The Tartan - 2021 by The Tartan Magazine

LXV

THE 2021 TARTAN

Dear Readers, A student’s life is a maelstrom of passions, ambitions, struggles, and dreams. This can be both incredibly fulfilling yet utterly terrifying. Likewise, our journeys are constantly upended — sometimes with disappointment, sometimes with delight, as we move between failure and success. Ominous turns propel our growth. Like two sides of a coin, or the starting point of a circle, our growth is ambiguous. Sometimes we return to the beginning over and over without making progress. However, finding the answer is not what matters. Rather than the ending, what really matters are the lessons we learn along the way. We finish only to begin anew, to move on to new cycles of growth. With each revolution, our ability grows, our outlook widens. Treading over our past and present, we complete new orbits of experience. Through elements like the strange repetition in “Puzzle,” the powerful movement of “The First Time I Realized I was Young,” and the haunting use of black and white throughout, this year’s edition of The Tartan seeks to portray this continuous and mysterious revolution. As you connect to the pieces of writing, art, and music created by McLean High School students in this volume, we hope that it inspires you to find meaning in the paths you take — that you evolve in each of life’s small revolutions.

With Love, The Tartan

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Marina Qu Hyohyun Jung

STAFF Akash Balenalli Karina Bhatt Sweta Das Libby Eick Minjae Hur Jisoo Hwang Lily Neusaenger

Sophia Pandit Abby Powell Camille Stephant Jiayin Zou ADVISERS Lindsay Benedict Seth LeBlanc

McLean High School 1633 Davidson Road McLean, Virginia 22101

REVOLVE

TABLE

CONTENTS

Cover Art Ring | Photograph | Zoey Pagotto 1

How to Play God: A Step-by-Step Guide | Poem | Sophia Pandit Spit Out | Mixed Media | Yudam Chang

Puzzle | Personal Essay | Lily Neusaenger Broken | Mixed Media | Andrea Yao

Memory | Poem | Michael Abi-Nader Self-Portrait | Mixed Media | Luiza Nedelescu

Shanghai | Poem | Abby Powell Ratri | Photograph | Akash Balenalli

The Abandoned | Short Story Excerpt | Karina Bhatt Pandemic Pandemonium | Photograph | Benjamin Cudmore

After Rain | Poem | Richard Tamirisa All Life a Phantom | Drawing | Emily Chen

My Grandmother at Ninety | Poem | Libby Eick Golden Age | Painting | Luiza Nedelescu

Studio Laughter | Short Story | Sarah Colatriano Hands and Henna | Digital Art | Tibaal Naqshbandi

The First Time I Realized I Was Young | Poem | Arya Sagar Dancer | Photograph | Marina Qu

Quartet in A Minor | Music Composition Excerpt | Tieran Holmes Untitled | Drawing | Gillian Grunenfelder

Sailing Free | Poem | Sabina Smith Big Sur | Photograph | Jiayin Zou

Significance of | Poem | Sophia Pandit Asian Dragon | Sculpture | Yeonho Gil

Flame’s Embrace | Poem | Jackie Palmer Red Lights | Photograph | Eliana Durkee

The Edge of the World | Short Story | Avery Barnett Reflection | Painting | Cherry Lee

Red Wolf | Short Story | Lily Neusaenger Inner Self | Digital Art | Arin Kang

Brush Street, Detroit | Poem | Libby Eick Screw & Staple City | 3-D Art | Eliana Durkee

Convergence | Poem | Sophia Pandit Amber | Painting | Sajma Hasan

Chronology | Poem | Awida Neji The Clock of My Life | Drawing | Malika Neou

Unexpected Moments | Short Story | Sara Smith Edge of the Earth | Photograph | Riley Harris

Boredom | Poem | Libby Eick Disguise | Photograph | Marina Qu

A Grainy Photograph | Poem | Sophia Pandit New Perspective | Drawing | Luiza Nedelescu

Colophon Tunnel | Photograph | Marina Qu

how to play god: a step-by-step guide by Sophia Pandit i. the nagpur orange pluck the mottled sun drooping low from overgrown orchards and shed his rind, a waxed riddle of oedipal green weaved with cadmium hubris. shed until pulp rays dribble down, making the blistered burn. let sour verbiage lick writhing flesh, and while she hemorrhages in the street, claim to her father the wounds are clean. ii. opium song and so it begins! fields of flaming poppies, with pupils shriveled like my brethren’s bodies, often find themselves susceptible to nervous failure; jar the milk tears spilling forth and cure them dry. smoke for blackened lung valleys and nosebleed rivers, both of which prelude the cacophony of pale blues rolling back in their heads. iii. death by drainage to bear witness to lakeside kingfishers is a travesty in itself. laws of nature dictated by the self-serving state forbid their guttural songs from melding with the mellow burbles of oars gliding atop the waters.

