Other People Collection No. 1

Collection no.1 July 2020

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Editors’ Note - Spring 2020 Welcome to Other People Literary Magazine’s first issue! The idea for this magazine began in a class writing workshop when a group of Literature/Writing majors and art enthusiasts inspired each other to embark on this literary journey. Seeking more opportunities to enhance artistic expression at the University of California, San Diego, we sought to create an inclusive platform to showcase and encourage literary and artistic exploration among an underrepresented group of students on a predominately STEM-focused campus. We hope this magazine will become a permanent organization at UCSD to remain an outlet for student creativity.

We want to share with you these inspiring, beautiful, and entertaining pieces submitted by the student body at UCSD. We were thrilled by the enthusiasm this project received from the students of UCSD, and by the creativity that you shared with us. In these pieces, we showcase a dynamic range of artistic capability inherent in UCSD students. We wanted to demonstrate the breadth of creativity on our campus and embrace our core principle of showcasing “O(the)r People,” or celebrating at once our diversity, our individual uniqueness, our shared experiences, and our collective journey through this world. We hope you love these pieces as much as we do.

This project has been months in the making, and we would not have reached this milestone of publishing our first issue without the strength of our teams, the support of fellow UCSD students, and the encouragement of teachers and faculty.

We want to thank all of you who first expressed interest in Other People Literary Magazine back when we were just a dream, because your enthusiasm is what inspires this project. We want to thank those of you who are involved with the magazine, whether you are on the team, read our newsletters, follow us on social media, offer us your creative work, or have inquired about upcoming events. We want to acknowledge the amount of work that our many team members put into this project; your enthusiasm and creativity inspires us and is integral to this project. We want to thank the amazing Literature Department faculty; Professor Lily Hoang, our inspira-

tional Faculty Advisor and earliest advocate; Professor Ben Doller, who encouraged this project from the beginning; Professor Kazim Ali and Teaching Assistant Stacie Vos, who offered invaluable advice. We want to thank our first donor, Chris, who believed in this project from the time our first flyer went up. Without you all, this magazine would not have come to be; we are immensely grateful for your encouragement.

Much love from University of California, San DiegoEditors-in-Chief,

Montanna Harling and Nicole Lopez

CONTENTS PAGE 1 S u r re a l C u b a -

Visual

A r twork

2 Fi re -

Visual Artwork

34 At the Sink Fictio n

8 D i sso n a n ce -

Visual Art-

w o rk

9 s ki n -

33 Skin -

10 In st ru ct i o n s for Le mona d e - Poetry 11 B oy s’ N i g h t -

Fiction

Vi s u a l A r t w o r k

21 Th e D u a l - E dge d L ife of Mary Read -

Nonfiction

24 B RA I N F I S H -

Poetry

26 Go l d e n Boy -

Fiction

29 M o n o t o ny -

35 Treasu re -

Fiction

36 Fronteras-

Visual Artwork

38 Love Letter to UCSD -Protected Wifi -

Poetry

20 U nt i t l e d -

Poetry

Poetry

39 C lose You r Eyes 49 Untitled -

Visual Artwork

50 I Left My Heart in Amsterdam - V i s u a l A r t w o r k 52 2 2 30 -

Poetry

53 Abou t u s

Visual Artwork

30 Wi t h L i q u o r -

Fiction

Nonfiction

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GĂŠraldine Wambersie Surreal Cuba Medium: Photography and Photoshop 1

By Ashley Hirao

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A hand reaching. The scent of smoke—a fire nearby? There is an underlying sense of urgency, but for what, Sage could not be sure. All she knew was that she had to touch it, and if she did, everything would be okay.

It was always like this; a supercut of moments that slipped through her fingers before she had a chance to grasp them, intangible emotions that drifted out of reach, here then gone. Afterwards nothing but the memory remained, sometimes not even that.

She awoke with the smoke still burning in her nostrils, her fingertips tingling with the ghost of a touch.

It was dark in the plane cabin, the simulated nighttime having not yet worn off. Sage reached over and cracked the window open. A sliver of light pierced the darkness, making her wince.

She laid back in her seat and tried again to drift off to sleep. Her body ached from sitting. When she fell asleep again she did not dream.

Sage awoke to a jolt as the plane made contact with the Earth. She listened as the pilot made his announcement, first in English then in Mandarin.

She had not been to Taiwan in almost ten years, positive that she had changed more than the city could have in that time. During her last trip she had been 12, it was summer, and it was horrible. Her mother had spent the entirety toting her around from sunup to sundown, visiting relatives whose names she could not remember, and snapping photos in the stifling humidity. Now she was alone, it was the tail end of winter, and she felt like the city could be hers if she wanted.

But the pilgrimage must have a destination, and Sage was not sure what would be waiting for her at the end—salvation, if she was lucky.

The taxi ride was silent, because she was not confident enough in her Mandarin to start a conversation. Instead Sage gazed out the window, eyes fixed on the landscape passing by. There was comfort to be found in a foreign city, potential buzzing around every corner and under every streetlight. She felt a sense of homecoming, although perhaps misplaced and appropriated. Taiwan was not her home, but maybe a primal part of her could sense its familiarity, and nestled into it like a 3

pair of worn-in shoes.

When the taxi pulled up to the station Sage was still an hour early for her train. She thanked the cab driver, and grabbed her luggage and carry-on. As she navigated the station she felt that all crowds were the same. Back home in Los Angeles no one spared her a second glance, and here they did the same. When the crowd spoke it was not in any one language, but an amalgamation of sound and movement.

Sage took her camera from her carry-on, and snapped a quick photo of the crowd, figures blurring and merging as they pushed past.

She found a quiet spot to wait for her train next to a woman and her baby.

The baby was squirming and babbling, falling silent only when his large eyes fixed on Sage. She and the mother exchanged amused glances over his head.

“ So cute,” Sage said in Mandarin, and hoped her accent was well hidden.

“ Xie xie, ” the woman responded, and asked if she was American.

