Ambrosia

Albemarle High School // The Lantern 2020 // Volume 37

AMBROSIA

Ambrosia

The Lantern 2020 // Volume 37

Albemarle High School 2775 Hydraulic Road Charlottesville, Virginia 22901 434-975-9300 ahs.lantern@gmail.com ahslantern.wordpress.com Member of Virginia High School League Columbia Scholastic Press Association National Scholastic Press Assiociation Southern Interscholastic Press Association Purchase a copy of Ambrosia online: ahslantern.wordpress.com/buyambrosia/ Link expires on January 31, 2021

2 // THE LANTERN

Precipitation of Heart and Head // Samantha Rowley // watercolor

Dear reader, Throughout life, it is inevitable that we will face adversity which we must overcome. We are constantly surrounded by the hands of society, expectation, and misfortune, trying to push us down and reshape us into someone else. Nonetheless, we must refuse to let these hands discourage us in our journey towards building a stronger self. Recently, a single outside force has irrevocably altered the lives of many. COVID-19 has prompted people around the world to find previously unimaginable solutions to everyday obstacles. The proof lies in front of you: in thirty-seven years of publication, this is the first edition of The Lantern produced almost entirely from home. In Greek myths, ambrosia, the food of the gods, would bestow longevity or immortality upon those who ate it. The Ancient Greeks believed ambrosia possessed healing and cleansing capabilities, just as we believe expressing oneself through writing and art does.

This magazine showcases human fortitude, and the growth and self-discovery that is prompted by hardship. Let these pages heal you and give you the strength you need to overcome your own obstacles.

Thank you to everyone who made this publication possible - to our incredible advisor who drove to the McDonalds parking lot nearly everyday for internet access, in order to guide us through this process; to our generous patrons for making our vision a reality; to our contributors whose creative talent shines through on every page; to our devoted designers and editors who worked tirelessly from home, in the midst of a global pandemic, and whom we are so grateful to call our staff; and finally to you, dear reader, for joining us on our journey towards dispelling the hands of adversity and embracing life’s ambrosia.

Claire Zwadlo & Kylie Heapes Co-Editors-in-Chief

AMBROSIA \\ 3

In the Mist // Claire Yang // acrylic

Table of

Contents literature

page

artwork

Floor 10 Hotel // Lou Marshall two minutes // Maryam Alwan 12 Memories 13 Containing // Liana Tai ask me if i want to have a daughter 14 // McKenzie Hall 15 Palm // Vy Nguyen Men Like Us // Gabriel R Duval 16 19 Intertwined // Liana Tai for a rose // Shannie Porter 20 21 Overgrown // Sangeeta Greenwald Thank Your Lucky Stars // Crystal Rainey 22 Eyeing Hood 23 Red // Kay Page Make Myself Up // Aimee Straka

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literature

page

artwork

28 29 //FoliEmilyMutatio Baber my name isn’t a tattoo New York // Liana Tai 30 // Segolene Sylvain Chicken’s Foot // Artina Li 32 Lights 34 Bright // Lou Marshall Dear, A Sonnet // Grace Mattix 36 Embracing 37 Eels // Jonathan Swap Gift // Joanne Bong 38 Flower 41 Frost // Caroline Han Angeles Por Todas Partes Cloudy Thoughts // Halle Barredo 42 // Sara Blank Seoul // Maya Hesselroth 44 45 Winged // Liana Tai A Quick Reminder // Jada Nelson

Anxiety // Sarah Woodward // watercolor

AMBROSIA \\ 5

literature

page

artwork

48 49 //Fluorescence Angelene Dinh Zucchini // Charlotte Walters 50 Rooftop 51 Kathmandu // Cora Shiavone Home Away from Home // Reese Hertel 52 the Arch 55 Under // Sara Blank Street Magician // Iris Papin 56 Up 58 Washed // Kay Page Roots Making Dumplings // Eliza Sanusi 60 // Liana Tai Breathe Time Tinted // Rory Adams 62 // Claire Yang where will we go now they’re all gone 64 // Andy Packwood 66 Dreamer // Sangeeta Greenwald 69 Bass // Kay Page Grandmother

// Katie Rasmussen

Strawberries // Vy Nguyen // acrylic

Audio page

68

Prelude no.2 // Peter J. Chung Picture Perfect // Fahim Faizy (FJ Faze ft. DJ) Tears // Jabez Maupin Vegan Steak Dinner // Jabez Maupin Guitar Romantic // Ceylin Parada 123 // Ceylin Parada

Bright Colors // Claire Yang // acrylic

Front Cover Oblivion // Claire Yang // oil

Inside Cover Relax // Maisie Bailie // photography

Letter to the Reader Precipitation of Heart and Head // Samantha Rowley // watercolor

Patrons Coconut // Wendy Huang // block printing Orca // Wendy Huang // scratchboard Geoffrey The Giraffe // Isabelle Pardue // ceramics

AMBROSIA \\ 7

Make

Myself Up

Aimee Straka // poetry Hotel Floor // Lou Marshall // photography

10 // THE LANTERN

i never daub on concealer before a race; i learned sports are only for strong girls who scoff at the shallow dream of looking pretty, so then maybe i should, too— at least for the hour before i compete. afterwards i cake mascara onto my lashes because if i look fine, i’ll seem fine. but wait, “everyone is beautiful,” so guilt trickles into my bones until i remember that pixelated instagram quotes aren’t real life. i read somewhere that foundation makes your skin more appealing and i wondered: for who? i slather my cheeks with brown wondering if the price to paint a canvas of flawlessness is letting desperate lies sink into my pores. when i paint eyeshadow in delicate designs my little brother always sneers, “i won’t marry a girl who looks like that.” i snap, “i’m not wearing it for you.” i just want to believe that i’m wearing it for myself. i try to convince myself i don’t need bronzer because tough girls wear only sweat and mother nature’s copper sheen, like a crown of their fortitude, a willpower that flickers just outside my grasp. i know eyeliner isn’t necessary for school but maybe if i drown in a plethora of tests or my friends flutter by, forgetting to talk to me again at least i’ll look good which should mean confidence but that simmering feeling of fakeness won’t fade. swiping on lipstick in seductive scarlet can usually catch a boy’s flitting gaze so when they feed me flimsy compliments i hate that i feel that little thrill of satisfaction, racing through my body at what i know is a lie. every night i desperately scour used facial wipes for non-existent answers, as if dusty patterns can tell me if i was enough that day, and i ask myself if it’s worth it to do it all again in the morning.

AMBROSIA \\ 11

two minutes

Maryam Alwan // poetry

In the United States, a woman is sexually assaulted every two minutes.

By the time you finish reading this poem, someone else will have been scarred for life.

twenty seconds it is homecoming night. you take me to your car, clammy fingers entangled in mine, and pause next to the trunk. forty seconds you ask me if i’ve ever been kissed before and i think back to the peck i gave my eighth-grade boyfriend and that girl from spin the bottle— they don’t really count. then, he crosses my mind, his forceful grabbing of my face, unwilling to let me pull away. i shudder and shake my head no, trying to shake the memory out of my brain with it. one minute you draw close, our heads awkwardly bumping, and press your lips against mine. i reciprocate, tasting the flakes of your chapped mouth and the remnants of your bacon cheeseburger. it is messy, but sweet. one minute and twenty seconds eyes closed, he comes back to play on the black movie screen. i get flashbacks of his tongue on my closed lips and unresponsive body, his breathing as hard as the seat of his pants, his sweaty hands on my breasts and neck, trespassing into places i never gave him permission to enter.

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Containing Memories // Liana Tai // sculpture

one minute and forty seconds i pull away from you, short of breath, and begin to weep. when you are robbed, you can move houses, but what do you do when you are the scene of the crime? what do you do when you want to destroy the evidence? this body is the grave of the girl i used to be before he violated me, rendering me unable to even kiss the boy i like in the parking lot of the dance. how am i supposed to explain that my trauma follows me everywhere like a shadow, that it is the paint coating the inside of my skull, that i have too much baggage to fit on the plane? how am i supposed to explain that i can’t go a day without reliving it, that i can’t catch a glimpse of anyone who looks like him without having a panic attack? how am i supposed to explain that because of him, i am obsolete, a shell of a person, a little girl who was too scared to say no? that night is embroidered into the quilt of my being and i want nothing more than to pull on a loose thread and let it unravel--but i can’t. two minutes instead of explaining, i run, trying to sprint away from the past that won’t relinquish me from its tight grip— this house will remain haunted another day.

