2021 Edition

cymbals 2 021

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cymbals

princeton day school 2021

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synesthesia a gentle graze: clouds over flowerbeds like michelangelo in watercolor piano keys echoing off glass or maybe muffled under a meadow a push, a shove: cacophony of cymbals crashing paint-filled balloons popping vibrant colors splitting at the seams splattered on a clean wall, too blinding a pressure strong yet calm: rattling tambourines like rain against windows, tulips bleeding lilac through the echo of a cello the tap of a timpani against tacit understanding a touch of devotion: the prettiest kind of poetry sublime words carried by a breeze one that sends flowers into a whirl of song, paints a hundred different shades of infatuation — Isabell Hu, IX: poetry

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 325 copies. cymbals is the literary and visual art magazine of Princeton Day School in Princeton, New Jersey.

Our submission period lasts from November through April 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: “Eyes Rolling” by Eleanor Ding, XI: pencil on paper

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cymbals Jessie Lin, XII - Editor-in-Chief

Yishi Wang, XII-editor

Madison Sings, XII- Editor-in-Chief

Josie Baranski, X-staff

Abby Weinstein, XII - Editor-in-Chief

Alexsei Darenkov, XII-staff

Michael Arnwine, IX - editor

Jenna Galla, X-staff

Madeline Chia, XII - editor

Sarah Mahmoud, XII-staff

Jackson Cook, XI - editor

Camille Scordis, XII-staff

Ava Daniel, X - editor

Tori Sullivan, XII-staff

Isabell Hu, IX - editor

Jamie McCulloch & Thomas Quigley-Faculty Advisors

Neha Khandkar, X - editor

Paul Legato-Graphic Designer

Linda Qu, XI-editor cymbals is published each year in late May. The magazine is free to all students, and this year we printed 325 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.

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 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 than five pieces per issue.

This year’s theme is method and madness. Next year’s theme will be: lost & found.

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Table of Contents “Eyes Rolling” by Eleanor Ding, XI: pencil on paper..............................................................................................cover “synesthesia” by Isabell Hu, IX: poetry............................................................................................................................. 2 “Everything is Red” by Alexsei Darenkov, XII: photography........................................................................................ 8 “Loud Thoughts” by Ella Jackson, XII: oil on paper....................................................................................................... 9 “Crawling Over the Ridge It Goes” by Linda Qu, XI: photograph............................................................................. 10 “Five Days” by Helen Amon, X: poetry.......................................................................................................................... 11 “The Cult of the Midnight Revelers” by Camille Scordis, XI: poetry......................................................................... 12 “Tears” by Anny Shi, XI: colored pencil and ink........................................................................................................... 13 “Gear Lungs” by Daniel Pinheiro, XII: mixed media.................................................................................................... 14 “Efficiency” by Zander Zhang, XI: flash fiction............................................................................................................. 15 “A Study with Observational Drawing and Collage” by Ella Jackson, XII: mixed media........................................ 16 “Self Portrait” by Sophie Difazio, XII: charcoal............................................................................................................. 17 “Monologue” by Christian Mayer, XI: flash fiction....................................................................................................... 18 “Life of a Flower” by Peter Ryan, X: photography......................................................................................................... 19 “Moss” by Ben Bigdelle, XII: ceramics............................................................................................................................ 20 “Cocktail Roulette” by Lily Nyce, XI: poetry................................................................................................................. 21 “The Room Reads Three Zero Five” by Linda Qu, XI: poetry..................................................................................... 21 “Turn Left” by Lily Matthews, X: poetry........................................................................................................................ 22 “Red Stamps” by Daniel Pinheiro, XII: mixed media................................................................................................... 23 “Hymn of Icarus” by Navaneeth Rajan, X: poetry........................................................................................................ 24 “The Cusp of Ruin” by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash...................................................................................................... 25 “Beyond the Mist” by Christian Mayer, XI: flash fiction.............................................................................................. 26 “Dawn of Hope” by Anny Shi, XI: acrylic...................................................................................................................... 27 “Reflection” by Sophie Difazio, XII: mixed media........................................................................................................ 28 “On Weird Neighbors and Pigs” by MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: poetry..................................................................... 29 “Malware” by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash...................................................................................................................... 30 “You Wanna Know a Secret?” by Gautam Ravipati, XI: flash fiction......................................................................... 31 “How to: Life” by Rebecca Willner, XI: flash fiction..................................................................................................... 32

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“Self Portrait” by Elizabeth Thomas, XI: pencil............................................................................................................. 32 “Fifty Points” by Colleen Mayer, IX: pencil.................................................................................................................... 33 “Exes and Ohs” by Brooke Littman, XII: flash fiction.................................................................................................. 34 “Pick Your Poison” by Ella Jackson, XII: prismacolor pencil...................................................................................... 35 “More Sinister” by Cecilia Scheil, IX: photography...................................................................................................... 36 “Walking Away” by Zander Zhang, XI: flash fiction..................................................................................................... 37 “Cow Print” by Madison Tucker, X: ceramics............................................................................................................... 38 “Silent Words” by Anny Shi, XI: acrylic......................................................................................................................... 39 “Japanese Kumiko Lamp” by Brendan Chia, XII: wood and frosted glass................................................................. 40 “Madeline Driving” by Brendan Chia, XII: short story.......................................................................................... 41-42 “There in the Dark in the Light” by Jamie Granato, XII: photography...................................................................... 43 “Room Living” by Linda Qu, XI: photography............................................................................................................. 44 “Negative Space Texture Drawing” by Aaron Chu, XII: pencil and ink..................................................................... 45 “Chocolate on China” by Chloe Knerr, XI: poetry........................................................................................................ 46 “Four Candles” by Paige Gardner, X: photography...................................................................................................... 47 “Sit” by Paige Gardner, X: photography......................................................................................................................... 48 “Family Tree” by Jonah Soos, XI: flash fiction............................................................................................................... 49 “Rambling Pines” by Abby Weinstein, XII: flash fiction.............................................................................................. 50 “Mirror Point Cottage” by Madeline Chia, XII: architecture....................................................................................... 51 “Study of Topography” by Aaron Chu, XII: architecture............................................................................................. 52 “Deep Thoughts About the Cosmos” by Gautam Ravipati, XI: flash fiction............................................................. 53 “Dancing Flames” by Grace Romano, X: photography................................................................................................ 52 “Amphora Delectavit” by William Foster, XI: ceramics............................................................................................... 55 “Staylerry Aura” by Jackson Cook, XI: short story...................................................................................... 56-58,60-63 “Italian Shotgun” by Grace Romano, X: photography.................................................................................................. 59 “Greeting Card” Neha Khandkar, X: photography....................................................................................................... 64 “Foyer Table” by Brendan Chia, XII: wood and steel.................................................................................................... 65 “Before Crandale” by Jessie Lin, XII: poetry.................................................................................................................. 66 “Sun Room” by Annie Zhang, XII: pencil...................................................................................................................... 67 “Reflection” by Anny Shi, XI: colored pencil................................................................................................................. 68

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“Hair Ties” by Josie Baranski, X: poetry......................................................................................................................... 69 “Made with Love” by Grace Romano, X: photography................................................................................................ 70 “Hip” by Peter Sarsfield, XII: poetry............................................................................................................................... 71 “Lined Bowl” by Gabby Thomas, XI: ceramics.............................................................................................................. 71 “Kitchen” by Annie Zhang, XII: pen and ink................................................................................................................. 71 “astrologically clingy” by Reed Dillon, X: poetry.......................................................................................................... 72 “Paper Quilt” by Frances Bobbitt, XI: architecture....................................................................................................... 73 “Flood” by Daniel Pinheiro, XII: mixed media............................................................................................................. 74 “Doodle Pens” MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: flash fiction............................................................................................... 75 “Helvetica” by Zander Zhang, XI: flash fiction.............................................................................................................. 76 “Don’t Lose Your Head” by Kacey Fisher, XI: mixed media........................................................................................ 77 “Squirm Cells” by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash.............................................................................................................. 78 “Bad Story” by Christian Mayer, XI: flash fiction......................................................................................................... 79 “The sky (is falling)” by Rebecca Willner, XI: poetry................................................................................................... 80 “Pompeii” by Jenny Zhang, XI: ceramics....................................................................................................................... 81 “Sunday Market” by MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: short story................................................................................. 82-83 “Self Portrait” by Yishi Wang, XII: photography........................................................................................................... 84 “Web” by Yishi Wang, XII: photography........................................................................................................................ 85 “Coffee and Martini and Tea” by Jessie Lin, XII: poetry.............................................................................................. 86 “Mahjong in Manhattan” by Bolin Shen, XI: colored pencil....................................................................................... 87 “From Above” by Caroline Ewing, XI: photography.................................................................................................... 88 “Redimus Stool” by Abby Weinstein, XII: maple, paduak, and concrete................................................................... 89 “Eye Burner” by Jackson Cook, XI: short story....................................................................................................... 90-93 “Bas-Relief Collage” by Aaron Chu, XII: architecture.................................................................................................. 93 “Jim Jones” by Neha Khandkar, X: flash fiction....................................................................................................... 94-95 “Ruins” by Sophie Difazio, XII; oil on canvas................................................................................................................ 95 “Cement Truck Lamp” by Abby Weinstein, XII: found objects and 3D print........................................................... 96 “Custodian” by Harrison Fehn, XI: flash fiction............................................................................................................ 97 “Interrupted Flow” by Sophie Difazio, XII: pencil........................................................................................................ 98 “Record Player” by Lily Matthews, X: poetry................................................................................................................ 99

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“Anemone” by Hailey Sullivan, XI: ceramics................................................................................................................. 99 “Steal Or Meal?: PS4 Edition” by Aaron Phogat, XII: short story..................................................................... 100-101 “Visiting Hours” by Grace Romano, X: photography................................................................................................. 101 “Brewing Storms” by Bolin Shen, XI: watercolor and ink on paper......................................................................... 102 “The Ripple Effect” by Peter Ryan, X: photography.................................................................................................... 103 “One by One” by Brendan Chia, XII: flash fiction...................................................................................................... 103 “Bloom” by Annie Zhang, XII: pencil........................................................................................................................... 104 “Cherry-Cola” by Brooke Littman, XII: short story............................................................................................ 105-106 “Detritus” by Aleksei Darenkov, XII: photography..................................................................................................... 106 “Self Portrait” by Annie Zhang, XII: pencil................................................................................................................. 107 “God Fearing” by Ava Daniel, X: poetry...................................................................................................................... 108 “Probably Not a Good Frisbee” by Wiliam Foster, XI: ceramics............................................................................... 109 “Enter the Rat Race” by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash.................................................................................................. 110 “uncle nature” by Reed Dillon, X: poetry..................................................................................................................... 111 “rock, mud, tree” by Rebecca Willner, XI: poetry....................................................................................................... 112 “Barcelona Redesign: Movement” by Frances Bobbitt, XI: architecture.................................................................. 113 “How to Build a Fairy House” by MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: flash fiction.............................................................. 114 “The Fall” by Danielle Im, X: poetry............................................................................................................................. 115 “Method of a Child” by Greta Yuan, IX: photography............................................................................................... 116 “Growing Pains” by Laurel Masciantonio, X: poetry.................................................................................................. 117 “The Girl I Left Behind Me” by Chloe Knerr, XI: poetry........................................................................................... 118 “Memories” by Annie Zhang, XII: watercolor and pencil.......................................................................................... 119 “Skyscrapers” by Eshaa Doshi, XI: ceramics................................................................................................................ 120 “I Feel” by Ella Jackson, XII: muslin, fabric paint, and photography....................................................................... 121 “Vast Forest” by Justin Elkin, IX: photography........................................................................................................... 122 “Middle Seat” by MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: short story................................................................................... 123-125 “Coral Cups” by Hailey Wexler, XI: ceramics.............................................................................................................. 125 “On (Inspired by A. Van Jordan’s ‘From’)” by Jessie Lin, XII: poetry....................................................................... 126 “Sinister Mindfulness” by Neha Khandkar, X: photography..................................................................................... 127 “Tin Boat” by Jackson Cook, XI: short story....................................................................................................... 128-131

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“Everything Is Red” by Alksei Darenkov, XII

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“Loud Thoughts” by Ella Jackson, XII: oil on paper

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Five Days There are drums and there is dancing and hoop skirts turning, whirling, people high up on stilts, trying to keep their balance as the world shifts beneath them.

Five days! Someone yells, and everybody cheers because the booze has been brought out and corks popped and cakes tall and tiered are passed around-passed because there are five days until the end of the world and nothing left to do but dance, nothing left to say except to scream, We are here! Now! And maybe the pavement will run red, the city slowly bleed out, but for now the horses’ hooves pound the cobblestones, the portraits with their feathered faces raised above the sea of strangers

All wearing masks with features frozen in delighted surprise, the gold on those painted porcelain faces glimmers in the street light, as the sky turns a bruised blue-black, and lanterns wink one by one in the darkness.

