Fault Lines
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WHAT IS FAULT LINES?
Fault Lines is the student-run literary publication at The Bishop’s School in La Jolla, CA. Entries in the Fault Lines Spring Issue, as well as the pieces published from our annual/monthly competitions is purely the work of students in the Bishop’s community. Our staff chooses submissions and, in the case of our spring issue, helps create layouts for the literary pieces.
HOW ARE SUBMISSIONS CHOSEN?
Fault Lines is a literary magazine that promotes the highest quality creative nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and art from The Bishop’s School’s student body. Our staff does not review the names of the authors when deciding who will be published in order to remove any bias. We choose work that we believe demonstrates creative use of language, syntax, and meaning to craft a fuller picture of the world we live in today.
HOW DO I GET MY WORK PUBLISHED?
Look out for announcements of our annual opportunities, as well as our monthly competitions. All work chosen will be featured on our website and, in some cases, our Instagram @tbs_faultlines
INTERESTED IN JOINING FAULT LINES?
We meet on E Days in Mr. Davis’ classroom (C21 — Upper Cummins). Help with choosing submissions, marketing, and laying out our spring issue. For more information about what we do, email faultlines@bishops.com. Hope to see you there!
FAULT LINES OPPORTUNITIES
Fall - Editor’s Prize (poetry, prose, art)
Monthly Competitions
Spring - Spring Issue
c/o
faultlines@bishops.com
CONTRIBUTORS
Editors-in-Chief
Summer Hu
Ellen Wang
Cover Original Artwork by Ellen Wang
Graphics Editor
Summer Hu
Online Editor
Bella Combs
Staff
Aline Woiwode
Ethan Yang
Noan Cheng
Yiyi Tu
FacultyAdvisor
Mr. Adam Davis
Writers/Submissions
Katherine Ge (‘24)
Ethan Hu (‘29)
Malaika Khanna (‘27)
Sophia Noves (‘27)
Ryan Park (‘27)
Andrew Xu (‘30)
Zara Zierhurst (‘27)
Editor’s Prize 2023
Winners (inorderofplacing)
Poetry
MomoYang(‘24)
SophieZeng(‘26)
AsterJin(‘24)
Prose
AsterJin(‘24)
MayaHaro(‘27)
AashiLochab(‘27)
Art
AsterJin(‘24),
WyattWainio(‘24)
Ellise Lee (‘24)
MEET OUR STAFF!
Book:
the
Favorite Literary Device: Simile
A Message to Bishop’s...
Iam thrilled to announce that Fault Lines has revived our annual Spring print issue! Ever since the pandemic, Fault Lines has curated poetry, prose, and art on our website for the Spring Issue. However, both Ellen and I wanted to bring the print edition back to Bishop’s. Everyone knows that new book feeling: the pain when you crack the spine, the smell of the freshly printed pages, and, of course, the story and world that you fall into. Everything is different in print.
Summer
Favorite Book:
Crying in H-Mart by Michelle Zauner
Favorite Literary Device: Imagery
Favorite Book: LessonsinChemistry by Bonnie Garmus
Favorite Literary Device: Onomatopoeia
When I stepped into the Editor-in-Chief position this year, I knew I wanted to take the publication to new horizons. From social media to poster-making, Ellen and I set a series of goals for the publication, the biggest one being increasing submissions for both our annual Editor’s Prize and Spring Issue. For context, last year, we received around ten submissions for our Spring Issue and three for our Editor’s Prize. This year, the amount of submissions for our Spring Issue increased to around 50. I am incredibly proud of both the staff for helping with advertisement (shout out to the awesome reel we made) and also the community for taking the chance and submitting. I encourage everyone in the future to continue to submit, as there truly is no harm in getting your work out there. In this issue, we celebrate the outstanding creative work of students on campus, whether that be paintings or poignant poems. Hopefully, you too will get into the “new book” mood with this issue.
