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2 0 2 2 The Literary and Art Magazine of Idyllwild Arts Academy
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Parallax 2022 Editor-in-Chief: Lillian Tookey Junior Editor: Josephine Sporte Poetry Editor: Bella Koschalk Fiction Editor: An Lin Hunt-Babcock Dramatic Writing Editor: Alyssa Minor Nonfiction Editor: Claire Kim Editorial Staff: Inseo “Alexis” Yang Visual Art Editor: Linda Lucía Santana Layout and Design: Omar Razo Cover Art: Jade Meyer Creative Writing Department Faculty: Kim Henderson (Co-Chair), Isaac Webb (Co-Chair), Abbie Bosworth, Ed Skoog Visual Art Department Faculty: Linda Lucía Santana (Chair), Cooper Dai, Chris Groth, Lizz Hamilton, Shaunna Lehr, Jasmine Peck, Cristie Scott, Cihan Sesen, Rachel Welch Parallax Award Guest Judge: Sasha LaPointe Idyllwild Arts President: Pamela Jordan Idyllwild Arts Academy 52500 Temecula Drive #38 Idyllwild, CA 92549 (951) 659-2171 Parallax Online: parallax-online.com Copyright 2022 Idyllwild Arts Foundation All rights reserved. No work is to be reprinted without the written consent of the author and the Idyllwild Arts Foundation.
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2 0 2 2 The Literary and Art Magazine of Idyllwild Arts Academy
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Contents In Honor of Sophia Ying ............................................................................... 5 unhinged Alyssa Minor ................................................................................. 8 Untitled Jade Meyer ..................................................................................... 9 Vitality Serena Wang .................................................................................. 10 Quantum Physicist Falls in Love With a Philosopher Ollie Babovic ............ 11 A Bedtime Lullaby An Lin Hunt-Babcock.................................................... 12 Untitled WooHyung Kim ............................................................................ 13 Empathy Vic Hsu ........................................................................................ 14 People People People Lillian Tookey ........................................................... 15 Tomiris Adiya Nabiyeva **.......................................................................... 16 Ode to Greed Alice Park ............................................................................ 17 Flower on the Brain Francesca Attar ^......................................................... 18 Caged Anisiia Isaeva ................................................................................... 20 Interwoven-Cells Rebecca Chen ................................................................ 23 A Lesson Before Dying Inseo “Alexis” Yang ................................................ 24 How to Talk to a Baby Gorilla Claire Kim + ................................................ 26 Lost Things Jade Meyer ............................................................................... 27 Anxiety Serena Wang ................................................................................. 28 Escaping from Nightmares Adiya Nabiyeva ................................................ 29 Gift of Lace and Animalistic Desire Bella Koschalk .................................... 30
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Contents The Bear from the Black Lagoon Lillian Tookey .......................................... 32 Reflection Rebecca Chen ........................................................................... 33 Self-Portrait Alice Park................................................................................ 34 Pulse: An Assortment An Lin Hunt-Babcock ............................................... 35 President of the United States of America Lillian Tookey............................ 36 Reflection Jiho Kim .................................................................................... 37 The Café on Orange Street Josephine Sporte .............................................. 38 Durnum Station Elijah Baranowski ............................................................. 40 As Dry And Warm As Southern California An Lin Hunt-Babcock ............... 42 The Inevitable Dance Fatima Guzman *...................................................... 43 Death by Goldfish Julia Wangler ................................................................ 44 Daydream YooHyun Jeon ........................................................................... 47 Counting Blessings Bella Koschalk .............................................................. 50 The Seashell Collector Josephine Sporte ..................................................... 52 Catch A Falling Star Rebecca Chen ............................................................ 53 Your Heart Eat for Your Dream Winnie Chan ............................................. 56 Reflection in Pink Jade Meyer .................................................................... 61 Hey Fatima Guzman ................................................................................... 64
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~ Winner of the Parallax Award ~ Winner of the NonMajor Contest * ~ 1st Place: Visual Art Contest Winner ** ~ 2nd Place: Visual Art Contest Winner
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In Honor of
Sophia Ying (2005-2021) ‘Liquid’ Acrylic on Canvas
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unhinged By Alyssa Minor
I have become a beast of burden, Carrying the load of other herds, Dancing with elves and prancing around Like a lowly sheep trying to flee To a pond full of my mother’s milk, So I can coddle in a bottle Within a warm coat of nothingness That glazes my skin which sinks in itself Hidden in this flesh that covers me
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Untitled Jade Meyer Watercolor
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Vitality Serena Wang Digital Painting
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Quantum Physicist Falls in Love With a Philosopher By Ollie Babovic
Listen. Millions of years ago, the first star was born and already my body had found yours in the dark. (Almost a millennium later, the first humans were witnessing something they didn’t even have a word for, and they named it God because they didn’t know it was us.) Listen you touch me and I feather beneath your hands, listen your name is my favorite hymn. You tell me that you don’t believe in evil - only hate, but for billions of years we have slaughtered our impulses and called it evolution. Darling, the devil dressed in silk is still the devil. Listen, If you look at anything on a small enough scale those cells that you see will have no pattern. (The universe is a city of empty houses, but here’s a secret - I know how to fill them.) It goes like this you speak, and I am your echo. In the way that life begins near water, so I begin near you. Listen. Do not be afraid of the storm. It is just a baptism.
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A Bedtime Lullaby By An Lin Hunt-Babcock
I want to shoot the moon. Poke my finger in its soft core. A bullet in its own right. He doesn’t watch where he is going. He wants to prove a point. She’s driving back from work. The stars let her know she’s going home. I turn on the lights and wait for him. He’s never late. He’s taking too long. He takes his eyes off the road to see the moon looks like a frowny face. He frowns along. She wakes up. She’s bleeding. She can’t locate where it’s coming from. I can afford to leave him behind, my belly stretched with his money. He’s listening to the news. Another car accident. He shakes his head at the idiots in the world. She clutches her chest, her ticket home. I am still young. I am still selfish. But he enjoys going to the bar at night. He likes to watch the drunks and pretend to be a real man. She yearns for her sleeping child. And I never knew. And he knew before I did. With a drink in one hand and the wheel in the other, he feels a certain pride, one that forms like a cyst. A pride you want to squeeze until it pops. And she knew before he did. I swear on him and her. As he sips his beer. He sees something. A white sheet floating into the air. He scoffs and mumbles something about climate change. She is crawling on the ground. Hands and knees. Almost home is what she tells herself. It’s convincing enough. I sing to myself. I am hungry for noise. Anything but the sound of radio static because he’s late. The headlights are all pointing to him and sneering. The moon looks away as she parts with herself. Him. Her. It’s always cold before bed.
