Spring 2024 / The Folio

Cover photo © Katelyn Wang

Inside cover © Katelyn Wang

Copyright © 2024 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff

Internal Design © 2024 Hannah Gupta, Jordan Jacoel, Chiho Jing, Eden Liu, Katelyn Wang, Emily Zou

Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist

First edition 2024

All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced here with permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School.

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FROM THE EDITORS

Managing Editors

Art Editors

Literary Editors

Copy Editors

Business Editors

Vivian Dong & Anika Kotapally

Hannah Gupta, Jordan Jacoel, Chiho Jing, Eden Liu, Katelyn Wang & Emily Zou

Ava Bruni, Peyton Harrill, Lily Jiang & Ashley Vadner

Anouk Freudenberg, Jessica Joseph, Navami Muglurmath & Tashikaa Senthilkumar

Audrey Nguyen, Sarah Weng & Amy Li

Dear Reader,

Did you know the ocean is the most unexplored place on the planet? Countless expeditions have been made to explore the leagues and leagues under the sea. Humans are drawn to the unknown, fascinated by the mysterious bottom of the world. We don’t know what happens there, and maybe we never will. But as research has shown, it’s clear that the sea is the one of the most diverse biomes on the planet, a habitat for millions of species and forms of life that we haven’t even discovered yet.

The sea is decorated with species and life of every size, shape, and way of living. From microscopic zooplankton to 200-ton whales, there’s nothing you can’t find in the sea. Today, we welcome you to The Folio’s Ocean! Our magazine is home to our school’s most diverse stories and narratives: tales from the end of the world to daughters growing up in grocery stores. There’s nothing you can’t find here in The Folio

Our diverse body of work and art is only possible through our incredible staff. Every day they come to class to tell their stories. The stories that make us laugh, cry, smile, and everything in between. Thanks to the students of Conestoga, we were able to fill our ocean with poetry, prose, and art that’s as thriving as the ocean’s ecosystem.

To our advisors, Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson, thank you for fostering the most creative, brilliant, and fun atmosphere. We look forward to class every single day, and that is in part because of you. Thank you for taking the time to care about us as artists and as peoplefor helping us grow.

To our readers, thank you for caring about our magazine. Thank you for giving our work a place to be seen and published. The Folio is for you.

And to our seniors, thank you for everything you’ve done for our magazine: your work, your thoughts, your presence, your opinions. The Folio would truly not be the same without you. It’s crazy to think how we started as freshmen on Teams, critiquing in online groups, to the people we are now. It’s been an honor to publish your work for the past four years and watch you all grow as artists and people. We are so, so proud of you, and we can’t wait to see all that you’ll accomplish. The Folio will always be here for you, and you can always call our magazine home. The world is your oyster, go forth!

Life is the Bubbles!

The Editors

THE SEASHORE

Welcome to where the land meets the ocean! We will begin our descent here, wading into the clear aqua water and sloping sandy beaches. This zone is well known for the large amount of biodiversity despite the harsh, ever-changing conditions.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TWILIGHT ZONE

MIDNIGHT ZONE

SUNLIGHT ZONE

Epipelagic

Teeming with biodiversity, this part of our journey into the sea is home to all 350 species of turtles! Interestingly, the sunlight zone only encompasses about 2-3% of the ocean. The pieces in this section feature light-hearted themes.

Fishing

Kathryn Kaskey

Alric sits at the edge of a dock; His eyes are rather glazed. He’s insecure about his work; He’s fishing for some praise.

Sally sails in a crusty boat, And casts her broken reel. She isn’t rich, but needs to eat; She’s fishing for a deal.

Alex stands knee deep in brine, Dislodges a crustacean. They’re curious, and need to know; They fish for information.

Jia lies on a sandy beach, Shouts things too rude to mention. She feels unseen and broken, so She’s fishing for attention.

I sit and muse on an old worn pier, Atop a lifeless sea. My mind is blank of things to write; I’m fishing for ideas.

Tranquil Trio Caroline Tierney Acrylic

To Go Gentle

Ashley Vadner

Do not go gentle but I’ve been gasping for air all these years, mouth bloodied, raw nails seizing onto ruins, raging like a gasoline-drunk fire and exploding like a dying star.

Do not go gentle but I’ve never done anything gently, never held a hand without cracking the pinky bones, never tilted my face up to the sun without wanting to steal it out of the sky.

Do not go gentle but I’ve worn myself to the dust in sunbeams, to the dirt of decayed plants between bricks, and the ashes of a flame without air to feed it or anger to fuel it.

Do not go gentle but I’ve begun to soften at the creases, watching spring bud green on barren winter trees, listening to the sound of laughter without wanting to pry it from chests.

Do not go gentle but I would like to try, once.

In Rememberance of a Laurel Tree

Water is ever-changing, It ebbs and roars and lulls. In it the Nymph finds solace, Protection from pursuit.

My heart is yours, he says, And yours is meant to be mine.

The Sun is blinding And arrogant and vain, His light desperate to consume her, To grasp her, to love her.

You need me, he says, The way every muse needs a poet.

The Nymph pleads with the earth To protect her from the Sun. And from her prayers, She grows into leaves and branches.

I need you, he says, The Fates, in their cruelty, crafted you for me.

The Sun’s love is forever lingering, Trapped within every beam of light. He can’t have her in the way he craves, So he takes a branch in remembrance of her.

I loved you, he says, And I’ll mourn you with every breath. In her prison, she is free.

Author’s note: This poem mirrors the Greek Myth of Daphne and Apollo.

Ava Bruni

Shirin Patel Digital

Hannah Gupta Digital

Sandcastles and Seashells

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

The sand stuck to my hands as I carefully packed it into our bucket. Grains were under my fingernails and in between my fingers. A gentle breeze blew my baby hairs into my eyes and I swiped it away, leaving a trail of sand just above my right eyebrow. But I continued to shovel in more and more, pressing it down as hard as I could before I flipped the bucket over.

I remember your smile as we both banged against the bottom of the bucket. How you shook with excitement as we delicately lifted it, revealing flawlessly made turrets. We busied ourselves adorning it, wanting it to be a sight to behold. I pressed seashells into the sand, watching tiny cracks appear on the smooth surface. You dug your fingers into the ground, sloppily forming a moat around our creation. And together, we placed seaweed behind it, making a forest of our own.

I remember laughing as we ran into the water, our stubby legs sinking into the sand. The salty water sprayed on our faces as we stood in the shallow end. Our parents always told us that we were too young to go much deeper. They said we had many years ahead of us before we could go out into the deep unknown by ourselves. But we both waited for that day, together. Because once we got there, we knew that it would be worth it.

I remember us walking back towards our castle, hand in hand, granules of sand coating the bottom of our feet. Your mother made us sit in front of our masterpiece while she took a picture commemorating our architectural marvel. There was a crack on the left wall, formed after I pressed a seashell in a touch too far. But you hadn’t seen it and I hadn’t told you. After all, one crack couldn’t take away the beauty that my eyes saw.

I remember the moment you saw the crack. Your blue-green eyes widened at the imperfection and shimmered like light on the ocean. You smashed our castle with your hands and feet and it fell as if it were a house of cards. My carefully selected seashells were buried beneath the pile of sand, and our castle was no more. I could only stand and watch as teardrops ran down your cheeks. My eyes darted from you to the heap of sand, trying to find answers. Why would you destroy something so beautiful?

Even now, all I can do is stand and watch. Watch you rip yourself to shreds and ruin yourself, just like you did with our castle. You see all of the cracks in the sand, all of your flaws, and you fail to see what I see. I see the seashells that are your eyes, lighting up when you smile. The moat that is your voice, soothing and angelic. The turrets that are your passion, radiating from every stroke of your pencil. The forest that is your kindness, picking me up from the deepest depths.

I don’t even notice your cracks when I look at you, but when you look at yourself, that’s all that you see. I worry that soon, you will face the same fate as our castle, crumbling to pieces. Sometimes, I don’t know what to say or what to do and a million words are left unspoken on my tongue. But I’ll try. I’ll try to save you before you collapse. Because I may have been able to get over losing our sandcastle, but I will never forgive myself if I lose you.

A Field From My Dreams

Lily Jiang Photography

Golden Beauty

Jessica Joseph

Photography

Puppy Play

Courtney McKenna

Acrylic Marker

This Town Ain’t Big Enough for That Hat

Cole Marshall Ink & Watercolor

hy did we stop?”

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

“You know what Ronan? You were right,”

“W Intelligence test Intelligence test

Orianne Willis turned back to look at her traveling companion, Ronan Maverick, who was peering curiously at a large, shiny, bright red button that was clearly labeled:

“DON’T PRESS”

“We’re not going to press it.” Ori said firmly, as if her decision was final.

“We’re not?” Ronan tilted his head, sounding both disappointed and confused.

“Obviously. It clearly says NOT to touch it!”

“But what if it’s a test of intelligence?”

“Or a test of stupidity?” Ori countered drily.

But Ronan had already stood up straighter, waving his arms wildly to catch her attention “But WHAT IF it’s a test of intelligence? To see who doesn’t blindly follow rules, to see who’s willing to find things out for themselves, to see-”

“Well, what if it’s a warning?” Ori interrupted, clearly not too eager to listen to Ronan’s speech.

“If we don’t press it.... Then nothing will happen.” Ronan said slowly, turning to look at the button, once again.

“Exactly!” Ori said, relieved that he was finally getting it.

“But if we do.... then something WILL happen!” Ronan’s voice rose with excitement, and before Ori could do anything-

He pressed the button. And something did happen. That something was a rope net below them sweeping them up and leaving them hanging in the air.

“I think we should have seen that coming.” Ori sighed, trying to shift into a more comfortable position.

“Yup.” Ronan nodded, almost mournfully as he leaned back against the netting.

“I mean we literally should have seen the net below us.”

Ori’s eyes narrowed, a sudden change washing over her as she watched Ronan poke stupidly at the ropes.

“Really?” he asked brightly, immediately perking up.

“This was all a test of intelligence. And you failed.”

Ronan flinched, but was all too eager to point out “You’re in the net too!”

“Hmph. Well you know what? This has all been a test of intelligence. And I failed the moment I decided to go on this quest with you.”

Ronan fell silent after that. For about two seconds.

“Do you have a knife?”

Ori snorted, “Do you seriously think I just carry a knife around everywhere with me?”

“.... Yes?”

“Well you’re absolutely right.” Ori said flatly, slowly pulling out a long, wicked looking dagger from God-knows-where.

Ronan watched with (finally) silent fascination as Ori began slicing through the net. The ropes were thick and tough, but once she cut through the weakest link, everything else simply fell apart. As the opening grew wider and wider, Ronan eagerly leaned forward, until finally-

He fell face first onto the ground. Ori fell on top of him, as if he was a landing pad, standing up smoothly and dusting herself off with an air of dignity. Ronan remained face down on the ground before managing to barely pull himself up, releasing a whine of pain and overall discomfort. Before he could fully submerge in a pool of self-misery, Ori whirled around, fixing her fierce, fiery gaze on him.

“From now on you stay behind me and don’t touch anything without my say so!” she almost snarled.

“What about air?” Ronan asked stupidly, with the air of someone who had spent his whole life perfecting the art of antagonizing people.

Ori glared at him, “I still have the knife, y’know.”

“Well, I think it would be really stupid to try attacking me!” Ronan declared.

“I don’t think I’m the stupid one here.” Ori replied dismissively, already turning away.

“.... Ouch.”

The Little Crème Brûléeing Dragon

There was a little dragon that liked to crème brûlée, and crème brûlée he did. Every morning, the little dragon would wake up in his quaint little home, which happened to be a vintage Victorian dollhouse on the windowsill of his family’s apartment. His human family, of course, let him stay. They were fond of him as he was of them, but they rarely crossed paths. Rather, knowing the other was there was plenty to maintain a content co-living situation. And so, the little dragon remained largely unbothered on the sill, in the very elaborate dollhouse that once belonged to one of his humans long ago. It was gorgeous inside, really, with a full grand wooden staircase and several tidy, opulent rooms. But the little dragon made good use of his house’s tiny grandeur. He’d host dinners and sleepovers for the other dragons in the neighborhood. He was content; he had made his dollhouse a home.

Now, the dragon had to make a living for himself of course. And so, every afternoon, after dressing himself and fluffing his tiny duvets, he’d set off for work. Before leaving his house, he glanced at himself in the mirror and realized the buttons on his chef’s coat were mismatched, which he promptly addressed before grabbing his hand bell and dashing out the door. He was the head dessert chef in the restaurant on the first floor of the apartment building, and it made him more than proud to bear the title. After riding the elevator for a while (his favorite way to commute), he’d wander into the stillclosed restaurant and slip into the kitchen. He was aware of his size and how he could go unnoticed by many well-intentioned line cooks, so he rang his bell three loud times, a signal to the buzzing human chefs that he had arrived. Like every day,

he was greeted by smiles and laughs and everyday conversation about the weather. Even the saucier, obsessed with his task and nothing else, seemed to become a bit more childlike when the little dragon bid him a good afternoon. And that’s how it was, before their dinner prep, the warm afternoon sunglow in the kitchen was amplified by the joy that the little dragon somehow carried with him every day. Soon, it would be opening time, the little dragon’s favorite time of day.

Dinner was unusually busy that day, but the little dragon was more excited than anything. The dining space filled with couples and families trysting and rendezvousing warmly, and the ambiance of the room, like every night, was perfectly curated for the perfect dining experience. People were dining on their first or second courses, and relaxing in the elegance of it all. Steak or bitter greens or figs could be found on any table in sight, and the aromas all traced back to the kitchen, where the little dragon prepared for his evening debut. He dusted off his chef’s coat, and in the palm of the restaurant owner’s hand, they stepped into the dining room.

“Who ordered the crème brûlée?” the owner said, hushing the guests to a murmur. The man’s playful grin showed that it was that time of evening, and the locals in the restaurant knew what was about to happen too. Visitors looked around, confused yet anticipating the surprise to come. And in the blink of an eye, the little dragon had leapt out of his hand, and started his mission.

Each table was already set with the perfect number of custard ramekins, sprinkled with a generous amount of sugar on top. The dragon started at the first table, perched gracefully on the rim, and

Zion Brown

breathed his fire onto the sugared custard. Despite his size, his strength and heat pulled through, and the sugar soon was a bubbly coat of crystal over the dessert. The guests at the table grinned and clapped as the little dragon completed the rest of their custards, each with an impeccable crackly sheen on top after his firing. This was what the dragon lived for. Soon enough, he had flown to another table of excited guests, awaiting their freshly bruleed sugar like the rest of the tables in the space. He would spend the evening doing his job and doing it well. He knew what to look for, beyond his stream of fire. He knew how toasty his legs should be on the rim of the ramekin so the cream would not melt, and he knew the pattern of bubbles to look for to melt the sugar evenly but densely, all the while being the entertainer of the century. All the while, he was smil-

ing at the parents between rounds, winking at the couples, and telling jokes to the kids. Soon, despite how long it felt, dessert finally began to wrap up for the parties of two and three and four, and couples ordered their wines and trickled out of the restaurant for the night.

And when, after work, the little dragon rested his tired head on his pillow, after having a cup of iced tea (to cool down his head from all the fire), and cuddling his stuffed ladybug, he thought about the long night, how his wings almost got snagged by a handsy toddler, how he might’ve overdone a few possets as his fatigue progressed through the evening, all the things that went wrong. But he yawned, and smiled, knowing that it was all worth it to get up and do it again tomorrow.

Courtney McKenna

Martini Assembly Line

Acrylic & Pen

Kathryn Kaskey Origami

HOARD HOARD

PEG LEG

PEG LEG

Emily Ibarra Sharpie

Snowfall

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

Clumps of snowflakes fell from the gray sky, dusting your eyelashes and your hair like powdered sugar. You always said that fluffy snow was no good for making snowmen, and yet today you tried anyway. You couldn’t even make one snowball, let alone three, but all you did was laugh, your charming laugh, that reminded me of wind chimes.

I sat in front of our apartment complex, reaching my hand out from under the porch roof. Snowflakes gathered in my palm and I watched as they melted away, leaving a puddle of water in my cupped hand. The tips of my fingers grew red from the cold and I tucked my hands back into the fur-lined pockets of my coat.

My gaze shifted to you, your head tilted up towards the sky in awe. You turned to look at me and held out your gloved hand. It only took one look at the crooked smile on your face for me to take my hand out of my pocket. I reached for you and my fingertips grazed the wool of your blue mittens. And just like the snowflakes in my hand, the vision of you melted away.

I remembered your laugh, your smile, the feel of your hand in mine, but all I could do was conjure up an illusion of you. I could never, and will never, bring the real you back. The real you was sitting in a vase in my room, your ashes powdery just like snowfall. I dug my fingernails into my palm. The ground beneath my feet was supposed to be covered in snowflakes, not teardrops. I felt something roll down my face, a wet, salty trail left in its wake. And then it froze, leaving a crystal on my frostbitten cheeks and healing one of the many scars on my frozen heart.

Windows of Elegance

Gigi Prothero

Photography

Vespas

Katie White Photography

Jane Reynolds

I take in a summer- scented breath

Feeling the dip in your neighbor’s trampoline.

My braided pigtails you did this morning begin to tangle.

Honeysuckle sun spilling onto your freckled features

You are young

You are safe

Still in the bright yellow bathing suit

With the pink polka dots

And your acid washed jean shorts

Stained with grape juice.

I take a sip full of sunlight

Turning to look at you as you point out every creature passing by.

“Did you know that only female bees can sting?” you mutter as I observe

“No... I don’t think I did,” I respond with a laugh.

I don’t know why.

“Well now you do” you respond, turning your head to face mine. We laugh again you shine an amused grin.

I laugh a lot with you.

Under the cast of few cotton clouds

We are young and the world is warm,

As are your eyes,

Hazel that seems to capture the world within your irises.

A spectrum of earth-toned loveliness.

I wish I could spend some time in those eyes

I bet it’s summer there.

Earth’s sun dial spins.

Our minds yet to be stained and torn. It’s so easy to feel with you.

