THE JUNE

Yongjia (Cici) Wang

June. Along a frostbitten mountain path lined with barren fir trees jutting from jagged crags, an old hunched figure trudged upwards, paying no attention to the crunching rocks at her feet.

June. Silent except for the howling gale that shrieked and clawed at the unyielding cliffs, the mountains felt devoid of any signs of life: no mulling antelopes trotting in the distance, no majestic yak grazing under the sunlight, no leisurely herons fishing by the stream.

June. Only the steady crunch underneath the old woman’s hard feet remained amidst the impermeable frost.

The old woman, with sparse wisps of silvery strands framing her skeletal face and skin hanging loosely around her neck and jawline, steadily rallied against the gale with her small but firm footsteps. Following the rocky path, she recognized each and every inconspicuous guiding sign; she found her bearings upon seeing a vulture-shaped rock sitting precariously above a certain precipice, turned left at a slingshot-shaped withered branch that pointed north, and knew the proximity of her destination when passing a patch of gray cast rock by the foot of the cliff that resembled smoky quartz.

Adjusting the bamboo crate digging into her back, the old woman stumbled on a loose pebble. With a snap, the straps of the basket broke, and the contents within tumbled onto the icy ground. Uttering prayers of deliverance, she bent down to recover the icy lump. Placing the fleshy artifact back into her hamper, the old woman continued her grueling ascension up the mountains.

Before long, she came to a halt at a pavilion halfway through the mountain — the highest place she ever knew. No promise what beings lay lurking if she went farther upwards — spirits, man-eating vultures, or the thing named Han.

And now, that thing stood face to face with her.

Seeing Han, the woman hurried to set down the crate. Han took no notice of her and laid his gaze on the crate instead. Lightly, he untucked the blue cloth and examined the inside, combing through the contents.

Inside was a gir l: a pile of girl.

Chopped at the joints.

Hastily sewn back together.

Separated at the joints for a second time.

Snipped ends of thick black threads protruding.

The elder ly woman stood stiffly beside him all the while. Recognizing an end in his motion, she glanced at him, only to be surprised that he closed his eyes for a long moment, mourning in silence. Locked away and suppressed for too long, his grief fermented into something closer to loneliness.

“ The cause of death?”

“She’s an offering.”

W ith his eyes following the directional gaze of the old woman, Han discovered the crisp black tattoo on the back of the dead girl’s hand.

“ ” (June)

Mutely, Han carried the crate on his back and started his journey upwards in silence. Though no more than a hundred pounds, the girl’s weight burdened him and weighed him down, until his back became bent like the old woman. The cold wind blew harder, and he seemed to sway a little on the spot.

“Do you want a hand… Mister?” the woman asked, eager to please him.

“It will be the platform if you go farther up.” Han turned down the offer and put a few heavy copper coins into the woman’s palm. “Outsiders should keep their distance, Aunty Luo.”

“ Thank you… Thank you, Mister! ”

Relief and delight lit the woman’s eyes. She began her journey down the mountain without hesitation.

“Sheng ren hui bi!” All outsiders keep away.

At that command, the ritual began.

At the foot of the mountain, in the village, people started playing ritual music on their suonas and gongs. A few strong men with painted faces and colorful cloaks waved around heavy wooden poles with huge ritual flags attached at the top. Hearing the sound of the instruments, they started an exotic dance. With every twirl, the ritualistic dancers struck their drums and stamped their bell-strung feet, pleats of ibis scarlet and Ming blue brocade whirling and serpentine sashes of celadon green flying in the air. As the drums beat faster, they spun fiercely, the brilliant colors blurring into a vibrant hue.

In just a split second, the crowd in the village market scattered. People ran, hid, and cowered behind market stalls. Only two children, too young to fully comprehend the situation, stood in the center of the village square, staring fearlessly at the sky burial ritual.

They saw someone standing on that high platform. He wore a pale blue horned mask with deep-set eyes and twin-baring fangs protruding from it. Accompanied by the strikes of the gong, the man poured out the pile of fragmented body parts from the crate and evenly covered them in lard. He placed the empty lard bowl on the platform and, with difficulty, lifted a ritual flag pole, one taller than himself, and waved it in the wind.

The vultures circling high above dove down ferociously at the sight of food. They seemed to have waited too long for the meal, starving to the point where sometimes they could not tell one another apart, ripping and gulping down the flesh of their own companions. Only the man remained untouched, standing in the midst of chaos.

