the sun. How will it show you the way? Closing my eyes, I allow myself to be carried away.

ESCAPE

Pale pink hue of the rising sun, shards of ice glinting below A whispering wind creeps across the meadow. The chill of the breeze reaches for me. I escape its grasp, floating faster than one can see. The adrenaline rushes through my veins, allowing me to swim faster. As a minnow darts through the reeds, I slip past all that blocks me. Free at last, I swim to the brightness that lies ahead, reaching out to the shores of tomorrow.

TALYA DEUTSCH PIPER EPSTEIN ANGELINA HAN ANANYA IYENGAR APURVA IYENGAR NEENA Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;MARA JENNY XU GRACE YAN 51

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS HIGH SCHOOL ADMINISTRATION Paul J. Popadiuk, Principal Naoma Green, Vice Principal Scott Pachuta, Vice Principal Heather Pino-Beattie, Vice Principal Corie Gaylord, Director of Student Academic and Counseling Services Melissa Hodgson, Supervisor of Social Studies Chris Penna, Director of Athletics Alma Reyes, Supervisor of World Languages Jennifer Riddell, Supervisor of Mathematics Karen Stalowski, Supervisor of English Jason Sullivan, Supervisor of Science Joanne Tonkin, Supervisor of Pupil Services Adam Warshafsky, Supervisor of Visual and Performing Arts

CENTRAL OFFICE ADMINISTRATION Nancy Gartenberg, Superintendent of Schools Dr. Elizabeth Nastus, Assistant Superintendent for Curriculum and Instruction Fiona Borland, Director of Technology Kelly Mattis, Director of Human Resources and Staff Development Mary McLoughlin, Director of Pupil Services Damian Pappa, Director of Assessment and Testing Annette Wells, School Business Administrator / Board Secretary

BOARD OF EDUCATION Richard T. Cavalli, Board President Amy Miller, Vice-President Phyllis Bursh Minkyo Chenette Dharmesh H. Doshi Charles F. Jacey, Jr. Dr. Paul M. Johnson Ranjana Rao Shreesh Tiwari

OPEN SESAME JENNY CHEN (MARKER)