AMBROSIA \\ 13

ask me

if i want to have

a daughter

McKenzie Hall // poetry ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you how i stopped at a crosswalk to let a man pass in front of my car and he twisted to stare at me the entire walk i will tell you how he winked at me how he looked old enough to be my father ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you that when i broke up with my eleventh grade boyfriend i was told not to tell people that i broke up with him to let him keep his “man card” because women do not leave they are left and i should have left the leaving to him and how when that ex boyfriend asked me for a second chance my friend told me i owed it to him to try again because by nature of me being a woman and him being a man i owed him ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you about being in a crowd and a man grabbing my waist to move me aside how if i was a man he would not have touched me

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ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you that my father does not like it when i wear things that show off my figure ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you how i do not like getting gas at night how i walk through parking lots with my key between my fingers like a knife just in case ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you how a boy i had spoken to twice told people i was a freak referring to “how i like it” i will tell you that when i see him in the hallway i walk the opposite direction ask me if i want to have a daughter i will tell you how my friend was almost raped by her father in the tenth grade ask me if i want to have a daughter i will say chanel miller and i will tell you about fear ask me if i want to have a daughter and i will ask you if you would want to have a daughter

Palm // Vy Nguyen // watercolor

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Men Like

Us

or a doomed love story for Richard Siken Gabriel R. Duval // fiction “And angels, about twelve angels, angels knocking on your head right now, hello hello, a flash in the sky, would you like to meet him there, in Heaven? Imagine a room, a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here is the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.

I just don’t want to die anymore.”

-R. Siken, Saying Your Names (For maximum effect, buy a journal that you intend to fill with thoughts, to-dos, reflections, doodles. Buy softtipped pens and a case to hold them and carry it everywhere with you.

Never write anything in the journal.

Never uncap any of the pens.)

You are Gus, or Auggie, or Augustus.

Your life is all striving for subtlety and thinly veiled maladaptation and painful small fixations—looking too hard and too long at a boy’s lips. Has anyone else ever felt what it’s like to just look at the sky and hurt? Has anyone else ever felt what it’s like to want so hard it makes you feel sick, feel dirty? But— We are not dirty.

Jeff says, We are not dirty. Jeff says, We are not dirty. Love is not dirty.

(For maximum effect, hold your breath for as long as you can and also close your eyes and plug your ears.

When you can’t hold it anymore, keep holding. When you start to see spots at the corners of your vision, let your breath go. Open your ears and eyes and breathe. Savor that feeling of complete and utter relief.)

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Jeff takes you by the hand and wraps you in his arms. The first time this boy kissed you, you were in the kitchen, half washed pots and pans still on the counter, early November moonlight through the window. An imagined future, all the closer by the minute: Jeff on his bike and you with your arms around his back. Jeff in a white silk suit and you in a pink silk tie. Casual kisses when you come home to a home that is both of yours. Thick, perfumed paper with red rose seals. Pink roses in a vase on the counter, a cat who knocks the vase over.

(For maximum effect, chew on your own lips until they are soft and nice and swollen. Buy yourself flowers and put them beside your bed. Wake up to the smell of breakfast cooking.)

(For maximum effect, think about everything that has ever gotten in the way of anything and channel all your hate toward that thing, and then see how that hate overflows out onto everything else.)

Jeff rides a motorbike. Jeff wears tight black jeans and black nail polish and black leather and nobody thinks twice because he’s a punk rocker. Jeff takes you backstage at his shows and puts his hands on you, and there, you don’t have to hide anything at all. Jeff plays the bass and you listen to him. Jeff puts oil in his bike and you watch him and breathe in the smell, all impulse and danger but not too much danger, not real danger, not the kind that matters. Jeff bleaches his hair in a motel room at midnight and you love him, you love him so much.

For maximum effect, take your own heart out of your own chest and offer it to your lover from your own shaking and bloody hands.)

You say, Please don’t touch me. Jeff says, What’s the matter with you? You say, Haven’t you seen? Boys like us left to die in the street. Boys like us beaten and thrown off bridges. Boys like us in gas station parking lots with slurs carved into our gone-still chests. Jeff says, I love you. Jeff says, I’m sorry. Jeff says, I’ll wait as long as you need me to.

Jeff says, I’m worried about you. Jeff says, did I do something wrong? Jeff says, why don’t you want to be seen with me?

Jeff says, talk to me. Jeff says, I love you.

Jeff says, why can’t you look me in the eyes? You say, I’m sorry. He says, I love you. You say, I know. You say, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Jeff says, I love you. You say, why?

You’ve both seen the news. Everybody has. New kind of cancer, they’re saying. No known cure, they’re saying. Homosexuals, they’re saying. You still cringe when you hear that word on the television, or anywhere. Gay plague. Fairies. Faggots. You’ve heard these names (oh God, yes, you have) before but never in an official interview.

They’re talking about men (not even men, just boys, really) like you. Men like you, dying by the dozen in hospital beds, no known cure, a new cancer.

“

“

You take Jeff home but you have to hide, oh God do you have to hide. You are Auggie, or Gus, or Augustus, and you love a boy. But Jeff tries to take your hand on the sidewalk, and you slide them in your pockets. Jeff leans in to kiss you on a sidestreet and you feel sick, and you feel dirty, you feel dirty, and you push him away. Oh God, what if someone saw? Oh God, what would you do then? Jeff wants you to tell your parents and you yell because you can’t, you can’t. Jeff cries because he wants you to love him in a way he can see, and you cry because, God, how can you?

We are not dirty.

Love is not dirty.

(For maximum effect, turn on the television for news of your friends dying. For maximum effect, be afraid to touch your lover. For maximum effect, be afraid to go out in the street. For maximum effect, be afraid for your life.)

Jeff says, but don’t you love me? You say, how could you ask me that? Jeff says, I love you so much it hurts. Jeff says, please tell me you love me. Jeff says, I love you, what’s the matter with you? Jeff says, I’m sorry. Jeff says, I can’t do this anymore.

AMBROSIA \\ 17

I have always loved you.

I will never stop loving you.

“

“

Jeff doesn’t say goodbye. Jeff walks out.

You are Jeff. You know that. (We all Jeff closes the door gently behind him. Jeff know that.) Here is what else you know: drops his key on the ground on his way out. Your friends are sick. You are sick. Everybody is sick. Nobody knows why, yet. Not (For maximum effect, try to stitch really. But, at the same time, they do, they your own heart back together and back think they do; they know something. You into your chest with your slick and know that when you check yourself into shaking hands. For maximum effect, intensive care, you reveal something about try to get your lover’s voice out of your yourself. One of two possibilities. (Far head but realize, once you’ve succeed- more than two, but two that carry such ed, that you can’t stand your own voice stigma that it is crushing.) Your dirty litin there either.) tle secret. You are Jeff, and you know you have loved boys your whole life. What could You are Auggie, or Gus, or Augustus. be wrong with that? You are not dirty. You Life has gone on, since. told someone you loved them. (Love, still— A year of waiting and hoping. For a do these things ever really end?) You knock on the door, for the phone to ring, for are not dirty, you tell yourself in the weeks him to walk back into your life with black where you come to know the hospital ceiling nails and long curls and sweet words. You better than you had any past lover’s hands. will be ready to love him this time, you’ve Love is not dirty. You are not dirty. decided. When he comes back to you, you will be ready and you will be in love with (For maximum effect, MY WHOLE each other and you will both be happy and EXISTENCE IS A SCANDAL. BUT I DO nothing will hurt you.

NOT THINK I SHOULD BE CHARGED A year and no knock. No call. No second WITH CREATING A SCANDAL BY chance.

CONTINUING TO LIVE: THOUGH I AM CONSCIOUS THAT I DO SO. -Oscar Wilde, 1897.)

(For maximum effect, try to go back in time to be a better person. Realize that you cannot. Keep trying.)

You are Jeff, and here is what you know: Love is not dirty. You are not dirty. You are Jeff, and here is what else you know: You are going to die, soon. If there is anything that needs to be done before then, you must do it now.

(For maximum effect, SOMEONE WILL REMEMBER US I SAY

EVEN IN ANOTHER TIME -Sappho, 147.)

You are Auggie, or Gus, or Augustus.

You are Auggie, or Gus, or Augustus. This hospital smells like cleaner, used to The phone rings. cover up something underneath.