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Untitled WooHyung Kim Digital Painting
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Empathy Vic Hsu Pastel, Paper, Charcoal
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People People People By Lillian Tookey
I’ve become out of tune. I fell in love with the chubby boy, the ping pong, I dreamt of small, institutionalized places, people spanking, people and their strange rhythm. All they ever do is speak, don’t you see that? Don’t you get bored of the frog’s croak? I don’t know. Most of the time people think I’m kidding with all my toilet jokes and my mouth trumpeting, I am not. I’ll be honest, I am picking a ripe nut, I’ll be honest, I crack it open with two fangs, leaving the fruit dirt a vest of a song, too afraid to rain, too afraid to show its smell, its sound. I fear my last name, “Toucan,” “Tookey,” I fear the smile on one’s face after I introduce myself the other day I explained, that I want to rain, I want to split my grapefruit and wish on “until” but the people just do not quit, I want until the want in me is understood there would be no room for arguing, there would be a plead, to move forward or to change to keep the room for silence a space you can walk in and wonder who you are to sift out what must not be said, and to say the things with all the skin we were given leaving very little very little
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Tomiris Adiya Nabiyeva Oil on Canvas 2nd Place: VISUAL ART CONTEST WINNER
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Ode to Greed Alice Park Mixed Media: Acrylic and Wire
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Flower on the Brain By Francesca Attar ~ WINNER OF THE NONMAJOR CONTEST ~
Carl was an eighty-two-year-old man whose mentality was still catching up to the aging of his physicality. His thinning skin took on the weight of gravity and the years that flew over his head. But Carl was unbothered by these changes; how could he be bothered when he possessed the most beautiful little butterfly in all of Envy Valley? Not only did he possess the creature, but he also cared for it deeply. Every day during feeding hours, Carl sat in the garden, kept the creature and watched it. The garden that Carl had nourished from four hundred square feet of infertile soil to a neatly organized community of plants that worked together for the butterfly soon to arrive was that of magnificence. Yellow coneflowers and goldenrods, two nectar-filled favorites of the butterfly, made up the majority of the population in the garden. The butterfly trusted Carl. It allowed him to house it, feed it, and observe it to a typically uncomfortable extent for most beings. It had every chance to abandon the lovely garden, but Carl’s fascination and endless selection of sugary vegetation compelled the butterfly to remain. As it unraveled its straw-like tongue, Carl followed. Carl’s tongue was not nearly as long, but once again, he was nothing less than content. As the butterfly sucked the sweet, sticky nectar from the flowers, Carl mimicked it poorly. From flower to flower, the butterfly jumped, the speckled black and blue gradient that spanned its wings flashing again and again. That night Carl wanted to see if his wings had grown in yet. He unbuttoned his apron and lifted his shirt cautiously above his head, as he couldn’t risk messing up his wings. Turning to the full body mirror, he was ready to see the progression of the desired limbs. Slowly rotating, Carl’s expecting eyes and hopeful smile soon dissolved from his face. All that was similar to the body of the butterfly were the bronze sunspots that entertained his patchy back. Without getting into his cloud-decorated pajamas or turning off the lights, Carl moped his way next to the twin bed in the corner of the room and dropped to the floor right beside it. He simply closed his eyes, and they remained so as the liveliness of the room plateaued, and his whimper-like snores took hold of the silence. It was a new day; specifically, the extraordinarily hot day that was June 26th, 1990, and Carl refused to recall the events of the previous night. He skipped out to the garden and was taken aback by the mountain
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of cameras and people stepping over each other to worship the butterfly’s daily routine. But, he was affable to each admirer that shoved their way to talk with him. The very sight of the butterfly was utterly fascinating and brought a euphoric sensation to the citizens of Envy Valley, as a sight like this was foreign to them. Many offered him money, gifts, a lifetime supply of extra creamy oat milk even, all for the butterfly. But he would not accept. Then, a man with a buttercup fastened in his small blazer pocket elegantly approached. “Hello, sir,” Carl greeted the fellow. “Hello to you too!” the man said charmingly. “Well… is there anything I can help you with?” “Indeed, there is! I would like to make a trade!” “A trade of what sort?” “I assume you’re aware of the captivating specimen that frolics about your garden… Yes?” “Yes, you assume correctly… Now what is it I can help you with?” “I, Mr. Gerard Niamsworth, would like to trade whatever it is you desire most, for that… very… creature,” he slowly confessed, his eyes never letting go of the butterfly. “Oh my. Well, Mr. Niamsworth, I’m sorry to disappoint, but that butterfly over there is a free creature. I cannot sell it, and you cannot take it.” “Borrow, then?!” Niamsworth chuckled, but was met with a cold, pitiful smile. “There is really nothing that you want?” Carl stared at him awhile, thinking, debating, and getting distracted by the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the remaining spectators. “Aha, so there is something you want! Come on now, out with it!” “I want to… um… You’re going to think I’m ridiculous!” “Ridiculousness is my specialty, now tell me.” “Well, Sir Niamsworth, I’d like to be the butterfly that occupies my garden.” A wide-eyed Niamsworth gestured to the two bulky men at his side, whispering into their ears, still keeping Carl in his view. They walked away, and Carl began to retreat back inside when he felt something grip his arm. He sharply turned his head and found he was staring at the flaky, callused hand of Gerard Niamsworth. “Mr. Niamsworth, our business is done here!” Carl announced. “I’ve fulfilled exotic requests before. If you trust me, accept it.” Two bricks of men marched in from the raven-black Cadillac on the left side of Carl’s slanted mailbox, followed by the biggest flowers Carl had ever seen. Niamsworth said nothing. Smiling with his eyes, nose, and mouth, he bowed to Carl. Carl wasn’t moving. He knew now Niamsworth would stop at nothing for the butterfly. Carl kept thinking and thinking, could Niamsworth give him what he wanted? What would he do without the butterfly, how would he spend his time? What if he didn’t have to worry about that? He could just fly around all day, no cares, and everywhere he went, adoration could follow. Carl was so stuck in his head, he was
