Penchant2.3

THE

PENCHANT HOUSE OF FOOTPRINTS There was a rapid clicking sound as the father drilled his finger on the button to close the elevator doors.

His eyes were glued to the dark footsteps on the floor, coming closer and closer, the squishing more and more deafening.

FOOTPRINTS ON THE LEDGE by anish cherwoo

OOPS. by kay krachenfels

FOOTPRINTS

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.

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Creative Commons Photos: Cover, 10: retrieved from Pixabay.

To learn more about us, go to penchantlitmagblog.wordpress.com/.

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the penchant EDITORS IN CHIEF Athena Xue Tianhui (Lily) Yang CONTENT EDITORS Athena Xue Catherine You LAYOUT EDITORS Sushrut Borkar Anikait Rao

CONTENT Kelly Feng Madison Wong Janice Park Samuel Vu Felicia Mo Wanning Lu Samadhi Wijethunga Nichelle Wong Sashrika Pandey

LAYOUT Kelly Feng Janice Park

3

june 2019

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

11

15

5 foot prints

1

7

9 Featured Prose 1| Oops.

By Kay Krachenfels “Then imagine looking at a footprint the length of your search result smashed into the ground in front of you.”

5| House of Footprints

By Felicia Mo “Drops of orange appeared every now and then next to the footprints, as if whatever made them was dripping orange juice.”

13| Footprints on the Ledge

By Anish Cherwoo “I often think where the universe ends, I get lost in the thought and my mind bends.

I wonder if it is endless, My curiosity is tremendous.”

1| Oops. by Kay Krachenfels 3| Nuii by Samuel Vu 5| House of Footprints by Felicia Mo

Poetry Photo/Art 10| Catching Up by Anonymous 11| Endurance by Samadhi Wijethunga 12| Crossroads by Jack 13| Footprints on the Ledge

by Anish Cherwoo 14| Storm, Once Again by Vox Nihili 15| Questions by VERB 17| Signatures by Nichelle Wong

Desiree Ho, 1, 3, 5, 6, 15, 17 Eliza Luo, 7 Abhishek Kancherla, 9 Vicki Pan, 13

PROSE

OOPS. Now everything else is enormous.

Search up “wingspan of a quetzalcoatlus.” Go ahead.

Or, if you’ve seen the robot models of it that they’re always displaying in the tech museums, you already have a good idea.

It’s very long. (Yes, I’m the coolest ten-year-old on the block for knowing what a Quetzalcoatlus is.)

Anyway, search it up if don’t know yet.

Then imagine looking at a footprint the length of your search result smashed into the ground in front of you.

1|The penchant||dec 2017

by kay krachenfels

…Okay, okay. It really, really wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You know those “fun” experiments gone wrong?

Yeah, about that…

First, let me just say that it wasn’t completely my fault. We thought it would be a good idea to let the dog run around outside where we happened to have the machine.

Big mistake, obviously. Do not let any pets near advanced technology. Do not. Even robot dogs, which you’d think would have a better sense of what not to do.

I’m not kidding. They make these dogs so realistic these days that you cannot trust them at all. Don’t get me wrong; I love dogs, even mechanical ones, but you would be better off taking my word, given that my current predicament is, for the most part, the result of horrible dog managing.

About that…

HO, 2017.

So you know how my dad works for a top-secret science company? These days he keeps telling me how they’re trying to “enlarge bacteria so that they can study its behavior close-up to develop more effective treatments,” whatever that means.

Well, all I can say is that we did a Thing.

A very bad Thing. See, my ten years on Earth have given me a lot of experience, but all I could really get out of that sentence was that my dad was trying to make bacteria bigger, which sounded cool enough in theory. Also, yesterday he brought home the “enlarging machine” that they’ve been working on at their company. He specifically told me not to touch it and then went to hide it in his room. You know me, though. When an adult tells you not to do something, you just suddenly feel like you absolutely, one-hundred-percent have to do it, no matter what.

That’s why I opened the door just a tiny bit and caught a glimpse of where my dad stashed the machinery.