You are Auggie, but what does your (Pause. For maximum effect, under- name matter in a place like this? You are stand that sometimes you need to see holding back tears when you knock on the things from another perspective to un- wall next to the curtain, which keeps the bed derstand the story or even just to finish partially hidden. It’s the one in the row of it. This is one of those times.) beds with the tubes and the fluids that hold

18 // THE LANTERN

Intertwined // Liana Tai // sculpture

people like their sickness holds them. There are all these beds in lines like an orphanage in old movies, except with curtains between them so even though everyone hears everything, nobody has to see the end of anybody (everybody) else. This bed supports the body of the man (boy—you are still just boys) who you had loved and do love and will never stop loving, not now and not ever.

Jeff says, Gus? His voice is so small and so quiet. You say nothing because you are crying now. Jeff says, You came. You say, I did. He is so small you worry if you exhale too harshly he will turn to ash beside you. You try to keep a distance, even though your heart aches so hard for him. But he settles into you, head on your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him. You say, I. He says, You? You say, I waited for you to come home to me even though I didn’t deserve it. He says, I missed you so much. You say, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

You mean, of course, for this. For you. For everything. He says, Don’t, please. He says,

Gus. And he means, I love you, I have always loved you. You understand. You know.

By now he is crying and you are crying and his body is so cold next to yours, so you shift even closer and try to transfer some of your life and warmth over to him. You say, Shh, love. It’s alright. Don’t get worked up. It’s all okay. And you mean, I love you, I have always loved you, I will never stop loving you.

He understands. He knows.

(For maximum effect, have an ending, if you really want one. Confirm what happens, if you really need to.

Press forward, if you can manage it.

There are no surprises here. There are no miracles. It is sunny, warm for the season. Winter is melting and granting way to what has waited patiently underneath the frost for months. Jeff dies on a Saturday. No miracles. No surprises. They will listen, eventually. Things will get better, eventually. Spring will come, sometime, and then June.)

?

AMBROSIA \\ 19

for a

rose

Shannie Porter // poetry

This poem is a secret from God and everybody, and the secret is: I know a Rose, packed tight between the bricks of the sidewalk, and she rises up like a whale, or a chariot, and she pours from the veins of the concrete like light pouring through water, colored like a bruise.

A bruise in the sun, a Rose in the concrete, daring herself to die.

I went to homecoming with a boy.

I didn’t mean to go to homecoming with a boy.

It happened to me like a tripwire or a power outage, and I did not dance, but I carried my best friend’s heels across the pavement tall and black and kinetic, I saw her limbs sprout and flicker like a sound machine, I walked her to the car until she shook me out of her hair.

I had a vision!

Like falling water, of a geometric night out, and a dress as clean as a stream, and a pretty face and a new guitar, and her hands on my waist.

It was a dangerous fiction.

It felt like wine.

That she could take me into her lily arms and sharp elbows and knit me back together.

I was sick.

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All I did was notice your nails.

Short and black and decorative, chipped paint and think how you’d look in an empty theater.

Bitter and golden, historical, a revolution unto yourself.

I didn’t mean to pay attention when you hit me with glassy smiles like beads off a split necklace I am incredulous, I am ridiculous, are they not seeing this?

You are gold and green and grey, you are happening to the room!

I shut my eyes against the spray and trust I really, truly didn’t mean to pay attention I didn’t ever think that I could play opposite your Molly Ringwald, and take you to the movies, curl around you like a streetlight.

I’ll walk you to your door, dress the part, cut my hair and kiss you as sweet as a teen movie, have you back by eleven o’clock, and shake your father’s hand.

If this poem is for a Rose, then anyone could read it, and they wouldn’t realize.

This poem could be in magazines, carved into concrete blocks, pencilled in newspaper ads, hidden in graffiti.

And no one would know, reading it, no one could possibly suspect a Rose, a secret from God and everybody: I think I am defective.

I can’t look you in the eye when you hold my hand.

You are as clean and spectral as God or a fractal, and this is teenage dreaming, this is leaning in.

I think there’s something poison in me.

I think I am something subtracted from a girl.

I can’t hold your hand. You’ll get dirty.

This poem is for a Rose.

Overgrown // Sangeeta Greenwald // digital

AMBROSIA \\ 21

Thank Your

Lucky Stars Crystal Rainey // fiction

I am not a superstitious person.

And I think I’d hate to be.

The Fairstone marketplace is bright with a dewey breeze and the gentle shuffle of foot traffic. It’s Pluto’s favorite place to visit.

Everything, from the tent to the tablecloth at each stand, is white to spot Blemishes, like crows, coyotes, and Pluto—black cats.

It’s stupid. As I draw nearer, inky feline companion in tow, the mood dims and the strollers stop. A storm is already half-mast, as if our arrival is to shake the earth. Pluto trills, pressing his side against my shins. He trots away when Penny Littlewater breaks off from the crowd.

“Why don’t you just get rid of that thing?”

I shrug past Penny, gripping my bag tighter. It’s better to ignore people like her.

She drags me back by the shoulder. “I’m serious! It’s ugly. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

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“He’s a cat,” I mutter, struggling to keep my annoyance at bay. Penny’s eyes flutter dramatically, angry red flushing across her face. She takes a slow breath.

“You are so selfish,” she sneers. “How many times has that Dirty cat crossed our paths? Why would you keep bringing it here?”

I’m frowning before I can even register

“I am not a superstitious person.

And I think I’d hate to be.”

her words. In the same breath that I take in protest, Penny’s face twists in trepidation.

Her hand is rattling like her bones are trying to escape as she raises it to point behind me. Thunder cracks loudly.

“We’re all going to die.”

I turn.

When I look at Pluto, I don’t see a hulking demon ready to chow down on everybody—he’s only ever been a cat—I just hear the grizzly crunch of the fat cricket he had been hunting dying in his mouth. My throat tightens with dread.

“CRICKET!” Someone shrieks. Chaos runs free.

Penny and the entire population of Fairstone have these rules. You can’t throw rocks to the wind, walk under ladders, or tip over salt shakers. Black cats are Dirty

you begin your journey to The Pinnacle.”

And that’s it. I have to leave. I want to feel my heart wilt with rejection, but it doesn’t.

I’m not even surprised. It just feels like I’ve swallowed a hot coal and I’m about to belch up smoke. Pluto’s eyes are daisy-yellow gashes against his face and his pupils are craters. The fur at his spine is spiky, his tail plumed out like a feather duster.

The people disperse faster than I’ll be forgotten. Exile to the Pinnacle is like jailing in Fairstone, only it has happened

Little Red Eyeing Hood // Kay Page // digital

and the life of a cricket is sacred. Fairstone believes that they need to wish for secrets on dandelion seeds and win four leaves at the clover-lottery in order to thrive. I know what comes next.

Amidst the panic, Headman Littlewater steps forward, the lines on his face drawn sharp. “You and your Blemish have no place in Fairstone. By sundown, it is expected that

less times than there are fingers on my hand. It’s banishment up the mountain our village hides behind. I had just needed to go grocery shopping. That’s it. No ulterior motives, nothing. I had just wanted to have food in the pantry. I kind of feel like crying.

Eventually, we’re at the top. There’s a clearing with a big, cheery cabin. Warm light is peeking through the windows,

AMBROSIA \\ 23

and, faintly, I hear music from behind the modest shiplap walls. There’s a shiny, stainless metal sign hung on the door.

Welcome to the Pinnacle!

Pluto bounds up the porch. I follow, raising a hand to knock. There’s a moment where nothing happens; despite the sign, I wonder if I’m in the right place. It’s not exactly what I’d been expecting. Then, the door opens in a swift move, and I’m greeted by a young woman. Pluto dashes in to explore. The music behind her is a soft waltz.

The beat comes in comforting one-twothrees.

“You better thank your lucky stars, kid, ‘cuz this whole exile thing is probably the best thing that’s ever gonna happen to you.”

She moves to let me in.

“Not sure how much I believe in luck,” I say dryly, and she guffaws.

“My name is Clover—the others are out meeting Headman Littlewater. Presumably talking about you.”

I hesitate. “I’m Wishbone,” I reply reluctantly, pursing my lips as she gives me a sympathetic smile. “You can just call me Wish,” I add, my cheeks warm. Stupid

24 // THE LANTERN

Fairstone and its unattractive naming scheme.

“Cute name. You look exhausted, Wishbone.” Clover moves fast, zipping from one task to the next like a bee. She hands me a big bowl of stew. “Not to scare you or anything, but we have a little initiation thing for newcomers.”

