Calliope - Summer 2021 by The Pingry School

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CALLIOPE Pingry’s Literary Magazine

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!

Faculty Advisor Mrs. Grant

Editors Martine Bigos (V) Mirika Jambudi (IV) Kyra Li (IV) Justin Li (VI)

Covers: Julia Fu

Writing Prose The Final Stop Helen Liu 8 Walmart and Rice Fields

Julia Fu

The Universe in Our Minds

Laura Liu

A Letter to Her

Helen Liu

The Message Keira Chen 20 Fowl Friendship

Mirika Jambudi

Parker Gabrielle Marques 26 AAA Martine Bigos 31 At the Mention of a Martyr

Ashleigh Provoost

Neverland Sarah Gagliardi 39 The Auspice of January 18th

Helen Liu

Julia Fu

Poetry We Do Delivery

Asphyxiation Annabelle Shilling 69 Hide and Seek

Sarah Gagliardi

The Law of Divine Oneness

Sarah Gagliardi

Slouching Toward Bethlehem

Martine Bigos

Finding Freedom Kristin Osika 78 My Ballet Slippers Still Fit

Abby Parrish

12 Months, 4 Seasons, 1 Year

Sarah Gagliardi

Art Photography Wavelength Carolyn Coyne 3 Sunset Mirika Jambudi 7 Cotton Candy Mirika Jambudi 11 Untitled Water Scene

Stephen Spezouski

Chickens Carolyn Coyne 38 Galactic Dreams Carolyn Coyne 65 Osmosis Carolyn Coyne 72 Untitled Flowers Keira Chen 88 Untitled Plant Kristin Osika 89 City Scenes Mirika Jambudi 90

Graphic Arts Through the Generations

Julia Fu

Two Pretty Best Friends

Ariel Li

Two Pretty Best Friends

Ariel Li

Control Julia Fu 68 City At Night Julia Fu 85 A Glimpse Helen Ma 86 Untitled Thomas Henry 87 Whales Natalie DeVito 92 Woman and Flamingo

Julia Fu

PROSE 7

The Final Stop

Helen Liu

She sits alone in the train car, hands clasped in her lap. Late afternoon sunlight streams through the window, just bright enough to make her squint; endless fields of green roll by outside. She doesn’t know when she’d boarded this train, or where she’s going. Just that the car is impossibly clean, so unlike the subway she grew up riding; just that the complete absence of passengers unnerves her. There’s nobody jostling her shoulder, no buzzing crowds, no chime followed by that so-familiar mechanical voice, saying, “Our next stop is…” It had all been so exhausting. Eyes sliding half-shut, she lets her head fall back against her seat. She might not know where she is, but at least here, she has peace and quiet. As if on cue, the door linking her car to the next slides open. A youth dressed entirely in black steps in and sprawls in a seat opposite her, floppy hair shading his face so that all she can see is his razor grin. He’s maybe ten, twenty years younger than her, and to her, it seems he lounges with all the carelessness in the world. “Hello,” she tries. Her voice is scratchy, so she clears her throat and starts over. “Hello. Do you know where we’re going?” “Where do you think we’re going?” he says lazily, not moving from his slumped position.

She forces a smile. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”

He shrugs and points towards the horizon, where the sun is beginning to set. “Here, there, everywhere. It doesn’t matter where we’re going; it’s the final stop, anyways.” Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and suddenly his eyes, impossibly black, are flashing. “What’s the last thing you remember?” 8

She thinks, but all she comes up with is gray. She clears her throat again, wincing at the twinge of tight pain. “I don’t know.”

He sighs, leans back again. “Let me know when you do.”

They sit in silence, him motionless, her fidgeting. The sun gets lower and lower, the sky is lit in brilliant orange. Long, reaching shadows are cast all over the car, throwing everything she sees into sharp contrast. She stares hard at the sunset, watching light give way to the dark. The fields outside become vague masses; the youth’s figure practically melts into his shadow. And as she blinks her eyes to adjust to the dimness, an image comes into her mind. “Ah,” she says softly, hands coming up to touch her throat. The skin there is rough and scraped, raw and bleeding slightly. If she closes her eyes, she can almost feel the rope tightening. The youth sits up, and she really can’t see his face clearly, but she thinks he looks a bit sad. “I think the train’s stopping soon,” he offers. Is it? She feels like she’s floating. She doesn’t think she’d be able to tell whether the train was moving or stationary. Outside, everything is just a mass of black; even the stars seem to be fading away. She finds she doesn’t really mind. The youth stands and walks over to her, extending a ghostly white hand. Her eyes focus on it, the one thing she can see clearly amidst all the shadow. As if in a trance, she takes his hand, letting him help her to her feet and guide her to the car door.

“Are you ready?”

Slowly, she nods.

The doors slide open and he steps off the train, taking her with him. Together, they are swallowed by the darkness. 9

Walmart and Rice Fields

Julia Fu

They say: Julia and _____ sitting in a tree The October wind kicks up his not-quite-straight bowl cut, revealing a forehead . As we pedal up the steep hill to the park, my thighs burn. He has already reached the top and yells at me “go faster.” The tension in my bike chain feels enough to snap as I pedal faster. When I reach the top, he makes fun of me for how slow I am. I retort with a blow to his messy, badly cut hair. His barber cut it too short, and he complains of how much forehead is revealed. They say: K-I-S-S-I-N-G I wonder what my life would have been like without those ten days I spent with him. We spent part of summer together in China. Our friendship cemented in dim sum, bad C-pop songs, and tour buses that smelled like herbal medicine. The hot, sticky air that enveloped us during that time has kept us stuck together now. “There has to be something else going on,” they say. I wonder if there’s a world where we can bike and listen to TFboys and no one will bother us. First comes love, then comes marriage In dozens of movies and so many books the girl and the boy form a friendship then fall in love, but I feel no romance toward him. Did we do something wrong? Is something not right with me? Then comes a baby in a baby carriage The park that we bike to has a view of street-lit suburbia, houses squatting in the dark, planets away from the rice fields of China. The sun is setting behind the Walmart. Pink clouds dot the sky like blush. It is the prettiest Walmart tableau I’ve ever seen. We stand with Lil Uzi playing in the background. I stare at his wonky haircut and smile. What other people think. It doesn’t matter. This is all we need. 10

The Universe in Our Minds

Laura Liu

Have you ever made your own universe story?

Sure, everyone can simply look to the Greeks for a cranky cast of characters. The Bible is certainly beautiful and very allegorical. Chinese mythology is a nice fit for anyone who fancies a giant man-god wielding a XXXL size axe. Maybe you wanted to be silly but also a little sciency, say… A certain little boy was playing with a stone. One day, he dropped that stone and that was the big bang. Every universe contains an infinite number of universes.

No one can prove you wrong.

Or maybe you had trouble falling asleep because you made the bad decision of drinking a cup of coffee at midnight. You’ve been studying Shakespeare’s “everyone dies, that’s the end!” tragedies in school and the poetry and symbolism and all that Shakespeare stuff is getting to you.

My mind is full of strange and weird ideas,

Carried on billowing waves of caffeine.

And so you begin to make a story in your head of how time is a lady with flowy silver hair (because if time had hair it would be silver and flowy), riding a black horse with a white diamond on its forehead (because everyone loves Black Beauty), and as she rides forward time passes (because obviously time only goes forward, no matter how much everyone wishes otherwise). Maybe you run track and that race track is turning your thoughts circular. You think: every time Ms.Time gets back to the starting point the universe starts over again. 12

Eventually what was supposed to be a deep and poetic Shakespearean universe story is turning into something silly. But that’s okay, because Shakespeare wrote comedy too. So you give up on what is supposed to be deep and meaningful and decide to go down the narcissistic route instead. You spare a brief feeling of pity to narcissuses- they’re beautiful flowers but they have such a bad reputation. Everyone is keeping something from me, you think. One day you’ll find out that the reason everyone is keeping that something from you is because you’re secretly the most powerful being in the world who created the universe, but you just don’t know it. Or maybe you begin to think that the world revolves around you. The world is only what you perceive it to be, and if you simply thought hard enough the world would change, because the universe is but a paltry manifestation of your thoughts. But that doesn’t sound like much of a world creation story, but more of an I-seem-to-have-done-something-quiteembarrassing-in-front-of-a-large-audience thought. Or maybe an I-can't-believe-it's-8-o'clock-on-a-Mondaymorning-ugh-I-HAVE-SCHOOL thought. Or maybe every universe is contained within a story, and authors are the great possessors of knowledge sent by the CEO of UniverseCreation.co as ambassadors. I personally know I am not one of those employees, but, should any one of those envoys happen to read this, I would gladly send in my (nonexistent) resume and come in for an interview.

