2022 Stylus

Stylus 2022

Editing Staff

Lauren Schier as Head Editor & Chief

Rhea Chakradeo as Head Literary Editor

Emma Burd as Head Literary Editor Jax Tsai as Head Art Editor

Front Cover Art by Naya Saker Back Cover Art by Elodie Cha

Thank you to all the staff that helped us edit and analyze the submissions!

Club Members

Laura Altirs

Nicholas Baum Elodie Cha Elliot Cha Rohan Jain

Christina Bonarti

Freddie Bishop Sebastian Young Olivia Okun Dubitsky

Akasha Baranello Caroline Sachs Naya Saker

Ethan Lieberman Dyno Goran

Cam Corbett

Jasmine Shah Alexis Urquhart Peyton Vincent Jihoo Shim Bridget Goldman Lily Friedman Rose Friedman Kitty Williams Logan Zur Iliana Weisberg Bella Kuick

Matthew Bonarti Kate McClusky Russell Francis Clay Hudson

Sicilian Beauty

Akasha Baranello

The door to the house remains ajar

The windows cracked with grime

The darkness sitting inside, Old, lonely, tired Uninviting, but something magnetic is there.

The play set is rusted, overgrown With broken promises of care The striped awning torn by weather, The swing chains rusted by too many hands. The greenery around the home forms a fence But the door to the house remains ajar. The old, weary darkness inside Open to the beauty that passes around it. The smiles The glances The moments when time stops

And creates another small memory Of beauty.

photo by Bella Douglas

Logan

Furlonge

Look, there is the sky, and here is the grass. I know where I am. 1

I have been inside these four walls for 38 days and I believe I have begun to lose my mind. I left with a half full tank of gas, three hundred dollars in cash. It shouldn’t have been so easy, packing up and moving on, but I know by now that leaving isn’t the hard part. It’s the return. It’s the strength to turn back.

I have been wasting away for 38 days.

I think I left behind some sort of half living being, held together with tape and safety pins; a human cracked right down the center and stuffed with wrapping paper for whoever comes along. Home might be a person, but I think I can form a shelter from my duct taped together collection of broken bones. Something to keep the wind out.

It’s a cramped thing made of boxes, this palace I’ve subjected myself to. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, all in one square. I’ve curated a place meant for leaving that I’ve never left. The mattress, I found on the side of the road. The silverware is entirely from takeout: plastic cutlery and butterfly wing napkins, all easily disposable.

There are ghosts in the walls in my mind in the light burning an orange glow shot through the streetlamps. I am a fragmented puzzle of everyone from before trying to make space for whatever I am now. Do I have anyone? Do I have myself?

I was once employed by a rather elderly man who believed he was the most honest man he’d ever met, but to be honest is to recognize the prisons we’re kept in are jails of our own making. He believed in God. He told me, when he visited once, reminding me to look at the sky and the grass as if I don’t know where I am. I told him to think, really think, if he believed the universe was created by a sole being, and each portion of the universe has its own part to play, and somehow, somehow, we are the only human beings in the entire solar system, or milky way, or everything that has been made, or everything that will be made.

“Now tell me,” I said to him, “you don’t feel lonely.”

He’s asleep, aint he? With kings and counselors. 2

I have been inside these four walls for 41 days and the stones are creeping closer. I used to have rooms and rooms of people I loved, and who loved me. I stare at the brick wall rising past my box window and count the people who make up me, or what I try to be. I have eyes that belonged to my mother, hands that I shared with my sister, words borrowed and stolen, but never belonging to me. My brain is a radio. The world is full of complicated people. Complicated people fill the world. I am

1 Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville, 51

2 Melville, 53

I don’t believe I am here

the king of this palace. My ghosts haunt the halls. Down aways, someone is crying. There is always someone crying here.

My ghosts say: how do you know you are here?

I say: how do I know I am real?

There are no books here in my palace. They take away my butterfly wing napkins and plastic cutlery. They keep replacing my blankets; my ghosts tear them to pieces in my sleep.

There is no allowance for my bones to remain bones. They will always be something to keep out the wind.

There is nothing for me to do but think and think and think and think and stay and stay and stay and stay. My employer visited me again. He’s coming back today. I don’t think he knows he is wasting away, too. I know. My ghosts told me.

photo by Ben Sherman

Real Reindeer Year

Akasha Baranello

Every year, the very moment the secondhand hits October, I ask if it’s a Real Reindeer Year. We sit and deliberate for a moment, or so it seems.

At the thought, my mind and body are immediately flooded. The scent of pine, wood, slight must, Hands of generations and joy fills me.

Garland, pine wood, needles, the slight sweet of cookies, the slight salt of tears.