“You better thank

your lucky stars.”

I squint at her dubiously, setting my spoon down and feeling compelled to spit my mouthful out.

She squints back, teasing, “Don’t give me that look. It’s just something symbolic.

You’ll like it.”

I hear a yowl, and suddenly remember Pluto. Alarmed, I stand from my seat at the table and look around frantically.

“Coyote, stop messing around!” Clover shouts, and I hear paws tapping against the floor as a scraggly dog walks into the room, head bowed. Pluto is a few steps behind, his fluffy tail lashing irritably.

Clover snickers, and turns back to me.

“I was going to wait for the others, but I’m impatient. Come with me out back.” I’m nervous. She’s going to murder me in the backyard, at the top of a mountain. I can imagine it perfectly—they’re going to chop me up and throw my body parts off the summit.

Clover holds out a mirror sheet and a hammer. “I want you to break it.”

Oh. “I see.”

Seven more years of bad luck are on the line, but I’ve never been a superstitious person. I prop the glass against a tree as she spreads a tarp under the trunk to catch the shards. I get a glimpse of my reflection as I pull the hammer back. I smile.

Then swing.

?

AMBROSIA \\ 25

A Quick Reminder Jada Nelson // poetry

Black.

It rolls off your tongue and lands hard on the floor.

Reminding me what I am, and what my ancestors were.

Black.

The word shatters after you shank it into my heart. Causing me to cough awkwardly, uncomfortably.

Black.

“Oh, would you rather be called ‘African American’?”

No, I wouldn’t. “Do not disrupt the class, then.”

It’s just that the word feels so aggressive when it comes from your lips.

You don’t have to remind me that I’m black.

If I shot back, in the same tone, white. Then I’m suddenly the villain, a threat in everyone’s eyes. I’m sorry.

I’ll just keep being Black Black Black in silence.

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Foli Mutatio // Emily Baber // photography

AMBROSIA \\ 29

30 // THE LANTERN

my name isn’t a

Liana Tai // poetry

no, my eyes are not

almond slivers and

my name is not a tattoo.

you prowl like any lion would,

shining eyes watch patiently for my next move.

i’m done, honestly,

playing the entertainer,

ogled for how ‘foreign’ i am.

it’s not easy living in a

cream-colored town,

smothered with

blunt comments little kids shouldn’t know

how it feels to see a line being

drawn between ‘the whites’

and ‘the other.’

slowly, lines do fade,

but memories don’t,

and i have enough storage

for all of them.

i’m done.

you can still look,

but entertaining

will never be my career.

stop calling my eyes almonds,

and asking for “your chinese name” i’ll give it to you:

racist.

New York // Segolene Sylvain // photography

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Chicken’s Fo o t Artina Li // nonfiction

I was in third grade and it was lunchtime.

I was sitting down at a table, unpacking a pair of chopsticks, and unscrewing a thermos filled with steamed rice and fried vegetables. Today was a special day; my mom had packed me a special snack for lunch and I was excited to eat it. My classmates screamed. It was as if I were revealing a dead corpse in a horror movie.

With my bare hands, I reached into the thermos and pulled out a claw covered in scaly-textured skin. Little did I know what being a chicken’s foot in a land of pizza would teach me over the years. I had a chicken’s foot for lunch at school that day, crunching each bone while ignoring the incredulous looks of the students who slowly edged away from my seat.

“It was as if I were revealing a

dead corpse in a horror movie.”

Though I had never lived in China, the Chinese language and culture permeated my life. I realized very early that not many people shared my taste in music, movies, and even food. I grew up never watching Star Wars or listening to One Direction. I couldn’t talk about my favorite TV show

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because I didn’t know how to say the title in English. When sharing favorite desserts, my classmates would say ice cream, candy bars, or pie, whereas I would say mooncakes and then be invited to explain what mooncakes are. Different, unique, foreign; I have heard all of these words being used to describe me.

Each year, my best friend was the foreign-exchange or transfer student bound to move away in one or two semesters.

This started in kindergarten before I was even aware of the pattern. Charlie’s father was in the military. Rishi’s parents were from India. Gayoung and Alexis were

Korean and loved to draw and sing. I had so many different friends from different backgrounds. Each one was vastly different from another, but I always enjoyed their uniqueness. I began wondering why I was so worried about being unordinary.

As I came out of my shell and began sharing my experiences, I became more outspoken. My favorite activities at school were explaining Chinese myths and legends to my classmates. In social studies, I passed the Ancient China unit test with no wrong answers and extra credit points.

I continued to bring weird foods to school for lunch; I loved it when people seemed

“I began wondering why I was so

worried about being unordinary.” curious about what I ate, or asked me to explain Chinese words or customs. Cultural heritage day was my favorite holiday; I got to dress up in a scarlet red Qipao before my classmates, velvet with phoenix wing embroidery. My hair was in red buns with a dangling jeweled hairpin.

As I entered high school, I developed a passion for creative writing. My special perspective on the world has always shaped my work. Once, my teacher introduced a writing competition with an interesting topic: legends and tall tales. I wrote a short 100-word story based on a Chinese myth about painting dragons. The story was chosen to be posted on the public buses in my city for every passenger to read. I was so proud then; because I was brave enough to write about something not many people would know, now more people will be able to learn about a myth that had endured centuries.

My knowledge and life experiences, no matter the significance, became fodder for my prose and poetry. I wrote rants about procrastinating in class and musings about how I felt about grapes. I wrote a short story called “The Gremlin”, which was set

AMBROSIA \\ 33

in a faraway village with the aesthetic of a Celtic folk tale. The heroine saves a mischievous spirit who repays her for her trouble. When I wrote it, I was thinking of the Chinese bedtime stories where monsters and animals would always repay their debt to someone who treats them well. I imagine how this story was crafted; perhaps it was told by a wise old Asian mother teaching her children to be kind in a millennium-old rice field, and that was passed down through spoken word until it reached the brush of a scholar.

Maybe the bamboo-bound scroll was transported to the Forbidden City. Like an intricate game of telephone, it traveled from one heart across the vast oceans and mountains to reach me, a girl on the other side of the planet.

I believe words are the most powerful form of communication humans invented; they are vehicles for ideas, traveling from one mind to another. However, what makes words important is what the words carry. For me, they carry the diverse memories and wisdom of each nation. I aspire to become a writer to continue this time-worn tradition of storytelling and add my own voice to the grand epic of human history.

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Bright Lights // Lou Marshall // photography

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Dear,a sonnet Grace Mattix // poetry I’m afraid my dear is a lying snake.

What a tongue spun from so slimy a silk!

Slithering and sliding, my love brings ache, but I am daftly drawn to Dear’s odd ilk.

I would ask how one could be so soulless when Dear does a deed so awfully askew, but a two-pronged tongue would spew condolence while a two-sided face told truths untrue.

Do I pine for the day my dear departs?

Does one wish spice’s burning would abate?

But two taste the pepper in equal parts, so for my most dreadful dear, I will wait.

And thus is my dear a silver-tongued snake.

I am spelled asleep, never to awake.

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Eels Embracing // Jonathan Swap // ceramics

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G IFT Joanne Bong // fiction

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I

t was nearing the middle of February.

It occurred to Sir Sky that the Feast of Saint Valentine was in full bloom.

Roses, cards, and satin ribbons decorated the area—all various shades of coy, bashful blush. Or perhaps the scarlet of burning passion swirling through the air, inhabiting the chests of those who may pass by. In the spirit of festivity, Sir Sky wished to send his own emotions to Lady Land. Emotions so stormy and turbulent, yet soft as wispy clouds. Though he could only ever meet her with the fleeting touch of midnight fog or the delicate mist of the morning dew, he admired her beauty from above.

So exciting and new, she had a myriad of differing faces. Her vast plains, sharp mountains, dense jungles, and rippling oceans blended together as one: a vision of power and allure. She would often tease him with airborne messages sent by feathered avians, encoded in chirps and trills; or with the slight tickle of a butterfly’s wing.

Sir Sky began to wonder what sort of gift would be fitting for an entity so mystical and complex.

At that moment, something caught his eye from below. An exchange of items followed by the unravelling of shimmering ribbon. The curiously shaped vessel held delicate baubles of white, laid in perfect rows.

The moment the confection made contact with warmth, it melted away into something supple and sweet. What a curious gift, so splendid yet fleeting. A curious gift perfect for a curious predicament. Sir Sky would do anything to obtain such an item. Filled with determination, he decided to create his own.

