Calliope Winter 2020 by The Pingry School

CALLIOPE W I N T E R

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

About We are Pingryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s art and literature magazine. We are always open to student submissions! We are also currently putting up a website at students. pingry.org/calliope. Contact us for more details regarding submissions/joining the staff! Editors Lauren Taylor (VI) Noah Bergam (V) Justin Li (V) Cal Mahoney (V) Chris Ticas (V)

Faculty Advisor Ms. Grant Cover Art: Chris Ticas

Writing Poetry Mabel and the Yellowwood

Cal Mahoney

Plastic World

Eva Schiller

My Stars, My Eyes

Meghan Durkin

Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the truth Eva Schiller C8H10N4O2 Cal Mahoney

Prose The River Stories of a Ghost When We Go

Justin Li

Massa Godbold

Silver Stickers (Excerpt)

Helen Liu

Jackie

Cal Mahoney

Invisible Rules (Excerpt)

Avi Shah

The Intergalactic Burger

Noah Bergam

Art Ariel Li Vera Lynn

Aida Mirika Jambudi

Perception 7

Flowers

City

54 55

Natalie Ladino Untitled

Untitled

Isabella Acosta abstract 3

Peaks and Trees

Calm Before the Storm

snowy

POETRY

Mabel and the Yellowwood

Cal Mahoney

The Yellowwood has never been very yellow. It’s always been more of a sickly ochre. A sojourn down the busiest roads would yield two things: Blisters, on the back of my heels, for apparently “one size fits all” sunflower seed shoes are actually “one size fits everyone but me,” and The constant chilly eye contact from above. My neck is often sore, from looking up, though those around me don’t deserve it. According to my doctor, this was clearly “an issue of attitude.” It’s not my fault I can see through the haze. Every morn, when the sand beetles have yet to climb from their tunnels, and the sparrows have yet to caw, my mother straps an acorn helmet to my head. Her eyes don’t meet mine. They focus right above them, for I am twenty-two, and still tumble from the sky when a swarm of new-to-flying toddlers spread their wings. Ochre, it’s the color of her eyes. she gives me a smile. you are safe now, though ‘now’ is the least of my worries. Sickly ochre, the color not yet of my eyes. I see it creeping in rings towards my pupils sometimes when I dust myself off, after a harsh gust of wind or an elbow to the gut has landed me in the thick waters of the golden rivers below 8

and my wings are wet and i cannot fly. All shades of yellow, I think, are sickly. Ochre leads the pack. The sharp and sticky amber that resides in giant blocks of crystal around the Yellowwood resembles my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes. Similarly sickly. At dusk, when the sun fades away and the ochre haze begins to clear, and I can smell nothing but sharp, sticky amber, I stand, in clothes too big for my frame, and watch as one by one, the others drift to the walls. I stand, and swallow. The sight of someone being taken in a flash of light has never gotten easier to witness, and suddenly everything is ochre again. And I, with my sunflower seed shoes slipping slowly, softly, off my heels, knowing that while i hold the truth tight to my chest, i cannot set myself free from it, wish for bigger, stronger wings. Yes, sorry. I lost my shoes again? The smallest size you have.

Plastic World

Eva Schiller

Maybe we are all born of plastic. After all, ice melts trees fall down and clouds change shape, but we are forever. So I think we are all made of something harder to erase. And we will not go until we bring the world down with us.

My Stars, My Eyes

Meghan Durkin

Next to the stars my eyes lie, Fitted to fantasize, to catch a smile; Hidden behind walls; tinted in dark skies, As they capture swelling tides. Beauty flashes by; as it races time; Watching winter die as the sun revives; Rushing back and forth, afraid of missing, Of morphing the moment.

Fixed on fear, unforgettable, Look away, they haunt. The heaviness they hold; calling for release. All the secrets they keep, streaming down to shaky hands, Wiped away, erased with the brush of a finger. In darkness, they find light; Closed; revealing a flickering hope. Bringing us unwanted surprise, Without permission, exposing our desires. As I stare at them, they stare back at me. Cutting through the glass, they hesitate; They want, they wish; beg and plead. I watch them, as they follow me; Behind their gaze, they take control. With a blink, they know me, They see me, My stars can no longer hide.

Here’s the truth

Eva Schiller

Here’s the truth: I’m not like other girls. I stand out, and when I walk through the great ocean the waves draw back in my Honor. And just so you know, I could kill you if I wanted to. Here’s the truth: I’m just like other girls. I do not stand out, and when I walk into the great ocean the waves crash down upon my Honor. And just so you know, I could never hurt you even if I wanted to.

C8H10N4O2

Cal Mahoney

My distaste for the drink makes my actions amusing, yet there seems to be no end in sight Over the lip of a porcelain cup heavily perfumed of chai, I watch. The old jazz record featuring some just sharp trumpeter makes everything fuzzy

The counter is sticky, from a toddler ten minutes ago. A man in a blue suit discovers this as spices hit me, his body tense. Fingers dance across concrete, brow and eyes impatient, too focused on their ownerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s personal turmoil. He cannot even reach a few feet for a napkin, so he remains still, and the liquid will stain his cuff.

Behind the dark oak veneer, tired hands work machines like arcade games. They win no prize, only thin paper to clasp between trembling fingers. Their smiles are not smiles but the desperate pants of dogs, gums exposed and fleshy red, they bare their teeth. The same mouths they open now will soon swallow meager bills dark and ground, they slurp My chai is getting cold.

