Winter 2023 / The Folio by The Folio

A Literary & Art Magazine Volume LVI Issue I Conestoga High School 200 Irish Rd, Berwyn PA 19312

Cover photo © Eden Liu Inside cover © Hannah Gupta Copyright © 2024 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff Internal Design © 2024 Hannah Gupta, Jordan Jacoel, Chiho Jing, Eden Liu, Katelyn Wang, Emily Zou Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist First edition 2024 All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced here with permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School. Published and printed in the United States of America www.stogafolio.weebly.com Find us on Instagram @stogafolio

FROM THE EDITORS Managing Editors

Vivian Dong & Anika Kotapally

Art Editors

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

Literary Editors

Ava Bruni, Peyton Harrill, Lily Jiang & Ashley Vadner

Copy Editors

Anouk Freudenberg, Navami Muglurmath, Tashikaa Senthilkumar & Jessica Joseph

Business Editors

Audrey Nguyen, Sarah Weng & Amy Li

Dear Reader, W

elcome to the 2023 Winter issue of The Folio! This year was tumultuous for writers and artists alike. As news followed the WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes, we saw actors and writers band together to fight for fair pay and address concerns regarding the use of artificial intelligence. With the rise of and uncertainty around AIs like ChatGPT, conversations regarding the importance of human creativity have become more prevalent and pressing. That said, we have always been drawn to human stories, of which so many have been told this year. In late July, people dressed up in suits and various shades of pink, fully immersing themselves in the Barbenheimer experience. As Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour hit theaters, fans were able to dress up, singing and dancing in the aisles to songs that spoke to them. People also found themselves curled up on their couches, enjoying shows like The Bear, Succession, The Crown, and many more. Each of these tells an authentic, human story. And this wouldn’t be possible without the amazing writers, cinematographers, producers, actors, and everyone else involved with the creation and production of these stories.

Just as we’ve seen films do this year, The Folio offers the opportunity for Conestoga students to tell their stories. We work to uplift the voices of students through their art and strive to be a place where people can tell their stories. Every year, we receive hundreds of submissions of art and literature. Each one captures the individuality, uniqueness, and creativity of the student who submitted it. Our works of literature and art capture moments in time, chronicling the thoughts of Conestoga students. As The Folio continues to grow and expand, we hope more students are encouraged to share their voices, fostering collaboration in our community. We’d like to thank our advisors, Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilson for always cultivating our growing community and for their unwavering dedication to The Folio. We extend our thanks to Mrs. Gately for lending us her classroom and supporting us. We’d also like to thank our amazing staff for all the hard work they put into making this magazine. Like films and their production team, we wouldn’t be able to do it without any of you. And finally, we’d like to thank you, the reader. A production is nothing without its audience. Without further adieu, please make sure to silence your cell phone, grab some popcorn, get comfy, and enjoy The Folio’s 2023 Winter Issue. With Love, The Editors

Table of

Contents

TV SHOWS A Wheat Field with Cypresses (Van Gogh remake) Kiera McHugh

Possessed Charlize Ko Rosés of Black and Pink Vibha Besagi

In the Garden Ashley Vadner

Words Unwritten Ava Bruni

Equestrian Elegance Austin Wang

Purity in Pause: White Tiger’s Peaceful Moment Nishka Avunoori

Girl With Flowers Iris Zhang Home Audrey Nguyen

Animal Talk Kyle Hoang

A Kid’s First Friend Courtney McKenna

Akin to a Jester Niki Chen

Western Boot Roundup at the Mercantile Courtney McKenna

The Hunter Becomes Hunted Elise Gerstle

Daffodils Emily Ibarra

Bewitched Jessica Li

If I Were a God and Not Just a Man Jui Bhatia

Sweet Dreams Kyle Hoang

Etched into Existence Hannah Gupta

Lurk Tashikaa Senthilkumar

Popsicle Stained Memory Peyton Harrill

Bombay Rains Jui Bhatia

Glass Cage Anouk Freudenberg

THE COLORS OF THE CITY Gigi Prothero

Skin and Bones Navami Muglurmath

A Final Ballad of Sir Elios Ethan Loi

Teeth Katelyn Wang

Bath England Lily Jones

The Art of Being Interstellar Ava Bruni

Arches and Windows Jordan Jacoel

Myself, A While Ago Vibha Besagi

A Day in Cinque Terre Jordan Jacoel

SHE’S A DEVIL Katelyn Wang

killing butterflies Gigi Prothero

it hurts Jessica Li

Handsy Elisha McCabe

i am stained Navami Muglurmath

On Tiger Balm Audrey Nguyen

eyes first Gigi Prothero

Japanese Porcelain Audrey Nguyen

SHORT FILM Master Copy of David Chapple’s “May Afternoon” Angela Wang

A Field of Wishes Kat Nguyen

No Limits Will Johnson

Cosmic Interruption Raycer Verrecchia

When You Mock the Trees Abigail Dobson

Social Vampire Kathryn Kaskey

Divine Mother Abigail Dobson

Flawless Jessica Li

Momentarily the Sun Ava Bruni

How I Became Smart Lily Jiang

Morning on the Chesapeake Courtney McKenna

3am Studying Mary Wolters

Conflicted Zion Brown

Sabzi Mandi or Vegetable Market Tanisha Agrawal

Santo Spirito Jordan Jacoel

Sari Spectrum Sukanya Menon

Listen to the Sea Archana Nair

That Damn Lizard! Emily Zou

Vernazza Katie White

Those Damn Lizards!!! Emily Zou

The Turtle Jamie Sharkey

The Path We Walked Ava Bruni

Sphyrnidae Annie Carson

Golden Field Kyle Hoang

Nanaji Aashita Singh

Summer, spent Jui Bhatia

Motherhood Aashita Singh

Inexorability Anika Kotapally

Skull Emily Ibarra

snowflakes Yashvi Jain

On the Living and Death Abigail Dobson

Master Copy of Walter Emerson Baum’s “The Miller Sellersville-Winter Freidensville” Angela Wang

WORD VOMIT Vivian Dong

Twin Oaks Raycer Verrecchia

The World and its Problems Will Johnson

Sycamore Raycer Verrecchia

for what it’s worth Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

To Write a Phantom Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

the unremembered Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

The Essence of Lemon Grass Katelyn Wang

MOVIES This Summer I Jui Bhatia

100

How to Eat a Poem Like it’s a Mango Jui Bhatia

101

Jewel Vase Charlize Ko

102

Life Goes On Jessica Joseph

103

Fruit Flies in August Anika Kotapally

104

Fish Bones Ashley Vadner

106

Wave Rider Katelyn Wang

107

Lonely Boat Caroline Tierney

108

The Veins of Venice Wilson Zhang

109

Let’s Hear What You Have to Say Cole Marshall

110

Feelings at a Ski Competition Elise Gerstle

112

Tool Drawing Charlize Ko

114

Pile of Broken Toys Kiera McHugh

115

The Sentinel and the Night Shift Kathryn Kaskey

116

OPEN Warren Shi

119

Skyline Lily Jiang

120

Three Little Windows Jordan Jacoel

121

Imposter Syndrome Anika Kotapally

122

swimming with the fishes Logan Daniels

124

keyboards Logan Daniels

125

Aboard the Iris Zephyr #1: Bring Me to the Kuiper Belt Ethan Loi

126

Conductors of Space and Song Evie Loi

128

Fish in Suits Sukanya Menon

129

imaginings Navami Muglurmath

130

sad leftover pasta and marinara sauce Amy Li

133

The Plagued Doctor Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

134

just roll with it Ada Lavelle

136

Nice to Meet You! Niki Chen

137

Around the Corner Jordan Jacoel

138

Trick or Treat Anya Walheim

139

Moon Dance Ruth Lanouette

140

Invisible Sun Ruth Lanouette

141

Test Anxiety Mary Wolters

142

Fishbowl Mary Wolters

143

Equilibrium Chiho Jing

144

Death by a Thousand Cuts Vivian Dong

146

The Cut That Always Bleeds Ava Bruni

147

Ladies Who Lunch Peyton Harrill

148

Furmilion Elina Wang

149

A Plot of Land in the Stars Ava Bruni

150

T SHO

V OWS

A Wheat Field with Cypresses (Van Gogh remake) Oil Pastel Kiera McHugh

TV Shows

In the Garden Ashley Vadner

We lie in the garden, summer wrapping her heavy limbs around us. The green bean plants are as brown and crispy as cicada shells. Strawberries rot on their stems. You gnaw on a lemon sprinkled with sugar, uneven teeth tearing at the sour flesh. When you spit out the seeds, they glisten in the air for one hopeful moment before falling to the cracking ground. It is August, and we have spent all summer in the garden. My nose is peeling and your tank-top straps cut pale lines across tomato shoulders. The sun dries us like jerky. We could be inside, AC and ice water and darkness, but that would mean facing the truth. A car door slams in the distance. You spit another seed, and it twists in the air before landing on my cheek. Saliva and lemon juice trail down my jaw. I flick it to the ground, where it will shrivel. Even the strongest seeds will not take root in this parched soil. The sun doesn’t know that there is no rain. The sun doesn’t know how her glare fries the leaves, the grass, our skin. Her love is unyielding. We soak it in, our throats crackling like static, our skin hot and red. It feels good to be loved by something, even when that love is painful. Inside, the sun is blocked. She can’t reach the humming machines, the smell. She could shine on the living room sick bed all day, but even she can’t undo rot from the inside out. We lie in the garden, wilting like the plants. It doesn’t feel good to brim with love for someone who can’t receive it. Our faces tilt up to the harsh, steady sun, her light blinding. It is hard to look death in the eye.

The Folio

Words Unwritten Ava Bruni

Words flow through you like blood, Staining every page you touch With crimson poetry and scarlett ballads. It seems so easy for you To capture every moment And melody And heartbeat In words. I think of you The times I feel everything But have nothing to write down, Hoping my tears form ink And words grow like vines in rain. And I think of how invisible I am When the words I’ve felt, The words I’ve lived for, Have already been said by you In ways I would never have thought of. Your words string parts of me together, Putting my insides on display like a tapestry. But you don’t acknowledge that I’m what’s woven Or that I’m even there Or that I even exist. I think of you every time I pick up a pen, Stumble through my words, Think I’m not enough, And wonder if you’ve ever felt the same, Or if I’m destined to be stuck With every word I’ve ever felt, Unwritten.

TV Shows

Girl with Flowers

Pencil Iris Zhang

Audrey Nguyen

I’m banging on the doors of my body, begging her to let me back in. All barred windows and shattered lanterns at the entryway, it’s evident she wants no visitors. No careless wanderers or unfriendly neighbors or anyone at all—not after him. The one who would never wipe his feet on the doormat, tracking the dirt from his leather boots across the polished wood. The one who would splash wine on the bed sheets and leave it to dry. The one who made haven into havoc. It was never truly about him, though. For I would let him write words on the walls and call it poetry. I would let him paint the ceilings with cigarette smoke, even as the hydrangeas on the wallpaper withered away. Well, here I am now, those same walls and tongues—a broken, desgiveness. But the walls are now a fractured rib to keep me out. I know me and sometimes I down, brick by brick, stop myself every time find something worth weakened bones, there’s ing into the heart.

“But the walls that once protected me are now a fractured rib cage.”

bruising my knuckles on screaming in nightmarish perate prayer for forthat once protected me cage. Metal against skin she has not forgiven imagine tearing it all in frustration. Yet I for the slight chance I’ll it inside. That behind still warm blood pump-

Because when you tell me you see chandeliers and golden lanterns in my eyes, I start to believe it is possible. When you tell me you can picture us sitting by the fireplace and dancing in the kitchen, I start to imagine all these lifetimes where there were just dead memories before. I don’t know how long it might take to ease her iron grip, her rusted locks. Nor how long it might take to resurface the wood with all the mistakes that seeped into its pores. But for now, it’s enough to stand at the doorstep, lacing my fingers with someone who promises to wait until then. Until my body feels like home again.

TV Shows

A Kid’s First Friend Oil Pastel Courtney McKenna

The Folio

Western Boot Roundup at the Mercantile Pen, Watercolor, and Acrylic Paint Courtney McKenna

TV Shows

The Folio

Oil Pastel Emily Ibarra

Daffodils

If I Were a God and Not Just a Man

Jui Bhatia

If I were a god and not just a man I would make it so Every daughter could talk to their mother And hold her close through nights Where neither would let herself cry For the other’s sake If I were a god and not just a man I would make it so Every boy, broken and crying Where no one can see him Will have someone find him Will have someone cradle his head Who lets him shedcry his tears Into their shoulder If I were a god and not just a man I would make it so No son would have to be a thousand miles And three seas away while his father died So every father could see his son And tell him his worth measured in pride If I were a god and not just a man I would make it so Every person, on the edge of a building Swaying with the wind Would look below and see everyone Who once loved them Who will forever miss them Whose arms are outstretched To catch them

TV Shows

If I were a god and not just a man I would make it so Every abandoned soul wasn’t quite as alone at all So they would have someone to love, and be loved by Someone to go home to Someone to keep safe If I were a god and not just a man I would make it so Our mothers didn’t have to cry alone Our fathers didn’t have to hide their tears Our children didn’t have to hide themselves If I were a god and not just a man, I would make this a kinder world

Etched into Existence

Etched Print Hannah Gupta

The Folio

Popsicle Stained Memory Peyton Harrill

On summer mornings I walk the half-mile to my local library—a journey of sidewalks and empty roads and unkempt lawns. The sparse patches of wild and weedy grass teem with sweet-brier roses. A breadcrumb trail follows behind me—sticky, fuschia-colored teardrops of the popsicle melting in my hand. The briers spring up from cracks in the concrete, the petals of the flowers mingling with the sugary pink of the popsicle. I’m careful that the droplets don’t land on my clothing: a white tank-top, a red cardigan, and baby pink shorts my mom picked out specifically for me. They’re ladylike, she said, and they cover your knees. I carry two hardcover books in my other hand, the first of which is the 27th edition of the Flower Fairy series, following the story of a shy fairy named Gretel whose number one friend was her pet ladybug. The other book is a collection of healthy recipes, titled Skinny Foods. This one was my mom’s choice when she decided the whole family needed to go on a cleanse—for toxins or chemicals or something. Either way, the book was on its way to the library far earlier than its return date, and my mom had made dinosaur nuggets and Kraft mac and cheese for dinner last night. Looking down, I see melted popsicle quickly travel down the side of my hand and slide off my skin in one fat drop. It hits my tank top like food coloring dropped into milk, leaving a bright pink freckle on the fabric. All that’s left of the popsicle now is a soggy stick and the unnaturally colored dye staining my fingers and top. I suck on its skeletal remains for a few minutes, rolling it around my teeth and avoiding the gap where my bottom tooth had recently fallen out. After biting on the wood softly with one front tooth, I finally pull it out of my mouth with my pointer and middle finger like a cigarette. Glancing at the stick I notice a half-chewed inscription, a joke. I think for a moment and then scan my eyes to the right for the punchline. A canine-tooth sized dent obscures the text and my smile fades into a grimace as I drop the stick on the concrete. I shrug. Sometimes, you’ll just never know the answers.

