The
Folio
a literary & art magazine
Conestoga High School Spring - Volume LII - Issue II
Cover photo © 2020 Olivia Wang Inside cover © 2020 Sophia Reeder Copyright © 2020 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff Internal Design © 2020 Monisha Gupta, Madison Red and Sophia Reeder Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist Spring edition of 2020 All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced herewith permission. The Folio is a public form for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School. Published and printed in the United States of America www.stogafolio.weebly.com Find us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @stogafolio
F ROM THE EDITORS MANAGING
LARA BRIGGS
LITERARY
SEBASTIAN CASTRO & JESSICA FRANTZEN
ART
MONISHA GUPTA & MADISON RED & SOPHIA REEDER
BUSINESS
LYDIA NASER
COPY
DHIVYA ARASAPPAN & CHLOE WILLIAMS
W
hen we first began working on this issue, we still sat in class, reading our work out loud and counting raised hands to vote. It goes without saying that times change, often unexpectedly. If you’re reading this, you’ve already done more than we can ever ask for. The staff of The Folio would like to welcome you to the Spring 2020 issue, under the weirdest circumstances possible. If this is your respite from all the craziness going on, we couldn’t be more grateful. For years, this magazine has been a safe haven for writers and artists alike, and we’re more than happy to share that roof with whoever wants it.
to be enjoyed. And that’s what we want for you, the reader, more than anything. To enjoy yourself; to lose yourself. As you navigate this issue of The Folio, you’ll find four playlists, each specially catered to hit your art and writing cravings. Looking for some fluff to get you through a tough day? Wholesome Vibes has got you covered. Craving a little more angst in your daily life? Emo Hour is packed with dark art and lit to vibe with. Alternative/Indie is filled with weird and wild pieces that’ll leave you pondering for hours. And if you’re looking to get immersed in a good, long story, Podcasts is filled to the brim.
Having playlists be our theme this issue was a natural choice. Music, as an art form, transcends all sorts of divides, and can be enjoyed by anyone regardless of their background. While we definitely have our fair share of musical talent on the staff, our theme speaks to a broader audience, appealing to what playlists really mean to us as kids right now. We’re all stuck at home, forced into a situation no one asked for, and everyone finds their own ways to cope. In our countless meetings, our staff found we had one thing in common: our use of music to find some comfort in these crazy times.
As another school year comes and goes, we seniors find ourselves reflecting on the time we’ve spent here at The Folio. Even as our critiques have shifted to Google Docs and our meetings are weekly, the staff of this magazine have kept positive and done their best to adjust to the shift—as editors and as seniors, we can’t thank them enough. The same goes for Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson, our musical experts/amazing advisors. This magazine has provided a home for us over the years—one where we’ve laughed a lot, eaten a lot of holiday treats, and shared in the joy of creating with so many other wonderful students. As we move on to new places and forge our own paths, we’ll always look back to The Folio and the memories we’ve made here.
In a way, the act of making a playlist is incredibly similar to making a literary magazine. Both involve collecting, organizing, and re-contextualizing art in a way that’s meant
The Editors
ARTIST
The Folio PLAY
OVERVIEW
FOLLOW
ABOUT
PAST RELEASES
TABLE OF CONTENTS* *A Note About The Table of Contents In lieu of a traditional table of contents, the team at The Folio has decided to create a different experience. Instead, the works in this issue have been grouped into playlists. Make sure to CLICK on the playlists to be directed to a specific menu for each grouping. You can also click on the About and Past Releases tabs to be brought to those specific pages. And to check out our website, click “FOLLOW”. Also to come back to the table of contents, CLICK and to get back to the playlist menu for each group, CLICK . Happy “listening”!
Playlists & Podcasts
Wholesome Vibes
Emo Hour
Cute and romantic pieces to put you in a good mood.
An angsty, brooding collection for when you’re in your feels.
Alternative/Indie
Podcasts
Eclectic, experimental and all-around interesting work.
Short stories and other longer pieces that feature compelling ideas.
Wholesome Vibes
Featuring a wide-range of feel-good, cute, and romantic work, this playlist will brighten your day and put a smile on your face. Make sure to CLICK the “add lit or art” button to submit to The Folio!
Stoga Folio 25 works ADD LIT OR ART
Sunflower, You Are My Sunshine Chitra Singh, Casey Kovarick
To Love From Lover, Strings Attached Leyla Yilmaz, Natalia Green
The Stink Bug, Small Steps
Chloe Williams, Dhiyva Arasappan
Galaxy, Blowing Up the Earth Eileen Chen, Casey Kovarick
Parvarti del cardellino, La Sagrada Familia Monisha Gupta, Casey Kovarick
Canyons, Contrabass
Ashka Patel, Lara Briggs
Still Life of Vase and Flower, Love is Of Reality Madison Red, Scott A Hennessy
Cats, Shoe Shopping Stella Lei, Sandra An
Binding, Chinese Girl Eileen Chen
Gather, Fisher Fishing for Fish Daniel Gergeus, Casey Kovarick
Seagrass
Lulu Gunn
Radish, Flowers
Madison Red, Olivia Wang
Junk Food, Pop Tart Madison Red
Sunflower Chitra Singh
lilting yellow, petals the color of custard mellowed, sweet-smelling, this crowned little orphan, gold in hair, do you hear her prayer for your care? she’s like the rest, from pollen to crest, bitter green stalks waving for you in vain. blood flows in your veins, water circulates hers, dripping out, and crying, for the love that can never occur
You Are My Sunshine Casey Kovarick
To: Love If you do not wish me to carve mountains for you Then we cannot be Şirin and Ferhat If you do not wish me to declare my love and wander without purpose Being Majnun and Layla would be a sorrow If you ask me to disappear I will and I will I will! My Love Go ahead and rip my heart apart I gave up on having it to myself from day one But please do not ask me to not give myself up Love I’ve been burning in this fire just too long Any less hurt will bury me alive Watching you smile, Me is Nothing Me is No One It is okay if we are not Şirin and Ferhat Let us be me and you as strangers if that’s what you want Let me burn in peace, Watching you smile
From: Lover
by Leyla Yilmaz
Strings Attached by Natalia Green
THE
by Chloe Williams
STINK BUG
This story is based on true events. I stand on the pillow, not moving. What is the point in it? I am a stinkbug. When someone kicks the pillow, all the other stinkbugs fly off, to increase survival possibilities. But what is the point? I am a stinkbug. The same someone pushes me off the pillow with a stick. But I am still a stinkbug. Lying on my back on the ground, I am confronted with the cruelties of life. No point, no purpose, just the knowledge that I stink when I am squished and a range of basic functions. Eat. Move. Etc. Oh, and reproduction is a must, if I survive that long, so that the stinkbug lineage would not go exSTINKt. Ha, ha. But then the stick prods me and flips me over, begging me to go on. Reminding me that even though I am a stinkbug, I AM. Reminding me that there is a point: I am a stinkbug. I stink, therefore I am.
Small Steps
by Dhivya Arasappan
GALAXY
by Eileen Chen
Blowing Up the Earth by Casey Kovarick
Parvati del Cardellino by Monisha Gupta
La Sagrada Familia by Casey Kovarick
Canyons
by Ashka Patel
Contrabass by Lara Briggs i call upon your maple caverns where music echoes like hope; revelers dance in pools of brackish sap-water and sawdust stalactites shape constellations. the sun is curved and light peers in cautiously, fading into dark rumbling spruce fog. forgive my intrusion. your ebony branches shimmer with sweat, marks of calloused fingers and reckless scotch tape; your steel sings with pain and yet protection controlled by gilded clockwork machine heads. when i ineptly removed your bridge, replaced your aging strings with novice ignorance, you were gentle, kind, patient through your wisdom, your objections hidden in the deep corners of your wooden cave.
Still life vase and feather by Madison Red
Love is of Reality by Scott A. Hennessy
Why must we see our love but a dream? Why must we see our love as asleep? A mirage of desires of old, Colors of fairies then mixed in the fold A broken reality is not what I seek Is love not a tangible item we see? Stretched upon a heavenly sky And sketched on dancing leaves Drawn in stars and mountain peaks Awake I am and pretty is thee More fair than any conceivable fantasy On the longest of roads I wish for abode And lust for my feeling Of gorgeous reality
Cats
by Stella Lei
Shoe Shopping by Sandra An
Binding by Eileen Chen
Chinese Girl by Eileen Chen
Gather
by Daniel Gergeus
fisher fishing for fish by Casey Kovarick
Seagrass
by Lulu Gunn
flowers
by Daniel Gergeus
radish
by Madison Red
k n Ju Food and
p o P art T
by Madison Red
Emo Hours
In the mood for some angsty artwork and writing? Well, you’ve come to the right playlist! Here, you’ll find a variety of work that will hit you right in the feels. Make sure to CLICK the “add lit or art” button to submit to The Folio!
