The Folio / Spring 2019 by The Folio

conestoga high school

volume lii issue ii

The Folio a literary and art magazine

the folio a literary and art magazine

conestoga high school spring - volume li - issue ii

Cover photo © 2019 “Gurl” Olivia Wang Inside cover © 2018 “Where’s The Backspace?” Lydia Naser Copyright © 2019 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff Internal Design © 2019 Gabriella Miko and Laila Norford Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist First edition 2019 All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced herewith permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School. Published and printed in the United States of America www.stogafolio.weebly.com Find us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @stogafolio

FROM THE EDITORS

literary laura liu & alexandra ross art

gabriella miko & laila b. norford

business

madeline murphy & kavya singh

copy

lara briggs & jessica frantzen

From the Editors

hen thinking about a theme for this issue, one of the most interesting suggestions was the concept of the past, the present, and the future, and our relationship with all three. Even though time is such a prevalent force in our lives, we rarely pause to think about its true impact. When we do, we often feel strong emotions—regret or longing for the lives we once had, or excitement for the lives we will one day live. Time passes, whether we want it to or not. This is one of the only things we are guaranteed in life. We often try to forget that our lives are constantly changing, but in this issue of The Folio, we invite you to face that knowledge head-on. For the nostalgic and reflective, turn to page 10 to dwell on the past. For the conscious and aware, turn to page 42 to remain grounded in the present. For the curious and the dynamic, turn to page 94 to ponder the future. As you dive into this magazine, we hope you will reflect on your own past, present, and future, and get lost in time. When you’re a senior in high school, especially in the last month before graduation, your sense of time gets a little messed up. In the past, our time was categorized, compartmentalized, following the sequence of K through 12 until we realized—and this may surprise you—that there is no 13th grade. For now, the only real picture many of us have of the future is just the looming presence of college. We’re stuck in a sort of limbo, trying to soak up the last drops of the past by spending time with our old friends, while also preparing for college through orientations, enrolling for classes, and one-last-hoorah family vacations—all the while trying to remember to “live in the moment”. We don’t mean to be dramatic—it’s not like the end of our childhood is the end of the universe. But still, this is the first big ending of our lifetimes, the first reminder that we don’t really have all the time in the

world. Though this can be kind of a bummer when you first think about it, it can be a great inspiration as well. We don’t have forever to follow our dreams, to do what makes us happy, to try and fail and try again, to save our planet, to show others we love them, to share our music, art, and writing, or to make our world more just—so why not start today? For a long time, Conestoga High School was our future. Now, it is our present. And for the seniors, it will soon become the past. As our literary, art, and business editors face the inevitable countdown to graduation, we are reflecting on how The Folio has shaped our time at Conestoga. Our thanks go out to all those who read our publication each year, without whom we would be unable to support and encourage student art and writing. We also couldn’t do it without such a hardworking and passionate staff, who do so much to make The Folio an inviting, inclusive community. Last but not least, we especially want to thank Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson, our incredible faculty advisors, for their consistent dedication to The Folio. Their presence has shaped us as writers and as people, and we will remain forever grateful to have had them as mentors.

The Editors

The Folio

table of contents 6

Table of Contents

The Folio volume li

issue iI

part 1: past 10

Girl In Yellow Dress Grace Kinkel

city Peaks Eileen CheN

Best Friends laila B. Norford

Welcome James Naser

Life Force Rachel Hunt

A Letter to Love Alexandra Ross

Simple Rose Natalia Green

Gone Fishing Olivia Wang

Girl in Pink Headdress Audrey Kim

Allahabad Laura Liu

Colors laila B. Norford American Identity Gabriella Miko

Festival Jessica Frantzen

A Fairytale Mistake KavYA Singh Wrapped in Wonder cocoro Kambayashi

The Earth and Her Wonders Lara Briggs

In The West Olivia Wang

The Folio

part 2: present

willow laura liu

taurus grace kinkel

symphony david johnston trio james naser

alaska james Naser

orlando anna donahue christchurch laura liu not a nightclub ankita kalasabail

dan(a) laura liu lost lydia naser

acetate and oxygen scott a. hennessey

happiness at a glance hannah kuryan

the weather outside is frightful ryan casciato

him michael staniz

wrow michael staniz

the novelist renato di stefano

stick michael staniz

snack sam haines

tiger cole fogarty

royal pride navya gullapuram

the lily alexandra ross blue flowers michael staniz

barn owl grace kinkel

lichtenstein who? michael staniz

prime time rhymes sebastian castro

manhattan beach jordan roe

afterglow michael staniz

on having a fruit for a name aryaj kumar

iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not like other girls sebastian castro

egghead gabriella miko

crows michael staniz

dear stranger kavya singh

the golden hour eileen chen

brown sugar alexandra ross november winds chris j. dimond

save the bees michael staniz

hydrangeas grace kinkel

spring blossoms jessica frantzen

dearest reader lara briggs

heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here lindsey colantuno

Table of Contents

part 3: future 96

sun michael staniz when the solar system loses its earth it knows not what to do scott a. hennessey

104

devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s workers kavya singh luminescence jordan roe

105

warrior lydia naser

106

enemy raw sebastian castro tools michael staniz

107

subject 0064 lydia naser

108

freckles, a love poem olivia thompson the glance michael staniz

109

heckinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; goodboyes jessica frantzen

110

in dreams lara briggs

111

fragile michael staniz

112

if you only asked alexandra ross salty sunsets jordan roe

113

rose grace kinkel

114

hidden life lindsey colantuno sunflower madison wolf

115

1-89 blues anna donahue

116

worlds end david johnston forgotten cities dhivya arasappan

117

no second thoughts dhivya arasappan

118

dress code michael staniz

119

writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s child madeline murphy

120

honk michael staniz

121

graphic gum! olivia thompson

122

the sphinx (prologue) joe czepiel

128

the sphinx (chapter 1) joe czepiel

The Folio

Jonestown Laura Liu

on that day, all prayers go silent. from above, their houses are medical tents

until they cannot feel the cool whisper of poison in their stomachs, told to trust a madman

erected in the breath of surrender. on clotheslines hang drawings bleached colorless by the Guyanese sun

who mixed fruit punch with cyanide and called it revolutionary. to live is to remember

until the wax crumbles under our touch, until the grass flattens with bodies whose whole lives fit inside

three hundred children with their stained mouths kissing the dirt. the earth reclaims them one by one

navy blue passports. blowflies lay their eggs like grains of rice on heat-blistered skin—did you know

until we forget.

they smell decay from ten miles away? in-between dried corn husks, the dead limp over the dead

“Through the Keyhole” By Ryan Casciato photograph

A Return to Desolation Emily Wang I hear it before I see it. Or rather, it's what I don't hear that strikes worry in me. The silence is thick as wolves’ fur, and it incites a spark of suspicion as I near the valley. The valley was full when I last saw it, all those years ago before I left in pursuit of adventure. The ever-sloping streets never ceased to sing their song of rolling carts, bustling bodies, and children at play. Even high above the deepest wedge of the valley, along the creased rims of the mountains, the white noise persisted like an invisible mosquito. Quiet was a lie back then, but as much as it irked me, it was the sound of life, and I could never tire of that. But the silence I hear now takes me back to my isolating trek across the desert, devoid of everything. The soil and grass beneath my boots tell me silence and life don’t fit. As I near the mountain ridges ahead of me, my legs protesting as I quicken my pace, I smell smoke. Only several steps onward and it's the only thing there is to smell. I feel my heart trip in my chest, but my head remains blank. Not a single conclusion stays long enough to make any sort of sense. Smoke? That means fire. But only a massive fire could produce this much smoke. The Bonfire Nights passed months ago, and even then, the smoke never drifted past the mountaintops this thickly. The royal funeral processions travel all the way to the rim, near the highest point of the castle, but I'm sure I'm far from where the castle sits on the other side of the valley. I run to the edge, and if I hadn't been gasping for breath, I would've stopped breathing for sure. I see nothing. The coniferous trees that once stood untouched by the seasons, The modest cottages and homes above the winding roads, The stone-built factories along the white river, The colorful market canopies, The castle towers, Everything, Everyone, Gone. My feet carry me swiftly to the main street, the pith, pith, pith of my soles on ashen cobblestone the only sound. I don't call out hello; something tells me the only answer will be my echo. The proud trees sit as stumps, and the humble homes have been brought to the ground. The white river is grey and doesn't rush like it used to; it whispers, and I can only guess what it might be telling me. The market canopies have been reduced to dust, their colors made equal with… with what, I wonder? Eventually, I reach the steps of the castle. The castle preserved in my memory shone with majesty and splendor, and what's left? Fallen arches and rubble. When I enter the throne room, shards of glass sprinkle the ground, crinkling under my slow steps. There, the throne lies on its side, the back cracked and missing its many crystals and jewels. Something snatches my attention from beneath the debris. Something gold, something I know. A ring, still holding its vibrant, violet, marquise gem. Immediately, my head spills with a million possible answers for questions I hadn't even asked yet. It takes a second, but once I absorb what I see, all those answers are promptly pushed aside by the thought of you. You, my ever-blossoming iris. My queen and my consort, where have you gone? What happened here? What came and what left? What must I find? …or who? My love, I hope you remember the promise I made before I left the valley. Wherever you stand now, please hold on to those words. I promise I'm coming.

& i must confess to crying when your baby was born Laura Liu

not out of happiness but out of jealousy at the swells cresting over your body, smooth & unbroken. i cried when he cried, placed in my arms; cried as I watched him already scented to your breast. cried because my womb is a motherless vessel that has atrophied, mutinied, beached itself against a distant cityscape. & the search for my body has led me here— this barren outcropping cold as a metal table, dark as lifeblood, creviced as my palms. heart line, life line, bloodline—here is where my skin will wrinkle with saltwater; here are the amniotic tides, the gurgles of foam like soft tufts of hair, the music of the horizon in earshot, beyond reach.

“Lady Poseidon” By Lydia Naser Medium

Medium

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Capricornâ&#x20AC;? By Grace Kinkel

“Kaleidoscope Blues” By Dhivya Arasappan Photograph

god of thunder Laura Liu

argentina, 1976

did you see the prisoner yesterday? he burned. first, his manhood— then the rest of him for trying to escape. for thinking he could. here is how a revolution ends: eulogies purged. silver pistols absolved. in these deserted skies we search for you until barbed wire curls around our wings like a fist. under this cloth sun hunger splits our stomachs like lightning. was it you? you who saw them beat the songs from the women, who saw their bodies swept childless into the sea?

Levittown Lara Briggs my neighbors say that they’re fine. i can hear them through the door and they’re scratching through the walls and they’re ripping the frames and they’re screaming as if their lungs are on fire, burning like dying stars in the cold abyss. the night sky is white like every house on my street the missiles are wondrous shooting stars whistling the melody on the radio. my friends are dead or on their way to dying in ‘nam carried in their choppers, their hearse, metal pressed to their skin like bullets: they say they’ll go to heaven. they’re saying it’s a new war, a different war. i’ve had enough of war. the church windows are bits of broken glass and gunmetal and faith not delivered, the park is a sunken crater of earthworms and twisted metal swings and the dreams of a child torn distorted ripped from what’s real. life is perfect here.

“For Grandma” By Stella Lei charcoal

mother tongue Laura Liu

i am twelve when you give me my first red envelope. a dragon slinks down the side, an orb in its claws. you say i was born with a golden dragon roaring in my belly, scales gleaming in an unfamiliar century. in your absence, my mandarin flees, smote from corroded dragon lungs. in a classroom of children young enough to find their age against their fingertips, i am an earthquake thundering below angelic intonations. whom do we blame for this displacement of the family tree? i want to say dear mother, i am so afraidâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; but my dragon writhes in its cage, scorching my words into hello. goodbye. how are you? i long for sounds to be more than sounds, for characters to swell in my stomach. dear motherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;when you return, i will clutch you as a dragon does its orb, desperate for the language i was promised.

move ; stay by laura liu

Past

maybe it’s the veins of the southern heartland we coursed through those summers, a heartland transposed—i have not returned in seven years. twenty years ago, my father arrived in america with one bill folded in his pocket and hasn’t looked back, this red toon tree his only taste of home. i’d like to say i remember his parents but all i remember is the way he wept when he handed me the phone and i couldn’t understand them. i don’t need the baby skin under my eye cut into a bruise or my knee flowering red to know the pain i’ve left behind—herbal tea, broken english, a radio melting into static in atlanta, orlando, mobile. my grandmother sold her wedding ring so my mother could go to school. now, my mother peels the shell off a dragonfruit, lets the skin of the memory fall to the floor. i'd like to say i remember her parents, but they’ve never come. listen— three is a lucky number. two parents and a daughter, this southern heartland where the road splits and frogs strand themselves on bridges—i’ll return to alabama, feel the road thrum like a heartbeat.

The Folio

navaruna Laura Liu the first time the locusts attacked, i was eleven years old and too slow to take cover. their bodies fell on mine like little stones. when they took flight, the sky disintegrated. i see them now, gorging on the guava in the courtyard, settling on the verandah. come home soon before nothing is left. i know the bones they found are lies—my navaruna doesn’t lie. come home soon because everything is as you left it— your red towel hooked on the molding door, your dolls sleeping behind glazed glass. come home soon—your mother’s cheeks are hollow drums and i can’t hear your voice anymore. the iron bars on your window rot to nothing. six years departed but i know you will return. with the locusts, we feast on what you left behind. author’s note: this poem is about navaruna chakravarty, a girl kidnapped in 2012. although authorities believe she was murdered, her parents insist she is still alive.

“The Queen’s Daughter” By Lydia Naser Medium

“Skulls” By ???

Medium

A Breakable Book Katie Donahue

“Growing Up”

By Navya Gullapuram marker

I keep my book stuffed in a blue and white box on the top level of my bookshelf. Surrounding it are books I was once forced to read. Sometimes, I force myself to read this one. My book has creaking pages and peeling pictures. It has uneven bends and breaks in its edges, embellished with rhinestones and roughly-cut, half-stuck flower stickers. Dry smears of glue hold my past together, so delicate that opening a page requires the caution of a teenager opening a door at 2 AM, praying for its silence rather than a creak and echo throughout the home. Only this time I prayed for the echo. A spiral struggles to compile my childhood’s creaks and crevices, just barely hanging on to the printer paper photo of a girl holding a beaded necklace at a recreational center birthday party. It is a scrapbook of my 6 years living in Wellesley, Massachusetts, a small town with large houses just 15 minutes outside of Boston. The book was given to me on my last day in Wellesley. My friends sat scattered around my basement floor, on my worn and torn couches with stuffing popping out of the yellow and red plaid cushions. I sat atop a rug meant for a foyer, covering the worn spot created by my brother’s excessive pacing. Criss-cross applesauce, I was handed the once-plain sketchbook, now a shrine of my childhood. The front was a highly saturated photo of my friends and I, pasted on with excess glue smeared over the original purple and white cardboard cover peeking from behind the picture. It followed a chronological timeline, 3rd to 8th grade, where visible changes to our faces and bodies came with each turn of a page. I don’t remember much other than the ripple of force that bounded across my chest, the smell of reality in the air, the blurred sight of an all too perfect world through the shaking layer of a tear covering my eye like a dome. I saw full page letters in different colored pens, distinct curves and hearted dots of the I’s. The words depicted emotions and thoughts that were once real to the point of tangibility: this book. They were stored in this book as a permanent reminder of their truth. The problem is, the truth changes. People change and their feelings change. I sat, my body folded at my stomach, my elbows digging into the rug, my eyes buried in the book. I have a photo that my friend Abby snapped of me in this exact moment, my cheeks pushed up high by my hands on my chin. The photo has a dark blur to it, quickly taken without much thought, but it is clear enough to see and feel the vibe of that room, to understand the thought held in the creases of my forehead. The door to that day stands on the cover of my book, trapping the imperfect nature of my friendships in time. Opening the door is beautiful. I see the real feelings of seven people that I once knew. But it is also painful, because I open it and see seven people that are now seven strangers to some degree. I open it with a creak and cringe, the same cringe I make opening my door knowing my parents are awake (and therefore I shouldn’t be). I cringe because I don’t want the pages to fall apart or tear, for some pictures to stick to the wrong pages, for my team soccer photo to conceal my first day of middle school. I cringe for the fear of breaking the book. I cringe because the book is breakable. But if I can’t open it without a chance of breaking it, is it even worth reading, remembering, feeling? It seems like the book would be important to me because it reminds me of the things my friends and I once felt, but in reality, it is significant for its capturing of moments that I often long to forget because they’re no longer here. It is only the book. Today I noticed dust on the sides of my blue and white box. I just shrugged and walked away.