First, he tried to make the smoothness of the truffle. Something with a shimmering exterior. Droplets of slick rain began to fall to the earth, soaking into party tents and

red-clad festival goers. The raindrops were shiny indeed, but missing shape and form.

The droplets only served to make the sky dark and the mood damp. Sir Sky gasped, his sharp inhale taking the rain away, and attempted a different approach. Something glowing and smooth like rain, but less damp and less wet.

After hours upon hours of thinking, Sir Sky had made his creation anew. This time, the result was a firm sphere with shape and form with a smooth and slick exterior.

“At that moment, something caught his eye from below. An exchange of items followed by the unravelling of shimmering ribbon.”

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However, when he sent his new gift down, everyone and everything ran for cover. The hail was so firm that it dented every surface it impacted. Sir Sky ended his latest creation immediately, horrified at the result. The festive atmosphere was even dimmer and sadder and colder than before. Was it time to give up?

Hopelessness settled into Sir Sky’s heart, its roots unfurling and coaxing tears to fall from his eyes. The gentle drops mingled with plush clouds and cold air before falling to the ground. However, unlike the rain or hail, they fell softly, a whispered caress, before settling onto the dry grass.

He continued to sob sorrowfully until silver bell peals of laughter reached his ears from below. Laughter? When he opened his eyes, Sir Sky was startled to see the sight before him. His tears had created a gentle layer of something soft and sweet and shimmering on the ground. People were staring in awe at the gift, playing and running and smiling.

The silken layer draped upon Lady Land, forming a glittering gown, and everyone admired her. The snow didn’t last long, melting away as most beautiful moments do.

However, Lady Land expressed her gratitude with the watercolor blossoms of spring, and the world came into full bloom.

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Frost Flower // Caroline Han // acrylic

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Angeles POR

TODAS PARTES

Halle Barredo // fiction Cloudy Thoughts // Sara Blank // photography

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U

na noche tardíamente en el invierno, un niño y su bisabuela caminaban en una playa en España. Fue una noche muy oscura y el aire hacía frío. No podrías ver sus manos enfrente de su cara, ni tampoco ver los campos, las ciudades, ni la arquitectura en la distancia. Mientras ellos caminaban, a veces el niño se preguntó si su ancestro verdaderamente estaba allí. La cara de la mujer al lado era oscura. Ella sería una persona o animal o cosa extranjera.

Su voz interrumpió sus pensamientos.

“Hijo, quieres escuchar un cuento? Lo hará el tiempo pasar más rápido hasta alcanzamos nuestra destinación.” El niño estaba de acuerdo con la mujer vieja y respondió que quiso escuchar mucho. Entonces la mujer empezó la cuenta. “Había una vez un hombre muy feo. Todos los días él vagaba en el país para buscar un hogar. Él viajaba de casa a casa, pero nadie quiso al hombre en su hogar. Un hombre en particular le dio unos consejos cuando él apareció en su umbral: ‘¡Debe dejar este lugar! Emigre a otro país donde hay otras criaturas feas. ¡No pertenece aquí!’ Pero el hombre feo simplemente se mudó a otra casa.

“Finalmente, tempranamente en la mañana de Navidad, él descubrió una persona que fue bienvenida. Fue una mujer joven. Ella vivía en una casa menos del promedio, y no tuvo rostro ni características muy bellos. No tuvo una cantidad grande de dinero. Tuvo una falta de recursos. Pero ella le dio tanto como sea posible y le prometió a dormir en su cama mientras ella dormía en el piso.

Ella fue muy, muy generosa.” “¿Qué paso siguiente?” el niño le preguntó con asombro.

“Pues,” su bisabuela le dijo, “Ni ella ni los personas anteriores se dio cuenta que el hombre feo era disfrazado. ¡Verdaderamente fue un ángel!” “¿Y entonces?”

“Entonces, antes de que el sol se levantara, el ángel le

dio su bendición a la mujer y les dio una maldición a los personas que no fueron bienvenidos. Ella recibió todo que deseó.

Después del ángel salió, ella despertó a muchas decoraciones, comida, regalos de valor, y una nueva y amorosa familia. Sobre todo, su exterior se hizo como su interior, y ella se hizo muy, muy bella.” “¿Qué pasa con los otros?” “¡Ellos se hicieron muy, muy feas y vivían en pobreza por la resta de eternidad!”

El niño pensó en esta cuento mientras ellos entraron su casa y se metió en la cama. Justo antes de que se durmiera, él le preguntó su bisabuela, “¿Lita, crees que ese ángel existen hoy?”

“No sé, mijo,” la mujer dijo con un guiño.

“Pero yo creo que hay ángeles por todas partes si puedes mirar más allá del exterior.”

Y mientras él cerraba sus ojos, pensó que vio un halo brillante y alas alrededor de su bisabuela.

?

Angels

All Around

O

ne late night in winter, a boy and his great-grandmother were walking on a beach in Spain. It was a very dark night and the air was cold. You couldn’t see your hands in front of your face, nor see the fields, cities, or architecture in the distance. While they were walking, the boy sometimes wondered whether his ancestor was truly there. The face of the woman beside him was dark. She could be a strange person or animal or thing.

Her voice interrupted his thoughts. “Son, do you want to hear a story? It will make the time pass more quickly until we reach our destination.” The boy agreed with the old woman and responded that he’d like to

listen very much. Then the woman began the story. “Once upon a time, there was a very ugly man. Every day he wandered in the country to look for a home. He traveled from house to house, but no one wanted the man in their home. One man in particular gave him some advice when he appeared on his doorstep: ‘You should leave this place!

Emigrate to another country where there are other ugly creatures. You do not belong here!’ But the ugly man simply moved on to another house.

“Finally, early on Christmas morning, he discovered a welcoming person. It was a young woman. She lived in a less-thanaverage house, and she didn’t have a very beautiful face or characteristics. She didn’t have a large sum of money. She had a lack of resources. But she gave him as much as possible and allowed him to sleep in her bed while she slept on the floor. She was very, very generous.”

“What happened next?” the boy asked in amazement.

“Well,” his great-grandmother said, “Neither the girl nor the people before her realized that the ugly man was in disguise.

He was really an angel!”

“And then?”

“And then, before the sun rose, the angel gave his blessing to the woman and gave a curse to the people who were not welcoming. She received everything she wanted. After the angel left, she awoke to many decorations, food, valuable gifts, and a new and loving family. Above all, her exterior became like her interior, and she became very, very beautiful.”

“What happened with the others?”

“They became very, very ugly and lived in poverty for the rest of eternity!” The boy thought about this story as they entered their house and got into bed. Just before he fell asleep, he asked his great-grandmother, “Grandma, do you think that that angel exists today?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” the woman said with a wink. “But I believe that there are angels all around if you can look beyond the exterior.”

And as he was closing his eyes, he thought he saw a glowing halo and wings around his great-grandmother.

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AMBROSIA \\ 43

Seoul

Maya Hesselroth // poetry

Your night sky is a murky blue, lit from its underbelly with zips of golden light, blurred from smoke exhaled off of street corners.

Even with headphones muffling your ears, faint notes from giddy karaoke and chatter from endless couples bleeds through as you shuffle in the stillness between the polished subway and the bus stop.

Among neon lights, déjà vu inducing apartment complexes, isolated patches of green lined with trash plastered pavement, you exhale your soul.

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Winged // Liana Tai // acrylic

AMBROSIA \\ 45

Grandmother Katie Rasmussen // nonfiction

I often wonder what I would be like as a grandmother. I envision a house that smells of cookies baked just for my grandchildren’s arrival, a dog or a cat weaving between my legs and above all, a sense of welcoming. I can just picture wrinkled and dimpled apple cheeks and aprons that match my hideous floral walls.

Perhaps I would pinch my grandchildren’s cheeks and remark on how much they’ve grown.

Maybe "Someday, I will be I would h e l p them take their first steps. I never got fresh baked cookies still warm from the oven or horrendous knitwear that we would be forced to wear on holidays. I missed what everyone else seemed to have as a grandmother. Books with grandmothers that were present and whole confused me — here were grandmas that could not only function on their own but thrive.

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From one grandmother, I got trash bags full of bargain children’s clothes that stank of perfume. She asked us our sizes each month, and every time she would be wrong. The clothes were bargains, and she could never resist a good deal. Her house was full of them, though I never saw it, stacked to the ceilings with things she would never use, swallowing her bed and her bathroom and every space in her house.