Stoga Folio 28 works ADD LIT OR ART
Stare, Blood Prose
Stella Lei, Lara Briggs
Glare, My Skin
Stella Lei,Scott A Hennessy
Vicious Spring, Iritation, Fatigue, Guilt Chloe Williams, Lydia Naser
Fall Wedding, Head in the Waters Zoe Balk, Dhivya Arasappan
Dusk Before Thunder, Trucker Olivia Wang, Scott A Hennessy
BUTTERFLY EFFECT, Origami Lara Briggs, Angelina Ma
Splitting, Sad Boy Hours
Chitra Singh, Natalia Green
I wonder, is it difficult to act happy?, Joy Shreya Singh, Catherine Haley
October, It’s Fine I Guess I’m Natalia Green, Angeline Ma
The Artists, Starry
Lara Briggs, Stella Lei
Orpheus, Lilies
Shreya Singh, Olivia Wang
Bust Study, Grayscale
Lydia Naser, Ankita Kalasabail
Lacuna, Grand Tetons
Henri Brunel, Madison Red
Stare
by Stella Lei
when do they sense your aptitude, your aura? this power of yours cascades like ink into water; it cannot be suppressed. methodical. you sharpen your words into diamond blades, clear. striking. they cut deep. watch: as you dance on pools of radiance, sunlight, you feel out of their reach, a shifting horizon; they grip, rapt, to every sound. you are not vulnerable. you do not forgive.
Lara Briggs
Blood prose.
this is where you find them. sand crushes under your feet like snow, onyx waves leave echoes of shadows on the shore. in this dreamscape of harsh monochrome, rubies and garnets tint your vision.
Glare by Stella Lei
My skin is an object An object that burns and breaks Or shrivels away Like a lit cigarette Smoke leaves and scatters in the wind Flying and free Meanwhile, I’m bogged down by this thin layer of protein And a teenager’s broken wisdom that has seemingly ingrained itself on the roughest edges of my skull ?Can young people even be wise? !?Do the strongest people love their lives?! &!?Do the most fatal flames bring pleasure to your eyes?!& #<%>[]\/$&!?Are you afraid of the decay of your mind?!&$\/[]<%># I feel it burn inside me Eating and screaming and crying and dying I Breathe. My skin is an object. My skin is a prison. My skin is me.
By Scott A. Hennessy
My skin is an object Just a package Once layered and stripped down, I’m just a snapped pencil spilling graphite dust on the ground Waiting for the wind to scrape the asphalt with tiny particles and draw the scariest of pictures
My Skin
My skin is an object And my clothes are ripped and dusty My head spins as my eyes watch the lights that fly around me I’m in an ocean of neon and shivering fires Eating and screaming and crying and dying And my nerves feel electric While sweat bleeds color from my brow
vicious spring by Chloe Williams
Daisy melting in the heat Tendrils cooking as they crumble Dead leaves meander to the bank Plink plank plunk Those leaves are sunk Shriveled stalks Dirt feels like chalk Wind raging Streams are fading Try not to swallow
Irritation by Lydia Naser
Fatigue by Lydia Naser
Guilt by Lydia Naser
Fall Wedding by Zoe Balk
The bells strike the hour. It feels like being stabbed twelve times. Ding. I stare into the mirror barely able to recognize my reflection, obscured by the white veil. With a glance out the window I see the brown doves circling like vultures. Ding. Mourning doves. I wish I could join them and fly from this place. I would fly to where it is always warm, and the sun is always high in the sky. My hand shakes badly as I try to apply lipstick. Ding. The color brings out my bloodshot eyes. Ding. I try to catch my breath. Ding. In, hold for a few seconds. Ding. Then out. Ding. I want to scream. Ding. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel my feet in these high heels. Ding. My legs carry me to the window. My arms open it. My body falls, like a cloud of silk, and I am free again.
Head in the Waters by Dhivya Arasappan
Dusk Before Thunder by Olivia Wang
trucker by Scott A Hennessy
A freight truck barrels down the freeway, flying on the road with a fierce whisper Like a machine of war, a tank, hauling nondescript goods And a nondescript soldier Cars, people, signs, animals, trees, days, nights All blurs. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s an odd existence within this vessel Unable to exit such a savage vehicle Constantly racing the clock Like an astronaut lost in space His labor is cheap like a scruffy toy And thrown around much the same Sweat and dirt and adrenal pills Washed up and sopped Murky like a basin Seated upon an upside-down plastic bucket Nerves are immolated by dusk For sleep is not gratis He is property of the wheel Flagrantly shaking by eye and limb Never a miscreant. And never asleep. At the end of the shift, he rests on a bug-ridden bed in a sleazy motel in a small empty town 11 more hours in the morning.
BUTTERFLY EFFECT by Lara Briggs for only a moment, crystal clear diamond shards of rain freeze into ice on our faces: artificial tears, acid droplets in a lacy web of glass. TONIGHT the severe glow of millions of tiny particles swarm together. a school of bioluminescent fish, commanded by an unseen hand who knows that their creation WILL capture attention and hold it tightly. the light illuminates our faces even when we try and escape it. clock’s ticking. dripping fluorescent neon seeps into skin, into eyes that HAVE never seen life without, that can never be unplugged. they thrive on the pulsing bass of an undying beat. energy shakes their souls; they are left hollow to face the CONSEQUENCES
ORIGAMI
by Angeline Ma
splitting by Chitra Singh
I’ve been swimming in your mess for a while now, The stench is awful. Just quit being playful. And I can’t step out; I can’t see rungs to grab onto, So I stay afloat. You’re watching me from your blue boat, Spying and calculating, all coy while I rot. But this isn’t the love we found, kissing in the parking lot.
Let’s call it quits, Don’t you spit Only today, Get the keys, start the ignition, We’ll crash art exhibitions, Amusement parks, Or dig out that X-box, Lollies purpling our tongues, Love filling our lungs.
Laugh with me, one more time, Like we’ve got years ahead of us, Like there’s always a seat on the bus for us, Like you never let your pride into bed with us, A rose-colored pool Just Waiting For Us. Or maybe just you. I can stay for a second, near you, Afloat. But let me go soon, love, Or I’ll sink your boat
sad boy hours by Natalia Green
i wonder, is it difficult to act happy? by Shreya Singh
to seem okay even when just moments before, you were crying with tears so acidic, that they stung your skin. to smile even your lips tremble, the corners on the verge of dripping downwards so incredibly close to becoming a frown. to laugh when you feel like you are being choked and you cannot breathe without gasping for some semblence of mercy. so tell me darling, is it difficult to act happy? because to me it feels like letting myself drown without a fight, without screaming for a hand to pull me outas is I could swim yet choose not to.
J O Y
Catherine Haley
october
by Natalia Green
it’s fine i guess i’m by Angeline Ma
just fine it’s just I’ve got no time–burning clocks burning patience burning time blurring lines, and that’s fine I guess, it’s just I’m
scraping by, you know the drill, it’s just that
really—
I’m done with it by now
but still
it’s cool. we’re cool, we’re chill right? not as tight as we used to be . not as tight as we could’ve been but
that’s alright , I’ll be here
just as long as we’re needed—
it’s fine i guess i’m for you or for me: that is the question. I’ll say anything, just as long as it’s not the truth , can’t be any harder than coming clean. than being real. meaning really nothing’s changed. I mean really, I’m still rereading. recreating. re -membering when I shouldn’t. when I should be minding my business, moving forward, just as long as it works for me.
if it ain’t broke fix it anyway.
just as long as it works for me:
I’ll say anything just to keep this distance
just overthinking again tonight mind running laps don’t bother to rein it in same old same old insecurities , worries looping loopingloopinglooping but I don’t stop—
fine I guess,
I’ll just settle for less run myself into ruts till I’ve got just enough in my system to lift myself out. still doesn’t stop monotony you know? all this time spent maintaining all this persona for nobody in particular. (this right here is conditional) that’s me wishing you were here. that’s nice of you to disappear. that’s you, knowing better than me, without even knowing it knowing at least there’s no monsters under the bed. just me saying anything. my conscience. telling me it’ll be fine, sometime
Lara Briggs
artists The
there must be some error in the world because the two of us are meteorites— we are fire and stardust and pure power—and i am caught in your orbit and i think, inexplicably, you are tangled in mine: we are both creators and i hear your melodies as if they were secrets; i sprint through your labyrinth to the answers at its center and we are magnetic, pulled together on a collision course with an unpredictable aftermath, but i’m certain the supernova will be incredible, our imagined inferno seen from galaxies away. if you are not asleep and i am not awake, where we are offset by the strain of time’s axis, we may dream as one. a dangerous thing. would you embrace my words, the ones i craft with embroidery floss, those that spark in my ancestors’ forges? i only hope that we understand each other. do you know of the inconsistencies between you and i, beyond water and earth and sunlight? one of us is dark matter and the other star-brilliance, but we burn. if we met somewhere the universe has forgotten, would you dance with me in the light of our artwork?