Two tables down, a college student stares into the blue glow of a computer, worms and letters swimming across the page. His body cries out, to anyone, for the peace of dreams but a single sip of extra-large Nitro Cold Brew sends him back to the keys with fervor. Racing toward a word count he wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reach till two in the morning for the dark moons beneath his eyes are less black than the virtual ink he punches with, and therefore, they matter less. Just past the register, a young girl waits for her name to be called surrounded by a pack of hyenas sipping their weight in latte. When her fingers wrap the plastic and lips swallow the straw, her eyes go wide choking, the floor is painted with droplets smelling of the rainforest. She tries again, to chug the earth. The hyenas cackle. Finally, the cup is empty, and now she is proud, as she buzzes around tables, because now she can buy a shirt that says Coffee Addict.

addict. an Addict, swimming in a midnight pool. The heady scent of curling waters causing legs to tingle, consumed by thick air. an Addict, with temples pulsating, mad drumming against the sides of skulls. Caught in the riptide with head swiveling and bright eyes darting. It would all go away with one sip, so small but so all-consumingly powerful. One sip that controls the addict. it would make it all go away, it would leave you with the knowledge that you are no longer in charge of you; A chemical is.

PROSE

The River Stories of a Ghost

Justin Li

I had always thought that there were no ghosts in my family, until I saw

her face looking back at me in a black-and-white family portrait. I could identify everyone in the frame—Grandma and all three of her younger sisters, my greatgrandmother and great-grandfather—but not the teenage girl on the far right, whose face was blanched by unfortunate lighting.

“This is her,” Grandma said in Sichuan dialect. “She is my oldest sister, Yu

Ying.”

She didn’t have the same round face as Grandma and her other sisters;

her face was long and her pointy chin joined an angular jawline. Though her other facial features were slightly blurred, her upper lip was unmistakably asymmetrical. Grandma told me that she’d been born with a cleft palate that formed a gap from her upper lip to her nostrils which rural doctors, who were always inexperienced and underpaid, did a particularly poor job of sealing. In public, she was a quiet girl. When she did talk, her speech was difficult to understand, escaping through her mouth as if she didn’t have full control of her breath. As I examined the picture, she seemed like a stranger—both to me, and to those in the frame with her.

Grandma told me that in elementary school, the boys who sat in the

adjacent desks would intentionally bump their elbows into her shoulders as they sat down.

“Scarface,” they’d call her. She never said anything back, fearful that they 18

would begin teasing her about the way she talked.

At home, my great-grandmother, whose feet were small from being bound

and whose marriage had been arranged, upheld a traditional attitude towards her eldest daughter’s facial disfiguration. While she sent her other girls off to the local high school, she believed that there was little use in continuing to educate Yu Ying, who, in her eyes, only attracted negative attention from their neighbors. She told her daughter that “Nothing is impossible for a girl with a nice-looking face.” The message was clear to Yu Ying, who didn’t protest when her mother sent her off to make a living for herself. She found work in Pu Jiang grinding stones. It was a mindless job that required no skill and whose pay reflected this fact; nonetheless, she was only a sixteen-year-old girl with a cleft palate, and it was a job. There, in the sparsely inhabited countryside, she rolled her overalls up her knees and waded in and out of the river, emptying bamboo baskets heavy with large, round stones when she’d returned to the shore each time. When the pile had gotten high enough, she took a hammer to each rock and crushed it into gravel until her wrists were sore. Some stones cracked under the impact of a single strike. Others took more time and more strength to break open.

It was, as Grandma put it, a man’s job.

Each day, she and the other workers lined up with bags of crushed river stones slung over their shoulders, waiting for their work to be weighed by a foreman. For every 3,000 kilograms, they received two yuan, just enough for three meals a day with a little left over. When she returned from Pu Jiang, she did not look like her other sisters. Her hands were cut and calloused, her hair was ungroomed, and her work attire looked peculiar next to their neat school uniforms. She’d reach her hands into her bag and unwrap man tou which she’d bought with the money she’d made,

treats that had lost their moisture after being carried for so long. Still, Grandma recalled that they tasted like heaven in comparison to the porridge and wild herbs they could only afford to eat at home. Grandma was always moved by her sister’s generosity, but the gratitude she expressed to her never exceeded one “Thank you.”

What Grandma remembered looking forward to most about Yu Ying’s

visits were the stories she’d tell her and her sisters. She always told them from the edge of a bed in the small room they shared. The other girls, sitting beside her or lying on their backs on the other bed, listened to Yu Ying speak of the men at Pu Jiang who had become her suitors. One of them had the largest water canteen and was so tall and strong that he could carry a thousand kilograms of rocks from the river each day. Another was the most gifted mahjong player in the province and would buy her peanut candies with the money he won. Even the quarry owner’s son, who would someday be rich after his father bequeathed to him all the quarries in the region, pursued her relentlessly. According to Yu Ying, they were all flawless and handsome, comparable to Sun Daolin, a movie star that all Chinese girls adored.

“How did these men tell you they loved you?” Grandma would ask.

Yu Ying replied that they promised to one day build her a river house

where she’d fish off of her back deck or a stone mansion atop the tall mountains overlooking the quarries, or, if she preferred, a city apartment where she could spend her time shopping for new clothes and eating mung bean cakes with the other housewives.

When they asked her why such exceptional men would fancy a poor

girl with a scar on her lip, Yu Ying responded that she’d met the river god He Bo, who owned all of the beauty of the world, and she’d made a sacrifice in exchange for his blessing. They asked her what she could have sacrificed in return for such a priceless gift, and if she could introduce He Bo to them, but 20

she maintained that her sacrifice and his location were secrets that she could not disclose.

Sitting in their makeshift beds, Yu Ying’s younger sisters were mesmerized

and hopeful that they too would find men somewhere who would love them as Yu Ying did. Each time Yu Ying returned to Pu Jiang to work, they believed that they might never see her again, that she’d marry one of these men and live a charmed life, never to return home.

However, she continued to come home. One of these days, Yu Ying’s

mother had plans for her, forcing her to fix her hair and put on a qipao before bringing her to the Hu family house down the street, a windowless home made of dirt and grey brick. There, Yu Ying stood face-to-face with a short man who was neither ugly nor handsome, devoid of any remarkable physical characteristics. He was not strong, nor talented, nor rich. Grandma had described him to me as homely, yet Yu Ying was to marry the man and live with him at the start of next month.

Yu Ying’s mother told her that she’d been very lucky to find a man

who would take her to be their wife and that she should be thankful for the opportunity, so Yu Ying did not object when the man’s family decided to move to the countryside and take her with them. As her visits became less frequent and eventually non-existent, so did the stories she told her sisters about her suitors, river gods, and love.

