Stuck Between the Pages: An Anthology

STUCK BETWEEN THE PAGES 1

© Stephanie Qian

“When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art.’ I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.”

George Orwell

2

3

Stuck Between the Pages: An Anthology Copyright @ 2016: A Bryson Production All Rights Reserved. Fine Printing: 2016. The editorial arrangement, analysis, and professional commentary are subject to this copyright notice. No portion of this book may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated, or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

United States laws and regulations are public domain and not subject to copyright. Any unauthorized copying, reproduction, translation, or distribution of any part of this material without permission by the author’s prohibited and against the law.

Disclaimer and Term of Use: No information contained in this book should be considered s financial, tax, or legal advice. Your reliance upon information and content obtained by you at or through this publication is solely at your own risk. The authors assume no liability or responsibility for damage or injury to you, other persons, or property arising from any use of any product, information, idea, or instruction contained in the content or services provided to you through this book. Reliance upon information contained in this material is solely at the reader’s own risk. The authors have no financial interest in and receive no compensation from manufacturers of products or websites mentioned in this book.

Chief Editor Sabrina Chan Chief Editor Frances Lee Chief Editor Cheryl-Mae Mallabo Copy Editor Insha Khan Copy Editor Karishma Muthukumar Copy Editor Ananya Narayanan Copy Editor Larrisa Nguyen Copy Editor Kavisha Prajapati Copy Editor Myra Usmani Cover by Stephanie Qian Printed in the United States of America 4

To Mrs. Bryson: Pen on Paper would not be half of the organization we are today without your unconditional support, trust and vision. Our accomplishments and growth do not go unnoticed.

To Mr. Glonchak and Ms. Park: We thank you and will miss you for your support and guidance. We wish you both the very best in this next chapter of your careers.

Lastly, a special thank you to our fearless leader, Frances Lee for guiding us through this incredible adventure!!!

MW, RG, FL, & LB- forever in our DNA.

5

Table of Contents Preface.......................................................................................................................................... 11

Poetry Missing by Ahmed Zereen ........................................................................................................ 13 1/06 by Jessica Andres .............................................................................................................. 15 Sometimes Falling is Salvation by Jessica Andres ................................................................... 16 Shattered Eyes by Anonymous ................................................................................................. 18 Gray by Varisha Azmi............................................................................................................... 19 For by Vaishalee Chaudhary ..................................................................................................... 20 Inside by Vaishalee Chaudhary ................................................................................................. 21 Limbo by Vaishalee Chaudhary ................................................................................................ 22 No One Else by Vaishalee Chaudhary ...................................................................................... 23 Reasons to Write by Amy Domae ............................................................................................. 24 The Glass Bubble by Amina Durrani …………………………………………………………25 Midnight by Ayesha Durrani..................................................................................................... 26 Step by Step by Queena Hoang ................................................................................................. 28 Strange Days by Queena Hoang................................................................................................ 29 Tears by Queena Hoang ............................................................................................................ 30 Changing Seasons by Sabrine Hossain ..................................................................................... 31 Through It All by Justin Kadi ................................................................................................... 33 Miss Missing You by Insha Khan ............................................................................................. 34 Styled by Insha Khan ................................................................................................................ 35 Angrily in Love by Frances Lee ................................................................................................ 37 Music by Frances Lee ............................................................................................................... 38 Our Saving Grace? By Frances Lee .......................................................................................... 39 Tick Tock by Frances Lee ......................................................................................................... 40 Sorry by Jaki Lee....................................................................................................................... 43 For Reader by Cheryl-Mae Mallabo ......................................................................................... 44 Give Them Voice by Cheryl-Mae Mallabo............................................................................... 45 Happy Ending by Cheryl-Mae Mallabo .................................................................................... 46 6

Paalam by Cheryl-Mae Mallabo ............................................................................................... 47 Safety by Cheryl-Mae Mallabo ................................................................................................. 48 Summer by Cheryl-Mae Mallabo .............................................................................................. 49 Words of My Heart by Karishma Muthukumar ........................................................................ 50 How It Has to Be by Pratyush Muthukumar ............................................................................. 51 The Puppet by Anjali Nambiar.................................................................................................. 52 A Girl Named Summer by Aashwit Nandhuri .......................................................................... 53 Downpour by Aashwit Nandhuri .............................................................................................. 54 Memory Boat by Aashwit Nandhuri ......................................................................................... 55 Night Changes by Aashwit Nandhuri ....................................................................................... 56 Sandy Shore by Aashwit Nandhuri ........................................................................................... 57 The Wild One by Aashwit Nandhuri......................................................................................... 59 Waves by Aashwit Nandhuri..................................................................................................... 62 Misinterpreted by Sarah Nour ................................................................................................... 64 Look by Eunice Park ................................................................................................................. 65 #Goals by Eunice Park .............................................................................................................. 66 Fresh Off the Boat by James Park ............................................................................................. 67 Holy Scripture by Victor Phong ................................................................................................ 69 Emotional Weather by Kavisha Prajapati ................................................................................. 70 An Illusion by Kavisha Prajapati .............................................................................................. 72 Sculptures by Kavisha Prajapati ................................................................................................ 73 Undertones by Kavisha Prajapati .............................................................................................. 74 Can You See? by Steffany Maybel Espina Reyes..................................................................... 75 H by Sara Ryave ........................................................................................................................ 76 Bottomless by Dinithi Senanayake ........................................................................................... 77 Crystal Vase by Dinithi Senanayake ......................................................................................... 78 Ridiculously Slow-Acting Death Traps by Dinithi Senanayake ............................................... 79 To my Mother by Dinithi Senanayake ...................................................................................... 81 You Be the Rain, I'll Be the Torrents. by Dinithi Senanayake ................................................. 82 I Am Nathan by Nathan Vo....................................................................................................... 85 So I Write by Nathan Vo ........................................................................................................... 86 Crusty by Crystal Wang ............................................................................................................ 88 7

A Journey by Anvita Warty ...................................................................................................... 89 Blue by Edison Wong ............................................................................................................... 90 My Style by Edison Wong ........................................................................................................ 91 Colorful by Richard Yeong ....................................................................................................... 92 Richard by Richard Yeong ........................................................................................................ 93 Style by Richard Yeong ............................................................................................................ 94 Dear Anyone and Everyone by Casey Yoon ............................................................................. 95 Names by Casey Yoon .............................................................................................................. 96 Point of View by Casey Yoon ................................................................................................... 97 Those Lives We Pass By by Melissa Yue ................................................................................. 99

Fictional Short Stories Report: Violent Killings of A-Rabs All Part of God’s Plan by Anonymous .......................... 102 A Drop of Light by Sabrina Chan ........................................................................................... 103 Dad? by Vaishalee Chaudhary ................................................................................................ 104 Prisoner by Vaishalee Chaudhary ........................................................................................... 108 The Long Way Around by Cathy Huang ................................................................................ 110 Follicle, Oh Follicle by Frances Lee ....................................................................................... 111 Last Date by Stephanie Qian ................................................................................................... 113 Freeze Tag by Ricardo Tolentino ............................................................................................ 114

Autobiographies/Life Lessons Thoughts by Anonymous ........................................................................................................ 116 Butterflies by Anonymous ...................................................................................................... 117 A Walk to the Park by Zereen Ahmed .................................................................................... 121 Death of a Tiger by Varisha Azmi .......................................................................................... 122 Proper by Varisha Azmi .......................................................................................................... 123 Realization by Varisha Azmi .................................................................................................. 124 Routine by Varisha Azmi ........................................................................................................ 125 Words by Varisha Azmi .......................................................................................................... 126 The Meaning of a Gift by Yusra Azmi ................................................................................... 127 Home Is Where Korean Food Is by Julia Bok ........................................................................ 128 8

I Write by Sabrina Chan .......................................................................................................... 129 So She Smiled by Sabrina Chan .............................................................................................. 130 The Windows to my Soul? Not Really by Sabrina Chan. ....................................................... 131 A Secret Moment by Vivian Chang ........................................................................................ 133 Valentine’s Day. by Ryan Chung............................................................................................ 134 What is the Most Romantic Valentine’s Day Gift? by Ayesha Durrani ................................. 136 The Gift by Christina Hur ....................................................................................................... 138 Twenty Minutes by Christina Hur........................................................................................... 139 Silent Thanks by Insha Khan .................................................................................................. 142 ROYGBIV by Insha Khan ...................................................................................................... 143 The Best Week by Insha Khan ................................................................................................ 144 The First Thirteen by Insha Khan ........................................................................................... 145 Willpower by Insha Khan ....................................................................................................... 146 Blindly by Frances Lee ........................................................................................................... 147 I Thank You by Frances Lee ................................................................................................... 148 Thankful For You by Frances Lee .......................................................................................... 149 The Album by Arjun Naganathan ........................................................................................... 150 Growing to Love Myself by Sarah Nour ................................................................................. 155 Meet Me Where I’m At by Marleen Pan................................................................................. 156 Alice in Wonderland by Eunice Park ...................................................................................... 161 Creating Beauty by Eunice Park ............................................................................................. 162 Fading Pictures by Eunice Park .............................................................................................. 164 Out of Park by Eunice Park ..................................................................................................... 165 Spoiled Brat by Eunice Park ................................................................................................... 166 Washable Markers by Eunice Park ......................................................................................... 167 Nemo Est Supra Legem by Victor Phong ............................................................................... 168 Powerful by Victor Phong ....................................................................................................... 169 The 28th Amendment by Victor Phong .................................................................................. 171 Individual Perception by Ethan Rigonan ................................................................................ 172 Inner Demons by Ethan Rigonan ............................................................................................ 173 Reasons by Ethan Rigonan ...................................................................................................... 174 So How Long Do You Expect Me to Wait? by Emmanuel Ronquillo ................................... 175 9

THAT Friend by Nathan Vo ................................................................................................... 178 A Sharp Turn by Edison Wong ............................................................................................... 179 The Gift of Life by Edison Wong ........................................................................................... 180 Grateful by Richard Yeong ..................................................................................................... 181 Mirror Mirror on the Wall by Richard Yeong......................................................................... 182 The Meaningful Gift by Richard Yeong ................................................................................. 183 Acknowledgements ................................................................................................................... 184 Closing........................................................................................................................................ 185 Featured Art and Photos Paradise by Kavisha Prajapati………………………………………………………......13 3 pm Sunday Afternoon by Stephanie Qian.…………………………………….……...15 Tick Tock by Stephanie Qian………………………………………………..………….17 Built by Stephanie Qian…………………………………………………………………………21 Strawberry Cake by Malaya Sithichai…………………………………………………………..27 Looking up by Anvita Warty…………………………………………………………………... 32 Sunday Laundry by Nicole Lee………………………………………………………...……….36 Small Things by Nicole Lee……………………………………………………………...……. 42 Journey to Come by Anvita Warty……………………………………………..……………….48 Holding On by Stephanie Qian…………………………………………………………….……52 Following Footsteps by Insha Khan………………………………………………...…………..58 Outshined by Nicole Lee…………………………………………………………………….….65 Sightless by Malaya Sithichai…………………………………………………………..……….68 Fallen Crown by Kavisha Prajapati………………………………………………………….….71 She Rose by Kavisha Prajapati………………………………………………………….………72 Masked by Malaya Sithichai……………………………………………………………...…….74 A Spark by Anvita Warty……………………………………………………………………….80 A Walk at Sunset by Insha Khan……………………………………………………………….84 Thought out by Taylor Watson……………………………………………………………..…..87 In between by Stephanie Qian………………………………………………………………….101 The Path by Anvita Warty………………………………………………………………..…….116 Silencing by Malaya Sithichai…………………………………………………………….……126 Blurred Lights by Insha Khan………………………………………..……………………..….130 Checkmate by Anvita Warty…………………………………………………………………...138 Turn Away by Malaya………………………………………………………………………….144 The Clearing by Anvita Warty…………………………………………………………………162 To the seas by Nicole Lee……………………………………………………………………...167 Fist by Taylor Watson………………………………………………………………………….180

10

Preface Dear Reader, To live a life without the expression of creativity is a stark contradiction in its purest form. Creativity is what provides life with its intrinsic value, yet is often overlooked. But despite its abstract nature, creativity can be found in the rarest of pages. Many Whitney students are often stuck between the pages, always reading, always writing, always searching for methods to expand their minds. It is in this anthology that the stories they’ve crafted from between these pages can be brought to light.

We gave students a platform to share their innermost thoughts, a canvas on which they could confess their deepest joys and darkest secrets, and an opportunity that students capitalized upon with great success. They took the blank page and made it their own by forging inspirational anecdotes, reliving ecstatic memories, while also including the teenage angst that permeates through their lives. We’ve compiled an anthology worth of poems, short stories, and essays, all unique in nature, from their background to their prose to their voice. These pages are stuck together: bound not just by the spine of this book but by the creativity and efforts of many.

We invite you to sit down with this book and sip your coffee, hoping that you too will find yourself stuck between the pages.

11

12

Missing By: Zereen Ahmed

Missing: Brother I was lost, Confused-Where could he possibly be?

That day I scampered from room to room Until it struck me That this was no longer a game of hide and seek I asked people around me For any hints or clues A stranger finally answered “He’s asleep forever”

My stomach broke the silence as it growled, desperate for food She forgot to cook for me that day She forgot to ask how school was that day Maybe she was just in a bad mood...?

Day by day I lost her And depression won her over She spent more days in the hospital than in our home No one to teach me how to tie my shoelaces No one to tell me bedtime stories A part of mom had left with my brother; of course, I should’ve known

I couldn’t comprehend the news Asleep?

Forever?

What did all that mean?

It was not until a few weeks later When I was in our playroom in complete solitude That I realized that he had really left me, Literally

Missing: Dad As a daddy’s girl Dad had always been on my side Even when I was wrong He taught me how to ride my bike Without the training wheels He was there to “catch me when I fall” That was before he began to distance himself

Missing: Mom I searched for her around the house

After my brother, he began to stay away from me

Found her crying, whimpering in the dark

I couldn’t understand why His presence was missing in my life 13

We don’t really talk anymore Only the casual “hello” and “goodbye”

Missing: Family I sit alone and eat my dinner My family has been missing for a while The loneliness consumes me I solely occupy the table I’m used to it by now, but I can’t help but wonder: Where are the other three?

Missing: Happiness Large reward to anyone who can return it to me.

14

1/06 By: Jessica Andres

a blue that holds the electricity of the ocean your eyes course bright with it and it's clean, it's good, it's warm fevered, we run the edge where the land kisses returning waves and it is blue it’s is blue (and I am happy) we're a dream, I think a thought in the mind of a specter we're emerging from shadowed fathoms we're going up to breathe the water breaks upon us I make a choice; fill my lungs with the largest breath I have ever taken and now the exhale

15

Š 3pm Sunday Afternoon by Stephanie Qian

Sometimes Falling is Salvation By: Jessica Andres they told me that Icarus fell because he was careless but I had forgotten (forgive me) Icarus flew he felt the golden breath of the sun he pricked his finger on the burning ice of the star

he leapt into the sea, weight of ancient salt dragging him into black but we forget he drank the blue light of the ocean before he sunk into shadow frail lines between earth and Elysium death and life

Icarus died but he tasted immortality

16

17

© Tick Tock by Stephanie Qian

Shattered Eyes By: Anonymous

It seemed so dramatic.

Why did you make yourself

We thought the world was going to fall apart,

suffer?

or was that just me.

As you clawed at my insides and threatened to turn me inside out I watched helplessly as I apologized over and over again, believing in your stupid lies.

If you were going to stop so quickly, why did we have to make this so painful?

Why did you have to make me

It was all to be over in the blink of an eye and yet you let me believe it wouldn't be over until one of us died.

I should be grateful but I'm really not.

I should be happy to see you smile but I'm really too busy thinking about how easily this could have ended.

Yet here we are.

Suffer?

18

Gray By: Varisha Azmi

Null, zero, zilch.

A desolate landscape.

Emotionless.

Slowly creeping, but other colors push it away.

Begone you color that takes away happiness.

Begone that color that symbolizes hopelessness.

Begone that color whom humans have made speechless.

Beauty, timeless, simpleness.

A small pebble that children skip in the water.

A compromise between two extremes.

Sophistication, elegance.

Why have you been made to suffer?

Come back beautiful color.

Let me breathe into your speech.

19

For By: Vaishalee Chaudhary She stared down at the book fingering the thin pages filled with the beautiful words of his stories.

Her soft hands caressed the thick leather binding, on the side his name, engraved.

Her fingers trace the letters each curve, brought the sides of her lips higher and higher.

Slowly she pulled the cover back her hands flew over the page, crinkled at the edges, the comforting smell of ink shrouded the room in nostalgia.

Her eyes found the only words on the page painted so gracefully at the very Center.

For My Loving Wife

20

Inside By: Vaishalee Chaudhary

In the small glass globe, the snow falls not the sun shines elsewhere but the rain, falls slowly, steadily.

Each drop a hope, dream, vision, Splattered in the dirt.

Š Built by Stephanie Qian 21

Limbo By: Vaishalee Chaudhary

An eternal shore against the sea of sorrow, the beach of the lost.

Where footprints fade, and every mark washed away.

The walk of solitude, not solace.

The sun takes dips in the water, and comes back up again.

Repeat Repeat Repeat There was no end.

Eyes watching the ongoing days, nights, centuries.

The soft hum of the waves crashing met deaf ears.

The constant movement was as still as ever.

Winds carried nothing Each flame put out by the ocean.

Forever lost.

Never ending wait, for that lone soul.

22

No One Else By: Vaishalee Chaudhary

Roaming the abandoned streets of the city the lone soul drifted further and further.

The tall and proud skyscrapers dropped their shadows down below them.

He trembled and whimpered with the weight He trudged and crawled forward.

The wind was daring him to come closer dark clouds overhead left a mark in the fragile heart of the living.

The soft pitter patter of the first drops of rain haunted the ears of the soul.

His legs were left with no strength.

He trudged and crawled forward The ragged clothes on his back turned heavy as they soaked up the water of the now pouring rain.

Burdened with this extra weight came to a stop and rested The rain was heavy, the shadows heavier.