Starry by Stella Lei
Orpheus by Shreya Singh
son of a Muse, son of a God his music stayed true of no facade to hear him play, they traveled wide and it was then that he had caught her eye an innocent nymph so lovely and wise to be his wife, he would cry a marriage of love, not to be faint who was to know it would end in pain all too soon, she met her demise sharp teeth had claimed their prize heart in agony, he longed for her return â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;do not look back if you truly do yearnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; their words rang true but he paid no heed and so she fell back, drowning in his greed
Lilies
by Olivia Wang
Bust Study by Lydia Naser
Gray Scale
by Ankita Kalasabail
Lacuna by henri brunel clouds, going as far as the eye can see the time is cooler, the days shorter dwindling senses drift away a small raft is afloat in the night, Concentration so far from the shore deep into to the wild jungle of imagination Legacy, a generation lost phantom Home, a difficult place to find senses dormant, your mind, gone home. the big painting, as it drips from its bones lost to time consciousness drifting from home, and yet so near.
Grand Tetons by ma d is o n r e d
Alternative/Indie
If you’re looking or something a little more unconventional, dive in to these thought-provoking and experimental works. Make sure to CLICK the “add lit or art” button to submit to The Folio!
Stoga Folio 26 works ADD LIT OR ART
Modern Garden, Magical Realism, Fur Seal
Addison Bucher, Scott A Hennessy, Cameron Celebuski
In the Garden we Cut Rainbows, You’re Not Lost Angeline Ma, Sophia Chen
?Unknown?, Ava
Chitra Singh, Sophia Chen
Memory Hole, Wishes
Angeline Ma, Christina Lee
Victory Gin, SALT
Angeline Ma, Daniel Gergeus
the leaves like me, Verdant Scott A Hennessy, Stella Lei
Billy the Squirrel, Goldfish Time Chloe Williams, Noah Lanouette
Rust, Violet
Scott A Hennessy, Natalia Green
Piano Skyliner, Autotune Sophia Reeder
The Ascent, Forest/Serenity Zoe Balk, Ashka Patel
Bored, Businessman
Madison Red, Chitra Singh
Rags, Your Rays Averted My Gaze
â&#x2014;&#x2030;
Ankita Kalasabail, Scott A Hennessy
Just Another Jack Scott A Hennessy
Magical Realism by Scott A. Hennessy A turtle from the rice valleys of Korea traveled yonder past the mountains and twisting seas in search of true love. Upon its journey, he encountered an asexual wizard from Austria hiding in the clouds Through many series of experiments, the wizard discovered the secret of how stars work. He shouted to the heavens in pure joy of his newly found results. These screams of excitement caught the ear of a secret Russian astronaut orbiting the earth on a magic spaceship, carrying out a classified mission. Fearful of being compromised, he used the power of rainbows in conjunction with rainwater from Venus to instantly shoot himself back to earth. He spiraled past the wizard and landed next to a spring filled with purple spider monkeys. Here, the turtle, still continuing its long journey, rested to clean the fairy dust of its crusty shell. The Russian astronaut ripped his hatch open and sat next to the turtle, washing his feet in the sparkling spring. There, the astronaut smashed the turtleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head with a shiny orange rock and ate it. Once his belly was full, he grabbed an invisible machete, made from azure diamonds from the bottom of the Baltic Sea, from his crashed spaceship and began his trek back to the motherland. The turtle, his shell left vacant by the humming spring, never found love and never completed his journey. Similarly, neither did the Russian astronaut. The wizard laughed and watched overhead as the astronaut froze in a blizzard of blue snow, swirling threateningly around him. Pixies to ashes. Ashes to dust.
The Fur Seal by Cameron Celebuski
Modern Garden by Addison Bucher
In the Garden We Cut Rainbows from the Summer Sky by Angeline Ma
with razors sharp as angry tongues. the afternoon light, too, screams for forgiveness, smothers like a pink pillow over our lips. the 3 p.m. sun a tomato swelling in a sweet sour sky- your gaze petaling away from mine like a bridal veil. the sunset breaking the brushstroke clouds like a promise. above a vulture flutters like a white gown in ash. this space we fill only with thorns and barbed wire. and maybemaybe the sky is but a cavern in God’s sweet sour heart, or a sliver of tomato skin drifting suspended or a cloud white egg paused before conceptionthe point is that we both know this doesn’t mean anything. perhaps never will. still this silence, a picket fence we build, and rebuild, and continue anyway, because we’re young until we’re not. and the sky tightens
Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re Not Lost by Sophia Chen
? Unknown ? Chitra Singh
I am a message not yet received, Hidden in the dot dot dot of loading texts, I please or I hurt you, with a kiss or a hex, Living in smiling children with knives behind their backs, And the moments nearing a movie’s climax, Listen for me in the creaking of doors left ajar Or in the rough engines of dark-windowed cars, Have faith when the butcher offers you flowers, Or when ideas possess a pen in the small hours, It is me, and I taste bittersweet, For I’m a blurred question, an uncooked piece of meat, And I’ll never leave you alone; I am the unknown.
Ava
Sophia Chen
memory hole by Angeline Ma
can’t recall i›m jittery flittery but i think i think i’d like to remember this at least just at least a little bit i hear your voice your goddamned voice and i’m bitter -sweet take what i can›t leave take what you can›t grieve these odds and ends they’re Mine for the record yours for the taking i flush them down down d o w n n n
wishes
by Hyunjin Lee
and i’m almost free again living on scraps and ends done for need more tricks quick -sand i›m empty and bland ….. where did we draw the line all these holes in my mind I admit to my thoughtcrime
VICTORY GIN
Angeline Ma
keep us at bay. sedated. stay faded, not awake. keep us six feet under we await day, although we know the day waits for no one. dull the pain with cheap this, cheap that. knick-knacks. insane is sane, it’s sanctioned by the state of mind these days as we’re manufactured to obey. keep us in a daze
we’re only free enslaved
stay addicted,
forever lifted
as we’re raised to be hazed. Do Not Disturb just observe: stay unfazed you’ll never have to subvert.
SALT
by Daniel Gergeus
the leaves like me by Scott A Hennessy
the dwindling summer breeze carries leaves and dust through the wispy air, bright colors fade to brown and grey, like an old television as the wind slithers through air channels across the sky, its sound shock-waves through frail and flimsy branches with the greatest reverb imaginable leaves gently settle on brown and wilty grass this foliage was once all green, vibrant with life and spirit but nothing is immune to the dangerous passage of time with it brings the most gorgeous of all depressants: age like the leaves, I too have changed and someday, that whisper of a wind will tear me down and only time will tell where I shall land
Verdant by Stella Lei
billy the squirrel is at it again
Oh no. They’d let the cat out again.
Maybe if he stayed very, very still, she wouldn’t notice him… Crud. Billy charged up the tree, cat in hot pursuit. He stopped at a fork in the tree branches, tail twitching, and the cat stopped a few feet from the tree, teeth chattering away at him. Maybe she was friendly… the cat’s tail swung from side to side. Aggressive.
The cat crouched in pouncing position, and Billy scrambled up into the thinner branches, limbs flailing, and took a flying leap from the tree to the nearby powerlines. His little squirrel front paws grasped the lines firmly, but his back paws scrabbled helplessly as he attempted to right himself. The cat was still hissing and spitting, using her claws to climb up the tree after him. He wasn’t safe. Looking around wildly, he came to the conclusion there was only one solution: he would have to jump back to the ground and charge fearlessly to the much larger tree a far distance away. Even she wouldn’t follow him that far, and the tree was too tall for her to climb safely, with no lower branches.