Sage smiled, taking a moment to phrase her Chinese, “ How did you know? ”

The woman shrugged, “ It’s easy to tell. ”

After a moment of hesitation, Sage turned back to the woman and asked slowly, “Can I—?” and gestured snapping a photo with her camera. The woman seemed to understand, and nodded enthusiastically, to Sage’s surprise.

Sage stood up and walked across the aisle, positioning her camera for a moment or two before pressing the button. She studied the result for a moment.

In the image, the woman sat with her face turned away from the camera, searching for something just out of frame. Her baby was perched in her lap, eyes locked with the lens as if he had seen something his mother had not.

To save money Sage was staying with her grandmother. Technically, it was her cousin’s house, and her grandmother had only moved in after her grandfather passed five years ago, but in those five years she had all but commandeered the household in her boredom.

Her cousin Rose was a busy woman, and she was not there when the taxi arrived from the train station to her house. Sage’s grandmother greeted her at the 4

front door. Four years had passed since her grandmother had last visited her in Los Angeles. Sage was pleased to see that she looked well, almost identical to last time.

She had given up on dyeing her hair, letting the natural grey show through. When they hugged, her grandmother’s arms were strong around her.

“ Jin lai, jin lai,” she urged Sage. Together they moved her things to the second-floor guestroom.

They did not speak much, beyond the initial greetings. Her grandmother spoke little English, and although Sage could understand her Chinese, she could not replicate it. She wished there was more to say, and that she had the words to say it.

Sage felt like she owed it to her after so long apart.

The first night, Sage dreamt of fire again.

In her dreams, the world was warped. Things looked different as they were in reality, and yet Sage could recognize them not by appearance but by feeling alone.

The flames licked. Sparks jumped. Sage reached out to touch the fire, because it looked so beautiful. Somehow she knew, with an unwavering certainty, that it would not hurt her. She understood that fire was not destructive by nature—it did not wish to burn, only to warm; not to extinguish life, but to create. She felt a great sadness in that moment, a deep empathy for something so misunderstood. A spark landed on her outstretched palm. Sage ached for the burn, yearned to feel its touch.

She was close this time, felt the warmth from the flames lick at her fingertips. Her fingers curled, closing around something at last.

Sage’s eyes flew open. The world was still dark around her, but she felt warm, comforted, even in the alien surroundings.

She could not find her way back to sleep after waking. When the birds began to chirp, Sage rose from bed, her hunger driving her to the kitchen. To her surprise, her grandmother was already awake, slicing mangos at the table and placing the chunks of fruit into a large bowl. Sage watched for a moment, hypnotized by the smooth glide of the knife, the way the skin peeled back in one swift motion, the deft way her grandmother cut into the glistening flesh.

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She looked up at the sound of Sage’s footsteps, “ Zhao. ”

“ Zhao, ” she responded, with hesitation. She and her grandmother were not close. They had been when she was a child, when language was a construct not yet assembled, and love was nearly an automatic thing. But despite their time apart, a lingering warmth always remained. For a second she felt young again—the two of them preserved in this moment, somewhere beyond age and time.

“Why did you come back to Taiwan?” her grandmother asked as Sage took a seat at the table. She spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully so that it would not go over Sage’s head.

Sage speared a chunk of mango on her toothpick, and placed it carefully on her tongue. The reason, on a practical level, was that she needed inspiration, and travel was the easiest cure for an artist when creativity ran dry. But truthfully, it did not matter where she went. It could have been Taiwan, or Iceland, or any place that was not LA. Some days she felt as if she were being eroded, slowly eaten away by that city until something unrecognizable remained. The truth was, she was afraid of the person who would emerge on the other side.

So she escaped. Taiwan was her best bet. Here no one would care about the small things that ruled her old life. Here were her roots, supposedly. She had expected nothing short of a transformation, a phoenix rising from the ashes. But she did not tell her grandmother any of this. Instead she said, with great difficulty, “I keep having dreams.”

Her grandmother raised her eyebrows, “Dreams?”

Sage nodded, emboldened, “I see a lot of fire.”

Her grandmother began to laugh. Sage was silent, relieved and offended at once. Her grandmother sighed, and covered 6

Sage’s hand with hers, “When I was younger, I was a lot like you.”

Sage smiled halfheartedly, as her grandmother rose and began to rummage through her cabinets. She returned to the table with a dark tinted glass bottle. Sage squinted at the Chinese characters, not recognizing any.

“Mix a spoonful of this with hot water, and drink it before bed,” her grandmother said, “Then, you will sleep well.”

Sage stared at the bottle for a moment before taking it into her hands.

That night Sage went to the night market.

Light and sound and movement and scent became a living thing under the watchful eye of the moon. Stalls lined the street, each its own individual world vying for her attention. She joined the slow procession of people moving down the street, the warm nighttime air melding with the scent of food. Sage was positive there was no equivalent of the night market to be found in America. Back there everything felt too polished, too manufactured, too set up in a way that begged you to make a purchase. Sage paused in front of a stinky tofu vendor, snapping a quick photo before ordering one for herself.

Later, Sage had come home and began to edit the photos from earlier. None of them looked quite right. They did not strike her at first glance, the way they were supposed to. In her frustration she suddenly remembered the bottle perched on her night stand. She thought about sending a photo to her mom, asking what the concoction was, but decided against it. Her grandmother had given it to her, and her grandmother would never hurt her.

Sage did as she was instructed. First she heated water in a kettle, then poured it into a mug and stirred in a spoonful of the bottle’s contents, something thick, brown, syrupy. She raised the mug to her lips, inhaling its sweet scent. The liquid slid down her throat, warming its way down to her insides. It left a minty aftertaste, somehow simultaneously hot and cold. Sage downed the entire cup.

She did not dream of fire that night. She did not dream of anything, really.

Several more nights passed in the same fashion, until Sage began to miss the burning.

7

Laura Esbensen Dissonance Medium: Acrylic on wood

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skin

By Caitlyn Vilar at the hotel room peeling off my bathing suit i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and run a finger over the skin untouched by the sun. in the shower i scrub vigorously at the places the sun had tainted until they all glow red. i was young, too young to be pretty, but just old enough to know what it was and just old enough to know that i wasn’t.