Favorite Book: TheMeasureofReality:QuantificationandWesternSociety,1250-1600 by Alfred W. Crosby
Favorite Literary Device: Metaphor
Favorite Book: Bunny by Mona Awad
Favorite Literary Device: Consonance
Best, Summer
FFavorite Book: The Martian by Andy Weir
Favorite Literary Device: Allegory
social media
Our Website: To be released Summer 2024 (faultlinesmagazine.com)
rom Instagram reels to monthly competitions to my Canva posters to this publication, only one word can define this year’s Fault Lines: newness. Since becoming Editors for Fault Lines, Summer and I wanted to offer Bishopians more opportunities to showcase their literary and artistic work amongst our community—and we did! We challenged ourselves to reinvent and transform Fault Lines from previous years, and I thank our fearless staff members for taking on the work along this ambitious journey. Everyone’s creativity and enthusiasm while experimenting with the creation of our new competitions, social media platforms, website, and publication format proves why Fault Lines holds on to the title of Bishop’s best literary publication! So delve into this issue and explore the works of students who share their work with tremendous courage and bravery—thank you for brightening our Fault Lines family! :3,
Noan
Favorite
Where
Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin
Summer
Ellen Bella
Aline
Ethan
Zara Zierhurst (‘27)
Ryan Park (‘27)
Zara Zierhurst (‘27)
Andrew Xu (‘30)
Sophie Noves (‘27)
Malaika Khanna (‘27)
Momo Yang (‘24) Sophie
Catherine Ge (‘24)
Malaika Khanna (‘27)
Aster Jin (‘24)
Maya Haro (‘27)
Ethan Hu (‘29)
Yiyi Tu (‘24)
Aster Jin (‘24)
Wyatt Wainio (‘24)
Ellise Lee (‘24)
Yiyi Tu (‘24)
Photo Credit: Summer Hu (‘25)
POETRY
the POETRY OF WORDS as I would define, in brief, “ the rhythmical creation of
— Edgar Allan Poe
Photo Credit: Summer Hu (‘25)
Erythema
by Zara Zierhurst (‘27)
i do not know feelings anymore they blur together until all that is left are little lines of remorse.
the sun’s eyes are herself her pain is a shaky hand her hand is weeping my hand is cracking my fingers are ash Sol, my love, please forgive me this must be my curse i betray all feeling i am lost in her heat my limbs and thoughts crumbling my eyes are her hand she is the same i lose my lovely sun but i have no emotion left to care.
Frostbite Scars
by Ryan Park (‘27)
Enduring snowdrops strive to bloom and grow. The weather stings, but not enough to kill. Why has the storm not buried us below? We shovel for a meaning to fulfill.
The snowflakes steer and force each step we take, Ice cold winds of storm blowing our black tears. We stay alive because of others’ sake, Though we know deep inside, that no one cares.
But bitter cold drowns snowdrops with white soap. Light disappears to mirrors of dark ice, Reflecting hollow masks on us to cope, And trapped within death’s breathless tempting vice.
Then we start picking up the broken shards, And the warmth inside heals our frostbite scars.
Vitellus
by Zara Zierhurst (‘27)
When the sun sets, I fall
I die in darkness, you thrive in the thing
We can never be, will never be, will always be
Together we are broken
Broken we are together
Broken like the yellow egg yolk looks like the beautiful
Beautiful sun, sin, die, dark, you thrive in sin, I die I die every time.
The north and south winds can never meet, even on a field of Flowers, they destroy each other, turn each other into still air
I love to hate you, hate to love you, something in between it seems
Does the sun love the dark that destroys it?
Does it smile as it sinks? Laugh as it loses its light?
You are not me
this is rubbish, you will never understand my feelings do not fit into figurative language and long, wistful stanzas of longing
I despise where you can thrive
I can never love you
But still
I wish
To love you without worries
To see you and smile, not grimace in pain
To break the barrier between you and I
To love you the best I possibly can
I know it is impossible
The stars, with their condescending glare, will scowl at us
And cry to the flowers and the trees, and their leaves and branches will block me from leaving
The dawn to get to the dusk, yelling about sin,
Anthology: Solar Urticaria
the sun would disapprove, doomed for hell
They will say it is for the best, because the cosmos are older and wiser than us exponentially
We will never work
Too much pain
But still
I wish
To be the Moon
To see both you and my beautiful sun of sin
To love you without pain
To live in the darkness as you do
To thrive
To love you without destroying myself in the process
To know the grass and the stars will not point and cackle at our demise
When it happens
As it is definite
But still
I wish
I wish for love that never dies
Don’t die in the light
Let me love you in the darkness
I will love as the shadows enclose and freeze my blood
I will die in your arms if it delights the cosmos and the flowers below
I wish to love you until my last breath fades away into the darkness
And my body splits apart into smoke
I wish to love you until it kills me.