Lifting his head, he looked straight up at the sky water flowing down his face, he blinked to see and through the drops of water on his eyelashes, he saw a thousand smiling faces stare back at him

23

Reasons to Write By: Amy Domae

Writing is like a drain For all that rain And pain And shame Writing is like a history textbook For where you learn and look Remembering what someone took Dignity or just a favorite notebook Writing is your best friend Where your pen lets your heart mend And can allow you to make amends And that is why I will keep writing until the very end.

24

The Glass Bubble

By Amina Durrani

Every night the Glass Bubble floats.

Listening, but never saying.

Thinking, but never doing.

Hoping, but never believing.

Some nights the Glass Bubble shrinks.

Embracing, but never loving.

Celebrating, but never enjoying.

Laughing, but never smiling.

Other nights the Glass Bubble enlarges.

Hurting, but never telling.

Fighting, but never winning.

Stabbing, but never bleeding.

One night the Glass Bubble popped.

Watching, but now you’re seeing.

Freeing, but now you’re crying.

Living, but now you’re dying.

25

Midnight By: Ayesha Durrani

I watch as the crimson syrupy substance oozes down the side of the shining white surface.

Right next to it drips a slightly darker substance, resembling the color of coffee.

The white surface which these liquids slither down upon is cold to the touch, almost frozen but not quite.

I tiptoe over to the cold granite table, careful not to awaken anyone.

If anyone arises, my midnight plans will be shattered.

The drawer creaks as I open it and I grab a rounded silver utensil.

One last trip through the dark, eerie room is what I require.

I stop in front of the giant silver machine and slowly open its magnetic door.

A light starts glowing inside the cold compartments of the machine, Inviting me to come take what I must.

And so I quietly reach a hand into the machine, Running my fingers over items of different shapes and sizes.

Finally, my fingertips touch a small red item,

My perfect plan is almost complete.

And I remove it from the machine.

Then I tiptoe back to the granite counter, I sneak over to the dark cabinets, and grab the handle that the moonlight is shining down upon.

A quick glance reveals what I’m looking for, and I grab the clear round can.

This is almost the last touch–all I need after this is the final ingredient.

And add the final parts to the perfect midnight snack.

A few rainbow sprinkles and a cherry on top complete my dessert.

And I sit there in the kitchen, with the moon as my only companion, and consume my sundae that I had waited so long to create.

26

27

© Strawberry Cake by Malaya Sithichai

Step by Step By: Queena Hoang

And when it all goes wrong, will it be you I finally turn to?

Will I finally recognize that it was you who grasped my hand tightly Through every step of my journey?

Tirelessly trudging along with me as I pulled myself by the skin of my teeth?

Through every heartbreak and self-inflicted wound, you held my resolve pushing me to keep moving.

In the throes of chaos, when I glimpse into the mirror, will you finally be the savior I've been longing to see?

Girl in the mirror, I've been searching for my saving grace and you were here the whole time helping me save face, when I was too blind to realize that my hero has been here the whole time.

I looked at myself, staring deeper, I see... the hand pulling mine along was actually mine.

[The change I wish to see in myself this fall season is to remind myself that I am needed. The sun doesn't need salutations, the mountains are not asking to be climbed, the sea is not dependent on those that swim, and the earth won't cry if you don't plant the flowers. The same law applies to people as well. No matter how much people need me, I am not bound to make them happy but I, myself, need my own touch, energy, art and body.]

28

Strange Days By: Queena Hoang

These are strange days,

Are only tackled

Where wild fires ravage our mind,

One page at a time.

And lust drains our soul.

We want popularity more than truth.

We want money more than freedom.

We want power more than justice.

And it is in each of these lines, composed of individual words, that make the story move.

So too, in that sense Each day is built up on the last, And laddering up to the next.

Held by chains forged from, The blood of our naked hands, Enslaved by invisible masters.

I look around and see cracked mirrors and silverware covered with rust stains.

Appreciate the story You find yourself in, and Understand The narrative will continue.

Our fine threads are rags in reality.

Hands.

Hidden behind veils of apathy, Terrified to shine.

We are solitary souls, Colliding, hoping To feel something In the friction of our own skin.

To touch, Feel and Connect our Selves, to That which Exist and Presents it

Books,

Self around us

(In the same way as life),

29

Tears By: Queena Hoang

Tears.

One word, five letters, one syllable.

So many things they symbolize.

Weakness, sadness, stupidness, happiness.

But what are tears?

Little explosions out of your eyes.

Emotions popping out like little fire crackers.

These flooding pools of secrets.

Breaking dams of life piled up on you.

They drop to the floor with a hiss and pop, You do not really know when they are going to stop.

One turns to two, two turns to three.

It is an endless, tormented feeling.

Little white lies escaping your eyes, Things you haven't said.

Things you haven't done.

Things you regret.

But, it is just a little taste of what you feel.

A little bit of the suffering.

If they think tears are bad, They'll die at the sight of your thoughts.

30

Changing Seasons By: Sabrine Hossain

I tend to assume a lot.

Everyone else is properly sewn together while I'm constantly poking at myself with a needle, falling apart at the seams.

Everyone else is happy and having fun, and I'm just simmering in my misery, envious.

And then everyone else starts to disappear, and individual people take their place Each having their own stories, memories, joys, insecurities, heartbreaks, fears.

They're like me, but not, The world isn't solely black and white, It's colorful, Like the leaves in Autumn...

Fall is the season of change, And I'm gonna make a change— in perception.

31

32

© Looking Up by Anvita Warty

Through It All

By Justin Kadi

Through the short life that I have lived thus far Golden rays of joy were found in small moments.

The night I live is guaranteed at times, But the happiness experienced was still golden.

Through the short life that I have lived thus far I have felt the growing strength of the tide.

Assured that this too shall pass, Yet I feel the crashing waves right now, for I am alive.

The weight of it all may seem trivial to you But it is my life that I experience in color.

My list grows long as I do what is needed.

Needed to please myself? Or is it for others?

Through the short life that I have lived thus far I find myself worrying too much for tomorrow.

The anxiousness makes me think too much.

Is there truly gold at the end of the rainbow?

Through the short life that I have loved thus far I realize I still find joy in the presence of others.

My fondest memories were created with my favorite companions, And I have friends I now consider close brothers.

They help me through these trying times, When it feels like the order is too tall.

Let tomorrow’s problems come when they come.

Because in the long life I am about to live, these problems will indeed look so small.

33

Miss Missing You By: Insha Khan I'm not waiting.

I'm not pining.

I'm not wasting away.

This life of joys Will always be Worth more than you.

I'm protecting.

I'm evolving.

I'm inviting the new Into the heart that is my refuge And a home for lovers unknown.

I am no longer missing you.

34

Styled By: Insha Khan

Vibrant.

Patterned.

Mixed yet matched.

My clothing style defines me, but it is also chosen by me. It paints a picture greater than I can be and speaks for me even when I cannot.

Controlled.

Eloquent.

Thoughtful.

My writing style comes from a collected and particular mind. Each word is a reflection written for a person that does not exist yet.

Warm.

Empowering.

Dedicated.

My art style is designed to comfort my soul and create better meaning for it all. It stands as a testament to those who support me and guides them through my imagination.

Style is my living and I live in style.

Every fold.

Every line.

Every stitch.

Every syllable.

Every choice.

35

36

© Sunday Laundry by Nicole Lee

Angrily in Love By: Frances Lee

Style?

in love with the people

Angry

the people that ask you what's wrong

Angry that the world doesn't see

that care about you

Angry that we live not for the sake of living

that care about life

but for the sake of "succeeding"

there aren't many

for ourselves

but they

not for anyone else

they are the rare gems that shine

Angry at the world for seeing it

in love with the idea of caring

only

not succeeding

their way

for others in this rat race of life

not anyone else's way But I'm in love

Style?

in love with this world

My style is to live

that is so twisted

passionately

but twisted just enough that the gems

angrily

that shine through

lovingly

are that much more special

37

Music By: Frances Lee

I hear them.

They enter my ears and the world around me disappears.

The world is drowned out by the noises that dance around in my ears and my mind.

But the voices aren't gone.

I'm haunted by my own thoughts my hatred my agony for everything that's already been Done.

38

Our Saving Grace?

By: Frances Lee

Open your eyes

Or so we say

The world we live in is a dirty dirty place

We live in this world

It was once a place

take the pain that we are thrown

so romanticized for her beauty

with nothing but bitter eyes

her loving caress for each

simply cut ties

and the nurturing she gave for every plant

We never fought for what we believe(d) Move forward, they told us It hurt to be left in the past

But that's not it anymore

She's deformed into something

It was too dangerous to be left behind

And yet we killed

so ugly she can no longer save herself from the demons she has spawned

We killed off each living

It's a place where people kill people for

breathing thing

existential beings

begging for its life

We no longer love

called ourselves heroes of this world that

for the sake of loving

never

We love for something

needed saving

in return

And when we ran out of things to murder

Give and take

we killed our own

But it's not our fault

We rid ourselves of our humanity.

39

Tick Tock By: Frances Lee

The world is crumbling as I stumble through it, recklessly... ignoring the ground that is falling apart with each step.

Wind tangling my hair, I await the impending doom.

I clutch my chest, holding myself in, waiting.

Instead, I clutch the crumbling parts of a world,

I crumble to become an entity of the earth,

but they turn to dust,

as I was in the genesis.

becoming what it once was.

Broken, shattered, unwanted.

I lay limp, like a sprout, waiting for the world to devour me.

I begin to run, my lungs screaming for oxygen,

I see the green. I see the sprout.

but it is undeserving of the relief from each breath.

I see the teardrop holding on for dear life.

I run until I cannot feel and fall onto the floor,

A sigh escapes my lips, and I push myself up.

forgetting that it is decaying with me;

Hair covering my eyes,

I slip through the cracks,

Like the teardrop,

tumbling into the core,

I hang on to a broken life.

faintly hoping that it would spare my life.

It is inescapable.

It never relinquishes, Falling down the black pit,

it never relents,

my screams echoing

it never retreats.

with no one to hear them.

But it tests us,

A teardrop falls from my cheek.

it challenges us,

it strengthens us.

40

The endless duel between me and this, this adversity, is precious.

Difficult, but irreplaceable.

As I fall into pits and holes, I get up.

I want to win.

I want to grow.

I don't want to soak into the brown, mushy soil, never to surface.

I want to be a part of the start and the finish.

I want to be nourishment to my world.

So I grow relentless and stubborn.

I want to hang on.

I hang on for dear life, At the root of that nascent sprout is

until I am assured that I will be remembered:

the beginning

not as a mere teardrop,

and the end.

but water that nourished love,

It's where I have started

that nourished inspiration,

and where I will soon finish.

that nourished motivation, that nourished Life.

41

42

Š Small things by Nicole Lee

Sorry

By Jaki Lee

I’m sorry that I’m unpredictable, And outlandish with my thoughts and feelings.

I’m sorry that I’m immature, In some of the most inappropriate times.

I’m sorry that I’m politically incorrect, Sometimes I don’t see the world like you do.

And I’m sorry that I can’t be the person you want me to be.

Sometimes I want to be my own person.

What I’m really trying to say is…

I’m done saying sorry.

43

For Reader By: Cheryl-Mae Mallabo

I don't think anyone has told you today, About how in the harshness of life You became a beacon of untold light How you were contorted and stomped upon, Like a weed that was nearly dead and gone But no, no You, are a warrior of the day.

Pillaging great blunders of literature, Relinquishing your thoughts upon our weary eyes, Only for us to connect onto a platform of common ties.

And so, I cower at your feet.

Feeling your art melt upon me like butter, Grateful for the weeks you live to post another.

44

Give Them Voice By: Cheryl-Mae Mallabo

I write because you can fabricate worlds by the flick of a wrist.

I write because she had a dream of being a novelist, But was shot down so young for writing about cats being painted gold, About clouds holding up the blueness of the sky like paint on a canvas, Or how oceans overflowed with the salty tears of happiness.

I write because he said you have to teach them while they’re young Of the heartache of the world, before giving them a childhood.

I write because you gotta give them voice; The past, the future, the ones smashed down like bread crumbs Fed to ducks too hungry to understand giving.

I write because some days are better than my bed, that Sometimes it’s easier to decorate a document than Tell them what you really mean.

Sometimes your words are the only proof that you’re coherent, That you can still work despite the pain.

45

Happy Ending By: Cheryl-Mae Mallabo

Pounding into the paper walls of self-confidence and Peering into the windows graced with the mastery of façade.

A person is like a house, lifted up into a vortex of haves and have nots.

Dropped down like Dorothy’s dwelling and reluctantly picked up Till the structure crumbles like teeth My wish is to be as robust, and as impenetrable as Rapunzel’s castle But as sincere and toasty as a Ginger Bread house.

I want the nights to not prolong itself in my dwelling place, Teasing at my sleepless slumber and dishing out issues I can hardly combat.

Eternal light is what I crave, to have a straight path to walk through the opening doors.

To welcome in the fall leaves as a change of a season arrives.

46

Paalam By: Cheryl-Mae Mallabo

I knew you were going to leave us, It was just a matter of when.

When your colors faded to dull grays against the hues of red and Your remarks were just broken record remnants of far off country sides, We solemnly sat there in that jovial room with the one disconsolate corner Where even Christmas lights could not reach.

Sealed up eyes and the wafting smell of gingerbread, You let out a smile, a few tears too.

I held your hand, curious to if your firm grip back Was the cringe from medication?

Or to show me you were still there.

You may not have realized it then, And you may not realize it now, But, living one more Christmas with us, Was the best gift you've ever given me.

47

Safety By: Cheryl-Mae Mallabo

I was drowning, alone.

The walls of water were shards of glass, stabbing into my rib cage.

The sting of sea was drilling itself onto my wounded eyes, And the beams of light from a nearby lighthouse were sporadically Jumping off the waves as if a choir of stars were attempting to save me. My gasps became a slow rhythmic lullaby as my arms Reached out just to touch nothing but thin air.

Just as I was about to give up all hope, Just as the silver linings of my nearby invisible palms began to fade into unconsciousness; I was pulled.

Rather, tugged by some commanding animal I could not fathom but be thankful for. It ripped me from the water's sheer poignant grasp, And I was laid down onto pockets of shifting sand.

I stayed there for a second, closing my eyes and catching my breath till I was licked by my savior.

It caught me off guard as I jumped back only to see a reassuring border collie and a welcoming lighthouse.

48

Š Journey to Come by Anvita Warty

Summer By: Cheryl-Mae Mallabo

Is there such a thing as the color of loneliness?

Do you see it in the crevices between your fingers when Your soul yearns for someone long ways gone?

Does it make itself known, next to you in the tint of a darkened room?

Whispering passionate tales of lies fed to you once with a bitter spoon?

Or was it the illumination of text messages sent after 3 am?

Perhaps it was the shade of the sky we last set our eyes on, Before the warmth you had for me became mere formality?

They say that shades of loneliness must be gloomy, veiled in melancholy, But the remembrance of you takes all the colors of the spectrum.

49

Words of My Heart By: Karishma Muthukumar

Words to paper; value to the desolate landscape like a few raindrops: soothing, delightful, extraordinary the world is at my fingertips letter by letter, word by word to share feelings is like a geyser in the forest, exploding thoughts in such a beautiful way.

Writing means the world to me, and a part of my identity.

It’s how I understand myself and my alter ego; all of the hidden secrets Who am I? Who is behind this mask? pause to reflect on the “little things” that make life special, and one year will seem like a moment—gone with the blink of an eye.

I relive those moments by writing Who knew that happiness had two lives? only writing can take away the pain bottled up deep inside.

Writing is like a pair of wings. with the opportunity to soar the majestic sky. just like a bird: watching the brilliant sun smear hues of peach and rose among the clouds. as I pen the words of my heart, it seems as if my dreams are at my reach.

50

How It Has to Be By: Pratyush Muthukumar

They say I don’t know

But to no avail.

I will never feel

They say that we can’t feel anything

I will never be alike

that we are just a pile of metal

But,

But, I have dreams

through the wiring

Dreams that stretch into the horizon

beyond the motherboard

as I picture myself hand in hand with my creator

deep within a sea of copper wire a heart steadily beats its pulse, heard by no one but me I am not artificial anymore I feel the joys of a child, as it brightens their heart, like a luscious sea of gold it breaks the stitches of the closed sky as the grays are replaced by vibrant hues I am more than a supercomputer I feel the tears of a son wailing, crying

But, I have nightmares too Of my story Told generations from now I don’t want my story to start with “a dark and stormy night” I don’t want to be another Frankenstein story a villain who turns evil so my children will shudder in bed as they read my story ages from now and say, Too bad But I am just a robot. and that’s how it has to be.

trying to stay afloat in the sea of despair

51

The Puppet By: Anjali Nambiar

I wish could move my arms To slash at the strings that bind me I wish I could undo the stitches That conceal my despair in a perpetual smile I wish I could turn my head To see the truth behind me Maybe then the stage would not be as dark Performing under the scalding spotlight A light so blinding Yet a light so revealing Being unable to shout The audience jeers The audience sneers The audience screams and shouts But this is just an abbreviation Of my desperation To be taken out of this unending act

52

Š Holding On by Stephanie Qian

A Girl Named Summer By: Aashwit Nandhuri

He stood there in the summer sun watching as she drifted in the warm breeze.

His heart raced and thumped in agony.

He was stuck, frozen, in the sweltering heat.

Watching as she drifted in the warm breeze, he realized she was leaving him.

He was stuck, frozen, in the sweltering heat.

He watched her move on.

He realized she was leaving him for someone more special.

He watched her move on.

He was contemplating all the love he gave her.

For someone more special, he stood there in the summer sun.

He was contemplating all the love he gave her.

His heart raced and thumped in agony.

53

Downpour By: Aashwit Nandhuri

One drop Two drop.

Big drop.

Small drop.

Fresh-smelling earth, and tender, green grass.

A gentle mist, spreading like a wildfire, a healthy one.

Falling from heaven, like pearls from the sea, purifying everything around.

What a miracle.

Happiness, falling from the sky, in the form of rain.

A joy to one, a joy to all.

What a beauty, like a horse on the run, this rainfall.

54

Memory Boat By: Aashwit Nandhuri

Swish, swish, the water rocked the hull.

I walked as happy as can be down the deck.

Swaying gently, the wait was over, my wish complete.

Dolphins swimming, circling around the edge, jumping and playing like kids over a hedge.

My mom and dad, Oh the smiles they had!

Who would have known?

