CALLIOPE S P R I N G
Pingry’s Literary Magazine
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About We are Pingry’s art and literature magazine. We are open to all student submissions! We are also currently putting up a website at student.pingry.org/calliope. Contact us for more details regarding submissions/joining the staff!
Editors Justin Li (VI) Cal Mahoney (VI) Chris Ticas (VI) Noah Bergam (VI) Martine Bigos (V) Mirika Jambudi (IV)
Faculty Advisor Mrs. Grant Front Cover: Olivia Hung
Writing Poetry Our Black Hair Olivia Telemaque 8 Talk Martine Bigos The Nightmare Within Mirika Jambudi I Hear the Moon
Kristin Osika
9 10 11
Anticipation Luc Francis 12 Tempo Luc Francis 14 Perfection and The Mudded Men
Luc Francis
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Finger Locked Pt.2 Luc Francis 16
Prose The Agency Emily Gao
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Among Us Avidan Shah The Marionettist Helen Liu When We Go (Part 2) Massa Godbold
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The Phantom Inferno
Martine Bigos
37 44 49
Art Alex Vilarin Autumn Dusk 3 Cotton Candy Dreams 7 The Shy Skyscraper 19 Sunny Desolation 58 Through the Wire 58 Untitled New York is Dead
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Nolan Baynes Untitled 54-57 Mirika Jambudi
Urban Garden
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Reflection
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The High Point
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POETRY
Our Black Hair
Olivia Telemaque
Our Black Hair, sprouting from our Black Scalps on our Black Skin, Raised from the roots of my ancestors who inspire from within. The Waves, the Curls, the Coils, the Kinks are relentless. Enduring the years of unappreciation, authentic yet resented, By those who voice their hate, fearful of how we’re too eccentric. So we embrace being different, versatile. Anything but generic.
I say Black Hair is Everything. And what about it? We assert our Identity on Our Crowns that’ll forever fit.
Now, don’t touch. But always appreciate. Because our Hair has always been more than just a character trait. It’s our History. Our Culture. Our Lineage. Worn in any state. It’s Our Hairitage. Unbreakable. Undeniable. Always and Forever, Great.
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Talk
Martine Bigos
The two dozen hours remain at hand For voice and ear to merge as she rests still, And chance fails to diffuse or lose command Till Birnam Wood reaches Dunsinane Hill. But corps of knave can shift the talks of fate, For ill and wretched since the age of Cain, And though the deck was dealt upon your plate, There’s few with pride for sense to rid disdain. Your lips may touch the sounds you claim to seek As potent limbs stalk through thickets of chaff. Diluted truth trips down the forest’s creek, Its sweetness aids the weary as a staff. And so favor will tip the scale enough As your stiff woodlands come to mount the bluff.
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The Nightmare Within
Mirika Jambudi
The wind, it roars and it screams, and blows about leaves Until eyes are useless and vision is blurred. But it doesn’t matter to me;
For my soul and me, we are travellers, to the woods is where we’re drawn. And the wind ceases, to give way to darkness The shine of the stars can’t reach me now, for the purest light is gone.
I see now, the unmistakable wisp of a monster down the path; I hear now, the ghastly figure that haunts our nightmares The trees are silent, darkness consumes, ready to display his wrath.
The nightmare takes center stage; it’s lurching toward, the river is crossed. A hooded figure, wavering at touch, hovers above the ground A muttered phrase, a song is lost:
“What is it that you see?” The gist of it? The entirety? What is it that I glimpse? My dear nightmare, I look to you as a mirror of me.
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I Hear the Moon
Kristin Osika
as she sings her song. Enchanted, I listen all night long. In her radiant gaze, an ivory glow. Her ethereal love and care for us shows. “Come,” she whispers “stay close to me and let dreams follow my melody.” So yawns escape and eyelids fall, thoughts drift away until the world feels small. With all hopes and fears, anxieties gone I ask you, moon, to sing until the dawn.
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Anticipation
Luc Francis
Shelved thoughts are such a burden. Always peeking and prodding with eager mind and Open temptation. You can organize them alphabetically and somehow You become immersed in seething lies and fallacies And façades and hopes and memories from Yesteryear. Then, you have spent months leafing through the dry, Reminiscing over the decrepit pages of a few ancient books. And the rest of your collection from B to Z Waits idly for those innumerable days Until their fifteen seconds of exalted glory. You can match them by genre, But only if your purpose is nimble enough to balance on the Rubric of your mind. And strong enough To bear a cacophony of mixed emotion. You can design each category only if you can, Equally, understand the disorder than is bound to arise from your Arbitrary desires. 12
Or, You can simply observe them In their natural chaos. Focusing on the thick and thin and veneered And creased spines of each book, All pressed together to create some All-encompassing amalgamation of your psyche. Perhaps your gaze looks deeper into the small cracks Between each book These brooding, infant voids, feeding on your attention and growing in presence, But never in size. And, alas, after scrambling free from their deceptive lull You have accomplished nothing. So what are we to do with shelved thoughts, These inexorable chores?
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Tempo
Luc Francis
My butterflies only come out once a month. Most are cyclical in nature, but mine bounce on Currents of thought stylistically, with rhythm. Their wings do not flap: They pulse and reverberate irregularly. This irregularity is invisible to the eyes, Only tangible to the most sensitive parts of the soul. Any more disturbance to their natural flight pattern and they’d be bereft of the joy of flight. A sad tale, but one all too common. A cautionary tale, derived from the suffering of millions and the death of more. Their death, however, is trite. Of course, the monarchs of the winter have to make way for The yellowtails of the summer and so on. There is no tragedy in this truth, and no cyclical elements either, But there is a rolling tempo that pushes the caterpillars from their chrysalis And the corpses into the detritus beneath the undergrowth of my being. Like some methodical base player, some lyre of Hades, Whose notes dance in coerced unison with my butterflies’ fate.
