Eudaimonia by Roopa Shankar

eudaimonia

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manifestation of vitality from the sleeping earth, sunflowers shadow the sun’s passage across the sky, keeping its blaze forever in their view. Like these blooms, humans find themselves pursuing life-giving radiance all throughout their waking hours. What is often forgotten is that in the same way nighttime dreams are unconscious realizations of infinite potential, sunflowers continue to grow even without the guidance of the sun.

In the night, the white moth Eudaemonia brachyura flits across slumbering sunflower fields, transcending the bounds of our immediate awareness and expectations of actively acquired gratification. This moth takes its namesake from the Greek philosophy of eudaimonia, the belief that people are destined to live well, watched over by benevolent spirits. We invite you to foray into this field of sunflowers in search of eudaimonia, unblinded by the brilliance of day. Perhaps your outstretched hands will brush against sources of happiness that you have yet to realize or have already forgotten: the innocence of childish wonder reflected in iridescent bubbles. Inspiration drawn from the untainted strength of nature. The security of a safe harbor marked by fluorescent buoys. We hope that these glimpses of eudaimonia will remind you of the promise of human flourishing; white moths will flutter through the eventide as unseen guardians propel us through the night, and we drift inexorably toward contentment.

Staff Writers Vivian Chan Michelle Chang Stephanie Chang Nikita Gourishetty Beth Hightower Irene Hsu Jane Jun Diane Kim Jessica Kim Emily Liu Tilly Nguyen John Park Sabrina Shie Emily Su Kimberly Tan Christine Wang Richard Wei Eric Wu Carolyn Yen Aaron Yuan Iris Yuan Christina Zhu

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Vertigo is the official literary magazine of Lynbrook High School in San Jose, California. Advertising rates are available upon request by sending an e-mail to vertigomagazine@gmail.com with the subject: “Vertigo Advertising Request.” The views and opinions expressed within Vertigo do not reflect or represent the administration or faculty of this school or high school district. Cover art by Rachel Yung Art on title page by Yuqing Zhu

Frances Guo Ashley Wu Candy Chang Ashley Wu Helen Jun Disha Banik Roopa Shankar Robert Ying Cailly Jane Helen Jun Jane Jun Jessica Kim Angela Qiu Emily Su Kimberly Tan Erica Yin Iris Yuan Michelle Chang Stephanie Chang Jia Gao Angela Hu Lillian Li Jasmine Liu Clay Song Richard Wei Yifei Xie Ann Xu Annie Yang Rachel Yung Christina Zhu Yuqing Zhu Rick Hanford

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table of contents poetry

eudaimonia // vertigo photography by ashley wu

One Inch of Time b y ashley wu

“You need to stop the train.” The strange man shakes the woman’s arm. “Please, you need to stop the train.” “What?” Her voice rises fuzzy and thick. She turns to him, feeling as though she is moving underwater. The air seems rippled and distorted, the man’s shoulder in painful focus and yet his face an unintelligible blur. “Ma’am, there’s no time. The train. You need to stop the train.” He shakes her again, but she only gapes at him, registering trivial details. He is well-dressed. Genteel. Slim. Not at all like her—she feels like an elephant in her paisley smock, her hair a tangled cloud. She doesn’t understand. She sways, and he reaches out as though to steady her, but instead he shoves. Hard. She stumbles—she is falling—slow motion, a succession of still frames. The train roars, all lightning and thunder, its single headlight staring and staring—closer, closer. Her mouth opens in a perfect O. She had come to the train station that

morning the way she did every day, easing her considerable bulk carefully through the turnstile. Some days—Sundays and Mondays, mostly—hardly anyone would be there when she arrived in the early morning. She would idle around the neighborhood, far too conscious of her own presence. There was a tiny café opposite the station, a grocery, a modest church with a hole in its roof. She liked to peek inside the church, look for petals on the ground, signs of momentous occasions happening just beyond her radar. Bathing in their proximity, she felt that she had to catch someone else’s wave eventually, and perhaps the momentum would break through her standstill. A year ago, Charlie had written to say that he was coming home by train. He didn’t know exactly how or when he would get to the station, but he would be there in three weeks or so, and she only had to be there to welcome him. Though he had always been a troubled child, dark in both look and outlook, the letter had brimmed with happy optimism.

“Two things: I crave truth...and I lie.” — Tana French 5

eudaimonia // prose

“She has grown in breadth if not in depth, and her hair has risen to envelop her face in a lemon-meringue cloud.” She had run to share the good news with Robert almost immediately, but she was so out of breath by the time she reached his retirement home that it took her a full forty minutes to explain everything. Not that it mattered. A few months before Charlie had sent the letter, Robert had fallen out of a tree, and now he was less than functional. She could still hear his head cracking against a branch, the sound stunning her into silence for a week and a half. She told the paramedics when they arrived five minutes too late, “I heard his skull break against a branch when he fell; I heard his soul fly out of the gash.

No, no autopsy.” She arranged the funeral without saying another word, until a kindly neighbor took it upon himself to tell her that Robert was quite alive, if a little damaged, and the money going to the funeral might be far better spent on hospital bills. Then she had run to the hospital—she had been marginally faster then—to see him. But he was old, and the tree had been tall, and she had told him to just leave the fruit to fall by itself, but he had always been stubborn. Even after the swelling in his brain eased, Robert remained confused. He couldn’t remember her and only occasionally remembered Charlie. Yet once she stopped testing his memory, he didn’t seem to mind his foggy past; he was always pleased to see her, and they were able to have the same marvelous conversations she had valued most in their early courtship. He spoke to her as he might to an old friend, often referencing fictitious shared experiences, adamantly insisting that he remembered everything exactly as it had happened. Once she had fully described Charlie’s letter, Robert had smiled and touched her knee. “Helen,”—he got her name wrong again—“that’s wonderful. Charlie was always so good to you. It’ll be delightful for you two to live together again, especially with your husband gone.” She had looked at him, a puff of hair tickling her ear, and then she had rested her head on his shoulder. “He’s not, Robert.” Robert had left her a well-padded bank account, enough for her to live a while without hardship, so that even though he could no longer work and she had always been a housewife, rent was taken care of, bills were paid, and she could spend her days at the train station, waiting. Once, she had seen a nearly-grown boy fall onto the tracks, and he had looked like Charlie, huddled with

photography by ashley wu

“I try not to live in the past...

eudaimonia // vertigo his head down, clutching his leg where it had struck the gravel. Charlie had adopted that pained air often, even when he was a baby with a face so pudgy he could bring his eyebrows together. And then Charlie had run away. Surely he was grown now, no longer as fragile or as moody. Surely he was no longer as obsessed with trains and their potential for escape. He had gone on his grand adventure already, and now he was coming home. She falls, and the train station shivers in horrified rapture. The electric third rail sparks a few feet away from the huddled mass of a young man with a twisted leg. He sobs a little as he pulls himself toward the safety of the platform. “Dad, dad,” he calls, “My leg, I think it’s broken.” The train squeals as it slows. That morning, she had come upon the thought that Charlie, like Robert, might not recognize her. She had grown in breadth if not in depth, and her hair had risen to envelop her face in a lemon-meringue cloud. Perhaps Charlie had already come and gone, having been unable to find her—but then he would have written. Unless he had forgotten her address, too. They had moved shortly before Charlie’s disappearance, and she knew that Charlie hadn’t had the attention to waste on committing a new address to memory. Ever since Robert’s accident, she had found memory so treacherous, and even her own recollections seemed hazy and distorted. She had tried to speak with Robert about it, but the moment she brought up remembrance or forgetting, he grew confused again. So she lived in a world of eroding landscapes, teetering on the edge of reality and fantasy. Sometimes, it seemed easier simply to join Robert in his made-up

world and play god for a while. She couldn’t remember Charlie’s birthday, but Robert had said it was March 6th, so why not make it March 6th? That couldn’t possibly be right because she remembered the heat of summer when Charlie had been born, but Robert maintained that he had witnessed the birth, he had been there, and he knew that it had happened just before spring had begun. Born of two forgetful parents, how could Charlie be expected to retain anything any better? She had settled on her usual bench with quiet trepidation, doing her best to reconstruct Charlie’s face in her mind. He was thinner than either she or Robert, with a sallow little face and hooded eyes. She could not remember whether he had a widow’s peak, as Robert did but she did not. There were photographs, of course, but Charlie had liked his hair long and floppy, obscuring his hairline. She had been so discomfited by this lapse in memory that she had abandoned her bench to pace along the station and continued to do so even as her ankles began to protest the unnecessary strain. Finally, unable to bear the crush of foreign bodies, she had walked to the far end of the platform, the end the train would pass first, and had stood there motionless. There had been a hole in the awning directly over her head, and the sun had sent a little jet of light down as noon came and went. She had shaded her eyes and thought more of Charlie, and then of Robert. It had been a year since that initial thrilling letter and more than a year since Robert’s fall. Money wasn’t low yet, but this couldn’t go on indefinitely. True, she had little better to do; she had no particular life goal, no higher purpose, but if she couldn’t ride someone else’s wave out of this limbo, she would have to do it herself. She couldn’t soak in inertia forever.

“So she lived in a world of eroding landscapes, teetering on the edge of reality and fantasy.” ...but sometimes the past lives in me.” — Jamie Ford 7

eudaimonia // prose Still, she stood there. Trains came and went, tides of people swept on and off the cars, but she watched passively, calmly. If Charlie was there, faulty memory or not, she would know. There was no need to frantically comb the crowd, crying his name. He would be there, eventually. She only had to wait for him to return and then welcome him back, take him home. Or she could go home now, and let him find his own way. Then the strange gentleman had seized her arm, and it was longer her choice, to go or to stay. She turns her head as she falls to stare into the light, and its sulfurous heat fills her mouth, blows her backward. She has the strangest sensation that the circle of light is melding with the circle of her surprised mouth, and she doesn’t turn her face away from the train even when her ribs smash into the tracks. Her own weight holds her in place, until the train is upon her, its slowing mass barely enough to bowl her over and then swallow her beneath its wheels. Her

elephantine bulk seems to fight back, but perhaps it is more the conductor pulling on the brakes. Twenty feet down, the train screeches to a halt. “No,” the young man half-sobs, having dragged himself just out of the train’s reach. Then his features freeze in glassy calm. There is stunned silence for all of thirty seconds, and that half-minute seems to stretch longer than all the time the woman had spent waiting for her errant son. “You knew her?” A well-dressed gentleman asks, breathless as he pushes his way over. He stares intently at the hunched figure on the tracks and stretches out a hand, but no hand stretches back. “What?” The young man looks up at the smear of faces. One hand gingerly brushes his twisted leg, while his face remains expressionless. “No, I don’t; I’ve never seen her before in my life.” A gust of wind stirs the ruined woman’s hair where it peeks out from between two wheels, and a scrap of paper goes skittering down the track.

photography by ashley wu

“Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights... 8

eudaimonia // vertigo

a boy draws out a wand, dripping iridescence, and e x h a l e s . his puffer fish cheeks flush rosy pink as a bubble floats upward, its irradiated sheen reflecting the open sky. a girl furrows her brows, yearning to burst his delight, as her own vigor rewards only a watery splutter and disappointing droplets spray the sandpaper street.

felicity b y emily su

anger flashing in spring tempests; the bottle falls, spraying a starburst of liquid. tears shine in the corners of her eyes, and the boy, abandoning play, settles next to her, wiping the dew from her face, much the same as the soapy effulgence trickling between their toes. he takes her hand, a flutter of reassurance, as he releases skylines of bubbles. through a curtain of tears, she relents a smile, and they catch these dreams on the minty breeze, mingling with the rapture of light-hearted bliss.

art by michelle chang

...before the dark hour of reason grows.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x201D; John Betjeman 9

eudaimonia // prose

Selah

over her spirit before opening her eyes. Selah. * * *

b y jessica kim

on their traverse, instruments in hand. Your time hasn’t come yet, they said, and so she’d wait. And even now, she sat against the rock, only to watch Cid, listen to his nocturnes until he’d leave with the others. “How much longer do you think?” she asked idly. “Not very long, it’s almost completely dark. Look, did you see that?” He gestured towards the serrated horizon, interlaced by a frantic network of houses and streets. “That was the last light. It’s time to go.” She forced herself to remain still as he got up with his little piano. “See you later, Sela,” he said as he began to walk away. “Enjoy the music.” And once again, it was just her and the stars, the momentary stillness of the night. She leaned against the rock and let the cool wash over her body. Close her eyes and everything would melt to black, and with one breath the world erupted into a masterpiece of colors and sounds. A work of life and spirit, of living water, beauty to her ears yet silence to the shadows at the horizon—but, maybe someone had heard that night, maybe it was not all in vain, for the humans had hardened their hearts, and many had grown deaf to the sound. She let her thoughts wander along with the songs, until the star rose in the east and the first rays of light dappled the clouds. Slowly, hesitantly, the sun rose from its slumber and warmed the earth with its gold presence. With a sigh she let the peace wash

And out of the night they came, dark shadows, star-spun songs, composed of the same past, same story, as they flooded the sky and wove into the trails of lights dappled against the quilt of sky. They wandered through the darkness, occasionally stopping as a group to take in the infinite expanse of their world, the great nothingness of horizon. Together, they compose the symphony of the night, the caprice of day, but individually, each sang its own music, a lone silent cry to the sleeping earth. Only by coming together can each voice be truly heard, able to move and live as one body. And, if only the humans would incline their minds, open the eyes of their hearts, the symphony would cease to merely linger in air, but dwell in their hearts as perpetual light— “But we’re human too, aren’t we?” asked Sela. Cid continued to play on the keyboard, letting the infinitesimal music reverberate from each ivory bleached note. “Of course we are,” he said emphatically, fingers gliding across the keys, “but we play a different song.” She watched as the invisible notes floated placidly into the sky, crafted the mesonoxian expanse with a landscape of rainbow-threaded knells. Music ringing in the starlight, playing for the heavens, for the sleeping humans, and she merely sat there, without her own instrument. She always stayed behind, while the others went ahead “A painter paints pictures on canvas...

eudaimonia // vertigo

“Why do we play music?” asked Sela. Dalia fiddled with her violin, plucking the heartstrings idly to the beating gust of wind. “I don’t know,” she said with a smile “Why do you think?” “The music sounds wonderful and all, but there’s still so much that I don’t know.” Memories washed over her mind, painted a dizzying landscape of lights as she traced the lines of her new lute. Her conversation

words—but still something was missing; only half of the puzzle was assembled. “I don’t see everything.” “At night, we’re all blind. We only have dim stars to guide us, we only have our hearts to lead us, our feet to take us where we must go. So we must stay as one, as one body, move together and play together; in the darkness, it’s easy to get lost. But the more we play, the more music we create and sing, that’s when and how the light begins to shine. Because we’re not playing mere sentiments from our hearts; the music we play is a stream of living water that dwells within us, the truth that lives in our spirits... so that someday, there

