Rubicon 2020

RUBICON VOL. 6

2020 WILBRAHAM & MONSON ACADEMY

RUBICON EDITORIAL TEAM Editors Muwei “Katherine” Xu ’20 Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20 Deputy Editor Tianyu “Johnny” Zhang ’21 Faculty Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

MISSION

The mission of “Rubicon” is to showcase the artwork and writing of Wilbraham & Monson students.

COLOPHON The text was composed in 12 point Minion Pro. Adobe CC 2019 was employed in its design.

Starburst Printing & Graphics in Holliston, Massachusetts printed 150 copies on 100# uncoated paper stock using HP Indigo 5600.

“Rubicon” is a member of Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

HORROR STORY

EDITORIAL POLICY

In 2020, a panel of faculty judges culled through submissions to the Wilbraham & Monson Writing Contest and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in three categories: poetry, creative nonfiction, and short stories. First place entries and honorable mentions appear in this publication. Wilbraham & Monson students in grades 8 - 12 and postgraduates are eligible to submit their work to the writing contest.

The “Rubicon” staff reserves the right to edit minor errors and to return submissions to the author for requested corrections. Authors and artists retain copyright of printed submissions but grant “Rubicon” the right to use selected submissions as deemed by the editorial staff to be most appropriate in the publishing of the magazine.

The “Rubicon” staff, which met during the winter season, selected artwork from the photography contest, student art show, and submissions solicited via email.

COVER

Front & Back Cover: Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20

Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Kristen Casey Kiayani Douglas Brian Easler Tim Harrington ’73 Russ Held

Meg Hutcheson Marvina Lowry-Brook Amy Mathison Marxan Pescetta Jessica Rohan Bill Rosenbeck Valeri Wallace

The house shrieks.

Abominations crawl and hiss with every “step,” their covered faces emanate death.

Victims before me toil in agony, I’ll never forget their screams.

Shadows creep across the floor, their eyes glowing with hunger, teeth soaked in grime.

My face caked in my own blood, I sit in the only safe room I have.

Why was I there?

Searching for someone?

A mission perhaps?

Or maybe a punishment?

Living dolls rattle, a chainsaw revs, Screams and laughs, the walls creak and the floors hiss, and— Someone’s banging on the door.

Why are they here?

Clutching my knees and shaking my head, I can’t look away.

The plasma screen glows, the noises are getting louder.

I can feel it, it’s coming.

The scream, the pain, the red clouding my vision— And finally, my screen goes dark.

20 20

This is how my story ends.

Caitlin Lee ’21

Sahana Anand ’20 Bravado, Charcoal

SPECIAL THANKS

I still can’t believe I survived that place.

Up that quiet hill, in that barren wasteland, something’s there.

That resident evil.

Why is this my story?

RUBICON WILBRAHAM & MONSON ACADEMY 423 MAIN STREET WILBRAHAM, MA 01095 413.596.6811 rubicon@wma.us

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Contents

26

Table of

22

Fiction So Close, So Quie t Xin “Julie” Xiong ’20

The Three Ways I Disobey You Callie Dunbar ’24

Poetry

8

A Le t te r to the Pat r iarchy

25

What is the Wind at Night?

31

Unt i t le d, June 2019

32

To Be Or No t To Be

10

35

Hor ror Stor y

16

Emily Fafard ’20

Creative Nonfiction

Rile Rhodes ’21

Tendo Kalule ’21

Zihan “Angela” Tian ’22

Caitlin Lee ’21

4

Une Démarche Shane Appiah ’21

If Only It Could L as t Fore ver Yusi “Christine” Mo ’21

Tr ue Superman on a Roof top Norah Omar ’21

V i s u a l Arts

6

Fe ar

8

Two Side s of a Mask

Dongmin “Eric” Kim ’21 Paiting

Erika Zaripova ’20 Photography

12

Fe ar Beyond the Hor izon

16

Family or Profe sssion

23

Café d’Emily

30

Baller ina

24

Le s Vague s

32

Sur la Rou te

28

Dongmin “Eric” Kim ’21 Pastel

Erika Zaripova ’20 Photography

Zilan “Lanney” Jing ’23 Watercolor

Tianqi “Wernich” Li ’20 Photography

What I See and What I Saw Dongmin “Eric” Kim ’21 Painting

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Erika Zaripova ’20 Photography

Tianqi “Wernich” Li ’20 Photography

Bravado

Sahana Anand ’20 Charcoal

Une Démarche Y

not something that can be argued.

I’m sure you think you hate me. You see me as a traitor, a disgrace to the tribe, a failure perhaps. From your perspective this may be true, for this is all you know and if the world was as simplistic as we would like to believe, I may even agree with you. Yet it’s not and it will never be. While some aspects will be clear as day, the many stars of the night will cover its light.