That was step one of the plan. After that, I quickly thought of foolproof steps for the rest of the plan. Hey, you aren’t allowed to laugh at me yet. After all, I told you it wasn’t completely my fault. Jeez.

Once I had the plan thought out, I enlisted some friends to see if they’d like to witness the greatest Thing ever. In all fairness, it really was supposed to be great. And this super secret plan was that we’d use the machine to make the ice cream in the fridge super huge so we could all eat a lot of it. Free food, right?

Now this is where I impart my words of wisdom: do not use objects that you do not know how to use, especially if they could have dangerous, er, side effects.

Long story short—the machine did not enlarge the ice cream.

Instead, our family’s robot dog, Mia, barrelled into me with the intention of giving me a ball to play fetch with. My foot landed on the machine, and it shrunk me (the reverse of what it’s supposed to do!) probably at least a hundred times smaller.

Now everything else is enormous.

I think my friends will probably be able to find me and eventually get me back to normal. In the meantime, I’m trying to avoid being trampled on by the dog.

Did I mention that everyone’s feet look the size of dinosaurs now?

2

PROSE

HO, 2017.

NUII

by samuel vu

The island of Nuii was remote and small.

3

Hundreds of miles from the nearest landmass, it served as a getaway place for people of blurry backgrounds, suspicious figures and their gatherings, and those who wanted a good vacation. Nuii was known for its large beaches and tall palms. It was the ideal beach paradise. In fact, the entire island was practically a beach; all of it was covered in sand.

Everyone living there knew everyone else on the island and the layout of it well. As such, tourists were very easily distinguishable to the locals.

Fortunately for Ryan, his team had him well disguised as a local lifeguard.

“Konaar, can I offer ya some fizzle juice?”

Ryan peered down from his watchtower. The bartender from the beachside pub was looking up at him with a smile. He must mean soda, thought Ryan.

“Sure thing,” he replied.

The bartender ran off to get the man a drink. The truth was, Ryan wasn’t very good with disguises. He was unprepared for the local lingo and, to make matters worse, it was impossible to research the person he was

impersonating beforehand as there was no internet or records on Nuii. The bartender must’ve been good friends with this lifeguard.

The bartender returned with sure enough, soda (it was refreshingly cool too), smiling all the while. Ryan thanked him and continued his uneventful watch of the beach for the rest of the day.

His watchtower was small and short and surrounded by a vast sea of sand. There were quite a few palms blocking his vision of the beautiful blue sea but the view was still something to behold. Ryan wondered if there was even anything actually suspicious here.

By 11:30 pm, things on the beach were winding down and soon, the beach was as blank as a new canvas. Ryan’s shift would be over at midnight, most definitely a weird time to end, but Ryan was glad to be able to leave soon.

But then, something peculiar caught his eye.

Imprints in the sand, the only ones left on the entire beach, were unaffected by the tide. Ryan watched them with a vigor but wave after wave did nothing to change these invincible definitions in the malleable landscape.

For the first time that day, Ryan leaped down his tower. In person, he could see that these were footprints leading in the direction of the palm forest in the center of the island. Ryan, staring at the footprints, had a visceral feeling of horror. The reason for this baffled him but in any case, he decided to pursue the trail of footprints. This could be what he was looking for.

And so, Ryan began to run to the forest, and then kept running. Behind him, the night’s high tide had now overtaken the entire beach, leaving the landscape unrecognizable.

Ryan finally came to a moonlit clearing where the footprints stopped. In the dim light, he could see figures gathering around a central rock. He hid behind a palm tree listening, unsure of what to do. As he waited, more and more people streamed into the clearing. Soon it seemed like the entire population of the island had gathered in this one place. One person got up and stood on the central rock.

And then she flew.

Large black wings protruded from her back and shoulders and in one swift motion she flew into the

moon-dominated sky. Others followed suit, propelling themselves into the sky with their wings.

Ryan went into a panic. Vampires! The entire island’s population was vampires.

“Hi, Konaar!”

Ryan jolted back in surprise, adrenaline making his movement jagged and unsubtle. It was the bartender from before.