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Perfection and The Mudded Men
Luc Francis
Many moons Mount themselves on mundane mountains. Men, motionless, muddled with Meager money and malformed misapprehension, Mar the magic of mischief. Most months, Marks of marsh and mist Mask the muse of moonlight. Mentions of melancholy mints Meet the midrifts of misfortune. But here, In my museum, Meet the masterpieces and the mudded men. Moved most maniacally by the menacing Motors of misguided mockingbirds. Mother’s music Makes mush of mangoes, and Makes moorland of Madrids. Mounded mocha, Made of mouton’s madness Masks a magnificent metropolis of married mates. Maybe most miss, Many or most? Mixed mondays, May be, more than mounted moons. Moonlight, A perpetual betrayer, A pain too familiar, A friend.
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Finger Locked Pt.2
Luc Francis
Strewn on the iced sheets lie Broken, blue bones Which break the brazen Blazes of yesterday. A child gazes upon the frozen carnage. She picks at the bones But they crumble. Their dust Choking the air with Oppressive asphyxiation. She finds a skull, cold and familiar. The young, delicate flesh of her fingers Pricked against the dead teeth, as if A trapped soul was pulling, Begging for return. “Yesterday,” she promises. “Today my bones are wrapped in skin And home is a place between two hearts.” The skull waits. Waiting. Forever.
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PROSE 19
The Agency
Emily Gao
The secretary sat at her desk and picked at her chipping manicure. Beige flakes of what CVS called “pink sand” scattered on the neat stack of business cards below her. “Selective Family Services - here to match you with your ideal child” they read, all sharp angles and crisp lines. A common theme here in the city’s most premium adoption agency: everything was as polished as possible. Even the children. The children came from everywhere, never older than two. The secretary had never seen any of them, but had faith that she would one day. She often saw news on social media of celebrities’ newly adopted children and wondered just how many of them had come from SFS. She remembered the tragic news about Wilson and Marissa Scott, two actors that had left their child orphaned after they died in a mysterious accident. Later, it was revealed that their child, Handly Scott, had been adopted from SFS a number of years ago, when the government had first released the initiative. The program only started ten years ago. They had said that the new technology allowing for children and infants to be tested for future height, build, intelligence, talent, and attractiveness would be used on orphaned children in order to increase adoption rates. And they were right. The rich and famous were opting out of giving birth themselves, afraid of the odds that their child would be born with disabilities or undesirable traits. Instead they chose to visit adoption agencies that would select orphaned infants for them. The clinic assured prospective parents that these children would grow up to look like them, or be attractive and intelligent in the future. The secretary had always found the process quite odd, and wondered how the bill had ever been passed, but she needed money, and this job paid well. She had worked at the agency for months, but even now, as Eva James, the 20
most prominent news journalist in her field, walked out of the smudge-free glass elevator, the secretary could not help but stare. It was jarring, just how many celebrities showed up. Ms. James walked to the secretary’s desk and peered around the office. The agency had no pictures of happy families, nor the brochures advertising adoption which typically lined waiting rooms. Instead, the high rise office building looked more like her own city office, except with less color and life.
“Hi, how may I help you?” the secretary asked.
Ms. James, again, looked around, wondering if the glass-walled room that reeked of antiseptic and cleaning solution was indeed the right office, until she spotted the stack of business cards on the edge of the secretary’s desk.
“I believe I have an appointment scheduled for one with Dr. Devont.”
Although Eva was early, much too early, the secretary knew Dr. Devont was free. She motioned for Ms. James to go through the set of frosted glass doors behind her. She leaned back in her high-backed leather chair. It would be at least an hour until another client arrived. The secretary couldn’t figure out why Ms. James chose to adopt a child, especially from an agency of this kind. She already had two biological children, both of which turned out fine. Furthermore, she had published many strongly opinionated articles criticizing agencies of this kind, admonishing people to stop adopting children from agencies that “slapped prices on children and sold them like prized pigs at Saturday markets.” Even more perplexing was why Dr. Devont had agreed to take on Ms. James as his client. It was an unwritten rule that he only scheduled clients 21
that he was sure would maintain the exclusivity of SFS, and of course, be able to afford it. Shrugging it off, she went back to work, picking away at her chipped manicure. *** The secretary looked out the window. She wanted to go home. The sun had set hours ago, and her phone was dying. She should have left a while ago. Usually, Dr. Devont would leave his office at around 5pm. Until then, the secretary wasn’t allowed to leave either, or interrupt the appointments. He had made that clear on her first day. *** Another hour passed. The secretary cursed Dr. Devont, and wondered why Ms. James’s appointment was taking so long. Unable to sit and wait any longer, she walked over and knocked on the frosted door. He could be upset if he wanted. He had no right to keep her there this late. She waited a moment, but there was no answer. Unsure of whether or not they had heard her, she knocked again. There was a long pause before the door swung open, nearly tripping her. Dr. Devont was sitting across from the entrance, his bald head shining from the harsh office lights. “I heard you the first time, Molly. Have we not gone over the rules? You are not to interrupt my appointments with clients.”
Molly couldn’t speak. Ms. James wasn’t in the room.
“Sorry for intruding, but where’s Ms. James?” she asked. “ I didn’t catch her leaving?” 22
Dr. Devont smiled.
