Penchant08 by The Penchant Literary Magazine

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. Quotation mark png courtesy of Alessandro Antonelli. 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 P ia Parekh Sashrika Pandey Athena Xue LAYOUT EDITORS Jaime Wang Tianhui (Lily) Yang PHOTO EDITORS Desiree Ho Sowmya Balakrishnan Pooja Bale COVER CREDITS Desiree Ho: Designer; Mary Tang: Photography CONTENT Rachana Jukanti Chaiya Chatkara Shivani Manivasagan Shreya Venkat Brandon Mead Ayushi Batwara Bhagvat Maheta Jake Yim Felicia Mo Geetika Yelugoti Nicole Xie Serafina Show Irene Geng Nancy Zuo Tammy Shen

LAYOUT Sachi Huilgol Sanjana Shinde Sahityasree Subramanian Anikait Rao Meher Mehta Jonathan Park PHOTO/DESIGN Sabrina Ma Vanessa Chu Sushrut Borkar Chandu Garapaty

december 2017

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

13 incandescence 5

Featured 7| Where You Recall

By Catherine You “Once the glowering lights blink out, the amber glow of their tungsten hearts swallowed by the hungry maw of liquid space, I come, cloaking in serenity the woes of day.”

13| The Sweet Taste of Silence

By Reetam Ganguli “Lost in his daydreams of a forgotten tomorrow Speaking the only language he knew how The language of silence.”

14| My Glass Cage

By Nicole Xie “But I learned to hold the tears in. I built a glass cage to protect my heart, And I would never let anyone in.“

Prose 9| When By C. Tori 10| Veil By Sashrika Pandey 11| Welcome To The Institution By Uma Shankar 12| Colors By Jaime Wang

Entertainment 1| 6 Christmas Gifts to Send to Your Frenemies By Abhishek Kancherla 2| High School Holidays (Jingle Bells Parody) By Anikait Rao 2| Winter Sensation (Santa Claus is Coming to Town Parody) By Anonymous 3| How to Concoct the Perfect Christmas By Andrew Tee 5| Yoyota Ep1 By Felicia Mo

Anonymous 2, 8, 12, 15, 25 Vanessa Chu 19, 26 Carolyn Guo 26 Desiree Ho 1, 4, 30 Joyce Hu 9 Abhishek Kancherla 13, 29 Twisha Kurlaganda 20 Sherin Lajevardi 27 William Li 12, 29 Eliza Luo 12, 21, 27 Jackie Ngo 28 Vicki Pan 8, 11, 17, 24, 27 Pia Parekh 20 Naylana Pham 30 Srinidhi Sankar 19 Mary Tang Cover Amber Truong 27 Divya Venkatesh 12 Jaime Wang 5, 20 Deanna Xu 20, 27 Lily Yang 1, 7 Ivy Zhang 29

ENTERTAINMENT

6FRENEMIES

CHRISTMAS GIFTS TO SEND TO YOUR

By Abhishek Kancherla

Want to prank someone for Christmas?

Dirt by Mail Dirtbymail.com lets you send a big, fat dirtbag anonymously to your friends’ doorstep. Just add a dirtbag to your cart, checkout, and add the recipient's address. The reaction on your friend’s face will be priceless.

2 HO, DESIREE. 31 DEC. 2017

An Envelope of Mayo Mayo By Mail lets you send an envelope of mayonnaise. Each envelope includes a message that says, “My hate for Mayonnaise is only matched by my hate for you.’’ And yes, it is edible in case your friend does not want to waste it (The E. coli counts as a bonus). MAYO friendship still be intact after this prank.

Glitter bombs Want to glitter bomb your friend’s room? Shipyourenemiesglitter.com fulfills your needs. For $9.99, this website sends an envelope full of sticky glitter to your friends. When opened, the company guarantees the glitter will go everywhere. You can even add a custom note to let your friend know that you are thinking of them.

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BAUER, SCOTT “PATETES.” 30 JAN. 2004

Look no further, here are some top things you can send them during your break.

Potato Parcel What other way to offer a present than sending a potato? Write a custom message to show your friend is, well, a potato. Bet this will be meme-orable.

MOZART, MIKE. 24 FEB. 2014

3 YANG, LILY. APRIL 2016

Absolutely Nothing Send an empty box of nothing as a present. You will definitely want to record your friend’s reaction when they open it!

YANG, LILY. 26 DEC. 2017

6 A Brick

INKWINA, “GLITTER CLOSE UP.” 22 AUG. 2007

Send a brick to someone’s doorstep. Mailbricks.com gives an option to choose whichever brick you would like to offer. Also, you can add a custom note and glitter! No brickin’ way your friend might have already gotten this as a Christmas present.

HIGH SCHOOL HOLIDAYS “Jingle Bells” Parody

By Anikait Rao

“Santa Claus is Coming to Town” Parody

Dashing to the next class, studying on the way. Forgot there was a test last night, Binged Netflix until today. Do great(on the) for SATs, and also on those APs. Have no life but it’s alright, At least you have your grades. High school bells, high school bells, Winter break is near. But after that we all come back And it’s finals week oh dear, hey! High school bells, high school bells, Winter break is near. But after that we all come back And finals week is here!

ANONYMOUS. DEC. 2017

WINTER SENSATION By Anonymous School is finally out I’m so happy I’d cry Gonna scream and shout I'm telling you why Procrastination is coming to town Spent three hours making memes Then twelve more watching shows; Got a stack of AP problems, meh...screw those Procrastination is coming to town

ANONYMOUS. AUG. 2017

Schoolloop still sends me emails, My grades keep me awake But I still have ten days remaining Thank god for winter break! It’s almost two pm, And i’m still in bed, Upcoming test in chem But imma wait instead Procrastination is coming to town Darn! School starts tomorrow, I still haven’t done work, I’m filled with sorrow, On Slader I’ll lurk Time to try and not have a meltdown I’m reading sparknotes Two more essays to write, Too bad Turnitin knows who’s naughty and nice. Time to cry and start a meltdown…. I wish I could be sleeping, But physics isn’t done, My grade in that class is a C minus, Oh look, it’s the morning sun! Bags under my eyes, Bag on my back, I said my goodbyes, To leisure and slack I’m back to school with a great big frown .

DEC 2017||The penchant|2

ENTERTAINMENT

How to Concoct the Perfect

Christmas By Andrew Tee

AH, YES, CHRISTMAS. One of the biggest holidays of the year—some would say the biggest. An excuse to drink too much, eat too much, and get too much stuff, simply because it’s all part of the celebration of Jesus’s birth. From the food to the presents to the music, Christmas seems to be the perfect holiday. However, even the best occasions have their flaws. Some are understandable, some are confusing, and some just make you wonder, “how did this even become a thing?” Here are some tips on how to avoid these flaws altogether in order to have a wholesome, merry Christmas. First, there’s the idea of the tree. Whose idea was it to stick a pine tree, which loses a bare minimum of twenty needles per second, into a house? This idea might have worked back when the inside of houses were dirtier than the outsides, but not anymore, unless your house smells like the stable for Santa’s reindeer (in which case, you have bigger issues to worry about than Christmas trees). And what about the price?