Every time I lift the lid of the tattered “box” those antlers greet my nose, the pine stick legs whisper how good it is to see me another year, standing strong, the spirit of the tree they were taken from floats around my head, flows through the house, so everyone knows that this year is a Real Reindeer Year.

photo by Jasmine Shah

the ocean is on fire

Willow Delp

we live in a world where the ocean is on fire fish live in a world where the ocean is on fire

what did they think when they saw the flames intermingle with blue and green waves? (their home watery ashes)

can their fish brains process such horrors?

can their fish brains process the ocean on fire? were they confused? surprised? delighted? did they think a mystery before they realized a tragedy?

before they realized the end?

and if the ocean is on fire if the world is on fire what am i, if not a fish in the making?

what are we what is this world if not seven billion fish a school of seven billion fish?

upside-down

Akasha Baranello

It’s the feeling of my hair brushing the dirt, the blood rushing to my head the near falling thoughts and the accolades and “wow’s” I receive that motivate me to keep swinging. Every forward push of my legs brings me higher. The eyes of my peers getting closer, then farther, then gone. The chastisement of a teacher for potentially endangering myself. But going upside down is all I swing for.

To push the limits. 90 degrees 100 degrees 150 degrees 180 degrees, my body a straight line, perpendicular to the ground.

The world looks so different from there. The roots of trees are exposed, The clouds under my feet The secrets ingrained in the earth, all revealed to me in that one suspended moment.

My hands grip my lifeline, the chain of the swing, while my hair brushes the ground, connecting me briefly with those secrets.

And then I resurface.

the rose in the mirror

Lauren Schier

if my pen is a mirror with no reflection, then my tongue is a bud that will soon bloom.

my pen is an archivist of the words my tongue will speak, and as a mirror with nothing but white pages and black lines, its emptiness and eeriness can only be captured by the tinted pink tips of my rose bud

made of metals and glass, it soaks in, reflects controls the environment with a steady glare, but the fruit of labor, the apple that drops from my symphonies, the peaches that drip from my song, they are connected to the core of the rosebush, and are thus the prerequisite for pen.

the buds are unseeing, yet seen the buds are spined, yet dethorned

their pricks are the lashings of my language, a sharp and knowing tone.

uplifted and aspired, those two connected, then the bud that is my voice, the mirror that is my pen.

art by Elodie Cha

The following piece, entitled “The Guised Guide of Sir Gawain,” is an interpretive monologue inspired by the poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Written by the anonymous Pearl Poet around the end of the fourteenth century, SGGK traces Gawain, a knight of King Arthur’s Round Table, as he embarks on a quest to find and fulfill his agreement with the infamous Green Knight. In keeping with the original poem’s meter, this monologue is written in alliterative verse; each line typically consists of four beats (two beats per half line), with at least three of the four total beats starting with the same sound. Along with adhering to the constructs of alliterative verse, the monologue also employs a traditional bob and wheel structure that is used almost exclusively in SGGK. At the end of each stanza consisting of unrhymed verse, there are five lines that follow an ABABA rhyme scheme: one half line (the bob) followed by four full lines (the wheel). Written from the perspective of the shapeshifting antagonist Morgan le Faye, this monologue focuses on the moment in which Gawain is led to the Green Knight’s chapel by a figure who appears to be his guide. Unbeknownst to Gawain, this interpretation assumes the character of the guide to be a disguised le Faye. The malicious undercurrent of this work sheds a deeply psychological light on le Faye’s character and background, probed at discreetly in SGGK and in other works of Arthurian legend.

The Guised Guide of Sir Gawain Emma Burd

Though withered and weary, the knight Gawain and I depart, And to the coveted “Green Chapel” I claim to him I’ll guide. Some shout I’m sadistic, and some say I’m sad, But this babbling noise does bother me not; Nay, I wear the title “wickedest of wenches” worthily about my chest. Still, how treacherous were the tasks that I tempted him with; Though smart and strong as a knight should be, he suffered with them dearly. Triumphed he has over many a trick, traversing my traps as slyly as a fox, With a wit and will that wonders the mind.

My wind and wild weather should have warranted his death, But the bulls and bears and boars I brought down Could not kill this cunning man.

He even surmounted my sexual trickery, the assayed seduction of the lady, But gone was his goodness when he grasped her green girdle Proving the love he had for his life did linger on his conscience. ‘Twas a shame his spectacle of succumbence occurred all in private; There is little satisfaction in simple secrecy when revenge is what I seek. To dismantle the Round Table, as I see it, demands destruction in a public domain.

But now I have my shot to show yet again the shortcomings of Gawain. Though an endless entity it is supposed to be, it is with ease that I’m able To untie the flawed and fabled pentangle, for its fraying knot is false and will ultimately Destroy the decayable knights of Camelot, who drink amongst Arthur the overshadower Each day.

But for all the virtues and values of this venerable knight, A character of Arthur’s high court though far away, One small detail has slipped his sight.

You see he knows not I am Morgan le Faye.

