Penchant07 by The Penchant Literary Magazine

autumn/ halloween

Irvington High Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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. To learn more about us, go to penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/. To see our submission guidelines, click on the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Submit Toâ&#x20AC;? tab on the menu bar, or follow us on facebook @penchantlitmag.

The penchant Irvington | creative writing club

EDITOR IN CHIEF Tianhui (Lily) Yang CONTENT EDITORS Pia Parekh Sashrika Pandey Athena Xue LAYOUT EDITORS Jaime Wang Tianhui (Lily) Yang COVER CREDITS Desiree Ho CONTENT Sahityasree Subramanian Juhi Thapar Ayushi Batwara Adrianna Thant Irene Geng Felicia Mo Catherine You Chaiya Chatkara Serafina Lin-Show Arnav Nagle Anika Bansal Isabella Gao

LAYOUT Sanjana Shinde Sachi Huilgol Abijah Crawford Kaashvi Agnihotri Anikait Rao Shivani Manivasagan Nicole Xie Arnav Nagle PHOTO/DESIGN Arnav Nagle Sushrut Borkar Sabrina Ma Chandu Garapaty

october 2017

TABLE OF

CONTENTS 15

25 halloween &

autumn

Featured Prose 2| The Black Opal By Sachi Huilgol

“She did not complain; she understood that flawless beauty such as hers could not be attained without pain.”

5| Jack O’ Lantern By Brandon Mead

“My mouth runs off nonsense as it will, a weak shield thrown up to protect against the terrible ennui of the meaningless centuries”.

25| Monsters By Kaashvi Agnihotri “The monster was a gruesome sight. He was the King, he told the boy. He wore a corona of spikes atop his misshapen heada dark, inky being that was his deepest secret. No manner of weapons could slay such a beast, and so he could only learn to bear with it.”

Poetry

1| Leaves By Adrianna Thant

29| I’m Not Cold By Euonymous

7| The Grin By Jaime Wang

29| Reap By Euonymous

9| How I Became a Killer By Lily Yang

29| Roasting Geese By Euonymous

15| Seventeen and Sane By Rory Conlon

30| I’m Falling By Sashrika Pandey

19| House of Dominic By Zero Itatami

31| The Roman’s Lament By Chandu Garapaty

26| Desperate Measures: Part I By Emrit Cheung

32| Shadows By Vox Nihili

27| Just Some Leafy Advice By Serafina Lin-Show 28| This Self-Referential Title Describes Itself but Not the Contents of Its Corresponding Article, so Is It Still a Title? By An Author Who Chose Not To Put Her or His Real Name Here And Chose to Put This Self-Referential Phrase Instead

PROSE

And I can't quite describe it properly, but our love was like a firework show. And soon, the finale would be here.

LEAVES By Adrianna Thant

The crunch of leaves fill the silence as we walk. I look over at her and note that she's focused on the path in front of us. She looks relaxed. I haven’t seen her like this in a while. I want to say something, anything, but a suffocating feeling prevents me from doing so. I want to look forward, yet all I can do is look at her. I want to ask her why she’s been so distant lately, to share laughs over stupid things, to waste time with her, to tell her my worries, to hold her close. I want to be able to walk at her speed again. I hold in a sob. I'm being selfish. When we started seeing each other in early spring she warned me that this relationship wouldn’t last forever, that she had to move away at the end of this year. I thought I could deal with that but our time passed by so quickly. I didn’t expect this budding feeling to grow. But it did, and the roots of it ingrained painfully in my chest. And I can't quite describe it properly, but our love was like a firework show. And soon, the finale would be here. Although she's standing right next to me, I miss her already. I want to laugh at this pitiful situation. I grew too attached. I stop looking at her, if I didn't I might have cried. My attention then focuses on the shedding trees around us. I watch the shower of leaves that fall to the ground. Maybe it's a little cringey to say, but my heart feels like an old tree in autumn right now, ready to suffer the loneliness that awaits in the coming winter.

1|The penchant||OCT 2017

YANG, LILY. “Changing Autumn Leaves.” 2017.

THE BLACK

OPAL

By Sachi Huilgol

ENGIN_AKYURT. “Dark Woman Portrait.” 1 March 2012.

STOCKSNAP. “Hand Reaching Silhouette.” 2 Sept. 2016

FEATURED

She did not complain; she understood that flawless beauty such as hers could not be attained without

PAIN.

at herself in a mirror, pulling a spiked black brush through her long, shining, thick ebony hair. Her thin face bore no expression, as so not to create creases in her flawless porcelain skin. The brush wove in and out of her hair, not allowing even a single knot to escape. The slender woman’s scalp burned every time the merciless brush tugged at her locks, but her face remained completely neutral. She did not complain; she understood that flawless beauty such as hers could not be attained without pain. At last she laid down the brush, satisfied with her hair’s condition, and gazed upon her reflection once more. After scrutinizing it down to the smallest detail, she withdrew a bow of white powder that shimmered like stars and dusted it onto her face with a black powder cushion, causing her already white skin to glow like the moon. Unnaturally. She examined her face, scanning for the tiniest wrinkle, the most insignificant blemish. Nothing. The woman examined her tight, sleeveless satin gown for dust or lint, and, finding no flaws whatsoever on its pitch-black surface, snapped her fingers. In a flash of scarlet light, a creature appeared. It had a plain appearance, with large, brown eyes, dust-colored skin, long ears, a small stature, and knobby joints. It wore nothing but a cloth around its waist. SLENDER FIGURE STARED

3|The penchant||OCT 2017

In its large hands, it carried a plate of small delicacies. “Will Madame eat these as an appetizer?” the little elf creature squeaked. “No,” the woman replied. Her voice was low and cold. “It will spoil my waistline. I must not eat.” “But Madame has not eaten in over a day!” “You are less than a servant to me! Do not raise your voice at me, filth!” she spat. “It is not your place to decide what I eat and what I do not! ” The creature shrank back. “I will be dining with my suitor tonight,” the woman continued. “I will eat then.” “Y-yes, Madame,” the creature stuttered nervously. “As- as you wish.” The woman snapped her fingers and the creature disappeared in a flash. With another snap, another elf appeared. “Did you bring the opal?” she demanded. The elf, dreading this moment, bit its lip. “Madame… many perished in the attempt. They were consumed by the magma of the volcano… and when we finally reached the place where it was to be…” “Do you have it or not?” The stark contrast between the deadly calm of her voice and the blazing anger in her deep scarlet eyes was jarring. “Madame, it was gone!” the creature cried, sobbing and throwing itself at its mistress’s feet. “When we

arrived, the opal was not there!” “Do you have it or not?” The stark contrast between the deadly calm of her voice and the blazing anger in her deep scarlet eyes was jarring. “Madame, it was gone!” the creature cried, sobbing and throwing itself at its mistress’s feet. “When we arrived, the opal was not there!” “Fool!” the woman spat, grabbing the creature and digging her nails into its chest. “You did not look hard enough!” “Madame! We- we did- I promise, I swear on my life!” “That means nothing!” she hissed. “Your life means nothing!” “Madame- please- please spare my life, my humble life-” “Silence!” The woman’s fingers closed, and the creature let out a high-pitched scream, more air than voice, which was silenced abruptly as she withdrew her hand, holding a dripping, pulsating heart that was covered in scarlet blood. She dropped it in disgust, grinding it to a red pulp with her heel. Her crimson lips twisted into a smirk as she gazed upon the elf’s lifeless face. Its blank eyes. Its slack expression. She snapped he fingers, and the entire corpse, blood, heart, and body alike, disappeared in a flash of red light. Her mouth curved from a smirk to an expression of disdain as she gazed at the blood slowly running down her hand, covering her fingers,

seeping under her fingernails. Now she would once again have to clean her hand. Seated at a long, black table when she arrived was a man. He was tall and well built. His skin was also a pure white, however, red markings streaked his chiseled face. The woman sat down at the other end of the long table and snapped her fingers. Two elves brought tiny appetizers, trembling, and set them down before the man and woman. Another elf also brought two glasses of dark red, thick liquid, which the man sipped, licking his pointed white teeth. “My dear,” he said to the woman in a sinisterly deep voice. “It has been a while.” “Yes,” she replied in her frigid tone. “It has.” “I hope you have not missed me. I had to be away because of the war.” “Oh, rest assured, I have not

missed you.” If possibly, her voice took on an even colder tone. “Love and war… these things are easy. Beauty is hard.” “Of course, dear.” The woman took a small sip of the red liquid. “I had wondered if you would ever come at all, actually,” she said coolly, examining her long, sharp nails and flicking off a fleck of blood. “Pardon?” “Your last visit was five months ago. If you loved me, you would not have abandoned me so.” “Forgive me, my dear. I would have come earlier, had I not been occupied with another task.” “What kind of task?” She was not looking at him, but instead at something on his chest. “What task was so important that you neglected me for it?” “I had to acquire something, my dear…” But he trailed off as he

saw the glint of greed and rage in the woman’s eye as she stared at his chest. And then suddenly, without warning, she lunged across the table, sinking her long, talon-like nails into the man’s chest, directly into his heart. A thin, high-pitched scream escaped him, and his face turned even whiter than it had been before. She tore her hand out with all her might, and the man gasped once and then lay still, blood covering the front of his impeccable suit. The woman stood, teeth bared in a gruesomely satisfied grin, as she stared at a single, gleaming object buried in the mass of blood and flesh. A pin glinted at her, in the center of which was the black opal for which she had so desired.