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Caged Anisiia Isaeva Digital Painting
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also stuck physically, allowing Niamsworth to carry out his plan. As the men hauled the flowers closer to him the flowers exhaled and sprinkled a powdery, neon yellow debris in their path. Carl, still frozen, grew less and less stable, his awareness cutting in and out. “Alright people, show’s over,” was the last sentence Carl heard, the voice distorted and slow before everything went black. Carl shook awake after having the fifth dream that week that felt like he was falling. His head felt lighter on his shoulders, and he wobbled from side to side as he picked himself up from the nutrient-filled soil that lay beneath him. He noticed a sharp pain in his back. It throbbed almost as if something had pierced through his thin dough of skin. Straining his stubby arms, he scanned his back for what it could be, but couldn’t reach the source of his pain. Then his eyes widened, a smile spread across his face, thin but wide. My wings? he thought. Carl didn’t run, but he speed-walked, and there he was in front of that same mirror from the previous night. This time he was sure of it. Carl unbuttoned the white dress shirt that hugged his body, tie-dyed with dirt. He did this, while mindful of the thin thread that conjoined the button with the delicate fabric. Then it hit the floor, crushing the air beneath it. At this point, Carl had rotated his back to the mirror, his head still avoiding the answer to his question. Finally, his eyes met the wounds in his back. Shards of his magenta flower pot, his rusted blood disguising the design that persuaded Carl to purchase it initially. Carl gave no reaction and returned the dress shirt to his body, the ceramic shards still a part of him. He decided to return to the garden to say goodnight. It wasn’t dark out just yet, but the sun was no longer beating down on him and that was enough for him to find refuge in his cozy, one-bedroom cottage. But, before he could take a step back inside, Carl noticed a lack of fluttering, the fluttering that typically slowed as the light dimmed but was always still evident to Carl’s ears. Carl turned to the silence in hopes that it was his ears that were failing him; perhaps he hadn’t cleaned them properly the night before. Once he was facing the garden again, four stalky, tree-sized flowers stared him down. A blue flier among the white and red petals caught his eye. He opened it with caution, and an unsettling yet expectant feeling arose in his stomach. It read, “ENVY VALLEY MUSEUM OF AWE, FREE ADMISSION FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!” signed with a red pen by one “G.N.” Carl ripped one of the flowers from its stalk and trampled through his backyard door, abandoning the now dull garden as it already began its process of withering, perhaps grieving. Carl stomped his way through the doorway of his own den, ripping his coat off the rack and impaling his fuzzy boots with the aggravated feet attached to him. Carl didn’t have a car, and it would have been especially unsafe if he did at this time. Still following his path of rage, he grouped with the crowd that was heading toward the flashing green lights at the
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epicenter of Envy Valley. The head of the white flower was crumbling in Carl’s hands, Carl’s fingernails puncturing the flower’s brain along with his own palm, drops of his blood contaminating the remains. As soon as the line was permitted to enter the facility, he plunged through the bystanders and found his way through the exhibit. After a good forty-five minutes of searching, there it was. In an elevated glass case, not a smudge to be pointed out, not an imperfection on the pedestal to be picked apart. But contained was a once free creature. A creature that devastatingly expressed its longing for the freedom it had never taken for granted. And the buttercup below the floating entity dropped its head, apologizing for witnessing the events. And though Carl should’ve felt sad or enraged at the situation for how it had affected the butterfly, his worry for the butterfly turned to jealousy for the appreciation, praise, and want everyone had shown to it. As tears welled up in his eyes, he smiled from ear to ear, his eyes shrinking and pushing the droplet down his face. He clapped, cheered, and cooed. The nectar of a promise floated down and around him with each clap; he would sleep well tonight, but wake up to his garden dry of color.
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Interwoven-Cells Rebecca Chen Digital Photography
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A Lesson Before Dying By Inseo “Alexis” Yang
When the horizon’s eye closes here at the brink held by the wind viridescent deadly shades bounced off the cross dimming cascade about to stroll off a fleeting thought: very decent once to be praised now to be blamed no shine dare to reflect on a deity dressed in roseate skin mobbing infant apes chant bystands too many eyes sewing slogs of violence clawing the hog to demise Now they sorrow out of the blue, or out of the green, omniscience revives claro, play the mafia on one another Run Run Run to the mortal, Hug Kiss Embrace it with pouring empathy though, oh, dreadful— a pale body
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immortal is to be loved to be lived and to be led to an end by the ones who loved When the sun’s ebb ceases the awkward lost one lies solitary abandoned by the hate
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How to Talk to a Baby Gorilla By Claire Kim ~ W I N N E R O F T H E PA R A L L A X AWA R D ~
1. Take a trip to your mother’s house. Greet your ma, umma, who is watering the cherry tomatoes in the backyard. When she returns to the house, her hands full of enoki mushrooms, unpack your bags full of soft tofu, three ounces of pork, and minced garlic that you prepared last night before she slices the green onions as a speck of silent legacy clings to your ears. Before the stew gets cold, pour it inside a steel bottle, steam hugging your cheeks, and prepare two metal spoons, bowls of purple rice, leftover holiday napkins, and origami stars. Wrap them all up with her embroidered bojagi, a wrapping cloth. Pocket your train ticket inside your autumn jacket and hold a kite in your hand as you enter the nearest forest. 2. Be patient. Stand in the forest, the biggest world. Wait for the baby gorilla, baby Gee, who spots your kite from a distance. When baby Gee arrives, open your arms towards him like the branches of root fingers inside the soil and rub his back five times. Share umma’s spicy tofu stew with him underneath the universal flower, the sun. Listen to his mushroom munchings as she did to your younger self. 3. Practice warmth. Say E-hate-yo-yoo, e-hate-yo-yoo, meaning I love you, your lifelong language with umma, and together, observe the forest with baby Gee and fall silent. Notice the way baby Gee leans against you as you preserve your roots in memory pots. Sprouting the sound of grace, mothering the sound of you.
