Penchant3.2 by The Penchant Literary Magazine

THE

PENCHANT SHORTS by anonymous Hey con, before you go, don’t worry too much about school, kay? It’s only a short thing. Short like me. Short, like my struggles back as a child. Just, just don’t waste your time on what’s short.

CHINESE

ROOTS by oreo the cookie

ROOTS

by karl

Irvington High Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Creative Writing Club is a student-run, interest-based club dedicated to providing a welcoming environment for writers of all kinds to convene and share their ideas outside of an academic setting. Members get a taste of publication through submitting to The Penchant, our online literary magazine. Meanwhile, monthly prompts, in-club competitions, and major writing contests are provided to allow members to explore the implications of writing, improve on their own techniques, and receive feedback from their fellow peers. Overall, our collective mission is to enable the students of Irvington to write what they wish and have their voices heard. All images used are either submitted to us or public domain photos. All rights remain reserved to their original owners, for those that have speciďŹ ed such guidelines. Creative Commons Photos: Cover, retrieved from Pixabay To learn more about us, visit our social media: Facebook: @penchantlitmag Instagram: @the_penchant Issuu: @penchantlitmag To see our submission guidelines, visit tinyurl.com/cwcsubguide or follow us on Facebook.

the penchant Irvington | creative writing club EDITORS IN CHIEF Athena Xue Sashrika Pandey CONTENT EDITORS Felicia Mo Catherine You LAYOUT EDITORS Sushrut Borkar Janice Park

CONTENT Kay Krachenfels Meher Mehta Anusri Chavali Kelly Feng Suyash Lakhmani Tammy Shen Irene Geng Nichelle Wong Yale Han Ingrid Lu Samuel Vu Mohika Pandey Sophie Mo Isabel Lai Sashrika Pandey Nikita Chen

LAYOUT Kelly Feng Sanjana Shinde Roland Zhang Helen Yuan

january 2020

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

4 roots

25 Featured

Prose

Poetry

Photo/Art

19| Roots

By Oreo the Cookie “Days, months, years, decades–the tree did not know–passed. The sun rose and fell countless times. And into the tree’s home came a new sort of plant, one without bark nor bristle nor leaf.”

23| Shorts By Anonymous “It’s only a short thing. Short like me. Short, like my struggles back as a child. Just, just don’t waste your time on what’s short.”

39| Chinese By Karl “When you open them, everything is clear and sharp. From the mirror, you can see that your eyes have widened significantly. Yet, it was not enough.”

PROSE

ORCHARD ON

THE MOON

She wakes up with a sensation she can only describe as falling, by ingrid lu 1

a sudden jolt to her core that sends waves of shock through her entire body.

YE, 2019

She is cocooned within the branches of an elegant tree that stretches up towards the sky, branches and leaves weaving in an intricate, graceful knot. The tree is dotted with oranges, and a familiar citrus scent wafts through the air. She untangles herself from the branches and brushes herself off. The moon stares at her, one blank, pupil-less eye surveying her insecurities and secrets with its judgemental gaze. Her mother used to tell her the spots on the moon formed a rabbit — tùzǐ. The beautiful Chang-ge was exiled to the moon after chasing immortality, with only a rabbit to keep her company. She can see the tùzǐ in the moon emerging, blinking, twitching its nose in response to the story she remembers. Hello, Lucy, it says to her. Somehow, she isn’t surprised when it does so. “Hello,” she answers back. “Why are you here?” To talk to you, it says simply. The benevolent hare looks her in the eye, quiet and serene. You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you. “What are you?” she asks, curiously. The moon, it answers, almost laughing. You search for light to seep into your roots. You moved away to chase success, just like your mother wanted. “Why am I here?” Lucy begs. To enjoy the night. To take a break from the sun. To smell the oranges — júzi. Didn’t you know oranges are lucky back home? “In China,” Lucy answers. Back home, with your family. Your mother grew oranges in the backyard.

Lucy swallows, tears spilling from her eyes, but she smiles. You know what to do. “Thank you,” she says to the rabbit in the moon. Lucy wakes up by herself in an empty flat. An orange is perched on her nightstand, and her room smells like citrus. She picks up her phone and dials with shaking hands. “Hi, Mom,” she says. “How’s your garden going?”

TRANSLATION

月亮上的果园她醒来的时候感觉是在下坠，突然有一股电流流遍到她的全身。她像一个茧被包裹在一棵非常美丽的树上，这棵树的树枝笔直地伸向空中，树枝和树叶相互交叉编制成一个优美的蝴蝶结，这棵树上有一些零星的橘子，在空气中散发着她熟悉的橘香，她解开了缠绕在她身上的树枝。

To enjoy the night. To take a break from

月亮凝视着她就好像一只没有瞳孔的眼睛来评判她的不安全感和秘密。她的母亲曾经告诉她月亮上的一些斑点形成了一只兔子。有一个嫦娥姑娘为了长生不老到了月亮上面，这只兔子就一直陪伴着嫦娥姑娘。现在她能看到在月亮上的兔子出现了，这只兔子用眨眼和抽动鼻子来回应她记得的故事。

在中国？露西问在你的家乡，你妈妈在家的后院种橘子是吧。露西吞下了眼泪笑了。你知道该做什么了，是吗？谢谢你，她对着月中的兔子说。露西醒来的时候是在一个几乎空荡荡的公寓里，在她的床头柜上有一只橘子，房间里充满了橘香。她拿起了电话用颤抖的手按了电话号码。妈妈你好吗？你的花园现在好吗？

你好，露西，兔子向她问好了。

the sun. To

她一点都不奇怪。你好，你为什么会在这？她问道。

smell the

为了同你讲话，兔子说。在她的眼中这只兔子显得安静和真诚。自从上次见你以后，你长大了很多。

oranges

你是什么？她好奇地问。月亮它本人同时伴随着笑声。你寻找能让你生根发芽的机会，你离开家乡去追逐成功的机会，你母亲也期待和鼓励你去寻找机会。为什么我在这里？她悲伤地问道。享受夜晚，休息一下，闻闻橘香，你难道不知道在你的家乡橘香是幸运的象征?

KIATSUPAIBUL, 2019

jan 2020||The penchant|2

POETRY

BLUEBERRY by shriyan gote FAYGO The decade will soon come to a close, yet those memories will become shadows. The twenty-tens have been iconic, but I mean, have you seen that movie, Sonic?

This year Christmas will bring much rest, primarily not to the midwest. Following Christmas brings the new year, make several resolutions, overcome those fears.

It’s time to move on, let’s forget the past,

life is like a race, you don’t want to end up last.

DYING DEMOCRACY by anonymous Breaking laws, giving democracy a pause Tearing us apart with your ﬁlthy claws A vibrant city, like no one other Hong Kong and China, like son and his mother Democracy, what’s that, oh what a joke Our home dying, under a choke Watching the dragon loom over the city

Counting our days, we get no pity Troops standing by, portraying a threat But we don’t fret, don’t even break a sweat A foolish and deceiving fifty-year changeover Stirring this city’s immense anger Voting rights worthless from the start They claim they have best interests at heart Innocent minds brainwashed inside You can’t even let our democratic rights slide

However, unlike you, we still have a soul We’ll extinguish the controlling dragon’s coals When our rights are simply in grave danger I can’t help but feel like Mother’s a stranger For Hong Kong, for my city, I will help it eternally thrive But how much longer will democracy survive?

I may be far from these protest ridden streets

But I can still feel the beats that won’t admit defeat

SUN, 2019.

POETRY

FIRST IN FLIGHT Strong bonds to hold them close, Through those times rough but now gold, My first seventeen days in such tension, It’s just one thing, but my nose was all bent and broken. A wooden table with blank space to test out my markers, Banana smoothies with a side of star crackers, I remember our cherry blossom tree blooming, And that huge yellow bus every morning.

The green all around me, Touched with white snow now, Salted pavements and roads, I would make angels as long as time allowed. I’ve walked once again those hallways, Proud Penguin handprints both new and old, Mine’s still there in a bright, happy yellow. My roots, Where I started, and where I’ll go, No matter what, it is truly home. GUPTA, 2019.

by simone khandpekar

close still there roots

Where I started, and where I’ll go, No matter what, it is truly home.

Butterfly effect. (noun): the phenomenon in which a small, local change ends up creating a huger effect elsewhere in the world.

Until one day, I can ﬂy away

BUTTERFLY WINGS by mandy liu

Time. Moments passing by, budding wings, simply fluttering away from my grasp. If only I could rewind, fixing what I’ve done wrong, I would listen to others’ advice more. Stop procrastinating. Do what needs to be done. Stop running away from responsibilities, hiding behind a poorly constructed mask of promises and lies, A complicated web of broken promises.

I’ll do it now! It’s okay, I always have tomorrow to do it. It’s never too late. I have two more minutes anyways. I’ve learned these lessons, way too late, And if only I had listened, listened to advice that I got, I would have been so much easier off now. But time doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t stop, for anyone, for anything. So until then, I’ll do what I can, Continuing to grow With my newly sprouted butterfly wings.

jan 2020||The penchant|6

POETRY

FOUND by hridini dave

SHI, 2019.

Pain. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all I could feel anymore. Pain from myself, pain from friends, pain from family. I had forgotten who I was, lost myself on the journey of life. No memories, no moments, nothing came to mind when I tried to imagine. My culture, my identity, the person I used to be, all gone in the blink of an eye. I was drowning, drowning in the uncertainty, drowning in the unknown. No matter how hard I tried, I always came up blank.

I had been someone before, I was sure of it. I had an identity, I knew who I was and how I had become but now all there was was darkness. But then I woke up. I woke up to the sweet smell of my mother's cooking. I woke up to the chime of the bells as my father prayed. I woke up to the banging of the drums as my brother played. And then I remembered.

I remembered all those beautiful nights with my family. I remembered all those fateful moments with my friends. I remembered the first time I realized what my faith meant to me. I remembered the moment when I realized that I had a best friend for life.

I remembered all my firsts and some of my lasts. Everything began to come back. I asked myself again who I was. And this time there was no pain, only acceptance and admiration. Because I was no longer lost and drowning.

All it took was a little digging into the roots that had been buried so deep and ďŹ nally I was found. jan 2020||The penchant|8

POETRY

¿Qué significaba? Yo no sabía. Una palabra, una definición, pero yo no. Y así estaba yo, Nada. Estaba en mis padres, Estaba en mis abuelos, Fue en mis bisabuelos también, ¿Incluso lo tengo? Y así estaba yo, Perdido. Pero las vacaciones, Las comidas, Las ropas, La gente, Fue algo que hice sin dudar. ¿Pero cuál era el propósito? Y así estaba yo, Definido. Entonces, se volvió cómodo, Como un hogar. No es un pedazo de mi, Pero todo de mi. Una parte inmutable de mí. Y así estaba yo, Aceptando. Entonces miro hacia atrás, Cuando no sabía, Cuando era una palabra sin significado, Sin sustancia. Entiendo, es para aquellos antes que yo,

9|The penchant||jan 2020

by sanjana shinde

I AM

Para los que están después, Pero principalmente, Para mi. Y así estaba yo, Comprensión. Mis raíces son una definición de mí, Uno que veo, siento y vivo, Y nunca se irán. Y así soy yo, Yo mismo.

TRANSLATION What did it mean? I did not know. A word, a definition, but not me. And so I was, Nothing. It was in my parents, It was in my grandparents, It was in my great-grandparents too, Did I even have it? And so I was, Lost. But the holidays, The food, The clothes, The people, It was something I did without question. But what was the purpose?

And so I was, Defined. Then, it became comfortable, Like a home. Not a piece of me, But all of me. An unchanging part of me. And so I was, Accepting. Then I look back, To when I didn’t know, To when it was a word without meaning, Without substance. I understand, it is for those before me, For those after, But mostly, For me. And so I was, Understanding. My roots are a definition of me, One I see, feel, and live, And they will never leave. And so I am, Myself.

FOREST BATHING by sarah ng Close your eyes. Imagine standing in a forest teeming with life. Breathe in. Feel the crisp air enter your body. Breathe out. Breathe in. Smell the organic perfumes of nature wafting in the air. Breathe out. Now open your mind’s eye. Reach out. Gently touch the velvety texture of the dew-kissed moss with your fingertips, its green bursting from the morning sun. Taste the rain on your tongue, its refreshing earthiness.

Now the sounds. The gurgling of the stream as it flows over rock after rock, merging into the cacophony of a waterfall. Oh, the cohesiveness of it all... Breathe in. Breathe out. Open your eyes. Now go, cross the street with a spring in your step as the light blinks and the timer beeps. In the wise words of famed conservationist John Muir,

“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and ﬁnd my soul” TAI, 2019.

101

POETRY

LEECHES by samadhi wijethunga Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s scary when your heart is one step away from losing yourself in it all In the dream that it makes it out to be When the reality in front of you is slowly taking shape It gets easier to see The fog clears up and the doubts leave your mind But they never really leave They attach themselves to you like leeches Clinging onto you and depleting you of the one thing that makes your heart pump The one thing that inhibits the cold smoldering thoughts

That one thing that determines your happiness Your state He brings those feelings in She breathes them with happiness but the leeches they pester They never leave

The feelings of lack of control never originated from the beginning of you But the idea of losing you SHIH, 2019.

11|The penchant||jan 2020

MAZE by chizu I look, the end seems blurry Through the misted gates I crossed Welcome to your journey Be careful to not get lost. Stick figures Painted walls Safety scissors Thought Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d found my call

No longer do I feel an urge To keep on heading straight Is it finally time to diverge? Where am I going at this rate? Made a right turn Found new passions For what do I yearn? This isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t what I imagined.

Where am I? Cannot remember The reason why I had entered

jan 2020||The penchant|12

POETRY

HONG KONG HAIKUS by sophia van tassell

Christmastime is here. The riots get more common. I wish for freedom. Petroleum bombs. Tear gas and rubber bullets. We will hold our ground I hold up the flag. Sing the national anthem. Communist war cries.

