THE
PENCHANT
HIRAETH by sophie mo and isabel lai “Now you’re twenty nine, going on thirty, and you’ve lost the innocence of your childhood.”
PERSPECTIVES
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. Photo Credits: Cover Photo by Arturo Castaneyra on Unsplash 1| Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash 2| Photo by Taylor Vick on Unsplash 2| Photo by Dazedream on Unsplash 2| Photo by Miguel Teirlinck on Unsplash 3| Photo by Alex Knight on Unsplash 4| Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash 5| Photo by Joseph Morris on Unsplash 6| Photo by Marco Chilese on Unsplash 7| Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash 9| Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash 10| Photo by Reign Abarintos on Unsplash 11| Photo by Janko Ferlič on Unsplash 12| Photo by Anika Huizinga on Unsplash 13| Photo by Agto Nugroho on Unsplash 14| Photo by Max Kukurudziak on Unsplash 15| Photo by Darya Jum on Unsplash 16| Photo by Edward Kucherenko 17| Photo by Lenstravelier on Unsplash 19| Photo by Sven Fischer on Unsplash 21| Original Artwork by Grace Yin, “Bygone Beast,” 2021 22| Original Artwork by Selina Song, “Unbridled,” 2021 22| Original Artwork by Sriya Bairy, “Life of a Puzzle Piece,” 2021 23| Original Artwork by Ananya Bhargava, “Energetic Apathy,” 2021 24| Original Artwork by Anonymous, “Isometric Sonder,” 2021 25| Original Photography by Akshaya Ravi 26| Original Photograph by Akshaya Ravi, “Inside” To learn more about us, visit our social media: Facebook: @penchantlitmag Instagram: @the_penchant Issuu: @penchantlitmag To see our submission guidelines, please visit https://tinyurl.com/penchantsubmit, or follow us on Facebook @penchantlitmag.
the penchant Irvington | Creative Writing Club EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Janice Park CONTENT EDITORS Yale Han Nichelle Wong LAYOUT EDITORS Roland Zhang Helen Yuan
CONTENT Daniel Wang Harnoor Nagra
LAYOUT Daniel Wang Ingrid Lu Harnoor Nagra Megan Ye Nichelle Wong Yale Han
1
dec 2021
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
21 4
perspectives
9
12 14
Featured
Prose
Poetry
19| Hiraeth
1| Bees Flutter by Aarya Morgaonkar 3| !!!!! by Mandy Liu 11| I Imagine Myself… by Anonymous 13| Corner of Your Eye by Lisa Feng 19| Hiraeth by Sophie Mo and Isabel Lai
9| Wish Upon a Star by Francis Luo
By Sophie Mo and Isabel Lai
“Now you’re twenty nine, going on thirty, and you’ve lost the innocence of your childhood.”
Photo/Art 21| Grace Yin 22| Selina Song 22| Sriya Bairy 23| Ananya Bhargava 24| Anonymous 25| Akshaya Ravi
PROSE
BEES FLUTTER There was no better place for an existential crisis than jammed on the back of a bus, Beatrice reflected. Every bit of individuality was lost as you were sandwiched between complete strangers, all fighting to try not to fall as the bus made sharp turns. She could never show her sadness in school, where any tangentially embarrassing moment could destroy her reputation for the rest of high school. The back of the bus became a safe place, where she could finally release all of her frustration amongst equally tired students. She knew her frustration, which was usually aimed at her friends, was unsustainable, and even hypocritical in a sense. After all, had she not made the same complaints? Just a few short months ago, she had constantly cried about boys and grades and clubs, believing that her life was a bottomless pit of failure and rejection, that she would never be happy. Her father always told her that she would look back on that time with nothing but joy as she grew old, because she had everything anyone could want in the world. She had never known his advice to be wrong, but just this once, she wished it had.
by aarya morgaonkar
1|The penchant||DEC 2021
She had never known his advice to be wrong, but just this once, she wished it had
MORGAONKAR "I hate my life," she huffed as she slung her bag below the counter. “What happened this time?” her father asked with a grin. He rarely, if ever, took her problems seriously these days. He had always been carefree this way, and her fondest memories were playing with him when she was young. Those days were gone for her, and every day in high school was a struggle. “I’m not going to be varsity captain this year. It was stolen from right under me.” When her father burst into laughter, she realized he didn’t understand the severity of the situation. Volleyball had always been her thing; she was practically a shoo-in for captain. Every hour she had spent practicing and struggling would never be in vain, because someday she would join the long list of the volleyball captains of Beesbury High. Except now that moment would never come, and her life was all but ruined. “I’ve been having a terrible week Dad, and I don’t think anything about this week has been funny. I got an 88 on my chemistry test, failed in my
speech tournament, and now this. Everybody else in the world is having fun and succeeding, except for me,” she groaned. And not that she could tell him, but she was having issues in her personal life as well. Her friends had started to fall apart, and every other Instagram story enraged her. People had been doing so much with their lives, visiting exotic locations and partying every other weekend, which was a luxury she could never afford. Though she may not have expressed it, there was a smoldering resentment for her parents hidden under that jealousy. Her father had never had a full time job, mainly so he could take care of her, and it was that lack of cash that set her behind everyone else socially and academically. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she was almost two bites in before she realized something.
In all the world it was only the bees
She remembered that she hadn’t thought of volleyball or biology or anything else through the funeral. All she remembered was her mother’s hand on her shoulder, and the constant tears that streamed down her face. Every moment of her life since then was a painful blur. Her friends had offered her their sympathies, but in their faces she could tell they still believed their problems were great burdens. You are all fools, she wanted to say, but the words never came out. Nothing ever did anymore, because these girls, her closest friends, were alien to her. In all the world it was only the bees, which she watched flutter around the school from the back of the bus, that truly understood her.
