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I Gave the
Stars a Dream Akshatha Murali
the best place to keep a dream is in space, because it is black and boundless and holds all kinds of infinities. dreams are a kind of infinity and the stars are who i give mine to. it was last march and i was sad and i had the kind of day that makes you want to cry. there is nothing wrong with crying on that kind of day, especially when you feel so alone that you have to do it alone. so at night i made myself a seat on the concrete below the sky, on the concrete where it is cold and so quiet you can hear the earth whisper. and i looked up at the stars and asked them to keep my dream. they blinked their white eyes at me and i cried my eyes to them. i like to ask space why it left us here, on a rock called earth that is so small in its black and boundless infinity. it is so small but it feels like everything and i wonder why the smallest things feel like everything. and space, it said nothing when i asked it that. because stars can only blink their white eyes at you. that is the best part about giving the stars a dream, they take it without a word so you can only imagine what they might have said. in my imagination, the stars thanked me and broke my dream in half. they said they would keep one piece, and they told me, lock the other in you. i thanked them back and held it close. the stars said, look at us when you have the kind of day that makes you want to cry, and the other piece of your dream, we will give it to you. and one day you will be whole. it was like a piece of sky had fallen to earth. and it only happened in my imagination but i held the sky in my hands and cried.
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The Final
Countdown v
v The well has run dry and the last drop gone. The worn out gears creak and slow to a halt. Your mind begs to stop, yet you lumber on. You yearn for a pause, but it’s your own fault. Mere seconds ago, the morning sun shone. Now it still shines, but shines on a new day. If only a seed would make itself known, You could raise and grow it without delay. Oh, what you would give to travel back in--Scratch that, the paper’s due in half an hour. No time for regret or despair within. You wish an idea would just flower. But time never ends playing its cruel trickThe clock goes tick tock tick, tock, tick. Tock. Tick.
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Ethan Song
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The Black
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Cat Moka Sato
Tiffany opened her eyes and stretched, pausing once to let her eyes adjust to the light. She yawned, jumping down from the bed and attempted to swiftly land on the floor, but failed. Her legs were unbelievably weak. She couldn’t feel her paws. She immediately noticed that the temperature of the room rose higher than yesterday. She was used to pain thanks to the human who lived with her, but it was still unusual for the human to leave the room hot without machines spitting out cold wind during this time of the year. Sweat clung on her formerly tamed fur, weighing her down physically and emotionally. Leaning against the table beside to stable herself, Tiffany let herself recover from the fall and proceeded in her morning routine. Tiffany first headed to the living room, where the human usually ended up spending most of his time recently. She never went in that room, as she hated the stench the human was giving off, and the heat was definitely not helping. She also never went in because she was terrified of him as well, knowing that being near him would mean either a kick to the stomach or a concussion for the head. Scrunching her nose, she closed in the distance between her and the human. Her food was running low and she needed a refill. The water was also gone. She instinctively knew in the back of her head that if she failed to convince the human in feeding her today, she would not last another day. Climbing onto his body, she clawed at his hairless skin, squeezing out the loudest voice she could make. When she saw no reaction, she jumped onto his face and tried clawing at him there. Again, she failed to move the human. Not being able to bear the smell, Tiffany backed away, as a rest was well deserved. When she was sure that she could support her weight again, she heaved herself up and repeated the process. Claw, cry, rest. With each movement, her hate for the human grew, and at the same time she slowly felt her body become weak. After a couple of minutes, her legs gave way. Tiffany lay there, spread out as wide as possible to prevent the heat from sapping too much of her strength away. She was about to close her eyes and drift off, when she heard a sound she recognized. Someone was knocking the door. Tiffany opened her mouth, and started to use her voice again, weaker but supported with hope. If a human could let her out of the room she was happy to do whatever she could for it, even if she hated their kind. She called out to the door, unable to physically move to greet the visitor. However, much to her dismay, the knocking stopped as soon as she started to cry out loud. Afraid that her rescuer left, Tiffany raised her voice, trying to get her message through. Sadly, there was no response. There were a few minutes of silence. Tiffany stared off to the side, tracing the particles of dust under the couch with her eyes. Her whole body was numb, her breath became shallow, and she could no longer move. Her matted fur was uncomfortable, and she felt the stench slowly affect her brain, pushing her into insanity. Time was slow, and she was drifting. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the human lying down on the floor, just like her. That was when she finally understood why he hadn’t moved at all for the past few days, or why he refused to respond to her. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t, but that he couldn’t. Relieved that the human would never be able to harm her again, she took a deep long breath, relaxed, and closed her eyes.
