Penchant05 by The Penchant Literary Magazine

5| Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note

6| Specks of Sand 8| I Hear the Mermaids Singing

11| Figuratively Speaking

13| She

16| Rugged Waves 2

18| Sea Green and Stormy Gray:

21| Belts 23| A Purple Conch Shell

25| A Son’s Resolve Continued …

32| An Ode to the Waves

35| Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s A Beach

39| Pirate

In this issue of The Penchant, we explore the concept of the beach and its implications on the lives of the people that visit it. The beach can be viewed as a melting pot, a lonely friend, or a haven for sadness. Conveyed through poems, short stories, and pictures, the thoughts and voices of each submission is realized. Although the “beach” mentioned and photographed may be located in different places, all beaches are interconnected by the same blue expanse—just like how individually we may differ in many aspects, but we are all bound to the fact that we are human. I hope you enjoy this second issue of our summer series!

--Lily Yang CWC President Editor in Chief

Specks of Sand By Ankur Samanta

I Hear the

Mermaids

I haven’t always hated the beach, but the time before it is hard to remember. I’ve become more of an indoor person, so it’s hard to deal with the outside. The beach––mostly gritty sand, too-cold wind, freezing water––is so… far from ideal when compared to the comfortable

Singing

warmth of my room.

By Anonymous

at all the wrong times, so I end up alone, buried

And I don’t have friends to go with, either. I’m too loud or too quiet or too awkward in a book, trying not to feel too lonely or too hurt by the fact that I’m not wanted. But the wind flips the pages of my books, sprays me

with tiny grains of sand, and it feels so alive––as if trying to be everything I’m not. Even reading takes too much energy at the beach, that sun-kissed place of happiness that everyone else seems to find. I’ve stopped feeling––I’m numb, and everything I used to feel too much has overwhelmed me. I used to like swimming, but now I step into the ocean in my clothes and still I feel nothing but the shock of the cold water. The waves are no longer calming, and my strokes through the water feel like I’m pushing against the weight of a colossal something trying to

I’ve stopped feeling

suffocate me. When I look back towards the shore, it’s far, impossibly so. Yet no panic surfaces, no fear. I am a mermaid, floating in the sea, dark hair 9

streaming out behind me in wavy tangles, enchanting sailors and luring them to their doom. The waves pull me under in one quick, fluid motion, and the cold water washes over every inch of me. Wild currents tug at me from every direction as I hold my breath and I can feel again––my heart pounding, chest aching from holding my breath. My body struggles for air, even as I give in to the ocean dragging me into its depths to be lost and never found. And suddenly, ridiculously, I realize that I am drowning, dying, and when I gasp for air, saltwater will fill my lungs and it will be too late. I struggle, fighting against all the water holding me down, suffocating in its volume. I’m numb and hurting but I don’t want to die. The world narrows, and there is only me and the infinite ocean, air too far above, out of reach. I kick upwards through the water, trying to remember how to swim, my clothes holding me back. I take a gasping breath.

Some souls are old, gray, light from years of life. This soul is heavy, young, a dark blue-black of night sky or ocean waves, still thrumming with life. It floats up through the ocean, past the clouds, and into the infinite sky, where it is free. The girl is never missed, never looked for or found, and she still lies with the music of the ocean, wreathed in ropes of seaweed, cold and unbreathing and no longer alive.

FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING By Sashrika Pandey

I personally have never enjoyed the beach much in the past. But now I go there all the time. Not physically, of course, since I consider moving for a reason other than obtaining day-old cupcakes a waste of energy. I travel to the beach in my own mind, because there there aren’t crowded lines and washed up seaweed. In my mind’s beach, I walk across the soft, sparkling sand and gaze at the calm ocean. The sun is just about to set, but I’m not afraid of what lies beneath the ocean’s depths. Instead, I appreciate the view because I know that I’ll have to head back home once the sun is gone. And the odd thing is, I’m the only person at the beach. Before, there used to be hundreds of people––people who would talk to me and laugh. We’d play games and swim in the crystal-clear waters before taking a break and building sand castles. But day by day, they disappeared. I thought nothing of it at first—after all, some of them remained. But then they left too.

