THE
WHAT DOES A RECEPTIONIST WANT? by jorge palacios We hope you drive safe, enjoying your daily life, without crashing one.
COLLEGE APPLICATION OF A SCHADENFREUDE by jonathan cheng
BITTER FRUIT by ingrid lu
SCHADENFREUDE
PENCHANT
Irvington High School’s Creative Writing Club is a student-run, interest-based club dedicated to providing a welcoming environment for writers of all kinds to convene and share their ideas outside of an academic setting. Members get a taste of publication through submitting to The Penchant, our online literary magazine. Meanwhile, monthly prompts, in-club competitions, and major writing contests are provided to allow members to explore the implications of writing, improve on their own techniques, and receive feedback from their fellow peers. Overall, our collective mission is to enable the students of Irvington to write what they wish and have their voices heard. All images used are either submitted to us or public domain, CC0 photos. All rights remain reserved to their original owners, for those that have specified such guidelines. Creative Commons Photos: Cover "Schadenfreude" by Back, and to the left 1| "Black Cat" by asra_valorshon 3| "Broken Window - Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum" by Bob Jagendorf 4| "Warm Golden light in autumn forest" by wildfox76 7,8| Courtesy of Pixabay 10| “Gold Medal for the 2018 Winter Olympics” by charlesdeluvio (Top) "Liquid Gold texture" by Mary Vican (Bottom) 11| "apple in hand" by Melinda Taber; "Rainbow Boa" by bsmith4815 12| "Wonderland" by mripp 13| "Alexandre Cabanel - Pandora [1873]" by Gandalf's Gallery 14| Courtesy of Steven Zucker 15| "Rain on Window" by Strep72 17| "I'm done with College Applications." by _ambrown 18| "1639 - Sticky Notes - 1" by Patrick Hoesly 19| "i'm still writing the letters i'll never send," by ashley rose 20| "Art of Pain" by azarius 21| "not-living room" by angelo0690 23| "city" by barnyz 24| "1996 Jocassee Quiet Solitude" by anoldent 26| "Oxford Nights - The Hertford Bridge" by DarrenCowley 27| "Circle of Life" by ChimPo 30| "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." by Aristocrats-hat To learn more about us, visit our social media: Facebook: @penchantlitmag Instagram: @the_penchant Issuu: @penchantlitmag To see our submission guidelines, click on the “Submit To” tab on the menu bar, or follow us on Facebook @penchantlitmag.
the penchant Irvington | creative writing club EDITORS IN CHIEF Felicia Mo and Kelly Feng COMMISSION OVERSEER Janice Park CONTENT EDITORS Catherine You Nichelle Wong LAYOUT EDITORS Roland Zhang Helen Yuan CONTENT Orion Fang Yale Han Kelly Feng Sophie Mo Adithi Sesani Anousha Sannat Inara Ahsan Felicia Mo
LAYOUT Felicia Mo Isabel Lai Zhirui Zhu Mandy Liu Harnoor Nagra
december 2020
26
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
1
9 13
schadenfreude
27 Featured
Prose
Poetry Photo/Art
8| What Does a Receptionist Want?
1| The Bad Luck Of A Black Cat by Anousha Sannat 5| My Name Is Schadenfreude by Green 8| What Does A Receptionist Want? by Jorge Palacios 9| Gold Medal by Farshiya Malick 11| Pandora by Aarya Morgaonkar 13| Reflection by Isabel Lai 15| People Never Change by Red 21| College Application of a Schadenfreude by Jonathan Cheng
23| Never Again by RJ Hob 25| Bitter Fruit by Ingrid Lu 26| Wonderland by Blue 27| I Am . . . by Oreo 29| True Love by Nichelle Wong
By Jorge Palacios “Which is good for us, but bad for people.”
23| College Application of a Schadenfreude By Jonathan Cheng “I sought more gruesome torture scenes and painful betrayals. I wanted to read more about death and less about joy.”
25| Bitter Fruit By Ingrid Lu “Shriveled in my backyard, the ones I never dared to taste. ”
31| Nikita Chen 5,6,31, 32| Adithi Sesani
PROSE
THE BAD LUCK OF A BLACK CAT
“Boo!”
The lady screamed. A shorter person wearing a mask of a distorted face and twisted smile turned their head to each side while she caught her breath. Then the person began to giggle. Not a creepy murderous giggle, but like one of a child’s glee.
The kid took the mask off and pulled a bag from behind his back. It wasn’t the usual orange pumpkin the woman had grown up with, no—a wide pillowcase filled to a fifth. Such greed. She scoffed. This kid already had such a nerve trying to scare her. “Here, creep.” She carelessly scooped a few candies from her salad bowl and dropped them into his pillowcase. The kid giggled again at his ever-growing amount, turned and hopped off her porch. “Well, you’re welcome!” she called after him, clearly annoyed. Where were his manners? Who was raising him? So much for ‘trick or treat,’ too. Glancing around, she took a note that there weren’t any other kids on the sidewalk on her side or the parallel one. That meant no kids for at least 2-3 minutes. At most 5. She sighed and shut her door, very ready to return to her own ‘Halloween themed’ red wine. She had gotten the Merlot at the local Tesco. Only 16 dollars! The wine went down nicely as she eyed the chocolates in the pantry. She had bought something for herself too and smiled wickedly, feeling a bit giddy. A few honks were heard over by Elm Street. Perhaps the kids weren’t crossing the road properly? She rolled her eyes. Parents these days. What an idiotic new generation.
1|The penchant||DEC 2020
by anousha sannat
It would be a lovely evening after all of the children left. They’d be airing the original Addams Family series episodes at around 10:30, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a few chocolates. Her daydream was interrupted by a few more honks. They all sounded slightly different. What was going on over there? The woman dramatically huffed and set down her wine. The microwave declared that 5 minutes had passed. She grabbed her candies bowl and keys and headed for the door. As she wore her snug coat, she peeked out the window. How could the children stand such cold weather in those thin polyester costumes? Whatever. Isn’t my business anyway. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, the lady left the candies by the front door table and speed-walked towards Elm Street. It was rather cool for an autumn night—especially for October. Millennials would blame global warming, but that was just a theory. She scanned over the intersection to see where the problem was. It was almost funny. The noises of the honks led her to where she felt she had to be. It was like something out of a thriller story. But for a woman in her late 30s (it was 40s but she didn’t have to say that), it was silly to believe anything of that sort—even though it was Halloween. Several honks echoed from Elm Street. Aha. So I have been right all along. A slight bit of pride and ego boosted through her. Or maybe it was the Merlot. Either way, she went closer to investigate. Truly something out of a mystery movie, she laughed to herself. More honks echoed throughout the eggshell-colored houses. There wasn’t an accident—at least not yet. Instead, a black cat, as dark as midnight, was strolling leisurely on the road, back and forth. By now the cat had probably realized that she was holding up cars and people.
From time to time, a child would try to get close to her, in which she would hiss and pounce near them. Said child would probably be a little more afraid of her by then. Now, she had stopped in the middle of the road, licking herself. What a strange cat, the lady thought to herself. Then an even odder thing happened—the cat turned to her and made eye contact. The cat blinked and watched her, as though the woman was the strange one! She couldn’t believe that. “Shoo, kitty, shoo!” The lady ran across the street to the black cat, moving her off the road. She crossed the road safely, and the cat turned and purred at her. She looked... happy? In a mischievous way? It was as though she had fallen through a trap or down a rabbit hole like Alice in Wonderland. The woman stared back, yet turned when she heard another honk. “Thanks, ma’am!” A man in a truck waved and crossed. “No problem!” she called, and waved back to passing cars. By the time she spun around, the cat was gone. Out of nowhere, the sky let out a roar that sounded like thunder. Nowhere on the evening weather show had predicted this. Rain started falling down, and the lady started to hurry home. Her speed-walk broke into a bit of a run, which was a bad idea for a slippery rainy night. By now, kids had started to return home, a few unhappy that their night of fun and terror was over, but it was getting late enough. Parents seemed a bit tired. So the parents were there! Rain collided with nature and the lady tripped, twisting her ankle in a way nothing ever should have. It didn’t even look humanly possible. She let out a scream of pain, easily drowned out by another howl of thunder. Dec 2020||The penchant|2
PROSE
She rose and hobbled home. Nothing was worse than getting caught outside in a storm! Right? The lady finally reached home, fumbling with the door. Her keys seemed to be stuck somewhere in her coat pocket, and the further she reached, the deeper it went. She finally grabbed the jangling nuisances, as though they could sense her impatience.