SPIT OUT

by Yudam Chang

PUZ LE Z

by Lily Neusaenger

BROKEN

by Andrea Yao

have the reds,” I insist, looking up at my sister. I roll my neck and stretch my arms out beside me, staring at her until she lifts her head to look at me. She holds a single cardboard square between her fingers. A red square. I clear my throat when she doesn’t look up at me. “You got the border, so I get the reds.” My voice sounds more like a whine now, and Chloe looks up at me just to roll her eyes. I hold a hand out between us. “Give it to me.” “It’s a piece of the border,” she reasons, turning her attention back to the semi-formed section in front of her. I move my hand closer, pressing my lips together frustratedly. She glances at me again then says, “You have, like, fifty red pieces in front of you.” I do. “I don’t care. I need that one.” “No, you don’t.” “You don’t know what I need. Give me the piece.” “You don’t tell me what to do.” “I’ll stop helping you if you don’t give me that piece.” “Fine. Leave.” I don’t move. Chloe smirks and keeps moving the piece around the table, searching for its place. Anger twists around my every nerve and, without thinking, I reach over, tear the piece from its spot, and throw it across the dining room. It lands silently, anticlimactically on the wooden floor. We both stare at it for a few seconds, waiting for the other to blow their fuse. The moment never comes. Birds sing outside, filling the dining room with shrill noise. We turn our heads back toward each other, leaning back in our seats and away from the puzzle laying between us that’s not even close to being finished. My eyes hurt from staring at the vivid, little images for so long. “Wanna go on a walk?” she asks. I nod. “The nature trail or through that neighborhood?” I ask. Chloe shrugs. “You pick.” “I picked yesterday.” “Fine. Nature trail.” I’m silent. She smiles. “Fine. Neighborhood,” she says. I sigh. “It’s just that there was a lot of dog poop on the trail yesterday, and I’m guessing it’s still there.” “You’re annoying.” “No, you’re annoying.” She doesn’t reply, giving in for the sake of ending this trivial conversation. For a few seconds, we just sit and listen to CNN playing quietly from the living room.

“If you’re going on a walk, Dr. Fauci said to wear your masks even if you’re outside. Fifty thousand people have died,” my mom says, not looking away from the TV. “It’s pronounced Fauci. Not Pauci,” Chloe says, pointing out one of the small remnants of my mom’s Filipino accent. I smile as our mom gives her a look. “It’s not funny,” she insists. “Kristi Hochstetler’s grandmother died the other day. I saw it on Facebook.” “Didn’t Kristi have a baby last year? I’m older than her, you know. Crazy,” Chloe says, turning to me. I shrug, flipping a puzzle piece over between my fingers. “I heard about that. The dude was kinda cute.” She scoffs. “He literally wasn’t.” My mom turns up the TV to drown out our talking. Chloe and I laugh quietly to ourselves. Neither of us move. There’s really no need. The streams of light coming in from the windows shrink to razor-thin slices of brightness around us. The half-finished picture of three cats sitting around a fireplace lays still on the table. There are steaming mugs of hot chocolate in their furry little hands, but the tiny dots of their eyes are trained on something in the distance, waiting. Focused on something that isn’t in the picture at all, something that doesn’t seem to exist in their twodimensional world. The room goes dark around us, but nothing moves. Except that numb ticking of the clock, growing slowly. “I have the reds today. You had them yesterday, remember?” Chloe sighs and runs her fingers over the smooth pieces. “No.” “Why won’t you just let me have them? You’re being ann—” “No,” she interrupts me. She looks up, but something tells me that she doesn’t quite see me. “I mean, no, I don’t remember. Is that what we did yesterday?” Silence. “I don’t really know. It may have been two days ago.” “Or three.” Maybe so. We both look down to distract ourselves from the white haze filling our minds. It works. I gaze across the table, looking over the scattered pieces of our project. The birds outside sing a tune I’m not sure I’ve heard before. Chloe’s fingers freeze, hovering above two brown pieces. They’re part of the fireplace, the last two pieces needed to complete that portion of the puzzle. Yet, she doesn’t place them, doesn’t even touch them. Her eyes don’t blink. Waiting. “One hundred sixty thousand deaths,” Mom says. Chloe smiles and breathes once more. “Hm,” she says. “Dr. Pauci tell you that?” Mom doesn’t respond. She turns up the volume.