I’m not writing to you to patronize you, to tell you that your view of the world I’m from is incorrect. I only wish to share with you my peace in hope that one day our worlds can collide exempt of chaos. To do so is to ask of you more than the aristocrats who have dominated a world that belongs to you just as much as it belongs to them.

I ask you to relinquish violence as an initial strategy for communication, not to disarm your sense of power but to inform you of a greater one that exists beyond the scope of larceny and steel. I am not a fool. I will never begin to question why you do so with such

ou should know that this is the toughest reality that I’ve had to face, one that bothers my consciousness yet destroys your body. I don’t write to you from a place of arrogance or ignorance, as I know that at any moment I could be in your shoes, in your shackles, and that the trade I’ve grown to love would fail me.

But I do write from a place of privilege, one that has allowed me to experience heaven amidst a hellish world. A world that has shaped me and not broken me, this world isn’t free of the evils that seek to erase you but is enriched in humanity that has been sharply instilled. This love is keen, for it has been built from being present with the horrors of this evil rather than numbing to give off the illusion of peace.

What separates my world from yours is an opportunity, one that has predated both our souls and has been nurtured and protected on the bounds of superiority. The sustainment of this world has been equated with the sustainment of humanity as a whole; this is 4

fervor, but I can see that the problems you wish to solve with this tool have only been magnified as a result of it.

I come to you now as an intellectual, as a problem solver, as a man of reason, as I know you are as well. Tell me, is the life one that you enjoy living?

Are you free within yourself? Can you move without fear of the ones you call family taking your life? I don’t mention the understood threat because I know that when such evil comes, your natural freedom is being confiscated, justice is being stolen and the odds are skewed in their favor.

But of the elements of these worlds that you can control, are you at peace in how you’ve reacted to them? If so, then I have nothing for you, but if you feel as if there is another way, a more constructive way to handle wrongdoings then I have a thought that has liberated my spirit thus far in such a world.

It is that this is not theirs in the first place. It is that no matter how many times they tried to break me down and tell me that this is all I am, I’ve seen beyond the lies. I know that the projection of pain is a cry for help, and the exact reaction to such tears reinforces misunderstanding. I know that the men without skin, the ones who’ve told us we

are not worthy of humanity, have stolen ours to build their own. I know at their most they are merely men, men whose greed and gluttony became so vile that the only justification for their sin was to claim that God wished for the subordination of his people in favor of another.

Before they devalued, they feared.

I need you to understand that these people are sick; they are plagued with cancer that hurts our kind more than it does theirs yet burdens them nonetheless. This illness has the potential to be cured, and the cure must be pursued, for the well being of you and I is dependent upon it.

Men of our race have preached that separation is the only avenue to liberation, that exemption from such oppression is the only way we will know peace.

I think you and I both know that this is not entirely true, that the wounds have been cut and the disease is airborne and has evolved into a sinister form of self-hatred that stems from the hatred of the devaluer.

So to that sentiment, I pose this concept, that before we can repair the craters of your world, you must learn to love the potential that exists in mine. For it is two sides of the same coin. And I assure you it’s there. It resides in every young child 5

Shane Appiah ’20

Dongmin “Eric” Kim ’21 Fear, Charcoal

who learns of fair trade and in every elderly man who speaks of his sins before he leaves this Earth. From this place is where you will find the peace you seek when gripping an item used to invoke anything but that.

The truth is our worlds are one in the same. The systems that demonize you are built upon the same ideals that are supposed to protect you and me. It’s not necessarily the concepts that are broken as these are natural and exist within all creed of man, but it is the administrators who interpret the ideals that are shattered. Diseased were the pieces of which they built the foundation of refined civility. It’s a shame that concepts of order that have originated from us have lost their way through time.

I encourage you to realize the power you have in this world without the need to bend it towards your beckoning call and to destroy the narrative that success must be cloaked in ivory for it to be pure.

So perhaps you may never truly understand how I can lead the life I live or break bread with the men I do and work alongside some who’d rather see me fail than triumph, but if you feel that the pain you experience is not that of honor, I’d encourage you to view the extent of mine.

7

A Letter to the Patriarchy

8

Erika Zaripova ’20 Two Sides of a Mask, Photograph

Dearest Patriarchy, You talk about development stages as if you didn’t put children in cages, As if you haven’t objectified and monopolized my body for ages.

You believe that the only value I have is in my ability to reproduce That making babies is my only use But unfortunately for you, the time has come, For we are taking back what has been stolen from us and we will not succumb To the pressure, to the abuse, to the noise For we will continue to deal with your shit with dignity and poise.

We have come so far That when we walk into a clinic, a school, or a bar We will no longer be afraid of what might happen to us Because we have already felt those deep cuts And we are prepared.

Because we have reclaimed our most powerful weapon: Our femininity Is a divinity and we will no longer be subjected to the hate That comes from within your vicinity.