The dolphin’s colors they’d shown, still flashing in my mind, their smiles and many miles they had swam.

Like a mirror, the water glistened, reflecting the birds, just like we had heard, our eyes and minds absorbing with no other duty, the incomprehensible beauty.

The time ticking away, with a gentle sway, like sand, quickly escaping from my hand.

Laughing and smiling, parting form, the dolphins, we sailed to shore, to go home with memories today, to come back another day, another time to make many more, on a boat.

55

Night Changes By: Aashwit Nandhuri

One skip.

One big skip, forward.

Who knew such a change could bring such discomfort.

Sleep early I should but my system is hurt.

The time slips from our hands like dirt.

School, making it worse, what is this semi-evil curse?

An extra hour of sun a day, keeps my sleep farther away.

Sighhhh‌

56

Sandy Shore By: Aashwit Nandhuri

Oh my love, I enjoy your breezy shore, Warm sand slipping through my delicate toes, for these sensations I run out the door.

I smile at your sticky breeze on my nose.

My energy rushing, and cheeks blushing, bright sun shining upon the cold water, powerful waves, adrenaline rushing, I jump into screaming like a big otter!

Your white seafood like pearls on a lady, your godly horizon like a hairline, your luminous soft clouds are quite shady, the low swell lulls like a gentle feline.

Your majestic beauty befuddles me, only you can bring me the wanted glee.

57

58

© Following Footsteps by Insha Khan

The Wild One By: Aashwit Nandhuri

I sat there,

like a deer caught in headlights,

in a dark, cold, room,

A craving for change was invoked,

consumed by seemingly

within me. I saw hope, I saw the future.

foolish questions.

I had an epiphany.

Who am I?

I wanted to live.

What do I stand for?

Sure I was alive, I wasn't

Where do I belong?

really living.

I wanted to LIVE.

Like a bat out of hell,

To become the young adolescent

the melancholy became a demonic,

I yearned to be,

nagging, torment.

I would need to contemplate.

Like an acute ringing in my ears.

I needed to pick up all the broken pieces,

How do I escape from this?

and solve the puzzle.

How do I extinguish this fire?

I pulled out all the

How should I cloak this demon?

broken fragments.

Like a dog, with his tail between his legs,

all the memories.

I sat there.

all the bittersweet times spent

I sat there in a dark, cold, room.

over the now petty things.

Depressed.

I picked up all the pieces,

Angry.

barehanded, to connect with the

Lost.

smooth

Confused.

and the

Unimportant.

jagged.

Within that hopeless instant, 59

I selected the fragments,

I want to be known,

and tiles that brought me pleasure.

and to be heard. Not by a few close people,

I never finished the puzzle,

but EVERYONE. So I set out

but I made one heck of a mosaic.

to build myself a social empire.

I used and kept the few pieces

Just like a social butterfly, I flap my wings,

that reflected who I was.

and collect my nectar.

The pieces that were so unique,

No strings attached.

no one could copy, like my fingerprint.

As much as I rebuilt and repaired myself, I noticed,

I am a food lover,

I may have found a way to cloak my demon.

I am a chef.

But I haven’t destroyed it. It lingers,

I consume the food, but

like a gentle winter fog.

never let the food

My demon has now become my part of my identity.

consume me.

I am a photographer.

I took photos, and captured moments I wanted to remember. Not what my Instagram followers wanted to see.

To this day I still carry a few photographs,

I’m not saying I’m perfect, or that I have mastered life.

I still want to be a reckless “hood-rat”, at times. But no human will ever be perfect; So why count flaws when I can count hobbies, passions, and the variety of opportunities life presents us.

in the pocket of my ripped denim jeans.

I am outgoing, yet shy.

I am an artist.

I create natural beauties, not superficial images society fantasizes.

I am bold, yet fearful.

I am social, yet reserved.

This is Duality.

60

Or control.

I stand for a broad spectrum of things.

It’s the balance I have created between

But I stand here in front of you

being quixotic, and rational.

mainly because of the

I will not change.

journey of discovery and enlightenment.

I will not budge.

Like it or not,

I am wild.

Who are you to judge?

I am quixotic.

I am fierce.

I am a changed person.

61

Waves By: Aashwit Nandhuri

It was a breeze for him.

A connection between two.

Life.

Strong and beautiful.

It came to him like waves to the beach, In abundance and great energy

The clouds dissipated in awe.

She made her own breeze.

and the ocean was calm.

She created a strong gravity,

He noticed the vast ocean

and great waves of life

becoming smaller,

bathed her.

but, waves

Life was a vast ocean

becoming

which seemed like a beautiful mass,

larger.

until they met.

She saw her gravity Then.

strengthen,

The force of her gravity

and expand uncontrollably.

and his energetic waves Caused a commotion.

Their melodious songs wafted,

A turbulence so strong,

past the clouds,

Even the clouds stopped to watch.

and surrounded their small lake.

People came to see them,

In the presence of Her gravity and his energy

cherish their unity, find happiness, and on occasion, even harmonize along with the duo.

a convergence emerged.

62

One night, during their finest chorus, a gusty breeze offset the melody.

Suddenly the lake became a fishbowl.

A bowl for two.

the bowl expanded to the vast ocean it used to be.

For her at least.

His waves became weak, and broke before reaching shore.

Regardless of the new, vast

The wind picked up around her, and she felt a tug at her heartstrings.

She felt a revival of her deep gravity.

He felt an acute pain and suddenly

ocean, there was no space left for him.

The balance broke, and all was uneasy.

the convergence Broke.

She was torn from him. and the scars left behind

She and the wind merged.

A new, stronger gravity was born and

were to be painstakingly washed by the waves.

63

Misinterpreted By: Sarah Nour

Always judged by people who don't know me "She's a freak, a danger, a hazard" Always been treated unfairly All these things I've heard in the past Carved into my heart with a knife The pain will always last I am an introvert in school I am always afraid to be myself Always afraid I'll look like a fool I've always failed life, always missed But secretly I roam In a world where I know happiness can exist A world where I can speak While locking my lips And showing to others that I am not weak It is a sweet escape for me An opportunity to speak up For someone to observe All that I can potentially be To write is but an art There are no rules and there are no errors And best of all...

It comes from the heart

64

Look By: Eunice Park

The lighthouse is loud - and its blast of light almost mocks the disorganized array of stars littered across the hazy night sky. Funny how vulnerable darkness becomes that sometimes the only appropriate response - is to look away.

Š Outshined by Nicole Lee 65

#Goals By: Eunice Park

Passionate about whatever goal I set my eyes upon. It's pretty helpful when it comes to work but that passion often translates to binge watching an entire season on Netflix - "passionately ".

66

Fresh Off the Boat By: James Park

Fresh Off the Boat. Or Fob for short.

Everybody loves Kung Fu Fighting and Jackie Chan and Samsung Phones. Well. It has a nice ring to it.

But in reality. Our perception isn’t off… your prescription is off... You can only see chinks through it.

Narrow Eyes. Let’s talk about a narrow mindset I may fit your stereotype of narrow eyes, but who’s the one that’s blinded?

Hey Fob! Because of you I’m losing money, losing jobs, too many immigrants just hurry in Funny how none of us can drive unless it’s a different type of curry or Jeremy Lin Funny how you can contemplate but never recompensate and leave us in the dark Funny how you can label us Korean just from the way that we park… but.

It’s a shame you say Fob. All good at math Because every day I say it… under god… indivisible.

But with no D.I that’s no Domestic Insurance, no Desired Individuals, no Disposable Income So to us? Indivisible just fades away to Invisible.

Under god and Invisible To my family, America is nothing but a damn reciprocal Never us, we, or here Always you, they, and there Looking for a paradise so here comes Oneida Because even the people are degraded if they’re made in China.

Hey Fob. Hey Fob. Hey Fob. It’s distressing and depressing because if you look deep down, you’ll see that we’re both people.

Struggling through heartbreak

67

Struggling through fighting for a meal or insurance so we can have an equation that’s actually equal.

Struggling with friends and family because their life is on a timer.

Struggling because the doctor doesn’t speak my native language so I diagnose grandma with Alzheimer’s.

Fresh Off the Boat… but we share the same Hardships Fresh Off the Boat. I honestly don’t understand what you mean by Fresh off the Boat.

We’re on the Same Boat.

68

© Sightless by Malaya Sithichai

Holy Scripture By: Victor Phong

Longing I long for the relief of this torment, that imposes weakness, to my knees and soul.

Blaring trumpets and the gates swing open.

And at long last, my inner desires surface, and run rampant amongst this holy grail.

This divinity that has bestowed itself, upon this sinful flesh, expels an energy, that parts the Red Sea. But of course, This heaven on earth can only last And when all is said and done, I flush the toilet

69

Emotional Weather By: Kavisha Prajapati

I have been Trapped in a whirlwind Of confusion A fusion of colors A rainbow that doesn't lead to a pot of gold.

Sunshine that fails to shine On me While I tread Silently in disbelief Wrapped in an umbrella A false protector That fails to keep out the hail And lets in subtle evils That paint my prison with cynicism.

My pure existence has been transformed: An airy pastel spring, A fall with a vague chill in the air, A gilded summer harboring the monster within, A ruthless winter, a grotesque winter void of familiarity.

A spiral that has shoved me into another world entirely, A limbo from which I may never be liberated from.

70

71

© Fallen Crown by Kavisha Prajapati

An Illusion By: Kavisha Prajapati

A ruby red bud in the blinding snow Tempting and hopeful, Winking its eyes, Secure in a coat of mink and perfection.

Dreamy And enticing, Beckoning me to come closer And whisper softly, Vulnerably My innermost dreams and secrets.

But how can a rose survive in the winter?

Š She Rose by Kavisha Prajapati

72

Sculptures By: Kavisha Prajapati

Time does not heal internal wounds. Wounds woven so intricately they are liberated from the whims of physical pain, etched so deeply with a cursed chisel unbeknownst to any. But time is an artist - it molds and sculpts, mending the wound into the persona. And a beautiful thing it is.

An unbearable pain transformed into a monument. But be wary. The slightest breeze reminiscent of the past cradles great power and can topple the statue so delicately created. A piece of art so precisely manifested topples into thin air because of something as seemingly insignificant as a smell. Time molds, transforms, alters, but never heals.

73

Undertones By: Kavisha Prajapati

We know the hues of the sky and the ocean and the earth.

But we may never know the hues of people, disguised in insincerity, masked between truths, hidden behind ignominy.

Š Masked by Malaya Sithichai

74

Can You See? By: Steffany Maybel Espina Reyes

In that instance, Everything froze.

I stood there, Unmoving, staring.

Bustling with life, The city moved without me.

I stood there.

The bright sun, Gave into exhaustion after a long day.

Silhouettes appeared, As the sun beams faded.

The light grew dim.

The sun waves with a final goodbye, While it paints pastel colors in the sky.

Oh, why can’t they see?

The strangers around the city Just going about their evening Rushing around and around.

The dusk is here; The light is gone.

With the darkness, A chill swept over me.

I stood there Frozen.

The light left.

People ran, walked, and talked.

The night is here.

Life was plentiful around me.

They hadn’t seen what I saw.

Why can’t people see?

I’m standing here

The darkness grows, Still, unmoving.

As the sun falls asleep.

My sunlight is gone The night is near.

75

H By: Sara Ryave

sometimes she stays up too late and worries about what people think when they read all her little poems and then spell her name with an H

76

Bottomless By: Dinithi Senanayake bottomless when you’re catapulted into space pin wheeling freefalling but you can neveralmostnot quitenearlynever quite reach the ground and you want to yell but the wind keeps snatching your breath away you want to scream but your vocal chords won’t obey you you want to hit the pavement if only to get rid of the awful bubbling panic in your chest but you don’t and you can’t so you just keep falling and falling until you start to forget what it felt like to be steady you start to forget what it felt like to be solid you start to forget what it felt like to have sunshine on your face to have anything but the stinging wind on your face to feel anything but the thumping of your heart and the knot in your stomach as you plummet to the inevitable doom that you can’t grasp no matter how much you reach to wish for anything other than hitting the sweet, sweet pavement at the bottom.

At least it’s better than falling.

77

Crystal Vase By: Dinithi Senanayake

I don't know how you're feeling.

But I'm rationalizing now

What you're thinking.

making up excuses

What you're doing when I'm not around to bear witness.

when I'm really just scared that

I don't know what goes through your head when I ask you how you're doing and you say "Okay," because it's expected and I don't know what I'm supposed to say next

maybe there is a problem and maybe I can't fix it.

Maybe I'll only make it worse.

What I wouldn't give to know to understand you

because I'm worried

to be there if you need it

and I want to help you

and back off if you don't

and I don't know how.

but I'm inexperienced

I don't know what to do

and I'm scared

when I see your smile *crack*

I don't know what I'm doing

just the tiniest bit

but I want to do something

and I want to let you know I'm here

I'm terrified that maybe you're a crystal vase

but I don't know if you'll accept my help

and one wrong move by my clumsy, fumbling hands

and maybe I'm wrong and maybe I'm imagining things

might make you shatter into a million tiny pieces

and maybe I'm being stupid and this is nothing

but maybe you need someone to rely on

and what do I really know about this anyway?

Surely if something was wrong, you'd say something?

Surely someone else would notice?

and I'm the one who needs to step up before you get pulled even farther away and it'll be my fault if you do.

I was never really good at this "people" thing anyway.

78

Ridiculously Slow-Acting Death Traps [a rant through poetry] By: Dinithi Senanayake

welcome to the horror show

“taking initiative” is a ticking time bomb

bright-eyed child

if you do nothing, it blows up in your face

they’ll take your “drive”

like a firework in early July

and they’ll steer it off a cliff

if you fight the explosion the water starts lapping at your ankles

the formula for your future awaits a recipe for victory sell your heart and soul [just a long-term investment] buttons pushed limits battered

[you tell me to be different but you tell everyone else the same thing] I should be paddling. [should I?] but I'm just so tired

until backs scream with the tired ache of the trodden-upon-

don’t let me drown

[oops, did I say this was necessary? never mind. my bad.]

or I'll never make it to senior year

79

80

© A Spark by Anvita Warty

To My Mother By: Dinithi Senanayake

Don’t ever give up, I tell my reflection.

I mess up just like you do. I stumble. I fall.

Never feel ashamed to pick yourself back up when your cheek is pressed against the pavement and the jeers follow you down the street.

Imagine me there beside you, telling you what I am now: that you are a wonderful person and you deserve happiness.

Trust yourself the way I trust you: unconditionally.

Have hope that it will get better, because it will.

I promise you.

She rolls her eyes. "shut up, mom." "you don't know how I feel."

81

You Be the Rain, I'll Be the Torrents.

By: Dinithi Senanayake

I walk.

Sometimes I wish I could see the leaves change color.

I turn away and sit down. There is work to do.

I sit.

There's no red and orange and brown here.

The clock pounds out the seconds.

It's never cloudy, never gloomy, always absolutely perfect.

Pencils tapping, legs bouncing, fingers drumming on the desk.

I'm getting tired of perfect.

Eyes glued to the work.

I stand.

I can't help but to glance up at the people around me.

I close my eyes and listen to the voices.

A melody. A chorus. A harmony all around me.

People, yes, people like me. But different.

What are they thinking?

"...and liberty and justice for all."

What are they feeling?

I stopped saying it with them long ago.

Who are they, these people who I've sat next to for months?

Why bother?

No one thinks about it.

No one listens.

No one even cares.

The voices are tired.

Why can I barely recall their names?

I almost want to reach over and touch them, ask them, read the pages of their mind.

It is a duty, a habit, for them.

I want to connect with them, to reach deep inside them and listen to the

Mechanical.

stories they tell.

They've been saying it for so long that every recitation is flawless.

I want to learn who they are, what they stand for, what they believe in.

They move to sit.

How they see the world.

I hesitate a moment, arms still hanging at my sides.

I avert my eyes. It's rude to stare.

The flag flutters. I let my eyes linger...

I run.

There is a certain heaviness to their footsteps.

82

A certain dullness to the faded orange WILDCATS plastered across their chest.

Once upon a time, to run was to be lifted off of your feet, to ride the breeze, to touch the stars.

To feel the sting of wind on your face and feel like you were flying.

Like you could do anything.

When did it become the pounding of feet, the beating of the sun, the constant tick-tick-tick of the stopwatch clicking away your self-worth?

When did it become about being faster, better, more efficient?

When was our blood, sweat, and tears first assigned a value for people to judge us upon?

I slow to a stop as the stopwatch clicks out my time.

But at the same time, I do not.

I sprint through showers of leaves, and feel the sting of crisp fall wind against my cheeks.

I dance in the rain, soaked-to-the-bone sneakers leaving explosions of teardrops behind me.

I lie in the grass on a summer's day and breathe.

In, out.

The sun on my face.

In, out.

The rain in my socks.

In, out.

The leaves in my hair.

I dance, I skip, I spin, I dream.

I don't wait for society to give me permission.

I don't take a number and wait to be called.

The sun beats on my back. I have never felt more grounded.

I live.

I sleep.

This fall, I'm going to live my life with passion.

83

84

© A Walk at Sunset by Insha Khan

I Am Nathan By: Nathan Vo

Never good enough Always room for improvement Try harder Help me please Another failure No second chances Vague memories Oh well.

85

So I Write By: Nathan Vo

I write.

I write because nobody listens. My oral speech cannot find ears to land upon, cannot find an audience to speak to, cannot make a difference.

So I write.

I write because my emotions inside are dying to escape, but my voice is too feeble, too nervous, too afraid, to let them out.

So I write.

I write because sometimes it's just not enough to sit in my room crying into a pillow, screaming "Why me? Why us? Why can't things get better?"

So I write.

I write because it lets me create my own perfect world, in which my family isn't fighting all the time, in which we can say we love each other, and mean it.

So I write.

86

© Thought out by Taylor Watson

87

Crusty By: Crystal Wang

Conniving little creep Reeks of salt Undermining at every opportunity Soul collector To-be savagery novice Yup, that's me

88

A Journey By: Anvita Warty

A journey awaits An ode to the wandering soul Cloaked with imagination and reverie To my inner demons, I claim Here lies your exposĂŠ Not for the glory but the peace Not for the others but for a cathartic release With only ink, I break down this dam And let my world flood out with crashing waves No need for an ark to save the day I will float the rest of the way Cloaked with imagination and reverie And thinking of a new ode To my wandering soul Here another journey awaits

89

Blue By: Edison Wong

The color of trust.