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Lost Things Jade Meyer Graphite Drawing
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Anxiety Serena Wang Collage
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Escaping from Nightmares Adiya Nabiyeva Oil Painting and Sculpture
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Gift of Lace and Animalistic Desire By Bella Koschalk
Sorrow So the post-contact dog doesn’t die from what kills it. So Medusa is my grandfather holding a chess piece to my head, trying to bridge the gap. So the nurse said where was the damage done and I said in the bedroom but I misunderstood the question so I point to my own dipping softness— damage? So I cut the cake and hit baby Jesus’s jugular, and I wonder what kind of violence is really holy. So I see the holes in the lace, so many you’d guess beauty is just about the lack.
Longing Sex to be: I am a waxen anatomical venus and she (my “lover”) has a stomach of steel. (not the kind my father would examine for architectural integrity— No, Just the brute strength she’ll need to keep me wax.) Sex to be: Mars mistaken for her scalpel.
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I want to be the stone and the clatter of its drop. I want to be an empty sky full of fake guts.
Happiness Birds are alive. Birds use my hair for the living. Birds ask for no favors. Birds ask little of me.
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The Bear from the Black Lagoon By Lillian Tookey
The honking and the whining keeps me three hundred feet deep in this cave but something irked me, it comes from your fireworks I have a small jam jar and a tire man and a pumpkin bitch of a burden I’ve got blues, kicks, and thick screams, my own ass follows me as I flick a dime in the neighborhood I wear penny loafers on my small bear feet tiptoe with claws and a checklist I am searching for your pot-luck to bombard fuck all this chit-chat and soup-bowl I need something better to do, nothing is growing let’s talk about giving me 40 inches of hair in one night or knocking over these suburban trash cans or- I may pick up a child and throw it, so please, throw the dress over your head and don’t look outside, a dark burlesque thing awaits you by the basketball hoop I smelled the abuse and stopped by how about I challenge you and spit when I win give me forty more minutes to disturb the peace do not leave me a key, I have my own four feet, and the rain to knock this evil thing you call home down.
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Reflection Rebecca Chen Colored Pencil
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Self-Portrait Alice Park Acrylic on Canvas
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Pulse: An Assortment By An Lin Hunt-Babcock
You wish to fall as slowly as a snowflake when you collapse into the cold like sinking a body into a lover that moment bone meets flesh You hum a tune unfamiliar enough to travel between the gaps in your teeth, to slice your throat
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The bathtub is quiet without another to sink into and lay down all your sorrows lavished in bubbles and warm water, you don’t want to prune it’s snowing outside and you’re naked in a bowl that’s full of fog you could get lost in and Never grow old
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Drinking from a juice box is a ritual made by/for your missed childhood first: stab with sword second: extract juice third: crush box in fist last: stomp on until unrecognizable
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Saline solution washes you away coming down in drops as small as your fingertips tasting like fish, it serenades you, slippery and plunging fast veiling your face, a sickly, sticky promise made between you and pain.
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President of the United States of America By Lillian Tookey
Okay, let me tell you, frog, but dead “outside” is a thing only my cat understands I, only know human things, like the lemon stings or when the lizard runs, I am not politically aware of this garden, the grapefruits fall and I think, “Uh oh, well papa is mad,” “uh oh, daddy’s got a kill” “Pickle! Go outside!” I yelled, all the flies were dropping and fucking their way to the fruit bowl, Pickle’s ears were back, her eyes still like Joshua Trees “Pickle go! Pickle go time,” no Pickle movement Pickle stayed, she was a blank calico, a tobacco spitcat, she knew something about the outside and she bit my legs for the open door, she bit my morning legs I wonder if other children were told to be stronger the pavement is silent and sad and full of a quiet ache the dead frog I barely knew, baking in the sun Pickle was probably telling it, with her worried eyes, “You done good Mr. President, you done good.”
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Reflection Jiho Kim Oil on Canvas
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The Café on Orange Street By Josephine Sporte
My daddy takes me to lunch every Sunday. He and Mommy don’t speak much anymore. They don’t look each other in the eye when Mommy drops me off at his house. Sometimes she doesn’t even drop me off at his house; she just drives me straight to the restaurant and then picks me up afterward. She doesn’t want me in Daddy’s car, I don’t think. She’s probably right about that. But I wasn’t in the accident, so I don’t know why she’s trying to scare me about him so much. He’s careful now. But Mommy still won’t let me ride in Daddy’s car. Mommy drops me off at the café on Orange Street today, but she doesn’t get out of the car. She just stops at the curb and kisses my cheek goodbye. I hop out of the car and close the door behind me, trying not to slam it because I know that the noise still makes Mommy jump a little bit. She doesn’t drive away until I’m in the restaurant. Daddy is sitting in a booth next to the window. He’s looking out at the street, and I wonder if he’s watching Mommy’s car. He does that sometimes when she drops me off. I think maybe that’s why she never comes into the restaurant with me. I slide into the booth and smooth my dress under my bottom. My legs are too short for my feet to touch the floor, so they just dangle. They’re heavy, because of the thick soles on my shoes. One of the buckles is broken, so Mommy helped me put a safety pin in. Daddy offered to buy me a new pair, but she wouldn’t let him. I wish she wouldn’t be so stubborn. None of the other kids have to wear safety pins in their shoe buckles. Some girl at school, named Annie, laughed at me for the first week or two after the buckle broke. Annie is really mean. But Mommy won’t let me tell Daddy about her. She doesn’t like it when Daddy tries to talk to me the same way she does. “Hi, kiddo!” Daddy says when he sees me. His face is shaved. I smile. “Hi,” I say, folding my hands on the table in front of me and straightening my back. That’s how Mommy told me to sit. She says slouching is bad for your health. Daddy slouches.
