Expression Magazine

2019-2020

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A STUDENT-PUBLISHED ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE Daring

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“Is that what art is? To be touched thinking what we feel is ours when, in the end, it was someone else, in longing, who finds us?�

- Ocean Vuong

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The Expression Magazine

The Expression Team Co-Editors in Chiefs Layout Editors

Writing Editors

Art Editors

Sponsored By

Spencer Chang Renee Chien Melissa Chang Joyce Ting Laura Hsu Kelsey Wang Claire Hong Phoebe Chen Sharon Lee Deborah Jang Emily Huang Dr. Lipsett

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Hold My Hand Rachel Sheng

Drifting beneath the dying light, I wonder if there’s a place I can stay.

Where would I go to find it?

Hello?

The sad voice of echo answers. Even her voice dies away as if she cannot stand me.

My voice wanders.

I’m suspended in a sky of stars (they are so far away, they are so close. Hey, brother, if I reach my arms up to the sky, will you lift me up and fly me through the air?) and there’s nobody else here.

It’s just me.

The city seems to sleep as do the sun and birds, but beneath its calming lull of yawning windows and locked doors shut against the unknown, the dead are more awake than ever.

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They rattle the skies and shake all the stars until they fall to earth.

But nobody hears them.

Where are you? I call. “...” answers the silence. v I am doomed to wander forever.

I don’t know where to go.

The sad souls of prisoners, chained like their ankles, chained to deeds they would not have done in a different light, the glare of the police cars, leave the cage only when they are dead. They fly, they leap, they soar, they snatch for freedom desperately, lovers. Only then are they free.

I’m not.

Do you remember who I am?

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The Street Vanessa Kang

On a Wooden Bench Erin Huang

a wooden bench in a small roadside park two people sat. the night sky, a wide, yawning black infinity. love in the darkness, it embraces everything/ blackness itself, is also pure and blazing and fierce. nothing but drifting clouds in the sea of dark love.

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Sci-Fi Scene Alec Wang

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The Last Moment Erin Huang

She sits on the splintered rocking chair, brown paint chipping away with time.

Her wrinkled and calloused fingers tap away to a forgotten rhythm.

She quietly hums along, a serene smile, full of acceptance and regret, placed upon her face.

On Cloud 9 Vanessa Kang

Her grey, clouded eyes stare off into the distance, unseeing.

A book lays open in her lap, pages flutter about in the sea breeze.

A seemingly random and large moth lands on the open book.

Its wings flat and wide, a single white, waved strip strikes across the length of its wings.

It remains still on the page 44, its legs resting upon the words, The Black Witch.

The sound of crashing waves pervade her senses, She hums, she hums, to the Song of Death.

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Hot Pots and Moon Festivals Claire Hong

Night at the restaurant the hot pot sat seething between me and you In the pot, the uneven red of the Chongqing soup paced in agitation settled at the bottom, close to the flame were the vegetables, meats, duck blood and tofu And every while, a small bubble peels open the surface of the soup

swelling into an orb— pop the silver pot becomes doused in its red remains

Flavor of onion teased at my lips voyeuristic steam shhhhhhhhhhhh...

We wallowed in the ambient noise of families (in units of completion) around us When you raised your head and asked If I’d like some water with a voice that’s lost it firmness through the years I felt bad for thinking about the past and now

The space between untouc hed time And almost, did I want to go back to...

The pot released another Pop. So I slid a cooked clump of duck blood down my throat

to swallow my inhibitions

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On my way home, the searing scent of hot pot I carried on my tongue spicy, and for some reason so Bitter.

Platitude of Love Kelsey Wang There is a charm to it, that old platitude: amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all.

If you are indeed omniscient, then love is blindness.

If you are indeed omnipotent, then love is harmatia.

It was not I who invented this image – Love as a beautiful child with black eagle wings, a cluster of arrows in one hand, a foot on an opened musical manuscript, the other leg half-folded on a table laid with winding-sheets, eyes dark as absurdity. Love makes no sound except a strained, hysterical laugh; and Love throws his head back and laughs, a prodigious laugh with contempt in it and victory and pity.

So much ablution by fumigation to get us to this word. Respond to me by a rereading of the word, with as much force behind it as repeatedly stabbing a corpse.

Love as the code-word for the bodies dragged down to meet vulgar worms and the five signs of the decay of the angel. And the hidden notes in the drawer that, if found, would be akin to death by strangulation, by one’s own intestines pulled out through the sobbing mouth.

