The Folio: Winter Mini-Issue by The Folio

THE

FOLIO

A LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE

VO LU M E LI I I I SSU E I CO N E STO G A H I G H S C H O OL 2 0 0 I R I SH R D, B E R W YN, PA 19 312

Cover photo © Olivia Wang Inside cover © Olivia Wang Copyright © 2021 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff Internal Design © 2021 Olivia Wang, Lydia Naser, Ashka Patel, Stella Lei Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist First edition 2021 All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced herewith permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School. Published and printed in the United States of America www.stogafolio.weebly.com Find us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @stogafolio

DEAR READER, This has been a hard time for us all. With the COVID-19 pandemic holding people everywhere in a consistent state of stress and caution, the way we live and see the world has been completely transformed. These times of hardship necessitate something to get us through. And for many of us, that something has been art, be it writing, music, photography, or painting. Creation has remained a haven, a safe place to express ourselves and, essentially, a form of catharsis that has been more needed than ever. At The Folio, without convenient human contact and connection, many of us have found refuge in art: in art, we’ve been able to confide our deepest fears and anxieties, as well as our everyday joys; we can trust art to tell stories and hold secrets that nothing else can. And we want to share that with you, just as if it were any other year. Over the past few months, our staff has been hard at work to coordinate across newfound barriers to put all of our work together. The result has been all the more rewarding: this year, we’ve decided to put together several mini issues like this one, and a larger, standard issue at the end of the year. Though it is with regret that we are unable to offer you The Folio in real life, we hope that this can satisfy your soul just as a physical copy can. We want to thank everyone who has helped make this issue possible. To everyone who submitted their hard work to be considered, we thank you for your sincerity and dedication, and for inspiring student creativity. To our staff, thank you for your determination in seeing everything through, and for your patience as we move throughout all the bumps along the road. The Folio has been nothing but the same supportive environment it has always been, even through mere Teams meetings, and it’s thanks to you and your boundless enthusiasm for art. We also thank Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson, our advisers, for their thoughtful dedication to the publication and its staff, without which we would be completely lost. Your enthusiasm is the spark that keeps us going on those slow, stagnant days. As we approach the end of the first full year of quarantine, we remain optimistic for the future. We hope that you do too. Warmly,

THE EDITORS

TABLE O 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 20 21 22 24 25 26 29 30 31

Inspire Lydia Naser

Silver Spoon Anika Kotapally Child of God Olivia Wang Sahara Desert Lena Pothier

Cat Monologue Chloe Williams Lazy Day Casey Kovarick Whimsical White Mountain Trail Nishka Avunoori If I Die Leyla Yilmaz It’s Just A Burning Memory Emily Zou Snapdragons Emily Wang Retiro Park Casey Kovarick The Lonely Astronaut Emily Wang Monologue for a Criminal Chloe Williams Petaling Guns Olivia Chu That is Not My Name Olivia Chu Butterflies Ashka Patel blueyoun Elina Wang Matter of Fact Scott Hennessy

Head in the Clouds Emily Zou Chocolate Bunnies Anika Kotapally Screen Time Clara Steege On Unrequited Feelings Izzy Thornberg Tropical Lydia Naser In Bloom Annika Shastry Flowers Ashka Patel Snap Lydia Naser Increments Izzy Thornberg THORNS ARE KILLER Scott Hennessy On Late Summer Angeline Ma Glow Stella Lei Aurora Dream Eileen Chen Behind the Mask Annika Shastry Peace Carly Broseman Dear Uncle Joe Emma Laragione Matchbox Scott Hennessy

32 33 34 35 39 40 41 42 44 47 48 50 51 52 53 54 56 57

ONTENTS Only Fairies Alexina Hobbs

Inspire Lydia Naser Watercolor

Silver Spoon

A N I K A

K O TA P A L LY

you were young, young, young suburban house and a white picket fence played on the street with your friends and then you were a little less young letterman jacket and high school drama you and your friends in a ’64 mustang with the wind blowing through your hair and then you were older college and a business degree went to frat parties and got well-enough grades and then you were an adult wife and a kid who lived in a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence who played with his friends in the backyard and then you were old, old, old the fence and house and grandkids you had a quiet life, while the world fought and changed around you while your son didn’t get a business degree like his father and his grandfather and didn’t continue the family business while your son tried to do some good when he was young, young, young, and a little less young and an adult and you are old, old, old and you look around, and regret

Child of God Olivia Wang Oil Paint

Sahara Desert Lena Pothier Photography

Cat Monologue Chloe Williams

Good morning, morning, evening, yes, whatever, talk to you later, bye. [Sighs.] Sorry about that, you know, paparazzis… Being a cat, I swear… Okay, almost ready, just got to stretch a bit. [Yawns.] Gosh it’s early, couldn’t we have done this later? Oh, I called the meeting, yes, yes, right. [Yawns again.] Well… [Looks down.] I’m an absolute mess, aren’t I? I’m afraid we’ll have to talk later, I need to have a wash. No, we have to talk now? Fine, fine, stay put I’m ready. [Starts to fall asleep. Inhales sharply.] I’m ready. Totally good. Okay, lobbying, right. The way you dispose of your food is horrendous. All of that glorious tender meat you don’t eat just poof down the disposal or in the trash, what is wrong with you? Where is your common sense? The food should go into the cat, can’t you hear me? The cat. Speaking of the cat, she needs a wash. Ugh. Oh. What? Oh, right, lobbying. The food is being wasted, and it wouldn’t be, if it were eaten. By me. The food you give me, cat chow, bland, hard tasteless. It’s cat abuse, I tell you. Cat. Abuse. I don’t understand you people. Would you look at me? Anyway, I’ve only got another 30 seconds, I have a nap scheduled. Anything else you want to say to me? Hmm? Good, that’s a job well done. Gotta go. Don’t take offense from my leaving you. It’s totally personal.