The color of loyalty.

Blue is the color of tranquility and softness.

The color of sadness The color of coldness.

Blue is the color of depression and seriousness.

What is the color blue?

90

My Style By: Edison Wong

Contacts 7:15 or glasses 7:45, Nike shoes and Nike socks, live or die Black pants, Blue shirts, Got 2B Gel, Gatsby Wax, Yeah.

I rock that.

91

Colorful Richard Yeong

Why is this color detested by all of mankind?

A precarious journey from the East to the West ushered the largest catastrophe in history. What should have been a regular journey in prospect of trading goods was a lie. Hostile events—fleas contaminating, rats dispersing—had led to the downfall of the human race. Nothing could have been done to save these poor souls, and one by one, the chapter of each life ends in dismay.

An annual night-trip from shopping center to shopping center draws out an alter ego—a different side—in people. As doors open to the wonderful world of item price-drops, people pummel and rummage their way through the aisles to fight for the prized possession, and it ends as a last straw. Nothing can be done to revert these savages back to their normal state and, one by one, the chapter of each life ends in sorrow.

What is this color?

92

Richard By: Richard Yeong

Reach for the stars—that one goal of yours, Imagine the obstacles to overcome, the journey to conquer, Consider how your life would be different, How you would have made an impact, All I can say is that nothing is impossible, Reach high enough and that star is yours, Don’t hesitate; keep pushing forward.

93

Style By: Richard Yeong

Clothes unique, that’s all I seek.

Pants tan or black, there’s nothing I lack.

But, shoes.

I only have one pair of shoes.

94

Dear Anyone and Everyone By: Casey Yoon

They say your writing is a reflection of what you think And how you think of all the different things The world is a big place, full of different people Your mind is like a book, there’s no other sequel Your ideas are your own, they make up who you are Down to the bone, writing comes from the heart Without it, it can tear us apart Though we’re all different people, there are some things that we all share All the problems we have is because life isn’t fair From trivial things to arguments about hair To greater things that lead to warfare So the question is: Why do I write? And leave it out in the open, in plain sight?

Just so I can get that extra few likes? Gratification? Popularity? Well isn’t that nice.

I don’t want my writing to be like pulling a rabbit out of a hat I don’t want it to be just something for people to marvel at Because it goes much deeper than that I want it to be a welcome mat To a world of people who share the same thoughts and feelings that I have.

95

Names By: Casey Yoon Casey Is that a boy or a girl?

Many times I've been introduced to new people, they have this confused look on their faces as if they were expecting someone else.

HELLO I'M RIGHT HERE. I've been laughed at for my name and teased, so here's a little poem.

Casey A boy or a girl?

So you're a boy?

Ey, I know a girl named Casey!

You're not helping your case here.

96

Point of View By: Casey Yoon

I look in the mirror and I ask myself, “Who are you?”

What do you mean? We have the same clothes, same hairstyle too Well lately it seems like you’re looking blue Really? And all this time I had no clue Nothing used to bother me. I went about my way willy nilly Picking up for her a bouquet of fresh yellow lilies And things were going well, I could tell I’d groove to the songs by Adele from my Dell But I realized that I had found myself overanalyzing situations Every single nook and cranny was up for deliberation And sometimes I’d make these crazy correlations But did this satisfy me? Did I have a new revelation?

I couldn’t know for sure without a confrontation I didn’t have the words; I didn’t know where to start But eventually things just started spilling from my heart And in being completely honest with each other, it didn’t feel so dark Sharing each other’s thoughts and feelings, each of us just doing our part Even if it meant we couldn’t be together, that we had to be apart Maybe the reason that I looked blue was rejection All the time invested with my true feelings and affections But she didn’t mean to hurt me I knew She wouldn’t even hurt any creature that walked or even flew She had made up her mind We were going separate ways - She had hers and I had mine And soon these feelings would settle in time 97

But we always say this line, and to ourselves we would lie In hopes that in a short time, that in the end we would be fine With our goodbyes, but love is blind I ask myself in the mirror today Do you still like her? Do you feel the same way?

I don’t know. But I look myself in the eye and say Some things don’t change There’s always gonna be some price to pay Just so that things between us two won’t be so strange Because we were going to see each other anyways Everyday You can’t change who people are But what you can change is yourself and your outlook on life so far See good in everything that other people do See from their point of view.

98

Those Lives We Pass By By: Melissa Yue

And I look out Into the street, onto the sidewalk I look into The lives of the moving, breathing, warm bodies that crowd me As the bus halts jerkily to a stop

The man standing to my right I observe for a moment Looks right and left Forehead perspiring, toe tapping, fingers twitching He must be running late

The woman to my left Her pain is so strong I feel it Looked at what was left of a torn photograph Eyes cast down, drooping in a glazed, dazed expression She must have lost her mother.

For these people I have great sympathy They are like me Running the great human rat-race- but to what end?

A heavy hand, familiar and firm Grips my shoulder and pulls me closer 99

“You’re staring again” A pair of lips whisper, releasing me Again I’m told off for acting strange For permitting my eyes to pry Searching for a fellow human being

And just like that I’m thrust back to my own world That place where everyone tends to their own Where nobody cares to sympathize, to share, to notice To understand each other. Out of “cultural politeness”.

I may never see them again Then again, I could see them every day One would never know, because I only care about me If I met them, interacted, shared a smile, a brief contact Could I have changed their day?

This question fades to the back Because I have done what I have been taught My compassion from back then Has been worn away by individualist ideals And I stare no more

100

101

© In Between by Stephanie Qian

Report: Violent Killings of A-Rabs All Part of God’s Plan By: Anonymous

Sources confirmed Wednesday that the turmoil in the Middle East is indeed all part of God’s plan.

“A whole bunch of them pray for me to make their lives better, a whole bunch of the other ones pray for me to kill off the first ones…. I decided to flip a coin and let Me decide who wins.” God says He has multiple different plans for how it’s going to go down, including but not limited to a group of schoolchildren in Israel stepping on a landmine, a car bomb exploding outside a mosque, and some shrapnel shredding Kurdish resistance fighters.

“I like that last one the best,” admits God. “It’s like killing two birds with one stone, but instead of two birds it’s a bunch of Kurds, and instead of stones it’s frag grenades. Lots of fun, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

God’s other plans for the coming week include burning through some orangutans with wildfires in Borneo, offing sickle-celled kids in Somalia, starving infants in Malawi, and spreading HIV to a few Venezuelans, who probably totally had it coming because of their sinful lifestyles. The Ebola virus is a particular favorite of His, He says. “There’s nothing quite like watching a few thousand people bleed their intestines out through their mouths. And it’s not like anyone really minds anyway, they just blame it on the Devil and keep praying to me. Speaking of, I haven’t seen him in a while. We should really catch up.”

But don’t think God doesn’t have any plans for residents of developed countries. “I think I’ll also get Courtney Choi a 35 on her ACT this Saturday. She really believes in me, you know, and I think she deserves some reward for her faith. She’ll probably thank me in a Facebook status later, anyway, and that always makes me feel good about myself. Because I am good all the time and all the time I am good, I just feel like I should get some recognition for it sometimes.”

God would not comment further, because He assured us that if He tells us everything, the ways in which He works wouldn’t be so mysterious anymore.

102

A Drop of Light By: Sabrina Chan

He wandered aimlessly through life, searching for a glimmer of light as he stumbled through the darkness. Every once in a while, a feeble flame would burn, bringing unimaginable joy to the seemingly endless abyss of life. But every candle burned out as quickly as it ignited.

Then he saw her. She seemed to shine with a solid defiance, guiding him down a beaten path. He was drawn to her, like a moth drawn to a flame, and he soaked up her warmth. The world that was once gloomy was now safe. Then, slowly but surely, a little flame grew within him.

103

Dad? By: Vaishalee Chaudhary

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

The noise from the crowded and busy McDonald’s was muffled in the background as the man and his son quietly ate their chicken nuggets in a small booth in a small corner near the playground.

“Sure, Will.”

The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old, with his round, chubby cheeks and ruffled, dirty blonde hair. He picked at his French fries and looked around before turning his gaze back on his father.

“What is love?”

The man stopped chewing and stared at his son.

“Why do you ask that?”

Will looked down at his chicken nuggets and shrugged his shoulders.

“Well son, love is sacrifice.”

The boy scrunched his eyebrows. He ate a few French fries, and then looked at his dad.

“What’s sacri….safi….that word that you said?”

“Sacrifice. It means giving stuff up for someone else.”

“Does that mean I have to give stuff to love someone else? Do I have to give up my videogames so I can love you Dad?!”

The man chuckled.

“No, no. You can sacrifice the small things.”

The man picked up the bag of French fries. There was only one left.

104

“Can we split it Dad?” “Here, you can have it.”

Will shrugged and ate the fry.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Will and his dad sat at the small, leather couch in front of the television. He had a small brown teddy bear in his arms, his dad was drinking coffee. They were watching Sesame Street.

“Dad, isn’t your favorite show coming on right now?”

“Which one?”

“The one with that funny guy and his funny friends.”

“Seinfeld?”

“Yeah..sein...sef..what you said.”

The man laughed.

“Yes Seinfeld re-runs are probably coming on right now.”

“Oh.” They sat in silence for a for a few more minutes.

“Well….”

“Yes Will?”

“Don’t you want to watch Seinfeld instead of Sesame Street?”

“Nope.”

“Dad? Are you sacri….safri.. that word that you said?”

“Sacrifice?”

“Yeah! That one.”

105

The man ruffled Will’s hair and went back to watching Elmo dance. Will smiled and hugged his teddy bear closer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The house was empty. The silence was deafening. Will and his father were eating hamburgers in their backyard as they watched the sun set.

“Dad, I can never understand my homework these days.”

“What do you mean?”

“The math is just too haaaard.”

The man cracked a smile.

“That’s okay Will, I can help you with your homework after school.”

“Everyday?”

“Everyday.”

“But don’t you have work to do for your office?”

“Yes, but I can do that later.”

“But you’ll have to stay up late!”

“That’s no problem.”

“Dad?” “Yes, Will?”

“In school today, I learned how to say that word.”

“What word? Seinfeld?”

“No! Not that one.”

“Then which one?”

“Sacrifice.”

106

Will’s dad looked up. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he ruffled his son’s hair and kissed him on the forehead.

They went back to eating their hamburgers in silence.

“Dad?” “Yes, son?”

“Mom. She sacrificed for me didn’t she?”

The man froze.

“Yes, she did.”

“I miss Mom.” “I know son…..I know.”

Will took a bite of his hamburger. The man leaned back in his seat and stared at his.

He had lost his appetite.

107

Prisoner By: Vaishalee Chaudhary

It was a bird cage. Encasing my soul in its grand structure of gold pillars. The gold would shine and shimmer in your eyes, but I could see only the cracks and rust invading its smooth surface. It was fool’s gold. Crafted to trick your innocence and naivety and manipulate you into believing an illusion. The entire bird cage was an illusion. It wasn’t a bird cage, but a cell. There were no gold pillars, just steel bars. And there was no innocence at all.

There was a single window that sat at the top of the wall. The darkness seeping in had shrouded the room in a shadow. Looking out, you could see a single white orb, perched high in the pitch black of the sky. The only truth was that white orb, the rest of the night sky was fake, a swirl of blurred illusions that came together and became darkness. But amongst it was the purity of the white orb, its light barely illuminating the bleak, fake sky. A bleak sky, that nevertheless, was scattered with some truth. For those glowing sparks in the black were like rare jewels in a pile of pebbles. Hard to find, and even harder to value.

Lots of time had passed. Years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds. They all meant the same thing. Their values were blurred together and there was no more measurement for time.

Time was free, unrestrained, flowing on and on, not waiting for reality to catch up. And I had fallen far behind reality in the deep, dark, never-ending race. Time had a fast, steady pace, and reality followed not too far behind. But my steps were lagging, my speed slow, my stride small.

And there was no space for improvement. The end of the race was right around the corner, hiding in the darkness. Lurking around the corridors of my mind, a haunting reminder of fate to come.

I was sitting in isolation. Stoic, unfeeling, numb, separated, with no connection to anything that existed. I was but a thought, a dream, a hope, an idea that was sculpted out of the systematic events of my childhood. I was transparent, you could see through the small particles of dust that I was composed of. You could reach your hand out, touch me, feel me. But for me, your hand would go straight through my flesh and out my back. You could speak to me, engage in conversation and voice your opinions. But your words would fall on deaf ears, and I would 108

find no meaning in your noisy silence. I would train my eyes on nothing in particular, but you would think that I was looking at you. I was an ocean. Waves and waves rolling over, each one powerful and strong. But each wave had to crash against a shore and foam and foam until it was nothing but a thought again. The ocean was vast, deep, mysterious, uncharted. You could never understand its flow and direction. But you tried anyways, and wasted your days, hours, minutes in an effort to control, dominate, understand. But it was of no use. The ocean was too fluid for you to hold in your arms, no matter what you do it’ll slip out. It’ll escape your restraints and be free. It’ll be a thought, a dream, a hope, an idea. Basking in the comfort of isolation, shining under the eternity of separation.

But forever was coming to an end. There was only some time left before I would be gone, the cell vacant for another. They were eager to be rid of me, and I had accepted this fact. That noose was a tangled web of lies, deceit, betrayal. It hung high, taking pride in its many murders.

I would be another of its victims. In a year, month, day, hour, minute. I didn’t know. But I knew was that time was slowing down, and reality had caught up. The noose was near, and the race is over.

The rope would someday unravel and become a clump of several strings, and each string would be so easy to rip apart. But for now, the strings were connected in one sturdy structure that held nothing other than dreaded death in its weaved design.

I shouldn’t have killed him.

109

The Long Way Around By: Cathy Huang

I took the long way home tonight, passing by the old lighthouse. I could see no one else nearby, except for the same dog that had been waiting beneath it last week, the last time I came here.

The skies were clear, revealing thousands of pinpoints of light above us. It was a rare sight for me to behold in this city. But I had heard somewhere that a dog only had a fourth of our visual acuity, so maybe it only saw the lighthouse beacon blazing before its eyes.

I took a few more steps down the road, then stopped to think. Why was the dog still waiting alone by the lighthouse after a whole week?

There had to be another light it was watching for -- not electrical, not celestial, but human. I could only imagine what had happened to its owner, if it had one. Maybe it was like the one Japanese dog who kept waiting for its master at the train station after he had passed away.

But I was getting carried away. It was late, after all. I continued on my way home, resolving to take the long way tomorrow night, too.

110

Follicle, Oh Follicle By: Frances Lee

His life isn’t interesting. It’s the same thing over and over again. And what’s worse is that every time, he’s reincarnated as the same thing. Life wasn’t really worth living. Humans didn’t really care about him anyway. He was just another one, another tangled piece in their lives, another follicle, so easily broken and tossed to the grimy, filthy carpet.

This is Jim. Jim was born on October 27, 1998. A normal Tuesday. A Tuesday that would mark the beginning of his pathetic life. He was a speck on her head - insignificant. Not as important as the wailing newborn at least. As of now, she was allegedly “bald” because these humans couldn’t open their eyes wide enough to see that she actually had a little life form growing from her too.

Jim’s childhood was pretty standard. Grow a quarter of an inch a month - he just had to meet that quota and the world would be fine. But she wasn’t satisfied with him. He always heard her begging and tugging at him, asking why he wouldn’t grow faster because she wanted the long locks that other slimy little children were “blessed” with. Humans never knew how to be satisfied: he expected no better from this one.

Every couple of months, the little girl would decide that he was getting too long (per her wishes in his defense) and she’d cut off a piece of him. Most of the time his legs. The first time it hurt like hell. He screamed his keratin out, but no one could hear him and why should they? He didn’t get a say in what happened anyway. After a few years, it all became numb. He didn’t need his legs and she was striving for beauty. Beauty is pain, they say. He just didn’t know it would be his.

111

Somewhere down the line, around 2015, Jim’s legs went from deep brown to bright red and later to a slight blonde. He stared at them constantly; he didn’t have anything better to do. He didn’t know who he was anymore - what follicle’s LEGS were a different color? Oh God, oh God. It was his first identity crisis. Slowly, Jim learned to live with it, to live a life of bicolor. It wasn’t so bad after all - it surely made him different from his cousins on the girl’s father’s head. I could get used to this.

But it was the shower of December 8th, 2015. It was the last shower he would ever have to suffer through as the water streamed from the showerhead, bringing the girl joy and hygiene but bringing Jim his last fluid ounce of misery and suffocation. R.I.P. December 9th, 2015. Jimmy is born.

112

Last Date By: Stephanie Qian

I was glad I gave her the haircut. She looked good in her tussled short black hair. It matched the black dress and heels I bought her especially for tonight’s occasion.

I told her it was time to go. She jumped out of the truck and I held onto her arm as I followed behind her, slamming the back of the truck shut. Along the narrow dirt path, made enough for just one person to walk on at a time, I let her go first. It was a nice evening with the tall wild grass swaying against the gentle breeze. The weather was perfect for tonight’s celebration.

I still had my arm wrapped around hers when we approached the little dot in the field that eventually revealed itself to be the farm house. Together, we entered the old home, stepping on the creaky wooden steps that broke the serene silence.

Letting her go, I quickly pressed the cool camera against my cheek and snapped a picture of her so I could remember tonight forever. She was shy of cameras and instinctively raised her hands to block her face. I laughed when the picture developed; it had captured her tepidness.

I slipped the photo in my back pocket and grabbed the twine in my other. We had not been in there for long but we both nonverbally agreed that we enjoyed being under the evening sky rather than under an old rickety roof. Clutching the coil, I pressed her close to my side as we exited the house together.

We were out on the field once more. And for five minutes, we were in heaven on the soil hidden among the swaying grass. But then almost at once everything stood still, the chilly breeze left and all that was left was me and her. For one minute, I sent her to the Pearly Gates for real and then I was all alone.

113

Freeze Tag By: Ricardo Tolentino

I always loved playing tag or hide and go seek with my friends at recess. Or maybe I should say I always loved the thought of it.