He steadied himself, listening to the hissing spitting getting ever closer… and threw himself off the cables, legs splayed for landing.
It seemed, to both him and the cat, to be going in slow motion… the ground was getting closer… the cat was twisting furiously among the tree branches… and he landed, springing off his paws and sprinting through the garden and the grass. The cat didn’t stand a chance, hardly reaching the ground as he skittered up the larger tree, her claws not made for climbing down.
by Chloe Williams
Thwarted yet again, by the fearless Billy the squirrel.
goldfish time by Noah Lanouette
RUST by Scott A. Hennessy
Crusty Deep auburn Old and brittle Flaky on my skin My bike stains my fingers It tastes bitter on my tongue Like old coffee or cheap gin My face flinches from it Remember how fun It used to be My head shrinks Rusted Bike
Violet
by Natalia Green
Piano Skyliner by Sophia Reeder
Autotune by Sophia Reeder
the
ascent
by Zoe Balk
I will sing my love home, Step by step, She no longer breathes under the endless sky, I know you can feel me at your back, She has gone over the river to the gray fields beyond, I watch the rocks break in the river of your song, I will sing my love home, You must trust that I am behind, Step by step.
Forest/Serenity by Ashka Patel
bored by Madison Red
Businessman by Chitra Singh
Forcefed civility in a spoon, You mamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s boy, little soldier boy, Smiling so hard, You fit well in a cartoon, Teeth so white, It burned a hole In the kite a child Forgot to fly. Spool taken from you, Hands now laden, With bills and pens, Aging skin aching For dark desks and money I see you, honey, Neck now straining, To peek over the fence, Sick of grinning at green tens Those old man eyes, Again tearing for a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sky.
Rags by Ankita Kalasabail
You shined right through me Like a rainbow Each color dancing past my eyes and bouncing in my head So bright, that all I could see was you But It seems that rainbows arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t real Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re fake You were a mirage in my vision Stretched across the sky Lies I told myself And you told me likewise
Your Rays Aver ted My Gaze by Scott A. Hennessey
You are red Like a shiny apple Containing cyanide rich seeds You are orange Like autumn leaves Brittle and easily broken apart You are yellow Like the sun Scarring both of my cataracts You are green Like mint leaves Burning the inside of my mouth You are blue Like the ocean Drowning my lungs with salty solution You are purple Like lilacs Gorgeous and fair Before shriveling away in the winter You only seemed to shine when it rained No matter how far I traveled, How fast I ran, I could not reach you I could never find that pot of riches You, my darling, are a rainbow So pretty Yet so far away
*⊠*⊠◉*◉◉ ◉*◉◉ * ◉ ⊠⊠ T S ⊠ J A N◉⊠T*H◉** *◉◉ ER ⊠⊠J** ◉ ⊠ * ◉ *CK ◉*⊠◉◉⊠** Scott A. Hennessy
◉⊠
⊠
Jumping jacks and tired sacks sick of nothing sag like an old tit until the party ends. So they make amends. They laugh. Put anything in their body to feel something new. Get screwed. Tasty juice. A fistful of powder to make them scream louder. ◢,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Then they blissfully bicker blindly to pass the time. ▐█▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄█ They snicker and lie, ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓██▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▀
Get bigger and cry, ▐▓▓▓▓▓▓▌▀█ █ Pull the trigger ▓▓▓▓▓▓█▄▄▄▄▄█ And slyly get high. ▐█▓▓▓▓▓ Oh how a pistol packs a wallop ▐██████▌ On the kids who laugh, then die X_X.
◉ *◉
Then no one listens And that’s Just Fine! They’ll just get complacent until broken screens breed a war cry, █████ ██ █ █ / \ / |/ █ Descending arguments
█ / \ - * - / █
The stupidity of parliament,
█ \ / \ / █
█ / \ / \ █
◙
No. █ / _ \ __ \ █ ███ Break it up
███
Never talk serious ____________________ Just grab a cup \ PROOF
/ /
We’re not a team \ 3000
/ /
We fly solo \ _ _
/ ︶
In this period \ * ,*
/
No birth control \ ︶
/ , ,
Apparently it’s not needed ˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉˉ \\ //
Period. \\\\ //// but they told us:
<””◙”’’’ , , , , ,“”///////////’’’’
Just struggle with fury, \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Be quiet and hurry, \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\”* And smuggle your worries, ’’’’’’””“‘ And don’t cawk like crows. | | No one wants to hear your woes, So just let it go. Next time don’t put yourself in danger. Surround yourself with strangers, And you’ll never feel alone. ░░░ ░░░░░░░░ At least that’s what they said, ░░░░░░░░░░ ░| ▄▄░░░▄▄|░░ Enjoy your crippling debt! ░ ██░░░██|░░_ You’re Just Another Jack. \░ ▀ ░▄░ ▀░░░/ You don’t deserve to be upset… ░░░ ▀▌▀░░░ ░█ ░░░░░█░ WELCOME TO ░ ▀ HHHH▀░ the land where we: ░░░░░░░ s H oot all the kids who fight for their lives t E ll them you’re heroes cause dying solves crime c L early they needed some lead in their eyes ‘cause s L avers have methods to keep them in line--------- “ =,_,~=” \ \ The jacks are so empty, \ \ , so tortured: \ ,~-’\
They cry. ‘\ ** \ They’ve lost all their reasons \ ** \ So now here they lie: \ ** \ \_,~-›\ Disenfranchised and bro ken \_,~-’\ Their thick skin rip- -ped open \_,~-’\ The jacks are now junkies \_,~-’ To suppress their emotions \ First need↓es, then choking \ Their sweat has them soaking \ They’re c°ld and convulsing \ But no one could nʘtice 0 For the rest are still j⊠king ⋮ 0 And screaming ⋮《 \ʘ _ 0 And hoping ⋮《 /ʘ ˉ Believing the power is with the outspoken ⋮ ⇣ But no one can hear you when drowning in oceans ⋮《 /⌧ _ Of vomit and fear ⋮《 \ ⌧ ˉ ◉⟿⟿⟿ And pain with no cⓧping ⋮
The junkies and sobbing sacks sick of living sag like a limp dick after the party ends. Even after all the chuckles, The dancing, The yelling, The friends, Everyone is sad when the party ends.
Podcasts
Welcome to the Podcast Playlist! Here you’ll find short stories, letters, and other longer works, along with pieces that tackle big topics. Make sure to CLICK the “add lit or art” button to submit to The Folio!
Stoga Folio 24 works ADD LIT OR ART
6 Ft. Apart, It’s Not All Bad
Sophia Reeder, Macormick Hunter
Rico, On Mostly Quiet People, i got the conch Casey Kovarick, Jessia Frantzen, Madison Red
Playtime, An Open Letter to My Little Brother, BRGB Monisha Gupta, Aryaj Kumar, Madison Red
Captivity, Brute Double Bucket And I Monisha Gupta
When I get shot Noah Lanuoette
Blitzkrieg
Scott A Hennessy
Who is she?, To Nanjing Girl Kaylee Morris, Angeline Ma
You & I, Broken Pearls
Lara Briggs, Mahnoor Aqeel
Journey, Tenderpathy
Sophia Reeder, Jessica Frantzen
The Sundress
Jessica Frantzen
Sweet like Honey, Dreams and Stardust, Red Sea Lara Briggs, Madison Red
On Body Image, Gazing Sophia Chen, Stella Lei
Bang, Hello There!