What had she done to deserve this?
Now, usually she would kick her shoes off, but if she tried that, it looked like her foot would come off too. What had she done to deserve this? She sighed and fell back onto the couch, shoes still on, eyelids heavy and drooping. A loud crash jostled the poor lady. She got up, ankle completely forgotten from the fear of a robber. Her wide, muddy brown eyes scrutinized the room for any problems. A rock lay in the middle of the room. There was a cracked hole in the window. Who on Earth had..? The clock read 11:51. Had time really flown that fast? The voicemail button blinked from across the room. She moaned out loud to no one. Why did
3|The penchant||DEC 2020
it have to be so far? Like a child, she started dragging her way through the couches, as though the floor were lava. With an arm quite outstretched, she pushed down on the button. “Happy Halloween, Myra!” A cheery voice burst out from the machine, eliciting another groan from the lady, Myra. The bubbly voice continued. Look- I know you’re probably staying in so you can binge as always, but have some fun! Go out with us! The girls and I are having a Halloween party. You can come. Lea said her brother was single, and Mom wants you to bring back someone for Thanksgiving. Look, his number is-” The voice abruptly cut out and a strange whirring sound filled the house. The power had just gone out. Myra stood up, now looking around frantically. What was happening? Was this some kind of trick? Who would dare play such a trick on their neighbor? Is it some psycho killer who knew she was an unmarried mid-aged lady living alone? Her mind raced through endless possibilities, each getting worse than the last.
Myra raced around the house, locking all of the doors and windows. She maneuvered her way to the kitchen and dug her hands through the drawers, looking for knives, or— Flashlight! Yes! In a frenzy, she armed herself with the flashlight and pressed the button to switch it on, and— Nothing. Flashlight, no! The lady let out a sob and searched for batteries in the same drawers. Again, nothing came up. But it wasn’t over yet. She swung her flashlight in the general direction in front of her. She realized she probably looked like a fool, but did that really matter in this circumstance? There was plenty of time to make fun of herself. Later. She slowly but steadily walked up the stairs and turned to her bedroom. The flashlight clashed against the door and she slammed it closed just as fast. Deep breaths. She told herself. Everything is fine. I’ll be fine. Shoot, I forgot to call the police! She mentally debated going now. There was no threat now, right? She sighed again and looked outside. Everyone had left. The storm rumbled on though, and she jumped. She scanned herself. She was wet, with a swollen ankle and her shoes still on. Meanwhile, the cat, dark as midnight, sat on the porch of her home, staring up at her. She wore an even more mischievous grin than before, matching the smile of the Cheshire Cat. The cat laughed. Cats aren’t supposed to laugh. Yet the seemingly feline creature opened its mouth and let out a rumbling ‘meow.’ She seemed to watch the lady with an interest one could only call disturbing. But for now the lady was at peace, and the cat strode off into the night, looking for her next victim.
It was like something out of a thriller story
PROSE
MY NAME IS
SCHADENFREUDE by green My name is Schadenfreude. I take pleasure in the misfortune of others. Whether I’m the snake in the back of the classroom or the over-achiever who silently scoffs the woes of those below my intellect, I do not care so long as I am satisfied. My friend Epicaricacy and I are standing by the statue of a dead woman. She has her arms wrapped around two bawling children, tears streaming down her own cheeks as she cries with them. Her name was Sympathy. That’s why she died. If it was me up there, I would have been pointing my finger at the two kids and laughing with my mouth wide open—the greatest kind of laugh. If it was me up there, the plaque would have read: F*ck you, move on. If it was me up there, Sympathy would still be alive. But it isn’t me up there. I am here, staring at this statue of a dead woman who passed away because there is too much sorrow in the world for her to sympathize with. Too bad, so sad. “She had it coming to her,” giggles Epicaricacy. “Honestly, I don’t understand why she’d willingly relate to people’s suffering.” I nod. That natural, snide smile returns to my face. “These people never learn,” I say, turning away from the statue, “that it’s so much easier to laugh than cry.”
5|The penchant||DEC 2020
Sesani, Adithi, “BUZZY.” 2020
We walk down the small dirt path along the park, heading back towards College Campus. “It’s ironic though,” Epicaricacy says. “She was named Best Emotion of the Year. Guess that backfired on the Dean;, he must be mulling in his office and regretting his nomination!” We both laugh. The image of the frustrated Dean brings joy to our hearts. ~ Epicaricacy has a Stocks Club meeting during lunch. Normally, I’d go with him just to see people lose large sums of money (the best part is when they crash completely), but I’m bored of that kind of amusement for today. Instead, I peek at the New Clubs Board in the campus quad and notice a certain Gardening Club looking for members. They are hosting a meeting today, on the west side of campus grounds. And so, as I make my way over there, I watch the passing people’s faces closely. I grin whenever I see stressed shoulders, hunched backs, runny mascara from a breakup, and—of course—the miserable loners with no friends. Imagine relating to all these people, I wonder. Sympathy must have been so busy over the most useless things—that in itself is funny, now that I think about it. The Gardening Club is predictably located behind the
Agricultural Sciences building, where there is a large penned- up area reserved for the students already gathered there. I get some surprised looks when I come closer. A short girl in gardening overalls approaches me. “Hello! Welcome to the Gardening Club!” she says cheerfully. “My name is Flower. What’s yours?”
I despise her happiness. “Schadenfreude,” I say, keeping a tight-lipped smile. “Although why a girl like you would want to get dirt all over herself just to plant some rotten vegetables is beyond me.” Now, she is supposed to burst into tears. Then I can make it a big scene that will attract the attention of the Dean or some other teacher, who I can piss off further and laugh about later. Instead, Flower beams brighter at me and says, “I’m glad you asked! That’s exactly what the Gardening Club is for: to teach you to not be afraid of dirt!” I am not afraid of— My indignant thoughts are broken off when she grabs my arm and drags me over to the other students. Some of them shy away from me because they know who I
am. This girl clearly doesn’t. She instructs everyone to pick up a gardening hoe from the pile in the wheelbarrow. Then Flower walks right onto the soil and starts churning up the dirt without hesitation. It stains her boots immediately but she keeps swinging away and invites us to join her. Soon everyone is helping to loosen the soil, chatting and laughing as they go. Everyone except me. Maybe if I dawdle long enough, she’ll get frustrated with my lack of participation. That should ruin the spirit of her newly formed club. Flower ignores me entirely. The frustration that she is supposed to feel wells up in my chest instead. You would think that if I am sad, I would glean joy from my own sadness and everything would cancel out. Unfortunately, the suffering stays. And I need to give it to someone else right now. That’s when my savior Epicaricacy arrives. “Look! If it isn’t the dirty farmers club!” he yells at the gardeners. “Big business is about to take your land away!” He is with a bunch of other students, probably the top performers from the Stocks Club since Epicaricacy never associates himself with losers. He can sense my frustration and automatically smirks when he moves beside me. Some of the students stop gardening and exchange nervous looks. I smile when I see the hurt in their eyes. On the other side of the garden, Flower straightens up, gives Epicaricacy a happy wave, yells, “Almost done everyone! We’re nearly ready to start planting!”, and returns to loosening the soil as if nothing happened. Gradually, the others follow her cue and, just like me, Epicaricacy is ignored.