The two unmoving brown pieces stare up at me, reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun. Chloe sits back in her seat. “He wasn’t cute at all,” Chloe says. I snap my head up. “What?” “What?” “I thought you...” “I didn’t.” What were we even talking about? I look down and realize that I haven’t placed a single piece this entire day. I reach for the brown pieces, fighting through the fog in my mind, but then I remember something. A single red border piece sits before me. I gently wipe the fuzzy pieces of carpet from its face, wondering when this piece had ever been on the floor. Yesterday. I don’t remember ever picking it up. Was it yesterday? “Wanna go on a walk?” This feels good. Familiar. “Yeah. Nature trail?” Chloe groans. “No, there was a lot of dog poop on the trail yesterday, and I’m guessing it’s still there.” That makes sense. “Yeah, then the neighborhood one.” “Perfect.” The sun sets again as we sit in the same spot, staring down at the scattered pieces. The cats still grasp their tiny mugs. Shadows of trees linger on our walls, growing and moving slowly as the sun dips below the ground. I see the world beyond the window beside us, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve been outside. When was the last time we went on a walk? Slid a cardboard piece into another and formed the puzzle just a bit more? “You have the reds,” Chloe reminds me. But we both know it doesn’t matter. 17,392 50,231 160,327 The sun disappears once more and we find ourselves at that table, hovering over the same incomplete puzzle. And the cats k e e p w

Memory by Michael Abi-Nader The memory of what was is now but my imagination. I try for hours to remember one face, one feature, one detail. Yet my mind fails me every time. Angels sit by me, waiting, as I gaze outside at a maple. The tree takes a deep breath. Gazing upon me with sorrow, or perhaps tranquility. What should I do before it’s over? Should I hold my breath? I think I will just close my eyes And hope to open them in a new world.

SELF PORTRAIT

by Luiza Nedelescu

Shanghai My home is… in a bit of a state It’s hideous, to be frank Overflowing with leering, oily men Tomato-faced screaming matches in grating voices and eviction notices The backside of sweltering lights and glorified gluttony

by Abby Powell

My home is underground, at 5 p.m. on a weekday Where heels come off and fifty perfumes fight to smell more toxic than the smog-tainted air Mixing with cigarette smoke and the sweat of people of every age Packed grime-coated uniform to suit-clad shoulder pad Ignoring and screaming at one another, all rushing across the city at forty kilometers an hour Before fighting, scrambling and trampling over each other to get out I got out Pretty early, in fact I got to green suburbia, stately homes a respectable distance apart The leisurely pace of knowing there’s probably a bright-ish future ahead Consequences of not being cut off from the rest of the world by your government Turns out the grass really is greener on the other side Well, at least the synthetic turf on a wealthy suburb’s soccer field is

Lucky, very lucky I was Whizzed out of the arena in the middle of the fight If I had any sense, I wouldn’t spare a glance behind me But leisure makes time for idle thinking Idle thinking of how grass is greener when it has something extra to feed off of Like when something has rotted underneath it Sometimes I think of streetlamps Illuminating drunkards stumbling across puddles Sending ripples across a shard of a reflection, distorted by oil I think of reaching into the puddle and taking the reflection in my hands Of laying down on the concrete that’s littered with spit and cigarette butts And tentatively placing a kiss on the city’s cheek As if returning to a severe mother

RATRI by Akash Balenalli

PANDEMIC PANDEMONIUM 11

by Benjamin Cudmore

The Abandoned by Karina Bhatt

my was in the building for the first time in months. The county gave the all-clear. They said it wasn’t necessary to clean anything because the schools were cleaned before closing, and the isolation wouldn’t do anything but good. The county, like usual, was wrong. The school needed a cleaning, a deep cleaning, that involved exterminators and thousands upon thousands of dollars. Amy heard a squeak beneath her shoe. She had stepped on one’s tail. Oh, no. The vile thing looked up with beady, red eyes. It hissed… before unleashing its claws.