“I heard ya over ‘ere away from everyone else.

What's the up?” he continued.

“I-I was uh,” Ryan said. Ryan turned to look at the man behind him. He still was wearing the same smile of his and its sincerity beguiled Ryan into his own almost comical smile. “I was just about to join you,” he finished.

The bartender raised his eyebrows.

No one knows what happened after that. But what we do know is that Ryan was a professional vampire hunter and that this day changed his career forever. It’s funny how such monumental impacts are made at the small and remote island of Nuii.

DEC |4 JUN2017||The 2018||Thepenchant penchant|2

PROSE

HOUSE OF

FOOTPRINTS The family stepped out of the SUV and stared up at the black hotel building.

by felicia mo HO, 2017.

5|The penchant||dec 2017

Dim lights illuminating from behind closed curtains dotted the brick wall. The son of the family, a little boy of about twelve, pointed up with his fingers and counted the rows of windows. The building was four stories tall—the family’s temporary residence for the remainder of their vacation.

The father moved first; he grabbed two suitcases, one handle in each hand, and rolled them towards the lobby doors. The mother took hold of her son’s shoulder, along with the third suitcase, and followed her husband. The daughter trailed behind them, both thumbs flying over her phone’s keyboard as she texted her friends across the country.

“Welcome to the InnHouse!” the young man at the reception desk greeted them warmly. “Do you have a reservation?”

“We sure do,” the father replied. He eyed the receptionist carefully.

The youngster looked to be barely out of college, with hair dyed a brilliant orange that was too bright for the father’s taste. The father winced inwardly but kept a straight face.

He and the receptionist exchanged words across the counter as the rest of the family waited by the coaches in the lobby. The receptionist handed him four room keys, along with a slip of paper that had the number 401 written in black sharpie.

“Fourth floor,” the receptionist said.

“Enjoy your stay!”

The family squeezed their suitcases into one of the small elevators in the lobby. The son took the privilege of punching the numbers into the keypad and making sure he stood right by the elevator door so he could be the first to use the room keys. As soon as the doors slid open, the son made a move to rush outside but was called back by his mother, who handed him a suitcase with an amused look. The daughter, now off her phone, walked smugly past her brother, swiping the room keys from his hands as she walked past.

She took a left, found the room number, and stuck the room key into the slot by the handle. The door clicked and opened, and the family began to settle in.

Half an hour later, after the room had been thoroughly explored and space had

been claimed, the father was feeling tired and decided to take a shower.

The mother was sifting through the suitcases for the children’s PJs while the son played a hearty game of Fortnite on his laptop. The daughter was stretched on the bed, texting again.

She looked up from her phone and said, “I’m thirsty.”

“I didn’t see a vending machine on this floor,” said the mother, tossing the son’s PJs on the bed. “They probably have water in the lobby.”

The daughter swung her legs off the bed, put on her shoes, and opened the door.

“Don’t be long!” said the mother.

The daughter waved and walked down the hallway to the elevators.

The receptionist wasn’t at the front desk when she arrived at the lobby. The daughter walked around for a while before she found a vending machine with all sorts of sugary, overpriced drinks.

She fished some dollar bills out of her pockets and bought two Cokes and an orange Fanta.

She was heading across the lobby towards the elevators when she heard

DEC 2017||The penchant|6

PROSE footsteps.

The daughter scanned the area, but there was no sign of the receptionist or anyone who could have made the noise.

She shrugged and turned towards the elevators again.

The footsteps started. The daughter whipped around. Nothing.

She swallowed; she could’ve sworn she had heard something. She gripped the bottles in her hands and, slowly, turned back to the elevators.

They were behind her, soft and even, not hurried but with a sense of purpose. The daughter listened as the footsteps drew closer to her, little by little, a quiet tap tap tap against the lobby floor. She quickened her pace. The footsteps didn’t stop.

The daughter turned around one last time and was met by a silent lobby.

Carefully, she backed up, her eyes darting around the room until her back hit the elevator door.