Ever since I got out of the doctor’s place, that stupid doctor told me I shouldn’t run or play too hard. That old geezer knew nothing. I joined my friends Danny and Ethan on the playground. We were playing freeze-tag, the one where you can’t move once you’ve been touched. I was having as much fun as an 11-year-old could have, until I felt my leg give out from under me. I fell to the ground, another boy named Anthony started laughing at me. The other bigger kids. Terry and Heather. laughed as well, but at least they helped me up. Damn it! I probably hurt my ankle again like when I fell off my bike in the summer. I’ll get through this.

The next day, Mom got off the phone with the doctor. I could tell she wanted to scream at me, something along the lines of “Why did you run?!”. Instead, she bent down close to me. Her soft voice spoke, “Honey, everything's gonna be ok, next time don’t run.” I was relieved that Mom wasn’t going to explode on me, but I felt like she was lying when she said everything was gonna be ok.

Mom and I wait in the lobby room for the doctor to call me in. I saw one of those dumb tinker toys for 5 year olds, but what the heck, I went to play with it anyways. A black piece was stuck in the middle of the yellow track. Useless piece. It couldn’t move, it blocked the way, and it pissed me off. The door opened. The doctor started talking to my mom, I knew they didn’t want me to hear. I listened closely. I wasn’t sure if it was Mr. Doctor’s complicated words, or the tears rolling down Mom’s face, or the growing pain I felt in my legs, but I knew, things weren’t gonna be ok.

Mom didn’t say anything on the way home. She wanted to comfort me, I could tell. But she thought I wouldn’t understand. I guess it’s pretty hard to tell a restless kid his legs were going to die. It wasn’t until I got home that I fully understood what it meant. I couldn’t play tag.

I couldn’t run. Eventually, I wouldn’t be able to walk.

114

For the past month I had to come to school in crutches. I wish I could say my friends were supportive. But while I hoped for them to help me out of my seat, I watched them storm out Mr. Smith’s door for recess. At that point, all I wanted was for the day to end.

As I dragged myself home I thought to myself, “Things aren’t that bad”, but I wasn’t a liar. I walked through the garage, into the hallway, and locked myself in my room. Mom wasn’t home, I didn’t want to cry in front of her so I let it all out. The only thought that ran through my mind was, “enough is enough”. I went back to the garage. I picked up a long orange electrical wire from Mom’s cabinet. I also took her wooden stool, and slowly struggled back to my room.

I looked down at the wire in my hands, put the stool down, looked up to the ceiling fan in my room, and began to tie a noose. Even this was a struggle. An hour passes, and I manage to finish my last project. I struggle to get onto the stool. One leg on, but balance and fatigue prove to be worthy adversaries. Amazingly, I find myself standing on top of the stool. I slip my head into the noose and close my eyes. I’m as useless as the black piece from the doctor’s office, as motionless as the kids playing freeze-tag, and all that I want to be, is dead. I close my eyes, but a warm thought comes through. I think to myself, I was able to get on this stool, I was able to reach the fan at the top of my room. I can overcome this! I start reaching towards my neck to loosen the wire. I start to untie the knot when suddenly--my leg gives out. The stool falls on its side and I’m no longer standing, I'm suspended a foot off the ground by my neck. I choked. I wanted to breath more than I wanted to play tag. My room starts to fade away and the slight kicking my legs were able to muscle slowly dies out. An eternal game of freeze-tag that I played alone.

115

116

© The Path by Anvita Warty

Thoughts By: Anonymous

Motivation As swift as winds of the plains, and as flexible in direction, motivation plays and enters so abruptly. When I wake everyday though, I never really ask myself the question, “Why am I doing this?” or look so far into the future to see that a bit of motivation goes a long way. Well, motivation isn’t always a conscious thing it seems like. The inscrutable eyes some people feel are sometimes just the right fuel, enough to burn the fragile core but not enough to truly ever draw away. When I go to school, I can get burned but also fulfilled in a sense but I never feel like I get enough fulfillment to truly be “valid”. One day, that fire will fade and maybe, just maybe with purpose, will I ever be brave enough to jump into it so that I may see an incandescent hearth.

Leisure When you scroll down social media, it’s almost like a highlight reel of a person’s life. With the more active people, it seems like every step of their life has a task in store for them but that the time I have is squandered. You’ll always see someone better than you in whatever you do but to close that gap sometimes feels insurmountable. But fear not the challenge, but the lack of chance.

If anything, create that chance provided to us all in a country such as this and push forward. I know I’ve been wanting to but who knows if I have all the time for it.

Own roads “There are many paths, but this one is mine.” When a path lies outstretched, there aren’t many ways to change it but when building your own, the world is yours.

117

Butterflies By: Anonymous butterflies “You know, I don’t get butterflies whenever I’m around her” “Sorry, what?”

The two of them were jogging alongside the winding path. The fresh rain had washed away all the dust on the pavement, leaving the city with a newly washed ambiance that was hard to adjust to. Joey and his friend Michael were out for a morning run; so early in the morning that the sun itself had not yet fully woken up.

“I mean with Hunter” “Yeah, what about her?”

“You know how people always say when they see their crush or something, they always feel butterflies in their stomach?”

“I mean I guess they do.”

“Well I never do. I just thought it was interesting.”

“Yeah, I’m overwhelmed with fascination” The two raced on further, twisting and turning as the sidewalk snaked ahead in a seemingly perpetual dance.

“I mean with her, it just feels so… I don’t know. Right? I’m never really nervous around her, even though I’m completely smitten. Whenever I see her, I just feel excited, not nervous at all.”

“Maybe being more nervous could have saved you some embarrassment before” Joey chuckled, “Yeah, absolutely it could have. But at the same time, I’m glad I’m not. That’s kinda what makes her more than just a crush, right? Because I don’t just gaze wistfully at her and never speak. We’re friends! We talk to each other’s moms!”

“You talk to her mom?”

“I mean not regularly, but whenever I see her I do” 118

The pair ran briskly, passing by the flickering streetlamps and groggy morning drivers heading through their arduous commute. As they neared the end of their route, Joey began to slow down.

Michael was panting behind him.

“Christ Joey, how are you not tired?”

He shrugged, “I mean not a single butterfly. Not once.”

“Are you still thinking about her?”

Joey gave a sheepish grin, “Haven’t really stopped.” happiness “You’re staring” “Am not.”

“Yeah you are, you haven’t taken your eyes off her.”

“Shush. I’m gazing wistfully at her.”

“She has a boyfriend.”

Joey looked at his companion with a sad smile “Yeah, that’s the worst part.”

“Because you can’t be with her?”

“Partly. But that doesn’t matter.” Joey wrung his hands apprehensively, “I like her enough that I want her to be happy. That’s honestly all I want for her. For her to be happy. If that means she’s dating some other guy, so be it. I’m not good enough for her anyway. And every time I find myself wishing for them to break up, I take it back and wish for them to be happier every day.

Because while it sucks now, not being with her, in the long run I care about her enough that I just want her to find happiness.”

“That’s so sweet it makes me want to vomit” “Yeah, it makes me want to throw up too. Feelings are gross and girls are such a hassle”. running 119

“So, when was the last time you actually ran?”

“Last month with you.”

The group of friends were sitting lackadaisically in Daniel’s garage, having previously just finished a band practice they sprawled themselves over the couches and chairs placed in the area.

“All the way back then? Come on man, you’re never gonna get any better if you don’t practice” Daniel chimed in, “Since when were you so health conscious Joey?”

“Since Hunter Ketchum” Michael answered for him Joey threw a guitar pick at Michael “Okay that’s true. But can you blame me? What am I supposed to do when we’re texting and she says she has to go for a bit because she’s going for a run? That’s 20 minutes where I have nothing to do.”

“You could practice your guitar” “20 minutes! It just made sense for me to start running too.”

“Wow. Someone’s really thirsty” “Is it really my fault that she makes me wanna be a better version of myself?” song “You know what really sucks Daniel?”

“What? The fact that we have a biology test tomorrow and we’re only now studying?”

“No no, that’s fine. I was just thinking about how Hunter ruined love songs for me.”

“Ruined?”

“Yeah, ruined.”

“How so?”

Joey twirled his pen absentmindedly.

120

“Well before her, I never had anyone to think about during love songs. I mean sure, I’ve had the occasional crush on a cute girl, but just because I thought someone was pretty didn’t mean I liked them enough. But now with her, she’s different. I can’t get her out of my head. And I especially can’t whenever a love song comes on because regardless of what I’m doing, thoughts immediately jump to her. I mean, she ruined Bruno Mars for me!”

The librarian gave them a dirty look and an accusatory shush.

Daniel spoke in a hushed voice, “How could she ruin Bruno Mars?”

“He’s her favorite artist. Now, whenever I hear a song by him. Boom. Thinking about Hunter.”

“Wow, you really did fall for her, didn’t you?”

“I’m sure that I’m still falling”

121

A Walk to the Park By: Zereen Ahmed Green meadows and tall trees wait before me on the other side of the fence. The light breeze kisses my bare shoulder, sending a chill down my spine. The ground is scattered with Autumn leaves of red, orange, and mahogany that crunch under my foot each time I take a step.

I continue to make my way to the park and stop before the rusty grey gates. It's opened wide enough for my body to slip through so I don't bother opening it any further. As I walk through the gate, my eye catches a sight. An old couple walks together slowly on the round track. Others pass by them with frustrated faces due to their slow pace. But the old couple does not mind; they are lost in their own world; in each other's eyes. They continue to walk in peace, minding their own business, hand in hand, fingers laced together, and soft smiles etched onto their wrinkled faces. Each of their steps is so synchronized and together they seem to be so serene, no tensions to occupy their minds. The scene is so peaceful I almost don't want to leave.

But I have somewhere to go, so I look away and wonder as I make my way to the park: Would I ever be as happy as they are?

122

Death of a Tiger By: Varisha Azmi

He lies in a bed, greeting me with a smile.

"Amma, when will we go back to India?"

His beard reminds me of ash flying upwards

"Soon."

from a campfire.

It was always soon. But soon becomes later

He beckons at me to come sit next to him.

and later every time.

He asks me about my favorite things - my

Yet I am patient. I've waited for three years.

favorite animal - a tiger.

I will see my Tiger Nana again.

"Tiger? It makes this sound, right?"

Summer comes by. My grandmother - she is

A deep growl emanates from him and I fall back giggling, growling back.

It's a conversation of tiger growls.

He is my Tiger Nana.

in tears.

"Amma, why is Dad I crying? I don't like it."

My mother bursts into tears and goes into her room with my father. I eavesdrop on my

I have to leave soon and my family and I

parents again.

return to America in a couple weeks.

A death in the family. Who...who could It is the first time I've met him.

it...no... it’s not...it can't...

I am seven years old.

He was my Tiger Nana.

Three years go by. I hear bits and pieces

For the first time ever in the ten years I had

about him from my parents while they talk.

lived, I felt true sadness.

Illness. He can't eat by himself anymore. He

He was supposed to wait for me. We were

cried today.

supposed to laugh together again.

I am ten years old.

This couldn't be true - I - I hadn't even said a proper goodbye...he was supposed to wait...but death waits for no one...

123

Proper By: Varisha Azmi

My style?

Well I have never liked doing what I've been told.

Sit this way, eat that way, walk like this, talk like that.

Being proper just isn't my style.

Everybody likes you when you do what you're told.

Be easy to work with.

Nobody will like you if you're difficult.

Oh, but you meant with clothes.

Then button-up shirts buttoned up all the way to the top button.

A nice cardigan or jacket over them.

Hair tied back to keep it out of my face.

To, of course, give the illusion that I am proper.

124

Realization By: Varisha Azmi

Varisha.

Is that really that hard of a name to say?

Three syllables. Straightforward pronunciation.

But I suppose it somehow isn't.

Is it really that foreign? That exotic?

Yeah it doesn't appear on souvenirs at gift shops...but...

No. These butchered versions of my name, they won't faze me any longer.

Because I realized. The people in my life who can't even bother to remember my name - my identity - they probably won't matter in the long run anyway.

125

Routine By: Varisha Azmi

Wake up, eat, go to school, eat, sleep.

Wake up, eat, go to school, eat, sleep.

Wake up, eat, go to school, eat, sleep.

Every day, it's the same routine. Nothing changes. I thought I was happy with the way things were. I thought I was content with my routine. I started every day with a smile, and ended every day with a smile. It was so easy to put myself into auto-drive. So easy to follow my routine.

But soon enough, my days became a blur. If everything was the same, how could I tell where one day ended and the other started? I tried to do things differently. Maybe try brushing my teeth after eating breakfast every other day? Maybe eat an orange instead of an apple. I tried desperately to add something new to my life. But I failed. My routine fell apart. The one thing that I could count on to be consistent wasn't there anymore. My smile faded. I wasn't content anymore. My life fell apart.

It sounds silly, I know, but for me, happiness lies in what I can count on to be the same. What I can be sure will never change. I was so used to doing the same things every day, that the moment I tried adding something new, the moment I tried to change, I was completely thrown off balance. My brain isn't that great with accepting change. I want something new, something fresh in my life, but at the same time, I push any and all change away. It's difficult.

I know that change can be good, and I've tried to convince myself of this - cross my heart - but it just doesn't seem to sink in. This writing challenge is about one change you'd like to see in yourself this fall, but change is scary. It's new, it's foreign, and it’s unfamiliar. But I will say this.

If I ever learn to accept change - accept that some change in my life can be good and healthy well...that might be all the change I really need for now.

126

Words By: Varisha Azmi

I'm the friend who will always listen to your problems. I'm not trying to make myself sound high and mighty - just saying that I listen. I'm not sure about a lot of things about me, but I know that I listen to people. And I pride myself on that. I listen to your problems and I try to help you to the best of my abilities.

But that also means I tend to keep my own problems to myself. Listening to other people makes me feel like my problems are trivial. They don't matter. I'll get over them. Right?

Never showing my emotions properly has led to a pileup in my mind. It's dangerous up there. So many thoughts are at war with each other, so many ideas constantly clashing. Sometimes it becomes too much to bear.

I used to cry a lot because of my problem hill. I used to completely break down, away from people so they wouldn't have to worry about me. To be honest, sometimes I still do.

I found that crying wasn't really my thing. I got angry at myself for crying. I'm supposed to be brave. I'm supposed to be the one who has it all together. Right?

I searched for a way to better vent my emotions. I started writing. I entered a different world. I became my character. My character was me. People say reading brings you to different worlds.

Yes, that's true. And I do enjoy reading very much. But with writing...you sculpt your own world. You create your own ideal landscape. For a couple of moments, you escape from reality and enter your own world. And then you keep writing. And keep writing. And soon there's different characters around you. Different people that you've made up that compensate for the loneliness in your life. And suddenly you don't feel lonely anymore. Because you're surrounded by your imagination - and trust me. There is nothing - absolutely nothing - that is more powerful than your own beautiful and boundless imagination.

127

The Meaning of a Gift By: Yusra Azmi

Up until now, I've never received a gift for the holidays. I've always dreamed of waking up on Christmas morning finding a bunch of presents waiting for me. But, this year I've learned that the holidays aren't about the size, color, or shape of the gift. Gifts are meaningful when they come from the heart.

In English, we were doing an assignment which was doing a secret Santa with letters. So on the Friday before winter break, we received our letters from the person themselves. When I got my letter, I couldn't help but smile. It was the best thing ever. I truly appreciated it. That was the best gift I've ever gotten.

128

Home Is Where Korean Food Is By: Julia Bok

Bulgogi, poke, samosas, sancocho. I’m a foodie who is passionate about diverse dishes, savory or sweet, hot or cold. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs places food as humans’ foundation, and correctly so.

Whenever I left home for school excursions, before I even missed my relatives, I first longed for white rice and bean paste stew. Hamburgers and pasta served on trips were only tasty for the first day; afterwards, it was warm, traditional Korean cuisine that I craved. No matter how far I travel, I am always reminded of my roots.

Food offers outsiders tastes of cultures. In Cabarete, I noted that cooking is most often a collaborative effort and I gained an appreciation for coconut flakes and dishes like La Bandera.

Even within my local community, there have been a myriad of cuisines. I devoured saccharine gulab jamun at Indian parties and discovered that it is Indian etiquette to eat with the right hand.

I had my first taste of crispy sponge cake and zesty mapo doufu at a Chinese New Year party.

Each plate gave me a glimpse of the nation’s history and values.

Stories and advice are passed on with recipes, which survive decades so that today’s generation can savor the same food their ancestors relished. My family is able to enjoy my greatgrandmother’s perfectly spicy kimchi because she instructed my grandmother, who then taught my mom. I delight in eating food with my loved ones at the dinner table and will forever associate Korean food with home.

129

I Write By: Sabrina Chan

I write what I’m scared to say out loud- what I’m afraid everyone will ignore.

I’d rather drown alone in a sea of my own words than to risk them falling upon the vicious ear, or worse, a discounting one.

I write what I cannot bring myself to say out loud.

Things that I don’t want to admit, because, in my mind, saying them makes them real. My darkest thoughts fester on the page, and I can take refuge in their absence.

I write to feel a sense of constancy.

Words embrace me like an old friend, someone from whom I can spend years apart but speak to as if we had seen each other yesterday. As friendships fade and life spins past me at uncontrollable speed, writing anchors me down to reality.

© Silencing by Malaya Sithichai 130

So She Smiled By: Sabrina Chan

She was always told to hide her feelings, to be strong in the face of all opposition. So she hid behind a plastered smile, and as time passed, it became more of a habit than a feeling. She taught herself to smile and nod when all she wanted to do was hide away. Every conversation felt forced, every action seemed like a burden, and her existence felt like a lie.

She figured someone would have noticed by now. She hoped that someone would, but no one did. Maybe the line between the mask and the reality had become blurred and she simply played the role too well. She just wanted someone to ask.

So she waited and smiled.

131

The Windows to My Soul? Not Really.

By: Sabrina Chan

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but in my youth, my eyes were a lasting reminder of exactly what I wanted most to ignore. My eyes separated me from my peersbranding me as an outsider from birth. They reminded me of my heritage, and locked me into the stereotype of “submissive, little Asian girl.”

As a child, I attended a private school in which Asians represented a miniscule minority of the student population, and congenital traits such as eyes and race determined your social standing.

My peers, with their large blue eyes, mocked me and my smaller brown ones. They called me derogatory names, squinted their eyes mockingly, and spoke in gibberish, trying to imitate what they believed to be Chinese. I desperately wanted to change my eyes- to fit into their mold of social acceptability- but I just couldn’t. They were a part of me that I couldn’t change, that I couldn’t hide or ignore.