“A billion stars, a million dead stars, yet their light still reached the earth, their life still shone past death. No darkness, but everlasting light.” with Cid was far-off, almost dream-like in clarity compared to the world pulsating around her. Nature, vivid with vernal life, seemed to take on a new meaning when coupled with her newfound music; every flower, blade of grass, tree branch, had a heartbeat, its own metrum against the overflowing melodies of the world. “But what exactly are we trying to communicate? What does the music sound like to them? They never hear us, anyway.” “And what makes you think that we’re alone in this?” Dalia shifted her eyes to the horizon, illumined by the gold star and sky. “Things don’t change all at once, it’s a gradual process. So don’t stop playing; the more you play, the more the world will open up to you.” Sela chewed, swallowed and digested her

will be no darkness, but everlasting light.” “How is it the truth, how do we really know?” Dalia glanced at the younger girl, that same smile on her face. She raised her violin and rested it on her shoulder, sword gripped tightly in her hand, armed and ready. “Just play, and listen.” Selah. * * * And out of the night they came, instruments in hand, meshed together as one great body, wandering across the barren earth, far from the fenced houses and edifices. The first stars slowly filled up the black expanse, pricking the heavens

...musicians paint their pictures on silence.” — Leopold Stokowski 11

eudaimonia // prose

art by jasmine liu

with tiny tears of light. Sela glanced up at the beacons, marveled at their amplitude; millions, billions of stars, yet even together they could not fight the pervading darkness of night. The crunch of the dry earth beneath their feet formed a steady heartbeat, the presiding tempo. They’d gone several miles from camp but now everyone came to a halt. Almost mechanically, wordlessly, everyone moved apart, settled down and brandished instruments. Through the dim moonlight Sela stared at the others, mirroring their actions. Her feet guided her to a rock, where she sat and stared in supplication at the stars. And for a moment, it was just like before, just her and the night, waiting for the distant music to begin. Her hands held the lute limply, numb with fear. And she sat there against the rock, with a little lute in

“This is a precious moment...

her hands, almost petrified with trepidation. Fear gripped her, locked her muscles, and she could only close her eyes and breathe. But she had the lute; she had an instrument, which meant that it was her time. Days, months, years she’d waited, and now only fear stood in the way. Sela opened her eyes and gazed at the wide, infinite sky. A billion stars, a million dead stars, yet their light still reached the earth, their life still shone past death. No darkness, but everlasting light. She closed her eyes, breathed in, and let the peace wash over her. Enjoy the music. Almost unconsciously, blindly, her hands held the lute and let out a single strum—

Selah.

art by lillian li

eudaimonia // vertigo

rosy fingertips emerge from darkness spilling across night’s inky canvas, while smoke tendrils from the buildings below mar the blushing skies. the slumbering town stirs, and on its outskirts , its rural fields the country farmer toils over Nature’s rustic pastures, harvesting her ears of corn and driving her wild steeds, pausing only to wipe his heavy brow, and glance at the looming haze in the distance but as the cloud of smog stalks closer and closer to the farmer’s carefully tended fields, he bows his tired head, and hangs his faded straw hat on the barnyard door before departing from his rolling hills, the lingering hints of rickety fences eroding away by the gentle country breeze. and as the bashful autumn sun, peers from behind the cragged mountain and witnesses the fall of its final comrade, it cowers below the shadowy peaks, sending dashes of crimson red streaking across the sky.

Fields of Time b y kimberly tan

...it is a little parenthesis in eternity.” —Paul Coelho 13

eudaimonia // prose

eudaimonia // vertigo

art by yifei xie

Guo Chiang said nothing. They both knew it was true. “Guo Chiang, even with your brains, there are no jobs that you qualify for. You are simply overqualified. But do you know where the opportunities lay, for one like you?” “America,” said Guo Chiang automatically. “America,” his teacher repeated with some sort of satisfaction as he lit a cigarette. “That’s the only place you can go. If you found a job here, what could you be? Earning 10 yuan an hour as a teacher? Perhaps a taxi driver? There are no jobs here for you. You must go to America.” They stared at each other as his teacher slowly blew smoke into the air. America.

Wheels

b y christina zhu

loved the most, it was the bicycles that ran through the streets day and night. He loved the way the bicycle tires creaked from the weight they held and even loved the brown rust that grew on them. Most cars on the street were either taxis or trucks; bicycles were the main mode of transport. It was a symbol of manhood to have a bicycle. So Guo Chiang was thrilled when he inherited his oldest brother’s bike. Sure, it wasn’t shiny, and it definitely wasn’t in mint condition, but he finally had his own bike! Guo Chiang found himself comparing other people’s bikes to his, and ultimately deciding that his was better. He rode it around proudly, showing it off to his friends. “Chen Guo Chiang, you are the only one that scored 98% on the exit exam. You are the brightest student in the school no, the county.” Flies buzzed lazily in the stuffy room.

His official name was Chen Guo Chiang, but everyone knew him as Guo Chiang. He had been brought up in a somewhat crowded apartment room with four other siblings, leaving food more important than schooling; they only ate meat at New Year’s. Even being handicapped in this way, Guo Chiang turned out to be an exceptionally bright boy, and excelled in school. Guo Chiang loved China, and China loved him back. Guo Chiang embraced the sweltering summers when the buildings themselves melted and the brutal winters when everyone slept under five layers of quilts. He loved the street markets where vendors would advertise their goods, he loved the fireworks that exploded all night during New Years, and he loved the wrinkled men who smoked their cigarettes while telling stories of the old days. But if there was one thing that Guo Chiang “All journeys have secret destinations...

* * *

Guo Chiang paid extra money to get his bike to America with him. The paint was peeling a bit by then, and it cost more than Guo Chiang could afford to transport it, but Guo Chiang was hopelessly attached to it. He couldn’t bear going to foreign territory without it. When Guo Chiang first walked the streets of New York, he was stunned. There were no bikes whirring continuously on the sidewalk, no throngs of people ringing their bells, and simply no bicycles in general. To Guo Chiang, who was used to multitudes of people, it seemed a somewhat sad and lonely place There were cars, though, many cars. They were shiny with grease and puffed out

black smoke and whirred by in a blur when Guo Chiang rode his bike. Guo Chiang felt slow and out of place on his bicycle. He was usually the only one out on a bike, although occasionally he witnessed an athlete riding one. But athletes did not use the bike the same way Guo Chiang used his. The athlete rode it as a form of exercise; Guo Chiang rode it as a way of life. * * * “Goo Cheeyang? Don’t you have an American name? We can’t go around calling you this, you know, it simply won’t do. If you can’t get an American name, we can’t hire you.” The manager tapped Guo Chiang’s resume, looking unsatisfied. Guo Chiang was stunned into silence. “Your name is too hard to pronounce,” the manager explained. “Please pick an English name.” “I... just, just call me Gary.” Guo Chiang tried to hide his dismay as his manager crossed out his Chinese name out and scrawled in four tiny letters instead. Somehow, the English name didn’t seem to command as much power as his Chinese one. * * * His license read Gary Chen. Guo Chiang never got used to the name. Guo Chiang finally got a car: a small green coupe, which puffed out smoke in a somewhat satisfactory way, and he finally

“They stared at each other as his teacher slowly blew smoke into the air. America.” ...of which the traveler is unaware.” — Martin Buber 15

eudaimonia // prose

eudaimonia // vertigo

felt at peace on the roads. He finally fit in the ‘Promised Land’ that his relatives urged him to go to, and no one stared at him for riding a bicycle anymore. Often in America, people laughed at him for not throwing away his battered bicycle. It was one of his last ties with his home in China, and Guo Chiang could not bear to dump it. Even when he got enough money to buy a rundown car, he rarely used it; he always traveled short distances on his bike. Plus, Guo Chiang was not very good at driving cars. * * * “Come here, son, let me teach you how to ride a bicycle.” “Dad, I told you already, I don’t want a bicycle, I want a skateboard.” Guo Chiang’s 9 year old son, Alex, stood nervously in the doorway. “Alex, I already bought you the bike. Look.” A shiny, unused red bicycle was in the driveway. Guo Chiang’s son shook his head, pouting. “Daddy! I told you one trillion times, I don’t want a bike!” Alex runs back into the house. Guo Chiang kicked the bike in frustration, sending the shiny red bicycle tumbling into the street. The next day, Alex gets his skateboard, and the bicycle ends up next to the trash can. * * *

“Change is the constant...

One day in early March, Guo Chiang was biking on a bumpy trail and took a nasty tumble. The bike crashed hard, rendering it unusable, and Guo Chiang suffered from a sprained wrist. Nonetheless, he picked himself off the ground and looked around for his precious bicycle, hoping that it wasn’t broken. He gingerly carried the bicycle home, terrified that it was damaged beyond repair. Guo Chiang paid two hundred dollars to get it back into its original condition. His wife complained that he could have gotten a new bike for less money. Guo Chiang felt hurt that his wife was one of the people who could not understand his love for bicycles—it was not a hunk of metal to him, but a symbol of the majestic China when it began to industrialize and finally crawl out of the hole that it had been in for so long. Bicycles, to Guo Chiang, symbolized a time when China emerged as a world superpower and all Chinese were proud to be so. * * *

got so much fatter, brother.” His brother’s laughter boomed across the room. Guo Chiang smiled, trying to think of the last time he used a bicycle, but was unable to find one. Guo Chiang changed the subject. * * * He felt guilty. Guo Chiang went back to America and took out his dusty green bicycle, which had never failed him before. It was hidden in an obscure corner in his garage, and hadn’t been touched for years. He vowed to ride the bicycle more. Guo Chiang never broke his vows. Guo Chiang became an old man. Sometimes, he would ride the bike, but more often than not his arthritis flared up (and he

was unable to ride it). His grandsons bought him a new bike, but he took no interest in it. It had high tech speed settings, a light that would flash helpfully in the reflection of other car lights, and a superb braking system. In all aspects, it was far superior to the battered green bicycle sitting in Guo Chiang’s garage. It just wasn’t the same as his faithful old bicycle. When Guo Chiang now rode the streets with his green bicycle, people gave him strange looks. It wasn’t everyday they saw an old Chinese man ride a bicycle. Guo Chiang’s bike gave him courage—it was the last link to his former life, and it comforted him. Even if the world around him had changed dramatically, his green bicycle, at least, was still there.

art by yifei xie

“Athletes did not use the bike the same way Guo Chiang used his: The athlete rode it for sport; Guo Chiang rode it as a way of life.”

“You still have my bicycle, little brother?” Guo Chiang’s older brother sat in their parent’s apartment, eating a piece of watermelon. “Of course. But in America, there are no bicycles on the street only rows and rows of cars. I’m surprised that China still hasn’t reverted to all cars yet!” “Why on earth would we do that? The traffic would be atrocious, and bicycles are so much more convenient! No wonder you ...the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix.” — Christina Baldwin 17

eudaimonia // poetry

eudaimonia // vertigo

she moves across the sidewalk with arms like stark columns and a stature carved by the hands of winter— precise, rigid steps.

Nightscape b y roopa shankar

with blizzard hands and arctic skin, she gazes skyward—sultry scarlets fold over somber grays. her stiff bones languish as stars volley across the horizon and she yearns for carefree fluidity, the versatility of the sky. her lips part to inhale its breadth, to drink in the chroma, then quiver in fear— of breathing in novelty and foreignness, of the discomfort of unfamiliar skin. she retreats into her snow castle of gray, hiding charcoal eyes from the expanse of the night; there, she crawls into the familiarity of monochrome. yet her mind still lingers upon dreams of morphing into golds and rubies as dawn blossoms into dusk, of barefoot dancing across whimsical stars. sailing ‘round and ‘round in riverboats upon the night’s warm cheeks until her frigid demeanor is melted away, until she has firefly lashes and lantern-lit bones. but waking beneath streetlights, her silhouette reaching for the sky’s palette, the warmth of the lamp cannot penetrate her frame. she wears snow like an oversized sweater to hide her architectural soul— stillness curls around gray eyes as she wanes achromatic, blanching to a sigh.

art by ann xu

“The color of springtime is in the flowers...

art by frances guo

...the color of winter is in the imagination.” — Terri Guillemets 19

eudaimonia // prose

eudaimonia // vertigo

la hu

art by ange

Maybe it was only last year, we were pirates drifting on high seas, as we passed that bottle of “rum” back and forth. Drunk on love (among other things), we plundered the streets of the city, fighting off the harsh winter. Real pirates, you said, only live by their own rules, unstoppable. But, all I could do was drunkenly cling to your arm, enraptured by the image you scribbled in the air. The two of us, conquering the world. Maybe it was only last month, when I couldn’t find my wallet, that we decorated the room with psychedelic fumes. A magical lamp sat between the two of us, and as the smoke drifted up, we laughed together, delighting in mythical fantasies. High-pitched lunacies erupted from your tongue, declaring me your Princess Jasmine, soaring with you through Arabian skies. But I was as crazy as you were, and maybe all I really saw was your hunched over body, breathing in, breathing out. Maybe it was only last week, when you brought that dog home, and you said you’d take care of him. He couldn’t pee in one spot, and you told me you’d scavenge for newspaper litter and old chicken bones. Before you left, a promise left your lips ”One day, we’ll definitely be free from all this,” but I was too preoccupied to answer as the dog was tearing up the remains of whatever carpet we had. It took you seven hours to come back, and I’d had to steal the newspaper from the apartment down the hall.

while you fought yourself in hazy dreams, I stayed away, watching the yellow liquid pooling over article upon article. Headlines that I’d never noticed seemed to jump out at me and suddenly, I was mesmerized by talk of royal weddings with princesses and princes. There were headlines of Somali pirates, a growing menace looting the coastlines. There were articles on revolutions of young heroes who have never known anything but oppression. For a moment there, I saw you. You told me that we were pirates, that I was a princess, that we would be free one day. But where these things are happening: Somalia, Egypt, Britain; they aren’t part of the reality that I face. My reality is the poison of drugs coursing through my body. My reality is this one room apartment, shut off from the rest of the world. My reality is the stench of dog piss rising from the floors.

“My reality is the poison of drugs coursing through my body. My reality is this one room apartment, shut off from the rest of the world.”

The

Explanation b y sabrina shie

“Had I been listening to the mad speculations of a lunatic... 20

I can’t tell you the exact details of the last couple of months, but I know that yesterday was the day the dog disappeared, leaving behind soggy prints from stolen news. And

Isn’t it funny? Everyday, you used to captivate me with your tales of iridescent characters and their endings, always happy endings. Is this our happy ending, then? Can’t you tell me? You, lying on the floor, fighting off the ghosts in your head. You, who can’t even scrape yourself together to get a job. You, clutching onto the hopes of a long dead daydream. Let me confess—I thought you had a plan, a means of achieving these fantasies you spoke of. I didn’t know how you would do it then. But now I see that you’ve chosen to do nothing more than remain inside the misery of dreams, and that’s why I need to leave.

