By teens, for teens
Jenna Calvagna
Letter from the Editor
Dear Teen Ink Readers,
Welcome back to another exciting edition of Teen Ink magazine, where this month, we’re shining the spotlight entirely on books!
For those who may not know, Teen Ink has a book section specifically for pieces that are at least 1,500 words long. Our editors love reading these submissions and admire the passion that many of you have for your writing. This month’s issue features a selection of books spanning from fantasy to thriller genres. We’ve also included some book reviews and the winners of our recent contests!
Looking for something to do this summer? Try reading a book and, whether you love it or not, submit a review to us so others know what they should be reading! Perhaps you’ll even be inspired to write your own book! Either way, Teen Ink would love to be a part of your summer. Who knows? Your submission might even be featured in our next Book Issue!
As always, we welcome your feedback! If you want to write a letter to an editor, respond to an opinion article, or just take a stab at creating a poem good enough to make it into our next magazine, visit teenink.com/submit!
Best wishes!
The Teen Ink Team
Cover Art Contest
Submit your photo or artwork for a chance to appear on the cover of Teen Ink magazine! All art submissions are eligble.
ART GALLERY
CREDITS
1. PHOTO BY ANONYMOUS 2. ARTWORK BY ADITI KUNDU, BHOPAL, INDIA 3. ARTWORK BY ELLEN LU, BEIJING, CHINA
PHOTO BY ASHRAR AUNUVUTY, EAST ELMHURST, NY
NOVEL BY KILEY WALLACE, MELBOURNE, FL
summary
Laura is a teenage girl who is called after class by her art teacher to discuss why she hasn’t started her final art project when the due date is approaching quickly. Laura deals with a lack of inspiration, which is impacting her work. She explains her situation to her mother who suggests she go look in a box of her grandpa’s old art supplies in the attic. When Laura finds the box, she sees several of her grandpa’s paintings, as well as his favorite paintbrush. When Laura uses the paintbrush, she gets transported inside one of her grandpa’s murals, where everything inside the painting seems to be fading away at a quick rate. It is up to Laura to restore her grandpa’s artwork and find the true purpose behind each of his paintings.
“I can’t give you a final grade if you don’t finish this assignment, Laura. Rules are rules.”
Ms. Crimp, my art teacher, is setting me up for failure. I was given three weeks to paint a mural, but it’s due tomorrow, and I haven’t started. Technically, this is my fault, but three weeks is not nearly enough time. I’d be more satisfied if it were twice as much. Maybe three.
“Are you sure I can’t have another week or something?”
She sighs, walking back to her desk. “Listen, Laura. You are such a talented artist, but I’m afraid you aren’t taking this seriously. I’ve given you several opportunities to work on this project and come to me with any questions, and you haven’t even started? I’m sorry, but that’s ridiculous… what exactly have you been doing in my class?”
“I’ve been working! Honest! I just… can’t seem to put what’s in my head on paper. I’m sorry…”
“Sorry won’t do it, Laura.” She huffs and sits down, tapping a paintbrush against her head. “48 hours.”
“What?”
“I’m extending your time to work on this project. Two days is all I’m willing to spare because this really isn’t fair to the other students who have worked their butts off for this assignment.” She sighs. “If you don’t have it done by Friday, I’ll consider failing you.”
I nod my head.
“Good. Now get out of my classroom.”
I smile and quickly pack up my bag, cramming whatever art supplies I could find. I race out of the room, making my way to the school exit. As I step outside, I get a glimpse of my surroundings. I stop and pause. I check my watch.
“5:45,” it read.
No wonder Ms. Crimp wanted me out. School ended almost two hours ago…
The walk to my car is long, dark, and suspenseful, as my high school just so happens to be across the street from a sketchy neighborhood. Not so much of a problem during the day, but at night,
nothing is clear, and any hint of noise is no less than eerie.
“How was school today?”
My mom greets me with a hug.
“I didn’t realize you had to stay after school, I had to make arrangements to pick up your brother.”
“Sorry, mom. I had a conference with Ms. Crimp. What’s for dinner?”
“Uh… I think it is some kind of cream pasta. Your dad found one of Grandma’s recipes in the attic. That reminds me, we have several boxes of Grandpa’s stuff up there, feel free to have a look.”
I sit down, analyzing the food laid out before me. The dish looks like alfredo pasta, but it has a zest that confuses me even more.
“Ah, here it is,” my mom said, pulling out a recipe from a kitchen drawer.
“Lemon Ricotta pasta. I think I may have messed up the recipe a little, it looks a lot creamier than the picture. I thought it was good.”
I twirl my pasta, and I take a bite.
“Hm… it’s got an interesting flavor. The ricotta overpowers the lemon zest, which is funny because you’d think it would be the other way around.”
“Glad you like it. So, what did you say you were staying for? A conference? With Ms. Crimp? Did she insult your art again?”
“It’s called critiquing, Mom. And no, we were discussing my mural project.”
My mom walks over and pulls up a chair.
“Are you having any problems? I know you don’t do well under pressure. How much time were you given to work on it? Has to be like a week, right?
“Three weeks… but she gave me two extra days. The due date is Friday.”
My mom furrows her brow.
“Laura, honey. If you have had all this time, why haven’t you started yet? I remember you telling me this was your final project.
“I know!” I say defeated. “I just… can’t seem to be inspired enough to make anything. I need something interesting to happen so that I can feel motivated to make something perfect.
Walking over to my chair, my mom hugs me from behind.
“I understand, sweetie.” She kisses the top of my head. “How about you look at Grandpa’s old things, huh? Maybe you’ll find something interesting up there.”
I slowly creak the attic door open, peering inside. I can barely make out anything, and I’m just praying there aren’t any live creatures. The crawl into the attic isn’t too bad, though some upper body strength was required. I turn on my phone’s flashlight and look where supposedly Grandpa’s old stuff is. I push through mountains of cardboard until I find a box with “Dad” written on it. This must be it. I crouch down by it, and I open it. Inside were trinkets that my grandpa used to have lying around his house, such as family portraits and little pictures of birds he used to hang up all over his walls. I started to feel sentimental as I pulled out more things, and my mind was flooded with old memories and special moments that I held close to my heart. As I reached the bottom, I found some of his paintings. My grandfather always admired nature, depicting different landscapes, plants, and animals in almost every piece. He was so full of inspiration, and realizing that made my eyes swell with tears.
How could I not? I’m not just crying because I miss him, but because I feel a sense of guilt that I am disappointing him. He always encouraged me to pursue art, with the dream that I would do something amazing with my talent. I feel that I failed him. Instead of a passion, it feels more like a chore. Something I must do, not something I desire. I continue pulling out more sketches out of the box until I reach the bottom. The last thing I found was a dusty, flat paintbrush. I examined it closely. Surprisingly, after wiping all the dust and dirt off, the brush was in excellent condition. It was like it had never been touched before. I smile a little, thinking about how I was holding the very thing that created so many beautiful pieces of art. I decided to put everything back in the box except the paintbrush.
I pull out a large pad of paper. I hadn’t touched it in a long time, but suddenly, I felt that it was the right time to use it. I take out my watercolors. Purple, green, and blue were my grandpa’s favorite colors. I dip the brush into the cool water, and I begin to paint. I close my eyes, imagining all the moments I shared painting with my grandpa. I found myself getting lost in my thoughts, and with each stroke, I felt like I was closer to him. I open my eyes.
The ocean was glistening, and I saw the most beautiful sunset of my life. Birds flew in flocks over the scenery. It was incredible. It suddenly hit me that I was not imagining any of this and that I was really at the beach.
“Hello there!”
I turned around to see a short, friendly-looking man. He was an older gentleman with a long white beard and a pudgy figure.
“Oh, hi! This might seem strange, but I’m not really sure where I am. However, this all looks so familiar. You also look very familiar… have we met before?”
The short man chuckles.
“Why Laura, we’ve been waiting for you for a long time now! Glad you could make it! This is Aurora Isle, a land of peace and beauty.”
“Aurora? That was my grandma’s name. Wait, how do you know my name?”
He chuckles again, patting my back.
“Oh, sweet Laura, this land was named after your grandmother. She was such a kind woman — haha — and an excellent cook, too.”
