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Dear Readers, I am eager to present the third issue of Caledonia, a literary and art magazine made by students, for students. Thank you to everyone who submitted; I am so proud of the writers and artists in our community! I would also like to thank Amelia Rosch for essentially being a co-editor with me, and sharing her valuable time and input. I hope you enjoy Caledonia; and, as always, contributions are welcome for the spring edition.

Paulina Choh


The Writer Monica Taneja

As the words start to flow and the paper starts to fill a story comes to fruition brow furrowed, eyes clenched he knows his task his surroundings are simple he sits unperturbed ready to begin

his story has disappeared now broken, imperfect he is unable to regain momentum his fingers hover above the keyboard but he has nothing to say he has lost his voice

he pictures the scene his creations come to life the ideal fantasy like a film roll, each scene plays separately he can see the characters each one he carefully crafted all in the depths of his mind click, click, click the writer becomes a machine his fingers fly across the keyboard the wheels are turning chapter after chapter the journey continues suddenly he stops someone has entered the room in one simple moment everything is lost his tranquility has been violated the ribbon of though has been cut the ideas stolen from his mind


The Orphan April Chien

The girl  sits  alone  by  the  window. She  is  as  special  and  unique  as  one  of  the  snow9lakes  falling  outside, But  who  can  know  this? The  snow9lake  has  fallen  to  the  ground, And  been  mixed  with  thousands  of  others. Who  will  pick  the  skinny  girl  in  the  ugly  yellow  dress, Whose  smile  has  been  wiped  from  her  face.   The  girl  sitting  by  the  window  knows  many  things. She  knows  that  the  sun  will  rise  and  set  everyday. She  knows  that  winter  will  come  and  the  snow  will  fall. She  knows  that  the  snow  will  kill  the  9lowers She  knows  that  the  9lowers  will  come  back  in  the  spring. She  knows  that  her  parents  can  never  come  back, Like  the  9lowers  do.   People  come  and  go, Some  of  them  take  the  lucky  children, While  the  others  stand  on  the  side, Watching,  Envying, Wishing  it  was  them.   The  girl  knows  many  things But  the  one  thing  she  doesn’t  know, Is  whether  she  will  ever  leave  this  place.


The Scream Emily Wong

His hands clasp tightly against his face But she hears nothing They stole his scream, his dreams She stands holding a camera And balancing sunglasses on her head Where did his scream go? Puzzled She tilts her head. The glasses fall to the floor Shattering She hears nothing The silence is deafening

Charlotte Jones


From A High Place Julia Wood

If one  were  to  drop  an  egg  (of  any  sort  really)  from  the  top  of,  say,   a  church  steeple (or  any  other  high  place),  the  little  thing  would ZOOM Toward  the  earth,  quickly  gaining  momentum  (insert  gravity     equation  here)  when SPLAT it  would  be  gracefalling SLAM into  the  sidewalk,  Breaking  into  a  billion  little  eggy  pieces  (how  do     you  like  ‘em?  scrambled?  Fried?)  before  reforming  and BOING SHOOTING OFF INTO THE  SKY Because  even  eggs  deserve  to  9ly.

Shifrah Aron-Dine


Claire Bostrom


It’s Not You It’s Me Kat Palvidas

Some people  give  me  a  funny  look Some  people  shrug  and  look  at  their  book Others  will  turn  and  walk  away But  some  walk  up  to  me  and  tell  me  I’m  weird… You  thought  I  was  going  to  rhyme  there,  didn’t  you? Now  you’re  calling  me  those  names  too: Peculiar,  strange,  belongs  in  a  zoo; She  probably  plays  the  kazoo,  too. If  you’ll  excuse  me  now,  I  really  must  shoo. Back  to  the  crazy  house,  round  number  two!