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Even the shortest of the Christmas trees, which dwarf the old lady running the tree lot from her wheelchair, costs more than any Christmas decoration you will ever buy. Come to think of it, a Christmas tree is little more than a big decoration—an air freshener that takes up a quarter of the living room and loses leaves like the trees outside, except these leaves are a fraction of the size and not at all none of the fun to jump into. And since these Christmas trees will be thrown away anyway as soon as the “December” in the date disappears, they are essentially big, balding air fresheners waiting to be tossed in the trash. So, what is to be done? If the sole purpose of a Christmas tree is nothing more than to be a large decoration, instead of a Christmas tree, why not use a real tree instead—like the ones in front of nearly every house? It would certainly make neighborhoods look much more festive, and the image your house gives off would be clearer than ever: WE ARE FESTIVE. DON’T MESS WITH US, OR YOU’LL TREE-GRET IT.

Then come the presents. Sure, close family and friends can buy expensive gifts for each other, especially if the recipients themselves start dropping hints, such as spending unhealthy amounts of time staring at specific things at the store, talking about specific things from the store, or just outright telling you what they want. But then, what about the rest of the family and the not-so-close friends? How do you know how expensive your gift has to be to show them you like them, but not too much? To find out, use this simple formula: D=L+AM where L= how much you like them, on a scale of one to ten (one being the lump of coal, ten being the HD TV with the Xbox and virtual reality goggles), A= age of the recipient, and M= how much you want to get on their good side, on an inverse scale of ten to one (this time, one being the TV package, and ten being the lump of coal). Once you find all these values and plug them in, the result, D, equals the minimum value of the gift you should send them. This formula works for

TEE To help him relieve some of this stress, blast Christmas music all night to cheer him up, while at the same time making up for all the times you’ve skipped listening to it this year. Sure, your ears may bleed as soon as you hear one Christmas pop song, but the bleeding will definitely slow down a little once you get used to it, around five hours in. Finally, if you really, really want that five-star review on Airbnb to help attract more customers, throw Santa a mini surprise party with cookies, eggnog, and plenty of fun party games. It shouldn’t last more than ten seconds, though, for obvious reasons, and will possibly lead to you spending the best day of the year passed out on the couch, but if you want a foolproof way to make your house stand out, this is the one. What could be better than a positive rating from one of the most famous people in the world? Finally, after all of this preparation, you’ve made it to Christmas. The food isn’t a big deal—the good salty food

is saved for Thanksgiving, and the good sweet food for Halloween. A few hot chocolates and leftover cookies will do—and what you probably will be able to do at most, given how much time you spent planning that surprise party last night. But when you see the (mostly) happy faces at your presents underneath the festive tree in the front yard at seven in the morning and just above freezing, you’ll know you’ve succeeded at planning the perfect Christmas. Just remember to turn the music off.

HO, DESIREE. 30 DEC. 2017

WANG, JAIME. “FAMILY CHRISTMAS.” Dec. 2017

everyone, from the smallest, cutest babies to the oldest, grumpiest grandparents who sit in their room and stare out the window all the time. Using this formula, you’ll spend just the right amount on everyone, leaving you some money to treat yourself to some eggnog—after all that gift shopping, you’ve definitely earned it. Finally, the time has come. The man, the myth, the legendary Poppa Claus is about to come down the chimney, drop your presents, then make his exit to the next house. He moves fast, so to help him on his journey, you can do a few things. Bake cookies, or even better, stay up all night and present him a five-course meal (of small dishes, of course—you want to impress the guy, not stall him with a king-sized bed and the TV set he’s about to give you). Santa can’t play music in the sled to calm down—he has to focus on the journey, which stresses him out, leading to his thinking even more, which stresses him out even more (putting a damper on how much he enjoys this special day).

But when you see the (mostly) happy faces at your presents underneath the festive tree in the front yard at seven in the morning and just above freezing, you’ll know you’ve succeeded at planning the perfect Christmas. Dec 2017||The penchant|4

ENTERTAINMENT

YOYOTA: EP.1 By Felicia Mo

A LONG TIME AGO, there was a man with a yoyo. It was oddly beautiful, silver with a purple core and three blades along the edge. People wondered what it was for. The man showed them. He gave each person a test and in turn provided them with their very own personalized yoyo. It is said that each yoyo contains a speck from the original purple core, which fuels the life energy that gives a yoyo it’s unique power. That man is no longer in this world. But his yoyos reached across the globe until every single person possessed one. And where there is power, there is conflict…. “Little twit, get back here!” Shinda Kaneji was on the run. Again. “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry!” the little ninth grader yelped and flew down the stairs, his backpack bumping along behind him. Giving chase were three burly juniors, one with a detached piece of string in his hands. Kokomo Kanaka, leader of a gang of eleventh graders in Yoyota Private High School, found terrorizing lowerclassmen to be a favorite pastime. It was on one of these terrorizing expeditions‒starring Shinda‒that the freshman accidentally broke the string of Kokomo’s yoyo. “And you’re gonna pay, twerp!” Kokomo barged down the stairs at with Shinda in his sights. The boy was sprinting towards the exit doors at the end of the hallway. He knew that if he could make it outside, they would lose him in the crowd. “I’ll pay for your string!” Shinda yelled, not slowing down. “I have twenty bucks in my pocket. Take it! Take it all, just PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!” Kokomo pulled ahead of his henchmen and barreled down the hall. People, who had been absentmindedly eating their lunches, plastered themselves against the walls to let him through. Shinda skidded to a halt at the door and yanked it open just as Kokomo tackled him from behind, sending both boys somersaulting out of the building and onto the school courtyard….

5|The penchant||DEC 2017

LUGINBULHTA. 2 JUN. 2016

People turned to look. Most turned away immediately when they spotted Kokomo. A group of girls sitting at one table whispered to each other and giggled, watching intently for the action to unfold. The princesses of Yoyota High. Kokomo loomed over Shinda, his shadow almost blocking the sun. “Alright, freshie. Those twenty bucks you mentioned?” he said, looking down at the cowering boy. Shinda dared to spare a glance at him. “W-what? Oh, right!” He shoved a hand in his back pocket and drew out a wrinkled twenty dollar bill. It disappeared in Kokomo’s grasp. “Now then,” he smirked and, seeing his henchmen had caught up, cracked his knuckles. “Let’s teach him a lesson.” “You don’t mess with Koko!” one of the girls at the table called. She had long wavy hair streaked with blue and eyes flecked with gold. Her name was Hikaru Niji, Yoyota’s queen. “Wait, we can talk about this!” Shinda protested. “I mean, if you don’t have time to go to the store, I can buy you a string—”