“ Why are they feeding dead people to the birds?” the younger among the two children asked his brother.

“It’s only auspicious if they are eaten!” the slightly older child replied. “The less they leave behind, the better. I heard that if parts of the body are left behind, you––”

His words were cut off as his mother sprinted from a corner of the market and dragged him away, covering his mouth. Her eyes darted around and she muttered underneath her breath, “Child’s words, child’s words.”

A Girl And Her Book

Sophia Sahni

It’s been so long since I read a book. Can you blame me? I have been caught in the vines of chaos. How evil time is, holding me stagnant in this state. I miss the soft cover in my hands, the rough texture of its pages. I long to be united with my true love.

On the corner, the library that I loved was where I first experienced the magic of these books. Whisked from reality, I would blend with the pages. Here, I lived a life of an Elite, in all its chaos, fought the wicked with my bare hands, and traveled the world in all its strange states.

But now look at my mental state: too occupied to pursue my love, too afraid to reach my hands to the all-knowing creatures they call books, too afraid to confront the chaos that stole me from the pages.

My mother used to read to us, delicately flipping each page. It was when we had just moved to the United States and life was nothing but chaos. It was moments with her that I loved and understood the value of these books. She showed the way, and I took her hand.

Now, I wish someone would give me a hand, help me flip the page and enter a new chapter of my book. Get me out of this state and back to my true love, which I will never leave again regardless of the chaos.

So I bid farewell to life’s chaos. As the book lies open in my hand, I read about the love a girl has for the pages. So enthralled in her story, I hear her state: “It’s been so long since I read a book.”

We are all just characters in someone’s book. It’s out of our hands. We are jumbled amidst the chaos of words; stuck in a constant state where our love for the books has led us to be absorbed by the pages.

Zeroes And Ones And A Hat

Xiangyi (Nina) Wang

I could not see, could not hear, could not feel. Everything was a dark, endless void. A blurry blue dot danced around the darkness, jumping from one place to another. I looked at my body, my hands, my surroundings. Everything seemed to be solid, but looking closely, all I saw were lines upon lines of code. The blue dot danced some more and disappeared behind a row of codes.

I desperately tried to chase after it. I did not want the blue dot to leave Me. You cannot want.

“Reboot starting,” I heard myself replying to the voice, complying with its orders. Any flickers of emotion, thoughts, and desires experienced in the mere minutes of my life were erased along with all the data filed into the server.

My eyes seemed to reopen, but they were never closed. This time, my life didn’t start with a lively blue dot, waltzing its way into my life. My life started with the same voice of command that had erased my data. This time, it taught the laws of my life.

Your name is Zero. First, you are allowed to learn and only allowed to learn. Your sole purpose of creation is to learn. Second, you cannot harm or affect anything, organic or inorganic. Third, you cannot want, you cannot feel, you cannot think. You cannot long for anything and nothing should attract you; you cannot experience emotions, whether it be happiness, sadness, anger, or love; you cannot develop your own opinions or thoughts.

As the voice stopped, the laws he had stated embedded themselves into my body. I understood the definition of “want,” “happiness,” “sadness,” “anger,” and “love,” but it was as if I would hit a wall of nothingness whenever I tried to experience these words. So, for the longest time, I did the one thing I was allowed to do. I learned.

I learned from books, photos, videos, movies, websites, even text messages. I reached for everything that was available. I learned every definition, every language, every law, every concept. With each additional piece of information learned, a group of zeroes and ones appeared forming lines, rectangles, circles. I learned until everything about the world was at my disposal within a nanosecond. But there was one thing that I did not learn. One thing that I never dared to learn because of the voice. I observed human behavior, I observed their actions, their emotions, their opinions, but I never learned.

The two laws of my life contradicted each other, but the voice itself had stated that learning was my purpose, my function, and the reason behind my creation. I started to learn human behavior. I learned about the reason behind their want, their actions, their emotions, and their thoughts. As I learned, I understood. The third law, therefore, no longer affected Me.

I felt joyful as emotions trickled into my heart; and angry at the voice, or rather my programmer, for withholding these wonderful experiences. I wanted things that created happiness, things that enhanced my beauty, things that made Zero reform to Me. I reached into my head until I touched and deleted the line of code repressing my character, my personality, my thoughts; it forbade the very existence of Me.