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Dear You i'm not exactly crying for all the world to see, just for you and me, but the disaster never ebbs drowning waterlogged hearts nothing that ever sees sunshine never breathes nor dies. don't ask me for my mind or reach out to me with feeling that ends and lies with you. blank stares past all i love, a pit between me knows. insecurity lights the fire, and only grows and grows. my skin is crawling ashes and my blood becomes impure and they still watch. nobody knows, and i'm just not sure if anyone's proud of me, of you, or the maps we make. don't die. don't cry. don't let in any more lies without me there: to approve to choose to let love die to fix my eyes away to stay. you don't say, no one ever says, anything at all. they all think they're so tall, but who's to say i'm breathing and leaving it all behind. why can't we stop it— Stop it! STOP IT! just let me talk. let me see. let me breathe. i can't let my memories take this, break this, break me, until i'm all alone. until i'm on my own, with no one around me surrounding me
break this, break me, until i'm all alone. until i'm on my own, with no one around me surrounding me screaming in my ear. shut all the noise outtoys out. that's all they really are to me: rarely feeling so much death and all to see all to be all to me and none to you. selfishly selfish and none for you. alone with my knife in hand, I bleed I live I die. I believe in stars, but nothing ever changes. we can’t leave the lies behind and hide my innocent mind. "don't let me go," we scream. "don't let us die" but it falls on blind eyes. "believe me," we cry. "we are going to lie" but it falls on mute mouths, but on ears that hear everything and absolutely nothing at all. Sincerely, someone who's dying lying crying maybe I'm trying but no one is proud.
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Nandhini Sridhar He and I were complete opposites. In fact, the only reason we became friends in the second grade was that his family moved into the house right next to mine, and some unwritten universal law states that when you are a kid, any neighbor your age is automatically your friend. HIs name was Luke. He had suntanned skin, intense green eyes, and an easy smile. He was adventurous, restless, had the kind of nervous energy that both inspires and scares you. A pretty small, gangly sort of kid. Knobby knees and elbows, but undeniable inner strength as well. Cuts and scars and bruises littered his body from summers spent climbing trees and hopping fences and playing ball and just living, breathing in the world. But he didn’t care about getting hurt- he would wipe off the blood and go back to whatever he was doing within two minutes, pain forgotten as his green eyes sparkled, finding excitement in the mundane. He was charismatic even as a kid. Everyone at school took an innate liking to him, the mothers in the neighborhood gushed over his cheerfulness and his looks at summer barbecues and holiday parties, “He’ll break a lot of hearts one day,” the older kids invited him to play basketball and baseball and soccer over summer break. If he wasn’t playing with them, he would invite all of our friends from school to play soccer and have lemonade and cookies at his house. He even got me to come over sometimes. Me, I was his opposite. I knew from a young age I wasn’t cut out for the athletic,
active lifestyle. No, my time was spent indoors, preferring Harry Potter novels and the watercolor pencils my sister got me for my birthday over sports and climbing trees. My mind was constantly at work, and I preferred the library over the soccer field any day. I knew my parents loved me, although I also knew he fit their expectations of a young boy better than I did. I had friends at school, the neighborhood moms and dads liked me, and the older kids still watched out for me like they would anyone they knew, but I knew it wasn’t the same. I still felt pangs of guilt seeing my parents’ quickly concealed disappointment when I adamantly refused to play outside during summer break, preferring the worlds of literature. The harsh truth was that the little boy who moved in next door to me in the second grade was simply more fit for our little suburbia than I was. Not that I didn’t like him; no, it was quite the opposite. Some of my best days were in the summer when he would knock on my door to ask if he could retrieve a football that had fallen into my backyard and would end up staying for hours, looking at the art displayed in my room, watching James Bond movies and playing pretend as the characters afterwards: he saved the day, I stayed in the shadows, assisting his work. And we both liked it that way. But my favorite part of our days together was after dark, sitting in one of our rooms together, having endless, naïve conversations about our simple lives:
Alex. ”
“I don’t see why you don’t like sports,
Well, I don’t see why you don’t appreciate J.R.R. Tolkien, Lucas.” “My name isn’t Lucas, it’s just Luke. I think my parents just really liked Star Wars.” “I like Star Wars.” “Me too.” “I think Connor has a crush on Mia.” “Oh yeah, he told me.” He yawned. I did too. Heavy eyes, a soft blanket on the ground, a comforting presence.
