Oxford Comma

Table of Contents not buried, just planted || Antonio Tourgeman

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Mother Nature || Cora Burch

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Monolith || Cora Burch

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Of Mars and Men || Karina Guaderrama

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Photographs || Maya Bamford

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To truly love L.A. || Yasmin Amin

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UNIVERSAL || Antonio Tourgeman

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“Cinderella” || Antonio Tourgeman

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Three Odd Sisters || Abby Peterson

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To Learn from the Past || Griffin Procter

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Untitled || Catherine Cruz, Ema Kato, Olivia Pink

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Untitled || Kayla Henderson, Jack Kern, Brandon Sadkin

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The Lake || Nick D’Alessio, Tripp Duff, Edward Zilberberg

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Leave Us Alone || Cora Burch

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Damaris Lewis || Olivia Pink

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Hello Stranger, || Caitlin Kim

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It’s the solitude that slays you || Honor Patey

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Why I Write Create || Ella Rosenson

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an imaginary moment in time || Zoha Pattanaik

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Monte Verità || Cora Burch

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If He Knew? || Antonio Tourgeman

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home || Zoha Pattanaik

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A Painting of Dove || Zoha Pattanaik

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Fifteen || Anonymous

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writing about Love || Caitlin Kim

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Photograph || Olivia Pink

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unblissful ignorance || Antonio Tourgeman

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Blinds || Cora Burch

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Photographs || Paulina Joseph

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Editorial Committee Caitlin Kim Karina Guaderrama Olivia de Castro Antonio Tourgeman Cora Burch Reuben Barbarash Ella Rosenson Christopher Ng

Faculty Advisors Ms. O’ Driscoll Mr. Kohn

Front Cover Olivia de Castro Karina Guaderrama Caitlin Kim

Back Cover Caitlin Kim

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not buried, just planted down the street and around the corner lives the heart of the city. beating colors of red and orange and yellow, controlled sunrise, fenced in surprise. roots now veins, embedded in the earth’s crust. confident, flourish. trees provide shade for the children born of spring. bouncing in the grass, leisurely. hands covered in mud and forehead coated with fresh dew. embroidered overalls, through the rickety gate-it calls. down the street, paths sprawl enclosed. in the meadows, not a soul afraid of soil, no turmoil, private prosperity. the trail ends here, fret not, find another. follow the flowers, greens, blues and pinks. florescent and floral. petite and sweet. distant murmurs of life echo through bark and leaf. down the street, cars rush, but here cheeks only blush. knees bend, meeting the stone. greetings and salutations, water gently flows from a generous can, sit down, in organic matter and mineral. clay, mold a shelter.

feeding into pots, exhibit of creation and of growth. ceramic leaves dust on palm, not a bother, jean replaces soap easy. bathe in the sun, while you can. vines and pines, stretching spine. rummage through pockets, dig deep. need is a virtue, spend it wisely. a shovel is a gardener’s weapon, pick a vegetable, the clouds are warning. fog is thickening, tighter and tighter. struggle for air, hide in the greenhouse. the greenhouse will provide safety, sift through the mist, the browns fade in the dirt, wilt, shiver. water weighs the precious lily down. spades now dull, vases now under pressure, crack, smack the cars speeding now more apparent, turning through minds, running red lights. laying pavement over earth’s lungs, cumulonimbus clouds shroud blinding, the air is solid. greenhouses shatter, low hanging, the earth loses breath. atmosphere beckoned, it imposes heavy over plants whom forgot how to exhale too long ago. prehistoric, now categorized endangered.

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remember the nature of nature. decide that when sleep fades, gardens will be restored. suns will rise again. children will frolic in weather, no matter the aether. paths will be forged again. flowers will know the nourishment water provides once more. wake up. let your eyes open now. feel the breeze as dandelions spread their allergens. don’t hold back your sneeze, take in the sun as it praises you. hardship is always rewarded. others lay around you, covered in the earth’s hands. its your turn to wake them up. open their eyes. break them free from the greenhouse. show them that eternal spring is a privilege. let them sharply inhale as the morning dew burns away. wake them up, before the seasons blend. and before the echoes of scientists ring true. listen and yell unapologetically. be the sun.

- Antonio Tourgeman

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Mother Nature - Cora Burch

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Monolith Nature contained its creature, the industrial gray skyline held close with green, with young strength like the arms of a father as he tames his newborn’s flailing arms, like steel beams, like jackhammers, a developing body that seems to recover from everything just as birds lack the conscience to curl up and die, springing again, flying higher.

The protective green grew over concrete, uprooted its creature’s dangerous red brickwork and roads, gasped and broke up the sidewalk to uplift itself skyward like parents try to keep their kids good people, patience thin but love too thick to let the hammers puncture through, though the headaches are pounding, the compass is cracking, and direction has a newborn blur as doors close themselves, sewn in with needles, threaded on the fingers of children industrialized, turned-out pockets, white flags all products of earth’s untamed child, an evolution spun so far it devolved.

The hammers broke the concrete minds of my cousin’s parents who really tried.

She just does what she wants now, an untamed concrete monolith thoughtlessly rocketing just like man into the black star-pricked sky, unregulated and empty chested, dead in the eyes.

