Parallax 2016 by Parallax-Online

PARALLAX

THE LITERARY & ART MAGAZINE OF I D Y L LW I L D A R T S ACADEMY

2016

CREATIVE WRITING DEPARTMENT

VISUAL ARTS DEPARTMENT

Idyllwild Arts Academy provides an ideal environment for high school students interested in developing as writers. Our Creative Writing major, combined with the collegepreparatory academic program, prepares students for writing fields in college and beyond. We study all literary genres and round out our studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; education with public readings, a student-run print and online literary magazine, and excursions to cultural and environmental experiences.

Visual Arts students at Idyllwild Arts come from all over the world, creating a rich cultural and aesthetic mix. Their backgrounds are an important part of the community of visual artists and the school as a whole. The training they get at Idyllwild Arts gives them a broad foundation in the formal and theoretical aspects of visual arts.

Idyllwild students take charge of their own education by participating in writing workshops and literature seminars, and shaping individual tutorial projects around personal goals. We place equal emphasis on writing and reading, studying writers from many eras, continents, and sensibilities. Students develop an expansive background in literature and the fine arts, varied historically, intellectually, geographically, and culturally. Classes are small, usually fewer than ten students, with department enrollment no greater than twentytwo students. Creative writing teachers at IAA are a mixture of full and part-time faculty who are experts in their field. Distinguished and emerging visiting writers teach master classes and provide feedback to students. Students participate in competitions appropriate to their level, and senior creative writing majors are accepted into a variety of well-respected writing colleges and universities in the United States and beyond. Please direct questions to Kim Henderson, Creative Writing Department Chair, at: khenderson@idyllwildarts.org.

The faculty also come from many different backgrounds, which means the students are exposed to a broad spectrum of disciplines, including: drawing, painting, sculpture, printmaking, ceramics, digital and darkroom photography, jewelry making, architecture, and all periods of art history. Most of the faculty are practicing artists who show their work regularly. This is an important part of the instructional environment, as it means they are engaged in the same or similar challenges that the students face every day in the studios. There is an emphasis on sequential instruction through the grade levels, so that all students feel they are developing a solid visual language, while they are also encouraged to develop a strong individual voice, which reflects their life experiences. This balance of the formal, practical, theoretical and imaginative aspects of art making is central to the way we teach and learn, and means that graduating seniors are not only well trained artists but are also aware of their place in the world. Please direct questions to Gerald Clarke, Visual Arts Department Chair, at: gclarke@idyllwildarts.org.

Geode / James Weishaus

Parallax 2016 Editor-in-Chief: Parsa Sheikholeslami Junior Editor/Fiction Editor: Danae Devine Dramatic Writing Editor: Campbell Dixon Poetry Editor: Segolene Pihut Non-Fiction Editor/Social Media: Emily Clarke Editorial Staff: Evan Lytle Visual Art Editor: Linda Santana Layout and Design: Omar Razo Creative Writing Department Faculty: Kim Henderson (Chair), Alice Bolin, Abbie Bosworth, Mara Lund Montano Visual Art Department Faculty: Gerald Clarke (Chair), Jana Baker, Mallory Cremin, Earnest Merritt III, David Reid-Marr, Terry Rothrock, Linda Santana, Joann Tomsche, Melissa Wilson, Rachel Welch Idyllwild Arts President: Pamela Jordan Head of School: Douglas Ashcraft Idyllwild Arts Academy 52500 Temecula Drive PO Box 38 Idyllwild, CA 92549 (951) 659-2171 Parallax Online: www.parallax-online.com Copyright 2016 Idyllwild Arts Foundation All rights reserved. No work is to be reprinted without the written consent of the author and the Idyllwild Arts Foundation.

Celadon / Bryan Bochen Zhao

Now with the fun chaos behind us, we’re back to normal work in Birchard, waiting for the moment when we can hold the fruit of our labor in our hands, glossy cover and all. But even as we wait, Danae and Seg work on publishing an interview with a guest writer on Parallax Online, Evan comments on submissions while listening to 80s rock, Campbell photoshops visual artwork to fit our website’s sliding gallery, and Emily sends an acceptance letter to a student across the country.

Editor’s Note

As the year went on we functioned together like a well-oiled machine. Campbell, our Dramatic Writing Editor, and Seg, our Poetry Editor, would work on publishing an interview on Parallax Online, while Evan and Emily sent out feedback letters to students on the status of their submitted pieces. Kim, with her expertise, kept order within the class, while giving us enough free space to run the team. We started receiving submissions for Parallax Online from all over the country. And when the time came, we received submissions from students of our own Idyllwild Arts community. We gave them comments, and received comments on our own pieces. We kept revising, in some cases for weeks. When working on a literary journal, where the editors take responsibility for publishing the most creative, original pieces, no amount of work seems enough. We edited the pieces until minutes before they were sent to the designer. Once we sent them out, a big weight was lifted off our backs.

by: Parsa Sheikholeslami

The Parallax Editorial team started working on Parallax during September, and it is now three p.m. on Wednesday, February third. I am in Birchard, our writing studio, surrounded by all of the editors that helped make this year’s Parallax. Last spring, when I was told I was selected as the Editor in Chief, I was overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure how to make decisions about submissions, the print journal, and keeping everyone focused while also maintaining a fun environment where people are motivated. My first decision as Editor in Chief was to choose my protegee, the Junior Editor, who would take over my position the following year. I chose Danae Devine. She began work instantly, copying a huge stack of Parallax submissions we had received that day. As we went on, the rest of our editors helped me in making decisions about the journal’s cover, commenting on our submissions, and contributing their opinions when needed.

