Penchant2.2 by The Penchant Literary Magazine

THE

PENCHANT HOUSE OF NOVA The Captain’s grip tightened on the Doctor’s arm. “If you open that door, all of us die. If you and I live to tell the tale, the rest of mankind at least stands a chance against that thing.”

LEAVES by raisah khan

ODE TO THE FORGOTTEN by aaron chao

SUPERNOVA

by felicia mo

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. CONTENT WARNINGS: Some pieces discuss sensitive content that may be a potential trigger for some audiences. If you need help or support, do not hesitate to reach out to staff or use any of the resources below taken from Irvington High School Health and Wellness Resources Webpage. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ 1(800) 273-TALK 24-Hour Crisis Line (Crisis Support Services of Alameda County) 1-800-309-2131 Also confidential text message support from 4PM-11PM 7 days/week text "Safe" to 20121 Youth and Family Services Fremont Family Resource Center 39155 Liberty Street, suite E500 Fremont, CA 94538 (510) 574-2100 Counseling services, crisis intervention, school site counseling, etc. Seneca Center Mobile Response Team 1(877) 441-1089 Serves youth and families in crisis in Alameda and Contra Costa Counties Fremont Hospital (510) 796-1100 Mental health services National Teen Dating Abuse Helpline Chat online at: www.loveisrespect.org 1 (866) 331-9474 1 (866) 331-8453 TTY Empowering youth to end dating abuse Bullying Information https://www.fremont.k12.ca.us/Page/12231 Links to help with a safe learning environment for all students

We believe in creating a safe space for students to express their creativity. The mental health of our readers and our supporters are of utmost importance to us. If you have any concerns or issues please contact us at penchantlitmag@gmail.com or find any CWC officer. To learn more about us, go to penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/. To see our submission guidelines, click on the “Submit To” tab on the menu bar, or follow us on facebook @penchantlitmag.

the penchant Irvington | creative writing club EDITOR IN CHIEF Tianhui (Lily) Yang CONTENT EDITORS Catherine You Athena Xue LAYOUT EDITORS Sushrut Borkar Anikait Rao COVER CREDITS Desiree Ho

March 2019

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

17 supernova

18 FEATURED 11| House of Nova By Felicia Mo “The Captain’s grip tightened on the Doctor’s arm. “If you open that door, all of us die. If you and I live to tell the tale, the rest of mankind at least stands a chance against that thing.”

14| Leaves By Raisah Khan “I put it to my tongue and tasted it There is a beauty in the past and our ability to glaze over it with liquid glass“

17| Ode to the Forgotten By Aaron Chao “Life must be more meaningless than meaningful, when impactful persons and places and events are forgotten.. “

PROSE

POETRY

PHOTO/ART Anonymous 5 Aseem Doriwala 16, 17, 18 Desiree Ho 1, 3, 4, 6, 9, 14 Sabrina Ma 11, 13 Sameeha Salman 18

PROSE

PHOTO COURTESY OF DESIREE HO

YOYODA

by felicia mo

ep. 2

A long time ago, there was a powerful man with a powerful yoyo. The yoyo was a beautiful thing, silver material with a purple core as brilliant as the galaxy, adorned with three glittering blades at the edge. With yoyo in hand, the man’s influence spread across the globe. People were mystified by the magic he held, and the man finally decided he would share it with the rest of the world. He created special, personalized yoyos for anyone who requested them, placing a speck of his own yoyo’s purple core into each of his creations to fuel their unique power. That man is no longer in this world. But his yoyos were passed down from generation to generation, over centuries of time. Of course, with power comes greed. Corruption and fear. The very thing that killed the first yoyo master. “There’s a new kid at school.” “Yeah, I heard he beat Kokomo Kanada in a yoyo battle. Sent Kokomo’s Komodo Wheel flying.” “No one’s ever beaten the Komodo Wheel before! But did you hear that the yoyo masters in the other school’s around here are all getting beat up lately?” Shinda Kaneji heard all this and cringed inwardly. He was standing right at the edge of the school parking lot, his bulging backpack almost twice his own

size. It was a cloudy morning, and the wind threatened to knock him off his feet. The group of boys he’d been eavesdropping on walked past him into the school building, and Shinda was once again left in a state of anxious boredom. If that was possible. The gossip that he’d heard was true. Shinda could confirm it because he was a witness. Kokomo, Yoyota Private High School’s King and former best wheeler, had been about to strangle Shinda alive yesterday—he often did that for sport—when a new kid, Hiro, strolled onto campus and crushed Kokomo in a yoyo battle, two seconds flat. Now it was all the school could talk about. Only a couple of students previously knew—or had bothered to care—about the arrival of a new student on campus. Of course, no one paid much attention, until he ended up defeating the school’s most popular guy. Shinda rocked on his feet, attempted to whistle but made a farting noise instead, and sighed. I have to repay Hiro somehow, he thought. What can I do? I have extra yoyo strings. Shinda bit the inside of his mouth. Does his yoyo need repair? How about I buy him lunch? Nah, that’s what Kokomo likes. How about a punching bag? Kokomo again. I can be his punching bag! What am I thinking— “There you are.” Shinda almost had a heart attack as he stiffened and whipped around, almost tipping over from the weight of his backpack. A boy, who’d been standing behind Shinda, wearing the purple school uniform, chuckled at the reaction. He had dark eyes speckled with fire and hair bleached white-blonde, leaving nothing but a streak of its original black on one side of his face. He was spinning a yoyo in one hand; lowering it, reeling it back up, catching it, lowering it again.

Shinda had been waiting for none other than Hiro Kuraneji. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Hiro. Shinda noticed he closed his eyes when he smiled. In response, Shinda waved his hands frantically. “No need to apologize! I just got here!” He grinned. “C’mon let’s get out of this wind.” Shinda was glad he made that call. The school hallways were much warmer, heated by the bustling sea of students in their purple uniforms. It was always like this before school, until Shinda heard a clique of girls nearby whispering Hiro’s name. Shinda tensed. “On second thought,” he said to Hiro, “let’s use the back door.” They ended up sneaking around the giant trash bins behind the school, although Hiro didn’t seem to mind. He just gave Shinda an amused look. “Why the secrecy?” he asked nonchalantly. “Oh, well,” Shinda stammered, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “I thought there were too many people up front and the back is usually quieter, so….” In truth, Shinda just didn’t want to die by stampede once everyone noticed Hiro and started to crowd. He imagined everyone asking for Hiro’s autograph and shivered. Hiro shrugged, pulled ahead of Shinda, rounded the corner. And crashed into a girl. The mirror in her hand dropped to the ground, and Hiro managed to catch the girl before she fell too. Several other girls behind her screamed in shock. Shinda covered his ears. The girl in Hiro’s arms looked up, saw Hiro’s face, and immediately recoiled. Hiro frowned. “Miss, are you alright—” “You,” she spat, stumbling backwards.

