THE
PENCHANT SUNLIGHT by sashrika pandey
ALMOST PARADISE by nichelle wong
ROSEMARY by athena xue
PARADISE
The man recognized the pain of those exhausted hearts. The kind of pain that rises from fleeting hopes and crushed dreams, wasted hours and fading memories. He had lived with that pain for so long.
Irvington High School’s Creative Writing Club is a student-run, interest-based club dedicated to providing a welcoming environment for writers of all kinds to convene and share their ideas outside of an academic setting. Members get a taste of publication through submitting to The Penchant, our online literary magazine. Meanwhile, monthly prompts, in-club competitions, and major writing contests are provided to allow members to explore the implications of writing, improve on their own techniques, and receive feedback from their fellow peers. Overall, our collective mission is to enable the students of Irvington to write what they wish and have their voices heard. All images used are either submitted to us or public domain, CC0 photos. All rights remain reserved to their original owners, for those that have specified such guidelines. Creative Commons Photos: Cover, 10: retrieved from Pixabay To learn more about us, go to penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/. To see our submission guidelines, click on the “Submit To” tab on the menu bar, or follow us on Facebook @penchantlitmag.
the penchant Irvington | creative writing club EDITORS IN CHIEF Athena Xue Sashrika Pandey CONTENT EDITORS Felicia Mo Catherine You LAYOUT EDITORS Sushrut Borkar Janice Park
CONTENT Nichelle Wong Janice Park Wanning Lu Sashrika Pandey Kelly Feng Madison Wong Athena Xue Samuel Vu
LAYOUT Kelly Feng Janice Park Sanjana Shinde Meher Mehta
7
august 2019
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
19
6
1 paradise
18
19
2 Featured Prose 2| Sunlight By Sashrika Pandey “But the man sought an island, for his heart was too tired and empty to feel much concern for himself.”
15| Almost Paradise By Nichelle Wong “We both look out towards the horizon. The sky has turned redder, and the purples have spread much farther than before. The sun is barely an orb, sinking lower by the second.”
19| Rosemary By Athena Xue “dying and broken, she cried, but her words were lost, consumed by the waves”
2| Sunlight by Sashrika Pandey 7| I Don’t Know by Anonymous 9| House of Paradise by Felicia Mo 15| Almost Paradise by Nichelle Wong 17| Loving Yourself by Quentin Nguyen
Poetry Photo/Art 1| Paradise by Kelly Feng 19| Rosemary by Athena Xue 20| City Lights by VERB
Akila Suresh, 1, 6, 7, 13, 16, 20 Alicia Yang, 3, 12 Katie Dong, 19 Athena Xue, 9, 19 Nichelle Wong, 23, 25, 26 Carolina Xue, 18, 21, 23, 25 Lilian Weng, 22, 26 Lilian Xiong, 24 Allison Liu, 22 Angelica Fu, 23
POETRY
PARADISE by kelly feng
SURESH, 2019
Where am I? I open my eyes, and see paradise. The beautiful horizon, the shimmering sea, the glorious sunset. All of my favorite foods, all gathered in one large pile, all glistening and savory.
1|The penchant||aug 2019
A pile of pretty clothes, A pile of fluffy pillows, A pile of interesting books. But wait, why am I, The only one here? Where are my friends? Where are my family? Where is everyone else? This isn’t paradise!
I pray, and pray for this, to be another nightmare! Where am I? I open my eyes, and see my room. It wasn’t real. after all,
Paradise doesn’t exist.
FEATURED THERE WAS once a young boy who lived on the outskirts of the city. Every day when he walked to school in the morning, he would see the sun rise over the distant skyscrapers and he would yearn to be closer to the blossoming light. And whenever he returned home in the afternoon, he would see the sunset and wish that he could see it from the glistening balconies of the high-rise apartments scattered around the city. That boy grew to become a man and that man moved to the city as soon as he could. He seized a job and worked day and night, completing every task before the next was even assigned. He would greet the sunrise as he rushed to be the first in the building and he would witness the sunset as he walked back to his dilapidated apartment. But even then, he kept working. For he was never satisfied with the view. He wanted to move up, and he did. As the months passed, his title would gradually improve and his office would move up the
floors. Before much time had passed, he had begun to work on the highest floor. People in the company would point to him from the water cooler, remarking about his work ethic. Newspapers would briefly mention him when the company’s stock made a jump. And the man was content, for a while. He continued to wake up early to see the sunrise. And he was the last to leave the building, giving him a beautiful view of the sunset. Most days, he would stand on the balcony holding a cup of coffee, which would turn cold by the time he went back inside. And he would wait for the sunlight to fill him with as much awe and inspiration as it used to. But one day, it didn’t work. He felt empty.
PANDEY
He wandered for a while, that man. He had never taken a vacation, but one day, he decided to. And that was his undoing. For the moment he stepped outside into the world around him, everything came crashing down. He saw people smiling. He heard the sound of laughter. And it hurt his weary heart to feel the sunlight in everyone else. So he returned back to the office and continued to work. Paychecks vanished into his desk, pens were used and tossed into the wastebasket, cups of coffee passed through his office by the hour. But he did not dare venture out to see the sunrise or sunset again. For it reminded him of what he did not have.