A Letter to Her

Helen Liu

Dear grandma, Some days you are a feather floating in the breeze. A giddy smile lifts your wrinkled cheeks, soft chuckles fall from your lips, a childish light brightens your eyes. The smallest things amuse you: a brightly colored flyer in the mail, the rhythmic clicking of a pen, the pale little succulent placed in your room. The house is like your own little wonderland, filled with tiny, endless treasures that delight you to no end. On these days I will lift my head from my laptop to find you turning some small trinket in your hand, grinning to yourself and murmuring words I cannot decipher. Part of me is relieved that you are happy and unburdened, relieved that the shadowy worries that plague your mind have loosened their hold, if only for a little while. Another part of me cannot help but pity. Pity that someone who’s been through eighty-seven years of hardship after hardship is, in the end, reduced to playing with buttons like a five year old child; that someone so strong (you must’ve been) now seems so small. On these days you point to a peppercorn in the dish we just ate and ask if it’s some sort of bug; on these days you call us over to look at your newspapers, saying you saw us in its blackand-white pictures. You are enraptured by a clueless bliss, a sweetscented fog, your mundane surroundings warped into a delightful utopia. I am not mature enough; I truly do not know if I am happier or sorrier for you. And I am not sure why, but neither of those emotions feel right. Other days you are a branch trembling in the wind. You wander uneasily from room to room, brow creased and hands fidgeting, feet shuffling slow and unsure. Every five minutes you ask me where my father, your son, is; every five minutes I answer 14

that he is in a meeting, or that he is out shopping, or that he went to go play soccer with his friends. Something seems to confuse you, but you can never name it when I offer to help. Instead you speak vaguely of “when that thing happened” and “when they came over” and “that other person that I saw”; it bothers you for hours. On these days you sometimes leave your bedroom late at night, stumbling out in your pajamas and calling our names. When I go to reassure you, I can see the paranoia dulling your eyes, the tension stiffening your body. You stammer about being afraid of the dark, about not being able to find anyone. I lead you back to your room, turn the lamp on, and offer to stay a while; after a little bit, you thank me and say that you’re fine, that I should go back to sleep. As I drift off, I imagine waking alone in a dark, deserted house, the only answers to my calls their echoes and the only people I know in this unfamiliar world gone. It must be terrifying. And once, you were the storm itself. Drowning in hate, your mind poisoned by fury, your glare was derisive and your words vicious. You brought hell to our family, through it was no fault of your own. So last December, we took you to your daughter’s house. You spent three months there, forgot about your anger, then came back to live with us. Only, just today, you asked me once again whether my “true mother” had eaten yet. The way you leaned forward as you lowered your voice to a careful whisper - it was the exact same as it was one year ago, when quarantine first started and your mind began to spiral. The next few months already scare me. Will you sink again into your hatred? How long until we cannot reach you at all? Soon I will be leaving for college - who will calm you down when my father, your son, cannot? You told me once that even if you forgot everyone else, even if you forgot your own son, you would never forget my sister and I. 15

But I know you only as you have been the past few years, since you came to live with us in America. I associate with you your childish bliss, your uneasy confusion, your hatred towards my mother. It is so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that you are my grandmother - that you were the same person who cared for me when I was a toddler, that you were the same person who took me around Beijing during my fourth grade summer, that you were the same person who helped me knit a lumpy mint-green square of fabric that I still have tucked in my drawer today. And yet my earliest memory is of you and my grandfather leading me down the stairs of a plane, of my parents standing a few dozen meters away, of me wriggling free from your grasp and running the distance to my parents and jumping into their arms. I was only two years old at the time, but I think I remember your smile. I look through family pictures sometimes, taken some fifteen years ago, when your hair was just beginning to whiten. Who were you, back then, before dementia fogged your mind? Did you find joy in collecting small trinkets? Were you afraid of the dark, or perhaps of loneliness? Maybe, from time to time, did you argue with my mother? Even before then - what was your life like? You grew up amidst war, and your mother died young. At such a young age, how did you cope? You must’ve been so strong. I’ve also heard my father joke about you running wild with your friends during your twenties, bottles of beer in your hands. Is this true? What else did you do with your friends? And how was it like raising my father? He ended up going to China’s top university; you must have taught him well. Were you proud of him? Did you miss him when he immigrated to America? How did it feel when you knew I was born, when you first knew you were a grandmother? If I could push past the fog - who would I find?

There is so much about you that I don’t know. There is so much that I want to ask you. And every day I must remind myself that there is so much more to you than your dementia, even if I may never be able to see it. I think that I can say, regardless of what the future will bring, I’m glad that you’re my grandma.

Sincerely,

Your granddaughter

The Message

Keira Chen

Take a step back in time. Just for a moment; close your eyes. Do you remember this day? The sky is blue, clouds a distant smattering of grey on the horizon, while the sun beats gentle waves on the grass, the trees, the people. There are two kids in the park, running around and climbing trees. A little too old for playing, some may think, but—you're never too old to have fun.

It's the summer when you were eleven.

You crash into a tree, just barely avoiding smashing your nose on the rough bark. Your lungs heave as your best friend stumbles into you a second later, and giggles spill into the open air as both of you collapse into a heap on the ground.

"I win again," you brag.

"Shut up!" Your friend slaps you lightly on the shoulder, but they can't control the grin stretching across their face. Flicking a stray blossom out of their hair, you accidentally-on-purpose smack them back; the laughter bubbles up again.

Those were good days.

Don't open your eyes yet.

The kids stand, wobbling on exhausted legs, before tottering off to the pavilion. You watch them go, a little sprout of who you are now happily skipping across the park with a best friend in tow. How long has it been since you talked to them? Texted them? How long has it been since you've seen them? Years. It's been so long, you realize, you don't remember their face anymore. 19

Hush. Breathe for a second, and keep watching.

It hurts. You listen anyways. The kids wander to their parents, sitting peacefully in the pavilion's shade, and complain about being hungry. But there is no real hunger, no real want. Just two kids enjoying life, before they knew any better. Do you remember? What it was like, being so carefree? Do you remember, when you were young and happy and oh so satisfied? Do you remember?

I wish I did. I wish I didn't.

Open your eyes.

You do, and face plain grey walls. A potted plant, bought who-knows-when, wilts in the corner. (When was the last time you watered it?) The dishwasher drones on in the background, a steady woosh, swoosh, woosh, while the sink drips maddeningly like usual—you should get that fixed, should've gotten it fixed weeks ago.

Do you remember?

A name rises to the forefront of your mind. You can't remember the shape of their smile, or the way their eyes lit up at the mention of sweets, or their delicate care while baking—as opposed to your awkward clumsiness in the kitchen. But their name...you could never forget their name.

That's good. Remember the good things.

Your hand twitches, and you stare at the phone clutched in your calloused fingers. It's cracked and beaten, chipped on the side from your high school days. There's a niggling idea taking root— their number is still saved. You haven't looked at it since freshman year, but it's there. It's always there.

Take a chance?

Idly, you wonder if they still remember you. If they still 20

remember the love, the hate, the sorrow you had shared. If they still think of back then. And sometimes I wonder what I was, then, you muse. You open the messages app and scroll through old contacts, settling on one in particular.

And sometimes I wonder…

You read your message one last time.

...what I was to you.

You hit send.

Fowl Friendship

Mirika Jambudi

It’s pretty cold out here and i’ve lost feeling in my fingers and you are too preoccupied on your phone to care, and i should have brought gloves and a coat like my mother told me to, countless times, and i never just listen to anyone anymore, which is probably a problem for another day and i keep avoiding conversations, and overhead the clouds keep moving but it’s a dismal day and too windy for anyone to have fun out here, i start picking at a scab, oops it starts to bleed, i hold my hand to my mouth to try to stop the blood, it tastes kind of like metal for some reason, and i wonder who you are texting, am i really that bad company that you need another when i’m right here, there’s no point…has it really been that long since we last met…the grass is dead and dry and tired but perfect for braiding, there’s a nice long strand over there, i’m going to make a bracelet because my phone is dead, i love making for the friends i don’t have but my fingers are too clumsy and they are numb as i fumble with the grass, and i wonder if you notice that i’ve noticed that you have switched to being on that game you always played…nice a new highscore…and i want to reach out to you and say something, and it’s not that i’m intimidated but there’s also the problem of how you’d react and breaking the silence is going to be pretty awkward because i don’t think you really even cared about seeing me in the first place so why did we even meet up on this perfectly dismal day where i could have been doing anything but this, and geese land on the field, i’m still under the tree, honk honk i don’t mind their chatter that much, and it’s starting to drizzle and you haven’t given the slightest indication of wanting to go inside, but who am i to say anything, i’ll just stuff my hands into my pockets, wait for you, and sit in this drowning silence watching the geese fly away. 24

Parker

Gabrielle Marques

I take a deep breath, trying to submerge myself in the spicy scent of my latte. Its warm aroma settles in the air, mixing in with the coffee shop’s gentle ambience. The foam of the coffee is light, but fluffy, and its overwhelmingly sweet flavor allows me to indulge. For a new shop, this place already makes me feel at home. They’ll be seeing me here more often. Besides, I just know Parker would love this place. I should probably bring something home to him, considering how he always goes on about how he wanted to visit all the cafés in our little town. I place an order for an iced americano and a scone, and read a few pages of a new novel, Fractured Reality. It’s from an author that I really like, and the story is about a girl who’s trapped in a false world and struggles to find her true identity. I can’t seem to take the plot seriously. I mean, who could be stupid enough to lose her reality? After a few minutes, the barista delivers Parker’s latte directly to my seat rather than having me get up to receive it from the pick-up station. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” I say. He smiles. “It’s not a problem. Besides, I was hoping to talk to you over here.”

