cymbals 2019: "Spaces"

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“Space for Determination” by Ella Jackson, X: collage

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cymbals

princeton day school 2019

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How It’s Done They’re all looking at you, the wispy fire reflected in their glass eyes. It’s your turn, now speak. You’ve been letting the story slow cook in your brain, making edits on the fly and repeating the complicated parts over and over in your head. Now all the details are perfect. You have a hook to start out. Everyone’s leaned in a little closer now. You’ve felt out the crowd a little more by now so you feel confident enough to throw in that risky joke about the seagull.

They laugh, thank God. At this point you’ve got them. They’re locked in and all you have to do is stick to what’s working. You’re nearing the end of the story and you know what has to happen next. Hit them with the juicy end. Something that’ll instantly break the intense quiet with questions about what’s next. And that’s when you tell them about the robot invasion. Everybody gasps. No one expected the robots to be seagulls, and that’s when tomorrow night’s story pops into your head.

— Aiden York, XII: flash fiction

cymbals seeks to reduce its impact on the environment as much as possible. The cover is printed on Futura 100 lb. Gloss Cover with a UV coating.

Futura supports responsible forest management. This product line carries three chain-of-custody certifications: it is FSC certified, a member of the Sustainable Forestry Initiative, and a member of PEFC, promoting sustainable Forest Management (it is also 10% post-consumer fiber). The inside pages are printed on 30% post-consumer fiber Roland Opaque 80 lb., which is FSC certified and manufactured using renewable biogas energy. The cover title of cymbals is set in 28 point Avant Garde Book, the text is set in 11 pt. Minion Pro, and captions are set in 8.5 pt. Helvetica. The cost of each magazine is financed entirely by cymbals’ annual budget.

This year we printed 400 copies. cymbals is the literary and visual art magazine of Princeton Day School in Princeton, New Jersey. Our submission period lasts from November through February each year; students may submit work at cymbals.submittable.com. Each submission is reviewed by the editorial team without knowing the identity of its author or artist.

Princeton Day School, 650 Great Road, Princeton, NJ 08540 • (609) 924-6700 • www.pds.org Cover artwork: “Fallout” by Yishi Wang, X: photography 2

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cymbals Alec Berger, XII - Editor-in-Chief Mehak Dhaliwal, X- editor Oishika Ghosh Ray, XII - editor Jessie Lin, X - editor Linda Qu, IX - editor

Faculty Advisors: Jamie McCulloch Thomas Quigley

Madison Sings, X - editor

Graphic Designer:

Hannah Su, XI - editor

Paul Legato

Tori Sullivan, X - editor Abby Weinstein, X - editor cymbals is published each year in late May. The magazine is free to all students, and this year we printed 400 copies. Receiving a myriad of literary and visual art submissions, the editorial team reads, contemplates, and discusses each submitted piece based on artistic vision, individual voice, and polished craftsmanship. Through an online submission manager, the identity of each artist is withheld during the selection process.

Our goals as a Pre-K through 12th grade school with an Upper School literary and visual arts magazine are twofold. First, we strive to honor and respect the creative risks that each artist takes, and wherever possible, try to represent all the different voices and visions, no matter the genre, that make Princeton Day School the unique community that it is. Second, we try to be respectful of our audience, which means drawing clear lines about adult content, namely, the portrayal of drugs and alcohol, sex, and violence. When we come across a piece that has artistic merit but that involves drugs, sex, or violence, we ask the following types of questions: “Is the violence gratuitous or is it integral to our understanding of the work? Does the work glorify drug use?” If the answer to either question is “yes,” then we do not publish the work. In our efforts to be respectful of our audience, we also edit or remove vulgar language. And in the interest of showcasing different voices and visions, we limit individual artists to no more that four pieces per issue.

Due to a generous gift from the Löfdahl-Fruchter family, editors and faculty advisors of cymbals are able to award yearly cash prizes of $100 each to one literary and one visual art submission, based on their connection to a theme. This year’s visual arts award recipient is sophomore Yishi Wang for “Fallout” (cover). This year’s writing award recipient is senior Nina Kanamaluru for “Space Between.” While our editorial staff is allowed to submit their work anonymously to the magazine just as any student at Princeton Day School may, their work is not eligible for the Best Visual Art or Writing Awards. This year’s theme is “Space/Spaces” in honor of the 50th anniversary of the 1969 lunar landing. The theme for 2020 will be “Shadows and Light.”

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Table of Contents “Fallout” Yishi Wang, X: photography......................................................................................................................cover “Space Determination” Ella Jackson, X: collage........................................................................................... inside cover “How It’s Done” by Aiden York, XII: flash fiction........................................................................................................... 2 “LNR” by Alec Berger, XII: poetry.................................................................................................................................... 7 “Striped Hills” by Lucy Bailey, XII: acrylic and ink on paper........................................................................................ 7 “The Space Between” by Nina Kanamaluru, XII: short story.................................................................................. 8-11 “Space for Self Love” by Ella Jackson, X: mixed media/collage................................................................................... 12 Gautum Ravipati, IX: furniture design........................................................................................................................... 13 “Space” by Philip Kaplan, XII: flash fiction.............................................................................................................. 14-15 “Earth Can’t Digest Us” by Ella Jackson, X: mixed media............................................................................................ 15 “Memorial Site, Nepal” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography..................................................................................... 16 “Water” by Jenny Zhang, X: ceramics............................................................................................................................. 17 “Case Inlet Retreat” by Tulsi Pari, XI: architecture....................................................................................................... 18 “Networking” by Jacob Therayil, XII: flash fiction........................................................................................................ 19 “Psychedelic Copper” by Annie Zhang, X: acrylic on masonite and resin................................................................ 20 “the moon has craters too” by Nikita Bhardwaj, X: poetry.......................................................................................... 21 “Enough” by Julia Lach, XI: poetry................................................................................................................................. 22 “Grounded in the Sky” by Zoe Jackson, XII: architecture............................................................................................ 23 “A Moment” by Sophie Difazio, X: stick and ink on paper.......................................................................................... 24 “‘cause you’re a young man now” by Walt Emann, XII: poetry................................................................................... 25 “White Light” by Nina Kanamaluru, XII: flash fiction........................................................................................... 26-27 “Guggenheim Table” by Giulia Gershel, XII, flash fiction............................................................................................ 27 “Amon D” by Rebecca Tang, XII: photography............................................................................................................. 28 “Puppets” by Spencer Knerr, XI: flash fiction................................................................................................................ 29 “About Tina” by Isa Hogshire, XII: flash fiction...................................................................................................... 30-31 “Memoria” by Eleanor Ding, X: pastel............................................................................................................................ 32 “I Don’t Mind They Ignore Me” by Ava Roitburg, XII: flash fiction........................................................................... 33 4

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“Breathe” by Maggie Madani, XI: flash fiction.............................................................................................................. 34 “Disappearing Realities” by Bolin Shen, IX: charcoal on paper.................................................................................. 35 “Blurred Belay” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography.................................................................................................. 36 “three ways to fall” by Jessie Lin, X: poetry.................................................................................................................... 37 “Forgiveness Application” by Lydia Pamudji, XII: poetry............................................................................................ 38 Jason Ma, IX: furniture design......................................................................................................................................... 39 “Footloose” by Jenny Zhang, X: photography................................................................................................................ 40 “this might be a love poem but i’m not sure” by Skye Harris, X: poetry.................................................................... 41 “Babel” by Spencer Knerr, XI: flash fiction.................................................................................................................... 42 “Realizing Dvorak” by Hannah Su, XI: architecture..................................................................................................... 43 “Lewis Center in Black and White” by Justin Mortman, XI: architecture................................................................. 44 “Blackbeard” by Pranav Pulakkat, XII: flash fiction..................................................................................................... 45 Walt Emann, XII: furniture design................................................................................................................................. 46 “he doesn’t notice” by Rakesh Potluri, XII: poetry........................................................................................................ 47 “the life cycle of a star” by Jessie Lin, X: poetry............................................................................................................. 48 “Rubik’s Cube” by Hannah Su, XI: architecture............................................................................................................. 49 “The Velvet Box” by Sam Bernardi, XII: short story......................................................................................... 50-51, 53 “Self-Reflection” by Jessie Lin, X: oil on canvas............................................................................................................. 52 “Divide” by Joe Hudicka, XI: photography.................................................................................................................... 53 “Pritzger Prize Collage” by Justin Mortman, XI: architecture..................................................................................... 54 “Ah Ha Moment” by Ava Roitburg, XII: personal narrative........................................................................................ 55 “Self-Portrait” by Rebecca Tang, XII: photography...................................................................................................... 56 “The End” by Caitlin Lee, XI: poetry.............................................................................................................................. 57 “Bobblehead Fred” by Aidan York, XII: flash fiction.............................................................................................. 58-59 “Spaghet Siloutte: The Original Noodle Lady” by Brooke Lauer, IX pencil on paper............................................. 59 “$1.50” by Camille Scordis, X: poetry............................................................................................................................ 60 “Sanctuary” by Eleanor Ding: acrylic on canvas........................................................................................................... 61 “Tree of Life” by Jenny Zhang, X: ceramics.................................................................................................................... 62 “Seven Haiku” by Michelle Zhang, X: poetry................................................................................................................ 63

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“My Stupid Purple Bike” by Sophie Cohen, XI: personal narrative............................................................................ 64 “Strike” by Madison Sings, X, acrylic on paper............................................................................................................. 65 “My Worst Breakup” by Spencer Knerr, XI: flash fiction............................................................................................. 66 “MacBethan Theatre” by Hannah Su, XI: architecture................................................................................................. 67 “Russian Passage” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography.............................................................................................. 68 “I Heard” by Camille Scordis, X: poetry......................................................................................................................... 69 “Heart of Dirt” by Raina Pahade, XI: pen and ink on paper....................................................................................... 70 “Our Old Selves” by Oishika Ghosh Ray, XII: poetry................................................................................................... 71 “Airport” by Sam Bernardi, XII: flash fiction........................................................................................................... 72-73 “Texas” by Sophie Difazio, X: pastel and acrylic on paper........................................................................................... 74 “Cumulus” by Angela Talusan, XII: ceramics................................................................................................................ 75 “Houndstooth” by Nina Kanamaluru, XII: short story.......................................................................................... 76-78 “The Lotus” by Lizzie Dawson, X: ceramics................................................................................................................... 79 “Wood Plate” By Rachel Richter, X: ceramics................................................................................................................ 80 “Seasons” by Caitlin Lee, XI: poetry............................................................................................................................... 81 “A Quiet Morning in Japan” by Jessie Lin, X: oil on canvas......................................................................................... 81 “The Cave of Tiberius” by Rebecca Tang, XII: photography....................................................................................... 82 “Cornwall” by Jake Harris, XII: personal narrative....................................................................................................... 83 “The Queen is Dead” by Hugh Brophy, XII: flash fiction............................................................................................. 84 “Procession” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography....................................................................................................... 85 “Material Supernova” by Kat Lytkowski, XI: photography.......................................................................................... 86 “Room 18” by Alec Berger, XII: flash fiction........................................................................................................... 87-88 “Modern Love” by Madeline Chia, X: collage................................................................................................................ 89 “Immolation” by Alec Berger, XII: photography........................................................................................................... 90 “Montana” by Sophie Cohen, XI: short story.......................................................................................................... 91-93 Index of Contributors....................................................................................................................................................... 94

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LNR I’d like to walk on the moon for a day.