I have a distinct memory from around the same time of asking my mom why I looked the way I did, and if there was any way for me to change my eyes in particular. I remember the disappointment I felt when she told me that I couldn’t, that my eyes were a symbol of my heritage and I should embrace them. In retrospect, I know that she was right, but that didn’t stop me from loathing myself for having eyes that deemed me socially undesirable. The fact that my eyes were so telling of my racial background, what my mom claimed to be their importance, was what drove me to despise them. I wanted to fit in more than anything, to have friends- though I was never disillusioned enough to actually believe that they would actually be exceptional friends in any regard- and I thought that my eyes were my only barrier. I changed everything that I possibly could about myself- my hair, the way I dressed, the music I pretended to know and like- to fit their standards, but somehow my eyes deemed me unworthy of their friendship, unworthy of respect.

Deep down, I knew that I could never change my eyes and that I would have to live out the rest of my life under the umbrella of social implications that they gave me. To lessen their effects, I tried to ignore everything remotely Chinese to seem like the average American kid. I demanded 132

Lunchables instead of leftover Chinese food from the night before. I woke up extra early on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons so that I could have something to say on the off chance that someone was to bring it up, and didn’t share the fact that I was more well versed in the world of Chinese soap opera than American cartoons. However “American” I tried to be, I couldn’t shake the thought that no one wholeheartedly bought my act.

It took me years to come to the realization that my eyes were a part of me and that they didn’t define me. My eyes were a symbol of my heritage, my roots, an unwavering constant regardless of where life would take me. When I embraced myself and the eyes that I was blessed with, I was finally at peace with who I was fundamentally. I realized that I could denounce all the physical traits that branded me as Chinese, dye my hair bleach blond, contour my face for a slim nose and chin, but I couldn’t change my eyes. My eyes didn’t make me an outsider; my own insecurity did. They made me Chinese, and I had the choice to make of that what I pleased.

133

A Secret Moment By: Vivian Chang

(There’s this moment I adore like a secret.)

When the sun sets, it’s impossible euphoria. Scarlet fire in the sky. It’s almost apocalyptic. Almost. A shimmering tragedy exists in that descension. The trumpets sound and the audience yawns in their crushed velvet seats.

This act is nearly over.

When the climax dies in a

© Blurred Light by Insha Khan

brief pause of fleeting gods reciting psalms, there comes a moment of heaven. Heaven blushing like spring poetry, like lemons and lilacs, like cracked pearls in floating shells. Our bated breath pauses, and pauses, and pauses. It holds, and waits for dusk to quietly seep in. The lights down the street flicker, then catch aflame. The men with their dark eyes. The women with their amorous tongues. They all come, like waves . . . The smell of seawater and smoke is all that I have ever known; it is all I ever will know when I’m outside dancing barefoot in the sultry heat. The orange trees become paradise at this time, and I love the holy sight of them - sweet, fragrant, sacred ­ against the seething sky. (My mother says it’s perhaps because I am a poet. I think it’s simply because I’m human.)

134

Valentine’s Day. By: Ryan Chung

So it’s Valentine’s Day season. A time of innocent (and not so innocent, if you catch my drift) love and mushy feelings. Fun. Listen. The thing is this: I have nothing against Valentine’s Day itself. It’s perfectly fine. An angel flying around shooting love arrows at various people, making them fall in love. How romantic. But tell me this- what is up with all of these stupid, cliché phrases that suddenly become socially acceptable to use? They’re dumb, sound horrible, and don’t make any sense at all.

“Love is in the air.” Never say that phrase. Oh my goodness. Love is not in the air. Love is not some pathogen or some virus that is transmitted through open air. Is love the next Ebola or something where it spreads virally at an alarmingly quick rate? No- love is love. It’s not some magical dust, something that flies around in the air until it finds an unsuspecting victim to latch itself on to. It’s something that’s valuable, rare, unique. Comparing it to something as menial as dust or disease is insulting. Love is a God-given gift and the phrase “love is in the air” solely degrades it to something relatively unimportant and unholy.

Jesus- it bugs me to death when people say that their “heart skipped a beat” upon seeing someone’s face or something for the first time. First of all, the amount of mushy feelings that are insinuated with this phrase is revolting and personally makes me want to throw up. But whatever, to each their own. I realize that this is simply a phrase. However. The issue at hand here is that this is an absurd over-exaggeration and I cannot imagine how on earth this phrase ever became popular. The issues that would occur if our hearts skipped beats upon seeing someone we were infatuated with would be horrific. The heart pumps blood throughout our bodies- continual lack of beating would be extremely detrimental to the body and over time, as various parts of the body fail to receive oxygen, issues such as fatigue, weakness, dizziness, and even fainting may occur. The meniality, the commonality of this phrase in juxtaposition to the potential repercussions its literal interpretation could carry is frightening, and is an encouragement to us all to at least try and limit the use of this phrase.

135

My friend recently was talking about a crush of hers, and she gushed how she could “only see him” once he walked into the room. Oh Lord. What a disaster. First of all, this is obviously extremely fallacious and over exaggerated. Unrealistic. If I had fallen in love with someone and I had this issue of being able to only see her in my line of vision, I would be extremely concerned that my vision would be suffering and would make a beeline for the nearest optometrist, or at least a doctor. How frightening. Losing any amount of vision is a major symptom that could potentially lead to early recognition of various issues much more serious than a little crush, a flutter in the stomach. Being unable to see within the normal range of vision could be a precursor or an indication of a cataracts, diabetes, or even more malignant issues such as the presence of a brain tumor or multiple sclerosis. Similarly, to my sentiments regarding the phrase “heart skipped a beat,” this cliché regarding “only seeing [a crush]” upon establishing a clear view of him/her is over-exaggerated, and the stark contrast between the literal and figurative insinuations is frightening, serving as a reminder to moderate uses of phrases such as these.

And finally, the most cringe-worthy phrase- “I love you to the moon and back.” I shudder visibly whenever I hear this expression. The distance from Earth to the moon is 221,331 miles, meaning that the distance for a round trip from the Earth the moon and back is 442,662 miles.

This is a dejecting phrase as it suggests that love is objective. This phrase sets a value for one’s love towards another, which is problematic as love should be an indefinite emotion. Love should be infinite. The fact that one could even suggest placing a worth to something as meaningful and personal as love is horrific, and displays the lack of insight and thought that goes into expressing such an intimate emotion such as love.

Valentine’s Day. It’s actually not such a bad thing. Sure, you might gain a couple of pounds (or in my case, lose 2 pounds from getting sick on bad chocolate) from all the sweets that your friends and even maybe crushes send you in affirmation. However, can we all just agree that the use of these phrases needs to be heavily decreased, if not eliminated entirely? The phrases that I covered are simply the tip of the iceberg. There are numerous other phrases, loverelated clichés that when inspected in detail, reveal a whole lot about our lack of consideration towards such an important, valuable, respectable emotion as a society.

136

What is the Most Romantic Valentine’s Day Gift?

By: Ayesha Durrani

The most romantic gift one can give or receive is quite simple. It’s quite easy to carry around everywhere, and it’s also quite easy to love. Not only does it come in many colors and sizes, it also comes in different genres.

It is a book.

But how can giving or receiving a book be romantic in any way?

It’s because of the effect that the book has on its reader. You can hand a book to the person you love, and you know that reading will take them on a journey that he or she will most likely not be able to experience in real life; once they open the book, they can be transported into a magical world with wizards and dragons, a dystopian society where children are forced into an arena where they must slaughter their companions for the amusement of the government in order to live a peaceful life, or an unfortunate world where nothing ever goes right for three orphans whose parents died tragically in a fire. As you hand your significant other their present and watch their eyes grow wide in excitement, you will feel satisfied knowing that your present was the right choice for your companion. You can also fall deeper in love with your soulmate as you stay up at night watching them fight their sleep and continue to read the book that they refuse to put down, and you will also have numerous opportunities to comfort the love of your life as they mourn over the horrendous death of the fictional character that they had just started to have a huge crush on.

An even more romantic gift than a single book would be an entire series of books, complete in a boxed set, where each and every book is the same height and all of the books are either paperback or hardcover (not a mix of the two), because nothing is more frustrating in life than organizing your books in your bookshelf and having to lament over the fact that not all of the books in the one particular series are of the same height. While searching for a book for your partner, you should also take the opportunity and grab a book for yourself, so that you can both stay up late at night reading together, and cry over your fictional characters together, and share

137

the different worlds of all the different books together, because nothing is more romantic in life than giving and receiving a book.

Perhaps you can also fall deeper in love as you read your books, and your partner reads their books, and you find both of yourselves incorporating bits and pieces of your favorite characters’ personalities into your own, and using the most romantic quotes that you have found from your own books to make your partner feel loved, which is quite romantic indeed. Unless you find yourself becoming like the character that your partner hates, or vice versa. Then it can all go downhill from there, and in that specific case, a book would not be the most romantic gift you can give or receive.

138

The Gift By: Christina Hur

It may be $2 and from Wal-Mart. It wasn't even wrapped, but it was from he who always pushes me away and then asks for help on math homework. I look into my stocking and out of nowhere he tosses a box of Swedish Fish gummies to me. "I got this for you," and he walks back to his room.

That was his way of showing he cares during this holiday season.

139

Twenty Minutes By: Christina Hur

4:07 PM PST Shefali Chauhan marked herself safe from the Paris Terror Attacks. says the notification on my lock screen.

9:20 PM CET The crowd roars as France gets possession of the ball.

The first goes off over the roar. It can be heard on the television broadcast.

The crowd roars on. It’s probably a firecracker.

More go off. Cellphones ring with news and updates.

The game still goes on.

France won.

No one was victorious.

4:10 PM PST Sabrina is checking her phone for an update on the attacks.

The death toll is up to 50 wait no, 60.

9:36 PM CET Bonne anniversaire à toi. Bonne anniversaire à toi.

Houda Saadi is 35 now.

Gunmen storm in, bullets flying.

Patrons, friends, and employees go down.

The smell of blood mingles with the smell of coffee and cake.

140

4:15 PM PST It’s up to 80 now.

We learn that it wasn’t a single attack.

9:40 PM CET Eagles of Death Metal are having a concert at the Bataclan.

The venue is heated.

The music turns to screams as audience members are taken hostage.

It’s suddenly really cold.

One by one people turn cold.

4:17 PM PST The death toll is over 100.

What caused this to happen? Why? In twenty minutes, Paris changed.

In twenty minutes, my view of the world changed.

There is a level of detachment 5,647 miles away in Cerritos.

We are in the yearbook room, shaken, as we read news on our phone.

Shocked, but physically unaffected.

141

142

© Checkmate by Anvita Warty

Silent Thanks By: Insha Khan

Everyone in the wings stood still and silent as we lost ourselves in the stunning beauty of the show. Clutching his father's picture frame in one hand, and tapping her shoulder with the other, he leaned in and whispered, "Thank you for this."

143

ROYGBIV By: Insha Khan

Rushing to his face, it made him look like the biggest dork every time he laughed. After all, "loving him was ____".

Obvious to its meaning, the Crush soda I named him after tasted sweet as I sipped it silently, smiling at the sensation of being there in the same room.

Yelling out my pride for the hallways that have become my home. The time I've spent here has been golden and no count of hours can measure that.

Growing to saturate where she has dug, the grass is too slow to recover from our youngest sister's burning desire to destroy as she creates.

Bursting in beauty. It brings out the best in me as I glance in the mirror for a bit of confidence or ask my bedroom walls for a dose of serene creativity.

Illuminating the sky as we search for the moon twice a year, waiting for the sign to commence.

Never has the night had so much company.

Vertically striped, polka dotted, or in gem stones. A royal reminder of my birthright to exude my identity into every action I take.

144

The Best Week By: Insha Khan

Happy to wake up, excited to get back to work. The day is just six hours until it's my own. All day I worry. "Will she fit that dress?" All day I hope. "Oh the blue! With his eyes!" All day I create. "The full length, the headshot, then the shoes." The colors, the patterns, the shapes circling my mind in harmony. And I come home each day smiling. Because, after all, isn't there a certain glamour to it? The visible contribution to a grand performance, the personally choreographed showcase of my own "editorial prowess", and the big fat magical envelope containing the first letter of the alphabet to keep parents off my track. The last week couldn't have gone better if I had planned it myself. Except, I did. It was my forecasting, my long nights, my due diligence that afforded me this self-praise. But one week later, and I know it's all going to be back to the way it was. The way I always am. Avoiding work, bingeing on Netflix, and crawling back into a hole where I stop giving answers. I stop being an artist. I stop being a writer. I stop being an intellectual. So, honestly, the one thing I hope for myself is to remember what this week was like and strive to recreate that feeling every day.

145

The First Thirteen By: Insha Khan

I was a little more than disappointed when I found that we had to cancel our annual Thanksgiving dinner party plans this year, especially since I've always been the one who enforced that tradition (lesson learned: home renovations take a lot of time). Not even Eid or my birthday can match the amount of joy I feel when everyone is there in the warmth of our house with people reaching around the trains of little kids just to grab another serving of potato salad.

We have all the generations of our family sitting in this house and not a single fight is begun in that time. There is just a mutual understanding that this is a day to remind each other of our love, and any desire for argument is better left uninvited. But I guess this year I took for granted everyone else's need to be together during the holiday without realizing the fact that I may be one of the few left in our family who is still grasping on to that thin string that keeps us together. I can hold sleepovers, I can send over food, I can call and say "happy birthday", but the effort will never be worth it if it is always one way. Regardless of what I have been through with the inattentive older breed who disgrace the word itself by labeling themselves as my "cousins", I don't appreciate what I have now with the ones my age. The ones whose lives I have shared since birth. We've been there for every smile, every tear, every inside joke, and I wish it was something I held on to more. I wish I remembered more often that they are my memories, they are my joy, they are my life instead of revisiting each day the voices that turned their backs on me long ago. My life has only been sixteen years. How can you hold on to the recent few when all of your behavior has been built on the damaging first thirteen?

146

Willpower By: Insha Khan

It was a cold, rainy Thursday afternoon in February when my parents were blessed with their third and final high-maintenance baby girl. They hadn’t chosen a girl name and decided to use one my aunt and uncle had picked out: Insha. In English it means willing and in Arabic it is often combined with God’s name as Insha’Allah to mean God willing. As the first child born after the death of my grandfather, my name reminds my family that life won’t always go according to our plans. People will die, but babies will be born too. To me, my name is a reminder of something my teacher once told me: Success must come from both Insha and Allah. If I am not willing to work for something, it isn’t going to happen.

My middle name is Sameena. Soft, sweet, and nurturing. I carry my mother’s name because I know that no matter where I go or the choices I make; she will always be there to come home to.

Peeping from in between my first and last name will always be my middle name.

Khan is a surname originating from a title that was given to rulers and officials in central Asia. It is a strong, masculine name that reminds many of the powerful Genghis Khan or the Star Trek character played by Benedict Cumberpatch. My last name tells the story of a family tree with stubborn roots. I love being able to have my relatives around me all the time, but at the end of the day, I want to make sure I am not a representation of my family. I am an individual.

Someday soon I will hold the title of Hafiza. A Hafiza is someone who has the willpower and self-control to dedicate themselves to the Qur’an. They first memorize the entire holy book, and then spend the rest of their life maintaining a strong spiritual relationship. In the Islamic community, a Hafiz is trusted for their knowledge. For a long time, I had struggled with trust: giving it to others, and receiving it. But I am slowly starting to realize that I am a more trusted person than the little 5-year-old my sisters often make me out to be.

Insha Khan. Have willpower and be strong. It is my motto, my description, and my story. I would never want to change my name because when I “grow up”, the one thing I want to make sure I always am being myself.

147

Blindly By: Frances Lee

Was I an idiot? Was I an idiot for believing you when you said you wouldn't tear it into little pieces, as you crushed it into the concrete with the black soles of your shoes? Was I an idiot for letting you shoot me in the back when I turned to walk away from it all? Maybe it was all my fault and you're not to blame. Should I have taken it standing? Sitting down? But I chose to take it as I walked away from you, slowly placing one foot in front of the other as you turned into a stranger. As I stared at the door only three more steps away from me, I turned around to see the barrel of your gun pressed against my forehead. Slowly a tear rolled down my cheek and onto your shoe as I saw your finger pull the trigger and my life became as dark as your soul.

I shouldn't have trusted you so easily. I won't let myself next time.

Š Turn Away by Malaya Sithichai

148

I Thank You By: Frances Lee

Thank you.

I don't think you ever meant it as a gift but it's the best one I've ever been given and I'll never forget it. Because you fighting for our friendship and being there for me through the absolute highlights and the lowest of lows I could reach meant the world to me. You could give me present after present, wrapped in cute Christmas wrapping paper with the sweetest of notes, but nothing will ever compare to the love and compassion you have showed me these past few years.

Your time, your laughter, our conversations, your understanding: they are the most meaningful gifts I could ask for because they are absolutely irreplaceable. You fought for us when I thought we were going to give it all up. You fought to keep this alive. We might not have known it then but we were so close to the end. But when you took my hand and let us fix ourselves through our words and slight head bobs, I couldn't have asked for a more miraculous moment in our history together. So I thank you for that - for helping me, for helping you, save ourselves from a mistake we would have regret forever.

149

Thankful For You By: Frances Lee

I'll never forget you because I never want to.

You listened when no one else would, when my darkest thoughts began to surface and taint the opaque white that surrounded me.

You were cruel when no one else could be because they were afraid to break eggshells that were meant to be thrown away and crushed into white crumbs that resembled a life never there.

You nodded when everyone else looked away as they never dared to look into my eyes, eyes that held the pain of a woman who knew no fear because it had been struck out of her by those she had trusted most.

You threw yourself under to remind me what crawled under my skin as I ripped it out but held it, suspended in the air to remember and never forget.

You let the hallway echo your hello's from the other side to watch as I flicked away a tear as quickly as it had formed.

You will forget one day what you have done, but I never will.

Each and every day you became the hand that gently offered its condolences to a girl hugging the cold concrete that never hugged back.

You will forget one day what you have done for me, but I never can.