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“What are you thinkin’ today, honey?” Daddy asks, sliding a menu in front of me. I open it and pretend to read the words on the flaps, but the letters don’t make sense to me yet. I shake the pages like a newspaper, the way I always see Daddy do. “I want a grilled cheese,” I say in my most businessman-like voice. “I think that can be arranged,” Daddy replies, reaching across the table to take my menu. I let him have it. Pretending it’s a newspaper isn’t fun anymore. Daddy places the menus next to him. There’s a lot of empty space at the table. He leans in toward me, smiling. “So,” he says. “I feel like I’ve aged ten years since I last saw you! What’ve you been up to?” “It hasn’t been ten years!” I say, giggling. I don’t think he’s very good at math. “If it had been ten years, I would be– I would be thirty by now!” Daddy chuckles and glances out the window before looking back at me. “I don’t think you’d be quite that old, sweetheart. But you’d be a teenager,” he leans towards me again, hushing his voice, “and boy, am I glad you’re not a teenager.” “Mommy says teenagers are all delinquents.” Daddy frowns. “That’s a big word for you, Amelia. Did Mommy teach that one to you?” I expected him to be more impressed. I don’t even know what that word means. “I heard Mommy say it once, but I didn’t look it up in the dictionary or anything.” Daddy nods and looks away from me. He seems sad for some reason. I wonder if he’s sad because he knows that Mommy taught me something, but he’s never taught me anything. “You shouldn’t be using words if you don’t know what they mean.” I pick at a spot on the table. Someone carved words into it, but I can’t read what it says. “It’s not a bad word, is it?”
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Durnum Station Elijah Baranowski Pen & Ink
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Daddy pauses. “Well, no. It’s just sort of rude. And not really true.” “Daddy,” I say. I start tracing the letters of the words in the table with my finger. I know that the first one is T. “Why is Mommy so mad at you?” Daddy frowns. “Look, Amelia, a waiter is coming over. Do you want to tell her your order, or should I?” I continue tracing the letters. The next one is O, and the one after it is O as well, except it isn’t written nearly as nicely. “You can order for me,” I say. The waiter comes over to our table and talks to Daddy. I trace the next letter on the table. There is a space between the second O and the L that I am tracing now. The waiter nods, and “mhm!”s along with what Daddy is saying. She takes our menus and leaves. “I miss when you and Mommy used to both eat lunch with me,” I say, because Daddy is looking at me again. “Me too, kiddo.” “Could you talk to Mommy?” I trace the next letter. A. Daddy frowns. “I don’t know about that one, Amelia.” The letter after that is T. “But Mommy can be a good listener. She’s been trying really hard not to yell at me.” “Your mother and I just had to go our separate ways.” “I don’t know what that means.” wwDaddy shakes his head. “Please let it go, Amelia.” I don’t know what the last letter carved into the table is. It looks like a backward 3, but the lines aren’t curved or anything. I want to ask Daddy what it is, but I don’t think he’s in a very good mood right now. The waiter comes back to the table with my grilled cheese, and whatever Daddy is eating. I take a bite of the sandwich. It’s really warm and crunchy, just the way I like it. The cheese oozes onto my fingers and makes them greasy. I lick my fingertips clean, enjoying every last bit of my lunch.
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As Dry And Warm As Southern California By An Lin Hunt-Babcock
I wonder, where all this water came from. Even though she complains about my oily hair, the dirt beneath my nails, she still hates the water bill the most and I don’t blame her I blame the rivers we’re stealing from Because they’re all speaking French and seductively tonguing the syllables of suburban homes for soil and calling it Gardening She jaywalks and calls it being a New Yorker Encourages me to start knowing how to write checks to the water company Wear high heels and a thong She’s a cat with a long tail that urges me to come closer I don’t want to I’ve been here too many times and I’m afraid of her All-American spirit, she sips the water from the hose, mixes her teeth with the metallic tastes I don’t want to join in anymore So I will sit in this window and watch her as long as I can until my scalp is stretched to its limit, she will continue to knead with the same palms she’s holding the hose while it keeps pouring
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The Inevitable Dance Fatima Guzman Reduction Woodcut 1st Place: VISUAL ART CONTEST WINNER
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Death by Goldfish By Julia Wangler
An empty void is eating me alive. My mother tells me that it will merely be temporary, that I should easily be able to move onwards with my life. She says this just to cover up her own feelings about the situation. She has already had to mourn over my father suddenly leaving us, and now my brother who departed before hair could grace his pure chin. I cannot blame her for wanting all of her sadness to float away like a balloon from last year’s county fair, but I am not ready yet. “Sweetie, wanna go to the bakery? We can play a game and eat some cookies. Ooo, and drink some tea! You’ve been sitting inside all day now, come on, please.” This is but one of her many calls to steal my melancholy. Going places seems far too ignorant though. He just left us two months ago. I will stay in the comfort of the bare, auburn-walled home we call our own, wasting my hours away. Rather than accompany my mother on her pointless ventures, I sneak away to my brother’s closed-off room. I am not allowed to enter, but when my mother goes out, any obstacle in my way vanishes. His room is painted a sky-blue color that makes me feel as though I am stepping into a warm summer’s day. That warmth is the complete opposite of the truth. His scattered books and his beautiful, shimmering paintings are still laid out on the carpeted floor. His large windows with our initials sketched on the windowsills surround me. His butterfly hand will never again fly across a canvas or etch my name in his window. He is gone. His goldfish, however, is not gone. His goldfish was only supposed to survive a week after the county fair last year, but it is still alive. It swims around in its fishbowl, a neon orange reflecting back at me. Its eyes dart around its bowl frantically, constantly moving. Its energy balances out my own. I take the fish into my room. It will always have to be hidden from my mother’s view, but I must keep this living link to my brother close. The goldfish stops swimming when I place my hands on the clear fishbowl, adding to the collection of mess at the bottom. It is terrified. Terrified, just like I was. Once I set it down on my bathroom counter, the fish is able to calm down and resume its usual energetic swimming. I peer down at the fish. It brings me the most joy I have felt in two months to see the fish somehow