- Cora Burch

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Of Mars and Men The rockets came like drums, beating in the night The rockets were American The men were American [The rest of the world] watched the Roman candles leave them behind Buried in war Should we go at all?

The rocket stood ready for the firing Shouldn’t we solve our own sins here?

Mars is opening up It's a frontier now Like in the old days on Earth Aren’t we running from our lives here?

Men are men, unfortunately No matter what their shape Surely the Lord will understand that [we] are doing this for Him - Karina Guaderrama

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- Maya Bamford

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“To Truly Love L.A.” “To truly love LA, you have to see it with different eyes” (Section 3)[1] You know that feeling of sitting at a dinner table with your friends, family or even with strangers? Of course the people make the table, but it’s really more than just that, and more than the dinner you're sharing. The time… the place… and the familiar faces are all what make the table. I didn’t realize I had a dinner table to come back to until the day I received a welcoming nod from a familiar face in Palisades Park, or when I was being called over by a nickname given to me by breakdancers, “hey Curly, Curly…come watch this move!”

Going to Santa Monica Pier was like coming home to a full dinner table after a long day.

Although a metaphorical table, we still feasted on strange interactions and “good vibes.” My Santa Monica belonged to me; she’s up for grabs, but you have to earn your belonging in her dinnerly1 embrace, you must fight to know her… ins and outs… the same way you must fight to not be forgotten by her revolving door of consumers. I realized she was mine after I knew she had seen all my faces, my many moods, my different sides through the ages.

When I am in Santa Monica, I still feel like I am twelve smelling marjuana smoke for the first time. When I am in Santa Monica, I forever feel like I'm entering a recurring fever dream as I land by the beach. And all of this to think she was my home, my therapy, my lover, my mother, my friend… the same way she is a playing field for a man looking to play cat and mouse with some unsuspecting women, or the same way the elderly couple eating ice cream on a bench mourn their Santa Monica becoming a home for L.A’s homeless population. But don’t forget, those homeless have her too, probably more than you.

If Santa Monica is the feeling of a dinner table with her cast of characters, she writes open invitations. I’d like to introduce my dinner table… beginning with “Tips'' and “King.” Tips and King were two break dancers who were always at the Pier’s entrance popping, locking and doing back flips for cash every week on Saturdays and Sundays without fail, rain or shine. Tips and King were 19, that’s the most personal information I have about them. I came up with Tips because the ends of his hair were bleached, and King was already using that name for his dancing. I met them with Athena, my childhood best friend, back when we were 13. They used to pretend and joke that they thought we were 18, but I look back and know they knew our exact ages based on the way we talked. Next, we have “the native guy.” Beyond being a native Santa Monican, he was also Native American, he was there most weekends and some weekday afternoons too. He would lay on the grass of the pier entrance park, crush leaves in his hands, inhale the aroma and nearly nod off while looking at the sky. He definitely understood we shared a dinner table as he would give me a welcoming nod upon arrival as soon as our table was set. At our table, we also have two homeless women, Cece and Roberta. I’d never seen them interact so it may be insensitive to group them together, but they did share the area they inhabit and a

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friendship with me. Cece appreciates groceries as she still has kids to feed, but Roberta doesn't know if she has grandchildren, so she doesn't mind McDonald’s and a few spare dollars. Some of the street vendors even had a place at our table, as they weren't just clocking in to Santa Monica, they were living Santa Monica in the way they interacted with the rest of us.

Santa Monica is feminine with her own mystique and aloofness. After Covid her flame seems particularly dim, only to realize how much hotter she burns when you're up close. She is like a mother, somehow also like a lover, like a friend; whichever hand holder she needs to become that day, she does with a familiar embrace as one walks through her colorful streets. As I arrive today, and I take her in, all the smells of urine and gasoline contrasting with burning pork and marijuana smoke, I feel the same comfort I always have. She held my hand every day of the summer before highschool, she spun me around through my first boyfriend, straight to my first break up right under one of her loving palms.

She went from being my and my childhood best friend’s place, to a waiting ground for me to come back once a decade-long friendship had ended. She watched my young self get offered drugs for the first time, and she saw me right before she got up and became off limits for almost two years. I waited for her too, you know. So much had changed by the time I met her salty breath again. I come back with new friends to find with relief that she’s still mine.

As I walk through the boardwalk, I see flashing lights and fluorescent colors contrasted by meters of a dark and deep sea peeking through the floorboards. The first time I felt Santa Monica’s hold on me, truly, physically, was my first time riding the Pacific Dragon after Francine’s 8th birthday, where I cried and screamed to get off the ride. The next time, I was 13 and my friend had bet me whoever screamed first had to pay for our fair tickets. I took her up on this, disregarding my past trauma. Once we reached the full speed of the dragon, I was petrified and biting my tongue as to not let out a shriek of terror and in that moment I realized it was all out of my control, so I let go… physically and mentally. I let go of everything, all my worries melted away as the back of my thighs unpeeled from the hot plastic to a place with no gravity, as the hot ocean's air blew in my face and we swung downwards. The rest of our day was filled with repeated dragon rides, bacon wrapped hot dogs, and catcalls… I had my first real taste of Santa Monica and from that day on, I knew I was addicted.