But now I stop sharply as I see we have reached The precise halfway point to the place I’ve deemed the perilous Green Chapel. A distressing discovery I know this shall be for the dutiful Gawain Since rattled and restless he’ll reveal upon realizing my most ruthless of schemes.

But first, fine friends and foes, one final mockery

I shall make, a malicious move against this meager man.

I commence with a compliment, a craver of flattery I know him to be: “You are a lord in this life I love greatly!”, lie I to Gawain.

Then I instill upon him the “truth” of the invincible Green Knight, the impenetrable force That not one soldier who has sought out his sanctuary has survived. And tenable this testament stands since no soul has traveled there at all ah, I tickle myself truly!

I swear to Gawain I won’t say a word if he saunters off now, Rightly returning to the rut they call Camelot.

And failing to fib, he’ll be flung into the fiery truth of his flee. But the careful Gawain cordially declines my offer, a fear of cowardice he claims. No matter: I’ll still be cackling crudely in some cold corner When Gawain wears his woes about his arm like a whip of shame.

I venture I’ll voice that I’ve earned this vindictive victory Boasting that my half brother’s bawdy bunch no longer Can hide.

Off I must go, to make my final preparations at the Green Chapel; Thus I tell Gawain I’ll no longer be his guide.

With his grisly missteps soon he must grapple, So with a sly smile I set off, speed by my side.

The Weight of an Axe Emma Burd

In my cool, dry closet, there are twelve pairs of shoes.

A few pairs of dirty running sneakers. Stan Smiths that have seen better days. High top converse missing their laces. And of course, my beloved black stilettos.

Just outside of my closet, the air conditioner hums a soft, melancholic tune.

But soon, I hear the melody begin to pick up. It’s somewhat . . . celebratory?

There are strobe lights now too. The dull music feels closer, getting louder and more boisterous by the second. The room feels like it’s pulsating, like it has its own heartbeat. Not exactly my scene, but for one night I can take it. I hear the clicking of high heels against the floor, and I realize that I’m dancing. I’m with my friends, and I’m dancing.

And in that moment it’s not I but we, it’s not me but us.

We’re smiling. We’re laughing, the kind of laugh that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners. The kind that makes you throw your head back uncontrollably and your mouth hurt in a good way The kind that stays with you years later.

The air conditioner hums.

I haven’t touched those heels in what feels like a lifetime. When the pandemic first hit, I deliberately placed them behind my other shoes, far out of reach.

I’m not a party person. Never have been, never will be. So, it’s not really that sweet sixteen, the last time I got the chance to wear my stilettos, that I miss . . . no, that’d be far too superficial. It’s the ease with which I could grab my shoes and go out into the world. It’s the way we could laugh and be together without the worry of putting our own health, or the health of others, at risk.

You forget about a pot of boiling water for a minute, and it bubbles over. Angered, it fizzes and spits, surging against anything in its path.

“Easy”

They tell me it’s “Easy” I’m an introvert, so this all should be “Easy”

It’s not easy. No matter who you are, no matter where you live, none of this is easy.

I never pictured myself as the type of person who would crave any kind of social interaction. Introverted people are shoved to the side, the assumed antisocials of society. But here I am, over a year into the pandemic, and it’s all I can think about. And I’m bubbling over. Bubbling over thinking about those who say I struggle less because I can enjoy being alone too.

The axe I always carry, Slung over my shoulder Normally hurts my back but today I don’t feel it.

Today I’m using it to Shatter that hushed label Being an “INTROVERT”

Shh . . . not so loud. They might hear you! I don’t care anymore. All’s shattered that ends shattered.

My mom always tells me to find the silver lining in life, so that’s what I did.

So, when I do venture out of my house And when I do strap on those stilettos I am leaving my axe at home.

watercolor by Jax Tsai

they ask me why I hunger

Lauren Schier

I used to thank the sky for its brightness, only to walk in the shadows of its absence.

I thought that as a woman, I should not shine brighter than the world around me: I was only fuel to a greater flame.

My Mama taught me to be intelligent, but my country taught me to be complacent. They said, “close your legs and trust no man, but entrust your future to them, you are destined to be ‘Mother.’”

I wore clothes that covered every inch of skin, as if the brightness of this world did not provide me with the warmth I needed to traverse it. My country taught me to be modest.

But my country does not know me in the same way that I know myself. It does not know that I am the black smoke of sirens that smothers wildfire. I am the wildfire itself, blazing with a brilliant brightness that rivals the strength of Son.

Even if I know that myself, my country doubts me, because it is not used to raising women like me. Because it was not designed to contain the wild within me.

My country not like that I can find myself upon the entrance to the lion’s den and craft the tools I need to survive.

Because my Mamas never told me I was a damsel. They never told me to wait for someone to save me from distress. They said, “wear your ebony curls as a crown, but be a warrior first.”

Here, there is no “close your legs.” There is no “you are feeble, you are weak.”