OCT 2017||The penchant|2 4

ALEXAS_FOTOS. “Pumpkins.” 9 Sept. 2016.

FEATURED

BY BRANDON MEAD

JACK O’

LANTERN 5

My mouth runs off nonsense as it will, a weak shield thrown up to protect against the terrible ennui of the

MEANINGLESS

CENTURIES.

IME ROLLS OVER ME SOFTLY.

It is a physical thing, felt on my skin like a constant rasp of sandpaper, like the dull dron -ing of a distant swarm of bees. So far as I know, no one besides myself has felt this sensation. I find it surprising, somehow, when I consider that the world around me does not feel it. It is so familiar, so obvious now. I have felt it for decades. But I suppose that it takes— ha—time to understand time. The world will always be older than us. How can we expect to understand something so fast and unfathomable as the eternal stretch of time in a mere few decades? When my mind sees fit to take a different tack, I am surprised that even I can feel it. I have lived for more than three hundred years now, and sometimes even that feels so little. Time has changed me, truly. If age is not always wisdom then at least it is a reduction in foolishness. I think more often now, my mind more concerned with philosophy than the consuming vices of when I was alive. Yes, though I have not died I cannot help but think of myself as somehow… unalive. Somehow, though I breathe and sleep and hunger just the same as I did while alive I know I have in some manner transitioned over, that I now walk a plane not entirely the same as the mortal one. The question of what I am, what life and death mean to someone such as myself, is one I ponder often. I have so much time now, to wonder about these things.

But above all else the question that sits burning in my mind is this- what is there to do with an eternity? There is no greater destroyer of motivation, no greater creator of a sense of utter pointlessness. When there will always be a tomorrow, why do anything today? I wonder if, when the sun grows cold and dies, I will still walk that barren and desolate earth. Today, at least, is a special day however. Not a good day, but at least a remarkable one. I will always know when it is today, without a calendar or counting days. I will always know everyday, in fact- I can no more lose track of time than I could of up and down. But today… today is seared into my mind. Today is Halloween. As the night falls, it brings All Hallow’s Eve. I draw stares as I walk down the street. For one, I am old, and it shows on me. I have not had the fortune to remain ageless as well as timeless. Liver spots riddle my skin, which is furled and wrinkled like leather gloves, thin and translucent like rice paper. My head is bald, and even my beard is wispy and fading. Each step, after three centuries of walking, comes with pain and uncertainty. For another in my hand I hold the only thing I am still allowed to possess, a strange lantern carved of a turnip, one faint and sullen ember glowing in its heart. To my sides carved pumpkins leer at me, their expressions grotesque and mocking,

their light warm and tantalizing. With trepidation I approach one of the houses, knock feebly on the door. A young woman dressed in a witch costume opens it, regarding me with surprise and after a moment pity. I speak before she has a chance to say anything. My voice is weak from age and scratchy from long disuse. “E-excuse me, but is my son here? I promised I would come visit and it's been so long…” I know that I am speaking nonsense. No one of my bloodline has lived here for, oh it must be a century now. But I am only sane in my thoughts; my mouth runs off nonsense as it will, a weak shield thrown up to protect against the terrible ennui of the meaningless centuries. I wave her silent as she begins to speak, and turning away, retreat slowly, continuing my journey down the road. As I walk I find myself muttering, and the coherent part of my mind takes some time to listen. I enjoy hearing the fantasies I create. They tend to be quite entertaining and surprisingly consistent, full of all the drama and excitement my life- or unlife- lacks. Perhaps I should write a story, if only for the novelty of having something to do. I know I won’t do it, really. Eternity is such a wonderful destroyer of vision. For me it has left nothing but the walking, an infinity of uncertain wandering.

OCT 2017||The penchant|6

ORHAN, CAGATAY. ”Solemn Woman In Scarf.”

PROSE

The Grin BY JAIME WANG

pulled my scarf a little tighter around my neck, fighting off the cold autumn breeze flirting at the collar of my coat. My steps quicken, my shivering self eager to arrive home to the comforts of a rumbling heater, a warm cup of cocoa, and an novel. I had just left the college, though my classes ended hours ago. My return home was delayed because I had been helping my professor organize some of his files. The poor man's papers had been a mess, as someone had carelessly left a window open during last night’s storm, scattering documents everywhere. It's getting dark quickly, and I shiver and shoulder my bag. The streets are unusually empty and quiet, something I find strange. I walk a little faster again, but this time motivated by the growing sense of unease settling in my stomach. Turning a corner, I approach my apartment, my shaking hand hurriedly searching my bag for my keys. Looking up, I find it strange that all the lights are off and the apartment is dark, as my roommate should be home by now. Shrugging off the thought, I walk up the stairs, a tinge of annoyance plaguing me at the irritating creak each step made as it accepted my weight. I thought I saw something shift behind one of the dark windows, but I ignore it. Maybe Jessica was taking a nap and just woke up.

7|The penchant||OCT 2017

I thought I saw something shift behind one of the dark windows, but I ignored it.

MILE END RESIDENTS. “Brokesley Street: Lincoln House.” 13 July 2010.

Finally locating my evasive keys, I slip it in the doorknob, wondering why it was so loose. Pushing open the door and stepping in, I feel my foot slip as it makes contact with the hardwood floor. Wondering what spilled this time, I flick on the lights, only to stifle a scream at the sight before me. Blood painted the walls, the crimson fluid slashed into letters that coagulated into a series of ominous messages: "It's too late", "There's nowhere to run", "Smile", "Let's play a game, shall we?". Furniture lay decimated and overturned, all stained with dark splashes of blood. But the worst sight is before me. Jessica was laid sprawled at my feet, her body mangled and twisted, cut open and carved, her corpse soaking in a pool of her own blood. Her hand was outstretched towards the door, reaching in her last moments for escape. But the most horrific was her face. Her clear blue eyes were open, wide, and the pupils dilated in terror. Her mouth was twisted into a gruesome grin, cleaved at the corners to stretch out the smile. Her manipulated expression seemed to be asking me the very question written on the walls, "Let's play a game, shall we?". Something shifts in the shadows and I spin towards it, the sound of blood coursing filling my ears. A darkness looms from the hallway and lunges for me, and I see a flash of silver. I turn back to the doorway, my feet struggling to gain traction on the slippery floor, adrenaline driving me into full ‘flight’ mode, but it's too little, too late.

A hand snatches the trailing end of my scarf, jerking my upper body back as my feet slip. As my weight shifts completely to the knitted fabric, the noose tightens around my neck and my air cuts off. I wheeze as my hands claw pointlessly at my throat, trying to free myself in futile. But there was no use. There was nothing I could do, no sound I could even make as the shadow looms over me, dominating my sight. My mouth opens in a silent scream. Then all, was quiet.

There was nothing I could do, no sound I could even make as the shadow looms over me, dominating my sight. My mouth opens in a silent scream. Then all, was quiet.

“Contrast Light From a Window.”

OCT 2017||The penchant|8

PROSE

BY LILY YANG Letter information: Dated February 17, 2010. Found in an old cellar off in Fremont, California.**

How I Became a Killer T

HE CLOWN, FACE DRIPPING

with crimson stripes, advances towards you as a dark figure under the solemn stars. His distorted smile hangs on his face like someone had taken an obsessive liking to an apple corer and used it to dig deep into his face, revealing a seemingly endless recess of rich reds dissolving into a viscous darkness. His ruffled hair with its assortment of blues and yellows meeting at an unpleasant green, tainted by the muck that has accumulated on his body. As if they could read your soul, his piercing red eyes seem magnetic as they pull you toward him, debilitating your thoughts of doing otherwise. You want to scream, to run, to hide, but you remain paralyzed—as if you are entrenched within an atmosphere made of quicksand. You feel the rhythmic thumping of blood against your arteries reverberating throughout your body, the possibility of movement eluding you. Finally set into motion, you manage to thrust your legs against the ground, but your movement is restrained, as if bricks have been attached haphazardly against your limbs. The clown launches himself toward you, the soles of his large shoes squeaking deviously as they meet asphalt. One of his steps is five times greater in

9|The penchant||OCT 2017

length than one of yours. Within seconds, he catches up, triggering frustration and terror to disperse madly throughout your throbbing mind. Too soon, you become the unwilling receiver of his chilling embrace. Cackling manically, the clown slips a hand into his heavily soiled, striped pocket. Then, slowly but surely, a glint of silver emerges. He restrains you with his hands gripping rigidly against your neck as you try to escape his hold. One. Two. Three bouts of hysterical laughter. Then a snort of utter satisfaction. All you can focus on is the pointed end of the tool, glimmering without mercy as the placid moonlight taunts your very existence, remaining indifferent as you approach your death. Time seems to slow as he uses both hands to lift the blade high above his head, aiming for your unprotected neck. A yell slips out of your lips. A soft squelch resonates in your ears. The potent aroma of iron-rich blood becomes the newest perfume of the night. Your vision blurs and the thumping of your heart begins to slow as you feel a sickeningly warm liquid dripping uncontrollably onto your shoulder. He drops you to the cold asphalt, your body throbbing with pain from the impact. Now, through

your barely functioning eyes, all you could see is two blobs twisting into each other, alternating from red to white to red to white to red… You feel a familiar handle of that kitchen tool into your right hand. Then suddenly, the smears of light and color fade as an ensuing darkness voraciously gobbles up your field of vision with its pitch-black fangs. Drip. Drip. Silence. Your last breath escapes your nostrils. As the last traces of life escapes the residence of your muscles, you lie still—never to wake from the eternal sleep we all know as Death. *** Your fall to the clown is an example of a typical scene in a horror movie in which a vicious entity claims an unsuspecting victim. Just replace the clown with a fearful doll or ghost or monster or centipede or political leaders for all we know; throw it into a plot of people trying to discover, hunt down, or avoid the inevitable; add in an abundance of blood, skewed camera angles, and blood-curdling screams; and then, lo and behold, a box office hit. In short, all horror in movies attempt to prey on the darker irrationalities that plague the human psyche. Although these horror movie plots are inherently disturbing, it is undoubtedly quite fun conjuring a million different derivatives of this

Then suddenly, the smears of light and color fade as an ensuing darkness voraciously gobbles up your field of vision with its pitch-black fangs. DESERTROSE7. “Clown Creepy Grinning Facepaint.” 30 Jan. 2017.