MO. 2017

It glowed every now and then, this eerie dark color.

Shinda took one look at her and his heart sank. She had long, wavy hair streaked with blue, eyes flecked with gold, and an expression filled with disgust. Hikaru Niji, Yoyota’s Queen. And Kokomo’s girlfriend. The girls behind her were Yoyota’s princesses, Hikaru’s loyal, mindless followers. Could this day get any worse? “YOU HUMILIATED KOKO!” Hikaru shrieked, jabbing a manicured finger at Hiro. Hiro instantly grinned. “Ooh, that’s what this is about? And what’s your name?” Hikaru looked deeply offended. “I’m—you—” She jabbed her finger at Shinda. “This is all YOUR fault.” Shinda made an odd peeping sound and stuck himself behind Hiro. Hikaru’s facefull of makeup was now a furious red color as she jammed her hand into the pocket of her uniform. It came out with a round, turquoise object wrapped in coils of thin string. “Come out, little twit, and face me like a MAN!” Hikaru screamed, spittle practically flying out of her mouth. Quick as lightning, she strung the end of the string to her forefinger, held the turquoise yoyo in her fist. Shinda’s eyes bulged like a frog. The yoyo was as luminescent as the sea, with an intricate dark blue design on one side. Shinda didn’t like the idea that something so aesthetic could be so deadly. “Hey, hey,” said Hiro. “Shinda didn’t do anything. I was the one who publicly shamed that other guy.” “OTHER GUY?” Hikaru was going insane. “His name is Kokomo Kanada, snake face! And I will be the one to publicly shame you!” Without any warning, Hikaru chucked her yoyo at the boys. Hiro had the good sense to duck, which left Shinda right in the line of fire. The yoyo bounced off of Shinda’s nose, which immediately started to bleed. Shinda howled, fell backwards, and coiled himself into a ball. Ow, ow, ow, he whimpered to himself. Geez, what is with this woman? “Shinda!” Hiro called as Hikaru reeled in her yoyo. “You okay?” Shinda didn’t speak; he waved a bloody thumbs up at Hiro instead. Hiro stood up, dusting his pants and glaring at Hikaru. “Tsk, miss, that was uncalled for,”

he said. “Where are your ethics? You could’ve just asked politely that you wanted to fight.” In response, Hikaru swung back her arm and threw her yoyo again, harder this time. Instead of dodging, Hiro’s hand dashed into his pockets and then flicked a black sphere out to meet Hikaru’s yoyo in midair. The yoyo’s clashed and Hikaru stumbled back a few steps, frantically pulling back her string. Her yoyo retreated into her outstretched palm, and she winced at the force of the impact. “Not bad,” said Hiro. “Tu4S Serval Wheel. Spirit element and illusion. You’re a tricky one, although I’m guessing you’re around level three. Not as strong as Kokomo.” “How dare you!” Hikaru spat. “Are you implying that I am unworthy of him? I’m the school Queen!” A string of curse words followed, wherein Shinda covered his ears again, finally ending with, “I’m going to MURDER you!” Hiro held his yoyo lightly in his hand, casually flicking his wrist as he widened his stance. His yoyo had a red and gold core surrounded by a smooth, ink-black, obsidian body. It glowed every now and then, this eerie dark color. “Ready when you are,” Hiro said, tensing his shoulders. “Let’s dance.” Both swung back their arms and launched their yoyos with all their might. The dark blue marks on the turquoise Serval Wheel brightened as it flew through the air, and Shinda’s eyes widened. The Serval Wheel suddenly sped up, so fast it was a blue blur, appearing right above Hiro’s yoyo and smashing its opponent down. Shinda had never seen the Serval Wheel in action this close before and was bewildered. Yoyo’s couldn’t suddenly speed up in mid-battle. That was unheard of. Hiro had to jerk his wrist backward, his yoyo nearly missing a fatal hit on the ground as he pulled it back. The Serval Wheel made an elegant arc in the air and zipped into Hikaru’s waiting hand. “Surprise!” she sneered, turning her yoyo in her fingers. “You should be honored, Hiro. I only reserve the Serval Wheel’s specialty for special opponents.” Hiro frowned at his own yoyo, deep in thought. Shinda felt panic rising in his chest. Come on, Hiro, he silently urged. You already beat Kokomo. Hikaru is no

MAR 2019||The penchant|2

PROSE no different, just the sassier, feminine version. If anyone could figure out how to beat the Serval Wheel, it was Hiro Kuraneji. Hiro flicked his wrist again and finally looked up. “What was so special,” he said, “about that?” Before Hikaru could reply, one of Yoyota’s princesses screamed out in frustration. “What is your problem?” she said. “Hikaru’s beating you, so show some respect!” “Yeah!” called another. “She’s clearly stronger, you dunce!” “Show some respect!” “Respect!” Hiro grinned. “She has to earn respect. And she hasn’t beaten me yet.” He held out his hand towards Hikaru and beckoned mockingly to her with his fingers. “What are you waiting for?” Hikaru completely lost it. She practically chucked her yoyo out. Hiro waited for a split second, then tossed out his own yoyo. Shinda watched intently as, for the second time, the Serval Wheel’s dark blue patterns brightened. It sped up, over Hiro’s yoyo, smashed down. And missed. Hiro’s yoyo suddenly put on a burst of speed and ran right past the Serval Wheel, straight for Hikaru’s face. Hikaru screamed, instinctively jerking on her string. The Serval Wheel recoiled, but it had already made it’s arc downward. Hikaru and Hiro’s strings met, twining around each other. Hiro pulled back forcefully. A thin string drifted through the air, like a single strand of delicate hair, settling in a loop around the fallen turquoise yoyo. Hikaru held the other end of the string, limp in her hands. Then she burst into tears, whipped around, and ran, sobbing. Yoyota’s princesses hurried after her, shouting words of comfort, and two of them stopped to retrieve Hikaru’s Serval Wheel. Both princesses glared up at Hiro. “You’re going to regret messing with us, new kid! Just you wait!” one of them said, and took off after her clique. Hiro and Shinda blinked at the remaining girl. She was a redhead, with the ends of her hair dyed bright green. Her eyes were round as they watched her friend disappear around the corner before she turned to face the two boys. “Who are you?” she asked, like a detective searching for a suspect. “I’m Shinda!” Shinda piped up, not missing the opportunity to speak with a Yoyota princess.