Recipe for Chaos
By Andrew Xu (‘30)
Ingredients: 1
Weak government
10000-10000 oppressed people
1-1000 poor decisions
10000-1000000 weapons
1 foreign intervention Optional
Mix your government with Half your weapons until it smells of gunpowder, stinging your eyes, clouding your lungs. Mix the other half with your oppressed people. An ominous red Glow fills your vision, as if to tell you to Stop
Mix the first Mixture with half your poor Decisions. smoke the second mixtures until you can Hear shouting going straight past your ear, directly going into Your brain.
Mix the two mixtures.
Let rest for seven hundred twenty hours until it pushes back on your fingers when pressed. Mix in the rest of your poor decisions and your foreign intervention Optional.
Smoke until it explodes on the inside, deafening all around it Feeds one unstable Country
The music in the Art of Skipping Stones
By Sophia Noves (‘27)
Skipping stones is a song; You listen to the sound of the wind, Spot the smooth and flat bass in stone, Then you tune it perfectly to the water, Follow the melody of the ripples; To create the chorus of the stone skipping, You must perfectly execute the whole process, To achieve the harmony, To create a rising symphony, Where every point of focus and element of nature, Contributes to the rising sound that flows, And master the virtuoso of skipping stones, As the stone sings across the water.
The Silent Lament
by Malaika Khanna (‘27)
A dark and empty room, a single seat.
Alone amid the eerie screams, a void
Enshrouded in black that no face can see; His lifeless scream, force like an asteroid.
Cold winds blow and begin a solemn song. The hills grow from beneath his skin, warm veins
Now frost-filled as cold walls that don't belong
In midnight waters with champagne remains.
But as his iris collapses to sleep
A light emerges from a murky sky,
A vivid spark arises from the deep—
The bank of charcoal clouds divides up high.
Tiny stars with eyes twinkle in delight, With his smile glowing against the harsh night.
Return
Return
Death speaks to me with a face just like the moon. High and quiet. Muffled behind wisping clouds. It glows white and ghostly upon cold skin.
Lagging lips. Dry eyes that never meet mine. At night I listen for its voice and hear my mother. I came to her to repent.
Knelt down before the stars with rattling voice and trembling hands to grasp and cry for her forgiveness. My sin etched into the very roots of my being. It runs down my neck warm and gentle and red like blood. I was born doomed to rot the seed she buried. To crawl away limping as the fog first pried its fingers into my chest. Everything hollowed within while I choked with life. And between gasps only the moon in her eyes. Glassy and blank and white with death death death and horror of what she gave me. Breath and heart which quicken hot with heat and grief when she is close. Which I fear most I’ll never know That she will take it back or that I want her to.
I come before death with final prayer.
We meet on the rooftop where she left me. She asks me—my head down, eyes closed, nails soaked with martyred life—what I’ve done to her.
By Momo Yang (‘24) — 2024 Editor’s Prize First Place Winner (Poetry)
Halley’s Comet
by Sophie Zeng (‘26) — 2024 Editor’s Prize Second Place Winner (Poetry)
stellar. (adjective) 1. relating to a star or stars, e.g. Polaris: the brightest star in the northern circumpolar constellation of Ursa Minor, the only star that appears directly above the earth‘s rotational axis, the steadfast path to true north. 2. exceptionally good; outstanding: almost like a star, blazing, bright, traveling at high velocities across the galaxy but nevertheless a quotidian counterfeit; an ersatz star; just dust, rock, and ice; nothing but dross.
stellar. (adjective) usage 1. used to describe someone who is accomplished: yet after each full moon, the waning light of her life reveals the dreams that orbit unreachable still, zenithal of slouched shoulders; a smoldering crater is revealed, waxing, denting the delicate crust of a shining facade; nothing remains but a satellite of expectations; there is a gilded certificate with her name on it, but the aureate trophy in someone else’s hands eclipses all applause.
She shoots for the sun, but she always misses; she lands among sundry stars, but she always yearns for the burning glory of the sun.
Repetition makes a Lullaby makes a Truth
by Aster Jin (‘24) — 2024 Editor’s Prize Third Place Winner (Poetry)
Check the grade book again.
Measure it against A-sian again.
I don’t measure up.
Apologize again:
Sorry. I forgot who I was.
Find my hand on that knife again.
Trace what is mine and slice it bite-sized again.
submissive
hard-working
role model quiet smart simple
Convince myself that my self has always been molded dust. I fear the alternative.