“No pipsqueak is going to touch anything that belongs to my Komodo Wheel!” Kokomo roared, advancing. His henchmen spread out on either side of him. The boy’s eyes darted around frantically for an escape route. Shinda ran straight into something with a thump. The freshman ricocheted onto the ground. “Owww.” His hands were raw from where they had broken his fall. For a moment, there was silence. Then, “Are you okay?” Shinda looked up. There was a boy standing over him, reaching out a hand. His eyes were dark, flecked with fire, and filled with concern. There was a thin streak of black on one side of his face. Other than that, his hair was bleached white-blonde. Shinda looked at his hand, hesitated, and took it. The boy hauled him up, backpack and all, with one arm and gave Shinda a small smile. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said. He glanced at Shinda’s hands. “Are you okay?” “Y-yeah! No problem! I’m fine!” Shinda dusted off his hands on his pants. “I didn’t see you there either—”

People, who were absentmindedly eating their lunches, plastered themselves against the walls to let him through. “Hey!” The boys turned. Kokomo’s fists were clenched. The boy with the blond hair blinked. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Sorry if I’m interrupting something, but could you tell me where the front office is?” Kokomo paused in surprise. When you’re a Top Dog, it’s not everyday you’re spoken to like an equal. “What?” the junior spat. “I said, can you tell me where the front office is?” Kokomo took a deep breath. “You must be new around here,” he said finally. The boy shrugged. “Yeah.” “Well, let me teach you the first course you’ll be taking at Yoyota Private High School,” Kokomo grinned. “We follow a strict hierarchy here and weaklings are not welcome. I, myself, take pride in evaluating students like you to see where you fit into our little community. But first, allow me to demonstrate with our dear Shinda here.” “Actually,” the boy interrupted. “I’m rather interested in this ‘evaluation’ you take so much pride in. I’d like to try it.” All eyes went to Kokomo. He was staring at the boy like he’d seen something particularly offensive. Kokomo’s face grew red and this time, he didn’t bother trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Alright, smart one,” he growled. “You want an evaluation, I’ll give you one!” Kokomo’s hand darted into the jacket of his school uniform. In a flash, he whipped his hand out and with it came a glowing red object on a string. A yoyo. Shinda was still wondering how Kokomo repaired his yoyo so quickly when the other boy stepped in front of him. In one hand, looped around one finger, he was spinning another yoyo. His yoyo. Shinda had never seen anything like it. Black, with a core that sparked with red and gold, this boy’s yoyo glowed an eerie obsidian color. He spun it with ease and narrowed his eyes at Kokomo’s yoyo. “R4S Komodo Wheel,” said the boy, casually. “Fire element and speed.

smirked at the boy. “Are you ready to forfeit?” he mocked. From his crouch on the ground, the boy gave Kokomo one look and said, “That was just a practice round.” Kokomo cursed. “Copycat!” he screamed and chucked his yoyo at him. The boy threw his too and the two yoyos clashed again. Kokomo reeled the Komodo in immediately and threw it, but so did the boy. He met the Komodo blow for blow, each time. “What?” Kokomo shouted, pitching his yoyo. “How are you reeling so fast?” “Simple,” the boy said, meeting the Komodo once again in midair. “My yoyo is known for speed too.” HO, DESIREE. The yoyos collided and this time, 12 DEC. 2017 the strings intertwined. Both boys had enough experience to know that this was What level?” the final match. They pulled and there “You’ll find out soon enough, was a loud, resonating snap of a string as buddy boy!” said Kokomo. one of the boys fell backward and a In one quick motion, Kokomo shining red wheel flew into the air and swung his yoyo at his opponent. At the landed with a clank. same time, the boy swung his. Red and Kokomo stared at his limp piece black clashed head-on in midair and of string, the second one broken that day, Kokomo felt as if his shoulder was and knew his mouth was hanging open. wrenched out of his socket. His Komodo “Who,” he whispered, as Wheel ricocheted off of the other yoyo shocked silence descended upon the and made a high arc back to its owner, courtyard, “are you?” who caught it and winced at the The boy reeled in his yoyo and momentum. caught it in his hand. “The hell was that?” Kokomo “Name’s Hiro Kuraneji,” he said. yelled, rubbing his hand. Then he held up his yoyo to the sun and “You’ll find out soon enough,” let the sparks dance to the light. replied the boy, who strung back his yoyo “And I’d like you to meet the and caught it in his hand. Cobra Wheel.” Shinda was bewildered and he wasn’t the only one. Around the courtyard, people were beginning to whisper and talk. Kokomo noticed this too and faced his opponent again. “That was just a practice round!” he shouted and immediately threw out his Komodo Wheel. You may be strong, but I have speed, Kokomo smiled to himself. This time, Komodo Wheel headed straight for the boy, a flaming red blur in the air. The boy widened his stance. There was no time to roll out his yoyo. He felt the heat and jumped to the side just as Komodo Wheel slammed into the spot where he had been. The boy rolled and stopped at a crouch. Kokomo was laughing. “Do you see now? The Komodo Wheel is known for its speed. I can reel in and throw out my yoyo faster than you can catch. How can you fight when you can’t even roll out your own yoyo?” He swung the Komodo again PRETZELPAWS “US YOYO NATIONAL.” and it just barely skimmed the boy as he 2 OCT. 2004 dodged. Kokomo reeled it in and

DEC 2017||The penchant|6

FEATURED

WHERE YOU RECALL By Catherine You Those nights are the ones that when I choose to speak to

you.

THERE ARE MANY KINDS of nighttimes. Nights with velvet skies of ink, gentle and deep. Cold, distant nights, needles of air pricking at bare skin to raise goosebumps like the restless dead. There are late nights, dizzy nights, nights with company, nights alone, nights where pointy-toothed fears are only just kept at bay by no more than a weakly luminescent computer screen. There are still nights, too, where reality seems no surer than a mayfly’s footing on the translucent lace of rime ghosting across the rim of a cold glass. Nights like those are the best ones, really. Nights where even the smallest of details are no more than wavering questions flickering, dancing. Unsure, unashamed, unthinkable. Your day-to-day life a distant memory, the stillness of the air briskly erasing your sense of the world, its airy fingers aimlessly fluttering across the back of your neck, sending chills rippling from your spine outward. Those nights. Those nights are the ones that when I choose to speak to you. Once the glowering lights blink out, the amber glow of their tungsten hearts swallowed by the hungry maw of liquid space, I come, cloaking in serenity the woes of day. Really, it’s a shame to usher away such a gift with your artificial skeins of light. The calm before the storm driven to dispersal by the harsh emissions emanating from the boxy screens resting,