So now I’m alone. Everyone else is gone––doing something somewhere else. A childhood friend of mine recently funded a non-profit featured in a national magazine, and my classmate created a robot from scratch. So while everyone else on the beach has left, I stand here alone in the sand. Everyone else has gone somewhere else, often forgetting that the beach is the calmest place of all. But as I look around, I realize that even this beach is diminishing. Skyscrapers re built around me daily, and every time I visit my personal beach, I realize that the skyscrapers are getting closer and closer to the boundaries, even crossing them from time to time.

Soon, there will be just a few square feet of sand for me to

stand on because on one side will be the ocean, and on the other, the buildings which I cannot enter.

But not right now. For now, I can sit on this beach and watch the sunset even though there’s nobody to keep me company. But anyways. It’s not real. It’s just a metaphor. And it’s just a beach.

Perhaps this beach is a metaphor for where I stand in real life. Perhaps it’s just a nonexistent realm I retreat to when stress is knocking on my door. Or perhaps I just run to this paradise because I hope that it will continue to exist even though it’ll be gone in a couple more days. That’s alright, though. It is just a beach. Sure, I’ll have to make my decision sometime soon. Swim into the ocean and into the horizon where nothing is definite… or conform and walk into the skyscrapers. I’ll have to make a choice at some point. But not right now. For now, I can sit on this beach and watch the sunset even though there’s nobody to keep me company. That’s alright, though. It is just a beach. Sure, I’ll have to make my decision sometime soon. Swim into the ocean and into the horizon where nothing is definite… or conform and walk into the skyscrapers. I’ll have to make a choice at some point. 12

She By Athena Xue

They took it away, the only beautiful part of me.

They took it away, the only beautiful part of me. I had resisted. I had closed myself up, sealed myself so tightly that no one could reach it. My treasure. But still, they came with powerful knives and tools. They stabbed me, used sharp objects to pry me apart. I couldn’t let them take it, the only thing that made me special. But with every stab, my defenses crumbled. It was a tough war. I lost. “A pearl!” I heard them scream, “Our first one today!” Their pearl? No, it was my pearl. I watched as my luminous treasure was seized and dirtied by hands of a violent, heartless thief. I watched as its glow seemed to dim and flicker with fear, cowering from the ruthless touch of the hand. Then the fingers tightened and curled, one after another.I could only see a sliver of milky white before the last finger rose and clamped down, snuffing out the last lively glow. Of course, after they had stolen the pearl, they threw me out, back onto the sand. Some part of me didn’t blame them.

I was just an empty nothing without my pearl. I was just a brown-green, wrinkled shell dotted with hideous dents, striped with ghastly scratches, and plagued with lesion-like bumps. There was no part of me that made me beautiful. And that meant no one wanted me. That meant I was useless. I spent every day buried halfway in the sand, ignored and trampled by children scouring the sand for prettier shells. They wanted the shells that were bright green or white or blue with wavy patterns and colorful stripes. The ones that could catch anyone’s attention. “Pretty!” the children cried when they spotted them, happily picking them up and gently setting them into their pails. Choose me choose me love me love me. But they all shrank back when they saw me. “Ugly,” they whimpered, running away. I felt estranged and forgotten, living on my own island. Time passed too slowly. Each day was watching the joys far away on the other side, wanting so much to join in. Each day was reaching for the unreachable. On this island, I remained the only one. 13

It’s interesting how much I can hear if I really pay attention to the sounds around me. It just so happened that a little boy walked past me, mumbling under his breath, “She sells seashells by the seashore. She sells seashells…” She sells seashells? Who is She? Someone who wants shells. Someone who might want me. Maybe I’m ugly, but She will fix me so that I look appealing enough to sell. Getting to She would definitely improve my chances of finding a home. And suddenly a bubble of hope was born, and it rose upward despite the beckoning calls of my despairing past. No longer was I a wretched, hopeless shell. *** I didn’t fare well. First of all, I can’t move on my own. I have to wait for the waves to push me a few feet at a time or the children to kick me to a new place. Second, I don’t know where to start. There are too many She’s. Which one is the She? A girl is approaching right now. Is she She? Unfortunately, I never found out, because the girl picked me up and threw me at a little boy, who I presumed to be her brother. I hit him squarely on the nose. He caught me as I fell, and he gazed up at his sister, angry tears forming in his eyes. Then I was in the air again, the wind rushing past my sides and brushing me with gentle touches. I flipped a couple of times in the air, bouncing along as the wind propelled me forward. I felt as if I had flown far away from the island that chained me to eternal loneliness and hopelessness. I soared upward like a bird escaping its cage. But I landed nowhere near where I was supposed to. I slammed into a hard wall of water, engulfed by salty gray in seconds. I sank to the bottom and laid upside down on a cold layer of sand.