The Mamas tell you: you are fire

Make them know you and make them fear you. Make them know you like no one else knows you. Make them kneel.

watercolor by Elodie Cha

art by Terry Kagiri

and

Terry Kagiri

wanted a break from me wanted a break from myself so painfully bland and painfully boring

after a while it became natural didn’t have to pretend to care slowly becoming one and two and three

and when i fall apart i want a back row seat she learned it from our conversations were the worst

i’ve known you forever identity theft without the first part i mean if two years is forever then i haven’t got much left tried so hard to be so so what so how so when so where do we go from here and

cause you’re just like me and you’re just like you

photo by Anya Singh

photo by Jack Rochkind

photos by Ava Koplean

Biáng. Ben Sherman

Biáng, the most challenging character in the Chinese language. No less than 56 meticulous strokes going into its construction. Somehow, 13 individual words, radicals, are contained in those strokes.

Studying, practicing, refining techniques, it takes to draw this character. Correctly.

Its intricacy and illusiveness. You would think its meaning would be profound

However, biáng cannot be found in the modern Chinese dictionary. Biáng simply refers to the sound of wet noodles slapping against the counter as they are being made Biáng.

Bang.

The first stroke. A leap of faith. Looking back it was that first uncertain step into the unknown that was so rewarding.

Two early radicals are written: “small” and “speech.”

Three more radicals appear: “heart,” “moon,” and “growth.”

I put my heart and soul into this, Under the light of the moon it has grown.

The final strokes. I complete the character with a sense of satisfaction, But I still have not mastered biáng. Some strokes are off center, A few radicals crowded, And the ink too dark.

Where could I have done better? What can I do differently next time?

For me, the journey of mastering biáng is about self reflection. Honesty, Continuous improvement.

But then I stop and laugh. Comparing myself to the sound of a slapping wet noodle.

I can hear my first grade teacher now, “50 lashes with a wet noodle for you now”

I will again set off to conquer biáng,

An inspiring and thoughtful connection between biáng and myself But before I do, I can use a little inspiration and fuel, and what better way to accomplish both than with a delicious bowl of Biáng biáng noodles

photo by Ben Sherman

Numinous an experience in which one is afraid and fascinated at the same time sketch by Bella Kuick

saltwater Clay Hudson

why you calm me down so? snatch me lifelessly off the peaks and perches of feeling and tell me it’s going to be straight take a brush and watch my world famous saltwater concoction collide with paint rolling down your canvas to be later seen in museums and mausoleums known as rivers and streams

image by Elodie Cha

lightning bug jars

Clay Hudson

flap flap through night and evening ode to you crowned carrier of lightning we have your brothers in mason jars oh inventive and nocturnal joy until barber shopped my summers tapering sun you clog my ears and i cooperate by clogging your habitat with incense and clay bowls, the proximity to death. these infinitesimal trumpeters of the darkness. go forth from this zoo and make another natural and pompous crescendo house to house subito piano the almighty conductor taps his baton twice, a painfully imminent “ta ta” and you return to my yard in july silent and hopeful and measure one.

image by Elodie Cha

art by Cam Corbett

untitled piece Elaniyah Aurora

Lemons and limes, these make up sour times Add sugar, sour and sweet, summer’s treat. Different bodies of water, different kinds Of salt, from one ocean, play on one street.

But when you say yes, they will still say no, The hurricane starts to build and bubble. And when you say please, they will still say no, The buildings around will start to crumble.

Then when you’re always so gosh darn annoyed ‘cause all they do is cause trouble for you, But deep down inside they fill the void That would cause greater trouble for you.

You don’t need to be the same shade of red In order to feel the polar sacred.

art by Bella Kuick

watercolor by Elodie Cha

atenyi ii

Clay Hudson

she smiles more than me. her mother’s name is joy we free fall through emotions unnameable and hope god’s hands are heavy enough to hold both of us

i know that to give myself to her would be to compromise the orphan plant the orchid the owner of pants that hold the attention of men and a heritage at the bases of mountains

is she an ancient statue covered in a thick coat of womanhood? the accompanying crown and door? i know of those who pick locks and leave decorations on bodies i want to open up the star in her! how ever deep in her cosmos it rests

to know the number of brushstrokes on the African rembrandt, the signals and stars i choose to elegize… nicest things ever said

we tiptoed around sidewalk cracks and crevices in understanding you showed me a taste of sun!

you’ve stayed long enough to watch a flower bloom and subsequently plant your own inside of me, and wherever you think it is… it is there, waiting welcoming with a swiss African seasoning

when the rain subsides long enough for me to cross the street

shall we dance forbidden dances don titles of man and women gripping time, clocks and your waist and deprecated elegance i built you up and you turned me into an emotion. i miss the physical sage and fragrance on your lips your coy body rhythm and shekere.

ode to you firecracker of intense, brown hue n’cos the surreality of good men, men like my father

the fractured reality, that where the sidewalk ends the sky becomes a passageway could i wrap my writing hand around you?