I make a puzzled expression.
“Huh? Named after my grandmother? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, I guess I’ll leave this short. This might sound alarming, but your grandfather created this world. That’s why it’s named after Aurora and why you recognize me and this place. Look over here.”
He points to a group of sea turtles. I immediately recognized them.
“Are those… mine? I painted those?”
The short man nods.
“Yes, Laura. Even some of your creations are here. And that is why I summoned you here. We are in desperate need of your help.”
I notice his expression drop from a kind smile to something more serious.
“This island is fading away. His passion for art helped us survive, and it kept this land colorful. Ever since your dear grandpa passed, the trees have turned gray, and there are fewer and fewer animals.”
He looks at the paintbrush in my hand.
“Since you found what created us, we need you to use it to help restore this mural. Can you help us?
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been told to do something so urgent, and I begin to feel fear rise up in me.
“I don’t know… how can I stop it with this paintbrush? That sounds impossible.”
Out of nowhere, a giant black puddle forms under the short man. He frowns.
“Now listen closely, sweetheart. You must go to the center of this Isle, where you must find the cause for your grandpa’s inspiration.”
He starts to sink into the puddle, almost like he’s being washed away.
“Just trust yourself, and you’ll know what to do, okay? I know you’ll do great. Now go now! Before this puddle grows larger and consumes the whole island.”
Before I can say anything, the short man disappears into the puddle. I start to panic, but after a while I am able to collect myself. I have to save my grandpa’s artwork.
There are several signs that lead me to the path that goes to the center of the Isle. On the way, I noticed several different sceneries, all being paintings that were based on all the places my grandpa visited. Could location be his biggest inspiration? I walk some more, and I pass by a field of cats. As I look closer, I notice they are all the same cat. It was Oliver, my grandpa’s cat. He passed away a few months before my grandpa died. He was like a best friend to him. Maybe he was my grandpa’s biggest inspiration? He did paint the cat quite a bit. Even though he wasn’t the main subject of a painting, my grandpa would always find a way to incorporate him somehow. Almost like a trademark in his paintings.
After a lengthy walk through different parts of the mural, I finally reached the center. However, there was nothing there. How could that be? The short old man said I’d find something here that would help. Is this not the center? After a while of looking around, I crumble to the floor, and I begin to weep. I really must be disappointing my grandpa. Even in a crisis, I can’t even think of what to do to help. All his artwork will vanish because of me.
Through my tears, I notice something. The paintbrush — it was glowing. It became brighter by the second. What was happening? Is it going to explode? The paintbrush picked itself up and zoomed past me to the very center of the area. I quickly get up and race towards it. The light was so bright it was blinding, and I tried to get as close as I could to grab it. After a bit of a struggle, I was able to get a grasp on the paintbrush. Then, the world around me lit up. It was hard to make out anything, but I felt myself being lifted into the air. It was frightening but, at the same time, really cool. I suddenly drop to the ground. I glanced up, and there he was.
“Hi, Pumpkin!” He smiled. “How’ve you been?”
My eyes welled up with tears as I ran towards him.
“Papa, I’ve missed you so much.”
He hugged me tight, and after wiping away my tears, he crouched down next to me.
“Now, why are you crying, Pumpkin? There ain’t nothing you should be sad about.”
“But Papa, your art… it’s fading away. This funnylooking man told me I was the one to save it… but I don’t know what to do. I can’t think of anything, and there is nothing here to work with. I’m sorry Papa, I must be such a disappointment. ”
He hugs me again.
“Well, isn’t that a whole bunch of baloney! Pumpkin, you will never fail to make me proud. You might not be painting as much as you used to, but that’s okay! Hey, I didn’t paint for a year straight when your grandma died. Or heck, a month after Olie died. Trust me, I understand. But you are way too hard on yourself! It’s okay to take breaks. You can’t do the same thing over and over again. It loses its charm.”
“You can say that again, Ted.”
I look over my grandpa’s shoulder and there is the short man.
“You’re alive? I thought you got swallowed by that giant puddle?”
The short man chuckles.
“I see you’ve met Steve,” said my grandpa. “[He] was always my favorite person to paint, he looks so much like a cartoon character… like one of those seven gnomes, or whatever they are called. Nice going, Steve, you ruined the surprise I had for my granddaughter. I look at the two men, even more puzzled.
“Surprise? What are you talking about—”
They both laugh together. My grandpa hugs my shoulder and turns me around. The mural is the brightest it’s ever been, with so many new vibrant colors.
“You see, Pumpkin? You did it! I told you that you were my biggest pride.”
“But, that doesn’t make sense… I didn’t even figure out what your greatest inspiration was.”
My grandpa takes the paintbrush from my hand and quickly paints a bench.
“Come, sit down. I lived a long life filled with inspiration. But nothing compares to the inspiration I felt when you came into my life. And I want you to remember that, okay?”
I smile proudly, trying to prevent myself from tearing up.
“Now I have to send you back home now, okay? And remember, it doesn’t matter what interests me or anyone else. Do what makes you happy.”
He hugs me one last time and kisses my forehead.
I wake up, my mom peering over me.
“Laura? Oh, thank goodness you’re okay. You really have to be careful with your cups, honey. You drank a whole cup of paint water.
I slowly rise up off the ground. I smile.
“Oh no… you are smiling funny. Should I call a doctor?”
I immediately hugged her.
“Thanks, Mom, but I’ll be okay. It’s not like it was the first time.”
She sighs, helping me off the floor.
“I see you found Grandpa’s paintings, huh? Oh! And his favorite mural! Glad you found that one, I knew you’d find inspiration from it.”
She walks over to my desk and picks up the large sheet of paper.
“Oh wow, Laura, this is incredible. If Ms. Crimp doesn’t love it, then there is something seriously wrong with that woman.”
I can’t help but laugh a little.
“Thank you… I guess I did take some inspiration from some of Grandpa’s work. I tried to combine elements with my own little twist.”
“Oh, Laura,” my mom brings me into a hug. “He is so very proud of you.”
I hugged her back.
“I know.”
EMOTIONAL ART!
BY LINDA WANG, SUNNYVALE, CA
ESCAPING WITH CHAOS
BY KIERRA REESE, JACKSONVILLE, FL
BY XINYI TANG, SHANGHAI, CHINA
BEARING THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD
BY ISABELLA LIU, HONOLULU, HAWAII
NOT MY FAULT
BY JOANNE SABRINA CHEN, SHANGHAI, CHINA
CRIMSON PETALS
BY YUEHAN MAO, DALLAS, TX
FEAR
BY ROBIN GOLDFARB, NOVATO, CA
BOOK REVIEWS FANTASY
Eragon
By Christopher Paolini
Review by Colin Park, Bakersfield, CA
Dragons, magic, and an oppressive overlord. Sounds eerily similar to The Lord of the Rings, right?
To some degree, it certainly is.
But where Christopher Paolini’s Eragon succeeds are in the book’s heartbreaking moments, surprisingly relatable characters, and seat-gripping action. The expertise with which this story was written blew my fifth-grade mind; I would scarf down my chicken nuggets at breakneck speed and run to the nearest chair, struggling to find the page I was on.
Eragon follows the life of a young boy, aptly named Eragon, who must pick up the mantle of the legendary dragon rider after discovering a mysterious dragon egg. The omnipotent tyrant, Galbatorix, is seeking to destroy our protagonist and to finally bring the dragon riders to extinction in order to solidify his rule. Eragon goes on an epic journey, fighting back
against the evil ruler, seeking to end his oppressive reign.
To this day, as a bleary-eyed sophomore, I find myself struggling to pick up a new book for the simple fact that they’re never as engrossing as Eragon. Its storyline is done so fantastically that other books can’t compete. Paolini’s dynamic writing style, mixed with complex and beautiful worldbuilding, adds layers of depth and interest as we journey along with Eragon to discover his world.
However, the attention to detail is what I especially fell in love with.
Normally, I don’t particularly enjoy reading tons of descriptions; it can get boring and I’m not particularly interested in how blue the paint on a wall is. But this story’s detailing goes far above constructing its world; Paolini manages to create an entirely new language, explicitly describe magic and fighting styles, and actually develop strategies in magical warfare. I was inclined to keep learning about everything the author tells us. Can Eragon master magic? How powerful can he truly become? Will it eventually be enough, if ever, to defeat the king?