“Not you,” the girl hissed, and her eyes flicked back to Hiro. “Him.” “Hiro Kuraneji.” Hiro showed the girl his yoyo. “This is Cobra Wheel.” The girl’s eyebrow twitched just a little. “What do you want, snake?” Hiro gave her a hurt look. “What do you mean? I’m just a new kid at a new school—” “You think I’m stupid?” The girl put her hands on her hips. “New student takes down top private school’s King and Queen yoyo masters in his first two days on campus. Coincidentally, just three days ago, another school’s King and Queen were defeated in two days time. That leaves you, what, about one day to transfer schools and come here to disrupt our norm. Hiro Kuraneji.” The girl pointed at him. “You don’t plan on staying long, do you?” Shinda opened his mouth, outraged. Is she insane? That’s messed up! Hiro would never — Hiro started to laugh. He raised his hands, palms out in surrender, and smiled at the girl. “What’s your name again?” he asked. The girl curled her lips in disgust. “Ketsuki.” “You’re a smart girl, Ketsuki, and you’re right. I’m leaving tomorrow for Wheely High School. I heard their King and Queen might put up a bigger challenge.” He leaned forward until his face was inches away from Ketsuki’s. By now, Shinda had backed away from Hiro, a look of horror and betrayal on his face. Hiro grinned. “Kings and Queens bring nothing but greed and power, the very things that killed the first yoyo master. People like Kokomo and Hikaru will grow up to be corrupt figures of power, so what better way to deal with them than when they’re still, well, young, dumb, and broke.” He turned, strolled past Shinda, and was about to round the corner when he added, over his shoulder, “I’m doing this for your own good.” “Don’t try to stop me.”

PHOTO COURTESY OF DESIREE HO

CHENG

by jonathan cheng

RESTLESS

It´s a black and white spiral that goes around and around and around and around… PHOTO COURTESY OF DESIREE HO

I roll over in bed, noticing my the bright green numbers of my alarm clock. It was 12:32, marking exactly one hour of me fidgeting around in my bed, struggling to find a comfortable position and fall asleep. Darn it, why can’t I just fall asleep. I have already flipped my pillows a thousand times to get a cooler side. I have tried sleeping on my right side, left side, and even on my stomach. Maybe I shouldn’t have had Boba after dinner… oh but it was so good though, and you got it for free, Jonathan, so stop complaining. I reorganize my bed sheets (after all the moving around, it was quite out of place) and stick one out from under the covers, hoping that the extra coolness would somehow make me more relaxed. The harsh cold air of my room gives me a little jolt of surprise as I instinctively bring my foot back in. Tap, tap, tap. Oh my gosh, there’s footsteps in the hallway. I fall still, waiting for whoever it was to pass by so that my awakeness would remain unnoticed. At least there’s still someone up at this time, feeling a little better. I take another glance toward the digital clock after the sound of footsteps disappear into the middle of night. In order to get to school on time, I need to wake up at 7:00 which means I’m only going to get 6 hours and 25 minutes. Agh, I’m gonna be so tired when I go to school the next day. This kinda reminds me of that one girl who’s always sleeping in my Chinese class. I mean I wouldn’t blame her, but I’m surprised that she manages to fall asleep on her desk in the middle of a bright classroom. Isn’t it uncomfortable to contort your body in that manner onto a desk much lower than your sitting

position? Speaking of which, how have I, sleeping on a deluxe mattress, in a dark, quiet bed room, not fallen asleep yet! I pull up my bed sheets that are falling onto on side and look up at the blank dark ceiling. I ignore the ceiling fan, although if it fell on top of me, it wouldn't be good. Beyond the gloomy ceiling in the midnight sky, there must be stars, light and hope in the midst of the darkness. I suddenly think of the time that I went camping that and someone mentioned that trying to count stars in your mind was a good method to fall asleep. As I close my eyes, I imagine the white dots present within my vision. The stars randomly arrange themselves across the horizon, and as I link them together, there seems to be a picture made. I view an intricate constellation of a lion that suddenly transforms into a complicated geometry figure (reminding me of math class) as soon as I change my perspective. A funny emoji pops up into my imagination, then a Google symbol, and soon before an optical illusion makes a spotlight. It’s a black and white spiral that goes around and around and around and around… all the way to the dark, super-nova like hole, where all the light and my energy is pulled away and disappears. Falls Asleep I wake up, noticing the weird change in position. Although I normally slept facing up, I wake up today facing my mirror. As I view the gray fuzzy reflection of myself, I notice the bright green digits of my digital clock in the background. I toward the source where a horror faced me. Itś only 3:14. Sigh.

MAR 2019||The penchant|4

PROSE Okay, so it’s still there. He glances around, checking to see if any others, or if any humans, have noticed. Apparently not. He takes back his words earlier about humans being birdbrains, because he seems to be the only birdbrained one here. He files through his food choices from the past twenty-four hours, and believes none of them to be hallucination-inducing, although, that one raw fish he’d found earlier in the morning had seemed to be a bit stale. So it’s safe (enough) to say that he isn’t delirious and that whatever he’s seeing is…legit. The seagull vaguely recalls a sunny afternoon when his sister had cheerfully chirped at him that he should take his chances, so he ruffles his feathers into a satisfying position and kicks off the branch he’s been perched on, pumping his wings and propelling himself toward the sky. To explore, or figure out what exactly is going on, or whatever. Déjà vu. He’s heard the human mythology That’s the term, the bird stories—fly too high and you’ll melt your mentally notes as it peers down on a wings off—but that seems irrelevant now, phone screen from above on a broken considering that he’s not a human street lamp. The unsuspecting user has a pretending to be a bird and that the cause google search open—“define deja vu”—and of the melting wings is gone. Really. The the lonely seagull is finally able to put a seagull has no idea where the sun went, so name to match what he’s been feeling he’s amazed that no one else has noticed. lately. Somehow, it’s still bright out, but that’s Dé·jà vu: (noun) a feeling of probably due to the countless stars that having already experienced the present litter the sky instead. In broad daylight (is situation, he reads, and then the user is he still allowed to call it daylight if the already opening a new tab, typing in stars are lighting up the sky rather than something else, something unimportant. the sun?). Déjà vu. Déjà vu, the seagull It’s a remarkable sight to behold, repeats in his head. The word looks funny, though the avian is more concerned than sounds funny too. Seriously, humans are awed at the moment. The human calendar the real birdbrains, putting words from flashes before his eyes, and he doesn’t another language into their own remember today as being a so-called “end vernacular. It’s a good thing he’s been to of the world” day, but the current events France already and familiarized himself are quickly changing how sure he is about with their smooth way of talking, though that. He can’t put a talon on it, but the seagulls there are a bit too pretentious something is off. Besides the stars in a for his liking. pale blue sky part of things. But…déjà vu, he thinks again. He pumps his wings to drive This word really does sum things himself higher, but he’s already realizing up well. Especially with all the flying he’s the futility of his actions, and quickly been doing lately. The same fluffy clouds reverts directions to settle back down on drifting across the same blue ocean every the branch he had been perched on day, the same rows of crop after crop from before. Now that he thinks about it, the above, the same cars stuck in a traffic jam seagull has only seen two ridiculous at the same time every day as he lazily spectacles in his short life: this and the coasts over them. He knows it’s not absurd portrayal of seagulls in Finding exactly the same, but he can’t help but feel Nemo. Both hard to stomach, but at least as if it really is that way. the latter isn’t resulting in an apparent Maybe he’s going crazy. Ever end-of-world situation. Above him, the since falling out of that dumb nest when starry sky sparkles everywhere. he was a few weeks old, his sister has Maybe if he tries to take a nap always been asking if he’s out of his mind. he’ll wake up and everything will be fine. Which is why when he peers Like...waiting out the storm. As his eyes through the leaves and into the sky he slowly close, he realizes that this might be thinks he really is going mad. more than the second ridiculous spectacle He blinks. he’s seen. He squints at the sky, trying to Once. organize his memories, but sleep is Twice. already rapidly advancing upon him.