“And why is that?”

His face turns red. “Uh, it’s just that I think you’re really pretty and I wanted to ask for your number?” I smile at him politely. Sure enough, he’s cute. His chestnut brown hair is swept back under his little barista beret and he has some stubble on his chin. However, he’s nothing compared to Parker. “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” I say. His facial expression turns to one of complete embarrassment, and I struggle to keep in my laughter. He mumbles an apology and leaves without another word. I’m definitely going to tell Parker about this. 26

It’s so cute to watch him get jealous. His brow furrows and he makes this adorable little pouting face, and the only thing that makes him happy again is a big kiss on the cheek from me. I’m going to give him one once I get home. I get up from my seat and walk outside, feeling the crisp autumn air on my face. I wince a little bit. I don’t like feeling cold. Cold invites intrusive thoughts. I suddenly feel like I’m forgetting something bad. It tugs at my heart a little bit, and I shake my head, trying to clear out the clouds that invade my mind. Parker doesn’t like when I come home in a bad mood. It makes him feel like it’s his fault. I remember a few months ago, when I was fired from my job because I was lying about my work hours to get paid overtime. I tried to explain to my boss that it wasn’t done out of selfish intention, that we desperately needed it, but he didn’t want to hear my “excuses.” As soon as I walked through the door that day, Parker sensed my frustrations and my hurt, even after I tried to contain my tears so he wouldn’t get worried. And when I told him about what happened, he threatened to go up to my boss and beat him up until I got my job back. The thought of tiny little Parker fighting my giant and buff boss always brought back a fond smile. Parker always knows exactly what to say. I chuckle at the memory, adjusting my scarf. Now, I feel a little bit warmer. As I continue home, I contemplate the number of times I could possibly tell Parker I love him. Around the corner of Cashmore Street, I encounter a candle shop. I was going to walk by, but I detect a strong scent coming from the inside. It’s Parker’s favorite smell. One day, the two of us went to the Renaissance Faire, and in every little store, we found something Cherry Almond scented. If you think about it, Cherry Almond is literally the epitome of all flavors. The perfect combo of warm sweet and cool sweet. We made a joke about it, and suddenly we were racing to buy everything Cherry Almond. 27

The two of us walked out of the Faire holding several bags of candles, soaps, the like. It had become “our thing.” To say the least, our parents were disappointed. How long ago was that? It was in high school. Before we fell in love? I giggle at my stupidity. We fell in love much before high school, much before the world put us together on that fateful winter day in the first grade. We’ve been in love since the beginning of time, our passion for each other intertwining with history and going beyond all human recollection. Anniversaries don’t matter to us, because our love transcends the measly sands of time. I take note of the candle shop’s name for Parker, writing it down in the banks of my memory.

Eternally Ours.

Suddenly, one of my old high school friends texts me.

Hey! This is Carmen! I just wanna check in, considering all that’s well...happened. Just know that I’m here if you need anything, ok? I sigh in frustration. I don’t know why everyone is so concerned for me. As if I’m not a rational adult and can’t take care of myself. It’s not like someone died. They’ve been treating me like this since I told them I didn’t want to study astronomy anymore. “Is it because of Parker?” Carmen asked. I stopped talking to Carmen that day. She was the first of many people I’ve dropped. Not everyone, but anyone who told me it was a lost cause, saying I shouldn’t leave my dreams behind for “some guy.” I guess I understand where they’re coming from, though. They haven’t experienced what it’s like to love someone. To have a shelter keeping you safe from the torrential rains of life. When you have that, you don’t need dreams or passions. Everything I could ever want lies in Parker. I finally turn the corner and reach our apartment. I was actually concerned about moving out because I thought we’d struggle to find a good place, but Parker pulled through, like he always does. He found a sweet little condo, with a reasonable price and friendly neighbors. Although I don’t see many of them 28

anymore. The funny thing is, I can feel them watching me as I walk up the stairs or go up the elevator. They eye me from across the hall, whispering to each other like a circle with me in the middle. I don’t know why they’re so scared of me. It’s not like I bite. I finally open the door, expecting a warm bear hug from my precious Parker. Instead, the inside is cold and dead. And sitting on my couch--Parker’s and my couch--is the stony face of my mother. I scowl. She tends to bother me and Parker once every few months or so because she had wanted me to marry someone else. It doesn’t help that Parker and I have yet to “tie the knot,” so she likes to drop by and pester me about leaving him. I’m not scared or anything; it’s just surprising Parker hasn’t yet kicked her out. “What are you doing here?” I ask. My mom senses my rising annoyance, and her body tenses. “I’m just here to discuss moving arrangements.”

“Moving arrangements? Why do we need to move?”

“We?”

“Me and Parker, of course.”

My mother pauses. She scans my face, maybe looking for the remnants of our broken relationship. She’s not gonna find that here, I’m afraid. Whatever good parts of our relationship were destroyed years ago, since the night Dad left. My patience runs thin. “I’m done with this nonsense. Where’s Parker? He’ll tell you, we’re not moving.” I say. My mom still looks at me in silence, trying to formulate words. She finally says something.

“Honey, are you alright?”

It’s my turn to fall silent. What is she getting at? “Yes, I’m fine! Why do you not want me to go get Parker?! Nevermind, I’ll just call him.” I say. I begin to dial his number and put the phone to my ear, but my mom gently places her hand on the phone and lowers it. 29

“What is your problem, Mom?!”

“It’s just…”

“Just what?!”

“You seem to be forgetting something.”

“Forgetting WHAT?!”

“You know…”

“No, I don’t know, mom! So how about instead of hiding everything like you’ve been doing for the past ten years, just spit it out!” Silence. I really want a hug from Parker right now. He’d find a way to ask my mom to leave, and we’d watch a movie, and everything would be ok.

AAA

Martine Bigos

“The past is never dead. It's not even past.” - William Faulkner Reed stopped the Caddy close to the border near East Stroudsburg. The engine was steaming. We bought a gallon of water at the gas station a few miles back to try and cool down the radiator. Steam only continued to rise into our line of sight as we moved closer to the Del Water Gap. It was late, around nine o’clock. My brother got us to Pennsylvania from Green Bay, but the car began to act up in the home stretch. “Goddamnit!” he shouted, banging the steering wheel as he found a spot on the shoulder of the highway to stop the car.

“Can you call Triple A?” I asked.

“Yeah, ” he replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gettin some air.” He shut the door hard enough to shake the entire car. There was a thunderstorm, so I stayed inside to keep dry. I could hear him over the sounds of traffic and raindrops hitting the roof. He opened the door, wiping his face with a rag in his back pocket.

“They’ll be here in twenty.”

“Ok.”

I grabbed my baseball cap from the duffle bag in the back seat and placed it over my eyes to try and rest for a bit. Reed smoked a Pall Mall next to me. He cupped it in his hands and coughed each time he let out a breath. He stomped it out on the ground after what must have been a while, waking me up as he shut the door to get back in. I opened my eyes and wound open the quarter glass to my right.

“How long was I out?” He stared.

“Don’t know, couple of minutes?”

The tow truck pulled up in front of us. A young man 31

jumped out of the driver’s seat, throwing a slicker over his head to stay dry. He approached Reed’s window. He was slender, no older than thirty with blue eyes and pallid skin. Light brown scruff lined his chin and a dark green, backwards baseball cap covered his short hair. A faint smile took form as he spoke, exposing a slight gap (between) in his two front teeth. “Hey, man,” he shouted over the sound of the thunder. “Did you say your engine block cracked?”

“Don’t know,” Reed responded. “Can you check?”

“Yeah, course. Gimme a sec.”

He went back to his truck, pulling out a flashlight. Reed popped the hood, tapping his fingers on the gear lever as we waited. He flipped the key in his hand a few times, dropping it twice and sticking it back into the ignition when the operator approached his window. “All right. Nothing’s wrong. Engine’s overheated. Leak in the radiator or something. I wouldn’t worry about it. You got a mechanic, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Reed replied.

“Ok, then. You can put it in neutral.”

“Hey!” Reed shouted as the man began to walk away. “Can we stay in here?”

He turned around. “Nah, you gotta be up front.”

“Ah-kay.”