We were a grandmother." g i v e n things that she no longer had room for. We would get home from school and find garbage bags on our stoop, the floral odor stretching to the street. She would often end up in the hospital, from dehydration and hunger, but would insist she was fine, no changes needed. She said she worked out at the Y, but by workout, she meant walk from the parking lot to

the showers there — she could no longer reach her own.

The other didn’t quit smoking, despite the fact that if she continued to smoke and came to see me in the hospital, she could kill me and many others in the NICU. She didn’t bother not to smoke before visiting me either. I never really met this woman, whose legendary stubbornness passed down to me. She was supposed to be the life of the party with an uncanny ability to memorize random facts. Strokes took her from me, though sometimes I wonder how much I missed. I am told that when my preschool had Bring Your Grandmother to School Day, while the other grandmothers played and made crafts with their grandchildren, she sat there, staring. Another child’s

grandmother included me instead.

Sometimes I think she killed herself. She was told what to do to recover, to protect herself against future strokes. Instead, she gave in. I wonder if this was on purpose, if she knew she would decline and eventually leave us behind. Perhaps she was trying to escape early.

One day, I want to greet my grandchildren with warm hugs and fresh cookies with glasses of milk. I want to knit them ugly sweaters and mittens that they dread wearing. I want to pass on my recipes and teach them how to garden and help them walk and then fly. I will be the phoenix from the ashes of the women who went before me. Someday, I will be a grandmother.

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Fluorescence // Angelene Dinh // photography

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Z Z U U C C C C H H II N N

I

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Charlotte Walters // poetry Denim traced patterns onto my skin, my grandmother’s soft words steeped in chamomile tea.

I was eight, kneeling in loose dirt digging small furrows to house zucchini seeds.

I watched golden blossoms open, then crumble to the earth.

Feathered holes in the screened porch left room for warm air to seep inside in abundance.

I was a set of eyes blinded by moonlight and shadows, watching weathered hands grasping a stained wooden spoon, swirling pasta sauce.

I couldn’t comprehend why my grandfather’s newspaper left muddied ink stains on the tablecloth and my fingertips; it wouldn’t wash off because every day it was new.

Sand from plants burrowed underneath my toenails trailing into the house, sweeping underneath tables and upholstered couches.

When time stretched thin, pulled tight and splintering, I learned to be patient with my zucchini plants because sometimes, all of the water and sunlight and love can’t deliver growth because the missing element is time, leaking under door frames, and through clasped fingers.

I deciphered the words etched into the denim, and let the dirt paint pictures of embracing moments.

Kathmandu Rooftop // Cora Schiavone // photography

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Home Away From Home Reese Hertel // nonfiction

M

y list of Facebook friends is atypical of the average American high school senior. My 328 friends come from all walks of life and range from Mayan farmers, to Dutch hippies, to expatriate permaculturists. This reflects the unique experiences that I have had while living abroad. I have spent more than 14 months living in homestays and hostels throughout Latin America, primarily in Guatemala. My mom teaches Spanish and she wanted me to be bilingual, so homestays were a way to expose me to Spanish speaking cultures.

During these stays I formed relationships with individuals incredibly different than me. They taught me the importance of diversity and introduced me to new perspectives that affect how I see the world.

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala is surrounded by a dozen small villages nestled in the highlands and is my home away from home.

Although each town may seem similar on a map, they each have unique characteristics that define them. The villagers are proud of their identities, which can be seen through the colorful huipiles, traditional blouses that the Mayan women wear. The huipiles are meticulously handcrafted and can take months to weave. Each town has its own color scheme and design, which causes

no one to stand out in their own villages.

However, when they venture to the vast markets in Panajachel and Solola, the diversity of attire lights up the marketplace.

With just a glance you can spot the women from Santiago by the lifelike birds scattered across their outfits, and those from San Antonio Palopo through their naturally dyed indigo fabrics. Despite costing hundreds of dollars in materials and labor, traditional clothing is a staple of Guatemalan highland culture. These outfits provide their people with a sense of identity unique to their tight-knit communities The value of embracing diversity is deeply rooted in Mayan society, and is an ideal that I have learned to apply to my life.

Cultural diversity is everywhere, but an epicenter of agricultural diversity lies on a permaculture farm in the village of Tzununá, Guatemala. It is there that my worldview was molded, where over three summers I gained 32 Facebook friends who are some of my closest mentors, teachers, and friends. Permaculture is an agricultural practice that uses a variety of perennial plants that regenerate every year. Vegetative diversity emulates the cultural diversity present on the farm. A fundamental principle of permaculture is

AMBROSIA \\ 53

“use and value diversity”; this is seen on the farm, where dozens of plant species grow simultaneously while maintaining symbiotic relationships. When designed correctly, each plant helps those around it while reaping its own benefits from others. This same concept helps fuel the relationships between farm volunteers and workers. On a larger scale, this represents how skilled societies work, with experts in an array of fields working together, each using their individual strengths to contribute to their community.

The tasks that farm volunteers completed required a variety of skills, from brute strength to move hundred pound rocks, to meticulous weeding that depended on expansive knowledge of tropical plants. Each individual brought personal strengths that helped the team. My biggest contribution was communication. Being one of the only people fluent in both Spanish and English, I was able to translate instructions from the farm manager, Nicolás. Despite the language barriers we faced, conversation flowed during work. I learned the importance of mindfulness from Shadi, a Dutch spiritual leader, was taught engineering principles from Shad, the farm founder, and acquired a taste for French folk music thanks to a group of French college students.

My relationships with others who differ from me have helped me develop as a person. A small piece of everyone I have gotten to know has rubbed off on me and influenced my life. I am grateful for the people in my life who have broadened my horizons and helped me develop my identity and appreciation of diversity.

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“

My biggest contribution was communication.

”

Under The Arch // Sara Blank // photography

AMBROSIA \\ 55

Street Magician Iris Papin // fiction

It’s a moonlit night on the ATM corner.

Cigarette smoke curls upwards like the peeling of a soft potato. No one knows where it comes from, and no one feels the need to ask. Jezzi watches me, her limbs relaxed, perched on an overturned cardboard box that reeks of rotten fruit.

“You have something for me?” she asks, breaking the silence. A few more minutes would have been nice, really, or possibly forever—but then again, it has to be done.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And?” I pull a switchblade out of my pocket, toss it to Jezzi, watch her catch it with the finesse and nimble fingers of a concert pianist. There’s no use hoping that I have hidden my regret; Jezzi sees it etched on my face in black ink. I have all the energy of an unwound ball of yarn.

She raises her eyebrows and speaks.

“What does it do?”

I train my eyes on the dripping gutter to her left, right next to her scarred combat boots. Someone has left behind a ten dollar bill. Someone else has left behind a used metro ticket. The latter could be useful.

Eventually, I give in. “I’m sure you’re familiar with it. Standard stuff. It does have one rather unconventional feature, though.”

I reach out and nudge the blade into the right sleeve of Jezzi’s sundress. That dress is so incredibly out of place with your usual New York City scenery at this time of year, but I guess that doesn’t bother her.

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When the weight of the blade disappears, Jezzi is not surprised. I must have taught her something right after all.

“Now snap your other arm,” I say.

She does so, and the blade comes out of her left sleeve, already open. “Wicked,” she says, her eyebrows reacting yet again. They are so far up her skull, I can’t see them behind her lime-green hair, buzzed on the sides, nest-like on top. “So, anything else?”

“No. That was it. Last trick.”

“Ty, you’re joking. What do you-” I hold a finger to my lips. “Someone’s coming.”

Jezzi finds graffiti before I do. I should have expected it, but the fact that she’s better now still stings. She runs a slender finger along the obscure symbol, pomegranatered paint dust flaking into her hand. We are lucky. We always are; the paint still has that recently-applied damp scent. Puckering her lips, Jezzi blows the paint dust into the air and watches it cover the ATM corner with a faint, shimmering red cloud. We can now talk without fear of being overheard. It doesn’t take long for a random pedestrian to pass by. This is a precaution I should have taken when we first agreed to meet tonight, but my mind is slipping. Still a sore point.

“So.” Jezzi rounds on me. “You filthy liar. You said you would teach me.”

“I have,” I protest weakly. “Remember how each time we pass our talents down, we have to hold on to one talent? You’ve run me dry. That’s it. As far as I can tell, your skillset is all that the community has left.”