GUNASEKAR, 2019.

元宵，元宵我最愛吃元宵節日城市燈如晝大街小巷亮光透晚上樹林越來越光成千上萬燈籠掛上元宵味道香又甜形狀像月亮一點燈籠像月亮的映照人慶祝也開玩笑不是跟別人猜燈謎就和親人笑嘻嘻

LANTERN FESTIVAL by ethan ye

大街小巷亮光透晚上樹林越來越光 Rice balls, oh rice balls My favorite food to eat is rice balls During the festival the city is as bright as day Streets and alleys radiant with light At night the trees become more and more bright Tens of thousands of lanterns hang above The smell of the rice balls is sweet and pleasant

Streets and alleys radiant with light At night the trees become more and more bright

Some say it even resembles the moon Lanterns give off the moon’s reflection People are celebrating and having fun If people aren’t sharing lantern jokes They’ll enjoy time with their loved ones

MY FAMILY From the very beginning, when I was a small baby, I had already understood that I had a loving family. A family that will support me through eternity, Through the challenges that I think will defeat me. Blessed with their unconditional love and care, Taking risks for me that most wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dare. Their strength inspires me everyday, Allowing me to find light where there is only gray.

by jyothi shankar

I am proud I am proud of the person I have become today, And I owe it to my family for shaping me this way.

And I owe it to my family NAGWEKAR, 2019.

PAINFUL BLESSING

POETRY

my name 媛, means beautiful, strong, and graceful.

and in my room lies an unreflective mirror, the label that was bestowed upon me at birth 一 frac tured glass skin.

媛

my legacy predetermined

by the carresses of ancestral thoughts. my name sounds like 圆, round like my body at thanksgiving dinner, silently condemning the plethora of food. wretched laughter stares and whispers reflected in the cranberry blood

圆

and what of 哥哥? who came before me, choked to five shades of indigo in the womb

noose pose no name, no meaning.

哥哥

so maybe the broken shards of identity are my blessing.

broken shards of identity by tammy shen

POETRY

ROOTS AND CULTURE My family has raised me and brought me up to who I am today Without them, I would be lost and not have a place to stay They have taught me to be moral, honest, and humble They lead me to a straight path and help me along the way, making sure I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t crumble My family fills me up with smiles, laughter, and knowledge Watching them work so hard makes me want to strive to get into a good college

My roots and values shape me into who I want to be It is important to be on the right track and not always carefree I hope to reach my goals and accomplish to the best of my ability With the help of my family, I will overcome them and have the capability I know without a doubt I can fall back on my family Together we continue to live and grow happily

by sakshi thakral XUE, 2019.

17|The penchant||jan 2020

by chandu garapaty

strings keep the puppet standing My blood ties me to a complicated

Roots rot. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather not be tethered to the ground To a tradition of tragedy Ambition and will supplanted As though it were a malady A puppet, chained, but strings keep the puppet standing. I am bound to history. But if I set myself free, I will cease being me. Roots keep me in place and I cannot escape. But I can reach for the sun, the sky, and the stars And when I am beset with failure and doubt I can reach out to a familiar face who makes me feel safe And encourages me to try again

Roots anchor me, but thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so I touch the sky Underground, but they supply Love and warmth that let me fly When the winds of change blow strong My roots tell me where I belong My branches show where I can go I only grow above when I grow below. Reaching into the soil with roots My blood ties me to a complicated truth Wherever I go and whatever branches I make I am a daughter of many mistakes. But my roots are a gift They bind but they free They give me the fruits of possibility.

truth They give me the fruits of possibility

THE PARADOX OF ROOTS jan 2020||The penchant|18

PROSE

ROOTS I. Promise Somewhere, a seed falls–and is borne away by the wind. The wind carries it far away, far from the original home it once lived in, floats it somewhere far away to a place that it doesn’t recognize, doesn’t know, doesn’t belong. It settles somewhere after falling from the sky, having been carried thousands of miles from its original birthplace. And what can it do except open up; let the roots buried deep inside its lifeless shell crack open the dry husk and spread into the new, fertile soil–soil that will soon become its home. The seed grows, spreads its long tendrils of life into the ground, almost as if it is searching for something. As if it doesn’t really belong here, as if it is looking for a way back home to a time where it can once again be on the branch that it was born on. But there is no way home. And the seed continues to grow on this new mountainside, digging deep into the soil, promising itself that it won’t let itself be taken by the wind again, because it will plant itself here for all of time, for all of eternity. It will drive itself so deep into the earth that even if the mountain itself moves, it shall remain rooted

19|The penchant||jan 2020

there, tall and stalwart. And having dug deep, the plant begins to grow taller. Having absorbed nutrients and water from deep underground, it has found food. It has found home. The seed began to reach upwards, yearning for sunlight, yearning for the warmth of the strange sphere in the sky that will continuously arc over and pass into the ground, over and over and over again. With the light that softly caresses its body, the seed grows more, above and below ground. And now, the sapling encounters something it has not quite expected–droplets of water falling from the sky. Pure, untainted, untouched drops of life. It absorbs them, lets the roots it has planted far and wide in the ground drink up the new water which has come from above and not below. It watches as other plants are struck by mysterious light that comes from the sky and set aflame; it watches as a strange rumble tears through the forest, injuring many plants. The sapling has met its first storm. Months pass. By now, the sapling has grown much, much taller; it could not really be a sapling, nor a seed, but instead a tree. And strange,moving plants begin to

by oreo the cookie come as well–shaped sometimes with four legs, sometimes with two. These plants sometimes had small bristles of bark or leaves that covered their entire bodies, and they could move parts of their bodies at a speed much faster than the tree could move. Sometimes, the strangest of these plants which had four legs and a strange, curling branch would climb atop the tree. The tree did not feel particularly inclined to let its personal space be so rudely violated, and with the wind’s assistance would shake its branches and watch as the strange plants fell off of its branches. But even through all of these strange misfits, these strange happenings, the tree never forgot the promise it had once made; to root itself to the ground, to stand unwavering.

To root itself to the ground, to stand unwavering.

ANONYMOUS, 2019.

FEATURED

II. Meaning Days, months, years, decades–the tree did not know–passed. The sun rose and fell countless times. And into the tree’s home came a new sort of plant, one without bark nor bristle nor leaf. They stood ramrod-stiff in a manner the tree had never seen, and they moved, too, in such an alien fashion. Sometimes they carried with them strange sticks or branches that would have the strange rumble and flash of light that the sky would occasionally erupt with during storms. They would injure and hurt other moving, strange plants, and take them away. Then, more of these barkless, moving plants came, but instead of occasionally coming into the forest, they remained there almost constantly, building strange constructs of foreign shapes that they would constantly stay in. The tree watched as the numbers of the barkless, leafless plants arrived in their own colonies, forming more and more shapes of curious metal that were hollow inside. It watched as the soil around it was covered with a strange black rock, and as it was left to its own devices in a row of its fellow trees, it watched the strange plants get into moving metallic constructs(seeds or carrier pods, maybe?) that would move at speeds faster than it had ever sensed. The metallic plants were largely inactive unless one of the barkless happen

ed to get inside, and they would always stop somewhere nearby, in front of the old tree. Over time, the tree watched, listened, as the strange plants put in their own roots, strange, unmoving appendages of cold steel and soldered iron. It watched as the strange plants continued to grow, as it became one of the lone things around. And so it continued to keep its promise, rooted beneath the ground, to the soil. But this did not last. What happened next–it was, strange. Very strange indeed. Around the trees, there were invisible walls of solid air that suddenly blocked it. It was now trapped in a strange prison, being forced to grow along the strange walls that were clearly both there and also not there. But the tree continued to nourish and grow. It would not let itself be held here by whatever the strange barkless plants had tried to do. So instead of reaching for the sky, for the air, the tree dug deeper. It looked into itself, and tried to expand its roots beyond the boundaries of metal that blocked it underground.But instead of finding hollowness inside the metal roots, it found water inside. Water! And the tree continued to grow its roots, not expanding, but instead wrapping itself around the metal root that would continue to supply it with life. For they were connected,

OREO THE COOKIE

they were one; what vulnerabilities from rust the tubes had, the tree would absorb, and the metal root would help the tree sustain. They were one, and they would always be. The barkless plants took no notice; they were shallow, without root, without home. They moved to and fro, but without a meaning that accompanied the thoughtful motions of the tree’s branches or the tree’s roots that would wrap slowly with contemplative meaning.

III. Sleep And one day, all of them were gone. The strange, moving, barkless plants disappeared entirely. Just… abandoned. The tree remained in its glass prison, but continued to grow beyond what had limited it. As its roots spread, so did its branches grow. And finally, one day, the invisible barrier, the solid air that had held the tree for so long–it cracked. With a sound like a shattering branch, but repeated only a million times over with an almost natural, musical twinkling, the barrier shattered, breaking onto the black stone into millions of pieces. It had been long since the tree had first traveled, carried by the wind, to a place far away from where it was born. Where…was it born? It couldn’t remember. All it could feel were the roots, the origination of whatever had kept it here,

jan 2020||The penchant|20

PROSE anchoring it deep into the ground. They would keep the tree there until the end of time. The tree did not remember who it was. All it remembered was… loss? To… return? It didn’t know. More time passed– years?decades?centuries?–and the tree continued to grow larger. The ancient tree had now long-forgotten what it was doing here, why it was here, of all places, only that it was destined to remain here, rooted here by its previous actions. It was now the oldest one there: it had been there since the start, before any of the strange barkless plants ever set foot in the forest. It could still recall a time when it was young, where there was nothing but itself and its thoughts, the light and the soil and the water, and its branches and its roots– Roots. That’s right. Everything must begin from its roots. Seeds come from roots, which come from seeds. And the cycle repeats. But as long as roots were there, the tree would be here. Anchored here for all of time. But nothing can escape Father Time. Not even the tree, whom has clung so firmly to life. Not its roots, which have dug, by now, hundreds of meters underground. Not its branches, which have spread so far that they cover the entirety of the sky as most bugs who live underneath it know. Not its mighty trunk, which has supported it so long. The tree was dying. It could feel it, in the creaking branches that were swaying like wood that has gone dry–wood that has gone hollow with life, empty but of air. The tree swore it wouldn’t be over. It would rebuild itself–it

JOSHI, 2019.

would be reborn–into the final hope it had, on its branches. But the tree realized something. All of it, anchoring itself, growing, using its roots to keep itself steady–it could do that anywhere else. It didn’t need to remain with its parent to do so. It was a chance to start anew. A beginning, without an end that started it. A plant, that while it wouldn’t have roots of its home, would create its own roots. It would dig down deep, and it would never forget. And this time, the tree told itself, it would fly itself far away from home with the wind. It wouldn’t stay here, where it was born. The last seed, the last hope. It would create its own home. The old, dying tree used its final effort, held tight with its last branch—and let go. As it did, it felt something within give, something crumble–much like the strange barrier the rootless, barkless plants had erected years ago. Somewhere, a seed falls–and is borne away by the wind.

Seeds come from roots, which come from seeds. And the cycle repeats.

by bhavesh kumar

TO ANSWER THE UNANSWERABLE

To believe in God is to believe in yourself. The roots of my life bud from a very mixed religious family. My motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s side of the family is all Sikh and ever since I was a kid my grandma has always urged me to sing at the gurudwara and learn the Sikh teachings by heart. On the contrary, my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s side of the family is all Hindu and has tried many times to get me to follow their side of the religious background. Since I have lived in with my grandma, I have always leaned more towards the Sikh side of my life rather than the

Have faith in your abilities and a sense of

Hindu side. Yet, I have never been able to completely adopt the religion or the culture because after all, I have not actually gained enough unbiased knowledge to actually pick a religion. After all my religious choosing as becoming a competition rather than an informative decision. If I tend to lean on one side the other just gets sadder or tries harder to get me to turn back. This constant struggle between my religious disparities has always intrigued me to come to my own informed decision. But the real question that arises every time is why even follow a religion. After all, in my case, the best choice is to have no religion as I would be neither here nor there. I tend to look at my religious side as a way to answer or question the illogical things in life. I believe that anything that is out of my control is in control of someone nonhuman. Yet, all religions have their own struggles, their own rules and restrictions that one has to follow to

self

achieve the religious status. There are many feelings, lives and human emotions involved in the practice of any religion thus, it restricts people to truly understand the feelings associated with a religious background. After all, our roots all crave out of some religious or spiritual path and yet we have forgot to appreciate the beauty of a variety of religion. I think that no matter what religious believing you are or whatever lifestyle you choose to live, to have faith in your abilities and a sense of self is all you truly need in order to become faithful to your religious roots. Thus, I have told my parents that I never want to restrict to one specific religion and live based on the rules of one specific culture. Instead, I want to create my own path and follow the many viable teachings that I believe are effective to myself. At the end, if God exists or if he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t our roots sprout from somewhere and it is a duty we do to ourselves and the community to accept the different backgrounds and ways of living that various people propose.

RAVI, 2019.

PROSE

SHORTS Daughter, con, ah.