Cut through the pathless surface down into the craters.

Hear those who look past the skies call me the man on the moon.

Conduct the waves, and let the surf be crushed by the very pull and push of my fist.

Bounce from imprints

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of Armstrong to Kubrick and react to their dust.

What I’d give to weightlessly flip and revolve above the crust and gaze upon land and sea from 15 billion inches away.

I’d like to walk on the moon…for a month.

But if I were to wane for more than a moon, I would coast for the crescent and glide towards a New.

— Alec Berger, XII: poetry

“Striped Hills” by Lucy Bailey, XII: acrylic and ink on paper 7

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The Space Between – Winner: Best Writing “This is it,” I say. “This is when we get to be crazy.”

“You’re always crazy,” Ash says, her teeth flashing like sunlight. “You’re a vampire who loves to wear pink.

That’s crazier than crazy.”

And then we both laugh, and I stick my head out of the sunroof and smile until my dead muscles ache and the wind howls through my teeth. Until the air rushes down my throat and it feels almost like I’m breathing again.

“What’s up, babe,” Jack says, appearing out of nowhere to sling his arm over Ash’s shoulder. It’s a statement, not a question — he neither expects nor wants an answer. “Sorry, didn’t get you a drink. But they’re overpriced anyway.”

Ash smiles up at him, nauseating and sweet like a doctor’s office lollipop, and leans her whole weight against him. I watch him squeeze his arm around her, possessive as a boa constrictor, and ache to punch him in the nose.

“You wanna get out of here,” he says. It’s still not a question. He grins sleazily at her, showing off his perfect teeth, then shoots me a wink, as if somehow I’m his partner in crime here, as if there’s some secret that we’re both in on.

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Ash just beams up at him again and blinks dreamily, her gaze distant. Jack’s grin goes even wider at that.

“Let’s go, babe.” His arm still firmly around her shoulders, he steers Ash away from me. The pink of Ash’s hair is the last thing I see before the crowd closes back behind them.

I turn, leaving my still-full drink on the bar behind me, and shove my way out of the club to wait by the car.

Jack is beautiful like this.

His eyes are glassy, his pupils blown wide, his head thrown back to give me access to his shining white neck. His stubble is sandpapery against my lips, but his flesh is so unbearably soft as it gives way under my fangs.

I drink slowly, pulling the blood gently, carefully from his neck. His pulse thumps against my hand, the one cradling his neck, but it’s so slow now. He’s barely alive anymore, each breath slow and shallow. I could do it right now, I think. I could kill him, and he would thank me.

A hand brushes my shoulder. I savor one last coppery mouthful before pulling away from Jack’s neck.

“You good?” Ash says, her voice gratingly loud

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against Jack’s soft, shuddering breaths. She doesn’t understand the need for silence right now, the sanctity of this moment.

“I’ll take care of him,” she says. I lick my lips and nod.

The bite marks on Jack’s neck are slowly oozing blood, so dark and thick it looks like mud, or maybe melted chocolate.

Ash squeezes my shoulder before letting go to kneel beside Jack. She wipes the blood from his skin, then disinfects the wounds with the travel sized bottle of hydrogen peroxide in her utilitarian purse. As she carefully lays gauze on the wound and winds bandages on top, I watch her hands. She’s not cruel, doesn’t shove him, but there’s no gentleness here.

Her purple-painted nails scrape his skin sometimes, and she barely supports his head as it lolls back.

“Alright,” Ash says, dropping Jack back on the floor and standing up, wiping her hands on her jeans.

“Let’s go.”

The desert’s brand of red is bright and foreign, even to me — these burnt sands are nothing like the rocky New England soil that I know so intimately. Our pink convertible flies down the highway, swinging around the curves and roaring down the straightaways.

In the driver’s seat, Ash works her way steadly through a bag of Swedish Fish. Her eyes flicker between her food and the radio dials and the electric blue sky and never once stray to the road. Once, as

she shouts along to some electropop song, she accidentally offers me a Swedish Fish.

I take it and toss it back into her face, hitting her right in the cheek.

“You know I can’t eat that crap.”

“What the f-k is your problem?” she says, but she’s laughing at me. “Throw it again, this time I’ll catch it.”

She hands the candy back to me, her hands sticky and sugar-stained. I lob it high in the air, watch it spin once, twice, before it lands perfectly between her parted lips.

Ash throws her head back and grins bright and savage, and for just one moment, her red-stained mouth looks more deadly than mine ever has.

The bell rings as Ash and I walk into the gas station convenience store. The tired, mousy cashier tosses a bored glance our way, before suddenly snapping fully awake. She’s looking at Ash — they always are.

Ash smiles at her, sweet and clean and pretty. It’s disconcerting, how easily she turns into a wholesome college girl, out for a big road trip adventure.

“What do we need?” she asks in a low voice.

“Deodorant, chips, water bottles, and Red Bull, right?”

Of course, that’s not what we’re really here for, but all I say is “We need toothpaste too.”

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Ash nods and heads off towards the cashier, her innocent, intelligent smile back in place. She leans on the counter and says something to the other girl, too quiet for me to hear.

As I shove Doritos into a shopping basket, the cashier’s laugh rings out through the store, clear and crisp as the blue sky outside, and I just know that this is going to be good.

The gas station is no longer empty when Ash and I step out of the convenience store. In a few minutes, the cashier will probably wake up with a bandage on her neck and wonder how it got there. Maybe she’ll remember Ash’s face, remember the lovely girl who smiled so kindly and then threw her to a wolf.

The sunlight slants yellow across the white sedan parked in front of the convenience store. The driver steps out, a crooked, oily smile on his face. It disappears the moment he sees us.

“Ash?” Jack says, pale and stricken, and of course hers is the name he says first. For a moment, his slick confidence is missing, and in its place is the terror of a child, looking upon the monster under the bed.

Then, of course, his face crystallizes into a perfect sneer again, and he draws himself up tall.

“I’m calling the police,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “You freaks aren’t getting away with this.”

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for answers, orders, anything, but I have nothing. Her face hardens, and she turns back to him.

“Hi, Jack,” she says, and whatever is in her eyes makes him stop dialing. “Babe, wait in the car. The two of us need to talk.”

She steps towards him, and he mirrors her, lifting his chin. As one, they turn away to walk behind the gas station, beginning to talk quietly and furiously, her pink head bent beside his black one.

“Let’s go,” Ash says, climbing into the passenger seat.

She’s breathing hard and shaking, and her face is red, and she looks breathlessly, fundamentally alive .

When she looks at me, her eyes harder than diamonds, I already know what she’s done.

“You killed him,” I say, and even I can hear how hollow my voice sounds. “You killed him, Ash.” “Yeah. I did.” Her voice is soft but assured, as though she’s trying to reassure me, to promise that it’s alright that a man is dead, that she killed him right here in the middle of nowhere, under the electric desert sky.

How did she do it? Was there a weapon, maybe, a secret switchblade or hidden handgun that she never showed me? Or did she use her hands? Did she strangle him, her fingers, always precise, never gentle, pressing tightly against the bite mark I left behind?

I’ve always known my fangs were deadly, but I never considered how much damage Ash’s manicured nails could do.

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“Why did you do it,” I say. It’s not a question — I already know her answer, and she can tell that I know it.

“You wouldn’t have done it. You wouldn’t have let me,” she says, now with a touch of impatience scraping at her voice.

“Ash, why,” I say again.

“I did what needed to be done,” she says, but the cliché is too well-worn to work, and she knows this even as she says it.

I don’t say anything, because she knows what I would tell her if I opened my mouth. Everything we could possibly do seems to have already been done, in a fight that never happened but that I can still see, distorted and blurry, as if underwater. I know her, and she knows me, and we both know that this is the end of our glory days.

“Babe,” she tries, one last time, her hand on my cheek forcing me to look at her. “Babe, I did it for you. I do everything for you.”

Still I say nothing.

“I know you don’t understand, but I want you to be safe.” She sounds like she’s reading from a script, like the words are being pulled out of her chest in the air, though they will change nothing, because he is dead, and Ash thinks that I don’t understand why.

words until they sound impossibly small and broken.

“You know I can’t.”

“I know,” she says, and this doesn’t sound scripted or rehearsed, but like she is exhaling, like she’s stepped out of the theater lights into the backstage darkness.

“I know you can’t. And you know I couldn’t do it any other way.”

She reaches for the car door, and steps out into the bright sunshine of the parking lot. I start the car, and the top is still down from the drive here, and I can see the tears on her cheeks, and the light is shining off of her pink hair which is fading back to bleached blond, and she is sobbing openly now, and so am I, and this is it.

“I love you,” she says, because she knows it needs to be said one last time. “I love you, crazy.”

I don’t say it back — I don’t need to.

As I drive away, I can see her standing motionless, her hair a spot of pink between the burnt sands and shining sky. Then, silently, she turns her back and walks into the gas station, and just like that, we are done. A plume of smoke rises high into the sky — Jack’s body, probably. I close my eyes, grip the steering wheel tight, and say goodbye to the last days of our summer.

— Nina Kanamaluru, XII: short story

“I can’t, Ash,” I whisper, my throat squeezing the 11

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“Space for Self Love” by Ella Jackson, X: mixed media

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Gautam Ravipati, IX: furniture design 13

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Space My biggest fear is alien abduction. Mostly because extra-terrestrial probes seem excruciatingly painful based on what I’ve heard. I’m not even a great choice anyway because I had a kidney transplant two and a half years ago. They would see my loose, mismatched kidney and be like,” Whoa, that’s f-ked up. Is it like that for all people?” I’m an outlier, useless data, so they shouldn’t even try to probe me in the first place.

My uncle got abducted once. He had a ranch out in Utah, massive acreage, land for miles that was only used by him and the cattle. His story always starts that same way: “New Mexico, 1973. I was on shrooms.” I tend to write off most of his stories, mostly due to his notorious drug use (LSD, Shrooms, DMT, and the occasional rail of coke), and the fact that he remembers some “f-ing radical adventures” (his words), yet has totally forgotten large swaths of his life. He couldn’t tell you what he did, where he went, and who he talked to from 1988 until 1994, and right before my family was going to assume his untimely demise, he showed up nude and covered in mulch and pine leaves. And he was being pursued by angry silver back gorillas.

This turned out to be a side effect of the acid.