The man grabbed the tow chains, hooking the Caddy up to the truck. I stepped outside. Once the winch pulled the car onto the flatbed, Reed followed. I watched him stumble on the divot in the ground between the grass and side of the road. He spat on a patch of weeds before hopping into the passenger seat of the truck. I sat in the middle. The operator looked over at us. He only started to drive when Reed put on his seatbelt. 32

“Where’re you guys headed?” he asked.

“Millburn,” I replied, “I’ll let you know when you’re at the exit.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, “I’m Luke, by the way.”

“Brian. Thanks for helping out.”

“Not a problem.” He paused. “Whose car is this?''

“It’s Reed’s,” I said, motioning to his seat. He was looking out of the window. We were passing the Del Water Gap. Not much was visible in the dark, other than the green signs that lined I-80.

“Huh?” Reed said.

“I only told him that it’s your car”

“Oh, yeah,” he replied. “Bought it a few weeks ago. Picked her up in Green Bay.”

“Nice, nice,” Luke replied. “65?”

“Yep.”

“Keeping it or flipping it?”

“Flipping. First one.”

“Ah, ok. So do you want to do this full time?”

“Think so,” Reed said, “we’ll see.” He lit another Pall Mall as we drove by the exit, bouncing his leg.

“And what about you?” Luke asked me.

“Oh, well, I’m in college. I was tagging along.” Smoke began to crowd in my eyes. I saw Luke turn his head to the right. “Hey, man, put that out,” he said. His voice was stern in a way that didn’t make you want to punch him. Reed obeyed.

“So, what college?”

“I’m going to Denison.”

“Where’s that?” 33

“Ohio. It’s a half hour out of Columbus.”

“Got an aunt in Dayton. You guys brothers, or?”

“Yeah,” we both replied. He nodded. A few minutes passed. Country music, the modern kind, was playing on the radio. It made me want to talk, or even yell. “I hope you weren’t at the end of your shift when we called,” I said. “Nah, don’t worry, I’m here all night,” he said. I then heard him mumble in a singsong voice, “here all day, here all night.” I noticed that there were two photos taped at the top of the front window. A little girl with wispy curls was smiling in both of them. She was holding a hula hoop at some park in one photo. In the other, she was sitting between Luke and a young woman. She looked as though she were four or five, as all of her teeth had fallen out. “That your daughter?” I asked Luke, pointing to the family portrait. He nodded.

“Yep, yeah.”

“How old is she?”

“Turned six on the twentieth, had a party for her last week.” He chuckled a little.

“Princesses?”

“Close.” He smiled. “Fairies.”

“I’m sure she misses you when you’re gone all day,” I said, waiting to hear a response. There was a pause. “Yeah, well, she’s at her mom’s house on Saturdays, so she’s fine.”

Reed began to listen.

______________________________________________________ 34

I don’t see what did it when I was wary because we slept in hotels and stopped to eat and sat on the road when we could have kept going and it seems all too coincidental to conk out with an hour to go so why laugh it off like we all do because if a coincidence actually has an apparent reason behind its existence then it’s telling of something and that something may be---------------incomparable for a good stretch of time until it isn’t and when it isn’t you’ll be glad you-- just---- acknowledged that it broke down in East Stroudsburg and not Dearborn but until then you can wonder and wonder and why do I cough instead of breathe when my lungs are strong enough for my age because it can’t be those Pall Malls it can’t be even if Brian thinks that it is and if he looks over at me I have to wonder about whether or not I look like an oaf because if it is my belief that my neck or my beard or my nose gives you a reason to find me unfeeling or hollow headed then it---------------does it matter-----------------------when you happen to wake up in the same spot on the same day and it was dark when you dropped and dark when you rose and there’s nowhere to go but home why does the amount of time that you’ve slept hold any sort of weight if your body wakes itself up because it’s done, you’re through, and time wasn’t important anyway which means that most of our words are a filler in a sense because Brian felt the need to speak and look he’s here at last and young and---------------- smirking--------------look right in the eye------------good-------of course---when did rules even begin to take shape and would we be better off with saying to hell with it all like when dad didn't wear a seatbelt and grandma shattered her leg since it was nice for a while instead of stodgy for eternity----------walk straight don’t look-----------just buckle-----the sky is a place of uncertainty when the clouds take form in the evening because you could be in the same state if the sun were out but something clicks and you’re no longer thoughtless and---------breathe out less------ignore the eyes, the cough----what’s funny about judgement or concern is that it begins with an assumption that our agitator knows that it’s agitating like when the person in front of us stops suddenly on the parkway but they didn’t necessarily care to think of their surroundings 35

because to them it isn’t surroundings but instead a background and we forget that we’re just a background to everyone and maybe we forget on purpose because who wants to believe that they’re negligible to another------------------- mind---God--------it’s like that, like when Brian says only because the sentence doesn’t need the word and you get hung on a word and a word could mean nothing but how could it because we choose words as they can be controlled and yet they can’t and maybe my biggest problem is that it all has to mean something and he could sound crass solely because he wanted to clear his throat and wipe his eyes from the pollen but it isn’t April and it isn’t May and I could be better I could and I should listen but------don’t respond and don’t look because looking is another form of---------------------it’s only smoke and if you smoke and stand as though you have seen a lot perhaps you can mask any sense that you’ve done nothing and does sitting ruin the effect or am I merely disgusting and why can’t I hate him----Luke Luke Luke Luke Luke Luke Luke-----can an observer hear a heartbeat and how many of us on this Earth know how to speak when it’s hard to because if it were anyone else I would be offended but I’m not and why so could it be because he doesn’t make you feel beneath him or is such an attempt to do so reason for wanting to smack him or smack Brian or smack myself when they’re accomplices but how is this possible yet I’ve managed to get a sense that they are because we establish our territory in new ways now and it starts with a hunch-------------words that are no filler-------------------------------------no life is------ happy---------------------a daughter but he’s young and with a once wife who can’t be thought of fondly and yet he keeps her there with the air freshener and the E-ZPass as though she were still a constant unless she is and it’s a situation where they drink coffee together every Saturday morning yet it can’t be because we aren’t forgiving and we aren’t amicable with those who disappoint or make us feel ashamed but he could be better than the past though so few are and I cannot recall if I’ve ever met a man who looks a disappointment in the eye because most of us hunch and look to the ground but who can blame us today and who can blame her today but why be 36

merciful for the past is merely a vessel full of could-be screams and confessions and they’re all rising away but they haven’t transcended and they never will because when they rise they die of boredom and want and yes they’re well but they’re not going to be well even though I’m the tragedy ambling into the Other and his eyes make me want to feel but in a manner that they could comprehend and I’m restless and I know it and nothing’s going to happen with my head against the seat and my arm extended toward the trappings of disregard. “Is your daughter in preschool? Or did she just start kindergarten?” The End

Neverland

Sarah Gagliardi

Adults are children in disguise. Office buildings morph into castles, coffee boils into rich chocolate milk, taxes serve as coloring books, and “you’ll understand when you’re older” begins another adventure. My dad used to call me his little princess, my mom used to call me her angel baby. But once I turned a certain age, I was no longer their princess nor their angel; I am now a “young lady.” They stop saying “Did you have fun at school today, sweetheart?” and start drilling “What did you learn today? What grade did you get on your math test? Are you studying?” They stop celebrating when I do well on a test, and I watch how quickly “exemplary” becomes the bare minimum. But I will not be fooled by their outward collection, their “sensible attire,” their 10 cups of mocha lattes per day. They’re just pretending. I know that when they walk into that office building, they slay dragons. When they drive to work in their 2012 Toyota, they transform into valiant princes riding horses. And when they file their taxes, they scribble flowers and hearts all over the papers in hot pink crayon. Susan is really little Suzy, and Bill is really little Billy; they are both children waiting to come out of time-out.

At the Mention of a Martyr

Ashleigh Provoost

John Dickinson sat rigidly in his chair, staring at the

floor. The waiting room had an aura of quiet foreboding; the only sounds to be heard, despite the three other people that sat around him, came from the loud keys of a typewriter as a woman typed furiously behind the large desk. He kept his head down as he tapped his fingers against the armrest, waiting for his name to be called. The clock read 10:02, two minutes after his appointment was supposed to start; he hoped that his tardiness might cancel the appointment that awaited him.

He tried to take a deep breath to clear his mind, but the

sound of a car backfiring made him jump; his hands curled into fists as glances were thrown his way. John met the eyes of a man with a deep red tie, chapped knuckles curled around the handle of an old briefcase. The man quickly looked away.

John closed his eyes, and just like that, it began to play in

his mind. Images flashed in his head, using his closed eyes as a projector screen.

"Kingsley? Come on, Kingsley." John could faintly hear his

own voice; he was looking down at a man in front of him, a heap on the ground. "Arthur, it's me."

John was talking as if it would bring the man back.

Blood had started to pool slowly, making a ring around Arthur's midsection.

John pressed his hands down frantically on Arthur's wound,

soaking his own hands in the process. 40

"Arthur, it's okay. It's gonna be alright." The wounded

soldier gripped John's wrist, pulling him closer.