AFTER

RAIN

by Richard Tamirisa It had rained the night before Puddles of the cloud littered the ground Children waited in anticipation Their noses squished against the cold glass windows They arrived in one big swarm Landing on the wet grass Digging their beaks into the ground like fireline workers The robins’ orange chest plumage glittered in the morning sun And we marveled at its magnificence The kings and queens of the forest They knew their importance Every now and again a worm was ripped out of the ground Wedged between a bright yellow points Flailing its slimy body in the wind Any small movement could disrupt the feeding frenzy So we sat still And observed the harsh truths of nature

ALL LIFE A PHANTOM by Emily Chen

GOLDEN AGE by Luiza Nedelescu

by Libby Eick Thin and warm, blotched and tanned from the sun, and powdered white. They are old and tough and firm against her will. Cards pass through her weathered palms, over and under, she mixes and remixes. Some slip through her fingers onto the floor. From her small, delicate hands fishermen bought tobacco and tomatoes as they roamed the docks of Adore Marina, her leather-skinned, old-hearted village. Would you like to go back, someday, to play with the cousins and the uncles and the aunts by the sea? She looks up, glasses greasy on her nose, and asks, Can you pick up the cards for me?

Studio Laughter by Sarah Colatriano

aige’s hands trembled as she pulled them toward her chest and insisted once more that she was warm enough. “I’ll be leaving soon, anyway,” she assured me. The 70s sitcom on the television flashed like a torch through the pitch-black basement. We were twelve and the jokes were outdated, but we were hardly watching anyway. The neighborhood party had long since ended and the house long since emptied, but Paige remained in her place on the ground, knees to her chest. She declined a place on the sofa before I could offer it and instead leaned back against the base of the couch. Her shoulder rested so close to my leg that whenever she took a deep breath, our skin would brush, and she’d recoil. Her touch flashed quicker than the crack of a flame but lingered longer than both our lifetimes combined. Each time, she’d give a quick apology of questionable sincerity and fall back into the pitiful silence where she sat and held her breath. Our bodies grew rigid, but our minds ran wild. Our attention was everywhere but the screen, but we didn’t dare turn away. It was the final remaining barrier and yet it was our saving grace. It was the safety net we’d silently agreed to fall upon when our limited experience could no longer guide us. But just how long could we leave it unaddressed, this intensity in the distance between us? It was like the radiating heat of a bonfire: invisible yet impossibly ever-present. Intimidating yet stunningly beautiful. The kind of warmth that draws you in just to burn your fingertips and leave you searching for a place in the balance.

27 17

HANDS AND HENNA by Tibaal Naqshbandi All we could do was leave ourselves in the space between, just a bit too cold, craving the fiery embrace of the intensity’s flames. It was all one moment, any moment, away… The credits rolled. “It’s late,” Paige sighed with a glance at her watch. “I should probably go.” She pushed against the sofa to stand and yawned as she rubbed her upper arms for friction. I stood as well and let my bare feet bathe in the warmth of the carpet where she’d sat. My heart pounded in my head and I could have sworn I heard Paige’s too. She crossed the shadows of the room in search of her belongings as the opening theme of the next episode began. “Alright,” I said, muting the TV. She turned back to look at me, waiting for one of us to fill the silence. I swallowed. “I…I’ll see you around.” Paige put on her denim jacket and gave the floor a gentle grin and chuckle. She glanced up and our eyes met in the dim flickers of the TV cast across the halves of our faces. “See you around,” she breathed and stepped toward the door. This was it; this was the weak, lamentable substitute to the evening’s ending we’d both undoubtedly imagined. Was this how we’d forever remember this night? In three words so very different from the ones we were too timid to admit aloud? Halfway out the door, she hesitated. Just one more second to weigh her options. But she smiled a goodbye, repressed the daydreams, and disappeared into the midnight gloom. The screen door slammed and bounced three times at her heels — a trumpet fanfare to announce a new silence, the intensity’s twin, and its invasive conquest of the night.