LOUIE, EDWIN. “Clouded Moon Through Oak Leaves.” 2015.

classic plot arc. After all, who knew there were so many ways that people, and humanity itself, could so easily be removed from the realm of the living? It’s sad sometimes, realizing what we have come to—finding enjoyment in exploiting the fear of the unknown and foolishly glorifying the subconscious conflict concerning such illusionary monsters, that is. But who am I to tell you what is virtuous or not? You don’t know me at all. Not my name. Not my age. Not my face. But most importantly, not my intentions. I don’t know how I should start this “letter.” I doubt anyone will even find this, but since you’re reading this, I might as well go on. Or, more accurately, go back. Go back to the beginning, when I, the psychopath that I am, was able to garner the blood of women, men, and children alike on my very hands. Back to the good old times, as they say… However, before I confide to you my intentions, it is necessary to preface you with some important information, so you can solemnly read my thoughts with no prior judgments. Firstly, as much as horror movies like to tell you, evil is never a one sided figure. The clowns, the ghosts, the demons, the monsters, and, above all, the killers aren’t just

hollows vehicles to display hate and mania. They have reasons for their state of mind. Sometimes not the most justifiable, but they have reasons nonetheless. I’d like to think myself as a categorically good person who, once upon a time, decided to engage in some unfortunately questionable actions (but what you think, of course, is what you get out of this long-held confession of mine). Secondly, not all killers are as conspicuous as many people believe they are. Sure, Hollywood depictions of ruthless serial killers and urban myths of acid-burnt madmen perpetuate the thought that all killers both play and look the part—whether that means wearing hockey masks, having a repository of knives, or simply appearing threatening—but

I’m very much like you in how you dress and how you respond in terms of social expectations. I follow conventions and listen to the news. If you met me in person, you would have a terribly difficult time picking me out of the hoard of businessmen and businesswomen that the typical city is comprised of. Lastly, I am not ruthless. I feel that justifying this statement would only weaken my stance, so I will leave it at that. I am not ruthless. I’ve kept you waiting long enough, so let’s take a walk down memory lane. My memory lane. *** It was late in the April of my junior year in college. I had grown quite accustomed to the vibrant hues of young blossoms decorating the

OCT 2017||The penchant|10

To say the least, it drained the life out of me, and made every advance in my academic career feel meaningless.

YANG, LILY. “UC Berkeley.” 2016.

campus’ courtyard just a few meters shy of the Biochemistry building (god, I hated that class), but they used to bring me a level of insatiable bliss in such a hell-hole of a place. I loved it not because I appreciated nature, but because, in juxtaposition with the weathered, gray Biochemistry building, the clusters of neon flowers was a hilariously alarming eyesore. In many ways, I felt like those blossoms. To me, they were symbols of rebellion and differentiation in the ritualistic path of matriculated life. They were also gentle, comical reminders that I simply didn’t belong. Not in this place in which all students competed voraciously for an undetermined goal, leaving behind their friends and passions for the brittle mechanics of social success. To lay it bluntly, I hated college life and myself from the bottom of my heart; and as a junior, I just couldn’t wait for another year to pass to continue on. I just couldn’t let another year of my life get wasted in this deteriorated phase in which all intellectuals watch their hopes and dreams get crushed and molded to what the rich and the powerful call

11|The penchant||OCT 2017

“perfection.” If only people knew that they were being overtly controlled—moved like pawns on a chess board—by those with true authority, perhaps then they will see their efforts as futile and their “sacrifices” as meaningless losses. I’m thankful I saw this early on. But of course, I’m just as regretful, since it was one of the major deciding factors that drove me to my future actions. That April, in the middle of midterms and school-wide stress, I longed for excitement of some kind. I guess I wanted to find a reason to live. To truly live. Before junior year began, I was just like everyone else. I remember walking through the same hallways, sitting through the same lectures, studying the same articles, and taking the same tests, all the while trying to appear different, to gain an edge for grad school or a job, they say. What I hated was how people tried to break other people down in the midst of their road to a long sought after sense of security. I saw one girl in my sophomore year American Literature class report

another girl who was doing far better than she was academically and socially for committing an information leak that was obviously done by students from a completely different class. The innocent girl was expelled, but the fraudulent accuser passed the class and went on to be recognized by major universities and firms that were hungry for someone of her “caliber.” Caliber, my foot. If framing someone else and exploiting the situation was indicative of “knowledge and strength,” then eating a muffin might as well be as significant as Newton’s Laws to the field of physics. It was a sleazy business, this market of competition and success. To say the least, it drained the life out of me, and made every advance in my academic career feel meaningless. However, I was too cowardly to do something about it; and to be frank, if it didn’t affect me, why should I bother trudging through the thick mud of others and getting stuck on the way? At first, I found excitement in normal things: like the opening of a new bookstore or a new release of a particularly wonderful collection of

watches. Essentially, anything novel was a little sprinkling of interest in my repetitive way of living. Soon enough, the collection of these little nothings, too, became a bore. That was expected. It was how things always were until life decided to throw me a surprise. To put it gently, I wasn’t pleased. My maxim of staying uninvolved in academic scandals was my reasoning for not doing the right thing and standing up for the victims. I was the typical bystander—concerned, but not concerned enough. Who knew that I would become one of the many victims I simply abandoned. Life did, apparently. And so did Death. April 22, 1983 was carved into my memory like a dull knife against a block of wood, running over a small section over and over again until the surface has finally succumbed to the inevitable. It was the day before the midterm grades were released for my ecology class. I knew that I had, at the very least, passed the class. It was a class I wasn’t the least concerned about—one that I have been guilty of sleeping through, but miraculously received passing marks for. I remember the pile of paper transcripts stacked neatly on the professor’s desk, tempting all darting eyes with their anticipated appeal as the white-haired man behind them stood guard. Waiting in line for a paper that bore my name, the countdown began. The A’s went by. Then the E’s and the F’s and the M’s. Some students had their hands on their faces, trying desperately to conceal whatever shame that creeped into their expressions. Others were smiling madly, throwing satisfied glances at their less fortunate counterparts. Finally it reached the S’s: my section of the alphabet. Last names can really be a bother in these situations. The three people in front of me snatched their papers nervously and glanced around the room as if they had a secret code when they left; but when it was my turn, there was no paper to take. I glanced up at the professor inquisitively, his face only a blank slate, though echoes of past scrawls were laid into the lines above his brows. I flipped through the stack, seeing the names of those behind me in the line; but none bore my own name. Minutes passed. The people behind me became restless and I

heard a person yelling for me to hurry up from the back of the lecture hall. I stepped aside to consult the professor. I remember pleading for him to say something, anything. He only stared soullessly into my eyes like a hollow ventriloquist dummy that has spent too long deprived of its master and its voice. The other people threw me alarmed glances and smirks of disapproval, leaving pompously out of the oak doors. Finally, as the last of the students left, the professor broke his stare, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His hand reached into his back pocket, withdrawing a folded up piece of paper still crisp from the press. Softly, he placed it onto the table and unfolded it. He gradually lifted his grotesquely wrinkled hands from the paper’s surface, revealing three bolded words that tainted the pristine white surface like haphazardly placed ink splatters. Notice of Expulsion, it said. And with the three words came a block of text, useless in meaning, but present as a courtesy. A single signature graced the bottom. I didn’t realize how much I was trembling until I tried to pick up the sheet of paper. My joints seemed to have been frozen, unable to bend at my will, and my hand refused to hold still as it shuddered madly. I reached for the corner of the sheet, and after a few unsuccessful endeavors, I managed to grasp it, using my other hand as support. I remembered staring at the words in complete silence as the professor warily observed every twitch and tremor that escaped my body. Soon enough the lines of text blurred into abstractions of white and black. The two tones swelled and shrunk, morphing into a hallucinogenic array of nothingness. Before long, the wet droplets finally glossed across my cheek and reached the sheet of paper. The ink on the paper dispersed, growing spikes of indigo that faded into a rim of cyan. When I tried to make eye contact with the professor again, the sheet within my hands was practically illegible. I tried desperately to regain my composure. This surely is a joke, right? They can’t just expel me like this. I have done nothing wrong. “You’re probably wondering what you have done wrong,” the professor croaked at last. Too disorientated and embarrassed to rasp out my thoughts, I shifted my glance toward my feet, nodding.