If I could cry, I would have. I felt more confined than ever, held down by the heavy weight of seawater. There was no light save for a few dull streaks of sun barely piercing the dark walls of water. All I could feel was the biting cold water as it shifted, burying me halfway into the sand. Where were my wings? Why couldn’t I fly again? I left my island just to be stuck on another one. And where was She? I imagined her as my savior, someone who would bend down and pick me up from this dark abyss… *** Light. Lots of it. I felt myself leaving the water. Being held by a hand. I was in the air again. “Sally, I found a shell for you!” a woman’s voice exclaimed. The world became a blur as the woman ran, carrying me away from the sea to the shore. She gently passed me into the hands of a small girl. Strangely, the girl, Sally, wasn’t looking at me; she was staring off into the distance. “How does it feel?” the woman asked. Sally held me tightly in her hands, tracing the rough bumps and scratches with the tip of her finger. “Like I’m in the mountains,” she giggled, “I’m hiking on pointy rocks. There are cracks in the ground. I have to jump over them. Oh, I found a volcano! I’m going to go around and...” She laughed again. “I think I fell into a hole!”

The woman chuckled. “I knew that shell would be interesting for you to explore.” Me? Did I just make Sally laugh? Suddenly, Sally asked, “Mommy, what does it look like?” The woman laughed. “I’m not telling you. What do you think it looks like?” “I think it’s beautiful,” Sally smiled. Me? Beautiful?

I realized, suddenly, that Sally couldn’t see me. She was blind. “I’m naming it Rocky!” she cried excitedly, “We’re going to have lots of adventures together!” I felt a surge of affection for Sally, a warmth that I was never able to feel before. It dawned on me that despite having lost my pearl, I retained my beauty in a unique way. Sally was my new pearl, someone who made me feel special and beautiful. I felt my confidence replenish and a newfound joy replace the old hopelessness. I was an unstoppable bubble as I flew far, far away from the timeless drag of neglect. And thus, my journey ended, very differently from how it began. And I was wrong about one thing: She is not someone who will fix me. No, She is someone who would rather appreciate me as I am. And I have found her. Sally sells seashells by the seashore…

Rugged Waves

L o n e l y

By Pia Parekh

L o v e

Sea Green and Stormy Gray A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Fanfiction

The light from the dipping sun made the ocean sparkle, shining like glass on its calm surface. A light breeze fluttered over the water, bringing gentle waves that lapped at the shore. The sunlight penetrated deep into the clear water, making the ocean glow a tranquil shade of green. It reminds me of his eyes, Annabeth thought, brushing away a tear forming in her stormy gray eyes. She stood on a cliff hanging over the water, her body silhouetted against the slowly setting sun. She had on her orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt, a pair of cropped jeans, and her necklace, now almost completely strung with clay beads. Her feet were bare, gripping the hard rocks of the cliff. Her blonde hair hung in a messy ponytail, hastily put up as usual. Seaweed Brain. Her hands, curled into fists, jammed in her pockets as she gazed out over the waters of Long Beach. Her right hand gripped

By Jaime Wang something in her pocket: a pen. Riptide. Her fingers brushed over the ballpoint pen, feeling the areas Percy had worn into it. Tears pricked her eyes again. Without warning, she ran out, over the edge of the cliff and into the waiting waters below, curving her body and diving gracefully into the ocean. She dived down, deep, where the waters grew darker, but she could still see the bright colors of the reef. She wove between the coral, swum through schools of fish, tumbled past sea turtles. She stayed down for as long as she could, until the waters really started to darken. She had no problem breathing, Percy had left her that special talent before he died.

She had no problem breathing, Percy had left her that special talent before he died.

Annabeth swam up, pushing up through the water to where it turned shades of orange and yellow. The cool air swept over her as her head broke through the surface, and she turned and swam back towards the cliff. There was an alcove in the rock, hidden from the beach and secluded. Seaweed Brain had shown her it. It was their special spot. She climbed up onto the rock, shivering in the cooling air. Leaning against the cliff wall, she watched the sun turn the sky brilliant shades of orange, yellow and pink, and the ocean streaked with gold. Her hand unconsciously dug at a soft patch of sand and dirt besides her, and soon she had uncovered something. A necklace.

It was their special spot.

