Can anyone forget what it’s like to see purpleyellowredorangepink flash in front of their eyes like a thousand flashbulbs, capturing the feeling of forever?
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Playing a game of chess, being a pawn, Fiddling in contemplation of what you exist on,
issue i.iv.i Because that’s when we fell in lust That’s when our touch became absolute, an absolute must
Then the impassive trickling of time continued, leaving her behind.
65 35
the Rune
irvington literary arts magazine
IHS XOOM X YOUTH LITERACY SOCIETY X P.ART
ISSUE I.I | 1
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timeless.
ISSUE I.I | 3
THE RUNE MAGAZINE DECEMBER 2017 VOLUME I ISSUE II Editor-in-Chief Publication Policy Emily Liu Octarine, Irvington High School’s literary arts magazine, is a student-run Leads project to serve as an open forum for Chloe Retika students to become published and Shivani Manivasagan express their opinions through any and all forms of writing and art. Layout/Design Zhizhou (Alice) Hu Submitting Niyoosha Haque Open to all students of Irvington High Sabrina Ma School, feel free to submit any writing, Raisah Khan art, or photography to irvingtonXOOM@gmail.com. For more informaPolitical Director tion, check out tinyurl.com/octarineFrederic Xiong submit. Further Contributors Cynthia Zhan Yeemon Kwaw Jessica Lee Parnika Kant Felicia Mo Ujashi Shah Rukmini Bose Anoushka Sawant Emily Shao Chandu Garapatty Irene Huang Riya Kataria Bilal Pandit Serafina Show Alisha Chawla Alan Wu Reetam Ganguli Qy Jin Tyler Zhu Dark Blues Andrew Tee Madeline Liu Hypatia Ethan Huang Twisha Kurlaganda Risha Ray Roshni Sudharsan Aboli Chandi Jimmy Wang Rishabh Pandey Sharry Fan Serene Yeh Kim Lam Joyce Hu Rohan Chaudri Ashwin Natampalli Ashka Patel Shivani Shah Printing and Advertising Letters to the Editor Octarine will be distributed to classTo address any concerns on The Rune please rooms all over Irvington High School feel free to contact EIC Emily Liu. campus, as well as the library and main office. Physical copies will also be up for sale. Any profits made will be SPONSORED BY: donated to causes of which Irvington Excel Test Prep XOOM members support. For information on advertising in Octarine, BestinClass Tutoring please email EIC Emily Liu heyitzem.ilyliu@gmail.com. 4 | THE RUNE
contents Prose 20 Loopholes 21 Huh? 23 Overcome 24 Breaking Barriers 33 Hate Fiction 38 Science of Republicanism 42 End to a Forever 50 Love is Timeless 56 Through the Years
Serafina Show’s “AHollyDaliChristmas”
> >
Poetry 8 Glass Half Empty 10 Millenia 12 Constant 13 Endless 14 End Again 15 Just Two 16 Paradox of Our Lives 16 Renewal 17 A Christmas Dream 18 Click 18 Finite Beings 19 140 Words 19 Winter Walk 26 WInter Again 27 Chapters 27 Two Little Horses 28 Mayfly 30 Horses 32 Incandescent 34 Starbaby 36 Grey Feelings 40 Nostalgia 60 Sweet Taste of Silence Art & Photography 5 Alan Wu 5 Serafina Show 7 Rishabh Pandey 7 Joyce Hu 10, 16, 32, 33 Hannah Limary COVER, 12, 16, 18 Ethan Huang 13 Ashwin Natampalli 14, 26 Qy Jin 15 Madeline Liu 19 Serena Yeh 27 Dark Blues 34, 42 Emily Liu 40 Chloe Retika 51 Jessica Lee 60 Ashka Patel ISSUE I.I | 5
EDITOR’S WORD
This very, very dumb but very smart boy who is also a pain in the ass about 90% of the time, who I have had the privilege of knowing before the time we have is used up, told me something, once. That even though time slips through our fingers and falls away much too quickly, that even though we know that our hourglasses will finish pouring much too soon, it’s no excuse to waste it, to spend all that time just waiting for the end. Too little time doesn’t mean you give up, too much time doesn’t mean you resign yourself to loneliness. The inevitable end of time doesn’t mean you spend the present worrying about the time that is to come. In less poetic words, he told me, asked me, wouldn’t you rather spend your remaining time making good memories rather than making bad ones? With the time that you have, wouldn’t you want to do all the things that you would regret later on if you never did them? A year ago, my first reaction would have been no, no I don’t want to make good memories if I have limited time, it just hurts later on. I remember them, everything that’s happened. I have written a journal entry for every day in my life for four years and some days I go back and read that ink and my memories float off those pages, memories with people I don’t even say hi to anymore. Strangers. And it hurts because I can’t make good memories with those people anymore. What I written was what has been and will never happen again. Now, I realize my friend is right. The good memories that you make with the time you have now are precious because
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at the moment they were made, that’s all they were. Good memories, not bittersweet. You were happy when you made those memories. You were in love, you won your competition, you cracked a joke with your best friend. When you fall out of love, when you lose the competition you worked so hard for, when you stop speaking to your best friend, your memories aren’t tainted. They are still good, still innocent. We are all deadlines. We are all made of deadlines. You’re living your life from one test to the next, one SAT class to SAT class, this weekend’s game to next weekend’s, this art portfolio to the next. You’re living your life waiting for this love to break your heart, this friend to leave you, this senior to move away to some college and forget you. And then you repeat: test, game, love, senior, test, game, love, senior, until you become the test, game, love, and senior. We are all made of deadlines, but what matters most is what we do in between. Live bravely, not recklessly. Take chances. See beautiful things. Say what you want to say, do what you love. And collect time, become so full of time that you truly become timeless.
Chloe Retika, Head Editor
PANDEY, RISHABH. 2017. HU, JOYCE. 2017.
ISSUE I.I | 7
THE MOST DAMAGING OF DESTROYERS, THE MOST CONSTRUCTIVE OF CREATORS, ON ITS GLASSES OF THOUGHT, THE CLEAREST OF TINTS, FOR THE YOUNGEST OF HEARTS, AN IMPOSSIBLE PRESENCE, FOR THE OLDEST OF MINDS, A NECESSARY PRESENCE, CANDOR OF COMPANIONS, ENMITY OF ENEMIES, A DISTINCTION SELDOM NOTICED, WHEN INTENSITY BLURS THE LINE, A DISTORTED VOICE HEARD, THE .
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rohan chaudri ISSUE I.I | 9
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LIMARY, HANNAH. “Fragile Things.” 2017.
MILLENIA chloe retika i will not be quiet. i will not stop or falter or whisper. i will take care of myself i will love myself i will be true to myself. i will give myself the ability to point to something someone and say “this is what i want” “this is who i want” i get to choose to be with people that make me happy i get to make mistakes. i get to have fun and party and have adventures. it is their loss if they lose me not in some cliche way. time is passing by much too quickly slipping out like sand bullshit to the people who tell me they feel
timeless thats the wrong word. you feel so much time at once rushing straight past you that you preserve it in your memory to replay over and over and over again. “and in this moment we felt infinite” “and in this moment we were timeless” timeless: adj, not affected by the passage of time or changes in fashion bullshit in this moment i was so full of time im growing and learning and ruling this passage elasticity, im adapting to these changes these absences and losses in this moment i invest-
ed my time into a boy whose hands fit so perfectly into mine in this moment i walked across the stage and bowed in the concert hall ive dreamed of playing in it was a kind of moment when i could laugh so loudly and so hard without caring who heard because i dont need to endure millenia
i have created my own infinia.
ISSUE I.I | 11
HUANG, ETHAN. “Street Nights.” 2017.