LAKHMANI, 2019.

by anonymous 23

When I was a girl your age, why, I went to the market all by myself. Would you believe that, con? Hah, back in those days, no one would want to kidnap you, it would just be another mouth to feed, hah, hah. I would cook com, the rice, while Sister Xi would sweep the floor. And we didn’t have these modern stoves or gas, no. We chopped wood, lit it up, and put a pot on top. I remember, I must have been so young, I was so bored from waiting for the rice to cook, I climbed on top of our tree. It was a huge tree and those trees were different from the ones at your school today. It had branches from down low, like this. And the branches were evenly spaced out so we could climb it easily. Hah, if I tried to do that today, you would laugh so hard and pee in your pants to see your big fat mom climb such a tree! Hah, I would probably fall right down and create an earthquake with my landing! Hah hoo! Hah? Con, why are you laughing so hard? Are you saying I’m fat? You shouldn’t be laughing that hard! Ah, I

know it’s funny. Oh, but I was so young back then, young and thin, like skin on bone. Like a chopstick. We barely had enough food, and we had to walk around so much. Can you picture me like that, con? On the tree I would sometimes eat the fruit. Hah, we weren’t that clean like today, con. Oh, I would just bring my mouth up to a dangling fruit and eat it on the vine. Ah, but we had to be careful and watch for Uncle Toan. The ripe and sweet fruits were to be sold. Oh, he would beat us if he caught us eating the good fruits. Lay down and point our butts up in the air while he got his belt. Huh? Oh, I don’t remember how much it hurt. Don’t worry con, back then beatings like that were not that uncommon. Ah hah hah, I remember, during that time I climbed on the tree, I bent down to check on the cooking rice. I was a dumb little girl, I bent too far, like this, and I fell off of my branch! Hah! I was going down and down and down, until, oop! A branch caught onto my thin, little shorts like this! My shorts started to tear, and I eventually continued to fall until I hit the floor. Ah but, con, those shorts saved my life, I only had a scratch on my knee. Right here, you see? I didn’t die! Hah, hah, I should have kept those shorts and framed it, right con? Hang it up on the wall, right over there, for you to see. If it weren’t for those shorts, I wouldn’t be here. Hah, you wouldn’t be here! Wah, how did we survive back then? It must have been a miracle for all of us to be so alive and healthy today. Well maybe not healthy, hah, look at my big belly. Hah, hah. Life back then was so much fun. You can’t climb on trees like a monkey the way I did. You can’t eat the fruit off of a tree without washing it. But it was so much harder, con. Life seemed like it would be so short. Everything seemed so short. Our

FEATURED time, our hopes, our future, hah, even our heights were short! Heh, my life would have been short if it weren’t for those shorts! Heh, heh. . . Just. . . just enjoy life now, okay con? You have more chances than me, your life won’t seem as short as my childhood. . . Heh. . . Okay, sorry con, I talk too much. You can go back to studying. You don’t need to listen to your old, crazy mom anymore! Hah hah! Too much talking about my life, hah, I guess you can thank my shorts for that! Hey con, before you go, don’t worry too much about school, kay? It’s only a short thing. Short like me. Short, like my struggles back as a child. Just, just don’t waste your time on what’s short.

Just, just don’t waste your time on what’s short.

ANONYMOUS

THE VIETNAMESE

CULTURE by ethan nguyen I am a student at Irvington High School. My parents are both Vietnamese and I’ve always wondered what the culture was all about. When I did some research I found out that the culture has changed several times over the millennia. Vietnam originates from Nam Viet a kingdom from the Baiyue people of East Asia. During the bronze age, Vietnam was annexed by China, and its culture became very similar to China’s. They were influenced by the ideas of Confucius and took in the ideology and arts of the Chinese. This continued for many years until other Asian cultures started to rise up around Vietnam. The cultures of Champa and Khmer also influenced Vietnam. This resulted in modern-day regional cultural differences. However, the mixed culture took a major change in the 19th century. First, Vietnam was occupied by the French and was introduced to Catholicism and European ideas, lasting until the socialist era. This is

when Vietnam started to become more communist in the North. However, the South wanted to stick to its original government, resulting in the Vietnam war. Many countries were fighting over Vietnam because they didn’t want it to become a communist regime. Currently, the country’s culture is very unique. They have taken European, Chinese, American, and other Asian countries' cultures and mixed it with its own. If you go to Vietnam, you’ll find a mix of cultures in every city and region of the area. This information helped me find out who I am. I am a mix of cultures and Vietnamese culture is actually a mix. I see myself differently because of my culture, and I feel that I can relate myself to my peers better.

PROSE

TANGLED

ROOTS by jonathan cheng TK, 2019.

As soon as I took a sip, I realized it was poison. Something within my drink tasted strange; there was a taste of bitterness mixed in with the sweetness of my Coconut Mojito that stung the roof of my mouth. My gaze lowered upon the drink I had just received. Upon closer inspection, I noticed it. There, hidden beneath the foamy layers of my Hawaiian drink, were three drops of Vitranate. Its tan-colored drops camouflaged well and could have easily been neglected by an average citizen, but I was not just any man seeking a drink at the local bar. I was a vigilante for justice and so had my line of ancestors for hundreds of years. From a young age, we were trained in all the interdisciplinary studies to give us both the knowledge and strength to carry out our job. My father explained to me that our roots traced back to the legendary Robin Hood himself, and so in order to

25|The penchant||jan 2020

honor his legacy, we would all take on a similar job. I would not have recognized this deadly poison if it wasn't for my personal experience with Vitranate itself. I had previously used this chemical to make my killings seem like cases of severe food poisoning rather than the carefully planned assassinations they truly were. In my three years of being a vigilante, I had made several enemies. Most were the family members and close friends of the criminals I had proudly slain. My victims were all crazy maniacs, masterminds who managed to escape the clutches of authorities and continued their deadly spree of crime. My father always told me the police simply allowed these felons to strike terror in my town, so we would have to take matters into our own hands. My mind swarmed over the possibilities of what to do next.

I was already poisoned. Vitranate had no cure, and my death in 2 hours would be inevitable. All I could do to make the situation better would be to catch the conspirator of this clever plot. Calling for help wouldn’t change anything. The sneaky assassin was somewhere within this bar. I needed to act as if everything was perfectly normal so they wouldn't know I’m out to catch them. This would grant me the element of surprise as I investigated. I continued to “sip” my drink, allowing the poison to wander into my mouth, before spitting it back into the glass. As I continued this risky pattern, I looked around for a person out of place, a villain among civilians. A couple in their mid-thirties laughed and joked around with drinks in their hands. A somber businesswoman relished a bottle of beer, possibly pondering the struggles of her life.

An elderly man who sat patiently as the bartender finished up the final touches of his cocktail. More seemingly ordinary people dotted the public building. That was until I saw a pair of eyes glaring directly at me. It was from a man wearing a tuxedo, who stood by the bathroom. There was something in his eyes, I could almost feel it, that revealed that he was the man who had poisoned me. When he noticed my reaction, he quickly looked away before making his way towards the exit. I acted fast, collecting my possessions and whipping out the knife from my back pocket before sprinting after my target. The businesswoman noticed my weapon and gasped before screaming out, “That man has a knife!” I ran out of the bar, ignoring the stirring crowd behind me. My murderer began to run as he turned right onto Vengeful

Street. I started to sprint as I yelled, “You can run, but you can’t hide!” Although my muscles ached and my breath was short, I continued to keep up the pace. But the man continued to stay one step ahead. His sudden maneuvers almost always caught me off guard. His pace was far too fast and swift. He was stealthy, but I was no ordinary man. I was a legendary vigilante of justice, and my final act would be my best. The chase went from Vicious Avenue, back to Savage Road and finally north to Dark Boulevard, where he suddenly disappeared. He had just turned this corner, but he was nowhere in sight. Looking in all four directions, not a single sign of life existed. That was until, abruptly, from the roof of a building came a figure that landed on top of me. I gave a yell of surprise and the sudden force caused me to drop my knife before I felt a punch to my nose and saw a face way too familiar. He wasn’t the man at the bar however. He was my very own brother. As I collapsed onto the floor, my brother tucked away my weapon and tied me up with rope. “Why are you doing this?” I cried out as he covered my face with a paper bag. “You really don’t know? Our family has been lying to us all this time. We were never the vigilantes. We were the villains. All the people you killed; you thought they were criminals, but they were innocent people who had just made grudges with our father! Our family’s vigilantics have just caused more issues for all of us!” I struggled to articulate my words, as I became filled with confusion. “Why are you doing this to me? I wasn’t a part of any of this. I didn’t know-” My brother scoffed. “After figuring out the truth, I would always report to our father to say I had completed the task. In reality, I would find the true victims and help

them live a new identity. But you are no hero. You are a villain who has wrongly slain hundreds of innocent people. For what reason? Just because our father felt threatened that his secret would come out. I had my associate lure you here so I could defeat the villain and be the true hero of this story. After you, I’ll have to visit our father to confront him.” My brother pushed me down into a ditch, flooding pain throughout my body as my spine cracked from the force. It didn't matter; I would soon die from the Vitranate anyway. “What secret?” My throat was sore, but with so many questions unanswered, I screamed out, hoping for some kind of explanation. As my brother, or maybe the man at the bar, buried me alive, I could only feel the tears that continued to stream down my cheeks, as I pondered the truth behind my roots and all of its secrets that would soon become buried alongside my father.

I pondered the truth behind my roots and all of its secrets that would soon become buried alongside my father. jan 2020||The penchant|26

PROSE

by anonymous

THE

CASTLE If there was one word to describe his scenery, it would be luscious. But it was not just luscious. It was dreamy, it was colorful, it was paradise. The trees reached their hands into the sky, lost in the clouds. What a place to get lost in, wasn’t it? But that’s just what he was. He was trying to find something, though. What was it? A remnant of his memories, so long-gone it was but a wisp. Everything seemed long-gone at the moment. The only thing he knew was dense greenery. His large, beefy hands shoveled through the brush easily as though he were a human bulldozer. He swiveled his head left, right, up, down. Where does he go next? He chooses to go straight, running this time. Past trees, trees and bushes. He scratches himself several times, headbutts some birds, but it doesn’t matter because he had arrived at a grand castle built from

27|The penchant||jan 2020

stone and steel, sitting atop the massive brown roots that are its base and hiding place. It would be ridiculous to try and climb this masterpiece if the trees reached the clouds, the castle stretched to the Heavens. Yes, yes. It made perfect sense. The castle’s divine glory blinded him, but he trudged nevertheless. As he neared, his mind filled; still not void of the treacherous memories of his youth. One step, one step closer, closer. Screams crying for help. Fear runs through his blood when he hears gunshots. The man stops for a moment, lets himself breathe. In out, in, out. Carry on. He thought the grandeur and mystery of the castle pulled him forward, but no. It was the roots. The memories of making memories at this forsaken place. The man was tired of those memories that had faded with the years and so he began to climb. Higher and higher he looked out into the distance. To the north, his undefined path. To the east: people, his people. His village, his home, his new family. They sat on horses pulling wagons of axes and chainsaws, laughing and chatting merrily while bumping along the dirt. Pulling a small gun out of his pocket, he pulled the trigger. Up went the smoke, beautiful but suffocating.

It was early morning when he found the castle, it was noon when his village finally reached the base of the roots. Everyone able grabbed an axe or chainsaw and set to work. When you take a step back, when you listen, the chopping of roots can be similar to the sound of footsteps. Ominous and constant. Chop, chop, chop the axes went. Wagon load after wagon load filled past the brim, the villagers did not stop until the very last root. The man spoke: “Everyone, thank you so kindly for helping me with this personal project of mine,” he stepped up to the final root, raised his axe. At this moment, he remembered something. Fair, beautiful, angelic. These were words to describe his mother, who was sitting in a wooden rocking chair by the stone fireplace. Her weary bones constantly creaked as the chair swayed back and forth. It stopped momentarily for a young boy to leap onto her lap. The Sun was shining, leaking through the open windows, and the boy asked, “Mommy! Why can’t my friends come over to play? They want to see the castle!” his mother chuckled, holding him close. “I’m sorry, dear. But the roots protect this place, and your friends might not think that the wall of overgrown plants is very cool.” The young boy’s forehead crinkled and his bottom lip stuck outwards, “Do we have to have roots under the castle? Can we take them away?”

She laughed, “Of course not. The roots keep this castle standing. If we took away the roots, our home would fall apart. Would you like that?” raising an eyebrow at her son. He thought for a considerable amount of time, “Nah, I guess not.” His beautiful mother bounced him on her knees, as high as her weary bones would allow, “Remember, never forget your roots. They will always come and find you.” The door to the room was suddenly thrown open, men in black and red rushing in. They were yelling, shooting, destroying. He remembers his mother shouting to her son to RUN AWAY. But he couldn’t. His feet glued to the floor. His eyes quivering in their sockets. His mother dropping to the floor, bathed in red. He cried out, felt something large and hard hit his head, and everything went dark. His axe struck, again and again. Deeper and deeper into the last root. It broke, and so did the castle. His home, his sanctuary, his childhood playhouse, crumbling away. His village and him watched it break down. Comfort him all you like, but nothing will take away the unease growing in his stomach. That night was a rather peaceful night. The unease had shrunk, but not died. He slept nonetheless, a quiet and dreamless sleep. However, the coming morning was quite the contrary. . The screams were alive; they came out of his mind, out of his memories, and into reality. When the man woke, the screams were all he heard. He rushed out the front door. He could not get very far; the roots blocked his path. They were humongous, just like the ones from the castle. They were bundled and tangled together in a knot so dense that he could not see through.

The screams still pierced the . air, much louder now that he was outside. The man went back into his home, grabbed his axe from the wall from which it hung, and returned. Swing, swing, swing the axe went. His face red with panic, fear and adrenaline driving him. He struck one after another and watched them fall, just as he had watched his home break into a million pieces. He raised his axe and his mother’s face appeared in his mind. He brought it down, but the root would not be cut. He tried again and again; it refused to budge. This man, covered in sweat and frustration, tried one. Last. Time. He swung downwards with his eyes closed and heard something like glass shatter. When he opened them, not only was the root enveloped in glass fractures, but it was like the entire world was as well. Then things started to fall apart. Fragments of the sky fell like hail and everything in his sight followed. A large chunk of sky fell on him, and he fell into the dark. Pain. His head was on fire with pain, a pulsing pain that woke him instantly. He remembered nothing of his dreams, absolutely nothing. But he still had memories of his home in reality. It was an ordinary sight; all his possessions were in their places. He stayed in bed clutching his head until the fire burned out, then got on his feet and walked towards his axe. It was a grand old thing, still clean and new-looking, for he had not touched that axe in fifteen years. Next to it, a photograph of an anxious old man: his great-grandfather, who gave him the axe. He still remembered the stories his mother told him about his life, how his great-grandfather was believed to be eccentric, telling stories of living roots and old castles.