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Hemmy Chun Instructions for Lemonade 10

By Chloe Esser 11

When Mark throws the ropes down, there is no indication that they’ve hit stone. Instead, the cords, which had seemed so official and needlessly long when Dave handed them to him, hang loosely against rough concrete. This all seems less like the urban rock climbing expedition Dave had promised and more like that one episode of Game of Thrones where Jon Snow and the wildlings are trying to scale that giant ice wall. Mark remembers getting bored during that scene and convincing Amanda to make out instead. But he also remembers rope breaking and the wildlings falling splat down on the ice.

He isn’t particularly eager for that to be him.

“Dude, how far is it down there?” asks Dave, peering over the edge, but carefully far enough away for a missed step to not send him careening downward. Splat.

“I don’t know,” says Mark. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah,” says Dave. He gets closer now, feet spread wide apart and awkwardly leaning forward, peering squinty eyed into the blackness like a golfer after a swing or an appraiser of fine jewels. “Because if the rope’s only hanging like, 10 inches from the bottom, then we can sidle right down there. But if it’s like 10 miles down, then we’d better just move on.”

“Pussy,” Mark says casually, but he can’t help but agree. This entire day was such a fucking stupid idea. He can hardly stand Dave as it is — handsome, mouthy Dave, far too close with Amanda for Mark’s taste, and too caught up in his weird hobbies.

Urban exploration for fuck’s sake. As if malls aren’t boring enough when you can actually buy things in them.

Dave laughs good-naturedly, a loud sequential “Hah!” that makes Mark want to deck him. “If you want to check it out, be my guest, I guess. I have no clue what’s fucking down there though. Haven’t seen anything about creepy death pits on the forums.”

Creepy death pits seem almost preferable to the concrete labyrinth they’re in. They stand only a little outside of the abandoned office park, where Mark imagines must have the beginning of expanding the site. It’s possible this is just out of the 12

way enough for past explorers to miss, but it still seems unlikely. Mark walks a few feet over, when his feet suddenly catch on something. Mark can feel himself beginning to careen forward, towards the pit. Desperately, his arms pinwheel backwards.

He’s successful, but at the coast of landing squarely and stupidly on his back.

Dave is beside himself with laughter. “You okay there, dude?”

Mark is still too busy calming down to get properly annoyed, but he still takes the time to extend his middle finger.

“Please make an effort,” Amanda had said. “You know how much it would mean to me — my boyfriend and my best friend getting along. And Dave really likes you; he never likes any of the guys I date. The fact that he invited you along on one of his trips means a lot.”

Mark had almost asked Amanda why Dave would like him, especially compared to Amanda’s exes. He’s seen some of the douches she used to date; they seem right up Dave’s alley. Maybe that’s the deal though – Dave can like Mark because he doesn’t drive a car worth twice the price of tuition, so he won’t seem like a threat when Dave decides to finally swoop in on Amanda.

“What was that?”

Dave leans over and pulls up a discarded flashlight. “Somebody must have lost it earlier. Here,” he says, tossing the flashlight in Mark’s direction. “To the victor, the spoils. Since it tried to kill you and everything.”

Mark catches the flashlight easily, examines it, and shakes his head. No good – It’s the exact brand of flashlight he already brought with him.

“Hold on,” he says. “I want to see something.”

He tosses the flashlight into the pit. In unison, both boys lean forward, tipped halfway on the side of their shoes, waiting, waiting, controlled more by unnamed instinct than actual thought.

No sound.

For a moment, Mark almost thinks he sees something moving in the pit beneath him, but after a moment he knows it must have been a trick of light as Dave sets his flashlight to the side.

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“Well, shit,” Dave says. “Maybe not down here,” and begins pulling the rope back up. There’s something about this practiced movement, one of someone who knows how to climb in and out of the world around him, strained muscles and untied knots, so familiar and masculine, that makes Mark angry all over again.

Dave swings his backpack over his shoulder, a big sturdy thing that Mark can’t begin to imagine the contents of. A little self-consciously, he hoists up his own bag — all he has is a water bottle, some beef jerky, and a puffy jacket he hasn’t needed all night, and his still doesn’t seem anywhere near as big or prepared as Dave’s.

Dave shakes his head again, clicking his tongue like a cartoon version of someone’s mother. “It’s bizarre,” he says, looking into the pit one last time. “This is one of the most popular spots around here; almost every dumb kid with a flashlight has gone snooping through this place and I’ve never seen anyone mention the gaping hole in the ground.”

Mark doesn’t look back at the hole. He can’t help but feel unnerved by the thing even at a safe distance five feet away. He maintains his nonchalance the best he can. “Maybe they started construction again here since then?”

“Where’s the equipment then bro?” Dave pulls out his phone to take a few pictures, before leading Mark back to the main site. “I tell you what this is – it’s creepy.”

Today’s adventure is a trip through an abandoned, half-constructed industrial park. Mark and Dave had climbed over thick, 90’s style concrete seating, sat on pilling artificial grass still as green as the day it was purchased, and followed empty pipes up and down the park’s length — all leading them to that incomprehensible pit.

As they head through this industrial maze, Mark keeps looking behind him.

Not quite at where the pit was, but at the path they’ve taken since then. It’s a silly, stupid feeling, like a jumpy kid who snuck into a horror movie, but he keeps thinking there might be footsteps just behind him, stopping the moment he does. But one glance, then another, then another, repeatedly proves him wrong.

“What do you think is down there?” he can’t help asking.

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“I don’t know,” Dave shrugs, already over the mystery. “Probably nothing?

They must have packed it all up when they left.”

Mark hates this place. It isn’t just because he can’t quite shake the feeling of having seen something — of having been seen. It isn’t just because Dave is here, and it isn’t just because it’s a Friday night and he could be spending it rewatching The Office with Amanda or smoking with his roommates. It isn’t just because it’s late or because it’s cold. It’s because of the wetness. Something here feels unfinished, and whenever Mark sits down or steps through the concrete it feels like somehow, in two decades, it hasn’t had the time to finish drying. Sometimes Mark will feel a hand on his shoulder, and swivel to find Dave still standing several meters away, and he has no choice but to just curse this sticky, heavy air.