CONSTANT anonymous
Father Time is Undefeated He envelops, devours voraciously, Nothing is left unravaged The man stands on the edge of the abyss The abyss that only holds darkness Not even light cannot escape Time creeps on, silently slithering It approaches, The Man prepares himself For the Endless Darkness awaiting Cracks web themselves across the floor between
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A deathly silence permeates the air There is no sound, simply silence The edges of his vision blur Shades of darkness creep inwards Reality is becoming a figment of his imagination Thoughts of death As he stands alone What was my life What was the purpose of my life
Why did I live These are the questions he ponders Dread sinks in A sense of emptiness washes over His life was a lonely one When all was over He was all alone That’s when he realized he was always alone He would always be alone
NATAMPALLI, ASHWIN
chandu garrapatty
ENDLESS
There was an empty feeling in his stomach, Feeling alone and lost in the darkness Facades in his own life had no meaning here He only had himself There was only one emotion Regret Regret of all those he pushed away Regret of all those he never forgave Regret of all those he hurt Regret of all those he didn’t reach out to As he stands on the brink Resignation and acceptance fills him There is nothing to do now Time will come, it always does He is still afraid Afraid of being lost forever Time erase him like those before He would be washed away All his remnants worn in nature The world would change around him There is only one constant Time He only hoped for more Time All he wanted was time All he ever wanted was time
roll of ocean waves Wears away the land Keeping time like a wardrum It turns the rocks to sand. Fire blazing through the night Dancing wildly Burning bright and burning out And burning forests green. In everything there is an end And, time, it is the same Who made time, but us, humans
and we will end one day. ISSUE I.I | 13
JIN, QY. “Yearn for Freedom.” 2017
AND AGAIN ashka patel
In a perfect world, we are stars creating fascination amidst the darkness But illusion has hold; I’m falling from the sky I’m about to crash. And so I’m in pieces. You play with matches, you set my heart ablaze, You didn’t mean it, You didn’t want to ignite our spark because I am broken, You didn’t want to melt us together again. But here we are In a perfect world, you are the flashlight leading me through the darkness But deception has it, you are keeping me in the dark You do not tell me that you see fire in our souls, But the longer you play, the more burnt out we get How do I get your attention? Fireworks? Explosion? It’s all I know, It’s all you know. You are the light at the end of my road,
Choose to lead me and we’ll be free. Rediscover me and we will glow
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JUST TWO
riya kataria
When I was 14, I wished I was allergic to peanuts Reason number one being that I hated nuts of all kind And being allergic to them made it easier to turn down Reason number two was that killing myself would be much easier Because it would be me and a nut and a swallow and finality and that would be the end of my emotions Depression is like Aunt Jess, the one relative that you’ve never really known how exactly she’s related to you But nevertheless, she’s always there, even if you don’t want her around And she is a part of you that you have come to accept
I came face to face with you on the first day of the rest of my life And suddenly Aunt Jess takes a backseat She isn’t gone, no, not even close But she is more silent with you around She learns to stifle her words under yours and slowly I start to push her out the door Make no mistake, she’s still at home Sometimes she pushes her way back in and sometimes I am about to lock the door but she barges in once again But don’t you get it? You are the stupid analogy I have been searching for The one who makes my emotions end but unlike the peanut You create new ones
You are not food for the stomach but food for thought Thought thought thought I thought I was done with you but can anyone really forget the ocean in which drowning helped them breath again? Can anyone forget what it’s like to see purpleyellowredorangepink flash in front of their eyes like a thousand flashbulbs, capturing the feeling of forever? And can anyone forget what it is like to want to eat a million peanuts despite having no allergies whatsoever? I always knew I’d come across a stupid analogy I just didn’t expect my heart to beat it out
She isn’t gone, no, not even close.
LIU, MADELINE. “Engraved Entitlement.” 23 SEPT 2017. ISSUE I.I | 15
THE PARADOX OF OUR LIVES ujashi shah
Since the beginning, we’ve wasted it and we’ve raced it. As it drags on and it slows down, there is no end, it will never quit. The hands will go around and around; no sign of slowing and no sign of stopping. The minutes, days, and years continue to climb, for, as we all know, in its very essence, there’s nothing more timeless than time,
a finite construct in the most infinite sense. HUANG, ETHAN. “City Bokeh.” 2017.
RENEWAL
twisha kurlaganda a series of haikus
I watch the clock tick The hand passes twelve o’ clock The year starts anew We pop the champagne To celebrate renewal Of time and the soul The new year started Resolutions created Only later be broken
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LIMARY, HANNHA. “Painted Faces.” 2017
her restless cry, her teary eye, her roar magnified.
Falling snow hit her window A girl’s head rolled on her pillow Her restless cry Her teary eye Her roar magnified The night drifts The sound consists And the poor girl twists Out she looks in the mist of air To see a white blanket covered everywhere To her surprise, she sheds a tear At this point, she felt she was a billionaire Her eyes gleamed Her world looked just like fresh cream She got the White Christmas one can only dream
anonymous
A CHRISTMAS DREAM ISSUE I.I | 17
City Lights, Ethan Huang
December afternoon sun painting golden rims on the leaves delicately dangling from their branches. A radiant smile, youthful dimples prominent, hanging from lips unfamiliar with the stretch. Click. I am a thief of time and beauty. With the snap of the camera shutter resonating in the cool, peppery air, I steal beauty. I steal it and hold it close to my chest, where time and nature can’t reach it.
MINE. FOREVER.
I steal beauty to fill the void where my own beauty used to live. As I silently glide through my life, the silken golden substance that should fuel my confidence slowly seeps out of the crack in my heart. Desperately, I stuff crystallized flowers and frozen smiles into my soul to keep myself sane, to keep myself alive. But the captured light seems lukewarm in comparison to the glowing gold that used to gurgle and giggle within.
parnika kant
CLICK
FINITE BEINGS yeemon kwaw
When I look up at the stars and glare at the moon I feel a sense of our lives on Earth ending so soon As beings, we are so small and unimportant in this universe Our time, living and breathing, cannot be reversed Yet, we live and carry on with love and hope If all we thought about was death, how could we cope? We are small particles of matter in a gigantic space There is no telling when it’s the end for the human race
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140 WORDS
andrew tee
new year resolutions (broken) FREEZING cold cold cold pink and red rain rain lots more rain lots of green green grass grass grows leaves grow everything is growing rain rain is it stopping? no i hate rain ok now it stopped eggs and bunnies, probably april showers may flowers lots of wind now i hate wind not rain getting warmer school’s out! ok now it’s way too hot HOT HOT HOT pools beaches vacations fireworks sunscreen sunglasses sunhat sleeping in summer camp now i hate heat and bugs is that school? oh no still roasting hot is it getting cooler? hard to tell orange and black costumes and candy leaves fall turkeys family how did it get so cold lights decorating contest red and green hot cocoa cookies fire too much music trees presents!!! i hate cold countdown new year
Body tilts against white winds Streams of hair trail small footsteps Eyelashes catch twirling stars Buttons shiver and pockets bulge Clutching her amber coat real tight She holds herself within its wool The wind slips inside It asks for her warmth Golden memories Fly past her fingers Cocoa toasts chilly hands Fresh crystals melt on Wooly scarf of snowman Laughing sisters fill the room Grandma’s smile, squinty eyes Spot’s snores rumble old floors The wind blows her thanks And she waves goodbye
kim lam
WINTER WALK
YEH, SERENA. ISSUE I.I | 2017. 19 “Entrance to Another World.”
LOOPHOLES felicia mo
“Tell me. What would happen if I press this button?” “You’d be making a big mistake.” “Oh? And how are you so sure about that?” “Just shut up and trust me! You don’t want to do this!” “Hm...it’s a shame things turned out to be this way. In an alternate reality, we could have been allies.” “That’s never going to happen!” “Actually...if I press this button, we could all start over. Don’t you want to be friends again?” “If I had known you would be such an asshole, we would never have been friends.” “Tsk, so sour. Well, behind that cage, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” “Are you out of your mind? Okay, I’ll tell you what will happen. If you press that button, we will cease to exist. We’d never have been born! It won’t work!” “....” “I’m serious! Let me out, please. The risk is too high!” “Shut up. What happened that day might have granted you a happy life but it doomed mine. If there’s any chance in getting my sister- my entire family- back, I’ll take it.” “All of it is a lie! There is no chance of getting any of them back! You can’t return to the past, you’ll kill all of us!” “You think that matters to me?” “I know it does. And I know that somewhere in that black heart of yours, you still care. You know it’s impossible.” “....” “Please, please, don’t do this. We can fix everything that happened, right here, right now. I’ll help you in every way I can. But if you press that button...I’ll never get the chance.” “Tch.” “Please.” “....” “Please.” “....” “Please, Talon.” “I’m sorry,” he said and pressed the button. -Silence. Then“Tell me. What would happen if I press this button?”
