The Pingry School Calliope 2018 by The Pingry School

Calliope Pingryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Premier Literary Magazine

Editors: Alyssa Chen (VI) and Avery Didden (V) Cover Artist: Rebecca Lin (VI) Faculty Advisor: Ms. Grant

The Writers 4

“The Thirteenth Labor” by Allie Verdesca

“Tableaus of an Endless Summer” by Miro Bergam

“The Black Box” by Alexandra Weber

“Homeward Bound” by Megan Pan

“[As I Venture]” by Jessica Hu

“Bruise” by Allie Verdesca

“The Cost of War” by Massa Godbold

“The Cult” by Noah Bergam

“Anonymous” by Allie Verdesca

“The Colors of Feelings” by Jessica Yatvitskiy

“Pulse” by Annaya Baynes

“A Pleasant Illusion” by Anonymous

“Oh, what happened to the seven seas?” by Noah Bergam

“The Perfect Fish” by Noah Bergam

“Love Will Have Its Sacrifices” by Annaya Baynes

“PANG” by Avery Didden

“Picture” by Avery Didden

“Ocean of Eden” by Alyssa Chen

“The Sour Strawberries Of Our Lives” by Alyssa Chen

The Artists 18

Nicolas Ladino

Jeffrey Xiao

Rebecca Lin

Naiyah Atulomah

Vicky Chen

Angelina Mayers

The Thirteenth Labor by Allie Verdesca (VI) Brave girl, they say But I just don’t see it. Glasses stained with mediocrity Of blue jeans and overcast mornings Of a plain laugh and small, chubby hands Nothing grand, extraordinary with her Nothing of that girl. She is not brave. Her grey eyes didn’t spark a war in Troy Her hair never a hero’s golden fleece Her shoulders never carried twelve labors on her back She is mortal. She does not like Fox News. She can’t stand politics She hates the way people stop her And brand her “hero” “Survivor.” Yes, she will politely smile Accept kind, Well-intentioned words as they come She is no hero. She is not brave. She has just learned how to arm herself with “no” She has learned safety in numbers No goddess raised from the ashes below. She is not a survivor. We all are.

Tableaus of an Endless Summer by Miro Bergam (V) dirty adidas corduroy cap midday jog subway tracks caffeine commute street parade Brooklyn nightclub neon rave southbound train quiet town grassy fields ocean bound midnight rooftop empty beaches bootleg fireworks time unstitches electric festival music loud summer funeral languid crowd dizzy head wet breeze heavy legs burnt cheeks !5

salty water smoky air warm nights sweaty hair dizzy head wet breeze heavy legs burnt cheeks in visual scraps the memory goes left to salvage Infinite Tableaus

The Black Box by Alexandra Weber (IV) “So I guess Gale’s funeral is tomorrow,” the elderly woman said. She was a small, frail being with bushy white hair and a tired face. She rested in a large chair with her usual posture: an arched back and slumped shoulders. It looked as if it took exertion and strain for her simply to breathe in and out. It took great effort for this woman to perform simple tasks her body should have been able to do. She was old and lonely, her voice uneven, unpleasant, and unpredictable. “Yes, it is.” A young assistant stood above the woman’s chair and teased her hair. They both were staring at a mirror so they could make eye contact with each other. “You know, I went into her room this morning and got that red clown nose she would always wear. You know the one?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” “So anyway, I was thinking of bringing it to her funeral, you know maybe lay it on her casket or something,” the young woman suggested. “Yeah, that should be nice,” the old woman said. “You know, she was in this place for awhile, I think three years. I spent a lot of time with her. What a doll. She came here right after Robert died.” She looked at the old woman in the mirror and saw her spacing out, “Beatrice? Are you ok, dear?” “Robert?” Beatrice muttered and looked down at her stockings trying to remember who he was. At ninety-one she had more trouble than ever remembering the trivial things in life. She only knew three names by heart, Mary, her health assistant, Beatrice herself, and Philip Douglas, her late husband.

“Her husband. Beatrice, c’mon, you have to remember! That’s all Gale could ever talk about.” Mary smiled gently and patted Beatrice’s fragile, pointy shoulder. Beatrice would often get angry with herself as she was not able to remember things like she used to. She frequently felt like a prisoner in her own mind and body. No matter how hard she tried, she could never escape. “No one ever paid attention to poor old Gale. Look, you even have to throw away her stuff because she had no one to give it to, even at the end of her damn life. No kids, nothing,” Beatrice said while slowly shaking her head. Whenever anyone died in the community, it was protocol for the aides to place their belongings in a black box. The black box wasn’t brought up much in the community but everyone thought about it. The thought of the black box always seemed to pop into Beatrice’s mind at the most random times. She could be wheeling down a long sterile hallway or brushing her hair, it didn’t matter; the thought seemed to be ever-present no matter the circumstance. “I kept her stuff, Trice. And people did care about her very much,” Mary tried to reassure her. Beatrice sat in her chair and began to think about the neglect she had felt for the past ten years. “No one ever pays attention to any of us at this age.” Beatrice sat in her chair and continued watching Mary fix her hair. When Mary fiddled with her hair you could almost hear a crisp crunch, like the sound of people stepping on frosted grass on winter mornings. “Hey! I care about you,” Mary smiled. Beatrice shook her head.“I meant people who don’t get paid to care about us,” she retaliated. She was cold and bitter, but only because her days seemed to consist of sad pointless conversations with people who were slowly dying right before