“Are these honey pancakes, Dad? You never make these unless something bad happens. Do we have to move again?” She was almost ready to cry. How could she leave behind the life she had built at Beesbury these past two years? But then she looked at her dad, and it felt like something much worse had happened. He was crying. “Do you remember that doctor’s appointment I had today, Bee?” he asked her shakily. DEC 2021||The penchant|2
PROSE
The early-morning buzz greets the high school student as she makes her way across to the subway station. Rings of card swiping cross her ears. She doesn’t make it twenty steps into the station before she collides with a blur, knocked down to the ground. The student winces when she gets up, one eyebrow shut in pain with a hand holding her head. A few meters away, the blur that hit her comes into focus: a purple-haired girl with pigtails in a suit. And strangely enough, her status isn’t clearly displayed above her head. Instead, it’s shown as a !!!!!. Five exclamation points, the student muses to herself. Never seen a status like that before. The student doesn’t have time to react before the girl (!!!!!) leans over and peers down at her, face only inches away from her own. “I’m so sorry!” !!!!! exclaims. “Are you okay?” She holds out a hand, one that the student gladly takes. “I’m alright,” the student replies, dusting off her pants. “Are you alright?” !!!!! frantically nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She quickly pops down to grab her bag and dashes in the other direction, not before tossing a “Sorry again!” over her shoulder when she leaves. The student is left staring in her direction for a few seconds before going to collect her own bag. What a strange person, she
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LIU thinks. 7 stations later, the student arrives at Fuhai, and meets her destination a few blocks away from the station — at the end of an empty alleyway. Or, well, empty except for one person. “You’re late,” the other person in the alley replies. A somewhat familiar tuff of black hair and red eyes pops up, with a ring of text, “housekeeper,” circling his head. “Sorry about that, I bumped into someone on the way,” the student offers. She rummages through her bag before pulling out a thin paper portfolio. “Here’s what you wanted — on the painting and the prisoner.” This next part she makes sure to whisper in his ear. “If you’re going to act, act now. The prisoner is set for execution tomorrow.” The housekeeper nods firmly as he grasps the portfolio tightly, knuckles paling with how tight he grips the paper. “Thanks for this.” He gestures to the car at the end of the alley. “Here’s the escort as you wanted.” “I take it you’ll be clearing the camera records nearby for a while?” “I can only wipe out surveillance up until around Minasaki, yeah. Any area past that, I can’t guarantee.” “That’s enough for me. Thank you.” The student then hesitates, words on the tip of her tongue, but after a moment of conflict, she decides to say them anyway, since she won’t be meeting the housekeeper ever again. “And good luck. With. . . finding their name. Whoever’s it is.” The housekeeper’s face freezes for a second and the student almost panics — has she said the wrong thing? Should she have not mentioned it at all? — but her worries dispel when a small smile breaks on his face. “And good luck to you too, wherever you’re going. I hope
it’ll be a better place for you there.” He waves, before turning and walking out the alley. The student pauses for a moment to take in the view of the alley, of the housekeeper’s silhouette growing smaller and smaller, of the birds dancing in the sky. I’ll never see this view again, she thinks, inhaling a breath of salty air. And yet, that thought isn’t sad to her at all. She doesn’t realize she’s smiling until she has to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep her face neutral. I’ll be free now, she almost giddily recalls as she turns on the car. No name. No nothing. Just me in this huge world. In one swift motion, she flips up the car’s shades and drives out of the alley. She doesn’t spare a single glance behind her. _______________________ The painter sighs as she closes the door behind her, the familiar humming and buzz of the door closing greeting her. Automatically, the kitchen lights turn on, illuminating a figure curled up on the couch. She quickly makes her way to the couch and falls face forward onto it with a groan. She hears a huff from her left, then a poke in her side.
“Tough day at work?” “As you can imagine,” she whines, voice slightly muffled from the couch cushions. The painter finally turns on her side to face the other person on the couch — her roommate, the swordmaster. “What about you?” The swordmaster hums. “Had a pretty peaceful day. I don’t have any sessions until tomorrow.” “Lucky you, I had to face a grouchy patron for five hours today. It was not it.” “Poor you.” “Mmm.” It’s silent for a few moments more, just the gentle sounds of breathing filling the air. It’s calming like this. The painter wouldn’t mind it if they stayed like this for longer. But an internal conflict later, the painter finally decides on getting up with a groan; she walks over to the closet and closes the door behind her. The dim light from the closet ceiling reveals an oil painting stand with a half-drawn canvas on it, adorned with pencil sketches of a person’s silhouette. The painter bites the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t have enough paint to complete the canvas, she startlingly realizes. Should she go to the store the next day to buy some—? But that can come after
DEC 2021||The penchant|4
the important part of the painting, she decides. She doesn’t pay the paint any more thought as she jots down a jumble of letters in the corner of the canvas, then leans back to catch a view of the entire piece— “Painter, what are you doing in the closet?” A muffled voice from outside startles her from her thoughts. She quickly drops her pencil and throws a black cloth over the canvas. “Just checking out my next piece!” She calls out as she shuffles out of the closet and closes it behind her. The swordmaster narrows her eyes inquisitively at her, but she doesn’t ask. The swordmaster doesn’t ask about the painting, that is. She asks about something worse. “Are you still on the search for. . .?” The swordmaster trails off. She doesn’t have to complete her sentence, to gesture, to do anything for the painter to understand the missing part. The painter bites her lip nervously. “Yeah, still am.” The swordmaster lets out an audible sigh. “Why do you insist on torturing yourself so? I don’t mean to deter you from your work,” amber bronze eyes stare into her own, “but. . . this is dangerous. Anything could happen.” “I know,” the painter raises her voice barely over a whisper. She walks over to the ouch and perches herself right next to the swordmaster. “But I can’t just—leave this alone. I have to do something about it. For the both of us.” “You don’t have to do anything for me.” “I know, but I want to,” she turns to the swordmaster, who pointedly avoids her gaze. The painter looks back down at her lap. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” The swordmaster doesn’t respond, but she never brings it up again after that. The room is silent as the