TV Shows

Glass Cage

Anouk Freudenberg When I was a small child, my parents signed me up for ballet lessons. A girl named Grace, I’m sure went their logic, seemed destined to be a ballerina. I wonder if they imagined me like that, kicking in the womb, already twirling and spinning and leaping, a bird trapped in her mother’s cage. Nomen est omen, as my father would say. Your name is your destiny. They bought me leotards, dainty little skirts and ballet shoes, bows to tie in my hair. It was all a girl could’ve dreamed of. All a girl should have dreamed of. But I despised it. My mother would have to drag me out the door, screaming my little lungs hoarse, strap me into my car seat and hope I stopped crying by the time we arrived at the studio. “Grace,” my mother would hiss. Softly, solemnly. “Stop. You’re embarrassing me.” And so I would stop. Somehow I knew, even then, that all that anger wasn’t meant for the light of day. I’d trot in, a shy little smile plastered on my face, and take my place at the bar. Plié. Relevé. First Position. I sometimes wonder why I’d throw such a tantrum every time, only to end up there anyway. I had so much fight in me, this determined, unbridled rage. As if rebellion was sewn into my skin. A birthright. The dance academy building was an enormous glass dome that seemed to shimmer in the sun, almost like magic. It was a pretty place, all light, surrounded by greenery, the windows so clean they were practically invisible, as if to give the illusion of freedom. But a glass cage is still a cage. I learned to measure my time in terms of dance. I heard it in my sleep. Five, Six, Seven, Eight. My weekends and afternoons were spent in the studio, surrounded by other girls. I’d watch them, all with the same sleek hair as me, the same slim waist and slanted chin. Everyone moved in a rhythmic sort of manner. We walked as we were taught, spine straight, chin up, arms at our sides. Like horses with blinders, trotting along obediently. We would practice for hours, until our feet bled and our limbs ached with fatigue. But no one ever complained.

I spoke rarely, always softly and politely when prompted. Never raised my voice. Never held eye contact for too long. I smiled, but never laughed. When I danced, I pretended I was a bird soaring on the wind, that it carried me from plié to jeté to arabesque. I landed lightly on my feet. Seen, but never heard. When I was 17, I performed in the academy’s spring showcase. It was non-competitive, meant only to sharpen our edges and turns alike. Only the older girls, the chosen girls, got a spot. The weeks I spent in preparation were grueling–longer than usual, rougher, harder. I’d arrive home to a silent house, long after dark, and ice my feet. Patching up blisters and bleeding sores I’d do dangerous things like think. There, in the dark and the silence, I’d almost allow a grumble or a groan to escape from my lips. Almost. I performed a short piece, Lark Ascending. No one understood why, when I could have done something more challenging, more technical, more well-known. But I insisted. I remember an older woman, commissioned to do features on each one of the dancers, asking me why I chose it. “It was choreographed by Bruce Marks,” I told her. “I read about it–he said ‘Lark is about the journey of life.’ He said that every time he sees the lark ascend, he knows why we dance…I guess I wanted to know as well.” “What did you want to know?” She looked confused. “I don’t know. Why we live, I guess. Why we dance. How birds feel when they’re flying.” “And did you find out?” The article was published alongside a black and white picture of me in jeté. My mother scoffed when she read the article (Why did you say all that, really?) but she framed the photo and hung it on the wall in the foyer. She almost looked proud. I remember staring at that photo, and not recognizing myself. A bird caught mid-flight, my hands outstretched, reaching for the sky.

The Folio

skin and bones Navami Mulgurmath

CW: Eating disorder, death it doesn’t fit quite right on my bones, the layer of fat that imprisons me. it hangs too loose, so my eyes dart to my nearest victim my teeth shred through the fruit’s skin, tear away the thick rind feast on the acidic pulp and spit its seeds into the sink. I toss whatever’s left of it in the trash. my stomach swells, stretching to accommodate the fruit: the forbidden fruit, whose flesh fattens me. it swirls around in the acidic pit of my stomach, punishing me. making sure I never forget my crime. I stick my fingers down my throat, and up comes the dangerous pulp. my atrocity forgotten, I wander to my mirror, pinching the excess fat on my body. I want to cut it all off, in hopes that the pain might lessen my grief. my grandfather barely ate. he weighed himself daily to measure his progress, encouraging me to do the same. he only liked salads with dressing on the side, ice cubes and altoids to keep him awake. he told me how free he felt, how light he was on his feet. I want to be free, I want my bones to be light enough to fly with the birds, to fly up to him. my jeans don’t fit as nicely as they used to. they press against my flesh, chafing as I walk. with luck, I’ll fit back into them by December, and I’ll squeeze into a prom dress come May. I’ll keep going until I die from this sickness, because I can’t stop until I’m nothing more than skin and bones.

TV Shows

teeth

Oil pastel Katelyn Wang

The Art of Being

Interstellar Ava Bruni

We were the result of black holes and supernovas. Our life was surrounded by explosions and silence, blinding lights and sickening darkness, expanding emotions and condensing feelings. You promised to get me away from our stellar problems. The forces that caused stars to collapse in on themselves. The things that pull everything in and hold on to them until they’re forgotten. We didn't want to be like those anomalies, so we vowed to be interstellar. We weren’t the stars or planets; we were everything in between. The winter before you left, you found me crying in my room over a mini-supernova that had happened earlier that day. You stole the keys off our kitchen counter, even though you knew you would get in trouble for it later on, and drove me two hours to the beach. The breeze carried the remnants of the explosion, making the air feel colder than it really was. I tried to let the nostalgic smell of the salty air and the crashing of the waves distract me from everything that happened that day. We sat on frozen sand that night, looking at the sky above us. For centuries, millions of stars burned bright, people gazing up at them and worshiping their glow. Their beauty. Their youth. When stars die, their light continues to shine. People still think of them as what they were, even if they’re just a ghost of their former self. Yet when they fully disappear from the sky, no one notices. I wasn't important enough to become stellar, to be seen and regarded the way stars have always been. I was invisible, yet infinite, like the forgettable parts of the sky in between the stars. You were the only person I let see me. I did a thousand things for you I would never do again. But it was for you, so I knew it was okay. We had to protect each other. That's the thing about interstellar people; they aren't blinded by the stars or enchanted by the moon. Instead, they stick together in the dark and become their own light. When you left, you promised to call me every day. It was true at the beginning. Until every day became every week, every week became every month, and every month became never. I stayed right where you left me, surrounded by stellar things I didn’t know how to escape. A year and a half after you left, I was in our kitchen. Drunk words were being thrown like shooting stars, hitting everything in their path. I got closer, tried to calm the scene, but only made it worse. The biggest star I’ve ever seen exploded into a brilliant light that illuminated the universe in front of me. Leaving nothing untouched, not even the darkest corners of the farthest galaxy, briefly outshining every star that ever existed. Suddenly, everything fell still, the world collapsing in on itself in deadly silence. There's a common misconception that people would die the second they get trapped in a black hole. But, it took a lot longer to reach the middle than I imagined it would have. Time stayed fixed. Hours, years, centuries could have passed but I was still there, stuck in the kitchen. Unable to move. I watched everything grow in the world outside of the window. Waiting for your voice or a knock on the door or anything from you to penetrate the quiet. My memory of you was slowly being destroyed, and there was nothing I could do. Not even light could escape. I was at a point of no return and everything I was disappeared. Every atom in my body pulverized, devoured by the black hole. Gone. Like I never existed.

TV Shows

Myself, A While Ago Digital Art Vibha Besagi

The Folio

TV Shows

SHE’S A DEVIL

Colored pencil Katelyn Wang

it hurts Digital Jessica Li

i am stained

Navami Muglurmath

CW: Abuse I want to ask you if I am a little less than human, because in my blood is my father’s blood. I want to ask you if you ever wanted me, if you ever wanted someone who was half of that man. The man that stripped everything of you– your family, your love, your freedom. your language. I want to ask if you ever felt sorry for me, as I stood in front of the mirror countless times, looked into my own eyes, so similar to his (they were clouded with hate) I want to ask you if your tears were real, when I laid on the hospital bed, my arms limp, my face heavy. I grew up away from your homeland, your family. My blood is somehow less yours than his, contaminated with his evil, his hate. He gives me love like currency, and snatches it away without a moment’s notice. His love means nothing to me, his hate means even less. I am not a toy to be abused, you yelled, yet you treated me like one. My head rings remembering your voice. I learned to walk on eggshells around you. a single misstep, and I would see blood again. I was born alone, wounded and bitter. Scars mark my transition to maturity, when I learned that there was no point in arguing with you, and punished myself instead. My tears, my fingers, stained. You have learned to love me now, but how can I give you more? You have taken everything from me, you have emptied me.

eyes CW: Gore You fall for their eyes first. You call it love. Every girl you’ve ever loved had the most stunning eyes. The first one had bright blue eyes. Swirling like the ocean, you could get lost in them, drowning in her gaze. But she didn’t feel the same way. The second girl had hazel eyes, eyelids always brushed with shimmering gold. The perfectly blended hues always reminded you of a sunburst. She didn’t want you, either. The third’s eyes were a deep brown, rich with warmth. The color of fall, you called them October eyes. You thought you had it this time, but still no luck. The last girl had striking eyes the color of emeralds. They were always lined with thick, black eyeliner, wings more symmetrical than a butterfly’s. She was the one for you, you were sure. But you weren’t one for her. You fell for their eyes first. They call it obsession.You follow them, lost in their eyes, desperate for them to see you. The first girl thought you were weird. She rolled her beautiful blue eyes and ignored you, every time you told her just how beautiful they were. At least you tried. The second girl, she called you crazy. Her hazel eyes looked sick with disgust as she turned you down and laughed at you with her friends. Cruel, right? The third girl, she called you a creep. Her warm brown eyes went cold in her glare as she avoided you and blocked you in every possible place. That hurt, because you only meant for her to understand just how much you wanted her. The last girl called you a psychopath when you wouldn’t leave her alone, tracking her every move just to run into her and see those eyes again. You loved her, but she hated you- they all did. You fell for their eyes first. But it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it. Because If you aren’t enough for them, no one will be. Only you will ever truly see their beauty. You were left with no choice. If you couldn’t have their eyes forever because they wanted you to, you’d have to make them stay. Wracked with pain and longing and heartbreak, you snapped. The first girl fell for your little trap easily. She was a gullible one. The second was too trusting, too naive, and she fell too. The third? A bit of a challenge, but that was never going to stop you. The last girl saw right through you- she was a fighter, that one. Four girls who could’ve chosen to give you their hearts, their eyes, forever. But instead you had to take them yourself. So once they were hidden away where no one would find them, at least not until it was too late to save them, you carved out their hearts, and then as you watched the life fade from them, you carved out their eyes, too. The knife clattered to the floor when you dropped it and you gasped as you finally had everything you ever wanted. You carefully placed their eyes in the little jars: four of them, one for each girl.

first

You fell for their eyes first. They didn’t want you to be theirs. Now they were yours. Forever.

Gigi Prothero

possessedpossesse sessedpossessedpo possessedpossesse sessedpossessedpo possessedpossesse sedpossessedposse sessedpossessedpo possessedpossesse sessedpossessedpo possessedpossesse sessedpossessedpo possessedpossesse Ceramic Charlize Ko

Rosés of Black and Pink Digital Art Vibha Besagi

Equestrian Elegance

Photography Austin Wang

TV Shows

Purity in Pause: White Tiger’s Peaceful Moment Photography Nishka Avunoori

The Folio

Animal Talk Alcohol Marker Kyle Hoang

TV Shows

The Folio

Digital Niki Chen

Akin to a Jester

The Hunter Becomes Hunted Elise Gerstle

The bars that surround me glint in the sunlight, blinding me with heat and fury. I never thought it could come to this. My shoulders hunch in, predator instincts yearning to be free again, but there is no outlet for my energy. I am at her mercy after an eternity of hunting her. I feel the coolness of my ironic prison against my face as I peer desperately through the bars, waiting for the only person who will free me. I looked down on him before, but now he is my only hope. How I regret turning away from him again. I see a flash of yellow above me: my captor tormenting me yet again. Her beady eyes, normally devoid of emotion, look smug, perhaps mocking. I should have known that my move to finally claim the upper hand was too desperate. I should have known she would have set a trap. Now that it is too late, I realize what a foolish mistake it is to underestimate my enemy. It seems an hour passes. Perhaps it is longer; I lose my sense of time in the strange, cruel contraption that was meant for my captor. Just when I can no longer stand the cage, I hear footsteps, bringing with them the elusive novelty of hope. My captor has baited me into a humiliating situation, where my only escape is through depending on the man I was too proud to acknowledge. Finally, wonderfully, the door opens. He stares in shock at the scene before him, and I can hardly blame him. I can scarcely believe it myself. How did I sink this low in so little time? He laughs, which infuriates me beyond words. Pride is my weakness, and my enemy has preyed upon it and used it against me in the most brutal of ways. “Oh, Ginger,” the man laughs, speaking teasingly to me. “How did you end up in the canary’s cage?” My captor chirps innocently, flapping her petite golden wings. The man goes to open the cage, his fingers toying with the lock as he talks to me. “My goodness, Ginger,” he says, still chuckling. “You and the canary get into the strangest of predicaments.” I long to tell him what happened, to describe the long-simmering animosity between us. Yet for all of my struggles, all I can say for myself is “meow.”

Bewitched Digital Jessica Li

The Folio

Sweet Dreams

Digital Kyle Hoang

Lurk

Pen, Pencil Tashikaa Senthilkumar

Bombay Rains Digital Jui Bhatia

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THE COLORS OF THE CITY

Photography Gigi Prothero

The Folio

A Final Ballad of Sir Elios Ethan Loi

His first victory, his last defeat. A knight destined to fail. His name, forever obsolete. Now, let’s begin our tale.

The stranger laughed, “Why, there you are! “My blade will cease your pain.” He swung his sword and left a scar, And blood began to drain.

Sir Elios, upon his horse, Surveyed the land once more. He didn’t notice much, of course, As he stared towards the shore.

“Why do you try, I wonder, Oh, to failure, you are tied. Oh, blunder after blunder, After every time you tried.”

The Sun fell into the glinting sea, As the evening cooled the air. Again, he rested beneath a tree, But he noticed someone there.

The knight’s voice began to rattle, As he took his final breath. Certain failure within battle, But simple victory in death.

“Hello. Hello.” The stranger said, “Hello! Hello, indeed…” The knight’s worst fears soon filled his head, As he scrambled for his steed.

Elios grabbed the dagger’s hilt, And quickly pulled it out. He suddenly began to wilt, And blood began to spout.

But he cried out and spat out blood, With a dagger in his side. He tried to stop the crimson flood, As he found a place to hide.

But as he died, the dagger fell, Right through the stranger’s heart. They both let out a roaring yell, And wounds began to smart.

“Stop hiding now, I’m warning you, I will find you soon enough!” The stranger said, as tension grew, And departed in a huff.

Then there they died, blood seeping out, Their bodies were never found. Forever lost through storm and drought, And buried in the ground.

Elios groaned beneath his breath, “Arthur’s goons…” he spat. Fearing loss and fearing death, He left the place he sat.

And, thus, concludes the life of Sir Elios of Gaul (502- 526), as vague and convoluted as it was.

And from there he stumbled round, Amongst the grass and trees, Then he fell onto the ground, Now breathing with a wheeze.

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Bath England

Pen Lily Jones

The Folio

Arches and Windows Photography Jordan Jacoel

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A Day in Cinque Terre

Photography Jordan Jacoel

The Folio

killing butterflies Gigi Prothero gliding the blade across my left wrist, slowly, gently, just enough to hurt. tears fall like soft streams as i watch the red seep out of the thin, shallow cuts. sometimes, it’s a punishment. a motivator, a reminder that i’m not enough. sometimes, it’s a desperate attemptto cure the emptiness, to feel anything at all. my friends worry. the few who know push back my sleeve while no one else is watching. one told me about the butterflies. whenever you want to cut, draw a butterfly on your wrist instead. you can’t wash them off, they have to fade, and they die if you cut them. i promised to try- i owe them that much. the ink bleeds into my skin, rough pen lines haphazardly sketched. wings patterned by the tiny cuts they cover up. my mind itches to cut myselfjust a little bit, but i can’t. i’d be killing my butterflies. maybe i’m a horrible person for this, to murder innocent, beautiful creatures. the blood shreds their wings. i couldn’t even let them fade away. killing butterfliessomething i never thought i’d have to say i’ve done. i tried to keep them alive, i really did. i’m sorry.