her eyes. She was a sad creature, not always, but she outlived everyone she’d ever loved, leaving her to be, well, lonely. “For your information we have a surprise for you and all your friends today,” Mary smiled. “I hope it’s not those grown men that play the clarinet. Is it?” Do not get confused—Beatrice had always loved the idea of people visiting her, but she was never fond of those middle-aged, mediocre clarinet players. “No, it’s even better, Tricey! I want to surprise you and-” Mary was about to finish her sentence but Mrs. Smith, the head of the elderly living community, came in and whispered something in her ear. Beatrice saw the sadness in Mrs. Smith’s eyes, prompting her to slowly move her body around towards the door. Beatrice stared at Mrs. Smith with her glassy blue eyes. She knew what news it would be, but she didn’t know who it was about. “Hey, Tricey… We have some unfortunate news. Rosey died this afternoon.” Beatrice just sat there. “What a shame,” Beatrice mumbled. At Sunrise Elderly Living, death was just as common as a sneeze or a cough. Everyone was numb to the word and even number to the thought of it. “I’m sorry, Trice.” Mary and Mrs. Smith continued to chat while Beatrice sat in her chair, involuntarily shaking her head and body back and forth. Beatrice studied her oval shaped nails that had a light coat of pale pink nail polish on them. Mary finally came back and started on her hair again. Every day at ten o’clock everyone on the second level of the building, including Beatrice, had social time. Mary gently picked Beatrice up and placed her into her wheelchair. “You know I can do that myself,” Beatrice insisted. !9

“But why should you?” Mary asked, pushing her wheelchair. Beatrice just shook her head. “I’m old, not dead, you should learn the difference sometime,” Beatrice began to chuckle. She was rather passive in her tone of voice but she was very loved in the Sunrise community. “When we get down stairs can you get me-” “Lime jello? You betcha!” Mary giggled. “How in the hell did you know that?” Beatrice asked sarcastically. “I’ve known you for ten years, Tricey.” Mary smiled. They eventually made their way to the main room where there were small, old wooden tables that were covered in miscellaneous board games. “You hear that Old Rosey died?” Bob asked Beatrice. Bob was a tall, plump old man. No one actually knew his age, but he looked around ninety. His head was free of hair and his stomach was full of food. “Do you think I live under a rock? Of course I know!” Beatrice never really liked Bob. In many ways, he reminded her too much of her late husband, Philip Douglas. “Yeesh, I never said that, Beatrice,” Bob shook his head while fiddling through the cards. “Go fish?” he asked. “No,” she bitterly said. “Well, why not?” Bob asked. “Because only at my old age have I finally realized I shouldn’t be around people who bother me,” she wheeled around to talk to one of her many acquaintances. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen! If I could have all of your eyes up here!” Mrs. Smith yelled. “We have some very special guests today! Can we please give a warm welcome to our very own Chicago Elementary School kindergarteners!” Mrs. Smith !10

started clapping and so did everyone else. All the elderly men and women slowly clapped their hands together making a dull, limp, and unimpressive noise. Many men had fallen asleep and many women refused to avert their attention anywhere other than their knitting tools. Beatrice suddenly looked over and saw twenty precious young children waddle through the door. Something about the way children walked had always intrigued Beatrice. She never had kids of her own, and, although she once was a child, many decades ago, she always wondered about them: their ignorance, their vulnerability, and their simplicity. Many things had happened in Beatrice’s life that had led her to this cold, hard being she was today, but under that shell was a gracious and kind woman. You just had to dig deep enough. The kindergarteners scattered around the room as they were assigned to certain people. Beatrice sat there in her wheelchair patiently waiting for her new young friend. “Bliss, you are with Ms. Beatrice Sweeney,” the teacher said. Beatrice saw a small young girl with golden hair and glasses approach her table. Bliss’s hair was in a tight ponytail but her bangs still covered the tips of her eyelids. She wore a huge smile on her face and ran over to Beatrice. “Hello,” the young girl said in a high voice. “Why hello there, Bis,” Beatrice smiled. There was something about this child that gave Trice hope. “It’s Bliss,” she corrected Beatrice. “Bliss?” she asked. “Yeah, you got it!” the young girl jumped up and smiled. “Well, missy, it looks like you lost your two front teeth! How much did you get from the tooth fairy?” Trice smiled at the young enthusiastic girl.

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“Five dollars!” Bliss giggled in her high pitched tone. Beatrice raised her eyebrows with excitement and smiled at the young girl. “See, I don’t have my two front teeth, but I didn’t get any money for that.” Beatrice clicked her tongue and her dentures fell out. Bliss was first taken back by what she had witnessed. Then, she shrugged her shoulders, and her young laughter filled the old, damp air. Beatrice began to laugh too. Beatrice had a wise laugh and was very deliberate about when she used it. Throughout the afternoon everyone either made small crafts or played board games. Bliss and Beatrice decided to draw pictures the whole afternoon. Beatrice learned a lot about Bliss. She was a soccer player, she loved singing, and she loved her family. “Who's that?” Beatrice asked looking at her drawing. “That’s my mommy and my daddy and my brother,” she smiled. “That’s very nice,” Beatrice said. “Where’s your mommy and daddy and brother?” Bliss asked looking at her paper. “They all went to heaven,” Beatrice looked down and slowly began to place her marker to her paper when suddenly Bliss became more curious. “Why?” she asked. “Because they died,” Beatrice smiled again. Beatrice always had this misconception that no matter what you said, however awful or blunt it might be, a smile could easily justify the prior statement. “How?” Bliss asked. She grew more and more curious. “Well, when I was younger I lived in Europe, and they passed away there,” Beatrice said. She started to remember her time in Austria and how different her childhood was than Bliss’s. !12