Grass clippings sprinkled over our hair,

Nothing can bother you here,

Not even that pesky bumble bee

That won’t leave your ears

Flapping its stained glass wings.

Because we are young, And I love you.

I love you.

American Snartic

Kyle Hoang Marker

The Two Listeners

Elise Gerstle

He’s not sure what to do, because he hears the voices that pull him in opposite directions. He’s not sure where to go, because he sees so many dreams, so many people to chase, none of which realize that he’s trying to keep up. I reach out, but he is not ready to accept.

I bang on his doors, but he has locked me out, blasting music, Blocking out the murmurs, burning the bridge between us.

I could tell him what’s right and wrong. I could glue his conflicted heart back together. But of all the voices he listens to, he never has time to listen to me.

Venice Dreams of

Amy Li

“Julian,” she mumbled, voice cracking, “remember that time we went to Venice together? You told me the sky was as bright as my eyes and the ships looked like shoes.” She chuckled, a light laugh amidst a sea of despair.

Her arms were wrapped around his chest, holding each other gently. To her, that’s what he was, sand she was trying to grasp between her fingers, ashes of a warm fire.

She wanted to believe this, believe in the flesh beneath her fingers, believe in what she had, even if it was just for a moment.

“Remember that bridge where you first told me you loved me?”

She paused, waiting for an answer. The silence loomed over her, dragging her down deeper with the passing of each moment.

“It was so beautiful, Julian, and you looked so happy. I just wanted…,” She closed her eyes, taking in a shaky breath. She could still remember the moment the salty air brushed against the back of her neck and how the flakes of gold in his forest green eyes twinkled underneath the moonlight. It stole her breath away, just like he had stolen her heart.

“I wanted… I wanted to see you like that forever.” She opened her eyes again but didn’t dare to meet his gaze.

When night had come and all the city lights lit up, it was like seeing a thousand twinkling stars, just for them. But still he looked at her as if she was brighter than any light, racing around the streets, dancing to their favorite songs. Her dress flowed through the wind and every time he would catch her, she felt herself fly. Tears rolled down her face at the memory, soaking his shirt. She didn’t know why she was crying, or at least she felt like she didn’t know why. It was just sad, the silence in the air, knowing he was gone, trying to believe he was still there.

“Julian, it was like heaven on earth, and I’m not even religious.” She wanted to laugh, but it sunk into

her stomach. She could almost feel herself choking on that laugh, choking on empty air.

“You loved… you loved life so much. You loved willow trees and soft sand on the beach. You loved markets and bright lights and the look of flowing water. You loved that stupid, stupid bobblehead you stuck on your car,” with each word, she felt as if struggling for air. It was like this pain was building up in her chest, and all she could do was bury herself in him, bury herself in the comfort of his embrace.

Every memory was one of pure joy, and every memory was a reminder of everything she lost. She wanted it back; she wanted it all back. Even the stupid bobblehead. She wanted it; she wanted him.

“I really, really hate that thing. But I could care less, Julian, if you would just stay with me, please. Please, I need you,” and after a pause, her voice fell to a hush as she added: “I love you.” There was nothing more to be said. Her words fell into the black abyss around them, encompassed by space and time.

A warm hand stroked her back, his every breath drawing in more life than the last.

“Don’t go, Julian. Please. Don’t go.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, grabbing onto fistfuls of fabric. Desperation tainted her voice, throat hoarse from crying.

She met his gaze, frantically searching his eyes for something, anything. It was like she was being washed away, forgotten bit by bit. This was it. This was the end.

“Amber… I remember everything, my darling,” he whispered, kissing her on her forehead gently as if she was as delicate as a flower, “but I’m already gone.”

Suddenly, as if he had been waiting for that very moment, his body turned to ashes, leaving nothing but dust in her arms.

Amber wakes up with a startle, tears trickling down her eyes. He’s gone. He’s been gone for a while now.

Random Day in Venice

Jordan Jacoel

Photography

e r a e n g c i u J

Ever since I was a little kid, I really, really loved orange juice. It was just my absolute favorite drink- it practically flowed through my veins. I remember one time my grandfather was fixing me a glass of orange juice, and he used water to thin it out because it was “too sweet”! You can imagine how mad that made me; I loved my precious orange juice just how it was. After he made that mistake, he never did it again. We shared many, many glasses of orange juice together. We would have orange juice parties instead of tea parties. We would drink bottles of orange juice every week, when I went over to his house. Even though he died when I was ten, and I still hold on to this memory. It’s so weird and niche, but every time I drink orange juice now, I thin it out with a little bit of water.

Ada Lavelle

Ada Lavelle Marker & Pen

Eeyore and I, Pessimists Alike

Katelyn Wang

I’ve always thought of myself as Eeyore, whose tail is perpetually drooping, whose sky is always gray. Whose best days are no better than his worst days. An old, gray, stuffed donkey, always hesitant to join in on the fun in the Hundred Acre Woods. Always looking for the dark clouds in a clear blue sky. Never accepting that luck could be on his side.

My friends are all used to my perpetual state of pessimism by now. In the sixth grade, a friend gifted me a special book. The cover was colored a neon orange so bright that it hurt to stare at it for too long, paired with a graphic of a rainbow and a cloud. The upbeatness of the cover practically shouted at my dopamine transmitters to activate. It was glaringly obvious the author’s goal with this book, even without the title blaring “You Can Be an Optimist” in bold white font. Ironically though, the cover was complimented by a neon yellow clearance sticker. Even the booksellers didn’t have enough faith in the persuasiveness of positivity on paper.

Respectfully, I gave the book a read, as any good friend would do, despite doubting that my mindset would change at all. I suppose that the way I opened this book dictated how I would close it—with resistance, reluctance, and rejection . I plowed through the pages, taking in the abstract and almost nonsensical advice given by some rando who thought they were qualified enough to talk about the most sought-after human mindset. Even after completing all the attitude-correcting exercises suggested by the author, I found myself feeling even grimmer than before I met this book. How silly to think that a book could change the way I’ve been living. Yet, I told my friend that I enjoyed the book, and that I would definitely change my mindset because of it.

Really, I’ve stopped trying to change. Pessimism is a chronic condition. Pessimism is my medication of choice that can bandage any disappointment into eventual acceptance. I feed off the satisfaction of knowing I was right when things go wrong. I waterboard myself with the constant expectation of dejection. I didn’t need Murphy

to understand that “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”. My pessimistic philosophy is innate.

That isn’t to say that I haven’t given optimism a chance either. Once in a while, on special occasions, I’ll look up at the sky and imagine that everything will go well. Sometimes my optimism is rewarded by lucky coincidences, but only when the sun and moon are perfectly eclipsed, but overwhelmingly, I am met with reality. It’s just strange how my toast always lands butter side down. How I am never the lucky raffle winner, not once out of my countless entries. The odds are definitely not on my side, with the disproportionately great amount of coin tosses or games of rock, paper, scissors I’ve lost (it’s a 50/50 chance to not lose, for crying out loud!).

Constantly expecting the best would be tiring anyway. It is only realistic to recognize that I, an average human, will not be achieving my maximum potential every time I try something. I always see the potential for something to be good, to go well, but I just don’t believe it. Isn’t it more fun to imagine my invitation was somehow taken away by a curious gust of wind? Isn’t it funny to expect that the ceiling will fall down at the climax of my performance? That my cat will claw at and ruin my most prized painting? I’ve found peace, and even entertainment, from my pessimistic expectations.

Even as a second grader, reading a comically thick book of Winnie the Pooh stories, I could see that most of these characters were exaggerated caricatures of positivity, hiding behind masks of bullishness. To quote my soulmate, Eeyore, “No brain at all, some of them”. Tigger was too bouncy, Piglet worried too much, and Pooh was just a tad bit slow in the head. But Eeyore had the right outlook on life. He took the attitude of “it could always be worse” and made it comforting to think about. Eeyore and I are alike. Our gloominess is a given, but our loyalty, wisdom, and sense shine through. Despite never looking on the bright side, we’re always grateful. I guess always seeing the worst in the world makes you appreciate what you have even more.

I’ve always hated running. In elementary school, the excessively cranky gym teacher made us run laps to the sound of his whistle until we all collapsed in exhaustion. Back then, running was the worst thing that could happen to me.

I’ve never understood cross-country kids, talented as they are. Why would you torture yourself voluntarily? I hate everything to do with running, really. The way my chest aches, the way my throat burns because I’m taking in air so quickly. Who would subjugate themselves to that competitively?

Middle school was virtually the same. The only difference was that now, I was hauled off to gymnastics practice twice a week to be the punch line for leotard-wearing popular girls. The sport gave me much more endurance from the hours of pushups, jumping jacks, and pointed toes. Despite my efforts in gymnastics, running wasn’t any less agonizing. I remember a very complaint-heavy drive home from school the day my gym teacher announced that we would be doing the Pacer Test once a month.

I had the speech memorized by eighth grade. The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test By that time, I’d abandoned gymnastics and its fiendish scrunchie-wielders. I decided instead to focus on school and other sports with other problematic teammates.

High school came along and every class made me nervous, except for gym. I ran the pacer without a second thought. My lungs still burned and my chest still ached, but I could outpace the others, recover, and take a history test right afterward. I still hated running, by

the way. But running was the least of my problems. It faded steadily into the background.

Reflecting on it now, perhaps I became good at running because of that very reason: it wasn’t a major inconvenience any more; I had so many other things to worry about and hate. It became smaller because other things became bigger.

Once, in a state of stress about the upcoming paper in English, I slammed my computer shut because I simply couldn’t focus. My parents suggested I run around the block before returning to work. Though slightly offended by the idea, I complied. After the harrowing ordeal was over, I lay on the asphalt driveway for a while, panting, wondering why the sore muscles and the dry throat also refocused my scattered thoughts. I got to work on the essay and the sentences flowed through my fingers with ease.

Another time, when I was visibly sad about some minor failure, my brother invited me on a run. “To unsad-ify yourself,” he explained. I politely declined, because I knew he would beat me. But when he had been gone awhile, I ran the mile loop after him.

Then, in a phase of crunch time before end-ofyear exams, I would run around my neighborhood without prompting. With my mother’s bulky headphones, I played music to keep me company–I wanted no human interaction. The pounding of my footsteps made me forget what I was worried about. When I returned to study, it seemed like a fresh pair of eyes was staring down the textbook, ready to comprehend. Still, I don’t consider myself a runner.

The paradox that running has become never ceases to confuse me. I hate it, yet use it to cope in bouts of overpowering emotion. I hate it, yet find it oddly soothing.

I try to run at least once a week now, each time striving to hit that mile mark, each time blasting music through my AirPods. I’ve learned to take pride in the ache in my chest and the burn in my throat; it means I’ve worked hard at something. I’m relieved to only worry about where my next step will land, not when my next test will be.

I still hate running.

I HATE RUNNING

Elise Gerstle

FIVE BOATS AT BAY

Katie White

Photography

Shirin

about bugs something

For some spring signifies new beginnings, but for you it only means the end. No, that’s not completely true. Spring means the beginning of bugs and the end of your sanity.

When winter starts to recede, backing away into the heaven that it comes from, and the white snow that blanketed, froze, and killed last year’s bugs starts to melt, that’s when you know your life is going to end. They first come slowly, like a single bee scouting the area before signaling the whole hive. They’ll creep in, a little more each day, making you spray a little more bug repellent each time, until you’ve run out of cans and the store’s run out of cans and the whole world’s run out of bug repellent.

Has anyone ever asked what heaven looks like, and everyone just sat there fumbling, not knowing the answer? Or maybe someone did know the answer and they replied with “tropical paradise”. Oh, they are so wrong. Heaven looks like white snow and freezing cold temperatures with hot cocoa next to a warm fireplace. Heaven looks like no bugs.

Those black beady eyes are things of nightmares, they haunt you and no matter how much you stomp, how hard you try to squash all of them underneath the heel of your shoe. There are too many. There are always too many. And then crawl up on you with their little thin legs. Why do they have so many legs? No creature should need that many legs. Up, up, up they go, up your spine, crawling through you, in you, around you until you don’t know where your body starts and the bugs stop. No amount of bug repellent can save you now.

What do you do then? Nothing. There’s nothing you can do but lose your sanity over those nightmarish creatures and wish for them to be gone. They don’t go, they’ll never go, they’ll crawl over you until your body is a rotten corpse and still they crawl, little by little, inch by inch, covering your entire skeleton cause you’re dead but you’re not dead but you feel dead because there’s just so many, too many…

Amy Li

I hate getting a math problem wrong, Especially when you’ve shown so much work. Not only because you have to erase it all now, But you can also still faintly see your work, No matter how much you press on the paper, Or how much you pretend you can’t see the smudges and the light lines. The eraser won’t erase all of it. You’re just reminded that that’s not how it works.

Will Erase You NO ERAsER

The hardest part of restarting, Is still remembering the memories from before. You can buy the best eraser in the world, But you will always see those mistakes.

Aashita Singh

I’m Paying Attention

Niki Chen Digital

An Ode to

The waves pound the beach, Towering over my head,

Crushing the sand.

The salt stains my clothes, Filters out of a clear-blue glass

That I raise to my lips.

An ice cube knocks between my teeth

And falls into the frigid ocean

With a deafening sound, grinding against ships That try to brave its territory.

Foam-capped swells slam against the glacier And froth on my favorite sponge, The water almost too scalding to touch

As I scrub the plates.

The faucet releases,

The heavens split, Drenching everything with gray and life. The pavement glows under the streetlight

As the water flows downhill

To a river, a lake, a bay, And then to the ocean.

Elise Gerstle

Eden Liu Ceramic

TWILIGHT ZONE

Mesopelagic

No, this is not where Bella, Edward, and Jacob live. The twilight zone is home to more fish (population wise) than the rest of the ocean combined! When the twilight zone transitions to the midnight zone, the pressure is equivalent to 10 elephants standing on your head! As we descend further, the works in this section begin to invoke stronger emotions.

four years, eight months, five days

You could say I have an excellent sense of time.

I know all about time. Know it down to the millisecond. I know that four years, eight months, five days, seven hours, thirtyfive minutes, and seventeen, eighteen, nineteen seconds have passed since the day I met her.

I first saw her one bright, snowy morning after December twenty-fifth. She was walking through the mall. I was in the jewelry shop, the one with redand-green ornament cutouts on the ceiling, when we glimpsed each other, and she smiled. Did she know how long she’d spent in the store? Did she know how long I’d been there? Maybe I could tell her one day.

The jump from stranger to inseparable was almost too abrupt—probably thirty-five minutes. We ended our days exhausted from the excitement of winter break. We sledded down the hill by the local library, and I timed how fast we could do it. When the snow was fully melted, she had me hold her flowers for her in my wristband. We swam in the YMCA pool, and I told her how long she could stay underwater before her lungs begged for air. Told her how long it took her to swim the length of the pool. She was terribly slow, but I never said so, and she improved

constantly. In school, she glanced at me to ask how much longer until freedom.

I’ve never been the touchy-feely type. She agreed that I was rather emotionless— a cheap digital face in all gray with gray buttons on the sides to adjust times, alarms, and a greenish light. Boring at first glance. It was our experiences that made me interesting, not my own features.

A boring watch. But her first watch nonetheless.

My battery faltered a year later—she asked her dad to replace it. My wristband fell off—she pinned it back on. It was my tinny, beeping alarm that woke her up for school, at least until it stopped working for reasons that we couldn’t understand.

I am stained from her use, my band no longer bright blue but dirty green from love. I can’t even set up alarms or calculate daylight savings time anymore. But I accompany her everywhere, my band stretched to the breaking point, beeping at random intervals like awkward conversation. I know I’ll get replaced; that’s how these things work. And it’s not that I don’t care. It’s that the years of love were just enough for me.

Elise Gerstle

first birthday

Katelyn Wang

Acrylic

STAR CHILD, ARE YOU LISTENING?

Eden Liu Pen

Illuminate

Jessica Joseph Photography

FIRST LIGHT

FIRST LIGHT

It is 5 a.m. and you are watching the first light of day appear over the horizon. Your drowsiness hasn’t caught up with you yet, but you can feel it creeping into your bones. You sat there all night, eyes fixed on the sky, waiting for the sun.

The dawning light is soft; it hasn’t learned to be sharp yet. It finds your face and presses up against it like a pillow, resting on your cheeks and nose. For the first time since dusk, your eyes close. The cold slowly retreats from your body under the new warmth.

As the day goes on, the light will find its edge. It will prick you and burn you before dipping back below the horizon. The light never belonged to faces or fingertips–it is so much bigger than that. That’s why it hurts the way it does. It brings fiery life and searing promise. So you let it scorch your skin again and again, hoping the next day will be different.

But, it never is. And you’re tired.

The light bleeds into the sky, chasing away any remaining stars with oranges and pinks. You’re not ready for the sun to fully rise above the world or for the harsh light that comes with it. So, you force yourself to open your eyes and pull yourself off the ground. You’ve been tired for a long time–maybe you’ll finally be able to sleep. That way, you will be awake to sit and wait for the first light to come again.

Ava Bruni

Ava Bruni

I live in a cobblestone house next to a cemetery, its halls infested by hauntings. They never have faces and never remember their joys, but they know their sorrows.

Phantoms whisper in the walls, slurring together incoherent thoughts that overwhelm me with sound. Some days, I can understand what they’re trying to say, and where their pain is coming from, but the more I do the louder it gets. Ghosts fold themselves away into my drawers or in boxes under my bed. They tell me they’re hiding from the light that means their time in this world really is over. Spirits come at night and sing songs of greed. Their ballads cling to the wind and echo off the crumbling gravestones. They lived the way martyrs lived and died meaningless deaths.