Arthur's mouth was moving, opening and closing in an

attempt to form his last words. John put his head down, trying to hear. But Arthur's words were unintelligible.

"It… it hurts…" he murmured, as his voice faded into a

whisper, and John leaned in even closer. What was he trying to say? Arthur mumbled again and then stopped. His head lolled to the side.

The words were out of John's mouth before he could

process them. "MORPHINE! I NEED-"

"John Dickinson?" At the mention of his name, John

came back to the waiting room. He gasped, pulled out of yet another daydream–so far, the second one that morning. A trickle of cold sweat rolled down his brow, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it away.

His hands were shaking.

"Mr. Dickinson?" The woman with the typewriter repeated

his name, and John took a deep breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. He debated not moving. It would be easier to walk right out of the room, back outside, and not stop until he ended up far, far away. But the woman was looking at him. He stood, dragging himself toward the desk before she could repeat herself.

"Here," he responded curtly. She looked him up and down,

frowning.

"Dr. Holmes will see you now. You can go ahead." John 41

could feel her gaze of displeasure boring into his back as he turned toward the door. He made the short walk across the waiting room and turned the cold, brass door knob. The door opened to a small office, mainly taken up by an oak desk and a small, mahogany, leather couch studded with gold buttons. The man behind the desk wore large spectacles, a mismatched suit, and a necklace with a cross resembling one John wore long ago. He motioned for John to take a seat with a small smile, showcasing the dimple in his right cheek.

"Hi there, Mr. Dickinson." The man's smile widened. "I'm

Dr. Holmes, but you can call me Arthur. I'd like to-" "No," John said without thinking; Dr. Holmes frowned at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, Dr. Holmes suits you just fine." John hoped that

the doctor didn't hear the small crack in his voice. Dr. Holmes pondered for a second before continuing on.

"So, Mr. Dickinson, why are you here?"

"I don't know."

The doctor paused with his pen halfway to paper, not

expecting John's instantaneous response. John was telling the truth. He would have never seen himself showing up to a therapist's office, but then again, things had definitely changed since that day. Why was he there? Why did he even have to be there?

Why did Arthur have to be there? But Arthur had always

known it would end that way – he had said so the first day they met. 42

"I'm gonna die right here," Arthur had said, grinning like a

madman.

The liveliness of the dining hall was at its peak, shouting

and guffawing coming from every long table. Forks and knives clinked on plates, men toasted life and death with chipped tin cups. John and Arthur sat at the table with men on either side of them, packed like sardines.

"You really think we're not goin' back?" John had said

quietly, gumming down the stale bread on his plate. Arthur had laughed, grabbing his flask and downing the rest of its contents in a swallow.

"Not me," he said. "I'm gonna die right here."

John shook his head. "Why would you say that?"

"It ain't worth coming to this terrible place unless I end up a

martyr," Arthur said with a serious face. He met John's eyes.

"That's the only way I'll be redeemed." Arthur had become

quiet then. "'Besides, if I go home, it's never gonna be the same."

John pushed the food around his plate. "You got anyone?

Back home?"

Arthur's eyes crinkled as a smile formed on his face. "Yeah,

actually. Her name's–" But before he could continue, another man slapped Arthur on the back and drew him away from John. It was over, just like that.

John never learned her name.

"Lost in thought, Mr. Dickinson?" It was Dr. Holmes. 43

John gasped and looked down to see his hands gripping the

couch tightly, his knuckles white and his jaw clenched. He looked up at Dr. Holmes, who eyed him curiously. John cleared his throat.

"That happens sometimes," he said. He slowly unwrapped

his hands from the couch to cross his arms.

"Do you want to talk about those thoughts?" Dr. Holmes

inquired. "No."

"Isn't that why you came here today, Mr. Dickinson?"

"Maybe."

"I'm here to help."

"I've guessed."

"So let me help you." John stared at the wall behind Dr.

Holmes; his empty stare bore into the frame behind the doctor's desk, stained with age.

"I'm trying," John said.

"Just let go."

"I can't!"

The doctor tucked his pen into his breast pocket. He pulled

the spectacles off of the bridge of his nose. Clasped his hands together.

"Are you okay, Mr. Dickinson?"

John was surprised by the bluntness of the question. He fell

silent once more. The answer to that question wasn't complex. But 44

saying it would turn speculation into fact. And John wasn't quite sure he was ready.

"I…" He took a shallow breath, filling the silence with

the sound of his quiet exhale. "I don't think so." He mumbled the words under his breath. The doctor leaned forward.

"Pardon?"

"No!" The words came suddenly. John watched as the

doctor looked at him with curiosity. Then he leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.

The glassy eyes of Arthur Kingsley stared back at him,

devoid of all life. A good man, a good soldier. A good friend. There had to have been some way to save Arthur from that bloody fate, some way that he missed…

He opened his eyes with a start, trying to get the face out of

his mind. "I'm sorry… Arthur..."

The poor doctor didn't know that the apology wasn't for

him.

Dr. Holmes studied John, meeting the man's eyes. "Why are

you crying, Mr. Dickinson?"

Quickly, John wiped a tear from his cheek. It surprised him,

as crying was unfamiliar to him. He adjusted in his seat, ashamed to look the doctor in the eyes.

The picture behind the doctor's desk stared at him. A blonde

woman with two young children behind her. She was laughing. Beautiful. Just like Arthur's girl, John thought. 45

He had only learned who Arthur had back home when it

was too late. The photo Arthur had given him still haunted him to this day. It was a small, wallet-sized photograph, wrinkled with the age of war, but John could see the woman clearly. Blonde and beautiful, laughing at something the person behind the camera had said. But he had never known her name.

"Find… her," Arthur had said.

"What's her name?" John asked. "Arthur, what's her name?"

Arthur's lips moved as a gun exploded next to the two men;

John pressed his face towards Arthur's mouth, fighting to hear over the ringing in his ears. But his last words had already been said. Arthur's pale hands pressed the photo into John's. Bloody fingerprints covered the woman's laughing mouth. The entire right corner was soaked through; whether from Arthur's hands or his own, John wasn't sure.

Later, John tried to wash the blood off the photo—off his

clothes, hands, and mind. But it was impossible. The stains still lingered.

He'd never found the girl in the photo. Every day he

wondered if she was still waiting for the man who died that day.

Maybe he should try the phone book again.

"Mr. Dickinson?" The doctor was still waiting for an

answer.

"Oh." John pulled out the handkerchief to wipe his face

again. More tears had appeared.

"What do you see inside your mind, John?" Dr. Holmes

asked.

John knew full well what he was seeing. The same thing

he'd seen for the past eight months. He saw Arthur's last moments, over and over and over again, trying to hear his last words. Trying to listen to him.

"Arthur, stay with me, please." John's final sentence to

Arthur echoed throughout his head. He remembered his hands slapping Arthur's face as he got the dying man to open his eyes one more time. Arthur had grasped at John's jacket, opening his mouth.

He had whispered something. But under the roar of the

machine guns, it disappeared.

Then Arthur dropped down and was still, his last words

heard only by the war.

He lay there with his eyes wide open as the blood pooled

around John's legs.

John screamed as the tears rolled down his face. He

screamed. And screamed.

"I couldn't hear what he said," he spoke out loud. "I don't

know her name." He saw the doctor finally register what John had been trying to say the whole time.

The doctor looked down, and John couldn't identify the

emotion that passed through his eyes. "A shame," he said.

"Yes," John replied, empty. "What a shame."

The Auspice of January 18th

Helen Liu

January 18th1 the lone mountain town is strangely quiet today.

A chilling wind blows through its empty streets, kicking up

dust and dead leaves. The buildings are hushed and lifeless, their doors shut tight, drapes covering their windows. Trees rattle and shake, their branches bare and frozen in this cold winter, but even the clack of wood on wood seems muted.

It is waiting for something. The town holds its breath, a

terrified child hiding in a closet, as if the demons forever twisting in the shadows beyond will disappear if it just remains still. Even as the air grows painfully thin, even as fear chokes its throat, it remains silent and unmoving.

And then, far in the distance, a suona2 wails.

It pulls her from her sleep, shrill and sharp. She blinks

open heavy eyes, twitches numb fingers. Ah - it’s been a while since she’s slept this well, dreamless and uninterrupted. She yawns pleasantly, flexes her legs, and rolls her shoulders. Then, bracing herself with her hands, she tries to sit up.

Her body feels like it weighs ten tons. With a huff, she lets

herself flop back to the bed. The effort leaves her exhausted; her eyelids are already beginning to flutter shut. Drowsily, she shifts into a more comfortable position, leaning back against the cushion and clasping her hands together. The suona sounds again. 48

She frowns and flips herself over. Pushing her face into the

cushion, she hopes it will muffle the screeching instrument.

It sounds again, and again, and again.

A curse bursting from her lips, she springs to her feet,

fueled by pure irritation. Her hair, long and unbound, spills to the floor.