art by Sebastian Young

My Headphones

Akasha Baranello

The soft cushion cages my ears a straight jacket for my thoughts. A pillow for my tears a direct tether to my soul. My headphones, my greatest pain, my greatest pleasure. The sun warming my face, the jacket slung over my shoulder, the confident walk as the world falls away. My headphones, my bridge to myself, my dynamite to the outer world. The world burns when you add your own soundtrack. My headphones, I can’t seem to let go. I can’t seem to escape their padded walls. I can’t resist this addiction to the silence they bring. My headphones, the welcome insanity the willing dissociation the happy loneliness. These headphones, they whisper their sweet nothings, they taunt me with their ruin, They tease me with the weight of their warmth. These headphones, hanging on my neck, hanging near my ears, tethering my soul, leaving me swinging in the wind, loving my fate, loving the pain, loving the silent padded room where I swing with my thoughts.

wai gong’s garden is a sestina

Julia Naruki

there’s lotus stew on the stove, they’ve invited over family. di di and i sit eating kumquats on stones heated by california sun. we’re watching baby cousin, sweet, fall over himself reaching for dried grass and laugh through the humidity.

we can’t stand the humidity. mom was sent to the supermarket by the family, for a spinning fan with blades like dried grass and a red mesh bag of lychee. wai gong says lychee is too sweet, wasn’t grown like his fruits under so cal sun.

lao lao chases us down with lotion to protect us from the sun, her food overcooking in the boiling water, and summer’s humidity, her sweat and merciless love making it all the more sweet. hai zi, come inside and join the family, we’re cutting open the tree’s first pomelo. we run through the screen door, leave our america in the grass.

wai gong’s longing for home to be china was left in the grass, subdued by everything california, the drought and the sun, old cds hung in the garden to ward birds away from the oranges. foreheads all around are damp from humidity; beaded sweat runs in the family and the tree’s first pomelo tastes so sweet.

enough of the sweets, lao lao made xue cai bai ye and it looks like tofu and grass, five times more than enough for the family, but our hunger today is a fruit of the sun. this heat is nothing next to jersey’s humidity, mom comments with a mouthful of dessert, persimmon.

we drive back to wai puo’s for rice cakes and longan, and my fair lady with audrey hepburn, silly and sweet. in our sleeping bags at night we forget the humidity,

we forget the prickles of the yellowing grass, the hunger by the way of the sun, and di di whispers how he loves his family.

we wear as a sweet blanket, the humidity, a family in the morning cutting kiwis, carrying to the plane sweet sun and grass.

photos by Naya Saker

C

Ayantu Flowers

I see

The “C” that reads across my screen The type of “C” that fills my eyes With the saltiness of the sea

Do I let this “C” define me?

Or do I see its future peak? Gee. I just wish there was a better me.

Within this hard working environment I guess I am just an absentee

My goodness, the irony!

A “bright” girl they say, one of a kind But the grade on her paper doesn’t agree

photo by Ayantu Flowers

An Ode to the Lonely Ava Levinson

She sits on her bed The wind taps on her window pane The fresh air is cool Sweet with autumn rain

She lets her eyes close In the darkness of her room She smiles at the sound of the skies As they open in their gloom

Her mind is full of curiosity Heart full of wonder This weather tickles her A pleasant spell she’s put under

An early, weekend evening Spent in solitary But not filled with heartache Only simple tranquility

Her solitude is comforting The darkness is warm She smiles to herself And listens to the storm

Find contentment in your loneliness There is no need for sorrow She’s happy in her bedroom She’ll be happy there tomorrow.

art by Giorgio Altirs

The Runaways

Carolina Lucas

As I awoke from my comfortable slumber, I began to hear an endless chiming coming from down the hall. The obnoxious alarm jolted me out of bed and into my robes as I hurried towards the door. What on Earth could be happening? As I poked my head into the hall, the chief housekeeper ushered me back inside with a flick of her hand. Shortly after, the alarm stopped sounding and I ventured through the halls in search of an answer. Coming across my mother, I questioned her about what had just happened. “Oh dear, the alarm? It’s really nothing to worry about. A few servants ran off again, is all. Wanted to scare them a bit to keep them from getting far.” I breathed a sigh of relief, but a part of me remained confused. More? Where are they going?

I returned to my room, just in time to see Melody, my handmaiden, preparing my breakfast and clothing for the day. I took a glance around the room, gazing out to see that the rain of the previous night had ended. I finally gave her a wave and sat to eat. I longed to ask if she knew the runaway servants, but I knew my effort would be feeble. The Tenelis form of communication was hard for anyone to understand, and I’d never been one for signing or eye code. The Tenelis were people of silence; they couldn’t speak, shout, or even audibly cry. Enslaved for generations, the only ones who could follow their communication methods were, quite frankly, themselves. Every generation or so someone on the house staff would become fairly proficient, but there was no other need to engage with them, according to my parents. As Melody laid out my clothes and arranged my jewelry, a new curiosity came over me. As unexpected as my physical awakening, I couldn’t contain my eagerness to know where the escaped servants kept running to. Pairs were leaving weekly, sometimes daily and never returning. My parents said they were simply “choosing to live miserable lives, but ‘free’ ones, in the forests surrounding the city.” Yet, if the conditions were so horrible, why would each keep leaving after the next?