Scott A. Hennessy, Madison Red
6 Feet Minimum by Sophia Reeder
It’s Not All Bad by Macormick Hunter
The world is drowning in fear People are worried the end is near People are dying People are crying We’re all isolated in our houses Some stuck with siblings, some with pets, some with spouses But it’s not all bad So don’t be completely sad The water in Venice canals is clear Fish and swans are starting to reappear The skies are no longer gray And there’s more light later in the day Carbon dioxide levels are decreasing So more animals and people are breathing So don’t cry little one Because there’s more to be done Wipe off your tears And open your ears Listen to the birds chirp And don’t let your mind go berserk While we’re no longer stealing Mother nature is healing
Rico
by Casey Kovarick
On (mostly) Quiet People
by Jessica Frantzen
It’s loud. Too loud. The lunchroom is crammed with roughly 500 people, and I don’t want to talk to any of them—even the ones directly in front of me. They’re not bad people, or at least I think they’re not plotting world domination— to the contrary, they’re all (ok, almost all) kind people who’ve been with me through high school’s challenges. The problem is something completely different: my tendency for quiet, and my words that refuse to flow as freely as my peers’. It’s strange. For somebody who grew up loving writing, and the power it grants us to express ourselves, I never seem to find the right words in person. Conversations move too fast, jetting by like the little mile markers on the side of the highway, and by the time I strike upon something witty to interject with in the conversation it’s already five miles past where my exit was and my mind’s stuck rerouting, spinning endlessly to try and come up with something else. So why do I struggle to pluck words out of the air as easily as others do? If you were to ask me…well, if I were asked in person, I’d probably burn with the embarrassment of being called out. After my sparks of worry were
extinguished, though, I would probably say that I’m an introvert, and that’s just how introverts are. Is that accurate? According to modern researchers, it’s not: introverts do fine in social situations, weaving their words with grace, and they’re able to form the same intricate tapestries of language that any extravert or ambivert or whatev-ert does. Still, it’s a lot easier to tell people that I’m an introvert than it is to say that I’m a shy person with a cat guardian lording over her tongue, so I tend to stick with ‘introverted’ as a label. As terrible as I make a life of ‘introvertism’ sound, it comes packaged with its own perks. To the untrained eye, I may look like a fortress of solitude, but for all of the talking I’ve missed out on, I’ve gained irreplaceable skills in the art of listening. Here’s a piece of advice I’ve picked up for the quiet-inclined: if you ever want to be considered the ‘wise and mature’ person among your friends, just hear their problems out. You don’t even have to say anything, as long as you learn the proper placement of solemn nods (if necessary, these can be coupled with the basic “that sounds
On Mostly Quiet People terrible,” or “yeah, I get that feeling,”), looks of shock (preferably in the “Oh, they did not!” style), or, in the most dire of situations, a hand placed gently on the back, to say “I’m right here” without saying anything. Sometimes, the most important conversations don’t need to be overwhelmed with words: they just need an assurance that you’re there, even if you’re not the most talkative.
Shyness, I’ve found, isn’t some dark cloud hovering over everything I do—it’s more like a cloak. I can eventually shrug it off if I need to, but first I’m going to get tangled up in 20 layers of folding black fabric and make myself look very silly in the process. When I finally manage to break into a conversation I’m interested in, whether it’s on the logistics of cloning Bernie Sanders 141,782,400 times (once every second for the entire time he could theoretically spend in the oval office) or just about a book that I have really, really come to hate (here’s looking at you, The Magicians, and good riddance), my tongue-cat leaves me alone for a while. If you’ve been on the receiving end of one of these conversations, you’ve probably realized that once I start talking, the floodgates are open and will not shut up. To those affected parties: my apologies. Perhaps unsurprisingly, as a child, I was quite the social butterfly. I would frolic joyously with my friends, leading the charge in a game of ponies or reindeer or whatever the
‘animal of the day’ was. Even now, I’m still not sure where that little extrovert went off to--by the time I had reached middle school, I had evolved into an introvert. Maybe it was like Mrs. Narcissi said back in fourth grade, and all of the Pokémon games I played corrupted me into a hopeless introvert, sealing my fate as a future attendee of the dreaded Conestoga Anime Club. Or maybe I just realized that I really like being alone. They’re equally possible in my eyes. I can’t change the fact that I’m an introvert—or a generally shy person. And given the chance, I wouldn’t want to either. Some of my greatest joys come from sitting down and finally getting time to pick up that book, or from finally seeing a sketch or writing piece of mine come to fruition before my eyes, and the times that I do succeed in spending time with my friends feel like even greater victories than they would to others. Being an introvert has given me the opportunity to look deep into myself (figuratively, at least) and find what I value independent of how others feel: and that’s a valuable experience at the tender age of 17 (especially with Common App season being afoot!). And while being graced with the one-two punch of introvertism and shyness isn’t always great, I couldn’t imagine being myself without either.
i got the conch by Madison Red
Playtime
by Monisha Gupta
r e t t e L n e p O An r e h t o r B e l t t i L to my mar
by Aryaj Ku
Dear Ben Simmons, I only addressed the letter that way since I know he’s your idol and how much you strive to be him – to the point that you’d even want to change your name to his. But I like you with your own name - we get to share half. Though you don’t think so, I think our last name would look rather nice on the back of a jersey. I rather envy you sometimes. The blissful sweet innocence. The benefits that come with being that third child. The ability to play basketball indoors for as long as you wish, causing a great deal of noise without fear that anyone would dare to challenge you. The flexibility to throw a tantrum to get your way when you want to watch more TV. The chance to cry when you were promised burgers but got kichadi (I feel your pain on this one, I don’t like lentils either). Getting your way must be nice all the time, though I doubt you realize it. You’re only seven after all – my apologies, 7 and a quarter. I can’t accurately put into words what it means to me that you come talk to me. Maybe it’s for a math question that you didn’t quite get. Maybe you wanted to ask me about a deep, philosophical question about the world like “why is the sky blue?” or “why can’t people fly?” (I apologize I could only answer one fully due to my limited knowledge). Or maybe just when you run through the door after coming home from school – excited, full of energy, with that incredible smile on your face. I see your green eyes (which by the way, you got way lucky with the gene pool. I’m stuck with normal brown.) twinkle with joy as you say 5 simple words to me: “Hi, how was school today?” School was okay. Same old same old. I reckon I could’ve had a better day, but it didn’t happen. But seeing you changes something. Seeing you so happy as I ask you back about your day and what you did today…it reminds me of one of the best things I have.
An Open Letter to my Little Brother Maybe I’m a complainer because I’ve always complained about the noise you make, how you bother me sometimes, or how I feel like you got away with something you definitely shouldn’t have. When you were 5, I didn’t realize I’d miss what you were like when you were 3. When you were 3, I didn’t realize how much I’d miss you as a baby. Now you’re 7 (and a quarter). Being 11 years older than you will always make you my little brother, but sometimes I forget how little you really are. It’s cliché (I know you don’t know that word but you can always ask me) but it’s true – you’ve grown up so fast. I truly enjoy spending time with you. Whether it be watching the 76ers game, playing Connect Four, or racing in the backyard, each moment I get to spend with you is precious. As I’m off to college soon, my time to see you every day will be lost. You need not worry. As you’ve already asked, I will of course remember to send you a birthday present. I will admit; I am not the older brother who douses their siblings with affection. But as I try to finish this letter and all my emotions and thoughts are in my head, I feel some tears forming. They’re only there because to put it simply, I love you. One last thing…you and the 12-year-old (yes, my other younger and your second oldest brother in case you were confused) need to stop being so competitive and fighting over random nonsense. It’s ridiculous sometimes. I promise I will write him an open letter too, so he doesn’t feel left out. Sincerely, Your older brother.
BRGB by Madison Red
Captivity
by Monisha Gupta
I lug seven and half pounds of water and ice across gray tiles to the blue chairs. Droplets spray and lumps of ice bob like seals as I dream different beginnings, middles and ends. I roll the words over my tongue. anterior talofibular ligament I wish I never learned your name. I untie the worn out laces and loosen the tongue, knowing perfectly well twenty minutes with this bucket will not fly by. I run my fingers over bare skin, searching for the pains and aches, anger, frustration and the pulsing hum-drum of warm blood and tender tissue simmering underneath. I take the plunge. The first 10 seconds aren’t for the weak of heart and gritting my teeth, I have to believe I have a strong one. Like life, it’s all a test of resolve. I beg and plead and lose all sense of touch. Three hundred seconds make me question my sanity. Eleven minutes later and I know pins and needles are coming, icy blue toes are next. I know this story like the back of my hand, the way you know tomorrow is another day, so I slowly lift my foot from the icy waters, shrug a damp sock on and begin to walk, ready to do it all again.
brute double bucket & I
I admit it’s nice looking—cherry red meets plastic-rubber, two halves joined by silver metal, rusted by sweaty hands that carry its load.
by Dhivya Arasappan
I spend too much time with a bucket, any more and I’d write my name, and claim it for my own.