Pensando / Cristobal Ayala Roche

You want to see my body bent like a broken bird? Turn to page 8. For the broken glass that scattered the asphalt and my skin turn to page 19. You are cracked board game spaces Perfectly symmetrical squares of auctioned land But do you remember when I tripped and broke your guitar stand? You got pissed and kicked my dog across the beer-stained carpet Well Sparky didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t appreciate that and neither did I And we would both appreciate it if you would come pick up all your shitty paintings The apartment seemed emptier When our muscles were trained towards the bedspread We observed it like this: I think of the layer of skin beneath Tiny pieces of stone tumbling and spilling from my seams Clever bug carpet skinner Its tassels drawing our wrists to our ankles like hog ties But I am not yet disassembled Not yet stolen We write we bleed we live we bleed We bleed

Phone List

by: Emily Clarke and Danae Devine

You jerk you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t call me up You crashed your motorcycle Saturday Because you were hasty Your crab hands gripped the handles, And this made it easier to weigh the bike into the ground You pinched my nose, When Steven and the Swedes burned their house down Your large body was webbed between one handle and the wheel And your turbine legs churned up gravel

Detachment / John Michael Dee

Circuit of Thoughts / Jessica Lee

Melon Groves

1. For real 2. Magnetized by high eyes 3. Treat me my body; a full mountain expanse 4. Drawing arrows down 5. I am the epitome of forlonging 6. Dullness in my muscles 7. As a stinging shower 8. Heat on skin 9. How can you demand control? 10. Blossoming oranges 11. Thank you for the way your wet mouth rolls over them 12. We are the grinning acquaintances on your ascent in Hellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mountains.

by: Segolene Pihut

Melon groves, boyo. Rows of young boys, backs exposed like the inner sliver of a green bean, hacking and picking away in the steaming soil.

A Wake / Ordy Wei Cheng Chen

Displacement / Sumin Seo

Let me see the infection starting in your mouth Between your teeth Stuck, making holes Pinching nerves in your gums Spreading to your swollen lungs Reddened, throbbing in pain Inhale and exhale the ashes You devour Maybe in your lungs, cinder will sanctify Blow out in a new form, mimicking Scenes from your memories Your heart, if you can call it that Beats in rhythm with hums Of old songs in distant yards Veins coiling around the pump, attached To arteries, squeezing it Until it wheezes Black oil dripping from your eyes Notice your fingertips twitch after You stop plowing ashes Into your mouth Flexing and reaching Looking down at your arms Itching to scratch the crisscrossed skin away I want to see the muscles Knitted beneath the surface Bleeding out seems a reasonable Theory of expulsion, purification Your nails being the scrubs of red and black

Spit

You will swallow the cold ashes of Not being able to go back in time As they catch on the sides of your throat Bitterness making you tear up Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re going to throw up Tongue stained to match The regrettable match you struck Not long ago

by: Eleonora M. Beran Jahn [Non-Major Contest Runner-Up]

I will spit in your red and black eyes

What about your brain? Listen to all the things it has to say To the reflection painted black By your recollections fading Into bittersweet fiction Listen to the truths about yourself Doodled in scars And donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you dare cry Monsters are not allowed to cry Monsters are allowed to scream Be angry at the fact That they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kill In fear of losing the place Where they belonged, and Ended up being monsters anyway Eating ashes in a pitiful attempt To flip the hourglass When I spit in your red and black eyes It will wash away the ashes blurring your sight But it will not bring anything back

Total Equality / Jessica Lee

“Hey man.” The taller one, Carter, furrows his brow and holds open palms toward the empty carton. “They’re empty, I checked.” “Oh,” Carter says, and then starts digging through the box some more. ”Why would I reconsider?” The darker one, Thomas, watches the flames. “I guess you’ve never been one to think twice about anything. I’m just saying you should reconsider. From an experienced crook’s point of view, your plan is extremely sketch. How do you plan on nobody at that place seeing you, or shooting you? The territorial fence clearly states, ‘Trespassers will be shot on sight.’” Carter sits down on the tree stump next to the box. “I know the risks, and I know we can increase our chance of being successful and decrease our chance of getting shot if we work as a unit.” Thomas finds an empty Raws Rolling Paper pack and tears it up before pitching it into the inferno. “I don’t think you or I should work on this at all—it’s too much bud in one place. I don’t wanna be one of the guys trying to rob the grow op when the Feds show up.” Carter rests his chin on his knuckles. “C’mon man, be real! The Feds aren’t going to show up, we aren’t going to get shot, and we aren’t even stealing. Think of it like Robin Hood taking from those with a surplus of product to distribute to the poor, and saving a little for personal recreation.” Thomas paces around the fire. “I just don’t think you’re going about it smartly. The way you keep telling everybody about this field we stumbled upon, somebody’s bound to show up. You’re just not taking this as seriously as someone actually considering it should.”

You Should Reconsider

“I think you should reconsider,” he says while picking up an empty carton of Winstons.

by: Evan Lytle

The flames are a good distance away from us. Good, as in they’re close enough to where we can still throw things into them, far away enough so that we feel safe. Close enough that we are warmed by them, but far away enough that we still need jackets to protect us from the piercing breezes that circulate after the sun’s been down for a long time.

Carter stands up. “Well nobody’s going to get any free weed if you keep being a total pussy about this shit.” Thomas stops orbiting the fire and leans against a tree, rubbing his forehead with closed eyes. He exhales. “Oh, grow up, Carter.” Carter smiles. “I think you mean grow OP.” Thomas grins and shakes his head.

Blurred / Anthony Johnson

Bogling

by: Max Swanson

Skin crinkling wax flowing Parallels a sleek rubber grip Followed by unrelenting steel sharpened One for sight one for judgment With quiet feet and a decorative mask Covering grotesquely bowdlerized features Their knowledgeable hands Are willing to kill To either steal away a memoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shred Or regain their own. What memories I once had Are now only a lingering emptiness Their physical forms used as Common fuel for the Bogling But if you reveal light to a Bogling It will writhe and wither On the contrary feed it darkness And it will surely grow To what? I dare not tell Not even I know What moves beneath its shell.

Goddess of War / Cherry Guo

Universe / Cherry Guo

Brown Waters

by: Parsa Sheikholeslami

Playing in mud, soaking feet in brown rivers, playing with paper, paper airplanes, paper saltshakers, paper is cheap. Playing with grass, making guitars out of oil cans with strings, eating cheese and bread, at times cucumber on the side, laughing at clips sent around on mobile phones, praying on dandelions, and later blowing the dandelions to the creator. Singing one song only, we heard it on television, what is a key, what is a chord? The helpers, what do they know of fish tickling your toes in brown rivers? They see us, they see charity and chance.