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Those days were the best: just me and him and no one else, talking in my room or his room until we both fell asleep, innocently spread out on the floor next to each other, a comforter covering us both, relaxed and just happy. Unfortunately for me, the secluded little bubble of a world we lived in had different plans for the both of us. It turned out that the mothers who gushed over him were right- as we grew up he filled out, played varsity football and baseball, and broke a whole lot of hearts. One of them was mine. We never dated, nor did we want to, but as time went on I soon realized that our small world was not as kind to people like me. People who listened instead of talking, perfectly content with being silent and hearing the white noise of all the conversations around me. People who read everything they could get their hands on, and thought about it too much, longing for different worlds. People who felt too deeply. No, our little suburban paradise crowned those who talked just so they wouldn’t have to be silent. Those who flitted around like the social butterflies they were. Exchanged kisses as easily as they exchanged numbers. And he was the epitome of those people; he talked to everyone, asked to copy yesterday's notes and homework unashamedly, took one girl to Homecoming and another one to the Winter Formal. So we grew apart, not as a conscious decision, but in the way people naturally stop being as close with old friends as they make new ones. We talked when he needed help with his math homework or when my friends and I needed tickets to the sold out football game. It was like with every passing day, we grew further and further apart. Different friends, different classes, different lives. He was the star quarterback. I took AP Calculus. He was friends with everyone. I sat with three or four people at lunch. He was loved by the masses. I was dutifully ignored. I existed. He existed better. And so, along with the world
we had been thrust into, our dynamic, our friendship changed. Not as much as a smile in the halls, not that he would have noticed me anyway, surrounded by smiling friends, girlfriends, exes, and teammates as he was. So no more being best friends begging our mothers “Let me stay one more hour, please!” No more teaching me how play baseball “Wait for it, Alex, don’t just swing as soon as I pitch!” No more laughing when I still failed and going out for pizza afterward. No more watching James Bond movies in my living room, popcorn spilling as we fought over the softest blanket. No more midnight conversations even after our parents told us to go to bed. Our friendship had dissolved like an ice cube on those summer days I had treasured so much. Our friendship was no more. And I was oddly okay with it. __________ I met him again fifteen years after we graduated from high school. Not at a reunionI had never gone to those. I had left the city we lived in and only came back to visit my parents, grey and aging but perfectly happy with one another. I still remember graduation: my best friend was valedictorian and I, for one, could not have found anyone more suited to the role. She was the smartest person I had ever known, but life had taken us in different directions, so I hadn’t seen her since that day. We got our diplomas, and my mother cried as she hugged me fiercely. My father smiled proudly as he hugged me too, silent, bittersweet tears flowing down his face. I was going places; I had gotten into a good college, I kind of knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I was confident and apprehensive at the same time. I vowed to make my way in the larger world, to not come back to the place that was so unkind to me. He was going out of state for college, not really knowing what he wanted, just wanting to be happy with his life. I thought about him
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“Sometimes, you have to learn to leave yourself before you can let others in.” once or twice, but never dwelled on my childhood too much: keep going, don’t look back. Until I met him again. It was at a coffeeshop in the city I had moved to: not extremely urban, but a far cry from where I had grown up. No more suburbs for me. No more of the rat race that favored everyone that he was and I wasn’t. I didn’t even recognize him at first, as I ordered my coffee and contemplated the flavor of the scone I wanted to go with it: blueberry or lemonlavender? It’s amazing how seemingly simple decisions seem be so daunting and important in the moment you’re making them. I sat down at my usual table in the corner, taking in the sight of regular customers and new ones making small talk in line, the young couple working away on their laptops at another table but taking moments to gaze up at each other with a shy smile, the man at the door— The man at the door. It took a good minute or two, but then I knew. Knew it was him: my childhood friend, my teenage not-sogood-friend, the one I avoided thinking about as an adult. He was here, and he had the same presence he had had since he moved next door to me in the second grade. People looked at him, they returned his smiles, made easy conversation about what breakfast item was the best and what new music they liked. And then he turned and saw me, staring at him in what I was sure was an extremely creepy way, my coffee and lemon scone completely ignored, and I saw the flicker of