Past

The Folio

Requiem by alexandra ross

hold fast your consternations, friends, for i am not afraid of what rises before me. what honor it is to be the last link of a chain, the final chapter of a glorious story, the end of a crimson bloodline. fear not, for i fear not. when the battle has passed, and the enemy has fallen, i only ask you not to forget me. i only urge you to one day return to this, my final bed of ash and dust, upon which i now lay. i only beg you bring my body to peaceful ground, wash the blood from my wounds, and bless them with a sorrowful prayer for the life that never was and never shall be.

Past

Too Soon by Laila B. Norford Verse 1: Bm A It’s too late to say I know you Bm DA And it’s too late to say goodbye Bm A D There are no more chances to make a friend Bm A D No more chances for us to lock eyes Refrain: F#m Bm D And I say I live in the moment F#m Bm D And I say I don’t need any photographs Em Bm But when the moment comes Em A There will have never been enough Em Bm Though it pains me to look Em Bm A I’ll always want more photographs of you Bm A Because you left me too soon, too soon Bm A D You left me too soon, too soon, too soon

Bm A D You touched my life and I’ll never forget Refrain Bridge: Bm D They say life is unfair Bm A But the odds of death are certain Bm A Bm A So why you, not me? Bm D Bm No matter how much I tell myself A D Bm A A I’ll never say each goodbye like it is the last Refrain

Verse 2:

Bm A I might not know your favorite color Bm DA But I’ll miss you just the same Bm D Bm A You were a body with a soul—once here, now gone

The Folio

Limerick #2 Rachael Pei

I’m friends with a man who likes grapes He loved them the best in his crepes But one day he tripped And fell down and slipped The grapes rolled right out and escaped

“Cats!” By Grace Kinkel Medium

Reminiscence by Alexandra Ross

White snow brushes my cheek Like a butterfly kiss From the one I loved so long ago. She never actually gave me any, But I used to imagine she would one day. I don’t have happy things to remember her by. It isn’t the thrill of sweet, new love Which brings her to mind; It’s the smell of peppermint oil diffused in the air, The sting of cold kitchen tiles under my feet, The lyrics of songs that once made my tears fall Gentle and slow as these snowflakes now, Kissing me like she never would. I don’t think of her anymore, But lately I’ve been thinking of thinking of her quite often. I imagine she sometimes does the same.

“Upsidedown”

by Gabriella Miko digital 30

Past

Sea by Emily Wang

I am the deep, the sky in reverse I have what you seek, for better or worse

Kiss me now like you did before Give me your vow, and the ocean is yours.

I am the blue of infinite depth Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve swallowed the crews and cleared all the decks You are afraid, or maybe intrigued Of the place where you played and also wereas freed

The Folio

The “Bones” by Michael Staniz Marker

Past

Ba r ga i n S

by Juneseo Choi

he coughs, her breath ragged and lined with fine red droplets that scatter themselves over the soft ground. The patches of grass sting against her scraped knees, a painful green reminder that she is still neither dead nor unconscious. The view of her bruised knuckles, pressed a mottled purplish-white against the dark earth, grows increasingly shaky. Her vision is swimming as she attempts in vain to blink back another round of tears. From over her shoulder, she barely has time to register the telltale whistling of the next rock before it whacks against the back of her head. Her knees buckle as she collapses face first into the dirt, her arms now splayed outwards in a crucified display of weakness. A chorus of approving chuckles resound about her, with a few intermittently spaced jeers that poke and shove their way in between the remaining shreds of her pride. â&#x20AC;&#x153;What say you, brothers? Has this wench been taught the errors of her ways thoroughly enough?â&#x20AC;? a familiar voice rumbles past the steady pulses of pain echoing inside her skull. A large, rough hand forces its way under her chin, lifting her head up an uncomfortable angle so her gaze would meet that

The Folio

T h e Ba r ga i n of the speaker. She feels something hot trickle down over her forehead and her right eye as she looks into the firm visage of the man that used to be her husband. “Now you see, Lucy, my dear, why your actions should be cause for repentance. Had it not been for...” The remainder of his words melt into a slurry of unintelligible sounds; the trees and the world around her grow hazy, the last vestiges of orange sunlight disappearing into a swirl of fuzzy darkness… …She’s on her knees by the fire, her hands folded as she watches the wizened expression of the old woman resting in a rocking chair beside her. The elder’s eyes are closed, looking for all the world asleep. The only distinct motions come from her shriveled hands, and the massive gray snake draped over the old woman’s lap and curled around the chair’s armrests. The snake shifts, uncoiling itself down to the rough stone floor and towards Lucy, who remains deathly still despite every part of her body screaming at her to run. “This deal isn’t to be made lightly, child.” The old woman’s eyes are open, dark expanses of night sky scattered with tiny pinpoints of stars that reflect the flickering firelight. “One must have very little to lose to continue on this particular path. You have no one you will miss back at that village of yours, yes?” The girl swallows, the snake twisting its way up her arms and over her pale neck. “Not… not anymore.” The old woman smirks. She snaps her bony fingers and the fire roars, its blaze now a furious blinding white. “Then we are in agreement.” Someone must have noticed something, a change in her stare, because the next thing she feels is the rush of air that accompanies a calloused hand smacking against the side of her face. The woods snap back into focus as her cheek begins to burn like a bonfire. “Are you still listening, witch?” A second voice sneers behind her former spouse. Several agonizing seconds pass before her thoughts can collect themselves enough for her to choke out a barely audible reply: “I am no witch.” “Speak your lies until the end of your days, but not a single word from your lips is merit enough to change the will of God.” The hand supporting her head lowers it back down in an oddly gentle manner, restricting her gaze to the earthy forest floor and the clustered outlines of the men’s’ boots. Her old husband’s breath tickles uncomfortably against her ear as he leaned down to mutter, “Stop your struggling and your judgment may be less painful.” Her left arm lashes out in response, tearing and scratching at his face and beard. He grunts in surprise, straightening upright and seizing her wrist with his free hand. A sudden twist, and Lucy gasps. The arm goes limp. He sets the limb aside in disgust, where it rests on the uneven ground at an Juneseo choi

Past

T h e Ba r ga i n unnatural angle. “As you can see,” her tormentor addresses the small crowd, “this...whore of Lucifer has refused to confess for the last time. “Ready your stones.” He turns towards her once more. “Now is the time to say your prayers and make your peace with…” He stops. For, to his confusion, he notices her expression has changed. Her eyes are closed, her lips set in a broad smile as she whispers strings of words too soft for any of the others to hear. “What are you saying, my love?” he questions. “The Lord hears all; hushed words are for the Devil’s ears only.” One of the men gestures toward her other hand, gone mostly unnoticed during this time. Her fingers weakly trace the last strokes in an unfamiliar circular sigil, crudely etched into the soil and about twice the size of her thin, white, bloodied palm. Her eyes fly open, stormy gray irises. She has stopped whispering. Behind her, the moon creeps over the horizon. The other villagers don’t stand much of a chance after that. Once most see the clouds of smoke pouring from the earth around them, they scatter. The girl formerly known as Lucy rises, half-hidden in the billowing swirls of grey. Around her, the few men remaining begin to scream, boils and lesions the size of doubloons erupting from nowhere on their skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies her old husband stumbling forward, pockmarked almost beyond recognition and clutching a rifle with a trembling arm aimed vaguely in her direction. She purses her lips, glancing briefly down at her broken arm before flicking her right hand in his direction. He collapses, shuddering on the ground. A shadowy shape slithers from behind a nearby tree trunk, lazily curling over his now-useless arms and legs before tightening with a nightmarish force around his torso. He wheezes in pain, a single hoarse yell escaping his lips before the snake constricts further and several things crack inside and he goes silent. She giggles softly, beckoning the snake off the corpse of her former lover to rest by her side. As an afterthought, she runs her fingers over her left forearm, the swollen lump protruding from it receding slowly but surely. In the distance, she can hear an uproar, presumably the other villagers returning with reinforcements. She turns away, striding with unfaltering steps deeper into the trees with her new companion. A witch, she was called, and she paid the price for it. Now was the time for her to live up to that name.

Juneseo choi

The Folio

“Icarus & Daedalus” by Michael Staniz

digital

The

Mango

Past

Tree

b y

K a v y a

Nandita loved going to her Nani and Nanaji’s home. While the scorching heat of the Delhi summer was a bit of an annoyance along with the air conditioner that had a mind of its own, she enjoyed everything her grandparents’ place had to offer. From the terrace where she flew her first kite to the garden filled with pretty flowers and delicious vegetables, Nandita felt like a princess living in a castle. And as a six year old little girl, there were times when she’d act like the princess she thought she was, riding on her grandparents’ aging black lab or drowning herself in her Nani’s decade old saris. But as much as she loved her Nani’s clothes and the view of the sunset from the terrace, her favorite part about her grandparents house was the mango tree that stood in the backyard. To others, it was a tall and lanky tree, almost like an old man hunched over and waiting to take his last breath. Yet, in Nandita’s eyes, it was everything but a dying tree. To her, the branches reached out like a ballerina’s arms, with grace and poise. The leaves posed high

S i n g h and mighty as brave little soldiers protecting the golden fruit that hung so delicately from the tree top. To her, the mango tree was beautiful. She always wished to climb the tree. It was a habit of hers to climb any tree she laid eyes on and the mango tree was no different. She nagged and begged her Nana to allow her the pleasure of climbing to the treetop, but each whine, complain and tear was met with a stern no and warning gaze after. It was clear Nandita’s journey held obstacles. Which is why, when the sun finally set and the moon hung high in the midst of the twinkling stars and dark night, Nandita wiggled out of her grandmother’s grasp and tiptoed to the tree she thought she was destined to climb. As she stood in front of the mango tree, she forgot how tall and formidable it actually was and for a moment, just a few seconds, she believed she was standing in front of the wrong tree.

The Folio

The Mango Tree The once confident branches now drooped low like the arm of a witch with its wrinkly skin and pointy fingers. The leaves were sinister and evil, not the brave little soldier she imagined before, and they hung on the tree as bats do in caves. The tree began to take form of a devil or a ghost or some kind of monster that almost made Nandita second guess climbing the mango tree.

She believed she was flying at first. She thought that somehow God had answered her prayers of giving her superpowers, but as her skin came in contact with the rough branches, scraping her and hitting her, she knew she wasn’t flying. Flying wasn’t painful, but falling?

But she didn’t.

Nandita wasn’t sure what was to happen next. She felt as if she’d been falling for a century, as if the ground kept getting farther and farther so she’d never reach it. The feeling of being brave was washed away with fear. She could feel her banshee-like scream flooding the air, hoping someone would be there.

Though the tree transformed into a beastly creature, the mangos stayed golden and pure, a bright light in the midst of a nightmare, and that was enough for Nandita to climb the creature she was fearing. As her little arms pulled her up and her legs kicked around, trying to find placement on the branches, she couldn’t help but feel like a prince from the stories her Nani read to her, who slayed dragons and climbed towers to save the trapped princess. She felt scared, but also brave and courageous. Nandita didn’t stop her journey until the only objects she could climb were the stars and the moon. Mesmerized by the view in front of her, in awe of the difference between the city in the night and the day, she was unaware of the crack forming on the fragile branch she was using for support. Nandita’s mind never once went to the unstable branch she had placed herself on, unbothered by the flimsy movements of the branches near her and the crack that came from underneath her. In a matter of seconds, Nandita’s view changed from the stillness of the city to a blanket of green.

Past

Falling hurt.

And someone was. As Nandita neared the ground, rather than the concrete floor, she felt soft arms beneath her and the smell of a burning candle wrapping around her. Nandita threw her arms over her grandmother’s shoulders, letting her tears stain her Nani’s shawl. “Didn’t we say no climbing the mango tree?” her Nani whispered as she brushed her hand through Nandita’s hair. Nandita just nodded. She wasn’t going back to climb the tree anytime soon.

Kavya Singh

“Arachne and Athena” + “Apollo and Hyacinth” by Michael Staniz digital

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“Frida” by Michael Staniz painting

“Who Cares” by Michael Staniz painting

Past

“The Dancer”by Stella Lei painting The Folio

Pre-

sent

willow by laura liu

(i) when my aunt had a baby, he rested warm and quiet in my arms. my mother said: you’re a natural. (ii) white hat, white dress, stuffed lamb. long limbs like us. her name was willow.

(iii) anisa left the office on thursday and brought iced pound cake to say goodbye. the icing sweet, then sour, then something bursting low in the belly, two months too early. (iv) breaking water— impossible. a miracle. life—the first gasp of breath. a woman panting in labor— her baby, crying a hello. below, we downed cold tea in the bereavement room.

Present

(v) over christmas, we went to a mass in bristol. i held a stranger’s calloused hand and cried. i want soft, unblemished. i want womb swollen, heavy. i want breath. (vi) mother’s day in the nursery. clothes creased, unfolded, unfilled. (vii) when i had a baby, she rested cold and silent in my arms. my mother said: i’m so sorry. (viii) a tightened cord dropped through the stomach. a loop around the neck— not even a gasp of breath.

“Taurus” by Grace Kinkel watercolor The Folio

Orlando Anna Donahue

christchurch Laura liu

and suddenly it was only me and the actors breathing in this small place with gauze hanging on its dark walls their words beckoned and I dared not break my silence and suddenly I was noticed by a ghost she held my heart softly in her cupped palms I wanted to stand and say that I felt it too the neither-and-both and suddenly I felt sacred ethereal, even the ghost sang me a lullaby that transcended time and understanding and with her I felt what it was to be art

now, there is no body to hold while we grieve, to cradle as a coffin does. in the reflection of this golden dome, we are sodden parachutes caught between sky and shadow, wrapped in the toneless lullabies of the wounded. how quietly we inhabit these spaces, how trustingly, like the man who says welcome, brother, watches bullets light up the chassis into prayers curdling on the tongue. outside, a little boy stumbles to his mother, wounds her skirt with the gaping groove between neck and shoulder.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Not a Nightclubâ&#x20AC;? By Ankita Kalasabail photograph

dan(a) Laura Liu birmingham, alabama when it rains in the summer, i think of you and the craters on your driveway filling with brackish water you dipped pieces of moss into and pretended to drink. you were just thirty minutes old when the towers fell and took thousands with them into the scorched earth— sometimes i saw the bitterness in your eyes when people forgot you. i could never. i married the neighbor boy, and you named us husband and wife with an encyclopedia because we didn’t have bibles. not at six. not until years later, when it was too late for both of us. even now, beliefs die hard. i never showed you the stitches across my chest like the edge of a cliff— but you wouldn’t have seen them like i did. i never got an apology, a goodbye. they called us debbie and dana

“Lost”

By Lydia Naser Medium

before the surgery. debbie and dan didn’t have the same ring to it.