He doesn’t take it well, especially not in front of his Stocks friends. He marches into the garden and yanks someone’s hoe from their hands. It is heavier than he anticipates, so the momentum causes the tool to slip from his fingers and somersault through the air. We hear a scream when it nearly hits a girl nearby, and it lands with a thud on the concrete. “Whoops,” Epicaricacy says, shrugging at the girl he nearly hit. “A h*e for a hoe, am I right?” Silence. The girl bursts into tears, drops her hoe, and runs away, disappearing around the building, never to be seen again. Upset remarks are thrown at Epicaricacy from the rest of the gardeners. Their anger only makes his smile wider as he feeds off the negative emotions. I smile along too, but I’m not as satisfied. Anger isn’t the same as pure suffering and despair. Besides, Flower is unphased. She stands watching us with a curious—not angry—expression. Getting any satisfactory response from her isn’t working. I glance at Epicaricacy’s Stocks friends. An idea pops into my head. “Hey, Epi!” I yell. “That was a bit overboard.” “Really?” he jokes. “I thought that was perfect. Maybe I should do it again until—” “No, I’m serious Epi,” I say. “That was very unbusinesslike.” Epicaricacy looks confused at my serious expression. “I think you’ve rather embarrassed yourself,” I keep saying. “Aren’t these friends of yours the top performers in the Stocks Club?” I turn to said students. “What do you guys think? Weren’t Epi’s actions so very brazen and unconventional.” “Schadenfreude, what are
Sesani, Adithi, “FULL BLOOM.” 2020
Dec 2020||The penchant|6
PROSE you—” But the Stocks Club students are nodding along to my words, giving Epicaricacy a new look—a mocking look. He realizes how ridiculous he appears, standing in a soil plot with a bunch of other dirt-stained gardeners. He scrambles out, spilling some soil onto the pavement as he goes, and glares at me. “What is your problem?” he growls. “Losing your temper now?” I tease. “Man, you’d give horrible service. Who would want to do business with you?” Epicaricacy is shocked. His friends start to leave, bored of the Gardening Club. He runs after them, giving me a cold shoulder as he goes, his face flushed by the betrayal. Humiliation? Now that feels good. I have to let that wave of ecstasy—so, so, so much pleasure—subside before I turn around to give an apologetic wave to Flower. “Sorry about him. He really isn’t the best business guy.” Flower offers me a radiant smile. “Don’t worry about it. Would you like to join us?” She points at the hoe lying on the concrete. I pick it up; it’s pretty sturdy and intact despite the fall. Carefully, I step into the plot of soil, take a position next to Flower, and start gardening. We plant the seeds the next day. Flower doesn’t tell us what seeds we’re planting because she wants it to be a surprise. While I’m poking holes and dropping seeds into the soil, Flower talks about all the different gardening techniques she’s learned from her father. Her determination and upbeat personality are contagious, and I’m suddenly glad that Epicaricacy never came back.
7|The penchant||DEC 2020
At first, I tried to badger Flower with snide remarks all the time. Then it dwindled down to a few words here and there, and I began to realize that, although the uninterrupted flow of positivity coming from Flower isn’t as enjoyable as the pleasure I get from seeing people suffer, it’s still good. A few days later, we began the routine of watering our garden. Flower always gets the buckets of water for us before we arrive. We walk up and down the line, giving each buried seed carefully apportioned amounts of water. We play a brief water fight with the remaining water; I keep my distance in those, though. Watching them play, I wish I had Sympathy’s ability to relate to their joy. It’s in times like these that having an emotional amplifier would come in handy. But I am Schadenfreude, not Sympathy.
Too bad, so sad. “I just got back from talking with the Dean!” Flower exclaims. “He says he’ll come see our garden tomorrow!” It’s perfect timing. The fruits of our labor are beginning to show their heads in the garden. I see the shape of tomatoes, perhaps a melon, and strawberries too. There is no uniform grouping of the different plants but there’s also a beauty to the randomness. After weeks of hard work, the garden is bursting with young life. “Feel free to invite your friends too!” she tells us. “It’ll be like a grand opening ceremony!” Everyone celebrates and rushes to inspect the seeds that they’ve planted. I observe the smooth greenish bulbs of early strawberries that sprout from the seed I planted. Next to me, Flower’s seed has birthed
a nice round pumpkin. I see Flower take a longing step towards the garden; then sherealizes something—a brief flash of sadness, so quick I almost don’t catch it, crosses her face—and she has to walk away. I hurry after her. “Hey, where are you going?” I ask, falling into step. “Aren’t you going to join us? Your pumpkin looks fantastic.” Flower smiles at the compliment; I’ve been giving more of those and fewer insults lately. “I forgot to get the water buckets because I was at the Dean’s office,” she explains. “Forget the water, come celebrate with us.” “I will. But I still need to maintain the garden and that means following my responsibilities.” I take her hand and stop. Flower blinks in surprise. “You’re working too hard,” I say. “You should be the one to celebrate as much as you can, instead of toiling all the time. I’ll get the water. You go make sure your pumpkin is alright.” “A-are you sure? Do you know where the water is?” “Can’t be that hard to find,” I reassure her. “Go. You deserve this.” Her face grows a little red. “Thank you, Schaden,” she murmurs. “You’ve been a really great help.” “Schaden, huh?” I echo. “Never been called a nickname before.” “Oh. Unless you prefer Freude?” “No, no, let’s stick with Schaden.” She laughs, thanks me again, and I watch her skip back to the garden of her success. Like I said, the water wasn’t hard to find. We give every plant a thorough amount in preparation for tomorrow - the big day. I invite Epicaricacy
to come with me. He is skeptical and hasn’t yet forgiven me for that embarrassing episode. But it isn’t fair for me to keep the emotions I’ve felt with the garden to myself. He should have a share of it too. “This had better be worth it,” he says to me as we approach the Agricultural Sciences building. “It will be. Just watch.” And indeed it is worth it. For the entire garden of sprouting vines and a multitude of fruits and vegetables is now wilted, shriveled, and dead. The Dean is there. He holds a girl in his arms, whose face is buried in his chest. Flower. Everyone else is in varying degrees of distress. Gardeners pull at their hair, some are sobbing while their friends try to comfort them. A few venture into the garden, hoping to salvage something, anything. But there is nothing left. I made sure every single corner of that garden was watered yesterday. Epicaricacy elbows me and cackles, “Dang, is this your doing?” I wave my hand in dismissal. “Well, all it took was some herbicides mixed into the water. Nothing special. Didn’t even require much brainpower.” Epicaricacy and I laugh, relishing in the groans and cries of everyone around us. My name is Schadenfreude. Too bad, so sad.
I adore my job I enjoy picking up calls It is so easy
We will take all cars,
All I have to do is to call the customer and pick up their car.
Even ones with bad records or abandon ones X X Winter seems the best, because more cars slip on roads, which is good for us. X X but bad for people.
But their cars don’t work, So I call up the tow truck to go get the car.
Then bring it back here, so we can have it remade and put on auction.
Not like we stole them We got them from customers They were selling them
The cars we pick up are damaged and broken down and sometimes have gore.
It is damaging for them. now their car is gone. X X We don’t want bad things, it is what we do— for work, for the company. X X We hope you drive safe, enjoying your daily life, without crashing one. X X But if you got one, that is good for me to call, and we’ll take the car.
by jorge palacios
WHAT DOES A
RECEPTIONIST WANT?
Dec 2020||The penchant|8
PROSE
I should be worthy. Everyone in that room should be. We partook in the same crime she was accused of: stealing from the innocent. It was too selfish to expect her to give me the gift of seeing the gold in her eyes. Even if I was going to watch that gold be mined, I wanted the reassurance that I truly knew what the golden medals meant.
GOLD MEDAL I led her to the wooden chair and sat her down. Her chest heaved as she clenched the armrests, trying to steady her breath. Oh, the joy I would have felt if she had broken the whole chair with her bare hands. Then, I might not have had to say goodbye. But that was wishful thinking. The people behind the glass window would’ve added another useless sin on her shoulders. The others in the room would eventually pull the same straps over her, thinking that they’re fulfilling the purpose of the gold medal on their chest.