Lazy Day Casey Kovarick Digital Art

Whimsical White Mountains Trail Nishka Avunoori Photography

LEYLA YILMAZ

If I Die

whispering the suns a goodbye my mind free, serene my chest expanding and breathing out the last breath it will taste my heart ready to return ready to find out what it searched for and if I apologize one last time with a sincere soul for all that I didn’t do and for trying to make a sculpture of my heart that was made to melt into shapes of love if I can mumble one last thank you as I close my eyes if I can say with my body, with my heart, my soul and my love that I saw the way the leaves flicker and the birds fly that I witnessed the way my heart expanded and swallowed the universe whole with its small love and if the prayer I was able to make, melting my heart to the ground and losing all sense, if it will become my friend when all of this is over and I lie within my bones then I will die happy I will live to die happy.

EMI LY Z O U

“C

LATE AFTERNOON DRIFTING

harles,” Nancy called out, emitting a dull echo that trailed from the upstairs to the floor below.

“Anything other than my silk slip dress and nylon stockings must go,” Nancy joked with a playful smile imprinted on her face. “Well you’ll surely find out. There’s mostly old, dusty books here anyways.”

“Yes, dear?” Charles responded as he crinkled his newspaper to his lap, angling his ear to the direction of her voice to hear better.

An obnoxious high-pitched noise interrupted their brief dialogue, cueing a raised eyebrow from Nancy.

“Could you please help me empty out the attic? These boxes have been sitting here for far too long. You promised you would sort everything out once we moved into this home, but now it’s been thirty-four years.”

“That must be the kettle. I’ll be off on my way to make tea then. You’ll be alright on your own, right dear?”

“Right, I’m coming.” With fatigue in his step, he rose out of his signature mahogany rocking chair and left the bedroom for the narrow hallway.

“I’ll be fine.” She smiled in response and hurried down the steps. All by himself, he reached for a box labeled with his sharp handwriting that read “Favorites.” A rude awakening of dust sprinkled out of the cardboard and onto his nose, forcing him to cough several times.

Had it already been that long? It was as if their wedding was only yesterday and he only retired today. Now, the couple shared sixty-two years of age, three children, and five grandchildren.

This certainly was old.

A loosened latch in the ceiling that revealed a flimsy set of steep stairs stopped him in continuing his thoughts, urging him to climb them.

Inside were vintage books, a set of small, colored magnets from his childhood, a souvenir dice from their trip to Vegas, and black-andwhite photos reminding him of his younger days. One photo that particularly caught his eye and that he separated from the rest of the items depicted himself in a cream-white, double-breasted suit fashioning a headful of gelled, combed hair swept to one side, cupping the waist of Nancy, who was dressed in a stunning, black cocktail dress matched with a pair of cushioned, gray pumps. That was the night he had met Nancy for the first time.

“There you are,” Nancy greeted his presence. “I was thinking that we’d dig out the belongings or items we valued and leave the rest of the junk here. Perhaps we could host a garage sale sometime soon.” “Why, are you saying not everything in these boxes holds importance?” Charles asked, reluctant to let go of items that held precious memories, but too forgetful to revisit them.

“Too bad because I already accepted. Now are you going to let me down?” Before he could answer, she grabbed onto his free hand. “I admit that I don’t know how to dance.” He blushed.

They were only eighteen and were lucky enough to have their photo taken by a photographer that happened to witness their undeniable chemistry.

“That’s alright. Just follow me!” Awkwardly, he swung along to the catchy beat with her, questioning if he was enjoying the experience. However, he quickly softened his stiffness and found himself bouncing enthusiastically with a series of quick foot movements. After a couple minutes, Charles built up the confidence to swing Nancy around, coaxing a laugh from her. And like that, they danced the entire night away.

He had been thinking about this photo for decades but never had the motivation to search for it. However, the memory always played vividly in his mind like a perfectly intact cassette tape, and he encouraged himself to recollect yet again. “I can’t believe you let me come to the town dance with you, Uncle Joel! Sure beats studying for science class on a Friday night!”

Everything was how he remembered except for one little detail that he could not quite put his finger on. He knew that it was irrelevant to the entirety of the moment, but something still felt missing. The picture he assembled was not complete and he scrambled to find the last puzzle.

Uncle Joel chuckled, “Well boy, you’ve got to have some fun at times. Your parents have kept you in the house for too long. I’ll leave you by yourself now. Promise me you won’t get too crazy and pop up on the radio tomorrow, yeah?”

That’s it! The song. How did the song go, again?

“Of course I won’t! I’ll be good, I promise.” Uncle Joel nodded in satisfaction and turned the other way.

He hummed this song countless times and once even learned how to play it on the piano, albeit it was only a few misplaced keys.

Charles attempted to navigate his way through the crowd to the dance floor, bumping into a beautiful, brunette girl that seemed his age.

Did it go du-du-du or du-di-di? No, it wasn’t any of those! How could I possibly forget? It was almost as if this song was written for him and Nancy. Every beat, melody, and rest. Whenever he thought of how gorgeous Nancy was, he heard this song playing in the back of his brain. Now, a part of him was lost.

“Sorry ma’am,” he instinctively apologized. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” a feminine yet rebellious voice said.

Well it was only a song. The dance was held over forty years ago. Will it be okay if I forget about it?

“What gave it away?” Charles grinned. “I can tell that you don’t know where you’re going. C’mon.” Abruptly, she dragged him by the hand, slowly approaching the sound of upbeat jazz until a clearing opened. “I’m Nancy by the way. What’s your name?”

“Charles dear, are you done with sorting?” his wife asked, snapping him out of his reverie. “Not yet. Give me a few minutes.” And he finished the task and forgot about the burning memory.

“Charles… you sure are straightforward, miss.” “You’ll get used to it.” “Where are we going anyways?” “To dance! You and I!” “I haven’t even asked you yet!”

2H “

ceries.”

DENIAL UNVRAVELING

oney, could you hand me the car keys? I’m already in the garage, and I have to go pick up some gro-

I’ve had the same set of keys for more than a decade. No, I couldn’t have forgotten about something so obvious. Could it be thatCharles was getting older day by day. In fact, he was sixty-three. It wasn’t irrational to think that he could be exhibiting signs of mental deterioration, or even dementia. No. It can’t be. I just haven’t worked in such a long time. My mind just isn’t as active as before. That’s all. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. I’m normal.