7|The penchant||DEC 2017

YANG, LILY. 20 DEC. 2017

erroneously (but effectively) dissolving the unmarked ambience til it’s not much more than childish imagination. The filaments of thoughtful silence, the opportunity to sit at the center of a silent mess, disarray forgotten and resting, far away, like the trailing footsteps of a jilted lover. Regrets faded like love-worn denim, small pains blown to neverland as if whisked away by the gentle breath of a faerie queen. Ah, truly. To think that anyone could prefer the artificial assurance of a pixelated screen over the languid vivacity of my beatific night. Without the unopposed hand of night to card the interwoven fibers of daytime’s fancies into their fateful threads, what more can you expect but the monotonous lethargy that mournfully colors your waking hours? To listlessly move through your routine, day after loveless day, in exchange for the fulfillment of the frivolous desire presented to you by the unnaturally lurid pictures shifting across the rectangular screen in front of your restless eyes. A memory… Refreshed nightly, a shivering odor: the pungent scent of manufactured comfort swelling in dissonant discordance to the silent night resonating in a fading harmony… But never mind that. To describe anything close to this would be strange, to say the least. If it were indeed an emotion, it would be the most emotionless such, gentle not in the way a forgiving patron is gentle, but gentle in the manner of an

curious adolescent reviving the tautness of a horsehair bow. And how many such gentle nights have you missed, as your shrunken pupils latched onto your screen and the rough pads of your fingers thoughtlessly clicked against the keyboard? How many contemplative nights have you forgone, in lieu of which you chose to wallow in a restless doldrum, exploring in careless anonymity the expanses of the online world? I'd like to know the last time you, unaccompanied by phone, computer, or otherwise, stepped into the breathily iced grass and stared up into the endless span of the beautiful sky. I’d like to hear of the last time you, with both your arms and ambitions bared, looked into the glittery fatality encompassing every increment of your world, I do know the answer. I can answer your feeble curiosity. When, you ask. Too long ago. But that's not what you care about. That much is plain. What you want, regardless of your ardent claims of individuality, is utterly and disappointingly replicable. Of course, that wouldn't be my matter with which to be concerned. That's entirely yours, and not to any complaint of mine. Ah, but I digress. Set aside your petty desires for the moment and hear me out. Listen to me, and consider this. Consider the bright night, light in its darkness. Consider the shrill ambience of

YOU

Listen to me, and consider this. Consider the bright night, light in its darkness. sleeplessness, politely intrusive. Consider the slippery velvet of the solicitous air, set still in stillness, yet still it does not idle nor stay. Consider, will you, the emptiness around you. Or, perhaps, not so empty, as it would seem. Oh no. Not at all. Do you remember your old companions? I do. Slyly threaded into the hooded edges of your childhood memories, their names manipulated into more than a few of those same still nights, they did come. Their presence skirts about the edge of your recollections, much as the vapid teenage boy edges around a puddle to protect his white, name-brand shoes. The quick blur of movement in your peripheral vision – only imagined, dear – was certainly a regular. And the clicks, the stomps, the muttered words – nothing more than an overactive imagination, dear – fluttering at the edges of your senses, just waiting to bloom into frightening entities of fantastic necromancy… They were never too far away, during each of my beautiful, distorted nights. Look behind you, to be safe. Force your trembling eyelids apart from beneath your covers to assure yourself that

PAN, VICKI. “EARLY.” 24 DEC. 2016

there really is nothing there. Nothing at all. Glance towards the open door, searching in vain for a hidden predator. There's nothing there, right? You've stopped believing in those silly, imaginary demons, right? Just a shadow, just a creaky old floorboard, just the cat being contrary in the other room. Nothing to be worried about. Just the house settling, see. Nothing else. Nothing more. Just the natural ambience of nighttime. Isn't it quite the beautiful night? The invisibly faceted air is but picking quietly at the fabric of what you and I deem to be tangible and real. Limbs, as if detached, seem verily able to curl heir fingers to simply pluck the polished stars from the perfect, pulsing sky, as easily as a maraschino cherry is plucked from a sundae by the sticky stubs that children's fingers are. Quite beautiful, that is and was. Serene. I'm sure you never used to think so. Children see things in a strange light. With an imagination as active and obscure as a caffeinated snail (which is to say, surprisingly so), it’s no wonder that the stolid nature of nighttime seemed intimidating. But it was for good reason. The inhabitants of such a time only exist by the word of otherworldly rules, abiding by the strict guidelines set in place by some sort of faceless games-master. Fair of face and obscurely graced, such grotesque entities as the ones swaddled in the sticky pitch of after-dark stayed not their hands, or whatever contortions they had in arms’ places. Can you imagine? Clawed toes ghost through the breakable reality that stands two and a half inches from the bend behind which your breath vanishes. Though they never did, did they? Not if you remembered the logic-lacking rules that you’d quietly convinced yourself of, forgetting rationality in the sweeping vastness of a motionless night. Strangely, the dry comfort taken from such notions seemed to keep the swirling, intangible things taking refuge in your peripherals just that way. Out of reach, barely at bay. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t think. Suffocate yourself within the blankets even, as long as your ankles are free from the dirty grips of, for lack of better descriptors, the monsters masquerading as shadows. Such rules, if left unbroken, acted as the armed guard persuading away the formless contortions populating the dark mirage of frozen-over dimness so characteristic of night. Do you even remember them anymore? Can you recall the flimsy rationalizations you’d paste

over your fears doing your very best to validate your safety? And yet, even then, following those rules “just in case?” Probably not. It’s too long ago, too irrational, isn’t it? Stupid fabrications of a small child’s mind, that’s all they were, really, skittering into your peripherals like a gangly child flailing about by the edge of the ice rink. Likely so. But, in that strange, warped time of night, perhaps they weren’t so fabricated, after all. After all, just because it’s in your head, doesn’t make it any less real, especially not then. Do you… remember what they look like? Do you remember what I look like? Not anymore, no. No way, not really In the same perfect arc as the passage of time, so does your perception evaporate as does the biting frost from discarded glass shards. You can’t imagine the nocturnal wonders, awful or ardent, that you’ve forgotten, child, as you, despite your vague insistence on scrambling your waking hours like glitter in a snowglobe, are, in the end, a child of the radiant Hemera, your being being the child of the golden tresses of the sun. It is so, whether or not you yourself decide to indulge in belief of the statement. It’s been to long since you’ve wondered, sleepless, perceptions uninterrupted by naught but the occasional motorcycle rumbling its droning passage through the streets outside, its chrome undoubtedly reflecting the yellow eyes of the towering street lights flashing past. With your piling concerns, with your mind always cluttered, it’s been too long since you’ve felt the jealously scouring ice of the shadows linger in your doorways. It is, however, the time again, for the nights to grow long enough for our shapeless figures to make ourselves known. The ice of the atmosphere lights the world a strange blue-white, the heavy temperature settling in its glass case. The world is coming to its ashy axis, and now, more than ever, are the nights reminiscent of the glass of a windless pond. Everything will stop, again. Like before, before the spell of disenchantment, think on our ravenous presence, lingering back in the closets. Limbs splayed in a strange fusion of shadows, backed against the dark. Glance back from your artificially lit haven and muster up the will to look into the dimmed doorways. Peer into the unlit hallways, straining to gather solace from the deserted floors. Look upon the occupied emptiness. Look, but with the eyes you used to have. It’s nice to see you again.