Apologize again (to whom?):
Sorry. I forgot who I was.
Apologize again (who am i?):
Sorry. I forgot who I was.
Apologize again (why am i asking?):
Sorry. I forgot who I was.
Apologize again (why don’t i know?):
Sorry. I forgot who I was.
Apologize again:
Sorry. I forgot who I was.
Find my hand on that knife again.
Lull into the comfort of what I know how to be again.
Art by Aster Jin (’24)
“Thepoetgivesushisessence,butprose takesthemoldofthebodyandmind.”
— Virginia Woolf
The Paradox of Pretty Things
by Katherine Ge (‘24)
As the neighbors’ daughter plays on their muddy lawn, morning sunlight trickles onto my–no, our–vanity. My mom and I share a vanity, but really, I’m the only one who uses it. As my panicked hands
brew up a whirlwind, reaching for moisturizer, matte primer, then powder, Q-tips, pencils for every part of the face, lipstick, and more setting powder, my mother perches calmly in the corner. She fastens her hair into a simple bun.
“Aiyah, xiao mei nu,” she whines. It embodies a double meaning: “Beautiful lady”, but also, “Vain, silly girl”. Today she means the latter. “I don’t understand why you don’t put more effort into your looks,” I murmur, contempt seeping into my tone. Swift fingers sketch a tiny wing on the corners of my almond-shaped eyes, my mother’s same eyes. My hands tremble. “Shoot, I gotta start over.”
My mother groans in exasperation. “We’re going to be late! Forget that, we have to leave now!” She plucks me away from the mirror, but I snatch a rose-colored glass bottle for a final spritz of perfume. “Okay, geez! We’ll leave now.” As we descend to the garage, I get an uncanny feeling of déjà vu. Every morning for 5 years, we have danced in a choreographed duel, grappling over our two, very contrasting needs. Over and over, back and forth. Neighbors might as well overhear two sisters instead of mother-and-daughter.
That night, I lay against her on the couch like a drooping willow. We’re admiring the slim, silver herringbone bracelet I unearthed from her jewelry box, now sitting pretty on my wrist. S925, the inside engraving says–Sterling Silver, 92.5% pure. “You know, I used to be just like you,” she says, “I had so many piao liang dong xi, pretty things. Pretty shoes, pretty jewelry, tiny dresses I don’t fit into anymore.” I asked when she stopped being like me.
My mother tilts her head, almost stoically. “Hmmm...I guess I stopped buying pretty shoes after I had you. My feet grew so big and ugly.” We share a giggle.
Mother’s family is from rural Inner Mongolia, a dreamscape of endless plains and nothing more. While America danced to disco music and marveled at newfangled technology, my mom spent the 70s farming in the fields. They were, quite literally, dirt poor. In her spare time, my mother helped out at my grandma’s shop, “Blue Sky Tailoring”.
When she recounts the tailor shop to me, shimmers spark in her coffee-colored eyes. Racks of magenta, lilac, daisy yellow, and cobalt blue fabrics of every kind–linen, chiffon, delicate silks and satins. The loveliest assortments of little buttons and jewels galore. Although my mother was too poor to buy clothing, she could definitely sew it. “One perk of being a tailor’s daughter,” Mom smiles, “is that my mother could make anything I wanted.” Her favorite was a forest green, Bardot neckline dress that draped off the shoulders–“It was very bold,” she recalls, bashfully.
In 1991, my mother began her freshman year at Tsinghua University, in Beijing, eager to start earning her own money. Over the course of 3 months, she became a coffee shop waitress, private tutor, Chinese-to-English book translator, flier distributor, and part-time software engineer writing C-code for a startup. With this money, she bought 500¥ earrings and 200¥ tops despite only spending 100¥ a month on food! She basically embodied Madonna’s “Material Girl”.
My favorite story about my mother was her love for Vogue: “I’d study in the library for one hour, then I need a break, so I go to read Vogue!” I giggled at this thought, imagining my mother engrossed in the latest 90s trends like butterfly clips and thin eyebrows, admiring models like Gwyenth Paltrow and
Winona Ryder–she probably thought denim-on-denim looked cool! “I’d read Vogue for 15 minutes, then go back to study,” she said. “Ni gen wo yi yang,” I replied. You were just like me.