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Write Don’t be afraid Just write But how When your very own elements of speech have been corrupted with fragmented phrases and inconsequential statements ending with “I guess,” “all that crap” and “i think” etc How can you use your voice to your fullest potential when you set your own limitations based on other’s judgemental preferences to the way you speak and the way you act And you call that artistic merit? What are you trying to say? How have you conceived your words With substantial vocabulary mixed with your own foggy uncertainty Why do you hide yourself behind this translucent screen Only to reveal very small chunks of your confidence Why have you portrayed this indecent message Of what you want to say yet can’t say but still say What are you are trying to say? Why have you hooked on to this unfortunate bandwagon Where you believe that the reluctance which was right to speak through your mouth Can be expressed on manufactured fibrous substances or like paper i guess Where is the clear distinction between declaration, literature
And plain noises, random writings It infiltrates your creativity From mind to mouth to paper; a transition of your fickle doubt Your distorted acceptances of another’s tone leads you to believe that you must do them a favor by surrendering to their meer conversations And thus leads to the proliferation of polluted, misleading ideals
You are taught to explore your mind You are taught to reach from the inside You are taught to express yourselves What are you trying to say? Yet how can you When even your idols are too afraid to let go What are you trying to say? Even the ones we look up to Those who we find reliable, truthful Those who set the ‘bar’ Are corrupted by societies’ configurations of what they consider is dogma And bury under blind images that torture the audience, that muddle what is genuine and what is fabricated So what are they saying? So what are you saying? Tell me what you are trying to say.
roshni sudharsan
HUH? A PIECE ON BLURRINESS ISSUE I.I | 21
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emily shao Sometimes, I mentally rewind to my freshman year, when I had little idea and no hope for of becoming Irvington High School’s drum major. Everyone around me marched in pristine heel-foot-toe sync, while I faltered my steps. The upper classmen constantly yelled at me for my marching mistakes, and I felt guilty that they affected our competition scores. I tried so hard just to first, be instep and finally, to be the best marcher in the band. I also wished to become drum major after admiring drum majors’ beautiful and elegant mace spins and routines during competitions, so I asked my marching coach, Ben, for extra help with marching and to teach me to spin. Slowly, I learned basic spins, then advanced to small tosses, wraps, and flourishes. I entered drum major competitions, and through continuous marching throughout the fall, winter, and spring seasons, improved my marching.
OVERCOME Today I finally stand tall as the JV drum major, proving to others that determination is the key factor to achieving one’s dreams. Many of the JV kids had never marched before joining the high school band and struggled to play and march at the same time, juggling music quality, guiding center, covering down, staying in step, and looking confident. Tired from multiple run-throughs in the relentless heat, the band stopped trying, hoping to end practice earlier. “Keep working hard! Give 110% because I believe in you 110%!” To inspire, I demanded a strict work ethic, discipline, and nearly impossible standards. After a month of rehearsals, we finally performed at our first band review. Excited, yet anxious, for their first performance, I advised, “Don’t be nervous. Just have fun and try your best.” I called my band to attention and began the choreographed routine. As we marched down the street, I could hear my
EVERYONE AROUND ME MARCHED IN PRISTINE HEELFOOT-TOE SYNC, WHILE I FALTERED MY STEPS. band playing powerfully and confidently through the competition zone. Dumbstruck, I realized then that I had come from a girl who couldn’t march properly to the JV marching band drum major, and I am proud of myself for reaching such heights and aspiring now to even greater ones. These four years of hard work passed by quickly. What you do in the past doesn’t matter anymore. What you can change is the present and the future is in your hands whether you work for it or not.
ISSUE I.I | 23
BROKEN BONES DON’T SEEM LIKE TOO BIG OF A DEAL. MANY DON’T REALIZE, HOWEVER, THAT EVEN A FRACTURE CAN SHATTER HOPES AND DREAMS.
I was a five-year-old pursuing the two activities that meant most to me–swimming and piano–when I broke my right arm in three different places upon falling off the monkey bars. I discovered after regaining consciousness that I had undergone two complicated surgeries, and my arm was plastered from shoulder to wrist with pins holding the bones in place. I knew that any dreams of becoming a swimmer would have to disappear for the time being, but I was completely heartbroken when I heard that I might have to stop playing the piano, too. These setbacks, however, did nothing to dampen my spirit. I completed the rest of kindergarten learning to use my left hand for daily tasks. After the cast and pins came off, it was again a painful procedure to switch back to right-handedness. My eagerness to practice piano to make up for the lost time helped me a lot. I exercised my arm and fingers to accomplish something I desperately wanted. It had haunted me all this time, however, that I was the only one from kindergarten who never completed the monkey bars. When my arm relatively
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strengthened, I secretly began to cross them again—and during my second grade summer vacation, I fell once again on my right arm. The oneand-half years of healing had been completely undone, and this time my growth plate was severely damaged, too, which meant there was no guarantee my arm would ever be normal again. Aspirations to even live normally shattered with my wrist, elbow, and shoulder. After four months, when the final pins and casts came out, my fears were confirmed: I couldn’t even twitch my arm, let alone bend it. It was no
more than a stone rod hanging limp by my side. Doctors suggested that years of professional physical therapy might bring my ability back, but even this was uncertain. Nonetheless, we decided to start therapy after three weeks. After this decision was made, I seriously thought about the doctors’ predictions. If I were to spend years of my life trying to make my arm usable, then when would I have the time to actually use it? I was scared— not of the reportedly painful physical therapy, but of being unable to play the piano and other instruments that I wanted to. I decided that even these three weeks before the therapy wouldn’t be wasted. Every day, I spent 30 minutes with my mom to try to touch my right shoulder with my fingers. The pain was unbearable, yet I never cried out loud, knowing that the extra centimeter or so I could gain each day would pay off in the end. Two days before the three weeks ended, I succeeded. When I went to the doctor for
my final check up before the sessions, my pride in touching my shoulder became my doctor’s awe. She had never predicted that anyone, let alone a eight-year-old girl, would have done what I had without a professional therapist. After promising that I would never go on high structures again, the doctor waived my physical therapy sessions. Although the pain frequently comes back on my damaged bones and the surgery scars on my right arm will be forever etched on my body, I’ve learned to value and celebrate the beauty of life. Courage helped me remain calm even during crisis. Determination and persistence drove me to both repair my arm and pursue swimming, music, and other activities that I later picked up to an even greater extent than I ever had before. Today, I am able to play a wide range of musical instruments, despite many that require a well, functioning arm. I have performed on all these instruments with honors and helped me figure out who I really am
today– the girl with an undying love, passion, and dedication to music. Commitment to my goals and appreciating the excellence that I have achieved make me value mine and other’s lives with respect. Because in a split second, our lives could change, often for the worse. And it may be difficult at times to find the the motivation to keep on plowing through life. But in the end, it doesn’t matter how slowly you go, as long as you never stop.
rukmini bose
BREAKING BARRIERS ISSUE I.I | 25
JIN, QY. “Across the Winter.”