“Yes, dear.” Charles methodically reached for the drawers next to the front door, only to realize that he forgot what he was looking for in the first place. It had been a year since he first overlooked the memory of him and Nancy at the dance. Throughout the past twelve monotone months, Charles discovered that he had been forgetting trivial things more often than not, such as where he last put his hair comb, the name of his granddaughter’s best friend that used to come around every Saturday and whether he had put the strawberry jam back into the refrigerator. It wasn’t unlikely of him to forget about what Nancy just requested, right?

MOURNFUL CAMARADERIE

“C

ome downstairs, Charles. Your friends, Barry and Tom, have decided to pay us a visit.”

“Alright.” Charles answered with a tinge of suspicion in his tone. Who were Barry and Tom again? When and where have I ever met them? Expecting to recollect their identities once he saw them face to face, Charles pasted on a fake smile and greeted his “friends.” “Hello Barry. Tom.”

“Sorry, could you repeat that? What did you need again, honey?”

The man to the left had a protruding beer-belly along with a full head and matching beard of white hair. He wore a set of military-green suspenders and a thin tank top. The other man was taller and thin, with a slightly crooked nose and a bald head. Alongside the circle-rimmed glasses he fashioned, he also sported a bland gray fitted sweater paired with a similarly colored peaked cap. They looked so familiar and distant at the same time.

“I just wanted the car keys. That’s all.” “Ah, right.” A glimmer of hope encompassed his mind, and he continued his short trek to the drawer. He carefully opened the middle box and slid out a collection of semi-hidden keys interconnected by a delicate ring under a cloth for wiping glasses. However, he was just as confused as before.

“Charles! We’ve missed you. Haven’t seen you since that Christmas we hosted four years ago! How’s life been treating you?” the shorter man exclaimed.

What is this? What did we use these for again?

“I’m alright.”

He inspected the item meticulously, holding it in his hand at different angles and caressing the rough sides. They were called “keys” but he didn’t understand the meaning of that word anymore.

“You’re usually a little more talkative. What’s gotten into you?” “Charles is just a little shy today,” Nancy butted in, “Boys, would you like some tea?”

“Charles, would you please hurry up? What in the world could be taking you so long? I can’t start my car until you give them to me.”

“Of course. Thank you for your hospitality, Nancy.” She set four teacups in the center of the rectangular coffee table of the cozy living room and bent down to retrieve the boiling kettle. The soothing sound of lavender tea being poured filled the awkward moment of silence and confusion. When she stood back up

“Coming in just a second.” They were car keys. They start up the engine of a car and give access to its mechanics.

and turned to leave, Charles pulled her blouse sleeve, fearful of being alone in his pursuit of the past. Pitying him, she agreed to stay and sat on the cushion next to her spouse.

“Why are you here? I don’t want to be here anymore.” “Nancy, is there something wrong with-”

“Did you know,” the bald man began, “that Stephanie has graduated college during these past years? She got a job in California working as an engineer. It’s only her second year but I can’t believe how much she’s grown. Charles, she really misses you.”

“There’s nothing wrong!” Like a petulant teenager, Charles fled to the stairs and stormed up to his bedroom, locking himself in. He felt so isolated the last few months. His memory worsened tenfold and sometimes he had to admit that he couldn’t even recall the name of his favorite restaurant or book. There was no one there to help him and no one there to understand what he was struggling with. He was afraid to tell anyone and worry them. He didn’t want to be a burden, but it pained him so much to wake up everyday and not know what he was going to forget next. Charles was slipping away from the reality of the world.

Who is Stephanie? Disorientated, Charles gently nudged his wife in the arm, signaling that he didn’t want to reply to the question. Nancy sighed in a bittersweet tone. “I remember when she was just a little girl. Stephanie always preferred playing with the toy trucks more than the princess dolls her sisters did. I’m so proud of her.”

Three orderly knocks attacked the door. He knew it was Nancy, and all he wanted to do was pour himself out to her like the tea in his cup.

I should recognize that name. I know I’ve heard it before somewhere. Why don’t I know her?

“Charles, is there something you’re not telling me about? Why did you just leave your friends behind? They traveled all the way from Washington to come to Michigan.”

“Nancy, she sure loved your cookies. You guys should come around…Chandler called the other…”

He croaked, “I think I’m forgetting things.”

“I would love to….well I wish…good memories…”

“…What do you mean by that?”

“Yea…remember…he…vacation…”

“I mean that I don’t remember a lot of things. I forget the entire meaning of words and who people are.”

“…” “…” Nancy is so comfortable with these people. Who are they? Do I know them very well? Or am I supposed to know them very well?

“Open the door please.” He did as he was told and they sat together on the side of their bed, Charles hands sinking deeper into the mattress as a support for his frail body.

“…”

“Are you saying that you don’t know who Barry and Tom are?”

“…”

“Yes.”

“Charles! Did you listen to what Barry just said? He just asked if you remember when all three of you were seven years old and sneaked away to the creek outside the local farm. He said you almost drowned and he had to call for the sheriff to come rescue you.”

“They’re your childhood best friends from Missouri. Two twin brothers.” “Is that really true?”

“Huh?”

“My goodness. You’ve really forgotten. We need to see a doctor.”

“Do you, bud? We were supposed to go swimming, but you didn’t even know how to.”

“Please don’t. I’m begging you that you don’t tell anyone. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Dear, you may be displaying the signs of early dementia. This is serious.”

“Such a jokester. Is this why you’re playing dumb all afternoon?”

“I’ll worry everyone. It’s better to keep quiet. What if I don’t have it?”

“Who are you people?” Charles blurted out, ignorant of his manners.

“There’s no disadvantage to checking. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

“You’re really funny, but you can stop pretending.”

She kissed him on the forehead, and he

shrank into her embrace. Tears filled his eye ducts.