The Weather Outside is Frightful. by Ryan Casciato

It was a cold night, one of the coldest on record. The warmth of the coffee shop was sometimes interrupted by the freezing wind accompanying the entrance or exit of customers. The barista, Lance, was working his usual shift, humming Let It Snow, in spite of the two months that had elapsed since Christmas. I removed my glasses to get a better look at him, even though I had been going to this coffee shop for well over a year now and knew Lance a little. He smiled and waved at me after noticing my staring. Color rushed into my cheeks and I ducked behind Stephen King’s IT after an awkward wave back. What? He was very cute. He was the only reason I bother to walk from campus into town. And I loved everything about him. His hair after he ran his hands through it, his freckles peppered on his face, his smile curling his lips, and his eyes that reminded me of the coffee he serves. “A cappuccino for…” Lance said, looking at the cup in front of him, grinning, since he knew it was mine. I always gave a fictional character’s name instead of my own, and this time I had chosen Bill Denbrough from IT, as Lance was the person to recommend the book to me. “Hey-a there Buh-Buh-Buh-” He adopted the voice of Pennywise. “Billy boy!” “How far are you through the book, Russell?” He asked, dropped the Pennywise voice and addressed me by my actual name as I fished through my wallet. “About 770 pages or so.” I replied with a small smile, handing him a five dollar bill. “Your shift going well?” “Even better now that my favorite customer is here.” He smiled as he handed me my change. “How are your classes?” “Excellent.” I replied, tugging at my scarf as the cold wind blew in with a customer. “We have a large term paper due soon, ten pages. Bad news: I’m stressed. Good news: I’m a little over halfway finished. Best news: It’s on FDR, my favorite president.” “Well, maybe you can call me and tell me about it.” Lance said, gesturing to the cup of coffee in my clutch. I took a closer look. Underneath the name, he had scrawled a phone number. “Or meet somewhere.” I looked at him blankly. “Would you like me to spell it out for you?” His tone was not angry, but teasing. I gave him a sheepish smile and nodded. He smiled warmly as I apologized for being such a thick-headed idiot. Lance waved his hand. “It’s okay, Russell, just tell me when we can go on a date.” He winked at me before attending to the new customer. I gathered my belongings and got ready to face the cold walk back to campus. As I left, Lance made a “call me” sign and blew a kiss. As I walked down the street, I had a skip in my step and I hummed the same Christmas carol that Lance had been singing earlier.

Present

“Him” by Michael Staniz painting/illustration The Folio

Dearest Reader, On behalf of the staff of The Folio, I apologize that there is not a poem to be found on this page. There are a multitude of possibilities as to what could have gone wrong, resulting in this tragic absence. Perhaps the would-be author was met with an unfortunate case of writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s block. Maybe their pen ran out of ink, or their pencil ran out of lead. Maybe they just forgot to write. Most likely, though, is that this particular writer realized far too late that they had not submitted enough pieces for consideration and quickly scribbled down an idea which was rightfully rejected by our committee. Regardless, this most unfortunate error deserves no excuse. Our readers look to us writers, as our mission statement says, â&#x20AC;&#x153;to discover, develop, and celebrate literary and artistic talent throughout Conestoga High Schoolâ&#x20AC;?. I hope that our readers are not too disappointed to turn the page and find this carefully crafted letter, written in the time it would take for one of our staff members to write a decent poem. And for this misdirected effort, I apologize. But perhaps, look upon this vacancy as an unexpected gift in the midst of our magazine, a reprieve from the abundance of artistic talent that might be overwhelming without pause. Take this time to reflect on what you have read and seen before you jump back into these pages. Sincerely,

Lara Briggs

Present

by Lindsey Colantuno Pen & Ink

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The Novelist Renato Di Stefano

“Wrow” by Michael Staniz digital 52

Present

ay E. Fischer was barely out of high school when the voices in his head told him to write his first novel. He’d kept the old typewriter for years, but he’d never touched it before they told him to. It took him less than six months to write their novel. It wasn’t hard. When he was done, he sent it to the company the voices picked for him, and it was published. Nothing could prepare him for the revolution the novel would cause. Sales hit the multi-millions before the year’s end. America was reading again. Catapulted to the national spotlight, Jay had no problem adapting to the celebrity life:, the star-studded parties, the legions of fans. The voices, like they had before he was famous, told him what to do, what to say, how to act. They teased movie adaptations and television series, and hinted at second novels whenever his manager came sniffing. Jay shuffled the hours away just talking to the voices, planning interviews and press conferences and meetings. Do this, do that, they’d whisper. Say this, say that. Wake up. Jay woke up in a chair by the edge of his bed. His eyes were heavy—sticky, even— and his chin was wet with nighttime saliva. Welcome back, the voices mocked him. Sleep well? You have company. Curly black hair— complete with streaks of purple—shielded her face, but the woman in his bed was only half

hidden under her thinning white t-shirt and the rumpled bed sheetsbedsheets. You don’t remember her, the voices told him. But she remembers you. As Jay rubbed gunk from his bruised eye sockets, the mysterious woman made a growly noise from the back of her throat and rolled lazily to the opposite side of the bed. “Jay?” she mumbled. “You awake?” It took him a moment to float back down to reality. On the hotel’s bedside table, Jay’s bobblehead of himself—a gift from his manager—nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?” “It’s Livi.” Who? “Who?” “Livi Park.” Jay didn’t have to see her face to see her eyes roll. “We hung out last night, idiot. We went to high school together, remember? Did all those Jimmy Fallon interviews make you forget that you’ve been out of high school for, what, literally eight months?” “I don’t remember you,” Jay admitted. He added, “Sorry.” Are you? There was silence as Livi scanned the hotel room. The unruly scatter around the room betrayed Jay’s prolonged, chaotic presence. Crumbled newspaper clippings, most of them glowing book reviews, darted across the floor like mice; posters—from Paul McCartney to Al Pacino—peeled precariously off the

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T h e N ov e l i s t walls; signed copies of Jay’s fiery bestseller slumped themselves into a pile in the corner. Livi’s toes wriggled and slid back under the sheets to escape the cold, and her eyes met with Jay’s. “What is this?” Jay demanded. “Why are you here?” Tell her how you really feel. “You don’t remember that, either? Jesus. Do you remember the bar, at least?” “What, the one down in the lobby? And what about it?” “Dumbass. You didn’t seem to forget who I was when I came up to you last night. You thought it was pretty cool that our post-high school career paths just so happened to cross at the Four Seasons, in the bar of all places.” Don’t trust her. Who does this purple-haired bitch think she is? She’s not even cute. She looks like an anime character. “I don’t even remember who you are,” Jay said. “Bullshit. You used to be obsessed with me.” Livi looked at him now. Her droopy brown eyes seemed to sink into their sockets, shining with the slightest sense of amusement. “Oh, well. I guess it doesn’t matter, Mr. Famous Novelist. We might as well be meeting for the first time right now. You look different, dude. You’ve lost weight. And you need to shave.” “Thanks, I guess..., but you’re not ringing any bells. What are you doing in my bed?” “You really don’t remember? You’ve

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got some catching up to do. We ran into each other last night, got to talking. You told me all the problems with your writing.” “Why don’t I remember? What does she know?” Jay asked the voices as quietly as he could. Livi looked at him quizzically, but Jay didn’t think she heard him. He hoped she didn’t. You don’t remember a lot of things, one of them said. But at least you remember us. Another voice warned, Don’t trust her. She’s trying to hurt you. “Is she?” Jay questioned them under his breath. Ignore her, they chanted. Ignore her. Ignore her. Ignore her! “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m here to help you,” Livi interrupted. “People are really worried about you—or at least, I am.” You don’t need her. You have us. Jay wanted to believe them, but he found himself worrying about if his inner thoughts could hear his inner thoughts. Get her away. “I don’t need you. Get off your high horse, Mother Teresa.” She didn’t flinch, but her face shattered. Somewhere behind her eyes, a light flickered pitifully and died. “Well, I … oh. I mean, what? Yesterday you were begging me for a lifeline. What the hell, man?” She’s going to steal our work. She will betray you. She wants our success, our fame, our riches. “What do you want, Livi?” Jay asked

T h e N ov e l i s t softly. The voices tried to find his confidence for him, but it was nowhere to be found. “What are you doing here, seriously?” “I told you, I’m just trying to help you.” Liar. “What are you trying to help me with, then?” “Jay. Oh my god. I told you already!” Hear how condescending she is. “Last night, you kept talking about your second novel, how you couldn’t start and how stressed and lost it made you feel. I got concerned. It’s not that deep, man.” “What?” Jay stuttered. Cotton balls kissed the inside of his throat; he couldn’t force himself to swallow. He couldn’t breathe. Stop thinking so damn hard. Calm down! “Shut up!” “What?” Livi asked. “Are you good?” We’re fine. You’re fine. Not so sure about her, though. Crazy bitch. “Shut up,” Jay repeated. “Shut up, guys.” “Jay, what are you saying? Are you talking to me? Stop mumbling.” We should make her leave while we’re at it. “I…” Jay felt vomit rising dangerously in his throat. A fit of coughs wrapped cold hands around his throat. He sputtered for air. Livi threw back the bedsheets and rushed to the faded green leather chair. “Jay?” she shook his shoulder gently. “Snap out of it.” Get her away. GET HER AWAY! Why

is she touching us? Why is she touching you? She is dangerous. She is dangerous, and we will be found out if you don’t do something quickly. “Shut up!” Jay screamed at everyone. “Shut the hell up!” Taking a cautious step back, Livi stared at him. He felt her eyes peeling his skin away like a tangerine as her gaze bore into his skull. He remembered her. “You were in my American Lit class,” he gasped. “Junior year. And you were in my French class senior year. I remember. You always used to wear those stupid green shoes.” Anyone can wear stupid green shoes. Stop thinking about her. “You suppressed her!” Jay turned on himself. “Why did you do that?” Clearly, you can’t handle her. You can barely handle us. It was for your safety. “Why? I’m not any safer now!” With an expression that could’ve been blinding terror or sick amusement, Livi opened her mouth as if to speak, but Jay couldn’t hear her. She knows. She knows! See how she looks at you. Oh, God, she knows. She can’t know! If our secret gets out… “Fuck the secret!” Jay bellowed. Maybe, but not your career, too. You are nothing without us. Nothing at all. Who wrote your first novel? Who will write your second? “Jay, I can help you,” Livi whispered

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T h e N ov e l i s t delicately, as if to herself. “Please. I can help you.” Kill her. Kill that bitch. Cut off that stupid purple hair and skip rope with it. “No…” Tears brewed in Jay’s eyes. You don’t have to do that, one of the voices said. Just send her away. Another jumped in, Kill her! Kill her! Jay’s throat was on fire, and his head thumped harder than ever. There was a knife in the bedside table. Jay knew it was there. Livi didn’t. Sharp as day, cold as night, the blade would eat her flesh like a disease. He was surely stronger than her, and he knew where to sink the knife so that it would kill her without so much as a struggle. Silence stung for a moment, but then one voice came to him, softer than the others, Jay, do not be afraid. Kill Livi, and we will write you a novel that will long outlive, and outsell, your first. Yes! Do it, the other voices urged. Any further opposition was silent. Livi was talking, but Jay couldn’t hear her. I wonder how that stupid purple hair tastes. “Go away!” Jay screamed. Light seemed to call to him from the bedside table where the knife lay hidden, begging him to take up the blade against his forgotten friend. But even as he sat there, fixed to the seat of the chair with, Livi crouched and confused by his side, memories began dripping back into his head. Green and lovely, a girl he

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once knew and once loved became known to him once more. She took another step back as if to leave. Jay grabbed her wrist with force that he had not expected from himself. Livi stifled a shriek as goosebumps exploded up her arm. “Please don’t go, I love you,” Jay whispered. He remembered her droopy brown eyes. Livi looked at him, but he didn’t know the expression in her face, and he wasn’t sure if she did, either. She glanced at the bobblehead on the bedside table, still nodding with a big fat grin and a black fancy gel pen. When she looked back at the novelist, his eyes pleaded with her. She let out a sob, turned, and halfran, half-stumbled to the door. Jay watched her go. She fumbled at the door knob and didn’t hesitate until the door hid her from view. Jay was alone. He remembered the second novel his manager wanted him to write. He hadn’t started. His cheeks dry, his feet cold, Jay found his way to the old typewriter and propped it open next to an old glass of lemonade on the writing desk. A different bobblehead of himself, nodding dutifully, grinned back at him, this time holding a thick wad of note paper. Jay’s fingers hovered over the typewriter keys.

T h e N ov e l i s t He had no idea what to write. He was alone. The voices were silent. But then it came to him. Not the voices, but an idea. And he was proud. It was his idea, his alone, if not maybe with a little help from Livi. Smiling, he remembered her stupid green shoes as his typewriter went to work.

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The Lily by Alexandra Ross

he plant on Dr. Jacobs’s windowsill was wilted. I noticed this about thirty minutes into our forty-five, as my mother droned on about my inattention, or perhaps about my apathy, or perhaps about my forgetfulness. Whatever it was, it was a load of bullshit that I had already heard a thousand times before, in a thousand different sessions just like this one. I’d learned to tune it out, to catch the key words in her complaining so I could form some kind of response. A bullshit response, sure, but it’s not like Dr. Jacobs could tell the difference. Not like my mother deserved any better. Depending on which of our three main topics we were discussing, I had some pretty good speeches hidden up my sleeve. It was a pretty plant. At least, it looked like it was supposed to be pretty. The dry, dead petals of what was once a white lily scattered across the wooden sill below it. The soil in its pot was dry, cracked, neglected. Its stem looked like it would crumble between your fingertips. Maybe someone else would think it was ugly, just an old dead flower that needed to be replaced, but I thought to myself that it really wasn’t so bad. I tuned back in for a moment. “...Doesn’t even care about her schoolwork,” my mother was saying. “She just sits in her room and…” Okay, so we’re on apathy. I zoned back out, glancing around the room, trying to find something interesting to pass the time. For a while I played the alphabet game with the spines of Dr. Jacobs’s various psychiatric books, but then I got stuck on X and gave up. I counted the number of slats on the blinds (20), then the number of pens on the coffee table

Present

“Blue Flowers” by Michael Staniz Painting The Folio

T h e

L i l y

between us (6), then the number of times my heart beat in one minute by taking my own pulse (75, and I almost got caught by Dr. Jacobs, but I played it off like I was scratching my neck). I wondered if purposefully keeping track of your heart rate would raise it, just because you’re thinking about it too much. I wondered how ten minutes had passed and my mother was still talking. I also wondered if Dr. Jacobs was a good therapist, considering that I had only spoken for less than fifteen minutes of our forty-five and this was supposed to be a joint session. I wondered if it was her fault the lily was dead, and if she even cared that she had killed something so precious. I wondered if she would blame it for dying when it started to make too much of a mess. I wondered if I should start paying atten— “Rachel, how do you feel about that?” The thought was interrupted by Dr. Jacobs’s voice. My eyes snapped back from the windowsill and I met her cutting gaze. Shit. I hadn’t zoned in for a good five minutes at least, and I had no idea where my mother was in her usual tirade. Dr. Jacobs could tell I’d been checked out for a while; I could see judgement hidden in her eyes. “Um,” I started, “I don’t… I don’t think, um…” But I had hit a dead end, and shock had stolen all my escape routes from me. I had nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, so I faltered into silence. “Unbelievable,” my mother muttered. “Un-fucking-believable. Have you listened to a word I’ve been saying?” The silence was so sharp it stung. “No,” I whispered. “Do you think Dr. Jacobs’s counseling is worth your time? Do you think what I have to say is worth your time? Or is this just bullshit to you, like everything else?” Her voice raised with each accusation. “Do you know how much we spend for these sessions? How much we spend on you, trying to make you better? Do you even give a shit?” Unable to meet her gaze, I fixed my eyes back on the plant in the windowsill. I bet its crisp, yellow, shriveled petals were once soft and clean and young. I bet it once smelled like spring, the season of new beginnings. I bet people used to compliment it, talk about how tall and beautiful it would be one day. I bet it once stood proud at the tippy top of its stem, its heart open to the world. How long ago did Dr. Jacobs start forgetting to water it? “Well,” my mother all but shrieked, “Do you even give a shit, Rachel?” I said nothing. Dr. Jacobs clicked her pen, closed her notebook, and set them both on the coffee table. “Why don’t we call that our time for today?” “Yeah, why don’t we,” my mother snapped, standing and leaving the room without me. I moved to follow her, but paused for a moment and turned in the doorway. “You should give that flower some water,” I said. “It might still have a fighting chance.” With that, I left and walked to the car. My mother and I drove home in dead silence.