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DANCER by Marina Qu 19

Panting and gasping for breath I squeeze myself Between the gap of a towering oak tree And a spiny shrub Closing my eyes A smile stretches across my freckled face I hear her running past my hideaway

THE FIRST TIME I REALIZED I WAS STILL

YOUNG by Arya Sagar

Peering around the trunk of my savior I run away The sounds of Mia’s footsteps fade Darting from spot to spot Glancing for a good place to camouflage An awfully placed root catches my shoelace Pulling me to my utter demise My eyes become watery I let out a yelp Bloody knees meet my gaze A downpour of tears Is what I become At some point Mia comes to my side Carrying me precariously So as to not injure me further A blur of events transpire My mother’s voice saying that I’m only 8 “Go easy on her in these games” That makes me cry harder I want to tell her I’m old enough I want to tell her I can handle myself But sometimes It’s okay to let people care for you Especially when you have still have so much time To grow

Quartet in A Minor for one piccolo & three flutes by Tieran Holmes

UNTITLED by Gillian Grunenfelder

BIG SUR by Jiayin Zou

Sailing Free by Sabina Smith

You close your eyes to feel The sea spray on your face. Miles fly by under your keel, Swooping the waves with grace. You’re all alone in this wide world, Just you, the gulls, the sea. Wind fills the sails as they’re unfurled, And you can’t help but feel free. Free from the cares of everyday life, Free from worry, pain, or fear. The bow cuts the water like a knife As the end of the day draws near.

significance of by Sophia Pandit there. it’s settled. She speaks to me in a figurative tongue, eluding to most, alluding for all. a deity rather coy, beady-eyed, slinking Her way up the confines of the mortal realm, not unlike that damned recluse, spindly thighs now a ribcage, bound to stucco with silk. or those thirteens nicking themselves into billboards, a warning for the potholes in the road ahead. i yearn for Her gunmetal gaze to melt, mercury tears raining on clover fields, each stem sprouting a fourth tender, kelly arm. as a matter of fact, i would pop every socket and shred all pellucid vein if it meant i could be left with its chlorofilled skeleton, whose oracle bones must reveal splendid truths of what’s to come.

ASIAN DRAGON by Yeonho Gil

by Jackie Palmer As we sit before flames dancing with zeal, A whirlwind of chaos my heart creates. Yet, my embrace in you is all that’s real, And I convince myself all will be great. And the pain endured through much affliction, I know the regret in your fond gaze shows; I tell myself you’re worth this addiction As your tender touch can soften the blow. Although the hardships never cease their rein, If their purpose can be revealed, I pray, And my fears and angst I try to contain As these flames burn, hoping all is okay. Yet if my chills persist, iciness kept, In flames may I burn before I accept.

RED LIGHTS by Eliana Durkee

f the World (A Co o e g d E nve by Avery Barnett rsa The tio n

wi th

M ys

elf

Legs stretched out on our couch, you lean your head back and sigh. Quiet, restless tension lingers between us until you sit up and look at me. “Remember when we went to the beach?” “We’ve been to the beach a lot,” I answer guardedly. It’s true, we have, but we both know which time you’re referring to. “The last time we went to the beach. It was at night.” I pause, then say reluctantly, “Yes, I remember.” “It wasn’t like all the times before. We used to love the beach, love the water.” Your mouth curls into a wistful smile. “We would run into the waves and dive in, carried along by gentle currents. We had fun.” I sink into the cushion behind me and rest my hands over my face. “Yes, I know, I remember. Do you have a point or is this just nostalgia hour?” You shoot me a bitter look, and as you continue cautiously, your face becomes clouded with sour memories. “The last time we went was different. It felt…unsafe. The ocean was dark and cold. It felt like we were—” “Standing on the edge of the world,” I say, cutting you off. “Yeah. But we went into the water anyway. The waves were stronger than before; they picked us up and tossed us around, made us seasick.” You stop and look down at the floor. “You remember what it was like, right?” you ask in a quiet voice. “Yeah, I do. It was horrible.” We fall silent, each of us lost in our shared memory. “We’ll have to go back someday,” I say, glancing over at your face, furrowed with uneasy reminiscence. “Will we?” you ask. I don’t answer. We both know that we couldn’t stay away even if we tried. There’s a part of us that needs to go back. Our return to the beach is inevitable; our fate has been sealed since that night. Curiosity wriggles in our seasick stomachs, and we both ache to see what lies beyond the dark, crashing tidal waves — what lies beyond the edge of the world.