I guess this is one of many things I inherited from my mother: a love for beautiful things. So it baffles me when I look at her now. When I spend hours stressing over the appropriate trouser silhouette,
my mother tosses on the same pair of washed-out, gray jeans. While I reapply makeup nearly every day,
my mother hasn’t touched it in 20 years. How could my mother live such a different life from mine?
“What about this one?” I hop out of the dressing room and perform a 360° twirl. The flashy, red dress does little to capture my mother’s attention, who is apathetically scrolling through WeiXin in her chair. “Looks fine,” she says, eventually looking up, “So short though. I can see your whole butt.” I recoil like a wounded cat. “That’s not true!” I cry. Nonetheless, I pull the dress down and scramble back into the dressing room.
The next dress is black, georgette fabric. I particu larly like the sweetheart neckline paired with halter straps. I’m explaining this all to my mom, wondering if she understands, or even cares. “So, what do you think?” She flashes me elevator eyes.
“It’s good.” “Did you even look?!” Above us, moody, warm lighting envelops the store. Exasperated, I step before a trifold mirror, scrutinizing myself for a moment.
“Listen, xiao mei nu,” my mother begins, “Which dress doesn’t matter to me! I think all dresses look good on you. Whatever you like more.” Before I can wonder whether she called me “beautiful” or “vain”, I’m first wondering whether she truly means
this or not. I ask, “But what if you were wearing the dress? Which one would you like?”
My mother’s finger pauses on her phone screen, her WeiXin scrolling comes to a stop, and she gently laughs. “I wouldn’t wear the dresses. I don’t need those things anymore.” I continue pressing her. “But why?” “Because I have you now.”
It’s 2006, mid-July. You sprawl on the stiff, soulless hospital mattress, perspiring and exhausted out of your mind. Sunlight trickles through your windowsill. Outside, lively murmurs. After what seems like an eternity, they bring her in. She’s wailing like a wild animal, she’s covered in waxy goo and fresh blood. She’ll grow up with your eyes. She’ll grow up to hate herself, hate her face, body, and clothes, and she’ll spend her life trying to change these things. But right now and forever, she is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
Bouquet of Blame
by Malaika Khanna (‘27)
Edward hops onto the dark motorcycle, his father already comfortable in the seat, brown hair blowing in the soft wind. The sky, a dark blue with freckles of stars emerging to light up the night. From his father’s outstretched hands, Edward grabs his small helmet, a harsh neon yellow that burns his eyes. His father starts the bike, as it rumbles below them, ready to take its passengers on the night ride. The wheels of the bike start to spin, blurring into a mix of the silver metal and black rubber. As they ride, the street lights illuminate their presence, Edward and his father’s eyes watering from the sharp air. No other cars around. Just a desolate highway, empty in the late evening with most people tucked away in their homes. Every weekend they ride; the expansive views in the darkness exciting Edward. Edward and his father cruise at 50 miles per hour, Edward holding tight against the sleeve of his fathers leather coat. He smiles so wide that his cheeks touch the small bags under his eyes, an unwavering glow in his eyes.
“Faster!” Edward screams over the roaring sound of the motorcycle wheels on the road. Sixty miles per hour.
“Faster, faster!” The red arrow on the speedometer rises, passing 70, then 80, 100. Edward’s smile broadens, the white color of his uneven teeth reflecting the moonlight. 120. 140. His arms move on their own, a sudden urge taking him over. Edward reaches past his father and grabs the rough handles of the motorcycle.
“Edward, stop!” his father yells. Edward yanks the right handle toward him, and steers the motorcycle off their lane. The bike slams against the large concrete barrier, and Edward flies off the back. Just a couple scratches, Edward reassures himself. But as he gets up, he trips and falls back down onto the hard wet road, next to his father’s lifeless body.
Edward Button dialed a number as he walked along the gray concrete sidewalk, some spots darker than the others. The harsh sun beat upon his head, forcing him to remove his white fur coat. Though the air felt crisp like during the middle of winter, the sun still hung ablaze in the sky, melting the little snow that had fallen a day before. Rhode Island experienced a warmer January than usual, starlings twittering on the bare branches of red maple trees. The soft ring of his phone chimed for forty seconds, Edward waiting for the recipient. Finally, a distinct voice with a humorous tone picked up on the other line.
“Edward...?”
“I am turning the corner of Warren Drive. Is that where you’re parked?”
“You know. The usual spot.”