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“Barn Owl” by Grace Kinkel Colored Pencil

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“Afterglow”

by Michael Staniz digital 62

Present

On having a fruit for a name by Aryaj Kumar

ryaj is an Indian name. Not only is it a unique name among Americans, but also unique among also for Indians. I have never seen my name used by written for someone other than me. What is not unique to my name (and rather common to many Indian names), is the mispronunciation. I acknowledge that my name sounds like “orange” – the color, the fruit, whichever you want it to be. And yes, I have been called “Oorange” byefore my classmates, friends, and teachers. In elementary school, it always used to irritate me to be called that. On one hand, I was proud of my unique name, but on the other, part of me felt ashamed. I did not want to be called orange, even as a joke. Orange wasn’t even my favorite color or fruit – blue and apples were. I was born in the United States (Indiana to be ex-

act) to immigrant parents. Some of you may have already picked up on the irony between my birth place and heritage. And to anyone wondering, yes, I have heard all the jokes about it. My earliest memory of someone connecting two and two was in first grade when we were sharing where we were born, and a kid in my class asked if that was in India. Now, I’m not sure if he was joking, but I do hope for his sake that he learned the United States’ geography – the elementary states and capitals test was no joke. I am not like other Indians, at least not completely. To speak on a physical level, I am a lighter shade than the majority. This is on account of my mom being very fair skinned (almost white if any lighter) and my heritage being from North India, which is drastically different from South India. But the real differences transcend what the

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h av i n g

fruit

and eyes reveal. My parents had decided to embrace the American way of life to maximize “fitting in” – also known as assimilation, but embrace sounds nicer. After moving around a few places across the United States at a young age, I eventually settled in Berwyn, Pennsylvania, which is known as the “Mmain Lline” due to it being an affluent suburban area. The Mmain Lline is also characterized and known by the domination of Caucasians demographically. Not only wereas being Indians a minority in the entire US population, but also in the community I lived in. Part of embracing American culture meant foregoing some of my cultural heritageheritage culture. I am not strictly devoted to my Hinduist roots, as my parents never made it a priority (we still celebrated some of the major holidays but did not attend the Indian temple equivalent to a church or anything). Instead, I grew up celebrating Christmas and Halloween as American holidays. Since elementary school, I have always been the one Indian kid in my group of white friends. With the onset of middle school and the changes young teenage life entails, race and identity became something I found myself questioning more often. To my white friends, I was too Indian. To other Indian kids, I was too white. To anyone who did not know me, my name posed a challenge. In second grade, my teacher made my name the extra credit for one of our spelling tests (easiest extra credit of my life, can’t say everyone got it however). In any class when we had a substitute teacher, I would dread roll call. The substitute would be going along smoothly, name after name, until they would hesitate for a second, attempt to say something. With the momentary silence, I real-

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ized exactly where on the list they werewas, and, not exactly patiently, waited to hear the struggling and stuttering voice of the teacher go “Ar-ar-yaj?”. That was best case scenario – when they pronounced it how you might expect it to be if you were just going off the sounds of what each letter makes. Not wanting to show any displeasure, I would smile and correct them; unfortunately, this usually did not go smoothly. Upon repeating my name out loud, there would be some slight laughter in the class. Some substitutes were too bold for their own good and went for round two, only to go zero for two, and usually ended up saying something like “Orange? Like the fruit?” – eliciting further laughter from the class. In the world of middle school insecurities, including getting used to the new school structure and being more conscious of what others thought of me, I found myself questioning my own name. Was it because I was Indian, and had an Indian name? Why did I feel ashamed about my name and how it connected to my identity? I suppose it is unfair of me to expect my name to be pronounced correctly 100% of the time. Even in 10th grade, my English teacher pronounced my name wrong until nearly the third marking period, and both my math and US history teacher spelled my name wrong on an assignment in the fourth marking period. My middle school self was filled with angst regarding my own name for similar reasons. At times, I found myself disliking that I had to go through so much trouble just to be called the right thing. I began to realize I made unrealistic comparisons to my other friends’ names, almost

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jealous that “Connor” or “Patrick” never had to deal with the uncomfortable situation. I even considered giving myself a nickname to simplify what had to be said – and no, “orange” was not an acceptable choice.

or find issue with the extra step I have to take with my name, I learned to not only accept it, but also embrace it. I now take pride in my name, knowing there is a good chance I will never meet someone who has been mistakenly called a fruit.

My perspective on my name changed with the onset of high school. In 9th grade, a kid I met for the first time, instead of going the classic round 2 option and comparing my name to what it sounded like, said “Woah, I’ve never heard that name before. That’s pretty cool to have a unique name like that. I wish I had a unique name.” It was not that I had never heard my name called unique before or been told it was interesting to have a name so few have, but the last line is what struck me. All I could muster at the time was a measly “thanks”. But reflecting on that moment, it allowed me to take a step back.

The part of me that struggles with the implications of his name is no longer with me. I left that part of me in the past, along with the insecurities and doubt I associated between my name and race. In the grand scheme of things, if life were actually just a giant orange, those past struggles would be just one of the many slices. In any given orange, there are some bad slices and some good slices – some bitter, some sweet. A sour slice does not mean the orange is bad, it just means you have to try another piece. Eventually, you get to the right slice, and when you do, it feels good to have reached a point of realization and acceptance that the sweet slices are more important than the sour ones. While we may not know if life is a giant orange or not for sure, I do know that my name is not. But it is still sweet.

“Aryaj” is unique – among the white suburban area I live in, and even among the heritagemy heritage from which my name originates from. As a 17-yearold writing this essay who no longer flares up at being called “orange” or getting impatient when someone new attempts to say my name, I only now realize the misguided thinking I had as an elementary and middle school kid. I had connected my name to my race in a way that made me ashamed of who I was – what my identity was. Rather than be annoyed

A r ya j

Kumar The Folio

Dear Stranger Kavya Singh Dear Stranger, The first time I ever saw my dad crying was when I was seven years old. Out of all the things that I remember during my childhood, this was just one of those memories that stuck with me. I don’t remember everything. I don’t remember the argument he and my mother got into. I don’t remember how the rest of the day had been. And I don’t remember how the following week had carried out. But I remember that it was night. I remember my mother’s classical music playing in the background as I heard them scream and yell. I remember my parents being incredibly angry with each other, just frustrated and tired of everything. I remember my mom standing as she argued with my father in their bedroom. I remember my father leaving the room, slamming the door with such force it almost felt like the entire house was going to come crumbling down. My brother and I were hiding behind a wall with tears in our eyes for reasons I don’t know. My father saw us. We thought we were being clever by hiding behind the wall again, thinking it would be enough to not be seen. Ten years later and I know that we were wrong. He knew we listened and he knew we saw. But I didn’t know that at seven. What I knew then was that the fight, to some extent, had involved my brother and I. For something that had been argued ten years ago, I fail to remember what it was that we did. I remember walking into my parents’ room. My mother was sitting on her bed, her hands covering her face as her petite body trembled in the darkness. The only source of light in the room was the light that managed to sneak in from the hallway. I remember the sound of her voice all choked up when she spoke, “Come here my loves.” I remember her eyes all red and her cheeks all wet as she wrapped her arms around us. I remember the sound of her sobbing. I remember looking at my mother who was all broken and thinking how she looked like me when I lost my favorite toy. We stayed there with her for a few moments. We hugged her tight, told her we loved her and kissed her goodnight before leaving to go to our rooms to sleep. As a seven year old, I didn’t stay awake all night and dwell on such events as much as I would today. I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep because I’d be scared of what tomorrow would bring. Because to a seven year old, tomorrow was a brand new beginning. I didn’t think about my dad. I didn’t think if he was going through the same things as my mother. All I thought was that he was angry and made my mother cry. I was scared. I didn’t want to see the guy who yelled at my mother, who made her cry, who had anger flash in his eyes when he saw us. I didn’t want to see him. So when I went downstairs to the living to get my night light, I couldn’t comprehend the scene before me. Never

Dear Stranger Kavya Singh mind that I was seven, I probably would’ve thought the same thing today. I mean, at least I did today. There was my dad, lying on the couch with his hands covering his face, just like mother. His body was shaking and in the midst of the silence came the sounds of a lonely man crying. I remember backing away from the living room, silently running up the stairs so my father wouldn’t know that I saw him. That was the first and only time I had seen my dad cry. That was the first night I slept with darkness enveloping me. At seven, all I thought was that I had two parents who were crying. I went to my mother’s tears, walked away when I saw my father’s. At seventeen, I know my father was alone that night. I know that he probably felt anything but love. Today was the second time I saw my father cry. It started out in the kitchen after dinner. Harry and I were upstairs when we heard the first bits. "I do everything in this house." "No one helps out. I'm practically all alone." "You never give anyone a chance." "You can't do anything." "The kids practically do everything! What is it that you have to do?" "The kids are doing too much." And on and on it went. Whenever my parents fight, I ignore the screams by plugging in my earphones, playing music and turning the volume way up high. Harry blasts the television volume in the guest room. Usually they don't last too long. Sometimes they're five minute arguments, either about dishes or someone having left a stain on the table. They argue for five minutes before they laugh it off. But then they have fights like the one they had when I was seven. The screaming, yelling, who does what, who doesn't do what, the insults, the cursing and then the silence.

Dear Stranger Kavya Singh Today was worse. It seemed like all the petty arguments they didn't have for most of this month mixed into one big one. Like everything they kept inside just burst out. Imagine a champagne bottle. Imagine opening the bottle top and watching the champagne just burst out of the bottle. Now replace champagne with anger and annoyance. And just like champagne, when the liquid decides to calm down, it leaves behind a mess. They argued and argued and argued until one decided they had enough of it and just stopped. My father went upstairs to their room and slammed the door. It was like dĂŠjĂ vu. My mother came upstairs to my room. She sat on my bed, her eyes all red and her cheeks all wet. "Are you okay?" I had asked her. She barely got out a smile. "Just fine," she lied. The two of us stayed quiet for some time. I moved onto the bed, sitting right next to her, and hugged her tightly. She wrapped her arm around me and kissed me on my forehead. "I'm alright," she lied again. "Just a small fight. You know your father, don't you? Always arguing about the stupidest of things." I didn't say anything. Harry came a few moments later. Once he entered the room, I got up and left. "Crying?" he asked softly before heading to mom. I nodded my headed. "Just don't say anything." "You know I hate these kinds," he said. "The screaming, the fighting. I'd rather have them yelling at me." "I know," I replied softly. "I know." And just as I was going downstairs, I heard the sound. The very faint, quiet sound. It was coming from my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; room and just like that, I felt seven years old again.

Dear Stranger Kavya Singh My mother crying in one room and my father in the other. I peeked into the room only to notice the same man I noticed ten years ago. Body trembling, silent crying and no one there to comfort him. DĂŠjĂ vu. Funny how that is. For something to happen once more, for you to get a different way to act upon it, for you to make choices you probably wished you made the first time. And ironic too. Because sometimes, no matter how many times that event can happen, it always plays out the same way. Because sometimes, you're transported to the first time it occurred. Sometimes you're seven years old all over again. And this seven year old let her father feel alone once again. The only difference between then and now? The guilt. The guilt and pain and sympathy. Because I know how he feels. To cry yourself to sleep with no one coming to ask how you're feeling. No one asking if you're okay. No one wondering if you're feeling fine even though you know that if someone asked you would lie. I know that all I really wanted to do was open the door and tell him that we were here for him too. That our affection wasn't just reserved for mom. That we loved him too. But I passed the door and continued going downstairs with the heavy feeling in my heart that I played it all wrong. Because just like when I was seven years old, I was a scared little girl who didn't know what to do. Yours truly, The girl whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seven years old all over again

“The Golden Hour” By Eileen Chen Medium

Brown Sugar Alexandra Ross

he sky was ripe and orange like a clementine peel in mid-December. I wanted to touch it, to taste it, to feel the fresh juices of it dribbling down my chin, but when I took a bite, it tasted like ozone and carbon monoxide.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned, pulling my sleeve past the crook of my elbow. No use—it was God. “You’re flying pretty high,” He said. I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “Today?” He didn’t respond, just took my hand and pulled me up, up, up, until the world slipped away.

NOVEMBER WINDS CHRIS J. DIMOND

t’s that time of year again; the anniversary. The time when the November winds will raise the dead leaves off the dry grass field, letting them fly free by me as I make my journey through the ‘yard towards you. They’ll swirl swiftly around me, hovering in the chill breeze as red, yellow, and orange phantoms, while withered turf lets out soft crunching sounds beneath my sore feet. The brick cold air is going to let out a sharp hissing whistle, howling while scratching my face with its icy nails. Grey clouds will keep the sun veiled as it set, casting a black shadow on an already dreary scene. These visits are a struggle for me; my old bones can barely take them. You are so far back in the field that by the time I make it to you, past all the others laying with you, I feel completely drained. But despite all that I never mind it too much, because I know that when I get to you, I can stop and rest by your side. You will lay by me peacefully, and we get to recount all the sunny days we shared together.

Symphony SymphonY by David Johnston

I feel a warm breeze brush through my ears and I hear a soft humming in the distance. The humming becomes a crooning, followed by a low bass drum. Delicate flutes rise and swim to sleepy heights. Soon the bass drum begins to pick up speed; rushing, it bursts into a gallop, escorted by sharp string plucks and bright glimmers of bounding synth leads, And the noise surrounding me explodes with crashing cymbals, dazzling lights! I hear bubbly flushes of saxophone chatter, and strange polyrhythmic foxtrots, richly and clearly... The commotion slows to a buzzing snare roll and is finally brought down to a lowly clarinet, the final wisps of harmony dissolving into quiet.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;concentration 9â&#x20AC;? by James Naser spray paint

Present

“Alaska” by James Naser print

The Folio

Acetate and Oxygen Scott A. Hennessy

Sadistic son of a bitch better listen. My mind's missing ‘cause there's no good system for fixing complicit incisions. So I'll just end up being just another statistic, so I kissed them chicks and dicks just to piss them, so good riddance ‘cause they'll never get me ‘cause they're all still stuck in the basement while I'm crazy high but only until it starts to rain and go crazy. So hazy. So lazy. I'm shaking. Make a killing's just the rage. Cash money? Rather wait, and... Kind words feel like daggers when I know that you're faking. You try to console me but you're still so complacent. And kind words don’t get said until they're tired of hating. You say things just save me but I'm just not relating. What's next on the docket? Insecure but still rocking? Back and forth; out of pocket to feel real and so cocky. I feel ill and you're knocking but the door is still locked and you might just need a blanket ‘cause I'll put you in shock and I'm sorry. You think I'm used to this new craze? This new way of rude hate obliged by a cute face? Well if you're not cute and think you're real well guess what: you ain't. I call bullshit buddy. Better find a new wave ‘cause I'mma win. You can't stop me. Don't try to copy. You try but you're not me. Windows locked: you can't rob me. Flying high like it's oxy. Turning heads as they watch me. While I'm winning the game you're all still stuck in the lobby. Out of breath? Better breathe. Something's chasing after me; after you. You looney tune. It's rabbit season so fuck you. No one wants to hear the truth. It hurts to see what they can't do. A switch hitter passing through and they'll be shocked and point at you because it's not what they're used to but they'll say again, again: That respect's their only friend. So breathe harder bitch. I hope you overdose on oxygen.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Happiness at a Glanceâ&#x20AC;? By Hannah Kuryan Photograph

“Stick” by Michael Staniz mixed media 76

Present

Snack by Sam Haines

e sat upon the log in the woods, cradling the jar of mayonnaise. It was early in the morning, with dew still sticking to the top of the blades of grass. Ants marched on the log, navigating around the patches of moss. He flicked the ants away, not wanting any interference. The sun continued to rise. The light flooded through the leaves, temporarily blinding him. Unwillingly, he stood up. Clutching onto the jar, he lumbered over to a shaded area. His pockets rustled with ingredients, and the wooden spoon bobbed in time with his walk. He grabbed some leaves and made a mat. He plopped down. The area was empty of other creatures, with no bugs to be found. He placed down the jar and unscrewed the top. The mayo smelled of another world, obviously past its expiration. But that didn’t stop what he wanted to do. With the wooden spoon, he began to stir. It started slow but picked up. Faster and faster and faster. Mayo spilled over, onto the grass and onto his pants. Then he stopped. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the dead fireflies. He rolled them in his hand, their crumbled wings, smushed antennae, the wear-and-tear that comes with keeping them once they’ve died. He began to sprinkle in the fireflies. The mayo accepted each one, first letting each firefly float on top, and then absorbing it, the firefly disappearing into the sea of white. More and more were added to it. The mayo changed from a consistent white to a spotted masterpiece. He put the spoon back in the jar. He mixed once again, but this time his mouth watered with anticipation. It was ready. He took the spoon out and placed it next to him on the ground. He readied his abnormal hand, far larger than it should be at his age, and jammed it in. The jar wasn’t ready. The concoction splashed out of the jar, splattering onto his pants and the ground. But that didn’t stop him. He admired his hand, coated in mayo and firefly carcasses. His stomach begged. And he succumbed. In one smooth action, he crammed his entire hand into his mouth, unhinging his jaw like a snake. Pleasure swept through his body. He could not stop now. Quickly, he dipped his hand again, and he ate once more. He ate again, and again, and again. The jar was empty not long after. He sat upon those leaves, stomach full. And at once, he sat up, tucking the empty jar under his arm, and headed out of the woods, just as the sun finished rising.