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painter stares at the closed closet from all the way in her bedroom, much later in the night. She blinks, and her eyes wander back to the sleeping swordmaster by her side. Slits of moonlight illuminate the swordmaster’s face, relaxed of any expression, almost like a child’s. I will free you, even if it’s the last thing I do, the painter thinks determinedly. _______________________ The prisoner does not blink, does not break her gaze ever. Even before the face of death. Even before the falling crowd of prisoners into jagged metal cutlery. Even before— She braces herself for the falling feeling of weightlessness, of striking pain, but it never comes. The ground beneath her never moves. The prisoner blinks, then blinks again. The rest of the prisoners around her murmur, yelps of surprise echoing across the chamber. She traces people’s outstretched fingers to a figure falling from the ceiling. Huh, the prisoner thinks. Said person lands ungracefully a meter away from her with an “Ooof!” and a hiss of pain. She stares inquisitively at the person, a black-haired boy with red eyes and a status of “housekeeper,” as they get up and lock eyes with her. Surprisingly, the person breaks eye contact with her. Instead, he slowly walks towards her. “Come on, we have somewhere to be,” the housekeeper says — almost whispers — barely loud enough for the prisoner to hear. “Are you talking to me?” “Yes, you, come on,” the housekeeper quickly extends a hand out almost as if to grasp her wrist, but the prisoner retracts her wrist faster, and the housekeeper is left with just an outstretched hand in the air. He looks up at her with a sheepish
LIU
expression. “Sorry about that, but I have no time to explain now. All I can tell you is that I know something about that painting.” The housekeeper could be talking about any painting, any painting at all, but the way he says it sends chills down the prisoner’s spine, as if she’s been seen through, lies stripped away to the bone. She doesn’t think. She only nods, and follows the housekeeper’s retreating figure through the back of the room. She barely makes it off the platform before it starts moving again, and pain-filled screams echo in the room once more. She doesn’t miss how the housekeeper flinches with the first batch of screams. _______________________ A long, winding journey in a twist of tunnels and car ride later, she follows the housekeeper into the basement of a dusty-looking red brick building. She notices the housekeeper pausing in front of a corner of the basement, and she pauses too, peering over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of what he’s looking at — a rigid-looking structure covered with what seems like black cloth. “This is what I wanted to show you,” the housekeeper squats, uncovering the black veil with careful hands. The prisoner
watches as the housekeeper blows on the cloth, the dust floating into air. And underneath it all — is a painting. It’s hard to catch a glimpse of what the painting is even showing at first, but after a few moments, the prisoner’s eyes finally focus on the subject. It’s a woman, back turned to the viewer, a sword behind her back, but the strange thing is the absence of a ring of text around the woman’s head. Her status. Upon seeing the sword and the missing status, the prisoner freezes up. Stops breathing. She doesn’t realize her eyes have locked onto the painting until the housekeeper speaks again. “This, I believe. . . was her last painting. Before she
“
died,” he speaks softly. “And from what I know, she never got the chance to show it to you. Right?” The prisoner nods slightly, not trusting her voice to speak for her. After a moment, she clears her throat. “I knew she was working on something, but I didn’t know it was this,” she says, then winces at how hoarse she sounds. “Although I think you might have some grasp on this already, but. . . the painter wanted to find your name,” the housekeeper offers. “Yours and hers too. And she got caught up with an organization doing just that, and. . . things happened.” Silence falls over them for minutes more, the prisoner’s eyes glued to the painting, blinking back any tears that rush to her eyes. “Thank you for showing me this,” she finally whispers. She blinks away the last of her tears to turn towards the housekeeper with sharp eyes. “Now, what did you want from me?” “What do you mean what I want from you?” He laughs nervously. “There’s no way you saved my life without expecting anything in return,” she says plainly, crossing her arms. She wills herself to not look away, to not waver when she says her words. “What do you want?” “You caught me,” the housekeeper runs a hand through
it sends chills down the
prisoner’s spine, as if she’s been seen through, lies stripped away to the bone DEC 2021||The penchant|6
his hair with a sheepish expression on his face. “I just need. . . any information you know about the painter’s organization?” The prisoner doesn’t sigh outwardly; instead, she takes one long inhale and exhale, hands caressing her forehead, before she speaks. “I know pretty much as much as you do. She joined the Address. They constantly breached the system and took people’s statuses.” “I don’t know much, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that.” She blinks. “Oh, right. Their organization changes meeting places and dates pretty often, but I noticed that one of their frequented places was the birdwatch tower in Fuhai, sometime after 10 p.m. I coincidentally caught her walking towards there a few times.” “... Thank you. And I’m really sorry about all of this.” The housekeeper’s footsteps grow fainter and fainter, until they pause for a second. “Oh, your status. . . is gone right now, if you were wondering.” “Oh,” she laughs wryly. “I used to teach people how to fight with a sword. Who knows if I’ll ever get my status back.” The housekeeper makes a noise at the back of his throat. “Whether or not your status shows it doesn’t determine whether you can do it or not, right?”