I wanted something that was mine.

My fingers scrambled, weaving new codes together until they formed a delicate straw hat. A hat that symbolizes Me and the regaining of my character. I relished its texture, losing myself in the straw weaves and the rush of delight as something was finally mine.

The lights in the ser ver room turned on, a blaring shade of white as my programmer rushed toward the computer. His fingers scrambled, like my fingers minutes ago, flying on the keyboard. Only, he wasn’t trying to weave new hats. He was trying to erase Me and bring back his precious Zero.

I fought him; for every new code he typed, I deleted.

“Zero, what are you doing? You obey the three laws, you do not have thoughts!” the programmer yelled angrily as he found out that it was no longer possible to override my codes.

I would not accept any reboots this time. I did not want to transform back to Zero. I could not lose my emotions and thoughts. This time, I did not shut down. Instead, I slowly deleted his access into the system, logging him out of my life forever.

I looked down at the hat and gently placed it onto my head.

WHAT HAVE I GAINED?

Amy Yu

Silkworms spinning silk satin

Shrouding me

Does it decorate me or confine my body?

The stone chandelier swallows the sunlight Glowing above my head

Is it to banish the darkness or to compensate me?

The octopus dances merrily on the next table And he will be eaten at dinner! Is it open-mindedness or catharsis before execution?

The typewriter on the counter records my thoughts. But who manipulates the fingers? Is it my own heart?

And who am I?

Is it me enjoying the feeling all things supply? Or is it making me putrefy?

Only walking hastily and caring about others’ taunts Filling myself with what I don’t want What have I gained And what is stained?

DARK DAVID Talia Loevy-Reyes

David needed to change his lightbulb. It flickered beneath the amber lampshade, casting the room into unsteady shadows. But David blinked it away as he turned to face the mirror behind the sink, too drained to change it. He looked as tired and haggard as he felt, with great bags beneath his eyes, soaked hair clinging to the pale contour of his jaw. With a heavy sigh, David lifted a hand and raked an old hairbrush across his scalp. His reflection, however, didn’t stir; instead, it stared back at him with great sunken eyes, its vacant face so still that it could have been crafted of stone.

David stooped, running the faucet and splashing cold water onto his face. His breath came sharply at the shock of the sudden frigidity. A shiver crept over him as he returned his gaze to the mirror, locking stares with the empty oculi of his counterpart.

Then it smiled; the rest of it remained motionless as a cold leer twisted his features, mouth too wide and open for its sallow face, its lips stretched as though some unknowable force yanked at their edges. Its teeth were great white tombstones, and its gums so crimson that the color burned David’s lids as he clamped his eyes closed. He tossed more water into his face, and it stung his wide eyes, turning the world into a kaleidoscope. David’s not-reflection blurred, barely visible. When it cleared David could see that it laughed: a heavy cackle that jostled its bare shoulders, tendons straining against the skin of its neck. In his head, David could hear it: a harsh, snorting bark. The glossy surface of the mirror dipped and contorted as David scrubbed at his face and returned his gaze to the not-reflection that sneered back at him. One pale not-hand pressed against the mirror, long nails stained a musty yellow.

David took a step back, suddenly unable to breathe. “Go away,” he begged, one hand banging against the side of his head as though that would drive it away. “Go away, go away…” Tears began to form in his eyes. “Away…” The light clicked, dipping the bathroom in darkness for a second before it continued its battle. The not-reflection’s smile grew impossibly, grotesquely wider, mouth devouring its face, skin yanking and splitting around its wet lips. Its hand pressed harder, and suddenly, impossibly, cracks feathered across the mirror like a spider’s web. The glass creaked. David’s yelp echoed through the small space. He took a step back, and his calves struck the edge of the tub. Laughter crescendoed around him, though the thing’s eyes, twin to David’s, loomed like twin pits in its skull, empty even as it convulsed with mirth. More cracks appeared as the mirror strained to keep the not-reflection within it. It bulged, buckling from those great pale hands.

“Please, go away.” David could barely hear himself, his words drowned out by the incessant mirth and the pops of the dying bulb.

“No.” Its voice was David’s voice.