YANG, 2019
by sashrika pandey
SUNLIGHT 2
PROSE A while later, when the man had grown in age but not in wisdom, he decided to try again. He took a break, which his superiors were eager for him to do. They worried about him, but then again, they worried about a lot of things. He decided to go on a ship to a destination far away. He wouldn’t be able to escape, and perhaps that was a good thing. A sort of respite for his weary mind and even wearier heart. The days went by slowly, but the nights seemed to pass by in minutes. By day, he would see families and couples laughing and lounging, basking in the bright summer sun. By night, he would curl up on his bed and stare at the moon, willing it to bring him the same light that shone in everyone else. Yet nothing ever seemed to change. And one night while he stared at the moon, a cup of coffee growing cold beside him, he heard the blaring of alarms across the ship. He took a second to process the noise, then leapt from his bed and hurried into the hallway, where the acrid smell of smoke enveloped him. He fled to the lifeboats, the first among many sleepy
3
passengers, and was ushered across the creaking floorboards. A girl and her mother. A young couple. A set of three unacquainted individuals. And a weary man. Cramped into a tight boat, set off into the sea. They glanced behind, calling for other lifeboats, but at some point, the other voices faded off, as did the blaring alarms. The girl began to cry. Her mother hushed her. The couple was discussing matters in a foreign language, looking around at the others distrustfully. The three individuals were making faint introductions. And the man was silent. They floated for a few hours. When the sun paid them a visit, the couple proclaimed that they were thirsty. And that something had to be done about food. The three unacquainted individuals–now perhaps acquaintances–argued amongst themselves. The mother worried. And the girl slept. But the man sought an island, for his heart was too tired and empty to feel much concern for himself. And so, a few hours before the moon overtook the sun, a worn lifeboat
drifted onto a grainy beach. A few of its passengers scurried onto the land, falling to the ground and hugging the sand as if it were a long-lost friend. A few hesitated, wary of the unknown. The man stepped off the boat and ventured onto the beach. His feet sank into the sand. His eyes took in the vast ocean awaiting them. And his mind, his unresting mind, set off to work. By morning, they were building shelters, gathering food, and searching for streams. Each completed action was feeding into their collective hope, their collective dream. Rescue. The man continued to work while the others slept. One of the unacquainted acquaintances mentioned to the other that the man was possibly unhuman. The young couple definitely thought so. But the man did not care. For the only thing his worn heart dreaded was feeling empty again. And so he continued to work. The ex-passengers spent their days at the multitude of tasks. They scoured the island and sea
PANDEY alike, searching for life and hope, the two intertwined. They discussed their pasts and their presents, whatever remained in the possible future. The man rarely joined in. One night, the group was gathered around a makeshift bonfire. The girl glanced over her shoulder to see the man sitting alone, a few paces away, staring off into the endless sea. She called out to the man, who seemed surprised to hear the others utter a word in his direction. “What’s your name?” The man responded, then posed a similar question to the others. As the dialogue flowed, he found himself inching towards the group. The young couple glanced at the others, their confusion evident in their eyes. But the acquaintances joined in readily. They talked about their plans, their lives. A hedge-fund manager. A bartender. A reporter. The girl talked about her father, the mother about their home. Then the young couple joined in. Their shared past, their hopeful future. And the man listened. And when his turn came, he talked about the sunrise and the sunset. A few days or weeks later, someone caught sight of a ship. They scrambled
across the beach, grabbing pieces of damp driftwood and stubborn weeds to set on fire, sending smoke as a courier to the distant vessel. But the signal was fleeting–the ship faded away into the blue horizon, and the lost passengers crumbled as their hopes of rescue escaped with the dissipating smoke. The man was not hurt. He didn’t feel much of a loss–he hadn’t expected much better anyways. He didn’t care much about it. What was there to return to anyway? An unadorned office with four gray, unfeeling walls? A nondescript building which bore the marks of his life’s efforts? A nameless city which nobody else would remember? What was the point of returning to a life that he hadn’t even lived? That night, the remaining passengers constructed another bonfire, the flickering flames acting as the only other lively beings on the island and surrounding sea. The man heard the soothing murmurs of the mother to her child. He heard the hushed sobs amongst the young couple. He heard the whispered concerns of the
acquaintances. And in the otherwise absolute silence of the night, he heard his heart beating. He heard it tearing at the seams, twisting and turning after years of disuse. And he gasped and took in a gulp of cool night air. He breathed. He felt his heart pump. The man rose and walked away from the group, whose eyes were fixed on the source of warmth at their feet. He walked in the dead of the night, the limited moonlight serving as his only companion. He overturned rocks. He searched for every piece of dry foliage he could find. And when that seemed to run out, he rolled the largest stones he could find over to the shortest, weakest trees and started to throw the combined weight of the stone and himself against them. The young couple asked him if he had lost his mind. One of the acquaintances muttered that he was on the way there. The mother covered her child’s ears and told the man that it was time to stop. Their chance for escape had come and gone.
YANG, 2019
4
PROSE The man recognized the pain of those exhausted hearts. The kind of pain that rises from fleeting hopes and crushed dreams, wasted hours and fading memories. He had lived with that pain for so long. He spent every morning and night gathering the wood and the leaves. Anything that would burn, he tossed into a pile on the otherwise barren beach. Another acquaintance urged him to rest, to conserve his energy. It was unlikely that another ship would return for a while and food was a more immediate concern. But the man continued to work. The girl joined him sometimes, running across the beach to look for pieces of driftwood. And when the man saw the hope on the girl’s face, the exhaustion in his body would momentarily dissipate. The lost passengers continued on for days on end. They continued to survive. The man tried to live. And one day, just as the glistening afternoon sun was greeting the white capped waves on the sea, a cry went up from the acquaintances, calling attention to a small fishing
5|The penchant||aug 2019
vessel miles away. The lost passengers leapt to the man’s aid, throwing the foliage and wood into the embers of the bonfire. Not once did they stop to worry about their fatigued bones or drained hearts. They threw themselves into the task, hoping. And then the ship caught sight of them and met them on the otherwise barren beach. The girl and her mother were ecstatic, the couple crying. The acquaintances gasping out a story, names, numbers. The man was, once more, silent. He returned to the office building. Few seemed to notice his appearance–even fewer had noticed his disappearance. He continued to work day and night. The whole experience had felt like a dream. A nightmare–his mind automatically corrected itself. But at some point, it relented. A dream. The man no longer sought out the sunrise and sunset. One day, just after his lunch break, he packed his bags and left the building. He climbed down the stairs, not pausing at the windows to see the dwindling sun. And he walked off into the city.