ANONYMOUS

MAR 2019||The penchant|5

The seagull’s last thought before sleep surrounds him in its grasp is... déjà vu. He’s really feeling the déjà vu right now. --“Aghhhh!” the woman exclaims and angrily throws the pencil she had been using at the wall, frustration briefly morphing into regret as the its tip snaps off upon impact. She shoves her cat off the paper, unsympathetic when he throws her a disgruntled expression as if to say, Hey, I was about to sleep there. “I can’t believe you’ve somehow managed to spill glitter on my comics two times this week now,” she reprimands, though her cat is already tuning her out as he makes himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. Luckily, the glitter has only managed to taint the skies of a few of the comic’s panels. For now. Despite efforts to completely remove the sparkly material, she knows she’ll be finding remnants of it everywhere—clinging to her clothes, wedged in between book pages, sticking to the carpet—a few hours later anyway. She brushes what she can of the glitter off of the paper and into her hand, depositing it back in its container, before regarding her work. She admits that the glitter-covered sky had looked interesting when it had been shimmering under her room’s lights, vaguely reminiscent of a bright galaxy. Now, however, it looks a normal pale blue again, and she can finish illustrating the comic. After retrieving her pencil, she finishes sketching the seagull in the next panel and moves onto the background. Funny how she can clearly recall the same events happening just three days ago, cat, glitter, and all. Déjà vu, she thinks, and makes a mental note to put the container of glitter in a spot where her cat can’t tip it over. Déjà vu.

A SEAGULL’S

SENSE by kay krachenfels

NOT YET by anonymous

I live in a world of parasites and leeches. I am not excluded.

I can never listen to the same songs again. There’s nothing wrong with them, there’s just something wrong with me. Every time I listen, I can hear your voice. The sharp intake of your breath, they fill the intervals where my sobbing halts. I can’t blame anyone else for this. I suffer the consequences of my actions, it’s the right thing to do. The decent thing to do. What no one tells you is that it isn’t a sharp burst of pain. It’s a slow, agonizing poison. Blooming from your chest, chokes out your voice. Ruins your days, your mindset, your outlook on life. The breaths get harder, but all around you everyone looks fine. That is, until they look at you. The judgement, the hatred, indeed even the pity. I don’t want it. I just want to be left alone. And at the same time I want to be comforted. I want to be told everything’s going to be okay. I want to know that there’s someone there that will never leave me. But to ask that of anyone is selfish to the highest degree. How can I ask someone to stay with me when I can’t even stand myself? How could I torture another human to appease my own suffering? Ironically, it would cause more grief for both of the afflicted. Everything tells me that I should kill myself. What do I have to live for? A world that doesn’t care. People that don’t care about the world. People that don’t care about other people. I live in a world of parasites and leeches. I am not excluded. Even now I siphon the happiness from others for no benefit. Perhaps this is something all of humanity must go through. A phase of depression. After all, it seems that all those that succeed, that do well seem to become depressed. How comical it would be if depression was a sign of success. And how stupid we would be to pursue such a dream. I could never kill myself. Whether out of cowardice or the will to live, though I’m fairly certain everyone’s entertained the thought before.

Dear Me, The songs will regain their beauty. You just have to wait and let yourself recover. I know that now it doesn’t seem like anyone cares, but if you don’t show it how are they supposed to know? I know it’s hard to be vulnerable, it’s hard to let people in when you’ve just been hurt by people you cared about, but I also know that you’re in your own way. You want someone to comfort you? Then let them. Perhaps they may suffer if you let them in, but that just means you need to be there for them when they need it. I’m sorry, but your suffering is permanent. Nothing will remove the scar in your chest. It’s is there to stay. It’s there to show you that you went through agony and made it out alive. Now it’s up to you to get better, to become better, to make yourself better than when you started. Suicide is selfish. You forfeit your own life at the cost of others’ suffering. You have no right to take the life that others have given you. You may not feel happy now, you may feel like sh*t. But it’ll pass and you’ll see that you had so much more than you thought you had. And what you lost? Well, it wasn’t really all that much at all. Those people that decided you weren’t worth their time aren’t worth yours. The opportunities you lost give you time to capitalize on new ones. That thing you wanted so deeply now is something that you’ll pass on later. Ultimately, this world is horrible. Each generation believes themselves to be better than the one before and the one after it. Humanity is innately flawed. Sad as it is to say, we are human. Both of us will make many many many many many many many many more mistakes in our lifetime. But the value of each mistake depends on what we make of them. You made a mistake. Multiple really. But you stand to gain so much from this experience. The pain is something you have to feel now so that later you can empathize with others. You need to experience to understand. We humans are innately flawed, yes. But at least we can be innately flawed together, and help each other grow from it. Let other people help you. You will find happiness there. Happy New Year me.

PHOTO COURTESY OF DESIREE HO

PROSE

The Vaillancourt Fountain Today. Sharon Mollerus.

A CITY OF

REBIRTH by arnav nagle Supernovas are, quite obviously, massive explosions. They destroy entire star systems. But, in the process, they create. The elements that make up the Earth, and even us humans, were only created because of the immense power within a supernova. After all, as Carl Sagan quipped, “we are made of star-stuff.”