WINTER AGAIN anonymous She’s seen this many times before,
THE SNOWFLAKES COVERING THE GROUND IN WHITE THE COLD, THE HOAR, THE ICE AND SUN CREATING A WORLD ALIGHT
As the snow continues to fall, Decades of memories come rushing thro, She starts to roll a small snowball, Building the snowman of seventy years ago She stumbles in the snow Her legs unsteady She’s never seen this before, The snowbanks towering above her head, A glowing white expanse right out her door, Her mother pulling her hand ahead
And suddenly! to her delight, Someone building a snowman, Her face shines, her smile bright Running towards that faraway woman She stumbles in the snow Her legs unsteady A while later, in the distance If you had come to see The old giving the young assistance Creating a timeless piece
creating a timeless piece. 26 | THE RUNE
CHAPTERS jimmy wang
Looking back at the book of life, As a new year starts and an old one ends. We contemplate what brought us joy, And commemorate those who lay the path in front of us.
As we enter into a new chapter of life, We’ll take one more steps. Our unlimited potential, Will totally explore.
Recalling all the memorable moments, Remembering how they enriched our lives. They are the highlights of the book, Adding details to perfect the story.
At the end of the year we celebrate, While sitting in bed we contemplate. All the things we did gracefully, As we spend the holidays with our family.
We loved them dearly, those gentle beasts Untouched by the kindly breath of Time.
TWO LITTLE HORSES
isabella yang
Two little horses sit by the fire On velvety cushions of silver and gold With bows round their necks and bells in their curls And emerald pins on their coats, I’m told. Lightly they passed, the years since they came Bringing the treasures of Yule to the Grange Laden with parcels of rubies and pearls, And melodies merry and bitter and strange. Two little maidens sat by the door, Watching—and waiting for Christmas Day, One singing tales for the Fae in the wood, And one stitching frocks for her dolls at their play.
We loved them dearly, those gentle beasts Who carried our baubles and presents for naught— Naught but our smiles, and three kisses apiece, And barley-and-peppermint fresh from the pot. Their sleighs lie still by the garden gate, For they’ll never fly back to the North again They sleep in the house by the cosy hearth, And frisk as they please in the snowy glen. One dances no more, for her foot has grown lame And her slumber is sweet with the voice of Rhyme, But the other is fair and fresh as Spring, Untouched by the kindly breath of Time.
DARK BLUES. ISSUE I.I | 27 “Hearts-Warming Eve. ” 2018
It lives its life believing there is nothing more, Short of nothing given to it, no essence of potential injected into its brain. O, you pitiful creature, such a miserable life. You live for a day, and you go the same way, An hour a day, a day a year, when you’ve realized you were never here. A purpose blander than the leaf you reside on. Playing a game of chess, being a pawn, Fiddling in contemplation of what you exist on, Half your life goes before you start ticking your list, Making it that your time isn’t up in a whiz. How foolish you are believing you’re anything, When you are just a puppet by nature’s strings. Why do you live? Why not just end it? Eating, breathing, what others deserve, and then flit, With your insignificance, no one will miss it. Leave your children to suffer in this realm, And let them guard your liberty bells. For you’re short on nothing but time,
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Time and time again, you’ll reach your prime, You believe nothing more than nothing less, Than what has been taught to you in others’ success. So enjoy your life, you intrinsic bug, Maybe eventually, you’ll be in luck. For one day, you’ll discover there’s more to life, Than the life you live in your strife.
hypatia
MAYFLY ISSUE I.I | 29
As you lay in bed are your thoughts a train driving at a thousand miles per hour, sweat dripping from your fingertips, heart thumping faster than a racehorse?
HORSES mary parker
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Galloping horses trample over my heart, out of sync with the beat of my pulse The sound of your voice makes my body instinctively writhe and convulse Suddenly, all of our stunning memories turn into that of an electric shock A jolt to the head and a chill through my body every time they say your name They always talk But we always talked. Our soul searching conver-
sations until 5 AM are now a waste of cellular data and time All of a sudden, all the money you spent on me becomes a rusty penny, a dollar, a dime When i think of you, my soul is sore, it’s trying to be ripped from my body to follow yours But i’m stuck in place They tell me the pain will lessen the longer I live But i want the pain to not exist I wish you never existed I want to not exist. Because this pain takes the but-
terflies in my stomach that you breeded there and shoots them with an arrow so far unalike that of cupid’s Do you miss me too? As you lay in bed are your thoughts a train driving at a thousand miles per hour, sweat dripping from your fingertips, heart thumping faster than a racehorse? No, the only thing you’re doing with those perfectly exquisite fingers of yours is clenching shards of the fragile glass skeleton that kept me intact and with those fists you continue to pummel my state of mind into a hollow cupboard of what it once was For i can never go back to you and feel your embrace in your cool, comforting palms that are no longer smooth for they are decorated with the cuts derived from you shattering my very being Going back to you is like placing a bandaid over a deeply set wound because things die and they die and we died and the word “us” has become so foreign when people talk about immigration it’s synonymous with your soul leaving mine permanently and finding a home with someone else And who can i blame and what can i say because it really is my fault There is only me, there is only you, there were others but they were merely a speck of dust amidst the Sun’s light that we burned There are only the stallions that race over my heart and pick up our memories on the bottom of their hooves like loose dirt And i wish that the dirt was stuck to the mud because we said we molded together like clay but there is nothing i can do for you have chosen your own saddle and galloped far, far away ISSUE I.I | 31
my love for you is
INCANDESCENT irene huang what are we? i cannot seem to see an us at the end of this road You, being the light that keeps me shining You are important, when i see you i can feel stars Even and especially within a cloudless night; I can feel the explosions of fireworks from somewhere faraway I can see the bright shots of Light within me. And when i turn to hear your voice (i always know when it is you) When, then, our eyes meet, warmth spreads everywhere i think back to the cold nostalgic winter nights by the fire; please, stop ignoring me.
edge of your mouth you extinguish me with a simple click of your finger saying we were never meant to be together did you mean to light me up? my love for you is incandescent you are my night the best type of natural dark, and yet bright; the one waiting for me
catch me, please; for i am falling too hard and too fast save me, don’t make me a stranger; for you are all i know and all i understand; catch me, and there will never be you, the one who keeps me ablaze; through a love stronger or brighter the cigarette lighter dangling than ours; make me feel alive again. at the
LIMARY, HANNHA. “Avenue.” 32 | THE 2017 RUNE
LIMARY, HANNHA. “Dreams Do.” 2017.
HATE FICTION anonymous
And at 1AM, he says to you all those beautiful things they write stories about. Those pretty words strung together like golden thread on royal tapestries are for a thousand “you”s from so many “him”s because that’s just the way they say it goes. You live this tragically beautiful life up until he walks in, makes everything okay again, and you become all happy again, just for no reason other than a few messy conversations at 1AM. Breaking his heart over and over again wasn’t enough until you decided to take his everything and give it to anyone. The whole time you talked about everything wrong, I guess he sat there and listened out of the whole bullshit poetic nonsense that is you and how amazing you are, but he never really heard what you said. Because what you said were literally just words and sentences and sometimes even phrases. Never did you once say things, things that could matter, that could actually change what we all thought. Of you, of him, of how we felt about this whole thing. Problems are only real to you when you want to take
care of them, or rather when you want him to take care of them. When she messes up, she just smiles and thinks about how he’ll comfort her when he hears about it. And for him? Loving her was only worth it when she became valuable. But it’ll all be okay. Because she’s gorgeous. Because they’re lonely. And it’ll definitely work out for them in the end, at least until it’s not worth it. 1PM is not the same as 1AM when we stop slurring words together, when we hear what we’re saying. We’re more careful about what comes out of our too often treacherous mouths, and we think a lot before we speak a little. And yet we all think of those tired, confused 1AM talks mean something. Those times when we don’t think, and we feel, just feel, without stopping. Saying pretty things just comes easier now, I guess. But do they still count if they’re said out of context, to the wrong person, because they’re at the wrong time? How much does anything mean at any 1AM like this one? Nothing at all becomes more clear to you when you’re gone like I am
now. So we should stop loving blurred, foggy things like those words. Give in to those rational, cold, calculated 1PM things that kinda hurt to hear about. All those cordial hellos and goodbyes with everything in between.The moments that truly matter in the end are those real things that hurt and drip with icy skepticism. For why would any of those pretty sounding promises be made by anyone in their right mind? Simply put, they wouldn’t. Reject the crushing defeat of rationality and abandon the hopes we have for anything nice said before noon. It doesn’t really matter if we didn’t know what we were saying when we said it, right?