I couldn’t slice him open; I walked through his dreams, inventing dialogue. There was nothing to find inside him anyway – not viscera, not the image of angels, not one moment that mattered.

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Mosey Catrina Yeh

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Renewed Souls Erin Huang

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Untitled Amber Wu

Lauren Taylor was “the girl” of the town. She was willowy at seventeen and had chocolate chestnut hair, round hopeful eyes, and pearly white teeth that created a glittering smile. She held her position proudly but was the humblest of all.

She was the volleyball team captain, the perfect student, and my best friend. I never knew she was the first of us to go, to enter her grave at such a young age. She had so much in front of her, so many opportunities ahead of her…

“Hey. You.”

These were the first words she spoke to Lauren. Brooke Wright. The mean girl of the grade, the school, and the town. Perhaps the world. Her hair extensions fell alongside with her raven hair at her waist, and the rusty ring on her lip shone in the sunlight.

“Hey Brooke!” Lauren smiled at her, exposing her pearly white teeth.

“You want to come hang out with us?” Brooke indicated at the table of girls behind us. All of them looked somewhat like Brooke. Same hairstyle, clothes… “We have something for you.”

Lauren’s forehead transformed into little crinkles of worry. “I would love to, but I have a project to work on with Lucy. I’m so sorry.”

She did not need to speak. Brooke’s formidable eyes lay on Lauren, staring at her. Beads of sweat trickled down Lauren’s neck and disappeared into the back of her shirt. She glanced at me with guilt.

“Sorry, Lucy.” Lauren obediently followed Brooke to her table. The girls immediately began giggling and whispering in Lauren’s ears.

I packed my leftover lunch and walked out of the cafeteria, hurling my lunch in the trashcan.

Little did I know that my day was going to get worse. A lot worse.

It was after school, when I was sitting on the couch of the living room. Suddenly, I heard a thump behind me. I rushed to the window, bemused. Who was that? The body lay limp on the grass, which was still damp from the rain earlier. The legs were crumpled, joints disarranged. The hips were twisted, and a few rib bones were sticking out. The hands were dangling off the wrist. The neck was broken.

Crimson blood trickled from the body’s face and glassy eyes were hollowed. The expression was blank, unreadable. I felt sick, but I took another step towards the window to get a better view. I stopped dead in my tracks.

I screamed.

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They had the funeral a few days after. The town was buzzing with new of Lauren Taylor’s unexpected death. Family, friends, teachers, and even police came at different times throughout the day. Lauren’s friends came, tears cascading down their cheeks like waterfalls. To mourn, to pray, and even to investigate, nearly the whole town came to say goodbye to Lauren.

The casket lay in her white bedroom, agape. She lay there, her eyes shut, bound to sleep through an eternal winter. Her hands were clasped to her chest and she wore a delicate expression. Even in death, I could hear her laughter roaming around the house, through every inch of the town. But she wasn’t moving. She seemed so cold, so lonely, just lying in that casket alone. I wanted to run to her and embrace her, but she was a glass sculpture with a plaque of “NO TOUCHING”.

Lauren was never the kind of person who dared to jump off a three-story high house. Nobody knew why she killed herself, and the only person I could think of is Brooke. But before I could do anything, Brooke and her family suddenly left town and moved to Thailand.

Perhaps I could have gotten Lauren into therapy. I could have saved her, saved her family, saved my pain. But I did not. I was foolish, arrogant, and stupid. Now the consequences were pounding on my family and me. It was my fault. I didn’t save her. It was all my fault.

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Submerge in Water Misa Yo

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Homage to a Nameless Song Kelsey Wang

I said I would wait ten minutes and stayed half an hour.

Sitting at the center table, aware of the unfilled seats, a Louis dining alone at the Royal Table; without a functioning phone; bereft of entertainment, I let my eyes roam.

As my consciousness wandered, my mind fixed upon the sounds of the coffeeshop.

Requests for refills, children’s screeching, geriatric snores; music flooding the background.

Why does this song fill me with extraordinary longing? The melody itself holds little significance; it’s the kind of music that fails to leave an impression.

But I’ve heard this piece throughout my life, always in the background. It was there, three years ago, at the familiar haunt of my former friend-clique-circle, happier times, when I would put Mentos in soda for laughs, and the explosion nearly overwhelmed the music; the nameless song played when, once, I was too absorbed in a conversation about metaphysics, the etymology of names, people – none of it important – to be aware of my surroundings; it was the ringtone I chose for my mother’s old cell-phone.