At their farm in the Sichuan countryside, Yu Ying’s ostracization

continued. Her husband’s family was as big as her own, and his siblings made no attempt to welcome her into their household. They’d leave her to do a disproportionate share of the tilling, planting, and harvesting required on the farm. She spent most of her day in the fields, and her husband often hit her when she returned to the house, sometimes because she’d forgotten to do one of her chores, and other times because he was simply in the mood to do so. He was a 21

short-tempered man.

Grandma told me that she couldn’t give me many more details of her

sister’s life after this point. She remembers hearing from her when her husband broke his leg in a car accident and she needed help to pay his medical bills. A little after that, she learned of the birth of her sister’s first child, and the death of her husband, but the space in between the events is unclear to her. Grandma couldn’t remember the last time they talked. She told me that she thinks of the girl in Yu Ying’s stories more than she thinks of the distant woman who lives in the Sichuan countryside.

My mom books the private room with the biggest table the restaurant has for the special reunion. Still, when we get there, we have to squeeze extra chairs in between the ones already at the table and press our elbows to our torsos when we pick up our bowls and eat. There is a flurry of hands reaching towards dishes on the turntable. One of my cousins with their eyes set on the shi zi tou meatballs rotates the table without seeing that an uncle hasn’t finished getting his own food, and spins it back when he realizes what he’s done. The four sisters sit on the opposite side of the table and speak amongst each other, though the clicking of utensils and the sub-conversations in between them and me make it impossible to hear what they’re talking about. It’s obvious, nonetheless, that my grandma and two younger great aunts, both of whom I know well from annual visits to Chengdu and who traveled to America to guide my mother when I’d just been born, have trouble finding conversation with their oldest sister. They try their best to include her in their discussion, as a group of friends might try to include a student who is sitting alone in the cafeteria. 22

I try not to stare at my great aunt’s face for too long at a time. The scar

above her lip is as noticeable as it had been in the family portrait my grandma had shown me, but her spine has become just as bowed as her sisters’. She is the only one of the four who hasn’t tried to hide the age with black hair dye, so her naturally wavy hair is a uniform white. It’s difficult for me to imagine a woman of her frame on the riverbank hammering away at stones for hours at a time, or in the fields of a Sichuan farm. Her clothing consists of shades of dark green and looks especially monotone next to the outfits of her sisters, which are subtly embellished with jewelry and the occasional brand name. It’s obvious that their lifestyles had diverged early on; she wears evidence of the sun on the skin on her face, which looks thin and wraps closely around her cheekbones. I don’t see her open her mouth to speak often. She sits and listens to her sisters, adding an occasional comment, apparently no longer the storyteller she’d once been. My younger cousin leans back in his chair and falls over, laughing. His mother picks him and his chair up and scolds him quietly in Sichuanese, “Ben! Sit upright, no elbows on the table, and be respectful. You have elders here.”

To me, my great aunt doesn’t look like a woman blessed by the river god.

I feel the urge to cross the room and ask her questions about her life, but she seems so far away, over all the dishes on the table, and I’m not sure what I would ask in the first place. I realize that I am distant enough on our family’s pedigree that she likely isn’t aware that I exist at all, so I continue shoving in mouthfuls of tofu and dan dan noodles, sneaking occasional glances up at her, imagining my own stories about the woman.

I fill in the gaps in Grandma’s version of her sister’s life with more

obstacles she’s had to overcome and made-up worlds which she might have wished she’d lived in. I picture the reality of it all—the tending to sick cattle, the boots encased by hardened mud, the smell of the earth, the summers, the winters, the mosquito bites which always accompany the humidity, the collapse at the end of a day of work. I picture the life which she dreamed of when she was a young girl, too—a life without her scar, a life without her lisp, a life with men who loved her and whom she loved, and most of all a life whose path was determined by her own choices. I picture her at her house on the river, scrubbing plates on the edge of her deck, waiting for her husband to bring home gifts of fish. He would be someone loving, not cruel, and would hold her and listen earnestly as she spoke about her day, her desires, and anything else she wished to say.

She turns in my direction and I can’t tell if our gazes meet for a moment or

if she is just looking behind me at our server. While it’s clear to me now that the woman sitting across the table is no less tangible than my relatives sitting next to her, she is at the same time a ghost, the remains of a young hopeful girl who took breaths in worlds composed of suitors, river gods, and love. As much as I would like to know her in the same way I know my other relatives, I know that at this point, she won’t be able to tell me her story. Out of respect, I don’t ask. As I watch the man tou between my chopsticks leave a trail of steam from the turntable to my plate, I think about how much she remembers, if the river god's blessing still lingers. I'm sure she won’t mind if I tell her stories for her.

When We Go

Massa Godbold

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Does it count as a surprise if we already know?â&#x20AC;?

"They don't know we know . . . so shut up!"

"Don't be mean . . ."

"She's coming, shut it."

Ronia Tyric opened the car door and smiled at her children, setting a bag down in the seat next to them. They smiled back, the car awkwardly silent. Jay looked at her twin brother, Jayce.

"Today's a special day," Ronia announced.

Jay smiled. "I'm 10."

"Yeah. Double digits," Jayce added.

There was another awkward silence.

"Well, I'm ready to go home." Jay winked at her mother.

Noting the wink, Ronia squinted. "Is there something going on that I don't know about?" Jayce elbowed his sister. "No, Mom. Nothing at all. She nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced.

"What's in the bag?"