Reject the crushing defeat of rationality and abandon the hopes we have for anything nice said before noon.
ISSUE I.I | 33
emily liu
STARBABY 34 EMILY. | THE RUNE LIU, 2017.
We embraced against the winds standing in the middle of freeway 101 You thought we were a candle, but honey, darling, we were the sun On a road taking us from the city of angels to a city that never went to sleep Arms and legs tangled together in the middle of the nowhere we let the stars weep 85 MPH through the forests, and along the beach Singing along to songs within only our reach We met in a 2 am train from Manhattan to Brooklyn And there, we decided to fly to a whole other ocean You and I were homesick of the west Nostalgic of the colors, the warmth, of where the sun last set Of home. It was late in the night and early in the morning As my eyelashes started bashing and my giggles slowed in soaring My nerves were as awake as the wind, grasping every shift, mapping out your eyes, your lips, your smoulder That’s when you hit the brakes in our convertible and angelically tapped my shoulder Because the stars above our heads were shattered fragments of frozen champagne You opened my door for me and held me by my fingers to go dance in the blood warm rain That December I will always remember Because that’s when we fell in lust That’s when our touch became absolute, an absolute must There was electricity The spark was blue, and all hues of pink It was hot and it stung; An inevitable calamity. But with that intoxicated rain, My vision flooded with vain, Every step on my toes was a step on broken glass Little did I know, I was promenading not with a ghost, but with a carcass I did not feel pain; our surroundings blurred, and my fingertips went numb The strong beat of my heart became an 80’s karaoke hum Under my skin, Were now veins pulsing with crimson sin.
ISSUE I.I | 35
A rush of cars goes by As I am standing on the side. The light flashes green, Yet even before, people are already on the street. I long to fit in, Pretend that I’m some kind of local. I glance right and then left, Try crossing, but some car’s driver gets vocal. What was there in common between us Americans and them? I guess a common love for uninteresting tourist attractions. The sky is forever grey, As if the canvas was made that way. I try to hurry without delay; The rain pounds down, where are the sun rays? But the greyness is a feeling That no one can try stealing. It’s with us forever, On all future endeavors. So as I walk up to Ben, (Quite big, taller than most men) I hear his ticking in my ears Before he stops for four years. And the busy city of London, Somehow agrees to slow down. Time’s stopped, Not just in front of us but all around. The pause of the moment is both literal, And kind of figurative. I guess there is something in common, A wish for endless time to live.
36 | THE RUNE
Until August 2021, Big Ben has been stopped for maintenance.
GREY FEELINGS tyler zhu
ISSUE I.I | 37
THE SCIENCE OF REPUBLICANISM frederic xiong
In recent light of legislations being passed against the American populace, one might wonder, why is this happening? If you were to pick up a newspaper, turn to the back, you would see a full page ad by Private internet access, a VPN service who sponsored an ad calling out 50 senators who voted to repeal Net Neutrality(Law dictating service providers cannot slow down, paywall, or monitor websites and people for profit)
for their own financial gain. If one is to look closer, you would see that there are no Democrats among the list. Why do republicans vote against American interest? Why are they throwing away their freedom? The simple answer is, they aren’t, in their heart and minds, what they are doing is attempting to preserve the world they were born into. For every generation, there lies both innovations and threats,
for millenials, the internet, for boomers, commercialization, for those before, industrialization. In terms of threats, millennials face inner and outer threats, in which the core of their presence threatens the history books with information that would cover over the pages of the boomers. What do the boomers do? They do what they’ve been taught to do ever since they were children, who went to school amidst the cold war, to retaliate.
who are now lost in time and space, do not believe they have the ability to make history
38 | THE RUNE
They vote these men and women, who are just as narcissistic, pessimistic, cynical, disillusioned and disruptive, as they are, to express themselves in history, to establish their presence amidst a time of change and equality, for they fear that one day, no one would talk about them. In Irvin Yalom’s words, “there will be one one alive who has ever known me. That’s when I’ll be truly dead - when I exist in no one’s memory”. In a world fueled by existential crises, economic crisis, political crisis, and internal crisis, it’s primitive instincts to have the need to be recognized, evident in younger generations, by the portentous supply of social medias that have been created to feed the demanding children. This behavior is a replication of the generation who vote for legislation that specifically attacks
and memorialize law that will forever affect the younger generations. Why is this? Well, to fully comprehend the republican ideology, one must first understand the psychology behind it, bullies aren’t born bullies, they were born normal human beings, who were then abused, beaten, and mentally tormented. They then experience a phenomenon, known as ‘ego death’, in which their self-esteem, confidence, and beliefs are crushed to minuscule pieces. In similar fashion, these old men, who are now lost in time and space, do not believe they have the ability to make history, thus, they enable a method of ‘if I can’t do it, neither can you’, voting for the very ideas their fathers, and their father’s fathers, and their father’s father’s father’s father fought against. When confronted about this
fascist dilution of conservatism, most republicans would deny the contextual destruction of the reaction, for they forget, that history repeats, but more than that, history isn’t a book of documentation, it is a constant trial, written by the next generation, and unlike poetic justice, it is a kangaroo court. They do not care about the consequences, the trail marks scarred onto the children who are now born, they do not care about the pain of the next generation, for when they were children, they were taught to be harassed and live with it, they were taught to take a punch, they were taught the manifesto of savages, and they ate it up like turkey. In which case, they are now forcing the turkey down the throats of children, in the hopes that the children will forever remember the taste of their hands for generation, after generation; the clock will tick the pains of these boys and girls, men and women, and it will synchronize with their screams of pain, for one day, they will vote for their fates, and it will be sealed.
ISSUE I.I | 39
I want another 4 am with you Nostalgia is such a funny aphrodisiac Because i cannot seem to think of fairy lights and cold summer nights and the feeling of a heart fitting in perfectly without the thought of your electricity coming into the picture Picture Picture Picture this A bullet point list that says no to my happiness and a hand that takes the other and takes it and holds on tight with a thousand words said in none You have never tried to make be better It just happened It just f*cking happened And now instead of the midnights we always dreamed of (and by we, i mean me) (i have done enough dreaming to fill a lover’s nation) we’re dancing on shards of broken glass but have managed to walk away and so there i am, a slow dance for one and a first date where i have stood myself up and for some goddamn reason my mind is addicted to the smoke of the fire our sparks once made key word once Once Once upon a time there was a girl who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders but then the sweet taste of belonging soured and so she threw it all away into your arms and hoped that someone would finally let her down so she would have someone to blame beside Her own f*cking self But when the world fell like the stones she used to throw at the crows right at her feet, she still managed to feel the guilt curling around her head like a claw, and oh god, was it nostalgic, the familiar ache of hurting again Loving means leaving But it hurts less to leave than to love And i never wanted you to feel any pain.