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Author’s note: This piece mentions self harm, blades, and blood.This piece is about the butterfly project, which is an idea created to help stop self harm. The person committing the self harm draws a butterfly instead of hurting themselves. The butterfly has to fade on its own and can’t be scrubbed off. If the person self harms before the butterfly fades, they’ve killed the butterfly. It gives the person a reason not to hurt themselves and a sense of achievement when the butterfly lives.

Handsy Pen Elisha McCabe

虎

On Tiger Balm 虎 Audrey Nguyen

When I was little, the scent of Tiger Balm would always linger around the house. One could count on it decorating a low shelf, alongside dusty wedding pictures and my sister’s most recent art projects. Instead of candles, each room was equipped with a glass jar in case of an emergency. You get headache, you use Tiger Balm. You get mosquito bite, you use Tiger Balm. You get stomach ache, you use Tiger Balm. I’m sure if I asked her, my Bà Nội would tell me it could fix a heartache too. For those who have never experienced its wondrous works, the best way I can describe it is as a glorified Vicks Vapor Rub. It’s quite simple, actually. There are only four ingredients: camphor, menthol, eucalyptus oil and clove oil. Yet my Bà Nội swears there’s something more to it—beyond the balm’s physical properties—that heals the mind and body. Maybe it’s the magic of Vietnamese grandmothers and the residual powers that lie in their leathered hands. Maybe with each gentle swipe of a finger, they enchant the balm with their ancient knowledge. Maybe that’s the true difference between a new jar and one that’s been loved to the point you can see through the bottom. Regardless, there’s something potent lying in those balms. When I was younger, it was never a point of pride for me. I always took care to screw on the lid as soon as possible before it would overwhelm the air with peppermint. As a middle schooler, I often left it to rot at the bottom of my backpack, though looking back now, I don’t blame myself. Children always look for something to point their fingers at, and my biggest fear was to be the subject of their intense and sometimes malicious curiosity. I was certain the packaging wouldn’t have helped either; a gold lid imprinted with characters I still cannot read; a hexagonal glass jar with a label that’s even harder to decipher; a poorly designed

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tiger slapped right in the middle. Anyone could admit that the Tiger Balm shelf in the back of the supermarket looks like something right out of a 15th century dynastic medicine shop. Yet as strange as it might appear, I also cannot deny the relief it brings me when I do use it. Along with the harsh cadences and broken tones of the Vietnamese language, my household is never complete without the punch of Tiger Balm. I can still remember my mom crouching next to me, lifting it to my nose as I keeled over the toilet. Nothing felt better than the cooling sensation of her slender fingers tracing it in circles along my stomach as pain dissolved into numbness. I can still feel the skin of my back drawn tender and pink from my Bà Nội kneading the Tiger Balm in with her Gua Sha tools—an attempt to exorcize the flu from the body. And I’m sure there are countless other moments that I’ve forgotten along the way. So even if it is embarrassing at times, like the clumsy sounds of my native tongue, there is always something nostalgic about the magical potion of my childhood. The funny thing is, I doubt there’s any scientific explanation for Tiger Balm’s miraculous capabilities. Yet I choose to indulge in the ritual of it nonetheless, like the habit of hushed hands clasped around a rosary, simply for the sake of believing in something. I hope to be the little old lady scowling at my grandchildren, even if my only proof is the words that were once whispered down to me. You get headache, you use Tiger Balm. You get stomach ache, you use Tiger Balm. You get heartache, you use it too. Because maybe it’s not actually about what is, but the hope for what can be. Maybe it’s in our shared, often blind devotion, that we can find comfort in the fact that we know very little. If nothing at all.

CW: Graphic imagery & implications of sexual violence [Verse I] Your whispers trickle down my back Like beads of water over the edge of the glass And the window panes draw us on the wall Like shadows might be real after all [Chorus] But you trace my stitches And make them bleed You rip along My deepest seams You say porcelain is lovely As you touch my skin But I’m scared I’ll shatter As I let you in [Verse II] And everything seems different When moonlight hits your face You glitter like a promise of escape But I gave you orchids And they’re spilling on the floor Sometimes I wonder what I ever did this for [Chorus] You trace my stitches And make them bleed You rip along My deepest seams You say porcelain is lovely With a couple cracks But I can’t put a million pieces back [Bridge] You smile and say You’ll patch me up like gold You say you’ll write All my favorite words in bold As midnight falls Will you stay right by my side? Or will you leave as always With your perfect alibis? [Chorus] You took all my stitches That just started to heal And cut them along Where I used to feel I was just something pretty Something easy to break To throw against the wall When you needed something to hate

Japanese Porcelain

Audrey Nguyen The Folio

S HO

Short Film

Master Copy of David Chapple’s “May Afternoon” Oil Paint Angela Wang

A Field of Wishes Kat Nguyen

Come home to the meadow, where one thousand dandelions lie. Bundles of mellow softness, reflecting the golden honeysuckle sky! And with a gust of wind, my wishes all blow away, the promise of a better tomorrow coming, just over the bay!

The Folio

When You Mock the Trees Abigail Dobson

Why when you mock the trees do you hold your limbs hushed and still? As if skin like bark were not becoming callous in the necks of evergreens Why do you shut your eyes? like some unseeing being never reaching in ascent of heaven’s lustrous gold Why do you plant your feet like resting stones? As if roots do not have the will to poke and prod at water And when winter’s heat scorches leaves Why must you thaw yourself in their nakedness?

Short Film

Divine Mother Abigail Dobson

Who is he who names the beasts? Forcing birth behind his mind so dethrones his queen — Having no hand jeweled in royalty Even its dullness — bearing fruit Of starved divinity He is of fools. What is it to veil god of the Earth? They prance amidst puppets Never knowing of the master! And prod the leafy bowers Uprooting All in greed!

The Folio

Momentarily the Sun Ava Bruni

The world will never revolve around her Like it does the sun, And she knows it’s not supposed to But just once she’d like it to try. She wants the days to rise and set with her And wants time to feel like nothing. She wants gravity to push into her, Connecting her to every planet, star, moon, Everything in the universe. She wants to be real burning warmth Instead of the lukewarm life she lives, But sometimes even that feels too hot on her skin. She wants to be noticed every day Even when clouds obstruct her view of the ground below. But most of all, she doesn’t want to care about earthly things, About people and their words. She wants to be so close to the heavens That shouts sound like whispers, And mountains look like dirt piles, And all she needs to worry about is herself. She’ll finally have the radiance of being, And she’ll be so big and so bright and so infinite That everything she feels now will seem small. The moments she plays over and over again in her head And the times she begs the world to stop spinning Will be nothing compared to her moments lived as the sun.

Mornings on the Chesapeake

Etching print Courtney Mckenna

Zion Brown

Conflicted 64

Short Film

lm hu i feel ca and the hymn shes my soul lloused ga

they say i know

i am a

els iend of ang f uish

blemished mar detox in this un state I vel ified holy gro terr

viting haling

the

kingd crystall orig om of my ine in. ven clandest s

Author’s Note: Go through all four stanzas reading the middle and the uppermost line as one cohesive line, then start over completely and read the middle and lowermost line as one cohesive line through all four stanzas. It should result in two different versions/interpretations of the same text.

Santo Spirito

Fishbowl

Mary Wolters Graphite & Colored Pencil

Photography Jordan Jacoel

listen to the sea Archana Nair

Listen to the Sea Sandy feet, on a golden beach, The shore, just within my reach Footprints trailing towards the sea Birds in the sky, flying free Palm trees sway in the gentle breeze, The salty air puts me at ease While the waves of the sea, They call out to me. Like a loving mother, the sea does care, Her clemency eases the burdens I bear Under the sun, she glitters and glows, Her waves wash away all my woes I sit on the sand, before the sea, As she playfully brushes the skin on my knee Her gentle murmurs are far too kind, Her whispered songs, soothe my mind She draws me in with hushed words, Tales of freedom and flying birds. Odes of the ocean, vast and blue I listen, for all her words are true Her tranquil waves brush my feet, Her stories make me feel complete The sun shines with infectious glee, As I too smile, and listen to the sea.

Short Film

Vernazza

Photography Katie White

The Folio

Jamie Sharkey

Cold and afraid in its shell lived a widowed turtle, old not in age but wisdom. Without his wife he knew not what to do. Does he carry on, living this life alone? Does he celebrate her, such a lovely turtle? Or does he wallow, as it is the simplest option, but in many ways the hardest. Mourning the ones we love takes strength, as does coming out of one’s shell. Does he take the leap and remember the good times, or does he stay hidden behind a mask of a shell? Taking the step of coming out of that place is the hardest imaginable. Yet here Harold stood, peeking his head out for the first time in months — for the first time ever it seemed.

Short Film

Sphyrnidae Stipple Pen Annie Carson

The Folio

Nanaji

Pencil Aashita Singh

Motherhood

Pencil Aashita Singh

Skull Skull

Conte & Pastel Emily Ibarra

Skull 72

Short Film

On the

Living

and

One must never dwell too long on death, save perhaps the poets. At least they may make something of the words that are then drawn up. Still I am sat here, though certainly not a poet, devoting to extinction what body I have left. In thought I am gone entirely, drifting from that cavity, where once nestled my flesh. I ponder like the blind man does the painter’s varied scenes – the rattling of winter, and the rolling of spring, and O how summer blushes green, in the face of autumn’s peril. It is shared, this futility — of hues unseen, uncontested in dichotomy — with the living’s rumination on the depth of shadow, that crawls into graves. The awakened man cannot ever comprehend his finishing act of death, irrevocable, the ambiguity of life becoming, at once and finally, absolute. He can know nothing more on the matter than the blind man can the colors of autumn, that wither, until winter breathes into spring.

Death

Abigail Dobson

The Folio

Vivian Dong

There are so many words lodged in my windpipe and souring in my stomach. Some days I think I might just vomit them all out onto the nearest person I can find. In my head, my words spew out of my throat and all over your lap until you’re covered in my sentences. In my dreams I drench you in my thoughts, reach my hand in and shove down your throat that all I do is think about your eyes, your lips, and all the sweet things you used to say. I spew my words out onto pages; fill diaries with my scrawled innards, my guts and my blood spilling out in gory cursive between college-ruled lines. In the mirror I talk to my reflection, puking my sickness onto myself just so someone will notice my disease. There is word vomit churning in my stomach and it’s rising to the top of my throat and I gag as it hits my lips. My body is in pieces; words spilling out between the cracks of my teeth; tongue tying feelings into knots. If I could, I would scream across every mountain and every ocean that I love your eyes, and your lips, and all the sugar-sweet things you used to say. I love you. I love you. I’ll make myself sick just to love you.

The World and its Problems

White Gel Pen Will Johnson

The Folio

for what it’s worth Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi for what it’s worth i noticed when your tears slipped down your cheeks as you kept on pushing forward while everyone pulled you back for what it’s worth i listened when you had something to say as you tried to explain yourself while everyone drowned you out for what it’s worth i followed when you retreated to your room as you resisted the shadows trying to pull you in while everyone acted like you were fine but i’m not the person you want to be there i’m not the person you need and so here i sit on my dining chair sharpening a knife trying to decide if a stab to the back is too ironic of an end to our tale

Short Film

the unremembered Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi

what happens to the old man? who passed away in a senior home, his monitor flatlining, with nobody left to mourn his death? what about the homeless woman? who died with pills in her hand, reminiscing about a life in her home with the family who threw her out? and the criminal? who had killed in self-defense, and now rots away in a cell, his loved ones nowhere to be found? obituaries discriminate. they are meant to be a way to remember those who have left, and to tell the world who they were. but there are those whose stories will never be written, whose lives are neglected, whose souls wander aimlessly. they’re just another crushed bug stuck on the bloodied sole of the universe’s worn shoe and nobody remembers their name no one notices one lightbulb flickering out in a sea of billions and we fail to realize the story that is lost in that dimmed light

The Folio

No Limits

Watercolor Will Johnson

E S T L I MI T GG Y BI

GI IGGEST LIMI B B T YO UR O I M L I T T S GE G

YOU A R E Y OU R B R B U I G O Y GE E ST AR L U ARE YOU U R YO

IMIT YOU A R E TL Y O ES UR GG LIMIT YOU A R ST EY GE G RE YOU R BI

COSMIC INTERR UPTION Raycer Verrechia

IT YOU A R E L IM YO ST U R GE A R E YO YOU U

Today, across the hall, I saw you walking away, and without a sound, tectonic drifts ripped apart the continental shelf. A giant sequoia, home to all, crashed to the ground, killing more than he harbored. And in the midst of his masterpiece, a famed composer glanced up for a moment, losing his place in time. Beyond what is known to us, seventy-five million light years away, two black holes the size of our own galaxy collide and vanish, leaving only a small green blip on the radar atop the void of my empty heart.

She’s not going to drink your blood, It’s just that she finds these things difficult. You have to invite her in; She wouldn’t dare enter your conversations otherwise. She wouldn’t dare interrupt until everyone is quiet. But they never are, are they? They’re always talking about things she doesn’t understand, Things she feels she would only detract from. She’s not a noticeable creature; It’s hard to see her in a mirror. It’s hard to see her at all. She lurks on the peripheries. She keeps herself from the crowd, nervous of how they’d see her. A little pale, a little sharp. A background monster. She’s not going to drink anybody’s blood, Except maybe her own when she wonders why she’s so afraid. Social vampire All fangs and awkwardness and no life at all.

Kathryn Kaskey

Social Vampire 80

Short Film

Flawless Digital Jessica Li

Lily Jiang

Yesterday my neighbor was slain. He possessed a rather large brain. I threw it in a blender, Spun it in its splendor, And it tasted like citrus champagne!

Short Film

3am Studying

Pencil Mary Wolters

The Folio

Sabzi Mandi or Vegetable Market Photography Tanisha Agrawal

Colored Pencil Sukanya Menon

Sari Spectrum

DIGITAL EMILY ZOU

VOLUME 1

THAT DAMN LIZARD! 86

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THOSE DAMN VOLUME 2

ACRYLIC EMILY ZOU

LIZARDS!!! The Folio

The Path We Walked

Ava Bruni

I walk down streets, Lost in crowds of people. Their faces blur into each other as they pass, Disappearing in the turmoil of the world. The only face I recognize is yours. You still skip, rather than drag your weight, And you find shapes in clouds, And you laugh and sing and talk And live in a familiar way– The way I used to but don’t anymore. With every step you take, you grow. I want to beg you to stop walking, To rest for a minute, Take in your surroundings, But you can’t hear me. You keep walking and you wonder Why your legs always hurt And why, even though you’ve grown taller, You feel so small. I wished away the growth But still longed, more than anything, To see where the path took me. You pass me by in the reflections of buildings, A ghost of the past that always lingers. My face blurs into nothing as my eyes follow you. Fading more and more as my journey continues. I know everything about you will change And I wish I didn’t let it when I had the chance. If only I held on tighter Or walked slower Or chose a different route. I don’t recognise who I have become. Maybe I would if I tried harder to keep you. Your dreams, your heart, your soul– Everything that made me what I was. But I’ve already walked that path, And there’s no going back.