Culture Trauma / Heidi Songqian Li

Microcosm and Microcosm / Tiva Tao

Decomposed pt.1 / Dawn Jooste

Three

by: Christy Perkins [Non-Major Contest Winner]

He woke up with faint dizziness and the sight of stars, the same way he did every day. He stood on his fumbly legs and took two steps towards the bathroom, his knees shaking like the fragile leaves that clung to the single crabapple tree standing outside of his apartment window. Despite his ridiculous amount of effort towards walking, his knees collapsed. He determinedly clung to his writing desk, placing his hands on top of opened journals that were filled with nothing. His gaunt, weakened arms pressed against the pages, making a sort of terrible crunching sound as he finally pushed himself back to a standing position. Unable to maintain this stance, he crumbled back into bed. “Not today, Dev,” he mumbled to himself. He went back to sleep for a while. Upon waking again, Devyn looked at his ever-blinking alarm clock that read thirteen-o-four. It wasn’t unusual for Devyn to rise early, then fall back asleep for many more hours. The ceiling looked especially blue-white that day, showing a kind of matte glow in the overcast Philadelphia afternoon. To the right of him on his queen size futon sat his cellphone, charging silently. For a second he thought he heard it rumble, and he calmly and curiously reached to unplug it. Maybe it’s her, he thought. He always thought it was her, even when he didn’t want to. He often feared she’d forever linger in the back of his head, clinging to his thoughts like her smell clung to the shoulder of his t-shirts. The sound was just his stomach grumbling.

The soft jingling of his cat’s collar entered the grey-blue bedroom and travelled towards his bed. Devyn patted his chest in a welcoming manner, inviting the cat to join him on the thin mattress. In response, the smokecolored cat launched itself onto its master’s boney chest and made itself comfortable by drumming its warm paws against his defined ribs. Then it curled up in the exact same spot it always did, in the center of the Devyn’s cage-like chest. He heard his ancient corded telephone ring from his living room, but assumed he didn’t have the strength to pick it up, even though he thought it might be her. The cat yawned, drawing his attention back to its presence. It somehow seemed to be telling him to rest. “Devyn Halwende? I’m calling for the office of Doctor Honnely. We’re deeply sorry for contacting you so frequently, but this is a matter of urgency pertaining to your condition. Please come in for your appointment

soon—you’re scheduled for a meeting with Doctor Honnely in thirty minutes,” the answering machine sounded. He could feel his heart drop, and his mind raced along with the quickening pace of his heart. It was suddenly the night Mom took Sadie to the hospital, with him in the backseat blubbering madly, holding one of her lifeless hands. Her dead eyes would forever peer into his own. Her entire body was shaking somehow lifelessly, she could no longer speak, she would never sing again, her fingers were too cold to write him notes anymore and even though she was just in the seat in front of him, foaming slightly at the mouth and losing consciousness, she was already gone and he missed her. Oh God did he miss her why couldn’t God have taken anyone else? He blamed God. He blamed everything he could. He just wanted his sister back. The cat meowed gently, drumming its paws on Devyn’s beating chest. He gasped slightly. For a few seconds, he forgot to breathe. He always did in moments such as the one he had just experienced. I need to go to the doctor, he thought. “Devyn, we’ve examined your MRIs quite extensively. We’re sorry to say that you have a string of unidentifiable growths on the right hemisphere of your brain, and one terminal growth on your heart. Mr. Halwende, unless by chance of a miracle we find a way to eliminate these growths, we estimate you have three days to live.” Devyn nodded impartially. There was a brief silence. “Okay. Thanks, Doctor Honnely. See you around,” he said, then walked towards the exit. “Wait, Mr. Halwende—” Devyn shut the door. He didn’t remember driving to the doctor’s office or back, but through his living room window he could see his matte white 1986 Volvo parked outside of his apartment complex, the name of which he forgot every time he came back to it. It had something to do with pines, or cedars. Perhaps oaks. He made sure he locked his door, even though it wouldn’t really matter anymore. He set his keys on the hospital white counter of his creamcoloured kitchenette that was empty of food despite a yellow college-ruled grocery list stuck to his fridge with a circular magnet. On it was scribbly words reading: milk, cereal, cat food. Cat food was written twice. He hadn’t noticed. His legs were feeling quite weak again so he decided to take a seat on one of his two couches, each a shade of coffee brown. His answering machine sat lonely on the coffee table to his left. He decided to go through his old messages—he didn’t have anything better to do.

One message from Dad, the only one he’d left in six years. He asked how school was, and told him Mom wasn’t doing too well. He didn’t know how much longer she’d last. One from his college professor: “Devyn, we hear you’re sick. You don’t have to come to school anytime soon, okay? Just take care of yourself. Feel better, Halwende.” No messages from Mom. One from the cat. No, no it was Kat. Katrina Feldman, his fourth grade crush. But didn’t she move during the summer? It’d been what, seven years? She didn’t have his number—maybe it was the cat after all. What day was it again? And then her voice came through. “Devyn, please stop calling. I’m fine. It’s not good for you to keep in touch right now, I just need you to stop calling, okay?” He then noticed the picture frame fallen behind the coffee table. He lunged over the arm of the deep brown sofa, reaching for it. His hands quivered with every ounce of strength he had left in him. She looked introvertedly happy in his arms, so shy yet so in love. She was sitting on his lap, both figures facing the camera they had set up on a rock adjacent to the one they were sitting on in the thick East Coast forest. Her short brown hair, which seemed to be bouncing and full of life even in a still photo, contrasted his thick black head of fur-like hair. The rough edges of his jawline rested on her sharp shoulder that was dressed by the same down coat she always wore when they were in Vermont, one thin hand in her pocket and the other on his cheek behind her ear. His well built arm wrapped around her torso, kindly embracing her. He saw that his eyes, hiding behind his thin librarian-esque glasses, glowed the way all blue eyes should. They glowed like hers did. There was cracked glass at the bottom of the frame. The damage probably happened when the frame fell off the coffee table. He hadn’t noticed that had happened, even though he thought of the picture quite often. Liquid started to run through the cracks. He was crying. He wanted to sleep but he knew there was absolutely no way he could make it back to his bedroom. Still sobbing, he swiveled on the couch to rest his head on its cushioned surface. He closed his eyes, tried to regulate his breathing, and his exhausted body fell into slumber.