He climbed up a hill and looked behind him, at the gleaming skyscrapers and buildings, all holding promises of a better future. He looked past them, at the house that he couldn’t call home. He continued to walk. He bought a train ticket, then a plane ticket, and before long, he left behind the place he had lived in for all his life. He would never receive a single call from the company again. Paperwork would continue to pile up on his desk, coffee cups would be passed around. Life went on. And life went on for the man. He found a new sunrise and sunset. Some years later, on the terrace of a different city at a different time, he would receive a phone call from half of the young couple, now much older. He heard the thanks on the other side of the phone and heard the delighted squeals of a child who bore his name. He responded in kind, for he had received much more than he had given. And some days now, he views the sunrise and the sunset. He still feels the discontent that surrounds him. But there are others now. People to
PANDEY care for. Places to be. And sometimes, he feels something watching the sunrise and the sunset. Not always, but sometimes.
And sometimes, sometimes is enough.
SURESH, 2019
AUG 2019||The penchant|6
PROSE
I DON’T KNOW
by anonymous
SURESH, 2019
7|The penchant||aug 2019
There is water. The sound of distant waves echo, its source unclear. I know it’s water, I cannot mistake the familiar “whoosh” and “sploosh” of water crashing against water for anything else. There is also sunlight in my face. Blinding rays blinding me, my eyes, that makes the area hotter than it already feels.
Ouch. I block my face with my hand. Instantly, I feel a thousand times better and can finally pry my poor eyes open. I feel a smooth surface against my entire backside, plush and comforting. Under my head, I feel something that seems to be a pillow. If I could, I would stay here forever. I want to stay here forever. But I can’t dismiss my curiosity. I push myself up, and the effort it takes is ridiculous. I remember how many miles I could run in the past without giving in. My surroundings are odd: I am sitting on a mattress and wearing an oversized t-shirt. Both smell clean, perhaps too clean. But, clean is good, I like clean. Massive palm trees create a rectangular shape around me, reaching for the sky. I feel suffocated just looking at them packed so tightly next to each other like that. No space and no air, just trees. Their roots are probably tangled. There is sand all around me, but when I scoop a handful of it, it feels much too light. Weightless, in fact. Questions. I have so many questions. Questions seek answers, and the only way to get answers is to find them. Slowly, slowly, slowly. Get up, stand up, I am weak. So weak. I know I am weak, but I need those answers. You can do it, GET UP. I get up. I am standing on the mattress, then stepping down to the sand. It’s solid. The feeling of ceramic tile: sleek and cold to the touch. What is this? This is not sand, not sand at all. I can’t feel the grains under my bare feet, but I walk. Walk towards the palm tree walls for something, anything. I
hate being trapped. I remember cries, my cries, bouncing off darkness. I continue searching. It’s not long before I find a crevice, maybe nine inches wide? I think I can fit. Had I been any wider, I would never have made it. Thankfully, my thin body slips easily through the hole and I see what is outside. More trees, but never scattered randomly. Lines of closely packed trees, providing shade over the tile-like sand. Nearly twenty yards away is the water I heard when I first awoke. The water is transparent, a lovely sea blue. It looks refreshing; it is begging me to come and wade through its shallows. I don’t want to. So I walk on. Something is wrong, but what is it? I can feel it in my gut. Something is wrong. Trees don’t grow like that; sand doesn’t feel like that. There is a large fern in the distance. It stands in a large blue pot, and it is tall and green and healthy. Making my way closer, I see its stiff and shiny stems. Fake. It’s fake. Maybe this place is as fake as the plant. But wait, the pot has words on it. Tiny white engravings on the navy-colored clay, in all capital letters. I read: Silmore City Hospital. What? How random. Walk on. The Sun is making things harder. The heat bears down on me; I am sweating waterfalls by now, not entirely useful when trying to get somewhere quickly. I don’t even know where “somewhere” is. Tiles, more tiles. Step, step, step. One foot after the other. My hands cling to a nearby wall of trees, I am so weak now. What is that? Thing.
I see something. It’s too far away to tell what. Person. It’s a person. There is a person, coming towards me. Lots of hair on his face. Tall. Masculine. I’ve seen him before. Where? He bends over once he nears me. He is at least twice my size; his back must be hurting right now. “Hey, you, what are you doing out of bed?” he asks. Does he even remember my name? No, then he would’ve used it. (To make sure I knew he was talking to me). I shrug, “ I don’t know.” I didn’t know I was supposed to be in bed, let alone what a bed was doing on an island like this. I shouldn’t say “island”, there’s a high chance it isn’t. Maybe an extremely detailed film set. But then why can’t I remember anything about it? I can tell he doesn’t like my answer. Eyebrows scrunched slightly, lips pressed together, eyes filled with emotion. Disappointment? Curiosity? Dissatisfaction? All of the above, I think. Whatever. Just as I turn to walk past him (even though I could ask the man and all of my problems would be solved), he puts his large hairy hand on my shoulder. I tense; my muscles turn to blocks of ice. “You shouldn’t be walking around like this. Let’s get you back to your bed,” he says. I oblige. I want to know where this is headed, besides my bed. So we hike back to my starting point. Along the way, the sand transforms into how it feels. No more sand. The trees disappear, too. The ocean recedes, sinking down the horizon like it was never there in the first place. It’s quite the phenomenon. I don’t understand why I am not more surprised, or
terrified, like this has happened multiple times. More people appear. They wear white scrubs, prim and proper and pressed. Some stop us to say “hi,” “how are you doing,” and “are you okay.” Others glance down at me and, with a look of ice, turn and walk away. They know something. They look as if something is wrong with me, as if I am not normal. I remember people saying “crazy, you’re absolutely insane.” I think we should all be focusing on the island slipping from existence in front of our eyes. Soon, the box of trees is in sight. But it’s not. That’s a box, a box of light yellow walls. A white door in front. My expression twists; I remember wires and wires and pills and not entirely horrible silver trays of food. What’s more, there is a plate with words on the side of the door. In the few seconds it takes for the man to reach for and twist open the doorknob, I read: James Green. Me. I am eased onto the mattress, now risen high from hydraulic springs and a wooden frame. Ah, this is home. This is paradise. Cozy, safe, alone. I close my heavy eyes, use my bony hands to pull the sheets up. I don’t know what just happened to me, I don’t know a lot of things. All I do know is that I feel a sense of warmth in this chilly and empty room.