DEC 2017||The penchant|8

PROSE

WHEN HU, JOYCE . “57°F.” 18 NOV. 2017 SHE HAD AWOKEN, JUST LIKE ANY OTHER DAY, yet unlike all the other days. An empty feeling sat heavy in her chest, as if there was nothing beneath the bony lines of her rib cage. It was hollow inside, hollow of everything that had made her human. She was left with nothing but the feeling of emptiness. The strange thing was, it didn’t feel wrong to her. It was as if she just hadn’t realized her inability to emote until right then. She laughed at her own sudden epiphany. She could feel the joyless sound echoing within the cavity of her chest. “Since when?” she wondered softly, “Since when?”

She had awoken, just like any other day, in a way that was unlike any of the other days. Something bubbled in her chest, something warm, something comforting. It was a feeling that she had never felt before. In fact, it was the first feeling she had ever felt. Even though the curtains were drawn, her skin warmed as if she was under the gentle rays of the sun. This new feeling in her pulled on the apples of her cheeks, lifting up the corners of her lips without her even realizing. She shocked herself with the sounds that left her mouth, light, fluttering, twinkling sounds. The few rays of sunshine that shone through the curtains seemed to glimmer back at the breathless giggles she made, and the light scattered rainbows that danced around her white-walled room with joy. However, something confused her. Thinking back, she could no longer remember a day that had not began like this. She became certain that every one of her mornings were just as pretty and colorful as this one, but that didn’t seem right. She shook her head to clear her thoughts before deciding to drop the question that tickled the edges of her mind: “When? When were mornings ever different from this one?”

9|The penchant||DEC 2017

By C. Tori

It was a feeling that she had never felt before. In fact, it was the first feeling she had ever

felt.

VEIL

because it had bolstered a feeling of hope that was soon smothered by the increasing depth of the veil which he had once wished to succumb to. But it didn’t matter if he saw the blemish again. He had seen it once. That was all that mattered, right? That he knew the light existed. Even if he didn’t see the light again, he knew, deep in his soul, that it was out there. More importantly, he knew there was a place beyond the veil. Somewhere The veil constantly shrouded him. distant, but still there. He couldn’t ever see past it. He tried to pull it aside, to find a minute crevice through which he could take the barest glimpse outside. But it was impossible to see past the veil. It was neither substance nor figment—it just existed alongside him, and that was that. The veil was full of opaque hues, but the boy never considered them to be dark because, to him, they were the only colors. There was no dark, no light, but only the veil, the substance of his existence. As odd as this may sound, it had become quite normal for the boy to see nothing but the veil. You might think that someone would grow to miss the light after being surrounded by darkness, but you can’t miss something that you have never had. The boy recalled that there probably was a time before the veil. Not that he remembered it well—or at all—since it was an idea that was too fanciful to be entertained. It was something that he tried to forget lest he grow too fond of a state which he could never reach again. So, at some point, he stopped trying to see past his shroud. It was just how he existed. And even though he sometimes yearned to escape the veil, he forced himself to accept its existence. But the veil was inevitably imperfect. For one day, the boy saw a blemish in the veil—a lighter spot (although he did not use those words, not knowing what light really was). He attempted to look past the veil—but the blemish was there for but a fleeting moment before it disappeared once more. And yet the boy continued to search for that blemish, day after day, because he knew it was there. Somewhere. He knew he had seen it, and even as he tried to suppress the memory so he could return back to normal, a part of him wanted to find it again. He wanted to conjure the feeling of—he clumsily formed the idea of hope—and wanted remember what it felt like to feel warmth spreading through his limbs to break the veil. So he continued to search for the blemish. It only appeared once after. He remembered that time as vividly as before,

By Sashrika Pandey

It was something that he tried to forget lest he grow too fond of a state which he could never reach again. So, at some point, he stopped trying to see past his shroud.

ANONYMOUS. “UNDER.”

PROSE

WELCOME TO THE INSTITUTION By Uma Shankar

PAN, VICKI. “MIDNIGHT MIST.” 29 JULY 2017

I WAKE UP TO BLINDING white light and the sound of a door creaking open. The floor seems to sway under me, and I shift in confusion. The door slams shut; the noise seemingly intended to cause me maximum discomfort. My skin prickles as I shiver from the cold. I move back closer to the warmth. And then I notice it—multiple presences in front of me. I can feel them there, watching me. I try to look up at them, but all I can see is red. Cautiously, I try to close my eyes. Nothing changes. My eyes are glued shut. How devious. I turn my head and grit my teeth. Whatever they want me to tell them, they’ll never get it out of me. I stubbornly refuse to move from my current position, although they clearly want me to do something. “I’m done waiting. Should we just go?” a clearly annoyed male voice states. No response from the other one. The first voice, now somewhat familiar, continues whining. At this point,we’re never going to make it to—” “Patience”, the other one says.

11|The penchant||DEC 2017

He sounds much older, and much calmer as well. He clearly has the authority here, and that makes him dangerous. “It’s not quite time yet.” Minutes pass. I can feel them waiting there, just looking at me, waiting for me to crack. Pressure slowly fills the room until it feels like something or someone is going to boil over. Predictably, the younger one explodes first. “That’s it; we can’t wait any longer! We have to do it. Now. Or else, I’m going to—” “Take it easy, there are better ways.” The older one’s voice is soothing. I’m almost reassured that not everyone here is as hot-tempered and violent as his colleague. No, something’s wrong, I shouldn’t feel this placid the second I’m out of imminent danger… While I think, the older one continues. “Haste isn’t going to help in most situations. What you need is some patience.” Yes, this is reassuring. “For example, we could—YOU TAKE THE LEFT, I’LL TAKE THE

RIGHT MOVE FAST BEFORE WE RUN OUT OF TIME GO GO GO” The last thing I think before being dragged into my personal hell is what a fool I am. Hands grab me and rip away the warmth, dumping me onto an unforgiving tile floor. I snap and struggle, my sluggishness suddenly gone as I scream words of fury at my two tormentors. They give no response and only drag me harder out of the room. I kick and punch blindly. I know where they’re taking me, and it’s the last place I want to go. I’m thrown painfully against a hard, heavy sack. After another moment of confusion, I pull myself to my knees and finally crack open my eyes. I look around at the seemingly ordinary room I’m now in, and I snarl. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late! And if you don’t get in the car right now, I’m going to get a detention—again —which means you’re going to have to—” The boy continues ranting and racing around. I completely ignore the words streaming out of his mouth and reach for the doorknob with the wrath of the Furies howling through my body.

I hate school mornings.

COLORS By Jaime Wang

LI, WILLIAM. “SAND.” 2O16.”

All is captured by the painter’s fine brush– strokes and swirls that display the beauty of the world.

ANONYMOUS. APRIL 2017.