The following morning, my courage resolute, I asked Melody where they went. Turning slowly, she gave me a confused glance, thinking she misheard me. I repeated myself, “Melody, where do they go? Everyday another few gone. I I just want to know. I swear not to tell as soul.” She just shook her head. Not in a “Honestly I don’t know” manner, but in one of distrust. I understood why would she ever trust me? I hadn’t done anything up until that point to show that I wasn’t my parents, or my grandparents; that my curiosity was purely grounded in wanting to simply know. I had always been the smartest in the class, the one to raise her hand. Knowledge is Power: the slogan I learned to live by as I grew up in a world of feuding cities and the entitled arguing. I was the black sheep, the outcast of my family. These people, the Runaways, were the outcasts of society. Maybe I wanted to know so I could join them… My thoughts began to spiral, but one thing became apparent: I needed to find them.

After Melody left me standing in a dress that was too tight and too puffy and too much, I stripped down to my underwear and rummaged through my dresser to find something more comfortable. Pulling on a pair of leggings, throwing on a sweatshirt, I found myself pacing around the room. What am I doing? What am I thinking? As in many cases prior, the answers to these questions wouldn’t be answered anytime soon.

I hurried down the corridor, hoping to catch the police before they set out to try and catch the Runaways. I ran out of the house and to the edge of the forest, where muddy footprints were left in an otherwise clear path. Then I walked. And I walked. For what seemed like a millennium, I followed the footsteps. “AH!” I yelled out as I tripped over a root that seemed to come out of nowhere. As I brushed the dirt, leaves, and twigs from my hair I noticed a new path emerge. Glancing at the foot trail I’d been following, I turned to face the new one. With a sigh, I stepped onto the mysterious, muddy trial I hadn’t seen a moment ago. And I walked. The sounds and sights of the forest didn’t frighten me, but I could see the sun’s path across the sky as the day wore on.

Whatever the place I was looking for, I had to find it quickly. Focused on just getting one foot in front of the other, I stopped short just before I would’ve hit a massive oak tree in the path. Attempting to move around it, I noticed the thickness of the foliage around me. There was nowhere else to go. I stepped back to gaze at the magnificent tree, at least ten feet in diameter. I brushed my hand across it, gasping at what I saw. As my hand moved across the rough bark, a crack appeared where I touched. The tree split open, opening up a world I never could’ve imagined. Beyond the barrier of the forest was a clearing large enough to build a city; a city that was already in progress. Beautiful white, clay homes peppered the landscape and a river cut through the village. There were no roads, stoplights, or pollution, littering the sky. Mud covered my leggings and sweatshirt; my attempt to wipe my face of dirt was feeble. I walked towards the homes, my mouth gaping. As I approached the nearest home, I heard no sound of children giggling, yet saw them swinging and smiling. Stopping in my tracks, it clicked. This! This is the real home of the Tenelis. Where all the Runaways go. However, my astonishment was met with confusion. How? I passed a few homes as I tried to find my way to the center of the town. Each was carved with precision, the stucco molded to form perfectly spherical houses. They had no chimneys, but each was covered by curved glass sections. I tried to glance inside, but the glass was grey and opaque from my perspective. Finally, I arrived at a circle of homes that surrounded a large fountain. The river that had accompanied me emptied into a large basin, which shot the water up nearly higher than the houses that surrounded it. As I turned to gaze once again at a world entirely unfamiliar, I noticed people, one by one, emerging from their homes. Yet another gasp came from my mouth as I saw their clothes. Beautiful, hand sown garments fitted each Teneli. The colors were beyond vibrant, a perfect contrast to their sparkling homes they had just exited. The eldest one approached me, a curious yet gentle look in her eyes. Without any hesitation, she handed me a piece of paper. Written was “Who are you? Where are you from? How did you find this place?” The paper in hand, I addressed the women in front of me,