“Why don’t you ever go by your full name, Devyn. It’s Irish, right? Meaning bard, or poet. Quite fitting, no?” she said, taking his hand in hers. He shrugged indifferently. “I don’t like the way it sounds. So heroic. It sounds like it belongs in some kind of epic poem. The great savior of humanity: Devyn. I’m nothing magnificent. But, you’re right, I am a poet. Dev just sounds more fitting,” he replied. She leaned her head on his broad shoulder and pointed her eyes upward to the smog-ridden sky that loomed above them on the roof of their apartment complex: Cedar Cottage. “You’ve still got to write for me Devyn, my sweet savior of humanity,” she murmured in her most cinematic voice. “Oh, Lita, my muse, where would I begin?” Devyn replied, just as dramatically. A strand of her short brown hair blew against his cheek. He woke up on the couch, the picture held tightly to his chest. He could feel himself start to cry again. It was the third time that week he’d dreamt of the same memory. He thought it was quite esoteric, how he couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he could remember that night like his favorite movie scene, forever repeating to himself the words she spoke. The digital wall-clock read thirteen. He really did never fail to sleep in, even on his third-to-last day on earth. Three days to right every wrong, three days left in life to find the meaning of it, three days to travel the world, three days to say sorry to Mom and Sadie— wait, no, he couldn’t do that, could he, he could just use his three days to pray to his cursed God that both Mom and Sadie could hear him screaming “Sorry for everything,” three days to kill his father and hide the body—no, three days to kill him and leave him legs crossed lazily in the same awful rocking chair he would always sit in and ignore them, three days to take Lita back to Vermont— three days to forget Lita. Sadie was sixteen when she told Devyn the one thing he could never forget, weeping on her twin size mattress about Alex Rutgers. Devyn could barely remember exactly what Alex looked like—he only remembered his face from the torn up polaroid in Sadie’s wastebasket. “Why’s Alex in the bin, sissy?” asked miniscule Devyn Halwende. Sadie sniffed and smiled at her little brother, messy mascara smudged under her eyelids. “Devie, Alex hasn’t been real kind to sissy lately. I may be crying, but I’m actually quite happy, lovie. Sometimes it feels good to put things in the bin.” She ruffled his hair endearingly. She leaned down and kissed his forehead,

took his face in her hands, and told him the thing he would remember to his grave and beyond: “Don’t you ever be afraid of forgetting, sweet Devyn. Every story started on a blank page.” He shot up dizzily, then walked toddler-like to his bedroom, leaving his doom-impending thoughts to fester in his skull free of attention. The cat was curled up in its usual spot on the futon where Devyn’s chest would be if he were lying down underneath the soft creature. He looked to the right side of the room where his writing desk sat, littered with empty journals. He took a deep, shaky breath, and picked up the small moleskine notebook sitting on the topmost section of the scattered journals. On the inside front cover was Sadie’s neat handwriting, reading: Write me something, would you? And for Sadie, he would. He clicked his ballpoint pen and sat on the futon mattress next to his pet. He had not written a single word since the night Lita left the message: November third of last year—or was it October? Perhaps the fourth? He shook himself back to his train of thought. He hadn’t used his full name since then, either. He murmured it to himself in a monotonous, somewhat sickening way: “Devyn Halwende, Devyn Halwende, Devyn Halwende…” he paused and took a breath in his uneasy manner, “Sadie Halwende. Sadie.” For seemingly no particular reason other than speaking his beloved big sister’s name, words started to pour out of him and onto the page in sloppy handwriting. Droplets bruised the rectangle of paper. He was crying, again. He didn’t think he’d ever cried as much as he had in the past twentyfour hours. He allowed himself to be upset, just like Dad never did. He thought that maybe it was just the false sense of courage given to him by the threat of the multiple tumors clinging to his insides, but he felt that he was reversing everything that had ever gone wrong. Every pain he had known was diminished with each word his near-useless hands sputtered onto the page. He felt like a poet again. He didn’t think he wanted to be one anymore, not after Lita. After a pain so unspeakable in her absence, he didn’t want to be Devyn Halwende, but someone else. Something else, rather, anything other than the lonely poet that a shaggy brown bob and dark blue eyes destroyed from the inside out. He wanted to sling everything that they were and everything they ever would be into the deepest pits of eternal nothingness like Alex Rutger’s torn polaroid into the wastebasket, he wanted to do what he was convinced he couldn’t: he wanted to forget. And so he had three days to do so. To create a story from a blank page using his long passed sister as a muse. To forget the muse that doomed him to forever desire the feeling of disassociation. To be everything she made him not want to be.

He wrote until the alarm clock read twelve. His cat still slept peacefully at his side. His hand could barely move at that point, his motor skills decreasing with every passing second. He was dry, out of cognitive thoughts to have, much less poetry to write. He gently closed the small journal with shivering hands. He only had two days left, yet he only had the strength to sit statically, staring at his blank wall solely illuminated by his desk lamp. He didn’t dream at all that night. At thirteen o’clock, he awoke with his ears ringing violently. He was still sitting up slightly, and the cat had migrated into his lap. He wanted to yawn, but his weakening chest wouldn’t allow for such an act, so he just let out a tired sigh. His ribs poked out from underneath his baggy white t-shirt, and his stomach grumbled in the fashion of his cell phone vibrating. He was hungry. It took him twenty minutes to make it into the kitchen, just to remember he didn’t have any food. He opened up the refrigerator three times, no, four, six? Nine. He slid open the same empty drawer twice in a row. It made a squeaking sound that echoed and fed back in his ears. He opened nearly every cabinet and didn’t close a great deal of them, making his kitchen look like it was occupied by a poltergeist. He left one cabinet untouched: the one in a similar location to where Dad’s cabinet was in his childhood home. He didn’t remember doing so, but he opened the cabinet revealing a lonely bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He was then lying on his futon with the opened bottle in his hand and a bad taste on his breath. He didn’t remember getting there, either. He wanted to scream at himself for giving in to his father’s usual poison, yet he sipped on and on. The slippery fire made his stomach feel warm, a feeling he wasn’t used to anymore. He was weak in every sense of the word, and utterly sublime. From there he didn’t remember much of anything at all. The cat was purring on his chest. He thought the cat seemed sentimental. There was music playing—he must’ve put it on earlier. It was her favorite record—no, his favorite record. He listened and lied contently on his unshared bed, in his apartment that he lived in alone now. And with another annoyingly satisfying wave of saltwater dripping from his tear ducts, he had finally forgotten. He closed his eyes, squeezing out two final tears. Then, his heartbeat began to rise. Slowly at first, then rapidly and unevenly. He could barely breathe. He tried to sit up, but his limbs were starting to go numb, and he could no longer control his own actions. The entirety of his body started to convulse, and his vision became progressively compromised. He could only see the world around him in brushstroke-