ANDRYS. “Stack Letters.” 16 Feb 2014.

“You have been guilty of maligning another student, dishonestly taking your exams, and most of all, bribing your professors and other administration,” he spoke monotonously as he opened his desk drawer and pulled out three full stacks of cash. He dealt each bill out in front of me, muttering the numbers of each under his breath. “That’s over 2000 dollars just sent to me alone after the midterm. Dr. Jones, Dr. Kaur, and Dr. Stein all have received some amount close to what I have been given. Did you think you could buy yourself the result of merit and effort, boy?” “No, sir,” I whispered firmly. At this moment, I wanted to proclaim my innocence—to yell so loud that the nations across the world could hear me, but only wisps of air passed my lips, instead. The professor looked at me inquisitively, like a hawk eyeing its next catch from miles above. He clasped his mangled hands together, stood up, and leaned forward, placing his face only a few inches before mine. His eyebrows furrowed, bringing with it a plethora of lines and squiggles carved into his age-spot polluted forehead. “Right. No, sir is the correct answer. So, boy, what is your excuse? What made you think you were so invincible that you tried to cheat in my class?” “I didn’t do any of this, sir,” I said, eyes still locked onto my shoes. Pathetic, I thought. “Boy, remind me how old you are.” “Twenty-one.” “Twenty-one, but you still sound like a toddler denying the

OCT 2017||The penchant|12

YUSUFK53. “Sunset Reverse Light Silhouette.” 3 May 2014.

truths held by all others except for him. Must I lay more evidence on this table? I can gladly bring up all the student accounts of your behavior typed into a transcript longer than any of the books you have read in your entire twenty-one years.” I finally glanced up and looked straight at him. “Sir, I didn’t do any of this,” I managed to force out of my gritted teeth. He moved his face closer toward mine, and I could feel his breath rhythmically bombarding my face. “I always took pity on you, you know. You being a first generation college student---the torch of hope in your family---was admirable from my perspective. Who knew that that was only a facade for your true intentions? Boy, if you let ease and dishonestly rule your heart, the only achievement you will be guaranteed to receive is emptiness: a state of total loss even when you have gained the most.” “Sir, I would never attempt to do anything out of line. The actions you have accused me of are none that

13|The penchant||OCT 2017

I have committed.” His face grew tense, and his fist clench shut. “Tell that to tens of students that reported you. Tell that to the thousands of dollars resting on my table top.” He slammed his knuckles into the wooden table. “Tell that to your superficial, malevolent self.” Those last words stung like alcohol pressed against an open wound. Something clicked in me. Before I knew it, my knuckles were covered in the professor’s blood as steady streams of crimson rolled down my arm. His wrinkly face was now indiscernible from the large crimson splatter that erupted from his nose, providing him with a makeshift battle mask. He tried to wipe his face clean with his sleeves, but not even the wool of his jacket could absorb the all the phosphorescent liquid. He sat down, struggling to maintain a state of consciousness as he laid his head back against the chair. “How dare you! You primordial chimp… You… I gave you a

MYRIAMS-FOTOS. “Children’s Blue Eyes.” 17 Dec. 2016.

Sometimes I could still see their little hands prying my fingers away from their throats or their eyes reflecting the glint of my collection of blades.

chance to at least apologize, but this is how you choose to carry out your actions. You are despicable… despicable,” he said in between coughs. “I’m glad our revered institution has rid itself of vermin like you!” His voice soon drowned out into ambivalence within my mind. I couldn’t recall why things happened. They simply just did. I pushed him off the chair and pressed my knee against his chest so hard that his coughing evolved into violent hacking intermixed with a cacophony of muted screams and high-pitched curses. His limbs were flailing in all directions an unfortunate fish out of water. The blood on his face began to crust and crack, making him look even more torn than he already was. He attempted to push me off, throwing sideways punches toward my abdomen. Then it really began. I grasped his neck, which was hidden behind a thick curtain of tangled gray hairs. His neck was warm and unpleasantly soft, but something about it made me excited. Perhaps it was the knowledge that someone who minutes ago held such great authority was now subjugated under my own means that made my veins pump with the pent up adrenaline. Whatever it was, it possessed my every form of function. I tightened my hold, pushing my hands against his neck sharply until he gasped desperately for what little air he could gain back into his lungs. I could feel his pulse quickening beneath my hands. His eyes widened and he squirmed beneath my hold. I pressed on. This time, I shifted my weight toward my arms, applying more pressure. Soon enough, his hands, previously clenched into tight fists gradually released themselves finger by finger as his knuckles made impact with the floor. Finally, he went completely limp, and his eyes gradually drooped into a remorseful closure. He was gone. I stood up, not realizing the atrocity that I had committed as I stared blankly at the corpse in front of me. The professor’s mouth was still opened wide, as if attempting to gain a last breath, a last moment, a last resort. Life seemed to be disposable. My hands could not steady themselves, and I found it hard to stand up properly. My heart could not

stop pounding and the sweat would not stop dripping. I remember feeling slightly guilty when I saw the professor’s lifeless body on the ground. This man that I knew for many months and admired, even, was the same one sprawled on the linoleum floor, decorated with splotches of red hues and pieces of torn paper. And I was the sole reason for why he was that way. However, the guilt was only a mild flirtation that quickly dispersed into oblivion. My new concern was escape and covering up what had occurred. I needed to live. Only then can I rectify my chapter in the book of scapegoats. I wanted those behind the evils to get what they deserved. I was no longer a powerless bystander. I could make the necessary changes needed to better everyone---to pay homage to the many that were wronged by the slanderous ways of the truly guilty and to vanquish those that believed and spread such ill accounts. I left the professor in his rightful place, seated behind the desk that overwatched the towering rows of students that day. I was able to utilize whatever money the professor put on the table as funding for my stay at a nearby hotel for the course of the next couple weeks. From then on, I tracked down the students who filed testimonies of my “problematic behaviors.” I then personally ended their lives with a twist of the wrist and little physical effort on multiple occasions. I enjoyed seeing each of them suffer and plead under my hands as they hopelessly gasped for air and struggled to loosen my grip. For those I couldn’t immediately or directly hurt, I plotted to place my wrath on their children. Admittedly, even as a hardened man, these killings left their marks on me. Sometimes I could still hear the little children’s whimpers and final calls for their mother or father. Sometimes I could still see their little hands prying my fingers away from their throats or their eyes reflecting the glint of my collection of blades. Sometimes I could still smell their aroma of yogurt or gummy bears that wafted through my train of thought with their mein of innocence. Nonetheless, I believed this is what doing “good” is supposed to be. I am merely enacting punishment on those who deserve it, expediting their path to receiving the

karma they brought upon themselves, I thought. *** You don’t realize how fragile life is until you’ve had the liberty of destroying a life yourself. People are all under a sort of ignorance, believing themselves to be invincible in the face of the misfortune of others. This mindset of “but it won’t happen to me” is created from the undeclared vanity of individuals, each believing themselves to be smarter, wiser, stronger—in short, superior—to others. But in reality, we are all glass figurines precariously hung on the thin string of time. The slightest disturbance could make us fall and shatter into numerous pieces, never to be properly reassembled. Sometimes, the force that creates the disturbance could be as insignificant as nothing. But, the worst and most powerful force is other people’s interests. To say that I shattered the professor would be a euphemism. I cut his share of the metaphorical string, broke him into a pitiful array of glass shards, and then proceeded to grind the remains into a fine powder that I later used to poison the lives of others. The professor’s death set a precedent for the subsequent deaths of my peers and their children, acting as my much needed moral anesthetic. Of course, all this I repent. There is not a day in which I feel that I have been unfairly placed on Death Row. Sometimes I wonder if death is enough of a punishment for all the lives that I have claimed. Perhaps torture would be more effective in nature. But as I sit behind these bars and await my impending doom, I have been blessed with the gift of reflection. You see, horror movies have wrongly interpreted the situation. Gruesome figments of imagination should not be the root of humanly fears. Instead, the evil that exists in people’s avarice and the abuse of status and recognition are what should truly be feared and accounted for. **all information is imaginary.

LILY YANG has been a writer for The Penchant for 3 years. Her major works include “A Son’s Resolve” and “Through My Eyes.” OCT 2017||The penchant|14

PROSE

BY RORY CONLON

Seventeen and Sane

ZINN, ALICIA. “Person in Blue Denim Jeans Standing Outside the Rain.” 11 Nov. 2012.