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Prime Time Rhymes by Sebastian Castro

Present

Nonsense With no sense Of direction My discretion Doesn’t mean much When I have such Insane parameters Look at the diameter Of the circle I drew For you Representing the shit that I do In lieu Of actual art ‘Cause even this poem is falling apart Lines getting shorter No order Wait Don’t bait Me with that shit Candle lit Candle wick It’s wack Big stacks Of money Sweet honey Just kidding It’s fitting I’m shitting I’m sitting

On a cat Cool cat True fact Scratch that Come back I’m scared I dared To try Can I Guess not I’ve got My fair ‘Ol share Of scares Nightmares No fair If I’m being honest You’re the one on top of this But I forget the reason For this drawn-out treason My downfall That I call An attempt With contempt To explain If in vain That for me there’s no redemption Not offered an exception

Now I can see To what extent and what degree This has become a plea Of a man not free I try my best So do the rest On the road to success I’m driving but I swerve Maybe it’s a learning curve But how dare you have the nerve To assume It doesn’t loom Over me Why can’t you see That through no fault of mine I’m forced to write lines That at least have to rhyme

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I’m not like other girls

Sebastian Castro

I’m not like the mouth-breathers of this generation. I don’t live in my phone. I live in the moment. My combat boots are creased with the most meaningful moments in my life, Like the time I performed with my band in front of seven people in a church, Or the time I tried to smoke that old cigarette. I couldn’t, but aesthetically, it really completed my outfit. I guess you could say I’m a hippy. You know, because I listen to old music and do hard drugs. Sure, I might die, but if I go out like Jimi Hendrix, It’ll all be worth it. All popular music is trash. I only listen to really obscure artists, Like 21 Pilots and Queen. You can tell I’m serious about music because I bought a Crosley record player at Urban Outfitters. I also got these high-top converse. I customized them with a sharpie. They’re art now. And you know I’m a good artist. You’ve seen my Instagram page. You know, the one with 5 followers and 340 posts? Whatever, I prefer to experience life for what it really is. Like going to art museums with my obnoxiously large sketchbook, Or thrift shopping despite my parents being rich. I hate everything, especially my parents, Because apathy is cool, Depression is a quirky personality trait, And as a 14-year-old white kid, I’m extremely jaded. I constantly let people know I’m dead inside. I say off-putting things to make people think I’m unique. Which I am. I only watch indie films, Or at least anything produced by A24. I actually think Disney’s stupid, And I bully anyone who likes anything with a budget over a million dollars. Despite being white, I’m very vocal about hating white people, And I let any minority I meet know that. It’s not white guilt, I’m just progressive like that. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t fit in, and I don’t want to fit in.” -Cole Sprouse (Riverdale)

“Egg Head”

By Gabriella Miko Photograph

Present

Spring Blossoms by Jessica Frantzen “Hydrangeas” by Grace Kinkel Watercolor

f there was one place Lily Marlin could call truly beautiful, it would be the little garden she and Valerie kept in the back of their home. It wasn’t because of the golden-tipped flowers that were born and gone again within a few short weeks, or the riverstone pathways she had slipped on more times than she could count, but an old cherry tree that lazily stretched its arms along the crumbling wall of the garden. She had first seen it on the spring day they met years ago; Valerie, a young woman living alone for the first time in her life and starved for friendship, and Lily, the type of person who could misread a map well enough to strand herself 100 miles from her parents’ vacation home and not realize it. Therefore, when Valerie Rubin opened her front door to find a confused traveler staring back at her, the only natural thing for her to do was to invite Lily into her home as if they were old friends. Eyebrows raised, Lily asked, “Are you sure about that? I mean, you don’t even know me and you’re inviting me to…” Valerie interrupted, “Well, I don’t have anything better to do, if I’m being honest. That, and it seems like you’re worried about something, right? I don’t wanna leave somebody who needs help all alone.” “You’re definitely crazy, but I guess I’m not in a position to complain… Oh, I guess I should say my name, too. I’m Lily. And you?” “Valerie. Nice to meetcha, Lily! Here, come on, I’ll make some tea or something and then we’ll see if I can help you out.” It was at Valerie’s insistence that the two of them toured her backyard garden while talking. It was April, and the ground was dotted with soft pink petals that the two stepped over to reach a winding, ancient cherry tree, almost as tall as the barrier it grew against. Every now and again, a breeze would send a few petals drifting across the garden, settling on leafy green bushes or between the cracks of the garden’s stone walkways. “That sure is something,” said Lily, gazing at the tree from the entrance to Valerie’s garden. Valerie laughed. “Ain’t it, though? I just got this place a month ago, but I’ll be damned if this isn’t my favorite part of it!” The two stared on in silence for a moment, as if at a loss for words. Finally, breaking the silence, Valerie turned to Lily. “So… uh… you’re not from around here, right? I mean, I know everybody around here, and I think I’d recognize a

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Spring Blossoms cute face like yours.” Valerie looked away, noting what she had just said. “No, I’m not. I thought this was my parents’ new home… I guess that was totally wrong, huh?” “Yeah, I’d say so!” Valerie said, beaming. “But hey, let’s see where you were going, alright? So you’re looking for…” Lily held out the map she had been clutching since she arrived at Valerie’s home as Valerie grabbed one end to fold it out on a small stone bench in the garden. “Ok, so you’re here right now, right?” Lily nodded, watching as Valerie’s hands flew across the page, searching for Lily’s destination. “And you want to be… over… boy, that’s far.” Valerie squinted at the page, tracing the path from her house to Lily’s destination with a tanned finger. “Is it that bad? How far away am I?” Lily leaned into Valerie to get a closer look at the route between the two locations. For a moment, Valerie recoiled from her touch before realizing she had moved and, blushing, slid back closer. “Good news, you’re only a few hours away!” Valerie turned to smile at Lily, whose face was notably less happy. “That’s the good news?” “Yeah, kind of… The bad news is there’s no way you’re making it before it’s late, and I mean late late.” Valerie gestured vaguely at the setting sun over the garden wall, whose light danced with the fragile petals of the cherry tree. Lily slumped down on the bench and buried her face in her hands before asking, “So what do I do now? Are there hotels around here? Do I have the money for a hotel on me right now? And how the hell am I going to tell my parents I’m in the middle of goddamn nowhere?” She swiped at her eyes, wet with tears. Valerie’s eyes widened at the sight of Lily crying, and she rushed to say, “Hey, hey, it’s ok! Really! I’ve got a phone! And if you don’t mind company, you can stay at my place!” “You’re serious?” Lily asked, pulling her hands away from her face. “I… that’d be great, thank you! You seriously don’t mind? I’m not imposing on you?” Valerie placed a hand on Lily’s shoulder before replying, “You’re already here, right? It’s no trouble to me! And besides, I’m dying for some company! I’d just be happy to talk!” Lily took a moment to compose herself, wiping away a few tears before replying, “Man, you’re really weird... You just met me and you’re so nice to me! Nobody up home would do something like this for a total stranger.” Valerie averted her gaze for a second. “Well, I’m not about to put a lost, crying girl on the road to fend for herself… Plus, just between you and me, the hotels out here are terrible! One time, my aunt came up to see my parents, and she said the hotel room she stayed in had these huge mice…” “Okay, okay, I get it!” Lily cried. “Just let me call my parents and tell them where I am, ok?” “Yeah, sure! I’m gonna go make myself dinner while you’re doing that. You want any?” “That’d be nice, thanks.” Lily shrugged to herself as she re-entered the house--she was numb to questioning Valerie’s kindness at this point. One phone call and countless questions from her parents later, Lily re-emerged in Valerie’s kitchen. There, Valerie frantically plated food, trying desperately not to drop anything in her hurry.

Jessica Frantzen 84

Present

Spring Blossoms “You can slow down, you know.” Lily remarked as she snatched a green bean from one of the plates. “This isn’t Chopped or anything.” Valerie relaxed a bit before replying, “Yeah, yeah… I just wanted to impress you, I guess. It’s kind of stupid, but I never really have anyone over, so I wanna to make a good impression…” “Well, I’m impressed with your cooking, at least. That seriously looks great.” Lily took a plate from the table and a seat at the kitchen counter. “Still, you don’t need to try and impress me or anything. You seem like a pretty cool person with or without fast plating skills.” A smile and a stroke of red crossed Valerie’s face. “Shucks, that’s sweet of you. If I’m being honest, I’ve been a mess since I moved out of my ex’s place, so it’s nice to hear that from somebody.” She dropped down in the seat next to Lily’s, and balanced her head on her palm with a sigh. “Really, I don’t care that we broke up since she’s still my friend, but I just didn’t think it’d be this hard to live all by myself. Y’know?” Lily paused for a second, wondering if it would be rude to ask somebody she had just met about their ex, before settling on, “I guess. Though I don’t really get what kind of girl would dump somebody like you. Seems like she’s missing out, especially when you make chicken taste this good.” “Geez, you’re just gonna embarrass me if you keep sayin’ that stuff. But sometimes stuff just doesn’t work out, and that’s ok too. I mean, there’s always more fish in the sea, right? That’s how I’ve always seen it, anyhow.” She glanced over at Lily, realizing that she had been looking at Valerie for a while now. Suddenly registering the fact she had been staring, Lily stood up and took her now-clear plate. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was… I’m really tired, and it’s pretty late, so I was just gazing off into space, I swear!” “It’s ok, it’s ok! Here, let me get that.” She grabbed Lily’s plate from her hands. “You should probably go sleep, since you’ve got a long trip tomorrow. I’ve got a guest room down the hall, two doors to the right. I’ll talk to ya tomorrow, ok?” “Okay, goodnight…” Lily replied on the tail end of a yawn, and lumbered off to sleep. In the dawn, after a good night’s rest, Lily stepped back out to the garden to stretch and take in the fresh morning air. The rising sun’s light danced with the petals of what flowers grew, and the pink sky turned everything it touched a rosy hue. Lily planned to leave without more than a note on the kitchen counter; after all, she had already far overstayed her welcome and could clearly only make things more awkward. Finally, after pausing to glance once more at the shedding cherry tree, Lily grabbed her jacket from Valerie’s coat rack and set off towards her car. Before she could unlock her car, though, she heard a voice from behind her. “Wait, wait! Lily, hold up!” called Valerie. Lily stopped for a minute to watch as Valerie, still in her pajamas, hurried down her front yard waving something in her right hand. “You... almost forgot your map…” Valerie huffed. “Oh, and inside the map…” Lily opened her map to find a white slip of paper with a phone number, barely legible, written on it. “What…” she started. “Just… call me, okay? I’d love to hang out again some time…” She paused, looking around with a sheepish glance. “Ah, not in that way though! ...Ok, maybe in that way... But if you don’t wanna, that’s fine too!” Lily chuckled, looking down at the slip of paper again before looking up at Valerie and smiling brightly. “I’ll call you, Valerie!”

Jessica Frantzen The Folio

Present

“Manhatan Beach Pier” by Jordan Roe photograph The Folio

“Crows”

By Michael Staniz Medium

“Tiger”

By Cole Fogarty Medium

“Royal Pride”

By Navya Gullapuram Medium

By Michael Staniz medium

“Save the Bees”

Fut 94

Section Title

ure The Folio

freckles, a love poem Olivia Thompson there is nothing more perfect than the freckles on your nose and the way they scatter like raindrops on your cheeks. they remind me of a sky with new fallen snowflakes, each one different in size and shape. i know how much you hate them; you say they're distracting, misformed, or decorate your face wrongly. maliciously, you cover them:, peach-colored paint dries the bridge of your nose cracks, and a piece of you fades with it. summer comes and the paint melts off, the façcade with it, and once again the sun can paint drops of caramel on your skin.

“The Glance”

By Michael Staniz Medium

Heckin’ Goodboyes Jessica Frantzen

Excuse me, kind stranger. If I’m not mistaken, I believe I just heard you call that animal over there--the pitiful, slobbering one you claim to own--the “heckin’ best doggo in the world, 13/10”. I have spoken up to dispute that claim of yours, for I am well versed in the art of dog-rating and I have good reason to believe that my Canis lupus familiaris is far superior to yours in every sense of the word. As my first point, your sorry excuse for a mongrel has never worked a day in its pathetic existence. My purebred Cocker-Doodle-Corgi, on the other hand, has not only herded cows on our local dairy farm since the day he was born, but has designed and implemented an easier cow-herding pattern that all dairy farms in the United States of America have been following ever since. Secondly, I would also assume that in its sleep, your canine dreams of something mundane and cliché, like chasing the mailman, the eternal scapegoat for a dog’s problems. Meanwhile, my paragon of dog-manity creates never-before seen methods of ending the Mailman-Dog war that has raged for centuries in his dreams. He already has plans to release his book on the subject, titled Mail Order, in September with the help of Random House. I have also taken note of the fact that your dog has been given the name “Fluffy”. Such an asinine title is only further proof that your dog aspires to little more than a consumer of resources whose only purpose in life is to receive scritchies on its empty little head and waggle its butt mindlessly. Dear precious Albert Einstein, on the other hand, yearns for the touch of enlightenment on his 250 IQ brain, and only shakes his tail at the thrill of someday reaching the edges of our known universe. I sincerely hope this discussion has informed you of your inferior position as a dog owner. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Einstein has a 2:00 meeting with the President to discuss negotiations between the League of Canines and the United States Postal Service. In conclusion, you are profoundly mistaken in your earlier statement of your dog’s superiority to all other canids. My precious pup, and not yours, is the best animal to grace this planet with his divine presence, and he is most certainly a goodboye worthy of the rating of 25/10.

in dreams Lara Briggs

come fall into a world with me at a midnight café, i can’t quite get there anytime but i always know the way. i sip my cappuccino, it tastes like midnight blue, i’m looking through the window where i wait each night for you. a gryphon plays soft jazz with a fantastical horn, a fairy dressed in milky white laughs with a unicorn. and when you meet me in this place we’ll dance among the stars, let’s spin and swirl and turn and twirl to the tune of gold guitars. we never want to leave our world but someday we will wake there’s always another life to live in those dreams I’ll make.

“Fragile”

By Michael Staniz Medium

Hidden life

Lindsey Colantuno Clustered cacti, socializing with each other, Breathing easy, bathing in the warmth of the sun. This place is quiet, the sand muffling any haste. The unforgiving land, bearing no fruit or lush green, Swaddles me in comfort. The dry heat opens my soul and leaves me unbound, unraveled, unleaded. My sweat cleanses as it rolls over my skin.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sunflowerâ&#x20AC;?