Best wishes, Members of the fair and gentle sex

Emily Fafard ’20 9

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I stared at the reflection on t h e b ra n d y b o tt l e i n h i s g r i p , where the fireworks from the harbor were reflected in the brown glass. They disappeared into the dark night sky in an instant.

“M

and spend more time together. By that, I thought that it was going to be the two of us. Until that moment on the morning of December 31, 2011—the day of departure—when I saw him walking toward our car with a big sports bag in his left hand. He was coming with us.

“Morning! Hi, Cicy!” he said. The grin on his face was so familiar and joyful. Yet, I could not match this stranger with the dad that I had known all my life, the man who had gone to the emergency room more than four times because of alcohol overdoses.

“Say hi to dad.” Mom peered at me through the rearview mirror.

om! What?” I said. Mom pulled our car in front of dad’s apartment.

“Come on, don’t act like that. He’s your father.” Mom shushed me and unlocked the car door for dad.

Just as I started the winter break of my fourth grade, Mom gave me a big surprise. She rented a small room in Zhuhai, a coastal second-tier city an hour away from Guangzhou, our home.

I was thrilled to finally escape from the afternoon math classes I had to take every Monday to Saturday. Mom considered this our “holiday retreat,” where we could celebrate the new year of 2012 10

the sofa. When I was in the same room with him the past couple of years, he was either drunk, passing out, or on the edge of passing out. Dad noticed my stare. He pulled down his glasses and looked in my direction.

“So, how’s school?” Dad asked.

“Good,” I replied, turning away from his gaze.

“Wait, you are in sixth grade right?”

Dad said.

“No, dad. Fourth,” I said.

The air suddenly froze. He took a final drag from his cigarette and stabbed it in the ashtray on the tea table that was already filled with cigarette butts. How many had he smoked in the past two hours? It was my impression that he was smoking more than he usually did.

“You want to go up to the rooftop?

The sunset looks better up there,” he said.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

Before I could think, he was already standing and holding out my favorite red jacket, sliding a pack of cigarettes into his back pocket. I followed him to the top floor without a word. Despite the frosty December air, my body was warmly lit by the sun trying to climb the rooftop with the last of its amber limbs. The view was indeed better. The sky was dyed pomegranate pink, the color farmers

“Hi dad,” I said, quickly put down my head and slid on my headset. I hated that name. Besides, no one ever called me by this stupid name after I changed my name to Christine!

That afternoon when we arrived in Zhuhai, Mom went out to get groceries, leaving me in the room with dad. Our apartment was on the seventeenth floor, tiny but homey. A bedroom and living room separated by beaded curtains hanging from the ceiling, a bathroom that could only fit two people at a time, and a kitchenette with an extended balcony. One of my favorite parts was the the floor-to-ceiling window right next to the bed, where I could overlook the city and see the harbor. I leaned on the steel bars against the window, staring at the busy traffic under the sunset. I guessed everyone was eager to get home to their families. The orange city looked like a silent movie from up there, filled with muted scenes of hustle and bustle.

Everything seemed so distant since all I could hear were the squeaky noises of the sofa bed whenever dad moved in the living room.

I turned around to get a glimpse of him. It was odd to see dad like this — stone-cold sober and reading quietly on 11

looked for during the harvest. The streets looked more beautiful with all the lights on, illuminating the way home for their residents.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Dad said. “I always like sunset more than sunrise.”

“Why? I thought everyone said that sunrise is more energetic and sunset is just sad,” I said, even though a voice deep in my heart protested against that claim.

I loved sunsets.

“Nah, sunrise is just too much, don’t you think? You need to drag yourself out of bed, be ready for the day, welcome the new day with a positive mindset, and all that motivational crap,” he said.

“Sometimes people should just stop that manipulative propaganda, give other people a break, and admit that they themselves want to hibernate in bed for the rest of their lives!”

I could not help but let the corners of my mouth rise up. His effortless sarcastic comments and jokes brightened my mood every time. He always knew how to break the ice in my heart and melt it into a limpid puddle of water.

“Haha, finally got you to laugh.” He smiled and ruffled my hair.

“Oh stop it.”

“Haven’t seen you smiling a lot since I saw you.”

12

Dongmin “Eric” Kim ’21 Fear Beyond the Horizon, Pastel

“Well, it’s been a long while.” It’s been a while, I thought, since I got the real you back with me: the you that cared about whether I smiled or not, the you that made an effort to cheer me on, the you that put the bottles down and talked to me, as father and daughter. I looked back at the street and replied softly, “Yeah. I like sunset too. It guides people home.”

It was the longest and deepest conversation we had ever had. And would ever have. We started from my most recent school project to his research paper that was published when he was studying in one of the best universities in the region, from a book that I was reading in class to his fascinating interpretation of the text, from how I had a crush on a boy in my grade to his comfort and advice on dealing with those ups and downs. I could feel myself pouring my heart out, mending the connection between us that I thought was already torn into threads. If only this could last forever. If only we could be like every other father and daughter, standing side by side, with me ranting about my daily issues and him putting his arms around my shoulder with a tender pat and telling me everything would be alright.