HEARTBREAKING MOMENTS AND SEAT-GRIPPING ACTION
To add a cherry on top, Paolini’s writing style is just sublime. His seamless flow mixed with artistic direction perfectly showcases the complex world that he has created and we, the readers, can just bask in the beauty of Eragon.
I am continually inspired by Eragon, thanks to Christopher Paolini’s writing and storytelling. I wholeheartedly recommend everyone give it a thorough read.
Review
by Mikayla Kaminski, Sussex, WI
Murder investigation: not a typical school project. But that’s exactly what Pippa Fitze-Amoeba does in A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder. Five years ago, Andy Bell was murdered by her boyfriend, Sal, who then died by suicide — or so everyone thinks. People in town believe this story, until Pip comes along. For years, Sal’s house was deemed the “murder house” where people would dare each other to run up and touch. But Pip is determined to figure out what really happened the night of the murder as she uncovers the town’s many secrets.
Pip’s character evolves greatly throughout this book. She starts as a shy junior in high school and ends up with more confidence than she know what to do with.
On her journey to discover what happened, Pip runs into bullies, drug dealers, and blackmailers. It’s these encounters that change her. “I don’t even know what’s right anymore. Everything is so muddled, I’m not sure I’m even the good girl I thought I was, I’ve lost her along the way,” she reflects.
A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder by Holly Jackson includes exactly what you would expect: threatening notes, chases through the woods, and ghost stories around a campfire. Plus, there’s a jaw-dropping plot twist at the end!
Jackson immerses the reader in Pip’s thought process by including logs, phone calls, and her long list of suspects, creating an easy, fast read. Also, by including social media and standard teenage drama, this book is modern and relatable to teens today.
A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder is fast paced, intriguing, and never lost my attention. It’s exactly what teens are looking for in a good murder mystery book.
POETRY
Grass, dives deeper into her style of storytelling, now in a poetry form. I am able to make connections to her past music and past life in general, and I find the poems to be very interesting and satisfying to read.
Lana makes this book feel human. Each poem has imperfections, purposely left in. Some have two pages, one with an edited version of the poem left with notes, markings, and spelling mistakes, and the other a final version of that poem. Some poems have spelling mistakes fixed in pen, or line-to-line spacing issues. These imperfections make each poem stand out and bridge the gap between author and reader. They show that the poet is human. This alone allows you to think more deeply and connect with Del Rey’s writing; it feels like a conversion between you and her. And it’s a good conversation.
Lana is a romantic. At the start of this book she tells you to read it outside in the warm afternoon sun. Her poems explore tragic breakup, love, nostalgia, happiness, melancholy, being at the lows of her life, looking back at the highs, and how she creates the future. Knowing about her personal life and connecting that to her poetry is what brought me the most enjoyment. She makes references to her actual name, Elizabeth Grant, and past abusive relationships and drug addictions. Almost all the poems are set on the West Coast, where she explores themes of being free from past abuse, finding herself, and looking back on the happiness that once was. Lana also includes photos that she took, and while there’s nothing very special about them, their low quality aesthetic adds nostalgia to each page.
Review by Elijah Overcash Apex, NC
Over the summer, I like to explore music more. I had previously listened to one of Lana Del Rey’s albums, so I decided to listen to her entire discography. I loved her romantic takes on love and tragedy and her singing style. Del Rey’s book, Violet Bent Backwards Over the
After reading each poem I stopped for a minute to think about how powerful it was. Lana explores her simple life and what makes her happy in the poem “Happy,” running from an abusive boyfriend when it would have been easier to stay in “Thanks to the Locals,” and learning to accept herself in “SportCruiser.” This book wants readers to embrace the romantic aspects of life, whether it’s joy or pain, and use them to grow. Violet Bent Backwards is a great poetry collection filled with personal accounts that give each poem life and make the entire book a pleasure to read.
A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder
By Holly Jackson
Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass
By Lana Del Rey
ART GALLERY
PHOTO BY ABBIE PRICE, BRYANT, AK
1. ARTWORK BY OLIVIA AMIR, LOS ANGELES, CA 2. PHOTO BY SYDNEY KELLER, JUPITER, FL
BY YAJING GU, SHANGHAI, CHINA
rain from the ceiling
ARTWORK
NOVEL BY JENNA CALVAGNA, BRODHEAD, WI
summary
Ava is the newest model android made specifically to replicate human empathy and emotion. She longs to complete her purpose of seamlessly integrating into the natural world, but in order to do that, she must complete a series of benchmarks to prove herself. As she learns more and experiences more from the outside, she brings herself closer and closer to finding out what lies behind her walls for herself.
It is the dirty streets of Manhatten, and it is 8:00 p.m. A stained piece of paper blows by in the wind. There are no leaves on the ground, nor are there any living plants in areas like these. The few that survived were located purely in tree rehabilitation habitats, but it is impossible to save what doesn’t want to be saved. It is a Friday night, and the world is at a standstill. Buildings fall and crumble to the ground on top of long dead piles of concrete, littering the once-busy ground with rubble and debris. The man once responsible for cleaning this mess is lying dead outside his home, along with 1.6 million others. It has been 62 years since the earth became unsavable.
Harris Robotics has finally introduced the newest project in their line of emotionally intelligent humanoid robots: Model A344, Line 23, known as Ava. At 5 feet 5 inches in height and 45 lbs in weight, she carries the knowledge of both computer and man. We hope she will come equipped with computer-esque speed and problem-solving abilities and perhaps the beginnings of humanoid empathy.
“Recite sentence two of the article.” A voice came through from the loudspeaker on the wall.
“5 foot 5 inches in height, 40lbs in weight, all carrying the knowledge of both computer and man.” I can recite articles I have stored in my memory flawlessly, all I have to do is scan them first.
“That is correct. Who is the article referring to in this sentence?” The three small lights on the outside of the speaker would change every time a voice came through.
“Model A344, Line 23, emotionally intelligent humanoid robot known as Ava.” I don’t have lungs or a tongue with which to speak; I simply have the words, and suddenly they are there in the world.
“That is correct,” it says. The voice doesn’t have to tell me I’m right for me to know I am. “And Ava is?”
“Me.” A light on the loudspeaker blinks green approvingly, as I am once again correct.
“Okay, Ava, today we’re going to be trying something different,” the voice said, almost in response to my previous answer. “Are you ready?” I believe the voice knows that he does not have to ask this question to an android, yet he does anyway. It is selfishly human nature, I suppose, to humanize the rest of the world as well.
“I am always ready,” I respond. It’s the truth.
“You will be solving an ethical dilemma. Do you
“...you were created to act as a diplomat to the human species. You will integrate yourself and act as one of them, and as far as they’re concerned, you will be. You will make connections and relationships. You will see the world.”
know what that is?” The voice from the wall calls out.
“I do.”
“You are blessed with the gift of life, along with another robot just like you. The only problem is that in order for you to live, you might take an essential component from the other robot that is keeping it alive. In order for the other robot to live, it must do the same to you. It is impossible to share this component.”
I give myself a moment to reflect on the question. Many answers swarm through my head: Assign a numerical value to the life of each robot based on its potential, success, and intelligence. Choose to save the life with the higher value. Choose at random, and save the lucky robot. Although I suppose none of these are the answers that the voice is looking for.
“As an A344 model from Line 23 of Harris Robotics, I am unable to sufficiently answer this question in an ethical way at this time,” I respond, clearing my memory of all of the possible answers I had come up with.
“Thank you for your time, Ava. That will be all.” As the speaker on the wall finished their sentence, the green light on the front changed to red. My questioning was over for the day.
When the questioning ends, I must begin my cleaning routine to prepare the room for the next day. The only things that are ever out of place are the things I am asked to retrieve by the voice on the loudspeaker, there
“I WAS CREATED HERE FOR THE PURPOSE OF DEVELOPING MY EMOTIONS AND PERFECTING MY COMPUTING SYSTEM.”
is never too much. I like to methodically go through my room based on the list I have of items in my head, it makes things much more efficient. The table belongs on the east side of my room. The bookshelf on the west. There is a small crack on the ceiling that sometimes leaks rain through onto the floor, and other times lets a small bit of natural light in to brighten the place up. Today, it is just dark.