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RETIKA, CHLOE. “Brooklyn Bridge.” 2017.
riya kataria
NOSTALGIA ISSUE I.I | 41
Driving was never something on the top of her list of favorite things to do. As a matter of fact, it was probably on the top of her “Things I Hate to Do” list. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly wrong with driving. She had gotten her license years ago, but she rarely put it to good use. It was just that, well, there were so many things she could be doing rather than driving. The car that her parents had bought her in the frenzied excitement of passing the driver’s test was now sitting in her garage, as it had been for the past 5 months. It was a sleek silver Buick, something she could have never afforded on her own nor something she would ever have chosen for herself, but her mother insisted to get her the best. Always the best, never settling for anything else. She really didn’t have to know that the flashy vehicle was sitting in a community garage collecting dust. Back when she was a teenager, there were 42 | THE RUNE
occasional moments when she really had to get out of the house. Those were the times when she would steal her father’s keys and take his antique car out and drive for hours on end. Hours, hours that seemed like a few fleeting seconds to her. Sometimes she would have a destination in mind: to get food, or treat herself to some shopping. Yet on most occasions she would let herself wander. She drove without a thought, driving in some sort of trance until she was in the middle of nowhere, until it was just her and nothing else. She didn’t know what exactly possessed her to leave her apartment on an ordinary weekend; she would normally be lounging around on the couch when she should really be editing some documents for work. The motion of taking the stairs from her
fourth floor living space was familiar, but once she reached the communal garage, cool air blew into her face and it was something so bizarre and somehow inviting. The smell of musk and rubbery tires permeated the dimly lit area, and she scrunched her nose. The car sat alone in the corner. A thick coat of grey dust had settled on the silver paint. She pulled out a single key from her back pocket, unchained from her regular set of keys, and fit it neatly into the car’s handle lock. The rear lights lit up in excitement as she pulled the door open and slid onto the driver’s seat. Thankfully, the leather fabric lining the car’s insides were clean, or she might as well
LIU, EMILY. 28 JAN 2018.
cynthia zhan & alice hu
A
END TO ISSUE I.I | 43
BUT THIS WAS REALITY AND REALITY DIDN’T GIVE ONE THE LUXURY OF TIME. have just left the car in the garage and never come back. She generously stroked the seat and appreciated how well-made this model was. She inserted the key, turned it, and the engine roared to life. The center console blinked blue and white lights She let the brakes go, set the stick on reverse, and slowly backed out of the parking space onto the driveway. She took a hesitant glance at the faded map taped to the dashboard but didn’t take it. Instead, she drove around the familiar streets near her neighborhood. THE ROADS AND DILAPIDATED BUILDINGS PASSING BY IN A BLUR SEEMED DIFFERENT AFTER YEARS OF WALKING PAST THEM. Maybe it was a wave of loneliness, or perhaps it was guilt- probably a mixture of both crashing down on her and churning out all those emotions that made her stomach turn. Eventually, she reached the highway, heading west. The ocean was that way,
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if she remembered correctly from a hazy childhood memory, and she really needed a different atmosphere to think. There was something wrong; she knew it. Her hands kept jerking whenever the lights turned green, her eyes darting everywhere, everywhere except forward when she was driving. The air felt suffocating all of a sudden, and the colors that flashed outside seemed too bright and glaring. It could be paranoia, but surely she just needed some different scenery. The highway branched off into smaller streets, and she knew she had taken the right path because she could see flecks of sand scattered on the edges of the black tar. She was close, so, so close. She rolled down the windows and tasted a hint of sea salt in the breeze. As she took the small trail leading to the beachside, she took several long breaths and leaned her head out the window to take in the sticky coastal wind. The road eventually narrowed to a sandy trail, the
elevation rising with every mile. She drove alongside a mountain cliff, where sand and small showers of pebbles rolled down every couple of minutes on her right. On her left was the ocean. It’s been too long, she thought. HER MOTHER HAD ALWAYS TOLD HER THAT HER ADMIRATION FOR THE LITTLE THINGS IN LIFE WAS A BLESSING AND A CURSE. She dedicated too much time to studying every little detail and would lose focus of the actual goal. She had just noticed a little figure of what she made to be a bird drifting atop the surface of the sea when she felt her stomach drop. She turned her gaze back to the windshield and noticed the lack of a road. Before she knew it, she was falling. And knowing gravity, she would hit the ground and that would be her end. The car dropped like a weight. She must have been very high up because she had a couple of precious seconds that allowed for her mind to blank out, and then her fight
ISSUE I.I | 45
46 | THE RUNE
There was an indefinite amount of something, too intangible for the mere brain to understand.
ISSUE I.I | 47
48 | THE RUNE
BUT SHE WASN’T GETTING ANY CLOSER TO THE GROUND EITHER. SHE WAS FALLING, BUT INDEFINITELY, WITH SEEMINGLY NO END. or flight system kicked in. After the scary seconds in which she fumbled to unbuckle her seatbelt, she pushed herself out of the open window. She expected everything to suddenly shift into slow motion like it did in action movies, where everything stopped and the character would be given several minutes to reflect on their life and their actions and to just think. But this was reality and reality didn’t give one the luxury of time. The idea of time no longer existed the moment the back tires slipped from the edge of the cliff. She didn’t scream or try to latch onto a stray branch growing haphazardly out of the cracks between the stones on the cliff, only kept her arm out above her as she unenthusiastically attempted to reach at anything. IT WAS JUST HER, HAIR WHIPPING HER FACE AND BODY FLIPPING HORIZONTAL, PARALLEL TO THE SUN SETTING ON THE HORIZON. She could only watch helplessly as the distance between her outstretched hand and the edge of the cliff grew farther away. But she wasn’t getting any closer to the ground either. She was falling, but indefinitely, with seemingly
no end. This was almost like torture, she thought. Death was awaiting her at the base of the cliff; it was inevitable. IT COULD SURPRISE HER AT ANY SECOND. SHE WAS JUST EXISTING AT THIS POINT. Perhaps that was why humans invented the concept of time. There was an indefinite amount of something, too intangible for the mere brain to understand. As compensation, they invented a system that would allow people to mark their existence through every little occurence in their short, fleeting lives that are completely entangled in the onward rush of time. It was only when she was suddenly stripped down to the point that she was her, only her and nothing other than her, that she truly realized how absolutely precious every year, every week, day, hour, minute, every second was.
Gravity was catching up to her. She had been falling for a certain forever that she could now tell would soon come to an end. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of her chest from the tension and she wanted to live. She was falling off a cliff on her way to slow but certain death. She was falling off a cliff and she was about to die and yet she had never wanted to live more than now. She wanted to li An ear-deafening crack split the rhythmic sound of the waves rolling onto the sand. Silence followed. Then the impassive trickling of time continued, leaving her behind. White foam trailed behind on golden sand as the wave receded back to its home, only to repeat the process again, washing away the lingering stains of red and metal scraps.
LIU, EMILY. 28 JAN 2018.
ISSUE I.I | 49
LOVE IS TIMELESS jessica lee
*Pop!* The apple cider bottle opens and fizz pours out of the opening. “Apple cider?” my mother asks, holding out the bottle towards my empty glass. I shake my head. I never liked apple cider. It never tasted right to me. My mother moves on to my cousins, dipping the bottle and filling their glasses to the very brim before moving on. It’s New Year’s Eve, and my whole extended family and friends have gathered to welcome the New Year together. I observe my family with a half-smile as they entertain themselves, waiting for midnight. There’s my grandfather, telling stories to the younger ones about “his time” when they didn’t have money to buy presents. My older sister admires the cute son of one of my dad’s coworkers. My younger brother runs around with my cousins, knocking into people and furniture. My aunt follows them with a roll of paper towels, swooping in to clean up as they spill champagne and cider. My older cousins play board games next to the Christmas tree that we have yet to take down. There are several babies and toddlers napping in their parents’ arms. And then there’s my grandma, who I love more than anything in the world, quietly sitting in the corner and watching the chaos, as I 50 | THE RUNE
RAY, RISHA. “Ethereal.”