like segments and flashing lights. The record was no longer audible, but he heard the cat meowing, drumming worriedly on his chest. Foam dripped from his mouth. He wanted to curse his father for dooming him to the same inevitable weakness to that sweet poison that would ultimately lead to his demise, and now perpetuate Devyn’s as well. God hadn’t failed to betray him one last time—the same mystery illness that took his only sister, and then later his only mother, was now taking him, and a day early. At least I’ll see Sadie soon. That was the last thought Devyn Halwende had. Beep. “Devyn? Look, I’m sorry for calling. It’s me, Lita. I just got a message from the Doctor, they said I’m your only emergency contact. Why didn’t you tell me you were so sick? I—I’m so sorry Devyn, I didn’t mean for it all to happen like this—I’m sorry for...look, I’m coming over now. You’re not spending your last day alone. Okay?” The apartment door was open, although she was still prepared in the event that it wasn’t— he had never taken back her key. She called his name a few times in her gentle yet assertive voice. She opened his bedroom door. His lifeless body lay on the futon they used to share, the cat curled up solemnly on his bony chest. She covered her mouth in shock. Her favorite Smiths record blared the same notes over and over again due to a crack in the vinyl. Tears leapt from her eyes and confused gasps escaped her mouth. Next to the cat sat a moleskine journal, filled completely with teardrops and incoherent scribbling. At the top of the first page read a name: Devyn Halwende.

Heart / Bryan Bochen Zhao

Alone / Anthony Johnson

CHRISTIAN Come in! Enter FABI. CHRISTIAN Hey, how’s it going? I have the thing. I tried to go for something dreamlike. It’s not done but it’s something. CHRISTIAN gives the thing he’s been working on to FABI. CHRISTIAN It’s not fully developed but I didn’t want to give you nothing. So I hope you like it. FABI takes the object from CHRISTIAN. She looks from CHRISTIAN to the metal object, then back again. She bursts into a hug and they hold it for a long time. She breaks it and leaves.

The Serpent, The Siren, and The Welder

CHRISTIAN is making some small sculpture, but it’s not working and he’s getting frustrated. There’s a knock.

by: Danae Devine

Setting: A man’s apartment, very particular to him—it is obvious that he does not get out of this apartment. It is decked out in metal sculptures that are works in progress. The man, CHRISTIAN (early twenties), does not know what to do with his life yet. He takes a welding class— the only time he ever goes out is during this welding class. He is a simple man, dressed in tank top and pants, and he is simple-minded. FABI is called “the fish girl.” She works at the fish store and is considered an oddity around the town. MAR is CHRISTIAN’S friend—he is jealous of FABI’s ability to capture CHRISTIAN’s attention.

CHRISTIAN I’ll see you in a couple of days? To pick up the next one? Alright? MAR bursts onto stage. He is full of passion, terribly intense. MAR Did I just see fish girl come out from your door? Damn hun, does she come here for the money or (puts on dramatic pompous voice) the decor? CHRISTIAN (inwardly) Oh yeah, I forgot to lock the door. (To MAR) Hey, could you knock when you enter a home? MAR People are starting to talk man, people are really starting to worry about you. They see this girl coming in and out of here, and think “Wow, is he really so alone that the only person he hangs out with is fish girl?” I’m just trying to help you out, man. (starts going through Christian’s stuff, looking around his room) Wow, you’re such a slob. CHRISTIAN What’s wrong with Fabi? You should talk to her, she talks about a lot a things. Interesting things. Things that I can’t even, well, I can’t even comprehend. MAR It’s cute the way you look at her. I think it’s cute. And does she, though? But are you actually listening to what she’s saying. Hey I was just thinking about you. When are you going to get a job, when are you going to do something with your life? You know I was at Vons today? A friend of mine keeps stealing the booze from big markets like that. So I thought, “You know what? I’d try it out. Getting caught while you’re shoplifting is like, one in a million.” They stack the wine at the front, as soon as you walk in. So I couldn’t steal the wine, and then I went to the back, where all that shitty beer is.

CHRISTIAN You’re a disgrace. And Fabi speaks a lot, but only when she feels like she has to. And god when she does… It’s inevitable, she’s my babe. MAR gasps. MAR Oh god, don’t say that… CHRISTIAN Hey, if you got to know her, you’d want her to. MAR Yeah whatever, back to the point. I mean, am I stupid? I just couldn’t do it, I ended up stealing some Spanish olives, and some jack cheese. And I hate jack cheese. It was the stupidest decision I’ve ever made. And it took straight up thirty minutes to do it, because I had to unzip my backpack and zip it again and the zipper got caught. Ha, I’m pretty sure someone saw me, like this old woman. Or do you know who it was?! It was that damn girl Fabi, with her little cart and the fishbowl at the top of the cart and her flashy makeup with the...the... There’s a knock on the door. FABI enters. MAR looks at her, recognizes her, and points. MAR Her little big eyes! MAR realizes that what he just did was out of the blue and nonsensical, he takes a seat back down, and acts annoyed that she has entered. CHRISTIAN (murmuring to himself) Little big eyes? FABI Did I leave my jacket here? CHRISTIAN Did you bring one?

FABI It’s cold out there. The fishes are going to die. I went back to the store; they love the little things you make. I just plop them right in the tank for them to swim around. But (wailing) Oh! Paco died. His little bulbous body is lifeless, shriveled up in that tiny frozen cocoon. The fishbowl froze! I leave for one second, come back, and the store turns into a blizzard. (beat) What should I do? CHRISTIAN You want to stay for dinner? FABI Oh god yes, definitely. I’m starving. a fish dies, I make sure to fill up my Did you know that the reason why we feelings is because when we are sad, sugar drops?

Whenever stomach. eat our our blood

MAR snorts when CHRISTIAN gives him a “look.” MAR tries to cover it up with a cough. Some noise indicates something has finished cooking in the kitchen. CHRISTIAN Chicken’s done. CHRISTIAN, FABI, and MAR all help to set up some sort of table, they “prepare for dinner.” CHRISTIAN gets the chicken. MAR can’t stop looking at FABI, MAR and FABI sit at opposite ends, CHRISTIAN must be in the middle. MAR (stops staring at FABI, in fact he begins ignoring her, speaking only to CHRISTIAN) So, all I was able to get were the Spanish olives and the jack cheese. CHRISTIAN Interesting. Characters are conversing and eating all at once.