attempting to avoid the eyes of the growing crowd. “I am Modi, from the city just beyond the woods. I I am Yob and Klina’s daughter.” I expected the curiosity of the crowd to turn to anger, but all eyes remained focused, yet not with hatred. Glancing down to the paper, I continued. “I wanted to know where the Runaways went. My family has been cruel to your people for generations, and I know that I stand here sharing their blood.” Garnering my voice, I continued, holding my hands to my chest. “But I do not believe in their ways. I have been an outcast since the day I was born, and now I stand in a blossoming city full of outcasts. I mean no disrespect with the word Runaway because now I am one too. If you’ll have me, please let me stay.” The Tenelis glanced at each other expectantly, but from the final direction of their gazes it made clear that their elder would make that decision. She must have been one of the first to leave, and even then, her journey couldn’t have been easy. The woman nodded and took my hand. She led me down one of the five paths surrounding the central plaza, eventually stopping in front of a plaster home. She opened the door revealing the inside of their dwellings to me for the first time. Inside was only one room, besides a small bathroom. Simple electronic devices made up the kitchen and the bedroom was comprised of a cot. Turning to take in the room, an expression of surprise appeared on my face. In one curve sat a hand carved piano, next to it a weaving bench, and finally a table filled with drawing, painting, and textile materials. Art? I was perplexed. I’d always been told that the Tenelis were simple minded people, with no culture, no identity other than silence. Yet here I stood. Everything was beautiful. When words aren’t used to express oneself, so much more becomes possible. As I took in the piano, I understood that music doesn’t require the voice. Suddenly, I made a tiny jump as I felt the floor hot beneath my feet. Smiling at me, I saw the elder pointing towards a panel on the wall. There were no flames, nothing that could easily harm someone; because it would be impossible to yell for help. The Tenelis had no fires, no vehicles. Maybe a simpler world isn’t a worse one.

Days, weeks, passed as I began living as a Runaway. Each day was different; there was a routine, but its implementation served to make you forget it even existed. In the mornings, music rang through the village. Midday, homes were silent as weaving and painting took place. Each day a new Teneli knocked and entered my home. I began to learn their customs and understand their technology better each day. When someone knocked, I would stomp once for Come in! and twice for Not now! Vibrations, hand signals, even eye movement were how the Tenelis communicated. Their communication wasn’t a language, per se, as there weren’t really specific motions for specific words. Ideas were the grounding principle instead. There were tens of ways to describe feeling anxious, yet communicating a desire for milk seemed more difficult. As I learned, I felt myself becoming an insider for the first time in my life; I pushed the label outsider as far from my consciousness as possible.

Weeks turned into months, and I began to lose any feeling of a desire to use my voice. Instead of speaking and allowing a nonverbal response, I began to initiate communication silently. I realized what a world without yelling was; anger and frustration became something I felt, not something that I did. I became the person I always knew lived inside of me. My curiosity and knowledge was fulfilled every day in my lessons, and soon in the lessons I gave to the children. I ate with others purely for their presence as the Tenelis continued to welcome me into their community. Never did I suspect anything other than warmth and a longing for my happiness from any Teneli. Yet in one night, everything changed. As I slept soundly within the warm walls of my abode, knocking startled me out of bed. Rather than answer customarily, I got up and rushed to the door. Standing around the entrance were a group of women. Where I expected to see expressions of urgency or worry, I saw eyes filled with excitement. Two women grabbed one arm each and began dragging me towards the center of the village. For the first time in weeks, I shouted. Their grip was tight, digging into me. “STOP,” I yelled, but the Tenelis were unfazed. Arriving in the same plaza

where I was first welcomed, all the Tenelis gathered. Ten men stood in front of the fountain, arms at their sides and expressions to match their wives as I took in the scene, I realized their relationship with my captors. Captors? No. This must be the final initiation I am not hurt, no one has given me any reason for fear. Within moments, I realized how mistaken I had been.

The men began to rush towards me, the only sound being the sound of their running. As they approached, I tried stepping back but found their wives forming a wall around me. I saw them gazing towards me, looking at me slowly from head to toe. Yet, every gaze landed on my stomach. The men racing toward me weren’t wearing anything but their sleeping shorts. My stomach dropped. I began pushing against the women, crying for help. I even saw the elder, her face expressionless. As I struggled, the crowd around me confirmed my fear. Every aspect of Tenelis communication became clear in a moment. I was not welcomed into this community. My womanhood, my ability to reproduce was

I ran. I pushed down every person in my path with the unbridled power of adrenaline. I ran into the woods. There was no path, no clearing to follow. As I slowed, and my heart rate came crashing down, and I slid down the base of a large tree. I had been their golden opportunity; their opportunity to bring their children into society without looks of disgust and indentured servitude. Only a speaker could genetically deliver them what they wanted, and I’d practically begged to join them.

The Runaway Tenelis had everything. Correction: The Runaway Tenelis had everything they could have without me.

photos by Kate McClusky

art by Elodie Cha

photos by Jasmine Shah

photo by Ben Sherman

saudade a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia Lauren Schier

I.

I fear that, as with all human concepts, once we forget, we can never recover.

There is part of me that values science and another that praises the gods and their stars. A piece of me knows that “fate” was created to explain something that we once didn’t know. Our ancestors feared their own ignorance, and so, they attributed the vast and violent to gods and creatures not born in the same manner as we. I know that, but I cannot help but think that, even then, the proof of these concepts was evasive. My generation values what we can see what we can search within seconds. We no longer have need to fear something that has been documented from the start of time.