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still alive. My brother’s beautiful smile when he first laid eyes on this goldfish is rushing back to me, making me beam for once. Someone must be feeding it. I notice a few fingerprints lining the rim of the bowl, too large and fresh to have been my brother’s. My mother appears to have been breaking her own rules. “Honey, I’m back! I’ve gotta run to the grocery store though. Would you like to come? You can get a smoothie,” my mother announces as she bursts through the front door. I am still in my bathroom. I can stay here and ignore her as I have been doing for many weeks, but a bit of inspiration to leave this house seems to sneak up on me. “Sure.” With this word, my mother’s face blossoms into the sun. Her brown hair whips against my body as she gives me a warm embrace. She grabs her keys, despite having set them down only a minute ago, and drags me out of the house. I am nearly blinded by the beautiful brightness of the outside world. The sun is busy bouncing off of the trembling leaves on all the glistening trees. Everything appears to be reflecting the sun’s rays onto my skin. We get in the junky old pickup truck that my father left behind in place of my mother’s scarlet sports car. He took his wife’s car to impress his new girlfriend, what a man. The scent of the truck is quite musty and the seats exude filth. My mother sits down and slides the keys into the ignition as dust billows out of the seat cushions. The world blurs past me, distorted and confusing, mirroring my recent life. It only takes us a few minutes to reach the grocery store. I go get my smoothie with the five dollars my mother gave me while she strolls into the main part of the store. The smoothie shop has colors dancing about on a bright, bold menu, teasing people’s taste buds. There are about ten people in front of me, all anxiously waiting to get their hands on a smoothie to tackle the summer. Standing in lines is surprisingly pleasant. I am like all of the people in front of me, simply waiting for the pleasure of a drink, forgetting the world around us to focus on remembering our orders. Once I get to the woman making the smoothies, her smile illuminates my face. I make sure to return it. Within thirty minutes, my mother and I meet up at the truck. I used the spare time to snatch up a few items of my own liking from the huge grocery store towering over the smoothie shack. The sun is refreshing, the sweet summer scents are spinning in the air, taking my mind off of my mourning. Memories of him emerge out of every sight I see, but they are starting to seem delightful here for a change. “How’s your smoothie? What flavor is it, strawberry?” I nod. My mother knows me so well, but she has yet to understand how close I was to my brother. As soon as my skin meets the ridges of the truck seats, he comes flooding back. How my mother lives and thrives on these foolish outings is wild to me. We do not deserve lifted spirits in the time of his passing. I refuse to escape my ferocious feelings of loss. He deserves to be mourned head-on.
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The keys go into the ignition again. The world begins to fade and haze around me in the short ride home. Once we arrive at our house, she starts to ramble on about how lovely the grocery store was. The two-month long dream of seeing my face kissed by the sun came true. Her hopes of getting me out of the house more are interrupted as she gazes down at her watch. “It’s almost lunchtime… Want to get some Thai food? It was so nice to have your company at the grocery store.” I inform her of my tiredness and she unlocks the door with a disappointed sigh. I exit the truck and let her prance off onto yet another journey. The dirty white truck spews smog into my lungs as I enter our house. I walk into my room, feeling empty even with its piles of clutter. My world is on the floor. Cluttered, disorganized, the precise thing that would have driven me to insanity a year ago, but has recently not even made me shudder. I suddenly feel bothered by the mess though, but that feeling has been hidden for so long that I quickly push it away. Then there is the fish. My brother’s goldfish is peeking at me through my bathroom door. I make my way over to give it some food that I secretly stole from the store. The fish is beautiful with its immaculately proportioned scales. Its fins are still, yet moving with the quivering water. Its sunken eyes look as though they are venturing into another universe. Its shocking orange seems to be dimmed. The fish is stuck in the mold of its slumbering body. My unwilling mind begins to understand the quiet nature of the fish. It is dead. Dead. I shake and shake the glass bowl, but the fish remains upside down at the surface of the water. Tears crawl down my cheek as the last bit of my brother’s heart is terminated. I felt connected to the fish, it was like my brother was next to me, but in a new form. I was actually able to feel joy filling my limbs for a moment as I danced in his magnificent memories. My vision is blurry through my teary trembling, but I still catch a glimpse of two children prancing down our street through my bathroom window. They have large red balloons tied around their wrists and cotton candy hanging out of their mouths. They must be making their way home after a delightful summer day at the county fair. The fair is likely closed by now, but I feel an aching to see the place where the girls gathered all their blissfulness from again. It has been a year since the aromas of the fairgrounds have swirled around me, since I have stepped on the soft blades of the fairgrounds’ grass. I used to be one of those girls skipping home from the fair, perhaps I could be again. Maybe my memories will provide me relief there, maybe our lovely times there will make me smile again. I am beginning to crave the feeling of a grin. I clasp the bowl close to my chest and guide it outside. As I begin the walk to the fair, its memories slowly scamper back. The goldfish has not seen the sun since the fair where my brother’s fingers showed off their talent in a checkered tent. He tossed a ping pong ball into a plastic cup floating on the surface of a river and was given a goldfish in return. I was standing at his side, my hand in his, balancing him.
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Now I am not even able to balance the water flying out of his fish’s bowl after each step that I take. Its silky fins are ripping on the sharp edges of the glass, yet I still hold on. It is pathetic, the way that its dead body is being tossed around as I move. It cannot float away, it must stay here in my arms with me, just like my brother. He is gone, but I have always held him in my arms. His sweet scent tunneling through my nose is my sign of comfort. I wish to stay washed with his love, but this means I am trapping him in the fishbowl that is my mind. I condemn getting lost in his lying memories that only make me miss him more. I need to get rid of them, let them find their way into the sky and out of my desperate clutches. I know that he would not want my dented mind to strain itself over him. I shall let them run and embrace freedom. Let them drift away, though I wish to resist. They must continue their lives. Brother, I am sorry for keeping you in my clutches. I am sorry for holding on. The county fair is where the once famished fish found its way into my brother’s heart. Where I whispered secrets into my brother’s always listening ears. Where he would ease me and take my mind off of the cruelty of our deceptive father. Where he would love me, his sister, as much as he could. It is only right for his precious fish to rest in the river at the core of it all. When I arrive, I take a moment to indulge in my surroundings as sweat starts to dry on my skin. Fair tents are blowing against the wind, and animals are prancing about collecting food from the vacant human population. The river still weaves its way through the fairgrounds. There is even a tent right up against the river. Red plastic cups are packed away in boxes underneath and ping pong balls are scattered about. A leg of the tent is in the water, willing the tent to fall over. This is the stand where my brother first laid eyes on the delicate goldfish now cradled in my hands. I let my fingers sink into the water, turning them to rubber as they bounce around in my reflection. I regain my grip on the bowl, turn it on its side, and let the fish float away into the river. The goldfish begins to pull away from me as the water ripples on top of its body. Tears trace my face, pummeling every second that goes by. I tremble, wail, and weep. The fish is gone. The last bit of my brother is gone. Though empty, I am able to fill myself up again. Fill myself up with the act of living life. My brother can frolic in the sky without my misery holding him down. My tears now hint at joy. I allow myself to admire the soft blue hue of the sky caressing the clouds. The river holding his fish casts a reflection of the stunning sun into my eyes. The floating fish looks magical under the glowing rays. My countenance lightens with the newfound beauty that surrounds me. My brother and I would love to dip our feet into the river after our long day at the fair. Our grins in those moments bring a twinkle to my face. I roll up my pants and let my feet absorb the coolness of the relaxing water. My memories are no longer weighing me down, nor him. I did not need to get rid of my memories, but merely the misery that I had attached to them. I finally feel free to let my love towards him be a beautiful thing, not a burden.