Still, I never discovered its name or composer; and as I listened to this song that has appeared in many significant events of my life and inherited the meaning attached to those memories, I felt like I have made a lifelong friend, a very old friend all along.

For the song always seems to hover in the background, not assuming form; then I lift my eyes, and there it is; there, simply, it

Taste of Taiwan Vanessa Kang

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I Cut My Own Tongue Off Jaja Hashimoto I had a tongue that held three languages by a single thread.

When I was in second grade, I had a tutor who was the brightest among all. He had a Masters in Animal Science and a PhD in stem cell research. He attended National Taiwan University and graduated top of his class.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, my tutor would come and help me with English, Math, Science, and everything else I needed help with. Every time we had class, he would assign vocabulary homework to help with my weak word choice: “Write the words five times within these lines... Your handwriting is too ugly for anyone to understand... Search and write down the definition of each... Next time, you’ll be tested on spelling.”

My English wasn’t my strongest language at that time; Japanese was. So it was always a struggle for me to get that simple homework done. I was always distracted with the wonders of being a child, not knowing how important English would be later on in my life.

Because Chinese was my second language, Japanese being my first, I never learned how to read and write in Chinese. It was the same for English. I knew how to speak (not fluently) and listen (not fluently) but my writing and reading were my worst. The only language I was actually fluent at, in writing,

speaking, and reading, was Japanese.

One day, my tutor got fed up with me: ”Why didn’t you do your homework?”

“I didn’t have time.”

“Don’t lie to me. You had all this time to do it, you wasted it on watching videos on YouTube.

You were wasting your time” “Oh.” “Do you realize how bad your English is? You can’t read or write Chinese. You surely can’t write well in English. All those spelling errors, all those mispronunciations… are you even trying? If you’re not even trying to improve in English and Chinese, you’re slowly starting to forget how to speak Japanese, what language do you actually know?”

Silence followed, as my tongue had been amputated by the sharp but true words my

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tutor blurted out.

My tutor continued to scold me twice a week, as I grew into my teenage years. I started getting better and better at English. But my Japanese, my mother tongue, faded away.

Meanwhile, my Chinese skills stayed fixed. I don’t speak Chinese well, I never did. And yet it is the only language I share with my Ah Ma, the language I use to express my gratitude and love for her. But the same “我愛你’s” I rehearsed in my head never came out right. The same “I will prove to you how much I love you” never sounded sincere… as Chinese was always the language I got scolded in. Most of the vocabulary I learned are aggressive in tone… lovely in the intentions.

My heart sinks every time I try to express my love for my Ah Ma. As I know there are better, more beautiful ways to express this weird emotion. It’s a burden… but it’s all I have. All the love poems I wrote for my Ah Ma are in English. A language that is completely foreign to her. I can only translate my eight-line poem of love into a threeword phrase I can never say right.

I write in English to remind myself how shameful it is to forget my Japanese.

I write in English to mock my lack of knowledge in Chinese.

I write in English because it is the only language I know how to loosely string a bunch of words together, in attempts to express my feelings.

I write to cover the fact that… I don’t actually know any language of the heart.

Is it actually good to be trilingual? Can I even be considered trilingual? Isn’t it embarrassing that my mother tongue has become so foreign to me?

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. I have exchanged my mother tongue for something that used to be foreign. Please let me go back in time and sew my tongue back where it belongs.

To this day, I’m still not so fluent in my mother tongue.

But I am fluent in the shadows, in the silence of my mother tongue.

Bow before you eat.

Bow before you enter a room full of elders.

Never be in the right.

Apologize for existing.

I’m still trilingual. Just not in terms of speaking. In terms of culture, I am. In terms of social rules, I am.

I incorporate my Japaneseness in my Chineseness.

While have both elements in my Americanness.

I miss the times when I remembered how to speak Japanese. I will only rest until I remember how it tasted when a fluent exchange of Japanese felt in my mouth.

I will only rest when I know how to speak Japanese fluently.

But for now, I am sorry. I am sorry for my lack of Japaneseness due to this thick wall I built, trying to learn English. I am sorry for my forgotten Japanese.

I am sorry.

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Mr. Skeleton I Don’t Feel So Good Adele Phua

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Tangled in Silence Misa Yo

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sealed letters to my Father Claire Hong i.