“She must’ve slipped out the door when you weren’t paying attention,” he said. “Please allow me to apologize. I am terribly sorry for keeping you so long.” Molly rubbed her eyes and blinked incredulously. There was no way she would have missed Ms. James leaving, but she shrugged it off, glad that she would not have to face Dr. Devont’s wrath today. “I assumed you would have known to take leave on your own, but I’ll excuse your nearsightedness. Go home and rest now.” Ignoring the nervous pit in her stomach, Molly smiled and gathered her stuff. She was tired. Maybe she would order pizza when she got home. *** The elevator opened for the first time that morning, and to Molly’s surprise, two children no older than six emerged from the double glass doors. Despite that one late night incident almost three months ago, Molly still hadn’t been able to force out that hole in her stomach from when she thought of it. As a girl and boy, both wearing sterile white jumpsuits, approached her desk, she smiled. Maybe they were one of SFS’s famous adoptees. She pushed away her urge to greet them, and pushed the sleek silver button on her desk. Minutes later, as per usual, Dr. Devont emerged from his office, not a hair out of place.
“2,643,157,” he muttered under his breath.
As if just seeing the children, he pasted on a warm smile.
“Hello, Lilian and Bennett,” he said. “I’m Dr. Devont.” 23
They stared back at him, unresponsive.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I know how it feels to lose your parents and feel alone in this world,” he continued, the same empathetic smile on his face. The silence seemed to suffocate everyone but Dr. Devont. Then the older of the two, the girl, looked up at him unblinkingly.
“I want to help you,” he said, pleased at her acknowledgement.
The girl shook her head, but he continued anyway.
“I am giving you a new home. One with parents that will give you the world,” he said. The boy clutched his sister’s fingers. Unfazed, he simply led them to his office.
On the way, he smiled at Molly, and dismissed her for the day. ***
The headlines weren’t released until the next morning: “Two Recently Orphaned Children Adopted from SFS by the Thersons for over 2.6 Million Dollars,” The City Report read. Photos had been withheld for privacy concerns, but Molly had no trouble picturing the two quivering children from the previous day. She read the article as she prepared for work, painting her chipped nails “Big Apple” red. She was ready to close the newspaper, until the final article on the last page caught her eye. Molly ran out of her apartment, her hair still in braids from the night before and her nails still drying. She called a cab for the first time in half a year, without worrying about the exorbitant fee, and blew through the double doors of the office highrise. She couldn’t remember anything except for that last headline and that unfortunate evening three months ago. 24
It was six twenty nine a.m. when she reached the office. She had half an hour before he would arrive. He was too arrogant to lock his office door, assuming that Molly would never dare to intrude. Unfortunately, he was wrong. She slipped in easily, the motion sensors switching on the overhead lights. She got to work, opening all the drawers, flipping through the files, and checking under the rug. Even in the small bowl of sand that he kept as decoration. She opened the window cleaning products under the desk, and even took apart the bookshelf. Nothing incriminating. The only notable subjects were tax files and a few negative articles concerning Dr. Devont’s arguably absent morals. She was on her way out when she tripped on the same crooked tile that always got her, this time falling onto the desk. The desk’s fake bottom pulled away and there, a wrinkled paper file folder sat. The pit in her stomach came back from the faux relief stronger than ever, and she rushed to open it. The air had been pushed out of Molly’s lungs and she sat on the cold tile floor, methodically rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face. Eva Merebelle James had been murdered. Ms. James had always been an outspoken critic of the initiative in general, but especially Dr. Devont’s practices. He had started planning her death nearly half a year prior, when he caught wind of an investigation she had founded on the basis of exposing his practice and sending him to prison. Molly felt like her body had flown away, her only thoughts revolving around the headline that had spurred her into action that morning: “Eva James, 37, Newly Recovered Body Autopsied. Cause of Death Ruled Heart Attack.” She shook uncontrollably. Lillian Anne James and Bennet Hastings James. They were the two children who had just been sold to the Thersons, the same two whom she had seen not twenty-four hours ago. Even the 25
picture she pulled up from a relative’s social media matched: their shining eyes, and tiny arms wrapped around their single mother. Her hands dialed the police office, her blurry eyes so unfocused that she didn’t notice that her finger had slipped and typed the wrong number. They didn't pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. She was still dialing the phone number, again and again, until they picked up on the eleventh try. A baby cried in the background as an exasperated woman answered the phone. “Hello? Who is this? It’s six fifty eight in the morning, what is wrong with you?” “IS THIS THE POLICE STATION?” Molly screamed frantically. “PLEASE, I NEED THE POLICE STATION!” the woman hung up but Molly was still screaming and screaming and screaming. “THE POLICE STATION CAN'T HANG UP ON ME!” Her eyes burned with tears. “IT'S TOO LATE! I NEED YOU TO PICK UP! PLEASE, SOMEONE DIED!” Her voice was hoarse when someone finally answered with the last sentence she would ever hear. “Eva James? Yes, unfortunately she had to be disposed of. I’m terribly sorry that you’re next.”
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Among Us
Avidan Shah
I didn’t sign up for this.
As we stood around the bloodied remains of what used to be one of our crewmates, we realized that there was a major problem on our hands. This was supposed to be just another regular shipping flight with your runof-the-mill ten-man crew, not a horror movie. It was Yellow who finally spoke up. “So, it seems like we have an Impostor among us. Maybe two, given the size of our crew.” “Yeah, and by the looks of it, it’s probably you! You were the last person I saw with Purple, and now he’s dead! I say we boot Yellow out the airlock. Who’s with me?” Cyan was always quick to jump to conclusions. We all directed our gaze towards Yellow, who didn’t even flinch. “I’m telling you guys, I was priming the Skeld’s shields, which is coincidentally nowhere near Electrical.” “Ok guys, why don’t we all just calm down. There are nine of us left. No need to eject anyone yet. How about we all just go back to getting our tasks done for now and come back when we have concrete evidence?” Blue was usually the mediator of the group, and I appreciated him for that. I finally spoke up. “That’s a great idea! Why don’t we pair up or group together as much as we can? That way, when someone dies, we’ll know it was their partner who did it.” The others nodded their heads in approval. We voted to skip, the emergency shields separating us went down, and we all headed out of the cafeteria to continue our tasks. I decided to follow Yellow because he seemed to be the smartest out of the group.