“Who the hell is that?” she shouts, stomping outside,

ignoring the way her white robes drag in the dirt.

Of course, nobody responds. She glares at the street in front

of her, wanting desperately to go back to sleep, but she can still hear the suona somewhere in the distance. But standing outside, its notes seem to be clearer, purer. Compelling rather than harsh, piercing but not painful, just rough enough to be addictive. She closes her eyes and tilts her head to listen more closely.

The song fascinates her. She can’t tell if the musician is

overjoyed or devastated, if the melody is meant to be a celebration or a lament. Perhaps it is announcing a wedding or a funeral - she has no idea which.

Something brushes against her feet. She looks down to see

a stray cat twining around her legs, rubbing its face against her robes and purring softly. It nudges her forward, towards the sound of the suona.

“Alright, kitty,” she coos, bending down to stroke its ears.

It leans into her touch; she’s never seen a stray so friendly. “Let’s go see what the big deal is.”

As she walks, she spots a man sneaking through the next 49

alley. He’s twitchy and wide-eyed, his breaths coming in pants, his forehead beaded with sweat. In his hands is a plate of expensive desserts, rarely seen in lone mountain towns like these.

“Are you alright?” she calls, but he does not respond,

instead ducking in between two buildings and disappearing. Shrugging, she moves on.

More cats slink onto the street behind her. Minnow-like,

they emerge from shadowy alleys, flit through cracks in the walls. Pupils dilated and tails held parallel to the ground, they follow silently.3

On the other side of town, the suona is louder than ever,

its song echoing through the lonely streets. The buildings seem to shy away, trembling in fearful anticipation. Then slowly, gradually, comes the clicking of hoofbeats. The thumping of footsteps, the rustle of fabric in the wind. And the musician appears around the corner, blowing into the suona with all his might.

His playing is smooth, but his fingers are white-knuckled

around his instrument.

Looming behind him is a man dressed in red, adorned

with gold. He sits straight-backed atop a gleaming horse, swaying slightly with the movement of its muscles. Trailing him are four men, carrying on their shoulders an ornate sedan decorated with flowing tassels and glittering embroidery. And after them, a long vermilion procession. Scarlet banners flap, the characters ying qin4 stitched on in vibrant yellow. Women in flowing dresses clutch baskets of crimson paper, confetti fluttering like snow around them. 50

All bow their heads; none wear smiles. Only the groom on

the horse stares steadfastly forward, eyes fixed on the path before him. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to grin but has forgotten how.

She sees them coming from afar, their bright reds

unfamiliar in this drab, grey mountain town. She can only describe their presence as a loud silence. The town is not quiet anymore, filled with the sound of the suona and the shuffling of feet and cloth. But where are the cheers, the laughs, the well-wishes and congratulations? If she didn’t know better, she’d say this was a funeral disguised as a wedding, some sort of twisted joke.

An altar stands at the center of town, covered in flowers

and silk and incense waiting to be lit. Shuangxi5 large and golden, is emblazoned at the heart of the setup. And positioned before it is a thin stone tablet, looking somewhat out of place amidst the colorful decorations. She tucks herself behind a shadowy building; she doesn't think they will see her here.

Slow and deliberate, they enter the town center. The groom

dismounts; the procession stills behind him. An attendant hurries to light the incense while the carriers gently ease the sedan to the ground. As if frozen in place, the groom stares at the altar, smoke wreathing around him. He tries and fails to rearrange his expression, the corners of his mouth curling up even as his lips thin, dimples appearing below furrowed, lowered eyebrows. His horse stamps its hooves and whinnies nervously; someone hurries to grasp its reins and calm it down.

Then, with a long, shaky exhale, he gives up and turns

towards the sedan. He takes a step forward, then another. 51

Two attendants follow skittishly, drawing aside the curtains

and reaching into the sedan with trembling hands.

The bride emerges. She wears a beautiful red dress, multi-

layered and embroidered with gold designs. A gossamer red veil, as delicate as butterfly wings, is draped over her head. The groom stiffens ever so slightly, then slowly moves to her side.

Together, they stand in front of the altar. A man pours two

cups of wine and sets them on the silk-covered table, tripping over his own feet while backing away. The groom descends to his knees, heavy and lethargic, eyes half-closed. With the help of the attendants, the bride does too, the heavy dress making her movement awkward and unwieldy.

She moves closer to the altar, keeping herself hidden. At

this distance, she can clearly see the groom’s face. His clenched jaw, his hands fisted in his lap, his lashes fluttering ever-so-slightly. The way his eyes dart back and forth between the bride, the altar, and the ground.

And a long-forgotten memory stirs in her head.

“I’m going to become a palace official in a year,” he

boasts. “I’m going to ace the civil service exam and enter the capital. The emperor himself will rely on me!”

“Of course,” she says, shoving at him playfully. “With that

poem you wrote way back then, you’re guaranteed a position.” She puts a finger on her chin and pretends to think. “How did it go again? ‘Her hair is like an inky river, dark as the night and shiny as the stars -’” 52

He blushes furiously. “Shut up!” he whines. “I was

thirteen!”

“Thirteen and already lovestruck,” she teases, nudging his

arm. “Hey - why haven’t you written about me more? Where’s the sequel?”

He turns away, cringing. Laughing, she scoots closer and

leans against his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you loved me more when you were thirteen than you do now.”

He mumbles something under his breath, the tips of his ears

bright pink. She leans closer still. “What was that?”

“I said if you want more poems, I have a dozen written

already!” He buries his burning face in his hands.

Delighted, she grins giddily and hugs him. “Why, you’ll

have to show me sometime.”

Someone at the head of the procession steps out into the

open, and she forces her gaze away from the groom. The man’s legs are unsteady; his nails dig into his palms. Face pale and voice breaking, he opens his mouth and shouts:

Yi bai tian di!6

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Swearing, she

doubles over, her knees hitting the ground hard. The cats behind her hiss, a menacing, rattling sound, their fur standing on end.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

His jaw is set, but his eyelashes flutter, trying to hide his

tears. It’s useless - they glitter like diamonds in the moonlight. She watches as a drop slides down his cheek. “I’ll be leaving 53

tomorrow,” he says again, voice trembling. And then he collapses into her arms, futilely choking back sobs.

“Why are you crying, silly?” she says, sitting down and

pulling him further into her lap. She attempts to smile, her own vision blurring. “You’ve dreamed of this since you were a kid. We should be celebrating.”

He doesn’t respond, just buries his face into the crook of

her arm. His body heaves. She strokes his back, rests her chin on his shoulder. “Don’t be like this,” she whispers. “Let’s make the most out of today, yeah?”

He only cries harder. Who’s she kidding - she’s as

heartbroken as he is. Closing her eyes, she clutches at him tighter, as if she could keep him with her if she only hugged him long enough. Her tears stain his shirt.

They rest like that for a while, limbs entwined and eyes wet,

mourning the years they are about to lose. The moon is high in the sky when their breaths are finally steady again.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says quietly, not moving from

his place in her arms.

“I’ll miss you too.” She runs a hand through his hair and

hopes she seems stronger than she actually is. “But it’s alright,” she adds, forcing brightness into her voice. “It’s not like you’ll be gone forever.”

“It’s not like I’ll be gone forever,” he repeats. “It’s not like

I’ll be gone forever.” He wipes the tears off his cheeks and sits up, a new fire in his eyes. “I swear to heaven and earth that I will come back for you. Once I’ve settled into my duties - once I have 54

what I need to give us both a happy life - I will come back and marry you.” He hesitates, shifting. “If you’re willing, of course.” She reaches out and grasps his hands, interlocking her fingers with his. “Doesn’t that go without saying?” Looking him in the eye, she promises, “I will wait for you.”

The groom bows, his forehead touching the ground. She

feels pain lance through her body as the bride bows too, the attendants taking care to support her. The person at the head of the procession shouts again, voice high and tight:

Er bai gao tang!7

She is willing to wait. The rest of the town is not.

An unmarried girl brings bad luck, they whisper. Better

to stay away from her, lest you want misfortune falling upon your family. Her partner might’ve promised to marry her, but who knows when he’ll be back? Two years? Three?

Passing the imperial examination is no small thing - I

doubt he’ll be back at all. Look at all the other girls her age. Most of them already have children.

A shame, really. She’s not bad-looking. What a waste.

Her family distances themselves from her. She is to stay

inside and help with their business, weaving cloth from cotton and hemp. Keep to the back-alleys and remain out of sight, her parents say. Don’t embarrass us more than you already have.

She gets used to it, eventually. She learns to ignore the

whispers that follow her as she walks down the street, to brush off the snide comments spoken just loud enough to hear. There had 55

never been much for her in this lone mountain town, anyways. What difference does all of this make?

Even if he hadn’t left, she thinks her life would be more or

less the same. And even if he comes back wealthy and powerful enough to whisk her to the capital - she can’t imagine much will change.

The weeks stretch into months. The months become years.