You taught me how to ride a bike my second year of elementary. the street wasn’t ideal. tangled with twigs. pebbles. the caps of knees that had been scraped. i and my bike were skittish, toddling though You held onto my bike the whole time i still kept falling falling, skin chafing. i decided to walk my bike back home. with You like always fastened to my side. ii You loved trying out new restaurants i suppose that You still do. remember that time we went to that new steak house in the city? You took a bite from a steak aromatic and sensual but You picked it apart with that thistled tongue of Yours said it was a flimsy perversion of food. i then took a bite, it tasted fine to me but the steak looked a bit dejected after that. iii.

You made it known that You disliked my brain not the entirety of me,You specify. just the shape of my brain tissue its lack of durability, something like that. the wires with frayed ends delicately dunked in metallic misery You plucked from Your cerebrum— and jammed it into the allergic and too-tender chambers of my mind my wires wilted and slumped into the pit of my stomach. my brain still bleeds with acclimatized shame that spark from the thoughts of all my misdeeds thanks to You.

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iv.

You and i slip into grief in such different ways. young and naive, i can’t help but wear the seeds of Your grief on my sleeves; flourishing into the beginnings of young death, plastered onto my bones and fracturing its surface day by day. and You—You try to bunch all of it in Your fists (violently clenched under Your coat) i see it. Your grief throbbing through the fabric of Your pockets. and the way Your coat darkens when it ruptures doesn’t it hurt? doesn’t the grief hurt so much? v.

You always said to stay hungry, stay unsatisfied. wrangle for more as if i was Your prized predator hunting for morsels of honor. yet all i wanted so, so badly was for You to unearth the love You have hidden in the back rows of Your teeth. no, not through parcels and gifts and the material rewards You drown me in. i wanted it through warm words or fond gestures that i see other dads snuggle their daughters in.

But You left me starving. vi.

Your friends make me uncomfortable. not all of them, of course. only the ones with the eerie grins and fiddling fingers. it’s the small things specific things about them that scare me. the prying praise the stale breath that splotches my hair damp palms plunged into my arms estimating how much i’ll be worth when i’m legal but i think what scared me the most was how You just laughed it off.

vii.

You were gone for another one of Your trips. a disorder of pains and pleasures that speak like You detained in my room. no one else home but me. i shepherded our messy collections of family history and secrets that could kill me into a suitcase larger than myself to haul towards the shore. at the shore, the waves hollered each trying to ascend higher than the other. i chucked the suitcase into the underfed waves thinking they had digested it. but when i returned home the suitcase was lounging on the couch its malice back in my room nothing different; just so slightly wet. viii.

You asked what i would like for christmas the different bits of my head all cry out at once one wishes for world peace one wishes for the extermination of all rats one wishes for a stable sense of being one wishes for laughter that isn’t staged one wishes for a family that wasn’t interrupted by fear but all i tell You is that i would be fine with buying some new books. xi. i dreamt of the time You taught me to ride a bike in my stirrings of last night. to be honest, i don’t remember how it ends but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about all the potential ways it could have concluded. would we both be merrily riding our lives away if You asked someone for help when You needed it? but maybe i should stop myself. i know that some endings aren’t meant to be. i can see myself one day when i’m stable enough to be happy for once trying again to ride a bike.

You’ll be standing far yet close enough to recognize a clear contour of me: a figure slanting right and left left and right on a bike headed where the sun should be.

You’ll open this letter and read it for the first time, a tear or two might slice down Your barren cheeks. but by then— I’ll be too deep into the light for you to see.

ix.

You know everything.

You know all the names of the greatest artists and composers dead or alive.

You know how to roll coins and bills between the eyes of Your clients.

You know the exact formula for a family that will fit a pricey picture frame.

You know all my goals and dreams: to become a wispier copy of Your fury. but did You notice that i came out to everybody except You? did You notice how the air is less muggy when You’re gone? did You notice how i shrink so You feel bigger? did You notice that i will do anything to avoid ending up with Your bitterness and toxicity and cruelness? and did You notice... when i started calling You “my Father” instead of “dad” when i’m with others? but really, You do know everything. x.

You’re a perfect outdoors man You offer Your persona to anyone who will take it charm waved around like a champagne glass in Your hand. that charisma is perhaps the only part of You i wish i had and maybe i do, just a little bit. i’m plenty good with casual chattering in restaurants gesturing around with plastic chopsticks they find my frankness amusing but— i’m numb. even when i’m at concerts locked between several seas of people and the bass from the stereos rattle my veins and heart against the walls of my innards— i’m numb. for such a long time that i can’t even remember what it’s like to truly feel. do You?