I tend to all of their graves as well as I can. I mow the weeds growing around raised soil and feed seeds to the freshly dug dirt. I etch weathered words back into gravestones, memorizing names and dates. I replace the dying flowers left by loved ones, browning petals crowning dry stems. When the moon rises and illuminates my work, more hauntings come out of the ground and stare at the stones. Their names stand out to them like an old memory. They know it means something to them, but they’re not sure what. Others find freedom in their death. They dance together, shining like jewels in the moonlight. For the first time ever, they feel alive. A few are weighed down by the life they lived. Even now they’re still home to what killed them. I hang them up on clotheslines until the sorrow or grief or pain they drowned in drips off their bodies. Hauntings come to me, knowing what I’ve done to help others like them, and ask for my wisdom or guidance or love. But, I can never help them the way they want me to.

“Phantoms whisper in my ears. They tell me rumors, se- crets, lies. I let them rot my brain until it is a corpse in my head.” Shift

The hauntings find better ways for me to help them live again. They infest my body the way they do my house. Phantoms whisper in my ears. They tell me rumors, secrets, lies. I let them rot my brain until it is a corpse in my head. Ghosts hide in my bones. I feel them under my skin and want to itch them out of my body. Spirits lodge themselves in my throat. I let them rest there for a minute before I vomit the taste of them out of my mouth. But they cling on like they know my body is more theirs than mine.

The hauntings have experienced more life now than I ever have. Maybe once I’m gone and buried, someone will etch my name when it’s fading away. Or maybe I’ll become a vague memory, forgotten as easily as the hauntings forget their names. Ridden with hauntings, I tend to the gravestones and wonder if someone would leave flowers if it were me.

Ava Bruni

Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet?

Are we there yet?

They asked, huddled around a fire hands outstretched, reaching forward eyes glowing, and seeing, and hoping for nothing but to simply survive

Are we there yet?

They asked, raising their heads towards the sun, moon, and stars the universe drawn out in their minds, and papers as they sought to understand more to become more

Are we there yet?

They asked, voices never heard over the growls of metallic machinery their hands moving and working with nothing behind their tired eyes living emptily, drearily until the clock tolled, and they were free

Are we there yet?

They asked angrily, accusingly pointing fingers and waving fists glaring at everyone but themselves the world drawn out in their mind, and shifting maps as they moved forward violent and insistent wanting more, and taking it all

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

“You are not there yet”, a voice answered, “Because the place you seek is not in the world or skies, but inside yourselves.” But no one heard the answer no one heard themselves over their growing sounds of gunshots, and fire and screams, and death.

Are we there yet?

They asked quietly, fearfully dreaming of peace but never letting the dove land safely seeking to help the world but never turning their gaze to it all never looking beyond their own life their silence was so loud that they never heard anyone else

They carried on with their travels on a road they had paved of their own design from walking to running from horses to cars moving faster and faster in the wrong direction the pathway of life ignored their destination waiting And they never got there.

Flying Fish

& Sea Angel

Hannah Gupta Digital

Envy

People say that envy is green an ugly, sick, creeping color slime, and sickness mold, and fungus

They describe it with disgust distaste, and loathing revulsion, and nausea

But I know the true color of envy Gazing up into the sky waxy green leaves that dapple and shimmer in the sun shifting together and drifting away hanging from tall branches that will never shelter you dancing carelessly in the sun beautiful and bright you stare at them the perfect, envious green your eyes never seeing past their shield of dappling greenery to the changing of seasons to falling, and drying, and rotting all you see is green

Envy is standing in the center of an empty gray road seeing the grass, always greener on the other side

is Green

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

Passing Flames

Niki Chen Digital

Hello in There

Sue stared out the back window. ***

She had made it through the sixties without any children and hadn’t had any in the decades following either.

By 1969, the hippie craze, to Sue at least, felt just as murdered as poor Sharon Tate – so she had marked the end of her own free love in 1970 when she married her first husband. His name was Leonard. He died in the Vietnam War, just shortly after they married, but he didn’t even get to the battlefield. He blew his brains out in boot camp. It was a closed casket.

She met Sam Stone in 1977 and they married in 1979. She loved Sam. He was funny in a way she thought only stupid people were, but that was the smart part: he wasn’t stupid.

They never had any children. They couldn’t, but it didn’t bother them too much.

Apart from that, they had a normal life.

Sam Stone worked as a printer with a modest income. This profession began to die a little into the twenty-first century, but by that point it was time for Sam to retire, anyway.

Sue Stone worked as a librarian, a job that had often gotten her looks. “You’re too young to be a librarian, darling!” she’d be told. But, in time, she would grow into her job, and the comments would fade.

Through the eighties, Sue and Sam did not have much in the way of hobbies, unless reading were to be considered a hobby. However, by the nineties they both picked up painting. They would use watercolor, for they felt it captured their favorite subject best: nature. On the weekends, or if they got home while it was still bright, the two would drive or walk to public gardens with their little pallets and mini canvases.

By the early 2010s, the pair had both retired.

In 2016 they moved down south from Virginia to South Carolina, where Sue grew up. Their new house was on the lake and there was a golf course behind it. Sam always joked with their friends and neighbors (often one and the same for the Stones) that “one of these days one of them golf balls is gonna come flyin’ at the house, break through the windas, and knock one of us upside the head!”

A golf ball never knocked anyone “upside the head” but one had come crashing through the back window in 2018. Sam said to Sue, “I told ya! I told ya! I shoulda bet money on it!”

In 2019 they learned Sam had throat cancer. He said, “Well I guess smokin’ through a pipe wadn’t the way to fix everything like they said it was.”

He died in 2021. It was an open casket.

At her age, Sue wasn’t going to go looking around for another husband. She simply spent her time at home, alone.

Many of her neighbors were of similar age to Sue. Shortly after Sam died, many of them couldn’t walk on their own anymore and the rollators and walkers started appearing. Then, shortly after that, they stopped walking completely – and then after that, one by one, they found themselves in hospital beds next to monitors with flat lines on them. It was always the husband first, and then the wife not long after.

By late 2022, new people had moved in, but none tried to form any new friendships, and Sue herself didn’t make much of an effort to get out anymore. Her house began to accumulate items. Cardboard boxes of antiques, books she’d buy and never read, and things she’d accidentally ordered online and couldn’t be bothered to return.

***

2023. Still marinating in her walls of cardboard boxes and books, she heard a knock at the door. She got up from the rocking chair in front of the back window – the same window that had been broken a few years back. The golf ball was in a mini glass display on the windowsill.

She lumbered over to the door and opened it slightly.

“Hello! How’re you?” said the young woman at the door.

“Pretty good… not bad – can’t complain. Who’re you?”

“I’m Amanda; I’m your new neighbor. I just moved in, and I thought I’d say hello,” said the woman.

“Um… sure. Yeah, come on in,” said Sue as she opened the door fully. The first time she’d opened the door to anyone in a while. It was a decision she would not regret.

*** Sue Stone 1946 – 2024

“A wonderful woman with plenty of stories to tell. As can be attested by many, all you had to say to get her started was, ‘Hello.’”

She is survived by her good friend, Amanda Cain.

Cole Marshall

“ONE FOR YOU, ONE FOR ME” “ONE FOR YOU, ONE FOR ME”

“It sounds risky,” said Ricky.

Ricky’s a wimp.

Cole Marshall

“I don’t think so; it seems like something fun to end our junior year with, y’know, a little junior journey,” said Chris.

“How the hell are we meant to convince our parents to let us go out there with a gun and some sleeping bags? That sounds absurd,” said Tyler.

“Yeah,” Ricky concurred.

Everybody thought he was a wimp. Everybody knew he was a wimp. He was the weakest link. If the apocalypse cracked down, he’d be the first to go. If there was a fight, he’d probably be killed by the first punch if it was strong enough. Death by getting the wind knocked out of him. If he were elderly, he wouldn’t be, he’d be dead before then.

“Well, we’ll bring food, obviously. But then we toss it out,” said Shane.

“What? You don’t want the challenge, little guy?” Charlie taunted.

Charlie hated Ricky, that shriveled little rat, most of all.

“And the gun?” said Tyler.

“My dad will let me bring it, he won’t snitch,” said Shane.

“I think it sounds rad,” Charlie said.

“Ay, listen, you’ve got a couple months to think about it, but if it’s happening, it’s gonna happen in June. I’m getting sent to be a counselor at Bible camp right after the month’s up,” Chris reminded everybody.

“Alright… I guess…” said… Who do you think? Ricky. ***

“I promise we’ll stay on the trails, we’re bringing the maps, the food; we’ll all be okay! We’re seventeen, Ma! I mean, come on, John Wayne Gacy just got sentenced to death – all those guys don’t even go outside the cities!” Chris pleaded.

“I just don’t want to find you chopped up into little bits in the middle of the forest,” said Ma.

“Ma… Nobody is getting chopped up unless one of us is the one doing it. We’ll be on the main trails.”

“Okay… When are you leaving? When do you plan to be back?”

“We’ll start on the main trails, then, obviously, we’re ditching ‘em,” said Chris. They all stood at the edge of the forest. A wilderness awaited them. In the wilderness was a

“Theyweretoo starvedtosleep. Tooconsciousof theirgrowling stomachsand hazyheads.”

time to be wild. They dumped their food at the side of the road, Ricky hesitated.

“Really?” said Charlie. He yanked the bag out of Ricky’s hand, pulled a sandwich out, took a bite, then tossed it to the ground. “Pull yourself together.”

They entered the forest.

“Yeah, he told us how to keep it out of the way of leaves and everything, so we don’t burn the whole forest down. Good thing it’s not raining, too,” said Shane, as he lit their little campfire.

“Are we gonna put that rifle to good use tomorrow?” asked Tyler.

“I hope so; I’m sure there’s something out here. If we can’t find anything we’ll look through the berries we found today and check if any are edible with the guidebook,” said Shane.

Ricky stared at the fire; he was regretting his involvement.

The others didn’t even want him involved, they only decided to bring him because he had overheard the gang talking about the trip. Nobody liked him but nobody knew how to say goodbye to him either. Well, Charlie did. But not the others.

A few of the berries they picked had serviced well. It was only day two, they had run out of water though, and had already run off the trail, so they weren’t sure when they’d next find a stream. ***

The next day Shane shot a deer. He chopped it up, Ricky watched for the first five seconds and then

couldn’t bear it. Charlie could bear it, he wanted to help; Shane told him how to do it.

They later made another fire and cooked the venison over top.

Charlie held the last two pieces, “One for you, one for me,” he said, and handed Ricky the smaller piece. ***

There was no food on day four…

Or day five…

Or day six…

The gang had only caught a drizzle out of the end of a thin stream to drink on day seven. That held them over so they weren’t dehydrated yet; they could manage, but they were hungry. Very hungry. ***

On the seventh night, at seven o’clock, Ricky turned in for bed and pulled himself into his sleeping bag. They were all exhausted, though. Just some didn’t quite want to sleep. They were too starved to sleep. Too conscious of their growling stomachs and hazy heads.

“If we didn’t bring him, we’d have a little more for ourselves,” said Charlie.

“Yeah, I know. I thought there’d be more deer or at least rabbits or something out here this time of year,” said Shane.

“I can’t believe we brought the little prick,” said Charlie. “I don’t understand why any of you tolerate him! It’s unbelievable. He’s a scrawny little freak and he creeps everybody out except for you guys.”

“Believe me, if we could make him disappear without having to watch him get all sad and mopey, I would make him disappear,” said Chris.

“Would you now?” said Charlie. ***

No food on day eight. The lack of water was getting to the group as well, now. Ricky was again the first to turn it in for the night, for his feeble bones could not withstand his own weight, though he did not weigh more than the average twelve-year-old.

“We have to get back in the next two days; don’t we?” asked Tyler.

“Yeah, that’s what I told my Ma,” said Chris.

“I don’t know if I’m really in shape to do that in such a short time right now,” said Charlie, “I need some food to make the trip out of the forest any better than the trip into the forest. I just need something. It could be anything. And I mean, anything.”

“I don’t like him either,” said Shane.

“What?” said Tyler. Charlie smiled.

“I said I don’t like Ricky either,” said Shane. His stomach growled–it begged.

“Mmm… Fellas. I might take a quick stroll over to that nice big stone we passed right before we set up camp… I’ll be back in ten minutes… Take that as you will,” Tyler said, and then got up and lumbered away.

Shane looked at Charlie, then the two looked at Chris.

“You heard what I said yesterday,” said Chris. His stomach growled.

Charlie walked over to where Ricky slept. Shane and Chris remained seated. “Not on his sleeping bag,” said Charlie. He lightly kicked Ricky awake, “Hey, dude, I found this huge toad on the rock over here it’s awesome!” he said in a quiet hush. Shane and Chris began pretending to be deep in conversation.

“I’m tired, man,” Ricky said.

“Yeah, hey, look, that’s fine, but this guy’s huge, dude. He’s got eyeballs like globes, it’s rad.”

Ricky relinquished and slowly crept up from his sleeping bag and followed Charlie over to a medium sized rock near their camp, “I don’t see it, man,” said Ricky, “I don’t see it.”

“I’ll grab our flashlight. just stay there in case you see anything,” said Charlie. He walked over to camp and picked up the rifle; from where he stood, he loaded it and aimed it right at Ricky’s head. He pulled the trigger and the bullet shattered Ricky’s skull which slammed right into the rock he was observing; his brain matter decorated the stone and the leaves around it. His arm twitched once, but there was no life in that twitch. It was instant. It…

“Looked pretty harmless to me,” said Charlie.

Over the campfire they cooked the tiny pieces of flesh they had carved out of Ricky’s meek body.

Tyler returned.

Charlie had saved the last two pieces they had picked out for the night, he said to Tyler, “One for you, one for me.”

The next morning, day nine, Charlie chopped Ricky up into manageable pieces, they began their trek back, and they ate…

Day ten, they ate…

Day eleven, they ate… trying to retrace their steps…

Day twelve, they ate, only a little less…

Day thirteen, they no longer ate… they sat around the campfire, staring at each other.

“We’re gonna have to tell our parents,” said Tyler, “What do we tell them?”

“Bear,” said Charlie.

“Somebody’s going to have to tell his parents,” said Tyler.

Charlie nodded. ***

Day fourteen, they weakened…

Day fifteen, they began wondering if they were headed back the right way…

Everybody was asleep in their sleeping bags, and then Tyler woke up, beads of sweat streaming down his face. His breathing was heavy, his eyes were wide–but the fire was out, his wide eyes could see nothing but darkness. He felt around his sleeping bag until his hand landed on the rifle. He gripped it. He felt the texture of the wood and coolness of the metal, and he found the safety. He switched it off.

Was it loaded? He wondered. Did Charlie keep it loaded?

Tyler stuck the barrel of the rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His wide eyes could see nothing but darkness.

Shane woke up with a scream.

Chris woke up and shouted, “Charlie!”

Charlie woke up and shouted, “What?”

“Oh,” said Chris… “Oh,” said Chris, “no… no… no!”

Chris and Shane did not agree with Charlie’s plan this time.

They left Tyler with his sleeping bag and had taken the rifle and kept trekking. They were hurting from hunger and hurting from the sights they had seen.

Day sixteen, no food…

Day seventeen, no food…

Day eighteen, no food…

Day nineteen, they were stumbling, and then they stopped stumbling. They were crawling. Charlie too. He was cursing the others out, swearing that they would have been fine if they had helped him with Tyler’s body. The others did not reply. At first their silence was a decision, for they were sick of Charlie. Then it became a means to conserve energy. Then it was because they had died.

Skeletal. Frail. Like shriveled little rats.

Chris and Shane had passed slightly before Charlie did. Charlie had lived just long enough to hear something, a distant noise. Not distant because it was far, but distant because his mind was going.

It was the sound of a car, speeding down the road, not far from Charlie. Not far at all.

only the cosmos

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

the cosmos has witnessed everything it has seen the good the bad and everything in between the stars looked on as the first form of life found its place on this earth and as a mother held her child for the first time

the moon watched from above as we destroyed what we made as we destroyed each other and we were left scarred as we saw the evil we were capable of the sun observed all of the beautiful things that we created and all of the unforgivable things we have done

only the cosmos has seen it all and only the cosmos will witness the end

Cow in Ocean

Aisling Gilmartin

Acrylic

Numbers

Numbers

Amy Li

Author’s note: Decode the binary numbers

She was made from the Huangpu waters that m0ve in and out of the city, carrying goods and sounds of hustling. She was made in the shuffling of feet along People’s Square, from the crunch of tanghu1u to the smell of street dumplings that waft through her window in early mornings.

It’s in these bustling city streets she sits, watching as vend0rs around her call out in the name of freshly made scallion buns, r0asted chestnuts, and fresh produce. O1d men sit around in groups, cards are thrown, bets are made as laughter fills the air. Life is sh0rt, so they breathe deep, despite the dust and trash that line the r0ads.

She once sat among them, 1ived among them, playing game after game with stubborn people who couldn’t accept her victories. But what was the point of it all, winners and losers, millionaires and those who live in the streets, when everyone’s just bound to be forgotten? There’s no joy to winning, no remorse to losing, only the clinking transfer of coins.

No matter. She much rather focus 0n selling her wares. Vibrant colors move across her canvas as she skillfully weaves her needle in and out, dancing it across silky fabrics. She fr0wns, gent1y brushing her finger against the small bumps that make her art. It doesn’t l00k quite right… the string’s too vibrant, the stitches too neat, it feels 0ut of place.

Everything she makes feels that way, as if there’s something fundamentally wr0ng with her, something fundamentally wr0ng with her work. It’s fine, she convinces herself. It’s just a feeling, after all.

Across the street, she watches as a m0ther buys a tanghu1u skewer for her child, throaty burbles of innocence reaching her ears. The mother picks up her child, cradling it in her arms, 1ooking at it with that 1ook only a mother could make.

For a moment, she feels a metal pang deep in her heart. Before she can process it, the sharp end 0f her metal need1e breaks the surface of her skin. She mumb1es curses under her breath, frustrated with her carelessness as her focus is forced to return to her work.

No blood seeps from her wound, no rea1 pain shoots up her synthetic nerves. She quickly glances up again, but the mother and her child have disappeared into the crowd. With a sigh, she refocuses herself on the task at hand, on her stitches that are too vibrant and too neat to be human.