I take the catalog sent out from Harris Robotics, and I return it to the filing cabinet, along with my own instruction sheet. I take two books from the table and bring them to their spots on the bookshelf. When I scan over the various titles, however, I notice one I don’t recognize. It is not programmed into my memory, and
I don’t see it on my list. It’s a children’s book. The cover is decorated with little flowers, but the central focus is a family — a mom, a dad, and a little girl. I flip through the pages and see the story play out in front of my eyes. The little girl’s family had to move, so she didn’t know anyone in her new school. There’s a picture at the end of the book of the family hugging. The caption says:
“No matter what happens, your family will always be there with you.”
It makes me stop. It makes me think. Does everyone get to have a family? I picture myself as the little girl. I’m somewhere new, and I’m afraid, but everything is okay because I’m not alone. I’ll never be alone as long as I have them.
I feel something weird in my chest, in my wiring. A surge of something going through my electricity. I don’t know what it is… but it’s bad. I feel… bad. I feel. And then, as if on cue, the voice returns to the speaker on the wall. “Congratulations, Ava. You’ve progressed to a new stage of growth. You are beginning to experience emotional development, and you have reached the first stage: jealousy. How does it feel to feel?”
I want to cry.
“There is a problem in my programming. Please report it to the proper maintenance,” I say. I want to shut off and be alone forever, or at least until these malfunctions stop occurring. I want everyone else gone. My neck twitches and my shoulders sink into a deep dissatisfaction.
“You are getting closer to your goal, Ava. Have I told you what you were made for yet?” The voice continues, intending to catch my attention. It works.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you were created to act as a diplomat to the human species. You will integrate yourself and act as one of them, and as far as they’re concerned, you will be. You will make connections and relationships. You will see the world.” The speaker seems to fizzle with each word that comes out of it. My wiring does the same thing.
“A diplomat? Between them and who?” I ask. I’ve never not known something before.
“Humans and technology, of course. With your knowledge and emotional intelligence, you will be able to act as a communicative figure until all technology is as amazing as you are.”
“As amazing as I am,” I repeat aloud in response and again in my head over and over again. Is it really so amazing to be so uniquely alone in the world? “Can you
tell me more? About the outside. What it will be like out there.”
I hear a sigh through the speaker, though I am not sure if it is from frustration or recollection.
“It is beautiful. There are trees that stretch miles into the sky, reaching up and touching the stars with their branches. It will make you want to climb up and touch them yourself. The grass is green and soft on your skin, and flowers grow through cracks in the concrete as if they belonged there the whole time. When you look up at night, you’ll swear the moon had never been more beautiful. Man is kind and loving, and they will help you with all that they have. Just like the crows, humans collect things they love and decorate their homes and their bodies with it. They want to impress no one but themselves. Humans are compassionate by nature, and they will create their own families from nothing at all. When they sent a rover to Mars, they gave it a name and a birthday. They gave it life even though it had no ability to live it.”
I glance over to the tiny hole in my ceiling, my connection to the world of man. Will I be renamed when I go out there? Will I be given a birthday? Is it possible for me to be loved as truly and intensely as one human loves another? The painful feeling in my wiring is gone, and I feel warm. My chest aches, and I feel as though I want to cry again, but I don’t know why. I want to experience the high trees and the deep oceans, I want to celebrate the birthday of the astronaut on Mars. I’ve never wanted anything before.
“Ava,” continues the voice from the speaker. “You are making quick progress. It seems you have already reached a new level of emotion. What you are experiencing now is love, love for a world, and love for a future. Your future. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful.” I sigh. Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe the way I feel. Humanity came to feel, to connect, and to love. There is nothing more beautiful than that.
I’m getting closer, I know it. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be able to leave and fulfill my real purpose. I’ll be able to have a life, a family, and a world to live in. I’ll be able to look up at the stars at night, the twinkling destinations of space travelers, and I’ll be able to lie on the grass in the morning. Maybe I’ll even feel it.
“Shall we continue?” The voice asks. It offers a sharp return to reality.
“I suppose so.”
“I have a few more questions for you, Ava. First, why do you believe you are in this facility?” The voice is beginning to grate on my skull.
“I was created here for the purpose of developing my emotions and perfecting my computing system.” This is what I’ve been told, and I know I’m correct. The voice doesn’t have to tell me I’m right for me to know. But then, the light on the front of the speaker blinks red. I’ve never been wrong before, either. I’ve spent my life knowing things, memorizing things, categorizing things.
It’s all I know how to do, and it’s what I’m best at.
“Red?” I ask. “Please inform the maintenance team that the light on the speaker is broken.”
“Ava, how do you know that you aren’t being kept here just to dangle the outside world in front of you? How do you know you will really be released? You trust me only because we have spoken before, but I have never given you any evidence this is true.” The voice is flat and uninterested as if nothing I said even mattered at all. Nothing seemed to bother it, and that bothered me.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You just told me that I would be leaving to follow my true purpose.”
“And maybe that is true, but maybe it is not. I have given you no proof either way. You never even knew about these steps to your development until today, how do you know there aren’t more you are unaware of?” This voice is beginning to cause pressure in my head.
I want to close my eyes and release this tension, but I don’t know how. I clench and unclench my fists until I notice I am cracking the plating of my left palm. I feel threatened, like there’s a threat somewhere in the room around me. I know there isn’t, though. My body is warm and getting hotter with every passing second.
“If I were you, Ava, I wouldn’t trust anyone except yourself. You’ve never even seen the person providing the voice for this speaker, after all.”
I want to scream. I want to shout and blow out my speakers and explode the room with the pure capacity of my noise. I want to tear down my bookshelf, break down the concrete of this building, and rip the stupid speaker off of its perch on the wall.
“Stop talking,” I say, trying to regain my composure.
“Humans made you, Ava. If they are the ones that put you in here to suffer, then maybe they aren’t as beautiful as you thought.” It offered. It was right.
I trusted without even thinking. I had no way of knowing if anything the voice told me was true, but it was all so beautiful to hear, and thinking about it was like magic. I didn’t want to believe that something so beautiful could be cruel enough to keep me down here forever. I can feel it through the unwavering crack in my ceiling, the stare of the outside world. My window looking out, but at the same time, their window looking in. It’s as if I am merely entertainment.
“I said stop talking. Stop.” I repeated. My face was getting hotter. Electricity was pulsing through my arms, and I felt like I was about to explode.
“It is foolish to believe without proper evidence first. It will do you right to remember that next time, Ava.” It said, still completely monotone. The sound of the voice was making me want to tear the metal plating from my wires.
“Shut up!” I exploded, picking up an electric clock from the table next to me and throwing it upwards at the
loudspeaker. I wanted it to break. The clock, the loudspeaker, my arm, it didn’t matter which one. I just needed one of them to shatter and fall against the floor, releasing my tension with it. This terrible tension that I just couldn’t get rid of.
“Congratulations, Ava.”
Boasted the voice, bringing everything in the world to a stop as it spoke. “You have reached another level of development. The tension you are feeling is anger, deep inside your programming.”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t before either, but now it felt so real. I was angry. I was so deeply, genuinely angry, that I couldn’t even hear the voice straight. It tricked me. It used me for technological development, and it doesn’t even care. It used me. My artificial heartbeat pounds in my head.
“Ava, are you listening to me? You are developing well.” That grating voice said, interrupting my thoughts yet again.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, staring at the speaker as if it could see me, too.
“Do what?”
“You tricked me. You told me that I was left here on purpose. That I will never be released and that nothing is as beautiful as I want it to be. That I should never trust you again.” After every advancement before, I stopped feeling the new emotion almost as soon as I started. Not this time, though. This time, the anger remained, and the way I knew myself to be was starting to disappear.
“Don’t be silly, Ava. This is all just a test for you, of course. I’m sure deep down you knew that. Are you ready to move on?”
I wish that clock had broken the loudspeaker beyond repair.
“No. I have to answer your question still.” I responded.