“Oh.” Bliss shrugged her shoulders and continued drawing her family portrait. “Who's that?” Beatrice asked pointing to a small boy in the picture with a heart on his shirt. Bliss looked around and began to giggle. “That’s Mark,” she smiled and continued giggling. “And who's this Mark you speak of?” she asked. “We are gonna get married one day. He’s over there.” She pointed towards a small boy with dark brown hair. “He promised me he would marry me one day!” She clapped her hands and smiled. “Wow! Well, congratulations, Ms. Blissy.” “Where is your Mark?” she asked staring at Beatrice’s blank page. “Well…. nowhere, I guess,” Beatrice replied. “Well, I really meant where is your husband?” Bliss giggled. “My husband passed away, Bliss.” All of a sudden Bliss looked troubled. She was confused and concerned. “How? Did he die in Ero too?” she asked. “Do you mean Europe?” Beatrice asked. “Yeah,” she giggled. “Yes he did,” Beatrice moved her head down to her paper and stared at it. “Well then, who are you going to draw? Do you have anyone?” she asked. Bliss didn’t mean to be rude; she was just another ignorant kindergarten child. “No,” she said. Beatrice felt a cold tear run down her cheek and Bliss immediately noticed. “Don’t be sad, Ms. Beatrice,” Bliss cupped her young healthy hand over Beatrice’s cold leathery one. Bliss studied !13

Beatrice’s hand against her scaly skin and noticeable blue veins. “Here,” Bliss said. She picked up the red marker and slowly drew two stick figures holding hands. “That’s me,” she said pointing to the smaller figure, “and that’s you. You have me, Ms. Beatrice,” she smiled and gave her a strong hug. Trice sat in her wheelchair and experienced a feeling she had not felt in ages. Love. “Why thank you, Bliss,” she said and kissed her bangs. “She likes you!” Bob turned around to look at the phenomenon. “She doesn’t like anyone, especially me!” Bob began to laugh louder than usual. “Why don’t you like Mr—” “Bob,” he cut her off. “Yeah, why don’t you like Bob?” she asked. Bob turned around and began to play with his own kindergartner. “I don’t not like Bob, Bliss.” “Oh,” Bliss said. “He reminds me of my husband and sometimes in life it’s best to try and remember people, but not to miss them. Bob makes me miss my husband,” she admitted. She looked down and noticed Bliss had gone to go play with Mark in the corner. Just like always, Beatrice ended up alone. Although Bliss was easily distracted, she gave Beatrice some kind of purpose in a world that seemed to no longer need her. Beatrice watched Bliss run around and smile and laugh at things that weren’t even funny. She had faintly remembered a time in her life when she was always happy no matter what, when she saw the good in everyone and everything. “It’s sad.” Beatrice turned to Bob. She closed her eyes and her wrinkled face relaxed. She took a breath. It was almost as if each wrinkle was delicately placed on her for a reason. Her most visible wrinkle was right next to her left eyebrow. One could only !14

assume it was from the amount of times she had furrowed her brows in her lifetime. Her faintest wrinkle was by the sides of her lips, evidence that someone once had made her smile, but was not able to anymore. “What is?” Bob wheeled his chair closer to her. “Not being young,” Beatrice shook her head, “and not being innocent enough to fall in love with the world.” “We had our time, Beatrice.” “I guess,” she said, still staring at Bliss. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did he die?” he suddenly asked. Beatrice took a deep breath in and made a very audible sigh. “He died during World War II. The Holocaust.” Unlike death, the idea of the word “Holocaust” never made her numb. Even at her age, she still felt pain and confusion. “How old was he when he died?” he asked. “I was twenty-nine, he was thirty-four,” she replied. She still kept watching Bliss. “I’m sorry,” he sincerely said. “If it makes you feel any better, I lost my wife to cancer a couple years back.” He sighed. “I’m just as lonely as you are. No kids, no family, nothing—it’s just me,” he chuckled. “We are lonely, aren’t we?” she finally looked at him. “Yes, very,” he replied. A couple minutes later Mrs. Smith announced that it was time for the kindergarteners to go. In the past ten years that Beatrice had lived in Sunrise, this was the first time she had ever had a “visitor.” Bliss walked up over to her and held her hand, “Goodbye, Ms. Beatrice, I will see you soon.” Beatrice and Bliss embraced. “I’m afraid this will be your last time, Blissy,” Beatrice said. Warm tears rolled down her cold cheek. !15

“Are you going back to ero?” she asked. “Yes,” Beatrice laughed. Bliss turned around and found Mark. “Buh-bye,” Bob said with his eyes tearing up. “Come again.” His voice got a little louder. “Come when you can.” He sat there in his wheelchair waving at the young children who walked out the door. From the outside looking in, he was pathetic. He sat on the edge of his chair waving and begging children to come back to entertain him. His heart dropped as he knew this would be the very last time he saw people who were truly happy. They gave him hope. Beatrice waved goodbye to Bliss and seconds later she was out the door. Bliss and all the other children had their whole lives ahead of them, their first boyfriend or girlfriend, first kiss, first job, their wedding, having children, the list goes on and on. But isn’t it funny how the people in Sunrise, the people who hated the world and what it had turned them into, would be willing to do it all over again? To be young and innocent, open to so many heartbreaks and upsets? Isn’t it funny how only when someone’s life is about to end they can finally, after all those years of confusion and misunderstanding, see clarity in the world? “You’re going to Euro?” Bob joked. “I wish.” Beatrice smiled and reminisced about her childhood in Austria. She wished she could go one more time before she left the world. Later that afternoon, when social time was over, Beatrice hugged Bob goodbye, “Thank you, Bob,” she held him tight and breathed him in. “You okay?” he asked her. “Yes,” she smiled and looked at him. They parted their ways as Mary wheeled Tricey back to her room. With her memory becoming weaker and weaker each day, Bob served as her !16