Some days she goes to the field they once loved to play in, lying down in the long grass and staring up at the cloud-lined sky. How simple it used to be, she thinks. To be satisfied with such a small, confined existence. She wishes she could be as naive as she was back then.

Three years pass, and still he does not return. She no

longer knows if she is waiting or not. She does not know what she is waiting for.

Then one evening, as she is washing clothes by the river, a

drunk man leaving the nearby tavern sees her.

“You’re that unmarried girl everyone talks about,” he

said, a slight slur to his words. She squints to make out his face. It’s Wang Ergou, the shoemaker who had come to the town with his family a few months ago, and she can smell the alcohol on him even from here. Gathering her clothes and standing, she walks away.“You know, you’re quite pretty,” he laughs loudly, approaching her. “Why haven’t you found a husband yet?”

She quickens her pace, hurrying down the riverbank.

He follows her, shouting, “Don’t go, lovely one!” and

finally she drops all her clothes and starts running, but he is faster 56

and manages to grab her arm and then there is nothing she can do. “Why don’t you spend some time with me,” he breathes, his warm breath on her face. All she can smell is alcohol.

When he is gone she retrieves her dirt-covered clothes

and goes back home. The next morning her parents berate her for staying out so late. Later her father sees the pile of still-wet dirtcovered clothing tossed haphazardly beside her bed and slaps her and tells her he should have just drowned her when she was born because daughters are good for nothing but marriage anyways and she cannot do even that.

She can still smell the alcohol.

She clutches her head, wishing the pain would go away. In

front of the altar, the groom shifts on his knees, turning to face the bride. Tears brim in his eyes; his entire body trembles like a leaf in the wind.

Fu qi dui bai!8

She is sure of it - her life is not worth living.

This is all she will ever have. This purposeless drifting in a

sea of misery and suffering and humiliation and despair. Nothing will change - not in her lifetime.

What more is there? Even if tomorrow she finds ten pounds

of gold buried in the ground, others will lay claim to the money. Even if she has twenty servants waiting on her at all times, she will still be trapped in a cage. Even if he comes back this very moment, she does not know if she still loves him, or if he still loves her. It does not matter either way - no amount of love is worth this much pain. 57

What a childish promise she had made back then. How

foolish on her part; how selfish on his. He has the entire world in his hand, all the opportunities he can dream of. He will not miss that childhood sweetheart from so long ago.

She fingers the rope looped around her neck. She knows

that it is sturdy, and that it will hold - she had woven it herself. A bitter smile curves her lips. It is almost funny, that though she was helpless in life, she can guarantee herself a smooth death.

She spares no final prayers, not to heaven and earth, not

to her parents, not to him. All she hopes is that the afterlife will be kinder.

Suddenly, her head clears. The pain stops; her body relaxes.

Slowly, she stands up, just in time for the groom to rise from his third bow. Ah - she remembers everything now.

The groom takes the two cups on the altar and gives one to

his bride’s attendants. With a shaky hand, he lifts her veil to reveal a paper-maché face.

She stares at her effigy, running her gaze over its painted

eyes, its bright-red lips, its sculpted body covered in layers and layers of vermillion silk. The artist had done a decent job, she thinks. Lifeless, stiff, dressed for marriage - how incredibly accurate.

The groom’s mouth twists as he stares at the bride

Squeezing his eyes shut, he downs the wine in one gulp.

She hears frantic muttering in the next street over.

It’s the man from before, with the desserts; she recognizes

him now. It’s Wang Ergou who is kowtowing towards the altar, feebly pushing forward his plate of small cakes and sweet soup.

“Forgive me,” he babbles, forehead on the ground. “I was

drunk and didn’t know what I was doing. I made a mistake. I made a big mistake. Please - please take these offerings as penance.” He bows again, fear in every line of his body. “Please - I have a wife I have children. Please forgive me.”

She doesn’t stop to listen to more, and moves towards the

town center. Her eyes pass over the thin tablet8 on the altar, tracing her own name etched into the stone.

All this fanfare, and for what? She’s dead - she could

care less. He’s a fool, binding himself to someone long gone, someone he never truly knew. And when everything is over, what will change? He will return to the capital and continue his work, carrying on as usual, this moment only a minor hiccup in his life. Was it really worth disturbing her rest for this?

She doesn’t understand, but supposes it’s none of her

business anyway.

She looks over the procession of red one last time, then

drifts back to her nap, already feeling the sleepiness weighing down her limbs. Soon the suona will stop playing, and then they will burn her effigy, and once again she will have no ties to the world. She’s glad - she much prefers her comfortable slumber.

The afterlife is kinder, after all.

Cultural References 1

January 18th (of the lunar calendar) is an auspicious day for

funerals. The suona is an instrument commonly used in Chinese traditional music. It is sometimes played at weddings and/or funerals. A Chinese proverb states, 唢呐一响, 非喜即悲 - the sound of the suona must bring either joy or sorrow. (Note: the suona is a major feature of 囍, being the most prominent part of its chorus.) 2

Feral cats were said to have been able to see spirits/ghosts.

Ying qin (迎亲) roughly means “to welcome the bride” or “to escort the bride.” In traditional Chinese weddings, the groom would go to the bride’s house and escort her from her house to his family’s house in a sedan. 4

The character 囍, reading, “shuangxi” (双喜, literally “a pair of xi”). It is composed of two 喜 (joy) characters side by side. It is 5

commonly seen as a decoration in weddings.

Bow to heaven and earth. The first part of the baitang (拜堂) ceremony, in which the newlyweds show respect to firstly the heaven and earth, secondly their parents, and finally to each other. 6

Bow to parents. The second part of the baitang ceremony.

Newlyweds bow to each other. The third part of the baitang ceremony. 8

In China, ancestral tablets are used to honor ancestors and designate their places in their families. An ancestor’s name is inscribed upon each tablet. Incense would often be burned before them, and offerings (food, drink, etc) could be placed in front. 9

Lyrics 正月十八 January 18th 黄道吉日 This auspicious day 高粱抬 Raising the sorghum 抬上红装 Carrying the red wedding dress 一尺一恨 Every step with hatred 匆匆裁 Severing ties 裁去良人 Leaving the loved ones 奈何不归 Is there a way to return? 故作颜开 Pretending to be happy 响板红檀 The sound of the red sandalwood clappers 说得轻快 The light voice 着实难猜 It’s hard to guess 听着 Listen 卯时那三里之外翻起来 To the sound, three miles away, echoing in the early morning 平仄 Up and down

马蹄声渐起斩落愁字开 The clicking of hoofbeats arouses sorrow 说迟那时快 Time flies 推门雾自开 Pushing open the door, there’s fog outside 野猫都跟了几条街 Feral cats have followed for a few streets now 上树脖子歪 Climbing up the trees, necks bent 张望瞧她在等 Looking at her still waiting 这村里也怪 This town is strange too 把门全一关 All the doors are closed 又是王二狗的鞋 It’s Wang Ergou’s shoes again 落在家门外 Scattered outside the door 独留她还记着 Only she remembers 切肤之爱属是非之外 The love that was beyond right or wrong 这不 But this is not 下马方才

The person who stepped off the horse 那官人笑起来 That official smiles 那官人乐着寻思了半天 That official thought happily for a long time 只哼唧出个离人愁来 Only to whisper a sad sentence 她这次又是没能接得上话 This time, she was once again unable to say anything 她笑着哭来着 She laughs and cries 你猜她怎么笑着哭来着 Guess how she laughs and cries 哭来着 Crying 你看她怎么哭着笑来着 Watch how she cries and laughs 一拜天地 Bow to heaven and earth 二拜高堂 Bow to parents 夫妻对拜 Newlyweds bow to each other 堂前 In front of the hall 他说了掏心窝子话 He spoke from the bottom of his heart 不兑上诺言 But it can’t be as their promises

岂能潇洒 How to be unrestrained? 轻阴 Clouds gather in the sky 叹青梅竹马 Sighing for a childhood sweetheart 等一玉如意 Waiting for a desired jade 一酒桶啊 And a jar of wine 她竖起耳朵一听 She pricked up her ears and heard 这洞房外 Outside of the bridal chamber 那好心的王二狗跑这给她送点心来了 That kind-hearted Wang Ergou was scrambling to bring her desserts 她这次可是没能说得上话 This time, she was once again unable to say anything 她笑着哭来着 She laughs and cries 你猜她怎么笑着哭来着 Guess how she laughs and cries 哭来着 Crying 你看她怎么哭着笑来着 Watch how she cries and laughs 62

正月十八这黄道吉日 January 18th, this auspicious day 正月十八这黄道吉日 January 18th, this auspicious day 正月十八这黄道吉日 January 18th, this auspicious day 正月十八这黄道吉日 January 18th, this auspicious day

POETRY 65

We Do Delivery

Julia Fu

HeRRo! This is The Lit-tle Lotus Chinese restaurant spieking; how may ai help you? One ode-r of sesame chic-ken? Would you rike more salty o swiet? Sou-r o spicy? How about tryyung somethyung exotic, maybe erotic, anythyung you want, we do ta-keout, dinein, and do deliwery. We are here at you serwice, here to fulfill you desires, you wildest fantasies. Just say the word.