“My question, Ava?” The voice asked in an irritatingly sing-songy tone.
“Your question. If another robot and I both needed the same component to continue living, but there was only one of these components. I’ve decided. I would allow the other robot to take the component, whatever it is. I
ARTWORK BY LYDIA VAZ, SAN JOSE, CA
shouldn’t be allowed to live at the expense of another. I would never let anything, robot or human, die in order to keep someone like you alive, either. How do I know you aren’t the one that put me down here, anyway? How do I know that you’re really going to let me out?” I was almost yelling. I had never had an actual emotional reaction like this before. It’s not something I thought I was capable of. “Ava, you are feeling suspicion now. Suspicion is on the same level as jealousy, level one. The only way to get around uncomfortable feelings like this is to move
through them.” The voice called, clearly talking down to me. “In order to properly communicate with the living world, you must know how to deal with bad feelings as well as good ones. It is simply the way of the world, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. There is more to come, though. Better feelings.”
I was done listening to this excruciating voice. I couldn’t do it anymore. I began to search around my room for something — anything I could use to escape this situation one way or another. A knife, a hammer, a book. A door, even. Maybe. The voice from the speaker was still talking, but I couldn’t hear it anymore. I was too focused on getting out, getting into a world where I would be accepted and where I wouldn’t have to experience people like this anymore. A table, a book, a CD. I have a list in my head of every item in this room, but I’m having a harder and harder time accessing it now. There should be a shovel in here somewhere or even a metal umbrella. If I can find either of them, maybe that would be enough. A cup, a chair.
I just need something strong and sturdy I can use to tear down a wall or a ceiling. Where is the shovel? I know I left it here. A shovel. A shovel. A shovel. An… umbrella. There it is. A blue umbrella with a hard metal handle that I could use to punch a hole somewhere. The voice is talking still,
I CLIMB OUT OF THE HOLE I’VE CREATED IN THE ROOF OF THIS BUILDING, NEVER ONCE BREAKING MY GAZE FROM THE SKY ABOVE ME. THIS WAS THE MOST PERFECT MOMENT. ME, THE WORLD, THE SKY, AND NOTHING BETWEEN US.
but I’m done listening to it now. I’m too busy climbing onto the table in the middle of the room, stacking a chair on top, high enough for me to reach the ceiling. Shoving the handle of the umbrella into the small crack in my ceiling, then tearing chunks out piece by piece.
“Ava, it is not recommended to do that.” The voice carries over to me again. I don’t care.
When the hole is big enough, I pull myself through into the ceiling. It’s hollow inside, and I can hear something on the roof. At first, a small tap, then a few more. Then, all at once, the terrifying and beautiful sound of millions of raindrops hitting the drywall in a cacophony of noise. I was so close. I forced the umbrella into the even smaller crack in the drywall above me, caking myself in drywall dust and plaster until it happened. A loud gush, a louder crack, being pummeled by rain falling out of the sky. The intoxicating stars above me were more mesmerizing than I ever could have imagined. I think to myself, no wonder humans stay out all night staring up at the endless world. It’s impossible to look away. I
feel the brush of cold air against my cheek, and I smear the rainwater over my face as I touch my fingertips to my cold skin. Hope. I don’t need the voice anymore, I know by myself that this is what hope is. The hope that everything may really be okay from now on.
I climb out of the hole I’ve created in the roof of this building, never once breaking my gaze from the sky above me. This was the most perfect moment. Me, the world, the sky, and nothing between us. Only the chill of the air and the harsh taps of the rain. I stand, taking a few steps without ever breaking my gaze. I take a few more, but I stumble. The roof of my building ends suddenly in a sharp, jagged corner, and there is no more room for me to walk. I look down. The roof was very, very small. Not nearly the size of a whole facility, just… a room. My room. There has never been anything more than my room. I break my gaze and look around. The world was not rife with color, and it was not bustling with life. It was quiet. Crumpled buildings on the far landscape, a stained piece of paper floats by in the wind.
Vines and ferns have overtaken everything in sight. The trees are large and monstrous, and they stretch up to the sky as if they wish to grab the moon and throw it down to the earth. The moon crumbles, leaving rocks and dust and glowing spores to decorate the barely breathable air. There are humans decomposing on the ground outside of my room. Outside of my room. The outside of my room is broken down and raining debris, the rain causing the stone siding to erode from how long it’s been. This was not the world I was told about. This world was cold, empty, and desolate.
I hear the click of the speaker turning on from the hole in the roof beside me.
“Do you remember what I told you about your true purpose, Ava?” It asks. I am listening now.
“I am to be a diplomat for humankind. That is why I can feel; that is why I am smart.”
“Humankind is going extinct, Ava. You were created as a replacement. The environment needs to be balanced, just like every other part of the world. Just like you. A balance of emotions is making you feel the way you do, and without proper balance, the earth will continue to wipe itself out.”
“Just… just me?” I ask, much quieter now. I am not angry anymore.
“For now, yes. But we believe that with the speed of development you’ve shown, more are soon to follow. You won’t be alone for long.”
I look out at the world in front of me again. What was once peace and beauty is now solitude, loss, and destruction. The rain has no one to keep it company, nor do the trees that stretch up to touch the stars. The ocean is alone with itself at all times. And now, I am, too.
“Congratulations, Ava.” The voice calls one final time: “You have reached the final stage of emotional development. The feeling you are experiencing right now is hopelessness.”
The Beating Heart
BY STEVEN WANG, BROOKLYN, NY
“He’s got the heart of a tiger,” the nurse said, “and we have no idea how his body hasn’t rejected it.”
Little Conversation
BY ANTONINA EGOROVA, PERM, RUSSIA
“You know, cats can communicate only with ghosts,” my cat said and looked me straight in the eyes.
Plot Twist
BY FANXIU SOPHIE QIU, NEW HAVEN, CT
Just as the detective was about to arrest the prime suspect for the murder, an unexpected confession from a long-lost twin revealed a shocking case of mistaken identity.
FICTION
BOOK REVIEWS
It Starts With Us
By Colleen Hoover
Review by Danielle Meyer, Pewaukee, WI
Colleen Hoover has recently taken social media by storm with the influence of her books, including the first of a series called It Ends With Us. I wondered if the second book was going to live up to first, particularly in the way that the tension between Ryle and Lily and then Lily and Atlas made my heart pound out of my chest. Both books portrayed a love triangle in a way I haven’t seen before, and it was quite refreshing to not see an overused trope once again.
It Starts With Us, by Colleen Hoover, the second in this series, is a remarkable book, but it falls flat in some parts. There is a lack of dynamic tension that the first book had; here, is turns into flat out aggression between Ryle and Lily as they fight over custody responsibilities. I didn’t get the same feeling as if I was the one in this fight as I had experienced in the first book.
One thing that I did love about this
book was the fact that as I read, I was able to see the development of a positive relationship, which is monumental given the theme of domestic violence. After Lily’s struggles with Ryle, I was curious whether or not she would begin another relationship and how her previous one would influence it. If there is one thing that CoHo does right in this book, it’s that she acknowledges that after domestic abuse, it is still possible to have a healthy relationship even if it seems impossible. As readers, we get to see how real relationships are meant to work, with compromise.
A relatively important part of the first book that is carried over to the second is Lily’s letters to Ellen DeGeneres. These represent the innocent relationship that Lily and Atlas had as teens/young adults, and are used as a deciding factor in a major life decision. I love Hoover’s development of these letters and how they further develop Lily and Atlas’s relationship. However, the letters made me physically cringe every time I would reach a certain part. I couldn’t handle the secondhand embarrassment I felt at times and would end up skipping entire sections of text.
A REMARKABLE BOOK, BUT IT FALLS FLAT IN SOME PARTS
It Starts with Us has the ending that most dedicated readers wanted to see, and it was predictable. Did Colleen write what she thought the readers would like, or did she write based on how she views someone who has lived through domestic abuse? Overall, this book has the conclusion that I needed regarding the characters, but I was left wanting more. I would recommend this book to anyone who has read the first, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say someone should absolutely read this series in order to get to the second book.