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“I can’t understand you, Ty. You

were never really made for the city.”

Washed Up // Kay Page // digital

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Jezzi ignores me. Standing up, she snaps her fingers and the cardboard box flies upwards, forming a stepping stone to the roof, dumping rotten fruit on the ground.

“Hold on, Mary Poppins,” I lash out. “Don’t leave yet.”

“Well, what about you? Are you going anywhere?”

“What about me?” There is no longer a need for the graffiti. We are whispering as though our lives depended on it. “This is my place.”

“And you gave it up for me?”

“I still have my pigeons.”

“Your magical paper pigeons,” Jezzi scorns. “Metro tickets? That is what you hung on to? When you still have the whole world of pennies and knives and hidden rooftops?

I can’t understand you, Ty. You were never really made for the city.”

We stand in silence together, listening to the rustle of rats. What else is there to say?

“The art is dying, anyways.”

“I know.”

The last traces of the shimmery, muffling cloud fade out of sight and I remember that we are fully exposed.

“I should go,” Jezzi finally says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Without a second glance or another word, she slips into the shadows and I know without a doubt that I won’t be seeing her again.

Cigarette smoke still curls upwards.

Nobody knows where it comes from or where it is going. Maybe those are my dreams.

“Hey there, sugar,” a woman calls out. Her headscarf flutters in the steadily-increasing wind, and her jacket is the neon pink of city billboards. I think she works at the bakery, yes, she has opened the door and is gesturing to the cozy counters. “Why don’t you come inside? You look cold.”

I laugh and lick my sweet, frozen lips, because she doesn’t know how right she is.

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R O O T S

lawns, cut viridian h es fr of ed sunscreen, i am compos , slathered on es d ri e ik b breathless d battered rned black an rvive without tu s ee n k d an su s learning to from long day t. or p p su us winded, eels of ties that left ar two extra wh p ce an d st one more” kitchen ions with “ju i’m from the ss se o ot h p family and holiday nt cries. g our impatie on am g fasts n oi h ec wednesday h as g in ad re i’m from d asts. ing easter fe and anticipat e coast, n town on th ia es on d in ith family, e little erflowing w i am from th ov t u b ld or the w ond measure too small for elcoming bey w d an th m with war s stomachs. fill our curiou within our hearts and food to eep ion rooted d i’m the tradit esian colors on d in ncy of iscovered. has not yet d and the vibra m u tr ec sp lilted way ican ghing in the that the amer u la d an t” rs ily fi i’m from “fam joyable. lf mockery en se es that mak every meal i’m rice with ian night s for indones will bring. and eagernes next tuesday e th at h w g wonderin

each other o homes the world from ed i am from tw ss ro ac g n so pos same is double ex singing the y childhood m er, of h ot ie ov ch m g over ea like the in y la p es in t plotl ery day. two differen kept alive ev d an s ie or , mem ay to clarity engraved in slowly give w e coin on m si sa fu e n th co sides of years of o tw e es th ether ld and back as i piece tog ound the wor ar e m ed k is that wh y identity. to discover m

try

poe Eliza Sanusi //

Making Dumplings // Liana Tai // sculpture

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Time Tinted // Claire Yang // acrylic

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breathe Rory Adams // poetry Captured breath caught in his throat with a feeling of tension, he stares.

Wounds tucked under his pectorals, his black skin glows beneath the Sun’s love.

Glittering and flashing, his fingers touch his chest, the hushed whispers he once knew die out.

Cast into a never-ending spiral of despair; vermillions, magentas, lemons all swirled up.

Dancing at the song his sore body sung, fingers sliding and hovering above the scars.

How he had loved this.

No matter how many times he was beaten down, this black boy is golden, Shimmering from the soles of his black feet to the top of his twisted, kinky hair.

His culture rich with history He chooses this as the most prominent moment, stretches his arms while glancing at the mirror, weeping with joy.

Those before him only embrace, casting him with eternal ardor, their hands pressing against his back gently, in a way to reassure him, tell him to finally breathe.

Let go of that breath you’ve held in far too long.

Under the sunlight in that backroom, he stares at himself, still glossy under the Sun’s warm beams.

And he smiles, big lips curling up so broad, wide nose wrinkling, brown eyes brightening.

Those scars on his chest a memento of everything he’s faced.

His truths being denied, told it could never be changed, that it had been in his DNA, the boy continues to stare at his being.

He watches his chest lower; sets his hands atop his heart; closes those beautiful brown eyes; and finally Breathes.

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where will we go tion

fic / / od

ckwo a P dy

An

P

lumes of toxic contrails cut through the lavender sunset, bleeding seams of purple on the cauterized horizon. Like scars, those leaving in their grand fleet of starships would be leaving forever. There is no going back, not when the skin stretched over your paradise has been defaced beyond recognition. Bruised and battered, this atmosphere wears the tattoos of our ignorance, wears them with pride, because it too knows what will come next.

Today, we live.

Tomorrow, our planet dies.

“Do you want anything?” she calls from under the umbrella.

“Water,” I say, surprised by the crackling of my voice, “Don’t forget the ice.”

Water boils, then vapor, falling again to water, crystallizing, then ice, that melts again to water.

64 // THE LANTERN

People arrive, then disperse, taking and taking, scarring, then gone, off, somewhere else. Cycles, around and around, ending at the beginning.

“How could I forget?” she laughs. Her teal-painted toenails appear in the corner of my eye, digging, wriggling into the sand, burrowing as if nervous, uneasy. “Always loved that crunch, haven’t you? Can’t get enough of it.”

“Well, maybe enough is never enough,” I tease with a smirk.

She sits beside me, on this jilted beach.

She is as beautiful as the day we met.

Aquamarine sundress, seagrass frills above her knees, alluring, dazzling. Pearls all the way about her neck, circumnavigating, completing, cycling. Two bronze bracelets and a single silver, halfway towards her wrist, reflecting rays in every direction.

now they’re all gone?

Just the one ring, shimmering sapphire, coiled tightly, refusing to uncoil all the same. Rusting, corroding, wind-bitten bangs, and that smile.

Pensive. Wise. Damaged, not destroyed.

Her smile. Hers and only hers.

“Where do you think they’re going?” she asks, handing me my glass of water. She gestures to the lilac evening sky, blooming with violets which hadn’t existed millennia prior, the exact kind of blossom that’s only once in a lifetime, evanescing, ephemeral, and after many eons will reappear and disappear, another cycle, enduring, eternal.

“Don’t know,” I shrug, but I cannot take my eyes off her.

Perhaps I do know.

Perhaps it’s just that I do not care.

To look to the stars, to look to them now, in this moment, is to ignore all that

has happened here, below, upon this fragile globe, the one which we neglected to nurture, the one which we abused to annihilation, the one which we forgot to care for.

The one which is sending us away, far, far away.

Off towards those intangible stars.

“I wonder if they’ll remember us,” she says, sipping from her chalice of wine, scrunching her nose as if to concentrate, as if to resign herself to this fate, this destiny of those who chose to remain, “Once they’ve found their place, once they’ve built their cities and created their societies, you know, started from scratch... I wonder if they’ll ever stop, ever just... take a second. A second to think... to look back.”

“You aren’t afraid, are you?” I grin, nudging her.

AMBROSIA \\ 65

She giggles, pushing me harder, playful revenge.

“I was being serious.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, scooting closer to her in the sand, “I understand. I’m afraid too.”

“You know what?” she sighs, resting her head on my shoulder. Pins and needles, tingling down my spine as they always have, an embrace rarely captured in words.

“I’m starting to believe we’re gonna be okay.

I really am.”

Fear is the force, nuclear, supersonic.

Hope is the friction, electric, subatomic.

Dark waves surge, clamber, rise and topple, crashing against the shore, a shore which hadn’t existed millennia prior, a shore which didn’t exist yesterday, a shore which won’t exist tomorrow, the day after that, or any day ever again. It is here and only here, now and only now, that these

66 // THE LANTERN

dark waves scramble, inch up the incline in zigzagging patterns, slowing, halting, receding, becoming whole with the sea yet again.

Soon, they will surge and the cycle will begin anew.

Soon, those perforated clouds will dissolve into sparkling dust.

Soon, that splintered atmosphere will shatter in two, five, ten, a thousand shards.