By Madison Wolf Photograph

When the harsh sun dips behind the Catalina mountains, Splashing the world with its hues, The quiet ones emerge from their burrows. They tip-toe through the night, Barely disturbing the cooled sand. The peace is deep in the soul, Absorbed and then emulated. One cannot help but reflect on their surroundings, the colors glowing, shining through your spirit, healing, rejuvenating, cradling life.

I-89 Blues

Anna Donahue As we flew by the second sign “MOOSE”: black on yellow Mom said The MOOSE population in the Northeast Kingdom area has been decimated because of global warming I think Fitting; this heat wave slamming us even here in Vermont must hurt the MOOSE too ¶ A few times the dense woods are broken up by a dip in the land or a field--this one has a house on its edge Do the people who live in that white farmhouse notice the veil? the blue-tinted haze today? trapping our visibility in a bubble? ¶ The low roadside green is a funeral home for carrion a fresh-looking doe some sort of rodent Most bafflingly, I spot a crow I do not see the head, only a mass of ruffled black feathers, the body. I have never seen a dead crow a dead eater of the dead; an ancient part of me sees this abomination and weeps.

¶ We pass ridges of rock jutting between the two sides of the highway. They speak of a sliced mountain. I am slipping through a phantom geologic feature Ridge on the left, deli-meat mountain to the right form jaws in which we are briefly held ¶ Third sign: MOOSE--a bit lower [STAY ALERT] for Schrödinger’s MOOSE, for the MOOSE to be yielded to, MOOSE living parallel to the Connecticut River like this highway ¶ One last MOOSE. [STAY ALERT]

Enemy Raw Sebastian Castro

A concrete wall, 50 feet high, stood along the road. Several checkpoints were placed at vital points in the wall. Busy roads lined the inside of the barrier. A woman rode in the passenger seat of a shiny car. A commotion caught her gaze. A mass of bodies, writhing terribly, pushed against one such military checkpoint. The barricade, cruel in design, cut their arms and their stomachs and their faces. They were bloodied and desperate. Men in uniform struck at them with hardened steel. Foul cries arose from the crowd. The woman in the car spoke to the younger man driving. “Look at them. Like rats.” He didn’t answer. “Ed. I said—” “I heard you.” “Then why didn’t you say anything?” Ed didn’t look at her. “Katharine, we’ve had this conversation before. Yes, I see them. I see the people trying to get through. Sure, I guess you could say they look like rats.” Katharine’s attention was back to the wall. Something piqued her interest, so she tapped Ed’s shoulder. “Pull over. I think one’s gonna make it.” Sure enough, a boy, small enough to slip through, was climbing over the sharp entrapments. The men with weapons seemed to be paying him no mind. “Right now, Katharine? I’m going to be late.” “Just a few minutes, okay?” Ed looked at her in disgust. “God, you’re an asshole.” “What? They’re literally criminals.” Ed looked as if he was going to say more, but instead broke eye contact. “Fine. Just make it quick.” He pulled over to the side of the road. Katharine hopped out excitedly. She ran for the boy, fumbling with her gun. Meanwhile, the boy, a disfigured and sickly child, broke from the barricade, and blindly ran. Katharine, a grown woman, threw herself on top of him with all her weight. His head smacked the ground with a sickening thud, and a dazed moan escaped him. She sprung up, giving herself some space. At this point, some bystanders had begun to cheer her on. The child, barely conscious, crawled away. She wound up, kicking him in the ribs with all her strength. A sharp crunch let her know that she broke something. Whimpering, the child kept crawling, reaching out, as if anyone would help him. Katharine stepped on his hand, grinding his fingers into the concrete. A few nails came loose. This time, the child screamed. Laughing jovially, Katharine brandished her handgun and shot the boy in the calf. This time, he stopped moving. Remembering her promise to her brother, she shot him a few times in the back, then the head. With a sense of victory in her heart, Katharine jogged back to the car, eliciting a few impassioned salutes. A little out of breath, but smiling, she hopped back in the car. “Tool” “See? That didn’t take long.” Ed’s mouth was a thin line. By Michael Staniz “Whatever.” Medium

“Subject 0064” By Lydia Naser Medium

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“Dress Code” by Michael Staniz Digital

A Writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Child by Madeline Murphy I nuzzle them in scarves, smooth the creases of their pleated skirts, and take care to double-knot their shoelaces. Stories circle rings around their fingers, and verses weave through the winter-worn holes of their sweaters. While I watch them tread through the blizzard, as they brush snow off their shoulders and adjust their caps, I begin to doubt how the world will react to them. Are they dressed too flashily,â&#x20AC;&#x201D; replacing complex words for substance? Will others hear their voices as they speak through the crowd? Will their classmates understand their purpose, admire their language, feel their emotions, smiling and crying and laughing and smiling at the right times? Sometimes I wish I could shield them from the world, letting all criticism simply be an impossibility.

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If You Only Asked Alexandra Ross I’d rip the stars out of the sky one by one, watch the flesh on my fingertips sizzle and burn away painlessly, fashion those celestial fires into a shining ring, and place it on the smallest finger of your right hand.

“Salty Sunset” By Jordan Roe

Photograph

“Rose”

By Grace Kinkel Medium

The Worlds End by David Johnston

An inferno on display: Light bleeds out of the sky, sugar charred to black

Down on earth, metal lava purges and sanitizes the remainder of life. Mountains bleed into every crevice and split, washing and drowning the landscape, carving decay. Suddenly flashes of everything: Bolts of white shatter lakes Black sparks crackle, claiming their territory. Other colors cry too; The oranges and yellows and reds and pinks scream and fight, cutting and bruising and blistering until they fade away. The blues and browns and greens and violets run and fly and sink and waste, attempting to numb their free fall. Finally the fluorescents roar harsh noise, turning water to iridescent glass and gravel to gold. And the frozen blood finally evaporates. Rusted clouds corrode the sun and ash and embers mark the universe; A spotty reminder of what once was.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Forgotten Citiesâ&#x20AC;? by Dhivya Arasappan photograph

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“No Second Thoughts” by Dhivya Arasappan photograph

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when the solar system loses its earth “Goodnight honey. I’ll see you in the morning.” “Wait Daddy! Can you sing me to sleep?” “Ugh, but I’m so tired. I’ll sing to you tomorrow night, okay?” “Pleeeeeeease?” “Tomorrow. I promise.” “...fine.” “Alright. Goodnight honey. I Love you.” “I Love you too Daddy.”

Say Hello to the Happy People “Sun” by Michael Staniz digital 110

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I work real hard and hug my kid God’s on my side I love to live:) And no one knows of what I did But nothing lasts forever :(

it knows not what to do, by

scott a. hennessy

How Do I Stop The Tigers There are tigers at my home With grilling snarls And sharpened teeth A virus among the naked And I am afraid, So afraid. A frantic man with a family cannot quel This force of nature. I’m just one man. please help me please i’ll do anything please just don’t take this away from me please don’t take this away it’s all I’ve got it’s all I’ve got plea... I can’t fix this. But I can’t accept that. I have to try. I have to... Because this isn’t about me at all. There’s nothing else after this. Nothing.

I’d fight off thousands of tigers For the ones I Love. I lied: This isn’t happening (I can’t fix this.) You’re going to be okay (But I can’t accept that.) The tigers will leave (I have to try.) And I’ll never let go (Because you’re everything to me) VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV But there’s nothing else after this. ΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛΛ I’d do anything For the ones I Love but I am a failure. & this is The End.

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ash has settled but my eyes still hurt

Bang, then Burning Lights

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My bones are battered and whipped like yolk A splattered mad hatter; my eyes are closed Skin seems to burn then turn to smoke Please help me find them, where did they go? Tears down my cheek and red water streams Society’s linings are ripped from their seams Scarred yellow skies and rations are lean Rads rapture lungs as Hell fires beam Dismantled cities and buzzing botflies Scrapers to sand and sand piles high Deserts embark the end of white eyes Blood filled tears and I wonder why? Why? why? why

What does one think when their world has lost? What does one think when their world is dead? They had so much more to do So much more to say I tried to do the right thing. I really tried… But I guess that wasn’t enough. They were the best ones to ever be And no one will even remember them. No one. And it’s not fair. ... I at least hope their last thought made them smile. For now I walk in a world of fire and sand. I miss her. And I miss them. And now I’m here. And I don’t know what to do.

Future

scott a. hennessy

Say Hello to the Ones Left Behind

the air is bleached and burns your face rips your lungs and toxic waste it smells of lead and acetate and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s going to be like this forever :( kids with toys they like to play it hurts to walk. I need some faith and iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m ashamed of my mistakes Something can make thiS better :)

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scott a. hennessy

DieSeL oh now thiS iS better bombaStic aciD weather i’m SpaStic criSpy Leather She graSpeD it gonna get her: /////////////////////////////////////// ///////////////// “oh you gon take my Stuff aS if i’m up to Snuff i gueSS i’m getting rough Swingin my fiStS? my luck! ! ︶ Sooooooooooooooo gooDbye gooD riDDance i think you reaLLy neeD it” \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ … poppin pLaStic you can’t grab me going to the Sun minD iS fLaciD voice iS raSpy anD i’m having fun cauSe you can’t catch me now an emperor! a crown! got no ServantS? how obServant i wiLL Let you Down

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Sorry! SprayeD in the crowD i StiLL can hear that SounD DiDn’t mean to i juSt neeD to get Some SoLiD grounD i kept feeDing you knuckLeS untiL you were Done i founD a piece of paper anD put it on my tongue yeLLow SkieS are bLeeding coLor Don’t neeD anyone i bet you’re aLL afraiD of me too baD but here i come got a weapon enD of SeSSion teach the baD guyS a LeSSon am i a baD guy? reaLLy am i? iSn’t paSSive aggreSSion thiS happy venom feeLS Like heaven aS my Lips Start to Leaven thiS worLD’S amazing going crazy becauSe it’S armageDDon i’m an engine i neeD DieSeL ruSteD metaL anD Sex can’t Live without it cry without it i can’t wait for what’S next Don’t remember that feeLS better than hearing retroSpect engine’S Dying gonna fry anD I feeL tearS coming back What did I do?

scott a. hennessy

These Hands They’re not their color anymore They are covered in brown blood and sulfur They’re beaten and brushed And I never even noticed These hands have gripped, ripped, And blasted The ones left behind; They’ve held poison, steel, And glass And I never even noticed Because I forgot. I look down: These hands are not mine anymore. I wonder what they‘d think if they saw me I wonder if they’d smile if they got the chance I wonder what I’d do if I could see myself If the mirrors weren’t shattered And dusted Just like everything else I was just a man with a family but now i don’t know what i am anymore. But I can fix this I have to try For them I’d do anything for the ones I Love.

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May I Have Mercy

scott a. hennessy

I dragged my feet through the sand, chest covered in heavy garments, as I breathed through my gas mask. The air tasted like burnt rubber. I shuffled through my fallen city, observing the slanted towers above me and rusted automobiles strewed around the decrepit streets. The beating heat punched me as the wind slashed my sides, but I kept moving. I had to keep moving. Rads seared the lonesome skulls of fallen men, still left half-covered by raging hot sand. Large jagged shards of concrete were ripped up, peeking over the sand, stained with neon green spray paint. They pointed towards the yellow skies, hazed by clouds of mustard and fallout, obstructing the view of the sun. Blue was my favorite color. Who the fuck knows when I’ll see that again, right? Guess that was another cruel joke disposed on me by God. I chuckled to myself. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard loud howls down the street. Shrieking. Howls of anger, or fear. Ripping through the burning winds. I quickly reached for the mahogany grip of my revolver, stuffed deep in the leather harness on my side. Cautiously, I stepped through the reckoned street, towards the continued howls of pain. Broken glass splintered into sand under my feet. I’ve seen so many things. Killed so many things. But this shrieking is like having thorns shoved in my ears, then pulled out. Over and over and over again. I can’t fucking stand it. My revolver shook by the end of the extremities as I approached closer. I was afraid. As I neared the end of the street, I could tell that whatever was making this sound was around the corner of what used to be a building. I crept along the sidewalk until I arrived to the next block. I breathed. Shrieking. Revolver in hand, I charged forward and turned to my left. The sound was not of danger but of a wounded wolf, shot, whimpering as it laid on the ground. Agony. His skin was blistered red from the acid air, and blood quenched his black fur. His eyes looked to me with fear. With pain. With exhaustion. Tears. Pleading. I stood in silence. And waited for nothing. I raised my revolver to meet his head. I pulled off my monstrous mask. We stared into each other as I forced a smile.A sad smile. Then I pulled my trigger. My face stung from the poison air, as did my lungs. My eyes raged with pain. Tears curled down my bloody lashes as I hastily put my mask back on. I looked down at the poor creature that laid dead before me. I spoke to myself: “I hope his last thought...” I look down at my weapon. Held by my hands. My hands. And I wanted to cry. But I had to keep moving, right? Right?

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scott a. hennessy

Dandelions They were her favorite flower I loved hearing her laugh When she’d run outside and grab them from the yard She would place her bunches in a jar And cry once they shriveled I loved her so so much. I saw the body of the wolf again His gunshot wound sank into his flesh An afterimage. But Dandelions had sprouted from his fur. A gift. I find water in my eyes I look to the sky Yellow rain. It burnt my skin. But it felt so good. Like the revolver in my hands. I sang softly I sang to her. Because I promised. “Goodnight.” But Gravity Finds a Way.

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devil’s workers Kavya Singh

god cannot save us all for we’re too broken and burnt and our sins have begun to mean more than the prayers we sing

we’ve chosen a path where the water is acid burning our tongues and killing our shadows we have set up fires that not even we can fix making monsters in the world that shouldn’t have to exist

we can no longer be excused for our violent tricks and cruel aspirations for to manipulate god’s words does not mean you are his son

god cannot save us all for we’ve done too much because instead of going to hell we’ve brought it up here instead

“Luminescence” By Jordan Roe Photograph

“Warrior”

By Lydia Naser Medium

“Honk”

By Michael Staniz Medium

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“Graphic Gum!” By Olivia Thompson

Medium

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The Sphinx (a novel in the works) by Joe Czepiel

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Author’s Note I have always enjoyed watching action-packed movies, playing video games, and reading a suspenseful novel. Likewise, I have a deep interest in history and culture. That’s kind of where the “roots” of the inspiration came from, and in the novel you will see that play out. One of my favorite video game series is Assassin’s Creed, and this inspired a lot of my ideas. I’m considering having a connection later in the story to the Assassin Brotherhood and my own novel. The Sphinx really started out as nothing more than a thought: wouldn’t it be cool to write a novel/screenplay and this is exactly how I want it to be? Quite randomly, one day I just sat down and began typing away, using inspirations like the ones I mentioned as well as things from my own life. The story follows the humble beginnings of Devon Marlos, an 18 year old who just graduated high school. Devon is just like any other kid, at least so he initially thinks. In the following prologue, keep wondering in the back of your head of how the two worlds will meet, how Devon’s bloodline will determine his duty and fate. In the future, I plan to keep writing as I go, and just let the story flow from chapter to chapter until I feel like it’s complete.

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prologue

t is not a particularly easy task to string a bow. Especially if you are well over your days as a hunter and warrior. Especially since the elderly tribal man could hardly see where the loop of the bowstring was supposed to meet the notch on the bow. Especially since he was pressed for time, and he could hear the crackling of jungle vegetation in the near distance. Though the man had always trekked these parts of the island barefooted since he was a child, his feet bled, and if the muddy prints on the jungle floor werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough to give away his position, then the blood trail would make up. The old man gave up on stringing the bow for a moment to keep retreating. A call of a Cockatoo caught his attention, and he looked up to see. Sunlight peeped through the cracks in the tree ceiling, finding its way to illuminate the jungle. Most of the visibility was provided by the rays of light passing through the lush green leaves, giving the sun a natural lampshade. The bird flew off in the same direction the man would be heading, flapping its wings furiously as if it were carrying a burden. Checking his flanks every moment or so, the elderly man paced on, looking for some form of cover, but really, a hiding place. He had felt at home here his entire life, but in this moment, the man knew not where he was, nor where to go. While peering backwards, he took a double take to see in his blurred vision a fallen log propped up by soil on one end, creating a large enough crevasse to bury himself. Quickly, the elderly man dropped to a prone position, landing hard on his knee, and scrambled under the log. Now, all he could do was wait.