Today, I came home for dinner and it feels like the pier is finally returning to her pre-COVID atmosphere. Something is living; life resides in these streets, walls, and alleyways. I can feel her warm embrace asking me if I am hungry. Of course I am, I respond through my inviting eyes, right as a strange man asks me if I want to smoke. I kindly turn him down as he continues to compliment me. I say “thank you” and interrogate him in the name of literature. I find out this man is twice my age and has seen the inside of a jail cell due to a few felony sentences. We walk as I try to keep my distance. The man is originally from Florida, and now he is selling fentanyl on the streets of L.A. I ask him why he is here, and he responds with “I’m always here, every Sunday, mostly to holla at bitches.” I regarded Santa Monica with a feeling of mistrust, almost as if this was her infidelity to me, but then I remembered 10

how one place can belong to a number of people in different ways. As Madonna as she may be, the whore is still alive in her, pursuing other relationships with the down and dirty of L.A. Now that I’ve been investigating this character for about half an hour, I can feel he’d like to take it out of the city, Santa Monica. What he doesn’t know is that, as native to Los Angeles as I am, Santa Monica is my playing field and whatever I pick up while I am with her I must not take with me.

As we have rules, me and this city. Her ocean breeze picks up as if it’s her way of saying goodnight, I watch as the shopkeepers on Third Street lock up for the night, and a few lingering rodents scurry out of sight. “What color are your panties?” are the vulgar words that awaken me from my trance. It's the cold truth of knowing that this love is shared even with scum, the only thing that protects my love for her is her discretion and our secrecy. It is only between me and the city. As I desert the man in a sea of people, I walk the even roads and sidewalks back to my car and begin the drive home on the strangely unoccupied roads. Santa Monica follows me home, the echoes of her crowds linger in my ear canals, the ocean breeze and sand particles pollute my hair, the smell of cigarettes consumes my nostrils, and the thought of dinner floods my head.

- Yasmin Amin

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UNIVERSAL

Cinderella

- Antonio Tourgeman

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- Abby Peterson

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To Learn from the Past Nowadays, there is a trend in society to eschew those artworks which have been commonly considered cornerstones of culture for countless centuries and introduce curriculums which count these kernels of creativity as cancerous killers of the critical thinking of classes of kids. Now, while there certainly is some wisdom to be found in this systemic self-reflection, it is often used to justify the disregarding of pieces which have helped shape and define the modern world's view, oftentimes for the better. One of these texts, Homer's The Odyssey, has been taken out of schools across the country, even when translated carefully by such accredited scholars such as Emily Wilson. Though the zeitgeist of this day is to ride this wave of cultural vandalism, The Odyssey gives more to its reader than it takes, and there are numerous reasons why.

Firstly, the language of this epic is undeniably some of the most colorful, poetic, and vivid one could ever find. The entire text is sprinkled with lengthy similes, detailed descriptions, and thoughtful connections which add multiple layers of depth to an otherwise antiquated piece of literature composed by a man who supposedly couldn't even see. It is important to note, though, that while this account of Odysseus's journeys was conjured up by a mind who lacked the ability to gaze upon the world, its lines allow their readers to conjure up images of the events as they unfold, even when they seem hard for a mortal to comprehend. One example of this is when the deceased souls of the suitors are described as "squeaking / like bats in the secret crannies of a cave" (24.5-6). This gives readers a glimpse of the fearful and despairing spirits of the recently deceased suitors, squealing as they attempt to process their damnation to forever be trapped outside the gates of the underworld. Such strong imagery gives new meaning to otherwise boring scenes and ropes the reader into the emotions of those depicted. It cannot be denied that the creative wording of this text has the power to inspire many an aspiring writer to adopt some of Homer's style and add lush, descriptive passages into their own texts.

The authorial ability of Homer, however, is not the only strength of The Odyssey, as much of its impact lies in its tense, action-packed story. Rather than go the route of many contemporary works and smack the reader with innumerable lines of uncreative, overly officious dialogue, The Odyssey shoves its appreciators straight into the thick of the action, never shying away from the details which grant the poetry its momentum. Readers can see this perfectly expressed in the titular character's slaughter of the suitors infesting his home. Odysseus, bow in hand, fires a shot directly at one of the foremost of his unwanted guests, Antinous, with the arrow cleanly pricing his throat, after which, "He flopped down to the side and his cup slipped / out of his hand. A double pipe of blood / gushed from his nostrils" (22.17-19). This frank depiction of the violence involved in the hero's rampage gives a sense of urgency and thrill to the scene. Had Homer opted to stray away from more gruesome details, his work would most likely have lacked the force with which it offers up its action scenes, making for a

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significantly less interesting tale. Luckily, this was not the route he took, and the world left with a story which can serve as an excellent example of what a fast-paced, fight-filled adventure should look like.