The sea of bodies in the uncertain air move as one off the plaza and down the street, over the bridge and across the edge of the city, past the church that rings loud in warning: There are four days until the end of the world!

— Helen Amon, X: poetry

Right: “Crawling Over the Ridge It Goes” by Linda Qu, XI: photography 11

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The Cult of the Midnight Revelers We welcome you, We’re the midnight revelers Singing a requiem for the year.

Dance and drink, Let yourself be merry, Beast or fairy, we all play here.

The new year’s knock sounds at hearts’ door, Ambrosia falls from drunk, red lips, Immortal eyes glint with splendor, The moon glows bright, The clear mind slips.

Eros joins with glorious raiment, Pour a drink and raise a glass, A toast to all, Both loved and lonely, Let’s lie together on dewy grass.

Though time does tarry, The moon grows dim, So we’ll scamper westward with glee.

Remember us, the midnight revelers, As down our hedonic path we flee.

— Camille Scordis, XII: poetry

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“Tears” by Anny Shi, XI: colored pencil, ink pen, white gel pen on paper

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“Gear Lungs” by Daniel Pinheiro, XII: stamp, ink pad

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Efficiency I’m trying something new today. I’m starting my homework early, no Instagram or YouTube breaks between assignments—pure efficiency. I open up my trigonometry textbook to page 551 and work on section 7.4. My textbook is written by a guy named Sullivan. I bet Sullivan is one evil guy—he probably hates babies or something like that. He probably goes around kicking puppies too, and maybe he also... nevermind. Let’s just get this over with. I stare at problem 63 for a good few minutes, furrowing my eyebrows and scratching my head as if my brain is hard at work trying to crack this problem. But it’s not. My mind is somewhere else.

It’s thinking about that lasagna I had for dinner last Sunday. It’s thinking about that time I messed up the one line I had in the fourth grade operetta. It’s thinking about anything but math. Without even lifting up my pencil once, I decide that I’m done with math. I hate trying new things.

– Zander Zhang, XII: flash fiction

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“Curtains and Cutouts” by Ella Jackson, XII: mixed media

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“Self-portrait” by Sophie Difazio, XII: charcoal on paper 17

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Monologue Why risk being wrong when you can always be right? What’s the point in that? I want to know because knowing is what I want, I don’t want to think about being wrong when I can just be right and not have to worry or wonder or think. I just know. No maybe, no perhaps, just simple yes and simple no. I don’t need to think; I just need to know. The future is a mirror, and I am the reflection of the what. No why. No how. That’s too complicated. Too much thinking. Knowing is so easy. So delicate. I am the one who watches. I observe, and I watch, and I know. I can explain how, but why would I. Why even wonder how I know what I know when I can know what I know. I know she left because she wondered about life without me. I know she left because she had dreams to chase. I know she left because she didn’t think I’d amount to anything. She left because she thought, and she dreamed and she wondered and she didn’t know; neither did I. If I just know, and I know, and I never stop knowing, then she can’t hurt me. No one can.

— Christian Mayer, XI: flash fiction

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“Life of a Flower” by Peter Ryan, X: photography

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“Moss” by Ben Bigdelle, XII: ceramics

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The Room Reads Three Zero Five

Cocktail Roulette

The lamp slashing my face into day at night sits beside me at my desk well past my bedtime.

the solution was hydrochloric acid. the problem was therefore a miscalculated swap of cocktails.

I flick the switch down drown away the lights, save only the lamp slashing my face into day at night.

Outside is a moonless dark, continuous with no red flares that tear; strange, since the cricket in the detector still cries well past my bedtime.

I quit my desk from behind piles of dead snow beside the lamp slashing my face into day at night.

I bury my body under a bouldered blanket, unrolling my eyelids since it’s well past my bedtime only they flap up as soon as I let go.

So my cricket and I lie mummified, with the lamp slashing my face into day at night well past my bedtime.

— Linda Qu, XI: poetry

a dimly lit bar two men sit next to each other. sweat drips down the side of one man’s face like the condensation of the glass paired with its mint garnish. the man, being loquacious when anxious, starts small talk. “i’m good” responds the other, being watched discreetly as they both sip their drinks. gulping his last sip as if watering a plant, the cool tempered man leaves cash, stands up, and heads for the door, as the other lies at the base of the stool next to his shattered glass.

— Lily Nyce, XI: poetry

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Turn Left Turn left, no right to the playground and see the small child with the round haircut, swinging and screaming until she touches the sky.

Look up to the clouds where frozen water falls, each raindrop a different shape.

One sets right on her face, right on the bridge of her nose, the place where her father used to brush until she closed her eyes.

Blink and see a young girl, with a dash of pink in her brown hair, thrusting her red hands into her pockets to warm them, tilting her face, straight to the heavens, waiting for a fat raindrop to land on in just the right place.

– Lily Matthews, X: poetry

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“Red Stamps” by Daniel Pinheiro, XII: stamps and ink

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Hymn of Icarus Pebbles dig at the spaces between his toes, waves lap at his feet, the rhythm of the sea.

Eyes glimmering, he feels himself lifted up, above the wind who sings in the empty canyon through aurora curtains dancing in a star-speckled sky beyond a rusting planet of dust and iron whipping around a blazing monolith, slingshotted under the booming footfalls of Orion, along Ursa’s den.

Through the foggy arms of the milky way, past spiral galaxies and spectral nebulae, flecked with shattered stardust, faster than thought, faster than light, until he reaches the edge, where he peers into endless infinity and falls.

—Navaneeth Rajan, X: poetry

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“The Cusp of Ruin” by Len Ding, XI: Ink on paper

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Beyond the Mist A stroll through the misty gates, where the swirling angels emerge from the gas to blow their misty dust into my eyes. And I wake up far from that mist, not in any modern explanation of hell, but a black empty room, where you can’t even see yourself snap or step or pull your hair over your eyes to hide. And maybe my eyes are just blinded by a new mist, a less mundane one that deceives rather than covers--a misty cloud of black that doesn’t cover my eyes, but makes it so I can’t see.

Or I wake up, suffocating, and dig my way back to the surface; and there’s normal mist, not heavenly and magic, that clings to the scarf of a woman and condenses upon the petals of her lilacs, and disguises her tears as drops of the mist. And she lays a lilac down at the base of a small marble headstone, the swirling misty pattern of the stone mingling with the sky, the words carved with malice. She takes the rest of the lilacs and places them gently on the ground, towered over by a rose quartz monument, inscribed with the subtle precision of the ancients. I stare as she caresses the marble, soothing it like a bird who had fallen from its nest.

And as the morning mist cleared, and the sun appeared in the eastern sky, the woman remained, waiting for the headstones to sink back and the sun to fall down and to see them animate back into her trembling arms. And even as the mist rose to clouds, she cried for her quartz and marble. And the sun did fall, and the stones did sink in the cool mud, but her boys didn’t come back.

—Christian Mayer, XI: flash fiction

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“Dawn of Hope”

by Anny Shi, XI: acrylic on canvas 27

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Sophie Difazio, XII: collage 28

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On Weird Neighbors and Pigs When I was around toddling age, probably about three or four, I remember my neighbors having a pet pig named Rosebud.

She would end up in our yard, meandering around the farm, after squeezing through the black tar fence.

Now, I may be remembering this wrong, because I was small, but this was the biggest pig I’ve ever seen.

She came above my waist, and made these horrible honking sounds, and chased the dog out of the barn.

She probably wasn’t actually that scary, because my parents never freaked out, welcoming her when she came over.

But when you’re four, and an animal almost your height steals your Nature Valley Extra Crunch granola bar right out of your grimy hand, honking ferociously as she chokes it down, you just about sh-- yourself.

— MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: poetry

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“Malware” by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash

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You Wanna Know a Secret?

Well, I’ll tell you, but just promise me you won’t tell anyone. Sound good? Wait, how do I know that I can trust you? Should we pinky swear? Write a pact? Sign an NDA with our blood? Get matching tattoos on our foreheads? Maybe you don’t need to know my secret. What’s that? A verbal reassurance? Yeah, I guess that’ll do. Let’s get a move on.

One time, right, this guy at work was mad I got a promotion over him and wanted to get me fired by making up some bs story. Somehow, his plan worked, so I ended up fired. When I got “the talk,” my veins popped from my skull –– just under my flesh, causing me to feel a sudden fit of pure rage prowl up my vertebrae; so I did what any normal person would do. I trudged to my maroon Maserati and fished out the ice scraper from under the spare tire and old gym bag, marched toward his black Beemer and bashed his windshield in. Thousands of jagged shards flew in all possible directions like snow on Christmas morning.

He deserved it, right? Well, it doesn’t matter, I actually made that up on the fly. I would never commit crime. Or would I? I’ve never been a great liar, I’m quite impressed with how much my skills have improved.

Or are you just gullible? It’s hard to tell.

Whatever the case, I’m sorry I tricked you. I know you really want to know my secret, and I promise that I will tell you. Well, here it is. I can’t put this off any longer. My big, bad, very deep secret: I may have done something. Just don’t freak out, OK? — Gautam Ravipati, XI: flash fiction

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How to: Life When the garbage truck comes, my sister drags my parents outside to wave to the garbage men. When she hits the curb and falls off her bike, she gets right back on, even if her knees are bloody. When she colors outside the lines of her princess coloring book, she takes the blue smudge and transforms it into a cloud in the white sky. When she eats ice cream, she doesn’t worry about the mess she’s making. She enjoys her chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles as it melts down the side of her cone onto her hand, leaving it sticky and sweet.

Adults drag the trash out to the curb and scurry inside. When an adult falls off their bike, they say, “that was enough for today” and walk the bike home. When adults color outside the lines, they crumple up the page and toss it in the garbage. When an adult scoops their vanilla ice cream from the freezer, they put it in a bowl.

– Rebecca Willner, XI: flash fiction

“Self Portrait” by Elizabeth Thomas, XI: fine art 32

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“Fifty Points” by Jamie Creasi, IX: architecture, pencil sketch

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Exes and Ohs We pass a man in a white lab coat and light blue scrubs with fluffy brown hair, a scruffy beard, sea-foam green eyes, and the bone structure of a Gucci model.

hair and straighten my blouse. I wonder if doctors are just naturally beautiful or get a twenty percent employee discount on botox and rhinoplasties.

“Dad, that doctor looks like he belongs in Grey’sAnatomy?” My dad laughs but doesn’t disagree.

I find my way back to the room and turn to see my mom chilling on the hospital bed. She looks like someone just played a game of Tic-tac-toe with a permanent marker on her face. Even with the black markings, she still looks like an ethereal angel in her flowing white hospital gown.

On our way to the kitchen, we pass rooms 133-135.

Room 133 is vacant, so my mom doesn’t have any loud neighbors partying next door, keeping her up late after her surgery. Room134, Jay Gatsby’s Room, is completely dark, except for a faint green light blinking in the corner. In Room 135, the walls dance with shadows of wires that look like garden snakes, and there is a soft hiss of a ventilator.

On the kitchen counter, a silver tray of shiny glazed donuts, delectable coffee cakes, and chocolate chip cookies bigger than my hand make me salivate. I ignore the wild animal screeching and clawing inside my stomach and instead fill up a clear plastic cup to the brim with ice and a splash of water.

“You want some water with that ice?” My dad picks up a Ginger Ale. Chewing ice was a trick I learned to dodge snacking, which my family never picked upon. My dad assumed I chewed ice because I had an iron deficiency. While my mom shrugged it off as a bad habit. I turn away from the sparkling platter of confectionaries and shove a couple of cubes in my mouth, focusing on the cold, crisp crunch breaking into little flakes against my porcelain teeth.

As I make my way back to Room 132, I get closer to Dr. Pretty Boy. I blush and comb my hands through my 34

I reach for my pink compact mirror from my purse to touch up my face, and, as I look into the mirror, I imagine a set of exes and ohs sculpting my face. Some to pin back my elf looking ears. Maybe some fillers to make my lips plumper. An injection to make my forehead free of wrinkles, and possibly surgery to make my jaw more defined and also a – “Good morning everyone, I’m Dr. Evans, and I will be conducting a rhytidectomy today on Ms. Heather Gray.”

I click my mirror shut and flash my pearly, freshly whitened teeth at him, and flick my newly dyed blonde hair. Dr. Pretty Boy, formally known as Dr. Evans, strides through the door.

“Oh,” Dr. Pretty Boy smiles just like Patrick Dempsey and turns to me, “Are you here to get a rhinoplasty today as well? Ha Ha. Kidding. Kidding. Anyway, so...” And I mentally draw an ex over the center of my face like a target.