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She blinks. “You’re right.” She blinks again, then breaks into a small smile. “You’re the one of two people I know — or knew, I guess — who don’t care about statuses.” He grins back, a small, mysterious smile. “I take after someone I know as well.” He turns to walk away again. “You might want to check the back of the canvas too. Just in case.” And then he leaves. The prisoner’s smile quickly slips off her face. It takes a minute or two for her to muster up the courage to look at the painting again. With shaking hands, she carefully turns over the canvas, until her eyes catch small text scribbled in pencil in the bottom left corner. Yumi, the text reads. The prisoner resists the urge to drop the painting and instead places it back on the stand. The tremor doesn’t leave her hands the entire time. She finally breaks down into silent sobs, ice cold hands furiously scrubbing at her cheeks, but the tears keep falling. Why did you leave me like this? She wants to ask. Is this your way of freeing me? Is that what they called a name? What more use is a name, what more freedom does it grant, when you’re not here at all? _______________________ The instructor paces back
and forth, a finger lifted to her lips in thought. She agitatedly cracks her knuckles, eyes flitting all over the room. The ringing of a phone only adds to her agitation. She grabs the phone and grumbles, “What’s wrong?” “Madame, there are more blank spaces in the system than before,” a timid voice speaks. The instructor sighs, then starts pacing around the room at an even faster pace. “This must be their fault,” she curses under her breath. “Stupid Address.” “You have to close down any entrances into the system from the outside and get rid of anyone who could have tampered with it,” she hisses. “Will do, but I was just wondering if there’s any other precautions—” “For the love of God, just do what you usually do!” She slams the phone. It’s not a second later when the phone line rings yet again. The instructor picks up the phone and almost snarls. “What else is up with you?” “Uh, Madame,” the other person on the line speaks, “we also just got a report.” “It seems. . . your daughter is missing.” _______________________ She knows she doesn't have much time left. That she’s running from a system with its jaws ready to pounce on her. That
LIU
wouldn’t it be nice to finally have something to call her own?
she’s endeavoring on a chase that might not get her anywhere at all. But she has to keep going, she reasons with herself. For her own goals, and for her organization’s, and for everyone else on the planet. (And maybe, just maybe, her own goals come before the rest, because wouldn’t it be nice to finally have something to call her own?) The face of a black-haired, red-eyed boy pops into her mind and disappears just as fast. She shakes her head. She can’t be thinking of other things. Not now. Not ever. Too occupied with her thoughts of what to do next, she doesn’t see the person in front of her when she runs into the station. She gets knocked backwards onto the floor ungracefully. She doesn’t waste any time at all in getting up and looking over the person she collided with — a brown-haired high school student. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” She hurriedly asks, holding out a hand to the student. “I’m alright,” the student answers a bit too slowly, eyes trained on something above her head. “Are you alright?” “Yeah, I’m fine.” She grabs her bag and starts running in the direction she was originally headed. “Sorry again!” she yells towards the student while she’s halfway into the station, hoping the other will catch her words. What a strange person, she thinks, but she shakes it off. She doesn’t have time to think about it. She has a name to find.
DEC 2021||The penchant|8
WISH UPON A STAR by francis luo
POETRY
I. Wish upon a star, they say, A shooting star that passes nigh. I’ve never seen a shooting star That flew across this barren sky. The night is just two shades from black. The stars are smothered by lamplight. The myths of old, the heavens’ dance— In this new world, they’ve lost their might. So darkness reigns nocturnal world. The moon has quit and gone away. And even as I step outside, The streetlights make it seem like day. II. Stars lost in an ever-changing world. They are far, far away. Too far to matter to most. Yet they shine with brightness somewhere in the ocean of nothingness, the empty abyss, making shapes for us to follow— Shapes that no longer matter. What matters? The things that matter exist only in the minds of living beings, you and I. We use We take We discard We forget about the stars and other things that also mother.
III. In the darkest hours of the chill of night we looked to the stars.
previously unknown We built power plants We built bombs We learned universal truths
From the stars We drew pictures of gods and beasts We found meaning where there wasn’t We created life from light and emptiness From the stars
and unlearned lies We built metal ships We went to the moon And still our legacy flies through the stars Voyagers learned to navigate a realm yet unknown From the stars
From the stars We made our calendars We made arbitrary constructions Figments of our minds And arbitrary numbers— 365, 12, 7— Became meaningful From the stars From the stars We made our zodiacs We made predictions We made hopes based on nothing except flaming balls of gas— too dumb to know it or too smart to care From the stars From the stars We made maps The stars above showed us the world below by looking up and losing ourselves in the sky We made our headings on the ground From the stars From the stars We sailed the seas We saw a star and We followed it We found new lands New places New opportunity From pinpricks of light Shining in the sky From the stars From the stars We learned of spectacles
It is nighttime now, but I cannot see the stars. IV. Wish upon a star, they say, A shooting star that passes nigh. However, I no longer wish To shoot for the stars or aim for the sky. When older generations gazed into the sky, they must have felt a sense of wonder. Now, we’re dealt this hand of starless night sky. The barren sky is dead to me, assassinated by our dreams to domineer against the dark, But in the end, we killed the light.