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But he really was abducted by aliens. I know this because I know my uncle. Correction: I know when he’s bs-ing. From the way he crosses his arms when he’s about to recount a fist fight that never happened to the number of times I’ve heard him tell the same story with completely mismatched details, sometimes combining separate stories into one proverbial odyssey of Grade A baloney. But the family always humor him.

According to my mother this is because, “That crap is all he has.” To the best of my knowledge, the only person who has ever bothered to fact check my uncle was me. I told him “There is no way a skinny-fat balding 26-year-old man can slaughter a mature bull moose with his bear hands. He gazed at me for a few seconds, began to say something, but decided instead to just wink, like the exaggerated wink when someone audibly says, “Wink, wink”. Then, he grabbed his old chore coat and walked out the front door. We didn’t see him for another two years.

So when my uncle sat me down, just me and him, something felt off. He didn’t have an air of confidence around him that came with all of his tall tales. His eyes were downcast, not in sadness but in thought.

“I’m gonna let you in on a secret that no one in this

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family knows.” I stood silently, waiting for him to continue. “I haven’t been truthful about my past. As you know. But I have my reasons. There are some things that are true that I could never tell anyone here. If there is one thing you need to know about me that is not fabricated, that explains who I am, it’s that I was abducted by aliens. I’ve never been the same.” He

continues. His description of the ‘aliens’ is coherent.

He’s told me about their glowing tentacles, pulsating with hues of blue and purple, brighter than the sun yet comforting and warm to the touch. One black eyeball, as if the entire thing is just a pupil.

— Philip Kaplan, XII: flash fiction

“Earth Can’t Digest Us” by Ella Jackson, X: mixed media 15

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“Memorial Site, Nepal” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography

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“Water” by Jenny Zhang, X: ceramics

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“Case Inlet Retreat” by Tulsi Pari, XI: architecture

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Networking Sam stands on his boss’s front lawn. It’s one of those August nights where stepping outside is like walking into another room. Only instead of being greeted by more plaster walls and cheap upholstery and a lack of hard liquor, or any liquor really, he’s surrounded by streets surrounded by houses surrounded by trees surrounded by highways. He lets the cool night air draw heat away from his ears. Sam isn’t an alcoholic, but he does feel like he needs an escape. From the yes-men complimenting his boss’s wife’s famous Dry-As-All-Hell Cobb Salad, and his khakis sticking to his ass as he fidgets in his chair, and the “Hey champs” and “How long have you been working for Charles?” and Bob from HR and Karen from Accounting fondling each other under the dinner table when they haven’t even had any booze. He wants to run past his car and take off sprinting into the Milky Way, blow a kiss to the Pleiades and streak past the moon.

But he doesn’t. He just reaches into the glove box and smokes the joint he left in there from Thursday. After all: he isn’t an alcoholic. And as he makes his way back to the house, he digs his heels into his boss’s putting green lawn.

— Jacob Therayil, XII: flash fiction

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“Psychedelic Copper” by Annie Zhang, X: acrylic on masonite and resin 20

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the moon has craters too on starless nights, i wake up in a cold sweat with it lodged in the canyons of my throat. usually, it burns a hole through my esophagus and drips down to my collarbone, where it ricochets off of knobbly, pore-soaked mountain-tops. and lands with a splat! on my alabaster walls, staining them mahogany, like your hands and the kitchen knife and my stomach

it spills out of my cereal bowl on rainy mornings, when gray whispers of thunder seep through cracks in the crimson walls of my house. the sweet song of lightning hangs like a death sentence, watching, waiting, in damp air. the cloud bursts and torrents of acid rain trickle down, down, to land on my face. they burn, and it reminds me of you

on naked streets where the scent of sewage waltzes with rancid desperation, it creeps into my skin like jaundiced tar. whipping my lungs, sundering my bones, it scalds holes into my arms the same way your cigarette torched craters into the smooth, smooth surface of the moon. —Nikita Bhardwaj, X: poetry

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Enough we spent every long day lying on the dock, waiting for the sun to paint our skin golden; dipping our brown toes into the chill water in the blazing heat.

On hot nights we escaped from her green-paneled lake house and borrowed beach cruisers— hot pink with rust along the rims and no brakes.

At every stop sign we scuffed our feet through the sand and rocks to get the bikes to stop.

It took an hour for us to land at Russell’s Convenience Shop where we bought Kit Kat’s and Hubba Bubba,

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enough to fill the white-painted wicker baskets on our bikes.

The ride back always felt longer and more tiring— pushing our bikes up the steep blue hills.

—Julia Lach, XI: poetry

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“Grounded in the Sky” by Zoe Jackson, XII: architecture

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“A Moment” by Sophie Difazio, X: stick and ink on paper

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‘cause you’re a young man now no more squatting down in the grass to pinch an ant and stick it in my teeth. or painting suns and volcanoes and trees with wonderfully messy fingers no more kitchen floor crumbs that stick doors that crunch and porches that splinter. and soft bare soles hanging from autumn dogwood limbs so long to hanna-barbera afternoons and weekends– exit stage left.

—Walt Emann, XII: poetry

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White Light Hao was quiet for most of the winter. She hardly spoke to me, which was nothing new, or to Maddy, which was. She had before seemed a ghost, but now she was even less than that.

I saw her only a few times in those three months.

She wore baggy hoodies with sleeves that covered her hands, and she always had her earbuds in.

According to Maddy, Hao was still spending all her time in the lab where she interned, building robots, and prosthetic limbs, and robots with prosthetic limbs.

Sometimes she brought home half-finished arms, ugly blocky steel things with wires protruding like uncontrollable hairs. She liked to set them on top of the fridge and forget about them. Late at night, when we gathered in the kitchenette, they reflected light that shouldn’t have been there.

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They talked about their projects, about the other people in the lab, about all sorts of things that I understood nothing of, but in between the weak flirting and loud laughter, I picked out pieces alluding to her change.

“Are you trying to fix it?” he said, his gaze darting between her hands and lips. “Can it be undone?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Then, surreptitiously, as if she was baring her soul to him, she rolled back her sleeve to reveal sleek, silver-white metal glowing like a fresh snowfall.

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “Don’t you think it’s more me this way?”

— “Maddy?” I called, walking into our suite. “Can I borrow 10 bucks?”

Once, when I walked alone to the dining hall, I saw her eating dinner with one of her labmates, a tall blond boy with nerd-cool glasses and an oppressively room-filling, air-consuming laugh.

The sight that greeted me was not Maddy making microwavable macaroni, as I had expected, but Hao, warming up some spam. She turned to me and smiled, looking more present than she ever had.

I didn’t know if she wanted me to sit with her or if this was a private conversation, but I sat at their table anyway, two seats down. Her companion spared me half a glance before turning back to her. His eyes seemed magnetized to her mouth.

“Maddy’s out, I think,” she said, still smiling as though her arm wasn’t gleaming metal, reflecting the too-bright fluorescent lights into my eyes. “I’ve got 10 dollars if you need, though.”

“Sure,” I said, cautiously — she hadn’t spoken so

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casually in all the months I’d known her, not even to the boy in the dining hall. “That’d be great.”

As she turned to walk back into her room, the skirt of her old-fashioned pink nightgown swirled around her legs, revealing a glimpse of pale, shining ankle. I craned my neck to see more closely — had it happened again? Had she wanted it to happen again?

“Do you like it?” she said, suddenly standing in front of me with the money, close enough that I could hear the deep mechanical rasp of her breath. Had her teeth always been that lustrous, her hair so stiff and wirelike?

Raising her skirt and baring her metal leg to me, she smiled like a child wearing her first grown-up dress and said, “I don’t think I could ever go back to dull old flesh again.”

— Nina Kanamaluru, XII: flash fiction

“Guggenheim Table” by Giulia Gershel, XII: furniture design

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“Amon D” by Rebecca Tang, XII: photography

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Puppets Puppets scare the living daylights out of me, and having a mother who genuinely believes they are alive makes it even worse. Her whole life is centered around her Puppets, which she creates herself. I wouldn’t consider her an artist, but most people would. Puppets are the only thing she has to hold onto, her steadfast rock in a churning sea of splintered relationships, debt, and irrational fears.

I see her in my mind’s eye, her delighted face gazing fondly down on rows and rows of her handmade Puppets, all based off the same model, a kind of goblin-elf hybrid. She needs a whole room to hold them all, she has so many. When she moved out of her old house because she couldn’t afford it, she made sure to tell her real estate agent to find a new house that had a ‘Puppet room.’ The agent laughed. So she hired a new one.

Each Puppet has a peculiar garb. Lots of pompoms and tassels and ribbons and bells.

When she moves them around, the bells tingle with an ironic sense of impending doom, and the tassels oscillate with sinister zest. She talks to them, and they respond in helium voices. And every now and then, the Puppets will rear their heads back in laughter, emitting a shrill cackle that sounds like spare change and death.

I love her, but I told her it was either me or the Puppets. One of us has to go. She couldn’t bear to part with her goblin-elf children, and the next morning, I found a suitcase with my name on it. She had packed up all my belongings, except my favorite sweater. She was going to cut it up to use for a new child.

I don’t think I ever saw her again. And when I said goodbye to her Puppets, a tingle ran down my body like my spine was a piano and someone was playing a concerto, because the Puppets were weeping and they sounded so hauntingly human.

— Spencer Knerr, XI: flash fiction

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About Tina This is the moment you come back to. Pink and blue florescent lights buzzing on the wall, checkered floors, faulty doors that slam in the wind. Someone drops a plate in the kitchen. Someone else turns on the radio. This is the soundtrack you will replay in your head, over and over, until you’re old, and your limbs are feeble, and your memory withers like crunchy autumn leaves. It’s four o’clock, the usual time. You are sitting across from each other at your favorite booth. Your grandmother covers the table with dirty dishes and old receipts so no one else will sit there. She knows you and Tina Russo will come in, and she says something about how young love makes her food taste better. Well, this is awkward because you aren’t dating.

Lots of things were awkward back then. Your colossal nose, your crooked teeth, the map of blemishes on your forehead. Your grandmother, the proud owner of Santino’s, hobbles over, her robust hips shifting back and forth. She pinches the fleshy tip of your nose, and her old Italian accent seeps between her chapped lips, “Aren’t you lucky you got your grandfather’s looks.” You don’t feel lucky, and to make matters worse, now you smell like flour. The only thing that might be going for you are your crystal clear blue eyes, which Tina always says are “really nice.”

One day, you spot it: a gold charm bracelet dangling on her olive wrist. She spots you spotting her, and she 30

slides her hand under the table before you can ask what it is, who it’s from. That’s when you met him for the first time—not face to face, but in that dark, hidden place in your mind.

You know her so well. You know exactly why she doesn’t introduce him to her parents, her brother Vince, her cousin Nicole, you. Why she suddenly started straightening her nest of black curls, and why she always tells him she goes to church after school. “He’s too good for this,” you once heard her murmur under her breath after you asked to meet him. He has broad shoulders, a mansion in Hartford, a collection of polos that look like Easter.