Annabeth finally took her eyes off the sparkling waters and looked at the necklace in her hand. It had a fine gold chain, with a dusty blue shell pendant hanging off of it. Something in her stirred, an urge, and she rubbed some of the dirt off the shell and gazed at its shining surface, then took a deep breath and flipped open the cover. One side of the opened sea shell showed a tiny picture of Annabeth and Percy, sharing a piece of blue cake as they sat on a cliff overlooking the sunset. The other side held a slip of paper, reading in Percy's simple scrawl, To my Wise Girl. Annabeth's throat tightened and tears brimmed her eyes. She shut the shell and grasped it firmly in her hand as she pressed hard against the rock wall. She remembered Percy, his awkward charm and stupid jokes. His stubbornness and bravery. His cheerful grin and 19

wind-swept black hair. His sea green eyes. She imagined his strong arm looped loosely around her shoulders, pulling her close. She could smell the salty sea spray on him, his breath soft on her cheek. She leaned against him, resting her head against his chest and neck, his chin resting on her head. Annabeth's grip on the necklace loosened as she slipped into dreams, her body slouching down on the rock, then falling and tumbling down into the ocean. She sank slowly, the water swirling past her as her hair flowed around her in golden strands. Bubbles streamed up from her nostrils, taking away her last breaths. She landed on the sandy bottom of the ocean with a small thump, a small cloud of sand puffing up around her.

She was reunited with her Seaweed Brain once again, and this time, nothing could separate them.

From the distance, a man approached, gliding slowly across the bottom of the ocean. He reached Annabeth, knelt down, and picked her up. Annabeth's eyes fluttered open, and she smiled when she saw the familiar playful green eyes, the long messy black hair and the teasing smile. The necklace floated out of Annabeth's hand and clasped itself around her neck as Percy, his sea green eyes locked on her stormy gray ones, leaned down and kissed her, their lips pressing against each other's. Annabeth's eyes closed, and she smiled through the kiss. She was reunited with her Seaweed Brain once again, and this time, nothing could separate them. 20

Belts

A Purple Conch Shell By Jaime Wang

A Sonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Resolve Continued

By Lily Yang Previously... With a burst of vigor, I trudged through miles of uneven paths littered with rocks of various sizes, contorted roots springing high above the ground, and lurking undergrowth sprawling among the forest floor. Many times my foot was misplaced and my body lunged forward, falling and adding new strokes to the painting of myself. Even more so, I felt hungerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s claws clamping against my stomach, taunting my existence. But something about this day kept me going.

An anonymous warmth wrapped around me. The birds began to sing their odes, and the forest that seemed so barren and imposing to me last night gently peeled off its mask and unveiled its beauty. I looked up beyond the dense cover of leaves dancing blithely in the wind as splashes of light gave them a fluorescent glow. Squinting, I saw the broken pieces of azure gazing lovingly back at me. It captivated me—the thought that no matter where we were, we were under the same sky. But, it also made my gut wrench with envy, because I could only hope to find my mother while the eternal eyes above would always know her whereabouts. I shook off these thoughts, forcing myself to look straight ahead and concentrate on following the barely paved path lain recklessly among the the trees. What if all my efforts are in vain? What if the only woman that claimed to have ever seen or communicated with my mother was simply telling a lie out of pity? But that can’t be right, she wouldn’t have bought me this ticket if she was lying. Right? The voice inside my head argued

I could only hope to find my mother while the eternal eyes above would always know her whereabouts.

with itself continuously, drowning all other sound until a biting silence blossomed in all its morbidness. Engrossed in this internal discussion made to comfort my doubts, I didn’t realize that seconds morphed into minutes and minutes into hours. Soon enough, the rough path beneath my feet smoothed, and the clusters of low-lying vegetation that were so abundant before became a scarcity. Instead of roots puncturing through the hardened soil like dismembered corpses unsatisfied with their graves, hoof prints and carriage rows became the new subject of the earth’s hospitality. The blurs of burnt umber and phthalo greens began to transition into cobalt blues and fuchsia-infused vermilion. The sun that used to hang high above greeted the horizon, and the forest became no more. I clumsily trudged through the beds of wheat, swaying obligingly