Though the textual aspects of the poem may be more obvious reasons to read it, the historical value of this work is nearly unmatched. Homer offers us a glimpse of what Archaic Greek life would have looked like, and the beliefs and values said Greeks would have held. A clear example of this time-tested cross-cultural insight is the vivid depiction of the protagonist constructing a raft. Instead of doing what modern authors might, and skip over the details which would most likely be lost on their audience, Home tells us much about the specifics of the vessel's creation by the text's namesake, Odysseus. "He heaped the boat with brush, and caulked the sides / with wickerwork, to keep the water out. / Calypso brought him fabric for a sail, / and he constructed that with equal skill. / He fastened up the braces, clews and halyards, / and using levers, launched her on the sea" (5.256-261). This, obviously, grants a modern reader knowledge and understanding of how their ancestors would have constructed boats, but also allows a keen historian to glean that seafaring was important enough to the inhabitants of Ancient Greece that the average enjoyer of this poem would have been able to make sense of these complex details. It certainly provides an insightful window into the past.

All in all, this lengthy epic gives to its readers so much in the form of its skillful composition, its tactful use of imagery, and its ancient perspective. Though it certainly has its detractors, The Odyssey is truly one of the highest quality pieces of literature ever conceived of and should certainly remain on the desks of students across the world.

- Griffin Procter

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The following three pieces are excerpted from an assignment completed in Mr. Kohn’s American Literature class. Students wrote poetry about the lake—and its power—in Marilynne Robinson’s novel, Housekeeping. They used a line from an Emily Dickinson poem of their choice to connect the two authors’ sensibilities.

The things that never can come back, are several– The silence–roars– we reach out– why does the water hold?

Forever bound to the mysterious darkness A reflection –our souls–lonely– can we come out?

Once alive and free– now in the water– Alive– then drawn to the water-- trapped--in the dark of the night– Our final rest–content with our fate Acceptance– we can't change – the water holds us forever - Catherine Cruz, Ema Kato, Olivia Pink

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The Wind—tapped like a tired Man— The Wind—in its solitude— The Water—is loved but…

The Water—swaying like a drunkard— Standing—alone My Judgmental gaze—My Lecturing voice— But she’s unable to change.

My father’s presence draws me in—a calming sensation He clears my mind—escaping reality The closer I get—the greater connection I feel A part of me—it’s always been and always will be.

People—at the water's edge Going to enjoy the lake’s history The lake is a beautiful—mysterious place I always wonder—what’s inside this lake Follow her, follow her—suffocating in my head.

- Kayla Henderson, Jack Kern, Brandon Sadkin

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The Lake

Though dark and murky See the beauty and light in the ripples of water I’m in the gentle breeze that rustles the leaves The warmth from the sun on your backs is my embrace Do not dwell in the darkness of my cruel act Open your petals and turn toward the sun There are no answers in the depths Our secrets remain here— Do not mourn me, my soul is free For I am here among great company The train is filled with people Our destination is all the same We travel through the countryside trees fly by our window The train enters a small town unknown to most Its filled with little houses Each place is its own little home We travel across an old wooden bridge The train flies off the track Now sitting at the bottom of the lake This place is now our home Everything is mountains and lakes, Peaks and troughs Flowing waters, rough and calm.

Deepest affection for the rocky hills, now trapped in the fluid waters Expanding the palate for eternal life Eternal heaven, constantly looking at the truest love Gone but maybe not?

Now we are one, Forever connected The World is not a conclusion.

- Nick D’Alessio, Tripp Duff, Edward Zilberberg

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Leave us Alone - Cora Burch

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Damaris Lewis - Olivia Pink

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Hello Stranger,

hello person, alienated illuminated windows a television flashes disarrays of pictures little people or are they horses dart across the screen watching to make out the floating entities seems like trespassing hello neighbor, connected by a synchronized robbery of time is it ours to spend or is it simply borrowed thirty feet and 1 2 3 stories bridge our gap even night’s limelight shies away hello friend, the witches want their hour back for we have taken it for ourselves is it their spells that keep me awake or that lull me off to sleep hello stranger, what keeps you up this evening?

- Caitlin Kim

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“It’s the solitude that slays you”

I didn’t like her.

She was a hard person to like, for a multitude of reasons: the attention-seeking, the glory hounding, the haughty attitude. She got on my nerves and left me seething with frustration.

Nobody else in the grade liked her very much either, and they certainly didn’t beat around the bush about it. The second she came up in conversation there were a few pointed words and a knowing glance shared between us all.

And yet, she was my friend.

At least by middle school standards, she was. We sat together at lunch, played together at recess, I listened to her monologuing about her imaginary boyfriend that went to a different school. Everything seemed fine between us, at first glance.

It was near the end of the year when it happened.

I remember sitting in the car next to her, talking about nothing in particular. We had been picked up from school by her mother, and were heading to one of our houses - I can’t remember which.

She was saying something, and I remember just looking at her and realizing that I didn’t care. It wasn’t really a friendship, to me. I don’t know what she thought of me, but I didn’t like her. I wanted her to be friends with me, but I didn’t want to be friends with her.

It sounds cruel, when put so bluntly. But in all honesty, it's not as though anyone else wanted to be friends with her either.

In my mind, there was a difference, in a relationship, between having and being had. I could have stopped being friends with her and never spoken to her again, because she wasn’t giving me what I wanted in a friendship - but at least she was giving. Really, out of everyone I knew at the time, she was the only one who was giving.