Ronia huffed. "A cake . . . but I might take it back. I saw a lemon one that cost much less." Jay looked horrified. She hated lemon cake, and Jayce was allergic. But her mom liked lemon. She looked at Jayce, expecting his face to mirror the horror on hers. It didn't. Jayce looked calm, smug almost. Contented with the thought of his mom buying him a poison cake. Ronia hummed as she started the car and drove 25

them home. The house was a single-story, made of cozy brick. It was the color of rust, with large windows covered by pale blue curtains. They had a two-car garage and a long driveway. "Is Dad not home yet?" asked Jayce, immediately noticing the absence of his father's car. Ronia looked genuinely surprised. "No. Doesn't look like he is." Her phone buzzed. Looking at the message, her face darkened. The twins looked at each other. "Mom . . . ?" The concern in Jay's voice was palpable. Ronia nodded, not fully noticing her daughter's call. "Hmm?" she turned and, noticing the concerned looks of her children, donned a happy smile. "Nothing's the matter. Mommy's gonna go inside for a moment. I need you two to stay here." Thinking for a moment, she grabbed a small gift box from the glove compartment and handed it to Jayce. "Hold onto this for me. Don't open it yet." Jay and Jayce nodded. Their mom got out of the car and jogged to the front door. She took something out of her pocket and pressed herself against the side of the door. Taking a breath, she knocked four times. "What's she doing?" asked Jayce. Jay shrugged, as confused as her brother. She tapped her brother. Jayce turned to look. "What's that?" He turned to what Jay was pointing to, a red light that was blinking faster and faster.

"Jayce . . . I'm scared."

With the last knock, Ronia shoved the door open without a key. The moment she ran inside, someone kicked her into the couch. She got to her feet 26

quickly, facing her assailant. Two more appeared behind the first one.

"For a second there, I thought you were gonna make this easy."

She rushed at one, easily ducking his strike to leg sweep another. The man whose strike she dodged jumped over her leg, coming down hard in an attempt to land on it. Ronia moved her leg, barely managing to roll away from the woman's heeled shoe hurtling towards her face. The three were working in perfect tandem, each one covering for each other, pressing Ronia. She fought well, mostly on the defensive, but periodically landed a nasty attack. They were well trained, but Ronia was too. 25 years of LOS training ensured that every move of three skilled fighters was to be expected. The man punched out towards her face, but she managed to stop him just before the blow connected. Ronia kicked him away, and his two female counterparts jumped back with him. They moved as one, seeming to disappear into thin air. Ronia tucked a strand of curly hair behind her ear, breathing hard. Then, something exploded. The force shook the house. Ronia flew back, landing hard. As she recovered her senses, she sat up and looked around. "What the . . ." Her face fell with understanding. "NO!" She sprinted outside, willing her legs to carry her faster, faster . . . and she stared at the remains of the SUV, her children nowhere in sight.

Silver Stickers (excerpt)

Helen Liu

On Sunday morning, Amelie wakes at precisely 5:30 AM, two hours before she knows her father will emerge from his room to make breakfast. Careful not to disturb her little sister in the top bunk above her, she eases herself out of bed, throwing on a worn coat and a black scarf. Hair tucked into a bun and covered with a beanie, she tiptoes out the cracked door of her family’s apartment, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard, leaving a note on the table in case someone discovers she’s missing.

Went out for some fresh air. Will be back soon.

It’s a lie in more ways than one, she thinks wryly, hurrying towards the metro. “Fresh air” is a misnomer - the air of her city is smoky, polluted, unhealthy to breathe in, but a normal part of life for most residents. The only time she’s ever experienced true fresh air was when a wealthy man–– wealthy enough to afford an air purifier for his penthouse suite––invited her family over for lunch, insisting he owed her mom a favor. He’d spent the lunch eyeing her mom, occasionally putting his arm around her shoulders and winking greasily. They’d left the lunch in a hurry, angry yet resigned. The metro is mostly empty this early on a weekend. Amelie finds her train, sits down, and folds her hands into her lap, clutching at the ends of her scarf as she tries to recall the best moments of the past week. She’d aced her math test on Monday. She’d had a fun study session and subsequent dinner with her friends on Tuesday. Her father had prepared her an amazing breakfast of blueberry pancakes and milk on Thursday. Her little sister had gifted her a painting she had done in art class on Friday. These were all suitable memories to sell, she thinks - happy and emotional enough to have decent worth, but not important enough to seriously affect her mood.

She arrives at her destination four stops later. Quickly, she checks to make sure nobody is following, then slips into the narrow alley to her right. A few meters away, a burly man in black stands smoking a cigarette, leaning against the side of a building. He raises an eyebrow at her approach. “I’m here to see Leina Law,” Amelie says. “Name?” “Amelie Aralune.” She frowns in mock annoyance. “Don’t recognize me anymore, Chunxin?” Chunxin breaks into a wide smile. “Formalities, formalities. How could I forget my favorite meimei[1]?” He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and tugs her into a one-armed hug. “And don’t tell Chunyue I said that.” He smells of sweat and smoke, but Amelie doesn’t mind, hugging him back with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’d never think of betraying you to your little sister.” For a second, she wonders if this interaction could be worth anything. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind almost immediately, unsettled. Chunxin presses his palm to the wall and opens up a hidden door, ushering her in. “Go get some good bargains,” he says, clapping her on the shoulder and grinning. “You know the drill––knock four times and I’ll open the door. If you aren’t out in forty minutes, I’ll come looking for you.” Amelie rolls her eyes. “Sure you will.” Still, she flashes him a grateful smile as she steps over the threshold. The door closes behind her with a smooth click, and she is plunged into the dimly-lit darkness of the hidden bar. It’s a common location for black market dealers to make transactions with clients, so there are already a few dozen people in the room. Some talk 29

quietly, spending extravagant amounts of credit with a single press of their digital watches, while others display strange gadgets and weapons, armored bodyguards carefully watching for potential thieves. Taking a deep breath, she heads towards the back of the room, keeping her chin up and her eyes fixed in front of her. She mutters excuse me’s and pardon’s until she reaches the wall, grabbing a stool and sitting down. A few minutes later, a woman strides out from the crowd. Though she is dressed in a just a simple suit and pants, she drips of wealth - the diamond necklace produced by the most expensive luxury brand, the sleek watch whose model was released only a few days ago, and especially the sheer black face mask covering her nose and mouth, a personal air purifier that only the richest could afford.