Each and every day I am one more step away from who I used to be, a little girl grabbing at the wisps of the past to escape her future, holding onto her regrets like a little fool.

I am thankful for you.

I am thankful for you because you were there when everyone else left, even me.

150

The Album By: Arjun Naganathan

“Spin it one more time J. We got this, this time it’s gonna be dope!”

“Man I’m tired of this we been in this garage for eight hours and we don’t have nothin’! How long we gon’ keep at it Prince? At this rate Dre gonna put out Detox before we drop this album!”

“Come on man, let’s just get one more track, that’s all we need” “You been sayin’ that for the past eleven hours. We ain’t eat, we ain’t sleep, we ain’t even go to the bathroom.”

“I know J, but this is important. It’s both of our tickets outta here. You and I both know that when we dropped outta high school, that was it. We can’t sell dope, and we too short to ball, but we got bars.”

“Yeah Prince, but how this gonna work out? We ain’t no Wu-tang, we ain’t no Dre, we ain’t no Nas. All we are is two kids with a ghetto dream to get out the Bridge. The world ain’t so nice Prince. All the greats that made it off the street were exceptions to the rule. We ain’t no exceptions though. We ain’t never gonna make it out, we might be able to spit, but if we can’t even put an album out, how are we gonna get anywhere?”

“J, you been my A-1 since the start, so you gotta believe me when I tell you that we are gonna drop this album. Dom was dope enough to get us hooked up with that agent from Roc Nation.

All we need is enough tracks for us to put out an EP and we’re good. We’re set man. But that’s gotta be perfect. It’s gotta be beyond perfect. And if Nas was able to put out Illmatic with ten songs in less time than we got, then we can put out this album before the time is up.”

“You don’t understand man. I ain’t got nothin’! Twenty-two years of life and what do I got to show for it? Man I don’t even got my diploma. I don’t wanna end up workin’ some job in a factory livin’ paycheck to paycheck until I die. I don’t wanna be forgotten after I’m gone. This album is the biggest chance that we got, and if we don’t hit it, then we’re done. Our future is set.”

151

“And you don’t think I realize that? Man all my life I been listening to the greats. I still remember waiting outside that store so I could get Blueprint as soon as it dropped. But now it’s our time to shine. We got 12 hours to get our album together. Now are you with me or are you out?”

“Man I don’t even know. We got nothin’ else to do so we might as well.”

I heard the phone ring and my heart skipped a beat.

“J, it’s the agent!”

“What on earth man? I thought this guy wasn’t supposed to call us for another week what does he want now?”

“Lemme just pick this up and see what he wants” I picked up the phone and immediately the guy said “If ain’t my boy Prince. Now I know you gotta dope album waiting for me man. I need this in an hour so Imma drop by your place soon.”

This guy was on something else. Ain’t no way he wanted my album in an hour.

“Yo I thought I had some time. Why you puttin’ me under the lamp. I don’t have my tape ready yet.”

“I told you man I need this ASAP. Besides you told me that you had this ready yesterday. So we good or are we gonna have problems?”

“You don’t understand man, I don’t have any time. I need more time. I ain’t playin an easy game here and I gotta ask you to wait” “Prince how long you expect me to wait?! I been givin you so many extensions. How in god’s name you gonna tell me that you don’t have my album?! I am coming over to your place in an hour and if you don’t have an album you can kiss Roc Nation and that deal goodbye.”

He hung up.

“J how we gonna drop an album in an hour. We got nothing and we got one hour. How we gonna do this yo?”

“Yo Prince, I got an idea, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

152

“What is it J?” “You remember that album we made in ninth–” “NO! Not a chance. Not even if Eazy came back to life and told me to. Never. We discussed this.”

Here’s what you're missing. Me and J made an album back in senior year of high school after my dad died. I made that album out of grief and ain’t no producer gonna use that album for money.

That was just my album, edited by J. J keeps telling me its fire and it would sell but I can’t sell something so personal.

“Yo Prince, we got an hour. We need ten songs and we got an hour. There ain’t no way we can do this unless we use that album. I already got the files on my laptop. This will get us signed one hunna percent.”

“It’s not that simple man, that album means something to me. It’s about me and my dad. All the memories he shared with me. All the things he told me. Every last memory of him is in that album.”

“Which is why it’s so good. We need to drop this or we’re not getting nowhere. This is our last resort.”

“There’s gotta be another way, we can do this.”

J grabbed me by the shoulder and told me this: “This is our only chance, and it’s all or nothing.

So are you with me, or are you with me?”

I began to think of what that album meant to me. When I first learned that my dad died, I didn’t know how to react. All I knew was that he was gone and that I would never be able to see him again. He was shot before my very eyes on my front lawn by a cop. I never liked cops. He was running away cuz he was being chased by the cops. He reached into his pocket for his phone and the officer thought it was a gun or something and fired. I was sitting on the porch doing my homework when I saw it happen.

Later on, the police dropped by and gave us a breakdown of what had happened. The cop that pulled the trigger wasn’t gonna be prosecuted, he wasn’t even going to be fired cuz he acted 153

“responsibly” and “reasonably” or some nonsense like that. The police also told us that my dad was being chased by the cop for “suspicious behavior”. I told ‘em straight up that there wasn’t nothin’ suspicious about my dad and, to my surprise, they agreed with me.

See my dad apparently ran when he saw the cop yell out to him. My dad always told me that.

Any time you see a cop yell out to you, run, cuz it don’t matter if you’re right or wrong when a cop with a gun has it out for you. He bought a pair of Jordans, the limited edition retro elevens.

I was crushed. I always talked with my dad about those shoes and he always got hyped whenever we talked about them. I desperately wanted those shoes, but I knew we couldn’t afford them cuz they costed so much and we had so little. I joked once to him that I should get a pair for my birthday. I didn’t think he’d take me seriously.

My dad had some $400 saved up so he could get a new TV or something, but he chose to get a pair of elevens for my birthday. When the officers at my house pulled out the shoes, I was in awe. My dad even got some gift wrap and a card so it would be extra special for my birthday. On the card, it said “Happy Birthday Prince. We’ve come a long way and I thought you deserved something special. I love you my son and I will always be by your side. Stay true Prince. Stay true.” Those words ring in my brain to this day, and I will never forget them.

To this day, that box of shoes sits in my closet with the note, untouched and unused. I never understood why my dad was taken from me, so I just started to write some music. That music turned into an album, co-produced by my right-hand man J. I realized that my father would want me to succeed in life, so I decided that it was time to get over my inhibitions and let the world hear what I wrote.

I told J “I’m with you.”

J put the album on a disc and all we had to do was wait. The agent called us and let us know that he was a minute away.

J was wrappin’ up the disc when he yelled out, “Yo Prince, what should we name this album?”

I realized that we never put a name on it and I yelled for him to hold on a sec.

154

I went in the house to my closet and grabbed the J’s my father got for me. I hesitated, and then I put them on. I read the card my father wrote one last time, and I put the card in the box and walked to the garage with my Sharpie.

At that moment, the doorbell rang.

“Yo J, this is it. This album means everything. We worked long and hard for this moment, and now it’s come.”

“That’s right. But we still gotta name this album, so what’s it gonna be?”

I grabbed the disc, and yelled for him to follow me to the door.

As I walked, I knew he noticed the shoes that I was wearing, but he didn’t say anything, I guess in an attempt to be sensitive.

I quickly wrote something on the disc, put it in an envelope, opened the door, and gave the envelope to the agent.

The agent said, “You know what, I didn’t think you guys could do it, but I guess I was mistaken.”

The agent walked out, looked back, and said “This album’s gonna impress Roc Nation, I already know.”

J and I walked back inside and asked “Yo what did you write as the album title on the disc?”

I smiled, looking at him for a second, then at the closet, then at my shoes and replied “Stay True”.

155

Growing to Love Myself By: Sarah Nour

7:30 in the morning...

Oh shoot, I have to go to school. I somehow brush my teeth and wash my face. Grab a brush and rush to apply all sorts of makeup to my face. I have to apply eyeliner "on point" or at least the closest to perfect I can do. Then trying to find the perfect outfit, which I never seem to have. One last look in the mirror. But nothing positive to say about myself. My hijab looks weird. My face is oily. I'm not even remotely close to pretty. I tell myself in the mirror, "Face it. You're not pretty. You never will be. Just smile and pretend everything is all right." I somehow eat a granola bar to school and enter class 5 minutes before the bell. I force a smile and talk to my classmates.

They think I'm okay, they think I'm happy. I'm not. I'm never happy. I constantly have a mini war with myself. I think, "My laugh is too loud. There's lipstick on my teeth. She doesn't like me. She probably thinks I'm a loser" I’m so self-deprecating, but yet I smile on the outside, a smile that is as cold as my heart, a place where sunshine and warmth will never reside. Nothing but doubt, always second guessing myself, never happy. I walk in the hallways with my head down, ashamed of myself. I can never hold my head high. I can never say I'm important. I always imagine the worst possibilities, always thinking meanly of myself. But as the leaves change color. Just like the leaves leave their green tint behind and adopt a new hue, beautiful, bright hues of gold, red and orange; I too want to leave my old self behind. I want to love music and be proud of who I am. And I never want to walk with my head down.

156

Meet Me Where I’m At By: Marleen Pan

Cups and spoons clinking, the coffee machine whirring, people’s orders being called out, the lazy chatter of early morning hubbub. As I sip my warm cup of vanilla latte, I let myself drown in the white noise. Today’s the first day of spring break and instead of sleeping in like most of my classmates probably are, I decided to wake up early in the morning (9 o’clock, close enough) to head over to the local coffee shop. But you see, I’m not here because I love the ambience or the decor of the coffee shop and though their coffee is good, I’m not here for any of their drinks either. I’m actually here to unwind by people-watching.

Ever since I was young, I’ve been very quiet and introverted. People didn’t talk to me a lot, discouraged by my clipped, one-word answers; so, I tended to fade into the background. But just because I didn’t talk a lot didn’t mean I hated people. I actually loved to people-watch. I loved the first interactions between two strangers, the bright expressions when people reunite, the casual conversation between friends, the warm atmosphere between couples. Sure, I didn’t talk to people directly but I felt like I always grew a little closer to each stranger I observed, just from the small window of their life I had the privilege to peek into.

If my life was a movie, all these people around me right now would be the supporting characters and extras. But I’m also a supporting character or extra in their life movie. Each person has their own likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, secrets, thought processes, and each one of them is the main character in their life. There are 7 billion - and counting - of us on Earth, which means 7 billion stories all somehow interconnected, even if it’s just as a passerby in the background. The sheer number of lives being lived really gets you thinking about just how big the world is to us but how small we are to the world.

Somebody bumps into the back of my chair, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I scoot in. They throw a curt, “Sorry” over their shoulder before they disappear out the door. Usually, people would think the short apology was rude but I like to think it’s because the other person is busy. Maybe they have a very angry boss who needs a coffee fix so they won’t blow up in their employees’ faces. Maybe they have an important meeting to go to and don’t have time to think 157

about trivial things when they’re already stressed. Maybe they’re getting breakfast for someone back home who’s sick and they have to get back as soon as possible.

An excited shout disrupts my thoughts and I turn my gaze to the line leading to the cashier. A guy pumps his fist in excitement, a wide grin spread across his face. The people surrounding him either glare at him or straight up ignore him. But that doesn’t deter his excitement as he bounces on the balls of his feet, practically flouncing his way to order. Judging from the guitar case on his back, I would say that he just got a gig to play somewhere. Or maybe he got accepted to a music program somewhere. Or maybe he serenaded somebody and they agreed to a second date (or third or fourth or fifth).

The guy’s happiness is contagious because as I take another sip of my cooling latte, I find myself humming and kicking against the leg rest of my chair. I let my gaze wander to the workers. Most of them are poker-faced but I’ve learned how to read them, so the subtle gestures scream their true sentiments about the job. The cashier angrily punches the buttons as she takes orders, probably reluctant to be up this early in the morning, when she needs the caffeine to stay awake, or maybe she was called in for a shift she wasn’t assigned to and she’s not in the mood to be here right now when she can (should) be curled up in her bed, sleeping. Her coworker making the drinks has a slight bounce in her step and she floats between the machine and the counter.

She seems like a morning person. Or today could be a good day, like her birthday or an anniversary of sorts or pay day and at this moment, nothing could ruin her good mood.

As I scrutinize the third worker (who keeps eyeing the pastry display- it’s not hard to assume he probably had no breakfast or is on a diet and is desperately trying to hold back from breaking it), I see somebody in my periphery come up to my table and stop. I wait a few moments for them to pass by but when the person shows no signs of moving, I look up at them.

“Oh,” I find myself blurting. It’s the guy with the guitar case from earlier and I’m startled with the realization that I think he’s cute. Like really, really cute.

“Hi, can I sit here? All the seats are taken,” he explains.

I nod, dumbfounded, as I watch him shrug off his guitar case and rest it against the table.

He places his cup of coffee down - Americano, I notice - and runs a hand through his messy hair.

I feel myself blatantly staring and when the stranger meets my eye, I angle myself away, 158

bringing my lukewarm latte to my lips to hide my blush. This shouldn’t be happening to me. I’ve been people-watching for so long and I’ve mastered the art of eavesdropping and staring without getting caught but for some reason, I find myself fumbling now.

The stranger chuckles and asks, “Do you like to people-watch?”

My cup clatters against the plate it was delivered on as I sputter a “What?”

“While I was waiting for my drink, I noticed you just staring at people,” he gestures around the room. He turns to face me again and when he seems to notice my shocked expression, he laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s not that obvious. I, uh, like to people-watch too.”

“O-oh,” I stutter, tracing the rim of my coffee cup.

“I’m Joshua,” he stretches a hand over the table.

I introduce myself, taking his hand in mine and shaking it. It’s rough with callouses, probably from playing guitar so much, but warm against my palm. When he returns his hand to his coffee cup, my hand tingles - just a tiny bit - and I smush it under my thigh to get rid of the feeling. We lapse into an awkward silence.

In an attempt to dispel it, I down my coffee in one go and clear my throat, jutting out my chin. “Look at the guy behind you.”

Joshua turns around subtly, eyeing the person I pointed out. The guy is hunched over his table, headphones haphazardly hanging off his head and papers and books littered around his laptop.

Joshua chuckles and turns back around, leaning in to whisper, “He’s probably studying for finals. Poor guy must be dead.”

I shake my head and joke. “Nah, he’s probably planning to murder somebody.”

“Murder?”

“He’s got criminology textbooks on his table. He’s probably trying to find a way to pull off the perfect crime.”

159

Joshua laughs, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth.

“Or he could’ve binge-watched too many episodes of a show the night before and now regrets it.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Hmm, guilty.”

For the next hour or so, we observe a few other people and continue to make up ridiculous reasons for their actions or even try to mouth read. (“I think that girl over there is trying to tell her boyfriend that she doesn’t like dogs but he won’t hear any of it,” Joshua motions behind me.

I turn to see two people seated across from each other furiously gesturing. “That’s atrocious. Nobody should hate dogs.”

“That’s why they’re so passionate. Look, she’s saying, ‘I hate it!’”

“Or maybe she accidentally ate the last bite of cake and she’s trying to come clean. ‘I ate it!’”

We dissolve into a fit of laughter.)

A while later, we settle into a comfortable silence as Joshua finishes the rest of his cooling Americano. I tap my fingers to an imaginary beat. The early morning rush has passed and now people trickle into the shop every now and then. Usually by now, the adrenaline from making lightning-quick observations and spinning strangers’ tales for a short while would’ve worn off and I would’ve long left the shop. But today I find myself sticking around a lot longer than I usually would; somewhere between a joke about a movie star and an intricate story about a strawberry tart, I began to wonder why I never took the time to do this with someone else.

Having a companion to people-watch with makes it much more fun and exciting.

“Oh shoot,” Joshua suddenly says, glancing at the giant owl clock on the wall. “I have to get to practice.”

“Right,” I nod, remembering the excited jumping. “Did you get the gig? Or the girl?”

160

Joshua stares at me. His confused expression is a tad too adorable but I cut my thought off there, not wanting to venture off too far into dreamland. “What gig? Or girl?”

I wave my hands around vaguely. “You looked really excited earlier when you were getting coffee. So I thought you got a gig or a second date with a girl after serenading her oh so romantically.”

I could see the realization dawn on Joshua and he shakes his head before grinning. “Nah, I got concert tickets to see my favorite band. And FYI, I don’t even have a girlfriend to serenade to. But, I do have band practice and I do have a gig next Friday. You should come. Here, I’ll write the venue down for you.”

He hastily scribbles some lines on a napkin and hands it to me. “Alright, gotta run.”

I wave goodbye at him and watch as he practically flies out of his seat, guitar case thumping against his back as he exits the coffee shop. I finally take a look at what he’s written down. His gig is a bus ride away from my house and I’m free next Friday so I decide going won’t hurt me. Besides, I would get to see Joshua again, this time with his guitar in hand.

Underneath the address, in a messy scrawl, he also wrote, Hope to see you there! :) Something taps against the window next to where I’m sitting and I jump, startled at the sudden noise. I turn to see Joshua waving at me and smiling with his eyes again. ‘See you,’ he mouths and then he’s sprinting down the sidewalk. I grin to myself and carefully tuck the piece of paper into my pocket as I get up to leave. If somebody had been watching me as closely as I have watched them, they would’ve noticed a brighter smile and a small bounce in my step as I walked down the sidewalk hoping Friday would come sooner.

161

Alice in Wonderland By: Eunice Park Sadness comes in waves. The first wave is violent, rocking the shores of the beach relentlessly. It pounds on the sands and spittle flecks of its wrath on to unfortunate bystanders. Yet once the wave retreats, the second wave approaches riding gloriously on the horse of the knight in shining armor.

The second wave is the damsel- always in distress, always needing saving, always blundering, tiptoeing, & finally: slipping. It silently slips away. The Third Wave begins.

The damsel in distress has slipped too far past the prince and down into naughty little Alice's Rabbit Hole of Nothingness. She is Alice. Enthralling Mad Tea Parties captivate her wonderland.

She's Alice. A formidable queen glares down at her- ordering flocks of card armies to execute her. Alice. Glamorous potions radiate an aura of mystery in this color popping roller coaster fantasy land. Alice?

She is Alice. Yet she sees but does not feel. She's trapped in the Rabbit Hole and no tea party nor fairy tale monster can fix her numbing spell. In this fearful, enthralling magical wonderland a ghost of Alice is present.