“Dad.” “Uh-huh?” Dad pulled out his lighter

from one of his pockets and a cigarette from another.

“Can you promise me something?”

“Um?” “Promise me you will quit drinking?”

I noticed that he paused for a second as he lit up the cigarette. He looked toward the final hint of redness on the edge of the horizon and drew a whiff of smoke deep into his mouth, expelling it in a long and lingering exhalation.

“I...” The ring of his phone interrupted his sentence. He pulled out his phone and murmured with a cigarette in his mouth, “It’s mom. We should head back now.”

When we got back to the apartment, mom was already putting food on the table.

“Come help me set the table,” she said. “The host on TV said that the fireworks show at the harbor will start soon!

We can just watch from here. Now get the dishes out from the kitchen.”

The wonderful smell of sliced cold chicken, sweet and sour pork ribs, and scrambled eggs with tomatoes filled every corner of the room. Mom even bought my favorite rice cake from the store.

“You guys are talking?” Mom asked.

“Yeah. It’s nice to see him like this,” I said.

14

“See, I told you.” Mom grinned.

“Sometimes you have to give people another chance to be better. We all make mistakes at some point in life, and so does your dad. He was just lost.

The important thing is we love him no matter what, right?” The smile on her face was melting in sweetness.

“I guess so,” I said. Meanwhile, my mind was still swirling around the unanswered question.

“It’s time to witness the miracle! In Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven....” Big bold numbers appeared on the TV screen but dad’s seat next to me was still empty. I rushed to the balcony with chopsticks in my hand.

“Dad, Dad! It’s time for...”

My eyes met with his the moment he raised his hands in mid-air holding a small brown brandy bottle, gulping it down. He choked when he saw me out there on the balcony and started to cough. I stared at the reflection on the brandy bottle in his grip, where the fireworks from the harbor were reflected in the brown glass. They disappeared into the dark night sky in an instant.

If only it could last forever, I thought.

Yusi “Christine” Mo ’21

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16 Erika Zaripova ’20 Family or Profession, Photograph

True Superman on a Rooftop

A

fter an arduous plane journey of cramped seats and a lack of sleep, we had finally arrived at the Dhaka airport. There was a distinct smell in the air that I couldn’t quite identify. I couldn’t help but notice the immense difference between America and Bangladesh. The bathrooms were dirtier, people rougher, and the most noticeable, that I only heard Bengali. In the states, I heard people speak Bengali in my house or at family get-togethers. Even then it

viewed me and the potential I held.

The bustle of the Dhaka International airport was nothing compared to the traffic on the streets. Every car seemed to have an urgency that was blocked by every other person and vehicle on the road. In the taxi, I purposely sat by the window to seek some familiarity in the piles of trash and slums that were only a few feet away from large buildings. I was still taking in the stark contrasts this country held to home and the foreign

I hoped their obstacles in life would only increase their awareness of the world around them and prove to build strong adults one day.

I walked away from this boy on the street desperate to never forget the face of whom a bold spirit radiated. was always alternating between the two languages. Needless to say, I was less than enthusiastic to be in this country that my parents grew up in. I had been raised on the idea that my identity was Bengali American. In America, I was able to mask the confusion that I was struggling with. No one ever seemed to question my background, as long as I avoided the conversation. I never wanted my culture or religion to define or alter how one

scent of the air as the taxi turned into a building welcoming us with its open gates. When I entered the building of my Nana, I ran straight into his arms. It had been five years since I had seen my grandfather. His embrace was a slight reminder of why I was in this country that only seemed to make me feel isolated in a place I should have felt a connection to.

My Nana knew English and Bengali, and there was no barrier in communicating 17

with him.

Despite the fulfillment of seeing my grandfather, I noticed that he was not the only one in the room upon my arrival.

Two small children hovered close to the maid. Sitting on the couch were a few of my other relatives. We exchanged the expected hugs and small talk in Bengali.

The frustration I always felt trying to lead any conversation in Bengali was inevitable. I always ended up nodding along or resorting to English. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only one who noticed the discomfort. My parents insisted it was all in my head, but my inability to express what I was thinking in the language proved them wrong.

I looked down at the two little boys chasing each other around the kitchen table. They looked about four or five and were either brothers or really close friends. My Nana had a reputation for letting people stay in his building who otherwise had no other place to stay other than the street. He was one of the few people I had observed in my little experience in Bangladesh who actually treated his maid with respect. It meant a lot for a young girl, as one of these children was probably hers and the last thing she needed was to be stripped of her dignity while working to support her family.

I headed to the room I would be staying in to crash into a deep sleep, unaware that most people were probably getting up to start their day. There I was, drifting into sleep when the door opened and a little boy walked in. I lifted my head only to see his head pop up above the bed, his little friend joining him.