I had been so used to being had, to being reliant on other people, that I clung to the idea that our friendship was being dictated on my terms. It was an entirely selfish affair.

She was the new girl, and I was desperate for a connection. Our friendship was more like a compromise, than anything.

This revelation as to the nature of our relationship made me realize, though, that I wasn’t just there for me anymore. It wasn’t about what I wanted. Because if I was, then I would have left once I realized that I wasn’t happy.

It had gradually become about her, too. I saw myself in her. I couldn’t stop being friends with her because I would be leaving her out in the cold. And I didn’t just want to take from her, 22

because I knew what it was like. I would be no better than the people who had done it to me. Abandonment hurts, it curls in your chest and drags you to the floor, and to subject her to that wouldn’t just be too much for her, it would be too much for me.

People don’t always realize that showing empathy for others isn’t just something that you can do passively. Caring about other people is an active experience - it takes a lot of effort. Because the people who need support the most are usually the ones who aren’t getting it in the first place.

​ - Honor Patey

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Why I Write Create “Of course I stole the title for this talk, from George Orwell”, eloquent words I’ve now stolen from Joan Didion. Anyways…

I sincerely enjoy creating fantastical worlds. It’s an inclination I’ve always had, even when I was young. I wrote poems writing ‘whale’ as ‘wayle’ in second grade, short stories of my friends and me being Pokémon masters in fourth, and a musical about Cleopatra in sixth. In between each of those, my childhood friends and I made our own universes, building from iMovie magic and crafting characters from cardboard boxes. Only our little group of four: Ellie (my best friend since two), Josh (my younger sibling [they/them]), Brookie (Ellie’s little sister and Josh’s best friend), and me. We expressed creativity in all ways we could, from sewing songs mimicking our beloved Taylor Swift to knitting stories from nothing. We just had to. It wasn’t a choice, we craved the camera, lights, and glory of adoration shone down on us by our parents. Ellie and I sat behind the camera, directing and writing, while Josh and Brookie acted.

We continued down this pretty path of creation for our whole childhood. I loved it, even if pulling Josh from their Legos (to film) became increasingly difficult. Following the end of movie making, I continued creating. I kept writing and making visuals I pleased. After a crush on an art kid, I moved to drawing. Turned out, I loved it. I held pencils more than the hands of the kid who originally got me interested. I dealt with a good deal of discomfort in middle school, keeping to myself. But I didn’t need a perfect social life, I had my ideas. Soon, creating people and places got me through the day. Drawing, writing, submerging in creativity was a spur of the moment where I’d see a color or object that made me think. My life was a movie, with my footsteps having musical cues, my brain adding more shapes and colors to the world, and life was becoming an adventure to be had. Everything in my eyes became subtly beautiful. As my affinity for the beauty of the real world grew, so did my curiosity about stylized shows, movies, games, and more were made. I looked between each line, reading script to script, essay to essay. I interacted with fandoms as much as possible, finding solace in the communities they built.

One day, it dawned on me. Writing and art were within my grasp and someday, I could make the same communities that kept me warm and safe through middle school. I could help people like me.

The ones who needed that childlike wonder. The “vain, selfish, and lazy” George Orwells and Joan Didions and Terry Tempest Williams of the world, who cry ‘why’ while ideas fly into writing (Orwell 7). The lonely kids. The ones who heard Legos crashing against the walls.

Quarantine eventually hit at the end of eighth grade. I loved it- at least for some time. I attended class, slept, called my friends, drew, and wrote. Creativity gushed from me like a faucet. I met new kids in my class and bonded over the content we consumed. I wrote for my friends, I drew for them too: Self-inserts, multi-fandom AUs (alternate universes), OCs (original characters) to gxg and

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mlm (girl x girl and men love men). Eating fandoms more vigorously than food, and I expended more energy on creating than I did on high school. When life threw me for a loop, I’d replay a comforting world in my mind. Not quite therapy or medication (which I have now), but it felt like enough.

Headphones blocked screaming and footsteps. The halls of my house were relatively echoey, so my ears aren’t quite the same as they were pre-covid. Playlists blasted, keys typed, and lead slid on desks.

Writing is the child of a loss of innocence, not the father (referring to Ta-Nehishi Coates’ Between the World and Me).

Many fandoms and drawings and poems and stories later, I was still creating. I made universes on the ashes of my sibling’s broken Legos. Even if the cause of the new regression was due to a loss of control, writing and art were always in my grasp, not the hospital.

I’ve had issues.

I’m a creator, after all.

Yet, I hated the loud noises outside my door, so I’d put on my headphones and sleep to the beat of ‘My Little Pony’ and ‘The Good Place’. Never out loud, though. But, when I’d wake up and try to go outside my room, my feet hurt from the Legos. ‘I don’t actually need food right now’.

The pen would fly into my hand, and I’d draw. Communicate through storyboards, colors, and singular words adorning the tip of the page (clipping on the desk).

That time was happy.

It was not.

While my art grew grayer, the Legos became increasingly bright. Aesthetics became band-aids, writing became evasion, and art was a sham made by my clay mind. I needed to create, but I had shit to deal with.