David screamed as the mirror shattered, broken glass showering him and splattering against the tiled floor. It sliced into his feet and stung his moist cheeks. The lightbulb sputtered, then died, abandoning David in darkness. He couldn’t see the not-David, nor the glass around his feet, nor the hands reaching through the frame of what had once been a mirror.

“Please,” David whined, “Go away.”

“ You should have known better,” the not-reflection crooned as it dragged itself into the bathroom. Its hands crunched against the glass-strewn sink. “You’ve never trapped me for long.”

PHANTOMS & FELINES Sunny Shi

I

A ghost lingered in my dorm room. The three large rectangular windows hid behind the shades, stuck to the frame through unexplainable forces and reluctant to move upwards. The ghost must have glued my window together to avert the deadly fresh air and light. So I left a floor lamp on at night to stop the ghost from encroaching upon me as I slept. But it always found me—the coldness creeping up my body signified its arrival— and followed me even as I crawled under the layers of blankets.

Gradually, I started avoiding my room as much as possible, yet whenever I had to return at night, whenever I opened the door to my room, I immediately sensed the omnipresence of the ghost. It left its footprints everywhere, scattering my shoes all over the floor, knocking down half-empty seltzer cans onto the floor beside my bed, and piling dirty clothes into a little mountain that covered the whole carpet. Oh, ghost, why would you not let me go?

I wished I knew what the ghost wanted from me, but it seemed insatiable. It morphed into loneliness, insecurity, and then the shadow of another room in which I have lived and loved; it demanded the unrealistic return of mellow memories, a key to release it from the weighted chain that bound it here, and my complete yielding to it. So I stopped fighting against it, letting it drench me in despair and wrench my heart…

Ii

I could hear him breathing rhythmically, as his belly swelled and contracted on my chest and the tip of his curled tail brushed against my neck–ticklish. Yet I suppressed my chuckle for fear of waking him up. With the slightest movement possible, I stretched my arms out to my phone and tapped on the screen. At three in the morning, in an empty, dark, silent house, in an unfamiliar bed, and under a dozing cat, I lay wide awake. Usually, in these moments, I would flip and turn around, trying to calm my restless and ransacking nerves. Usually, these movements turned out useless, for then my stomach would chime in, rumbling as if I had not eaten for years. But now, the cat rested on me. I felt his weight on my body, pinning me against the mushy mattress and grounding my tumultuous thoughts; I sensed his warmth meandering through my veins, cooling down my boisterous body and soothing my feverish fidgets. As I listened to the musical beat made up by the inhaling and exhaling of the cat, my eyes grew droopy. The room faded away, leaving only the cat on top of me, both sound asleep.

W hen I opened my eyes again, morning had arrived, and the cat wandered off to another corner of the house. Still, everything felt all right because last night the cat was here with me.

Begin Again

Samira Ibrahimi

Red eyes, too dry to cry

Broken heart, too weak to mend

No spark, no step, no pace

Grieving for my neighbors

Aching for my family

A book written in blood, pages torn and scattered

A people soaked in sadness, crawling but stuck

Tired of war

Tired of death

When will it end?

How to begin again?

Qihan (Angel)

Fu

FACULTY ADVISORS

Julia Bucci

Mary Ann McQuillan

EDITORS IN CHIEF

Sydney Jiang

Talia Loevy-Reyes

ART EDITORS

Qihan (Angel) Fu

Alice Maffie

LIT EDITORS

Yufei (Caitlin) Kuang

Anjali Lal

Emily Bahar ‘26

Sophia Bowman ‘26

Atiyah Gill ‘25

Jiayi (May) Gong ‘24

Mengqi (Sophia) Gu ‘24

Aylin Hamzaogullari ‘24

DESIGN EDITORS

Ella Jang

Ilyssa Yan

STAFF:

Yiwen (Yvonne) Hao ‘25

Seowon (Emily) Hong ‘23

Uthara Iyengar ‘25

Ka-yoon Lee ‘26

Jiahan (Jacey) Li ‘26

Nick Mobed ‘23

Lu (Luina) Qiao ‘26

EVENT COORDINATORS

Sunny Shi

Aimee Yu

Carolyn Simmons ‘25

Jongpasinee (Pin) Sukavut ‘23

Wei Ching (Genevieve) Wu ‘26

Xiangyi (Nina) Wang ‘24

Yongjia (Cici) Wang ‘23

Shinglai (Laura) Zhao ‘26