He doesn’t want to make small talk, he wants to get tonight over with before it’s even begun, but he can’t help but want to know the story of this place. Somehow, Dave seems to get that. Or maybe Dave just likes to run his mouth.

“It was never even used,” Dave says as they wander through half demolished doors and hop over moldy construction tape. “But it was supposed to be huge. They got this big contract from the city and there was going to be like these bougie cafes and funky architectural office spaces and little dog parks and daycares. Like Google — the nice Google buildings, not the shitty ones they stick their moderators in — have you heard about that? Shit’s fucked up man, if you’re not a Google programmer, or like, white and middle class—”

Mark cuts him off. He already read that news story in The Atlantic and he doesn’t really care anyway. “Why didn’t they finish building it?” He doesn’t realize until the words are out, hung in stale chill air, that he has been waiting for the answer to this. He doesn’t know why he can’t help caring. Maybe it is the impossibly deep pit they found. Maybe it’s the eerie sound of their echoing footsteps that carry on just a second too long after they stop moving. Maybe it is the state of in between this park is in. Mark can almost hear the workers, almost see the cubicles set up, almost feel the silk gray tie knotted around his neck.

The liquidity, the potential, seems to seep from everything. Any infinite 15

number of Marks could live here, in any of the infinite futures made of raw cement – gone onto business, to debt, to satisfaction, to loneliness.

Mark thinks again about the darkness of the pit.

Dave shakes his head. “Oh, yeah. Basically they got bought out. The state wanted to build the university here because cheap land, easy recruiting for the base, yadayada, so they cut the investors a fat check and they ditched it to do fuck all somewhere else. I think the school was supposed to build over here, but they never did. They could probably just have us move in now.” He kicks at a pile of rubble.

“Looks about the same as my freshman dorm.”

“What did the investors do? Where did they end up building this place?”

“Fuck if I know,” Dave says happily. He turns into one of the park’s larger buildings, still a skeleton of an office building, but with several stories built all the same. “They just left it all here. Too bad for the office workers, but exciting for people like me.”

“Right,” says Mark. They walk in silence for some time, and Mark tries to picture the vision they must have had for this place. Somehow, he can’t quite ever see this as being complete.

He must have gotten too lost in his own thoughts, though, because suddenly, Dave is meters ahead of him.

“Woah, slow down!” he calls, and Dave turns to him, grinning wickedly.

“Mark?” Dave’s voice. Behind him.

Mark turns frantically to see Dave rounding the corner toward him. He quickly snaps his head back. Nothing.

“Dude, you completely spaced. I said we were going to turn around that corner, remember?”

“You turned the corner?”

“Uh, yeah.”

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“And I kept going down the hall.”

“Yes?”

Mark shakes his head. Don’t be stupid. It’s the light here – he can hardly see anything out of the range of his own flashlight; of course his mind showed him Dave in the shadows when he expected to see him there. “Never mind, man.”

He hesitates as Dave begins to climb the building’s stairs. Half-built and never secured with concrete or flooring, the steps are a skeleton of the finished product, and Dave looks like he’s climbing a spider web of thin metal. “Is that safe?”

“We’re good! Look, they were already building the walls and everything, this is secure.”

Still, the ground seemed to creak and sway beneath Mark’s feet. “So does Amanda ever come with you on these… expeditions, whatever.”

“She has a couple times. With big groups, you know. Freshman year, I would get loads of people from our building to come out with me and we’d hit up the old park ranger’s office near the canyons and then we’d climb through the tunnels by the sewers. I was like the tour guide, man. But I’m glad I get to show you around.

As soon as I met you, I was like, ‘This guy doesn’t know it, but he wants to go on an adventure.’”

Mark tries to picture Amanda, with her sleek blonde hair and perfect nail polish, shlucking it in the sewers with Dave. He can’t, nor can he ignore the twist of anger in the pit of his stomach. He imagines Dave, with his easy smile and perfect tousled hair with his hand on Amanda’s arm as he guides her through darkness. He doesn’t know Amanda-in-the-sewers, isn’t dating Amanda-with-Dave, and he isn’t even sure he wants to. But it’s discomforting, knowing there’s a version of this girl he knows so well that she still hasn’t let him meet.

Scores of minutes pass by, Dave happily prattling on about his classes and some cave he went spelunking in over the summer and some girl he met at a party, before Mark cuts him off.

“Are we still climbing?”

“Well, duh,” says Dave, before realizing what Mark means. They’ve been 17

climbing stairs for too long now, too many flights for the height of the building they saw on the outside. Mark likes to think he’s a pretty fit dude, he hits the gym with his buddies a couple times a week at the very least, but even he’s beginning to get kind of sore. “Huh.”

Together, they step out past the stairwell, into the abandoned office space. If Mark thought the stairs looked suspect, this is worse. The walls of this section are incomplete, gray paneling started in some areas, though faded and cracked with time, and in other areas, the floor gives way to nothing but empty air.

“Okay, NICE,” says Dave. “Are you seeing this?”

He is seeing this. The closer he gets to the edge of the room, the more what’s below tilts and whirls in front of him. They are high, high up, the rest of the office park laid out before them. On a factual level, Mark know this is far from the highest up he has ever been, but something about standing on an edge where you would expect to find a wall sends his stomach spinning. He looks up. Despite all their climbing, they are somehow not on the highest floor.

Dave sits down, content, legs swinging from the side of the building. Not wanting to look like a bitch, Mark joins him, gripping the wall next to him with shaking hands, and hoping Dave won’t notice.

“Look at these stars,” Dave says. “These are incredible.”

But Mark is not looking at the stars. Mark is looking across the expanse of cement and trees to the nearest building, where he sees two shapes sitting on the edge, legs swinging, hands thrown over each other’s shoulders in unthinking affection, eyes towards the stars.

Mark has read that if you saw yourself in real life, at a party or walking by on the street, you wouldn’t recognize yourself. Something about the face no longer being a reflection, something about how you focus on different features when you’re looking at other people than you do when staring into the mirror. Mark doesn’t remember exactly what the reasons were. It doesn’t matter; it’s not true. Even 50 feet away, and even in this dim light, Mark can recognize himself.