It’s been a while- I’ve healed a great deal since then. I don’t create to escape anymore, but to sink into the common paradise meshed with my reality.

Still saturated and jarring, I’ve learned to rebuild with Legos.

- Ella Rosenson

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an imaginary moment in time a tall figure stands before my bedroom his silhouette projecting a rather calm illusion quite the opposite of the tempered man that stood in this dimension of my reality, unfortunately our eyes rarely met blame it on the height difference or maybe his faults and flaws a trace of human nature take your pick he never seemed to acknowledge them anyways piercing me time and time again but oh heal the wounds they said buy some acetone and a damp paper towel no reason to paint him foul always blamed for spilling aqua fabric paint on his favorite red tee he's blood they say can't hold a grudge, but I pray for my youth back amid the oblivious slumber but the sun shone through a different lens this day, the shadows casting what seemed to be a grin across his face luring me into the kitchen with a gentle raspy tone, similar to that of scorched lavender honey spread across the pastel lemon table lay a thick slice of coconut cream pie, my favorite adomed with two silver forks engraved with flowers on the ends beside them sat two cups of peppermint tea one for him one for me I didn't think he was listening when I read the article aloud about how vocalists should drink more peppermint tea, or maybe I didn't think he cared. the buttery crust crumbled on my taste buds and he smiled. a rare breath shared with my dad, lacking dialogue, lacking apprehensive, quick breaths in and out, lacking the comforting tension that so often caused my shoulders to grow sore.

Though only a moment, I wish I had it painted and framed to admire from behind the glass.

- Zoha Pattanaik

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Monte Verita - Cora Burch 27

If He Knew?

A monologue inspired by Daphne Du Maurier’s short story Monte Verita, a look into the mind of Anna.

Remember the path. I did. What if I forgot it? No I couldn’t, no I wouldn’t. The moon lit my way again and again, night after night. But, how could I rely on her? I knew, when he is not, the moon is there. In the corner of my mind, the darkness of the sky. She brought a faith into my life like no other. The all knowing celestial body. I prayed to her, step after step. On the mountain top is where I crave and where I hike. Her gaze laid upon my pale skin forevermore. A pilgrimage like no other, where my fate is on the line. The rigid mountains shielded my being metaphysically and the snow veiled me exquisitely.

What if he knew? He wouldn’t, he can’t. I made sure to be quiet, I know I was quiet. In fact, I’m positive. But what if… No. There is no doubt now, Anna. You’re too far into this. The moon is leaving soon, too soon, all too soon. I needed to get going. I did. My barren feet were encased in dirt and snow and nature’s muck… yuck. I couldn’t let my feet drag, I held my fair elbows, now blushed a perfect pink. Everything about my past led me to this night. Fragile. I didn’t let my courage shatter.

The icicles pitter pattered from the caverns and ravines. The contours and the cliffs. Victor would’ve never understood the imperfections and perfections of Verità.

My feet are calloused now. Behind the curtain of snowfall, through the leaves and the trees, the path led me here. To now. My knees are giving out but nothing can stop me from chasing my immortal infatuation. I take a deep breath and she reveals me eternity. She brought me to everything and nothing. To my heart’s desire, and to a home I was ever so familiar with. From my balcony, from my window, I used to fantasize about such a dream. But, now it's all real, in my frostbit clutches. A clearing in the mountains, and among the summits inhabits them. The children of her cycle and her phases. The children of no rules, no bounds, but of course moral, or rather lack of.

Victor. As I’ve affirmed, no way Victor could’ve known. He knows. He doesn’t. He knows.

Anna, he doesn’t! What if he does? The prize is so close… Yet, here I was. Let's take a moment of reflection. I hike up this mountain and for what? Abandon everything, you, him, myself, my mortality.

But here I am, again. This wall, unclimbable of course, slits for eyes-it welcomes me with a smile and a firm hand. Picking me up from this cage of a body. Sworn to minimalism I was, I never was one for much word. She shines a spotlight onto my frail heart. I'm ascending but not for long. The wall seems all too tall now, immeasurable. My whole being longed for them. Devoted as hell, I was. What if they reject me? What if I’m not worthy enough? What if my efforts were nothing but snowflakes melting into my palm?

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Victor, stop pecking at my consciousness. You lay in bed, comfortable, serene. In dreams, you are away from the harsh truth of this mountain. I have faith in you, Victor… much like I must find my own. Victor, your heart compliments mine perfectly. When I see you, my mind no longer wishes to search for the impossible. No. When I’m lost in thought, you fish me out with your careful hook. I must admit, I’ve had my doubts. Victor, my dearest. I'm caught in this perpetual crossfire, my love.

Everlasting peace… No! Husband! Happily ever after… No!! Everything I could ever want… VICTOR! But what if… Anna focus on the target. Anna this is what you’ve been waiting for, praying for.

Ugh, a moment of realization! I didn’t, I couldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t let him know, wouldn’t.