Her mind g0es blank, fingers rhythmica11y pulling the string delicately thr0ugh the fibers. Her senses start to mute, the sounds of voices turn to mumb1es, and everything seems so 0ut of reach. Still, with every stitch of her needle c0mes the hope that one day those vivid colors will be able to replace her spirit of deluded gray with the vibrant colors of 1ife.

Luddite

Tashikaa Senthilkumar Pen

portrait of a jellyfish

Hannah Gupta

Graphite

treasure chest

Hannah

Gupta

The weather is cold today and I can barely smell the salt of the sea as I walk along the shoreline. Some glint in the distance catches my eye like a fisherman seeing his catch of the day from a mile abroad and I alter my path so that I can stroll by it. The crisp air reaches through my layers and bites at my skin as I approach the sand dunes. A box, it looks rather simple but the wood seems to have held up to the elements, and the dark black walnut and american rosewood that comprise the majority of the chest contrast beautifully with the aged bronze metal and beechwood insets. There is a lock keeping the small chest shut, but the metal that it is made of is old enough that it crumbles when I strike it with one of the variegated rocks that I was collecting on my way to the beach. After the lock was cracked off, I felt a bit of guilt because it had seemed almost antique, but it was already so weak that it knocked off easily, so in an attempt to convince myself of innocence for the act, I told myself that it was only a matter of time before something would happen to it. Inside the box there are some lusterless gold rings–wedding bands perhaps? I wonder if they were thrown here sentimentally or out of anger. Oh well, who am I to judge? Along with the rings, there is some sand that seeped in with fragments of some shells, most of which are just a fraction of the size of my pinkie fingernail which will be coming home with me along with the rest of the box’s contents. Regardless of their assumed triviality, the seashells will do perfectly on my bedside table next to yesterday’s findings from the cliffside trail. As I brush the sand and the shells at the base to the side, there are a few glints of metal. When I dig out the metal coins I am able to hold their weight in my hands. Their mass seems relatively heavy, and maybe they are made of pure metal. Interesting. It would make sense with the historic appearance of everything. Perhaps the person (or people) who dropped these rings in the trunk were smart to drop the change inside to date the abandonment of the bands which look sentimental enough to have been family heirlooms. The jewelry certainly seems alluring enough to withstand being passed down for generations. Regardless, everything will be coming back home with me to be placed on my desks: the coins on the night-tables, the shell fragments for the windowsill, one band around my lover’s ring finger, and the other on a cord around my nape, dangling on my breastbone and above my heart.

Fine Dining

Aisling Gilmartin

Mixed Media

In the muddy field CADEN ALDRIDGE

CW: Gore, Blood, Violence

Landon and Tom stood side-by-side on a vast muddy plain. To their right was a swamp, and to their left, the towering peaks of the Idus mountains. Landon took a deep breath of the cold, moist air and let it out slowly, silently. It’s a strange thing, he thought, to get to know where you’ll die. Stranger still to know that there won’t be a body, and no family but the one he chose for himself. 2,365 years of death, conquest, treasure, knowledge, love, and magic. The greatest Wizard in history, standing on the field where he’ll die. Greatest Wizard. It always felt so egotistical to him, but at a certain point he had just accepted it to be ; it was true. He was sad though, thinking of what would be lost to the world., Tthere are few alive who knew as much of the history of the world, few with such an insight into magic and alchemy. For over a thousand of his years, that was his greatest contribution to the world:; knowledge.

After he left treasure, war, and death behind, he’d devoted his life to giving the world his thousands of years of knowledge. Looking back at his life, was the first time Landon felt… old. HeLandon glanced at his student, who was staring nervously at the empty plains. Landon smiled to himself. This is why he’s accepting this now, there’s someone left to take over for him, someone to become the 22nd Wizard. Tom will be a much better Wizard than Landon ever was;, he’s smarter, kinder, and stronger than Landon. This is the last part of his preparation, the preparation that Landon never got.

Landon created a bench forrom them out of stone and sat down, patting it. Tom sat slowly, still scanning the horizon., “Why are we here, the Inquisitors are being pushed back around Mitican, shouldn’t we go to support them?”

Landon nodded., “After this, you can go. But

I’m going to die here,.” hHe said matter-of-factly.

Tom blinked nervously, leaning in., “What, what do you mean?”

Landon hummed, “hmm, we’re here to fight Kiro, and I’m going to die, you’re going to kill him.”

Tom’s face shifted rapidly through shock, fear, confusion, and finally, painfully, hope., “Kiro as in the Traitorous Prince Kiro, or someone named after him?”

Landon shook his head., “The one and only Traitorous Prince, and the very source of our magic.”

Tom shook his head in disbelief., “You’ve killed him before, why can’t you do it again?”

Landon nodded slowly., “I have before killed him before. This time I won’t because I don’t want to. You will succeed me, you will take my place, and choose your name. Thomas Jay isn’t really the most Wizardly name is it?”

“Why can’t you just retire, why do you have to die?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why can’t it, who says it can’t?!”

Landon sighed, craning his head back to stare at the gray sky., “Because the power of the Wizard, magically, personally, politically, cannot be split, and I don’t want it to be split.”

“But what about your wife, your friends, Alloy?” he paused for a moment and said quietly, “What about me?”

Landon put his hand on Tom’s knee., “I’ve told them, and they’ve made their peace., Wwe’ve made our peace together, and now you need to make your peace.”

Tom leaned back., “Why do I need to make my peace?, why do you need to die?, Ccan’t you surrender your power and just become a normal person, age normally, die with your wife, live the rest of your life?”

Landon shook his head., “Kiro will find me, and that fight will kill a lot more wherever it happens, than who will die in this field.”

“But you’ll die in this field!”

“To save a hundred lives elsewhere., Iimagine if he hunts me down in someone’s house, or in a city?”

“But there has to be some way., Ttogether we can tear him up enough that he doesn’t come back in your mortal life,.” Tom said desperately.

Landon opened his mouth to speak but stopped. He turned his head to look forward. In the distance, stretching across the blue, a thin, vertical white line split the sky. Landon stood and rolled his shoulders, still staring at the line in the distance, and shifted to his ‘teacher’ voice., “Tom, you have about 90 seconds to make peace with the fact that I am dying in this mud pit, and you are not., Gget that into your head. You are ready, and you will replace me.” Landon turned to fully face Tom and helped him up from the bench. Tom was clearly still nervous, but he took a deep breath and nodded.

Tom swallowed, staring past Landon at the expanding line., “W-what do I need to do after you… after?”

Landon turned to him, judging the resolution in his eyes, before deciding that it would have to be good enough. He looked back at the line. 60 seconds left. Landon held his hand open between them, and a crown appeared in it. It was very simple, heavy, and made of red metal with sharp edges. Landon tossed it into the air, surprising Tom., “Ccatch it,.” Landon said, with a smile., Oone last trick for his student.

Tom held out his hands and caught it. As he did, it changed. It became thinner, lighter, and more rounded, becoming two thin streams of silver braided together in a simple circle. Tom stared at it for a long moment, something about it felt like him, as if the crown was as intrinsically him as his own body. Tom closed his eyes and lifted it slowly, reverently, up to his head and set it over his hair. His fingers lingered on the now-warm metal before bringing them down to rest in the air near his ears.

“The greatest pillar of strength in his life: strength of character, leadership, and magic, stood cracked before him.”

He carefully squinted one eye open, “Should I feel any different?”

Landon shrugged, “I don’t know, I was covered in blood and almost dead when I put it on the first time, so it was hard to tell, I don’t-“

Landon froze and spun around just in time to catch a bolt of lightning mid-air. The source was a man standing far away across the mud field. The man, Tom knew, was Kiro.

Landon put a hand back to keep Tom back. Kiro needed to kill him for Tom to replace him, then Tom needed to kill Kiro to send him back. Kiro disappeared and Landon threw up a stone wall a split second before Kiro slammed into it with so much force that the ground shook. Tom’s breath began to pull itself out of his lungs, he felt the push and pull of magic in the air, god and wizard forcing both of their powers into the same air. They threw themselves into battle, and it was nothing short of breathtaking. Tom had never seen Landon put everything into a fight, he’d never had to, there were very few mortals as powerful as him. Magics blended until distinct elements were impossible to find, only a blur of power and light. But Tom could already tell that Landon was weaker than he should’ve been, slower, less reactive. Kiro shouldn’t have been able to land hits like he was.

Landon blasted Kiro backwards with a hugely powerful combination of magics. Landon stepped into the earth and reappeared in front of Tom, placing his hands on his shoulders. Tom felt how

Landon’s grip shook, saw the nicks and scratches on his face and hands, the burns and holes in his armor. Fear cut Tom to his core. The greatest pillar of strength in his life; strength of character, leadership, and magic, stood cracked before him. Landon looked into Tom’s eyes; ancient brown met shaking green. His hands became heavy on Tom’s shoulders as Landon let his arms relax. Landon pulled him into a hug, pressing close to Tom and squeezing him tightly. Tom hugged him back slowly and woodenly. His armor was warm and worn, covered in scratches from millennia of battle. Landon began to shake, and Tom realized that he was crying on his shoulder. Landon pulled back. He smiled slightly, almost like a relief. He moved his hands to hold Tom’s face, “I love you, my son. You’re a good man, and you’ll be an even greater Wizard.” He stepped back, and fully smiled.

He turned towards where he’d thrown Kiro. Tom stood stock still.

Son.

The word reverberated in Tom’s mind as he realized how true it was. He was Landon’s son as Landon was his father. Over fourteen years of training and teaching. Meals eaten in the mess hall, or in palaces, or huddled cold in a cave. His father showed him which berries were and weren’t edible on their hikes. His father poked fun at him for using the smallest hammer for smithing, but still showing him how to shape every type of metal. Teaching reading, writing, math, history, geography, and war. His father nearly knocked him over congratulating him after coming first in the air-mages championship, and consoling him the year before when he failed to place. His father taught him Tyge, and his smile the first time Tom beat him. His father made him rebuild a house he’d accidentally flattened, but still went with him to apologize to the family, and to break bread with them afterwards. His father wrestled an Ilios beast to protect him. His father showed him how to fix dented armor. His father, now, standing between him and the vengeful god. His father glowed for a moment, and his

world-famous God of Men armor and the ancient Marcos Arouros sword disappeared, reappearing on a frozen Tom. He glowed again, and donned his Prince of Ahari armor with no weapon, the armor that he’d always called his most true. The armor that he’d wanted to be buried in.

That shook Tom out of his reverie. He suddenly felt the weight of the armor, the heaviness of the shoulder plates, the uncomfortable cold of the greaves, and how every step carried a weight to it. He desperately tried to force himself forward, to stop his father from sacrificing himself to save him. But he would never make it in time. Landon looked back, and smiled, lighter than he ever had.

His eyes began to glow a bright red, and the air began to heat up as an enraged screech from Kiro could be heard from past Landon, but he ignored it. A moment later, Kiro appeared above Landon, whose whole body was now glowing so brightly that the sun seemed darker by comparison. Kiro raised both fists together, and brought them down on Landon in a gargantuan bolt of power. But Landon was already in the air past it, it exploded against the ground right as Landon reached Kiro in the air.

By then his body was glowing too brightly to look at, and Tom began to feel ripples in the threads. Tom knew what his father was going to do, and he knew that there was nothing he could do but watch.

Landon grabbed Kiro’s face with one hand, blinding him, and wrapped another arm around his waist. Kiro struggled, striking at him. But he held on, and began to fly higher with Kiro, until they disappeared into the clouds.

For a long moment the world was utterly quiet, Tom could still feel the ripples of magic, getting continually stronger, until they were more like waves. And then they rapidly sped up, and Tom knew that his father was past the point of no return. A breath later, a massive fireball silently rent the sky, exploding outward, tearing away the clouds, and opening the way for the sun. Landon’s last gift to the world, combining his soul and his magic into an immensely powerful concentration of energy, and trapping

Kiro in it. But it didn’t kill him, wouldn’t kill him, after that battle, Landon had only a fraction of his power left, not nearly enough to send Kiro back.

The sound and wind of the explosion hit Tom in a moment, knocking him back and sending his ears ringing. Suddenly a second later, Tom felt like he’d been punched in the gut. The unmistakable feeling of magic began to fill him, and keep filling him. The God of Men armor became lighter, his eyesight sharper, the feeling of the air crisper. A small, separate sensation began to form, a deeper sense of the world around him, as if he could feel the magic of the world around without even thinking. But he didn’t have time to understand the feeling, as a blasted and bloody corpse hit the ground a dozen feet away.

It lay still for a moment, before Kiro staggered to his feet. All his clothes and armor were burned off or fused to what little was left of his skin. Everything below his waist was covered in a horrific mess of burns, burned all the way through in many places, where bone and muscle could be seen. Above that was far worse, charred muscles and loose organs handing to his knees, blackened bones poking through gaps in his insides and blood running down his legs. There was nothing left of Kiro’s face where Landon had grabbed him, only bone and pieces of brain poking through with no eyes to cover them.

Kiro shuddered and began to heal. Bones became white and pink, organs pulled themselves in and reformed, strips of burned skin sloughed off and regrew. Skin grew from his feet up. Eyes formed first on the face, and then a new jaw, with the muscles and ligaments to hold it in place. Kiro began to walk forward, at first shambling and unsteady, but as more of his body reformed, he became steadier. Kiro’s jaw unhinged and moved, but no sound came out, until, as Tom watched, vocal cords formed in his neck, “The Old Wizard did well, but he didn’t have the crown. Give it to me boy, and you’ll walk away from this field, or join-” Suddenly he staggered, and cringed, “Your master fights, even in death.” Tom could hardly listen as the sensations

“I am his son. I carry his memory, his armor, and his blade. I carry his mantle, and his responibility.”

grew even more, he could feel the water in the soil and the clouds, the seeds beneath the mud, even the very air in his lungs.

Kiro was almost fully formed, only missing skin on his face, as it grew back, covering the repulsive shifting of muscles in his face. But one blemish remained, a handprint covering the front of Kiro’s face, a permanent scar from the greatest Wizard to ever live, and the mark of Tom’s father. Tom knew his father’s death sigil. He slowly leaned down to the mud and pressed his hand into the mud. It was cold and wet, with bits of grass mixed into it. It was an uncomfortable feeling, the mud pulled at Tom’s hand as he lifted it up. He slapped it against the breastplate of his armor, leaving a muddy handprint there.

Tom looked up to see Kiro’s face seething with rage. The god lifted a shaking finger to point at the muddy print on the young warrior’s chest, “That sigil will die with him, and his memory with you,”

A voice seemed to speak for Tom, he had no idea where the words came from, but deep in his heart, they were his own, “I am his son, I carry his memory, his armor, and his blade. I carry his mantle, and his responsibility,” Tom drew the blade with a bright ringing, feeling the hot hunger of the ancient sword like the breath of a sleeping monster, “his responsibility to send you back to the under-realms.” Kiro absorbed the words for a moment. His eye twitched. His lips pressed together. Suddenly, he appeared in front of Tom, slashing at him with pure thunder.

But Tom had felt it, the new magic granted to him by the crown allowed him to feel pulls in the threads of magic before they even manifested. Dodging was trivial. Tom grabbed his wrist and wrenched it to the side, summoning a spike of stone into Kiro’s exposed gut faster than the god could react. Blood fell everywhere. Kiro quickly shifted out of Tom’s grip, healing himself as he did. But the Wizard was already there, wrapping a hand around his throat and lifting him. Tom reached into the very threads of Kiro’s being and ripped him open, spilling his newly formed organs on the ground.

Kiro fell from Tom’s hand and sank into the ground, reappearing fully formed behind Tom. He was ready, and skewered the god on Marcos Arouros. He twisted the blade. The god screamed as he ate away at him. Tom ignored it, ramming the sword into the ground, pinning Kiro beneath the weight of its power.

The Wizard held the ground solid despite Kiro’s desperate attempts to save himself. Lifting his gauntleted fists high, Tom hesitated for a moment. Kiro snarled and hissed, more animal than god, “I will kill you, I’ll rip your flesh from your bones, tear your soul up so you can’t escape the pain even in death, no getting out like your cowardly master, I’ll–”, Before thinking, Tom put the entire weight of his body and magic into a single strike, and Kiro’s hateful face disappeared in a mist of blood. It coated his armor. He could feel it in his eyes. He’d killed before, but never a god. Never a vengeance kill. He slowly picked himself up from a kneeling position. He looked down again and jolted back as he saw Kiro’s grinning face return. He didn’t have time to think; he punched again, and again, and again. Muscle and bone crumpled under his fists, but it didn’t feel human. The flesh of a god was rubbery and too soft, the bones cracking like sticks, far too fragile to be human. Blood splattered, coating the ground and his fists as splinters of bone began to fly off. Suddenly, a pressure left his mind.

The god was dead.

Not truly dead though. He’d come back to try to regain his crown. Until then though, Tom was the Wizard. The successor to his father, spiritual leader to millions.

The adrenaline began to drain from his body, but his senses did not. The increased awareness had saved him against Kiro, now it made the formerly dead field come alive. He took a breath that filled his entire chest and held the cold moist air in his lungs. The air hardened behind him and formed a bench. Tom took a seat and considered his new role. His new power. The sigil on his chest. His armor and sword. The war he had to return to. He wasn’t any older, but he felt like he was.

He slapped his knees and stood up, stretching his back as he stood. If he had the responsibilities of an old man, he might as well start acting like one. He began a mental list of all he needed to do, but gave up after it was too much. First thing, there was still a war to be fought, Mitican needed to be held, civilians needed to evacuate. The only question was, how to get to a city that was over a thousand miles away? They’d gotten there by Landon and he dropped into the ground, and simply appeared here. But it was among the many things Landon had neglected to teach him. Or perhaps it was something he could only do with the crown. Tom closed his eyes like he’d seen Landon do, and concentrated on Mitican. Out of instinct, he took a step forward, and fell into the Earth.