Astronomers, as well as biologists, call this pattern of death and rebirth a “life cycle.” Ecologists call it “succession.” But the essential irony of this natural process was best captured by an economist. Joseph Schumpeter coined the term “creative destruction” to describe the forces wipe out the old and make room for the new. While Schumpeter referred to economic structures, the theme of creative destruction is evident in numerous contexts, especially the characters of cities. Perhaps no city best embodies the spirit of creative destruction that San Francisco. Now, what does it mean for a city to have a “spirit”? Let’s take inspiration from the urbanist writer Jane Jacobs. In The Death and Life of Great American Cities, she writes, “Think of a city and what comes to mind? Its streets. If a city's streets look interesting, the city looks interesting; if they look dull, the city looks dull.” Walk along the Embarcadero and you may be baffled by the Vaillancourt Fountain in Embarcadero Plaza. A jumble of rusted pipes bent at any and every random angle, this sculpture seems like a misfit in the scene of the palm-lined waterfront boulevard.

But, while this sculpture has never moved physically, it was built in a completely different environment. In 1971, when Armand Vaillancourt installed the fountain, the Embarcadero as the wide, lively boulevard we know it as today did not exist. Rather, the Embarcadero was an imposing, double-decker freeway. The freeway was, to put it simply, massive. At street level on the city side of the freeway, a visitor would never guess there was a beautiful waterfront behind it. Vaillancourt’s fountain almost seemed to mock the dreariness of the Embarcadero Freeway. It was a perfect rebuke to the eyesore.

For decades, ever since the freeway’s construction, locals had protested it and called for its demolition. But political stagnancy, as well as groups of people who relied on the transportation capabilities of the freeway for their businesses, held back any change.

Then, in 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake struck. The freeway collapsed.

The Vaillancourt Fountain before the collapse and demolition of the Embarcadero Freeway. Dng2000.

The Embarcadero after the Loma Prieta Earthquake. Brx0.

After studying the prospects for repairing the freeway, the city admitted that doing so would require demolishing it and starting from scratch. Replacing the freeway with a boulevard now seemed to be the most feasible option. Many businesses had in fact suffered losses from the lack of an effective means of transportation to the area. However, weighing the heavy cost of rebuilding the freeway, as well as the blight it has imposed on the neighborhood in the decades prior, the city voted to move on with the proposal to build the boulevard that exists today. Since then, the Embarcadero has become a vibrant area of San Francisco. Visitors stroll the wide sidewalk to admire the view of downtown on the west and the bay on the east. The city opened two historic streetcar lines on this road, and at least every five minutes, streetcars painted in bright colors and shipped in from as far as Milan pass by. In 2003, the historic Ferry Building was renovated and opened to the public. Numerous restaurants, shops, and a weekly farmers market now draw in crowds there. Today, the Vaillancourt Fountain is a remnant of the time in which the freeway reigned, a puzzling vestige, a constant in a world that has completely changed around it. A similar story can be told of the Central Freeway in Hayes Valley. Before, even locals did not dare to cross underneath the freeway. The freeway came down in 1989. Today, where the freeway once stood, at the corner of Octavia and Hayes, there is a small patch of green with a mural of Cesar Chavez, a tree-like sculpture, and a juice stand. You’ll find children playing on the dome-shaped play structure and locals

working out on the community pull-up bars there. The neighborhood, once a “blighted” part of town, is now a dining and shopping destination. It’s a place you would take your date to. It wouldn’t do justice, however, to praise the rebirth of the Embarcadero and Hayes Valley without mentioning San Francisco’s darker history with the “urban renewal” projects. Justin Herman, the head of the San Francisco Redevelopment Agency and the former namesake of Embarcadero Plaza before his name was removed in 2017, was the mastermind behind these projects that sought to “revitalize” lower income neighborhoods by demolishing them completely and evicting their residents. His justification? “This land is too valuable to permit poor people to park on it.” While his projects have led to the construction of some remarkable spots in the city, such as the Yerba Buena Gardens and adjacent San Francisco Museum of Modern Art in the South of Market district, we must remember that people once called these places home before being forced out to make way for museums and gardens. The flag of San Francisco depicts a phoenix rising from flames, symbolic of the city’s recovery from the 1906 earthquake and fire. The phoenix born out of the flames is spectacular, but the flames had to burn something down first

MAR 2019||The penchant|8

PROSE

THE ONE

WHO

BROKE ME

CONTENT WARNING: This piece discusses sensitive content that may be a potential trigger for some audiences. If you need help or support, do not hesitate to reach out to staff and see the links provided in the cover page.

Five months. God, five months. Five months of broken hopes and twisted dreams. Five months of insanity and foolishness. Five months of denial and lies. Five months of ideas that soared through my head the way dragons soared across the sky, the way leviathans lurked beneath the calm waters. Yet nothing to show. Five months since that star’s final breath, the spiral streak of hell-fire that painted the sky of twinkling darkness; five months since the blooming of a flower of rainbow light within the infinite darkness of the cosmos had led me to fight. A fight that lasted five months. Against what? Nothing but a fallacy, nothing but a lie. Five months ago, I had sowed the seed of hope, the seed of dreams. I had yielded my tears, shed my sweat, and yet what I reaped was naught but loss and sorrow. Hopes. Dreams. Friendship. All of those were nothing. Meaningless. Why did no one but the broken ones understand? We aren’t the lucky ones. We aren’t the chosen ones. No, we’re the broken ones. The ones with nothing left to lose. The ones who no longer try to run from the inevitable fate of man, but rather stand still and let it overtake us. Why does death scare us? Why are we so scared of being like that star, so scared of becoming nothing once we expire? It’s because we’re not just scared of the unknown. We’re also scared of being forgotten, of being thrown aside after our death. Just like that star, one day we will fade away into nothingness, and be lost in the vastness of the cosmos. Just another one of those dime-in-a-dozen twinkles in the night sky. Just another… one.

PHOTOS COURTESY OF DESIREE HO

This world… is a world of cardboard. It’s so damnably easy to make mistakes. To give up. To accidentally break your walls and have it all crash down around you. But of course… there’s always the easy way out. Take it. Don’t take it. Do it. Don’t do it. I can’t know, can’t decide, can’t choose. Which one is right? Which one is wrong? Which one is the one that’s not a mistake? Or maybe… everything is a mistake. It’s just a matter of the consequence. And of course… there’s always one way out that never has consequences for me.

I loved someone, once. Maybe I still do. But, like all the other friends that have come and gone with the passing of the bittersweet autumn wind, they have left me. I… I do not know. It is my fault, and yet I know it is not. But who is the one who cries themselves to sleep under the night sky each night? Not them. No, not them. They would never waste a single tear for me, not even to the bitter last. You, maybe you know who I am talking about. Because I do not know them anymore. Or perhaps I never knew them in the first place. Perhaps, like all the others, they took pity on me while I was blundering around. Perhaps they showed a little bit of themselves, thinking to make me a friend. Maybe they’re the ones that broke me.