)

REFLECTION by Cherry Lee 30

Red Wolf by Lily Neusaenger

relax my arm, letting the wicker basket swing back and forth at my side. A hard, frayed edge slices across my skin as my leg bumps against the basket, and I stop the swinging of my arm to concentrate on the feeling of thick, warm blood trickling down my leg. When I feel the blood begin to soak into my socks, I smile, knowing it was a deep one. I raise the basket and continue to swing it. Slice after slice. Drop after drop. I slice and slice until the river of red starts to harden and freeze, tightening the dry skin of my leg. But I don’t stop walking. Never stop walking. Go. That’s what momma said to me just before the wolf silenced her. What she screamed at me just before that snarling maw, red as the slick layer coating my leg, got her. I didn’t stay long after that. She watched from the cold floor as I put on my boots, but she didn’t say anything when I forgot to put on my mittens. The cracks on my hands are painful, but I hold my basket with a deadly grip. One, two, three. One, two, three. Keep moving. It stings, and I wish she would have yelled at me to put on those mittens. I know he’s somewhere in these woods. He ran as soon as momma’s head hit the ground, but I’ve heard his howls every night since then. Sometimes they’re far. Last night, they were near, piercing my ears so badly that I stuffed them with muddy dirt just to drown out the sound. Tonight, I could be dead. I think back to the way momma’s mouth was hanging open, frozen. Her gaze was strange too, focused in the same place no matter where I moved. The only thing of hers that moved was her blood. Not the blood outside, although there was a lot of that. It was the blood inside. I don’t know how long I stayed watching her with glassy eyes before her vessels must’ve burst and purple began to grow on her back. On the thin underside of her arms. On the side of her face touching the ground.

Get to the house. Don’t stop until you’re there. He wants you next. Don’t let him find you.

I didn’t stay long after that. If nothing else, I know I’m my mother’s daughter. And oh, momma loved me. Since I’ve started walking, weaving through the greedy arms of these overgrown, spindly trees, sometimes the ghost of her voice is the only thing keeping me warm. When the nights get so dark, the moonlight stripped by the heavy canopy of trees above, I close my eyes and it all looks the same. But her arms are around me, rocking me. Her warm breath is in my ear, tickling my skin and singing those simple songs. He can’t get us in here. You’re safe.os

Those were the nights. My favorite nights. The nights she slept in my bed with me. She said it was to keep me company, but we both knew what waited for her in that big, cold bed at the other end of our small house. Her cool, papery hand smoothed over my forehead, and her silence would soothe me to sleep. The walls were only so thin. They could only keep out so much. The wolf was loud when he was hungry, and momma was so quiet. When those times came, he was always telling her how beautiful she was. What big eyes she had. What pretty teeth she had. What delectable ears she had. The sweetness, that gentleness that momma craved from the wolf so badly, wore her down until she smiled when he placed those big paws on her pale body. The wolf always found a way into her bed, time after time. I used to sing to myself on those nights, waiting for the creaking and growling to stop. When the wolf’s belly was filled, he’d leave. The floorboards would creak under his feet as he slowed down outside my room. The wood would give under his sharp nails.

Hold your breath.

I know the wolf used to have the remnants of a heart. I know this because he used to stand there for minutes, sometimes hours, before he kept walking. Prowling. But leaving. But that was back when momma’s pain satiated him. The skies above me are darkening again. The rustling in the trees doesn’t scare me anymore. I remember the nights that fear wracked me so fiercely that I’d wet my bed waiting for him to walk past my door. If he wants to kill me, let him. There was a time when I might have begged for my life. But that was the time before the wolf left more than just a few scratches and dents outside my room. That was before the wolf came inside. Before I learned just how hungry the wolf could get and all the ripping and tearing and bleeding he’d cause while trying to satisfy his appetite.

After that, I understood why momma had gotten so quiet. Something happens when the wolf first sinks his teeth into you. Yes, you learn to tolerate the sight and sensation of your own blood coating your flesh. But you also learn to tolerate the thought of your breath stopping and never starting up again. You learn to accept that, one day, there won’t be enough blood to pump through your veins. Those thoughts become an addiction because, god, anything is better than the wolf crawling into your bed and telling you what big eyes you have.

Just like your mother’s.