She heard the ding, felt the doors slide open, and backed up further into the elevator. For one fleeting moment, the daughter shifted her eyes to press the first button she saw on the keypad—the number 2.

7|The penchant||dec 2017

She never made it to the second floor.

“She’s been gone for too long,” the mother said as the father dried his hair with a towel.

His expression grew increasingly worried with each word she said.

“How long?” he asked.

“Half an hour.

For water. Something must have happened.”

The father glanced at his son, who still had his face pressed to the computer screen. The father shook his head and sighed.

“She went to the lobby, right?” he said as he put on his shoes. “I’ll find her.”

The mother nodded. She was hugging herself and chewing on the bottom of her lip.

“Don’t worry,” the father reassured her with a smile. “Take care of our little gamer while I’m gone.”

The father turned down the hallway and pressed the down arrow next to the elevator doors. The seconds felt like hours as he waited for the elevator to arrive. As soon as it did, he dialed the lobby button on the panel and felt the familiar weightless sensation as he descended.

LUO, 2017.

It was then that he noticed the bottles on the floor.

There were three: two Cokes and a Fanta, all arranged neatly in a corner like bowling pins. The Fanta bottle was half full; the Cokes looked unopened. The father frowned. What kind of wasteful idiot would leave their drinks here?

The elevator came to a gradual halt. The father looked at the screen on top of the keypad. Floor number 2, it read.

The doors opened. The father looked around.

But there was no one nearby to get on the elevator.

The father pressed the button to close the doors. They remained open. He pressed the button consistently, more urgently, like a frustrated child. The elevator wouldn’t move, and he cursed under his breath.

“What kind of crappy hotel is this?” he muttered.

Something squished in front of him.

The father looked up.

At first, he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary—it was just an empty waiting area with a hallway. Then he spotted the footprint on the ground in the middle of the corridor. It stained the mocha-brown carpet on the floor an orange color, a single footprint, nothing else.

Then there was another footprint in front of it.

Then another in front of that.

Appearing, foot by foot, walking towards him.

There was a rapid clicking sound as the father drilled his finger on the button to close the elevator doors.

His eyes were glued to the dark footsteps on the floor, coming closer and closer, the squishing more and more deafening. Drops of orange appeared every now and then next to the footprints, as if whatever made them was dripping orange juice.

The Fanta.

“Oh, lord,” the father murmured.

His last thoughts were praise to his daughter for thinking so quickly. Because as the footsteps came to a stop

right in front of the elevator, the father saw the outline of an orange, transparent thing above the footprints. Then the father’s thoughts turned to regret because he could now see the horror that his daughter had made visible by a splash of Fanta.

“Did you hear that?”

The son did not answer his mother’s question, only shrugged as his eyes reflected the images on his computer screen. The mother had been pacing the room but was now standing next to the suitcases with her hand hovering over her mouth.

“I could have sworn I heard a scream,” she whispered. “I could have sworn I heard your father.”

The son continued to play his video games.

The mother shivered as she eyed the door. First her daughter, and then her husband, had walked through that door and never came back. The mother glanced at her son, then at the door, then back again. She groaned in frustration, her hands sifting through her hair.

“What is happening?”

she muttered to herself.

“What is going on? Where are they?”

She went back to pacing the room.

A few minutes later, she sucked in a breath, squared her shoulders, and marched to the door.

“I should be back in ten minutes max,” she told her son as she eased into her sandals. “If I’m not back by then—” The mother gave her son a long look, willing him to meet her eyes. He ignored her, so she merely finished, “—call the police.”

The hallway felt darker than she imagined as she headed for the elevators. When she realized the elevators didn’t work, she contemplated going back to her room. She shook her head. She needed to find them. The mother followed the emergency exit signs to the stairs and started down as fast as she could. She was about to walk past the door to the third floor when she heard a sound.

It sounded like a shuffle. The mother stopped.

Was there someone on the third floor?

8

PROSE Her heartbeat quickened. Maybe it was her husband and daughter! They were safe after all!

The mother yanked open the door and stepped into something wet.