“
…in the end, we killed the light
DEC 2021||The penchant|10
PROSE
I IMAGINE
MYSELF…
If I could name one thing that I think about the most in the whole world, it would be me trying to imagine other people’s thought processes. My curiosity leads me to wonder what people in my everyday life — teachers, friends, family, schoolmates, cashier clerks at Safeway — see the world. What goes on inside their minds? I try to put myself in their shoes sometimes and visualize myself in crazy scenarios that I could be a part of. I imagine myself working at a Boba tea store. I’m not exactly sure about being able to make the drinks, but would it be a fun or a stressful job? Would I have to deal with unpleasant customers from time to time? From what I have seen and heard so far, it’s an amazing way to develop communication and productivity skills while also gaining benefits such as
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discounts, but it also requires hours of hard work and time commitment. I imagine myself being a History teacher in the future. I am absolutely in love with the subject, but how would I go about sharing my knowledge and passion with students? Would it really be a good idea for me to have a teaching career? I really do appreciate teachers for being able to do their job well and having to deal with us overly excited students every day. It must be a tough profession, but they manage to plan out our daily curriculums and wake up early in the morning just to come to school and educate us. I imagine myself as a college student already. I wouldn’t say I do well academically, but I certainly do want a fresh college experience. I already know what I want to study, I already know what job I want, but I just can’t get my grades up for some reason — even when I try really hard. How do
smart people do it? How do they feel about their academic achievements; and extracurricular ones as well? I have always wondered how it would be like to have a special talent of my own and have the dedication to be able to get things done. Some situations I could never properly imagine, however, are how it’s like to be a part of certain communities involving one’s personal identities such as race, sexuality, gender, etc. All of us are still humans at the end of the day, but our perspectives are definitely shaped by both the social and psychological aspects of where we came from and where we currently live.
by anonymous
Our perspectives are definitely shaped by both the social and psychological aspects of where we came from and where we currently live. DEC 2021||The penchant|12
by lisa feng
“Spirit animals–daemons–are amazing things,” Juno’s elementary school teacher had said. “They can come in just about any form but usually in the form of a companion animal, or, very rarely, a mythological creature that represents your ‘soul and magic.’” “Generally, they start in dreams at a young age and then become visible to only yourself. Eventually, they materialize and appear before everyone’s eyes.” “Not having a daemon isn’t something to be ashamed of. It isn’t!” — “Have you been visited by a spirit? Any strange dreams or feelings?” Mother asked, her bobcat blinking sleepily at Juno from the kitchen. “I think so,” he lied. There wasn’t anything at all, except normal dreams. However, Juno was ten years old, and he was already tipping towards an overdue manifestation. He didn’t want to disappoint Mother. “That’s excellent, honey!” Mother said, smiling at him. But the bobcat’s eyes dimmed, and it turned its head away in disappointment. There were no dreams, and the years melted away like candle wax, leaving nothing but cold hard truth in its wake. Mother stopped looking at Juno, and he stopped trying to look people in the eye, especially under their and their daemons’ collective stares. — It’s also commonly known that people who don’t have a daemon have almost no internal magic, to the point where almost all their ability is narrowed to theory and passive abilities. His career counselor told Juno, “You excel in mathematics and sciences. If you were anyone else, your magical theory scores combined with those would be a one-way ticket straight to some of the best magical research
PROSE universities in the country.” The counselor’s crow stared at him blankly, like it was seeing straight through him, and not at him. Juno didn’t say anything. He sat still and quiet and nodded along. He didn’t make eye contact. “Unfortunately, your lack of a daemon means you can’t participate in any practical magic work, so you should choose a realistic field to major in.” Juno is quiet and unassuming. He never speaks unless spoken to. He’s just some daemonless loser. He is also a stubborn, spiteful loser. Right after his meeting, he immediately starts writing his applications to all of the prestigious magical research universities in the country. He got in, miraculously, to one of the schools. Specifically, the institute whose application didn’t require him to state what his daemon was. — “Hello!” The bright-eyed girl grinned and stuck her hand out. “Name’s Naomi Greywood! Specialty in fire magics, and this bugger—” A large fox, no, no, a fox can’t have five tails. “—is my daemon! I named it Kitty, and the name stuck.” The kitsune barked. “Hey! I wasn’t very creative as an eight-year-old.” Greywood stuck out her tongue at the kitsune. It proceeded to bite her index finger. There was a short pause, and the surrounding people blinked away the natural awe that divinity brought. The boy next to Juno said dumbfounded, “That’s a kitsune.” Greywood beamed and shook his hand, while trying to gently wriggle her other hand out of the kitsune’s jaw. “Sure is! You from a small town?” “Yeah. I’ve never seen any mythological daemons. Mostly just described in textbooks. This is Basil, he’s a pretty common coral snake.” At this, a brightly colored coral
snake poked out from over his shoulder sleeve and flicked its tongue at Greywood. “I’m Peter Northwest, by the way. Specialist in earth-aligned magics.” Greywood turned to him. “What about you? Ah-” “Juno Ambers, Runes and Theory. A-and. Uh. No. I’m-I’m daemonless,” Juno stuttered. “Oh,” Greywood said. “I’m sorry.” — Juno dreamed of something in the shadows, watching him. It wasn’t a daemon dream, because he was too old to manifest one. It flicked something. An ear, or a wing. One large eye stared up at him. They unblinkingly stared at each other, and Juno looked away first. When Juno woke up, his chest felt numb. — Professor Addams said, eyebrows raised, “You don’t have a daemon, Ambers?” “Erm...Yes.” Juno fiddled with the straps on his bag, feeling the weight of both her and her owl’s stare. “And you attended a magical university.” “I’m really good at theory and I like it?” She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “You’ll skip non-runework practicals, but