A dead bird lies at my feet and, for the first time since I started walking this morning, I stop and bend down to gaze at its broken body. The stench of death hasn’t quite accumulated yet; its blood smells fresh. The bird’s delicate, blue wings are bent and ruffled. Eyes wide open. Stomach split down the middle. Tiny coils of dark red and pink spill out onto the dirt of the forest floor. The cut is so neat and straight. So precise. I sigh and sit down next to the tiny creature. My basket, filled with flowers I’ve picked on the way, sits beside me. I open the lid and begin carefully placing the beautiful dead plants around me. The sun sets around me, but I don’t scramble for shelter or fire. Momma looked so terrible during those last few days. She used to be so beautiful, but in death, she was just grays and blues and something verging on green. There was no beauty in what was done to her. He’s on his way. I can feel it in my bones. My body is a sad thing. It has already healed the series of jagged cuts on my leg. It did the same thing all those nights ago.. And it healed me every time after that — the exact same injuries night after night. My body doesn’t know what to do; it just keeps pumping blood through these limbs that won’t have life for much longer. At some point, there’s beauty in giving up. In recognizing the signs and patterns and your own pathetic futility. So I lie down and stare up at the canopy. I’m back in my bedroom with cool, clean sheets around me. A melodic sound blows through my ears, mixed with the sharp sound of leaves crunching. Frail arms wrap around me just as that familiar breath blows on my legs. Warm. Wet. Twisted with the scent of fresh blood and the promise of even more to come.

INNER SELF

by Arin Kang

by Libby Eick

Nature crept in like mice. Timid at first, then all at once.

by Eliana Durkee

Pitted and scarred, the roof fallen from heaven onto rocky ground, a battlefield of broken statues and stagnant rain water. Rusted gates, once bound, creak in the wind, their pitiful moan echoes down the cracked street. Flames, like tigers, destroyed its peach blossom wallpaper, shriveled in the heat, ravaged its dark oak bookcases, filled with books of pressed butterflies and leaves, demolished its pictures, lined in silver frames, consumed its people. Hungry for more, the fire leapt onto neighbors and left the gutted body to die.

SCREW & STAPLE CITY

Brush Street, Detroit

AMBER by Sajma Hasan #

e c n e g r e v n co ndit

hia Pa

by Sop

chance’s capricious hands swung me by mine ‘til the crowd of prickle shrubbery drew themselves back, revealing a short-statured silhouette. stomach in knots, i picked the last burr atop my head and collected myself from the fall only to look up into young Sappho’s wide eyes, which grew to the bottom of her brow when she dreamt of eloping with a lover to the stone-and-ivy temples up north, and shrunk to hollows when she made do with park benches. it had to be this, in conjunction with the hands of chance taking a knife to her ribs, that formed the basis for rhetoric she spat far beyond her years and notebook pages tattooed in ballpoint. still, her thin smile of acceptance persisted, leaving me wondering why such sins are absolved.

Chronology by Awida Neji In the dark ether guiding light The tick of time in sync with the flow Ticking and humming As it counts each unit passing Entropy, my only goal Leaving me no stairs to climb Its gloomy and disorienting walls I descend faster to the end of the day Oh holy saint, lead my path As a keeper of time and order As the last gate of the past I cleanse the demons of tomorrow

THE CLOCK OF MY LIFE

by Malika Neou

EDGE OF THE EARTH by Riley Harris

Unexpected Moments

our suit is dark. Not quite black, not quite navy, sleeves cut too long, just barely brushing your knuckles. Your skin is so pale the color looks almost as though it burns, splitting sharp lines across your hands where it rests. As I watch, you drag your fingertips along the fabric, and then grip it, every tendon jumping, the skin pulling tight. Someone says something offstage, and there’s this second of hesitation in which I’m convinced you’ll stay sitting, refuse to move into the spotlight. And then it’s gone, and you’re getting up, and I’m leaning forward, like everything from this moment on is the most important thing to ever happen in this building (we both know it isn’t, but tonight, we have to pretend). You clear your throat and it’s a weak, shuttered sound. In just seconds, you’ve made it up to the podium, and you’re facing theatre seats buffed with plush maroon, every plume of dust visible as bodies huff to resettle themselves, to tuck their phones away into silk-lined pockets. Suddenly, the air is choked with expectation, and I have to white-knuckle the stool beneath me to avoid swaying off. Your shoulders twitch, and someone coughs, and I’m sitting here wondering if this is where it finally becomes too much. You could throw down the microphone, kick your way off the stage, and I would simply walk up with a broom, ready to console the crowd and clean up the mess. It wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary — in fact, I expect it from you. After all, I’m sitting here with my heels pushing into the ground, glasses settled on the floor beside me, hands twitching toward the spare mic; I’m sitting here, every muscle strained to the tips of its nerve endings, just waiting for you to screw up. It takes a minute, but you open your mouth and face your audience. First, there are the few necessary words — the drawl of We are gathered here to celebrate the illustrious life of, and He was known as a brilliant colleague to some of you, and an even better friend to most, and There are no words to describe the sense of loss felt by all of us here tonight. I hardly listen, though, because this part, I already know. This part’s been scripted, reviewed countless times by professionals,