“Who are you?” one of them asked in Bengali.

“I’m Norah, who are you?” I answered in Bengali. There was no point in speaking English to them as they probably wouldn’t understand.

“Tasreef and Arin,” they said glancing at each other.

One of the boys had a small hole in his shirt, and the other’s hair was a luscious mess. His hand reached his forehead to move the black hair covering his eyes. They both turned around and left the room. I wasn’t in any mood to leave the bed and finally fell asleep.

I woke up to the smell of chai tea filling the bedroom. My instinct was to assume that it was morning, but the darkness seeping through the clear window made me realize that I had slept through the whole day. As soon as I stepped outside of the room, my foot bumped against the small boy sitting on the floor. I tapped his head and walked 18

past toward the table where a cup of tea was waiting for me. Tea time was almost as important as any other allocated meal in this country. Tasreef came over and pulled the chair out next to me. I watched as he climbed the chair, exerting a great deal of energy. He looked up at me with his glassy eyes, the corners of his mouth turned up into an adorable childish grin. Tasreef grabbed a cup on the table filled with water and tapped it against my glass. I swore he was imitating my every move, but it felt comforting to have this random child not treat me like I was a clueless American girl who spoke terrible Bengali, the way I felt everyone else saw me.

“Where is your mom?” I asked this strange child whom I still did not quite understand.

“The kitchen. Do you like Superman?” he replied.

A quick glance at his shirt, and I realized that this small boy had Superman on his shirt. I nodded, still stunned at the abrupt mention of a superhero and he went on about how he wanted to be superman.

“Superman is a pretty cool guy,” I said to him.

I hadn’t even realized that this whole conversation was in Bengali until he

repeated “Sup-er-man” at a slow pace.

He enunciated every syllable to match the way that I was saying it. I realized the boy had never heard the word superman in an American accent. Tasreef spotted his little friend walk through the door of the dining hall and jumped off of the chair in an attempt to join his buddy. I witnessed them bicker over whether to go to the roof or down to the basement to play. Where are the parents that would let two hyper children play on a roof without supervision?

I got up from my seat and decided to watch them. It seemed that no one else would.

“Will you play with us?” Arin asked.

I answered yes, and joined them up the stairs. I had tried to convince them to just stay inside, but my attempts were in vain as they ran up the stairs, thinking this was all a game. I offered to help them up the narrow, steep stairs, but they simply said they were okay and proceeded to walk up the stairs. I was struck by the lack of supervision, but mostly by independence, these boys seemed to possess. When I was their age, I was sure my friends and I would not be able to do half of what they were doing on our playdates.

When we went back downstairs, they 19

went into the kitchen and grabbed food to eat all on their own. The highest shelf was no obstacle to grab the can of crackers. Their freedom and carefree spirit made me feel no judgment for the first time since I arrived. They were just as surprised by my iPhone as I was by their limitless energy.

A few days passed of me watching over these two boys while also visiting family members I hadn’t seen in years. I only found myself comfortable enough to lead a full conversation in Bengali with Tasreef and Arin. It felt relieving to speak this language that was also a reason I felt the distance I did with my identity for so long.

We weren’t going to stay at my Nana’s house forever though. My parents had been mentioning Cox’s Bazaar for the whole trip. They were ecstatic to be taking the family to the same place they went on their honeymoon. I wasn’t sure of what exactly I expected. I knew that the sight of slums, beggars, and crowded roads wasn’t just prevalent in Dhaka. As I had expected, the stares were apparent wherever I went in this country. I felt their eyes eroding whatever comfort I felt in my western clothing.

Cox’s Bazaar was right on the beach.

The sound of rikshaws and the same

foreign aroma mixed with seawater filled the air around me. I couldn’t seem to find a clear path on any walkway. How could I feel so out of place, when the rest of my family was reminiscing about the happy memories this place brought them? I tried my best to plaster a smile on my face and feel the same way they did. I didn’t realize how I had become so accustomed to the feeling of familiarity and isolation coexisting with each other.

In the states, all the aspects of my culture I thought made me unique, made me detached in Bangladesh. No matter how hard I tried, the people, the food, the dress made me more disconnected from my culture than I had ever been, and there I was at the heart of it.

I was walking through the streets of Cox’s Bazaar with my dad, still uncomfortable with the random street vendors asking me to buy something in Bengali, and not feeling confident enough to reply. I noticed a little boy around Arin and Tasreef ’s age following us for the last few minutes. His shirt and pants were covered in dirt, and although I waited to see a parent, they never appeared.

“Dad, do you notice him too?” I asked my father.

“Yes, he must be all alone,” my dad said and stopped in his tracks to face 20

the boy.

This boy looked at me through the same innocent and independent eyes of Tasfreef and Arin.

“Hi, Where are your mom and dad?”

I questioned him in Bengali. I couldn’t even bother to filter myself anymore.