Short Film

Golden Field Etching Kyle Hoang

The Folio

Summer, spent Jui Bhatia

Summer, hot and heavy, settled into my skin Tinged brown with dirt and the sun’s love Against the air coloured thick and hazy By the sea spray and humidity Summer, sweet and running rivulets of mango Into the drain of the sink I eat it over Colour my gaze a soft orange And all too sweet Summer, spent in late nights By the restless roads Still bright with the colours Of a thousand loves and passions Summer, unwillingly fading into A sad routine, brought by A needful reluctance to return

Short Film

Inexorability Anika Kotapally

Still, it’s summer. The feeling rises all around me. Quiet, and I'm on the cusp of eighteen, failing again to move on, make anything new of myself when there's still so much old, so much young, stuck in my teeth, under my fingernails. Still, in my mind, there is a child and she throws fierce, terrible tantrums like the thunderstorms that menace July, quick to come and slow to go. She’s angry—at the world, maybe, at me, for committing that inevitable, unforgivable sin of growing up. She screams and screams, beats her hands and feet against the floor until they are bruised and raw. She says things like Why can’t I do this? Why am I stuck here? Why am I stuck? Why am I stuck? Why am I stuck? No one takes care of her after. She sits in the corner and plays pretend with no friends, all alone. I don't quite know what to do with her. When she cries, I bury myself in work, pay her no mind. What am I supposed to tell her? This is the only way it goes. Sometimes she’s missing a tooth, sometimes her hair is in pigtails, sometimes she wears cowboy boots and neon leggings. Sometimes I see her in the edge of my vision, and I can pick out my smile in her mouth, my eyes in her face. Once upon a time, we were the same, I know, and now she stays in my mind and I don't let her leave, even though I know we can never be the same again. I still don’t know who to be without her. Sometimes, when she is quiet and in her corner, I see us down by the creek with wet squelchy shoes; I see us learning to bike by the house; I see us reading in the middle of the night in bed. This awful dread drips slowly into my stomach and doesn’t leave for hours and hours. All of her memories are golden little things, so perfect and so lovely. Sometimes I think I stole them from her, but still I can't give them back. Those golden marbles keep rolling away, one gone and then another and another until the few I have left are precious, hoarded things. Still, in my mind, she screams and screams, kicks and cries. She is unshakeable, impossible to keep quiet. She beats her hands and feet against the floor until they are bruised and raw, and this hurts us both the same.

The Folio

Snowflakes Yashvi Jain

snowflakes like me and you drifting together drifting apart watching movies over a facetime at 3 in the morning sticking together like snowflakes on your tongue not even looking at each other as i pass you in the halls remember that snow day when we went sledding together ice skating the next weekend even though i had never in my life put a pair of skates on snowflakes break like glass cracks running through even in the freezing weather it reminds me of me and you the only difference that one spreads its wings and flies apart and the other sticks like glue to the bottom of your shoe never leaving you with peace

Short Film

Master Copy of Walter Emerson Baum’s “The Miller Sellersville-Winter Freidensville” Oil Paint Angela Wang

The Folio

Twin Oaks Raycer Verrecchia

Through entwined timber, Embedded in a cacophony of roots, Orchestral hymns of nature Wrap amongst great depths, Ringing out to the world. Two oaks, Born of the same sapling, Contrived by the same eternal being, Wander through encumbered halls Until they emerge. Nature tears the flesh of Mother Earth, Yet life bandages the wound. Ages pass, The endless moonlight halts growth, Sinking suns and setting nights Propel time forward. Two oaks, Bondaged to the earth, In which they were born Destined for one another.

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Sycamore Raycer Verrecchia

Solitary objects, They reject motion, Rooted in a sarcophagus of dirt and leaves, The sycamore watches. As dawn presents itself to darkness, Submitting to its cold hand, Whilst children are born, Crying out to the universe, Begging for the trickle of life. Gazing upon sprawling fields, Imagining existence in a different place, The children speak of faraway lands, They reach for the stars on my limbs, I provide dreams and destinies, Conjuries and questions, Ones I cannot answer. My rings grow, And so do the children, New people come and go, Carving names and strange symbols, Inscribing themselves in time, Prescribing to menial truths I provide. My leaves fall and do not grow back, No longer am I a ladder to the stars, No longer do I nurture and protect, Familiar voices fade into infinity, The stomps of those I loved, Who grew as I grew, A solitary being, Forever pacing forward, Till dusk begets dawn, I watch.

The Folio

To Write a Pantoum

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova

One night I chose to write a pantoum For reasons yet unknown to me Lines came forth, all of whom Spilled out smoothly like a sea For reasons yet unknown to me The words continued, by my design Spilled out smoothly like a sea Flooding over every line The words continued, by my design Like a sea that ever grew Flooding over every line So now these words come to you In this sea that ever grew Lines came forth, all of whom Bring these words, each to you Since one night I chose to write a pantoum

Author’s Note: A pantoum is a style of poetry that uses fourlined stanzas. The second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated again in the poem, and every other line rhymes.

Short Film

The Folio

Oil Paint Katelyn Wang

The Essence of Lemon Green

MOV

VIES

Jui Bhatia

THIS SUMMER I

This summer i Wasted away Skin from flesh Flesh from bone Stripped away Peeled back By lethargic waves Eroding surfaces Squirreling away This summer i Fell apart Falling hair Twisted tears Carving blood Into my face This summer i Pushed away The hands of time Melted down The sand in my clock Made a sculpture of The time i wasted This summer i Stayed awake Saw the new Dawn arise Saw people leave Saw fewer return This summer i Wished my days away Hoped for boons That never came Tried to coerce A higher power Into doing it my way This summer i Gave my hopes away Carefully packaged in foam To the crying daughter Of a drunk Told her to keep it safe To use, not expend Told her not to Thank me

This summer i Drew circles in sand Endless and round Washed away by gentle waves Never to be found This summer i Left myself behind In the bedroom Of my childhood Sleeping on wrought iron While i wrestled My fears to buy time This summer i Broke more than I should have Fixed less than I could have Blamed fate too much Cried just enough Didn’t paint Not once This summer i Faded away Skin to flesh Flesh to bone That crumbles Under the wind’s Soft blow

HOW TO EAT A POEM LIKE IT’S A MANGO Jui Bhatia

First, you take a knife to it Carve delicately, separate Skin from flesh Soft from hard Dig out the imperfection Carve a circle around it Till all you have left Is wet skin, juice Running down your hands

Next you bite, chunks Animalistically, ritually devour Part by part Strategically ingest The flesh you carved Juice that runs down Your neck into your shirt Third you suck The juice from fibre Orange yellowing into white A flesh that is more liquid than solid Flavours stranger than ever, Tainting skin Fourth you lick, Your hands, the sin

The skin, the juice Devour anything As much as you can Lick it’s life force away Take everything it has to offer Devour this poem Like you eat this mango In the peak of summer Over your lap, over the group With sticky hands Dirty from blood And revel in the Novelty of it all

Jewel Vase Acrylic Paint Charlize Ko

102

Movies

Life Goes On Acrylic Paint Jessica Joseph

The Folio

103

Fruit Flies in

August

Anika Kotapally

The summer I was sixteen, the house suffered an invasion of fruit flies. It became a game of sorts, how fast you killed them, how many you got in a day. My dad and I would compare statistics like professional athletes. I got eleven today. Well, I got fifteen. Even in August, as the weather began shifting ever-so-slightly cooler, and the sun set by eight forty-five instead of nine p.m., the fruit flies were everywhere, and we began plotting to find and take down their stronghold. One of the plant pots, we were almost certain. We dragged them out onto the deck and carefully inspected the soil in each one, marking the suspicious with bright yellow twine and taking the rest inside. The sun was hot and still in the center of the sky. Sweat trickled down my neck as I tied my string to the next pot. I could’ve sworn I had seen them scurrying around in there somewhere. It was the first week of August. In July, I had gotten my license, driven out for ice cream with my friends to celebrate. I hadn’t been anywhere since. A fly flew right in front of my face and I caught it in my hand, dead in a second. The fruit flies were back. It had only taken four days for them to repopulate. Tactics had to be changed. My dad looked online for plant-safe pest killers while I lay on the attic floor. It was easily the hottest place in the house, but the old fan had been running in the background for a couple of hours, puffing out somewhat cooler air every few minutes. The dog panted next to me as I scrolled on my phone. Everyone was somewhere I wasn’t. Cancun, Acadia, the Alps. I opened my texts, closed out of the app, opened Snapchat, closed out of it too. No one was saying anything. I didn’t know what to say either. Sunrays beamed in from the skylights, lying still across my stomach, my heart, just too present for comfort. The heat sank into me and I let it curdle in my stomach, a strange combination of summer anxiety and sun. I put the phone down, snapped my hands shut—a Venus flytrap person, closing my hungry mouth around anything close enough to touch—and opened them to see a dead fruit fly stuck to my palm. The pest killer hadn’t arrived yet, and the flies were getting smarter, evading our murderous hands with ease. My kill count dropped from a minimum of ten per day to a measly five. Outside was too hot to imagine, air conditioning feeling like a blessing, benediction in its dried sweat and ice-cold water. August reached its peak, beating in on us all, just as I had reached the most unbearable part of summer, when everyone seemed just too far away to reach, and loneliness was creeping in, a thief through my locked windows. The kitchen was full of flies, flitting around everywhere, over the bananas and oranges, into

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the fridge and cupboards. Their rule was absolute, my efforts to stave them off more half-hearted by the day. It almost felt like there was no point at all, like they had been there forever, just as summer seemed to drag on, endless and overbearing. It caught in me like phlegm in my throat, like the first phantom stirrings of fever, like something I could never quite manage to cough up, spit out like the sickness it was. I zeroed in on a slower fly, crawling over the fruit. Its wings stayed on my finger as I pulled away. The fruit flies had finally met their match. Within a few days, they were wiped from the house, save for a few hardy stragglers. My dad left a 5-star Amazon review for the pest killer and rejoiced. August was coming to a close with the reign of the fruit flies, school inching closer and closer. Outside, the clouds seemed to rush by, a time lapse until life restarted, like the world was breathing a sigh of relief, a collective finally I could feel in my bones. August always felt liminal, false and forever until it wasn’t, until you were staring down its last few days, relief and surprise and sadness making an odd soup in your chest. The leaves wouldn’t turn yet, not for a while, and yet, somehow, I could already see them changing as I was, dropping their greens and dried-out yellow for reds and crunchy brown. In the attic the fan chugged away, faithful and solid after years and years, reliable for as long as I needed it to be. A survivor of the great fly purge buzzed by my ear. I swatted for a second and then let it be. They’d all go, eventually.

Fish Bones Ashley Vadner

CW: Eating disorders

e were raised on orange juice with pulp that stuck between our teeth. Slices of watermelon with round black seeds like bulging bug eyes. Fish with needle-thin bones in their flesh, scraping our throats on the way down if we didn’t spit them out. Mom always said that food wasn’t supposed to be easy. Mom and I painted the kitchen white today. The old color was a gray-green-blue (gray to Mom, green to me, blue to you) with marks from shoved-back chairs and faded crayon drawings above the baseboards. It’s a clean slate now, Mom says, painting over our old bruises. We were young when we snuck downstairs while the moon hung high and Mom snored. I would warm the milk on the stove, and you would melt the chocolate chips. I would add a spoonful of sugar while you stood on the counter to reach the mug cabinet. Midnights were for hot chocolate and whispered giggling. We were never allowed to have sweets. Mom always said that sugar would rot our bodies. I am old enough to do the grocery shopping now. I still feel like I am playing pretend when I push a cart down the aisles. I buy pulpy orange juice and seeded grapes and shrimp nestled inside crunchy, translucent shells. I also buy cookies and cocoa powder and cherry popsicles. Mom’s lips part when she pokes through my bags, but something keeps the words inside. We were prying open mussel shells at the dinner table when you first said you weren’t hungry. You opened all your shells, plucked out the little boiled animals, and plopped them onto my plate with greasy fingers. They glistened and wobbled on my plate as I dumped them into the trash. Mom always said that we shouldn’t eat more than what we were given.

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Mom and I take our meals in front of the TV now. It diverts our minds to the people on screen arguing over petty problems so that our hands and mouths can work away at our food without interruption. It is easier, when we do not have to stare at each other’s eyes over the kitchen table. Mom can never look at me for long these days. We were turning fifteen when I made us our first birthday cake. I had to sneak out to buy the ingredients myself. It was a painstaking creation, with labored-over icing flowers and pink-lettered words. I was proud until I saw your eyes fill with tears and the skin tighten around Mom’s mouth. No one spoke, but the same words echoed in our minds. Mom always said that cake would soften our stomachs and chins. Mom and I see a therapist who keeps a dish of caramels and peppermints on her desk, each one wrapped in transparent plastic. She is always gentle, prompting instead of prodding. I answer her questions around the mints on my tongue. Mom sits still, her mouth empty of candy and words. We were sitting around a silent dinner table when I snapped. I pried open your lips with one hand, shoved a handful of peas between them with the other. You cried out, fish-bone limbs flailing. I had you pinned in your chair, smearing mashed peas across your mouth even after your jaw locked closed. Mom sat still, spoon frozen in her fish-bone fingers. She had never said anything about what to do when we lost our minds. I have left your kitchen chair where it belongs, next to mine. No one ever sits there. When Mom and I put grocery bags on chairs to unpack them, yours remains bare. You are remembered in the spaces we leave untouched.

Wave Rider

Linocut Print Katelyn Wang

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The Lonely Boat

Oil Pastel Caroline Tierney

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The Veins of Venice Oil Paint Wilson Zhang

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Let’s Hear What You Have to Say Print Cole Marshall

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Elise Gerstle Do you feel it when you wake up? It’s an unreasonable hour of the morning, before the sun has risen. Maybe you slept in your base layers; maybe you put them on as soon as you opened your eyes. Either way, you wiggle into the speed suit: tear resistant, gate resistant, ready to cushion your fall. The padding around your forearms and thighs reminds you that in the race course, you are protected, yet also immeasurably vulnerable; knowing the slightest slip on ice could send you sprawling, knowing the injuries that your gear cannot fully prevent. Do you feel it when you load the car? You and a parent haul skis, poles, and boot bags into the trunk of the largest vehicle your family owns. You dimly remember meticulously tuning your race skis—sharpening the edges just so they will cut through the ice, layering wax on the base to protect it from grit in the snow. You rummage through your boot bag to make sure everything is there—helmet? Chin guard? Goggles? Ski boots? Are your pole guards attached to your poles? When you know everything is there, you zip it up and shove it into the trunk. Do you feel it on the long drive to the slope? As the mountains burst out of the earth, gradually increasing in height as you near the ski area, it dawns on you that you will be flying on flakes of ice around intentional obstacles at dangerous speeds. Ever think about that? You’re silent in the car, playing the kind of music that either focuses your mind or makes you feel hyped. The family members coming to support you put up with your strange taste in mu-

sic. They know you’re nervous; they are patient with you. Yet they have never done this. They will never know what you’re truly feeling in the moment. Do you feel it as you get your skis on and begin to inspect the course that you will be skiing? That pounding in your heart, that emptiness in your throat? That feeling of anticipation, of fear, of excitement? The knowledge that you will either fly or fall? And that your fall could break a bone or halt a winning season? You feel it now, without a doubt. You inspect every combination of plastic poles sticking out of the snow. You memorize your route. You watch other racers ski it. You watch them fall; you watch them win. You watch them exit the course in exhilaration or in tears. Which will you be? You feel it in the start house. The tension in the air of hundreds of other kids in speed suits—all around your age, all nervous, all smacking their poles or cheering on their teammates. Perhaps it’s snowing, perhaps it’s sunny. You don’t know; you don’t care. You talk to your teammates, trained alongside you. Many are friends. But you’re not like friends today. You talk about everything and everything in between, but you can’t think about anything but the looming uncertainty of the distance between the start gate to the finish line, all the way at the bottom of the mountain. You feel it at the start gate. The narrow pole just below knee height—as soon as you hit it, the clock starts running. Timing how long you’re in the course. Deciding your rank. The visible tension; the ambiance of fear mixed with excitement. The fear overrides.

Do you feel it? “Racer ready? Go.” The timing squad says to you. You have five seconds after go to pass the start gate. There is no, no, no turning back now. All you fear—all that potential energy in your mind—transforms. Moves. It becomes kinetic energy. It fuels your muscles. Your motion.

Author’s Note: This piece was written in the middle of my first travel ski team season. Ski races are very stressful, so I wanted to convey that. More importantly, in this piece I wanted to answer a question people ask me--and sometimes I ask myself. If it’s so stressful, why do you do it? Why do you compete? The answer is in this piece. I compete because, despite the fear factor, skiing is exciting. It’s fun.