— Brooke Littman, XII: short story

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“Pick Your Poison” by Ella Jackson, XII: colored pencil on paper

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“More Sinister” by Cecilia Scheils, IX: photography

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Walking Away Every once in a while, in the middle of the night, we would find Tommy out of his mind, blacked out on the lawn chair facing the street behind his Aunt Gloria’s condo. We would drag him back inside to his bathroom, pat him on the back until he retched all the hurt out his system. After that, he always babbled something incoherent—sometimes it would be about his folks, other times it would just be about how hungry he was. Then we’d take him to his room, tip-toeing on all the wooden floorboards we knew didn’t creak, and set him down gently, so that Aunt Gloria wouldn’t wake up and see Tommy all messed up like that.

was sit on the La-z-boy all day and only ever get up to refill his cup. There wasn’t a drop of love in his heart and as far as we could tell, Tommy’s dad dying after his mom actually made his life a little better.

Tommy’s parents were messed up too. He hated his dad, a dispassionate mountain of a man whose only sober day in life was the day they found Tommy’s mom Evelyn floating dead in a red bathtub back in April. Even at the funeral, Tommy said he couldn’t put the flask down. He would rather sacrifice his life than sacrifice his drink, and that’s exactly what he did. Two weeks after Evelyn died, his dad drank himself to death. Tommy didn’t go to the funeral that time.

The last time we saw Tommy was one of those nights he was blacked out on the lawn chair facing the street behind Aunt Gloria’s condo. We went to check up on him the morning after, seeing as we expected him to probably be feeling like crap. But instead of finding him knocked out in his bed like we usually did on mornings like these, we found his bed completely made, almost like he hadn’t even slept in it. So we went outside, and there we found him—squatting down on the sidewalk, tying his shoelaces, earbuds plugged in. We asked him what he was doing, and we received nothing but a middle finger. Without a word, and without looking back, he

That’s why he lives with his Aunt Gloria, Evelyn’s older sister. We all knew that Evelyn loved her son, but she was never really in the picture; she was too caught up with her job, and even when she was with him, you could easily tell that she had other things on her mind.

His dad, on the other hand, was a real piece of work. Not to speak ill of the dead, but all his dad would ever do

In a way, it was like Tommy never really did have a family. We don’t think he really wanted one either. He always hid—hid from his dad, hid from the world. The world hates kids like Tommy, labeling him as a weirdo, throwing him into the dark corner of the lunchroom that no other kid wants to sit in. The world looked at him with scorning eyes, the way rich folks at a fancy event would at someone who didn’t meet the dress code.

picked himself up and walked away.

— Zander Zhang, XI: flash fiction

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“Cow Print” by Madison Tucker, X: ceramics

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“Untitled” by Anny Shi, XI: acrylic on canvas 39

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“Japanese Kumiko Lamp”

by Brendan Chia, XII: furniture design 40

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Madeline’s Driving The fog this morning was a bit worrisome, but it was not so much the fog that was on my mind. Sometime this week, I had to bring my walnut Japanese Kumiko lamp into school. The intricate cedar geometric pattern had taken four months alone to hand cut each of the 126 individual half-lap joints. The other three months produced the 1.5” dark, thick walnut outer frame with the reddish-brown cherry inner frame, which contrasted and highlighted the light and frail Kumiko design. The heavy yet delicate piece was a testament to my advanced woodworking skills, and I just needed to gloss it with one last coat of finish. So, I decided to trust Madeline to safely transport me the one and a half miles to school while the lamp sat in my lap like a baby. This was a mistake.

Now I usually think twice before allowing others to dictate whether I live or die, but my brain was not fully functioning at 7:30 in the morning, five minutes after I had just rolled out from under the darkness of my thick, fuzzy blanket. My drowsy self wandered over to Madeline’s room and asked, “Hey bro, you cool driving?” With a look of confusion and a slight giggle, she responded with an unsure “Sure, bro?” “Cool, bro.” Somehow my lack of sleep and focus on getting my precious to school that morning made me lose track of the important things in life — such as surviving and feeling safe.

As Madeline pulls out of the driveway with my lamp, my brothers, and me, I suddenly realize that Madeline is, in fact, driving us to school. Oh no. Wait. No. Madeline is driving us to school.

She asks what’s wrong, so I give her a forced smile and tell her that everything’s good (it’s too late to turn back now anyway).

Going down the narrow Drakes Corner Road, Madeline drifts over the yellow line while going 40 in a 25. The car shakes left to right, and all my attention and energy goes into making sure that my precious lamp stays at least six inches away from the ceiling and door and 12 inches away from Madeline. Once the Drakes Corner roller coaster comes to an end, turning onto Great Road is far easier than expected. There are no cars in sight, so Madeline takes her time and gracefully turns the wheel, allowing the car to swiftly pull out.

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But just when I think that the car ride is going well – Oh my, how close she comes to taking out an entire branch of the Chia family tree. As she approaches the corner, I wonder if she knows to slow down for turns. Surely she must since she passed her road test last month? Nope. Twenty feet before the turn, our blue Mercedes is still blazing down the road now at 45 miles per hour in a 35 zone. I look down at her feet, wondering if she has any intentions of slowing down, but to my surprise, her white and pink, sparkly sneaker is hovering over the gas. Five feet before the turn, she starts to turn the wheel while her foot finally starts to touch the brake. At this point, I decide that it would be best not to distract her from her driving (another bad decision on my end). I give her a look that says “What are you doing?” But glancing at her face, I notice that she looks like she’s driving on a straight flat road: her expression calm and relaxed, her eyes bored, droopy, she mumbles along to the quiet tunes of “Watermelon Sugar.”

Suddenly, she jerks the wheel to the right, twists her hips, and leans into the turn as if she’s riding her bike.

My lamp starts to slide towards Madeline, so I wrap my arms around the frame with a strong grip and lean with her.

I look to the rear-view mirror to see the eyes of my brothers widen as their faces turn three shades lighter.

The Mercedes’ wheels drift to the left, and the car thunders towards the left side of the road until all four wheels cross the thick, double yellow lines. Suddenly, I see a grey pickup truck speeding towards the front of our car, aimed to hit me and my precious. This triggers my body’s emergency panic reflexes, causing me to push my lamp out in front of me to shield my body from any broken glass or car crash debris (my life is more important than the Japanese Kumiko lamp). I close my eyes to protect them and hope that my airbag will save me from impact.

SSSSKEEEEEETTTT When I don’t feel the force of the pickup truck slamming into my precious, I look up to a nice change of scenery.

The car is now on the right side of the road, there is no grey pickup truck looking to take out me and my lamp, and Madeline is still humming along to the tunes of “Watermelon Sugar,” nodding her head to the rhythm of the beat.

– Brendan Chia, XII: personal narrative

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“There in the Dark in the Light” by Jamie Granato, XII: photography

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“Room Living” by Linda Qu, XI: photography

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“Negative Space Texture Drawing” by Aaron Chu, XII: ink and pencil on museum board

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Chocolate on China The screen door swings shut; darkness presses around us.

The only light falls from the porch; the sound of my mother’s footsteps comes nearer.

Tiny flames alight on powdered sugar like fallen snow but in August.

A harmony of voices and laughter silences the usual summer crickets.

The silver knife is dragged across the white, rich aroma of chocolate carves its path between shoulders pressed tightly together.

Soon the thick slices sit on my grandmother’s blue china.

Where the sunsets sink into pine tree tops and the glassy water laps the shore.

— Chloe Knerr, XI: poetry

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“Four Candles”

by Paige Gardner, X: photography 47

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“Sit” by Paige Gardner, X: photography

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Family Tree The burning bag of feces rots the stoop it lays upon. Its gagging odor rivals that of the old primed wood inside, stained with Clorox, cream cheese, and Turkey Hill’s Rocky Road ice cream. The brown smudged floor used to mean something, years before the cream cheese and ice cream when it sat vacant, the sod wreaking with unsalted mashed potatoes. The house was simply a concept, a few lead stains on a navy blue graph paper with a white label hot pressed on the top left corner, an instruction book to a lego set soon to be built. It was built in a few months, once occupied by six, now only two.

The two eldest children left years ago. The oldest is a drunken nurse known solely for sleeping with half the class of ‘98 at the town high school before escaping the barred windows to college. She was a disgrace to the house, a zipper magnet in college who got drunk more than attended classes, married an older man whose house is white as cream cheese and bathes in silver water. She bought herself a Ph.D. with a bag of Benjamins. Now she plays with dolls. Her name makes the wooden stoop rot like a December pumpkin and makes the broken white house look grey in summer.

Phil’s an interesting fellow, the one marker with a missing cap, all dried up likes and paper. He was dynamic, an actor, writer, singing, and Turkey Hill ice cream enthusiast that flourished at a step-down ivy. He found his full potential, made millions in the stock market, and blew it in five years, and lives paycheck to paycheck working a fifty-two grand cubicle job, the mild crack addiction the only thing giving him a dazzle of interest. He pays for the roses caked with a dust of death that sit on the rotting pumpkin stoop below the broken white house that looks grey in the summer.

The youngest child is Danny, who molds the cream cheese on the brown smudged floor and spews a rotten yellow acid that turns brain cells to Rocky Road ice cream on impact. He’s run drugs since he was fifteen, been to Juvy twice, and makes sure to move the fire extinguisher away from the door anytime he leaves the house and cracks the concrete with his twisted tongue of lies. He’s a no-good algae that grows on anyone he gets close to until he eats them alive when they sleep. His parents kicked him out two years ago – he leaves a burning bag on the rotting stoop above the cracked concrete below the broken white house that looks grey in the summer every Sunday during church.

The remaining two are my disheveled sit-down comedian father and myself, a college drop out that took care of my mother as her dying wish. I’m the only sane human to tell the tale of our burning bag of crap of a family, our meaningless rotten stoop and white house that looks grey in summer.

— Jonah Soos, XI: flash fiction 49

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Rambling Pines Mommy pastes the pre-made name tags on our shirts. Mine says ​Jaguars, ​so I’m a Jaguar. Now the bus is here and it’s not the same lady driving it this year, the one who looked mean but had a big smile that I gave a thank-you note to with a picture of me as ​Super Cat​.

And then when the little red stop sign jumps out on the side and Laura steps off the bus and we run to her. We like Laura. I get there first and wrap my arms around her and Maddie gets there second and wraps her baby arms around my back.

We get on the sweaty bus and wave through the dirty windows at Mommy and Daddy, and they wave, too. John and Rose are there. John is tall and skinny like a green bean, and Rose is short and skinny like a smaller green bean. Their parents own a farm somewhere in this town and we just call it Gravity Hill because when we put the car in neutral it looks like we’re rolling up, up, up. There’s Caroline, a girl my age who never talks and wears pink barrettes in her hair. Her overalls are ripped on one side, maybe from gaga last week. I recognize the big kid, I think his name is Ryan. Last summer he went on one of the big kid trips to Six Flags and brought back a glass dolphin and showed it to everyone in the gravel parking lot before we left camp.

The bus ride is fun when Laura is there because she tells stories. Last year was Harry Potter and then we read the books and watched the movies after summer. John

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says ​Pirates of the Caribbean! Pirates of the Caribbean!

Care-ib-ee-an? Carib-ian?

John says he doesn’t know, either. But Laura starts the story anyway. She’s sitting on the two-seater side with legs drawn up like a peanut and her arms are waving around because someone stopped her and asked a question and now she’s explaining why Will Turner has his hands tied in front of him and that’s why he can move his arms and beat up the bad guys.

I am a Jaguar. The other half of the girls my age are Giraffes, but the Jaguars are better because it’s my bunk.

Instructional Swim is first and I don’t like it but this year it’s okay because they said we’re going to be in the deep pool with the big waterslides and maybe they’ll let us go on the yellow one at the end if we do a good job.

There are pine needles in my shoes by the time we get to the cabin to change. The one that saysJaguars is closer than the Giraffes, so we get there first shove our bags into cubbies and pull out our swimsuits and towels.

We’re standing on benches, sitting on the floor, and hopping around on one foot. We sing ​Underwear is fun to wear, fun to wear, fun to wear! Underwear is fun to wear, on your he-ad!

I always order buttered noodles on pasta day because I don’t like sauce and also because they put so much butter it tastes like heaven. We mix the lemonade and fruit punch and say ​ew​when Sierra puts ice in her

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milk because that’s gross. One day last year it made her cry and the counselors told us to stop and we all felt bad for a while. But now it’s a new summer and she still puts ice in her milk and I have never seen anyone else do that because ice turns into water and then she will have water-milk and I can’t stand looking at it.

The dirt under the picnic tables always has things in it and during lunch we all dig in it with one hand and

look for treasures like beads and friendship bracelets and other things. I’m extra careful this year because one time on hot dog day I was eating one with one hand and digging with the other and took a bitefrom the wrong hand and no one saw so I just swallowed it.