He grew to a ripe old age, still believing in his own stories. He feared “the roots would find him again,” whatever that meant. The man looking at his great-grandfather’s axe had not seen his family in quite a long time, he wondered who they were now and what they were doing. He decided, after a long pause, let’s go and visit them. His lips curled into a small smile. Opened the car door, closed it. He sped away, through new buildings and old, over green hills of grass. Past the ancient stone ruins and steel shards of what he assumed used to be a grand structure. Though he passed it quickly, he was able to get a glimpse at the thriving brown roots emerging from the ruins.

Remember, never forget your roots. They will always come and ﬁnd you. NGUYEN, 2019.

jan 2020||The penchant|28

celebrate both Chinese and American holidays. I have made some Chinese friends and some American friends. We got used to the surroundings and traditions here by merging both cultures into our life. Even though there are fewer familiar people around, less connections with others, and less lively streets, we are still what we are.

We are still what we are.

NGUYEN, 2019.

29|The penchant||jan 2020

THE SCENT OF CHINA

Every time I stop and chill, I become curious about what would happen if I did not come to the United States, to this country with the beautiful landscape and the rapidly changing technology. How would my life have been different? Six years ago, I was ignorant and was curious about this country, for I had never seen it before. “With advanced technology”, “the best country in the world”,”developed economy”...... All these labels made me feel a little lost. When I finally came here, I came to a small city near the countryside. There were no tall buildings or future technologies. The environment was not quite vivid or picturesque, but the sky was clear and blue. Although I came to the United States, China is everywhere in my life. China, which is also called “Hua Xia,” has a long history and an amazing culture. When you walk down the street in my hometown, you can see many people walking on the street. You can see the street food stands filled with Chinese food. You can smell the spices from the pots. You can see the children with sugar-coated hawthornes on a stick on the road. During festivals or parties, you can see the adults eating sunflower seeds and playing cards while chatting. When it is time to check out, the adults rush to pay the bill like hot cakes. Meanwhile, we kids, would just look at them and laugh. In the United States, our family still follows the tradition of giving red envelopes during the New Year, but the atmosphere is not the same. Although there are many Chinese restaurants in the Bay Area, I still have the desire for the Chinese street food back home. Here, we

by qingyi

PROSE

by qingyi

华夏的味道每当我静下来的时候，我都会想，如果当时我没有来到美国，来到这个山青水秀，科技日新月异的国家，那我的人生会变成什么样呢？六年前的我，懵懵懂懂，对这个从未见过的国家充满了好奇心。科技大国，世界第一，经济发达，这一个个标签让我感到了些迷茫。当我来到这里的时候，我发现我到了一个偏乡下的小城市里。这里并没有高楼大厦和未来科技。环境也算不上江山如画，但可以称得上是碧水蓝天。现在，虽然我来到了美国，但在我的生活里，中国无处不在。这个别称为华夏的国家，拥有着深厚的历史，和文化。当你走我家乡的那个小巷，你会看到街旁一个个忙碌的人们。你会看到那些摆着中华美食的地边摊，你会闻到那炉子里飘出的香味，你会看见路上拿着冰糖葫芦的小孩们。过节或者聚会的时候，你会看到大人们边吃着瓜子，边聊天。每当要付款时，大人们都会争先恐后的抢着付款。我们就在一旁看着这帮大人，一边笑，一边吐槽。在美国，我们家依旧遵守着过年给红包的习俗，但却没有了过年的味道。虽然湾区中餐馆很多，但我依旧渴望吃到中国街头的小吃。在这里，我们过着中国节，也过着美国的节日。我交了些中国朋友，也交了些美国朋友。我现在已经习惯了周围的一切，把两种不同的文化融在了一起。这里少了些人间烟火，少了些人情味，少了些热热闹闹的街头。可我依旧是我。

UPS AND

DOWNS by frederick zhang Life is a single path in an infinite cosmos. There are so many choices, yet you can only choose one path to follow. Everyone is different. Everyone has their own unique backstory. I’ve lived in Illinois, Idaho, and finally California, and have come here by luck and coincidence. If I chose differently, right now I would be in New York, living an entirely different life than the one I am right now. From meeting one person at one summer camp to living next door and talking to the person every day, the people I’ve met have all changed me—and for that, I am grateful. Many people I’ve met have all left: some are in international schools, some are homeschooled, and some are scattered throughout the United States. Although I’m no longer in contact with most of the people I’ve met, I appreciate our times together. Even if I don’t talk to some of my previous friends today, I still appreciate what we have done together. Thank you for being apart of my life. Thank you for shaping me into who I am.

Thank you for shaping me into who I am.

RAO, 2019.

jan 2020||The penchant|30

PROSE

THE PEOPLE AROUND US A new seedling reaches its branched arms towards the cotton-filled sky. Its pink buds sprouting into frail, red flowers, as though to extend a warm hand to the falling droplets of mist cascading over it. A moments touch seems like an eternity, as the small droplets wisp away never to meet the flower again. The flower watches as the droplets fly by with a gust of wind, a sense of longing pulling at its roots. The sapling is left behind, yearning for a path which will allow it to leave with the small globes of wonder. However, it never moves, and stays in its place, knowing that when the time is right, a drop will quench it’s longing. A single drop, will replace all the droplets before it. The ones that turned their back, and flew away without a moment's glance, will be forgotten once the destined one enters the scene. The unfilled crevices in the flower’s heart will be filled with the warmth of another. And so, the plant waits. Waits for someone to come along and fill it with love. And, soon enough, one drop chooses to stay. Nourishing the plant, caressing its buds, and helping it grow. With it comes many others, who choose to stay and help the plant grow. The limbs stretch out, curving

and twisting along the way, making an identity for itself. Its intricate curves differentiating it from the crowd of trees and plants around it. Without these drops of hope, the plant would not have been able to grow as strong and fast as it did. These droplets were what allowed the plant to grow and become a strong tree, overflowing with unique aspects that make up its personality as a whole. The tree carved its place in the soil, and leaves an impression on those who cross its way. Similar to the plant, the identity that radiates from a person, is built using the platform of the people around them. Many people have loved ones that they hold dear, which include both family and friends. This ideal picture takes time to embrace and build upon. At first, the person may not have anyone to lean on, because they have not built the needed relationships yet. With time, as the person continues to reach out their hands, soon enough, one person will choose to hold it. This new bond between them will strengthen, and build off of each other, helping each other grow. Over time, they will attract others who will stand beside them as well. Each person will create

TK, 2019.

their own identities, through the turmoils they go through together. The aspects that make them human, may sometimes clash with each other. Their distinctive personalities may cause some internal conflicts within the group. Some fights may end in heartbreak, while others, might end in a special bond. Some might give one aspect of life more importance, while others might disagree. Overcoming these challenges, and the person’s response to each adventure, defines each person’s characteristics and personality. Each person will continue to change as they meet new people with different perspectives and attributes. Through thick and thin, this group of friends will mature and face the difficulties the twisted road of life will bring their way, and together, they will engrave their mark on the world. Everyone will go down the road of life, and each individual’s character will depend on their own choices and experiences in their journey through life. Similarly, my journey through the world helped me grow into the person I am today. Throughout my life, I have met many people. Some were loyal and kind, and others held opposing views from my own. These mindsets showed me different perspectives on life, and helped me build my goals and beliefs. I understood that I need to reach for the stars, because only then can a star be born. I learned that I have trouble relating to people who have different opinions until I learned to see things from their point of view. The words others say, are only what I make them out to be. A negative remark can become positive, just as much as a positive

by ishika kolluru

Each individualâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s character will depend on their own choices and experiences in their journey

remark can become negative. Realizations like these allowed me to grow my character and self awareness. Building off of this idea, the people who are closest to me, my friends and family, have also made an important impact on my life. They taught me that the world is what I make of it. To some, it is a magical land that is meant to be explored and conquered, while others may believe it to be a black hole that sucks people in without any remorse. My view on the world, is a battle of ups and downs. Sometimes, life may be a perfect masterpiece filled with joy and happiness. However, other times, it can be a cracked mirror with a fake reflection. It is filled with a rollercoaster of emotions that can be built upon, and leave me stronger than before. Life is a challenge, that should be enjoyed and taken advantage of, because once time has passed, it will never come back. Without the people who have supported me throughout, and will always stand by me in the future as well, I would not be able to look at the world in such a beautiful way. They are the people who enforced me with armor that can battle the tidal waves which leave me cold and defenseless. They are the people who celebrate with me when a confetti cannon bursts in my face in the middle of a sunkissed room. With their help, I have become a strong person, with an identity made of steel. I am a joyful person who tries to see the positives in life. A person who is able to decide the battles worth fighting for. A person, who is able to recognize that the people most important to her, are the people who should always be given priority. A person who is strong enough to withstand all of the sand storms, hurricanes, and earthquakes life might throw at her. A person who is ready to stand her ground, and face the world.

through life.

jan 2020||The penchant|32

PROSE

WHEN THE UNDERDOG PREVAILS

NGUYEN, 2019.

by sumukh murthy 33|The penchant||jan 2020

The late 1800s saw tremendous excitement in Europe. Africa, that massive unexplored continent that had lain in the imaginations of millions of Europeans, was finally open for business. The past few decades had seen massive technological and medical breakthroughs that had made pushes into the interior of Africa possible. Malaria, a disease that used to be able to wipe out entire European parties, could be treated with quinine. The new Maxim machine gun could wipe out entire armies. Ironclad steamships could rapidly sail up rivers, allowing settlements to be founded well inland. These advancements enabled European powers to cut ever deeper into Africa, conquering native kingdoms as they went. In 1884, delegates from every major European nation met at Berlin to divvy up Africa. The European powers did not want wars to erupt over African colonies, so they preemptively split the continent among a dozen countries while giving no regard to existing African nations. Following this, the European powers initiated the “Scramble for Africa,”, during which every square inch of African soil was taken by some European nation. That is, except for Ethiopia. Ethiopia had been an

independent nation since the Roman times. It had been one of the first nations to adopt Christianity, and had its own national church. The Ethiopian Emperor claimed to be a direct descendant of the biblical King Solomon, and the “Solomonic Dynasty” had ruled the country for over a thousand years. The nation had a rich history which was influenced by trade with the mediterranean and islamic worlds, as well the highland environment of the country itself. In the late 1800s, Ethiopia was split between a number of feudal lords, all of whom respected the authority of the emperor. In 1889, the Ethiopian Emperor Menelik II signed the Treaty of Wuchale with Italy, which stated that Ethiopia was independent but gave Italy some border territories. However, the Italian and Amharic (the Ethiopian language) versions of the treaty differed significantly; the Italian version effectively made Ethiopia a protectorate state of Italy. Tensions began to heat up between the two nations as disagreements over the treaty and borders between the two countries intensified. Menelik II was no fool. He knew that the Europeans had well trained armies that wielded the latest in firearm technology. Knowing that he had to fight fire with fire, he went to have a chat and some vodka with the Russians. Menelik brought over Russian advisers to train his army, making them into a European-style fighting force. Russia also sold guns to Ethiopia, narrowing the technology gap between Ethiopia and Europe. Using the Treaty of Wuchale as a convenient excuse, the Italians declared war on Ethiopia in 1894. Italy’s aim was to conquer Ethiopia and add it to its growing empire, merging it with Italian Somaliland.

They quickly mobilized an army under General Oreste Baratieri to crush the Ethiopians. Baratieri’s army moved south from Asmara in Italian Somaliland, cutting deep into Ethiopian territory and winning multiple quick victories. Soon, however, a lack of supplies and some minor Ethiopian victories stalled the Italian advance. Still, the Italians were dangerously close to Ethiopia’s capital, Addis Ababa. Menelik knew that he needed to inflict a decisive defeat on the Italians in order to win the war. For that, he needed a large army. However, the units of the Ethiopian army were scattered throughout the country and were under the command of many regional lords. Some of these warlords had a personal dislike of Menelik, while others disliked like his policies. Menelik, recognizing the danger of a divided country, appealed to all Ethiopians to rise up, defend their homeland, and drive out the Italians. The regional lords, realizing the need to unite in the face of the common enemy, answered his call. Troops poured in from all seven regions of the country, amassing to over 80,000 men - six times the number of troops as the Italians. The Ethiopian forces moved north and met the Italians near the town of Adwa on March 1, 1896. The battle began in the morning, when three Italian brigades marched toward the Ethiopian positions. The three Italian divisions were intended to support each other, but were separated by the hilly terrain. The Ethiopians were fortified on hills, and their scouts brought word of the Italian advance. Hearing the news, Menelik ordered his troops forward, targeting one brigade at a time. Menelik’s forces set up their Russian-made field artillery atop the nearby hills and began to shell the

Italian troops. Next, they sent wave after wave of troops to batter the Italian positions. After two hours of withering fire, the Italians broke ranks and fled. The brigade commander was captured, and many fleeing Italian troops were gunned down or blasted apart by artillery. Next, the Ethiopians moved on to the second Italian brigade. The Ethiopians used a similar approach, utilizing repeated attacks by riflemen. After three hours of deadly fighting, Menelik released his reserve forces. The Italians once again broke ranks and fled, and were killed in massive numbers during the rout. The third Italian brigade commander received news of what had happened and attempted a retreat toward the friendly camp. However, on the way back, the Italians got trapped in a narrow gorge and were cut to pieces by Ethiopian cavalry that had pursued them. The surviving Italian troops mounted a hasty retreat from the area, and were harassed by Ethiopian troops all the way back to Asmara. All in all, the battle had been a tremendous Ethiopian victory, with the Ethiopians having 4,000 soldiers killed to the 9,000 Italians killed and captured. The battle resulted in a renegotiation of the Treaty of Wuchale and the recognition of Ethiopian independence by Italy and the rest of the world. Ethiopia had survived the Scramble for Africa. Roots are always worth preserving. Cultures, traditions, languages - all of these add a bit of flavor and uniqueness to the world and offer varying perspectives on the human experience. But throughout history, their preservation has never been guaranteed. Conquest has wiped many cultures off the map, destroying these unique and special ways of life. As Thucydides once aptly stated, “the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.” The Battle of Adwa is a fantastic example of the opposite. It is an example of when the

underdog prevailed, when colonizers were defeated, and when a culture was preserved. It was a moment that gave more diversity to the world we know today. That is what makes it important, even though it is just one of many monumental events in the great epic that is history.