Life has three stages. The one where you want to change the world. The one where you realize you can’t change the world. The one where you realize the world has changed you. And look at what I’ve become.

What else can contain such a huge lie if not life itself? You ask me what I think about life?... A constant justification of our ugly actions, a neverending jealousy for those who stand higher than us, above us, and an infinitely powerful hate and contempt towards those who chose another path, different from our own.

Give a person a toy, and he will begin playing. Give someone a weapon and they shall start a fight. We are all nothing but the basest of our nature combined with the barbaric elegance of our minds and the cruel beauty of our environment, destined to follow our own will, to achieve our own dream. But as soon as any human is given love, see how utterly helpless they become. It becomes obvious to me then, that humans only have value when acting on the accord of his own will, or desire. So then, if love for oneself, for one’s dreams, for another, if that is a mistake, then what is not? For five months I’ve pondered this, and I no longer know what is wrong and what is right. For the life we believe in creates a delusion of perfection and happiness, that which brings nothing but pain and sadness, that which is both God and devil. There is no other purpose for any of those two of each to exist, if not being a container, a translator, a receptor of the immense burden one places on oneself when they love.

... I indeed am nothing more. I stand in an empty street, the bitterly cold wind howling at my back. Here I am in this dilapidated city of sadness, left with nothing but my anguish and my grief and my cynicism. I mourn. I lament the death of my dream. I mourn the loss of my friends(or maybe, they weren’t my friends to begin with) I cry for the broken hopes I had. I sorrow over the disappearance of true happiness–for indeed, we are all driven to a false form of life that will never satisfy us. For many a person has lived and died without knowing why they were born. I mourn here on the empty street, in the city of sadness–a city full of directions but no destination, waiting like a piece of rubbish to be thrown away, just another remnant of the world's creation... To the bitter end.

Of course, I am wrong. I am always wrong; and it will be like that to my end. I am always wrong–it doesn’t matter if I was the one talking or the one waiting. And it is always, always my fault. Why did I blame the others for my predicament? Why would it be their fault? No, the burden rests on my shoulders, and mine alone, for being me. I was wrong. The pistol tastes of smooth oil and cold metal in my mouth. It slides in with the ease of a diver going underwater. I tilt it upward the end now touches the roof of my mouth, angled at my brain. Why were we always, always, every single damnable time, always decide to waste our life away? I believed in my dream once. Long ago, I wanted to be one of those brave lawyers that defended what was right, the skilled doctor that would save the lives of many to come, the politician that would run on the most honest, most sincere grounds and truthfully garner support. How foolish I was. I lean back on the chair and close my eyes. A humorless chuckle escapes my mouth, unstifled by the pistol. The last laugh. One final thought flashes through my mind before I pull the trigger.

Maybe I’m the one that broke me. by anonymous MAR 2019||The penchant|10

PROSE

HOUSE OF

NOVA by felicia mo

“This is Nova Station reporting to base, do you copy?” Static. The station’s Captain scratched the back of his neck and stepped away from the space station’s control panel. Next to him, the station Technician was deep in thought. They were in the control room, at the center of the Nova Space Station, in the middle of space, trying to come in contact with base back on Earth. It was a small station, only manned by five people. The control room had a large window that loomed over the control panel and the station’s Technician, who sat in a wheeled chair facing the Captain. “I swear I double checked everything,” the Technician said. “The equipment’s fine, but something’s blocking our communication line.” “Can we contact the others onboard?” asked the Captain. “I’ll try.” The Technician fiddled with a couple buttons on the panel, and the voice of the station Scientist suddenly filled the room. “Yes, Captain?” she said. “What’s wrong?” “Communication failed,” the Captain replied. “We can’t get to base.” “The equipment?” “Nothing wrong with it,” said the Technician. “Something’s blocking communication.”

MAR 2019||The penchant|11

“Well that’s a bummer,” the Scientist sighed. “I bet they’d be as excited as I am about this new asteroid we found.” The Scientist paused. “Captain, permission to get a head-start on my studies and examine the asteroid now?” “Denied,” the Captain said. “We don’t know if we need special equipment to handle that thing. There’s only five of us, so if something goes wrong, we might not have enough hands on deck.” Both men could hear the pout in the Scientist’s voice. “Alright, fine. But it’s such a small asteroid! What can it do? We even pulled it into one of our cargo pods.” “It’s still too dangerous. We don’t know if it’s even an asteroid.” The Captain thought for a moment. “That being said, report to the control room. I’m calling a meeting.” “Aye, aye.” And the Scientist was out. The Captain then contacted the Doctor and the Specialist, feeling relieved when both comm lines went through. “At least our internal communication still works,” he said. “It’s just long range.” Soon, all five members of the Nova crew were in the control room, standing around a table with a hologram of the space station projected in blue light. The Captain pressed his fingertips on the edge of the table. “Communication with base is down,” he said plainly. “Nothing wrong with hardware. Just something blocking the line. Which means base doesn’t know about the new asteroid we found.” The Specialist exchanged a look with the Scientist, then raised his hand. “We will not,” the Captain immediately said, “be touching that asteroid until base gives us its orders. Right now, we’re setting ourselves on a slow course to Earth to shorten the distance and hopefully revive our comm line.”

ARTWORK COURTESY SABRINA MA The Captain looked around the table for objections. When he saw none, he breathed out and said, “You are dis—” The entire control room suddenly rocked and shuddered with so much force that all five crew members dropped to the floor; it was as if a galactical earthquake had struck the space station. The shaking was brief, rattling their teeth and jolting their bones, and stopped after a minute. As soon as the Captain gave the all clear, the Technician headed straight for the control panel to analyze the problem. “Minor damage,” he reported. “No explosions but I think a couple pipes popped. Something must’ve slammed into us.” “What’s big enough to do that?” the Doctor asked, but the Captain was already giving orders. “You two,” he pointed to the Technician and Specialist, “check on those minor damages. Communicate between yourselves and give me a full analysis when you’re done.” Technician and Specialist nodded and ran out the door. He pointed to the Doctor. “Double check our storage rooms and make sure our supplies are intact. Report to me after.” The Doctor nodded and left. Finally, the Captain turned to the Scientist. “Go to the cargo pods,” he said slowly, “and assess the asteroid for damage. Report back immediately, understand?” The Scientist made a face at him, smiled teasingly, and skipped out. The Captain watched the hologram. Four heat signals spread out from the control room and into the corridors of the space station. Each was labeled a color; green for Doctor, blue for Technician, red for Specialist, and yellow for Scientist. The fifth purple heat signal was in the control room. The Captain. He turned his back on the hologram and gazed out the window at space. Half an hour later, the comm line opened and the Doctor’s voice filled the control room. “All clear here. Supplies in all storage rooms are still functioning.” Then the Technician’s voice: “South wing check. Damages repaired.” “Same for north wing,” came the Specialist’s voice. There was a pause. The Captain pressed a button on the panel to contact the Scientist. “And our asteroid? How’s it doing?”