- Abby Weinstein, XII: flash fiction

“Mirror Point Cottage” by Madeline Chia, XII: architecture 51

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“Study of Topography” by Aaron Chu, XII, architecture

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Deep Thoughts About the Cosmos The word “nothing’”is technically something. If I say “I’m doing nothing,” I am doing something, but that something just happens to be nothing. It’s impossible to write about doing nothing because when I’m writing about nothing I’m doing something but if I am doing nothing while writing then space and time wouldn’t exist. It’s also impossible to think about nothing if you really think about it. Try thinking about nothing; what do you see? I see darkness, a blank slate. However, darkness is still something. For something to be dark, there must be an absence of light, and the absence of light is something. So right now we are talking about doing and thinking about nothing which is actually always going to be something.

— Gautam Ravipati, XI: short story

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“Dancing Flame”

by Grace Romano, X: photography 54

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“Amphora Delectavit”

by William Foster, XI: ceramics 55

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Staylerry Aura S​ taylerry: a sad, old farm with poor, symbolic dead animals and a strange, t​ ruthful​mood because we mostly slaughtered poor animals there.

And on each slaughter day, we all had a chore—for example, my friend Bill’s and mine was shoveling and sweeping poop and mud out of the red trailers that transported the poor animals to the slaughterhouse.

It was filled with poop and dirt, and like everything, it started out fine as we shoveled and swept and said funny things about the bloody slaughter—mostly for comfort. Then ten minutes passed and the talk died down as everything got sweaty and dusty and we got angry.

After twenty minutes, our eyes and spit turned brown.

After four hours, the dust was ​still​there—it was ​always​there—like a ghost.

And if Staylerry is the world—as you’ll see it is—then I’m that trailer—always dirty and talking to dustghosts while poor Mom and Dad and my therapists try to scrub me up to seem nice and shiny to the government inspectors.

I have a feeling you’re not too different, dear reader.

To get to the point, a funky feeling loomed over that farm with its animals and killing houses; a weird spirit or a Santa Claus or something like that.

Of course, it’s hard to put into words. But there was just something about the farm that struck me as a rare, pure form of truth. ####### It’s the morning of a big turkey slaughter.

It’s still dark.

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And as I skid-left-turn into the Staylerry dirt road entrance and pass the pigs, I’m still tired. And, like every day, the poor fat pigs still look omniscient and sad behind that old mesh-fence next to the driveway.

They have no purpose but to be killed and chowed.

They know this sad future—you can tell by looking at their sad pink eyes and hunched posture and even watching them live; the pigs always find ways to escape or break things, and they cause nothing but problems for Boss.

To me, they’re the people down at the mental Clinic; the ones who know about real life and all the mechanisms and what ​truly​happens in the world and get sent into isolation as a result.

A brown dust cloud puffs behind me.

I pass the cows.

They’re sitting around the Mom Cow, crying. I always think the cows weep when you look at them; Weeping Cows, I call them. They’re the sweeties of the world, the ones lazing around and looking towards the sky—remind me of my Uncle Quigley or Harry or Cousin Fred because they’re not too crazy to be sent to the far-field, but crazy enough to be normal.

And as I pull into the muddy parking lot and put her in park—and on my way to the slaughterhouse— I pass a few of the pretty little piglets who dash around Staylerry going ​OINK!​and scurrying off when you get too close.

They’re not raised in captivity because Boss has hypothesized that if they get free-roam of the farm, they’ll not even ​want​to escape.

But they need base-camps, and that’s these big old cages situated right next to the slaughterhouse, where they suck on Mama Pig for milk and sleep and do whatever young pigs do.

Feeling melancholy, I pass these cages next—melancholy because the strange feeling looms over these poor piglets the strongest—they don’t understand​that they’re food. There’s no thought of the fact that they exist for food​!​​Yet, when they say ​bye ​to Mama Pig and go over to that far-field I passed, that’s​when then they’ll know—they’ll realize they could have escaped.

They’re my younger self, you know, who grew up just to become a big-old-sad fat pig in the far-field isolation.

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You and I live on Staylerry, dear reader.

Now I pass that horrific-smelling crimson turkey trailer backed right up to the slaughterhouse doors. The turkeys hear me and ​squawk!​, clanging the metal—​bong!—​because they’re not ready to be killed—my least favorite animal, too, because they’re not honest like cows and not cute like baby piglets nor smart like big pigs.

Turkeys are just these stupid selfish birds with pink long necks and little brains—the money guys of the farm because no matter what each turkey does to save itself, it’ll always gets its throat slit and blood drained.

Peeking my head in to see how much work we have, I go: “Ahren. How many are in here?” to one of the farmers sharpening his knife.

“I don’t know,” Ahren said, “Hundred. Maybe,” he laughed, “There’s four though, Jack.” ####### A word about Bill slaughtering is necessary, for some reason.

The kid with black hair was always so ​vindictive​when killing turkeys.

He wouldn’t say a word.

He would simply do his slaughterhouse task with a wild look in his eye.

Like when a turkey escaped from the trailer—it had run right between my legs—Bill dropped everything to sprint after it.

When he returned, he carried the maimed bird by its bloody, broken neck.

“This bird,” he said—smiling—to everyone that would listen, “Is dead.”

He threw it into the turkey bucket.

We killed on. ####### 58

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“Italian Shotgun”

by Grace Romano, X: photography 59

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So there were ten of us farmers in the slaughterhouse that morning getting ready to make Darwin proud.

I put on my yellow waterproof apron and started sharpening my knives.

So it was us in the yellow aprons and latex gloves, getting ourselves situated, with Boss walking around giving everyone a task for the day.

It was also quiet—a weird quiet, I had thought. It was the kind of quiet on shore before a massive hurricane comes with its brutal rain and Judgement Day winds.

I didn’t want to be Cutter because the warm blood on my hands grossed me out last time, and I didn’t think I could do it again. But Boss came around and sent me to be Catcher; I was glad.

I figure I should explain my odd vocabulary, like Darwin defining his terms in ​the Origin​.

Slaughtering was a laborious task that involved the whole farm in a twisted kind of assembly line. It all started with the Catcher, the person who caught the birds from the trailer using a tool to sweep their leg as they flapped in your face (the trick, I learned, was to grab both legs as fast as possible so they couldn’t claw you and escape).

When the Catcher got a nice grasp on the legs, he handed the live thing to the Transporter whose duty was to take it over to the steel apparatus with three upside-down cones and pick one to poke the turkey head through.

Next, it was the Cutter’s turn.

The Cutter grabbed it’s face in one hand and slid their knife quickly under the front side of its neck.

When it was all done, he threw the severed head into the Turkey Bucket—where all the gross heads of the turkeys were thrown.

Oh—that Turkey Bucket was one of the strongest emitters of the queer mood on Staylerry I alluded to before because they all looked alive; some still blinked, too, and when the eyes were open for that small second, they made me shiver.

Next, the Cutter cut the legs off and someone else came to haul the bloody carcass over to a big pot of boiling water and shove it in, making sure to not burn his fingers or anything on the searing water.

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You know, dear reader, the water was to loosen the feathers. ####### “I know it’s natural to kill animals.

“I read about Darwin, Gene.”

“So why did I think I was going to hell every time I pulled a turk’s neck taught like a rope and slid the knife? I think it’s because if Mom heard I was killing turkeys and other things, she’d ball her fists and shout— but I just don’t know.”

My therapist Gene says, “Tell me more, Jack.”

“Well, when the turkey’s head was shoved through that shiny metal cone apparatus, I liked to watch the turkey head blink at me for a sec; you know, gulping and realizing that there will be no more days of flying and trotting around the farm with the fellow birds.

Even before that! The turkeys knew they were going to die when I went into that van, too! They scattered away, like pepper in water, in an effort to not be the first one plucked and dragged and decapitated— and no matter what, they always went to that doggone cone apparatus and got cut by the Cutter.

“And that strikes me as a fantastic symbol of everything, Gene. Don’t you agree?”

“Jack!” my Therapist was horrified, “When did this all happen?”

I waved my hand dismissively. ####### With the first cut of the first turkey, the first blood stain on my cousin Fred’s apron, the slaughter began.

So my cousin was Cutter.

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And fifteen minutes in, I noticed the turkeys were killing each other in the van. As I kept plucking their buddies, they kept piling on top of each other at the other side of the trailer—because no money guy wants to be plucked—and eventually when I pulled the catcher-tool from the pile, the dumb turkey didn’t flap or even squirm.

God, ​it was a limp bird, which was the creepiest thing. So I called Boss over, you know, leaning out the van’s metal, glassless windows, calling, “Boss! These turks are killing each other.”

Things got weird. He jumped in and started manhandling the birds—immediately they knew who he was and, in a frenzy, flapped to the other side.

What was left was twenty dead turkeys littering the ground.

Boss acted as if the slaughterhouse didn’t exist.

Staylery didn’t exist—just this crimson trailer with Boss staring over his poor red-deflated balloons.

And with his bloody apron he picked a carcass up by the neck, watching its swinging pendulum body rock in his grasp—we didn’t talk. I felt extremely odd, watching as Boss pulled his hair and held his dead little bird by the neck like that. He threw it against the side of the trailer.

For the first time on Staylerry I saw Boss lose his composure, halting his perpetual forward motion, and I was spooked. Then I knew why he was acting so weird: he felt the truth of his farm, those spirits floating peacefully up towards Him with glory and open arms. Or it was how much money he lost.

The former, of course, shook me.

I have this dream that deprives me of sleep, even still in my sad forties: Boss and I, sitting, ​watching​ silently as those poor weeping souls float towards the sky.

There’s no turkey van—just clouds surround us with angelic golden light. Then something makes me scream, shout, and wake up all in a haste.

Back on Staylerry, Boss snapped out of it and shot up and we went to work.

You see, when the turkey dies, its meat becomes unharvestable after awhile (I don’t know why, it just does), and that’s why it was all such a big deal, I realized.

He didn’t care about those spirits. Simply, I had cost him four hundred bucks.

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But we tried to harvest them anyway—you know, to save some money—and Boss hollered to the boys to come grab a few turks. We rushed the bodies through the assembly line with Boss yelling feverishly, ​ Hurry up! We’re losing money! ​in our ears.

Blood spewed as everybody’s fingers got cut, but there was simply no time for band aids while money was on the line.

Cone apparatus, boiling water, gutting table.

Cone apparatus, boiling water, gutting table.

Cone apparatus, boiling water, gutting table.

Cone apparatus, boiling water, gutting table.

Cone apparatus, boiling water, gutting table.

Cone apparatus, boiling water, gutting table.

—That’s what happens to turkeys, even if they pile up on the other side of the van or flap their wings or kill their friends.

They all go through the cone apparatus, boiling water, and gutting table.

And, of course, Bill and I cleaned the holy red turkey van after the chaos, like we always did, like janitors cleaning out The Company’s old office so The Landlord can sell it to some new money guys just so they can be slaughtered like the old ones.

A shame, that Money Guy fate is.

- Jackson Cook XI: short story

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“Greeting Card” by Neha Khandkar, X: photography

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“Foyer Table” by Brendan Chia, XII: furniture design

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before crandale we lived in a one bedroom apartment with six windows, two of which faced a brick wall with bird crap running down the cracks like egg whites, liquidy like the kind we ate for breakfast on sunday afternoons when we slept in for far too long in mismatched sheets and duvets and the knit blanket your dead grandmother made us for christmas (the woman whose necklace sits in the hollow of my throat,

before crandale - Jessie Lin, XII: poetry

the same place you would press your lips on nights the rain pounded against our rickety fire escape and drowned out my breaths along the back of your earlobe) and you still struggled to separate reds and whites in the laundry and i took self-timer photographs of us dancing to television static and you would take my right hand whisper of painted brownstones two children and a gray kitten and all the wonderful things that never came after. still.

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“Sun Room”

by Annie Zhang, XII: pen and paper 67

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“Reflection”

by Anny Shi, XI: colored pencil

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Mother and I used to sit on the cold bathroom floor Rubber bands scattered about like rose petals on Valentine’s Day

Hair Ties - Josie Baranski, X: poem

I crouched on a tiny stool, Mother looping and twirling my hair into braids, fastening them with a painful pull and pinch of a tight ponytail

Her icy fingers ran down my scalp sending shivers along my spine and I loving the way it felt would ask her to pull and pinch again just so I could feel the sharpness of her nails parting the strands

But when her playing was over, she shook my small skull, and the blond locks spilled like waves across the tiled bathroom floor, glittering with hairspray and oil

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“Made with Love” by Grace Romano, X: photography

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Hip Uncle Mike hasn’t even been buried, (It’s been months) So he’s worse at being dead than telling stories at the dinner table.

He would laugh if he saw I wrote that. I think.

He was a bowling ball of a man, Two hip surgeries and one divorce.

We saw him twice a year During Christmas and Easter.

I played ELO on the piano for him once.

I hope Aunt Beth is doing okay.