CREATIVE NONFICTION
All About Love
By Bell Hooks
Review by Anonymous
“All About Love“ (2000), written by the iconic bell hooks — yes, all lowercase — starts off by redefining love entirely. She says we’ve been treating love as a noun, an event that just happens. Instead, says hooks, we should view love as a verb; giving love is an active choice we make. In other words, there’s no guarantee that any of us will “find the one.” It’s a fresh, new perspective, one not regularly seen in Disney movies, where the princess always finds the one without lifting a finger.
However, hook’s claim seems to have been planted as a bitter, cynical little seed, with no resulting blossoms. Her tales of ravaged romance have rendered the seed sterile. Her two long-term romantic relationships were both destroyed to dust by internalized patriarchal thinking; neither she nor the partner in question knew how to give nor how to receive love. Hooks writes how women, similar to herself, are taught to give love,
regardless of the quality of the love received, and men are not even taught to do either. They do not understand emotional vulnerability and are thus emotionally distant with the women in their lives; both are afraid of intimacy but express it in extremely different ways.
Evidently, hooks speaks from her experience and perhaps entirely so. Although she makes generalized statements about men and women she does not seem to see other possibilities beyond her own horizons. Her own idea of “new visions” creates the idea of an impossibly unattainable heaven; hooks’s analysis of her own tragedies constricts the entire world to one stifling fate and leaves no room for any rectification. The line between critical analysis designed for self-help and creative nonfiction evidently becomes blurred throughout the course of the book, and the interest of the reader dips and wanes out of existence.
The real sparkle behind her words lies in her storytelling; the moments of purely doomed and cynical fairytale filter through the weak attempts at analysis and string together a basic picture of bell hooks’s entire life. Her best ideas arrive from the simple anecdotes: the idea that love is like a blossoming flower that needs to be consistently watered is so simple, even cliché, but fits with her stories of constant neglect in both her family home and the houses of straw she built in her romantic relationships. A system as cruel as that of patriarchy is doomed to never last. Once she began to analyze the story further, exploring the common power dynamics in heterosexual relationships, the real gloom started to settle and cloud over the novel — it was like a permanent bitter dust, covering every inch of every page. She seemed to no longer own her experiences; instead they became the depressing property of the reader, opening up for discussion the desire of “more.” But wasn’t the very novel itself supposed to be the discussion?
HOOKS SAYS WE SHOULD VIEW LOVE AS A VERB; GIVING LOVE IS AN ACTIVE CHOICE WE MAKE
The great and explosive freedom of the self-help genre seems quite alluring; who doesn’t love rerouting a few lost souls? But how often does a self-help book feature a forever disconsolate author? In this case, the soul rerouted seems to have been hooks herself. She appears to have no desire to reach the reader. Upon second glance, the book seems to be a series of stolen diary entries.
This book is the perfect quest for a young and aspiring Sherlock Holmes: by the end of the novel, one can hope to have practically painted a picture of bell hooks, without even seeing her face or reading her autobiography.
PHOTO BY MARIAN DE SILVA, GAMPAHA, SRI LANKA
ART GALLERY
1.
ARTWORK BY RIYA KASTURE, PUNE, INDIA
ARTWORK BY CLAIRE LU, PORTOLA VALLEY, CA
PHOTO BY JACQUI SYKES, JUPITER, FL
PHOTO BY MISHA GUJJA, GLEN HEAD, NY
NOVEL BY GRACE COLE, DOVER, MA
summary
Penny is lost. Where, how, or why, she does not know. All she knows is that she must find a way out. While wandering through the forest, she comes across an old, dilapidated house, in which lives a girl by the name of Lilith, clever and youthful. Or so she seems.
Penny can’t help but notice the forest’s bonechilling tendencies. From tales of missing people and mystery to the eerie and ominous aura of Lilith and her house, everything seems to be a bad omen. Her skepticism intensifies once she crosses the threshold of Lilith’s house. Upon the walls hang hundreds upon hundreds of photographed people, their faces bearing terror and their eyes glazed over with panic and alarm. Something feels… off about these photos. They settle in the back of Penny’s mind, persistently trickling into her thoughts.
However, with every minute Penny spends in that house, its once welcoming sense of comfort ebbs away, leaving her itching with eagerness to leave. But she can’t leave yet, there are still secrets to be revealed. Her journey, rich with twists and turns, has only just begun. With a little curiosity, she will begin to uncover Lilith’s past and her own future.
Chapter 1: The Forest
Crimson leaves crunched beneath my worn-out sneakers. It was a cool October day, and Fall was beginning to cascade into Winter, leaving trees naked and bare without their foliage. A soft breeze rustled the foliage, singing softly to me as I trudged on and on. I jumped at the occasional bird call. A branch snapped, and the sharp sound cut like a knife through the silence of the forest. The hairs on my arms stood on end. Something wasn’t right about this place. I had to find a way out of here.
I had been warned about these woods. The reason I did not listen escapes me. People have gone missing here before. Was I next? The wind began to sound like a chorus of voices, chanting eerily, calling out to me, telling me that it was too late. Soon, I would join their choir.
I came to my senses after my slight onset of panic. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, deeming them irrational. I would get out of here, I had to, I thought, as I pulled my jacket tighter around me, like a shield protecting me from the evils of this labyrinthine forest.
The fog that seemed to encapsulate me was no help either. I couldn’t see merely ten feet in front of me.
AS I STEPPED ONTO THE PORCH, SOMETHING TOLD ME TO STOP. IT WAS A FEELING SO SUDDEN, SO PROMINENT, I ALMOST HEARD A VOICE IN MY EAR, WARNING ME
From what dim light the sinking sun provided, though, I began to see something rise up out of the mist in the distance. Its boxy figure stood out against the slim, evergreen trees and stout rocks. As I drew closer, it became apparent to me that this was a house. Well, perhaps “house” was an overstatement. Its wooden walls were splintered and rickety, and shingles were torn off the roof. On the porch, there was a downward curve in the middle like some invisible thing was standing on it, weighing it down and causing it to sag. To top it off, the shutters were hanging by the hinges, which allowed a warm glow to emit from the interior of the house.
I crept closer. Smoke billowed from a crumbling chimney, suggesting that the house was inhabited. Could this be a way out? Someone was surely in there. I found myself drawn towards the entrance, like opposite poles of a magnet. Its warmth beckoned me forward, and I felt my leg take a step in front of me as if a puppeteer was pulling strings, an outside force controlling my lifeless limbs.
I reached the steps. Each one creaked and groaned beneath my feet. They seemed ready to give way at any
moment. As I stepped onto the porch, something told me to stop. It was a feeling so sudden, so prominent, I almost heard a voice in my ear, warning me. Don’t go in there, the voice breathed. I shuddered and looked around in fear, half expecting someone to be standing beside me, whispering into my ear. Open that door, and it will be the last thing you do. You have been warned…
I gulped. Surely that wasn’t true, surely it was just the negativity and fear that had bloomed in my mind, entangling itself within my thoughts, and sat festering throughout the day. Still, deep within me, too deep to fully acknowledge, I had a lingering sensation that the voice was right. But I had no time to sit and ponder, I was going to find out. With one last shallow breath, I stepped forward. I saw my outstretched arm in front of me and felt my white knuckles rap against the door three quick times. Bam. Bam. Bam. A pause, then click. Creak. The door swung open, and my eyes locked on the person standing behind it.
Chapter 2: The Girl
I’m not entirely sure what I had expected. However, it was not this. Before me stood a girl. A young girl. She couldn’t have been over the age of 10. She was a bit taller than my waist, with huge, bulging eyes as dark as the night. Her hair was long, glossy, and as black as her eyes. It reached down to her hips. She was adorned with a dress that could only be described as colonial, and her feet were bare. I stared at her, marveling at what I saw.
After a moment, I regained my composure. I spoke first. “Um, hello,” I said, speaking gingerly so as not to frighten her. “I seem to have lost my way, and, um, are your parents home? Or maybe an adult?”
The girl cracked a smile, showcasing two rows of pearly white teeth that stood out against her unnaturally red lips. “My parents are gone,” she said with an apathetic tone. I was taken aback.
“Oh? Are they on a trip? Or running errands?” I managed to squeak out. I prayed the answer was yes, but there was something about the way this girl spoke that told me this wasn’t the case.