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As we headed towards Weapons, he turned to me and whispered, “Pink, to be honest, you’re the most trustworthy person here, and I don’t even trust you all that much. If we stick together the whole game, we can definitely make it o-”
All of a sudden, a warning sign flashed on our HUD: Low O2.
Crap. They must have sabotaged the oxygen supply.
“Hurry, Yellow! We need to restabilize the oxygen or we’ll all die!”
We sprinted towards the O2 room, praying someone else would fix the malfunctioning O2 regulator in Admin. Yellow punched in the temporary emergency code, and, in unison, we breathed a sigh of relief when the HUD read that we were in the clear. “That was way too close, Pink. Two minutes more, and we’d all be dead.” “Finish clearing out Asteroids, then let’s head to Electrical - I have to download some data on the recent surges.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We made our way over to Electrical, passing by Blue, Cyan, and Green on our way through Storage. As we entered, we were horrified to find two bodies in the back. I immediately reported it, and the crew regrouped in the cafeteria for an emergency meeting.
Cyan immediately turned to me, asking where the body was.
“I found Red’s body in the back of Electrical by the air vent. White was also dead next to him.” “Damn. You think it was a double kill? It has been a while since we found Purple dead.”
“No idea.” 28
“Well, there’s one thing I’m almost certain of. It’s you. You definitely killed them and self-reported. You agree with me, right Lime?” Lime turned to face me. “I think Cyan is a little aggressive, but we’re down to seven people. The impostors will have us dead soon. We need to vote. I’m down to vote you out if Cyan can propose some sort of actual evidence.” Yellow suddenly spoke, standing up for me. “There’s no way Pink is Impostor. We were together the whole time, in shields. He’s clear.” He continued to speak, now turning towards Orange. “Orange, where were you when the meeting was called?” “Uhh… um… Medbay. Yes, that’s it - Medbay! I was ... inspecting some biosamples.” Yellow pressed forward with his interrogation. “So where were you before that? What were you doing? Was anyone with you?” “Uh… well, I guess I enjoy peace and quiet, so I was just doing tasks by myself. I was fixing the engine alignment, restarting the reactor, and watching cameras in Security.”
“Did you see anything suspicious on the security footage?”
“Not particularly.”
“So let me get this straight. There were three people killed in the back of Electrical. For this entire trip, you were within one room from Electrical. You claim to be watching the cams, but you’ve found nothing conclusive. Most damning of all, you were in Medbay when the bodies were found by the vents in Electrical. Can anyone else connect the dots here? It’s so obviously Orange.”
Surprisingly, Cyan nodded his head, immediately voting to eject
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Orange. “I don’t usually agree with you, Yellow, and I don’t particularly like you - in fact, I quite dislike you, but you’re making a hell of a lot of sense here. I say vote Orange. Pink is still suspicious, though.” One by one, the other crewmates voted. I looked at Yellow, hesitant, and he gave me a nod of affirmation. I pressed the button. The results were displayed on our tablets. 6 votes for Orange and one for Yellow. “Wait, guys, you can still change your minds! I’m not an Impostor! I swear!”
Yellow visibly yawned. “Drag him to the airlock, boys.”
Orange struggled fiercely, but he was no match for 5 crew members. Each grabbed a limb, and Blue took hold of his head. We made our way over to the airlock, where two buttons were situated on the wall to control the doors. Orange was still fighting back with all his strength, but the crewmates had him easily restrained. Yellow turned to me. “Pink, if you would be so kind as to do the honors?”
Is it really him?
I hesitated, then pressed the green button. The first door opened with a jarring creak. The rest of the crewmates tossed the screaming and struggling Orange in. Before he could get up, I pressed the green button again. The airlock slammed shut, and suddenly all we could hear was Orange banging on the door, slowly diminishing in speed and strength as he exhausted himself.
“Pink. Remove this scum from our ship.”
“I-I- don’t think I can do it.”
Are we sure this isn’t a mistake? 30
Yellow grumbled in exasperation. “Fine. I guess I have to do everything myself.” He immediately slammed the red button, causing everything inside the airlock to be jettisoned out into the vacuum of space.
Orange was dead.
6 of us remained.
After we closed the airlock, we went back to our routine tasks.
As I tagged along behind Yellow, I felt the need to thank him for his actions during the meeting. “Thanks for sticking up for me back there, man. I thought Cyan was going to get me killed.” “Of course. I know you’re innocent. Remember what I said. You’re the only one I can trust.” After finishing most of our tasks, we eventually headed over to Admin, as all I had left to do was upload the data I had collected in Electrical hours before. As we passed through the cafeteria, though, the lights went out. I lost sight of Yellow, calling his name and stumbling around in the dark. I followed my map of the ship towards Electrical and found the fuse box. All of the breakers were tripped.
Definitely the work of the other Impostor.
I quickly got to work, and within minutes the lights began to flicker back on. I rushed over to Admin to finish my final task, grouping up with Cyan in the storage room. I entered Admin first, locking eyes with Blue. Lime’s bloody entrails were scattered all across the floor. He shot me a smile and gave a little wave, then hopped into the air vent.
Shit. If Cyan walks in now, he’s definitely going to think I’m the 31
Impostor. I have to re Cyan rushed into the room, eyes flicking from Lime’s dead body to mine. The damage had been done. I reported, calling yet another emergency meeting. Only Cyan, Yellow, and Blue showed up. Looks like Green was also killed. Cyan turned to me instantly. “PINK! I KNOW IT’S YOU! I saw you walk into Admin, only to see Lime’s butchered corpse a second later. There was nobody else in there!” Blue eyed me suspiciously. “I, unlike Cyan, am a little bit reasonable, so how about you explain your side of the story.”
The audacity of this guy!