- Peter Sarsfield, XII: poetry

“Lined Bowl” by Gabby Thomas, XI: ceramics

“Kitchen” by Annie Zhang, XII: pen and ink

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i rake a brush through my hair i know i’m not supposed to-i never, in the summer when it’s all curled vast, unfurled like rusted springs on a sea sprayed bed.

astrologically clingy

by Reed Dillon, X: poetry

there’s a thingi think, about leo risings they look like lions. i think i can see it in my red hair, now dyed too many times, when the midnight rush takes hold layers, of drugstore diys, can see it in the way my eyebrows touch each side of my nose i draw them closer with pencils, with gels it closes my face. i recognize it when my nostrils flare.

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“Paper Quilt” by Frances Bobbitt, XI: architecture

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“Flood”

by Daniel Pinheiro, XII mixed media 74

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Doodle Pens It’s so close​. It’s afternoon rest time in K-W and I’m the only one who can’t fall asleep.

I’m not normal. Everyone else is rolled over and eyes closed and making the heavy-breathing-sleeping-noises and I’m wide awake and my feet are tapping and my hands are shaking because I can’t sit still. ​I could reach up and grab it while the teacher’s on the other side of the room​. The thin purple mat under me isn’t enough to keep me comfortable on the cold tile.

Who can sleep like this? Maybe they’re not normal. My mom never packed me a pillow, either. Olivia has a sleeping mat with a built-in sleeping bag, cushion, and a purple pillow. It takes up her whole cubby, and her backpack usually ends up on the floor because of it. ​Right next to me​. She also has a green doodle pen, which was one of those pens that was very clicky and sort of too fat for my hands. But the reason it was cool, especially from the perspective of every kindergartener ever, is because of the thin rubber hair it had on top. Each pen was different. Sometimes they were characters from superhero movies. Captain America had red white and blue hair. Sometimes they were just the goofy-looking standard doodle-guys, with too-big eyes and a toothy smile. ​She has so many she probably won’t even miss it​. Olivia has several. A whole stupid-looking arrangement, pathetically chained to the same zipper on her sequined backpack. My mom never got me any, no matter how much I asked at the check-out line of the local Acme, or the first aisle of Five Below when we bought my brother party favors.

She said they were dumb, that they didn’t even write well and that the keychain would snap in half after a day of being pulled to open my backpack. ​It’s the one from Acme. Green body purple hair. ​I scooch to the edge of my mat. The teacher walks by, I can tell because of the dull clicking moving next to me, farther and farther away. I pretend to be asleep. ​Go now!​I slither my hand across the floor. Check back behind me again. ​All good​. The silver plastic hook comes off the zipper easily, except when I can’t figure out which chain belongs to which pen, on account of her having so many. Whatever guilt I initially felt is gone now. I hear the clicking coming closer now. ​Just grab one!​I snag the one I unhooked, and shove it under my belly. I look at her bag again to make sure it doesn’t look like I stole something. The green doodle pen stares back at me under his purple hair.

- Mackenzie Mazzarisi, XII: flash fiction 75

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Helvetica At night, I don’t really do anything. There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing I ​can​ do.

Some tell me to go to sleep. But like I said, I can’t. It’s not like insomnia, no. I don’t have “trouble” going to sleep. It’s more like I refuse to go to sleep. My mind awakens as soon as the lights go off, like it’s out of sync from my body. So my brain does a couple lines of coke, and immediately a string of thought hoists me up like a puppet.

Questions like, “What the hell is aloe vera?” or “What makes the Helvetica font different from Arial?” are asked. Before I know it, my face is illuminated by that terrible blue light of my phone as I spew my questions out. “​A number of the glyphs are almost identical, and even an expert would have difficulty telling them apart.

However, there are a few that stand out as being quite different; namely ‘a’, ‘G’, ‘Q’, ‘R’, and ‘1’​,​” ​reads an article on ​I Love Typography dot com.​Below the text, a table comparing the different serifs and uses of negative space captivates me as I carefully cross reference the two typefaces.

At some point in the night, I lose control of myself, and the possibility of a good night’s rest is incinerated.

I’ve crossed the event horizon of my consciousness, and I squander away the rest of the hours in my night like a person who has too much money to spend at a shopping mall.

When the sun comes up, the marathon is over. The flames engulfing my skull die down mysteriously, and my brain finally crashes. Autopilot is initiated, and like a robot, I peel my blanket off and head downstairs to eat a routinely lukewarm oatmeal.

At school, someone points out that I seem tired.

“What were you doing last night?” they always ask.

- Zander Zhang, XI: flash fiction

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“Don’t Lose Your Head” by Kacey Fisher, XI: collage

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“Squirm Cells”

by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash

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Bad Story Once upon a time, blah blah blah, something extraordinary, or completely mundane, happened to a single person. That person, or their descendants, or simply someone admiring from the box seat, took it as a sign or a clue. Maybe they find a plot, maybe they create it. Love. loss. Dental floss.

Then, there is the turning point where everything unravels. Luke finds his father and Dorothy finds the pot of gold and Jill tumbles down the beanstalk after Jack. The characters are forced to adapt to this discovery, resulting in their lives changing, maybe forming connections, or breaking them.

There is an end, which may or may not be pleasing, might be a twist, but otherwise, the character’s life becomes this story, so that the story itself becomes a life. You get the picture.

Christian Mayer, XI: flash fiction

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The sky is falling: chips of paint sprinkle

The sky (is falling)

by Rebecca Willner X: poetry

down artificial flakes weave on the descent to me stack green paper shreds, mini shards of glass.

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“Pompei”, Jenny Zhang, XII: ceramics

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Sunday Market “Should I grab the apples, or should you? Sorry, I don’t know how to do the social distancing stuff.”

The amount of times I’ve had this interaction working the farmer’s market each Sunday is astounding, but justified. My answer is entirely situation-dependent, and would appear totally random to someone watching me do this all day, if anyone ever did that. And for the most part, it is.

I usually say, “It doesn’t matter,” offering them the token cheap brown paper bag to dump their produce in. Then it’s their move.

Often, if they’re around twenty-five years old with blue and purple hair and their own t-shirt bag, they’ll tenuously reach into the produce basket, being sure to take what they touch, and place their produce gently in the bag they gave me to hold open. “There we go,” they say, upticking at the beginning and end of their sentence, in case I can’t read their enthusiasm from behind their mask.

If they’re over forty with a staple Karen side-bob and wrung out husband by their side who thinks “Everything looks pretty nice, honey,” they’ll definitely pick the stuff themselves. They probably also showed up at eight-thirty even though we don’t open until nine. Now, they really make sure to go through each and every piece of fruit, to ensure they’re not ripped off fifty cents every pound lest their apple have a spot on it. Trust me when I say it takes every ounce of my strength to not yell at these imbeciles for touching everything. I’d probably slap their hands away, but that wouldn’t be very social-distancey of me.

And I kinda get it, everyone wants to get good fruit. But I wouldn’t put it out for sale if it were bad, and touching everything in general is nasty, even when there’s not a pandemic.

The third iteration of customers are the Boomers. These are typically well-mannered elderly couples, one with a bleached blow-out and the other holding his wife’s soaps and knit hats and whatnot that she already bought at the front of the market. They tell me that they want me to pick out the best fruit for them. “I trust you, dear. Just get me a few good ones.” I don’t mind them so much.

This system pretty much encompasses anyone who would be at a Sunday farmer’s market. But there’s a special place in Hell for this one guy who likes to complain about our tomatoes. To preface, not one other person has ever had a single negative thing to say about our tomatoes, and we usually can’t get them to 82

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shut up about their goddamn tomato sandwiches. And they most certainly never accuse us of having something called “fake Jersey tomatoes,” whatever those are. But this guy does. One time he came right up to the tomato section, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, “I had a tomato last week, and it just didn’t smell like a Jersey tomato.” As though to prove his point, he picked up a tomato, and put it up to his nose (which was already out of his mask), and sniffed it. I swear I saw a drop of snot land right on top, pulling away from his nostril as he took another look. He then said, “Yup. Don’t smell right,” and put it back. I had to toss that one after he walked away.

I imagined what it would’ve been like to teach that guy a firm lesson in not being a weird entitled creep. Really hand his ass to him, right there. Had my boss not been right next to me, I probably would’ve told him to shove it. “Eff right off, and take that fake tomato with you while you’re at it.

Take your snotty nose and your snotty attitude and go have a crap day elsewhere,” I’d say.

Or maybe, if I’d come prepared, I’d have a six-foot-social-distancing walloping stick. I could smack him right across his fat head without even having to lean across the plastic folding table. Really give him a good ​bonk​and tell him to quit asking stupid questions. “Do ​you​even know what a fake Jersey tomato is?

Do you even know what you’re asking? I’ll tell you what, I grew these things up on planet Krypton, making sure to pump them real full of GMOs and pesticides, and when they’re done, I inject them with the taste of a real Jersey tomato. Then, I bring them down here in my spaceship, and sell them to the local idiots.

Except you, sir, of course, because you’re so smart you’ve figured out they’re fake. Here’s your goddamn medal.” Then I’d give him another ​smack​for good measure and he’d promptly cease to exist.

I think about this for a while. All the ways I could make this guy realize what an absolute doorknob he’s being. I stew on it for a good few minutes while I meander around my booth, restocking bags and throwing out the apples with holes in them. I don’t get very far into my fantasy though, before a fifty year-old looking woman comes up to me with her gangly t-shirt bag, sizing up the eggplants.

“Should I just put these in my bag, or do you want to?” Like I’d ​want​to.

“It doesn’t matter.”

- MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: Short Story

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“Self Portrait” by Yishi Wang, XII: photography

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“Web” by Yishi Wang, XII: photography

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black coffee writes screenplays at two in the morning and wears thin leather gloves to cover the ink stains on his fingers; hides the bruising under his eyes with expensive dark sunglasses; ignores the whispers of insomnia with a sharp tongue and bitter smile, certain that if he ever slept, he would dream in noir.

coffee & martini & tea (or: thirst)

by Jessie Lin, XII: poetry

gin martini takes a long drag on the rooftop of some old acquaintance’s apartment and tunes her heartbeat to the thundering of the bass drum downstairs; (breathe in) presses a stiletto into a dunhill stub, reaches for another from the recesses of her purse, and wonders if her daughter will notice her melting gums. (breathe out) chamomile tea outlines his veins with a fine tip sharpie, presses dried carnations over his eyelids and tries to fade into the margins where he scribbles letters to strangers in the yellowing pages of his childhood diary, covering entire sheets once filled with the looping letters and dotted i’s of i love you, and i wish you were here, and do you ever miss me?

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“Mahjong in Manhattan” by Bolin Shen, XI: colored pencil 87

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“From Above” by Caroline Ewing, XI: photography

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“Redimus Stool” by Abby Weinstein, XII: maple, paduak, and concrete

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Eye Burner You won’t believe this, but it’s true.

At about eleven PM I was simply driving out to get some chips from the CVS on Main, you see, and as I went down the route passing fern trees and old Money Guy homes, I noticed the damn sky was changing colors. No joke—it flipped through sixty second cycles of ruby red and blueberry to a stone cold white then to green then back to ruby and then blueberry then...

It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen—and I could barely take my eyes off the sky as my Pilot and I psshhhed down the route going more or less sixty miles an hour. I had to adjust my trajectory a few times because I couldn’t stop looking at the sky—like a child to a TV or some damn teen on his little phone—and eventually was forced to veer away from my chips at CVS and go towards that source of the light in the sky; I went to the beacon.

The light was calling, like, I was wanted—what I mean is I was the only one who had noticed that the sky wasn’t black because everyone else was either too tired to care or too focused on making money or both. They were all going home.

The beacon first led me to a parking lot where an old guy was walking around, talking blankly as he “missed Sharon” and “felt old”—all that jazz about his past. He was a melancholy pruney bum, a rambling homeless guy, but that lot was where I first got a glimpse of where it was coming from.

The back of the parking lot overlooked a massive wheat field. Across this wheat field, about a mile away as a crow flies, it looked around as big as a football field. The beacon was a massive LED screen. From where I was in that parking lot you could see the full thing simply flipping from solid blue to red to white over and over and over, et cetera, cycling through the disco and beaming intense neon light towards the sky to light up the clouds and get the sky dancing. But then I noticed that the blue was actually rather turquoise, which made me laugh and slap my face.

Anyway, I turned my Pilot around—it went uuuuggg because she had about 300,000 miles on her odometer—and started down the new path, down to that damn LED beacon calling: Jack, Jack!

This is the odd part: I was going slowly trying to see where to go, and a doggone baby owl up and flew right in front of the Pilot. I stopped. It was like an owl, but tiny, and had all the features of the big ones you see 90

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on National Geographic—white feathers and an intricate little chest with eyes that could crack glass bottles yet comfort a senile freak.

And we stared at each other for a second, me wondering whether to hop out and try to take it home because it was so rare and pretty and the baby owl wondering why I was so big and maroon red and steaming.

Then it flew away and I said aqqhhh and rolled onto that neon disco screen, laughing and slapping my face still because everything was so weird and I felt glad to be on some sort of journey, like Odysseus—I was wanted.