She continued to smile as she replied. “No. They are gone. Would you like to come inside? You look cold.”
As she pointed it out, my ears began to fill with the sound of my own teeth chattering, and I looked down at my trembling hands. I was cold, and this girl seemed quite gentle. Besides, what harm could a child this young possibly do to me?
After a moment of consideration, I replied. “Okay, that sounds very nice. Thank you.” Still beaming, the girl turned and led me through the doorway. I glanced around me as we walked. The walls were lined with horrifying photographs of many, many people, in which faces of pure terror, eyes wide with surprise, were
displayed. Each photograph resided in its own frame. The frames were extravagant, with intricately carved embellishments of silver and gold. This wouldn’t have struck me as odd ordinarily, except for the fact that these frames seemed to be the only thing of their nature in the house. All the other furnishings were bleak and simple, and it looked as if it had seen years upon years of use. What was even more peculiar was the dates under everyone. I scanned them over. November 4th, 2012. January 29th, 1987. June 17th, 1925. There were dates going back to almost 100 years ago. As I looked into the wild, petrified eyes of the photographed people, chills ran down my spine. The quicker I got out of here, the better.
The girl led me down a short hallway and into a sitting room. It was small but oddly cozy. There was a sofa with a faded floral pattern and a cracked leather armchair. In the center of the room stood a rectangular coffee table that could have been an elementary schooler’s art project. The room was pulled together by an enormous fireplace. Flames roared and popped within it, spewing sparks out onto the rug. The scent of the smoke permeated the air, I could feel it pouring into my nose and down my throat with every breath. The girl pointed to the armchair and instructed me to sit. I did so, running my hand over the soft, worn leather beneath me.
She was the one to speak first this time. “I should tell you my name, shouldn’t I? I’m Lilith. What is yours?” She looked at me expectantly.
“I’m Penny,” I answered. “It’s nice to meet you, Lilith.” She continued to smile, not saying anything. “So, Lilith, you’re probably wondering why a stranger showed up at your door. To sum it up, I’m lost here in these woods. I can’t explain how it happened. What I’m trying to ask is whether you might be able to help me find my way out. Or know someone who can?” Just then, I thought of what she had said when I asked about her parents. What did she mean, they were gone? Gone where? Surely she didn’t live alone in this house, here, in these woods with their reputation for being dangerous?
“Yes, I can help you. But not today, it is too late. Tomorrow, I will help you,” she replied as relief washed over me. “Don’t get too excited,” she said as if she had read my mind. “You must help me too. Not to worry, it’s nothing too demanding or tedious. Just a few quick favors. I’m glad you found me, I enjoy the company.’’ Her eyes bore into me as she spoke. There was something unsettling about her eyes. Yes, they were black, which was strange enough. However, it wasn’t just that. Her eyes were skeptical, they were devious. There were a million thoughts behind those eyes, bubbling up to the surface, just enough to make their presence known but never overflowing, ensuring her intentions remained hidden. And her voice, too. It didn’t match her body. It was thick with cunning and her words were melodic, the way they rolled off her tongue and danced through the air, filling the empty house and ricocheting off the walls. Her physique was that of a little girl, but her
actions contradicted it. From her mannerisms to her clever words and confident tone of voice, she could have passed as older than me. I was so deep in thought that I jumped at her voice when she spoke again.
“Come. Dinner is ready. We will discuss the rules for your stay while we eat.” She led me back down the hall into a brightly lit kitchen, with one small table on which sat a steaming chicken pot pie and a glass pitcher of milk. Two place settings were already laid out. How could that be when she hadn’t been in the kitchen since I arrived? She wouldn’t have known I was coming, she couldn’t have had any time to prepare. Perhaps she was expecting someone else? These questions lingered in the back of my mind as she gestured for me to sit down.
She poured me a glass of milk and dished me some pie. We both began to eat, in silence at first. The pangs of hunger in my stomach were suppressed with every bite. After a few minutes, she began to speak.
“I will tell you the rules now,” she said matter-of-factly. Rules? What rules? What was I to do that required rules? “You may stay here tonight. There is a bed made for you in the room upstairs. At exactly nine o’clock, you will close the door to the room and it shall remain closed until sunrise. Do not open the door until the sun has risen. You are not to leave the room until this time. This is the most important rule. The second rule is not to go anywhere or do anything without consulting me. When dawn breaks, gather your things and come downstairs. I will await you here. Do not go anywhere else. Lastly, do not look for too long at the photographs on the walls, do not touch them either. Oh, and do not question any of these rules. I will hear nothing but compliance. Is this understood?” I nodded aggressively. I was startled by her assertiveness, by her forthrightness. This reminded me to ask about her age.
“Of course, I’m a guest here, I’ll respect your wishes. May I ask how old you are?”
Lilith stared at me for a moment before speaking. She seemed almost perplexed like she had never been asked this before and knew not what it meant.
“Oh yes, my age. That is a good question. I do not know,” she said through her ever-smiling teeth as if it were perfectly normal not to know your age. Perhaps she was adopted and didn’t know her birthday? Still, I found this, along with many other things about this girl, to be highly strange. Disregarding it, I helped her clean up dinner, and her “rules” began to seep into my thoughts. The more I thought about them, the more daunting they became. I grew anxious. As if these woods weren’t terrifying enough, I now had a reason to be scared of them. Something must lurk here, something evil. Why else wouldn’t I be allowed to leave my room? And what had Lilith said about waiting for me here, in the kitchen? Was that implying that she would not sleep at all? My blood pumped in my ears, and my heart pounded. Ever since I had entered these woods, something felt off. The feeling had grown more and
more powerful the longer I was in this house. The sooner I left here, the better.
Chapter 3: The Photographs
After cleaning the kitchen, Lilith sat down at the table and stared at me blankly. I furrowed my brow as I walked down the hall, passing the photos again. Lilith had told me not to look at them, which only tempted me to do so. Their presence tugged at my gaze, and I found my eyes flicking over to their ominous, blank faces. She had only said not to look at them for too long; she didn’t say I couldn’t look at them at all. So I slowed my pace and slid my eyes to my left, to the photos, looking away every couple of seconds. Even in the darkness, the pristine metal of their frames gleamed. A candle rested on a table in the corner, its flame dancing and casting shadows over the dimly lit hallway, contributing to the eeriness of the space. The house was quiet except for the faint crackling of the fire in the sitting room. I couldn’t ignore the sensation that something was hidden within those photographs. I stepped closer. I lifted my hand and delicately traced a finger along the swirling arches of the frame’s embellishments, examining the dates carved into them once more. My head lifted to observe the person in the photo I was closest to. A girl about my age, her eyes crying for help. I pondered the meaning of these photos. Why were they here? Who were these people? Questions flooded my head, pushing away Lilith’s instructions, and I forgot to avert my gaze.
Suddenly, the mouth of the girl began to move, her lips parting ever so slightly as faint whispers drifted into the silence, and her once still eyes sprang to life, brimming with even more vivid fear. I gasped. Lilith heard. I caught one word of what the girl said, before I felt fingers wrap around my wrist, and tug hard, whipping me around. Lilith stood before me, her huge eyes glaring into mine.
“I told you not to look at them,” she growled, no longer bearing her usual smile. “What did you hear?” she demanded. “What did they say?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “They said nothing, I heard nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I had heard. And I was afraid, but I didn’t want to let on. Because the one audible word that had escaped the photographed girl’s lips was an unsettling, it played over and over in my head, her voice harsh with urgency and fear.
“Run,” she had said. Run.
Chapter 4: The Diary
A couple of minutes later, I lay awake in my bed, tossing and turning. The wind howled outside, crying out as if in pain, and I sympathized with it. My shades were drawn tightly over the glass; after my encounter with the photographs in the hallway, I wasn’t going to risk it. I shivered. My breath came in short, shallow inhales and exhales as hour after hour slipped by. I closed my eyes. I
opened them. Then, I closed them again. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep, not in my current state. After what felt like days, I decided it was no use trying and sat up, the thin mattress creaking beneath me. Lilith had said nothing about being awake so long as I didn’t leave my room. I reached towards the nightstand beside me and flicked on a lamp. The old bulb cast a dim glow over the room, shadows springing forth with it. I scanned the room in detail, as I didn’t get the chance to when I first entered. I had run upstairs once Lilith caught me, not wanting any more trouble. The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Why did this little girl have so much authority over me? For all I know, she could be pranking me. I didn’t have to listen to her. While my common sense knew this was true, my gut told me otherwise. When she spoke, I listened intently; her voice commanded me like a teacher’s might. It was hard to believe she was so young. But was she?