“Ms. Law,” Amelie greets, standing up and bowing low.

“Hello, Amelie.” Leina smiles. “Please, sit down with me. Let’s keep this quick - I have a meeting to attend in an hour.” She sits down on the stool Amelie was sitting on previously. Amelie goes to grab another chair. When she returns, Leina offers her two silver stickers. Amelie takes them, careful not to touch Leina’s pristine velvet gloves, and places the stickers on her temples. A few seconds later, a blue interface flickers into her vision. SELECT MEMORIES, it prompts in bright letters, and she summons the memories of her test, her friends, that breakfast, her little sister, and - why not, it wouldn’t hurt - Chunxin’s hug, then taps one of the stickers. ARE YOU SURE YOU WOULD LIKE TO EXTRACT THESE MEMORIES? PLEASE UNDERSTAND MEMORY EXTRACTION SHOULD NOT BE USED UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. USE OF THIS TREATMENT WITHOUT APPROVAL FROM A LICENSED 30

SPECIALIST IS ILLEGAL. THIS TREATMENT IS IRREVERSIBLE. TAP ONCE TO CANCEL. TAP FIVE TIMES TO CONTINUE.

Amelie taps five times, despite a slight feeling of trepidation.

PLEASE WAIT. The world blacks out for a moment, and then the interface returns along with her vision. TREATMENT COMPLETE. Amelie removes the stickers and gives them back to Leina, who tucks them into a small plastic bag before running them under the scanner of her watch. She nods, then taps a few times on the watch surface, glancing at Leina with an unreadable smirk. “Five thousand credits. I’ll see you next week, same time.” Amelie’s cracked watch buzzes, and she feels a spark of excitement at the notification - five thousand credits newly added to her account. She bows. “Thank you, Ms. Law. I’ll be here.” She backs away, then makes her way back to the door, knocking four times. Chunxin opens the door, and she quickly steps out, grinning triumphantly. “How much did meimei make?” he asks, laughing. “Five thousand,” she whispers proudly. “I should be able to pay for the last bit of my mom’s treatment with this.” “That’s amazing! Congratulations!” Chunxin hugs her, and Amelie hugs back, ignoring the strange sense of emptiness while doing so. “I suppose I won’t be seeing you around every week anymore, then? That’s okay, I can just tag along when Chunyue goes to hang out with you." [1]: little sister TO BE CONTINUED 31

Jackie

Cal Mahoney

November 30th, 9:13pm My hands are folded in my lap as I wait. I’m able to go a few seconds longer before I force myself to open my eyes to stare down the hallway toward the locker room at the end. Do you know how in horror movies, they zoom slowly down a corridor and it feels like everything is getting smaller at once, and even though you’re sitting on your couch and you aren’t in that corridor, you still feel like you are, and you feel like it’s getting smaller, and now, suddenly, your chest hurts? I’ve never liked horror movies, and now I’m in one. She’s going to come out soon. She’s going to walk out of that door, hair smelling of chlorine, skin of lavender Aveeno. I know she’ll be tired. They’re training to go to Nationals, she told me last week. Long drills, nothing but the sound of feet kicking hard and arms slicing through water for hours on end. Sometimes the fluorescent overheads on their motiontimer will switch off if their coach makes them stay late. That’s when everything goes black, and the water becomes electrifyingly bright, pool lights the only thing illuminating where the wall is for flip turns. He must have known that she'd be tired right now as well. That is, after all, why I’m here. People are less likely to put up a fight when they’re tired.

She won’t be expecting me; that’s another thing I know. We don’t hang out on Thursdays; she has practice and I have piano. But my fingers haven’t touched a key in a long time, and she doesn’t know that. Ever since I heard that Chopin piece in his office three months back, anything I played sounded just like it. “Ballade,” Op. 23, in G Minor. I let out a long breath. It’s nearing five minutes past the end of practice now. She’s never punctual, though, so this doesn’t surprise me. Her mom’s probably waiting outside right now. I know what she’d say to her as she’d climb into the passenger’s side, tangled hair dampening the seat back; “Book club is starting soon.” But she’d let it go. No one could stay mad at Jackie. It’s this fact that makes what I’m about to do even more difficult; there is absolutely no emotional justification for my actions with which I can delude myself. I wonder, as I let my spine finally curve, my back touch the cinderblock wall behind me, what I’m going to say when she sees me. I have yet to think of an excuse. No one has a good one, really, for being at school this late, except if you’re on the swim team. I am not. The beginning of the Chopin piece dances faintly through my ears. It starts dramatically, with an impressive crescendo before becoming incredibly delicate, dangerously soft. My gaze drifts back down to my hands. One of them dives deep into a pocket of my denim jacket. She loves this jacket, I remember, as my fingers curl around their target, something they were blindly searching for, maybe even hoping wasn’t there. 33

“Ballade” still has me confused. I listened to it several times after I left his office. It’s almost sickening to hear, notes that comfort you, yet make your skin prickle at the very same time. I look back up. The digital clock, numbers glowing red above the lockers, changes again. 9:16. My feet push me up and off the bench. I turn and look behind me at the trophy cases, an attempt to stall. I’m acting casual, I tell myself. The shelves, crammed full of first places, flash brightly in the moonlight that has made its way through a window above the lockers. I spot her name almost immediately. 100 yard butterfly. Further along, she is listed again. 200 medley relay. I make a mental note that I’ve never asked her about her times, her races. That things deserving of celebration have gone uncelebrated. I turn again, and take a step down the hallway. The horror movie pressure I feel low in my gut builds. I bite down on my tongue and take another step forward. The door swings open as I reach the water fountain, and I freeze. It’s her. She’s shuffling a little, toes prune-wrinkled in her flip-flops. Her headphones are in, and I can hear the soft notes of a Texada song. The two songs, her Texada and my Chopin, don’t go together, but the modern lyrics make the stinging chords of “Ballade” a little more tolerable. I open my mouth to call her. I feel I owe her an explanation, a chance to run, a warning. No sound comes out.