“The lights went out, and I fixed them! Right after that, I met up with Cyan in Storage, and we were both heading to Admin. When I walked in, I saw Lime’s body on the ground, and I saw you hop into a vent!” Blue seemed utterly taken aback by my accusation. “Hold on, are you accusing me of being the Impostor?” Near blinded by rage, I could barely get the words out of my mouth. “Absolutely. I saw you hop into the vent in Admin. Don’t lie. Where were you?” “I was in the Medical bay, man. You’re lying. Cyan, you agree with me, right?” “I knew that pink bastard was the Impostor from the start. I KNEW IT!”
Blue voted for my ejection.
Yellow whispered something inaudible to Cyan. They both voted at the same time. I closed my eyes, beginning to drift off with the realization 32
that I was going to die.
This is it, isn’t it?
Yellow snapped at me, bringing me back to reality. “Pink, hurry up and vote already!”
Two votes for Blue popped up on the screen.
Blue whirled around to face Yellow and Cyan. “What the hell, guys! Pink killed Lime. He’s a dirty liar!”
I saw a hint of a smile break out on Yellow’s normally stoic face.
“Sorry, Blue, but did you pay attention to whether the cameras were on? You never know who might be watching you.”
Blue’s face went so pale, I thought he was White for a brief moment.
“Yep, that’s right. When you sabotaged the lights, I ran as fast as I could towards Security.” He turned to me. “Sorry, Pink, I kind of left you alone for a bit. Hope it wasn’t too scary in the dark!” “Anyways, I saw Blue and Lime walk into Admin right before Pink reported the body. You must have killed Green much earlier. I know for a fact, though, that you weren’t in the MedBay when the body was discovered,” Yellow continued. He motioned for me to vote Blue to be ejected from the ship. “Sorry, mate. The gig’s up. You tried your hardest.” Blue was in such a state of shock that he didn’t even resist. He stared at me with lifeless eyes as I dragged him to the airlock, tossing him in. I didn’t hesitate to press the button this time. Within seconds, Blue was no more.
Suddenly, Cyan spoke up. “What if we were wrong about Orange? If
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Blue was definitely the Impostor, that still leaves one of you.” I looked back and forth between the two remaining crewmates. As usual, Yellow displayed his scary lack of emotion. He steadily walked towards me as if hungering for something, maintaining eye contact the whole time.
“Don’t come any closer!”
He ignored me, picking up the pace of his stride. In a couple seconds, he would be too close to get away.
I thought I could trust you.
“Cyan! The button!”
“On it!”
As irritating as he was, Cyan was definitely quick on his feet. He leaped across the room, pressing the emergency meeting button that immediately locked all of our suits, forcing Yellow to stop moving.
Cyan turned to face me.
“Why do I have to be stuck with you of all people? Ugh. Let’s just get this over with.”
On my tablet, I saw one vote pop up - for Yellow.
I stared at Yellow with a sad expression on my face. He stared back. “Pink. We’ve been together this whole journey. We fixed the oxygen regulator. I stood up for you. How can you possibly think I’m the Impostor? Especially over the bastard who tried to kill you at every meeting!” For the first time on this entire journey, he broke his calm visage. Visibly angry, he cast his vote for Cyan.
“You make a good point, I guess. I-I can trust you.” Trembling with 34
anxiety, I turned around to face Cyan. “G-give me one reason I shouldn’t send you flying out into space right now.” “Yellow played the hero this whole journey. He was always conveniently at the right place at the right time. Always pushing the right people or saving you when you came under pressure. That seems like an experienced Impostor - someone who knows to build a rapport with a confirmed crewmate, so they always come out on top when it comes to situations like this. You and Yellow may think I’m an idiot, but I know what’s going on. I’ve secretly suspected him this whole time, not you. Sorry, but if he was suspicious of me, he would have killed me earlier. Pink, make the right decision. Kill this evil Impostor, and save the Skeld’s mission.”
Why does this have to be so complicated?
Yellow and Cyan both continued to loudly argue their cases. My head was throbbing. I couldn’t think clearly.
I’m running out of time. I’m sorry.
I voted.
“NO! Pink! You IDIOT! You’ve condemned us all! I thought you had half a brain ce-” Cyan and I tossed the struggling Yellow into the airlock, and was quickly sucked out into the cold, dark clutches of space. Yellow, my partner throughout this hellish journey, my apparent savior. No, my friend - was dead.
Cyan started laughing out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s over. We made it! The Skeld is docking right now!” 35
He started walking towards me, arms outstretched for a comforting hug.
Well, one of us made it.
Cyan’s nervous laughter was quickly drowned out by silence.
He didn’t even have time to scream as I devoured him.
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The Marionettist
Helen Liu
She approaches you one night with hopeful arms, tentative steps, tired eyes that still glimmer with untainted innocence. Notice how she shivers slightly, how something about the way she holds herself betrays her loneliness, her want. You smile back, allow her to throw herself into your arms, stretch your fingertips over her back.
How lovely.
Taking her cold hand, you pull her inside. Whispering reassurances, you sit her in front of your crackling fireplace, bundle her in fluffy blankets, wrap woolen scarves around her neck until her shivering gives way to drooping eyelids and soft sighs. A cup of hot cocoa is offered, followed by a tray of cookies, butter still bubbling at their edges. Chocolate dots the corner of her lip as she falls asleep; with a careful thumb, you smear it away. You make sure she wakes to the soothing smell of coffee, a healthy flush to her cheeks and eyes alight. You murmur a good morning, tell her she may go if she must but she’s welcome to stay as long as she wants. It’s still snowing outside; after a period of waffling, she decides to stay.
Of course, you say, and unlock her door.