Block

Tashikaa Senthilkumar Pen

Cry, You’ll Feel Better

Vibha Besagi

You gulp air loudly, as if that air will save you, and everyone hears it. You’re crying, taking in huge breaths at once, glorious, fresh, cooling breaths. You feel better for a quick second, until you see people creeping towards you, crowding around you, and forming a circle, their shadows darkening the atmosphere. You didn’t want this, their attention and that pitiful look on their faces. They start asking, “Are you okay?”, of course you’re not, why else would you be crying? Can’t they use their eyes and see that you’re upset, can’t they just leave?! You want them to leave, so you meekly reply, “yes”. You say this even if you’re not okay, because then, just maybe, they might leave you alone to cry in the hushed silence of their gossip to come.

Unsurprisingly, they don’t leave, they continue to pity you, their stares making you break out in a cold sweat. They say, “Don’t cry, it’s going to be okay”. You understand they mean well, but how do they know it’s going to be okay? Can they tell the future? No. Do they understand that at this moment, it doesn’t feel like things will resolve? Maybe. These thoughts build up in your mind, causing frustration, only making more tears swell in your eyes. The hushed gossiping starts. You feel yourself slipping into the depths of an ocean, unable to slow the tides of your tears. You want to come back up for air and breathe it all in, but you can’t. The hushed gossiping fades out and all noises come to a lull in an uncomfortable silence. But, even when all your senses are muted and dulled, you hear a shiny voice saying, “It’s okay to cry, you’ll feel better”. All your senses come crashing back to you. When your salty tears stop dripping down your cheeks and dry up, you do feel better, better than you would if you didn’t cry. So, you think: “Maybe, just sometimes, crying does help”.

Animals

When I was younger, I thought we were birds: carefree, unrepentantly loud and jovial gliding through the open air singing for our own joy eyes bright as we faced the world. I was too young to comprehend the cage of society, snared around us as we repeated the words of others parroting blearily, intelligence hidden away behind bright feathers, and empty songs.

When I grew older, I believed we were wolves: violent, narrow-minded, ruthless to no end tearing apart those smaller than us just because we could claiming land and living selfishly just so others couldn’t.

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

My dark, angry mind was too clouded in cynicism to see past the fog to feel the soft, but unbreakable bonds of pack, and family. To see the loyalty, love, and purpose hidden behind every determined move.

Now, I know we are deer: moving along a road to a future that only exists in our dreams. Forced to carry on, until the calm darkness is disturbed by a light and we freeze, unable to move forced to face the inevitable death that we all knew, but never felt would come. But the light freezes, and does not move closer a still reminder of an eventual end.

The deer pricks its ears waits, a moment longer then lowers its head and bounds away into the bushes and undergrowth hiding itself back into the serene shadows eager to live another day.

Why I Hate The Dentist

Chloe Cameron Werewolf

Evie Loi

Pen & Pencil

CW: Cancer

It all started with a bad toothache. A teethache, rather, as it was all of them. “Growing pains, kid,” my father stifled anxiously as our 2003 Honda Pilot collided with the curb, thrusting a “Missing Cat: Snuggles” sign into the wind on the way to Dr. O’Keefe’s office. I’ve always hated the dentist. The bright fluorescent lights, the faces of horror, locked in a white room with no windows for days on end hearing my father plead for my release. I’ve always hated it. Although on this occasion, Dr. O’Keefe, the woman who prescribed me the cancer medicine I’ve had to take since I was born, the one who performed all my X-rays, the one who my father says I must never mention to anyone, was…gone?

“That’s fine, right kiddo?” My father questioned me, although the panic in his eyes told a different story. It’s not like I’m going to remember it anyway, I think to myself, although the disparity in my father’s eyes is telling, rather than asking me. I groggily wake up pressed against a cold metallic X-ray table. A hybrid of muffled screams and cries through the paper-thin walls blink me back into reality, clearing my vision. Now fully conscious, I strain my ears when I catch the familiar monotone voice of my father. My father, in hushed tones, desperately attempting to console the nurse? My father was never particularly good at handling emotions. It was almost an unspoken acknowledgement of feeling, a silent oath that kept us a comfortable distance away from each other. “Nothing like gettin’ teeth pulled,” my dad chuckled nervously, appearing in the doorway, gripping my arm rather firmly before hurrying out of the building. The deafening silence of the car ride home was broken by my father softly chiming “It’s times like these I wish your mother were here.”

Tanya, my beautiful mother, whom my father scarcely ever spoke of, whom I had never gotten to meet. Cancer’s a bitch. The topic of my mother carries the weight of several wet boulders, the “Voldemort” of my father and I’s dynamic duo. Our humble family 2. That’s why we don’t talk about it, right? A wave of dull impenetrable guilt washes over, me grasping me with a familiar hand. My father, my mentor, the foundation on which I stand, lost his wife, my mother, our family. And soon enough, I will be met with the same fate and our family of 2 will condense into his family of 1. I know I am more of a burden than I am worth. I want so greatly to hide it from him, for my sweet, sensitive father to live in blissful ignorance until we no longer can. My façade that I am unaware of what my “cancer shots” really are can only go on for so long.

Because the truth is, cancer doesn’t make you eat the neighbor’s dog. Cancer doesn’t replace the looks of love and care people once gave you with fear. Cancer doesn’t transform you into a beast so rageful, so hungry that the only feature you recognize about yourself when you look into the mirror is pure, glaring anger. Anger at why I must live like this. Anger at my mother, who made me this way. Anger at my father, for protecting me and keeping me alive, risking the safety of everyone. Anger towards the people that scream and scurry to shelter, a safe space, far away from me. Cancer doesn’t break and reconstruct your bones; cancer doesn’t force out your teeth and replace them with…fangs? Does cancer make you grow hair on every square inch of your body? Does cancer make you keep locks on the outside of your doors? Cancer is the claw marks all over the house, cancer is why my sweet father comes and visits me once a week with bags of dripping raw meat as he stays at the Hilton Inn, the next town over. I don’t think that cancer engulfs you with an overwhelming sense of primal hunger and rage. My cancer is why Dr. O’Keefe quit being a dentist and is now under psychiatric rehabilitation. My cancer is why cats keep disappearing in the neighborhood. My father says cancer is what I have. And I cannot help but wonder, was it my mother’s, or was it my own cancer that took her life?

Kellogg Lily Jiang Photography

Twilight in Tokyo

Austin Wang Photography

Dream

Every night, I cursed the rusted window bars that slanted over my bedroom window. To admire a narrow slice of the blurred world beyond, I was forced to crane my neck and peer in between them. Gold lights speckling the horizon warmed the cold, chipped metal and my divided reflection. I dreamed about shedding my heavy body and joining them, coming alive at night to chase the shadows and the stars away.

Leaning away from the window, I rubbed my numb nose and cheek to chase away the winter chill that had seeped beneath my skin. That was the best I could do. Then, I wiped the window clean with my unraveling sleeve.

A warm mosaic of gold and red lights pulsated on the distant horizon: the silhouette of a prosperous city at night. My eyes wandered, from theaters’ summits down to the city’s kaleidoscopic reflection billowing among the ocean waves. The sunburnt ships that congregated around ports during the day had long scattered, easing into the night’s slumber. Except for a few wandering coastguards, Hongming Island’s shores were desolate.

Bitterness, born from my longing, tainted my mood. My past achievements and disappointments crept forward in my mind, and I relived the heart-stuttering hope of the former and the heart-trembling fear of the latter. I clutched my chest.

The velvety voice on the radio drawled out her last shaky syllable. Before a commercial could start and shatter the night’s peace, I switched it off. Then, I fell back onto my bed, the mattress squeaking beneath my weight. The low ceiling gave me a crooked grin, its horde of pebble-sized bumps smoothed by the quaint moonlight shining in. Without the rosy song’s distraction, an eerie stillness settled down among the darkness like a ghost. I scratched at the goosebumps prickling my arms, wishing for a cup of tongue-burning chrysanthemum tea.

Overcome by the late-night charm, I yawned. My eyes rolled around the room, and a throwaway glance at the tilted wall clock reminded me that it was almost time. Better to be early than late. Untangling from my bed sheets, I hurried toward the dresser, feet cold against the concrete floor.

As I buttoned up my winter coat, my eyes trailed

over to the postcard of Hongming Island taped above my study desk. Baba (Father) had purchased it on a business trip. When he left with Mama (Mother), he didn’t bring it with him. Now, it was mine. Early on, influenced by the adventure stories I used to read, I fantasized that the postcard was somehow a clue to finding them. I still did, sometimes. The faded but welcoming colors of the postcard soothed my anxieties like some chrysanthemum tea would have. I let out a deep breath.

I wished I had been born and raised on Hongming Island instead, with Baba, Mama, and of course, Waipo (grandmother) holding my hands. But daydreams were just that: daydreams. In reality, I was separated from Hongming by the Jing Sea, a short ferry outing to others but so much more to me. I was surrounded on all sides in my actual home, Anlan Island.

Every night in my bare, dim room, I watched Hongming. It felt personal. Hongming flaunted its sprawling cities and advanced industries to me, and to Anlan. Its endless streams of people strolled under electric street lamps on cobblestone streets, while the roads in my neighborhood were paved with dirt or gravel.

I watched Hongming from my window, on Anlan, an island known for its rural simplicity. It was a popular destination for Hongming tourists who wished to break away from their city’s overbearing glamor. They didn’t visit Anlan’s outskirts much, but a few had, over the years. I wished they would leave us alone. I wished they would stop praising my wild village for being “pushi” (humble).

No, such thoughts were useless. It was time to go.

I cracked the bedroom door ajar, my gaze falling

Angela Wang

Chasers

down the dark hallway outside. I inhaled, overwhelmed by the subtle aroma of cooking food wafting in the air. My stomach grumbled, even though I had dinner not long ago. I couldn’t help but smile.

Closing the door behind me, I stepped out into the hallway and followed it through toward the source of the mouthwatering smell. I stopped just before the kitchen entrance, squinting at the fiery lights flickering within. Through the haze, my eyes followed Waipo’s hunched figure moving around the briquette stove. Déjà vu consumed me, and I was a child again. I used to stumble to the kitchen after every nightmare, seeking comfort from Waipo and her chrysanthemum tea. My trips became more frequent after Baba and Mama left. All I knew of my parents now were the thin envelopes of money mailed to us every month.

Waipo finally noticed me at the entrance, and she turned away from her cooking to greet me. Her eyes were warm and steady, like the hearth she was attending to. Her hands were blackened by soot, and her forehead glistened with sweat. When I was younger, I had believed that her silver hair, always tight in a bun, was lightning and thunder ready to strike me down if I refused my chores.

Waipo wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Ah, Jizhao! How are you, hah? You came at just the right time. I just finished making these baozi (filled buns). They’re stuffed with pork and mushroom, your favorite!”

I buried the memories deep down, took the rolled-

up paper bag from Waipo, and packed it into my satchel. Meat wasn’t too expensive, but it would add up, over time. Hongming Island, at least the slice of it I could see from my window, loomed over my shoulders every day, at school or home. Maybe I didn’t need the extra portions of meat, but Waipo insisted that I needed the energy to do my job. I trusted her wisdom. I thought of the collection of miscellaneous jars and vases full of Ling coins under the floorboards, and the worry subsided. I could breathe again, even if only a little.

“Thank you,” I said, slinging the satchel over my shoulder, “I’m heading out now. Goodnight, Waipo. See you tomorrow, okay?”

“Of course, Jizhao. Goodnight to you, too, ah. Be careful out there and be safe. Don’t get caught.” Waipo nodded and waved her hand, dismissing me, and turned back to her stove.

As I pulled on my winter boots in the foyer, I studied Waipo’s busied silhouette. She was afraid, every night, that I would never return. I had always tried my best not to let her worst fear come to fruition. I used to share her sentiments, too, but I had long grown accustomed to the danger.

After a few years of experience, I had become familiar with the routine of slipping through the apartment building, descending three flights of stairs, and walking to the beach. A full moon washed the streets outside in silver, and I followed its guidance toward the ocean. Tasting the salt-tinged breeze, the day’s stress bled away with every step. Tonight, both the wind and

the water were calm: a good sign.

Nights in Anlan were relatively undisturbed, pinched by scarce dots of gold that shone from the occasional flickering street lamp or the wealthier homes. Nightlife was nonexistent here on the island’s outskirts, which my friends and I used to lament. It was revealed to be an advantage for me, in the end, as I could travel with less caution.

I was reminded how, in the beginning, anxiety would ripple through me when the beach would come into sight. But tonight, I was at total ease as I hopped across the jagged, irregular beach rocks, careful not to slip down onto the sand. An omen, perhaps?

I had arrived on time, though my customer was already waiting. Like the others before him, he was masked and dressed in heavy layers of black. He was tapping his foot when he heard me approaching, and he turned around to face me. Only his eyes were exposed to the world, the color of unlit charcoal briquettes waiting on the stove. We had the same eyes.

I crossed over the last few beach rocks, stopping before a pile of seaweed, leaves, and twigs. Kicking the camouflage to the side, I examined my rowboat.

All was in order.

I hopped down onto the sand and pushed the rowboat into the lapping waves, careful not to step into the silvery water. I boarded first, then my customer joined me. Taking out a matchbook, I lit the swaying lantern. The delicate flame warmed our faces, coloring us bloody under the moonlight. Settling down, I grabbed the two oars underneath my bench, and my customer followed my lead. Tonight’s waves would carry us out onto the Jing Sea.

Together, we counted, “One … two … three.”

As the last syllable wavered away into the night, we began to row.

Years of the same routine had disciplined rowing into almost muscle memory. So, for the next hour until we reached Hongming Island, our destination, my mind was free to wander. It was pulled yet again toward the urgent concern: tonight, we were edging on the Eastern Coast Guard’s patrol route. They were sailing troubles. Their usual duties included quelling quarrels between merchants and patrolling the shores, but people like me were ranked far higher on their priority list.

Touyunzhe (Smugglers).

We illegally transported people between the two islands. Compared to the official ferries, our services were cheaper and required no identification papers, nor would they leave an entry on official records. However, being discovered by the Coast Guards usually resulted in everyone onboard the rowboat rotting in prison, especially if they had displeased a captain. Out of the four Coast Guard captains, the Eastern captain had the nas-

tiest reputation. He loved to use his authority to scrub resistance and disrespect against him clean.

Taking in gulps of the frigid ocean air, I banished those anxious thoughts and focused on my stinging lungs. Then, I looked out. Ocean waves crooned under the starless night, and winter’s evening chills nibbled at any exposed skin. A strange yet comfortable silence enveloped my customer and me, as we savored our gradual isolation from civilization. A thousand vivid emotions breathed life into my trembling mind and heart, yet I had never succeeded in converting them into words on a piece of paper, or for them to flow from my mouth as a gift to Waipo. I could only welcome and appreciate them in the moment.

I didn’t look back as we withdrew from Anlan’s presence. I focused on the horizon, on Hongming, and its flickering dots of light…

It was then, about twenty minutes into our journey, that familiar rattling engine—a harbinger of doom— wailed somewhere nearby. A smudge on the horizon, silhouette roughened by the night, stormed toward us. I gripped the oars tighter as sweat slicked my palms, itchy beads rolling down and dampening my cuffs. At that moment, an absurd part of me fantasized that the ocean would rise and swallow the approaching boat whole. Then, I glanced back at my customer, and our gazes met.

Perhaps I was delusional, mind clouded by fear, but I wanted to protect this anonymous, business-relationship-at-best stranger. I wanted to erase the heart-wrenching fear from his eyes. I wanted to escort him to Hongming and watch him be woven into its gold and red mosaic. I wanted to accomplish so much more.

The Eastern Coast Guard’s patrol ship tore through the calm waves. Hushed winds chased its tail, and canyons of clouds shadowing it from the horizon swallowed the moon. For a few moments, the world drowned in darkness, and my heartbeat eclipsed the engine’s escalating roar.

Then, it was over. Moonlight returned through a crack among the clouds. The patrol boat was upon us, and the ratty curtain shielding the ship’s interior was thrown to the side. Backlit by the eye-watering lanterns blazing inside, the captain of the Eastern Coast Guard’s ducked on his first step out, then rose to his full height. The boat surged and sank and rocked with every step he took.

I froze. The captain would find a sweet home in my childhood nightmares, ones that Waipo used to comfort me about. I knew my fear of him was irrational at best, yet my trembling heart refused to listen regardless.

I stood up. The captain didn’t greet or threaten me. He didn’t need to. I had tested his infamous reputation before, of which he assembled each gruesome detail with a steady hand. He was someone Waipo would frown

upon and call a xiaoren (“small man”), but the captain was larger than life to me. Larger than my life, anyway. Without a word, I grabbed the two burlap sacks underneath my bench, each clinking with Ling coins. The captain’s hungry gaze chased his prize as I raised the sacks toward the moon. Hiding beneath his captain’s hat and receding hair, his caterpillar-like ears wiggled at that beautiful jingle buried beneath the ocean’s churnings. He was less than human, I supposed.

With elegant twin arcs, the two sacks sailed through the air and landed in his hands. The captain’s smile reached higher toward his wiggling ears, exposing his two golden teeth to gleam under the moonlight.

His gaze dragged from me to my customer, and he spat into the sea. “Shiqu (tactful), huh? Keep this up and maybe I won’t tattletale to your Baba and Mama. No, no, no, no, no, you probably don’t even have any. Ill-mannered brat.”

I kept my mouth shut throughout the entire exchange, only breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the patrol ship finally disappeared to the East, off to catch another criminal. I glanced at my customer at the same time he turned toward me. His eyes were burdened but relieved.

The moon had been our sole witness tonight. Staring at its pale, round face, I recalled when I had been younger, fresher in the smuggling business. Bribery had been shameful and humiliating. A year in, I didn’t pay attention to it anymore. I had changed, but perhaps not for the better.

No.

No complaining, no sulking. I was fine, just set back a touch.

I needed to be fine, for my customer. I needed to be fine, for Hongming.

And I needed to be fine, for Waipo.

I gripped the oars with renewed vigor, and I began to row. My customer followed my movements, eyes cackling like a bonfire. A mutated form of hope, tinged by desperation and fear, hunted us down. Hongming, its silhouette ever sharper, pulled us in like a whirlpool. We tore through the waves and chased the twinkling lights warming the horizon, rowing as if we were mad.