You imagine his dining room rattles with fine china as his father screams at him, and he screams at his mother, and his mother pours herself another glass of rosé. And when his father is away on business and his mother is, well— you don’t really know where she goes—he throws parties crowded with boys wearing polos just like his and girls who flatiron and highlight their hair to the point where it looks like frayed pieces of straw.

Now, you hate yourself for thinking that if you wore polos instead of thrift-shop jerseys, maybe you would have a shot. You let your eyes drift off into space and your brain conjure up a scenario so vivid you have to work to convince yourself it isn’t reality. She finally invites him to Santino’s, and she spills a milkshake on her lap. He rolls his eyes and makes some comment about what a waste

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of money it was, despite the number of 20 dollar bills you know are tucked away in his wallet. Suddenly, you appear out of nowhere, but not really out of nowhere because in another sense you’ve been there all along. (Note: in this scenario, your nose is less colossal, your mom finally agreed to take you to the dermatologist, and you had grown a couple inches). You tower over his sandy blond head. You look into her brown eyes and say, “Tina Russo, if you spill a milkshake on your lap, I will empty my measly savings account and buy you a new one in every flavor.” You finally snap yourself out of this daydream and remember the fact that Tina hasn’t come by the restaurant since you told her you loved her. You promise yourself that you’ll come up with a better pick-up line.

Your knowledge of Tina in actuality can be boiled down to the glimpse you caught of her last week turning the street corner. Platinum blond hair, his sport coat draped over her shoulders. But, it’s the memory of Tina and her volumes of curls that will be all consuming, and the smell of her shampoo will linger just above your nose, and you’ll chase it until there’s no land left for you to run on — just you and miles of blue.

— Isa Hogshire, XII: flash fiction

It’s been three years. You’re standing outside Santino’s at four o’clock, the usual time. You wonder if she actually goes to church after school now because maybe as your mind was turning away, conjuring up images of a greater version of yourself, hers was too. And maybe sometimes, you actually get to become the hero of your daydreams.

But most of the time, you remain that unpaid extra, brooding in the background. You’re 18 now, and you’ve swapped out that jersey for a leather jacket and sworn off anything that could be dubbed mainstream or inauthentic. And after graduation, you’ll do that smallliberal-arts-college-in-the-Midwest thing because you’re certain people are “real” in Ohio.

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“Memoria” by Eleanor Ding, X: pastel on paper

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I Don’t Mind They Ignore Me We cross paths every time the clock arrives at 5:29pm, just before dusk falls. As I turn the corner, I see them walking over the run down bridge that is next to the red house with the broken windows and creaky staircase. Their eyes are locked on the road ahead, glaring past me. They don’t crack a smile or exchange a friendly wave. I like it that way. I’d rather peer over my hands on the steering wheel to get a closer look.

I can tell they have been by each other’s sides since the day they came into this world. They are young, I would say mid-twenties. They dress the same, but only sometimes. Sometimes, they wear the same thing, but in different colors. Last time it was a cool evening. They appeared in jackets: one in blue and the other in pink. They wore the same black leggings. They buried their heads in the collar of their coat to avoid wind burn. All I could see was their hair. It was tied back in a high pony-tail; they both swung in sync.

The creepy twins. That’s what I call them.

I wonder if they have a name for me.

— Ava Roitburg, XII: personal narrative

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Breathe Falling. Swirling. Black and white smearing, too blurry to be specific. More rapid swirling. Still falling. My anxiety solidifies and rolls down my back. I take a breath, faster. Pause, so I read, “Cambodia.” “Do you have a phone?” “How far is Jersey?” “But I don’t have any money.” “I don’t even have a plan.” Jet black ink drips down from the Cambodian skies and swallows me, blinding me, tossing my body and crashing my hand into a door knob, but it all keeps spinning.

I’m on my back. The spinning surroundings turn into a light shade of forget-me-not spattered with fluffernutter. The surroundings stop spinning, but the fluffernutter remains, taking the form of bunnies, astronauts, and the Eiffel Tower. My arms lay stretched out as my fists clench onto the grass just so I can make sure — My hand yanks weeds and the ground goes with me. Falling hundreds of feet underneath the forget-me-not realm. Smack. Plummeting past the surface into the dark seas. Shadows move by me, but I’m too deep to see. When it grazes my instep, I remember the magazines say to punch them in their eyes. But I forget to hold my breath and water is filling my lungs and I’m throwing my limbs and I’m in a cemetery, in a coffin, in a hole. I stand and look the priest in the eye. Both eyes. My lips move and I feel pain from the strain of my vocal cords, but I can’t even hear me. Chunks of dirt raining on me and I look to see who’s doing the flinging, but there’s nobody. Just me and the priest. Whoever was using the shovel got dirt in my eyes.

— Maggie Madani, XI: flash fiction

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“Disappearing Realities” by Bolin Shen, IX: charcoal on paper

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“Blurrred Belay” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography

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c y m b a l s c2y0m 19b a: l ss p a e / spaces 2c 0 19

three ways to fall 1.

2.

3.

down like ashes, ashes, she crashes to the ground in a posy filled slump, her brain whirling like the spinning teacup rides, the world blurs and she is happy free laughing along the yellow brick road with a basket of candy and lace and and and and—

in love with the boy who rides a harley dangling a cigarette between his fingertips, now a man who calls his mother every sunday morning as if without it time would skip like a broken record— the scratch against vinyl sounds just like his voice.

asleep with a half-empty glass of bourbon and liquid ecstasy, her skull a bowling ball lolling against the granite of the bar— striking herself into the gutter.

— Jessie Lin, X: poetry

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Forgiveness Application Name:________________________ • Failed to accept that you were wrong Am I supposed to forgive you • Broke me because you __________________ ?

• Forgot to clean up the mess (Select at least one) you made • Didn’t know any better • Treated me like crap • Underestimated me • Tried to make it up to me • Never meant to hurt me • Think you deserve it • Were never like this with • Just want sympathy other people • Claim you won’t do it again • Were entitled to your opinion • Were forgiven by everyone else • Had better matters to take care of • Other:_____________________ • Left me out to dry • Lied to protect yourself Writing Prompt: • Just had a bad day So why would I forgive you?

• Couldn’t control yourself Word limit: 0 • Weren’t listening to me There’s nothing more you can say.

• Played me • Were out of it Date(s) of Wrongdoing: • Only thought about yourself __________________________ • Ignored those around you You made me__________________ .

• Humiliated me (Select way more than one) • Prioritized the wrong things • Bit off more than you could chew • Freeze • Scream • Put me/others in danger • Sob • Abused my trust • Neglected me when I needed you • Ache • Lose control • Acted out • Push myself way too far • Broke your promise

• Hurt myself

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• Lash out at people who didn’t deserve it • Starve myself • Eat my emotions • Avoid certain people/everyone • Relive painful memories • Worry the people that care about me • Lose things I care about • Unnecessarily question things • Afraid to trust • Have too many doubts • Unable to sleep • Unable to get out of bed • Want to abandon this life • Uncomfortable in my own skin • Irrationally fearful • Blind • Numb • Sick • Hopelessly confused • Self-conscious • Completely unconfident • Fragile • Irritable • Restless • Exhausted • Into someone I wasn’t — Lydia Pamudji, XII: poetry

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Jason Ma, IX: furniture design

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“Footloose” by Jenny Zhang, X: photography 40

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this might be a love poem but i’m not sure monday morning i found a single shiny quarter tucked away in the crevice of my left pocket behind a scrunched up a&p receipt (dated two years prior) don’t know what came over me but i cut across the parking lot behind the camera store you took me to for my birthday, walked along rainwater-dipped pathways clinging gently to the inside of a suede brown jacket and i stood in front of the foreclosed gas station nestled between mulberry and 8th and found a cracked gum-ball machine and couldn’t help but reminisce about that time you taught me how to blow gum-ball bubbles, i could never figure out how to do it.

— Skye Harris, X: poetry

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Babel Albert drained the espresso in one gulp, smacking it back on the table. “I’ll have the check, please.”

No one was in the cafe. The barista he’d seen earlier was gone. Sounds of life bubbled from somewhere in the room, but their source was vague.

He shifted a little and bang, his elbow charged into the empty cup, leaving a scatter of ceramic spangles across the tile floor. It would be so cool to play that backwards. Shards jumping back up into a coffee cup.

Like a Lego set, except each plastic brick could draw blood on the slightest touch.

The barista whom Albert had seen earlier emerged from behind the counter; a man who looked one his parents was a gorilla. He didn’t say anything, but retraced his steps and returned with a dustpan.

Tiptoeing to the table, he reclaimed the broken glass with deft strokes of a miniature broom. He didn’t talk. He didn’t breathe. He might be a mute, Albert thought. Or taking his mime homework too seriously.

“I’ll have the check, please.” The man raised his mane, tortured eyes wallowing in the sockets. He swished a hand limply, like he was trying to shoo a fly, mouthing a word at Albert, “Go.” Then he realized the barista was gesturing at the door.

Albert exited onto the swarming sidewalk. Colors whirred by, breathing things and breathing machines.

Carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide. Someone 42

yelling, someone leaning on a horn.

So many languages.

His feet brought him to a park. It wasn’t exactly intentional; it was like he’d blinked and was somewhere else. He was alone, with only a rusty swing-set to talk to. He turned to face the city, and saw a man crossing the street towards the grass island. Sighs of wind tickled his hair.

The man was waving a Czech flag and bellowing something in a foreign language. His head was completely bald, shining like a rogue sun. And his eyes rotated like clothes in a washing machine, alert.

Maybe he’d stolen them from an eagle.

A traffic light changed to green and bang, a taxicab charged into the Czech with a sickening crunch, leaving a splatter of little red droplets across the asphalt. Albert looked at his feet; then, fueled by the caffeine, he looked back at the crosswalk. The crescendo of sirens sounded from a couple blocks down as the man’s crumpled body murmured a final syllable.

It would be so cool to play that backwards. A taxi reversing, a roaring foreign man rising from the blood on the street. A phoenix brandishing a flag.

The sirens shrieked and someone screamed. Wheels turned and feet ran. And here he was, a man named Albert. At least that’s what his passport said.

– Spencer Knerr, XI: flash fiction

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“Realizing Dvorak” by Hannah Su, XI: architecture

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“Lewis Center in Black and White” by Justin Mortman, XI: architecture

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Blackbeard Blackbeard lived on the end of a plank. He spent his whole life swaying his hips to try and keep his balance, stepping back and forth and waving his arms around in circles. Even during a hurricane, he could stay upright and give orders to his men without the slightest wobble in his voice. But every now and then, on a clear day when the sky and the sea were the same blue, he would slip - and then his stomach rose into his lungs and his gall bladder squelched out into his throat again. It took him hours to flail back into a firm footing.

He couldn’t climb onto the deck, because he couldn’t look backwards. Every time he had tried, his back had hit the prow, and he couldn’t turn around to find a way up. Eventually he always slid back down to the end.