... or to the scientific conclusions of a lofty genius?” — Jules Verne 21

eudaimonia // poetry

Eremophobia b y diane kim

art b

y dia

ne k

i become garrulous, ceaseless, inane sentences spilling from my lips. the words woven in with threads of darkness, trailing behind me, around me, choking my insides, until nothing is left but my umbrous outline, hidden behind words. inside, the inner voice dissipates the thoughtless phrases, the continuous hum of its voice a mass of infinite bees, wailing that this false sense of security is evanescent. my genuine words drift to the floor like mist and color the enclosed room with radiant words of brilliance, passion, repressed emotions. but it is for only a moment quickly corroded away by the relentless, obsidian darkness. the same cold hands of darkness wrap around my barren body, molding themselves to my every orifice as i whisper my most carefully shrouded secrets. nestling in, it leeches truth from the crook of my wilted neck , its tarnished fingers stealing the certainty, my stronghold, and crushing it into something vapid and senseless. then i sigh, because it will be a while until i may overcome this looming darkness. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Broadly speaking, the short words are the best... 22

art b

y ja

smin

e liu

eudaimonia // vertigo

The

Calling b y helen jun

...and the old words best of all.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Winston Churchill 23

eudaimonia // prose

“As Max surveyed the complexity of the foreign creature, the coarse hide, the eloquent antlers...

ine asm liu

“The truth is not for all men...

liu

Max slept. He recognized the cavern that haunted his dreams, the blinding silver that had caused him so much trouble lately. So he trekked deeper into the cavern, into the dim, longing for the mindlessness of the dark. Tap, tap. The foreign sound disrupted his growing haze. Max jumped: how could the knocking disturb him here? He headed into the cave, and the tapping quickened; he paced further still, and the noise echoed off the cavern walls like a warning. So Max changed his course, heading toward the mouth of the cave. It was uncomfortable, the sudden bursts of light, and he knew what awaited him; but the

the comfort it normally brought him was gone. Rather, insecurity enveloped him. Max remembered his armchair and its relief, the asylum of sleep. The woodpecker watched Max with intelligent eyes, observing his knob. “But you always wake up,” the bird reminded him. Max nodded. He remembered the light, the elk. “I’ll go,” he decided. Conviction warmed him, and he stepped out of his door. The hot wind greeted him in the face, and the stars quieted for a moment to blink with an uncharacteristic serenity. It was as though they were saluting him. The fire rekindled, allowing Max to walk surefooted behind the woodpecker’s silhouette and the reassuring shadow of the elk. As Max marched, the violet lamps lit the ground by his feet, and the indigo sky hugged his frame until he fit into the desert expanse like just another puzzle piece, each glorifying their creator.

b art

ne mi

As Max turned to leave, he noticed an elk standing nearby. Its head was bent to the scene above, watching the stars. As Max surveyed the complexity of the foreign creature, the coarse hide, the eloquent antlers, a fire threatened to bloom in his chest. Max tried to choke it down. It wasn’t normally this difficult; he only needed to observe his rusting skin, his stubby fingers. Finally he reached for his head and turned the knob clockwise. All fire and ice in him evaporated, leaving him nothing but lukewarm. The armchair welcomed him in this comfortable state, and he sank into its tempting embrace. * * *

knocking, the strange, persuasive knocking, urged him forward like a small voice inside him. Finally he was there. The land stretched beyond, the stars shot across the sky in their crazy way, and even the elk was there, standing stoically. Like countless times before, the stars grew brighter and brighter, and Max braced himself— but before they blinded him completely, he thought he saw the elk’s gaze meet his. Max jerked awake. Tap, tap. Curiosity swelled in him, and Max flung the door open. “Who is it?” A woodpecker perched on his doorknob peered around the door at him. Max looked quizzically at the creature. “Someone sent me to fetch you,” the woodpecker said Max nearly jumped. The bird talked! “What?” Max asked. “Someone wants you,” the bird reiterated. “Who wants me?” “I can show you,” the woodpecker replied. “I’ll be your guide, but the way North isn’t easy. Will you come? “But who is it?” “He’s the one who made you, the Inventor. The one who’s been calling you to come, the one who’s reached you even in your dreams,” the bird explained. Max’s chest bubbled like lava during the conversation, and by this point he was almost bursting. Somehow, he trusted the woodpecker. His copper body reverberated with emotion. But out of habit, his hand reached for the knob by his temple. His fire died, but

Max heard a persistent hand knock on his door. He lazily opened one eye and glanced up, noticing a strange line of silver shimmer under his wall. This was unusual, but he looked away; the flashing hurt his eyes. Instead, he sank into his armchair, which swallowed him greedily. His spindly legs and arms comfortably stretched on the faded fabric and his head drooped on his left shoulder, avoiding the ugly knob that jutted out of his right temple. But as the knocking rose in a crescendo, Max’s fingers involuntarily kept time with the steady beat. Confused by his hands’ strange manner, Max flexed them and prepared to sleep. Tap, tap. Then he realized: he needed to open the door in order to sleep peacefully. He stood up, causing his floorboards to groan in protest, and made his way across the room to push the door open. Stars whizzed across the sky outside, showering the night with light. The sky was a dark indigo, and it spilled out into the desert as if it could not be contained by the earth. The violet cactus buds below glowed like lamps with the light of the stars, and they twirled passionately in the hot gust.

eudaimonia // vertigo

...a fire threatened to bloom in his chest.” 25

...but only for those who seek it.” — Ayn Rand

eudaimonia // prose

ng ya

“Everything that we see...

When the recruiter had first introduced her to the Institute, he had specified that she was an artist. They flipped through her still-life sketches. She has some promise, they had said, but is there anything else she can do? She’s another type of artist, he had explained. She can bring something new. In their quest to discover her perfect medium, they had put her in the art wing. They told her to create life, and tossed her a blank canvas and tubes of thick paint. She emerged with the canvas minutes later, a red smudge dancing on white, her signature scribbled in the corner. Happiness in an empty world.They questioned her product, the unnecessary white space. They had demanded her to sketch. She outlined a simple box onto stock paper in graphite. She said that it was life; it contained all the world’s evil, misery, sins, and hopes. They had given her instrument after

nn ya tb ar

Catching

eudaimonia // vertigo

instrument. Her notes staggered like old men, and each phrase gasped for air. She could hardly dance. She was not a size five, and after a day in pointe shoes, she hobbled down the hallway, as unsteady as her music. The dance instructor threatened to quit if she remained at the studio for another week. And the recruiter was fired. She was what they called contemporary — tasteless, void of customary rules, wild. They had no place for her type in the Institute; at any hour of any day, every room in the Institute was occupied by young da Vincis and dreamy Chopins. To let her loose into their classes would be like tossing a lit cigarette to the floor, whose glowing tip could grow into avaricious flames. Shortly after she received a notice which informed her that they had postponed her classes, though housing and meals would continue to be provided for her until they untangled any legal obligations that bound

Sparks b y irene hsu

her to them. This suited her just fine. And so, for the next few weeks, she found solace in blank canvases and tubes of thick paint. At one time, she had attempted to detail a sunny beach dotted with sunbathers and swimmers, if only to peer through the eyes that the Institute wanted her to see with. Wispy clouds speckled the sky, blending into the still sea to enclose the sandy shoreline. The dean of the school happened to pass by her painting, and beseeched her to submit it to the Institute Galleria. She refused. It wasn’t her style, and she didn’t want to be associated with what she believed to be meager imitations of the great masters. When he left, she struck a match to the painting, and watched the flames lick the canvas into ashes. The dean came by again later that week and discovered, to his dismay, that the pretty portrait of the beach had been replaced by

a canvas dripping in hues of red, orange, yellow that leaped from the white space. Her roommates exclaimed at the boldness which her art exhibited, but could elicit no coherent response from her and were forced to turn the painting around at all angles, in hopes of discovering a hidden message. She went to bed early that night and they stayed up into the morning, puzzling over what they would finally describe as an innovation in art. The next morning, the canvas was found haphazardly nailed to the wall of the main hall. A growing clot of students gawked at this new art that deviated so far from placid sceneries and imitations of Renaissance portraits, and by the time she had arrived for breakfast, the dean had called security to disperse the crowd. Masses of unsatisfied students coalesced in her doorway, and begged for her to explain this, what she called art. If globs of untamed strokes were named as art, what did Michelangelo and Degas

...is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.” — Martin Luther King, Jr. 27

eudaimonia // prose amount to? The dean and his men hauled her out of her dormitory, and quarantined her in a separate room in a separate wing. Whether or not she had placed her canvas in a public area did not matter to them; the fact that she called it art, that it was hers, was the main issue. The Institute would permit no infectious designs of the uncultured, airborne and lethal. Her meals were delivered to her, and any admiring letters from her peers were burned. She did not know of the admiring whispers which swirled and flickered amid the orderliness of the Institution. Behind locked doors, she painted her walls with incoherent crimson lines thinning and thickening across the wall, and streaks of blue and orange soaring as she had once seen shooting stars soar. Red and yellow danced and entwined, embracing and weaving through the wall. The wing became her canvas to use, unbeknown to the dean and his men. No one had come in contact with her for days; her meals came in slots, her notes through the cracks under her door. But as the world beyond her wing continued to spin, the blank walls exploded with her colors, her white space, her contemplations and whimsical notions. When they finally sent her the packet that dictated procedures for leaving the Institute, she immediately felt the hands of the world grabbing hers and leading her away to fresh air. She painted more furiously than ever, spinning from wall to wall. She

whirled about the rooms like the dancer the Institute had longed for her to be. The day finally arrived, and her departure was purposely scheduled at midnight to avoid the clamor of a formal farewell from her peers. On the other hand, the entire faculty of the Institute sent her off, escorting her off of the premises, buckling her into the backseat, speeding along the highway, leaving her at her front door. Her absence was discovered in the early morning when the vibrance of her wing caught the eyes of the Institute’s pupils. Red paint cascaded down the freshly painted door, melting to the floor. It wasn’t until a substantial crowd had gathered that someone dared to open the door to see what was on the other side of it. The walls were alive. The streaks of paint licked the ceiling greedily, and leapt off the surface of the wall into the three-dimensional world. The orange was frozen in the motion of flickering and flapping, glowing and pulsing in time with dancing yellow splatters which cast wavering shadows on the students’ gawking faces. They trailed their fingers along the strokes and dribbles of red, craned their necks to make sense of the streaks on the ceiling. They unanimously agreed that this was fire. The fire on the walls fed on oxygen, oxygen which was air, air which was freedom. The strokes of red, orange, yellow, danced into the bloom of another world and merged into another entity, leaving behind sparks for others to catch.

“The walls were alive. The streaks of paint licked the ceiling greedily, and leapt off the surface of the wall into the three-dimensional world.”

“The heart...

eudaimonia // vertigo

Epiphany

b y john park

The pestering sun continued to beat down on Warren. Judging by the looks of it, a few bits here and there would fix up their previous shelter. Warren put the finishing touches on: new palm leaves on the old roof, and a red strip of cloth attached to a stick on top of the shelter. He massaged his arms, taking care to avoid tearing his already too small shirt. A voice called out as he finished washing his face with the crystal clear water from a nearby stream. “You been doin’ pretty good, eh?” A thinly framed man handed Warren a skin filled with wine that he managed to salvage from the wreckage. “Drink up. Plenty more where tha’ came from.” Warren put on a grin and patted the man on the back. “Well aged French wine?” He took a couple swigs from the skin. “Just like old times out in the sea? Where’d you get it?” “Secret.” He always had that triumphant look on his face as if he had won a wager on

a horse race. “I actually had ‘em locked in me suitcase. De firs’ mate didn’t even notice his cache o’ wine dwindlin’ anyways.” Anything Devron got a hold of would be in his coat before you could even take a second glance at it. “Still the same, huh Dev? Here, I finished refurnishing our home. Most of the foundation was still here where we left it. I figured that we would be here for a while like last time. By the way, I see you finally managed to bring something to eat with that scrap wood of yours. You’ve been getting better.” “Never you mind! This bow’s been in me family fer generations! Jes start up the fire.” Devron set down the fresh kill, took out his dirk and began working. “Say, Warren, when do you reckon we’ll be off of this god forsaken place? We been ‘ere for over a fortnight!” Warren let out a long held sigh and looked up at the man. “I don’t know, Dev. I just don’t

...is an organ of fire.” — Michael Ondaatje

eudaimonia // prose know. But there’s nothing to do but try. We already have a shelter and supplies. Now we just have to wait it out. Hope that we won’t be here for as long as we were here before...” Warren started to gaze off into the horizon as he spoke. “Awful good view we have here. Better than the ones we had back then, right?” “Haven’ seen better anywhere else. The food done yet,” asked Devron. Warren handed him some of a slab of slate and they ate watching the scenic sunset to uplift their spirits. “Jes like old times, ‘eh?”Devron cracked a smile and patted Warren on the back. “Of course Dev, just like old times.”

yet. Never missed its mark.” “Really now?” Warren seemed unconvinced. “Why don’t we have a wager? If you can hit that knothole in the tree over there three times, I’ll…” “Carry de cargo I salvaged from the wreckage back ‘ere,” said Devron coolly. “Fair enough. You have four shots.” Warren crossed his arms and scoffed. “Here, I’ll be generous. Take five. Don’t be shy now.” Warren watched Devron saunter over to his quiver and bow. Devron plucked the string and seemed satisfied with the familiar twang. He loaded his first shot and stood waiting. “Five shots? Pah. Why don’ ye chew on this?” The projectile flew through the air and embedded itself dead center in the knothole. Devron fired the second and third shots; both of them hit their mark in rapid succession. He smiled at what he had done. “Like I toldja, never misses its mark. Family relic ye see here.” He patted his bow. “Ye can get started with the cargo now.” Devron let out a hearty laugh. Warren stood there, mouth hanging, trying to figure out how he had done it. “Don’t be shy now.” Devron walked off, feeling full of himself. The twang of the bow resounded in Warren’s ears as he lumbered to the wreckage. “Since when did he get so good?”

“Warren crossed his arms and scoffed. ‘Here, I’ll be generous. Take five. Don’t be shy now.’”