My body was on autopilot as my mind sailed away to the horizon, a step ahead.

I imagined strolling through markets selling fresh vegetables, spotted by soil and that morning’s dew. I imagined street magicians and children flying kites. I imagined streetlamps framing crowded streets, blazing to life at night. I imagined skewers of tanghulu, made with the freshest hawthorns and the sweetest rock sugar. I imagined roasted chestnuts, too. They were Waipo’s favorite.

Every detail further breathed life into my dream.

Hongming Island could be Waipo and I’s future. I could find a better job and earn more money, maybe working in some elegant office. No rowing, no smuggling. I could be paging through contracts while sipping chrysanthemum tea instead.

Waipo understood me. She, too, shared a kindling of my dream. She wished me safety and luck each night but didn’t protest as I journeyed into the ocean. I wasn’t born into the best circumstances, and I had long accepted that. However, even a prison sentence or nature’s dangers couldn’t chain me down for long. I had a dream to chase.

My muscles jerked under the intense strain, and I could hear the blood rushing through my veins. It was as if a briquette stove had been lit within me. Sweat drenched my shirt and slithered down my back, even as the frigid winter air gnawed my eyes. Still, we continued to row, him and I.

The moon had ascended close to its peak when Hongming was finally upon us, and we sailed into its rippling reflection. We slowed our rowing and let the mellow waves wash us on shore, and we hopped offboard. With a relaxed wave and what I suspected was a small smile beneath his face mask, my customer disappeared into the beach’s shadowed maze of rocks. No words were exchanged.

I was alone.

With a grunt, I plopped down against my favorite Hongming beach rock, its smooth surface cool against my flushed skin. I dug through my satchel and brought out my water canteen and the bag of now-lukewarm baozi that Waipo had packed for me. I gulped the cold water down first, thankful for every drop as the fire in my throat and heart pacified.

“Good job,” I said to myself, voice raspy.

A surge of ocean breeze soothed my trembling arms, and I closed my eyes and listened to the lapping waves. Such a familiar, comforting sound. Beneath it, I could just barely catch the thrumming liveliness from the city behind me, dancing away even as midnight approached.

I looked across the Jing Sea and toward the horizon, where moonlight unveiled a solemn island. Hongming, behind me, had what I sought. Not Anlan, but Hongming: a lavish nightlife, job opportunities, and that wonderful feeling of moving among a tide of people like you.

That customer from tonight … I knew little of him, but I would forever remember him. His eyes, always flickering to mine, shifted between fear and conviction. They were set on the horizon, and they had been kindled, too.

Like me.

We were similar.

We were dream chasers.

Snipe Hunt

Kathryn Kaskey

Digital

Of Towering Kingdoms and Selfish Peace

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

There once was a kingdom, strong and proud that towered over lands far smaller than they A promise of safety and security, they’d vowed to forever fight against evil’s way

A smaller kingdom was trapped in a siege a distant enemy encircling their city This small kingdom pleaded with their liege to save their lives, to have some pity

Our tall, strong kingdom turned away safe behind their towering walls

Smaller kingdoms fell to evil’s prey but this kingdom was safe in its great halls

But their wealth, and strength, turned many eager eyes ‘till their allies turned on them, had them surrounded With towering forces behind a once friendly guise this uncalled-for attack left the kingdom astounded

They called for aid, from kingdoms far and wide pleading for help against this heinous force But not a single land would join their side citing the kingdom itself to be the evil’s source

“You ignored our cries, deaf and blind to our pain safe behind your kingdom’s gates Yet you think we would help your selfish reign and send any aid during your dire straits?”

The kingdom was left alone, their cries ignored as they had turned away from so many before Their towering walls collapsed under arrow and sword Their empty promises and proud lands no more

So perhaps the Reader will take it upon themselves to learn a lesson we ought to have learned by now And yet growing tales of grief and sorrow lay on our shelves in our selfish peace, evil’s growth is what we all allow

Boat

Blueprints

Courtney McKenna

Etching

Int. Chinese Store

ACT 1

INT. CHINESE STORE - MORNING - SEPT 2012

A distinct smell wafts through the hallways where the Chinese Store is. YOU wrinkle your nose at the peculiar blend of raw fish, chili oil and grime that fills the air. You are pushing a rickety shopping cart with your MOTHER, balancing precariously between the handle and her stomach.

YOU

It smells weird in here.

MOTHER

It doesn’t smell like anything at all.

You fidget impatiently as she picks out this week’s produce, trudge through the packages of ramen noodles, pickled vegetables and various shrimp flavored snacks.

MOTHER

Do you want a drink?

You nod vigorously, pick out a clear plastic bottle with a delicately painted grapefruit on the sleeve. The black inky characters mean practically nothing to you, and for a second you are filled with nothing but hot shame.

YOU

What does it say?

Your mother squints.

Cha-pai.

MOTHER

You smile as you drop it in the cart, alongside seaweed snacks and wasabi peas you begged your mother to buy for you. You didn’t really need her to read it; you know what it is. It is grapefruit tea from a trendy brand in China. You bought it once at a corner store in Changchun with your COUSIN. You were so excited to find it here.

CASHIER

Mei-Mei, do you like this drink?

You nod shyly, your mother pats your head as she pays for the groceries. You like the CASHIER lady; she’s kind and her skin is so shiny. She gives you a free packet of crackers before you leave, smiling at you as you walk out the door. You love the Chinese Store.

Vivian Dong

ACT 2

INT. CHINESE STORE - MORNING - AUG 2018

Saturday mornings are the busiest hours at the Chinese Store. There’s a buzz in the air, people are yelling, new shipments come in from the back. You sigh, it’s loud, and it smells weird. DAD comes up to you with a red plastic basket banging the side of his hip.

DAD

Just wait for me here, okay?

YOU

Okay.

You stare at your phone because there is little else to do. When that gets boring, you stare at the other customers. Grannies with shocks of white hair and floral pants. Middle aged moms in sweet cardigans with their ears up to the phone. The old lady in the back with bright red gloves yells that she needs more winter-melon. There are kids like you, running around the aisles fisting packages of seaweed snacks and wasabi peas. You used to do that, but you’re too cool for that now.

DAD

Let’s go. [PAUSE] Do you want something to drink?

He points at the array of brightly labeled drinks, neon blue and green with marbles sitting at the top, waiting to be popped. Clear plastic bottles with pictures of lynchees and peaches printed on the sleeve. You spot your familiar Cha-pai, with its delicately painted grapefruit on the front.

YOU No.

At the register you stare at the cashier lady, with her nice smile and shiny skin. It’s like she hasn’t aged, it’s been six years and even though you;ve grown from a stubby 6 year old to a mature 12 year old, she hasn’t changed one bit.

CASHIER

Ah, Mei-Mei came to shop today?

DAD

She just wants to go to Wegmans with me after. [LAUGH]

ACT 3

INT. HOME - MORNING - FEBRUARY 2021

DAD

Do you want to go to the grocery store with me?

You don’t go to the Chinese Store anymore. Now you work in the mornings and do school work in the afternoons. There is no time. You haven’t thought about the nice lady and her shiny skin, the grimy flowers, the pretty drinks,in years. You don’t miss it, that place always smelled bad anyways.

You shake your head and watch him walk out the front door.

4

INT. CHINESE STORE - MORNING - AUG 2024

You breathe in, when you were younger all you could do was think about how weird this place smelled. You can’t smell it anymore, when you walk in you’re only hit by a wave of familiarity, like somewhere you’ve been a thousand times, somewhere you can trace like the back of your hand. It’s still Saturday, it’s still bustling. But maybe it’s quieter? The old lady in the back sorting vegetables with giant red gloves is humming to herself, the halls feel wider than they did before. You shrug, pushing the cart alongside your mother who is digging through the cabbages to find the freshest one. She’s older now, you realize quietly. Her hair is whiter and she seems shorter than she was the last time you were her. Briefly you think that that’s impossible, our parents are never supposed to get older.

MOTHER

Want a drink?

She smiles coyly, pointing at the bottles on the shelf. You grin, there’s less choices here then you remember. Where are the cerulean blue sodas? The lychee painted bottles? Your hand reaches for the familiar Cha-Pai, it’s grapefruit still hanging delicately from a branch on the sleeve.

At the register, you realize it’s still the same lady that has been here for the past 12 years. She smiles at you and it’s still the same. Brilliant white teeth, kind eyes. But she is distinctly older, her skin is etched with soft lines around her mouth and eyes, her hair is sprinkled with shocks of white and gray.

CASHIER

Mei-Mei came today?

MOTHER

It’s her last weekend before she leaves for college, she wanted to reminisce. They laugh and you do too, squeezing the Cha-Pai in my hands.

YOU

Thank you.

You say under your breath as you and your mother walk out, plastic grocery bags in hand.

YOU

This place never really changes does it?

Your mother smiles as you walk down these grimy hallways. Chinese newspapers are stacked in messy piles by the corner and vegetables spill out of wooden produce bins. The halls still hum, but maybe that’s just the air conditioner. You take a sip of the Cha-Pai and it washes over your tongue, sweet and tangy. It tastes like an August summer in China with no air conditioning and the sun beating down on the nape of your neck, giggling with your cousin. It tastes like afternoons after grocery shopping, sun shining in through your windows as you help your mom make lunch. It tastes like the Chinese Store, it’s amalgamation of life, culture and time, it’s a celebration of the lives of those who worked and belonged here.

MOTHER

Ah, it never will.

Goodies From the Chinese Store

Katelyn Wang

Acrylic

MIDNIGHT ZONE

Bathypelagic

Now hold your sea-horses, things down here glow! Due to the pitch black environment and other unique features such as geothermal vents, life in the midnight zone feels like you’re in a science fiction novel. As we are in the deepest portion of our descent, please be cognizant that this section will include heavy pieces. We have included content warnings at the beginning of each work (if necessary) for you to keep in mind.

Audrey Nguyen

Fruit Picking

Delusion is a seed

A handful of seeds

Every Thought

Spilling

Seeping out of my pores

Over the edge of my cupped palms And onto the ground

Sometimes They dribble out of my mouth And fall from my eyes

As I dream of you

Other times They get stuck in my throat

And I stop myself

By choking them down Sharp And Acidic

Yet somehow

There are always more.

Delusion is a sapling

The stubborn seed

That I failed to discard

Festers inside of me

Like a weed

Yet the harder I try to rip it out

The larger it swells beneath my skin

The deeper its roots dig into me

Like fingernails to a bitter rind Until My body is nothing But a garden Of Lies

You promise me spring And I’m stupid enough to wait for the blossoms.

Obsession is an orchard I could wander And wander

And never reach the end of it

With my unfeeling, blistered feet And cracked lips

Parched by an insatiable craving

I live off your words

Picking the prettiest sounding ones like Low-hanging fruit So poisonous And Sweet And Just enough

To keep me satisfied

NightNightThoughsThoughts NightNightNightThoughtsThoughts Thoughts Night NightThoughs Thoughs

Late Night Thoughts

Lily Jiang

Sometimes, I lie awake in my bed thinking about you, replaying the last moments we had together. It always starts with you calling into the wind and then lying down on the train. The sun’s setting, and you’re laughing. Watching you, I feel the exhilaration of being one step closer to fulfilling our dreams of reaching the States. If only La Bestia could go faster! I can’t remember the exact motion of how you rolled off. Only the way your body fell. Stiff, slow-motion, and serene. My brain already comprehended what was happening before I could yell. I try hard to remember: were you one meter or four away from me? Did your face express fear or realization? I become frustrated as my mind fails to fill in the gaps. Then it’s a blur. I’m running on freight cars, searching the ground until I reach the end, and I can only recall the image of a motionless mass on the tracks, becoming smaller and smaller and eventually disappearing. I wish I could tell you that I made it. Here is better than back home, but I would still be complaining to you about this place. If you were lying beside me, you’d probably roll over and tell me to just shut up and sleep.

ThoughsThoughtsThoughtsThoughts Thoughts Thoughs Thoughs

Within Myself I Find Solace

Hasini Chejerla

Surrounded by darkness, when doubts arise, Two persons within, an utter surprise

A voice inside, comforting and near “I can catch you, just fall, have no fear”.

Through the trials of despair, together and strong, Two halves of one, we will carry on. In dark moments, we will face the night, With only self-trust, we will find the light.

In anxiety’s grip, recollect well, Within yourself, a guiding bell, Trust in yourself, in heart and mind, Together, as one, solace you will find.

THAT WHICH REMAINS

Austin Wang

The sun could barely shine its feeble rays through the dust clouds, and the smell of ash was suffocating. A masked figure limped through the desolate landscape, his tattered clothing barely clinging to his thin body. He desperately clutched a box to his chest, and a trail of blood lingered behind him. Despite his ragged condition, he pushed forward, occasionally stopping to catch his breath.

The figure walked until the dim light of the moon peeked through the dust, and stopped at a hill covered with debris. He turned his gaze towards the stars, their distant glow serving as his only warmth and comfort. As he traced the patterns of the constellations, he couldn’t help but reminisce about the world this used to be.

The figure closed his eyes and pictured the outdoors, allowing his mind to wander beyond the barren terrain. He had faded memories of birds flying under the open sky, soft, green hills filled with flowers and the calm whisper of a flowing river.

The figure breathed in the cold, night air, with each breath carrying a hint of nostalgia. For a second, if only just a second, he felt free. The shackles of misery broke off his wrists and he stretched out his arms, reaching towards the imaginary paradise.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and the figure opened his eyes to the empty wasteland around him. The ground was carved with cracks, scarred by the cruel hands of humanity.

The figure got up and continued to walk, determined to get to his destination. He looked at his surroundings with a sense of sorrow. The skeletons of the animals that once roamed the forest were scattered on the ground, coated in dust. The trees that once stood tall and mighty were now reduced to stumps, shadows of their former beauty. As he walked, the figure noticed the deep marks made by rivers that once flowed with vitality. The rivers now lay dry and lifeless, filled with the bones of dead fish.

Eventually, the figure reached a city that lay in

ruins—a stark contrast to the beautiful metropolis it had been. The towering skyscrapers were reduced to rubble, crushed by war’s firm grip. The streets that once buzzed with life were now deathly quiet, and the figure’s footsteps echoed as he walked.

The figure stopped at the city’s park with a somber expression on his face. He could still remember the laughter of the kids playing with their dogs and the lively chatter of people as they gathered for picnics. In the center of the park, a broken statue of the mayor stood, its cracked features covered with graffiti. Under the statue was a plaque that read: “Pax Aeterna”. The figure smirked at the irony. The figure sat down on the rusty park bench, the corroded metal creaking beneath him as he rested his legs.

In the distance, he spotted a lone building still standing in the ruins. The building was the city’s library, untouched by the chaos and destruction that had plagued the city.

The figure entered the library and a mix of surprise and relief came over him. The books were in mint condition, perfectly preserved despite the war. As the figure looked at the bookshelves, he felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps the knowledge and history of humans wouldn’t be forgotten.

The figure exited the library with a small smile and continued on his path. The sun eventually set again, and the figure lay down on the rough ground, the small rocks poking his skin. He huddled under the faint glow of the moon and imagined the chirping of crickets, trying to drown out the harsh silence of the night.

An aching pain in his abdomen brought the figure back to reality. He quickly got up, as time was running out. He didn’t want to rest anyway, as he only ever had nightmares. Determined, he marched forward, pushing through the remains of the city.

In the distance stood a broken factory, puffing its smoke into the gray, cloudy sky. The figure used

the smoke as a guiding beacon. He would reach his destination soon.

The factory’s walls were stained with chemicals, and the scent of decay filled the air. Through the shattered windows, the figure could see the abandoned machinery coated in rust. The flickering lights cast shadows on the twisted assembly lines that were once the heart of the industry. The figure spat at the ground as he walked away.

After what felt like an eternity, the weary figure reached a sandy beach. The sea was black, tainted with pollutants, and surrounded by plastic-filled shores.

“The shackles of misery broke off his wrists and he stretched out his arms, reaching towards the imaginary paradise.”

But near the sand, a tire swing hung off a lonely tree, swaying gently in the breeze. The figure collapsed beside the swing, unable to hold up the weight of his exhaustion. Tears of both sadness and joy streamed down his face.

“I told you I’d keep my promise, brother,” said the figure as he lay down on the sand.

The figure reached into his pocket and took out the box he’d protected. With shaking hands, he opened the box, revealing a singular daffodil seed—the last of

its kind. The figure carefully planted the seed next to the swing—a marker for his brother’s grave.

The figure touched the bullet hole in his stomach, soaking his hands in blood. He began to laugh hysterically, knowing that he would soon join his brother. In the end, it was his ignorance that’d killed him.

The figure reached up and removed his mask, revealing a face etched with scars. He’d escaped death for so long, and now it’d finally caught up to him. As memories of simpler days flooded back, the figure smiled, his hardened features softening. The figure bid a silent goodbye to the world, allowing his cherished memories to be carried away by the wind.

The figure’s breathing grew more and more shallow, and the light in his eyes started to dim, fading like a dying ember. His vision blurred, and he began to hallucinate. Before him, a dark specter appeared, a manifestation of death itself.

“You finally caught me, huh? You must be so happy. Your job is over now. I’m the only one left,” the figure uttered with a bittersweet smile.

“My job is not yet done. It may never be. But you’ve done enough. You look so tired. You may rest,” the specter replied solemnly, comforting the figure in his final moments.

The figure’s breathing ceased, and his body went limp. A soft smile lingered on his face as his hands rested next to where he’d planted the daffodil seed. The sun began to rise over the horizon, piercing through the dust clouds, casting its gentle rays upon the figure’s lifeless body.

Jellyfish

Sukanya Menon

Oil pastel

Zone

Sea of Stars

Kyle Hoang

Digital

The Flowers I Receive When I Die

Hasini Chejerla

Listen, the flowers I receive on my coffin when I die wholeheartedly matter.