FEATURED

No response. The Captain groaned, and the Specialist chuckled. The Captain turned around to check the hologram and frowned. There was no yellow heat signal on the hologram map. The Captain moved a little closer. Three colored dots were moving back to the control room—green, blue, and red. But there was a fourth dot making its way slowly down the corridor from the asteroid’s cargo pod. It wasn’t yellow. But it was a heat signal. “Captain?” the Technician said curiously. “Something up?” “She’s not on the hologram.” Everyone was silent. Then the Captain went back to the panel and accessed the station cameras. He brought up the cargo pod camera and sucked in a breath. It was empty. “The asteroid’s gone,” he relayed to everyone. “What?” the Specialist exclaimed. “There’s no way she could’ve just carried it away!” The Captain didn’t reply, just went back to the hologram. The mysterious heat signal was advancing down the corridor, and it looked like it was going to come across the green dot soon. “Doc, go the other way,” the Captain said. “What?” “Just do it.” The Captain’s voice grew urgent. “And run.” Sure enough, the green dot on the hologram was moving very quickly away from the heat signal. “Everyone back to the control room.” “Cap, what’s going on?” The Technician sounded seriously worried. “The yellow dot isn’t on the hologram, but another heat signal is,” the Captain explained, eyes glued to the hologram. “There’s no marker, and it came from the asteroid’s cargo pod.” “Hold up,” said the Specialist. “Disappearing asteroid, new heat signal, missing astronaut. Connection please?” The Captain tried to reach the Scientist again but was met with static. He returned to the hologram. The heat signal was now in the station’s south wing. “Cap, I hear something,” said the Technician. His voice was faded, as if he was whispering. “What do you hear?” the Captain asked, raising his head. “Clicking. Loud clicking. Like a clock.” “Can you hide somewhere?”

PROSE “There’s a closet.” “Then get in there. NOW.” The blue dot stopped moving. The Technician’s comm line was still open, so the Captain knew he’d followed orders. He watched as the heat signal came to the intersection. Then it turned left and headed in the direction of the blue dot. “Cap, the clicking is getting louder,” the Technician whispered. “Don’t make a sound.” The heat signal drew closer and closer. For a second, the Captain thought it paused right in front of the blue dot. But then it continued forward and rounded the corner. The Captain sighed in relief. “Alright, you can come out—” The hologram almost didn’t register the movement. The heat signal zipped back around the corner and was suddenly on top of the blue dot, and a horrible scream filled the control room through the Technician’s comm line. Then it abruptly stopped. Ten seconds later, the heat signal was moving again. There was no blue dot. “No.” The Captain backed away. “No, no, no.” “Captain, what the hell is going on?” demanded the Specialist. “That thing just—” The Captain felt like throwing up. “It just—the blue dot—” “What?” the Specialist said impatiently. “I don’t get a word you’re saying! And what’s this incessant clicking noise that I keep hearing?” The Captain froze. The heat signal was still moving down the same hallway, and the Specialist’s red dot was standing in a corridor branching off of it. “It’s close,” said the Captain. “What is?” said the Specialist. “Don’t move. And whatever you do, don’t say a word. Don’t make a sound at all.” “Look, man, I’m sick of this—” “SHUT UP!” The Specialist was silent. The heat signal moved down the hallway. It passed the Specialist’s corridor. It continued down its hallway. The Captain waited until the heat signal was a good distance away from the red dot. “You okay?” the Captain asked the Specialist. “I saw it.” The Captain paused. “I saw it.” The Specialist’s voice shook. “That—that thing. And I think I saw the Technician—his arm. Just his ARM. Oh my God. OH MY GOD.” “Calm down,” said the Captain. “Get to the control room.”

Just then, the control room door opened and a panting Doctor stumbled inside. “Doc! You okay?” The Captain rushed over. The Doctor nodded. “Yeah. Where’re the others?” The Captain glanced at the hologram. Only a red dot remained in the outskirts of the space station. The Doctor’s eyes widened. “Oh, Jesus.” The Captain went back to talk to the Specialist. “Doc’s in the control room. Get over here fast. We’ll think of a plan.” Then he closed the comm line. “Why did you do that?” the Doctor exclaimed. “What if he needs to talk to us?” “The escape pod,” said the Captain. “That’s our only way out of here.” “We’re leaving the station?” The Captain nodded. “But the escape pod only fits one person. At most two.” The Doctor let it sink in. Then he shook his head. “We can’t leave him behind,” he protested.The Captain advanced on him. “Would you rather come face to face with that thing?” The Captain jerked a finger at the hologram. The red dot was getting closer to the control room, but so was the heat signal. The Doctor shook his head vigorously. “Where are your morals? You’re the Captain of this station! It’s your responsibility to make sure all of us return safely!” “And I’ve already failed!” screamed the Captain. “I’m already ruined! I’ve lost my career, but I don’t want to lose my LIFE too!” He stepped back and glared down at the Doctor. “So are you in or out?” There was a loud banging on the door. Both Doctor and Captain whipped their heads around to stare at it. There was shouting too, desperate, high-pitched yells. The Doctor made a move for the door but the Captain grabbed his arm. “You locked it!” the Doctor shrieked. “You locked him out!” “To buy us time!” the Captain shouted back. On the hologram, the red dot was just outside the control room, and the heat signal was right behind it. The Specialist’s voice blasted through the room. “Open up, open up, OPEN UP!” he screamed. “He’s using the emergency comm line,” the Captain said out loud. “Quick, into the escape pod.”