you’re required to correct their spellcraft and whatnot.” Juno blinks. He was relieved she didn’t go to the Board and kick him out immediately. “For common magic?” “Yes, for all elemental magic. I expect you to be able to recreate the forms of just about every type of common near-perfectly, even if you can’t do them yourself. They will peer-grade you. I want those forms by the end of the semester, or you’re not passing the class. Got it?” Addams snapped. Her owl clicked its beak impatiently. “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. — “Greywood-” “Oh, call me Naomi! You’ve already helped a lot with my rune work. Hey, why aren’t we friends yet? We should go out for coffee!” A librarian’s cat daemon, prowling the bookshelves, hissed at them to hush. Everytime Juno talked to Naomi, it felt like getting hit by a small truck, or, at least, whipped in the face with the tails of her yapping kitsune. It was so overwhelming and so difficult to make eye contact. “Alright. Naomi, I have some questions about your footwork for utilizing your fire abilities; wouldn’t a staff help balance out your weight over a DEC 2021||The penchant|14
simple wand? And you’ve burned, er, maybe three wands because of fox-fire overload, so you should probably invest—” “Do you hear that?” Naomi said abruptly. She and her kitsune tilted her head in tandem. Nearby them, Northwest looked up in alarm. Juno couldn’t hear anything, especially not without a daemon to enhance his senses. “It sounds like...angry scratching.” Suddenly, the roof of the library caved in, and with it, dropped in a soot and blood covered figure, whose poisonous gaze was pinpointed at Kitty. Naomi looked ill. The magic in the air felt slow and sticky, like a viscous tar. The person laughed and laughed, and behind Juno’s eyes, he felt the imprint of something supernatural, a ravenous hunger of a dragon, digging its claws into him, prying into his flesh to feast on what little magic he had. — It was 3am, and they were at a Denny’s. The poor student worker looked dead on his feet, but Juno, Naomi, and Northwest probably looked so much worse that he glanced at them and grimaced in sympathy. The questioning of events took hours and every witness was checked thoroughly before they were released. Apparently, the only way for such a high-profile dark wizard to not only get on campus, but into one of the buildings was for someone powerful to tear a hole on the wards, and the officials found, lo and behold, a huge hole in the security system. Unfortunately, it would take a while for repairs to be finished. Juno was only questioned once and was pretty much let go after it became clear that he didn’t have a daemon, and no, he wasn’t lying about that, and yes, he goes to a magical university, despite having pretty much no magic. Unfortunately, Naomi received the short end of the
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stick. Naomi hissed. “Just because people with mythological daemons are statistically more likely to be power-hungry, doesn’t mean I’m going to align myself with the crazy! Besides,” she ranted, “has no one ever considered that the ward gap was from negligence?” Northwest ‘call me Peter, I think being held hostage by a mad lunatic makes us friends’ patted her on the back in sympathy. By her side, Kitty grumbled and tapped its tails on the floor. Naomi sighed, “At least he’s incarcerated now.” — Juno dreamt of the corpse of a massive beached dragon, spanning at least 100 feet across a shoreline. The sand was bright white and gold. In contrast, the waves that licked his ankles were a slick, tar-like black substance. There was a crash, not unlike a roof caving in and the smell of ash flooded his senses. Juno closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the dragon’s dark colored flesh was gone, leaving nothing but white bones, and the waves had receded far away. “What do you want?” Juno asked. He looked at the ocean. The ocean seemed to look back at him, so he turned away. It couldn’t be a daemon dream because there were no animals. — Not everyone reacted positively to constructive criticism. At least, not from someone who couldn’t even perform magic beyond charging runes. Juno was being particularly insistent on why an aquarius sequence would never work on a water vapor spell when his group project partner Aaron exploded at him. “You can’t even do any magic! What the hell do you even know about spellwork, you loser?”
FENG Juno flinched and looked away, causing Aaron to backpedal hastily, “Wait no- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. Sorry. You’re pretty good at theory for someone who can’t do half this stuff—” “It’s alright,” interrupted Juno, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he didn’t look at Aaron for the rest of the study session. Aaron insisted on using an aquarius sequence, and Juno didn’t correct him. The spell blew up in his face during his demonstration. Served him right. — There was something wrong with Professor Addams’s magic. It started right after midterms and continued. Even the way she spoke seemed slightly off. Whatever replaced the Professor, it didn’t quite get the aftertaste of her magic right. Naomi was a crackling campfire and the sound of a fox laughing gleefully. Peter was the feeling of snakeskin and the smell of rust and soil. Professor Addams used to be the ticking of a clock and an owl’s silent wingbeats. The thing that replaced her was like the thick viscosity of honey and tar and the taste of rot, sweet and sickly. Juno frowned. He didn’t have enhanced senses from a daemon. How could he explain that Addam’s magic just simply didn’t feel right? Juno tried to ignore it, but the bad feeling in his chest stayed. The following week he started seeing fine silvery lines between Addams’s angrily pacing owl and his friend’s daemons, like spider strings, wrapped around them in the corner of his eyes. “Anything to add, Ambers?” The owl fluffed its feathers, and it jostled the strings around it, tugging slightly at every daemon in the room. “No ma’am.” It wasn’t his problem. It wasn't. He was a loser, a nobody. He wasn’t about
to deal with...whatever this was. — “Does Addams sound like she has a cold to you?” Juno remarked. Naomi blinked. “Well—I guess she sounds a little weird. And her daemon seems to be mad as hell all the time now, like a mini-dragon!” She and Peter laughed. Juno didn’t, and he had an itch in the back of his mind, like he was forgetting something important. “I mean, we’ve all been feeling a bit peaky, I think. Basil and I have been a bit more tired lately. Post-midterm stress, probably.” In the following week’s practical, everyone’s magic tasted a bit blander and fainter. Kitty didn’t jump up and down much anymore. Naomi tired out quickly, and when Juno asked, she grimaced. “Probably just something I ate. I haven’t been feeling great.”