Later that day, as you two eat dinner, you tell her of your passion for dance. Its beauty, its elegance, your satisfaction when every movement falls in time with the beat. How you used to dance everyday, but nowadays you no longer have the energy. Eagerly, she says she dances too, says she loves it just as much as you do. You put on music and she becomes a work of art, fluid yet sharp, timid yet daring, emotion in every line of her body. When she’s done, you clap appreciatively, saying she’s the best you’ve ever seen. Adamantly, she denies 37
it; then, as if unsure if it’s her place to ask, requests to see you dance. You say you’re tired, that you’ll show her someday. That you still lack the motivation, but her performance did inspire you - just a little bit. With a smile, you bid her good night, fully aware of the determined set of her jaw as you leave. It continues to snow. She asks if she can help with the cooking or the cleaning; you say she doesn’t need to worry about any of that. She borrows some art supplies, says she wants to learn to paint, and soon depictions of vague wintry landscapes are scattered across the floor of her room. And more than ever, she dances. Mostly on her own in your dance studio, borrowing your records and spending hours in front of the mirrors, but every night in the lounge, she dances for you. She says she wants to help you dance again, that it’s the least she can do for you after everything you’ve done for her. Smiling, you indulge her. At breakfast one day, you mention there’s a dance - a concept, really you’ve wanted to choreograph since you were young. And at her insistence, you reveal that you have a fascination with marionettes. That you’re intrigued by the idea of being able to dance for eternity, and that you want nothing more than to translate that idea into movement and music. She absorbs the information with a thoughtful hum, a slight scrunch of her brow. A few minutes later, she stands and offers to try to make your concept come to life. You widen your eyes, lean forward, ask her if she’s being serious. She nods, laughing, then hopefully requests that you join her in dance if her performance is to your satisfaction. You smile and thank her profusely. Almost immediately, you stop seeing her around the house as often as you used to. She no longer looks around in the pantry, no longer spends 38
hours exploring your seemingly endless closets. Even her painting begins to slow, her brushes and canvases untouched for days at a time. Instead, she works day and night in front of your mirrors, arching her back and maneuvering her arms, stepping carefully side to side. She never notices you watching from around the corner, your face impassive, your eyes blank.
She’s so caught up in her practice, she forgets to dance for you.
After a few empty nights, you knock sharply on the door of the studio, calling her name with the slightest edge to your voice. The music stops, and a few moments later she pulls open the door, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her breaths coming in pants. Excitedly, she starts to say she’s been making progress, but you cut her off, questioning why she’s been avoiding you. She tilts her head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Hesitantly, she says she’s not avoiding you, that she’s just been practicing the marionette dance and that it might be a while until she’s ready to show you, but you cut her off again. Never mind, you snap. With a heavy sigh, you turn and leave. As you expect, she waits in the lounge the next night, dark circles under her eyes. When she sees you walk in, she says that she wants to show you what she’s come up with so far. Smiling, you settle in the chair before her and motion for her to begin. Her movements are precise, calculated. Her steps are intricate and her arms sweep the air, her body imitating the slight jerks of a marionette. You can almost visualize the strings that dangle from her back, her feet, the top of her head, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You remain expressionless.
And when the music stops, you allow the silence to drag, to weigh 39
heavily on her shoulders and scrape painfully against her ears. The triumphant grin on her face grows strained; her arms begin to tremble where she’s holding her finishing pose. Finally, she can bear it no longer, and she turns to you, arms falling to her sides. Was it good, she whispers. It’s not what you’d hoped, you say eventually. It should be more effortless - more free. Voice tight, eyes downcast, she says she’ll do better. The next night, she dances again, showcasing the changes she’s made. This time, you clap halfheartedly and tell her she displays too much emotion, that it doesn’t befit a marionette. It’s okay, though, you say with a smile; it’ll take practice. But as you leave, just loud enough for her to hear, you mutter to yourself that you expected more. It becomes a routine. Every night, she dances before you; every night, there’s something you disapprove of. Gradually, you allow your patience to slip; gradually, she loses herself in desperation. She knows your disappointment is inevitable, yet still seeks your commendation. She wants you to smile, but - for a reason she can’t name - the sight of it sometimes sends shivers down her spine. And so she withdraws into herself. In a daze, she forgets her meals, forgoes her showers, wears the same clothes for days on end. She reimmerses herself in her paints. But no longer does her art depict pristine swathes of snow and clouds dotted with periwinkles and siennas; now, she uses darker, duller tones, smears them almost wildly across the canvas. Still, she dances, accepting and adjusting to every suggestion you make. And when your thinly veiled criticism finally becomes naked abuse, she doesn’t realize.
It’s still snowing, and the temperature in the house drops. Her muscles 40
ache; she tires easily. She develops a cough that doesn’t go away. She misses a night of dancing; not finding her in her room, you look for her in the studio. Curled against the mirror, eyes moving restlessly under her eyelids, she sleeps. The next night, she enters the lounge with a meek apology. You smile; she shivers, avoids your gaze. That night, her movements are clumsy, uncoordinated. She trips over herself more than once, biting back a cry when her hip knocks into the corner of the table. Tears nipping at her eyes, she finishes, body bent over in a bout of hacking coughs. You sigh and stand, not looking at her. You tell her that after all you’ve done for her, the least she could do is deliver you an acceptable dance. She must not appreciate you, you muse sadly. She must not care about you. A sharp intake of breath, a hurried shake of her head. No, no, she repeats frantically. She promises she’ll perfect the dance, swears on her life that she cares. She wants to dance with you, she says, looking up with tears running down her cheeks. You ignore her and walk away, turning to hide your mocking smile.
After all, a master does not dance with their marionette.