I know that I never want to leave. AUG 2019||The penchant|8
PROSE
HOUSE OF PARADISE by felicia mo “Come back here this instant, young man!” A woman stood at the open door of the red-roofed house, a piece of broken vase in one hand, and glowered at the boy who had rushed down the front stairs seconds ago and was now dashing down the street. She shook her fists at the child and slammed the door, knowing it was hopeless to chase after him anyway. The boy rounded the corner of the street and slowed down when he realized his mother wasn’t coming after him with a pan. They both knew she couldn’t catch him; he was only a little more than ten years old but already the fastest runner at school. His PE teacher had told him so. The boy smiled triumphantly at the thought and strolled along the sidewalk. It was a nice evening. The sun was taking its time as it crept towards the horizon. He had about an hour to walk around town before he’d have to return home and hope his mother had simmered down by then.
9
The vase was an accident, so she wouldn’t throw too much of a fit. Hopefully. Minutes later, the boy found himself standing at the front gate of the local Crescent Park. He wandered inside, and the distant sound of cars gradually faded into an occasional lull. The boy followed the little path of wooden planks that twisted towards the edge of the pond at the park’s heart. He gathered some pebbles along the way, found a dry rock under a lamp post to sit on, and began to skip the flat stones across the water. When he ran out of pebbles, he got up and collected some more, repeating the process over and over again. It was on one of these pebble-gatherings that the boy returned to find a young man sitting on his rock. He didn’t look old enough to be an adult, so he must’ve been one of those
big kids who went to that high school nearby. His hair was dyed a brilliant orange that blended well with the dusk-colored sky. Of course, the boy felt a tiny bit angry at the guy for stealing his special spot but quickly reminded himself that the park was a public place. The man heard the boy approach and turned to greet him. “Hey, kid. What are you doing out here so late?” the man asked with a grin. He searched behind the boy. “Where are your parents?” The boy stopped, cradling his pebbles close to his chest. “I was skipping rocks,” he answered. Then he added quietly, “I was sitting there.” The man immediately stood up. “Oh, sorry kid!” He raised his hands in peace. “I didn’t realize.” The boy shrugged. “It’s okay.” He set his pebbles down next to the big rock, and the man watched as the boy perched on his seat and started flicking the stones over the pond. They both observed the ripples as the pebble bounced three times and sank. “I’m impressed,” the teenager applauded. “You’re really good at this. Who taught you how to throw?”
MO “I taught myself,” the boy said, puffing out his chest subconsciously. For some reason, he wanted the older boy to be proud of him. The man looked like a cool kid with his orange hair, and the boy was willing to bet that none of his friends from elementary school had ever been complimented by a cool kid before. “Then you must have some natural talent,” said the teenager. “What’s your name?” At this, the boy shook his head. “My mom always tells me not to give away personal stuff to strangers,” he told the teenager. The older boy laughed. “Well, I guess your mom taught you well. But my mom never said anything like that so my name is Dominic. Friends call me Dom.” “That’s a cool name,” the boy said. “Sure is,”Dom chuckled. He raised his head to look at the darkening sky. “I think it’s time for you to head home, nameless kiddo. It isn’t safe at night for little boys like yourself.” “I’m not a little boy,” the boy muttered. “I’m ten.” Dom reached over to playfully ruffle the boy’s hair. “Watch it. Age is personal information too.”
The boy’s eyes widened at his mistake and Dom laughed, “Don’t look at me like that. If it makes you feel better, I promise I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.” The next evening, the boy found himself back in Crescent park. He arrived a bit later than the day before, courtesy to his mother for insisting he stay at home. Apparently, a little girl had gone missing last night, and everyone suspected kidnapping. Or worse. But, in the end, the boy still ran out the door. Dom was already sitting on the rock by the pond, staring at the little arched bridge that spanned across the water on the other side. Dom snapped out of his thoughts when a leaf cracked under the boy’s shoes. “Glad to see you back, kid!” Dom smiled. “More rock skipping?” The boy nodded and bent down to search for the right pebbles. He was surprised to find a number of them still lying around the shore, considering he’d thrown so many yesterday. He happily gathered them in his arms and handed a couple to Dom. “Whoa, I’m good,” Dom said, leaning away from the pebbles.
XUE, 2019
“I’m terrible at throwing. My buddies could walk by any second, and I’ll never hear the end of it if they see my rock sink on the first bounce.” “It’s not that hard,” the boy pressed, still holding out the pebbles. “I can teach you!” Dom hesitated. “Kid, seriously, you’re going to laugh so hard—” “I won’t laugh!” the boy insisted. “Pinky promise.” He jumbled the rocks in his hands for a couple seconds and managed to hold out his left pinky. Dom eyed it warily. Then he linked his pinky with the boy’s and gave it a good shake. The boy shivered at Dom’s cold touch and stared at their intertwined pinkies for a while. “You have pale skin,” he noted.