* * * The sun rose and casted two shadows in the woods. Without notice, the two shadows in the shelter begun to stir, disrupting the serenity of the land. “Warren! Git up!” The animals stirred as well, each leaving their burrows to forage for food. The two men branched off; “Soz, I git the critters and ye start up the fire?” Devron stretched his arms and yawned. The morning sun cast a ray down at his bow. “Just like old times,” replied Warren. The two met up at noon and began talking about the days’ work. Devron bragged about his successful hunt with bits and pieces of venison flying out of his mouth. He would take every opportunity to boast, even if it was something trifle. “Thi’ one put up a good chase, ya know. A few miles I reckon. But it was worth it.” He patted his belly with approval. “Was jes bending a corner when I let me arrow loose. That piece o’ scrap wood ye call it,” Devron gestured over to his bow, “never failed me

* * * “Hey Dev, what’s the use? You’ll never hit that target.” Devron fought back the tears. He wouldn’t lose to his friends. He walked slowly to his arrows, each lying a good yard away from the target. Devron gritted his teeth in despair as

“There’s something on his mind, as sure as there must be... 30

eudaimonia // vertigo he went back to his spot. “Just quit, Dev. You never were meant for archery.” Tears fell from Devron’s face as he tried to ignore his friend’s remarks. “I’ll show ‘em one day,” he thought to himself. His knuckles turned white as he clenched an arrow in his hand. * * * “I’ll get back at him for this. I’ve always been the one who won bets.” Warren picked up the first box and headed back toward camp. “Maybe I could hide that bow of his for a while. That would show him. We’ll see who would get the last laugh then.” Placing down the crate, Warren stood there pondering. As he started off to get the next crate, he hesitated. “I’d better get a hold of that bow before he gets back.” He looked around carefully. He reached for Devron’s bow, but the sound of Devron yawning in the background made him stop. Warren quickly resumed his task of moving boxes. * * *

bow and gazed intently. “Look. I don’t know where you put that, whatever it was, but I don’t have it.” Warren had a worried look on his face as he got up. “Here, I’ll help you look for it.” “I know ye have it. Jes’ give it back, and no one’s hurt.” Devron moved forward, and grunted and bared his teeth at Warren. “Dev, what are you doing? Don’t you remember the last time we were stuck here? The island’s getting to you.” Warren held up his hands. “I’m not here to fight. We got through this before; we can do it again. You don’t want to be doing this.” Devron stood with his eyes wide. “Quit yer playing and give it back already!” He would not be persuaded otherwise. “We can do it de easy way, or de hard way.” “Calm down, Dev. Fighting didn’t get us anywhere last time. Your rage is getting to you.” Sensing imminent danger, Warren threw a rock disorienting Devron, preventing him from coming any closer, and ran off. “Why I oughta…” Devron let loose a barrage of arrows to pin down Warren. He then chased after him, bow and arrows in hand. Warren felt something gouge his arm as he delved into the shelter of the forest. He groaned, quickly broke off the shaft and continued on; Devron wouldn’t get him that easily. Dashing through the familiar twists and turns of the forest, Warren hastily left behind scratches on tree trunks with his rope cutting knife and headed the opposite way. Which way had he gone before to flee from Devron? He panted heavily as he tried to dodge hanging branches and evade roots. Hearing a branch

“Hearing a branch break behind him, he hid behind a tree and quickly looked back. His heart skipped a beat. A crow cawed in the background. Had he been found?”

“Warren!” Devron’s voice shook. “Ye know where me quiver went? I left it ‘ere last night while I went to clean me arrows and fix the fletching. Ye do anythin’ with it?” “You know as clearly as I do that I would never touch your stuff. Now leave me alone, I’m trying to rest.” Warren massaged his sore arms. “Listen ‘ere. Dat quiver’s been in me family fer generations. If ye don’t give it back, I’ma shoot you for it.” Devron grabbed his

...something on a deck when it cracks.” — Herman Melville 31

eudaimonia // prose

“Both his bow and companion left him to die.” break behind him, he hid behind a tree and quickly looked back. His heart skipped a beat. A crow cawed in the background. Had he been found? He held his breath, listening for the slightest disturbance. A sound in the distance made his heart jump up his throat. However, things wouldn’t end this way for him; he still had to prove his innocence. He crept off to the side and continued his escape. He would have to wait off Devron’s anger; he couldn’t hurt his friend. Seeing an opening in the line of trees, Warren made a break for it and jumped out of the trees, landing on firm ground. He swore. “Stop yer yappering and hol’ still. Listen. Jus’ gimme the quiver and we’ll call it fair. No more blood.” Warren turned and looked around desperately for a means of escape. He fingered his dagger behind his back gingerly. “Why don’t you put the bow down and we’ll negotiate things?” Devron didn’t make any signs of backing down. Warren continued, “I didn’t take your quiver. Why would I take it anyways? Besides, when we were kids, you would always find out that someone else took your things. Never me.” “Yer just trying to lie yer way out aren’t ya? Well I’m not falling for it.” Devron’s bow tensed. “You don’t want to be doing this.” Warren got on his knees and pleaded. “Please don’t. You know as well as I do that I didn’t take it. You probably misplaced it somewhere. We can go look for it together.” With a twang, the arrow flew through the air. Warren watched in horror at what his friend had come to. Warren closed his eyes to lessen the coming pain. Devron wouldn’t listen to his pleas. Reluctantly, Warren had accepted that the worst had come. He wished for at least

Devron to get off the forsaken island. Maybe he would learn from Warren’s death and become more patient and understanding. Hopefully, it would be over quickly and he wouldn’t have to endure much pain. He let out a cry. The arrow had hit its mark with a thud. Tears ran down Devron’s face. It was over. Devron cast his bow aside and yelled in frustration. What had he been thinking? Warren had warned him. * * * Splashes rippled through the basin. What did he do this time? His hunting had gotten him into a mess. Everything was going perfectly until the earth beneath him had collapsed. Devron cried out for help as he clutched his swelling leg. Would this be the end for him? There was no hope; he couldn’t swim anymore. What had the world come to? Both his bow and companion left him to die. “Maybe if I can git a branch to pull myself out.” There were none to be found. A vine whipped through the air and landed in front of Devron. How pitiful a death would Devron have? First betrayed by his own family artifact and now Nature whips him? What would be next? He looked up and saw a vine. Devron winced as he waded his way to the vine. “Grab on Dev. We’re gonna get through this together.” Warren had always been kind... * * * Devron’s knees buckled. He hit the ground and cried out, “I’m sorry, my friend. I finally see what ye was tryin’ to git at.” Warren opened his eyes and embraced the truth.

“Everything that ever walked or crawled on the face of the earth...

eudaimonia // vertigo

a solitary vessel, striking and immense, breaks through pulsing waters, spears and harpoons glinting in the flickering cabin lights.

Pulsing Water b y kimberly tan

one young sailor, cheeks flushed with excitement, glimpses a trace of movement in the tumultuous waves and hurls a jagged blade into the murky depths. as the serrated edge slices its way through the flesh of the unsuspecting whale, the great beast utters a guttural cry— piercing and dreadful in the quiet night until even inebriated sailors, jerked out of their drunken stupor, shield their ears from the unbearable noise and as traces of crimson began seeping through the lacerations in the whale’s skin, the trembling giant ceases its violent thrashing, its desperate pleas for freedom, and submits to the young sailor, who fervently hauls it out of the tumbling waters. the majestic creature, drained of all vigor, pants and groans despondently on the wooden planks, an opaque film shielding its milky eyes—

ar t

lil

lia n

but as the young sailor admires the body of his magnificent moonlight catch, he notices soft beams of moonlight caressing the motionless body, and for a brief instant, he could almost swear that he hears the heartbeat of the lifeless whale, reverberate across the vast ocean.

...swum the depths of the ocean, or soared through the skies has left its imprint here.” — Robert M. Fresco

eudaimonia // prose

eudaimonia // vertigo green. It was nothing like what you would see in old brochures or magazines, like the pictures of picnic spreads and wine bottles framed by quiet hills. That was tame land. We trudged under dense canopy, over rich and yielding soil, always impersonal and, throughout those weary days, always thinking of someplace else. * * *

ric

b y carolyn yen

He Called Us Home

It’s scooped us out, this war. I remember our journey in snippets. Little tidbits. Small moments of clarity. I remember our leader, Samuel, bent at the waist in order to speak into a walkietalkie, growing increasingly agitated as he demanded that helicopters take us away from the war zone. I remember the stench of flesh burning as the dirt exploded around us and “The history of mankind...

tore apart half our troop. I remember a baby’s green eyes. I remember a lot, but whatever doesn’t come back too clearly my mind fills in. The exact expressions of my comrades as they appear in my memories may be simply fabrications, but they’re there for sure. The details always exist. There was something about the country that ate you up. There were too many trees, too many bushes and vines and too much

The morning before they tore up half our troop, we were crossing the remains of a town, pushing through faded bricks and glass. Samuel asked us to watch his back, because he needed to check the location with the helicopters again. When he first received the message of a final civilian pickup, we felt elated. It became a regular thing, whenever Samuel used his walkie-talkie, to say that Samuel’s calling us home. He’s calling us home and we’re gonna get on that ‘copter. It was no wonder the entire troop was in good spirits that day. The man who took everything the hardest was Jake, one of the best men I have ever known. He was the first to see the child. He was the one who cautioned the troop to stand down. It was just a small girl, after all. The child was young. Hobbling along the road towards us, she was dressed sparingly and barefoot. I thought that she was beautiful. As she approached the soldiers in the front, I saw clearly her golden hair and her clear, green eyes. And then she blew up.

It’s amazing how my mind recorded every detail in painful clarity. It’s her shoulders that tore off first—the bomb was strapped to her chest. I watched her green eyes as they glazed over and more explosions twisted and burned everything else. I pivoted and kept running. All around me, the earth was exploding, showering me with soil and what was left of my comrades. “Missiles!” somebody was screaming. I found Jake off the stone road and within the bushes. He was pretending to watch the carnage, the sight of eleven soldiers smearing the stone path, but I could see that his eyes were blank. Part of me wanted to huddle with him and block out the battle, but I forced myself to clamber to my feet and help the other soldiers. There had to be some out there on that stone road, painted red with their blood. One of the survivors, Larry, would say for days afterward, Wait ‘til I tell my folks—we freaking got bombed by a baby! A freaking petite terrorist! And Jake, sad, quiet man that he was, would turn away.

“As she approached the soldiers in the front, I saw clearly her golden hair and her clear, green eyes. And then she blew up.”

* * * It’s scooped us out, he’d say, It’s scooped us all out and we’re hollow men. And Jake would look at the ground for a few minutes. He was one of those people you think are too kind for the war. Too soft. It made you want

...is the instant between two strides taken by a traveler.” — Franz Kafka 35

eudaimonia // prose

eudaimonia // vertigo

”There were too many trees, too many bushes and vines and too much green.” to curse the world for exposing a man like that to the battle-torn country. Me? I’d had my fair share of despair, but I could take it. Larry once tried to reconcile him. “We’re good men, Jake, we’ll make it. It’s only a few more cities until the shore.” Jake brooded for a moment, still avoiding eye contact. What he wanted to say was, “Thomas was a good man, too.” What he wanted to say was, “I’m really scared.” He didn’t say those things, because it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. * * * Sometimes, during breaks, we’d pull out pictures of our girls. I’d say things like, “Wow, she’s a looker.” Even if she wasn’t, I’d still say it. Occasionally, one of the men would ask to see my girlfriend. You needed a

ley

“Had the price of looking been blindness...

girl out here to be your motivation on these infinitely long walks. You didn’t last out here without one. Two nights before we reached the coast, Samuel asked to see my girl. He didn’t ask rudely, but he wanted to know. You really live through this war, he told me. When I asked him, how do you mean, he glanced at the other men and smiled wistfully. Sometimes we bear it all for a reason, he continued softly, the muck, the green, the godforsaken stench. Can you imagine having to live like this forever? You guys all say that I’m calling you home, but you know, they are. Those wives and sons and daughter make anyplace a home, but this darn country here, well, there’s just fire and ice. I don’t remember what I told him. Maybe I lied and said I was meeting up with my girlfriend or whatever. Maybe I told him

photography by ashley wu

the truth. What bothers me now is that after all this time, I don’t remember. I can’t remember. * * * “Me? I got a girl who left the war zone a few months back. China.” Jake swept his hair from his eyes and squinted at the waves. They were all drained of color; his eyes, his skin, even the water was gray. It was as if he was afraid, afraid the water would disappear, a mirage, or that he would wake up and have to start marching all over again. “What about you? India? Russia?” I didn’t answer. Instead, I looked over all the rest of the men. Months of plowing through the green and now that we were leaving, they had thrown their gear and hats into lumps of brown and red. Men were strolling down the sand, even wading barefoot into the murky water. To them, the war might as well be over. I frowned. Something wasn’t right. “I suppose you guys are first. I won’t make the sensitive guys watch.” Suddenly Samuel appeared behind us. He held a handgun. “Helicopter isn’t coming. It’s gone. Took

the last of the civilians two weeks ago. Had to keep you guys marching.” He hesitated. “Most of us need a goal.” The only thing that had changed in Samuel was his eyes. They sat dully in his sockets. Like a rabbit, before having its windpipe crushed by a raptor’s talons, it was that dead, dead look of having seen enough. “Come on, man, you were calling them the whole time. Calling us home.” “It’s gone,” Samuel repeated. “All the civilians are gone.” And he showed us the walkie-talkie with one hand. The battery compartment was jammed with pebbles. We see only what we want to. Sometimes the truth looks us in the face and we choose to glance away. That’s how we all were. You try to make sense of the mess you’re in; you try to discern truth from botched details and exaggeration, but no cigar. We wanted to be led to what’s left of Manhattan. We wanted to be called home. We wanted to see Samuel call in the copters, and by God, he did. “So we’ve got a hell of a long war to fight,” Jake said lightly, but his face was wan. “If there’s hell you’ll be there soon,” I told Samuel. “Hell?” His hand wiped briefly his brow. His mouth was fierce. “Look around us.” ...I would have looked.” — Ralph Ellison

eudaimonia // poetry

eudaimonia // vertigo

photo illustration by ashley wu and yifei xie

ei xie

y yif

art b

her voice staggers from her lips; jeweled waves fouetté a melody, sapphire notes glissade on her skin, and emerald fronds ripple a ballad. water pirouettes into a chorus, winds resound in booming legato,

Discordant Imperfection

but her voice totters into faint breath.

their songs pervade her hollow bones; echoing, in majestic harmony… they drown her voice and she decrescendos.

leaves exhale upon her face, the air waltzing on thirsty lips, and she tastes the wind’s nectar ballet across her tongue.

she searches for a sound to emerge from her lips. retreating, she longs for a voice of music.

her voice chases the tempo of the rhapsody, her voice carols the sound of honey; it rings but tapers, again faltering into a husky note.

she rasps for the power of the tempest’s breath— the vibrato of the quivering trees and the lyrics of the silver water, but her voice is a cracked whisper— dissonant against their symphony.

b y disha banik

“After silence...