“Do you want some trail mix?” asks Dave, and wordlessly, Mark stretches out 18

his hand, face unturned, for the first time not caring when Dave’s skin brushes his own in the transfer.

The two figures reach for the bag together, uncaring, unconcerned with whoever may be watching. Mark doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t have to to know that Dave hasn’t noticed them yet. He clutches the trail mix tighter in his hand, feeling blandly salted peanuts and raisins slip between his fingers and fall through the air, as he watches himself from 50 feet away. This other Mark has an unconcerned smile, his legs hanging in open air, and seems to breathe more freely than Mark can imagine.

This other Mark locks eyes with the other Dave and presses his food, wet with night air and the smell of cement, into his mouth.

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Sarthak Kaul Untitled Medium: Oil on canvas

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By Caroline Laubscher 24

There are two schools of

fish darting past my stinging eyes, tender in the salty ocean

thought on the topic of

drowning. Some survivors

fish, I had some nice fried cod the other day.

find shelter in a reef; others are less lucky as the shark circles above.

of this traumatic aquatic

ordeal have cited their

experiences to be quite

harrowing, as one would

imagine drowning to be.

However, there are those

who report that for them,

drowning was not painful,

but rather peaceful. In

fact, one drownee may

experience both of these

sensations, initially going

fish are the only kind of fish are other fish in the sea! fearful of fish is ichthyophobia waltz with a wrasse, two-step with a tadpole, cut a rug with a catfish!

He’s swimmin wit da fishes now, see? who escape the net, and others who end up on the sushi table. fishliness is next to Godliness. in fact, several studies suggest that fish do not experience pain as we do; fish we trust

>° )))) 彡 kinds of love for fish: fraternal, romantic. In this TED talk, I will outline fishing; I’ll be back in a few hours!

into a panic but relaxing

their rear dorsal fins, the yellowtail fall into a synchronized dive/

after an acceptance of fate or a loss of consciousness.

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By Isaac Kopstein

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When you get down to brass tacks, I’m just a goose. It sounds a little funny to

say out loud, but mostly it’s just liberating. When fame hits, you start to get all these expectations of yourself. It becomes easier and easier to feel like you need to be what other people expect you to be. I’m trying to fight that, though, and start normalizing my life again. So yeah, honestly, I ain’t nothing more than a goose. Sometimes I lay golden eggs. No big deal, really. I can lay normal ones, too. That’s what a lot of people don’t realize. They’re so quick to put me in this box as “The Golden Goose” but they never even consider that I enjoy doing regular goose things, too. It’s not all red carpets and cameos. I still catch my own fish and harass random passersby for bread during my spare time.

After I laid that first golden egg, when all the magazines and newspapers

came running, life was pretty good, not gonna lie. I was doing interviews left and right, really capitalizing on the publicity. Everywhere I’d go they’d ask me to do my shtick — I was that popular! I’d show up to a mall opening: boom, I’d lay a golden egg. When I hosted the Oscars: boom, golden egg. Invited to a house party? Egg. I was riding high. Everyone was getting rich off me. I had a reality TV show, for Christ’s sake! It was around that time that I fired Jack as my agent. Best decision of my life. We’d always been friends but this was business and that guy was a nobody.

I stayed with him early because he kinda “discovered me” but I quickly realized that my star was much brighter than his. We didn’t part on bad terms, though. After letting him go I gave him a full basket of eggs. There must have been at least three dozen in there. Not golden ones, though. Farm Fresh, extra large. I gottem at Costco.

Things started to go downhill after the DUI. You spend one too many nights

out with Keith Richards and you think you can party like Keith Richards. Obviously I can’t because I’m a goose. I don’t even know who let me drive the car. I don’t have hands. I probably gave the valet kid three golden eggs just to grab something flashy from the lot. Those were my wild days. I was dropping eggs left and right. Most of 27

it went to cocaine and booze, not gonna lie. So I’m not really surprised that it all caught up to me eventually. The whole thing might have blown over if it wasn’t recorded on the officer’s body camera. When he was trying to fit the cuffs around my wings I said some… some pretty hurtful things about his wife... and religious beliefs.

He and I have talked privately and I’ve since apologized. He’s a nice man. Beautiful wife.

But yeah, I lost everything; my show, my sponsors, my movie deal with

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. It’s been maybe ten years since all that. I’m just trying to live a normal goose life right now. Occasionally someone will recognize me on the street and ask for a picture. I don’t mind, as long as they lean down to my level for it. Some of these jokers will ask me to lay a golden egg “like I used to.” I tell them I’m not about that life anymore. It’s going pretty well, to be honest. Things are quiet and I really feel like I’ve been able to thrive as the goose I want to be rather than the goose people see me as. And yeah, there was that TMZ video a few years back of me getting my head caught in a plastic cup. But plenty of other geese do that every day.

Can’t I?

28

Ally Lawler Monotony Medium: Flim Photography

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30

To Cornell University and Liberty College, (you know who you are) I break people’s hearts but you don’t break mine.

I had my black hair whipping back in the wind at dusk. Do not trail behind me, I warn the dying stars, because they do not know where this mind has been before settling into this tame body. Sometimes it shows—in a jerk of the finger, a twitch of the ear, or the annoyed twisting and turnings of the neck. It’s there, a wild soul that had to be bolted down to flesh.

If I were an instrument I’d be mute, just the flurry of movements, the tension in strings and the grinding of fingertips. But still, I am graceful and that’s why my lovers are drawn. They hear something unspoken. In purple night skies, oh stars why won’t you abandon me? There is nothing in response. I have a habit of tracing the wind with my hand, as I roam the highways in a blazing car. There is nothing to grasp.

So I break people’s hearts, but they don’t break mine. It is not allowed. It is unaccounted for. It is cheap, and flimsy, and untrue. I rage like a charging storm, knocking the wind out of you while I feast upon the remains, gorging on what I will deny as emotion but admit as a hole. There they are and I will challenge their own claim of self. I enjoy this. See, the sea is my God as it erodes away the sand, nibbling bits off, invading acres of land. It’s fun. But she and he are not allowed. In that order, neither of you were allowed.