with their yellow stalks. Scanning the distance in hopes of a place to rest for the night, I saw a well-kept cottage featuring multicolored walls that seemed to challenge the boldness of the sunset’s fabrics. It was ominously endearing: Ominous, because it seemed impossibly perfect with all its trellises lined precisely and accompanying tulips planted in symmetrical designs; and endearing, because the glow of tungsten lights that reminded me so much of home. From the position of the sun, it seemed like it couldn’t have been past seven o’clock. The family that lives in this house won’t mind a visitor at this hour, I thought. After giving it much more thought than I intended, I finally decided to enter this little haven of beauty that seemed so distant, even when I stood right beneath the arches that guided visitors to its entrance. A flush of anxiety washed over me. I couldn’t recall how many days it had been since I’ve seen—much less interacted with— another human being. Before wringing out the last bit of dignity I had and knocking on the door, I looked down at my clothes was embarrassed at the sheer number of holes it had. I pulled out my lighter and attempted to tidy my reflection. No matter how hard I tried, the strands of black cascading down below my shoulders would not stay put, and the soot decorating my sunburnt skin seemed permanent. After frustration gnawed at my patience, I decided to end it quickly. I drew in one large breath and closed my eyes. I felt my knuckles press against the wooden door as the standard three knocks of civilization erupted timidly.

It was ominously endearing

My heartbeat resounded in my ears. One. Two. Three…. Time seemed to be frozen as I awaited anxiously for a pleasant face, for a welcoming smile. ...Fifty-two. Fifty-three…. The door opened at last. What I saw surprised me. In front of me stood a young girl half my height. She looked no older than ten, and was dressed as nicely as the cottage home was presented. When she glanced up into my eyes, fear washed over them like waves on a beach. She stepped back, twisting her body as if she was about to run. Then a boy who looked my age approached the door, shielding

the younger girl with his body. Trying my best to smile and seem less intimidating, I stepped back a bit from the door. The boy furrowed his dark eyebrows and pierced his eyes into mine, unwavering. I saw his left hand clenching into a fist so tight that the ivory bones beneath his skin protruded violently. “Who are you? What do you want?” the boy yelled with bravado. The girl wrapped herself around his arm. “I’m Isaac Grayson, son of Hannah Grayson, who disappeared three years ago. I’m from a small town in Jeanville, and I left to find my mother…” His eyes narrowed and he gradually raised his fist to his midriff. “I just want to know if I could perhaps stay in your home for tonight, if that won’t be too much of an inconvenience,” I said as I shifted my weight between my legs nervously. The boy pushed the girl aside, and aimed his fist at my nose. The next moment, hot, metallic rivers of crimson trickled down my chin. Disoriented by the impact, I collapsed in front of the threshold. “Don’t you dare lay another filthy finger on our door. And yes, it is too much of an inconvenience to have you here,” he said relentlessly. He promptly turned to slam the door at me, but before he could accomplish that, I went to my knees and, against my better judgement, tightly grasped the oak frame. “Please, I may be dirty, but I pose no harm. I’m seventeen years old, and all I wish for is to see my mother again. You’re lucky, you know. Living in such a wonderous place and having people to love and be loved by.” Something shifted in him.

Something shifted in him.

The etched expressions that ornamented his face melted like a square of butter. His hands loosened, and he lowered his forearm gradually. His threatening stance relaxed—every tense muscle soon becoming limp. The eye contact he held with no effort now faltered and shifted toward the ground. A breeze danced gracefully into his house, lifting his hair from his face and rustling the dress of the younger girl. What did I see? Was it pity? Sadness? He took a deep breath and hesitantly opened the door wider. Signalling the girl to go somewhere, he then knelt to the floor and reached a shaky hand out to me. I grabbed it. I saw a flash of something glimmering in the crevasses of his eyes. He looked up toward the ceiling and turned away from me, as if he was hiding something. The girl was back; this time, her face was rid of the fear that infested it before. She handed me a warm towel and a small pile of clothes without a word. The boy was still turned away. A 28 forearm was drawn across his face, and clear drops fell onto the

wooden floor. He shook a bit, and his hands were clenched onto his shirt. He seemed to try everything to conceal what overtook him. It reminded me of my mother. As the girl walked back into the kitchen, I haphazardly wiped my face with the towel. The pristine white in my hands was almost immediately polluted with splatters of scarlet and shards of blacks and browns. I ran it over my face a couple more times. Closing my eyes and letting the warmth of the towel dissipate, I imagined my mother’s embrace, her hands over mine, and simply, her presence. Two taps on my shoulder broke me out of my trance. The boy placed himself beside me on the floor. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me to punch you,” he whispered morosely. He then looked at me hoping for a reply, but words were drained from my throat, so I only managed to rasp out gibberish. He looked down for a while longer, but before silence made itself comfortable, the boy tried again. “You know what you said about having people to love and people to love you back? We’re in the same boat. Me and you. My mother and father, although they may not be lost, they’ve gone on a very long trip. Luckily, you can still find your mother. As for me, I could only find them in heaven.” I looked at him for a long while, and for once in my life, I felt that perhaps I have finally found a friend. I placed my hand on his shoulder and instinctively reached inside my breast pocket. I took out the familiar, worn slip, and placed it in the palm of his hand.