But it took me to a run down chicken coop with the old rotting wood and chicken wire straggling like a spider nest. I’d never seen it before, and it looked old like it belonged to a slaughterhouse of the 1700s, but it seemed that the beacon was in its back yard—I saw the top pixels of the screen over top, challenging that old chicken coop to die faster because it was massive and the future.

But when I went around back, it was farther. I felt I was beneath it, yet it was on the other side of a massive forest with oaks and ferns jutting like an a fro. It was too far to walk.

You won’t believe me, you won’t believe me: a damn chicken came out of the forest, changing colors with the screen like an Iguana Chicken.

Half flying and half trotting with short strides bouncing up-down quickly like a little kindergartener on her way to class, that disco chicken came right up to me, stopping for a second and staring in my eyes like that baby owl did. Then it bocked and pecked my feet, scrutinizing my shoes while I watched so happy—he was still turning blue and red and white along with the screen.

After a while I looked back up and shrugged, saying baye to the chicken and going back to my Pilot shaking my head and stretching my eyelids with my senile smile. That close to it, everything was changing colors—Pilot was switching, the sky was switching, my arms and legs were changing, like, everything was a big disco.

With Pilot going uuugggg I drove around the forest fast because I just needed to be under that screen to know what it looked like that close. I’d gone too far.

When I finally got to where the beacon was, I could barely open my eyes. It turned out to be one of those large jumbotrons that they use at football fields at the ball games where the crowd would rather watch a big TV than see the players compete far away. It all made sense.

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I parked in the parking lot and walked over to the football field changing colors. Everything was changing colors, and I felt like I was going to have a damn seizure, but I was too hypnotized like a moth to a flame and walked to the center of the field surrounded by two rows of bleachers on either side with the screen up twenty feet threading the needle between the two.

I sat down in the middle and looked around. It was so serene, placid, and god damn quiet I could’ve died right there. It was like floating in the middle of empty space: I didn’t feel anything, just happiness and satisfaction because I found it. I found it as I lay down and watched the sky change colors, illuminating the clouds every time the jumbo turned white. It all made sense—the fans were going to love that screen. I watched the sky. ####### “Cool, right?” I shot up—there was an old guy sitting cross-legged applesauce spoons in the bowl next to me, bobbing back and forth and smiling at the screen. He was thin and scraggly and had a few strands of hair falling to the back of his black and orange uniform. “I call it the Eye Burner.” In light of everything going on that night, I mellowed out, laying back down with my belly to the sky.

“Rightfully so.”

He handed me a pair of sunglasses and I put them on, sitting back up to look at the screen again; it was about one hundred yards away, maybe less. “I’m testin’ it,” this prune said, a little hoarse. “Lucky job, don’t you think?”

I looked at him, “I do, sir, yes. Lots.”

We sat there cross-legged applesauce for a time, watching everything flip from red to blue to green to white, me thinking, God, they’re all gonna love this damn screen. I could picture a little fat boy buying popcorn at the concession and jiggling past everyone down to his seats, and when he finds them plopping down with his fat little belly jiggling between his legs, staring flat eyed at that big pixel computer and stuffing his face with buttery popcorn with everyone to his left and right doing the same.

“I usually play music down here,” the guy turned to me and smiled. “You know, to test the speakers—care to listen?”

I smiled back: “Yes, sir, I’ll care...”

He pulled out his doggone cellphone and he played this song that was so beautiful I cried: it started with a 92

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watery bassline going dooboodoobeedoodoo with drums and a piano riff clacking away, trickling up into the sky and rolling down the bleachers, flooding the field and making it hard to breathe. Everything was turning colors and vibrating wavy and cool like we were underwater. The bass buzzed my chest, and I felt the world turning as I cried and bawled aaghhhboohoo.

Everyone in the damn town must have heard it so loud and clear but I knew that didn’t matter because they were watching their TVs and flossing their teeth and eating their chips from CVS while reading the news.

They were all too tired and they were all too focused on making money and they were all going home.

- Jackson Cook, XI: short story

“Bas-Relief Collage” by Aaron Chu, XII: architecture 93

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Jim Jones Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

This is not church. This is court.

Doesn’t change the fact that I have sinned.

Moving on...this was an apparent suicide.

Why’ve you singled me out to question?

No need to be defensive. We are not accusing you of anything.

Maybe you should be, sir.

We should be accusing you of his suicide?

Sure.

Mr. Conrad, are you admitting to murder?

I was not the killer, sir.

So this was not a suicide?

Clearly not.

You know who the killer was?

Maybe.

Who? Not me.

Withholding information can land you in jail.

I deserve it anyway.

So you didn’t kill him?

Not me, not really​.

And you know it wasn’t suicide?

Well, he did commit suicide.

He committed suicide...but there was a killer?

There were killers.

Mr. Conrad, you aren’t making much se— Let me tell you about him, sir.

Go ahead.

He loved escaping, sir. He escaped everything.

He escaped the truth, he escaped reality.

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He escaped the past, the present, and now he has escaped the future.

Who may have wanted to kill him?

Oh, we all wanted to kill him, sir.

We all? You mean his family?

Of course not. I mean his friends.

So Ned, Joey, Robert— No. Mr. Crank, Hemp, Jim Jones.

One of them killed him?

All. I have no record of these people.

They aren’t people, sir.

Mr. Conrad, you— Let me tell you some more about him.

He ran away from home when he was little.

He was always running. Never quite there.

What the hell is Jim Jones?

Depends on who you’re asking. Me or the victim?

You’d speak for the victim?

I can. I know everything about him, sir.

I know everything about the way his mind ran.

If you asked anybody else they’d say he used Jim Jones. I can tell you now that Jim Jones used him. Made him escape, made him float when the world tied him down, made him disappear when reality was too much.

Enough with this malarkey, Mr. Conrad. Who’s Jim Jones?

The murderer.

So this was murder not suicide.

It was both. Jim Jones and the lot murdered him.

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Chipped away at his soul each time they guided that translucent, rolled up paper to his lips.

Jim Jones was the real noose.

And where do you come into play, Mr. Conrad?

Sir, I introduced him to Jim Jones.

- Neha Khandkar, X: flash fiction

“Ruins”

by Sophie Difazio, XII: oil on canvas 95

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“Cement Truck Lamp” by Abby Weinstein, XII: found objects and 3D print

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Custodian My dad drove me to my brother’s house to help him put up a fake beam.

I did nothing.

My brother and father stood on ladders, lifting the beam over their heads as they wedged it between the sheet rock.

I did nothing.

Not only did the beam fall from its unscrewed position, but it crushed his new cabinets that the contractor advised him to get. He said they’d have more room to store things. Now they can store nothing. My father, startled, managed to slip off the ladder and land face first into a pan of spackle. He lifted his aching head to reveal a gash across his forehead, spackled shut like a hole in the wall. Bits of wood from the beam lined his putty-covered face like a Christmas tree. That was all before we noticed the stray screw sticking out from an unfinished part of the wall. It must have caught on his jacket because my father’s brand new Carhart had a giant tear along the side of it.

He cursed.

My brother laughed.

I started the car.

- Harrison Fehn, XI: flash fiction

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“Interrupted Flow” by Sophie Difazio, XII: pencil

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Record Player Round and round like hands on a clock, the spiraling hours of the day, skating across the surface, barely scratching— sound spits out— “Holiday” by Green Day. And then back into its cozy sleeve, back to where it’s safe and tucked away— like my heart beating in the dark behind my shirt.

— Lily Matthews, X: poetry

“Anemone” by Hailey Sullivan, XI: ceramics 99

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Steal of Meal?: PS4 Edition You hear the growl of the ex-military German Shepherd pulsing through the wooden beams of the first floor and into the basement where you’ve been capitalizing on stowed-away treasures. ​Oh god, oh no, it’s awake.

It feels like the crystal butterfly you were about to reach for is fluttering inside of you, gnawing at the lining of your stomach. The coldness emanating from the aluminum laptop you’re grasping palpitates into your hand, and you take slow, controlled breaths through your black ski mask. You continue to grab items at random, loading them into your black duffel bag a bit more hurriedly than before so that you don’t find a jaw clamped around your forearm and razor sharp teeth tasting your bone.

Your mother walks into the family room and sees you standing in the middle of the carpeted floor, head to toe in the black suit, covered in sensors, and flailing your arms. R ​ eally, on a school night? ​She furrows her brow, “Did you finish your homework?” You distractedly mumble a “yes,” and she lets out a sigh and plops down on the couch, sipping her espresso and enjoying the view of your dumbassery.

The growl ramps up to an ear-shattering bark, and you think you hear it by the mahogany masterpiece of a door that opens into the stairwell of the basement. You figure that if the canine was fancying your fresh, tender flesh, it could jump up on its two hind legs and push the door open without breaking a sweat. That’s not a chance you’re willing to take.

Your mother knows what the suit does, but, of course, she doesn’t really know how it works—to be fair, neither do you. By the motion of your hands, she probably thinks that you’re simulating serving food at Nobu, making ice cream cakes at Carvel, or ringing up a customer at American Eagle. She brushes past you to turn on the electric fireplace, placing her empty cup on the coffee table when she returns to the couch to giggle at you.

You clumsily zip up the bag and stumble over antique lamps you have knocked down. Upstairs, the broad-chested, ex-marine father with tattoos of his fallen brothers running up and down his sleeves and a knife scar slashing from the base of his buzz cut to the bottom of jaw, paces over to his retired war dog. A faint W ​ hat is it buddy, what is it? ​creeps from under the door to the basement. ​What is it? ​It’s you. And he knows that. He can smell you. The father slowly opens the door and flicks on the dim lights that don’t do much to illuminate the plastered grey walls of the basement.​Fass! ​He lets go of the dog’s collar, and a rocket of battle-tested, coarse fur charges down the stairwell.

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“​EFFING SH--​!” you accidentally yell, and your mother’s face wrinkles and nose upturns in disgust as she runs to the bathroom to grab a bar of soap to jam into your mouth.

You hastily stumble towards the sliding doors at the end of the basement. His reflection in the glass hurdles after you, his eyes fixated on your neck. It doesn’t matter if you duck behind a chair or dart into the closet. It doesn’t matter if you sweep the books off the table into his way. In fact, it doesn’t even matter if you put your hands up in the air and drop the duffel bag. He has already lept, and he’s more than ready to stain his bared, polished titanium teeth.

GAME OVER. Note​: “Fass” is the traditional attack command for military dogs.

- Aaron Phogat, XII: short story

“Visiting Hours”

by Grace Romano, X: photography 101

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“Brewing Storms” by Bolin Shen, XI: watercolor and ink on paper 102

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“The Ripple Effect”

by Peter Ryan, X: photography

One by One The water hits you first. You roll—twice—and knock your head in the sand—twice—which does not feel so soft anymore. Then the green mouth comes down on the shells, causing them to jump up once again, and mercilessly inhales the shells, leaving not even the crappiest one. So you lie on your back like the child you are and rapidly kick the ground with your toes and flick small clusters of sand onto your chest and into your mouth until your muscles stop responding. Your first instinct is to spit out the disgusting little pieces of sand, but anger is in control now. So you chew what feels like low-quality sugar and taste the salty grit of the ocean, savoring the punishment and reminding yourself that you deserve no better. Then your arms take over and punch the sand, as you hope that it can feel your rage with each blow. But your arms give out before your legs.

So you just resort to your voice, as you shout and whine, until all you are is a mouth in the sand.

- Brendan Chia, XII: flash fiction 103

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“Bloom”

by Annie Zhang, XII: pencil 104

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Cherry-Cola “Did you know that in the 50s, you could buy one Cherry-Cola for six cents and two for a dime?”

“Really?” He grabs a box of caramel M&Ms. “Yeah, at least that’s what my Grandpa Joey told me.”

“Wow, it’s a total rip-off today. That medium cup of Cherry-Cola today costs $6.54.”

I laugh, a little giggle, like how the blonde, bouncy-haired girls would laugh in Grease. Thank god I’m not paying tonight.

“So, what’s this movie about again?” he asks while adding a little too much butter to the popcorn.

“Well, it’s the final installment of a superhero series that’s spanned over twenty-two movies and ten years.

I could explain the plot of every previous film, but considering this movie starts in like ten minutes, I’ll give you the SparkNotes version. So, there are these infinity stones that each possess the powers of space, time, reality, and--hey, c’mon, stop laughing at me.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so cute when you get all nerdy.”

I softly smile and look down at my shoes as I toy with the emerald necklace I got for my birthday last fall.

An hour ago, I spent nearly five minutes throwing shoes across my room until I finally settled on a pair of red suede ankle booties. My boots click on the linoleum floors, like Dorothy, as we walk to theater nine with the two medium cups of Cherry-Cola, caramel M&Ms, and extra-salted, extra-buttered popcorn in hand.

“Since I like you, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” he says, taking a sip of soda.