Going at a hundred, I drive my fingers through my hair, front to back. This baby will stay silent as it hugs the coastline, teetering between the sea and the violet sky. I can’t quite make sense of it.

31

How do I explain it? At times, she whispers in my ear and this chill just rises from the blue. I dream lucidly while following ebony traces of her. Let me seem rough and dominant before everyone, but I will always doubt myself with you. And your sunshine hair, oh your sunshine hair is such a contrast! Blue eyes that aren’t that clear, a depth I have no knowledge of as I dive. Let me seem bold and dominant, while I actually risk my breath.

I break people’s hearts, but you don’t break mine?

Whatever. A toast to this cold air.

Signed ( , ) With Liquor

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Laura Esbensen Skin Medium: Acrylic on Canvas 33

At the Sink

By Gabriela Schepp My mother stands at the sink, washing the dishes That were used just minutes before.

And her hands go washing, washing, As she stares at her reflection in the window.

She’s running towards a jungle, While the sun licks at her mocha skin.

And they cry ‘Morena! Morena!’

As she laughs and tries to catch at birds the color of the rainbow.

She’s moving from a homeland, A strange language on her lips.

And her dreams are larger than the moon and the earth, More infinitely grand than the stars.

She’s walking down a street In the place where futures are made And her passion runs hotter than the blood in her veins, Yearning for a chance to be great.

But My mother now stands at the sink, washing the dishes That I used just minutes before.

And her hands go washing, washing, As she stares at her reflection in the window And sees all those dreams fly away, Just like jungle birds The color of the rainbow.

34

A Love Letter to the UCSD-PROTECTED WifiDear UCSD wifi, you quirky gal, You’re the ultimate femme fatale: Mysterious, fragile, an insurmountable shellBeing cast from your side is unbearable hell.

You know you’re an affection fiend; You covet my attention, my jealous queen.

You’ll connect with me as bright as dawn, But my crush snapchats me- suddenly, you’re gone.

Like an old lover’s lost caress, You’re mine one moment, memories the next.

I am a member of your endless empire And your mere touch I do desire But, like a long-distance high school romance, You never really had a chance Because last month I got unlimited data LTE is first; you’re now beta.

35

Nicole Lopez Fronteras Medium: Photography 36

37

A Love Letter to the UCSD-PROTECTED Wifi

By Janelle Kim Dear UCSD wifi, you quirky gal, You’re the ultimate femme fatale: Mysterious, fragile, an insurmountable shellBeing cast from your side is unbearable hell.

You know you’re an affection fiend; You covet my attention, my jealous queen.

You’ll connect with me as bright as dawn, But my crush snapchats me- suddenly, you’re gone.

Like an old lover’s lost caress, You’re mine one moment, memories the next.

I am a member of your endless empire And your mere touch I do desire But, like a long-distance high school romance, You never really had a chance Because last month I got unlimited data LTE is first; you’re now beta.

38

Close Your Eyes

By Montanna Harling The lake was most beautiful during the in-between times. At the cool hush just before dawn, when the ducks glided silently across the still water, trailing soft ripples, the entire world seemed to drift along with them. Now, at dusk, it was nearly as beautiful as dawn, the water lit silver from a fading sun and the pine trees a fragrant green smudge on the opposite bank.

The dock creaked softly as Cait stepped out onto it, letting the metal gate slide shut behind her as she made her way down the ramp.

She wasn’t supposed to be on this dock—it was privately owned by a collection of waterfront cabins, and protected by a code that changed every month—but it didn’t matter. She had an uncanny ability of getting the code from unsuspecting renters, and besides, she knew who to avoid to keep her skill a secret. She’d been doing this too long.

Cait could tell by the lingering warmth in the hard surface of the dock as she knelt on the last boat slip ramp that the day had been hot. Though, she suspected, the day here hadn’t been as hot as the day she had spent walking the streets in the wearying heat of Oakhurst, the aged, dusty town half an hour beyond the lake. Cait could already feel the sunburn beginning to throb beneath her skin, as hot as the sun overhead had been; she had been too upset to put on sunscreen.

She stared out over the lake, wishing, behind a wall of numbness, that she could love this spot like she used to.

The rattling of the gate wrenched her back. Cait turned, irrationally hopeful, only to feel disappointment dig in its pinched claws as she recognized her sister hurrying down the dock.

39

“We shouldn’t be here.” Lydia said abruptly, with an uneasy glance at the waterfront cabins behind them. “She wouldn’t have made it this far anyway. We should go back to Oakhurst.” Lydia leveled her hazel eyes at her younger sister. Level — that’s what Lydia was. Even her facial expressions were moderate, a climate tempered by the sea. “She’ll probably be waiting on the porch when we pull into the driveway.”

“I just—thought she’d be here. She loved it here,” Cait explained, dropping her gaze. Said aloud, the words sounded flat, weak against Lydia’s rationality. She could see Nettle here so clearly; couldn’t Lydia? She could see Nettle’s sleek black fur, gleaming as if studded with diamonds after plunging into the water. She could see Nettle’s oversized brown paws leaving wet prints on the white dock. She could see the summers their family had come to the lake before they weren’t a family anymore, and Nettle jumping off the back of the boat with Cait and Lydia and Casey before he’d been taken by the crash that had claimed their parents. She could see the days after those years when Cait had skipped school just to come up here and feel the sun on her skin and the breeze in her hair and the warmth of Nettle’s excitement for life in her healing heart. She could see eight years of love, the unconditional love that grows between a puppy and a young girl, that grows as they do. It was all here, and yet it was gone. Just as that family was gone, just as those days were gone.

“Cait.” Lydia’s voice was edged with impatience, the closest thing she’d ever get to irritation.