Each petal tells a tale of its own. And I value that. Please refrain from throwing purple hyacinths or chrysanthemums. I don’t want your sorrows and apologies. And please avoid gifting me a haphazard assortment of flowers that do not harmonize in their symbolic meanings, as if you do not know me. As if you do not care .

When I die, think of the friend I was to you when I was with you. Remember the bright days we spent laughing and carefree when I would roll you down the sticky grass hill, right after it rained. Remember the joy that filled your heart when you read those heart-felt letters I sent you while we were on the opposite ends of the world. Drop off some tulips. Place sunflowers on my grave.

When I die, please lay me to rest with daffodils to symbolize the love and generosity I loved sharing with you, even amidst the trials of receiving painful wounds. As for my burial, let the resilient gladiolus represent the strength that shielded me from the storms of toxicity and manipluation.

When I die, don’t suppress the memories of me dying. A lifeless bouquet of flowers on top of another lifeless body is not a desired combination. I believe it is never late too reciprocate. Please gently return all the flowers I gave you because I never received any.

Crimson Sea son Sea

Crimson Sea

Gigi Prothero

Photography

I’ve stood where you stand now. It is night; a dying sun has faded and only a sliver of a fatal moon remains. You curl into yourself, desperate to catch the last of any warmth. I’ve been who you are now. You’re playing through memories like a film roll, rewinding each scene in vivid technicolor, praying, wishing, begging to forget. You look at yourself like you’re a foreign body–how could you have ever been that happy when you are this pathetic now, dying from a broken heart? I feel you. I know you.

I want to tell you that it does get better. And that one day you won’t feel as heavy as you do now, weighed down by the memory of someone that you loved and no longer know. I hope you know that the night does end, the sun does rise again, and you’ll feel lighter than you ever knew you could. Take my hand and hold it. Do you feel my palms? Do you feel my fingers, wrapped around yours? This is it. This is my promise to you that every day the night always ends and the sun always rises. This my promise to you that there will always be you, at the end of every chapter. Trust me on this one, okay? I know you. I’ve been you.

An Open Letter To Those With A Broken Heart

Vivian Dong

Flesh and Bone

Kiera McHugh Graphite

On a Quiet Saturday Morning

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

Matthew Carbington woke up at precisely 6:30 AM to the shrill, insistent screeching of his alarm clock. He sat up blearily, his limbs stiffly stretching out as he pressed on the alarm with a hint of desperation, sighing with relief as the harsh, high-pitched rings faded into the usual, comforting silence. He let out yet another sigh that no one was there to hear, before slowly pulling himself off his bed, standing up carefully, his limbs quietly aching in protest as he shuffled into the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face. He shuddered, feeling, if not invigorated, at least alive and ready to face the intimidating silence that would doubtlessly haunt the rest of his day.

The living room was empty and silent. It had been for... how many years? Five? Ten? His entire life? No, there had been noises before: laughing, crying, shouting, yelling. The empty cream walls had once been covered with posters and paintings and a towering map that stretched from one end of the wall to the other, and he remembered standing there, his son’s hand stretching out. Once, that little hand had barely covered a single country, but he’d watched his son grow until those slim fingers trailed across the world with fa-

miliarity, and hope, and dreams of visiting places that seemed to be just a touch away, right under the palm of his hand.

Matthew wondered whether his son had ever traveled with his family, whether he even had a family—whether he’d heard the loud, busy buzz of rushed city life, the wild, untamable roar of the ocean, the whispers and laughs and joys of a life he must have built somewhere, anywhere, far away from this quiet, suburban town. Matthew turned away from the empty walls and went to make breakfast.

There was no coffee, he hated coffee, hated the bitter, creeping taste that stunned you out of the whispers of sleep and forced you into reality. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and picked up a plate of waffles he’d made the day before. He settled down at the lonely table, taking a sip of that sweet, tangy juice as he leaned back, pulling out his phone from simple force of habit, and scrolling through the news. There was never good news, he’d learned. Nobody cared about the good things—the parties hosted and buildings made, the charity drives and smiling faces. Those were all forgotten and overshadowed by the seemingly endless amount of bad that creeped around the world.

His eyes narrowed on a single headline: “TWO KILLED IN GAS STATION SHOOTING”. He leaned back. Another day, another shooting. He shook his head, part of him refusing to let these people blur into those lost a day before, and the day before that; they were all their own people, with their own lives, and dreams, and thoughts for a tomorrow that they never lived to see. Death was tragic. The world, as he’d learned, was tragic. He studied the article a moment longer, studying a list of names that, as much as his mind tried for a flicker of sympathy, meant nothing to him.

He turned off his phone and lifted his fork, poking at his soggy, microwaved waffles. They were damp, yet somehow still dry. In younger days, in a brighter world, his son Alfred would have reminded him, pestered him with a bright, slightly forceful voice to buy maple syrup and chocolate chips, and everything sweet and happy and enjoyable... and that was all gone. His son was gone. In many ways, Matthew considered his own life to be gone. He sat here, in this empty, quiet house, reminiscing on a life that no longer belonged to him, on days filled with jokes and laughter and playful, feigned annoyance.

Matthew sighed deeply, feeling more heavy than usual, as if the decisions he’d made over a failed lifetime were weighing him down... his son, his Alfred... where had he gone wrong? He’d done everything he could to make that sweet, happy little boy stay happy, the hours spent playing and laughing, the desserts piled up in every shopping cart, the gifts changing from monster trucks to new phones to thick, neatly folded wads of cash, wordlessly pulled from his wallet and placed onto the flat palm of an insistent hand. Each gift and adoring smile had been returned with happy, excited cheering, then a simple, satisfied nod of the head. Then silence, as after years of getting everything he’d wanted, and still feeling he deserved more, after no longer needing his parents, Alfred had walked out the door and never looked back, never returned.

Matthew’s wife, Clarity, had died in a car accident only four years later. His son had attended the funeral, but both had remained silent. Matthew regretted that silence more than anything, now that it had taken hold of his entire life. He wondered if Alfred felt that same regret, whether his life was haunted by the same still, empty silence, or whether he’d simply leeched everything away and moved on into his own life. It had been 30 years since they had looked into each other’s eyes, or even entertained the possibility of being a family again. 30 years since Matthew’s life had fallen into this abyss, so deep that sound could never reach it... but if he’d fallen in... couldn’t he climb out again?

Matthew blinked, his gaze fixating on his soggy waffles and half-finished cup of orange juice. He remembered every time Clarity lectured him about having sugar drinks in the morning with fierce, fond care across her face as he smiled and replied, remembered

He studied the article a moment longer, studying a list of names that, as much as his mind tried for a flicker of sympathy, meant nothing to him.

running forward, protesting with alarm as Alfred cheekily held a newly opened bottle of orange juice, fully prepared to childishly, haphazardly tip it over and hope it would smoothly land into his cup. He remembered days of talking, words slipping back and forth, and warming the air of this quiet, still house.

And finally, deep down inside, he realized that the silence would stay for as long as he let it remain, as long as he himself stayed silent. And maybe... maybe it was time to speak. With that thought, he stood up, mind already racing, moving faster than it had in years. How old was Alfred now? Did he have a family? A house? Had that son of his ever attained an actual job and learned to work for himself? Matthew turned, his eyes brightening—those questions wouldn’t quietly float around his mind any longer, no, he would ask them, and receive answers. He would call his son again, ask how life was treating him, say sorry, moreso, ask his son if he regretted anything, if he regretted everything, the same way that he did. His son would say yes, and they would cry, and...

He would invite him back to this quiet little house, let the rooms buzz with the same excitement he was feeling. They would talk over the dining table, like they had so many years ago, when there had been three plates and three glasses on that long, haunting table. He passed by the calendar mounted on his wall, the only continuous artifact that decorated this empty house. Saturday. It was Saturday. He’d never noticed it before, but Saturdays felt especially nice—they made him feel just a bit lighter as he slipped on a jacket, grabbing his car keys, making sure not to forget his wallet…

As he stepped out into the light, into the clean, crisp morning air, he felt a slow, creeping sense of unease, remembering his Clarity, how innocently she’d climbed into the car, waving goodbye, promising to return. She never had. But no, wherever she was now, perhaps watching over him, she would be happy that he was going to patch up the remains of this family, happy that he would speak words again, happy that the silence would finally end.

As he drove, he took a moment to glance out the window, suddenly feeling a swelling sense of love for

his small, suburban town, admiring the gentle light and soft shading on each waxy, glimmering leaf, how they dappled and shifted in a slight, peaceful breeze. The world was beautiful. Life was beautiful. It always had been, and with any luck, it would continue to be.

As he stepped forward, letting the doors of the grocery store part and let him in, he was hit with a sudden jet of cool, icy air. He shivered for a moment, but quickly grew used to the steady chill as he grabbed a squeaky cart and made his way through the tightly packed shelves. Milk, eggs, butter, onions, potatoes, bread. He was finally calling Alfred back home, he couldn’t just have any old meal ready; there would have to be something special. Something familiar, and happy.

He paused when he reached a shelf of bagged pastries, remembering how every time he passed by a similar rack, his son would stop, staring hungrily at the pastries, then looking up with those wide, pleading eyes that would never accept no for an answer. Matthew chuckled lightly, a sound that surprised even himself, before he relented to the pleas, like he had so many times before, grabbing some cinnamon buns and a small, homely looking apple pie, remembering the ones Clarity used to make, how she would carry the pie to the table proudly, how he would slowly cut it into six equal pieces, how little Alfie would instantly claim the first and largest piece for himself…

Matthew smiled yet again, looking forward to feeling the joy and nostalgia that had been missing from his life for so long. As he carefully piled the glorious junk food into the cart, unable to hold back a fond smile, he heard... screaming. His mind processed a single, hesitant thought.

What was that?

As the thought flashed through his mind, he involuntarily turned, mind processing another loud noise. Looking behind him, vulnerable, human eyes met an empty, masked face. He heard a loud noise, remembered what they were called—gunshots.

Then, there was a sharp, sudden flash of pain he hardly found the time to feel... before everything fell to dark, empty silence.

A man sat in his living room, taking a sip of his black coffee, trying to ignore his taste buds cringing with disgust at the bitter flavor. As usual, he distracted himself by pulling out his phone and glancing at the news, and just as usual, right at the top: another day, another shooting. He smiled tightly, a bit morbidly, at the stupidly familiar sight.

running around and vengefully shooting people that had never even interacted with them, it should be him.

Pushing that rather concerning thought away, he continued skimming the article before pausing. His mind flickered with faint recognition and he scrolled back up, rereading the paragraph that had sent the strange sensation his way. He had paused before but now, he froze, his eyes catching sight of a name that had always quietly floated through his mind: “Matthew Carbington”

He stared blankly, before narrowing his eyes, skimming through the paragraph again. “Four dead... one injured...” His eyes trailed past, too anxious to move slow, too nervous that he would miss something to quickly skim through. “Among the dead...” He skipped over the other names, until at last found himself reading, once again: “Matthew Carbington.”

Alfred Carbington felt his heart beating faster, even while his face—and thoughts—remained in stunned neutrality. Not calm, just... empty. Like everything had been sucked out of him, little flickering hopes and absent dreams for a future that he’d never considered working for now wholly gone.

Suddenly, with a hint of frustration, he wished he hadn’t drank such bitter coffee so that he wouldn’t have had to distract himself, so he wouldn’t have opened the news, or that he had at least scrolled past in blissful ignorance, so he wouldn’t be feeling the sudden, fragile, broken mortality that life now held. He wished he didn’t have to feel this... something.

What was it? Regret? He tried to push it away. His father had yelled at him, hated him. He shook his head again, even though no one was there to see. His wife was in her room, his daughter was probably just waking up, both cheerful and blissfully ignorant of a world that had been torn up from its roots.

The silence that washed over his mind and thoughts suddenly dug up the haunting memory of the funeral, the quiet funeral where no one had spoken. And now, there was no one to speak to.

Alfred shook his head yet again and didn’t look out at the beautiful view, didn’t open his windows and hear the buzz of distant life, didn’t reflect on how beautiful life could be- instead, he peered glumly into his dark, bitter coffee, feeling the dark emptiness sinking right through him.

Life was terrible. There was nothing he could do about it. He let out a heavy sigh and took a long, quiet sip of his coffee. Everything was silent. f f f

He clicked on the article, scrolling through absentmindedly, wondering where all these violent, hoodie-wearing teenagers had come from. Why were they so unstable? Really, what had happened to them? He’d been the one to grow up in a stupid, misunderstanding family that hardly loved him; if anyone should be

Celebration

Jamie Sharkey Acrylic

The Red Oni Who Cried

Elina Wang Digital

The Act of Disappearing

Navami

Muglurmath

I had always been afraid of drowning–The depths of the sea, the blackness of water. Tendrils of ghosts slowly creep over me, closing my mouth with their gentle hands. I lick my lips. Scream.

Doomsday Prepping

Doomsday Prepping Doomsday Prepping

Anika Kotapally

I like to do dry runs of my grief. Sit myself down, hold my own hand, and imagine this future weight, hole, gap, what-have-you. See it there in my chest, or my brain, or my toes. Wherever it’ll hunker down. Thinking about what I’d miss, what would be gone, just to be ready for it. Reading mourning poetry and feeling the bombs rain down early. You never know when it’ll knock you off your feet. People are always bringing food for the grieving. I think about my own future stocked-up fridge. Who will come to me with carrot and hummus platters, condolences on the side? I can’t eat hummus. I probably will thank them anyway. I hug my mother and think about when she won’t be there to hug back. Trying to stuff my brain with all these mundane little memories, how doomsday preppers have piles and piles of Spam and non-perishables. Don’t want to run out when I need it the most. Saving everyone’s voicemails for the day they won’t be there to leave me a new one. Always grieving a person who’s alive to love me now, just so I’m not surprised when they aren’t.

No matter what you do

I used to wonder what would happen if I died.

Amy Li

I thought death was the only way I could get people to care. They would call me “the girl who went out with a bang”, or “the girl who drowned”, or “the girl who flew before she hit the ground”. Whatever it would be, I thought that everyone would regret every little thing they ever did to push me over the edge.

Maybe it was selfish to think. Maybe it was selfish to want to feel cared for without having to go out of my way to make someone else feel good. But isn’t that what everyone wants?

So I’m telling you now before it’s too late.

The people that care will care. The people that don’t, won’t.

You can’t make the people that don’t care, care. And you can’t stop the people that care from caring.

It doesn’t matter if you put a bullet in your head, fill your lungs with water, or break every bone in your body, it won’t change a thing.

Do what you will with that.

U N D E R Y O U R S K I N

Niki Chen Digital

I won’t let you leave

Navami Muglurmath

CW:

Suicide

It’s been years since I’ve seen you sleep in this late. You’re barely awake by the time I get home from school, and I eat my afternoon snack while you poke at your breakfast that’s been sitting out, cold, for the past five hours. You avert your gaze when I look at you, making it impossible for me to read your emotions. You speak in incoherent mumbles and shuffle around your room aimlessly. On Christmas Eve, you went driving for the whole day, leaving me alone to decorate the Christmas tree that we’d left bare for us to adorn together. You came back, angry, smelling like cigarettes and cheap liquor. On Christmas day, you opened the presents I got you and went up to your room, silent. I’ve known you for sixteen years, but you scare me now, with the bottled-up hatred you’ve held for our family for twenty-two years threatening to explode, your rage pouring out on our father, mother, and even me.

I remember when you were just thirteen, and I found you with a knife to your heart after an argument with our father. We took you to the hospital and hoped you’d get better, but a week passed and you came back the day after Christmas, and you locked yourself in your room again. I remember when I was fifteen and you called me every day when I was in the hospital myself, cracking jokes in your childish way to tell me that you wished I would come back home. I’m safe now, but what about you? I don’t want to see you with a knife to your heart again. I don’t want to see you cry like that again, your whole body convulsing with the weight of our parents’ expectations. I can’t let you leave me again. I can’t go back to being a seven-year-old in the entrance of the hospital on Christmas day, waiting for you to walk out and tell me that you’ll be okay. It’s been nine years and I don’t think you’re okay yet. I don’t know if you’ll ever be okay.

it’s a bad habit, i know it is the lying, for one and the empty plate for another.

idon’t feel warm, despite how i should but i feel every layer of my body every muscle and tissue every ligament and fiber every layer of fat it cushions my body, or at least that’s what it should do instead it covers my muscle, making it malleable. despite the layers i still feel bare, exposed, vulnerable. it’s nauseating.

canine

the thoughts aren’t conscious at this point, they are an understanding. as i head into my sanctuary and lie in my bed, sinking into the depression on my mattress made from the hours i’ve lain on it, i think about how much i’ve eaten today.

i don’t count calories anymore, i’ve stopped counting them after they became too difficult. now a constant state of lethargy is how i know. the constant fatigue is a struggle, but i know it will be worth it in the end. i suppose you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Hannah Gupta

CW: Eating disorders

I love you, and I’m scared.

Gigi Prothero

We were two, running around the playground at the park

Best friends from the first hello

If you met me now, would you still want to become friends?

We were eight, sitting on the floor of my room

Playing with our American girl dolls, our shopkins, and our littlest pet shop toys

And at your desk drinking capri sun lemonades, eating popcorn and playing video games

I can’t remember the last time I went to your house.

We were ten, making new friends in new places

Still each other’s number one without question

I’d never make you choose, but would you pick me?

We were twelve, trying to survive middle school

I was fighting our new friends, fear and jealously taking the reins

You were keeping the peace, desperately trying to make everyone happy

It was all just drama, we’re past that.

We’re fifteen now, barely making it through each day

I still refer to you as more than a best friend

Do you think of me as a sister too?

It’s the year of our sweet sixteens, and our interests are changing

I’ll keep singing and you’ll keep running

You’ll keep drawing and I’ll keep writing

We can be different because opposites attract, right?

We’ll be sixteen soon, we’re growing up

But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends

Why don’t we talk as much anymore?

We’ll keep getting older, and life will get harder

First we can drive, then we can vote, and then we’re in college

Promise me we’ll stay in touch

Because I can’t remember the last time you texted me first.

No matter how old we get, how different we become, how far apart we are

We’ll always be friends

Can you at least promise me that?