His men could see him - every time he slipped, every time he stumbled, every time he pulled himself back up by his fingertips. He had never seen them. He had only ever seen the sea.

He was born on the plank, and he had decided long ago that he would die on it. He refused to drown. When his black beard turned white and his heart stopped, his feet would still be planted on the rotten wood. Then he would fall off and float in the blue.

— Pranav Pulakkat, XII: flash fiction

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Walter Emann, XII: furniture design

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he doesn’t notice but the lists go on, the flies keep buzzing. the tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap of typing. and then one us brings out 10 hammers and wacks his keyboard. wack wack wack wack wack wack wack wack wack wack wack wack. no one even looks up. his list must be beautiful. or they must not hear. but i do. and i laugh. and for the first time in four years, he looks up from his screen, directly into all of our eyes, through all of our eyes, through the GPAs and the eating clubs and the midterms into the back of our skulls, past our scalps, at the red brick walls around us, below us, above us. And without speaking we hear: Wink wink you’re part of the ivy league. This is where we keep the freaks.

— Rakesh Potluri, XII: flash fiction

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the life cycle of a star: a study i. nebula

iii. red supergiant

iv. supernova

the day after you meet, the two of you share star signs and it goes like this: you tell him you’re a pisces, explain the story of aphrodite and her son transforming into fish to escape a monster. he tells you he’s a sagittarius (and the look he sends you shoots an arrow.)

you hold hands as you walk down the street, basking in broad daylight and approval when you agree with each of his thoughts… at night you don’t agree, whispering stop, wait when he pushes you into bed and unzips your skirt. there are crescent moons littered on his arms, his back, (as his thumb presses indentations into your waist, around your throat.) he tugs you by your hair tells you don’t worry and laughs.

he’s a comet, you rationalize— a flash, a brilliant display of beauty and ice.

ii. main sequence it’s a friday afternoon when he tells you he loves you, his thumb tracing constellations against the back of your hand. you imagine him as orion, powerful as he roams, as he hunts— for taurus, the hare, a girl.

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v. black hole it’s a saturday morning when you finally walk away from the asteroid belt. the mirror is covered so you don’t see the craters under your eyes (and you don’t believe in astrology anymore.)

— Jessie Lin, X: poetry

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“Rubik’s Cube” by Hannah Su, XI: architecture

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The Velvet Box You turn the door handle to your apartment and are met with a man’s brains splattering on you. You step inside and close the door behind and see your friend, Chris, standing in front of you. He cleans off the barrel of his nine millimeter glock with a stained blue rag from his leather jacket and makes his way over to the man and his remains.

“I see you’ve met the Slovakian,” he tells you. He wears a proud smile. “Nice shot, right?” You look around your torn up apartment and it is somehow even messier than before. You flick off a piece of the Slovakian from your forearm and tilt your head to the right. “Did ya know this guy was a trumpeter for some orchestra in the Ukraine?” he asks you. You scan the room to try and figure out what happened.

You walk to your coffee table which is split in half and the magazines which occupied it are ripped. You then glance back over your shoulder to the dead Slovakian by your door.

“So what’s he doing here?”

“If he was Louis Armstrong he’d still be in Kiev.” The stench alone is enough to make you sick, never mind your blood-spattered arms and blood-spattered chest and somehow your blood-spattered shoes. You ignore Chris who’s still admiring the hole in the Slovakian’s 50

head and go to the bathroom. You take off your jacket and unbutton your white shirt as you make your way into the shower. You remove the rest of your clothing and climb into your undersized shower when you hear, “Hurry up! We’ve got sh-t to do!” Again, you ignore Chris, and blast the dying hot water. You rub your eyes and see the blood run down your chest, onto your legs, cover your feet, and finally down the drain. As you close your eyes to begin shampooing, Chris barges in and rips open the curtain.

“Jesus, how about a little privacy?”

“No time,” he says while turning off the faucet, “It’s 11:32 which means we won’t get him to Oseetah until at least six.

It is Juliet’s birthday and you take her to a restaurant in Midtown—Mariano’s—to celebrate. You sit across from her in her white blouse and blue skinny jeans while she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She looks at her menu while you are fixated on her and she eventually looks up at you with her soft smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say with a grin. She puts her menu down and leans forward.

“There’s something, I know that little smile, mister.”

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You love when she does that.

into the lobby of your building. You open

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She bites her lip and retires back to her

the door and are surprised—but nonetheless excited—to see who’s standing there. “Hey

menu. She already knows what she wants—Fettuccine Alfredo—but she continues to scan up

Jules.”

and down the plastic-coated pieces of paper.

“Where have you been?” Juliet is standing by your counter. You open your mouth to

“Hi, are you ready to order?” A cute, brunette waitress by the name of Rachel asks you.

explain but her hand-on-waist is enough to shut you up, never mind her answer to her own

You flick your chin up to tell Juliet to go first.

question, ”Let me guess, on a ‘business’ trip with Chris?” You look over at Chris who purses

“Hi, could I have a Caprese Salad and the Fettuccine Alfredo?”

“Sure thing! And for you sir?”

“I’ll have an order of Gnocchi and could we also get a bottle of Rieussec?” Rachel walks away with your order on her notepad and Juliet turns to your, “Rieussec, very fancy, very fancy indeed,” she says with a mock French accent and you let out a laugh. She looks so good in the dim-lighted back room of Mariano’s. She’s going to be your wife. But you’re not ready yet. Tonight is not the night and you tuck the velvet box back into your pocket.

You and Chris are headed back to your apartment on 22nd Street in Gramercy Park and the afternoon sun is beating down on you as you walk

his lips and walks backwards out of the apartment and into the hallway.

“Jules—“ “No. You know what, Ted.” This isn’t good, she always called you Teddy. “I can’t do this anymore.” Her anger has turned into sadness. ”I never know where you’re going. I never know if you’re going to be okay. I never know if when we say goodbye that’s gonna be the last time I see you.” You’ve had this conversation before and you’ve seen those tears in her eyes, but this time feels different. “I still love you, I just—I just can’t.” She heads for the door and stops when she is next to you, you think that you are able to salvage your relationship. A look. A hug.

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“Self-Reflection” by Jessie Lin, X: oil on canvas 52

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Something. But instead, you freeze, and she continues past you.

“Haha that f-ing guy. A trumpeter. Can you believe that?” Chris asks you over Tom Petty’s “American Girl” blasting out of the speakers. You laugh back and continue down the highway as the moonlight shines on you.

“How far are we?”

“We got like two more minutes.”

“Thank God. I bet they could smell him from back home.” The two of you laugh some more and then go silent as you come to a stop on the edge of the Lake.

You park the car 20 feet from the edge of the cliff and head to the trunk of your beat up Volvo station wagon. You stand 100 feet above the water and look down to the lake as Chris opens the trunk and pulls out the Slovakian.

two seconds later, a loud splash. The two of you look over the Lake and see the bag sink as the water above him bubbles. Chris stands and watches the bubbles simmer as you make your way back to the car. You get into the passenger’s seat and pull the velvet box out of your pocket. You slouch there and flick it open and close. Then Chris opens his door and you quickly tuck it back into your jeans. You sink into your seat and drive off.

— Sam Bernardi, XII: short story

“I love this spot,” he tells you. It was a nice spot, overlooking the rest of the water, the surrounding forest, and best of all, no one ever swam down there. You grab the Slovakian’s feet through the blackleather body-bag while Chris takes his head.

“On three?” The metal weights covering the bag are enough to tire your arms.

“Hurry,” you tell Chris.

“One,” you sway him forward, “two,” a sway back, and “three!” You fling the Slovakian over the cliff and

“Divide” by Joe Hudicka, XI: photography

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“Pritzger Prize Collage” by Justin Mortman, XI: architecture

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Ah Ha Moment When you are told to write something creative, the room inside your head is dark. The chains around your wrists are tight. You watch the books fall from the shelves, opening to random memories of the time you fell off of your bike or the summer you spent away from home for the first time.

You flip through chapters of the moments you want to forget and the ones you accidentally shoved deep in your head. You look for the anecdote, but nothing is there except a mess of stories that no one cares about.

Just before you lose all hope, you pick up one last book and skim through the pages. And when you open to page 632, you find your story. Your eyes widen; you hold the memory close to your chest and run out of the darkness, flaming torch in hand.

You approach the desk tucked away in the corner of your bedroom and begin constructing the lies that you need to make you seem more interesting than you really are. — Ava Roitburg, XII: personal narrative

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“Self-Portrait” by Rebecca Tang, XII: photography

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The End So maybe one day I’ll just settle In a pastel senior citizens’ home My life reduced to what can fit onto a dresser top, A life raft.

Some nice woman and I will bond over the side effects of our blood pressure pills And then just settle in together like ribs after a deep sigh.

— Caitlin Lee, XI: poetry

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Bobblehead Fred Whatever you do, don’t end up like Bobblehead Fred.

Mikey’s words rang through my head as I darted through the hole in the wire fence. I knew a shortcut in the woods behind the school that would set me free. Vice Principal Goldberg would definitely not be able to keep up with my monkey frame through the overgrown paths that linked all of Greenwood together. I heard his shouts grow more faint and by the time he got to the hole in the fence, I was in the clear.

Let me explain how I got into this mess, and how I’m going to get out. First of all, I did not cheat on my math minute. I need to get that straight before I begin the story. Everyone knows I practice math minutes every night. That’s how I always win the little erasers that look like animals. Second of all, my desk was clearly facing the wall, there’s no way I was looking at Emma’s paper even if she did get up to use the bathroom. And no, running is not the universal sign of being guilty, I just needed to get home faster.

Back to the story. After picking up my fifth purple giraffe eraser, I got the dreaded, Charlie, please come see me after school. I know I’m not guilty because I can prove it, just ask Mikey. And like, there’s no real point in going all the way to the Vice Principal’s office if I know in my heart I’m innocent, so I left school like anybody else would; I ran out the back door through the playground and past the soccer fields to 58

the hole in the fence. I was passing the slides when I realized Vice Principal Goldberg did not intend to let me go easily, in fact he was running after me rather quickly. This brings us back to how the story began, running for my life praying to god I don’t end up like Bobblehead Fred. Oh? You don’t know who Bobblehead Fred is? What do you mean you don’t know Bobblehead Fred? Everyone knows what happened last year. Okay fine whatever, you must be new.

Frederick Dinkle, more commonly known as Bobblehead Fred, was your average kid. He didn’t get the best grades though, and one day he decided to cheat on his english paper. Fred copied down word for word the script of a Capri Sun commercial where a kid named Fred is turned into a bobblehead for disrespecting a juice pouch. He thought it was funny that he had the same first name as the kid in the commercial. Needless to say, Fred was caught instantly, sent to Vice Principal Goldberg’s office, and never seen again. Since then I haven’t so much as even touched a Capri Sun, let alone disrespect one. As for my situation, I’ll be fine. Goldberg isn’t as fit as he used to be and I have a witness on my side.