10
PROSE Dom withdrew his hand. “Maybe you just have darker skin.” “I’ve never seen skin as pale as yours though,” the boy said. “It’s cool.” For the next hour, the boy showed Dom how to properly hold the flat stone and launch it with an angled flick of the wrist. Dom wasted a dozen good pebbles before one of them finally bounced twice. “Did you see that?” Dom laughed, pointing at the ripples excitedly. “Two bounces! I’m a pro already.” The boy stuck out his tongue. “No you’re not. You got lucky. You probably can’t do it again.” Sure enough, Dom went back to sinking rocks for the remainder of the evening. The boy double checked that he’d finished all his homework before prancing out of his room and down the stairs. His mother was doing the dishes while his father tapped away at a laptop on the kitchen table. “Mom, Dad, I’m going to the park!” the boy called. His father looked up. “Son, you know the rules.” “But I finished my homework!”
“Really? Alright, in that case, be back by—” “Honey, why can’t you stay home?” his mother interrupted, wiping her hands on a towel. “Do you know how dangerous it is out there?” “But Mom—” “Your classmate went missing this morning,” his mother said, lips pursed. “It was bad enough when that poor little girl disappeared yesterday, but now someone in your grade is gone too. I think you should avoid going out on your own for some time.” “At least take your big sister with you,” his father offered. “But she’s upstairs studying,” the boy protested. “So? Tell her she needs a break.” The boy scuffed his feet. “I don’t want her to come with me. She’s boring.” “Don’t say that!” his mother scolded. “You could learn from your sister. She’s hardworking, gets good grades, and makes good use of her free time unlike you.” The boy raised his chin defiantly. There was a brief mother-son staredown, in which his father sat awkwardly in the
middle, before the boy whipped around and charged out the door. His mother let out an angry shout behind him but he was already halfway down the street. Just like before, Dom was waiting by the pond. “Good evening, Mr. Nameless,” he joked. “Since you’re past fifteen minutes late, does this mean I get to skip class?” The boy didn’t reply; he stomped to the edge of the water and began searching for stones. Once more, he found an abundance of flat rocks along the shore. He thought some of them looked like the ones he threw yesterday but was too angry at his mother to care. “Hey, kid, why the face?” Dom asked, tilting his head to watch the boy collect his rocks. “Something happen?” “I hate my mom,” the boy blurted. He suddenly sat down with a heavy sigh and glared at the lapping water. Dom hopped off the big rock he’d been sitting on and stretched out next to the boy. They both chose to ignore the wetness seeping into the butts of their pants from the soaked ground. “You can tell me anything, kid,” Dom broke the silence.
YANG, 2019
11|The penchant||aug 2019
MO MO “Forget the personal information rule. Trust me, it’s better to let it out.” “Mom’s always comparing me to my sister,” the boy explained, grateful as the words left his mouth. “She’s just so smart all the time, and Mom wants me to be the same. But I don’t like homework or school or my teachers, like my sister does. I don’t like books or projects or essays. I want to play with my friends instead. Have a good time. Skip rocks.” He paused, then whispered. “I don’t want to lock myself in my room all the time. Or cry because of stress. Or yell at everyone because I’m in a bad mood and never have time to do anything fun. I want a happy sister. But my sister isn’t happy.” Dom leaned back on his hands and let the water pull at the rim of his black jeans. He hummed thoughtfully at the boy’s words. “Will you cheer up if your sister is happy?” he asked. “Yeah,” said the boy. “But I know she won’t be.” Dom stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. The boy looked at him curiously, and Dom smiled down at him.
“How about we get your mind off of that for now?” Dom said. “I still can’t skip a rock, which must mean you’re a bad teacher.” The boy smiled at the comment and started searching for pebbles again. “Holy shit. Kid, are you crying?” Dom jumped off the big rock and rushed over to the boy, who stumbled into his arms. The boy was biting his lips and trying to contain his sobs, but the tears kept coming. He wiped at them frantically. He was a boy. A big boy. He shouldn’t be crying. Dom was patting his back and guiding the boy to the edge of the pond. The boy hid his head in his arms. Dom watched his shoulders shake. “Hey, man, tell me what’s wrong,” he murmured. “My s-sister,” the boy choked. “Take it easy.” “M-my sister i-is—” He started coughing. Dom rubbed the boy’s back. “Sh-She’s dead.” The words made the boy sob harder. He was aware that his voice echoed through the park. It didn’t matter. His sister was gone. Dom pulled the boy
close. They sat by the pond, letting the scenery engulf them, until the boy cried himself dry. Dom chewed on the inside of his mouth. Then he asked quietly, “Do you want to tell me what happened?” He heard the boy suck in a breath and let it out slowly. “Mom said,” he hiccuped, “she got drunk at someone’s house. They were doing a project for their final. A car hit her.” Dom opened and closed his mouth like a fish but he didn’t know what to say. The boy reached for a pebble by his side and flicked it over the pond. It bounced twice. Sank. He reached for another and held it close to his face. This one was yellow with a red streak down the middle. He remembered his sister always liked the color red. The boy shivered. It looked too much like blood. He skipped it across the water. It bounced four times. Sank. “That’s a record,” said Dom. The boy shrugged. Silence. Then the boy said, “Mom hit me.”