9|The penchant||DEC 2020
by farshiya malick Tears trailed down her brown cheeks. Or perhaps it was sweat- I couldn’t tell. She scanned the people behind the glass window, ignoring my gaze – ignoring the fact that I never dared to pull one of those straps. Yet I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t destined to sit on that chair. Those who decided her fate, those who listened to the ensemble of hisses, determined that she was worthy of the seat and I wasn’t.
Everyone left the room, leaving me and a man alone with her. No one asked me to leave yet. It was no secret of the friendship I had built with her when she lived in her dimly lit room. The man repeated the lie that everyone had accepted as the truth; even her. He asked her what she wanted to use her last breath for.
“To forgive,� she said. She gave me the gift I was so desperately waiting for. And I took it.
She gave me the gift I was so desperately waiting for. Dec 2020||The penchant|10
PROSE
by aarya morgaonkar
PANDORA
I still remember my birth with crystal clarity. I remember the suffocating darkness that surrounded me for most of my life, in a small box holding the worst nightmares known to humanity. At the same time, the box offered a comfort that nothing else ever has, perhaps because I was intended to spend an eternity in it. The gods had sought to protect humanity from all of us that lay within, from famine and warfare, plague and pestilence, and most of all from me. The gods had never made a better decision than to make that box, and never a worse decision than to open it.
11|The penchant||DEC 2020
But I was different from the rest, because no other would cause as much suffering as I did.
We had never known light before, so when the box opened, we waited in shock and silence. A woman looked into the box in confusion, not knowing that she had doomed entire civilizations with an act of carelessness and foolishness. Freedom had never seemed like reality before, but the idea gave me a feeling I had never felt before. I raced out of the box and into the world, as did those around me. We all escaped in separate directions to avoid being hunted, because those who were caught by the messenger would face unimaginable pain. But he never came, and it was then I knew that the gods had given up on humanity. I later learned that opening the box was an act of revenge against the wise one, for he had given fire to the world. The gods were supposed to be the paragons of virtue and justice, the protectors of the weak and innocent, yet they had doomed billions to death to settle a petty grudge. It was never my fault when people died, I reasoned. The gods were supposed to protect humanity, and they had failed. It was in my nature to harm humanity. That was why they had put me in a prison from the beginning. I had no choice but to do what all of us in that prison were born for, spreading death and misery upon the world. But I was different from the rest, because no other would cause as much suffering as I did. Poison killed thousands, war killed millions, and plague killed billions. They were short-sighted and shallow, trying to show their strength by killing humans senselessly. I never made such narrow-minded mistakes. My power was not to kill humanity, but to convince them to kill each other and to enjoy it. Why waste time whispering to a peasant and tell him to kill his richer neighbors, when I could guide a king to slaughter his own people with a smile?
No man would ever reject my whispers, for humans are creatures born with envy The wait infuriated me at times, but it was worth it. It was worth seeing people betrayed in horrifying fashions, turned on by those they thought they could rely on. No man would ever reject my whispers, for humans are creatures born with envy; offer them to see their enemies suffer, and they would eat any poison they had to. The first time I realized what I could do was in the eternal city when a madman governed the most powerful empire in the world. Nero was amongst my favorite mortals, for the hate and envy he harbored were greater than I had ever felt. He envied his courtiers, hated Christians, and believed his citizens mocked him behind his back. He was perfect. “Make them suffer” I suggested. “Show them who rules Rome, and who burns in the streets.”
He had taken to the idea exceptionally well, and burned people alive on crosses in the street, watching them scream with a smile. Once I had whispered into him and given him my words, nothing gave Nero more pleasure than ‘enacting justice.’ And when Rome fell because of his actions, and when thousands were killed in the sacking and tortured to death, I felt stronger than I ever had. I would spend the next millennia convincing and encouraging humanity to grow more monstrous. Deep down inside, even without me, humans wanted to make others suffer. My whispers only brought out the worst in them, the part they tried to suppress. When I convinced some Britannic ruler or another that different looking people deserved to be objects, I created enough suffering to sate myself for five hundred years.
The strength that had been sapped of me in my prison returned, and I grew more and more. Then, when a young Serbian man acted upon my words and killed an Austrian official, I believed it inconsequential. The young man was ferocious, cheering as the archduke died. He even shot the man’s wife to bring himself more twisted pleasure. Then two months later, when what came to be known as the Great War started and killed millions, I knew I had to have another one. And so I did. Now my strength is at the greatest it has ever been, as the people of the worlds love suffering without my interference. Soon, I shall rise anew, and the gods will tremble at my name.
Dec 2020||The penchant|12
PROSE
REFLECTION by isabel lai
Feel the pain, a voice inside the girl hissed, Suffer with me. 13|The penchant||DEC 2020
The wind howled as the raindrops pounded on the window, desperate to escape from the dark, gloomy clouds. As the water dripped onto the windowsill, the girl got up with a sigh, shuffling slowly to the corner where the window lay. Hauling herself onto the chair, she grasped the handle of the window, forcing it down. Her finger slipped, catching behind the handle. She winced as she moved to return to her seat at the dining table. This is fine, she muttered, This is what I wanted. The house silently stood as it watched a tiny squirrel scramble away. -“I’ll be right here. Come find me when you’re done,” she smiled, watching Nora fade away into the crowds, taking her smile with her. She turned to face the store she stopped in front of and gazed at the mannequin. She looked down and the corners of her mouth began to turn up, Nora wouldn’t come back. She knew Nora, knew she already left her phone at the bench they stopped on earlier when they ate ice cream, knew she forgot where she just left her friend at. Nora couldn’t even remember her own birthday, why would she remember the friend she made less than a year ago? The girl muttered under her breath, “I remember. I remember all the times you left me alone.” She took out her phone and stared at the time. Wrenching her eyes away, she walked to the bus stop, shivering with coldness as a gust of wind blew across the trees. She stopped. Glancing at her sideways, a young boy grinned. “Hello,” he cheerfully greeted her when she moved to wait in line with him. She turned her head, staring blankly at the waving trees. As the boy began to nudge her to respond, an older lady pushed him away from her.
“I’m sorry, he just likes to talk to everyone,” the woman apologetically said as she dragged the boy closer to the front, “Children are just like this.” The girl smiled pretentiously for a split second before returning her gaze to the falling leaves. As the bus pulled up to the curb, she moved to board the bus. There was nothing to leave behind here. Later that night, she received a call. “I’m so sorry,” the girl heard as she replayed a voicemail left by Nora. She heard the hurried tone of Nora’s voice. If Nora was so sorry, she would have come back for me. She could have called me sooner, she could have taken the time to send a longer apology, but she didn’t. She chose this for me. The girl shut off her phone, slumping into her bed. Better to leave before being left. She let it slide. She would meet Nora again tomorrow. -Squirming in her seat, Nora anxiously waited for the girl at the cafe. As the girl walked in, Nora waved frantically, desperate to make up for the previous day. The girl stifled her laughter as she watched Nora begged and begged for her forgiveness. “Don’t worry about it; it happens!” the girl smiled wickedly as she watched the immense wave of guilt and shame wash over Nora. She shrieked inwardly, clapping her hands in delight. She knew Nora pitied her and was imagining what she had gone through. The sheer loneliness of being left behind, the person no one remembered. The tall walls prevented her from joining everyone else, like a locked room that could not be opened. Feel the pain, a voice inside the girl hissed, Suffer with me. But Nora was always forgetful. She repeated her mistakes over and over thousands of times. Just this incident happened over 20 times already.
Better to leave before being left. The thoughts inside the girl’s head swirled in a mirage. Did Nora even feel her pain? Anger rose in her as the thought came across her mind; she must suffer. She must know what I feel, and I must laugh as she struggles through what she puts me through. She must know that that innocent face of hers is a liar. Despair welled up inside the girl as she thought and thought this through. Nora’s face appeared in her mind. Why must you do this? the face asked the girl, Why must you do this to yourself? “Because it’s fun,” the girl responded without a pause, “Because if I have lived through this pain, then so must they.” Nora’s face paused sadly as she looked at what the girl had become. Then, it disappeared. In its place appeared a little girl, one looking frighteningly like the teenage girl she stood in front of. “Why have you become like this?” the little girl asked, “why, why, why?” “I grew tired of being you,” the older girl screamed, “I’m tired of letting myself be trampled over. I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice things that I do.” The little girl observed the very girl she would become or perhaps already was. Letting out a sigh, the little girl whispered, “I tried. I tried to remind you,” as she too, disappeared, and the older girl was left all alone.