When I Get Shot by Noah Lanuette
By the wherever PD Will they be held responsible Or will they blame me? Will the officer Father of two white kids Be overlooked as a killer And be forgiven for what he did Will they say he was under pressure Of a high-stress workplace And I acted quite irrationally With his gun pointed at my face? Articles don’t show mugshots They don’t talk about his race They present a smiling innocent Sergeant William Thomas Grace A good man, through and through Just the wrong time and a worse place What will become of me? After my heart stops beating Killed at the cop’s hand Will I be remembered as human Or dubbed a “dangerous, Black man”? What is my legacy? Days later FOX news lets me know I’m a drug dealer A rapist An abuser A terrorist And I learn about it when the rest of the world does, too Lived in fear, dead in infamy Sgt. Grace is a hero retroactively For wiping another smudge off the snow white streets Before I was put down I was scared for my life But now my death haunts me more In its tainted light
blitz blitz Kreig Kreig by Scott A Hennessy
i e zKr gblitz Did you see it? The wooden cottages on these rolling hills and meadows? They sat alone, away from any oak nor stream Their texture aged grey and brittle They sang when the wind blew And creaked as it rained The airs was thick and reeked of old tobacco Did you see it? Before it burned by fire? Those beautiful cottages in Austria? Wood splintered Along with the laughs of poor children Swept away by the storm And crushed by a greater evil Many have forgotten But I shanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Ash has settled from which they stood And from it grew dandelions White and silky like milk May this world let them stand And sprinkle the air And flutter among the stars
Who Is She
by Kaylee Morris
To Nanjing Girl / by Angeline Ma
Wǒ de xuěhuā, Nǐ hǎo ma? Nǐ zěnme yàng? Zuó wǎn wǒ zàicì mèngjiàn nánjīng, xuěhuā & there are things / my hands can never forget / snow melting into the scent of / sunrise the earth on the corner of / collapse my voice on the verge of / silence that pressed my hands to a girl / ‘s frozen skin I was 17 you / were clean until I didn’t know / where I came / from the bullet holes in my body / ‘s snowfall spread like / nuclear ash burning your tongue / until you reached for silent shame / xuěhuā xuěhuā nǐ rónghuàle & still I have not learned / how to pronounce your name / without wanting / that is to say / that I choose the hunger / for crimes committed / for blessings bestowed / that is to say / I choose not to know how / snow can burn / I watch a radioactive sunrise beat / through your surface / I scratch after too much hunger / for a taste of forgiveness / xuěhuā jiēshòu wǒ ba & the things I can say only when I / ‘m about to come / xuěhuā bàoqiànbàoqiànbàoq these hands / I don’t know what to do with / these hands / that grasp the winter wind for pieces of / gone girl these hands / sting from snowfall purer than / silence author’s note: after ocean vuong
you & i by Lara Briggs
you rhapsodize with tired lines of tired lies it’s your demise i feel your eyes let go of mine your tears are dry, you fantasize but act surprised to see me fly then ask me why i soar so high i’m losing sight of “you & i”. you harmonize with fading sighs for missed goodbyes then want to pry just for a prize you couldn’t buy by being sly, you hypnotize unsteady strides and seem alive but when I cry you cut the ties you don’t apply to “you & i.”
Broken Pearls
by Mahnoor Aqeel
Journey
by Sophia Reeder
Tenderpathy
by Je ss ic a Fr an tz en
Half of all Americans believe In psychic phenomena: In pulling back the beaded curtain of the mind, strand by strand, watching equally both the weary writer behind the veil, desk strewn with undefined emotions and incomplete sentences, and the wooden beads on the curtain, praying they don’t clack in their ill-begotten presence; In stealing away the carefully guarded inevitabilities of Time herself, a heist that yields the 78 to be handed back on an ill-studied history final, a lost key buried in a landscape of jeans, and the bittersweet warning that no, that theater kid will not go to prom;
;
In wringing apart the sundried, spotted hands of Space himself, using nothing but painful focus, eyebrows tied in bunny-ear knots, all so that the remote slinks through the air—they could have stood up, but hey, it looks much cooler to the zero people watching. Silly? Perhaps, But how I, too, wish to hear your reassuring voice from night’s starry void, staring across at the clock blinking LCD nonsense, to see us two in summer’s capricious embrace in three months’ time, you quacking at the ducks in retaliation, to feel the backs of your fingers pressed against mine, a telekinesis of courage, a psychic conversation.
the
sundress
by Jessica Frantzen
Lune Fisher was a thief—a dress thief. It wasn’t her idea to steal it at first—no, she just wanted to stare at it longingly, like all of the other frilly sundresses the seamstresses would peddle on Conch Street. Glimpses were all Lune could afford with a dress like that—ask to feel the lace, or, god forbid, try it on, and she knew she would be as good as sold. Not to mention the glares she’d get from the snooty neighbor ladies.
But Conch Street was a very different place from Savannah Corren’s room. There, in Lune’s best friend’s closet, hung the infamous sundress. It was a pale periwinkle (Savannah said it complemented her own eyes better, but Lune didn’t know the first thing about that), and underneath its floral-patterned lace was a soft layer of matching silk. The sleeves, if you could call them sleeves, were stitched purely from lace, and draped sparsely over the shoulders. The sundress’s hem scalloped at Savannah’s knees. If Lune were to ever try the dress on, she thought, it would probably fall to her mid-thigh. It even, as Savannah exclaimed while showing it off, had pockets.
So when, on that fateful summer day, Savannah left Lune and the dress alone together, Lune took it—hanger and all—and stuffed it in her backpack. Sure, stealing was bad. But this wasn’t stealing, it was borrowing without permission! Or that was what Lune told herself as she hurried to jam the hanger’s curved metal end into her bag. The lace of the dress kept spilling out and catching in the zipper. But she pulled it off. She had become a thief, and now, after half an hour of pleading to the higher powers that Savannah wouldn’t ask about her bag’s puffier shape, Lune admired her haul in the filtered light of her own bedroom.
Savannah probably would’ve let Lune borrow the sundress if she only asked. But Lune preferred to leave the discussions that inevitably came with that request for some other time. For now, behind her closed door, she hugged the dress close. It smelled faintly of hot chocolate (then again, everything Savannah owned did), and it was thoroughly wrinkled, but that was fixable. Probably. Lune hadn’t the foggiest idea how to handle clothing like this, but that wasn’t going to stop her from trying it on.
After tugging the dress over her head, getting stuck, realizing there was a zipper she had forgotten, and then awkwardly trying to re-zip the dress without getting lace caught (lace in zippers seemed an inevitability at this point), Lune admired herself in the mirror. It didn’t look perfect, she noted. She didn’t fill in the dress the way Savannah did, and so it fell limply, the tide of blue silk rustling softly as she swayed.
Her reflection’s lips pursed. If only… She sighed and examined her mirror image again. But then again, what was she expecting? As magical as it looked, the sundress wasn’t enchanted. No fairy godmother could wave a wand and shape her form just a little differently, smoothing out curves where there weren’t any.
But despite that, and the fact that the hem ended at her upper thigh instead of mid-thigh, something about the sundress just felt right. Lune twirled like a little girl playing ballerina, watching the silk float and shimmer under the soft light, and her heart skipped a beat. Even her reflection’s burgeoning frown flipped right-side up.
Someday, she would wear her own radiant sundress on the streets, gossips be damned. But for now, house keys clicked into the front door. Lune, with a sigh, simply folded her unregretted crime into her backpack, to be uncovered only when summer cicadas buzzed in the night.
by Ankita Kalasabail
sweet like honey
dreamsandstardust by Lara Briggs “Don’t touch that,” Maia called over her shoulder, adjusting her grip on the boxes. I’d reached out to grab Maia’s keys, which she’d left in the door after fumbling for them in her bag, still holding on to the boxes, even though I’d offered to carry one of them for her, or get the door, or just do something. But the keys were special keys, the boxes special boxes, and I wasn’t to touch anything. “I’ll just grab the keys later.” Maia’s tiny apartment, in a pastel stucco building overlooking the beach, looked exactly as I expected it. There was a decent amount of clutter, some of it seemingly part of the design. Shells were dotted over every surface, and a bit of incense smoked in one of the corners of the room. Dropping the boxes down in the center of the main room, Maia glided over to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of Arnold Palmer and some chicken dumplings. “I didn’t have time to get lunch before I got this,” she gestured to the boxes, “so I’m pretty hungry. Want anything?” I shook my head. Maia shrugged and plated the dumplings. She poured a glass of the tea-lemonade very gently, as if she thought the glass would shatter if the drink went in too quickly. She poured a glass of the tea-lemonade in such a gentle way; it was as if she thought she would shatter the glass if the drink went in it too fast.