12
PROSE Dom stared at him. “She did?” “Yeah,” nodded the boy. “She said I was useless. All her dreams were on my big sister, and now she’s stuck with me. She said I was a delinquent, but I don’t know what that means.” Dom worked his jaw. Then he gave the boy a small smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a delinquent too. We can be delinquents together.” The boy found comfort at the thought. “Is it fun?” “Hell yeah,” Dom grinned. “We skip rocks for a living.” Sadness fell on the boy’s face again. “Mom won’t let me come back here anymore.” He looked at Dom pleadingly. “She kept saying what a good daughter my big sister was. She kept crying and saying that it was all my fault.” The boy was confused. “Why is it my fault, Dom?” Dom wrapped an arm around the kid’s shoulders. “It’s not. Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” The boy sniffed. He wiped his eyes. “I hate her.”
SURESH, 2019
13
The boy’s face was blank the next day. “What’s on your mind?” asked Dom as he narrowed his eyes at the surface of the pond, angling the rock in his hand. The boy played with a pebble absentmindedly and didn’t respond. Dom threw his rock and watched it bounce twice over the water. He could do it consistently now. It felt good. But it looked like the boy didn’t feel the same way. Dom glanced at him mischievously and aimed a rock for the boy’s shoulder. It hit home. The boy didn’t move. “Alright, what’s up,” Dom sighed. “Something’s bugging you.” “Mom’s sick,” said the boy simply. “Coughs?” “No.” “Fever?” “No.” “Then…?” “Pills.” Dom blinked. “Oh.” He blinked again. “Is she…?” “She’s not waking up.” Dom went over to the big rock by the pond and sat. The boy continued to play with his pebble. Then he held it out to Dom. Dom furrowed his brow. “What?”
“I found this same pebble yesterday. It was the one that bounced four times.” Dom leaned in to have a look. “Wow, you’re right. It must’ve washed up onto shore.” “Maybe,” the boy whispered. He didn’t tell Dom that he’d noticed the same rocks kept reappearing every single day. It was too weird. “Can I try skipping it?” asked the teenager. The boy handed the pebble to Dom, who closed one eye as he looked out at the pond and the little bridge. He threw the rock. It skipped four times. “Lucky rock,” said Dom. The boy stared at the ripples the pebble made. Then came to sit next to Dom on the rock. “Do you think,” the boy wondered, “it means something?” Dom glanced at the boy. “You’re thinking about them, aren’t you?” The boy nodded. Dom leaned back and breathed in the crisp evening air. “You know, I think they’re both happy right now,” he said. “How do you know?” the boy grumbled. “Well, I’ve always believed people go to the
MO Same place as their loved ones when they die. So your mom must be reunited with you sister, just like she wanted. I’m sure they’re someplace wonderful, having a good time. Watching over you.” “You think so?” “I know so.” Man Found Dead In His House After Recent Passing Of Family. Son Missing. Dom’s eyes flickered over the newspaper headline. He looked away. The boy took the newspaper back and rolled it up, tucking it under his arm. Like how his father used to. “Come here.” Before the boy could react, Dom had him in a tight hug. The boy hugged back, feeling a sense of security in Dom’s arms. That was all he needed at the moment. Security. “Kid, you need to go back,” Dom finally said, holding the boy’s shoulders at arm’s length. “The police are looking for you.” “I don’t like the police.” “Yeah, well, I don’t either. But they can take you somewhere safe.” “I am safe.” “What do you mean?” The boy dug into his pocket and held up a yellow
rock with a red streak. He tossed it into the pond. They watched it skip. Four times. “I want to stay here,” said the boy. “You can’t,” Dom said. “Where will you sleep? It gets cold at night, and there are dangerous people on the streets.” “It’s paradise.” Dom froze. When the boy turned to look at him, his eyes were hopeful. “Dominic, will I see them again?” he asked. “Kid, don’t say that.” “But I want to see them again.” “Kid, I’m serious.” “My name isn’t Kid!” the boy shouted. Dom raised his eyebrows at the outburst. The boy only stared at him intently. “Please?” he begged. “I really want to.” Now Dom felt like crying. He sucked it up and sighed. That night, Dom slipped out the park and took care to avoid the flashing red and blue lights of the patrol cars roaming the streets. They were still looking, still searching for the boy. He doubted they would ever find him.
Bodies didn’t wash up as fast as pebbles. Dom looked back at the gate of the park. It had been a nice place. He’d learned to skip rocks like a master over the past week. He rolled his shoulders and faced forward, strolling down the dark sidewalk. He held up his pinky as he walked and pointed it at the night sky. “There you go,” he whispered. “Death is salvation, after all.” He really hoped the boy was happy now. Back in the park, beyond the big rock by the pond, near the little bridge on the other side, the water rippled as a figure sank.
Then the water stilled. AUG 2019||The penchant|14
PROSE
ALMOST PARADISE by nichelle wong
The late afternoon light dances across the ocean in front of me. My eyes follow the waves to the shore, where they crash against the edge of the cliff and explode into seafoam. From my lofty position at the top, I lean back against the sun-warmed wood of an old bench. “Have you ever heard of quantum entanglement?” Your voice suddenly cuts in, shattering the peaceful landscape. “No…? When did you get here?” “Does it really matter?” You flap your hand, dismissing the question. “Okay, get this: So, there’s this idea that particles are connected, even over a distance. Something like that; you know I’m not scienc-y.
15|The penchant||aug 2019
Anyway, some researcher found that it works for people, too. Like, when you think about someone, their particles react the same way yours do. So, like, their brainwaves are the same as yours.” “Really?” “Yep. Apparently, if you think about sending a message to someone, the pattern of their brain waves or something will match yours, and they’ll ‘receive’ the message.” “Does it actually work?” “Well, I tried it on my parents, but so far they haven’t brought me to the mall yet. Or the beach. Or let me redecorate my room.”