MAR I just can’t believe I did it. I mean, I’m a decent guy, you know? It just isn’t the sort of thing I’d do. Had to check for cameras though. And for people who might’ve seen. (looks towards FABI). FABI I didn’t see you steal anything. MAR I wasn’t looking at you. I didn’t talk to you. Wait, what? You did see? You were there? FABI I don’t know. Was I? MAR So you did see me? Come on now, are you going to tell anybody? It’s not like they’d believe you anyway. You and your stories. (no answer) MAR Hey, I asked you a question! FABI I had a dream last night. CHRISTIAN Yeah? MAR Pfft, I’ve got dreams too. Hey Christian, what do you say about hitting up the strip clubs tonight? There’s a new girl named Cherry, they say she’s real cute. Also I got five bucks-we can go to In n Out next, we can go wherever we want. We can split a chocolate shake with that kind of money! FABI It was about a man. A welder. (To CHRISTIAN) Like you. He was in love with a serpent in the

shape of a woman. I wasn’t really in the dream, I was more of an onlooker, like watching a movie. But anyways, it was about a man. And he was in a boat, in a body of water in a cave. He wanted to, and I don’t why this is, but he wanted to be eaten by the Serpent. He felt it was his duty somehow, to please her. MAR Ridiculous. CHRISTIAN Fabulous. FABI But he heard noises, in the cave. And he got scared. So he started calling out, “Hello! Hello! Hello! Is anybody there?” And he became afraid. “Hello! I’m armed! I’m alone and armed!” But then he realized that saying he was alone was probably not a good idea. So he started calling out, “That is false! I am not alone! I am not alone!” But all through this time, a siren began approaching from behind. And she started calling out, “He is not alone! He is not alone!” Together it all sounded like (deep voice) “I am not alone”, and (little voice) “He is not alone!” And (deep voice) “I am not alone,” and (little voice) “He is not alone!” This went on and on, till the siren came up from behind. It took him by the neck! And she dragged him into the water, and she devoured him whole. CHRISTIAN That soundsMAR It sounds like bullshit! You made it up! FABI You can’t make up dreams. CHRISTIAN Yeah, cut it out Mar, she’s a visionary. A beacon of light. A celestial darling, a cosmic wonder.

MAR (To Christian) Oh, so now you’re a poet. She’s changing you. (To FABI) You’re changing him. He has changed. And it is your doing. FABI There’s nothing wrong with change. I could change you just as easily. CHRISTIAN ‘Tis true, but unlikely. She’s a vision, and you’re a dumbass. MAR Oh yeah? (looks at FABI) I’ll give you a vision. CHRISTIAN pulls MAR to the side of the table; he whispers in MAR’s ear. While he does so, FABI is aloof: she twirls her hair and looks wide eyed and oblivious. Eventually she has to get up and walk around. CHRISTIAN Hey, will you cut it out? You’re being impolite. MAR Pfft, yeah, right. It’s not like she can tell the difference. CHRISTIAN Hey, I can see the way you’ve been giving her looks. I’m not dumb. MAR I never said you were. And what are you hinting at? CHRISTIAN Just stop, come on man. As for me, I enjoy her company. Gosh, can’t you see how stunning she is? By this point FABI is behind MAR. She takes his chair, and starts shaking it, jerking it back and forth. FABI Earthquake! CHRISTIAN laughs. MAR tries to slap her away.

MAR Hey! Stop it! She stops, and goes to sit back down. MAR takes a deep breath and continues. MAR Anyway, back to my vision. Yesterday when I took the bus to work—remember work, Christian? Remember what work is? CHRISTIAN No, would you remind me? MAR Well I was taking the bus to El Rancho, and it was cold and foggy outside so all the windows were fogged over, like, obviously. I saw a woman, looking so good in knee socks and a skirt. And I wrote, “Looking good, babe, looking good.” Like, on the window. CHRISTIAN Wow, you get cleverer everyday, don’t you. MAR Ah well, let’s just say I got hooked up with her cell number and there was some action at the Applebee’s restaurant nearby. CHRISTIAN chuckles. MAR Yeah, you know where I’m talking about, don’t you. The booth way at the back where I can watch the football game and get some. FABI The letters were backwards. MAR What? FABI What you wrote on the window, the letters were probably backwards.

CHRISTIAN (To MAR) Haha! You idiot. FABI You want to hear action? MAR Stop talking, I don’t, and what the hell? Who writes backwards? Not me. FABI Christian wants to hear. Don’t you, Christian? CHRISTIAN You bet I do, hun, you going to tell him that story you told me the other day? (looks at MAR and winks) It’s a good one. MAR No one is telling me anything, especially not you (to FABI). (To CHRISTIAN) Since when do you even invite people to tell stories? The only person who tells you shit is me. CHRISTIAN Oh, isn’t that just the most spectacular thing? MAR (Doesn’t understand his sarcasm) You bet it is babe, hey so did I tell youCHRISTIAN Listen! Listen to Fabi. FABI I was at work. You know, the fish store. MAR Yeah, we all know where you work. FABI stands and walks around as she describes the story, or climbs onto the table. She can do whatever she wants as she tells this story, but as she does, her eyes are trained on CHRISTIAN. It seems like she is seducing him.

FABI (Looks at MAR) Well, an outsider wouldn’t know but, I’ve got betas, goldfish, catfish, clown fish, ghost fish, a black loach...angel fish, black molly, parrot fish, guppies and lots more that I’ll leave as secrets. My favorite fish’s name is Junior. She sits right behind me at the front counter because you know how things get lonely sometimes, and I’m trying to work out the bills when all of a sudden I hear a soft: glub glub. Glub, glub. And it gets louder: glub glub...glub glub. I turn and see Junior swimming around in her bowl. Glub glub. Glub glub. And with every little movement of her mouthFABI starts touching CHRISTIAN’s mouth, pulling his cheeks or lips. As she’s talking she plays with his face and hair. FABI She goes: glub glub. My human mind feels like it’s slipping away. I’m hypnotized by this glub glub. She’s communicating with me! But that’s silly, I tell myself. A customer walks in, I can hear him mumbling but everything sounds like it’s underwater. I don’t understand his human talk, I don’t turn around to look at him. But I start talking, not the whole “Hello, how are you,” kind of chat, but the, “Glub glub, glub glub, glub glub, glub glub glub glub glub.” (FABI pauses and looks into the air. At this point she is holding Christian’s face, then she gives his cheek a slight friendly slap.) I lost a customer that day. The day I became a fish. CHRISTIAN and MAR stare at FABI for a long time. She looks at nobody. She sits back down. CHRISTIAN I think people should listen to you more often. MAR Don’t give her any ideas. FABI People who I talk to tell me that, and quite honestly I think so, too. People should listen