I told him everything. From my father to the day I left to how I survived off of wildlife, I spilled the words that only trees and empty roads and silent nights had heard. He reciprocated, telling me about how his name was Bryson and how he and his sister managed to continue his late parents’ farm business. When I showed him the train ticket, his eyes twinkled as he exclaimed that the station was but a few miles away, and that he could easily get me there by horse and carriage.

As the darkness settled in, he led me to the shower room and prepared an empty bed and some of his clothes for my future expeditions. The next morning the sweet scent of bacon drifted aimlessly into my nostrils. Following it, I saw Bryson and his sister, Michelle, seated primly next to the oak table. An empty chair was added to the ensemble. I sat down promptly, and soon enough, the food on the plate before me vanished. I had never felt this satiated in months. The horses were prepared as Bryson meticulously checked their harnesses and metal shoes. He tucked in two small bags of clothes and wrapped food. I sat with Michelle while Bryson led the horses. Within an hour, the bustle of streets people became apparent. Some were businessmen in suits fit too cleanly to their bodies. Others were mothers holding their children fondly by their sides. The sea of bodies all had individual tempos, walking at times and speaking at different volumes. Holding the two gifts by my side, I gave Michelle and Bryson one last hug, and turned toward the boarding platforms. I pulled out the ticket and waited as a machine stamped it accordingly. In the midst of the jumble of bodies, I boarded the train. Dorothy Harbor. I remembered the woman who knew my mother said that was the stop, and that my mother’s shack would be around the left end of the beach. Who knew that I would finally arrive at this fated place. I walked out of the station 29 and saw the great blue roaring as it

slammed itself against the gritty concrete of the walkway.I stepped into the sand, and ran toward the left. The sand sifted through my toes like water through a sieve. I felt like a caged bird let free. I could not wait to see the familiar smile and earnest eyes of my mother. Each thought came like fuel, propelling me, letting me run faster with each step. I saw a small, run-down shack built lopsidedly. The wood hung limp in many areas, and holes were also present. The door, though, was perfectly polished and placed. If not attached to the deteriorated mess that constituted the shack’s walls, this door and its frame could fit seamlessly in Bryson and Michelle’s house. I went up to the door, and even more nervous than the time before, I took a deep breath to relieve my stress. Three knocks. Nothing. Six knocks. Nothing. Nine. Twelve. No one. My heart sank as if it were weighted down by a thousand pounds. I’ve gotten so close, I thought. My mother won’t mind if I just walked in. And so, I placed my trembling hands on the brass knob and turned. It wasn’t locked. The inside was like her room back at home. Canvases, portraits, paint, brushes, and mixing palettes. It was Mother for certain, but as I scanned the room, no one was to be found. Then I saw a stack of yellowing papers on the desk facing the window. Remembering the placement of the very last note I received from her, I went over to take a look.

July 21, 1978 Dear Son, I’m sorry I left you. Your father took me away that night, but please don’t worry, I managed to escape unscathed. I’ve been in hiding for about a month now, and I found this area next to the ocean. It was quite secluded and it always had guards roaming the district, so I thought this would be the perfect

place for us. I know you’d try and find me, so every new town I arrived at, I entrusted a maiden with my whereabouts and my name. Love, Your mother February 13, 1979 Dear Son, I sent you a letter back in July. I hope you have received it. I’m awaiting you. I love you always. Love, Your mother

Each letter seemed to be a second copy of the one she supposedly sent to me. However the dates stop around August of 1979. Still nowhere in sight, I tried to convince myself that my mother was simpling out doing errands. After waiting for five long hours, I decided to ask one of the patrolling guard. I told them my story and gave them the description of my mother. Each of them shook their heads except for one. His face was gaunt and his lips trembled a bit before he answered my question concerning my mother. He shook his head gradually and turned to me, holding me tightly on the shoulders. “Son, she passed away in 1979. I’m sorry.”