You lose the fear; you lose the emotions; you lose the thoughts. Everyone is watching you, but you don’t see them. All you can see is the slope. It’s just you and the course. The gates. Click-clack. Click-clack. They fall beneath your hands in a steady rhythm. You enter a combination—you know what to do. Your breath comes out in bursts—in wisps that float around you—that you would notice under different circumstances. You are in control, and yet you’re not. You do what you’ve learned. The skis do the rest. Do you feel it now? The exhilaration. The fear. The power. What if you fall? What if you fly?

“All you fear— all that potential energy in your mind—transforms. Moves. It becomes kinetic energy. It fuels your muscles. Your motion.”

Tool Drawing

Pencil Charlize Ko

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Pile of Broken Toys Colored Pencil Kiera McHugh

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The Sentinel and the

Night Shift Kathryn Kaskey

t’s a dark and frigid night shift. Snow falls from the sky and onto the balcony where I keep watch for the survey station. My official uniform is covered up by a warm parka and hat that I’d grabbed before I stepped out on the watch balcony. On its own, the uniform is useless against the cold. On the horizon of that vast expanse of icy nothingness, a lone skeletal tree catches my gaze. Was it there on my last shift? Of course it was, nothing ever changes. It’s the arctic equivalent of watching paint dry. Not something you want to get stuck with, the night shift. I rub my gloved hands together, squinting against the flurry. A blur of motion catches the corner of my eye and I blink– probably more snow. “Hello,” says a soft, unfamiliar voice. “AUGH!” I whip my head around. Standing next to me is a figure in a night shift uniform, just like the one I have underneath my coat. The darkness casts shadows from the brim of their hat, making it impossible to see their face. How didn’t I notice them? Why haven’t I seen them before? “Who—” My voice comes out as a croak. “Are you night shift too?” The figure looks me up and down. “No,” they say at length. “Not formally.” Hmm. Their uniform is worn in a way that the station would have taken care of. Ripped and faded, many of its buttons are missing and fabric is torn out. It’s worn in a way that can’t possibly be effective against the biting air, but they’re not shivering. “Who are you?” I ask. They hum thoughtfully. “Call me the Sentinel. It’s what I do. Watching. You?” I narrow my eyes, not that they’d see it. “Then I guess you can call me the Night Shift.”

The Sentinel laughs. “Careful around here. You might lose your identity. After a while the arctic gets to you. That’s why I came to say hi.” They give off an odd vibe. Not like they’re untrustworthy or dangerous, more like they’re wrong. Like they shouldn’t be here, existing. “Why haven’t I heard of you?” “I haven’t met anyone else yet. You’ve been out here much more than the others have.” Ugh, I’d rather not be reminded of that. I’m always drawing the short stick on shift duty. At this point it’s like we’re not even drawing. I wipe some snow off my face. “You’re not supposed to be here. Why shouldn’t I report you?” “Because you’re bored. And I’m bored. And we have nothing better to do.” I sigh. “This probably breaks so many security rules. You’re lucky I don’t care. Talk to me.” We sit there the rest of the night. When the sun touches the horizon, the Sentinel is gone as quick and silent as they arrived.

***

“You’re like a ghost,” I say, breath condensing in the frigid air. “I can’t see you arriving at all.” After that first shift, the Sentinel has almost magically appeared whenever I’m stuck out here. Our conversations on various things sure beat standing in the cold alone. The Sentinel shrugs. “I just do that. If time shifts, it’s not much of a stretch to say physics does too.” “Are you… dead?” I ask. “Have we established that you’re not normal?” That’s definitely been established. They tilt their hand in an ‘eh’ motion. “I lost my identity. I don’t know who I was, or if I was anything other than a watcher. I’ve stayed out here too long.”

I think about my position, unsettled. “It’s not a big deal. You’re further gone, but it takes a while. You’ll likely be gone before anything happens,” says the Sentinel, like they know what I’m thinking. The scientists wouldn’t believe me if I told them the new reason I wanted to dodge the night shift.

face for emphasis. “I can poke Night Shifts.” At this point, that moniker almost feels more proper than my actual name. I slap their hand. “A weird ghost.”

***

“And then Dr. Scross said that even if we had sorbet it would be a bad idea because it was so cold, which is ridiculous—” My wild gesticulations emphasize my colleague’s egregious views on dessert. “Has she never had cold food in the winter? Everyone’s had cold food in the winter. Present company possibly excluded.” “I’ve eaten ice.” “Sorbet is just fancy ice anyway.” “It sounds nice. Maybe familiar? I wonder if I liked it before… this,” The Sentinel says, twirling their fingers. I cross my arms on the balcony railing. “The survey ends in three months. If you come with us, maybe we’ll all get sorbet together, and you can see how good it is.” They snicker at “three months.” “Maybe if we’re lucky I won’t collapse into a soupy pile of ice. I can’t leave this place.” “I bet you used to be a dramatic bastard,” I say. “That’s okay. I’m one too.” Would I really never see the Sentinel again? It wasn’t like we could exchange contacts. I’d grown used to their presence over the past year, stopped dreading the night shift so much. Not seeing them again would be… sad. I’d be lonely again. “Is this Dr. Scross the one who got you stuck with so many night shifts?” the Sentinel asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. In fact, that was probably their intention. I take the out. “Yep. Jokes on her, I’m fine with that. How’d you know? I didn’t mention that, did I?” I try to think back, but my memory is hazy. “Just a feeling.” When the sun begins to rise again, the Sentinel leaps gracefully over the balcony and disappears from view. I head back into the complex and take off my parka, winter hat, and uniform hat. Some people are already up and milling around, eating breakfast or reading. Someone approaches me. Dr… uh… Cruz, that’s it. I work with him on survey maps, how could I forget? “Hey blackedbar , how was the night shift?” I do a double take. It must be exhaustion, because what– “Say that again?” He smiles good-naturedly. “I said ‘ Hey blackedbar how was the night shift?’” “‘Hey…’ what?” “ blackedbar ? Your name? The thing we call you everyday?” He smiles. “Maybe you should get some rest. You’ve been up a lot lately.” “Yeah, you’re right Thanks.” I head to the sleeping quarters rapidly, trying to tamp down the growing panic in my stomach. The Sentinel’s words dance around in my head–

“Fold.” I toss my cards onto the floor as the Sentinel cackles. “This is what, your third straight?” “Straight flush.” They sound like they’re grinning. Though their hat still blocks their face, I’ve been able to read more emotion in their voice since I met them. “I give up.” I really, really regret introducing them to cards. “Let’s play Monopoly. I am, after all, the station’s monopoly champion.” Cheerfully, the Sentinel pulls the random trinkets we used for poker betting chips into their pile. “Perhaps I used to be a monopoly champ. Perhaps I was even more of a monopoly champ than you are. Perhaps I spend all my time honing my monopoly skills.” Lately I’ve been wondering about that. How does one spend their time in a frozen wasteland? “What do you actually do?” Just like that, the mood sours. “I watch,” they spit. “I wander around and I watch. It’s always night for me. After you’re here long enough, time blurs and skips.” “You always say things like that. What does it even mean?” “Time’s weird here. I’ve been here long enough to comprehend a bit of it, but if I understood it completely, I bet I’d be weirder.” “I think you’re weird enough.” “You’re getting weird too, Night Shift.”

***

The Sentinel and I lean against the railing of the watch balcony, staring down at the glittery landscape. The weather’s been feeling less cold lately. “Where did you get that uniform?” I ask my friend. As glad as I am that they’re not one of the 20 scientists that should have it (the others are fine, but they’re a little overbearing), I’m really curious. “I’ve had it for as long as I remember.” They flick some ice off of the metal railing. It falls for a minute before plopping into the powdery snow. “You know, if you’re cold I could probably sneak you a parka. I doubt the station would notice, we have a lot of ‘em.” “No no, I’m fine.” They wave a gloved hand. “If I was ever bothered by the cold, it was before I forgot everything.” “I bet you’re a ghost from a past expedition,” I say. “Formally placing my bet. Calling it.” “But I can touch things.” They poke the side of my

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The Sentinel and the Night Shift despite my memory issues, I can remember them clearly. It takes a while. You’re getting weird too. Identity. Further gone. You might lose your identity. It’s been feeling less chilly lately. I need to have a chat with my friend.

***

The moon shines bright and full, making the snow shimmer silver. Maybe I’d find it pretty some other night. I don’t put on my typical parka and winter cap when I leave for the watch. My hands shake, not from the wind, but from anger. Bitterness. I wait for the Sentinel to come. They arrive later than usual, or maybe it’s the intensity of my anticipation making me feel that way. I march up to them. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I snarl, hands clenched into fists. I feel nauseous. “Tell you what, Night Shift?” snaps the Sentinel, but their shoulders tense. They know what I’m talking about, they know they know. “You said I was ‘further gone.’ That you lost your identity and I might too. You were so vague about it, and now it’s happening, and why didn’t you tell me?” “I did, you said it yourself.” “You made vague allusions! You said you’ve made sense of it, surely you could see the signs, and now I don’t even know my own name! Why did you let this happen?” “I don’t understand all of it–” “But you knew,” I say icily. “Explain. Explain why you didn’t tell me.” The Sentinel shifts around. “I knew. And I didn’t tell you because I was lonely. Because all I do is watch, but when we were talking, and playing cards, and discussing the outside world, I felt more like a person.” “All while I became less of one.” “And I’m sorry! But you have to understand, I don’t have an identity, I don’t know what I am, I don’t remember anything— I’m so lonely! You’d do the same!” And the thing is, I would. It’s why I never told anyone about the Sentinel. I was lonely; I was so lonely, and I understand, but I don’t care. My friend lied to me, and I’m losing who I am. “You’re not human, that’s for sure. I bet you don’t even have a face.” I rip off their hat. The moon’s pale glow reflects on our faces, and my breath catches. I drop the hat. My own face is staring back at me. It’s impossibly pale, icy, and drawn, but it’s unmistakably my face. “Your face— you’re me, you and your stupid time is strange— did you know?” The Sentinel’s— my— eyes widen. “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t—” “WHY? Why couldn’t I know?” 118

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Footsteps come from inside of the station, and I can tell the Sentinel hears them as well. “I should go, the scientists— we can talk about this later.” “No,” I say. “We need to discuss this now. I’m so confused. I’m so confused right now, and I have to understand.” The Sentinel is agitated. “I need to go—” I grab their arm. “Please!” The door slams open. Dr. Scross bursts out, six other scientists on her tail. “We heard shouting. What–” She stares. Dr. Cruz grabs the Sentinel. They forcibly jerk their arm to get him off, but he hangs on tight with both arms. I back away towards the balcony railing. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this. I’m against the railing now and more scientists grab the Sentinel. They’re screaming and people are shouting and there are gunshots so I back up more— And I’m falling. “ Blackedbar !” Someone shouts, I don’t know who. The people above are getting smaller. The air rushes against my exposed face. This is my fault. This is all my fault.

***

They’ve been drifting for a while. They’ve been drifting awhile and watching for what feels like forever. All they have is a sense that they were someone or something else before this… were they a watcher, or is that just what they are now? They stopped searching for that identity a long time ago. Instead of continuing the fruitless search for memories, they’ve started trying to understand the way time flows here. Why it’s always night. (Why they know that it shouldn’t be.) It’s strange enough to make a physicist cry. It’s icy and bitter and lonely, lonely, lonely. There’s a research station in the distance they saw pop up recently. (They think it’s recently, but who can tell?) It gives them conflicting feelings of familiarity and novelty. Could it be something from their memories? They’ve been observing it— there’s always a person on a balcony, watching just like them. One person is out there more nights than most. That watcher is further along in the arctic’s grasp. Do they know about time? Do they know about identity? Do they know about loneliness? One snowy night, they make a decision. They glide up, up the balcony, light as a flurry, maybe light as air, and land silently behind. If the new watcher does not know about these things, maybe they will tell them. They tilt their head. “Hello.”

OPEN

Photography Warren Shi

Skyline Photography Lily Jiang

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Three Little Windows Photography Jordan Jacoel

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Imposter Syndrome Anika Kotapally

She goes to India to find herself. Or know herself, she’s not sure. She thinks this might come under the Eat, Pray, Love umbrella even though she’s not white, so she hasn’t let herself think too hard about it yet. In Delhi, she speaks a language that is only hers when no one else is around, and waits for someone to clock her as what she is: an imposter, someone who could never belong. She eats street food: pav bhaji with fresh butter melted over it, parathas that taste just like her mother’s, jalebis that leave syrupy stickiness on her fingers no matter how hard she tries to get it off. You can’t find good ones anywhere outside India, and she hasn’t eaten any since she was fourteen. What she wants more than anything is to blend in, be like anybody else here. When they walk down the street, they know who they are, what they are supposed to be. But she still mixes her words up when she gets nervous, tongue-tied and afraid to show it. She thinks about America, how, even there, everything is a performance; how, when she talks to cold callers on the phone, her voice trips over itself into English, cool and easy. Like she’s saying, this is the only language I’ve ever known; this is the only person I’ve ever been. In America, she knows who she is, but only sometimes, every so often. In America, she can never learn to be anybody, too caught up in all the performances of all the people she isn’t. Even there, she is afraid of being found out, imposter, out the airlock. What she wants more than anything is to belong. This city kills her sometimes. Literally. The smog is awful. The cars are loud. So are the people. Her father used to tell her about it when he was growing up. He talked about it like an ancient civilization, a myth. He said it was green, green, green. He said the birds were everywhere. She used to drink those stories up, starving for a life she would never know, a version of herself she could never meet. Delhi, like the motherland. Delhi, like a home that was supposed to be hers. She sees glimpses of it between the windows, in the twisting gullies and vast parks. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. It’s probably wishful thinking.

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At the market, she accidentally asks for tomatoes instead of tamatr, and her stomach drops out immediately. Imposter, imposter, you will never be one of us. The man gives her the tomatoes anyway, but the illusion is broken. She can’t pretend now. He must know now. Coconut, ABCD. Brown on the outside but always, always white on the inside. How dare you think you could be anything else. She will never be able to do it right. Even in India, she can’t belong, still too caught up in the outline of a person she can never be. But she wants. She wants proof that she can have this, too. That this place could be hers, not just her parents’. That she is allowed to have it without the play-pretend. She knows what they think of people like her, over here. They pity her, cut off from her culture and her roots. They know she was supposed to be one of them, but was twisted away, into a place where assimilation is a dirty word, synonymous with sellout, weak. And she has sold out, no matter how hard she tried to play the game right, both sides the same. Maybe that’s not the right way to think about it, but she still knows it’s true. How many things has she lost that she doesn’t even know about? As she sits quietly outside the hotel that evening, clutching her polythene bag of tomatoes, pigeons float off the nearby banyans, cooing quietly as they peck, peck, peck near her. It’s barely April, and the leaves are turning slightly pink already. Just like her dad said. The smog is thick today, blotting out the sun just a little too much. It aggravates her asthma. Still, she loves this place. Even when they don’t love her back. The pigeons keep pecking, congregating around some dropped bread. And somehow, still, her fingers are jalebi-sticky against the plastic.