One day we’ll be gone, our lives well-spent

Maybe we started our own families or turned our passions into careers

But no matter what, we always had each other

At least, that’s the way I see it, since I can’t imagine a future without you.

I hear violins

Like thin razors on skin

Nothing

But metal strings slicing air

“ Truth gnaws a t the soullike markersonbr

And ghosts dancing in glass rotundas

So that the pain

Reverberates back to me

A song so high

That I can only feel it

In the deepest parts of my bones

A rattling that lingers

In the back of my mind

Always

I hear a piano

Like knuckles

Banging against ivory

Fingertips slamming

Like smearing

Blood on white cloth

And calling it a tapestry

When all they see

Is a torn flag

A broken battle cry

For salvation

I hear my own voice

As someone else’s

I sing

Until I scream

Until she sounds muffled

Trapped

And I forget

What I was even trying to say

Spitting out words

In nightmarish tongues

With the desperate hope that Someone will finally understand

Yet as I break

And break

And tear myself apart

I’ll still

Glide the bow as if it’s a knife

Punch the keys as if waging war

And chant as if summoning hell

Because

Sophistication and madness

Are both born

Of the same craving

To create something

Beautiful

And I live for the rare chance

That just once

You will say

My music sounds like art

The Composer

Audrey Nguyen

brittle andbrokenpaper, leavingnothing but silence . ”

The Dying

Bury me in broken shells and wilted flowers.

Marinate in my memories, Frame my faults, Preserve my promises, Display my doubts.

Don’t desecrate the chaos, don’t take away the tribulations.

To believe ‘everything we cannot see is perfect’ is a great fallacy.

Oh, the brutality of perfection.

Poet

It whips and washes and rinses until everything is wilted and dulled,

Like a clover left in blistering sun.

My image should not be remembered as one of glory, but one of truth.

Truth gnaws at the soul like markers on brittle and broken paper, leaving nothing but silence.

Silence can be deceiving.

Behind silence there are screaming ghosts on a battlefield of freshly slaughtered soldiers.

Behind silence there are shadows of scratched out revolution.

Behind silence is where I will lie, for the swiftness of eternity.

For upon leaving this earth, I should not be inscribed in texts and monuments,

But engraved in hearts and souls,

Etched in feelings,

Strewn through the sands of discovery.

That is how I will be preserved for the viewing pleasure

Of molding minds and deteriorating spirits.

So resist the temptation.

Do not disgrace my insecurities, for they are my bones

Do not meddle with my fears, for they are my blood

Do not tarnish my monsters, for they are my soul

And do not manipulate my mistakes, for they are my legacy.

I am all of myself, and that forever shall be.

Kiera McHugh

Transcendentalism and the Gentle Clutch of the World

Nicolas Jernigan

Humanity now amounts to just over eight billion people. Big number, right? You would think that we have some sort of guide that helps people live better and happier, and we do, but it’s very complicated. The human brain, the most complex and non-rudimentary organism there is, doesn’t like simplicity. Humans were born to think deeply and profoundly about the simple things in life, so we put seemingly shallow concepts (at first glance) into microscopes and ruminate about them. Again, and again. Philosophizing over, say, why it is that humans have such an innate drive for purpose, why we seemingly must occupy our minds to live in comfortability, or why, even though we’re only cogs in the wheel of evolution, we have such a grand scope of the universe and a strive for knowledge.

It’s almost honorable, in a way; a certain dignity is required upon fully acknowledging our inevitably miniscule effect on the universe, and still, we accept it and take in the small things. That is what transcendentalism is to me. The full acknowledgment and embrace of our impossibly minute significance in the universe and still moving forward, deciding to take in the beauty of the leaves flowing through the cold winter air, enjoy the sensation of the grass prickling on your back as you stare into the gray sky, maybe even stare at the timorous sun for a few seconds (legally this is not advice), just because you can; you decide to take in everything you have. Not what you won’t have, not what you might have in fifty years, but what you have right now. The small things.

It’s hard though. The human psyche typically doesn’t favor constant stability. We weren’t made to hold the same mindset for our entire lives and there’s a beauty in that malleability. As the sand slips through our fingers and disappears, they still leave remnants on our skin, little reminders of the world grasping your palm, reminding you that it won’t leave.

Author’s Note: This meaning of this piece is entirely up to interpretation, hence the less-than-average length of the work. It is not meant to be a concrete statement, rather a pliable interpretation of the nature that surrounds us.

an eye for an eye

Hannah Gupta Digital

Idistinctly remember the day I became an amateur space nerd. I was about eight, and my parents gave me a small, paperback, brightly colored book by National Geographic Kids: “Everything Space”. A kid who picks up handfuls of worms in mud puddles must love science, they probably reasoned. They were right.

I’m not sure of the exact moment I opened the crisp, clean-smelling pages and took a whiff. I was probably sitting—or hanging by my knees— on a branch of the sturdy red maple in our front yard. My peanut-butter-and-jelly-stained fingers turned the bright pages as I read about galaxies, nebulas, and black holes. My favorite topic was the way people in black holes might stretch like spaghetti as they were dragged to their doom. I rather yearned for the experience, minus the impending death.

My parents were delighted to find an interest of mine. That Christmas, I received a present not from National Geographic Kids, but from the real-deal National Geographic: a Space Atlas. It was the thickest and most grown-up book I’d ever owned, and I felt dangerously important.

The book had information on every planet in the solar system and all of their moons. Everything interstellar that my eight-year-old mind could comprehend was in that book, which still sits on my shelf, only a bit overlooked.

I told my teachers and friends all I could—Did you know that we’re all made of stardust? Did you know that a lightyear is how far light can travel in a year, which is a long distance because light goes around the world seven times in just one second? Did you know Saturn’s rings have ice, and that people stretch like spaghetti in a black hole?

I remembered all these facts, but in fifth and sixth grade, they became less important. That was when, I think, I focused on book reports, not grand adventures to Mars in a space shuttle. That was when I began to sense my own, personal version of a black hole.

I didn’t slowly start to stretch like spaghetti right then, so I don’t know the exact point when it happened, but I know it happened. Light can’t escape a black hole; that’s what makes it black. If you see one during space travel, it’s time for a U-turn. Problem was, I didn’t know how to U-turn away from something I couldn’t quite see. I read articles on Einstein’s theories about space in middle school as I tried desper-

The Point of No Return

Elise Gerstle

ately to spread my attention thin over countless activities.

A black hole, according to NASA, is any object with a gravitational pull that cannot be escaped unless the escapee is traveling at the speed of light. I, unfortunately, was not traveling at that speed.

Thinking about science turned into thinking about jobs through seventh and eighth grade. I wanted to be an astronaut? Wouldn’t my spaceship blow up? Shouldn’t I be an astronomer instead? Oh, I wasn’t into physics? Then how on earth could I study space and its dark matter? I couldn’t help but wonder why all these details were so important if our world was tiny enough to fit into the sun a million times.

Ninth grade was the year of impossible choices, like being assigned for multiple missions in space, all at the same time, all in a malfunctioning rocket, all with commanders and crew who weren’t very tolerant of mistakes. I had continued with so many disjointed extracurriculars for so long, but I would have to give something up in order to excel in other activities. Which would look better? I wondered, too nervous to lose any opportunity. For me? For college?

The people around me helped inform my choices, though I often didn’t want their opinions. You’re not doing the right things, they told me, but not with words. These aren’t the right classes, the right sports, the right extracurriculars. You don’t have a dream college? You haven’t decided your major? What are you doing with your life?

How do I know? I wanted to scream. I’m made of stardust! I’m floating through the cosmos with nothing but the grasp of consciousness that the heavens have granted me. I’m a speck of dust on a grain of sand on an infinite beach of stars and exploding galaxies painted across my Space Atlas. Don’t expect me to get the shuttle into orbit.

Still, I plugged on. One must always respect the various commanders of one’s space shuttle. All the while, more talented crew members mocked my incompetence. I wished I could be as dazzling as Saturn and its many rings. Maybe then they wouldn’t laugh. Maybe then I’d learn how to juggle my extracurriculars the way they did. Maybe then I’d be good at everything.

I spent my nights studying, at club meetings, or practicing instruments and sports, filling every second with the sense that I was doing something. One has to assist on the shuttle somehow. As the pressure built up, as qualifiers and concerts and exams approached, I began to retreat into myself, letting the impossibly strong gravitational pull drag me under. I was far too busy to open my Space Atlas on a regular basis, but the one time I did, the night before a test to calm me down, I read about black holes.

“You’re not rightdoingthethings, theytold me,butnot with words.“

I came across a new phrase that night: the point of no return.

This is the radius around a black hole at which the velocity needed to escape is equal to the speed of light. This is the point at which light cannot escape, the point at which a reasonable human trying to escape would lose hope.

I looked out my window at the dark sky and wondered just how far I had to look to see my own point of no return.

When my friends shared their feelings that spring, and talked about choices and anxiety, I nodded with a blank stare. Apathy was better than pain. But then,

when things began to go downhill for the space mission, they said I was to blame. The rookie had their head in the clouds–or rather, the stars, the crew whispered.

I was certain, in some unconscious part of my mind, that I had lost my sense of reality. I couldn’t move past what other inconsequential beings in my galaxy said to me. I was just a hugely insignificant cluster of matter hurtling through an incomprehensible universe, wasn’t I? A cluster of matter who, because the heavens seemed so out of reach, had to satisfy for earthly success instead.

That summer, things loosened as classes halted and I could make time for my friends. That summer, ignoring my impossible choices, I stargazed and tried to force emotion into my life again. That summer, I tried to gain ground to escape the black hole, but to no avail. That summer, I grew tall, and I wondered if the spaghetti effect had stretched me out as I was pulled ever farther away.

I sit in my room, flipping through bright photographs of galaxies in my Space Atlas. I try to take deep breaths, anticipating those three tests next week. Looking up, I see a gap in my glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. The adhesive peeled off and a few tumbled from the ceiling a while ago. I haven’t had time to paste them back up.

Perhaps a star died and caused a supernova and eliminated those stars, I think sarcastically. Or maybe they were ancient red giants that died of old age.

Or maybe a black hole sucked the light away from those stars before it could reach me, as they neared their own point of no return and couldn’t escape quite fast enough.

I shut my Space Atlas, letting the numbness that comes with survival envelop me. I can see the point of no return so clearly now—yet another uncertain aspect of my future. I’m not past it yet, but I keep getting closer. I push my Space Atlas back on the shelf, letting it gather dust and fears and hopes and plans.

It is not too late; now is the time to turn things around. To throttle my engine and escape at the speed of light.

But I would already be fighting the gravitational pull.

Bloodsuckers (Triptych)

Cole Marshall

Acrylic & White Charcoal

Anouk Freudenberg Momma, am I beautiful?

a c w

Momma, am I beautiful? I’m sorry I cut my hair in the bathroom sink. It’s just that I was bored and restless and I wanted my face to look different because I keep staring at my reflection and Momma, I’m telling you that’s not me.

Momma, they told me I was born on the edge of a knife. They told me I was born from your womb and your wound and that our lives were tied by a thread. They told me that I was born with a death sentence clenched between my fists, that I inherited a home that was destroyed. And that you are a home that I destroyed. Momma, did I really tear your flesh like it was tissue? Did I scrape your blood from bone? Did I ruin your body? Momma, I didn’t know that I was born with so much violence in my hands. Momma, I don’t know whose hands to hold.

I’m 16 years old and Momma, I don’t recognize myself. I cut my hair and I changed my mind and I grew half an inch and suddenly everything feels rotten and cold. Momma, I’m doing everything I can. I paint my nails and scrub my body till it’s raw and pound serums and ceramides and 16-letter-words into my skin and moisturize and brush out the kinks and the cobwebs in my hair and drink green mud and run like the wind can’t catch me and lift weights and sleep 8 hours a night and sculpt my cheeks and suck in my stomach and stare at myself in the mirror and keep everything ugly about me locked away in a vault but my face still looks like a face and my body still looks like a body and my eyes scrape over my skin like metal and rust.

Momma, you talk about me like I’m the best thing you’ve ever done. You look at me like I’m a part of you. Your best weapon. Your best wound. A limb you cut off. And when they praise and admire me, it’s like I’m David and you’re Michelangelo, and I wonder who it is you’re really proud of. Momma, you never taught me how to be a piece of art. When they speak to me like I’m made of marble I don’t know what to say. My smile is fake, and my words are empty, and my hair is limp and lifeless, and I’m not a god I’m just a girl and I was born with a death sentence clutched between my fists.

Momma, they keep telling me our faces look the same. Momma, is that you in the mirror? Is that you in the voice I hear coming out of my mouth? Is that you in my painted nails? In my pointed teeth? In my choppy bangs? Is that you in my chapped lips and closed eyes? Is that you in the silence? Momma, did your skin feel like mine when you were young? Momma, am I beautiful?

Morpho Morpho

Chiho Jing Mixed Media

Personal Planet

Tashikaa

Senthilkumar

Solivagant Considering on the Space Between Hands

Anika Kotapally

Once, there were psychologists. “Survivor’s guilt,” they would’ve said, and pushed their precariously teetering glasses up the bridge of their noses. Now, I’ll run out of food in three days, maybe. I don’t know how to ration. It could be longer. Sooner. I don’t know what to hope for.

I haven’t seen a person in a month. The last one was a distant pinprick, maybe just a hallucination. I could’ve gone towards them, seen if they were real. But I didn’t. Once, I would’ve. In a heartbeat. But I just stood there; deer, headlights, et cetera.

The sky isn’t blue anymore. Just a vague red. The shade they’d use in movies to tell you everyone will die soon. Calming, in its own way. The kind of red that would light up all those photos of wildfires burning the Bay Area every July. The whole world is red now. Streets and buildings and any living thing, stained.

DAY 2

I used to be obsessed with apocalypse fiction. Who are we when there’s no society left to control us? But the funny thing about apocalypses is that eventually there’s so many people dead that it doesn’t matter. All those bloated bodies. And me. I could scream for an hour and nothing would stir. I haven’t talked to a real person for what feels like an eternity. There’s nothing to loot. No one to murder. There’s just me. And the wait. At some point, I have to die, too. Whether it’s before the second asteroid impact or after is fundamentally inconsequential. Either way, the same sort of thing is going to happen to my body. It’ll rot and rot and rot. Until there’s no more rotting to be done, and what was once me is just a series of scattered molecules; not even enough in one place to make a pile of dust.

DAY 3

I think if I saw somebody, really saw them, I’d cry. Waste enough water for a few tears, at least. If I could touch a living being. See another pair of eyes. Crowded subways, pushing through people at the store. Babies crying too loudly, kids in the park. Anything. Watch someone blink. See their teeth. A toenail. All that people stuff. The question I should’ve been asking is what we are without each other.

DAY 1

Redder sky, almost out of food. Wrong about the rationing. Forget where I am. Doesn’t matter. Everywhere is the same. There’s probably people out there somewhere. I could try to find them. Probably die trying. The dying is inevitable. And soon, either way. I might as well venture out. No more deers. No more headlights. Somewhere, there has to be someone. Maybe lots of someones.

Fingers reaching out. Sistine Chapel. They’ll have legs, arms, faces. Voices. Hello, we’ll say. Hello, hello, hello.

amor vincit omnia

Hannah Gupta

Digital

DAY 4

WAVE TO THE STAFF

Aashita Singh Bigfin squid Magnapinna

Ada Lavelle Baby Varnish clam Nuttallia obscurata

Amy Li Moon jellyfish Aurelia aurita

Anika Kotapally Glass squid Cranchiidae

Abigail Dobson Sea bunny Jorunna parva

Ashley Vadner Blobfish

Psychrolutes marcidus

Austin Wang Blobfish

Psychrolutes marcidus

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

Sea otter

Audrey Nguyen

Sea angel

Clione limacina

Enhydra lutris

Caroline Tierney Seahorse Hippocampus kuda

Ava Bruni Seahorse Hippocampus kuda

Cole Marshall

Courtney McKenna

Sea Otter

Enhydra lutris

Giant isopod

Isopoda

Chiho Jing

Blue glaucus

Glaucus atlanticus

Eden Liu

Dumbo Octopus

Grimpoteuthis spp

Elina Wang

Blue-ringed Octopus

Hapalochlaena lunulata

Emily Zou

Atlantic ghost crab

Ocypode quadrata

Ethan Loi

Phantom jellyfish

Stygiomedusa gigantea

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

Sphyrna mokarran

Hannah Gupta

Flapjack octopus

Opisthoteuthis californiana

Jessica Li

Sea otter

Enhydra lutris

Jane Reynolds

Jellyfish

Scyphozoa

Isha Khanna

Moon jellyfish

Aurelia aurita

Odontodactylus scyllarus

Iris Zhang

Sea otter

Enhydra lutris

Jamie Sharkey

Sea otter

Enhydra lutris

Justin Chow

Orca

Orcinus orca

Chelonioidea

Jordan Jacoel

Sea turtle

Katelyn Wang

Leafy sea dragon

Phycodurus eques

Kat Nguyen

Sea bunny

Jorunna parva

Katie White

Varnish clam

Nuttallia obscurata

Kyle Hoang

Dumbo Octopus

Grimpoteuthis spp

Lily Jiang

Starfish

Asteroidea

Kathryn Kaskey Telescope Fish Gigantura

Kiera McHugh

Sea anemone

Actiniaria

Maira Usmani

Plankton

Amphipoda

Manatee

Trichechus

Navami Muglurmath

Baikal seal

Pusa sibirica

Peyton Harrill

Axolotl

Ambystoma mexicanum

Raycer Verrecchia

humuhumunukunukuāpua’a

Rhinecanthus rectangulus

Angelfish

Pterophyllum

Tashikaa Senthilkumar

Hippocampus kuda

Yashvi Jain

Asteroidea

Ben Smith

Sea anemone

Actiniaria

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 studentproduced 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 school-wide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all ‘Stoga students. Applications to join The Folio open during course selection in February. More information can be found on our website: stogafolio.weebly.com. You can also find us on Instagram @stogafolio.

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