“He dropped me off in the morning and will come again at night. Do you have money?” he answered with a question for my father and me.

I realized that this boy must not be talking about his father. My parents had been telling me this whole trip that many children are kidnapped and used to beg on the streets, only to be abused in an endless cycle. Here he was, the epitome of all these stories. My dad explained to me that this young boy must have been roaming the street for hours already.

Even if he was referring to his parent dropping him off here, they are not the same idea of a parent I had grown up with. My father crouched down, and he reached into his wallet and handed this boy all the money he had. It still wasn’t enough for us to hand money to this boy and leave. I wanted to bring him to the United States away from the dangers of the street he was roaming. At that young an age, this boy, Tasreef, Arin, and all other children living under conditions

of poverty faced the realities I have been sheltered from my whole life. It angered me that this young boy had been left to grow up in such a dangerous manner.

I felt guilty for the shame I held for my identity. But I was also grateful that I had even been able to speak to these young boys in Bengali. This language was beautiful and I knew that what I learned from these children was more than I could ever reciprocate. It wasn’t that I finally learned the language or the culture. These have always been aspects of my life in the states. Seeing these kids, however, face a harsh world without supervision but with the courage to go up to a stranger and ask for money or climb up on a high rooftop just to play a game was more foreign an idea to me than being this country.

I wished for all these hardships never to hold back the potential of these boys. These children made me feel more comfortable with being an American Bengali than anyone else. I hoped their obstacles in life would only increase their awareness of the world around them and prove to build strong adults one day. I walked away from this boy on the street desperate to never forget the face of whom a bold spirit radiated.

21

Norah Omar ’21

So

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s e bird ling h t , g l hinin e were se em s s a of th eopl un w The s ng, and p but none bored. gi t, so re sin the stree e. I was ot make e s w a w n on om ld do e, there ings nected t t I could lk, but u h o t c u ta on rm ng I ere c to yell, b anted to stand. I y thi uietly. Fo as so long w l n o d he ante ound; I w ld under ing that ere q y life w ge. I w h t I d z u s a stan ngle body wo ere, reali silence me. M ber my me. i i s t a o th no he was n ot remem ve inside ed new standing . When t was a soft k I y i n l o j y ld n le ept tin ere d s. I e peop I cou just k as my des crazy, th thing and e that ed those wn storie y I realize e a th a o h this w t drove m pped bre nding at watc ad their ut one d n me. He se a o s e t i h p ,b almo ound. I st he was s round th iful They ing them lived with d the cor t S a s i ld h little outside. looking rl as beau s as watc sociopath nd then h ed. I cou g i d a g n e fi a a look ce, smili r seen a er skin w ke that a person was terri een torn e b e I tran nev k hair; h s were li killed the wall. body had ains insid has en m. I had d dar ly; her lip re like e o a y e m d o r h i e r e m s r e i h f e n i art o e hid the hat day, t ually, er. Sh e white l er eyes w ed the p h a s a e th w rh se ad et ;h ite as he snow s that sho e world . Afte left. Sinc n me. Gr on t h r w a p t l s o a e eared next es on e darkne the who lso very all, h ge smell p s w p o a r e n m th th sa up he a stra f the victi . When t med rs in uld give ver, I wa l in me a n t s e e a l e o b . I w ile. How nge smel oment ape o f the wal , she scre me; y h a s w e it th ca eo hat m e stra er sm t d saw cops urfac for h s that th way. At t the s came an r on the nd caugh a ou a t te nerv keep her tenan n out. La ead body that day d t a d ce woul and r und the ever, sin e day tha w fo they spect. Ho hanged. Th c u 22 the s hing has t y r . e n v i e oved she m

T

Xin “Julie” Xiong ’20

hated myself so much.

The day was cloudy; it seemed like the rain would come soon. The whole world was quiet, too. Suddenly, I felt like something was coming to me. An explosion. I collapsed at the sound. I had never felt so weak before, and I saw her stay with me full of fear. She tried to run, but her every action was powerless. I fell and she fell with me. I worried about her, but then I realized that this was the first time I have been able to come so close to her. I could feel that her body was so warm; I could smell the sweet fading scent of her. I was calm and even a little bit delighted. I could not do that before because I was only a house. Maybe now I could protect her, even though she would never again open her eyes.

Zilan “Lanney” Jing ’23 Café d’Emily, Watercolor

I swore that I would dedicate my whole life to protect her.

Since the day she moved in, I watched her smile, work, and sleep in me. I had never felt satisfied and fulfilled like this. I believed that this feeling would last forever. However, I was utterly wrong about it. One night, somebody broke a window. The space by this window was my favorite spot because she would always stand there and look out.

It was broken, and there was nothing I could do about it. Under the moonlight, I could see that she was cut by the glass and started to bleed. I was furious.

How could they do that to her, to my own angel? I could see tears in her eyes.