...that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music” —Aldous Huxley 39

eudaimonia // prose

With

Each

Step

b y christine wang

of the forest. His hummingbird heartbeat fluttered in panic, attempting to escape from its cage. Acid adrenaline flowed through his veins, electrifying him as he stood in the freezing night air. Mundane and undesirable, his old life lay behind him in the scowling grasps of the eternal night. The past was behind him in the frightening valley where the sun never rose, leaving him forever unsatisfied with the dark. As he stood at the edge of a new life, the stars twinkled their farewells, bidding the child good luck. As he stepped into the forest the ambush of silence knocked his breath out of him. The howling wind outside roamed free, but inside the motionless enclosure a painful pressure seemed to constrict his lungs. The façade of welcome had vanished, leaving only a mystifying contrast of threat and temptation. Uneasily, the boy had no choice but to clench his fists and take his first step forward into the unknown. When the fox appeared she was like a phantom, a wispy outline. The boy listened as she quietly ticked, intelligent eyes fixed on him. She was a vaporized version of Time taking the shape of a clever fox, and the boy was mesmerized. The fox’s existence was flowing, undefined at her edges. Floating in eternity, she was like a ghost hovering in the human world where it didn’t belong. Yet when a calming voice whispered in his

“Does wisdom perhaps appear on the earth as a raven... 40

art by candy chang

Specks of heavenly light seeped into the darkness, as if holes had been cut in a blanket of night. The midnight stars winked with humor as they watched over a young boy. In the melancholy silence, only the bone-chilling wind whispering secrets through the leaves of the forest could be heard. In the middle of the valley was a forest, illuminated by the moonlight. To the boy, the forest alone seemed blindingly perfect. Yet he did not feel the numbing gloom that draped over the darkness, swallowing the gentle starlight filtering through the leaves. Eerie shadows lurked around every tree, but the boy only saw the dim glow on the forest floor as inviting and easy to trust. Perfect. He breathed in the invigorating pine fragrance as he stood uncertainly at the edge

eudaimonia // vertigo ear, telling him to listen, he knew Time, her essence radiating pure energy, was commanding him to obey. Awestruck, he forgot where he was or why he was there, his naïve eyes fixed on the fox. She was coy, smirking, and although she was always there, the boy could never catch a proper glance of her. She was constantly fading, her vague shape pulsing in the dusty mist of starlight. Appearing. Disappearing. Appearing again. Teasing and taunting the entranced boy. Follow me. It wasn’t a voice, or a hallucination; it was as if the whole forest was goading him on. Though she was almost translucent she was bright with a smoldering sense of control, paws hovering delicately over the forest floor. She enticed his innocent mind with ideas of something better than his forlorn valley and these ideas consumed the boy. Forgetting his fear, he slowly ambled forward to follow. The fox darted from shadow to shadow, a child playing hide and seek, always dangling the faint temptation of something better. It’ll be better, just follow along. It was a politician’s oath, a glorious idea, a sweet promise. As they meandered among the dense trees, the atmosphere changed around him. Morning — a sensation the boy never experienced in his world of eternal night.

Spring had arrived; the melody of bird song was a symphony of Nature. Smiling, he watched as two baby bluebirds nervously took wing for their first flight. Flowers of all different colors and shades poked their small heads out of the soil, stretching up to worship the sun. The boy giggled as he observed the trivial details of life, eyes sparkling with curiosity. Time, suffering in other’s enjoyment, always seems to disappear rapidly, and the fox began to fade in the cheerful sunlight. The boy saw this, and panicking, he ended his observation of the cotton clouds. Sheepish at being so easily distracted, he turned his gleeful gaze back at the impatient fox, not wanting her to leave without him. With each hesitant step, the boy matured. He no longer deigned to focus on any of his surroundings and looked solely at the fox in front of him. Occupied with being solemn as to avoid angering the fox, he did not even notice as his childish frame became the sturdy build of adolescent. With a joyous exclamation, the young man glanced around, enjoying the warmth of sunshine on his flushed cheeks. The originally threatening trees brightened with color, their leaves vivid green, Summer’s green. Grinning, the boy paused to curl his toes in the fresh grass, each of which carried a perfect drop of dew on each blade. Laughing, he watched a dainty butterfly drifting past

...which is inspired by the smell of carrion?” — Friedrich Nietzsche 41

eudaimonia // prose

“But no hand was there...

nodded with approval as she relished in her accomplishments. Sighing, the now feeble man followed the fox without even casting a longing glance back at the worlds he had run away from. Something better, my friend, the fox continued to coo at the unsatisfied man. Just a little bit further. By walking into this forest, he had already had a taste of this precious reward, but that would never be enough if something better might be ahead. Determined, he forgot all reason, all joy, and all youth. He forgot he was searching for that something better to appreciate. The black flame of greed, hunger, and desire burned even stronger in him, so he followed Time forward. Every step for the man, hair snowy with age, was difficult for his old bones to handle. His body was cold and his joints ached, but the fox insisted that better was still ahead. Almost. A single snowflake of Winter drifted in the bleak icy wind, and soon, more followed. The man grimaced, clenching his teeth in distaste, batting away the tiny Winter miracles without even bothering to pause and examine their delicate beauty. The fox’s malicious grin stretched across her face. She was fading the farther they traveled, and though there never seemed to be enough of her existence, the fox was art by candy chang

him but instead saw the fox snapping impatiently at his ankle. Her tail twitched with agitation as she paced back and forth, annoyed at his happiness. Frowning, he reluctantly ignored the world of Summer and nodded at Time, ready to resume his search for something better. Smirking, she bounded forward gracefully, shimmering in the weakening sun. As they wove through the trees, the air was no longer as musky, and he lost the desire to reminisce over memories of the past. He ran behind Time, overwhelmed with the idea of a brighter future. His pace became faster and faster, less and less reluctant. Gradually, the air chilled. The man grew older and more cynical with every step, worried wrinkles forming on his once childish face. He glanced around cautiously; the alien atmosphere starting to invoke discomfort rather than excitement. The sun was weaker now, and the air was clean, crisp, and cold. Every leaf was individually painted with the brilliant fire of Autumn. The myriad of vivid colors cascaded around him, drifting with the wind’s current like fish wandering in a sea of flames. Yet he was blind to the precious beauty; he complained that time would be wasted if he stared at petty details. Shaking his head with frustration, he refused to take in any of his surroundings. Time

eudaimonia // vertigo pleased. The elderly man, however, only became less and less content. Instead of intricate snowflakes, all he saw were nuisances, cold and wet on his face. His caustic attitude marred his perspective, separating him from the perfection that was blindly passing by. Gleaming with sadistic joy, the fox howled and led him even further forward, becoming increasingly elusive as they traveled. The

better? I don’t want those snowflakes, those butterflies, or anything I passed. All I want is the reward you promised.” The fox smirked with wicked delight, answering only with silence. As he wallowed in his shame, more cold teardrops slid down the man’s old, wrinkled face. He was old in years, but his heart was young in experience and happiness. He crumpled down, kneeling in prayer, sobs racking his frail frame. The

“The black flame of greed, hunger, and desire burned even stronger in him... dense forest began to disperse until the land was barren up to the smoky horizon. Raging blizzards swirled behind him, but faded into dreary snow and then nothing at all as he walked forward. Dozens of bats hung in ribbons on the bare trees now sparse in the desolate, desert landscape. The mangled branches jutted out in awkward, furious positions as they thirsted for blood and death. Seeing the man’s vulnerability and

only thought circling in his mind was…What have I done? With tightly clenched fists, he unwillingly relinquished his last ounce of energy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he remained in agony, defeated on the dry, cracked earth. Grinning heartlessly, the fox looked down at the broken man. She knew his regret was futile. His heart was already stained with his ignorance, and now his last meager minutes were ticking away. Time would

...so he followed Time forward.” foolishness, the fox threw her head back, repeating her cry of mirth. Soon, even taking a single step was too painful for the old man, and he fell to his knees, tears in his eyes and a piercing pain in his heart. Something better lies ahead. Remembering the promise, he glanced up, glassy tears tracing down the contours of his face. His voice trembled as he asked, “Time, where are you going? Where is the something

soon be gone, and so would the life in the man’s eyes. His youth and desire, the flame that seemed never to cease burning, would soon be smothered, casting him aside as a insignificant detail from a forgotten past. Before the man took his last breath, the fox lowered her head and whispered softly:

Time’s up. ...and it opened no more.” — Charles Dickens

eudaimonia // prose

eudaimonia // vertigo

Size Zero Rachel hadn’t bitten her nails for a long time, but staring at the pile of green lettuce in front of her, she felt the old childhood habit returning. She gingerly fingered the tomato sitting on top of her salad, but couldn’t fight the wave of nausea coming over her. Dry vomit rose in her throat, and she realized her empty stomach couldn’t help her situation. Taking deep breaths, Rachel attempted to instead concentrate on the oblivious strangers of the restaurant. However, it didn’t help as her eyes glazed over to the lone girl in the corner, casually licking a scoop of chocolate ice cream. Rachel didn’t realize she had broken the plastic fork in two until the echoing crack met her ears. As her stomach made yet another rumble, she tore her eyes away from the stranger, and slowly raised her hand to place the tasteless vegetable on her dry tongue. The vomit immediately reached her mouth, and Rachel bent over, heaving. As her breaths came in short gasps, she collapsed into a heap rather than to try to fight the darkness that soon consumed her. When she awoke, she was met by three pairs of hollow eyes piercing into her own. At the sight of the familiar white walls and beds, Rachel internally groaned. She had just escaped from this place, but her family stubbornly held to their belief that they were helping her by constantly sending her here; little did they know, rehabilitation was exactly the opposite of its intended purpose. The girls there only had one intended purpose, and with the power of a group, they found ways to hide behind the doctors’ backs. Ignoring the pounding of her head, “Truth is beautiful, without doubt...

Rachel sat up and eyed the room around her. A new splash of color caught her gaze – a bright green belt was the solitary item resting on the otherwise bare shelves. It was shiny enough to see her own reflection in the belt, but Rachel instead looked back at the three girls who were subconsciously pinching their stomachs as they turned away, uninterested by another newcomer. “What’s that?” she asked, her head cocked sideways as she stared at the belt, as if mesmerized by its shimmer in such a colorless room. A faint trace of a smile crawled upwards on the features of the tallest girl. “You want to play our game, newbie?” Rachel only nodded her head in reply. “First person to get to the last hole wins.” Rachel narrowed her eyes at the strip of leather, and stood, grasping it in her frail arms. Wrapping it around her waist, she found she had just managed to get the second to last hole in, but the last one was to no avail. The other girls seemed impressed, but Rachel didn’t care. She suddenly felt as if she had just fallen short on her only possible endowment – much like everything else in her life, her last mission was a bitter failure. Tears poured down her cheeks, but the belt just wouldn’t budge any further. There were so many things wrong with her already; why couldn’t she just accomplish this? Looking into the belt, she saw an ugly, miserable, fat girl, and she knew that was what the other girls saw her as too. That was not her – that was not who she could be. “Relax,” the girl spoke. “I’m sure you can get to it soon.” At her words, Rachel dropped the belt, almost falling backwards as she attempted to rest her weary eyes.

b y nikita gourishetty

ela

Almost immediately, she was shaken awake by an intruding doctor. He unsuccessfully attempted to talk with her as he placed food on the table, but she simply tuned out his mindless words. Reproachfully glancing at the pasta, Rachel bit her nails once more. Sleep soon became the most important entity to her as she fell upon the bed.

The dreams she had, however, were full of bitter memories – of days when living didn’t seem quite so hard. Rachel used to be the ideal person – her own role model as one could say – but she wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Eventually, she couldn’t even pass her own expectations of herself, and had been forced to strive for her old self with attempts that she should have been ...but so are lies.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

eudaimonia // prose bed, shoveling it down as if they knew it was her last possession. Where had everybody else gone? Where was she? Her eyes wildly searched around, but they were caught by the green belt. Rachel ran towards it, with adrenaline rushing through her weary bones, as she knew it was the last thing she could hope to accomplish. She just had to! Her thin fingers grasped at the metal buckle, and slowly pushed the green leather into it. Pulling it all the way through, she delicately clutched onto the rod, and forced it towards the last hole. Gasping at her victory, she knew she had finally made her life worth something – at least to her own self. Suddenly, Rachel groaned, her stomach in too much pain. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten; not that it mattered anymore: she had won! “I won,” she whispered, her breath now in pants. With no more energy to remove the belt, she knelt down in a fetal position on the floor. The ghost of a smile was still engraved amongst her features as exhaustion came too fast upon her. Rachel thought she heard the familiar cries of her mother, but she wasn’t quite sure. All she knew was that she was tired… way too tired…

photography by ashley wu wu

ashamed to make. She couldn’t even take the pressures of school weighing down on her, and sunk deeper into her own little world, with the feeling of inadequacy constantly living with her. Instead, the word “almost” became her very definition. Whatever she endeavored – schoolwork, sports, whatever it was - her attempt would only be half of what others could achieve. She couldn’t even bring herself to think about her old soccer team without shuddering. The coach had thought he was doing his best to make them improve, but Rachel had found that there was a limit to her skills. As the rest of her teammates became better and better, she had been forced to sit on the sidelines at just about every game. And as her talent with soccer digressed, everything else did with it. Even her parents simply had no idea how to deal with her, and had sent her here. But now she was stuck. Her life had come to nothing – in fact, there was no more reason for her very existence. All she was left to do was take up space in their dreary world. The realization hit her like a blow to the face, and Rachel suddenly felt suffocated by the familiar room. The walls seemed to inch forward, and she knew they would eventually crush her. They consumed the

“Beauty is...