to what I have to say. But I guess that’s just how it works, you know? In this way it just eliminates the unneeded side of the public. If they don’t want to listen to me, then they are bumbling assholes, who only bumble to themselves. And I don’t know how to listen to a bumbler, and they probably don’t know how to listen to me, and so it just helps me train my focus on all the eloquent people. The people who actually can listen. CHRISTIAN I like it when you talk. MAR I think she should keep her mouth shut. FABI I know I’m weird. I can feel it like a pulse in my body. Another heart. I can’t change it: I would die. But I like being different. It makes me feel separate from this world. MAR God, Christian. Why do you hang out with this spazz? CHRISTIAN You have a gift for storytelling. Maybe you should write a blog. You know, something that gets you known. MAR She’s already known. Everywhere. It’s not good. FABI I’ve thought about it, but it’s too much work. When I’m working at the fish store it feels like I’m doing nothing and everything all at once. Like what I mean is every five minutes I have to walk around to make sure none of the fish end up like Paco: dead. It’s tedious work, but it’s nothing that strains me. CHRISTIAN Do they like my work? I try not to make the mermaids too big, you know. You told me they got scared when the sculptures got too big,

and started banging themselves into the glass. I’m working on some caves at the moment. FABI The fish love them. MAR Goddamn it, fish girl! You and your yappity yap yap mouth and your goddamn beautiful eyes! (beat) FABI Me? MAR Yup! Big, fatass, baby blue eyes. FABI How random. The three take a couple moments to eat. There’s an exaggerated clink of forks and knives. FABI takes a piece of her food, and flings it at MAR when he’s not looking. He feels it, looks up to see who the culprit is, and can’t determine if it was FABI or CHRISTIAN, so he looks back down in frustration. FABI kicks MAR’s foot. She waits for a reaction. She doesn’t get one. She does it again. No response, but Mar’s rising anger is visible. She does it a couple more times. He takes his plate and slams it on the table. She stops kicking. MAR I’m finished. He gets up with his plate. FABI Me, too. She follows him with her plate, and they enter the kitchen to wash their plates off. CHRISTIAN cannot hear them; he is in a separate room from them. MAR and FABI wash their plates off for a moment. They put their plates away. They keep bumping into each other.

MAR Watch where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re going. FABI Oh sorry, I thought you said I had beautiful eyes back there. MAR Yeah, they are. FABI Are you jealous? MAR Of your beautiful eyes? FABI Of Christian. MAR What? Of course not! Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been friends for years. FABI Your story telling is pathetic. MAR I only told one story. FABI Tell another one. (beat) MAR I was driving. FABI Be specific. MAR I was driving on some dirt roads. In a jeep. And it was hot out. A storm came. And soon enough I was driving in the rain and the dirt started to become mud. The jeep started to sink, and if I had gotten out of the jeep I would have fallen straight through the mud.

FABI Straight through? MAR Don’t interrupt, I’m not done. And yeah, straight through. I stayed in that jeep all night as it sank slowly into the mud. I knew death was coming, and that I would be sucked down with it. (beat) FABI And? MAR And then a beautiful woman rose from the mud and carried me from the jeep and we made love under the stars! FABI Ah, you see? This is why it feels so good to be weird. Because no one can tell a story like I do. MAR kisses FABI. She is not surprised. In fact she goes along with it. MAR pulls back. MAR Don’t tell anyone about this. FABI Just as long as you don’t. MAR Ok. The two exit the kitchen, and return to CHRISTIAN, who is calmly eating dinner. He looks like he knows exactly what happened in the kitchen. CHRISTIAN Am I going to find a mess in there later? MAR No. I’m going to the strip club. MAR grabs his phone or jacket or something, and he exits.

CHRISTIAN See ya later, Mar. FABI I’m going to head out, too. CHRISTIAN Alright. FABI I’ll see you in a couple days? FABI goes over to kiss CHRISTIAN on the cheek. CHRISTIAN (He swoons) Yes. Of course. FABI turns to leave. CHRISTIAN stands. CHRISTIAN Wait, Fabi? FABI Yes? FABI moves noticeably close to him; their faces almost touch. CHRISTIAN sits down. He tries to speak; he can’t. FABI laughs and ruffles his hair. Before she leaves, she gives him a wink, and then she exits. CHRISTIAN smiles and continues to chew his food. CHRISTIAN is left alone for a couple of moments. He stares into space before snapping out of the trance and urgently picks at his sculpture, chuckling and mumbling. END OF PLAY

Untitled / Cristobal Ayala Roche

Untitled / Sherry Ruohan Huang

Weishaus / Kyah Gracia

The Nine-Tailed Fox / Dawn Jooste

Taste Buds

//i squeal like a pig//it hurts//arms pinned over my head// your tongue leaves moist puffy trails of scarred skin//i inspect my body with soil covered fingers//you get up//hand me the flashlight//and leave//

by: Emily Clarke

//sexual tensions tend to implode under stars//on top of itchy grass wounds//in piles of people intertwining//because we wouldn’t do this if we were alone//you’re still//reaching// gifting me moonlit intentions//i’m trying to focus//your mouth is smudging my skin//my fingers are secret until you shift your weight and//everyone wants to touch me//you’re pulling up my shirt but just to lay your cheek against my bare fat//goose bumps//i can feel my hips digging into your chest//pressure// your stubble on my smooth//you lick my chilled rib cage until the bones crack clank with desire//raspberry bubbles blown onto my lower stomach//

Clarity of Mind / Cristobal Ayala Roche

Mental Block / Jessica Lee

by: Emily Clarke

Blue

We lay on crinkle cut Construction paper leaves In nowhere and Pretend to sleep. I brew tea in my skull. Behind the bone is a red kettle: Overfilled. The tension pulls us (Magnetic) Bursts under crisp, clean, Ironed white sheets And we lose track of time In conversation that flows Roughly; leaves us tangled, Grasping.