It was a footprint. It smelled like orange juice.

Suddenly, the lights went off and the mother screamed.

There was a trail of footprints giving off a fluorescent orange light. They led to the end of the hallway, where a figure stood, outlined in orange. The figure had its back turned to her.

Her daughter’s disfigured face was fused to its spine, her mouth gaping at her, a bloody hole with a missing tongue and crimson dribbling down her chin. The figure turned around and her husband’s twisted, upside down face regarded her with a soulless look and a smile that stretched from ear to gory ear.

The mother didn’t have time to scream again.

A while later, there was a knock on the family’s room’s door. The son didn’t bother to get up and open it.

There was a pause.

Then the receptionist let himself into the room and tsked at the son.

“How long have you been at your computer, kid?” he chuckled. “You’ll go blind soon.” The son didn’t respond.

“Ah, well, I suppose you don’t have anything better to do,” said the receptionist, leaning over to peer at the son’s screen.

Footage of a hallway played on the computer; it was as if the camera had been mounted on someone’s head as they walked around. There was a constant squishing sound in the background. The son moved his finger robotically on the mousepad and the first-person camera turned to the ground.

Smears of blood. A torso. A head somewhere else. No face.

The thing had already collected the face.

“Good work,” the receptionist said, patting the son’s back.

The son was silent. In fact, he had already lost consciousness a long time ago.

9|The penchant||dec 2017

POETRY KANCHERLA, 2016.

CATCHING UP

by anonymous

Their footprints far, far ahead Why can’t I catch up?

I walk forward, Surely but Slowly, My footprints, far, far behind Why can’t I catch up?

I walk forward Surely but Slowly, The soft sand, under my feet Whispering Don’t look back, So I walk on far, far away Slowly but Surely,

Leaving behind, my Footprints.

DEC 2017||The penchant|10

SKEEZE, 2015.

POETRY

ENDURANCE by samadhi wijethunga The words are encasing.

Shaping and carving its edges.

Now lacking pieces, The sculpture is in ruins.

Without features, without singularity.

Desperate for choice.

It is desperate to stop.

Wishes that its cracked soul Was more than a source of instability.

It has lost its tenacity.

Can no longer endure The silence of its words.

11|The penchant||dec 2017

Pieces have come undone.

Like the sky, it has lost its blue.

The sun is starting to retreat Its footprints follow the moon.

It has lost its tenacity.

Can no longer endure The silence of its words.

CROSS ROADS by jack

For every step we’ll ever take, for every step we’ve ever taken, there’ll be a footprint made.

FREE-PHOTOS, 2016.

Everyone’s path in life is different from others.

There will be a day when our paths are split.

But perhaps we will meet again.

One day when roads are crossed again.

Another crossroad into another land.

Another world.

But here, today, we walk our paths.

We make our roads filled with cries and laughs.

For every step we’ll ever take, for every step we’ve ever taken, there’ll be a footprint made.

A print for those who come along, a print for those who come this way.

Follow where the old ones lead.

But make your path where you need.

For as far as I can see the time has come to say goodbye.

This road twists and turns in directions, we’ve never thought of before.

Who knows when there’ll be another crossover.

Another meeting.

Another impact on our surroundings.

So maybe this goodbye is only the start of something new.

We don’t know where our roads will cross and where roads will combine.

All we can do is walk the path and hope for the best to come.

12

POETRY

PAN, 2017.

I often think where the universe ends, I get lost in the thought and my mind bends.

I wonder if it is endless, My curiosity is tremendous.

Is there a wall at the end of the universe?

Or is there a cliff that one cannot traverse?

Is it dark and scary at the edge?

Or are there footprints on the ledge?

I so love thy universe O’ God, And yet I feel a bit odd.

For not solving the mystery night after night:

by anish cherwoo

Might our universe be inďŹ nite?

FOOT PRINTS ON THE LEDGE

13|The penchant||dec 2017

STORM, ONCE AGAIN by vox nihili

There are footprints in my heart, Left there by a girl who is dead Long before she even had a chance to live.