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swimming with the fishes Watercolor Logan Daniels

Watercolor and pen Logan Daniels

keyboards

Ethan Loi

Aboard the Iris Zephyr #1: Bring Me to the Kuiper Belt

ith a loud, high-pitched whistle and a puff of steam, the train was nearly ready to leave the station. Passengers rushed for the doors, heaving their luggage onto the train car and clutching their tickets to their chests. Another whistle blew out and a voice yelled at the top of their lungs, “All aboard!” Then, a longer, louder blast of the whistle, and the train was off. The huffing-and-puffing sounds common in most trains began emanating from within, but instead of following any metal tracks, it began to rise into the air. Jinx Abarra, conductor of the Iris Zephyr, walked down the aisle and greeted passengers before punching out their tickets and helping with their luggage. Passengers looked and stared at him, with good reason, as he wasn’t normal looking. He seemed to have his body divided down the middle. His right side was yellow and bright, while his left side was a dark blue color. His chest was non-existent, replaced by a floating spherical object surrounded by a hazy ring. He wore a long-sleeved coat, puffy pants, and a type of hat that seemed to be a mixture of a nightcap and a traditional train conductor’s cap. Indeed, he looked rather strange. He continued down the train into the next car and then the next after that. On reaching the 4th car, he was stopped by a rather energetic passenger, Brio Moustro, the feline-like childhood friend of Jinx and a conductor in his own right (albeit a conductor more inclined to music rather than trains). Jinx glanced at him and grinned. The two friends shook hands and exchanged greetings. Then, Brio handed Jinx a note before the train conductor returned to his duties. Brio sat back down, and Jinx moved onto the next car. The train rushed through the eternal emptiness of space at unprecedented speeds before it gradually slowed down as they approached the planet Mars. Once he was done assessing all the passengers, he returned down through the cars and into the main locomotive at the front. He was greeted by a pair of rusted robots, tending to the fusion reactor that powered the train. He peered out the window as Mars appeared closer and closer. His eyes suddenly felt heavier and heavier until he drifted off to sleep. However, his nap was interrupted as he felt a sharp chill graze his cheek. His eyes immediately opened. One member of his robotic crew was tapping

Ethan Loi his cheek, pointing towards the window. His eyes immediately darted up there, seeing the clear visage of the rusty red planet. His eyes widened still before standing up, thanking the robot, and grabbing a brass mouthpiece. “All passengers! May I have your attention please! We are approaching our first destination, the 4th planet from our Sun, Mars.” He looked towards one of the robots, “Brake on my signal.” He then placed a silver whistle into his mouth and gazed out of the window. The Iris Zephyr glided down through the atmosphere, nearing the ground. As they reached closer and closer, Jinx raised up a hand, counting down with his fingers. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1…” FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!!!!!!! Jinx blew as hard as he could into his whistle. The robot grabbed a lever and, with effort, pulled it down. Instead of a regular screeching sound, all inside the train heard and felt a THUD! as well as a deep rumbling sound afterwards. The train’s antigravitational device had been turned off, resulting in it impacting with the ground and sliding across the Martian landscape before reaching an old, rusted metal platform leading into a large construction site dotted with metal structures, buildings, and workers toiling to build and carve the Martian surface. Jinx once again grabbed his brass mouthpiece: “All passengers, we have arrived at our first destination. Please put on a suit before exiting. The Inter-Planetary Railway is not responsible for any injury or illness, including asphyxiation or radiation poisoning, that occurs before, after, or during your journey. So please, exit at your own risk.” He placed the mouthpiece back in its place before leaving the front of the train back into the passenger cars, sequentially unlocking and opening the airlock doors and helping the passengers with their space suits. Most of the people leaving were carrying tools and large, bulky baggage, while others entered after working their shifts; the ATI (Ares Transformation Initiative) was a big project after all… After all the passengers left and the train rose back up into the air, Jinx left the front of the train and journeyed back into the caboose, which served as a sort of living quarter for Jinx and his daughter, Levina, whom he adopted from an orphanage after she suffered several years of abuse by her parents.

Speaking of which, she was sitting in the caboose looking out of the window. Jinx sat down on his bunk before he fiddled with a round spherical device with a jumble of wires connected to a large metal box. He tapped it a few times before a yellow-tinted hologram of the solar system popped up from the box-like device. He looked at it for a second or two before muttering to himself. He took out Brio’s note and looked down at it. It read: Jinx, I think someone’s watching me. Bring me to the Kuiper Belt. Jinx’s eyes widened and examined the note to make sure he didn’t read incorrectly. The Kuiper Belt? That was the edge of known space, a sure-fire way to get lost or killed, or both if you stayed too long… He stood up, left the caboose, and confronted Brio. “What are you thinking?” he hissed. “What?” Brio asked, “This is about the note, isn’t it?” Jinx nodded. Brio quickly glanced around before continuing, “Someone’s watching me, I’m not lying!” “And who would that be?” Jinx asked. Brio hesitantly pointed over to a girl, dressed in a white blouse and a red hoodie sitting on the far side of the train car, next to a woman. “Her.” Jinx walked over to the girl, asking for her name. “Dabria.” She replied, “Is there a problem?” She glanced back at Brio. “Well, you seem to be watching that man over there.” Jinx pointed to Brio, who was slightly peeking over the seat in front of him. “Do you know that man?” Dabria looked back at Brio, “Yes, sir, I do. That is Brio Moustro, the renowned conductor!” Jinx looked back before he questioned further, “How do you know him? Who are you?” “Why, Mr. Moustro is quite well-known, and he has a rather… memorable face,” Dabria responded. “I am an avid fan of his.” Jinx nodded, “As am I.” He shook her hand. “Well, have a nice trip.” Dabria thanked him. Jinx returned to Brio, “She seems to be a fan of yours.” “Really?” Brio asked, taking a brief glance at Dabria. “I don’t know… Just, keep an eye on her.” Jinx sighed, “Very well, but if you ask me, I think you’re just overreacting.” “Perhaps so, but I prefer to be cautious before being oblivious,” Brio replied. Jinx shook his head before returning to the front. The train continued and landed next on Ceres, then Europa, after that, Titan, then Ariel, then Triton. After landing on Neptune’s moon and dropping off many of the remaining passengers, the train lifted off and headed towards the Kuiper Belt. Now all the remaining passengers only consisted

of Brio and Dabria, along with Jinx, Levina, and the rest of the crew. Jinx continued to keep an eye on Dabria, considering Brio’s suspicions. Why was she still on the train… Perhaps she is a stalker… He again confronted her, “Dabria… who are you really? Why are you still… here?” Dabria looked up at him, “Why am I still here? Why are you still here? Ever thought of that?” Jinx looked at her, “What type of question is that? Where is your mother?” He asked, looking around. “Are you talking about the woman next to me?” She pointed to the seat next to her, “She wasn’t my mother…” “Then… where are your parents?” Jinx asked. Dabria touched Jinx’s hand, causing a chill to climb up through his arm, “Who says that I have parents?” Jinx took a step back, knowing this girl was either crazy or something way stranger than he initially suspected. “Who… who are you?” He repeated. Dabria stood up from her seat and replied, “You know who I am, even if you think you don’t.” She walked over to Brio, who was pushing himself against the side of the car. “I am not here for you.” She told him, “Just know, I am looking forward to our official meeting… Mr. Moustro.” She continued towards the back of the train. The two men hesitantly followed Dabria through the train. However, once they reached the caboose, Dabria was nowhere to be seen. Instead, what they did see nearly gave Jinx a heart attack. Levina was sprawled out, unconscious, on the bed, with a box filled with pills spilled all over the floor. Jinx rushed to her side, feeling for a pulse, but he didn’t find one. Brio rushed out to get a doctor. He returned with the train’s in-duty medical personnel to try to do their best to administer what they could to Levina. Using the most advanced technology available, they were able to “revive” her and maintain a stable heartbeat. However, it would take time before she regained consciousness. By the time she awoke, the two men, Brio and Jinx, and the doctors had been waiting for nearly an hour. Jinx sat down next to her, clasping her hand. They didn’t pick or prod. Instead, it was silent. It was not an eerie silence but a comforting one. Once Levina was back on her feet, Brio and Jinx guided her to the front to watch the stars seemingly whizz by. Brio soon left the front, leaving Jinx and Levina alone with the robots. There, amidst the sort of humming noise emitted by the reactor, Jinx held Levina close, and tears began to trickle down their cheeks.

Conductors of Space and Song

Pencil & Color Evie Loi

Fish in Suits! Colored Pencil & Crayon Sukanya Menon

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CW: body dysmorphia, self-harm (cutting), bulimia, suicide attempt

Navami Muglurmath

minutiae

a razor blade twirls between my fingers traces of blood linger on the stainless steel. a thousand thoughts whirl through my head i unbutton my jeans, pull the blade slowly across the skin of my thigh. tears of blood bead in the razor’s wake fixing my eyes on the blossoming drops a blank stare. he would notice. he would always see the little things, the minutiae. the blade teases the surface of my skin again a sharp twist, and it glides through the surface he would know. i run my finger over the forming droplets, bring it to my lips, savor the taste of pain, the metallic flavor, the crimson staining my skin. i stare into space again.

throat

i can count his ribs. 1, 2, 3, 4, then they disappear into his chest. my ribs, hidden by thick walls of flesh and skin my midsection covered with rolls of fat. i pinch my belly, feeling the weight between my fingers. kneel in front of the toilet, stick the index, then the middle down my throat. i gag, then pull my fingers out, a string of spit hanging from them. i plunge them in again, again, again. nothing. my throat ravaged from the scratch of my uncut fingernails, i sink to the floor, my vision cloudy with tears. he would tell me that i’m perfect. i want to believe him. 130

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imaginings

rain

the shower pours down on my head, running down my shoulders, my arms, rivers of soapy water dripping off my fingers. the water mingles with my fresh tears, washing my heartache away. it soaks my thick hair, hangs it like a curtain around my face. his wet hair, through which i ran my hand right before he told me he loved me. me, the sunrise, the sunset. me, showers, and the rain.

love

it erupts in my heart spreads like molten lava to my stomach and arms and legs to the tips of my fingers and toes, when he hugs me, holding me safe. i scratch my hand violently, the throes of a panic attack swallowing me. he clasps it tightly, lightly brushing his finger over my skin. when i smash my head on the table and he lifts me up and strokes the growing bruise on my forehead. my knees bounce uncontrollably, his hand stills them. when i lean against him and he puts his arm around me. the word that resembles him: love.

breathe

hyperventilation, mundane sounds building up and wrapping me in a bundle of panic, my toes curl and my wrists hurt and everything’s itchy and i can’t breathe he asks me what’s wrong, holds my hand, breathes with me, in and out in a flood of passersby, The Folio

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i imagine him as a child, dark eyes and dark hair, sweetly innocent, happy. time rushes by fast, too fast, and he’s sitting at his desk, downing a bottle of pills. i imagine him talking to his younger self. he would kneel, carefully take the child’s head in his hands. you deserve to be loved. i imagine kissing him, the taste of his love lingering on my lips. i imagine reading his heart, thumbing through the book each letter he wrote, every pang of guilt echoing in the pages. i imagine hugging him, never letting go. telling him how perfect he is, telling him to breathe. telling him how much i love him. someday, i won’t have to imagine anymore.

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sad leftover pasta and marinara sauce Amy Li

ou’re staring into a bowl of fusilli, overcooked, dull yellow pasta. The swirls are all falling apart, a mess of broken pasta pieces, swimming in a red, red sea. Noises cloud your head, humming in your ear… it’s too close, it’s too loud. You wish you could drown it out. Your brother’s in the background, crunching loudly on the rice paper omelets you just made him. Rice paper omelets that you didn’t know how to cook, that you saw a single one minute video online and decided to try because you couldn’t think of anything better. And even though you know you’re just being dramatic, it feels like that sound will snap your existence in half. It’s all because you couldn’t do better, because you’re not enough. You will never be enough. Now your brother is paying the price for your incompetence. You can see it in his eyes, his wish that you had just bought him takeout instead. All you wanted was to see him happy, to feed him something healthier. All you wanted was to see that smile on his face, that look of pride to call you his sister. There’s a fork on the side of your bowl of pasta, waiting to be picked up. Still, you can’t. You can’t pick that fork up because you know if you eat one more bite of that pasta, you’ll throw up all over the kitchen counter. Yet you feel obligated to eat it because how ungrateful would it be if you didn’t? Isn’t it so stupid that you’re sitting here feeling terrible when you’re not starving, you’re not grieving over a lost sibling, you’re not living off of the donations of others? Who gave you the right to feel this terrible? Who gave you the right to feel this way when there’s someone else out there that’s suffering more than you are? Pick up the fork. Pick up the fork and eat the pasta. It shouldn’t be this difficult. But it is. You want to scream, to cry, because you can’t. You can’t bear the thought of eating another bite. The swirls get cloudier, mixing together in a

mess of red and yellow, watered down hues that jumble together. There’s something sick about this pasta, sick about the feeling inside of you, the feeling that your whole world is coming crashing down and you don’t know why. You can’t handle the thought of the dirty dishes in the sink, that school starts in a week and you’re far from prepared, that you can’t even handle finishing this meal. You feel like your life is stretched out on this thin line where everything’s going wrong and you’re about to snap, you want to snap, you want to just disappear and never see the daylight again. Perhaps it would be better that way, if you disappeared. Perhaps your brother would be happier if he had been born with a different sister, someone more competent, someone who can cook. If only you could hide, hide from this feeling deep within, from everything hammering down on you. If only you could breathe and let it all go. But you can’t. So you sit there, completely choked, staring at the pasta you can’t eat, feeling completely and utterly useless. You can’t take it anymore. A teardrop lands into that red, red sea, and everything that is broken inside you lands with it. You feel as if your soul had just been shattered, all your feeble attempts at keeping everything together washed away by an ocean of despair. Everything feels like it’s over. Instead of breaking down like you desperately want to, you close your eyes and take a raspy breath. In…Out. In…Out. You’re breathing again. You wipe the tears off your face and force yourself to swallow a bite of pasta. Not today. Today, you’ll put on a smile for your brother like you have for years on end. Today, you’ll shove all of it down and forget about it. It’s the only way you know how to cope, and the only way that’ll keep you going. That’s what matters, isn’t it?