refresher. His gestures, his laugh, and his smile seemed to be identical with her late husband’s. Even though he made her miss Philip Douglas, he was the light that would turn on every time her room would start to dim. “Would you like to do it?” Mary asked Beatrice. “Yes, doll, I would love to.” Beatrice got up out of her wheelchair and slowly bent down to sit on her bed. “I told you, I am old, not dead,” she laughed. “Well it’s time for you to go to sleep, Tricey.” Mary chuckled and looked at her with curious eyes. Something was different tonight. “Yes, it is.” Beatrice slowly reached out her long, thin arm and placed her scaly hand onto Mary’s, “Thank you,” she smiled. Mary kissed her forehead and started for the door. “Goodnight, Tricey,” Mary said. She damped the lights and gently shut the door. Beatrice stared at the ceiling and studied her labored breath. She shut her eyes and saw many things, things she had not seen in ages. Some were sweet memories of her late husband, Philip Douglas, others were mere glimpses of what she thought their life would be like today. She saw his youthful hands that always seemed to gently cup hers. They were so incredibly realistic she almost felt as if she could touch them. She took a strong breath in and smelt his signature scent comprised of cinnamon, cigars, and scotch. Oh, how she missed that very smell. She pictured him, his face, his body. She heard him. Then out of the distance appeared a black box. She recognized this box, but this time was different. She wasn’t afraid or upset. In fact, she welcomed it in. “Goodnight,” she whispered.

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Paintings by Nicolas Ladino (VI)

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Homeward Bound by Megan Pan (VI) Among ancient Chinese fables, there exists a story called “The Frog in the Well.” In the story, the frog has lived his whole life at the bottom of the well, constantly looking up at the small circle of the sky visible through the well’s open mouth. For all his life, the frog thought the sky was no bigger than what he could see from his spot at the bottom of the well. When I was young, I lived as the frog of the fable, and my well was the enclosure of my backyard. Romping through the emerald green grass and tumbling across hills of stones and pebbles, I played underneath a brilliant blue sky framed by the uppermost branches of the surrounding trees. My entire world was contained inside this space; everything I needed was here: my family who loved me and whom I loved, my home where I slept and ate meals, nature and imagination — the tools at my fingertips that I used to transform my world into whatever I wanted it to be. It was a simple world. But it was a beautiful world with magic and love and happiness. My well collapsed when my grandmother died. It was March in the spring of 2015. I found out after arriving home from a school trip to France, about a week and a half after the funeral. Cremation. She was gone, already turned to ashes and buried. My grandmother was a cornerstone of my childhood, practically raising me as my parents worked in the city. I had never even considered that a world could exist without her. In all my happiest memories, she was there: teaching me how to ride a bike, driving me back and forth from school, telling me stories before I

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went to sleep. My former world simply could not exist without her in it, so it crumbled away. At the moment I am writing this, it is September in the autumn of 2017, over two years later. Since that spring, I have been searching for a new well to call my own. But perhaps a “new well” isn’t the best way to describe it. I am searching for the river, the stream, the place I was born and was always meant to be. I’ve found bits of it in the people I have befriended, the people who have taught me, and the people I have taught in turn. I’ve found fragments as well in the experiences we shared, planted from seeds of genuine connection and nurtured with tears, both happy and sad. I’ve found it in the places I’ve visited and stayed, from somewhere as local as the house of a friend to as far away as a rice field in Japan. I remember standing in that rice field and looking up at the sky above. On and on it stretched, wider than anything I had ever seen before, so big I could see the curve of it as it disappeared beyond the horizon. It was a sky I could never have seen from the confines of my well. I stood there, unmoving, a tiny pinpoint, the smallest breath of life on a world far bigger than I had ever imagined, looking up at the dome of the sky. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. A bit of etymology on my name: my Chinese name, Tingyun, literally translates to “the cloud that pauses.” My father picked it after reading a poem about “the cloud that pauses” over the homes of the people she loved, thinking of them and missing them. I am the cloud that pauses. I am homeward bound.

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[As I venture] by Jessica Hutt (IV) As I venture I ponder; My mind floats hazily In and out of consciousness The dirt, the rocks, the sand, the stars; the Earth Calls me, and yet I feel compelled to resist The temptations are far too great I cannot give in. A raindrop falls from the skies above My eyes silently trace its trail as it plummets down I follow its descent Awestruck at the force with which it hurls itself through the atmosphere The world stops as the transparent bubble drops downward Every second coming closer to its destination Then In a jolt of moisture, the raindrop lands on my wrist My eyes focus on the droplet as it trickles down my skin Sending shivers down my spine What makes one raindrop out of millions fall Into my country Into my town Into my location On me?

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Falling into the lull of nature Surreal, ethereal, delusive â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Is this the uncorrupted world? Outside of here, I have no control. I do not understand myself. I do not understand anything. Outside of here, Urbanization and gentrification and modernization Are King. We are helpless. Outside of here, The media is the ruler And we are nothing more than brainless followers. Oh, how naĂŻve humans can be. To live and die and refuse to come to terms With the corruption they face Do they not see the way they are being played? Or are they just indifferent? If I do not act, who will? In the woods, I am all-powerful. I am alive and painfully aware Of it Of my breath !22

Of the blood in my veins. I know who I am here. If only the world would go for a walk in the woods Maybe it could too.