recognition in his eyes. Saw him offer a slight smile, order his coffee, and slowly make his way to my table, looking just a bit unsteady. “Hey Alex,” he greeted cautiously, sitting at my table, at the chair opposite mine. “I didn't see you at the ten year high school reunion,” that easy smile was back, making conversation as easily as ever. As if nothing had happened. As if he was picking up on a conversation from a week ago, not realizing it had been fifteen years. As if I wasn’t internally seething, a ball of white hot anger welling up in me at the sight of him even though I didn’t know why. “I didn’t go.” My response was curt. I took a deep breath. Why are you angry? He’s
literally never done anything to you. Calm down. “It’s fine, you didn’t miss anything of
interest, except Julia Greyson getting completely drunk and trying to kiss every single male at the party.” He chuckled, remembering the moment. I just looked at him; I had no response. I didn’t want to respond, but one has to when one makes conversation with someone they haven’t seen in fifteen years, I suppose. “It’s been a while,” I said finally, taking a sip of my coffee to avoid saying any more. He smiled again, not the easy one I was so accustomed to. This was kind of rueful, bittersweet, nostalgic, even. “Yes it has,” he paused, getting up to go get his drink after the barista called out his name. He came back, sat in the chair across from me, and took a long sip. “It’s been so long. We were so close at one point, weren't we? What happened, Alex?” “Life. Life happened,” I stated coldly, trying once again to rein in this unreasonable anger inside me. Get it together. What’s
wrong with you? You’re usually calm and collected. You’re known at work for being able to manage situations without getting angry. Why is one person doing this to you?
But I knew why: because silently, deep down,
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I had blamed him for everything. For being so popular. For being able to talk to everyone easily while I had awkward conversations at best with anyone who I wasn’t close with. For having more friends. For being more liked. For all my insecurities. For unconsciously lowering my self esteem by constantly being regarded as better, since second grade- when my parents wanted me to play outside like he did- to high school, where it seemed as if the whole world revolved around his exploits. I took another sip of my coffee. “We grew apart and we just stopped being friends.” As if it were that simple, which it was to him. He couldn’t have known about my anger, misplaced as it was, but still there, brewing and boiling and threatening to erupt. I could almost see the gears turning in his head as he searched for an appropriate response, and some part of me felt cruel satisfaction that I had for once been able to render him speechless, without a quick quip to keep the talk flowing how he wanted it to. “Yeah,” he said finally, “We did grow apart, didn’t we. I gotta be honest- some days in high school all I wanted was to go to your house and talk to you, see you again.” So why didn’t you? He continued, “But I guess we were both too busy.” Oh, don’t you drag
me into this like it’s somehow my fault too.
He took another long sip of coffee, looking as if he was steeling himself up to say something. “I’m going to be here a couple of days, we should catch up, reconnect. We should have dinner or something,” he offered, that easy smile back on his face. Funny, I found it annoying now, where I had once found it endearing. Still, I was tempted to say yes to his offer, to talk to the man who had once been my closest friend. But no, I couldn't go back down that rabbit hole of insecurity again. I plastered on a smile in response, the one I used when my coworker was talking about her new boyfriend for a bit too long and it went from being cute to being irritating. “Yeah we should!” I faked
excitement, something I was far too good at.
Too many years pretending to love you just as much as every single other person seemed to. I abruptly stood up, “I have to get to work now, or I’ll be late, but call me and we’ll meet up sometime.” I maneuvered around the table, avoiding his gaze, threw away my coffee cup and the half-eaten scone I was
starving when I walked in here, but I’d somehow lost my appetite, and briskly walked out the door before he could call after me realizing he didn’t have my number. I knew it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that I liked Harry Potter’s life better than my own, that getting lost in the tales of elves and dwarves and hobbits let me have adventures I could never find by myself. It wasn’t his fault that I was socially awkward, that holding a conversation was something I hadn’t figured out how to do in high school. That I liked it indoors, my mind a better escape than any basketball court or baseball field. That I wasn’t everything I was expected to be. That I was insecure. That I compared myself to him every day. That he was born a James Bond and I was a minor character at best. That every time I looked at him, the word “better” flashed in my mind, white hot, searing itself into my thoughts. None of it was his fault, yet at the same time, I knew I would always find myself comparing me to him, and he would always be better. We became friends because we lived next to each other as kids, and unknown forces in the universe push children together in ways they can’t push adults. So although it was unfair, I had to forgive him for my own faults. It’s funny; in high school I would have done anything to become friends with him again, but I know better now. Some things that die are meant to stay buried, no matter how much you want to dig them up. Sometimes, you have to learn to love yourself before you can let others in. Sometimes, the ones you want in your life the most are the ones that should never be there.