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The Plagued Doctor c Ezoza Mukhammadomonova CW: Death

orpses, he decided, were utterly worthless. Limp, unmoving, nasty, and indescribably loathsome to look at. As he lifted his face away from the bloodstained, plague-ridden corpse in front of him, he found his head wobbling with notable instability, like a drop of water balanced on a trembling leaf. The weight of his mask was something he had yet to get used to. The size, another. And the constant suffocating feel that no amount of fresh herbs could ever push away. But the weight and pressure around him were far preferable to a plague eating away inside of him, until it sprang out with black and red, oozing lumps, unnatural and unsightly, marking a person for near certain death. The mask, he had found on a similar corpse. He had been cutting wood in the forest for fire for his family when he had found the fallen plague doctor, horse standing by his side, loyally, but uselessly pawing at the ground, staring ahead with a dumb, inquisitive look as he’d approached. The corpse was like all others: still, stiff, with a dark, heavy air surrounding it. Worthless. Or so he thought. The bags of money hidden within the doctor’s heavy robes certainly showed otherwise. As he stared down at the wealthy corpse below him, horse still staring questioningly at him, he reminded himself that life was cheap. People died all the time. They would die anyway, no matter what they did. They would always meet their end. He led the silent horse home, thumbing through a leather book he’d found in possession of the wealthy corpse. It was filled with inkstained pages, all crisscrossed with indecipher-

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able writing, and scratchy sketches of organs, and vials, and questionable anatomy. The next day, he visited the corpse again. It was rotting now, a neat swarm of shimmering flies lazily buzzing away as the live man approached, still refusing to leave, drifting aroundHe paid them no heed. Again, he examined the wealthy corpse, this time with a more critical eye, studying the mask and the robes–the robes that were filled with neat bags of shimmering coins, lazily clinking against each other. The question was not where life had taken the corpse, but where it could take the very much living man, standing above him. Life was cheap. But not entirely worthless. He tugged off the mask with difficulty, undoing the straps holding it in place, not sparing the still, pale face below him a second, or even single glance. The mask was balanced perfectly between his rough, weather-stained hands, fingers cradling it in place, eyes gazing into those dark, empty, endless holes that seemed to welcome him inside, like a cavern, a tunnel that promised light on the other side. And he took that promise. After all, life was cheap. Each family he visited looked at him with trust, with faith, and he turned to their sick, already knowing the truth. There was no cure. He did what he was meant to– he spoke of dark humors that must be released, of a plague that had to be bled out, of the need to stay away from the sick, he would tend to them. And he would watch them die in their final moments, stare into their glazed, unfocused eyes–not dark, yet devoid of any light, a sealed

c door that would let nothing in. And still, he walked away each time, pockets just a bit heavier, head bowed just a bit lower, horse staring back with its ignorant, yet inquiring gaze, waiting loyally each time. The worn, leather book, which he now held with lightness and familiarity, was filled with knowledge–the greatest knowledge of all. How to turn a dark, suffering world into one shimmering brightly with each shining coin. But for each coin he carried with him, the world never grew lighter, only heavier. The world around him never grew brighter–it stayed the same shade: a dull, dark, barely glinting, sickly shade of yellow. an object no longer giving off the same sparkle the longer the sun remained, trapped behind dark, unmovable clouds. So, he mounted his silent horse, sitting as straight as he could, even with his head bowed down respectfully, painfully, out of utter necessity and nothing more. The horse trotted on with its four legs, and he sat still, using none. The forest looked different. Had the trees grown taller? Layers of leaves grown thicker? The paths faded away until they were the same dirt and twigs and stone as the rest of the forest. But even without a clear path he found his way home. He couldn’t tell through the mask, but there was a dark, heavy feel about the air surrounding him, something light only in its familiarity. He opened the door, hands already tugging down his hood, reaching for his strap. When his face was exposed to the air, he looked for his wife and daughter. He found them waiting for him. They weren’t looking at him. He stared ahead dumbly, inquisitively, eyes blank but steadily taking in more and more the longer he stared at the same scene, like light slowly revealing a piece of film, a single snapshot he could see of a world that had passed on while he hadn’t looked. They had passed. He took a step forward, then another, head lowered, staring down at the two still, dark, yet pale, rotting corpses in front of him. The win-

dows had been closed, but shimmering flies still drifted away as he numbly waved his hand, staring down. Pale skin, scarred by familiar sores, eyes still open, unseeing, but looking ahead anyways. He stared. And then, a torrent of confused, conflicting, screaming thoughts washed over him, like a flood that threatened to knock him off his feet. The plague had killed them–he was a doctor–he could have cured them–no, he wasn’t–he couldn’t have cured them–he couldn’t cure anyone–he killed them–no, the plague did–it was the plague–the plague had killed them–if he was a real doctor–if he’d only stayed– The threat was not idle. Without any warning, he collapsed on all fours like a wounded animal: screaming, cursing, begging, and simply sobbing with pure helplessness, the full force of everything crashing down on him, knocking him down, spilling everything out of him, tears streaming down like sores springing up on the arms of a still-living person. Still-alive... Life was far more expensive than he could have ever comprehended. And now, he was paying the price for it. Outside, the horse pricked its ears for a moment, listening curiously to the desperately anguished, yet utterly noises echoing from the small house. And then, it lowered its head, nosing at some dry grass, before turning away to stare ahead blankly Then it lifted its head, walking away from a dark world that had nothing to offer, and into the darker, greener, softly glistening undergrowth, into a world of peace.

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Nice to Meet You! Digital Niki Chen

just roll with it Ceramic Ada Lavelle

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Around the Corner Photography Jordan Jacoel

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Trick or Treat

Watercolor Anya Walheim

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Moon Dance Ceramic Ruth Lanuoette

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Invisible Sun

Ceramic Ruth Lanuoette

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Test Anxiety

Graphite Mary Wolters

Fishbowl Graphite & Colored Pencil Mary Wolters

Tempera Chiho Jing

Equilibrium

Equilibrium Tempera Chiho Jing

Death by a I was gifted my grandfather’s pocket knife at my graduation party. It was a lovely thing, a mahogany handle soft to the touch, a silver blade, quick to bite. That summer I carved peaches until their syrup ran down to my elbows. I sliced blades of sweet summer grass, leaving green stains on the tips of my fingers. I even cut my own skin, running my finger along the wrong edge of the blade, drawing hot blood in lines that came rushing down to my elbows. I wound my finger tightly in cloth and waited for the skin to tighten around my wound. By the time a tender white scar had filled in the gap of missing flesh I had moved out of my childhood home. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I keep thinking I’ll never get older and somehow I always do. Last year I was nothing more than a child with flesh too soft for the world. Time keeps coming after me, faster and faster. Now I’m an adult, pressed up against a knife, my skin tearing apart under the blade. Time keeps coming after me, faster and faster, carving my skin into a thousand little cuts, slicing through my flesh until you see the white of my bone. I keep trying, I keep healing. My skin keeps hardening over and white scars keep forming. Still time cuts me like a knife. Still, I bleed.

Thousand Cuts Vivian Dong

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Ava Bruni

The Cut That Always Bleeds

We soared on swings next to each other, not yet knowing the person we were trying to swing higher than. I could feel clouds in my lungs and wind in my hair. The world grew smaller and smaller as I kicked my legs. We were so young then, and the only things that seemed to matter were the sky and the ground and the feeling of our stomachs dropping as we fell to the center again. I had never felt so free. I let go of the metal chains and spread my arms like wings and lifted myself off the plastic seat. For a moment, I was actually flying. Until, all of a sudden, everything became too big. My feet weren’t strong enough to catch me and I landed hard on my face. Tears welled in my eyes. I sat and saw blood begin to form on my knees. It dripped down the side of my legs onto the ground. Seeing the blood glisten red on the pavement made the hurt greater than it was. And I cried and cried and cried over a cut that was only skin deep. You jumped off your swing too, landing gracefully on the ground and offering me a hand. You gave a smile like a vow that swore we would always know each other. I took your hand and got up on stinging knees, scabs already forming over the cuts. That night, I itched the scabs off, fresh blood getting under my fingernails. I did this again and again and again, every night. I knew this would cause a scar, but I couldn’t resist picking them off and making everything that happened on the swings permanent. I opened up my heart to you that day, a cut that would always bleed. We grew up on our tippy toes, always dreaming of being more than what we were. Despite my best attempts, you were taller than me. You acted more mature than me and you were prettier than me and you had more friends than me. But none of that mattered because you were my best friend. We would hang out every day after school and do everything together. My heart bled with every beat that meant you were mine. That was when my shirt was blood-stained from our friendship. When middle school started, we both got busy and only saw each other in science class. You didn’t really understand the things we were learning, so I helped you. We had a few more classes together the next year. I was so excited to see you more, but you sat next to people who weren’t me. I tried to pick off any signs of tension and itch away any distance between us; growing the cut and our friendship deeper and deeper and deeper until blood ran thick. At some point, you stopped texting first. You stopped noticing me when you passed by in the hallway. You stopped being able to hang out at all. You were too busy with sports, clubs, other friends. One day, after we hadn’t spoken in a while, I asked you if you remembered the first time we met. A moment that meant everything to me. As you said no, your voice rang with an amusement that I would have never associated with the start of us. No. No. No. And why would you remember? It was so long ago. I still have the scars fading on my knees. But it was too long ago. I still feel the sting and scratch of pavement. But it was too long ago. I still see your smile and know the unspoken promise made to me that day. But you never scraped your knees. They never bled and became scabs and you never turned them into scars. I just stood there staring at you. The world was too big again and my eyes were welling up. You looked at me funny, like there was no real reason to be crying. My blood slowed, a new crust forming over my cut. It wanted to be scratched off, to be opened for you. It itched like an infection was trapped underneath. But, I knew that even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to satisfy the itch. I knew I had to let it be. I had to let the new scab finally become another scar of a cut deepened for you– one only I will have.

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Ladies Lunch Who

Before leaving her apartment that morning, BethAnn meticulously practiced her facial expressions in the mirror—pleasantly amused, subtle disagreement and condescension (but never outright disgust), and pearl-clutching faux indignation. She would need all these expressions for her eleven o’clock brunch with Margaret, her best friend and arch nemesis. The pair met in Uni when Margaret became acquainted with Beth-Ann’s past lover, Jimmy. As far as Margaret was aware, their meeting was by chance, when the two just happened to be volunteers at the same crochet charity event. Beth-Ann, however, had sworn to become friends with Margaret, and systematically tear apart her relationship with the man she once loved. Eventually, when Margaret’s relationship with Jimmy met a tearful end, it was Beth-Ann she came crying to. As Beth-Ann mumbled consolations and soothingly rubbed the back of her weeping “friend,” she couldn’t help but feel a depraved sense of satisfaction. Beth-Ann hated Margaret, a feeling exacerbated by their manufactured meeting and artificial friendship. She always assumed that, deep down, Margaret felt the same. Although, she could never truly be sure. The pair had mastered something that all women would come to learn—the art of bullshittery. This would come to be the foundation of their friendship, which bafflingly lasted much longer than Beth-Ann would have ever expected. About 43 years longer than expected. So, as a 64-year-old Beth-Ann donned her handbag and black flats, she prepared all the best bullshittery for her monthly brunch with Margaret. The cafe this time was Margaret’s choice. Beth-Ann had made time in her schedule to account for some additional measures—arrive 20 minutes early, complain of the wait, make an off-handed comment about the importance of punctuality once Margaret arrived. The usual. But to her surprise, when Beth-Ann arrived she found Margaret lounging absent-mindedly on a couch in the lobby of the cafe, picking at her fingernail polish. When Margaret had noticed Beth-Ann’s arrival, she sprang to life like a plant sprouting out of the ground and came to her feet in one swift movement. Glancing at her wristwatch exaggeratedly and then back at Beth-Ann, Margaret produced a lukewarm smile from across the room and signaled the hostess that they were ready to be seated. “I thought you would never come,” Margaret teased, her voice melodic and rehearsed. “Oh dear, I hope you weren’t waiting too long.” “That’s quite alright. You know what I always say, ‘on time is late!’” Beth-Ann bared her teeth in a smile and laughed, a quick, half-hearted laugh that sounded more like a grunt than anything else. “Bless you!” Margaret remarked, eyes wide. “You’re not coming down with something I hope?

Peyton Harrill

“I’m fine, but thank you for your concern.” BethAnn shed her wool coat as they arrived at their seat, a small, circular oak table tucked in a narrow corner of the cafe. “Well, this is a quaint little place,” Beth-Ann noted dispassionately. “Cozy, but I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on our bags.” “The more the merrier.” The pair leafed through their menus. Beth-Ann already knew what she was getting. “Everything looks just great, it’s difficult to decide,” she blurted, breaking the silence. “I’m considering the Earl Grey tea and a Caesar salad.” “Oh, I couldn’t. The croutons and parmesan. I’m watching my figure,” responded Margaret, placidly placing a hand on her stomach. “But more power to you. I think it’s brave that you don’t care about such things.” “Just be careful you don’t diet too much. I thought that you looked a little fatigued. That probably explains it.” “I appreciate your worry, but I’m not tired at all really.” Margaret paused for a moment before apparently coming to a realization, her mouth forming a round o and then fading into a pleasant smile. “Well, I never spend much time on makeup like you do, BethAnn. People just aren’t used to seeing a natural woman.” Beth-Ann gritted her teeth, grinding them from side to side. She just couldn’t stand Margaret—her vacant smile and her blasé attitude. Beth-Ann silently cursed her younger, naive self for bringing Margaret into her life. And she did it voluntarily! But how was she supposed to know how long their “friendship” would last? How was she to know that in 43 years she and Margaret would still be sitting at brunch together, spewing insincere comments and phony compliments at the other? Out of all the relationships Beth-Ann had in her life, this was surely the longest and most taxing. The rest of the brunch went, somehow, without incident. A few passive-aggressions had almost pushed Beth-Ann past her breaking point. When the pair got up to pay, Margaret had made a vague remark about her handbag, something or other about how she was surprised that it was still “hanging on” after owning it for so long. Beth-Ann was glad to let Margaret know that she believed in frugality, and that she “couldn’t just spend her husband’s money on absolutely everything!” As Beth-Ann approached the door of the cafe, she felt a wave of relief wash over her body. The afternoon sun flooded in from the windows like a divine message, letting her know that the end was nigh. “Well, it was absolutely delightful seeing you!” Margaret exclaimed as the pair reached the door. “I couldn’t agree more. Give my best regards to Paul and the kids.” “Of course. This time next month?” “As always. I can’t wait!”

Furmilion Watercolor Elina Wang

A Plot of Land in the Stars Ava Bruni

The winter air tightens its icy grip around me, freezing the once-melted snow to the ground. I breathe warmth into my hands, my knees pulled up to my chest. It’s the dead of night, Xander is sitting next to me, looking intently at the starlit sky. I didn’t believe him when he told me he bought a star. It should be impossible for things so far away, so untouchable, to be claimed by humans. But there he stood in front of me, a stupid smile plastered on his face, holding up a framed certificate that said he named a star. What an idiot. He paid $28.95 for a piece of paper that he had to print out. I didn’t tell him that, of course; but now, as we sit on a gingham picnic blanket in the freezing cold in the middle of nowhere, I really want to. There are no lights anywhere around us, not even the moon is in the sky. The trees blur into one another, their outlines lost to the darkness. Xander meticulously studies each star a few times over, cross-referencing a map of the night sky that came with his certificate. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from him. As long as I can 150

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remember, he’s been gullible enough to do something like this. To buy a star and expect it to actually mean something. “There,” he said, his finger pointing off into the distance. I laugh. I can't help it; there is no way he can tell his star from all the others. “Don’t you see it?” he asks, a spark of eagerness in his voice. “There are so many stars, Xander. How am I supposed to know which one you’re talking about?” “Right there.” “Ohh, yeah, that one… I see it,” I lie through chattering teeth. Xander beams with pride. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He whispers as if he doesn’t want to scare it away now that he’s found it. “I wonder if Earth would look just as pretty as my star, if we were sitting up there instead of here.” “I guess we’ll never know.” “What do you mean?” “Just that chances are we won’t get to go to space, unless you're an astronaut or something.”

He thinks for a second. “No,” he says. “I don’t think I want to be an astronaut. But, I suppose everyone will be astronauts once we can live amongst the stars.” He looks over at the puzzled look on my face before continuing. “There are billions and billions of stars in the galaxy. Everyone could get their own plot of land on one if they wanted to.” “Don’t be silly, Xander. Stars are balls of fire; you’d die if you tried to live on one.” “But sometimes they’re more.” Xander turns his gaze back to the heavens. The wind has blown a few clouds over since we got here, partially obscuring our view. Maybe when we first became friends, I would have fallen for the stars the way he does. But I’ve grown out of silly fantasies and playing make-believe. He lays down on the picnic blanket, staring at his star. I join him, wrapping my jacket tighter around my body and tugging my hat further down in an attempt to stay warm. “Let me tell you about the star I bought,” Xander proposes. “Let me guess, it’s hot?” he frowns at me. “Sorry, go ahead.” “Close your eyes and try to imagine it.”. He starts talking, his words painting a new world around us. I feel like I’m falling, but when I look around I realize I’m shooting through space, Xander next to me. As swiftly as we started, we touch down on solid ground. The surface gleams beneath our feet, crafted from celestial light. It's Xander's star. We begin walking across the unfamiliar land. Each step we take has the grace and lightness of a dancer’s. The air is sweet and somehow easier to breathe. The sky is as vibrant as aurora lights, flaunting colors I’ve never seen before. Xander’s star teems with ember-like flowers that carpet the ground, and the sky is populated with phoenixes soaring amidst constellations. A river as blue as the hottest fire flows across the land, leading us to the perfect place to build a cottage or castle or anything we want. Caves glisten with jewels that look like stars, as precious as the rarest diamonds. We fashion crowns from them, marking the beginning of our life on the star. “I bought the star for us to share,” Xander says. “If I could buy you every star in the galaxy, I would. You deserve it.” I smile, a warm feeling spreading through me. We both know the only one of us really deserving of

the universe is him. It’s always been him. His dreams, fantasies, imagination. The things I never knew how to hold on to. “I wish we could stay on this star forever,” I say. “We could if we really wanted to.” Sudden cold stings my face, sending shivers down my spine. My eyes flutter open to the night’s darkness. Snow is falling slowly around us. I look over at Xander, his eyes still tightly closed, snowflakes are around his head like a halo. Words are still flowing out of his mouth, the star becoming more and more real with every detail. His face is painted with a distant smile, still lost in fantasy. No matter how hard I wish it wasn’t true, stars are just stars. But Xander doesn’t need to know that yet, he’s always been the more optimistic of the two of us. I want more than anything to go back to the world he built, but I don’t know how. The sky is now completely covered in clouds, our star lost behind them.