She looks up, and an earbud falls out. All my life I've waited for you Think I survived so I could know you And everything will change But we got now forever “Ryan?” So let's run with it, baby Run with it, baby By this point, any semblance of safety in “Ballade” has disintegrated, fallen way for fervorous, striking chords. If you were watching the performance live, fingers would be moving across keys too fast for you to follow and the echoing of the concert hall is perhaps making you dizzy and you can’t find your breath and you feel like this moment in time is being stretched so thin it will snap and you wonder if that is how string theory works, and then, all of a sudden, it stops. Silence. Her music is still pounding through her headphones, though. I want to tell her I’m sorry, but I don’t. Instead, a smile forces the corners of my lips up, and I take another step forward. My hand is still pressed against the cold item in my pocket. The sharp steel presses into my palm and I wish

it would cut through, so she wouldn’t be alone in her bleeding tonight. A silent tear drops onto my face, slowly rolls down my cheek, and dots the floor. I stare hard at it for a minute. I hope linoleum is easy to clean. I’m so sorry. “Hi, Jackie.”

Invisible Rules (Excerpt)

Avi Shah

Don’t we all believe at some point in our lives that society is corrupt and full of phonies and liars out to get the better of us? See, a lot of people see themselves as some kind of 21st century Holden Caulfield and I can understand where they’re coming from, but I think––as Obi Wan Kenobi would say––they’ve become what they’ve sworn to destroy. They can be cynical and whine and complain about how nobody is “real” anymore–– whatever that means––but in a sense, neither are they. They have a point–– social media has made us shallow, but in the end they’re just embodying a fictional persona and complaining about a problem, not actually solving it. In fact––nothing gets solved anymore. No matter how perfectly engineered the echo chamber, no matter how fine tuned the acoustics, the sound of your screams for change will eventually fizzle out. This means that the only way things can change in this world are when people act. Complaining about something doesn’t get it done. There’s only one slight problem. People can’t do anything––good or bad––without suffering the consequences of their actions. Society has too many rules, too many invisible judges, too many “champions of justice.” Every action is criticized with an equal and opposite reaction. The unnecessary “rules” and social justice aren’t helping the world, they’re stagnating it. Because of this, I decided to take matters into my own hands, and I hope you can do the same. My path to liberation began on a cold December morning. I grabbed my coat and furiously wrestled with my hair as I made my way towards the car. It seemed like just another Monday morning, after all. My 2004 Honda Civic sputtered to life and I backed out of the driveway, simultaneously putting my work address into Waze to find the fastest route. I drove 9 miles over the speed limit, thinking of another excuse for why I 37

was late this time. Traffic on the highway? No that’s too obviously fake. My alarm didn’t go off? Cliché. My cat had terminal liver cancer and I had to put him down with the 12 gauge? Nope, too extra. Sounds made up. Damn it. As I pulled into the parking spot, I decided not to make haste. I was already late, so saving 30 seconds wouldn’t make a difference––it would only put me out of breath. When I finally sat down at my desk and got to work, I expected to hear the all-too-familiar tirade about “being on time” and “meeting certain expectations” from Bill, my boss, and today was no different. “So…you think you can just casually stroll in late for the fifth day this month?”

“Well… yes, actually.”

“C’mon David…” He looked around, seemingly to make sure nobody was listening, then leaned in and whispered, “You know I don’t want to actually punish you because you’re the best accountant I have, but I have to give you the mandatory slap on the wrist, alright?” I audibly groaned, mostly for my co-workers, who were eager to get in on any office drama. “Please give me ONE more chance!” “Sorry Mr. Moran, it’s company policy. I’m going to have to put you on probation… ” He leaned in again and continued, “... for five minutes!” I slammed my hand into the desk then immediately recoiled from the pain, regretting the poor decision. “Seriously? That’s way too long! Isn’t there some law against draconian punishment?”

“I can make it four if you get me a coffee.”

“You know what? I think I’ll take the 5 minutes. I don’t feel like getting up 38

right now.” “Fine, whatever. Just make sure to follow the rules and show up on time from now on. They exist for a reason, you know. We have to make our clients happy.” I finally turned to my computer and began scrolling through financial records. The clock couldn’t seem to move any slower as the day dragged on and on. I was constantly irked by the cacophony of rustling papers, clicking pens, and incessant finger tapping. Nevertheless, I closed my eyes and was finally about to drift off when I was suddenly woken up by a firm grip on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my chair, fumbling with some papers on my desk in an attempt to pretend I was being productive. I-”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I was just reading over these papers when

“You can cut the act, Dave, it’s just me.”

“Oh, thank God, Mike. You scared me! I thought you were the boss!”

He snorted. “I wish. Anyways, some of the guys and I were planning to go out for dinner tonight. We’re probably going to leave soon, so I thought I’d see if you wanted to come.”

“Ok, let’s go!” I got up and began packing up my belongings.

“Technically we’re not allowed to leave yet. You know that.”

I checked my watch. “C’mon, who cares? It’s only 8 minutes.”

“Rules are rules, Dave. We don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“Ok fine, but - oh wait - you know, I can’t actually go.”

“Why? You were just so eager to leave!”

“I forgot … I had … uh… some work to do tonight.”

“No, it’s not that - it’s just I have stuff to do.”

“Whatever. Have a good night.”

I made my way back towards my car, ready to go home and relax for the night. I didn’t want to deal with the stress of being out in public with a bunch of co-workers. We’re all somewhat friends, but at the same time everyone’s silently judging each other, waiting for someone to slip up so they can ascend the corporate ladder. It doesn’t seem like it from the outside, but it can be a pretty toxic environment. When I finally reached home, I threw off my shoes, sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. “This is ZYX News bringing you the latest! We’re getting reports that an Instagram “influencer” is under attack for posting that cats are ‘bad’ animals and that she thinks dogs are better in every way. Can you guys believe this? I think this whole “woke” culture thing is getting out of hand.” I sighed and changed the channel. “123 News here with the daily recap! A social media “influencer” posted something completely outrageous and uncalled for today. She said cats were inferior to dogs, insulting cats and cat lovers alike. I think she deserves all the flak she’s receiving right now, as that is just not acceptable in today’s socie-” I turned off the TV. I reached over for 1984, a book I’d almost finished reading, when all of a sudden my phone rang.