4 C

be the pastor of the church where we married.” Nancy pulled out another picture with multiple faces laughing and clanking glasses of champagne.

It’s going to be okay.

“Who are they?” “These were all of our closest friends. We would call them bridesmaids and groomsmen. There’s Barry in the top right corner. He was your best man.”

POST AWARENESS CONFUSIONS

She flipped out another page. “Here’s us and my father. His name was David, and he paid for our first car.”

harles learned only a year ago that he had been living with Alzheimer’s for five years and was in the moderate stages of the disease. His wife was his primary caretaker and had to lead him to different locations in the house on a daily basis. He couldn’t be left alone at home for long periods of time as he would get lost.

“…Why don’t I remember this?” “I don’t know, Charles. I don’t know…” Her voice carried a weight of sadness, which Charles reciprocated without knowing what the emotion he felt meant.

“It’s our wedding anniversary today, dear. We’ve been together for 41 years. Would you like to see our wedding photos?” Wedding? “What is a wedding?” “A wedding is when two people in love announce their vows to each other for the rest of their life. I’ll show you some photos. I’m sure you’ll remember once you see them.”

“

ADVANCED PLAQUE ENTANGLEMENTS

harlie, you’re not mad at me for sending you here, right?” Charles looked past the side of the hospital bed, to witness his wife sitting on a small couch resembling those found in a hotel’s, clutching his left hand with her own hands.

With an obvious tire in her hands, she slid out a collection of black-and-white photos from a cabinet shelf. Nancy placed a particular one on the dinner table and pointed at two figures.

“You can’t keep wandering out our front doors. It’s safer for you here,” She took a quick glance at his eyes but couldn’t meet his gaze without feeling the weight of her guilt, “I couldn’t take care of you for much longer. It took such a large mental toll on me that I had no other choice. Besides, you would’ve ended up here anyway. The doctors diagnosed you with— never mind…it’s better for you not to know.”

“Who are they?” “They’re us, of course.” “But he doesn’t look like me. My hair is white not black. He looks…how do you say it?” “Younger? Well that’s because we were only twenty-six here. You had dirty blonde hair then. It’s just that we couldn’t afford colored photos.”

She solemnly smiled. “Will you please forgive me?” Charles stared dumbfoundedly at her. It was blank and static.

“You’re very beautiful in this photo. What are you wearing?”

“Charles, will you?” He turned away from her and faced towards the TV in front of him. He wasn’t even paying attention to her.

“Thank you, dear. You were always a charmer. That was my wedding gown and veil. A veil is a decorative covering of the face worn by women. We took this photo on February 27, 1951. We got married in the town church and bought this house together only two years later.”

“It’s alright, dear. You don’t have to answer me. I shouldn’t have pestered you like that.” She carried a tray of bland food consisting of watery broccoli, stale bread and tasteless mashed potatoes, “I know that the food here isn’t the best, but would you please eat? When I visited you yesterday, you didn’t seem to have much of an appetite ei-“

“Who’s the person in the middle holding the book?”

“-N-na-n?” He cried out in desperation like a young toddler without knowing what exactly he had said.

“That’s our friend, Edward. He happened to

Was it a name? A place? Perhaps it simply wasn’t a word? “Yes, dear?” “P-papp-pet-tt?” “What was that?” He impatiently pointed at the sketchpad to his right with his chin. “Oh, you want the paper? Well, I think it’s better if you eat first. You can draw later.” He wore an agitated face of despair and frustration. “N-no?” “Please, dear. You’ve been drawing for the past few weeks. All you do everyday is just draw and draw again. How can you expect to recover if you don’t take care of yourself?” He used all the energy in his body to position his loose right arm around the pad. Next, he reached for the pencil. Charles only felt at ease when his mind was focusing on drawing continuous lines that curved around endlessly and looped around previous loops. When he wasn’t, he felt a feeling that could only be described in pictures rather than words. He was far more than lost or tired. He hadn’t kept track of time for countless months and barely remembered the events of the past day. Time was irrelevant to him. There was no point in remembering things that didn’t occur in the present. The words spoken by what he was almost sure was his wife didn’t have an impact on him. Emotions gradually deepened in dullness and numbness until the only ones that remained were the ones that ate away at his spirit.

“

PLACE IN THE WORLD FADES AWAY

harles, we’re so proud of you. All of us.”

Through his blurry vision, he made out what appeared to be a dozen human faces looking back on him. He didn’t recognize them, but he felt an attachment to them. For some reason, fluid began dripping out of their eyes and noses and down to their throat. Each faces’ owners were of different ages, and their eyes carried different stories. “We love you, Charles.” They suddenly changed their mournful frowns into reminiscent smiles. Charles didn’t remember much from his life, but he did remember one thing. So he smiled back. His vision darkened, and he felt at peace again.

There was nothing more in the world that he wanted except to be by himself and doodle away. He didn’t feel shame or pitiful that he was seen in such a frail and weak state. He just wanted to figure himself out in silence. “I’ll be going then. Please just eat.” She hooked her purse over her shoulder and took one last peek at her husband. “I love you so much, Charles. Don’t forget about me.”