“Want me to move the boxes?” I offered. I knew she would refuse. “No, that’s alright, I’ll take them,” she said briskly, leaving the food on her counter. Maia’s apartment faced the shore, and she had a balcony. The only things on it were a stool and an easel. “It’s a lovely day,” she said, moving the boxes between her hip and knee as she struggled with the balcony door. She had an octopus tattoo, its tentacles visible as her loose cardigan slipped off her shoulder. That was what she needed, I thought. Eight more arms. Once we were both out on the balcony, Maia opened the boxes. Inside were several little jars filled with color. Some contained loose powder, while others looked more like paint. I’d seen Maia’s finished paintings before. They were wild, vibrant, alive, resembling nothing real, yet they felt like something seen before somewhere far away. When I asked to visit her studio and watch her paint, I was surprised she said yes. “The first rule of my work,” Maia began, delicately removing the jars from the box, “is to get rid of the idea of a final piece. If I know what I want it to look like before I start, it doesn’t work.
dreams and stardust I listen, I feel. You can try it too.” She arranged the jars in a semicircle in front of her and took a seat on the stool.
the two possibilities: this could just be a woman with an octopus tattoo who lives by the sea and paints for a living, or the stories were true.
Listen.
Maia offered no answers, just pigment and paint.
The waves tapped the shore lightly, rolling lazily across the sand, a soft, constant sound. Faintly, I heard windchimes, likely from one of Maia’s neighbors.
When she was finished, she sighed and smiled. “What do you think?”
Maia must have heard something inspiring, because she grabbed a jar filled with seafoam green pigment and scooped out some with her finger. She slowly traced a circle around the canvas. Bits of pigment slid from the shape erratically, a perfect circle with powder tears. “What do you hear?” she asked, shifting her focus to a tall jar filled with a thick, bright pink liquid. I told her that I heard the waves, the windchimes. She nodded. “Anything else?” There was nothing else. She looked down at the jar, a bit disappointed. She continued like this for a couple of hours, pausing for a moment only to select another color, draw another shape. At times, she would talk quietly to herself, or she would explain something to me. I’d heard the rumors about her paintings, as had everyone else. They were made from dreams, from bits of stardust, from other dimensions. They were gateways, portals into memories, into other planets, into things that weren’t real. I observed Maia, watched her paint, and I thought of
What did I think? It was beautiful, it was a mess. It was everything at once. I felt like I knew this painting, and it knew me, too. Maia nodded knowingly. “I have to give it a little time to dry, since the paint is a little finicky, but it’s yours. Pick it up tomorrow.” I told her I would like that very much. As I left her apartment, I turned and saw her staring out towards the ocean. I wondered what she saw.
Red Sea
by Madison Red
On
body image by Sophia Chen
I conceal my face with layers of makeup hoping that half a bottle of BB cream will be enough to make me as flawless as Kylie Jenner looks on the cover of Seventeen magazine. I use innumerous acne medications, aspiring to be as unblemished as the girls in the Clean and Clear commercials. I reject bags of M&Ms and fudge brownies and pepperoni pizzas thinking that my sacrifices will make me “love my body” as much as the emaciated Victoria Secret models love theirs. I routinely shave my legs and armpits and pluck my eyebrows with fear of becoming the hairy woman the media deems horrendous. I do everything yet feel like I am nothing. Nothing compared to the beautiful women pictured in magazines and television. I didn’t always feel so self-conscious. All my life I’ve been considered a “normal” healthy kid. I didn’t know that there was anything “wrong” with my body until I was in 10th grade and a friend felt the need to make it known to me. We were laying on my bed watching a YouTube video about grilled cheese sandwiches when she said, “You’ve got stretch marks on your legs!” and proceeded to take her pointer finger and identify the four or five tiny lines that were starting to form. “Only fat people have stretch marks.” And that’s when the cycle of judging myself began. Growing up an Asian American in a predominantly white area has also affected the way I see myself. Ever since I was young, I have known
that I was different from my peers. I didn’t eat pepperoni pizza for lunch like they did, my hair did not cascade down my shoulders when I let it out of a ponytail like theirs did, and my parents did not speak the same language as their parents did. As I grew up, I became more aware of my appearance and learned to hide the parts of myself that were different from others. I would delete pictures of myself where my eyes were a little too squinted and avoid hanging out with the other Asian kids in my grade in fear of being deemed “too Asian.” When I scroll through my Instagram feed and see my friends and acquaintances and friends of friends, I realize that most of them are white. Standing next to my blonde haired, blue eyed friends has always made me feel lesser than them. On more than one occasion, I have gone to sleep at night and wished that I would wake up and the girl in the mirror looking back at me would be white because that’s what I thought would make me beautiful. I would secretly resent my parents for making me look the way I do. I just never felt like I was enough. Whereas the world saw a young teenage girl who was happy in her skin, laughed a lot, and didn’t care what anyone thought about her, I felt like I was worth nothing on the inside. The truth of the matter was I wasn’t happy in my skin; I laughed to hide my pain and cared deeply what my peers thought of my appearance. I can’t remember a moment when I’d look in the
mirror and think, I look good. I’d lose it when a photo of me at a bad angle was posted, or when sizing in stores put me at a size higher than I was somewhere else. Every day, I’d scroll through Instagram with envy, looking at the girls with perfect bodies and be so angry that I couldn’t look like that. For far too long, I abused my body. I talked down to her, writing down every part of myself that I hated and reading it back to myself over and over. I would look at myself in the mirror for hours, poking the extra fat and pointing out the flaws. I fought with her. I created good and bad food lists for her to live by, obsessively tracking calories taken in and calories burned. I would be so disappointed when I ate more than I burned. I punished her, exercising for hours at a time, thinking that the more pain I felt, the skinnier I was getting. I chose to not nourish her, going days only drinking water and eating a single cracker every ten hours. I chose to hide her away because I was ashamed of her, wearing oversized sweatshirts every day in hopes that no one would see the body underneath and making up excuses to not go to the beach with my friends because I did not want anyone to see me in a bathing suit. Coming out of this toxic mindset has not been easy. It has not been easy to accept my ethnic
background and it has not been easy to like the body I trained myself to think was never good enough. Some days I feel like I am on top of the world and other days I feel as if I had made no progress towards recovery at all. I’ve sought help online by reading inspiring stories from women who have somehow found a way beyond this thinking. “I have learned to love my body and accept it and cherish it and worship it,” they’ll write. But I haven’t gotten to that point yet, and it doesn’t seem like I will anytime soon. So, when I read about all these women coming to love their bodies, it all seems like a giant lie because how can I learn to love something I’ve hated all my life? But maybe it is okay to accept that I am not happy with my body just yet. Maybe it’s okay to hate how I look in the mirror some days because that means that there are days that I am happy with how I look. When I catch myself comparing my body to those I see on the social media, I remind myself that my body does so much for me, and I should appreciate it for all the good it brings. Loving who we are is not easy because there can be so many things to hate but focusing on the good- great friends, beautiful art, calming music, a wonderful support system- has helped me make small pushes forward.
Gazing
Stella Lei
BANG by Scott A. Hennessy At the start, there was nothing. Empty. Emptier than empty. More nothing than nothing. In fact, just the word ‘nothing’ implies that there was ‘something.’ But there wasn’t. Rather, it was so nothing that it was ineffable with the words from any language that was yet to come. Like existence before birth. Or sleep without dreams. Or Death itself. But even those vacant spaces of ‘nothing’ are still unequivocally attached to time. Birth is a beginning. Sleep is finite. Death is the end. There was no time. There was no nothing. There was no anything at all. At the start, it didn’t even begin. Or end. It didn’t move backwards or forwards. It wasn’t linear or random. Or any combination in between. It wasn’t black. It wasn’t white. It wasn’t anything. Until, it was. First, there was shouting. Screaming. Laughing. The universe cried, and let out its breath, and gasped as its vision stained with particles of light, magic, and matter, scattering in the infinitely indiscriminate ether. Expanding, exploding, excited. And suddenly, things were happening. Things were moving. Forward. For the first and last time. Everything was created and destroyed at infinite speeds for countless small eternities. The bounds of fresh existence overwhelmed by temperamental noise. Then, there was a whisper. An unconscious whisper, dancing among the ever-breathing stars. The beautiful lights and colors. The genesis of magical pathways to untold worlds. Mint molecules clashing and fusing and ripping apart. Across the infant yet ancient cosmos remained one constant: that whisper. It whispered two words. The first two words ever. And the last. And everything in between. “I am,” it said. And so it was.
hello there by Madison Red
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MEET THE CREATORS Latest Release VOLUME LIII ISSUE II MAY 22, 2020
Lara Briggs is a fan of jazz. She’s been playing jazz for the last eight years. In her opinion, more people should try listening to it, since there are lots of sub-genres that are completely different. Her favorite pieces are “Flood’’ by Snarky Puppy, “Begin the Beguine” by Artie Shaw, and Buddy Rich’s arrangement of “Norwegian Wood”.