A sea of colors. A spray of light. A splash of patterns and hues. They whisk by, twisting and intermingling into bright landscapes and breathtaking scenes. A sunny meadow, filled with little dots of pastel colors, covering a great slash of a vibrant green. Rolling viridescent hills and a baby blue sky paint the background, covered with thick, puffy snow-white clouds. A calming beach, with silk-soft sand and a clear, sparkling turquoise sea. Pale green seafoam with graceful arcs of waves, and a bright splash of coral, rising royally like a delicately carved underwater palace. A tranquil forest, filled with streaks of deep brown and splashes of emerald hues. Pale yellow sunlight, spiraling like golden strands that play across the earth as they fall, streaming in, tinged with green.

VENKENTESH, DIVYA. “WATERFALL”

LUO, ELIZA. “DAISY FIELD.”

LUO, ELIZA. “BEACH LIFEGUARD.”

A rushing waterfall, the sunlight dyeing the water bright shades of deep aqua and soft peacock blue. Rich foam, churned so pale it mimics clouds captured by the reflection of the clear water. A majestic mountain range, rising proudly high above all those around it, displaying dark peaks and sharp cliffs. A play of colors run over it as the sun sets, spreading rich purples, deep crimsons, and soft bronze throughout its hills. All is captured by the painter's fine brush—strokes and swirls that display the beauty of the world, showing captivating scenes, painted by nature's wide pallet of colors.

FEATURED

THE SWEET TASTE OF

SILENCE

There was once a time where two men in love Were mere glass figurines Invisible to the eyes of our ever so benevolent nation If they were lucky, This was the way that things were. Other times, if they were unlucky, They were the target. To the bows slung over the proud shoulders of the “normal” denizens Arrows dipped in venom of hate and apathy Wielded with unflinching disgust This was the just the way things had to be. This was the way that the glass shattered. The night amendment 1 passed in North Carolina, it effectively barred all same sex unions in the state. Supporters of the proposed constitutional amendment gathered in the embassy suites hotel in celebration of their triumph over same sex marriage They indulged in a wedding cake. I scan this room in my mind’s eye Amongst the many beautiful women Openly chewing on the broken shards of dreams and stolen opportunities Deep red streams, Flow from their bloody gums, Dripping onto their fragile, white bridesmaid dresses I see that one, young boy Sitting at a table Alone Shoulders slumped, Crestfallen. As if someone had flung a sack over his shoulder that he had mistook for a body bag An empty, untouched plate before him as he eyed his father Driving his knife into the belly of this cake So sweetly unaware that he was killing so much more than just his son’s appetite. But how was the father to know – silence was all he had heard from the boy. Because silence is the only language that the boy had ever learned to speak Because that’s just the way that things were supposed to be. When would the man who held the boy as an infant acquire a taste for sin?

By Reetam Ganguli

Where would he go to find the confection that would satisfy such a craving? He had walked up to the gates of hell with a cross dangling dauntingly from a braided string Draped proudly around his neck Knocked on the devil’s door and asked to borrow a cup of sugar For how many cups of sugar does it take to mask the taste of your own sin? Did you mill the flour under the grinding teeth of tight lipped politicians? And fuse the batter with the tears of battered young boys And when you mix it all together, did you bake this cake From the fire in the furnace fueled by my homo sin? Should it burn too hot, Leave it in the cool, unsuspecting comfort of the closet Drape it in the luke-warm shelter of white frosting Engulfed under the textured blanket of shame Stick a pitchfork in it to make sure it’s remains solid, to make sure it can’t melt away To make sure it lies frozen, forever in solidarity within the depths of the closet. Leave it there, for this is just the way that things were meant to stay. But when you eat it, When you gnash and null on the love of my brothers and sisters, When you choke on the sweet, sticky fondant, which feels like a noose around your neck, A frosted barbed wire around your harsh tongue, Will you feel weighed down by the rubble of the city of your brothers in love? Foolish enough to think, that your jaws were strong enough to crack the diamond of our engagement rings? Did you have the audacity to pray over the first piece that you bit into? To thank the benevolent, omniscient lord for this great leap of conservative progress? A leap almost as far as a young boy’s from the George Washington bridge Yet just as quick. Do you truly believe that feeding on a f****t’s broken heart will be enough to prevent another from catching fire? From burning? From being charred by the glowing coal Of a newfound love? So, save the date You’re cordially invited Come, for epithets and rice at our feet Be a part of the moments that you thought we’d give up on Enjoy the ringing of wedding bells you’d never thought you would hear Walk us down the aisle, we’ll let you cut the cake Trust me, there will always be enough to go around. Yet, there, sat the young boy. Lost in his daydreams of a forgotten tomorrow Lifelessly spectating his father’s second helping Speaking the only language he knew how The language of silence. The boy reluctantly bit into the confectious slice And swallowed the homogenized shards Of the 2 invisible, glass figurines Because that’s just the way that things were meant to be. KANCHERLA, ABHISHEK. 23 DEC. 2016

PEXELS. FREESTOCKS.ORG. 24 NOV. 2015

I HEAR THE

SOUND OF

CRYING, And then I realize it’s me. I’ve always had a weak heart, But I had learned to hold in my tears. I built a glass cage to protect myself, And I would never let anyone in. Only after centuries gone, Would I let someone slip through a crack. Still, I never cried, Because I didn’t want to be vulnerable to whatever lay outside. But the tears I held inside my heart were too much for my cage. Freed, they gush out in fury, Flooding my eyes, And streaming down my face. I blink in shock and realize, That his gentle tap from outside the cracked glass, Had crumbled my last shards. I cried my heart out, And let loose my rage, But once I was done, I felt so alive, Because the cage had trapped my heart, And his single push had set it free.

MY GLASS

CAGE By Nicole Xie

DEC 2017||The penchant|14

PO ETRY

ANONYMOUS NOV. 2017.

Tighter, the tighter you embrace me, perhaps the stronger I grace. Maybe I won’t miss you as much. It’s only a month, just a short trip—technology is here, who cares. But you’re my better half, my sister, my favorite sister, my only sister. Forget about the memories to be made without you. I’m here, I’m here. Transfer your love, squeeze tighter. I cannot breathe, I cannot speak, I cannot wake. It hurts, it hurts so bad. Stereotype me, fight me, bite me, I dare you. I’m not the girl I used to be, for I never will be— no use of reiterating. Expectations too high, stand on my tippy toes, reach higher and higher and higher. Crash and fall at one a.m. Try and forget. You watch me drown in my sorrows, while scarcely looking down at your iPad. It shows, you don’t fool me. It’s okay, it’s okay. Transfer your love, I need it. Look down. Peace for a minute, the view—breathtaking. Lights fly by, up and up we go. Soaring through cotton candy, the ground, shrinking into the distance. Float away from all the convoluted ideals for a while and let yourself be free. In this together, take a break, you deserve it. Leap of faith. Hold my hand. I’m here, I’m here. Transfer your love, it’s surreal. A dinosaur dances and so do we. The “dino-dance” or so it be named, our signature dance. Up down right left, wrong beat, wrong move. Laughter fills. A snail sings and so do we. Have you ever wondered if a snail ever wanted to be a slug, Or a slug ever wanted to be a snail? Give the slug some hope, wrong lyrics, wrong song. On a bus, on a train, on an airplane—everywhere is center stage. Too loud. It’s okay, it’s okay Transfer your love, memories filled.