Dec 2020||The penchant|14
PROSE
by r e
d
PEO
PLE NEVERC H
I’d been a normal person. A high school student, studying nonstop to get good grades, working on projects into late nights to meet deadlines. Of course, it wasn’t all bad, but the few good times never overcame the bad ones. My dad cheated on my mother, but kept coming back every time, apologizing, until they finally divorced. That was when the idea that people never change first made its home in my mind. There was also the bullying. It played out exactly as in the books I read. I was never the target of it, but I can’t say I jumped in to stop it either. Every time, the few same people would target the same others, scuffles that would end in broken glasses, scattered papers, pools of tears. It was horrible and yet, I was too scared to do anything about it. Or maybe not scared. Looking back, maybe I just couldn’t be bothered. Jumping in would cause a problem for me, and that was the last thing I needed. So every time I got home, and my mom asked me how my day was, I would say, “Fine, Mom.” And she never questioned it, because she knew I
15|The penchant||DEC 2020
was a quiet kid, and because she trusted me. Occasionally, she would hear the news of the incidents, complaining about how kids could be so ruthless, and how teachers could be so blind, asking me if I ran into one of the scuffles. After the first time I said yes, she gave me a lecture about always telling a teacher or any adult about it. I did, once, and it only resulted in my essay being torn up. It was humiliating to see kids the same age, maybe younger, stand over me as I stared down at the pieces of my hard work. People never changed.To be pushed into a wall called things I never thought I would hear. Snickering coming from all angles, and when I stared up, my head was pushed back down. Maybe it wasn’t as dramatic as I made it seem in reality, but it felt that way. Usually, a protagonist helps people in these situations, especially if they had experienced it themselves. But I wasn’t the protagonist. I was just a side character, and the real one had yet to show up. I wasn’t going to try to do something I knew couldn’t be
A NGE
done, because people never change. It wasn’t until the world fell upside down that things shifted. It had been an average day until that afternoon. School had just let out and people were leaving for home.
It wasn’t until the world fell upside down that things shifted Unlocking my bike, I wheeled it to the front of the school before jumping onto the seat. The second I pushed on the pedals, there was a big BANG. Like a giant balloon had popped, and the air in it exploded around us. It was too loud, and even in everyday life, I didn’t like a lot of noise. Pushed by the huge wave, I actually flew in the air for a few
seconds before hitting the ground. It happened all in a matter of a second, so quickly, I didn’t realize I wasn’t on my bike anymore until I felt the pain in my hip. As soon as the wind settled, the dust drifting slowly in the air, I pushed myself up and groaned. The abruptness of the explosion had made my right hip hit the ground when I fell, and now it hurt like hell. Rubbing the sore spot, I sat up looking around, my eyes widening in disbelief. The sky was red, literally red, like something out of my novels. Apparently, fiction was more real than I thought it was. Whoosh. I heard small wisps but nothing changed around me. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place, nothing happening, until the first arrow hit its mark. Just as I turned my head, I heard a scream of pain. Whipping around, I saw one of my classmates clutching his thigh, an arrow protruding straight out of it, blood flowing freely. The arrows kept coming. Rising into the sky and raining back down at us. Fumbling to get up, I willed myself to move to find shelter. I ran across the road, the arrows getting closer every second, and dove behind a wall. Struggling to wrap my mind around what was happening, I stared out at where I just was. Spotting my bike, I saw a metal handle with an arrow right through it. More screams, a thud. Turning my attention to the scene in front of me, I saw a boy, the one who was hit before, reaching for his friends, who had run to find shelter as well. Without him. They turned, I saw them turn, saw the hint of hesitance and guilt, before turning around to run again. Saw the boy’s last expression before an arrow hit him straight in the back, immediately joined by 3 others. Saw his breath fade away as he fell. Saw the frozen ones who had stared at the sky, unable to move, now never able to move again as their clothes soaked with red, pooling onto the concrete next to them. My eyes were glued to the horrible scenes in front of me, and I would never forget. It had been about eight months since it started. Humanity called it “The Ending”, like the
strange names in my books. Always with “the” in front of them, like that made them sound scarier. Fiction was turning into reality. In a book, when something like this happened, the protagonist would go on a journey to save everyone. There would be a tragic backstory, a detailed explanation of how this came to be. But in reality, nobody actually knew what happened, what changed. Anyone who did either kept quiet or was dead. What we had learned, though, was that blood needed to be spilled every day for us to survive. Each day, just a prick, or a cut, just a drop of blood was enough to stay safe. People were returning to being civilians, living amongst the wreck and chaos. Killings had become more common though, because there was no justice system. This gave them the
Blood needed to be spilled every day for us to survive. excuse they had been looking for, and people became more dangerous than the predicament we were in. It’s how my mother died. That day, I managed to make my way home in one piece. I rushed in to find my mom on the ground, limbs bent at odd angles and blood splattered across the floor, still drying. Clasping my hand over my mouth, my vision blurred as I hurried upstairs to find my little sister. She was strewn across her bed, blood ruining the pale blue sheets. The only reason I knew they'd been killed was that I was almost about to become a corpse myself. The killer had hid in my sister’s closet, waiting for anyone else to come by. When I came in, she caught me off guard. The encounter granted me a large scar, right across my left
arm, but left her more damaged. Dead, to be exact. Running downstairs, I had grabbed anything I could use to defend myself. A wine bottle, un-opened. Grabbing it, I whipped around and smashed it over her head, adrenaline and fear fueling my body, any thoughts discarded. Fight or flight, and my body had chosen to fight. The bottle broke over her head, and she fell to her knees, clutching her head as she groaned in pain. Using the sharp glass at the end of the broken bottle, I stabbed into her chest. It was an accident, something that happened before I could stop it, before my mind caught up with my limbs. I dropped the bottle and watched as bright red joined the pale one on the tiles. That fight left me numb. I wasn’t crying, or shaking, or panicking. I felt, nothing. Not for that one encounter, just everything. The fear, the shock, the sadness, the disbelief, the denial. Everything. They all disappeared. I was just numb. It took me a few days to process everything, to calm down my mind from the overwhelming situation, my thoughts that had caught up too late and were making up for it by running a million miles per hour. And by that time, I was reduced to a sobbing mess on the floor. I was crazed. Laughter spilling through my tears, and for a few days, or maybe it was weeks, I just laid there. Crying, laughing, sleeping. I bit my lips each day, raked my nails over my skin, over the walls, and they bled. Just enough not to get attacked, though I didn’t know the rules at the time. The last few days, I sat there. Numb once again. The killer wasn’t innocent, she was a criminal, she harmed others. And people never change. I told myself it was a good thing she died, one less problem, one less criminal, one less danger for the world to worry about. I got out my stupor only when I was finally attacked. Sharp edges jutted out of the walls and I ran. I didn’t want to. Honestly, I wanted to just lay there and die, but something told me to keep going. I’m pretty sure it was my hunger, but I ran. Time went on, and I grew Dec 2020||The penchant|16
PROSE almost comfortable this way. Spending my days wandering around, scavenging, finding whatever might be useful. Working out to pass the time, my thin arms filled out and my strength proved useful for the labor throughout the day and fending off thieves. I slept where I found it safe and woke early the next day. Occasionally, I would see another person, but they would just wave and walk along, not wanting a burden to carry them down. Justice and loyalty no longer existed. In fact, I don’t think they ever did. Just something to cover up the cruelty of what happened behind the scenes. The sickening smiles of those in power standing over the weak. It was all the same, except now, money and power couldn’t help you anymore. The hierarchy had demolished and now there was only hunter and prey. Hunters not just being the dangers that came with the new world, but the people. The killers. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but my encounter with the woman who killed my mother and sister changed me, for the better.. I was out scavenging for food when I found them.Just like the ones from high school, insecure and scared, trying to make others cower, stepping on others, all to feel better about themselves. They waved knives in a small girl’s face, threatening to kill her just because they could. I would have walked by, it wasn’t my problem, but they were in my way. And that was troublesome. Going around would’ve taken too long, so I walked straight into it, paying them no mind until one of them snatched the back of my coat. “Hey, where do you think you're going?” He seemed to be barely a teen, with shaggy, wild hair, annoyance all over his face. The other boy, similar, only with a different appearance, but the same air of annoyance. “You’re not scared, are you? Just walking in on our little situation.” He glared at me. “Well, it’s about time you learned some manners.”