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Haemophiles Kelsey Wang After the games of putting sticks into puppets, I am reminded of some business of biting and romping from not long ago. I turn to the person lying beside, tell her of what I wouldn’t give to be nestling together in an attic, unsatiated with imaging the acrid, creamy scent. “I have a pretty thing for you,” I say to her. “A female for you.”

People who own enough of the world to bring it to its knees, and then some closer – they are ridiculously cheap.

Orgiastic frolics involving gangs by the dozens and forcing some mewling and shaking creature to watch the revealing games usually reserved for older players. By older, I mean, of course, those having brought to full ripeness and are approaching the conundrum of rotting by seeking the cure of candor and photography. To them, favors have the same worth as the collected treasures they fuss over like a breeder over his purebred Arabian steeds. Man or woman, it’s like stepping on a cockroach. All people have a price.

She is already dead to me. What we have is a strict business relationship, and I try to be formal at all times. She does not trouble herself with petty questions when she wants something, and that’s what makes doing business with her so exciting.

“Whatever you own you can hurt and no one will disapprove,” she says. “This is my last free night.” It is the night before her marriage. “How do I know it’s not poor?”

“It is just yours,” I return. “It is not diseased with poverty.”

“Good,” she says. “I can be seen in society with it?”

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“Pleasing as an apple to the eye.”

“Is it a face I will be pleased to see falling backwards?”

“Yes, you will be pleased by this one,” I snap, a little out of patience. I’ve had too much of my share of their bloodhoundish excitement to be disgusted by the thin trickle of blood running down the inside of a cup of whitish milk, but by Christ are the rich and powerful and elite exasperating when they are bored and incompletely sane. With each call I hear darker and sicker things. I am fascinated by where their limit is.

“Game starts between eleven and midnight,” she says, and the transaction is complete. I watch her get up and wrap herself in a furlined coat; and I take a pint, and another, and another. After the second drink, I can’t say I care too much.

Pocky

Vanessa Kang Daring

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Exodus 1949, Shaanxi Spencer Chang for my Grandpa here the ocean is an entire continent of hunger, children cup a handful to their mouths to discover their palms, once an entire grassland grazed warm by blood, now withering fissures across parched hands. the ocean is deaf to paper skins shredded against the wind singing, a melody we devote ourselves to perfecting. despite our size, we are still very much mendable. fold our backs into wings and our tongues into wind. stretch our spines beneath the ocean floor, to one day be uncovered hardened into diamond. even in our blood you’ll find traces of steel from rusting shovels. we have nothing and everything to give. our tongues growing calloused from suffocated prayers. bruised ghosts that hide beneath our hardened skins will break into clouds and land with the gentleness of rain, of history. moonlight projecting our shadows into giants. sextant. compass. some days I swear I’m becoming more of a vessel for the stars, drifting across skies and oceans for anything to cling onto, but call it home and we’ll never reach it.

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we keep our hearts wrapped inv our lungs and lose a little every time we breathe. you create a new life by erasing the other. how unfaithful can one grow to their body? we still carry the ashes of our homes like a skeleton. there used to be stars where I lived. we would pretend to pinch them from the sky and rub them into our palms. sky full of ash, sky full of dirt, sky full of charred bonedust. now the stars seem more distant than ever. now we stretch the sky into a shadow into our past. this body is not clean. I’ve been trying to forget the names of family, even my own, trying to wash myself of my own blood, until I started bleeding from everywhere. even in language we’re inseparable. in chinese, we don’t say goodbye. we say zàijiàn, zài for again, jiàn for meet: I hope we meet again, so zàijiàn bàba, zàijiàn māmā, zàijiàn. zàijiàn.

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:> <3

Jaja Hashimoto Strawberries buries Their sweet hearts that they carry Test the eye purely

Curse Amanda Ding I dare to want you.

And for that the universe decided to punish me Tearing flesh from my soul heart dripping Pulsing, crimson, dark. i stitch my skin back, piece by piece, discolored impressions which flare like warnings pockmarked with crescent footpaths of mauve I dare to admire you. waking in lieu of your flickering memory, Counting the days in which my intoxication can last the fissure, the anguish, the ache.