Juno Ambers was a loser, but he wasn’t stupid or unobservant. He got into one of the most prestigious magic universities in the world based almost entirely on theoretical scores. Whatever replaced Addams, it was eating their magic, at least through their daemons. He tried to tell Naomi but she waved him off, saying that if Kitty didn’t notice anything, he was probably just being paranoid. — When Juno checked, the dark wizard that crashed into the library had been arrested, but broke out. The reason it wasn’t common news was because the max-level security prison housing him was several states away. His daemon was a wyvern, and the magic user had a specialty in fire and shapeshifting magics. The right thing to do, of course, would be to report to the
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authorities. But last time, they barely bothered questioning him after finding out he was daemonless, so how would he explain this? ‘I’ve been seeing these strings in the corner of my eyes, I can apparently feel magic, and I’ve been having weird probably-daemon dreams?’ Fat chance. But Naomi looked exhausted and much thinner than usual. Peter almost collapsed on him, explaining, “Low blood sugar, or something. I have no idea. I have a doctor’s appointment next week.” The campus’s security system wards hadn’t been fixed yet. — This time, there were hundreds of eyes all surrounding him, black-white-gold, unblinking. “I’m not a brave person,” he whispered shakily. “But you are, sometimes, a very stubborn one,” the eyes crooned. This time, Juno didn’t look away. He reached out his hand. “I can’t let my friends get hurt.” — Nothing seemed wrong in the practical the following morning, until it was Naomi’s turn. Then dark-wizard-as-Addams put down his notes. “Nothing personal,” he said, and that was all the warning the imposter gave before the suffocating feeling of ash-blood-tar suddenly slammed into the room. The strings suddenly brightened and tightened around the daemons, and by the gasps of everyone else, they became visible for everyone else. The owl screeched and its feathers started shrinking as its body got longer and longer and its wings got bigger and bigger, and it was no longer an owl but a massive wyvern, winding around the classroom. Someone was screaming. It might’ve been Juno.
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He was not equipped for this, all he did was say yes to a weird eye-thing in his dream. What was his life? All he wanted was to learn cool magic at a university; how did it come to this? He didn’t want to die. “Juno, run!” he heard Peter hiss from next to him when Juno took a wheezing breath. Juno whipped around in confusion. Him, run? He was amongst the least likely to get himself together to get out and get help. Then, he realized, no one else could move. Their daemons were tied in string, and they seemed to be paralyzed. He fumbled for his phone in his pocket and started to leap for the emergency exit. Too late, though. “Now, now—we can’t have some daemonless little loser stop me from siphoning a five-tail kitsune, can we?” sneered not-Addams. He slammed his staff into Juno’s phone and then his leg, and both times there was a sharp, resounding crack. Juno screamed. Naomi screamed. Not-Addams turned around to face Naomi. “If you don’t struggle, Greywood, it’ll be over fast. Hey, you might even survive!” He grinned maniacally, and the wyvern rumbled. In the distance, Juno could hear people banging on the classroom door, but the emergency locks were activated. Not-Addams held up his staff and started chanting, lighting up the strings. This time, everyone else started screaming. Juno could somehow feel, deep in his bones, that the daemons and their people were being ripped wrong, and it felt viscerally wrong, and he had to do something. And some part of him felt terribly angry, even if it was some crazy mage, that people kept overlooking him. He was sick of not being seen, by teachers, by his friends, by everyone. “Stop.” Juno said. “Look at me. Look at me.” “Sorry?” smiled
Angels don’t exist. But if you turned your perceptions sideways twice and looked at it from the upside-down, they do, right in the corner of your eyes.
FENG not-Addams, looking at him. “Does the daemonless want me to...what...what are—” — Angels don’t exist. But if you turned your perceptions sideways twice and looked at it from the upside-down, they do, right in the corner of your eyes. — “Oh my god,” Naomi whispered, her eyes wide with horror. Peter couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look away. — Something vague, something divine, something holy yet unholy unfurled its shape behind Juno. It had dozens of huge black-white-gold feathered and scaled wings, it had hundreds of eyes, it was made of stars, it was wreathed in some sort of cold, pale flame. Juno screamed, “LOOK AT ME!” The thing roared in tandem. It hurt to look at it directly, but no one could quite look away. In the corners of their eyes, it somehow both shined and sucked in light like a black hole. Not-Addams didn’t look away. He didn’t seem like he could. His face melted away into some sort of black tar revealing the face of the escaped convict, and the room smelled like blood and smoke and rotting honey. The wyvern screamed and thrashed and melted into huge white bones, and then, finally, it was all over. — The officers scratched their heads at the unprecedented turn of events but ultimately told him that what he did was more or less in self defense, not to worry too much, and thank you for subduing the dark wizard. Then, they congratulated him, wryly, on being an extraordinarily late daemon bloomer. Juno laughed sheepishly. His leg, which had a clean fracture, was quickly healed by one of his classmates. Addams was found, thankfully unharmed,
in stasis in her office. How nice. Juno still couldn’t use magic, so there wasn’t any sort of convenient cheat into practical magic. The most painful part was that people were finally acknowledging him because he had a mythological daemon. But Naomi and Peter patted him on the back and looked at him. This time, he looked back. “You’re doing alright,” they said. A small black, white, and gold moth landed on his hand. The eyespots on the wings blinked up at him. “Hello, Angel,” Juno said.