17|The penchant||DEC 2020
He threw me against the wall, or rather, tried to, but his little fling didn’t move my body an inch. He tried again, but nothing happened. The momentary humiliation passed and he shoved me with his full body weight, bringing his knife to my throat, and he started to speak. "I'm going to teach you a lesson." He growled. "I'll give you 3 seconds to kneel and beg me to let you leave." I wasn't prideful, and though I knew I could easily take this guy down, it would just be faster to give him what he wants and leave. So I knelt, asking him to let me leave. He seemed shocked I had actually done it. I expected him to let me leave, but his shock turned into a sick smile. His friend joined him. It was one word, but it was enough to infuriate me. "Grovel," he ordered, and
And now there
hunter and prey
was only . . .
though I was not prideful, humiliation wasn't on my to-do list. Standing up, I started to walk away, until he grabbed me again. "I SAID, GROVEL!" he demanded, louder, my previous compliance fueling his attitude. I expected him to say more, but apparently, my actions had given him enough confidence to actually hurt me. Raising his fist, the impact of the punch threw my head to the side. He smiled again but didn’t stop there. Seriously, some people were
messed up. This time, he grabbed his knife. My fury grew in that one punch ‘cause heck, I was human too. Instincts kicking in, I pulled out the small dagger at my side and sliced. Right across the center of his face. Screaming. Too loud. I looked to my side and saw her frozen, tears streaming down her face. I panicked. I wasn't the nicest, but I wasn't cruel. I couldn’t let an innocent child see this. I hugged her to my chest and stabbed my dagger into the boy's chest. He dropped. I guess he was a kid too, but he wasn't innocent in the slightest. A crime was a crime, after all, no prejudice. I felt the kid shake in my arms as I looked at the other boy. He seemed petrified, but he was an accomplice. Had he learned his lesson? I stared at the fear that eradicated his previous smile. No, people never change. They never did and they never would. He turned, starting to run, but I launched my dagger. A dart, straight into the bullseye of the target. His heart. Falling forward, the knife was pushed just a bit upward as he hit the ground.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm down the adrenaline rushing through my veins. That was when I remembered the kid. I knelt down to her, tear tracks dry and sticky, and smiled. I guess I must have looked pretty terrifying because the next thing she did was start screaming. Trying to hush her, I put my finger to her lips, gently asking her to calm down, She didn’t. I clapped a hand over her mouth, again, signaling her to quiet down. When finally she did, I ushered her forward, telling her to go on, find her family, and waving goodbye. She was cute, but I didn’t have time to look after her. I had to leave and taking her along would be an additional mouth to feed, another person to take care of, a burden. Every second I wasted was another valuable resource lost in the crazed fight of the animals we call humans. As I grabbed my knife from out of the accomplice’s back, I looked at the criminal. His face was turned to the side, eyes open wide, mouth slack. Quiet. No more was that horrible air of false power around him. It was quiet, peaceful.
A crime was a crime, after all, no prejudice Dec 2020||The penchant|18
PROSE He almost looked innocent. I smiled. It was nice to see a change. When I ran into the girl again, I was surprised. Usually, I wouldn’t see the same people twice, since I was always on the move. The second she spotted me, she hid behind a tall lady with brown hair and green eyes, who I assumed to be her mother, two men, one with the same shade of brown eyes, lighter hair, and the other, darker brown eyes, black hair. Another girl, seeming around the same age as me. Thin, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes. One of the men whispered to the girl and she nodded. In that instant, all their eyes hardened, pointing glares at me as they pulled out weapons. A club, an ax, a sword, a whip. Interesting range, I thought, before they started charging. The tall woman in the front and the man beside her started shouting, screaming. Their battle cries targeted at me. It was startling, too loud. I jumped out of the way of a club. Dodging, running, blocking, but never attacking. I saw the girl out of the corner of my eyes. The sound was clouding my thoughts. My senses were dimming. They were too loud. I started fighting back. I saved her. I saved the girl, and her family attacks me for it? SERIOUSLY? My knife dug into an arm. Another scream. Too loud. I was wrong. I thought she was innocent, but I guess not. Her family sure wasn’t, as they tried to kill the one who had saved their child. And people never change, so they would have to die here. Fury churned into adrenaline as I darted between each of the four people, blocking, hitting, stabbing, dodging, running, punching, fighting. Yelling. They were still yelling. And then silence. I looked around me. Each of the bodies that attacked me just a few seconds ago were now on the ground insplattered pools of blood. I could feel it on me too, a few scratches here and there, dripping down the side of my cheeks, cascading off the end of my dagger. My breath came quick and hard as I panted, gazing down at the bodies. The stillness interrupted by a shrill
19|The penchant||DEC 2020
scream from my right. Whipping my head to find the origin of the sound, my eyes landed on the child. The girl. The girl was running towards me, tears streaming down her face, a little pocket knife clutched in her hands. It was… pathetic. This was a child, but not an innocent one, and people never change. When she finally reached me all I had to do was stretch out my hand. My dagger slid straight through her jacket and she slumped. Five bodies, no noise. It was silent. Peaceful. Quiet. Kneeling down to look at their faces, they looked peaceful too. The kid looked innocent, was innocent at that moment, without the evil in her mind. Just how I liked it. I smiled, as I leaned against a wall. The world seemed so much more peaceful without noise, without bad people. And I had filled in my quota for the day. More than that, it was nice. No noise. It was.. fun. Why shouldn't I enjoy myself? But I’m not cruel. I’m not going to hurt the ones that don’t bother me, that wave with a small smile and appreciate their and everyone’s efforts. That were innocent, at least around me. No, I was just going to kill the ones like the bodies littered on the ground around me had been. It occurred to me that the hero would never think something like this. When I read books, I had been amused by their ideals, inspired, amazed, and I enjoyed it. But the hero had never shown up. And I certainly wasn’t it. I was more along the lines of some sort of twisted villain. But I wouldn’t do any harm. I wasn’t going to blow up buildings, declaring my plans for the world to hear. I was just going to make it so there would be fewer criminals, less noise, and life would be peaceful. I might be seen as a villain, but that wasn’t my problem. Other’s misconceptions wouldn’t be a part of my life unless they affected me. I smiled. The thought of killing people that posed problems, that weren’t innocent, was becoming more appealing by the second. “Yea,” I thought to myself, my smile growing, “It would be fun.”