LOVING HUSBAND, FATHER, BROTHER, AND GRANDFATHER DIED JUNE 19TH, 1996 AGE 70 ALWAYS IN OUR THOUGHTS FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS

Snapdragons Emily Wang Pen

Retiro Park Casey Kovarick Acrylic

The Lonely

Astronaut Emily Wang

he e lon th h e t t y ast Th l e tt T au

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t ne th e l o ne lo ut th ly na astron a ly e he lo u tt o n r n st

nely astronaut ,a A lo dr ve him so a i g o me ft in s wh p ac tars th s e e, ma h ing s de friends with t rm to a W thin his ho k abo ill in h tw c e u h t, besides t ink art led s he i h in tan f dem to the beat o “I h

T h e lo

m ave no one but thes ut b e lig e hts on and However, they will o they have n burn l o n g afte Silent and lost in t r I freeze his i nfinit e cavity.”

void with a sigh o the t f l e s ed him nely as ander to Time tronaut surrender byst a s ta ed him aside o exis rush Resigned t b d an debris Who saw e c a p s s a him

Monologue for a Criminal Chloe Williams Ah. Yes. Well. I understand you think it was wrong of me, but the horse was mine all along, you see. Fifty years ago, my great granddaddy Watford owned the best stallion in all the land, a fine racehorse by the name of King George VI. And this horse fathered a whole lot of babies, see? And these children were the property of my great granddaddy. Therefore, this great-grandchild of King George VI is most certainly the property of his surviving relatives, ergo me. Yes, I understand the horse was sold a long while ago. Yes, I understand that it was a legal sale. Yes, I understand stealing a horse is illegal. But Iyes. I understand. Guilty? Guilty? Why I most certainly am! But the horse was mine all along, you see. Oh dear. I really don’t want to go to jail, don’t you understand? Don’t you? You wouldn’t throw me in there, would you? Oh dear. It really is rather dark and dank down here.

Petaling Guns Olivia Chu Colored Pencil

That is Not My Name Olivia Chu that is not mine, empties out of their mouth. after 14 years here, I’ve learned, there is no point in correcting them.

the lunchbox moment. disgusted stares are thrown at me as I make my way to the table, I sit down, others stand up, walk away. looks of revolt are dropped in my lunch bag, causing ripples in my water. kids grimace at the meal I’ve placed in front of myself, “ew” and “what is that?” fly across the table into my ears. I try to explain, but only assumptions are acceptable as they their switch tables, away from me.

the Chinese New Year festival. second grade starts. a new name, belonging to another Asian kid, is assigned to me. they don’t know who I am, but I don’t care. I let myself fade away, shrinking into my surroundings. kids gather in the hall in “traditional Chinese clothing,” sticking chopsticks in their hair, stretching their eyes into slits, yelling gibberish at me as I pass, thinking that they are speaking “my” language. teachers ask me to do their job, to teach their students about “my home,” “my home” on the other side of the world, a home I’ve never seen.

the labels we have in our classroom. we all have the same name here, those in the skin of privilege think we are one, the same, nothing but another Chinese kid. teachers with saccharine smiles plastered on their faces call on my raised hand in class. a name,

the country I am from. born American, yet I am still a foreigner. the words of my classmates, teachers, fellow citizens, echo constantly in my mind. “go back to your country” “your English is very good” “where were you born?” “where are you really from?” because no matter what, in their eyes, I am not, and never will be, American.

we are given no choice but to fight back in a world where we are looked at, and without hesitation, labeled: “perpetual foreigner.” we can no longer allow ourselves to be stripped of our identities, until we are nothing more than yellow-skinned wallflowers. together, we can take the ignorance that tries to demolish our individuality, and use it to reinforce resilience.

the world we live in. we are told nearly every day by classmates, teachers, leaders, that who we are does not belong in the very country so many of us were born. people tell us to leave “their” nation, as though we don’t deserve a place in the world we helped create. we are expected to cut off ties to who we are if we want to fit in. denying our roots is our only option in this world if we want people to accept us. but accepting a fake shell of who we really are is not accepting us.

the words you choose. your privilege bestows you the choice to learn about racism. we are not your teachable moments. do not look to us as spokespeople for a land you think we’re from. we are not less American because of our appearance, do not hyphenate, separate, divide us. we are just as American as you.

the future we look to. isolation has become our routine, a cycle of exclusion, we turn and spin around in, day by day, year by year.

“

do not hyphenate, separate, divide us. we are just as American as you.

“

Butterflies Ashka Patel Photography 29

blueyoun Elina Wang Paint Pen

MATTER

OF FACT I guess I got a knack To jump higher than jack Like a ‘Roo baby Saucin’ Like a rat in a hat A batter’s wack They be missing Objects flying in fast I’mma grand slam Hamming I’m the best of my class My life is just a show And surrounded by laugh track And I never pass go Monopoly man’s my cash back Guess I’m never in contro’ Live in the past like a flashback And I wish that I could grow to 21 like in black jack I run You’re hidden You’re dead I’m living You’re hated I’m forgiven I’m the one they digging message on the wall it’s written You're the end of the song But I’m the hook in the beginning

When I stand you should clap Ripping up every possible thing Stuck in my path cause Im fast like an text You’re a slow printed fax While you’re a loose opinion I’m a matter of fact

Scott A.

Hennessy 31

MATTER

OF FACT

Gotta minute in it head swimming Dead among the living But I’m livid Like missile Not knowing where I’m headed Tearing up Everything given to me weapons in the system But man is just an ape and Monkeys like to mimic

Head in the Clouds Emily Zou Digital Art 32

Chocolate Bunnies Anika Kotapally

today, i thought about chocolate bunnies while i went on a walk, wearing flip-flops, and i could feel the grass between my toes. behind my thoughts, i heard kids playing, and they made me smile. so did thinking about chocolate bunnies and i considered, maybe, buying one of the small ones, right around Easter. that might just be because i’ve never been allowed to have them; i just want the unknown. but it’s good to try things, or so i’ve been told. and while i pondered this, the sky was blue, clouds drifting by. i guess the point i’m trying to make here, in a mostly nonsensical, only-makes-sense-to-me kind of way is that life is short and the world really does its level best to push you down. but sometimes chocolate bunnies and blue skies, grass between your toes and the sound of laughter, can make it all a bit easier.