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the sphinx Memories from his childhood games of hide and seek came into the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind. He thought about some of the friends he had played with when he was that age, and how some of them had fallen in battles years ago. The rest of them died shortly before the events leading up to now, and this made the old man clench his jaw hard. It was not the time for tears. Sitting in the moist soil and fallen leaves, gripping his bow, the elder questioned the position he was in. What happened to the rest of the village? Does my family feel pain? Where is my love, my wife? Is this the day that I will meet the gods? All questions of a man preparing to die, but the man was not afraid to do so. He knew his role on the earth. The rustling and urgent conversation were getting closer, and the elderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s impaired vision only getting worse as the sweat ran its way into his eyes. Now, the man was in a better and more vital position to string the bow. This was exceptionally difficult considering he laid flat on his back. Using the log as a fulcrum, the old man used what he had left of his biceps to bend the bow to the string. After many tries, the loop was set in the notch, and the bow was strung and ready. The elder questioned if he was, too. At his bony hip was pigskin quiver with plenty enough arrows to fend for himself. Just in case if danger was too close, the elderly man carried a dagger at his side, the same dagger that he had planned to hand down to his grandson. He pulled an arrow from the satchel and secured arrow notch to the bowstring. The arrowhead rested between his shaking middle and pointer fingers on his left hand, his right-hand fingers anxious to pull the arrow back. More rustling was made in the jungle, and conversations of the metal-men were becoming more and more intense, though he could not understand a single word they were saying. However, it was obvious what they were after, the old man knew this. As they kept creeping on, he realized that he had underestimated the numbers, and perhaps their powers, for out of his peripherals came a beacon of light, and even though he hid himself under the cover of a fallen palm tree, it was almost as if the light had a mind of its own, that it knew where elder was hiding. Slowly peeping from out of his cover to have a glance, the elder took notice of the gleaming object that one of the men had hanging at his engraved silver chestplate. That must be the chief, the old man figured, since he wore a velvet cape that scraped the ground as he led on, eyes moving left and right, his stern facial features showing determination. Suddenly, a second, dimmer light began to glow beneath the wrinkled, sweat-dripping nose of the old man. He took his focus off the jungle and away from the mysterious beam of light to fix his glance downward, where he noticed something strange about the tarnished and engraved metal amulet on his necklace that was passed onto him by a witch doctor years ago. There something that he had never seen before, and certainly never thought could be possibleâ&#x20AC;Ś

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the sphinx Then, without a moment to process what was happening, the beacon of the metal-men made acquaintances, or perhaps reunited, with the glow of the elderly man’s necklace, creating a blinding light for a split second. Some sort of ringing noise had stunned him, who’s ability to hear was impaired already but still he fixed his hands to cover his ears. It took several seconds for the man to regain his senses, and when he did, he could hear shouts in the near distance. In fact, his senses appeared to be more than rejuvenated after the activation of this strange force. The light, the amulet, and the man were all manifested into a strange ancient force which returned the man to his younger physical abilities while still maintaining his wrinkled and hunched complexion. He was aware of everything now: the trees, the wind, the noises of Cockatoos in the distance, the smell of blood, his blood. Most imperatively, though, he somehow could sense, he knew, what to do next. A direct beam of light connecting the amulet and whatever power the metal-men possessed made his cover useless. A compass, powered by a supernatural force, leading right to the amulet on the old man’s sunken and tattooed chest. “Alli, Alli!”, one of the metal-men bellowed out. The rustling of the jungle became a shaking of the earth below. In an instant, with a sudden second wind of his youth, the elderly man sprang out from his cover, pulled the arrow back without much struggle, and released his shot on the first glimpse of silver that caught his eye. Though past his prime, the huntsman hit his target: the silver headdress of a pale-skinned man. He fell without a scream nor shout. He was in plain sight of the metal-men, who were still shouting, though none of them hesitated when their comrade had been pierced in the head. Reaching to his quiver again, he swiftly pulled out another arrow, drew it back and released his second shot, aimed at the silver chest of their leader. A direct hit, though the arrow deflected off the metal armor plate and sailed into the tree line. The bearded white-skinned leader barely flinched, though he did peer down for a moment and halted his march. His face grew tighter, but the elderly man noticed a slight grin on his face before resuming his prowl. Standing in disbelief for a moment allowed the rest of the metal-men to close in faster, and it was apparent that the weapons of the jungle were not a fair match to the armor of an alien land, and an artifact of the heavens. However, the elderly man was equipped with his cunning ability to navigate the land. Without much further thought, he ran, or at least attempted to do so with his now aching knees and hunched back. Still, the light beam stuck to his chest, entering through his back first, but he could not feel it. Bare bloody feet slapped the mud, and with a limp, the gait of an old injured man resembled that of a newborn calf learning to walk for the first time. With his back to metal-men, who were charging at roughly the same pace due to their lack of familiarity in

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the sphinx this environment, the old man knew exactly where he was going, exactly what was ahead of him. And he did not fear it. There, in that moment, the winds began to pick up quickly and the rustling of palm leaves and patters in the mud were overcome by a roar, but not one of any animal. In sight and out of the thick of the jungle was now the sky, the orange sun nearly set on the far horizon of the vast Pacific Ocean. Quickly he trotted over, not paying much attention to the rocks penetrating the skin on his heels. Some stuck to the pads of his feet. Looking at the pool below, he stood at edge of the roaring white waters. The drop must have been a foot for every year the man has lived. The glowing on his necklace grew brighter. The elder somehow knew what that meant, and he did not have much time left before the metal-men would breach the threshold of the jungle and kill him on the cliff. Rustling of the jungle was getting louder despite the roaring waterfall. He looked down at the shore below. Jagged rocks and coral reef would bed his fall if he did not hit the right spot in the water. However, the old man was not afraid to do what he knew he had to. By the gods, or some other higher power, he knew that was his destiny. The metal-men were so close that he could nearly feel the heat coming from their white skin. With his boney fingers, the last of his energy was spent on pulling the necklace off his body with a double-handed, stern motion. Because the man had practically skinned his right-handed digits raw from maneuvering the bow, the amulet was kept in his left hand with barely enough strength to grip it. Now, the elderly man inched closer to his destiny, pointing his toes off the cliff. There was no strength left, no effort left to give. His eyes shut. The man took a long inhale through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth slowly. With outstretched arms, amulet and necklace still in one hand, he leapt, falling like a tree, disappearing into the violent waters below. The light beam connecting the amulet to the metal-men, Gone.

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Chapter 1 Sequence 1: Truth of nothing

eagulls squawked overhead in seeming frustration, maybe due to the fact they could barely move in the evening gust of the Atlantic Ocean breeze. Like a boat going upstream. Occasionally they would swoop down from their stationary hover to investigate the boardwalk below, mistaking cigarette buds for French fries as they poked around the wooden flooring. Never minding the passer-byers, or the teenagers looking for a place to hook up on the beach, the seagulls went on, proceeding to land, investigate, pick at the wood planks, walk around, and take off again into the wind. Some would say aimless, but we would argue otherwise. On that night, this journey began, though I did not know it then. The year was 2017, and well, my friends and I could embrace that. “Those motherfuckers are gonna pay. Seriously.” announced Marcus as he sternly tapped the table to each syllable, leaning over and looking me in the eye. The two of us sat in the pizzeria discussing what to do, while our slices got cold and ice melted into our cokes. The bond between Marcus and I went back to the days of elementary school. Always had each other’s back, either at a recess throw-down or a little league baseball game. We made a great pitcher-catcher combo, switching roles too. Good in school, but more importantly, Marcus could think, create. However, his lack of patience made him something of a fight-picker, and the fact that he had 20 pounds on me made him the perfect size on the field or in the parking lot. He was kind of a no B.S. kind of guy back then, but still he loved to mess around no less. This was his situation to thrive.

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the sphinx “How though? What’s the brilliant plan this time? We can’t steal their bikes anymore like last year. Eighteen now, remember? Not trying to go to jail” I refuted. My arms crossed as I sunk into the booth. “Listen, Devon. This time it’s different. They came after you and your family. They called you a…” He paused. “A chink.” I finished. “Yes. That.” We both paused for a moment. Now Marcus slumped back into his side of the booth. I fiddled with the straw in my coke, thinking about the situation. It must have been hard for Marcus to really get where I was coming from, because he was the poster boy of white, and I was the half-bred son of a Filipino mother and a white father. Marcus knew me well enough though to know that I wanted to do something. To get my revenge. He leaned forward again and continued softly, “Devon, listen. They called you a,” he looked around and then whispered, “chink. We can’t let them get away with this. Plus, and I know this comes secondary and all but, they took a case of your beer, dude. Fuckers.” I thought about what he had said for a minute. It was beginning to sound like a plan was forming. “Alright. Call up the boys.” I said blankly, but grinned afterwards. “Hell yeah man! Alex is on his way already,” exclaimed Marcus. It wasn’t much of a summer for us if we didn’t spend our nights on the boardwalk scheming and messing around. Especially since these were our last months together before we were to go off to college and not see each other for a long while, we wanted to live things up. I mean, it was only tradition, it was only right to do so. Marcus and I went back and forth asking each other if we still remembered some childhood memories and laughing each time we recounted the story. Like the time where a bumblebee flew up my shorts during recess in 5th grade and I ran around crying for help. Or the time where Marcus took some practice swings with his new baseball bat in the parking lot and accidently dented Ms. Henderson’s minivan. Those were good times. We would come to miss them, we knew. Of course the conversation transitioned into talking about some girls. Of course. “You know, what’s stopping me from hooking up with Jenny tonight? We’re going off to college in like two months, who’s gonna even care?” I proposed. Jenny was my crush since pre-school. Brown hair, greenish eyes, slim, and funny too. “Chill” is the word we used to describe such a lady. “Yeah I’ll tell you what the problem is. You’re gonna pussy out. Just sayin’” replied Marcus. He knew about every scheme that I had, and I knew about his too. The difference was that he could convert the thoughts into actions. Still, though, he offered me some good advice, most

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the sphinx of the time. “Oh yeah? Bet on it. Five bucks,” I shot back smiling. “Hell, I’d give you twenty if you so much as just kiss her. Not kidding,” he replied. “Deal.” We shook on the bet, but we knew we had a more important task at hand. That’s when Alex finally showed up, waving some ladies good-bye as he walked into the pizzeria and took of his sunglasses to find us still sitting at the booth. I guess you could describe Alex as being the typical skater/surfer boy, though he really couldn’t do either. He wore his brown hair past his ears, never closed-toe shoes nor sleeves. Why would you when you had biceps like that? His only downside was his underwhelming height, something we liked to tease him on. “Hey short-stack, I mean, hot-rod, over here!” Marcus called. “Boys!” he flung up his arms and smiled wide. “Yo Alex, you think I got a chance with Jenny tonight?” “Ha!” Alex let out. “Let’s talk about some real plans here, alright big guy?” he smiled brighter as he sat down next to me and folded his shades onto the neck of his tank top. “I heard about the situation. Good shit, right.” “Alex, I’m loving the way you think.” Added Marcus. “Honestly, I’m down to fuck these guys up. That seems like the move,” I admitted. The combination of Marcus’ impatience and Alex’s thirst for drama would have been enough to get us arrested. All the sudden we heard a bicycle bell ring a few times and then a little crash followed by a motherFUCKER! It was Rhody. I looked to the window and saw Rhody walking his bike, frowning, then setting it down outside, not even bothering to chain the rusted, undersized thing to a bike rack. He walked in and asked the hostess for a Band-Aid, which she was able to supply. We tried to contain our laughter but Alex broke out (unsurprisingly) and let out a chuckle, and we followed. Immediately Rhody looked over to our booth, tightened his face and stamped over. Like a pissed off giraffe. On his feet was a mismatched pair of crew socks which only highlighted the fact that he had stick legs. And stick arms. But still, our mission could not go on without him. “You good there, boss?” I smirked sarcastically. “Yeah I’m chillin’, totally just got that bitches number over there.” He pointed to the hostess. We weren’t sure if he said that as a joke or was trying to tell a lie, but we all laughed anyway. “Rhody you know the story right?” Marcus asked. “Yeah you told me. What’s the plan?”

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the sphinx We knew that Rhody was not going to enjoy our idea, but we also knew that he would do anything we told him to do. In a good way, though, I guess. “We are fighting them aren’t we…” He knew the answer already so none of us really replied. He sighed, “Knew it. What’s my role in this? Why can’t we just mess up their phones or something? I could easily hack into their shit and fuck it up.” Rhody was something of a tech genius, and you could always find him with his laptop in his backpack that he carried everywhere. Alex and I used to joke that he probably has a full on medical kit in there too, with a bunch of inhalers or something, making his Band-Aid stunt all the more comical. “That’s some pussy shit. We are taking the fight to them this time.” Said Marcus. “Plus… the plan is to take some of their loot, if you will.” Added Alex. He could get his hands on anything without anyone noticing. A valuable trait for a bunch of teenagers. “Interesting…” replied Rhody. “Exactly.” I remarked. Finally, our main asset to this plan arrived. Eddy. Let’s just say that if we were the avengers, he was our hulk. Varsity football lineman, six-foot-four. Not sure his weight, but I can tell you that it was plenty. Eddy wasn’t one to pick a fight, but when the time came, boy could he swing. “Gents,” he did a little bow and then sat down, barely fitting in the booth. The crew was present, now, a plan had to be made. We sat in the booth for a solid hour contemplating the logistics of how the attack would go down. In truth, the plan could have been put together in ten minutes if we had been completely focused, but there was no need to rush. Every now and then we stopped to take a bite of the left over pizza or sip at our Cokes, getting side tracked by some of the girls that walked in and out of the old pizzeria. By the time our plan was set in place, the sun had completely set, and we were the last ones to leave the restaurant. I can’t remember if we left a tip. I hope we did. Strolling down the boardwalk at night makes you feel like a kid and an adult at the same time. There is something to be said about being out late at night and how it can make you feel invincible yet juvenile at the same time. Look towards the beach and you can see highschoolers younger than us (maybe fifteen or sixteen) trying to hide the ember of their blunts, even though they should be more worried about the smell. Look towards the arcade and you will find middleschoolers, some with their families and others just with their friends, inserting tokens into the crane game and methodically placing the claw over a stuffed animal and dropping it at the right moment. Watch their faces light up when the claw picks something up, and then watch them wince when it drops

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the sphinx seconds after. We continued to formulate the plan a bit more as we cruised past the shops and arcades, and our tone became a bit more serious, and our schemes more intricate. Finally we walked down the exit ramp of the boardwalk and hit the streets, sparsely lit by streetlights. Clouds shaded the moonlight. “Okay, let’s go over this one more time,” I said. “I’m gonna walk up to their house alone, they will probably be sitting in their garage. I’ll talk some shit, and that will get them pissed off. Like throwing rocks at a beehive, right?” “That’s a really stupid analogy. But continue.” Remarked Eddy. “Whatever. As soon as they start coming to beat me up, that’s when you guys come in and fuck them up. They won’t see it coming. Rhody,” he took his focus off his rusty handlebars and twitched his head my way. “ You’re in charge of making sure none of this gets caught on camera. Got it?” “Yeah, easy. All I gotta do is launch a few diagnostics from my computer and all of the cameras in the area will be shut down. Only thing is that I’ve gotta be within a reasonable proximity to do so. And you guys know I can’t fight.” “We know,” Alex and Marcus said in unity. “It’s simple. We do the dirty work, and you make sure we go unseen. Okay?” I replied. Rhody didn’t respond and we kept walking down the street (except Rhody, who preferred his “mighty stted”) for four blocks and then making a left onto Hummock Avenue. No going back, and I led the way, instructing the rest to follow my shadow quietly, and closely. Maybe it was a lucky guess or perhaps just an assumption that these bums did nothing else besides dick around in their garage, but there they sat, enjoying some of the drinks that they had stolen the night before. My stride did not break nor falter as I approached the house on the right and marched up the driveway. Newspapers, unopened, littered the lawn. They were listening to some sort of music, maybe it was old Travis Scott, but I can’t remember past the adrenaline of the moment. They set down their beers for a moment and fixed their eyes towards me. “Remember me?” I announced nonchalantly as I stood about 10 feet away from the garage. I was rehearsing that line for a while. “Yeah. Devon,” one of them replied then paused. “Your beer tastes alright.” “Yeah. I came by to see if I could get it back. You sure don’t need any more of those,” I motioned towards my stomach. “How’d you even find us? I’m surprised you could see in the dark with those eyes,” He squinted. “I could smell you from the boardwalk, James. Wasn’t too hard to find you.”