quietly sitting in the corner watching the chaos
ISSUE I.I | 51
am. She catches my eye and gives me a knowing roll of her eyes and a wink. I grin back and stand up to stretch. I never liked to talk, but watching others have fun give me a certain sense of omnipotent serenity. This is the peaceful chaos that I live to enjoy during the many parties that my mother loves to host. Then the painful reality returns to me. Winter break is almost over and I have to return to school in only a couple of days. All the winter homework that my teachers gave because “It’s just a little something to keep your mind occupied during the break” sits piled in the corner of my room, collecting dust with menacing incompleteness. I internally weep as I think of the all-nighters I’ll be pulling on the last days of my winter break, rushing to finish the tedious paperwork instead of actually enjoying my time off. Once again, my time has slipped away without me knowing it. Winter break always passes by so quickly, and I know that once I return to school, my free time will be even rarer. THEY SAY TIME IS THE MOST VALUABLE CURRENCY IN THE WORLD AND I CANNOT AGREE MORE. I always think about all the time I waste going to siblings’ piano recitals, eating out with my family that I see almost every single day, and sitting through family parties that I enjoy but do not see the point of. I cannot count how many times I have wished to stop or at least slow down time, just to give myself a chance to do things I actually enjoy, like sleeping, instead of rushing to finish all
52 | THE RUNE
the work that I procrastinated doing. This year, my New Year’s Resolution is to waste less time with my family and use more time for myself. I consider sneaking off to get started when my dad hollers for everyone to gather in the living room. I reluctantly walk over and seat myself in my usual corner, as everyone hustles around the TV. I eye the clock and see that it is almost midnight, and my dad slothfully flips through the channel guide to find the countdown to midnight. He’s not so good with technology. By the time he finds it, it is the last minute before the clock strikes twelve and everyone is bustling with excitement. I watch the flashing numbers as they count down. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven… my little cousins begin chanting along at the top of their lungs. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen… I see my aunts and uncles pair up, ready for that midnight kiss. Ten, nine, eight, seven… I brace myself, hoping to enter the new year with a positive attitude that will last longer than it did this year. Five, four, three, two… time seems to slow down. The counting becomes sluggish and distorted and the countdown turns to one and then it seems to stop. I stare at it for a few more seconds before realizing that it actually has stopped. I glance around at my family to see if they know why the TV stopped when I realize with a start that they have stopped moving as well. Time has stopped.
Everything is frozen. Everything except for me. I feel no different, and I get up to examine the uncanniness of the whole situation. All eyes are still glued to the television, where the bolded one stands unmoving. My little cousin has just thrown her cider glass into the air and my aunt’s face is comically frozen in horror as the sticky liquid heads for her expensive handbag. I wave my hand in front of everyone’s faces and check their pulses to find that those have stopped as well. I pinch myself and wonder if I am stuck in some twisted
dream. But nothing happens and I continue to stare at the stationary faces of my family and friends. After a few minutes of confusion, an unsettling reality sinks in. Time is somehow stopped and I am the only one who managed to escape it. I glance around and a guilty thought comes upon me. Sure, time stopped. But that’s what I always wanted. It’s a great opportunity to do everything I ever wanted. I’ve been given the gift of time. I do a little happy dance and grab my jacket and walk out the door. Turns out, I don’t even need my jacket, since the
wind seems to have stopped as well. I WALK DOWN THE STREET, ADMIRING ALL THE DIFFERENT LIGHTS THAT TWINKLE IN THE SILENT STILLNESS. I see no other people around. It was expected, since most people should be at home with their families. I wander down the street into the little community center with tons of trinket shops in the center of my town. They glistened with street lamps and leftover Christmas decorations. To my surprise, one of the stores is lit brightly, the open sign flashing at the door. I walk in to find stacks of musical instruments and sheet music
lining the room. This is great. I’ve always dreamed of learning to play the piano. I even begged my parents to buy me a keyboard last Christmas, although it has been sitting in my bedroom collecting dust with my homework, since I’ve only ever had time to learn the very basics. I walk over to the music sheet shelves and pick out a beginner book for piano before seating myself at the largest grand piano in the little store. I press a key and shiver at the note that eerily echoes throughout the broken silence. I open the book and giddily begin pressing notes to “Hot Cross Buns.”
ISSUE I.I | 53
I have no way of knowing how many days have passed since time stopped because, well, the clocks are not moving anymore. However, I do know that it has been a while, since I managed to master the piano, as well as the guitar and the flute. I eventually tired of music so I walked around the town a bit more to find that a back door to the library was unlocked, giving me access to more books than I could read in a lifetime. I read all the fantasy books and moved onto nonfiction. I learned about aerodynamics and calculus and French history. But I eventually got tired of that too. Unfortunately for me, not much else was open, and I didn’t feel right peeking into people’s homes to see what they were up to. At first.
But I really had nothing to do, so I took to wandering around neighborhoods to see the different families celebrating. I strolled through the towns, making up stories to accompany the many new faces. SOON, IT SEEMS AS IF I HAD SPENT AN ETERNITY WANDERING, WALKING ALONE WITH JUST MY THOUGHTS TO ACCOMPANY ME. Sure, I am bored out of my mind. But after some time, I feel this gnawing feeling inside of my stomach as if something was missing from my life. This feeling only begins to grow until it becomes a pang and then a blinding ache. I walk around in agony, the pain growing even more intense at every family I saw, huddled together with
smiles on their faces. I realize that the pain I feel is not the result of any physical ailment, but rather the result of my increasing loneliness and the pangs I feel from missing my family. I miss my mother and father and the kisses they plant on my head when I leave for school. I miss my brother and sister who always play pretend games with me when we’re bored. I miss my grandmother and her wry smile as she watches her progeny. I MISS FEELING LOVED AND AS IF I BELONGED. IT’S HARD BEING BY YOURSELF FOR SUCH A LONG TIME. My misery eventually leads me back to my own house and I go back in to find my family, sitting in the same positions that I had left them in. I look wistfully at each face and sigh, wishing for any signs of life. I sit down in my corner, hoping that time will freeze me as well so that I can finally escape the pain of being alone. I close my eyes and drift off into a dreamless sleep. …ZERO! Happy New Year! My eyes pop open as a sound horn yells into my ear. My family bustles around, spraying confetti into the air and talking excitedly as the first seconds of the new year tick by. Then I realize with a start. Time has resumed. Everyone is moving again. I cannot believe my eyes and tears well up as I look upon my family and friends with happy relief. I spot my grandmother watching everyone with a half-smile on her face and I walk over to her, quickly blinking away my tears. “Happy New Year, Gramma,” I kiss her on the cheek and she
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smiles at me. “Happy New Year to you too, dear.” “Time sure passes by quickly doesn’t it?” She nods her agreement. I continue, still fazed by my strange experience, “Do you ever wish that time would stop?” She squeezes my hand. “Sure, it would be great if time stopped for a little while. But at times like this, you realize that you wouldn’t trade all the time in the world for this.” She gestures to the joyful faces of my family and friends. And she has never been more correct. Now, I will never know if my experience with the stopped time was a crazy dream or not. But every so often, when I sit down at a piano that I miraculously know how to play now or I recall a physics equation that I never learned, I remember what my grandmother said at that party on New Year’s Day. And it’s true, that I wouldn’t trade all the time in the world for my friends and family.
Because sure, time is valuable. But love is the true treasure, because love is timeless.