“Huh. I wonder why.” You point to the ocean. “Look. It’s my favorite time of the day.” The sun is nearing the edge of the horizon. A light pink colors the sky. Swirls of red and orange are joining the parade. We both sit in silence for a while, watching as the glimmering light kisses the ocean. The sky is spread out like a fan, indigoes and blues tinting the edge all the way to reds and oranges lining the ocean. “If it was sunset forever, maybe we’d be in almost paradise,” you murmur softly. “Almost what now?” “Almost paradise,” you repeat. “What?” “If it was,” you continue, as if I haven’t said anything, “it would be paradise. But it’s not, so it’s almost paradise.” “Why is sunset paradise?” I ask, perplexed. You laugh and brush the question off. “That’s like asking ‘why is blue?’ It just is.” “But how do you know when something is?” You shrug carelessly. “It’s like knowing when someone thinks about you, when imagination is reality.” I sigh and throw my hands up in the air. “Whatever you say.”
FEATURED “No, it’s not whatever.” Your voice is suddenly serious. “It’s like...how do I explain this? It’s like...you know, in all those romance novels, how the moment before a kiss is almost better than the kiss itself? That’s almost paradise.” “Like...when you have a crush?” “It’s like...not the moments, but the moments before. Everybody forgets them, but we wouldn’t be without them. Would a kiss be a kiss if you didn’t feel it the moment before?” “So...the moment before you take a sip of boba tea.” “Yeah. Or right before the sun sets.” We both look out towards the horizon. The sky has turned redder, and the purples have spread much farther than before. The sun is barely an orb, sinking lower by the second. “It looks like half an egg yolk,” you say, giggling. “Or like getting drunk on sunset,” I quip. “That’s a good one. We’ll have to add that to the list.” “Of what? The moment before the pen touches the paper?” You laugh again. “Right before the ink runs dry, when the grass is full of morning dew, the moment before the rainbow disappears.
SURESH, 2019
That’s almost paradise.” “If you imagine something,” I say slowly, thinking aloud, “and another person imagines the same thing, would that make it reality? If imagination is reality to your brain, and the particles in your brains are reacting the same…? Wouldn’t that be, like...telepathy, almost? The particles entangling with each other to produce the same result?” You look at me, startled. “You might be right.” I think I get it now, I say without really saying it aloud. I think you do, too, you say without really saying it. “I have a question,” I say aloud. “Fire away.” “People often think that when we die, we go to some form of paradise, right?” “Or, you know, he-” “Shh, that’s not my point!” “Okay, continue.” “But we could die any second,” I say. My voice rises in excitement. “So aren’t we constantly living in almost paradise? I could die in the next moment. A meteor could hit the earth, or a sinkhole might open up, or something random. Whatever the case, I could be dead 2 seconds from now. So, aren’t we living in
WONG
almost paradise already?” “Hmm,” you muse. “That might be true. Maybe we already are in almost paradise.” The sky is growing darker. We watch as the last shard of light slips into the ocean and fades from view. “Maybe it’s time to go home,” I joke. “Maybe,” you say dreamily, “almost paradise is all we’ll ever get.” “Maybe it’s all we’ll ever need,” I say as I help you up off the bench. “Because there’s no other way. Because it has to be.” “Because it has to be,” you echo, and we start on the long walk home.
16
PROSE
LOVING YOURSELF Nothing around you is enjoyable. Plain, drab, bland, everything seems so unpleasant. Living your everyday life is uninteresting. Is there someone you hate? Some reason you feel uncomfortable? Maybe it’s the person that rubbed you the wrong way while you were out shopping today. It could’ve been the incident that upset you a week ago. But it’s none of that. You may not love anything, but you don’t happen to dislike anything either. You can’t commit yourself to anything purely because you don’t care to. You have never once cared, you have never once fought, and you can’t find it in yourself to want to try. Burning within, you fall asleep. Waking up, you look around. Tiny grains of eroded rock fall from your hair as you rise. Your feet continue being lathered by a blanket of cold blue as you shield your sight from the warmth coming from above. What was it you were feeling? Did you feel indifferent before? Honestly, you can’t remember how you felt. You can’t even remember feeling anything. Everything you see translates into your head as “unfamiliar.” But there is a lingering feeling of comfort. You don’t know what it is, and you can’t even compare it to what it was has been previously, as it is so far from your mind, yet what is encompassing you feels natural, as if something about the scenery is innately part of you. Warmth crawls through your chest, and you simply feel at home. Spending as much time as is allotted to you within
17|The penchant||aug 2019
the span of each day, you want to make the best use of your time. Once you gather yourself together, you set off into the abyss of thornless roses lying ahead, and you soon uncover a variety of thrills. There are majestic creatures roaming before you that you’ve never even heard of, much less experienced the vibrant combinations of hues before your eyes, the amalgamation of vibrations that brush the inside of your ears, the sensations tickling your skin, and whatever else you–as a whole–ardently absorb. Ladybugs trekking the expanse appear before you, more than you have ever witnessed. And when you finally reach the summit of the massif you’d been eyeing, all that lies before you is grace. The allure of the island only escalates in your head as you enjoy the distant view of dolphins splashing in the distant tropical waters. As joyous as the time you spend on this island is, the bizarre, strange feeling creeping through your chest only intensifies. How to describe it? It’s absolutely perfect. The island has everything you could want. You can rummage for hours a day, and you will find everything your heart desires: all the food you could possibly want, enjoyable activities that fill your soul with happiness, opportunities to pursue, chances to become better. You begin to forget about all other components of life, even the rest of the world outside of the island, and the existence of other people you forget that other people exist. There’s an endless escape waiting for nothing but to be explored,