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My sluiced feet stride over to the tent where my brother had accepted his goldfish. Tears are still trickling down my face, but a sense of happiness begins to accompany them. I pull the leg of the tent out of the river and dig its heels into the ground so that it will never fall over. All of the ping pong balls scattered under the tent are soon placed back in their crates in a meticulous manner. My hands skim over a table, the one where my brother was once handed a ping pong ball by a lady with a name tag, as I force it to stand. Exquisite yellow flowers sprout from weeds all around the tent, calling to me. I line the edge of the table with the flourishing flowers, making sure to lay out as many as I can on the slick plastic surface. Now I find myself strolling around the fair in search of textured twigs, intertwined ivy, and any other sprout of color that I can hang from the top of the tent where my brother first fell in love with a goldfish. Once I finish my scavenging, I hold the canvas tent in my hands, my whole body supported by the tips of my toes. I place all of my findings in the crevices that line the top of the tent. The tent is now teeming with yellows and greens and purples and oranges. I take a step back to cherish my careful creation. I am mending a memory, appreciating it. It is beautiful, beautiful like his goldfish, beautiful like our memories, beautiful like my brother. I have found the beauty in grief.
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Counting Blessings By Bella Koschalk
Pulpit Anatomy of the third gender: dead swallow on the porch watching me falter at the wedding of thunder and sun. I am a student of the swallow’s shallow neck wound, whose lessons tighten this corset of girlhood. Swallow, your beak is the staircase to the altar where I am bared. Reverence, hand me the needle. Humility, cross-stitch my thighs like little answers.
Another Winged G-d The swallow’s slit throat is a strict master, but so is the rest of the flock; from the landing: a sinister perch, basking in the softness of blasphemy. The bird that dies in the hands of man asks me to become her g-d, but I learn I am falling all the time. Once in church: play dead. A body eating a body beneath that apocalyptic organ. I play nails through my wrists in church, g-d is guillotining all the girls; How do I parse such barbarics?
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Waxing Over So how do I parse such barbarics? Candle to beak, a final romance where I am ritual’s hands. This Sunday, I scraped the salt and grease from the swallow’s new wings. With the fat and stink under my nails I serve a patient corpse. Are these acts holy? What did I learn as the student of the swallow’s shallow neck wound?
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The Seashell Collector By Josephine Sporte
Time: Mid to late February, right around Valentine’s Day Setting: The ocean; probably somewhere off the coast in Southern California. Characters: Correy - 25. The seashell collector. In mourning. Aubrey - 25. Correy’s twin brother. The more grounded of the two. Carolina - 25. Correy’s best friend. Has known Correy since they were children. Mikey - Correy’s husband. Deceased.
SCENE I CORREY is taking slow steps across the beach, a macramé bag hung off her shoulder, already slightly filled with seashells. She is wearing a sundress, purple or blue, with a skirt that flutters in the wind. As she walks, her steps are wobbly but firm, and she keeps her eyes glued to the sand. She doesn’t seem to notice anything that is happening around her. She is walking the line of dry sand right before it starts to get wet. She only makes her way closer to the water when she spots a ball of seaweed at the shoreline. She sifts through the seaweed, trying to untangle any
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seashells that might be hiding. She finds a few, but they’re all cracked mussel shells. None of them are special. Not special enough for MIKEY. A wave crashes, and CORREY flinches back from the water, startled by the noise. She calms herself and steps back up to where she was, letting the water lap at her ankles. Something shiny catches her eye. She bends down to pick up a shimmering abalone shell, sitting in a divot in the sand under the water. CORREY strokes the shell with her hand, admiring it. This shell is close to perfect; it has no cracks or chips, so unlike any other abalone shell she has ever seen before. She dries the shell off with her dress before placing it in her bag, setting it gently atop the other shells to make sure its near-perfect condition is preserved. CORREY This one is for Mikey.
SCENE II CORREY sits at her kitchen table. Her shells of the day are laid out in front of her. She looks them over one last time, deciding which ones to keep and which to get rid of. She doesn’t want to curse MIKEY’S ghost accidentally. CAROLINA knocks at the front door, startling CORREY. CORREY freezes before standing up to let CAROLINA into the house. CAROLINA I brought you something. CAROLINA is holding a bucket of flowers. Orange hibiscus — CORREY’S favorite. MIKEY gave some of those to her on their first date, and she has loved them ever since. CORREY stands in the kitchen doorway, deliberately blocking the room from CAROLINA’S view.