HE DAY SEEMED APART from the rest. I don’t know if it was the smell of the air, or the orange light filtering onto the cherry pink buildings, or the wind as it cut through my jacket like knives. I liked it. It brought back flashes and whooshes of what used to be, but nothing from the present. It was an odd, unprecedented awareness. I shrugged and stuck the key into my door, making conversation with my friend as I did. “So, are you up for the fair next weekend? “No,” she replied, not unkindly. I hummed to myself, not all that surprised. Everything was silent for a moment, and I marveled the sound of the tree leaves rustling in the breeze. “Piano class?” I guessed. She shook her head. “Dance.” I frowned as gray clouds started to swallow the sun. Was it going to storm? I wondered. I didn’t expect anything serious—all California seemed to get were these freak storms, where it rained despite the fact that the sun shone out from the clouds, throwing an odd haze over everything . .. “Repeat the schedule for me?” I asked. It was a routine

15|The penchant||OCT 2017

question for the routine day.The only problem is that it wasn’t an ordinary day. Not in the slightest. She sighed a little. I never remembered it, no matter how many times she told it to me, and she was probably wondering if I even cared. “Monday, piano. Tuesday, SAT. Wednesday, free, but probably a lot of homework . . .” I stopped listening, just allowing her voice to cover the skidding noises and honks from the street. I jammed the key into the door, but it wouldn’t turn. I took it out, confused . . . “Clarisse,” she said, taking the keys from me carefully and holding up the exact same silver one I used everyday. “You’re a space cadet, you know that?” She then took my hand and put the keys in it, laughing. Embarrassed, I finally got around to unlocking the door, ducking my head. “Well, another day, then?” I prompted her, returning to my earlier question. The door swung open. “Sure,” she said, faltering a little. We both knew it wasn’t going to be happening anytime soon, maybe even never. She checked her watch and adjusted her backpack on her shoulders. “See you!”

As she started to sprint off down my sidewalk, all the little details clicked in my brain. “Happy First Day of Autumn!” I called after her. She paused, giving me an odd stare. “It’s not autumn. It’s winter. There hasn’t been an autumn in California for years, Clarisse!” She laughed again, heading off to whatever class was so important that day. In that short a time, I had forgotten what it was. I stared after her. It’s fall, I thought. Summer is followed by fall, and then fall is followed by winter. What is she talking about? People seldom made mistakes that major. BOOM! The sky had been cloudy, but I never expected anything like that. My eyes snapped to the trees—their leaves were turning all the beautiful colors. Did it storm in fall? BOOM! I dropped my keys, shivering with fright. The rain threw itself down against the pavement. BOOM! The black faded from my jeans, the purple seeped from my shirt, and the white and blue drained from my spotless shoes. BOOM! I was gone, off like a shot. I slammed the door and flung down my backpack. Defiant, I needed no more calling. I sprinted, away, away, away

from my home. People think the world is better when it is clear and sunny, but I disagree. The world is alive when it rains, the world is responsive when it pours. My feet pounded along the pavement as euphoria gripped me. It was not just the adrenaline that made me gasp for air, cool as lake water. It was happiness. I also responded when it rained: my heart thumped off-beat, my senses bloomed, and my blood roared in my veins. Do I stop? I thought as I found myself before a crosswalk. The street looked empty, so I sprinted across heedlessly. A loud, blasting noise sounded, making me launch myself into the run again, even harder than before. Seventeen and insane, that’s what people thought in the ‘50s, maybe even today. I will follow it—I will be their stereotype. And that means I will not stop, not for anything or anybody. Far off down the road, I saw it for an instant. White, forked lightning struck down. I like to think it burned the pavement. And then, in my exhilaration, I found the element I was missing: fear. But I remember it, I cherish it because it was not the thing

People think the world is better when it is clear and sunny, but I disagree. The world is alive when it rains, the world is responsive when it pours.

GERLOS. “Folgore sullo Scoglio di Patti.” 20 Aug 2013.

OCT 2017||The penchant|16

that tugs my heart down everyday. I was suddenly in love with the fear, bright and immediate, blooming in my chest. It made running through the tangled grass, smelling heady and fresh, feel like sliding across water. If that wasn’t enough, the auburn leaves flew from the trees then, faster, faster, faster, cycling in the wind, soaking in the odd rainstorm. Just that moment, the lightning came down in the sky over the houses, dry electricity splintering the air. And I was in a flurry, because I knew the lightning would never hit me, yet I was fearful—almost agonized—that it might. I found myself where I always found myself in the fall: the park. Man, I hadn’t seen that place in who knows how long—I had no idea of how long I’d been truly asleep. I threw myself onto the swing like I was welcoming an old friend back in my life. In my happiness, my shirt gained a vibrant orange quickly; my jeans bled green and lapsed into auburn; my shoes turned brown, dark with the

OLICHEL. “Raindrops in the City.” 26 March 2017.

17|The penchant||OCT 2017

color of the earth. I started swinging so hard that I could barely keep myself from flying off. But perhaps, I thought, as I closed my eyes, I will never land. Perhaps I will be weightless forever. In that moment, I was untouchable. My shirt was soaked through. This was no matter—there was no cold out there. Wind bit through my jeans. I hoped for more holes, for more skin to scream in feeling. And in my ears, the lightning crackled as it struck. I laughed. I taunted the sky, offered myself to it, but I was invincible. It would never hit me. Not that day and not that moment. I surrendered myself to the chaos. There, the lightning bit. There, the wind soaked. There, the rain crackled. Suddenly, everything went silent. Dead, dead silent. I opened my eyes . . . slowly . .. The sky was clear again, the sun shining. I wrenched myself from

I hoped for more holes, for more skin to scream in feeling. And in my ears, the lightning crackled as it struck. I laughed.

FERGERLINDO980. “Woman in Rain.” 6 Jan 2016. the swing, backing away, hoping no one saw me. And I looked down, feeling more and more horrified. The leaves covered so much of the ground. I fell to my knees. They were not dead, a lot of them—they were still green. They were supposed to be alive! What is fall if it only lasts a day, if one freak rainstorm blows the leaves from their branches prematurely? And my clothes! They were fading quickly. I was frantic as I started sprinting for home—and that was no longer the fear that brightened the sky like lightning. As I stopped to wait for the cars, I moaned. The black of the lab tables was back in my jeans; the purple of my walls seeped back into my shirt in a blotchy mess; and my shoes? They rapidly turned back to the white

and blue stripes of binder paper. Ruled paper. College paper. My house was in sight. I stopped abruptly, inching forward, not wanting to meet the aftermath of my mad dash. One step . . . another . . . another . . . I fell to my knees before my backpack. It was soaked—and so was my stuff! I am a fool, I thought as I cried. My papers were soaked because they were not finished. My books were soiled because they weren’t read. Think of the consequences! And my shoes were no longer brown, dirtied with a memory at all. They were blindingly white and blank, yet there was nothing I could write on the lines to explain myself. To explain these feelings I had, that I couldn’t show, that I still can’t show, because of fear.

I lifted the backpack, cradled it. My insides turned to steel—how sad is it that they turned back to unfeeling gray in this blue world? Frost crept up the window frames. Chills crept up my spine. The tree limbs were completely bare. I picked up my rusted keys. Eased them in the door. Turned the lock. Shut myself Inside. And realized that maybe fall does not exist after all.

OCT 2017||The penchant|18

HO, DESIREE. “Dark House” 2017.

PROSE

House of Dominic BY ZERO ITATAMI L

ET’S knock at Dominic’s house,” the girl said. “No way!” shouted friends in unison.

her

The girl glowered at the rag-tag group of fake monsters before her. There was a ghost, a reaper, a spider queen, and a guy dressed as a banana. The girl was wearing a red hood and rubber fangs in her mouth. It was Halloween. “You don’t actually believe that stupid story, do you?” she sneered. “It’s not a story,” the banana said. “He’s a vampire and you know it.” “So? I’m a vampire too, see?” She flashed her fake fangs at him and hissed. He clutched his bucket of candy closer to himself. She snorted.

19|The penchant||OCT 2017

The girl had seen Dominic once before at a party at a friend’s house. He was tall, with dark blue eyes and hair dyed a brilliant orange. She’d tried flirting. He hadn’t been the least bit interested. “Come on guys,” the girl pleaded. “You have me, what’s the worst that could happen?” He could monsters!” squeaked.

turn the

us into spider

actual queen

“That’s awesome!” the girl said. “Don’t you want to be an actual spider queen and not some nerd in a flimsy, overrated costume?” When the spider queen didn’t answer, the girl added self consciously, “Well, I want you to.”

She tapped her foot and glared at her group, daring them to argue any further. The spider queen was staring at the ground, her fingers gripped tightly around her bag of sweets. The girl smiled triumphantly. “Good. Let’s go then.” They shuffled through the nighttime neighborhood, sometimes calling out to familiar trick-or-treaters they passed by, trading pieces of candy, commenting on each other’s costumes. The girl was always tapping her foot impatiently and urging them to move on. At one point, they passed a group of seven Narutos who performed their Shadow Clone Jutsu to anyone who would listen. One of them asked the group where they were going.

“To Dominic’s,” haughtily.

the

girl

All seven Narutos gasped. bloodsucker’s place? For real?”

replied

“The

“He’s worse than Orochimaru!” one of them shouted. The girl looked down her nose at them. “I don’t know who this Roach-maru is, but he’s not stopping me from my trick-or-treating.” Then she leaned her face closer to the Narutos and they all leaned back and she said, in a low voice with the faintest hint of a threat, “Are you?” “No ma’am!” “Look, I think I see someone in a Sasuke costume!” one Naruto shouted and they all ran off as fast as they could. Several minutes later, the girl and her group stood in the shadow of the house. Everyone knew that the house was painted white but when the sun set and the sky became dark, the house seemed to turn black. It did not turn pale when the moonlight hit it; rather, it gave off a kind of dark, polished gleam. The girl noticed a aint glow through the curtains in one of the windows on the second floor. Her heartbeat quickened. She started up the front steps. The ghost followed after her. The banana and the reaper exchanged a glance, hesitating, but shrugged in their manly way, and did the same. The spider queen was the last to join them. The girl approached the door. It looked ordinary enoughno bloodstains or gore dripping off the doorknob. She found the ordinary doorbell and pressed it like she had so many times before. The house was still. Behind the girl, the banana was holding his breath, watching the door with the spider queen behind him, trying to shield herself from the house. The reaper looked around at nothing in particular while the ghost rummaged through his bag of candy, categorizing them and determining which ones he was missing. The girl began tapping her foot impatiently. No sound came from inside the house. She leaned in and put her ear to the door.