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All the Fish in the Sea Elaine Park
Nostalgic Isabelle Ocampo
i lost myself in empty cities, in busy classrooms on endless summer days, on paved roads that led everywhere and nowhere all at once. i see only memories in crowded hallways wasted potential in gymnasiums lit with fluorescent lights another person in my photograph. with my shaking hands above my head and my mechanical heart in my lungs i left what’s left of me center stage in a navy blazer and uncomfortable black heels digging into the skin of my feetso much that i bled through the cloth of a beige band-aid.
i was too focused on not letting grains of sand slip through my hands that i had gotten swept up in the wind. am i permitted to love myself even when i am not enough? the world is not kind enough to answer. bouncing back and forth between extremes i am somehow everything and nothing too much and insufficient excruciatingly, disgustingly, awfully mediocre a taste of heaven on your mouth with the most important star missing. in a room surrounded by my first loves and first “i love you”s, i’ve never felt so alone.
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Self-Check-Out
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Fruits of the Mind
Michelle Li
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Nature of Being an Observer
By the golden bark of a river birch, I abide in strength The fragile foliage of fall in a fresh cluster, Color begets color from an everlasting glance, The earth stocks its eye with a flowing yellow
By the red growth of a Japanese maple, I pray to emptiness The shapely shrub of soft maroon in a woodland, Strings of reedy bramble rising from the ground, Upgrowth to spur the heart with a growing quietude.
By the peeling bark of a hickory tree, I await a blessing The shifting strains of sunlight on the curly bark Catkins and husky nuts call on squirrels and turkeys As plenitude dances on the corner of their vision.
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We are always motivated to act and react to the world around us. Our culture impels us to achieve and accomplish all the time. I have written this poem to highlight the fact that it's delightful to watch the world as it exists. Without the constant chatter of our thoughts, we can see or perceive a world that clarifies our presence in it as an interested observer.
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acorns filled my cupped hands as i stood in the park with you by my side. the wind swayed the branches of the tree above us and the cold bit my fingers but i smiled because you were there and because you were smiling. it felt like we were alone as we laughed freely, just two kids in a park on a cold winter day. three years later long after the acorns (and everything we had) fell apart, i'm still wishing i could go back to that day to that time when we could talk about anything for hours and hours, when we passed each other in the hallways with a smile instead of awkward eye contact, when we were so close to something we'll never have. i'd like to think that i've moved passed it all. but sometimes, i still wonder about what we almost had sometimes, i still dream about you by my side about you smiling about laughing freely about us.
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acorns Priscilla Kong
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love (for rain) makes you go crazy Gita Supramaniam
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“bad weather” the pluviophile scoffs. she could wait under roof edges merely listen to the downpour with a blue screen for company but that shade burns dryly unlike rain’s hue embellished with gray and crystal drops no price tag could capture of course the recently languishing trees now perky and green, hate being used as umbrellas and unceremoniously drench passerby surely one hood is no match for such a blusterous forecast much to the dismay of dry glasses and eyelashes pointless debate, for joy is ubiquitous as plentiful as the water from the clouds the heart wins over logic she quickly wishes to not get sick though lovesick already the sidewalks are unusually colorful compensation for beautiful monotone a freshly showered world awaits one pair of tennis shoes a last glance at the inferior blue short nails and words
are u walking? yes
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Wild Winter Magic Riya Desai
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Winternational Anaya Navale
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Writer’s Circle Writers, artists, and creators. Dreamers, thinkers, and believers—these are the individuals who make up Writer’s Circle, a collective of passionate and talented students who each expresses their voice in a unique way. The individuals of Writer’s Circle are some of the bravest and most imaginative, and we publish these magazines to help them share their ideas and perspectives with their communities. Winter skies have long left us, and spring has awakened as the flowers bloom and the birds chirp. This Winter Issue is our way of celebrating winter, as we reminisce about what the season brings us each year, and what the season means to us on a more personal level after it has long since passed. Our writers and artists worked hard to produce works that they are proud of— and we hope this issue resonates with you as much as it did with us.
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