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Meet the Cast

Kiera McHugh @oeroooooooos

historical fiction - educational and entertaining!

Warren Shi @Warren

horror and comedy, because I believe these are the top genres of movies that I find the most enjoyable.

Sukanya Menon @iluvdadjokes

Historical Fiction, history is so cool but sometimes it gets really boring and adding a touch of fiction makes it fun!

Shirin Patel @sweetshirin

I love all genres but my favorites are drama, romcoms, and action. I love a good period piece but also a nice comfort film, it really just depends on my mood!

Emilie Mutombo @itssssemilieee

my favorite genre of movies would be horror because I love the thrill of the suspense

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Yashvi Jain @iliveforcandy

Mystery. I love trying to figure out the ending before it happens.

Jessica Li @dontchasemenchaseatlantic

i like horror and action because they’re the most entertaining to me

Evie Loi @3181523

Horror, because the tension gives me adrenaline, it’s very exciting!

Jane Reynolds

Ayanka Kudalugodaarachchi @LOV3ST4Y

My favorite genre is fantasy fiction because I like the magical and fantastical elements to it.

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Austin Wang @funkymonkey42

I like action films because they’re fun to watch and keep me from falling asleep.

Vibha Besagi @SixteenthSakura

Historical Fiction, becuase it allows us to look at our world in a different time period, so we can see how much society has evolved/not evolved in different aspects.

Niki Chen @themarlincove

I loved animated fantasy; it’s always so fun to see what someone can create when given free range of anything in their imagination.

Elise Gerstle @Full-time_bookworm

Family-oriented action films. Perhaps a controversial opinion, but no one can beat The Incredibles, How to Train Your Dragon, or Sing. Personally, I will stand for nothing short of happy endings and animated, not-scary villains. (PS-- it’s not nostalgia. I just like highly personified animals.)

Jessica Joseph @Jessica_Joseph

I love historical related films becuase I find them inspiring and beautiful.

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Kathryn Kaskey @Audiocat

I enjoy sketch comedy, especially if it’s surreal, fantastical, or slightly absurdist. It’s fun to break the bounds of reality.

Ada Lavelle @adaalavelle Comedy.

Amy Li @personificationofanexistentialcrisis

“This made me rethink my entire life” should be a genre. It’s the best genre because it does exactly that.

Eden Liu @Eden

I’m more into comedy and romance films because they just have a unique kind of charm to it. There’s just something special about the emotion that comes with romance movies. And then, the comedy just adds that extra spark and lightens the mood.

Ethan Loi @The_Weary_Traveler

Heist/Mystery movies, purely for the suspense and problem-solving nature of them.

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Navami Muglurmath @nuhvuhmee!

I love fantasy movies and tv shows because it’s always so fun to see how they bring different worlds to life!

Ezoza Mukhammadomonova @EzozaM

Documentary Fiction- I think that the most tragic and beautiful things are the ones based off real life.

Archana Nair @4rch4n4

My favorite genres are definitely crime thrillers and horror movies. You can never go wrong with a little mystery, and it’s always fun to scream at the dumb characters in horror movies.

Gigi Prothero @music_addict66

I really like mystery because the endings always have really interesting twists.

Caroline Tierney @carolinetierney

Dystopian - I find the plots very intriguing!

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Maria Usmani @Maira

Studio Ghibli-- more specifically Howl’s moving castle. The vibes are there~~

Mary Wolters @Marbar Fantasy

Caden Aldridge @Mythyfungod

I like grand fantasy, I love stories that create worlds as expansive as our own, especially when they have a complete magic system that makes the world even more interesting and complex.

Zion Brown @z¡on!

i really like noir/mystery and like chick flicks. high contrast, but twilight zone and Gilmore girls are both my favorite shows! I like them because one makes you think, and the other makes you giggle :)

Hasini Chejerla

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Abigail Dobson

Anouk Freudenberg @anouk_bomb

Horror movies. They make me laugh.

Hannah Gupta @mushroom_one

I love rom coms! My favorite one of all time is The Proposal and it is such a good comfort movie. I love to watch rom coms since they are usually such a cozy genre.

Isha Khanna @ishakhanna

My favorite genre of movies are romcoms. I love watching them because it just makes me feel so happy and are always so funny.

Cole Marshall @ColeIsAfraid

I like horror because it reduces people down to survival instincts, and yet (in good stories) the characters must maintain their sense of self and humanity, lest they find themselves becoming the monster. The Folio

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Courtney McKenna @court_court

My favorite genre is horror because I love jump scares.

Audrey Nguyen @audrey._.mei

Romcoms definitely! I love how cheesy and stupid they can be--they’re perfect for when I need to take my mind off things.

Aashita Singh @mushroom_2

My favorite genre is comedy because its funny

Raycer Verrecchia @Raycer

My favorite genre of film in general are thrillers. There’s nothing like being on the edge of your seat for hours waiting to see what happens next.

Katelyn Wang @ketchupk25

Stop motion animation- these films feel so life-like and charming. I love how you can appreciate every moment frame and feel the creativity and care behind every miniscule movment in the scene. 160

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Sarah Weng @glup_shitto

I like watching action movies and TV shows, especially sci-fi action. They have a special place in my heart because I spent the pandemic holed up at home watching Star Wars and Marvel on Disney+.

Iris Zhang

Ava Bruni @lit_laugh_love rom-coms

Justin Chow @j_chowwww

Rom com is such a big guilty pleasure of mine. Nowadays media has a lot of serious and dark themes, so it’s nice to put on a movie from the 2000’s on after a long day of school.

Vivian Dong @negaviv

sitcoms- they feel like a hug!

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Peyton Harrill @kubrickluvr

my favorite film genre is horror because i love the suspense!

Kyle Hoang @Krowster

Most feel-good fantasy/sci-fi to escape reality to

Emily Ibarra @em__ib__

Dystopian- it looks fun to overthrow a government

Jordan Jacoel @marvelousmissjordi

My favorite film genre is coming-of-age and drama. I enjoy character-driven plotlines that are relatable and realistic. I also appreciate sci-fi shows, esspecially ones with cinematic and comedic elements.

Lily Jiang @1i1y

Anything animated because I like seeing the art and graphics

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Chiho Jing @rilakkuma_fan123

Romance, psychological thriller, fantasy, action, drama, etc. I like anything with a good plot!

Anika Kotapally @thedustofstars

absurdism/magical realism

Kat Nguyen @quacksonholland

Superhero movies, especially Marvel because I love the action and cool cinematic effects!

Guin Reaume @purplepenguin

Thrillers; have to keep myself on my toes.

Tashikaa Senthilkumar @shikaa:)

Comedy! It’s usually paired with coming-of-age or action storyines, and comedy always enhances them. Laughter just makes life better!

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Jamie Sharkey @phoebebridgers

I love Romance, coming of age, and dramas such as Perks of Being a Wallflower and Beautiful Boy. I love the rawness of the stories told and the passion in the storytelling. I love when a movie can make me tear up, laugh, and come out of the experience changed.

Ashley Vadner @ashes_inthetrees

I like to watch a little bit of everything

Elina Wang @limurr

fantasy or scifi :D i love exploration of alternate universes!

Katie White @champagnecoast

Definitely dramas and psychological thrillers! I love anything that has a good plot twist or jaw drop moment. I’m also a big fan of 2000’s chick flicks.

Emily Zou @lilpinkiguana27

Paranormal Horror - I love getting a good scare, whether it’s by a satanic cult or ancient abomination

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Mr. Smith @Bensmithsongs

Makeover Tutorial Instagram Reels

Mrs. Wilson @c.wilson

Whatever everyone’s watching in the moment. I love talking about the latest shows and movies, so anything that comes recommended and people like to talk about. All genres, all mediums, doesn’t matter.

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Check Out Staff Pitches!

get out of this world! — people are kicked off earth

and pick a planet. who ever survives the longest on their planet gets to go back to earth.

The Avengers: My Little Pony Edition — a series

that follows the journey of the Avengers as they try to save the magic of friendship.

Game of Colognes — a war of succession beauty and the yeast — a movie starring

a young woman who finds that baking is her passion amidst the political turmoil that raises tensions in her country.

Disenchantment — a Tv Show that I’m terrified Netflix will cancel before it ends

Minimind — is a movie about an insignifi-

cant superhero who turns into a super villain in order to feel like he has a purpose in living. But when society starts to laugh at him for being a sad little villain, he realizes that he should follow his heart regardless of what others think. In the end, he ends up dying as a true hero by saving his city and archnemesis (who is known as the better hero).

Ok Ok Sky — take on La La Land however

instead of artists falling in love in Hollywood, they are scientists that change the weather and hate each other.

Blood Orange — a show where a detective is tracking down a murderer who killed a produce merchant.

Illegally Blonde — A movie about a superficial thief’s epic heist of luxury blonde wigs.

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among the Seven Scent Kingdoms to become the most powerful cologne

Sanddavid Triangleshorts — the name is self explanatory

Orange’s Anatomy — In this show, expe-

rienced doctors are to examine the anatomy of fruit and realize that they are far more specialized in human anatomy than botany.

Boredom Games — In the era of Ipad kids, 12 are chosen to see who can survive the longest without their devices, all the while trying to escape from the real-life versions of their childhood cocomelon nightmares. Will they prevail or will boredom win?

Gossip Squirrel — mischievous squirrels

narrate the daily lives of high school students, spreading rumors and creating chaos

Ordinary Things — a Netflix series about subtly unsettling commonplace household products and appliances.

The Hungry Games — a series of compet-

itive eating competitions in a bracket format, with the fastest eater coming out on top

Loans — A struggling college student des-

perately tries to repay their mounting debt.

mean twirls — reality dance tv show Alan — a movie that covers the incredibly

mundane life and non-journey of Alan from the hit film Barbie.

Breaking Good — a show where chemist

Walter White and his old student try to solve real world problems through the power of chemistry.

The Light Peasant — An unimportant

person who always wears white witnesses a criminal who is always sad terrorizing the city of Got-Ham?

Great American Baking Show — like

GBBS but lot more yelling and cooking burgers and cowboy hats

Dora the Explorer — but it’s in French and Dora causes chaos on her adventures instead of Swiper

47 Meters Up — we take some sharks and

give them mobile aquatic homes controlled by little xbox controllers so they can roam the streets of New York City, 47 meters above their natural habitat.

Brooklyn 100 — it’s a mashup of Brooklyn

99 and the 100. Police officers live their daily lives in a post-apocalyptic NYC.

Don’t You Dare Drop It — People have to hold as many random items as they can (ex. a ladder, a glass of water, a lamp) all at once while going through obstacle courses. They cant drop any of the items or else they lose.

Catcher’s Tail — Adventures of a young boy

who rides a cat through a magical world to go home, similar to over the garden wall

The Tropical Slowl — a movie in which

Santa kicks back in Punta Cana instead of delivering toys on Christmas Eve, while children lose their minds all over the world.

How to Train Your Toddler — 5 teenagers

Raquelle — a Barbie movie told through Raquelle’s perspective

must work together to take care of their assigned toddler as part of an insane highschool health project.

The Socky Horror Picture Show — The

Sports Game — a tv show where the sports

sock puppet version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Scully High — Movie where Scully from

monsters inc opens his own high school for struggling scarers!

announcers know nothing about games they’re narrating for

Losing Nemo — a tv show where Nemo

keeps getting lost, at school and such, and it happens again within 30 seconds of anyone locating him.

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Job Swap—- a reality TV show where people

with wildly different professions switch places for several days, ex. a politician and a gymnast

We need another Miracle — Bruno (from

have a bear with them

Encanto) applies for priesthood but things go wrong when they start to believe he’s part of the devil. In order to prove himself, he must complete a series of Just Dance dances and get perfect on every move... can he pull it off? Or will he be doomed for eternity?

Bob the Homeless Man — a tv show for

The Insiders — Office Sitcom about famous

Bear With Me — a show in which people

teens who grew up watching Bob the Builder. Bob has now lost his job and has to survive out on the streets. Bob the builder, can he do

supervillain henchmen performing “bureaucratic” tasks such as invoicing 2000 gallons of poison and the construction of a not-so-secret 300,000 square foot base

Stranger things — a show where you give strangers things :)

Lizard of Oz — a movie about a wizard who

finds himself in Oz and must find the lizard to get him out

Glaciers in Greenland — a docuseries

where every episode is real-time, non-moving footage of a glacier.

The Real Houseplants of Vegas — follows

The Offenders — a gang of knock-off

the lives of gardening teenagers who talk about their struggles of plant parenthood in Vegas

500 days of crying myself to sleep --

Calculus With the Count — where Count

superheroes who just verbally assault their

Self-explanatory title

The Real Housewives of Tredyffrin —

just ordinary old ladies buying pizza at Spatola’s and walking their dogs.

Clueful — The opposite personality as that

of the protagonist in Clueless, a teen detective tries to ‘fix the brain’ of a pretty and popular girl to create a perfect Investigator’s

von Count from Sesame Street teaches children college-level calculus. Where was this when I was a toddler?!

The Nightmare After Christmas —

viewers follow the aftermath of a disastrous Christmas party where the protagonist, the organizer of said party, needs to put everything back in place

50 down to 15 — take on 13 going on 30 but Abnormal People — Have you ever met a normal person? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

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an spy agent needs to finish 35 missions in order to move up in the business.

Don’t you DARE CALL SAUL — An

Bat-Man — the newest vigilante in town,

Normal Things — a strange girl with a buzz

Dogs Kitchen — competition cooking show

episodic show following a somewhat eldritch lawyer employed only by the extremely despa-

cut was found in the woods, the boys who found her keep trying to act like there’s some grand conspiracy, and keep her in their pillow fort in one of their basements, but she keeps insisting she was actually just playing and wants to go home now.

who’s ready to beat back crime, with nothing but his good looks, and his trusty baseball bat.

where the judges are all dogs with refined pallets

Breaking Good — a tv show where Walter

White and Jesse start a cooking show, where they cook food for cancer patients everywhere

HIM — about a creepy clown who is terrorizing a group of kids.

Outside in — all of our emotions keep running around

How to Get Away With Pet Check Ups

— it’s like How to Get Away With Murder

meets Grey’s Anatomy. A group of college students studying to become veterinarians at Northnorthern University accidentally feed the president of the university’s pet chihuahua the wrong medication which has turned him into a Scottish Fold cat. Will they get expelled? Find out on the next episode.

Goodbye Kitty — There’s nothing to it.

Each episode is just a 3 second clip of a man saying goodbye to his cat before he leaves for work.

I’d Fight God with a Pickle for a Sandwich — ambitious silly goose causes chaos

while some narrator god desperately tries to control the situation

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Thanks for

Watching!

About The Folio We are a student-run literary and art magazine from Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Although we’ve only been The Folio since 2007, we have collected, compiled, designed, and published student-produced art and literature since 1967. Our staff members are dedicated to furthering their own artistic and literary talents and promoting an interest in the humanities school-wide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all ‘Stoga students. Applications to join The Folio open during course selection in February. More information can be found on our website: stogafolio.weebly.com. You can also find us on Instagram @stogafolio. The National Scholastic Press Association has rated our publication All American. The National Council of Teachers has ranked us as a Superior magazine.

The Pennsylvania School Press Association has awarded us their Gold Rating.