The unpleasant sound of the phone call ending echoed against Edwards eardrums. He quickened his step after hearing the impatience in the speaker’s tone, and as he turned, he approached a little red Subaru, once owned by his grandfather. Leaning against the car stood a tall, black-haired boy, glancing at his silver watch. Next to the boy stood another, not much shorter, brunette hair and a gentle smile, a slight indent in his cheeks from his dimples.
“Edward, Mom has been waiting for you for thirty minutes,” said the black haired boy, his eyebrows raising to create wrinkled lines on his forehead.
“I’m sorry. I got...”
“Got what?” shouted the brunette boy, squinting his eyes and tilting his head.
“Lost.”
Both boys, Edward’s brothers, opened the small car’s doors and stepped in with little acknowledgement of Edward’s statements. Edward dashed in, as to not further delay the trip. The black-haired boy, Mason, Edwards oldest brother, seated himself in the front, where their mother gripped the steering wheel, leaving marks of sweat on the black leather. The brunette boy, Levi, sat gazing at no particular spot, until Edward reminded him to put his seatbelt in. Levi, Edwards’ other brother, scowled and looked away. Suddenly the car lurched forward, causing a pink water bottle perched on the dashboard to tumble to their Mother’s feet.
“Mom?” Edward gasped. His mother did not answer, but rather looked straight ahead. This time, she gripped the steering wheel harder, and slammed the accelerator. Once again, the car lurched forward into an intersection, empty on a Sunday morning.
“Mom, I can drive. The cemetery is only half an hour away,” said Mason. “No,” Their mother replied with a stale tone, “That is not necessary. Like you said, half an hour,” though her gaze stayed unwavering. Both Levi and Mason relaxed into their seats, but Edward sat straight, watching his mothers’ grip
tighten. She hit the accelerator again, though this time at a slower pace, and the car began at a steady pace. Edward looked towards Levi who sat in dismay next to him, a grim expression living on his face.
“We don’t have to go to the cemetery if everyone seems uptight about it. It’s probably fine.” Edward’s words caused the car to erupt into arguing, the red Subaru seeming to shake from the noise.
“Why would you say that, Edward?” screamed Levi.
“We are doing it for our family,” said Mason with a curt tone.
“You don’t show any sympathy for your own mistake.”
Edward felt a sharp pain, as if someone had taken a metal rod and stabbed him, turning it around to increase the pain. His family still blamed him for the death. He should have known: no happy welcome, only anger and resentment. The silence rang louder and louder, overwhelming Edwards so that he smashed his hands against his ears, trying to block it out. Though its noises rang louder, now trapped by his hand acting like a barrier. He watched the blurring horizon, trees still clear in the foreground. Edward, barely conscious, heard nothing, his eyes unwavering, staring straight into the gray, dirtfilled seats of the car. A state of shock and anger, Edward memories flooded his mind, though one long ignored memory of a car dealership, the smell of factory-metal in the air, surfaced his mind.
It is worth noting what Edward Button did not remember, given what he did remember. He did not remember toes in the sand, a little red bucket gripped within his hands, ready to dig up the perfect crimson-colored seashell that once held the home of a hermit crab. He did not remember the bright baby-blue sky with flocks of seagulls that seemed to fly right through the sun. He did not remember sitting down in the dark, dreary classroom, next to his best friend. Nor did he remember walking through the doors of Maison de la Brioche, the smell of rosemary bread and cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Behind the counter stood his soulmate, a girl with curled brown hair and blush stained lips. She lived forever embedded in his memories. But he did not remember her now, or their wedding day, dancing, their hands clasped against each other’s hearts.
He did not remember the mountains of the Andes covered with pine and eucalyptus trees. The vermilion and coral colors in the atmosphere uniting to create a masterpiece, whilst he stood there, eyes so wide open as to savor the sight, though tears blocked the scene. He did not remember his vegetable garden which he tended to every evening waiting for his siblings to return from class. He did not remember when his carrots and cucumbers disappeared from his garden, consumed by rabbits, angering him until tears stuck to his eyelashes and rolled down his face.
Edward did not remember the scent of his mother’s chili roasting on the stove. He did not remember the checkered maroon couch, which he threw himself against after every long day. He did not remember his childhood room, posters of The Beatles plastered on white walls or the countless nights he stayed up with his siblings, watching Jurassic Park, their favorite movie saga. He did not remember the warmth of his mother’s arms around his body or her playful attitude when Edward dropped her favorite flower plant. He did not remember what it was like to be loved.