Why would Bill be calling me this late at night?

I picked up the phone. “Hey boss, what’s up?”

“Hey, Dave. I’m so sorry, but the firm has decided to let you go.” TO BE CONTINUED

The Intergalactic Burger

Noah Bergam

A brilliant burger floated in the lounge of the spacecraft, breaking the backdrop of low-light white that ruled the inner capsule. It was the kind of sandwich that evokes chills. Thick avocado and tomato, crisp lettuce and firm mushrooms. The bun was toasted brown with an appreciable yet near invisible texture, peppered with thick sesame seeds. Astronaut Christian Philips waved his hands through the sparse air particles in an attempt to take just one heavenly bite. The vision shivered. His motion generated enough momentum to send him out of his unstrapped seat. Erwin was sitting about ten feet away from Christian, strapped and sitting upright at his desk, messily humming the opening tune of Pink Floyd’s “Brain Damage.” He reluctantly pulled out his notepad and his eggplant-purple Energel pen. He wrote: Day 372: Ten minutes ago, at 04:03:27 GMT, the oxygen generator sputtered out. All doors locked. Trajectory looks asteroid-free. We may reach Mars, but we’ll never see it with live eyes. He dotted the last period, kept the pen on the paper, and rotated the pen about the point before hesitantly letting go. The pen slowly lost touch with the surface of that paper and crawled off in a straight line at a constant velocity. Erwin unstrapped himself but stayed in his seat.

“And so there were two,” he said.

Christian continued to think about the burger. He believed it was no fault of his own that this burger decided to appear. The image was tied to a confusing set of circumstances involving dreams and sins and the concept of fresh meat. And while he was known for his creative conversationality, the utter determination with which he intoned, “I want an intergalactic menu,” 41

was striking; the force and the mental agitation it caused in his one-man audience brought him joy nonetheless. “An intergalactic what?” Erwin responded with unreasonable impatience, for at this point he knew the futility, hell, the danger of surprise––every breath was a knock on the coffin, so his voice was nasal and uniform and efficient. “An intergalactic menu. An intergalactic burger. The juiciest goddamn piece of humanity ever imagined. In all seriousness, Erwin, let’s look at this from a rational perspective.” Christian gestured sweetly. His unshaven face depicted a shocking spark, his first display of genuine enthusiasm for the first time in weeks. “McDonald’s is the most American thing in the galaxy. Fries and burgers and nuggets. But that’s not their best! Their best…I don’t even know what it is. It just isn’t even being served to Americans. And that’s wrong. That’s––that’s un-American.” “Christian, what are you talking about?” It wasn’t even impatience so much as a reserved interest in what borderline insanity the human mind could generate in these circumstances. “What are you thinking about? I just want a burger. I want life. Life is flashing before our eyes, and I’m merely analysing the different paths my experiences could have gone.” “No, no. You’re seeing exactly what we are now.” Erwin picked up a solved Rubik’s cube that was on his desk. He slowly tinkered with its patterns, crossing colors and tetris-looking shapes as he pushed it into chaos. He smiled as his riddle settled, and the puzzle was solved.

“Dead meat!” said Christian, throwing his hands in the air.

If Christian’s animated aura blocked reason, Erwin’s sharp, empty expressions refracted it. He wore a badge on his in-capsule suit that stated he was simply Engineer. It was a catch-all, humble title that mirrored his 42

his unreadability. “What were they thinking, being this unprepared for the mission?” Christian asked.

“They weren’t thinking.”

“Then neither were we.”

“We’re lab rats,” Erwin flatly asserted.

“We still had a choice, though.”

“I’m not saying we take no blame for this. I’m just saying that we were lied to about the security––” “––of the capsule and the electronics and the noise from the solar flares. We’ve been over this for months. If you want calculations done right, you should’ve done them yourself, boy genius.” The cube was a mess now. Every tune he could conjure in his head was hackneyed. Erwin would have resorted to the computers for some source of entertainment, but they were just a bitter reminder of apocalypse. The “no connection” sign at the top right corner of the screen silently flashed red at a steady frequency, like some universal timekeeper.

Erwin asked, “Do you think it was all worth that view from space?”

“I don’t really give a crap about the view at this point. But being in space is worthwhile. We’re free. We don’t have the voices and thoughts of eight billion people weighing down on us.” Christian smiled bitterly at the ground as he spoke. “We get to die in peace and hateful quiet.” Erwin responded carefully: “The issue is, we’re so aware. We’re the smartest in the galaxy because all we have is this capsule. All we have to think about is this immediate environment, with no sense of time or population or reason. And I think we’ve essentially mastered it.”

“But have we mastered each other?” asked Christian. “I think we’re 43

one step away from finding out the true, new Einstein of the Milky Way. ” The points of his syllables made for an unnatural emphasis on the second half of Milky.

Erwin didn’t answer. The buzz of machinery filled the silence.

Erwin promptly turned his head to the opposite end of the capsule, near the escape pods and the kitchen. “Did you hear that?” The voice of the spacecraft began to whisper in Christian’s ear. His blue eyes looked like glass balls as he stared at the door of the kitchen, the round little window that showed a void far emptier than space. He thought of venom and breath, and he believed he heard a menacing crimson hiss hiding behind the gentle hum of the engines. Doubt enveloped his soul, each ticking second tightening the stranglehold on his illusion of safety. Then he squeezed his fist in realization, keeping a classy smile as the direction of the hiss became apparent. The burger came back as he voiced: “Funny!” Erwin smiled. He floated freely, unfazed. “No matter what this oxygen is doing to us, we’re both geniuses. Dying geniuses.” He gestured gently to his crewmate when no answer came. “And it’s cuz we understand futility. We know the end is coming. Stupidity is the inability to accept the end and adjust your actions accordingly.”