“How did she …?” I asked timidly. “Kidney failure,” he sighed. “It was quick.” Speechless, I ran back and grabbed the papers with me. Though now I was certain she was no more, I could see the faint transparency of a woman painting in front of me. She would paint furiously, laying pigment after pigment without blending. But most of all, she would smile at me. She was my mother. Though she may be gone, I still accomplished my initial task: to find her. Every fragment, component of her story, her voice was inside this room, and forever inside my head.

To Mothers.

An Ode to the

Waves By Pooja Bale

The Mighty, The Brash, The Valiant.

Life’s a Beach

By Sowmya Balakrishnan

There is something fascinating, watching your footprints, once firmly imprinted on the wet sand, get washed away easily. No matter how big of a distance you cover—or claim to have covered—on the beach, there will be no trace of it in a few hours. If life was like a beach, it would be a joy. I’d never have to worry about sullying my slate because give or take a few hours, it would right itself. Just like that. Clean again. My mistakes wouldn’t be haunting me even after a few years and I still wouldn’t be waking up in the middle of the night, trying to breathe and calm my racing heart. I close my eyes and lean into the cool breeze, involuntarily sinking back into that dreadful night. ***

If life was like a beach, it would be a joy

The numbers 12:39 shine in neon green as the front door finally opens. He stumbles in, tousling his messy dark hair. He can’t see me in the dark and I can tell that he thinks he got away with it again. I watch him slump onto the chair adjacent to mine. The light from his phone illuminates his features; his brown eyes, his straight nose, and that special smile of his which now surfaces upon his lips. I used to think that I was the only one capable of making him smile like that. I bite my lip and try my best to ignore the scratchy sensation that builds up in my throat.

Where were you? “So, how was your day?” My voice sounds small and plaintive, childlike. I can tell that hearing me all of a sudden startles him. I watch him clear his throat and get up quickly to switch on the light, peering down at me in surprise. “Babe? What are you doing, still up?” His voice is unusually high and bears too much nonchalance, and I see his eyes wander around the room, not meeting mine. I feel my heart sink and bite my lip. Still, I keep my voice steady as I softly ask, “Where were you?” He ignores my question and sits down next to me, looping his arm around my waist. He smiles at me and shakes his head. “I was at work. Just like usual.” He tugs at his tie for emphasis. Now close to him, I can smell the faint scent of perfume and see the smudge of lipstick on his cheek. I look at him dumbfoundedly before slowly shaking my head. How many times has he said the same thing? And how many times had I accepted it? Thinking back, I don’t recall a single night where he has come home early. Panic rises within me. This time, I don’t let go of it. “I called you. You didn’t answer.” 36

I see his jaw clench as he takes a deep breath. “I can explain,” he starts and I wince. It’s physically painful how pitiful his performance is.

I can feel him tensing next to me. “You know. I was busy working.” He manages easily. “I made you dinner.” He smiles apologetically. “I already at-” “I made spaghetti hot dogs. Your favorite.” “Babe, I already at-” “I was waiting for you this whole time.” “I know, I -” “I was worried about you.” “I -” “I miss spending time with you.” “Listen to m-” “Who is she?” He stops and looks at me. I see raw shock and guilt before it is quickly wiped away by a mask of confusion. Right there and then, I knew I was right this whole time. “I have to go. I-” “Babe, wait.” He’s trying to pull me back down on the couch. “Look at me, please.” I am filled with disgust and rage as I glare at him. “Let me go.” He rises up to his feet, looking down at me, his brown eyes shining with obvious guilt. “Listen. It’s not what you think. Trust me.” “No,” I say. “I know it is what I think it is. You can’t even look at me in the eye!”

“Don’t even try me. I’m done.” “I can ex-” “No, you can’t!” “Let me ex-” “No!” “STOP INTERRUPTING ME!” I feel red hot pain burst on my cheek and look at him, shocked. He’s staring at me, wide-eyed, hand still raised. “Nadia,” he finally starts. He stops. “Nadia,” he says again. The skin on my cheek stings where my tears have rolled along. I lick my salty, chapped lips. Then, without a word, I turn towards the door and step out. Even when I close the door behind me, I can hear him calling for me.

As I walk down the stairs and out into the silent night, I realize that he said my name for the first time in many months.