Through the fence and into a bush. Yup, I’m hiding in a bush from my principle. If you had the chance to see your principle try to squeeze his size large body through a size small hole, wouldn’t you? I mean come on, that’s hilarious. Only it’s not too funny when he

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actually gets through. The guy teleported through. There’s no other explanation I seriously don’t know how he got through that fence. Goldberg surveyed the area, searching for any sign of my escape. Wait.

Why’s he looking over here. He’s not supposed to do that.

– Aiden York, XII: flash fiction

“Spaghet Siloutte: The Original Noodle Lady” by Brooke Lauer, IX: pencil on paper

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$1.50 I’ll bottle life and sell it to you if you want, For a price of course.

Give me yourself and I’ll give you a bottle, Don’t drink it all at once though, Or else you might feel queasy.

I can sell that too, I can bottle and sell anything.

In fact, I have the essence of infinity Sitting on a shelf in the back.

It’s a dollar fifty.

— Camille Scordis, X: poetry

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“Sanctuary” by Eleanor Ding, X: acrylic on canvas

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“Tree of Life” by Jenny Zhang, X: ceramics

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seven haiku bluebird flock one heart a fresh lake skimming the earth secret morphing sky on the lone cliff edge a wild apple tree bows low reverence till death plum reds dripping gold splatter this mess of a world waltz of sparkly leaves waterdrops echo when i touch your fingertips regrets at twilight black eagle soars high two shadows racing afar cries of an old friend sleepwalker no more ethereal whispers near iridescent eyes hidden in my bones from the ancestors of stars i walk into life — Michelle Zhang, X: poetry

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My Stupid Purple Bike Most of the purple bicycle that I got on my 13th birthday lies flat on its side as if it knows something terrible has happened. The handlebars to that same bike are so far away I wonder if they grew wings and flew over there. The throb of my face, the burn of my knees, and numbness of my mouth make it hard to focus on that stupid purple bicycle. I look down at my scraped up and wine colored knees, my now tie-dyed red and white sneakers, my crumbling hands. Will the gravel ever come out? Will I stop bleeding? Questions hang over my head like the helmet I wasn’t wearing. Blood and fear consume my emotions. I reach for my phone that I tucked into my waistband. Snap. The elastic band rebounds off my tender skin. I don’t feel a thing. A face that I can’t recognize appears on my phone camera. I look like the poster of a horror movie, bloody and frightened and shocked. I can’t hear myself think or feel myself move. The world is too quiet and motionless. I wonder why a car hasn’t

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passed me or helped me or even noticed me.

My trembling fingers brush over my rosy stinging cheeks and swollen lip. I use each heavy breath I take to reassure me that I am okay, and it’s going to be okay, and I am alive, and bleeding everywhere, but I am alive, because I can tell that I’m bleeding, so I have to be alive.

Right ? I take the bottom of my shirt and begin to wipe my blood stained face. A silver Toyota rolls by and I have never been more excited in my life to see a silver Toyota. I am hopeful for the first time and happy for the first time and then I am frantic and confused because the silver Toyota never slows down and I don’t have all my teeth and everything is overwhelming and the trees are blurring into the watercolor sky and the pavement feels like the stiff cots at sleepaway camp and my eyes droop from my salty tears and then everything is black and I am still.

— Sophie Cohen, XI: personal narrative

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“Strike” by Madison Sings, X: acrylic on paper

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My Worst Breakup She breathes in my ear, like she’s telling me a secret. “I think someone’s trying to Poison me.”

She says the word Poison with a capital P. I look around to see if anyone is listening. They aren’t.

“Whaddya mean?”

Her breath tickles my ear again, this time with a sense of urgency. Each breath is a word. “Someone.

Is. Trying. To. Kill. Me. With. Poison. In. The. Water.

Fountain.”

Each word is a breath. She’s using as many breaths as possible before the Grim Reaper appears next to her.

I take off my hood and look at her, screwing up my face like a crumpled-up piece of paper. “Why would someone want to kill you? With poison?”

“I don’t know.” Her fingers untwine themselves from around the Poland Spring bottle, which she presses into her chest. The faded label of the bottle peels like tree bark. She unscrews it, and I watch her throat swell. “It’s water, I promise.” Her laughter tinkles like a thousand tiny bells, but the moment she closes the bottle, the orchestra ceases abruptly.

A muffled chortle erupts from my throat, but it’s short, faint, and a little too late. I play it off as an awkward cough. “Let me get this straight. You think someone poisoned the water fountain because they want to kill you.” I smile.

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The edges of her eyes moisten, and she nods like a bobblehead. “That’s why I brought my own. They’ll stop at nothing.” Her hands cocoon the water bottle again. We’re acquaintances at best, but I can still tell she thinks I think she’s crazy. She’s not wrong.

“Who’s ‘they’?” I make air quotes with my fingers.

“They could be anywhere.” Her head darts to see if anyone is listening. They aren’t.

“And ‘they’ are actively trying to kill you.” I don’t think she realizes I’m making fun of her, because she looks at me with innocent eyes, like a baffled farm animal.

“I know how these things work,” she insists. The Poland Spring bottle disappears under her white knuckles.

“Do you?” I ask, but it’s a rhetorical question.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” And at that moment, I stab the knife into her neck, a few inches above where she holds the bottle. I can’t believe she thought I’d use poison.

— Spencer Knerr, XI: flash fiction

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“MacBethan Theatre” by Hannah Su, XI: architecture 67

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“Russian Passage” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography

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I Heard Hey! Wanna hear something cool?

I guess…

Well, I heard—

From who?

Doesn’t matter

Oh. Okay.

Anyway. I heard that if you stand on the corner of Elm and Johnson—

That’s where my grandma lives!

Shush, do you want to hear or not?

Fine, sorry.

ANYWAY, if you stand on the corner with you back to traffic and count to 73—

Why 73? …

Sorry.

If you count to 73 and lean back into the wind just so it’ll pick you up and fly you down the street.

Bull!

No, really, I’ve tried it.

I don’t believe you.

Fine….wanna hear something else?

Okay.

If you go to the lake at 3:43 in the morning, you know, the one by Jerry’s house?

Yeah.

Well if you go there, and stand on the shore, and hum a b flat, the water will spit the reflections of the stars onto your feet.

Wouldn’t that ruin your shoes?

No, it’s washable.

Oh. Wanna hear one last thing?

Sure.

If you yell as loud as you can, in that corn field behind Smith’s, the moon will yell back.

What does it sound like?

Like cold.

How can something sound like cold?

What does that mean?

Try it yourself then, you’ll understand.

Hey, do you want to know something?

Sure!

They sell bananas for 83 cents a pound at

the market down the street Oh. That’s it?

That’s it.

— Camille Scordis, X: poetry

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“Heart of Dirt” by Raina Pahade, XI: pen and ink on paper

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Our Old Selves We hopped fences and brushed dirt off new cuts. Late at night, we strung up blankets and mud soaked clothes— have you been there since? I want to ask.

The days of our childhood slip past us; packed tightly away, cramped and shrouded in mist.

And you, you have forgotten the way we talked and shrieked and left this tunnel of summer and shimmering lakes behind with all our young, happy dreams.

Do you sleep silently under your quilts and sheets and tales of us, or have you wondered at night how this all changed before we turned twenty?

I remember our old secrets and patterned smocks and the smell of spring around the house and the cicadas in the hot evening.

You have outgrown them all— you with your light hair and sloppy cursive, You with your father’s mouth and mother’s nose.

I remember us, like it or not— a memory or a dream beating against the heavy tide, and what are we but only that?

And do we begin again?

Us, the happy song, the warm wind, the fireflies, when we slept in the sun-soaked garden.

Us, our old selves— and you the forgetful, you the well-loved.

— Oishika Ghosh Ray, XII: poetry

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Airport The table to the right of the entrance is covered in rings from cups and old stirring straws and napkins and packets of cream and sugar. As the last of the morning customers shuffle in, a cool gust of September air follows them. The walls are tan and the floor is a darker tan, like golden honey that melted onto long strips of oak. The floor is plagued by crumbs and excess coffee beans spilling out from giant 30 pound bags next to the big brewing machine. The back of the café is closed for the morning—even if someone was craving ice cream at seven o’clock. I look out the front and see a small airport down the street. Small planes – planes that can’t hold more than 30 people – land every once in awhile. The tables are scattered around the front of the café. The three chairs assigned to each are placed not in a peace sign, but rather a crescent moon. The fold up chalkboard’s joke of the day from yesterday remains visible in the corners and a new one has yet to be added.

An older woman barks at a one of the kids—Liam— because they’re out of her Colombian brew. “I’m sorry ma’am.” “Go whip up a fresh batch for me.” “Oh, um, well I’m uh not particularly sure how to do that, it’s just my second shift.” “Where’s Steven? He’s the only one who knows how to make my Colombian Special.” “I-I’m sorry, just uh.” As he fumbles through the menu and recipe instructions tucked into a nearby

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drawer, the manger comes out to handle Carla. “Hi, Carla.” He’s seen this situation all too many times.

“Colombian Special? Coming right up.” He gives her a can-do smile and arm wave and is unsurprised by her dissatisfaction.

A boy with blond hair and lots of it—dragged in by his mother—sinks to the floor out of boredom as his mother awaits her cappuccino with almond milk and a hint of cinnamon. The mention of cinnamon spurs him to take a visit to the pastry window and stare at the scones which his mother won’t buy for him—but he doesn’t know this. He covers the clean glass with small fingerprints and mesmerizes over all the treats.

What about this one? he says . “No—you don’t need anymore sugar, Timmy.” “But! I! want! one!” The mother glances over to the boy, then back to Liam, then to her purse to search for her wallet. She finally slips the credit card over the counter and brushes her hair back with both hands. “Oh, I’m sorry we don’t accept American Express on orders less than five dollars.” She sighs and surrenders to her son’s request.

“Okay, I’ll take a Cinnabon, too.”

The man who, based on his apron, works at the grocery store on the other side of the parking lot comes in at his usual time of 7:37 a.m. He waits in line peacefully amidst the chaos behind the counter and the growingly impatient customers. After more

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difficult people order their even more difficult beverages, he finally approaches the register. “Coffee, black, whatever brew you have, sweetheart. Milk’s fine—I can add cream and sugar.” He gives the girl, Hope, a warm smile and proceeds to the couches for a newspaper. As Hope finishes his drink, the manager— who’s been absent since Carla—returns to whisper something into the girl’s ear. She uses her left hand to push open the door and places the coffee on the side table next to the man. “Thank you, have a nice day.”

The man then catches me observing him and gives a slight nod before taking a sip of his cappuccino.

the café. While the morning buzz dies down, we hear a loud crash and jolt our heads in that direction. One by one they make their way up to the windows and I finally join them in watching the smoke rise from down the street. ­­— Sam Bernardi, XII: flash fiction

An elderly man is shuffling towards the nearest seat—a small plate underneath his shot glass of an Americano—when his shaky hands finally spill the drink over the side of the cup and eventually, all over the floor. The white porcelain shatters across the wooden floorboard as the manager peaks his head out from the back room. “Liam!” He snaps his fingers twice and points. “Ok, boss. I can’t believe this guy. He should’ve just asked me to bring it to him.