“That’s BS, though. That means everyone’s an idiot on earth.”

“No. There are plenty there who can fix the climate and save the damn world and make McDonalds better. But they know there’s no point. No incentive. They can see into their futures and no that they’re safer solving made-up problems instead.”

“Is that why you left?” Christian asked.

“To limit my own problem space?”

“Sure, if you want to phrase it like that.” 44

“Perhaps.”

Christian tapped his lap three times. “Why do you feel the need to prove to me that you’re intelligent? Do you think it scares me?” The burger vanished. “Is this how you wage war? We’ve been in this too long for that. Try something new.” Their fields of vision synced. “Erwin, for someone so tactical you have no clue how to adapt.” Christian suddenly snapped his fingers. For a moment, Erwin saw his uneventful life flash before his eyes. But it was an impotent threat. There was no subsequent expression on Erwin’s part. He didn’t believe in the rebuttal smile. Erwin began to move with purpose. Using his surroundings as monkey bars, he traversed farther away from Christian, through empty papers and dead electronics, strapped seats now loose, too new for comfort. He came upon the door to the kitchen-room. The inch-thick rectangle was made of spotless, white-painted iron, and it had a reasonably sized circular window in the middle of it. The door was locked, and the contents still dark, until he flicked on the light from the side. Now the kitchen was white and bright and every detail of the inside was visible from the window.

Next to that door was a small blue button with a glass safety covering.

Erwin put his head against the door. He tried to do it gently, but he made a thump noise nevertheless. His face was blank. “I miss Richard.” Christian’s voice softened. “He was a good captain.” “He made me feel like I was wrong about people. He gave me this hopeful sort of doubt, you know, that the way I thought about life wasn’t the logical conclusion, but some––some cynical fallacy.”

“He knew what he was doing.”

“He made me feel like I could be better. That I could be more.” 45

“More what, though?” Christian said, his eye twitching.

“I don’t really know, Christian, that’s the issue. I always felt like an alien around you and the others. Something was missing.”

“You were a buzzkill if I’ve met one.”

“I can’t help it. I acted back when they were choosing us out for this mission. But when you’re down to this you have no choice but to be boiled down to your essence. And my essence is just this skeleton, this dearth of life and love and emotion and whatever you see in normal people. I haven’t even attempted to enjoy my life. I just kept studying and puzzling, thinking I had more life to live, more time to figure it out. But obviously we all went to shit.”

“You talked a bit before this all escalated.”

Erwin bounced his head against the circular window. “You’re right. I did. I talked to Janice and I talked to Richard. One caught on too late, the other just, just didn’t act as planned.” Christian looked on blankly at the door to the kitchen area. He opened his mouth robotically, his eyebrows up. “So Janice didn’t catch on, huh. That’s why she died?”

“In some sense––”

“Erwin, you pressed the button.”

“I had to press the button.”

“It’s all some logic puzzle to you, isn’t it?”

“You turned Richard against me. I knew what was going on. You know I’m not that stupid.” “Yeah, and we were shocked that you did it. We didn’t think your cold rationality could win out that much. She would never have done the same to you.” 46

“It was the only way I could save myself. I was outnumbered and silenced.” “You’re right. We wanted her. We wanted to keep the three of us and save a little time, and be done with the cold realist in the room.” Christian had to intake more air. His words were becoming choppier. “But you ruined that and lost both of them. Was it worth the guilt?”

“You think you’re winning right now?”

“You know, Richard told me you had a soft spot that we could take advantage of.” Erwin began to try and solve the Rubik’s cube. “Did you know Richard betrayed you completely? Every moment you shared since the mission went to shit was pure reconnaissance. He knew you were the biggest threat, the smartest one on the ship. He knew you would do anything to save more oxygen for yourself and sabotage whoever you knew.”

“I don’t value the good moments any less.”

“Why is that?”

“He was just trying to stay alive, and he found the classiest way to do it. Strategy and feelings are separate things. I’m not going to say I’m sorry for playing both games.”

“That’s just an excuse.”

“It’s my answer,” Erwin said, voice cracking.

“You’re not sane. You’re a two-sided bastard.”

“It’s a two-sided world. Sanity is a lie!”

“The only man you ever trusted.”

“So it goes.” 47

“The only woman you ever loved.”

“That’s a stretch!”

“All lost. Now you’re left sharing the last bits of oxygen with me. The idiot of the crew.” “Christian, stop. It’s a stalemate. The game’s over. Neither of us can kill each other. All we have are words.” “Erwin, I’ve come to realize that I don’t give a damn. I just don’t want to die in silence next to the piece of shit who thinks he won. Because you lost. We all lost. The problem space doesn’t shrink, no matter what your cold-hearted rationality told you. You die, and––and–and we all die. You played to live the longest, but that just makes you the biggest loser here. In the end, you feel nothing. You look at the bodies of people you may have once felt a connection with, and all you see is a rotting, rotting pile of cells, with an expired IQ tag attached to it.”

“And what about you?” Erwin shot back, squinting critically.

“What about me? What about me?” Christian laughed hysterically, with a struggle that continued to increase. Face reddening. The veins at the sides of his head bulged, his smile looked to tear his face apart. But soon enough the laughs heaved, the movements eased. “What do you care about me?” He chuckled a bit more, begging for words from Erwin with his eyes. Instead, Erwin threw the half-solved cube in the air, with an appreciable spin. Erwin had to take a large breath. Oxygen was tanking. “Tell me Christian, what do you see in their dead bodies?” The hysterics returned, and shortly turned to choking. “All––I?” Christian’s struggling lungs sputtered its last words to the sound of Erwin’s monotonous hum weaving in and out of tune with the engines.

"All I see is a burger!" 48

ART GALLERY

Ariel Li

“Vera Lynn” 52

“Aida” 53

Mirika Jambudi

“City” 54

“Flower”

Natalie Ladino

Isabella Acosta

“Calm Before the Storm”

“snowy”

CALLIOPE W I N T E R

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