As Thucydides once aptly stated, “the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.”

jan 2020||The penchant|34

POETRY Rich meaty flavor, warm and comfortable, The posterboy of Vietnamese culture. Pho was always loved and always welcome. But when the world was smaller and the days were longer, Pho’s relationship was one of secrecy and hushed voices, Never discussed, never mentioned, always suppressed Almost taboo. How could it flourish in a world so ignorant and obsessed with acceptance. There were not many Vietnamese. Shame. Time, however, changes all, So as the world grew larger and the days shorter, Pho’s taboo was gradually lifted, Maturing, breaking ignorance, blossoming. True acceptance. Pho was warm and comfortable and ready to be shared.

PHO by samuel vo

Shame. NGUYEN, 2019.

NGUYEN, 2019.

ROOTS by tiffany lee Gaze out at a starry night; The silver moon shining bright; Where one can wonder about their roots; Where one desires to find their truth; From grass to flowers to the tallest of trees; Each and every one bathed in moonlight; Deep in their roots, each one craves for light;

35|The penchant||jan 2020

As they reach down to survive the night; Each born from the tiniest seed; Take the richness of the past; And mold it to thee; Don’t crave for the light; That comes with the passing night; Reach with your roots; To find your stars of life; Reach even more;

To find your light; Wherever you go; Whomever you meet; Never, ever forget your roots; From the tiniest seed; To the tallest tree; There is no dispute; The greatest support; Is from your roots.

Cuando llegué me sorprendió La cultura era animada Y cada noche, los edificios se alzaban brillantemente

When I arrived I was surprised The culture was lively And every night, buildings stood brightly

Vi un coliseo Y fui a un museo Donde vi obras de arte Eso mostró mundos desmoronándose Y Saturno devorando un corazón

I saw a colosseum And went to a museum Where I saw works of art That showed worlds falling apart And Saturn devouring a heart

La gente era amable La deliciosa comida llenó mi vientre El país me dejó acomodado Y me enseñó a dar una oportunidad a nuevas experiencias

The people were friendly The delicious food filled my belly The country left me entranced And taught me to give new experiences a chance

Cuando llegué me sorprendió

UN VIAJE A ESPAÑA

I went to Spain Thinking it was a pain To see boring buildings and sights And do nothing at nights

by twisha kurlagunda

Fui a España pensando que era un dolor Ver edificios y lugares aburridos Y no hacer nada por las noches

NGUYEN, 2019.

POETRY

WHERE Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;M FROM I am from spice, rice, and vegetables that are diced. I am from the vast grass field, slippery from sprinklers and embarrassing for my pants. I am from the smell of musty pages, and the sound of silence. I am from the prickly lemon tree infused with honey water I am from the cracks in the sidewalk that the bruises on my knees know too well I'm from dumplings and red envelopes from Dramamine and plastic bags I'm from that same "can-do" spirit, the same silent laugh, the same big dreams that are never what they seem. In the drawers of my room lies albums of photos each linked to a memory often faint but always remembered I am from those momentsever so slightly fading but still bonding us together no matter how far we branch out.

NGUYEN, 2019.

by selina song 37

THE THREAD

Burnt, Tattered,

by vionna huang

Decayed But not yet

As I walk forward The thread behind me grows longer Its Origin not in sight. I turn and stare into the abyss Hoping for an answer How did I get here?

Broken.

As I look back At the tangled and frayed thread My interest piques. I realize the thread has Frayed Burnt, Tattered, Decayed But not yet Broken. As I walk back The thread running through my fingers The thread’s dents and burns bruise my hand. I dwell on a particular fray And hold it tight Willing it back together. As I look forward The fray illuminates and mends The thread glowing until it reaches Me. I feel the Light crawl up my body Rushing through my veins and arteries Changing Me.

But one

Here I am The Light has faded and the fray is gone And I am changed. I look down and see an unfamiliar body Clean and pure No longer hurt. But at what cost? Am I still me? Was it worth it? Who am I?

by james lee

must not forget the

It’s the beginning of summer, to stay in would be a bummer. Open your eyes, lie by the spring, Listen to the sounds of the little birds sing. Chirping, although infants, music to my ears, Something wonderful, delightful to hear. Now walk through the woods, through the evergreen trees, Look up to the right, a hive full of bees, Creating honey, substance of the gods, A sweet sticky liquid, enjoyed by all, Down to the left, a stream passes by, Scent of nature, a natural high, But then comes winter, the new feel of chill Moods begin to fall like wheels down a hill, A time of solitude in the journey of life, a time to face the inner turmoil and strife, but also a time to enjoy the misty holiday air, with snowflakes glistening and dissolving in your hair. Next comes the spring and flowers start to bloom, In with the cheer and out with winter’s gloom, But one must not forget the lessons of the cold, That will last them their lives, until they get old.

lessons of the cold NGUYEN, 2019.

THE SEASONS jan 2020||The penchant|38

PROSE

CHINESE by karl

XUE, 2019.

"Meng Yoo?" You inwardly cringe, feeling the eyes of your classmates drill themselves into your back like screws. There's no way you can quarrel with your teacher about the right pronunciation of your name; heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll only dismiss you with a slight flick of his wrist or a fleeting glance at you. You sink deeper into your seat, wishing you could melt into the ground and disappear. Accepting defeat, all you can reply with is "Here," with broken English and your heavy Chinese accent. Classmates around you snicker, even though it's been the nth time that the teacher has mispronounced your name. You hide your head in your arms as whispers and giggles pass through your ears. The teacher has seemed to start class, but you aren't paying attention in the slightest. Heck, you can't even understand him for that matter. Ever since you moved from China at the age of five due to your parents' jobs, your life has taken a one-eighty down to Hell. You can't understand a thing - not even a word your teacher or your classmates say. You can't understand basic English, though it's been your fourth year at this elementary school.

There are no Chinese translators at this school, so whenever your teachers assign group work or classwork, it takes you nearly two minutes to even begin to figure out what's going on.

I hate being Chinese.

Your slowness gets teased by your classmates, who mock you for your name and the way you speak. You go home that day with a heavy heart, taking off your shoes before you enter the house. The first thing you smell is your mother's excellent cooking: Mapo tofu and bok choy. The first thing you hear is the shuffling of your mother's sandals as she greets you at the door with a big smile etched across her face. LAKHMANI, 2019.

"Welcome home," she says in fluent Chinese, "how was school?" Your mouth opens and the words tumble out of your mouth like a torrent. "I want to change my name," you reply in the same language. "I don't like it. I want an English name." "I don't care." Your mother looks startled; her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as she stares at you as if you've gone insane. "But Ming Yue," she bends down to your level, her eyes softening, "your name holds a beautiful meaning. Why would you want to get rid of it?" You clench your fists, the laughter of your classmates from early on replaying over and over again in your mind. Your mother frowns, creases forming at the edge of her lips. "No English name can ever replace yours. Your name stands for moonlight and the moon; you shouldn't be ashamed of it." But you hate it still. You hate how you're the only Asian in your class, hate how you can't speak English, hate how people pronounce your name, hate how you can't be normal. You look at your mother and dare to say for the first time in your life, the words that bring your world crumbling down around you. "I hate being Chinese."

FEATURED

TK, 2019.

It's middle school â&#x20AC;&#x201D; everything changes, from your school to your schedule to your classes. It's a fresh start to a new year of school. But, what bugs you the most are your classmates from elementary school. They move to the same middle school as you, so the tormenting will never cease. This year, you have glasses, and always - always - a pocket-sized English dictionary by your side. You've been studying over the past summers to excel in speaking and reading English fluently. Needless to say, all that work paid off now that you can understand most dialogue spoken amongst your peers. "What you got there?" You look up from the lunch table, rubbing the lenses of your glasses with your sleeves to rid of the steam caused by your hot lunch. There's a boy standing next to your desolate table, peering over your lunch bag to obtain a view of your lunch.

"It's cha xiu bao." You're pleased that your words come out with the right phonics, your Chinese accent now denser. "And those?" He points to your utensil. "Chopsticks...?" The boy bursts into laughter, though you don't find anything funny in this situation. "Is there something wrong?" You ask, hoping he can explain it to you. "That's so lame!" he chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. "Those glasses and those chopsticks are lame!" Your heart falls heavy into your stomach, your eyes falling to the buns inside your lunch container. "Why use chopsticks when you can be a normal person and use forks and spoons? Or your hands? And is your eyesight terrible? 'Cus, your glasses are so big and wide!" You have the sudden urge to slap the wretched smirk off his face, anger swelling inside you as he

KARL

continues embarrassing you. At this point, he has drawn unnecessary attention from others standing in the sidelines. They start whispering - fingers point, giggles ensue while they all stare at you, the abnormal child in junior high. That evening, when you return home, you bring back store-bought contacts. You then say to your mother: "Please pack me a fork or a spoon for lunch." Your mother's shoulder sags. She turns around without a word, her posture bent and fatigue settling upon her shoulders. You're glad she doesn't ask why, nor what happened at school today. Ascending the flight of stairs, into the bathroom, you shut the door behind you. With a shaky breath, you remove your glasses and stare at yourself in the mirror. Pale face, squinty eyes, acne, and dark hair. Your hands grip the edge of the sink tightly as your eyes land on the contacts you bought three days prior. You hadn't been sure when to use it or not, but after today, the sudden urge to transform yourself surges within you. Steadily, you place the corresponding lenses into your eyes, squeezing them shut for several seconds. When you open them, everything is clear and sharp. From the mirror, you can see that your eyes have widened significantly. Yet, it was not enough. Out of your peripheral vision, you catch a glimpse of your mother's make-up kit from work. Your eyes light up, and you pour out its contents, hoping to find tools to help you remake yourself. After an hour later, you're finished. Your acne is gone, covered by the foundation powder; your eyes are wider and bolder, in courtesy of the mascara you applied. There's now a new you in the mirror. A new face, a new person. jan 2020||The penchant|40

PROSE You crack a smile, the corner of your lips pulling upward in a slight twitch. Perhaps your classmates will appreciate the changes you have made to yourself. Maybe they'll accept you as one of them now that you look more like them. Maybe you will be able to walk through the halls with your head held high instead of hunched like an ogre. However, there is still something bothering you - a thought prodding at the back of your mind. It had been easy enough to change your physical features, but… Your Chinese origin will stay with you for your entire life. No matter what you do, how much you try covering it up, you will always have small eyes. No matter what you do, you will still have to eat the Asian food your mother packs you despite your protests. No matter what you do, what you try to change, all your classmates will laugh at you for being Asian. Doubt creeps along the edges of your mind, consuming all the confidence you'd had for the past few minutes. Your smile drops to a frown when you take a last look at yourself in the mirror, and you walk out without bothering to take another glance at yourself. frown when you take a last look at yourself in the mirror, and you walk out without bothering to take another glance at yourself. ~ You walk through the halls with your head tipped low, your eyes staring at your feet as you trudge along the corridors. You don't want to go to school today, don't want to face the judgmental looks of your peers, don't want to suffer another day at this wretched hellhole. You pass by a set of lockers, and your ears accidentally pick up some dialogue from the group against those lockers. "Her eyes..." one snickers, trying to keep their voice low. "Those weird... utensils," another adds, laughing along. You stop in the middle of the flow of people in the hallways, your head turned slightly to see what's happening.

"Oh, oh," the third adds, "her eyes are like this." They pull the corners of their eyes up so that their eyes narrow. "Squinty eyes," the first one snorts, creating laughter between the other two. "And, oh my god, her accent!" More chortling. "Ching chong, ching chong," they mock, barely able to contain the hysteria bubbling within them. Your jaw clenches, and you walk hastily down the hall to your first class, trying to block out their voices from your head. You hate being Asian. You hate being Chinese. You hate the way you eat, with chopsticks and dumplings, hate how your English isn't perfect, hate how you can't fit into society. You hate yourself. ~

It’s okay…

~ It's high school, and most of your classmates have transferred to different places, much to your relief. But, you're still paranoid over how your new ones will treat you. You wonder if you will be mocked yet again for your identity, for how you act or talk or walk. You sit by yourself at a rustic lunch table once more, opening your lunch bag. Your mother has given up on giving you any Chinese food due to your protesting. You grab your sandwich and prepare to take a bite out of it. "Hey, can I join you?"

NGUYEN, 2019.

You're startled, almost dropping the sandwich. You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose, squinting at the person in front of you. Standing at the edge of a table isn't one of your classmates from before, but a person with the same skin tone as you, with the same hair color, with the same type of eyes. You hesitantly look down upon it. "Are you allergic to dumplings?" You shake your head. "Don't you eat Chinese food?" You open your mouth, then close it, the words stuck at the back of your throat. "I-" The boy looks at you with apprehension, sending anxiety crawling down your spine. "I just haven't eaten it in a while," you say in barely a whisper. "If you don't mind me asking, why?" You rub the back of your neck, averting your eyes. "No one at my school liked it, that's all..." "Because no one at your school was Asian?" You're shocked at how he'd comprehended this in such a short period of time. "Well, it's okay now," he flashes you a grin, "you'll feel more comfortable here!" "What do you mean-" With a holler, the boy calls his friends over to the lunch table. They are all Asian, their physical features similar to yours. Your heart jumps to your throat when you see that one of them has round glasses as you do. "What's your name?" you asked, having forgotten to ask for it earlier. "Eric," he states, "And yours?" "Ming Yue..." "That's a lovely name!" You flush in embarrassment; no one besides your parents have ever complimented you on your name before.