Time is ticking, the ice is dripping. The moon is warm now, the blood in my body flows, woah. Her gaze burns through my skeleton, oh how riveting. Nothing matters now but her and them and me, no not me just them. Oh what a high this is. Intoxicating, the thing, the place, everything I’ve waited so patiently for is here. She’s here, she’s here. The moon incarnate. The gates fall open like the snowflakes just did. Shredding through the darkness, I'm bright now! Enlightenment, they take my palms.

Everything is quiet. My heart has no reason to beat anymore. My lungs breathe for them not for me.

Purity. Finally, my cravings were rewarded, oh scintillating one. Exhilarated, I am! What if.. They aren’t. What if this insobriety is a terrible, oh an all too terrible ruse? What if this is all a sick joke? What if I turned back to Victor? What if I didn’t climb the mountain? What if she didn’t exist? What if… she does.

- Antonio Tourgeman

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Home

My mom's masala chai lures me into her longing, Lost speckles of our motherland Now everchanging, growing.

The previous night's sour tension lingers on my tongue, Eventually put to ease by the hush of the morning sun.

I don't know if I have a sole home, I don't know why people ask, Sometimes the one I believed before occupied by the overwhelming presence of her.

Somber olive melodies mask the midnight blue Drift out my window a lonely gift to my pretty neighbor.

- Zoha Pattanaik

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A Painting of Dove

The sapphire mist holds her place in our sky Weighed down by unripened bloom fields A twinkle of midas brushed watercolor streaks its way across the dampened canvas in a curved nature, priming the observer for an articulate experience of fantasy As mulberry tones and sprig mint pigment follow in the footsteps of those above Beneath lies stolen land no one bothers to reflect on Despite traces of the blessed gatherers and children Of our perennial mother, conquered among the presence of mankind Trees drip diluted sap as we mourn together as one, intertwined in this glimpse of defeat The wistful dove longs for her lover, lost in the rocky sea of ladies and lust Enchanted by goddesses entangled in buttery book sleeves Lured by Poseidon's curse such loveliness cannot have it all In reparations, her maidens weave together an amethyst halo Praying that the soft scent of faded wisteria Will lure her to sleep once more.

Trapped in gold leaf, a foe to defeat She remains frozen in a satisfied trance Pointed fingers judge and touch Male figures won't give up Objectified and sexualized No longer a symbol of wanting.

- Zoha Pattanaik

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Fifteen

Fifteen is big, fluffy, sparkly dresses with tiaras and bailes Fifteen is womanhood and my last muñeca Fifteen is a party that lasts all night Fifteen is getting your permit Fifteen is freedom That’s what fifteen should be Fifteen was crying in the bathroom on my birthday Fifteen was dragging my sister along wherever I went, like she was a ball and chain Fifteen was long days trapped in my room, sitting on zoom That’s what fifteen was F*** fifteen - Anonymous

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writing about Love i’ve underestimated writing about Love nothing i’ve written is about Love never Why I Love, Who I Love, What I Love never about how I want to be Loved how my taste in Love was ruined by Hollywood how they defined my expectations for Love how roses are red violets are blue and I want to fall in Love with you never about past infatuation tossing and turning in tactile tension palpable poisonous passion fleeing the forbidden fruit of foiled friendship never about the sacredness of music where Billy can’t find a girl and Rick wants his girl and Freddie pleads let him go but i can’t write about Love that’s for the wise men who say only fools rush in for the rose that would smell as sweet by any other word for the girl who’s standing in front of a boy asking him to love her Love is for the dreamer Love is for the quarterback and the cheerleader Love is for the girl next door Love is for the girl that’s smart but not too smart for the girl that’s dumb but not an “airhead” but i’m a hopeless romantic

for the girl that’s strong but not strong headed for the girl that’s weak but not codependent but what if i want to Love to be Loved to Love you to be Loved by you what if i want someone someone who’s not too cool to hold my hand and say are you free friday night? and you won’t judge me for wearing the same shirt three times because i don’t like many others and let’s get food but only eat over the kitchen sink because neither of us will want to clean the mess and you will Love me and Love me for all i am and Love me with my flaws instead of in spite of them and say you never need a because except because you Love me but i don’t know what that feels like i pretend to be tough and i don’t need someone to make me whole and i’m independent and i’m fine with just platonic friends

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and i just want to be Loved and i want to have a special thing with someone special and the only one that knows that is the guy in the tik tok on my for you page that the algorithm thinks is what i want to see with the girls in the comments saying “omg how did you know” and “didn’t have to call me out like that” when for sure the guy has not a clue who you are so how can i write about Love you know the can’t help falling in all you need is struck by your electric can anybody find me somebody to Love - Caitlin Kim

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- Olivia Pink

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unblissful ignorance - Antonio Tourgeman

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Blinds

When Calliope woke up she couldn’t feel her legs. She felt like someone had injected a sedative into her lower body and numbed her all the way from the elastic line of her underwear down to her toes, making her feet and calves and knees and thighs full up with vicious tingling. This all felt incredibly unfair, especially because she didn’t have the energy to open her eyes or take off her blanket.

It was too cold and she was only wearing shorts and a tank top, because when she went to sleep the heat was on but somewhere between 11:30 PM and now––which she thought felt like maybe seven, her eyes were shut so she couldn’t see her clock but sometimes the light kind of creeps up under your eyelids like honey––it had stopped.