and you enjoy every bit of it. How much more of this island could there be? How does such an amazing place exist? For once in your life, you feel welcome, so overwhelmingly welcome. For once in your life, you seek to improve yourself. You look are looking for the next obstacle, opportunity, or pleasantry to come your way, and this time, with open arms. In the distance, your view fills with the sight of ambrosias. Inside, you are being set ablaze. The allure of the island only escalates in your head as you enjoy the distant view of dolphins splashing in the distant tropical waters. As joyous as the time you spend on this island is, the bizarre, strange feeling creeping through your chest only intensifies. How to describe it? It’s absolutely perfect. The island has everything you could want. You can rummage for hours a day, and you will find everything your heart desires: all the food you could possibly want, enjoyable activities that fill your soul with happiness, opportunities to pursue, chances to become better. You begin to forget about all other components of life, even the rest of the world outside of the island, and the existence of other people you forget that other people exist. There’s an endless escape waiting to be explored. For once in your life, you feel welcome, so overwhelmingly welcome. For once in your life, you seek to improve yourself. looking for the next obstacle, opportunity, or pleasantry
to come your way, and this time, with open arms. In the distance, your view fills with the sight of ambrosias. Inside, you are being set ablaze. This island is your catalyst. The moment that you begin to live life exploring has begun. Living life and loving life. You forget what it was like to not love life and everything that comes with it. You genuinely accept life with all its shortcomings, because as so long as you are in paradise, you will feel content.You genuinely believe in this reality. However, there is something you fail to realize. You fail to realize that this island is not your catalyst, and what it means to have a catalyst in one’s life. You fail to realize that you’re burning and that you’re turning your wonderful home into ashes with you. You fail to understand why you should be ecstatic, why you need to extinguish the embers that encapsulate your existence. Because soon, you will have nothing left. You will continue to burn from the cavity in your chest outwards, and at some point, you will be unable to restore yourself. What you didn’t remember–no, didn’t realize–was that you have been ignited. You’ve grown to appreciate the life, the sights, and the comfort of the island, but none of that starts with you. Being unable to love and value yourself, you become the gasoline fueling the growing flames. And this will only go on. Eventually, you will continue. Sparks become embers, which become flames, which become blazes, which becomes the pillar of fire that sears you inside. That , becomes a conflagration, finally destroying your paradise and you with it. Did you not appreciate
the island enough? Did you really make an irreparable mistake? You were so sure you loved this island so much, and did done everything you could to preserve its magnificence. “How could this be?” you begin to think. After all, you feel as if you did nothing wrong.
And honestly, you didn’t.
XUE, 2019
by quentin nguyen 18
POETRY
ROSEMARY by athena xue dying and broken, she cried, but her words were lost, consumed by the waves greenblue forests mocked and bluegreen sea trapped her in this unparadise she gave the ocean a bottle, with a secret nestled snugly inside and then she sat, hunched, and waited, wishing to hold her baby at home.
XUE, 2019
he found a bottle washed ashore, and a flower tucked lovingly inside a lone Rosemary, the namesake of a woman he no longer knew
DONG, 2019
19
blue, just like her eyes. like his eyes. and he knew that this was his mother.
XUE
FEATURED
CITY LIGHTS by verb A bus full of people All looking out at the concrete jungle The city lights passing by like constellations
The illusion of warmth From brightly lit storefronts and Dimly lit street lamps is too weak to convince
Clinging on to the hope that Somewhere out there exists a place Made of real lights shining just for them
All heading somewhere Dreaming and dreaming and dreaming Of a place far, far away from where they are
There’s a gap in their hearts Returning to a deserted apartment Facing themselves in the mirror at night
Somewhere that glows Without the artificial warmth of lamps But the radiance of an abundance of suns
The place they call home Is devoid of life beyond its inhabitants Nature only found within careful boundaries
So desperate for company That they light up a screen in the dark Consuming the lives of familiar strangers
Closing their eyes It’s the last thing their mind envisions Before falling into a deep and lonely sleep
The congested sky Leaves no stars to be seen by those Who bother to look up from their screens
Wishing for something Missing from their lives, the nagging Feeling of being fundamentally hollow
The city lights passing by like constellations
SURESH, 2019
AUG 2019||The penchant|20
PHOTO/ART
XUE, CAROLINA “SUNRISE.” 2019
XUE, CAROLINA “FLAMES IN THE SKY.” 2019
YANG, ALICIA “SUNLIGHT.” 2019
STILL WATERS
21|The penchant||aug 2019
MAKING WAVES
“THE CLOUDS.” THE GONDOLA ENTERS THE HAZY CLOUDS WITH WENG, LILIAN “PARADISE AT THE BEACH.” 2019 ITS OCCUPANTS ANXIOUS OF THE OMINOUS SURROUNDINGS. HONG KONG, JAN. 5, 2018.
LIU, ALLISON “BEACH 1.” 2019
LIU, ALLISON “BEACH CLEAN ENVIRONMENT SIGN.” 2019. WRITTEN IN ESTONIAN, THIS SIGN LITERALLY TRANSLATES TO “SAVE US FROM THE GARBAGE SOUP, SAVE THE SEA!”
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WONG, NICHELLE “ORANGE FLOWERS”. 2019
PHOTO/ART
GARDEN of EDEN
WONG, NICHELLE. “DANGLING FLOWERS.” 2019
XUE, CAROLINA “DOWNTOWN.” 2019
YANG, ALICIA. 2019
23|The penchant||aug 2019
FU, ANGELICA “AFU.” 2019
XIONG, LILIAN. 2019
28 24
PHOTO/ART
FOOL’S PARADISE SURESH, AKILA. 2019.
XUE, CAROLINA “BY THE BAY.” 2019
WONG, NICHELLE “CASTLE RAINBOW.” 2019
25|The penchant||aug 2019
WONG, NICHELLE “CORRIDOR.” 2019
WONG, NICHELLE “CLOUD FOREST BRIDGE.” 2019
WENG, LILIAN “SERENITY.” 2019
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