I dare to flirt with risk, dance on perilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dirty steps. for i will always return, To the love that makes me bleed

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Dare to Speak Out Laura Hsu

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All Things Strawberry Vanessa Kang

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bittersweet Rachel Sheng

a harbinger of shadowed silk with sightless eyes as white as milk who does not care so long he finds someone to drag from earthen binds a man who wanders hand in hand with danger great and hatred grand who does not see the pain he brings but flies away on ravenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings a messenger from storm-filled skies whose radiance is darkened by cries of those who sought beyond their lives the sleep of peace, but Heaven lied a courtier of gentle words who speaks in cries but not in verse holds the hands of those who suffered near to not reveal the truth austere

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Fear Claire Hong when tears driveled down my friend’s cheeks after I asked her why she feared the dark when she answered with a story of her own-her uncle who beat her in a dim-lit stairwell during times where she acted too much like her age (a child)- when it was too sunless for her to watch each blow

as they came down on her through the dark —she fears the dark for obscuring human beauty— when I wanted to tell her that I fear not

the dark, but the light instead

and how I tremble every time

it unveils the parts that make humans ugly when I did nothing but watch under the light as cruelties break me when I tried to say that I fear seeing as much as she fears to unsee when I didn’t and just cried with her instead

The Truth Behind Fear Gloria Lee

The roar of an overcast sky A shove - and you’re down a dark Maze Twists and turns - you always seem to get chased Paths full of menacing Gazes A look and you’re shot back to the first phase The empty void of the Sea In the midst of the ocean Water seems to overflow The scent of the live flesh Those tenacious teeth clattering You can’t seem to avert Lost, confused, and distraught What’s the exact way to shore?

No way to escape Except further into the Maze Deeper into the Sea Until you the walls start to break And water finally drains

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Torment In School Ivan Chien

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Fish Renaissance Tiffany Tran

Ocean Gateway Dylan Liu

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on oath,

we look so lovely under this desert moon,

our hands are crumbling into sand and our faces paled by the light

are beginning to look like a mirage.

I will renounce all allegiance Spencer Chang regarding home, I’m told that if you walk From 1863 to 1869, nearly 20,000

far enough, at one point the sky and earth

will converge into one.

Chinese workers were recruited I will bear true faith. to help build the Transcontinental

look up now and you’ll see Railroad, connecting the United States. an entire field of white, Hundreds of these workers died from

each one a mistimed fuse, a smothered dream, disease, explosions, or landslides in the

an early death that is to say. you don’t

even see the body, only the star expanding as fast process.

as it dies, only a blackened shadow etched behind.

I swear I’ll stop giving a name to everything I lose.

shovel hands, we’re digging up our own fossils,

I will perform work of national importance,

pulling the twisted spines from broken backs to lay these tracks.

I take this obligation freely. regarding home, if the sky

and earth ever converge, without any mental reservation

I’ll pick up every shattered star,

and scatter them across this country.

brief as the passing of a train,

forever living as this land. recently,

the moon is looking more like a wolf’s eye,

hungry iris swallowing our breaths whole. inside our bodies, you’ll find a million hands

twisting against our hearts, against all enemies, clawing.

once I grew a rice field branching

through lungs to wrap around ribs.

pure light energy amassing in bittersweet roots. now I reach for the same place

and feel the dusted grains like grinded bones.

I have a million dreams and I’ll say none of them.

but when my time comes, lay them beneath these tracks

and watch them sprout into pine trees, with roots strong enough

to stretch across ocean wounds and stitch an entire continent back together. so help me God. * Railroad to Destiny borrows text from the Oath of Allegiance

Railroad to Destiny

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Lever Du Soleil Sophia Chang

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Index

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Art All Things Strawberry Dare to Speak Out Fish Renaissance Lever Du Soleil Mosey Mr. Skeleton I Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Feel So Good Ocean Gateway On Cloud 9 Pocky Renewed Souls Sci-Fi Scene Submerge in Water Tangled in Silence Taste of Taiwan The Street Torment in School

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Writing 26 25 30 32 8 16 30 5 21 9 4 12 17 13 3 29

:> <3 bittersweet Curse Exodus 1949, Shaanxi Fear Haemophiles Hold My Hand Homage to a Nameless Song Hot Pots and Moon Festivals I Cut My Own Tongue Off On a Wooden Bench Platitude of Love Railroad to Destiny sealed letters to my Father The Last Moment The Truth Behind Fear Untitled

24 27 24 22-23 26 20 2 13 6 14-15 3 7 31 18-19 5 26 10-11

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