eudaimonia vertigo the ecliptic // // prose

Love Thy Family

b y beth hightower Working as a financial advisor was the definition of banality. My clients were salary men with budding families, never more scandalous or unusual than the occasional struggling artiste. I imagined it would be monotony from collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s end to retirement, and then I would welcome the indulgent days of old age before I turned too senile for the

general populace. It sounded good enough for me, but naturally, more interesting things were bound to happen somewhere along the way. About five or six years into the job, I was hired by the Moore family to help them sort out some stickiness in their finances. I was told the situation was dire, but I had been ...the promise of happiness.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Stendhal

eudaimonia // prose told that many times before and no longer gave such words much credence. I had long since ceased to be a fledgling in the world; nothing the job could throw at me would surprise me anymore. I accepted without hesitation. I met with Mr. and Mrs. Moore shortly thereafter. They were a polite aging couple, smiling nervously in anticipation of some form of judgment on my part. I thought perhaps they had gone overboard remodeling the kitchen with marble or the floors with hardwood. We shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and sat down around a table, spreading out the documents I had requested that they bring. I glanced through the papers while the Moores explained their situation to me, seeing the reflection of their lives on paper and connecting it to their words. They had both been retired for almost a decade, they said, having held lucrative positions in what were rewarding careers overall. They had been satisfied with the amount they had earned, content in the security of being able to provide not only for themselves to the end of their lives, but also their two grown children, Emma and Eric. Here, their narrative took a turn. “Mr. Emerson,” Mr. Moore began, “there are some things we should tell you about Emma.” Emma was addicted to painkillers. “She needs them,” Mrs. Moore said, “or she’s just in so much pain, it’s unbearable. She’s had problems with pain since she was a teenager.” Her face was caught between the maternal urge to smile for her children and the shakiness of her voice. The fat in her lips quivered in exaggerated agitation as she

scratched at the curls of her hair. Mr. Moore pushed up his spectacles, cleared his throat with a cough, and elaborated on his wife’s testimony, explaining that by “problems,” they were referring to the instances Emma had come crying to their room, trembling and saying how much it hurt. What it was that hurt they never found out. Emma never said, and by that time, there was no one left who still bothered to question. Mr. Moore had ceased to believe she ever felt a thing to begin with. They were trying to tell me that Emma was devouring their money faster than it could come in from their pension plans. They paid the rent for her apartment and all her bills. They paid for the gas for the car they had bought her. They paid to keep her alive and to keep her nearby. Mr. Moore was tired of paying; Mrs. Moore was too scared to stop. I told them I would look through the papers and call them soon. We shook hands again, and they left. There was no way they could continue supporting their daughter financially. The Moores were still paying off the mortgage on their house, and their only income was from their pensions. Even so, they had yet to deny Emma anything. Considering how wont I was in playing the part of deus ex machina, I was naturally apprehensive regarding how to lay out the facts: they had to either let go of Emma for good or let her fall and rise on her own. It had to be done, however, and it was quite literally my job to do it. There was no hope for their finances otherwise. I called Mr. Moore to set up another consultation. They would be bringing their

“...they had to either let go of Emma for good or let her fall and rise on her own.” “I would never die for my beliefs...

eudaimonia // vertigo

“He would smile more then, at peace with everything, at war with nothing, free-floating in a universe of abandoned orbits.” son with them this time, he said. I gave my assent to this and bid him adieu. I had prepared the table with an extra chair, laid out the papers again alongside my notes, and sighed. To an extent, I might have regretted accepting the case. On the other hand, for once in a very long time I could honestly say I was not filled with boredom. I supposed it was a fair enough tradeoff, though it must be said that I thought it rather shallow of myself to feel entertained by the plight of a family and its daughter. They were struggling to stay afloat as a collective familial being, to stay whole as a single piece at the center threatened again and again to tear itself away and rip asunder the bonds they had built between them. They might not have even realized they were breaking. In retrospect, I think Emma knew. She had probably known for a long time already. The sound of a bell brought me from my reveries, calling me back to the door through which I again welcomed Mr. and Mrs. Moore and then exchanged introductions with Eric, whose face was shyly obscured by a long tumble of bangs. We stood, smiled, and shook hands. I brought them to the table again and sat them down, preparing to say what had to be said with as few pretensions as was polite in business. I told them, politely, that they had let Emma lead their finances too far. There was no longer any chance of complete recovery; they would not be able to coast through their lives with what they had left. I gave them their ultimatum bluntly and briefly: they were only within my abilities to assist

if they cut off the daughter leeching them dry or they eliminated the problems at her core. It felt incredibly trite to say, and I did not enjoy it, despite what people say about moral good deeds being so gratifying and whatnot. Regardless, they looked up at me for a moment as though I had declared myself the prophet who would lead them to riches and pleasures of some otherworldly variety. Then the moment ended, and I realized I must have been the latest in a long line of prophets. They had stopped believing that anything would truly change. They only held onto the fantastic deluded dream of family. Eric spoke first, timidly: “Emma can’t be left to herself.” He had taken care of her cooking and cleaning for years. He had even been forced to drop out of college to become her live-in servant. She was in too much pain or too incapacitated by the drugs to lift a finger. She was a tyrannical queen, surrounded by subjects terrified to love or hate her, yet who could ultimately do naught besides. Mr. Moore spoke next, coldly: “Emma must be allowed to fall if we expect to see her get back up.” They were words he had said before, reciting them with increasing fluidity, and caring just a little less each time. Mrs. Moore spoke last, passionately: “Emma will die if we don’t help her!” She was pleading to someone, not to me, perhaps to herself. The stagnancy of everything, the feeling of inevitability at play, was engulfing her in a cascade of choking pain. She was gasping for breath and reaching for a faraway sun, desperate for air and light to tear ...because I might be wrong.” — Bertrand Russell

eudaimonia // prose through her underwater world. It felt like something was breaking in the room that day. There was a solemn silence. I glanced at my watch and regretfully informed them our time had run out. We set up another appointment. The Moores became a regular client of mine. Little progress was made regarding Emma, but I managed to make improvements in their situation regardless, although I was only delaying its overall deterioration. The family was unable to resolutely choose a course of action, despite their heated arguments and teary apologies. Years passed in that way, a slow, painful fall. Emma was pulling them down with a smile and a laugh. She was aching for something to change and g iv e se nse to everything she had known. I think all of them were praying for something to end; they just didn’t know what it was. Three years after I met the Moores, Mrs. Moore called my office. She said she had something important to discuss. I told her to go on, and she obliged. Her voice was sluggish and apathetically disinterested. She said, “We’re filing for divorce. Thank you for everything, Mr. Emerson. My husband… Mr. Moore will be moving out within the week. He’ll keep in touch with you. Goodbye.” With that, she hung up. Mr. Moore did indeed keep in touch, remaining in need of my services even when Mrs. Moore changed her name back to the way it had been decades ago, when they had been young and in love. Having chosen to make the killing blow himself to what had once been an idyllic marriage, Mr. Moore was filled with a kind of world-weary optimism.

He would smile more then, at peace with everything, at war with nothing, free-floating in a universe of abandoned orbits. He seemed to miss what he had lost, but his regrets were fleeting and incomplete, abandoned mid-thought. He no longer spoke to his former wife. The two communicated through Eric, the son caught in the middle of the whims and wishes of his family. Each time he visited with his father, he became more reticent and withdrawn. He was beginning to question his place in the grand scheme of things, to question why he played caretaker to Emma and messenger to his parents. He was growing quietly bitter; it showed in his mannerisms and his mechanical business smiles. Then, just as quietly, he snapped. Eric stopped seeing Emma. Emma was alone, all alone. She would call family and people she had known years before, screaming, weeping, and laughing. She kept calling, knowing that someone would give in. There was no doubt whatsoever. It was merely a matter of time, and even then, she wouldn’t be bothered about such a trifling thing. She had a lifetime to play her games and see how far she could go. She was freer than any other, uncaring and utterly bold. It didn’t take long at all for Emma’s mother to come to her side. She had been supporting her daughter ever since the divorce, when Mr. Moore had cut his financial ties with them, and so she hurried at the sound of Emma’s distress signal, selling the house she so adored and moving into Emma’s apartment. In that apartment, they closed themselves off from the world

“It was the only purpose he had known, as a child and an adult: love thy family.”

“Any emotion, if it is sincere...

eudaimonia // vertigo beyond, living in a state of static chaos and the comforting familiarity of one another’s blood. Mr. Moore didn’t mention them anymore. He began to focus his excess affection on his son and encouraged him to find his independence, although his true purpose, unbeknownst to both of them, was to recreate the familial dependence of yonder years. It was the only purpose he had known, as a child and an adult: love thy family. Eric returned to college at the age of twenty-nine. He took his father’s rallying words at face value, aiming to become selfsufficient as quickly as possible. He was driven to succeed and prove to himself that there had indeed been a purpose to the past eleven years of his life besides one defined by the needs of his sister, and that there was something at the end of all the neglect he had felt. I wondered if he would return to take care of his mother or father if they became infirm, but I thought not. He was moving on. Mr. Moore and Eric came to see me one last time after their financial security was finally stable. We talked like men reminiscing about the good old days, yet without any

intent or desire to return to those times. Mr. Moore had gotten eye surgery and Eric had slicked back the hair from his face. I could see into their eyes clearly, see as little or as much as I cared to. I smiled and looked away. We said our final parting words as they thanked me and I thanked them. They left, waving at me, and I waved back. I didn’t shake their hands. I went back to my desk, sat down, and sighed, returning to tedium. I think of the Moores on the bright days, when it feels like everything is burning. I think of the way they burned each other and themselves, trying to remain together by force while clambering for some kind of individual escape. I think of Emma, sending her flames scorching through herself as well as the ones who loved her more than any other and hated her just as much. I think of Emma, who was like the sun; I could feel her presence permeating everything, but I could never look straight at her, never see or touch her. She was as much a concept as family, an impossible being to the last. Sometimes I wonder whether she truly existed or if she were a mere creation of my boredom. Then I remember the way they cried for her, and I know she must have been real to them, at least for a moment. In family, a moment is all it takes.

“I think of Emma, who was like the sun... an impossible being to the last.”

art by jia gao

...is involuntary.” — Mark Twain

eudaimonia // prose photo illustration by ashley wu

eudaimonia // vertigo

*contest winner

In A Winter Day b y kevin liu

His tired eyes opened in shock. One, two, three. A hazy feeling sprung from the back of his head, amidst his wet, dark hair. A headache. No, not quite. The feeling, no longer hazy, rose like a tide, and he was swept away by its formidable wave. The light of the morning sun seeped through the tattered curtain, blinding him. One, two, three. He unwrapped himself from his blankets slowly yet skillfully like a caterpillar which, having slumbered through time, was ready to become a butterfly of iridescent wings and blue chrome. But the man would rather consider himself a moth with wings like sandpaper, rough and inelegant. His quarter was a suburban house - the look-the-same structure of white walls and Spanish roof tiles: three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one leaking faucet. The bathroom floor’s indigo tiles were glazed with transparent chrome. The sink was a lake and waterfall. Water waltzed from the faucet in rhythm. One, two, three. He stood amidst the watery tiles. Water wrinkled his feet, and ripple formed beneath their shapes. Behind the mirror in the bathroom were cosmetics: lipstick, mascara, and nail polish of various color and scent. Penelope had loved the perfume labeled “A lake carries you...

“Ocean,” and had often applied it for occasions of casual importance. Even when she had become ice in a warm summer day, the scent of the perfume remained with her. The man donned his coat and exited the house. * * * Snow had built up overnight. It was a Saturday. Kids with red cheeks and beanies threw snowballs, and couples strolled and snuggled in each other’s arms. In his earlier days, the man had been among them with Penelope and he made snow angels while surrounded by the smiles of carrotnosed snowmen. He would smile in return, forgetting, for the moment, the snowmen’s inevitable end. She was a snowman too, he thought. “Three months.” “Hm?” The man lowered the newspaper. Penelope was watering yellow tulips which were withering in a vase on the mahogany table. The refrigerator buzzed ominously in the kitchen. “The doctors said three months.” “Three months?” “You know.” “I don’t.”

“John, please-” “No.” The man stood up and left. He spent the afternoon by the lake next to the park. “John.” The man turned around and, with eyes swelled up by tears, saw Penelope. He whimpered but could not speak. Penelope smiled at him as her tears fell. “Let’s dance, John. The same way we always do.” * * * Penelope’s waltz remained with him even now as he stood by the lake. There was little to say. He had doubted his intentions. In the months prior, he had lifted himself out of the water in fear. Those had been his incomplete baptisms, the disgrace with which he had shouldered upon grief. As he stared at the indigo lake, a sudden wind shook him, forcing him to proceed. He lowered his body steadily like a sexton lowering his six-hundredth casket and trembled wildly as his feet entered the water.

One, two, three. His heart sank. In the water he stood for seconds like hours, for hours like days. His eyes, glimmering in the sun, gazed at the fish coasting below and the clouds shifting above. The water ebbed on the shore of his shoulders, brushing against his chest as he exhaled in the wind which whispered intelligible nonsense. The man swallowed another mouthful of the indigo lake. In time, he continued to tremble, but was no longer cold. He closed his eyes. In a moment of darkness, she reunited with him in his empty arms. Together, they drifted in the lake now shimmering in an overwhelming light composed of all the blissful moments that would have existed but was robbed from him. Children’s voices reverberated from a distance, and he imagined them as his soundtrack. The sound of snow falling from the trees became the rustling of leaves beyond the window by his desk. He became numb, and his heart, full of nothing but chromatic butterflies falling one by one in a winter day, subsided. Relief, he thought. Relief.

ley wu

photography by ash

...into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable” — William Wordsworth 53

eudaimonia // vertigo

photography by ashley wu

eudaimonia // poetry

one second of space

we set a broken string of orange buoys afloat in the bay, our summer layers brief against the evening chill. your scarf—rippled silk and gauze—billowed against my knee. you crouched by the water and I stood just behind, the closest streetlamp black, lights streaking the waves far and bright. when you squinted, you could see the harbor brink. watch: the buoys bob unharmed out to sea, beyond sight, and then we came home. morning curtains billow cicada sounds—I have missed the mist, and you. water is still in the bathtub, a half-submerged buoy. the salt from yesterday is gritty against my back. I think of that movie you know, the little girl drowning but not knowing and then she is saved, washed to shore and she never knows. a dream of this warped glass world. I breathe in to speak and snap—upright, break into air, but of course you are not here. the far-off light, resolute you will return in the night and say nothing, slide under the comforter but not under the sheet. I will turn to pull my blankets with me: one will flow while the other remains pinned. and I will not open my eyes, merely whisper you are the only one, the only one, there is only you, my friend; you laugh.

b y ashley wu

“If there is a transmigration of souls...

...my life is a hesitation before birth.” — Franz Kafka 55

eudaimonia // vertigo

art b y

cand

y cha ng

eudaimonia // prose

Eden

Two wrens sat on a tree, primping their dappled feathers and pecking mites out of each other’s backs. A worm on a leaf, its flesh ripe and bulging, hung over their heads but the birds did not pay attention to this temptation. Oblivious, they continued to twitter about with their service, their dulcet conversation merging with the scent of jasmines that enveloped the garden. Beneath the tree, two fair-haired children burrowed the dirt, dirtying their knees and suspenders as they filled their buckets with a motley collection of fruits, insects, and stones. Their faces were smudged and their burrowing animal-like. Their hands frequently reached for the same pebble. “I saw it first,” Paige said every time. “Okay,” Caleb would say, and Paige would place the stones in her bucket. “There is a road from the eye to the heart...

b y jane jun As the children compared their treasures, Caleb held Paige’s berry-dyed hand. She giggled. The children sucked honey from the jasmines, while dusk settled. Simplicity perfected the night with its charm, melting the rousing distress with its liberating touch. * * * Caleb held Paige’s ringed hand. “Do you really have to go?” asked Paige. Her stomach churned and her hands were clammy. “I’m sorry Paige… but you know I have no other choice. We’ll keep in touch, alright? I’ll only be a phone call away.” “You better be back soon.” Caleb laughed. “Someone else would think it was you who chased me for years.”