This is what he remembered. In the Subaru dealership, his grandfather stands towering above him, a dark blue fedora resting on his grandfather’s golden hair. Mason and Levi sit on the industrial-style chairs in the back of the room, their eyes wandering. Edward sits near them, but his expressions show life, eyes darting around to find the perfect car for his grandfather. After a couple minutes, Edward’s grandfather walks to the salesperson who sits behind a mahogany desk, and motions for the boys to come. Edward jumps up, the other boys following close behind. Edwards’ grandfather leans down to the small children, grabbing his hat in an effort to keep it upon his head. He says “What color should our Subaru be?” Mason, Levi and Edward, excited by the power of choice they have, yell one after the other;
“Gray,” Mason says, a stern and sure expression on his face.
“Blue, blue, blue, ” says Levi, hands clasped together.
“Red,” says Edward, a slight bounce in his feet.
Their grandfather gives a sharp wink to the boys, and turns back to the salesperson at the desk. “Red would be perfect.”
A Hush in the Wood
Covered in a scratchy brown polyester suit and the stares of stained-glass saints, I strain my neck to see the groom over the shoulder of the woman in front of me. Failing that, I turn to the mahogany swirling on the seat. There is a hush in the wood here, a whisper of burning wind muttering in the seats and floor and columns (the officiant starts to cough halfway through the script he has said so many times it means as much to him as the word blinklesnipper. “Into this holy union” one cough “of James and Daisy” two coughs. Someone ought to give him some water, but I will not.) – a red hot silence echoing, raging, asking to be freed from these lacquered prisons, pleading to explode as the burning bush did, to be freed from this oppressive air as miracle instead of tragedy, to be received with dignity as the ethylene-drugged hallucinations of Delphi were instead of with terror (the officiant is still coughing. Someone ought to have given him some water by now.), but no matter how righteous the deed, who knows how they will stare afterward.
From the ripples of my deeper mind wills appears to me, my hand almost feeling the chill of the water and hearing the click of my heels on the wooden steps echoing through this oppressive silence, almost tasting the lick of ember and smoke as I answer the wooden seats as the chapel turns black with ash, and I find myself on the edge of action again: on the edge of objecting, on the edge of helping, on the edge of falling apart, on the edge of giving the man water, on the edge of burning the chapel down, but I am oppressed as the wood is; I am no Moses or Oracle of Delphi, no prophet proclaiming the truth when people need it most.
Bound by the reverence of tradition (“just cause why they may not be lawfully married” more coughing. I almost thank him for his coughing now, for his incidental sabotage of the sanctity of this moment), by the eyes of people, by my siege of thought, and by the God I’m not sure I believe in, pulled between all these wills to object and destroy and save that sum to nothing, I am silent as the critical moment passes. The past flashes through me like a bullet as their lips seal: the first time he said that he needed her, the first time I failed to correct him on that, the first time she hit him and apologized, the first time I failed to tell him Daisy’s a liar, the first time he blocked all of our friends because his girlfriend told him to, the first time I failed to tell our friends what had been happening, the first time he showed up at my apartment at 3AM sputtering through sobs how it wasn’t her fault he was so pathetic, the first time I failed to stop him going back to hers, the first time they broke up, the first time they got back together only a week later. As they smile upon those wooden steps, I awake to all my inaction and realize on the edge of saying what has been boiling in me for the past two years that today is the first time I failed to object to their marriage. Pulled between all these wills to object and destroy and save, the only will I succumb to is crying. There is a hush in the wood here, but I – in a lacquered prison echoing, raging, pleading to end this ceremony, to free myself from inaction, to save my friend – will never.
Aster Jin (‘24) — 2024 Editor’s Prize First Place Winner (Prose)
Mysteries of the Moon
by Maya Haro (‘27)
Seeing a small circle in the distance, slowly approaching it with a quiet caution. The surrounding space, the deep blue of the ocean, an overwhelming danger pulling and pushing pressure onto your bones. The sphere is steadily orbiting closer, like the murky glow of a lighthouse leading frail boats in the midst of a dark ravenous hurricane. As it nears, gradually, you notice the small tendrils emerging from the body, thousands of them, there has to be, careening throughout the jelly, swirls of purple smoke and dawn. Four violet markings imprinted on the hill of the jelly, like the branding of a cow. It reminds you of the stillness of the moon, the pulsing silence of the ocean contradicting the mental picture of the open air in the nighttime sky. There was a time in my life when I couldn't see the point in being happy. Why waste this time I had having fun if I was just gonna be sad about it later. I would always be in the middle of laughing, and then I would start to think about how this moment would never happen again. I'd be on good terms with my parents for a relatively long amount of time, something that hadn't happened since I was young, maybe the age of a toddler. And then I'd realize that it’s fleeting.