That night, she sobs into her pillow, clings to her blanket like it’s her only lifeline as gasping breaths shudder in and out of her still-weak lungs. The wind outside howls; her body aches with a horrible cold that doesn’t disappear no matter how tightly she pulls at her covers. Exhausted, staring at the neverending storm of pale grey outside her window, she falls into a trance. She hears the flapping of bird wings, the rustle of tender leaves; she smells the intoxicating earthiness of spring rain, the cloying sweetness of budding flowers. She tastes salt and dreams of the ocean. 41
Then, an hour before sunrise, she stumbles to her paints as if possessed. She grabs at random colors, takes a brush and dashes it across one of her first paintings. She works with fervor, mind and vision foggy, biting at her lip until it bleeds. And when the storm dies and sunlight finally illuminates her canvas, she stops, transfixed. Stares at the field of spring green, canary yellow, and wistful pink that emerges from what used to be icy blue, snowy white. A strange weight lifts off her chest, and an inexplicable relief floods her mind. Later, she comes down for breakfast, the first time in a while. You smile at her; she blinks, then catches herself and murmurs a hello. She eats quickly, then leaves for the studio. Puzzled, you go to her room, find her newest painting lying near the foot of her bed. Anger curls in your stomach; a bitter taste fills your mouth. You seize the canvas, stride downstairs, and cast it into the hungry fireplace. With a twisted satisfaction, you watch the colors crumble into ash. A few more days pass, and with a twinge of uncertainty, you realize something about her has changed. She eats regularly now, the color returning to her cheeks and her cough finally abating. She spends more time in her room and less in the studio. She doesn’t seek you out, nor does she avoid you, but you catch her staring at you more than once, her face unreadable. Her nightly dancing, too, is different. Her movements are more reserved, yet she dares to look you in the eye when you give her your usual critique. She responds with careless nods, distracted agreements, doesn’t flinch no matter how dangerously you smile. One night, she doesn’t dance at all, not answering even when you bang on her locked door. And for the first 42
time in years, you feel cold panic constricting your throat. The next morning, her door is left ajar. You rush in only to discover more paintings, stacked on top of her dressers and balanced against the walls. Each is brighter than the last, glorious and taunting. Hands clenched into fists, frenzied, you burn them all. You don’t notice her watching from around the corner, lips curled and eyes triumphant.
That night in the lounge, she tells you she’s done.
You rise from your chair, your fingers digging into the armrests, a whirlwind of unfamiliar emotion building inside you. Slowly, you dare her to repeat herself. She’s done, she says. Her breathing is steady and her feet are set underneath her and streaks of paint color her hair. Her arms are tense with anticipation; she steps forward with purpose. Your flick your eyes to hers and realize that her innocence has shattered into brilliant shards of furious calm, disgusted acceptance, defiant peace. She holds out a hand flecked with paint, bares her teeth, and invites you to dance.
And you try to pull at her strings, but find only their frayed remains.
She spits at your feet. Not looking back once, she opens the door she’d been pulled through so many nights ago and stalks back into the snow. Frozen, you stare after her. She leaves behind a room of upended paint jars, color splattered all over the bed, the walls, the dressers. She leaves behind a studio of smashed mirrors, its floor covered in gleaming fragments of glass. The storm balks at her presence; the sunlight welcomes her return. And with every step she takes, green blooms from her feet.
43
When We Go (Part 2)
Massa Godbold
Ronia ran to the wreckage. The car was still burning, so she couldn't get very close, but it didn't matter. Her grief weighed down on her, forcing her to drop part of the way. "Jay! Jayce!" she yelled, "Jay! Jayce!" Not hearing an answer, she cried, her head in her hands. Maybe they're still alive, she thought, but it was weak, barely supported by hope. On hands and knees, she crawled as close to the wreck as she dared, still calling for her children. A black Honda civic screeched around the corner, pulling into the driveway. Without waiting to come to a complete stop, the driver flung himself out of the car. "Ronia!" he screamed, eyes landing on his wife crouched beside the flaming car. He assumed the worst. Hearing her name, Ronia turned, stood, and ran to her husband. They met in the middle, both crying . . . but for two different reasons. "You're alive, I . . . I thought . . ." Aaron pulled back, eyes roaming over his wife’s face, reassuring himself that she was all there. "Jayce . . . Jay . . ." was all she could whisper in response, tears streaming down her face. Aaron stood stock still, understanding dawning in his eyes. "They . . ." Ronia nodded, sobbing. "I'll kill 'em," Aaron decided, a fierce finality in his voice. 44
Jay and Jayce lay on the floor, still shook by the force of the explosion. Jayce's arms were wrapped protectively over his sister. She cuddled close to him, hands over her head. "Is it over?" she whispered, voice shaking, ears ringing. Jayce, though he could barely hear her, nodded. Jay cried. He pulled her into a hug. "I'm scared," Jay wrapped her arms around her brother, holding on tightly. Jayce bit his lip, holding in tears for the sake of his sister. "W-we should find Mommy," Jayce decided, his voice quivering. He felt Jay nod under his arm. The twins helped each other up. The ringing in their ears dulled ever so slightly. Jay turned, looking to see how far they'd run. They'd gotten a respectable distance; a ways into the woods across from their house. They'd been shielded by the thick brush and several trees. She stood there, holding her brother's hand, looking at the flaming car in front of them. Sirens wailed in the distance. Jayce pulled his sister forward. "Come on. Don't you wanna get to Mommy?" Jayce gently pulled Jay along. They waded through tall grass and under hanging branches. After a few minutes, the twins emerged from the woods. The firetrucks had arrived along with one police car, the officer questioning their sobbing mother. Their father stood with her, holding her close. Jay's eyes brimmed with tears. Jayce couldn't hold them in either. He cried with his sister. "MOMMY! DADDY!" they screamed, running full throttle at their parents.