“Well, I’m not the one leaving, am I?” “Come on, Paige. I’m just as upset about this as you are.” Paige suddenly recalled the road trip she and Caleb had taken together in college. They had gotten lost and had driven into some barren, dusty place with practically no sign of life at all. Paige had gone berserk and started babbling uncontrollably, like chaff scattering about with every toss of the wind. Caleb had studied the map and drove them back home safely, patting Paige’s shoulder reassuringly the whole while, a tree with its roots so steadfastly grounded to the soil that it could weather tornados. “’Til later then, Paige. I love you.” Paige felt his fingers fall away. She looked down and saw that he had left her a pebble in her hands. Caleb waved as he disappeared into the terminal. Through the window, Paige saw the airplane take flight. Like at any other climactic moment in her life, her mind reeled from one frame of thought to another until it begot a certain epiphany. Caleb had become something more than a friend or even a fiancé to her. He had become the anchor to her fanatical emotions her sense of reason. But he was gone now. “Paige?” a voice called. Paige resurfaced. A dark-faced man dressed in a black suit and tie stood before her. She was surprised to see him. Alec was a former classmate from several years past. She had been intimidated by him at first; he was a brooding, melancholy boy expelled from several schools before joining hers.

One day, Paige had tried to buy a casserole from the cafeteria only to realize she was missing her wallet; Alec, who had been standing behind her, had offered to pay. The friendship began and continued. That is, Paige corrected herself, until she had gotten engaged to Caleb. Alec had stopped responding to phone calls after that. “You don’t look too happy. What’s upsetting you?” he said. “I’m alright,” Paige said. “Caleb left just now, for Italy… But he’ll come back.” Paige’s voice strengthened. “He promised to be back very soon.” Alec looked at her searchingly, his eyebrows raised in a thick arc. “You don’t sound very certain of that, do you?” Paige faltered, but met his skeptical gaze. “What do you mean?” “Come on, you should head back home,” Alec said, clearing his expression into a smile. He placed his hand on Paige’s shoulder. “I’ll take you home safely,” he said.

“Simplicity perfected the night with its charm, melting the distress with its liberating touch.”

* * * Paige looked in the mirror, pleased at her appearance. She was in her best attire: a sheath dress with an ivory-flowered collar, adorned with pearl studs. It had been a long time since she had dressed so nicely; ever since Caleb had left, there hadn’t been any reason for dinner parties or strolls downtown. Even during their courtship, they had rarely dressed formally; they had been more inclined to head to the garden than to “spend the day

...that does not go through the intellect.” — Gilbert Keith Chesterton 57

eudaimonia // prose respond to your filth with sympathy? Ha! Well you’re in for a bombshell, aren’t you, because he’s not even coming back! At last, three knocks jolted Paige away. Panting, she staggered forward to open the door. Her solace and salvation stood at the doorway. Alec grinned and offered an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.” Quaking with relief, Paige took his hand.

the ring remains ever so faithfully on your finger.” The usual smoothness of his voice was absent in its tone. The corners of his mouth twisted sardonically. “Let’s just hope it’s still on his.” Seeing that they had arrived at her home, Paige staggered out of the car and headed for her room. Shame raked her, leaving her stark and vulnerable. Everything she knew to be true—her

principles of light and darkness, her sense of morality and faith dissipated; she was alone with only her emotion and torment to govern her. There was no merciful discernment to string down the kite of emotion from drifting into the frenzy of tempest which now engrossed her. If the love was really there, then where was the comfort? Why did the shelter from the chaos only embrace her with silent condemnation?

* * * After the dinner they drove through the night, surrounded by streaks of red light as passing cars whizzed by them. Clusters of chaff were flung by the frenzy, sticking to the cars. Paige was silent, leaning her head against the coolness of the car window. The slanted raindrops hung to the glass, and the black arms of the windshield reached out invariably to swipe the tears away. “So,” said Alec. “Have you heard from Caleb recently?” His voice was stilted. Paige looked out into the rain, clenching her sleeve. “No.” She paused then added, “But that’s only because he’s very busy at the moment.” “I’m sure he is.” Paige opened her mouth to speak. “I’m sure he’s busy, as you are right now.” Guilt stifled the retort on Paige’s tongue. “Don’t worry. This is nothing but a night between two good friends. And besides,

“The slanted raindrops hung to the glass, and the black arms of the windshield reached out invariably to swipe the tears away.” “To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary... 58

art by yunqing zhu

in a corset” as Caleb used to say. She was lonely, Paige reminded herself. She had nothing else to do today anyway, and Alec had been such a good friend through this whole ordeal. He had offered constant companionship, leaving her flowers when she caught the flu. She felt more secure when she was with him; he provided for her a certain authority of opinion that she lacked in herself for the past few months. Paige wondered what would happen if Caleb came back and saw her now. She uncomfortably dispelled the image from her mind and reached for her purse. Her fingers bumped into something round and smooth. “You know, Caleb must be lonely too,” said the pebble. Cold fingers of panic grasped her neck as the reoccurring threat of past months engulfed her. “He could be seeking comfort elsewhere too, just like you. He’s probably enjoying his last bite of freedom before the vows chain him forever. You haven’t heard from him recently, have you?” “Go away!” Paige wanted to scream. The pebble continued to distend, its voice sharper and louder than ever. “You don’t deserve him anymore anyway, the way you get emotionally attached to anything that comforts, with no tint of prudence to hold you back.” The pebble was thundering now. “Forgiveness? Mercy? You wicked, wicked girl you dare hope for him to

eudaimonia // vertigo

...to one without faith, no explanation is possible.” — St. Thomas Aquinas 59

eudaimonia // prose The kite of despair ascended to full flight. Oh, why had she begun to waver; hadn’t Caleb proved his love thousand times fold in the past his perpetual willingness to forgive her faults with grace? But the memories she grappled with were too lusterless to grant her a chord of resonating conviction. Simple confidence. Child-like faith. Where were these benevolent companions? Exhausted, Paige fell, her vision spiraling. She closed her eyes and welcomed sleep, grateful for a retreat from the barrage of her thoughts. * * * Paige was on a canoe, paddling through a gray lake. She corrected herself. It wasn’t a lake. She was paddling through a cobblestone city square that had been flooded by a storm. The square was lined with a canopy of trees that looped on all sides. Her vision was finer here, all edges of this gray place more defined. As she canoed her way across the clear expanse, the water slipped over the paddles almost too swiftly. Large raindrops dropped in evenly spaced patterns, and a pair of wrens intoned a faint lullaby from her childhood. The current was placid and shallow; the paddles frequently scraped the stone floor. Startled, she realized that the cobblestones were pebbles. Yet only through the clarity of the water’s lenses did she realize that these stones were not given to her to make her waver. They were what gave the paddles a firmness and reliability of a strong foundation.

Hesitatingly she reached down, sinking her fingers into the cool liquid. The pebbles were smooth and welcoming to her touch. They had always been the same comforting texture all along; she had mistaken their gentle reminder as eyes of cold judgment. And as passed her fingers along the floor, each pebble recalled a crystal memory. He was standing in a garden holding her hand, as fireflies encircled them. With the other hand they swung their tin buckets. He handed her a bouquet of garden jasmines as graduation caps were flung into the air. He was on his knees slipping a ring onto her finger, promising something more exquisite and precious than the thrill of love: commitment. Paige flowed along in this fashion, allowing her fingers to drift leisurely against the cobblestones, each pebble grounding her further in truth and remembrance. * * *

“Cold fingers of panic grasped her neck as the reoccurring threat of past months engulfed her.”

“Hello?” “Caleb!” “Paige, is that you?! How have you been?” “Not too well, but I’m okay now.” “Oh Paige, I’m so sorry. Work here’s been so busy, it’s ridiculous. I’m out and about every second of the day… But I know that’s no excuse.” “I missed you.” “Yes, me too, so much. I really am sorry, Paige. Don’t forget that I—” “Shhh… I know. I love you too.”

“All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence... 60

eudaimonia // vertigo

art lay

c by g

son

Exhilaration b y john park

take off. Unsurprisingly, no one makes any attempt to stop me. I coast to a stop, turn, and head back to the group of runners. I gaze down at my block. What had happened? I remeasure with my fists and find that I was off by an inch or two. I readjust everything and take off again. Everything is perfect. One by one, the people grew still; the crowd drew closer, their intense glare piercing the runners. The starter’s eyes passed each creature, as if looking for something. Each one had synchronized its body to a steady rhythm; breathing had slowed, and the eyes looked to the end of the straightaway. The eyes made a returning sweep and rested on one of them. I glance side to side quickly; tough competition. My field of vision narrows down to the end of my path. I do not, and cannot afford to feel the flecks of rubber

The crowd stood watching at the scene below, ready to see a good fight. Down below, the tiger eyed the puma menacingly. There was going to be lots of carnage. The lion shook its mane side to side and let out a bloodcurdling roar; no one will defeat me, said the lion. At the sight of the lion’s teeth, a few of the spectators hurried to the kiosk and changed their bets. Did you see his teeth? said one. They’re too blunt. They won’t do any damage. replied another. No way! Cheetah skin isn’t that thick. The lion will win for sure! scoffed a third. With their bets changed, they made their way back down to their seats. They argued with each other about which creature was going to win. I finish setting my block. The sound of the blocks fades away as I position myself cautiously on the contraption that lies before me. The time is right. Without warning, I 61

...then success is sure” — Mark Twain

eudaimonia // prose

art la by c y so ng

“My spikes grind into the padding of the block as I get ready to head toward hostile territory.” digging into my skin. I make a preparatory kick into the air behind me. My breathing slows to an inaudible rhythm as I concentrate. The starter signaled to the victim. As if through telepathy, the victim understood what the starter meant. It knew the drill. It let out a resigned sigh, got up and out of its block, and off to the side; it wouldn’t be participating. Perspiration begins to form on my palms. My vision narrows further, and my breath quickens. Electricity begins to spark through each muscle in my legs, supercharging them for the battle that lies ahead. My body grows tense as I strain to hear the sound that will set me free from the shackles that bind me to my spot. My spikes grind into the padding of the block as I get ready to head toward hostile territory. My feral instinct makes me ready for the fight that lies before me. A gun broke the still silence with a crack. The beasts were released from their cages and raced toward the prize. The crowd roared as the tiger pounced ahead of the ocelot, leaving a cloud of dust in the ocelot’s face. The puma forced its legs to move faster; it began to pull ahead of the tiger. At front, the lion and the cheetah were head to head. The race would be a close one. “In defeat, defiance...

I ignore the knives in my legs; nothing must distract me. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I pump my arms furiously, trying to pull ahead of the person next to me. The thought of losing haunts my mind. I propel my legs faster, and my feet dig into the ground, propelling me forward at a faster rate. The untamed creatures fought for the lead, with the lion and the cheetah continuing to pull ahead of each other. The crowd cheered more intently as the beasts grew closer to the end. Who would take the prize? Behind them, the tiger clawed the ocelot, furious that it was losing. I force more air into my lungs, and shake my head, hoping that the extra air and twisting will give me the boost to take first. As I come closer to the finish, I arch my body slightly to bring my torso forward. We pass the finish line and I wonder if I have pulled ahead enough, even if it is a little, to win. I stand proud, confident that I have won the battle. In between gasps for air, I wait to be called first. The timer squints at the monitor to see who was in front. He opens his mouth and gives a response. Second place doesn’t quite cut it.

eudaimonia // vertigo

My Heart Fell and Asleep Couldn’t Wake Up b y vivian chan

photography by ashley wu

When I cry, I laugh. When I laugh, I cry. It’s a simple fact that I’ve never really gotten used to. My parents thought something was wrong with me when I was a baby. Whenever I cried, I made a strange hiccuping noise at the same time, almost as if I were choking. I made those noises so often that they wondered if something was wrong with my lungs. They brought me to a doctor who said: “I don’t know how to explain this, but... Your child is laughing and crying at the same time.” What else could my parents have done besides quietly leave the clinic?

It wasn’t fatal, but it was still something to worry about. My mom was concerned about how it might affect me in the future, but she couldn’t predict what would happen. My dad thought it was just some baby thing that I would grow out of. Nevertheless, they took precautions. They avoided tickling me and tried to keep me away from harm. Whenever I did laugh or cry, they made sure to stop it before I suffocated from the simultaneous giggling and sobbing. They panicked over the smallest scratches, fearing a sudden outburst. Eventually, I learned how painful

...in victory, magnanimity” — Winston Churchill

eudaimonia // prose it was to laugh so hard that you couldn’t breathe, and when you were crying at the same time—well, I didn’t laugh as much after that. It was painful the other way around too, so I avoided crying as well. And, eventually, my parents noticed that I had become cautious. So they didn’t watch me as carefully as they could have after that. I don’t know if it made a difference, but I like to think so, sometimes. It puts more blame on them. * * * I don’t remember what the joke was about, or even who said it. But it must have been funny enough for me to actually laugh instead of giving my usual half-smile. Then the tears came. I can’t describe what it’s like to laugh and cry at the same time, or even say how strange it feels, because it doesn’t feel strange to me. The act itself is so natural that I never think about it until it hurts, and suppressing either urge has become natural as well. But there are always slip-ups. I was laughing harder than I had in a long time, and my friends were looking at me as if I had hit my head. “Are you okay?” “Dude, that’s sick.” “What’s the matter with you?” “No, I’m fine,” I kept saying, even as I outright sobbed and chuckled at the same time. Finally, I managed to stop laughing and wiped the tears from my face. They wouldn’t stop looking at me uneasily, wondering what

eudaimonia // vertigo

else I would do. They stopped telling jokes around me after that. Occasionally, someone would forget, and whenever I started giggling, they would immediately stare at me anxiously, anticipating the onslaught of tears they had seen that one time. But I was careful to restrain myself even further. It was apparent that my friends had been freaked out and weren’t sure if I was going through a rough time. They suspected school issues, trouble with boys, even family problems. It was kind of amusing how they assumed my tears were a sign of hidden sadness or turmoil. Except it really wasn’t. It was such a small thing, to be unable to separate laughing from crying, crying from laughing. Nevertheless, I concentrated on squeezing the life out of the small sense of humor I had left. Smiling was permitted and even encouraged since it made me seem more approachable, but laughing remained a foreign sensation to me. I didn’t want it to become familiar. * * * My grandfather was seventy-five when he died. He had been a good grandfather, the kind who would take his six-year-old granddaughter by the hand and show her smooth pebbles, a butterfly, an ice cream truck. The pebbles would stay in my pockets, with the butterfly caught in a photo and the taste of raspberry vanilla fading by the minute. All of that ran through my head as I sat

“Smiling was permitted and even encouraged sinced it made me seem more approachable...” “She has a parasite soul...