Something is going to happen. Something is going to mess it all up. I'm going to mess it all up. And then I'd stop laughing.
You look closer, watching the frills of the outer layer ebb and flow. It drifts alone in the space, nothing surrounding you and the jelly but the unending water. It creeps closer, you don't move. Instead, you decide to stop and watch.
Admire.
It’s glowing in the water. Your breath comes out just barely, as if the smooth hand of beauty tangled itself up within the strings of air in your lungs, whispering in your ears to stare, to look… please. It’s unlikely that moon jellies will live past 6 months in the wild, maybe a year in captivity. They tend to live and travel alone from when they’re born. The male jelly releases sperm then the female ingests it. The larvae then settle on the seafloor, where they grow to polyps, essentially a clump of cells. By this time, the parents are long gone; in many cases they may even be dead. The jellyfish is now on its own, even before it has grown to be an actual jellyfish. It has no parental figure guiding it along, no companions along for the ride. Only the lone jelly accompanied the salt of the sea floating together. I've always wondered how jellyfish exist. Not like how it’s made because I know that, but how it interacts with things around it. How it lives. Jellyfish in general don't have brains. They rely solely on reflexes, because they have no brain, no mind, no soul. Therefore they cannot think. therefore they cannot see, cannot smell, cannot hear, cannot feel. Cannot live.
How can they experience beauty, elegance, joy, the richness of life, when they cannot live. The way the jelly enraptured your attention has caught you off guard, never expecting it to have warped its way into your mind, the depths crumbling at each mistake in the mental architecture, the poking and prodding of the translucent moonlike bell’s ethereality hatching a larvae of hope inside the salty floor inside of the soul.
You smile.
I've realized something. The jellyfish don't worry about how they do not live because they cannot think, cannot live. They don't worry about something they can't control. I've always liked jellyfish. they’ve brought me solace - whenever i get scared, or upset, or tired, i think of the jellyfish. They remind me of the day that I started to like them.
I was a lot younger than I am now, and my father had brought me to a very small shop.
All around the walls were lights of different colors in different styles, bulbs or little animals illuminating every surrounding surface. We walked into a back room, and there, lo and behold, a whole room full of jellyfish lights. They’re spheres with jellyfish inside of them on the prettiest stands that make them light up different colors. My dad had bought me one of my most dear objects that day. I remember how I cradled it the whole way home, so scared I was going to drop it and ruin the day that we had had. I was scared I was going to ruin everything, I was going to ruin this moment with my own thoughts; actions.
Jellyfish do not worry about how they do not live.
They do not worry about something that they cannot control.
So why should i?
ART
“Tocreateaworkofartistocreatetheworld”
— Wassily Kadinsky
Photo Credit: Ellen Wang (‘25)
“My inspiration for this came from a restaurant in Chelsea Market in New York City. There were multiple lobsters on display, so I took a photo of one and drew it when I got back.”
“I used pen and ink to depict a snow scene in Mammoth, paying careful attention to details. This piece was based on a trip there during one of the heaviest snow storms in decades.”
“Lobster Restaurant” by Ethan Hu (‘29)
“Winter in Mammoth” by Yiyi Tu (‘24)
““Holding It Together” is a piece about how mental illness can hurt not only those who are mentally ill themselves, but also their loved ones. Although helping someone who needs help is an incredibly kind and honorable thing to do, the process of trying to hold someone else together can be destructive for both parties. Healing can be a process full of fear: fear of self, fear for others, fear for the future, etc.”
“Black Box Warrior” by Wyatt Wainio
Fault Lines 2023 Art Editor’s Prize - Second Place
“Holding it Together” by Aster Jin
“This was one of my first pieces of art on such a large scale and means a lot to me. It was painted using acrylics, and I experimented with a new technique with sponges and created drips.”
“Self Sabotage” by Ellise Lee (‘24)
“Helena” by Yiyi Tu (‘24)