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Ronia let out a joyous shout of her own and, with Aaron close behind, ran to Jay and Jayce, crushing them into hugs. Ronia cried, tears of relief flooding from her eyes. Aaron was bleary-eyed too, overjoyed at the sight of his unharmed children. The officer and firefighter looked at each other, unsure in the midst of the reunion. Finally, the officer walked towards the family. He stood awkwardly nearby, not wanting to interrupt. The officer cleared his throat, earning a bone chilling glare from Aaron. The officer stepped back. Aaron gently tapped his wife and jerked his head in the direction of the officer. She turned towards him, still grasping Jay and Jayce tightly. "S-sorry ma'am . . . I just would like to ask a few questions . . ." he was clearly still uncomfortable with his interruption. Ronia nodded. "Jayda, Jayce, go with your Daddy for a sec. But stay outside . . . please." Jay and Jayce glanced at each other. Neither could remember the last time their mother had called Jay by her full name: Jayda. Jay shrugged it off, pretending she didn’t notice. She hugged her mother one more time, and they walked a little ways off with their father. "So . . ." the officer began. "What exactly happened here? I understand there was a car bomb, what I don't understand . . . is everything else." Ronia nodded. "Honestly, officer, neither do I. Someone broke into my home, but they ran when I got inside. As I was checking to see what was stolen, I felt the explosion. I-" she paused for a moment, "I thought . . . I thought my children were in the car when the bomb went off. That's all I know." She wiped a stray tear away, looking the officer directly in the eye. 46
The officer nodded. "Do you have any . . . enemies?" Ronia paused for a moment. "Maybe a few, but none who would have access to a car bomb of that caliber. I don’t think any would want to kill my family. No, none like that." The officer raised an eyebrow. "None who'd have access? Are you implying that you know people who would have access to this type of explosive power?" "I know people who work with the government. I assume they would know a thing or two about this kind of thing, but none of them are people I'd consider my . . . enemies." The officer nodded slowly, suspicious, but not enough to press for answers he clearly wasn't going to get. Hours later, after the car debris was cleared, the police and firefighters had gone, and people had come in and out to ask what the commotion was and if everyone was okay, the family sat in the living room eating cake for the twins birthday. The Bee Movie played on the TV. There was tension in the room, but not enough to completely ruin the happy mood. It was a surprising ending to the eventful day. Jay and Jayce looked back and forth from their parents, who spoke to each other, conveying coded messages through their eyes. "Kids," Ronia began. Though she was talking to Jay and Jayce, her eyes never left her husbands'. "We have something to tell you." "We wanted to wait, but. . ." "There's no more time." 47
"Mommy, Daddy? What's wrong," Jay asked. She looked scared. Ronia reached over and patted her on the head. "Don't worry, Jayda." Jay and Jayce made immediate eye contact, both sporting a look of worry.
48
The Phantom Inferno
Martine Bigos
Sweat-laden bricks stacked for assembly resided next to the boarded split levels that were cemented on the street. When joyous screams forged by youth rang throughout the neighborhood, cries followed in time. But within the havoc brought on by our actuality was my phantom haze, a being that granted me the chance to maneuver any truths I feared to confront. The forest. I used to draw a fine line between reality and any sense of reverie provided by the backwoods. Behind my house, a small shed blighted by decay accommodates rot snuggled between what’s left of paint-chipped wood paneling and a lichencovered roof. One bird feeder remains, stolen by squirrels and chipmunks. No food can be dispensed to robins and cardinals who loom near the maple in the springtime. My gaze was never set on any woodland creatures, and I failed to acknowledge the newborn robins nested in the holly shrub. Within the larger shed situated on the other side of the backyard, a figment of my childhood rests. I don’t know what we keep in there anymore, maybe open house signs and a multicolored trash can or two. The door never closes. Years ago I’d circle the shed, and proceed to stop in front of the door. I’d push as much as I could with my eyes shut. But the door would only remain jammed for two seconds. Not long after, it would creak open once more, and I’d run my cracked heels up the hills, making my way to the house through the raspberry bushes. Today when I rest on the hammock, I look into the shed to see if I can make out what lives inside, and when all I see is a pool of uncertainty, I gaze up at the sun to tire myself. When I’d sit in my dining room and observe the old estates beyond the forest, I only went on to peer into my overgrown garden that could not be cured by the power of my will, requiring the blessing of a phantom 49
haze. My state of mind evolved until no weeds suffocated the tomato plants. I looked past the patch of rubber tile that had once been home to my playground and broke apart when the rain no longer pitied that rotten haven. The sheds ceased to burden my conscience, and the bird feeder blended with the verdure of the maple tree. I leaned into delusion, something only weakness can provide. And so methods became joys. But then the boy struck a match just as the Barred Owl’s day began, and the wall of Tyre’s strongholds were nearly devoured. The azaleas loomed beyond his cloven-footed silhouette, and shriveled as they were, dawned a messianic aura over the corner of my distorted sanctuary. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen at the time. When I passed him along the street on occasional walks, he’d race to his home, avoiding conversation. I never thought him evil. My mind attempted to corrupt my senses, but this was no phantom inferno conceived by the gloomiest corners of my imagination. The wicked stab at my reverie died out as Dad set foot outside to meet the boy’s eye. He ran to his home, just fifty feet away. A few years have passed, and I see him working in his garden every summer. He even offered to pull out weeds for us, once. He’s changed. He no longer drops his head when we speak to him, and his father does not appear fearful when we ask of him. One time, he asked me about school.
“What do you like to study?”
“English.”
“Oh, I see. Anything else?
“No.” I know that my parents are disappointed when I appear unfriendly. But how could I let my guard down when it came to him? Nevertheless, what’s 50
done is done. It was time to grow up. How existence became a greater fear to me than my illusions remain a mystery. The refuge so protected by my ignorance nearly burned that December evening. I hated him, but I have to give thanks. Maybe I just got older. Regardless, an abyss of deceit once muffled my ambitions. But now I do not ignore the rotting shed, nor the dilapidated deck. Disdain for the imperfect is no more abominable than infatuation with the untrue.
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ART GALLERY
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Nolan Baynes
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Alex Vilarin
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Mirika Jambudi
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CALLIOPE S P R I N G 2 0 2 1