She stood up and found the First Aid kit, then bound up her wound. I tried to convince myself that it was just an accident and that the next day she would be fine and smile again. Sadly, that did not happen. The next morning, the girl sealed the window. The room became dark. Her beautiful eyes were suddenly replaced by melancholy. I could see her trembling every night. Since that day, the sound of breaking glass has never stopped. I wanted to touch her and calm her down, but the only thing I could do was stand there hopelessly. I had never

Tianqi “Wernich” Li ’20 Les Vagues, Photography

What is the wind at night?

Under the shivering light on the street, I asked myself, What is the wind at night?

What is the wind at night?

I don’t know.

It can be a small breeze, It can be a bell ringer, But when I’m standing under the sky of night, When I feel the wind caress my body, It’s not just the wind, It has minds!

I pulled out my hands, And I felt the wind run through my fingers.

Then I held them together, Trying to catch the embers of the wind.

But when I loosened my fist, I found out that the wind was still there, Walking calmly in the grasp of my hands, Never excited, never changed.

It brings happiness to me when I am delighted, or it brings sadness to me when I am grieving.

It is the only one staying beside me When I stare at the stars at night.

In a moment, I just want to exile myself, Toss all my works away, Throw all my depression away, Just to escape into the wind at night.

I’ll be a friend with it, I’ll sing with it, And finally, I’ll know what is the wind at night.

I was wandering on the field, Immersing my feet in the land, Like an erect tree inserts its roots into the ground.

The wind flew across my head, my body, and my soul.

It had no voice, But I could hear that it was singing beside my ears, Dancing with the bells on the wall, And no one would dare to interrupt this pleasant song under this tranquil night, No one.

Rile Rhodes ’21

20 phy 25

An excerpt from

The Three Ways I Disobey You I

to burst out. I screamed and cried so loud, but I knew no one could hear me.

I was so cold that my tears almost froze onto my face. Even when I wiped them away, they were still there, waiting for another wave, another thought to press them out. Finally, I took the strength to stand and look at my mother’s once alive body. The body that walked through graduation, stood at an altar, birthed one kid, the body that I clasped and held when fear seemed close. My breathing stopped. I did not want to take in more

held onto her cloak and listened to the last thump of her heart. My tears rolled down my cheeks, like falling snow. Slow and abundant. I watched my mother’s face turn from her normal blush, to a pale and solemn grey. My hand got cold as I felt the blood cool in her own. When she died, I died too. I got up only to fall back down, and crumple my dress around me like a thousand roses. The world stopped around me, and the snow christened on my hair, on her hair. Anger boiled in my blood, waiting 26

chilling air. The world became dizzy without any oxygen, but I did not want to take another breath and move forward without her. Trees swayed for a moment before the ground came up and hit the side of my head, where my hairline met my forehead. Everything was dark. I was alone but not lonely.

Crisped air stung my nostrils as my body awakened. I felt dizzy for a moment and tried to sit up, only for someone to restrain me back down.

“Charlotte, welcome. Do not be afraid or fearful. You are in a safe place.”

The fake smile twisted his face in ways that made the hair on the back of my neck rise. I screamed because I knew where I was, Everleigh. They had found me and brought me home, but all I wanted was my mother. The oxygen mask was easy to rip off, filling my lungs with fresh air.

“Why would they bring me here?

Why would you save me?!” I demanded.

“Oh please, you know why. Your father is pleased to see you. He should be here momentarily, your highness. Is there anything else I can get you?”

His words and actions were artificial, and they were meant to do anything but comfort me. I stared at him for a long time, making my eyes go dry. Then, I

heard those loud menacing footsteps echo through the hallway.

“Charlie, glad you turned up. I saw mother. Terrible what happened to her, yes?”

“You are the one who meant to kill her! How could you? You promised! You promised.” My voice and words left a small groove on his heart, but he did not listen to that organ, he only listened to his brain. If someone were to remove his heart, his brain could pump his blood.

He would live. However, if he died, I would not go to his funeral or accept his inheritance, if he even left any for me.

“I know, Charlie. I know, baby, but you know me. I never tell the truth.”

He chuckled and stroked my face, but only for a moment before I bit his hand and broke his dry skin. That moment brought me so much more satisfaction than I thought that it would. In the small slot of time, it was just me and him, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

“Ow! Charlie! Get off this bed now!”

He ripped the wires from my arms, creating small pools of blood to form on my flesh. I winced several times, but tried hard not to show him my weakness.

He thrusted the cotton blankets off my body, and pulled at my paper dress. He told me to stand straight up and look 27

him in the eyes, so I did because I knew that if I did not he could kill me in that instant.

“Stand straight with your shoulders back, Charlotte, and recite your oath.”

His words pierced my body. I was frozen.

I could not move, would not move.