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CORREY Oh. Thank you. CAROLINA I thought you could put them in your bedroom or something. CORREY They would look nice on my vanity, yes. CAROLINA studies CORREY, picking up on CORREY’S jumpy behavior. She nods her chin in the direction of the kitchen. CAROLINA Do you have a vase or anything? I don’t think this bucket would go so well with your room decor. CORREY I… might have a vase. I don’t know. Honestly, I think they look nice in that bucket. The flowers, I mean. The flowers look nice in that bucket. CAROLINA I knew you meant the flowers. The room goes silent, and CAROLINA’S smile fades. She hadn’t really come to give CORREY flowers. She wants to see the seashells. She knows CORREY has been collecting them. CAROLINA Do you think I could come in for a glass of water? CORREY All of my cups are dirty. (BEAT) CAROLINA Please just let me in, Correy. I know this is hardest on you out of everyone
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else, but I loved Mikey too. I thought he was a good man. Let me grieve with you. CORREY I know you’re only here to see the seashells. And to tell me that I’m crazy. CAROLINA I don’t think you’re crazy. I just don’t think this is healthy. You need your friends. You need your family. And if you’re not going to let us help you, will you… consider seeing a professional? CORREY A professional can’t bring Mikey back. CAROLINA Neither can the ocean. CORREY snatches the bucket of flowers from CAROLINA, holding it close to her chest. She steps back from CAROLINA, putting some distance between them. CORREY Thank you for the flowers. I’ll see you later. CAROLINA frowns, not ready to leave. She takes a deep breath. CAROLINA You went to the beach this morning, yeah? Got some new shells? CORREY furrows her eyebrows cautiously. CORREY Yeah, actually. CAROLINA They’ll need to be cleaned?
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CORREY I was going to do that as soon as you left. CAROLINA smiles, trying to seem supportive. CAROLINA I can help you, if you want. You’ll probably need someplace to put them, right? Your shed must be getting pretty full by now. CORREY smiles, sincerely grateful for CAROLINA’S help and interest. CORREY That would be nice.
SCENE III CORREY and CAROLINA are cleaning shells in CORREY’S kitchen. There is a knock at the door, but it opens before CORREY can actually answer it. AUBREY enters. Startled, CORREY jumps. Correy?
AUBREY
CORREY A “hello” would’ve been nice. AUBREY I’m your brother. Aren’t you glad I came to see how you were doing? CORREY shrugs him off. CORREY I’ve been okay. AUBREY notices CAROLINA for the first time.
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AUBREY Hey, Carolina. I didn’t expect Correy to have company. She’s not really the hospitable sort. CAROLINA smiles. CAROLINA I guess she made an exception for me. Would you like to help us? AUBREY frowns and furrows his eyebrows in CAROLINA’S direction. He disagrees with CORREY’S methods, and he’s definitely not going to enable her. I’ll pass.
AUBREY
CORREY and CAROLINA continue cleaning the shells, almost as if AUBREY isn’t there. CORREY looks up after a few seconds. CORREY Did you come here for something in particular? AUBREY Just to see how you were doing. CORREY But you must be here for something else if you’re still standing there. AUBREY lets out a deep breath and frowns. AUBREY Carolina, can I talk to you, actually? CORREY You’re going to come into my house and demand to spend time with my guest, but you won’t even look at me?
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CAROLINA (Calmly) Perhaps you could speak to both of us at once? It is her house, after all. AUBREY You’re enabling her, Carolina. CAROLINA I am trying to make her feel better. AUBREY She’s grieving. She needs help. CAROLINA She’s an adult, Aubrey. If this is how she wants to handle her loss, let her go ahead. She’s not hurting anybody. AUBREY She’s hurting herself! CAROLINA You’re lucky she hasn’t yet! Imagine if you lost your soulmate! CORREY Will you both stop talking about me like I’m not even here? AUBREY You’re sick, Correy! CORREY I’m not sick! My husband dies, and you expect me to go on with my life like nothing happened? AUBREY Of course not. That’s why I’m trying to help you. I am begging you - let me help you.
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CORREY I don’t want help, I want him! Mikey! I don’t need to be babied! AUBREY You live in a fantasy world! You think that Mikey is somehow going to magically come back! But he’s dead, Cor. He’s not coming back. And he would hate to see you this way. CORREY goes silent, a deep frown sinking into her face. She turns to CAROLINA. CORREY You think I’m sick too, don’t you? CAROLINA hesitates, unsure of what to say, before nodding. Wiping tears from her eyes, CORREY stands up from the table and snatches the shells away from CAROLINA. CORREY It’s you two! You’re the sick ones! You’re the sick ones because you don’t understand what it means to love! Without thinking, CORREY picks up a seashell sitting on one of the kitchen shelves and hurls it toward AUBREY. He dodges the shell, and it hits the wall. The shell hits the ground hard enough to break into pieces. CORREY lets out a sharp gasp. MIKEY!
CORREY
CORREY dives for the shell, but AUBREY grabs her wrist. AUBREY (Calmly) That’s not Mikey. Let it go. Let him go.
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CORREY stares up at AUBREY with tears in her eyes. Her hands are shaking, and her skin flushes white. CORREY (Quietly, almost a whisper) I need to go. CORREY slowly stands up and begins collecting the broken shell pieces. She pushes past AUBREY, out of the kitchen, and out of the house.
SCENE IV CORREY stands on the beach with her feet in the water. She clutches the broken shell pieces to her chest, a dead look in her eyes as she stares out across the audience as if they are the ocean. A wave crashes into her, rocking her back and forth, but she only takes a step forward. The setting sun reflects off of something in the distance, and it catches her eye. She thinks that it’s a seashell, and steps forward to retrieve it. Waves battle CORREY as she trudges through the water. The water rises up from her ankles, to her calves, to her waist, but she doesn’t stop. The shell doesn’t seem that far out. She takes another step. It’s getting harder for CORREY to move her legs, but she persists. Another wave crashes into CORREY, and she nearly drops the broken shell pieces. She groans, determined to continue onwards. She takes another step forward, and when she sinks her weight down, there is no sand to catch her. CORREY’S head slips under the water, but she doesn’t fight. She allows the current and the waves to rock her back and forth, pulling her out to sea. The broken shell pieces slip out of her grasp and sink to the ocean floor, where the waves will bury them under the sand to be forgotten about for a thousand more years.
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About the Creative Writing Department Idyllwild Arts Academy provides an ideal environment for high school students interested in developing as writers. Our Creative Writing major, combined with the college-preparatory academic program, prepares students for writing fields in college and beyond. We study all literary genres, and round out our students’ education with public readings, a student-run print and online literary magazine, and excursions to cultural and environmental experiences. Idyllwild Arts 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 texts 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 twenty-two 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 khenderson@idyllwildarts.org
About the isual Art Department Visual Art 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. 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, metalsmithing, and all periods of art history. All 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: Linda Santana Visual Arts Department Chair lsantana@idyllwildarts.org