“PLEASE, SOMEBODY!” “You’re a coward!” the Doctor spat at the Captain. “To think the lives of the entire crew were in your bloody hands the whole time.” “SOMEBODY, PLEASE! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!” The Captain’s grip tightened on the Doctor’s arm. “If you open that door, all of us die. If you and I live to tell the tale, the rest of mankind at least stands a chance against that thing.” “NO NO NO NO! WAIT, STOP—” Static. The Doctor drooped like a wilted flower. He shut his eyes, teeth gritted in pain and guilt. Then he nodded. The Captain let go of him and raced to the escape pod in the control room. He opened the cockpit. The door to the control room burst open, slamming into the hologram table, destroying the hologram map. The Specialist’s body—at least, what was left of it—flopped onto the ground, a slab of bloody meat, his face turned towards them. Half of his head was missing, his remaining eye staring blankly at them. Then something sharp and black sliced down and smushed the remainder of the Specialist’s face. Bit by bit, the thing crawled into the control room. The Doctor screamed. The Captain lunged forward and rammed into the Doctor with his shoulder. The Doctor toppled forward and landed on his stomach, and the Captain jumped into the cockpit, closing the hatch. He fiddled frantically with the controls, forcing himself to ignore the cries and pleas and screams of the Doctor that gradually turned to whimpers and moans. It was torture. Finally, the noises stopped. The Captain pressed the release button. The escape pod stayed where it was. “Impossible,” the Captain said under his breath. “Work, you useless trash!” Then he heard it. The clicking sound. Right above the hatch. Click. Click. Click. The Captain never made it back to base.

ARTWORK COURTESY OF SABRINA MA

FEATURED

KHAN

PHOTOS COURTESY OF DESIREE HO

LEAVES by raisah khan

you never notice that all the leaves are falling until the tree is barren the wind whistles with the songs of defeat, carrying the lifeless brown to be lost and forgotten the heavens have fallen and they are on the ground; we are all walking on top of them believing that the clear sky through the branches provides a new beginning the heavens have fallen and we have nowhere to look to for consolation all that is there is nothing and the unknown of the universe that tends to treat us as insignificant, expendable beings i grab the twigs loosely, hang on, and pull myself up for a better view, to get a lay of the land but all i see is red, brown, green, orange, yellow—nothing with the golden beauty of the crispness of autumn nothing with the mystique and treasure that a new season brings all i see is loss and as i jump down the sound of the crunching of the leaves drowns out the clarity of spring the knowledge that my own footsteps are pushing the already fallen life into the moist ground causes my heart to sink in unison with the soil i want to feel the new but from all sides i am surrounded with the dead will the leaves ever leave will my long heaving sighs ever provide enough wind to blow them away will the leaves ever not come—every year...

I picked up one of the leaves There was a drop of dew on it and i stroked it with my finger It was cold and clean and fresh I put it to my tongue and tasted it There is a beauty in the past and our ability to glaze over it with liquid glass Every leaf is unique and they can never grow back to be the same but because they are individual the one you had will always be burned into your memory and you will remember it because it changed you You will preserve it and fossilize it and look to it when you forget what inspired you to be the way you are; And new leaves will grow But most importantly You are not alone in the forest You’re constantly looking around, spinning and spinning and spinning, but you forgot that your head is tilted downwards toward your feet Look up Lock eyes We live in an infinity of confusion and despair And my loss pushed me into the black hole But you, you dragged me out so i could see the light

MAR 2019||The penchant|14

POETRY

BRO The humming heaters silence the snores of my loving parents Bringing my sniffles to a whisper And causing my thoughts to blast full volume Creating a whirlwind of thrumming and beating and hunger for quiet Thirst for peace The conflict between the wind and the force of gravity cease all movement around me I quickly listen to the sounds of my feet shifting beneath the blankets Their screams of agony a result of the unsatisfied day and lifestyle Despite the lost feeling of identity and belongingness I will be ok I am broken But I can be pieced back together My fingers can tap to the beat and my lips can smack to the desires of you But my heart beat will go on without the feelings of you My heart will follow me and abandon all hopes of you Because my heart will transform from a shrieking terrified monster to a pure fairy That flies beyond reality

PHOTO COURTESY OF ASEEM DORIWALA

by samadhi wijethunga

KEN My heart will soar to other dimensions without you until its fate is met I am broken Yet I will not stay an unmade bed but a fulfilled promise A promise that will end its days in the stars I can explode and begin again as my supernova shines bright Instead of leaving a pungent black hole consuming all of me I can rebirth myself as a blank page in a room full of words Wishing to be useful to all the other cracked vases and colorless flowers I am a desolate gray orchid with no fuel but the water beneath me and the sprout of my own I am broken But my flower can regrow My flower is a blossoming fuchsia orchid You will see my flower amount the acres of garden filled with colorful flowers And you will find me And I will be made

HOLLOW INSIDE by tammy shen

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve built up these castle walls around me, armed with guards ready to attack. And yet, you come gently, a-knocking at my gates with your pretty eyes and sweet little lies, but you are hollow inside. Tearing down my bricks, one by one. Opening me up from the inside out until Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m empty, now I am hollow inside. You replaced my darkness with your own. My few broken bricks are not enough. Not enough to hold all your misery, because you are hollow inside. But what can I do? When you have torn my defenses down? No more walls, no more guards, no more me.

Forever hollow inside.

JUN 2018||The penchant|16

POETRY

AN ODE TO THE FORGOTTEN by sanjana shinde

A HOME IN THE SKY The light is gone, and only the solitary night lies, Yet up is where the answer hides, in the dark sky. The stars scream to be seen, glistening bright, As they fight to show their true powerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s might. Sirius, Vega, and Rigel try to set themselves apart, Yet there is only one that resides in the heart. The North Star stays strong, unyielding defeat. Found by those who dare to look, else discreet. It is the leader of the bright night stars, Gleaming brighter than lights of any cars. Polaris is the constellation of the dark, Completing the circle of night with an arc. They say Polaris takes you home when lost, Polaris only guides, you choose where home truly lies.

A fragmented memory of infinity, convolutes and crackles and twists and tangles, and I must say I remember less than I remember. I recall a single image for a year, an eternity of minutiae for seconds, a dark nothingness for several months. Life must be more meaningless than meaningful, when impactful persons and places and events are forgotten. Except for the seemingly impossible factthat the empty blankness of nothingmakes us more ourselves than the things we remember.

by aaron chao

PHOTO COURTESY OF ASEEM DORIWALA

SCULPTURES by kathan shah

PHOTO COURTESY OF ASSEEM DORIWALA

PHOTO COURTESY OF SAMEEHA SALMAN

Every sculpture Begins with a scoop of earth Carved as we desire And left to be baked by The balmy summer sun A beam of admiration Our parents, our communities Our friends, our families Proud of who we have become So we desperately try To mold into To be Forever unchanging For others to see But as the clouds roll in Our enemies, our realities Just a small drizzle Reminds us We have always been mud

Indeterminate, immersive, innumerable as the stars, Never-ending, nebular, nearby, yet afar Faceted with freedom, it is not one to fear, Immaculate, intriguing, an inkling to endear Never negligible, not for a nanosecond, Increasingly indefinite with every inflection That which transcends the test of time, Enigmatic is infinity, ethereally sublime.

ETERNITY by ashwin natampalli MAR 2019||The penchant|18