And people never change, so they would have to die here
Dec 2020||The penchant|20
PROSE
COLLEGE APPLICATION OF A
by jonathan cheng SCHADENFREUDE
Activities List: 1) Author of “Experiencing Schadenfreude” 52 wks/yr, 2 hrs/wk a) Wrote best-selling biography of experiences, featured on NYT 2) President of Schadenfreude Club 40 wks/yr, 3 hrs/wk a) Planned discussions about member’s experiences, hosted poem workshops to express our Schadenfreude sides 3) CEO of Schadenfreudes Against Homelessness 40 wks/yr, 2 hrs/wk a) Started non-profit to unite Schadenfreude against homelessness, hosted can food drives and talked to homeless people to learn more about their experiences 4) Theater 12 wks/yr, 10 hrs/wk a) Played Friar Lawrence in a performance of “Romeo and Juliet”
21|The penchant||DEC 2020
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, please share your story. When I was in elementary school, my friend Matthew tripped over a sidewalk ledge, breaking his nose. As blood flowed from his nose, a grin formed on my mouth. How could a person be so silly as to not look at where they were going? Before I could realize the repercussions of my actions, I let out uncontrollable laughter. Despite the incident, Matthew would still be my friend. I would still offer him chips at lunch, even though I only offered the ones that had fallen on the ground. I would still allow him to play on my Nintendo Switch, but only the hardest levels where I could watch him miserably fail. It had seemed that with every interaction with Matthew I sought to bask in his suffering. When I was in middle
school, I became an avid reader and discovered the world of dystopian novels. The gruesome and depressing nature of the novels attracted me. As I relished each page, I rooted for the oppressive, totalitarian governments. I wanted the citizens to feel pain. I wanted to see their anguish. It was too bad that I soon discovered that with every Young Adult novel, there’s always a happy ending, even in a dystopian novel. I ended up going to my favorite English teacher, Mrs. Schultz, to ask for book recommendations. With vehement passion, I described what I felt was missing in every book I had read. I sought more gruesome torture scenes and painful betrayals. I wanted to read more about death and less about joy. Mrs. Schultz certainly had a unique look on her face as she listened to my complaints. When she stood up to go to her class bookshelf to find a book, she knocked a coffee mug from her desk. As the mug fell towards the ground in almost slow motion, I
could feel the excitement growing within me. The mug shattered on impact, spilling shards across the floor. Mrs. Schultz swore in frustration while I bit my tongue to hold back laughter. Mrs. Schultz scrambled for the broom by the bookshelf, running over towards the back of the classroom. As she grabbed on the broom in a rush, her motion created a force that brought the bookshelf tumbling down. The books splattered onto the ground. As I walked over to the mess, atop the haphazard pile lay a dictionary, its ruffled pages opening at an entry which caught my eye. Schadenfreude. It was then when I first discovered this word. I found that schadenfreude was the perfect word to describe the unusual pleasure I had in other people’s sufferings. I felt incredibly happy, knowing that there was a term for people like me and that I was definitely not the only one. When I was in high school, I tried to hide the fact that I was a schadenfreude, but there were so many close calls. I had plenty of friends. I genuinely loved them, but it would not stop the tendencies for me to feel pleasure in their sufferings. One time my friend Brandon failed his Calculus test. He had started studying weeks ago, pouring overpractice material and attending study sessions. Yet, he still failed. I tried my best to comfort him, but I found his
situation terribly ironic. How could one study so hard, but still do so poorly? For the next test, I offered to send him more practice material and tutor him. However, I secretly hoped he would fail again and I could once again experience the pleasure of his ironic situation. All of these examples would receive suspicious looks from my friends and peers. However, at the end of my junior year, I decided to announce to the world my true identity: experiencing schadenfreude was a part of my identity and I would be proud of it. Write a note to your future roommate that reveals something about you or that will help your roommate—and us—get to know you better. Dear Future Roommate, I have a confession. I am a schadenfreude. It’s a fancy way of saying that if you happen to sleep past your alarm on the day of your final, leave your key in the dorm, or trip over the stairs on the way to the laundry room, I will laugh. I will laugh not because I don’t care about you. I will laugh because the thought of your irresponsibility, forgetfulness, and inability to account for your surroundings excites me. It makes my heart tingle with joy and mouth water for more. Seeing your suffering gives me this unusual pleasure that I cannot explain on paper. But don’t worry, I’ll still always be there for
you. For every time you are feeling down, I’ll be there. For every time you are stressed, I’ll be there for you. I will make sure to witness every single time you experience suffering. That’s a promise. The process of discovery best advances when people from various backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives come together. How do you see yourself contributing to the diversity of Zoom University’s community? Because I am a schadenfreude, I am confident I will be able to contribute to the diversity of Zoom University. As a schadenfreude, I will be an invaluable member of both academic and social settings. In the classroom, I will make sure to pay attention to when my fellow classmates screw up on exams and assignments. This will motivate my fellow classmates to work harder and push their intellectual boundaries. In the social settings, while most will party at fraternities and join random clubs, I will contribute to the diversity of Zoom University by starting the Schadenfreude club. By doing so, I will allow people from all backgrounds to meet and talk about their unique experiences as being a Schadenfreude.
Seeing your suffering gives me this unusual pleasure that I cannot explain on paper.
Dec 2020||The penchant|22
PROSE Tell us about something that is meaningful to you and why. Within every friend group, there is a schadenfreude. When a friend suffers, they pretend to emphasize, but secretly, they feel pleasure. When a friend is joyful, they pretend to be happy for the friend, but in reality, their heart becomes full of jealousy. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, it’s because you are the schadenfreude.
For too long people have suppressed their schadenfreude sides. Therefore, it is very important to me to speak up for schadenfreude and tell them that it is okay to embrace their unique identity. Through my nonprofit, I encourage people to harness their schadenfreude sides for change!
sever your ties
NEVER AGAIN by rj hob You were the person I went to for everything Closer than I ever was with anyone else I was vulnerable with you Oh how time has passed How much we’ve changed… . . . . . . .
Summer comes, a year after you left And I’m nowhere but miserable, yearning for revenge So I hatch a plan, to learn what you’ve learned To show off my skills, that I’m better than you .
And we were both lost and were there for each other And during that time, I’ll be honest in saying I’d never felt better But when you left, everything changed
See, it’s an attempt at making you hurt You left and were fine While I stayed the same… I STAYED THE SAME. You rose to ground level, while I stayed below…
First I sobbed Then I died Re-emerged as a person of hate The sadness that I had before was now directed at you
I hate the fact that you moved on without the blink of an eye. I hate it so much; I hate that you’re normal! I hate how it’s just me again, back to where I started, when I thought you’d understand what it’s like.
And every passing day, it was just me again, missing what I once had Alone In that drowning void that is Myself
But I’m willing to bet after you healed, you forgot. See, that’s the worst part of it all. After you heal from the pain, you forget how you felt when you had it.
23|The penchant||DEC 2020
So you chose to
with me, ‘cuz I was what? A person who was lost too? So you chose to sever your ties with me, ‘cuz I was what? A person who was lost too? Well, you weren’t lost anymore. And as I reminded you of the time when you had that pain, you decided to say goodbye, and told me the same nonsense that people told you when you were lost: “It’ll be ok, you just gotta love yourself. You might not think it now, but it’ll get better…” I know why you left, I know it makes sense, but… I HATE you more than life, I HATE you more than myself, I hope that you’re happy, and then life screws you up; I hope you fall back down and remember how it FELT! I hope with all my soul and every shred that you cry, cry like I did, so much that it STINGS! See you healed and got what you wanted, became normal again And I, who was I to you? Oh yea, the annoying kid from the past!
POETRY
And I? I’ve only grown in the pain. ENOUGH! How could you do this, be so cold, be so awful? Truly you deserve the worst, I hope Karma gets you! BETRAYAL I want someone to betray you so bad that it ends up Causing you to realize what it was like for me I don’t care if it’s petty. You hurt me alright? And if you’re reading this, then, well… Great that you’ve healed from your wounds, but you made mine worse. Inspired some stories and novels, sure, but what’s that compared to the pain? You think I want to feel this? You’re right I can’t let go But do you really think it gets better? Then get those rainbows out that you’ve put in your head Get out of your dream world, and remember, I’m just like you were. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
You were the person I went to for everything Closer than I ever was with someone Never again… I was vulnerable with you Never, ever again… Oh how time has passed How much you changed
Dec 2020||The penchant|24
POETRY
BITTER FRUIT by ingrid lu
Sharp-toothed, blunt-tongued something Jumps down my throat, Worms its way into my stomach And ties it into knots. It bites, snaps at my core, unbridled and unleashed, Whispers sourness in my ears, curdled, rotten, Begs me to snap an apple from some forbidden branch, Curls into my gut, blackened and shrunken as the figs Shriveled in my backyard, the ones I never dared to taste.