Stupid old man.” It’s still early in the morning but he’s ready to clock out and spend the rest of his Saturday afternoon watching TV and relaxing on the couch.

But for now, he’s stuck brushing remains of a plate and cup into a dustpan and mopping spilled coffee off of a floor.

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“Texas” by Sophie Difazio, X: pastel and acrylic on paper

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“Cumulus� by Angela Talusan, XII: ceramics

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Houndstooth If you sit in the right spot in the Barnes and Noble Starbucks, right next to the stand advertising Godiva chocolates that nobody has ever even considered buying, you can catch a glimpse of the couches hidden among the shelves of travel guides.

Those couches are unique to each and every Barnes and Noble location (I’d know — I make it a habit to visit as many stores as possible).

I think they do it to add a personal touch to each store. I won’t act like it doesn’t work, though, because I can still remember the ones at the Barnes and Noble near the house where I grew up, way back in Philly Suburb #3, Pennsylvania. Those couches were black and white, with these funny tile patterns that my eight-year-old mind remembered as triangles. (In retrospect, it was probably houndstooth.)

That was a two-story store, and those chairs were in a little corner of the second floor, tucked away in the adult crime fiction section, surrounded on two sides by enormous glass windows that overlooked the parking lot and the street. I don’t know why, but in my memory, they’re always impossible to see through, covered in so much gray rain that the whole outside world seems to be drowning.

My mom used to leave me there every Saturday, probably to get me out of her hair. While she sat downstairs in the in-store Starbucks and sketched 76

new building proposals, I would make my way through the children’s section, collecting books as I went (mostly badly written fantasy, but then again, I was eight), before curling up in those beautifully patterned chairs on the upper floor. Somehow, when I think back, it seems the other couches were always empty, leaving just me and the rain and my stories.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t lonely or anything back then. Well, I don’t remember being lonely. I think if anyone had shown up and tried to sit next to me, I would have hurled my little body out of those floorto-ceiling windows. That was my spot, and I was one hell of a whiner. The only person I would have allowed to sit with me was my mom, and she wasn’t particularly interested in reading with her kid daughter, or even sitting next to me, really.

I see that at this store, too, of course. I can’t ever get up from these chairs, especially on weekends, because some mom always tries to snag my seat to park her snotty kid there while she browses the bodice-rippers across the aisle. (Yeah, maybe it’s mean of me to say, but it wasn’t exactly polite to steal my seat, was it?)

Honestly, this place attracts so many of the same assholes. There are the college kids, of course, but there’s also the old white couples, the millennial office workers slaving away on their laptops, and the middle schoolers who couldn’t snag a seat on the couches.

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The middle schoolers are my favorite. Not to be around, but to think about. (Abstractly, while far away from their snippy, conceited, BO-covered presences.) Most of them have a book in their hands; some even have stacks of them piled on their tables, ready to work through them like termites burrowing through the paper.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re not good books. I read most of those books during my time in middle school, and the ones I haven’t read fall squarely within the same category: middle grade novels that somehow give fourteen-year-olds the relationship drama of twenty-somethings. So no, they’re not good, but reading those kinds of books is like a rite of passage. It’s hazing for bibliophiles: read this stuff, then realize that you deserve better than the same three plots rehashed over and over with the same five characters, and then go get better, in the YA section, and then realize you deserve better than that, too, and try to force yourself to read the sort of books that your English teachers rave about, and then, when you realize that those are honestly pretty bad, too, find your own tastes and opinions and identity, because that’s what growing up is about.

But as much as I snark about those middle schoolers now, I still envy those little pubescent demons.

I might have developed my own particular taste in literature, but they actually have the time to read, and they enjoy reading that trash, and honestly, who’s

having a better time right now? They turn the pages, leaping from one book in a series to the next, and I watch them fall in love with reading, with words. I remember falling in love like that, in a different Barnes and Noble, with memory’s rain-spattered windows at my back.

(It’s not the same, of course. I fell in love with books early, at age eight, or maybe even younger, and probably for different reasons. I read The Hobbit alone on the couches of a Barnes and Noble, and for years, I carried Bilbo Baggins like a talisman, like proof that yes, I am capable of loving someone . But those kids have friends, probably — real ones, not fictional Hobbits — and siblings, and two parents, and, like, an actual working smartphone, so yeah, it’s not exactly the same. But it’s close enough.)

I sound ridiculous, I know, because who the hell wants killer acne, and middle school drama, and no car? It’s not that I want to relive those years again, not exactly. I just wish I had gotten a chance to have them — a chance to learn to love reading like a normal person, a little later, with friends sitting at my table in a Barnes and Noble Starbucks. You know, not as a lonely little girl curled up alone in a hidden corner of the crime fiction section, where the only glimpse of the outside world shows the perpetually rainy parking lot. (I wonder if I would love books less, or at least differently, if I had learned to love reading normally — if maybe I could have learned to live 77

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without comparing my world to those that I read about, or if I wouldn’t dream that I had a kind, mischievous old wizard for a grandfather.) I wish for a lot of things, like a mom who could stay at home and take care of me, like other kids’ moms, or a dad, like, literally any kind of dad. I wish that I had had friends in middle school, or siblings, or even neighbors of my own age — anyone who would speak to me during those eternally silent afternoons in our too-big house.

I wish for birthdays that I could remember clearly, not just flashes of yellow walls and shouting if I concentrate hard enough.

Obviously, I know I’m not getting any of that, because you can’t change the past, and even if you could, sitting around and just wishing for stuff wouldn’t change anything. I know that because everyone’s been telling me that for years. But when I come here, in the Barnes and Noble Starbucks that looks almost like the one my mom used to sit in, it’s not easy to rememberto not want shit, okay? It’s not easy.

Okay, this is so clearly not what I set out to do, because I wanted to talk about Barnes and Noble, but I guess I’m just super egotistical (surprise!), because I went and made the whole thing about me. I guess that’s just how it is for me — this place will always remind me of that other Barnes and Noble, and thinking about it will always make me bitter, and introspective, and really fucking depressing. So it’s not exactly possible for me to talk about this store, 78

and just this store.

Sorry, I guess. You probably wanted to know about the coffee or whatever here. It’s a Starbucks. The coffee tastes the same everywhere.

— Nina Kanamaluru, XII: short story

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“The Lotus” by Lizzie Dawson, X: ceramics

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“Wood Plate” by Rachel Richter, X: ceramics

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Seasons December came with tears spilled on rainy mornings about all we couldn’t do and that we wish we’d done.

It always does.

But January stood there in the corner, soft hands open, whispering that endings are beginnings behind masks and that the cold is bound to leave.

It always does.

And please hold tight until September.

The trees undressing will let you know when it’s time to be reborn and i promise spring is coming with daffodils and daisies you can put in your hair until December arrives pounding at your door.

— Caitlin Lee, XI: poetry

“A Quiet Morning in Japan” by Jessie Lin, X: oil on canvas 81

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“The Cave of Tiberius” by Rebecca Tang, XII: photography

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Cornwall I remember cold, rainy drives to the rocky shores of Cornwall. Springing out of the car and almost falling because my legs were hellbent on staying in the curled up position. The building excitement as my parents greeted a somber man at the front desk. My sister and I would wait patiently as the rusty, bronze keys were handed across the front desk, before turning back towards the car and sprinting like the wind. We would speed down the gravel driveway, little rocks spurting out from under our shoes. I won, like always, but my breathless sister never lost the excited grin that plastered her face. From there, it was a short drive along the English coast to our rented home, but I remember feeling as if time had ground to a halt. We rose over the crest of a particularly steep hill and the dark ocean rushed into our vision, sprawled out in every direction.

Waves slamming themselves into the rocky shore, seagulls shrieking from every corner of the sky. I remember the rickety wooden gate, and the ancient front door. I remember how we would laugh and sing in the car. I remember my mom calling us down to breakfast in the morning as sunlight streamed through the ripped curtain. I remember the clamor of the breakfast table. I remember the year my dad had to stay home. I remember the next year when we all had to stay home. Before everyone became too busy with life and work and everything else, I remember when my family would go away together. —Jake Harris, XII: personal narrative

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The Queen is Dead It had been two years since his mother had died, and Raymond hadn’t managed to sell her house. He’d had a contract just about signed with a student from Maynooth, before the boy was attacked by a cow and given a bleed in the brain. He now had no need for a house as his full time residence was in hospital.

His biggest fear was travellers, not in a general sense, but with regards to the house. He’d made certain to lock it up well on the day of his mother’s funeral because travellers only bought the paper for the obituary section. Since then he’d set up CCTV camera, and lent a rake against the sliding door. So if anyone tried to break in, they’d have a rake fall on them.

He wanted the money too. He hadn’t put hand to udder in 15 years, and instead relied on renting his fields out to more driven farmers. He spent his days looking after his golden retrievers (Dex and Danny), and giving his support to the Tottenham Hotspurs.

They needed it.

He hated going back to that house: the cobwebs blanketing the stove his mother used to cook sausages on.

The dartboard on the wall with the 57 he’d scored 3 years ago, and his old Smiths album covered in dust, never to be played again.

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What am I supposed to say next?

I’m an actor butchering my lines.

I look off stage at the director Her face so old and tired. And disappointed.

Who’s hands were calloused from script writing.

Who’s heart was spent from pouring itself out on to page.

She shakes her head as I drag her words across the floor.

I get mild applause From people in the front row Because it would look odd if they didn’t clap.

I look off stage again, but she’s gone now.

Her script has been pushed through a shredder.

And I have to perform the second act.

— Hugh Brophy, XII: flash fiction

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“Procession” by Amon DeVane, XII: photography

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“Material Supernova” by Kat Lytkowski, XI: photography

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Room 18 Vidal let his head indent the blood and sweat speckled pillow even further. Death was inevitable.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on how scared he was…or how much danger he was in. Reed’s Perfect Day echoed on his tinny 12-year-old turntable throughout Room 18 at the Motel 6 off of 95. His phone vibrated out of tune and time…Ricky was updating him. Javi and Beckett were not waiting for ‘their’ money at Bechtel Park anymore. He hadn’t really done anything wrong…he never agreed to fall in the 5th…all they did was stick a fully loaded Colt 1903 in his face and threatened to ‘ruin his pretty little face’.

Snow started to slip through the slit left open in the window and wind rushed, twisting and slashing and pulling and pushing the window open and closed. A continual and residual pounding reverberated from his left ear to his cerebellum—this time it wasn’t from August’s or March’s concussions. It looked to be in sync with the wind’s window. It was in sync with that smudged panes. But the thudding wasn’t metal on metal. It was organic—it was…fleshy. Vidal was contorted by the noise but its repetition slowly lulled him into a shallow slumber.