But when her body turned to dust Her footprints remained A reminder of her innocence Her love, her naivete.

I carry them with me, as a reminder Of what I lost and what I gained.

Her death gave birth to life Her ashes tethered to my soul, A piece of me A piece of reality.

And when the waves come rolling in To wash those footprints away One by one I watch them disappear Because as the storm rages on,

She tends to disappear.

DEC 2017||The penchant|14

POETRY

QUESTIONS

by VERB

He makes tick marks on his wrist Counting the days spent trapped in the prison of his mind It’s a silent cry for help that no one hears Muffled by the long sleeves he wears without fail What’s the point of living like this?

She sees a monster in the mirror Viewing every crack in her mask as a fault Black tears run from her bloodshot eyes But she cannot go out without mascara

Why can’t I be as perfect as her?

If I’m not smart, then who am I?

He numbs the pain with another shot Escaping from the emptiness inside The short-lived thrill takes away the edge Until he crashes back down to reality

He disguises his fear as blind anger Exploding in rage so others will stay away Too scared to show the hurt child within He builds stone walls around his bruised heart

How many more will it take to forget?

She studies long hours into the night Trading away the most beautiful years of her life Her worth is measured by her score on the test And the whole world rests on her frail shoulders

Who could understand someone like me?

I write to keep the ghosts away Quelling the stories that haunt me The footprints that go to worn paths Traversed by the weariest of hearts

HO, 2017.

15

HO, 2017.

Where do your footprints lead?

16

POETRY

SIGNATURES by nichelle wong

I skim the pages of my old yearbook, remembering.

A time, not too different from now When we were collecting signatures And saying goodbye to our favorite teachers.

This year, we have to do it all over again Hug our friends, promising To maybe meet up Over the summer?

But time Is a wistful, elusive thing.

Scanning through the pages The pictures of people That I once knew And the ones I once didn’t Is self-evoked torture; Remembering they won’t remember A ghost of a memory Walking beside them, Because I leave no footprints.

Or maybe I did,

17

Somewhere deep in their consciousness, Because...

Found it.

The signatures.

I pause my scanning And slow down; Read, Truly read through each message Smiling sadly at the bittersweet ache, The hopeless nostalgia.

I start on the title page.

One of my favorite teachers, Who wished me luck in high school And told me to stay true to myself.

Thanks.

Next, my best friend Hoping we would have classes together next year Ironic, as we didn’t even get a single teacher together.

Next.

We reach an array of blooming words, Bursting across the page in every different color Blues, reds, blacks, pinks Words that flow with cursive, Words that stand up straight.

“You’resosmarthaveagreatsu mmer” "Math was so fun with you” “So much has happened this year...let’s make it our goal to do MORE next year!”

“I like how composed you are” “Have a great summer! :)” “HAGS” “See you next year, I hope we have classes together!”

“I hope we can get closer next year!”

I close my eyes At the sudden rush of emotion From walking through each memory, Filling in the footprints Of my younger, forgotten self In the corner, I wrote in silver pen “Hi to my future self.

It was nice having Every single class with you.

HAGS!” An almost sarcastic imitation Of the people who said they

HO, 2017.

enjoyed Having classes with me.

The people who said, “Hope We have the same classes next year!”

And we did, Didn’t we?

In the classes where they found other friends And I found my own friends And we slowly drifted apart In the classes where they found their own friends And I didn’t And I slowly faded away I wonder if they still remember The words they said The promises they made Telling me that everything Would still stay the same I have these promises, these words Written in paper.

And yet.

These are the words of their past selves, Younger, more innocent More carefree

I suddenly notice All of them end in exclamation points Little dots of hope Little dots of maybe What about the friends I did grow closer to?

The ones I built even more memories with?

I laugh as I read through The two whole pages That two of my friends filled with words, Promising we’d still be as close as ever Wistfully wishing for friends forever And realize, There is no forever, But there are these words And I’ll keep them safe Forever in my heart.

They’ve given These words

FREE-PHOTOS, 2016.

to me.

DEC 2017||The penchant|18