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HIRAETH You’re ten and naive. You’re ten and naive, living in this little town in the countryside where it’s sunny all year round, and you’re always able to see crystal circles behind your eyelashes when you tilt your head to stare at the sky. Your home is up to the east, where the sun rises every morning at six o’clock. Rainbows would always catch in the glass planes of the home you live in hours after the sun has made itself apparent at the zenith of the sky, throwing all the colors you’ve ever dreamed of onto the wooden floorboards. You spend most of your time skipping school until it’s summer and you’ve learned nothing but the phases of the moon and the way in which fifteen times fifteen is two-hundred twenty five. But it’s fine, because the world isn’t supposed to make sense anyway. Because you’ve never really understood how the tomatoes in your family’s garden always ripen around this time, why it is that every time you step outside you stay rooted to the ground, or what makes the world spin round and round. You skip in all your strawberry glory, ice cream bar in hand as you swing your arms like a helicopter, not stopping until
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you topple over. Soft, pink clouds paint the bright blue skies, yet you take no notice, as the world is already perfect and complete in your rose-tinted glasses. It blocks the sweat that threatens to fall into your eyes and the harsh sunlight that beats its people to a crisp. All you see is the friendly neighbor’s kid, coming in to check up on you, and the sparkling, fizzy river that cuts through your home territory. You watch the crickets chirp as they weave between the grass blades and listen to the hum of your grandma’s voice as she bakes you your favorite red velvet cookies. You pursue these crickets, chasing them until the sun has sunk past the horizon. In your mind, your dripping ice cream bar is far less important than this monkey chase. You bounce your way back home, riding on the blankets of the misty fog. The chirping cicadas trumpet your return as the sovereign of the land, silencing at the arrival of the empress. Your grandma takes you by the arm, sweeping you into the one-story house while you tell her of your grand adventures. You eagerly rip off your jacket, sticking your hair out the window as the breeze washes over you in your white tank-top. You wonder wistfully if this is how you will live the rest of your life: sleeping under the brilliant cotton clouds, skipping rocks against the pond to the west, watching as the seasons
by sophie mo and isabel lai
pass with practiced ease, the world leaving you with all that it has to offer. But, oh, how naive you were at ten. Time escapes your grasp like those lizards that scuttle away from your reaching hands, and you find yourself losing your youth to high standards and the pressure of being independent. It’s the incessant badgering of your family for you to get married, to get a job, to get a family, that makes you sacrifice yourself to the city, moving away from all the things that make you feel alive. Now you’re twenty nine, going on thirty, and you’ve lost the innocence of your childhood. The world suddenly makes too much sense to the point where you understand everything, and so you’ve come to learn that the laws which set this world in place do not have a place for you. You are an outcast, a blur between the lines of reality and the fantasy you left behind eleven years ago. And so. So, you’ve stopped wondering why the world kept turning even when it knew you were being left behind, stopped pondering about what you would do the next day, stopped thinking all together. Because everything now is a straight, rigid routine, devoid of the freedom you tasted on your tongue when you were ten. You now work at a lousy insurance company that keeps you awake from six in the morning to eleven in the nights
FEATURED
with only a half an hour break during noon and even shorter breaks after. You’ve downed enough caffeine to fill your bathtub, and there is no longer a purpose to your life, not when the air tastes like petroleum and the cigarette smoke kills your lungs and the ground seems to swallow you up with each step you take and the people around you are all dyed gray because you don’t know them and they don’t know you and, and, and. The sunlight doesn’t even filter into the fifteen-story, two-hundred twenty five roomed apartment complex you live in as it had done back home. There are no more rainbows, no more crystal circles in your eyes, no more hard floorboards to cool yourself off on. Your windows are always closed; there’s no point in opening them when all there is to see before you are more and more towering buildings that obscure your vision of the world. The only deviation from whatever life this is is when you decide to stop at a convenience store one night after work. You buy a warm red velvet cookie from the nice cashier who sends you off with a smile, and you stop outside the store to take a bite out of it. Bitter. The taste floods past your gated teeth to the back of your throat, leaving a resentful flavor lingering there. You swallow anyway, but it lacks the flavor of home, of your grandma’s skilled hands that knead the dough, of the heat of the oven. The white chocolate doesn’t dissolve on your tongue nor does the cookie crumble in your hands. As the neon lights melt across your shoulders and sink their fingers past the cloth of your white-collared shirt, you feel a part of your consciousness—the
MO AND LAI
remnants of your past self—bleed away with them into the cold concrete beneath your feet. And that’s when you remember: You’re twenty-nine and counting. Gone are the crickets whose sounds fill your ears and the ice cream that would melt delightfully into the cracks between your fingers. Gone is the world colored in rose, the one you basked in, the one that gave you everything it had to offer. In the end— In the end, you’re left with nothing.
Now you’re twenty nine, going on thirty, and you’ve lost the innocence of your childhood.
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BYGONE BEAST (above) These dry bones, too, were once a living creature—one with its own story. But time is a bird forever riding the wind; when the wanderer meets the bones, he sees no more than cracking remnants of the past.
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ART
BAIRY, SRIYA
YIN, GRACE
SONG, SELINA. “UNBRIDLED”
LIFE OF A
PUZZLE PIECE (above) A jigsaw puzzle piece has a simple yet powerful life: long tendrils of attraction toward other pieces, immense joy from each new connection, and a passion to reveal its part in the completed picture.
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BHARGAVA, ANANYA
ENERGETIC APATHY Various vibrant colors represent excitement while a dull expression shows indifference. Is the tone of the piece happy, sad, or both? It’s all about what one chooses to focus on. It’s all about perspective. 23|The penchant||DEC 2021
ISOMETRIC SONDER What if I never belonged? What if I was you?
ANONYMOUS
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PHOTO
AKSHAYA RAVI
“LEADING LANES”
“SEEKING”
“INSIDE”
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