Screen Time

Clara Steege Photography

When you realize you have them, every cell you have sinks to your feet, when you think you know them and your head starts to swirl, when you think you can’t do it anymore, you can’t feel this,

why not,

it’s too hard,

feelings are hard!,

yes but too much, it’s too much, when you think about how you feel and you know it’s going to end badly, why, I just know, you can’t know these things, yes you can, in your heart, you feel them, it hurts and you feel them, when you look at that face and your body melts, what the hell Isabel!, when you can’t stand when they laugh that way, when you feel so good and so bad around them all you do is say the wrong thing, how’re you feeling ha ha ha--boobs!, okay, sure, when you sit in silence watching, when you think about these feelings, your heart sinks, it goes down, down, down

DOWN! IN! YOUR! GUT! HAHAHA,

and then you smile and it breaks you, and you can’t handle this, oh my god that’s so funny, look at that meme, nice, yeahhhh! it hurts!, when you go to bed and their name carves itself into your eyes, in white, can you believe it?, so cool, I hate it! when you accidentally say I love you, haha, sorry! no it’s okay, I love you too, wow, really? yeah, that’s what friends are for, oh, yeah! but inside oh no! when you keep doing this back and forth that makes no sense,

I love you! love you more!

and the day is over, and their name is in your skin, when you tell someone how you feel and they say go for it, and you say no, I couldn’t, when they compliment your eyes and you see the stars, wow, thanks! no problem, that’s what friends are for when you start to avoid them becaue you’re getting too close and it’s unbearable, unbearable! you can’t see their eyes anymore it hurts to do that, hey, are you ok, yeah just been busy, oh cool, see you soon, sure, 36

when the world spins because they looked at you, so pretty! when you’d rather eat your teeth and nails than spend another second with them, I’m addicted to you, my bad, because it hurts too much to be near them and not say everything

running through your head, like mice, or tears, maybe, when you see their hair and butterflies eat at your heart, it looks so soft, can I touch it, sure,

when really you wanted to hold their face to yours and just smile and cry and smile,

when they hug you before they leave and they smell so good, a cloud! they feel like a cloud, don’t let me go, when they do, shit! what am I supposed to do when I feel like this, I guess I could laugh, that’s weird, when you make silly faces and you laugh like the sun might burst any minute, hahahahahahaha, you’re cute, tongue, nose, ears, eyes, I melt in your gaze, hey!

how are you?

I’ve been better, I’ve been worse,

when they hold you on a Saturday night and you’re not sure what’s happening, so comfy,

I could be here forever, I want to kiss you so badly, kiss you, so badly! I could, but it’s fine, let’s not, it’s easier if we’re just friends, everything’s easier if you don’t feel that way, when you can’t breathe because you’re crying so hard

I think I’m going to die tonight, should I tell them I’m scared, I don’t want them to see me like this, when your nose starts bleeding because you’ve used so many tissues, keep on crying, get in the shower, the water feels so warm, when you put your face in it and you love the way you can’t tell which tears are yours, hold me again, kiss me once, please, shut the fuck up! when you’re in your room and you can’t get dressed, you’re dripping on the hardwood floors, fuck that, let’s dance! when your eyes are swollen, my face feels too hot, I can’t breathe, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop DANCING! you give up, it’s twelve, when you get dressed and bury yourself in blankets, when you stop feeling anything, a corpse, I’m a shell for a mass of sentient tissue and that’s WILD, when you wake up and your eyes are still puffy, and you laugh so hard you start crying again, oh god, get over yourself! so you go to school and you’re still wearing your pajamas 37

when you open the camera and start crying again, I’m disgusting, wow, of course,

I’m disgusting of course,

when you run into them in the hallway,

hey are you okay? no, I’m sorry,

when they try to hug you and you shove them as hard as your weak little heart can take, you can go, are you sure, yeah, I’m fine, trust me, okay, feel better, sure, see you later when you sink to the tile floor and you feel empty, again, a corpse, am I real? do I exist? how can I fix this? when the bell rings and it takes everything in you to move, up! get up! you can’t be late! when you don’t feel anything for the rest of the day

go home cry more, dance more, when you wake up,

screw this,

new clothes, grandmother’s jewelry, handsome, look at me, I’m okay, actually, I’m great, look at me, I’m hot!

when you still feel that little hole gnawing at your heart, it’s okay, wasn’t meant to be, there’s fish in the sea, instead I’ll love me.

TROPICAL

Lydia Naser Pen

In Bloom Annika Shastry Collage

Flowers Ashka Patel Watercolor & Pen

LY D I A N A S E R and suddenly all these decisions matter more than they used to- bending under the weight of seventeen measly years until I snap. You can buy my time like toilet paper in March, (supply low and yet you’re so demanding) wasting your money on my minutes until I’m covered in your bullshit.

How can I be here when I still remember the

snap of the clasp on my purple corduroys on the swings in preschool, when days were gingerbread houses, fake pearls, and adventure. Now it’s just the snap of your temper, the crack of a whip, the pop of a gun. Can’t you see we’ve moved so far from breakfast cereals and Saturday morning cartoons? But here you are calling me a child when we’re trying to save the world. But here we are trying to save the world when I can’t even deposit a check. And then you snap your fingers and it’s midnight and I’m not allowed to be a kid anymore, forced to make my own decisions but still too young to know anything,

AP N S

though I suppose I didn’t need the

snap of the lighter burning one extra candle to tell me that. Because the world is already on fire, and you’re so focused on the carbon dioxide behind the mask you refuse to wear that you forget you’ll need a ventilator to survive all this smoke. I’m so tired of people ignoring the snap of the twigs feeding these flames. We’re over here applying to colleges that we might not even get to attend in person, mourning the loss of the end of our childhood, learning from buffering adults and faceless classmates, all while trying to save a democracy that some of us aren’t even old enough to participate in. Every day, we hear another match snap as someone tries to fuel this fire, and we’ll never stop fighting, but the least you could do is pick up a fucking hose and help us out.