TRANSFER YOUR LOVE By Vivienne Chang 15

Your heart is big and mine, too small. Give, give, give. Tell me your selfish, that’s funny. Tell me your conceited, that’s funny. Spontaneous, caring, loving—that’s what you are. Hold my hand. Transfer your love. I need it, use all your energy. Flow right through my veins and into my heart, I see you trying. And now it’s my turn. I love you Mei Mei. Transfer MY love.

DOES GOODBYE

STILL MEAN SOMETHING? By Emrit Cheung Behind every laugh, every smile and grin, there's a story hiding behind that skin. Behind every wink or blink of an eye, There are tears welled up, but you won't see them cry. Every day eyes burn, yearn, scream so silently. But their sweet face hides their greatest injuries. Internally dying and vying for some slight relief, from tragedies binding them to reality. With their heart broken and thoughts awoken, their hot head now cold.

For now they see no reason Then teen angst and fret, To not retreat to death’s mold. Oh no, you don’t know anything yet. Looking closely, you can spy Adult life is a maze! the cracks in their smile. Remember, Their body aligning joy those voices in your head are with giving up for a while. a phase! Goodbye, goodbye, They have said it before. Even this letter sounds Thinking exactly how they pathetic, wanted so let’s just end with a bang. to die and more. So, count with me right now But back then it wasn’t “real.” and remember how I sang, First it was attention, wanting people to think of you and squeal. Then it was copying the cool people, Who were obsessed with those needles.

4, 3, 2.

Tell me something now, Is this gun “real” enough for you?

SMITH, KAT. “ANXIOUS WOMAN.” 7 April 2017 DZEESHAH. “HAPPY SMILING WOMAN” 28 Dec. 2010

For now they see no reason To not retreat to death’s mold. 16

POETRY

SHADES

OF LIGHT By Anonymous

Light reflects off his chiseled face One glance and my heart starts to race Every fiber in my body tenses with pleasure The smell of his hair, an olfactory treasure Only he moved me chemically more than others, His incandescent glow outshone his pale brothers. I stare and stare, my skin yearning for his touch When fire meets ice, the world shakes, I’ve never felt nonesuch In front of the church glow, I see him at the altar He leans in and kisses me without falter Long and passionate, our union is a blessing Washing me away of all my sins But I see him, I see him look at her with the same love What is it? Her beautiful face; as serene as a dove? He tells me he loves me but disappears at night In the darkness he does the very things I fright He says I’m crazy But I know what he’s done I know that I’m not the only one We met on a subway from Manhattan to Queens Every second with you was a blissful dream You gave me your jacket, I was cold from the rain, Our eyes met in the dark of the train; Fifty-three people, but your fire was the brightest Out of all the embraces yours were the tightest. Consume me with your fire Light me; only you I admire Our secret escapades; we ran from my father I tried to look back but you told me “Don’t bother” You said I was your inferno in a barren wasteland You said I was your flame in the darkest of nights You said I was your diamond compared to all others Why did you leave me, my only lover? That day, that day I refuse to remember You left my heart bleeding and dying in embers. I walk down the stairs expecting a surprise It was our anniversary; you were supposed to be mine. Her long hair, entangled in your fingers I couldn’t watch but my eyes unluckily lingered My heart sank and sank and sank to the earth And buried itself, wasting away to dearth You turned to see me, your eyes wide with shock You say “Honey, baby… let’s talk.”

17|The penchant||DEC 2017

PAN, VICKI. “MIDNIGHT MIST.” 29 JULY 2017 ANONYMOUS. 2017

BIANCHI, KYLE. SNAPWIRE.

PAIR POEMS

BODY WARMTH Warmth was all she wanted.

By Pia Parekh

As she sat alone, On the frigid park bench, Her teeth chattered, And her hands dug deeper Into the crevices of her armpits. At least it was warmer under there. A young couple On a romantic moonlit stroll Quickened their pace Once they saw Her. She contemplated putting on an Additional hat, but after seeing The mirrored looks of disgust On the couple’s faces, She decided three Was enough. According to the news At the diner That she worked at, It was forecasted to be The coldest night Of the winter. With each oncoming Gust of wind, She cradled herself tighter. Thankfully, the night Soon would be over, And she would carry on Cold, shivering, teeth chattering. Through the cold. I want to ask her Hopefully, If she’d like some tea She would find But I have neither that nor money on me Incandescence soon. Right now. She’s clutching Her sides like she’s sick. Her hands are tucked into her armpits, So she looks like a little child. The three hats piled on her head Don’t help her appearance either. Two men walk by And grimace at her. Immediately, She curls up into an even tinier Ball, as if she could disappear If she tried hard enough. But then, her shoulders loosen up, And she gets this odd Look of determination On her face and she looks Strong with resolve. I wonder what must be going on In her mind. I consider walking over, And then, I do. I sit down next to her, And she simply smiles And says, “Thanks For the body warmth.”

Poor lady on the park bench,

DEC 2017||The penchant|18

SANKAR, SRINIDHI. “LAMP BETTER.”

POETRY

CHU, VANESSA. “ALLEY TO LIGHT.” 21 MAY 2016

THEY

SAY

By Lillian Weng

They say New Years is a time for reflection A time to reunite with friends and family To set goals to better ourselves. I used to say it was nothing special— Just a day, that’s all Glorified because it’s the first day of the first month. That it held no significance Because no one kept their resolutions And life continued the same, humdrum and unaffected. But, one day, I looked again at the assemblage of people, That I had resented before And noticed the joy radiating from their faces How kind they were, even to strangers, How tangible the excitement was, How the happiness glowed with its own light, How the contagious hope overflowed So I reversed my thoughts Because a day that brought so much bliss That revitalized spirits and rekindled hope That brought people together Was refreshing and necessary, even if the hope is false And the happiness doesn’t last Because a little bit of happiness in a despondent world A sprinkle of hope for a pessimistic mind A tiny candle in the dark Was enough to fuel someone’s year.

WANG, JAIME. “CHRISTMAS WREATH.” DEC. 18 2017.

A CHRISTMAS

FEAST

By Anoushka Sawant Holly and tinsel up on the stairs Parcels of chestnuts and apples and pears An evergreen loop with a merry red ribbon Made into a wreath and hung on the door On the table, rolled out and spread with raspberry jam Toffee pudding, buttered biscuits, and a fine baked ham Rows of sugar plums in blue paper boxes Brown little men in gingerbread houses A large pine tree with a heavenly smell Hung with glass baubles and gold little bells By the fire, we prod potatoes with a toasting fork And eat them with smatters of butter and roasted corn ‘Ere a cup of cocoa afloat with thick yellow cream We’ll nestle into the covers to rest and dream

THE

LITTLE ELF By Tuufa There is a little elf, Way up in the North, The smallest elf ever, And from there he set forth, Along with many presents, A string of sad sighs, "I hate being little," He says with wet eyes. But little does he know, That his job to make toys, Is so very important, To the many girls and boys. The little elf doesn't know, That though he is small, His job to bring joy, Is most important of all. To see gifts under the tree, To feel the love and care, The elf shows everyone that joy, Is Christmas' gift to share. So make sure to thank the little elf, So he won't feel too blue, And even though he's little, He'll have a Merry Christmas too.