“....but laughing remained a foreign sensation to me. I didn’t want it to become familiar.” in the pews, wearing a borrowed black dress with itchy sleeves and a stiff collar. So far, as mourners went up to the front to give speeches about how Grandfather was a great man, I had not cried. Not to say that I’m not a crying sort of person, but I didn’t feel moved at that moment. I couldn’t let myself feel moved. Then my mother went up. “He used to sneak us out to eat ice cream, and he always gave the biggest tips. All of the waiters wanted to take our table.” My mother kept talking, pausing now and then to inhale sharply and compose herself. I stopped listening and instead focused on the casket. It was open so that everyone could see Grandfather’s head and the upper half of his chest. His hands were folded and his expression peaceful. But the pink tint of his skin was obviously artificial, his white hair shiny with gel, and the edges of his eyes darkened. He wasn’t Grandfather; he was a mannequin, a mere figure in a casket that I was supposed to recognize but didn’t. I didn’t weep like the other people in the room, holding their handkerchiefs and bowing their heads in grief. But there were a few tears despite myself, and with it, a few chuckles. My father glanced at me, and then hastily pressed his finger to his lips. “Hush,” he whispered. Mother was still going on and on, and by now, her voice was breaking every other word. Suddenly, I was filled with the urge to laugh. Here we were, paying our respects to a dead body with a name. I wondered if Grandfather would have preferred being cremated instead of being

ogled in his casket and then left to rot six feet underground. But then again, he would have mentioned that in his will, and besides, cremation seemed a little too efficient and brisk. Body to ashes in a matter of minutes. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, this time not because of something funny, but because of the turn my thoughts had taken. I had never been one to ponder deeply about death. Father desperately wanted me to shut up, I could tell. He was fidgeting in his seat like a five-year-old, glancing at the other mourners who were staring at me, bemused. Then I felt the dampness on my cheeks, and suddenly, I stopped. They always say dead people look as if they’re asleep, but in this case, I felt as if I were the one in the casket. Like I was being put on show and everyone was looking at me. And some part of me wished I were asleep so that I wouldn’t have to look at people looking at me.

photography by ashley wu

...yes, she is a parasite, a monstrous parasite” — Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 65

eudaimonia // prose My mother eased into the pew next to me, her speech finished. And I could tell from the way her lips tightened that she had heard me laugh. “Have some respect,” she hissed. Later, when we stood next to the casket and accepted people’s condolences and hugs, I stood perfectly still and didn’t move even when one elderly woman stood on her tiptoes and kissed both of my cheeks. And right before they closed the casket, I touched Grandfather’s cold hands. I wonder if Grandfather would have been proud. * * *

“That’s not what I mean,” I said, looking away. “Then what?” He leaned forward, trying to see my face. “Is it because I didn’t propose with a ring? Because I’ll get one if you want, but you never seemed to, well, you said before that you didn’t think much of weddings but, we’re going out and—” “Ari,” I said again. “You need to calm down. It’s not about you.” Ari immediately stiffened in his seat, and he leaned back and crossed his arms. “So you’re breaking up with me,” he said. “I—no.” I exhaled, frustrated. “I’m not breaking up with you. I’m confused, okay?” “Is it that hard to say yes or no?” he asked. His arms dropped, and he met my gaze. “You really don’t know if you want to marry me or not?” My mother would have told me to say yes. She had never thought much of Ari by himself, but she had seemed delighted when I told her about our relationship, and even more when she had met him during one of her visits to campus. I understood her excitement to a point; I had never shown an interest in boys in high school, and hadn’t seemed likely to develop one when I graduated. My father would have told me to say no. It wasn’t that he was overprotective, nothing so dramatic as that. But sometime in the middle of my senior year, while my mother had been throwing one of her fits when she realized I hadn’t filled out half of the applications she wanted me to, Father had told her in not so polite tones to give it a rest. He had never told her to shut up before, and it must have been shock that actually forced my mother to back down.

“For a person to be independent, they have to be somewhat inclined to the trait and learn it the hard way.”

For a person to be independent, they have to be somewhat inclined to the trait and learn it the hard way. It’s my belief, anyway, and it was my belief then, too, when I was twentytwo and sitting in a coffee shop and my boyfriend of eight months had just proposed to me. His name was Ari. “Marry you?” I must have looked as surprised as I sounded because Ari immediately backtracked. “I mean, maybe not now, but I just wanted you to know—just, you know, when you find someone you want to settle down with for the rest of your life, you shouldn’t let her go, you know?” He was nervous, but his nervous energy didn’t affect me. So instead, I repeated, “Marry you?” “Yeah. I mean—I’d like that.” “Ari,” I began, and then stopped. Tried again. “We’ve been...together. For only eight months.” “Is it too soon for you? Is that it?” “It was not ecstasy...

eudaimonia // vertigo And later, he said to me, “You don’t care, do you?” That was the first time that I thought he knew me. I looked at Ari, and I knew that if there was a time to tell him to let me go, it was that moment. Mother was going to die from happiness. “Okay.” “Okay?” “Okay. I’ll marry you.” His face froze, and then loosened into a smile. “You—you mean it?” It was a rhetorical question, and we both knew it. He couldn’t stop smiling as he sat up in his seat. He smiled as we finished our respective drinks, he smiled as we put on our jackets, and he smiled as we walked out of the shop. His hand touched my fingers, and then enfolded my hand completely. I gave an experimental squeeze, and his smile broadened. It made my eyes hurt, and I had to physically turn away from him. My hand went limp in his, and we said nothing for the rest of the walk. * * * Someone was holding my hand, and someone was talking. But they weren’t the same person.

I blinked, and found myself staring through a sheer white veil. My wedding veil. Ari was holding my hand, and the pastor from my mother’s church was speaking. I felt a slight weight on one of my fingers, and looked down to see a simple gold band. I knew that I didn’t have to look at Ari’s hand to see the matching ring. The evidence was insurmountable. I was at my wedding, getting married. I shook my head, trying to remember. I had been in one of the rooms, looking at myself in the mirror, looking at my wedding dress—looking at myself in my wedding dress. I remembered pressing my hand against cool glass, as if I imagined I could disappear into the mirror. Then someone had knocked on my door, and my hand dropped as if I had been burned and my flowers, my flowers were on the table and they were so fragile, with their petals nearly falling off, and the sound of the flower girls laughing somewhere, somewhere important—and nothing. My ring was already on my finger, which meant that I had already said my vows. And yet, I could not recall saying anything. My mind was blank, as if it wasn’t even allowing me to remember the moment when I had given myself away. The pastor adjusted the square glasses

photography by ashley wu

...but it was comfort.” — Charles Dickens

eudaimonia // prose

“But it wasn’t enough that only He loved he was us, Ari happy.

and I, but maybe too much.”

photography by ashley wu

that were slipping down his nose. “All right,” he said, voice trembling. “You may now kiss...” And my veil was out of my face, and Ari’s face drew near. But my eyes were on the audience. I could see my parents in the front row; Mother was holding a handkerchief as if it were her lifeline, and Father’s hands were in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. Father must have walked me down the aisle with that exact expression on his face, steady and unflinching. And I thought that I could run. I could run away from all of this. I could run because what did all of it matter to me? The roses pinned on the side of the pews, the archway of ribbons that I had walked under, the five-layer cake, the time and money and so much effort put into this single day—and yet. And yet I let Ari kiss me because he loved “I am not good at noticing when I’m happy...

me and would be good to me. My hand twitched only once in his before I gave up all thoughts of running away. There was no need, for there was no point; I was not here for me, so running away would not be for me either. Ari pulled back and surveyed me. “What, crying already?” he teased. “That happy, are you?” “Yes,” I answered, my eyes stinging. “Yes.” And we turned to face the crowd who clapped and cheered for us, my mother clapping the hardest and loudest and my father gazing at me with something lost in his eyes and I couldn’t stop smiling because I was married, and I accepted everything the same way Grandfather accepted everything at his funeral. We descended in a shower of flower petals and flying doves, and the last thing I remembered was Ari bending over to whisper into my ear, “I love you.”

eudaimonia // vertigo And my smile widened, and it was beautiful.

shook with laughter, trying not to choke.

* * *

“Tim’s only four.” “So young,” I said. The papers were scattered over the desk. Ari was leaning over my shoulder, reading one of them. “Does he remember his parents?” “He was dumped in a hospital by a stranger when he was six months old,” Ari replied somewhat stiffly. “Of course he doesn’t remember.” Then, sharply, “I know that you think it might be better for us if he doesn’t remember them, but—” I had to close my eyes and count to three. “Stop it.” Ari usually bit his tongue whenever I said that before answering again, but this time, he stayed silent. I twisted my head to look at him. His dark face was pinched, as if he were barely restraining himself from lashing out. His forehead was so deeply creased that he looked angry, and he was. I had to remind myself that I had married this man because it made him happy, even if he didn’t look happy at the moment. I breathed out slowly before saying, “So we’ll be dropping by the orphanage tomorrow.” Ari’s forehead immediately smoothed. “At three.” I nodded and began to gather the papers. “Did you get the truck?” “Yeah.” “Did you gift-wrap it?” “It has a ribbon.” “Okay, then.” I put everything back in the folder, laying it back down on the table. Ari straightened behind me. I felt him touch my hair and then my bare neck, fingers lingering on my skin. I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a comfort or an apology, but it was most likely the latter. Ari never liked staying angry. When he left, I put my hand on my stomach, and then slid it lower. Blinked rapidly for a few seconds so that my vision wouldn’t blur, but it didn’t work. I laid my head on the table and

No matter what anyone said otherwise, I loved Tim. He would grab me by the hand with his own tiny ones, saying, “Mama, mama,” and pull me to wherever he wanted me to go. He fit so easily into our house. He was so happy to be alive, to be young, to have us as his parents. But it wasn’t enough that only he was happy. He loved us, Ari and I, but maybe too much. “Why don’t you two just divorce? I’m sick of this, sick, okay?” Ari was at work. I reminded myself to clean up the remnants of the vase Tim had shattered against the wall, and tried not to tremble as he towered over me. He was still young, painfully so. “I know you two are fighting,” he spat now. “You’ve always been fighting, but you won’t let me know.” I had to remember how to speak. “Tim.” “But you won’t divorce. Even though you two sleep in separate rooms. Even though neither of you are happy. Even though Dad goes out at night and never comes back half the time.” Tim came closer and closer. His fists were clenched by his side. I said, “Your father and I know what we’re doing.” Tim’s eyes only narrowed. “Do you,” he replied. “We’re not the perfect family, but it works, Tim, and that’s all we need.” “But you don’t love each other.” Tim stopped before me, staring down. His voice was flat, even though Tim was anything but. He always felt too strongly. And I couldn’t lie to him. “...No,” I admitted. “No, not anymore.” “Then why?” My son sounded as if he were close to screaming. “Why do you stay with him? Don’t you think that he’s ready to let go of all of this? Mom, don’t you want to be happy?” I couldn’t cry in front of Tim. I couldn’t. “It doesn’t matter. It never has.”

...except in retrospect.” — Tana French

eudaimonia // prose “Tell me why it doesn’t.” But I wouldn’t answer. I wouldn’t. So I bit my lip and forced myself to look to the side. I couldn’t cry, and I couldn’t answer Tim. I couldn’t do anything at that moment, because that would have set me off. I would have cried, and then I would have laughed, and then—and then— Tim stepped back. “So you won’t tell me.” He took another step back, and then spun on his heel. “Where are you going?” I managed, my heart beating faster. There was no reply. Tim was seventeen. And then he was gone. Later, Ari asked me why my eyes were red. I told him, and then said nothing as another vase went flying through the air. Like father, like son. * * *

you haven’t been feeling well.” “Hm.” My eyes closed for a moment. “Thought you weren’t coming back. Said you weren’t.” “Yeah, well. I always say that, but I never really...you know.” Pause. “Mom...” “Mm?” “You’re dying, aren’t you?” My head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, and it hurt to smile. But still, my mouth twitched upward. “Dying. That sounds good right now.” A pause. “You were never happy.” I felt so tired, and Tim’s face was growing darker. “Just like you said.” “Why?” I thought of Mother slapping me and then holding her hand over my mouth so that she wouldn’t hear my sob. I thought of Father staring at me over his newspaper (youdon’tcare doyou) when I told him about Ari. I thought of Ari and his smile and how I saw less and less of both as the years went on. I thought of Tim and the way he walked past me without a glance after his graduation ceremony. “Because,” I heard myself say, “no one would let me.” “Mom—no, listen, Mom, don’t close your eyes—I wanted you to be happy, and I know that Dad wanted you to be happy too. He told me. He told me, and you said yes to him, and he knew, he knew that you didn’t, you couldn’t love him but he thought, I thought it would be enough if you just cared and Mom, open your eyes, please, Mom—”

“I couldn’t do anything at that moment...I would have cried, and then I would have laughed, and then—and then—”

There was a beeping sound in the background, but it was barely audible, both because my hearing wasn’t what it used to be and because another noise was drowning it out. My eyesight was even worse than my hearing, and all I could see was a blur of black shapes against a white background. The other noise was coming from the right. I twisted my head and saw a face. “Mom,” the face said. Only one person called me Mom. “Tim,” I responded, blinking so that my vision was less spotty. “Mom!” And he was hovering above me, and I could see the flash of his blue eyes. I had always liked Tim’s eyes, how different they were from Ari’s, and mine. “Where am I?” “Hospital,” my son said quickly. “You—

* * * I fell asleep and never woke up.

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things... 70

eudaimonia // vertigo

Bittersweet Saccharide b y emily su

art by michelle chang

These are those nights when my mind turns uneasy. And tossing, turning, tossing, turning, I find that sleep has resolved to flee from my parched grasp. And so in these times, I find sweet solace within a mug of warmth of merged milk and honey. In midst of redolence splurges a meld of fatigue, comfort, and my condoling memories begin to emerge. These worn hands are mine, yet still remember Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soft lullaby as my head leaned on her shoulder. Fresh hands hugged a steamy mug of her special honeyed milk, which we both used to call sweet dream nectar. These are those nights when all is left is this: a vestige of amber left on the bottom and bittersweet reminiscence never forgotten. ... which escape those who dream only by night.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Edgar Allen Poe 71

pecial thanks

Lynbrook PTSA Judy Boehm Roz Davis Kimmie Marks Toan Phuong Ellen Reller Lynbrook ASB