It bites, snaps at my core, unbridled and unleashed 25|The penchant||DEC 2020
POETRY
WONDERLAND by blue
The night is still young. (He exhales.) The moon illuminates the path ahead of him, adorned with shreds of glass and murky puddles. (He places one foot forward.) The bridge arches in front of him, tall, menacing. (He sees cloaked figures— is it just his imagination?) The ground shines, its glassy surface reflecting his dark figure.
The gleam is blinding against the dim background, a sun bursting, a star falling.
(In his hand, he holds the very piece he needs to set himself free.)
(The warmth pulls at his fingers, tickling his skin with a scorchy touch.)
The pitch black night sky stares back at him with a piercing gaze.
What seems like pained howls echo in the distance.
(His hands warm as he hears the crackle.)
(He winces, but his lips curl upwards until his entire face is enveloped by his smile.)
Light, reintroduced into the dark night, burns, expands, explodes. (He sets the torch down, hand stinging, only for it to meet the ground with an ear-deafening crackle.)
The blaze skips, spinning, twirling, a whirlwind of pantone. (He skips, spinning, twirling, gleeful at how free he feels, with destruction behind him.) The sizzling sound grows, until the entire bridge is swallowed in fire.
The night is young. (The night is young, and so is his desire to be free.)
(He hears the sizzling sound grow, until the entire bridge is swallowed in fire.) The night is young. (The night is young, and so is his desire to be free.)
Dec 2020||The penchant|26
POETRY
I AM ….. by oreo I am a good person. In other words, I do what society believes I should do. I am on the honor roll. I am the captain of the Science Olympiad at my school. I am well-liked, popular, and I have no enemies. People tell me that I am charismatic, handsome, or virtuous. By all means, my life is perfect; by all means, my life is full and I am content with my life. I have many friends and I have many acquaintances, all of whom like me. Any obstacle in life, whether it be the SATs, the APs, or the ACTs; be them trials or tribulations, I’ve easily vaulted over each and every single one of them. My life, and by consequence, I, are perfect. So what is this hollowness I feel deep inside? Is it the lack of a challenge? Is it the lack of obstacles that I have never overcome in my life? I don’t know. I don’t know if I ever will know. All I understand is one thing, and one thing only. Deep down, I know it’s wrong. It’s not supposed to be this way. I am virtuous.
Why do I feel this way…? Why do I feel a lurch of joy whenever someone else fails? I should not feel this way over the inferiority of others. A perfect individual should be content with his life, so content that they do not have a drive to seek out competition, but instead feel nothing at all. They should feel neither threatened nor euphoric about their victories; they should understand that such things are only small in the greater context of life and not be caught up in the trivial emotions that come with such trivial accomplishments. So I am not perfect. I am not good. What type of person feels good over the failures or inferiority of others? What type of person feels that inevitable rush of excitement, that burst of euphoria that stretches your mouth into a grin before you realize that you’re in public? What type of person takes joy in others’ misfortune? Me. All me. A fake. That’s what I am. Perpetrating this ruse of being ‘perfect’... of being ‘humble’ and ‘magnanimous’, when in reality I’m nothing more than a manipulative, self-serving person. A liar. That’s who I am. And so… I hate myself.
27|The penchant||DEC 2020
I like myself. Who am I? I don’t know. Should I know? ‘Course not. What’s the point of knowing who you are if you feel threatened by your identity? I mean, take that guy… he’s got everything handed to him on a silver platter. Everyone loves him, and if this were a war I’m sure that everyone would gladly throw their lives away for him. But hell, even that guy, Mr. Perfect, he’s got something deep, deep, dark down. You can’t fool me. You want it that way, don’t you? You want to be perfect, don’t you? You want to be superior in every aspect, don’t you? And yet, ironically, because of that desire, you aren’t. That little frown right after, that little turn of your mouth downwards when you’re alone… you can’t get away from it, can you? That euphoria. You hate it, and you can’t escape it–because you’re addicted to it. You’ve subscribed so much to the ideal of embodying the ‘perfect person’ that your own identity, your own ego, your own pride MUST adhere to this image. What a sham.
That’s why I don't believe in ‘good’ people. Everyone is out for one thing, and one thing only: profit. Kindness? People help others to gain connections and to gain friends. Charity? People give to others to bolster their self-esteem and indulge in shameless self-satisfaction. It’s not like I don’t believe in the existence of virtue, of course. I’m sure that truly good, truly selfless people do exist, somewhere in this world. It’s just that, well, they don’t exist here. Everyone here has one thing in common. A need to feel superior. I’m sure every human that has ever lived feels it at some point or another within their life. And we do whatever it takes to satisfy that desire, that base human need which establishes us as being higher on some preconstructed societal hierarchy. We lie and we cheat to get what we want, and if what we want doesn’t happen, we rationalize our own behavior. We’re not supposed to be wrong; they’re supposed to be wrong. In order to appear right in our own eyes, we aren’t warped; it’s the world that’s warped.
Dec 2020||The penchant|28
xc
POETRY Someone isn’t ‘knowledgeable’ anymore. They’re ‘arrogant’. Someone isn’t ‘charismatic’ anymore. They’re ‘manipulative’. Someone isn’t ‘hardworking’ anymore. They’re ‘obsessed with winning’. In order to save our own shameless sense of pride, in order to preserve that integrity which has long been twisted, we delude ourselves. No one is exempt, as much as they claim to be. Their claims, in fact, serve only to debase their assumption. Cynics have this, too. Their belief that only they see the world and understand it for what it truly is just reeks of pride and arrogance. Their attempts to convert others to this way of thinking, through dark, hate-filled rants about the future sure to come which will render everything meaningless are nothing but a self-serving projection onto the world; a stroke of their ego which justifies themselves in their own eyes. In the end, all of us understand far too well, somewhere deep inside, that there’s something that embodies every single disgusting part about us. Something that gives us a lurch of joy when we see someone fall from the highest peak to the lowest canyon, breaking every bone in their body along the way. Something that gives us a rush of relief when we look over the edge and think, “I’m so glad that’s not me. Something that gives us a rush of gratification when we look over the edge and think, “Hey, they deserved it, anyways.” What’s the point of resisting a base human desire? We humans inherently hope to be superior. What’s wrong with accepting ourselves for who we are? Schadenfreude.
A concept which everyone tries to ignore and everyone pretends doesn’t exist, yet, secretly, deep deep down, they feel. A concept which everyone feels and everyone understands and everyone hates. Everyone except for me. I’m not perfect, and I will never claim to be. But that’s fine, because I don’t want to be perfect. I’m a liar, I’m a scumbag, and people call me the lowest of the low. But that’s okay. I already know that. I don’t bother deluding myself. Reality is what it is. I’m honest. In other words… I am a bad person. But is that so wrong?
29|The penchant||DEC 2020
TRUE LOVE by nichelle wong I didn't want you to feel pain Just hoped that it would rain So I could bring my umbrella And watch your sadness drain I didn't want you to feel worse I just wished to be there first In the oceans or the desert So I could quench your thirst I didn't want to make you bleed Just wanted you in need So you could turn to me; It wasn't out of greed I didn't want to make you cry Just told you a white lie So I could comfort you Through times you'd want to die I didn't want you to be free Not out of hostility But from fear that you would leave Or you'd stop wanting me And you said that I am cuckoo When I told you I love you But it’s not schadenfreude I know deep down it’s true
I know deep down it’s true. Dec 2020||The penchant|30
PHOTO/ART
TORN DOWN Sesani, Adithi, “ROLLING.” 2020
Chen, Nikita, “A GODDESS’S VILLAGE.” 2020
31|The penchant||DEC 2020
Sesani, Adithi, “ECHOES.” 2020
Sesani, Adithi, “GROWTH.” 2020
Sesani, Adithi, “EVERY PIECE IS A STORY.” 2020
Sesani, Adithi, “PEEK-A-BOO.” 2020
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