The taste of salt that fills my mouth tugs me back to reality. I see my feet are firmly pressed on the wet sand and when I raise my fingers to my cheeks, they are dry. A small smile curves onto my lips as the warm waves lap at my feet. I’m doing better than I was a few months ago.

It’s been a long journey after that fateful day. We ended the relationship and I moved out of our apartment, taking my things with me. More so than the actual confrontation, I found that doing a complete inventory of what I had invested in our relationship was actually harder for me. Each object that I gingerly placed in a box spoke to me with a memory that felt so distant and black-and-white. A graphic tee told me about our first date; a Coke stain on my blue jeans told me about our favorite movie. A miniature snow globe told me about our trip to Canada; my mug told me about how we used to spend our mornings. Now standing here, I can still tell you every detail of every memory, but I’m not a masochist. Nor do I have the time. I sigh in content as the breeze tousles my hair fondly, continuing to walk along the beach. I let my eyes wander to observe the people around me, laughing, talking, sunbathing. They’re all lost in their own worlds just like I am in mine. I watch a little girl cry as her brother pinches her on the arm and then chase him to get revenge. It’s the little things like this that make me smile.

I turn my gaze behind me to watch my receding footprints get licked away by the hungry waters. To others who haven’t been paying attention to the brunette girl, it may seem like I’ve just been enjoying a day in the sun. But I know that I’ve just remembered my horrible experience with my first love and have felt the slightest of agony bloom where my heart resides. Well, not only me. I guess the beach felt it, too. We’re both hiding it pretty well. The waves are insistent against my feet, eager to erase the imprint my feet are pressing against the wet sand now. I look off into the distance and see how far I’ve come, blood, sweat and tears. It’s been a few years since that day and each day, it’s getting better, bit by bit. I never thought I would make it this far, but I have. No one ever said it was easy and it isn’t. But no one ever said it was impossible. Water laps at my calves now, urging me to move forwards. “Alright, alright,” I yell to the beach. “I’m moving on!” I laugh as I start to walk again, kicking off a long green streak of seaweed that has been around my right foot this whole time.

Pirate By Desiree Ho The ocean hums innocently at my back as I pick my way through a snake of debris hugging the waterline. Twenty miles south, the storm surge had rinsed land clean, leaving cold bare stone. Here, the sea spills its pilfered treasures onto the sheltered shore. I lift a split board and toss it away. It’s probably torn from one of the luxury beach houses, lined up at the waterfront like sitting ducks, but all boards are equally splintered now. This coast harbors treasure stolen from another shore. I unearth a spot of color half-buried in the sand. The endless current pushes flotsam forward as if its only goal is to deliver this bottle cap to its final resting place on foreign sand. I toss the cap back and set it afoot on a second pilgrimage. An incoming wave propels it back to lay at my feet. I kick it away and move on.

This coast harbors treasure stolen from another shore.

The trash bag at my hip fills with plastic bottles the recycling center would take for a few cents each. I wade in to salvage a dented canteen and the buckle on a broken pet collar. A smooth hull lays overturned a few dozen feet away, but I’ll return at low tide to drag it out of the water. Since the streets are still flooded, anybody would be happy to pay for something that floats to paddle their way back home. It’s the first time I’ve been back since the storm, and I barely recognize the quiet haven it had once been. I can only identify the entrance sign reading, “$1000 FINE FOR LITTERING.” I step over a stagnant pool of floating plastic bags and cigarette butts. Stranded clams on the sand rot inside their shells. Among them are bits of plastic, a misplaced sandal, and a bottle of diluted shampoo: the ocean’s bounty.

For the last two years, I’ve come every morning to scavenge the shore. Most days, I found nothing. The golden sands would lay as flat as the sea in all directions. Sometimes, after a storm, rougher waves had brought forth a wealth of intact shells, sand dollars, and smoothed coral. Every day was a gamble, and I was addicted. I grimace as a shard of broken glass digs into my calloused heel, but keep walking. In a few years, the waves would tumble the fragments into smooth, round pebbles of frosted sea glass. Reflecting thick clouds, the restless waters snake like quicksilver. Every neighborhood in their wake had received an equal lashing, and screaming winds returned carefully built structures to their original state of disorder. Nothing could escape corroding salt and water, but they also bore gifts in exchange for what they had taken. I’ll be back tomorrow.

Joyce Hu

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Aesthetic Pineconesâ&#x20AC;?

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