I’ve always wanted to be a doctor: a healer. Someone who could stomach the blood and broken and close punctures with lab made chemicals. And within that desire I’ve realized that “doctor” isn’t as romantic of a profession as I once thought it was. The ability to heal goes past what we can see with our eyes. That’s why people study the mind, both the physical structure, and all its hormonal chaos. I am not one of those people. I cannot stand the sight of the brain or the eye.

Even though it is a part of me, it makes me nauseous. It makes me regret all the data in our reach, because without it, I could say my mind was created by the god of lucid thought. I would have someone else to blame for the nightmares and memories. I would be free from guilt when something went wrong, when my nerves were corrupted in one way or another.

II.

The truth is, while we have escaped the fear of nature, we have only realized our fear of self. Without some external force to blame our calamities on, we have no other being to turn to. We realize that we have burned and pillaged, not for the sake of some deity, but for our own greed and self preservation.

I want to heal those who have faced harm in some way. But I’ve come to realize that I have no idea how to. There is no textbook that records how every fiber and muscle in our brain works, nor is there any way to know what happens in those electric impulses that we call thought. Just as I found a will to help, I found that I am helpless. I am helpless to the little things, the little inconveniences that construct life. I am led down a dangerous spiral, one that ends with a breakdown on the bathroom floor. I realize I am simultaneously the only one who knows what it’s like to experience life from my viewpoint, and one of the many that is clueless about everyone else.

What is there to heal? I could focus on surface wounds and digested poisons but beyond that, when I come across another who cannot communicate what hurts, how am I to help them?

We used to pray. And yes, our prayer resulted in tragedy, but we used to pray. There was good in us that believed that all things would work out in the end. And we are still here to see it. Sure, some of our world is burning, but we are still alive. While we are still able to stomach the flame, we are able to live. III.

I read something once about how “the universe gave us stars and [we] saw constellations.” I guess it has always been human to search for meaning. I am glad that we are still connected in that way. That means there’s still hope for us seedlings. Our roots may not be so far down that they are free from frost, but at least our mycelia will keep us company. We won’t be alone.

I’ve found that the little things are the ones that comfort the most. If I see a sprout on a tree, or a bee floating aimlessly amongst a sea of roses, I feel joy in a weird, inhuman sense. I know that they don’t struggle with these thoughts or maybe they do, but at least they seem to always be able to face the sun.

In that bathroom, there is a mirror. One piece of glass with some… reflective metal behind it. We started making mirrors decades ago. But there was a point where I hated my reflection, because I thought my features were too bland. Too many acne scars, or freckles in the wrong place everything just seemed off. But I thought about constellations, how we connected dots in the sky and gave them meaning, solely because our minds needed guidance. I figured if I could make my own constellations, find my own connection between insignificant specks, I may also be able to discover meaning.

I took a pen a stupid decision on my part and traced lines across my face. Some were small, little boxy things, and others were too large and wild to be made into form. I looked like I fell in a pool of ink. It smudged so easily and was so quick to seep into my pores. It took forever to scrub it out. But what I saw before I brought the wipes and soap was a convoluted entanglement of every spot I disliked on my face. It was messy, sure, but something about the size and placement of every line showed that all those dots could be drawn into pictures. Some, I could discern immediately, others were, at the time, elusive. But they were there. Discovered, and yet, devoid of meaning.

IV.

It became habit to trace things. To find numbers or dots I could connect; turn something menial into something that would make little sense to others, but every sense to me. That counting got me through countless moments in the dark room. And suddenly, it wasn’t so dark.

Those dots my eyes placed in my iris became flickering, fluttering things. Something sparkling, though distant. My own stars. My own constellations to be translated to the freckles on my face, all the marks and bruises on my body. Something to gaze upon, wonder the meaning of. Something to admire.

I found myself in a unique position of knowing, in my core, there’s no way that gods could be real, but loving them anyway. Sure, Apollo and Artemis may not be chasing each other eternally throughout the sky, but the way the sun and moon seem to pause when they glide through the sky gives me hope that looking to them will reveal all the answers I’ve been looking for. If a man can be both the god of health and poison, why can’t I be both a believer in math and mythology?

I pray to the gods. But not in the way we used to. I go to no church, decorate no temple or altar. But I listen. I awake before dawn so I can listen. In winter it is quiet. In summer it is loud. The sun rises too early sometimes, and other times, it rises too late. Fall and Spring are cryptic and yet, they are the most beautiful seasons. The world works in cycles. We rise, we fall, we rise again. And there is nothing poetic about that. It is how we live.

But new buds in Spring and the first time the leaves turn amber are mythical. They are unreal moments in time where there is nothing we can do but step back and love. We breathe, we see, we think. We imagine.

There may be no gods, but they are still a part of us: we’ve tied these deities to all that graces the living world.

And we, after all, are nature too.