PAREKH, PIA. “LITTLE LIGHTED TOWN.”

KURLAGANDA, TWISHA. “CHRISTMAS SPIRIT.”

XU, DEANNA. DEC. 24, 2016

20 20

POETRY

SEA OF SELF-DOUBT By Geetika Yelugoti Lost in the notorious sea of self-doubt Crashing waves of haphazard thoughts Raging storms of discontent The lack of air catching up Lungs screaming Head pounding Heart racing Hope vanishing The end is near The end of unprecedented blunders The end of empty obligations The end of opaque expectations A void in my chest Rapidly filling up With flowing currents Of icy blue fear This is it—the end is here No more chances No more…

21|The penchant||DEC 2017

Silence It and nothing more Calm waves and a cool breeze Tranquil after the storm From a distance A shining light Reflected onto the water ripples Stretching out Someone yells “Man overboard” And there are reaching hands

Head pounding Heart racing Hope vanishing

LUO, ELIZA. “ROCKY BEACH.” ENGIN_AKYURT. “DROWNING.” SEPT. 24 2012

STOCK SNAP. “GIRL ALONE SAD.”

CHRISTMAS By Jaime Wang

MIRACLE

Snowflakes flutter to the ground, A breeze soft as a baby’s breath. Carols ring in the distance, As I trudge to where you’re left. In the distance I see lights, Strung up on a tree. Through a window, there is the glow, Of a happy family. Glittering decor and sparkling tinsel, And boxes wrapped in foil, Topped with shiny folds of ribbon, And curled around in coils. Around me I see risen stones, Each marked with their own symbols. Some are new and shiny, While others are worn with wrinkles. Around me there are hundreds, Spread out left and right. And I know exactly where I am going, Though my heart has taken flight. Around me the air has frozen, The shards piercing my bones. And although the hillside is silent, The wind, it howls and moans. And finally I have found you, Tucked far away in the west, Lying in row seven and column C, Is where you rest. On your stones I lay The red wreath of flowers, But this year I have something new to add, At this dark Yule hour. One Christmas Day, so long ago, You went to a better place. But while pain and suffering left you, They were things that I would face. Because although it has been years and years, And life itself has warped. I cannot forget the past, And of it I am forced. When you left, the hole in me Just continued to grow. The fire you kindled snuffed out, Smothered by the onslaught of snow. So as the church bells toll at the dead of night, The cemetery watchman will soon find, Late on that Christmas Day, On your grave, reunited with you, I lie.

POETRY

STAGE LI GHTS By Faye Wang

The brightness is a familiar face always watching over me Lacing the shoes Fluffing the tutu Pinning the hair These menial tasks serve as mere diversions, Distractions for my nerves– nerves that feed off of the sight of stage lights The stage lights: They stare back at me The only ones to prevail in the dark theater where no faces are visible As the dancers before me finish, they scurry back into the darkness The lights running off with them Like a traffic signal, the stage lights permit my movement And the moment has come: I am signaled to go In my starting position The stage lights greet me with its warm embrace Though my body travels across the stage, my eyes stay in contact with its iridescence The brightness is a familiar face always watching over me

NIKIDINOV. “BALLERINA.”

23|The penchant||DEC 2017

I hit my final pose The applause of hundreds echoes through the room Yet the only thing I see is the set of stage lights: A constant that was there through all my slips and successes Staring back at me with its warmth, Waiting to greet its next performer

BOMB

In a split second Light envelops the city Stealing the sun’s throne

By Shreya Vajragiri

A loud bang A great wave Moving at the speed of light Engulfing everything in its path Leaving nothing but ashes in its wake But it’s a beautiful sight Orange clouds mushrooming into the air Painted gray streaks dotting the blue sky Tendrils of smoke riding with the wind Swirling in and out of buildings

PAN, VICKI 17 DEC. 2017

SUPERNOVA

MADDEN, CHAD. “SILHOUETTE” 23 MAY 2017

By Tavisha Anand She moves in the darkness Skin incandescent against the night. Stark against the streets and surface glowing bright, where fingertips trail across the collarbone and over curves. Pressed to the mattress

She is a

supernova bursting with

Light. FREE-PHOTOS. “EMOTIONS.” 24 Feb. 2016

DEC 2017||The penchant||24

PEXELS. “ACTION ADULT CHECKERED SHIRT.”

POETRY

DARK/LIGHT/ CHANGE By Brandon Mead

DREAMS

ANONYMOUS. “BOKEH.” 2017.

I am falling Ahead of me darkness Behind me brightness Void above me Light below me I see the great yawning maw Drawing in all misery I am falling Through the other side Still, frozen Now the world is upside down Twisting turning shifting Into new life I am falling Ahead of me brightness Behind me darkness Light above me Void below me I see the great sunlight shining Tumbling towards incandescent joy

NEVER On a bright sunny morning you awaken With a dream so brightㄧthat it could blind your sight A smile escapes your lips and you dream of better life You’ve spilled blood, sweat, and tears, and now it’s clear Triumph awaits with open arms As you open the letter in your mailbox The knot in your stomach brings on scary thoughts You take a deep breath and let the bitter air fill your lungs Slowly you began to rip the edge of the envelope The paper thin feel of the envelope, has bile rising up your throat You rip the envelope off Only to find a message that doesn’t satisfy your expectation You leave it on the table with a heavy heart Guess good wasn’t good enough ‘Should’ve tried harder,’ you think You lay back in bed Letting the pillow under your head Absorb the grief on your chest Guess dreams never really come true

COME TRUE By Vox Nihili

GUO, CAROYLN.. 19 DEC. 2017

ART

PHOTO CHU, VANESSA. “REFLECTION.” 12 DEC. 2017

XU. DEANNA. 24 DEC. 2016

PHOTO/ART

LIGHT IN NATURE Life | Warmth | Motivation

LUO, ELIZA. “SUNSET.”

PAN, VICKI. “SILVER LINING.” 28 JAN. 2017.

TROUNG, AMBER “THROWBACK TO MAY” APRIL 2016

LAJEVARDI, SHERIN.

NGO, JACKIE. “THE CLIMB.”

PHOTO/ART

LI, WILLIAM. “INTERFACE.” 2016.

ELECTRIC ABSTRACTIONS Form | Line | Color

PHAM, NAYLANA. 18 NOV. 2017

ZHANG, IVY “IMAGINATION.” 24 DEC. 2016

KANCHERIA, ABHISHEK 21 NOV. 2017

HO, DESIREE “RECOIL.” 12 DEC. 2017

HO, DESIREE “FAIRY.” 20 JUL. 2017