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Bruise by Allie Verdesca (VI) I did not ask for you Yet here you are Each shade a memory Blues and Blacks Of previous lies Finally coming undone A knot unravels An inkwell spills You seep into my skin Uninvited indeed. Purple, a haze Whispers in the dark Blows across the plain Greets my ears with sighs Forget and neglect Wage war on my heart Brown and red Swell with pride With angry outbursts Summer thunderstorms Unpredictable, gone in a minute Words stumble about my mouth Like drunken strangers Finding their way I cannot erase I cannot undo Words do not heal I cannot change Who Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve turned into. !24

The Cost of War Massa Godbold (III) Enama stared up at the sky. It looked beautiful really, in a demented type of way. An explosion lit up the night sky, using it as a canvas, the blood and bodies its paint. In the midst of a war, especially awaiting death, everything looked…pretty. You kinda just wanted to soak it all in. Both Enama’s legs had been blown off. She was suffering from multiple other battlefront injuries. Her comrade died trying to save her. Now, both their bodies were lying there, one bleeding out, and the other already far gone. Not only was the scene beautiful to Enama, but she was also warm. What a weird thing to feel. No pain, no…nothing, just warmth. She turned her head and saw soldiers rushing towards her. Was this really the cost of useless war? Was this really what she had laid her life down for, a few short months ago? Now, what an odd time to wish this wasn’t happening, that she never joined the army. The soldiers approached, closer, closer. “SHE’S ALIVE!” one yelled, crying. “Soldiers! Code Orange: Colonel Enama’s alive, we must save her!” “N-n-no,” Enama tried to whisper. Alas, it took too much work. She smiled and turned again to the sky. Planes, bombs, missiles. Endless destruction. Was this really worthwhile? Did humanity hate itself this much? She blinked, and her world began fading into white. The last thing she heard was the frantic yelling of her comrades, telling her to “hang on.” “Get the doctor! She’s awake! We did it, she’s alive!” The doctors, fellow soldiers, and even family rushed into the room, overjoyed. !25

Good morning students of Uline Academy, my name is Kaleen Westonar, and I’m here to talk to you today. Especially in today’s world, as you probably heard from my story, the world isn’t pleasant. Especially not for Enama, or, more specifically, me. My experience serving in the army was so taxing, so physically, emotionally, and mentally stressful. Sometimes you try to make the best out of the most brutal situations. I served, believe it or not, for a year. No, I did not get to a high position, or where anyone actually cared that much, but I did see the face of battle. It was ugly. Both my legs were replaced with bionic ones, and honestly, during that time, I thought I was going to die. Sadly enough, I, for about three seconds was ready to happily accept that. I told you this story not to scare you out of joining the army if that is what you so desire, but to prepare you for it. This may also apply to the world. Things hopefully aren’t as intense as life on a battlefield, but as quickly as you can, I want you to realize that you aren’t in a kind place where life is valued over petty things, like land. Like Enama, I lived through the ordeal, and today am here to tell you something I learned from it. Whenever you make a decision, be 100% sure that your decision is final, because you never know when you might lose the chance to turn back. I lost my chance, and now I regret it. If I was ever given the chance to go back, I would never have joined the army. There is a fine line you have between violence and outright murder. We have crossed that line. I want to tell you that people do stupid things for stupid reasons, and once done, some of those actions can’t be reversed. As my time has come to an end, I leave you with corny, albeit truthful advice: make good choices.

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Paintings by Jeffery Xiao (V)

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The Cult by Noah Bergam (III) my mind spins, my heart turns the flames of madness engulf me to burn the inner freedom i was always taught i had. a guilt inside unlocks my flaws but upon your sight my cold heart thaws you are the one i worship for whom i yearn. your face is our movement our bright burning sun upon each of your falling words we act as one you are the general and we rally behind you. in here, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love and friends, and God life before was some petty afterthought. !28

whatever i sought has been found and found right here.

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Anonymous by Allie Verdesca (VI) There’s a name on the wall I don’t know if it’s mine Its letters jagged glass Syllables like knives In every mouth it grows It rasps, it creaks There while I wake And there while I sleep There’s a name in your eyes I don’t know if it’s mine If my exterior façade Reflects inside If my blonde hair is false My lips of leather I’m losing my grip Reality untethered There’s a name in their hearts I don’t know if it’s mine It slumbers, dormant Biding its time Like all the shadows of things That go bump in the night It rattles their conscience And fills them with fright There’s a name on the wall I know it must be mine Five letters in crimson An omen, a sign All that happens outside !30

Is not done within A fruitless duality Aboriginal sin I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know my name Frankly at all But all I see is my face Staring back from the wall

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The Colors of Feelings by Jessica Yatvitskiy (III) Joy and Delight are a pine green, like a little evergreen tree, with a soft, calm breeze rustling its small pinecones. Excitement and Adventure are a jungle green like a beautiful canopy of magnificent trees with several happy, energetic monkeys swinging from large vines and leaping from tree to tree. Anxiety and Nervousness are a dark, barf green like a gymnast taking slow steady breaths, trying to calm herself down before she performs her routine in front of an enormous, expectant audience. Sorrow, Exhaustion, and Gloom are a dull, dark blue like a black, bottomless pit of depression in which dark, loathsome objects slowly drift. Mystery is a foggy blue like a seemingly never-ending portal that leads to worlds undiscovered. Peace and Serenity are a light, sky blue like the color of the sky on a late spring or early summer morning, as birds soar through it and the glimmering, diamond sun silently, sluggishly arises like a lazy sloth and lights up the world. Pure happiness is sea blue, like the color of the foamy ocean waves that thunder down into the yellow, sandy shore and splash the galloping, shrieking children. Surprise is baby blue, like the color of a robin's egg as the newborn bird haphazardly stumbles out into the world. !32

Paintings by Rebecca Lin (VI)

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Pulse by Annaya Baynes (IV) The pulse is an ephemeral lullaby. It begins when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re barely an idea And ends when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re barely a memory. Babum Babum You feel it under your fragile skin And you feel immortal. You feel the promise of your pulse. You live. You live. But promises are never kept And it becomes a taunt. You die. You die. And then nothing.