Then, on this jilted beach, we will redden, tan, and char, sculpted from ash and embers, chiseled from crown to sole, and for an instant, a brief instant, we will sit here, figurines of fusion, statues of starlight, arm in arm, hand in hand, beholding the impartial wrath of nature, beholding the sea and the sky and the stars, beholding everything before everything flickers in and out, on and off, like it was never

“

I look to the sky.

I look to the stars.

”

Dreamer // Sangeeta Greenwald // digital

supposed to mean anything anyway.

Then, those leaving in their grand fleet of starships, those embarking for their cosmic colonies, those cutting the irreparable scars in the skin of their broken birthplace, then they will watch, faces pressed against spacefaring windows, watch as this world burns, blazes, bursts into a billion flames, fanned by the machines of their departure.

Then, they will arrive.

They will disperse.

They will take and take.

They will scar.

And, eventually, they will be gone, since gravity cannot control them, nor can sunshine say what time is when, nor can atmospheres keep their dreams down, keep their lives from flying, keep them from their next world, their next home, suspended among the endless emptiness above.

And they will remember us.

They will because they have to.

“Where will we go,” she yawns, right as the last starship blasts into hyperspace, right as the last human waves their final goodbye, right as the last sunset vanishes into indigo twilight, “Where will we go now they’re all gone?”

I look to the sky.

I look to the stars.

There they are, piloting their vessels, guiding their voyage across that expanse of infinite void, alone in this universe, smiling, smiling because their destination is certain.

I look to her.

She is more beautiful than the day we met.

“Here,” I smile, crunching my ice, “We’ll stay right here.”

?

AMBROSIA \\ 67

Audio Prelude no.2 // Peter J. Chung // classical

Picture Perfect // Fahim Faizy (FJ Faze ft. DJ) // hip-hop Tears // Jabez Maupin // hip-hop

Vegan Steak Dinner // Jabez Maupin // hip-hop Guitar Romantic // Ceylin Parada // romantic 123 // Ceylin Parada // hip-hop

To listen to the Ambrosia 2020 album, go to:

thelanternmusic.bandcamp.com/album/ambrosia

68 // THE LANTERN

Bass // Kay Page // digital

AMBROSIA \\ 69

Geoffrey The Giraffe // Isabelle Pardue // ceramics

100+

Michael and Kirby Hall The Marshall Family Lorraine Riggio Southern Development Homes

Patrons 250+ 200+

Gary Taylor

Tupelo Press Teen Writing Center

25+ AHS Drama Department Carolyn Herring

No Man Is an Island by John Donne

In Memory of Trae

AHS GSOC Nicole James *UTB* Karen Klosek Albemarle High School Marilyn Krieger www.southern-development.com Anonymous Jeff and TC Lavezzo If it harm none, do what you will. The Lee Family Grandma Rosie & Uncle Tommy Tai Ashok Ajgadnkar Diana Lee Michelle and Jason Banaszak Eric Lee and Teresa Pargeter Bill and Sherie Bryant Gigi and Chris Luna Jenny Bui W. Maclin and Susan Ferrell Love you guys! Aimee Marshall Sue Campbell c/o Lindsay and Connor Rusty Carlock Bill Munkacsy Joshua and Elaine Attridge Love! Wendy Nixon Ron and Roxanne Broadbent Jessie Charles Aaron and Kathleen Olowin Jessie Charles IdaMae Craddock Frederick Olowin

We love the lit mag! Tom Panarese William and Rachel Cogswell John and Ellen Crowley Jason & Sarah Papin Rankin and Christina Davis Andrea Davis Gracie Parks The Heapes Family Rebecca Fakosantos Hanna and Michael Rahilly Graham and Eve Hesselroth The Famouri-Lee Family hannarahilly.weebly.com Heidi Farr Ryon Rainey Hunter Layton Joe Frankfurth Sam Rainey Ibuki H. Lee Laura Free Tony Singleton William Lee Mr. Gentry Accentuate the positive!

Grace Mattix Be the Now of What You Want to be Later Barbara Stealy Miles Gilbert Flo Tinsley Hayleigh Moneymaker Clarissa Gravley Thomas and Maren Ward Elsa Morton The Heaps’ Family Barbara Waskey Kevin and Amy Offner Jonathan and Renata Henderson Lauren Waskey Margaret Paczkowski Stephanie Herbert The Wiseman Family

50+

The Rasmussen Family Ed and Anne Smith Lorrie Smith Delaney White The Zwadlo Family

70 // THE LANTERN

Orca // Wendy Huang // scratchboard

Co-Editor-in-Chief Co-Editor-in-Chief Design Editor Literature Editor Art Editor Submissions Editor Social Events Editor Online Editor Outreach Editor Historical Editor

Editors

Kylie Heapes Claire Zwadlo Kate J. Fitzgerald Iris Papin Crystal Rainey Jo Anne Reid Charlotte Walters Eliza Sanusi Maryam Alwan Liana Tai

Staff Phoebe Giordano Olivia Gravley McKenzie Hall Maya Hesselroth Ryleigh Katstra Cici Lavezzo Hunter Layton Artina Li Cameron Ledgerwood Lou Marshall Grace Mattix Hayleigh Moneymaker Jada Nelson Tristan Olowin Andy Packwood

Designers

Rory Adams Ayanna Anderson Joanne Bong Mickey Bunts Javonyai Burns Olivia Cogswell Charlotte Davis August Diamond Nyah Carriker Dragich Sarah Durrer Courtney Elhart Cailey Ernst Adri Estremera Katie M. Fitzgerald Riley Funk

Coconut // Wendy Huang // block printing

Margaret Paczkowski Shannie Porter Mars Rasheed Katie Rasmussen Isabel Ray Stephanie Scheiber Caroline Smith Rafe Smith Aimee Straka Ella Teeler Plissey Shoshana Tieyah Delaney White Charlotte Wood, Adviser

Alwan Davis Diamond Gravley Heapes Katstra Packwood Reid Sanusi Tai Walters Zwadlo

28-29, 68-69 30-31 56-59 62-63 20-21, 36-41, 70-72 16-19, 44-45 52-55, 64-67 48-49 2-3, 50-51 22-25, 32-35 1 4-15, 26-27, 42-43, 46-47, 60-61, Back Cover Heapes & Zwadlo Cover, Inside Cover

AMBROSIA \\ 71

Colophon Ambrosia differs between three fonts throughout the magazine. The titles are in Neuton Cursive and Josefin Sans. The title sizes vary according to the designer’s artistic vision, but are not less than 36 pt in size. As for the body font, Besley is used in every section at 10 pt. The end mark for prose pieces is a question mark in the font Wingdings.

The magazine was designed by students of the Lantern staff using Adobe CC 2018, Photoshop, and InDesign. The Lantern is associated with VHSL, CSPA, NCTE, NSPA, and SIPA. Four hundred copies were printed by Bailey Printing in Charlottesville on 80 lb Endurance Digital Gloss Text Weight Paper, with a 100 lb Endurance Digital Gloss Cover, and a perfect binded spine. Ambrosia can be purchased for $5 per issue in person, $7 online, or with complimentary copies for patrons and students who were published in this edition.

Selection Policy The Lantern is a literary/art magazine produced by students enrolled in the Creative Writing 2, 3, 4 classes at Albemarle High School. As a student-run publication, it aims to showcase the best creative work of the Albemarle High School student population.

Currently there are 1,906 students enrolled and 218 faculty, administrators, and counselors employed. The magazine is put together both during class periods and after school work sessions called Jam Sessions or Late Nights depending on if toast is eaten or what hour of the evening they extend to, and has an editorial board composed of a group of especially dedicated students.

The Lantern literary/art magazine is a public forum of student expression. All Albemarle High School students are welcome to submit original artwork, writing, and audio productions to The Lantern. Pieces are chosen for publication through a blind read conducted by all Lantern editors and staff. They are judged on individual merit with no intent of satisfying any specific themes.

Nondiscrimination Policy Albemarle County Public Schools does not discriminate on the basis of sex, gender, race, color, national origin, disability, religion, ancentry, age, or marital status. Title IX of the Educational Amendments of 1972, 20 U.S.C.§§ 1691 et seq., prohibits discrimination on the basis of sex in educational programs or activities receiving federal funds, including discrimination in employment and student admissions. All Albemarle County Public Schools students, applicants, and employees are covered by this law. Questions or concerns regarding compliance with the School Division’s nondiscrimination policies may be directed to: Director of Human Resources, 401 McIntire Road Charlottesville, VA 22902 Phone: 434-296-5827

72 // THE LANTERN

“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.”

—Maya Angelou