Charlotte Jones


Saloni Kalkat

Claire O’Malley


Elegy for Summer Nights and a Close Friend Jane Choi

july 02:  9irecrackers  somewhere  in  the  distance i  couldn't  see  your  eyes but  i  think  they  would  have  been  lovely, opened  wide  and  glistening, two  full  moons  in  our  planetarium; the  darkness  was  not  cold,  it  folded  around  us  gently, like  a  glass  blanket. we  discussed  constellations  and  how  we  wished  we  had  memorized   all  of  them and  as  the  night  got  darker  we  held  a  brief  rendezvous  with  ursa   major we  tried  very  hard  to  look  for  orion's  belt but  we  couldn't  9ind  where  it  was  hiding. you  described  to  me, when  you  were  little  and  went  camping  in  the  woods  and  woke  up  at   midnight, you  said  you  saw  so  many  shining  lights, stars, as  many  as  the  number  of  9lowers on  the  pattern  of  a  sundress  you  owned, and  i  could  see  it  all  so  bright and  clear; i  kept  it  in  my  head  the  whole  way  through. i  was  so  overwhelmed by  all  the  nature  and  the  things  i  wanted  to  say  but  wasn't  good   enough  to that  i  wanted  to  cry small  bright  tears  like  the white  pinpricks  in  the  sky; 9inally  i  asked  if  there  was  a  god


and we  concluded  that  if  there  were  a  greater  being  then  it  would live  its  own  life and  we  would  live  ours like  perfect  parallel  lines. we  heard  the  9ireworks  go  off  again; it  was  all  around  us  like  a  symphony  of  land-­‐mines. we  stood  up  from  the  dirt  path and  searched  for  the  source  of  the  sound  fruitlessly but  it  was better  like  this,  it  was  peaceful. next  we  tried using  our  hands  to  block  out  all  the  arti9icial  lights; you  said  it  made  the  sky seem  a  whole  lot  bigger and  i  cried  a  little  from  feeling  so  small. the  dried  up  lake,  i  said, if  it  was  9illed  with  water,  it  would  re9lect  all  the  stars, right? you  said  yes, yes,  i  was  thinking  that  as  well. wouldn't  that  look  really  nice? the  stars  beamed  down  at  us  from  their  heaven  swings. as  the  minutes  passed  the  din  of  the  crickets  and  the  frogs   intensi9ied; the  9ireworks  stopped. it  got  colder,  i  checked  the  time, you  said  we  had  better  head  back  and  i  said  all  right, we  brushed  the  dirt  off  our  shorts  and we  walked  back  in  the  dark, feeling  the  ground  with  our  feet, completely  blind  and completely  content


This Is Not A Haiku Kat Palvidas

I promise, it’s not. Just don’t count the syllables. You did, anyways.

what i do not get Shreya Ramachandran

what i do not get: how your tongue can be so warm but your nose so cold

Kaley Nelsen


Epitaph for An Epigram Shreya Ramachandran

My English teacher murdered me And the reason might make you laugh. She told us to write epigrams But I heard it as “epitaph.�

Ravenna Patel


Why I Write Amelia Rosch

My pen needs ink, the tip against my wrist, the trembling, dark purple against white, covered by translucence, waiting, quivering, excited, ready to be released. A cut fast sharp and metallic and the words, spurt out, burst forth. The words, the words, the words. The words that gave the 20th century dictators power, clenched in a fist, strangled by the corruption, manipulated to fragility, brittle about to snap, leather pulled too tight to breaking and strong enough to plow down a population of people, crushing them down to nothing until even history says they are not and never were. The words that gave the tan, too young protesters hope, cradled in their arms, nurtured by the willingness, raised to a power, strong enough to topple, bees contained too long to stop and strong enough to raise up a population of people, motivating them to stand up until the entire world watches and wishes them success. The words that gave me, alone, individual, the ability to stay sane, holding on to the edge


of happiness until my fingers ached, focusing on the images, on their light, golden and bright, dazzling until all the thoughts of the darkness fled, no longer kept barely at bay. My pen is full now. It is time. It is time. I put pen to paper with some trepidation.

Jane Choi


Editor Paulina

Winter 2011-2012 Cover Art by Anne Li

Caledonia 2011 Winter Edition  

Student publication

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