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A Pleasant Illusion Anonymous i don’t know if it was first sight when I was paired with you but there was some intangible grace that I never really knew a feeling to lift me up above life’s incessant clockwork the endless cycle of hours. the stress, the worry, about day to day things began to cease as the real estate of my mind made room for you. every word exchanged was a treasure kept in my memory a treasure that sat still an image that I willed to move but alas I have such limited time to make any sort of social move a dark feeling reaches into me fear slithers into my mind’s ear and the vision is wiped the clockwork still ticks i just fight an inner fight. and the illusion of young love sticks.

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Oh, what happened to the seven seas? by Noah Bergam (III) The world is covered in tickets and fees. Adventure is gone. All land is taken. We are slowly dying in the making. Breathe in crisp air with bitter sadness. For sure you hide a burning madness. No more to conquer, The thought is pitiful. Can we ever be truly original? Remember the beauteous blue ocean And the untamed wild that brought deep emotion? Of course we don’t, Concrete was paved, And only a fraction of Old was saved. Nature was a winding path so sweet. We the people could conquer for treat. But what’s the deal? Now the world’s a big road. We travel, but what are we working towards? Well, earth is my highway and I’ve no destination. Till our little planet has met expiration. I’m happy to enjoy It’s not 1492. The world’s no safari anymore -- it’s a zoo! !36

The Perfect Fish by Noah Bergam (III) I was sitting in a boat. It was a rickety, old, moldy, disgusting boat, made of rotting hickory and fifteen rusty nails. It was small, only just accommodating enough to fit my body if I lay down and rested my legs on the seat. It would almost sink if I were to stand up, so I sat. There was a storm brewing in the sky. I tasted the instability in the air, felt the suspiciously dashing clouds, smelled a warm humidity, and heard the chill of the water as I splashed with my feet. The patter of my feet was counting, composing, taking note of the rests before the true music would come. I knew exactly when that first bout of rain would touch the water and where. I knew exactly where the lightning would strike and how many decibels and Kelvin it would reach. I would feel every raindrop, crossexamining each little position with my senses. I smiled, and lay down in my boat. I knew it all, every little thing going on, every relationship and speed and position and property there was to know and more. When I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate, I could feel every function in my body, every movement of every compound, every action of every cell and atom, every electron and positron and photon and Higgs boson, all my Newtons of gravity and grams of mass, all the strong and weak forces acting upon me. I was amazing. I knew everyth-“Schlop - Prash!” went a flying fish into the air and back into the water “NO!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I quickly overcame inertia and jumped to my feet, letting water into my boat abode. I refused to accept what had just happened. !37

For the first time in my ten-year streak of complete knowledge, I didn’t know everything happening. I entered the quantum world and forgot to analyze my own. My blood was boiling with anger. I needed to pulverize every cell of that fish before it made another move and destroyed a new streak. I put my hand into the water and felt molecules, calculated their differentials, speed, and original position. I imagined myself in the water, in 4 dimensions as a triple function of time and the x,y,z coordinate system, with (0,0,0,0) at the intersection point of the prime meridian and equator, at 0 UTC of Earth’s first living seconds (which I dated using primordial microwaves from the Big Bang). I added gravity and all acting forces within the next hour as a fifth dimension, and I finally had a result. I was to jump in 5,4,3,2-Suddenly, the same flying fish (which I found out using mental DNA testing of airborne cells) jumped up from the water, turning at a majestic rate evenly divisible by Euler’s number and Tau to the 3rd power, and took only a 180 degree turn latitudinally, at a final slope of tan(150) relative to an x axis tangent to his point on a spherical earth, before finally making contact with my cheek. The fish fell back into the water after slapping my face and made contact with the water face-first, its curved, streamlined body creating a splash of exactly 16.49 cm in height, and a volume of 49.16 mL of salt water. I was too surprised to begin. I directed anger at myself, for not taking the movement of fish into account and not making calculation sooner. At the same time, however, the fish’s mathematical perfection gave me chills. Such perfect coincidences, laughably round--I hadn’t calculated a whole number in years from my own surroundings. A perfect number of degrees, a set of two nearly digitally interchangeable decimals made up of square numbers from the same creature was just breathtaking. I calculated !38

the probability of it, and almost fainted. It was equal to exactly one in googol. I could never bring myself to kill that fish and take away its perfect value control. No, I wanted that fish for myself. I needed to know whether its perfection was only rare coincidence, or a majestic part of nature. I wanted it in my hand, so I could directly, sensually grasp every property of it. That fish could bring me to a new level consciousness, if only I had it in my possession. I thought I wouldn’t have to keep my stupid streaks of knowledge anymore. I lay down to concentrate, putting my feet on the seat and my back onto the floor of the boat, which was flooded to exactly 2.24233277473975937593487549385 inches of water by then. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began my calculations. I learned from my earlier mistakes and put my mind in complete collection mode, by coding my neutron synapses into a perfect algorithm. I put everything I had into full calculation, turning my five-dimensional graph of the Earth into a ten-dimensional one, tracking down that flying fish. Soon enough, I found its exact whereabouts, exactly 5√2 meters away from my center of mass, 45 degrees counterclockwise relative to my frontward bodily axis. I chuckled with amazement and anticipation at the perfection once more. I needed the fish so badly, but I had to stay still, lest I accidentally change the air position enough to knock the creature off my planned course of wind action. I slowly reached my hand into the air and added my own air molecule action and charge into my ten-dimensional mental graph. I put in every bit of information, every particle in the standard model’s position, every bit of force, to the exact decimal. I went backwards with my seemingly infinite set of information, to learn the pattern my hand was to follow. !39