“I’m coming.” Cait pushed herself to her feet. “You’re right; she wouldn’t have made it this far.” Because Lydia had never been wrong before. Cait was the one who had believed as a child that there were water spirits murmuring to one another beneath the surface of the lake; Cait was the one who had given up on her education after high school; Cait was the one who was hopeful—hopeless—enough to think that an aging dog would wander ten miles from home across two-lane roads and through dusty pines just because this lake was special to her owner.

Cait followed her sister up the dock. The water lapped softly beneath the floats on either side of the boat slips, and she wondered what it was trying to say.

40

*

The chill glass of the car window pressed against the side of Cait’s forehead as Lydia navigated the winding road into Oakhurst. The car shivered periodically, as familiar to Cait as the sound of her sister’s voice droning on beside her about flyers, and where they should look next, and how do you think Nettle even got lost in the first place?

The car had been their mother’s before the crash; afterwards, Lydia had asked Cait how they should share it, given that their only other car—their father’s—had been reduced to a bloodied pulp in the scrapyard. Cait hadn’t hesitated in letting Lydia have the car; every time she shut herself into the small confines of a car, she imagined the way her parents and brother must have died, and her world shriveled to a cage of panic. She had been sixteen when the crash happened, a new driver; she hadn’t touched a steering wheel since. Not that it had been her fault—her father had been driving, and Cait hadn’t even been in the car.

“...think I’ll try the inns along the creek next,” Lydia’s voice came to Cait’s attention slowly as if dragged from the ink-dark depths of the lake. Cait gathered her thoughts, spooling them in and tucking them away before focusing on her sister.

Lydia went on. “I’ll go by tonight, give them some of our flyers. Why don’t you check in with Starbucks again? Maybe someone there has seen her?”

Why in hell would Nettle go to Starbucks? Cait couldn’t remember taking Nettle to the town center even once. They’d always explored the forested backroads, the forgotten creeksides, the halfway places. “I’ll check,” Cait said anyway. “Thanks, Lydia.”

Guilt poked at her for resenting her sister’s calm. Lydia was trying; despite the gap that had grown between them in recent years, a gap born of the bitter things they’d said to each other after the crash, each irrationally blaming the other, each afraid of the sudden loneliness that had descended on them, both lashing out like drowning swimmers—despite that, Lydia had picked up the phone when Cait had called yesterday and said please help me, I don’t know what else to do. Despite that, Lydia had skipped her college classes and driven up from Fresno to find Cait disconsolate on the porch, feet blistered from searching through the woods, voice hoarse from 41

calling. Despite that, Lydia was still willing to dole out Nettle’s Lost Dog flyers when she should be preparing her papers due the next morning. Wasn’t that enough? After all, without Nettle, who else did Cait have now besides Lydia?

The car rolled to a stop. Cait looked out the window. The streetlamps just beyond the Starbucks glowed harshly against the falling dusk; across the street, the Chevron sign was a staticky wash of color. Cait slithered out of the seatbelt and into the cooling dusk beyond the car. Lydia glanced up at her from the driver’s seat, hazel eyes large and reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights. “We’ll find her,” she said.

“I promise we will.”

Cait cast through her thoughts for a response. We won’t; she’s been gone a day already, and that’s like ten days for a dog. Or, She’s never been away from me for more than the hours it takes me to shop, or to work a shift at the cafe. But the loudest words she heard in her head were, She’s not coming back.

“I hope so,” Cait said at last. “I just—” don’t know what I’ll do without her. I’ve shared my soul with that dog for longer than I remember; can you imagine the agony it will be to cut that bond forever? She turned away, letting the car door shut behind her.

The low murmur of voices inside Starbucks felt incongruous to Cait, out-ofplace against the nightmarish backdrop of her thoughts. She wondered if the people inside could see the darkness in her eyes, the haunted trail of her mind.

The manager gave Cait a blank look when she asked if anyone had seen a stray dog. No dog had been seen, no customer had mentioned seeing a stray, but you ought to check with the Humane Society down the road (Cait had; three times today), or with the veterinarian (yes, Cait had been there four times). Helplessly, she gave the manager another flyer (Lydia had already posted one on the wall beside the restrooms) and scuttled out into the twilight.

It was now almost fully dark. Cait cast around for a bench to sit on while she waited for Lydia to return, but didn’t have the energy to look too far. She made it to the curb on the side of the street before sinking down. Across the street, a spindly streetlamp glowed with the steady orange burning of dulled flames. A few moths flitted listlessly around the lamp, forming a halo above the bulb. Cait stared at the 42

lamp’s brightness until it began to pulse with her own broken heartbeat...

Cait finds herself in the water of the lake, paddling to keep herself afloat, the back of her parents’ boat bobbing a few feet ahead of her. Casey perches on the edge, small for a seven-year-old but energetic, brightness in his eyes. He clutches an inflatable raft; it dwarfs him. He teeters on the edge of the platform; the waves draw the boat up, up, feet above Cait, before bringing it slapping down against the water again.

“Come on!” Cait calls. “What’re you waiting for?”

“It’s far,” Casey yelps, clutching to the rail of the boat and looking down as another wave takes him farther above Cait. Brightly patterned swimsuit, smears of sunscreen on his little face. That is how Cait remembers him, though it wasn’t until three years later that he would die.

“Just close your eyes,” says Cait. “Close your eyes and jump! I’m waiting for you!” She sees him tense. Then his eyes close. His fingers pull the surface of the raft taut as his feet leave the ramp. He launches his body off the boat and vanishes beneath the waves with Cait, the two of them enclosed in a teal-colored world of sun-shattered waves and chill open waters beneath. *

The inns along the creek had not seen Nettle.

The stores in the center of town had not seen Nettle.

The Humane Society had not seen Nettle.

Hikers on nearby trails where Cait used to run with Nettle had not seen Nettle.

Cait’s dead mother and father and brother in the cemetery on the hill above Starbucks had not seen Nettle.

Perhaps, thought Cait as she cried herself to nonexistent sleep that night in her cold bed scattered with dog fur, nobody had ever seen Nettle at all, and she had imagined everything—the crash, Lydia leaving for college, Nettle being engulfed by this broken world as easily as a wave crashing over your head and swallowing you whole.