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the sphinx “Listen, rice boy, why don’t you do yourself a favor and fuck off before me and my boys turn you blind for real this time?” He pointed behind him with his thumb, towards his goons. 3 of them. “Hmm… okay. Sure thing. But why don’t you come out here first and show me the way home? Since you know, I can’t see.” “Oh yeah? You want me to come out there you little shit?” “Yeah. Bring your fuck-buddies too,” I motioned with both my hands to draw them out of the garage as I walked back a bit. I looked to the side of the house and saw Alex there. He nodded. The other boys looked ready too, all lined up and ready to pounce. I hoped Rhody was nearby. I looked away. “Boys! Let’s show this chink who runs shit around here,” James called with anger. The goons stood up and followed him out of the garage. I began to size up the enemies approaching; one of them was a shorter, heavier set kid. Alex would take him. Another was a taller guy, maybe six-two, but not very muscular. Marcus could take him. And just as we had our own hulk, they had theirs: as tall as Eddy, maybe even taller, and tattoos all across his meaty arms, even reaching his neck. James led the pack, like a sinister wolf. He was bigger than I was, maybe a few inches and certainly a bit heavier. But James would fall under my own blows. No questions asked, James had to be mine. I glared into his snarling face, but broke our glance and nodded at Alex. Without hesitation, Alex, Marcus, and Eddy all popped out from their cover and charged towards the goons, who shot around quickly and prepared for defense. James looked back too, giving me the opportunity for first blood. I hurled a swinging surprise with my right hand, aimed at the back of James’ skull, which to my surprise, slipped under my punch, leaving my momentum to carry me off balance as he shifted his feet quickly around me. Both of us reset and assumed our stances. “Come get some, chink!” I shuffled my feet frantically towards him and loaded up another right hand. However, it was only met by a block from the sharp of his elbow and a counter with his own right hand, this one stern and quick to my gut. My body automatically clenched forward as I stumbled back. Alex was busy wrestling one on the asphalt already, and Marcus proceeded to throw swift punches all across the body and head of his opponent. Eddy was having fun, but it was hard to tell if he was winning out of my peripherals. My focused return to James, who wanted more. So did I. Seeing me bent over, he saw the opportunity to launch a roundhouse kick to my head and end me. I guess I saw it coming, though it was probably just luck, but I stood back upright and just the right moment, planted my stance, and caught his

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the sphinx swinging leg. He looked just as surprised as I did, and I soon wiped that look of his face as I threw his leg back down and swung a left hand hook shot to his chin, this time connecting. Retreating backwards with his hand on his face, I marched towards him, grabbed him by the shirt and punched him as many times as I could, right in his smirky, ugly face. To his nose, cheeks, mouth, eyes. I must have dealt about ten. There was blood, and I could feel the warmth on my fists. Then, I was on the ground all the sudden, though I couldn’t really tell how the hell I got there. Only after a few seconds and several haymakers did I realize that their hulk was now on top of me, looking to make me pay for touching his master. Now my face felt warm, and I could feel the swelling start. Everything was beginning to go black, and I’m not sure if that was because I was on the verge of unconsciousness, or the fact that my own blood blinded me. Both, most likely. The big goon mounted my chest and continued to hammer my skull with his fists. At that moment, I wondered about the situation I was facing. Not being pulverized by a huge motherfucker, but just the situation in general. How I lost my beer. How I would explain this to my parents. How my skull kept pounding the asphalt blow after blow and bounce back only to meet another punch. How I could have been with Jenny that night. There was nothing to it, really. I became a punching bag. There wasn’t much to that, and it is hard to tell how long I was being pummeled, how many shots I took. Then, it stopped, and seriously I thought it never would. The weight fell heavy on my whole body, and I could tell that the pounding had ended. Had he gotten tired? The limp body rolled off me, where I could see Rhody standing there, toting a sizeable rock. “Remember David and Goliath?” He held out a hand and helped me up, though he was barely strong enough to lift me to my feet. I wiped my eyes to regain my vision. Marcus was fighting back to back with Eddy, facing James and another goon. Alex had beaten up his guy pretty good, who began to take off down the street as best he could. Realizing that they were now outnumbered, James and his goon took off too, slowly backing away and showing us fingers, leaving their fallen comrade on the driveway pavement. “This ain’t the end, you fuckers! We’ll get ya!” James howled. “Fuck you, pussies!” hollered Alex. The big goon still laid on the ground. How he slipped past Eddy’s grasp kind of pissed me off, because that was supposed to be his fight. But, that was not the time to be getting all pissy. Besides, I could barely register what had just happened anyway. “Did we win?” I coughed. “Not yet,” Rhody smirked and looked towards the open garage. We all sort of laughed, with our bruised faces and sore muscles, and then proceeded to raid their garage, salvaging any loot we could get our hands on and stuffing it into Rhody’s bag. We

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the sphinx didn’t even bother with the stolen beers, only took five. If I remember correctly, we took a couple handles of vodka, cigarettes, and Alex took a baseball hat off one of the lawn chairs. When we were satisfied with out findings, or maybe when Rhody started bitching about his bag being too heavy and crushing his computer, we left the garage, and went back down the street the way we came, Rhody on his bike. The big goon still on the ground. I guess this was our victory, but our celebration was yet to begin. We ended up back on the boardwalk, almost as if nothing happened, but we had bruises and stained shirts to show. My hand felt numb and swole, and my entire face felt ready to burst. However, this didn’t really stop us from our usual shenanigans. Making sure we didn’t catch the attention of any security guards patrolling the board walk on their bicycles, casually we went down the mini flight of stairs and path leading over the dunes onto the beach. Rhody docked his bike under the boardwalk. There, in the still of night, it was as if our entire existence was a shadow, and frankly, we took advantage of that. Looking to the ocean, only black. Towards the way we came, bright lights and loud scenes. I suppose we were there in the middle, between peace and rush, between nothing and anything. Rhody dropped his bag as soon as he could do so without letting the clack of the bottles catch any unwanted attention. “Jesus,” He panted. “Let’s get this party started, huh?” This time Rhody did not need any instruction or peer pressuring. He whipped out the five cans and a handle of vodka and set them down on the sand. We each picked one up. “Hand me a key.” Marcus announced. Alex pulled on out from his pant pocket and handed it to Marcus. In just a second, he punctured the can in the side fiercely yet purposefully, so it wouldn’t spray too much. Don’t want to waste any. Afterwards, he handed it to Eddy, who was surprisingly as gentle with the key, then to Alex, then Rhody, then me. “Devon,” announced Marcus. “Man, this one’s for you. To a true brother. A real one. Always.” “Always.” Said Alex, tipping his new hat. “Always.” Said Eddy. “Always.” Said Rhody. I smiled and paused for a moment, but before we could all breakout in laughter, I brought the opening in the side of the can to my mouth, tilted it to the sky and popped the tab. The rest of the guys followed, and we chugged them down. “Always.” I finished. After crumpling them up and burying them in the sand, we strolled the beach, looking out for some of the faces to meet. Our footprints caught the moonlight glistening in the moist sand, though I can only imagine they did because I did not look back. A couple of kids who seemed to be our

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the sphinx the tab. The rest of the guys followed, and we chugged them down. “Always.” I finished. After crumpling them up and burying them in the sand, we strolled the beach, looking out for some of the faces to meet. Our footprints caught the moonlight glistening in the moist sand, though I can only imagine they did because I did not look back. A couple of kids who seemed to be our age but from a different school had the same plans as we did that night, minus the whole fight thing. Empty cans and bottles littered the area. I hope they picked them up. I wish I did. “Where you guys from?” Led Alex. One of them had looked over and replied “Harroltin. You?” “Keynes” “Oh gotcha, Ricky over there has a girl that goes there, you know Jen—” he was interrupted by a bright light and a loud flewsh noise which caught us all off guard. It irrupted in the sky with bright red and green flashes and cracks. Did he just say…? “They were on sale from fourth of July at CVS, figured why not” went the kid. We joined in spectating and enjoying the night, admiring the flashes in the sky, and maybe a flash or two from the girls. It was hard to hear the music playing on the speaker past the fireworks and firecrackers. However, one crack had a bit more echo than the others, a bit more pop too. It must have been loud for it to be audible from the beach, as it definitely came from beyond the boardwalk. Perhaps it was some other kids with the same idea. Even though the noise had caught my attention for a brief moment, I got back to my night, pretending like there was no tomorrow. At the time, I did not think much of it. Why would I? Things got blurry and quiet real quick out of nowhere. I don’t remember the rest of that night, after I fell to the sand unconscious, but the events that came soon after, the changes they would bring, are hard to forget.

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The Folio

2018/2019 Staff

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the time travelers

Lara Briggs (Copy Editor)

is a junior who used to play the highest bells in the middle school bell choir. She doesn’t play the bells anymore, since Conestoga doesn’t have a bell choir club. She hopes that the bells will have a resurgence in popularity soon.

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JEssica Frantzen (Copy Editor)

is a junior who used to pretend she was a Pokémon. Nowadays, she pretends to know what her plans for the future are and what hypophora is. In the future, she hopes to pretend to be a mature adult while continuing to enjoy playing video games and creating new worlds.

Laura Liu (Literary Editor)

is a senior who used to believe the Tooth Fairy was real. She hopes to one day complete an entire To-Do List and is currently looking for someone to go skydiving with.

Gabriella Miko (Art Editor)

is a senior whose favorite past time is creeping on people behind a camera. She also designed this book. She has no idea what the future holds, but hopes that lactose intolerance is not a part of it. You can find her frolicking down the streets of New York City this fall or taking a fat nap tomorrow.

Madeline Murphy (business manager)

is a senior who used to search for fairies in her backyard. Though she never discovered any, she swears to this day that she saw tiny footprints. She currently hopes to go scuba diving with her family.

Laila B. Norford (Art Editor)

is a senior who used to be afraid of elevators but has always been a fan of escalators. It all has to do with her continual fear of falling, and to this day, she refuses to ever sleep on the top bunk of a bunk bed. She hopes that in the future, no one ever convinces her to go bungee jumping.

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the time travelers

Alexandra Ross (literary Editor)

is a senior who used to write terrible songs in her journal when she was in elementary school. Nowadays, she writes poems which are hopefully somewhat less terrible, and one day she hopes to publish a full collection of poems.

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Kavya Singh (business manager)

is a senior who used to knock on walls in hopes to find a hidden room filled with treasure and ten years later, legend says she still knocks on walls. She hopes one day to find a secret door filled with treasure.

Ben Smith (faculty advisor)

likes making wild, impossible plans with his friends--and without his friends. Most of his dreams involve transportation: catching a train, boarding a plane, getting lost in a bus depot, or, sometimes, looking out of a porthole at a vast and empty ocean.

Katie wilson (faculty advisor)

is presently pregnant with twins, never imagined she would be in the past, and doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have much hope for sleep in the future because of it.

ryan casciato (staff member)

is a senior who used to pretend his recorder was a lightsaber. He is now listening to podcasts and wanting to play Dungeons and Dragons and run a campaign. He hopes to one day publish a book if he ever gets it past chapter 8.

sebastian castro (staff member)

failed his driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s test and thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s about it.

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the time travelers

LindsEy Colantuno (Staff member)

is riding the train all the way to spunky funk town. She has good ideas at weird times in strange forms. She dreams that, one night, the moon says hello back.

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Chris J. Dimond (staff member)

is a senior who used to believe that all politicians were motivated by a drive to advocate for their constituents and a desire to bring about change for the better. He hopes that one day soon Congress will stop acting like lap dogs, and do their constitutional duty to check the executive branch. In the meantime, Chris is headed off to Ireland to study English Literature and History at Trinity College Dublin in the fall.

Natalia Green (staff member)

is a freshman who will imagine a full story, but then take 5 years to actually put it on paper. She has finally finished her fourth grade poem about her favorite color: purple.

Navya gullapuram (staff member)

is a freshman who used to be glued to the TV, pretending to be a much better Pokémon trainer than Ash Ketchum. Now she is found pondering about the day she receives her Hogwarts letter to escape doing her history final. She hopes to one day actually get her work done instead of living in her own fantasies.

Scott Hennessey (staff member)

is a sophomore. His last name shares the name of a very famous cognac. He doesn’t dream often but he once dreamt that his grammar had gotten good.

David Johnston (staff member)

is a senior and dreams of one day being a music producer professionally. He would also like you to know that he can’t turn the beat up anymore as it is at maximum volume and his ears are hurting.

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the time travelers

ankita Kalasabail (Staff member)

is a junior who used to not be into political or crime TV shows but now she can not stop watching the show Scandal. She hopes that, one day, she can become Olivia Pope and learn how to blackmail the president. She also hopes that no-one spoils the show for her since she has just finished the first season.

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Grace Kinkel (staff member)

is a senior who used to make crafts on the kitchen table with popsicle sticks and googly eyes. Now she is drawing and painting and wants to continue creating art in the future.

Noah lanouette (staff member)

realized last year that his last name has three vowels in a row. He has dreams about 40-foot tall ostriches chasing him throughout the Northeast United States far more often than any person does or should. This is not a quirky personality trait of his, it is a problem he cannot solve.

stella lei (staff member)

is a freshman who used to be able to focus on things for an extended period of time, but has recently found her attention span deteriorating at a concerning rate. She hopes that one day sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be able to get things done without getting distracted or spacing out.

sheridan medosch (staff member)

is a senior who is among the many unfortunate souls that were traumatized by the tapeworm episode of Mr Meaty as a child. Today, she enjoys goofing around with friends, touring America with her band, and eating Flamin Hot Cheetos. She hopes to one day travel overseas and also get sponsored by Frito Lay so she can get XXTRA Flamin Hot Cheetos without having to travel down to the South for them.

lydia naser (staff member)

is a sophomore who used to have a lot of coloring books, and wow, she still does! She also draws and writes, which she hopes to continue doing in the future, while living on a farm. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll name her alpacas Claude and Frida. It will be amazing.

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the time travelers

shreya singh (Staff member)

is a sophomore who just wants to sleep until fifty years into the future. When she wakes up, she’ll tell herself it was a worthwhile nap. To be honest though, she’ll probably still be tired.

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Staff Pages

olivia wang (staff member)

is a sophomore at Conestoga. She used to hate eggplants but now doesn’t mind it. She hopes to try new foods in the future (everything, that is, except for carrots).

chloe williams (staff member)

is a freshman at Conestoga. She used to not watch a lot of television, but presently, she is completely addicted to Once Upon a Time. She hopes the show won’t end soon.

About We are a student-run literary and art publication from Conestoga High School. Although our name has been The Folio only since 2007, we have collected, compiled, designed, and published student-produced art and literature since 1967. Our staff members are dedicated to furthering their own artistic and literary talents and promoting an interest in the humanities school-wide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Stoga students. Students who wish to be part of The Folioâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s staff may apply during course selection in February. More information can be found at our website: stogafolio.weebly.com The National Scholastic Press Association has awarded our publication All American, its highest distinction. Last year, the National Council of Teachers of English awarded The Folio its highest honor, Realm First Class.

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