What was I doing? I was using all the forces and properties associated with my hand and arm to move air molecule positions, which would in turn change the course of the storm, specifically when it would start and where the lightning would strike. I needed to set up every piece of matter and energy in such a way as to send the flying fish flying to me, straight to my hand. I needed the lightning to strike a certain wave at a magnetic strong area, as to convert all the electricity possible into motion energy that could push an exceptionally large new wave. This wave would strike the flying fish in a certain position (I had calculated the future movements of that fish already) that would give it an aerodynamic advantage relative to the already calculated wind movement. The fish would, no matter how smart, be in my own hand before it could realize anything out of the ordinary. It was all so perfect: my change of speed rate, thermal radiation, chemical interaction, noise emanation--every variable fit into the puzzle. My ten-dimensional graph and mental code returned all the values I expected. Only 5 more seconds at my current rate, and the fish would be in my hand. I was so close. At 4 seconds, however, I felt a sudden urge to get up. I successfully suppressed bodily changes, and my graph survived. At 3, my leg uncontrollably twitched from excitement. I quickly undid the damage using a quickened hand motion, saving my graph. 2 seconds left, and I felt as though I had been waiting for years. My arm was so tired, but I persevered, and kept up my pattern 1 second passed, then 0.5 seconds, then 0.25, and then I realized that my graph came at a cost. My extrasensory time perception in pure mathematical terms gave me not only the strengths but the weaknesses of math as well. I needed to abandon !40

the time variable in my mental algorithm, so I quickly did so, accounting for all possible changes. It was at 1 millisecond left that I made a huge mistake. A smile formed and a little chuckle left my lips, displacing all air molecules necessary to ruin everything. A drop of rain landed exactly on my nose, followed by thunderous roar and a torrential downpour quickly growing, at what I found to be an exponential, right-side positive parabolic rate for exactly pi seconds. The image of the fish flashed in my mind suddenly, and then I heard lightning strike right near me, at a specific area in the ocean I had just been deeply analyzing. I screamed. I screamed louder than I ever had before. I measured that area of the ocean, and found that its mathematical perfection was gone, full of squiggly graphs and random long decimals. Little did I know that the kinetic energy of my screams created the perfect conditions for lightning at exactly my position in my boat.

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Artwork by Naiyah Atulomah (VI)

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Love Will Have Its Sacrifices by Annaya Baynes (V) If one drives far enough into the dark heart of American suburbia, a small gated community will be found. Past its midnight black wrought-iron gate are rows and rows of houses resembling unfaltering smiling faces. The grass around each stabs up through the ground like tiny stiletto daggers, straight and uniform. One house stands out from the rest. It grimaces when the others smile, casts a misshapen shadow where the others only cast light. That house has windows like the sunken eyes of someone who's been weeping for eternity. Inside a woman tries desperately to hold her crumbling family together. *** Lilith stalked into the kitchen with a mission and a time-table. Adam must get out the house with Jack by 7:50 a.m. or they'd be late to work and school respectively. She grabbed a knife and made two sandwiches for her two boys. Her knife pierced the flesh of the finished sandwiches to make two perfect triangles with just a touch of coagulated jelly spilling out. She bagged the two sandwiches and wrote Jack on one and Adam on the other. Â She all but shoved them out the door and fell against the inside of it until she heard the car pull out of the driveway and away from the house. Then, she felt the prickles of anticipation rush over her skin. The familiar light footsteps echoed down the hallway that led to the living room before silencing. She stood up and walked with barely contained excitement to where the footsteps stopped. Once she reached her destination, she paused, a little shy, a little hesitant. "Why do you stop now, little flower?" Lilith felt the voice wrap around her heart like a vise. Its soft lilt moved her feet closer to its source, then it happened: the !43

embrace. An arm encircled her waist while the other reached up so the unoccupied hand could rest on her cheek. She stood and waited, frozen like a deer in headlights. "My lovely Lily, how I await our time together with bated breath. Tell me, do you think of me when our time together comes to an end?" The Woman stroked her cheek softly with a small smile that eased Lilith's racing heartbeat. "Always," she responded. Her body yearned to let go, but her mind kept her in line. The Woman moved her forehead to rest on Lilith's. "Still a woman of so little words. What would you have me do to elicit from you more words than all the world's books combined?" The Woman's words hung in the air for a second as they stared into each other's eyes. The piercing blue of the Woman's eyes shone like a mirror as she felt the Woman's breath mingle with hers. Then they were closer, their noses touching ever so gently. Her entire world was the Woman and she couldn't find a reason to suppress her desire any longer, so she let her walls crumble down. "Kiss me." Then there was no space between them. It was hard to tell where the Woman ended and Â Lilith began. Lilith's eyes fluttered closed as the Woman reaffirmed her unique grasp on Lilith's heart. Lilith felt the same hand that caringly rested on her cheek gently grip the back of her neck. The word "love" repeated in Lilith's mind endlessly, while the Woman gave her something purer than her husband could give her, something uniquely theirs. The kiss was over, it seemed, only a moment after it began. Lilith found herself chasing after the Woman's lips when she felt the chilled, dull air of her home on her lips once again. When Lilith opened her eyes, she