Vidal floated out of his mangy comforter in a state

no better than before he had fallen asleep. Lou Reed still rasped in the corner. Ricky had called him every hour on the hour for seven hours…on the eighth he missed. His calloused and crooked cuticles crept across the screen to call his brother.

Then the Record Player screeched and scratched— the needle was gone and only cold metal remained.

Before the Boxer could do anything his phone went off. Vidal locked the door before he answered. He hoped, “Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me.” He answered without saying anything. Beckett spoke…or was it Javi. Ricky was dead. Head bashed in inside the bathroom of Libby’s. Images of EMT’s grasping at straws swarmed and pulsed throughout Vidal’s head. Blood stained the diner’s plain white ceramic tile and Ricky’s white buttoned navy blue button down. Javi waltzed out the joint like a parolee out of Rikers.

They said he was next. Well, they said if he didn’t have their 30k. But they knew he didn’t. Death was inevitable.

The storm was working its way up to Hoboken and had finally died down in Wilmington. The pillow was now shaped to Vidal’s scarred and dented skull. Javi and Beckett were surely on their way up. He heard 87

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their ’83 Monte Carlo screech down Gerald Ave. Was it a joyride or were they trying to scare the crap out of him?

Vidal heard Javi’s steel toe boots on the blue striped and moldy carpet. Thudding echoed all the way to his Chiasma past his optic nerves, thundering and crippling him. It was fleshier, bloodier.

He opened his eyes.

He was going down in the 5th. Javi Beckett’s left hook tore him apart and brought him down.

Crimson covered his vision and Vidal melted into the ring in a flooding pool of blood.

Ricky turned his paled face away, muttering his new mantra, “you better not think about it” — Alec Berger, XII: flash fiction

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“Modern Love� by Madeline Chia, X: collage

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“Immolation” by Alec Berger, XII: photography

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Montana One of those nights when the rain never stops, the windows streaked with raindrops and the glow of traffic lights. Red, yellow, then green. My wet hair drips onto the creased pocket of my hoodie as my hand toys with the string bracelet Annie made me at summer camp in sixth grade. My mom drives seven miles under the speed limit in her dented Ford Explorer. “Goin’ On” by the Flaming Lips plays from the car’s busted speakers. The song that has always been ours. I thought I missed this song. But as the second verse begins, the car becomes become smaller and smaller until it’s just me and my compacted body.

“Zack… Earth to Zacky… hello, honey, did you miss this place?”

I haven’t seen my family in eight months. Shortest eight months of my life. Haven’t eaten baked mac and cheese with those brown burnt edges or angrily played “The Game of Life” on Sunday night. We pass three Burger Kings, two Targets, and six Wawas on the way home. Never noticed that. Never really noticed Delaware.

It’s October of junior year. Friday night. 6:30pm. I put on my favorite Sex Pistols long sleeve I thrifted from the Salvation Army next to Lee’s Dry Cleaners. “Hey buddy, have fun tonight, me and your mom are going to try that new Thai place! Be home by 11.”

I miss Montana. Day trips to Granite Peak and Glacier National Park. Ordering breakfast sandwiches with potato and onion hash at Steve’s Cafe on Custer Ave. and the “Heart Stop” at Burger Dive. I miss Matt and Joe and Tim, Elena, and Steven. I even miss sleeping on the bottom bunk and waking up to the incessant buzzing of Mark’s alarm clock.

The car shudders as we hit the pothole at the top off our driveway still unfixed. I let my body unwind from the tight ball of anticipation and nervousness that has been growing since I left New Castle Airport.

The house hasn’t changed since I left. The perfectly painted crimson door, trimmed lawn, and that stupid custom mailbox of Callie, our border collie. “Yeah, yeah, of course I did.” Mom makes an effort to make eye contact before we awkwardly hug over the middle console.

“Aight, sounds good.” I hear the door lock as I casually make my way to the bathroom. I pop a Xanax and check my watch. 6:45. I run through the plans in my head. Pick Morgan up at 7:45, dinner maybe, if she’s hungry, well, it is kind of late, she’s probably eaten, I haven’t eaten, should I eat? I tell myself, like I usually do, Zach you’re good. You’re sooo good. You got this. Yeah. Hell Yeah. I put the TV on and shotgun a few Budweisers from under my bed. My body sinks 91

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into my buttery tempurpedic mattress, I move my bare feet back and forth in the sheets, feeling cracker crumbs scrape my ankles.

I check the clock every ten minutes because, holy crap, I’m going on a date with Morgan. This is happening.

The longest hour of my life passes before I’m on my way to her house. We watch Crazy Stupid Love, and I wait 34 minutes into the movie before I put my arm around her light purple fleece. We eat salted popcorn and drink Cherry Cokes that taste sweeter out of the glass bottle. As our faces come closer during the credits, I worry if my breath smells like popcorn and Cherry Coke, and if she’ll like the taste.

I drive her home and she puts the windows down even though I think it’s too cold. She plays Wilco and Tame Impala and as we pull into her driveway a Flaming Lips song comes on and damn this girl knows what’s up. I grab her hand, and it’s warm, and I think I really like Morgan’s warm left hand in mine. We get to her house and she clumsily leans over the middle console to give me a hug. I rub her fleece sweater one last time before saying goodnight.

I slowly creep into my house like a first-time visitor.

The smell of loose dog hair, freshly folded laundry, and the Himalayan salt candle my mom constantly burns hits me like it has never before. I can smell my own house. I really have been gone.

Goodbye Morgan I whisper to myself as the screen door bounces and crashes until the night is

I stumble over my words as if I just hugged a stranger.

The smell of baked mac and cheese distracts my brain from how off that hug felt. “Made your favorite, baby,” my mom chimes in, her arms shaking from the dense pan of hot crusty cheese. My mom and dad attempt to learn every detail that has happened in the last eight

still and I am alone.

I left for Montana a week later: Parents found the pills and cases of beer. Totally blew it out of proportion.

Called Gary Stroudsburg, the head of admissions at 92

Changing Winds, a residential treatment center that night. I never knew why I started something with Morgan that I couldn’t finish. Maybe because nothing could go wrong. No one could get hurt. She would never know I was that kid who drank alone in his room and popped any pill he could find. But now I’m back and I’m clean and no one really knows it. No one cares. Not even my best friend Jackson. I wonder how that kid’s doing. Probably the same: few hookups here and there, parties Friday and Saturday night, and half-assing overdue homework assignments Sunday night. It used to be Jackson and Zach, but I don’t want that anymore. Things have changed.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour, Zach come over here kiddo.” My dad grabs my arm and forcefully pulls me into an embrace.

“He-hey, Dad.”

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months they haven’t seen me. I expected this, so, I tell them about my friends, the program, and how I fell in love with the state. Everything they want to hear. I have one more year of this family business until I’ll be in Montana forever.

I clear my plate and watch the remaining noodles stick onto the edge of the plate. It tasted different this time back. Better. I tell my dad I’m going to shower and my mom “thanks for dinner.” I need to check in more now. For their sanity.

I make my way upstairs and go straight to the bathroom. Everything remains the same except for the interior of the cabinet. No more pills. Toothpaste, floss, some loose bandages and a neon green sticky note I’ve removed from my memory for the past eight months.

I pick it up and read the ten digit number that makes my body feel more numb than any of those pills ever did. Missed that feeling. Missed Morgan.

I reach for my phone and call her number; it goes straight to voicemail. F- this place. F- Morgan.

F- Delaware.

I strip my clothes off and take a long look at the lean and toned body reflected in the mirror. My skin has color to it and my hair highlighted from the sun. I look good, but none of that matters because I’m back in Delaware. I stay extra long in the shower, letting the hot water hit every inch of body. I climb into bed

shortly after and grab a can of Cherry Coke from under my bed. Sit back, and let the sweet corn syrup drip down the back of my throat as my body sinks into the trenches of my mattress. The writer’s notebook that I tucked into the side of my backpack when I left Changing Winds catches my eye.

I read entries from when I first arrived. How scared and alone I felt. Much like how I’m feeling now. I find a blank page and write about home and about who I was and who Morgan was to me and who Morgan is now. What party Jackson is probably at and what newspaper my dad is skimming downstairs. What it felt like to summit Granite Peak for the first time. The taste of a “Heart Stop” and the last night I spent, feeling full of love and warmth from the blazing bonfire that lit me up and the white in everyone’s eyes. I write nothing I haven’t written before. Words that put me back on the mountain with Matt, Joe, Tim, Elena, and Steven. My eyes begin to drift, but I keep writing until I smell tall pines and the sounds of Matt’s voice from the top of the mountain telling that we will return one day and never come back.

— Sophie Cohen, XI: short story

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Index of Contributors Lucy Bailey, XII, 7 Alec Berger, XII, 7, 87, 90 Sam Bernardi, XII, 50, 72 Nikita Bhardwaj, X, 21 Hugh Brophy, XII, 84 Sophie Cohen, XI, 64, 91 Madeline Chia, X, 89 Lizzie Dawson, X, 79 Amon DeVane, XII, 16, 36, 68, 85 Sophie Difazio, X, 24, 74 Eleanor Ding, IX, 32, 61 Walt Emann, XII, 25, 46 Giulia Gershel, XII, 27 Oishika Ghosh Ray, XII, 71 Jake Harris, XII, 83 Skye Harris, X, 41 Isa Hogshire, XII, 30 Joe Hudicka, XI, 53 Ella Jackson, X, inside cover, 12, 15 Zoe Jackson, XII, 23 Nina Kanamaluru, XII, 8, 26, 76 Philip Kaplan, XII, 14 Spencer Knerr, XI, 29, 42 Julia Lach, XI, 22 Brooke Lauer, IX, 59 Caitlin Lee, XI, 57, 81 Jessie Lin, X, 37, 48, 52, 81

Kat Lytkowski, XI, 86 Jason Ma, X, 39 Maggie Madani, XI, 34 Justin Mortman, XI, 44, 54 Raina Pahade, XI, 70 Lydia Pamudji, XII, 38 Tulsi Pari, XI, 18 Rakesh Potluri, XII, 47 Pranav Pulakkaht, XII, 45 Gautum Ravipati, IX, 13 Oishika Ghosh Ray, XII, 71 Rachel Richter, X, 80 Ava Roitburg, XII, 33, 55 Camille Scordis, X, 60, 69 Bolin Shen, IX, 35 Madison Sings, X, 65 Hannah Su, XI, 43, 49, 67 Angela Talusan, XII, 75 Rebecca Tang, XII, 28, 56, 82 Jacob Tharayil, XII, 19 Yishi Wang, X, cover Aiden York, XII, 2, 58 Annie Zhang, X, 20 Jenny Zhang, X, 17, 40, 62 Michelle Zhang, X, 63

cymbals 2019 Published by Princeton Day School 94

cymbals is printed on 10% and 30% post-consumer recycled paper