“No.” I felt so small and scared, I just wanted my mother. The oath was what I was meant to live by and reprimand. It was the law of the royals, but royalty is a cruel world that one is born to. Once you are born into it, there is no getting out.

You are trapped in a black hole of these laws, duties, and tight corset dresses.

How could I ever recite such a fake way to live?

Callie Dunbar ’24

Dongmin “Eric” Kim ’21 What I See and What I Saw, Pencil and Acrylic

29

Erika Zaripova ’20 Ballerina, Photograph

Untitled, June 2019 her whole world has come to a standstill. stopping still at the feet of vacillation, for it has chipped away at the girl’s shoes, the girl’s heart, the girl’s gold. the window panes on mum’s car are beaded with sweat, not from anguish but from worry. worry evolves into fear; fear settles into dew. fear that her world, her spirit will crumble soon down the umber throat of brute. her beauty will fade, her hope will dim, and her faith drown. she drowns in the pain of her own misbeing and unfaithfulness to not only herself but to her worth; she cannot unsee, yet she still looks away by chance. lento, her head turns to catch her falling body and places it in the bed of flowers a safe haven for the girl to heal, herself a safe haven for the girls to cure, troubles a safe haven for the girl to live, a new life.

Tendo Kalule ’21 31

B e

o r

N o t

t o

Tianqi “Wernich” Li ’20 Sur la Route, Photograph

B e “To be, or not to be: that is the question” Hamlet, Act III, scene I

T o

What is the meaning of to be?

Is it something that is related to life?

The smallest unit of life is the cell.

What does this tell us?

The most important thing in this world isn’t the biggest but the smallest.

A drop of water can become an ocean.

A piece of leaf can become a tree.

A person can become a miracle.

Then what is “not to be”?

Is it back to the start, back to the null.

No reincarnation, sink into the dark!

Flowers crumble, decay and feed the soil.

Oceans dry, exhaust and return to the sky.

Creatures cease, go extinct and give opportunity for others.

The stars shatter, everything facing the end of the universe or maybe the start, like the moon cycle, phases full to none and back to full.

Being part of this historical cycle, living inside this complex system, standing between to be and not to be, I am here listening, I am here finding, I am here thinking, the most unassuming parts.

Zihan “Angela” Tian ’22 34

RUBICON EDITORIAL TEAM Editors Muwei “Katherine” Xu ’20 Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20 Deputy Editor Tianyu “Johnny” Zhang ’21 Faculty Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

MISSION

The mission of “Rubicon” is to showcase the artwork and writing of Wilbraham & Monson students.

COLOPHON The text was composed in 12 point Minion Pro. Adobe CC 2019 was employed in its design.

Starburst Printing & Graphics in Holliston, Massachusetts printed 150 copies on 100# uncoated paper stock using HP Indigo 5600.

“Rubicon” is a member of Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

HORROR STORY

EDITORIAL POLICY

In 2020, a panel of faculty judges culled through submissions to the Wilbraham & Monson Writing Contest and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in three categories: poetry, creative nonfiction, and short stories. First place entries and honorable mentions appear in this publication. Wilbraham & Monson students in grades 8 - 12 and postgraduates are eligible to submit their work to the writing contest.

The “Rubicon” staff reserves the right to edit minor errors and to return submissions to the author for requested corrections. Authors and artists retain copyright of printed submissions but grant “Rubicon” the right to use selected submissions as deemed by the editorial staff to be most appropriate in the publishing of the magazine.

The “Rubicon” staff, which met during the winter season, selected artwork from the photography contest, student art show, and submissions solicited via email.

COVER

Front & Back Cover: Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20

Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Kristen Casey Kiayani Douglas Brian Easler Tim Harrington ’73 Russ Held

Meg Hutcheson Marvina Lowry-Brook Amy Mathison Marxan Pescetta Jessica Rohan Bill Rosenbeck Valeri Wallace

The house shrieks.

Abominations crawl and hiss with every “step,” their covered faces emanate death.

Victims before me toil in agony, I’ll never forget their screams.

Shadows creep across the floor, their eyes glowing with hunger, teeth soaked in grime.

My face caked in my own blood, I sit in the only safe room I have.

Why was I there?

Searching for someone?

A mission perhaps?

Or maybe a punishment?

Living dolls rattle, a chainsaw revs, Screams and laughs, the walls creak and the floors hiss, and— Someone’s banging on the door.

Why are they here?

Clutching my knees and shaking my head, I can’t look away.

The plasma screen glows, the noises are getting louder.

I can feel it, it’s coming.

The scream, the pain, the red clouding my vision— And finally, my screen goes dark.

20 20

This is how my story ends.

Caitlin Lee ’21

Sahana Anand ’20 Bravado, Charcoal

SPECIAL THANKS

I still can’t believe I survived that place.

Up that quiet hill, in that barren wasteland, something’s there.

That resident evil.

Why is this my story?

RUBICON VOL. 6

2020 WILBRAHAM & MONSON ACADEMY