SN SN AP S SN AP S NAP S N A NA P SN AP S NAP P S AP NAP SN A P NA S N S AP SN P SN AP NA S P SN AP SN AP NA SN P A NA P SN AP S AP AP N P AP SNA SN AP SN P S AP P S AP NA N S P SN AP S NAP AP NA AP SNA P S P P S NAP N SN AP AP AP P

AP N S A P AP SNAP SNAP SNSANAP SN N S P A N S SNAP SNAP AP SP SNAP SPNSANPAP SNAP SNAP SNAPA N P S SNA AP SNANAP SNAP SNANPASPNSANPASPNS A S N AP S N P SN NA P S SNAP P SNAPASP SNAP SNAP SNAP S NA P SNA P SN AP SNAP SNAP SN S NA P SNA P SN AP SNAP SNAP S NA P SNA P SN AP SNAP SNA S NA P SNA P SN AP SNAP S S NA P SNA P SN AP SNA S NA P SNA P SN AP SN S NA P SNA P SN AP S NA P SNA P SN S NA P SNA P SN S NA P SNA P S NA P SNA S NA P SNA S NA P S S NA P A S

AP P

I N C R E M E N T S

IZZY THORNBERG

t’s 7pm. Anastasia Walker was driving on the highway, the sun barely set. She had just gotten off a particularly stressful work call. Even though her workday officially ended at 5pm, the grins never seemed to stop. Too tired to think, Anastasia didn’t put on the radio, but she drank her lukewarm coffee. It was black, and she didn’t like it that way, but it was coffee. She expected another meeting in a couple hours. If she was lucky. It’s 7:30pm. Colby Nolan was listening to the radio. His workday began at 6am. He had just started his trucking shift at his second job, 5pm precisely. He cannot afford insurance, but he wants his children to live full lives. He thinks maybe if they can have dessert every night, things won’t be so bad. Colby isn’t sure if he has enough saved up for his daughter’s birthday. He is late on rent. His mind is swimming. It’s 8pm. Anastasia is on a call now. She’s at home, sprawled across the couch. Her compression tights squeeze at her thighs, jealous of her flesh, consuming it. She aches for something stronger than the soda she holds. Her mind floats elsewhere as the corporate droning bombards her senses. She thinks about butterflies. Anastasia is startled when her boss asks her if she’s still with them. It’s 8:30pm. The sun has bled through the sky, its blood dark and inky. Colby misses the stars. Ever since he moved closer to the city, he’s seen less and less of them. He wonders where they went. He assumes they’re still there, just hidden maybe. He promises his daughters, privately, they’ll see the stars one day. They’ll have all the air they could possibly consume. Desserts with every meal. After all, affluence and joy are hand in hand. A car screams by him. He tries not to panic. Colby hates truck driving. It reminds him of how small he is in a too big world.

It’s 9pm. There’s something urgent at the office, apparently. Anastasia has to drive back. She’s in her car. She feels swollen, like a balloon, or a snake that ate too much, maybe. She picks at her tights. The engine gurgles. It makes her think of children. Anastasia wishes she had time for them. But her debts are more important. It’s 9:30pm. Colby is almost to the state line. Sometimes he imagines there are stowaways on his truck, tucked away amongst the plastic wrap and cardboard. He tells these stories to his two little girls when he gets home. He can’t afford picture books. Their imaginations are brighter than the illustrations anyway. He licks his lips. Colby can’t think of the name of tonight’s lead stowaway. Everything’s slow. No traffic. He wonders if he can rest. It’s 10pm. Anastasia wonders if maybe she’ll melt. Her skin is gooey, pliable. Her brain feels gray and mushy. The words shoving themselves through her phone blur together. She wishes she knew how to fake a migraine. She remembers that she has to balance her mortgage tonight. She’s almost to her office. She can barely keep her eyes open. The last dregs of Anastasia’s bitterly cold coffee still wet her lips. She turns on cruise control. It’s 10:30pm. Colby has leaned back against the headrest. His eyes have become slits, just barely open enough to see the road. But he isn’t sleeping, he promises. Just thinking of the story to tell his little girls when he gets off of work this weekend. It’ll be her 5th birthday. The 5th time he remembers his wife’s blood on the carpet, a newborn choking its way to consciousness in the early hours of morning in a too hot room. Colby wishes he could afford AC. Colby isn’t awake anymore.

It’s 10:30pm. Anastasia is going over a blind hill.

It’s 10:31pm. Colby isn’t awake anymore. 45

It’s 10:31pm. Anastasia is blinded by the lights of the truck. It’s 10:31pm. Colby isn’t awake anymore.

Wrong lane! Wrong lane! Too late! Too late! It’s 10:31pm. Colby hears the horn blaring before he feels the crash. The crush of a much smaller car beneath him. Like an ant. Wait, what? It’s 10:32pm. Anastasia isn’t awake anymore. But if she was, she would notice that she couldn’t feel below her neck. But she would see the blood. Her blood. The bones. Her bones. The phone, quiet. Her phone.

It’s 10:33pm. Colby calls the police.

It’s 10:33pm. Anastasia isn’t awake anymore, but if she was, she would notice her car was crushed like a can. The wet smell of gasoline. It’s 10:34pm. Colby smells the gasoline first. He sees the blood. The glass. Colby smells his vomit as it dresses him.

It’s 10:31pm.

It’s 10:31pm. Over and over and over and over in his head the horn the crush the horn the

It’s 10:44pm when the paramedics show up.

It’s 10:52pm when Anastasia Walker is proclaimed dead.

Anastasia isn’t awake anymore.

Colby won’t sleep for years.

THORNS ARE KILLER Scott A. Hennessy Digital collage

On Late Summer Angeline Ma

Though I must admit late summer is never something I await quite as eagerly as I do the half that precedes it for the time being I am content watching as you peel a tomato in the dimming late summer light the distinctive fruit filling many identical plastic baskets that guard our kitchen wall like soldiers which in my humble opinion our government churns out at too-alarming rates to sacrifice their enviable prospects quote defending American values unquote for a government that quite possibly does not give a shit about them which is not to say that I do not respect the military because I do very much so admire the toil and dedication that it necessitates which is not so much different from any other line of work because as my father would say our similarities are stronger than our differences but as I was saying I do admit I never look forward to this particular bit of summer in the same way I do June for example for while June signals the beginning

of summer’s many wonders to come the season always seems to draw to a close far too quickly coloring my enjoyment of the many beautiful things late summer has to offer with the anxious anticipation of what’s next but for the time being I will forget the heedless passage of time and simply enjoy this moment watching as to protect the gelatinous seeds you very carefully slide the skin off the fruit the skin which did you know continues to divide numerous esteemed food critics and chefs To Peel Or Not To Peel the skin which when left to its own devices would shrivel into little bitter needles swirling about in perhaps a stir fry or the depths of a bastardized Borscht soup and stubbornly wedge itself in the gaps of your charming teeth which smile at me now as they hasten to your tastebuds the sweet hidden in the acidity of the last of our late summer yield.