The girl approached the door. It looked ordinary enough-no bloodstains or gore dripping off the doorknob. She found the ordinary doorbell and pressed it like she had so many times before.

faint glow through the curtains in one of the windows on the second floor. Her heartbeat quickened.

put her ear to the door.

She started up the front steps. The ghost followed after her. The banana and the reaper exchanged a glance, hesitating, but shrugged in their manly way, and did the same. The spider queen was the last to join them.

“Trick or treat!” he hollered, squeezing his eyes shut.

The girl approached the door. It looked ordinary enoughno bloodstains or gore dripping off the doorknob. She found the ordinary doorbell and pressed it like she had so many times before. The house was still. Behind the girl, the banana was holding his breath, watching the door with the spider queen behind him, trying to shield herself from the house. The reaper looked around at nothing in particular while the ghost rummaged through his bag of candy, categorizing them and determining which ones he was missing. The girl began tapping her foot impatiently. No sound came from inside the house. She leaned in and

It opened. The banana screamed.

The whole street seemed to echo with the sound of his voice. Slowly, he opened one eye. The girl rolled her eyes at him. The reaper elbowed his friend and snickered. A tall figure stood at the doorway, draped in a long, ragged, pure white cloth. Her hair was silver and white and though she had wrinkles in her face, she was still strikingly beautiful. She smiled sweetly at the banana. “Sorry if I startled you. Ghosts aren’t supposed to make much noise,” she said. “N-no problem!” stammered the banana, then he stopped. “Ghost?” The woman nodded. “Yes. I’m a ghost.” “She means her costume, idiot,” the girl snorted at him. “Trick or treat!” she added nicely to the woman.

OCT 2017||The penchant|20

shadow before she could see to the top. “Hello?” she called, tapping her foot again. No one answered. The girl waited a moment but there was no sound from the second floor. She turned to her friends and announced, “I’m going up there. Anyone else want to come with me?” The reaper threw up his hands. “Yep, she’s lost it.” The ghost, to no one’s surprise, rose from his seat on the floor and shuffled forward, ignoring the glare from the reaper. ALEXAS_FOTOS. “Fire” 2017.

The woman seemed surprised. “Oh of course! I don’t have the candy with me right now- not many people knocked- I’ll go get it. Why don’t you kids come inside? It’s chilly out there.”

“We walked this far,” he shrugged. “I’m not leaving without some candy.” Sighing, the reaper turned to the spider queen. She stood at the edge of the steps, staring into space with wide eyes.

“Go inside?” the spider queen repeated but the woman was already heading into the living room.

“We might as well. I guess it is cold out here,” he said.

The girl took off her shoes and stepped into the house. The ghost was reaching for his own shoes when the reaper stopped him. “Shouldn’t we think about this?” he said uncertainly. “We’re going into a stranger’s house.” The girl turned. “It’s Dominic’s house,” she whispered. “Who get’s invited into Dominic’s house? That woman must’ve been his relative or something.” “Still,” the reaper insisted. “You know, stranger danger and everything.”

The spider queen was silent. There was a fire burning in the living room and a sweet smell drifted from the kitchen. The woman told them to wait a moment and headed up the stairs to find the candy. The girl sat by the fire and stretched out her hands, enjoying the heat. She glanced at her friends. “Don’t look so tense, guys,” she said. “It’s only Dominic’s house.” “That is precisely why I’m eager to leave as soon as possible,” said the reaper. He did not go near the fire.

“You’re such an L.” Without waiting for a reply, the girl followed the woman inside with the ghost at her heels. The reaper stared helplessly after them. “Those two are crazy,” said the banana. He slipped off his sneakers. “Have you gone crazy too?” said the reaper as the banana stepped through the doorway.

21|The penchant||OCT 2017

They waited silently in the living room, listening to the ticking of the clock, the sweet smell from the kitchen wafting between them. It smelled like muffins but not quite. The banana’s mouth watered. Finally, the girl stood and grumbled, “What’s taking this woman so long?” She marched to the bottom of the flight of stairs. The steps led up to the second floor but were engulfed in

“You can’t be serious,” the reaper said. “We’ve already entered a stranger’s house. Now you’re going to go upstairs?” “What if Dominic’s up there?” the banana said unsteadily. “If you want to leave, go ahead,” the girl retorted. “But I’m going to find that woman.” She and the ghost climbed the stairs two by two. As the banana watched them disappear into the shadows, he felt something twitch inside him. “Wait for me!” he yelped and ran up the stairs. There was not a single light on the second floor. The banana reached the top of the stairs and looked around desperately, straining his eyes for any movement. The girl and the ghost were just here a moment ago. He thought about going back downstairs, but without the girl’s confidence, he was just too afraid. “Where are you guys?” he called and headed blindly into the darkness. The girl and the ghost had been walking for some time. They groped along the wall of a corridor that seemed too long to be real. There were no windows in the hallway and no doors. The only noise in the house was the sound of their quiet footsteps shuffling down the hall. “This house can’t be that big,” the girl whispered. The ghost didn’t reply.

After a few more minutes of walking, the girl was beginning to feel uneasy.

“Stop! I mean it!” He only moved faster.

“Maybe we should go back,” she said, turning to the ghost. He wasn’t there. “Hey!” The girl looked around frantically but there was no way she could see through the dark. “This is no time to be playing hide and seek!” she said crossly. “Let’s go home.” No answer. The girl hesitated, then, with a deep breath, stretched out her hands and left the comfort of the wall. She walked forward cautiously, feeling around for any objects in her way. Her fingers brushed against a desk and she crouched down to look behind it. Something cold brushed her back and the girl straightened and whirled around. Nothing. Then a soft light caught her eye. A shape stood at one end of the corridor, glowing and pulsing, standing- no, floating- there. It’s light illuminated the hall and when the girl looked back, there was no desk. The shape had legs and arms and seemed oddly familiar. “Oh, Miss, there you are!” the girl called to the woman. But when she focused on its face, her breath caught in her throat. For the face of the ghost was still and pale and three bleeding black holes had replaced his eyes and his mouth. It was not the woman; it was the ghost. He drifted forward, slowly. The girl took a step back, then another, unable to tear her gaze away from the deep punctures in his face. “What happened to you,” she whispered. The ghost kept drifting towards her. “Billy?” she said the ghost’s name. “Billy, it’s me. Stop it, it’s not funny!”

The girl ran. She tore down the hall. The ghost’s faint eerie light illuminated a corner and she turned down the next hallway and kept running. The girl sprinted with all her might but the soft light remained in the corner of her eye and the chill sent shivers through her neck. She made a right and a left and a curious thought flashed in her mind; how could the house fit so many corridors? She answered herself; it was not an ordinary house. Then the girl spotted a door and yanked it open. It looked like a closet and she squeezed herself behind a stack of boxes and shut the door. She waited. There was no movement outside. The darkness pressed against her and she huddled in a tight ball. Gradually, an eerie light came into view and seeped through the crack underneath the door. The girl hugged her knees closer to herself as the light passed the closet and grew fainter, until she was thrown into darkness again. She stayed still for a few long seconds before exhaling with a sigh. For several minutes, the girl sat there in the closet, waiting for her heart to calm down, clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. She lowered her face into her arms and began to cry. The girl sobbed and tried to muffle the sound as much as she could with her hands for fear that something in the dark would hear her. She sobbed and buried her face in her arms, letting all the terror and regret seep out through her tears. She did not know how long she sat there; she kept sobbing until her eyes were too dry to cry anymore. Then she wiped her cheeks with the cape of her red hood. Staring at the door of the closet, the girl swallowed and straightened. Calming herself with deep breaths, she opened the door an inch and peered outside. Dark. No sign of the ghost. The girl crept through the house,

staying close to the wall, her eyes wide and all her senses awake. Twice, she thought she stepped on something and nearly cried out. It was far too quiet. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness as she turned corner after corner in the endless maze of hallways. There was a smell in the air, something she’d smelled before and recently. “The muffins,” she breathed. The girl followed the scent, quickening her pace as it grew stronger, keeping one hand trailing along the wall. If she followed the smell of the muffins, it would lead her downstairs to the kitchen and she could escape. Soon she broke into a run and felt something crunch under her feet. The girl slowed down, wondering how old the house must be for the floorboards to crack. She sniffed the air. It still smelled like muffins and something else too. The girl frowned. It couldn’t be.

HO, DESIREE. “The Old House.” 2017.

The girl and the ghost were just here a moment ago. He thought about going back downstairs, but without the girl’s confidence, he was just too afraid.

The ghost drew nearer.