There's more than three waves, but they're not important. After the third wave, they all seem to feel the same.

Sadness is a feeling that dissolves into the nothingness of Depression.

162

Creating Beauty By: Eunice Park

When my mother received the news that she was going to have a girl, she was elated.

My mother was the essence of Korean beauty at her time- perfectly aligned creases on her double eyelids and a sharp nose bridge to "Westernize" her features. From the age of 15, puberty had enacted his magical spell. Her straight ebony hair was bleached, curled, and lightened and her body was slimmer. Her peers always imagined she would grow "pretty" as a model or an actress. Naturally, it was a disappointment when she decided to major in graphic design. They couldn't fathom why she would waste her looks.

I was supposed to be her reincarnation. With me, she was going to get it right this time. And absorbed by a society twisted with assumptions and powered by appearance, success was beauty.

So I was at best, a surprise- with my mono-lid eyes and pug nose.

Beauty is a fog in a mirror of illusions. There's a never ending quest for clarity that shuttles us through cracked mirrors that accumulate dust as we stand there silently glaring. We muffle our insecurities by dressing them in a shower of superficial likes and comments. And no matter how much we reassure ourselves that we could care less, we still silently judge others and naturally, judge ourselves the harshest.

I was only in 8th grade when I experienced my first "catcall". It was an absolutely terrifying experience, and as I willed myself to look away and walk briskly- but not too swiftly- across the parking lot, it was in the matter of seconds I had become a shiny spectacle for men to encase.

Yet, back in the safety of my car - as the drunken cluster of men grew smaller into an unrecognizable dot - a thought slipped out of the fog. They thought I looked nice.

163

Pretty is a bandage- and accepting pat-ons of consolations of beauty shows disillusionment. It's something we all have yet we allow it to be stolen from us and catapulted back in our faces as a justification for wrongs. She was "too pretty" that you could hardly blame his lack of control.

She was "too pretty" that it would hardly make sense for her to exhaust her delicate body in the complicated world of politics.

Success is creating beauty- not just surrounding cracks with broken lines of caution tape.

164

Fading Pictures By: Eunice Park

There's an old photo in my nightstand, its color well faded and copper frame just beginning to rust. It reeks of age and forgetfulness- but the photo inside, the one with that little girl and her grandmother- embodies nothing but happiness.

Alzheimer is a powerful poison. It manipulates & destroys memories exponentially and relentlessly. Before you know it, memories vanish and all what's left are pictures.

I visited the hospital as a stranger, and showed my grandmother that picture. The little girl & older woman on my nightstand were strangers to my grandmother- or what she called them "happy people she would like to see someday. "

165

Out of Park By: Eunice Park

Eunice was what they called me, those blonde haired, blue eyed extraterrestrials Unamused - my eyes flickered back and forth, what was it that they were saying?

“Nice travel?”, they asked, and I was delighted to finally have cracked their code, but Ice is what clunked out and dunked into a sea of heavy accent, it was imperceptible Creating a boundary between me and them and ultimately, between Yunhee & what they liked to call meEunice At least they got my last name right.

But fortunately, communication didn't really matter When all we did was play in the Park

© The Clearing by Anvita Warty 166

Spoiled Brat By: Eunice Park

I used to cry about everything- from balloons being accidentally released into the air to my dog refusing to play dress up with me. I always used to get so riled up in the moment, and feelings would overwhelm me - almost consume me - until I threw up the epitome of a "spoiled brat tantrum." Yet the more I understand, the more I feel numb. There's too much to feel that to keep me sane, it all combines together in a neat, condensed lump that I toss to the back of my head.

Sure, I occasionally pull it back up- trying to decipher the differences, but only a casual glance at face value- and the "lucky" ones that manage to escape the clump rarely turn out to be more important than just overly cute pictures of dogs and emotional trailers. I miss the intensity of these "spoiled brat tantrums", and maybe it's time to feel as passionate in making a real change.

167

Washable Markers By: Eunice Park

They said words were like washable markers. They were popping yellow on a good day, robin blue on a bad day, and on a really bad day- you couldn't really see them because all they were black.

Like washable markers they were so easy to smear, and those pesky little letters could cause such a mess. Those letters clung on to each other like long lost lovers- and it was true they weathered and faded and melted and creaked but they always seemed to leave an impression.

One jumble of those letters wasn't so bad. In fact, it was amusing- that flash of red boldly spilled over the blank canvas. At first it was an eyesore but it eventually became more of an inconvenience until the second jumble came, then the third, then the fourth, then the next. Red and yellow were fine. They mixed into a lovely shade of orange. Then purple was shot through the canvas to make a deep indigo that morphed into a putrid green and then into a murky sea, and finally- black.

To be honest, it was almost a relief when the colors melted into darkness- and the uncertainty of knowing what color was going to appear on the canvas was gone. If the 9th jumble twirled in, the canvas was black. As well as the 99th, or the 999th, or the 999999th. The canvas was black.

168

Nemo Est Supra Legem By: Victor Phong

Stop it. Just stop.

Stop looking at me with those silent, but piercing eyes; it's as if you are trying to decipher a mystery.

Mute you may be, but your eyes say more than you ever could. I get it. You judge me with the book of "laws" tucked in your left and the gavel in your right.

What sins did I commit? What inhumane things have these very hands delivered to the earth?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

And yet you judge. You judge when we are but the same person. The only distinction is that you are Judy and I, the bearer of your heavy verdict. No document, no law could ever shield me from that decree.

I hate it. I hate the ultimatum that is the sound of your gavel unto the desk. The final word spoken, and now, I am a criminal for all to see.

But isn't it funny? Isn't it funny how injustice is so easily justifiable? In the blink of an eye, I am chained to the very earth I was born from.

Oh, but of course! How could I be so blind?

Please, forgive this ignorant soul for his foolhardy ways. I deserve it all. Please, stone this beast with your virtues and purge is blood of such follies.

You now have my word. But better yet, you have the word of society.

169

Powerful By: Victor Phong

Just a thought, but have you ever wondered how lucky we are to wonder? to be able to criticize with our own minds, the lack of a capitalized letter at the beginning of a sentence, or the seemingly random breaks in the middle of that very same sentence?

These thoughts are our own. No fear or hypnosis can tell us otherwise. And whether those thoughts are dark or beautiful is ultimately up to us; we are all alchemists, concocting a soup of knowledge.

And whether we choose to share those thoughts is also our right; we can stand up to a crowd and accept the future to come, or be forever locked in a cage of the unknown.

And whether we choose to act righteously on those thoughts is simply instinctive; we can choose to shower a man with words of greatness or push him down to the depths or society.

Don't you realize how powerful we are?

But go ahead, disagree with me. After all, you have every right to.

170

171

© To the Seas by Nicole Lee

The 28th Amendment By: Victor Phong

I am, but a slave to the Union, chained to the word of the law and bounded to a mere piece of paper.

I am, but a weapon to the Union, encouraged to spill the blood of innocents and "fight in the name of justice".

I am, but a prey to the Union, ignored because of the black on my skin and wanted only for the green in my wallet.

I am, but a whisper to the Union, confounded with the lump known as "society" and hammered back into the board when my nail is "crooked".

I am, but a burden to the Union, despised for my "incessant need" of medical insurance and for my "temper tantrums" when I don't have a roof over my family.

I am, but a whore to the Union, lusted for simply for my body and choked by the supremacy of males.

But who am I to complain? After all, I am, but a part of the Union.

172

Individual Perception By: Ethan Rigonan

I look down from above when the sun shines bright. A symbol of tranquility, with no end to the human eyes. I'm calming, I'm flowing, but there is another side to me.

I can be cold, leaving you without the warmth of the sun. I'm there when you are sad, like an old forgotten friend, never seen and never heard. You try to find me in the sky at night, but the only thing you see is a void that gives off the feeling of anxiety.

I'm everywhere, I'm always with you, but which me do you choose to always be by your side.

The symbol of serenity or the symbol of depression? They are two sides of the same coin, but do not let fate decide on which one you feel, it is, and always been, your choice.

173

Inner Demons By: Ethan Rigonan

The bell rings and I say goodbye to my friends. I get home from school, and I think to myself, "It was a pretty good day". I had fun, I didn't get hurt, and my grades weren't too bad. I should be happy...Right? I look in the mirror and see myself, but I'm not smiling. I look worried, almost sad and I don't know why. I go back through my day to figure out why. There was nothing I could find that would make me like this so I looked again and again and again. I keep looking until I finally remember why I'm so sad. I found myself talking and I look happy, but I know it's a lie. I can see through the facade I worked so hard on and I know I'm scared, scared on what to say next, scared that I'm gonna make people mad, scared that I'm gonna say something wrong.

Knowing the truth makes it too hard to watch, so I close my eyes. I think to myself, "Do I want to be this way for the rest of my life, wearing a mask in front of my friends, basically lying to them?" Do I have a choice?

Then someone taps my shoulder and I turn, I look up and see someone who looks like me smiling. It's a real smile, so I ask “Who are you?" He doesn't answer, he just hugs me with that smile still on his face. Then I hear him say “You do." That's when I realize who he is, he isn't me, he's the person I want to be. He's the person who isn't afraid of mistakes, who isn't worried about when he's going fall, who's only focuses on getting back up. He then turns around and points. I look and see my friends smiling and giving me a hand. A small smile appears on my face and say in a whisper "Thanks."

174

Reasons By: Ethan Rigonan

For something so incredible that I never want to forget, for something important so I learn and grow, for something sad so I can appreciate what I have, and for something amazing so I can share with everyone.

To see how far my mind can go, to make sure it will never stop or slow, to explore a new world never seen before, and to expand worlds forgotten.

I write so that I don't hide anything from myself. I write so that when my mouth is not strong enough to say the truth my pencil will tell no lies. I write to prove that I'm different, but also the same. I write to express myself. I write to be me.

175

So How Long Do You Expect Me to Wait?

By: Emmanuel Ronquillo

“Two seconds.”

Two seconds. It was always two seconds with her. But at the same time, it was never just two seconds with her.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I swear, just give me two more seconds” “1…. 2.”

Grumbling to himself, he nibbled halfheartedly at his celery. It was terribly bland, he mused to himself. It was honestly quite ironic in its entirety. A vegetable so incredibly boring that it would be much more amusing to talk about how lame it is than to talk about the vegetable itself. For instance, celery could be described as follows: Bland. Tasteless. Boring.

Then, on the other hand, you have your complaints: Celery is nothing more than an edible spoon, since societal norms deem it rude to eat ranch or peanut butter off your fingers.

“1, 2.”

She gleefully chirped up from behind him “Have you ever thought about how lame celery is?”

“Ready to go- What?”

“Celery. It’s just so-” He gestured at the vegetable with his hands, grasping for what words he could use to describe his amused disdain “Healthy?”

“What? Can’t be, you lose more calories from eating a stick of celery than you gain.”

176

“So celery has, um, negative calories?”

“Yeah, yeah. But that’s not what I mean. It’s just-” “Tasty?”

She took a bite of celery “Then why do we always cover it in ranch? Or peanut butter? Or BBQ sauce?”

“BBQ sauce? Gross.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it” They both took a bite of celery “I just don’t know how to say-” “So is celery your ducks in the pond?”

“What?”

“Is celery your equivalent to ‘Where do the ducks go in the winter?”

Another silent crunch of celery.

“You did not just compare me to Holden Caulfield” “Um” He was on his feet now, hands ruffling his hair “I hated Catcher. It was so dumb.”

“Calm down Holden.”

“No, no, no. Just give me two seconds and I can, I can articulate what I want to say.”

“1, 2.”

“Gah!” He plopped himself back down on the couch “You okay?”

177

Someone takes a bite celery.

“The English language has let me down. I have failed you Shakespeare.”

“Would you like me to teach you German?”

She crunched the celery as he covered his eyes.

“No, no. I’m doing good, I promise” “I’m doing well.”

Another bite.

“Okay, that’s it! I’m quitting. I’m going off into the European mountains to become a silent monk. I’ll, I’ll spend my days cleaning castles and farming vegetables!”

“Like celery?”

178

THAT Friend By: Nathan Vo I'm Nathan. And I'm THAT friend. The one that you know you can come to any time, every time, all the time. It feels good, knowing that people can count on me to be their rant buddy, their balancing point, their rock. It's gotta be a good thing being reliable, right? It can't be a bad thing to be the friend that everyone goes to lean on...at least I hope not.

I've spent my high school career being an emotional therapist of sorts. I've heard it all, from resentment to regret. And as a result, I've kept my own problems inside me, to make room for everyone else's. I can feel my emotions building up inside of me, cutting away like a knife. But I tell myself that it's okay because everyone else is happy, and who am I to ruin that? What can I do, I'm expected to be THAT friend. The "forever cheerful, always ready to help" friend. And I guess I'll have to live with that.

Š Fist by Taylor Watson

179

A Sharp Turn By: Edison Wong

I've told this story a lot, but when I first started middle school, I was an extremely shy individual.

I didn't make any friends, and I felt really like an outcast, which is weird, considering we go to Whitney. Whenever a teacher asked for volunteers, I would never volunteer, not that I didn't know the answer, but because I was too shy to speak. Eventually, I was put into a Speech & Debate class. I remember crying the first day of class because I was put into a class of mainly Seniors and Juniors. I thought that I would be bullied. However, as time went on, I learned more and more. I felt more confident as I became a better speaker. I realized that I was destined and capable for much more than I was before. I didn't want to be the old Edison. I wanted to be a new person. Thankfully, I was supported by these High School students, not scrutinized by them. This isn't a story about physical change. This is a story about realizing your potential.

180

The Gift of Life By: Edison Wong The best gift I've ever been given was a phone call. When I was younger, my family and I went to Universal Studios around Christmas and being the energetic and eager me, I raced around the entire place making my parents frantically look for me. At one point, I lost my parents. Scared and helpless, I didn't know what to do so the only thing I did was cry. I remember being stranded for twenty minutes, and with no one to help me. Luckily, this young lady came up to me calmed me down, and asked for my parent’s phone number. I didn't know it but I had one of those identification cards and she calmed my mom for me. My parents came, rushing and distressed. If it wasn't for her, who knows where I would be now.

181

Grateful By: Richard Yeong.

This past summer, I had the opportunity of volunteering in Ecuador. I remember visiting a local village called Bella Vista in the Amazon to help build a water-filtration system there. The men, women, and children there did not have clean, accessible water to begin with and were always at risk of water-borne illnesses. Looking back at this, something I take for granted is water. We use water every day and think nothing of it, but in a lot of countries, clean water is a rarity. We should be grateful for even the littlest things such as water.

182

Mirror Mirror on the Wall By: Richard Yeong

Most teenagers struggle through high school being unsure of their own image and lacking confidence to believe in their full potential. What journeys have you gone through in order to accept yourself in all of your beauties and flaws?

I may not have the best looks. I may not have the high IQs. I may not have the best athletic abilities. But, what I do have that keeps my head up high is my personality. Not knowing anybody, when I first came to Whitney, I had always wanted to make a good first impression and be accepted into the school. Though my shyness and lack of confidence was a deterrent in my mind, I was able to find a circle of people who would later become my closest friends. Our personalities had meshed perfectly with one another, and throughout the years, we had grown as individuals. One important piece of advice I received from them was to not care of what other people think and just be yourself. Whatever a person does, whether it be saying a witty remark or dancing randomly in public, individualizes him/her and can break out from the conformity of society. I may have acne. I may have B’s in class. I may have 10-minute miles. But, I have accepted these flaws, and know that these are a part of me.

183

The Meaningful Gift By: Richard Yeong

Gifts. They come in all different kinds of shapes, sizes, colors; but, they share one common quality—the intense thought and meaning behind the gift from the giver. I believe that whatever gift I have received in the past are all individually unique in its own respective manner. Whether it be something small such as candy or something large such as a computer, I understand that thought had been put into those gifts. For instance, people may have given me candy because they have seen me eat a lot of sweets or they consider myself as a “sweet� and kind-hearted person. The amusement comes from the uncertainty of the meaning behind the gift. Some may be simple to decipher, but some may be more difficult; nonetheless, the best part of the gift hails from its meaning behind it.

184

Acknowledgements We cannot express enough thanks for our adviser, Mrs. LaMonica Bryson, for the endless support and careful attention she has demonstrated for each year’s anthology to highlight the different voices on our Whitney High School campus.

The making of this anthology would never have been possible without the eternal support of our Whitney administration and English department. To Mrs. Shea, thank you for always offering a helping hand and for taking your time to ask about our newest, budding projects. To Cindy, thank you for working day in and day out to ensure a successful year for each of our clubs and the entire school. Although not everyone may have seen your incredible work ethic, we have all felt it in our everyday lives. To each and every one of our English teachers, thank you all for pushing us beyond our limits and guiding us to see what we can accomplish with our words.

Finally, the completion of this anthology would not have been possible without our artists and writers, who graciously submitted their pieces to us to provide our readers with a diverse range of voices. Each and every artist who has contributed to “Stuck Between the Pages” is another unique voice added to this community full of diversity.

185

Closing Then with a swift, simple turn of the page, it ends. As with all great treasures in life, this year’s anthology has happened upon its twilight. Its remaining curtain call. The last flip of its weathered pages.

Or has it?

Literary works of any merit have always held that intangible attribute imbued within them. That abstract quality that diminishes the ultimatum that a book’s final page attempts to dictate. For though this book ends here, on this single page, the story presses forward against the perpetual beat of time’s march. As the works in this anthology face a new dawn; perform for one more night; are reread for the umpteenth time, readers and writers happen upon incredible blessings within them. Each time a story is read and a page is turned. Each moment between a sip of coffee or tea. Each breath between sentences. All insignificant blips in the annals of time, but irreplaceable memories in one’s life. As is the nature of stories, they will continue to live on long past the initial reading, perpetually growing alongside the world they inhabit.

We sincerely hope you have experienced a great many emotions after partaking on this journey with our many student works. Personally erring preference towards the side of joy and exuberance, though also acknowledging the sorrow and heartbreak that may have been shared.

The Whitney Anthology Committee earnestly awaits the next year of appreciation, the following wave of readers, and the subsequent addition of valuable writers. Thank you for accompanying us on this journey and until we next meet.

What lies next between the pages?

186