As Eric's friends pile in, they all have similar utensils and Chinese food. Chopsticks, once shamed upon by your classmates, now rest again in your hands while you take a spring roll when offered.

ZHAO, 2019.

You feel at ease when they talk and laugh, like you're meant to be here, like you're you again. You realize: It's okay to eat Asian food. It's okay to have round, wide glasses. It's okay to have small eyes. It's okay to have pale skin. It's okay to use chopsticks when eating. It's okay to have an accent. It's okay... to be Chinese. jan 2020||The penchant|42

PROSE

GUNASEKAR, 2019.

well. Imagine that you could go back and change one thing in your past. What moment would you go to and what would happen because of the butterfly effect? I would not want to change what I have become by altering where I am if for no reason other than to say, “I have run the race and finished well.” If your wish is to lessen a point in your life where trauma and hardships made life unbearable then you would be missing the lesson that watered and weathered the moments of what you are here to learn. The people we play and fight with are the people we share our being with until the day we die. By changing your past you alter the makeup of everyone you know. Would you want to do that? The ones you love may turn into the people you fear. That crash into a tree may become the tree that was hit by another car to hurt someone else.

Sometimes we ask for what we do not understand in hopes it will change where we are. If I go back to the past and change any root of my past, no matter how small it may be, then I would not be where I am today. There are regrets, there are roots in the past that have hurt me deeply, but I have learnt something from them. It made me stronger, though the lessons were harsh. But that’s okay. Everything happens for a reason. So the option of changing the past is ruled out for me. Just learn, accept and move on! My roots have defined me and no matter how troublesome those experiences were, I would not want it any other way. A tree's beauty lies in its branches, but its strength lies in its roots.

A tree’s

by luc pham

ACCEPTING YOUR ROOTS

I have run the race and ﬁnished

beauty lies in its branches, but its strength lies in its roots.

DRIFTING

his fur had lost luster over the years but his eyes had not… Relative to the vast ocean, the shell is a speck of nothing, yet it houses the sound of everything, reminding her of the constant flow of time. The tides never cease, and the clock never surrenders. She lowers the shell from her ear, but still hears the echoes of her past resound with the waves that splash against a water-worn cliff. The world has its own story, too. --Winter. Rain pounds down and her feet slap the sidewalk, splashing muddy droplets everywhere. Wind is tearing through her hair and she knows it’s a bad idea to be sprinting in the rain but she does it anyway, eyes on the grey tail that rounds the corner ahead of her. It’s only her fault when her shoe catches on a large, slick leaf and she lurches back, tailbone painfully striking the ground. Dumb leaves. Or maybe she’s the dumb one here. She forgets why she was running. Ah, yes—she had spotted a cat outside the window, its slanted eyes staring back into her soul like it knew she wanted to follow. But the cat is now long gone. She dusts off her pants and stands up, but pauses when she sees the leaf that had been her downfall; a shade of vibrant red-orange, so far into its lifespan, desperately clinging to the end of its time. Yellow veins section off its blade-like streams of lava. She looks up and notes that the nearest tree the leaf could belong to is houses away. The leaf seems to droop in mutual misery. So many leaves, all growing together from bud to maturity. But in the end, each is separated from the rest of them, to fend for themselves and to get a chance to spread their roots where they land.

by kay krachenfels

Summer. Whooshhhhh, the waves whisper, lapping at her feet and caressing her toes before receding back, leaving the sand glossy and smooth. She stomps her right foot forcefully into the sand, breaking the watery seal over it and watching tiny foamy bubbles fill the imprint. Another swell brings bigger waves, but she stands unfazed as the water gushes around her and splashes salty droplets that stay on her ankles. And the ocean pulls back again and again, moon commanding the tides as they rise and fall, ebb and flow, on and on. The girl feels a poke at the side of her left foot and glances down, eyes widening in surprise. The sea has left behind a beautiful shell, one that made it to shore relatively unscathed. Despite being slightly chipped, layers of ridges and stripes of colors spiral into a perfect peak, and the inside of the shell is a creamy shade of red ochre. She stoops to pick it up, rinsing the sand out with the next surge of salty water, before peering inside and carefully checking for any creatures that might still be using the shell as their home. It’s empty. The shell is a solid weight in her hand, and she brings it to her ear, listening to the sound of the ocean even though she can already hear it all around her. Up close though, it’s somehow simultaneously loud and roaring as well as peaceful and calming. It brings back memories, memories long forgotten but also not, buried in her to be carrier forever… … her parents, pushing and pulling like the waves but only meaning their best… … her brother, hyper and loud, but still bringing energy and spirit to others like a whirling current of excitement… … the neighbor’s dog, how he had eagerly poked his snout through the fence boards day after day, how

KIATSUPAIBUL, 2019.

It kind of reminds her of humans, in a way. Nurtured when young, but later sent out in the open. Where does the wind blow their futures? Where do they wash ashore? But for now, it’s time to… Drift.

PROSE One after one, they disappeared beyond sight. Each a path to follow, eventually reaching an end. For some, paths may cross, leading them to another path altogether. Unified, they move together, with their roots ever entangled. Many move on from the past as if such does not exist. Others never have their roots planted, unsure of their possible future. Swayed by society, unable to choose their own path. Legends say that within each person lies the soul of a seed, whether it be flourishing with flowers or withering slowly. Unbeknownst to humans, not a single eye catches it. Had they known earlier, perhaps the fall of the future would have come later… A searing pain pierced her right leg. The cloud of darkness sprang from her foot, snaking its way up her leg. Growing larger by the minute, it throbbed with a rapid pulse. A scream coming from a young blonde girl erupted from the set. Others held their silence as they watched her writhe in unbearable pain. Minutes later, they all let out a breath of relief and applauded her for the convincing act. Turning off the lights, they prepared to leave since their work was done for the day. Still, the girl laid on the ground, unable to get up. Worriedly, a tall boy rushed up to her, shoving past all the stage crew from behind the shadows. With blurred vision, she watched a blob of brown nearing her, coming closer and closer by the second. Then, all she found was darkness.

Lost and wandering, she curled up in fear of the unknown

Waking up to a strange smell and a blinding light from the windows, Aspen looked around, confused. The loud honks from the heavy traffic shook the room, rousing up all the patients. In a sickly-smelling dress, she tried to prop herself up, grimacing as she realized that her foot was on a sling. Of course. It wasn’t because of her talented acting that she had shown such raw emotion in the scene; it was real. There she stayed, unable to move for days. The brown-haired boy returned each day. Flowers. Cards. Chocolate. All these items others would receive but not Aspen. The presence of Ever, the boy, would suffice. She stared at the window for hours, longing for something, anything that would distract her from the misery and cold darkness of the hospital. Eventually, she was released. Still, she couldn’t go to work, as it would affect the on-screen experience if she were to wear a cast. Production would be too expensive to wait out for her injury or hire editors to hide it; thus, she was replaced. Filming had not started for very long, and it was the quickest, cheapest solution. Easily, another blondie could walk in and take her job, a flower cultivated for her looks and money. Not that this was new, for it was not difficult to find someone of equivalent acting skill, if not better. Prepped by her parents, Aspen had many back-up plans for her career: voice acting, script-writing, photography, and more. Many options that were carefully planned lay before her, yet none of them held any amount of interest. One, although dangerously appealing, was almost not even an option, for it was rumored to cause great damage to one’s reputation.

future

GUPTA, 2019.

45|The penchant||jan 2020

Even so, it was all that filled her mind. After days upon days of reflection, it was decided: she would go on an indefinite hiatus. Even before her career took off, she was slowing down. Day by day, her schedule was cleared until there was nothing to look forward to. Sleepless nights passed, where she spent hours questioning her decision over and over again. Ever visited her from time to time and took her around town, one of the few activities that forced her to track time. Months flew by and money was running low. Despite her leg having been recovered, she still stayed away from work. She avoided all talk of her current situation, hoping desperately for a solution, any that would work. Slowly inside herself, her happiness started to shrivel. For most of her life, striving to become the best was her main goal, enforced by her parents and peers. Impossible expectations surrounded her, forcing her to alter herself to fit into these standards. Everything that she had done was to work towards this goal, and she had known nothing but it. With each standard, Aspen lost fragments of herself until she could no longer piece herself together. After taking her driving force away, she no longer had a purpose in this world. Lost and wandering, she curled up in fear of the unknown future, one where nothing could be found except fear itself. The self-destructing poison grew and grew, feeding on her uncertainty. It wrapped itself around her heart, destroying any hope that should dare confront it. Coiling itself around every corner, it left traces within each crevice. The once-flourishing young soul began to wither, turning her heart into a dark, withered wasteland, and it was only a matter of time before it died. But as time passes, seasons bring change.

One autumn afternoon, Ever met up with Aspen at the park. With leaves whirling around them, they strolled past an owner walking their dog. Past a mom watching her child. Past a group of students eagerly discussing their scores on the latest test. Past the life that she once had. They stopped at a chestnut-colored bench. Brushing off a red leaf, they sat, staring in wonder at the change that autumn brought to the world around them. Gazing off into the distance, Ever suddenly spoke, “You realize that eventually, you’ll have to return back to this world, right Ash?” Hiding herself in the warmth of her scarf, she responded with nothing but silence. For minutes, they sat in utter quietude, listening to the rustling of leaves.

“What is there to go back to?” she whispered softly. A yellow leaf fell slowly into her hand as she shivered from the cold breeze. She picked it off and flicked it, allowing it to rejoin the other leaves that were floating wind. “Without work, I have nothing. All this time has passed, and I still can’t find any motivation to do anything. What in this life do I enjoy anymore?” Glancing at her sadly, Ever shook his head. “Let things go. Start over. Maybe this time, you’ll be more successful than me,” he puffed out his chest haughtily. Slapping his arm, Aspen laughed loudly, causing a great deal of commotion. Strangers passing by stopped momentarily to stare at the ongoing disturbance and continued on their way after scrutinizing the young teens. Ever watched as Aspen’s face reddened from the attention, simply shrugging at her when she glared at him. Quieting down, she smiled at him in a bittersweet manner, “Ever G. Reen, ever so intriguing.”

Despite being comforted by Ever, Aspen still had her doubts. Fear still lived within her and would always be present within her; however, fear can be controlled. Over time, the remaining seeds of hope bloomed once more, thriving against the once-powerful fear. “Time heals you, little one. With time, you may find yourself once more. With time, flowers blossom. Wait for the passing winter, spring is yet to arrive. Do not fear change, and anticipate fall,” the middle aged woman murmured. The young boy sitting beside her widened his eyes in wonder at the story, unable to take his eyes off the woman. Patiently, he waited for the story to continue, but she just shook her head and got up. Gradually, he felt himself fall into a deep slumber, dreaming of a green essence burning with a human’s inner core. Years later, as the rain poured, the same boy solemnly stood under a black umbrella. “May you find your place in the world at last, A. K. Amaryllis,” he whispered into the wind. Autumn had come again.

Do not fear change, and anticipate fall

FALL OF

THE FUTURE WANG, 2019.

by isabel lai 46

PROSE

FLOATING WITHOUT ROOTS I sighed and rested my head against the dusty window of the old taxi. Majestic skyscrapers stood tall and complimented the lovely, blue sky outside. Bright beams of light shone on the cheerful sidewalks as the people hummed to the busy tune of the city. The lively vibes of the city buzzed through my body and sent excitement down my spine. Just watching the view made the edges of my mouth curl, and I almost forgot about the nasty taxi with the slimy seats and sickening stench. An hour later, I finally arrived at my new apartment. Oddly, the fresh, teal paint on the plastered walls reminded me of our old home. Memories of our old terracotta walls flooded my head. The walls were filled with scribbles of unicorns, flowers, buildings, and so much more. My sister’s colorful drawings of our family were taped crookedly on every single wall, and Mom would embroider her silly drawings into elegant designs to hang around our house. I closed my eyes and smiled. I could almost smell the humid air of our house, and how it always fit with Mom’s signature cherry blossom perfume. I could see my sister’s curly, black hair and her goofy smile. The way her eyes sparkled upon hearing my stories and Mom’s soft and passionate expressions.The sweet memories warmed my heart and I craved to see them again. I craved Mom’s affection and my sister’s radiant nature. But when I opened my eyes, it was all gone. Instead, I was standing at the door frame of my empty apartment.

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by harshana jawahar

GUPTA, 2019.

GIANT STAR by pink pony Leben Park. Not exactly a park, more of a downscaled forest. Nonetheless, it is the setting of countless childhood memories. From playing hide-and-go tag to building a treehouse with my best friend. It was such a wonderful place. It was such a wonderful place! How did this happen? Rustle. Rustle. Crunch. Crunch. “Esther, what’s going on?... Esther?... Esther, where are you?... Esther, this isn’t funny. Just tell me where you are!” I hear my mom calling my name, but I don’t respond. Why? It just doesn’t feel right. I feel like it’s her fault that I lost my whole childhood. “Esther! Honey, I know you’re here! Just tell me where you are! Esther-” I lean back against the last tree and close my eyes, ignoring the world around me. I feel a rush of tranquility flow through my veins, like water flowing through one of a plant. And in that still serenity, I see my younger self. “Mommy! Just let me play for five minutes!” I screamed at my mom, while simultaneously tightening my pigtails. “Alright honey, but I’m going home now. You’re coming home with Auntie Dena, alright?” my mom responded as my younger brother was tugging at her pale yellow dress.

Leben Park. Not exactly a park, more of a downscaled forest.