Ding-dong, delivery!

Your submissively sexy Asian girls have arrived in the mail. Disclaimer: Asian girls are fragile and you are now in possession of their vulnerability. You have control over their skinny, child-like bodies, so please be careful. They can be used, abused, and reused. But don’t worry, they’ll disappear when they turn thirty, so you can continue lusting with no regrets. Even if you do feel badly, you can just shoot us and blame it on our sexiness. If you experience any issues with our product, please make sure to contact us immediately so we can give you a full refund. If there are technical difficulties, the Asian woman is too timid to fix her issues, 66

so as the blue-eyed man, you’ll need to act quickly. Show her you’re stronger; her knight in shining, white armor. Your whiteness is a powerful weapon allowing you to dominate her. Use your whiteness to fix any of her technical difficulties like if she dares to whisper “no.” Of course, there shouldn’t be any issues because your existence already controls her.

Asphyxiation

Annabelle Shilling

Tearing the jagged edges of its teeth through your heart Tracing along each individual artery and vein It holds you tight Tight as a parent would their child “Teach me of the world,” the little one says The world they have yet to see And thus they are taught To see the world for what it is Not to make it see you For who you are Who are you? It holds you so tight you choke On your thoughts On your words On yourself A parent to a child, yes, it is the same It holds you tight, the rope around your neck For the only thing binding them is blood

Hide and Seek

Sarah Gagliardi

Hide and Seek. The rules are as follows: I am now the seeker, you are now the hider. You hide. I seek.

Let's play the game.

One….

Two….

Three….

Four….

I peek through the cracks in my fingers to see if you are hiding like instructed. Instead, I find you standing in the middle of the bedroom with your hands pressed tightly against your own eyes. You don’t think I can see you. You cover your own eyes because you cannot fathom a world outside of yourself.

I can’t see you - you can’t see me.

At first it’s cute, endearing, sweet. But with each round of hide and seek, your “hiding spot” becomes increasingly predictable. 70

You’ve stopped hiding altogether.

The rules don’t apply to you.

Instead, you stand in the middle of the bedroom with your hands placed proudly over your eyes And I let you win the game each time. So as I count to ten for the next round, standing in the middle of the bedroom, There are, in fact, two idiots covering their eyes. One who can’t follow rules, and one who is too stupid to stop playing the game with a child.

The Law of Divine Oneness

Sarah Gagliardi

Break my heart again. Do it.

i still haven’t learned enough from You

yet.

Slouching Toward Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

Martine Bigos

*(A Revision of "Talk") i. The Gytrash Roaming down a lane in early morn, An unknown figure comes into our sight. Just as our suspicions start to form, Its eager tendons canter toward the light. Vile as a child free from hate, With soul and gleaming fur, we grasp relief. Instinct ought to hold a greater weight Because its gentle nature was but brief. Little can offset its fervid aim. Its claws are hollowed in the softened ground. Promises have set us all aflame With impulse to enlist, or flee the hounds.

Jane is nothing less that unarmed when

The varmint’s disguised as one’s closest friend.

ii. Macduff The two dozen hours remain at hand For voice and ear to merge as she rests still, And chance fails to defuse or lose command Till Birnam Wood reaches Dunsinane Hill. But corps of knave can shift the talks of fate, So ill and wretched since the age of Cain. Although the deck was dealt upon our plate, There’s few with pride for sense to rid disdain. Our lips may touch the sounds we 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 their stiff woodlands come to mount the bluff.

iii. Yeats the Augur Here we squat, inside the valley dam, To watch her belly sprout beside the beast. Imbrued with newfound truth churned by the clan, Its lurid pact arrives each day to feast. Although circumstance has now ceas’d to stun, The banshee’s keening within fails to halt, For all that’s pure has drowned, barren and dun. Corporate descent has left us all at fault. Run! O’ run past buildings long collapsed, And sages chained adjacent to the trail. Now we know the vigor of an axe. Dear reticence, the grave you will inhale.

The Final Coming’s flora and fauna

Are slouching toward Bethlehem, ’sylvania?

iv. Versailles, an Awakening Some can recall yesterday’s defects. When the victorious starv’d conquered land, Awareness of execrable effects And horrors unassumed are seldom planned. We ought to question a recurrence, When silent hordes are smothered by the few Whose potent views have tainted their presence. So little they’ll accept, and much they’ll do. But where does that leave the doves now encaged? If one has the means, eastward land is safe. Unguided by perspective’s mild assuage, The poles are defined, right and left in place.

Pushing the destitute to the brink,

Let us drown, the air will fill with pink.

Finding Freedom

Kristin Osika

At first it comes as a fleeting thought, a crashing wave of subconscious significance. An involuntary spasm of the mind, one much too radical for a woman of her kind. Yet it persists, undergoing a metamorphosis, fighting suppression by an entranced bourgeoisie, that allows just one definition of what a woman should be. They say she must sit properly, and play the piano. They leave no room for her to have a melody of her own or a life outside of home. Freedom takes the form of high hopes, paint strokes, and the casual glint in a young gentleman’s eye. He gives her strength to soar high he makes her think she can fly, even in New Orleans’ hierarchical sky. Yet even he cannot resist the allure of being to her, a proper monsieur.

The man who seemed to defy the odds shatters her heart by removing the facade. Drawn closer to the realization that all he desires is her objectification, she knows what she thought would be her whole world has become yet another white picket-fenced, lavishly decorated, ornately furnished, cage. Birds cannot fly without an open sky. She cannot be his or theirs. She cannot become yet another mother or au pair. Dinners with socialites and fêtes on jubilant nights will not define her spark of life. She approaches the vast unknown where she will conquer the stigma of being alone. In the ocean, she is free. She is finally, able to breathe.

My Ballet Slippers Still Fit

Abby Parrish

My mom always told me I came into this world dancing The second I was able to move freely, I moved rhythmically To the beat of my mother’s cries, to the rhythm of the hospital monitor I moved freely and I moved rhythmically I couldn’t walk, but I could still dance I moved my arms in motions through the air Creating images in my head that I wished to express but could not say I moved expressively and I moved longingly In our little Hong Kong apartment, Mambo Number 5 booming out of the speaker Twirling throughout the living room, finally able to move my feet Tapping and pirouetting and stomping and galloping I moved loudly and I moved joyously My sister and I choreographed combinations We made up dance moves, some that nobody had ever seen before Falling to the ground after attempting jumps and turns We moved creatively and we moved without fear

I joined a dance team and we were taught by Miss Jennie 7 years of my life, tying up pointe shoes, getting fitted for tap shoes We dressed up for competitions and we won platinum awards We moved obediently and we moved synchronously I stayed silent during water breaks Pretending not to hear them laughing about how I wasn’t good enough I cried in the bathroom, but wiped off my tears and tied my ballet slippers back on When did moving start to become a chore? I still dance across my hardwood floor to beautiful sounds I let loose at school dances and music festivals At parties and beaches late at night, hand in hand with friends I move out of love and I move out of joy My mom asks me, “Don’t you regret quitting? I miss watching you dance on stage.” I smile and say, “Don’t worry, my ballet slippers still fit.”

12 Months, 4 Seasons, 1 Year

Sarah Gagliardi

I wait impatiently for Santa in the fall, Roses in the winter, Sunburn in the spring. But once it is summer, I put on my flannel and light my candles. I jump ahead. I forge on and don’t look back. My ungratefulness is apparent, Though I will continue my cycle until I lie on my deathbed. I become your resident crotchety old man. TV volume just under 70, bad back, bedtime at 7:30pm. I spend my Sunday grumbling at those damn kids for kicking their soccer ball over my fence. I will continue until I can never experience another frigid fall, blooming winter, blazing spring, pumpkin spice summer... until “life” fades to blackness. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

ARTWORK 85

A Glimpse

Helen Ma

Untitled

Thomas Henry

Flowers

Keira Chen

Untitled Plant

Kristin Osika

City Streets

Mirika Jambudi

Whales

Natalie DeVito

Woman and Flamingo

Julia Fu

CALLIOPE

S 96 U M M E R

2 0 2 1

Calliope - Summer 2021

Articles inside

My Ballet Slippers Still Fit Abby Parrish

The Auspice of January 18th Helen Liu

At the Mention of a Martyr Ashleigh Provoost

Finding Freedom Kristin Osika

Slouching Toward Bethlehem Martine Bigos

Neverland Sarah Gagliardi

AAA Martine Bigos

A Letter to Her Helen Liu

The Universe in Our Minds Laura Liu

The Message Keira Chen

Parker Gabrielle Marques

Through the Generations Julia Fu

Walmart and Rice Fields Julia Fu

Two Pretty Best Friends Ariel Li

The Final Stop Helen Liu