Jessica Frantzen is an aficionado of music she can’t understand, from piano she practiced three years ago and can’t get out of her head to J-Pop which she has hurt her hips (and arms, and legs, and voice) fangirling too hard to.
Sebastian Castro has absolutely no problem singing at the top of his lungs, despite having no musical prowess.
There are only two songs Sophia Reeder knows will get her up and dancing. One is “Share Your Address” by Ben Platt. The other is “I’m Breaking Down” from the musical Falsettos. Both are for extremely different situations, but are bops nonetheless.
Madison Red enjoys a variety of different genres, from 70’s classics to modern pop all the way to niche showtunes. When creating spreads for the magazine, she likes to listen to Spotify’s Chill Hits playlist
Monisha Gupta is a senior who only listens to music on three occasions: while working out, driving, or making art. Depending on the mood, she switches between songs in English, French, and Hindi. Currently, her favorite songs are “Stars” by Chair Model and “Défiler” by Stromae.
Dhivya Arasappan is an indie pop/rock kinda gal. Having converted to Spotify in the last year, she grudgingly puts up with the ads for a chance to tune out to artists like Maggie Rogers, Vance Joy, Sigrid as well as L.E.J. (even though she doesn’t understand french). Currently, her favorite songs are “Light On” by Maggie Rogers and “Technicolor Beat” by Oh Wonder.
80s music makes a comeback in Chloe Williams’s playlist, with a-ha, Queen, Bon Jovi, and Michael Jackson lined up (not to mention Cyndi Lauper and Van Halen). Her favorite songs, though they change weekly, are not always from that genre. Currently (May 8) “I Will Survive” from the album Love Tracks by Gloria Gaynor is at the top of the list (Hello, 1970s).
Lydia Naser is a junior who can often be found jamming in the car to anything from musical soundtracks to early 2000s emo, though her sweet spot tends to be indie acoustics, 80s pop, and modern pop/alternative. She recently found out her dad doesn’t like the song “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan, and is a little bit traumatized by that fact.
Formerly a member of the middle school chorus, now-senior Noah Lanouette has no idea how good he is at singing and is too scared to try to find out. However, he is fully aware that he is very good at listening to music, where his taste in music is basically any song except for the ones he doesn’t like. Noah’s favorite song right now is “Take Care” by Drake featuring Rihanna.
Leyla Yilmaz’s playlists range to include many genres, from bubblegum pop and indie rock to r&b. Maybe it can be seen from her twenty two playlists, but she’s not very decisive. Her favorite artist right now is Mitski, but she’s not exactly sure. She might change her mind again.
An assortment of indie pop/rock music appears in Natalia Green’s playlists, from artists like Mac Demarco and Clairo to Wallows and The 1975..
In perhaps one of the ghastliest musical playlists of all time, Chitra Singh’s life might best be described with crazy, ear-shattering David Bowie albums, fine-tuned by every Hans Zimmer composition in existence, and mellowed with the songs in The Lion King.
Angeline Ma spends a disproportionate amount of time curating Spotify playlists mostly consisting of classical, house, and anything in Sofia Coppola’s films. If you know her, you probably have at least some idea of her (unhealthy) obsession with Brahms; outside of Brahms, she’s recently been getting into lo-fi house DJs Yaeji and Park Hye Jin. But at the end of the day, classical music is and always will be closest to her heart.
Aryaj Kumar enjoys listening to music in the background while doing something else, but especially when he drives. Depending on the mood, he is blasting songs like “Closer” by The Chainsmokers, “Godzilla” by Eminem, or “Robbery” by Juice Wrld. He is thankful for Spotify Premium because the radio overplays everything and ruins good songs.
Ankita Kalasabail would say that music is one of her favorite things. From teaching herself how to play instruments she thinks look cool to sitting on the floor of a shift store looking through records, it is her favorite pastime. While her most liked genre is indie pop, she does enjoy 80’s classic rock and old jazz.
Shreya Singh doesn’t exactly know what to call the music she vibes with most. She loves the kind of music that you can listen to on a late night drive. Give Surfaces a try (she’s obsessed with the band), lovelytheband, and Jaymes Young. And who can forget 2000s throwbacks like “Can’t Hold Us”, “We Are Young”, and “Moves Like Jagger”? Nothing will beat the summers before 2014 let’s be honest.
Daniel Gergeus will spend all his time picking a song from his r&b playlist to listen to while doing his work instead of actually doing his work.
Olivia Wang is a junior who can’t quite decide on a particular music taste. She’s dabbled in the arts of pre-2000s nostalgia, anime OSTs, and has had a brief tango with KPop. Above all, she enjoys a tune with a good peppy beat that can make all her responsibilities disappear.
Ashka Patel is very fickle when it comes to music. She swore that she would never listen to any rap songs yet sometimes you can find her nodding along to Blackbear’s songs. She was never good at sticking to one type of music. She listens to pop one day, country the next, maybe some indie. Currently, she is fixed on upbeat dance songs like “2 Hearts” by Sam Feldt, Sigma, and Gia Koka or “Post Malone” by Sam Feldt and RANI.
Scott A Hennessy likes music. He thinks it’s pretty cool.
Casey Kovarick loves to listen to alternative/indie music such as Peach Tree Rascals, Tame Impala, and Dayglow. Once she gets hooked on a song or artist, she will probably listen to it on repeat until she is sick of it.
Stella Lei will listen to music when doing almost anything, from taking long walks to exercising to making art. Oftentimes, putting on a Spotify playlist in the background helps her focus, especially when doing homework. She doesn’t know how to describe her music taste, but she has been listening to a lot of Half Waif recently.
Sophia Chen cannot listen to music because her ears are so small that the sound waves can’t reach her cochlea.
Eileen Chen adores instrumental music and ballads, it could be Movie OSTs to classical to piano solos. She falls asleep to piano in the evening if she can. From time to time, she will listen to occasional k-pop, or mandopop.
Nikkita Pandey doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have Spotify premium but would never listen to music on any other app. She listens to it while doing work even though she knows it will distract her. She randomly decides to listen to jazz from the 60s sometimes, for example, Cantaloupe Island.
Lulu Gunn really canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pick her favorite genre of music. She likes relaxing tunes from America and Neil Young, but is a sucker for rock from artists like Pearl Jam, U2, and the Eagles. She also enjoys old school.
Hunter McIlvain paid to see Cats in theatres because he was a fan of the original Broadway production. He seldom listens to anything but Broadway and 80s rock.
A Special Thanks To Our Producers
In an effort to evade questions like “What’s your favorite song?” and because he may actually believe it, advisor Ben Smith claims the top spot goes to “Auld Lang Syne.” Yes, that song people sing on New Year’s Eve. The one they don’t really know the words to or even understand. It’s the lilting melody, the fact that you only hear it once a year, and how it begins and ends with you and friends hugging each other. What other song is as reliable as that?
Advisor Katie Wilson grew up singing Bruce Springsteen as she cruised in her dad’s 2001 Honda Civic - no, it wasn’t a convertible, a Jeep, or a really cool Ford Ranger, but it did have a sunroof. Somehow, the small car roaring down the highway to the shore with her dad has been her “perfect day” ever since, no matter how cliche that is.
About the Folio We are a student-run literary and art magazine from Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Officially titled The Folio in 2007, Conestoga has published a student-produced literary magazine since 1967. Our goals are to discover, develop, and celebrate the literary and artistic talents of our school and community. The Folio welcomes submissions from all â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Stoga students. Information on how to submit work or join our staff can be found on our website: stogafolio.weebly.com. The National Scholastic Press Association has rated our publication All-American. The National Council of Teachers of English has ranked us as a Superior magazine. The Pennsylvania School Press Association has awarded us their Gold Rating.
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LOOKING BACK **To check out our past issues, CLICK on the covers for each issue!
Past Releases Winter 2020 VOLUME LIII ISSUE I FEB 5, 2020
Spring 2019 VOLUME LI ISSUE II JUNE 23, 2019
Winter 2019 VOLUME LI ISSUE I FEB 24, 2019