I SIT DOWN IN MY CORNER, HOPING THAT TIME WILL FREEZE ME AS WELL SO THAT I CAN FINALLY ESCAPE THE PAIN OF BEING ALONE. ISSUE I.I | 55
THROUGH THE YEARS tianyou li
Despite art’s prominence in human culture, it does not have any discrete definitions. Rather, it is defined on a subjective basis, with diverse interpretations of each piece of art. Music, one of the many manifestations of art, is defined solely by its listener’s interpretation. Its exegesis evokes a plethora of emotions, a beautiful symphony of feelings pouring out from one’s soul, that change
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along with the mood within a song. MUSIC’S UNCANNY ABILITY TO BRING ABOUT EMOTIONS IN A METHODICAL MANNER RENDERS IT SIMILAR TO TIME ITSELF; THE SERIES OF EMOTIONS EXPERIENCED IN ONE PERIOD OF TIME MAY ALSO ARISE WHEN LISTENING TO A SONG. This allows for music to bring about memories of the past, bring moments in the present
into greater perspective, or even a glimpse of the unforeseen future. Thus, music is a time machine that possesses the power to transport me to different precious moments of my life: birth of my brother, a beautiful stroll in forest, and my inevitable path before death. My psyche conjures memories of the past in presence of the daunting opera melodies. Whenever I listen to
opera, regardless of its form, I am brought several years back to the heartwarming scene of my baby brother being brought home from the hospital. His rose colored cheeks and lumpy baby fat made him the cutest little creature in the world. The happiness our whole family felt resembled the light major chords of the piece. Then came the entry of the minor notes, making me realize that he was on par with the devil. He was extremely picky, only eating certain foods while spitting out those that he dislikes. Furthermore, he dropped smelly bombs in his diaper, giggling whilst my parents cleaned up after him. His foreign nature puzzled us, clearly resembling the haunting tone of some operas and the opera singer began singing in a minor pitch. However, the worst of my brother’s ever changing nature was yet to come; his ferocious screams and cries. Typically, he would start off soft, but when he still was unable to catch our attention, he would erupt like a nuclear bomb, the noise almost deafening our ear drums. The opera singer’s sudden high vibrato pitch was what cap-
tured the audience’s attention. THE SOUND WAS LIKE A MONSTER THAT NEVER STOPS ROARING UNTIL IT BECOMES SATISFIED WITH THE AUDIENCE’S APPLAUSE. Joyfully receiving the milk bottle, was my brother’s standing ovation. I am transported to the present, where after a long grueling day of highschool, I decide to take a hike at a nearby forest when Beethoven’s 9th symphony began. The light melody dances into my ears and blocks away everything. The outside world falls silent and fades away as I am riveted by the song’s beauty. When the slow and sweet entrance of the ode begins, I feel the tranquility of the luscious forest as if it is still in its eternal slumber. The pulpy smell of the towering redwoods comforts my heart as it represents the wondrous creations of Mother Nature. When the orchestra accents certain notes, it pairs beautifully with the acute sound of the crackling brown leaves under my feet. As I gaze upon the canopies, a miniscule pocket of bright sunlight attempts to squeeze through the thick mesh of dense leaves
THUS, MUSIC IS A TIME MACHINE THAT POSSESSES THE POWER TO TRANSPORT ME TO DIFFERENT PRECIOUS MOMENTS OF MY LIFE: BIRTH OF MY BROTHER, A BEAUTIFUL STROLL IN FOREST, AND MY INEVITABLE PATH BEFORE DEATH. ISSUE I.I | 57
as the counter melody tries to make itself heard. Slowly, the cocoa-brown foliage floor fills with light as the song increases in volume, transitioning into the main chorus. A solitary blue jay then starts a distinguishable, high-pitched solo, soon joined by its companions, constructing the climax of the piece. Combined with the deep bass drums and trombone accompaniment, a heart-haunting melody emerges, an elixir for the soul. A change in tempo follows when a large gale surges past, and the leaves fly up and down in tune with the chromatic melody of the song. WHEN THE SUN RETIRES TO THE WEST, THE DEAFENING FORTE OF THE CLIMAX DYNAMICALLY TRANSITIONS TO A SOFT PIANO. All the forest animals prepare for the night, sneaking back into their caves and nests. A cloak of darkness envelops the forest as the music fades out, and the forest is suddenly asleep. Silence prompts me to make my way for home. A slow modern heartbreak pop song takes me to the final moments of my life as I envision myself lying on my death bed. My shriveled body is scrunched in a small bed with white silken blankets. There are multiple machines beeping on either side of me, and my cold room smells of iodoform. The slow, soft bass accompaniment evokes memories of regret, sadness, and misfortune, and suddenly my cheeks are wet. I also begin questioning myself, if I actually lived my life to the fullest, wondering what things I could do if I only 58 | THE RUNE
had more time. Periodically, a nurse comes and checks on me, smiling as she attempts to reassure me. It is no use; I can tell by her eyes that she has already lost hope. As I slowly use my frail hand to reach a nearby glass of water, the glass accidently slips from my grip and shatters on the floor. The song reaches a climax, and the dynamics increase. I now remember how careless I have been, unable to hold on to the things that I revered. Eventually, they shatter at the end, dissipating into nothing. Soon, I can hear my heart monitor beeping slower and slower. My vision is starting to blur, but even through my hazy view, I can see doctors and nurses frantically trying to grip on to the rope that ties me to the mortal world. Suddenly, the rope snaps, and I fell into a deep, eternal slumber as the song comes to end. Music has allows to recognize how beautiful life is, reminding me to live each moment to the fullest. Time passes so quickly so we must learn to cherish every moment, or else, our lives will be wasted and bombarded with regrets at the end.
ISSUE I.I | 59
PATEL, ASHKA.
reetam ganguli
SWEET TASTE OF Time is a fickle thing.
Draped proudly around his neck Knocked on the devil’s door and asked to borrow a cup of sugar But how many cups of sugar would it take to mask the taste of your own sin? Did you mill the flower under the grinding teeth of tight lipped politicians? And fuse the batter with the tears of battered young boys And when you mix it all together, did you bake this cake From the fire in the furnace fueled by my homo sin? Driving the knife into the Should it burn too hot, Leave it in the cool, unsusbelly and through the beating heart of this cake pecting comfort of the closet So sweetly unaware that he is Drape it in the luke-warm This was the way that the killing so much more than just shelter of ethereal white frosting his son’s appetite. glass had shattered. Engulfed under the textured But how was the father to know – silence was all he ever blanket of shame The night amendment 1 Stick a pitchfork in it to make heard from the boy. passed in North Carolina, it sure it’s remains solid, to Because silence is the only effectively barred all same sex make sure it can’t melt away unions in the state. Supporters language that the boy had ever To make sure it lies frozen, of the proposed constitutional learned to speak Forever in solidarity within Because that’s just the way amendment gathered in the the depths of the closet. embassy suites hotel in cele- that things were supposed to Leave it there, for this is just bration of their triumph over be. the way that things were When was it that the man same sex marriage. who held the boy as an infant meant to stay. acquired a taste for sin? They indulged in a wedding But when you eat it, And where would he go to cake. find the confection that would When you gnash and null on the love of my brothers and I scan this room in my mind’s satisfy such a craving? He had walked up to the gates sisters, eye When you choke on the Amongst the many beautiful of hell with a cross dangling sweet, sticky fondant, dauntingly from a braided women string which feels like a noose Openly chewing on the There was once a time where 2 men in love Were mere glass figurines Invisible to the eyes of our ever so benevolent nation If they were lucky. This was the way that things were. Other times, if they were unlucky, They were the target. To the bows slung over the proud shoulders of the normal denizens Arrows dipped in venom of hate and apathy Wielded with unflinching disgust This was the just the way things had to be.
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broken shards of dreams and stolen opportunities Deep red streams, Flow from their bloody gums, Dripping onto their fragile, white bridesmaid dresses I see that one, young boy Sitting at a table Alone Shoulders slumped, Crestfallen. As if someone had flung a sack over his shoulder that he had mistook for a body bag An empty, untouched plate before him as he eyed his father
Knocked on the devil’s door and asked to borrow a cup of sugar But how many cups of sugar would it take to mask the taste of your own sin? around your neck,
Bye-bye? A frosted barbed wire around Do you truly believe that feeding on the fuel of one’s f*gg*t’s your harsh tongue, Will you feel weighed down by broken heart will be enough to the rubble of the city made of prevent another from catching fire? your brothers in love? Foolish enough to think, that From burning? your jaws were strong enough From being charred by the glowing coal to crack the diamond of our Of a newfound love? engagement rings? So, save the date Strong enough to cut the intangible strings connecting You’re cordially invited Come, for epithets and rice at our hearts. Did you have the audacity to our feet Be a part of the moments that pray over the first piece that you thought we’d give up on you bit into? To thank the altruistic, omni- Enjoy the ringing of wedding scient lord for this great leap bells you’d never thought you would hear of conservative progress? A leap almost as far as a young Walk us down the aisle, we’ll boy’s from the George Wash- let you cut the cake Trust me, there will always be ington bridge enough to go around. Yet just as quick.
Yet, there, sat the young boy. Lost in his daydreams of a forgotten tomorrow Lifelessly spectating as his father took his second helping Speaking the only language he knew how The language of silence. The boy reluctantly bit into the cold slice of cake And swallowed the homogenized shards Of the 2 invisible, glass figurines, Cutting him from the inside
Yet he remained silent. Because that’s just the way that things were meant to be.
A leap with a splash that caused waves which never seemed to stop Waving?
LIU, EMILY. 7 FEB ISSUE I.I | 2018. 61
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