She tried to open her mouth and groan or yawn or whatever, like people always do when they wake up on TV in the sitcoms and murder mysteries and “feel-good-shows” she watched––Calliope didn’t like movies, they were always so long her mind would wander––but all that came out was a soft croak like a weak frog.

Her legs still felt like shook-up sprite––she flung her blanket off herself and shot up straight, eyes flying open. It was so dark she could hardly see her own hands. Instead she found the white blur behind her blinds from the motion-sensor light across the street, and watched the slatted beams from passing headlights flash through her windows across the walls, like straight-edge ghosts. Those used to scare her when she was little.

Calliope shook her head and looked around again, making out the outlines of her dresser and bookshelf…her desk…the edge of her bed. She could faintly see her great grandma’s needlepoint on her wall but it was flickering in and out of focus like a camera lens, so sometimes it was there and sometimes it was just a blank yellow wall, egg-yolk gray-green in this half-light. She looked down at her legs.

Bending them into butterfly and running her hands down her two-days-unshaved skin returned the sense that she wasn’t insane. She felt a scab from a week ago starting to fade and picked at it, but it was healed over enough that it didn’t bleed, just left behind a layer of raw skin that hurt to scratch at. She wiggled her toes and folded over the quilts and fleece, like the pages of an open book give themselves up to gravity. Even stories get tired sometimes, she thought to herself, and wanted to scratch that thought down but lacked the energy. Oh well, it would’ve made a nice lyric.

For a brief moment she became aware of her hearing and turned off the white noise on her nightstand, realizing that it was overlapping with the sound of rain outside. It was new rain, it hadn’t been falling for long, she could somehow tell, and that reminded her to check the clock. She pressed her fingers into the button until it lit up hot pink, illuminating a black 4:42 AM. Part of her wanted to go back to bed and part of her wanted to be like her grandmother on caffeine and stay up until she heard the birds chirping. She first heard that story when she was five years old and somehow it never left her. Her Spanish teacher in the sixth grade told her five and eleven were the best ages to pick up a new skill, so maybe it was the same with basic memories, that they just stuck a little better. A weird fever-dream image of Spanish vocab flashcards being glue-sticked to her chest made Calliope shake her head again and slide out of bed.

37

She stumbled somewhat unbalanced to her window and yanked the slatted blinds open, so she could numbly pry them apart a bit with her cold fingers and stand there in the white glow, her tan, peach skin looking as gray-green as the walls in the dim.

Calliope pushed her brown hair behind her ears. It was thick and matted from sleeping on it dry, and she could feel the waves she always wished were a little more textured sitting under a layer of golden frizz. As she exhaled and smelled her own sweet-sick breath, she remembered kissing Emery back in middle school and her perfect black curls, and that pretty straight smile telling her that she was beautiful. For a little while it made her proud of the chestnut mop her parents gave her, and she realized that her little brother wasn’t teasing when he wanted to braid her hair. It lasted until Emery went to a different high school than herself, and she couldn’t feed her girlfriend with affirmations anymore.

Self-love was a tree you had to tend yourself, said Calliope’s aunt once, drunk at thanksgiving, bent over a banister. Her cousin was reading tarot and the devil came up, and he suggested she wake up and stop her drinking problem. It led to a whole existential crisis and by the end of it they were passed out on the couch, and all the little kids made a game of dropping candy on their breathing skeletons.

Little, ignorant Calliope was one of them, smelling the red wine on their lips, five years old in a jade dress sprinkling brownie crumbs over their backs like alms. When they woke up, they were so confused.

The rain sounded good. She could hear the lower frequency as it hit the ground in big drops, plopping onto leaves and the pavers down the front walk. There was a soft breeze making the wind chimes softly sound on the offbeats, not driven at all, echoing the songs she used to improvise in her bedroom to a stuffed animal audience and the family digital camera. It didn’t matter where it went or if no one heard it.

Calliope stood there for another long while, not looking back at her clock. She just watched the sky slowly get a little lighter between the bamboo slats, painted in horizontal white stripes like a moonlight flag. She watched the cars hum by and splash the fairway, watering her mother’s roses. A feeling rose in Calliope’s throat that she determined lay somewhere between a cry and nausea and a yawn. It was familiar––she felt it all the nights she woke up in her crib and called for her parents, over and over til they heard her above the white noise in every room. It was the embarrassment of having to call so many times. The fear that they couldn’t hear her. Feeling sick from being hungry, and exhaustion. It was time to go back to bed.

Calliope climbed back under the blankets. Her legs felt numb from the cold. She checked the clock––it was 5:03.

She wanted to pinch herself for not writing that lyric down. Stuff didn’t stick in sixteen-year-old heads, which she thought was stupid when sixteen was eleven plus five. It would just go where all the other missing lyrics went, to some void-like recess in her subconscious. Maybe it would come back to her someday as she stood again at a window for the rain, or watched a needlepoint flicker against egg-yolk walls. As she felt her unshaved legs or golden frizz. Or as she remembered her aunt’s drunken self-love acceptance speech.

Sleep crept into her head like honey.

- Cora Burch 38

- Paulina Joseph 39

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