“Oh, tell me more.”

“You see this?”

He holds up the box of caramel M&Ms in the light of the projector that’s playing a trailer for some new action film starring The Rock. Then, he dumps the entire box into the bag of popcorn; the butter smudges the colorful candy coating of the M&Ms, blanketing the popcorn in a whirlpool of rainbow chocolatey grease.

My palms are soon sticky and stained with melted, multi-colored milk chocolate.

“Watch this.” I throw up a red M&M paired with a piece of popcorn and tilt my head back.

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“Oooh! Ooh! Oh! Aw, here, try again,” he reaches for a red M&M. M&Ms and popcorn fly at me like pistols. Mostly, the food bounces off my face and lands on the ground turning the theater’s black carpet into a technicolor solar system dotted with blue and green and brown M&M planets and popcorn suns. Slowly the yellow lights begin to dim. As a piece of candy shoots at me, an old woman with thick, round glasses and a floral shawl turns around and aggressively shushes us. Distracted, I turn to the woman and popcorn bounces off my nose and onto the floor.

“Good try.”

“Thank yo-” “Wait, you got some popcorn in your hair.” He leans close enough so that I can smell the sweet scent of Cherry-Cola lingering on his breath and brushes the popcorn out of my hair.

“Perfect.”

- Brooke Littman, XII: short story

“Detritus”

by Aleksei Darenkov, XII: photograpy 106

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“Self Portrait”

by Annie Zhang, XII: ink on paper 107

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I’m Catholic but not super Catholic I want to get married,

God-fearing

by Ava Daniel, X: poetry

have kids, and be rich So how do I get into heaven: Do I A)Pray more Or B) Sin less?

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“Probably Not a Frisbee” by William Foster, XI: ceramics

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“Enter the Rat Race”

by Eleanor Ding, XI: ink wash 110

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uncle nature billboard screen sunspots

our Winter Wonderlandwe climb a crimson train

sewer grate fog

at the Adam Yauch playground off Atlantic Ave

warmth snakes up from below.

plastic snowflakes hang across the

it doesn’t rise.

streets

doesn’t rise like a hot air balloon.

from the piers to Barclays

but sits around your ankles

syadiloh yppah

dense, smoky stockings.

flickering yellowSharp horns and Crackling carols

heat lies low as our heads bow the same. shoulders squared an intricate dance of avoidance, annoyance parting the seas of black coats, elbow daggersflipping 180˚ snow is a Christmas Card, an Apple home screen sludge is now. sludge is grey, sludge is gruel, brown,

whipping, whistling, wind. invisible shards of glass to the face lip trembling, knobby knees quaking, greying fingers, runny nose, stained red Alas, Christmas arrived: Nuts 4 Nuts the pain is gone - Reed Dillon, X: poetry

yellow, blue 111

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rock: 1. small chunk of earth, chipped off the whole 2. most important piece of hopscotch 3. cause of pain when running bare-foot 4. water-skipper 5. demise of a skidding road bike 6. momento of the monumental hike up Mount Massive 7. withering away in wind 8. worth less than nothing

rock, mud, tree

by Rebecca Willner, XI: poetry

mud: 1. soggy dirt 2. rainforest floor 3. slick layer around a stream 4. cause for rain boots 5. supposed skin cleanser 6. present in a pigsty 7. cross-country trail obstruction 8. outside inedible pie tree: 1. natural jungle gym 2. air factory 3. unrefined/unfiltered paper 4. forest fire fuel 5. savior on a sunny day 6. pre-toilet paper toilet paper 7. big broccoli 8. suburban sidewalk bulldozer

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“Barcelona Redesign: Movement” by Frances Bobbitt, XI: architecture

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How to Build a Fairy House Teeter-totter run out to the backyard. Feet smoosh grass, toes weave between it. Your mom says be careful don’t step on the dog poop. Or the sticks. Or the pinecones. Get faster bigger steps down the hill. Run out to the old dying tree in the backyard, where the mushy bark will tower far over your soft head. Softwet grassmud underneath your feet. You can look around the sides of the too-big-to-hug-around trunk, but you should already know what side you want to build on. Find the hollow nook on the side facing the fence, the field, the mopey excuse for a garden–some sad, squishy tomatoes and funny shaped cucumber–surrounded by rectangle stones. There’s an even-enough floor on the nook’s base. Perfect for a room.

You should get your supplies. Sticks. Moss. Flowers, the yellow ones. The pink ones. Some leaves, but not the dry ones.

But you can’t rush too much. Have to clean the dirt off the floor first. Lay the long thin pencil sticks above the floor. A roof. Build the inside. You did that backwards. Take the roof off start over. Leaves on the floor.

Carpet. Soft enough for feet. Moss in the corner. It makes a good bed. A good bed is important. You put it in the corner. You like your bed in your room because it’s comfy and in the corner. But you like the makeshift bed your parents make for you with pillows at the end of their bed for when you have nightmares better.

Sticks on the sides. Security and shelter, from the cold and the wind and the rain. Now back to the sticks on top roof. Lay them across. No this way. Leaves on top, no rain gets in. Can’t let the water dampen their wings.

Now it has to look pretty. Flowers on the sides. Flowers on top. Front. Some inside too, just for decoration.

Some petals—what do they eat?—for the floor. Need stairs to get up. No, they fly.

- MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: short story

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The Fall Running.

Sprinting, dodging, and leaping over a bench, a stack of books, a recycling bin, you round a corner, skidding, off-kilter.

Stop.

Momentum pushes you, demands that you continue, but you stop.

Stock still, heart fighting against your ribcage, thumping in your ears, gasp, like you’re under water.

Then, they round the corner.

A blur against the empty hall.

Stop.

Maybe they trip, shoes scuffing, legs caught.

They stop, and you start.

Eyes wide, smile stretching

across your face, Head cocked to one side.

You meet, bodies caught a few frames back, buffering.

The ground rushes to meet you.

Weightless, a jumble of limbs.

Laughter spills, like liquid, all over rugs and walls and windows.

A snicker at first, then a tea kettle wheeze.

The ground fades.

Gravity upended to snorts of laughter, and the ground, reduced to nothing.

You fall, and the moment blurs.

It smears like the halls that you just passed, eyes streaming.

Doubled over and sharp barks of laughter sputter into a warmth, and a rose tint replaces the sharp white.

You cut through the fog, the blurred lens cracked, you land.

Your body makes impact with the scuffed carpet, the looming walls come into focus.

Breathless, a stitch in your side, your face on the rug you roll onto your back and lie still.

Staring at the ceiling, you notice the lights span the grid, the tiles.

Soaking it all in.

- Danielle Im, X: poetry

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“Method of a Child” by Greta Yuan, IX: photography

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Growing Pains Is it silly that I cried the other day

watching Spongebob?

many things floating around in that brain of mine—

There were so

BAM!

Nostalgia.

Now that there’s so much responsibility & capability clouding I don’t have time to sit and play

over me,

with Barbies

for hours

and build

Jenga towers

sticks and

zoomed around the yard with pretend superpowers that lifted them

up,

up and away.

there’s no pizza lunches or

Now,

No innocence

or pretzels for 75 cents.

four years old, waiting for to Katy Perry

with the kindergarten playmates who stole my

cheese

creepy, Chuck E.Cheese.

I still feel like I’m

prince charming and

singing

loudly

with my hairbrush as a microphone.

I hold on to the childhood I remember, as I learn to drive

for real instead of in Mario

Kart. And there will

when Spongebob won’t make me cry

a little

never

inside, but I think it’s

be a day okay.

- Laurel Masciantonio, X: poetry

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The girl I left behind me has thunder behind her eyes.

Her thoughts rage, a brainstorm that controls her like a crooked marionette.

The Girl I Left Behind Me (Ekphrastic Poem inspired by Eastman Johnson’s poem of the same name) — Chloe Knerr, XI: poetry

The girl I left behind me has cracked china skin.

Her lips are pressed tight in a thin line, a clam shell hiding a pearl.

The girl I left behind me is not the girl you see before you.

She does not have a deep golden laugh and round eyes that leave you stumbling into sea green.

The girl I left behind me now floats out where it’s deep. and fights with her shadow in the waves because I’ve drowned her with my pretty face.

And locked her in a steel cage..

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“Memories” by Annie Zhang, XII: watercolor and pencil

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“Skyscrapers” by Eshaa Doshi, XI: ceramics

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“I Feel” by Ella Jackson, XII: muslin, fabric paint, and photography

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“Vast Forest” by Justin Elkin, IX: photography

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Middle Seat Water rushing through your ears... A slippery algae coated blade raking against your right shin... A broken piece of solid foam that was once half of something, drifting a quarter mile away, farther and farther...

You hit your head. Hard. And the silence immediately following is deafening. The ringing, the wailing of whitewater, the engorged blood vessels pumping in and out, up and down, expanding your soft skull until it bursts.

Backtrack. The wave didn’t look all that dangerous. You’d certainly seen bigger. And you knew there was a strong undertow, but all your friends were here too, ripping through the black glass with the unbridled, ignorant confidence you could only lust for. So you wiggled your toes, pressed your chest against your faded cyan foam board, and paddled parallel to the pull into the gleaming black mountain.

Backtrack. Alan’s new Pontiac Bonneville saunters down the highway adjacent to the ocean. You noticed there weren’t many public beaches out here. In fact, you hadn’t seen another car for a few minutes. He says it’s mostly deserted, save for “a few creepy old guys in those shacks on the cliff.” A few minutes later and you’re off the highway, down at the base of an old dirt road, sand beginning to mix with the loamy clay, the approaching opening onto the beach that looks like the mouth of a cave. Everyone presses their face against the milky glass to peer outside except you. You’ve always taken the middle seat.

Backtrack. ​What do you mean we’re moving again? We haven’t even been here a year. Think of him,​ she’d croaked, looking back towards your room, ​he hasn’t had the time to make a single friend yet.

It’s not my fault. If I want to keep this job I have to transfer. I already narrowly avoided getting laid off ​ last​month. Do you want that to happen again?

She sighed, and looked around the bare living room. She hadn’t seen you snooping behind the stillunpacked boxes. ​I guess not​.

Flash forward. You’d seen the group of them at the community center for the past year and a half, since moving there from Wisconsin. It was called the community center because there wasn’t a better name for a building that was the town’s only general store, restaurant, and bingo center for the nursing home. Right 123

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outside the back entrance, on the splintering picnic bench, playing a hand of cards or arm wrestling, they perched, every evening at dusk. Produce was cheapest there, so every Tuesday your mom sent you grocery shopping. That night, you dropped the half-off milk on the concrete stairs trailing from the back door, where you chained up your bike on the rusted rack. The one with the long blond dreads lacking a shirt leapt up to grab the carton before it rolled down the last step. ​Here you go bud. By the way, I’m Alan. ​You swallowed the lump in your throat. ​Stephen.

Flash forward. Maybe, with a real impressive wave, you can earn the respect and confidence to call shotgun on the way home, heroically retelling the experience of being in that tunnel of water, shredding through to the other side, while the guys hyped you up from the back, the cool, collected driver smirking in approval. Yeah, that’s what you’d do.

Flash forward. You ended up on the same jagged rock you hit your head on. Or maybe not. There’s lots out here, forming a collection of pointed witches hats along the coastline. You can hear some yelling in the distance, faded and echoed, but your friends are above you and their mouths are moving right next to you. They look concerned. ​Dude, we can’t let him ​die. We’ll never be allowed out on our own again!

You cover your eyes and roll over.

Well he’s not exactly dead. He just flopped over like that.

You feel yourself being pulled up by your shoulders, your lower back tickled by the rolling gravel underneath you. Feet out of the water, feet pressed against the moist itchy ground. Come on, we gotta get to the car. You’re gonna be alright.

You’re hoisted up the sandy hill, each step an inch, each step a mile. The thud of your ribcage against the hood of the car vibrates through your chest. They turn you over, the harsh white sun stabbing through your eyes and into your cranium. ​Come on, man, talk or something​.

I’m okay​. But the words don’t come out that way. Instead, your tongue rolls around your mouth, and you hear yourself emit something of a groan. ​Let’s get him out of here​. You’re hoisted up roughly from the armpits, and your vision goes black.

When you peel your eyes open again, you feel the soft leather of the headrest pressing against your matted hair. From your shotgun seat you can see through the window, the top of the hill you came from, the 124

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old dirt road, the cliffside shacks, all buzzing by you. The guys in the back are arguing about something, but you can’t hear what. They’re too loud. You look over at the driver. He’s cool and collected when he looks at you. ​ You’re gonna be alright.

- MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: short story

“Coral Cups” by Hailey Wexler, XI: ceramics 125

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On

(inspired by A. Van Jordan’s “From”) on prep. 1. in contact with: as in, you wake up on grimy shower tiles, sweaty limbs, the bar of soap in your fist disfigured into a mannequin. you wake up on a pile of obituaries, generations of people you will never meet, archives of lost lives in times new roman size ten. you wake up on the kitchen floor, a cracked teacup lying in the corner under the sink, the rim still stained with red lipstick, or maybe paint, or maybe blood. 2. next to: your first muse lives on the beach, not the kind with white sand and starfish but the kind with blustering winds and uneven rocks—a wisp of a man with a home in the city but preferring the cottage on the cliffs. you find this romantic and dress his walls in champagne tides straight from the sunrise, swirling oceans and moons in wide brush strokes across his back until he fades into the sea. 3. dependent upon: you live on white tea in the mornings and white wine at night; on saltines and clementines and boxed chocolates; on the kind man who forgives your missing rent payments because he once slept with your mother. she hangs on a rusted nail by the mirror in the bathroom, all faded pinks and yellows and browns. 4. indicating possession: a pack of gum, a pack of cigarillos, two driver’s licenses, a striped bandana, some bills, a crumpled lottery ticket, car keys, a heart on his sleeve, a pocket knife, the smudged charcoal sketch you gave him for his birthday, a promise—these are all things your second muse keeps on him. 5. in reference to: you read an article on how to dry sunflowers and imagine daisies sinking down your throat, smothering. you draw stitches between the second and third rib on your left side and imagine yourself as eve, forbidden. you watch old vhs tapes of documentaries on the renaissance and imagine yourself plastered into the wall like a fresco, permanent. 6. traveling by: you meet your third muse on a redeye flight across the country, silent except for the click of his pencil; then again on the sleeper car of the train home, brandy pungent in his breath, in the markers swirling against his palm; then again on a gurney, fingers still curled around a handgun, eyes wide open. 7. at the time of: your mother bears you on her seventeenth birthday, and the story goes like this—you wake up for the first time to bloody blankets and beeping; you should have been dead on arrival. you wake up to pulsing headaches, gouache smeared behind your ears, ink-stained handprints all over the walls; you should have been underground. you wake up on the morning you fill your porcelain teapot with a half liter of turpentine; you should not wake up again. but you do.

- Jessie Lin, XII: poetry

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“Sinister Mindfulness” by Neha Khandkar, X: photography

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Tin Boat So it was black morning, and Fred and I found ourselves on the Maine water in the tin boat. Fred was clinging to a rope—water skiing—that dragged behind Granny’s old silver tin-can boat. The throttle was disconnected from the stupid thing so that whenever you pushed it forward too hard it would pop! and you’d have to hammer it back into place before things got out of hand and you crashed into some dogs or something.

We sloshed and zogged down in the bay for a while before the sun even rose.

Whenever we found the tide high in the morning like that we would seal ourselves down there to skim and talk and act young; when the tide got low we anchored the boat to go kill animals on Chippy’s Island, where the grassy-tree animals made silent conversation. I used to think that when everything would go south in the world Fred and I would go down to Chippy’s and make fires and sleep in tents and laugh a while. But everything keeps changing: Fred’s dead now, and I can’t sleep for more than five hours without waking up yelling in an absurd fit of rage about Bayberry and Boss.

But this morning, nothing changed. Nothing could corrupt Fred and I into thinking something would be different in a few years—we found ourselves too busy. Busy skimming and loving the orange sky and waiting for the tide to turn muddy to kill animals on Chippy’s.

I was operating Granny Paula’s boat feeling happy as the time passed slower than usual—Fred ski skimming—and I felt the kid let go. The boat lurched forward and I got nervous and yanked the throttle back and turned around. But he was waving his ski like a flag on the edge of Chippy’s.

I spun the wheel and pushed the throttle forward to go to Fred, but the next second the whole throttle system got torn off the Tin Boat, and I was out of control, barreling toward a dancing Fred. I tried to cut the engine, but my fingers were shaking.

It was too late now. Lousy me: Granny’s Tin Boat got obliterated on the rock ten yards off Chippy’s. I jumped right before it hit and paddled over to Fred—shaking and pooping my pants—so I barely saw the thing make contact with the rock. But I can tell you it sounded like when we crush beers on the bottom of our heels, though a lot more voluminous. Point is, the thing crippled.

“Jesus, Jack! Why didn’t you steer or something, you dumb idiot?”

“Shut up, I was in shock! You would’ve done the same thing Freddy, oh god.”

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“Well.” Fred always took catastrophes the right way—never got rattled or anything—just stuck his head up and dealt with it.

We were in our bathing suits and barefooted with a mile of water between us and land.

“Look, no one’s awake. We’ll hang here for a while,” he saw me looking at the crumpled boat floating, “The thing was nothin’ but a beat-up piece of metal, anyway. I still got the ski, too!”

I caught my breath and sat down on a rock, pulling my hair and shaking as we sat there for a few hours, with our swimsuits and bare feet, watching the tide go bye and the sun go rise. We talked over our problems and Paula and sneakers and skis and new boats and girls. Eventually the sun was awake—teeth brushed and dressed for school like a ninth-grade Fred before everything went south—but it still wasn’t mudflats. And so we decided to walk through the oaks on Chippy’s.

We kicked sticks and stepped on mice and talked some more until there was nothing else to say. We fell into a loud silence then: eagles cawing and boat motors humming all around. And I suddenly remembered Paula’s crushed can boat, and wondered if anybody passed and started to look for us, and so I turned to ask Fred if we should venture back to the edge.

I was alone. So I called his name and my voice shook a little—remember, we were in the middle of all those oaks with nothing but bathing suits and barefeet, and when you’re that alone things start to get red-hot and fuzzy.

But Fred answered with a little Hey! and I felt fine. He was close, too, sitting on Chippy’s edge with a wormer, both looking at the sky and weaving brown branch garlands. A wormer is a Mainer who waits for mudflats to dig around in the gross mud for some wormies to sell to random fishermen for some dough. This Wormer was a skinny old guy with a few black hairs dotting his frail yellow body, and I noticed how he sat upright and bobbed back and forth like a buoy—humming a sad little song when no one spoke to him.

Fred said, “Jack, this is Ollssen. He lives here, and heard us crash. How ‘bout that?” I looked for a hint of sarcasm in my older cousin, but there was none. I concluded: the kid had lost it.

“Oh! ‘ey, Jack! ‘eard you ‘avin’ boat troubles and such.”—a thick Maine accent.

And after talking to the prune, I thought he was mellow. The first guy I ever met who lived on an island, and he wasn’t anything like I’d thought. He was zen and not a serial killer with a knife and beady eyes like Granny Paula tries to tell us those hobos were. Ollssen was simply an old man with a few feathers sticking out of his head, wearing nothing but underwear and shoes, who liked to weave garlands out of sticks in his free time and didn’t like this fast world with its money guys. And when he talked he fidgeted with little sticks and

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just did whatever he pleased. Granny Paula would hate him.

“You know da best part ‘bout livin’ on dis’ ‘ere islan’?” he would say when the conversation died down.

“What’s that?”

“Dere’s no mean ol’ neighbors tryina stick a fork in yer eye! Agaggagagahh!”

Suddenly, with Ollssen, I hated everything else: us three, sitting and talking and laughing would have been a nuisance to anyone of my family members. Get away from that bum! Dad would say, Jacky! My god! or something like that. Adulation for my dear Fred and pruney-old Ollssen made me happy, and all the while, Paula’s boat was ripped to shreds on the other side of the island. But I didn’t care, just sitting on rocks with this old palpitating man and blonde young Fred. The sky was still yellow-white now, and it began to melt my face.

The policeman came shortly after. He was a Maine policeman with no uniform, a gun, a badge, and a need for authority.

“Hey! Is that your boys boat over there?” He was pudgy and wore black sunglasses. I felt bad for him, lame guy. “Got a call from Paula Ruth about two missing boys who went off in her boat early this morning. You folks know anything about this,?”

“Well yea, offisuh, I do. Ya see, dese boys crashed deir boat dis mornin’ waterskiin, and we was jus sittin’ here chattin’ and waitin’ in da sun fer sum help ta come our way. Innit beautiful?” Ollssen said. He was the sweetest man I’d ever met.

“Why didn’t you call the police, sir? This kid is bleeding for chrissakes!” I scraped my leg getting out of the water; it was soaked in red.

“O’ mistah! Ion even got a house, let alone a cell-phone!”

“You’re a bum?”

“Das right. Livin’ on dis ‘ere islan’! You wanna know da best part ‘bout livin’ on a islan’?”

“You are aware that this island is privately owned, right?” He ignored the question.

“No, officah, I did nawt know dat.”

“Ok. Let’s go, boys. All three of ya.” He acted corny because he wanted to be some sort of legit cop.

And it pissed me off.

“Why?” said Fred with a hostile tone. I looked over at him.

“Don’t give me lip, boy,”—corny policeman voice—“Because. Your grand-ma called the police and is

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worried sick about the both of yas!”

“But why him too?” He pointed to our friend Ollssen. “Why, he’s going downtown for trespassing!”

“That’s just unfair!”

“That’s enough lip from you boy!” A corny guy.

“Shut up you, fat ass!” Fred had that wild look in his eyes he always got before he started flipping out.

“That’s it!” The policeman whipped out his gun, “Let’s go. I want no more attitude the rest of the way!”

He was real excited to whip out that gun. And it worked: Fred calmed down; guns scared him.

There we went, away from Chippy’s with the cop in his nice fast boat back to shore. But on the way, Fred got up and started choking the damn police man. It was the most spontaneous thing that had ever happened to me, but no lie, Fred got up and locked his arm around the pudgy officer’s fat neck and didn’t let go. The boat steered off the path.

I screamed and tried to pry him off, and Fred yelled and shouted and didn’t budge; he was going wild and crazy and there was just nothing I could do. Wilson sat on his seat looking up.

The rest of the details aren’t important. The boat crashed, yes—on the rocks outside of land—but the cop was fine and radioed to his buddies who took Fred to prison where he called home for just a year— his lawyer was good and pleaded stress and mental illness and a whole other load of bull. But Fred doesn’t really matter; he’s dead now.

What matters is Ollssen: that prune just walked away! After the boat crashed and the cop was distracted with Fred, Ollssen climbed up to shore and walked away, not turning around or anything. I imagine he walked down to the town or swam to another island to live on, but I just don’t know where that crazy zen old island-dweller went off to next.

As for me, I went back home and cried.

- Jackson Cook, XI: sudden fiction

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Index of Contributors Helen Amon, X: 11 Josie Baranski, X: 69 Ben Bigdelle, XII: 20 Frances Bobbitt, XI: 73, 113 Brendan Chia, XII: 40, 41-42, 65, 103 Madeline Chia, XII: 51 Aaron Chu, XII: 45, 52, 93 Jackson Cook, XI: 56-63, 90-93, 128-131 Jamie Creasi, IX: 33 Ava Daniel, X: 108 Aleksei Darnekov, XII: 8, 106 Sophie Difazio, XII: 17, 28, 95, 98 Reed Dillon, X: 72, 111 Eleanor Ding, XI: cover, 25, 30, 78, 110 Eshaa Doshi, XI: 120 Justin Elkin, IX: 122 Caroline Ewing, XI: 88 Harrison Fehn, XI: 97 Kacey Fisher, XI: 77 William Foster, XI: 55, 109 Paige Gardner, X: 47, 48 Jamie Granato, XII: 43 Isabell Hu, IX: 2 Danielle Im, X: 115 Ella Jackson, XII: 9, 16, 35, 121 Neha Khandkar, X: 64, 94-95, 127 Chloe Knerr, XI: 46, 118 Jessie Lin, XII: 66, 86, 126 Brooke Littman, XII: 32, 34, 105-106 Laurel Masciantonio, X: 117

Lily Matthews, X: 22, 99 Christian Mayer, XI: 18, 26, 79 MacKenzie Mazzarisi, XII: 29, 75, 82-83, 114, 123-125 Lily Nyce, XI: 21 Aaron Phogat, XII: 100-101 Daniel Pinheiro, XII: 14, 23, 74 Linda Qu, XI: 10, 21, 44, Navaneeth Rajan, X: 24 Gautam Ravipati, XI: 31, 53 Grace Romano, X: 54, 59, 70, 101 Peter Ryan, X: 19, 103 Peter Sarsfield, XII: 71 Cecilia Scheil, IX: 36 Camille Scordis, XII: 12 Bolin Shen, XI: 87, 102 Anny Shi, XI: 13, 27, 39, 68 Jona Soos, XI: 49 Haley Sullivan, XI: 99 Elizabeth Thomas, XI: 32 Gabby Thomas, XI: 71 Madison Tucker, X: 38 Yishi Wang, XII: 85 Hailey Wexler, XI: 125 Madeline Weinstein: 50, 89, 96 Rebecca Willner, XI: 32, 80, 112 Greta Yuan, IX: 116 Annie Zhang, XII: 67, 84, 104, 107, 119 Jenny Zhang, XI: 81 Zander Zhang, XI: 15, 37, 76

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