43

*

Lydia was awake when Cait padded out into the kitchen, sleepless and exhausted, before sunrise the next morning. Lydia was stirring coffee, looking, if not entirely rested, better than Cait at least. She wore a soft blouse and jeans that looked expensive though Cait suspected they probably weren’t. She looked like she didn’t belong here, in this old house, in this old town. Maybe she never really had; maybe that’s why she’d been gone for so long, why she was now in a master’s program at some shiny school, so that she’d never have to come back to the dust and the cobwebs and the wisps of ghosts behind every wall.

Cait sat down at the kitchen table, and Lydia came over to sit beside her. For a few moments, neither spoke; steam curled up above the coffee, and Cait watched it unravel.

“How do you do it?” Lydia asked at last.

“Do—what?” Cait glanced up at her sister in surprise.

“Surround yourself with their memories.” Lydia’s eyes strayed to the fridge.

Fading drawings curled on its surface, yellowed from the sun that came in through the kitchen windows during winter. Some of the drawings were Lydia’s, some Cait’s, but most were Casey’s. One day I’ll be an artist, Cait remembered him saying very seriously. “You haven’t gotten rid of anything. Even Mom’s favorite mugs are still in the cupboard above the coffeemaker. Why haven’t you gotten rid of anything? It’s been six years, Cait.”

Cait looked away so she didn’t have to see the cracks in Lydia’s expression, so out of character for her. Maybe Nettle’s disappearance had reminded Lydia, too, of how precarious this game of life was. “I’ve gotten used to it,” Cait said. “Changing things would be like...like pretending that part of our lives never existed.” She stood up abruptly before she let the emotions drag her under.

“Nobody’s called, then? About Nettle?”

Lydia drew in a long, weary breath. “No,” she said. “Cait...”

“You have to leave,” Cait guessed.

Lydia’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of surprise. “I’m sorry, Cait. I have 44

papers due...”

“I know.” Cait opened the fridge and stared blankly inside. The shelves were desolate. A can of Nettle’s meat sat in the side door, covered with a plastic Petco lid.

Cait grimly shut the fridge. “It’s fine, Lydia, I know you’re busy. Thanks for helping me yesterday.” Did the words sound strained to Lydia? Cait couldn’t tell.

“I’ll call later,” Lydia promised. “And call me at any time if you get an update about Nettle.” She stood up, rinsed her empty mug in the sink, set it on the rack to dry. She turned to Cait, hesitating slightly, then stepped forward and gave her sister a brief hug. “You’ll find her, Cait.” Cait smiled.

She followed Lydia outside and stood on the porch as Lydia pulled out of the driveway in their mother’s old car. Cait lifted a hand in farewell beneath the pale morning sky. *

Lydia had taken the family’s last car, but they still had a dirtbike. Cait uncovered it now, coughing from the dust in the unused garage, eyeing its rust-speckled spokes uneasily. She hadn’t driven a car in six years; she hadn’t even touched a dirtbike in even longer. Her father had taught her to ride once, but that was long ago.

It still worked; she knew that much, because when Lydia had come over for one day last Thanksgiving with her boyfriend, he had taken it out and started it up out of sheer boredom, because what else was there to do during Thanksgiving without family out here?

This is a bad idea.

Cait thrust the key into the ignition.

You’re going to get yourself killed.

She turned the key, and the bike shuddered to life beneath her.

Maybe I don’t care. *

She knew the road to the lake by heart, even though she hadn’t personally driven it in a while. Someone had always been willing to take her and Nettle to the lake; friends, or acquaintances who lived in Oakhurst but worked at the lake and 45

who would let Cait travel with them for a few dollars. But today she wanted to be alone. Today she needed to be alone.

Cait parked the dirtbike at the market. It was twenty-minute parking only, but she didn’t care if she got a ticket. There were some things more important than being cautious.

This time, she went to the spur of land beside the police tower, instead of the cove. The walk was quiet; it was still early morning, and people here were slow to rise, especially in the summer when the days burned long and hot and joyous.

The wind beside the tower was strong; this stretch of beach wasn’t protected as in the cove, but was exposed to the slap of the wave and the whisk of the breeze.

The stringy grasses turned abruptly into pebbles and rocks and sand, and Cait took her shoes off to feel the rasp of stone beneath her feet and the scritch of the coarsegrain sand.

There were a few boats on the lake already, but they moved slowly, sullen engines held in check by the speed rules in effect until 8 a.m., when they would be free to skim across the surface of the waves. Cait drew in a breath of the wind coming off the lake; it carried the scent of the pines on the distant bank. It carried the scent of her memories. It carried the scent of freedom.

The trees stood strong, bright green and healthy, thrusting their fragrant branches into the sky. Cait could almost see Nettle standing beneath them, fluffy tail raised in greeting, as everlasting as the trees.

Here, in this moment, the waves slap against the pebbles beneath Cait’s feet, liquid voices of comfort. Close your eyes, Cait hears the water say, but it is with Casey’s voice; it is with Nettle’s voice. Close your eyes; I’m here with you.

A smile touches Cait’s face. A peace she has not felt in days washes over her, and the lake beyond the shore seems more alive to her than it ever has, its ripples and sand and pines holding the imprints of the ones she loves, and she feels alive with the knowledge.

She closes her eyes. The world is made whole once more.

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Sarthak Kaul Untitled Medium: Oil on canvas 47

Marcin Kierebinski I Left My Heart in Amsterdam Medium: Photography 48

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2230

By Nicole Lopez a draft of wind that touched the sea upon a starless night it was but red, imagined bliss exposed beneath the clouds it curled and crawled —slid up my feet at last our sweet reunion.

Alas the news have missed our steps, we sway against communion. a venom taste, enchanted scent Dear Space, condense our doubts if truth the remedy —our sins, goodbye I dwell —restored at last pressed against a tungsten light, the silhouette of sanity. the only memory that remains: dancing — in the ocean.

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ABOUT US Other People was founded to inspire creative expression in students from all disciplines.

A space to embrace the creative spirit through a fusion of language, art, image, and technology 51

UCSD’s FIRST LITERARY MAGAZINE AND CLUB