Glow Stella Lei Colored Pencil

Aurora Dream Eileen Chen Digital Art

Behind the Mask Annika Shastry Digital Collage

PEACE

They are the ones who see the world in a new way. They are the few who reject their rose-tinted glasses. They breathe the world in for its true colors.

Carly Broseman

Life begins for them as it does for all. They rise from each of the planet’s crevices. They are different in every way but meld unexpectedly together. Together they go because of the vision they share. In their lives they are faced with horror. They choose to find it. Their spirits shift into something fresh. Darkeness threatens and sometimes takes them over. They glare at the vast harshness the world hits them with. It glares back harder. They see the ruthlessness of truth and nothing will be easy. They refuse to accept the world as is. Instead they create a new existence. They take in their hands the beauties of this world and clutch them tight. They do not push away the horrors. They contradict them with every piece of body and soul. They protest out loud and they protest in silence. They live for themselves and they live for the future. They live for the wonderful gifts of earth and they live for change. They learn to become a better version of themselves in this world. They whisper and they shout in the darkness. They climb always towards to the light. They create it. They are change. They are peace.

Dear Uncle Joe, Emma Laragione

You wouldn’t know, but when I turned seven, I thought of you. You were out of jail, I was having my birthday party, I hoped you would come. You didn’t. And I lingered on your absence. You wouldn’t know, but the day we visited you in the rehab center, I hoped for you. We brought you a cane, because your back had gotten bad since we last saw you, I hoped you would stay clean and stay out of jail. You didn’t. And I lost faith in you. You wouldn’t know, but when I was thirteen, I learned from you. I thought of the person you were, the things you’d done, and I decided I would never be like you. But I still kept that photo of us tucked away, proof I still hoped you’d change. You didn’t. And I decided to cut you out of my life. You wouldn’t know, but the day I found out you were dead, I cried. I cried for my mother, who had believed in you. I cried for myself, because I would never know you. And though I wouldn’t have admitted it then, I cried for you. Because now, you couldn’t know, that I thought of you, hoped for you, learned from you, cried for you. You could never know that a little part of me died with you.

I wish I could cheat Push the time way past Where my body won’t reek And the days move fast Like a cast, a fixed position never heal in my condition path is easy to submission Guess I’m stubborn, never listen List the ways to give praise To the people that I’m missing Never praise myself, amaze myself I’m lying like I’m Nixon There ain’t fixing something broken Guess the gears have some friction matches break, there’s no chance to take my pathway to ignition

Matchbox Scott A. Hennessy

Only Faeries Alexina Hobbs Mixed Media

Managing Editor:

Lydia Naser DIT OR EDI Art Editors: TO S ME Olivia Wang EDI RS ET Stella Lei THEPatel TO ME Ashka EDIT EDI RS ETLydia Naser ORS MEET TO ME THE E ED RS ELit EDIT T TEditors: ITO M Angeline ORS MEE Ma H E E ED RS EIzzy EDIT ITO M ETThornberg ORS MEE THE HE ED RS Business EET Managers: E DITOR ITO MNikkitaTPandey S ME HE HE ED RS Chloe EETWilliams EDIT ITO M O T H E ED RS ME HE ED RS Copy EETEditors: ITORS M ITO MShreya Singh T H THE E EETChenE ED Sophia DIT RS M ITORS M T H O THE E E ED S MEEthanks DIT ARspecial T T to our ITORS M H O THE E E ED Eadvisors: E DIT RSstaff T ITORS M Ben Smith T M H O T THE E E E Katie Wilson R E DIT S M T T EDITOR S HE T THE E OR E DIT S M ET T EDITOR S ET THE ED ORS EE HE ED T IT I

E H T MEET E H T S MEET THE

Emily Zou

MEET M EE T T HE SSTAF EE T T HE TA F MEE EE T T HE STA FF MEE T T T HE STA FF ME T TH Staff: FF M ET TH T THE STCarly Broseman EE E TH S AAva T F Bruni F T M HE Chen EET TH E S TAFEileen S F T Olivia Chu M T H E TH E S AFFLila Condie ET T E S TA VivianMDong HE T E E E T Gergeus S HE STA FFDaniel T T M H NataliaE Green A E E T F E S S F THE TA Lulu Gunn E ETSTHTAFF M E Peyton Harrill T THE STA F E M T Scott Hennessy H E T A ETHobbs ESTT FF M Alexina F S T T H F E E Lily Jiang A A E E H TJones T T FF ME Zach THE STA FF TEA E Anika Kotapally E T F H F S F T T Casey Kovarick T T M H F E EAF E A E E T Emma Laragione E ST FF M F T H M H T Ethan Liu E E S AF ET TAva Poeta EET M E T H F H AF E Lena E Pothier M S MEET T E Akshita Pothula T F A E H Guin Reaume T M F E F MEET Annika Shastry EE E M Clara Steege H EE T MEET T E Elina Wang Emily Wang H T T Leyla Yilmaz MEET

About The Folio We are a student-run literary and art magazine from Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Although we’ve only been The Folio since 2007, we have collected, compiled, designed, and published student-produced art and literature since 1967. Our staff members are dedicated to furthering their own artistic and literary talents and promoting an interest in the humanities schoolwide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all ‘Stoga students. Applications to join our team open in February. For more information, visit our website, stogafolio.weebly.com, or check us out on Instagram @stogafolio. The National Scholastic Press Assocation has rated our publication All-American. The National Council of Teachers of English has ranked us as a Superior magazine. The Pennsylvania School Press Association has awarded us the Gold Rating.