by Sara Smith

and it’s stilted at best, the sentiments stiff and so familiar they wouldn’t dent even the most emotional man or woman seated out there in the dark. These words aren’t the important ones — that fact is clear to everyone here, save for maybe yourself. Which is why the pause you take when you’ve finished with your opening statement is so, so loud. I’m prepared for the worst. I’m prepared to take hold of your shoulders and drag you offstage, to murmur my own words, to line each sentence with witch-hazel to soothe the burn you’ve left behind. I’m prepared to take the fall, to cover for you when you’re screamed and spit at. I’m ready for all of it, and that’s why I’m watching you in slow motion, searing every minuscule movement to the forefront of my consciousness. The lights seem to buzz for a second, and then you speak. And it’s everything I could have ever hoped for. You mention a fond, gentle childhood, and a heavy arm slung over your shoulders, and a man who was proud, so proud, of everything you’d amounted to. You mention catching cicadas every May and fireflies every July; you recall your move to this state, packing everything into three small suitcases and leaving buoyed by that warm, steadfast reassurance you could always count on. You display memories like historical documents, every moment backed by a glowing retelling straight from the original source. You acknowledge every teary eye in the audience — you assure them that he’s up there right now, looking down on them, holding his arms wide open as if to embrace their sadness, as if to take it from them and leave only happy remembrance. You’re lying through your teeth, while everyone else cries. It’s another fifteen minutes before you wave and smile and pad into the wings. You walk by me, and I’m staring, and everything about you is cool, composed, filled with grieving. You look strong, your steps light and easy, the polar opposite of someone who might be capable of breaking down in front of a crowd. You walk by me, and I let my shoulders fall. Who would’ve thought?

by Libby Eick I am lost in the grayness of midday I am lost in the Slinky, limp in my fingers I am lost in the words I should understand I am lost in the mind, which wanders barren cliffs I am lost in the Slinky, limp in my fingers My eyes linger on words I cannot read I am lost in the mind, which wanders barren cliffs, aimless but surefooted My eyes linger on words I cannot read They roam the page until an earthy trail is formed Aimless but surefooted, I travel from the first line to the first line to the first line Eyes roam the page until an earthy trail is formed, lost in the words I should understand Traveling from the first line to the first line to the first line, I am lost in the grayness of midday

DISGUISE 43

by Marina Qu

ny p hot ogr ap Pand it

a grai

by Sophi a

P O

T O

At summer’s end, candy blue tongues stitch back into their mouths, thread and worn leather. This is a fact of life— two can only gamble over change ‘til Lincoln grows zealous. I’ve thrown out the sour copper since then. I want love to be still. Enter mania on film: a kiss behind a strip mall, fangs and inevitable decay obscured by neon. Dynamism in its highs.

A PH R

I can hope it will suffice. Is that enough?

NEW PERSPECTIVE by Luiza Nedelescu

COLOPHON All art and writing was contributed by McLean High School students. The Tartan was printed by Printing Center USA. Pre-press was completed by the magazine staff using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC. Titles of writing and artwork are in Ivy Presto. Author and artist credits are in Gadugi. Copy is in Coromant Garamond.

SELECTION POLICY The Tartan literary magazine is a public forum for student expression that accepts literary and artistic work from all McLean High School students. Each piece is reviewed by the Tartan staff and evaluated on its individual merit. Students may submit their work in person, via Google Form, or through the club’s email: tartanmagazine@gmail.com

TUNNEL by Marina Qu

REVO LVE