Ukiyoe / Tiva Tao

Cixi / Heidi Songqian Li

Rules of Survival / Samantha Jui-Yun Su

—On the shelves sit skeletons instead of books, with one hardcover jacket beaten and chewed. The pristine ones remind me that I will never be like them. Never sit on a shelf. I will always be threatened by the looming dog. No matter how small, I am ten times smaller than she. —My socks are ruined and I have to buy more, not realizing that all of them now have holes in them. My toes stick through, and scrape at the inside of my shoes. —I’m more excited to go back than I ever thought I would be.

As a Consequence of Having a Hungry Puppy

—My dog wanders the rooms with a profound silence as if the book was as unsettling to eat as it was to read.

by: Delany Burk

—I look through pages to find out what’s what. Shuffling through pages that have gone to the dogs, literally.

Teardrop / Bryan Bochen Zhao

Shell / Cherry Guo

“Playing with stones is dangerous. I don’t want you hurting anyone,” she scolded. “Put it back where you found it and leave it alone!” So you put both stones in your little jean pocket and promised that you would put them back where you found them. You stepped over the wooden rim of the sand box and looked down at the tear-stained faces beneath you. Then you reached into your pocket and took out the two stones. Looking at them both, you took your favorite and put him back in your pocket. You took William and threw him in with the other pebbles. How long did you think you could juggle until someone got hurt?

Recess

You couldn’t juggle more than two but you were still quite happy with yourself. Then one day, Ms. Wit noticed what you had been doing and took your stones away.

by: Ava Cardona

As a child, you were warned not to juggle. Yet you would pass over the wooden rim of the sandbox into another world where hundreds of little pebbles lay, a world of endless possibility unlike the one you had been living in. You thought of them as people and they thought of you as a friend, until you gave them a reason not to. You picked one up and named it. You looked it in the eyes and smirked. “Today, I’m going to play with you, William.” The second stone you brought from home. He was your favorite, “But you can’t tell the others,” you would whisper to him.

Daily Life / Rita Yiting Ruan

Structure / Heidi Songqian Li & Rita Yiting Ruan

Outside the house is a deli counter, soaked. No gunk or guts, it’s got that girly smell: that that one. No filler in the meat. I leave, walking and talking, but not to her, yet. Not yet. I see a purple-haired head, a tasty lilac melon. I’ve got a type for a reason. Gore is shed from the early skeleton of autumn. Wind doesn’t chill a local’s bones, but her lips freeze up as she forms a rattailed excuse. We’re far from home, set up on a corner. “It’s dangerous here, in the morning. Do I know you’re not the killer?” she asks. I’ve been a dog for years, but a flesh eater for a day. “I didn’t catch the tiger, I just buy the pelts,” I say. Laughing, she forgets each of twelve evils. “Most want to die,” she says, and now she’s got on tensing hearts for both of us. “Not the girls I take to dinner. Find me broth, and let’s drink for an hour.” A tear in the corner of her plastic eye fills my throat. “Or let’s steal camouflage off the trees, and go hunting for simple rabbits,” she says. Dodges. Dips. Dodges. “Pigs are smart,” I say, “but you’re better cooked and eaten than living clever in the dirt.” “Purple wouldn’t fill you up,” she says.

Purple Prey

And in my woods the broken rooster crowed all day, dawn, and dark, It kept me up

by: Campbell Dixon

When animals started looking good, I went hunting, and they liked it.

She knows my bad-eye look from TV. “I’ve snacked on weaker game,” I say. “Gristle lashed by sinew to wish bones.” She says, “Quit now. You’ll never get ahead.” Her maneuvers don’t swing wide enough. Warm red under my fingernails, fingernails under my tongue. No heat for her, and a beating heat for me because I can’t sleep on her empty stomach. Her calm zodiacal empathy is a hole in my belly.

Donut Care Anymore / Paulina Otero

Displacement / Rita Yiting Ruan

by: Hannah Hardy

Wolf Song

Time twists and loops entangling us between childhood games and moments forgotten You and I still loose in our skin run rugged and wild the stones like arrows beneath our feet Scrapes on our knees warm with blood prove that we are alive Simple smiles and untold stories mend and fill the folds in our pelts I lick the crimson from torn jointsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;my deer as your jaw mimics the wolf song

Untitled / Sherry Ruohan Huang

Tlatelolco / Paulina Otero

Sirens came close, red lights needling their way through the blinds, trapping me in red prison bars. The book fell to the floor with a bang and the cover ripped one last time, all the way to shreds. Dust spilled over the ground from our blue shag carpet as she picked up her purse and raced from a place she could no longer call home. She had been banned from this household, but she didn’t care about leaving us. Leaving us, she became a blue bengal tiger only looking out for herself. I grew up with a tear in my heart, and realized she had only herself in mind. I grew more mature and I stopped believing. Our blue denim chair was thrown in a truck with a person we didn’t know and was gone in a day. My childhood friends, the elves and gnomes, tossed in a cardboard box filled to the brim with books, inked red on the side, spelling their demise. I grew a bit taller, and I left those childhood stories behind. I didn’t see her until my eleventh birthday when I stayed at her house but not before she came to get me and ripped a hole in my father’s favorite shirt. A button ricocheted so fast it hit her on her forehead and bruised. I grew while my mind expanded. I learned that not everyone loves everyone.

Blue Denim Chair

We read one book, filled with mystical creatures and lands that couldn’t exist; we couldn’t stop turning the pages. The pages became permeated with oil from our fingertips, while the cover ripped from use.

by: Alex Bishop

Where my mother and I used to sit, fantastical stories would spring to life, filled with colors as if they were flowers growing from our blue denim chair. I grew bigger. I couldn’t fit in the chair with her, so I began to sit on the arm rest.

Years later I remember our creatures, but only as she grasped my arm wrapped in a solid cast and smashed me to the floor, how I wanted to travel to a different land. Those creatures did not help me then, all they did was push me down and laugh mockingly asking how quick hitting punches had come from her loving voice. And then I grew up.

Se Los Llevaron Vivos / Paulina Otero

Stars / Anthony Johnson

Outsider by: Cherry Guo

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BAM / Roxanne Lee

110

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Faces / Mike Qianhe Fan

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Bizarre Evolution / James Jae Yeon Hwang

114

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XALLARAP

TRA & YRARETIL EHT FO ENIZAGAM S T R A D L I WL L Y D I YMEDACA

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