I shook my head and proceeded to look for my best friend, Cyrus. I stomped through the maze of trees in my marigold Crocs. I pretended to be clueless, but I was the queen of hide- and-go tag. I hid behind a tree and slowly took off my Crocs. Then I carefully climbed up the ladder of The Giant Star, Cyrus, and my treehouse. I could see wisps of curly blonde hair poking up from Cyrus’s head, which was leaned against the window. I crept through the entrance and pounced on Cyrus. “Tag! You’re it,” I giggled as I ran away from the treehouse. I looked back expecting to see my best friend’s angry face right behind me. But he was nowhere to be found. “Cyrus? Are you coming?” No response. “Cyrus? I tagged you. You have to come to chase me now” No response. “Cyrus?” I said as I rushed back into The Giant Star. I ran up to see Cyrus still laying against the window. I jostle him wondering if he is asleep. No response. Then a sudden worry rushes through me. I place my hand over his head. Cold as ice. “AUNTIE DENA!” I screamed with streams of tears running down my hot cheeks. I frantically hurried to pull Cyrus up. I quickly managed to get one of his arms over my shoulder and I dragged him out of The Giant Star. As I began to attempt to pick his legs up, Auntie Dena was standing right in front of me. I looked up to see her peach face frozen. She looked at me and quickly took Cyrus from my arms. She wrapped him around her body and climbed down the ladder. I followed right behind her, remembering my mother’s orders. We ran out of Leben Park and Auntie Dena searched her pocket for her phone. Nothing. “Auntie! What are you waiting for? We have to run to the

hospital!” I exclaimed, not understanding the concept of calling for an ambulance. Auntie Dena glanced at my burning face and said,” Essie, you have to go home. I can’t take you to the hospital with me. I know you’re worried about-” I grabbed Auntie’s arm and pulled her towards the hospital. She stopped talking and tightened her grip on my arm. Together, we ran to the hospital. The three of us. Auntie Dena carrying Cyrus in one arm and holding onto my arm with her other hand. I felt as if the three of us were flying at lightspeed. That we were being carried by the wind. The scent of pine lingered through the path. Everything was a dream. And it soon ended when I heard the blaring of sirens and the flashing of red lights. I loosened my grip and let Auntie Dena lead the way. The three of us ran into the ER and the nurses looked at us with confusion. “Please take a number and we’ll help you as soon as we can,” one of the nurses immediately said as we ran up to her. “No!” Auntie screamed. “ My son is unconscious. He needs to go in right now!” An ER nurse immediately ran out and put Cyrus in a wheelchair. They started running into the hospital. Auntie Dena still had a firm grip on my arm. We followed the nurse until she laid Cyrus on a bed. She plugged him into a machine and started checking his heartbeat when someone yelled at me. “Hey! What are you doing here? Who let you in?” an angry nurse questioned. Auntie Dena’s shaky voice responded with, “ She’s my daughter and her brother is in this room. So she is allowed to be in here. Please leave us alone as we are facing a serious issue right now.” I looked up at Aunt Dena, thinking,” She just lied. I’m not her

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PROSE daughter and I’m definitely not Cyrus’s sister.” She gave me a look telling me not to say anything, but sooner than I realized, I was being dragged into the lobby of the ER. Auntie Dena loosened her grip and turned her focus to Cyrus’s heart. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. I suddenly woke up realizing I was sitting in the lobby of the hotel. Auntie Dena was sitting next to me, patting my head. “Cyrus is going to be okay,” she said to me with a warm, glowing smile. “You’re mom is on her way to pick you up.” I silently shook my head and reached down to put my marigold Crocs on. But as I reached down, I realized that in all the rush, I had left them in the park. So I stood up and walked out the door to see my mom rushing in. She grabbed my wrist and ran to Auntie Dena. And that was the end of that adventure. Eleven years passed and it was the day before we were going to college. Unfortunately, we were not going to the same college. So, we both knew that this could possibly be the last time we would be together for a while. Cyrus and I decided to meet at the Giant Star at 6:00 A.M. I knew how particular Cyrus was about making plans and sticking to a strict schedule, so I decided to try to make it to the treehouse on time. As I climbed up the ladder, I checked my watch and noticed I was just on time. “Hmmm… and you are officially 15 seconds late,” Cyrus remarked with a smug look. I grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at his face. He got up and the next thing I knew, we were having a pillow fight. “Alright, alright. Let’s get to the schedule. First, we need to decorate this place. After all, we are going to be staying here for the next twenty-four hours. So we better make it look the best possible,” Cyrus explained as he pulled out a blueprint from his backpack and taped it to the wall. “I got you,” I said and ran out of the treehouse to pull up my luggage. A couple of summers previous to this one, Cyrus and I were enrolled in an engineering summer camp, which we both found interesting. So we collaborated and made a pulley system for the treehouse. I used that pulley system to bring up my luggage. Slowly,

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but surely, I was able to bring up my two suitcases pre-packed with decorations. Once they were brought up to the treehouse’s platform, I dragged them inside to find Cyrus starting to decorate the common room. “What is that? Are those your suitcases for college? Have you not packed yet? Did you put off your packing to bring decorations here? Are these the things you are taking to college? What-” I placed my hand over Cyrus’s mouth and mouthed the words, “Calm down.” Then I slowly grabbed Cyrus’s shoulders and gave him a firm look. He stared back at me, ready to listen to what I have to say. But I just let go. I couldn’t muster up the courage to say it. Regrets. I unpacked my suitcase and we started decorating The Giant Star. By the time we finished, it looked like we just flew to the North Pole. We decorated the whole treehouse with a Christmas theme to celebrate how much Cyrus and I both love the holidays. “I think we’ve outdone ourselves,” I smirked while putting the finishing touches on the room. “Agreed,” Cyrus replied while plopping himself on the couch. “It’s time to watch the best Christmas movie to exist, Home Alone!”

GUPTA, 2019.

Thank you, Leben Park. Thank you for letting us ﬁnd our Giant Star. We spent the rest of the morning watching movies and filling our bodies with sugary snacks. We had numerous laughs and several heartfelt moments, but I still could not muster up the courage to reveal my truth to my dearest companion. I was desperate to find the right moment. The moment when everything around us would disappear and nothing in the world matters. I decided it would be better to just go with the flow and the moment will come when it comes. I need to reach that moment. I desperately… I just need to tell him… but it’s not the right time… but what if the right time never comes… what if I never know and I never tell him… he never learns that“Essie. Wear this blindfold and hold my hand. And don’t ask any questions. I have a surprise planned.” I obeyed his words without any questions and grabbed the blindfold. He grabbed my hand and led me down the ladder of The Giant Star. When we reached the bottom of the ladder, Cyrus said, “ Alright, Take it off!” My eyes were blinded by the flashing lights wrapped around the trunk of each tree. The ground was intricately scattered with snow, which was quite ironic considering it was still summer. “What is this?” I asked, extremely confused. “This is hide-and-go tag, but Christmas version. Everything is

Christmas theme and there is a surprise at the end.” “Cyrus, I appreciate your efforts but I really don’t want to-” But before I could finish my sentence, Cyrus had run off and officially started the game. I decided to just go along with it and started counting. By the time I reached 30, I decided that I would just end the game immediately and go to his hiding spot. So, I proceeded to run the corner and climb up the ladder. But as I walked into The Giant Star, Cyrus was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, my heart rate increased. Thump. Thump. Thumpety- Thump. I felt my face heating up and I frantically ran out of the Giant Star and raced down the ladder. “Cyrus! Cyrus! Where are you?!” As I ran through the labyrinth of trees, one thought kept crossing my mind. The thought that made my heart beat faster each time and made my face keep increasing in temperature. The thought kept crossing my mind that it eventually stayed there. I was scared that Cyrus had passed out again. “Oh! Thank goodness you’re okay!” I exclaimed as I ran up to Cyrus, who was hiding behind a log. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Cyrus signaled for me to sit next to him. I turned around and laid my head on the log. And at that moment, the whole world seemed to freeze. I had found the moment I was longing for. But I didn’t say anything. Cyrus and

I sat in silence, staring at the little jewels in the sky. Serenity. A warm ray of sunshine kissed my skin and awoke me from my slumber. I rolled on my side and opened my eyes to see Cyrus fast asleep. I stood up and stood on a large stone, which was located in the middle of a clearing of trees. I started spinning around but stopped when I saw Cyrus awake and smiling at me. But before he could say anything, I faced my back to him and spoke my truth,” I’m sorry. The day you got a concussion was probably the worst day of your life. Which means I am the creator of your misery. When I walked into the Giant Star, I had planned to scare you by poking a stick at your back. But when I saw that your eyes were closed, my mind panicked and thought you were hurt. What you don’t know is that you were actually sleeping. You were sleeping and opened your eyes when I was in front of you. But I got scared, so I grabbed the log and hit you with it. I was dumb and thought that would wake you up from your nap. But it actually put you into a longer one.” “Essie, you made one of the best memories I have. Memories are more important than anything physical. Remember that.” “Essie…” “Essie…” “Essie…” My name is ringing in my ears. But not in the annoying way my mom is calling out. In a musical form. I slowly open my eyes and place my hand on the tree. However, it was soft and warm. I took a big breath of air and I smelled a familiar scent. Nostalgia? No, reunion. Cyrus. My one and only companion is sitting next to me. Smiling from ear to ear. “Are you awake yet, princess?” he asked jokingly. I nod my head and whisper, ”yea.” Here we laugh, back at the root of our friendship. Although it may physically be ruined, it is still there in metaphor. Cyrus puts a small carnation in my hand. I look at him. “Thank you, Leben Park. Thank you for letting us find our Giant Star.”

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PROSE

ISLAMIC CULTURE: THE KEY TO MY LIFE

MOHAMMAD, 2019.

Culture defines everyone. Every human has a distinct connection to a distinct culture. Culture varies in many ways: different cultures have different rituals, beliefs, and origins. Each culture has an effect upon an individual’s behavior and personality, and this effect resonates with the individual for the rest of their life. Islam is the fastest growing religion across the world, and I am proud of being a Muslim. Islamic culture has many variations in several countries, but the most fundamental characteristics of Islamic culture are omnipresent. Islamic culture is what I define as my origin–my roots–and these roots have shaped the growth of my personality and beliefs throughout my life in a myriad of ways. The seed of Islam was planted within me at birth, but the seed began to fuel my Islamic growth when I was five years old. I began to learn how to read and comprehend Arabic, which would allow me to continue my studies

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of the Quran. The Quran is recited in various tones, and the diverse styles of reciting the Quran appealed to me from a very young age. I attempted in many instances to emulate famous reciters to master my Arabic. Once I mastered the Arabic language, I gained access to an almost indefinite library of Islamic texts that have recorded the words of great Islamic leaders and outline Islamic cultural rituals and beliefs. I was able to access all of these documents, and after an insightful analysis of Islamic history and practices, I learned how to integrate Islamic culture into my everyday life. Praying five times a day, reading the Quran on a daily basis, and following proper Islamic etiquette with my family and friends, whether they are outside of my Muslim community or not, has become the norm for me. The extensive assimilation of Islamic practices throughout my life has comprehensively constructed a deep connection between me and my

religion. Every prayer that I perform reminds me of various facets of my religion and culture, allowing me to reflect upon the intriguing elements of my religion that I wish to explore. Constant repetition of these Islamic rituals and practices has generated my interest in Islamic eschatology, theology regarding the ultimate destination of the soul and the final events that will occur on the Earth. My studies in Islamic eschatology are not very extensive, but I have been studying this concept since I was in sixth grade. When I was in sixth grade, I knew about the Islamic belief of the Day of Judgement and the trials and tribulations that all of humanity will face, all of which will test the faith of individuals. At the time, I was afraid of both the concept of death and the Day of Judgement because of the mysteries lying behind each of these concepts. I was afraid that I would lose my family, friends, and loved ones forever, and the world would eventually forget about my existence. Pondering the vast expanse of time made me feel even worse because I knew that I would also be lost in the sands of time, just as the billions of people who died before and during my lifetime did. During sixth grade, I dug deeper into my fears and conducted research on eschatology. I delved into a sea of information regarding certain figures that would appear during the end times,

by zeeshan patel

PUNGALIYA, 2019.

Every human has a distinct connection to a distinct culture.

the overall chronology of the end times, and the tests of the Day of Judgement. Learning about all of these aspects of my cultural belief regarding life and death allowed me to break free of the shackles composed of my fears. My faith grew stronger and the overall experience of my research created new bonds between me and my religion and culture. By eliminating my fears of death, I was able to comprehend various aspects of my religion, the causes of certain cultural beliefs, and how each of these beliefs connects to the real world and my everyday life. Although I had fostered a deep connection with my culture, I wanted to learn more about my origins and cultural practices, which led me to analyze Islamic history to acquire new information regarding Islamic architecture and literature. In addition to studying Islamic eschatology, I delved into Islamic history to understand a multitude of facets regarding Islamic architecture and literature. Islamic architecture has always intrigued me ever since I first

visited the Middle East, specifically the United Arab Emirates, or UAE. The diversified array of calligraphy present on multiple mosques and other Islamic monuments was beautiful, and viewing these ancient and modern Islamic architecture motivated me to explore more. In my travels around the world, I have visited multiple monuments inspired by Islamic culture in India, Iran, the UAE, and Saudi Arabia. All of the monuments consisted of minarets, calligraphy, and domes, which are common structures utilized in Islamic architecture. Along with visiting various Islamic monuments, I also went to various museums and libraries, which contained literature and scientific journals from great philosophers and scientists who share my culture. Reading about great scientists and philosophers such as Ibn Sina made me proud of my culture and those who came before me. These great figures motivated me to strive to expand my knowledge to bring good to the world. After witnessing the numerous achievements in mathematics and science of Muslims from around the world

and their contributions to the Islamic culture and the world, I wanted to pursue my interests in quantum physics and pure mathematics, both dynamic fields in which Muslims have greatly contributed to. Islamic culture and advancements have fueled my desire to attain more knowledge on various subjects to create a better world, and to leave a positive mark on history by contributing to the world and my cultural community. Islamic culture contributed to many facets of my life and widened my political, social, and religious views. My continuous research on Islamic culture, eschatology, and religious beliefs helped me understand the Islamic concept of death, and studying various topics exterminated my fear of death, allowing me to live life freely. Further engagement with several types of literature and architecture established a deeper, more insightful connection between me and my culture. In the journey I took to advance my knowledge and understanding of my culture, I discovered my true personality and beliefs by utilizing Islamic culture as the key to unlock my life and my purpose.