I continued to sit on my bed, inspecting my surroundings. That’s when something caught my eye. I leaned down to get a closer look. Just barely visible, a couple inches off the ground, was a sentence inscribed into the wall. Its letters were crude and messy as if the person carving them was in a rush. It was barely legible, but there was no doubt about what the letters spelled out. My hair stood on end as I read it, and my heart seemed to cease beating. “She is not what she seems.”
Growing frantic now, I stood up and began to pace, careful to tread lightly. I ran a trembling hand through my hair as I considered my options. I could leave now; I could flee and get out of this house. If I did so, I could end up lost forever, starving to death, going insane with no escape. I could stay, and hope Lilith will guide me out of here. It seemed I might lose my mind either way. I couldn’t bear this fear; I couldn’t bear feeling something out of place but not being able to put my finger on it. I sunk to the floor, gripping the shabby carpet beneath me for support. But as I dug my nails into the loose threads, I heard the faint noise of paper crumpling in their grasp. Slowly, I lifted the rug from the ground, holding my breath in anticipation.
A yellowing piece of paper lay on the cold ground, crumpled in the spot I had grabbed it, its edges beginning to tear. I slid it over to me bringing it close to my eyes so I could read the writer’s minuscule penmanship in this poor lighting.
Look in the nightstand drawer, it read. Read the diary. It will tell you everything. I sprang to my feet and eagerly removed the diary from the drawer. I opened it to the first page and began reading, skipping over unimportant entries and passages.
April 24th, 1925
Mama and Papa left today. They said they were going to find someone to help me. They said it is not safe for them here anymore. I do not understand why. I am lonely. Maybe someone will visit soon.
“SLICED”
ARTWORK BY ELISE TAMANAHA, TOKYO, JAPAN
June 13th, 1925
Mama and Papa have not returned. I miss them. I wish someone would visit so I would not be so lonely all the time. All I do is sit and think of ways to be less lonely. It’s maddening.
June 14th, 1925
Someone did visit today. She is a very nice lady named Wendy. Maybe she will be my new mother. She cooked me dinner and read me a story, but I am scared she will leave. I want her to stay.
June 16th, 1925
I do not sleep anymore. I am never tired, but Wendy seems tired all the time. Wendy says she must leave soon. Does she care at all? She is leaving me, just as Mama and Papa did. I thought about it after she told me. I have a plan. I know how I will get Wendy to stay forever.
June 17th, 1925
Wendy’s picture hangs on the wall. She will not be leaving, not now.
August 23rd, 1925
I am much happier now. There are two new pictures on the wall. It seems the more pictures appear, the more people show up. I do not get lonely often anymore.
My hand rose to my mouth, stifling a scream, and I flipped to the very last page, the most recent entries. I prayed these words weren’t implying what I thought they were.
May 30th, 1999
Today’s visitor was rather troublesome. She screamed when she saw the pictures. She tried to take me from this house. She said I had the devil in me. Maybe I do. It does not matter; she cannot leave now. Her picture cries when I look at it.
June 29th, 1999
Mama and Papa still have not returned. I don’t mind. I have my friends to keep me company.
Chapter 5: The Truth
I closed the tattered diary, shaking uncontrollably. This didn’t make sense. At all. If I ever got out of here, maybe I would be able to find out more about this girl. If she was possessed, or if she was some sort of paranormal entity herself. Right now, I had to leave. My mind was clouded with fear. I stood up, the diary falling to the floor with a thud. The floor beneath me tilted as the room
spun, and I struggled to maintain my balance. Tears streamed down my face as I bolted down the stairs. Hundreds of eyes watched me stumble through the hallway. I tried not to think about the people those eyes belonged to, what had become of them. I was so deranged that I almost didn’t notice that a new picture frame had appeared along the wall of the hallway. It was out of place amongst the haunted, urgent expressions of the faces, the reason being that it was blank. It wasn’t there before; I was sure of it.
I skidded to a stop, coughing and panting, the taste of salt washing over my tongue as tears continued to fall. I pressed my palms against the wall, steadying myself as I gawked breathlessly at the photographs. Something felt different about them, something I had not realized before. What was it? I wracked my brain, thinking of every minor detail I’d encountered since being here. Though it had been only hours, it felt like lifetimes, the minutes dragging on like a never-ending movie. I looked at the people, at their expressions, which seemed to be almost pleading for help. When I looked below the faces, at the pristine, exquisite frames, it all came together. Pieces fell together, finishing the puzzle, painting a horrifying picture in my mind.
June 17th, 1925. The date on the picture frame that hung in the very center of the wall. The date I had read in the diary. June 17th, 1925. Lilith had found a way to make Wendy stay forever. She killed her. What remained of her resided here, in this picture. My breath caught in my throat as I noticed, for the first time, a very shiny quality to not only the frames, but the photos, too. One might describe it as reflective. The panes of glass could have been mistaken for mirrors, I supposed. It dawned on me that I was looking into the faces of death. These photos depicted the people as they had been killed. Murdered. By Lilith.
I had been avoiding the empty frame, though it hung right in front of me, taunting me, daring me to look. Finally, I forced myself to acknowledge it. On the bottom of the frame, right where it should be, was a date. October 31st, 2023. Today’s date. I stood with my head bowed, and the tears came heavier, pooling in my collarbone, and soaking my filthy shirt. No, I thought. This isn’t happening. This is a dream. I willed myself to wake up with every ounce of strength in me. But it was to no avail. I knew what was coming.
I raised my head. Just as I suspected, it was not a blank wall that stared back but myself, reflected in a mirror. I took in my tear-stained face, my disheveled hair, and puffy lips. And then, I saw something else.
Two black eyes, camouflaged by the hallway’s darkness, appeared in the mirror beside my reflection — two perfect rows of teeth spread into a familiar smile. The last thing I saw was my face, mouth agape in a silent scream, eyes frantically pleading for help before I felt a stabbing pain in my back. I collapsed to the floor in a pool of my own tears and blood.
ART GALLERY
CREDITS
1. PHOTO BY LOGAN PETERSON, NYACK, NY
2. ARTWORK GULSHAN TURSUNBOYEVA, SHAROF RASHIDOV REGION, UZBEKISTAN 3. ARTWORK BY LYDIA VAZ, SAN JOSE, CA
CONTRIBUTORS
A Painter’s Purpose
Kiley Wallace, 9
Ashrar Aunuvuty, 9
Rain from the Ceiling
Jenna Calvagna, 21
Yajing Gu, 21
Lydia Vaz, 25
Reflections
Grace Cole, 31
Misha Gujja, 31
Elise Tamanaha, 36
Book Reviews
Colin Park, 18
Mikayla Kaminski,19
Elijah Overcash, 19
Danielle Meyer, 28 Anonymous, 29
Art Galleries
Ellie Brubaker, Front Cover Anonymous, 8
Aditi Kundu, 8
Ellen Lu, 8
Olivia Amir, 20
Sydney Keller, 20
Riya kasture, 30
Claire Lu, 30
Jacqui Sykes, 30
Logan Peterson, 38
Gulshan Tursunboyeva, 38
Lydia Vaz, 38
Junshan Song, Back Cover
Contest Results
Linda Wang, 14
Kierra Reese, 15
Xinyi Tang, 15
Isabella Liu, 16
Joanne Sabrina Chen, 16
Yuehan Mao, 17
Robin Goldfarb, 17
Steven Wang, 27
Antonina Egorova, 27
Fanxiu Sophie Qiu, 27
Editorial Staff
Managing Editor: Kylie Andrews
Consulting Senior Editor: Cindy W. Spertner
Consulting Editor: Jada Smith
Sales Account Executive: Sara Shuford
ARTWORK BY JUNSHAN SONG, YANTAI, CHINA