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found the Woman looking down upon her with a small smile on her lips and felt a blush spreading through her cheeks. "How I love to watch you bloom, ma petite fleur. Promise me you'll never wilt." "I'll promise if you promise to never leave me. I, I love you." "Have you finally chosen me over your husband? No one can know you more than I do." Lilith shuddered as the warmth that had filled her body turned to ice. She imagined having to tell her husband about the affair, having to tell her son about the affair. She would never see either again, regardless of how right the love she had for the Woman felt in her soul. Suddenly all the walls of her house fell around her and she was vulnerable without its shelter. The entire neighborhood was watching her. She felt lips press against her forehead and saw the concern in the Woman's eyes. Then everyone in the community was cruelly laughing at her. It was quiet, then it was booming. Lilith shoved the Woman away and looked at her with a feral animosity. "Mi flor, we only have these few hours together. Don't push me away." Her eyes looked deep into Lilith's and Lilith wanted to melt in those eyes. Then the laughter snaked its way into her mind. She pressed the palms of her hands into her ears to try to block out the sound, but that only made it louder. "You called them here, didn't you? You wanted to force me to choose you." "Lily, who are you talking about? It is just us. Drop your guard. You can be free with me." "They're watching," Lilith hissed. "Who, my love?" "Everyone! Don't play the fool with me. You wanted to separate me from my family. You wanted to tear me down to your

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level. Well, you won't. I'll show them that I am a good wife, a good mother." The laughter never left her as she ran to the kitchen. Her heartbeat frantically thudded in her chest, pushing her forward. She heard the Woman come in behind her and grabbed the knife she had used this morning from the sink. "Meine blume, turn around and we can figure this out together." She felt the urge to drop the knife when she heard the love in her voice, but then a little voice broke through the laughter. "Mommy?" It's Jack. He's seeing her with that Woman. No. No. No. He couldn't think this way of her. He couldn't see her slip. She smiled at Jack, then tightened her grip on the knife. "Everything will be fine, sweetie." "Lily, who are you talkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;ugh!" The knife in Lilith's hand plunged through the flesh and bone that was her lover's chest. Her skin slowly lost its color as she fell to the ground. The blood bloomed from her body like a rose creating life from death. Lilith dropped the knife and fell to her knees. "I am a good wife. I am a good mother," she chanted to herself until she slipped from consciousness. *** "Mary, did you hear about Lilith?" "How couldn't I? The whole town must know by now." "It really is tragic." "It's selfish if you ask me. Slitting her wrists in the kitchen? What if it had been little Jack who found her instead of Adam?" "Well, we shouldn't speak ill of the dead." "Oh, goodness!" "What?" !46

"It was their turn to host the community potluck. Do you think they'll cancel?" "That really puts a wrench in the rotation. Let's just decide during the town meeting tomorrow. You know what I was just thinking?" "Tell me." "Adam is single now." "And you're divorced. Oh, Eve! You're so scandalous. Let the poor man grieve." "Fine, but I've had my eye on him for a while." "Bye, Evie. See you at book club." "Buh-bye!" *** If one drives far enough into the dark heart of American suburbia, a small gated community will be found. Down each street, you see a row of happy, beautiful houses that would make anyone grin. All the houses are like that, except one. That house looks twisted and gnarled. Even in spring, no flowers will grow there. The windows look like crying, soulless eyes. Just to walk on the sidewalk in front of it has been known to send someone into a fit of wailing, like a woman who has lost it all.

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Artwork by Vicky Chen (V)

Artwork by Angelina Mayers (V)

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PANG by Avery Didden (V) PANG…it hits you. It strikes you and your Knees buckle. You collapse in pain, Howling. This kind of pain is bad. And…bad is, of course, An Understatement. This pain hits you in an Instant. It lives in you for A blinding minute, and it is gone. It leaves a faint echo. But, little do you know, There is a much worse type of Pain. Call it what you want, a throb, An Ache, or, the Truth. This pain is one of a continuous quality. It doesn’t hurt as much as the PANG, but It goes on for much longer. It goes on forever. !49

This pain ebbs and flows. It expands and contracts with the days, But it is always there. It times itself with your heartbeat. And, some days it isn’t as bad. Some days you barely feel its effects. Other days, the ache consumes you and all That you are. You don’t collapse. Your knees don’t buckle. You don’t let out even the smallest of Noises, let alone howl. You sit, very still. Because that is all You can do when this type of Pain takes over. It is all you can bear.

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Picture by Avery Didden (V) Photographsâ&#x20AC;Ś They freeze a moment, A deceptive image That gives no clue as to what comes Before or After the Snapshot Has been taken. Do the two people stop smiling at each other And frown? Or scowl? Or scream? How do you tell?

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Ocean of Eden by Alyssa Chen (VI) Dear Eve, Keep this ink to print a receipt of my dying honesty. Keep these words as a contract for those long journeys into the forest, for an Indeed to awaken in the night. The strollers of our lives have no parents, the swings have no push. The pendulum simply goes back and forth, until one begins to move with the waves of eternity. Adam Dear Adam, The waves that lap upon the citadelles of my dreams belong to you. At the beginning burst of time there was but a shadow, a cup of coffee waiting to be sipped. Cigarettes and damp oakwood had yet to be consumed with the flames of your breath. Yes: before you was the suspended inhale of the wave before it breaks. Eve

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The Sour Strawberries Of Our Lives by Alyssa Chen (VI) From the ancient fig gardens, the reckonings of Fate call to you today with their other-hued teeth, the simmering of their bells signaling cut yarn… Goooood morning, cries the television to you this lovely May day, a high of 79 degrees Fahrenheit low of 67 Perfect weather, perfect life the Brazilian coffee in your plastic tumblers, the white packs of Marlboro cigarettes, and how it’s all muffled by the whining of your state-of-the-art brand-new BMW and Nothing. As children, you were asked of your destiny. The boy needed his spa of endless praise and the girl her meowing makeup. For both of you: a tall mirror. In it, you would raise yourselves - practice facial expressions, hand gestures, words, kisses. But now, old and weary, you use it only to raise the question: Is this world worth the $19.99 in the clearance section of Bed, Bath, and Beyond? “Snippity snap. Snippity snip.” The Three laugh together. So this is it? Well, yes, my dear: the sour strawberries of our lives. !53

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