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by sz

Home. Home. Home. This is a difficult word to define. All I am sure of is that a person’s origins, their background, their roots, determine what is home to them. Yet I still have trouble determining what my roots are, even though I describe how I want to return home every day. You see, I lived in California all my life, up until I was eight years old. Then, my life was turned upside down as my father’s job took us across the country to some random island I’ve never even heard of: Taiwan. While I may be Asian, Taiwan was simply unappealing to me; the culture, the language, the school, even the food, surprisingly. It was simple: I wanted to return back to California, as I was confident that Fremont was my home, and that the American lifestyle were my roots. I was promised we would only stay one year, which changed to two, to three, and ultimately five years, from ages eight to fourteen. Each year, I grew more and more comfortable with Taiwanese cultures and lifestyles, where I had made amazing friends and formed wonderful relationships. As an Asian, I also fit in with other people comfortably, as we have very similar heritages. But for some reason, I was still so sure that my roots were in California. I never considered myself a Taiwanese citizen and I was always longing for the moment where I can resume the life I had back in Fremont, where I considered my true home. So, when I was presented with a choice of whether to continue living in Taiwan or move back to Fremont for the eighth grade, you can imagine what my decision was. My mother warned me that it would be a difficult and large change in my life, but I pushed her away. There was no reluctance, no contemplation, and no thinking whatsoever, because I thought this was what I have always wanted. I said goodbye to all my friends, teachers, and even my father, as he had to stay for work, and without shedding any tears, got straight on the plane in excitement. What happened next was something I never expected. I started eighth grade in a new middle school, and I was

OPPOSITE ROOTS

PROSE

ANONYMOUS, 2019.

mind blown with the amount of students, diversity, and the American culture, as it was nothing like I had remembered. The hardest part was finding friends; I had no trouble finding friends back in Taiwan, as I had grown up with the same people and we all had established friend groups and histories. Over time, I had taken for granted the lifelong relationships I had with some wonderful people, and I started to regret my decision of moving back to California. Then again, after a few years had passed, I have also become really accustomed

Ultimately, I have grown roots in both of these places that will be difﬁcult to dig out, and unfortunately they go in opposite directions. These contradicting roots both tear me apart but also make me a more mature and experienced person.

to this school and this city. After a very rough year, I found close friends that I love deeply and I find myself fitting in, as I start embracing the culture of this city. Even so, there is still a tinge of pain whenever I talk to my old friends and see how their lives have been, and I can’t help but imagine what I would do if I could relive that moment when I was presented with that life-changing choice. If I had chosen to stay, I would have remained in Taiwan without any difficulties that I had to overcome, and I would have a smooth sailing life in a comfortable setting. However, I know that I will always be plagued with a “what if?” What if I chose to move back? Would it be better than staying? I would never know and I truly don’t know if I would be truly content with that fact. On the other hand, if I chose to move back like I did in real life, I would have to go through that immensely rough patch of life but ultimately settle in a happy and comfortable lifestyle, along with experiences that have taught me how to deal with pain and practice persistence. The thing is, I would also be plagued with the same exact “what if?” What if I stayed in Taiwan? Would my life be better? No matter what changes about my past, this question will still remain in my mind for years and years to come. As I thought about this more and more, this decision ultimately came down which place I considered home and what my roots were. My Asian origins would lead me toward Taiwan, but I am pulled towards California because I was born and raised there. I need to determine which is more important towards my future and my character; the pride that I’ve always held for the city that I grew up in, or the city that I formed my most long-lasting relationships in, and also matured, grew, and formed my lasting opinions. Ultimately, I have grown roots in both of these places that will be difficult to dig out, and unfortunately they go in opposite directions. These contradicting roots both tear me apart but also make me a more mature and experienced person. Maybe I don’t have a home at all, or I actually have two, or maybe I’ll plant new roots in fresh soil. jan 2020||The penchant|54

POETRY

LEAVETAKINGS by michael bazarov I left my home at a very young age And, after saying goodbye to the friends I knew In order to hide, I created a cage And shed a tear or two I remember the home I left long ago There was a tree with toys stacked at its very most top Every morning Best Friend would come and say hello Then we’d play games of pretend nonstop I remember the girl and the boy, two friends Both too strange to comprehend They played these games I’d sometimes join, If only to learn a little more about them There was this one bully Big, tough and mean Who could never stop Making fun of me I remember these things The strangeness, the fun As well as the effect The move had on me Forever it seemed, time was at a standstill I was the loner, the stranger, the creep And even when I’d meet a new face It was as if they’d had another life before me

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Now don’t mistake my words, dear reader I was a great actor, could impress on the stage To charm them was easy, to impress them was fun But in the end, who I really was, it didn’t matter at all I lost myself in myself The fake street smile, that charm and charisma I couldn’t tell what was true And what wasn’t, just a lie I don’t know, to be honest How much it changed me ‘Cause I’m still the loner, the stranger, the creep I remember Best Friend waving goodbye I remember never seeing the boy and girl again These things have changed me, and I miss them so much But what’s there to do? All that’s left is to move on… To look at the past, to ache for the past…

But what’s there to do? All that’s left is to move on..

I sigh, because as nice as that sounds, I’d have to admit to myself I’m much older now, and that place is only a memory I’ve grown up remembering And being forced to move on GUPTA, 2019.

by kevin li

MOTHER NATURE

As I walk down the dirt and stone path, I become lost in a daze at the evergreen trees. The beauty of such divine giants is incomparable to that of any other. Continue a few more meters and one will come across the sound of a rushing stream. Intense yet soothing, its chaos drowns out all other sounds. The great outdoors, so complex yet simple, A few minutes outside and all of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s struggles simply drift away. However, it has lost its independent nature, and is influenced by man, Of whom cannot seem to give it the respect it deserves. As technology develops, nature deteriorates, becoming victim to that of mankindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greed. Preservation is key to ensure enjoyment of it is available throughout the rest of history, For the peace it provides is unlike anything else. The power to clear oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind of negative thoughts, the almighty reliever of unwanted emotions. Nature is called mother for it not only provides but nourishes, as I hope it can for the rest of time. jan 2020||The penchant|56

PROSE

ONE WORD If I could, if I could… just go back to that day. One word, just one word,

by kelly feng

would change everything. Everything. I open my eyes. Was always this bright? Since that day, the world has always looked the same to me. Dull, dark, and without color. It didn’t matter anyways after that day. I sit up gingerly, careful not to touch my wrist in the process. After all, any evidence would leave mother hysterical again. She thought I stopped some time ago, but that just means that I stopped letting her know. What use is it? It’s not like she can do anything. It’s not like she did anything, ever, anyways. The clock goes tik, tok, tik, tok. How strange, the clock is tik toking, making those weird eerie noises that all clocks make in the dead silence of the night, yet the hands on the clock… aren’t moving? The marble glass clock reflects every beam of light shining in from my window, lightening my whole room. It’s too bright. Has it always been this bright? I reach over to my desk, grasping for my phone. There it is. After a year, the screen is all tattered,

tattooed in cracks and grimey splodges. Yet I haven’t changed my phone since then. Why? Because there is no point in buying a phone when there’s not going to be an owner for it in the future. I turn on the screen, which looked miraculously clean today compared to usual. Exactly six o’ clock in the morning, spooky much? And below… October twenty third. You know, I’ve read plenty of novels, or watched plenty of movies where the main character gets sent back in time, get a new chance at life, or anything, anything like that. But this? This can’t be real. After all, those are just the wishes of people, the ever faint hope that the impossible happens. It doesn’t actually happen. I dash off my bed, bumping my wrist in the process, though strangely it didn’t hurt much as much it should’ve especially after yesterday. I open the door and breathe in the smell of fresh toast and cooked eggs. Mom used to make those.

“Mom! The clock, it sto-” I say, before I am halted by a strange sight, like an invisible steel barrier, placed before me. Mother is cooking. “Hurry up and eat something. After you go visit your sister, you still have a long day ahead of you. Take a seat.” I sit down, stunned. Mom isn’t usually like this, she doesn’t talk, she used to be like this. No way. But if this is really real? “Mom. I’m not hungry, so I’m going to go see her right now okay?” Not even waiting for her reply, I run into my room and change and grab my wallet and run out of my room and run out the door and run to the bus stop and if I can really see her again I don’t know what I’d say to her but all I know is that ISilence. I need to clear my head. I am surrounded by silence, and I melt into it, embrace it, accept it. It is early morning after all, and nobody in their right mind wakes up early in the morning. Birds chirp cheerfully around me, as if mocking my silence, just like my silence back then. So I went back in time to the day before my sister jumped off a damn building. Because of me. And I now have a chance to fix it, and I don’t know if I’ll get another one. The bus arrives. I set foot into the bus. The bus arrives at the hospital in what seems like mere seconds. I get off the bus. I enter the hospital. I walk in the elevator. I exist the elevator. Guided by an invisible hand, perhaps just my conscience, I dash towards her room, I place my hand on the door and I open. No. Not yet. I need to carefully think about what I will say, but before I know it, the door is open and I, I walk in. “Hey.” “Sit down.” “I know how you feel about me. I overheard you talking to mom last week.” No, you don’t know how I feel. You don’t know how horrible, how disgusted, how god awful, how much regret I felt after that day. You wouldn’t understand even a tenth of it. GUPTA, 2019.

“No, maybe I don’t know how you feel. But I can imagine, I guess. You know, I always thought that since we grew up together, kinda like peas in a pod, and like, I don’t know. I just thought that since we kinda share the same parent, the same friends, the same school, the same home, the same memories, and the same roots, and basically, it’s like, I never really thought you’d be this bitter about the differences between us.” Yeah. You had it all. You call them our parents, our friends, and you think we share the same roots. But that’s your view, your perspective. Have you seen them through my perspective? I bet you haven’t, seeing that you just gave up after I shared even a tiny portion of mine. Same roots, right. Right. “I love you, I really do. I don’t know though. After hearing you say all that stuff, it’s like something inside here, it just shook a little, and all there is are pieces now,” she says as she points at her chest. “I guess I never got to see it your way.” I love you too. “So I gotta ask. And you gotta be real, because I was stuck in this room basically by myself for the entire past week, thinking about this whole time, and I couldn’t really talk to anyone about it since mom’s busy with work and you’re busy with like, I don’t know, other stuff.” I wasn’t busy. I just didn’t want to come. “Hey no, stop crying. I don't know why you’re sad, but I bet I’m sadder since I was the one stuck here for like a week, ugh.” You act like you don’t care, but when you overheard my conversation with mom, how did you really feel? How do you really feel right now? “Do you really hate me?” One word is all I need. One. How could I have been so stupid to cut off someone this close, this much family, this important to me? Someone who has supported me all these years, someone who I’ve shared memories with all these years, and most of all, someone who was part of me all these years?

Someone so, so close to my roots.

“No.” And I hug her, tightly, for a long time.

PROSE

HUMANS: reaching from the North or South Frigid zones to the Torrid zone of the Earth. Different humans have many different tastes of their temperature that they are living in like they can’t make up their minds in one! Plus not having the same idea from others created different cultures and traditions. I’m not just saying that temperatures caused us to create different languages, I’m saying that every human have different ways of being the person who they want to be. If a person that lived centuries ago have no clue of what they’re would’ve saw our society today, saying. It even happens to they would probably think other humans too when we’re weird or even listening one to another, this is lost-minded. Later on some of one of the ways that makes these traditions may even get humans weird. lost later and it’s a bad thing Well am I right or am I because they are weird towards wrong? Most animals just do some others. I’m saying it’s the same like any other weird because many other animals of their kind. For people may not do the same as example, wolves like to someone else does and that’s adapt into cold weather like fine because doing something the arctic where it’s very icy. different makes us unique They live in wolf packs, work from every human. together to hunt, and they Holidays like Días de los howl. Muertos, Chinese New Year, On the other hand, Easter, Diwali, Rosh humans can be similar but yet Hashanah, Kwanzaa, and very different from the way Mardi Gras aren’t in the same wolves live. Unlike wolves culture or religion because having to live in one very cold there are a lot more variety of habitat, humans live cultures and religions in this everywhere in the world world.

THE WEIRDEST ANIMALS ON EARTH When waking up in the morning you hear birds chirping, squirrels squeaking, cats meowing, and sometimes even dogs barking, you may say that animals make really weird sounds in the morning right? At the same time what would humans say in the morning you may ask? Well when waking up from a nice rest, they would most likely say “Good Morning,” “Buenos Días,” “Bonjour,” “Zǎoshang Hǎo,” “Sabah Alkhyr,” “Bom Dia,” “Shubh Prabhaat,” and there’s a lot more ways just to say good morning. There said to be about 6,500 different languages spoken by humans. Could you imagine being any animals and listening to these humans speak and yet you

by jorge palacios

Different humans have many different tastes of their temperature that they are living in like they can’t make up their minds about one!

This is what makes humans unique, they not only look different from one another but they believe, say, think, and self-sustaining of what they do. Imagine a world where every single human on this world is with one language, one culture, one religion, one lifestyle, only one way of thinking, or even try be exactly like every human being in every other way. Not only we will just live in a dystopian, but it just won’t be worth living or won't even solve world peace or something. “A star does not compete with other stars around it; it just shines.”- Matshona Dhliwayo. This quote is a great example that being weirdly different is fine. We all have friends that are all different from one another and it’s always good to try something different for a change than trying to be all perfect; sorry to break it but there is no such thing as a perfect human being. The definition weird is the word that isn't supposed to be negative, it's suppose to be used as a positive word because it's a synonym for unique and an individual. When you are called weird, take as a compliment and remember that you are not weird alone because every human being is weird.

GUPTA, 2019.

FEB 2018||The penchant|60

PHOTO/ART

NAUMAN, 3029

PARGHI, 2019

SAMUDRALA, 2019

DAY & NIGHT

EXPLORING ROOTS

SESANI, 2019

ANONYMOUS, 2019

CODER, 2019