OCT 2017||The penchant|22

She heard a soft thud in front of her. The girl squinted through the darkness and saw something flop into view. Then another flopped down next to it and another and the sweet smell of bananas hit her nose.

“Hey!” a voice yelped and the object stumbled backwards.

you are or what exactly is happening, but stay away.”

The girl narrowed her eyes and backed away in surprise. It was the reaper.

The reaper raised his scythe. “What are you talking about?”

The thing reached a tentacle at her and, once again, she ran.

He blinked at her. “Oh, it’s you! I’ve been walking around for hours trying to find you guys!”

A few turns later, she came at a crossroads. Two hallways intersected each other and ended in shadow. The smell of bananas was faint behind her—she’d outrun it—but it was still there. She imagined the thing crawling closer to her by the second. Without thinking, the girl took the left hallway and ran on, her heart pounding in her chest. She silently thanked her cross country coach for all those practice laps he’d made her do. If she was going to escape, she’d have to keep running. She turned a corner and slammed into something hard.

YANG, LILY. “Her.” 2017.

23|The penchant||OCT 2017

He was holding a staff with a curved blade at the end in one hand. The reaper held it out to show her. “Look! I found this scythe in a storage room and it fits perfectly with my costume. Don’t you think?” He tilted his head and smiled at the girl. Something wasn’t right about him. “Stay away,” the girl warned. The reaper’s smile didn’t change. “Is there something wrong?” She stepped back. “I don’t know who

A faint glow was coming from around the corner behind him. The girl peered past the reaper and her heart skipped a beat when she saw an eerie shape drift into view. The ghost was back. The reaper saw the expression on her face and turned to look. In that split second, the girl turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. The ghost’s light filled the hallway. She reached the intersection in record time and saw, from the corner of her eye, a dark tentacle from the corridor she had first come from. She ran past without hesitation, leaving the sweet banana smell behind. All her friends were gone. The house had turned them into monsters, real monsters who would not hesitate to

gut her and turn her into one of them. The girl shuddered as she ran. She wasn’t going to let the house catch her. If she escaped, she could still get help and maybe save her friends.

PEXELS. “Dark Man Night Silhouette.” 19 July 2014.

She remembered the spider queen. There was no way she could’ve followed them upstairs- she was too timid. What if she was still alive, waiting for them in the kitchen? But the house would’ve gotten her by now. It was unlikely she put up much resistance. The girl shook her head. There had been light in the kitchen. There was still hope that the spider queen was her normal self. The girl ran on, kept running until she could run no longer. Her lungs stung and her legs were so sore, she could barely stand. She hadn’t heard any pursuing footsteps and slowed to a walk, keeping one hand on the wall like before. She sniffed the air. No bananas. At one point she walked past a door and halted, frowning. It was the door of the closet she’d hid in when escaping the ghost. The girl thought for a moment. If a zombie were to attack her in her current state, she would barely be able to outrun it. She rubbed her eyes. Her legs were shaking. The girl opened the closet and stepped inside. Something crunched under her foot. Suddenly, a voice hissed at her from the darkness. “You killed it,” it whispered. The girl jumped at the sound. It was a soft, distant voice, echoing in her ears. It was coming from the closet. “You killed so many,” it said. “I will make you pay.” Something itched on her foot and she shook it frantically, dislodging the small black shape of a spider from her leg. The girl’s eyes widened as the spider hit the floor. And a black sea of crawling legs poured from the closet and pounced at her. She staggered backwards, tripping on her cape, as the writhing mass seethed around her feet. She leaped as far away as she could, feeling bodies crunch as she landed and ran. The

spiders followed, crawling along the walls, giving chase until they were on either side of the girl. The spiders rained down on her; in her hair, on her face, all over the girl. She fought, she smashed, she stomped on them but there were too many. At the last minute, she reached out a hand in a desperate attempt to get away before she was buried in a twisting, black mob. “Why can’t we just eat her?” “She is your friend, is she not?” Dominic said, glancing briefly at the banana. The giant banana peel drooped a little. “Well, not exactly.” Dominic gave him a quizzical look and turned to the spider queen. “When will she wake up?” The spider queen was stroking the black widow perched on her shoulder. “Any moment now,” she said in her quiet, whispery voice. “She killed so many,” she added softly. “Humans panic easily,” Dominic reasoned. He watched the girl curled asleep on the ground.

The ghost’s light filled the hallway. She reached the intersection in record time and saw, from the corner of her eye, a dark tentacle from the corridor she had first come from. little. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked. The girl saw Dominic and scrambled backwards. “You!” she shrieked. She saw the spider queen standing next to him and her eyes grew wide. “Oh no.” The reaper was sitting in a chair with his scythe leaned against a table. The ghost drifted lazily around the room, lost in thought, his hollow eyes staring and his mouth agape. The girl’s gaze came to rest on the banana. In the place of the boy she’d known before was a mutant banana peel. He had, not tentacles, but individual banana peels and he stood on four of these peels like an octopus. He did not have a face. “Oh no, no, no,” the girl breathed. She glared at Dominic. “What did you do.” “I didn’t do anything,” Dominic answered calmly. “The house did.” The girl stared at him. “Well, I have to admit we got a pretty nice turnout this year,” he shrugged. “Now then. What do you say we turn those rubber fangs of yours into real ones?”

Her eyes fluttered. Groaning, the girl sat up, rubbing her head, wincing a

OCT 2017||The penchant|24

“Black and White Exhausted Man.” 21 Feb. 2017.

FEATURED

MONSTERS By Kaashvi Agnihotri

IS MONSTER CLAWED AT HIS

heart and soul, trying to break him, vying to be free. Cuts found their way onto his skin, bruises on his arms, and his tears stung his eyes, until they no longer flowed. The monster was a gruesome sight. He was the King, he told the boy. He wore a corona of spikes atop his misshapen head- a dark, inky being that was his deepest secret. No manner of weapons could slay such a beast, and so he could only learn to bear with it. He could have told someone else about it, but he saw no use. Why would another risk such time to slay his beast? And so he used his time instead to hide the scars. Lucky for him, he knew no pain. Only numbness. He was hysterical, he told himself.

Absolutely, utterly hysterical. He knew of no one with such a beast. The closest things he knew of beasts were people themselves. Terrible things, humans can be. Despicably cruel. His beast was driving him insane- he knew. If he didn’t control it soon, he knew something would go terribly wrong. But what is control? He could teach himself control, but the monster would not learn. It laughed at the idea of sanity, and slashed the blade at the skin of his wrists while he begged. He could only hide it, so hide it he did. But then madness came along, and grabbed him by the collar. He was insanity’s puppet, forced to serve its purpose. It ripped the emotions from his heart and trashed

the rooms. They told him to be calm, they told him that everything was fine. What is fine? He’d yelled at them. He dragged himself into the rooms and watched the blood with no expression. There was no suffering, no pain. Only blood. Today was the day. He’d lighten their burden. He’d no longer be a problem. He watched his end with open eyes. He could feel no pain, he told himself. No pain. His breath began to leave his lungs. And then he screamed—A scream cut short.

DESPERATE MEASURES: PART I By Emrit Cheung

They belonged to the girl from school—the girl who is now just a limp heap hanging outside. He saw it himself.

HO, DESIREE. “Rising Smoke.” 2017.

Damien decided that sleep would be impossible after the day's events, but tried anyway. He pulled his bed covers over his head after watching the hallway light go off signaling that his mom had finally gone to sleep.They must teach you that at the police academy, thought Damien, how to sleep after staring at gore all day. It was much too difficult to sleep, but the cold he could do something about. He was too lazy to climb off his bunk, and his brother had a late night shift so he decided reaching for the window seemed like the best option. Keeping one knee on the pillow, he reached across the gap between the bed’s railing and the wall. He grabbed the lever on the window pane, and just as he began to pull it, he heard his name. At first he thought it was his mom talking in her sleep again, but the voice did not sound the same. Leaving barely a foot on the metal railing, Damien put his ear to the window to listen for his brother. After a few seconds of quiet, he began to move his ear away; butt was jolted with a cold touch on his shoulder. Damien whipped his head around and was met with the silhouette of a face. The silhouette reached for his tank top, making him flinch back. As he fell off the side of his bed, Damien realized he recognized those hands. They belonged to the girl from school-the girl who is now just a limp heap hanging outside. He saw it himself. So how come he was so sure it was her? As the room spun and his vision darkened, Damien wouldn't get to ask “why?”. At least not yet.

OCT 2017||The penchant|26

PROSE

Just Some

LOUIE, EDWIN. ”Fall Leaves.” 2015.

Leafy Advice BY SERAPHINA LIN-SHOW

Hi! I’m Leaf #221B. But you can call me Sherley. I’ve been around for a good 185 days now, so I fernly beleaf that I know an overelming amount of things about the leaf life. Now, I wood like to share my unbeleafable amount of knowledge with future leaflings out there, since my time has almost come to an end. Let me be clear. I’m not trying to be vein, just trying to make sure future generations of leaves will be oaky without me here to guide them. Anyway, lettuce get started with my advice and I’ll simpleafy any harder concepts.

Stay in the middle of the tree. Trust me, you do not want to be near the bottom the tree. The treetment down there is absolutely awful. There’s these awful giants with chubby arms that will grab you and just throw you onto the street. That’s how I lost my uncle, Leaf #220A. It’s all right though. We always thought he was a bit birchy. The top of the tree is fir the stronger leaves. You’ve got to stick it through the harsh winds and scorching heat up there. My frond Leaf #607 just couldn’t handle it up there, and he was a very limber leaf by the end of it.

27|The penchant||OCT 2017

Just hang in there. Sometimes the leaf life gets hard. But never let your hope leaf you. Even through the scorching summer, even when you’re dealing with the annoying leaves that try to bring you to the ground, never give up. The leaf life is a great life. You just gotta get through the hard parts sometimes. Enjoy it! The leaf life is also a short life, so remember to enjoy every single part. From your first sprouting to the slow release from the branch, make sure you look back to at least some moments frondly.

That’s all the advice I have for you leaflings. I beleaf that you will all be pine now that you have all of this information! I will leaf now, to go on and enjoy the rest of the time I have before the Fall. HO, DESIREE. “Sunlight Through the Leaves.” 2017.

This caption states that the title of the work of art depicted in the photo is A Painting That Is Its Own Documentation and attributes the painting to John Baldessari. The caption also attributes the photo to a photographer who chose not to put his or her real name here and chose to put this self-referential phrase instead. However, the caption is unnecessary because the painting itself contains the same information as the first sentence of the caption, and the attribution to the photographer is meaningless.

his sentence marks the beginning of the article. However, the previous sentence makes no contribution to the meaning of this article other than to precede this sentence. In fact, even the previous sentence does not contribute any meaning to this article, and neither does this sentence because this article is meaningless in the first place. The idea for this article was conceived on September 27, 2017, at 11:48 p.m., and this sentence was inspired by John Baldessariâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s A Painting That Is Its Own Documentation, a work of art that also documents the time it was conceived. But what value does stating an inspiration have when an article that communicates no meaning to its reader might as well not exist? Or, perhaps, is the meaning in the very fact that this article is meaningless (or at least that it states it is meaningless)?

This Self-Referential Title Describes Itself but Not the Contents of Its Corresponding Article, so Is It Still a Title? BY AN AUTHOR WHO CHOSE NOT TO PUT HER OR HIS REAL NAME HERE AND CHOSE TO PUT THIS SELF-REFERENTIAL PHRASE INSTEAD OCT 2017||The penchant|28

POETRY

I’M NOT COLD

This morning is the first morning the night is cold Tonight is the last night the sun leads the sky But raw wind kindles ashes And bitter conceives new life is born My lips go numb from blowing in my face I draw it deeper to quicken the fire There are goosebumps on my skin The blaze consumes everything underneath

HO, DESIREE. “Crisp Autumn Leaves.” 2017.

REAP Reap what you have sown Before frost consumes the year Soon there is none left

ROASTING GEESE Geese know to take flight They pursue eternal spring We survive the cold “Field of Wheat”

“Soaring Geese”

BY EUONYMOUS

29|The penchant||OCT 2017

I’M FALLING

BY SASHRIKA PANDEY You fall, you falter, you’re faltering again How many ways can you fall, my friend? Falling in love while you fall for the lies Falling asleep just as you open your eyes Fall, falter, falling has always been easy Just don’t look around and try to see Forget the smiles, the frowns, the word “we” Just remember that there is only I and me No, that doesn’t really make sense, it shouldn’t Falling never does, not in a single case Because if it did, then you know, nobody wouldn’t Fall, for anyone or anything in haste Falling leaves from the drooping trees Falling tears from the blurred eyes Falling asleep to escape from the dreams Falling back from what they despise Fall, falling, and faltering is the same If you forget what everyone else is like Falling and faltering when nobody came Stopped keeping track of the strikes A smattering of words that sort of rhyme Doesn’t matter, nobody gives a care Tick tock, nobody’s counting the time It takes for you to fall through the air Because even when leaves can crumble And tears can be wiped away Someone will help you when you stumble Will ignore the hateful words that you say Not like it matters in the end, you should know Because falling for anything is not worth the wait When you fall, what if nobody’s down below? Nobody there to catch you, to scatter the hate The odd thing about falling is that it’s one sided In the end, there will be something to block your fall There’s something or someone in whom you’ve confided Someone or something who will heed your call But who knows the truth of this, anyways I’m falling like you, maybe slower or faster It’s all become a blurry, confused haze One an amateur, the other a master If you want, I’ll be there, to catch you If you don’t mind doing the same for me I don’t care how many times you fell or flew What matters is that you can still be seen.

FREE-PHOTOS. “Falling Autumn Leaves.” 14 Oct. 2013.

OCT 2017||The penchant|30

POETRY

The Roman’s Lament BY CHANDU GARAPATY I used to be a lord Smiting enemies with my blazing sword Adorned By the blood of the conquered, gleaming Like a liquid ruby Like the countless shimmering gems they poured at my feet

But there was never enough And there were never enough ways to spend them So the wine poured like an endless stream of liquid ruby From the thousand gold pitchers my thousand slaves held Into a thousand gold cups for a thousand elite Stuffing themselves from a thousand gold platters only to throw the contents up

The land was in discord But it was something everyone ignored But I bought a thousand soldiers Armored myself in a thousand scales For when the barbarians came

My thousand scales cracked and broke As ruby-red blood ran in the streets As my hired soldiers fled through the fire As, somewhere, I heard a fiddle

My thousand scales cracked and broke And inside my scales I was rotten And in my black heart I knew We were barbarians, too

31|The penchant||OCT 2017

STOCKSNAP. “Shadow of Person in Smoke.” July 2017. YHDCHANG. “Shadows of People Walking on the Street.” 13 Jan 2014.

Shadows By Vox Nihili

The shadows they follow me Everywhere I go Their loud footsteps echo in the walls of my mind My blood runs cold A silent scream escapes my lips The drums in my chest beat louder I can feel them right beside me A shiver runs up my spine Sweat drips down my face Suddenly I see their hollow faces I fall back And darkness engulfs me in its sweet embrace

PHOTO/ART

ONE THEME ACROSS FOUR PLATFORMS Halloween decorations with all their LED and gory splendor infiltrate placid front yards and doors, while the autumn trees begin shedding their now reddened leaves. As late October leads into November, the sights may not be new, but the way they are viewed can display a brand new take on to this seasonal environment. In this edition of The Penchant, the artworks communicate seasonal undertones through a variety of art media: pastel, watercolor, graphite, and pen. For instance, the crisp delineation of pen and the vibrant tones of watercolor bring finality to leaves and life to the bare bones of death in “A Time for Everything” and “The Skull,” respectively.

YANG, LILY. “Still Pondering.” 2017. Pastel.

33|The penchant||OCT 2017

YANG, LILY. “The Skull.” 2017. Watercolor.

TSAI, NOAH. “The Monster.” 2017. Graphite.

C., ABIJAH. “A TIME FOR EVERYTHING.” 2017. Pen.

OCT 2017||The penchant|34

PHOTO/ART

PHOTO CAPTIONS BY SABRINA MA

HO, DESIREE. 2017: A Raven Prepares For Flight: “And the raven said, nevermore.”

HO, DESIREE. 2017: An Orange Spider Spins a Web: “To build a home is to make something beautiful out of something plain.”

In the middle of a frenzy of tests, essays, and quizzes, life becomes a too zoomed-in picture of schoolloop or red marks on random sheets of paper. Sometimes it’s scrolling through meaningless memes or perfectly aligned objects that can make a day. Other times it’s the little things like light decorations or ravens or even spiders that speak out to us the most. Don’t forget these little reminders that the world is your stage. Don’t forget to appreciate everything in the present and zoom out from whatever troubles you may have. Smile. Like how fall leaves us and winter soon will greet us, troubling stages in life won’t stay forever.

35|The penchant||OCT 2017

DON’T FORGET THE

LITTLE THINGS

HONG, ESTHER. 2017. BELOW: A Dangling String of Halloween Decorations and Lights: “Light can be found in all times, if only one took the time to look. ” OCT 2017||The penchant|36

PHOTO/ART

REMINISCE AND REFLECT

While autumn and inevitably winter approaches, some of us who find the colder, grayer weather unappealing may choose to turn our minds towards the brighter colors and liveliness of spring and summer. The vibrant tones and remarkable details depicted in these simple yet relaxing images of nature can serve to help us all reminisce and eagerly anticipate the warmth and joys of the spring and summer months, while also allowing us to reevaluate and contemplate our current stage in and understanding of life.

LOUIE, EDWIN. 2015. A Salmon Pink Rose: “Roses are just like love: beautiful, yet thorny; fragrant in spring, but never lasting long in the face of winter.”

LOUIE, EDWIN. 2015. A Bush of Violet Lantanas: “Each flower is an individual, but only with each bloom in its place is the entire formation complete.”

37|The penchant||OCT 2017

PHOTO CAPTIONS BY CHANDU GARAPATY LOUIE, EDWIN. 2015. ABOVE: Four Palm Trees: “Trees whisper into the wind, teaching us how to reach great heights, if only we slow down to listen.”

ACULEATUS, GASTEROSTEUS. 24 Oct. 2017. ABOVE: A Single Daisy: A white flower blooms brightly among a sea of grass. RIGHT: An Off-White Terrier: A white dog trots back to its owner with a baseball. OCT 2017||The penchant|38

ISSUE 7| 1 NOV 2017

IHS CREATIVE WRITING CLUB